Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Scarlet Letter

"You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."

Please allow me to apologise in advance for any mistakes. It's just a little ficlet for my beautiful beta, so mistakes are forgiveable surely?

Molly stood leaning against the door in the lab, watching the most infuriating man she man she had ever met.

He sat in front of his favourite microscope, mumbling to himself while fiddling with ash samples. "Sherlock?"

Without bothering to look up, he responded, "Hmm?"

"Why are you here tonight?" She asked curiously.

Clearing his throat, "A case, Molly."

Taking in the various forms of ash arrayed in petri dishes, she agreed, "Ah, of course," just as if she actually believed him. Casually, she smoothed down her lab coat and made her way to the lab bench.

Leaning back against the countertop, she wondered aloud, "Have you eaten?"

Frowning, he clicked his tongue before changing slides and making a notation in his moleskin. "No, Molly."

Pursing her lips and twisting them, Molly pretended to consider, "Hmm, maybe I'll go pick us up something, you know, for when you finish the case."

Peering at the slide, then at his notes and back again, he nodded absentmindedly.

Molly took a breath, scuffing her shoes and smiling. "Fancy a curry?"

Either engrossed, or pretending to be in his adventures in ash, he shrugged, adding off-handedly, "Sounds great Molly, whatever you want."

Pulling out a stool for herself, she sat down and silently drew patterns on the bench top with her fingertips. Carelessly tossing out, "And do you mind if it's hot, spicy?"

Reaching out to draw a new box of slides closer, he replied, "No, that would be fine."

Arching a brow, she teased, "Good, I like a bit of...heat."

Apparently sensing danger, he narrowed his eyes and set his jaw, suddenly still.

Easing up, she schooled her tone back into a helpful chirp. "And I'll order it to go? You'll come to mine?"

Visibly relaxing at this, he sighed, "Thanks Molly."

One last question to be sure, "Naan too?" "Yes please," he replied politely, having been refined in Miss Molly's Finishing School for rude detectives.

Gotcha. Continuing in the same reasonable voice, she pulled out the coup de grâce. "Right and how long have you fancied me now?"

Presumably running on auto pilot, his mind retrieved the data and he rattled it off tonelessly. "Three years, eight months and four days."

Triumphant, Molly went on, "Hmm, I see, and when were you planning to do something about that?"

Sherlock froze, head tilted, his eyes swivelled from side to side, clearly replaying the entire conversation in his head.

Straightening, he turned to Molly. Unleashing the full intensity of his gaze on her.

Thoroughly pinned in place, she began to panic. His piercing gaze was electrifying but utterly terrifying, the feelings increasing each other exponentially.

The intensity triggered fight or flight and every cell, every nerve, every hair follicle was responding to him. He was the moon and she the sea, inexorably dragged along in the pull of his orbit.

Twisting in his seat, he inclined his head and smiled, "Nicely played Molly." An unmistakeable glint of pride flashing in his eyes.

"Thank you Sherlock," she replied smiling shyly as she sketched a quick curtsy.

"So, now that you have that information, what are you planning to do with it?"

"Same as I was five minutes ago," she answered nonchalantly with a shrug.

Frowning slightly, his disappointment clear, he moved to stand in front of her. Bracketing her neatly between himself and the bench top. Arching a brow, his eyes darted to and fro, trying to deduce what she was up to. "Is that so?"

Nodding, Molly arched her body into his and sighed contentedly, "Hmm, yeah. Curry, me, you, my place...clothing optional."

"Why Miss Hooper," he mock scolded, "Was that an invitation into your bed?"

Molly bit her lip, shaking her head slowly, "No Sherlock, that was not an invitation into my bed, you've been in there many a time. It was an offer, for you to have me. And no, it's not a slip of the tongue."

"Molly, the first time was no slip, I was just too stupid to see it for what it was." Leaning down, he nipped at her neck playfully.

Sinking her nails into his bicep through his gorgeous black shirt, pulled a hiss from his throat that matched her own.

"Sherlock?" She panted out, as he painted her collar bone and décolletage with worshipful kisses.

"Hmm?" He asked, without ceasing his full frontal assault.

"Oh, ah," reverberations from his deep, deep baritone sparking lust, "Kiss me?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Tugging her hair at the base of her neck, he tilted her head up and met her lips with his own.

Thank you for reading!