A/N: And now the story earns its rating. I hope you enjoy it, and I thank you for all your wonderful reviews and for following the story.
[Society of Toxicologic Pathology symbol, microscope in a triangle set inside the outer circle of the logo, dark purple with white details, roughly the size of Molly's palm, set just above the internal pelvic bone on his right side]
He's not even injured this time. Molly barely has time to rake him with anxious eyes before he's shaking his head, impatient to get to the point of this latest, surreptitious visit to her flat. He lifts up his t-shirt to show her his latest acquisition. Her gasp of surprise is expected; what's less expected - downright unexpected, were he being honest - is how she bends almost double and drops a reverent kiss to the bit of flesh it covers. It's drawn just above his right hip, right where the waistband of his low-slung jeans currently sit: a dark purple microscope with the Society's name encircling it in the same shade. Molly's been a member of the Society of Toxicologic Pathology for seven years now, but he can tell by the way she reacts that she had no idea that he was aware of that fact.
"You got this for me? Because of...me?"
She's kneeling at his feet in order to study it more closely, and he swallows, hard, at the sight of her upturned face, her eyes bright with what he suspects are unshed tears. Why tears? His mother does this too, gets all shiny-eyed when he (admittedly rarely) does something...sentimental...in her presence. Unlike with his mother, however, his body reacts in a very visceral, very male manner at the raw emotion in Molly's eyes: he gets hard. Very hard. Just like the last time he saw her kneeling in front of him, and something inside him snaps. Reaching down, he grabs her wrists, yanks her to her feet and kisses her.
She makes a surprised squeak when their mouths mash together, her eyes wide. He has no idea if she closes them or not because his snap shut as physical sensations overwhelm him. The softness of her lips. The warmth of her body as he pulls her close. The hardness of his cock. The smell of her hair, everything, everything just perfect. As he'd always known it would be, deep in the back of his mind.
This has been building between them for years even if he's tried his best to ignore it, to file it away, to close it up in a box with all his other inconvenient urges and feelings. But he let John Watson into his life and suddenly had a friend. Then Irene Adler came sauntering in to remind him that yes, sex still existed no matter how much he tried pretend it didn't, and now Molly isn't just a convenient, tractable lab assistant (not that was ever her job title, not since he's known her) but is instead something more. A friend, like John. A sexual creature, like Irene. Someone who sees him and knows him and yet somehow, inconceivably, still wants him.
Still loves him. He won't flinch away from the truth, not now.
He's heard the saying warts and all but never really paid it much mind. Now that it applies to him, he gets it. He doesn't deserve her love, her loyalty, her fierce, quiet commitment to being there for him, but he accepts it. Craves it, even, just as he now admits he craves her. Not just this, the hard, hot kisses, their hands tearing away clothing, naked bodies joining together, but all of her. Emotions are messy, they're dangerous and detrimental to The Work but right now he doesn't give a fuck.
Their bodies grapple and slide together, slick with sweat, her sweet, sweet hands on his cock, his lips on her right nipple, his fingers digging into her upper arms hard enough to leave bruises neither of them care about.
If he's going to do this, he's going to do this wholeheartedly, no reservations, and he needs her to understand what he's asking of her even as he lays her down to the hardwood floor of her sitting room. "You said I could have you," he bites out as he raises himself above her, aching to dive deep inside her hot, welcoming cunt but wanting her to hear him first. "If I wanted you, I could have you. And I do, I want you."
She nods, lips parted on some words he knows he'll want to hear eventually - agreement, permission, absolution - but he rushes on before she can speak. "Not just want you, Molly, not just this." He releases one arm and gestures at their naked forms. "All of you. I know I have no right, that there's the very real possibility that one of these times I won't come back or you'll get tired of waiting for me…"
She silences him with an upward lunge of her body, her mouth hard against his, swallowing his words and silently reminding him that now isn't the time for talk. "Make love to me, Sherlock," she demands when they pull apart in order to remember how to breathe. "Fuck me hard and then tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. I promise, I'll listen to it all but we both know that I'll always be here for you." Her eyes are fierce and yet somehow tender at the same time. "Always, always."
So he does. He does everything she demands of him. As he enters her, any signs of timid, quiet Molly Hooper vanish; in his arms is a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to take it from him. He comes fast the first time, too fast for her to reach her own climax, but makes up for it by immediately going down on her.
She tries to protest, squirming beneath his mouth, tugging on his hair, but he ignores her, holding her thighs in an iron grip as he dips his head between her legs and caresses her with his tongue. His semen is dribbling out of her cunt but he doesn't care; it's not the first time he's tasted his own cum and he doubts it'll be the last, not if he and Molly are going to actually make a go of it. He glances up at her, gives her a wicked smile, then buries his mouth against her hot, slick flesh, putting his tongue to better use than he ever has before.
Molly's sighs and groans as he works her are music to his ears; he makes a mental reminder to compose something just for her the next time he gets his hands on a violin.
For now, he's quite happy to play her body, to hear her moans and cries as she comes closer and closer and finally tumbles over the edge.
Afterwards he helps her up, his arm around her shoulders as they stumble to the bathroom for a quick scrub-up before making their way to her bed. It's a double, barely, and far too small for the room in her spacious flat, and he makes a mental note to have Mycroft's PA 'Anthea' find something more appropriate. Something big enough for the two of them to share since he tends to sprawl when he sleeps.
He mentions that to her later, when they're lying close together, his voice a sleepy murmur.
"Make it cherry," she replies, just as sleepily. "To match the wardrobe." She yawns, then giggles a bit. "And my jumper, the one you hate."
"Don't hate it," he mumbles, curling on his side and engulfing her in his embrace. "I'll prove it, too."
The next time he returns, she shows off the new cherry wood sleigh bed and matching side tables in her bedroom - and he shows her the new pair of cherries tattooed on the inside of his right thigh.