I'm back! It's been awhile, eh? I'm obsessed with JohnLock nowadays, so this just felt good to write. It's a different perspective than anything I've ever written before. Thanks to EmmaleeWrites05 for helping me beta this, and giving me a proper plot bunny. I'd love to hear what you think!
Disclaimer: I'm not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and certainly not Stephen Moffat. I'm salaried, I don't make a penny off this, sadly.
"Sh-Sherlock?"
"Mmm?"
Molly Hooper is rubbish at this, she really is, but she's getting better at standing next to Sherlock Holmes and not getting her tongue too entirely tied around him. "Why have you got a... erm..." She gestures towards the item in the plastic bag by the microscope. "A tied-up condom?" Stupid question…
"Case," he says, not even looking up from the glass slide in his hands.
"You don't do DNA tests. I-"
Sherlock's jaw flexes at her response, about to retort.
John Watson, arms akimbo, hops up from the stool he was leant upon, and gives her one of his friendly and reassuring smiles. "Molly, how are you? How is your boyfriend then? I forget his name..."
Molly's eyes kept her eyes on Sherlock and his capable, competent hands as he used her lab equipment. "Uh..." Sherlock must already know, and she knew he was going to analyze her any moment. As much as she hated it when he read her, she loved his undivided focus on her. "Not dating anymore. We-"
"He didn't live up to her frankly lofty expectations," Sherlock says dryly, and Molly sags. Sherlock shoots a perfunctory look at her, glancing at her hands, her eyes, and the hem of her jumper she wore under her lab coat.
"You can't have learnt that from my clothes, or how I did my makeup, or how I've 'lost half a stone'," she fairly shouts.
"No. Lestrade," Sherlock lies. "Molly, I am busy, and John will only distract me with his small-talk, I need you to go."
"But-"
"Oh, if you must. Earl Grey," he interjects with a wave of his hand, dismissing her away from her own lab.
Molly's teeth set on edge. "You're loathsome sometimes, do you know?!" she growls, in a tone she rarely employed around anyone, and whipped around so hard, her ponytail hit her swiftly in the face.
It took her several minutes to steady her pulse, pacing outside St. Bart's canteen with her fists tightly clenched. He's always been insufferable, she reminds herself. You know to expect this from him. You know not to take it personally, not really. He can't help it, can he? (She knew he could, probably, but didn't find any good reason to.)
She got tea and biscuits (for herself, no one else), and took deep, calming breaths like her father once taught her as a girl when she upset herself. Not for the first time, she wishes she had him to gather up into his arms for a warm hug. She hasn't been home in three years.
Why does she let herself allow Sherlock's every whim? It was true, he had softened since John Watson entered his life, but even John couldn't completely erase the harshness that Sherlock often spat out. He truly did say some of the worst things sometimes. Not wrong... but awful nevertheless. If she were honest with herself, it was everything to do with her silly schoolgirl crush she'd carried since the day she met him. The man was bloody gorgeous, a genius, and a cold, cold fish.
She let herself sip her tea, so slowly that by the time she was finished, it was lukewarm at best. She sighed, resigned to the fact that she had work to do, whether or not Sherlock was still up there. Morgues don't run themselves, you know, and watching rain drizzle down the foggy windows was only memorizing for so long.
Tossing her rubbish away, she wiped the palms of her hands on the legs of her trousers, and pushed the lift button back up. Her mind was mostly clear now, and surely by now, John would have diffused Sherlock's mood in whatever way he had about him that calmed his odd friend. From day one, it was apparent he was the only one who could break Sherlock Holmes' intensity with a mere glance.
She wasn't above the speculation that Sherlock and John were lovers. She'd imagined it quite easily, more than a few times, when the touch of her own fingers hadn't quite done the trick. Sherlock had diagnosed her with a rare South American disease carried by insects when he had seen her flush at the thoughts the next time she had seen them. It had greatly pleased her to inform him that he was wrong, and rejoiced in his consternation at being so. "But the body had been in southern Brazil, the marks around his ears were textbook!" he'd shouted, stalking away with his fingertips planted in the roots of his hair.
John and Sherlock...
It was easy to imagine Sherlock with a man, with those long fingers tracing the strong jaw of another man, running over stubble as easily as they read the data he collected with a single glance. He'd be able to read a lover just as he could a victim, she thought. It was part of his draw, one of the simmering sexual behaviors he exhibited, but probably never practiced. He could learn how to undo a partner in mere moments, to be sure. His body would undo whatever his mind couldn't, by the touch of his smooth, clear skin, and those wiry muscles half hidden under that brooding coat of his. She'd spent many times imagining the power Sherlock's body held, and those piercing eyes, such an odd shade, that could strip you down to your very core the moment he glanced at you. There was more than one reason why her hands shook every time he was near. His sex appeal was unstoppable to probably anyone who met him (until he started talking, that is).
But John? He was harder to read. He was stocky and muscular, and a military man (which never failed to make Molly shiver with lust whenever she was reminded). And as a doctor...his hands were surely even more precise, delicate, even more undoing to a partner than even Sherlock's. Molly had met a few of John's girlfriends, many far more attractive than herself, and knew that he had to have skills in bed, at least to match his agreeable personality in order to attract them. To add to it, he was so nice, almost the polar opposite of Sherlock in that aspect. She had to admit she had been attracted to him for a time. Those blue eyes, those sympathetic eyes that looked right into you when you spoke to him, as though he not only heard but understood you. He was all kindness and caring and warmth like she'd never met in a person before, yet he hung around with the most irascible man in all Britain.
Her mind drifted to them now, all alone in her lab.
Sherlock would call for him, ask him a question perhaps. Have John deduce something for him (Sherlock never asked for anyone else's opinion). John would approach with caution, reading the situation, if not as thorough as Sherlock Holmes would be. John would stand far too close, his breath on Sherlock's neck as he looked through the microscope, and linger for just a tick too long while their bodies brush together. He would pause, taking in the scent of his flatmate's skin (aftershave and tea), and nip lightly on the spot on Sherlock's neck that made the detective moan, so softly it was almost a whisper. Sherlock would turn in his seat, their eyes meeting and feeling that click of tension shifting, from ignition to flame. John would lean forward, giving Sherlock an Eskimo kiss, before placing a soft kiss on those gorgeous lips he craved.
Sherlock would stand, needing to draw John closer to him, immediately deepening the kiss as their bodies locked together in a tight embrace.
John would have to reach up to grasp Sherlock's face in his hands. They would kiss, John up on tiptoe as Sherlock's hands would rove up and down over his clothing, and under them after a few moments. The kiss would intensify, their seats kicked aside with a loud clatter, the case evidence and microscope swept away so that they could press themselves against the table, breathing hard so as not to break apart too soon.
Perhaps John would push Sherlock's arse against the black surface, until Sherlock grew impatient and turned them one hundred and eighty degrees, so John could hop on top the table, their faces equaled in height, so that they could snog more intensely. Little peaks of tongue would appear, as their mouths made love to each other, mimicking the movements their bodies wished to enact. John would run his hands across the strength of Sherlock's shoulders and down to unbutton his deep blue shirt, while the taller man would yank John's plaid shirt out of the waistband of his trousers, skimming those slender fingertips to the bit of softness of John's stomach.
Sherlock would take command of the kiss, but only after John had completely debauched the detective with his lips and teeth and tongue. He'd be so very good at kissing, teaching Sherlock every technique until both were masters at the act. John's moan would rattle deep into their bones, spurring them both on, hardening their cocks. They would break apart, both fumbling with John's jumper, all the rest of the buttons and zips and fabric, and soon both of their pricks are within sight, both hard and straining against each other. They would be desperate for contact; John would scoot himself closer so their bodies would slowly grind together even as they kiss again.
Sherlock would take both their cocks in his hand, stroking them together in a slow, languorous way, as though they have all the time in the world, and their kisses slow as well. They would want to savor this moment, as they do each time they're together. "Fuck, Sherlock," John would groan.
"I want you," Sherlock would mutter, though irrelevant to say aloud. Everything about him would scream need, and John would want it just as badly. "Please."
Sherlock would rarely beg, and only John could make him this way; his hand would drop, and their cocks would be weeping with pre-come, so ready for release it would almost be painful.
"I'm yours," John would whisper into Sherlock's mouth, still content to stroke his partner's cheek as he sucks on Sherlock's tongue once more, making them throb. "Take me."
No sooner than the words would be spoken, John would be spread out on the lab table, his trousers and pants around his ankles, his shirt torn open and vest bunched up around his armpits. His prick would lay heavy against his stomach as he pants for breath. His eyes would squeeze shut as Sherlock's mouth would begin a half-hazard path down his torso, starting at John's hardened nipples, past his sensitive (alright, ticklish) belly button, circling round his cock until he'd beg for contact. Anything. Sherlock would lift John's prick to his mouth, looking at it as though he were cataloging it for further consideration, and give it one soft kiss before he'd dip his head lower. John would groan in protest- he wants Sherlock's mouth on him, now, so badly he's shaking with need. Sherlock would kneel before John then, rather uncomfortably, knowing that preparing his lover won't take long as he swipes his tongue over the sensitive puckered hole, finding him still open from their lovemaking that morning.
Within minutes, John would be sobbing, his fists covering his eyes as he twists in the pleasure of being fucked by Sherlock's tongue, passing his prostate gland with each pass. "Sherlock! Now!" His voice is deep and commanding, if not shaky; Sherlock won't take orders from anyone but Captain Watson.
Sherlock would stand then, pumping his cock in his fist slowly, looking at John as though he were a feast displayed before his eyes. "Gorgeous," he'd whisper.
"Fuck me. Hard. Now." The command in his voice is practiced and unconscious, and sexy as hell, as Sherlock presses the tip of his cock to John's arsehole. They would both moan in ecstasy as Sherlock would push forward, going a bit deeper at each thrust. He'd grab John's thighs, bending them up towards his stomach, making him go so deep his bollocks hit the skin of John's arse.
Slowly at first, they'd move together, gaining breathtaking speed. They'd both make noises, deep grunts and moans and slapping flesh, and Sherlock would reach between their bodies to stroke John's cock. This isn't going to last long.
"I'm so- Sherlock! I'm-" John's cries would be swallowed by Sherlock's mouth one last time, before the tension of his body lessens and hot come spurts across his belly and Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's face would be screwed up with pleasure by now as they break the kiss, feeling the tightening of John's muscles around his cock; he looks more out of control than anyone has ever seen him- his hair on end, his face almost as though he's working out a clue and yet- no, he's becoming undone. John would whisper things to him now; filthy, obscene things that he knows will pull Sherlock's trigger. Promises for later, when they're back in their flat and quite alone. Sherlock would open his eyes, look straight into John's, and become blank. He'd come just then, and there's nothing but waves of pleasure and John, which are one and the same to him.
"Yes, come for me," John would whisper, moving his hand through Sherlock's damp curls, sighing in pleasure at seeing his lover like this. "God, I love you." His fingertips would trace Sherlock's jaw, feeling the tension in his muscles relax at the sensations echoing through his body.
"Love you," Sherlock would mumble into John's chest, having fully collapsed, his eloquence long gone. He'd grimace as he pulls out, grabbing a bit of napkin to stop the wetness of their union. John would be shaky, sitting up and looking like his whole world was shifted for a bit and was now straightening again.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock would ask him.
John would grin, hopping down from the table and tucking his shirt into his newly-fastened trousers. "I just can't believe this is my life," he'd chuckle.
Sherlock would study him even as he straightens his own clothing, slipping back on his detective's persona. "You're not unhappy?"
"You bloody... git... Of course I'm not." John would cup the back of Sherlock's neck and pull him forward again, giving him a soft kiss. Sherlock really could be clueless about some things. "Are we done here yet?" His tone would project sensuality and "Can we finish this soon?"
Sherlock would take stock of the room, the state of the lab. "Look what you've done," he'd grouse.
"I've done?!" John would yelp. "You're the one who called me over to... seduce me!"
"Oh, you know very well you wanted to snog me," Sherlock would smirk, starting to collect his samples and mobile from the very edge of the table.
John would twist his mouth wryly, and wouldn't answer. He'd finish dressing, and clear his throat before setting about tidying up the lab.
She's standing there, seeing it as clear as day in her mind's eye, until-
John clears his throat again, looking straight at her.
"Molly?"
She startles in the lintel, snapping her mouth shut. Blinking fast, she takes in the scene around her. Sherlock's equipment is just as they had been, and John hasn't moved a muscle from his spot behind Sherlock's right flank. His eyes are glazed over, probably of boredom, but are now focusing on her. "You alright?" He makes a move to stand and examine her if necessary, his arms unfolding from across his chest and leaning towards Sherlock. Too close?
"F-fine." Now is not the time to get tongue-tied, not when her panties are practically drenched from her mere imagination. She flushes so quickly she feels a little dizzy.
Sherlock looks up now, scanning her. Less than three seconds later, he pronounces, "Aroused."
John splutters and tries to cover it with a cough, his own cheeks reddening. "Sherlock!"
"Sorry," Sherlock mutters, but she catches him glancing back to her, probably trying to work out how or why, or whatever else he may glean from her flushed appearance. They make eye contact, and she bolts a moment later, hurrying past to grab her papers from the desk just beyond, feeling naked and exposed, quite ironically. His quizzical eyes follow her until she's out of the lab and practically racing to the morgue. A pair of gloves and a body bag is exactly what she needs now, to clear her mind of all those... thoughts.
Must buy a vibrator, you are far too single, she scolds herself as she opens up the bag in front of her. A balding man, his mid-fifties, waxy and yellowed skin, slightly bloated belly with copious amounts of body hair… Cause of death (she scans the file quickly here): cirrhosis of the liver.
Yes. That does it. Her pulse slows to normal, and she quickly sets about her work. By the time she's done an hour later, they are gone. She's glad of it.
It wasn't until that night, lying in bed with her hand inching towards her knickers, that she realised something. John's jumper… that old frumpy one that reminded her of her grandfather… He hadn't been wearing it when she came back to the lab. And Sherlock's hair… a bit more mussed than usual.
Heat blossoms through her body.
Oh… My… Biscuits.