Disclaimer: I own nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!
Sherlock never thought he'd find himself in his current position. He was bound quite thoroughly to the armchair in his living room. Nylon ropes kept his arms secured to the armrests, and his legs were spread wide by a metal bar with leather straps at each end. He was tied at his chest as well to keep his back straight. His own scarf worked as a blindfold. That was the only thing on him that could even remotely be considered clothing.
He tested the bonds by shifting his arms and hands slightly in several ways, flexing and unflexing his arms to feel the give of the rope, but it didn't loosen no matter how much he shifted. Though he couldn't move freely, he also wasn't very uncomfortable. On the contrary, the person that bound him had been very careful to cause the least amount of undue stress or pain when securing him.
Sherlock Holmes was naked and completely restrained, yet there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Apparently, his minute struggling and testing of the rope was more noticeable than he intended, because there was a sharp tap on the back of his right hand, almost like a teacher reprimanding her student with a ruler. Except, of course, what he was hit with was most certainly not a ruler, but a riding crop.
He let out a sharp hiss but was quick to stifle it, though his breathing had increased by the smallest amounts. That alone had his tormentor letting out the slightest of giggles before that too was stifled.
He didn't particularly like the bite of the leather. Pain was not his reason for allowing this situation. It was the lack of control, the ability to fade into subspace, that he craved. He learned, completely on accident, that this woman could bring him to that subspace with a finesse and ease that even The Woman lacked.
Her methods were never particularly cruel or painful. Or at all, really, unless the pain was part of a reprimand. She could make him feel vulnerable, exposed in the most raw sense, all without damaging him mentally or physically. One would consider it a hard task, to bring the world's only consulting detective to his hypothetical - and sometimes, very literal - knees, but Molly Hooper did so extraordinarily well.
Another sharper tap was delivered to the inside of his left thigh. This time, he managed to suppress the hiss. Though he couldn't see her, he turned his head towards her as she tsked.
"You need to pay attention Sherlock. You're wandering off again. You know it annoys me when I'm ignored." She said. There wasn't any true upset in her words, so obviously she wasn't too bothered by it. She was even used to it by now, in the moments before she truly started. It was simply difficult for him to not examine everything he could, to over-think to the point of momentarily forgetting her presence. She further proved her unending patience by ruffling his hair in what could only be called an affectionate manner.
He let out a soft sigh at the touch. Of course, that sigh was what drew her hand away.
This was an exercise in patience and self-control, not pleasure.
Yet.
Sherlock swallowed slightly at the unbidden thought. His hands grabbing onto the edge of the armrests to keep them from twitching as his mind fought to stay in control. Already, he could feel it slipping, and they had barely even begun. The realization that she could affect him so fully should have bothered him. He craved control, at least of himself. Instead, he longed for these moments that control was not his own. He craved her control.
Slowly, she traced the contours of his body with the tips of her fingers, the crop having been set aside or possibly in her other hand. It annoyed him slightly that he couldn't say which.
She outlined his cheekbones and his lips before following his jawline up to his ear then into the hollows of his neck. He swallowed again, harder this time. She paused midway through tracing his carotid artery, and her fingers pressed in slightly. She was taking his pulse, he realized with a soft exhale. It caused him to take closer stock in his body as well, noting that his pulse was higher than normal. His cock, it appeared, found her light touches very enjoyable indeed. Previously flaccid despite his nudity, it began to harden as she continued on.
Without his sight to aid him, every other sense was working overtime. Every brush of her fingertips was like a live wire under his skin. The aroma of the floral shampoo and body wash she used was his air. Every breath she took, every shift she made, was magnified until everything he felt, heard, lived, was Molly.
She traced the spaces between and under his collar bone before moving down to draw intricate little designs on his chest with her fingernails as she worked her way to one of his nipples. It was hard under her fingers. A shiver ran down his spine as she circled it with the tips of her fingers and gave it a light twist before moving on.
She paused once more over the roughened scar on his chest, where the bullet had entered. She caressed it gently before placing an open-mouthed kiss in its center. It sent a jolt through him as his mind suddenly brought up images of her kneeling in front of him, between his legs and -
Her nails, grazing parallel paths down the flat plains of his stomach, drew him from his thoughts. His breathing hitched, and his cock twitched in anticipation as her hand drew closer. He was fully hard now thanks to his imaginings and her teasing movements.
She drew so close, her fingers skimmed his hips - When had her second hand come into play? - before skirting along the tops of his thighs. His legs were vibrating in his effort to stay as still as possible, not wanting to break the course she was on.
Then, her hands were gone. Though he'd deny it adamantly if asked, there was no mistaking that Sherlock actually whined at the loss of contact.
He listened hard, trying to pick up her footsteps or breathing, trying to figure out what she was doing. Still in the living room, not moving, four steps away. Straight ahead. He settled in a position that, had he been able to see, would have been staring at her.
There was a rustling of fabric, her shirt being lifted over her head before she dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor. Which one had she been wearing again, the yellow one with the frilly neckline, or the lilac with the long sleeves? He couldn't remember, couldn't pull the image from his mind right now. Should be alarmed by that. He wasn't.
Sherlock strained to hear, but she'd gone completely still. She was watching him, perhaps looking him over. He suddenly felt a wave of self-consciousness. His cheeks flushed more so than they already were, and he squirmed slightly against the bonds, feeling the urge to bolt. Again, he knew he should be alarmed by such reactions, but he simply wasn't.
Finally, motion. Sherlock could hear her footsteps drawing closer once more. She stopped less than a foot away. A soft thump, shuffling along the carpet. She was on her knees.
She came between his legs, and leaned leisurely against his left calf, laying her head on his knee. Her left hand drew small patterns into the skin of his calf. Her right hand ghosted up his inner thigh, teasing, coming so close before retreating, only to advance once more. The action drove him insane, becoming his central focus even as he noted her bare waist pressed against his thigh, and her lacy bra scratching slightly against his skin where she leaned against him.
Minutes pasted. She continued to draw the shapes onto his calf, until, slowly he began to recognize them for letters. Those letters, in turn, formed words, endlessly repeating, until he managed to scrape together what she was trying to tell him.
Tell me what you need.
He knew the significance of the phrase, though it had been over two years since she last spoke it. There was only one answer. The word seemed caught in his throat, a hitch in his breath as he tried to get the word out. It should be so easy. He knew what he needed, knew how to get it. The hard part was admitting it out loud.
When it finally came, it was a nervous, quickly spoken syllable that had Molly's hand stilling. She hummed innocently, a sound meant to inquire what he'd just said. He knew she'd heard him, despite the quietness of his tone. He cleared his throat, and tried again.
"You."
Sherlock thought she smiled. The layout of her face changed against his knee, shifting into a new expression. He hoped it was a smile.
She kissed his knee. Definitely a smile then. "Good boy, Sherlock." she muttered. A shiver ran down his spine.
"You may speak freely now." She said more loudly as her hand finally wrapped around his cock. He gasped her name. He'd been hard and waiting the entire time, her teasing motions so close keeping him erect and waiting.
She stroked him lightly a few times, her hand around his cock just as teasing as it had been on his thigh as she drew out the movements. He wanted so badly to thrust into her hand, he was shaking for more friction, more contact.
He said once he had never begged for mercy in his life. Now, we wanted to beg, even grovel, for her to end it now. "Molly, please." He said almost manically.
Her hand was removed. Sherlock's responding sound of protest was overshadowed by his own moan in mid-formation as her hand was replaced by her lips.
He gasped. Had he not been tied down, he would have jerked forward, slamming his cock into her warm mouth on sheer instinct. As it was, his legs shook with the strain of fighting past the bonds and the spreader bar keeping his legs wide.
Molly teased the head of his cock with her tongue, swiping it across his the slit and sucking gently.
He wanted to see her, run his fingers through her hair as she had her petite - but definitely not too small - mouth around his member, but again he was denied by the blindfold and bonds. He could feel the nylon rope digging into his skin. God, he wanted to touch her, stroke her, love her -
She took him farther into her mouth, running her tongue along the bottom of his shaft. Her cheeks hallowed out.
A pained moan was drawn from him, pure and animalistic, hiding nothing. Because he never could hide anything from her. He didn't want to.
She took him in further. His cock touched the back of her throat, and he was lost. With little more than a curse and her name, Sherlock came hard down her throat, spending himself fully.
She released his cock with a small pop as he finished. Sherlock's head lulled back. He couldn't catch his breath. He couldn't think. He couldn't remember, for a few blessed moments, if he had a case, or any thing to do. His mind was blank. He didn't even crave a cigarette, a usual constant nagging at the back of his mind that he had to regulate and turn off when it became necessary to do so.
He knew what he wanted as he came back to his mind over several minutes. He made a mental list. He wanted to be untied. He wanted to be able to pull Molly in, kiss her, and wait the necessary time before he could become erect again and thrust into her tight hot core. He wanted to assure her she did indeed count, promise that for all his failings, he wouldn't fail her ever again.
The blind fold came off, and a gentle hand brushed aside the curls that had fallen in front of his face.
"Sherlock?" Her voice asked caringly.
He sighed, and opened his eyes. She was fully dressed once more in her usual garb, a colorful blouse which, remarkably, didn't have fruit on it, and a pair of beige slacks. The yellow blouse, he realized mutely. He felt exposed in a much deeper sense with her being fully clothed in comparison to his nakedness. What he wouldn't give to change that, strip her down and see all of her before pushing into her.
She smiled softly at him. "I thought you might have passed out for a second."
He shook his head wordlessly.
She began undoing the rest of his bindings, starting with the spreader bar. The leather straps were undone, and he was able to put his legs in a more comfortable, slightly more modest position as he pushed it off to the side.
Next were his chest bindings. She undid the knots in the back before rounding back into his view to pull the rope forward. It joined the spreader bar on the floor.
His arms, she was most careful with. As she untied the first knot and pulled the rope away, the pattern of it was clearly imprinted onto his skin. Sherlock barely suppressed the shiver that went straight down his spine as she gently caressed the abrasions. She was equally caring with his second arm, rubbing his skin lightly and making sure blood flow was normal.
He was free. Still, he didn't move.
Molly didn't seem to mind. She continued to smile as she cared for everything.
Sherlock could tell she was turned on, wet and unfulfilled. Her nipples pushed through her bra. He could see them budding under her blouse. He wanted to taste them.
He didn't move.
With everything tucked away in it's proper place, or in her bag as she prepared to leave, Molly turned one last time to the consulting detective. "I'll be going, Sherlock." She said just a hair too cheerfully.
There was a bit of an awkward silence. She cleared her throat. "Right... ta then!" Again, too cheery.
She left the way she had come.
Sherlock sighed and slumped forward, his head falling into his hands.
He wanted to call her back. Kiss her. Hold her. Drag her to his bedroom and make love to her properly, not under the guise of some play she controlled, no matter how he enjoyed the results.
But as always, Molly Hooper had the control. She dictated everything.
She kept herself from him at arm's length, protecting herself from what she no doubt saw as the inevitable heart break he'd give her when he grew bored of her.
Who was he to tell her he would never grow bored? She was his pathologist, but he was her consulting detective as well.
She wanted to stay safe from him.
Often, he found himself thinking over what had caused her to keep herself from him.
He'd constantly insulted her - not on purpose, usually, but still quite often - before he'd died in the media's eyes.
He'd called her lips and breasts too small. That wasn't true.
He'd made her into a servant, fetching him coffee instead of him just accepting or denying her advances.
He'd gotten high and insulted her ex-fiance.
She'd slapped him for getting high, and turned away from him for the insult. Oh, she came back, eventually, but her trust in him was shattered.
She held herself at arm's length, despite doing this with him.
She had rules. No kisses. No penetrative sex. Keeping herself safe from him.
So, until he could once again accumulate that level of trust, he'd allow her to dictate everything.
After all, he may be on the side of the angels, but he was no angel. What right did he have to damage the purest angel of them all if she no longer wanted him to?
One day, he hoped to caress her skin, kiss her, love her. For now, he simply stood, and got dressed.
He had a case.
Well then... first attempt at this, hopefully I did an okay job XD Sometime, I might do a sequel one-shot... Probably will, but it'll be after I've finished up Possessive Tendencies and Them, unless the plot bunnies hit me really hard before then.
Either way, I hope you all enjoyed this.
Thank you so much to Cumberburch for betaing this - you are the most wonderful person ever!
Any mistakes made are my own.