Because armporn. Managed to write this in under an hour when inspiration hit me earlier just now, before I went to school XD So happy I got to write something :) anyway, thank you in advance for reading, and hope you like it! :DDD
Inspired by this reblog post on my tumblr blog: post/132497753956/thatsthat24-isaia-elfgrove
If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes had to say he was proud of (besides his intellectual prowess, of course), it would be his arms.
He had never been a 'gym rat', to use a common term; all the 'exercising' he had done was from all that early morning jogging when he just started out his consulting business to build up stamina, and from chasing after criminals when said consulting business became more well-known. He was famous for hardly eating or sleeping when on a case, but the aftermath would always find him replenishing his energy through sustenance consumption and physical and mental rest before he took up another case.
He never really did focus much on his arms, however - they just seemed to sprout muscles out of nowhere, the defined tone of his biceps and broad forearms a delightful sight to behold (to the large fanbase he was initially ignorant of) whenever he did not wear his customary long-sleeved dress shirt out. He had reasoned to himself one day, when he had finally noticed his arms (such was the complacency of always seeing himself yet not observing and cataloguing the changes within him) and staring at them through the bathroom mirror, that it must have been all the heavy stuff he had carried by himself over the past years; that, and always climbing up fire escape ladders and jumping up high ledges, could have contributed to the unconscious development of his arm muscles.
His muscles, be them on his arms or legs or body, never did matter much to Sherlock - stamina did, in case he ever encountered a criminal who could outrun him - but he had to admit that they were, on occasion, aesthetically pleasing to the public's eye. It was especially useful whenever he met up with Molly Hooper, Specialist Registrar at St Bart's hospital, to cajole her into helping out with his experiments; those times were in the early days of their interaction, though - after years of working with her, he realised that although he could be considered as part of the definition of 'attractive people' to her, Molly continued helping him out because she wanted to. With a scientific mind like his, she was curious of the experiment results like him, and he trusted her with his experiments that he allowed no one else near to.
Dating Molly had its perks, and one of them was the physical signs she would unwittingly display whenever he decided to 'go casual' and wear a form-fitting t-shirt with dark jeans when meeting her for a day out together; watching her eyes light up and cheeks redden at the sight of him during that time never failed to make his inner masculine ego puff out with pride. Always, at the corner of his eye, he would notice her sneaking glances at him – sometimes quick ones up at his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, and lingering ones on his torso and especially his arms. Of course, he would humour her and sometimes made to stretch out and flex his arms or fold them across his broad chest or just wrap a strong arm around her waist, bringing her closer. He never did realise that Molly knew what he was doing - trying to impress her with his physicality, when in fact she was already long ago enamoured by it - but she let him do it anyway because it helped to make her excited when the night finally arrived and certain 'night activities' commence in either her or his bedroom.
A number of noisy men surrounded a table at St Bart's cafeteria, an uncommon sight to Molly Hooper who had been working at the hospital for years now. Frowning worriedly when she recognised one of her male interns as part of that group, she quietly made her way over to see what the commotion was. The noise coming from them was loud, and she caught snatches of cheering as she came closer. Were they gambling?
Oh no, it was not, and Molly frowned yet again at the weird sight in front of her eyes - before her sat three man at one side of the round table, and one at the other. Her brain quickly recognised the sole male and she rolled her eyes at the spectacle.
Sherlock Holmes was arm wrestling with three men.
What made it hilarious to watch was that Sherlock was actually arm wrestling with three men. Her Sherlock, who deigned human interaction and scoffed at the notion of mingling with others. But down here the atmosphere absolutely reeked of testosterone and masculinity, one that Molly thought she could physically choke on if not for the fact that something had distracted her - the mouth-watering sight of Sherlock's rolled-up sleeves on his right arm, which exposed his forearms and framed his biceps in an enticing manner.
She watched as her man let out a faux yawn with his other hand that was not engaged in the activity while the other three men at the other side of the table struggled to bring down his arm – then Sherlock slammed his hand down, bringing the trio's set of arms down as well. They actually jostled each other accidentally due to the impact and they fell down, the surrounding crowd of watchers cheering loudly at the winner.
Sherlock glanced at his supporters, a smirk in place, and looked ahead once more to see who the next weakling who dared to challenge him was. Before him sat his petite Molly with her sweet innocent face and sweet innocent smile. He was suitably shocked she was there that he did not notice that her smile held a hint of mischievousness in it.
With the smile still in place, Molly held out her arm, putting it in the starting position, and Sherlock looked on with a small frown. He decided to play along and allowed a smirk to appear on his lips in response to her smile. As soon as he placed his hand in the cradle of her own, she surged forward to give him an unexpected peck on the lips, rendering him immobile for the moment at the surprise attack, before she pushed his hand down and slammed it against the table top.
Realising her game plan too late, Sherlock let out a laugh at her ingenious plan to take him down. Watching and hearing him laugh never failed to make Molly's heart lift in happiness, and she leaned forward across the table again to give him another kiss on the lips, this time longer. Surrounded by the catcalls and whistling by the few men still surrounding them at the display, Sherlock lifted his two hands to cradle her head between them, deepening the kiss. When they parted, both her hands trailed up the length of his long muscular arms up to his broad shoulders, and she cupped his jawline with her hands while whispering to him, a mischievous glint in her eye, "Why don't we put your hands to better use, this time on me?"