Disclaimer: Clearly, I do not own these characters.
Sherlock walked briskly ahead the last few paces to the entrance of the hotel in order to hold the door open for Molly. The deep recess of the building's entrance kept the rain off but the wind whipped strongly enough to knock her off her platform heels, and he knew she suffered from uneven balance at the best of times. She breezed past him without a word of thanks. Residual annoyance, he nodded to himself. He caught her elbow as she click-clacked onto the tile floor of the lobby. Molly, water, marble flooring… the risks to this operation kept mounting up. She shook off his arm and stopped in her tracks to glare at him.
"You may offer me your arm and I will take it, if you are honestly that concerned about my ability to walk, but stop gripping me as though you're guiding me through my first steps after a horrible accident." Molly slipped off her elegant coat and straightened her black cocktail dress. "Clearly this was important enough for Mycroft to dress me up like a James Bond Barbie doll; don't undermine the effect by looking like my physical therapist rather than my date."
Sherlock glanced down at her from his considerable height. The achingly postmodern shoes brought the top of her head just past his chin. The asymmetric dress clung to her breasts and hips. From this angle, he could look straight down past the diamond necklace around her throat and into the depths of her cleavage. More intriguingly, he could make out the faint outlines of where her garters snapped onto the tops of the sheer black stockings. Possibly he would send Mycroft a Christmas card after all, this year.
"Sherlock," she snapped her fingers under his nose, "even you know it's socially unacceptable to stare down the top of my dress like that in public."
"Forgive me, Dr Hooper," Sherlock said flatly. He released her elbow and offered her his arm. "I am merely concerned with your safety."
"My breasts are perfectly well, thank you, Mr Holmes," she hissed, but she took his arm. She handed her coat to a waiting staff member at the door to the ballroom. He shrugged out of his Belstaff and handed it over, as well, settling his hand around her waist as the attendants swung wide the doors of the party.
Sherlock squinted as thousands of twinkling fairy lights glinted off the red and gold Christmas ornaments that hung from the ceiling of the grand ballroom. He could smell salmon canapes. The tree in the middle of the room reached into the domed centre of the ceiling and shone like a star, while hundreds of people in gowns and suits swirled round its orbit. A string quartet was playing 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' as they entered. Sherlock cringed at the assault on his senses. He steadied himself briefly by focussing on Molly's breasts, which were rising and falling slightly faster as her breathing sped up with the shock of the party. Also, he could clearly see that her bra fastened in front. He tucked this information away for later.
Molly lifted her red lips toward his ear and he inclined his head towards her to listen: "Where do we start?" Her eyes swept the crowd, looking for anyone who matched the descriptions Mycroft had read out to them earlier.
Sherlock did not answer, but he dropped his hand from her hip and began walking at a forced-leisurely pace towards the far left corner of the ballroom. There, the room splintered into a series of alcoves and corridors. Molly tightened her grip on his arm and did her best to keep upright, following his long strides across the vast room. The party had been going for a couple of hours now, and couples were swaying drunkenly to the music, kissing unashamedly as waiters continued to circulate with endless trays of champagne and nibbles. Sherlock plucked two glasses off a passing tray and handed one to Molly.
Sherlock kept to the edges of the party. He stopped in front of small mirrored alcove with a hefty marble-topped table in the middle of it. An arrangement of red tulips and blue cedar trimmings sat on one side of the table. Without warning, Sherlock grasped Molly around the waist and lifted her onto the table, next to the flowers. The scent of cedar hit them at the same moment. He quickly moved her knees slightly apart and stepped between them. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her. Molly closed her eyes halfway, but continued looking over his shoulder, still scanning for faces in the crowd. She closed her eyes briefly when Sherlock slipped his tongue past her lips, but she refocussed quickly.
Sherlock pulled back slightly. She flicked her eyes over to his, watched him watching the party in the mirror behind her.
"The Italian is 25 metres behind me, next to the quartet," he whispered against Molly's lips.
"The Serbian is off to his right, another 10 metres," she murmured. Sherlock looked into her eyes, but her gaze was fixed on the party taking place over his shoulder. He kissed her again and briefly regained her attention as she closed her eyes. "I think he has a gun the back of his trousers, under his jacket. He's fidgeting," she added in a whisper when he broke the kiss. She ran both her hands through his hair, settled them at the nape of his neck.
Sherlock pulled his face back slightly further and tried to recapture her gaze. "I thought me kissing you would be more of a distraction than that," he sounded wounded.
Molly switched her full attention back onto him. "Oh, god yes, darling, I'm breathless and wanting. Wet." Molly sighed into his neck dramatically. Then she snapped her head back up, took a swig of champagne and added, "No sign of the woman. I can't find her."
"That's almost insulting…" Sherlock began.
"Ha!" Molly snorted. "We just had sex," Molly broke off to look at his wristwatch, "two hours and 15 minutes ago…"
"Two hours and 13 minutes," Sherlock nipped at her bottom lip.
"Well, I suppose it depends when you're counting from, and by my count, it was 2 hours 15. We weren't quite synched-up there at the end." Molly looked at him dispassionately. "Now, they're both moving towards that door. Shall we go after them or do you want to keep bickering?"
Instead, Sherlock threaded his fingers into her hair and pulled her up to face him, so that looking anywhere but into his eyes was an impossibility. He stepped so close to her now that she could feel his erection against the bare skin of her upper thigh, where he his body had forced her skirt up and exposed the skin above her stocking. He dipped his head to slide down her face, using his thumb to tilt her chin up hard. He began to kiss down her throat, pausing to suck lightly at her pulse point. Sherlock could smell her perfume more strongly here, and he inhaled a deep breath of her. She felt his erection engorge further against her thigh. He sucked at her neck and watched her. Molly's eyes drifted shut completely and her hands tightened their grip on his curls.
"Not so immune to me as you pretend," he whispered against her neck. "You think that you can have me whenever you want now, so you don't have to pay me the same attention." His free hand slid down to her thigh then brushed forward to find the lacy edge of her knickers. He gently ran one finger beneath the lace. "And you are wet." She knew that his body was blocking everyone else's view of what was going on, but still, this was very public.
"Sherlock, they will get away. Mycroft…"
"Are you mentioning my brother's name while I have my fingers inside you?"
"I am compartmentalising, Jesus Christ, Sherlock, we can't lose them. Mycroft will go mental…"
"I know where they've gone. I have already alerted Mycroft and his men are hunting them down in the hotel grounds. I'm not risking going after them myself with you here." He removed his fingers from between her thighs and brought them up to her mouth. She opened her lips and let him slip his fingers inside her mouth. She ran her tongue along the calloused pads of his fingers before closing her lips around them and sucking her taste off his hand, while looking straight into his eyes.
Sherlock's breath hitched slightly at that. Molly heard it. Mycroft found them like that a moment later, not moving, taking each other's measure.
"There is no need to embarrass yourselves in the middle of the Savoy. I can get you a room," Mycroft said in disgust.
"Yes, please," Sherlock answered quickly. The offer may have been in jest, but Sherlock enjoyed throwing his brother off anyway he could. And he knew that his newly discovered obsession with Molly Hooper threw Mycroft off badly. Sherlock moved the hand in Molly's hair down to her back and swept her off the table and back onto her heels. Molly registered the party again, the faint smell of cloves from some dessert being carried around, and the Christmas music soothing over everything as the quartet played on. She drank the rest of the champagne from her long-forgotten glass.
"Here," Sherlock shoved the empty flute into Mycroft's chest. "Molly needs another drink. And a suite. Don't be long."
Sherlock led her back out into the main thrall of the party. His eyes were back to scanning the crowd for the woman they had not seen yet. Useful from his height, perhaps, but Molly couldn't see much past the backs and heads of the nearest two or three people to her. She picked up another flute of champagne from a passing waiter. She wasn't clear on what the drink limit should be when one was seeking out the members of a murderous cartel, but she figured two couldn't hurt. She drained it in a hurry.
Whatever had been in her drink, the effect was almost instantaneous. Molly went from upright and discretely tapping one impractical shoe to the music, to collapsing onto Sherlock in under a minute. He caught her under her shoulders and knees before she could hit the floor. Mycroft returned at that moment with a key card, and was about to fling it at his brother when he saw Molly unconscious. With the same thought, he and Sherlock began threading their way through the crowd, towards the exit, as Mycroft tapped his phone for his car. Sherlock carried her out the door and straight into the black car that waited with its doors wide open for them. He checked his watch: 10 to midnight, so she must have been drugged at about 11.45. He relayed the information to Mycroft, who was already calling in a team of doctors to await them at the hospital. He laid his hand on her neck, on the point where he had left a bruise earlier, to check her pulse.
Sherlock settled Molly across the backseat, her head on Sherlock's thigh and her legs across Mycroft's lap. Then Sherlock noticed another detail, one that made something in his chest seize up inexplicably.
Just like a proper fairy tale princess, Molly had lost a shoe as they fled the ballroom. He reached across and slid the other off her foot. Sherlock held it like a talisman as Mycroft's driver rushed them through the West End and towards the A&E.