AN: Just realized that I forgot to warn people about Season 3 spoilers. So if I ruined anything for any of my readers, I sincerely apologize. There are more spoilers in this chapter, so consider yourself warned.
Also, a belated thank you to all who have favorited and reviewed this story. It is much appreciated and I am beyond happy that all of you are excited about this world that I have had swimming around in my head for years and am finally putting onto paper (figuratively speaking of course). I love writing it as much as you beautiful lot seem to enjoy reading it. Anywho...on with the show.
BBC's Sherlock is not mine.
"This eggy bread is delicious, Molly." John said after swallowing an alarmingly large bite.
"Thank you, John. It was my father's recipe. He called it our 'special day' breakfast. But in reality, he just made it whenever he fancied. His reasoning being that everyday was special if you wanted it to be."
"Sounds like a wise man."
"He was."
The tender moment was interrupted by the front door of 221B banging open and a certain consulting detective waltzing in, having just returned from some unknown errand. John did not appear fazed by his partner's dramatic appearance.
"Ah, John. You stayed here last night as opposed to your own place. All necessary belongings have been moved back there, but you stayed here. You and your very pregnant wife reconciled over a month ago, so there must be some extreme circumstance that kept you away last night. I know it wasn't a fight based on the lack of coloration underneath your eyes. You had a sound rest, so no great argument plaguing your mind. Perhaps it..."
Molly decided to interrupt him here. "Let me guess. Please."
She turned big brown eyes full of mirth to him and Sherlock was lost.
"I never guess, Molly. But you may proceed." He decreed.
"Mary had a guest stay over. I know she recently reconnected with the bit of family that she has been out of touch with ever since her um, 'military days' shall we call them-" She saw John tense and hastened to clarify. "Don't know much about it other than it was all top secret and forced her to drift from her family. To be honest I don't want to know anymore. Mary is my friend and that's all that matters."
John seemed mollified, so she continued. "I know the person was female based on Mary's willingness to allow you to stay here, and going by the fact that she even packed your bag for you..."
"How can you know that, Molly?" John grinned broadly at Sherlock's interruption.
"Simple. The little love note tucked away in John's robe pocket. I have caught him reading it no less than 3 times this morning. I have not been able to read it, only glimpses. The kind of sweet note a wife would leave in a lunch pail or a traveling bag for a husband to find. Anyway, based on all of the evidence, the conclusion is quite clear."
She placed her coffee down and looked Sherlock directly in the eye. He moved around the table and ended up standing directly beside her with John at the end of the table to their left.
"Well go on Detective Hooper. Impress us." Sherlock's tone was tinged with amusement, but she could also detect pride and a few flecks of gold around the iris. He was enjoying her little display.
"Cause: Mother-In-Law staying for the weekend. Consequence: John resides at Baker Street for corresponding weekend." John let out a hearty laugh, entertained by the entire conversation, but particularly amused by his friend's response to being beaten to the punch. He could tell Sherlock was downright giddy.
John complimented Molly. "That was brilliant."
"Elementary." Both Sherlock and Molly responded simultaneously. There was a brief loaded look between the two and then all 3 of them gave in to a good laugh. Even Sherlock ,who was not typically prone to such.
"Well, Molly, I knew you were a brilliant pathologist and chemist, but I was unaware of your amateur detective skills." He sat down at the table and made to draw his microscope closer. It took Molly a moment to recover her wits after the sincere sort-of-compliment, but she gathered herself together enough to carefully snatch the microscope back from him and place it on the counter behind her.
"Steady on!"
"No, Sherlock. Have you eaten breakfast?" A petulant shake of his head was the only response he gave her. She placed a plate in front of him with 2 pieces of french toast, a pear half with honey glaze, and a few strips of bacon.
"Eat this and I'll give it back."
He scoffed at her. "I am not a child to be bargained with." But even as he spoke, he loaded up a forkful and took a bite. He chewed slowly and Molly could tell he liked it. A lot. After swallowing, he sighed, as if put upon. "But since you are going through a traumatic event, I shall indulge you. John pass the syrup." She turned to the coffee pot, a victorious smile on her face. She couldn't resist just a bit more teasing.
"Oh and Sherlock?"
"Hm?" his mouth was full of tasty breakfast.
"It's the robe."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My awesome deductive skills. They were enhanced, I think, by the robe I am currently wearing." He saw her mouth twitch in humor as he took in her appearance for the first time that morning. Once his perusal was complete, he definitely felt gold in his eyes and his voice was gruff when he responded. "That's my robe."
"Yeah, I woke up in your bed this morning." She turned to John horrified, likely at the unintentional implication of her words. "No not like that...I wasn't...we didn't..."
"Its okay, Molly, John knows I carried you to bed last night. He's the one who suggested it."
"No I didn-" John began, an incredulous look crossing his features.
"Shut up, John. Please," he pinned Molly with a heated gaze, "continue."
"Well, I discovered that my friend did not think to pack me a robe and I was rather cold, and I saw this hanging on the hook behind your door, so I didn't think there was any harm in borrowing it, and then I saw the periodic table hanging on your wall and that specific elements were circled and I found myself curious as to why and then..." She stopped herself and took a deep calming breath before looking at him again, "Anyway, I'm sorry."
She untied the robe, but was stopped before she could peel off the offending garment by a warm hand on hers.
"No. Its yours. Keep it. You will most certainly need a robe for the duration of you stay here. And I find I rather like the sight of my robe on you." And my scent mingling with yours, he thought to himself.
Yes. We keep female warm. Female should smell like us. Sherlock agreed with his Beast. He wanted to blame his raging emotions on his other soul, but could not afford to lie to himself.
The sip of coffee John had just partaken of caught in his throat and he began to sputter. "Sher...*cough*...lock...you cant just...*cough*... say things like that."
"Why on earth not? It's the truth. You are constantly encouraging me to be honest, John. I take your advice and am admonished for it. I hardly see how that's fair." The entire time he spoke, he was retieing the knot at Molly's waist. He could tell she was flustered and took shameless advantage of her inability to formulate a protest. When satisfied that the knot was secure, he finished with a small stroke of her waist that could have passed for accidental, but most assuredly was not. He reluctantly moved away from her and sat down to finish his breakfast.
"So where did you go this morning?" John seemed eager to change the subject.
"Out."
"Mmmyes. I got that much believe it or not. Any more details you could offer?"
"I was visiting the murder sites of the Undertaker's victims."
"Sorry, who?" In answer, Sherlock removed a sheaf of newspaper from his inner breast pocket and smoothed it out on the table.
Molly gasped at the headline and read it aloud. Undertaker Wreaks Havoc on London's Death Doctors.
"Yes, the media have cleverly dubbed our serial killer, the Undertaker. How quaint."
"Why must they empower these psychopaths?" Sherlock read Molly quickly. Flushed cheeks, clenched fists, slight tremors. Molly was angry. Likely at the inconsiderate media, at the term 'Death Doctor', at this Undertaker character who preyed on people just because of their profession, at her life in general for spinning out of control and stranding her here of all places. He felt a stab of guilt, but it passed quickly. Molly belonged here. With him. These types of thoughts had become commonplace in the last week. Sherlock had not found an opportune moment to explore them yet, but their validity was undeniable. He would get around to it, as soon as this Undertaker was off the street and no longer a threat to his Pathologist.
Molly moved closer to Sherlock, as if his proximity provided her some measure of comfort. He did not comment. Merely adjusted his stance to allow her to lean against him.
"Anything useful at the murder scenes?" John asked.
"Not yet. What I really need is an untouched scene and a fresh kill." He steepled his hands beneath his chin.
"Sherlock!" John chided.
"Not good?"
"A bit. Yeah."
Sherlock shrugged.
A half hour later saw everyone going their separate ways for the day. Lestrade came by to escort Molly to work.
Must protect our female. Grey-maned man watch her while we find threat. Correct.
Hmmm...but Grey-maned man touch her again, he will lose a paw. Sherlock was tempted to agree.
She resisted at first, but Sherlock was adamant. Reluctantly, she relented.
A week passed relatively quickly at 221B. Living with Sherlock Holmes was surprisingly peaceful. At least for Molly. John departed after two days to return home to his wife and Molly and Sherlock were left alone. She was apprehensive about the atmosphere being awkward or strained, but her fears proved baseless. They easily fell into a routine that suited them both. Molly would make breakfast in the morning and Sherlock would eat it. Molly loved to cook. It was one of her absolute favorite hobbies. Perhaps it was the chemist in her, but something about mixing up precise measurements of different ingredients and the result being a delicious treat made her happy.
They would discuss progress in the case (not much of that so far), autopsies Molly performed throughout the day, and any experiments Sherlock was in the process of conducting. She was even treated to some hilarious anecdotes involving Mycroft.
Molly was escorted to and from Barts' by Lestrade's people and she continued to perform her duties at work as though nothing was wrong. It was a bit surreal. Once home for the evening, she would make dinner. Sometimes Sherlock skipped this meal and she did not begrudge him this. She understood that forcing one large meal into his system per day was a miracle in and of itself and that 2 EVERY day was pushing it. Either way, she always made enough for two and by the next morning the food she had stowed away in containers was nibbled on. Plus, even if he didn't eat he would sit beside her on the couch while she ate and stare off into nothingness, deep in his mind palace.
The first night they were alone and he broke from one of these trances, he apologized for ignoring her (she would later be informed by John that his apology was astounding).
"Don't be silly. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself for a couple of hours. What you're doing is important and if that is your method, feel free." The look he gifted her with was one of astonishment and gratitude.
"I must admit, I have never met anyone quite so understanding of that particular tendency."
Molly just shrugged it off. "Although, I am curious about it. Is it more like a computer data drive or an actual palace with dedicated rooms? And is there a guide?" At her last question, Sherlock fidgeted and cleared his throat answering a curt, "sometimes." (Little did she know he was recalling who exactly was the most common guide to appear in his head. The same guide that saved his life when he was shot.)
Every night she would settle down on the lumpy couch and every morning she would wake up in Sherlock's bed. She wasn't sure why they continued the farce, but it worked, so why fix it? She discovered that when he slept, if he slept at all, it was on the couch. This cycle repeated for a week, both occupants of 221B quite content.
Until one night, Molly dreamed...
She was in her Other form, prowling through a nameless jungle, her new-born cub secured safely in her jaws. She arrived back at her den and settled the cub down to sleep, licking sweet re-assuring kisses on its brow. After she was positive the cub was safe and sleeping, she returned to the entrance of the den to await her mate. Her big, strong, clever mate.
She didn't have to wait long. He soon came gliding into the den, his head gently butting against hers before rubbing his entire body down the length of hers, and setting his prize at her paws. A snake that had been plaguing their territory, threatening them and their cub with its venom and powerful coils. Her mate had beat him, destroyed the snake, and brought home its carcass to reassure her.
His sandy stripes and tawny mane shine in the light of the moon, his powerful body almost double the size of hers. He was all hers, this male. She watched him make his way over to the sleeping cub and nuzzle it, receiving a sleepy slap from a tiny paw for his efforts. He chuffed in amusement and returned to her.
She ran her body underneath his jaw and mane letting it caress the silky silver fur of the bold stripe running down her spine. He nipped playfully at her haunch for her teasing and was rewarded by her springing off into the jungle. Close enough to hear the cub if necessary, but far enough away for some much deserved privacy...
Molly didn't remember the majority of the second half of the dream, but caught glimpses of morphing under the moonlight and human bodies writhing in sweat.
She woke up on fire. Not literally of course, but in every other sense of the word. Her breasts were full and heavy, her core dripping. Her skin was flushed and she panted trying to catch her breath. For a brief moment she panicked. If Sherlock was home, he would scent her. Her vivid dream had rendered the masking talents of her breed useless. She was exposed.
Luck was on her side though. After a cursory examination of the apartment, she discovered that he was indeed out. She knew Sherlock would never leave her unprotected, so she figured there was most likely a police officer down in Speedy's to keep an eye on her until his return.
Thankfully, this was her day off and she had nowhere pressing to be. She bundled up all of the sheets and her night-clothes and ran them through a wash cycle with twice the recommended amount of detergent. She used half a can of air freshener in Sherlock's room to dispel the rest of her scent and just barely managed to finish everything before he came home.
He looked almost frantic. "Is it ruined?! Damn, I cannot believe I forgot- I'm going to have to begin the entire experiment over-"he stopped mid-rant, discovering that his experiment was perfectly intact. He raised an eyebrow at Molly in question.
"I-I remembered you mentioning the fly carcass experiment yesterday at breakfast and how it was essential that the carcasses be removed from the fridge by 11 AM today. You weren't here, so I took them out for you and set hem on the windowsill just like you discussed."
He was staring at her, unblinking. She began twisting her hands, afraid she may have done something wrong.
"I'm sorry, I won't mess with anything again, I was just trying to help. I know how frustrating it can be when an experiment has to be re-started. I myself have-" She was cut off mid-sentence when Sherlock wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up so that their faces were at the same level.
He paused for the briefest of moments as if seeking her permission and then must have decided he didn't care. He proceeded to give her the absolute best kiss of her life. Forget Tommy Matheson from 1st year of Uni. That was child's play. This kiss was fire and ice and any other extreme element one could think of. His firm, smooth lips rested against hers for mere seconds before they began to move. It was precise, calculating, much like the man himself. He nipped her bottom lip and she gasped in surprise. He grunted in pleasure and his tongue jumped at the chance to delve into her mouth, searching out every cavern and frazzled nerve, his hands holding her to him as if she was a life raft and he a drowning man. It was control and abandon all at once.
Before Molly could really wrap her head around what was happening, it was over. He pulled away from her, his eyes shut tight and a strained look on his face. He slid her body down the length of his and Molly was violently reminded of her dream.
He did not release her once her feet were on solid ground. She blushed when she felt the evidence of his arousal against her lower stomach. He, however, seemed in no way embarrassed. In fact, she thought maybe he wanted her to know what kind of effect she was having on him.
"What have you done to me, Molly Hooper?" His voice came out a velvety purr. But despite its pleased undertones, the question was like pouring a bucket of ice over her head. This was not real. This was biology. Sherlock would never kiss her like some conquering pirate. He didn't even see her that way. Not really.
She had to get out of there. It had been too long since she shed her human skin and let her Beast out to play and roam. She needed to find a safe place to Phase. She needed to get away from Sherlock before any more damage was done.
With tears glistening in her eyes, she used a small amount of Other strength and broke free of Sherlock's iron hold. She could tell she surprised him with her reaction and physical strength, but she didn't bother to ponder that. She turned on her heel and fled from the apartment, leaving a very confused- and very aroused- Sherlock behind.
From the shadows of Baker Street, Caine watched his target run like a bat out of hell from the home of the famous consulting detective. Caine was tired of waiting. He was ready for his next round of playtime. The Order had given him this assignment weeks ago and this woman was the last target on his list. He normally liked drawing things out. Hell, his victims all laid helpless for hours, knowing they were going to die, unable to do a thing about it, before he finally granted them death. Still... that Holmes character watched the female pathologist like a hawk, making it impossible for Caine to corner her. It was getting on his last nerve. Noting that for once, Ms. Hooper was not followed, Caine lifted the hood of his jacket to obscure his face and slipped into the night after her.
Reviews and Favorites = Love and Encouragement.
