Molly Hooper didn't think of herself as kinky, really.
After all, who didn't want to be tied up in bed, at least once?
And her collection of corsets, ranging from shiny black leather to hot pink satin (her favorite was a brown and green floral-patterned velvet), was acquired slowly after one of her friends had raved about them over drinks at the pub one night. Wearing a corset under her blouse had done wonders for her back, taking away the ache she used to get from leaning over the slightly too tall counters and tables in the hospital all day. In fact, she rarely wore a brassiere at all anymore.
It really was a coincidence that the day she had finally decided to ask Sherlock out for coffee was the day he needed to whip a body with a riding crop, but she hadn't let that put her off. She had spent so long working up her courage that she knew she wouldn't be able to do it again if she had let it go that day. And his intensity was a teeny bit sexy. Okay, a lot sexy.
It was nice; dating Tom. He matched her physical type (dark hair, pale skin) and it was pleasant for her to be the "smart one" of the two. Goodness knows, she would never be smarter than Sherlock. And the way Jim - Moriarty - had played her left a sour taste in her mouth when she thought about it, so she tried not to.
Tom took her mind off Sherlock's not-death. He was "normal" (Molly hated that word, knowing that she wasn't exactly it); not involved in life and death decisions every day. Molly wanted to give that a try after dating a murderer and pining over a consulting detective for whom she'd had to lie to everyone she knew. She wanted a break from all the adrenaline.
When he proposed, she had already met his friends, his parents, and his dog. They liked her, mostly, but never wanted to hear the details of her day at work. Well, Tom never wanted to hear the details, either. No one did, really; she was used to it.
Molly and Tom were having quite a lot of sex, but a lot of sex (unfortunately) didn't mean a lot of orgasms for her. Tom's idea of good sex was missionary position in the dark, with a bit of fumbling around first. Molly didn't have the heart to fake anything; assuring Tom that the emotional closeness was good enough. She wasn't quite lying; it was definitely better than being alone with only her cat and her vibrator to keep her company.
Normal was good. Normal was pleasant. Normal was what she deserved, after so much strangeness in her life. Normal was vanilla ice cream in a sugar cone. Plain, predictable, prosaic. It was only sometimes, alone late at night, that Molly allowed herself to think that normal was boring.
Then Sherlock returned from the dead. He asked her to solve cases with him, not saying anything about the ring on her left hand. It was a lovely day and she allowed herself to forget about Tom for a while, simply enjoying spending time with Sherlock outside the morgue. The dance they had perfected at St. Bart's was easily exported to Lestrade's crime scene; each of them using their particular skills to enhance the other's perceptions. Molly knew that she would never be able to work with Tom so easily. Their attempts at helping to redecorate each other's flats had only led to frustrated arguments.
The train man's case had been interesting, and Sherlock had seemed to pay more attention to her than ever, but it wasn't until he had wished her happiness and kissed her (again) on the cheek that she wondered if there was a possibility of his returning her feelings for him. Sherlock had never been so open, so emotional with her before.
Molly watched him walk away and decided that she was wrong; just wishful thinking. She had Tom and that was good enough; as good as she was going to get.
John's wedding. Well, and Mary's too. Molly liked Mary; a plain-spoken nurse who had an opinion on everything and never seemed to take anything or anyone too seriously.
Molly was worried for Sherlock, the best man, but no one else was. So she was probably over-reacting again. Nothing new about that, though Tom did ask her to stop rambling about it over dinner. She agreed, of course, and apologized, but that didn't stop her from worrying.
She didn't like the way that the maid of honor was standing so close to Sherlock, so she distracted herself with Tom.
Now was the speech, and it was just as strange as she had been afraid that it would be. Tom asked her if Sherlock was drunk and she stabbed at his hand with a plastic fork. Really, Tom, your wonderful solution to the attempted murder was a meat dagger, and you're complaining about Sherlock!?
Sherlock and John (and Archie, really) solved the case and made sure that no one died at the wedding. Molly was proud of her friends. She couldn't take her eyes off of Sherlock as he played the waltz he had written for the Watson's first dance, but that was okay. Then she watched Sherlock leave, and that was not okay, because she wanted to follow him, to help him, but she was here with Tom, and she couldn't leave.
It took her a few days after the wedding, but Molly resolved to break off her engagement with Tom. He was far too vanilla for her tastes.
She had gotten used to Sherlock again, chocolate with chili peppers. She would almost certainly get burned.
But burns were better than bland, and a taste of Sherlock was better than a life of vanilla Tom.