Prompt! Suggested by The Heart of a Scientist

"Where's the flour?"

Molly Hooper stood in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, confused and out of place. She had rifled through the cabinets and, much to her dismay, there were no basic ingredients anywhere in the flat. No sugar of any sort, no flour, baking soda, vanilla, no eggs, for god's sake (instead, there were little vials of lord-knew-what in the egg tray).

What she did find, however, were body parts from her morgue. She'd do anything for that man—okay, maybe not anything—but this was getting ridiculous. She leaned against the counter, bamboozled. "Sherlock, what do you eat?"

"What day is it?" came the response from the other room.

She stuck her head in the doorway. Sherlock Holmes was sitting on the sofa in the other room, hovering over a spread of papers laid out on the coffee table. His face was twisted in a grim, quizzical look, deep in thought.

"It's a Thursday."

"Ah. Then I don't."

She blinked. That wasn't the answer she wanted. "Then what does John eat?"

"He gets takeout."

"So there are no ingredients in the pantry?"

He made a grumbling noise.

"You call me over, say it's urgent—'Molly, Molly, it's John's birthday could you help me bake a cake?'—and then you just—just—"

"Yes, Molly?" Sherlock looked up.

There he went with the pout, oh god she couldn't deal with the pout.

"Please, Molly?"

She sighed. "Please what, Sherlock? There's nothing here for me to use, you don't even have a cookbook."

"I'll give you money for the grocery and I'll ask Ms. Hudson for a book while you're out."

"Fine," she said, snatching the bills from his outstretched hand. "I'll be back shortly."

Becoming friends with Sherlock Holmes was one of the worst decisions Molly had made in the past few years, coming in number three under one, falling for Sherlock Holmes and two, dating Jim Moriarty. She was just having an awful, unlucky streak with men, she convinced herself.

However, being friends with Sherlock, ohohoho. She was practically his nanny, being called here and there to do some chore or meaningless action. Sometimes it was to help with cases—she liked that, it was interesting and she was doing good. Other times—dishes, groceries, laundry. It was frustrating.

Now she knew how John felt.

Stepping into the grocery, she realized what a poor idea it had been to buy things before having a cookbook. There was no recipe to go on, no guideline. She'd have to pick her purchases blindly. She baked a fair deal; this couldn't be too hard.

…Time to phone a friend.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes." His voice was deep over the cellphone speaker, irritated. "What?"

"I need an ingredient list."

There was a flipping of pages on the other end. "Shall we make a Waldorf-Asotria cake?"

She crinkled her nose. 'We' would quickly become 'she', and she wasn't up to making one of those alone. "No. How about a simple chocolate cake?"

There was a pause as he located a recipe. "Sugar, flour, baking cocoa, baking powder and soda, salt, vegetable oil, and vanilla extract."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

The line went dead.

He was an interesting man, to say the least.

Molly turned back up at 221B a short while later, carrying enough bags to consider herself a pack mule. Sherlock was, of course, missing from the front room. Maybe he went to take a nap. She put her baggage down inside the flat and closed the door, creeping silently to the—

There was a loud crash from the kitchen followed by a louder swear. Sherlock stumbled out, his hands blackened and safety goggles resting in his curly mop of hair.

Was he kidding?

Ever since getting closer to the consulting detective, Molly's personality had started peeking through her mousy demeanor. She wasn't as keen on putting up with his bullshit anymore. He was slightly taken aback at first—John had high-fived her—but he quickly returned to his normal, commanding, insulting self.

"What are you doing?"

"Experiment. Highly volatile."

"Did you, or did you not, ask me to help with a cake?"

"I did, yes."

"And where am I supposed to bake it?"

He looked back into the kitchen where a set of tubes were connect to…were those fingers?—and bit his lip. "Here, when I finish."

"Why couldn't this have happened after I finished?"

He shrugged. "Got bored."

"You're impossible," she growled and pushed her way into the kitchen. It smelled putrid in here, like decaying flesh, which, honestly, wasn't a surprise. She shoved his chemistry set down the table, clearing a space for herself and this freaking cake.

"I said it was volatile!" Sherlock dashed to where she was rearranging the kitchen, grabbed her wrists, and led her back to the front room. "Molly, what has gotten into you?"

"I'm just fed-up with your—the…nevermind." He was far too close to her, touching her, inches from her, and Mousy-Molly was making a comeback.

"Continue."

"The way you get when you're bored. I need the kitchen to make this cake for John, which you asked me to do."

"I did." His grip loosened on her wrists a moment. "I cannot stop my experiment in the middle, but I can give you space. Is that all right?"

She nodded. It's not as if she could argue with that, not that she especially wanted to argue with Sherlock. He'd win.

"Good." He dropped one wrist and guided her back with the other.

Hah, he was worried that she was behaving strangely.

Molly was being impossible. This experiment needed his attention. Molly and her cake could wait because John could wait. John wouldn't be home for another few hours, they had time.

"Where do you keep the bowls?"

Oh shit. Were those clean? "Second cabinet left of the stove, top shelf."

"…I can't reach that."

He walked up behind her and opened the cabinet door, his body lightly grazing hers as he lifted the glass bowls from their perch, setting them lightly on her side of the table. Tingles again. Huh, they didn't seem to want to go away, having been off-and-on for the past two or three weeks. Time for another experiment.

Molly mumbled a thank you and began laying out her ingredients, cookbook propped open against a pan. She tied her hair back up out of her face and went about making a cake as if she were dissecting a body. He smiled to himself. Same Molly Hooper.

They worked in silence with the occasional swear when one of them screwed up (it was almost always Molly). Sherlock watched her out of the corner of his eye, studying her movements. She seemed to get shakier the closer she was to his side of the table. Once or twice, he brushed his arm against hers to watch her squirm. As punishment, the skin that touched her would ignite. It was…curious.

He continued to do this—bumping into her, accidentally brushing fingers, getting too close—just to measure and calculate his physical response. Hers were clear—she became flustered, lost her sentences, and pulled her limbs closer to herself, nervous to make contact again. He wondered why.

"I'm going to go sit down," Molly announced after putting the cake in the oven.

"What about the frosting?" He wasn't about to let her escape, not until he had his results.

"I thought if I made it now it would be too cold. I bought chocolate for ganache."

"I thought ganache had to be chilled to spread."

"Oh so now you know about baking?"

"I know when it's convenient."

She looked about ready to slap him. "Fine. Fine, I'll do it now. It'll be a rock by the time I have to put it on the cake. But fine, so long as it's fine by the all-knowing Sherlock Holmes."

He smiled. "Good."

He was acting so strange. What did he want from her this time? He only flirted when he wanted something, and he was flirting pretty heavily right now. All that touching, Christ, it was driving her mad. It was just torture, it was.

"Cutting board?"

He brushed passed her and ducked down to a cabinet beside the dishwasher, returning with a small wooden cutting board. Their fingers made contact as he put it in her hands.

She could scream. This was so unfair.

Knives were in the block, she wasn't about to ask him for those too. He'd either get weird again or toss one at her head—neither option was good, they both ended in injury.

She turned from the knife block to the table to find her space was nearly completely engulfed by the slightly mad genius. He had managed to get his experiment to spread across the table in the few seconds it took to retrieve a knife.

Know what? She wouldn't say anything this time. She'd just work around him. Maybe he responded better to being ignored.

She stripped the chocolate from its wrappers, setting the blocks upon the chopping board. A few hacks in and Molly found her elbow space to be occupied.

"Do you mind?"

"Yes, I'm working on an experiment."

They locked eyes. Molly, furious, Sherlock…it was a new expression to her, not one she'd seen him give her, anyway. It was anticipation mixed with something, something she couldn't read.

"You know, Sherlock, you shouldn't mess with a woman wielding a knife."

"Yes, I am quite aware." He turned back to his experiment, silent once again.

She finished chopping the chocolate and turned around to the stove to heat up a cup of cream. Everything went smoothly until Sherlock decided her process was his business.

"You don't want such a high heat," he said coolly by her ear. His arm reached by her to lower the flame, his body enveloping hers. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. This was getting ridiculous.

"What exactly are you doing?" she asked when the cream had heated, pouring it over the cut-up chocolate.

"What do you mean? With my experiment?"

"No, with you—and the touching—and the brushing—and the me."

"Ah, that."

She took out a whisk for the ganache, half-ready to beat him over the head with it. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What are you doing?"

"An experiment."

"Yes, I can see that, but what are you doing—"

He reached out for her hand holding the whisk, pulling it smoothly from its job. Goddammit, she was still jelly in his hands.

He licked the whisk. "Bit hot, but not too bitter."

Molly stared. "Excuse me?"

"The ganache. It's fine."

"I—"

"Would you care to judge for yourself?"

Before she could answer, the whisk ended up somewhere across the room with a clang as his arms encircled her waist. A bittersweet taste flooded her senses as his lips met hers. It was clumsy, but that didn't prevent a flock of butterflies from coursing through her body. Sherlock—Sherlock Holmes—was kissing her. She had no clue why or how, but it didn't really matter.

Nothing quite mattered until he pulled away.

"So that's what attraction feels like."

She blinked, dazed. "What?"

"Attraction. The tingling and increased heart rate."

She found herself completely leaning on him for support, his arms still around her. "What about it?"

"It appears I am attracted to you, Molly Hooper."

It appears. He sounded like some half-drunk delusional oracle. "Well it also appears that I am attracted to you, Mister Sherlock Holmes," she said in a mocking tone.

He frowned. "I'm being completely serious."

"So am I."

He stood there for a moment, quiet, gazing at her. "Would you like to try that again?"

"Oh, god yes."

He smirked and drew her closer, pulling her down, down, down.