Molly's eyes were glued to the microscope. She was trying to focus on the contents of the petri dish she was examining for Sherlock, but it was extremely difficult to concentrate when he was hovering four inches behind her.
He had arrived early with a request – no, a demand – for the use of her equipment and she'd let him take over, putting all other work aside to help as much as she could. Her nerves had flickered on the moment she saw him and she could barely keep the shake out of her voice, let alone her fingers, as she prepared the samples ready for examining.
Her head was fuzzy too. She'd been blinking at this dish for minutes and every sigh of frustration he made was like a factory reset to her brain.
"Perhaps you need an evening with the substance?" he spoke over her shoulder after another agonising minute. "Take it out for a good meal then back to your pitiful flat for the night? Would that be long enough to give me a definitive answer?"
Her cheeks, already pinker than usual, deepened in colour.
"I'm…just making sure I'm correct. You can't rush everything."
"Nonsense," he said and, without asking, he pushed her aside. "You're simply over-analysing…"
He leaned over the microscope, his arm brushing hers and his right leg pressing against her left. She felt herself flush and quickly moved out of the way.
He didn't notice. He never noticed.
"I'll leave you to it then."
She waited for a response and, when none came, she walked to the other bench and started to work her way through the clothes he'd brought in, her hands trembling.
The clothes were filthy but apparently blood free. That couldn't be right.
"Sherlock."
"Working."
Ready to interrupt him anyway she looked up at his dark curls, his strong back curved in concentration over the scope and forgot what she was going to say.
Why does he have to be so bloody sexy?
She set her eyes back to the clothes, determined to find the blood that must be there - there was always blood.
He cleared his throat and her head shot up, her mouth already open to answer whatever question he might ask, but he hadn't moved. He didn't want to speak to her.
He's not here for you, Hooper.
She rallied, determined to find something in the clothes that would make him smile at her. Determined that, when she did, she'd act like a normal human being instead of the nervous bloody wreck she really was.
Like Molly, Sherlock was functioning on a high level of nervous energy. The symptoms, he observed, affected them both very differently. For him, the adrenaline was a positive force, making everything clearer - his purpose, the actions he needed to get him there - and, aside from the spring in his steps and the quickened pulse, there was barely a physical manifestation at all. For Molly, well...she was in quite a mess - putting too many sugars in his coffee which shook in her hands as she brought it to him, stuttering her way through their short conversations, knocking equipment over.
It was just what he'd expected.
He kept his eyes glued to the microscope, pretending to be interested in the contents of the petri dish, buying time.
Her breathing was shallow and quick and as he listened to it he knew that she was watching him. Undoubtedly, she was thinking about what she wished he would say, or what she would do if she had the courage. If she were more like Janine she would be stood directly behind him, massaging his shoulders, pressing kisses to his neck. If she were more like Irene she would be sat on the bench in front of him, one leg crossed over the other, high heels discarded so she could toe his thigh.
That thought had him fingering the collar of his shirt, loosening it further than the open top button naturally allowed. He forced the image from his mind to return to the matter - the woman - at hand.
Molly was too timid to act on her fantasies. She thought, correctly, that they would not end well if she tried.
No, for he and Molly to ever take a step towards that kind of intimacy, he would have to make the move.
It would be a bad move to make for their...friendship? But the idea had become more appealing to him. After all, he'd never been with anyone quite so shy and, surely, all the other men she'd had the misfortune to choose would have let her down quite dramatically in that department.
And she would be grateful.
Really, it would be a good deed. A kindness.
He felt a smile lift his lips.
Sherlock Holmes, the do-gooder.
"I'll have another coffee, Molly" he said, tapping the mug without lifting his eyes from the microscope.
"I'm not a waitress, Sherlock."
"Luckily - you'd never make tips."
"Thanks," she huffed, throwing the pair of jeans she'd been searching the pockets of back to the table. She took a deep breath before moving over to him. His smell - a musk she knew he'd only worn since Janine first came along - mingled with the coffee and that ridiculously expensive shampoo he used was a little overwhelming and she found herself trying to close her nose to it, afraid she might give herself away by breathing it in too obviously.
She reached out for the mug and, as she closed her hand around it, his hand shot out and closed around hers.
"Oh!" she jumped, then quickly tried to hide the shock as he looked up at her.
"Just one sugar, this time - I would like to keep my teeth, if I can."
"So don't use sugar at all."
"Don't be ridiculous."
He turned back to the microscope, his fingers taking their time to trace hers as he let go of her hand. She stared as he made a soft fist, flexed his fingers, then returned them to the dish, moving it to a new angle.
"Sometime today, Molly."
"Alright," she muttered, heading back to her makeshift kitchen in the far corner.
She busied herself preparing his coffee, working on automatic, so used to making it for him she shouldn't need to think about it. As she stood waiting for the kettle to boil she pressed her own hand to the one he'd touched.
The handful of times he'd purposefully touched her it had been a conciliatory squeeze of the shoulder, or a grab to both arms to shake her because she'd infuriated him somehow, and the times when he'd kissed her cheek that she still couldn't think about without the unsettling mix of excitement and shame.
Everything about those moments had been brief and reactionary. Just now, though - that had been different.
He had, essentially, held her hand.
Heat blushed up from her pelvis.
He'd held her hand!
"Pull yourself together, Hooper," she whispered to her misty reflection in the kettle's surface.
It was taking an age to boil and she stared at it as she willed her heart to slow and her body heat to cool. She didn't notice when the steam poured out and the lever clicked off.
"Are you expecting the water to make its own way to the cup?"
At his first word she jumped again, knocking over the cup closest to her as her hands flew out to brace for an impact.
"A little skittish today, aren't you Molly?"
She turned, determined to tell him what for, and found herself level with his chest.
"I...didn't even hear your chair move."
"That's because you weren't paying attention."
He was so close.
"I was busy making you a coffee!"
"Or not making one, to be accurate."
She raised her head and found him smirking.
Bastard.
He reached around her for his mug - the one left standing - and she had to lean back to stop his chest pressing against her face.
"You got the sugars wrong again," he said, peering into the stained cup.
"No I didn't."
"You did," he said, tilting it so she could see in.
He was right - no sugar.
She forced herself to shrug. "So make your own coffee next time."
"I wouldn't need to if you could follow a simple instruction."
"I can follow instructions fine, Sherlock."
"Really?" he asked, leaning into her again as he put the cup back down. He stood back to look at her, dark eyes locking with hers.
The grin that had been playing over his beautifully full lips took over his face and she waited for an insult to come but he was entirely quiet. Then his eyes seemed to glaze over.
There he goes again.
"I'll get back to work then," she said, moving away...straight into his open arm.
"No," he said, curling it around her waist.
She tried to push on, but he tensed. "No, Molly," he said, adding pressure, forcing her to step backwards.
"I'm not going to mess it up if that's what you're worried about," she told him, stronger in her conviction now that she couldn't see his face.
"Of course you are. You're stumbling around like a blind puppy."
She slumped against his arm. "I was doing fine."
He snorted. "You've made a mess of almost everything today...including your hair, by the way." He tugged at her middle, forcing her back another step. "Molly, you're a disaster."
Rage flared inside her and she pushed at him again, groaning with effort.
"I was. Doing. Fine until…"
He pulled harder, forcing her back again and again until her back was pressed against his stomach.
"Until what?"
She didn't notice the hoarseness of his tone, or that he'd leaned in closely to say it. She was too busy twisting in his grip, hands bracing against his forearm, pushing at it, not getting anywhere.
"Let me go."
"No."
"Let. Me. Go!"
"Why?"
"Because!"
"Because what?"
She gritted her teeth and said the only thing that she knew would make him stop.
"Because you're hurting me."
He released her instantly and she stumbled forward.
"That was not my intention."
She was holding her stomach, her lab coat and pale pink sweater bunched and creased from the struggle.
"Molly. It was not my intention to hurt you."
"It never is." Her hands dropped to her sides and for one horrible moment he thought she was crying. Then, as if hit by an idea, she was heading towards the doors.
"Well don't leave!" he shouted, following after her. "Molly! Where are you going?"
"To the bloody bathroom!"
The door flew back, saloon style and almost hit him in the face. He gaped at it as it swung back and forth, back and forth, listening to her light-footed retreat, watching through the porthole windows until she was completely out of sight.
Then he let the grin he'd been holding back open up his face.
Lifting his wrist, he checked his watch and began counting.
Molly was still sat on the toilet, head in shaking hands, trying to work through the breathing exercises she'd once learnt at a yoga class.
He's an idiot, she told herself. A genius, but an idiot.
She breathed in for one-two-three-four.
A beautiful, Adonis-like genius…
Out for one-two-three-four.
But a total prat of an idiot.
And she needed to stop thinking about him now. She especially needed to stop thinking about how good it had felt to have his arm wrapped around her, even though he was being a horrid, insulting git.
"One - two - three - four - " she counted, trying to envision her thoughts floating downstream, carried with the current until they had disappeared entirely. In a second it was Sherlock's head, indignant and shouty, bobbing along down her mind's stream, getting smaller, his taunts fainter as he drifted out of sight.
"I'd just chase after him," she told her knees, trying to laugh.
She took another set of long, deep breaths before standing to button her trousers.
As she washed her hands, she stared again at her reflection. Her cheeks were still pink, but at least it made her cheekbones stand out. Her lipstick had long worn off but she'd been biting her lips so often they were dark red and almost as full as Sherlock's.
Sherlock's lips…
Sherlock's. Lips.
"Shut up," she told her reflection. "Just shut up and get a grip."
After messing about with her hair a bit, she left the bathroom determined to feel calm when she walked back into the lab.
But her pulse quickened with every step down the corridor and as she reached out to push the lab door open her hand was shaking so hard she snatched it back.
"You're being ridiculous!" she whispered and reached out again, willing her hand to be still. But it wouldn't, and she was already flushing red again just thinking about him sat in there, waiting to berate her some more.
She pushed at the door but couldn't make herself move forward.
Propelled by embarrassment, she fled back up the corridor and burst into her office.
"You're a disaster, Molly Hooper," she chastised herself. "A bloody disaster."
Sherlock was resting against the wall next to the lab doors when they opened.
"You took your time."
He wasn't even looking. That was part of the plan; part of his nonchalant act. He waited for a squeal, an intake of breath, a shout.
Though sure she could not have passed him he looked around the lab, expecting to find a hint of her white coat and mousy hair. The lab was empty and the door was swinging to a close.
"Where the hell is she?"
Wasting no more time, he pushed out into the corridor and his steps beat the floor, echoing off the walls.
Less than 200 yards in front he heard a door close. He moved lightly but quickly, only slowing when he was right outside her measly excuse for an office. He listened at the door for a short moment, then opened without knocking.
Which was a mistake.
"Fucking hell!"
He heard her stumble forward and swung in to catch her, but she was already braced against the wall, holding herself steady.
"That was a rather stupid place to stand."
"Most people knock," she said, swiping the hair out of her face. Her skin was pink. She was flustered.
"Well...most people use a sponge to wash with, covering themselves daily with bacteria whilst they try to get clean, but…"
"Sherlock, what do you want?"
Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her silly pink sweater giving him more of an idea of what was underneath than it meant to. He blinked.
"I want…"
He barely registered that he'd wet his lips as he walked closer to her.
She shrank beneath him, almost sitting against the wall in her retreat.
He watched her throat move as she tried to swallow her anger; her nerves.
"What're you-"
"I want to give you something."
She swallowed again. "What?" She cleared her throat, swiped at her hair again. "I mean, what do you-"
"Well," he moved a step closer, then another, his feet falling between hers so his right leg pressed against the inside of her left. "It is your birthday, isn't it?"
"You...remembered?"
"I'm not entirely forgetful."
She was open mouthed, her eyes roving over his face - a little mouse, afraid to move in case she got caught. It was as delicious to witness as he'd expected.
She was utterly lost.
He remembered my birthday.
He was so close.
He remembered my birthday!
"So...what do you-"
"Sshh," he hissed and his hand was reaching up to cup her face, his thumb lightly stroking her cheek.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my...
He gently moved his thumb over her lips and she parted them in shock, heart hammering as he traced them, top and bottom, once...twice...once more…
Then he was lifting her chin, and he was leaning down, and his face - his nose, his cheeks, his lips - were moving so much closer. Deliberately moving closer.
"Happy Birthday, Molly Hooper," he whispered and the breath he breathed was sweet mint and dark coffee and she started to speak, to say thank you but...
"Ssshh," he breathed again and then his lips were softly pressing against hers, and they were warmer than she'd imagined, but just as soft as she'd always hoped. Those lips she'd thought about so, so often - about how they would feel, about how she'd react if they ever…
And then they were gone.
Happy Birthday, she thought, trying to keep the impression of his lips on hers alive in her head.
She kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them and see his back as he headed out the door.
He could walk away now. John would tell him to walk away now. "You can't just go around kissing people because you suddenly decide you want to," he'd rant.
She looked so sweet, head tilted, lips parted.
Why couldn't he?
"It's not being fair to Molly," John would say.
Her eyes were closed so tightly the lids were creased, and there was a frown of concentration too.
He could get rid of that frown.
Sod it.
He cupped her cheek again and she relaxed into his touch, pressing against his palm. His thumb rested at the corner of her lips and she opened them, taking the tip into her mouth, between her teeth, her tongue tasting it. She made a soft whimper and her eyes flew open as she swallowed the sound.
She stared at him, locked in a panic he didn't understand.
"Molly?"
"I…" She lowered her head, forcing his thumb out of her mouth. "Sorry, I didn't-" she shook her head and he could hear her hands clawing at the door. He pulled away.
"What on earth is wrong?"
Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish.
"No, don't tell me," he said as he took off his coat, folded it and set it down on top of her desk. "I've already worked it out." He'd expected this, after all. He took a moment to unbutton his shirt sleeves and turn back the cuffs, taking note of the frantic movements of her eyes, the way her fingers fretted at her sides.
He held out an arm. "Give it here."
"Sorry?"
"The coat. Give me the coat."
She looked down at her outfit, hands going to the edge of her lab coat.
"Come on. Hand it over."
She took it off quickly and threw it to him.
"And the jumper," he said as he folded her lab coat too.
"Why?"
"Because it's one of the ugliest items you own and I can't bear to look at you in it any longer."
Fury flushed her face and she pulled it off in a rage. She threw it at him, aiming for his head but he caught it one handed, balled it up and launched it into the bin next to the door.
"Hey!" she objected, heading towards it. "You can't do that to my clothes! I like it."
In less than two strides he was in front of her, blocking her path. "You like many a stupid thing, Hooper."
You're right, she thought as she looked at him. I do.
He stared her down, daring her to say it.
Eyes still locked on hers, he walked her back a step until she could feel the door at her back.
He pressed her against it, hands moving to her waist, gripping her.
"Sherlock…" she started but he looked...she didn't know how he looked because she'd never seen him like this before and she had lost what she was going to say.
And then he pressed his lips to hers.
This kiss was longer - not the small, swift kiss of a friend, but deeper.
He pulled away for a second, eyes searching out hers. She didn't dare close them, watching as he leaned in again, pressed his lips to hers.
Again.
And again.
Don't just stand here, she thought, but she couldn't get her body to do anything except pull back from his relentlessly advancing lips.
"What's this-"
He ignored her, kissing her again.
"Sherlock, what-"
And again.
Maybe he's gone mad...he must have gone mad.
"Sher..." but her words drowned against his lips as he kissed her harder, his hands squeezing her waist.
Just kiss him back, she thought but she felt clumsy, her whole body shaking as hard as her heart was beating.
Stay calm, Hooper.
She felt his hand on her face, fingertips working into her hair. He lifted her chin with the base of his palm and she let him in to taste her with his tongue.
She moaned softly and the embarrassment of it must have been flooding her features but she didn't want to stop now because his lips were so, so soft. And she'd dreamt he'd be a good kisser, so many times she'd dreamt it, but this…
She moaned again as he caught her bottom lip between his own and then, ever so gently, licked the shape of her cupid's bow with the tip of his tongue.
Maybe I am dreaming.
Well, if I am...
She grasped the front of his coat for support and responded as passionately as she dared, fearing with every passing second that she might wake up, or that he'd break away and laugh at her. Molly Hooper - the big joke again.
As if her thoughts had broken the spell he pulled away from her. But he didn't move far, one hand still tight at her waist.
"You don't get many visitors," he said, and she supposed he meant her office but she was too busy looking at his lips - noting how red they were, how he had real colour in his cheeks. "Better to be safe…"
She watched him stalking away to turn the blinds over the one small window, opening the stock cupboard then closing it sharply, checking under the desk, then heading back towards her to...what?
He's going to throw me out of my own office. It's just a ploy to get the place to himself.
She reached out for the door handle, ready to leave of her own accord but he was already there, looking down at her.
"Where do you think you're going?"
His hand found hers on the handle and he pulled her fingers away before reaching down to the lock and twisting it twice to the right, double locking it.
"So, where were we?" he said, wearing the smile she recognised as one he saved for solved cases and in-jokes with John. "Ah, yes…"
And his hands were on her face and his lips were against hers and, bloody hell, she really was kissing Sherlock Holmes! She tried to keep her eyes open because it couldn't be real, but his were closed and he was pressing his body against hers and she could feel...
"Sherlock," she breathed, her hands bracing against his chest, head turning to free her lips, but he just kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck.
"Hush, Hooper." He nipped her ear, forcing another whimper from her lips.
She was shaking like she'd drunk a gallon of coffee and the hit was just kicking in.
"But I...don't…" she tried, halting with each kiss to her neck, each suck of her skin, each press of his erection against her. "I don't...understand-"
"It's really very obvious," he said, his breath warm on her neck. "Isn't it?"
She shook her head and he sighed, pulling back to look at her, stern as a disappointed teacher.
"I'm giving you what you want. For your birthday."
"And that's...you mean, you think that I want…"
"Sex. With me."
Oh god, oh god…
She mentally checked her underwear because surely it wouldn't go that far because he was joking, wasn't he? But if it did…
"That is what you want? It's something you'd like to happen?"
He was staring at her and she almost wanted to say no, just to see the look on his face, but…
She looked away.
"Yes," she whispered it but it didn't mask the shake in her voice.
"Don't be nervous," he said. She nodded but her body was rigid with fear.
He kissed her gently, willing her to respond again. When she didn't he re-addressed his attentions to her neck. The skin was smooth and devoid of any ridiculous scent - she really hadn't expected to see him today.
The longer he spent on her neck, laying light kisses, sucking gently, the more soft noises she made and it wasn't the sickly sweet he'd often thought it would be. It was womanly, primal and encouraging a response in him he hadn't expected to feel.
His mind was drifting as he savoured her and, instinctively, he let his hands travel down her arms, sliding his fingers between hers so that, briefly, her hands were clasped in his. He pushed his erection against her, a groan vibrating his throat.
An intentional groan. That was definitely intentional.
He tried to release her hands but she held on so he guided her arms to his own waist. Her hold was light, timid in contrast to his - he wrapped her tightly in his arms and crushed his mouth to hers.
Come on, Molly. Where are you?
Her kisses were still fleeting, her lips trembling under his.
Because she still doesn't believe it, you wazzock!
He tried to shake John out of his head. She would believe it. He just had to make her.
Her tightly tucked shirt, belt buckle and trousers were simple obstacles to overcome.
He moved quickly, pulling at her shirt and sliding his hands skillfully beneath it. He heard her suck in the shock as he felt his way across her stomach to her hips, around to the small of her back to pull her closer until her breasts were squashed between them.
He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, her fingers shaking in their grip on his forearms.
"You're still nervous," he observed and she nodded, her forehead falling against his chest.
"Sorry," she spoke, her voice muffled in his shirt.
He sighed, ready to shake her.
Be kind to her, and it was Mary's voice he heard. You can't rush this. So he rubbed his hands up and down her waist in what was surely a reassuring way. He'd give her some time.
How long was enough? A minute? Two? He didn't have the patience for that.
"Stop it," he said. "Stop being nervous. Now."
He heard her hold her breath, heard her swallow it down...heard the pounding of her heart lessen ever so slightly.
"That's it," he soothed, pulling her into an embrace, resting his chin on her head. "Good girl."
After a small, quiet moment he felt her press a kiss to his chest. Then another, a little higher. Then she was on her toes and the kisses were against his neck, up to the line of his jaw. She reached his cheek and he moved to meet her, capturing her hot, wet lips against his.
Good girl, he thought as she deepened the kiss and, without breaking contact, he started to work the buttons of her shirt open. She hardly noticed until they were all undone and he was pushing it off at her shoulders, dragging it down and off her arms, finding some resistance at the wrists. With persistence and a little help from her he soon had the shirt balled up in his hand. He threw it behind him, trusting that his impeccable aim would get it to the desk. He vaguely heard it fall short, but that was insignificant. Molly was…Well, he hadn't expected…
"That's a," he coughed, the words too hoarse. "a nice, um, bra."
She giggled. "This old thing?" she joked, but he didn't get the reference and, anyway, he seemed utterly entranced by the sight of her breasts.
Just like all straight men with a pulse. He's just like all men...
The thought was enough. Hands still shaking, she reached out and, holding her breath, she started to unbutton his shirt, working from the top, clumsily revealing an inch at a time of his soft, pallid skin. She could feel him watching her but she daren't look up.
He's just like all men, she reminded herself as she undid the last button and let the shirt hang loosely at his sides.
Bloody hell.
It was a familiar sight, his bare skin, the hard muscles underneath, the dip of his navel. Touching him as a patient or an experiment was nerve wracking enough.
She felt his hands squeeze her waist and took a little breath. Finally, shakily, she placed her palms on his chest.
He was warm and, though her hands were cold, he didn't flinch. She ran her hands up and out along his collarbone, then down his sides, feeling her way over every light bump in the flesh, every curve of muscle, then she turned her hands over and retraced her journey over his skin with the back of her fingers, enjoying the sensation of him under her touch, watching for reactions...like the way he breathed in sharply when her touch was light and quick, as if...as if...
Surely not, she thought as she ran her fingertips down again, grazing his belly button.
He shivered.
"Are you...ticklish?"
"Shut up."
She grinned and repeated the action. He practically growled.
"You are!"
"Shut. Up."
She laughed out loud, grinning in the face of his reproachful glare.
"Hooper," he warned and she dropped her eyes back to her hands, to his stomach. She added a little pressure to take away the tickle and traced the light trail of hair that led down from his navel, down to his…
Blimey, was this even...could she actually...
She could feel his breath on her hair as she tucked her fingers into the waistband of his trousers.
Should she pop the button? Or run her hands over his cock outside his trousers first? Or…
"Stop overthinking things."
She looked back up at him.
"That's rich coming from you."
He quirked an eyebrow and, abandoning the worry of what to do next, she crashed her lips to his.
He wrapped his arms around her as they kissed, forcing her back into an arch. He moved one hand down to her buttocks, stretching his fingers out until he held an entire cheek in his palm, then squeezing, forcing her hips up so that she was pressed hard against his groin.
She moaned into his mouth. If there was a time to halt this, it was now. He squeezed her arse as he considered, the positives and negatives scribbling themselves into neat columns on the screen in his mind.
There was just one positive tipping the balance. It seemed feeble, but it had so often worked for him in the past. Why not now?
Deepening the kiss they were still involved in, he forced her against the door once more, both hands pressing at her hips, creating a gap between them.
Her caught small glimpses of her eyes as he moved, saw with a pang the mixture of lust and fear and…
Dismiss it for now.
Leaning in, he landed a series of soft, insistent kisses down her neck. His right hand held her waist as he teased at the edge of her trousers with the fingers of his left. She wasn't ticklish but the sensation had a similar effect, making her suck in her stomach, making her shudder. Then, without breaking the barrier of her trousers, he slid his hand down, down and nuzzled it gently between her legs.
He drew back to watch her as he moved his hand in languid, circular movements against her crotch.
It was so simple. He was barely doing anything, his touch so gentle and slow, but the increased blood flow of her arousal was markedly evident on her chest.
Men are idiots. What's so difficult about this?
She was starting to lose control, starting to give in to him, her breathing a soft, low panting. He was interested to hear her orgasm; to know what it would sound like, how she would look, how full her lips would get, but there was a defiance in her expression, as if she was determined not to enjoy it.
"Don't try to pretend, Molly" he said as he increased the pressure of his fingertips against her. "Your pupils are dilating."
She closed her eyes, hiding them from him.
"You're working hard not to moan but I can still hear you."
She bit her lip, trying to slow her breathing. He nipped her ear and she hurriedly quashed the squeal it provoked.
"It's pointless, Hooper." He was really getting into this now. He practically held her ear in his mouth as he whispered, "I can feel how wet you are."
And something had gone wrong because she was shrinking back and twisting her body away.
She went rigid. Had he…had he just said…
Oh god, what am I doing? She tried to shrink back into the door, tried to hide her face from him. This is…he'd never say…he'd never want…I'm…I'm…
"Ridiculous…" he must think I'm ridiculous. What the FUCK are you thinking, Hooper?
"What's ridiculous?"
She was pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes, blocking out all light.
"I'm an idiot, a complete and utter idiot."
"Well you are rather acting an idiot now, yes."
She felt for the door handle behind her but it wouldn't open. Why wouldn't it open?
She turned to it, tugging, rattling. She knew how to open it, didn't she? She used to know how to open it.
"If you want to leave you need to unlock it."
"Yes, I know" she snapped as she turned the lock twice and yanked at the door. It didn't budge. She looked up and found his hand pushing against the wood, forcing it closed.
"Let me out."
"Why?"
"Let. Me. Out."
"Why?"
"You can't make me stay."
"I can."
"You can't."
"I can." And she knew that he could. "I won't, if you really do want to leave, but…" he looked down at her, "you don't have a top on."
She blushed hotly but with it came rage and she pushed him hard in the chest.
"You bastard." She pushed him again and he stumbled back, his shirt flying open. "You absolute bloody bastard."
"Hang on..."
"Why are you doing this?" Another push, harder, forcing him further back. "What are you getting out of it?" Another and his legs hit the desk. He stepped around it, wincing visibly, knees buckled but still she advanced on him until it was his back pressed against the bookcase. "What the hell is it about? Don't you think you've…" she caught her breath, stopping inches from him.
"Don't I think I've…?"
"Nothing." Shaking her head, she wrapped her arms around herself.
"Molly. Come on." He tried to reach out for her but she stepped out of his way.
"No. This...it's nothing. Really."
"You're a terrible liar," he said and she felt his arms snake around her.
"No. No! You don't even…" she pushed him again but he was resisting now, "you don't…"
"I don't what? This is very frustrating. Tell me what it is I don't-"
"No, Sherlock!" she erupted, pushing so hard and fast at his chest that he was slammed against the shelves. "You tell me!" She took a breath, forced herself to speak more calmly. "Tell me why you're doing this."
"Molly."
"Go on. Tell me."
His eyes were roving over her face, his mouth moving around half-formed words. She bit at her fist as she watched him, waiting.
"What do you want me to say?"
She laughed, closing her eyes to block out his face.
"Molly..."
"I'm gonna go," she said, turning to search for her shirt, only swiping under her eyes when she was sure he wouldn't see. She found it in a crumpled mess on the carpet and shrugged into it, keeping her back to him as she did the buttons up.
"Where?"
"I've got work, Sherlock."
Grabbing her lab coat off the desk and her sweater from the bin, she opened the door.
"I'll just wait here, shall I?"
"Do what you like, Sherlock. You usually do."
And she was out the door, closing it hard behind her.
His mouth was still open.
"What just happened?" He glanced around, as if someone was going to appear with the answer. "What happened?"
When the inanimate objects failed to respond he began the process of analysis: the last five minutes, the last ten minutes, the last twenty, sure he'd be able to find something that made sense.
On each replay he caught the moment she flinched away, noting the words he'd said to her. "I can feel how wet you are." Well, it had been true. It was the best indicator of the state of her arousal. And surely...wasn't that what women wanted to hear? He'd researched it. He'd tested it, with very positive results.
Had he got it wrong? Was there something else he had done? Was there an outside factor?
He checked the corners of the ceiling though he knew he'd find no camera in here - he hadn't set one up. Foolish.
If he could replay it to Mary…she was a woman, she'd be able to…
He got his phone out of his pocket, opened a new message, tapped S.O.S. Deleted it. He had a notion this might not register as highly on John and Mary's emergency scale as it did his. And they wouldn't approve.
Alone, then.
She hadn't left the corridor. He'd have heard that.
He strode over to the door and pressed his ear against it, his palms flat on the wood.
A slight vibration. Muffled, fast intakes of breath. He had made her cry.
Nothing new there, then.
"Shut up, John."
Her brain was beating as hard as her heart.
What the hell was she doing?
You could be having sex with him. Right now! On the desk or...
"Shut up," she whispered into the curl of her fingers. She was pressing them to her lips, trying to remember every kiss - the soft and the rough, the warmth of his mouth - shut up - the expertise of his tongue. Oh god, that tongue...which could have been somewhere else now, teasing at her, darting in to lick at her…
"Shut up!"
"Alright, Mol?"
She opened her eyes to see one of the porters staring.
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Having a...moment!" she laughed and it came out more hysterical than friendly.
"You sure?"
"Yes, fine. I'm just going to...I've got something to get from my..." she pointed stupidly at the door. To her relief, he shrugged and started pushing his empty trolley down the corridor.
"See ya later, then."
When he was out of sight, she backed away to lean against the opposite wall, watching at the door.
He's not going to follow you.
Another tear escaped her eye.
She'd done the right thing, hadn't she? Leaving. He was just playing with her because John and Mary were away and he had nothing to do.
It's boredom, she told herself. And you're the light entertainment. The interlude.
"Fuck him."
Too late for that now.
She blinked away the taunt. Was it too late? He was still in there, wasn't he? Unless he'd left through the window. That would be just like him, to leap from the sill and race across the quad.
She needed to walk away too. But what if he hadn't left? Could she…
He just wants a shag. Just a quick one. For fun.
Would that be so bad? She spent at least an hour thinking about just that, every single day, and the rest of the time trying not to think about it. Did it really matter how it happened or why?
So go back in.
She stared at the door, imagined storming back in, taking his head between her hands and snogging him hard, ripping his clothes off, letting him take her right there.
Then she imagined walking through the door to find him smirking at her. "Come back for more?" he'd say and then laugh hard, barely able to keep himself straight as he stalked to the door. "You're too funny, Molly."
The thought burned her cheeks.
What the hell could she do?
She pulled out her phone and started a text.
Sherlock's here. He wants to have sex with me.
She hit 'Send'.
"Cursed institution. What good is a door with no gaps?"
He was lying on his side, trying to peer through the non-existent space between door and floor. She had moved away after a short conversation with an old man but her footsteps hadn't retreated entirely. She would be close by, fretting.
He got to his knees and tried to peer between the door and the frame near the hinge but he saw only black.
He stood and examined the door, envisioning Molly doing the same from the other side, eyes red-rimmed, fingers agitating the sleeves of that ludicrous jumper.
I'll drag her back in, he thought. Make her see sense.
How will you do that?
I'll explain how idiotic she's being. That I know this is something she wants so she should just be bloody grateful.
Sure. That'll work.
He growled in frustration.
Then what? What should I do? If you're so bloody brilliant at this stuff…
You could try the truth.
Ha! Great. Aren't you a genius?
His thoughts dripped with sarcasm at the John in his head.
Fine. But don't moan to me when your brilliant plan doesn't work.
Sherlock sniffed.
He played the conversation over in his head - the one where he called her an idiot. He flinched at the slap she delivered and the slam of the door as she flew from the room.
Imaginary John, smug in his chair, cocked an eyebrow at him.
"But that is the truth!" he said through tight lips.
I mean the other part.
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
Don't act stupid. The part about you.
The text had gone to two people.
She bit her nails as she waited. Would she walk away if that was the advice?
Her phone vibrated and she was reading the reply before it stopped.
Mary W:
LOL. You're hilarious.
She stared at the words, hand shaking. Started typing a reply.
I'm serious. He's
Another text came through and she clicked out to it instead.
Meena:
So y ru txtin me, idiot? Fk his brains out! x
She started another reply.
I don't think he wants
Another vibration. Another text from Mary.
Mary W:
Happy Birthday btw :)
She sighed. Closed her eyes.
Think, Hooper. Bloody think.
She'd known what Meena would say. That was why she'd chosen her.
But Mary…
Mary would be telling John. She imagined them draped over each other in a luxury king sized bed with a view of the sea, giggling about it. John's laughs a little forced because…
She shook away the morphing images she'd catalogued that were racing to intrude: John watching Sherlock work; Sherlock watching John but only ever out of the corner of his eye. She shook them out, let them reform as John and Mary: dancing at the wedding; kissing at Baker Street; holding hands across the table at the pub; Sherlock looking crestfallen when they told him about the anniversary trip that didn't include him. She shook that away too, imagining instead John trying but failing to carry Mary across the threshold of the hotel room - laughing their kissing way to the bed; John looking at Mary the way he...John kissing Mary, undressing her and then they were draped over each other again in post-coital bliss, giggling over Molly's text. But then she imagined John leaning away to text Sherlock 'What r u up to'? John waiting for the reply. John not getting a reply and surreptitiously sending another. 'Sherlock. R u with Molly?' Still nothing coming back and having to imagine the phone vibrating forgotten in Sherlock's trouser pocket. Forgotten because his trousers were elsewhere. Forgotten because Sherlock was wrapped in Molly and she was holding his attention so fervently in a shaded corner of the lab.
The lab, because that's where he'd wanted it to happen before she'd messed it all up.
It's not your style, Hooper.
It wasn't his either. But it was impossible to explain away. He had kissed her. He had told her he was going to have sex with her. He had touched her.
What the hell was she doing? She should be in there, fucking his brains out!
And how will you look at him, talk to him, work with him when you've let something like that happen?
How will I look at him anyway, after running away scared?
You won't be able to.
She could see it so clearly, just as it had been before - averting her eyes every time he looked at her, stumbling over her words, hoping he'd speak to her, want her, agree to go for coffee with her; really go for coffee.
He really wants to have sex with you.
Does he?
I don't know. Yes?
But why?
Does it matter?
She imagined John and Mary again, rolling around in anniversary-induced bliss, then Meena kicking out the guy she would have spent last night shagging after her Salsa class. Did it matter? Couldn't she just have fun? She'd done it before.
Not with Sherlock.
"Fuck it."
She used her sweater to wipe away the mascara. Checked her reflection in the window, walking backwards so she could see all of her. Reaching the door sooner than she felt ready for. Turning to take the handle. Faltering as it dipped in her grip. Stepping back as it flung inwards and Sherlock...
"Molly, I wa…"
But his words were cut short by her mouth as she crashed against him, the force of it pushing him back into the room.
If his response was delayed it was no more than a second. He kissed her back, pleased to hear her kick the door closed behind them. He opened his eyes just long enough to know it hadn't bounced open and then he was all hers - his hands already under her shirt, the good ache in his groin throbbing back to life at the feel of her skin, her lips, her tongue.
She was impatient now, forgetting his shirt which he'd barely bothered to rebutton and going straight for the waistband of his trousers, unpopping, unzipping, sliding her palm over his growing erection, cupping as she stroked her way down and back up, making sure he felt the sensation as fully as possible through the thin barrier of his black cotton pants; the tight ones Janine had always liked.
Don't think about Janine now!
No. Yes. Sorry.
She was slow and studied with her touch, each movement a little different - a light squeeze, a brush of her thumb over the tip. She cupped his balls, rolling them gently in her grip, her fingertips reaching out to apply a little pressure to his perineum.
He growled.
"Not as useless as I look."
"Mo-"
"Just shut up and kiss me."
He did as she said, kissing her hard as she passed her hand over the true hardness of his cock, up and back down, fingertips playing again, reaching out to the leg of those tight pants, hooking under the band and slipping her fingers in until, ever so gently, she was teasing at the weak point where groin met thigh, grazing through curls as she reached out to just touch the skin of his cock so he growled again. She swallowed the sound with a laugh he hadn't heard from her often; genuine and confident.
I knew she'd be good at this.
She retracted her hand, running the back of her fingers up over his erection and abandoning it entirely to favour his waist, both hands meeting under his navel and fanning out, gripping his abdomen with a tensing of her fingertips; short, clean nails digging in just a little.
She quickly undid the three buttons he'd redone and, palms flat against his skin, she pushed the material away and off, almost on her toes as she reached his shoulders. She tugged it down his arms and he helped, finally taking the shirt in his hand and dropping it to the floor beside them.
Her eyes were closed, a tiny shake evident in her hands as she placed them on him again but she didn't stop, she didn't retreat and eventually she opened her eyes to follow her hands as they took in the feel of him like this.
He did the opposite, closing his, determined to stop deducing, to make it more than an experiment. For Molly.
For you.
Shut up, John!
Erection aching, leading him, he pulled her against him, crushing her to him. He kissed her briefly, kissed her ear, her neck, her shoulder, back to her ear because she'd gasped and whimpered and he wanted to hear that again. As he kissed, bit, licked her dainty upper lobe he edged her shirt up and up, enjoying the gentle curve of her waist, his fingers slipping under her bra, pushing it up until it sat awkwardly high on her chest. He moved his hands to the soft mounds of her breasts, holding them, squeezing gently, avoiding her nipples.
"Take it off."
He did as she said, unhooking her bra with his left hand as his right worked at the buttons of her shirt. It was taking too long so he pulled the shirt up over her head and she slipped the bra off completely.
For a second she froze, a flash of the nerves and fear on her face.
He tugged her to him.
He'd pulled her so close that her breasts were squashed against him. Her nipples, hard already, had peaked at the change in temperature and she imagined how it must feel to him, to have them graze at his chest.
She wanted more but she wanted to kiss him again too and she pulled his head to her so she could. It was incredible that she could do this. He was incredible. She felt like she would drown in the joy of it...or else choke on the nerves and fear which kept bubbling back up. Every touch of his hands to her, every flick of his tongue was a wish that she'd never believed possible.
It's not Disney, Hooper.
No, she thought, it's Charlotte Bronte. And he's been pretending all this time...
Don't get carried away.
No. No, I won't.
But it was a little late for that.
Every kiss he returned was another coal to the fire and, god, he was good at this.
She stood, awe struck, as he kissed from her neck, over her collarbone, and down to her chest, his curls marking the way as lingering tracks across her skin.
Her breasts had never looked so good, she was sure. They were rising and falling with her breath and he was laying his kisses on them. Four on the right, then six to her left, his tongue tracing the circle of her areola.
She moaned and a smile pulled his lips. He licked again, a wider stroke, and a warm tingle fired in her stomach. She must have moaned again because he was grinning now, moving back to her right to do the same there. She was gripping hard at his arms, waiting, hoping that he would take her nipple in his mouth, her cunt wet with the thought of it.
He tried to ignore the increasing ache in his groin as he shifted his attention to her right breast, repeating his actions. This time almost every touch elicited a moan from deep in her throat.
He kissed and sucked and licked until her breathing was fast and he could hear that she wanted to speak - to beg him - to taste her nipples. Only then did he stop. He straightened up, capturing her swollen lips in his mouth once more, and pressed his hand between her legs.
"Mhm," she breathed into his mouth, sweet and low. He wouldn't ruin it by speaking this time.
He continued to move his hand against her in slow, steady circles, his right hand running up her side and back to her breast. He leant back in to taste her skin once more, the softness of her breast at his lips sending his endorphins into overdrive.
And people think science is boring.
He was pleased but unsurprised to find that the sounds she made as she pressed herself against his hand made his cock twitch with excitement. He was about to take her nipple in his mouth when he heard voices in the corridor.
He stopped, hand still pressed between her legs, waiting. The voices grew quieter and, when they were gone he gave her one swift smile before wrapping his lips around her nipple and "Oh my…" she almost shouted, the rest of the sentence lost to a whimper and lapsing into quick, heavy breaths as he sucked and sucked and licked at the bud.
Don't cum. Not yet. Not yet.
She screwed up her eyes in concentration, her fingers biting into his arms.
He flicked her nipple with the tip of his tongue, then sucked again, his fingers moving in a forward, backward motion now against her cunt. It felt so good.
Oh god.
Too good.
"Stop," she moaned and either he didn't hear her or he didn't care. "Sherlock...Sherlock, stop."
"No," he said, mouth still full of her nipple.
He swapped sides again, administering her right nipple with the same treatment and she felt three Molly's battling inside her - one of her was grateful that he was evening it out, another was squirming with the effort not to orgasm, another was desperate to feel the climax tear her apart.
And then what?
"Sher…" she started but he bit her and she almost sobbed with the strain. "Please. Stop. Please."
He ignored her, sucking harder.
"Please….please this...it's…" she grasped desperately for something, anything that would bring him out of his reverent ministrations. "The door's...not locked. We need to…"
He was gone in an instant and she swayed on the spot without his hands on her waist to support her trembling legs. He locked the door and, turning, gave a slight bow. Then, smile still on his lips, he was back and his hands were on her waist and he was forcing her backwards and lifting her by her bum to place her on the desk.
"Sherlock..."
"Molly?"
She hesitated and he dipped his head, ready to continue. "Have…" Her hitched breath made him pause. "Have you gone mad?"
He seemed to consider it. "Not in the last few hours. Do I look mad?"
She raked his face with her eyes, analysing him unashamedly.
"Take your time, won't you."
She smiled. He lifted his eyebrows and then started to unbutton her trousers.
She leant back on her hands, watching him as he slid the zip, lifting herself to help him ease the trousers down until they were at her knees.
She kicked her shoes off, pleased that the warm weather had made her decide against her usual pop socks. He slid the trousers further, letting them fall at their feet.
Her teeth worried her lip as he took her in, naked except for the sensible knickers, violet in colour, smattered with a pattern of yellow and white flowers.
Why didn't you dress sexy today?
But he didn't seem to mind.
She pushed herself back up, pulling at the waist of his trousers until he was between her legs and she could feel his skin on hers once more. Then she slid his trousers down too, revealing the tight black pants she'd so far felt but not seen.
She closed her eyes for two seconds, just to make sure.
When she opened them he was still there, still in those pants.
He slid his hands up her thighs, his thumbs trailing behind, leading a slow, studied path.
He kissed her and she felt that it had already been too long since that had happened. His mouth tasted like adventure and home all mixed up together and she wanted it to go on forever.
"Now I just need to find a way to keep your eyes closed while I awkwardly remove my shoes, socks and these bloody trousers."
"You could just ask."
"Or demand."
"Try asking."
"Ok. Molly, will you keep your eyes closed for a moment?"
"Ummmm...aren't you missing a word?"
She stifled a laugh as he narrowed his eyes, huffed...
"Please."
"Ok."
She did as he asked, but it was just too tempting not to take a peek.
He was balancing on one leg, removing his second sock when he nearly caught her. She closed her eyes tightly and waited, savouring the undignified look she'd seen.
She knew he was finished when she felt his hands on her thighs again and she exhaled, sucking the breath back in quickly as he hooked a finger underneath the edge of her knickers.
He grazed the tender skin with blunt nails.
"You looked."
"I didn't."
"You really are a terrible liar."
"But you-"
He didn't let her finish the sentence.
The kiss was bruising and she gave as good as she got, grasping his hair with one hand as her other reached for his pants and pulled him closer. He grabbed at her too until she was right on the edge of the desk, her legs spread wide, wrapping around him. She could feel him hard against her.
"Fuck."
I did that. I made him hard.
"Fucking hell."
"What?" he sounded concerned, and she could feel him loosening his grip so she deepened the kiss, pressed herself closer still.
"Nothing. I just…" and she braced herself, eyes locked on his, lips barely separated. "I really want to fuck you."
"I know," and for a millisecond his smile wasn't the Cheshire-cat grin or the smug smirk: it was small and real and for her.
And then it was gone, replaced by determination and hunger and he was tugging her knickers aside, gently, slowly delving his fingers into the slick wetness that he had caused. That he always caused. Often from just a look or from barely anything at all. An image of the last time he'd made her this wet flashed into her mind. Him standing beside her, his breath on her neck as he leaned forward as if he could see with his eyes as well as she could through the microscope. That had been today. How could it have gone from that simple, regular moment to this in such a short space of time?
"Focus, Hooper."
He didn't break eye contact as he let his fingers slip languorously inside her. Her breath came haltingly, quieter than before. She was so warm. He could lose himself inside that warmth.
No. Keep control.
He could not trust himself; could not trust his mouth. Well, not the words that came out of it anyway.
When he brought himself back her eyes were glazed and distant. Was that how he looked to others when he disappeared inside his head?
"Focus, Hooper."
She blinked and there she was, heady but with him.
He slipped his finger out from inside of her and drew a slow, deliberate path from the vestibular fossa to the labium minus and, finally, thrillingly, over her clitoris. He took his time, watching her, listening hard for the changes in her breathing. He circled the swollen glans again and again and she was so close - he knew from the pattern of her breathing and the veneer of sweat that had formed on her skin - but still she clutched hard at his sides and she closed her eyes, holding herself back from the inevitable crash of blissful relief.
"Molly." It was an instruction and she obeyed, opening her eyes for him. He slid his finger back inside her, curling it as he had practiced so often with Jani...not now...plunging it achingly in and back out, in and back out, circling the vaginal opening and then again up, up that path to her clitoris to continue the motion that he knew would bring her the ecstasy she craved.
She was biting her lip, her brow creasing, her nose wrinkling from the concentration. He tried to keep his expression calm as he watched her, fingers continuing in a rhythm he could trust as well as he trusted them to play Wagner's Träume.
Why would she stop herself? It was a pleasure he knew she enjoyed; she had babbled to him, blushingly, about her sexual encounters in the past; he had discovered one night, during a fit of boredom, the tools she kept for personal enjoyment of this kind. And she had told him, mere moments ago, that she wanted to "fuck" him.
He did not want to ask. He shouldn't need to ask. She was Molly bloody Hooper. She was as transparent to him as the rest of the halfwits in this world.
Ask her.
No.
Sherlock...
He looked her over first, searching for a sign of discomfort but there was nothing that could be causing her the pain it looked like she felt. Nothing except for…
He stilled his hand.
"Molly, am I hurting you?"
She didn't answer immediately and he began to retract his fingers which were, at that moment, deep inside her.
"Are...what?" She had marked her bottom lip with the bite of her teeth. As she parted them to speak, the colour began to blossom an even deeper red than he had made them with his fervent attention. He wanted to take that swollen lip between his and see if he could increase…
Focus!
"You're - you look to be in pain. Should I stop? I can try a different angle, or perhaps…"
"I'm not in pain. I'm…"
"Uncomfortable? Should we lie on the floor? It would be a little cold but we could use…" he looked around, spotted his coat behind her. It was definitely bigger than her. If he were to go on top…
He'd switched from self-assured to twitchy in less than a minute. Oh, to leave him wriggle there.
"I'm not uncomfortable," she said as he reached around her, angling for The Coat.
"What then? What's wrong?"
It was almost as if he cared.
Perhaps someone's hijacked his body? Yes, that's it, he's possessed.
"For goodness sake. Tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong." She brushed her hands up his waist and back down, looking down at her fingers and how their paleness matched his so well. "I just don't want…"
"But you just said you…"
"...it to end."
He paused, mouth open, brow creasing as he tried to read her.
"Do you mean...you mean to say you don't want the feeling of the build to your orgasm to end, or the day in general? Or perhaps you meant the sex though, I must tell you, as high stamina as I know I am I don't think I could last quite..."
"I mean this," she said, gesturing between them. "And the…" the unbelievable prowess of your fingers "the kissing. It's. Christ. We've been kissing!"
"Yes. I know. I was a participant."
"You're already using 'was'."
She sighed. Stared at his stomach, the shallow movement as he breathed, the beautifully soft texture of his skin. She ran her fingers down his navel and smiled sadly at the shiver she caused.
"Hooper…" he growled and she kept her eyes down. She felt him move in, so close that she had to scold her legs for wanting to wrap themselves around him. His lips were at her ear. She felt him hesitate before saying softly, carefully. "Let me make you cum."
She almost died.
The risk had been marginal. Fighting her feelings though she was, she was certainly more relaxed. Now to make her pliable.
"I'll make it a very good one."
She laughed - Perfect - and he slipped two fingers inside her.
"Oh my god." Resisting the urge to point out how little god had to do with it, he narrowed his thoughts down to the puzzle at hand, focusing his mind on the sensations she would feel if he slowed the motion down by half a second, feeling the almost imperceptible shake as he withdrew and caressed her clitoris again, and again.
In less than a minute she was breathing hot and hard, each intake silent whilst every exhale was loud and shuddering.
Her fingers were frantic; playing a staccato at his hips, digging into his waistband, stroking his stomach, straying to the bulge that was still hard between them. He ignored her attempts to please him though it was interesting to observe how well she knew where to touch and - later - and she was squirming now, pushing herself against him, helping his fingers reach the place inside her where she felt the most pleasure, guiding his touch with those soft moans that were having a curious effect on his skin – later!
Her eyes were rolling back and her head followed, exposing her neck. Her hands fell limp for a moment and then, as he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck and licked once, twice, his fingers sliding slowly out then back in, just a little, just enough, his thumb gently circling her swollen bud, she came. Her body contracted, her hands clawed his arms, her mouth elicited a string of incoherent words mixed with noises he had never heard her emit before.
Her cunt thrummed around his fingers as the contractions of her orgasm died down. She lifted her eyes to his. In less than a second she would be the nervous, embarrassed Molly Hooper. He should say something.
"I told you it would be a good one."
As she laughed her vaginal walls contracted again, turning the laugh into a moan.
He lifted his thumb away and, very, very slowly withdrew the two fingers, wet and soft, sliding them up through her labia and over her clitoral hood, making her shudder again and again and again. There was something unduly satisfying about watching her shake and moan at his touch.
Quite as satisfying as the day he had mastered the concluding Chaconne from Bach's Partita no. 2.
Perhaps even more so.
The room was silent but for the sound of her breath and the soft rustle as he slipped his hand out of her underwear, squeezed her waist, his other hand sweeping back a trail of hair from her face.
He was so gentle. She'd known he could be; had experienced it in words and chaste cheek-kisses, but almost always when he had done wrong, when he had put her in danger, when he was sorry.
This felt different. New. A gentleness without motive.
She let him kiss her, let his tongue fill her mouth, let him wrap her up in his arms. She would participate more in a moment but, for now, she just wanted to savour this…because it wouldn't last, and it wouldn't happen again.
Happy Birthday, she thought. Happy bloody Birthday!