Hello! I'm back! This particular story is a sequel to my previous story, In the Name of Science. I would highly recommend reading that before starting this—otherwise a few select details will not make sense! In addition, two books are directly referenced in this story—one of my own creation, and Death on the Nile by Agatha Christie.
Please enjoy and let me know what you think!
It's a 9.
Please monitor the eyeballs in your fridge for changes in pH levels.
SH
That was the last correspondence Molly Hooper had received from Sherlock Holmes in three weeks. Twenty-one days of absolute silence. In fact, she only knew what the consulting detective was up to because of her lunch that day with a very pregnant Mary Watson.
Mary sipped her water and stuffed another chip into her mouth. The cravings had been brutal. Molly expected so, and knew the afternoon would be interesting after the brunette ordered a burger, only to moan about how awful the smell made her feel once the plate arrived. A few tears later and the wait stuff had generously brought over a cheese toastie to replace her previous sandwich.
Her pregnant friend had taken one bite and exclaimed with a laugh that the baby now wanted chips.
Molly had continued to munch on her salad throughout the process, wondering if carrying a child for nine months was worth it. As she watched Mary finish off a plate and wave the staff over for another, she gave the pathologist a curious glance.
"So. The boys are up in Belfast. I've never been. A bit peeved at John for going without me," she picked up the discarded cheese toastie and took a bite before adding, "John says Sherlock has been driving him up the wall. More so than usual."
Molly blinked and shifted in her seat. "Oh… I didn't know they left London," Molly whispered softly, her stomach filling with knots.
Mary gave her a look. "When's the last time you spoke to Sherlock? Their trails were running cold. They jumped from London to Liverpool, then to Glasgow, then to Atlanta, then to Belfast."
The pathologist's eyes widened. "They went all the way to the States?"
Mary rolled her eyes. "That's why Sherlock is driving John batty. He insisted the trip was necessary. John says the plane touched down and before he blinked they were already off. He was groaning that he didn't even get to try what the Americans call sweet tea. Can you believe they sweeten their tea?"
Molly just nodded, playing with the remaining lettuce on her plate. Three weeks, a trip across the pond, and not a single word.
As she sat on her sofa, stuffing her face with pad Thai out of a takeaway container, she couldn't help but continue to think about Sherlock. It had been three months since the… experiment. Three months since she learned what he tasted like. What his body felt like against her own. What his voice sounded like when he cried out her name in pleasure.
She sighed and shoved a fresh clump of noodles into her mouth. Not much had changed. Not really, anyways. She was still Dr. Hooper, working far too many hours at St. Bart's, in desperate need of a holiday. He was still consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, far too smart and snarky for his own good.
Except for now, in addition to his requests for body parts and the occasional cup of coffee, he frequently crawled into Molly's bed at night and shagged her until she couldn't think or talk, let alone walk.
So yes, maybe things had changed. But they weren't in a relationship. He wasn't her boyfriend. He wasn't her anything. She had stopped dating (of course that was mainly because her heart still only belonged to Sherlock) but they were by no means "together".
She groaned and sipped the glass of wine sitting on her coffee table. And here she thought that tonight would be different.
It was her birthday.
A small part of her thought that she would hear from Sherlock. Even if his case was consuming his every thought, she hoped and prayed that he'd at least call her, send her a text, anything. Yet, here she sat, sprawled across her sofa, eating takeaway and watching Peaky Blinders without a word from the curly haired detective.
If it weren't for Meena working a night shift, she would have actually considered going out for the evening. Sure, she wouldn't have picked up a bloke, but getting pissed would have at least distracted her from being hopelessly in love with a man that only used her for body parts—both dead ones and her own.
As her episode ended, she reached for the fresh mystery novel sitting on her table—an Agatha Christie classic. She had been meaning to start the novel, but was waiting for Sherlock to be distracted. She was still peeved he ruined Murder on the Orient Express for her. She had only made it a chapter in before he deduced the killer from the synopsis and reading over her shoulder.
Molly glanced at the clock, noting the late hour, and wondered if the lonely remaining hour of her birthday would be an indication of the next year of her life. With a sign and a ruffling of Toby's fur, she began to read the book, losing herself in the crisp pages.
She had finished chapter three when she heard the knock at her door. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that a half hour had passed. She dropped the book and made her way to the door, knowing that Meena would have just gotten off. Smiling to herself, she wondered if her best friend was bringing her a gift. Hopefully a cake. She could use the sugar to drown out her feeling.
However, when she whipped the door open, she stood nose to chest with a Sherlock who looked very much… not like Sherlock.
She took a step back, startled to see her… whatever. Her eyes quickly swept over him, taking in his bizarre appearance.
A pair of aviator sunglasses sat on his face, his curls falling onto the lenses. His thin but muscular frame was encased in a soft grey, cotton hoodie, unzipped to reveal a red t-shirt with a logo of what appeared to be a bird, and the letters "ATL" across the chest. His strong legs, encased in a pair of distressed blue jeans led to a pair of new black Chuck Taylors.
Molly blinked before finally meeting Sherlock's eyes… or rather his sunglasses. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock took his sunglasses off and cleared his throat, letting his hypnotic blue eyes meet Molly's. "Molly Hooper? I'm sorry for showing up at such a late hour but this is urgent. I need to ask you a few questions."
Molly stared at her handsome detective, trying to process his words.
Wait a minute. Was he speaking in an American accent?
"Come again?" Molly managed to squeak out.
Sherlock just sighed. "Look, Dr. Hooper, your people speak the English language, right? Shouldn't you be able to understand the words coming out of my mouth?" He asked, most certainly in a very clear, very crisp American accent.
Molly stared at him, mouth agape. "Sherlock?"
The detective narrowed his eyes before digging into his jean pocket, pulling out a small badge. "My name is Shane Henderson. I'm a detective for the Atlanta PD. I work in the Criminal Investigations Division. Turns out we have a case that's dragged me all the way to London." He flipped the leather cover up to show Molly the shiny, metal badge.
Molly opened her mouth, her eyes shifting from the badge in his hands, to his gorgeous face, back to his outfit. She met his eyes again. Sherlock shook his head and pushed past her, right into the flat.
Shane… Why does that name… Oh…
Molly turned a fierce red as she shut her door, watching as Sherlock inspected her entryway. Could he really be playing the role of the detective from one of her favorite trashy novels? Molly pulled at her dressing gown, deciding that whatever this was, she wasn't going to stop it. She could play along.
She was in a play. Once.
Sherlock looked around before reconnecting with Molly's gaze. "Nice apartment. Kind of rainy in this city," the detective took a lap around her flat, stopping by her sofa. His eyes met the new novel laying on her table, causing Molly to let out a groan. She was only on chapter three!
To her delight, he ignored the novel, apparently committed to his role, and ventured back over to Molly.
"Now Dr. Hooper, I have some questions to ask. I expect you to cooperate. A lack of cooperation won't be in your favor," Sherlock announced, his accent crisp, with touches of Southern influence.
God, Molly loved a good American police procedural. She blushed and focused her attention back on the curly-haired man.
"Right, uh, Shane. How can I assist you?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It's Officer Henderson to you. Take a seat and I won't be too hard on you."
Molly couldn't help but giggle as she sat down at her kitchen table. Sherlock watched her expectantly, before pulling a tiny notepad out of his back pocket. He dropped to the seat across from her and proceeded to bring his long legs to lay across the top of her table.
"My unit discovered a dead body along Interstate 85 last night. At the crime scene, we discovered a British passport. A passport with your name and photo on it."
Molly bit her lip and continued to watch Sherlock, realizing that his devotion to this act was indeed very sexy. She fidgeted in her seat before responding. "Oh? My passport? Well I assure you that I haven't left London in many months."
Sherlock scribbled a few notes down before dropping his legs back to ground. He slammed his fists on the table. "You know, Dr. Hooper, I don't like being lied to. And right now, you're lying to me. Any reason why?"
Molly blushed. "I'm not lying Sh—Officer Henderson."
The detective laughed. "I know for a fact that you just returned from America."
The doctor blinked. "I… I haven't though! I haven't been to the States since… Since well I was 21!"
Sherlock laughed and moved towards her handbag, which was left discarded on her kitchen counter. He rummaged through the bag, until he pulled out a bag of airline peanuts for American Airlines and a receipt for a gas station in Atlanta. He held up the evidence and looked at Molly expectantly.
"How do we explain these goodies, Dr. Hooper? Jonesing some airline peanuts?"
Molly stared at the detective, mouth agape.
How did…
She laughed.
He was good. Too good. The prat must have snuck into her flat! God knows what other evidence he planted!
Molly sat up straighter, raising her nose to the air. "Perhaps I've been framed Officer. Those aren't mine."
Sherlock nodded and let his eyes travel around the flat again. After a few moments, his gaze landed back on Molly, who sat at the table, watching expectantly. "I don't like when people don't listen to me, Princess."
Her cheeks turned pink at the term of endearment. She swallowed and pulled at the lapel of her dressing gown. "Officer, I am listening to you. I'm submitting to your question—without a warrant or anything such!"
Sherlock laughed. "Oh Princess, you will submit to me. Especially when you lie." He took a step towards Molly, his blue eyes enchanting the pathologist.
"Where were you last night?" He asked again.
Molly whimpered, her eyes still locked on Sherlock's blue orbs. "I was here! In London! I worked until 6 and then rushed home. I made a cheese toastie for dinner and called my parents."
Sherlock growled and grabbed her wrists, pulling her out of her chair. He turned the pathologist around, pressing her against the edge of her kitchen table. He pressed his lips to her ear, which currently was hidden behind her brown locks.
"No Princess, you weren't. You're lying to me again. Do you know what this means?"
Molly let out a squeak. "No. What does it mean, Officer?"
Sherlock pressed his firm body further into Molly, her body now bending at a ninety-degree angle against the Ikea table. "No more good cop. The bad cop is coming."
"Bad?" Her soft voice gasped out.
"Oh, very bad," his voice spat out, his hips pressing into her backside harder, "This cop is going to punish you for thinking it was okay to lie to me."
Molly just whimpered and shifted her hips, eager to press into a clearly aroused Sherlock. She bit her lip before looking over her shoulder, deciding that she was going to fully immerse herself into whatever this was. "Oh Officer… Yes… I need to be punished…. I've been bad."
Sherlock grunted, his ears perking at her sentence. Aside from being incredibly sexy, he immediately recognized the line from his browsing of the novel. "Don't worry. My cock is going to teach you a lesson, Princess."
The pathologist moaned at his words and proceeded to wiggle her butt against his hardening length, enjoying the feel of his hands clenching against her thighs to hold her still. She gasped as she felt his hands slide up her bare thighs, before forcing her legs apart. His hands pushed the end of her nightie up, and pushed her lace knickers aside, encountering her heated flesh.
Sherlock growled softly and began to rub her wet core. "How should I punish you, Princess? Fuck you so hard that you can't move? Spank your lying ass for challenging me?"
Molly just gasped, tossing her head back to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. As his fingers continued to rub at her heated flesh, his other hand ran up her clothed stomach until reaching her shoulder. The detective expertly pulled the nightie down, before grabbing her bare breast.
"You want me to fuck you with my fingers? Make you cum like the naughty girl you are?"
Molly cried out, the sound of her filthy protagonist's words out of Sherlock's mouth too much to handle. Sherlock continued his movements until her body stilled, no longer shaking from a much-needed orgasm.
He took the opportunity to lift the tiny pathologist up, and immediately headed towards her bedroom. He dropped her on the bed and stared down at the brunette.
"You want me to fuck that tight pussy of yours? Make you squeal? Maybe then I'll finally get some honest, fucking answers out of you." Sherlock began to undress, his eyes never leaving Molly's.
She did, however, let out a giggle when she noticed that Sherlock wore pants decorated like the American flag.
Oh, Sherlock. You and your details.
Sherlock kicked off the pants and moved to pull Molly out of her nightie and dressing gown, pressing wet kisses all over her naked body.
"You said maybe you were being framed. Who would possibly want to blame someone like you?" He kissed down her stomach before settling between her legs, taking one long lick between her toned thighs.
Molly let out a loud moan, immediately tossing her head back at the sensation. Sherlock took another long lick, before looking back at the pathologist.
"Well? You can't make a claim like that without some evidence, Princess," He took another lick. "And right now, all evidence points to you." And another. "So, I recommend you stop lying to me before things get ugly." And another.
His tongue continued to snake between her legs, soon joined by his longs, delicious fingers. Molly grabbed onto his curly locks, desperately trying to keep it together. The entire evening was mad. Between almost a month without his touch, to the roleplay, to his accent! She had never had a particular attraction to American accents but now… Maybe she had a fetish. Or was it just Sherlock?
Sherlock added another finger to her quivering sex, his eyes watching his pathologist as his tongue worked diligently. "Well?" He asked, taking a second away from her flesh, "Are you going to answer me, Dr. Hooper?"
Molly moaned and shook her head, her hold on his hair tightening with every further lick. She heard Sherlock growl before another finger was added to her hot sex.
That was all it took. With a scream, she saw stars, reaching her second orgasm of the night. Sherlock leaned up from between her legs and made a show of licking his fingers, before wrapping his hand around his own aching cock.
"So. You still haven't learned your lesson. Maybe you will once I fuck you with my big cock. Would you like that, Princess?"
Molly just moaned, no longer capable of forming coherent sentences. She slowly came to her senses as she felt the hot tip of his member rub against her entrance.
"Tell me, Princess. Have you ever been fucked by an American man?" Sherlock drove hot kisses down her neck, his hands moving from her chest to her hips.
Molly let out a moan and shook her head.
"You'll be pleased to know that everything is bigger in America." With that, Sherlock pushed forward, moaning as he felt Molly's hot flesh sheath his engorged length.
Molly let out a desperate cry and wrapped her legs around his waist. She threw her head back and led out a cry, whaling every time his hips slammed into hers.
Sherlock growled and dug his fingers into her hips. "Does that feel good, Princess? Are you going to cooperate now?"
The pathologist let out another cry and shook her head. She reached for his body, desperately trying to touch any part of his smooth, heated skin.
The detective flipped them over, his hands moving up her tiny body to take ahold of her breasts. He captured her mouth in a hot kiss before slamming his hips up to meet hers.
"You like my big cock fucking that little pussy of yours? You wanna come for the third time, Princess? You wanna see fireworks like the sky on the fourth of July?" He slammed his hips into hers again.
Molly let out a scream, her body shaking as a powerful orgasm overtook her body and her sanity. Upon feeling her hot flesh tightening, Sherlock let out an identical cry, cursing out a staggered, "Bloody hell."
Collapsing onto the bed, Molly rolled off his body. Sherlock laid on his back, trying to calm his breathing. Molly rolled onto her side, slowing her own breathing, and watching with an amused smile on her face.
"You broke character," she pointed out, rather teasingly.
Sherlock growled and covered his eyes with his hands. "I'm rather aware of that Dr. Hooper. Must you remind me of my failure?" He asked, his voice back to the melodic timbre of the one and only Sherlock Holmes.
Molly just laughed, her eyes focused on Sherlock, who sat with his arms crossed, again like a petulant child. "Well Officer… Who solved the case?"
The detective made a face and sat up, watching Molly with hooded eyes. "It's obvious. Your evil, identical twin sister," Sherlock responded, his voice back to an American baritone with a slight southern twang.
Molly couldn't help but laugh. "An evil twin? But I thought—"
Sherlock groaned. "Yes, it's never a twin. I'm aware. But John insisted and well, I figured since he's about to be miserable from a lack of sleep and shagging, I might as well let him have this one thing," he responded, his voice back to its British roots.
The pathologist rolled into his arms, laughing hysterically. She wasn't sure what was so funny. Sure, the anecdote about John was amusing, but so was whatever the hell she had just engaged in with Sherlock.
They laid in bed for a silent few moments—Molly drawing shapes on Sherlock's chest as he fiddled with the loose locks of her hair.
"I guess you kept my book," Molly whispered, breaking the couple out of the silence.
Sherlock nodding slowly, continuing to play with her hair. "I wasn't sure what to gift you for your birthday. I couldn't come up with any one material item that would be adequate so… I thought about that bloody book and well… I couldn't resist."
Molly smiled softly and snuggled further into the detective. "Thank you. It was certainly one of the more… creative birthday gifts I've received."
The detective smirked. "I sure hope so. Happy birthday Molly."
The brunette laughed again but then stopped, her face contorting into a frown.
"Sherlock… I can't do this. Whatever this is."
The detective stared at her, his face emotionless.
I wish I could read his mind.
"I… You know how I feel about you. I can't just have casual sex with you. It will kill me. I… I reckon it already is. And your lifestyle is so unpredictable! You basically disappeared for three weeks. Not a word from you. I… I just can't do it."
Sherlock blinked, his eyes locked on Molly's face. He let out a slow nod.
"I didn't realize we were having casual sex," Sherlock added softly.
"Well, what was this then? Don't tell me it was for science or research or something. Just spare me at that rate."
Sherlock frowned. "No. I was under the assumption that we were now in a relationship."
Molly blinked and squeaked out, "What?"
The detective looked exasperated. "We've had sexual intercourse on exactly thirty different occasions since my experiment. I've slept over at your flat approximately fifteen times. I've made you coffee now four times. It's rather obvious."
Molly stared at him with wide eyes before breaking into a maniacal laughter. "Sherlock… I will never understand how your brain works! That's not how people enter relationships! They communicate and set boundaries… Labels… I…. I really thought you didn't want anything more than sex. I never realized that you had determined that we were already together!
Sherlock groaned and covered his naked lower body with a sheet. "Well… I'm sorry. I'm rather new at this sort of thing. I… Well I have feelings for you Dr. Hooper and I'd very much like to be your… boyfriend."
At the words, Molly whimpered and threw herself onto Sherlock, covering his face in wet kisses. "Of course, Sherlock. But that also means no more disappearing for cases without telling me. If you must leave London, that's fine, but at least let me know where you are!"
Sherlock groaned again. "Well, we were jumping from place to place and then I had to go to Atlanta to get that shirt. I didn't want to spoil the surprise."
Molly let out another maniacal laugh. "You flew to the States just to buy a shirt for an American sports team?"
He rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I also had to hear the dialect spoken in the area, as well as witness what men my age were wearing. It was doing much needed reconnaissance. Of course, I had to be quick because John was whining just as much as Mary. You'd think he was the one who was preggers—practically needed a pram to be moved through the airport."
Molly couldn't help but giggle as she reached over the edge of the bed and grabbed the discarded t-shirt from the floor. Her eyes moved over the red article, focusing on the bird logo adorning the front. Recognition lit up her face.
"This is the American football team from Atlanta!" She turned the Sherlock.
He nodded. "Yes. They call themselves the Falcons, although they rather look more like a modern hieroglyphic," he added with a chuckle.
Molly smirked and folded the shirt, looking over at Sherlock expectantly. He noticed her look and narrowed his eyes.
"Yes?"
Molly smirked and bit her lip. "You didn't actually read the book. Because if you did, you'd know that Shane was a Patriots fan. His father was from Boston. It's a big deal because Michelle was from New York and apparently their football rivalry is like Liverpool and Manchester United."
Molly noticed the way Sherlock's face went blank at the mention of the football teams, both American and British, and couldn't help but laugh. She was slightly overjoyed at catching a hole in his perfectly crafted story, knowing how much of a perfectionist Sherlock could be.
Satisfied with his silence, Molly snuggled into his chest and grabbed his hand, her fingers playing with his. She heard the subtle shift in his breath and sighed. She prepared herself for whatever snarky retort he was about to throw her way.
"Simon, the husband, and his lover, Jacqueline, kill everyone to cover their affair and run off with Linnet's money. The plan goes awry and Jacqueline kills Simon before killing herself. Yippee for Poirot. It takes him 288 pages. It would only take me 30."
Molly groaned and raised her hand to smack Sherlock, but the detective was too quick. He took ahold of her hand and pressed a soft kiss to the top before wrapping his arms around her naked form.
"Play nice, Princess. Otherwise I'll have to punish you again."
The End
I hope you enjoyed! I got such a great response on my first story that I couldn't resist writing a sequel, especially focused on Molly's dirty novel that Sherlock peeked into. Considering how talented of an actor Benedict is, and how Sherlock loves to dress up and assume different roles, I couldn't help but have him become the steamy American detective from her books. As an American, I wanted to exaggerate a bit, especially since every time we try to write British characters, I think we're just as exaggerated—I certainly used the word bloody way too often!
Anyways, please enjoy and let me know what you think! A positive response will always encourage me to write more 😊 Thanks again!