An Unlikely Distraction
Chapter 2: Le Jeu est à pied
A/N: Thank you to the favourites, reviews and likes, particularly to katdemon18 who pointed out some very nice things, as well as a tiny mistake (very grateful). Chapter 1 has now been edited accordingly.
I have found the I need a dollar/Buzzin' mashup by the Saturdays a true inspiration in writing this story, so check it out. Chapter 3 is already mapped out and just needs to go down on paper. Oh and if anyone gets the meaning of the title, let me know!
"Wh-What are you doing here?" Molly stammered as Sherlock strolled in the apartment, eyes shrewdly surveying the pace before fixing upon hers.
"Molly..." Sherlock seemed to squirm, or whatever the Sherlock equivalent was, as he began to wonder why he came. His thoughts had told him to visit her explore why her being hurt was suddenly so important, and also how he had overlooked such a kind, caring person for so long.
Molly didn't know where to look. The focus of all her fantasies was standing in the middle of her hallway, fully dressed, while she wore nothing but a strappy top and heart printed flannel bottoms. She felt bare, like he could see into her mind, see the lust and attraction that had been burning for months on end. See how she wanted nothing more than for him to look at her the way a man ought to look at a woman. She knew that she wasn't the prettiest of girls, nor the best conversationalist, but she wanted to give Sherlock more than just that. She wanted to give him love.
Sherlock, being a high functioning sociopath, had never understood what led a man to be intrigued by a woman on more than an intellectual level, but he knew that- maybe, perhaps, possibly- Molly needed and wanted more than the cold, asexual person he had become. It was easy enough to see the signs of attraction emanating from her very being. Her pupils had dilated considerably, her lips were parted as though struggling to get some air, and her body language screamed nerves, shyness and attraction. This stirred something within him, purely a biological response, he told himself, a genetic need to seduce Molly Hooper, touch Molly Hooper and love Molly Hooper until his brand was all over her. Watson and the rest were all obtuse. Irene Adler? Of course he liked a puzzle, a mystery, that much was well known, but he did not have time to deal with those in his private life. He had Mycroft and John enough for that, or at least the closest they could come to a puzzle for him. No, Irene Adler was not in the picture whatsoever. Molly Hooper, however, now here was a mystery: how did a mousey, socially awkward pathologist own a modern, tastefully done, almost chic apartment in Stoke Newington and the intelligence to help him with his cases? Yes, he thought, Molly Hooper had piqued his interest.
Molly realised that they had been standing in her hallway for some time now, and despite being clad in next to nothing, she felt very hot. Something about Sherlock had changed, and she wasn't sure how she felt about it.
"Err...would you like some coffee, Sherlock?" She was certain he would make some derisive comment, become the Sherlock she recognised.
Sherlock stepped right to her now, smiled in what he hoped was a warm manner, and whispered in his deep, sexual voice, "Yes."
Molly felt herself burn as she took in Sherlock Holmes in his tailored black suit and shirt, realising she would very likely have to touch him in order to get past. She managed with more grace than the felt before saying "The living room is through here if you want to sit, or here's the kitchen if you'd prefer. "
Sherlock silently stalked off, and Molly felt her heart turn in confusion. She busied herself making the coffee, trying not to think about the tall, handsome man in her house.
She finished making the coffee and called Sherlock. On receiving no reply, Molly began to worry. No tv was on, nor the bathroom light to indicate the detective was using the facilities. Apart from her kitchen and small garden, there was only one room left in the house. Shit, Molly thought, uncharacteristically cursing. Either he had left or was in her bedroom. She wasn't sure which one she really wanted as Sherlock made her super nervous. Breathing deeply , she opened the door. Sherlock wasn't in here as far as she could tell, but his scent permeated this room. She blushed, thinking that the detective had looked through her underwear before leaving as swiftly as he came.
The door slammed shut, as the room descended into pitch black.