Of course, I do not own the characters, nor the setting.
Molly.
Molly was away. Belgium? Bosnia? Brighton? It started with a 'B.' The details didn't matter. The only important detail was that she was not here. In London. At Baker Street. In his bed.
The bed in which Sherlock could find her following every case for the past year. The bed in which he kissed her. Touched her. Fucked her. She was not there because she had been called away. To a conference. A boring work conference filled with boring others. Boring, incompetent others.
Sherlock huffed impatiently. The wax air freshener Molly enjoyed was melting away at its perch on the mantle, filling the entire flat with a scent reminding him of her. Not his favourite Molly-scent, not a natural scent, or of the shampoo in her hair or the soap on her body, but a scent just the same.
The smell of Molly's shampoo. The visual excitement Sherlock experienced when she pulled the elastic band from her hair, letting it tumble down her back, over her shoulders. That sight combined with the scent of her hair at that pivotal moment. Sherlock groaned with want.
In his mind's eye, Molly heard his groan and grinned sheepishly. The tiny lines around her eyes hidden by her glasses – glasses! Her cheeks reddening, her dimples were showing. She looked down in a self-conscious way, only to have her eyes flick back up as Sherlock breathed her name, 'Molly.'
He shook his head, forcing the alluring image from his mind. Something. He should do something. Anything. Anything to take his mind off the missing Molly. There was a pile of clean, folded clothing on the kitchen table. Putting those away would kill some time, surely.
Sherlock lurched from his chair into the kitchen only to be confronted by Molly once again.
Her jumper. The one she had been wearing the night before she left. The one he, Sherlock, had torn from her body in lust.
He shuddered. Sherlock had spent the entire evening and night with her. Ravishing her. Making her moan, squeal, scream. He hardly let her reciprocate, too intent on working her up. He took more than enough pleasure from the act alone. He needed to hear her utter his name before she left. Needed to hear it many times to get him through the conference.
Sherlock stood frozen, listening to Molly howl, keen, beg. His image of her had removed her glasses. The very jumper lay rumpled at her feet. Pleading, groaning, murmuring his name – Sherlock! Sherlock… She was oddly formless.
His balance wavered, pulling him from his trance. Clearing his throat he grabbed the pile of clothing from the table and made his way to the bedroom.
Methodical. He was very methodical in putting away the clothing. Until he came across a piece of Molly's clothing. In part it stopped him because it was out of the ordinary. Molly's things were rarely in with his – all required difference care. Even more odd because it was a lacy brassiere. Sherlock examined it; it seemed to have fared well, fortunately. It was Molly's favourite. It was his favourite.
The Molly in his mind reached behind her and unclasped the bra. The material slackened and fell forward slightly. Sherlock yearned to reach out to Molly. To clutch the bra in his hand and pull the lacy, dark green material from her body. To free her arms from the soft, satin-like straps. She did it for him. Holding the bra to her body with her right arm she slipped her left arm from the strap, and then switched: her left arm holding the bra in place as she removed the strap from her right arm. Sherlock waited patiently until she grinned up at him, then, finally, took the bra from her body.
He gulped at the sight, at the image, at the near-memory. He watched Molly's hand move to her chest, run down and across the marvelous skin, cup her breasts. Sherlock's mouth began to water as Molly's fingers and thumbs pinched her own nipples, as Molly bit her lower lip.
So vividly could he recall the sensation of Molly's chest at his mouth. The smooth skin ran seamlessly over his tongue. The indentations from her bra's band tickled his lips. Most awe-some, however, was the fell of her nipples hardening into buds in his mouth, at his tongue's attentions, against the roof of his mouth. He needed so dearly to suckle upon her, upon his Molly.
"Hoo-hoo!"
Sherlock nearly swore at the intrusion. Mrs. Hudson had entered the flat. He tossed the green bra to sit on the bed and reluctantly returned to the sitting room.
"Oh! There you are, Sherlock! I thought, since Molly is away, you might like a spot of tea."
She had set a tea pot and cup on the coffee table and smiled.
Tea. Perhaps it would help distract him. Or at the very least, give him enough caffeine to keep his body from tiring. A large bed with only himself occupying it was no longer remotely desirable.
"Yes," he heard himself respond, "Tea. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
"Oh, it was no trouble, dear," she chattered as he herded her to the door, "I only worry that you're getting on alright. I know you lived alone all those years before John and Molly, but you've only been living healthily for a few months. John did indulge you and your habits –."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock dismissed gently, closing the door on the landlady's back.
Sherlock exhaled loudly, sitting down on the sofa. He poured himself a cuppa, then sat back, feet propped on the coffee table.
The coffee table.
Short of taking his mind from his absent pathologist, it only added to his its narrative. Few actions had a better track record for getting Molly's clothes off than that coffee table. Not that Sherlock had had her there – though the idea was tempting – it was the simple fact that that particular piece of furniture was low and had four sharp corners. How many times had she walked past the low-standing furniture before leaving for work, only to have the corner snag at her stockings?
She would curse – excessively when she was running late – and run to their room as she disrobed. Sometimes only the stockings needed to be replaced; sometimes the entire outfit would have to be forgotten.
Though in real life Sherlock would never risk being growled at by obstructing Molly's morning routine, would never keep her from redressing for work, the Molly his mind had conjured had no qualms with such an action.
The act of removing a ruined pair of stockings without taking off one's skirt should have been awkward. Somehow, Molly managed to be just as alluring as she had been while moaning his name, or rubbing her perfect breasts.
He grinned wolfishly at Molly as she stood straight. He relished in her blush as it ran form her checks to her breasts, only just touching her areolas. She knew what he was anticipating, was teasing him as her hands moved to the zip of her skirt. Slowly, oh, so slowly, her hand moved down her side, the zipper loosening under her delicate, perfect fingers. When she pushed the skirt over her hips, she shimmied, making Sherlock groan with want, with need.
Molly's skirt joined her jumper and bra at her feet on the floor, the ruined stockings having been tossed somewhere behind her. All that was left was Molly in her lacy green knickers – matching the abandoned brassiere.
"You're overdressed," she murmured mischievously.
He groaned again. Molly's absence had gone from a recollection of sights, sounds, sensations, and had turned into something like a fantasy.
Somewhere in the background a violin was playing a very familiar tune…
Mobile.
A mobile was ringing. Sherlock's mobile was ringing, sounding Molly's ringtone.
Sherlock snapped back to himself and lunged for the mobile sitting on the coffee table.
"Hello?" he asked desperately.
"Hi! It's me!" Molly's voice answered.
"I know it's you," Sherlock returned, smiling, "How's… Bath?"
"Bristol," Molly corrected, "It's fine. A bit boring, really, but it's great for my job. How are you? Haven't put a gun to the wall yet, have you?"
"Not yet," Sherlock teased, "I got off a case this evening. I miss you here."
There was a silence. Sherlock knew Molly was smiling. He also knew Molly heard more than he had really said – that he was longing for her, aching for her.
"I'll be home the night after tomorrow," she finally murmured, "I miss you, too."
Silence again.
"I'll let you get to sleep. You present tomorrow, do you not? You'll want to be rested."
"You should sleep, too. I know you didn't last night if you were on a case."
"I'll try. Goodnight, Molly, and good luck tomorrow."
"Goodnight. I love you."
"I love you."
Sherlock waited for Molly to ring off before putting his mobile down. He sighed and retreated to his room.
Flopping down on the bed, he landed with his head on Molly's pillow. Her voice was fresh in his mind. His recollection-fantasy one of only a handful of things he could concentrate on. His hands unbuttoned his trousers and lowered the zip. Shifting slightly he freed his shirt and began unbuttoning, imagining Molly's petite, skillful hands in the place of his own. The shirt was open around him as he teased his nipples, letting his hand move gradually down his body to the waistband of his pants.
Sherlock toyed briefly with simply pulling his hardening cock out of his pants, but was convinced by Molly's voice in his head, 'Push them down, it'll make it more fun.' His pants and trousers were pushed to mid-thigh, exposing himself to the air.
As he breathed he smelled Molly, summoned his fantasy-Molly. He watched her move toward him as she had dozens of times, his fingers teasing his cock as she moved.
He rubbed the head of his cock as visions of Molly sucking on that very spot came to mind. She suckled; he rubbed until his hips began jerking upward. Sherlock moaned at the loss of Molly's mouth, of his hand, until Molly crawled over him, straddled him. She positioned Sherlock's cock against her slick opening, and as she slid down his thick shaft, Sherlock's hand made the same journey.
Image upon image flashed through Sherlock's mind as his hand worked his cock. A compilation of his most treasured moments fucking Molly. His hand jerked quickly, simulating Sherlock's memories – Molly bent over his chair as he thrust into her; Molly riding him while he sat in her office chair; simple, passionate love making in their bed. The memories sped his actions. He could almost feel Molly's slick heat, could almost hear her sighing his name. Suddenly, he was coming, he was growling Molly's name as her own expression of completion flashed through his mind a dozen different times.
When he finally returned to his senses, he laughed. Molly. Molly was the only person who could ever draw such a reaction from him. Only Molly.