Valentine's Day
Disclaimer: I own the complete works of Sherlock Holmes, a deerstalker cap, and every adaptation of Holmes on DVD I can get my hands on, but I do not own Sherlock.
Summary: The microwave clock changes from 11:59 to 12:00. He smiles and leans in for another kiss. She never did remember it was Valentines' Day. He never did remind her. Sherlolly. Oneshot.
Valentine's Day did not even cross her mind as she sees the steaming mug of coffee on her desk. She is fairly certain it isn't for her, even though it sits centered on her ordered work space. Sherlock Holmes is the only person who doesn't look right through her when they look at her. And that is only because he sees everything. Students and staff alike have an annoying habit of treating her desk like any other part of the lab, some communal space for dumping miscellaneous items. This cup of coffee from the artisan coffee house up the street is not for her, it was carelessly left here by someone else. Someone who will return for it, giving her an awkward look as they do, silently wondering what she's doing there sitting beside their cuppa. So she takes the cup and places it on the counter near her desk. An hour later no one has claimed it and it has grown cold and undoubtedly stale. It's taking up space as well, getting in her way as she biopsies the heart of a 30 something male, in medical school she'd developed an interest in the slight variations found in the heart muscle. It is a rather dark edge to her romanticism and it amuses her to no end.
After another hour and nearly dumping the coffee in her lap she gives up on caring if the person who'd left the coffee was coming back, the cup was in her way and annoying. She walks straight to the sink and send the fragrant brew down the drain with a small pang of regret. It is a sin to waste coffee, especially java as expensive and delicious as this. But she returns to her heart and by the time Sherlock sails into her office with ghoulish delight over a string of garrotings the coffee has been long forgotten.
Sherlock offers to take her to dinner over the bloody mess he's made a pig carcass with a hammer and Molly tries not to think too much about it. She most certainly does not think it is a date. Sherlock has changed since his Fall and resurrection, and through her role in playing Dr. Frankenstein and bringing him back to life they have reached an understanding. Understanding is not a date, however. Understanding is being a bit more considerate and appreciative when she does a favor for him or cleans up his mess in the lab. Which is what she is doing now, he's received a text from Lestrade, another victim in the string of garrotings and he practically skips out of the morgue – leaving her with the ham and hammer. As far as she is concerned he owes her this dinner.
A few moments later her phone chirps Roux at the Landau 7:30 –SH the text reads. For a moment she stares at the SMS before shaking her head, he must want to do some social experiments on top of the ones he does in the lab. Molly looks back at the corpse of the sow now pounded nearly flat and sighs. The Roux has one of the best wine cellars in London and she is going to need a drink after this.
The Roux is a pretty ritzy place, that and the fact she can't tell if the stain on her blouse is brain or chicken salad has her at her apartment changing before dinner instead of departing directly from the morgue. She switches her work slacks and sweater for a wrap dress of black velvet, not because she looks amazing in it, not because this evening is in any way romantic, but because she bought it on an after Christmas whim and has yet to have a reason to wear it.
She'd forced Sherlock to accept a spare key to her apartment after he'd returned from the dead. He prefers to pick her locks and had constantly while he was dead, breaking into her flat at random times broken and bloody and truly in need of a hospital but looking to her to provide the same service. She'd wanted to give him a key then, the constant forcing of the tumblers was damaging to her lock but he'd refused. It was too dangerous, he'd told her, a key was too personal of an item for him to carry into Moriarty's web. The web was now unraveled and she'd personally (forcefully) put her key on his key ring next to the key to his flat but he still prefers to pick her lock. He's wearing his usual dark suit but has changed shirts since she saw him in her morgue. He's gone from a grey blue shirt that had brought out his eyes to the shirt she loves to hate and hates to love, the purple shirt of sexual frustration. Even though she's a bit perturbed with him those buttons make her stutter. She is too distracted to see how this fact makes him smile.
At dinner he pulls her chair out for her and is polite to the ridiculous waiter. He offers a toast to them and she flat out gapes. Picking her chin up off the table she can't help but wonder when she fell through the looking glass and what alternate universe she's entered. She then asks this out loud.
A light snow begins to fall as they share a four course meal (which he actually eats, she demands to know who he is and what he has done with the real Sherlock Holmes). The flakes are fluffy and white and reflect the streetlights like stars. Molly cannot stop the girlish smile that spreads across her face at the sight. Yes it's cold and horribly messy but she loves the snow and is so distracted by it that she doesn't notice the way Sherlock looks at her as he wraps his scarf about his long neck. And when he suggests walking the few blocks back to her flat her agreement is based on what she considers the obvious fact that he needs some sort of insanity in his life for mental stimulation. Not for a moment does she think that he would forsake the warmth of a cab because he saw the way her face lit up when she saw the first fat flake.
She pointedly unlocks her front door with the key when they arrive at her flat, faces flushed from the cold, snow lingering in their hair and on their coats and eyelashes.
"Coffee?" It is a defense mechanism, because she's pretty sure that he's only watching her so carefully because he wants something from her – either library or larder. The idea that he thinks she is beautiful never enters her imagination. She hangs their coats to dry on hooks beside the door and toes off the ballet flats she'd paired with the dress so that they might dry. On stocking clad feet she pads to the kitchen, he follows her through the apartment, hovering. Before the fall it would have been enough to make her melt like the snow in her hair, but they had lived together for nearly three months while he was preparing to go abroad, that time had changed her as well. Now the hovering is just annoying. She turns from preparing the coffee, opening her mouth to tell him to go snoop or something other than follow her closer than her own damn shadow but her words are forced back into her throat by his lips and tongue. Her eyes fly wide and she had no idea what to think, his eyes are closed and in that moment Molly decides that thinking was overrated. She lets her lips take the lead.
Her back hit the wall of her hall and it reminds her that this is reality. Sherlock Holmes really is walking her backwards toward her room and yes, he really is that good at kissing. She rids him of his jacket and lets her fingers explore him. Truth is stranger than fiction and reality is so much better than fantasy. His shoulders are broad, chest lean, back strong and his fingers are tugging at the front tie of her wrap dress. She tunnels her fair fingers through his raven curls and the dress falls open.
Falling through her bedroom door she has successfully untucked the purple shirt of sex from his trousers and is relieving those poor straining buttons from their duty to keep his shirt closed. It is an impressive feat considering the way his mouth is nipping and sucking at her jaw and down her throat. They both moan when she pops the button on his trousers and unzips them. She steps back as they fall to his ankles. While he rids himself of them and his shoes, she pulls her pantyhose and garter belt off with a snap. She jumps back into his arms, wraps her legs around him, kissing him deeply as he lifts her. He drops on his knees on her bed, laying her down, their lips never parting. Her bra is a thing of the past thanks to his nimble fingers and he's flung it over his shoulder faster than one could say 'Victoria's Secret'. His lips leave her mouth and travel down her neck to close around a nipple. She arches to him and gasps, hands tugging his hair as he laps and suckles her.
All the other sex she's ever had, not that it was much, was nothing compared to this. She is very wet, it is the culmination of years of lusting for him and he is nothing but appreciative. He groans about how good she feels as his fingers thrust into her, his thumb stroking her clit. He's still sucking and licking and kissing her breasts. She's coming before he's even entered her.
He pulls away from her only to slide her panties off of her, kissing a path down her legs as he drags them slowly from her. She pinches herself discreetly as he removes his own underwear because Sherlock Holmes just tossed his boxers over his shoulder in a rush to have sex with HER. And his erection is glorious.
He sits back and stares at her, those oh-so-observant eyes taking in every nuance of her. Never in her life has someone looked at her this way. With such intensity. She has never seen such emotion in his gaze. She cannot help herself; she flushes and tries to cover herself. She isn't supposed to be seen, she's never seen. Molly Hooper is invisible. He was the only one who ever remotely saw her and that was only because he is the most perfect observing and deducting machine known to man. And those skills are now taking in every inch of her from the cellulite to the way the night's desert settles on her hips. Yet he stops her hiding, uttering something about her beauty and then he's kissing her and she's too busy feeling to think of how out of character he is behaving. And when he pushes two long, musician's fingers into her core as he sucks her tongue she whimpers. He is both smoldering and smug at the same time.
He withdraws his fingers but is not gone from her long. The crinkle of a condom wrapper and he is at her entrance. She lifts her hips and he thrusts into her. He groans, low and guttural and she moans with wild abandon. Their skin is slick with sweat and its slapping against each other marking their rhythm with the staccato of flesh on flesh. She's moaning. He's groaning. They're grunting.
His teeth are tugging her nipple, his thumb is rubbing her clit, and she's coming – again – Hard. There are stars. They slowly fade into bright blue eyes. He pulls her closer still. She wraps her arms around his neck and starts the kiss, teeth tugging his lower lip. She's forcing him to roll, actively seeking his release after two glorious orgasms of her own. Before she always hated being on top, the position past lovers forced her in when they were too lazy to do any work. But as she sits up straight, impaling herself further on his hot shaft she smiles and enjoys herself. The swivel of her hips and clench of her kegals bringing an oath like a prayer from his lips. "Fuck…fuck…" She feels triumphant as he pulses inside of her, "Molly" on his lips. She has made him cum and he has made her cum. She'd known they were a great team. She smiles and collapses against his chest, panting. He brushes her hair back and kisses her forehead, holding her close even after he slips from her sheath.
Time later, Molly sits on her counter, barely wearing Sherlock's shirt, drinking the coffee they forgot earlier. He stands between her knees, boxers riding low on his hips. The microwave clock changes from 11:59 to 12:00. He smiles and leans in for another kiss. She never did remember it was Valentines' Day. He never did remind her.