ACCEPTANCE
Trying absently to ignore the soreness in her neck, Molly took a small sip of the refreshing wine that the poor servant girl, dressed in a drab, black standard gown, offered to her. Balls were so terribly boring for Molly, mostly due to the fact that she really couldn't dance with anyone except for her husband, who told her more than once that the idea of dancing repulsed him.
Ah, Sherlock, Molly's husband filled up her mind. That strange man who bargained with Isidro, Molly's father, so desperately for her, only to demand her to be anything but a normal wife! In the beginnings of their marriage, they slept in separate bedrooms, living apart as though she did not bear his name as her own. Though Molly found her husband increasingly irritating throughout the short time she knew him, the fiery desire she felt in the pit stomach each time they would come close to intimacy, and there were many times where their marriage almost consummated itself.
It took a long month of seductive voices and caresses and scanty clothes to finally get the man she wanted so fiercely to succumb to his mundane desires. Molly thoroughly enjoyed herself throughout the whole night of passion, and her husband by law and spirit also seemed to grow fond of the act, as every night after that one, Molly always woke to Sherlock's sleeping face and naked form.
Even with her mortal desires satisfied, Molly found she craved another thing - devoted love from Sherlock Holmes.
But Sherlock was no normal man. No, indeed, her husband - brother to the crowned prince of England - was different from every other royal that Molly had come in contact with, and Molly's childhood name was well-known throughout all of Europe. Sherlock despised the proper attire of a gentleman. He preferred dressing gowns over vests and cravats, and he often went without shoes when it was just Molly and him.
However, Sherlock's eccentricities far exceeded those of a physical nature, though it was not his lack of proper clothing that made her worry of his state of affection towards her. No, that was not it at all. Her husband had a talent for reading actions, physique, and minds. Sherlock called it 'deducing,' while Molly contended to teasing him, claiming that her husband performed witchcraft in his spare time. With that gift came a burden: Sherlock was not fond of people and considered himself above emotions, giving him a rude, cruel reputation because of his lack of self-control when dealing with irritating people. Sherlock was often referred to as an unsocial hermit - after all, what man does not dance at a ball? a when spoken of among the ladies that Prince Mycroft, Sherlock's annoying elder brother, recommend that Molly socialize with.
Due to this mindset, Sherlock told her that love would not an option between them, and the moment he said that, Molly realized how much she cared for the man.
Molly sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the corset she wore and thought vaguely of the days of her girlhood when Isidro and Kimberly did not require her to attend these balls in the tight death traps that was currently depriving Molly of beer breath. It had been so much simpler then. Molly would wander the empty halls with Gregory, hoping to catch a glimpse of a servant with some of the delicious powdered cakes that Molly enjoyed, and not have to worry of a husband or being a good hostess.
The soft sigh morphed into a deep frown. She did not frown for her own amusement. No, she was thinking about the situation that occurred between her and her husband not even a week ago. Molly looked about the room, searching with her pretty, doe brown eyes for Sherlock. She found him standing at the edge of the ballroom, a look of extreme irritation on his face, his piercing, blue-green gaze upon her. Blue-green met brown, and Molly held Sherlock's look. She felt her anger at her husband coming rushing back to her, and she looked away from him with an annoyed look. She couldn't believe that he could-
"Lady Holmes," a high-pitched, snobby voice drawled at her, awakening Molly from her thoughts, "if I may be so bold as to ask why you are not dancing with the younger Lord Holmes? He has not stopped looking at you, and I think he is angered that you are not with him."
Molly had been standing in idle conversation with Lady Mary Watson of Ireland, the wife of Sherlock's only good friend Lord John Watson, when Lady Irene Adler and Lady Sally Anderson came by to snoop in on Molly and Mary's conversation. Neither Molly nor Mary were fond of Lady Irene and Lady Sally, but since both Ladies Holmes and Watson had images to keep up, they suffered through as they both dodged direct, pointed questions from both of the unwanted women.
"Oh, dear Irene, you bring up a good point," Lady Sally mused far too gleefully. Lady Sally was married to Lord Anderson, a man who Sherlock despised with a passion in his heart due to the Lord's idiotic, mindless behavior, and Molly adamantly spoke of how the decrepit Lord shared his absolute stupidness with his wife. "I was just wondering that myself," the Lady continued.
Molly clenched her teeth discreetly. She knew that Sherlock would not appreciate it if she made a scene. Though Sherlock confessed to Molly on more than one occasion that her belittling a person aroused him, he did not enjoy the repercussions of Mycroft's anger.
"It is truly easier if we ignore the absolute ridiculousness of people, Molly," Sherlock told her one night after a bought of passionate lovemaking (though Sherlock called it strictly 'intercourse').
Molly resisted the urge to squirm at the thought of making love to Sherlock. He was so bloody good at it, and it had been hell for Molly do resist every attempt Sherlock made to get her back into his bed and accept his forgiveness because of her anger. The last time they had made love was about a week before, and Molly resorted to pleasing herself to keep her hands off her husband.
She looked to Lady Irene, a beautiful woman with curly brown hair, pretty blue eyes, and luscious red lips, with an aloof look on her face. Molly was privy to the knowledge that Irene and Sherlock once had a physical relationship in young adulthood. Sherlock had told Molly more than once that he knew that Lady Irene still had feelings for him, and Irene went out of her way to make Molly feel uncomfortable and miserable.
"Dear Lady," Molly replied sweetly, keeping her husband's words in her mind, "my husband does not take pleasure in dancing. But I will forgive your ignorance, for you wouldn't know that because you are not his wife."
Lady Irene narrowed her eyes at the insult. "Indeed, please forgive," she hissed, anger hinting in her voice. "However, anyone with eyes can tell that he wishes for you to go to him."
"Well, I am my own woman," Molly drawled, "and I do not wish to go to him yet." She thought of his silence when she told him of her growing feelings for him, and a heartbroken anger started to build inside of her. She would not be able to talk to him civilly if she went over to him; Mycroft would not appreciate or approve of a fight between Molly and Sherlock during his ball.
Irene smirked. "Ah, but you are married to him. A proper wife would not disobey her husband's wishes."
Molly clenched her fists, but before she could reply, Lady Mary stepped in. "Please, Irene," Mary said quietly, "do not start this here."
"Where should I start it then?" Irene asked indignantly. "I am simply telling her where her place is."
"But it's not your place to tell me, Irene," Molly spit through her teeth as Mary let out a small gasp.
Irene smiled at Molly's tone. "Oh, isn't it? After all, I mostly likely know Sherlock better than you."
Molly winced at that. Irene was right about that. Though Molly was married to her husband, Irene spent almost five years as his mistress before he ended it due to her thieving and deceitful. Molly felt like retching at the thought of her husband with another woman. It did not matter that she was angry at him; she still loved him nonetheless.
She gathered her strength before smiling sweetly at Irene. "Yet, he is not with you, dear."
Irene looked taken aback by Molly's words. "N-no, he isn't." Irene stumbled slightly over her words before she regained her confidence. "He chose the easy girl over the interesting one." Molly let out a gasp at Irene's words, making the vile woman smile. "Indeed, he went a level below what he had. You are someone he can overpower. He never could do that with me."
Molly did not know what she was to do or say. It was true that Molly could be blindsided by Sherlock with just a look. It was a miracle that Molly refuted all his attempts at forgiveness so far. She knew from what Mary had told her of Sherlock's relationship with Irene that he pined for her for a good six months before she finally relinquished herself to him. It took Sherlock only a day to woo Molly.
Yet, he still chose to marry you, Molly.
That was the truest statement that her mind could provide. Molly's thoughts wandered to a couple words that Sherlock had uttered during the throes of passion, words that convinced Molly that she could love Sherlock and him her.
As he moved inside of her, Molly gripped his shoulders desperately, moving along to the fast, hard rhythm that Sherlock set for them both. She was so close that her whole body burned with desperate need.
"S-sherlock!" she moaned. "Please, Sherlock! Please!"
Sherlock moaned quietly in her ear. "Oh, Molly, so tight, so warm." This surprised Molly. Sherlock was relatively quiet during lovemaking, but this time he was being more vocal. Before she could respond, Sherlock moved faster, if that was even possible, making Molly wail.
"Oh, oh, god!" she whimpered.
"Molly," Sherlock grunted, "my wife, my home."
"Keep going," Molly cried. "So close, oh, Sherlock!"
It was in that moment that Molly saw stars, and her whole mind went blank. Wave after wave of pleasure flooded her small, petite body. Sherlock moved quickly, groaning louder as her body clenched upon his. Molly felt a deep heat in her stomach as he met his release, and she rubbed her fingers through his hair as he let his own orgasm wash over him.
They both lied on the bed, Molly on her back while Sherlock lied his head on her stomach. She stroked his silky curls lovingly, letting her passion for him flow out in that small, minuscule act. She could tell that he was beyond exhausted from their bought of love.
"Y-you know why I chose you?" Sherlock mumbled against her stomach, letting out a small moan as her fingertips scratched against his skin.
"Why?" Molly asked breathlessly.
"Because you puzzle me like no other woman has," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her stomach. "You are this strong, opinionated woman stuck in a petite girl's body. You challenge me in every way, and it excites me to discover something new about you each day."
Molly felt a large lump in her throat, and she swallowed painfully. "I will eventually run out of surprised," she warned, "and I will be boring to you."
He shook his head, sighing into her skin. "No, I have a feeling I will never truly discover all of you," he argued, sleep heavy in his voice. "It scares me and thrills me all at once."
Molly looked down, about to say something else, when she saw that he was already asleep.
She felt a new found confidence flow through her, and she puffed out her chest. As Irene turned to leave, Molly spoke. "I have to disagree with you, Lady Irene," Molly said confidently.
Irene froze, staying stock still for a moment, before turning around with a mocking expression on her face. "Oh, really? Do tell me what you disagree with."
"I am not easy," Molly said confidently. "Sherlock does not overpower me. Just the opposite. Anyone with eyes can see that I captivate him."
Irene's smile was still in place. "Anyone with eyes say that I did as well."
"Yes," Molly nodded, "you did - 'did' being the keyword. You don't anymore."
Irene clenched her fists. "Oh, I don't?" she gritted at Molly.
Molly nodded self-assured. "Dear, Irene, you see, you were a puzzle to him, yes. Something to be solved."
Irene looked at her quizzically. "I have yet to see your point, girl."
"You captured his mind with your aloofness, your mysteriousness. You were a puzzle to be solved with his mind, something that eventually he would solve and become bored with. You were temporary, Irene, and he eventually disposed of you, didn't he?"
Irene stared at Molly incredulously. "How dare you say that! It's not like you captivate his mind!"
Molly nodded. "Indeed, I do not captivate his mind. I am far too meek to keep Sherlock Holmes' mind interested. However, I have accomplished a feat that you did not."
"And what is that?" Irene demanded.
"I captivated Sherlock's heart. His mind can be turned off, but no man's heart will stop beating. Sherlock is still puzzled by his own emotions, and I just add to him." Molly smiled widely. "I am a never-ending mystery because I am constantly changing. You, my Lady, will forever be a thieving crook that use men for sex and money."
Irene let out a small screech. "I should murder you where you stand."
"Now, Sherlock would not like that, wouldn't he?" Molly asked smugly, knowing she had won.
"Says who - Sherlock?" Irene laughed bitterly. "I bet he would thank me."
There was a noise of disagreement behind Irene. "Contrary to your beliefs, I would not thank you for killing my wife."
Irene whipped around. Molly smiled. There was her husband, dressed in his white shirt, navy vest, and black overcoat, staring at Irene with an irritated and angry expression. "Sh-sherlock," Irene stumbled.
"Please, I do not want to hear your apologies. They mean very little to me since you've had to do it so often," Sherlock said, raising a hand. He walked over to Molly, grabbing her by her shoulders. "Now if you will excuse me and my wife." He turned to Molly around, taking her hand. "Come with me to dance, wife."
Molly nodded politely, and Sherlock whisked her to the dance floor. They went to the center and began an easy rhythm. She could hear his breath in her ear and felt rather than heard him speak.
"Though I become aroused when you belittle other idiots, I would appreciate it if you did not boast about your power over me," he murmured seductively against her.
Molly felt her insides quiver, but she refused to let herself succumb to her carnal desires. She held her head high, looking at everything but him. "To boast about having power over you would to imply I have it," she whispered hotly, "which, as you stated clearly earlier this week, I do not."
Sherlock grunted. "Ah, you are still angry about that incident."
"You tell me," Molly hissed, "you're the genius, after all."
"Well, based on your body language and tone, I would say your irrational anger is still there."
Molly looked at him, disgusted. "Irrational anger? You have a lot of nerve, Sherlock Holmes, truly."
They danced for a moment in silence before Sherlock spoke again. "How much more must I apologize before you forgive me?" he muttered, irritated.
Molly glared at him. "Once more, Sherlock."
The dance ended, and Sherlock released Molly. She was grateful to have some space between them. Her whole body was on fire, and her bare shoulders burned where his fingertips stroked it. She took his arm in the customary fashion that a man and woman did, but instead of leading her to the place she stood before they danced, he took her towards a stray door.
She did not fuss until he opened it and shoved them both in. She was about to open her mouth and demand for him to take her back to the ball when she was suddenly slammed up against the door with his mouth hotly on hers. Her body did not listen to her mind, and Molly kissed him back passionately.
He moaned against her mouth, and his hands pulled up her dress, slipping his hands up her thighs and to her wetness. She let a whimper when she felt him touch her there.
He let out a groan at the feeling of her. "Oh, Molly, I've longed to be inside you. Please, please consent! Let me, dear!"
Molly nodded. "Yes, yes, Sherlock. Yes."
He wasted no time. He let her go, setting her down on shaky legs against the door before shucking his trousers down. He lifted her back up, parting her folds, and thrust into her.
A wail rose in her throat, and Sherlock covered her mouth with a gloved hand. He moved fiercely in her, fucking her with wild abandonment. Molly enjoyed it thoroughly. The feeling of him, hot and heavy inside of her, made her mind blank with desire, and she moved her hips with him. Both of their movements were jerky and lust-filled. Both man and wife succumbed to their desires together, moaning in unison.
"M-Molly," he whispered, "I-I am close. I will not..." He trailed off, but Molly nodded, moving her mouth against his glove.
When he removed it, she spoke. "Do not hold back, Sherlock," she begged. "Take me, Sherlock. Take me."
And take her he did. They were both crying out within a matter of seconds, his hands on her hips, pounding into her. Her hands roamed his body, moving from his shoulders to his hair to his chest and then back to his shoulders. She felt the searing in her stomach start to build, and then she crossed over. She leaped from the precipice, letting her mind lose itself in the pleasure. She clenched around him, bringing him to his own orgasm. She felt the wet heat deep within her, and both tumbled to the floor, Molly landing upon Sherlock.
Both tried unsuccessfully to catch their breaths. It had been too long since they last made love, and their bodies had to adjust to the physical exertion yet again.
They lied together in silence, Sherlock wrapping his arms around her while Molly wrapped her legs around his waist. Her fingers wandered down her abdomen to where they were still connected, stroking the base of him lovingly. She could feel him stiffen inside her, and he stilled her hand.
"W-we must return to the party, my dear," he whispered in her ear.
"You do not want more?" she purred back.
He groaned. "Believe me, my wife, I do, but we have our duty."
Molly sighed. "I know you are right."
The two stood up, putting themselves to rights. Molly adjusted her dress and fixed her hair, while Sherlock put on his jacket and buttoned up his vest and white shirt.
She stood in front of a mirror, meticulously placing her curls back into their rightful place when he put his arms around her from the back. He stared at her, his lust for her clear in his eyes, as she made herself decent. He kissed her neck and whispered, "Are you to return to our bed now?"
Molly nodded, turning around to place her arms around his neck. His hands automatically went to her waist, pulling her against him. "Yes, I do not think I can handle another night without your hands upon me."
Sherlock nodded, smiling faintly. "I am pleased."
Molly sighed. "You are only pleased because I am agreeing to consent to letting you use my body."
He shook his head fiercely. "Nay, I am pleased because I have missed you in my bed. It is quite lonely without your warmth."
"My warmth?" Molly asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes. My bed is too cold without you," Sherlock whispered. He moved his face close her hers, his lips just above her lips. "I missed you."
He kissed her passionately, caressing her lips with his tongue as if they were a treasure. "Missed me or my body?" she questioned in between kisses, running her fingers lightly through his hair.
"Both," he responded. "Why did you not accept my apologies?"
His voice held a faint trace of hurt, and Molly kissed his lips. "Why did you not accept my offers of love?"
He pulled back, looking at her seriously. Her eyes flicked between his eyes and his lips as he spoke. "I do not know how to," he replied at last. "I want to accept your love, but I am afraid that I will break it. How can I accept another person if I cannot accept myself."
Molly put her hands on either side of his face. He looked so broken at the confession that she could not help but comfort him. She did not know about his struggle internally with himself. "I do not know what your struggle mentally is, and I pray that one day you will feel comfortable enough to tell me what it is. Your internal conflict is strictly between you, yourself, and God. Just know that I am here, arms open in acceptance."
Sherlock looked into her eyes, watching her with wide eyes. She could tell he was gauging where or not she was being sincere. She let all her feelings flood her eyes, trying to get him to see that she was being honest. Suddenly he was kissing her forehead before he moved his lips against hers passionately. "Yes, acceptance," he whispered against her lips.
Then, man and wife returned to the party, the promise of that night hanging in the air.
A/N: There is the little plot bunny I couldn't get out of my head. After I am finished with my current fanfic, I am thinking about writing a Duke/Duchess Sherlock fic staring Molly and Sherlock! Leave your thoughts! Yes for the fanfic or nay for no fanfic? Thanks for reading.