A/N: I wrote this piece in response to a piece of artwork on tumblr that is both hilarious and adorable. The artist had asked someone to write a fic based on it and so I have. The artwork can be found here: post/81345909202/.

I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! x

Influenza

If there was one thing Molly could never figure out about Sherlock, it was why, whenever he was off cases and spending time at Baker Street, he got sick. It happened all the time. All it took was a few days after a closed case and he would be down with the works—a terrible cold, a sore throat, and sometimes, a fever.

In the years that they were (secretly) courting and still living apart, she had asked John many times why this was the case. After all, was he not a doctor? She was worried that there was something in his bedroom or perhaps a product he was using that was giving him these recurrent flu bugs.

John never seemed to have an answer. He either coughed or mumbled his way through about the flat being drafty or dusty or something along those lines. Whenever she pressed him for details so she could better care for the detective she loved, something would always crop up and he would scurry away.

For some reason, as Molly sat before her mirror, getting ready for quite possibly the most important day of her life, this question about her husband-to-be swam back into mind. It made her smile as she wondered what it would be like to live with him at last. Not having to say goodbye after dinners or not having him leave her flat in the mornings was going to be a nice change. She was almost giddy from the anticipation.

When the whirlwind of their nuptials finally came to an end, the exhausted couple headed back to Baker Street, nearly dozing off in their decorated London cab (Mrs Hudson had insisted on) for the occasion.

"I need to get out of this dress," Molly griped as she trudged her way up the stairs.
"And I am never wearing bow-ties again." said Sherlock, joining in as he propped his tired wife up by the small of her back.

When they reached the flat at Baker Street, they turned to each other and smiled, sighing in relief at the peace and quiet.

"I am glad that weddings are a one-time event." Sherlock said, kissing his new bride gently on the cheek.
"If we had it our way, we wouldn't even have had one," Molly replied, slipping her arm around Sherlock and leaning against him.
"And that's exactly why I married you." Sherlock remarked proudly, kissing the top of her head.

With their hands held tightly, the couple sauntered lazily back to their bedroom, yes, it was their bedroom now. Molly collapsed on the bed, truly exhausted from being on her feet all day and having to smile endlessly at everyone. Sherlock slipped the offending bow-tie out from beneath his collar and undid his belt.

"I'm going to have a shower. Care to join me?" he asked.
"I would, in a heartbeat. Except I can't feel my feet anymore…" Molly said with a sigh as she sank further into bed.

Sherlock laughed and bent to kiss her on the forehead.

"Have a little rest then. I'll go shower first." He said with a warm smile. Sherlock was starting to feel the slow and lovely creep of butterflies in his stomach as it gradually sank in that Molly was now his wife and that this was the start of something he had never known he wanted.

When he was out of the shower, his exhausted wife had moved from her rather corpse-like position on the bed to sitting up.

"My turn," she murmured lazily, removing the bobby pins in her hair.

Sherlock, wrapped only in his towel, watched in amusement as Molly trudged to the bathroom, slowly peeling off the cumbersome dress she had to wear. Molly left the door ajar as she turned the shower on and stepped gratefully under its steaming hot jets of water. Sherlock was able to peek in at his wife and smiled to himself. He watched her as she closed her eyes and began to hum gently, finally unwinding from what had been a taxing day for them both.

When Molly was finally feeling fresh and alive again, she wrapped herself in a towel and emerged from the bathroom, looking eagerly for her husband. It wastheir wedding night, after all. However, when she stepped out, their bedroom was empty.

"Sherlock?" she said, making her way to the hall. She could hear the shuffling of feet and knew he was definitely out there.

Grinning to herself, Molly bit her lip as she snuck her way into the hall. Hoping to spring an embrace on her husband, she was greeted instead by his rather naked frame in the middle of their living area. The white sheet from the top of their bed now hung precariously off his hips, as though he had swathed himself carelessly and it was all slipping off now.

She made not a sound but he must have sensed her jaw that had dropped to the floor. Sherlock whipped his head around, the sheet promptly falling properly off him.

"Sorry about that," he said, picking it up and casually wrapping himself in it again. Molly did not know why he bothered trying to slip it back on. It was still sliding off his shoulders, various parts of his (perfect) body exposed from the sheet's haphazard arrangement.

"Something wrong?" he asked, walking towards her, carelessly robed in the white sheet.
"Um, no, no! I'm just…um…Are you always like this at home?" she asked, just slightly short of stuttering. He really was quite a sight and she was blushing a ridiculous shade of magenta.
"Yes," he grinned, somewhat filthily.
"Oh," Molly breathed.

Sherlock was about to engulf his new bride in his sheet when her eyes widened in realisation.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.
"What?"

Molly slapped him hard on his arm and began to chuckle.

"What?" he asked, perplexed and blushing slightly.
"You're like this at home all the time, Sherlock?" she asked again.
"Yes. On my days off. I don't see why I need to get dressed when I'm not out consulting…"
"And that's why you get sick all the bloody time, you fool of a genius!" Molly exclaimed, shaking her head laughing.
"No, I don't." he said defiantly.
"Yes, Sherlock, you do." Molly said, still chuckling, "Walking around stark naked all day like this…draft or no draft you will catch a cold, you clot! What have you got to say in your defence?"

Sherlock had none. He blushed and looked slightly away from Molly whose amused grin was still plastered on her face.

"You'll need to stop this habit, Sherlock Holmes," said Molly, "As your wife, I refuse to let your nakedness give you horrible symptoms of influenza."
"They don't give me the flu…" he persisted.
"Yes, they do and you know that," she said, "And I bet when you're sick, you're still naked too, aren't you? Not bundled up and keeping warm?"

He sighed and nodded in agreement. It was just too bothersome to get dressed. He was a grown man, he could handle a small cold.

"You silly, silly man," she said, reaching on tip-toes to kiss him.
"To be fair," he began, "It is marvellously comfortable. Not to mention, liberating."
"I don't disagree, but…"
"Perhaps you should try it."
"Sherlock, I am not going to let momentary comfort give me a wretched cold," Molly said, "Do you remember that last one you had? You were out for two whole weeks!"
"It is comfortable, nonetheless."
"There really is no point arguing with you over this, is there?" Molly said with a laugh.
"No," he replied, pulling her towards him for a kiss.
"Now, why don't I take you to bed and wrap you up in something more…substantial?" she whispered into her husband's ear.
"I should like that…" he answered, his eyes sparkling.
"If you promise to keep your nakedness in bed." she said, teasing him with a faux stern voice.
"You really should give it a go…" he said.
"Sherlock Holmes, I will not let you be a bad influence…"

The sight of Molly in her towel was starting to be a little too much to bear for him. Before Molly could finish, he swept her into his arms, causing her to squeal. While she kicked about and laughed, Sherlock returned her to their bedroom and shut the door behind them.

About a week later, Mary needed a favour from Molly and wanted to borrow some of her knitting equipment.

"Are they still on their honeymoon, you reckon?" Mary asked her husband, reaching for her phone.
"Don't know." John answered, turning the pages of the newspaper, "It's Sherlock Holmes. I don't know what he'd make of a sex holiday…"
"I think it's safe to give her a call." Mary said, dialling Molly's number.

When Mary finished her conversation with Molly, she came and sat next to her husband, who turned to kiss her on the forehead.

"Poor Molly…" Mary said, leaning against John's shoulder.
"What's the matter?" John asked.
"She's got the worst cold ever," said Mary, "She was so nasal I thought I'd dialled the wrong number."

John quite nearly dropped the newspapers he was holding and turned, wide-eyed to his wife.

"Did you say she had a cold?" he asked her.
"Yeah. Sounded really awful," Mary said. "I asked her how she got it and she just mumbled something about the draft in Baker Street…"
"Oh God, Sherlock…" John said, shaking his head in amusement.
"What's the matter?" Mary asked, perplexed.

John laughed and answered his wife.

"I do believe, Mary, that Sherlock's been a very bad influence on his new bride…"

END