Sherlock asks Molly to help him clear his head. Set sometime after HLV. Inspired by a Tumblr prompt regarding Molly's pretty hands. 3
Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope to look across the table at Molly. She had jerked her gloves off, the latex snapping angrily. He watched as she rubbed her temples with her fingertips. It was rare that Molly ever became agitated; usually Sherlock was agitated enough for the both of them. Molly leaned onto the table with her elbow, cradling her forehead in her palm.
"Please tell me you're getting somewhere with all this," she pleaded. "Drug screen was negative."
"I wouldn't be me if I weren't getting somewhere with this," he murmured, lowering his eyes back to the microscope and twisting the dial. Molly rolled her eyes and pulled a thin manila folder from the stack on the table. She supposed she could fill out the paperwork on the negative drug screen while they decided on their next move.
Sherlock lifted his gaze from the eyepiece again to watch Molly as she pondered the form in front of her. Her forehead was still cupped in her hand, but her next-to-last finger was tracing invisible lines absently across the skin there. She drummed the fingers of her free hand against the table as she read over the form in front of her.
A number of words came to mind when Sherlock looked at Molly Hooper's hands (and he did look at them quite often). Slim. Deft. Capable. They were the hands of a scientist, similar to his own (something he, of course, could appreciate). But they were also graceful. Beautiful. From deduction, Sherlock could tell that Molly touched things with delicacy.
From experience, Sherlock knew that she also touched things with assuredness.
Sherlock cleared his throat as he felt a faint flush creep up his neck. He returned his gaze to his microscope.
"Am I bothering you? Sorry, I tend to do that when I'm agitated," Molly told him, halting her rhythmic tapping. "I don't even realize I'm doing it half the time."
"Mm, yes, I know. It is quite incessant," he teased her. Sighing, he pushed himself away from the microscope and stood. He pulled out the stool next to hers and sat, perching his feet on the crossbars. His knees brushed hers as he faced her. "I need to clear my head. Distract me," he commanded.
"I–er–what do you want me to do?" she asked, confused. Sherlock took her hands in his and guided them to his neck where she knowingly slipped her fingers into his hair. "Oh," she said as the realization hit her. A smile curled her lips as she stroked her fingers through his hair. "If it's a distraction you want, it's a distraction you'll get."
A shudder ran through him as her hands tightened in his hair and she pulled him forward, her lips colliding with his. His hands came around her waist and pulled her pelvis toward him so that she straddled his leg, all too aware of her sex pressing against him. Leaving one hand to toy with the curls at the nape of his neck, Molly snaked a hand down to his waistband and made short work of pulling his shirttails free. He gasped as her cold hands came in contact with the warm skin of his stomach, and he couldn't help but smile into their kiss as she traced those slim, beautiful, deft fingers across the familiar trail of his abdomen. She stroked a thumb over the scar of his bullet wound (a common gesture, but Sherlock couldn't fathom why she always returned to that scar) before dropping her hand to his thigh. The things she could do to him with that hand–
"Mm, I'd watch that hand, Miss Hooper," Sherlock warned, voiced low. His rumbling baritone–always lower when he was aroused, she was pleased to discover–sent a jolt straight through her chest to her sex. With a pleasured sigh, Molly rolled her hips forward and ground ever so slightly against his thigh to alleviate the pressure between her legs.
"You said you wanted a distraction. I'm just doing my best," she said breathlessly, tone teasing. She inched her knee up to nudge his cock and giggled at his sharp intake of breath
"Baker Street is too far," Sherlock grumbled, fingers making their way down the row of buttons on her blouse, baring the tops of her breasts to his hungry gaze.
"There's a single stall bathroom down the hall," Molly told him, sighing against his cheek as he trailed his knuckles across her exposed skin. "With a door that locks," she added. Sherlock stopped his ministrations–he'd begun to pass his lips back and forth across the top of one breast–and helped her off his lap.
"Lead the way," he commanded. Molly grinned up at him and grabbed his hand, pulling him off his stool. Sherlock entwined his fingers with hers as they left the lab behind them.