A/N: Set post series 2. Contains angst and grief induced, non graphic sex.
She knew what they were doing was wrong as soon as their lips touched, but Molly leans into John's embrace anyway. It had been way too long since anyone had kissed her properly, and she wants it as much as he seems to. The right thing would be to turn her head away. Not to let John caress her cheek or unpin her hair to let it fall free. The right thing would be to say 'Thank you.' and 'Goodnight, John' and 'It was lovely.' and then go home to her solitary bed, but she was tired of doing the right thing.
John's touch is soft and tentative. It's as if he's instinctively seeking planes and angles in her face that aren't there and is struggling to compensate. Molly swallows hard as she intuits the reason why and understanding cuts her like a knife. John wants what he can't have, but he's so lonely, he's willing to make do.
She wants to watch his face, but his kisses feel so good. Molly lets her eyelids flutter closed as John grows more bold, gently sucking on her lower lip until she opens her mouth to him. There is a sense of the inevitable, as if she should have known weeks ago when she knocked on the door frame at 221B Baker Street, a steak and mushroom pie in hand, that they would end up on the sofa in this Spartan flat, making love in a futile bid to assuage their mutual grief.
"Can we go?" John tips his head towards the other room.
Molly nods. She can't trust her voice not to crack, she just takes his hand when he offers it and lets him help her to her feet. "My handbag." There are condoms inside, souvenirs from a pathology technician's hen night that she had taken because it would be rude to refuse her hostess, and not because she had any expectation of ever using them.
She'd got quite drunk that evening and quite depressed. The party had been composed mostly of colleagues rather than close friends. Women, Molly was staggered to learn, who had no compunction about over-sharing as they told outrageous stories of sexual exploits in a drunken game of one-upmanship whilst she hid her blushes behind a series of fish bowl-sized Margaritas. When her turn came round she offered the bride advice not gained from personal experience, but from a women's magazine she'd bought in hopes of using the sex tips it contained to drive Sherlock wild.
John's bedroom is as plainly furnished as the rest of the flat. It contains a bed, a desk and a chair. There's a skull on the desk next to the laptop and a framed photograph of Sherlock Molly recognises from John's blog. It's the one he posted so that criminals could tell them apart. It strikes her that this is John's shrine to the man he has lost, and she has to blink hard to ward away tears as her guilt cuts another slice into her conscience.
He drops her hand and pulls back the duvet. Molly moves to stand behind him, slips her arms around his waist, and rests her head against his shoulder as she kisses beneath his ear, inhaling the woodsy scent of his aftershave. They could stop, but she needs this as much as he does. It's a way to offer comfort to John whilst venting some of her anger at Sherlock. Instead of listening to her sensible instincts, she is the one who unbuckles John's belt and lowers his flies. She is the one that guides him onto the bed. She is the one who undoes the buttons of his shirt and pushes it off of his shoulders before pulling her dress over her head.
"You're so beautiful. Such a lovely girl." John strokes her cheek again. There are questions in his eyes. She nods, granting permission, and his touch grows bold again. He reaches for her slip and pulls it over head before kissing her breasts. She kneels astride him in her black satin panties and lacy suspenders. Little nothings she bought because she likes to feel sexy, even if no one ever sees. He licks his lips. She smiles back. They struggle out of the rest of their clothes as they kiss and touch, heedless of where his trousers or her knickers land. John is a considerate lover. He doesn't rush her to readiness with cursory attention to her breasts and clumsy fumbling between her legs like other men Molly has bedded. They are both breathless when they part, ready and eager, but then his expression becomes stricken.
"I don't have any – " John closes his eyes and pushes a palm over his face. It's obvious he hasn't thought ahead this far and now he feels like an idiot. "Oh God. I'm so sorry."
After what happened earlier when they first started to kiss, the lack of condoms raises questions that Molly doesn't want to contemplate about John's sex life, but does anyway. She wonders too, if this is why Sherlock wanted her to keep an eye on him. Because he knew at some point John would need this, and he wanted it to happen with someone who he could trust not to let too many inappropriate emotions intrude into this already complex human equation. But she doubts that Sherlock has factored in the deep current of anger that has been building within her for weeks as she has watched the man who was once an acquaintance and is now a good friend struggle with his pain.
"It's okay." It's an opportunity to avert disaster. They could cuddle. They could do other things and still pretend it was the drink that had let matters get out of hand, instead she kisses him and whispers "I do," before reaching for her handbag. The condoms inside are fruit flavoured and cheerfully tinted. She drops the wrapper of a pink one over the side of the bed, rolls the latex into place as she looks intently into John's eyes, and lays down with her arms open in invitation, gasping softly as he enters her and begins to thrust. They don't talk. They just cling to one another.
There are moments that echo John's first, tentative caresses when he reacts by muscle memory rather than conscious intention and must deliberately compensate. Molly sees flashes of awareness in his eyes when he catches himself and it hurts. She needs to shut off her brain. She needs to stop thinking about Sherlock and if he anticipated this. She needs to stop wondering how John will react when Sherlock finally decides he's going to come home. Molly pulls John closer, anchors her ankles against his back, and swivels her hips as she arches upwards. It's Nan in Radiology's favourite trick for getting that extra little bit of clitoral stimulation. It works, and suddenly the only thought in her head is syncing their motions.
They move against one another in the quiet of bedroom, the only sound that of their hitched breathing. John's eyes are closed and his lips are slightly parted. Molly watches beads of sweat break out on his brow and the muscles of his throat strain as he arches his neck. He's going to come soon, she can see it in his face.
She closes her eyes, chasing her own orgasm. It's close. She can feel it building, her muscles contracting around John's shaft as she rises to meet his thrusts. Her heart is hammering in her chest. Her emotions are running rampant, affection and guilt and a dozen other feelings she has no names for. John cries out and then he collapses against her. "I'm sorry," he says, and then he abruptly pulls away and gets out of bed.
Molly sits up and pulls the sheets around her body as she watches the bathroom door shut. She presses her forehead against her knees, trying to get her ragged breathing under control. She'd known this was a stupid idea. She knew the depth of John's grief, and yet she'd let this happen. Now she had to fix it. She had to figure out a way to make things better.
Her clothes are everywhere. Opting for simplicity, she pulls on her dress and gathers the rest to contend with later before knocking softly on the door that separates them. "John? John, are you okay?" She hears the sound of water running but he doesn't answer. There's really only one thing for it, Molly goes into the other room and puts on the kettle.
The kitchenette is a tiny space in the corner of the main room, little more than the sort of arrangement one might find in a hotel. There's a fridge under the stainless steel sink, a minuscule prep area and a cupboard above for the most basic of utensils and supplies. John has provided his own toaster-oven and kettle. He doesn't eat in much, relying on a nearby café for the meals that don't come in takeaway boxes, but there are a few essentials. Coffee and cereal and milk for the mornings. Bread and cheese and tins of soup for the rest of the time when he can't summon the enthusiasm to deal with more. Tea and biscuits to offer the guests that come 'round to check up on him.
Molly makes the tea strong. She needs it that way, and has a feeling that John might too. There are quiet sounds of activity coming from the bedroom, the wardrobe door opening and closing. John coughing and clearing his throat. He appears, dressed in a grey tee-shirt and joggers, a few moments after the tea is ready. Molly hands him a mug and notices his eyes are red-rimmed.
"Thanks." He won't meet her gaze as he sits against the corner of the sofa, he just stares down at his mug as if he's trying to marshal his thoughts. Molly stirs more sugar into her own cup and sits as well, perching on the edge of the cushion rather than making herself comfortable.
They sit in silence, sipping slightly metallic tasting tea. Molly can't figure out what she's still doing there, she should just finish dressing and make a run for it, but her obligation to Sherlock, and to John keeps her rooted in place.
"I'm sorry."
They speak simultaneously and then look up awkwardly, almost but not quite meeting one another's gaze.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be the person you wanted to be with," Molly manages to say first. Despite being a willing participant, her self esteem is in ribbons, sliced to shreds by each reminder that it was Sherlock that John wanted even though he was making love to her.
John's expression is stricken. His mug lands on the coffee table with a thump in his haste to set it down. "No, Molly. Oh God … " he trails off and reaches towards her, but she is sitting too far away to embrace. He moves closer and tries again and she settles her head against his chest. It's all so awful. He's stroking her back and shoulder, trying to comfort her when he is the one who should be comforted. It's not his fault. Not really. It's not anyone's other than the situation they have found themselves in. "I did want you. I guess I just wasn't ready yet."
"It's late. I should go." She starts to disentangle from John's embrace.
"No, Molly. Wait. Please stay."
He looks so helpless. So fragile. She shouldn't have been so blunt in her apology, but nuance isn't her strong suit, she either speaks her mind or doesn't speak at all. She sits back down and puts her arms around him, wondering if things will be any less awkward in the morning.