This fic is based on the idea that while Moriarty did come back in HLV, nothing untoward has occurred since then. I do mention it later on, but I wanted to clarify. I hope you don't mind.
Molly opened her eyes slowly, freezing when she realised that she was not in her room.
She'd been woken by a tingling on her stomach that felt like fingers ghosting her skin, but she'd dismissed as Toby, flicking his tail. She had no idea where she was, but she was pretty sure that Toby was not here.
She blushed when she remembered the dream she'd been having, a rather heated one about a certain consulting detective, who would probably combust if he ever found out about it. Especially considering how… vivid it was.
Molly turned over, still wondering where in the hell she was, looking desperately for clues.
She did not expect to see Sherlock Holmes.
She rolled away so vociferously that she nearly crashed off the bed, before strong arms caught her and she found herself pressed against Sherlock's chest.
'Molly,' his voice made her shiver, and he chuckled; she could feel the vibrations that it made against her skin. 'Good morning,' he murmured, manoeuvring her until they were lying face to face, their legs entangled.
Not a dream, then.
'Good morning, Sherlock,' she replied shakily, tracing his cheekbone, checking that he was really there with her. He closed his eyes at her touch, edging his head closer to hers on their shared pillow.
'I am… glad that you are here,' he said slowly, and she smiled lazily. He pressed kisses to the area between her neck and her shoulder, his curls brushing against her cheek. She buried her hands in them, allowing her fingers to roam the expanse of his back now that she was able to.
'I thought it was a dream,' she whispered in his ear, as he moved her onto her back and nestled himself between her legs.
'That… explains… your reaction,' he replied, kisses up her neck breaking his speech.
'I thought you were Toby,' she said breathlessly, laughing when he stiffened and looked up at her under furrowed eyebrows.
'I confess… I don't see the resemblance,' he said, and she laughed again, a beautiful grin spreading over his face, only inches away from her own. He was supporting himself on his arms, but his elbows slackened as she brought his lips down to meet hers.
She kissed him slowly, and they were both out of breath when they separated. He nudged her nose with his, revelling in the feel of her so close to him, something he never thought he would be brave enough to allow himself to have. Something he never dared hope she would let him have.
'Are you hungry?' She whispered, and she rolled her eyes when he smouldered suggestively at her. 'I didn't mean it like that,' giggling when he pouted adorably, pushing up on his shoulders.
'No,' he said, pinning her to the bed with a hand on her hip.
'Sherlock. I'm starving. You sort of interrupted my dinner date if you remember,' he grinned at her, glad that she didn't seem to mind the fact that she hadn't got to her date with… Harvey? Hans? Harry? He couldn't remember.
'But I think you should stay here,' he murmured. She smiled, kissed him chastely, slipped out from under him. He watched her grab his shirt from a chair in the corner and button it. It suited her.
'I'll bring you some toast,' she said to him, winking playfully before she glided through the door.
Sherlock sat in bed for an intermittent amount of time, listening to Molly move about in his kitchen, in what Sherlock could only suppose was a desperate hunt for edible food. His smile widened at the sound of triumph she emitted upon finding the bread bin, which he had shoved into a cupboard two days before after his tongue experiment got rather out of hand. Then he heard her pull the toaster from the washing machine (why did he even have a washing machine?) and plug it in, humming to herself while she waited, exhaling happily when the toast popped up.
She was still buttering her toast when he heard the soft footsteps coming up the stairs. The scraping of her knife halted, synchronising perfectly with the rattle of the tea tray as their guest reached the top step.
'Sherlock! I've brought you some- Oh,' Sherlock got up from his bed slowly, pulling on some boxers and a t-shirt before he opened his bedroom door.
He walked towards Mrs Hudson, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at Molly, who was frozen in place with her knife in the air.
'Molly?' Molly offered Mrs Hudson a small smile, more of a grimace, and Sherlock tried with some difficulty to suppress his grin. He also had to ignore how beautiful Molly looked in his kitchen, because he could think of several ways that this could become even more uncomfortable, and that was something he definitely did not want to explore.
'Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said quietly, as his landlady swivelled her head to face him, as if she was only just noticing his presence.
'But what will John say?'
And that was how Mrs Hudson found out that Sherlock and Molly were dating.
xxxxxx
Mycroft was next, striding into Baker Street with his umbrella hooked on his arm to find Sherlock in his chair, his hands tented under his chin.
Sherlock smirked when saw him, but he didn't stand to receive his brother, nor did he make eye contact with the older Holmes when he sat across from him.
Mycroft had hoped that the next time he would see his brother would be when they'd got a lead on Moriarty, but the consulting criminal had gone mysteriously quiet since appearing on every television screen in the country. This visit was unfortunately of a pastoral nature, Mycroft's least favourite type, and he hoped to wrap it up quickly so that he could get to his meeting with the head of Sweden's secret service.
'Four days, Mycroft. You're slipping,' Sherlock could barely contain the gleefulness in his voice; taking a sip of the mug of tea beside him, grimacing when he realised it had gone cold. Mycroft merely smiled patronisingly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
'Not quite, brother,' he said slowly, his voice measured as it always was, as if he was perpetually holding a peace conference. 'I have of course known since this little… whatever it is,' Sherlock's eyes bored into Mycroft, 'with your pathologist began. I was hoping that you would come to your senses so that I could avoid having to come all the way down here,' Sherlock's jaw clenched. 'Alas, it seems you are intent on continuing to see Molly Hooper, so as your brother, I am forced to remind you why this is such a terrible idea.'
'Keep out of it, Mycroft,' Sherlock warned.
'We don't play nice with other children, brother.' Mycroft replied, his face etched with amusement that made Sherlock's blood boil.
'Is that your excuse?' Sherlock returned, smirking at Mycroft's questioning look. 'You isolate yourself because you don't play nice. Is that why you're still looking after your little brother, Mycroft, because you don't have anyone else?' Mycroft's eyebrow twitched, and he opened his mouth to retort, but Sherlock spoke instead. 'My relationship with Molly is none of your business, Mycroft, and I want you to remember that.' His voice was dangerous, and the two brothers simply stared at each other for a few moments.
The sound of the doorbell broke through the silence, and Sherlock stood, crossing to the window to pull back one of the curtains. They heard Mrs Hudson open the door, and greet the person on the other side, who began to run up the stairs. Sherlock turned to face the front door of the flat as Molly Hooper's voice wafted up to them.
'Sherlock, are you home? Sherlock, I got the serology results back for Mr Carter and you were right about the dilution of- Oh, hello Mr Holmes,' Molly eyes were wide as she nodded to Mycroft, hoping neither of them realised that she had almost curtsied. She crossed over to the window, muttering something about it being stuffy before pushing it open.
'Miss Hooper,' Mycroft nodded to her, standing awkwardly by the fireplace as he rose to greet her. Sherlock's hands were clasped behind his back, and Molly brushed hers against them as she walked away from the window, moving away so that she didn't make him uncomfortable.
Sherlock caught her fingers just as they left his skin, and locked his hand fiercely with hers, pulling her in gently so that she was by his side.
'It's Dr Hooper, Mycroft,' Sherlock said flatly, staring at his brother, although he was well aware that Molly's eyes were fixed on him. Mycroft watched them silently, a peculiar expression crossing his face as he flicked his gaze from their interlocked hands and Sherlock's resolute glare.
'My apologies, Dr Hooper-'
'It's fine; you can just call me Molly,' she said quickly, her voice confident even though her hand was clutching Sherlock's tightly. He couldn't stop himself from looking at her, this petite woman keeping eye contact with the British Government, something even John struggled to do.
'Well, I shall not intrude any longer,' he could hear Mycroft's voice, but it was distant, his focus solely on Molly. Mycroft walked to the door, but he stopped before he began to descend the stairs, his parting words directed solely at the pathologist. 'Don't let him screw this up, Dr Hooper,' he said quietly, before he departed, shutting the front door firmly behind him when he got to the bottom of the steps.
Molly exhaled, sagging slightly against Sherlock, who hadn't taken his eyes off her.
'I believe we just got my brother's blessing,' he murmured, kissing her hairline as she buried herself in his chest.
'Wonderful,' she muttered, and he smiled before he drew her face up to his.
'Don't… you… want to hear… about… Mr Carter?' She asked him between kisses, as he walked her backwards to his bedroom.
'Mm, no.' He replied, pulling her jumper over her head.
'But it's why I came,' she whispered, as she fell onto the bed and dragged him with her.
'Really? No other reason?' He replied against her neck, working her trousers down her legs and skimming his fingertips against her skin more than necessary.
'Let me think…' she said breathlessly, and she flipped them over, ripping his shirt open and laughing at the shock on his face. 'Perhaps I'm here for this too,' she said, unbuttoning his trousers.
'Well, Dr Hooper, let's see if I can make this worth your while.'
xxxxxx
Molly's phone went off while Mary was in the kitchen, getting more wine and even more ice cream.
Can you come over after? SH
She smiled at her phone, shaking her head at what was now the fifth text asking the same question.
Sherlock, I've got work tomorrow. MH
The reply was instantaneous.
But you've got the night shift. Come over. SH
She sighed, and tapped out her response.
I probably won't leave until late. MH
I don't care. SH
'Molly,' Mary's voice called to her from the other room. 'Strawberry or chocolate?'
'Both,' Molly replied, met with Mary's laugh.
I have to go, Mary's coming back with ice cream. MH
Fine.
She could just picture the pout on his face as he sent that reply, and couldn't help but giggle.
But you're coming over after, aren't you? SH
Relentless. He was relentless.
Fine. I'll see you in a few hours. MH
And we have to actually sleep this time. I really do have work tomorrow. MH
I know. I only sleep when you're here anyway. SH
Molly emitted a little squeak, stuffing her phone back into her bag as Mary reappeared with two tubs of ice cream.
'Who kept texting you?' Mary asked as she sat down, handing Molly a spoon.
'Oh, no one… just,' Molly could feel herself going bright red, unsure whether Sherlock was ready for her to tell people. Mary studied her for a few moments, before her mouth dropped open, and Molly watched in horror as comprehension spread over her face.
'Oh. My. God. You're shagging Sherlock Holmes.'
xxxxxx
Greg Lestrade walked towards St Bart's morgue, quite looking forward to encountering the pathologist who worked there.
Molly was incredibly good at her job, and although Sherlock Holmes was brilliant, verging on invaluable (even though Lestrade would never tell him that), he was also very difficult to work with.
Molly was also much more attractive than Sherlock as far as Lestrade was concerned, and that was a major factor in the way he had volunteered to come straight here when this case had landed on his desk.
Lestrade pushed the doors open into the lab, surprised to find Sherlock already there. Molly beamed at him when he entered, and he smiled back, failing to notice the way the consulting detective narrowed his eyes at this exchange.
'Molly, I believe you were sent a body for me to look at,' he said, his gaze following her around the lab as she retrieved a file from her desk.
He wondered if she would go out for coffee with him, considering that it had been quite a long time since the end of her engagement. He supposed that her feelings for Sherlock would also be a factor, although she was much more confident around him than she ever had been. She'd actually argued with him the last time he was here, and in the end Lestrade had just left them to it, retreating from raised voices in the lab (even though they had mysteriously and abruptly ceased as soon as he reached the elevator).
'So, this is David Jacobs,' Molly read out from her file as they walked to the morgue, and Lestrade noticed that Sherlock was following them. He sighed, although he was slightly relieved, because a cautionary glance of the case file had left him well and truly stumped. 'He did suffer quite a lot of blood loss, from that gash in his side. But that wasn't actually what killed him,' Molly said, leading them over to the body, pulling back the sheet that covered the victim.
When Molly had finished speaking, she walked over to the corner, leaving Lestrade and Sherlock to examine the body. Lestrade looked down at it blankly, still none the wiser, and slightly dejected that his visit hadn't enlivened him with the inspiration that he'd hoped it would have. Instead, he joined Molly and they waited for Sherlock, who was bending down with his tiny magnifying glass as he gave Jacobs the once over.
'How are you, Molly?' Lestrade whispered, conscious for some reason that he didn't want Sherlock to overhear their conversation.
'I'm fine, Greg, how are you?' She smiled up at him, and he felt more at ease.
'Good actually, you're looking well.'
'Thank you, I've started using a new moisturiser.' Greg nodded, although he couldn't for the life of him understand what she was talking about.
'Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to… I mean, if you're not too busy-'
'I'm finished now,' Sherlock announced, and Greg shot him a glare, which the consulting detective coldly returned. 'The gardener killed him, was probably having an affair with the wife but you might want to interview her to check. You won't find him at his home address, he's tried to make a run for it, so I suggest you let the borders know.' Greg nodded, still annoyed that he'd been interrupted. He turned back to Molly, but she was staring at Sherlock, ducking her head as she crossed the room to cover up Mr Jacobs.
They filed into the hallway, and Molly started back to the lab, with Sherlock close behind her.
'Goodbye, Gerry,' Sherlock said, causing Molly to shoot him an apologetic look, waving and disappearing into the lab.
Lestrade stood still in the corridor, mildly confused as to what had just occurred. He'd come with the intention of asking out Molly, and he was not about to let himself be sidetracked by a git like Sherlock Holmes.
Lestrade strode to the doors of the lab, his arms outstretched, when he looked through the window purely by chance. He froze, blinking furiously to make sure he wasn't imagining things.
Inside, Sherlock and Molly were locked in what Lestrade could only describe as a passionate embrace: clearly initiated by the detective if the fact that Molly was angled away at her desk was anything to go by. She put down the beakers in her hands and stood up, wrapping her arms around his neck as he pressed himself closer to her.
Lestrade backed away from the door, horrified. He kept going until his back hit the elevator, and he reached blindly for the button, tumbling into the lift when the doors pinged open behind him.
Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a smile, as Sherlock's behaviour suddenly became very clear. He cursed himself for not getting a picture, as he was sure that Donovan would not believe him, but then, that was an image Lestrade would sooner forget.
It appeared that Molly wouldn't be going out for a coffee with him now after all. Still, there was always the hospital receptionist: she smiled at him sometimes when he walked in; or he could ask out that girl he saw sometimes at the gym, although she had been there last week when he dropped the dumbbell on his foot…
Lestrade sighed. This he never would have expected.
xxxxxx
John Watson was the last to know.
He was sat beside Sherlock in a taxi, heading to St Bart's for the fourth time this week, even though it was only Wednesday. This wasn't even the first time it had happened: last month Sherlock had been to the morgue twelve times in three days, and those were only the visits that John knew about.
'Sherlock?'
'Yes, John,' Sherlock said in exasperation, as if he already knew John's question.
'Why are we going to Bart's again?' Sherlock sighed, proven right, but John already knew his answer, and mouthed it as Sherlock said it.
'Experiments.'
'You've been going there a lot recently,' John replied, his voice insincerely breezy.
'Well done, John. Are you planning to do anything with that statement?' John huffed out a breath, and looked out of the window instead.
'Git,' he muttered, loud enough that Sherlock asked if he said something, but quiet enough that he didn't push it when John pretended to be oblivious.
John watched Sherlock carefully when they arrived at the morgue, slightly disappointed when Sherlock barely acknowledged Molly at all. Her reaction was the same as usual, smiling widely when they entered, with a sparkle in her eyes when she greeted Sherlock that wasn't there when she said hello to him.
She helped Sherlock set up his experiment, and John was mildly surprised when Sherlock thanked her, giving her a half smile. But apart from that, John got very bored trying to monitor Sherlock's behaviour towards Molly, and gave up around lunchtime.
Then Molly started helping Sherlock, and suddenly John could understand what Mary had told him a few months ago. She'd invited Molly over while he went to Baker Street (even though Sherlock had spent the majority of the time on his phone) and came back completely pissed, spouting stuff about Molly and Sherlock. Most of it was incoherent, and she hadn't remembered it in the morning, but the way Sherlock was looking at Molly while she carefully lifted a film of skin into a Petri dish made him think about it again.
And it hadn't just been Mary. John remembered a conversation he'd had with Lestrade too, while Sherlock had been faffing around at a crime scene.
'So what do you think about Sherlock and Molly?' John looked at him blankly, which Greg seemed to take as his answer, because he laughed. 'I was shocked too, believe me.' When John didn't say anything, still unbelievably confused, Lestrade had just carried on, unperturbed. 'But actually, it sort of makes sense,' John figured the best way to get out of this conversation was just to nod, saying nothing while Greg went on. 'I mean, she's the only pathologist she'll work with. He found out once that we sent a body to another hospital, and he refused to help me with the case until Molly had had a look at the body.' John hadn't wanted to point out that Anderson had been the original pathologist assigned to the case, because Greg sounded so happy about what he was saying that John couldn't bring himself to take it away.
At the time, only half of what Greg had said made sense, but now, watching the two of them, John could feel the pieces starting to slot into place.
Sherlock had feelings for Molly.
John sat very still, half of him still very sceptical. But by the time Sherlock was ready to leave, John had almost totally convinced himself of it, and his primary thought was to warn Molly.
He remembered something else that Mary had said as they were leaving the house a few weeks ago. He'd suggested setting Molly up with someone from work, and Mary had given him a funny look as she zipped up Megan's coat.
'We can't do that,' she'd said, swiping on her lipstick in the hall mirror.
'Why not?'
'She's seeing someone, remember?' Mary said, giving him a significant look that he didn't understand the significance of. She'd been a bit tetchy at the time, and he didn't want to be accused of not paying attention. So he'd just agreed with her, claimed he'd forgotten.
If Sherlock suddenly dumped his feelings on her, it would ruin that relationship, just like her relationship with Tom. John shook his head, adamant that Molly deserved to be happy. Not even Sherlock finally pulling his head out of his arse should jeopardise that.
'John,' Sherlock called him from the door, but John told him to go ahead and get a taxi. The detective left muttering something about not waiting, but John was already approaching Molly. He blanched when he saw the tray of eyeballs in her arms, and she thankfully put them on the worktop behind her, out of sight.
'Molly,' John said, unsure of how to approach the subject. 'I just wanted to… warn you really,' Molly looked concerned; John (admittedly rather melodramatically) thought that was very wise. 'Just… well. I think Sherlock might have… feelings for you.' He finished; quite pleased that Molly hadn't fainted, or reacted in the other fifty ways John had feared. In fact, she looked rather confused, which didn't make much sense.
'Sorry?'
'I think Sherlock might have feelings for you. And I wanted to warn you,' Molly still looked gobsmacked, so John felt he had better expand. 'Because I know you're with someone at the moment, so I thought you might want to talk to Sherlock about it, so that he doesn't get in the way…' He trailed off pathetically, watching Molly's face carefully. The confusion was beginning to morph into something else, and John nearly bolted when he realised her expression was now one of anger.
'He hasn't told you has he?' Molly said thunderously, although her anger didn't seem to be directed at him. 'The bastard hasn't told you.' John was now thoroughly confused; he'd never heard Molly swear before, and she'd only been this angry once, when he'd brought Sherlock to her after finding him in that drug den.
'What hasn't who told me?' John asked, and Molly put her hand on his arm comfortingly.
'Sherlock and I are dating, John,' she said, clearly remorseful on her boyfriend's (Jesus) behalf. At first, he felt only relief, because he finally understood what everyone had been talking about over the past few months.
The relief evaporated quickly when he realised why he had been unable to comprehend what Lestrade and Mary had told him.
'The git.' John muttered, and Molly nodded, her jaw set. She looked pretty fucking scary, and John was very glad that Sherlock was going to be on the receiving end of it.
'I know, it's awful. But if it's any consolation, I don't think we'll be dating for much longer,' she said, before she marched out of the morgue with her lab coat still on, and the eyeballs left where they were behind her.
xxxxxx
'Sherlock! Sherlock bloody Holmes!' Molly exploded into Baker Street, finding Sherlock in his chair, with a very bemused woman, who was clearly a client, sitting across from him.
'Mrs Mulready,' Sherlock said slowly, his calmness only making Molly even more incensed. 'I apologise, but it looks like we will have to cut this meeting short. No matter, I believe you should be looking for your husband's long-lost brother, he's currently living in Portugal.' Sherlock stood, nodding understandingly when the old woman professed that her husband didn't have a brother. 'I know, Mrs Mulready, that is why he is long lost. Thank you for coming.' The old lady shuffled out, and Sherlock finally turned to Molly, who was now shaking with anger.
'You haven't told John that we're dating!' She shouted, and he winced, only partially because of her raised voice. 'Why would you do that? He's your best friend, Sherlock. He deserved to know. Everybody else knew except him!' Sherlock looked at her, so angry, and still pointing out how the situation wronged another person, instead of thinking of herself.
He realised he loved her in that moment, and it was so powerful that he couldn't say a word, to stop her.
'Six months, Sherlock. Six months and you still haven't told him. You know how much your death upset him. It broke him. Did you think you'd test him, turn it into a little game? Let's see how long it takes John Watson to realise that I'm screwing the pathologist.' He winced again, and Molly nearly faltered, completely shocked at herself for having the guts to say all of this to him.
'That's not why I didn't tell him,' he said quietly, but he didn't expatiate, so Molly was forced to fill in the gaps by herself.
'Are you ashamed of me Sherlock?' She had been shouting before, but she was barely audible now, staring intently at the floor like the painfully shy person she had been when she met him. 'It's one thing to be seen with me, but it's quite another to actually tell people that we're together. I can't really say I'm surprised to be honest, I don't suppose I'm what people picture for Sherlock Holmes,' she laughed bitterly, and the sound cut him even more than her words. 'Hell, I'm not even what I picture,' tears were rolling down her face as she put something down on the coffee table, and Sherlock's knees nearly buckled when he realised that it was her key to his flat. 'I don't think I can do this, Sherlock,' she said, taking one last look at him before she turned away.
But his hand around her wrist stopped her, as he pulled her back and crushed his lips to hers. Her lips tasted of the salt from her tears, which he brushed from her cheeks as his hands cupped her face. She pushed him away, but he refused to release her, a firm arm wrapped around her waist.
'No,' he said, out of breath and desperate. He pressed kisses to her cheeks, repeating the word even though his lips never left her skin. 'You can't leave.' Her face was screwed up, and he hated himself violently for being the cause almost as much as he loved her. 'I won't let you leave.' She sobbed, her gaze dropping, as if it was painful to look at him.
'Why didn't you tell him?' She whispered, and he surprised himself with the speed with which he answered, completely confident that was he was saying was true even though he had never considered it before.
'Because John would've known, instantly, that I don't deserve you. Mycroft knew it too, that was why he came to see me that day. We don't play nice. That was what he said.' He paused. 'I am not a good man, Molly,' her eyes snapped back to him and she opened her mouth, and Sherlock knew that she was going to argue with him even though her cheeks were wet with tears that he put there. 'I'm not, Molly. I'm a selfish man, who occasionally does good things,' he paused, running his thumb over her bottom lip, her breath catching. 'And John would have recognised that immediately… He tried to warn you didn't he, that I love you? That was how you found out that he didn't know.'
She nodded, but she froze when she realised what he'd said, snapping her eyes back to his.
'You love me?' She whispered, and he wished he could have told her when she was happier, when they were happier.
'Yes, Molly, I love you. But I'm not good for you. I knew that after that visit from my brother, but I ignored it, adamant that Mycroft wouldn't influence me. The truth is, Molly… The truth is that you and John are the only people who do that. And John is concerned that I will hurt you. I'm concerned I will hurt you.'
She didn't say anything for the longest time, and Sherlock was torn between wanting her to agree with him and wanting, for the first time in his entire life, to be told he was being stupid.
So once again, Molly Hooper surprised him by saying neither.
'I don't care. I don't want someone who's good for me. I want someone who loves me,' she brushed his hair away from his forehead gently. 'I want you, Sherlock.'
Sherlock Holmes, by his own assessment, was a selfish man, who occasionally did good things.
But Molly Hooper made him better, and it scared him, how much he needed her.
So he committed one more selfish act, and kissed her, removing any trace of doubt that she shouldn't be with him in the way his tongue moved against hers.
He threaded his hands in her hair, and she his blazer off his shoulders, after she had explored his abdominal muscles through his shirt. She was still wearing her lab coat, and it was clear that she'd left the hospital in some haste. It reminded him of how angry she had been when she entered, so he let it fall to the ground, and began unbuttoning her blouse.
He growled when she began to suck marks on his neck, grinding his erection into her stomach before realising that the friction wasn't enough. He picked her up, her legs clamping around his waist so that the apex of her thighs was pressed where he most needed her.
Sherlock carried her to the couch, aware that his bedroom was too far away, and set her down carefully before he covered her body with his. He divested her quickly of her blouse and eased her trousers down her legs, tracing the blush that travelled down her chest when he halted to look at her.
He'd already memorised every inch of her, but there were some things that even he couldn't immortalise in his mind. He knew every component that made up her scent (pomegranate from her shampoo, the jasmine and vanilla of her perfume and the coconut of her moisturiser), but it was different to actually being surrounded by it, especially when it was accompanied by the softness of her skin under his fingertips.
She tugged him back down to her when she got impatient, and he chuckled, but he bypassed her lips in favour of her still covered breasts. He lowered one of her bra cups and took a dusty pink nipple in his mouth, as she moaned beautifully beneath him. She arched her back, hurriedly unclasping her bra and flinging it away when she was free from it. Sherlock hummed appreciatively, his thumb and forefinger working her other nipple into a peak, while his free hand brushed experimentally against her underwear to find they were already considerably damp.
He began to work on the bulb of her nerves through her pants, although he was slightly distracted when her lips found his and she kissed him passionately, removing his shirt in the process.
Molly nearly rolled off the sofa when he moved her underwear aside completely, her nails leaving marks on his shoulders as she clung to him desperately. She whispered his name, as close to a plea as she could manage, and he responded by plunging a finger into her, then another, led solely by the noises she was making.
Sherlock knew she was near when her body went rigid, and he quickened the pace of his hand, working against her until he heard her muffled screams against his neck, and felt her teeth close around the skin by his collarbone.
He withdrew his fingers and licked them clean, too impatient to taste her properly, but aware that this small action would do enough to make her even more desperate for him. Molly's nearly black, blown pupils watched him hungrily, and her dainty hands pulled aggressively on his belt and the button of his trousers.
Sherlock reached for the side table behind her, producing a condom from the false bottom of the drawer after learning early on in their relationship that it was wise to always have protection at hand. By the time his attention had returned to her, she had shucked his trousers down his legs, and was about to slip her hands into his boxers.
Molly's fingers closed around him and he emitted a string of expletives, clutching at the armrest that she was lying on while she pushed down his pants. She moved her hands up and down a few times, and he handed her the condom wordlessly, watching as she ripped the foil wrapper open with her teeth so that she didn't have to let go of him.
As soon as the condom was on him, he pressed the head of his cock against her entrance, waiting for her eyes to lock on his before he finally sank into her. He made love to her slowly, pausing inside her for a split second with each thrust, scared by the notion that he could have never experienced this again.
Sherlock could feel his release building, moving the hand that wasn't clenched in Molly's to her clitoris, before he moved his thumb erratically against it.
She cried out, clenching around him and mumbling incoherencies that he knew were meant to be his name. He came undone with her, gripping her hip so hard that he would probably leave bruises, which he made a mental note to apologise for later.
Then he collapsed on top of her, the tension gone from his body with such force that he wondered if his muscles would be jelly forever. Her skin was damp with perspiration just as his was, and he pressed lazy kisses to the top of her chest as he slipped out of her.
When he was able, he stood, pulling up his boxers, but stepping out of his trousers and chucking them onto his chair on his way to the bin. Once he had disposed of the condom he went back to lie on the couch, and waited for Molly, who had gone to the bathroom to clean herself up.
He smiled when he saw that she had pulled on his t-shirt, the one that he kept on the radiator in the bathroom so that it would always be warm when she put it on. Then she fell on top of him, kissing him softly as he pulled the throw that she had put on the couch over them.
'You are a good man, Sherlock,' she whispered, and he tightened his hold on her, as her breath evened against his neck.
Sherlock lay very still, his nose buried in her hair. His eyes caught sight of the key on the coffee table, which she had so nearly relinquished. Sherlock wondered what it would be like if that were the only key she needed, what it would be like to have Molly here all the time.
He closed his eyes, kissing the top of her head and smiling when she shifted, her hand clenching against his stomach.
Living with Molly Hooper was not a bad idea at all, he mused, before sleep finally claimed him, his unconscious letting him dream of what exactly that would be like.
xxxxxx
John ran up the stairs to 221B, still reeling even though it had been a few hours since Molly had left Bart's. He'd been delayed by Mary, who'd called him to ask if he could bring home some medicine for Megan, who was sick.
Then, as soon as he'd made sure that his daughter was fine, John had rushed over here to kick some sense into Sherlock.
Or maybe just to kick him. Without the sense part.
He jumped up the last few steps, opening his mouth as he readied himself to shout Sherlock's name.
Then he caught sight of the couch, and stopped.
Sherlock was cuddling Molly on the sofa, his brow furrowed slightly, like he was afraid that she would be taken away. John exhaled slowly, punching his chest gently to make sure that it was still beating.
He was still angry. Very angry indeed.
But he couldn't disturb them just so that he could exact his revenge on Sherlock, not when they looked so peaceful. He'd save the kicking for tomorrow, John decided, quietly shutting the door to the flat and backing down the stairs.
His phone rang when he stepped onto the street, and he answered the call to be met with his wife's voice, barely above a whisper as she informed him that she'd finally got Megan off to sleep.
'That's great, darling.' He stuck his hand out for a cab. 'But Mary, you'll never believe what I just saw.'
A/N: This was the result of a study break that very quickly turned actual revision into a study break break. It was not my intention to make it so angsty at the end, but once I started I couldn't stop, so I hope you don't mind. I blame Lana del Rey (only joking Lana, you're my queen).
This might be the last thing I post for a while because of the aforementioned studying, but it probably took you months to read this, so I've probably already got something up! ;)
Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you'll leave me a review to berate me for going on for too long. :)
P.S. The title comes from 'Team', by Lorde, because I am a hipster.