A/N: This is my contribution to the '50 reasons to have sex'-sherlolly-style: 37: They have air conditioning and you don't. Hope you enjoy! Beated by the delightful AussieMaelstrom as always, thank you!

Sticky?

No.

Yes.

Sticky, that's the word.

He does not enjoy the sensation, the way his clothes stay fixed to his body, whether they are poorly constructed loose cotton-blend or suffocating designer shirts.

Nothing seems to be able to breathe in this weather.

He will not yield, bearing his suits with pride, ever so slightly fading underneath the glaring hot sun that poked daggers at his skin. The fact that he turns more irritable than usual is to be expected, or weary or tired – only natural.

"No cases, until the heat wave is over!" bemoans John on the comment section of his blog, with more swearing of course.

Sherlock carries on without him, intending not to cut down on his activities, as he knows where that will lead him to - his home away from home – the cool centre of the city – one of the few tranquil places where he could be permitted to feel the chilliness slink down his back, instead of perspiration digging underneath his shirt collar. Certainly helped that Molly Hooper never took a holiday, always lurking around, still pale but pleased, "A bit of hay-fever," she'd say, and he'd listen if the moment arose to do so, when she explained her mild-sniffles (which he hadn't asked about, for he already knew).

He also knew that her flat was cool, thanks to her air-conditioning, which was why she didn't bother to complain about the weather, "It's lovely out, really." The way she held herself, relishing the sun the second she'd step out in a colourful multi-patterned dress late in the evening, trying to capture the last rays until the sun vanished from beyond the buildings, was distracting.

On those occasions he would say 'Goodbye, Molly' and she'd skip off, giving him only a half-lingering look. She never stared too long on his face these days; the wistful expressions were cut shorter and shorter. He knew it was good – but why did it not feel good?

"God," he says grimly, as he lets out a long sigh from the sofa.

It could have been his last breath, for all he could care – bored, glaring up at the ceiling.

All of the windows were open.

Every one, gasping for a hint of a breeze that would never come, "When will it end?" he says drawing his eyes downwards, meeting the 'eyes' of the skull on the mantelpiece. "Perhaps," he says with a tiny smirk, which falters – 'Not in before twelve'.

If it were possible he would stay in bed, though he felt like he drowned in the sheets, ripping them off in anger throughout the night.

Every twist and turn in the bed was hellish, searing onto his bare skin, but he tries to slip into his mind-palace instead.

His mind falls upon 'her', how annoying, his eyes flew open, "I need space," he spoke out loud, tapping a finger on his lower lip, before he'd made his decision, striding across the coffee table.

He recalled when she'd told him, "You can stay with me," all flustered and bright-eyed, stammering until she finished, "But you'll probably be travelling?"

"A dead man should try to stay dead, Molly – hiding away in your flat for some years won't do us any good," he quipped, "Maybe some other time."

He had taken that offer and used it upon his return.

First occupying her sofa, then her spare bedroom and then her bedroom – he needed the space. Perhaps he was the reason for her failed engagement, but meat-dagger should have coped better.

He needed a few hours to properly think, to reason with himself what his mind had been having trouble letting go. Just a few hours to comfortably delete all the information he'd gathered on…

Sherlock frowned as he sat in the taxi, having snapped the address, but feeling the mild flutter of the poor air-conditioning in the taxi help his mind.

It was the heat, he supposed, and the association with 'relief' he'd constructed around her. He ignored the fact that he'd always seen some relief in her to begin with, as she never doubted him, never mistrusted him (though she should), and was one he could always, always trust.

Molly Hooper, his pathologist.

He got easily into the building, bypassing a frumpy looking woman who passed him with a smile – lived there for twenty-years – two cats – unmarried – somehow, he felt uneasy, a minor pit of worry.

Shaking the idea off, he scrambles off to the third floor, spotting her doormat, "Welcome," he says, staring at the mat, giving to ring the doorbell snorting.

He always loathed the sight of that mat somehow, as if her door was open to anyone. Her door should not open to anyone in his opinion, barely even him.

There was no answer, just a low swearword in the distance.

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together, as he gave another ring, longer than the first.

"Just – just wait-," he hears her cry out, and his finger hangs over the buzzer for a second, slightly amused, until the door was opens, and he sees her.

Her hair is a mess, unkempt and down. She is wearing a tartan morning-robe made of fleece reaching her below the knees, "Sherlock?" she says, drawing the robe closer to her body, obviously surprised by his appearance, "What – it's morning-,"

He'd usually show up during the night. Always at night, so he was strictly breaking his own pattern, "Morning," he says striding into the flat, taking in the familiar surroundings, and feeling the coolness of it all.

He could easily wear his coat indoors; a pleasant feeling that resonated deeply within him, as his thoughts properly flourish again. He does not feel weary, or – something was wrong.

His eyes turned towards her - her expression is guilty, her skin flushed. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the various scents that come with the flat – her cat – her pot-plants – the coffee – old books – before he walks closer, taking a great sniff right in front of her.

He almost loses his footing when he realises, as her hands claw desperately at her robe.

She is naked underneath, quite, and the air smells of her.

The essence of her tangible in the air, all of it making him swallow uncertainly.

It smells sweet, burrowing deep into his lungs. He stares at the red that dances from her cheeks to her neck feeling the urge building within him.

"Is something wrong?" she says taking a step back, clearing her throat, like she's misspoken.

Her eyes are turned away from his, half-frightened he's figured it out, but the lack of any garments underneath the robe is plain for him to see, "I thought I might visit," he says, trying to distract himself, hoping she'll do the same.

"Oh," she says bewildered, "Why?"

He hasn't been at her place for weeks, avoiding it. It's often easier that way, letting the heat bite at him more furiously than the cold can. He considers telling her "because it's cold", it falls short, as he feels another form of heat overtake him.

He is not one to fall to rampant desire, for he has ignored his salacious thoughts to the best of his abilities, but his shields are faltering.

Sherlock blames the temperature, "If you don't mind I'll be using your sofa. I need to think."

Brown eyes blink in response to his sudden movement towards her settee, and he ignores the soft release of breath through her pink lips, "OK," she says more to herself than anything, eyeing him confused.

He hears the click of her bedroom door shutting, the dropping of fabric upon the floor, and despite his best to put up the shields - to 'delete' all the information he's speedily assembled from her appearance – he doesn't find the strength to do so.

He's tried, more times than he can count, and he knows why.

The very reason as to why stands beyond that door, existing, breathing and living in a better way than he will ever manage to accomplish.

He is barely human compared to her, to her pink glowing flesh, to her sincere smiles, and laughter that bounces around him from time to time. Only some he allows to enter, to stray into his domain, but he feels calm here – centred in the coolness of her flat.

"Do you want some coffee?" she says, and he opens an eye in return.

She's wearing a white simple dress, thrown over her body. There is not a trace of underwear beneath it, the fabric thin making her pebbled nipples appear.

It's cold in here after all.

"It's not exactly the weather for it," he says with a slight smirk, averting his gaze, as he sits upright on the sofa, shrugging off his coat.

She takes this action as a 'yes', and walks off without another word.

"How come you haven't been here lately?" she asks from the kitchen. He hears the kettle turn on, the shuffling of cups - of spoons, of sugar - and her movements.

"I've been busy."

"John said you've been sulking in the flat," she says re-appearing, handing him the warm cup, which he takes silently.

"He's barely been at Baker Street – I wouldn't trust your sources," he says taking a sip of the hot drink, regretting it, as he's reminded of his previous perspiration.

She combs her fingers through her hair, trying to sort through the mess, as she settles on a chair opposite him, "You alright?" It's unlike her usual worried expressions, the opposite really, as he expects her to start to say 'what's wrong with him' this time. Instead she takes a large sip of her coffee, eyeing him anxiously.

"Of course," he says quicker than he should, rushed out in one breath, instead of the slow progression that would make it believable.

"Ok," she says looking down, raising her brown eyes slowly to his face, as she lifts her brows deliberately.

Her expression bemuses him, pulling the rug from underneath him, but then he realises – the heat – the clothes – it had centred on his crotch, "Ah," he exclaims not entirely certain how to fix this particular problem, as at a quick glance it look like an erection.

Molly giggles, her brown eyes lighting up, "It's just the heat," she says, "It happens."

"Yet you like the cold," he says dragging on his dress jacket, obscuring away what could easily be misconstrued.

He doesn't entirely know what he means by that, even wondering if his mind has made some form of subtext without thought.

"I think everyone's a fan right now," she says with a smile, "You are, but it's a bit too hot for that, isn't it?"

He is almost confused for a brief second, before realising that she is referring to his coat, "I didn't actually expect the summer to be – summer."

"No one does," she says grinning.

He likes her like this, so easy around him, but he doesn't know what to say. They have come to the point where the conversation better end, or else - "I better go."

She looks at him in surprise, standing up with him, as he throws on his coat (with regret), "Umm-," he starts off racing towards the door, while she looks at him with her bright brown eyes.

He stops, his feet hesitant to bring him any further, and he shuts his eyes momentarily letting it sink in. Letting his mind and body accept their fate as he turns around to face her.

He knows why he does it, the reason quite blatant, as he breaks the distance between them, and lets his lips land upon hers.

She is soft, pliant underneath his touch, her shock lasting only a second, until she is grasping at his hair, and he at her face.

The thin cotton fabric of her dress is distracting, his hands almost touching her body through the cloth, riding up the fabric as he presses her against the wall.

His palms feel her bare skin, the smoothness of her hips, as he pushes against her, half-thrusting against her body. She is biting at her lip, her eyes wide open, as she looks at him – trust – love – all of it in her eyes.

He lets go of her, his mind racing, as he storms off slamming the door behind him.

Humid; the texture of his pyjama bottoms are grinding into his skin, all of it focusing, to his irritation, on his groin. He is resting on the bed, emitting a frustrated sigh, as he tries to ignore the pressure building up in his head.

All of his thoughts rush towards that particular event, that one event, which took place precisely a week ago.

He has avoided the temptation of going out of his door, letting only his windows be bare instead, while he tries to cool himself down with the ice-tea Mrs Hudson had supplied him. The ice-tea that had turned warm, the small cubes of ice melted already, as he draws the liquid to his lips.

It doesn't help, none of it helps, and he feels like smashing the glass upon the wall, watching it shatter, pieces clattering to the floor.

He doesn't, but the image is tempting to watch.

Everything he holds tends to break, withering away in some way or other, and he dare say she'll do the same.

He shuts his eyes, imaging he's in his mind-palace – it is cool – cold – and there she stands. She is regularly there, they're in the morgue after all, but she is not in her white coat.

No, she is in her dress.

His eyes flash open, as he hops off the bed, hands soon rifling through his hair.

He doesn't want to see her; he'd rather have the woman appear – without a thread on, than have her appear still fully clothed.

But there she is… always.

He blames her for the physical contact, for her concern, for her slapping sense into him. It's frankly annoying the level of caring, the fact that despite all her disappointment, she still does, and she doesn't hate him. He expects her to hate him, she should hate him, but she worries instead. In some ways she is like John, except it's different.

He draws in a breath, trying to think logically, to think clearly in the heat, but he finds himself mapping the minor freckles he finds at her neck, the flecks of gold in her brown eyes…

He strides out of his bedroom – slamming the bedroom door hard behind him.

Opening the fridge does him no good, there are leftover experiments, all reminding him of her, but it's cooler. He feels the mild chill caress him, though it's not cold enough.

Not good enough.

Closing the door he remembers, "Finished early today," he briefly glances at his watch, "Not in." He smirks.

There's always something. He finds her there, bent over the microscope testing, her eyes taking in the various blood vials she holds, and she shifts slightly when she realises, "Hello," she says without looking at him, "You're here late."

He can see that she knows he's been avoiding her this time, a fact he hoped she'd never figure out, but the slightly hardened pucker of her lips gives it away.

"Just wanted-," he doesn't know where he intends to go with it, though she doesn't seem to want to listen.

He sees her only slip off her gloves with a slight grimace, throwing them aside, before she picks up her vials. She gives him a short glance, "All yours," and walks away.

She reappears several times after that, working in silence, fetching papers, and jotting down notes. It's all very short, no emotion available in her face, though her body language is thoroughly not amused, "Molly."

"No."

"No?"

"If you're not going to talk about - it – then we're not going to talk." He's at a loss the second she walks off, ponytail bouncing behind her, and his confidence dropping with the temperature.

He preferred her fumbling around him.

He stalks outside, fighting against the late night heat, as he sees her standing in a yellow dress, her hands shielding herself from the shine of the sun, "It's lovely, isn't it?" she says.

"Yes," he says, watching her walk away, her mildly tanned legs striding off, lengthened by her heels.

He directs his gaze elsewhere, briefly annoyed, as his cock jumps to attention at the sight of her skin.

It's only the heat.

He imagines slipping a piece of ice across her breast, sliding it over her nipple, easing it down, until it rests on her navel, before he takes it into his mouth – experimentally licking her warm centre, with the cold on the edge of his tongue. He hears her moan in his head, it's imprinted there, ever since he had her half-thrashing against him, pushed up against the wall.

He imagines her in the yellow dress, the skirt thrown above her waist, as he pounds into her flesh – perspiration appearing on her skin. Her cheeks are flushed, her mouth a lush pink, while she screams his name. It's a delight to hear her stutter it out, her moans are not assured, they are there – animal - desperate – and then he stops.

He has to stop, yet his desire is urging him forward, pressing into him, until he wants to stop breathing full stop.

It's too hot, he rips off his clothes, let's his naked body touch the sheets, but they only cling.

They do not cling the way he wants.

His finger is pressed into the doorbell, her eyes widen when the door opens, but he does not stop himself.

He does not hesitate, stepping forward, and gripping her by her cheeks, taking her mouth, seizing it.

He feels her bewilderment, though it vanishes as she wriggles against him. He knows she's wanted it, thought of it, and he hears it in her erratic breathing when he has her pushed against the wall again.

She doesn't seem bothered, her hands ushering the buttons of his shirt open. He didn't wear the coat, barely pulled on his clothes, as buttons are half-open already. Her hands are warm, searing on his skin, slipping off the shirt, until her nails are digging into his back.

Her mouth tastes sweet, her tongue sweeter, there's a hint of lemonade, of yellow in her lips, like sunlight. He almost finds laughter brimming in his throat, as he pulls her up, lifting her, making her cross her legs behind him.

She is smiling at his lips, nipping, biting. All of her actions aren't hesitant, they are happy, and he feels the inward fear crawl forward – from the dark – the idea – the possible loss – but then she laughs.

It's her laughter that saves him, shifts him away, until they collide with the floor.

Brown eyes meet his, crinkled at the corners, as he steals away the rest of her clothing.

It's a woman's body underneath the fabric, soft and sweet.

Her unwrapping of him is hurried, with laughter that ends with hooded lids and her hands wrapped around his hardened cock.

His eyes roll into the back of his head when she's got him on his back, settling herself astride him, teasing him with her wet entrance, until she pulls him in.

He barely knows what to do, hands clinging to her waist, as she rolls her hips on top of him slowly, until she quickens – her breath turning short and brief.

She pushes herself down, draws herself up, and he drags her by the hips, thumping her down, until she's on her back again, bracing herself against the stiff carpet.

He's got burns on his back, but he doesn't care.

He thrusts into her, legs wrapped around him, as he lifts her up by her waist – shoving his cock into her wet cunt, listening to the slick sounds of her juices flowing, her moans turning louder and louder.

He seeks out her mouth, distracting himself, letting the taste of her lips ground him, as her hands dig into his hair.

She is pulling at him, only making him grind harder into her, her legs wobbling around him, and he feels her come apart – one of her hands plastered upon the floor, which he tangles into his – and he is gone.

He feels the sweat, it's on him, on her, shared between them, but he doesn't mind, as he let's his tongue swirl lazily around her pebbled nipple.

"Do you need something?" she asks after a while, like she's worried he'll leave again. He looks up at her, from resting on her chest - 'are you joking?' - it's obvious that he doesn't need anything - he's already got it.