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The front door slammed shut and two sets of footsteps started up before stopping at the landing. What sounded to him like an absolute cacophony of wet smacks, giggles and low voices broke through the now-deeply missed silence, drifted up the stairs and through the open door of his flat.
Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around him and sighed in exasperation before bellowing. “Everyone is excited to hear more about what you want to do to the mother of your unborn child.”
There was a pregnant pause before an expletive sounded out and John stomped up the rest of the way with Mary trailing behind at a noticeably slower pace. He ignored the front door through which Sherlock could be seen lying on the sofa reading a medical journal, instead opting to enter through the closed kitchen door. Loudly.
“Sarcasm does not suit you,” Mary huffed breathlessly from the climb as her substantial stomach came into Sherlock’s peripheral view.
“I think we are all old enough to know how your bump got there, Mrs Watson?” Without lifting his eyes from his reading, Sherlock stretched his cheek out towards Mary expectantly. She dropped a wet kiss on his forehead and ruffled his hair before shooing him into a seated position and flopping clumsily with a sigh onto the space his head had previously occupied.
“Piss off, Scotty,” John’s head popped out of the kitchen to glower at Sherlock just as the hair-ruffling happened. “And I thought we have agreed that you are to stop treating him like your son? He does not deserve all this attention.”
“You’re the one buying his groceries,” Mary pointed out as she took the plate of chocolate biscuits from John who returned to the kitchen after having fulfilled both his wife’s cravings and his duty as doting husband. “Thank you, love. Can we feed some to Sherlock or has he hit his sugar limit for the day?”
“Very funny, Mother.” Sherlock’s hand sneaked out and he popped one of the biscuits into his mouth before Mary’s pregnant-thus-slower reflex kicked in to snatch it away.
“Sherlock, why do you have burnt buns in the oven? They look mouldy.” John called out, the frown on his face clear in his voice.
“Cleaning my kitchen? Thank you, Father. And don’t touch them, experiment.”
“Why do I bother? Not even living here; I can just shoot him right now and we can hide the evidence.” John muttered as he fussed about, putting the kettle on.
“Too bad your wife beat you to that. Oh wait, did I not overhear that guns are that other thing you have for her?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his sight finally rousing from the text and landing on the daytime talk-show that Mary had turned on.
A well-known hand salute was bestowed on Sherlock as Mary grinned. “Oh Sherlock, stop teasing John. He has been on tenterhooks since you agreed to be the bump’s godfather; he thinks the offspring is going to have to babysit you instead.”
Mary paused as she took a bite out of her biscuit, “Anyway, I’m sure your kinks are worse.”
“What are ‘kinks’…?”
“Fibbing, Sherlock.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be like my parents? I know more about your sexual habits than I’m comfortable with...”
“Irrelevant; not John.”
“Do you know that a human hair can support about 2 full-size chocolate bars?” Sherlock turned back to the journal as an article swiftly turned out to be incredibly fascinating.
“Stop being a baby; John came across pictures of really fit men and women in compromising positions under your bed once…”
“You know what this means? We need not live in terror of premature hair loss when your toddler starts grabbing everything in sight!”
Mary rolled her eyes before jumping when she saw the time and abruptly struggled to get up. “John, we have to leave now! Molly will be waiting.”
Sherlock perked up from behind the journal, “Aren’t you staying? Where are you going? Can I come?”
“Obviously; socialising; you’re not invited.” John replied absentmindedly as he skittered back into the room to help Mary up from the slouchy sofa, pointedly ignoring the sulking Sherlock.
“Be a good boy for your mother.” A teasing coo even as Mary huffed from the effort of standing up.
“I have no case right now. I’m bored!”
“Indulge and wank, Sherlock.”
∞ • ∞ • ∞ • ∞ • ∞ • ∞ •
It was a late summer afternoon that saw Sherlock at Barts peering through a microscope, while John perused an OK! Magazine hidden among the pages of an autopsy report as he tried to fight off taking a kip there and then on the floor.
The laboratory was quiet after their (or rather, Sherlock’s) appearance quickly sent all working personnel (two interns) scuttling to other parts of the hospital. The constant hum of the coolers was their only companion in the depths of the morgue.
“Oh no, you didn’t!” Molly’s shocked voice snapped in a rarely-heard sharp tone. An unfamiliar voice tried frantically to explain as the door swung open. Sherlock looked up as an agitated face was connected to the distraught voice. The intern swirled around, his standard-issue lab coat flapping as he did so, walking backwards and continuing his justification as to how he might or might not have let some cultures steep for too long and ruined them.
Stomping in closely behind the tosser (anyone who ruined Science experiments was one) was Molly. Sherlock did a double-take as he took in the glorious sight of the tiny livid woman. Strands of hair were escaping from her ponytail and sticking to her sweaty neck. Instead of her standard outfit, she had on running shoes and a loose T-shirt.
And teeny tiny tight shorts.
Which made Sherlock feel all of 15 at the local pool again.
"Hey Molly," John greeted, his voice a shock to Sherlock; equivalent to a cold-water dunk in winter. He had forgotten that John was there.
Molly acknowledged the Blogger and Consulting Detective with an unusually curt nod in their direction. It was blatantly clear that she was trying to keep her temper under control as the intern led her to the station next to Sherlock and began taking out some petri dishes from the small under-counter refrigerator.
Sherlock could not help but sniff the air intently as Molly walked by and a delicious aroma filled the air. Well, as aromatic as salty sweat could be. It appealed to Sherlock on such a basic level that he felt disgusted with himself. And then disappointed as Molly’s shorts disappeared under the lab coat she had donned as he was berating himself.
“Gym?” He heard his voice vocalise in a deeper tone than usual. Inwardly, he balked at making such an obvious remark and hoped that John was too sleepy to notice. He was always, Sherlock begrudgingly admitted, very good at noticing unimportant and embarrassing things like these. Fortunately for him, John's head was on the table as he slowly succumbed to the lure of a nap.
“Yoga releases stress, they say; keeps me from murdering interns,” Molly remarked bitingly as she scrutinised the cultures under the microscope. The intern squirmed as Sherlock raised his eyebrow at him.
Molly’s testy side was one rarely seen by Sherlock, but apparently it was one familiar to all her interns and colleagues. The arresting tone she used as she went on commanding the intern made Sherlock shift uncomfortably in his chair as the front of his pants felt tighter.
Deciding that enough was enough, Sherlock leaped off the chair and put on his coat quickly before anyone was the wiser. John jumped in his seat from Sherlock’s sudden movement and reached out for the coat draped over his chair, but was stopped, “Clean up for me. I won’t be needing you at Baker Street, we’ll continue tomorrow.”
Sherlock put his hands around John’s shoulders and directed him to the vacant station. “Thank you, father John,” he added in a mockingly grave tone before John could protest.
“Molly,” he nodded as imperiously as he could before sweeping out of the morgue, a little disgruntled that all he got in return was a distracted wave from the pocket-sized woman.
∞ • ∞ • ∞ • ∞ • ∞ • ∞ •
As Sherlock indulged in a party of one in his bed that lazy evening with his right hand, the combination of his fertile imagination and eidetic memory brought him to places he rarely ventured. Short figure-hugging shorts, wet ponytail, glow and sheen on fit body, flushed skin, trickle of sweat down between her tits disappearing into her sports bra… Add in what his sense of hearing and smell remembered clearly – her assertive tone and the alluring scent of sweat and pure Molly – it did not take long before he came loudly all over his palm and stomach.
As he recovered from one of the best ejaculations in recent memory and tried to catch his breath, Sherlock realised that he would now need to school his face further and learn to be less flustered around Mary. She really liked to start conversations about sex and kinks to make him uncomfortable, and he would never hear the end of it if she found out about this.
Sherlock also realised that he really needed to find out where the gym was in the hospital and Molly’s gym days. For, you know, research.