"I just can't put up with him any longer!" The old woman cried out, carefully rolling another jumper to tuck into her bag, "He's been absolutely awful these past few days!"

Molly sat in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, watching as the older woman packed a remaining few items into her suitcase. She was heading to the airport within the hour, set to spend the next three weeks with her sister in Glasgow. While the trip had been discussed for months, nothing had been set in stone until the events of the past week.

Events that Mrs. Hudson was continuing to ramble on about.

"You know how… hard to deal with he can be, dear," she zipped up her bag and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, "But since the accident, he's miserable! You know how antsy he gets when he has to sit in one place! He's driving me up the bloody wall!"

Molly couldn't help but giggle at how animated Sherlock's landlord was acting. But, she could sympathize. Well, not really. She hadn't seen Sherlock since the day after his accident, about a week and a half ago.

While in pursuit of a suspect, Sherlock and John had scaled a three-meter fence. Quite surprisingly, the aging (and much shorter) doctor managed to climb and hop the wires with no issue. However, Sherlock hadn't been as lucky, and somehow tumbled over the edge, breaking his right wrist and left forearm on impact.

The exact order of events had been a contentious topic (John claimed Sherlock simply lost balance, while the detective blamed his famous coat and John's panting) so no one truly knew what occurred that evening. Unfortunately, the exact incident aside, everyone did have to deal with an injured Sherlock.

A Sherlock with no access to either arms. And to make matters worse, he had sprained one of his ankles, and was effectively bed-ridden for at least the next few days. While he would be able to be on his feet within the week, his inability to use his arms was driving him up the wall.

And as a result, everyone around him.

John had quickly abandoned the situation after visiting Sherlock in the hospital, the two getting into a rather heated debate as his casts were being set. Having a daughter was always the ultimate excuse, and John was so pissed about somehow being assigned blame that he had no interest in being around the drugged-up detective.

So, unfortunately for Mrs. Hudson, she had become the sole keeper of Sherlock, feeding him three times a day, keeping him comfortable, and even washing his hair on one occasion. In fact, it was that particular event that had propelled Mrs. Hudson to finally make concrete plans for a holiday. To put it simply, washing Sherlock's hair in the kitchen sink had not gone to plan, and had left the poor old lady in tears after a particularly vicious verbal lashing.

That's where poor Molly came into the picture. She had visited Sherlock in the hospital, bringing along some of his favorite sweets, hoping to ease some of his pain. But after seeing his attitude with John, and receiving an indifferent greeting from the detective himself, Molly had also decided to stay away.

Sherlock could be pretty awful on any given day. But with his freedom and entertainment taken away, he was downright terrible.

He was frequently compared to a child. But injured Sherlock was more of a toddler entering his terrible twos. Or a teething baby.

Molly began to wash her tea cup, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's words of how unnecessary her actions were. It was the least Molly could do to make things easier on the woman. As she wiped her damp hands on a kitchen towel, she faced her.

"So, I reckon this won't be easy for me?" Molly asked, leaning against the spotless kitchen counter.

She watched as Mrs. Hudson's shoulders shook and the woman erupted into a fit of laughter.

"Easy? Oh, dear, Sherlock is the opposite of easy! Add in a debilitating injury and he's about unmanageable!" She slipped into her jacket and gave Molly a soft smile, "I'm sorry this falls onto you. He should be back on his feet in the next few days. Mycroft said after this weekend and you here, they'd send someone in to cook for him."

Molly nodded. "Any advice then?"

Mrs. Hudson grabbed her handbag and gave her an apologetic smile. "Don't wash his hair. He's like a rabid dog. Lock the door on your way out, dear!"

With a final "cheers!" Mrs. Hudson disappeared out the door, leaving Molly to study the floral wallpaper. How did she always end up in situations like this? Both John and Mrs. Hudson had been smart enough to abandon ship. But, Molly being Molly, she was unable to say no.

Sherlock was in a time of need. Would she be an awful person to not want to help? While every ounce of her caring nature said yes, she thought back to Mrs. Hudson's descriptions of the man the previous week and groaned.

No. Save yourself and go home now.

Of course, she didn't do that. She simply trudged upstairs, praying she packed enough pain relievers to get her through the head ache Sherlock would surely induce.

Xxx

When Mrs. Hudson had described him as "night-mare inducing" and "scraping years off her life", Molly had assumed the old lady was exaggerating. That she had been playfully inflating how awful Sherlock's usual behavior was.

Molly was wrong.

Very wrong.

How a man in his late thirties, practically trapped on a sofa in his sitting room, could do so much damage was beyond her. His leg had been propped onto the coffee table, one arm strewn across the arm of the sofa, the other resting in his lap. He was clad in a pair of pyjamas and his favorite dressing gown, and his hair was absolutely wild.

And then there was the flat…

It was truly a nightmare. Sweet wrappers and discarded reading materials littered the floor, empty tea cups were stacked precariously on the coffee table, and the entire place had a stale scent of man lingering, a good indication that the injured party had not properly bathed since the incident.

Molly wrinkled her nose as she strolled into the sitting room, holding a tray full of tea and biscuits. Sherlock gave her a menacing look.

"About time! Tell me, Molly, did you cultivate the tea leaves in China? Milk the cows yourself? Trek to Brazil to acquire the sugar—"

She rolled her eyes and set the tray down, moving her hands to her hips in the process. She sent daggers back at the petulant man.

"Very funny, Sherlock. First of all, the kitchen is a mess, so excuse me if it took a bit. Secondly, that is certainly not how you express your appreciation for someone spending their Saturday taking care of you," She shot back.

He narrowed his eyes. "Spare me the nagging, Molly. Now. If you would." He motioned to the tea with his chin, given how the tray was out of his reach.

Molly couldn't help but smirk. "Oh? You asked me to make you tea, Sherlock. You didn't say I needed to feed it to you."

"Molly." His voice was dangerous, "Neither you nor I will enjoy the outcome should you start playing this game."

"Shame," She replied, rather bored, before grabbing the teacup. With a smirk, she dropped a bendy straw into the cup, and set it on sofa arm. With more enjoyment than she expected, she watched the consulting detective take slow sips from the pink straw.

And so, she enjoyed the approximately six following minutes of silence, a brief period that enabled her to start straightening up the space. She was certainly a neat freak, and as much as she hated the idea of having to clean up after Sherlock, her body wouldn't let her sit back and relax with Mars bars wrappers and tea cups that were beginning to harbor mold sitting around.

She had just begun to wash some of the dishes as the sound of a bell filled the air. She quirked an eyebrow and stuck her head out the kitchen. Her eyes landed on Sherlock, who with his one good limb (his left leg) had begun to shake a bell, the string held tightly between his toes.

The image was absurd enough to make her laugh, but his nonstop shaking of the bell had her clenching her fists. She stormed back into the sitting room and settled in front of the detective. Perhaps because he simply hadn't noticed her, or perhaps because he was a git, he continued to ring the contraption for a solid ten seconds after she reappeared.

He finally dropped the bell from his foot (creating an extremely unnecessarily loud noise on the coffee table) and gave Molly an irritated look.

"It's the afternoon. Mrs. Hudson always has lunch prepared by this hour," He explained, watching Molly, "Is there a reason I'm being kept waiting? Must you discriminate against the crippled?"

Molly narrowed her eyes. "Okay, Sherlock. Fine. What would you like to eat? Soup? A cheese toastie?"

He snorted. "What am I? A six-year-old home sick from school?"

She smirked. "Well—"

Sherlock growled. "I'd like pasta. Perhaps fettucine alfredo? With chicken."

Molly just laughed. "I'm not a chef, Sherlock. And I certainly don't have the patience or ingredients to make that."

He scoffed. "Fine. Then I want fish and chips from down the street."

Molly glanced out the window and watched the torrential downpour assault the London street. She looked back to Sherlock. "Nice try."

He narrowed his eyes. "I want—"

"You want a cheese toastie and some soup." She opened the cupboard and looked at the tins, before glancing back to Sherlock, "Now, would you like tomato or chicken noodle?"

He glared at Molly in silence before turning away in protest. Finally, a mumbled, "tomato" made its way to the kitchen.

Molly smirked and got to work.

Night-mare inducing would be an accurate description.

Xxx

As she stood in the kitchen, elbow deep in sudsy water, Molly was reminded of how much of a saint her mum was. For years, she had waited hand and foot on Molly and her brother, for a seeming endless string of illnesses and injuries. There was her brother's football accident that left him with a broken leg, Molly's cycling incident at age twelve that left her with a broken wrist, and of course the time that the siblings got chicken pox within the same week.

And her mum took care of the kids, not a single complaint escaping her lips. She'd smile as she wrapped her son's cast in plastic before his baths, and she'd laugh as she brushed Molly's hair because the young girl could not, and she'd sing as she applied calamine lotion to two crying, itchy bodies.

When Molly glanced at the four cheese toasties sitting on the kitchen table, untouched, a fact of life was confirmed.

Molly Hooper was not her mother.

She glanced over at Sherlock, watching as he cautiously sipped lukewarm tomato soup from another pink straw. The prat had denied the first four sandwiches she had made him, declaring like bloody Goldilocks that they weren't to his standards. The first was too cheesy, the second too toasted, the third not toasted enough (and god forbid she toss it back in the pan!) and the fourth, in perhaps the most Sherlock come back of all, was cut improperly!

Finally, she had tossed a perfect sandwich in front of him, created with the right distribution of cheese, the perfect amount of toasted-ness, and one, beautiful diagonal cut. Then, in perhaps her most pathetic hour, she sat beside the man-child and fed him his sandwich, all with reruns of the Jeremy Kyle Show playing in the background.

As Sherlock thoughtfully chewed his sandwich and (thankfully) kept his opinions to himself, Molly studied the man and wondered how incredible of a woman his mother must be. Surely any woman who had to raise both him and Mycroft was a saint.

Or a lunatic.

Same thing, really.

At any rate, she had finally finished cleaning the dishes when Sherlock's damn bell rang again. She cursed softly and dried her hands, wondering what it could be this time. She had fed him, prepared tea, given him another dose of pain relievers, scratched his back, and even awkwardly helped him to the loo, where she had to nudge his pyjama bottoms down before he limped inside.

"What now, Sherlock?" She asked, rounding the corner to reenter the sitting room.

He had clearly finished his soup, given how the bowl had been carelessly shoved off the side of the sofa, leaving a dribble of red mess for Molly to clean up. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

"Really now? You couldn't have simply left the bowl? Do you enjoy creating work for everyone else?" She complained, approaching the sofa. She dropped to her knees and collected the dish, before beginning to wipe up the mess.

Sherlock watched, his face bored. "I didn't do it on purpose. DNA results were being presented and I was right about the father of the twins. Well, partly right. Quite like the mother and potential fathers, I was shocked to learn that each twin had a different father!"

He yawned and leaned his head back. "Fascinating, isn't it? Nobody was expecting that! Aren't genes riveting?"

Molly sighed and stood back up, wiping her hands on her already soiled top. "Yes. Quite extraordinary. I'm glad you're predicting paternity test results on daytime telly now, but I'd prefer for you to, oh, I don't know, make my job a tad easier?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I can't possibly make this easier for you, Molly. My directions have been rather clear. Perhaps you're the one making things more difficult."

She laughed and stormed into the kitchen. She dropped the bowl into the sink and turned to face Sherlock. "You're joking, yeah? You can't truly believe that."

"I don't believe anything. I know it for a fact. I asked for lunch. You weren't satisfied with my request. I told you my preferred sandwich cut. You cut it incorrectly. I was content reading. You turned on the telly which led to the spilled soup."

She grabbed the bell and began to ring it, watching with a smirk as Sherlock hissed in annoyance. She dropped it (far from his reach) and grinned.

"Yeah, not pleasant, is it? That's what you keep bloody doing every time I turn around!"

"I can't help that I'm incapacitated at the moment."

"You're ringing nonstop!"

"Well, someone has to open the Mars bars for me!"

Molly glanced at the new pile of wrappers beside him on the sofa and sighed. She rubbed at her temples and cursed.

"Sherlock, you have to be the most difficult person I've ever dealt with."

"That's rude. Others would disagree."

She snorted. "John was smart and immediately disappeared to avoid," she waved her arms around, "this! And Mrs. Hudson! You made the woman cry and drove her to an early holiday!"

He scoffed and moved his good leg, trying to get another Mars bar between his toes. He glanced at Molly but focused on the task.

"John feels remorse for causing the injury. And it's Mrs. Hudson's fault that she cried. She was pulling my hair! I have a sensitive scalp. I won't be treated like a rag doll."

Molly reached down and grabbed the chocolate bar. Sherlock looked to her, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. With a smirk, she ripped the wrapper open and took a bite of the sweet, causing the man to let out a moan of pain. After swallowing the first bite, she glared at him.

"John did not cause this! Your recklessness did. And Mrs. Hudson was trying to help you!" Molly shot back, before taking another bite of the chocolate.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching her eat his chocolate. "John was making so much bloody noise when he got down that I thought he was injured! It screwed up my momentum."

"You really believe that?"

He sat up and went to cross his arms but winced as soon as he tried to move the limbs. So, he continued to stare at Molly, lifting his chin in defiance.

"It's my word against his."

"Mhm. Did you apologize to Mrs. Hudson? Thank her for spending her free time here?"

He snorted. "How is her drinking tea and watching Jeremy Kyle in my sitting room any different from her doing it in hers?"

"How did your mum deal with you?"

"Mummy did not—" He stopped speaking and groaned, before beginning to rub his back furiously against the body of the sofa. He let out a huff and blew a loose curl out of his face.

Molly laughed and watched on, a smirk gracing her lips. "You good, Sherlock?"

He groaned and continued. "Sod off!"

"As you wish."

She turned to leave but was stopped by his desperate voice.

"Fine! Scratch my back!"

She smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"Please!"

She laughed and dropped to the sofa, squeezed onto the very edge from the sheer amount of space that his body took up. She reached into his dressing gown and began to generously scratch at his skin. He moaned and leaned his head back, causing his curls to tickle her forearm.

"Oh," he groaned, pushing his body further back, "long nails are truly marvelous."

Molly laughed and continued to scratch for another few moments, before removing her hand. As soon as she stopped, Sherlock sat up and glared.

"Well, don't just stop! I'm incapable of doing it myself at the present!" He exclaimed, his voice full of frustration.

She gawked. "What do you expect of me, Sherlock? Do you think I'm going to sit here and scratch your back for hours?"

He blinked. "Why else would you be here?"

She sighed and rose to her feet. "I'm going to go do your laundry, since I can see the pile from the hallway. You can thank me later."

Molly muttered to herself before disappearing down the hallway, wondering if he would finally shut up and go to sleep. He had a full belly, was medicated, and scratched.

What else could he need?

Xxx

It was a stupid hope.

Somehow, she had naively convinced herself that by removing the bell, as well as anything he could somehow kick or knock over to make noise, that the detective would simply be quiet and either sleep or watch telly.

But, technology was against her.

She had just turned the washer on when "Out in the Cold" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers filtered into the room. She narrowed her eyes and began walking back to the living room, knowing that the introduction of music was not because Sherlock fancied a tune to pass the time.

When she entered, the detective hadn't moved, and was still watching the telly. Molly narrowed her eyes.

"Really? How'd you get the song on?"

"I'm sure you've heard of Siri, Molly."

She glared at him. "What's it this time?"

He wiggled his toes. "My feet are cold."

Molly mumbled to herself and stormed into his bedroom. After some furious complaining and ripping apart his drawers, she eventually located a pair of socks. She desperately wanted to toss the ball at the detective, but knew she'd still have to slide the material onto his feet.

And so, she sat back down onto the sofa and angrily shoved his good foot into the expensive wool, before unfortunately having to be more tender with the foot of his injured leg. With both socks in place, she looked at the detective.

"Great. I'll be cleaning up your room now." She mumbled to herself before disappearing back into his bedroom.

As she refolded some of his delicates, Molly knew she had become desensitized to the man. She desperately wanted to be flushing and going hot at the sight of his pants, but the prat had pissed her off so much today that the sight of the silk only made her groan in frustration.

She had managed to at least refold the clothes that had ended up on the floor when "Have a Cuppa Tea" by The Kinks hit her ears. She groaned and stormed back into the sitting room. Sherlock, again, sat innocently on the sofa, watching the telly.

She growled. "Let me guess. You want some tea?"

"Amazing deduction, Molly. Consider consulting detective work if pathology doesn't work out."

Xxx

By the time Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" and The Beatles' "Help" played, Molly was certain Sherlock had to have hit his peak knowledge of classic rock songs fitting his needs.

But when "Invisible Touch" by Genesis began to play, she finally gave up and began to hit her head against the wall.

"What is it now? More itching? A ghost hovering over you?" She cried out, continuing to slam into the drywall.

Sherlock yawned and watched Molly.

"Nope," He announced, popping his 'p', "I simply like the song. Reminds me of being a boy."

Molly glanced over and couldn't help but smirk. "Not the music taste I was expecting."

"I was young. Mycroft fancied it."

She bit her lip and shook her head, secretly delighted to learn something about Sherlock.

And for a moment, her irritation disappeared as the song ended. Until he let out a groan and kicked the coffee table with his foot.

"Bring me back my bell! I'm bored of music!"

Molly narrowed her eyes. "Here's an idea. Go to sleep!"

He scoffed. "I don't want to! I'm not tired!"

When he went to kick the coffee table again, Molly moved to pull it away, but was stopped by his loud shriek.

"No! If you move the table, then how will I prop my leg up? Would you like my ankle to stay injured?"

She let out a desperate cry and pulled at her hair. After forcing herself to take a deep breath, she focused on the man-child.

"Okay. Sherlock, let's be transparent. What can I do for you?"

"Give me my bell."

"Not that."

He narrowed his eyes. "Get a wheel chair and take me around the city."

"Also, not that."

"Fetch me treacle tart or lemon drizzle cake from down the street."

"Try again."

He groaned and slammed his uninjured sock clad foot on the ground, albeit not making the dramatic noise he desired.

"Siri, play In My Time of Dying by Led—"

"NO!" She shrieked, moving to stop the voice command, "We're done with that game, Sherlock!"

He held his chin up and glared at her. "Well, I'm sorry you seem to have a hatred for classic rock!"

Silence filled the air. Molly held Sherlock's frustrated gaze.

"More codeine?"

She glared at him. "No! Sherlock, I've about had it with you. You're driving me bloody crazy!"

"Siri, play I Wanna Be Sedated by the Ramones—"

Molly let out a literal scream and turned the device off, before burying it in her handbag. She turned back to the man and pulled at her hair.

"Okay. Okay. Okay." She let out a maniacal cry and began to nibble on her thumb nail. She stopped and looked to him. "How can I get you to go to sleep?"

"I function on much less sleep than the average human being."

She ignored him and continued pacing. "Melatonin? No. Bad to mix with the pain killers. Herbal tea? He'll complain of the taste. A warm bath?" She snorted at the suggestion and continued her movements.

Sherlock studied her, uninspired. "I would surely sleep with a stomach fully of treacle—"

"Enough!" She screamed at him, before continuing her pacing, "Warm milk? No, he's not a baby even if he acts like one."

"Perhaps a nice song would—"

At her growl, Sherlock was smart enough to stop talking. Molly pulled at her hair and took another lap around the room.

"Exercise?" She laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion and dropped to his chair. Sherlock watched her curiously, still stuck on his sofa.

Molly continued to nibble on her thumbnail. "Think, Molly! There has to be a simple answer!"

She groaned and looked over to the detective. At her attention, he smirked and quirked an eyebrow. She growled and stuck her chin up.

"Could I read him something boring?" She shook her head and continued to spit out idea. "Aromatherapy? No. As if he'd have essential oils."

"You could kill me." Sherlock suggested, a smirk growing on his lips, "But I think it would be rather hard, even with me incapacitated—"

And then the solution hit Molly so hard that she nearly fell out of her chair.

Oh. There is that.

Her eyes grew wide at the thought. The one sure fire method that put Molly to sleep after a stressful day.

La petite mort.

She bolted to her feet and stormed over to the sofa. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her approach.

"You're not going to try to kill me, are you? I was joking. John suggests I do that more often."

Molly let out a crazy sort of laugh and fell beside him on the sofa. She looked him over with curious eyes, thinking about how crazy she was. But Sherlock was driving her so bloody crazy, that her thoughts were justified.

Besides, a man as strung up as him could not be having regular orgasms.

Maybe this is why he's always such a pain in the arse.

"Nope. As much as I'd love to kill you, I have a far easier solution," she explained, as she rolled her sleeves up.

Yes, Molly. Appear clinical. Makes you seem legitimate.

He raised an eyebrow. "Your eyes concern me."

"Shut up, Sherlock. I'm the doctor. You're to stop talking."

"You work on dead—"

Her glare had him shutting up. She reached forward and began to unbutton the opening to his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock glanced over at Molly.

"What on Earth are you doing? Did I say I needed to go to the loo?"

She rolled her eyes and slid her hand into the opening, quickly wrapping her hand around his flaccid member. As expected, his neglected member almost immediately began to perk up at her attention.

He gasped at her touch and jerked upwards. "Molly! What in God's name are you doing?"

She studied his face and gave his hardening cock a squeeze. "I'm going to shut you up and hopefully put you to sleep. Now, if you don't want me to continue, I'll give you another dose of codeine and we'll blame my actions on a lack of sleep."

He swallowed and studied her face. "Why would you think that—"

This time she was the one finishing his thoughts. "Please, Sherlock. You're filled with pent up energy probably because you haven't had a proper wank or shag in ages. So, I'll do the hard part for you. Now, either tell me to stop or shut up and roll with it."

At his wide blue eyes and silence, Molly squeezed his cock again. She pulled his cock out of the opening and into the cool air. She glanced down at his hardening appendage and couldn't help but moan. It wasn't quite fully erect, but god, it was a bloody good-looking thing. Perfectly shaped, perfectly long, and perfectly thick.

She couldn't help but sigh as she gave it another squeeze, internally aggravated that even his real cock was more gorgeous than the one she had imagined in her naughtiest of dreams, years and years ago.

Because she had stopped having those.

Stop lying to yourself. Even if they had stopped, they'd be starting back up right about now!

Molly was aware of big blue, rather innocent, eyes staring at her. She began to move her hand, wondering if she'd actually keep Sherlock silent. Well, she had a lot of questions, namely why his cock had to be so fucking beautiful, especially for a man who clearly didn't use it often.

She gave him another squeeze before meeting his gaze. His pupils were blown back, and she could see how erratic his breathing was. Deciding that her handy work, in Sherlock's words, was boring, she dropped to the ground.

Molly glanced back to him, smirking once his mouth dropped open, his brain clearly piecing together her next move. With a dashing smile, she darted tongue out to lick the tip of his cock. Precum already leaked from the top, and Molly couldn't help but moan softly at the taste.

He tasted like man. And while she thought the earthy, musky scent of him would be off-putting, she found the man smell to be intoxicating. She wrapped her lips around the head and moaned as his length slid deep into her mouth.

She sat back and gave him a wink as she began to move her hand and lips simultaneously, moaning as she covered every inch of his hardened length with saliva. One hand moved to his stomach, her nails scratching softly at the fabric-covered skin, her other continuing to pump his cock frantically.

Sherlock just muttered expletives and watched, practically hypnotized by the oral talents on his passive Molly. His hips thrusted off the sofa to meet her mouth, but with no use of his hands, he couldn't even take hold of her hair as he desperately wanted to.

Molly let out a cough as his cock hit the back of his throat. She moaned and released him, although her hand continued its movements. She met his blue orbs and licked her lips.

"God, you don't deserve this," She moaned out, before enveloping his cock between her lips yet again, her brown eyes locked on his.

He let out a desperate cry as she continued to suck him dry. With one last twist of her tongue around the shaft, he let out a hoarse cry and threw his head back. Molly groaned as the warm liquid hit the back of her throat.

With a cough, she fell back onto her butt. She wiped the corners of her mouth on her sleeve and looked at Sherlock, desperately trying to hold back a giggle at how absurd he looked. From his messy curls, to his wide blue eyes, to his open mouth, to his deflating cock sticking out of his favorite pyjama bottoms.

Yeah. The prat didn't deserve that. I deserved that.

Molly rose to her feet, trying to calm her own breath. Of course, she was feeling a bit hot, and desperate to return to her bed to take care of herself, memories of his cock down her throat on her mind. She fixed Sherlock's pyjamas and met his gaze.

She cleared her throat. "Right. Time for bed now."

He blinked a few times, still focused on Molly. "You expect me to sleep now?"

She blushed. "Orgasms have been proven to help people sleep at night. So—"

"You'll still be awake."

She flushed and blinked a few times, trying to register his words. "Come again?"

"Perhaps. But first, I believe I am indebted to you."

Molly positively squeaked. "Sherlock—"

"Up. You'll have to cooperate if this is going to work."

"You don't have access to your hands!"

He smirked. "I'm aware. But I don't need them, do I? I'm quite talented at running my mouth, wouldn't you say?"

She stared at him, mouth agape. "Sherlock—"

"Enough. Take your trousers off and sit on my face."

She let out another squeak but didn't argue. She managed to kick her trousers and knickers off in one movement. She knew that later that evening, she'd be mortified by her actions, but at the moment, Sherlock's order had her shaking.

Molly carefully stepped onto the sofa and straddled his body. His face met her stomach, and she practically lost it right then and there at the feeling of his soft lips on her bare skin. She gulped and lifted one leg onto the back of the piece of furniture before glancing down at Sherlock.

His blue eyes were positively mischievous. She swallowed and watched as he moved his face forward, giving her quivering cunt one delightful lick.

And then everything went black.

Because she quite literally could do nothing but squeal and scream, one hand holding onto the sofa for balance, the other pulling at his messy curls. Her right leg was absolutely burning, the limb her only source of balance on the sofa, but the pleasure she was on the receiving end of made up for any soreness she'd feel in the morning.

And was Sherlock right. That prat didn't need his hands. Somehow, with his mouth alone, he could hit and caress every inch of her aching core. His lips settled on her clit, giving the bead a hungry tug, before his tongue probed at her hole with a very Sherlock-like enthusiasm.

Molly let out another cry and pulled at his hair, screaming his name as his nose pressed into her cunt, his tongue fucking every thought from her head. With one final flick of his tongue, Molly lost control of her body, letting out desperate sobs of pleasure as her orgasm overtook her. She pressed his face into her cunt and continued to shake.

As her trembling ended, she shakily dropped her propped up leg to the sofa and glanced at Sherlock's shiny face. She moaned softly and studied him. Wide blue eyes, red lips, a wet face, and hair in every direction.

She had never seen a more attractive man.

She pressed a hard kiss to his lips before collapsing onto the open side of the sofa, letting out another satisfied moan. He smirked and looked over to her.

"I told you I didn't need my hands."

"Christ, Sherlock, all this time wasted! How many of your tirades could I have ended prematurely but sticking my cunt in your face?"

The prat actually considered the question. "A fair bit, I suppose."

She smacked his chest before resting her head on it. She moaned again before noticing some activity in his trousers. She couldn't help but laugh.

"Looks like you need my hands though," Molly smirked and ran her hand down his thigh.

He cursed and shut his eyes. "Wrong. Your mouth would probably be sufficient."

She smirked and squeezed his encased length. "You're a prat."

"So, I've been told."

"You also really don't deserve this."

"So, you've said."

"I'm going to do it again, aren't I?"

He smirked. "If it's any motivation, I'd be happy for a repeat performance as well."

Molly laughed and moved to her knees. She hovered over his body and leaned forward, brushing her lips against his. She placed a soft kiss to his lips before moving to his trousers.

"Siri, play Are You Ready by AC/DC—"

Molly groaned. "I turned your mobile off."

He smirked. "Yes, but yours is on."

The tune soon filled the room. She just rolled her eyes and gave him a harsh kiss.

Now I know that Sherlock likes classic rock and blowjobs.

The End