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It wasn’t his fault. Sherlock was positive of that. It was Molly’s fault. Totally and completely her fault.
To be specific, it was her breasts’ fault.
At one time he said they were too small, but afterwards he soon ate his words. They were bloody perfect in the way they fit in his hands and how her nipples were a lovely dusky pink that contrasted wonderfully with her skin. Not to mention, they felt nice in his hands -- soft and yielding. And the way she responded to his touch? Those thoughts occupied a room in his mind palace. Hell, he wrote sonnets in his mind about them.
So yes, it was completely her lovely, lovely, lovely breasts’ fault for what happened next.
Sherlock was spending the morning supposedly locked in his mind palace, but in reality, he was sneaking glances as Molly as she bustled around 221B getting ready for work. One delightful aspect of marriage was that Molly had no qualms about wandering around the flat partially dressed and today she was topless as she prepared to leave for work.
“-- And Randall has been ill for the past few days so I suppose that I’m going to be playing catch-up with reports --” he heard her say as she darted past him.
He watched her breasts bounce out of the corner of his eye, before schooling a thousand-yard stare. Even though they were married, ogling his wife’s breasts when he was supposed to be thinking was improper.
Not to mention, she would never stop teasing him. Then she would tell Sally Donovan and it would shatter the image of the cerebral solitary genius that he had cultivated so carefully. The fact that he was a happily married man with a best friend and goddaughter was irrelevant -- he was still a high-functioning sociopath in his mind..
So he was distracted when she swooped by -- dressed -- and gave him a peck on the cheek before saying her goodbyes. He quickly snuck a peek down her blouse -- she was wearing a cherry-print bra (why she liked cherry print so much, he would never understand), then muttered a goodbye, before reaching for his morning cup of tea.
What he forgot was that he had two cups of tea in front of him. One was specifically designated for John, and was enhanced with a hallucinogenic that may have helped a band of burglars abscond with antique wedding dresses from the Victoria and Albert Museum. The other was his usual English Breakfast tea.
It wasn’t until an hour later, when the hideous print on the wallpaper started to shift and move to the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s radio programme -- the song was Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now -- that Sherlock realized he may have made a mistake.
~*~
When Randall comes back, he owes me lunch and a stiff drink, Molly thought to herself as she worked her way through the backlog of reports. Thankfully the morgue was quiet that morning as she tried to dig out from under the avalanche of reports.
She didn’t worry about Sherlock -- he seemed to be dwelling on that theft at the Victoria and Albert and that was fine with her. Hopefully she would have a quiet day at work, finish her reports and return home early enough to enjoy dinner with her husband.
Then her mobile pinged, indicating an incoming text message.
Molly -- I am on fire for you -- SH
She blushed. The case must have been solved already, given that he was sexting her. Normally when he was focused on a case, all his attention was devoted to that, as opposed to the carnal desires. But when the case was solved? Sherlock was like a teenaged boy, pawing at her all the time.
While it was nice, it was also distracting when she was at work.
Working, she typed back.
No, I am fire. I am SEX.
WORKING.
I AM THE KING UNDER YOUR KNICKERS!
Molly sighed. Clearly he was in a snit.
I AM IGNORING YOU, she pounded out, then put the mobile in her desk drawer.
Sherlock was a fantastic lover with whom she would gladly wile away many an hour. But unlike him, Molly couldn’t indulge in her whims. She had work to do and no one -- not even a horny, stunningly attractive man she was married to -- was going to keep her from getting shit done.
~*~
Years ago, Sherlock had imbibed everything in the name of science -- peyote, cocaine, heroin, speed, ecstasy, marijuana, alcohol, angel dust, ether, mescaline, acid, uppers, downers, screamers and tequila -- and nothing, nothing was addictive as Molly Hooper’s perky breasts.
It was her fault that he was navigating the London tube while under the influence of a toad-venom based hallucinogenic, Sherlock thought. Nevermind the fact that the cabs wouldn’t accept him -- maybe it was his “attempt to look normal” face that caused them to pull away before he could even enter the cab. Maybe it was him saying, “GOOD DAY! GOOD SIR! I NEED TO GET TO ST. BART’S IMMEDIATELY! THANK YOU AND GOOD DAY”. In any case, he was stuck, trying to get his Oyster card to scan. But the problem was that the scan light was flitting about, forcing him to swat at it ineffectively. Every time he thought he had it, the light would move around, evading his card.
“Oi, you going or staying mate?” a rough voice muttered behind him. “‘Cos you’re mucking up the system and we’ve got to get going, yeah?”
Sherlock turned around and glanced at the creature behind him. A male gorgon, wearing the uniform of a London Underground employee, stood behind him studying him. The nest of vipers that made up his hair were slithering around and also examining him with a concerned gaze. Behind the gorgon, a doberman pinscher in a smart suitdress and pearl choker nattered on her mobile.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I am going. As soon as the light sits still long enough for me to scan the card.”
The gorgon huffed a sigh, “Allow me,” he said.
Sherlock handed the monster his Oyster card and with a quick, decisive snap, the creature extinguished the light, which let out a dying screech, and the gate opened.
He handed the card back to Sherlock, “Right,” he said. “Have a good day.”
Sherlock nodded, suddenly catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a ticket window. For some reason he has sprouted a frill and horns. Golden eyes blinked in a lazy, reptilian manner. Red scales were working their way up his neck and covering his chin.
Even though he knew logically that he should have a doctor look at him, Sherlock preened for a moment. The effect was intimidating and he looked more regal than the herd of swine gawping at the station and taking pictures as they talked excitedly about the new Poirot series set to premiere later that autumn.
He found himself being pushed along with the crowd, attempting to blend in with the rest of the menagerie as best as he could. Sherlock congratulated himself, believing that he had fooled the lowing masses. He could do this -- be under the influence of a drug and maintain the air of a perfectly sober genius. He was that brilliant of an actor that he could be higher than ISS and still fool everyone.
Then he saw the escalator.
Maybe it was that how escalators operated wasn’t stored in his memory banks. Maybe it was also because he was under the influence of some powerful drugs. Maybe it was both. But for the moment, Sherlock stood at the top of the escalator, watching the stairs suddenly appear before fading down into the tunnel, completely, utterly flummoxed. He couldn’t even remember why he decided to take this trip in the first place.
“Come on,” he heard someone say impatiently behind him as he studied the stairs. “Haven’t got all day you know.”
“I will,” he said, glancing backwards to see the doberman pinscher who was on the mobile earlier.
He looked back at the escalator. A small, bright pink neon breasts rested daintily on the steps, beckoning him and reminding Sherlock of his mission. He could hear Molly’s giggle and a whispered, Sherlock, which snapped him back into focus.
Fortune favors the brave, he thought as he grabbed the stair railing and willed his legs to move down the stairs. It should have been easy -- muscle memory takes over and the legs move. But for some reason, his knees apparently turned to jelly. His legs kicked out underneath him and he landed arse-first on the stairs, hands scrabbling at the railing as the stairs started moving downwards.
“Sorry,” he lied. “Neurological disorder.”
The doberman eyed him suspiciously. “You all right?”
Sherlock nodded, his hands shooting up to grab the railing and pull himself up. Leaning against it with all his strength, he said, “I just need to get to St. Bart’s. I have a doctor I need to see.”
The canine nodded. He blinked as the words, worried that son has drug problem, floated around her head lazily.
“Your son isn’t an addict,” Sherlock told her. “He’s just lazy.”
He could hear a yip of outrage from the doberman as he clung to the railing and the bottom of the escalator loomed. Part of him wanted to run away from it -- the stairs were disappearing under a gaping set up teeth and Sherlock suddenly worried he would be swallowed up by those teeth.
This is ridiculous, Mycroft muttered in his head. You know how escalators work.
No I do not, Sherlock retorted. This is witchcraft. Just because we don’t think about it everyday doesn’t make it not dangerous.
You’re clogging up the queue, Mycroft hissed as the teeth devoured the two stairs in front of him.
Sherlock reared back, then leaped forward, knocking over an owl in a three-piece suit. He muttered an apology, then continued to the platform, high-stepping like a Lipizzaner stallion.
Try and walk normal, his mind screamed.
What are you talking about? his legs responded. This is normal.
He didn’t bother to argue with his legs. They knew best how to get him around and they would get him exactly where he wanted to be -- that valley between her breasts and then the rosy summit of her nipples. Perhaps Molly would allow him to experiment with his forked tongue, Sherlock thought. It certainly promised some interesting results.
Luckily, a train just arrived, heading to Oxford Circus, announcing in comforting tones, “this is the central line for fucking polar bears.” Sherlock high-stepped into the carriage and grabbed onto a pole, holding on for dear life as deer, owls, hawks, cats and dogs surrounded him, quietly chatting, listening to music or reading. Different odors -- perfume, sweat, food, flowers, leather -- surrounded him, overwhelming his senses. Then random words started to float in his vision -- sexy baby, oxford, master class, blue, fallows, very, empty, meyer, roam, little, take, act, up, freakum dress, Lionel. The letters were all white and in a crisp Helvetica font.
Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear the information flood, but the words surrounded him, squeaking like little eager puppies for his attention. More words -- dash, got, genetics, zebrafish, cams, bald, Deborah, countdown, falling.
“Enough,” he snapped, swatting at the words, which scattered with worried squeals. He lurched into a nervous-looking terrier wearing a tank dress and trainers, who was clearly trying to ignore him.
“Sorry,” he muttered into her ear, which flicked in worried annoyance.
He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, trying to remember to act normal. Pretend everything was fine and he would get to his destination without a problem, instead of ending up in jail with Sally and Godfrey -- or was it Garrett? -- laughing at him.
Sherlock, he heard Molly whisper. Come to me, I need you. A vision of her naked in a shell like Venus, hands demurely covering her breasts, floated in front of him. Come on sweet baby, dream Molly said. You know you want me.
He gulped and nodded, thankful when the train announced it arrived at Oxford Circus. One step closer to his goal. Then the doors opened and the cacophony of noise and sound hit Sherlock and he staggered backwards, falling onto a brown bear wearing a smart blue toggle coat and battered hat.
“Sorry,” Sherlock said, righting himself, then helping the bear back up. The bear fixed a hard stare on him before moving hurriedly past.
For some reason the normal noise of the Oxford Circus Station had melded into a six-eight latin rock rhythm and Sherlock’s legs started moving to the beat as he made his way through the station. The green and white tiles were undulating to the beat and people in the mosaics were dancing along with him to the music.
Pigs dressed in hoodies and jeans mixed with gorgons in the London Underground uniforms. There seems to be a rhythm to their movement and the mosh pit swallowed him up as he attempted to battle his way to the St. Paul line.
Bodies pressed up against him and words like Okenedo, think, darkest, about, cup, ads, determined, fuck, move, arsehole, queef, feet attempted to press him down onto the floor. The words were light on him -- almost like feathers -- but the sheer number of them felt oppressive.
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the small, baby pink blinking neon sign of breasts. Sherlock let out a frustrated roar, shoving past everyone, ignoring the indignant shouts and following the signs to the train, coat flapping behind him.
Racing to the platform, Sherlock let out a groan of dismay as he saw the train rush from the platform. “No, no, no, no, no,” he groaned.
“You all right mate?” A muskrat glanced over at him. Her hair was a massive halo and she had a worried glance on her whiskered face. She was wearing an army coat, buttoned up, black pants that were faded to grey and combat boots.
Sherlock shook his head, “I --” he strugged to find the words, “I need to see someone,” he said.
The muskrat nodded. “Train will be along in a bit,” she said. “You sure you’re fine? You look like you need some help.”
He nodded, “I’ll be fine,” he croaked out, a taloned hand coming to rub his temple. “Just --” he stammered. “Just leave me be.”
“Who are you going to see?” the muskrat studied him. “Your sweetheart?”
Sherlock nodded, suddenly wishing he could close his eyes and sleep. Mother, floated past his eyes as he studied the muskrat, married, trauma nurse, husband works late shift, going to pick up children.
“She must be an angel,” the muskrat snorted. “You look like a fright.”
“She is,” Sherlock admitted for a moment as the neon pink breasts floated by giggling softly.
The muskrat glanced down the tunnel. “Ah,” she murmured, “The train’s coming.” She studied him. “If you can, get some water and rest,” she said. “You look like you’re dehydrated and you’re going to cramp up soon unless you get some water and rest. I don’t know what you’re on, but whatever it is, you need to ride out carefully. I don’t think you’d listen to me if I said you should go see a doctor anyways, but you need to be hydrated. No more of whatever you had, OK?”
Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he croaked. “Thank you.”
The train stopped and the doors opened. A flock of birds flew out and he slowly made his way in. Thankfully a seat was available and he flopped down into it, staring at the ceiling.
Then the tittering occurring. He opened his eyes slightly and glanced over at a pair of sparrows giggling to themselves.
“It’s him!” one chirped to the other. “I know it’s him!”
“I know!” the other sparrow giggled, “I can’t believe we’re in the same carriage as him!”
Sherlock slowly sat up, and glanced over at where they were furtively glancing. There was a tall otter, dressed in a rumpled sports coat, under which was a t-shirt with an architectural drawing of a suspension bridge. A pair of well worn jeans and trainers finished out the look. He was reading over something.
Actor the word floated around the otter’s head.
“He’s just so good as Tommy,” one sparrow sighed.
“Oh, but that girl --” her friend snapped her wings -- Can a sparrow snap their wings? Sherlock wondered for a moment.
“Loo Brealey --”
“Yes! She’s so adorable as Tuppence,” the first sparrow giggled. “He’s so good looking in person.”
Ugh, Sherlock thought to himself. That actor. Molly had often remarked on their resemblance as she watched an episode of Tommy and Tuppence.
“Honestly Sherlock, you should be happy to have a double,” she had said one evening when he was sprawled across her lap, her hands carding through his hair.
He had grunted in response. What had bothered him more was the way she watched the show, eyes rapacious as she watched the duo exchange witty barbs as they lived the glamorous life. Not to mention, mystery solving was never that elegant. There was always an element of getting stuck in the muck or rooting through trash to gather information. There wasn’t as much drinking gin and tonics while jazz tinkled on in the background.
The train stopped and a voice announced, “Arriving at Molly Hooper’s magnificent breasts.” Sherlock rose, his legs wobbling unsteadily as he knocked past the actor, who glanced at him startled -- blue eyes widening as he flipped the book shut.
How odd to see blue eyes on an otter, Sherlock thought to himself.
“Sorry --” the otter stammered.
Sherlock raised a claw, ‘No worries,” he said. “You look nothing like me.”
He staggered out of the train and slowly made his way out of the station, blinking owlishly at the sunlight streaming through the clouds. The clouds looked like papercut drawings, with swooping ink lines to show that they were cumulus.
Breasts, the pink word lazily drifted past him and he attempted to lunge for it.
A crack of lightning blazed across the sky and Sherlock skittered backwards, his back pressing up against the station wall as he expected rain to come pounding down. Instead, the clouds parted and he heard a voice.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
He blinked. “Yes,” he stammered. None of this was logical, his brain screamed. He shouldn’t be talking to who he was talking to. “Are you God?”
YES.
"Wrong."
EXCUSE ME?
"Impossible that you exist. There is no evidence of your existence other than religious texts. The act of faith is merely that," Sherlock smirked. “You’re just a hallucination.”
SILLY BOY. DON'T YOU KNOW THAT THE ABSENCE OF EVIDENCE DOES NOT MEAN SOMETHING DOESN'T EXIST?
"But that doesn't mean we dust out hands off and say that you exist," Sherlock retorted. "By that logic, unicorns exist."
THEY WENT EXTINCT, there was a grumble of thunder. VERY WELL, the voice that wasn't God said. IN ANY CASE I HAVE COME TO TELL YOU TO RETURN HOME.
"Why?"
YOUR MISSION IS ONE OF SELFISHNESS AND IMPULSE.
"My mission is to be with my wife."
FOR SELFISH MEANS. A hand dropped down from the sky and opened the dome of St. Paul's cathedral. The hands reached down, rummaged a bit, then pulled out a cardinal and pulled them skyward. Sherlock fell back again against the wall as he heard a crunching sound.
I LOVE THE CHERRY ONES, the voice remarked.
“I thought you were supposed to be all about love and forgiveness,” he said, slightly horrified by what he had seen.
YOU'RE TALKING TO THE OLD TESTAMENT GOD. IN ANY CASE, I ADVISE YOU TO RETURN HOME. YOU ARE BEING SELFISH WITH YOUR WIFE. SHE IS IN THE MIDST OF WORK AND DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR A NOONER AT HER OFFICE.
“I’d be quick,” Sherlock protested.
THAT IS NOT A BONUS.
Sherlock squared his shoulders. “Still going,” he said, as he began walking.
YOU LEAVE ME WITH NO CHOICE, Not-God-but-might-be-God said.
Sherlock ignored the warning that boomed down from the sky and staggered towards St. Barts. What was the worst a hallucinatory figment of his imagination could do?
Apparently a lot, Sherlock thought twenty minutes later as he staggered around another narrow alleyway, feeling the walkway twist in a corkscrew pattern and what up was became down and the buildings closed in even further, casting foreboding shadows.
Animals pushed around him -- snakes in tracksuits, dogs in high fashion, eagles in suits -- blocking him from getting to St. Barts. Sherlock growled, feeling flames shoot out from his nostrils as the frustration grew.
Sherlock, dream Molly giggled, I’m waiting.
Sherlock let out a roar of anger, then was taken momentarily aback as flames shot out of his mouth and a gaggle of moles leaped back squeaking in fear. Taking advantage of the moment, he pushed through the crowd, building up steam to navigate a loop-de-loop. Leaping from the loop, he found the sidewalk on the wall of St. Barts. It was tempting to burst through a window to get inside the building, but somehow, Sherlock had enough sense to realize that he was close enough to the entrance of the building.
Then suddenly, his world shifted, flipping upside down. Sherlock plummeted to the ground in front of the entrance, wings and tail uselessly flapping around as he landed on his his back. Another gout of flame shot into the air as he roared his frustration and rolled over onto his side, gasping in pain.
Getting on his hands and knees, Sherlock crawled his way into St. Bart’s, ignoring the concerned looks of the lemmings, penguins and meerkats surrounding him. He stood, then slowly stalked his way into the elevator, slamming on the button to take him to the morgue.
“Next stop, Molly Hooper’s enticing, perfect, delicious breasts,” the elevator said as the doors opened.
Finally, Sherlock thought as he made his way to the morgue. I will win! Hallucinations couldn’t stop me. Oyster card troubles were nothing. Gorgons were child’s play. Even God could not stop me. I will enter the morgue, see my beautiful --
He let out a shriek of horror as he entered the lab.
God had indeed gotten the upper hand, the sardonic portion of his brain giggled.
“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice brought him back to the situation.
He covered his mouth and pointed. “You --” he moaned, “No, no, no --”
The gigantic jar of marmalade -- sweet orange, according to the label -- approached him. “Are you all right?” it asked with Molly’s voice.
“I --” he squeaked out. “You’re --”
Sticky, citrus-scented hands reached out to him and touched his cheeks. Sherlock tried to look away, afraid to look into -- do jars even have eyes? he wondered for a moment.
“Oh. My. God. Sherlock what did you do?” the lid of the jar bent a bit, as if its brow was furrowed in frustration.
“I --” he tried to look away, but the hands were strong in their grip. “Was running an experiment.”
The jar huffed a sigh of annoyance -- he could see the bubbles form inside the jar. “Not this again,” the jar sighed. “You were trying to drug John weren’t you?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Why didn’t you stay at Baker Street and ride this out?”
“Need you,” he felt himself stumble forward and try to nestle where he thought Molly’s breasts would be. His hands reached up to where he thought he could cup the underside, where he knew they were most sensitive. Logically she wasn’t a jar of sweet orange marmalade -- she was Molly. “Do stop being confiture Molly,” he said, lowering his voice by an octave -- the magic range where she was practically putty in his hands. “Can’t you ride this out with me? Or on me? I’m a dragon my dear and we may as well try out the forked tongue to see if it has practical applications.”
“But according to you, I’m jam,” Molly started walking him backwards towards a morgue table. This was promising, Sherlock thought to himself.
“You’re still sticky and sweet,” Sherlock practically purred as she laid him down on the table, stroking his cheek. “I’m certain that your --ah -- situation will be cleared up quickly.”
Molly removed her lab coat. “Let me lock the door,” she whispered in his ear, before kissing him gently on the cheek.
Definitely promising, he thought smugly as he heard her walk towards the door. Then darkness overcame him.
~*~
Sally walked into the morgue, holding a carryaway bag full of soup and sandwiches, then paused and burst out laughing at the sight of Sherlock passed out on the morgue table, covered in Molly’s lab coat, his coat wadded up under his head like a makeshift pillow. He was laying on his side, a line of drool falling out of his mouth. Molly had stuffed a pile of paper towels under his cheek in an attempt to sop up the mess.
She glanced over at Molly, who was sitting next to Sherlock, a stack of reports next to her.
“Don’t even say it,” Molly began.
“Oh, but I have to,” Sally said, a grin spreading across her face, as she handed Molly the bag and drink carrier. “You made me get you lunch, so I get to say this -- AGAIN?” she burst out laughing.
Molly rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she sighed.
“Well, you knew what you were getting into when you married him,” Sally pulled a chair over and sat next to her friend, opening her coffee and sipping from it. “What is it this time?”
“Toad venom,” Molly said. “I had Mycroft get the cups and examine them. Apparently it causes hallucinations, but should wear off in a few hours. Hopefully he’ll sleep -- he’s been up for thirty-six hours.”
“This explains why he wasn’t bothering us this morning,” Sally replied. “We had bets as to what was going on.”
“What was your bet?”
“Accidentally got drugged.”
Molly giggled into the coffee cup. “Insider knowledge invalidates you,” she said.
“Ah, but don’t tell Greg,” Sally replied, “He owes me a chelsea bun now.”
Sally watched as Sherlock squirmed on the table, muttering, “I am fire. I am sex,” in his sleep. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her mobile, then snapped a few pictures.
“I don’t even know why I let you do that,” Molly said, as she sipped her coffee.
“Because you know he was an idiot and you think it’s funny,” Sally replied. “Besides, I know you sent a video to Mary.”
They watched for a moment as Sherlock muttered, “would it be giving her head if I put myself in the jam?”
Sally nearly choked on her sandwich as she glanced over to a blushing Molly. “What do you think he’s dreaming about?” she whispered.
~*~
Sherlock wandered around the jar of marmalade, studying it intently. The trick would be opening the jar lid, he thought to himself. By doing that, then he could get to Molly’s sweet and sticky center.
Maybe if I give her bottom a slap, he walked around the jar and then smacked the bottom, then soothed the heated portion of the jar with a gentle touch. Marmalade Molly giggled, the label reddening.
He smiled ferally. Excellent, he thought, then reached for her top and tried to twist it open, but it remained firmly in place. He slapped the bottom of the jar again, and the lid loosened with a soft moan.
“Do I need to put you in hot water and get the towels?” he asked Marmalade Molly.
“No --” she sighed. “Just keep doing that.”
He gave her a stern look. “Doing what?”
The jar’s label went bright red. “Spanking my bottom please,” she replied.
Sherlock’s predatory grin returned. “Since you asked so nicely my dear,” he said. “But first, the top has to come off.”