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At approximately 9 o’clock in the evening, a woman came to the door of 221 Baker street. At approximately 9 o’clock and two minutes, the same woman knocked on the door to 221b and less than twenty seconds later, a man answered the door. The man was Sherlock Holmes and the woman was Molly Hooper, but something about the whole situation suggested otherwise.
“You’re hurt,” Sherlock said initially. His eyes flitted over her body, noticing every inconsistency with the Molly he’d come to know.
She was hurt, badly, but not horribly. The difference between these two distinctions is grey, so let me refine. She was in well enough shape to walk for ten minutes and take two cabs, but not up to swim the English channel nor have a restful night's sleep. And while most of her injuries simply needed time to heal, a few did not, and this was where Sherlock came in.
“Yes. I am hurt.” She seemed quite pissed about the matter and addressed Sherlock as if it was entirely his fault. “If you would?”
He backed into his flat to let her in, then closed the door behind the both of them.
“Are you still in danger?” he asked, his back to her. “—myself of course assuming that your injuries are not by accident nor self inflicted.”
“You are correct.” She glanced down at her right arm. It looked like a sadistic tic-tac-toe set-up had gone to town on her skin. The cuts were mostly superficial, red streaks in long gashes where her blood had clotted. “And no, I don’t believe so. I went home after, then came here when I realized some of these were too difficult to mend myself.”
Sherlock hummed with a grim look upon his face. He paced the living room floor in front of her, swinging his dressing gown belt beside him. He stopped twice, as if to make a remark, before shaking his head and returning his gaze to an arbitrary spot ahead of him.
“Sherlock?” She stepped toward him, unconsciously bracing her right shoulder.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
“Ok,” she agreed, trying to ease the tension.
“I’ll message Mycroft. Let him know what’s happened.”
“Wait.” Molly grabbed for his arm with her her left, but drew back when he spun quickly to face her. “There’s no need to message your brother.” She sort of laughed at the thought of it.
Sherlock didn’t find anything funny about it, though.
“Of course we will. If someone has attacked you, Molly…” An unsettling aggression took over his face. “I’ll put an end to it, with or without my brother.”
Molly sighed. She knew she would need to come out with the truth eventually, whether he liked it or not.
“There was reason for the attack, Sherlock.” She strayed from the entryway to the kitchen, casting her eyes over the cluttered table and countertops. “Mary and I —we—”
“Was this a bar fight?” He seemed to think the idea over, not minding the image forming in his brain.
“No, Sherlock. We didn’t get into a fight at a bar… On a Tuesday night… At 8 o’clock in the evening. We found the hackers group,” she replied bluntly.
In a heartbeat, Sherlock was in the kitchen, leaning over the other side of the table, eyes glued to Molly’s.
“The hackers case?”
“Yeah.”
“What… How? No.” He held his hand out in front of him, buffering. “You weren’t here for that.”
He ran through all of Molly and Mary’s visits in the past two weeks and came up with no overlap with the case. Just as he was about to ask, the answer came to him.
“John.”
Molly chuckled. “No, not John. Well, I suppose it is in part both of your faults.”
Sherlock peered back at her, confused.
“You left your case file on the couch last week, when you and John ditched us for three hours. We had to entertain ourselves somehow.”
Sherlock still didn’t looked pleased. Whether from their actions or his own stupidity, was uncertain.
“So when we left, you what? Started reading through my things.”
“We —ow!” Molly cringed as her shrug sent pain to her shoulder. “We glanced through it a bit,” she tried continuing, clenching her teeth. The gesture was more than her shoulder could take at the time, so she went to his chair and sat down.
Behind her Sherlock released a heavy sigh and set about to find the first aid kit.
“We had no intention of intervening,” she supplied, watching him from the corner of her eye as he rounded up supplies. “It’s just, Mary overheard something at work, and with John gone for the week, we figured we’d check it out for you. We had no idea she was onto something.”
Sherlock, though present and fully in range to hear Molly’s words, did not; More so, he could not focus on the case details at the moment.
“Here,” he said, handing her an ibuprofen and a glass of water.
He followed round to the front and dragged John’s chair over to face her.
“How did you get these? he asked, ghosting his hand over the cuts on her arm first.
Molly twitched at his touch, but he did not cause her pain. There were abrasions on the outside of her forearm, almost like she’d fallen off a skateboard at high speeds.
Sherlock guided her arm out to rest on his knee before grabbing gauze and a disinfectant from the kit. He wouldn’t meet her eyes though, as he dabbed lightly at the area. Most of the cuts were almost painless, while others reacted strongly to the hydrogen peroxide. Molly inhaled sharply to those, causing her breath to hitch and her hand to twitch. It tapped out unorchestrated rhythms on Sherlock’s leg like a radioman using Morse code.
“These ones were just from the escape,” Molly told him. It did little to ease his stress, she realized, after the fact.
“Mm,” Sherlock replied with a faint nod. “Asphalt?” he wondered out loud.
“Roofing,” Molly replied, earning a sharp eyebrow raise from the man who’d thought he knew injuries like the back of his hand.
There was an uncomfortable silence as the two waited for the disinfectant to dry. Molly leaned down to blow air above the area in hopes of it drying faster, when Sherlock placed his finger to her lips. Molly’s eyes drifted upwards, while her body remained hunched over.
“Could infect it with any air pathogens,” he said meeting her gaze.
“Yes, you’re right.” She sat up in the chair, moving away from the finger that had silenced her and touched her own to her mouth with a discreet swipe of her hand.
“I still need to put the bandages on,” Sherlock said, inching forward in his chair.
Despite her decreasing endorphin levels, some of its effects still persisted. The subsided pain was a given, while other effects manifested in much different manners. Sherlock was by far the first to notice the other indications.
As Molly moved her arm for him this time, lowering it to his leg, it drifted higher than before and her thumb curled inward releasing pressure to his thigh. It felt as if all the blood had drained from his face and was sent elsewhere. He lifted her arm up from its resting spot as a distraction and feigned interest in the underside of her arm, when she curled back in pain once more.
“Moll—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Molly!”
“Mm?” She drew her top lip under her bottom teeth and raised her brows in anxious anticipation.
“You’ve clearly bruised your shoulder, if not tore a muscle or worse…” Sherlock braced his head in his hands. “I understand that what you do is your business, but for my sanity and your wellness, what happened tonight?”
He could see her tongue running over her bottom teeth as she considered his question. Instead of answering, she pulled Mary’s phone from her pocket and handed it to him as if the action answered all his questions.
“Take a look,” she told him, hovering over the screen in his hands to direct him to the pictures Mary had taken at the school.
They were all close-ups, dimly lit, with the camera’s flash creating distortions to the image. Molly stood up and took a seat on the arm of Sherlock’s chair so she could get a better look for herself. She zoomed in on one, bracing her weight against him, and pointed to the fuzzy white stickers on what looked like a small computer server.
“The quality isn't great, but Mary said they’re all here. All of the IPs you and John were looking for.”
“So it was a teacher? John was right?” Sherlock looked appalled.
“Not yet. He was thinking too old. They’re students —the hackers. The signature on all the hack jobs, it’s not a name, it’s an acronym. SAM: South Academy of Mathematics.”
Sherlock looked taken back. He fiddled with the bandages for Molly’s arm, struggling to peel back the sticky edges.
“Don’t worry, it was Mary that figured that one out. She heard one of the other nurses bragging about her daughter getting into SAM. Of course, you were right about the case’s connection to the school system. ‘Cept it was the students. Four of them we think. We snuck into an information session for prospective students to gain access to the building and tracked down the servers’ location.”
“And you were attacked by these prepubescent computer geniuses?”
Molly kicked him in the shin. “They were like sixteen, Sherlock! And no, this,” she motioned to her arm, “was from fleeing the campus’s royal guard level security. I don’t think they got a good look at us —we split up on the 2nd floor— but my exit strategy could have been executed better.”
Sherlock nodded, putting the pieces together. He grabbed Molly’s hand again to steady her arm and covered the deeper cuts with Neosporin and padding.
After, he rested his head on his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. “How’d you and Mary even get in there in the first place?”
Molly smirked. “I told you, they had an information session for prospective students… and their parents.”
Sherlock’s jaw went slack, giving Molly time to stand from the chair and make it to the kitchen before any questions were fired her way. She began rummaging through the drawers while Sherlock recovered.
“Do you have any dish towels?” Molly paused her search and cut across to his bedroom instead, leaving Sherlock to stew over the night’s events alone.
When she emerged with one of his t-shirts, Sherlock was way ahead of her, wrapping some ice in a hand towel. He snatched the shirt from her hands with a scowl and tucked it under his arm.
“Here, use this.” He handed her the homemade ice pack and walked back to replace the shirt, fingers crossed she’d found the right drawer on her first try.
“You might want to see a doctor if it’s still really painful to move in a few days,” Sherlock called out from the bedroom.
He sauntered out, wrapped up in a yawn, when he saw Molly’s dirt patched jumper on his living room floor. The owner was nowhere in sight. Sherlock cautiously looked around the area any other discarded items, unsure if he was pleased or upset when he saw none.
“I was just using the toilet,” Molly called from behind him, stepping out of the bathroom with his ice pack covering her camisole clad shoulder.
Sherlock turned to face her and murmured a quiet, “Oh.”
He felt foolish and couldn’t hide the awkwardness in his voice.
“So should we investigate this further?” he asked. “Maybe we can go down to the school as prospective parents while school’s in,” Sherlock suggested, rubbing the back of his neck.
Molly smiled, chuckling to herself. “I would, but I don’t want the school to think my child is the offspring of some adulteress. I mean, Mary and I’s relationship is still solid as ever.”
Sherlock took a step towards her and ran a thumb against the thin material of her shirt.
“Are you sure?” he tried, lowering his voice slyly.
Molly batted his hand away, but stepped closer.
“You can come along as the full time nanny if you want. It’s a fairly progressive school. What bright child isn’t getting in with Lesbian parents and a manny?”
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For @icecat62 because SHORTCURLSBATCH would be hawt! Right?
*******
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Molly peeked through the peep-hole on her flat’s door. At first, all she could see was a coiling mass of shiny curls. Then, the mass lifted and the exaggerated, fish-bowl vision of Sherlock’s large, stormy-ocean irises filled her viewport. His nose wrinkled comically, a second later his lips enlarged as he raised them and spoke almost directly into her eyeball.
“Molly, I know you are there. Come, you must recognize my knock by now,” his voice reverberated through the door.
She glanced down at her skimpy, yellow cotton tank and oversized flannel, pink plaid bottoms. She sighed. He’d seen her in worse at least. With a quick intake of breath, she fixed a perturbed expression on her face and swung open the door.
“I was just about to hop into bed,” she claimed as she held open the door, “what do you want?”
In his typical Sherlockian manner, he raised his brows while also squinting. His eyes flicked from shoulder to shoulder, down the middle of her chest and then looped back up as if he wasn’t quite certain where he should look. Molly felt heat spread across her upper chest at the awkward look on his face. His lips parted but instead of speaking, he held up scissors in his right hand followed jauntily by a fine-toothed comb in his left. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
“I need a haircut,” he stated.
She frowned. “Am I to take that to mean you want me to trim your hair? At ten o’clock at night … o-on a Tuesday?”
“Yes,” he brushed past her into her flat as if the matter were already settled, “I am in want of a disguise for a bit of sleuthing I must do tonight.”
Molly blinked in disbelief and snapped her door shut. She slowly spun on her heel, crossed her arms and watched Sherlock busy himself with the setup of an impromptu salon. He discarded his shoes and jacket and then, she swallowed thickly, he extracated himself from his shirt! Her eyes burned unblinkingly. The muscles of his back flexed with the depositing of one of her dining-set chairs in the middle of her living room. An instant later, he draped a towel over his shoulders, sat in the chair with his wide back to her and levetated his scissors.
“I am under a bit of a time constraint here, Molly,” he murmured without turning around.
She tentatively approached him, rubbing her arms. “Sh-Sherlock, I have never styled anyone’s hair before! I will make a hash out of it!”
He turned his head so she could see just one brooding eye. “Molly, I have watched you stitch countless corpses. You have the most finesse and dexterity of any person in my acquaintance and … I trust you. Well, I trust you not to draw blood. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t have the steadiest hands, you know, and I don’t particularly want John fondling my head. That would be a little, erm - uncomfortable, to say the least.”
He swivelled fully in his seat and stared up at her with slightly rounded eyes. His unique, angular bone structure was so breathtakingly handsome up close and lord, but he had decided to turn on his boyish appeal. His features softened.
“Please, Molly?” He rumbled.
Her entire face felt tight as she tried to resist his charms. A muscle flecked in his cheek and she knew he was putting her on but she groaned and snatched the scissors and comb from his grasp.
“Fine,” she muttered, “do not even think of complaining if you don’t care for the results.”
He grinned and twisted away. “Excellent! Take a couple inches off, will you?”
Molly stared at the back of his head for a few seconds. She reached up to touch his locks but her fingers hovered in hesitation. She had always wanted to touch his hair. Right then, she was a heartbeat away of finally experiencing its decadence and almost couldn’t stand the anticipation. Her belly quivered. Finally, she gathered her courage and delved her fingers into the thick, silky tresses. She closed her eyes as the strands slipped between her knuckles and the pads of her fingers contacted his warm head. Lord, but it felt better than she imagined. She pushed her hand over his scalp several times to assess the length of his hair. Her eyes flew open when she thought she heard the sound of a low moan.
“S-Sorry!” She whispered.
“Mm? Oh, no, it feels good,” he mumbled, “but the massage will have to wait for another time.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She shook her head. He couldn’t really mean that, could he? She chewed her lip and willed her raging hormones into submission. Tentatively, she pulled up the first section of his hair, mouthed a eulogy for his beautiful curls and began snipping. Cautiously at first, and then more confidently, she trimmed his hair. The ends of it fell like feathers to the towel around his shoulders. Every once in a while when her attention drifted from her task to admire his half-naked, steely form, her hands shook. However, she soldiered on.
Molly’s fears about reducing his attractiveness were quickly dispelled. The more she trimmed and closer she cut, the more she revealed the strong lines of his neck and head. It was impossible to make this man unappealing, she realized. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to cut the hair on the top of his head too short. Thirty minutes after she had started, she shook the towel out her window and then returned for her final review. She stood in front of him with her hands on either side of his head and assessed her very first attempt at a haircut. A smile tugged the corners of her lips. He lifted his chin.
“Well?” He murmured.
She fluffed his hair, dragged her fingers along the shorter sides and flicked a coil of curl that still wanted to fall over his forehead. He looked god awfully handsome. His high cheeks were more visible, his eyes appeared brighter. Her regard slid over his face. Even his jaw seemed a bit more robust.
“You look good,” she uttered absentmindedly, then caught herself, “I-I mean, y-you look nice … fine, I guess. Haha, maybe I am in the wrong career … yes, maybe I should have gone to-to beauty school . . .”
She knew she was rambling as her fingers kneaded his scalp. His eyes were suddenly fixed on her face and she palpably felt his acute dissection. Her stomach coiled in a knot and her cheeks flushed. Mortification burned right from one side of her face, across her nose, to the other side. Even her ears flamed. She avoided his direct eye contact for as long as she could but eventually lost the battle. When their eyes met, his pupils were as large as she had ever seen them.
“You are exactly where you are meant to be, Molly,” he murmured.
“Oh? This is my calling, is it?” She teased nervously. “Tending to Sherlock Holmes’ every whim?”
She felt a tug on the waistband of her bottoms and was compelled forward. Her legs nearly turned to jelly as he pulled her between his knees.
“Yes,” his eyes narrowed seductively, “that is something for which you are uniquely qualified.”
Fluff: Only once has Sherlock got inexplicably upset at Molly. It happened before they were together. John and Mary were waiting inside the lab for Sherlock to finish helping Molly out with a case when she let slip that she was glad the old lab tech was fired.She quickly recovered, explaining that she didn’t wish him trouble finding work at all. The other two were more than content with her explanation. Sherlock however, was not. He turned to his friends demanding why she could go around throwing things like that out, but whenever he said anything a little bit not good, everyone would give him death glares. This apparently was one of those times. John and Mary filed out, apologizing to Molly for Sherlock’s uproar, leaving the consulting detective grumbling under his breath. “It’s cause no one bothers her about you’re presence here when they’re short staffed,” John explains to him later.
Filth: Just because she can, Molly uses word play around friends when she’s out with Sherlock. In most instances, they’re double entendres; fully intended slip of the mouth phrases that her friend’s or colleagues interpret as a coincidence. Sherlock on the other hand, knows well that they’re not. She’ll fall and mentioned how she’s been on her knees too much lately. And when Sherlock is tardy again, she apologizes for him saying “he did come eventually.” The riskier ones leave Sherlock red, glancing around cautiously, waiting for someone to say something. They never do, so Sherlock tries it once. He researches situations that can queue a good one liner and puts one to the test. They’re out getting food after a case with Lestrade and Sally, and they’ve both been busy in the past few days leaving little time to sleep among other things. The three are caught up in some menial contest about who knows Leicester City the best, firing questions about the players and seasonal records back and forth, when Sherlock turns to Molly with a smile and says, “Actually, I’ve got a hard one for you Molls.” He’s met with blank faces and shaking heads before the other two leave to refill their drinks. Molly pats his hand with a shit eating grin on her face and whispers, “So close. But not tonight.”
Fluff & Filth: Sherlock giving Molly violin lessons
Fluff: Molly can be reckless with the bow and if Sherlock isn’t careful, he usually gets whacked with it. While teaching Molly how to play variations of children’s nursery rhythms, she nearly pokes his eye out, prompting a new rule: that before she picks up the bow between songs, he must be behind her, preferably quite close.
Filth: At the beginning, Molly has trouble holding the violin up with her shoulder and chin. In fear of her dropping the instrument, Sherlock places random objects at her neck for her to hold with no hands. The phrase becomes so familiar after that, that they use it as an inside joke around friends. “No hands” they say when John answers his mobile or Mary opens a door. Sometimes they say it in the privacy of their flat; Carrying wine to the table when they eat in and during dessert later when they eat out.
Fluff: Molly has some of the worst road rage that Sherlock has ever seen. On one occasion, they needed to make a trip up north for a case and the others had already arrived days before; Molly was delayed because of a communication error, whereas Sherlock just didn’t feel like going at first. It’d been a while since Sherlock drove, so he handed the wheel to Molly. Big mistake. Thirty minutes in, heading out of the city on the A1, they get stuck behind two lorries. Sherlock isn’t pleased, leaning back in his seat in frustration, but Molly responds much worse. After yelling at them for a good minute, she swerves off the road, half on the shoulder, half on the grass, flicks them off, then pulls ahead. When it’s all over, Sherlock’s in the passenger seat, frozen, with his hands gripping the car door and Molly’s hand on the stick.
Filth: In an unfortunate delivery of words, Molly and Sherlock first let slip their relationship when getting out of a cab with John. It’d been a long trip to Barts, so Sherlock decided to comment on Molly’s odd posture while in the car. “Didn’t know you were that flexible.” It’s an odd quip to begin with, but Molly’s response really secures the nail. “It’s cause I’m always on top.” The other two go still, at which point she makes the educated leap that her boyfriend had not yet informed John of their relationship.
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Fluff: Cherloc has never been great at buying her friends gifts on their birthdays. With John, she usually takes a peak at the tags on his jumpers, and buys him another in a different colour. With Mary, it’s always baby things and gag gifts because the two can never take each other too seriously. But with Matty, it’s always the greatest challenge. For being so open and jovial, she’d assume a gift for him would be a quick jaunt to the shops, but his clothes are never brand names (and she can’t pull at the tags while he’s wearing them… or really shouldn’t) and she knows how important their friendship is, even if it doesn’t appear so on the surface. A shitty gift would reflect poorly and leave him passive aggressive for days. Her answer is of course, Lestrade, the middle ground between her best friend and older brother. But she has to be sneaky, ease into the subject without being too suspicious. She gets him talking about his Uni days, the best parties he’d ever been to -including one 20th birthday. The next day Matty receives a cryptic message to come to 221b. Today is his birthday obviously, but Cherloc isn’t great with remembering that sort of thing. It is was mild horror and shock though, that he discovers Cherloc hasn’t forgotten this year, for there, hovering in the doorway to her flat, she stands with two strippers in lab coats, almost 5 litres of whiskey, and a box of pizza in her hand. “Happy Birthday!”
Filth: Countless times while out on cases together for clients, people assume that Matty is in fact Cherloc, and she, merely an assistant. It happens so much in fact, that the two begin to make a game of it. First, it starts in the bedroom: her long coat falls just below his knees while she drowns in his white lab coat. The items don’t stay on for long though, so they start wearing each others clothes at home instead, working on experiments or watching TV; Matty wears her crisp button down blouses and she throws his oddly patterned jumpers over her tops. There’s really no problem at all until they’re unexpectedly called out for a case one day. They don’t realize they’re game is still on until Lestrade notices a dark purple thong sticking out from Matty’s trousers.
I wasn’t sure if you meant the TV show or angels in general. And since I’m not well versed on the show, I chose the latter.
Fluff: Sherlock is an angel. For his logical mind and acumen, he has been gifted one of the highest rankings and allowed a corporeal presence on Earth. His job has been to bring justice to those that have wronged and spare the innocent, which he does with the help of an associate, Mycroft. But something have been distracting him as of late and it’s much worse than any of his little human hobbies. It’s a woman, a scientist, one much like who he used to be as a mortal. And though his cold demeanor and blunt rudeness have turned most away, she isn’t budging. He knows relations with her are absolutely not tolerated (that’s why they’ve sent him), but when exactly does an asset become much more?
Filth: There are some less notable new things that have come about in the mortal world since Sherlock’s time there and though he’s learned of computers and cars and television ect, his associate hasn’t briefed him on everything new. In this case, it’s candy necklaces, a fad from the late 90s & early 2000s that Molly has decided to fixate on. She sucks on the tiny candies while doing paperwork most days, until biting them off when she’s run out of patience There’s no way is Sherlock supposed to know that the edible sweets around her neck aren’t for anyone’s taking. Especially when she continues to encourage him after the string is empty.
Sherlock: *leads Molly downstairs, away from the NSY people*
Molly: *approaches him with an odd expression on her face* Why me?
Sherlock: Because you saw me when I was invisible. *smiles* And just because I'm The Sherlock Holmes, doesn't mean it should be any different. *rambling* I mean, come on, nothing's really changed. And yes, we will have to be discreet in public. I seem to have gained a name and reputation for myself after Moriarty. But we will still go out and do coupley stuff, as John calls it. We can still be us and-
Molly: *kisses him*
Sherlock: *cups her face with his hands*
Molly: *wraps her arms around his back*
*Suddenly the room is alit by a crime scene floodlight. The two continue kissing as end credits music plays*
"Sherlock and Molly regency AU. Slowburn spread over 110,000 words and 23 chapters. Starring brooding feminist Sherlock and badass 'I'm not taking your shit, but I'm going to be polite' Molly. Brought to you by the author of that other novel length fanfiction. Bravo to them." "Lestrade with a shovel and Mycroft above him doesn't just happen in TAB. It'd take a true detective to find the plot here, but who the fuck cares? 12,000 words of utter brilliance. Merry Christmas." "John and Sherlock are raising a kid now. We honestly couldn't think of anything more domestic, alas... It's rated M for a reason. Mothership length -this will take all night to read. Featuring a smattering of case related stuff... Sort of. Don't worry. There's not much." And "Coming soon... Multi shipping was never so random, yet so perfect. There aren't enough closets and elevators to trap these characters together in. Brought to you by that genius femslash author."
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I couldn’t help but combine my love of Portal & Sherlolly.
Warning: I did use my own distorted voice. If I could hire an actual singer, I would’ve.
Lyrics Below
Well here we are again
Seems like we’ve done this before
Remember when I went and slapped you thrice
Oh how we laughed and laughed
Except I wasn't laughing
Under the circumstances
I've been shockingly nice
You want to leave now?
Go on.
That's what I'm counting on
I used to hide your death but
Now I only want you gone
You used to bat your eyes
(And I’d fulfill your requests)
I couldn’t help it, I was smitten with you
One day I realized
That I’d been quite the fool
It's such a shame that we
will never have a good bye
You've got your
same old life back
That's what you’re counting on
I'll let you get right to it
Now I only want you gone
Goodbye Sherlock, my friend
Oh, how you thought you knew me.
That would be funny
If it weren't so sad
Well I have cut you out
I don't need people like you
And when I move on, maybe
I'll stop feeling so bad
Go start some new fiasco
That's what I'm counting on
You're someone else's problem
Now I only want you gone
I wish I really wanted you gone
Why can’t you just be...
Gone
Sherlock: *hurrying towards the Watson's front door*
Molly: *opens it preemptively* You're late.
Sherlock: *out of breath* Smugglers *inhales* —so many mangoes *rests hands on knees* —I'm never drinking juice again.
Molly: You were supposed to be here an hour ago.
Sherlock: There were mango smugglers! *more heavy breathing* With knives!
Molly: *tapping her watch*
Sherlock: Big knives!
Molly: I promised I'd meet Meena at Les Chez at 6:30.
Sherlock: And guns? *trying something else* Machine guns!
Molly: *ignoring his lies* We had a reservation.
Sherlock: Oh, well. What time is it? *pulls her arm towards him to read the time*
Molly: *yanks her arm away* It's 7:00, Sherlock.
Sherlock: Oh. Well, hand Lizzie over. You're only a little late.
Molly: I know you don't have very many obligations, but usually when you promise someone you'll be somewhere at a certain time, you show up!
Sherlock: Mm... So, Lizzie? *smiles at the baby*
Molly: *holds Lizzie close to her chest* Uh, uh. Meena and I are going out to eat somewhere else tomorrow. It's too late, now. You can go. You're no longer needed.
Sherlock: *sighs dramatically* Molly!
Molly: *goes to close the door*
Sherlock: I have nothing else planned for the night.
Molly: Sucks to have your plans messed up, eh?
Sherlock: *steps forward under the door frame, very close to Molly*
Molly: Sherlock?
Sherlock: *in a low tone* Let me stay?
Molly: *snarls at him* No, get out of here.
Sherlock: I'll change her nappies.
Molly: *considers it*
Sherlock: Cook dinner?
Molly: *shifts her weight, thinking* Well maybe if you order Chinese take—
Sherlock: *sneaks past her into the house*
Molly: Sherlock! Get back here. *slams the door closed* You're still ordering food. I was expecting fine dining tonight. The least I can get it takeaway and Netflix.
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