Mycroft's umbrella gets a thorough workout.

Needless to say, I don't recommend trying the umbrella thing. There's no reason it wouldn't work, but you never know, and I have no desire to be responsible for anyone's very embarrassing hospital room visit, at least not without getting a first-hand account of the EMT's reaction ; ) This can probably use a healthy dose of Brit-picking, but I did my best.


Sherlock and John avoided Molly's lab for a full week after what she had mentally come to think of as the Train Incident of Eternal Infamy.

The more she thought about it, the less she knew what to make of it.

She never did that sort of thing alone in bed at night, not under the covers with the lights out and the front door locked, so why had she suddenly done it on a train? In front of dozens of people, no less?

In front of Sherlock?

"Mortification" did not cover a tenth of what she felt when she thought of how she had sucked on his fingers. What had she been thinking! Or rather, not thinking.

No, you were thinking, all right, but not with your brain—not the one in your head, at any rate.

Molly wondered how Sherlock had felt when her tongue slid over his fingertips, at the suction as she desperately closed her lips around his middle knuckles. Had he felt anything? Was he even capable of feeling anything? She wasn't sure whether to hope he had or be thankful that he probably hadn't. She wasn't sure asexuality was a real thing, but if it was, Sherlock would surely be its poster child.

And John—

That was almost worse than Sherlock. John had actual identifiable feelings, a more normal way of interacting and viewing the world. Even if Sherlock Holmes could somehow take things in stride and move past this, John Watson could not. His behavior after the trip clearly said that. How caring and uncharacteristically gentle he had been, as if Molly were a sick patient of his!

Sherlock and John finally dropped by the next Monday, but only because they had a case. She was glad to see that Sherlock's brother Mycroft was with them. Mycroft was echt English, complete with umbrella and waistcoat, and his presence meant that things could not devolve into the discussion of embarrassing personal matters such as "Creative use of a water bottle, Molly." She doubted either of them would stoop that low, but Sherlock was bound to say something. He always did.

"Double homicide," said Sherlock briskly, as if nothing had happened. Yes, thank heaven Mycroft was there. She wondered if Sherlock had brought him on purpose, if he cared enough to try to prevent her discomfiture.

"Homicides?" Molly said, flipping through her clipboard, as if she didn't know the corpses he was referring to. "Yes, the two men pulled from Thames. I—I checked their tongues, there were—"

"I'll look," Sherlock cut her off. He took her clipboard, checked the numbers, and headed to the freezers on his own. Mycroft ducked his head politely at Molly, wearing that perpetual politely supercilious smile of his, and followed his brother.

Molly looked up, caught John's eye by mistake, and looked away, wishing her lab assistant would return from his coffee break already. She strongly suspected he was taking a nap in storage closet somewhere. She didn't blame him. The lab had not been terribly exciting of late.

John coughed and turned to fiddle with a very expensive microscope on the counter. His coughed into his hand, face pink. She had never given it much thought, but she wouldn't have thought he was the blushing type.

Molly glanced away before he could look up and meet her eye by mistake and spotted Mycroft's umbrella leaning on one of the stools. It was long and black and sleek, a nice sturdy umbrella, not one of those flimsy, colorful little pocket umbrellas that turned inside-out with the slightest gust of wind. It had a thick, glossy cherry wood handle that curved up like a come-hither finger, beckoning her like a living thing.

Molly's heart sped up suddenly, and just as suddenly the thought of Sherlock's fingers in her mouth flashed through her mind and sent sparks tingling through her groin.

Without actually thinking about what she was doing Molly walked quickly past the stool, snatched up the umbrella, and locked herself in the unisex loo off the lab.

She stood there for a moment, looking down at the umbrella, then took a squirt of hand sanitizer from the dispenser on the wall and smeared it over the umbrella handle, acting more on instinct than anything else. She was a doctor, after all, and that umbrella went everywhere with Mycroft. No sense in contracting some nasty infection she would have difficulty explaining to her doctor, who was unable to so much as meet Molly's eye while prescribing birth control.

Sherlock and Mycroft's voices came through the thin wall separating the bathroom from the freezers, courtesy of cut-rate construction during the hospital's remodel. Probably union labor, whispered the sensible, conservative part of her brain.

"The letters E and M, carved into the tongues," Mycroft was saying. "Any ideas?"

"Are you honestly asking me for advice, Mycroft?" Sherlock responded.

"Just trying to be polite, brother dear."

Molly looked down at the umbrella, feeling guilty. Surely there was something else she could use that didn't belong to a high-ranking member of the government.

But it curved so perfectly—and the pulsing ache between her legs was no longer something that could be ignored—

Yes it could be ignored! came that odd voice in her head, that old disapproving one that sounded like her mother. And you have the strength to turn around and replace Mycroft's umbrella instead of staying here and indulging in the most vile, base behavior you could possibly lower yourself to do.

But you won't.

Somehow the knowledge that she could stop this if she wanted to—an idea placed there by the voice and validated by a lifetime of abstinence—made Molly's lust flare up someone had taken a match to a gas station.

This was her choice, her dirty little choice, and she relished it.

She stripped off her lab coat and trousers, dumped them on the waist-high projection of the wall that housed the heating and cooling systems, and seated herself beside them on the ledge.

There was a mirror across from her, so she could watch herself unbutton her dull purply-gray blouse (nearly the exact same flower pattern, Sherlock had once told her, as the slipcovers on his grandmother's sofa) and pull her bra up over her breasts. She coated her fingers with saliva and began to rub her nipples, the throbbing ache in her groin growing stronger and stronger as she felt them harden beneath the slippery, sensitive skin of her fingers.

She reached down into her panties, lubricated the fingers of her other hand with the liquid that had already started to form a shiny wet patch in her white cotton panties, and began to stroke the lips of labia, stopping every few moments to thrust her fingers inside her. Her fingernail scraped against her inside walls, and she knew that was not a good thing but she couldn't help but enjoy the friction.

Sherlock's voice came through the wall again.

"…all government agents," he was saying "…but there must be another link…"

His deep voice was like dark leather and fireplaces and wine and roses and chocolate made audible. His rich tones drove the frantic pace of her strokes, and she closed her eyes and imagined him there beside her, that it was his tongue lapping at her nipples, his long white fingers digging inside her—

Inside her. His cock, inside her, her legs curling around him, yanking him down, taking him for her very own, the first woman to have him—

No longer able to wait, Molly jumped off the ledge, yanked her panties off, grabbed the umbrella, and slipped it inside of her. She was so wet it slid in easily, and she moaned appreciatively at how, while it wasn't nearly as thick as she imagined Sherlock being, the curve of the handle gave it the illusion of girth by pressing against the lower rim of her vagina and arching up inside her.

"…perhaps the letters I-M-E are an acronym…"

Molly bunched her trousers and lab coat up on the ledge and leaned forward with her chin on the clothes and her bare bottom facing the mirror. Her fingers found her clit and her other hand grasped the furled part of the umbrella and began working it as if her life depended upon her jerking the instrument up and down and back and forth like it was stuck inside her and she was trying to get it out.

Or, a tiny, even less sexy part of her brain said, like I'm snaking a drain.

Her nipples brushed the hard edge of the ledge as she gave a particularly hard jerk, and she gasped and leaned back to let them brush the edge again, then even further forward so they ran pleasurably over the hard heating grate set in the ledge. Her knees were pressed hard against the wall, and she could feel them trembling with the effort it took to keep upright.

"I-M-E," Sherlock repeated. " 'I'm,' perhaps? A smaller part of a greater phrase, with the E belonging to another word."

The curved umbrella handle didn't give her the same feeling of fullness as last week's water bottle, but it was hitting all the right places inside her, places nothing else had ever touched. Touching her clit felt good, but this was something deeper, something more, as if all her other sexual experiences had only been seventy percent of what they could have been, as if it were touching upon a part of her even she hadn't known existed; be it the elusive G-spot that she had never felt confident enough leading her lovers to, or something entirely different.

Whatever it was, Molly was nearly climbing over the ledge in a frenzied attempt to shove the umbrella deeper inside her, feeling the cold metal ring above the umbrella handle against her clit as she gasped and cried out and moaned. Something was building inside of her, something deeper and stronger and different than a mere clitoral orgasm, different even than one from a combination of a clit and the ordinary thrusting of an ordinary penis.

"An abbreviation, perhaps, or a code…" said Sherlock, and at the sound of his beautiful chocolate voice Molly came with a strangled cry, her vaginal walls clamping down on the umbrella handle and squirting hot cum over her hand and spattering it onto the tile floor like an obscene rainfall.

She gave a shocked little gasp and sank to the floor with her back to the wall and the umbrella still inside her. In the mirror she bizarrely looked like she had enormous black thing coming out of her. If it had been flesh-toned it would have looked like a massive, unusually-shaped, uncomfortably erect penis.

Molly gave a little disgusted laugh at the thought and removed it. She sat there for a while, letting her breathing calm down, watching the pink fade from her face in the mirror. And as she sat there a new sensation started to worm its way up from somewhere that—

She rose quickly to her feet. The blood still pumping through her nethers, combined with the way she had been sitting, with her knees spread, the cold tiles against the exposed spot between her bare bum cheeks—

No. That was one thing she was not doing! That was filthy, and animalistic, and completely wrong! She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it, willing way the slight throbbing tingle back there. Only a pervert would even suggest that! There was a reason she had broken up with her college boyfriend. That and his insistence on calling her "baby." And his habit of microwaving fish in her dorm room.

Molly dressed quickly, legs still trembling a bit. The horrible new spot still tickled her slightly, like an obscene little reminder of what she had done, but she felt better.

She was not giving into her newfound curiosity, she was herself again, she was stronger than whatever this strange compulsion was that had taken control of her.

Yes.

Or rather, yes, with some reservations.

Who are you fooling? Look in the mirror! You never even let yourself think of it in the past and yet you just masturbated, right here in the morgue loo, with Sherlock right on the other side of the wall and a freezer full of corpses outside the door!

The thought sent a spark shooting her crotch, and she pressed on it almost strongly and angrily, willing it to go away through pain.

Well, I may have given in twice, but this is the last time I'll do it, Molly told herself. Ever. She'd either find herself a boyfriend or go without sex, that was it. She was a doctor, not an animal, dammit!

Sounds like something Dr. McCoy would say, she thought to herself, and the thought made her smile and chased away the last flutters of desire. Any thought of Star Trek reminded her of her lab assistant, a scrawny, pimply boy with a nose like a manatee and breath she always suspected could bring their frozen corpses back to life.

She was zipping up her trousers when there was a rap on the door. "Dr. Hooper?"

Her boss. Oh, hell.

Molly tucked her shirt in so fast she nearly dislocated her wrist. She flung the door open. "Dr. Noran—"

"Dr. Ryan-Noran."

"Ur, Dr. Ryan-Noran." Right. She had been at St. Bart's for years. She knew that! Her brain was still not quite working properly. She just wanted to curl up in bed and enjoy a nice warm, lazy afterglow. "The lab was left unattended," Dr. Ryan-Noran continued. Going by her tone of voice, one would think they kept nuclear codes in the morgue freezes.

"I'm sorry, I had to—use the ladies'."

"I can see that." Dr. Ryan-Noran's eyes fell on the umbrella. Her eyebrows didn't move, somehow making things so much worse.

"I was just…" Molly bit her lip. "I was—cleaning it. Yes, cleaning it. Some…formaldehyde dripped on it." Partially true, anyway. She had wiped the handle off, and that counted as cleaning, right? It was still sticky, and smelled sweet. Smelled like Molly.

"I see." Dr. Ryan-Noran gestured at Molly. "I'd like to see you in your office, please. At once."

Sherlock and company had left. Molly wasn't sure if she was relieved or not. Despite everything she couldn't help but miss John and Sherlock after their absence this week. But perhaps it was better to continue to keep a bit of distance until all this—whatever this was—blew over.

If it ever will. How would I be reacting if Sherlock had yanked his cock and suddenly started wanking on the train?

Molly barely heard Dr. Ryan-Noran's lecture about leaving the lab unattended with unauthorized people roaming about. Sherlock wanking on the train…that was a nice thought, she'd tuck that away for later—

No, there will be no later; you're not doing this again, remember? And if Sherlock returns without Mycroft you have to look him in the eye and act like nothing happened! Or talk about it. You have to move past this sometime or confront the problem head-on.

But moving past things was not her forte. Nor was confronting things, head-on or otherwise.


Molly rather regretted taking the umbrella home with her that night to give it a thorough cleaning. She had sat with it on the bus, giving the handle an occasional sniff that made her feel like a dog, but she told herself that she was testing herself as to whether or not she would start screwing herself on the train again. She had passed the test, but now it sat propped up against the couch, long and sleek and voluptuously black and beckoning her again—

She fed her cat, fixed dinner, showered, washed the dishes, vacuumed the floor, and even cleaned the loo, but the Amazing Multifunctional Umbrella was still there, watching her.

She got up and put it in the closet.


Moriarity had not yet watched the video taken the week before. He did not need to see poor Dr. Hooper writhing about on the train. He was not after the perverse sexual thrills of this little game.

That could wait.

For now it was enough that John and Sherlock and Molly clearly believed that the video had been destroyed. They thought the man had been acting alone; they would not suspect that Moriarity was so much as still alive, let alone enchanting investment bankers and giving them phones capable of uploading video even while underground.

Still, it would only be a matter of time until Sherlock Holmes began putting the pieces together. It was a wonder it was taking him so long. Disappointing, really, although the consulting detective had watched him shoot himself in the head from only inches away.

He smiled to himself and carved a D into his latest victim's tongue.


Notes: I haven't the slightest idea if women have what can technically be termed "groins" (as opposed to "crotches") but I've decided to just lean into my use of it. 10/1/2015 Update: Don't worry, this isn't a forgotten fic! Life and my real writing has simply gotten in the way (pesky little things that they are). Updates will be forthcoming! : )