Rain in London
It was a grey day in London. A gentle drizzle of rain had been falling since daylight, and gave no indication of letting up. The few stragglers left on the sidewalks after a long day of work hurried home, bunching up their shoulders against the chilly mist; those who had had the foresight to bring umbrellas grasped them defensively. It was a day that would bring about a gloomy mood in most people, as they scampered uncomfortably from one errand to another, trying to stay indoors and out of the damp cold for as long as possible.
Sherlock, however, was never one to feel the effects of dismal weather. Rain, snow, hail; scorching sun or humid mug; it was all the same to him (unless, of course, the fickle nature of precipitation happened to wash the evidence of some crime or misconduct from his observant eyes). It was a frail mind indeed, he believed, that would let itself be moved by the constant alterations of the atmosphere.
But that didn't mean that there was any reason to linger on the streets on a day like this, especially when there wasn't a case pressing his attention. So this afternoon, as the window fogged up with mist and the sky gradually darkened, Sherlock sat in the armchair in his bedroom, plucking absently at the strings of his violin. Perhaps he was working on composing a new score, or maybe he was just inattentively fidgeting while he contemplated something more important. Who could tell? Certainly not the two women who were currently lounging on the soft blankets of his bed; they were otherwise occupied.
"Do you miss it much? France, I mean," Molly asked. She was leaning against the headboard, her bare arms wrapped around her legs, her jogging pants discarded carelessly on the floor. Her outer garments had gotten wet in the rain; she was much more comfortable in her blue cotton knickers. Not that she would have remained fully clothed for long anyway; not with the presence of the woman stretched out like a cat beside her. "It must be tough to remain in London sometimes, after travelling the world like that, seeing the sights and all . . . "
"Oh, not really. The travel gets a bit wearing, eventually," Irene drawled. She swirled the wineglass absently in her hand, the red liquid sparkling in what little light peeked through the window. She threw a glance towards Sherlock, smiling mischievously. "London has its appeals, after all."
Molly grinned, casting a contented glance between the two of them. It was obvious that she, at least, could not think of anywhere she would rather be. She dipped her toes under the comforter, and wiggled her hips until she had slid down to cover up to her chin, the bun in her hair bobbing.
"Oh no you don't!" Irene laughed, pulling the covers down. "Don't you dare go to sleep now! I'm not finished with you!" She playfully grasped Molly's wrist and pulled her up into a sitting position, bringing her glass up to Molly's smiling pink lips, already stained with wine.
"Oh, but I've got to get some sleep!" Molly protested weakly, indulging herself in another sip or two. "My mother's coming into town tomorrow, and I don't want to fall asleep while she's telling me all about her book club and quilting projects." She grimaced comically, taking another grasp at the wineglass. "Then again, maybe I do. . ."
"Oh, what an interesting life you could be leading, out in the countryside with your mother!" Irene sighed teasingly. "Far away from London, the crowds, the people . . ."
"Oh, I'd say there were some people I would miss," Molly answered, running a finger along the lace that trimmed the curve of Irene's breast, black against the ivory of her skin. "Two, in fact." Molly cast a sidelong glance at Sherlock. He looked up from his violin to meet her eyes for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.
"Mmm, what would your mother think of you now?" Irene purred in her most sultry of tones, lips brushing Molly's ear.
"Oh dear!" Molly laughed, blushing. "She would be . . . startled, I suppose. Although I would like her to know I'm happy," she added wistfully, "I think she was quite worried about me when I first moved to London. Not that she wasn't worried about me from the beginning! She thought it was a bit odd that I pursued this line of work . . . From when I was little, I wasn't too squeamish like my sisters, you know? Just wanted to know how things worked; I would study pictures of animal anatomy, and actually enjoyed dissecting frogs in secondary school. Ever since I was little, I guess I just kind of knew what sort of work I wanted to do." Molly fell silent for a moment, reflecting on how much life had changed since those simple days. The things she had learned, the people she had met, the roles she had played in the dramas unfolding around her. She wouldn't change a thing.
"What about you?" Molly asked Irene, returning to the present. "What were you like as a kid?"
"Oh, I knew what I wanted to do all along. I was quite a determined little thing," Irene answered, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Um," was all Molly said. She could never tell when Irene was teasing her, and would often find herself mulling over things Irene had said, or ways she had responded. Irene was a puzzle; Molly supposed that was one of the things she loved most about her.
"What about you?" Molly asked, turning to Sherlock. He was still sitting a few feet away from the bed, seemingly focused on the violin in his hands. He raised an eyebrow at her, drawn from his reverie. "I bet you knew what you wanted to do from the time you were little, right? Setting up junior detective agencies for your neighbors' missing pets and all?"
"Mmm," Sherlock answered, in what Molly knew was his way of implying an affirmation without technically answering her.
"Liar," Irene purred at him. She stretched a bare foot out over the bed, playfully tracing a toe down Sherlock's knee. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she smiled. "Why don't you join us, dear? I'm sure Molly would like a little warming up after being out in that rain . . ."
Initially, Sherlock could have never imagined Molly being a part of what he and Irene shared. It wasn't jealousy, of course. It was just that, to Sherlock, this part of his life was so foreign, so absolutely new, that sharing it with even one person seemed strange. Desire, touch, sensuality: these were all things that were reserved for The Woman. He knew that Molly fancied him, of course, and he . . . well, he cared for her. But he couldn't imagine Molly – quiet, nervous, reserved Molly – opening herself up to him, let alone to the woman who had entered into his life. So when Irene, resting her head on Sherlock's torso in bed one evening, had mentioned inviting "that charming little darling in the morgue" to an evening with them, and to experience some of Irene's sensual scolding, Sherlock had only scoffed.
"She wouldn't like it," Sherlock stated, running his fingers through a lock of freshly-washed hair snaking around her cheek.
"What do you mean?" Irene sat up on one elbow to meet his eyes, eliciting a small huff of annoyance from him at her shift in position. "Why do you think that?"
"She cried when that cat of hers-," one of his hands trailed through the air absently, as if grasping for the name, "-Tony?- had to have his toe amputated." Admittedly, he wasn't fully absorbed in the conversation; his mind was dizzy with the heady scent of Irene, of her newly-washed skin and her lavender shampoo. He knew lavender was generally intended to be relaxing, but on Irene, he found it invigorating, causing his brain to buzz and his skin to prickle. Quite frankly, talking was the last thing on his mind.
Irene let out a huff of disbelieving laughter, amused at his own self-assurance. "What has that got to do with anything?"
A flicker of doubt crossed Sherlock's face, almost too faint to notice, before steely resolve set in again. "She wouldn't like it."
"What, you think women are delicate?" Irene scoffed, indignant. "Too . . . fragile, perhaps?"
"No, of course not!" Sherlock's interest was finally drawn to the conversation, as it always was when someone dared to contradict him. "Some of the most gruesome murders I've seen were carried out by women. Did I tell you about the waitress who strangled her husband and tied his –"
"Obvious, then?" Irene interrupted, "You think we wear our desires on our sleeves, that we're easy to read?"
"No!" Sherlock protested. Irene shot him a doubtful glance. "Not all women," he amended. Not you.
Irene smirked, a twinkle in her eye. "Oh Sherlock," she purred, resting her head once again on his chest. She traced a delicate, blood-red fingernail lightly along his collarbone, along the hollows of the muscles of his neck, lighter and lighter, until Sherlock was unsure if the feathery, tingling sensations sending prickles down his spine was stimulated by her gentle touch or by the ghosts of her fingertips barely hovering above his skin. It was irritating how distracting it was. "You may be able to tell, as well as I can, that a person slept past her alarm that morning, or that her watch has been reset twice in the past month, or that she has changed her brand of eyeshadow recently." She brushed her lips against his chin, then ran the tip of her tongue along his jawbone, teasingly grazing her teeth against his earlobe in a playful nip. Her breath sent quivers to his fingertips as she whispered in his ear, "But I can tell you what she likes."
That was the last Irene said about the issue, but Sherlock knew the matter was far from over. She never brought up his error again, but sometimes, when the sting of a riding crop against flesh or the gentle tightening of leather around the wrists elicited a sigh of delight from Molly's lips, Irene would dart Sherlock a roguish little glance of triumph.
And, as much as Sherlock hated being wrong, he couldn't find it in himself to feel bitter over this particular defeat.
At one time, Molly would have given anything to know what Sherlock was thinking. Every twitch of his lips, every word, every glance, seemed to hold meaning, seemed to hide something he was thinking or feeling that she could never tap into. Was he responding to her, to her words or her presence, thinking about her at all? Or was he pondering on some case, some problem, some dark past she knew nothing of? Did he even know when she was there, how she felt about him, that when he was in the room nothing else mattered to her? Or even worse, did he think negatively of her: did he inwardly mock her comparative ignorance, despise her nervous flirtation?
But that had all changed. She couldn't point to the precise moment when it happened. Was it something he said, some tiny acknowledgment that he granted to something she said or did? Was it when he stayed at her flat for shelter, when he confided in her about his predicament with Moriarty, when he laid his very life in her hands? Perhaps, to some extent, but she had only began to fully relax in his presence when Irene had entered (or more precisely, invited her into) the picture. When he had first touched her, then, or kissed her, or perhaps when he had first joined her and Irene (with a little less of his usual self-assurance) in the bedroom at Baker Street.
Now she didn't worry about tapping into that brilliant, palatial mind of his. She didn't need to know what he was thinking or focused on every second that she was in his presence. She had learned to trust him, to know that he was not judging her in his silence or ignoring her out of spitefulness. She could relax in his presence, could lose herself in the sensual pleasure of her time with him and Irene. Even if he seemed to be ignoring her, if he was sitting on the other side of the room and seeming to be busy with other things when . . . well, at a time when most men would surely have nothing else on their minds, she knew that he was studying the two of them, that he was watching Irene's actions to see what Molly liked.
And here's what Molly liked: the feather-soft touch of fingertips ghosting over the skin. The sizzling of candle wax on the bare flesh of stomach or thigh, followed by the chilling bite of fresh ice. The tightening of bonds on the wrist. The nip of teeth on the earlobe, sliding of satin over the hip, graze of lace under her fingertips. Touch, sensation. And Sherlock knew this as well as anyone, even before he had ever joined her and Irene in their pleasure. He would watch the two of them, even when he seemed to be unaffected by their passion, to see which actions would elicit a sigh or gasp from Molly's lips, to see precisely what areas of skin and clusters of nerves needed to be touched or nipped or caressed in precisely what manner to maximize her pleasure. Later, perhaps that very night, or maybe a week later (Molly had learned patience when waiting for Sherlock's attention, especially with the help of Irene's more consistent affection), he would trace those exact paths with his fingers, or lips, or tongue, with a skill that belied his actual inexperience.
And in those moments, those quiet evenings with Sherlock and Irene in which touch and sensation took the place of words and explanations, she felt beautiful. Wanted. Loved.
Confidence had never come naturally to Molly. She needed confirmation, encouragement, occasional reminders that there were people who cared about her. In intimate relationships, she was hesitant, and often felt like they were bound to meet early ends. Why wouldn't a partner eventually desire someone more beautiful, more confident, more successful? Besides, she told herself, it's not exactly like she had been successful in relationships before. She had watched her sister, her friends and schoolmates, grow up to find lovers and get married and raise families; she was well into her thirties and could see no similar outcomes in her near future. For the past decade or so, she had begun to develop a sinking feeling that there was perhaps something undesirable or unlovable about her.
That had all changed when Irene had come into her life. She had begun to feel a spark of confidence, of being wanted and needed, when Sherlock had first come to her for help in his conflict with Moriarty. It didn't particularly matter that this "wanting" was not in a romantic sense at the time, even though she may have wanted it to be; what mattered is that Sherlock - bright, beautiful, important Sherlock - needed her. Trusted her. Irene had ignited that spark, both confirming that Sherlock had not been an isolated case of someone who could care for her, and adding an element of desire into the picture. Irene: beautiful, sensual, brilliant. Special enough to be wanted by Sherlock. She could have had anyone in the world, and she had chosen her.
Why? Molly had asked herself. In the early days, she couldn't shake the feeling that Irene's interest in her had to be some kind of cruel joke. Why would someone like Irene ever even notice someone like Molly? She knew that Irene made a living by playing on people's desires, by identifying what people wanted and then fulfilling their wildest fantasies. But there was something in her eyes, in her voice, in her touch, that Molly knew could not be faked. It was not all sexual, either; Irene became a shoulder to lean on when she was sad, a friend to confide in or to spend a lazy afternoon with. Molly began to realize that, perhaps, it was her own innocence, her own self-awareness, her own averageness that drew Irene to her. The balancing weight of the scale, the missing piece of the puzzle.
It was funny, too, that she had never felt jealous of Irene. She had known about the nature of her relationship with Sherlock before she had even met her, but had felt, above all else, a sense of curiosity. What kind of woman was this, that she could be good enough for Sherlock? This had been answered, of course, upon their first meeting. Molly had immediately recognized something in Irene that she had never seen in anyone else, save Sherlock himself. It wasn't just the spark of intelligence in her eyes, the intensity of her gaze that made you feel as if she were deciphering your inner-most thoughts, or the cool confidence she exuded. It was something that Molly couldn't quite place her finger on, something that separated the dominatrix and the consulting detective from anyone else she had ever met.
If Irene's affection had been unexpected, this was nothing in comparison to her wonder at the nature of her new relationship with Sherlock. She had long ago given up hope of any type of romantic or physical relationship between the two of them and had, in fact, almost reached the point where she had buried even the desire for it. Her initial relationship with Irene had seemed separate from her friendly, if still distant, relationship with Sherlock. She knew that he had to know about Irene's affection for her; something like that would surely not slip his notice. But since he had yet to bring it up, and always seemed to be absent from Baker Street whenever she would come to visit Irene, she just assumed that he considered it beneath his notice. Considered her beneath his notice.
Until, one day, this assumption was put to the test, and Molly found that she had misjudged his regard for her all along.
A night of rain and distant thunder, the first rain in nearly three weeks. Perhaps it would bring a break from the summer heat. Wash away the thick haze of lethargy that such weather seems to drape over the populace in such weather. The lethargy that had gripped Molly's core tonight, after her previous plans had changed.
It was supposed to be a night with all three of them, a mutual respite from the concerns of daily life. Molly had been working overtime lately, and was eager for a break from the glaring lights and cold sterility of the morgue. She needed an escape into the hazy dream that tended to descend upon her when she spent time at Baker Street with Irene and Sherlock, needed to lose herself in a world made of sensation and desire. But shortly after her arrival at Sherlock's flat, before she had even had time to finish brewing the tea, Sherlock's mobile had sounded with a call from Lestrade. All of Sherlock's previous plans for the evening were immediately forgotten; his elation at having a new case to solve could not be contained (not that he would even think to try). So out he had bolted into the sodden night, as oblivious to Molly's disappointment as he was to the lightning flashing above.
It wasn't a total waste of an evening, of course. No time with Irene could be considered a loss. But Molly had to admit, despite how childish it was, that her anticipation for the evening had been slightly dampened. As she watched Sherlock disappear into the night, the exhaustion that had been hanging over her from her days of overwork had finally broken over her like the storm overhead. She confessed to Irene that she desired nothing more than to relax in the living room of the flat, perhaps to watch some crap telly or just to listen to the rain pattering against the windows.
So, after clearing off all of the photos and files and cryptic notes that Sherlock had accumulated and abandoned on his couch from his most recently solved case, the two women had settled down together for a slow evening of relaxation. Molly laid her head in Irene's lap, her cheek resting where the silky coolness of Irene's camisole gave way to the warm smoothness of her thigh. A ratty old afghan of Sherlock's rested on their shoulders, a sharp contrast to Irene's simple but obviously designer-made nightwear. The telly was on, some well-known movie from the seventies was playing, but it faded to a comforting buzz in Molly's ears, blending with the sound of the rain on the windowpanes and the occasional rumble of thunder. Irene stroked her hair, absent-mindedly twirling a lock around a finger now and then, as the light from the television reflected on Molly's eyelids, alternating flashes of green or blue.
Irene thought Molly had long ago drifted off to sleep when her voice, nonetheless ardent from being thickened with drowsiness, awakened her drifting mind.
"Do you think he loves us?"
Molly felt Irene's fingers still, her body stiffen ever so slightly. For a while, that was the only indication that she had heard the question at all. Molly wondered if she should have asked it to begin with; after all, it was not as if the question nagged at her. She had long ago given up trying to break into that undecipherable mind. Why try to unravel the threads of his thoughts, when they wove together something so strange and beautiful that she could not help but love the man that they built?
Then again, she did want to know. Was she just an amusement to him? She knew that Sherlock used to dabble in the use of drugs, had taken to using chemical substances to alter the activities of his neurons when they took him to places he didn't like. When his mind stagnated to boredom between cases, or when his thoughts sped up to the point that he felt like an engine about to overheat. Was she one of these "drugs"? Was Irene?
Or, perhaps more importantly, did she care? Did it matter? If she was a distraction to Sherlock, than she was one he found worthy. One of very few people who could claim the honor of not boring Sherlock Holmes, of not provoking his irritation at the ignorance of the human race. He had somehow found her worthy of his time, of his attention, of the brain energy that he coveted so dearly.
Even if he didn't truly love her, or truly love Irene, did it really matter? Perhaps that wasn't even the right question. No, she supposed, it wasn't.
To Sherlock Holmes, perhaps this was love. Would she ever know? Even more, did she ever want to, when what she loved best about Sherlock Holmes was that he would always be a mystery?
"I think," Irene said slowly, drawing out her words with deliberation, "I think, for Sherlock, his world is a better place with us in it."
And perhaps, for all of them, that would be enough.
Thank you to anyone who took the time to read this little story! It's simply a short snippet of what I imagine a relationship between these three characters might look like, and which I may explore more in future fics. Thank you to my friend at for her help in editing this fic, and for taking the time to discuss and brainstorm Sherlock-related thoughts and characters with me!