One Yard Below

Chapter Seven

Sherlock carefully opened the door to his bedroom and slipped inside. He was a little disappointed by the fact that his guest was already awake, but still approached Molly Hooper and asked after her night’s rest. Molly stifled a scream and reflexively threw a pillow in his general direction. Thankfully for Sherlock and the tray he was holding, it fell short of the mark. Molly clutched her chest as he came further into the room, sidestepping the pillow, and set the tray on the night stand. Sherlock cleared his throat and slid his hands in his pockets.

“Problem?” he asked casually as he stood looking down at the frazzled woman.

“Yes,” Molly took a calming breath, “you really need to stop sneaking up on me. You’re worse than Toby.”

“I am nothing like the satanic feline that has taken possession of your flat,” Sherlock said coldly. The very idea that he was in anyway similar to that four-legged fiend was offensive. 

“You still haven’t forgiven him for that scratch?”

“No,” he insisted, “I haven’t and I'll thank you not to compare me to that demonic creature again.”

“It was a tiny little mark and you were trying to poison him!”

“It wasn’t poison. It was a sedative I’ve been working on for months,” Sherlock said, his irritation morphing into enthusiasm. “It’s really quite fascinating. I designed it to self-adjust to individual metabolic-”

“You drugged him. He scratched you. You’re even,” Molly cut in. Turning her attention to the tray, she asked suspiciously, “Why did you bring me breakfast in bed?”

“John always prepared breakfast for the women he invited to stay over.”

Molly blushed deeply, but smiled as she said, “I think that’s a bit different.”

“How?” Sherlock asked, but Molly busied herself with the glass of milk. Sherlock moved the tray to straddle Molly’s lap and sat on the edge of the bed as she ate. He pinched bits from the plate which seemed to please Molly. She was always trying to feed him up.

“Mmm,” Molly hummed around a mouthful of sausage, “this is marvelous!”

“I imagine everything tastes marvelous after weeks of eating my mother’s concoctions.”

Molly giggled, “How did you and Mycroft survive to adulthood?”

“Cast iron stomachs,” he said wryly, “and a father who wasn’t above smuggling in food from the neighbors. It probably explains Mycroft’s obsessive fondness for cake.”

That comment earned Sherlock a full laugh, the remnants of which lit the edges of Molly’s sleep rumpled face even after she continued to devour breakfast. Her hair was a fright, the pyjama top was far too large, there was rheum crusted in the corners of her eyes and a smudge of jam on her chin. Sherlock rather liked the sight of Molly Hooper sitting in his bed, in his clothes, eating food he prepared.

Without thinking, he used his thumb to wipe away the dot of jam on Molly’s chin. Molly froze and watched intently as he licked the sweet substance from his finger. Sherlock watched her watching him and catalogued various biological responses. The dilation of Molly’s pupils and the slight hitch in her breathing was quite fascinating. A pleasing shade of pink slowly spread from her cheeks, down her neck and disappeared down into the dark shadow of her nightshirt.

There was a now familiar fluttering in his stomach when Molly suddenly looked up and caught his eye. Sherlock had long ago mastered the appearance of complete apathy, but Molly had, in turn, mastered the ability to see through that mask. He wasn’t half as unaffected as he pretended and Molly could see that very well.  In that moment, Sherlock was as drawn to Molly as she to him and this, Sherlock mused, made the woman dangerous. The parameters of their interactions had changed without Sherlock noticing.