He slips into his flat, only lighting one lamp on his way to his room, a case just finished and his belly full. He slips out of his suit, hanging the jacket and trousers and throwing the shirt in his hamper. He lies on his bed in his underwear and spends a few minutes sorting and filing and deleting all of the info from the case. All the work finished, at least for the moment, he proceeds to the next step. As distracting as sexual urges can be, he's found that sexual release does have its uses. It helps him relax enough after a case to descent quickly into the sleep his body needs but that he won't always allow it to have. It blanks his mind long enough for the body's needs to take over.
His inspiration is in a dirty magazine hidden in a room in his Mind Palace that is similar to his childhood bedroom. He imagines a psychologist would have a field day with that. He pulls the magazine from a box under the bed, where it lives underneath a stack of science journals. He pages through the usual starters. Some are based on fleeting images from real life. Molly Hooper in the lab in a low cut shirt, leaning over just so that the curve of her breasts and the color of her bra are revealed, eyes bright behind her goggles. Irene Adler sitting on a sun drenched balcony, wrapped in a hotel bathrobe, bare legs stretched out, one foot daintily resting on another chair. Antony, his tailor's assistant, reaching up onto high shelves for things in the shop, his perfectly fit trousers providing better advertising for the tailor's services than would a full page ad in the Times.
Others are pure fantasy. Molly Hooper in the lab in nothing but a lab coat and safety goggles, bent over one of the benches, hands grasping for purchase on the slick surface as he slams into her from behind. Irene Adler tied up in his bed, blindfolded, gasping for release as he teases her. The tailor's assistant sucking Sherlock's cock as he stands, fully clothed on the pedestal in the fitting room.
Sherlock strokes himself lightly on top of his boxer briefs as he considers these tried and true fantasies. They all seem a bit stale. Nothing wrong with trying something new, right? There are countless articles in every woman's magazine devoted to spicing up one's sex life. Solid advice even if one's sex life is solitary. He thinks on some of the porn he's recently watched, for a case of course.
He conjures up Molly again, but moves her to the staff locker room at Bart's. Then he swaps the lab coat out for field hockey kit. Green skirt and shirt, gold knee high socks. The green contrasts nicely with her hair. The kit is at least a size too small. The shirt rides up to reveal her navel and the skirt barely covers her bum. No bra. He adjusts the thermostat in the locker room to create a bit of a chill, hardening her nipples. He stops short of putting her hair in two pigtails. Her usual pony tail will suffice. Molly stands with one leg on the bench, adjusting her shin guards.
Next he brings in Irene, face scrubbed free of makeup, hair in two dark braids, wearing similar kit. Irene's skirt and shirt are blue and her socks red. Obviously she's on the opposing team.
"Oi, what are you doing in here?" says Molly to Irene, in an exaggerated Estuary accent.
"Must have taken a wrong turn," Irene says innocently, her voice all soft and public school. She turns and threads her hockey stick through the handles of the double doors. "But now that I'm here, maybe I can get you to show me your playbook."
Irene slinks toward Molly, placing a hand on Molly's knee and running it up her thigh, under her skirt.
"Coach'll kill me if I let you see any of the plays," Molly says with a shiver.
"Not if I ask him to join in the fun," Irene says as she takes hold of Molly's white cotton knickers.
"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock," Molly says. "What the hell have you been watching lately?"
Sherlock stops mid stroke and the Mind Palace version of Sherlock, who has been watching from a bench in the corner, gapes at Molly. "Excuse me?"
Molly grabs Irene's red manicured hand and holds it up. "First of all, why the hell would a girl who plays field hockey ever have nails like this? They wouldn't last half a quarter. Secondly, they're too damned long."
Irene smiles at Molly and turns to Sherlock. "And I really hope we're supposed to be in uni here because if we're underage—"
"No. No!" he says.
"This is all a bit cliché," Irene says, straddling the bench and examining her nails, which are now short and blunt. "Though I've honestly never thought of what might be done with a hockey stick."
"Well, if I might suggest—"
"Hush," Irene says. "You're not in the mood for that."
"Since you two seem to be calling the shots today, tell me what I am in the mood for."
"Why don't you start by making us more like, well, us."
Sherlock scoffs.
"What, you don't think we'd get on?" Molly asks.
"Well, I've never really thought about it. Until now I've always kept you, well, separate."
"Think about it, Sherlock. You like me, right?" Molly says.
"Yes."
"And I like you, right?" Molly continues.
"Yes."
Irene steps toward Sherlock. "And you and I are cut from the same cloth, right?"
"Yes."
"Then why on earth wouldn't I like her?" Irene says, pointing at Molly.
"And why wouldn't I want to fuck her brains out?" Molly says, pointing at Irene.
"You've got a point. Can I bring Janine in?"
"No!" the women say simultaneously.
"Okay, get on with it," he says imperiously.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Irene says.
"Oh!" Sherlock pauses the action and fumbles in his nightstand drawer for the bottle of lube. He forgot last time which lead to some highly unpleasant chafing. He squeezes it into his hand, warms it by rubbing them together and lays back down, pants pulled off and kicked off the end of the bed.
"Ready," he says, back in his Mind Palace.
Molly takes down her ponytail and shakes her hair out and Irene undoes her braids.
"You have lovely hair," Molly says, sitting on the bench facing Irene.
"You, too. Do you mind if I touch it?"
"Not at all."
The women move closer until their knees touch and Irene runs her hands through Molly's hair, lightly scratching her scalp. Molly sighs and puts her hands on Irene's hips. She leans in and takes Irene's lower lip between her teeth, tugging gently before giving her a proper kiss. As they snog and Sherlock begins to stroke himself in earnest, the scene dissolves and is replaced by an Alpine backdrop, the two women lying in a field of white flowers wearing habits. When Irene opens her eyes and sees that Molly's hair is covered by a wimple, she sits up and laughs.
"Christ, Sherlock, really?" she says, standing up and examining the costume. "You didn't even go to Catholic school."
"I did," Molly says with a gleam in her eye. Sherlock, perched on a nearby rock, looks down and finds himself dressed as a priest.
"Well, this is certainly familiar territory," Irene says. "But I think I know what he's really in the mood for today."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "And that would be?"
"Oh, Antony!" Irene calls. Antony from the tailor's shop comes running up the path, dressed as a priest as well, though his trousers and shirt are more snugly than any priest Sherlock has ever seen. His arms are richly brown and defined and his buzzed hair pulls the focus to his face, especially his large brown eyes.
"Yes, Sister?" Antony says. "How may I be of assistance?"
"Monsignor Holmes needs a little help falling asleep. He can't relax. I'm sure you've got just the thing." She steps close to Antony and runs her finger down his cheek to his shapely lips. Antony sucks her finger into his mouth. "Yes, that's the idea." She pushes Antony toward Sherlock. When he reaches the detective, the younger man knees between his legs.
"What are you two going to do?" Sherlock asks.
"Mostly watch. Maybe kiss and touch ourselves but mostly just watch," Molly says with a smile, sucking on a lolly that's appeared from nowhere. She offers the candy to Irene, who licks it slowly.
"Right," Sherlock says, his attention now on Antony, who is unzipping Sherlock's black trousers. When he's finished, he makes the sign of the cross.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession."
"Am I supposed to take your confession?"
"Yes, Monsignor. Priests must be absolved as surely as their parishioners. These are my sins. I have had impure thoughts about several of the sisters. I have imagined myself fornicating with them as well as them fornicating with you and with each other." Antony's hands creep up Sherlock's thighs and grip his hips. "I have taken the Lord's name in vain three times, all during orgasms I had while masturbating." He hooks his fingers under Sherlock's waistband and begins pulling his trousers and pants down. Sherlock lifts his hips to assist. "I am sorry for these sins and all the sins I can't remember."
Sherlock looks to Molly and Irene uncertainly.
"Give him his penance," Molly stage whispers.
"Oh. Right. So your penance is to suck my cock," he says in a rush.
Antony smiles. "Yes, Father." He lowers his head and takes Sherlock into his mouth in one long pull, his tongue working furiously, swirling around his foreskin and sliding along the slit while on hand works the base, the other his bollocks. He is not gentle and Sherlock grits his teeth.
In his bed, as his climax nears, the images lose coherence, clips of memories and fantasies whirl inside his head to the soundtrack of skin on skin and his own ragged breathing. His legs are spread wide and his left arm is thrown back, grasping the edge of the mattress. When he finally comes, with an image of Molly and Irene teasing each other's nipples while Antony's lips are wrapped around his cock frozen in crystal clear focus, he half sits up with the force of it. "Christ," he moans, lying down, as sweaty and sticky as if he'd actually been engaging in intercourse. He pants loudly as his semen cools on his belly, and wipes his brow. Back on the mountainside, Antony sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth.
"Your sins are truly forgiven. Go in peace," Sherlock says.
A breathless Molly chimes in, "Thanks be to God!"