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helsinkibabyTitle: A Tiny Bit of Romance
Author: helsinkibaby
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairings: Molly/Lestrade
Genre: Het, established relationship, post ep to "The Hounds of Baskerville"
Warnings: No warnings apply.
Word Count: 900
Notes: Yes, I know, ok? I know! Also for the Cotton Candy Bingo, fill: stars
Summary: Lestrade and Molly take a walk on the moor.
"It really is beautiful here."
"Huh?" Lestrade looks down at the woman beside him, the woman who is smiling up at him with a smile brighter than the moon and stars above them. He hadn't been looking around him, truth be told, had been too busy looking at her to notice the scenery.
"I said..." Molly bumps her shoulder against his arm, a giggle joining her words, "That it really is beautiful here. Just as beautiful as the South of France really, when you think about it."
Lestrade frowns, but only at the memory of their truncated holiday, nothing to do with her words or the fact that she's there with him. "The South of France had sunshine, and beaches, and heat," he grumbles. He doesn't mention that the South of France also had her in a bikini, that if he was "brown as a nut" in the words of Sherlock bloody Holmes, then so was she, and her tan lines had proven more than a turn on for him. "This place has trees. And a creepy science experiment not a million miles away."
Molly's small hand squeezes his. "You're still freaked out, aren't you?"
If it were Sherlock bloody Holmes, he'd deny it. If it were anyone else, he'd deny it. But this isn't anyone else, this is Molly, his Molly and he knows he can tell her the truth. Even if it's hard for him. "A very little bit," he admits.
He's half expecting her to laugh; instead she gives him a little smile and stops walking, presses her body closer to his. "So that's why we came for a starlight walk then? Nothing to do with romance, just you facing your fears?"
He knows she's teasing him by the light in her eyes, by the way she stands on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek. He teases her right back, shrugging his shoulders and looking up to the starlit sky above, one hand still holding hers, the other slipping around her back. "Well..." he says slowly, "Maybe a tiny bit of romance."
She laughs outright at that, silver peals drifting through the night, warming him deep inside where layers of clothes and a thick jacket can't. When her free arm goes around his neck, presses her lips to his, he responds enthusiastically, pulling her as close to him as possible, wishing he could pull her closer still, knowing that will come later.
When they pull away, her eyes are shining, her cheeks flushed. "Let's get back," she suggests, and he doesn't have to be asked twice.
"I'm sorry, Molly," he says as they walk, not for the first time either. "I didn't want to come here...." But when Mycroft bloody Holmes calls and says 'jump', DI Greg Lestrade says 'how high?', or at least he does if he values his career - Sherlock's never been kidding about how Mycroft really is the British Government. Being called to the wilds of Devon wouldn't have been high on his list of things to do in normal circumstances; being forced to cut his - their - holiday short made it worse. He'd been surprised when Molly hadn't objected - after all, his wife would have raised holy hell. Molly had just shrugged her shoulders, started packing and, in the airport, had made use of the free wi-fi to find accomodation for her in the next village over.
"I can't exactly stay in the same place as Sherlock, not if you don't want him to find out about us," she'd told him matter-of-factly when she'd told him what she was doing and he'd looked at her, stunned.
"It's not that I don't want people to know-" he'd begun, and she'd cut him off with a wave of her hand.
"You don't want Sherlock to figure it out and make whatever horrible comments he'd make," she'd said, cutting right to the chase, her lips pressing into a thin line, calling to mind a Christmas party, a clinging black dress and the look in her eyes that had made him want to punch Sherlock's lights out. "A stance with which I am in complete agreement."
So he'd spent his days on the Moors, trying to figure out what the hell was going on in Baskerville, spent his nights with Molly a few miles away. Sherlock had been too caught up in the chase to notice anything and having got his man, he and John had returned to London earlier that day. Which meant that he could show Molly this village, the rather quaint little pub-slash-hotel that Sherlock and John had stayed at. The minute he'd seen that fireplace, the comfortable looking couch in front of it, he'd imagined curling up there with Molly.
"Sssh," she tells him now, stopping in her tracks again, slipping her arms around his waist and looking up at him, then past him, up to the sky. "It's not where you are that counts... it's who you're with."
Well, he can't exactly argue with that, can he, so he just kisses her instead. When she pulls back, her eyes are shining brighter than the stars above them, and he puts his arm around her waist, pulls her to him and takes her back to the hotel.
The fireplace, he decides, might just have to wait until tomorrow night.
Right now, he's got other plans for them.
Author: helsinkibaby
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairings: Molly/Lestrade
Genre: Het, established relationship, post ep to "The Hounds of Baskerville"
Warnings: No warnings apply.
Word Count: 900
Notes: Yes, I know, ok? I know! Also for the Cotton Candy Bingo, fill: stars
Summary: Lestrade and Molly take a walk on the moor.
"It really is beautiful here."
"Huh?" Lestrade looks down at the woman beside him, the woman who is smiling up at him with a smile brighter than the moon and stars above them. He hadn't been looking around him, truth be told, had been too busy looking at her to notice the scenery.
"I said..." Molly bumps her shoulder against his arm, a giggle joining her words, "That it really is beautiful here. Just as beautiful as the South of France really, when you think about it."
Lestrade frowns, but only at the memory of their truncated holiday, nothing to do with her words or the fact that she's there with him. "The South of France had sunshine, and beaches, and heat," he grumbles. He doesn't mention that the South of France also had her in a bikini, that if he was "brown as a nut" in the words of Sherlock bloody Holmes, then so was she, and her tan lines had proven more than a turn on for him. "This place has trees. And a creepy science experiment not a million miles away."
Molly's small hand squeezes his. "You're still freaked out, aren't you?"
If it were Sherlock bloody Holmes, he'd deny it. If it were anyone else, he'd deny it. But this isn't anyone else, this is Molly, his Molly and he knows he can tell her the truth. Even if it's hard for him. "A very little bit," he admits.
He's half expecting her to laugh; instead she gives him a little smile and stops walking, presses her body closer to his. "So that's why we came for a starlight walk then? Nothing to do with romance, just you facing your fears?"
He knows she's teasing him by the light in her eyes, by the way she stands on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek. He teases her right back, shrugging his shoulders and looking up to the starlit sky above, one hand still holding hers, the other slipping around her back. "Well..." he says slowly, "Maybe a tiny bit of romance."
She laughs outright at that, silver peals drifting through the night, warming him deep inside where layers of clothes and a thick jacket can't. When her free arm goes around his neck, presses her lips to his, he responds enthusiastically, pulling her as close to him as possible, wishing he could pull her closer still, knowing that will come later.
When they pull away, her eyes are shining, her cheeks flushed. "Let's get back," she suggests, and he doesn't have to be asked twice.
"I'm sorry, Molly," he says as they walk, not for the first time either. "I didn't want to come here...." But when Mycroft bloody Holmes calls and says 'jump', DI Greg Lestrade says 'how high?', or at least he does if he values his career - Sherlock's never been kidding about how Mycroft really is the British Government. Being called to the wilds of Devon wouldn't have been high on his list of things to do in normal circumstances; being forced to cut his - their - holiday short made it worse. He'd been surprised when Molly hadn't objected - after all, his wife would have raised holy hell. Molly had just shrugged her shoulders, started packing and, in the airport, had made use of the free wi-fi to find accomodation for her in the next village over.
"I can't exactly stay in the same place as Sherlock, not if you don't want him to find out about us," she'd told him matter-of-factly when she'd told him what she was doing and he'd looked at her, stunned.
"It's not that I don't want people to know-" he'd begun, and she'd cut him off with a wave of her hand.
"You don't want Sherlock to figure it out and make whatever horrible comments he'd make," she'd said, cutting right to the chase, her lips pressing into a thin line, calling to mind a Christmas party, a clinging black dress and the look in her eyes that had made him want to punch Sherlock's lights out. "A stance with which I am in complete agreement."
So he'd spent his days on the Moors, trying to figure out what the hell was going on in Baskerville, spent his nights with Molly a few miles away. Sherlock had been too caught up in the chase to notice anything and having got his man, he and John had returned to London earlier that day. Which meant that he could show Molly this village, the rather quaint little pub-slash-hotel that Sherlock and John had stayed at. The minute he'd seen that fireplace, the comfortable looking couch in front of it, he'd imagined curling up there with Molly.
"Sssh," she tells him now, stopping in her tracks again, slipping her arms around his waist and looking up at him, then past him, up to the sky. "It's not where you are that counts... it's who you're with."
Well, he can't exactly argue with that, can he, so he just kisses her instead. When she pulls back, her eyes are shining brighter than the stars above them, and he puts his arm around her waist, pulls her to him and takes her back to the hotel.
The fireplace, he decides, might just have to wait until tomorrow night.
Right now, he's got other plans for them.
