Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Please note the change in rating, people- This isn't for teenagers anymore. Thanks for their reviews go to DanaanB, Sherlockedforeverafter, applejacks0808, Moonunit, likingthistoomuch, Katya Jade, Deductions-of-Sherlolly, roses-after-rain, shazzykins and bekah1218. Hope you enjoy this next...
~ FOOL FOR LOVE ~
He moans when her teeth first pierce his skin, just as he moans when he feels her start to drink.
Helpless, writhing, he gasps and threads his hand through her hair roughly. Holds her head to his throat as the blood bubbles up-
It seems very important that she not stop.
For her part, Molly seems to have no interest in stopping. No, she pulls him closer and closer to her. Presses into him with all her weight, bears down on him until he can't breath. Can't move. Can't even stutter. He opens his mouth to hiss in pain and she covers it with her hand. Mutes him. Her thumb presses obscenely into his tongue, cutting it, and the loss of control is delicious. Wanted. Waited for.
His hips are bracketed harshly by her thighs as she licks and laps at his throat.
With each drag of blood she sucks harder, jerking his body like a rag doll. Sherlock feels his control slip even as his cock stirs, pain and pleasure taunting it into a hardness unlike any he's ever felt before. His spine arches like a bow, delicious tension tearing him asunder.
There's fire and champagne and nicotine in his veins now and he doesn't ever want it to stop.
And stop it doesn't. Molly's body is beautiful, unyielding, as she holds him close. With a curse she pulls away from his throat- he calls out at the loss of her- but within moments he's cradled back in her arms, his back at her chest. Her legs wound around him. He can feel the twin, warm pricks of her nipples digging into his shoulder-blades, the warmth of her breasts so distracting as one of her feet comes up to taunt and press at his cock.
This way she has a better hold on him and as he thinks that he realises he might never want her to let him go.
Maybe she thinks so too for her arms wrapped tight and inescapable, around his torso. She holds him splayed against her.
She threads her fingers through his hair now, yanks his head to one side to bear his throat with a delicious, fearless strength, finds his throat again- the wound's still open- and then her teeth, her tongue and mouth are on him. In him.
It feels so good he thinks he actually might die from it.
Her hips jerk against his body in helpless rhythm and after a moment he catches it. Begins moving too. Moving with her. Moving for her. It's at this moment that he realises he's muttering, whispering, begging her, telling her how much her loss had hurt him-
And then suddenly, without any warning, she tosses him bodily from her.
He lands messily on his hands and knees, the wrenching absence of her like a physical blow.
Faster than his eye can see she's across the room, huddled in a little ball beside the fireplace, her face hidden in her hands. She's dragged his chair in front of her to act as barrier and refuge.
For a moment Sherlock stands, discombobulated. Not understanding.
There was pleasure and now it's gone and he didn't want it to go and he doesn't know what to do about it.
But then slowly, clumsily, his attention returns to Molly. Molly. There was something about Molly, something he was trying to remember… She's started crying, there in her place beside the fireplace and Sherlock doesn't understand what's wrong with her, he just wants to make it stop.
So slowly, haltingly, he lumbers over to her. Pushes his chair messily out of the way. He kneels and reaches out a hand to her.
It comes to rest, looking big and white and ridiculous, against the darkness of her hair.
"What is it, Molly?" he asks and at his words she turns to him, her brown eyes wide and wild and luminous. "What is it that's upset you so?"
"I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock," she whispers, "I just don't want to hurt you-"
Which is, of course, when Mycroft and his boys kick in the door downstairs.
It's also when Molly starts vomiting up blood, though whether it's his or her own, Sherlock can't tell.
John's clucking away like a mother hen, trying to clean the wound at Sherlock's throat.
Molly's sitting on his old chair to Sherlock's right, surrounded by a ring of the most heavily-armed agents the detective has ever seen.
As she sits they bark questions at her, what look like UV lights occasionally flicked up at her eyes, the impact of them making her hiss. Flinch and turn away.
Mycroft watches her from across the room, his eyes narrowed. Haunted.
He looks like he's… up to something.
He has that expression of simultaneous guilt and triumph which Sherlock remembers from so many childhood adventures and as he thinks this, his brother moves gracefully across the room. Comes to stand before Molly.
He tips her face up to look at him and her eyes narrow. She shows him her teeth.
They appear long and sharp in the pale light of the fire.
"Quite impressive, yes, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft drawls. He holds his left hand up; a small, silver-coloured ball lies within it.
At the sight of the metal Molly hisses, turns her head away. When she looks back up at him her eyes are red-rimmed and ashamed. Hurting. She flinches away from the object, whatever it is, when he holds it near her skin and again that guilt-and-triumph-something moves through Mycroft's eyes.
It comes to Sherlock then, swift and whole as an arrow to the heart. "You did this," he says to his brother, standing and walking over to the tight little circle of agents as John tries to tend his throat and walk at the same time. "You did this to her, didn't you?"
He pushes his way in through their ranks and, with a look for confirmation to their commander who nods, the men let him. He comes to a rest beside Molly who turns her face away from him, ashamed.
"Can you cover the blood up?" she asks faintly. "Can you- He's- He still smells-"
"What does he still smell like, Ms. Hooper?" Mycroft asks sharply.
He still hasn't answered Sherlock's question, the detective can't help but note.
Molly mutters something, something even Sherlock doesn't catch and rises to her feet. Tries to break through the circle of agents. One bars her way, his hand on her arm and without even flinching she forces him from her bodily, shoving him so that he slides several feet and comes to rest in a rumpled heap at the corner of the parlour.
There's a horrible crick as his shoulder makes contact with the fireplace.
The room goes quiet. Dangerous. Still.
The agents look to Mycroft who gives a slight, barely perceptible shake of his head. Sherlock lets out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding as his brother walks slowly over to Molly. Extends his hand to her.
"You could have killed him," he tells her quietly, gesturing to the man she pushed. "You could have fed- And yet you didn't. Why is that?"
Molly looks at him like he's insane.
"Because I don't want to hurt anyone," she says quietly.
Mycroft gestures to Sherlock. "You clearly hurt my brother."
Red swarms through her skin, shame and shyness threading and twining together. Sherlock thinks he understands it. "She wasn't trying to hurt me, Mikey," he says.
Of all the things she was trying to do to him when she tore at his throat, he somehow doubts that hurting him was on the list.
As if reading his mind Molly nods, telling him he's right. He holds out his hand to her and when she doesn't close the distance between them he makes the effort, wraps his fingers around her wrist.
It feels tiny in his hand.
"Are you alright?" he asks her and she shakes her head.
Again she looks ashamed.
"Are you not alright because you hurt me?" he asks, and this time she nods.
Sherlock stares at her, the pain in his neck receding, the pain of the night forgotten. What's important is that she's here now, that she didn't die outside his house in the snow. So-
"Come into my room while John has a look at me," he says. "He can have a look at you too."
Sherlock doesn't miss the fact that Mycroft presses his little silver-coloured, Molly-repelling bauble into John's hand before he lets Molly, Sherlock or the good doctor quit the room.
He doesn't miss it, but he doesn't bloody care- Molly's going nowhere without him.
The flesh of Sherlock's throat has knit itself back together with an unnatural quickness.
This is the first thing that John reports once he, Sherlock and Molly quit the agent-infested parlour outside.
As he states this Molly can't help but note he keeps the silvery whatchamacallit Mycroft had given him quite close to the detective-
It makes her feel unhappy but Molly understands: After what she did to Sherlock tonight she can't exactly blame him.
Sherlock, on the other hand, seems to think that John's keeping the bloody thing about for his own personal amusement. He keeps demanding to see it and John keeps refusing since, "you'll throw it outside just to irritate Mycroft, I know you bloody will."
At these words the detective crosses his arms petulantly and calls John a git. Threatens to "call the Mrs. and have her come over."
This threat has exactly zero effect on John- "Do you really want her to see what Molly here did to you?" he asks pointedly and though Sherlock grimaces and pouts there's no more talk of ringing Mary.
He even sits still through the rest of his examination.
When he's finished John stands. Gestures to the mirror on the door of his wardrobe. Sherlock gets to his feet, walks over to it and peers at his now-clean throat. "You removed the bandages," he says softly as he checks his skin.
"I had no reason to leave them on," John says quietly. "As I said, the wound was gone within minutes, once I wiped the blood and the, um, the saliva away."
At his words Molly winces, shame once again darting through her. She can't believe how she behaved, what she did to him. She can't believe that she held her friend down and tore into his throat.
This impression is increased by what she sees of Sherlock's reflection: There's a thin, whitish line which follows the shape and texture of her teeth marks but nothing else. The only visible marks on him now are her from her fingers, where she forced his head sideways and held him down. He doesn't even look pale, his normally white skin blushing with something which looks very like a wine flush or the redness that accompanies arousal.
She flashes back to that feeling of biting him, flashes back to the sheer, raw joy of it, and without any bidding she finds herself moving towards him again, even as he moves towards her-
"Hey now," John says, holding out the Mycroft's silvery bauble between them.
As soon as she gets near it Molly's sanity returns.
She's not at all sure about Sherlock.
"Thank you, John," she says quietly, turning away, and it's this which apparently breaks whatever hold she seems to have over the detective.
Both she and John take two deep, cleansing breaths as they sit on opposite sides of the room from one another, Sherlock in the middle.
Silence reigns while he fiddles with his phone.
"What are you doing, mate?" John asks but his friend shakes his head. Gestures to the door. As if called by his brother, Mycroft enters, his eyes trained on Molly, his phone in his hand.
"So, little brother," he says. "You feel like making some accusations, do you?"
The younger Holmes smiles. It's not a pleasant sight.
"It's not an accusation when you know you're right, Mike," he says. "So why don't you explain to Molly what you know about how she got this way?"
Mycroft looks at her, at his brother, at John and then sighs. Sits down on Sherlock's bed. Molly opens her mouth and closes it- once, twice- before realising she doesn't know what to say to him.
"I just wanted to keep my brother safe," he tells her, and with that he begins to explain.