Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by Katya Jade. It's not related to any of my other stories, but enjoy! Oh, and this was written for the "50 Reasons To Have Sex (Sherlolly) Challenge." This is reason # 20: Because she wants to.
**** Is There Something I Should Know? ****
Sherlock Holmes stares down at the delicate, frilly, horrifically transparent item he has just found- a teddy, he believes that's what women call it- and as he does so he comes to an awful, inescapable conclusion.
Molly Hooper is getting herself notions.
Molly Hooper is getting herself notions about him and his relationship with her and what that relationship might eventually entail.
And Sherlock- Sherlock's not really sure how he feels about that.
(No, he is entirely sure, he's just not really ready to admit that he might be terrified by something his girlf- his friend-who's-female-but-it's-ok-that-it's-not-platonic is getting for herself.)
He has a reputation to maintain, after all.
Because, yes, they are… courting, he supposes that's the word that one would use. He wouldn't have been permitted inside her room, let alone asked to fetch her a fresh pair of socks before their trip to Bart's, if they were not. And they spend time together in a social context. They share one another's interests and a mutual passion for criminology. They also kiss every so often, the desire to do so being the main thing which separates Sherlock's feelings for Molly from his feelings for John. Or Mary. Or Lestrade. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or-
Well, one gets the gist.
But Sherlock has, up until now, studiedly avoided the suggestion that his pathologist is getting herself ideas about their relationship. After all, when he first asked her out three months ago he had made himself very clear: Sex is off the table. Anything squishy or unhygienic or naked is too. He is not her boyfriend. He is nobody's boyfriend. Holmes men are not boyfriend material: even his father hadn't been his mother's boyfriend. They'd merely gone on one date, been shanghaied by Mummy's bosses in MI:5 and what do you know? Three dead KGB agents and a foiled plot to kidnap the Queen Mother later and they were married. No muss. No fuss. Just straight forward, will-you-do? Of-course-you-will- logic.
It had been simple. Delightfully, profoundly simple (rather like his parents).
But simple is the one thing which his relationship with Molly Hooper never seems to be, Sherlock knows this.
And judging by the object he's now looking at, simple is a concept he should just wave goodbye to, considering where Molly's mind (and libido) are obviously headed.
After all, why else would she buy- he disdainfully examines the object at arm's length- this? Why else would she buy the other pale purple, silken, lacy things he can currently see in her underwear drawer? Why else would she get new makeup and new body lotion and a new perfume- he reaches out, takes a sniff, wrinkles in his nose in expectation of disgust and is then surprised when the light, spicy scent actually pleases him- if she has no desire to ply with him her womanly charms?
She wouldn't, his inner Mycroft tells him firmly.
She wouldn't need anything if she weren't trying to get into your trousers, brother mine. Best you don't let that happen. You don't need those sort of… complications arising.
An image pops into his head, John Watson shaking his head, his face in his hands.
He appears to be mouthing the word wanker, and Sherlock suspects he knows why.
But John "Three Continents," Watson has had his fair share of women, and sex, and is currently residing with the closest thing Sherlock has ever met to a real-life Bond girl. He can afford to call Mycroft a wanker, even if it's only from the safety of inside Sherlock's cranium. He has no idea what's at stake here, but Sherlock does.
Molly's happiness. The Holmes pride. The one thing about himself that Sherlock has been certain of since he was sixteen years old, and the one way in which he knows he will definitely let Molly down. Because whether he wants to admit it or not, the fact remains that she knows what she's doing and he doesn't and she wants to go out with the great Sherlock Holmes, not some fumbling idiot with no idea what gets inserted where and when-
So he doesn't have a choice really.
He can't- for the sake of the relationship and her regard for him- attempt anything even mildly libidinous.
John wouldn't understand all that, he can't, and so Sherlock isn't even going to talk to him about it.
No, he tells himself. He's going to pretend he's never seen Molly's lovely, lacy, lavender under-things, and he's certainly not going to picture her in them when he closes his eyes.
He's going to go downstairs and make himself a nice cup of tea and spend the night in some long, arduous, extremely attention-intensive experiment which will require him to purge all thoughts of the outside world from his mind, including all thoughts of sex. And Molly. And nearly-naked Molly. Wearing under-things and perfume. And being, well, being Molly Sexy, which is like being normal sexy but a little more Molly and a lot more gratifying.
It is, he has to admit, rather wonderful. But he's not thinking about that now. He's not.
Ahem.
And then, when he's done that, he's going to do it again. And again. And again and again and again, until he's not even tempted to cogitate on how Molly Hooper might look in lilac lingerie. Or how good she might smell wearing that new perfume. And when he next sees her, he's going to make sure that he's not encouraging Molly in any way shape or form towards depravity, particularly amatory depravity-
You know that means snogging her is probably off the table too, don't you? the John in his head points out sensibly.
Sherlock ignores him. He's rather good at that.
He's not entirely sure why but Sherlock swears he can hear John Watson snickering away inside his cranium, even after he tells the bastard to sod off.
**** Hot Blooded ****
It turns out that not thinking about Molly and amatory depravity is easier said than done.
Because just twenty four hours after his little discovery, Molly receives word that she's had an article she co-wrote accepted into a major pathology journal, and it turns out that she wants to celebrate. That means a meal out and a bottle of wine and Sherlock, Sherlock of course, because she knows he's not her boyfriend but he's important to her and she wants him there and he doesn't even have a case right now so what's the big deal?
All of this is stammered to his tie, her gaze occasionally flicking up to his from beneath her lashes. It's quite… adorab- Distracting.
It's quite distracting.
Sherlock, needless to say, cannot admit that he's trying to discourage her from her notions about him- not unless he wants to become single again, which he doesn't- and so he merely nods and tells her it's fine. Suggests an evening out in Angelo's (since the food is good, the welcome is warm and he knows the outline of the restaurant like the back of his hand, eliminating the need to improvise if he decides he has to escape).
Molly grins happily and despite himself, Sherlock grins back, feeling like an idiot. You look like one too, if that helps, his inner Mycroft informs him, but he's in company so he can't really tell his brother to sod off. Molly names a date and a time next week that she'll be free, tells him she's looking forward to it. She blushes a little and then goes up on her tiptoes, kisses his cheek. Her arms wrap around his waist to steady herself, her little hands coming to rest on the small of his back (he cannot bring himself to admit that they're on the very edge of where his back meets his arse). It feels very, very warm. Very pleasant. It feels like sort of thing chemically designed to give a person notions. It's the first time she's done anything of this sort and, mortifyingly, Sherlock's body reacts to the stimulus with a great deal of… vigour.
And by vigour, he means excitement. A strange, warm, jittery, unexpectedly pleasant excitement, which surprises him immensely.
For a moment he just stares at her, lost in thought, (he doesn't want to examine why) and as he does his gaze somehow strays down to her blouse. More specifically her neck line. She's wearing one of her new, delicate, lacy under-things beneath it. One of the things she bought for him, because of her notions. Because she wants to give him notions. This realisation sends a jolt of something… unexpected zinging along Sherlock's spine, and other (less mentionable) areas of his anatomy.
He is painfully aware that all of this this must be written across his… face.
Molly blinks up at him, her brown eyes bright and lovely. Hopeful. She opens her mouth, probably to ask him why he's staring at her like a zombie. As she does so her pretty, delicate little tongue pokes out over her lip, caressing, and before he can even figure out what he's going to do Sherlock reaches down and takes her face in his hands and kisses her. On her lips. For no apparent reason. Certainly none that he's willing to own up to.
He's genuinely not sure whether this is one of his more brilliant or more abysmal ideas, but he fears that he's about to find out.
And he's right. For a split second Molly stills, clearly surprised: Their previous, chaste little pecks were nothing like this, this sensation of lips and bodies pressed tightly together. This feeling of her arms around him and his chest pressed against hers. No, they were tame- Sensible- Prudent- And this kiss is none of those things. It's warm and wet with longing. It even feels- loath as he is to admit it- passionate. Molly's arms are wrapped tightly around him, desperately hanging on- the eternal fate of a short woman kissing a tall man- in an effort to remain upright, and he finds that he loves that feeling a great deal more than he thinks he ought.
Yes, he thinks disjointedly, definitely one of my more brilliant ideas.
Her tongue is sliding across his lips now, curling gently at their very edge to request entry. He opens his mouth and then- Why then his tongue quite loses the run of itself, what with the tangling and the stroking and the sliding against Molly's own. Her small moan is swallowed by his mouth, the scratch of her fingers bunching his shirt and trousers fabric together at his back a pleasant, unexpected rasp. Her fingers abandon his shirt to slide upwards, curling in his hair, and he feels a shocked thrill of both pleasure and alarm as her arms tighten around his neck. They pull apart and Sherlock blinks down at her, breathing rapidly. He sees her pupils are dilated. He knows instinctively that his match them and he feels an unexpected stab of bewilderment at this result-
How? he thinks- He made it very clear- How did she make him do that?
She didn't make you do anything, the John in his head mutters patiently. You kissed her, you berk.
Sherlock shakes his head to himself, trying to clear it- Inner John and Inner Mycroft tag-team him sometimes, when he's ignoring them on purpose and that is what this feels like. His body's riled up and his mind is reeling but he can't concentrate. It's too much stimulus at once and he has no (legal) mechanism for dealing with that. So he frowns, shaking his head again. As he does so he sees a shadow fall across Molly's face.
He feels it acutely when she steps away from him.
For a moment he stares at her, not knowing what to say. What to do. Not knowing how to fix this. (And he instinctively feels that this needs to be fixed). He recognises that allowing her to be confused is simpler- let her believe you're angry with her, his inner Mycroft advises sagely, it's easier than trying to explain things or being something that you're not. But Sherlock likes- no, he cares about- Molly, and he can't do that. He just doesn't know what to say that will make this better, and his track-record in this area isn't exactly optimal. But he has to try, so…
"Angelo's then?" he says. His voice sounds unnaturally bright. "Friday? At 8pm? I'll pick you up." He nods to a still-silent Molly. "Excellent, congratulations again on the publication-" And he holds out his hand, obviously demanding she take it to shake.
This time he has no doubt: This was one of his more abysmal notions.
The look of combined hurt and bafflement on Molly's face confirms it.
But he doesn't know what else to say or do so he nods his head once and, as soon as she drops his hand, he leaves her. (He's not comfortable giving her the opportunity to ask what the Hell he's playing at.) He feels no better once he's through the door though he had rather hoped he would; He spends the rest of the day in Baker Street, cataloguing his findings on the flesh desiccation experiment, unable to quite picture the look on Molly's face without flushing a most emasculating, unbecoming shade of puce-
The John in his head amuses himself by calling him a pillock for the duration and for once in his life Sherlock suspects he might have to agree.
**** I Want To Know What Love Is ****
Sherlock wakes that night, sweating, breathless and hard, his entire body in a-tremble.
There was something, something to do with Molly- he doesn't know what, he just knows that it's why he feels so exhausted and exhilarated right now. Why he feels like he's wearing his skin inside out. Why he's drenched in sweat and- Yes, why he should probably change the sheets. Drat.
As his breathing returns to normal he flops over onto his back, stares up at this darkened ceiling. In the lamplight from outside, he swears he can see her face looking back at him, though he knows this is a mere trick of the mind.
Are you sure it's your mind tricking you? his inner John snickers.
He really can be a git sometimes.
Sherlock takes his pillow and presses it over his face. Squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. But he still sees Molly's face behind his (fiercely closed) eyes, and when he falls back asleep he ends up in exactly the same state.
It's mortifying.
Three days pass. Nights too.
Then four. Five. Six.
The riling, roiling dreams of Molly continue until it's the day of their dinner and Sherlock Holmes realises that he hasn't slept properly in nearly a week.
Molly has been awfully quiet though she is speaking to him- They haven't mentioned what happened in the morgue and Sherlock hasn't the slightest idea how to bring it up. So he has merely come in to check on a couple of experiments he's running and left her to it. Pleading a case when she tries to corner him, probably to ask him what the Hell is going on.
The night before the dinner however he gets a text asking whether they're still going out tomorrow? He rolls his eyes, about to type back an irritated response- Of course they are- when it occurs to him that she wouldn't have gotten in touch if she didn't genuinely think he'd back out.
A most unwelcome picture pops into his head, Molly's unhappy, disappointed face on a night which meant so much to her, and he immediately deletes the text he was composing, sending her a polite one instead.
He refuses to use emoticons though she practically abuses them, but one way or another she seems to get the point because he gets a smiley face in return and despite the image's ridiculousness, he grins.
Maybe it won't be too bad, is what he thinks.
Maybe the average domestic pig will learn how to both levitate and glide, is what the Mycroft in his head snidely retorts.
Sherlock again ignores him. Inner Mycroft, like Inner John, is a bit of a git.
Unfortunately however, he also has a habit of being right-
And right is precisely what he is.
Because Sherlock turns up at her flat to pick her up and she's wearing this elegant, pretty little lilac dress, her hair up, diamonds at her ears and throat. A pair of new, ridiculously tall heels bring her practically nose to nose with Sherlock and this gives him, though he might never admit it, a rather spectacular view down her cleavage. It's a view he tries to heroically ignore. The scent of her new body lotion and perfume wafts delicately around her, neither overpowering nor too subtle; It flirts with his nose. Distracts it. Whispers to him to lean in and get a better whiff. She looks… She is very, very beautiful, Sherlock must admit it. Very beautiful and very alluring and very, very Molly.
She smiles at him as she closes the door and pulls her wrap around her and in that moment Sherlock realises that resisting her notions may be absolutely futile. It certainly feels that way right now.
This time both the John and the Mycroft in his head laugh and laugh and laugh but Sherlock's not really surprised.
After all, as previously stated, they're gits.
**** Another One Bites The Dust ****
The dinner is surprisingly non-torturous.
Well, perhaps not surprisingly. Molly, once she isn't so nervous around a person that she constantly stammers, is actually very good company, and tonight she's in particularly fine fettle. Already there's talk about more cooperation on a follow-up paper which might mean slightly more funding, and in those circumstances Sherlock supposes he'd be happy too.
He tries very hard not to let how happy she looks give him notions.
He is painfully aware that he does not succeed.
Because by the time he and she are on their second glasses of wine the detective is looser than he ever thought he'd be in Ms. Hooper's company, and he's starting to show it. His speech is slurring just slightly- he still has no head for alcohol- and for some reason Molly finds this hilarious. He supposes he should be horrified but he can't seem to summon the requisite moral outrage. Every time he tries he gets the urge to giggle. Giggle.
What the Hell is that about?
By the time he suggests that they share a dessert he's not sure he's ever going to be serious again, or get his own laugh back again, or anything. He just knows that drinking alcohol and laughing is easier than being nervous around Molly or trying not to think of her and her notions. Her lovely, lilac, Molly-Notions-
He stops himself musing, because his mind is going quite off track. And he doesn't like where it's heading, especially since it's obviously wine-fuelled.
But he really can't help it. He's drunk and she's gorgeous and there's Molly Notions flying about left, right and centre. In fact, there's so many of them about the place he's surprised one hasn't knocked him unconscious yet.
And it's not like Angelo's being exactly cooperative with the whole No Molly-Notions Endeavour: He comes over and tells Molly a ridiculously over-dramatized version of how Sherlock saved him from jail. He sends the restaurant's violinist over to the table to play for her and makes sure the candles and the flowers on the table are fresh. When Molly remarks on this, he lies through his teeth, saying that Sherlock insisted he take care of her, "considering she's his special guest," and at these words Molly's big brown eyes grow so wide and so dewy-bright with happiness that Sherlock suspects they'll never go back to normal again.
She looks like a bloody Disney princess, he thinks, half-irritably. A lovely, pretty, Disney Princess who just happens to know a lot about puzzles and cadavers-
Okay, inner John says stoutly, no more wine for you, Prince Charming.
It's a measure of how drunk Sherlock is that he actually tries telling his inner John to bugger off.
But inner John is firm. You keep this up and you're going to make a berk of yourself, Sherlock, he says firmly. And I know you're too stuck-up a ponce to want to do that in front of the Mrs.
Since Sherlock knows that he is indeed, "too much of a stuck-up ponce," (and since he is not touching the notion that Inner John calls Molly "The Mrs." with a ten foot pole) he decides to acquiesce gracefully and suggests they have the dessert they ordered at the meal's start to go.
He has no idea why but at this Molly's eyes widen appreciably, her little pink tongue darting out to lick her lips, which is really rather unexpectedly… fetching. She and Angelo exchange looks as he hands her the desserts, carefully boxed up and bagged, and for no reason Sherlock can imagine she goes bright red and Angelo grins in glee. The street outside is a cold rush of air and snow and the sound of traffic, people pushing by them on their way to a night out. Always rushing, always pushing, just like the mob in London always is. Molly loops her arm through his without his permission and though he knows he should dissuade her from such familiarity he can't bring himself to do so-
It's because she's keeping him upright, or at least, that's what he tells himself.
But his desire for balance is not the reason he holds her quite so close to his side, and it's not the reason he feels disappointed at the thought that she'll eventually have to move away.
**** I Think We're Alone Now ****
They catch the Northern Line out to Kentish Town, the closest stop to Molly's abysmally tiny flat. As always Sherlock walks her to the door, knowing as he does that her area is rather less than salubrious. As soon as she's inside, he thinks, he'll catch a cab and get back to Baker Street, patting himself on the back for a bullet well and truly dodged.
But when they get to her place, Molly opens the door and walks straight in, still talking to Sherlock. He lingers on her threshold for a minute- he's holding the dessert bag- and as he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot Molly turns tartly on her heel and tells him to come inside. Not asks, you understand. Tells him.
There's something remarkably attractive in the idea of mousey little Molly Hooper doing that. Something remarkably, well, sexy, about that sudden, surprisingly authoritative tone she adopts.
Feeling slightly nonplussed- and even more mystified- Sherlock obliges. Steps inside. He puts the dessert on the coffee table beside him, feeling a little light headed. (It's probably the alcohol, is what he thinks). Molly hums contentedly as she pulls off her coat, breezing through the kitchen and looking for a light-switch. She finds it, bathing the room in warm golden light and when she does so-
When she does so, it occurs to Sherlock that he might very well be toast.
Because she's taken off her ridiculously high heels and her coat, and she is blinking at him now from behind her glasses. And oh, but Sherlock is very, very, very fond of those. She doesn't wear them in work- too much teasing from the idiots in her department apparently- but she does wear them at home. Sometimes. Of course, she has been known to wear them quite a bit more often inside Sherlock's imagination. He would never admit it in a million years but he rather likes how Molly looks when she wears her glasses. It has always, well, he believes the phrase John would use would be, "pushed his buttons." To a ridiculous degree, if he's being honest. Why, with her glasses on, he might almost forget his reservations about coitus; their power truly is that extraordinary-
And even without the awesome power of the glasses, Sherlock's will-power regarding Molly and her notions is starting to feel quite wobbly indeed.
Because Molly smiles sweetly, sitting down beside the coffee table he's placed the dessert on and tucking her feet in underneath her. Indicating that he should do the same. She reaches across him- "Oops," she says as her breast brushes his arm, sending a little shock through it, "sorry Sherlock,"- and she takes the bag containing the dessert, pulls it into her lap. Opens it. Inside two perfect, untouched little pots of chocolate mousse sit, a tiny plastic spoon in one but not the other. This is really a curious lapse in customer service on Angelo's part, Sherlock can't help but feel. He'll have to mention it the next time he's in. She looks at Sherlock, shrugs, and offers him the one with the spoon.
"You might as well take your coat off," she says sensibly, "I mean, if you're staying to stay for dessert-"
And as Sherlock shrugs out of his coat- he just knows it's going to get wrinkled, being sat upon- Molly Hooper does the single most fiendish, dastardly thing a woman has ever done in front of him. Any woman, including The Woman.
Because little, innocent, mousey Molly Hooper reaches into her chocolate mousse and slowly scoops a small dollop of dessert onto her index finger. Brings it to her lips. Inhales. Sighs in anticipation.
And then, well then, she dips her mousse-laden finger into her mouth and licks it clean. Swallows.
She makes the most hair-raisingly arousing little moue of contentment as she does so.
Sherlock blinks in the dim lamp light, gives a slightly drunken, quite lust-drenched, thoroughly perplexed shake of his head. He's trying to clear it, though he appears to be patently unsuccessful in that endeavour. Because suddenly he can't seem to remember why on Earth he should object to Molly and her notions. Suddenly he can't see any problem with her notions at all.
In fact, given how lovely the sight he just watched was, he rather thinks that he should help her along with them. A burden shared being a burden halved, etc, etc, etc.
So before he can sober up, or get nervous, or say something wrong, he reached his finger into her dessert and scoops out a dollop of mousse of his own. He holds his finger out to Molly, painfully aware that his face has once again turned that unmanly, unbecoming shade of scarlet he was worried about. Suddenly feeling very, very foolish indeed. What if she says no? his inner Mycroft asks. What if she pushes for more than this? What if you bugger it up because Holmes men aren't boyfriend material and we really don't do this sort of thing? For a moment Molly simply stares at him, her gaze piercing, as if she's deducing him for once, looking for something vitally important in his expression-
And then she reached out and takes his wrist in a light grip. Brings his hand to her mouth.
With a mischievous grin she darts her tongue out, licking his fingertip clean.
Sherlock can't be entirely certain, but he thinks he may have made some entirely masculine, completely unexpected… moaning noise at this.
And then, acting on some boorish, hither fore unknown instinct Sherlock slides his finger, between her lips and into her mouth. He feels her tongue swipe, wet and warm against his skin as she takes the rest of the chocolate from his fingertip and then sucks, very gently until no mousse remains. He watches in fascination as her throat works to swallow; Sherlock is well aware that he should find this disgusting- sex, nothing but things being inserted into places they don't belong, at least that's what he's always thought of it- But he really doesn't. Nor does he find it disgusting when Molly reaches out and scoops some more mousse onto her finger.
This time she holds it out to Sherlock, a wicked little grin on her lips.
He blinks at her, aware of the invitation. Aware of the danger in accepting it, (she's the one with the experience, after all). For a moment he is flummoxed, unsure of, of, the procedure. There really has to be a procedure. The silence stretches out until he feels absolutely certain he's ruined it, and then-
Then-
Without any warning, Molly darts forward, giggles softly, her breath a warm puff of air against his face. And then places the chocolate on the very tip of Sherlock's nose. He nearly crosses his eyes trying to see it, aware the consternated expression on his face must look hilarious, and as he does so Molly leans forward and kisses the tip of his nose sweetly. Transferring the chocolate onto her lips and then licking them clean. Pressing a tiny kiss to Sherlock's cheek for good measure before helping herself to another finger-scoop of mousse.
She eyes it- and him- wickedly.
And then, with a sweet little laugh, she takes the mousse and strokes it across her cheek, leaving a small smear. She looks at Sherlock gamely, the challenge implicit.
What are you going to do about that, Mr. Detective Man? her eyes seem to say.
Again he blinks- what the Hell is she playing at?- but as he does so Molly's smile widens. She tilts her head, her cheek given up in invitation: Sherlock reaches slowly forward, still nonplussed, and somewhat shyly licks the mousse from her skin. It tastes- Who would have thought that sweat and body-heat could improve a substance that's already so sweet? There's an experiment in that, Sherlock's fairly sure of it. At the action she laughs aloud, dips her own finger into the mousse again. She holds her chocolate-laden digit before his lips and this time he opens his mouth for her in invitation. Lets her slide her finger in and licks it clean as she did before. It feels… It feels, well, naughty is probably the best word for what it feels like. The other one which springs to mind would be "divine," but he'd never admit that out loud.
Sherlock looks at Molly and looks at the dessert pots and then reaches forward and very slowly, very hesitantly, smears a tiny sliver of mousse across her collar-bone.
"You're not going to be able to get that yourself," he says and Molly nods, her expression mock grave, her eyes dancing.
"Yes, well, I think maybe you should try for that one, don't you Sherlock?" She makes show of shrugging, moving her body nearer to his to give him better access. "I mean," she says sensibly, "It would be a shame for it to go to waste."
Sherlock inclines his head politely, aware that his expression probably matches hers now. That wickedness of hers must be catching.
"Well, if you insist, Molly," he says courteously. "Waste not, want not and all that…"
And then he leans forward and licks the mousse off and she gives the most wonderful, surprised little giggle and things…Well things pretty much progress from there.
**** Tenderness ****
They spend the evening polishing off Angelo's desserts. When the first is finished Sherlock quietly points out that they should possibly eat the next one in Molly's room- He doesn't want her sofa cushions to be ruined, after all. He tells her this quite seriously and Molly grins, tells him that's a great idea.
It's good to know her sofa's wellbeing can be left in his capable hands, she says.
So they walk into her bedroom, smiling and giggling like a couple of idiots. Sherlock's sobered up a bit by now but he's still not regained his objections to Molly's notions, and after how much fun eating that dessert was, he doesn't think they'll ever reappear. In fact, by the time they get through the second mousse he's down to his boxers and she's long-since shucked her lovely, lacy underwear. They're both covered in chocolate mousse streaks- the human tongue can only do so much, apparently- and Molly is sitting on the bed in nothing but her glasses and her loosened hair, the tresses hanging down low over her breasts. She looks absolutely lovely, the sort of sight that would give anybody notions. The sort of sight that Sherlock would love to see more often, no matter what notions it might cause.
As the last of the mousse disappears from her lips however she looks at him, raises her eyebrows in question.
"That's dessert," she says quietly, eyes suddenly directed at the duvet. "Do you- Do you want to stay now it's done?" She bites her lip. "You don't have to."
And suddenly Chocolate Mousse Siren Molly is gone, and plain old Molly Hooper is before him. She's even worrying her lip, refusing eye-contact, as if she's genuinely afraid of his response. Sherlock stares at her and stares at the remains of the dessert and thinks about Molly and her notions. Thinks of how much, well, how much fun this night has been, even with all the licking and the nervousness and the putting things in new places and as he thinks of that he knows he has his answer. It's obvious what she's asking: Staying will mean indulging her and what she wants with him and he's not sure if he should- would- could do that. He's not sure if it will ever be a good idea, sex and its subsequent squishiness not being something with which he knows how to deal.
And yet…
"I think I should stay," he says quietly. Even as the words leave his lips, he realises they're the right ones. "If- That is, if you don't mind. My staying, I mean. I can go if you want me to-"
Molly practically dives over the bed, cornering him. He's not entirely sure why, but suddenly he's on his back and she's looking down at him. She's pressing him into the bed with all her weight, her knees bracketing his hips, and just like the feeling of her fingers between his lips, it feels absolutely divine. He's dizzy again, but he knows this is caused by a great deal of blood rushing resolutely South and nothing else. It's strangely comforting, knowing it's all just biology.
"I will never mind you staying, Sherlock," she says quietly, and he can tell by the look on her face that she means it.
"I will never mind you asking me to stay," is how he answers her, and though he suspects it sounds asinine, she nods as if she understands precisely what he wants to say.
And then, since it's her idea, and since it's what she wants, and since it's all down to Molly's notions after all… Well, Sherlock decides he can definitely live with that. He can definitely live with staying. So he reaches up and kisses her. Slides his tongue between her lips and cups her head in his hands, very gently. His thumbs slide against her hair, the delicate bones at the base of her skull, and he feels it acutely when she gives another, throaty moan. When she swallows nervously, because he's not the only one nervous right now.
He supposes it's alright feeling nervous, if you're not feeling nervous on your own.
Molly kisses him back, her tongue tangling with his (it has once again lost the run of itself). Pretty soon there's nothing between them but sweat and breath and the remains of chocolate mousse and happy, moaning kisses. Happy moaning little noises that he feels certain kill brain cells just by existing, but it turns out that Sherlock can't bring himself to care. He has plenty of brain cells to spare. His boxer shorts get tossed somewhere; There's laughter as Molly pulls open her bedside drawer and then a hiss of concentration as she rolls a condom on him. She asks him once more, quietly, whether he's certain and he rolls his eyes. Kisses her. Lets the cradle of her thighs take him, and then…
Sherlock feels the press of her body parting for him, feels the wet, insistent pressure as he slips inside her (she does, admittedly, have to give him a little help but that's to be expected). He feels her breasts press against his chest and he feels the sweet, vital puff of her breath against his neck where she moans for him, where she whispers his name, singsong, as if she's been wanting to say it this way for years. Their bodies fit together easily, and when he gasps at the sensation she smiles. Presses against him. They move together, restless and happy and far too intent to be very nervous… Far too intent to be anything other than delighted as they tickle and pinch and stroke and caress and smile, smile, smile. He finds his rhythm and once he does something loosens within him, leaving him desperate and breathless and really bloody exhilarated-
It could be minutes or it could be hours, he doesn't know.
For once in his life, cause and duration are of no interest to him.
He just knows when her moment has come- he's so pleased with himself for holding on until after it- And then there's a few more strokes, urgent and ragged. A twist of pleasure, an explosion of it at the very base of his spine. Heat presses outwards through in ripples; He suspects he makes a stupid face as he yells her name but he can't really be certain (and at this moment he simply doesn't care.) His heart races, his skin flushed and his limbs spasming; For one blissful, blissful second everything is sweat and warmth and white, gentle quietness, his brain finally ceasing working. Finally halting its whirring, needy noise.
And then all he can see is Molly, Molly, Molly. Molly Hooper and her notions.
He smiles in the darkness and tightens his arms around her.
It's in this peaceful position that he falls asleep.
**** Love In The First Degree ****
The next morning Sherlock Holmes awakes feeling thoroughly debauched, thoroughly de-stressed and thoroughly convinced of the healing power of chocolate mousse.
Considering the night he's had, he's not surprised.
He turns around to find Molly sprawled in the bed beside him, looking like he feels. Without her makeup or her lovely lilac under things she looks like the woman he knows from the morgue again, but he's not surprised that that doesn't bother him. Nor does it make her any less… notion-causing to him. In fact, in the clear light of day there's something downright wonderful about the thought that he just had sex with someone he knows. In real life. Who doesn't have to fit into a special, mysterious box which has to be handled the way one handles explosives or tools of chemical warfare. Or notions. So many bloody notions.
Molly can just be Molly and he can just be her boyfriend and that… Well, that's all there is to it.
Nothing to get too worked up about, isn't that what everyone says?
In his head, Sherlock can hear his Inner John and his Inner Mycroft sniping at this. John thinks it's is a wonderful idea, Mycroft is horrified, and between the pair of them, Sherlock wonders how he'll ever get anything done. But then Molly shifts in her sleep, frowning, flopping onto her front and smiling sleepily in the afternoon light-
Sherlock grins at her. Pads into the kitchen and brings in the tub of ice-cream he noticed in her fridge last night.
He supposes he's getting the hang of this notions business, he thinks. He should do: He's a genius.
Two hours and that tub of ice-cream later and it's ridiculously apparent that Molly Hooper damn well agrees with him.
A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that. And if you did, why not review? You know you want to. And happy Easter.
Hobbits away, hey!