Part Two

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

It was late morning before Molly eventually made her way into the sitting room.

Sherlock had heard her stirring earlier and then the sound of the shower not long after that.

It hadn't taken much for him picture her opening her soft brown eyes to the sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. She'd discover the Paracetamol and water he'd left on her nightstand, knowing she'd most likely wake up feeling like rubbish. Sherlock had insisted she hydrate the night before, refusing to let her go to bed until she'd drunk an entire bottle of water.

After she pulled back the covers, she might wonder at the state of her nightwear. Molly had insisted on changing for bed without any assistance from him once she'd confirmed that he had no intention of joining her. He hadn't been about to point out that she'd put the oversized tee shirt on inside out or that she'd forgotten to remove one of her socks.

As much as he'd wanted to, it hadn't seemed like the right moment to take the cab driver's advice to tell Molly that he had 'feelings' for her. Sherlock didn't think he could define what those feelings were, exactly, but the thought of Molly drawing away and avoiding him made his chest ache. After last night there was no longer any point to denying that he found her physically attractive in addition to the emotional attachment that had stealthily grown stronger over the years. It was time to stop fighting and admit that he wanted Molly Hooper in his life as more than just his pathologist and friend.

Instead of telling her any of that, he'd sent her off to bed in her inside-out St. Bartholomew Bruisers softball jersey (a far too tempting pair of bubblegum pink knickers barely visible underneath) with no hint of the decision he'd made. No matter what lascivious things she'd whispered in his ear during the cab ride, only an arse of epic proportions would take advantage of a drunk woman.

So he settled in to wait—catching a few hours of sleep on her settee—until enough time had passed that he thought Molly should be feeling a bit more human.

And, more importantly, completely sober.

Sherlock stretched his arms above his head and worked out the various kinks that developed when someone of his height slept on a settee the size of Molly's. He shrugged back into the shirt he'd removed at some point in an effort to make himself slightly more comfortable during the night, but didn't bother to fasten any of the buttons.

The sight of her shuffling into view—clutching a pair of empty water bottles in her arms, hair freshly washed and dried and loose around her shoulders, wrapped in an old silk dressing gown he'd left behind after one of his extended stays—made his chest ache. He was grateful that she didn't notice him for a long moment, it gave him a chance to catch his breath.

"Morning, Molly."

She screamed and stumbled, one of the bottles bouncing off the floor near her feet. "Sherlock! What are you doing here?"

"I brought you home last night, don't you remember?"

"I do, yes. Sort of wish I didn't, but I do." She clutched her remaining bottle closer to her chest and blushed. "Listen, Sherlock, about the things I said last night . . ."

He could tell she was going to suggest they forget about all of it, and there was no way he was going to let that happen. "Feeling better? Headache gone?"

"Erm, yes. Thank you." Molly looked longingly toward the kitchen and a potential reprieve from what was sure to be an awkward discussion. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder where the bold woman from last night had gone, and what he would have to do to get her back.

"Can I get you anything? Breakfast? More water?" Sherlock offered. He rested his arms along the back of the settee and widened the distance between his knees enough to draw the material of his trousers taut across his thighs. He saw Molly's eyes widen when the movement drew her gaze to his bare chest and lower. It was all he could do to keep a pleased smirk off his lips.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you for staying last night, and, uhm, for making sure I made it to bed instead of passing out in the hall or something. But I imagine you need to get back to Baker Street." She sounded rather hopeful at the idea. "Cases won't solve themselves, and all that."

"Nope." He popped the 'p' in the way that John found particularly obnoxious, but Molly seemed to find strangely amusing judging by the small smiles she could never quite hide when they were all working in the Barts' lab. "I've cleared my schedule for the entire day, and told Graham not to call me for anything less than a nine."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why would you do that?"

"To spend the day with you, obviously."

Molly flushed and looked away from his intent gaze. She bent down to pick up the fallen bottle, giving him what was surely a purely accidental glimpse down the front of his old dressing gown. He felt his prick begin to stir in anticipation.

She straightened and cleared her throat. "You want to talk about what I said last night. Look, Sherlock, I was really, really drunk and-"

"Did you mean it?"

Molly's mouth gaped open for a second before she stuttered, "P-pardon?"

Even from across the room he could see the way her breath quickened and her eyes darkened. Exactly the sort of reaction he'd hoped for. "Did you mean it when you said you wanted to sleep with me?" He let the timbre of his voice drop low and smooth. "That you wanted to . . . suck my cock?"

All the colour drained from Molly's face as she stood there staring at him, clearly stunned. As the silence stretched, Sherlock began to wonder if he'd miscalculated somehow.

He could see the exact moment when she decided to throw caution to the wind and risk it. What had Mary told her last night? That she had nothing to lose?

Molly lifted her chin, straightened her spine, and defiantly met his eyes for the first time since she'd stepped into the sitting room. "I meant every word."

Sherlock lowered his hands to his bare stomach and held Molly's gaze as he oh-so-slowly slid one down to palm his growing arousal. She gasped when he popped open the button at his fly with a twist of his fingers. "Then come here and prove it."

The water bottles flew in the general direction of a nearby chair as Molly rapidly moved toward him. "I thought you weren't interested? What changed your mind?"

As soon as she was close enough, he reached out to pull her toward his lap. Sherlock was pleased when she straddled his legs without prompting, settling her bum on his thighs as she faced him. "Let's just say that once I had a chance to think about it, I found your argument last night to be extremely persuasive, but you were drunk."

"I'm not drunk now." Molly looped her arms around his neck.

"Noted." He threaded his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and guided her ever closer so that he could brand her lips with a searing, open-mouthed kiss.

The sensory input almost overwhelmed him: the taste of her, the scratch of her nails against his scalp, the soft, cool slide of the dressing gown against his chest, even the scent of her body wash and shampoo from her earlier shower.

He dropped his hands to her thighs and pushed the dressing gown to the side. "Your skin is so soft," Sherlock whispered against her jaw. "Like silk."

Molly whimpered. "More."

She didn't have to ask him twice. He blindly plucked at the gown sash, reluctant to pull his mouth away from her neck long enough to look at what he was doing. The knot gave away and the gown parted after a frustratingly long moment.

They both groaned when his hands finally slid under the fabric to ghost against her abdomen.

"I love your voice." Molly dragged her nails down his chest just hard enough to make him shudder. "I'm already wet, and you've barely even put your hands on me."

Her tongue delved between his lips. He could taste the lingering traces of her minty toothpaste in her kisses. His hands roamed. He found the dip of her waist, the smooth line of her back, the curve of her arse.

"You have a delightfully filthy mouth, Molly," Sherlock gasped against her hair as she bent to nip at his chest with her dainty teeth. The slight sting made him bite his lower lip to keep from moaning like an adolescent fumbling his way through his first sexual encounter.

Contrary to Mycroft and John's belief, he'd had sex before. An unsatisfying encounter his first year in uni, purely to alleviate boredom. Easily forgotten in favour of The Work. And, of course, his friendship turned ill-fated love affair with Victor that last year of school. The one that had convinced him to agree with Mycroft's assertions that sentiment was a weakness. But that had been before Molly and her pretty lips, firm breasts, intelligent mind, morbid sense of humour . . . He suspected he'd never be able to delete this moment, even if he wanted to.

Molly bit down on his nipple and Sherlock gave up trying to muffle himself. She seemed to have a thing for his voice, after all. He would have to be an imbecile to deny either one of them any longer.

He wrapped his fingers around a handful of her hair and gently tugged her head back so that he could see her face. "I've been half hard all morning, thinking about the things you said."

She smiled mischievously even as her cheeks flushed pink. "What can I say, you inspire me."

"Ah, yes. The shirt." He honestly didn't see what was so special about it, but he planned to visit his tailor first thing Monday to order another one. Or two, Sherlock thought as he remembered Molly's comments about ripping opening his buttons the night before.

"Not just the shirt, although I've had plenty of filthy thoughts involving it specifically." She pushed the item in question off his shoulders. He leaned away from the back of the settee to help her remove the shirt, nearly unseating her from his lap. Molly laughed and pressed herself against him to keep from falling backward.

This time it was her turn to gasp as her naked breasts came into contact with his bare chest. Her skin was warm where his was cool.

"It's you." Molly swallowed hard and reached up to brush her fingers against his cheek, almost reverently. "Just you. Your hair, your eyes, your smell." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "God, you smell good."

When her brown eyes opened again and she looked at him, Sherlock wondered how he'd ever been able to convince himself that he'd be able to continue to resist her.

"You have no idea the things I've wanted to do to you over the years." Her gaze dropped to his lips as she whispered, "With you."

He swallowed hard. "And this morning?"

She shrugged out of the dressing gown and let it fall at his feet. He'd deduced she was nude beneath the silk gown, but the reality of her straddling his lap without a stitch of clothing was better than anything he could have imagined. "This morning, Sherlock, I want to hear you beg."

The need to grind himself against the apex of her thighs made his fingers dig into the flesh of her hips in a bid for some semblance of self-control.

Molly whined in the back of her throat, then rolled her hips forward as if seeking the same contact he desperately desired.

"If I hadn't been drinking last night, would you have let me slide to my knees on that cab floor? Let me pull your cock out and make you moan my name? Make you plead with me to let you come?"

Some last vestige of rational thought told him that there was no way he would have agreed to expose himself in a public cab, much less engage in any sort of sex act; but by God the mental imagery made him ache.

She leaned close and whispered in his ear, "Would you like me to do it now?"

"Christ, yes," Sherlock gasped in a ragged voice. "Make me beg."

It briefly occurred to him as Molly stood and reached for his zip that he had somehow lost control of this encounter. It had all seemed so straight forward when he'd planned it during the night. He would indicate his desire to move their relationship to a physical level, she would stammer and blush at his blunt declaration before agreeing, there would be a bit of foreplay in which he most assuredly would not lose his head in the heat of the moment, and then they would move to her bed to consummate the relationship.

Yet somehow, here he was. In very real danger of coming in his pants because Molly Hooper was about to kneel between his legs and put her pretty little lips around his cock.

He had just enough presence of mind to raise his hips when she tugged at his trousers. His pants quickly followed suit, and before he had a chance to do more than say her name she was touching him.

Sherlock's head fell back against the settee as Molly's small hands wrapped around his erection. At this rate they were never going to make it to the bedroom, and he was rapidly losing his will to care.

His eyes popped open when he felt her take him into her mouth. Her tongue was hot and wet against his glans, her lips were soft and . . . Fuck.

Sherlock's nails scratched across the faded floral settee cushions as he fought the urge to touch her. Would she like it if he wrapped her long hair around his fingers? Urged her to take him deeper? To move faster?

As if she knew what he was thinking, Molly hummed in approval. The vibration along his cock nearly sent him over the edge.

"Molly, please. I can't . . . Christ. Please . . ." he begged, almost incoherent.

She released him with a deliciously wet—almost obscene—pop and sat back on her heels. Her hands continued to work his shaft, keeping him agonizingly close to orgasm. "Oh, Sherlock, you have no idea what you do to me like this. Anything you want, just tell me what you need."

She leaned down to lick the head of his penis, swirling her tongue around the tip. Sherlock bit off another curse and settled his hands on her shoulders.

"Do you want to come?" she coyly asked, rubbing her cheek against his thigh as she looked up at him.

"No!"

Molly blinked, her brow furrowed in confusion. Her hands stilled, and he almost whimpered in protest.

"I mean yes, obviously I do. Very, very much so. But I want to make you come first. Need to. Please, Molly, let me do this for you." He knew he sounded desperate but it had been a very long time since he'd been with someone and he didn't want to leave her wanting. The joyful smile that brightened her face was more than worth a bit of delayed gratification.

She stood and held out her hand to him. "I said anything, and I meant it. If that's what you want, then I'm happy to indulge you. Somewhere more comfortable?"

Thank God she was being sensible about this, Sherlock thought as he took the offered hand. He certainly wasn't. If it were purely up to him, he'd be taking her on the sitting room floor with no thought to comfort or even privacy. He threw a narrow-eyed glare at the indifferent cat that had curled up to nap on the suit coat Sherlock had draped across Molly's chair the night before, relieved that Molly's forethought had saved him from having his out-of-practice (and potentially short-lived) performance judged by the nosy feline.

They barely made it to her bedroom before his patience snapped. He had her in his arms, pressed to him from chest to groin, within seconds. Molly moaned his name. Her hands came around to grip his back. The scratch of her nails against his skin made him shudder.

"On the bed, Molly." He released her with nudge.

She slipped onto the bed on her hands and knees, and looked at him over shoulder. "Like this," she asked with a coy smile on her lips and a devilish glint in her eyes.

As he took in the pale expanse of her back and the perfect curve of her arse Sherlock very nearly said yes. He knew, without a doubt in his mind, that before he left Molly's flat, he would have her just like that. On her hands and knees, crying out for him to let her come as he took her from behind.

But not just yet.

"Molly," Sherlock growled.

She rolled onto her back and held her arms out to him. "Better?"

"Much." He crawled on to the bed and began to prove just how much he desired her. He spent time cataloguing the spots that made her giggle, that made her whimper and moan, and especially the ones that made her call out his name.

His nose brushing against the slope of the underside of her breast inspired giggling coupled with soft sighs. His mouth and lips against her nipples and the area just above her pubis earned whimpers. His head buried between her thighs, tongue hard and fast against her clit, caused her to tremble and cry out his name as she came.

He waited for her to catch her breath, pressing gentle kisses to her thighs and stomach in the meantime. "Good?"

"Fabulous," Molly breathed, barely audible. Her hand tangled in his hair, playing with the strands in a way that almost made him purr.

"Another?" he asked, even though his cock ached.

"Need you inside me, now." She tugged at his hair, urging him up her body. His spine tingled, erection bobbing in excitement, at the slight pull. That was an unexpected reaction; one that he filed away to examine later.

Sherlock took her mouth, determined to try to make up for all the time he'd wasted fighting his feelings for this woman while she loved him unconditionally, with no real encouragement that he'd ever reciprocate her fillings.

Did he? Was that what this was, this overwhelming need to be around Molly. With her. In her.

He tucked his face against her neck, afraid that she'd be able to read it in his expression. If it wasn't love, it was close. He should have deduced it the moment he realized he wanted her. Desire had always been linked with sentiment and feelings in him, they went hand in hand.

Even in his lust filled mind he knew that blurting out "I think I might love you" in the middle of having sex for the first time would be Not Good. At best she'd wonder if it was the sex making him delirious. At worst, she'd think it was some attempt at manipulating her.

No, if he told her—when he told her—the circumstances would make it clear that he meant every single word.

"Sherlock?"

He realized he'd stopped moving as his thoughts had overwhelmed him. Molly's hands were running up and down his back, as if she were attempting to sooth him. "Do you—do you want to stop?"

"No! God, no! I just-" He lifted his head and met her gaze.

"Too much?" She drew her lower lip between her teeth and looked so worried that he almost changed his mind about telling her right then.

"Have dinner with me."

She was confused, he could see it on her face. Hear it in her squeaked, "Right now?"

"Later. After. Tonight. I want to take you out and show you-" How much I care. "London. The way I see it."

Molly's smile lit up her entire face. "All right."

She really was beautiful. Why hadn't he allowed himself to see it before?

"But first." Sherlock shifted so he could reach the drawer of her nightstand and pull it open. He dug around for a moment and triumphantly brought out a foil packet.

"How did you . . . Damn it, Sherlock. You've been snooping through my things again!"

Considering their current position, he didn't think she was too terribly upset. Still . . . "Simple deduction. You're a beautiful, healthy, single woman who knows exactly what can happen to the unprotected human body, and you believe in being prepared."

And he'd been snooping through her things.

She relaxed beneath him, her thighs parting so that he settled between them. His erection, which had begun to wane somewhat, returned with a vengeance. He kissed her again. And again. And again. Until she was breathless, and as eager as he was.

Sherlock reared back to sheath himself, and then he was easing into her. It was better than he'd let himself imagine during the night. More, so much more.

Her hands slid under his arms and around his back to pull him closer. Her hips rolled and he was lost. There was no more thinking, no more analysing what made her gasp and shudder. Only warmth and softness and Molly and the need to come.

She hissed "Oh, God!" through her teeth.

He reached for her hand, bringing it to his mouth to scrap his teeth against the skin of her wrist, before urging her to slide it between their bodies to where they were joined. She caught on quickly, her fingers finding her clit. He could feel her movements against him, pressure and rhythm guaranteed to set her off quickly. There'd be time enough to learn how to do it for her, but not now.

All too soon—and not nearly soon enough—he felt her begin to clench around him. She moaned his name, a low keen that nearly made him come. It took everything he had to hold on, to continue to thrusting through her orgasm. As soon as her desperate grip against his back began to ease, Sherlock gave in.

Now it was too much. Words of endearment poured from his tongue, almost none of them English.

Molly held him tight, as if she never wanted to let him go.

It had been a very long time since he'd trusted anyone enough to be this vulnerable with them. He'd considered intimacy with The Woman, but in the end her dealings with Mycroft and Moriarty had kept him from accepting her overtures. There had been Victor, but even then there had always been a small niggling of doubt that it was all just a lark on the other man's part. But once he'd decided to be with Molly there hadn't been a single worry that she'd abuse his trust.

He'd always trusted Molly. With everything.

Even, apparently, his heart.

Sherlock pulled her close and tucked his nose into her hair; hiding what was surely an idiotic, overly sentimental grin that would have made his brother roll his eyes.