A/N: This is just pure smut. Ignore it, if you like. Thank you the-doctor-wtf, for your help!

Stairs were dependable. They didn't move, except if the ground did, but the ground never really moved in London. In the case of any emergency one was expected to take the steps. They'd get you to the exit, every single door would be marked, and there were still emergency lights. Elevators however could suddenly stop, or inexplicably start plummeting towards the ground, even if you thought you'd calmly try a trip.

Stairs were easy, accessible, you knew where to walk, while in elevators people could place themselves wherever they wanted, shoving, talking into phones, and then you were pressed into a corner gasping for air due to all the people. She, Molly Hooper would take the steps, after a quick gander on the elevators. Often she'd say to herself, "Well, it's a bit of exercise, you know," but she never really needed the training. She ran as often as she could, ate healthy foods, did have an occasional chocolate, or several bags of chips. She wasn't fat, but that didn't mean that her mode of moving was elevators. Stairs were frankly better, comfortable too, if one were not to fall down them, but she strictly wore flats to work – so there would be no issue there.

Why was she terrified of elevators? She wouldn't really use terrified to describe her feelings, merrily discontented, possibly slightly vary, but not terrified. She would not start shrieking if she had to take one, especially if the route were to the sixteenth floor, because persuading any friend to take the stairs with her was futile. Molly would just start counting in her head, one, two, three, four, until they'd reach the floor, preferably with her nails digging into the arm of her friend. She was calm about the subject, mainly, because she wasn't often subjected to elevators. The bodies that were in the morgue weren't ones she wheeled in herself, so being trapped in an elevator with a corpse was out of the question; in general elevators were of no use to her.

She never really assumed that she'd find herself a cure for her fright of lifts, but that was because she never knew how to solve it.

She'd had a late shift, neck strained, eyes weary, as she'd finally finished off her last bit of paperwork. It had been a long night, with a lot of lab-work, which wasn't her favourite bit of work really, as she was more interested in the minor details, or histories of the bodies themselves. Not in a morbid sort of way, after all it was her work, she was allowed to be intrigued by the various injuries people were inflicted, and the bruising that came post-mortem. When she'd finally shut the lights off, removed her white coat, and was heading into the direction of the steps – she was suddenly pulled along, a hand firmly on the small of her back guiding her back. She stared bewildered at the familiar figure leading her away. "Sherlock!" she said a bit more high-pitched, than she'd planned. He had the tendency to creep up on her unexpectedly after hours, claiming it was of national importance or whatnot.

There he was in his familiar coat, his dark curly hair, and immense blue eyes, trying to charm his way into her working into the late hours.

"Molly, I do hope you aren't leaving already," he said with a cheery voice, and a smile that suited it. He gave her the look that would surely win her over, as always.

"Oh – I was just – on my way – out, actually," she said, trying to stop up, but his hand kept pressing her forward, "I've not – eaten."

"Dinner," he said bringing forth a bag of chips from his pocket.

She frowned at him, intending to try at least to dismiss him, for once, but she was suddenly aware of where she was standing. They were right in front of the elevator; the doors opened swiftly, and she stared agape as Sherlock entered, "Err – it's a bit, late," she said trying to gesture towards the steps.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, his finger touching the button to keep the doors open, "Molly – it is very important - it would be nice if you could assist me – however I do understand if you have to leave, but I must say – that is a nice new top you're wearing, the colour suits you."

Bastard.

She looked down at her red cardigan, a flush creeping up her cheeks, but she looked uneasily at him in the elevator, "You know, I just, actually, I – could – just, you know – I'll take the steps, I need a bit of a jog."

Sherlock stared, his eyes narrowing, as his finger was still firmly on the open-button, "Molly, you recently lost a few pounds. You aren't in need of any exercise."

She blinked slightly, he was always so bloody aware of everything. "Oh, you know – the bag of chips-," she had started to say, when he grabbed her by the elbow, and steered her inside.

The doors were suddenly shut on her, her head swiftly turned towards Sherlock who was looking at her in newfound interest, clearly wondering why on earth she seemed to be panicking. She wasn't panicking, she was counting - one – though, "Two," she said out loud, was perhaps not how she thought it would go down.

He tilted his head, clearly bewildered, "Molly, why are you counting?"

"Three – no, it's just – four – I just, it's a game-,"

"A game? I'm not aware that one played games in elevators?"

"Five – kids you know – six-," she said taking a deep breath.

"Molly?" he questioned, but the elevator had stopped.

The doors burst open, and she rather tumbled out catching her breath, "Seven," she said clutching her chest, hands soon on her hips, as she tried to look somewhat normal. It failed miserably; as she caught the look he was giving her.

Sherlock exited the elevator slowly, and ever so calm, observing her rather intently, "Childhood trauma?" he said after a minute, of looking from her flats, to her face, as if he could read every detail in her clothing. Fright of lifts, had to be written somewhere on her, but she supposed the counting did most of the job.

Molly's eyes were diverted to the closing doors of the elevator, before she managed to say, "No – just – you know – it's –," she blurted, until she rather lamely said, "I'm not fond of elevators."

She tried straightening her clothes, brushing some non-existent substance from herself, hoping he'd not ask any more questions. Sherlock however, stood unfamiliarly close to her, eyes still taking her in, before he said, "We'll fix that later."

Her heart dropped.

He gave her a smile, "But for now – could you wheel out a Mr Harold Phillips?"

She felt relieved, a question and task she could handle. Now she did it with more ease, hoping he would forget to fix her problem.

When he'd meant later, it didn't end up being the same night, or even the weeks following. A part of her was scared of Sherlock's method of fixing what was clearly just a minor thing - would mean him locking her up in the lift itself. It seemed however that he'd forgotten the entire thing. He walked the steps along with her, having no issue, and perceived with fascination how she'd automatically wander to stairs. However it was unlikely for him to forget anything, for he loved a challenge, and she could only begin to suspect what dreaded plot he'd managed to concoct for her.

Two months later, she'd forgotten the entire experience, and was working another long shift at Bart's; having had minor cases the entire night, she was about to leave for home when she found herself pulled along by the elbow.

She half-glared at Sherlock who was steering her towards the elevator, clearly determined by the look on his face, which was a serious one at that, "What are you doing?" she asked, needlessly hoping to be released.

He still kept a firm grip on her, but looked down upon her with a pleasant expression. The usual expression wielded after a compliment was given, "A game," he said, using his free hand to touch the button for the lift to appear.

She stared at the numbers, listening to the sound of the machine working, "I don't – I'm fine-," she said unconvincingly, as Sherlock just tutted in reply.

"I think a trip would be good, don't you?" he said, still all-too pleasantly, for her taste, and she hoped he could at least drop the act for her sake.

"Sherlock," she almost groaned in annoyance. She'd rather him request her to stay two extra hours, past her shift, than to go into the blasted thing, but the doors opened – and she could not untangle herself away from his grip. He finally released her elbow when she was inside. She darted towards the doors, but he held her back – the doors closing on her.

Glowering at him, she started to count – luckily in her head this time.

One.

She edged towards the corner of the elevator, her back to the wall, almost bracing herself, as she couldn't well cling to him exactly.

She'd managed not to the first time, even if she felt tempted to dig her nails into him – not all reasons were of fright.

Two.

Sherlock was giving her an odd look, with his hands idly clasped behind his back. She shut her eyes, for a second, trying to remain calm.

Three.

There was a sudden tug in her stomach; the lift had stopped, she opened her eyes, and saw he had a gloved finger pressed upon the stop button. She gasped, not moving from the spot, "What are you doing?" she thought she shouted, but it was a barely audible whisper.

Four.

He slowly moved towards her corner.

Five.

Suddenly he had either hand pressed upon the wall, he looked down upon her, the smell of him intoxicating – she'd never been this close to him before.

Six.

He moved his head, towards her neck, his lips brushing faintly on her pulse. She sighed, not knowing what to say, or do.

Seven.

She stopped shaking, her breath less erratic, now deep, as he left a bare hint of a kiss on her pulse – his lips felt tender upon her skin.

Eight.

He took a step back, raised a brow at her questioningly, as if seeking approval. Her pulse started to rise again. His blue eyes had a look she'd never seen, the blue almost gone, his pupils clearly dilated, and she wondered if it was the lights. He lifted her chin up, studying her face, for a moment.

Nine.

His eyes fluttered in the direction of her lips, her own lips parted, a word almost breathing out of them, "Sher-,"

Ten.

His lips smothered hers, pulling her towards him, his hands firmly on her backside; as his mouth ravaged hers.

She forgot to count.

She opened her mouth to his, tasting him, lips against lips, from tender, to demanding; possessing her mouth, her arms went around his neck, she was losing her breath, he kept her in the corner, hands burning her skin, he felt warm against her, the heath flooding to her downstairs, he bit gently down on her lower lip, and then –

He stepped away, his warmth leaving her, as she stood half-falling in the corner.

The elevator was moving yet again, she blinked at him foolishly, as he stood there so coolly, looking as if he disapproved her reaction.

"Goodnight Molly," he said, as the elevator stopped, and he got off – the doors closing behind him.

It wasn't until she was on the ground floor, and the janitor was getting on that she realised she was still in the elevator.

Weeks past, the kiss was never mentioned; he never spoke a word of it, and she didn't know how to guide a conversation into that direction. Her fear for elevators had certainly abated, not knowing entirely why, but she had a certain knowledge when she'd brush her fingers against her lips. The memory of him was still clear in her mind, how odd a thing to do, even if it was a cure to her problem, and it wasn't his to deal with anyway.

Another night, she had almost taken the steps, out of habit, but took the elevator instead; occupying it without thought, a slight count in her head, due to the habit. The elevator stopped at a floor, she stepped aside for the new passenger, and looked up in surprise.

"Molly," he said, his hands soon folded behind his back, as he stood there acting like he didn't have a care in the world.

She didn't know he was at Bart's, in fact she hadn't seen him the last couple of days, and had just assumed he was dealing with his studies at home instead.

She frowned, not knowing what to do, her mind reeling, the habit of counting leaving her entirely, as she had her hand pressed on the stop button. It was only when the elevator stopped, that she knew what she'd done, feeling stupid, but determined nonetheless.

Sherlock looked at her in amazement, "Molly," he said, almost warningly.

She stood on the spot, uneasily, hating the yellow light in the enclosed space,

"Why did – you – kiss me?" she asked, to her own astonishment. She felt herself flush at the question, her eyes flickering to the floor, until she raised them up again.

"Sorry?" he said, as if it was some imaginary fantasy she'd made up herself. For a single moment she thought it, but he hadn't made the elevator start moving either.

"Why?" she said, a bit more clearly, and stronger now.

He gave to sigh, "It was an attempt to aid you, I supposed an agreeable memory on your behalf would be helpful," he said in the deep voice she'd grown accustomed to, the one that reeled off deductions, "I believe it was, or you would be counting."

"I still count," she said without thinking.

"You do?" he questioned, the corner of his mouth edging upwards.

"A little bit, that is, at least – inside – my – head," she said feeling silly.

He smiled, "Ah, well I would say you are cured, Molly," he said his finger edging towards the button.

It was sheer bravery that made her clutch him by his shirt collar and bring his lips crashing down on hers. Only a fleeting second she thought she was an idiot, but his hands were soon on her waist. He returned her kiss fervently, and she pushed him up against the wall.

Sherlock seemed astonished by her strength; a moan escaping his lips, but her mouth muffled his shut.

She pulled back, looking at his face; his eyes dark yet again – it was then her brain disconnected entirely, "Molly," he breathed.

Without further ado, her hands were upon the bulge of his trousers. His eyes widened, her hands were not idle in their attempt of opening his trousers, and soon enough she was on bent knee with him in her mouth.

His arms were stretched out on the wall, as she took him fully in – tasting him – she clutched him at the hips, until her hand held him, bringing him further into her mouth, teasing his cock with her lips.

Sherlock moved towards her, his hips jerking automatically, he tried to hold them still, clearly attempting to have some restraint; she heard him breathing, moaning, and losing control to her. Her eyes flickered upwards, his blue ones were boring into her brown, and suddenly he was spent inside her mouth.

Molly licked the edge of her mouth, biting her lip, as she slowly tucked him back inside his trousers, buttoning him up, before standing up – and touching a button, for the lift to move.

There was sweat on his brow, a small hint of flush on the pale skin of his. She beamed at him, "I've got to get off here," she said, as the lift took to halt, and she walked steadily out.

The doors shut on him, his eyes wild, as he tried to understand what had just happened.

Two days had passed. She didn't feel sorry, not even close, and he'd been there both those days. He was always with John tagging along, on an important case. Her trips to the elevator were unnecessary at best, but she kept on going anyway – even for one floor. Today, it was warm, hot for a September day, her skin prickly, as she stood in the elevator, papers clutched to her chest, staring at the number, "Four," she said with a slight grin, as the doors opened letting two passengers in, the passengers being John and Sherlock.

"Hello," she said cheerily, with a tiny wave, her body tingling at the sight of him.

Sherlock seemed almost startled, taking half a step backwards at the sight of her. John however did not pick up on this, entered the elevator without thought, grinning at, "Molly," he said, crossing his arms.

Sherlock went inside, rather slowly, putting his back to hers, while John stood besides her staring curiously at his friend.

"Finished with the case, then?" she asked, slipping some of her lose hair behind her ear, trying to ignore the man in front of her.

"Oh, yes, finally," said John who eyed his friend inquiringly, "What's wrong? Sherlock?"

Molly looked down, not wanting to see his face, for he seemed to be dismissing her entirely.

"John, I seemed to have forgotten my phone," said Sherlock who seemed a bit at a loss, patting his pockets.

Molly looked up from staring at the floor, she couldn't see his face, his back still facing her, but she held her breath anyway.

"And you expect me to get off the lift to get it for you?" said John with a frown.

"I am tired, John," said Sherlock with a voice, that resembled a man on his wits end.

Molly raised her brows.

John looked at him doubtfully, "You're tired?"

"Yes, I am bit overwhelmed," he said.

Molly felt she could feel the smile of his, in that answer.

"You said it was barely an eight," said John snorting, but Sherlock finally turned around giving him a look.

"Right, fine," said John walking towards the buttons, pressing for the floor, clearly disgruntled, but taking it in his stride – believing his friend to be worn, for he'd been strange those couple of days.

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock.

The doors opened to the ground floor, but Molly didn't shift.

"Aren't you getting off here?" John said his head turning to her in surprise.

"No - I – I forgot something – my keys," she said rummaging through her bag briefly, for show.

John pursed his lips, gave a bit of a nod, as the doors shut yet more.

The three of them were entirely silent, until Sherlock with a brief turn of the head said, "Molly, is that a new skirt?"

John looked at his friend baffled.

"Yes, it is," said Molly in return.

"It suits you," he said, his back to her again.

"Thank you," she said biting her lip.

John blinked several times, shaking his head a little, "Well, I'm getting off-," he said leaving the elevator, "I suppose Molly – you're-," he started.

"This is not her floor, John," interjected Sherlock, pushing the number to another floor, smirking at his friend, while the elevator doors shut. John was still gaping, when the doors closed on him.

Molly waited, wondering what he'd do next. He'd clearly lied, and so had she.

"You were counting," said Sherlock, his back still to hers.

"I – was-," she said, "Yes."

Sherlock pushed the stop button, his head turning to hers, as they collided towards one another, hip against hip, he shook off his coat, kissing her from neck, to earlobe, to the edge of her mouth, as her arms fell around his neck – her bag colliding against the floor, forgotten.

"Molly," he breathed, breaking away from her mouth, "Count."

His face almost stern, mouth half open, eyes peering into her brown ones, until his forehead rested upon hers; they both breathed deeply, pulses high, before he carefully brushed his lips against hers once more. The kiss turned hungrier, tugging, biting on her lower lip, tasting her mouth, as her nails dug into his back.

One.

His knee kept her legs apart, as his other hand kept her hands over her head.

Two.

Her knickers were damp, his fingers on the fabric, tentatively feeling her, as she gasped in their kiss.

Three.

He was inside her wet folds, teasing her, before bringing his fingers to his lips.

Four.

He lifted her effortlessly up, her back against the steel wall, as her legs snaked around him.

Five.

He released himself from his trousers, his erection persistent on her, he pushed the fabric of her knickers aside, pressing himself inside her wetness, his hands clasped on her bottom, her skirt riding up.

Six.

He pushed into her, groaning, she moaned at the feel of him inside her, her walls clamouring, her hands tangling themselves into his hair, his breath on her neck.

"Sherl-," she started, he silenced her with a kiss, panting against her mouth.

Every single bit of her tingled, his touch hot, the warmth of his body, unimaginable, the scent, and the taste of him surrounding her. He pounded into her roughly, her moans, becoming cries of passion, he continued to taste her mouth impatiently.

She gave a cry, a feeling of warmth spread to the very inch of her toes, a shoe falling to the floor, as he spent himself inside of her. He gave to moan, kissing her mouth persistently, until his pulse calmed. They stayed for that a while, his strength slowly leaving him, his forehead resting on hers, her hands on his face, as he still held onto her tightly- his face soon buried in her neck.

He cleared his throat, looking at her, almost seeming embarrassed, she gave him a soft kiss on the lips, smiling, before he gently disentangled himself, putting her back onto the floor. Her legs felt wobbly, her skin flushed, as she tried to catch her breath.

He looked like himself again, however - his hair was in disarray, shirt clearly ruffled, but his coat was back on hiding it away. She backed away from the wall, standing in the middle of the elevator, wondering if it would be forgotten, too, but found him kissing her neck once more. She looked at him in wonder, he gave a smile, as he handed her, her shoe. She took it, grinning, slipped it on, and picked her bag up again.

He released a breath, touching a button, so the elevator was yet again in movement. His hand took hers all of a sudden, giving it a squeeze, releasing it, when the doors opened. She didn't know where to look, feeling a bit confused and flustered, as the doors opened to John.

John stood staring at the pair, clearly annoyed, "Your phone isn't here, Sherlock. I looked everywhere, it could possibly be-," he stopped up, "How come you're still here, then – and not downstairs?"

"I found it, John," said Sherlock, bringing forth the phone out of his pocket, "I was in the wrong."

"Were you now?" said John eyeing his friend, until his eyes landed on Molly – he faltered, clearly thinking, and then he said, "You know, I think I'll take the stairs." The doors closed, with no complaint from either party.

From that point on John always took the stairs.