From The 50 Reasons to Have (Sherlolly) Sex meme from Tumblr:

12. Because It's Half-Time

"Why are we watching this again?"

"Because you said you wanted to research American football so you could talk intelligently to the possible murderer about it."

With that, Molly Hooper leaned back on the over-stuffed sofa and took a long pull from her beer. She'd been braced for all American suds to be utter crap, but had been pleasantly surprised to discover that the thriving microbrewery business across the Pond could rival almost anything she could get back home.

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh, shifted around on the sofa, then abruptly lay down and dropped his head on her lap. "Bored," he grunted when she asked him what he thought he was doing. "Ridiculous game. The rules are oversimplified and the use of brute strength to determine the outcome is..."

"Shut up, Sherlock," Molly snapped, eyes glued to the telly. She'd been watching – researching – American football for three days now – at his behest – and had actually discovered she enjoyed (no, be honest, had become obsessed by) watching it. The Packers were playing the Bears, and her team was winning and she was in no mood for one of Sherlock's sulks.

They were in Cleveland, Ohio, in the United States because of a case that Sherlock swore he needed her assistance with since John had 'buggered off' (Sherlock's words, not hers) on his 'entirely unnecessary honeymoon' ("Really, John, you and Mary have been living together for nearly six months now, why is it necessary for you to go on a two-week holiday simply because you decided to make your relationship official in the eyes of the law?").

As Molly quickly discovered, what Sherlock needed was not so much an assistant as a sounding board – exactly as John had warned her. Not that she minded; there was always going to be some part of her that would thrill to the idea of being alone with Sherlock no matter what the circumstances, even after having her heart broken so recently by a man she thought she'd truly loved.

She sighed and allowed her fingers to drift through Sherlock's hair in a manner she'd accidentally discovered he enjoyed during their flight across the Atlantic.

She'd jumped at the chance to visit the United States for the first time, even someplace as unglamorous as Cleveland, after things went south with her ex-fiancee. Tom had been wonderful...right up until he wasn't. Which was, not coincidentally, about five minutes after he met Sherlock, who'd only returned from his faked death a few days before that.

For once, it wasn't even Sherlock's fault; yes, he'd deduced Tom, but had come up with nothing worse than 'boring', which Molly had ignored and Tom hadn't heard.

No, apparently what set him off was something that even John Watson hadn't gotten upset about: her being the one to have helped Sherlock fake his death in the first place. Tom seemed to feel that she should have shared that fact with him as soon things got serious enough for him to propose, she disagreed, and from there, well, it became abundantly clear that Molly Hooper had a Type: the ridiculously needy man-child type, to be exact, and since there was only room for one such person in her life, Tom had to go.

That had been a month ago. During the interim Molly had come to realize that she'd only agreed to marry him because she'd been terrified of being alone for the rest of her life. She'd given in in a moment of weakness she'd regretted about five seconds after saying 'yes'. However, if there was one thing Molly Hooper was not, it was a quitter. So she'd stuck it out for two months, and then Sherlock returned and her fiancée called her a secret-keeping liar and suddenly she was on a transatlantic flight (first class) with Sherlock's head on her shoulder while he grumbled about boredom and to shut him up, she'd started running her fingers through his hair and – unbelievably – it. Had. Worked.

Now they were sharing the hotel room as part of their cover story: young British married couple on their honeymoon ("dull but believable" in Sherlock's words, complete with dramatic eye roll to emphasize how he felt about the masquerade set up by his brother), here to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and catch a few football games because of Molly's supposed enthusiasm for the one and Sherlock's for the other, which was why they'd spent exactly one day at the Hall of Fame ("Tedious, predictable, and far too overblown") and one evening at a Cleveland Browns game ("Ditto"). The rest of the three days had been spent holed up in the hotel room watching more football and ordering in room service and bottles of champagne ("Cheap and repugnant carbonated dishwater, do pour it down the drain, Molly") in order to keep up the appearance of being on honeymoon.

And now of course, Sherlock was bored. Again. Molly just kept carding her fingers through his hair, hoping to lull him to sleep as she had on the plane, so she could watch her football game in relative peace and quiet. Especially since he was hardly likely to pull her down into a heated kiss, the way she wanted him to. With another sigh, she lost herself once more in the game.

oOo

Why on Earth had he agreed to drag Molly Hooper, of all people, along on a case to America? He must have been mad, to even suggest such a thing in the first place. Molly wasn't used to danger – not that they'd faced any as of yet, but it was early days – and it was utterly irresponsible of him to put her in such a position at all. He didn't need John Watson's voice inside his head to tell him that much.

So why had he?

The feel of her fingers raking across his scalp reminded him of one reason. Ah, yes. Molly was quite good with her hands, soothing his restlessness even as she indulged her inexplicable fascination with American football (really, it was supposed to be nothing more than a cover!). He'd already learned enough to be able to have an intelligent conversation with their murder suspect; why couldn't she find something else to occupy her time while they were cooped up in this boring 'honeymoon suite' that Mycroft had booked them into?

He turned on his side with a grunt, nudging Molly with his nose against her hip when her fingers stopped moving. They started up again obediently, although with an absent-minded feel that told him without even looking that she was becoming even more absorbed by the game. He wondered if he could convince her to shut it off, or put on one of the appallingly bad American crap telly shows he'd discovered – Jersey Shore and Montel Williams rivaled anything the BBC had to offer – then decided his chances were well below 10% considering how obsessed she'd become by the idiotic sport she was watching, and shut his eyes instead.

He was well on his way to falling asleep when he was rudely jolted back to consciousness by the sound of Molly's shouted "Oh, yes! Take that, you fucking wankers!" – and the feel of her fingers no longer massaging his scalp, but suddenly tugging on his hair almost painfully.

She really had the most appalling vocabulary in her private life, he'd discovered during the week he'd used her flat as a hideout after his leap from the roof of St. Bart's. Never aimed at him, no matter how angry he'd made her, but the cat, upon whom she otherwise lavished a ridiculous amount of affection, and the telly were often targets of her coarse language – Toby whenever he wound himself around her ankles and nearly tripped her, and the telly whenever someone said something she found idiotic (most frequently the adverts).

Although he had never told her, he secretly found her unexpectedly foul mouth highly arousing. However, at the time he'd been in no position to indulge his libido (especially not after having successfully ignored it since leaving uni); Jim Moriarty was dead, yes, but his assassins lived on, and no one was safe until Sherlock (with some minor assistance from Mycroft now and again) had taken down his network.

The fact that it had taken him over two years to do so had been disappointing, but hardly unexpected. He'd spent a great deal of that time outside of the UK, only occasionally making it back to London – and making a point never to approach even the two people who knew he was still alive. He'd avoided Mycroft for obvious reasons, but his reasons for staying away from Molly were surprisingly complicated, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.

Staying away had seemed like the best way to handle the complex mixture of emotions she'd raised in him after helping him fake his death, and when she met her (now ex) fiancée, he'd convinced himself that she'd be so much better off with Tom what's-his-name than with anyone as high-maintenance and difficult as he himself knew he could be.

Then she'd dumped Tom and come to America with him, but he had a case to occupy his time and didn't allow himself to think about what her change in relationship status might mean – and what their enforced time together might lead to.

Until now, after three days of nothing but false romance in public (at least Molly's blushes were entirely appropriate to a new bride) and American football in private. Tomorrow all the waiting would be over and the investigation would begin in earnest, but right now he found himself enjoying the feel of Molly's fingers on his scalp and the light scent of her bodywash and shampoo enveloping him as he rested his head on her lap...until the swearing and hair-pulling began.

Two things that had never failed to arouse him whenever he allowed his long-suffering libido some measure of freedom.

He was in a hotel room with a woman who'd never stopped loving him even after becoming engaged to another man. A woman who'd always unselfishly put Sherlock's needs ahead of her own, had unquestioningly helped him to fake his death...and who had a mouth like a sailor and fingers that did marvelous things to his nervous system.

Why had he locked up his sexual impulses, again?

He pondered that question as Molly murmured an apology and settled back onto the couch – she'd risen into a half-crouch when she tugged so wildly at his hair. He'd already deduced that she was still in love with him, still physically attracted to him, but was at the same time attempting to alter her feelings for him into something much more platonic. Not because it was something she wanted, but because she thought that was what he wanted.

The question was, should he allow her to do so or inform her that he'd begun to change his perceptions?

She gave another one of those soft sighs she'd been uttering since he'd laid his head in her lap, while her fingers continued to drive him mad. He pictured her tugging at his hair whilst completely naked and found himself unable to shake the image no matter how hard he tried.

Speaking of hard…

He glanced down at his groin in annoyance. That hadn't happened since he was a teenager, a spontaneous erection! He adjusted his dressing gown discreetly so that no telltale evidence was in visual sight and shifted his hips, relieved that at least he was wearing loose pyjama bottoms and not the uncomfortably tight jeans his false persona tended to sport.

"Sherlock, lie still or I swear to God I'm going to shove your head off my lap!"

He glanced up at Molly, who's eyes were still glued to the game. Her fingers had tightened their grip on his hair, tugging slightly, and his erection showed its appreciation of the sensation by hardening even further.

He needed to get up, take a quick (cold, icy, freezing) shower, spend some time in his Mind Palace rearranging Mycroft's most boring case requests – or else wait for half-time.

He pondered his options while Molly continued to thread her fingers through his hair, although the motions had become much gentler. Suddenly she leaned forward, some action or other on the screen thoroughly capturing her attention, just as Sherlock turned his head – and found himself staring up at the undersides of her breasts. Yes, they were decently covered in bra and thin cotton t-shirt, but either something was arousing Molly – surely not the louts in their tight trousers and padding she was staring at? – or else she was very cold, because her nipples were showing.

Sherlock's mouth went dry as he continued to stare up at Molly's breasts – they were very nearly as perky as she was, he found himself thinking – the question of what to do about his erection suddenly proving itself to be entirely academic.

Half-time could hardly come quickly enough.

oOo

"Half time," Molly announced as an advert came on the screen. She stretched a bit, rubbing at Sherlock's scalp to let him know she was about to get up, grab another beer and a snack from their well-stocked kitchenette, when she felt something...curious.

Sherlock's lips, to be exact. Pressed to the flesh revealed where her t-shirt had ridden up on her waist, between that and the waistband of her blue jeans. Right above her hip.

She peered down at him in confusion; was he asleep, dreaming, perhaps, completely unaware of his mouth's soft, sensuous movements against her skin?

Oh. No. No, he was fully awake and aware, his blue-green eyes meeting hers, mouth still ghosting across her suddenly goosebump-covered flesh even as a slight smile curved his lips upward. "Sh-Sherlock?" Molly asked as she stared down at him. "What, what are you doing?"

"Exploring," he explained, mouth still touching her as he spoke. Then his tongue darted out and Molly sucked in a startled breath and he Sherlock added: "Tasting. You taste quite delicious, Molly. I can't wait to further my explorations and compare how you taste in...other ways."

Molly closed her eyes tightly, her fingers (still carded through his dark curls) tightening as well. "Sherlock," she said, her voice (yes) tight with sudden tension, "I am going to ask you something. And if your answer is 'bored' then I am going to slap you silly and take the next flight home. Do you understand?"

He pulled his mouth away from her side and turned so that the back of his head was solidly on her lap. She opened her eyes, and he held her gaze as he said, "Not bored. Interested. Aroused. Realizing what an idiot I've been." Then his lips curled in a devilish smile as he added, "Besides, it's half-time. You hate the half-time shows. But you love the game. Thought it might be a good time to...get to know you better. Hope that answers your question."

That did it. Years of unrequited passion – and yes, dammit, love – overcame Molly's natural reticence. She normally wasn't one to jump into a man's arms just because he expressed an interest, but this was Sherlock Holmes and it was half-time and she'd be damned if she'd wait for him to change his mind. Giving his hair a firm tug, she pulled him up and lowered herself enough to kiss him, to finally feel those gorgeous, Cupid's bow lips against hers, to feel his mouth opening beneath hers, his tongue darting out to swipe at her lips until she opened as well, letting her tongue sweep against his in a delicious duet.

Sherlock levered himself up from her lap, managing to turn them without breaking the kiss, sitting up and hauling her onto his lap so that she straddled him, her thighs on either side of his hips. Her eyes, which had snapped shut, opened wide and she gasped as she felt a full-fledged hard-one pressing against her midsection. If she hadn't already been wet and ready for him, that would certainly have done it. She was sure she'd soaked through not only her knickers (damn, why had she worn the plain white cotton ones today?) but her jeans as well.

She felt his hands on her sides, slowly sliding her t-shirt up, and lifted her arms to allow him to do exactly what she wanted him to do. What she'd wanted him to do for so fucking long... "Took you long enough," she grumbled as the t-shirt vanished somewhere over her shoulder, then leaned down and availed herself of his lovely mouth once again, sucking suggestively on his tongue and grinding herself against his heated shaft.

It was his turn to gasp, her turn to smile down at his startled eyes with their blown back pupils and the tiny remaining rings of blue-green (more blue than green at the moment, a sign of lust in Sherlock? Something she'd have to monitor in future since she had no intention of allowing this to be a one-off between them). "Sherlock, I didn't bring condoms, did you?" she asked, her practical side unwilling to be completely ignored in spite of the heat of the moment.

He shook his head. "I hope that doesn't deter you from continuing," he said, fingers sliding down to toy with the snap to her jeans. "I'm clean, although you only have my word on that. But I know you are, and that you have a birth control implant. I haven't used drugs in over ten years, and haven't had sex since I was in my early twenties, so..."

"So we're good," Molly interrupted him, leaning down for another toe-curling kiss. "I trust you not to lie to me, Sherlock. That's one thing you've never done, is lie to me, so I doubt you'd start now. But," she added, sitting back up with a devilish glint in her eyes as she tugged at the tie to his dressing gown, "what I'd really like right now is for you to fuck me."

His eyes had a darkling sparkle to them she'd never seen before, and he let loose a sound very like a growl as he lunged forward, arms banded around her waist, hauling her close enough to settle lips and tongue and teeth against her throat. His fingers at some point undid her bra, because suddenly she was naked from the waist up, and then his lips were eagerly closing on her breasts, 'exploring and tasting', as he'd put it earlier, one at a time, squeezing them together so that both nipples were teased simultaneously, then using his fingers to further tease them until Molly swore she could hang two of his suits from the taut nubs he'd made of them.

Challenged to turn him into as a squirming, lust-addled mess as he was doing to her, Molly slid down his body until her knees rested on the plush beige carpet, her hands on his thighs as she smiled up at him, a smile that promised untold delights if he would just cooperate and ease his legs open a bit further...ah, good! He got it! His indrawn breath was music to her ears as she tugged the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and pants down. He obligingly lifted his beautiful, taut arse so she could slide the inconvenient clothing down his legs and over his feet, tossing them to join her discarded t-shirt. Then she raised herself up, just enough, and lowered her head to the tip of his cock – just as long and lean and lovely as the rest of his naked self, she noted approvingly, flushed with the same redness the colored as his normally pale skin although considerably darker and definitely the part she most wanted to 'explore and taste' at this particular moment in time.

So she did.

oOo

Sherlock gasped, then gasped again as Molly lowered her head to his cock and took it into her mouth, her nimble fingers stroking its length in rhythmic motions that soon had him digging his fingers into her hair and moaning out her name. It wasn't long before he felt himself on the brink, and having no desire to come without bringing her along with him, he pulled her mouth away, tugging her up to once again straddle his lap. The smug little smile she wore just begged to be kissed into submission, and he wasted no time in crushing his lips against hers, his tongue demanding – and receiving – entry shortly thereafter as the kiss deepened.

Years of repressed passion came crashing down on him, and he found his hands fumbling impatiently with the snap and zip to her jeans, shoving them down her thighs along with her simple white cotton knickers (practical, comfortable, and far sexier than she appeared to believe). She was forced to stand in order to fully remove them, and it was his turn to take advantage of their new positions as he sat on the edge of the sofa and pressed his mouth against her damp, musky, intoxicating sex, sliding his lips along her slit until she swore and groaned and hopped a bit to get her jeans off the one foot they stubbornly clung to.

He held her in place as she cried out his name, his mouth moving, hands gently spreading her legs further apart, both to allow her a steadier stance and to give him better access to his current 'taste and explore' project. He really needed to do a serious study of erogenous zones sometime in the future; surely Molly would agree to be his control subject – as long as all other experimental data was acquired purely on an intellectual level (possibly with some assistance from John 'Three Continents' Watson's no doubt extensive mental database).

Jeans and knickers having been successfully discarded, Molly's hands landed on his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh (mmm, nearly as delightful a sensation as her fingers on his scalp, where else might she touch him that would feel as good). He managed a glance upward in spite of the awkward angle, and grinned against her increasingly moist flesh to see her head thrown back on her shoulders, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then her left hand released his shoulder and commenced tugging wildly on his hair while a stream of the filthiest swears he'd ever heard escaped her lips, and he nearly lost his mind (in the best possible manner). His prick hardened further, and his tongue and fingers seemed to gain minds of their own as he spread her open a bit wider, laving her clit while inserting two fingers into her slick opening.

"Ooooohhh, fuck!" Molly virtually screamed as her entire body went rigid, her climax seeming to erupt with the suddenness and force of a tsunami, flooding his mouth with a slightly different taste, once again spinning his mind into a blankness it rarely achieved as her pleasure served to push him closer to the edge than he'd ever come without direct stimulation to his penis being involved.

As soon as she started shaking, legs trembling from the effort of holding her upright, he pulled his mouth away from her, moving his hands up to grip her by the hips. He pushed himself against the back of the sofa while at the same time gently maneuvering her so that she once again straddled his lap. She immediately dropped her forehead to his shoulder, murmuring incoherently, her hands draped loosely across his shoulders as well as the back of the sofa. He waited for the shaking and limpness to leave her limbs, one hand stroking the back of her neck, the other remaining on her hip, until she finally lifted her head and smiled weakly at him. "That," she said, "was fucking amazing. Whoever taught you the basics of oral sex? They deserve a fucking medal."

He honestly wasn't sure how to respond to that, nor did he care to answer since he would have to admit he'd mostly deleted his earlier sexual experiences from his mental hard drive. Clearly muscle memory had come into play, and he was certain Molly wasn't simply exaggerating for effect, or to stroke his ego. Not when she knew he could deduce such a reaction even in his current, highly aroused – and very, very distracted – state. So all he did was offer her a feral smile as he gently stroked her sex with one finger. "Ready for more?" he asked, approving of the deeper register into which his voice sank without a conscious decision on his part.

Judging by Molly's shudder, either his voice or the words he'd spoken had a definite effect on her; she nearly growled out a "Fuck yes!" before reaching down and taking his erection into one hand. She positioned herself, then lowered her body so that his tip just penetrated her entrance. He started to thrust up into her, only to have her moan at him to go slowly, to let her get used to his size – apparently he was more well endowed than Tom, he thought with no small amount of smugness. Regardless, in spite of his impatience to feel her sheathed around him, he allowed her to set the initial pace, waiting until she'd slid up and down his now-throbbing length a few times, then settled herself so that he was fully seated inside her before finally moving his hips.

His hands slid around to cradle her backside as she once again raised herself, his fingers kneading the soft, warm flesh. He gasped as she slammed down on him, her pace much faster, her thrusts harder, and he soon lost himself in the sensation of her hot wetness clamped around him, the rhythm of their coupling continuing to grow in intensity and speed as he felt himself approaching the brink of the climax he'd already put off twice now.

Then Molly was crying out his name, over and over, and her interior muscles were clamping down on him as she spasmed and shook, both hands tugging on his hair as she came, and he could hold off no longer. With a hoarse cry, he came, his hands digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks, head arched, eyes tightly clenched as he held her tightly to him.

After they'd both recovered enough to speak, Molly still seated on his lap, Sherlock pressed a kiss to her shoulder and murmured, "I still hate American football, Molly, but half-time definitely has its appeal."

As did her helpless laughter as she held him in her embrace.