Author's Note: This is a series of three stories in which Molly walks in on John and Sherlock in an intimate moment. In this version, she is not expecting what she walks in on; the other two stories will feature her walking in and either John or Sherlock being surprised by her presence. In other words, two of the three participants will always be in the know. Enjoy, and remember, I own only the plot, thin and filthy as it is. Slightly revised December 2014.

"Sherlock, it's me, I brought the biohazard containers...you…wanted…"

Molly's voice fell silent, squeaking a bit on the last word as she took in the unexpected sight that greeted her upon her entrance to the Baker Street flat. John, sitting naked, legs spread, on the sofa. Sherlock, kneeling between his flat-mate's legs, sucking enthusiastically on the shorter man's cock.

Oh God. Why hadn't she knocked, why hadn't she peeked before just breezing into the flat like she owned the place? Worse, why weren't her legs moving, why wasn't she babbling an apology and backing out of the room and slamming the door shut behind her? Why had Sherlock specifically told her to arrive on the dot of seven if this was going to be what she walked in on?!

Both men were looking at her, Sherlock popping his mouth off John's dick with an almost casual motion, although John groaned a bit at the sudden lack of contact.

And that was it. All the reaction her presence provoked. No shouts of indignation, no hurried movements to cover up their nudity, which she'd have expected at least from John; no flushes of embarrassment or angry glares for her intrusion.

In fact, if she could characterize the expressions on the men's faces, she'd have to call it…expectation? Anticipation, even?

She felt a flush go over her skin at the way her thoughts were turning while the three of them just stared at one another in silence. No, it couldn't be; surely he hadn't called her here just so she could walk in on exactly what she'd walked in on…or had he?

Sherlock's slow smile confirmed her growing suspicions before his words. "Yes, Molly, we were rather hoping you'd find us in such a…compromising…position. Weren't we, John?"

John didn't speak, simply nodded and offered Molly a bashful smile.

"Your reaction – or rather, your lack of a negative reaction – speaks volumes," Sherlock continued as he rose to his feet. He was sporting a rather impressive erection of his own, and Molly found herself unable to tear her eyes away from his cock as he paced over to her and gently removed the plastic containers from her arms. He set them on the floor and took her by the elbow, steering her gently over to the sofa still occupied by a naked John Watson, who was idly stroking his cock and smiling as she allowed herself to be led to stand directly in front of him.

Sherlock stood behind her, and she shivered at the nearness of his presence, at the surreal situation in which she found herself. Did Mrs. Hudson know what Molly was going to find when she let her into the building? Probably not. She stifled a semi-hysterical giggle at the thought of the motherly older woman acting as passive procurer for her two tenants and wondered at herself for letting Sherlock move her around like a life-sized doll.

"I'm sure you've already deduced why we might have staged this little scene for you." She jumped a bit at the sound of Sherlock's voice, low and husky and just a shade deeper than normal, his breath against her neck stirring the hairs that had escaped from her pony tail. "Since you haven't turned and walked out, we're both rather hoping that means you're amenable to our plans for the evening – and for many future evenings as well."

With those words he pressed his body against hers, sliding his arms down to her hips and tugging her closely against him. Close enough for her to feel that lovely erection she'd been staring at only moments ago. Christ, when had her life turned into a pornographic film – and why wasn't she protesting any of this?

Because it was John and Sherlock, of course. She could never say no to the consulting detective and John was one of the nicest, sweetest men she'd ever met – although, come to think of it, now that she was directly facing him, there was nothing wrong with the way he was put together, either. His cock was thick and red and quite, quite delicious looking. She offered him a tentative smile, then moaned and rolled her head back as Sherlock's lips descended to the nape of her neck in a series of tiny kisses that sent shocks of electricity straight to her groin. "Say you'll stay, Molly," he murmured in her ear, and against all common sense, she groaned out a "God, yes!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth John jumped to his feet and pressed his body against hers, encasing her in a deliriously erotic "manwich" the likes of which she'd never even dared fantasize about. John was kissing her and unbuttoning her cardigan while Sherlock's lips nibbled at her neck as his hands undid the snap and zip to her khakis. She toed off her ballet flats, ridiculously pleased with herself for not wearing anything that laced or zipped, then stepped on the toes of her socks in turn and used her feet to pull them off as her trousers slipped down to her ankles. She stepped out of them, barely noticing that her knickers had been removed at the same time – at least, not until suddenly there were two hands sliding over her increasingly wet pussy.

Two hands, one from each of the men who continued to rub up against her and nibble and lick her face and neck. She was moaning like a complete wanton, reaching out with one hand to bring John's face closer to hers for deeper kiss. Her other hand was busy stroking Sherlock's erection, feeling it jolt and twitch beneath her fingers. God, she'd longed for this moment, and having John here made it even more arousing than she'd ever dreamed.

Once she was entirely naked – who had removed her bra and when, she had no idea – the two men entwined their arms around her waist and led her into Sherlock's bedroom.

Judging by the scene she'd walked into – how long ago? Minutes? An hour? Who knew? – she'd have expected it to be a shared bedroom, but no. There were no indications that anyone other than Sherlock regularly slept in this bed; only his clothes were visible in the wardrobe, only his toiletries on the dresser, his belongings strewn about. So John still had his own space...how long had this been going on between the two men? And when, she wondered, feeling a bit dizzy as they ushered her over to the bed and urged her to sit on its edge, had they decided they wanted to bring her into it?

All questions for later. Much, much later. Possibly never, if she lost her nerve when the time came. Certainly not for now, when John was easing himself into a kneeling position behind her, his hands squeezing and massaging her breasts as his mouth covered the territory Sherlock had been investigating with his tongue and lips. And certainly not when Sherlock was kneeling on the floor between her legs, a wicked smile on his lips as he gently pushed her knees open so she was spread out before him.

"My, John, I do believe Dr. Hooper is happy to be here," Sherlock purred as he gently pried her lower lips apart. "She's already wet and we've barely touched her."

"So make her even happier," John murmured between kisses, his fingers rolling her nipples in a way that shot sparks straight to her crotch.

Sparks that promptly ignited into a conflagration when Sherlock's mouth descended upon her, his tongue raking her already-soaked folds, dragging a moan from her throat with every languid stroke. She dug her fingers into his hair, fingernails grazing his scalp as she kneaded him like a contented cat.

The sensation of having her pussy licked and kissed while at the same time having her nipples played with and neck sucked was amazing, the most incredibly erotic thing she'd ever felt. John's erection was pressing against the cleft of her arse, hot and thick, another dizzying sensation to inflame her senses.

Like a switch had been flipped, Sherlock's ministrations went from slow and languorous to a frenzy of lips and tongue and – oh God, yes, please, God, so good – fingers delving deep inside her, moving with a frantic rhythm, pressing deep inside her and wrenching a series of short, sharp cries from her throat.

John's kisses and licks became nips and sucking, hard enough to leave a mark – didn't Americans call them hickeys? – while his fingers pinched her nipples, hard, as she writhed and cried out and eventually screamed her pleasure as she came.

She collapsed back against John, panting and shaking while Sherlock remained between her legs, although he'd moved his mouth over to her thigh, pressing soft kisses there while she recovered from the mind-blowing orgasm she'd just experienced. How the hell had she gotten so lucky this late in life – not that she was an old maid or anything, but she was just past the 30-year mark – when her college experience had been limited to a single boyfriend and a few unsatisfying dates?

"So, Molly," Sherlock said as he rose to his feet, lifting Molly along with him. She groaned, just wanting to bask in the afterglow, her legs feeling like melted strips of taffy, but John was supporting her as well, rising to his knees and settling his hands on her hips. She leaned into Sherlock, who hummed appreciatively in her ear as her head came to rest on his shoulder.

She draped her arms loosely over his shoulders, reveling in the feel of his lanky form in front of her and John's more solid presence behind her. Both men were still quite hard, and it dawned on her as she came down from the pleasant buzz of orgasm that they had been lavishing all their attention on her since her arrival.

She felt a flash of guilt; she'd interrupted their tryst, and even though they'd both wanted her to join them, she didn't want them to feel some kind of obligation to her...

"Molly." She looked up, startled by Sherlock's stern tone of voice. He was frowning down at her and she felt a sudden flash of concern; had she done something wrong, something to piss him off... "Will you kindly stop doing that," he commanded, his frown deepening before abruptly vanishing, transformed into a soft smile so unlike the manic grins and false lip-stretches he so often gave that it set her heart to fluttering. "There, that's much better," he said, his voice equally soft, a thrumming purr that set an entirely different part of her body to fluttering. "You're not disturbing us or distracting us from anything; we want you here, we want you with us and for once in your life you are going to be the center of attention whether you like it or not."

"What Sherlock means," John added hastily, giving Molly's hips a comforting squeeze, "is that we want tonight to be all about you. And if you're willing to join us again after tonight," he added, sounding suddenly bashful, "we promise we'll let you decide on the, erm, agenda, as it were."

He trailed off, as if uncertain of his words, but Molly knew and appreciated what he – what they both – were trying to say.

She simply nodded and accepted Sherlock's kiss, his mouth touching hers with the tang of her sex on his tongue and lips, bringing a shiver of pure lust to her spine. She found herself clinging to his shoulders, suddenly dizzy as she realized this was her first proper kiss with Sherlock Holmes, the man she'd wanted for so fucking long. It was almost funny that she'd actually kissed John Watson first, but she had no regrets; he was a truly talented kisser.

Not quite as talented as Sherlock, but she might be a bit prejudiced considering how often she'd fantasized about the feel of his lips on hers. She leaned forward and kissed him again, winding one arm around his neck while dropping her other hand down to clutch John's wrist, pressing his arm closer to her body, not wanting him to feel left out.

"So, Molly," the doctor said between kisses to her ear and neck, "what do you fancy now, hmm? Sherlock had a few suggestions but I said we should ask you first."

"Whatever you want," was Molly's breathless reply as Sherlock's lips pressed against her neck, on the opposite side from John. She felt his laughter, a slight huff of breath as he pulled his head back and smiled, a dazzling smile that absolutely lit up his face.

"I told you, John, I told you Molly would be open to all sorts of possibilities!" His voice was positively gleeful, and suddenly Molly felt herself being spun around to face John. His smile had gone from bashful to avid, and Molly had a sudden flash of herself as Little Red Riding Hood with two wolves – or if the wolf was in league with the woodsman. She wondered if the other two were at all interested in role playing, then blushed at how wanton her thoughts had become.

"Say it out loud, Molly." That was Sherlock again; how could he tell she was thinking anything with his hands busy caressing her breasts and his lips on her neck? And what made him think she was even capable of thinking anything under those circumstances? Especially when John decided to add his own hands and lips to the mix, kissing her on the same side of the neck as Sherlock...

Oh. Dear. God. They were nuzzling her and kissing each other; she could feel their hands touching as they both fondled her breasts...she was getting downright dizzy, how could she not under such delicious circumstances?

She blamed the dizziness, the overwhelming sensation of having both sets of hands on her – of the hot sheet of desire that flashed over her every time she heard them kiss each other – for blurting out the words that had been on her mind, running them together in her sudden eagerness. "Littleredridinghood!"

"Mmmm, role playing, eh?" Sherlock purred. "John, would you mind being the woodsman who comes to her rescue? I rather fancy playing the role of wolf in this particular fairy tale."

She felt the doctor chuckle against her skin before kissing her ear and pulling back to look at her. "As long as I don't have to play Granny, it's all good!"

oOo

Five minutes later Molly found herself with in a bright red blanket draped over her shoulders, lying flat on her back as Sherlock growled: "The better to eat you with" before lowering his head between her legs and proceeding to do just that. She writhed and moaned, and moaned even louder when John Watson strode into the room, knelt down between Sherlock's legs and proceeded to "punish" the wolf for assaulting "Red Riding Hood" by shoving his well-lubed cock into the other man's arse.

The sights and sensations seemed to intensify in that moment; Molly felt her heart speeding speeding speeding as she cried out seconds before an intense, soul-shaking orgasm left her shattered and breathless – and seconds later, unconscious.

She awoke to the sounds of voices murmuring quietly on either side of her; John and Sherlock, she realized after a confused moment. What had…oh, yes. She'd come so hard she'd passed out. She'd read about things like that but never expected to actually experience anything like it. Wow.

"Molly? Can you hear me?"

She blinked her eyes, then opened to gaze directly into John's concerned face. "Oh, yeah, great, fantastic!" She beamed up at him, then turned her head when she heard Sherlock's quiet chuckle, facing him with a grin of her own. "My granny, what a big pickle you have!" she quipped, a line she hadn't quite been able to bring herself to speak whilst pretending to be Little Red Riding Hood, although it had been the first thing to come to mind when she'd entered Sherlock's bedroom and found him lounging in his bed with only a thin sheet covering his midsection.

He groaned and glanced over at John. "I told her more than once, John, not to make jokes, but does she ever listen?"

John glanced over at his friend's face, then pointedly lower on his body before murmuring: "Well, she's right…"

Molly grinned as Sherlock mock-wrestled John off the bed and onto the floor, threatening to show him just how big his "pickle" would feel if he shoved it up his…

Molly joined them at that point. How could she not? This evening had started out embarrassing and awful and turned into the most fun she'd ever had in her life.

As for Sherlock's "pickle"?

Oh, it was big, all right, but once she joined in the wrestling match, the "wolf" won, beating the "woodsman" to her spread-eagled form – and showing her exactly how perfect a fit he was. She gasped and called out his name as he slammed into her; she'd needed no extra preparation, was already so wet and ready and aching for his cock that he could have been twice as large and she would have sworn he'd still fit.

And when John knelt behind Sherlock and once again slid his cock into the other man's arse, driving him deeper and deeper into Molly as the three of them found a rhythm that worked for them, she knew she would never be able to even think about having sex with another man. Not when the two of them were so willing to do the things to her she'd only fantasized about in the past – and had already assured her they wished to continue on as three in future.

God, she could hardly wait to see what happened next.