Molly Hooper is in a fantastic mood.
Her career is steadily climbing, the most recent report she wrote is being published in a prominent medical journal, her cat Toby is over his cold, and the man she's head over heels in love with is no longer being banished from the country for murder.
Not that she'd admit she's in love with him.
Not that she'd have to.
Molly is certain everyone knows she is in love with Sherlock Holmes, even if she still tries to hide the fact from herself, swearing she is over him.
It's a little hard to stick to that story on occasions like today, when she'll be seeing Sherlock shortly.
Molly checks her reflection in the glass door of the lab fridge, smoothing her hair and straightening her blouse after unclasping the top button. She's moved beyond styling her hair and doing her make-up in ways she thinks will attract Sherlock's attention, as she's come to realize no matter what she does, he won't see her as anyone other than the Pathologist he sometimes needs the assistance of.
That's not fair, she chastises herself. Sherlock thinks of you as a friend.
And nothing more…
She sighs quietly to herself, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
If he's going to see past me, he can see past me as myself, she thinks, re-buttoning the top button of her shirt.
Pushing her melancholy aside, Molly starts humming happily to herself. No matter what at least she still gets to see Sherlock, and he isn't being shipped off to his doom over the whole Magnusson thing.
She checks the time and opens the fridge, reaching for the glass jar of spleens Sherlock requested.
Still humming, Molly turns around and walks towards the door leading to the main part of the lab. As she rounds the corner, swaying her hips in time to her tune, she immediately collides with Sherlock and the jar of spleens goes flying from her grasp.
It hits the floor with a shatter and a sickening squish.
Molly's hand flies to her mouth as she looks up at Sherlock, his expression darkening as he takes in the ruined specimens on the floor.
"Sherlock!" she gasps, "I'm so sorry!"
He squats down to prod at the glass-covered spleens on the floor.
"Ruined," he snips. "All of them."
"I— I can get you some more."
"It took you a month to collect these ones."
Standing back up to his full, imposing height, Sherlock gives her a disgruntled look and turns his back on her.
"Please, Sherlock. Don't be mad at me. I just got you back. I— I mean, I didn't just get you back. I never had you. I mean that, we, all of us, got you back. That uh, you're here now, and you don't have to leave m— us, so—"
"Molly, do stop," Sherlock insists, and she snaps her lips closed, wishing she weren't such a bumbling buffoon around him.
"Anger is a useful emotion," he begins, turning to face her once more. "Not only can it be cathartic to the person expressing the emotion, but when directed at another it serves as a lesson."
"A lesson?"
"I don't wish to be angry with you, but after enduring my displeasure for an undetermined amount of time you will undoubtedly learn to not be so careless in the lab and ruin precious, and certainly viable, specimens."
Molly looks up at him, her face scrunched in confusion.
"What you're saying is, the only reason you're mad at me is to punish me?"
"If you wish to simplify it that way."
"How long is this punishment going to last?" she asks, crossing her arms.
"That remains to be determined."
That won't do.
Molly has a favor to ask Sherlock, but she can't ask him if he's mad at her!
"Isn't there another way to punish me?" She asks, trying to tamper her amusement at the situation. "Ground me, stand me in the corner, spank me?"
Sherlock arches a perfect eyebrow at her, and she wonders if he realizes she's making fun of him.
"Corporal punishment has an uncertain track record. There are many studies saying it doesn't work, while there are many contradictory studies and personal statements arguing that it does indeed provide the desired effect. I do suppose it could be worth a shot."
Molly has to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from laughing, though she's certain Sherlock must be joking.
"Are you… seriously proposing to… spank me?" she questions disbelievingly.
"It was your proposal," he counters.
"I was—" she was about to say joking, but stops herself, taking a moment to consider the scenario of her bent over the counter as Sherlock spanks her bottom.
"Indeed it was," she acquiesces.
"So?" he presses. "Do you wish to try corporal punishment over my continued displeasure?"
"Will you be able to put aside your anger with me if we go through with this?" Molly counters.
"I suppose it will be an experiment for both of us," Sherlock admits. "To see if it teaches you to be more considerate, and to see if it will sweep aside my annoyance."
In the space of this one conversation Sherlock's feelings have changed from anger, to displeasure, to annoyance in his own words, Molly notes. She's fairly certain he will be over the spleen incident by tomorrow if she doesn't agree to his experiment.
And really we shouldn't…
That same image of her bent over a counter in front of Sherlock pops to the forefront of her mind, and before she realizes it, Molly hears herself agreeing to give corporal punishment a try.
"This way," Sherlock instructs, turning to lead her out of the lab.
Molly throws a forlorn look at the sterile countertops and follows, wondering where he plans to punish her.
A pleasant chill runs down her spine and she tries to keep her emotions off of her face as they pass a coworker in the hallway.
Sherlock takes her to her office where thoughts of countertops are instantly replaced by thoughts of her bent over the desk. A fantasy she's spent many hours fleshing out while putting off filing boring reports about ordinary deaths.
She waits, half expecting Sherlock to start laughing at her and exclaim he can't believe she actually thought he'd spank her.
Instead, he removes his suit jacket and begins to unbutton his sleeves.
"Lab coat off," he instructs, nodding towards where he hung up his jacket.
Molly swallows nervously, and shrugs out of her white coat as Sherlock begins rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt revealing the alabaster white of his forearms.
She can't help but think of how beautiful he is, and for the thousandth time likens him to a work of art in her head.
Nervously, heart speeding up, Molly takes a cautious step next to her desk.
Instead of telling her to brace herself, Sherlock pulls the chair from behind her desk and sits on it in the middle of Molly's small office, looking up at her expectantly.
He beckons her over with one graceful finger, and she approaches on autopilot, trying to conceal her uncontrollable trembling.
Molly stops next to Sherlock and he twists his finger, instructing her to turn around. Brow furrowed, she does as he wishes and turns away from him.
She jumps and squeaks as she feels his hand glide across her backside.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!
"Hmmm," he sighs, hand resting on her bum. "This won't work."
Rejection starts to bubble in Molly's stomach and she wonders what issue he has found with her behind.
"The thickness of these trousers, combined with the studs on your back pockets isn't very conducive to this experiment," he explains. "It provides you with a cushioned blow, and I don't particularly want to stab myself on your studs. You'll have to take them off."
"T-take them… off?" she stammers, feeling her face flush.
She turns back around to face him again.
Did I drift off in the lab again?
"You'll only have to lower them to your thighs, it is unnecessary to divest yourself completely."
Mouth going dry, Molly stares down at Sherlock watching her expectantly and unbuttons her trousers.
"Embarrassment is part of the punishment," he says, mistaking her blush.
His expression remains neutral as he watches her, his eyes following the movement of her hands as she slides her khakis down, and Molly is thankful that she's wearing practical white cotton panties and not one of her racier pairs.
Sherlock pats his lap.
"You want me… on your lap?" she croaks.
"It is the most practical option."
So, so, so much better than the desk!
Molly kneels beside his chair, braces herself, and then lies across Sherlock's lap.
She becomes hyperaware of every inch of her body that touches Sherlock; her left hand bracing her weight by holding onto his leg, her side pushing up against his abdomen, and her breasts firmly pressed into his muscled thigh.
Sherlock lowers his hand to rest on her bottom, and Molly bites her lip to hold back the sudden urge to giggle.
"I think fifteen should do it," he tells her, his voice clinical. "One for each of the ruined spleens."
Is this really happening? She just has time to ask herself before the first blow.
Her breath rushes out in one sharp gasp.
It's not so much the pain, which is minor, but the shock of what is actually happening.
"One," Sherlock counts. "Two."
He strikes again.
The second one stings slightly more than the first, but not unpleasantly so.
By the third and fourth hit, Molly has to swallow back a low moan threatening to give away that she is, in fact, rather enjoying her punishment.
She's quite surprised at herself; she's always considered herself to be fairly vanilla in the bedroom, and yet it's all she can do to contain herself and try to hide her growing arousal from Sherlock.
Molly wiggles her bottom between strikes six and seven, trying to relieve some of the tension growing between her legs, but the way her body moves against Sherlock's lap just teases her further, and she can't quite contain the groan that slips out.
If Sherlock hears her he doesn't acknowledge it, and she hopes he attributes it to pain. Her nipples on the other hand, have little excuse for the way they are perking up and she wonders if he can feel them.
"Nine," he continues, steadily, completely unaware of the battle raging in Molly as she tries to hold back from jumping up and straddling Sherlock right where he sits.
She wiggles her bottom again, rocking her pelvis against Sherlock's thigh and her eyelids flutter at the burst of sensation. Molly is still pressed forward as Sherlock chants "ten" and his hand, not having adjusted for her movement, lands lower than the previous blow.
He misses her bum, striking an area just a bit more intimate, and this time Molly can't stop herself.
"Ahh," she moans, gasping loudly.
"Eleven."
His hand lands in the same place sending stinging, yet pleasant vibrations to her core.
"Sherlo—" Molly pants, rolling her hips back away from his thigh and into the incoming slap.
Ow, that one hurt, but… ohmygod…
"Thirteen."
All of the spanks compounded in the same general area have brought an increase of pain since when they started, but Molly realizes with astonishment that the more it hurts, the better it feels, and the more turned on she becomes.
"Fourteen."
Knowing the end has come, Molly can't stop from grinding her pelvis against Sherlock's thigh once more, just as he strikes. A move he mistakes for her trying to slide away from his hand and her punishment.
"Fifteen."
The small office falls silent save for Molly's gasping breaths and Sherlock's slightly labored breathing.
She doesn't move from where she lies across his lap; she can't.
Sherlock rests his hand on her bum and she jumps, his cool hand against the sensitive skin surprising her. He traces his hand lazily over her backside, in a massaging gesture.
Molly just lies still, hand still clasped tightly to Sherlock supporting herself, but unable to do anything other than breath and blink away the unshed tears in her watering eyes.
After several moments of silence and sweet massaging circles, Sherlock finally speaks.
"Can you stand?" he asks, voice gentler than she's ever heard it.
Her throat is too dry to answer, but she nods her head yes, and begins to slide back into a kneeling position beside the chair. Sherlock takes hold of her arms and helps her move to her feet.
Molly knows she must look a mess. Her eyes are watering, her cheeks must be all blotchy, and she's certain her lower lip is swollen from biting it.
She stares at the ground, hoping Sherlock won't pay too close attention and notice the mess her arousal has made of her cotton panties.
Still in an arousal induced daze, it takes Molly a moment to notice that Sherlock is pulling her trousers back up for her, and buttoning the clasp.
"Thank you," she croaks, and Sherlock jumps up to fetch her a bottle of water from the small fridge she keeps in the corner.
Molly drinks it greedily, and then takes several long breaths, willing herself to calm down.
Cool down. Or you might jump him.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks her.
She nods as she takes in the concerned, yet calculating, look on his face.
He's worried he's hurt you. He thinks your reaction is strictly due to the pain.
"I'm fine, or will be… are you still mad at me?" she counters.
"No, I have pushed aside all of my earlier emotions from the spleen incident, and I'm— I am no longer upset with you."
"Good."
"Yes, good."
The pair stands there awkwardly watching one another. Sherlock to see if Molly is hiding any further discomfort, and Molly watching to see if Sherlock felt even an inkling of the same thing she did.
It's a knock on the door that finally ends whatever trance they are both in.
"I should get that," Molly announces, before breaking her stare away from studying Sherlock.
She cracks open the door. It's John.
"Hi, you haven't seen Sherlock around have… Molly, what's wrong? Are you okay?" John asks, switching to doctor mode as he takes in her blotchy and red-eyed appearance.
"Hmm? Oh, I'm fine. Really. And Sherlock is right in here."
She steps aside to open the door further so John can see in.
John's eyes dart from Molly's complexion to where Sherlock stands re-buttoning his sleeves in the middle of the office.
"Are you sure—?" John tries again, but Sherlock interrupts him.
"Come along, John, much to do. Molly."
Sherlock tips his head to her just before sweeping dramatically from the room, leaving a confused, yet concerned Dr. Watson to chase after him as always.
Later in the evening, as Molly stands naked in front of her full-length mirror, studying the fading red handprints left on her bum, and reliving her punishment, she has no clue she's not the only one still thinking about it.
Across town, in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock is thinking of the incident as well.
John is droning on about something; something about being nicer to the godmother of his future daughter, but Sherlock doesn't hear him.
He's to busy picturing the red raised skin that appeared on Molly's milky backside, blossoming beneath his hand and just barely peeking out from under the edge of her white cotton panties.
He's not sure why that image should stick so prominently with him. Just like he's not sure why he keeps fidgeting and tracing the fingers on his right hand with his thumb, or why his stomach tightens at the thought of another incident resulting in a repeat of today.
Perhaps this needs further study.