Author's Note: This is dumb. I know. But I like voyeuristic fics where everyone is watching Molly and Sherlock, playing the "will they, won't they," game. Don't ask me how the technology for this would work. Let's assume it could happen . As always, constructive criticism is gladly accepted.

"Really, he just couldn't be bothered? This is at least an 8!" protested Greg Lestrade, waving his hand at the bulletin board behind him, strewn with photographs, a map, receipts and other bits and pieces of evidence for the current case that was causing him grief. Good thing he didn't need to worry about his hair going gray given the stress of the case and the belligerence of one Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he'd start pulling his hair out next…that would be too bad. The silver fox thing was really working for him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, while John set up the laptop so they could conference call with Sherlock who sat in the comfort of 221b, wrapped in a plaid dressing gown, slumped on the sofa with a mug of tea on his belly. The laptop was positioned on the coffee table and John and Lestrade had a lovely view of Sherlock's knees in his striped pajama pants.

"I've looked at the evidence, and your suspect is not the murderer," sighed Sherlock, disdain clearly writ on his face even through the computer monitor

"But she was there! Her fingerprints are…" Lestrade began to protest.

Sherlock lifted a dismissive hand, "Inconclusive. Until you can bring in the brother for questioning, this investigation is at a stand still" and with that he pressed a button, ending the call—or at least he thought so. He set his mug on the table next to the computer and flopped down again, head tilted back staring at the ceiling.

"It's still on-he's done the thing again—Sherlock!" John put his face close to the screen and waved frantically. "It's still on! He's muted us. Brilliant, brilliant idiot. This bit of modern technology seems to have not been worth retaining, apparently. Sherlock-whoo-hoo—" he waved his hand a moment more before dropping his hand, "no use. Might as well disconnect."

Which is exactly what John Watson was going to do before a new person moved into sight on the screen. Miss Molly Hooper, recently confirmed conspirator in the faked death of Mr. Sherlock Holmes sank heavily onto the sofa next to Sherlock, weighed down by two large binders, apparently filled with medical charts. She handed one to Sherlock with a small smile and said something that unfortunately could not be picked up by the muted speakers. She gestured to the laptop, but Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head before petulantly flipping open the binder.

John was going to stop the transmission. He was. But Lestrade laid a restraining hand on his arm.
"So, how long has that been going on then?" gesturing to Molly where she now sat curled in the corner of the sofa, heavy binder open—she was studying something intently with her lips pursed. She was wearing her glasses—unusual—and they had slipped down to the end of her upturned nose. For a moment, she and Sherlock sat in identical poses, heads bent, pursuing the files.

"What's that?" John asked.

Greg pointed to Molly, "Our pathologist, at 221B, with Sherlock? In his jammies. A little bit cozy, no?"

John grinned, "Well, you help someone fake his death, you're bound to get a little closer." He glanced at the pair revealed on the screen, sitting together but not touching, intent on whatever they were reading. "I wouldn't say there's romance in the air—how could there be with Sherlock? But I think they are friends—real friends, at least."

Greg grinned, "Yeah? Good for Molly. He's a prat, but she cares about him. It's about time he showed her a little respect if nothing else."

"I'm not living there, obviously, but I think she comes around now and then—doing what you see them doing now—working on experiments, helping him with evidence." John recalled Mrs. Hudson's recent horror of finding Sherlock had borrowed her cutting board to dissect a few spare body parts. Molly was happily directing the activity and had received as sound a scolding as Sherlock. Molly had been mortified. Sherlock unrepentant.

"But you're sure nothing else going on?" Greg asked. John pointed to the screen which now showed Molly leaning further away from Sherlock, holding a page up to the light to see better.

"Molly's a sweetheart, but not really Sherlock's type, you know?" John shook his head at some memory, an uneasy look on his face. Greg looked at John closely.

"Does he even have a type?" the detective inspector seemed genuinely curious.

John paused, opened his mouth. Closed it, and then began again, "Well, you know, the type to wear black lace, use riding crops, sell incriminating evidence to the highest bidder, you know who I'm talking about."

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah. I saw her website. Kind of cliché—a bit boring, I'd think for Sherlock. Besides, Molly's helped Sherlock whip a few bodies with the crop; she's committed at least one act of fraud for him, even if Mycroft did hush it up, and if I remember correctly, Molly was wearing a black lace bra at Christmas."

"You remember that? And you a married man," tsked John with a smile. "Still, there really isn't the same glamour about Molly when you compare her to The Woman. Sherlock likes drama, craves it, whether he wants to admit it or not. Molly does not bring the drama."

"Maybe," Lestrade looked unconvinced, "though I think Sherlock enjoys his own drama more than anyone else's. Besides, Sherlock is still a man, and Molly's arse is definitely as good as The Woman's, maybe even better."

John stared at Lestrade for a moment, "How could you even kn—"

"I've been to the Whip Hand's website. Her arse and everything else was on display." Greg waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "That's how I know."

John shook his head, "No, but you've seen Molly's arse?" He looked a trifle scandalized. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the romantic sort. Maybe Molly wasn't his type. But every male in their social group knew that Molly belonged to Sherlock—in whatever primal way he had claimed her. Even John, at least until he'd finally found his Mary, who dated a steady string of women, who would admit to finding Molly attractive, steered clear of her. How had Lestrade dared to see Molly naked? It only could have happened while Lestrade believed Sherlock dead. He would not have dared otherwise.

So it was to John's relief when Lestrade replied, "No more than you at Christmas, but under that black dress? That's a nice arse. And I bet Molly doesn't need 10 virgins massaging it with goat milk daily or whatever that dominatrix did to make it look good."

John continued to stare at Lestrade.

"What? Like you weren't looking." Lestrade said knowingly.

"I am a married man. I am not having a conversation about Molly Hooper's arse." John shook his head and focused on the computer screen again.

"Ah, you did notice then," grinned Lestrade.

John rather significantly did not answer. He stayed focused on the screen looking at Molly lick her finger to turn the page, and studiously tried to NOT think about her arse, when suddenly Sherlock flung the binder down, gave a heavy (though inaudible to John and Lestrade) sigh, and turned his head suddenly to stare at Molly. She did not look up. She was used to his theatrics.

Sherlock reached over, arm on the back of the sofa, to brush Molly's shoulder with one finger. She still didn't look up, intent on her reading.

Sherlock prodded her shoulder again. He was not gentle.

Molly looked up in annoyance, her glasses nearly falling off, when suddenly, with a swirl of his dressing gown, Sherlock pounced at her.

John and Lestrade caught a glimpse of Molly's surprised face, saw her binder slip to the floor, and Sherlock pulling her glasses off before all they could see was the back of Sherlock's curly head and the drape of his plaid robe as he wrapped his arms around the small woman and snogged her feverishly.

John and Greg stood with mouths agape as Molly's arms struggled to free themselves and wrapped themselves around the consulting detective's shoulders before one hand travelled up to bury itself in his hair. Molly's face appeared again as Sherlock began to nibble her neck, her eyes closed and mouth slightly open, panting as the assault on her neck continued.

"My God!" Lestrade finally uttered, "What—they are—" he looked at John, who made to slam the laptop shut.

"This is wrong—no, we cannot—" John started when Lestrade put out a hand to stop him.

"Don't you dare!" Lestrade tussled with John a moment, who honestly did not put up much of a fight. By the time they were settled again, Sherlock had apparently pulled Molly onto his lap, where she straddled him, back to the computer camera, and he was currently divesting her of her mustard yellow jumper. The back and straps of her black lace bra were revealed to John and Lestrade's guilty eyes, and Sherlock's long-fingered hands began to stroke her back, dipping into the waistband of her trousers to reach the region Lestrade had recently admired. The motion of Molly's head indicated that she was kissing him senseless the whole while. Sherlock's clever hands were just beginning to fumble with the clasp on Molly's bra when Donovan knocked heavily on the door of Lestrade's office. She didn't wait for a response and burst in excitedly, "Sir! Sir—we've got the brother in—I think we've—" she paused taking in the red face of John and the guilty look the detective inspector wore. John slammed the laptop shut.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, her brow furrowed, and she eyed John warily.

"Nothing!" shouted Lestrade, "I mean, -er" he cleared his throat, "yeah, no, everything's fine here Sergeant. And how are you?" He began to shuffle and stack up some loose papers on his desk.

"I'm fine, Sir," replied Donovan, eyeing him suspiciously, "but we've brought the brother of the suspect in."

"Ah! Yes, well, thank you very much, Donovan. Be there in just a moment—care to join me, John?"

John looked up guiltily from where he was trying to quietly lift the laptop screen, "What? Oh, uh…"

"Might be useful to get the info for Sherlock. He did want the brother questioned." Lestrade said pointedly. John nodded, a bit vacant for a moment, before answering—

"Right! Right, of course. Right away." With one last look thrown at the laptop, John followed Donovan and Lestrade out the door.

An hour later, the doctor and the detective inspector burst into Lestrade's office, and while Lestrade closed the blinds, John opened the laptop and found Sherlock's irritated face staring at him—a rather unflattering angle that made him all nose for moment, before he pulled back. His hair was standing on end, but he looked otherwise unruffled.

"Where have you been?" snapped Sherlock, "I'm not going to wait around all day. Have you apprehended the brother or not?" John noticed Molly behind Sherlock, back in her corner of the sofa, again flipping through the large white binder. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth except for the fact that her yellow jumper was now worn backwards and inside out. The tag fluttered just under her chin.

Lestrade looked disappointed, but he answered with enthusiasm, "Yeah, yeah, we've got him. Would you like to come down and talk to him yourself?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, unconsciously flicking a glance to the side, toward Molly, when his face became disdainful, "Really, Lestrade, you cannot handle the questioning by yourself? Sorry! I have far too much to do to leave the flat for anything less than a 9." Molly didn't look up, but her lips curved up into a little smile before Sherlock closed the screen with a snap.

The transmission ended. Lestrade and John looked at each other a moment, guilt in their eyes, before Lestrade spoke quietly, "I told you she wore black lace."