“You,” Sherlock slurs gleefully, “are obsessed with my bottom.”
“Am I, now?”
And Molly Hooper grins at him, crossing her arms over her chest. Watching him sway lightly in the (very mild) summer breeze. It’s 10.30 at night and she has just answered her doorbell, only to see John Watson and Greg Lestrade pelting their way from her door, leaving Sherlock leaning against her porch like a rather stiff log.
At least, she muses, this probably means that Mycroft’s stag do went well.