Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to (drum-roll please): Icecat62, jigsawjazzz, vixen519, katya jade, Sara Dobie Baurer, AJP910, Poodle warriors, Bucky5, MorbidbyDefault, The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B, LadyK1138, OpalSkyLoveDivine, LadydeBalliol and my mystery guest. Please note that this chapter contains some naughtiness, so those of a delicate nature may not wish to read on. Those of a lecherous disposition, on the other hand...
- THE PROPERTIES OF COMBUSTION -
0.5 Seconds Later
"Oh," Sherlock says. "Oh, bugger."
Molly frowns and looks up at him, leaning back on her elbows. She knows she's half asleep, but that wasn't a particularly difficult question she just asked him, and, "oh bugger," wasn't a particularly acceptable response to it, so she asks her question again.
It's the only way she'll be certain she's not dreaming.
"Sherlock," she asks, her eyes already heavy and her voice thick from sleep, "what are you doing in my room?" And she stares at him, awaiting a response.
She's really too tired to do anything else.
He stares back at her, eyes as wide and panicked as if she'd just demanded he tell her the meaning of life. Or the entry codes for NORAD. Or the sex of Kate and William's next baby.
The detective opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it again, before settling on crossing his arms defensively over his chest and narrowing his eyes. Pouting.
He's elected to feel peeved at her inquiry, apparently. She's not all that surprised.
"You fell asleep on the couch," he snaps, his tone as belligerent as if she'd just tried to sell him and the Watsons out to Moriarty. "I picked you up and put you in bed, and frankly I'm not sure why I'm facing this sort of interrogation."
Molly rolls her eyes at that. Of course this couldn't be a simple conversation, look at who she was having it with. "This is not an interrogation, Sherlock," she interrupts tiredly, her head falling backwards on her pillow. "If it was, you'd know it-"
And she yawns, curls in on herself and lies back down on her side, her arms tucked around her. That way her sunburnt back won't flare painfully in protest, and she might have a chance to fall back asleep.
Sherlock, however, seems unwilling to take the hint. "How?" he asks. "How would I know if you were interrogating me, Molly?"
The question is asked hesitantly, in a curious tone which Molly doesn't expect. If it were anyone else she would think they sounded genuine, but it's Sherlock so that can't be it. Not that it really matters; She's lying down again now, and she's tired, so she's really not interested in bothering with why he's being such a pain in the arse, or what game he's playing-
On the other hand, he probably won't go away until she's given him what he wants, so perhaps she should just do things the easy way and answer.
"You'd know," she yawns, "because I'd have you chained to a chair somewhere, and you can bet it'd be a lot less comfy than this. No food, no water, just you and me until you told gave it up and told me what I wanted to know-"
Sherlock stiffens at her words, apparently disturbed by them. Molly can't help herself, she shoots him a wicked little grin.
She's enjoying herself now.
"I'd be relentless," she says. "Remorseless. I'd have you begging for mercy, you and your big, swishy coat."
Sherlock swallows. He's looking at her rather oddly. It's impossible to tell under the sunburn, but once again Molly could swear that he's- That he's blushing.
What on Earth?
She likes the notion though, so she smiles more widely, warming to her theme. It's so rare that she gets to discombobulate the great Sherlock Holmes that she's willing to take her time. She rolls onto her back, stretching, about to really start teasing him. His eyes widen at the sight, gaze flickering down and over her body, and the look he shoots her is almost… appreciative, before it skitters away.
Whatever words of teasing she had been planning die on her tongue as she realises this.
Silence stretches out, the atmosphere thick with…something. Something neither she nor Sherlock seem to want to name.
The air itself seems charged with electricity now and at this thought she stiffens; She must shift herself somehow when she does it, because her sunburn flares in protest and she winces. It really is rather sore. Sherlock frowns and before she can say anything he's across the room, standing at the bed and looking down at her. Hunkering down until he's eye-level with her, his hands reaching out in what appears to be an instinctive desire to touch. Perhaps, even, to help.
At the last moment he checks himself however, his hands stalling and dropping down to his sides. He tries to make the action look natural and instead merely makes it more awkward, his eyes casting about as if he's looking for something to comment on rather than owning up to what he's just done. This is the most embarrassed she's ever seen him.
He opens his mouth and then closes it; she does the same. For a moment neither of them speak and then he nervously clears his throat.
"Would you like me to bring in your aloe vera gel?" he asks.
His voice is stiltedly polite as he says this. It sounds… somewhat hesitant.
Molly nods, not sure what else to do, seeing only a way out of an awkward moment. She's not entirely sure what's going on, but she doesn't think she likes it. "That would be helpful, please," she says and he nods. Rises. Walks quickly and assuredly out the door.
He peeks back at her over his shoulder as he closes it.
She can't help the way it makes her feel pinned to her spot on the bed.
Molly breathes a tiny sigh of relief to see the back of him and the weird what-the-Hell-is-this? atmosphere he causes. She frowns to herself, wondering where all this is coming from, and congratulating herself for getting through this with so little embarrassment to herself or him. The flaw in her plan presents itself almost immediately however: She has not seen the back of him, nor has this evening's capacity for embarrassment been exhausted. He returns with the aloe vera gel, and as soon as he does the tension resurfaces too. Molly doesn't know quite what to make of it: He loiters at her bedroom door, staring at her, his eyes nervous and jittery as he holds the tube of gel out.
"You're, em, you're going to need help with that," he says quietly.
She frowns at him and he clarifies. "You're not going to be able to reach," he says. "The sunburn. On your back. You're not going to be able to reach it without some help-"
Molly opens her mouth, about to tell him tartly that of course she can, when she realises (belatedly) that he's right. She won't be able to reach. But surely he won't offer..?
He will.
With a bracing nod (and without waiting for her answer) he strides over to her, sits on the bed beside her. She's not sure why but immediately she pushes herself up into sitting, not comfortable for some reason with him staring down at her as she lies on her back.
There's something a little too… intimate in that, for a relationship like theirs, she thinks.
If Sherlock notices her unease, he gives no sign of it. Instead, he gives her another bracing nod and gestures for her to move closer to him. She does so, trying to ignore her pulse and the way it's starting to race, trying to ignore how flustered she feels and just focus on the fact that her friend is going to help her out a little since she's hurt. She nods to Sherlock, swallows nervously and then tries to pretend it wasn't nervous. She gestures to her back and says, "You can- You can, um, start. If you want. I don't mind…"
She looks up at him and he's staring, rather pointedly, at a spot on her duvet.
Molly frowns and as if seeing her reaction from the corner of his eye, he shoots her an almost-nervous little look. "You'll, em, you'll have to…"
"Have to what?"
He gestures tersely to the straps of her pyjama top. He seems to have trouble looking at her.
"You'll have to pull those down," he says quietly. "The burn goes right the way across, underneath the straps- I'll need to get the gel there too, and you really like those pyjamas- You won't want them ruined-"
"Oh."
"Yes," Sherlock says, sounding distracted. "Oh. But you can just- I don't think I should-"
Molly shakes her head. "Obviously not," she says, a little too quickly, a little too nervously. "But I can-"
And without finishing her sentence, she shuffles closer to him. She wobbles, nearly falls over, and has to place one hand on Sherlock's shoulder in order to steady herself. All this time Sherlock is looking downward, not making eye-contact, and she can't say she blames him. The awkwardness of the situation is starting to tell on her too. Trying not to fall over or move any more than she needs to, her fingers find the top's straps and she pulls. First one, then the other, until they hang limply against her upper arms and she feels a flash of vulnerability she can't really understand.
A shiver moves through her at the thought.
Again he stares at the duvet while as she does it, his gaze only flickering up to peek from beneath his lashes once, just as she's pulling down the second strap. Clearly he's checking on her progress, seeing if she's done.
Though she's not suddenly showing any skin or anything, Molly feels the heat of that brief little look all the way down to her toes.
It's not that there's anything untoward in his asking her to move something about her person; It's actually surprisingly sweet, that he thought of it at all. And that he understood simply doing it himself, without her permission, might be a Bit Not Good. But the action itself? That feels a little too private, the sort of thing a person only does when they're undressing or removing a bra. The sort of thing which a person only does in front of someone they'd undress for, someone they'd remove their bra for. Which is ridiculous of course, because Sherlock's not that to Molly and Molly's not that to Sherlock-
But still, as with lying on her back and looking up at him, this action feels… weighted.
It feels a great deal more combustible than she thinks it ought.
All of this takes less than a minute, though it feels infinitely longer. Once the straps are down, Sherlock gestures to her and she stoops her head and shoulders awkwardly, trying to give him access. It doesn't work though; she'd have to lean far more deeply into his personal space for that to be useful and they are both instinctively hesitant to let that happen.
Instead, without warning Sherlock stands, making sure to grip the arm Molly was holding onto his shoulder with so that she doesn't fall over. His hand wraps easily around her upper arm, tightening as he stands and then loosening his grip before it can become painful.
It steadies her, allows her to stay upright. From his new vantage point she has to look up at him and she does with slightly widened, surprised eyes. He looks so much taller, so much bigger than her in that still, quiet room. Again the silence stretches out for a moment, again Sherlock stares at her. For a moment his hand goes towards her cheek, the movement almost unconscious, his eyes flicking down to her mouth and then up to her eyes before he once again stills.
The atmosphere in the room has turned electric now and he seems as aware of it as she.
"Turn around," he says softly, and Molly knows that she shouldn't shiver at the timbre of his voice, the way he says that.
She does it anyway.
"Would it be easier if you were sitting?" she asks slightly breathlessly, as she presents her back to him. She feels the bed dip again as he sits back down. Feels the vague heat of his body at her back as he leans in to her.
She can feel his breath on the back of her neck when he speaks this time and she knows it's ridiculous, but she shivers again.
"I'm going to start now," he says, and it sounds inane, and unnecessary, and absolutely befuddling. His voice has dropped, become a little deeper, and Molly closes her eyes, despite herself. Savours it.
It feels so… intimate, though she knows it's not that way for him.
There's a second's hesitation and then she feels his fingers, wet with the gel and so, so hesitant, press against the skin of her neck. His hand is so big that the palm covers almost all the flesh from the nape of her neck to the space between her shoulder-blades, his thumb whispering gently against her spine, against the side of her throat. For a moment he just presses his hand to her skin and then he moves, begins massaging the gel across her shoulders. Her upper back. It feels wonderful, despite the sunburn's soreness.
Without really meaning to Molly leans into him slightly, trying to make it easier, but that just makes the heat of his body that much more obvious against her bare skin.
Her eyes flutter shut- when had she opened them?- the feel of his fingers relaxing her. It's easier not to notice the atmosphere, to just feel, when she isn't staring straight ahead at a blank wall or looking into those quicksilver eyes. The gel feels soothing, his hands even more so; It takes barely a minute and then she feels him squeeze her shoulder. The mattress dips as he moves away from her.
"Done now," he says, and his voice is still a little breathless, even deeper than it usually is. "You can- you can fix your top," he adds after a moment, and suddenly there's no warmth at Molly's back. He must have stood.
She's surprised by how cold it feels.
She twists and looks around at him, opens her mouth to thank him, and whatever self-control Molly has just flies out the window as she sees the way he's looking at her.
Because hasn't stood up. He hasn't left her. His face is slightly flushed, his pupils dilated; His breathing is shallow, and when his gaze meets hers the arousal in his expression is impossible to mask. Molly feels it go off like a tiny bolt of lightning inside her: Recognition. The joy of reciprocation. The realisation of what they both want setting electricity zinging through her even as she instinctively leans forward-
It all happens so fast, Sherlock not moving, Sherlock not stopping her. There's a split second between her realisation and her lips meeting his and in that second he has his chance to move away, to avoid her, but he does not. No, instead he leans in towards her, clumsy in his eagerness- and the one this man never is, is clumsy- his hands coming up to cup the back of Molly's head even as her own arms go haphazardly about his neck and their mouths meet. His chest flush against her chest, their breaths mixing one with the other. His clever fingers dig lightly at her skull, her scalp, and Molly's a little surprised by how good that feels. She moans at the sensation of it and she feels his mouth curve up into a smile, there where it's pressed against her own. Molly can't suite believe it; She's given better kisses, more skilled kisses, more expected kisses, but she's never felt what she feels when she meets Sherlock's kisses-
They're passionate. Greedy. Open-mouthed and longing and yet somehow strangely fragile. Chaste. Like he is. Molly thinks they might also be addictive.
And judging by the way he's kissing her back, it would seem that he feels the same about hers.
She doesn't know who moves, who decides, but suddenly they both on the bed and he's on top of her and the weight of him, the feel of him, is something that she never wants to be without again. So she winds her arms tighter, pulling him down to her, opening her legs so that his hips rest between them. Curling one leg around his hip, securing him to her and he takes in a sharp, puffing breath at the feel of it. Pressing himself more insistently to her, his mouth still pressed steadfast to hers.
She nips at his lip and Sherlock lets out a string of mumbled curse words against her mouth, her throat, his voice ragged with his loss of self-possession. His hand curls up to press, heavy and insistent, against her left breast, but he raises his head to look at her as he does it, his expression questioning. Intent. She nods breathlessly, her own hands scrabbling for purpose on the back of his dressing gown, pushing it away from his shoulders. The fingers of one hand dig into his arse, and judging by the moan of pleasure he gives he really, really likes that- So much so that she tries it again. The grin he shoots her is bright, wolfish, exuberant; she lifts her hips to his when she sees it, presses herself into him. He kneads her breast harder in answer, grinning as she arches herself into his hand more, her head falling back as she bares her throat to him-
And then suddenly there's a bang of a door opening at the front of the flat. The rustling sounds of several people moving, none too stealthily, through the kitchen and living room.
Instantly Sherlock freezes, and Molly is obliged to follow suit.
They hear heavy footsteps- it sounds like about ten people- which split into groups and move towards Sherlock's and Molly's rooms with stentorian force. People are barking about "alpha teams," and, "securing the target," but all Molly can think is that their timing is absolutely atrocious.
Seriously, she thinks, can't this wait until morning? Or some other time that isn't now?
Though the look on his face would suggest Sherlock agrees with her, he still disentangles himself and gets to his feet. Still pads towards the door, shrugging off his dressing gown as he goes- it was nearly off anyway- his shoulders straightening as if he's preparing for a fight. He reaches for the doorknob and turns, opening the bedroom door though he doesn't know what's on the other side of it-
And he is met by John Watson.
John Watson, who is standing there looking tired and irritated in a Kevlar vest, pyjamas and slippers, his familiar face set in a frown.
His eyes narrow almost comically when he sees his best friend.
The doctor takes in Molly, takes in Sherlock, probably takes in the state of the pair of them. And then with calm deliberation he pulls out his wallet. Produces a fiver from it.
"Mary," he calls over his shoulder. "You win. They are shagging."
Molly opens her mouth to correct him, but Sherlock turns puce and shuts his into a tight-lipped grimace. Shakes his head, once, sharply, at her and steps out of her room.
She doesn't see him for the rest of the night.