#holidaysat221b

[mizjoely]

Nobody:

Me with a Sherlolly prompt: Molly starts casually talking about her hypothetical death and it visibly upsets the always-ever-so-practical Sherlock.

Hell yeah it would!

*Dashes off to send this to @holidaysat221b to add to their prompt list*

#dis is mine #sherlolly

[holidaysat221b]

Rec of the Week - 8/24/22

Over  the years we’ve had a lot prompt fills submitted to us.  I thought  it would be nice to shine a spotlight on those individual submissions.  Please give the author or artist a bit of love.

The Escape Artist by @mychakk - Prompt fill for holidaysat221b's Prompt of the Day - 8/17/22

Original Prompt: Fluff and smut : After enjoying some sexy time with Molly, Sherlock goes out to deal with a sudden case. Unfortunately, he forgot to untie Molly from the bed.  Oops! - @shadowyqueenbeard

#sherlolly #sherlolly prompt of the day - rec #author: mychakk #prompter: shadowyqueenbeard

[lilsherlockian1975]

A Shoe In

Prompt fill for @holidaysat221b : Fluff, maybe smut : Molly gets a pedicure.  Sherlock discovers he has a bit of a foot fetish.  -  @shadowyqueenbeard (tried to tag you, sweetness) Big thanks to @mizjoely for all her help. Bless you, Miz! It’s not short, so I’m just posting a preview and links. Enjoy ~Lil~

o0o0o0o0o

This is truly not the best time for him to be distracted. He should be on full alert, his attention should be on his surroundings, deductions should be flowing at light speed. He knows this with every fiber of his being, but Sherlock cannot stop staring at Molly Hooper’s feet.

She giggles, drawing his eyes upwards. The distraction is momentary but he can only see part of her profile, mostly the back of her head. Quickly, his attention is drawn to her toes once again. They glisten in the afternoon sunlight. Red. Sparkly red, even. Molly’s toes are painted red. Not some bright, garish shade - he wouldn’t call it scarlet or candy apple. Nor is it too dark. Not wine or maroon or burgundy…

He hears someone say his name in an angry whisper but it’s distant and, frankly, annoying. Molly’s toes are far more interesting. Besides, he feels like he is just about to figure it out. Carmine? Not quite cardinal, but he’s getting closer. His pathologist moves three feet to the left and he moves with her. Must keep those feet in his line of sight…  

“William!” 

Oh, there it is again and this time it’s much harder to ignore as it’s accompanied with a harsh, yet stealthy, pinch to waist (the woman knows all of his weak spots, always has!). Though he jerks and winces, his eyes never leave Molly’s toes as he answers, “What, Mother?” a bit too aggressively. He’ll pay for that later, he’s sure. The tiny, yet restrained, intake of air confirms that he will be getting a classic Viola Holmes talking to at some point in the near future. 

“You’re supposed to be mingling.” She leans in closer and he can feel her breath on his neck; can smell the sherry she’s drinking, mixing with the same peach and spice of the Mitsouko she’s been wearing since time immemorial. He will always associate that fragrance with repression and guilt (for something he didn’t understand when he was younger, but does now).

“I am, Mummy,” he says, eyes still focused least he lose Molly in the crowd of well-wishers. “If Mrs Russberry stole your favourite pashmina, I’ll find out.” Sherlock doesn’t care the slightest bit about the damn pashmina. He doesn't really think his mother does either and he’d said as much when she had phoned him about this… gathering. ‘Your father bought it for me on our last trip to Branson!’ she’d replied, as if he were insulting all their relatives back to King Richard the 1st. Ah, yes, an authentic Branson, Missouri pashmina. How foolish of me! She’s got ulterior motives, of that there is no doubt. The contrived pashmina thievery is flimsy at best, especially for Mummy. That’s what he should be deducing and had prepared himself accordingly. It is always a good idea to be on guard where his mother is concerned. Then a certain pathologist had arrived, with those lovely little red...

Read the rest Here on AO3 or Here on FF.net! Thanks! ~Lil~

#sherlolly #prompt fill #mollock #holidaysat221b

[geekmama]

Uncertain Terms

With thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for looking over the first draft of this, here is a Regency A/U based on a prompt from holidaysat221b:: ‘AU: Molly runs away from home when her parents try to arrange a marriage for her. She wants to pursue a life that involves science and marry for love if she ever gets married at all. She meets Sherlock, who is being pressured by his family to marry a nice girl they found for him who loves science as much as he does. It will be interesting when they figure it out.  -  @shadowyqueenbeard’

Hopefully this will more or less fit the bill...

“My name is Margaret Stamford, and I would like a room for the night, if you please.” 

Overhearing these words, Sherlock Holmes looked up, over the edge of the newspaper he had been perusing while he awaited the dinner the innkeeper’s wife had blithely (and erroneously) promised to set on the table before him “in the twinkling of a bedpost”. He had been growing quite impatient, in fact, for he’d only broken his journey because he’d skipped breakfast in favor of making an early start on the remaining seventy miles to his destination and he had grown unusually peckish by mid-day as a result. Now, however, he was quite glad that the woman had grossly underestimated the time it would take to prepare the Roasted Partridge with Asparagus, Mushrooms, and New Potatoes she’d suggested, let alone the Chocolate Soufflé with Crème Anglaise for which the Royal George was reputedly famous. 

Miss Margaret Stamford. 

A very interesting name. 

It might be mere coincidence, of course. Yet the female for whom he’d undertaken this onerous quest into the wilds of the north was one Miss Molly Hooper -- Molly being a pet name derived from Margaret, and this according to none other than Miss Hooper’s uncle, Dr. Michael Stamford of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, London. 

So, coincidence? As Mycroft was wont to say, the universe is rarely so lazy. 

And running his eyes swiftly over the female in question, Sherlock had to admit that once again his brother might very well be proven correct. 

He recalled Dr. Stamford’s description of the girl… 

… rather slight, but fairly pretty, and she’s a taking little thing when you get to know her. But there’s no nonsense about her. She’d quite understand your desire to… ah… favorably resolve your situation. 

… said situation having become a topic of discussion in the tavern-based aftermath of a Bow Street murder investigation, due solely to Dr. John Watson’s cursed inability to hold his tongue after a couple of glasses. 

Said situation was both highly annoying and inconvenient. Sherlock’s great aunt, Wilhelmina Scott, had left her fortune to “her favorite nephew”, an event that had been anticipated by the entire family. However, when the will had been read out after Aunt’s death, two months ago, it was found that the bequest was not without strings attached. 

The inheritance shall be held in trust until such time as Sherlock marries and sets up his nursery, thus fulfilling his clear duty to the family and providing my dearest sister with the grandchildren for which her heart has longed these many years. 

Sherlock had been stunned, then filled with chagrin (he could still see Mycroft’s smirk in his mind’s eye), then furious. He was all too well aware that his mother’s heart longed, having been regularly reminded of it by the lady herself since he’d come of age seven years before, and he considered the addition of this codicil such a blatant attempt to manipulate him that he was strongly tempted to wash his hands of the whole business. 

Tempted… but, in the end, he did not. Aunt’s Wilhelmina’s fortune was nothing to sneeze at, including as it did, considerable principal as well as a townhouse in London and a neat little estate in Suffolk, worth some three thousand a year in revenues (and perfect for apiculture, too). Even so unmercenary a soul as Sherlock’s could not help but be swayed -- and, of course, he had been living off the expectation to some extent for years. So, ultimately, he’d set aside his anger and his wounded pride and began, for the first time in his life, to seriously consider entering into the married state. 

He had never been “in the petticoat line”, as various of his contemporaries so vulgarly put it, but he had no doubt that he would be able to meet his marital obligations. He certainly did not look or wish for romance, however. The case called for an old fashioned marriage of convenience, one in which the bride understood quite clearly the part she would play, i.e., well-heeled young matron, capable and responsible in taking charge of domestic affairs, organizing those social engagements that were deemed unavoidable, and producing and subsequently nurturing any progeny that happened to make an appearance in the natural course of events. 

Dr. Stamford had purported that his niece, Miss Molly Hooper of Primrose Cottage, a modest seat located some five miles from York, might be a parti that would meet and even exceed expectations. She’s only twenty, not quite on the shelf, and a pleasant, good-natured girl -- and you’ll like this: she’s become quite the bluestocking, has a love of science and a grasp of its intricacies that really is little short of astonishing in a female. I believe you’d suit extremely. 

If this was Molly Hooper, this young woman who was in the process of delivering to the obviously disapproving innkeeper a mendacious explanation of the circumstances that had led to her traveling through England unchaperoned and carrying only a chipboard bandbox by way of luggage, Sherlock wasn’t certain he would have described her as taking. Physically she was of less than average height, with a figure on the spare side. She was dressed neatly, but very plainly in an olive pelisse over a gown of the same colour, not a ruffle or frill to be seen, and her headgear was of a style that had gone out of fashion some time before – prior to Waterloo, if memory served. 

Much of her countenance was hidden from him, of course, due to that hat and to his position at table in the coffee room. However, when the innkeeper’s wife (who should, by rights, have been seeing to Sherlock’s unconscionably delayed meal) joined the innkeeper in rejecting the young lady’s request for a room and added that she had no notion of young persons jauntering about the countryside and there’s always The Pig and Whistle down the road if a room is needed for the night, Sherlock decided it might be time to intervene and was thereby afforded a closer look at ‘Miss Stamford’. As he approached he observed that she had a good complexion, and a firm chin. That chin tilted a bit as she perceived that her advent at the Royal George was viewed in a less than favorable light, and her very upright posture seemed to reiterate her determined nature (and possibly extensive use of the backboard in her girlhood). 

And then, seeing the innkeeper’s attention claimed by Sherlock’s approach, ‘Miss Stamford’, too, turned to him, and he became aware that a pair of large brown eyes lent a certain undeniable appeal to that  heart-shaped visage, and that the rosy colour that stained her cheeks was really most becoming. 

Sherlock found it surprisingly easy to assume a friendly demeanor as he said to the lady, “Miss Stamford? Can I be of assistance? I believe I may be acquainted with a relation of yours, Dr. Michael Stamford of London?” 

She looked immediately startled and flushed a deeper pink. “He is my uncle, sir. But--” 

“I thought as much,” Sherlock went on, blithely. “There is just the hint of a family resemblance. Dr. Stamford and I have been friends for a number of years and it would give me great pleasure to be able to tell him I was able to come to the aid of one of his young relations. I collect you wish to procure a room at this excellent inn? Surely The Pig and Whistle would be entirely inappropriate for a young woman of good family and gentle upbringing.” And here Sherlock shifted his gaze to the innkeeper and his wife, raising a brow. 

The innkeeper rolled an eye toward his spouse, who threw up her hands and said, “Oh, very well, I shall have the Blue Chamber prepared.” 

Sherlock nodded, but added pointedly, “And while it is being prepared, Miss Stamford will join me for dinner, if she so desires. I trust it will be on the table shortly, but in the meantime we would be most obliged to you for some refreshment -- say a glass of claret for me and ratafia for the lady?” 

The innkeeper said with a bow, “Right away, Mr. Holmes,” and gave his wife another admonitory glance before bustling off. 

The innkeeper’s wife also made her exit, grumbling, and Sherlock turned once more to ‘Miss Stamford’. “I do apologize for intruding in such a brazen manner but I could hardly reconcile it with my conscience to do otherwise.” 

Where she had been pink-cheeked before, the girl had now become quite pale, staring at him, taking in his features, and even letting her eyes rove over his whole person. Then, suddenly, she became aware of what she was doing and blushed more hotly than ever. 

“Forgive me! But… are are you indeed Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Yes, I am,” he said, a little amused. He took a small gold case from his pocket, removed a card from it and handed it to her. 

Her colour faded again as she read it. “I see,” she said, and raised her eyes again, warily. 

A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Yes. And I see, as well.” 

“You… what do you see?” she asked in a small voice. 

“That having had news of my coming you elected to depart from your home, rather than entertain what amounts to another in a long line of unwanted suitors. That you are Dr. Stamford’s niece, Margaret Elizabeth Stamford Hooper, called by those with whom you have close ties, Molly.” 

She paled further, but said in an even tone, “You are… astoundingly prescient. And your guess about my name is accurate.” 

“It was not a guess, but a deduction, Miss Hooper. The latter is something of a speciality of mine. But come into the coffee room and sit down,” he said, gesturing toward his table in the coffee room. “A glass of wine will set you to rights, and, thus fortified, you will perhaps tell me in what ways, if any, I can further serve you.”  

 *

 The claret and ratafia had been delivered to the table shortly after they were seated, but Mr. Holmes did not immediately press Molly, a forbearance for which she could not but be grateful. She sipped her wine, and occasionally glanced at him, wondering at his apparent intelligence, his evident effrontery, and his quite astonishingly handsome person, set off by clothing that was both elegant and understated. 

And he seemed kind, too. Since her father’s death three years before, experience had not led her to anticipate much consideration for her needs or, indeed, regard for her person, so his intervention in her difficulties and the attentions he had thus far bestowed upon her seemed exceptional -- particularly in view of her attempted deception. He had relieved her of her bandbox, pelisse, and hat, untying the ribbons of the latter himself, and requested that the innkeeper not only set their wine on the table, but fetch some bread and butter to tide them over until dinner should be served, just as though he knew she was famished (which she was, having skipped breakfast in her effort to escape Primrose Cottage before even the servants had stirred from bed). 

“Small sips, now,” he had murmured as the innkeeper had hustled away. “Until we have something substantial to accompany our libations, an enervation of the senses is almost a given should we imbibe too freely.” 

She had murmured thanks, patting ineffectually at her slightly mussed hair and tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, even as she took her first sip and tried to calm herself. This task was certainly easier said than done. 

She was nearly of age, and, in concept, traveling to London to visit her uncle and his family was unexceptionable. But she knew very well that undertaking the journey in such a scrambling manner was not the behavior of a well-bred woman. The reaction of the innkeeper and his wife had reminded her of this fact most acutely. And of course she didn’t look like a woman -- or, to tell the truth, feel like one! 

There was no use in bemoaning the fact that one’s appearance was that of a girl just out of the school room, rather than a woman on the cusp of her majority, but once again she could not help thinking it most unfair that much of the time this circumstance resulted in a lack of respect toward her that bordered on intolerable. With her father gone, her stepmother had let this tendency burgeon to monstrous proportions, exacerbating her scorn of Molly’s determination to remain unmarried if she could not marry for love. 

“Marry for love!,” Albinia Hooper had scoffed the one time that Molly had been goaded into protesting the intrusion of still another unacceptable suitor into her otherwise well-ordered life. “There never was such a low-bred, nonsensical notion. What, pray, has love to do with the keeping of a house or raising children? You’ve windmills in your head, girl. It’s time you grew up and faced some hard facts.” 

Molly had not argued the point. There was no use in trying to explain what she meant by love. Not romance, for Heaven’s sake. Contrary to her stepmother’s opinion, Molly was as practical as her father had been, and as devoted to seeking truth wherever the facts led. But she was not willing to settle for less, as he had been, in spite of the fact that an unmarried female was at a much greater disadvantage in society than any male would be in a similar case. 

Her father had understood her views, and to facilitate her long and perhaps fruitless quest he had left her what was politely termed an independence. It was a fairly generous one, too, considering that the remainder of his estate was, by law, left in trust to Molly’s stepbrother, Gerald, who had been born when Molly was ten years old. There were also twin step daughters from Albinia’s first marriage, Cassandra and Lavinia, and Molly did not grudge the girls a single penny of the dowries with which they’d been provided. She loved her step-siblings, as they did her, and it was care of them that had brightened her days after Father’s death. Albinia, once again widowed and, in her own words, distracted with grief, had welcomed Molly’s help with the children, and with the house, for several years. Time, however, had altered matters. Gerald was now away at school, and Cassie and Lavinia were old enough to make their come-out. Molly’s position in the household was fast becoming superfluous, and though she made great efforts to be of help and, simultaneously, stay out of the way, Albinia had been relentless in her promotion of marriage as the only reasonable course, and relentless, too, in the introduction of potential suitors. 

And then Aunt Stamford had written that fatal letter. 

My Dearest Molly, 

I am writing to you today because a most surprising opportunity has arisen, quite out of the blue. You know that I have been very much in sympathy with your desire to focus upon your chosen avocation of natural philosophy, eschewing the paths of courtship and marriage that are more traditional for a young women to tread. However, I must own that I doubted your decision would ultimately conduce to your happiness, content as I am and always have been to be a loving wife to your dear uncle and mother to the six darling children who are your cousins. Therefore, I dare to write to you on behalf of one of your uncle’s associates, one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, presenting him to you as a possible candidate for your hand. 

Mr. Holmes is a gentleman, the scion of an old, distinguished, and affluent family, and, on his marriage, will become a man of property in his own right. Moreover, he is a man of science himself, and his knowledge and skill in deduction have allowed him to lend his assistance to various agencies of jurisprudence here in London. In this way he came to your uncle’s notice, for you will recall that your uncle oversees the mortuary at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and is often called upon to collaborate in criminal investigations. 

Your uncle and I have had the pleasure of Mr. Holmes’ company for dinner several times over the last few years and, after coming to know him, I cannot help but agree with your uncle when he suggests that the gentleman may be the one man in all of England who might prove acceptable to you as a mate. Since the requirements of a recent bequest have inspired him to look about for a wife, your uncle suggested you as a possible candidate. Coincidentally, Mr. Holmes had it in mind to travel north at the beginning of April, visiting friends in the vicinity of Harrogate. He determined that he would pay a call upon you and your stepmother at Primrose Cottage if your uncle and I would write to you by way of introduction. 

My dear, I do beg of you to receive Mr. Holmes kindly and without prejudice. He is a little eccentric in his manner, but underneath it he is a very good sort of man, and most handsome, too, as you will soon see for yourself. Though the latter is not a vital quality in a mate, it does make the idea of looking across the breakfast table at the same countenance for the rest of one’s life far easier to bear. 

And on that frivolous note, I am, as ever, your loving aunt, 

Emily Stamford  

 Molly’s disappointment on receiving this missive was palpable. Either this Mr. Holmes was a most unusual man indeed, or her uncle had finally persuaded Aunt Emily that their niece would be better served accepting an offer than persisting in the ways of an incorrigible bluestocking as he’d once put it. 

That memory still rankled. Had she been born a man, her predilection for science and natural philosophy would have been not only indulged, but praised! 

“Have some of this excellent bread, Miss Hooper,” Mr. Holmes said, breaking into her thoughts. The innkeeper had delivered a basket of fresh-baked rolls to the table, and Mr. Holmes was now holding out a steaming half, butter spread liberally over it and rapidly melting. 

“Thank you,” she said, and as she took it, her stomach gave an audible growl of lust at the mere scent. Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment -- and indeed, Mr. Holmes was looking amused as he bit into his own half roll -- but she took a small bite of the bread and tried to compose herself. She decided that honesty would be the best policy with Mr. Holmes, and accordingly said, after another sip of wine, “I know I owe you an explanation.” 

“As you will, Miss Hooper. I understand what a shock it must have been to run across the very person you were hoping to avoid in leaving your home in such a precipitate manner, but I assure you I am no ogre and do not mean to press you to do anything you would not like. To tell you the truth, I was hesitant to visit you in the first place, and can sympathize entirely with your reluctance to enter into the married state.” 

Molly stared at him, and then said, “What an odd man you are, Mr. Holmes!” 

“Well… yes!” he said. “I was under the impression that… er… oddity was what you were searching for in a mate.” 

She laughed a little. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but perhaps my uncle would.” 

“How would you put it, then?” 

She said, slowly, considering her words, “You may think it strange of me, but I believe I would value respect more than the fleeting infatuation that passes for love in these modern times. I… I have studied natural philosophy for a number of years now, and have only scratched the surface of what I wish to learn. I am not opposed to marriage, per se. But I cannot conceive of allying myself with any gentleman who might prove an impediment to my chosen avocation.” She felt herself colouring as she added, “I daresay that sounds monstrously selfish. I fear that’s the sort of person I am, however.” And she dared to look straight into those piercing, pale blue eyes… or were they pale green? She was aware of a strange internal frisson under their steady gaze. 

“I see,” Mr. Holmes replied, thoughtfully. “But you do say avocation, I note. Can it be inferred that you are not averse to taking up the day to day duties required of a wife and mother, provided you are allowed sufficient leeway in the pursuit of your studies?” 

“I would say so, yes. In fact, I would like, someday, to be able to have the running of my own house. And of course, nurses are all very well but children also need the care only a loving mother can give.” 

Mr. Holmes smiled slightly. “Do you like children?” 

And for the first time, Molly smiled, too. “Indeed, yes! I have helped raise my stepmother’s children, and one of my greatest joys is to stay with my aunt and uncle in London and help with my cousins. 

Mr. Holmes smile grew sardonic. “Dr. Stamford does have quite the brood. Six, I believe.” 

“Yes, and all of them such dear creatures, too.” 

“I daresay.” He sat back and studied Molly for a moment, and she lifted a brow and returned the favor, which again brought a sincere smile to his lips. And then he said, “Ah! Finally!” as it was seen that the innkeeper’s wife had emerged from the kitchen and was now approaching, followed by two underlings with laden trays. “Shall we postpone further discussion of this particular topic until after dinner? I feel there is hope that we may come to an understanding, but hunger… intrudes.” 

Molly chuckled and said, “I am entirely of your way of thinking, Mr. Holmes.” 

“On all points?” 

A little of her humor faded, but she replied thoughtfully, “Perhaps.”

 *

 Dinner was a resounding success. Miss Hooper had forgone breakfast just as he had done himself, and Sherlock was pleased to observe that she set to with a will, exclaiming at intervals over the excellence of the repast and then gasping in sheer delight when the chocolate soufflé was brought to the table. Their conversation throughout was desultory but edifying, Sherlock encouraging her to enlarge upon her “avocation”, and contributing his own mite by describing the details of one or two criminal investigations with which he had been involved. He was quite pleased with her reaction to the latter -- at first glance she might have struck him as a mere milk-and-water miss, but that’s where it ended. Those expressive eyes were alight with intelligence, her questions were gratifyingly cogent, and her curiosity and lack of squeamishness both did her great credit. 

They were finishing up with a glass of Port for him, raspberry cordial for her, and a dish of sweetmeats and nuts between them, when a noisy arrival at the inn that included the sound of a strident female voice caused Miss Hooper to look up in alarm, the pretty colour in her cheeks fading abruptly. 

“Oh! Oh, no! It’s my stepmother!” she uttered, and pushed back her chair, scrambling to her feet so hastily that her glass of cordial tipped over, spilling its contents across the white tablecloth. “Oh, Heavens!” she cried, horrified at the mishap, and then froze at the sound of the inn’s door opening and a male voice shouting, “House! House, I say!” 

Sherlock rose swiftly, too, but not swiftly enough. With a last despairing glance at him, Miss Hooper bolted, rushing straight across the room toward the kitchen door. Sherlock swore in annoyance as she disappeared. He quickly gathered up her abandoned pelisse, hat, and bandbox, and, with a last glance at the occupants of the foyer -- a plump matron in a purple gown had now joined the demanding, grim-faced gentleman who looked to be a parson of some sort -- he took his leave, following Miss Hooper through the kitchen. 

The only occupant of the kitchen was a mildly interested lad sitting on a stool by the open hearth, slowly turning a spit with a turkey upon it. Seeing Sherlock, the boy jerked his head toward the far door, which appeared to lead to the stable yard. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and made his exit. 

It was approaching dusk, and for a moment it seemed that Miss Hooper had vanished. However, after a few moments of looking about in the waning light, Sherlock spied her, hovering near the back corner of the inn, her hands gripped together in patent indecision. He strode toward her, with a glance around to locate anyone who might see them, but the stable boys were apparently at the front of the inn, tending to the coach in which Miss Hooper’s pursuers had arrived. 

The girl watched him as he approached, and allowed him to hustle her into the shadows before speaking. She said, “It is the vicar, the Reverend Mr. Blackstone who has come with Albinia, to… to fetch me back, I suppose. Oh, what am I to do? What a dreadful scene must occur. I’m so very sorry Mr. Holmes!” 

“Miss Hooper, do put your pelisse and hat on against the chill,” he told her, calmly. “You have only to tell me what you wish to do.” 

She did as he’d bade, visibly striving for control, but as she tied on her hat while he helped her button up the pelisse she said to him, “I had planned to travel to London, to stay with my aunt and uncle -- and to ask them why they supported your suit, though of course I now understand why they did so. My stepmother, unfortunately, insisted on reading the letter from my aunt. When I expressed the desire to avoid you, and instead travel to London, she refused to entertain the notion. So I arranged a clandestine escape with a friend of mine, Barnaby Whitlaw -- the son of a local farmer. He took me up just before dawn, on his way to the market at Greenlea, some three miles from here. I walked the rest of the way, hoping to catch the afternoon Mail Coach, but I was too late. There is another that departs from here at seven in the morning, however, and that is why I needed a room for the night.” 

“I see,” he said, then, “Let me fix this,” and set to work to straighten the hat’s ribbons which she’d tied in a perfectly abominable bow. 

She stood quite still while he corrected the fault, her mouth set, but her eyes were beginning to glisten. He was almost finished with his task when she finally spoke again, her voice tremulous. “I suppose you will say I am fairly caught and it is time to have done with such nonsense.” 

He lifted his brows in surprise. “Why would I tell you any such thing? Your wish to avoid your step-mother and that parson seems quite reasonable to me. If you indeed wish to go to London, to London you shall go. There! Your bow is as fine as my skill can make it.  You are dressed warmly, and have your bandbox. Do you think you can retrace your steps toward Greenlea? Night is coming on, but I shouldn’t be above an hour.” 

“Yes. Yes, of course I can, but--” 

“I will pay the shot here and get some fresh horses put to my curricle, then travel toward Greenlea and take you up when we meet. If we stay off the main roads we will be a little delayed, but I believe we should be able to avoid pursuit and perhaps make it as far as Doncaster before we are obliged to put up for the night, thanks to this fine weather and a full moon.” 

“But what will you tell everyone? The innkeeper and his wife will surely question my departure since a room was being prepared for me.” 

“Very true. However, a word in the right ear, a guinea in the right pocket, and the thing is done.” 

She flushed. “I… it appears that I will owe you a great deal before this adventure is complete, Mr. Holmes. I am not entirely sure--” 

“Come, come, Miss Hooper!” he said, with a pretense of impatience. “You are possessed of an independence, are you not? At least I was given to understand that you are not penniless. You can very well reimburse any expenditure I may make on your behalf. Or are you concerned with the proprieties? I’m afraid that bird has flown, since your stepmother saw fit to share the story with the local parson.” 

“Oh, dear. That is very true. They say women are dreadful gossips, but Reverend Blackburn has them all beat to flinders. He is the most odious man. I never could see why Albinia cultivated his friendship.” 

“There is certainly no accounting for taste,” Sherlock said, and a crooked smile touched his lips as he considered his newly acquired taste for the company of one Molly Elizabeth Hooper. 

And indeed, she gave an answering smile, and there was a gleam in her eye as she said, “Very well. I will put my fate into your hands, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Miss Hooper, I will do my utmost to fulfill your faith in me,” he replied, and, to both her surprise and his own, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her slender fingers.

#Sherlock #sherlolly #holidaysat221b

[mousedetective]

Magic In The Moonlight At The Monster Ball (4/4)

It’s nearly 5 AM, I hear roosters crowing in my neighborhood, but it’ done! @strangelock221b, @holidaysat221b, hope you enjoy my Sherlolly Halloween offering!

Magic In The Moonlight At The Monster Ball - Every year since they began uni, Sherlock and Molly have gone to the university’s Monster Ball and competed in the couples costume contest, as friends. But this year it’s different. Molly has a boyfriend and Sherlock is jealous. Still…there might be a little magic in the moonlight at the Monster Ball for Sherlock and Molly, if they’re lucky.

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An hour later, the two of them were in rather elaborate pirate costumes. He had a fake beard attached to his chin with a curly mustache to match. He vaguely remembered the university had done a production of “The Pirates Of Penzance” but Molly’s friend in the dramatics department assured them that the costumes they were wearing had not been used and therefore would not be recognized as retreads. He had to admit, this was something of a boyhood fantasy come true, and he had a bit more of a smile on his face than Molly did. Her demeanor was one of anger and determination.

Woe betide Tom when she ran into him.

They registered themselves for the costume contest as Anne Boney and Blackbeard and then went to mingle a bit. He knew that the costume contest was decided on by judges and Molly knew exactly who this years were and made beelines for them, chatting them up. It didn’t take long for them to realize the story of the stolen costume ideas and the cheating bastard had already begun to be spread by Meena, and he was pleased by that. Even if the costumes were above par, the fact that most of the judges were women and were sympathizing with Molly as well as in awe of the pirate costumes went in their favour.

After an hour, they went to the table where the snacks were. Molly picked up a cupcake with a ghost marshmallow on it and plucked the ghost off, taking a bite. “While you were in the loo Meena found me and told me that apparently, the bastard had two tarts on the side,” she said. “The other one came by herself and ended up dumping red punch all down the front of his outfit. He slinked out of here with the tramp biting his head off.”

“Good riddance,” Sherlock said, looking around at the spread. Not much interested him so he grabbed a bottle of ale and motioned to the courtyard outside. “I think I’d like some air. It seems like more of a crush than last year.”

“It does,” Molly said with a nod, picking up another cupcake with her other hand. Sherlock picked up a second bottle of ale for Molly and the two of them began to move through the crowd to the doors to the courtyard.

Once they got outside Molly shifted her hold on things, reaching for her bottle of ale and managing to put the full cupcake in his hand. “I’m not in the mood for sweets,” he said with a frown.

“It’s really good. Black velvet with some berry filling,” she said, taking another bite of hers. “Live a bit, Sherlock. This is our last Monster Ball.”

Sherlock leaned against the wall and took a sip of his ale before speaking. “So you aren’t staying here for our post-graduate studies?” he asked.

“Well, I might,” she said, tilting her head as she finished off the cupcake. “Not much reason to stay now, I suppose.”

“I’m staying,” he said quietly. “You could stay with me.”

She stuck a finger in her mouth to suck off the icing on it. “Do you want me to?” she asked.

“I would,” he replied. He looked at the cupcake and then handed it to her, his stomach suddenly feeling as though a million butterflies were in it. “I didn’t like Tom.”

“You were right not to,” she said.

“No, you misunderstand,” he said shaking his head. “I didn’t like him because he seemed so similar to me, and yet he wasn’t me, and I wanted to be him.” He took a large swig of the ale to bolster his confidence. “I was jealous and I hated him but he made you happy, and I only want you to be happy. But I wish you’d be happy with me.”

Molly stared at him with wide eyes for a moment, then looked back at the cupcake and peeled off the wrapper. “I see,” she said.

“But you aren’t and that’s--” He was stopped when she pushed the cupcake into his mouth. He gave her a surprised look but took a bite, chewing it slowly and then swallowing. “Why did you do that?”

“I’d rather have a sweet taste when I kiss you than ale,” she said.

It took him a moment to register what she was saying before he took the rest of the cupcake and ate it slowly, realizing she was right, that it tasted quite good. When she was done he licked his lips and then set the ale down, reaching for her as the moonlight shone on both of them. “You won’t regret this?” he asked, letting his thumbs run circles on her lower back.

“I think I made the wrong choice originally,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I was missing what was right in front of me the whole time.”

“As long as you don’t regret it,” he said, leaning in.

“I promise I won’t,” she said before she raised herself up and pressed her lips against his. She was right; this was a much sweeter kiss, literally and figuratively, and as he tightened his hold on her and deepened the kiss he didn’t give a damn if they won the costume contest anymore. He’d gotten a much better prize for simply telling Molly the truth, finally. And he couldn’t ask for anything more.

#Sherlock #sherlolly #mollock #sherlock holmes #molly hooper #fanfiction #fanfic #my stuff #Multipart: Magic In The Moonlight At The Monster Ball #strangelock221b #holidaysat221b #halloween fun!

[goodshipsherlollipop]

It’s their first night alone since the birth of their baby, and that means Sherlock and Molly have every intention of enjoying themselves without interruption. 

Molly has plans for a fun filled night.

Sherlock makes a decision about their future at Baker Street after I talk with Mrs. Hudson gets him thinking.

 Follows directly from my last story, "Another Holmes Family Christmas in Sussex,”  but can be read alone without having read the previous story. As usual, to enjoy the full immersion into my interpretation of Sherlock and Molly, I encourage you to check out my profile and read my full collection chronologically. 

 Your reviews, follows and favourites are encouraged. They are my only payment for this full-time job of making these characters come alive.  Take a moment to brighten my day with a review, if I have brightened yours. 

#Sherlolly #@holidaysat221B #12 days of sherlolly

[cumbercougars]

Rapture

#sherlolly #sherlolly halloween 2017 #sherlock #molly hooper #halloween at 221b #Sherlock Halloween #my manip #photomanipulation #@holidaysat221b

[katerbees]

Mummy Trouble pt 3

Pt 1: https://katerbees.tumblr.com/post/166628564690/mummy-trouble-sherlolly-halloween Pt 2: https://katerbees.tumblr.com/post/166662829240/mummy-trouble-ch-2

Sherlock and Molly go to the Tomb to investigate the break in, or was it in fact a break out?

This one goes fluff, plot, fluff. 

Ch 3

Molly sat her weekend bag down on the bed and grabbed a loose flowing long skirt, white blouse, and sensible shoes. She couldn’t believe they were going to enter a Tomb that was thousands of years old. And it had only recently been discovered. She and Sherlock were going to be some of the first people to be allowed in. 

Molly beamed as she took her outfit to the bathroom to change. As she did so she noticed Sherlock had already stripped into his boxer briefs. Molly tried not to stare. The man had no shame. Such good shape. How. He doesn’t even work out. Genetics? No. Mycroft was prone to weight gain. Stop staring.“

Molly,” Sherlock looked up at her, fiddling with his pants and belt.

I’ve been caught. So much for playing it cool. 

“Could you please check to see if there’s a coffee maker in the bathroom.” He put the slacks on; a cotton blend. 

“Of course.” Molly forced out. Nope. He didn’t even notice. Of course he didn’t. Bollocks. Get it together Molly. You are a grown woman. A doctor. You have seen Sherlock indisposed before. She walked  into the bathroom, found a coffee maker and prepped it. She changed into her warm weather clothing and exited, “Coffee’s ready Sherlock.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock, still shirtless, brushed past her and into the bathroom. Molly’s cheeks flared. He had to be doing this on purpose. Prat. 

“Coffee, Molly?” his smooth voice called from behind her, holding a take-away cup and holding the small carafe. 

“No thanks. Hurry up and put a shirt on, we haven’t got all day.” Molly quipped as she began to pack her backpack.

“Coffee is important Molly. Unless you’d rather I track down some cocaine. It would work much faster.”

“Nope. Drink that coffee Sherlock, but put a damn shirt on.” Molly put her backpack over her shoulders. 

 “I don’t want to spill coffee on it. I only packed two shirts.”

“I’ll be in the lobby.”

Had she turned around she would have seen a huge grin on Sherlock’s face.

----------

A taxi took them across the Nile to the Valley of the Kings. Dr. Najjar was waiting for them. A security checkpoint with two armed guards had been placed 25 feet in front of the tomb. The entrance to the tomb was guarded by another security officer. 

“Dr. Najjar.” Sherlock greeted. “was this security in place during the incident?”

“Prior to the break in, there was only a guard at the entrance. Now we have  additional security out here, badge checks here and at the door. Only authorized museum staff and Antiquities staff are allowed in. So far only 6 people.  Myself, Dr. Rahal, and our support staff.” Dr. Najjar walked up to the checkpoint, handed his badge to the guard, then handed him two more and spoke to the guard in Arabic. The guard looked at Sherlock and Molly, looked at the two badges and nodded at them to continue.

“Here you go, security badges for the two of you to have access to the tomb while the investigation is underway.”

“How many guards were assigned to the door of the tomb?” Sherlock asked as they covered the expanse between the checkpoint and the entrance. 

“Two. The one who was on duty that night swears he only left his post once to relieve himself and was only gone for two minutes. He didn’t hear anything unusual from out here. And there is no way someone could have done what was done in two minutes.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock responded raising his eyebrows.They reached the last security guard and their badges were investigated. The guard took his time, studying each pass, surely showing off since the project director was here, Sherlock thought. He returned their badges to them. 

Dr. Najjar distributed headlamps to Sherlock and Molly and they entered the tomb.What first struck Molly was how cold it felt all of a sudden. The air outside had been at least 100 degrees, yet in the Tomb she was downright chilly. The air was musty and smelled old. It also had a smell that she recognized yet couldn’t quite put her finger on for now. It also smelled like old paper.

Sherlock was making mental notes on how much time it took them to reach the inner chamber from the front door and how much noise their footfalls were making.As they approached the inner part of the tomb, they noticed a light coming from inside.

“Ah, Dr. Rahal must already be here.” Dr. Najjar said to them.The three of them entered the chamber. It was 15 feet by 12 feet. The walls were covered in hieroglyphics. Many pictures still had coloring to them since they had been so well preserved from the elements. Looking away from the walls, Sherlock observed there was crime tape surrounding certain parts of it, tables had been set up for preserving evidence and sorting artifacts, and in the middle of the room was the sarcophagus with a square cordoned off in front of it. Markings were drawn in the dirt on the ground. 

Sherlock moved his gaze to a woman sitting at one of the tables, cataloging evidence. She was in her early 40’s, well dressed, and comfortable in this environment. She had not seemed disturbed at all when they entered the room, nor did she seem ill at ease even though a crime had been committed here a few nights ago.Dr. Najjar cleared his throat. “Dr. Rahal, the investigators have arrived.” 

Dr. Rahal turned her head. “Hello.” She leaned heavily onto the table as she got up, reaching for a solid black cane that had been blending in with the dark tomb. She walked over to greet them. “I am Dr. Heba Rahal. Forensic archaeologist and Senior Director of Excavation on this project.” She stuck her hand out to greet Molly.

“Dr. Molly Hooper, Forensic Pathologist”  Molly shook her hand, “And of course, this Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” Molly gestured to the man at her side.

“Dr. Rahal.” Sherlock gave a small nod and shook her hand. 

“I am cataloging the small pieces we found on chest #4 at the moment. I look forward to you all getting to the bottom of this so I can move on to more exciting things than cataloging a deceased person’s rock collection.” She gave them a smile. “Everything that I really can’t wait to get my hand on is currently considered evidence.” Dr. Rahal gestured to the center of the room.

Sherlock moved over to the edge of the police tape. Mollly Followed.“Doctors. What language is this?” Sherlock inquired.

“Coptic.” Dr. Rahal responded. “Clearly it wasn’t there when we discovered the Tomb, we found it the morning of the suspected break in. Or if you believe the local gossip, the break out, “She rolled her eyes.

“What does it say?” Molly asked.

“Beloved. Renew. Rise.” Dr. Najjar responded, standing in the doorway. “It’s quite unsettling. And disrespectful. They vandalized a tomb and a location of extreme historical significance.”

Sherlock was studying the writing with a magnifying glass. 

“Right well the writing itself is an issue. But has anyone else inspected the body yet? I’ve seen the report on the tissue samples but I would like to investigate them for myself.” Molly asserted.“

Not yet, we wanted to leave everything as close to how we found it once we realized the scope of what had happened.” Dr. Rahal responded, moving back to sit down. “I took the tissue samples myself, however it was my husband who did the labwork on them. We frequently collaborate on projects such as this.”

Molly chewed on her lip. She would need to see the samples herself to really believe it, and even then there was a potential chain of custody issue that would need to be investigated. 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Dr. Najjar’s voice cut through Molly’s thought pattern. She looked around in confusion. Sherlock was wiping away the Coptic writing, tearing down the police tape.

“I’ve seen all I need to. In order to make any progress I need Molly to examine the body and I need to interview the guards. Everything else is a waste of time and a distraction.” He quickly said as he erased the remnants of the last word.

“That could have been a message!” Dr. Najjar yelled without thinking.

“From a mummy?” Sherlock gestured to the sarcophagus. “A 3000 year old Mummy. It got up and wrote us a note. How thoughtful. Come now Doctor. You are a man of science. There is no way you believe that this corpse has actually come to life. That some writing on the floor raised it from the dead. No.” Sherlock moved to be closer to the body. “This is the work of a person . The writing is a ruse. The mummy is a distraction. We just need to figure out what from.” Sherlock was eye to eye with the sarcophagus now, fingers steepled and eyeing it intently.

“Of course Mr. Holmes. However, the tissue samples don’t lie.” Dr. Rahal responded from her cataloging station.Sherlock didn’t respond to that. He wasn’t sure how someone had slipped living samples into the hospital, and he wasn’t about to accuse her husband yet without even meeting the man. 

“Indeed.”He turned back to Dr. Najjar. “When can Molly see the body?”

“We can have our team assemble here tomorrow morning and move the body to the morgue at the hospital.” 

“Really? It can’t be any sooner?” Sherlock questioned.

“Well Mr. Holmes, as you have so illustriously pointed out, It’s not like it’s going anywhere any time soon is it?” Dr. Najjar responded. Proud of his witty comeback, he turned and moved to leave. “I’ll be outside when you are ready to leave.” Sherlock took one last sweeping look around the tomb and followed him.

Molly was still studying the sarcophagus when Dr. Rahal spoke.“It’s so wonderful meeting another female scientist. And another forensic specialist.” She smiled at Molly,. 

Molly turned and returned the gesture.“Yes. It’s definitely a male-dominated field. This is all so interesting. How often do you find new tombs?” 

“Complete intact ones are rare. This is only my third tomb, and the first one I’ve been the director of. Of course with my luck, it’s got the haunted Mummy that we’ve heard all about from Hollywood.” She gave a small laugh.

“Well, I’m sure Sherlock will figure it out quickly. Honestly, he’s probably already got it figured out and just needs to confirm one or two things. He’s the best at these sorts of things.” Molly reassured her.

“I hope so. I want to get back to cataloging and get to the exciting parts of the tomb.”   

“I’m sure we will have you elbow deep in tomb in no time! I’m going to go ahead and head on out. It was great to meet you.Always a pleasure to meet another lady who hangs out with dead bodies all day.” The women smiled at each other and returned to their respective jobs.

----------------------

Sherlock and Molly were sitting at one of the restaurant’s hotels. Molly was enjoying her curry while Sherlock had only ordered tea.

“Are you sure you don’t want any? This is delicious.” Molly asked while scarfing down her food.

“I never eat while I’m on a case.” Sherlock reminded her.

“I think you’re secretly just a picky eater and won’t eat because they don’t have any chips.” Molly replied.

“Hmm. Well, the mystery will remain alive for another night I suppose.“ He responded dryly.

“Any theories?” Molly asked between bites

“5. However none can be confirmed until you perform your autopsy tomorrow. Start with tissue samples to confirm they match the ones that were submitted with the report and then go from there.”

“Got it. Are one of those theories that a mummy has been brought back from the dead by some cryptic Coptic writing and a spell?” Molly asked, giving him a teasing smile.

“Oh Molly. If I thought it was that, would I let you examine the crazed mummy’s body?” Sherlock winked at her.

Was he flirting? What. What was that.

“Huh. I suppose not. A dead pathologist isn’t very useful” Molly replied.

“Not at all.” Sherlock responded.

Maybe not. 

They returned to their room on the thirteenth floor.

“Alright, so I think it would be much more comfortable for the two of us if you slept on the couch.” Molly said, trying to really sell it to him.

Sherlock screwed up his face, “How the hell would a couch be more comfortable than that?” he gestured to the beautiful fluffy bed, covered in bamboo linens. 

“I didn’t mean physically.” Molly responded, carrying pillows and a blanket over to the couch.

“No. No one is sleeping on that abomination.” Sherlock responded, unpacking his toiletries.

“I don’t want to sleep in bed with you!” Molly yelled across the room as Sherlock walked into the bathroom.

“Oh Molly.” Sherlock responded with an almost wicked grin, “lying does not suit you.”

She felt her face catching on fire. This man. Why. Why did I think this was a good idea.

She marched into the bathroom. “It’s one night, just sleep on the damn couch.” Sherlock was brushing his teeth. He rolled his eyes at her. Molly found herself struck at how human Sherlock Holmes looked. In the bathroom. Brushing his teeth. Molly started to swoon a bit. She used to have daydreams that she and Sherlock lived together and would do fun things together, but also the nice normal boring things about a relationship. Things like brushing your teeth together at night and falling asleep next to each other. She snapped out of it. Brat. Brat brat brat.

He rinsed his mouth out. “You feel free to sleep on that torture decide masquerading as a sleeper, however I will not feel sorry for you one bit when you spend the rest of the trip complaining about how your back and shoulders hurt.” He dried his face on the towel and took off his shirt.

Molly shoved him out the bathroom , shut the door, and began to get ready for bed. She dressed in one of her old Uni t-shirts and some cotton shorts.  She took out her contacts, brushed her teeth, and headed to the occupied bed. Sherlock was thumbing through his phone, paying her no attention.She grabbed a book and her glasses on her way to bed, got under the covers, and turned on her reading light.  Don’t look at him. Maintain your eyes on this book.“

Molly” Sherlock said softly in that deep smooth voice.

Oh God.“Hmm?” 

“Read to me.” He asked. He had put his phone away and was laying facing her. His curls spilling into his face, his mouth relaxed.

Shit.“It’s not exactly high literature Sherlock.” Molly responded. “It’s a beach book. An easy read for vacations.”

“We’re kind of on vacation”

Molly laughed. He could be so normal sometimes.“I guess we are.”

“Please.” He asked again. 

“Why would you want me to read this to you?” Molly asked, daring herself to look at him.

“My mind races all day long. Sometimes I don’t sleep for days because it won’t let me. If I have something to focus on, like your voice, it helps me to calm down.”

Molly smiled. She had never noticed that, but now that she remembered, on occasion she had audio books playing while she was at Sherlock’s flat while he was detoxing. He would always fall asleep whenever she played them. She thought it was because he hated the books she listened to. But now it made more sense.

“Ok.” Molly began to read the book out loud, Sherlock fell asleep within minutes and it took every ounce of control for her to not run her fingers through his hair so she could just once know what it would feel like. Don’t be a creep Molly. Go to sleep. But there was no one there to help her take her mind off the fact that she was in fact lying in bed with a man that she had been in love with for years. 

She tossed and turned. She rolled over onto her side to check the time on her phone. She sighed and put it face down. At that moment, she felt Sherlock’s arm flail over her. Molly felt her face getting warm. And the rest of her. She could feel the heat of Sherlock’s body very near to her. He was like a human furnace. Calm down Molly! Oh well. Might as well enjoy it. She wasn’t a creep if she wasn’t the one going around touching a sleeping person.  Molly fell asleep at last, savoring the weight of Sherlock’s arm on her body. Little did she know that Sherlock had been waiting the entire time for her to roll over.

@holidaysat221b

#sherlolly #mollock #@holidaysat221b #sherlock #molly hoop #sherlock x molly #sherlock fanfiction #Katerbeewrites

[mizjoely]

I finally put this on AO3 (Rated T for mentions of suicide):

Holidaysat221b Prompt of the Day - 9/9/22: Molly commits suicide, but only Sherlock thinks she didn’t. He may not be wrong. - The Silent Fangirl

#dis is mine #mizjoely writes #mizjoely's fics

[holidaysat221b]

Rec of the Week - 8/17/22

Over  the years we’ve had a lot prompt fills submitted to us.  I thought  it would be nice to shine a spotlight on those individual submissions.  Please give the author or artist a bit of love.

Dis Robe by @mizjoely - holidaysat221b Prompt of the Day - 5/17/19

Original Prompt: Molly loves wearing Sherlock’s house robes.  -  @mel-loves-all  

#sherlolly #sherlolly prompt of the day - rec #author: mizjoely #prompter: mel-loves-all

[lilsherlockian1975]

Skulls - Part Four  Here’s an excerpt from the final chapter of my little Christmas story. Thank you all for reading. I also want to thank @mizjoely @mrsmcrieff and @mel-loves-all for their help and support. I have amazing friends. 

Read the full chapter here on FF.net or here on AO3. Enjoy ~Lil~

She'd gone for broke. What did she have to lose except maybe her pride?

Wearing the skirt and his shirt, Molly had added the scarf under the lapels, tying it into a low, loose knot. The shirt - his shirt - she'd left unbuttoned daringly low, at least by her standards. Not on purpose, necessarily, it just seemed to... work better with the scarf that way.

Possibly.

And, of course, she'd worn the earrings. The black diamond earrings. Because they were diamonds, she could no longer deny it. She'd also worn her best (sexiest) underthings. But that was simply because they matched the colour scheme, not because she was trying to be sexy.

Mostly.

Thankfully, Cousin Louisa had pulled her name in their family Secret Santa and had given her a new winter coat. Aunt Ann was right; the double-breasted, black wool trench that fell a few inches above her knees was gorgeous (and certainly better than a hammer!). The cut was A-line, just like the skirt underneath, and very flattering. Molly belted it tightly as she got out of the cab.

Damn near everything she was wearing was a gift and, if she was being honest, she felt pretty as a picture. Well, perhaps a black and white photo, considering the lack of colour in her outfit.

She'd even taken her time with her hair and make-up. After her facial, Bernadette had thrust a bag of cosmetics into Molly's hand, insisting, "Your skin is almost perfect - though you'll want to cover what's left of that spot - all you need is a touch of colour on your cheeks and lips. Makeup should be seen, not heard, luv." Molly assumed this was code for 'less is more', which was fine with her. Her last attempt to get Sherlock's attention with flashy makeup and clothes had gone… badly, very badly. As for her hair, after some thought, she'd decided to twist it up off of her neck and away from her face. If it made it easier for Sherlock to see his earrings, that was just a coincidence.

Probably.

Her choice to not wear perfume, however, very much deliberate. The shirt still held a slight hint of Sherlock and she couldn't bring herself to cover it up.

#holidaysat221b #sherlolly #mollock #skulls #christmas

[geekmama]

A Seminal Moment

Post TFP established Sherlolly sexy times based on a prompt from tumblr's holidaysat221b: ‘Molly loves wearing Sherlock’s house robes’ as requested by @mel-loves-all, with thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for looking it over. Also, I am assuming ‘house robes’ refers to dressing gowns, rather than the Harry Potter sort, because Sherlock’s are truly something to behold.

“What are you doing? You can’t give that to charity!” 

Molly’s been in the bedroom for the last half hour, sorting through their clothing and filling a box with items that are either unacceptably out of style (his) or somewhat worse for wear (his and hers, as each of their careers is potentially ruinous to even the most carefully chosen habiliments). Now, however, she looks up at Sherlock in sympathy and says, “I know! It breaks my heart, too. It used to be my favorite of your dressing gowns, but this stain on the shoulder won’t come out, I’ve tried, and I’ve sent it to the dry cleaners twice. I’m afraid it’s time.” 

Sherlock knows her point is valid: the aftermath of Rosie’s first foray into the gastronomic delights of pureed applesauce and blueberries will not soon be forgotten. Yet he’s already opened his mouth to protest when his beloved speaks again. 

“Do you remember that time I wore it? After that one case? A couple of weeks before Rosie was born?” 

Molly is looking down, fondly stroking the fine camel coloured material, and she doesn’t see Sherlock’s reaction to her words… doesn’t see the flush that can’t be avoided as the vision comes rushing out to assail him from what is now the Molly Hooper Wing of his Mind Palace (delicately Rococo in decor, yet redolent of comfort… joy… love). 

The memory of that late afternoon when they’d returned to 221B, both of them laughing and soaked from a sudden and surprisingly violent rainstorm, is precisely why that garment should not be given away. 

Oh, he remembers. How he’d turned to her with an offer of hot tea on his lips (since Mrs. Hudson was still at a matinee with Mr. Chatterjee) and was arrested at the sight of his Molly (he had already been thinking of her as “his” for some time, he now realizes) blithely stripping off her cardigan to reveal the light, flowered frock beneath, a garment wholly inadequate to the changeable weather. It was now dripping, clinging, and deliciously -- disconcertingly-- semi-transparent. 

Really, it’s quite astonishing how a single moment can alter one’s views so dramatically. 

A step forward… her startled gaze… his left arm slipping about her slender shoulders… his right hand caressing the delicate, tantalizing curve of damp, veiled breast… his thumb brushing the erect, pebbled peak, drawing a gasp -- surprise? delight? -- even as their lips meet... the rush of blood… the soft moan… 

“Oh, dear! Sorry!” had been her actual words, however, as she’d clutched her wet jumper to her chest, still laughing -- probably at his stunned expression. “Can I use one of your dressing gowns while I throw these in the dryer?” 

“Yes… yes, of course.” He’d cleared his throat and blurted, “I’ll make tea,” as he’d retreated into the kitchen. 

His own clothes had been only slightly damp, protected as they had been by his Belstaff, so he hadn’t bothered to change himself, just made hot tea and sat down, trying to regain his equilibrium. Presently she had emerged again. He remembers thinking how well the camel color of his dressing gown contrasted with her hair, which was still wet but had been combed out and twisted into a neat updo. There was still a smile on her lips, and in her eyes, and her cheeks had been pink with happiness and good health. The sash of his dressing gown was tight about her trim waist, and the mere suggestion of curves beneath the soft material, the feminine swell of breast and hip, had been enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his chair. 

How is it I’ve never really noticed these things before? he remembers thinking. 

He’d watched in fascination as she’d moved gracefully about, then sat demurely in John’s old chair to drink her tea, her eyes warm upon him while he tried to look nonchalant. 

He knows, now, what the real question had been. 

“Sherlock?” comes her uncertain voice. 

Uncertain, but amused, too. 

He pulls himself together. Goes to her, and takes the dressing gown out of her hands, and sets it aside. 

Kisses her. 

She is surprised, but quickly overcomes it, and laughingly reaches up, her hand cool against his cheek. 

When she finally can, she says, a little breathlessly, “You do remember!” 

“Bed,” he tells her, and sweeps her up. 

“But--” 

“No,” he says, firmly. Many things are pleasingly, demandingly firm at this particular moment. 

And fortunately she seems to understand that, for she only sighs in surrender and when he lays her down, says, just before he kisses her, “I love you.” 

“Thank God,” he murmurs in reply, and wonders that such an utterance seems not sacrilegious but, on the contrary, entirely appropriate to the occasion.

 ~.~

#Sherlock #sherlolly #holidaysat221b

[mousedetective]

Magic In The Moonlight At The Monster Ball (2/3)

I have insomnia, so I’m working really hard on finishing this. Anyway, here comes matchmaking Mary! Tagging @holidaysat221b and @strangelock221b.

Magic In The Moonlight At The Monster Ball - Every year since they began uni, Sherlock and Molly have gone to the university’s Monster Ball and competed in the couples costume contest, as friends. But this year it’s different. Molly has a boyfriend and Sherlock is jealous. Still…there might be a little magic in the moonlight at the Monster Ball for Sherlock and Molly, if they’re lucky.

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He walked aimlessly for a while and then decided the hell with it, maybe it might be good to get away for a bit. He headed towards the train station and caught the train to London, knowing that if he was lucky at least one of his other best mates would be home. He’d, in his own way, envied the type of relationship John and Mary had had. They were close to each other and spent time together but were never sickeningly sweet and still made time for him and Molly, at least until John started medical school in London and there was more distance between them. But he never felt less close to the newly married Watsons, even with distance and such separating them.

He wondered why it wasn’t like that with Molly.

It could be because he didn’t like Tom, he supposed. He tried very hard not to show it because Molly was happy and he liked her being happy, but he had the impression Tom was selfish, and Molly was the most open and loving person he knew. They just should never have meshed.

Not like we have romantically, a snide voice said in the back of his head. Oh, he’d made a fool of himself in front of John and Mary after he’d inadvertently third-wheeled the date Molly and Tom had been on. He’d stayed as long as he could stand it but there had been an ache in his gut and his heart and he knew, then, he had wanted Molly as more than a friend. Alas, it was too late.

Why hadn’t she ever noticed? He wasn’t the type to use his friendship for an obligation of romance or sexual favours, but he thought he had been a little more blatant about fancying her even if he hadn’t realized he had. John and Mary had said it had been all but obvious so why hadn’t she seen it? He’d pondered that when he wasn’t dreaming about vindictive ways of one-upping Tom.

He was so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t realized the train had pulled into London and he got off and got a cab to get to the Watson flat. It didn’t take long and Mary must have seen him from the window because the door was opening before he could knock. “Another awful encounter?” she asked sympathetically.

“Molly wanted to know if we were still going to attend the Monster Ball together,” he said with a sigh.

Molly raised an eyebrow. “So Tom didn’t make the cut?”

“Apparently he hates the holiday as a whole,” Sherlock said, moving past her and flopping down on her sofa before turning to her. “I suggested Gomez and Morticia Addams, since all our other attempts at being creepy, cute or on top of pop culture have failed, but she balked at it and I left in a huff.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mary said, shaking her head and lifting his legs up so she could sit down, and then draping his legs across her lap. “You are so in love you can’t stand it, can you?”

“Yes,” he said, reaching for a sofa cushion and plopping it on his face. “I don’t understand it. I...what does she see in him?”

“Probably everything you have to offer, except availability,” Mary. “And it seems the veneer is fading.”

“Oh?” he asked.

“She came by last weekend to look into some of the medical schools around here and we had lunch, and he said Tom is stifling her a bit,” Mary said, drumming on Sherlock’s leg. “She also said she wondered why she was with him when she wasn’t happy.”

Sherlock lifted the cushion off his face and looked at Molly with a look of confusion on his face. “How can she be unhappy? She’s smiling and bubbly as per usual when she sees me.”

“Then perhaps it’s because of the company,” Mary said with a smirk.

Sherlock frowned more and then swung his legs off her lap, sitting up. “She can’t fancy me! Why would she if she’s with him?”

“Well, one of you make her happy. The other doesn’t.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “If you’re smart, you’ll go talk to her before the Monster Ball. See where you stand.”

Sherlock nodded, still confused. There wasn’t a chance...was there?

#Sherlock #sherlolly #mollock #sherlock holmes #mary morstan #my stuff #fanfiction #fanfic #strangelock221b #holidaysat221b #halloween fun! #Multipart: Magic In The Moonlight At The Monster Ball

[mel-loves-all]

2020 12 Days of Sherlolly ~ @holidaysat221b

#sherlolly #2020 12 days of sherlolly #mollock #12 days of sherlolly #sherlock x molly #sherlolly edit #sherlolly moodboard

[goodshipsherlollipop]

I originally published this story last year, but have made major revisions to it, as it is a sequel to my engagement and honeymoon stories which had not yet been completed/written respectively at the time of original publishing of this story.

Revisions to correct inconsistencies and bring it into line with my major work, changes to improve flow and inclclide references to the honeymoon have meant an additional 25% of content and an extra chapter has been added.

Please enjoy a glimpse into my Sherlock and Molly’s first Christmas together.

My 2018 Christmas story will follow this one shortly, as we see Sherlock and Molly, as well as other characters after another year has passed.

Follows/favourites/reviews appreciated.

#@holidaysat221B #Sherlolly

[theemptyquarto]

Hello your friendly secret Sherlolly here. Hope your week is going well!

So I got some ideas from those fics. But was wondering is there a prompt you’be come across you’d like to see written? Of course nothing long but something that works well for a one shot? Particularly in angst? Maybe a quote?

What was the moment you started shipping Sherlock in Molly in the show?

Anyway, just asking thing so I can really tailor the gift for you :) talk to you soon!

No particular angst prompts have been taking up space in my mind.  I’ve always wished someone would do the following prompts from @holidaysat221b:

Old West Au. Inspired by the movie “Goin’ South” with Jack Nicholson. Sherlock is sentenced to be hanged. A town ordinance states that a man can avoid execution if a woman agrees to marry him and be responsible for hsi behaviour. Molly decides to do just that. But what is her motive? ”  -  @shadowyqueenbeard

or:

Quarantine - Alternatively, “I don’t want to social distance from you so I guess I’ll just stay here.”  -  @gettingovergreta

But don’t feel obligated, since I can’t come up with the fics that go along with these prompts either:)

I actually first started shipping Sherlolly in the scene in “A Scandal in Belgravia” where he’s a dick to her with his incorrect deductions.  It was fun.  I was like... “Ooooh, that’s not *just* a crush she’s got on him, is it?” and simultaneously, “OoooOOOOOoooh... that crush is also not just one-sided, is it?”

#sherlolly secret santa 2020