Scent of a Woman
Synopsis: Sherlock detects that Molly is wearing a new perfume; bored and in-between cases, he becomes determined to figure out what it is. Molly, on the other hand, isn't so sure she wants the consulting detective to solve this particular mystery. Eventual Sherlock/Molly, with humour and romance.
Rating: Strong M for adult situations
Author's note: This is my first foray into Sherlolly – this fandom is too much fun not to join in. Hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing! And I'd be remiss not to offer a huge thank you to Cordelia Rose for her awesmazing beta skills :)
Disclaimer: If I did own Sherlock and company, would I be managing a call centre? No, I didn't think so. I'm just borrowing the characters and having a bit of fun with them.
Scent of a Woman
Molly Hooper took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Blindfolded, she lay on her stomach, naked, her hands bound together securely yet far from painfully. She moved her wrists, twisting them to test the strength of her ties. Soft, yet unyielding, she thought to herself, trying to determine what had been used as a restraint. His scarf, she concluded, the corner of her lips pulling up into a hint of a smile.
Inhaling deeply against the pillow beneath her head, she took in the woody scent of his trapped cologne and gasped. His bed. She'd never been in his bed, had never felt the satiny softness of his expensive sheets against her bare skin, - they'd only ever met in hotel rooms. That he'd decided to take their trysts to a more personal level caused a shiver to travel up her spine.
A quiet sound diverted her attention from the bedding. It seemed to have come from behind her- the foot of the bed, perhaps? Yes, she realized, as the mattress shifted under his weight. Her skin broke into goosebumps in anticipation of what was to come, of what always came when they met like this.
The mattress dipped down at each side of her shoulders and her thoughts turned to his arms - those wonderful, strong arms - as they held him above her. "Molly," he whispered in her ear, the baritone of his voice turning her insides to mush. She whimpered and arched her back, her hands pulling at their restraint, trying desperately to make contact with his body.
He chuckled, his warm breath tickling the shell of her ear. Damn him, she muttered internally. He knew all too well just how much his voice affected her.
"Tut, tut," he chastised. "I didn't say you could move, now did I?" When she didn't answer, she felt him pull back just before she felt the sting of his hand against her rear.
She cried out a surprised "Ouch!" before he repeated himself. "You know the rules, Molly. Did I say you could move?"
"No," she replied breathlessly, her heart beating a mile a minute - but not out of fear. She felt moisture pool at the apex of her thighs, her clit throbbing with need, and squirmed, trying to ease her discomfort.
"Does it excite you when I'm firm with you?" His lips were at her ear again. "When I control when you can speak, or move, or… come?" At the last word, he reached between her legs and slid one exquisitely long finger inside her. "You're so wet," he groaned, using her own moisture to slip in and out of her, circling her clit at every turn. "Come for me, Molly," he whispered, his own voice rough with desire.
All the pressure that had been building released at that moment, and Molly came hard, calling out his name. "Sherlock!"
Molly Hooper looked up sharply, her heart racing. She took in her surroundings and realised she was still seated at her bench in the lab, hovering over her microscope, pen in hand. Shaking the cobwebs from her mind, she wondered how long she'd been daydreaming.
A look at the clock on the wall told her it was just after 2 o'clock. "Shit," she cursed under her breath, looking down at the last notes she'd made. She'd lost almost fifteen minutes to her fantasy. When she moved to readjust her position on her seat, she felt a spot of dampness between her legs. "Double shit," she whined; she'd have to hit the showers before leaving St. Bart's. "Well, at least no one's here to ask me why I smell like I just walked out of a brothel," she muttered to herself gloomily.
At that very moment - because the fates seemed to have it in for her - the double doors leading into the lab swung open, hitting the walls with a loud bang. Molly turned to see Sherlock Holmes storm in, his Belstaff billowing behind him, with all the confidence and arrogance only he could muster.
"A femur!" he called out, his voice bouncing off every metallic surface. "I need a femur! Male, middle-aged preferably, between 175 and 183 cm tall…".
No, no, no… Not now, she prayed, resting her forehead in her hands. Not when her daydream was still so fresh in her mind, the sound of him whispering her name, the sensation of his fingers ghosting across her skin...
"Molly?"
She looked up and found him staring at her, his head cocked to the side. His brow was creased in a frown as he observed her. John had confided in her once that she appeared to be the only person whose body language the detective could - or cared to – read. "He won't catch that I'm an inch from murdering him, but if you so much as look put out, he notices right away," had been his exact words.
"Are you alright?" he asked, taking a step forward, concern slipping over his usual mask of indifference.
"Just tired!" she squeaked, sliding off her bench before he could get any closer. "Toby knocked over one of my potted plants very early this morning and I couldn't get back to sleep," she lied, stretching her arms out then pretending to cover a yawn.
He stared at her, narrowing his eyes as if he were computing her appearance with her story, and - to her relief - nodded slightly as if confirming to himself that he believed her. Sometimes she wondered what it felt like to experience the world as he did - through the mind of a genius; when that happened, though, it was usually a sign she'd had one mimosa too many.
He remained focused on her, blue gaze intense. He craned his neck until he was down to her level, face to face with her. "Femur," he reminded her impatiently.
"Ah, yes. I believe you might actually be in luck, unlike poor Mr Greene," she added, chuckling at her own joke.
They fell in step together, leaving the lab and heading down the corridor towards the morgue. At that moment, Molly was thankful Sherlock was in one of his less talkative moods; she didn't think she'd have the brainpower for keeping up with his mental callisthenics.
She tried to keep her mind on the femur, she really did - Mr. Thomas Greene, aged 49, had died of an anaphylactic reaction following a bee sting and would be the ideal donor, with no next of kin or anyone to claim his body - but it kept veering back to soft sheets, sinfully delicious promises whispered against bare flesh… The pathologist felt her cheeks redden again and coughed, trying to shake her thoughts.
When they arrived at the entrance to the morgue, Molly reached for the handle but jumped when Sherlock's palm shot out against the door, arm locked straight, preventing her from opening it. She opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing but clamped it shut when he leaned forward, inhaling deeply. "You're wearing a new perfume," he observed curiously. Frowning, he closed his eyes, leaning in close enough for her to feel his breath against her neck, before breathing her in again. There was a long silence, which Molly spent frozen in place. His proximity had her heart thumping and her nerves on edge; she could smell his own scent - deodorant, a faint whiff of tobacco and patchouli, which Mrs Hudson burned to cover the scent of her occasional indulgence of marijuana.
She tried to pull her gaze away from his face but her eyes betrayed her, lingering on the sharp angle of his cheekbones before travelling down his strong jaw, finally alighting on the scarf he'd tied around his neck. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch it, to determine if it was really as soft as it had been in her fantasies. He wouldn't have to know why she wanted to feel it - she could always lie (Again with the lies - what's wrong with me?) and say there had been a piece of fluff on it.
Finally he pulled back, his lips pursed in frustration. "I've catalogued the scent of every commercially available perfume, and yours doesn't match up with any of them." He breathed in deeply again, stubborn in his persistency. "Yet it's a familiar scent, heady, musky…" he muttered to himself.
When Molly clued in to what he was smelling, she felt a flush creep up her neck. "Sherlock," she squeaked, pulling him from his thoughts before he met with success and humiliated her more brutally than he ever had before. "I do have a lot of paperwork to finish before my shift ends. Let's go find that femur you need."
Children, dogs and, apparently, Sherlock Holmes were easily distracted by shiny things - or, in this case, body parts. To her relief, the detective immediately veered back on track, eagerly following her into the morgue, the promise of a fresh femur dangling before him spurring him on.
It took Molly well past the end of her shift to complete her paperwork. Sherlock's interest in her scent certainly hadn't helped her state of mind, his proximity shorting whatever little circuitry had still been functional after her daydreaming. Damn him and his 'sniffing', she cursed internally, her hand coming up to caress the part of her neck his breath had fanned against.
A quick shower helped restore her mood and her frame of mind. As she slipped her coat on, her thoughts turned to the spot of shopping she'd promised herself - a treat for having worked through the Christmas holiday, covering Mike's shift while he visited his ailing mother in Kettering. Her only remaining family - her sister - had moved to Australia so, in the absence of family get-togethers, she'd offered to help her boss out. It certainly hadn't hurt that she'd been paid overtime for the extra hours - hence her current shopping trip.
When she finally made it outside, Molly shivered and pulled the lapels of her coat together. The weather had turned bitterly cold since she had entered the hospital that morning and the wind had picked up, going through her winter coat as if it were made of light cotton. That'll teach you to skip the morning weather forecast, she mused sourly, wishing for her scarf and mitts. She flagged a taxi to get to her destination - it was too far and much too cold to walk - and was relieved to have one pull over immediately.
"Regent and Great Marlborough," she instructed as she sat down. The cabbie nodded and started the meter. He glanced quickly in his rear-view mirror, taking a moment to appraise her. "Weather took a cold turn since this morning, dinnit?" he commented as he pulled into the heavy rush-hour traffic.
"It certainly did," Molly agreed, her attention focused outside the car window at all the other commuters who seemed to have been as caught off guard as she had. Folks were in more of a rush than usual, bare fingers clasping their coats tight against their bodies. A few of the wiser people donned hats and mitts, but they were few and far between.
She was grateful to the cabbie for the quiet he gave her - he somehow understood she wasn't in a chatty mood and seemed to respect that. Although Molly was usually more than happy to carry a conversation over a short journey, the day's events had left her mentally exhausted. Her encounter with Sherlock had affected her more than it should have, and that bothered her. She thought she'd been over that phase of her life: the stuttering, the fawning, the worship of Sherlock Holmes; she'd become her own woman in the years of his absence and it had, to her astonishment, improved her standing with the consulting detective.
Sighing, she realised what she really wanted more than anything right then was to crawl under a blanket and finish reading her book, with Toby on her lap and all thoughts of Sherlock Holmes pushed out of her mind.
Before she knew it the taxi had stopped. "Regent and Great Marlborough," the cabbie announced. Molly exited the cab and paid her fare, bracing herself against the bitter winter wind. She thanked him when he handed over her change, and made a beeline for the entrance to the nearest store.
She practically ran into the first store, relieved at the wall of warm air that hit her as she walked through its doors. Scanning the racks of clothing, she realised her heart really wasn't into shopping. That's enough of that, she chided herself, you can't spend all of your evenings holed up in your flat, reading.
A plum coloured pleated skirt caught her eye just then, giving her shopping spirit a shot in the arm. She grabbed it, as well as a grey sweater with owls on it, and headed for the fitting rooms.
Molly walked into H&M invigorated. Although the skirt and jumper she'd initially tried on at the first store hadn't worked out, she'd still managed to find a comfortable pair of work slacks, two blouses and a pair of socks with cats on them. Cheered by her success, she approached the Swedish retailer with renewed enthusiasm.
Head down as she flipped through a rack of assorted tops, she didn't notice someone was beside her until she bumped into them. "Oh, I'm so sor…" she began to say, before realising who was standing before her. "Sherlock? What are you doing here?" All the stress that had dissipated with her shopping success flooded back in an instant and she felt herself tense up even before he answered.
"I came to find you, of course," he replied as if that was the only possible answer. His face was neatly arranged into an innocent mask, but she knew him better than that. Sherlock Holmes was up to something.
"How did you know I was here?" she demanded, eyes narrowed. Little of her patience remained for his shenanigans. "Sherlock," she warned, in a low voice, "you didn't place a tracking device on me, did you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," he dismissed, looking at her as if she had suggested he take up the art of divination. "I've had my network keeping an eye on you."
"You've had me followed?" she replied, her voice rising. Molly looked around her, trying to notice anyone among the other shoppers who looked out of place. "This is too much, even for you."
"I don't have a choice," he growled back, all pretence of innocence slipping away.
They'd started to attract the attention of other shoppers, so Molly tugged on his elbow and pulled him off to the side. "What do you mean, you don't have a choice?" She wondered if this was one of those instances where he'd had an imaginary conversation with her and expected her to know about it.
His blue eyes flashed with an intensity she'd never seen outside of a case. "James Moriarty used you to get to me. You were my most indispensable ally in my feigned death. It'll be obvious to anyone now that you do count, and I'm not letting anything happen to you." His last words came out in a rush as if he'd had to push them out, rolling off his tongue as one long word.
Molly stared at him for a long minute, processing what he'd said, the meaning of his words. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed to squeak out a small "Oh."
They shared an uncomfortable silence before Sherlock straightened up, his mask slipping back on. "Ah, yes," he muttered to himself, as if remembering something. "Well, now that we've got that all sorted out, let's have a hug, shall we?"
"Sherlock, what are you…oof!" Before she could process what was happening, the detective had pulled her into an awkward hug, his body rigid, his hands tapping her on the back robotically. Just before she was about to pull back, she heard him take in a few sharp breaths.
"Are you sniffing me?" she asked, completely flustered by his behaviour.
"Of course not," he denied, dismissing her question with the wave of his hand. He began to falter under her flat, disbelieving stare. "Well, maybe a little…" More staring led to more squirming until he finally caved. "Alright, yes, I was 'sniffing' you. I finished my last case and all the other ones in my inbox are boring - threes and fours at best," he drawled. "You're more interesting than Mrs Puddlecombe's missing dog - most likely taken in by a local family as the animal was obviously neglected, seeing as she spelled its name differently three times in her email, and emphasized its monetary value more often than its emotional value. And you're considerably more interesting than Mr Starr - not his real name; why do people insist on using terrible aliases? - who claims that his neighbour put a curse on him, causing his skin to itch incessantly - bed bugs, most likely, possibly released into his house by the neighbour. I know I would if I was stuck with him as a neighbour…"
"Do you have a point?" she interrupted, before his thoughts jumped even further off track.
"Of course I do!" He rubbed his hands with glee. "This perfume mystery is the most interesting case I've got going at the moment."
"Wait," she began, confused. "I'm a case? Since when am I a case?"
"Since you're the most appetizing morsel on my plate," he offered, a playful gleam in his eyes. His phone chimed and he pulled it from his pocket, reading an incoming text. "Bollocks," he muttered, tossing the phone back in his coat pocket, and then said louder, to her, "It's Mrs Hudson. Seems I might have forgotten a kidney in the microwave before heading out."
He made to leave but stopped, turning back to face her. "Here," he said, shoving a shopping bag at her. "This is for you."
Molly accepted the bag and peered inside, half expecting to find the other kidney. Instead she found something much different and much more pleasant. "Oh, Sherlock," she exclaimed, staring at the cable knit hat, scarf and glove set. "They're beautiful, but why?"
"Because it's snowing outside, of course," he replied, shaking his head. "Sometimes I wonder about you, Molly Hooper…" He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek before turning around and leaving with a flourish.
Molly watched him until he disappeared and began to pull the tags off her gifts, unable to erase the goofy grin which tugged at her lips. Shopping, snow, and a gift from Sherlock. It was like Christmas all over again.
Snuggled comfortably under a warm blanket and her cat Toby, Molly sighed contentedly and flipped the page of her book. Despite her initial misgivings - she'd spent so many years counting pennies to pay back her student loans - it had been worth the splurge to pay for the cosiest, comfiest sofa she'd been able to find. On a stressful, exhausting, strange day, it had helped her find her happy place.
She was reaching for her mug of hot cocoa when a loud banging at her door caused her to jump, tossing both her book and Toby overboard. "Damn it!" she cursed, rubbing at the puncture wounds the cat had left on her thigh as he'd fled. She picked her book back up and set it on the coffee table before walking over to the door.
Peering through the peephole she saw, for the third time that day, Sherlock Holmes. "Not again," she groused. She'd finally managed to unwind (thanks to the shot and a half of Bailey's in her cocoa) but it would all be for naught once he crossed her threshold. She was sorely tempted to pretend she wasn't home, but knew he'd probably just pick her lock and let himself in anyway.
The tall consulting detective blew by her, coat flapping in his wake, as soon as she opened the door. He was muttering to himself as he plunked down at the edge of her sofa, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers, eyes narrowed in concentration. "There's got to be another explanation… Think, damn it, think!"
Molly looked in despair at the filthy tracks he'd left in his wake. "Sherlock! What are you doing?" she chastised. "You've tracked snow and mud onto my carpet! Take your shoes off!"
At the sound of her voice he looked up, startled out of his thoughts. "Molly!" he glanced around the small apartment, frown drawn, obviously puzzled. "I'm at your flat," he observed. "When did I get here?"
If she didn't know the man so well, she would have been worried. However, she was more than familiar with his idiosyncrasies by now. "You've only just walked in. And take those shoes off. Now."
He did as she bade without arguing, walking back to the entrance and kicking his shoes off onto the mat beside her door. Halfway back to the living room he stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh," he exclaimed, straightening up. "Oh! Oh…" He turned to her, his eyes bright and wild as they always were when he figured something out. "Oh, Molly… You weren't wearing any perfume today, were you?"
Molly stared at him, her heart pounding. She felt a blush spreading from her throat upwards, and knew there was no hiding it. "No," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.
He changed course, finishing his long step in her direction. His hands reached out to cup her jaw, hovering just beyond as if he was afraid to touch her. "What..." he asked her breathlessly, his tongue dragging across his lower lip to moisten it. He frowned, seemingly at a loss for words. "Why…"
It came as a relief to her that Sherlock seemed as uneasy asking the question as she was answering it. For once they were on equal footing, and it bolstered her resolve to come clean with him. Yes, he knew she'd had a crush on him since they'd first met years ago, but did he know just how hard she'd fallen for him? Had his capacity to deduce ever told him that her engagement to Tom had ended because of her inability to let go of Sherlock? That, aside from an evening spent crying and eating full-fat ice cream, she hadn't been heartbroken - quite the opposite. She'd felt relieved, as if she'd been prevented from making a grave mistake.
Would telling him push him away for good, or would he respond in kind? Either way, the time had come to tell the whole truth.
"You," she exhaled. "It's always you, Sherlock. God knows I've tried to get over you - there was Jim, then Tom, then a fling when I had my holiday in Greece - but it always comes back to you."
He sucked in a breath but didn't move away, didn't laugh, didn't run screaming, didn't say anything horrible and mean. None of the things she'd feared he might do. Instead, his hands bridged the gap and cupped her cheeks.
"I'm so sorry, Molly," he whispered. "I've truly been undeserving of your affections." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead.
All the emotions bubbling just below the surface threatened to escape. Molly had placed her bets on anything between him laughing and running away, so receiving an apology - a heartfelt one, at that - brought tears to her eyes. Was it possible for Sherlock to make her love him even more than she already did?
She placed shaking hands on his chest. "Once upon a time you might have been undeserving, Sherlock, but not anymore. You're a good man, and a good friend."
"What if I don't want to be your friend?" He winced, shook his head and held a finger up before trying again. "What if I don't just want to be your friend? What if I've realised I want… more?"
Molly felt as if the world had tilted on its axis. "What?" she asked incredulously. Despite all the daydreams, all the fantasies, she'd never really expected to hear those words. She needed to hear them again, to make sure her ears weren't playing tricks on her. "What did you say?"
Sherlock looked worried, his lips pursed and his brow drawn. "I've gone and messed it up, haven't I?" He sighed and took her hand in his, walking them both to her couch. Sitting down, he signalled for her to do the same. "Molly," he began, after a short pause to collect his thoughts, "I've always claimed to scorn sentiment, but over the past few years I've come to realise it's the biggest lie I've ever told myself. I care a great deal for those nearest me. Moriarty knew it best, used it against me - it was his most notable weapon, his singular advantage over me." He reached out and cupped her cheek. His gaze, usually sharp and calculating, was soft. "I once told you that you mattered the most, but I don't believe I'd realized then just how much I care for you - what you truly mean to me."
Stunned by his avowal, Molly stared at him for a long moment, gathering her thoughts. If he was being deceitful, it would be cruel beyond anything he'd ever done to her. He knew how she felt about him, knew from the stammering, the blushing, the coffee fetching, the Christmas incident, by her acceptance of everything he'd ever thrown her way. But then again, his attitude towards her had changed over the years, changing him from being an arrogant, condescending prick to someone whom she counted as a dearest friend. Or more than that, she mused.
"Kiss me," she whispered, finally breaking the silence.
Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding and leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers hungrily. Molly kissed him back with equal fervour, twisting around to find a more comfortable angle. His hands moved to her hips, fingers dancing on the skin above the waistband of her pyjama bottoms before pulling her onto his lap.
He tilted his hips upwards, his cock already hard, pressing against her centre in such a delicious, wicked way. When she pushed back, matching her rhythm with the cadence of their kisses - wet, open-mouth, desperate kisses that had her head swimming - he groaned, a sound that went straight to her core.
His hands became more adventurous, sliding up her sides, his thumbs brushing just under her breasts before moving to her back. With a deft flick of his fingers he undid the catch on her bra, settling any debate as to whether or not Sherlock Holmes was a virgin. This was not his first time with a woman, and the realisation set Molly's skin on fire.
She slid his scarf from around his neck, its silky softness carrying her back to that morning's fantasy. Who needed fantasy, though, when she finally had the real thing?
Molly's fingers moved to the front of his shirt, popping its buttons open one by one. She slid her hands beneath the expensive fabric, cataloguing his muscles as she went. Pectoralis major, deltoid, trapezius...
Sherlock broke the kiss, his mouth wandering away from hers to slide down the line of her jaw, her neck, her shoulder; somehow she knew he was also cataloguing her, committing the lines of her body to memory.
Reluctantly, she pulled back, breaking contact just long enough to tug his shirttail from his pants, undoing the last of the buttons. She pulled the edges of the shirt apart, revealing his chest to her. Her gaze met his, which was dark and fathomless, the blue of his eyes nearly devoured by his irises. He stared at her, watching her with a sort of laid-back intensity, not unlike a lion that watches a lamb who ventures too close. Emboldened by the extent of his arousal, she leaned forward to run her tongue along his collarbone, savouring the moan she drew from him when she nipped at his skin. Sherlock's hands faltered then stopped altogether, gripping her sides tightly, as her mouth continued to explore as far south as it could given their proximity.
She felt him tug at her sweater and sat up, allowing him to remove it, exposing her skin bit by bit to the cooler air of her flat. He pulled it over her head and stole a moment to look at it before tossing it to the unoccupied end of the couch. "Why do you insist on wearing these horrid jumpers?" he asked, breaking their silence.
"Maybe I feel the need to cover my small breasts," she threw back, regretting her words immediately.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry - I shouldn't…"
"Father was right," he said, at the same time.
"About what?" she asked, distracted from her apology by his apparent non-sequitur.
"That women have a tremendous capacity to forgive, but have an equally tremendous capacity to remind you what they've forgiven you," he replied in a conciliatory tone.
Molly couldn't help but smile. Apparently, John's description of the elder Mr & Mrs Holmes was accurate. "Your father sounds like a wise man."
The corners of his lips pulled up into a matching smile. "That's what Mother says, too."
Sherlock's smile faded a little. "I'm the one who's sorry, Molly, because I was wrong." He slid her bra straps down her arms, slowly revealing her breasts to his gaze, and tossed the satiny piece of fabric in the same general direction as her top. "They're perfect." He leaned forward, drawing his tongue along the swell of one breast down to the nipple, alternating between licking and blowing a stream of cool air. One hand was splayed at the small of her back, acting as an anchor - as much for Sherlock as for her, she surmised - while the other traced the edge of her panties, one finger slipping beneath them, tickling, teasing the skin that lay just beyond.
Molly started to move against him again, her fingers tangled in his curls, pressing his mouth to her, her other hand on the sofa's arm to steady herself. She could feel a familiar sensation coiling deep within her. Judging by the slight tremor in his hands and his waning coordination, Sherlock was just as affected as she was.
Suddenly, he pulled away, pushing her back towards his knees. He sat there, head tilted back, tendons in his neck drawn tight. His eyes were closed and he was working hard to control his breathing.
"Are you alright?" she asked, tentatively.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, mouth stretched in a grim smile. "Yes, yes. I just need a moment to collect myself, otherwise our romp may end prematurely." His tone of voice was light, but the look in his eyes told her he was anything but fine.
Right then, a loud buzzing sound made them both jump.
"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, "Shit, I'd completely forgotten about dinner!" She slid off his lap, gave him a peck on the mouth and asked him if he was hungry. The petulant, heated look he threw her way told her 'of course I'm hungry, but not for dinner'.
It took Molly until she had her oven mitts in hand to realise she was bare from the waist up. Blushing profusely, she ran back to the living room to grab her sweater. Sherlock held it in his hand and pulled it back when she reached for it.
"It's hideous," he stated.
"I don't care," she retorted, trying to wrest it from his grasp. "I'm not fixing dinner topless."
"Fine," he pouted, letting go of it. He sat back, letting himself sink against the sofa's comfy cushions. She felt his eyes on her as she walked back into the kitchen but did her best to ignore him, focusing instead on dinner.
The lasagne was bubbling when Molly pulled it from the oven, a sure sign it was ready to be served. She turned, surprised to find that Sherlock had joined her in the kitchen. His hair was still mussed but he'd removed his coat and had done up the lower buttons on his shirt, leaving it open still at the top.
He was the very image of debauchery and it took all of her willpower not to drop the lasagne where she stood and drag him to her bedroom.
"It's not homemade," she admitted self-consciously, "but the garlic bread will be. It'll just take me a few minutes, if you can set the table."
He remained on the spot, staring at her and frowning. "How does one 'set a table'?" he finally inquired.
Molly stared back, not quite sure if Sherlock was joking. When it became obvious he wasn't being intentionally funny, she sighed. "Your poor mother. Knives and forks are in the drawer to the right of the sink, plates are in the cupboard above the bread box and glasses are above the stove. Put two of everything on the table. I'll bring the food and we can serve ourselves there."
She was grateful when he nodded and went to work - she'd been half convinced he'd come up with some excuse that would get him out of helping. She'd heard loads of stories from John and Mrs Hudson, most of which would have been too crazy to believe had it been anyone else. Really, escaping out a window to avoid cleaning out the refrigerator?
When she brought dinner to the table she was surprised to see that not only had he set the table, he'd somehow found a candlestick with an actual candle in it and had lit it. She was about to ask him where it had come from - she didn't even know she owned a candlestick, never mind one with a candle in it - when his phone rang.
Sherlock looked at the call display and sighed. "Yes?" he answered irritably.
Molly could hear a woman's voice on the other end, but it wasn't familiar. Of course, Mary and Mrs Hudson were the only other female acquaintances they had in common, and seeing as it wasn't either of them, that didn't really narrow possible callers down by much.
"Will Mycroft be there?" he asked, before pulling a face and rolling his eyes. His expression then quickly slid into a neutral mask. "I did not roll my eyes," he insisted. "What do you mean you can tell? We're speaking over the phone - you can't even see me!"
It wasn't difficult, after that exchange, for Molly to guess who the mystery woman was: Mrs. Holmes. She unsuccessfully tried to hide a grin behind her hand, but Sherlock caught her and narrowed his eyes at her. She easily avoided the balled-up napkin he threw her way, laughing as it sailed beside her.
"What sound?" he asked, his attention returning fully to his mother. "It was…" His gaze fell upon Molly and he studied her soberly for a moment before answering honestly. "It was Molly. I'm at her flat and we're… just about to have dinner."
The look on his face, patient and resigned, told volumes of how the conversation was going. His mother was obviously launching her own Spanish Inquisition at the news that her son was with a woman, and it was easy to guess what she was asking based on the answers he was providing.
Is it that Molly from the morgue? "Yes, it's that Molly…"
Have you been dating long? "No, it's all very new…"
Is it a serious relationship? "I said it's all very new…"
Are you practising safe sex? "Mother! That's none… I'm not discussing that with you!"
Molly laughed at the horrified look on his face, wishing she'd been recording the exchange. She was pretty sure that John and Greg would pay good money to watch the arrogant detective squirm under his mother's inquisition.
"I'll ask her. Yes, I promise," he insisted, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, I really should go. Isn't talking on the phone during dinner one of those manners things?"
Mrs Holmes spoke a bit more, and Molly was surprised to hear Sherlock offer a quiet, heartfelt "I love you, too, Mum" before ending the call.
He tossed his phone on the table and narrowed his eyes at Molly. "Not. Funny," he grumbled, his hackles clearly up.
"Oh, no. Very funny," she replied, still laughing, unconcerned with his grumpiness. Some food should improve his mood, she mused.
"Lasagne?" she asked innocently, cutting out a large piece.
"God, yes," he answered, holding his plate out. "Make it double that."
"So what did your mother want you to ask me? If I have any condoms?" she teased, dropping the double portion of pasta on his plate.
"You overheard that?" he asked before taking a mouthful of dinner and humming appreciatively.
"You're not the only one with the ability to observe and deduce, Sherlock," Molly replied, reaching for a slice of garlic bread. "It was rather obvious by your reaction."
"She wants you to join us for a family get-together at our cottage later this month." He was very focused on his food as he spoke, and Molly wondered if he for some reason anticipated a rejection.
"Do you?" she asked, honestly curious. Now that their passion had abated, replaced with a semblance of domesticity, she couldn't help but wonder if he was having second thoughts - or if he'd simply wanted no-strings sex?
"Do I what? Have a condom?" The corner of his mouth lifted, his eyes twinkling with mischief, letting her know he was being purposefully obtuse.
She liked him like this, unfettered by his cloak of arrogance and egoism. Here he sat, relaxed, joking with her, eating store-bought lasagne by the shovelful, inviting her over to his parents' cottage for a family gathering. Even as a fantasy it would have seemed farfetched.
"Don't avoid the question, Sherlock," she chided, smiling to let him know she wasn't upset. "Do you want me to join you and your family? I'll only go if you want me to."
"Yes," he answered immediately. "It will be infinitely less tedious with you there."
"Tedious? How can a stay at a cottage be tedious? It sounds delightful."
"Oh, come on. It's utterly dreadful. I've read all the books there ten times over, I'm forced to be civil with Mycroft, Mother doesn't allow me to keep any body parts in the fridge, and there's no wi-fi."
"And how will I make it less tedious?" Molly pressed. She reached down and absentmindedly petted Toby, who had come out of hiding.
Sherlock was a narcissist - this, she was all too aware of. The world revolved around him, existed to serve him, and he often didn't see that other people had needs, too. Would he want her there because he valued her companionship or because she would be a convenient diversion, a toy picked up and played with only when he got bored?
"For one, Mum and Dad will fawn over you, they'll have a million questions for us - many of which will have you turning all shades of red, Mycroft will accuse me of trying to 'steal the show' but will be secretly pleased to have someone else to speak to and... I want you there." He threw her a heated glance, adding, "And if we happen to tire of long, uncomfortable silences and Mycroft's prattling, we can always retire to my bedroom. In the attic. Where it's very private…"
Images of her and Sherlock wrapped up in a quilt, moving together at a languorous pace, skin slick with sweat, mouths moving at the same pace as their bodies, flew through her mind. Suddenly the temperature in her flat, always too cool for her liking, seemed stifling.
She caught him staring at her, his gaze intense but unreadable. "What do you see when you look at me like that?" she asked breathlessly.
Almost immediately, he slipped into his consulting detective persona, his face becoming impassive. His eyes scanned her methodically, stopping wherever he observed something noteworthy. "Dilated pupils, flushed skin just above the neckline of your jumper - still hideous, by the way - increased rate of respiration, quickened pulse, erect nipples." A smile quirked at one corner of his mouth, breaking the mask of neutrality. "Molly Hooper," he purred, "you're excited by the prospect of passing time with me in my bedroom."
"So are you, it would seem," she parried, looking pointedly at the bulge in his pants.
"Yes I am, very much," he agreed, unabashed by his very obvious state of arousal. He sat there, watching her as she stood up to collect their empty dishes. "Can't those wait until later?" he asked impatiently.
"No, they can't - I'm going to get them soaking or else I'll never be able to scrape the food off." Molly ran the tap, filling the sink with hot water. Once the dishes were soaking she called out, "If you can bring the leftovers to me, I'll be able to put them away and we can… oh!"
Sherlock had snuck up, pressing himself against her. "Already done - they're covered and in the fridge," he whispered in her ear, his breath hot against her skin. He slid his hands just above the waistband of her pants, nearly causing her knees to buckle.
Molly turned the tap off while she still had the presence of mind to do so and gripped the edge of the counter to hold herself up. His hands became bolder, one drifting upwards under her sweater to cup a breast and the other sliding down to her underwear.
His mouth and tongue were busy at the junction of her neck and shoulder wherever he could find exposed skin. When he slid one finger inside her, he paused and groaned against her skin, his voice rough. "Oh, Molly, you're so wet."
A shudder ran through Molly at his words - those same words he'd spoken in her fantasy - and she couldn't help but whimper. "Sherlock, please," she begged, rotating her hips and rocking against him. To her relief, he knew what she wanted - what she needed - and began to move his finger in and out of her, using her juices to circle her clit on every pass.
And, just like in her dream, Molly came hard and fast, leaning back against him as she came off the high of her climax. It took her a moment to catch her breath, and a bit more effort to release her fingers one by one from their hold of the counter.
When she turned around Sherlock's gaze was on her, black with lust, his body taut as a bowstring. Never breaking eye contact, she held his hand in hers - the one he'd pleasured her with - and took his finger in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the long digit, cleaning off the sticky substance.
Something in the detective snapped and Molly found herself thrust against her refrigerator, his mouth devouring hers, his erection pressing into her centre. She reached between them to unfasten his pants, sliding them down his narrow hips; Sherlock got the hint and shimmied out of them, kicking them off to the side.
"Bedroom," he growled, "now."
She took his hands in hers and, walking backwards, led him to her bedroom. They made many stops along the way, pausing to remove clothing or to lose themselves in an embrace. Molly was quickly discovering that she could spend days kissing Sherlock Holmes.
By the time they arrived at the doorway to her bedroom they had stripped each other down to their underwear, and the world had narrowed down to just the two lovers. Sherlock pulled back and rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed and lips still parted, breaths ragged. His hands ghosted up and down her sides, fingers drawing curlicues, kinetic energy keeping him ever in motion. "I'm afraid I won't last very long," he confessed.
Molly looked up at him. Sherlock was the most self-assured man she'd ever known - brilliant, arrogant, never plagued with doubt - yet here he was, allowing her to see him at his most vulnerable. "That doesn't matter," she assured him. "We have all night…"
His eyes slowly opened, his mouth pulling into a grin. "Sleep is overrated?" he asked.
"Mmm-hmm," she agreed, backing up into her bedroom and tugging him along by the elastic of his underpants. "Now, sit," she instructed, pushing him against the foot of her bed. He obeyed, studying her as she turned her table lamp on, casting the room with a warm incandescent glow.
Molly turned around, fighting back a smile at how rigidly he sat. His eyes scanned her room - she was almost afraid of what he'd discern from a cursory glance - and then settled on her. He watched her, silent, as she walked back to him.
"Lie down," she said, pushing his shoulder gently. When he fell back, she hooked her fingers in the waistband of his underpants and slid them off, revealing all of him to her gaze. Once more, she felt the stirrings of heat pool at her core, the sight of him naked and vulnerable before her making her heart race.
"You're beautiful," she exclaimed, immediately regretting her words. What kind of man wants to hear that he's beautiful during sex? Sherlock said nothing, however; he didn't show any signs of having been affronted by her remark. Instead, he reached out to her, hand outstretched.
Molly put her hand in his, allowing him to tug her into the bed with him. She kneeled over him, feeling his erection press against her covered centre. Not yet, she thought to herself, making sure to avoid the contact they both wanted so much.
She leaned forward and placed chaste kisses over each of his eyelids and let her lips trace a path down his cheekbone and up his jaw to his earlobe. He hummed appreciatively at her caresses, and raised a hand to trace a finger just under the edge of her knickers, tickling her hip. Molly giggled and squirmed, but didn't stray from her exploration of his neck.
Her mouth travelled along his collarbone and paused at a nipple, where she playfully bit him. His fingers gripped her hip almost painfully and he let out a gasp, his cock bouncing up against her belly. She made a mental note of his reaction - need to remember that for later on - then continued her path southward.
She paused at his hip bone, relishing in his sharp intake of breath when she traced it with her tongue. Her intent was to take it as slowly as possible, to stretch this moment, make him delirious with need and, although she appeared to be succeeding, her own desire was making it difficult to focus.
Molly raised herself a little higher, watching him as he watched her, the weight of his gaze heavy and expectant. Never breaking eye contact she slid her hand up the length of his cock, using the pre-come weeping at its tip to slide noisily back down. She repeated the motion, up and down, faster, slower, faster again, drinking in the sight of him as he rolled his head back, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
Finally, Sherlock choked out a curt warning before he came with a throaty groan. He covered her hand with his at the end, guiding the pace of her strokes through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and then sank back into the mattress.
Molly waited a few beats for their heart rates to slow back down before speaking up. "Can you pass the tissues?" she asked, surprised that her voice came out calm and collected. "They're right there on the bedside table."
When the only reply she got was a grunt followed by an "ungh", she chuckled. "Oh dear," she teased, "have I broken 'Shag-a-lot' Holmes?"
He cracked an eye open and tried to sneer at her, but ended up letting out an amused huff instead. "Here," he said quietly, handing her the box of tissues. "I'm simply enjoying the quiet. It's absolutely blissful."
"You didn't find my flat loud beforehand, did you?" Molly asked as she cleaned herself off. She passed a few of the tissues to Sherlock, who wiped at his abdomen distractedly.
"Not out there. In here," he specified, tapping his temple.
The gesture drew her eyes to his forearms and the light needle mark scars that marred them. She wondered whether that was the reason he sometimes turned to opiates - to dull his senses, to give his mind a rest from the never-ending observing, deducing, calculating.
He noticed where her focus was and stiffened, anticipating an argument - after all, she'd made her position on his drug use very clear the last time John had dragged him out of a drug den.
Instead, she crawled up the bed and lay down next to him on her side. "Here's to a much healthier, fun way of making things quiet 'up here'," she said, gently tapping her fingers at the side of his head. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his to let him know she was neither angry nor looking for a fight.
It took a few sweeps of her lips before Sherlock responded, turning to face her. His hand slid down her back, fingers skating along the curve of her spine, until it reached the waistband of her underpants. He pulled back, brow knit in confusion. "You're still wearing your knickers. Why are you still wearing your knickers?"
"Because we haven't gotten to them yet."
"Hmm…" He pursed his lips, shaking his head. "No, that won't do."
He shifted his weight and covered her body with his, supporting himself with one forearm, his free hand tracing the silhouette of her curves - over her shoulder, down the swell of her breast, along the indent at her waist, his fingers skating delicately over her skin, leaving fire in their wake. His mouth was on hers, gentle, undemanding, patient - the urgency having abated, they had all the time in the world.
Molly lost herself in the embrace, her hands coasting up and over his shoulders, needing to touch as much of him as possible. When she dragged her fingernails along the length of his back he pulled away from her mouth, groaning and tucking his head in the crook of her neck. She could feel his breath against her skin, hot and heavy, and shivered in response.
"You trembled this morning - outside the morgue - when I leaned in to inhale your absolutely intoxicating aroma," he remarked, his lips skating along the delicate column of her neck. "It made me hard when I realised - later on, of course - that you weren't afraid, but excited." His tongue darted out, tasting, teasing her, driving her mad with need. "I nearly had to toss off just to relieve some of the pressure."
"Oh, God," Molly whimpered, shifting beneath him, her nerves electrified at the mental image of Sherlock touching himself. She let go of him just long enough to reach for her underwear; just as she started to push them down, his hands stilled hers.
She was this close to yelling at him in frustration - she needed to feel him inside her now - but held her tongue when he sat back on his haunches, pulling her knickers off and tossing them casually over his shoulder. "Better?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant - it was difficult to appear casual, though, with a raging hard-on.
Speechless, Molly simply nodded. She observed him intently as he took her right foot, placing it flat against his left shoulder, and kissed her ankle. His mouth blazed a trail down her calf, alternating between licks, nips and kisses. The image of Sherlock Holmes between her legs, hair tousled, lips swollen from their embraces, cock hard, was almost enough to make her lose all reason.
For the first time ever, she wished she was an artist so she could put down on a canvas the beauty of the moment, not trusting her memory to hold the image forever.
She felt a tickle at the inside of her knee and squirmed, giggling. An upward glance showed her that Sherlock was looking at her, amused. "You seem a mile away," he commented. "Am I not keeping your attention?" His tone was light and playful, and not at all cross.
This impish side of Sherlock was new to her and she felt lucky to be one of the few who got to see it.
Molly looked up at him and shook her head. "Quite the contrary," she admitted, her voice rough. "My attention is entirely focused on you." And your hands, and your mouth, and your tongue…
"Good," he replied, leaning forward to place a trail of kisses along the inside of her thigh. He paused when he reached her centre, inhaling deeply and making an appreciative rumbling sound before placing his mouth on her.
Molly arched her back, letting out a low, prolonged moan, and grabbed fistfuls of her bedspread - it was either that or his hair - as Sherlock once again proved handily that he was no virgin.
His mouth and tongue expertly drove her close to the edge over and over again, until she could no longer take it. She reached in the drawer of her bedside table, blindly rifling through its myriad contents, sighing in relief when she finally found what she was looking for.
She threw the box of condoms at him, begging him, "Please."
Sherlock sat back up, silently acquiescing to her plea; his fingers shook, betraying the depth of his own arousal - there was no use feigning nonchalance at this point. He managed to tear a packet from the box, ripping it open and rolling the condom on.
He lowered himself back down and, wasting no time, entered Molly in one sure push. The two lovers sighed as he began to move, slowly at first, trying to find the right rhythm. Their kisses were as languid as their movements, careful and deliberate, not wanting to rush just yet.
"You're so tight," he whispered, his face nuzzled into her neck. "I could spend days buried in your pussy."
His confession undid Molly's resolve to make the moment last forever. "Oh, Sherlock," she exhaled, wrapping her arms around his neck, holding him close to her. Placing her feet flat on the mattress she began to meet his thrusts in earnest, encouraging him to increase the pace.
Skin slick from their coupling, their movements became erratic, unfocused. A drop of sweat beaded at the tip of Sherlock's nose, dropping onto Molly's cheek. "Are you close?" he asked, his body shaking with the strain of restraint.
"Ohgodyes," she replied, feeling the pressure building deep within her, lapping at her shores like a tide. He granted her plea of "faster!", pushing them both over, their orgasms hitting them simultaneously.
They stayed in each other's arms, feeling their muscles twitching in tandem where they were still intimately connected. Molly was afraid to let go, afraid that moving apart would somehow break the magic of the moment.
"Molly," Sherlock whispered as he tried to break from the iron grip of her arms. "I need to move." When she relented, he rolled onto his back and removed the condom, tossing it into her wastebasket. He must have noticed her shivering because he stood up, then, holding a hand out to her. "Come on, let's get you under these blankets. It's freezing in here."
Molly did as he bade, and soon she was back in Sherlock's arms, nestled against his side. She lay her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowly return to a less frenetic pace, soothed by the feel of his hand caressing her back.
If sex had quieted his thoughts, it had done the opposite to hers - her mind was racing as she tried to figure out what, if anything, sex with Sherlock meant. His last relationship, with Janine, had ended rather poorly - was theirs doomed to follow suit?
"Penny for your thoughts?" His voice broke the silence.
She readjusted her position, crossing her arms over his chest and resting her chin on them, to better see him. Her mouth opened, then closed again as she tried to decide what question to formulate; if working with Sherlock had taught her anything it was to not only ask questions, but to ask the right questions.
His gaze was patient as he watched her organise her thoughts, sorting them around like recipe cards in her mind. He has a mind palace and I have a mind recipe box, she mused, sourly. We're doomed...
Finally she decided on asking an honest question rather than a clever one. "Were any of those stories about you and Janine true?"
His bark of laughter wasn't at all what she'd expected, and she didn't know whether to be amused or insulted. Eyes sparkling with humour he shook his head. "None of them. A load of bollocks, every one." His smile lessened to a smirk. "We never had sex. Not once."
Molly sat up at this confession, heedless of her nudity. "But… but John saw her walk out of your bedroom, wearing one of your shirts and then she… with you in the bath…"
"I didn't say we never did anything," he corrected gently, not asking his own questions as to just how much information John had given. "We never had sex, though. The articles were…" he paused, unusually abashed, "were her vengeance for the way I took advantage of her. She was my ticket to Magnussen, and our relationship was a sham."
"Sherlock," Molly reprimanded, "that was terrible of you!"
"Yes, it was. I've been so bent on rejecting sentiment that it's blinded me to how poorly I've treated others around me. Janine, my parents, John, you…I've been a right arse to everyone who cares about me."
Molly reached down and pinched his bum, smiling at his surprised jump. "Such a nice arse, though," she teased before snuggling back into his side. The moment of levity they shared helped bolster her confidence in asking another question that had hovered at the edge of her consciousness for ages.
"Can I ask you another question?" she asked meekly.
"Of course, Molly. You can ask me anything."
"That woman you identified at the morgue, a few years ago…"
She noticed the change in him immediately: his body tensed; his hand stilled mid-caress on her back; he held his breath. It appeared there was one question that was off limits, and she'd landed squarely on it.
"The Woman," he spoke, his voice tight. He met her gaze, his blue eyes vulnerable. "Molly," he pleaded, "I'm sorry, but I'm not ready…"
"Shh…" she soothed. "You don't have to say anything."
He lay his head down on her shoulder, some of the tension leaving his body. "Maybe one day I'll figure her out enough to share her story with you."
Molly smiled, drawing her fingers through Sherlock's hair, trying to offer him some comfort. "When you're ready to tell me I'll be there to listen. Do you have any questions for me?" *she asked, trying to change the direction of his train of thoughts.
The hand at her back resumed its gentle motions, slipping southward to her bottom. "You said I was the cause of your excitement today, but you were already aroused before I entered the lab." He looked up, tired yet still keen. "What happened before I arrived?"
Unable and unwilling to lie, Molly told him in detail about her fantasy, about the blindfold and his scarf, about his dominance and her submission, about how she came, sitting on her bench in the lab, his name on her lips, just moments before he entered.
Sherlock growled, pulling her back onto him, allowing her to feel the effect her story had on him. "Again?" she asked, eyes round, as his erection pressed solidly against her.
"Always, with you," he confirmed, leaning forward and kissing her. His tongue traced her bottom lip before entering her mouth, leading to a kiss that was deep and unhurried. When they broke apart, Molly exhaled happily, resting her forehead against his. The post-coital euphoria was slowly fading, her limbs turning heavy with the promise of deep sleep.
"I think our talk of an all-nighter was a bit ambitious," she mumbled tiredly, sliding off his lap. She slid back down under the sheets, relieved when he followed her, moulding his body to hers, his arm draped over her side.
"Goodnight, Molly Hooper," she heard him whisper before he kissed the back of her neck, his breaths soon evening out.
As sleep eventually took Molly, too, her thoughts turned to how strange life can be; on a day where she couldn't have been far enough from Sherlock Holmes, she ended up in his arms and his heart.
With a satisfied sigh she closed her eyes, snuggled back against him, and slept peacefully.
Author's note: Don't forget to leave a message if you enjoyed this story – feedback is as satisfying as Scooby snacks to writers!