Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. The title and all poetry quotes are taken from WH Auden's O Tell Me The Truth About Love. This is set in the same universe as Be Near Me When My Light Is Low, about six months after Mrs. Hudson's trial. I'm not sure whether this does well as standalone, let me know. And thanks as always to Katya Jade for her beta.

WHAT THE BLACKBIRD SANG

Six Months In

He wants them to fit together, and at the moment they do not.

He and Molly… orbit one another. They inhabit the same space. They eat the same food, breathe the same air. They share domestic chores and the news of their respective days and even, occasionally, the intimacy of emotional upset or trauma. He knows which cup is her favourite, she knows which microscope he prefers. He knows what her choice of pyjamas says about her emotional state (pink with strawberries, she's happy, blue with monkeys she's in need of cheering up) while she has only to take one look at his socks and she knows whether he'll be home for tea or whether feeding him will be John and Mary's problem. They share a bed and a circle of friends; They wind their lives around one another. But Sherlock knows that something is missing from the arrangement and for the life of him, he doesn't know what-

Or more truthfully, he acknowledges, he knows what is missing but he doesn't know how to fix it.

Because it's only been six months since Oliver Hough's death and he knows that Molly isn't over it yet. He can see it in the way she tenses up sometimes when their interactions become too… charged. He can see it in her occasional, slight reluctance to touch him, and in her chagrined smile when she turns around in bed and presents him with her back most nights. Sherlock tries to be patient, and for the most part he succeeds: He has heard the stories of Hough's behaviour towards her by now- a prolonged court case is good for that- and he understands just how tightly The Bastard managed to knit fear, violence and helplessness with sex inside Molly's head.

It's hardly surprising then, given the facts, that she's skittish.

But knowing that doesn't change his feelings. At all.

Sherlock is not a particularly sexual person: He meant it when he told John that he was married to his work all those years ago. He doesn't lose sleep over not getting his leg over, and he's certainly not going to stoop so low as to guilt-trip Molly into intercourse when she's not ready for it yet. But still… Sometimes, when they're together in bed, before she pulls away, before the fear takes over… It's exhilarating. Wet and warm and good and wanted and really, really, bloody marvellous. It's like running down a suspect, like unravelling a puzzle. Only with mouths and hands and Molly, Molly, Molly making the connections instead of his brain, rapid and lovely and quick-fire bright. Sherlock has never seen the body as anything other than transport: Its purpose is to ferry the mind about, nothing more. But sometimes, with Molly, it feels almost like the mind and everything else is connected. Like it's all part of the whole, and the whole is beautiful in its integrity. In its rightness. The only thing that's missing is Molly, Molly fitted inside and around and against him. Molly, breathing him in and out the way he wants to breathe in her-

But whenever they get even halfway to that point, normally Molly pulls back. Asks him to stop. Or else she begins to shake so hard her upset is impossible to disguise, which quite puts an end to proceedings- As it should do.

So Sherlock is patient. It's not his strong suit, but he'll give it a go. For her.

Because he loves her- though he cannot admit that aloud, not yet- and because he doesn't know what else to do.

Eight Months In

Sometimes, he thinks she must be trying to kill him.

In fact, sometimes he's convinced of it.

Because she sashays through the flat in a towel, or a little dress, or even just her track-suit bottoms and a t-shirt, and it feels like every nerve ending he possesses goes on high alert. Feels like his brain and his body just decide to go into cahoots with every asinine, Neanderthal instinct he possesses and turn him into an utter cave-man, which for a creature like he is disturbing to say the least.

Sometimes though he finds himself staring at her, salivating nearly, and the sensation is so embarrassingly gauche that he ends up feeling a little ashamed of himself. Because his Molly is not to be salivated over. His Molly is not to be importuned. And if she were aware of the images which flash through his head at those moments, he feels sure that she would turn and run away from him, horrified at how very base his imagination can become…

Which is why he never, ever tells her what he thinks about when she looks like that.

It is also, though he would never admit it, why he spends so much of his mornings in a cold shower, the better to leave the hot water to her.

That she is completely unaware of it is obvious. Molly has no talent for flirtation, Sherlock knows this, and if she were trying to entice him then she would be painfully overt about it. If she were trying to get him into bed he'd know. At least, Sherlock's fairly certain he'd know. All of which makes his reactions to her that much more uncalled for. Because she's the one innocently wandering through their flat and he's the one purposefully turning that into an opportunity for perversion. He's the one looking at her and… thinking things. Bad things. Ungentlemanly things. Debauched and depraved things, if he's being honest with himself. He can't imagine her thinking anything like that about him, not when she's been through so much with Hough and not when she's so obviously quiet and gentle and sweet anyway. Not when she's so very lovely and Molly-like and on a pedestal he's not willing to touch-

No, he can't imagine her thinking anything… carnal about him at all.

Which makes what he's doing so much worse.

So imagine his surprise when one day, one normal, spring day nearly seven months after Hough's shooting, he walks into their room to find her standing in front of a mirror in black silk stockings, black satin spike heels and a black silk corset. Opera gloves coating her arms, up to the elbows, a riding crop in her hands. Heavy, thick eye makeup that obscures her features' natural fairness coating her eyes. She turns when he walks in the room, jumps in fright since she obviously didn't expect him. She loses her balance- there's a reason she seldom wears high heels- and lands with a thump on her backside and elbow, giving a grunt of pain as she does. Sherlock rushes over to help her up and she lets out an impressively long, impressively loud string of curse words, culminating in a particularly vicious invective against whoever invented stilettos in the first place-

"That wasn't supposed to happen," she tells him nervously, as he sits her down on the bed. She's rubbing her bruised elbow; she appears to have mislaid her crop. "I was supposed to- It was supposed to be more, um, seductive." She shoots him a pained look. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her. "What do you have to be sorry for? And what precisely did you think I'd find seductive about this?" he demands, gesturing to her outfit.

Really, he doesn't like seeing his sweet Molly in something so very… unlike her.

That outfit belongs on The Woman, not on his pathologist.

Redness floods her face- embarrassment, Sherlock can tell, not anger- and suddenly her gaze drops to her lap. She murmurs something so quietly that he has to ask her to repeat it. "Ms. Adler- This is how she dressed, isn't it?" Molly murmurs.

She suddenly seems absolutely fascinated with the toe of her shoe.

"The Woman wore things like this, I remember looking it up after I read John's blog," she tells him. ""Know when you are beaten," and all that. And I thought- I thought-" She takes a deep breath, seems to force herself to say the words. "I thought that maybe, if, if I put in the effort, then maybe you'd want to, um, you know…"

He realises she's shaking ever so slightly.

Oh, Sherlock thinks.

"Oh," Sherlock says.

"So you mean…" He clears his throat, painfully aware that his foot has a proven capacity for taking up permanent residence in his mouth when he speaks about tender matters. But still, he has to try. "You want to… You want to have sex with me?" he says, trying to ignore how stiff and uncomfortable his voice is as he says that.

He could play-act his way through it, fake nonchalance, but he doesn't like doing that with Molly and never has.

She nods though, surprisingly eager though her eyes are downcast. It sends an unexpected shiver of warmth through him.

"Well, yes, I mean… I know I pull away," she murmurs. "I know I'm difficult. And I know you- Well, I must seem quite vanilla and boring compared to you-"

Sherlock blinks in surprise. It seldom happens, but he did not see that coming. "I'm- I mean, The Woman and I did. You know. Do that. And things," he says. "But it was one night several years ago and I'm surprised everyone has placed the amount of significance on it that they have-"

"Sherlock," Molly says, exasperated. "Your only known sexual partner was a voraciously predatory dominatrix who tried to bring the British government to its knees and nearly succeeded, before being beheaded by extremists in Karachi. That's the sort of thing people remember."

She bites her lip. She's squirming now.

"And besides… It's not the most reassuring… I mean, Adler was a great deal more experienced than m- than most." She sighs, looks up at him with slightly hopeless eyes as she trails off. "I mean, have you ever heard the phrase "you don't follow Sinatra"?" she asks quietly.

"You're comparing Irene Adler to Frank Sinatra?" Sherlock doesn't quite follow.

"Yup," Molly says morosely. "Most impressive performer in the Rat Pack. Crooner extraordinaire and sixties superstar. And I'm just… I'm just Peter Lawford."

This statement does not offer Sherlock any clarity.

"Least successful member of the Rat Pack," she explains at his look. "It's… The metaphor may have reached the end of its usefulness now."

He inclines his head. "I believe it has done."

"Yes, well…" She sighs, plucks at one of her opera gloves. Kicks the shoes off. She looks so deflated, there on their bed. "I look like an muppet, don't I?" she says forlornly. "Just ridiculous."

Sherlock shakes his head. One of the first things John taught him was that insulting a woman's appearance never ends well. And besides, he hasn't forgotten what Hough told her: The cuts on her back were specifically supposed to make her so ugly that nobody else but Hough would want her. Sometimes he thinks she carries that fear still.

As if a few small scars could make so lovely a woman as Molly unattractive.

"You don't look like a muppet," he says quietly. "But you don't look like yourself either, and I can't say I'm a fan of that." He gestures to the corset, aware he must phrase this next bit very carefully. He finds himself staring very hard at the lacings."But tell me truly, Molly," he says quietly, "Is this what you want? Do you… Do you need the props to feel in command? Would that make sex easier for you, after everything you've been through..?"

Now its his voice's turn to drop.

"Or do you think… Do you think I need all this?" He hates asking difficult questions sometimes, but he has to in this instance.

He sees her eyes widen as she realises what he means.

"Is this why you've kept your distance?" he continues quietly. "Because you think I'll… You think I'll want use force? That I used force with Adler? Because really, that's not how it works with a dom-"

He doesn't see the kiss coming, just feels the sweet, quiet pressure of it against his mouth.

It's over before it begins and when he looks at Molly her brown eyes are warm.

"I don't ever think you'd hurt me, Sherlock," she says, very quietly. "I just… I thought you might need a little persuasion. Or something." She sighs, rakes a hand through her hair. It belatedly occurs to him just how frustrated she feels with herself. "It's just… It's been six months and I still can't let you in," she says. "I can't let go. Always before me and the bloke just got carried away… I let myself get carried away. But I can't do that anymore: You've seen what happens when I try. I panic. And then, no sex. Which is annoying. For you. And for me. Because really, I've spent quite a bit of time thinking about us doing… things, and… I'd like to. I'd really, really like to…" She trails off.

Sherlock nods, frowning. Her voice has grown tiny.

He can't help but notice that she her hands are clasped, terribly tightly, there in her lap.

"But if I don't get a move on soon," she continues after a moment, "I'm afraid… I'm afraid it'll never happen. I'll never have the chance… You'll just accept that we're not meant to be lovers and I'll never get the opportunity to do the things I want with you. All the things I want to do to you." She blushes and despite themselves they both smile. "Or, or you'll get bored and move on-"

He hears the ring of truth in her voice and realises: That's what this is actually about.

There are times when he underestimates how stupid the other men she's been with are.

"Molly," he interrupts. "As you so bluntly pointed out, before you my last sexual interest was a dominatrix with a genius IQ and notions of world domination. Before her, I hadn't encountered anyone intriguing in more than five years. Before them, the gap was six. And in both those cases, I was stoned. Does anything about that suggest that I have a short attention span, or the sort of sexual appetite I can't control?"

She shakes her head wordlessly. She looks slightly ashamed of herself for doubting him, something Sherlock likes not at all.

"Or am I to conclude that you assume I'm toying with your affections? Or that I am insincere in my pursuit of you?"

She shakes her head again, this time looking slightly horrified at his suggestion.

He softens his voice this time, because he doesn't want his annoyed tone undermining what he has to say.

"Then might we conclude that I am, in fact, determined to stick with you, no matter what shape our relationship takes?" he asks. "Or how long it takes for that shape to come about? Because that's certainly the impression I had meant to give you-"

Again, she kisses him. It's really rather annoying that she has found so effective a method for shutting him up. But he supposes it has its advantages too.

"Is that a yes?" he asks tartly when she's done, crossing his arms over his chest.

He's aware that the words would sound a lot more impressive if he weren't slightly breathless.

She nods, and there's something there. Some devilish light that he hasn't seen in a very long time, not since before Hough died. She looks… She looks lighter. Reassured.

She looks like his Molly again.

"Yes, I think you would like to stick with me, Sherlock," she says quietly. "And yes, I would like to try and, um, you know. Do naughty things." He shoots her a cocked eyebrow and she giggles: It's quite a lovely sound. "But I think… I think it's going to be difficult. It's going to take time. Are you…" Suddenly her voice is timid again. "Are you going to be ok with that?"

Sherlock looks at her, really looks at her. Takes in the brown hair and the pale skin of her, the ridiculously kohl-rimmed eyes and the small, lithe frame. Takes in the completely inappropriate lingerie that she put on, just for him, to tempt him, because she wants him even though she's afraid of him and afraid of the things she wants with him and afraid he'll walk away.

And then he says the only thing he could possibly say, given the situation.

"Yes, Molly," he says. "I'm alright with that. As John would say, it takes as long as it takes. Now would you like some help getting out of that corset? I seem to remember them being a challenge."

She nods and he begins unlacing her, and when he sees their reflection in his door's mirror he's surprised by how… content, how domestic they appear. Even with her in bondage gear. Hmm, not something I would have guessed, he thinks. It's been a day of surprises for me. But it's a start, a good start, though he knows the rest won't be that easy-

She catches his eye in the mirror and he can see that she understands that too.

Eight and a half months in

They start small, and they start together.

Sherlock has always known that's the way it will have to be.

They start on the living room sofa, fire lit in the grate and burning. Shoes and socks off, Molly curled up against Sherlock's side as she reads. His arm around her waist as he scrolls through his emails on his mobile, trying to find a case. He's tall enough that he can look down and see whatever she has in her hands, can see her mouthing along to the words as she reads them. He realises with a start that she's buried in her father's poetry text book, the one he found in her bag when she was in the Baskerville infirmary, and it takes him mere moments to deduce why that might be.

After all, she reads that book when she's nervous, in need of reassurance.

She reads it when she wants to remember an uncomplicated time in her life.

She reads it because it reminds her of someone she loved very dearly, and Sherlock wonders whether there's a way he could add himself to that equation somehow-

So before he can stop and make himself uncomfortable, or convince himself that he'll muck it up, he decides to do a minor experiment. One he thinks might help her.

He finds her place in the poem and begins reading along with her, keeping his voice soft and low.

"Is it prickly to touch, as a hedge is?" he reads. "Or soft as eiderdown fluff?

Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love."

He can tell her reaction from the precise moment she hears him. She goes slightly stiff, the breath leaving her body in a momentary little whoosh. For a split second Sherlock considers stopping, and as he opens his mouth to ask her whether she'd like that she tightens her hold on the book, shifting it so he can see it better, as well as sliding down so that she's pressed more tightly against his frame. Her head dips and her eyes close; After a moment he continues, reading through the next stanza since she's relaxing. He's never really had any interest in literature before, but words are words, aren't they? And Molly seems to like the sound of his voice.

You two have that in common, he can hear John snort in his head.

But he ignores that, continues reading. There's another three verses and then a poem underneath that. He has plenty to get through, at least for a the time being. And there's something in this, something new, though he can't say precisely what. So he sounds the words out, letting his voice dip and lean and weave with meaning. A performer by nature, that's what Mycroft always said he was, and he supposes he can see his dear brother's point right now.

As he speaks, he feels the tension seep further out of Molly. Sees her chin slump down to her chest, sees her shoulders butterfly apart as if they are finally resting, releasing after months of being winched tight. Her free hand flutters down after a moment, sliding to the one he has placed on her waist. He feels the weight of it, cool and delicate, feels her fingers skim lightly across the inside of his wrist to caress. It tickles- for a moment he considers telling her- And then she takes his hand. Moves it. Presses it gently against her belly, solid and warm. Her fingers splay against his and after a moment he spreads his own, his longer fingers mirroring the pattern her smaller ones make. It feels… He's not sure why he's shivering. He just knows that there's something thick and warm and heavy and honeyed in his chest and he doesn't quite recognise what it is.

"Keep going," she murmurs. "Just… keep reading. No matter what happens, please don't stop..."

"Yes." He presses a kiss to her temple, nodding and continuing his recitation. As he does so he feels her free hand move, dipping lower, dragging his along with it. Feels her hips hitch and rise from their place against his body, even as his hand- still on hers- dips inside her pyjama bottoms to press against her belly, and then lower. Much lower. To press against the damp, slightly coarse fabric of her knickers, where she's- Where she's wet. For him.

That hasn't really happened before, not to this degree. At least, if it has, he hasn't gotten far enough to notice. But guided by her, he feels warmth and slickness as her fingers press down, very gently, on what he assumes is her clitoris. The lips of her opening spreading for him, a gentle, insistent pressure against his skin. He doesn't move his hand, lets her guide him. Lets her set her own pace, her own measure, his hand a witness to the event rather than an active participant. One press, two: He feels her shiver. Three presses, four: Her movements speed up and Molly lets out a long, low hum, murmuring something, even as he continues reading.

Even as his voice and another's words move her through this new place she's in.

Her mouth moves as she presses inside herself, her little, sweet lip bitten by two equally little, sweet teeth. Her body loosens further, her lashes sweeping her cheeks; a flush moves up her throat, her chin. Takes possession of the apples of her cheeks and oh, but that is a lovely sight. Her breasts heave a little and Sherlock finds he wants to discard the book and touch them, feel them fill his hands, but he does not do it. He cannot bear to break this moment they're in. She's found her rhythm now, she's making it, and the insistent pressure of her hips and arse against his body are making Sherlock hard now, harder than he thinks he's ever been, harder than he was beneath Irene Adler that night in Karachi.

It's all he can do to keep reading the words, all he can do not to give in.

But read them he does- he thinks he's restarted the poem, he's not sure- as she rocks and rides against him. As she rolls and writhes to her end. He can see sweat on her brow now and he can't help himself, as he takes a breath he presses a kiss to the back of her neck, tastes salt as it slivers onto his tongue- From her. Feels her pulse hammer against his mouth, fluttering and flustered as a lover's kiss. There's a moment, a beat of stillness, a hiss of indrawn breath. Molly's body arches suddenly, and then she's twisting her legs hard around their joined hands, a paroxysm of pleasure. Her eyes half-opened, unfocussed. Her body beautifully taut, a pale, golden line of luxury against his own.

After a second she sags, all the energy going out of her. There's satiation in her face now though, peace and calmness that Sherlock hasn't ever seen. He tries to finish the poem- "Will it knock on my door in the morning? Or tread in the bus on my toes?"- but Molly takes the book from him. Places it flat on the sofa even as she twists in his lap. She kisses him and this time it's different, it's deep and sweet and drugging.

This time, there's not a trace of fear in it.

Her hand finds his heart, presses against it. "Thank you," she says, her voice low and lovely and spent. "I- That was-" She sighs. It sounds blissful. "I'd forgotten it could feel like that."

Suddenly there's a lump of… something in Sherlock's throat. "You are most welcome, Molly Hooper," he says, his arms tight around her, his cock hard. Wanting. And yet, he would rather that than not have witnessed what he's just witnessed.

The body is only transport, after all.

Molly blinks at him with those large, brown eyes, suddenly shy now, the flush of sex slowly being replaced by the flush of embarrassment. But Sherlock does not disentangle himself from her, and she doesn't even try look away.

They stay like that for the rest of the night, peaceful and quiet together.

And when Molly falls asleep that night, it's with Sherlock wound in her arms.

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed. I'm not sure if it's finished yet. And if you did enjoy it, why, there's a wee button there that lets you tell me how much. So maybe you should use it? (Whistles innocently). If, you know, you want to... Hobbits away, hey!