A/N: Thank you AussieMaelstrom for beta, and thank you everyone for reading this crack-drunklock!

Robin Hood

Her mind was working overtime, hyperaware of how his delectably dark tousled hair crept down his forehead, how there was this sheen of sweat on his body, of how there were impressionable and thoroughly distracting love bites marred on very specific spots on his body, his pale skin displaying them like clues. Every single little detail was examined like he was laid out before her on a slab, but she still could not find rhyme or reason in the fact that Sherlock Holmes was quite – no – not quite – he was naked in her guest bedroom and handcuffed to boot. Her eyes darted about, not able to sink into the shame of seeing everything - the little noticeable twitch in his neither region, his cock looking quite – "Lovely-," she clapped a hand over her mouth with a loud squeak.

She had said that out loud.

Out loud.

That wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. Letting the hand drop she tried to recover – "I mean - - you didn't – did you do this to yourself?" He could be throwing her off from the bigger picture, though she could not see how his nudity wasn't a fully formed rather large picture already. "Why – why didn't you say – anything? I mean you've-," she let her hand with a wave convey the rest, before she put it on her waist. Understandably not wanting to directly point at any offending body part. She was keeping her eyes on him, not directly on anything of course, but it was like looking at the sun, even if you were trying to look at one spot, you'd find a glare of light thrown into your eyes (read: penis).

Not literally of course (that would be disturbing).

"Are you done?" he said making her meet his eyes with a grimace.

She had every right to look.

He'd let her wonder all day, let her suffer through so much, and he was there the entire bloody time.

"You're not supposed to-," she was pointing at him properly now, finger wobbling intently at his bits, and it took her a few seconds to let her arm drop awkwardly to her side again – "Why are you here?" Her voice was shrill, bordering on offensive and she already knew why. She did know and understand why. Molly certainly did not need him to wordlessly raise his brow up like he was sodding Roger Moore. Crossing her arms she glared at the handcuffs holding him in place, his wrists looking worryingly red, as he held his phone in his right hand. Blinking she tried making sense of it, "I only took one," she said eyeing his wrists. "Though they did…mention that Greg's was gone as well-,"

"I borrowed Lestrade's," he said in a bored voice. "And one of his colleagues, dim-looking probably named something like David – easy victim - staring at your breasts at the time." He proceeded to look at the other handcuffed wrist, the one clasped around his phone.

Ignoring the quip about David,whoever David was, she tried to understand. "How did you-," she said eyes on the phone. "- do that?"

"You wouldn't be surprised to find me limber - would you Molly?" he said with his mouth not twitching whatsoever, an inexplicable miracle, and an almost girlish giggle escaped her mouth out of sheer reflex, but she managed to push it down. She was, after all, still cross and hung-over (being in ones thirties made all of that crucially worse).

His remark just felt like a challenge, but she'd apparently lived up to some kind of challenge last night or he wouldn't be sporting those bruises. How does one forget one shagged Sherlock Holmes? That was the real mystery. Besides how he'd gotten a hand on his phone or where the phone was in the first place. She could only imagine how he'd wriggled, arse pressed into the white sheets, muscles taut and straining as he arched, trying to get the phone along his hipbone, past his pelvis and to his toned stomach. The cold screen probably making him hiss through his teeth, the perspiration building up on his forehead – shut it. Thinking dirty thoughts while he was in the room naked wasn't a good idea, especially since she was now somehow jealous of a phone. She had to remind herself that she'd literally gotten her fill the night before, even if the phone had a memory capacity, unlike her, since she'd forgotten every single delightful thought. Admitting it to herself that it was the kind of sex that made one giggle a lot was embarrassing in a way, but she wasn't about to write it on her Facebook wall.

"You were kind enough to leave the phone on the bed… Unfortunately it took some time," he murmured, though he didn't look like she'd done him a kindness. His eyes were slits, annoyance dripping from them, which in retrospect was his every right. "I assumed after a while… you'd forgotten me." Ouch.

"You could have shouted - I would have gotten you out," she said shifting her weight from foot to foot, too jittery to stand still, as her mind screamed – you shagged Sherlock – Sherlock – Sherlock – a tiny bit of her cried out success. Another imagined the future attempts at avoiding each other, the general pain of their every-day lives torn apart due to some incredible mind-blowing sex – oh – she'd never tell him that. She'd never live it down. Amazing sex with Sherlock Holmes! Sounded like a newspaper title. But she'd not worn a deerstalker; at least she hoped she hadn't. Maybe he'd worn it? No, he'd been Zorro. Fuckity fuck.

Cloaked in tight black clothing, which was on the floor, shredded by the look of it.

Sherlock didn't look like he needed to hear he was good, as he had a lazy smug tilt on his lips, revealing nothing and everything at the same time. She could almost feel the patterns of his skin underneath her sweaty palms.

Oh not good.

With narrowed eyes he said, "Tied up to a bed with my mouth taped over? Sounds rather tricky, don't you agree? Anyway, you were heading out the door five minutes later. Barely enough time for me to recover."

She spotted the curled up piece of duct tape on the floor, and her eyes widened at the sight, her previous strong stance faltering.

"I…I did that?" she asked in a tiny voice, almost from her throat, all feminine and frail. She'd not been that last night, the obvious gleam in his eyes told her that, and it was clear he remembered, as he would.

"I didn't protest if that's what you're afraid of?" he said easily, as they shared a look, which made her clear her throat soundly, still trying to wrap her mind around it all.

"But – why did I leave you here?"

"You were afraid I'd meet myself," he said in such a tone that suggested she'd been fairly silly, though the look on his face suggested that she might have been fairly convincing.

"What?"

None of it made any sense. Why on earth would he tell her he was a married man? And why on earth would they have at it in the first place?

"But you can't be Zorro!" she said protesting against the very idea, like he was just pulling the rug under her, tricking her for some peculiar reason.

"I wasn't trying to be…" he said with furrowed brows, releasing a long drawn sigh like she'd got him all wrong, like they'd never slept together and had instead been embroidered in wrangling horses, that's why they had bruises, that's why the middle of her thighs felt like - "…I was trying to be Robin Hood."

The night of St Bart's Costume Party Extravaganza

"In terms of goldfish…I would have thought your appearance would be mandatory-," said the slick voice of his brother on the other end of the line, tutting at his behaviour.

He barely restrained an eye roll.

"What about you? Readied your crown this evening?" he scoffed, unable to keep the smirk from his face as his brother was silenced - even if it was for just a few seconds - he knew Mycroft was disgruntled nonetheless.

"And you're not at all concerned your pathologist might get loose? She's not vapid like the rest of them Sherlock, and she certainly won't be kept on your hook any longer-," and his minor victory fell flat as he paced, his otherwise eventful evening with studying tobacco ash flaming up. "– Despite all of your advice, you've hardly followed it yourself little brother, and make no mistake – mummy will know."

"You wouldn't dare-," he spat.

"Oh wouldn't I? I did have to endure another musical when we had agreed it was your turn. I am on her good side compared to you and a subtle name-drop would certainly pique her interest. You know how mother loves getting involved, she did enjoy it when -,"

"What do you get from this?" said Sherlock before he'd have to endure his brother reminding him of his turbulent affairs in his childhood. His mother giving Valentine's cards to all the girls in his class with him as the sender was certainly a nightmare to reflect upon, but which Mycroft relished retelling.

There was certainly no love life to reflect upon these days.

No.

He knew these fresher thoughts had cropped up from the brief cross-fire that he might have been in during Moriarty's reappearance, being a bit more passionate about his friend's disappearance than warranted, but then again, he would do the same for John (perhaps not demand to stay in the man's hospital room when he'd already recovered…).

"Well – I would get fewer questions and you would be relieved of your musical duties-,"

"Doubtful-,"

"Or you could stay at home pretending you don't care about Molly Hooper – continuing to do so until she does get caught - hook, line and sinker."

Sherlock ended the conversation not wishing to suffer another condescending word. Already he'd had to suffer through John's diatribe about his presence being needed at the party, which sounded like downright begging in the end. He knew John's real reason for making any effort into goading him to attend, it was because his ex-flatmate was horrendous at 'up-scale events' such as these. John had always been considered the most sociable of the two, but the man would regularly use him as an excuse to leave early.

"Why would I want to go?" he said to the emptiness of the flat, a glass of amber tilted up against his lips, his brow furrowed as he pondered why he should even be worried that Molly could be ensnared. There would not be a lingering hope anymore if she was relieved of his hook.

Hook.

He could be a pirate?

Oh shut up!

He was married to his work.

He'd told her…

No.

Who was really holding onto hope anyway?

"You're a woman?" Sherlock heard Lestrade say with eyebrows raised into his hair, as the woman everyone in the room had referred to as 'Doctor Hooper' revealed herself, cheeks flushed from obvious pleasure and interest in his direction. With her assistance on the crime scene he'd solved the case in less than seven minutes, when he would otherwise regularly have to endure Anderson's interruptions.

And of course Lestrade's main focus was her sex.

It was a miracle the man had enough brainpower to open doors if he hadn't managed to distinguish the soft tones of her feminine voice despite the mask. He felt rather pleased by the general outcome, which didn't happen often, but he was worried the second he instinctively felt like returning the smile she was giving him. She was giving him the 'ah' – look. Increase of redness in her cheeks, rapidness of blinking, she was even playfully sweeping her honey coloured hair from her face.

Problem.

He didn't need the look.

"Umm…yes?" she said snapping off her gloves. "Sorry about that. I'll try harder next time." She hadn't once asked why 'he' was there, never questioning his authority unlike the rest, as he didn't pose a question towards hers. "Anything else, then?" she added as Lestrade was still struck.

Unlike him Sherlock was considering letting one more person in. It was perhaps not beneficial that she was a woman, but he'd just inform her about his own situation. She seemed to be of an understanding nature, valuing perhaps her work more than other things, as she was still single – no wedding ring – at her age, nor in a hurry to avoid his eyes – not feeling inferior. He did need a pair of extra eyes he could trust, and she might even be coaxed to give him literal ones.

At first he convinced himself it was beneficial she had feelings, so their working relationship would be amiable enough. Yet, there were no other women in his life who he treated in the same manner.

Everyone else had been told up-front that he wasn't interested when he found them considering him in any fashion, though he had been wrong about Sally's interest at their first meeting, which was most likely the cause to why she wasn't very happy about him being around her ("Because I'm a woman I fancy you?" she said gaping. "Oh my God, you freak!"). And he knew another reason she wasn't particularly fond of him now either – "You could tell her, tell her you're married to your work. Would be nicer, you know?"

It helped that Mary pointed out these facts to him; her laughter quite grating when he'd accidentally revealed his ignorance.

He'd told Donovan, but Molly…

Instead she'd somehow become the woman who counted, the woman who mattered, and the woman who without he wouldn't have managed any of it, and with those words – maybe leapt forward. Maybe he'd be that man, maybe something would happen one day.

Maybe wasn't such a terrible concept.

It didn't mean definitely, it meant possibly, and there was always maybe one day, perhaps? He'd heard her – maybe it's just my type – and even then, even then he couldn't do it. Even then he couldn't sweep around and tell her it was impossible. Even then he couldn't sweep around and tell her he…

It wasn't possible.

He needed another drink.

Several drinks later

A bell chimed in the distance – retro – apparently people still did that to their little shops, especially the surprisingly still open costume shop (that he'd Googled beforehand) if he ignored the man with a well-established waist who was on the verge of putting up a closed sign. The man was giving the well-recognized body language of turning him away (frowning, pondering his lip worryingly), except his small eyes bulged outwardly in recognition. "Aren't you that detective, Sherlock Holmes? The one who died?" he said startled.

Fame did have its advantages.

He immediately narrowed his eyes at the two glaring errors in the man's sentences, but he didn't have time to correct him, leaning his gloved hands on the glass counter that the man stood behind. There were masks, glittering baubles and other artefacts like fake noses on display in soft velvet casings, as if they were like the Holy Grail. "I need Robin Hood," he spat causing the bearded man – separated – two kids- heavy debts – happy? How? Oh shop - reason for separation. How many glasses again? Ten. Ah. Good. Chatty. Everyone liked chatty. Chatty was better than sulking.

"Are you okay?" the man said with sweat on his upper lip, side-burns contemplating. Contemplating? Hmm?

He'd blanked out.

He couldn't blank out.

"I need a hero," he rasped.

The man raised a brow. "…What type are you holding out for then? Strong or fast?" said the man with a little chuckle.

Sherlock frowned.

"Umm, right, you mean-," said the man gesturing to the rows and rows of packaged costumes hanging on the wall behind him, a scent of plastic and fabric in the air. "A costume?"

"Yes," said Sherlock rolling his eyes, almost considering another store he usually frequented, but the last time there he'd accidentally insulted the woman behind the counter. So the likelihood of getting a costume post-closing time on a busy night seemed highly unlikely, especially one this specific.

"Fresh from the fight?"

"What? Robin Hood! I need Robin Hood. She likes Robin Hood. That's what she told me once – and I shan't," he paused, his mouth almost not working with him, or working too fast, he couldn't tell anymore "– disappoint-," he finished with a flourish, grin extending on his face like a prelude to him crashing onto the floor.

"Oh – well – we haven't-," said the man looking worried. "- Really – got any Robin's in anymore…well, there's Robin and Batman?"

Sherlock gave him a blank look.

"Umm right -," said the man eyeing him with considering look, eyes flicking up and down. "Okay, I've got Robin Hood – a bit – of a special kind of costume really - rather larger than life actually."

The colouring was off. Widely off. Wasn't it? He wasn't particularly familiar with the lore of Robin Hood, but he could ascertain that the man did not wear black. Or well he did grasp that when someone shouted 'Zorro' at him upon walking into the club drowning in fluorescent lights and medical students, besides senior doctors all in embarrassing costumes (coconut shells pounding to his left, gorilla costume passing him quietly with a pair of glasses jammed on the head to his right).

He quickly snapped his mobile phone up to Google the figure. Embarrassing if he'd been saddled with a villain costume despite his request, or did she enjoy that? Perhaps Zorro and Robin Hood were similar? "A noble born man defending his people from the tyranny of the government?" – the search said.

Close enough.

The concept could not be lost on her surely. He had tried. Him in a costume should be enough, though he hadn't needed the mask, he was quite glad it was in place. No particular reason.

"You're not afraid are you brother mine?"

It was not the time for him to hear his older brother in his head, especially when he saw the pink frilly contraption Molly was sporting in the distance, which had a corset that pushed up her bosom, glitter generously spread upon her cleavage.

"Maybe a drink would be in order?"

No, he didn't need a drink.

Then he saw Molly thudding a large white cane with a pink bow onto the floor giggling foolishly, her cheeks alarmingly flushed, while she spoke to a man with a – god forbid – deerstalker on his head.

Maybe a drink was in order.

Two more drinks later

He was everywhere. It felt like a Freudian slip observing 'himself' wander about with a horrid black lump of what was supposedly curls, the original scalp showing underneath, and the coat not even good enough quality. No one looked cool with their collars turned up either (not that he believed he looked cool) and he frankly would not stand another second of the abuse of his character.

He was ordinary.

He was the most common costume in the room, though no one had been accurate in their mimicking him. Had this been going on for a while? Had he just failed to notice people's obsession with dressing like him? He had a good sense of style – but – why was he even here again? The unoriginal concept after all, even Molly was flirting with a poor copy of him, blonde wavy hair peeping underneath the deerstalker – doctor – single – late-twenties – tall – not her type –

"Bloody hell you'd think they'd try a bit harder - come on, the deerstalker is everywhere-," he recognised the voice of the detective inspector who wandered past in an American police uniform with short sleeves, pilot sunglasses unnecessarily perched on the bridge of his nose. Sherlock's eyes almost watered at the sight wandering besides the man, the vision in a white sailor uniform – John – looking particularly glum and uncomfortable, clutching at a beer like a life line.

"Looks like Molly's fallen for it though – you'd hope she wouldn't do it twice-," said John with a shrug.

What? Oh. He'd rather not remember the fiasco, which successfully dissembled without his interference. "Poor girl, you know if it hadn't been for Sherlock I would have asked her out-," continued Lestrade.

He snorted to himself, glad to see that the men couldn't hear him due to the pounding music (some particularly atrocious song was blasting off, a woman singing with a throaty voice).

"Seems like even when he's not here he's still cockblocking-," said John with a laugh.

"Come off it – she looks like she's having a rubbish time – I've seen her make that face when Phillip's about, so, I know that look. I think what she needs-," 'is a hero' – Oh – the song? Ah!

He knew how to stay hidden when he wanted, but he also knew when to reappear. There was maybe a benefit from not being Sherlock Holmes in her presence after all, as that surrounded heranyway. Finding his feet he strode towards her, quietly pleased at the way his cloak followed him dramatically, though he knew that consulting work did not allow for cloaks. From some feet away she looked edible. It was all the pink and the layers - - no, she wasn't edible. Well she was edible, but that was cannibalism. He wasn't a cannibal. How would she taste? Pink. His doppelganger had wandered off, leaving her approachable, and he hastened to ready his voice, keeping the accent in mind – 'yesh, ghood'.

Terrible. "I am afraid I am only a black sheep."

What WAS he saying?

It was stupid.

Oh, she giggled.

Obviously good. Fantastic. Why did he need her to giggle again?

"Hello Zorrro-," she said, smiling brightly up at him rolling her r's.

"Bo peep? That is your name madam?" he said bowing before her, taking hold of her hand to give the glittery smooth skin a swift kiss. Smirking he gave her a lingering look, her hand still in his. "I am delighted to meet you," he breathed across her skin.

"And then we had lots of sex," he said effortlessly from the bed, casual and cool considering the range of topics he'd revealed.

She remembered.

It hadn't exactly gone like that.

Molly had lost her cane after meeting him, especially since it kept getting nicked by some of the students who made that 'you shall not pass joke' constantly, though she hadn't been bothered much, brought onto the dance floor by the mysterious man in black. The man she'd been glad hadn't reminded her of Sherlock, how typical.

"We danced?" she said. "Oh my God, we did – you're – you're good-," she said amazed. It was always a relief to properly remember, the bits and bobs wobbling back into place - the taste of his lips in the hallway and the way they'd barely managed to get through the door before they'd collapsed on the floor, tugging up each other's clothes. He had the decency to get to his feet to slam the door shut in the end, and she had unmasked him, remembering her own shock. She blamed that last bottle of red they decided to share to throw her off the edge, as she recalled dropping off on her own bed without a care in the world, only a little niggle in the back of her head that she'd forgotten something.

It was more than a simple shag they'd shove underneath a rug apparently, and it was unnerving and exciting to say the least.

She stared at him for a few seconds, dodging his expressions, before she began to laugh, reminded of her own words (lots of sex), which she remembered caused him to be rather shell-shocked for some time. When her laughter finally stopped, she crossed her arms and tried to be calm as well. "But…you did say you were married-," she said narrowing her eyes a bit jokingly, wondering why on earth he'd decided that warning her had been a good idea, but then again he probably thought they'd wake up together.

Sherlock smirk faltered slightly. "I am." Her eye twitched in surprise. "Marriage of minds? Isn't that what Shakespeare once said?" he added as if in afterthought, either pretending he wasn't aware of her mental leap or very aware, the latter was most likely.

"Oh-," she said with a laugh. "I thought you meant-," she'd almost looked down at her thankfully bare hands in shock, though she would have probably have noticed a ring earlier in that case.

"That's for another time I think – at least until you untie me-," he said amused by her bewilderment, while she couldn't help but giggle.

Thankfully he wasn't being entirely serious.

"Oh," she said climbing onto the bed; halting a bit as she let her eyes trail slowly across his naked body, meeting his gaze in the end. "I… barely remember any of it you know."

"I'll refresh your memory," he said, the smugness so evident in his voice she almost felt like smacking him, though that idea flew off as she slowly eased herself onto his rather cool body, straddling him.

"You're cold-," she said worryingly, hands resting on his chest. Molly begun to shrug off her clothes properly, surprisingly composed, despite it feeling unfamiliar, yet not. " – Body heat will probably work best," she said grinning as he groaned, her warm hands roaming about on his body.

"You will have to un-cuff me at some point," he said through gritted teeth, as she accidentally pressed down against him, feeling his cock spring to attention under her.

"I rather like this actually," she said with a wicked smile. "Might keep you like this for a while."

"Molly," he said with a sudden sternness.

She leaned down to his face, inches away from his mouth, her lips tilting upwards, as his blue eyes were fixed on her mouth, before they flicked upwards. "Molly…I hope that maybe this will-," he was so obvious when she wanted to see him, and she only smiled capturing his lips instead for a brief but lingering kiss. He responded quite eagerly in return, his body tensing underneath hers, his lips hot against her mouth, as she heard the handcuffs slam against the bedframe. She really did need to let him - - - suddenly she pulled back from his lips, staring at him wide-eyed.

There was one huge problem, one massive detail they'd managed to overlook, which under the circumstances wasn't so very surprising, but still…"Molly, what is it?" he said looking startled.

Trying very hard not to laugh she said rather carefully, nervously smiling down at him – "Umm…I haven't got the key."

THE END