AN: Thanks to Lilsherlockian1975 for beta'ing this thing for me.

In Vino Veritas

The buzzing of his phone brought Sherlock out of his thoughts. He leaned over the side of his chair to snatch the offending item off the floor where he'd tossed it earlier in the evening.

His eyebrows arched in surprise as he scrolled past four—no five—texts from John to open the most recent.

Call me. NOW - JW

He hit the call button and held the mobile up to his ear as he slouched back into the chair once more. Sherlock started speaking the moment John answered. "Didn't you make me swear not to call you this evening because you were having a daddy/daughter night with Lizzie so Mary could have a night out with 'the girls'?" He made sure to draw out the last two words as derisively as possible.

He could hear John huff in annoyance on the other end of the line. "Yes, well, normally I'd make more of an effort to praise your restraint, but we're in a bit of a bind over here."

Sherlock sat up sharply, feet planted firmly on the ground. "Is it Lizzie? Mary? Is one of you hurt?"

His friend's impatient tone softened somewhat at Sherlock's obvious concern. "The three of us are fine. Mary's going to have a bear of a hangover in the morning, but that should be the worst of it. No, it's Molly-"

Sherlock cut him off with a startled, "Molly?"

"Yeah?" John replied. His voice dropped to a soft whisper, as if he were trying to keep someone from overhearing him. "She and Mary get together for coffee sometimes. Mary's been feeling a bit sorry for her the last few weeks, ever since that Tom bloke she'd been engaged to sent her an invite to his upcoming wedding."

Sherlock broke in again. "He did what?" That was definitely a piece of information that would need to be examined in depth in the future.

"That's what Mary said." John paused for a long moment. "Molly didn't tell you?"

She hadn't actually. Why hadn't she? Did she think he wouldn't care? Admittedly, he usually didn't have time for other people's sentimental babbling, but she had to have noticed the effort he'd been making of late? How he paid attention when she talked—unless he was actively focused on a case, obviously, although Molly rarely interrupted him with trivial things when he was working. He'd even made note when she'd mentioned the annoying intern from gynaecology who was always hanging around the cafeteria when she had lunch. He'd had Mike get the twit transferred to another hospital.

Sherlock told himself he'd think about the implications of all of that later.

"Unimportant. What's wrong with Molly?" Whatever it was couldn't have been serious or John wouldn't have let himself get distracted. Sherlock cast a searching glance around his sitting room in the hopes of locating his shoes.

"She's drunk, mate."

"Is that all?" Sherlock relaxed back into his chair, relieved.

"Don't I wish," John muttered. "After dinner tonight, the entire group of ladies decided to visit a club for more 'drinkies'. Eventually Mary and Molly managed to pour themselves into a taxi and make their way back here. I tried sobering them up with coffee, but they're having none of it."

"And?" Sherlock prompted, wondering what any of that had to do with him.

"They're in the sitting room, giggling like school girls." John's voice dropped to a whisper again. "Comparing notes on their respective sex lives. I hope to God neither of them remember any of this in the morning. I am really uncomfortable with Molly knowing how big my . . . I'm just very uncomfortable with the current topic of conversation, and I'll leave it at that."

Sherlock tried to shake that mental image out of his brain. "I don't see what you expect me to do about it."

"They're looking at me and laughing now. Oh, God, why are they laughing? Listen to me, Sherlock. You need to come take Molly home. I can't leave Mary and Lizzie here like this, and I won't send Molly off alone in a cab in her current condition."

"Let her sleep it off on your settee." That was clearly the most logical solution, Sherlock thought.

"And listen to the two of them cackling for the rest of the night? I don't think so." John growled into the phone, "Come get your pathologist or so help me I will tell them every gory detail about what I saw that horrible day you thought I was staying at Sarah's and you decided it was too much effort to put on some damn pants or even wrap yourself in a bloody sheet before strolling into the kitchen for a morning cup of tea!"

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why he should care if John told Molly and Mary about his endowments, then he remembered the morning in question. It had been rather cold to start with, and then John's screeching had brought Mrs Hudson running up the stairs as well, which only made things shrink even further. He gulped. "I'll be there in thirty minutes. Twenty-five if the cabbie wants to earn his tip."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly, at least, had had the good grace to look slightly abashed when he'd shown up at the Watson's door twenty-eight minutes after John had hung up on him. Mary, however, hadn't looked sorry at all. She'd thrown Molly an exaggerated wink and a "Go get 'em, girl" as Sherlock helped his inebriated charge into the back of the cab.

He gave the driver Molly's address and settled himself against the uncomfortable faux-leather seat.

Almost immediately Molly leaned into his arm and smiled up at him. "It was very nice of you to come all the way out here just to get me."

He briefly considered moving away but decided he actually liked the warmth of her body against his side, and it wouldn't hurt to stay close just this once.

"Yes, well, John didn't really give me much of a choice." Sherlock grimaced as soon as the words escaped his lips. Even he recognized how rude he'd sounded.

Molly's smile only dimmed for a second. "Still, you came to rescue me regardless. My knight in shining armour. Or dark Belstaff, I suppose."

Considering he'd only agreed to keep John from sharing what would undoubtedly have been an extremely unflattering account of his bits with Molly and Mary, Sherlock wasn't sure his actions could really be considered chivalrous in any way.

He hummed non-committedly and looked out the car window. Molly seemed content to rest her head against his shoulder for several minutes.

"I love looking at your hands."

His gaze automatically dropped to one of his hands where it was resting on his thigh. What was one supposed to say to something like that? "Uhm, thank you?"

Molly reached out to grasp his hand, lifting it closer so she could examine the elegant digits. "Such long fingers. I bet you could do so many delicious things with them." She sighed longingly and slid her fingers between his in a way that made him suck in a sharp breath.

He gently detangled his hand from hers and called out to the cabbie, "How much longer?"

Molly let him go without an argument, although she did turn toward him so that her chest was pressed against his arm. "Do you think it's true? That the size of a man's hands and feet are indications of the size of his . . . well, you know."

Sherlock was too busy trying to ignore the feel of her firm breasts to concentrate on what she was saying. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'd love to see it."

He looked down at her, a confused frown on his lips. "See what?"

She drew one leg under her so that she could rise up enough to bring her mouth level to his ear. He could feel her breath—hot and damp—as she whispered two little words that sent a bolt of electricity straight to his groin, "Your cock."

He sputtered the first thing his temporarily short circuited mind could come up with. "Here?"

Molly laughed—low, husky, not at all the sort of sound that Sherlock was used to hearing from her—and put her hand on his thigh. "How naughty! I was thinking somewhere a lot more private, but I'm game if you are." Before he could stop her, she cupped his groin.

Sherlock was unable to contain the low groan that escaped his lips when she squeezed his length with her small hand. The last person to touch him intimately had been Janine, and he'd never really enjoyed or tolerated her efforts for longer than absolutely necessary to continue the charade of an adoring boyfriend. This was different, this was exciting and arousing, this was . . . a seriously bad idea since they were in the back of a cab and Molly was drunk off her arse.

He grasped her wrist and tried to gently remove her hand from his person. As petite as she was, Molly was no delicate flower and she was in no mood to release her prize. The more he tried to restrain her wandering hands, the more she giggled and peppered kisses along his neck.

After a short scuffle Sherlock ended up pressing her back against the seat, weighing her down with his chest against hers. "Hands off, Molly. You're drunk and we are not doing this."

She held up her hands in surrender. "No hands."

Sherlock backed off, eyeing her suspiciously. He'd expected to see a pout form on her lips and was a little disconcerted to see a devilish smile there instead.

"I'd prefer to use my mouth anyway."

He growled her name, both annoyed and inexplicably aroused.

She licked her lips, and then laughed at the expression on his face and the way his eyes tracked the movement of her tongue. "Oh come on, Sherlock. I can't be the first person to offer to suck your co-"

"Molly!"

She rolled her eyes and petulantly crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine. Spoilsport."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, although Sherlock remained tense and on alert. He watched her from the corner of his eye, prepared to dodge her drunken advances should she make any. She quietly chewed at her lower lip rather than reach for him, and he told himself that he wasn't disappointed in the least.

Eventually she spoke again. "If you're afraid that I'm rubbish at it, I'm not. I'm very good, you know."

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sure you are."

"I've always believed that if you're going to do something, you should do it right." Molly leaned toward him earnestly; although, he noted, she kept her hands to herself. "Do some research beforehand to make sure you're prepared, but don't be afraid to experiment a little. What was the other thing? Oh, yes, visualize the steps toward reaching your goal!" She flopped back against the seat with a dreamy sigh. "You have no idea how many times I've thought about the needy noises you'd make when I'd wrap my lips around your-"

"For God's sake, Molly, that is enough!" Sherlock felt his skin flush red and hot as he met the cab driver's eyes in the rear view mirror.

He couldn't remember ever imagining that sort of scenario with Molly before (oral sex in the back of a car, specifically, with or without the audience); and there had been more than a handful of fantasies staring the petite pathologist over the years, much to Sherlock's annoyance. He suspected it would be popping into his head at the most inconvenient times now.

"It's because I'm not your type, isn't it? I'm not tall enough and-and . . ." Molly fumbled for the best way to get her thoughts across; finally resorting to holding up her hands in front of her chest as if she were cupping a pair of large melons as she said, "Pretty."

In the moment it took Sherlock's normally brilliant brain to process what her pantomime meant—In his defence, her gesture had drawn his attention to her breasts and he'd been forced to waste several valuable seconds pushing the disturbingly familiar thought of how well they'd fit in his hands to the back of his mind.—the cabbie piped up. "Aww, don't listen to him, luv. I think you're very pretty."

Sherlock glared at the other man. It was an expression that should have seen the cabbie running, but all it earned Sherlock in response was a grin in the rear view. He turned to Molly and whatever he'd been about to say vanished under the threat of the unshed tears beginning to pool in her eyes.

She sniffed and scrubbed a hand across her nose.

"It's fine. I understand, really I do. Sometimes people just aren't attracted to certain other people. And I'm usually much better at accepting that, you know I am, I just . . ."

"I never said I thought you weren't pretty," Sherlock cut in. "Never."

He reached for one of her hands and held it between both of his own. "Listen to me, Molly. I swear, if I were interested in doing that sort of thing with anyone, I would be extremely lucky and honoured to experience it with you."

"Really?"

It might have been his imagination, but he thought she had begun to look a little less upset.

"Absolutely."

"For the record, I am interested in doing that sort of thing, am currently single, and I would also feel very lucky should the pretty lady decide I'm worth the effort," offered the increasingly more irritating cabbie. He took his eyes off the road long enough to turn and wink at Molly.

"Duly noted, now bugger off," Sherlock growled back.

Molly slid forward to the edge of the seat so she could better speak to the other man. "That's strangely sweet of you, Mr-?"

"Name's Byron, Miss."

"Well, thank you, Byron. However, I think you may have the wrong impression of me. I don't usually proposition men in the back of cabs. Or anywhere, actually. This is really a special case. I've known Sherlock for ages, and he already knew I used to have a crush on him. I've had a bit to drink, and Mary kept telling me I really didn't have anything to lose at this point so I should just go for it before I lost my nerve. I fully intended to chicken out as soon as we left her place, you see, but Sherlock is wearing the purple shirt. God, I love this shirt." She turned her attention to the garment in question and reverently brushed her fingertips against the silky material over his chest. "It always makes me want to rip open those straining buttons and just . . . lick everything."

Sherlock choked and slapped a hand over Molly's questing fingers before they could do more than pluck at the first button she'd reached.

She pouted for a moment, then pulled her hand free. "It's really not fair to constantly tease a girl like that. Right, Byron? I mean wouldn't you be tempted if the promise of those abs kept taunting you behind that obscenely tight shirt? Doesn't he look positively edible?"

"Yeah, I'm ah-I'm not really partial to purple myself, sorry. Can make a bloke look a bit sallow, honestly." Byron shrugged. "Just my opinion."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he should be relieved or insulted. He definitely didn't appreciate the way the man kept hitting on Molly.

He quickly abandoned all thoughts of the cab driver as Molly's words echoed through his mind palace one more time.

"You said always. Surely you don't mean at Barts, when we're in the morgue or the lab?"

"Perhaps not the morgue, but definitely in the lab. Especially when you've taken your jacket off while you work, and then you do that thing where you lean back to stretch. Last week you rolled your shoulders and that button right there held on for just a moment before giving in to the inevitable and popping open. Do you have any idea how alluring your suprasternal notch is? Even though I knew it would end poorly, I still very nearly asked if you'd like to have coffee. With me, specifically. Not just in general."

"Coffee." Sherlock remembered the first time she'd worked up the nerve to ask him if he'd like to have coffee. At the time he'd noted her flushed cheeks and the slight dilation of her pupils, but he'd intentionally misinterpreted the signs so he could avoid dealing with the deeper implications of her aroused state. Now though . . .

"Is coffee some sort of code for oral sex? Like 'having dinner' when you aren't hungry is a way to discretely ask if someone wants to have penetrative sex?" Considering what had transpired earlier, Sherlock felt the need to clarify things. Another thought struck him and he blanched. "Oh, God. What does it mean when your housekeeper continually offers you tea and biscuits when you aren't thirsty?"

"No! Coffee is just having coffee and talking, a 'spend more time with you' date-ish sort of thing." Molly stared at him as if he'd said something particularly perplexing.

"Unless you've been invited up to their's for coffee after a night out," the cabbie helpfully interjected. "Then you have to read the signals, mate, because it could just be a cup of joe and conversation, or it could be 'let's skip the cuppa and get straight to getting naked'. It can get a wee bit awkward if you mix the two up."

Molly blushed. "Fair point. But in the lab, coffee strictly means coffee, Sherlock."

"Are you absolutely certain about that?" Sherlock purred, surprising himself. He hadn't a clue why he'd teased her, but he had to admit that his pulse sped up when her blush intensified and her pupils dilated at his question.

"Yes!" Molly squeaked and quickly looked away.

He knew right then that if he were to push the matter one day (Which he wouldn't because he wasn't interested in a sexual relationship, was he?) that Molly Hooper's resolve would collapse like a house of cards. He had little doubt that with the right words and a calculated deployment of her favourite purple shirt, he could have her panting his name in a supply cupboard in a fairly short time frame. The idea was unexpectedly intriguing.

As if sensing the direction his thoughts had begun to travel in, Molly tried to change the subject. "And who told you asking someone out to dinner really meant asking for sex?"

Sherlock winced. He waved his hand dismissively. "Just something I overheard, it's not important."

She rolled her eyes and looked out the window on her side of the vehicle. "Oh, good, we're almost home."

"Molly?" He waited until she turned her attention back to him, a soft half-smile on her lips. "Even after all this time, and all the things I've said and done, you still wanted to ask me out for coffee? The normal kind, not the other one." How was that even possible?

"Silly man, of course I do." She reached out and took his hand, and he let her. "You're one of my closest friends and you know some brilliant stories. Why wouldn't I want to spend more time with you?" She smiled sweetly at him.

He tentatively smiled back.

"And now I'm going to ruin this tender moment by saying two things. One, I really need a wee." Molly laughed and pulled her hand free. "Two, and this is definitely the alcohol and Mary's pep talk speaking, and I am absolutely positive I'm going to regret admitting this in the morning, but I've already burnt this particular bridge so what the hell."

She cast a quick glance toward the cab driver who was devoting far too much attention to what was going on in the backseat in Sherlock's opinion, then leaned close to whisper in the curious detective's ear. "The last time you stayed over in my room, I ended up touching myself in the bath. I even left the door unlocked in case you heard me moaning your name and wanted to join me. In other words, I wouldn't turn you down if you asked me for coffee. Either kind. Or even your idea of dinner."

He could do nothing more than blink as she retreated. He registered that the cab had stopped simply because Molly slipped past him with a giggle and a quick kiss on his cheek before pushing open the door and exiting the vehicle.

"I know it's none of my business, but would you like a bit of advice?"

Sherlock looked at the driver—who was fully turned to face him, one arm thrown over the back of the front seat—and frowned. Why would he want any advice from a man he'd just met and would surely delete the moment he stepped foot in Baker Street? Any port in a storm, he supposed. "God, yes."

"If you've got any feelings for her at all, you need to follow your lady friend inside and tell her. Elsewise she's going to sober up, remember everything that happened tonight, and feel utterly humiliated. You've got to head that off before it gets a foothold if you don't want her to avoid you for the next ten years. Unless that's what you want? Her to bugger off to parts unknown every time you show your face."

"No! No, I—no." Sherlock shook his head and watched as Molly dug through her bag for her keys. She was awkwardly balanced on one leg, the other knee drawn up to provide a makeshift surface to place several items on as she pulled them free from the interior of her purse. "That's the last thing I want."

"I thought so. Should I wait for you to come back out so I can take you somewhere else, mate? Or are you going to be staying awhile?"

Sherlock hesitated for a long moment. As Molly finally fit her key into the lock, he made his decision. By the time she had the large door pushed open and aimed a wiggly fingered wave goodbye in his direction, Sherlock had pulled several notes from his wallet—enough for the fare and a large tip—and passed them to the cabbie.

"Don't wait."