"Oh, Sherlock - please move aside!" Molly exclaimed loudly when said detective suddenly stopped in front of her mid-pace. The light-haired woman tilted her whole body to the left to get her line of sight back on the television, but the inconsiderate man standing before her seemed to have gotten bigger in width as well.
"For goodness' sake, Sherlock - can you not stop in the middle of nowhere?! I'm trying to watch the telly here!"
"Shh, Molly," Sherlock merely whispered, his eyes focused on her pet cat Toby, who was seated at a corner of the living room cleaning himself; the cat, sensing he was being stared at, looked up and glared back at the human. His palms were pressed together with the fingers resting lightly against his lips and nose - his trademark thinking pose, one would call it.
Instead of obeying, Molly threw her hands up in frustration. "You don't 'shush' me! Go and do your… 'thinking' somewhere else?!"
Sherlock turned his body to fully face the seated pathologist, his gaze now transferred to the top of said pathologist's head. "I'm getting the information. I cannot afford to move now for fear of losing concentration," he muttered; his companion gave up and slumped on the sofa, a fist supporting her left cheek with her elbow propped up by the armrest.
If there was one thing she disliked more about Sherlock other than the fact that when he found a position he claim would help him easily recall important information from the recesses of his Mind Palace he would never ever budge from the position, was that the man was too tall for his own good.
Molly suspected, though, that the man himself knew he was too tall for his own good, and made sure he took advantage of that fact.
"What is that, Molly?" Sherlock called out from his curled-up position in the sofa.
Molly took a sharp intake of air before exhaling it with similar force. She reluctantly opened her mouth again and repeated what she had said just seconds ago.
"Can you get that can of baked beans from the shelves for me?"
"Oh, Molly: I don't know - can I?"
"Oh stop being so difficult!" Molly half-shouted in exasperation; she swore sometimes Sherlock was a 10-year-old stuck in the body of a 35's. "It was you who put away all my grocery that last time and for some reason kept almost a third of them up on the higher compartments, and so since you're here, it's only fair you- are you listening?!"
Sherlock hummed in reply.
"Get me that can of beans, Sherlock," Molly said, her tone of voice one of reluctant resignation.
"Molly, Molly - the least you could do is to show some manners while you give a request."
"Wait - 'show some manners'? Why would you-" Molly stopped abruptly, took in another deep breath, and said in a calmer voice, "Please."
Springing up from his languid position on the sofa, Sherlock strode over to the kitchen. "There - was that so difficult to say, Dr. Molly Hooper?" he smirked, extending a long arm upwards to open the top-most cupboard door and bring down the can of baked beans.
"Very," Molly muttered, unimpressed by the blatant display of height demonstrated by the taller man. Snatching the can from his hand, the short woman stomped over to the stove, the chuckles of the other occupant in the apartment following her.
As she poured the beans into a heated pot, she mumbled just a little too loudly, "If I wasn't so vertically challenged, I wouldn't have needed your help. I could have used the chair and climb up to get what I needed."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in bemusement. "But you didn't."
"Of course I didn't, because you're here; might as well put that height of yours to good use."
"Of course indeed."
Sherlock slowly made his way to Molly, whose back was to him. Easily towering over the woman's petite frame, he stood directly behind her. Feeling the extra body heat near her back, Molly shifted uncomfortably in her feet, trying her hardest to stomp down the flush that threatened to spread over her face.
Sherlock leaned slightly downward to let his head suspend somewhere next to the right side of the crook of her neck as one finger dipped into the tomato base of the baked beans she was stirring. He brought the finger back up to his face and licked the sauce, moaning softly at how it tasted. "Delicious," he whispered right into Molly's ear.
When John and Sherlock visited the morgue for a case that was brought to their attention by - who else - Detective Inspector Lestrade, they were greeted with the sight of the best pathologist in Saint Bartholomew's Hospital doubled over in her seat at the corner of the cool room. Hearing the men's entrance caused her to look up, her eyes shining with tears. With both of the men alarmed at such a sight, John was about to run over to see if there was any comfort he could give to her while Sherlock had immediately started deducing how her day had went from the facts presented to him through her clothing, when a loud giggle erupted from none other than the tiny form in the chair.
"Molly…?" Cautiously, John approached her, hands extending slightly in front of him. "Anything's wrong…?"
"Oh, it's- it's nothing, John- oh, John!" She laughed again, this time harder.
Puzzled, John turned his head behind to look at the consulting detective, thinking he would get the answers as to why the pathologist was like this from him, but said detective had moved away; the doctor turned his head back round again and there Sherlock was, standing next to the laughing woman. His eyes, however, were fixed on a point somewhere on the table Molly was sitting at; he turned his head to look at John, and the latter's confusion grew when he, too, held a larger-than-life grin on his face.
"The case of the laughing pathologist - solved," he said cryptically, and chuckled a deep low chuckle.
"Oh, come off it you two - what's going on?!" John exclaimed, growing a little frustrated by the second.
"Oh, I'm- I'm so so-sorry, John, but I couldn't stop- stop laughing when I saw this!" Molly explained in between peals of laughter. Sherlock smirked beside her, and brought a hand up to John's line of sight.
In that hand held a copy of the day's The Sun.
John rolled his eyes and was about to ask what in blue blazes had the papers got to do with them laughing their figurative heads off when Sherlock thrust the copy into the shorter man's hands. "Page 7. You shall not regret this."
Doing what Sherlock said just to humour the both of them (not that they needed any more humour in their lives for now) , John obediently turned the pages of The Sun, skipping through pages of politics and news of the world, and came to Page 7. There, in bold letters at the top of the page, read The Detective and The Blogger: Case by Case. The article highlighted most of the high-profile cases they both had solved over the course of that year and the previous.
But John knew the instant his eyes set upon the page that nothing that was said in the article was the reason it cracked both the detective and pathologist up.
To sum things up - a picture paints a thousand words.
And the picture that made John finally snap over the height difference between himself and the git standing a few centimeters away from him was of Sherlock with his head looking over a roof of a black car - the only time he remembered the both of them riding a sleek black car similar to the one in the photograph was that time they came back from the Holmes' mansion; they knew immediately a few paparazzi had waited for them outside 221B, and had quickly made their way into the flat.
Apparently they were not quick enough to have noticed a paparazzi taking a quick snap of this scene because beside the tall man, there was a glimpse of blond hair and half of a forehead peeking out from the top of the roof. And all three of them knew whose blond hair it obviously belonged to.
Amid the giggles and chuckles that permeated the air in the morgue, a voice shouted out in utter annoyance. "Oh for God's sake, Sherlock - why do you have to be the frickin' tall one?!"
So! It's something short and simple, just a bit of fun - we all know how much taller Sherlock is than John and Molly, right? I remember a story that I read before where Sherlock sort-of bullies John because of the height difference between them (it was cute! And I don't remember who wrote it, I'm sorry ; ~ ; if it was you, please tell me!). After seeing all those set!lock pictures, and especially that particular one where the photo showed Benedict's head above the roof of a black car and Martin - well, we only saw the top of his blond head - well, yeah, it's my inspiration for this little thing. I hope you enjoyed reading this! :DDD