A/N: Lono got a one-shot, of course she specified something by the Thames Embankment. A walk. Well...there is some walking. If I'm not entirely mistaken. My lovely beta AussieMaelstrom of course oversaw this, and now it is for you to read.
"Life will put you to death, Hooper – live a little." Of course that stayed with her, that one line did, and it would possibly have a bit of power with it, maybe a bit of punch if it wasn't addressed to her by the overly spotty boy, George Smart, who thought wearing shades indoor was cool, but at the time with his adolescent cheeky grin causing spots of pink to rise in her cheeks – she had taken the proffered cigarette that he'd extended to her, lit it up, inhaled a couple of times, turning surely a shade of green, before throwing sick on his pair of white trainers.
That was her first and last cigarette, taken behind Penelope William's garden shed at her classmates thirteenth birthday party, but it wasn't the last time she'd fall for the designated bad boy. In her life bad boys came and went, with all too many giggles and untidy scrawling in her diary, and she thought that with time those overly nice men would be in her perimeter, except the nice men bored her.
The nice men never tolerated listening to her jokes about post-mortems, or interests in fungi. These weren't topics one could bring up over Chinese food, without someone having to excuse themselves from the table for a second. But she didn't want to avoid those topics, those topics were her bread and butter; they were her.
She crossed the boundaries of life and death every single day, knowing full well what George Smart meant, of course that was what he'd told her, when she'd argued against having a cigarette. Cigarettes were for adults, for femme fatales with red lipstick who'd seduce men with blue smoke flickering into their long lashes, spewing out lines that would melt any cravat off. But she'd tried lipstick – she liked flats – and she certainly didn't look sexy having a coughing fit.
Her mother had chastised her having smoked of course, "At least you've tried, now you know how bad it is for you," though this didn't need to be just about cigarettes in her honest opinion. Men weren't all separated into the nice or bad pile, a fact she soon learned over time, since some men flitted between the two, hovering in the grey unknown setting her heart aflutter. There was one man in particular; whom she knew was bad for her. He was like a pack of cigarettes after a hard day's work, making her skin practically burn in his presence, his name rolling off the tip of her tongue during the nights she would lay sprawled on her bed; a man part devil, part angel.
Sherlock.
Bloody.
Holmes.
Her hands dug into her coat pockets, as she fumbled nervously with the contents. There was the ordinary of course; a used tissue, a curled up wrapper from a snickers bar, keys to work, her phone, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter with the picture of a kitten. Find two faults in this picture – yes – two things did not belong, though the latter almost seemed logical.
She liked cats, she owned a cat, and why wouldn't she have a novelty lighter?
Well, honestly the man in the shop gave her the choice between animals and half-naked ladies. The choice was obvious; of course she ended up with the ginger kitten with a blue ribbon around its fluffy throat. Molly could easily see his face, blue eyes narrowed with distain, as he pocketed the lighter, before walking off leaving her under the low light.
It felt dodgy really, like she was some sort of drug-dealer, but it was just a packet of cigarettes; it would seem less serious if it hadn't been dark – mist swirling around like a cloak on the brimstone that she tread upon by the Thames. She wouldn't have agreed, in fact she would have protested quite fiercely against the whole thing if he hadn't made it sound like a case, like he needed her, words flowing in such rapidness that when she finally grasped what she'd agreed to she knew he'd tricked her.
It was easier for him to fool her, especially when she was only listening to that low seductive timbre on the phone, instead of having his face smirk at her, like clockwork, smoothing all her worries with a flyaway remark about her hair. It was her night off, a Saturday even, and she was spending it getting him a packet of ciggies that even a man with his sublime mental capacities couldn't resist when under ennui. There were no patches that could subdue that lethargy, she supposed, but it wasn't an excuse for an absolute filthy habit.
Her mind had reeled however; she was dressed too prettily for her own good, though all of her efforts were hidden underneath her bright red coat, which she wore under strict instructions.
"Wear that red coat of yours – I'll find you," he said before hanging up on her, leaving her to mutter unintelligently at the dial tone.
She'd been walking for about seven minutes, her feet taking languid steps before her, as she knew the road ahead quite well. It wasn't exactly a place to get lost at –the Thames Embankment that was – riddled with people who wandered, some stopping at the poor artists who stood nearby Tate Modern trying to make due, and she'd just keep trotting along hoping he'd find her. He would find her of course, that would be that, there wouldn't be any long conversation between them. No walk in the moonlight, though she could barely see the moon with the mist covering the path ahead of her. She didn't exactly feel particularly safe wandering about in the dark alone, and she almost felt like bringing a cigarette to her lips, since her stride didn't seem purposeful at all, but the idea of him finding her with an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips would cause more injury to her already bruised ego.
She was apparently his dealer tonight, for the man had singlehandedly managed to make most of the vendors steer quite clear of him when it came to the atrocious habit. Here she was aiding him in doing it, a thing that would certainly be frowned upon by his flatmate and landlady who'd been quite proud of his accomplishments in abstaining. She supposed that no man was capable of keeping up with such a thing really, especially Sherlock who was terribly headstrong, but she was certainly pleased he came to her about it.
Though she didn't expect he'd take her small signal to quit cold turkey - by buying him a packet of light cigarettes instead of strong ones – a sign at all. He'd most likely scoff at her for being so unbelievably petulant in even assuming that they would not be as bad as the strong ones…"Molly," said a voice causing her to stop in her stride, swiftly turning round on her heel, but he'd stepped forward out of the mist only for her to full-on collide with his sturdy chest, letting out a tiny yelp.
"You might want to calm down," he said, when he'd caught her by the wrist keeping her on her feet. She could feel her pulse throbbing underneath his firm grip, that swiftly released her, as his brow was tentatively lifted, "Do you have it?"
He could at least make it sound less dodgy.
She snorted, "Sorry, it's just – it's only a packet of cigarettes," she said with a slight grin pulling hair away from her face.
Sherlock's brows were furrowed as he released a sigh, "You bought the light ones, didn't you?"
She gaped, "How di-,"
"You look guilty."
"It's in the middle of the night, of course I feel guilty – it's not exactly like John's going to be happy about this. You've – you've been doing so well too."
Sherlock bit his lip blinking slightly, "I suppose I will have to rectify that, shall we find somewhere to sit, then?"
She blinked. "But – don't you just need the packet?" she said digging the offending cigarettes and lighter out of her pocket.
"I don't mind the company, it does make them last longer," he said starting to walk, as she stood rooted on the spot, until he turned to her, "Coming?"
"Oh, yes of course," she said feeling a bit flustered. Here she was outside of Barts with him, not floundering in a white coat, or trying to be a femme fatale.
He still hadn't grabbed the packet from her, while they wandered in easy silence, she wondered idly what they'd actually talk about, since she didn't find it exactly appropriate to bring up the various darkened lungs she'd held throughout the years.
They found a little area with benches, bare now of course, as there was no view to be had with the thickness of the fog curling around them. You could barely see the people passing by, the lights that were on looked like blurry fairies by the water.
He settled down on one of the benches, which would have given them the perfect view normally, but she didn't feel like pointing it out. Now she had nowhere to look, except at him, not that she actually minded that bit… not at all.
She peered at him from the corner of her eye, her hands resting on the bench, as she'd seated herself with a great gap between them – he was rather edible tonight, for a lack of a better word. It wasn't like he didn't ever look dashing with his indescribable green blue hued eyes or dark curly hair – it was the fact that he wore a leather jacket for some strange reason. She didn't really feel like asking, it would probably be a bit rude, wouldn't it?
"The packet, then?" he said looking rather amused.
"Oh, right," – that – she knew that would certainly dissolve any unsavoury thoughts about him, or she hoped. There was no way he could be any more…the sheer thought vanished the minute he slipped one of the cigarettes between his lips, shielding his cigarette as he lit it – the end of it burning with the familiar glow. A look of instant gratification was on his face, muscles and tendons relaxing, as he slipped into a rather tranquil demeanour, keeping it level in his hand, as he stared at it for a second – almost as if it was a mirage of some kind.
His eyes flickered to her while she sat openly gaping at him, so she swiftly shut her mouth, as his eyes landed on her legs; an unfamiliar expression assaulting his features.
"It's quite a thick fog," she said trying to keep herself from blushing at the way his blue eyes were blatantly looking at her legs.
He ignored her comment about the weather, most likely interpreting it as a desperate grasp for something, "You're wearing stockings. Why are you wearing stockings?" he said turning his eyes away from her legs.
Oh.
She stopped crossing her legs, keeping them firmly pressed together, as if crossing her legs actually said something.
"I just felt like it."
"You were going to spend your evening indoors, weren't you?" he asked, but she could hear in his tone that it wasn't a question.
She frowned, "Well, I like stockings and garters." She wore them before she'd sprinted out to meet him, actually.
"It suits you," he said taking a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around him.
"So – why are you smoking, then?" she asked tentatively blushing, resting her palms on the cool bench.
"Bored," he drawled, "No case for days-,"
"Can drive you mad, I know," she said grinning, "How's John?"
"Fine," he said with a snort.
She couldn't help herself.
"Why are you wearing a leather jacket?"
"The coat would smell of cigarettes," he replied with ease, as he finished off his first cigarette. She stared as he flicked it aside, feeling her lips purse, as he drew another one from the packet.
"Already?"
His eyes sprang to her face, as if judging her for condemning him, "Do you want me to tell John that you are my accomplice, then?"
"Can't you at least take a tiny break before the next one?"
"What am I supposed to do during this break, then?" he said.
She sat grimacing "Talk?"
"About what, exactly?"
"About what's bothering you, and don't say bored," she said with a sigh, "You always say bored, but there must be a reason – you know-,"
"What do you do, then?"
"What?"
"When you're bored," he said rolling his eyes.
"Oh, I keep myself occupied, I suppose."
"There are a very few things that are stimulating enough to occupy my mind."
"Your experiments?" she suggested.
"Dull."
"If you studied something besides tobacco ash, it might be a bit more interesting I think."
"You seemed to find my experiments a bit more fascinating before."
"You just told me they were dull."
He narrowed his eyes, "Now what do you do to occupy yourself, and do tell me the particular thing that employs your mind from dreaded tedium."
"Telly."
He scoffed.
"Dancing," she added in after thought, causing his head to whirl towards her, when he was about to give in lighting his next cigarette.
He took the cigarette from between his lips, "Dancing? You dance? I didn't know you could dance." His eyes swept over her at that.
"Not professionally, of course – just for a laugh, more or less."
"Interesting."
"Why is that interesting?"
"I never thought you would be one for dancing, exactly."
"I sing too," she blurted out, feeling slightly indignant.
"I hope you do neither in the morgue."
She frowned, "I do them for my own amusement."
"This isn't the point where you will demonstrate, is it?"
"No, I'm not going to prove myself to you."'
"Good."
"Anyway there's fog."
"I didn't know that fog made dancing impossible."
"You won't be able to see."
"No, no one would see much through this," he said rather slowly, suddenly throwing aside his unfinished cigarette.
Molly looked at the action in surprise, even more so, when his hand was on her knee, "What are you doing?"
"Experiment," he said.
"What if I don't want your hand on my thigh?"
"It's on your knee, Molly. I would have thought you were familiar with anatomy."
"Sherlock," she said a bit sternly, for her that was, but his hand just pressed comfortably on her knee. She could feel the slow flush creep up her neck, making the tiny hairs on her skin stand up, as she could only silently watch.
"I can remo-," he started, but she didn't let him finish, "No."
"So you're not uncomfortable?" he said with a curious voice.
"Are you?" she asked carefully.
"No."
"Oh, right – what kind of experiment is this, exactly?"
"To relieve boredom, I suppose," he said.
"I'm not something you can experiment with, you know."
"Isn't that why-," his hand started to slowly move past her knee, up her thigh, "- people do it?"
"No," she said with a sharp intake of breath, "They don't exactly do it to relieve boredom." His hand was now past her coat, slowly creeping towards her skirt.
"Frustration?" he said, removing all space between them by pressing up against her side, "If you want me to stop, you can just say," he whispered into her ear, his words tickling her neck.
"Don't," she said, her mouth going dry.
"I won't," he murmured in her ear, when he suddenly pulled her on top of his lap, her back to his chest, and she felt him hard underneath her.
She blinked her astonishment away, for his hand was under her skirt, "What if someone comes?"
"I would rather that be you."
"Why?" she said her heart beating loudly in her chest, when his hand was slowly sliding up her inner thigh, rather playfully, and too slow for her taste.
"Isn't the rule of thumb-," her legs spread slightly, when his thumb slowly grazed her knickers, "- ladies first?"
She didn't disagree, leaning against him properly, feeling his hot breath against her neck, when she slowly leaned back her head feeling him drop a soft kiss underneath her ear, as his fingers hesitantly danced on top of the rather damp surface of her knickers.
His hand reached the top edge of her knickers, almost pulling her skirt up, as he glided into her warmth. She moaned, pressing firmly against him, feeling him push up against her in pure reflex, as his fingers moved in slow circles teasing her folds, before thrusting into her once more.
She gasped, "Anyone could see – aren't you worried?" he said in a low voice, while she heard people talking in the distance, walking past, but fear of being found was soon gone with his fingers expertly driving in her maddeningly slow.
His other free hand, took to opening the buttons of her red coat, cool air hitting her, but that worry disappeared when his hand started to caress breast – her nipple hardening, "You're not even wearing a bra," he said reprimanding her, as he fondled her nipple, pulling at it with his fingers causing her to writhe on top of him.
"You told me not to."
"You do pay attention," he said, and she could hear his smirk, as his fingers slowly slid out, hand off her breast, making her feel immediately cold, "Turn around."
She stood up, trying hard not to smile she turned around facing him with red cheeks, finding him observing every reaction he spurred in her, as she bit her lip – his steely gaze soon on her face, as he smiled.
Molly did not hesitate climbing into his lap, her fingers combing through his dark curls, feeling the edge of his leather jacket, tasting the cigarettes on his tongue, as his mouth hungrily sought out hers drawing her closer to him.
His hands were everywhere at once, it almost seemed, toying with her breast, his hands underneath her coat, as he wrapped his large hands around her waist. She clung to him by his leather jacket, pulling away hesitantly, "Did you wear the leather jacket for me?"
His mouth twitched, but he did not answer. She displayed her pleasure by meeting his mouth once more, nipping on his mouth gently, until a deep groan was emitted from him, and she felt him pushing up to her more keenly.
"Here?" she breathed amidst the kiss.
"Why not?" he muttered in returned.
She stared into those eyes of his, seeing the dilated pupils, the corner of his mouth that was turned upwards – her reply was opening his trousers, the sound almost seeming loud, despite the sounds that surrounded them from unidentified sources.
His hand reached underneath her skirt, pushing aside the thin fabric of her knickers aside, and he was inside her with a growl. She exhaled feeling his thick length fill her.
There was something so wrong with doing it there, on a bench outside, when anyone could discover them any second. She held him to her tightly, while he fervently pushed inside her, her nails digging firmly into his leather jacket, certain if it was bare flesh she'd be clawing at his skin, drawing blood with the pressure.
They tried to keep their voices low, with her clamping her mouth shut, as she put her hand on his mouth, causing one of his eyebrows to shoot up in surprise, but she momentarily distracted him into silence pushing down on top of him – while he drove into her.
Her breathy moans echoed in the mist, sweat appearing on his forehead despite the chilly evening. She removed her hand, smothering his mouth with hers, trying to silence them both, as her body shuddered on top of him – blood rushing to her head. He whispered her name repeatedly, until he finally released inside of her. Molly rested her head on his chest, feeling his thumping heart beneath the leather and his shirt.
"Oi!" someone cried out.
Molly froze before hurriedly jumping off him, closing the buttons of her coat, as they both try their hardest to sort themselves out to the best of their abilities "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" said a voice, belonging to a policeman who appears from the smog looking at them sceptically.
"Having a cigarette," said Sherlock coolly lighting up another cigarette, before his free hand squeezed Molly's, as she just looked at the policeman innocently.
She would always like her bad boys, she supposed – not that she ever really complained.