Molly was patiently scrubbing the countertop, scouring away droplets of blood and other fluids that had worked their way onto the counter. Off to her right, she could hear the curious scribbling of pen to paper as Sherlock hovered over the cadaver with his black notebook. It was almost one o'clock in the morning.

Sherlock had somehow managed to get her phone number and while she had initially been flattered, his late-night texts were majorly cutting into her REM cycle. He would brook no argument or resistance and would continue to text her until she gave up and finally rolled out of bed.

Truthfully, she didn't mind. If spending exorbitant amounts of time with Sherlock Holmes in the middle of the night resulted in a few hours of lost sleep, it was worth it. Besides, she would just be losing sleep in her bed at home, fantasizing about him; at least this way her hands were busy.

Moving to the sink to rewet her rag, she glanced up to admire his profile. It wasn't fair how gorgeous he was, with his night-dark curls and alabaster skin. With his ice-blue eyes. With his perfect, shapely mouth… His head tilted slightly and she jerked her eyes away guiltily. She was supposed to be professional, but the way she took every opportunity to gawk at him was reminiscent of a school girl.

There was a speck on the pristine white counter that, try as she might, would not come up. She was beginning to suspect it was either a pattern in the plastic or a permanent stain when she felt like she was being watched. Lifting her head, she jumped and clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress her squeak of surprise. Without her hearing, Sherlock had maneuvered to within inches of her arm and was staring at her intently.

She giggled weakly and her hand fell back to her side. "You almost gave me a heart attack, Sherlock," she breathed, trying to compose herself. "You always sneak up on me."

"I never 'sneak,'" he replied bluntly. "Only criminals 'sneak.' Were you paying attention, you would have heard me."

To anyone else, she would've bristled at such rude treatment. But to Sherlock, she blushed and lowered her head. "Did you need something?" she mumbled, going back to her scrubbing.

"Yes." She waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn't she raised her head again. He was gazing at her with his piercing pale blue eyes and Molly was a little taken back. It was unnerving to be stared at with such naked, intense interest, and she imagined he could see her very soul.

She opened her mouth to repeat her question, but the words died in her throat as Sherlock placed both hands on her cheeks and pulled her head closer, crushing his lips to hers.

At first, Molly was so in shock she didn't respond. The shock lasted a few milliseconds before her head emptied of everything but the sudden, urgent need to kiss him back. Closing her eyes, she tapped her tongue against his lower lip and shivered deliciously when he invited her to explore. Gripping his coat sleeve with bruising force, she savored his taste—sweet, cool, and tinged with peppermint.

It seemed to last ages to Molly, but a few moments later Sherlock was drawing back, his hands dropping to his sides and moving away from her. He was the picture of tranquility as he acted like nothing had happened, hopping onto a stool and fiddling with a microscope, but Molly's lungs were heaving and her knees were quaking and she had to grasp the edge of the counter to remain upright.

"Wha… Why did you do that?" she breathed, trying vainly to pull her eyes from his lips, faintly pink with her lipstick and still glistening in the harsh white light.

He spun on his stool to face her. "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about," he said.

"Why… me?"

He turned back to his microscope. "Don't be dull, Molly. You've been angling for it since we met."

She paled. "I have?" she squeaked.

"Obviously." She could almost hear the eye-roll in his tone. "And I was curious."

"About?"

"About how you'd react. Favorably, to say the least." He had the nerve to shoot her a cheeky grin. "Don't give me that look, you benefitted too."

"What do you mean?" she grumbled, folding her arms in irritation at having been manipulated by Sherlock Holmes. Again.

"Because now you know."

She sighed in annoyance; why couldn't he ever say what he meant? "Know what?"

"That I am a fantastic kisser." A beat of silence passed between them. Then, "Pass me that slide, will you?" He gestured absently at the sliver of glass beside his elbow.

Pressing the slide into his open palm, she felt a sting of electricity spark where her finger touched his skin and her lips began to tingle and her cheeks burned as she remembered his mouth covering her own. Maybe being manipulated wasn't so bad. If it meant kissing him, then losing a bit of her pride was just a small price to pay, wasn't it?

Sherlock glanced at her as he replaced his slide with the new one. "What are you grinning about?" he mumbled.

"Oh, nothing."

A/N: Because he soo would be ;) Inspired a bit by Hanne-lore Grace's story, Flick Your Cigarette and Kiss Me.