A short interlude.

This takes place just before Sherlock's unfortunate return to Barts and did well to influence his behaviour that day.

Someone described this story as morbidly funny. You're not wrong. I prefer things on that side.

(I'm venturing into oc-land, forgive darling, forgive)

Pinkish shapes dance over his eyelids as Sherlock begins to stir from his sleep. He rolls away from the morning light, only to bump into a lying figure beside him.

Without warning, Sherlock became entangled within arms and legs, as the figure merged into the warmth of him, her head perched upon his chest.

He needn't bother looking down to determine the identity of his mystery guest, for she has rather overstayed her time in his mind of late.

Sherlock felt a strange drop in his stomach as he bent his head down to stare at the woman now placing her lips upon his chest in soft, faint kisses.

It is without restraint that Sherlock returns her affections with his own. He brings up her chin with his hand and wastes no time in taking her mouth into his with undisguised want.

They continue as so - slow, open kisses when suddenly, Molly prods Sherlock onto his back and rolls herself on top of him.

Through a cascade of brown hair, she shyly smiles up at him and he feels his own face, contorting into a facsimile of hers. Her power to force such a reaction from him is unnerving but he's spared no time to dwell on it as she pulls him back.

Distracting.

Fiddling hands sit awkwardly in her hair, he grips its soft strands in bunches as he puts more and more into their kiss. Her own hands have wandered below the sheets, fingertips trace his arm, then his stomach and pelvis line, catching Sherlock off guard.

Her replying laugh leaves him embarrassed - the switch of roles, her draining him of his usual control makes him wonder where does little Mousy Molly go when she lies here with him.

He thinks to pull away, to take back her power trip with vengeance but he's stopped, catching sight of her curling smile, mouthing out silent words he can't make out but their meaning is obvious. She attempts to complete her apology with another slow kiss- but Sherlock draws the line.

He pushes himself onto her with assertive eagerness, much unlike the soft kisses of before. He's partly gleeful when she responds meekly (She's not the only unpredictable one) but then she begins to match him for each stride.

He lets lust overtake him (a useless desire, but preferable to the alternative) and soon, they're panting, gasping for breath while their hands drift over each other hungrily. It was too warm, too soft before-he prefers her with dilated pupils, reddened cheeks, a hunger much like his own.

He shoves his hand into her knickers and proceeds to make rough circles around her clit.

"Tsk, tsk. You'll burn her out that way."

He whisks his head violently around Molly's head, his sight stopping short of the bed end.

The Woman stands there, a hand on her waist as the other sits under her chin, one finger delicately tapping her lip in an inquisitive pose.

In true fashion, the Woman ignores his astonishment and continues to observe the two as if it were a day at the zoo.

Molly, oblivious to the intruder, continues to grind herself against him with her back turned, its effects on Sherlock force him into letting out a helpless moan.

"Oh dear, it's worse than we thought." The Woman murmurs almost sympathetically, a stark contradiction to her wicked smile.

"It's only lust."

Sherlock recognises the drawl tone immediately and his whole body cringes at the sound of his brother's dry voice, though he's nowhere to be seen.

"No-" The Woman draws nearer, her hand runs against the edge of the bed, Sherlock's eyes widen in anticipation, his pulse furiously beating, all the while with an eager Molly, continuing to take her pleasures on top of him.

The Woman hovers above them, tilting her head in solemn glee before whispering.

"Well-what does the good doctor say? Is the great Sherlock Holmes in love?"

Sherlock angrily rips his gaze away from the Woman, only to fall under Molly's. Reddened cheeks, dilated pupils stare back at him, with a mouth curled in confusion.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes run over her face mechanically, unable to reply as his pulse quickens, the blood rush to his ears begins to form a chant, a constant thud consisting of only one word.

Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes

The alarm clock exploded into flying bits of plastic as it smashed against the wall, its assailant held his head down with shaking hands, now alone and cold in the empty bedroom, the haunts of his dreams have since left him.

Apologies, darlings. but bless you for reading!