Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This is shameless, utter smut. Enjoy! I'll be back with some actual stories soon.
~ THOSE WHO DOTH PROTEST TOO MUCH ~
So this is what it's like to pray for the sweet release of death.
And Sherlock Holmes- for what feels like the hundredth time in ten minutes- winces at the sounds filling Mycroft's cramped surveillance van.
The moans.
The mewling.
The screams and imprecations to the Almighty .
On the view-screen in front of him an unfeasibly agile young Russian woman is bouncing in the lap of a infuriatingly energetic (and vocal) man.
He is Auguste Lachaine. She is Nadia Komiskaya.
They are both very bad people.
But that is of absolutely no help to Sherlock as he watches the live footage before him with something approaching horror.
For the young Komiskaya is gyrating and bobbing and generally using her partner as some sort of bouncy-castle, all the while chanting in her native tongue about how only he, "can do her just right, baby." Their bed is shaking with the energy of their movements and though the screen is fuzzy Sherlock feels certain he can ascertain dents in the bedroom wall from where the bed's headboard is repeatedly banging into it.
And then there are the sounds besides the vocalisations: the slap of skin against skin. The huffing, puffing breaths of bodies heaving in exertion. There are moans and growls and, Sherlock thinks, a few muffled hisses, the sheer naked longing in them enough to set even his cheeks turning red in both embarrassment and arousal-
But that's not the worst thing about this situation.
Oh no, that's not the worst thing by a mile.
For sitting beside him, listening to this debauchery and trying to look anywhere but at him, is Molly Hooper.
Sweet little Molly Hooper, his trusty pathologist.
Sweet little Molly Hooper, figurative girl next door and all around good bean.
Sweet little Molly Hooper, with whom Sherlock has been spending an increasing amount of time over the last few months and about whom the detective finds himself fantasising more and more, now that her engagement has ended-
And here they are, stuck together in a surveillance van and listening while a loathsome Swiss arms dealer and a prodigiously vicious Russian Mafia princess get their rocks off, and there's nothing either Sherlock or Molly can do about it. Nothing that can possibly make this experience any less horrific. Because the reason they're listening to this is that the only two people Lachaine and Komiskaya trust is one another, and the only place they apparently truly let loose is in the bedroom-
Sherlock is deeply, indescribably unhappy to be able to confirm that this is true.
He is also deeply, indescribably unhappy to have a corroborating witness to this fact in Molly.
But Sherlock's deep, indescribable unhappiness apparently matters not one jot at the moment- Nor his care for Molly's maidenly modesty. For on the screen Lachaine is forcibly flipping Komiskaya onto her stomach and beginning to pile-drive into her again, prompting an even louder, more extravagantly vocal reaction from the young Russian woman.
It is, apparently, "the best she's ever had it, oh yeah, baby."
Lachaine is calling his partner by some rather nasty names and grinning like a simpleton.
At this realisation Sherlock gives in and finally lets out a hiss of disgust, his entire face turning bright red. "What the bloody Hell is that about?" he mutters under his breath from the corner of his eye he sees Molly nod in agreement.
It makes him feel a modicum better.
"I know," she opines quietly, eyes still on the screen and wide as saucers. She sounds… distracted. "At that angle he'll never get anywhere near her clit," she mutters, "he might as well try licking her nose for all the good it will do either of them…"
For a moment Sherlock stares at her, blinking, unable to quite believe she said that.
She'd… He'd… He had no reason to know she ever even thought that.
He sees the moment when her brain must catch up with what her mouth just said, sees absolute scarlet flood Molly's face as she turns to him. Blinks at him. Mortification is written all over her face and she opens and closes her mouth like a fish's several times but nothing comes out: She looks rather like she's lost the power of speech, just a couple of moments too late for Sherlock's sanity.
The detective knows that he should make some smart remark, say something cutting or sarky or even suave and sophisticated but he can't. He just can't.
For once in his life he actually wishes his normal, bastardesque behaviour would assert itself.
Because suddenly his mind is flooded with images of himself and Molly in the position being so thoroughly misused by Lachaine and Komiskaya. (Although in this scenario Molly's clitoris is getting all the attention it damn well deserves. ) He pictures himself and Molly shagging each other senseless, lost to everything but how amazing the other person is. He pictures them doing the same sorts of gymnastic, flexible things Lachaine and Komisykaya are- Except that were he and Molly to enjoy coitus, they're not loud or lewd or obnoxious. They'd not be so hideously melodramatic as all that.
No, when they'd have sex they'd be energetic and wonderful and completely, unutterably sexy as fuck- Well, Molly would be, anyway-
"What was that?" Molly stutters out, and in that moment Sherlock realises that, oops, he may have said that part out loud.
Funny, he didn't really remember giving himself permission to do that.
Molly's looking at him now, eyes still wide, her blush turning from a sweet rose to a deep burgundy, one sweet, perfect tooth gnawing at her sweet, perfect lower lip.
The sight of it is doing unmentionable things to Sherlock.
"I- Um, that is to say…"
The detective's mind is swimming, searching for some sort of lifeline, some sort of way out of his predicament but none is forthcoming.
His brain is running on empty.
Before he can come up with anything however, before he can extract himself from this mess, Molly mutters, "Sod it," and reaches over. Grabs him by his jacket lapels and pulls him to her.
He makes an entirely manful, entirely understandable, "Eek!" noise at this, even as his body smashes into hers with delicious, firm force.
His capacity for making such idiotic sounds is mercifully curtailed however as Molly's lips land soundly on his and she sets about kissing him, he believes the technical term is, absolutely silly. Her hands go to his hair, tugging and stroking, while his somehow instinctively go to her waist.
Then her (lovely) backside.
Then her (even lovelier) breasts.
She somehow manages to clamber into his lap, there in the back of the surveillance van, and as she does he feels something, some hitherto unsuspected, abysmally manful feeling go through him-
He lets out- there's no other word for it- a growl and finds himself tipped backwards in the van, Molly manoeuvring herself over him with remarkable alacrity and vigour.
She really is surprisingly limber.
Sherlock blinks up at her, not quite sure how he managed to find himself on his back and gifted with a lap-full of pathologist but before he can do anything asinine like, oh, speak, Molly grabs him again, kissing him so hard he swears he sees stars- That's not just the oxygen deprivation talking-
"No," she hisses. "No talking. Please, no talking."
Sherlock gulps in air. "That's em- That's, y'know- ungh-"
He doesn't get to finish his laughable attempt at a sentence because Molly once again dives on him and kisses him daft.
It feels bloody amazing.
"No talking," he manages to pant. "Right you are. Carry on, Molly."
And he lets her spread-eagle herself against him, her mouth trying to reach every inch of his skin at once. Within moments his shirt has been pulled open- the buttons pop everywhere- while Molly's little t-shirt has somehow ended up festooning the steering wheel, her bra swinging merrily around the seat-adjuster. She kisses him hard, muttering and swearing under her breath as she eagerly pops open his trouser-buttons and then hunts through his smalls, her hand finding his hardening cock and squeezing it delightedly, as if it's he prize in a particularly debauched treasure hunt.
"You're- that's-" He's breathless trying to find the words, but can't.
What she's doing is too delicious.
"That's- I'm-" Molly too is out of breath too, her gorgeous, devilish smile apparently doing the talking for her-
Without waiting for her to say more Sherlock yanks both his boxers and his trousers down to his thighs, raising his arse up to do so.
The movement almost dislodges Molly but at the last moment she tightens her thighs' grip on him, holds onto him tight.
The weight of it- The feel of it- is so bloody good.
His shaking hands find her jeans' zip and pull it open, skin jerking as he makes contact with the soaking wet cotton of her knickers. With an impatient humph she shifts herself and pulls her underwear down, kicking her way out of them and sending them the way of her bra. Her eyes flicker back to him and for a moment he thinks she'll stall, thinks he sees hesitation in the way she gazes all over his nearly-naked body, her sharp, clever eyes taking every inch of him- He hopes she likes what she sees still-
But then, without saying anything she kisses him again, muttering something about one time being better then no time. Muttering how if this is all she can have then she'll have it and consider herself happy for the chance. And though he knows he should ask for clarification for what that means, well… Well, she's moving now, positioning herself. She's taken him in hand, pumping his length with her little fingers and then… Then…
Then he's inside Molly Hooper, his aching, hard cock pressed snugly into her heat.
He can feel her warmth surrounding him.
Given that position words (and questions) suddenly seem utterly superfluous.
So does anything except thrusting tentatively inside her.
So he does that, presses himself into her. The way her muscles sheath him is delicious, warm and good and wanted. Perfect and utterly her. Her head tips back at the movement, eyes fluttering shut and Sherlock feels an entirely alien, entirely visceral lurch of pride at the fact that he made her do that. That he caused the look of bliss on her face. That it's his cock making her moan. She takes his hands, places them on her hips even as she leans over him, her blunt little nails scratching at his chest. Digging in. She tilts her head forwards, her long hair dragging tantalisingly across his bare chest even as her mouth comes down to worry one hardening nipple. To bite at his collar-bone and suck.
"Like this?" he asks, tilting his hips towards her again and she lets out a delicious little moan. Nods.
"Just like that," she mutters. "Just like that, love, it feels so good with you."
She reaches down and kisses him, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and nipping sharply on it. His hips jerk against hers helplessly.
"I knew this would be good," she murmurs. "I knew you'd feel so wonderful inside me…"
"You feel wonderful too," he breathes out and then instantly feels like a clot: A smooth-talker is one thing he doubts he'll ever be.
Fortunately for him however, Molly doesn't seem to notice. She doesn't even seem to care.
Instead she grins at him, her face bright, her eyes hooded, and then she starts to move her hips. Starts to ride him. Her breasts bounce beautifully with every undulation. His hands come down to rest on her hips, to steady her, even as hers scratch and slide across his chest. Even as she leans back, her weight going onto his thighs, her fingers leaving his chest to scratching against his calves. The backs of his knees.
One darling little foot slides against his side and makes him shiver.
Holding her gaze- asking her permission- he takes one of his hands from her hip and slides it delicately down her belly, watching her eyes warm as his fingers' destination becomes obvious. He brings his thumb down flush against her mons, the hair tickling his skin, and then presses elegantly down against her clit. Her breath catches and he grins as she jerks against him, her voice turning hoarse. Ragged.
"Yes," she mutters. "Right there."
Sherlock moans, letting out a harsh breath, and begins to move faster.
"Show me what to do," he breathes out. "Show me how you like it, darling."
Molly's hand comes down to his, showing him what to do to her, and all he can do is grin through his pleasure as he watches her take her fill.
She opens her eyes, smiles at him. The expression is wild and yet somehow… sweet too. The brown eyes are dark and bright and at seeing this something seems to shake loose inside him, to come free. He's not sure why but he thinks it might be the sight of her, enjoying herself so thoroughly. The sight of her pleasuring herself with his hands. With his cock. Their pace speeds up, becoming ever more merciless. Ever more unforgiving. He's breathing hard now, pressing himself up into her and she's doing absolutely the same for him. He hears her breath falter, sees her throw her head back as orgasm rips through her. The sight of it is so beautiful it nearly tips him over too. Her fingers dig into his flesh, her control finally abandoning her as she continues to ride him through her orgasm-
For a moment Sherlock loses himself, his own control finally snapping.
Without asking permission he pulls her beneath him, hips still pistoning into her as he ruts her furiously into the floor of the van.
She throws her head back, baring her throat. Her nails digging harshly into the cheeks of his arse and it's that, the prick of pain twisted through with pleasure that finally sends him over the edge. That finally sends him freefalling into orgasm.
It's hot and wet and bright and gorgeous.
When he comes back to himself he's lying on top of her, his head against her breast. Her fingers threading through his hair.
He feels spent and languid and completely fucking wonderful.
He also has an unmercifully novel set of new carpet burns from the van floor, all of them in places he doesn't imagine will be easy to get lotion on.
Ah well, he thinks. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Etc. etc. etc.
For a moment he and Molly lie still, not saying anything. The silence is deafening, particularly after what Lachaine and Komiskaya (not to mention he and Dr. Hooper) have subjected the unfortunate vehicle to. It doesn't really bear thinking about. But then-
"Well," Molly says tentatively. "That… happened."
Sherlock can't help his smile. "Yes it did," he laughs, tightening his grip on her. "It did. And not before its bloody time either."
For a moment she frowns at him, his cheerfulness clearly surprising- no, confusing- her-
And then the Swiss arms dealer and the Russian mob princess start up again. The moans fill the surveillance van, the outlandish screams to the Almighty too. Molly's cheeks pink and she tries to nuzzle into his chest, embarrassment making her shy, though why the detective can't imagine.
This bout of maidenly modesty lasts precisely as long as it takes for Sherlock to persuade her that he and she both owe it to themselves and any unfortunates having to listen in at M!6 to give the gits on the view screen a run for their money in the debauchery stakes-
Which is what they spend the rest of the night doing.
The next time they see Mycroft he's gotten his first grey hair.