Just a bit of fun. Won't happen again.


"Oh," Molly sighed in boredom, flipping through the magazine and shaking her head, "Brad Pitt finally married Angelina Jolie."

There was an irritated grumble from under her bedcovers followed by shifting movements and, soon, a grumpy-looking Sherlock Holmes emerged with his tousled hair and glistening mouth. Molly had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at his flustered – mmm, and very naked – appearance. There was no surprise his voice came out husky and strained through his pouting lips.

"Brad Pitt? Hmm, your legs parted considerably as you were reading that article," he arched an eyebrow at the page she had open and Molly blushed, attempting to hide from his view.

"Maybe it was your smart mouth."

She shrugged, ducking behind the article to hide her growing smirk; even though she couldn't see him, Molly could tell the consulting detective, the genius crime-solving detective whose head had just been between her legs, was pouting.

"I'm insulted, Molly Hooper. I was giving you my best-"

Molly actually did snort with laughter this time and buried her face behind the magazine, shaking with her suppressed laughter; Sherlock scowled and tugged the magazine from her grip, ignoring her protests as he threw it over his shoulder – he was leaning dangerously close to her face and eyeing her small lips thoughtfully.

"No, none of that. We agreed," Molly reminded softly, cupping his cheek to gently push him away. He sighed and rolled his eyes, disappearing beneath the covers. Molly raised an eyebrow as his mouth started working her again, "what are you doing?"

She heard him sigh, "I'll explain to you how this works, how this has worked for the last…six weeks. I finish a tedious case, you finish a long stressful day at work…we choose a flat and fuck until we're both satisfied," he'd started using his long, musician's fingers as he spoke and Molly wasn't as unaffected as she seemed; her breathing had quickened and she'd thrown her head back, her hands delving under the sheets to twist through his curls.

"I meant…God, I meant…you're not very g-good at this…"

There was a moment of silence and Sherlock suddenly stopped whatever glorious things he'd been doing to her, causing Molly to whimper – she wasn't a lie, really. He'd only recently started bringing her off this way and was still learning what pleased her. Not many of Molly's previous lovers had cared – it was a simple in and out session for them before rolling over and falling asleep. When the consulting detective had expressed his wish to try, who was Molly to argue with him?

Sherlock suddenly nibbled at the inside of her thigh, running his hands over her freshly shaven legs – nice one, Molly. He chuckled when a moan escaped her lips, only surfacing when the tugs at his hair became urgent. Molly was looking guilty, flushed yet guilty; she swallowed and played with the thin nightdress she still wore.

"Maybe this is too weird."

"Mmm," Sherlock replied distractedly with his 'I'm only pretending to listen' face on. He smirked and bent to her throat, kissing the tender skin, "or I could stay up here?"

Molly smiled and nodded, slightly relieved she hadn't offended him. His gaze dropped and he caressed the hem of her nightdress; their eyes locked as Sherlock slowly drew the garment over her head, Molly lifting her arms when required – he felt a certain part of his anatomy reacting to her creamy skin and small, perfect breasts. Their friends didn't know of their arrangement, they'd most likely disapprove. How do you keep feelings out of the way? Don't you feel anything? Are you two in love? It was the last question they both knew would be the hardest to answer. Admittedly, the first time had been quick and artless, a primal act of stress relief. Now? Sherlock swallowed away the lump in his throat, stroking his hands over Molly's stomach and ribs, lacing his fingers with hers and bringing their arms above her head. He bit his lip hard.

"I have the strongest impulse to kiss you. Every time we do it like this."

"Oh," Molly muttered, sitting up so fast she almost knocked Sherlock off balance; to his surprise and slight amusement, she rolled over and scurried onto her knees, wiggling her hips, "like this, then? You're very, very good at this."

"Well…"

He'd been about to protest until he properly looked at her, God…she was beautiful. He could do so much for her from this angle, use all the information he'd gathered to his advantage. Grab her hips as he repeatedly slammed into her hard, raking his hands up and down her spine, clutch at her long hair, slide his hands over her skin, palm her breasts, pull her up so her back was pressed against his chest and bite at her neck, all the while using his hands, slipping them lower- Sherlock cleared his throat and smirked devilishly.

"Yeah, why not?"


"They're shagging."

"What? Don't be stupid."

John gaped at Greg, turning to observe the strange scene, both tilting their heads in unison and occasionally turning to glance at each other – the Inspector had summoned the freelance detectives after a body had been discovered in a car park, apparently a victim of asphyxiation. However, it wasn't the dead body that was interesting the two men standing in front of the police tape. No matter how hard he looked, John couldn't see what Greg seemed to.

Sherlock Holmes was examining the car – honestly, if he leaned anymore, he'd fall in – taking mental notes and muttering to himself. Or was he? Upon closer observation, he appeared to be 'chatting' with Molly Hooper, the woman two years ago he hadn't given the time of day. Greg was rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Maybe you're right. This is Sherlock, after all. And Molly's got her Tom."

John groaned at the mere mention of Molly's idiot boyfriend; was he her boyfriend? They'd enjoyed a few dates but Sherlock was less than kind about him - "I don't care, John. She can shag or not shag who she pleases." He turned back to the scene and frowned, watching Sherlock and Molly crouch to look at something he couldn't see.

"You left early this morning," Sherlock murmured, making sure to keep his interest on the ground and voice low from prying ears, especially Philip bloody Anderson; the man had developed something of an obsession with the two of them. He heard Molly softly clear her throat.

"I- um, had to meet Tom for breakfast. It was nice, though…a-a nice goodbye."

Sherlock nodded quickly, suddenly jumping to his feet and helping Molly stand, "…yes, of course. The rules only applied until you found yourself a mate."

"Mmm," Molly rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of their situation; she didn't want to stop, God no. It wasn't fair on Tom – she liked him and he liked her. Sighing deeply, she finally met his captivating blue gaze and smiled widely, "…thank you. I've had a lovely time and…learned a bit, too," she blushed at her last sentence, looking down.

Sherlock bit his lip, not wanting to let slip what was on his mind – perfect, just perfect…she'd be using all their experience with Tom, now, making him beg for more and he the one attempting to pleasure her the way he did. He felt an unwelcome twinge of jealousy but, nevertheless, returned her smile.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it," he kissed her cheek – it was allowed now, they were no longer casual sexual partners. When he straightened, his breath caught and he smirked, "you know where I am."

Before she could reply, he'd began walking back to John and Greg, rapidly explaining everything he'd discovered at the car.


Tom and Molly, this.

Molly and Tom, that.

He has a dog. I've met his Mum and Dad.

Ugh, it was sickening. Sherlock, though, didn't really care if he had a nice mind-boggling case to focus on. This was a rare occasion, these days, so instead he was forced to focus on Molly Hooper's blossoming love life. The worst thing was having to watch all the kisses her tiny lips promised bestowed upon Tom.

Why was he thinking about that now? He couldn't think about that now. Not now, not this second. How could he? Something far more important, more worrying. Sherlock frantically ruffled his hair, running his hands over his face – he paced desperately outside the female bathroom on the second floor, stopping only to check his watch or run his hands through his tousled hair. He was like a wind-up toy, constantly fidgeting. Should he be in there with her? He rolled his eyes – oh, yes, that would help things. She probably hated him. His heart sank at the thought.

"Sherlock?"

Oh, great…this was all he needed. He stopped his pacing, stuffing his twitching hands in his pockets and forcing a grin.

"John," the army doctor eyed the ladies toilet's questioningly and folded his arms; it took Sherlock a relatively long time to answer his friend's confused looks, "yes…Molly's in there. I'm…waiting for some test results."

The moment he'd let the words slip, Sherlock realised he had made a huge mistake – thankfully, John was no consulting detective and just glanced from the bathroom to his pale looking friend. The arms folded again, a frown falling into place.

"What test results?"


Sorry.