Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist and grown woman, was running, giggling, through the streets of central London, something to be expected perhaps of a small giddy child on this sunny Saturday morning in February, but behavior not traditionally associated with grown women or pathologists. She had started at the small park near Sherlock Holmes Baker Street flat, where, after an excessive amount of uncharacteristic handholding, the detective had told her that he loved her, and that he wanted to have sex. NOW! Molly had dropped his hand immediately, thrown the taunt, "Race you back to Baker Street!", over her shoulder, and taken off, confident that he would soon be in hot pursuit. Operative term here being HOT!
Molly knew that she could not outdistance his longer strides and greater physicality, and counted on him to win this particular race, and be waiting for her in his bed, hopefully sans clothing. Besides, all the laughing with happiness was seriously cutting into her oxygen supply, and she was slowing down considerably, despite her eagerness to reach the finish line. As she rounded the corner of Baker Street, with 221 so close, she noticed Mrs. Hudson just coming out of the door, and was grateful she wouldn't have to knock to gain entrance.
"Hold the door please, Mrs. Hudson. I'm coming!"
The elderly woman, carrying a small overnight bag, kept her position in the open doorway until Molly reached her, panting a bit from her exertion, and her giggling. "Thank you so much!", Molly said with some effort as she darted past the woman and up the stairs.
"What's going on then, with all this running? Sherlock nearly knocked me over!", the concerned landlady said to Molly's back as she stood at the foot of the stairs. But she received no answer at all, just a dismissive wave, and was left muttering to herself. "I hope it isn't another one of his bloody experiments gone wrong!" She sniffed the air for some sign of combustion, or anything else, for that matter, but found nothing. "Well, what does it matter, anyway. I'm insured." And then the woman closed the door and headed off to see her sister in Brighton.
The door to the upstairs flat was wide open as Molly Hooper run through it on her way to the bedroom, not bothering to remove a single article of clothing. Coat, scarf, bag, nothing at all. She didn't want to waste a single second. When she did get to the bedroom door, she found Sherlock Holmes exactly as she had hoped for, dreamed of, and fantasized about for almost seven years, but had only expected for the last ten minutes - naked, in bed, waiting for her with only a thin sheet covering him to ward off the chill. A very thin sheet indeed, which did little to cover his, uh, eagerness.
"I win, Molly! What's my prize?"
"Considerably more than a blue ribbon, if you just give me a moment," Molly said as she struggled out of her own clothing.
Sherlock was lying languidly on his back, one arm under his head, taking in her struggles with a grin on his face. "Do you need some assistance, Dr. Hooper?", he offered helpfully, but made no effort to move.
"Just stay where you are, Sherlock!", Molly replied breathlessly as she finally got down to her bra and panties, thanking whatever gods there were that she had at least worn a matching set this morning, something which was not at all common in Molly's mismatched world. She took a moment to appreciate the sizeable elevation which Sherlock's, uh, eagerness, as he called it, had created in the thin cotton sheet. "That's quite a tent you have there, Mr. Holmes!"
"I hope you're up for a bit of camping, then, Dr. Hooper!"
Finally shed of her last bit of clothing, Molly jumped on the poor man with enough force to knock the air of of him, but, evidently, not the desire. Their first encounter was all heavy breathing and loud noises, laughs, a few screams, and more than several entreaties to a higher power, even from the confirmed atheist involved. The second was more deep moans, whispered entreaties, tender kisses, and more than a little neck nibbling, which both were sure would leave marks which would require either explanations, or high collars. They finally took a break, which lasted less time than either of them expected, but more than either could endure.
They were lying on their sides, facing each other, with Sherlock's back to the bedroom door, Molly's face buried in his chest, one leg slung over his hip. "Sherlock? Again? So soon?", the pathologist whispered into his breastbone as he nuzzled her neck, and pressed against her, obviously more than ready for round three.
"Of course! You know I had a big breakfast! Builds up stamina, you know."
"It's also fattening! You made me eat that huge pastry!"
"I realize that, Molly. So perhaps we should consider burning off some more calories then. I think I can figure out a way…" And he was about to show her that way, pressing even closer into her as he moved his hand down the smooth curve of her hip, when they heard a strangled cry from the still open bedroom door.
Molly gave an incoherent, startled yelp, and buried her head further into Sherlock's chest, hiding. Sherlock, regaining his composure but losing his erection, sighed heavily before saying, "How nice of you to drop in, John! Why don't you put the kettle on? I'll join you momentarily."
But John had already left the doorway, and was found pounding on the bathroom door, speaking frantically to his very pregnant wife, Mary. "Hurry up, for god's sake! We have to go! Now!"
"John, I'm eight and a half months pregnant. I spend more time in the bathroom than I do in any any other room in our home. You should know by this time I can't be rushed! What's going on?"
"Just hurry! I'll explain later!"
"Explain what, John?" said a deep baritone voice behind him. "The obvious? Leave your poor, portly and pregnant wife to conduct her business in peace, and come help me with the tea." And with that, the taller man placed his hand on his friend's shoulder and guided him into the kitchen. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, John?", Sherlock inquired as he busied himself with the kettle.
"Mary was getting restless. And bored…"
"My condolences to her. I know just how she feels…"
"Really, Sherlock, because you didn't look bored a moment ago! In fact…"
Mary had reached the kitchen, and approached the detective, reaching up to kiss his cheek. "Your future goddaughter is wreaking havoc on my insides, Sherlock. I swear, her feet are as big as yours, and she packs a mean kick…" she said as she eased herself onto a kitchen chair. "So, John, why the rush to leave?" She looked over at Sherlock, dressed only in his blue dressing gown, which was wrapped tightly around him. "Just because this git isn't dressed for company? He's never dressed! You're lucky he put on the robe, instead of just appearing in his sheet, as per his usual custom!"
"Oh god, Mary, he's dressed perfectly fine for the kind of company he was entertaining! Overdressed at the moment, I would say! And as for the sheet, I believe it's being used right now to cover something other than Sherlock Holmes' nether regions!"
Mary looked a little surprised, a tad dismayed, and more than a bit curious. "Really? Who?"
"I'm afraid my companion wishes to remain anonymous, at least for the moment."
"Not even a clue? Sex?"
"Yes, Mary, we were, indeed, having sex," Sherlock replied dryly.
"That's not what I meant, and you know it! Male? Female? Human?"
"Perhaps you should ask your husband, Mary. He did, after all, catch us in flagrante delicto, as they say."
"Hey, all I saw was a rather shapely leg draped over your hip and hanging down over you bare bum. Not a sight I want to revisit!" John looked very ill at ease. "If I would have to hazard a guess, I would say female."
"Hazard a guess? Really, John, we were flatmates for a considerable period of time. And all you can do is 'hazard a guess' about my sexual preferences?"
"Well, how the bloody hell do I know! You never showed any preference at all, as far as I could see. No dirty magazines hidden under the mattress. No porn on your laptop…"
"Why should there by, John. There always seemed to be a sufficient amount on yours!"
When Mary Watson left out a loud "Hmmpff!, Sherlock turned to her and said with some derision, "You really should consider disinfecting that thing, Mary."
"Already taken care of, Sherlock," Mary said, to her husband's bewilderment. "Now, back to the question at hand. You were having sex. With a female. Who has a shapely leg, and wishes to remain anonymous."
"Correct."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Since about eleven this morning."
"Don't play stupid, Holmes! You know what I mean!" Mary's curiosity was beginning to turn to concern. "Is this some sort of relationship?"
"Ah! Relationship. I suppose you could say we have had a 'relationship', of sort, for a number of years. I have always turned to this party when I am in need, so to speak…"
John Watson was on his feet. " 'Sort of a relationship', 'in need', she's holed up in your bedroom, and wishes to remain anonymous! Sherlock, do you have a prostitute in there? Has this kind of thing been going on for a while? Did you hire prostitutes while we were living together? Have you…"
"Really, John, your outraged morals are rather fascinating. You object to me hiring a professional, as opposed to the array of amateurs you have paraded through the flat?" Sherlock glanced over at Mary Watson, heavy with child and ready to burst with laughter. "No offense, Mary. I am sure you were professional grade in every sense of the word."
"None taken, Sherlock. Please, do continue."
Sherlock turned back toward his friend. "John, while I consider it none of your business, as we are both adults, well above the age of consent, I assure you that I do not avail myself of the services of sex workers. Not since my days at uni, at least, when I was offered a considerable discount due to my…"
"Too much information, Sherlock!" John practically shouted, as he tried to cover his ears. But he soon composed himself, and continued, addressing what seemed to be his major concern. "Sherlock, I know relationships are not your forte. Nor sentiment. But if you are truly involved in a 'relationship of sorts', I think you need to inform Molly Hooper, before someone else does so."
"Whyever should I do so, John?"
"You're doing it again, Sherlock. Playing stupid. And we all know you're anything but. Molly cares for you. She has always cared for you. When you were able to identify that body on the slab as Irene Adler, without a face, that hurt her. The whole Janine business damn near broke her! You need to give her a heads up on this whole thing. She will find out, eventually. It will be better if it comes from you, rather than, say, Sally Donovan, the nasty bitch."
Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment, as Mary finished preparing the tea. The three then moved into the sitting room, as the kitchen table was cluttered with things which could be identified either as new experiments or old food. Some were growing fuzz. As they settled into chairs, Sherlock finally said, "I suppose you're right, John. I should tell Molly myself that I am involved in a relationship. Although, there is the possibility that she has already guessed the fact. She can be rather astute, you know." He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out his mobile.
"No text messages, Sherlock. She needs to hear it from your own lips. Just be gentle with her."
"Of course," he said as he pressed to button which would connect him to Molly's mobile. The silence in the room was broken by the insistent ringing of a mobile phone, coming from the bedroom down the hall. John looked stunned, while his wife burst into gales of laughter, almost spilling her tea. "I'll be gentle, John," Sherlock said calmly, but added with a smirk, "Although I have recently come to learn that Molly likes it a bit rough, too!"
.