I Want to Be a Pirate

[darnedchild]

Summary: Sherlock wants to be a pirate. And it absolutely has nothing to do with Molly. No matter what John thinks.
Rating: G
A/N - My first completed foray into the Sherlock fandom, for the Sherlock/Molly ship.


I Want to Be a Pirate



-~|John|~-

"I've decided that I'm going to become a pirate."

John's fingers stilled over the keyboard of his laptop as he lifted his bum off his chair to see over the screen.

Sherlock was still stretched out on the sofa; feet hanging over the arm, eyes closed, and his hands steepled against his chin in the overly dramatic 'thinking' pose he favoured.

"You can't be a pirate."

"I can."

"No. You can't." John shook his head, and settled back down into his chair. He could hear Sherlock shifting; then saw his friend sit up and glare at him.

"Name one reason why."

"You can't swim, for a start." John turned back to his blog, trying to remember the timeline of events for the case he was writing up.

"There are classes for that sort of thing. Aren't there?"

"What, swimming? Yeah, I suppose so."

"There you go. Objection nullified."

Obviously no work was going to be done that afternoon. John sighed and saved his work, then shut the laptop. "You haven't got a ship, have you?"

He looked up to see Sherlock staring just right of where John was sitting, eyes unfocused. After a moment he nodded. "I'll concede that one."

"Why the sudden interest in piracy?"

Sherlock stood in a burst of motion and stepped onto and over the short table in front of the sofa. "It's not sudden. I've got half a dozen books on pirate history and biographies alone." He gestured toward the stacks of books haphazardly shoved into the shelves built into the wall to illustrate his point.

A vague memory of Mycroft once mentioning that young Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate when he grew up came to mind, and John smirked. "I can probably bring you an eye patch from the clinic next time I come by, if you'd like."

Sherlock whipped around to face him, the hem of his dressing gown billowing around his legs. John was sure his friend was about to rip into him for taking the piss, but Sherlock looked completely earnest as he asked, "Could you?"

"I suppose, mate. Seriously though, you know you can't actually turn to a life of piracy, right?"

The consulting detective dropped into his chair, slouching down until the back of his head touched the cushion. His legs sprawled out toward what would always be known as John's Chair.

"I found a book about a pirate on Molly's nightstand. Well, two books. And they were in the nightstand drawer rather than on top, but it's practically the same thing."

John could hear the rapid tap-tap-tap of Sherlock's fingers against the arm of the chair. John blinked, and then blinked again; shaking his head as if to clear an obstruction out of his ears. "Pardon?"

"What part of that did you not understand?"

"Let's start with you in Molly's . . . Molly Hooper, right?" He took Sherlock's brisk head jerk as an affirmative. "Molly Hooper's bedroom. You. In her bedroom."

He got up from the desk and circled around a pile of Sherlock's 'organized' mess to fall into His Chair.

"Yes. Was that not obvious? I feel as if that should have been obvious."

"Why?" John nudged Sherlock's feet out of the way so that he could stretch his own legs a bit.

"Because Mrs. Hudson had 'company', and I needed a few hours of sleep. Which I wouldn't have received, had I been forced to listen to juvenile giggling and horrifically rhythmic thumping."

Both men shuddered.

"You slept in Molly's room."

He must have caught on that there was something off in John's tone, because Sherlock's brow furrowed for a moment. "Don't worry, she's fine with it. Actually seemed rather enthusiastic when I originally suggested the arrangement."

"I'm sure she was." Knowing of Molly's infatuation with Sherlock--one that John had been almost entirely convinced was unrequited up until a moment ago--John was not surprised.

Sherlock frowned a little. "I'll admit, lately she hasn't seemed as agreeable about it, but I've been making a point to try to be more considerate when I stay over. I brought take-away and a pint of her favourite ice cream last time."

"What more could a girl ask for?"

Sherlock must have completely missed the sarcasm because he smiled as if John had just praised him. "I thought so. She seemed to appreciate the extra effort when she came home the next morning. Although, I suppose I had forgotten to put her half of the take-away in the fridge so it had been sitting out all night. She had to toss everything but the ice cream in the garbage. Molly said it was the thought that counted, though. I didn't stick around to see if she ate the ice cream or not."

"When she came home?" John was confused. "She wasn't there when you spent the night?"

"Not this time, no. She had a night shift at Barts. Which was convenient, because she's always so cranky after she's spent the night on the sofa, and I can barely enjoy a cup of tea with her grumbling about her sore back and cold feet."

"You make her sleep on the sofa, after you . . .?"

"Spend the night? Where else is she going to sleep when I'm in her room? She hasn't got a guest room. Really, thinking someone with her salary could afford a two bedroom flat in her part of town. Be reasonable."

John flung his head back and groaned. "When you say you slept at Molly's, you mean you slept at Molly's, don't you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked at John, clearly concerned. "Are you feeling all right? You're even slower than usual today. Were you up with the baby all night?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I just . . . I don't know what I thought, but it was clearly wrong, so let's move on. So, pirates?"

His friend sat up straighter, ready to focus on his chosen topic once more. "Yes. Pirates. I want to be a pirate."

"Because you found some books in Molly's nightstand. About pirates."

Sherlock fidgeted in the chair. "Obviously that's not the reason, seeing them just rekindled an old fascination with the concept."

"Obviously." John doubted that. Not that Sherlock had harboured childhood dreams of being a pirate, which John knew to be true. He just had his doubts that this reawakened interest in piracy had nothing to do with Molly's apparent interest in the same. "Were you thinking modern, gun toting, criminal type pirate? Or something more in line with the skull and crossbones flying, plank walking, dashing rogue type?"

"The regular kind." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, and John suspected that was consulting detective for 'I don't understand the reference but I don't want to let on to that'.

Getting the git to admit this was all about appealing to Molly was going to be harder than he'd thought.

New tactic. "Tell me, these books you found while snooping through Molly's drawers while she wasn't home, were they nonfiction?"

His friend's normally pale cheeks flushed as he deliberately looked past John into the kitchen. "Not . . . nonfiction."

"Right, then. Fit guy on the cover, billowy shirt open to the navel, long hair waving in the sea breeze? Perhaps clutching a buxom beauty about the waist as they stand on the deck of a ship?"

Sherlock's gaze whipped back to meet John's.

"Yeah, Mary's got a few novels like that; although she's more partial to bare-chested, kilt clad Scotsman. Did you, by any chance, read either of them? Maybe just thumbed through to find the good parts?"

"I honestly doubt there were any good parts to speak of, neither of them had much to offer in the way of decent literature. Both were full of historical inaccuracies and dreadfully purple prose."

With a frustrated sigh, John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sometimes I can't tell if you're being wilfully obtuse or if you legitimately don't get it." He opened his eyes and caught Sherlock tapping his fingers against the armrests again. "The sex scenes. Did you bother to read any of the sex scenes? Even just the kissing bits?"

Sherlock's fingers stilled, but his bare feet began to thump against the floor. He was visibly agitated, which John decided to interpret as a good sign.

"I fail to see what that has to do with anything."

"Of course you don't." John shifted onto one hip so he could pull his mobile out of his back pocket. He began to thumb through his contact list as he continued to speak to Sherlock. "Listen, mate. I'm going to spell something out for you, and then you're going to take a few minutes to puzzle through it in that overly complicated brain of yours. Then, you're going to have to make an important decision, rather quickly."

He looked up from his phone and met Sherlock's gaze. "Those pirate books Molly had tucked away out of sight in her bedroom, those were romance novels. No one reads them to learn about proper ship maintenance or gout prevention. They read them because the pirate captain with historically inaccurate good hygiene and perfect teeth woos his naive, yet feisty, and beautiful prisoner so that they can spend the latter half of the book having improbable and very bendy sex on every available surface they can find!"

Sherlock blinked several times, and then smirked. "You appear to be awfully familiar with the genre, John."

"Don't start, I told you Mary reads them, too." John's thumb hovered over the screen of his mobile as he continued. "I can almost guarantee that at least one of the pirate captains was described as tall, with dark, curly hair. Probably had a lovely, deep voice that made the heroine's loins tingle or something similar?"

He could see his observation hit home. Sherlock swallowed, hard.

"Molly's got a type, Sherlock. You. You're her type. You in that stupid coat. You in that purple shirt she can't stop drooling over when you're not looking. And, this is just a guess based on where you found the books, you dressed as a pirate in one or two naughty bedtime reading inspired fantasies."

The fidgeting increased. John estimated it was only a matter of minutes before Sherlock bolted out of his chair, possibly out of the flat entirely.

"Think about it, you git. This wasn't about a lifelong desire to sail the seven seas. This is about Molly having a thing for pirates, and you having a thing for Molly."

John hit the call button and lifted his mobile to his ear. "The clock is ticking, Sherlock. What are you going to do?"

-~|Sherlock|~-

Before Sherlock had a chance to answer, John held up his finger and turned his attention to his phone.

"Hey. Hi. It's John. Watson. Yeah, no, it's fine. Don't apologize; I don't think I've ever called you from this number before. No reason to recognize it. No, he's fine. Really. I swear, he's fine. We're both fine. Listen, Molly-"

Sherlock jerked to attention. The glare he shot at John should have been enough to cause a regular man to cower. John ignored him.

"We just wrapped up a case."

They had not. There hadn't been a case for over twenty-four hours, which was why Sherlock had spent so long contemplating piracy. He'd been bored. That was the only reason.

Nothing to do with Molly.

Sure, he'd noticed a slight similarity between the captain in Ravished by the Roguish Rake (an utterly ridiculous title) and himself. Perhaps his overactive mind might have briefly pictured him dressed in breeches and knee high boots, pressing his willing captive toward his bunk, before beginning to unlace her stays.

But that was only a momentary distraction, nothing more.

Wasn't it?

He shifted in the suddenly uncomfortable chair. John was still blathering on to Molly.

"Mary took Elizabeth out for a Mummy/Daughter day, so I suggested picking up some take-away here at Baker Street. Right. They do have a great curry, yeah. Anyway, Sherlock mentioned that he owed you since the meal he brought you the other day ended up needing to be tossed."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He wouldn't. He wouldn't dare.

John laughed into the phone, although he eyes were clearly locked on Sherlock and the laughter was obviously meant in response to the horrified expression on Sherlock's face and not for whatever Molly had been saying.

"That sounds like him, all right. So, he suggested inviting you over to eat with us. Maybe watch a DVD or something? Good, good. Since you mentioned it, curry good for you? Great. Oh, hey, Molly? Do you happen to have any of those Pirates of the Caribbean flicks? Could you? That would be great. For some reason I'm really in the mood to watch a pirate movie. See you in a bit."

John hung up with a smirk. "Figured it out yet?"

"You do realize I know nearly a hundred ways to murder you, and no one would ever be the wiser."

"Yeah, but you'd miss me."

The cheeky arsehole was right, unfortunately.

John stood up and moved to grab his coat from the rack near the door. "I'm going to go pick up dinner. On the way I'm going to contact Mary, and ask her to call me with an emergency in an hour or so. I'll obviously need to rush off, leaving you and Molly alone to . . . do whatever comes to mind."

Sherlock watched him head down the stairs, his thoughts racing in several different directions at once.

The quickest solution would be to call Molly back and tell her that John had been hit by a cab on the way to pick up the food, so dinner was obviously cancelled. She'd probably ask which hospital he'd been taken to, though, which would mean Sherlock would have to actually push his friend into oncoming traffic to make the lie convincing. Sherlock briefly considered it, and then dismissed the idea. Reluctantly. Mostly because Mary would make him pay for damaging her husband.

He could just leave. John had gone, there was no one here to stop him if he decided to grab his coat and disappear to one of his bolt holes. Of course, his favourite bolt hole of late was Molly's flat, but that option was obviously not on the table for the evening.

A case?

He reached for his laptop just as John reappeared in the door. "That's what I thought. Look, Sherlock, not that you don't look comfortable, but you do realize that Molly will be here in-" John paused to glance at his wristwatch. "In about twenty-five minutes. And you're still in the pyjamas I made you put on when I got here this morning, because I didn't want to be confronted by your dangly bits barely covered by a sheet, again."

"It's my flat, you don't live here anymore. If you object to my sheets, then don't show up so early."

"You asked me to come over, and I didn't get here until eleven. You haven't showered or shaved and you're lounging around in pyjamas, is that really how you want to look when Molly gets here?"

"Fuck off."

"Just trying to help, mate." John shook his head and disappeared down the stairs again.

Sherlock waited until the front door opened and closed, signalling that John had once again left the building, to hop out of the chair and rush toward the bathroom.

Just over twenty minutes later, he was pulling on his shirt (dark blue because he'd sent the purple one off to be dry cleaned at some point, and forgotten to ask Mrs. Hudson to pick it up) when he heard someone hesitantly call out hello.

"Just a moment," Sherlock yelled, sticking his head out of the bedroom door to help his voice carry. He hastily slipped buttons through buttonholes and danced around trying to shove his feet into his shoes.

He heard someone--Molly, obviously--moving about in the sitting room. Hanging up her coat, from the sound of it.

"I hope it's okay that I let myself in? Mrs. Hudson told me to just come on up." She had to have been next to the kitchen when she'd spoken. Definitely closer than before.

Sherlock took a few seconds to inspect his appearance in the wardrobe mirror. Shirt buttoned, tails tucked in, fly fastened (a quick double check on that one), shoes on.

Jacket or no?

If they were leaving the answer would undoubtedly be yes; but they were spending the night in, and a jacket might seem too formal. Too unapproachable.

And you want to be approachable tonight, whispered that voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like John.

"Shut up," Sherlock hissed in return.

"Pardon?" He heard her moving through the kitchen, her steps hesitant and cautious. "Did you say something, Sherlock?"

"I said one second. Just give me another second and I'll be out."

"Oh, don't hurry because of me. I'll just . . . sit. Or something." Her footsteps stopped, then began to retreat back toward the sitting room.

Sherlock's hand hovered over one of the dressing gowns that Mrs. Hudson had hung in his wardrobe. He often wore them around the flat, much more informal than a suit jacket. Still, he hesitated; fingers curling into a fist without touching the silky fabric.

It was just an evening with John and Molly. No need for an extra layer of armour.

With that thought, Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, and then confidently strode down the short hall to the kitchen.

Molly wasn't even looking in his direction.

She was perched on the edge of the cushion of John's Chair, her back to him. Her head was down, and he realized she was most likely looking at her mobile.

"Anything interesting?" That may have come out a bit sharper than he'd intended, but he had been expecting her to be . . . waiting for him, and she hadn't been paying one whit of attention to his entrance. Even he realized how childish that made him sound.

Molly jerked, head snapping up as she twisted in the chair to see him. He saw her press a hand against her chest. "You scared me!"

"Did I? I apologize."

She started to get up and he waved a hand to halt her movement. "Stay. Make yourself comfortable. It would appear that John's not back with the food, yet. Can I get you anything? To drink? Tea? I think there's some bottled water. Mrs. Hudson may have-"

Molly interrupted him. "Water! Please. That would be lovely."

Luck was with him, there were a few bottles of water tucked behind a container that might have been leftovers or possibly a mould experiment. Either way, the container was sealed, so he didn't bother worrying about it.
He brought her one and settled into his chair across from her. Molly fiddled with the cap of her bottle for a moment, then squared her shoulders and lifted her head to look at him. Her lips tilted up in that shy smile he was so fond of.

Since when? he asked himself.

Since always, you git. You just refused to acknowledge it, answered mind palace John.

"Thank you for thinking of me, tonight. For take-away, I mean."

"No problem. It was the least I could do." The very least, considering he hadn't actually done it.

Molly tucked a strand of hair that must have come loose from her pony tail behind her ear. "Still. Thank you." Her gaze flitted around the room, and he realized she was nervous. More so than usual.

Probably because you've been staring at her since you sat down.

He opened his mouth, desperately trying to think of something--anything--to say to cut through the awkwardness of the moment, when the front door banged open.

He and Molly were both out of their seats and facing the door by the time John made it to up the stairs.

John paused in the doorway, eyes flicking back and forth between them. "Sorry I'm late. They were swamped, took ages to get my order in." He hefted the two plastic bags full of cartons higher into the air so they could clearly see them; and then put them onto the coffee table in front of the sofa. "Forks, Sherlock? And I'd like some water, too, if you please."

It took a few minutes to find clean silverware. By the time Sherlock returned with the forks and more water, John had left Molly with the honours of unpacking the food and he was busy moving the table that had Sherlock's television perched on it.

John insisted Sherlock help pull the table closer to the sofa, and then he plugged the telly into the power strip under the desk.

Sherlock realized that there would be no way to see the screen from anywhere other than the sofa. He glared at John. John grinned back, then snatched the water bottle out of Sherlock's hand, and plopped himself down on one end of the sofa.

"Did you bring the movie, Molly?"

She looked up from the carton she'd opened and set out in front of John. "Yeah. I wasn't sure which ones you may have seen, so I brought all four. Just in case."

"Wonderful. I don't think Sherlock's seen any of them, have you?" John didn't bother waiting for Sherlock to say anything, just clapped his hands together and rushed on. "So let's start with the first one then. Do you have to work tomorrow, Molly? No? Great. Maybe we'll have a little movie marathon night then."
Sherlock stood there, glaring at John, until Molly handed him something. He caught the worried look in her eyes, and was smart enough to realize that she must have thought his anger was directed at her for some reason. He took the DVD case from her and softly said thank you, tossing in one of the nicer of his smiles for good measure.

Her worried look didn't abate at all; in fact, it seemed to grow worse. She cast a glance toward John, as if seeking reassurance from him; and Sherlock barely contained his irritation. Just because he'd used his smile and voice to convince Molly to see things his way once or twice--several times--didn't mean that he was being insincere every single time he deigned to smile, for God's sake.

His hands clutched the DVD case tight enough that he could hear the plastic protest.

He realized that John had been speaking, and whatever he'd said had convinced Molly to settle onto the middle of the sofa.

Well, mostly in the middle. John had somehow manoeuvred himself so that he was partially turned toward Molly and taking up more than his third of the sofa, leaving Molly with little choice but to invade the third left for Sherlock.

He popped the disc into the ancient DVD player nestled on the table shelf under his television and began to ease into his designated spot when John's voice stopped him.

"Lights."

"Pardon?"

"Turn off the lights, Sherlock. Movies are meant to be watched in the dark."

Sherlock quickly searched Molly's face for any sign of discomfort or hint that John was lying, but he saw none. Apparently sitting around in the dark while staring at a television was a common enough thing that she didn't find it strange. Still, there would be hell to pay the next time he got John Watson alone.

He moved about the room and kitchen, flipping switches and turning off lamps, and then slipped into the space left on the sofa. His thigh and shoulder briefly bumped against Molly before she leaned toward to John to give him space. Sherlock didn't like that at all. He deliberately shifted closer to the centre as he leaned forward to reach for his food, and then didn't bother scooting back to huddle against the sofa arm after he had the container in hand.

Molly cleared her throat, then reached for the DVD player remote and started the movie.

The movie was . . . less horrible than he'd been expecting, although Sherlock had several moments where he wanted to open his mouth and lambast what was being shown on the screen. However, one look at Molly's obvious enjoyment and he bit his tongue.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye, and turned to see John lifting his arm behind Molly's head. He tilted his watch in Sherlock's direction and jerked his chin toward it. Sherlock tensed at the reminder that Mary would be calling soon. A multitude of possibilities, probabilities, and scenarios started to play out in his mind as to what could happen once John's phone rang.

Would Molly stay? Would she want to leave? Would she see through such an obvious set up and be offended?

Contrary to what John had insisted earlier--that Sherlock was Molly's type--there hadn't been any real indication that she had strong feelings for him in ages. No more awkward attempts at flirting, no more adoring glances, no more lipstick and changing the way she parted her hair because of his compliments. Come to think of it, she hadn't been doing any of that since he came back from dismantling Moriarty's criminal network. At first, he'd just assumed she needed time to get used to his return and things would get back to normal; but they hadn't.

If anything, she'd grown more confident while he was gone; or, more likely, she'd always been this confidant and he'd just never seen it because she'd been so infatuated with him. Another disappointing sign that she'd moved on.

No catering to his every whim, no hero worship.

Perversely, he found that he liked that Molly had begun treating him as if he were just a man, rather than a freak or superhuman.

At some point, this had become the new normal.

It was obvious that rather than feeling out of her depth and nervous around him, Molly was comfortable enough in his presence to put her bare feet up on the coffee table. Comfortable enough to snort when John said something marginally amusing. Even comfortable enough to fish a dropped noodle out of her cleavage, and pop it into her mouth with an embarrassed giggle.

The chaos in his mind came to a sudden halt at the brief glimpse of exposed pale, creamy flesh when she lifted the top of her blouse to find the escaped morsel.

For God's sake, John was right. This wasn't about being a pirate; this was about being Molly's pirate fantasy.

His mouth went dry and he tensed up.

Molly seemed to realize there was something wrong. She leaned forward to grab the remote and paused the movie. "You know, if this isn't-I mean, we don't have to keep watching this. We could watch something else, or do something different, or I could leave and you and John could-"

"No!" Sherlock interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

He emphatically shook his head. "We don't need to do anything else."

"Oh, all right." She sounded disappointed.

When she began to pack up her food container and fork, Sherlock panicked. He looked to John over Molly's bent head, silently begging for help.

"I think he means we don't have to do anything else because he wants to keep watching the movie," offered John.

"Yes! That's what I meant." Sherlock bobbed his head in agreement, positive he looked like an idiot.

She seemed relieved, and, most importantly, she settled back into her spot on the sofa. "I'm glad to hear that. I just, well, you seemed so tense?"

John motioned with his hand behind Molly's head. Some sort of 'come on' gesture. Sherlock had no clue what the other man was trying to convey.

He blinked and returned his focus to Molly, who was looking at him intently. "I . . . was thinking."

"Of course you were." Her tone was teasing, as was her smile. He almost took umbrage at being made fun of, before he realized she wasn't mocking him so much as including him in some sort of shared joke.

John waved his hand again.

"This Sparrow bloke. How did he manage to convince anyone that he was a competent ship captain, with his swanning about and constant drunkenness?"

She turned to face him fully, and he was very aware of her knees pressed against his thigh. He saw John brandish two thumbs up, a gesture he'd clearly picked up from Mary. Sherlock nearly scowled before he remembered that Molly was observing him closely.

"He's a really surprisingly decent pirate. Obviously, there were members of his crew that didn't agree with how he ran his ship-"

"The mutiny."

"Right. But in the end, he gets the job done. Mostly. With help." She grinned, and he found himself smiling a bit in return.

John's phone began to chirp, and the doctor stood to pull it out of his pocket. A quick glance at the phone screen lead to an utterly unconvincing, "Huh, it's Mary. Just a sec." He put the phone to his ear and went to the kitchen to conduct his conversation in private.

Sherlock and Molly sat in silence, watching John pace about the small space next to the kitchen table. Sherlock wanted to say something to get Molly talking again, but his mind was uncharacteristically blank.

As soon as John had ended the call and returned to the sitting room, Molly inquired about Mary and little Elizabeth.

"They're good." John smiled. "Had a lovely day out; but Lizzy's a bit over tired now and wants her Daddy to put her to bed. Mary's at her wits' end, so I told her I'd come home."

"Aww, that's adorable," Molly gushed.

It was a statement that could only come from someone who hadn't spent an hour plus listening to an infant scream bloody murder, Sherlock thought. He'd made the mistake of showing up at the Watson home at the wrong time, and ended up cuddling the cranky ball of anger while her parents took a much needed breather. It was worth it to see John's face when he and Mary came back from a short walk to find Elizabeth quietly and adoringly staring up at her Uncle Sherlock as he told her stories about some of his favourite cases.

Still, he wondered how anyone could possibly fall for such a poorly delivered lie. It was a good thing that John had gone into medicine; he would have failed horrifically as an actor.

Molly began to gather food containers again. "Well, I'll just start cleanup, then. Do you think you could wait long enough for me to flag down a cab?" she asked John.

John and Sherlock shared a wide-eyed look. With a deep breath, Sherlock reached out and hesitantly touched the back of Molly's wrist. "You're leaving?"

She looked down at his hand, then up to his face. "I thought-I mean-John's leaving."

He was very conscious of the smooth warmth of her skin under his fingertips. Would she feel the same elsewhere? His fingers suddenly itched to find out. He jerked his hand back and curled it into a fist to keep from doing something neither of them was ready for.

"Yes. That is what he is doing. Yes." Could he sound anymore like an imbecile?

"So I thought it would be a good time for me to do the same?" It should have been a statement, but her tone made it seem as if she were unsure.

That was good. Unsure meant that there was still a chance that she could be persuaded to stay.

"But we were watching the movie. I was enjoying the movie." He shot another desperate look toward John, hoping his friend would come to his rescue once more. John merely shrugged, silently telling Sherlock he was on his own now. Traitor.

"Oh, well, that's fine. I can leave them here, and you can bring them to Barts when you've finished with them."

"That's not . . . That won't work for me."

Molly frowned, and Sherlock said the first thing that popped into his head. "What if I have more questions? It would be better if you were with me while I watched them."

What if I have more questions? Could that be any more transparent? Only an idiot would fall for that. Even John was rolling his eyes in response.

She, however, looked pleasantly surprised.

An idiot, or someone who really wants to believe any excuse handed to her if it meant getting what she desperately wanted. An excuse to spend more time with me.

His earlier fear that she had given up and moved on disappeared. Unfortunately, another immediately took its place.

Faking feelings for someone was so much easier than experiencing it in reality. This--whatever this thing with Molly was going to become--was something completely foreign to him, and he found that more than a little terrifying.

John grabbed his coat and laptop before heading down the stairs, and Sherlock barely noticed.

Molly hit play and settled back against the sofa. She had a soft smile on her lips. He would have given almost anything to know what she was thinking at that moment.

-~|Molly|~-

She had to be dreaming. Molly knew there was absolutely no way that she was in Sherlock's darkened sitting room, close enough on the sofa to practically be touching, watching a DVD. And that it was all his idea? It was all too surreal to be believed.

As surreptitiously as possible, Molly slipped her hand down to her thigh and pinched herself.

Nope. That hurt. Not dreaming. I've just lost my mind, then.

Somehow, by the end of the movie, the arm that he'd casually draped across the back of the sofa had settled against her shoulders. They'd both tensed a bit at the first contact, but neither of them had bothered to move away.

And here she was, with her head pillowed against Sherlock's bicep and her legs comfortably curled beneath her, surrounded by Sherlock's scent; and ready to jump the poor man at the slightest sign that he was interested.

Which was utterly ridiculous because Sherlock Holmes was not a man who would appreciate being jumped.

Right?

Three hours ago, Molly would have sworn that was true. But three hours ago he hadn't lured her to his flat with the promise of food, turned off all the lights, arranged to have John leave with some phony excuse, and put his arm around her so . . .

As the end credits began to roll, Molly bit her lower lip and wondered what she should do now. If this were a real date, then she would snuggle closer and snog the man until his eyes crossed.

If she were lounging around with a girlfriend, giggling about how hot Orlando Bloom was, then she would suggest opening a bottle of wine and some ice cream.

Kissing was out (Probably?). As was giggling, wine and ice cream.

So what did that leave? Molly was at a loss.

She simply had no frame of reference for sitting in the dark, cuddled against Sherlock Holmes.

She turned to ask him what he wanted to do next, hoping he might give her a clue on how to proceed, and found that he was looking down at her. His fingers, the ones that had been drawing light circles on her arm for the last twenty minutes, tangled in a lock of hair from her ponytail and gently tugged.

Molly's breath caught.

His expression . . .

She thought her heart stopped--which was medically improbable, Molly knew, considering there was no corresponding coronary event--and she exhaled with a gasp.

"Molly. I-Would you . . ."

Would she what? Whatever it was, she was positive that she'd say yes. Especially if he continued to use that deep, rumbling voice to ask her, because that was threatening to make her melt into a puddle right there on the sofa.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she saw the tip of Sherlock's tongue slip out to moisten his lips; at that moment, Molly knew that he was going to kiss her.

"Would you mind-" he started again, and then trailed off once more.

The music from the telly swelled dramatically, and his gaze flicked toward it.

"Oh, OH." Suddenly, Molly understood. "Of course, the movie! You want me to switch out the movie." Something coloured her voice; but she wasn't sure if it was relief at figuring out what he wanted, or disappointment that she had been so completely wrong about him wanting to kiss her. "Yes, I can-I can do that."

She moved to stand, pushing against the sofa cushion with a hand near his thigh. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, stilling her. "Don't leave."

With some difficulty, Molly managed to force her eyes way from where he was touching her. He looked unsure and vulnerable. She wasn't used to seeing that sort of expression on his face, and she wanted to reassure him. "I wasn't leaving; I was just going to-"

"No." His fingers tightened around her wrist, at least one pressing just over her radial artery. "I mean, stay here. This spot."

"All right." She twisted her hand, and then slid it upward until she could press her palm against his. "Were you taking my pulse?"

Guilt clouded his features for a moment, then he offered her a rueful grin. "I . . . Yes?"

"If you want to know if you make my heart race, you can just ask." The smile she gave him as their fingers intertwined was tentative, but oh so sweet.

He considered it for a moment. "Do I?"

"Oh yes."

Sherlock smiled. He cupped the back of her head with his free hand, and leaned down until their lips were almost touching. "Should we see if I can make it go any faster?"

She laughed in response, and he frowned. "What? Not good?"

"Nearly perfect, actually. Very smooth. I'd only change one little thing."

His frown deepened, and he started to pull away. "What?"

Molly slid her hands into his hair and urged him back to her. She finally--Finally!--felt the touch of his lips against hers, and groaned at the contact. She swept her tongue against his firm lower lip, and he opened to her with a low, spine tingling moan.

Her world tilted for a moment, until she found herself sitting in Sherlock's lap.

"You're right. Your way was better," Sherlock admitted with a boyish smile.

She leaned forward so that she could whisper in his year, "If you liked that, you're really going to love this." Then she kissed him again.

-~|Mary|~-

"Can you tell me why you needed me to call and rescue you from Sherlock, yet?" Mary asked. She'd been very patient, waiting until he'd finished hanging up his coat and taking off his shoes so he could get on the floor where his wife and daughter had been playing.

"Sherlock wants to be a pirate," he deadpanned, picking Lizzy up for a cuddle.

To her credit, Mary only blinked a few times, giggled for less than thirty seconds, and then--in all seriousness--nodded. Nothing that Sherlock did surprised her that much anymore.

"All right. Somali or the other kind?"

John began to build a small tower out of blocks. "The peg leg, shoulder parrot, pieces of eight kind."

Lizzy knocked the tower over and giggled, excitedly clapping her hands.

"Seems a bit odd if he's hoping to blend in anywhere other than a fancy dress party, but I'm sure he has his reasons." Mary began to gather the scattered blocks together and pushed them toward John so he could build another tower for Lizzy the Destroyer. "Does he? Have a reason?"

"Molly likes pirates."

She froze, a final block still clutched in her hand. "Molly? MOLLY Molly? Our Molly?"

"Yep." John pulled the block free from her grasp and placed it atop the stack he'd made.

"Oh, God, don't do that thing with the 'P' popping, you sound just like him when he's being a show-off."

John grinned in response, then praised his daughter when she knocked the blocks over again.

"Does this mean . . .? Has our little boy finally discovered another use for bodies besides 'transport'?" Mary clapped her hands together in glee. Lizzy mimicked her mother and laughed.

"One of these days he's going to find out I told you that story, and I'm never going to hear the end of it," groused John. "Not if he notices how sarcastic you sound when you say it."

"He already knows. I mentioned it when I caught him knicking half a dozen of my homemade ginger biscuits."

He smiled at her over the mop of Lizzy's blonde curls. "I love you."

"I know." Mary grinned back.

By unspoken agreement, they picked up the baby's toys. Mary took Lizzy to the nursery to get her ready for her bath, and John went to fill the tub.

Forty-five minutes later, Lizzy was asleep in her crib and her parents were huddled together on the sofa in the living room.

"So . . . pirates, huh?" asked Mary, barely containing her laughter.

"Sherlock says Molly's got smutty pirate books hidden in her bedroom."

"Sherlock's already been in her bedroom? Why am I just now hearing about this?" She playfully smacked John in the arm.

John held up his hands in mock surrender. "I only just found out myself. And it's not nearly has fun as it sounds. He's been sleeping in her bed, while she's been kipping on the sofa."

"What a jerk."

"Yeah, he is a bit."

She could hear the affection he felt for his friend in his voice. That was one of the things she adored most about her husband; he could see the faults in people, and still love them regardless. If she wasn't careful, she was going to get choked up and start sniffling.

John tilted his head and looked at her with one of his lopsided smiles. "What?"

Mary cleared her throat and shook her head. Later, she would remind him how much she loved him, and how blessed she was to have him in her life.

Now, well, now there was juicy Sherlock gossip to hear.

"So, he's been digging through her things with his usual disregard for privacy, and discovered Molly's lady porn starring pirates . . . and now he wants to be a pirate." Mary wanted to make sure she had everything clear.

John nodded. "That about sums it up, yeah."

"Has he figured it out yet?" she wondered.

"I think so. It took a bit of explaining. In the end I had to invite Molly over to Sherlock's for dinner and a movie, and then get myself excused so they'd be alone in the dark--which is where you came in, my love--but I think he's on the right track now."

Mary glanced across the room to where her phone sat on an end table. "I'm sure we'll find out soon enough if he isn't."

She nibbled on a finger nail, tempted to give Molly a ring to see how things were going.

"And if he is?"

Mary laughed. "Well, if that's the case, I don't expect we'll hear from either of them until tomorrow at the earliest. Do you?"

John's smile was devilish and wicked. "Since we've got hours to kill until tomorrow, and now that Little Miss is down for the night; why don't we retire to our room, and you and I can discuss how manly I'd look in a kilt?"

"Ohhh, naughty boy." She giggled and stood up, reaching for his hand to lead him toward their bedroom. "You've been reading my books again?"

"You never know where inspiration will strike."

-~|The End|~-