You don't know how long I've hesitated in putting this story in place. I have such a respect for this fandom that I wanted to make sure that whatever I published would give all the characters-especially my home-girl, Molly-a respectful detailing.
Some warnings: There are some BDSM themes in this, though nothing too extreme. Also, there is some violence. Please take note and only read if you're comfortable.
Molly Hooper was standing over a dead body in the morgue, listening to details of the death from DI Lestrade. The man was a known criminal and had been shot in a take-down by a new officer to the force. The sting operation at a local club had gone awry somewhere between the door and the street, and there was an inevitable struggle. She noticed the scuffs over the man's fingers, a broken pinky from an ill placed punch, and the diagonal entry and exit wounds from the bullet.
"A civilian was killed by a ricocheted bullet," Lestrade explained. "We're going to catch hell for this, I'm sure."
Molly nodded absently, her eyes never leaving the body. She had seen this man before, a few nights back. They were in the same room, the same club, and he had bought her a drink. Belatedly, she realized that she might have gone home with him, had she not needed to be at work early in the morning.
Lestrade leaned on a nearby counter, sighing tiredly. "There has to be an easier way to get these guys out of the way of pedestrians during the take down. Too much collateral damage won't work in the long run."
Molly had a faint imagining of luring the baddies out with money or drugs—or a hooker. And then she got a very thrilling, very naughty idea.
"You know…" She edged, looking to Lestrade for the first time since he came in, "I might have a solution, if you're willing to hear it."
There was a certain amount of nervousness that tickled along Molly's spine as she sat in the back of an SUV behind a popular London nightclub. Lestrade had put up a valiant fight for her to not be in this exact position, a mini-mic taped between her breasts and a can of emergency use only pepper spray in her tiny clutch. In the end, she had won the argument out of sheer tenacity, stating that she would do it—that no other could do it because they would be recognized as police officers from the get-go. They needed a civilian.
So, here she was: mousy, shy, passive Molly, going to step confidently into a busy club and draw a hardened criminal out into the open so that the agents standing outside could cuff him without incident. For a moment, she was stunned at her own audacity. There was literally nothing in her past or personality that could have possibly put this situation in the path of her life. It was alien, it was unknown, and it was exciting. She shivered, though the heat was on, and wrapped her coat tighter around her body as Lestrade gave her final directions. If she was in trouble, she was to signal by putting her hair, which lay in curls around her face, into a ponytail. One of the plain-clothes officers would step in from there. Molly double checked the band around her wrist, giving her a sense of comfort.
Then, when there was nothing to say and no further preparations to be made, Molly stepped out onto the concrete of the parking lot, her heels clicking softly beneath her weight. With one final breath, she straightened her shoulders and headed for the entrance, clutch in hand.
The room was crowded, but not so crowded that she was unable to get to and sit at the bar. She glanced around for her target, spotting him in an advantageous spot at the other end of the bar, sipping dark liquor from a short glass. The bartender took her order, returning with a virgin daiquiri. For a few moments, she took in her surroundings and made mental notes of the exits and potential hazards, should things get physical. And then Lestrade's voice rang out through her earpiece, stating that all officers were in place.
"Showtime," Molly breathed, and removed her coat. Her dress was cherry red and low cut, the material hugging her body so tightly that she couldn't possibly bend at the waist if her life depended on it. A golden chain circled her neck, dipping low enough that it drew attention to her breasts, enhanced by the best push up bra she could find. Her target had a thing for leggy brunettes, so her heels were high and jeweled, accentuating her long, lean legs. She sat forward in her chair, presenting herself to her target as fresh meat. And, remarkably, he took notice. Molly made eye contact just once, holding it as she counted to five, and then flipped her hair. That was all it took. She maintained a cool exterior even as she sat flabbergasted at his approach. He smiled at her, sitting in the empty chair beside hers, leaning on the bar with one elbow.
"I'm Frank," he said, extending a large hand. "And you are?"
"Delia," she lied, tilting her head down and looking up at him through her lashes.
Frank nodded, "And what is a beautiful woman like yourself doing in a place like this?"
Molly smiled the way she practiced in the mirror, "Waiting for you, of course." She flicked her gaze to the door and back, "It appears I've been stood up."
Frank's eyebrows lifted, "Then it is my pleasure to step into the shoes of what appears to be a boy, not a man."
She touched her neck, brushing aside her hair gently to draw attention away from her face, which she knew would give away her disillusionment. The man reeked of hair gel and cheap cologne, his suit was ill fitted, and the pinky ring on his finger left a noticeable green ring on his skin. From far away, he would look like a decent, if slightly aged, business man. Up close, he was a mess.
Molly crossed her legs, sure to brush against his calf lightly with her heel, "So, what do you do Frank?"
"I'm in the art business." I'll just bet you are. "I have a gallery a few blocks from here."
Seeing her opportunity, Molly leaned forward with bright eyes, "I love art!" She gushed, "I took a class in high school, but you know how life takes us places." With a touch to his arm, she lowered her voice, "I would love to see your gallery, but I am only here for the night. I fly out in the morning for work."
Frank's smile was more a leer than anything else, "Well, then, I have the pleasure of informing you that you are speaking to the owner of said gallery, and its doors are open to you now if you like."
"You're sure we won't get into any trouble?" Molly replied conspiratorially.
Frank laughed loud enough that Molly had to lean away to avoid injuring her ears, "I'm sure we'll get into some trouble. But don't worry, you'll enjoy my version of trouble."
She had to swallow back a reflexive dry heave, but Molly managed to return his lascivious look, "I'm sure I will."
Frank paid for their drinks while Molly slipped into her coat, and they walked out together, and for a moment, nothing happened. They were within spitting distance of his car when she began to panic, but a loud call for them to get on the ground sounded her relief. Molly followed their directions to act enraged that they were cuffing her, and she even put on a little show of kicking at the window from the backseat of the car. Frank would believe what he wanted about her, and she would be safe for the most part. She watched as they drove off with him in the back, after pulling several weapons from his person that she had never even noticed.
When the car was out of sight, Lestrade pulled her from the backseat and unlocked the handcuffs.
"Well done," he said, stuffing the cuffs in his back pocket. "For your first time."
Molly raised a brow, "Practice makes perfect." She shrugged, "It could have gone worse."
"Yes, it could have. We started with Frank because he was low risk, but the rest of these guys are going to be much more difficult. You are going to have to do more than bat your lashes at them to get them to cooperate."
Molly's tempered flared, her jaw locking into place as he belittled her technique. But, deep down, she knew he was right. This time it had been the dress that drew Frank to her, but who knew if the next Frank would be disarmed as easily with a splash of color and skin. She looked down at her heels, which had begun to squeeze her feet uncomfortably. And then she turned to go home.
The next mission—as she was beginning to call her various excursions to local nightclubs in varying disguises—was in a similar type of establishment, but with a much younger crowd. Her target was a drug runner that used high school kids as mules to infiltrate the school system. Molly posed as Lucia, a waitress whose skirt was a little too high and her shirt a little too low, a floozy for lack of a better word. She also opted for a dark wig, self tanner, and lots of makeup. Lestrade had made sure that she was assigned to her target's table, a VIP booth in one of the dark recesses of the club. With careful steps, Molly eased through the crowd carrying a tray of glasses and a very expensive bottle of liquor. The target sat at the head of table, and she moved to serve him first, giving him ample opportunity to look at her body. Without heels on, she looked petite and curvy, rather than long and lean, but she used the added range of motion to display her assets to the table.
When she stood across from her target, holding her tray at her side, she smiled an invitation, keeping her attention on him, "If there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate. I have been assigned to this table only tonight, and I am instructed to give you my utmost attention." Her voice was low, filled to the brim with seduction.
Her target, Viktor Inez, had eyes so dark they looked black in the dim light. His mocha latte skin was stretched across bulky muscle and draped in an expensive button up. The gold around his wrist and neck was real, and shone brightly even in the low lighting. Molly was shocked to feel herself blush under his gaze, though even she could objectively recognize that the man was absolutely handsome. Full lips spread over a genuine smile, and he offered her his hand.
"I'm Viktor, and I should be thanking the owner for giving me such a lovely creature in service. What's your name?"
Molly slipped her fingers through Viktor's, making sure to start with his fingertips and run along his palm, "I'm Lucia. Pleased to meet you."
"Lucia," Viktor repeated, rolling the name over his tongue, "I hope to see more of you."
Without replying, Molly dipped her head lightly, the unfamiliar dark tresses sliding over her shoulders. She then turned from the table and made her way back to the bar, making sure to lean over the wood to speak to the bartender (another officer). Molly had been doing research on seduction techniques at a local library, her at-home computer having kicked the bucket several weeks earlier. The salary at the morgue allowed her funds to replace it, but she had been spending more and more on outfits for the missions (and a part of her certainly enjoyed flouncing around her flat in revealing dresses) that she would need to wait for Lestrade to write her out a check for Inez' booking before she could make a trip to the shop.
Most of the sites offered her little in the way of advice, at least little information she didn't already know. But, the thing that they emphasized most was confidence. She needed to own her body and show to the world that she owned it in order to be noticed by the man she wanted. Unused to wearing such short skirts and unused to being on the receiving end of flirtation, Molly realized that she really was lucky to have gotten Frank so easily. Viktor had women falling over him, and it would take much more than a blush and flash of skin to hook him. She would have to enter into unfamiliar territory.
Molly returned to the table with fresh alcohol, making frequent eye contact with Viktor, but also giving her attention to the other males around him. She needed the hunter-male instinct to flare, needed him to reach out and take her before one of his companions took her first. It appeared to be working because when she stepped forward to fill Viktor's drink, he reached out and gripped her wrist lightly, pulling her into an empty seat.
"Beautiful Lucia," he said softly, his hand running along her arm, "When is your shift over?"
Molly leaned into him slightly, "About ten minutes. Why?"
Viktor gestured to his party, "I'm thinking of moving this to a more discreet location."
With a turn of her head, Molly was able to present her neck to him in a sensual curve, "Really? Is that an invitation?" She laid a hand on his thigh, just above the knee, doing her best to conceal her shaking fingers. Come on, Molly, don't be a mouse now. You're almost there.
His eyes dropped, but soon returned to her face, "Or, we could slip into one of the back rooms. I have complete access here in the club."
Molly pretended to consider the option, running her fingertips along his thigh, "Well, then, I'm sure they won't notice if I'm gone a little early." She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, giving Viktor her most mischievous look.
Viktor snatched her hand up and pulled her to standing, easing around her body to haul her towards a hidden door. Heart beating wildly, Molly allowed him to lead, glancing down at the band on her wrist in indecision. She followed him into a dark hall, noting that there was a gleaming exit sign at the far end, her salvation only steps away should things get hairy.
With quick movements, Viktor shoved her against a wall and kissed her. It was not artful, but it was aggressive and she had to force herself to kiss him back in a convincing manner. Don't blow it, Molly. His hands, which had obviously never seen a day's hard work in his life, ran along her garters high on her thighs, forcing her knees apart so that he could step between them. Molly turned her head to the side, feigning the need to breathe while she glanced down the hall. Surely Lestrade knew where she was, and surely they would come and cuff Viktor soon.
Her assailant pushed away and once again took hold of her wrist, guiding her further down the hall, and closer to her exit, should she need it. Molly giggled like a school girl, tapping her head gently to make sure the wig would stay in place. It held firm, but Viktor looked the type to be rough, and she wasn't sure if it would stay in place if he gave it a hard enough tug.
When they reached his chosen room, Molly made the decision to take the lead and show a little more assertiveness in their encounter. She entered the room first and turned on her heel, pushing Viktor out into the hall, her hands staying in place long enough to show him that she wanted him to stay put. Then, she took several deliberate steps into the room, shabbily decorated with a mattress, bed sheet, and lamp.
With incredible slowness partially brought on by panic and nerves, she began to unbutton her shirt, sliding each button through the hole and baring a little skin before moving on to the next. She made it to button four before someone burst through the doors on either end of the hallway. Contorting her face into surprise, she quickly hid her body, furiously buttoning up her shirt, her back turned to the corner. When Molly finally made it out into the hall, she caught sight of Viktor laying on the ground, his suit rumpled from a scuffle.
"What the fuck is going on here?" she called, gesturing wildly at one of the officers. "You got no right, you got no right!" And so Molly continued to yell until Lestrade wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her up and out of the hall into the night air.
Having made an efficient enough scene, she was able to sneak away into an alley and pull the wig from her hair. Lestrade handed her a bag with a sweatshirt and pants, for which she gave him a grateful look.
"How'd I do this time?" She asked as she slipped into the more comfortable clothing.
Lestrade rolled on the balls of his feet, "Much better. He didn't, you know, hurt you or anything?"
"Nope," Molly quipped, the adrenaline still rushing through her veins. "I wasn't sure where it was going there at the end, but I think it worked out alright."
Lestrade nodded, "I'll call you a cab, and you can come by the station tomorrow and pick up your check."
Molly looked up at him with a smile, "Thanks. I'm knackered anyways. I think I'll need a hot bath and some tea before I can get to sleep tonight."
The cab ride was short, but silent as the cabbie was about to go off shift and Molly was running through the events of the night in her head. As she hauled her bag filled with the remnants of Lucia up the stairs to her apartment, she recalled intimately the feeling of being in complete control of Viktor, knowing that he was hers to do with what she willed. It was a powerful feeling for sure, and it made her giddy to think of it. Goodbye mousy Molly, hello sex goddess.
She chuckled as she entered her flat, patted Toby's head gently, and flung Lucia into the hall closet. Then she made her way to the bathroom to remove the pounds of makeup on her face. The hot water ran into a tub filled with bubbles while she wiped her skin with a damp cloth. As the layers fell away, Molly stared at her reflection in the mirror. Somehow, her pale skin and dull hair looked different, self tanner aside. Her shoulders pulled away from her body a little and her chin rose higher than usual. Her posture, too, seemed straighter and more aggressive. It was as if a little bit of Lucia had remained. A part of that poor waitress would always be present, though Molly, herself, definitely wasn't an urban princess. Molly shrugged out of her sweats and stared at her naked body, turning this way and that in the full length mirror on the back of the door. Yes, she definitely looked different, but not too different. Molly Hooper still stood before her, but this Molly was… more Molly. She smiled and shook her head, stepping into the bath. She was being silly, and Molly had bigger things to worry about than a more than subtle shift in her body.
The morgue was incredibly quiet that day, and Molly had a sinking feeling that the other foot would drop as soon as she let her guard down. Lestrade had called her for four new targets over the last two months, and each one had honed her craft to an art. Yet, things were getting—dare she say it—a little boring. Molly had been learning fast, and each new mission brought a whole new perspective on the vile atmosphere of the common criminal. She could doll herself up as much as she liked, but she was still the bait in a very dangerous game. How could it have gotten boring in less than two months? She sighed as she made initial observations into an overhanging microphone.
The autopsy was routine, a heart attack victim with a family history. Nothing surprising there. But, it left her with space in her mind to think about what she was doing outside of work. With six criminals under her belt, and most of them thinking she was a prostitute, there was little danger of her actually incurring any repercussions. At first, the take downs had been exciting, but all of her targets used the same lines, the same innuendos. She had hoped for a little creativity. Molly rolled her eyes at her mental thoughts. What did she expect, a James Bond film? No, she wasn't a Bond girl any more than the body in front of her was subject zero in the zombie apocalypse.
Molly finished up the autopsy and rolled the body into safekeeping. Then, she sat down at her computer and began to type up the report. She sat for almost an hour, mindlessly working through the draft before the doors to the morgue sprang open with savage force. Startled, Molly stood and peered over her work station to see Sherlock Holmes striding confidently towards her with a familiar look in his startlingly piercing eyes. Mentally, she let out a long suffering sigh, knowing that this would be another in a long line of their interactions that left her rather intelligent brain absolutely refusing to work.
"Molly!" He called, "I need a body."
"Is it for a case?" She asked, resigned to the fact that she would do as he asked no matter her initial hesitancies. It was a familiar and seemingly unbreakable pattern, but she found that she didn't mind it so much now. His acerbic intonation and blatant manipulation didn't cut as deep as it used to. Wondering if she was merely growing thicker skin, she did her best to avoid his knife-like expression.
"Yes," he drawled, his keen eyes taking in every detail of her face and body in mere seconds. They narrowed slightly, "You look different. Did you do something with your hair?"
Molly felt herself blush, "Um, no." I'm just waltzing about London, taking down criminals—kind of like you. The image of Sherlock using revealing clothing and sexual innuendo flashed across her mind, and she had to avert her face to cover her sudden smile. When she got a handle on her laughter, she leaned against the counter, folding her arms across her chest, "What kind of body?"
Sherlock spent another half second gazing at her keenly, then swiftly dismissed whatever it was that was puzzling him to focus on the task at hand. "Male, middle aged, preferably intact."
Molly nodded, "You're in luck, and we've got just the thing. Fresh, too. If you'll give me a minute…"
She practically stumbled her steps to the door, and then rushed through pulling the body from the freezer and rolling it back to the examination room. Sherlock had removed his coat and scarf, folding them over her office chair. His lean body stood at an angle, reading over her notes from the autopsy intently. Curls fell over his brow, his mouth pressed into a thin line as his eyes flicked over the screen. Molly observed him for a moment, her hands gripping the cart until her knuckles turned white. How she had always wished he would look at her like that, how she wished that she could be worthy of that kind of attention. There was something so genuinely unnerving about Sherlock's eyes, about his gaze that it unfailingly left her melting into an incoherent puddle of goo. Buck up, Molly, there's no time for your silly romantic fantasies. Oh God, even her inner monologue had taken on his tone of voice.
Sherlock Holmes was the most brilliant man she had ever met, and every second with him reduced her to nothing more than a school girl who stood at the front of the class and couldn't remember her maths. She wheeled the body forward into the open space reserved for examination, then stood at the ready as Sherlock ambled forward to review it.
"Excellent," he murmured. Then, "I'm going to need a scalpel and a blunt force instrument." He looked up over the body, and Molly felt her heart stutter as his eyes focused on her. There were a few beats of silence before she jumped to attention, shuffling to get the necessary tools. Sherlock said nothing as she handed them to him, and barely blinked when she asked if he needed anything else. With a small bounce on the balls of her feet, Molly returned to her desk and began working on her report.
She had to admit it was nice to be working in silence with another person as opposed to completely by herself. Even though he hadn't acknowledged her presence, the very fact that Sherlock stood feet away, tearing at a body, was enough to reduce the semi-state of loneliness she often felt while in the lab. Molly soon lost herself in the mindless routine of filing paperwork, and not even the low sound of Sherlock's voice could deter her concentration.
"Molly?"
"Yes?" She replied distractedly.
He remained in place, leaning over a large incision he had made in the body, but she could hear him clearly over the hum of her computer. "Do you think you could find me some duct tape?"
Without thinking, and without any ability to stop herself, Molly uttered, "Only if you think there will be time for foreplay."
It took four seconds for her brain to catch up with her mouth, and when it did, her gaze flew up to Sherlock's raised face, his brows nearing his hairline. It seemed that the sassy ladies she had been impersonating lately had made their way into her everyday interactions. And for the life of her, Molly couldn't bring herself to be ashamed for it. With slow movements and without taking her eyes from Sherlock, Molly leaned down and opened a drawer in her desk. She gripped the duct tape, left over from one project or another, and tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it distractedly. His eyes were still riveted on her blushing face, though his expression hadn't changed. Molly, seeing no other option but to ignore her comment altogether, shrugged and returned to her work, pointedly trying to not pay attention to anything Sherlock did from that point on.
Throughout the next hour and a half, Molly snuck glances at Sherlock's back from behind her desk, wondering if he had even understood her innuendo. It seemed likely that he would have, given that he was the smartest person she had ever met. But, she had never seen him flirt—really flirt. Sure, he had mentioned her hair or her makeup, but she could tell the difference in his eyes. He was faking the flirtation to get what he wanted, and even knowing he was faking wasn't enough to help her resist him.
She continued castigating herself as she filed more reports away, flinching when Sherlock shoved away from the examination table with a jubilant smile.
"Solved it, have you?" Molly guessed as he tore off his gloves and gathered his coat and scarf from the table where she'd left them.
"Yes, though it will take some convincing for Lestrade to make the arrest." He slipped on his coat with graceful elegance, then followed suit with his scarf. Molly glanced at the body, torn open and wrapped with tape.
"Should I dispose of the body?" She asked, gesturing. "Or do you need more time with it?"
Sherlock glanced at the body, his eyes flicking ever so quickly to the unused roll lying within feet of Molly's outstretched hand. She blushed, but maintained her posture, hoping that she wouldn't seem so much a schoolgirl in front of him. It took effort to keep her heart from beating out of her chest as he looked her over, his pale eyes taking in every detail. She could see the cogs turning in his brain, could tell that he was making deductions at lightning speed.
Finally, he stepped forward, bringing his body close enough that she could feel his heat. Molly swallowed, but refused to back away now that she was finally breaking through his impression of her. For several seconds, she stared up at him, until her mouth gave in to the inclination to bite down on her lips. The motion brought Sherlock's eyes downward, and she swore she saw something different flash in them—something she had never seen in him before.
The moment passed as Sherlock stepped away, his footsteps taking him away from her at a frantic pace. She watched him head through the doors, leaving them swinging behind him. With a sigh, Molly Hooper turned to dispose of the body—she stopped cold when she realized that the roll of duct tape was missing.
The station was busy when Molly stepped inside, her eyes immediately searching out Lestrade's office. Folding her coat around her body, she took efficient steps to his door, knocking lightly.
"Come in!" came Lestrade's voice.
Molly turned the handle and slid inside his office, her smile falling when a familiar mop of curly hairy turned to reveal Sherlock's face. She gave the consulting detective a nod in recognition before looking to Lestrade, who was lounging in behind his desk.
"You wanted to see me?" Molly edged lightly. From the corner of her eye, she could see the shift in Sherlock's dark brows. She had to force her eyes not to stray to him, force her body not to move one inch in his direction. It took several days for her to stop reliving the heat and proximity of his body, and she knew, given the chance, she would do it all over again. But, damn if it left her wanting more.
Lestrade propped his feet on the desk, "Yes, I did. Got a job for you, the regular, but I wanted to brief you beforehand. It's a little…different."
Molly blinked, "Different how?"
"How is Molly involved in this case?" Sherlock interjected forcefully, and she could tell he was filling with anxious energy.
Lestrade lifted his feet from his desk and motioned Molly forward, "I'll understand if you don't want to take this one, Molly, but we're really running out of time." He pushed a flyer forward across his desk, the dark paper clashing with the bright letters. She stepped forward to read it, her fingers resting on the glossed wood of the desk. All the while, Molly tried not to feel Sherlock's gaze across her cheeks and neck, and she was proud of herself for not jumping away when he stood suddenly, his hand resting inches from her own as he, too, read the flyer. It advertized a large S&M club outside the city limits, which catered to all kinds of fetishes. Molly, of course, had never been—how would she look wearing a cardigan and loafers while everyone else was wearing leather?
Sherlock hadn't moved, and Molly had already made the decision that neither would she. He wasn't going to intimidate her when they were, for once, playing on her home court. She looked at Lestrade carefully, wondering just how deep she would need to get in order to catch this next one.
"So… I'm going to be a dominatrix?" She asked, her brows coming together thoughtfully.
Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat and Lestrade chuckled, his cheeks reddening. "Not exactly, but we do need you to, um, fit in a bit with the crowd there."
"Oh," was all Molly could say, her mind already filling with images that weren't exactly proper.
"I don't understand why Molly is involved with my case," Sherlock said lowly, his fingers, which had been steepled over the wood of the desk, relaxing to hold his weight, his palm flattening against the grain. Molly watched in abject fascination as the space between their hands evaporated to mere millimeters. She tried not to hyperventilate.
Lestrade sighed heavily, "Look, our guy likes a certain type of woman. Brunette, leggy, petite and wearing leather. And, honestly, she's got a hell of a pair of legs and I'm sure we could get her into something suitable for the occasion. Portland has been known to take hostages, and he's been known to kill without remorse. We need to get in, get him out, and book him. Preferably without someone losing their life. Now, it's not an ideal option, but Molly has done this in the past, and her work is solid."
Molly beamed at Lestrade's praise, and then she made the mistake of looking at Sherlock, who was staring her down with an almost predatory gaze. Her smile fell slightly, but she managed to hold onto a smirk. His eyes were so intense that Molly felt she might melt under their heat, and she wished fervently that she had worn her hair tie 'round her wrist that morning. And then she bit down on her bottom lip, a move she had begun to make out of nervousness. It started a chain reaction that she wasn't sure she could handle. Sherlock's whole posture changed, though his feet (and hand) remained planted in place. He looked at her like he sometimes looked at his experiments; as if he was trying to predict her moves, as if she was something he wanted to look at.
"You've done this before." It was a statement, a mere murmur as they sized each other up.
Molly nodded, "A time or two. Lestrade needed someone to lure the criminals out of their crowded hiding spots. I had an idea that seemed logical enough…and it kind of went from there."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "You had an idea? And he let you waltz into a potentially dangerous situation because the idea was 'logical enough?'"
For a moment, Molly thought he might be losing his marbles or that he would spring at her, taking her to the ground out of fury. The thought did have merit, but she filed it away for a lonely night, knowing that her hormones had no place in this situation.
She swallowed lightly, "Honestly, Sherlock, it wasn't that bad. I'd sit with them, have a drink, walk out with them and then Lestrade would take over from there. Nothing as serious as a drugs bust, just some conversation and a tiny scuffle—even then, I wasn't involved. It was, and will be, perfectly safe, I assure you." It was probably the most coherent speech she had even given him, and she patted herself on the back for linking not only several sentences, but a whole cohesive thought together without stumbling over herself.
She glanced to her left to see Lestrade looking between them with a strange expression, his eyes twinkling with something like amusement. Molly huffed and returned her attention to Sherlock, whose muscles were tensing and relaxing rhythmically as he worked to control whatever emotion he was feeling.
"We're not dealing with a common criminal, Molly," Sherlock began, and Molly tried not to sigh at the sound of his voice forming her name. "This man is the key to a ring of sex traffickers throughout Europe. He has and will kill to keep himself from jail. He cares nothing for a woman he meets randomly at a bar, and if he doesn't kill you, he will sell you to the highest bidder."
Molly allowed her body to relax, focused on the techniques she'd learned to take control of an uncontrollable situation, focused on controlling herself most of all. "I'm well aware of what he's capable of, or I will be before the operation goes down. I have always understood the dangers of my choices. I know what I'm doing." Her spine straightened and she forced herself to look him in the eyes, eyes that were now narrowing with the thrill of the argument.
"Do you really?" He intoned, his voice dropping an octave. "Tell me, Molly, what happens when he uses you as a human shield, knife to your throat, and police issued guns pointed at your head?" His head had dropped so that he could look her in the eye properly, which brought them much closer. Molly could smell him, could smell the soap he used and the detergent lingering on his shirt. It sent her hear t to palpitating.
"I'd do like all naughty children do when they don't want to be moved," she said softly. "I'd go limp and let the police put a bullet in his head."
For a moment, she thought Sherlock might argue further, but he merely scrutinized her for another second or two, then turned to leave the room, slamming the door behind him.
Molly sighed, and then sat in Sherlock's vacated chair, "Tell me what I have to do."
Twisting in her seat, Molly tried valiantly to find a comfortably position that didn't cut off her air supply. It was useless, of course, because the tight leather of her dress refused to budge an inch for her lungs to expand. The man at the store had told her that it would take time to 'break it in' but three days of wearing the thing hadn't loosened the leather a bit. The length was doable, not short enough to bare her ass to the entire club, and the heels weren't too high that she wouldn't be able to walk in five minutes. But, there was something distinctly salacious about being corseted into a fabric so unforgiving, wearing strappy heels, and a mere scrap of lace for underwear.
Molly stood at the side entrance to the club and, for the first time since she started this whole crazy idea, hesitated. She held her hand above the steel door, preparing to push through, but her nerves were making her curled fingers shake. The others were small time crooks in comparison to Daniel Portland, and this was a man who dealt in the sex trade. Molly was beginning to have doubts.
"We're all in place, Molly. Or have you lost your nerve?" Came a deep baritone through her earpiece. Molly sucked in a breath and stepped instinctively back from the door. She had to swallow several times before she could bring herself to reply.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" She hissed, looking to each end of the alley in the vain hope of spotting him.
There was a distinct sigh from the other end of the earpiece, "This is my case, Molly. Do you really think I would leave you and Lestrade to it, alone?"
Even though she knew he couldn't see her, her expression scrunched into annoyance, "Put Lestrade on. He knows how this goes."
"I. Don't. Think so," Sherlock intoned. "I've got eyes on Portland, and you will listen to my instructions. Everything will go perfectly, if you just listen." Molly couldn't detect humor or sarcasm in his voice, but there was a finality that she recognized. She put her hands on her hips and stared down the door.
"Sherlock, this isn't a game. My life is at risk here."
"And that is exactly why I am the best choice to guide you through this," he replied. "Now, fluff your hair, open the door, and get inside."
Molly, in one last act of defiance, crossed her arms across her chest and cocked a hip, tapping one heel against the ground.
"Molly…" he purred, his voice like gravel against her eardrums. She shivered as it ran along her skin, dipping low to rest in the small of her back. Licking her lips, she tried to form a response, but her voice failed her. Molly could practically feel his hands on her hips, guiding her forward, his hands sliding down her arm and lifting it to open the door, his body pressing gently against her back, easing her through the entrance.
"Good girl," Sherlock drawled, pulling her from her stupor. Molly rolled her eyes, and realized that he was probably watching every move she made, which only made her nerves string higher in her stomach. She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself.
"I'm still not sure about this," Molly whispered as she took in her surroundings. There were people everywhere, talking and dancing, and the atmosphere hung like a heavy coat around her shoulders. The music vibrated against her skin, pressing through her ribcage to thrum deep in her heart.
"Just relax. There is no one better to be watching you tonight. Who else could predict Portland's moves before he even comprehends how dazzling you look in that dress."
Molly felt her cheeks redden with heat, and she touched her hair surreptitiously. "Okay, Yoda, guide me. Where is Portland?"
"Uh, uh, uh," Sherlock replied, "We want him to see you first. Make a loop around the room, walk slowly, swing your hips. Yes, good. Now, look around, but don't appear to be looking for anyone in particular. You need to appear to be a spectator here, not a participant."
Molly tried to follow instructions, but there were a lot of people present and she was having difficulty combing through the crowd. She stumbled once or twice, wincing inwardly as she imagined Sherlock dropping his head into his hands in frustration with her failure. But, eventually, she found a rhythm—step, swing, step, swing, step, hair flip. Catching a few eyes here and there, she did her best to give them a flirtatious look then move on.
The music pulsed around her, lending further rhythm to her movements as she finished her circuit. It could have been the heels, or maybe the dress, but every step felt sensuous and alluring. She loved it.
"Portland is on the next floor up and the stairs are behind the bar to your left."
Molly eased past a couple dressed in head to toe latex and tried not to lift her brows in surprise. So involved was she in feeling the movements of her own body that she almost completely missed the woman standing on a pedestal, fairly naked and the men draped over her. There were people acting as chairs for others, footstools, and lounging at the feet of their masters. Her earpiece sounded with another caress of Molly, and she focused on getting up the stairs without falling.
If the first level had surprised her, the second downright shocked her. There were people lying on tall, elaborately decorated beds, some half dressed. The low lighting only served to intensify the already pulsing atmosphere. She felt her breath go soft as she took into the red silk draped over bare rafters and the women held by their wrists on the walls.
"Which one is Portland?" She murmured, pretending to reach down to adjust a fastening on her shoe.
His hesitation was brief, "Blue shirt, white pants, to your right."
As she rose, Molly flipped her hair from her face and glanced to her right, spotting Portland immediately. He was speaking with a gaggle of young nubile women, all fawning for his attention. Playboy. Ju-ust perfect. With a soft bend of her back, Molly rose to standing, catching Portland's eye for just a moment. His gaze lingered for a moment before returning to his companions, and Molly forced her body to remain loose. She circled the room, gazing at all the 'displays' with genuine interest. On her second circuit, a waiter stood at attention near her, offering her a glass of champagne.
"From the gentleman," he said lightly, gesturing to Portland.
Molly accepted the drink and gave Portland a salute, sipping slowly.
"Approach him, but don't rush. Slow steps." Sherlock's voice guided her through the motions as sure as if he had been standing next to her, his hands molding against her skin. "Very good, Molly. Now, introduce yourself."
Molly extended her hand, fingers extended gracefully, "Scarlett."
Portland took her hand gently, his hands dry and warm. He had pale, porcelain skin and a shockingly blonde hair. Even his eyes were shocking. Though they were very bright blue, they held such a disarming charm that Molly had to remind herself that this was a con-man, a slave trader, a murderer. He oozed sex appeal and charisma, and Molly could easily see how women could trust him. Using her hand as leverage, Portland eased Molly to sitting next to him on the bed.
"Where are your companions?" Molly asked, sipping her drink.
Portland smiled, "Companions? Ah, the children. They are preparing themselves for their nightly duties." His voice had the slightest of accents, a vaguely Slavic undertone that pegged him as foreign and the tiniest bit sinister.
Molly raised a brow, "Oh?"
"It is nothing you need concern yourself with. I am more interested in you. Are you here with someone?"
"Tell him yes, Molly," Sherlock burst forth.
"I am," Molly replied, rubbing gently at the space behind her ear to ease the ache of having him practically yelling in her ear. When she was through with this, she'd give him a piece for it.
"Really?" Portland drawled, "But I do not see your companion. Tell me, why would he leave his little lamb by herself in a den of wolves?"
Sherlock chuckled in her ear, "Because his lamb is capable of watching after herself. And always comes back to the shepherd." When Molly's brows drew together in confusion, he urged, "Tell him, Molly."
She repeated Sherlock's reply, taking a sip of her champagne and holding Portland's gaze over the rim of her glass. Portland's eyes narrowed in challenge, his stare hardening into an expression so fierce she had to avert her gaze.
"Does your shepherd share?" Portland inquired, pulling at the cuffs of his shirt and arranging his cufflinks so that she could see the diamonds embedded in the gold.
"Absolutely not," Sherlock replied silkily in her ear, and she could practically see his shoulders canting forward over whatever monitor or screen he was using to observe them.
"Not at all," she modified, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "In fact, I should be getting back. He'll punish me if I'm gone too long." For once, Sherlock was silent.
"Will he?" Portland leaned forward, his mouth inches from her bare shoulder. She could feel his breath dusting over her skin as he spoke lowly, "What will he do?"
Molly smiled secretively, allowing the fall of her hair to cocoon them in privacy, "He used duct tape last time. Left me red for three days after." There was a muffled cough on the other end of the mic, and Molly allowed her smile to blossom into a grin. "I really must be going."
As she rose from the bed, Portland reached out and steadied her at her waist, "I would like to meet your shepherd. Perhaps we can…make arrangements."
Molly hesitated, doing her best to come up with a convincing lie that wouldn't get her killed in the process. She smiled, glancing away as her mind worked.
"I'm downstairs by the bar. Bring him down and we'll finish this," Sherlock said and she could hear movement on the other side.
Startled, Molly opened her mouth to speak, and it took her a moment to form an answer. Finally, she managed an 'of course' and they traversed the display room to the stairwell, descending into the madness below. Craning her neck to see over the crowd, Molly searched for that gaunt figure and mass of curling hair. She hadn't spotted him by the time she reached the bar, and her confusion showed.
Portland leaned against one of the bar stools, smiling slyly, "It seems you've been abandoned, Scarlett."
Molly looked up at Portland and felt a certain amount of fear bubble up like bile in her throat. She swallowed it back, dropping her gaze as she scrambled for her next move. Her momentary drop of character turned out to be unnecessary as a warm, calloused hand slid down the corseted back of her dress, fingers sliding between the strings to circle the skin beneath.
"There you are," her savior breathed, his mouth brushing her temple. "You've been gone too long, pet."
Molly turned ever so slightly to gaze up into Sherlock's bright, fascinating eyes, "I'm sorry. But I brought someone who wanted to meet you. He, um, wants to speak with you about our arrangement." She cringed as her voice cracked over that final word, but his very presence pressed so pointedly against her side was driving her senses wild. Heat bloomed across her cheeks and low in her belly. Out of self-preservation, she began to pull away, only to be stopped by the iron will of Sherlock. He locked his arm around her waist, keeping her firmly in place.
"Scarlett, we've spoken about you interacting with strangers without me," he intoned as a parent would a child. Molly felt a bit of that old paradigm shift a bit as his voice implied a much closer intimacy. She bit her lip, lowering her gaze to the floor. Strong fingers ran the length of her jaw, tilting her head so that she was forced to return his gaze.
"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I promise, it won't happen again."
Sherlock smirked, "See that it doesn't." He turned his attention to Portland, who was eyeing them with a covetous expression. "Now, what is it you wish to speak to me about?"
"Well," Portland began, his eyes picking up all the subtle cues of their posture. "Scarlett said you don't share your pet."
"She would be correct. She belongs to me." Molly closed her eyes as words she hadn't ever dreamed would come from his mouth, issued forth. It felt good to hear, even if he was just playing the part.
Portland chuckled, "I figured, and that is the case for many of our dominants here. But, some do allow for… private viewings."
"I see," Sherlock murmured, his stance shifting ever so slightly. It brought the angle of her hips closer so that they pressed against the belt at his waist. The hand at her back slipped down to cup her ass through the leather of her dress, the warm weight of it sending shivers down her already shaky legs.
He looked down at her, his eyes searching, "Well? Are you up for it?"
There was something in the way that he said it, something in the challenge of his voice that locked Molly's jaw against the urge to stick her tongue out at him. She settled for leaning into him, running her hand up the line of buttons on his dark shirt, her attention drifting to Portland, who she sized up as one would a horse for stud.
"I suppose I could." She looked back to Sherlock and tilted her head down to look up at him from beneath her lashes, "As long as you promise to reward me later."
Sherlock's face relaxed into amusement, his eyes flashing with approval, "Most definitely."
"Then it's settled," Portland exclaimed merrily. "Give me one moment to prepare a room. I have every wish to make the lady comfortable."
Molly smiled softly, "Thank you."
Portland reached down grasp her hand, but was stopped by Sherlock's grip around his wrist. Molly watched as his knuckles turned white from the pressure and Portland's eyes squinted with pain. For a moment, she thought their cover would be blown and that she would have to make a run for it, but Portland merely smiled, stepping away with both hands raised.
When they were out of hearing distance for Portland, Molly sighed into Sherlock's shirt, "What's the plan?"
He arranged her so that the length of her body pressed against the length of his, tucked neatly chest to chest. "Lestrade and his men are waiting for my signal. Just play along and everything will go perfectly."
Molly gazed up at him, biting down on her lip as she wondered about where he was going with all this. He reached up and ran his long fingers through her hair, deftly removing the earpiece and slipping it into his pocket. She shivered at his touch, fighting the urge to lean into his body and into his heat. Sherlock pulled her close, fingertips dipping into the valley of her breasts, slipping beneath the neckline of her dress. Molly gasped audibly, her hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt. He coaxed the mini-mic from its hiding place, tucking it into the seam of her bra.
She tried, she really did, but the feeling of heat that passed over her skin at his touch was enough to send a shiver down the length of her spine with enough force that she could feel the muscle of Sherlock's arms tighten in response. Molly swallowed, keeping her eyes downcast and her head tucked deftly into a hollow between his neck and shoulders. Over and over, she repeated the mantra that these were merely actions of protection so that Portland wouldn't discover their ruse. She couldn't, wouldn't allow herself to think otherwise.
"Portland is on the way back," he murmured against her temple, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her even closer. "Almost there," he said, seemingly to himself. Molly's spine straightened in response, her shoulders relaxing as she lifted her gaze to her partner in this whole crazy thing. Sherlock's attention was on the incoming man, and she could see the calculations he was making, the conclusions he was forming, and the challenge he was issuing.
"This way," Portland directed with a wave of his hand, and they followed without a word. Molly had some trouble keeping up with Portland's pace and Sherlock's long strides in her heels. More than once she had to skip a step to remain with the group. However, Sherlock's arm remained curled about her waist, guiding her along seemingly without conscious thought. And she reveled in the opportunity to return the hold, feeling the muscle of his body as he moved, the sharpness of his hip bone protruding at his waist.
The room they entered was mostly dark with a large pedestal featuring in the center, a series of comfortable chairs circling it. Sherlock's pace slowed slightly as he took in every detail of the room, Molly tried not to fall over. What exactly was she expected to do? Surely, she wasn't going to be expected to stand naked on that thing. This coming from a woman who nearly stripped naked in front of a stranger not two months ago. Molly hushed the voice in her head, telling it that this was different. Inez was a stranger, someone she'd never see again. Sherlock was someone she worked with on a regular basis, someone she had feelings for, someone who was currently rubbing soothing circles between her shoulder blades. She sighed gently, relaxing.
Portland sat heavily in one of the chairs, "I await your leisure."
Guided by firm pressure, Molly stepped up to be displayed on the stage, molded by Sherlock's hands. He ran his hands through her hair, pulling it behind her shoulders and tucking it behind her ears. Then, he tilted her head up so that she was forced to look up at him as he worked, adjusting her stance and the position of her hips to display her curves in the most advantageous angle. He slipped his thigh between her knees, easing them apart to stretch the fabric of her dress—which creaked under the pressure. Finally, he ran a warm hand down her arm, setting her nerves on fire. His fingers encompassed her wrist, slipping down over her hand. The ponytail holder slipped free and rolled in place around his own wrist. Her eyes narrowed.
Pretending not to notice her expression, Sherlock leaned in and kissed her cheek. His mouth was dry and seared her skin. She inhaled deeply, taking in his scent and hoping to pull from him the details of his intentions. Molly wanted to please him, wanted to do things right for once. She wanted him to be proud of her. Mousy Molly couldn't exist anymore because Mousy Molly wasn't who she was, it was who she became when confronted with the savage mind and wit of one Sherlock Holmes. Neither was she this brazen woman who stood before two watching men on a stage. Molly was, admittedly, somewhere in between. It frightened her and exhilarated her all the same.
The raw timbre of Sherlock's voice brought her from her musings, "Hands up, above your head, please."
Though his tone brooked no argument, Molly was mollified by the use of 'please.' She obeyed, tilting her shoulders slightly to expose the length of her neck. Though her gaze was centered on Sherlock, she saw a waiter bring a pair of drinks to them from her periphery. Sherlock handed one to Portland, bringing the tumbler to his lips slowly. Molly held her position for a long moment, her eyes sliding down to watch the shift in skin as he swallowed the amber liquid.
Sherlock's posture relaxed slightly as Portland's eased forward.
"Turn so that your back it to us, pull your hair forward." She did so, arching her back slightly so that she could feel cool air sifting through the laces along her spine.
"Lower your arms slowly." Molly continued to obey, making every effort to infuse grace into her limbs. She heard some shifting behind her, but forced herself to remain facing in the opposite direction.
"Pull your dress up as far as the material will allow."
Molly started, her fingers twitching at her side. For several beats, she couldn't move, but again his tone rendered her unable to do anything but obey. She gripped the leather around her thighs and slid it as high as it would go, caught at the mound of her ass. Swallowing, she held the pose, her eyes unfocused and her ears straining for the next move.
Again, movement behind her sounded, and she had to force herself to remain in place. She blinked back her nervousness and bit at her lip. Familiar hands slid between her palms and the dress, easing the material back down. He steadied her so that she relaxed against his chest, his left hand circling her shoulders to hold her around her collarbone.
"Lestrade was right," he breathed against her neck. "You have a fantastic pair of legs."
Molly turned to reply, but he was already stepping away, phone in hand. She listened to him call in the cavalry, her eyes flicking to Portland. The man was slumped over the side of the arm chair, drugged. A hysteric little giggle threatened to burst forth from her belly, but she checked it carefully. Lestrade strode in, his glance appraising her safety for a moment before moving on to Sherlock for a debriefing of Portland's condition. Molly kept out of the way mostly because her mind was spinning on the idea that Portland had been drugged long before Sherlock had made the call.
Molly stood over the body of a young woman who had been killed in a car wreck that morning. There wasn't much need to determine cause of death due to the head trauma and lacerations along the neck from broken glass-she hadn't been wearing he seatbelt and was thrown through the windshield. Still, procedures must be observed.
With slow cuts, Molly opened the chest cavity and exposed the ribs. She glanced at the unmoving heart and sighed. The woman was young, too young to have died needlessly. It was times like the present that made Molly question her choice of profession.
While she opened the chest cavity further , Molly thought about the night almost a week prior. She hadn't heard a peep from anyone involved, though a check had been waiting for her at the front desk of the hospital the next morning.
The silence confused her, but she supposed it should have been expected. Molly did not live in a fairy tale and, though the events of that night were spectacularly strange, absolutely nothing was different. She tried not to think about it as she went about her task, tried not to think about it as she sewed up the body, tried not to think about it as she rinsed the blood away. As it turned out, trying not to think about it was absolutely useless because as soon as she had managed to get the feeling of his hands on her skin out of her mind, the man, himself, came strolling through the doors of the morgue with a rolling suitcase in tow.
Molly stared at Sherlock, still holding a damp sponge over the hand of the woman. He hauled the suitcase atop an empty lab table and opened it with sharp movements. For several moments, he dug around in the contents until he came up with a swath of fabric in a deep blue. Without a word, he gripped her arm and led her to a supply closet, one hand reaching up to flick on the overheard light.
"Take off your clothes," he said, taking his gloves off and stuffing them in his coat pockets.
Molly stuttered, "Excuse me?"
Sherlock leveled a look at her that could melt steel, "Take off your clothes. Put this on." He offered her the fabric, which she now realized was a dress.
Raising her chin, Molly folded her arms across her chest, suddenly wishing she hadn't brought the sponge along with her. "Not until you tell me what this is about."
Tossing the dress on a side table, Sherlock approached her with determined steps. Molly backed up quickly, bumping into a shelf at the back of the closet. He gazed at her, assessing every detail of her confused, but inquisitive, countenance. His intentions were unclear, but his determination and purpose were written evidently across his face. Molly swallowed, barely able to keep from making a dash for the door. She had never been this unsure of Sherlock, he looked fierce and bold. Bold, she had seen and dealt with, but this kind of ferocity hadn't seemed in his DNA. She shivered.
"Have you forgotten already?" He murmured, the timbre rocketing over her spine until it damn near arched towards him. When Molly didn't—or couldn't—reply, he touched her cheek gently, "I promised to reward you."
Recognition flashed across her face, and Sherlock smiled. "I didn't…know you were being serious," she said finally.
"Now you do," he replied, grasping the hand that held the sponge. He took it from her, tossing it aside, then meticulously removed both of her latex gloves. Her lab coat fell to the floor and he made it to the third button on her blouse before Molly stopped him.
"I'll need a little privacy," she uttered finally. Molly may have been in love with him, but she still had standards, and losing all her clothing in front of him while standing in the lab's supply closet just wasn't going to happen.
Sherlock nodded, exiting the closet before Molly could blink. She forced three heaving breaths into her lungs, and then set to work. The dress was cut from thick fabric, structured enough that the seams held her body in place even while the rest of the material hugged a little too close to her hips and thighs. As she folded her work clothes, Molly rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. He had already seen her in a leather dress hauled up to her ass. This certainly wouldn't be any kind of surprise for him.
Sherlock turned from his examination of the body on her table as she exited the closet, her discarded clothes in hand. He approached her evenly, and the only indication that he was pleased with what he saw was the barely controlled fire in his eyes. Molly blushed as he circled her, shifting on her bare feet.
"How did you know my size?" She asked dumbly.
He raised a brow at her, "You don't give me enough credit, Molly."
Molly huffed, "I give you loads of credit. You just don't notice." It was, perhaps, the most critical thing she had ever said to him and she had said it while wearing a gift from his very hands. Molly closed her eyes, chastising herself for her ingratitude. "I'm sorry."
"Whatever for?" He asked lightly as he returned to the suitcase. A pair of cobalt blue platform stilettos was set in front of her and Molly was shocked to watch Sherlock kneel before her. He tapped her calf to indicate that she should present her left foot for him and she had to steady herself by placing a hand on his shoulder while he slid the shoe into place. The right shoe was similarly adorned and, when he was finished staring at her heeled feet, he rose. The extra inches in the shoe evened their heights slightly, so that, instead of craning her neck up to him, she could lift her eyes only a bit to see his face.
"There," he said finally. "You'll wear that tonight."
Molly cocked her head to the side, "Tonight? What am I doing tonight?"
Sherlock smoothed the fabric at her sides, his hands settling on her hips. With firm pressure, he pulled her close enough that the fabric of their clothing brushed together. "A restaurant. Nothing fancy. John and Sarah are celebrating her birthday and I have need of someone to entertain me."
Molly's eyes narrowed, "I'm not a toy, Sherlock."
He smiled, "Well observed. But that doesn't mean you aren't entertaining, pet." Angry, she began to push away from him, but Sherlock's arms remained tightly woven around her hips, pressed her bodily against him until he could lean down to speak lowly in her ear. "Since the day I walked into your lab, you've wanted me. You fell in love with me over the Kensington case." He loosed his hold on her hips, grasping her face to keep her eyes locked on him. "You are an intelligent, sweet, caring woman whose self-esteem kept her from everything she ever wanted, and I've been waiting almost two years for you to reach out and take what you want, Molly. Don't turn away from it when you finally have it in the palm of your hand." His voice was low, throaty, and warm. It poured over her like smooth honey, until the meaning hit her square in the forehead.
Molly stared up at him, flabbergasted all the way down to her heeled feet. She shook her head gently, "I'm sorry, I—"
"What are you apologizing for?" He demanded in a familiar tone of frustration.
She swallowed, thinking hard about her answer. "For taking so long," she managed after several long moments. "I'm sorry I took so long."
Sherlock chuckled, "Apology accepted." He then stepped away, leaving Molly wavering slightly. "I'll pick you up at your place. Eight o'clock." He paused in his steps, one hand on the doorknob, "By the way, I meant what I said in the club. You are mine and I do not share." And then he was gone, leaving Molly standing in the middle of the lab wearing a fabulous dress and heels, a body lying exposed in the fluorescents. There was something vaguely dream-like about the whole situation, and she had to pinch herself repeatedly to make sure that reality was firmly set in front of her. Not wanting to ruin the dress, she changed back into her work clothes, folding the garment and the heels back into the suitcase. Exploring the rest of her gift would have to wait until later. Molly pulled on another pair of latex gloves and picked up a clean sponge to wipe the blood from the corpse, thinking about how such a normal day could end so strangely.
That's it, my readers, just a little something that popped into my head and I had to get it down quick.
Reviews are love.