A Hands-On Approach

Chapter 3

Molly had Victoria pegged for a ninny within a few short minutes after meeting her. It wasn't a surprise, then, that the minute the dapper gunman burst into the room, the esthetician let loose a rather shrill scream. Still, it was a bit startling just how much volume she achieved, and Molly could feel her eardrums ringing even after Victoria's shriek had subsided.

Molly couldn't say she necessarily blamed the younger woman for being scared. It wasn't often one found her self being held at gunpoint, particularly in a day spa. The whole point of such a facility was to calm inner turmoil. It was like a Buddhist temple, but with mud baths instead of meditation.

Later, Molly would wonder at her own calm façade during that time. No, her own lack of any kind of reaction.

Inside, though, she was musing on the unfairness of life.

So, she thought to herself, this is how I die. It figures.

She'd always hoped that, if she were doomed to die young, she would at least die doing something worthwhile. Diving into the road to save a runaway baby pram, or fighting off a random madman in the morgue with just a bone saw to defend her self.

She'd also pictured Sherlock—rage in his eyes as he tossed a single, white rose down into her grave—cursing the world for taking her away before he could tell her his true feelings.

She may have had a bit too much time to imagine these things during quieter shifts at the hospital.

But no. Of course her death would come when she was lying naked on a table, slicked up with oil. Naked, oiled (and not in an even remotely sexy way), lying on a table, with the man with whom she was hopelessly in love there to bear witness.

Not to mention, her face still hurt from that extractor.

She wondered if Greg Lestrade would be the one unlucky enough to be called to what was sure to be a grisly scene. Hopefully, he would work hard to preserve her dignity in death and see to it that a sheet covered her body as it was wheeled out of the building.

Well, he could try, but the oil coating her back would probably prove too great a lubricant for the plastic sheets used at murder scenes. It would slip right off. Her last act before she was hauled off to her own morgue would be to give a posthumous anatomy lesson to any pedestrians in the vicinity, she thought gloomily.

All of these thoughts occurred to Molly within a matter of seconds. She snapped out of her stupor, though, when she remembered the bottle of astringent sitting on the rolling tray by her head, next to that damned massage oil.

She glanced at the gunman, whose eyes were currently locked on Sherlock. He was too busy demanding that "Alan" return the files he'd stolen, "Or else," so he didn't even notice Molly snaking her arm over to the bottle and grabbing it right out from under his nose.

It really was small room.

Using her hair as a curtain, Molly unscrewed the bottle's cap under her chin. Subterfuge forced her to hold the astringent a low enough angle that several milliliters of the liquid spilled out onto the pillow. It ran down her chest, momentarily chilling her skin as the alcohol content evaporated on contact. Fortunately, the bottle was still quite full in spite of it all.

Deciding she needed to act sooner rather than later, Molly moved quickly, and with as much force as she could muster while lying on her stomach, she swung the open bottle toward the gunman. A large splash of astringent slopped out and hit him squarely in the face.

Fortunately, it proved adequate. The second it made contact with his eyes, he let loose a loud shriek of his own and threw his hands up to try to soothe what must have been quite a burn.

Unfortunately, he was still holding the gun, and he'd ignored the first tenet of gun safety and had his finger resting on the trigger. When he jerked his hands up to his eyes, he reflexively squeezed it.

The handgun firing in such close proximity left Molly's poor ears ringing, making her long for Victoria's screams (though, Victoria was doing that again, as well, which didn't help).

She registered a sharp, stinging, burning sensation in her shoulder, and she wondered if she'd been shot. As she took stock of her overall condition, she thought to herself, Well, that could have felt much worse.

Just then, however, tiny bits of sheetrock raining down had her looking up. A perfect, round bullet hole was situated right next to the room's light fixture.

Glancing down, Molly realized that the bullet's casing was what must have hit her, as it now lay harmlessly on the ground by the bed.

She was vaguely aware of Sherlock tackling the man to the ground, but her gaze was fixed on that casing, and the gun that suddenly landed next to it, miraculously not firing again on impact.

…

Sherlock had only seen David Branley, Spa Owner and Moriarty Employee Extraordinaire, on one other occasion, and only very briefly.

On his first day at the spa, he'd been trying desperately to maintain his own cover as he was forced to sit through new hire orientation. Of all the times Sherlock Holmes had been bored, this was probably the worst.

As he watched an instructional video on how not to sexually harass someone (the video's advise: be a decent human being), the door to the Team Training Room—Sherlock had nearly revealed his true colors just upon hearing the word "Team," but managed to quell his derisive snort —had opened and Branley entered with a horde of simpering sycophants nipping at his heels.

He had the type of smarmy, self-satisfied grin that Sherlock often considered to be an admission of guilt in and of itself, and Branley was clearly well aware of his own rugged, good looks. Though, Sherlock considered, ruggedness was probably cancelled out when the owner of such a quality wore a designer suit and paid someone to groom him on a semi-daily basis. Whatever the case, Branley was well-coiffed, well-suited, and he knew it. He soaked up the attention and gave an air of doing his minions a great favor by even agreeing to be in their company.

Sherlock's trainer had jumped from her seat the minute the group entered the room, then shot a meaningful look at Sherlock to say that he should follow suit. He struggled to keep his internal monologue internal, as he pondered the fact that Branley apparently dictated that his employees treat him as monarch in this little Micro-Kingdom of Spa.

Branley had noticed the two people rising from the table and shot them a charming wink as he spoke.

"Don't let us interrupt you. We're just passing through to the storeroom to look at the new Dermalogique line that arrived this morning. We wouldn't want to disturb anything important."

All of the hangers-on around Branley tittered as if he's said something funny. Sherlock almost had to physically reach up and use his fingers to keep his forehead from wrinkling in dismay at their idiocy.

The minute the group passed through the door on the other side of the conference room, Orla, his trainer, had whirled around with a flustered look on her face.

"That was David Branley. The owner of this spa! Did my hair look okay? He's pretty strict about that kind of thing…."

Sherlock had taken her distress as an opportunity to practice his assumed persona, and he'd put a comforting hand on her shoulder (inwardly cringing) and told her she looked fetching.

It had done the trick, and she'd immediately warmed to "Alan."

After that, Sherlock was only able to get piecemeal information about the owner of the spa from his employees. Branley had them believing that his success was the result of hard work; a triumphal story of a small-town boy who'd dared to dream big.

As a result, the spa employees regarded him with awe, speaking his name with hushed reverence. It was disgusting and cloying.

Not able to count on any of his coworkers to provide damning information about Branley, Sherlock had resorted to a cloak and dagger method of information gathering. He'd started sneaking onto various computers when employees were otherwise distracted, and copying information over onto a USB thumb drive.

He thought he'd been pretty damn sneaky.

Now, Branley's presence in the tiny treatment room (not to mention the gun he was currently aiming at Sherlock) would indicate that Sherlock hadn't been as successful as he'd previously thought.

It all happened rather quickly.

The minute Branley burst into the room, Victoria had started screaming shrilly. Sherlock tried asking her nicely to, "Do shut up, please," but she did not comply.

Molly, meanwhile, was lying frozen on the treatment table, either hoping Branley wouldn't notice her if she didn't move, or plotting. It was hard to tell with her.

So, speaking over Victoria, Sherlock calmly addressed the other man.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Branley? That gun you're holding is completely unnecessary."

Branley only tightened his grip on the gun, clearly not completely at ease with a firearm.

Oh, good. An armed idiot.

Sherlock tried again.

"Is there a reason why you're aiming a gun at me, or is this a new spa treatment? I can't say I care for it."

The man finally responded, ignoring his unsteady arm as he glared at Sherlock.

"I don't know who you are, or what you're doing. But you had better give me back my fucking files, or you'll be in for a whole world of hurt."

'A whole world of hurt'? Really, it was too much. Like they'd somehow been transplanted into a mafia film. But Sherlock didn't feel like laughing just yet.

He tried for ignorance.

"The name's Alan McKenna. I'm the new massage therapist, here to replace Eric Stromquist. You remember Eric, don't you? As for what I'm doing, clearly I am giving this client a massage, and you're terrifying her. Maybe not the best business practice ever."

Perhaps reminding an armed man of a person whose disappearance he may or may not have been responsible for was not the best idea ever. Neither was following that reminder up with criticism of how he was handling his business. But Sherlock was multitasking. Victoria had quit her shrieking, but was now just whimpering in the corner, and Molly still was showing no reaction. Someone had to get them out of this situation.

It was a long shot, and proved futile. Branley neither lowered his gun, nor lost the crazed gleam in his eye.

An unstable, armed idiot. This just kept getting better and better.

"Bullshit. You've been systematically copying files off of our computers. I don't know if you're with the competition, or are some kind of embezzler, but you picked the wrong man to mess with. I will make you wish you'd never entered the world, let alone my business' doors."

As Branley kept up his threats, a slight movement from Molly surprised Sherlock. He avoided looking down, not wanting to draw attention to her, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her arm moving toward the rolling cart that housed facial supplies and his massage oil.

Branley showed no sign of noticing Molly, who, as ever, proved herself invaluable in the art of being unnoticed and underestimated. She grabbed something and then carefully settled back into her original position on the bed, though Sherlock could tell she was now shielding something under her body.

Just as the angry, well-dressed gentleman began shouting, spitting in his anger at Sherlock's failure to comply with his demands, Molly made a sharp, sudden movement. Sherlock initially couldn't see what she was holding, but then the sharp scent of alcohol filled his nose, and he realized she'd found the astringent.

The majority of the liquid hit Branley's face, and he emitted a pained shriek. His hands flew up to rub at his eyes, and he'd clearly already forgotten he was clutching a huge gun. Clutching a huge gun, and had left his finger on its trigger.

It fired, and the force of its recoil had the body of weapon it hitting Branley sharply in his already-stinging right. eye.

Things really couldn't have turned to Sherlock's favor in a better way.

He raced around the foot of the bed and tackled Branley to the ground.

Sherlock was aware of the gun clattering to the ground somewhere behind him, but he was too busy making sure the idiot was immobilized to find out where it had landed.

Just as he realized that Branley had either knocked himself out when the recoiling gun hit him, or fainted when Sherlock had overtaken him, he heard his name called. He looked up from the unconscious man to find Molly sitting on the edge of the bed holding out the gun to him, a look of distaste on her face for even having to hold the offensive item.

Sherlock stared at her for a beat, then popped up off of the floor and took it from her.

"Right," he said, "I think it would be prudent for us to run now."

He turned toward the room's entrance (now just a splintered door frame), hesitated, and then turned back to Molly.

"Also, you might want to wrap up in the sheet before we leave this room," he said, feeling a tiny flicker of regret.

Molly froze and then slowly looked down, clearly only just realizing that she was flashing her… all of her… at Sherlock. In her scramble to get the gun, she'd apparently forgotten that she was the exact opposite of clothed.

That she could still expend the effort to blush in such a dire situation baffled Sherlock. But to each her own, he supposed.

She frantically wrapped the large sheet around herself, made sure its corner was tucked securely into the edge to secure it, and then looked back up at Sherlock. She pursed his lips and gave a single, matter-of-fact nod and said, "Let's go."

He made sure the safety was back on the gun, grabbed Molly's right hand with his left, helped her skirt around Branley's still-unconscious form on the floor, and then they took off at a run.

Her shorter legs meant Sherlock had to adjust his stride so much that he felt like they were crawling. Molly, however, looked like she was sprinting as fast as she could, so he didn't comment.

They were only a few yards down the hallway, which was still quiet and empty despite the recent gunfire, when they heard someone coming up behind them. Sherlock whirled around, ready to flick the safety back off of the gun, when he realized it was only Victoria.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," she gasped. "What was that all about? Why was Mr. Branley shooting at us? Why did you splash him with astringent, Margie?"

Molly didn't correct Victoria on the name. Good for her.

Victoria continued without pausing for breath, "Are you a bad guy? Do you two know each other? Where are we going? Should we call the police?"

Though Sherlock had lost his patience before she finished her 'Oh my gods' and didn't feel remotely inclined to answer most of her questions, he did leap at one opportunity presented to him to do some damage control, however small.

"No, we don't know each other. I just decided we should all get out of there. Now, I think we should split up and hide until help arrives."

Opening the door to the supply cupboard they'd stopped next to, he quickly ushered the esthetician into the small space.

"Victoria, you go in here. Don't make a sound and don't leave until the police give you the all-clear. I'll find a hiding place for Margie next."

Without waiting for her reply, he slammed the door shut, regained his grip on Molly's hand, and started running again.

"Sherlock," Molly hissed, "You can't just leave her in there. What if that man finds her?"

"She's not in any danger. Branley was down for the count, anyway, and if by some miracle he does give chase and then finds her, she'll just explain that I stashed her in there."

Molly seemed to accept this logic and kept up his pace as they continued to run down the hallway.

But then Sherlock paused and looked down at Molly. He was starting to realize something. Something he really wished he needn't have realized.

"Molly, I think I really do need to find a hiding place for you and leave you here. I don't want the spa employees to have any reason to think link us to each other."

She opened her mouth, clearly to argue. He cut her off before she could speak.

"I wouldn't do this if I wasn't positive that this is the best move. I do not want your name on any of this."

He opened the door to a dark, empty treatment room and ushered Molly inside.

"There are cordless phones in these rooms. They're usually on charging cradles in the large corner cabinets. Dial 999. I hear sirens already, but you need to cover your tracks. Try to sound as frantic and scared as possible. Say the only reason you went with me was because Branley fired his gun and it frightened you. When you describe me to the police, try to slightly change as many small details as you can; age, height, weight. Your description will have more preponderance due to your job.

"When the police release you after questioning, go directly to your flat. Don't talk to anyone else, and don't stop for anything."

Molly stared at him silently for a moment, and then nodded resignedly.

As he started to pull the door shut, he heard her whisper, "Please be careful."

He didn't respond. He just made sure the door was shut firmly behind him and then he bolted for the nearest fire escape, located just around the corner from Molly's hiding spot.

Sherlock skipped whole steps as he raced down flights of stairs. He finally burst through the heavy fire door on the ground floor and found himself in a dank alley.

A wintery mix of rain and snow was falling from the dim, evening sky, and, now outside, the sound of sirens approaching was a loud cacophony.

He was weighing which way to run when movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the gun and whirled around to the intruder, only to realize it was Mycroft Holmes, standing under his ubiquitous umbrella, a put-upon expression on his face.

Though, that seemed to be his resting expression, at least when regarding his younger brother.

"You know, security cameras can be funny things. How they tape video footage. For security. It's also funny how most businesses have them installed in hallways, fire escapes, and, oh yes, in front reception areas, where the receptionist's computer is so readily available. Why, if I didn't know any better, I would say you wanted to be seen stealing those files."

While he spoke, he idly lit a cigarette and took a few ponderous puffs before he lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock, clearly waiting for a rejoinder.

"Is now really the time to have this conversation, Mycroft? I think it would be expedient for me to get away. I know you didn't walk here. Where's your car?"

Mycroft nodded his head to something behind Sherlock. When he turned around, he saw a sleek, black vehicle pull away from the wall, where it had been obscured by a large, industrial-size dumpster.

Once the two men were seated on the plush, leather upholstery of the car's back seat, the vehicle took off at a quick clip, turning out on to the main road and blending with the busy, end-of-day traffic.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, waiting to see if he was done with his haranguing. When his older brother remained silent, doing little else but spinning his now-closed umbrella on its pointed end, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Apparently, it was up to him now.

"So, you've been monitoring me?"

Mycroft snorted indelicately, but otherwise remained silent.

"Am I to take it, then, that you've wiped me from the spa's security footage?"

The Holmes boys had perfected facetious flippancy at a young age. So Sherlock didn't read too much into it when Mycroft replied, "No, I decided to see if you could tap dance your way out of this. Imagine the Daily Mail's write-up on your new life as a masseuse."

"Masseur."

"Oh, no, I meant what I said."

Sherlock sighed then stared sullenly out of his window.

But Mycroft wasn't done, yet.

"Just so your little exercise isn't for naught, do you want to pass on the data you've so carefully collected?"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft as he dug in his trouser pocket, fishing out the memory stick. It wasn't without a large dose of resentment that he handed it over.

His brother put the thumb drive in his waistcoat pocket before resuming twirling his umbrella.

"It should be short work getting this processed. I doubt David Branley will have even been bailed out after his foray into assault with a deadly weapon, before the authorities can move forward with other, more interesting charges."

Sherlock could have thanked Mycroft. But why would he?

The rest of their car ride was conducted in silence, until they finally came to a stop outside of a residential building in a quiet Southwark neighborhood.

Sherlock nodded at his brother, then opened the car door. As he climbed out, Myrcoft's languid voice had him turning back around.

"I do have one question, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes cocked his eyebrow in waiting.

"How on Earth did you convince Dr. Hooper that a bed sheet was haute couture for crime fighting?"

Sherlock slammed the car door and stomped away.

…

Three hours after Sherlock Holmes had left her in a dark room wearing nothing but a sheet, Molly dragged herself into her flat.

As was her habit, the moment she opened her front door, she hung her keys on the little hook she'd installed right by the door frame. She set her purse on the tiny entryway table beneath that hook. She closed the door and locked it.

And then she started knocking her forehead repeatedly against its hard wood.

Not with concussive force or anything. But hard enough that it momentarily provided a nice change of pace from the dull pressure currently making itself known throughout her skull.

Finally, Molly petered out and just stood there with her brow pressed against the cool wood (or wood veneer) of the door.

She allowed herself one self-pitying groan. But only one.

A deep voice coming from the dark of her sitting room startled her.

"Oh, come on. It wasn't that bad."

Molly's head dropped back heavily, directing her gaze to her ceiling. She idly glared at the popcorn texture that probably meant she was inhaling large amounts of asbestos on a daily basis. She'd asked her super to fix that, but, apparently, he needed a royal decree to accomplish anything.

Finally, she turned to face into the room, easily spotting Sherlock's shadowed form sprawled on the sofa. A pair of glowing eyes indicated that her cat was currently sitting on the man's chest.

"Oh, believe me, it was worse. Tell me, Sherlock. If you were to guess how long it was that I had to stay in that cold, dark room before the authorities came and fetched me, what would you say?" she asked as she unzipped her rain-sodden jacket.

Sherlock glared back at her.

"I don't play guessing games."

Molly laughed, somewhat dourly.

"Oh, come on. Humor me."

Sherlock hadn't moved yet, but she could see his chest (and the cat) rise and fall as he heaved a sigh.

"Fine, then. Fifteen minutes?"

"Nope." She let the 'p' really pop.

"Twenty? I barely beat the police, so it couldn't have been much longer than that."

Molly just shook her head.

"This is boring. Just tell me."

"Forty-five minutes, Sherlock. I was in that room for forty-five minutes. And then they weren't convinced that I wasn't harboring a dangerous criminal in the folds of my sheet. So when they finally burst into that room, following my helpful directions over the phone, by the way—the emergency dispatcher patched me through to the site coordinator—they were wearing full ballistic gear. They had sniper rifles sited on me. It took me five minutes to convince them that I was unarmed and alone.

"And then, the D.I. on scene wouldn't let me get dressed. She insisted that I might change my story in the five minutes it took me to pull on my own clothes. Maybe it didn't help that I pointed out that I'd had forty-five bloody minutes to come up with a story, so her point was moot. Whatever the case, I had to give three different people my statement while I was covered nothing but a thin, white sheet. I was cold, tired, and just wanted to come home. And my friend had left ages ago, so our 'Girls' Day' was a bust, anyway. I didn't have to be there."

Sherlock just stared at her for several seconds after she'd wound down her impassioned speech before he lifted the cat off of his chest and stood. He sauntered over until there was only a half a meter between them. It was only then that he spoke again.

"Are you saying this was all somehow my fault?"

"Well, that gunman certainly didn't burst in the room because he'd decided my large pores were a capital offense. I paid my dues for those with that demonic blackhead remover."

Molly was not a confrontational person, but she steeled herself and continued.

"I was minding my own business, trying to pretend I was enjoying having you slather oil all over my back, and he came bursting in, looking for you." She poked his chest for emphasis, a flustered blush beginning to suffuse her cheeks.

"Yes, but I hardly had any control over the fact that you decided to do something completely out of character and go to a day spa to begin with," he huffed. "You'll remember that I was there first."

Molly actually guffawed, then replied, "Oh, we're getting proprietary over whose idea it was to be in that hell first? By all means Sherlock. That honor is all yours. But let's also remember who went there willingly. I believe that distinction goes to you, as well."

"I don't know how else to tell you, I was on a case. I was undercover, unearthing a money laundering scheme tied back to Moriarty, and I was successful in my efforts."

He strode away from her, the strode back just as quickly.

"And there was no pretending going on, enjoyment-wise. You seem to forget that I was touching your naked skin. I felt your heartbeat fluttering away like a little, flitty bird. My hands excited you, Molly Hooper."

"Did not."

"Did so."

"No."

"Yes."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He narrowed his back.

Neither Molly nor Sherlock could identify who moved first. All they knew was that, one second they were glaring at each other, each trying to out-menace the other, and the next, they were in each others' arms, their mouths meeting in a furious kiss.

Fingers were tangling in hair, noses were rubbing against each other, lips and teeth were nipping, and their bodies were as flush together as their clothing would allow. Someone may have moaned (Sherlock was certain it was not he…. Maybe).

He decided that he would address the slight discomfort of holding Molly while she wore her cold, sodden winter coat. And so, breaking as little contact as he could, Sherlock slid his hands under the neckline of the open coat, pushing if off of her shoulders and down her arms while he let his hands slide over those lovely scapulae of hers.

Molly's quick hiss of surprise was enough to break the spell, though.

Sherlock jerked his head back and peered down at her.

"What? Did I—" He was surprisingly winded. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, no. I've just got a small cut on my back. The bullet casing hit me when Branley fired his gun. It's nothing serious."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to drag his mouth back down to her kiss-swollen lips, but he resisted.

"Let me see it," he demanded.

"Maybe later."

Something told him that making demands of Molly wouldn't get him anywhere, if the way the night had gone so far was any indication. So he tried a different tack.

"Would you just… do this for me? I'll… worry otherwise."

Molly lowered back down off her tiptoes and stared up at him for a quiet moment before she nodded.

Given that Sherlock had seen more of her in the past several hours than any man had in the past three years combined (besides her gynecologist, but, somehow, that was different), it was rather easy for Molly to shrug out of her thick, cable knit sweater, leaving her upper-half clad only her white cotton bra.

Sherlock, romantic fool that he was, perfunctorily turned Molly around to look at her minor injury. If she didn't still feel the burning around her mouth from his slight stubble, she might have wondered if she'd imagined kissing him a few short moments before.

He led her over to the sofa and, once she was seated, flicked on a lamp sitting on an end table.

He brushed his fingers around the scratch, not touching the swollen skin. She was right; it wasn't serious at all. But it was a bit deep and needed to be cleaned.

"The heat of the casing burned you, too, but not badly. Still, it will be quite tender with the cut under it."

Molly nodded absently, shivering a bit as her body cooled again in the chilly air of her flat.

"I have a first aid kit in the linen closet in the hall. Bottom shelf," she directed.

Sherlock quickly fetched it and then seated himself behind her on the sofa. Flicking open the plastic box, he quickly scooped out items he would need.

She jumped a bit when the alcohol swab made contact with the laceration.

"Sorry," he murmured as he finished wiping up the small streaks of dried blood, feeling an alien twinge for causing her discomfort, however necessary and fleeting it was.

She sent a small smile over her shoulder to show him that the sting had already passed.

Sherlock stared down at the cut as he waited for the alcohol to dry, trying to find his words.

"Molly, I am sorry I put you in danger. I wasn't trying to be cavalier with your safety. I really thought I'd gotten away with everything until Branley came in the room. It never even occurred to me that I should make up some excuse to get you out of there the minute I saw you lying on that bed."

Molly turned and cupped his cheek, leaning forward hesitantly to kiss him lightly, still half-expecting to be rebuffed.

"I know. I shouldn't have acted like you were inept about the whole thing. I'm sorry, too. You're really rather extraordinary, Sherlock Holmes. And I'm glad you saved me the way you did."

He rubbed his nose against hers. Molly doubted he was so fanciful as to call what he was doing an Eskimo kiss, but it was a surprisingly sweet gesture, all the same.

But then it seemed to be enough vulnerability for the time being, and he cleared his throat and drew back.

"The antiseptic should be dry now. Let me cover it up."

He laid a gauze square over the cut and secured it with medical tape, and then busied himself fitting the various supplies back into the first aid kit.

Molly resolved to get the evening onto some lighter footing, and decided to try her hand at some flirtation.

"So, you were doing pretty well with my massage, but I didn't see or feel nearly enough. What else did you learn?" She flashed him what she hoped was a smoldering look.

Sherlock seemed to think on it before he replied, "Oh, you know, the basic massage techniques. I became rather adept at sports therapy massage, so if you ever have a sprain, be sure to let me…"

He tapered off when he saw Molly's nonplussed expression.

"Oh…" he said, cottoning on, "Right."

Molly liked to think that Sherlock Holmes' ears turning a rather distinct shade of red was something just for her, that no one else had seen.

Though Sherlock never confirmed this, she was quite right.

But at that moment, he felt the need to join her in lightening the mood, and a rather evil gleam entered his eyes as he looked at her.

"I also saw quite a few other interesting treatments while I was in the place whose name we shan't ever mention again. Things like whole-body exfoliation and moisturizing. Of course, the spa techs were a lot more clinical than we would need to be."

Molly pretended to consider this as Sherlock mapped her face with his assessing eyes, before he leaned in and danced his lips over one cheekbone, the bridge of her nose, and across the other side of her face. Then, he drew back and grinned at her.

"And I saw quite a few facials. In fact, I might be able to get my hands on a blackhead extractor from a drugstore, if you'd be interested."

"And on that note, I'm going to bed," Molly said quickly.

She stood and hurried down the hall, but then stopped in the doorway to her bedroom and looked back at him. She raised her eyebrows in unmistakable invitation before she disappeared into the room beyond.

Sherlock felt his lips curve into a rather foreign smile of anticipation before he rose from the sofa and followed Molly Hooper to bed.

The End

Note: Throughout this story, I struggled not to add in one of my favorite Zoolander lines. So I'll put it here: "I was a day spa, Matilda. D-A-I-Y-E. Not a week spa."

Thanks for humoring me, not just with the random Zoolander quote, but also for reading this silly little fic (the ending of which may be unintentionally too silly [read: stupid]. Sorry about that…).

Thank you so much to everyone who Followed and Favorited.

An embarrassingly sloppy thanks to coloradoandcolorado1, DoctorWTF, Adi Who is Also Mou, Rocking the Redhead, starryeyedgeek, patemalah21, Jewelgirl04, lillil, MaryHooper, magicstrikes, nhaguyen, broadwayb, 173, VintageVillain, TroubledFred, Sherlockian082994, Nocturnias, brookenado, hihiyas, GoldenVine, MorbidbyDefault, Flaignhan, susieqsis, Mione W. G, SammyKatz, Randomiester, AdaYuki, AnastasiaBeaverhausen01, IvPayne, maharet97, conchepcion, Benedict-Addict Holmses, Mrs Dizzy, renessaincbooklover108, imiginativefig, Cumberbabe, EllaLewis, and Various and Sundry Guestsfor your absolutely lovely reviews. They overwhelmed me with warm fuzzies (really; it was pretty grim there for a bit), and each one made my day(s).

Thanks again, everyone!

Oh, and if I don't already stalk you on Tumblr, feel free to drop me a line over there. Lono285's my name, and being an idiot is my game. I rather excel at it.