sherlocks-salvation on tumblr requested: Molly has had a hell of a day at the morgue. All she wants to do is go home, get in a bath with a nice glass of red, read a good book and go to bed. But Sherlock has other ideas… such as setting up her flat with tea candles and giving her a back massage… smut ensues.
A/N: Hope this meets your expectations! Rated M for smexy times and rated H for attempts at humor here and there!
Why did this always happen on the worst possible days? Molly's feet dragged as she hauled herself unenthusiastically up the stairs to her fifth floor flat. The lift had died only minutes before her arrival, according to the hand-written sign taped across the dingy grey doors, forcing her to climb the four flights of stairs after she'd had a particularly horrendous day at work. All she wanted to do now was feed Toby, run a bath where she could have a nice glass of that red she'd been saving, open up the book she'd bought during her lunch break, and just collapse in her bed afterwards. With any luck she'd be asleep within an hour. Possibly less, since the wine would be hitting a basically empty stomach.
She sighed with relief as she reached her floor, nodding a hello to Mrs. Fitzwilliams, who was wiping down the doorframe to her flat. The woman was an absolute fiend for cleaning, but other than that a pleasant and friendly neighbor, her and her husband both. "Hello, Molly, dear!" she sang out as Molly fished her keys from her purse. "No need for those, dear, your young man is already inside, and told me he'd left the door unlatched for you!"
Molly froze momentarily, her mind racing until she made the connection, then stifled a groan and forced a smile on her lips as she thanked the older woman and headed for her own door again. Drat, why did Sherlock have to show up now, of all times? The day had been pretty rotten – two dead youngsters, both killed coincidentally by hit-and-run drivers at opposite ends of London at pretty much the same time – and she just couldn't face him right now. Sure, they were friends; sure, the Moriarty Problem had been resolved and sure, he'd mellowed quite a bit since his goddaughter Isabelle had been born two weeks ago, but it just wasn't the sort of day where she could put up with him. He'd want something – her bed to 'think' on, or for her to cook him something to eat (he seemed particularly fond of her fish fry and chips even though both were frozen rather than fresh) or help with a case since John was busy with the baby…
No, she told herself sternly as she opened the door and stepped into her flat. Absolutely not today. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and for once he was just going to have to do without either her or her bed. Because she wanted to pamper the one and sleep in the other.
With that thought in mind she slammed the door shut behind her as loudly as possible, expecting Sherlock to be sprawled out on her sofa in his mind palace, or possibly already in her bedroom. Then her brain caught up to what her eyes had been taking in, and she froze, eyes wide, as she saw how her modest little parlor had been transformed.
The curtains and shades were both drawn, leaving the room in near darkness that was softly illuminated by dozens upon dozens of small tea lights set upon every flat surface. In the middle of her white-painted coffee table was the bottle of red, opened, with a half-full glass set next to it. "That's for you!" she heard Sherlock say, and finally moved her head enough so that her stunned eyes could take in the sight of him leaning casually against her bedroom doorframe.
She eyed him from head to foot, an uncomprehending frown settling in as she did so. He wasn't dressed for either a case or a night of taking ruthless advantage of her hospitality; he wasn't in head to toe bespoke clothing beneath his dramatic black Belstaff, nor was he in a dressing gown over a pair of ratty pyjamas. Instead, he was clad in one of his signature tight dress shirts – aubergine, one of her favorites – with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. He was also wearing a pair of blue jeans, the first time she could ever recall seeing him in something so casual yet also meant to be worn in public - aside from the bare feet, of course, the first time she remembered seeing them uncovered by socks or shoes. "Sherlock?" she asked, taking a single step forward and then halting in continued confusion. "What's going on?"
"You've had an abysmal day," he pronounced, moving only to shove his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Molly couldn't help tracking that movement, although as soon as she realized where her eyes had landed, she gulped and immediately returned her attention to his face. A small grin told her he'd noticed, and she couldn't stop the embarrassed blush that warmed her cheeks. "You're exhausted, yet you just walked up the stairs, leading me to conclude that the unreliable lift is, yet again, out of order. From speaking to Mike Stamford, I know that the autopsies you performed today were…difficult. Emotionally difficult, that is, although why it should make any difference once a person is dead as to their age is…" He shut up instantly, cleared his throat, blinked, and gave every tell that Molly recognized from long experience to show that he realized he'd said the wrong thing and regretted it.
It was only that last part that kept her from ordering him from her flat. Obviously he'd gone to a lot of trouble to set up a relaxing atmosphere for her, and in spite of his verbal misstep at the end, he'd actually done quite a lovely job. She toed off her shoes, shrugged out of her jacket, dropped her handbag on the table next to the door, and wordlessly trekked the endless distance to the sofa. Once there she plopped gracelessly onto its comfortable, cheerfully patterned surface – daffodils and peonies in bright shades of yellow and pink with a light green background – and downed about a third of her wine before resting her head on the back of the sofa and closing her eyes. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said, knowing she sounded every bit as exhausted as she clearly looked. "I appreciate everything you've done. You have no idea how much it's helped."
She was gearing herself up to tell him it was fine, he could leave now when she felt his hands gently tugging her hair free from the elastic that only mostly held it in the ponytail she'd worn for the day. She opened her eyes and gazed at him upside down. "Something you need?" she asked, resigned to being coaxed into leaving her cozy nest and traipsing after him on some adventure or other in spite of herself.
"No," he said, his voice a deep, restful thrumming on her ears as he combed his fingers through her hair, gently freeing it from between the back of the sofa and her neck. "Something you need, actually." His hands slid down until she felt his fingers on her shoulders. "One thing I discovered during my lengthy sojourn away from London was the value of a truly expert massage. In exchange for some information I needed, a Swiss masseuse demonstrated that value – and then demonstrated her technique when I asked her for some tips."
Molly continued to gaze up at him, her brow once again knitting in confusion. "Why would you need to learn how to do it yourself?"
He frowned right back at her, although, with their faces juxtaposed as they were, it looked more like a smile. Not a particularly happy smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Because I could see its value not only as a relaxation technique on myself but to apply to others as well." He paused expectantly, but when she continued to give him a blank look, he huffed and added, "Others such as you, Molly. If you'll let me, I would very much like to give you a back and neck massage. All right?"
In reply she sat up and pulled her hair over one shoulder. A massage sounded lovely, although she still wasn't entirely certain she understood his reasoning for learning how to give one. Nor was she sure she trusted that he'd actually learnt to do it properly, but she was certainly willing to let him give it a go; her neck was tight, her back ached, and it might be exactly what she needed to help her sleep. "Thanks," she said simply, and waited.
He stepped around to the front of the sofa, directing her to sit sideways. When he started to remove her blouse, however, she squawked and slapped at his hands before turning to glare at him. "What do you think you're doing? No shirtless massages, Sherlock, absolutely not!"
He raised an eyebrow and his lower lip jutted out in a distinct pout as he said, "Honestly, Molly, you know I just think of the body as transport. If you remove your shirt and brassiere it will go much easier. Trust me on this."
She bit her lip, then nodded and turned her back to him again, this time allowing him to help her remove her blouse, although she undid her bra herself. Nor did she entirely remove that article of clothing, instead electing to keep it loosely covering her breasts. Of course, Sherlock had just announced that she may as well have no breasts as far as he was concerned – well, not in so many words, but that was what it came down to. The body was just transport, and this was just…maintenance.
When she voiced that opinion aloud, he hummed his agreement and then set to work. Those long, callused fingers dug in, finding every knot and sore spot, every aching muscle, and proceeded to turn them all to jelly with his deft touch. He was tough when he needed to be, gentle when he needed to be, and covered every inch of her back, from the nape of her neck to the waistband of her trousers, eliciting sighs and groans and the occasional yelp from Molly as he did so.
As his hands moved smoothly back up to her shoulders, digging in for what she assumed was the final run, she opened eyes she didn't remember closing and stiffened. "Oh, drat, I forgot to feed…"
"I fed Toby already, how could you not have noticed the way he isn't demanding your attention?" Sherlock asked, a definite sound of amusement in his voice as his fingers dug into her shoulders. "Do relax, Molly; that's what this evening is all about, after all."
It was, however, extremely difficult to take him at his word when she felt him sliding the straps of her bra down her shoulders and onto her arms; it was even harder when she felt him drop a gentle kiss on the back of her neck seconds later.
This time she not only stiffened, she turned to glare at him, clutching her arms to her chest like a rom-com heroine defending her questionable honor. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed angrily. "What the hell was that?"
He shrugged and had the grace to look uncomfortable as he mumbled, "Sorry. It was just something I…sorry. Won't happen again, I promise." Then he turned his eyes back to hers and added softly, questioningly, "Unless you…want it to?"
Molly held his gaze as she replied, "Sherlock, I've spent the past three years trying to convince myself that I'm not in love with you anymore. So unless this is a prelude to something long-term and lasting and sincere…"
He winced a bit at that last, biting word, no doubt thinking of Janine and how he'd used her, exactly as Molly wanted him to. "I deserve that, and anything else you want to fling at me," he said. "But yes, Molly, all those things you want…it may have taken me a long time and several rather pointed conversation with John and Mary…mostly Mary…but now I understand."
"Understand what?" Molly asked, not letting him off the hook for even one second. Because they needed to be on the same page, no misunderstandings or misread intentions or assumptions on either part.
Sometime during the conversation she'd turned to face him, one leg curled up on the sofa and the other dangling over the edge, their knees touching and her arms still folded across her chest. Not once did his eyes stray downward; he kept his gaze squarely on hers, a point in his favor since she found it much easier to tell when he was lying or at least fudging the truth a bit when she could watch the movements of those blue-green orbs.
Not, she realized, that there was much blue-green to them at the moment; she took a second to recognize how far back his pupils were blown and wondered if it was solely due to the dim lighting. But when he spoke again, she had her answer…and it was one she'd been patiently waiting to hear for far longer than the past three years. "I understand how I feel about you, for you," Sherlock said, reaching up to trace the edge of her jaw with one hand, the other once again gliding through her hair. "I understand why it made me so uncomfortable when you were dating 'Jim from IT' and all those other rubbish boyfriends you had…"
"He was the only one that was really rubbish!" Molly interrupted indignantly. "The rest of them were perfectly nice…"
"Yes, and perfectly dull," Sherlock shot back. "Too boring for you and you know it!" He sighed and cradled her face in his hands, leaning forward to touch his nose to hers. "You need someone who can excite your mind as well as your body, Molly, just as I do. Someone who isn't put off by your career, who can talk to you about something besides sports and pub quizzes and whatever it is all the other boring people talk about. You need me, Molly Hooper, and I need you," he concluded, then pressed his lips against hers before she could respond.
Part of Molly was insisting that this was all too sudden; the rest of her was insisting right back that she'd waited long enough for Sherlock to get his head out of his arse, and there was no way in hell she was wasting a single second longer. She opened her mouth beneath his when she felt his tongue gliding along her lower lip, the tug of his teeth and the silky smoothness of those lush lips a temptation she was terminally incapable of resisting.
As she lost herself in the taste and feel of him, the warmth of his breath against hers and the sensation of his dark curls beneath her fingers, she took little notice of the way he skillfully divested her of her bra, until suddenly she felt his long, slender fingers cupping her breasts. She gasped as he lightly pinched both nipples at once, and her eyes, which had shut, flew open to meet his. "Not good?" he asked against her mouth, and she shook her head, then nodded in confusion.
"Yes, good, very good!" she gasped before allowing his tongue to plunder her mouth again. Emboldened by his own lack of shyness when it came to touching, she slid one hand between them and began undoing the buttons to his shirt, tugging it free of his jeans in order to reach the last of them. Then it was bare skin on bare skin and Molly was sighing and Sherlock was groaning and before she knew it she was flat on her back with a delightful weight between her legs. "Maybe we should take this to the bedroom?" she asked when they broke for air a few minutes later.
Sherlock grunted, not quite the response she was looking for, but as soon as she realized he'd undone her trousers and was intent on sliding his off the remainder of her clothing, the thought of leaving the sofa flew from her mind. Instead she raised her hips and allowed him to completely undress her. His own remaining clothing quickly vanished as well, until suddenly there was nothing between their bodies, not even air. They moved smoothly together, as if they'd done this a hundred times; Molly barely had time to marvel at that before Sherlock had slipped a finger between her slick folds and had unerringly found her clit. The slow circles were rapidly bringing her to the brink, and she tugged his hand away. "Want you inside me," she moaned, then sucked the tip of his finger into her mouth, tasting herself and hearing his answering groan in response.
"Condom?" Sherlock gasped out, and Molly cursed her lack of foresight. Not that she had anticipated anything like this happening between them, but the damned condoms were shut away in the bathroom cupboard, shoved behind her tampons and the drain cleaner after she and Tom broke up.
But Sherlock was groping for his discarded jeans, fishing something out of one of the pockets…something flat and square and wrapped in foil… "Did you plan this?" Molly lifted her head to ask, not sure how she felt about that prospect. Surprised, certainly, even a bit pleased, but also a bit annoyed as well. If he'd just assumed this would happen…
No, Sherlock was frowning and shaking his head as he opened the package and crumpled up the foil before dropping it on the coffee table. "Of course not, Molly, don't be ridiculous. I just…hoped." Then he smiled a bashful smile she'd rarely seen, and there was no mistaking the flush that rose on his sharp cheekbones. "I've actually been hoping for quite some time now."
She kissed him, hard, tongues tangling and teeth clashing as she grabbed the condom from his hands and carefully rolled it onto him. Once it was in place she took a moment to stroke his bollocks, squeezing gently and smiling at the hiss of pleasure that escaped Sherlock's lips as she did so. Then she shifted her hips and gave a little tug; Sherlock, of course, knew exactly what she wanted and moved as well so that she could easily slip his cock deep inside her.
She sighed and moved her hands up to his shoulders, wrapping eager legs around his waist in order to take him in more fully, to allow him the space to be able to thrust into her the way they both wanted him to.
Within seconds Molly was orgasming, crying out his name and digging her fingers deep enough into his flesh that she checked him over for blood afterwards (none was found, thankfully, only the indentations of her nails and five small bruises on each shoulder). Sherlock followed swiftly, neither of them surprised that their first encounter had ended so precipitately.
As they lay tangled together afterwards, Sherlock lying on his back and Molly half-sprawled against his lanky form, she thought she'd never been so happy. Chancing a look at his face, she saw Sherlock as she'd never expected to see him; relaxed, sated, and smiling lovingly at her. He reached up and brushed her sweaty hair from her face, pulling her down for a soft kiss. "Well, Molly Hooper, I just want to promise you that next time will be a bit less…well, a bit more…"
"Same here," she interrupted him with a small laugh. "Next time…so that means…" she paused, inviting him to finish her unasked question. Needing to hear him confirm, one more time, that this new change between them was something he wanted for the long term.
Sherlock huffed impatiently and rolled his eyes before pulling her firmly into his embrace. "Yes, next time. As in, the next time we make love. Because we are now in a relationship and that's what people who are in real, adult relationships do. Have quite a lot of sex, isn't that right?"
Oh, he was teasing her now, was he? Molly thought about for approximately half a second before she did something she knew he couldn't possibly be expecting.
She'd known he was ticklish for years, but even after their relationship had gone from cool to professional to 'oh do save my life by killing me' to actual friendship, she'd never even considered taking advantage of that accidental knowledge.
Until now.
Sherlock gave a surprised shout as Molly's fingers dug into his ribs, squirming beneath her and gasping with laughter and outrage. "Molly! Stop that right now!"
"Not until you promise you won't bring Tom up ever again!" she demanded, giggling to show no actual hard feelings on her part. "Promise! Swear it, Sherlock, or I'll go for the armpits!"
He actually let her have the upper hand for longer than she'd expected before grasping her wrists and flipping them both so that she was once again trapped beneath his heavier form, both of them gasping with laughter. Then laughter became smiles, and smiles became kisses and the next thing Molly knew she was rummaging around in the bathroom cupboard and grabbing a handful of condoms and joining Sherlock in her bed – after first depositing a protesting Toby in the hall and closing the door firmly behind them.
After all, one time making love whilst being watched by a bored, incurious housecat was more than enough.