I'll see you this evening at 9 o'clock.
SH
I'm not working tonight, Sherlock, Davison will be in the lab.
MH
I know. I'll meet you outside the morgue at 9.
SH
Oh. Alright. I don't mind helping, no big plans here anyway. What do we need to do at the morgue?
MH
Wear the long pink skirt. The loose one you wore to Lestrade's birthday dinner last month.
SH
Can I ask why?
MH
No.
SH
Normally Molly would assume this was part of an experiment and Sherlock needed a specific body or body part to work on, but the skirt certainly wasn't necessary for that. And they were meeting outside the morgue, not in it. A mutually comfortable and safe meeting place then, before moving to another location? Molly was a bit proud of her deducing.
Was this some sort of undercover investigating thing that Sherlock needed a woman for? She couldn't think of any other reason why he would need to see her that night, dressed not in work clothing. Molly liked the thought of helping him with a project beyond the morgue and labs. Playing femme fatale, perhaps. It couldn't be dangerous, could it? If it were, he probably wouldn't invite me, Molly reasoned, as her nervous excitement grew. Maybe he just needs someone to help sneak him into another area of St. Bart's. But again, she wouldn't need a skirt for that. The white coat and badge worked like a charm for getting into most places. People are afraid of white coats.
Molly decided to err on the side of caution and wear ballet flats instead of heels with the ankle-length peasant skirt, in case they had to run. She scuffed up the soles of her shoes too, just to be on the safe side, and made sure her disposable mini-scalpel was still tucked safely in her handbag. She always carried one with her, a girl couldn't be too careful on the tube at night. Pepper spray wasn't legal, and Molly was better with scalpels anyway.
Choosing an outfit for a potential stakeout with a man you're mad for is quite tricky, Molly realized, standing before her closet. She settled on an ivory-colored cashmere jumper, for the cool evening. It was loose on her, which normally suited Molly fine. She wished she had spectacular cleavage to push the v-neck up sometimes, but one advantage of her size was that bras were cheap and easy to come by. Her best friend Barb's overflowing shirts drew stares from all the boys (and some girls) at uni, but she had awful backaches, and she was always whinging about how her bras only came in the plainest colors and most boring designs.
Tonight, Molly chose a sheer white lace demi-cup bra with a little bow on it neatly between her breasts. Her brownish pink nipples peeked through the lace and over the top if she leaned over. She would try not to lean over too much. Molly smiled at herself in the full-length mirror on her closet door, and idly traced the outlines of her areolae for a moment, before shrugging into her top.
Seeing Sherlock without notice always gave her a jolt of electricity, but knowing she was seeing him a few hours ahead of time, it was a slow, tortuous burn. He had been on her mind more than ever since the day in the bookstore a week ago. Something had happened that afternoon, Molly was certain of that, some spark of recognition. She just wasn't sure that it would ever happen again unless she made it happen. She was almost certain he would pretend that he had never seen her reading the purple-covered book that day.
She pictured Sherlock turning up at St. Bart's in his dramatic coat that cost more than her entire wardrobe, and wearing a nice suit or maybe an elaborate disguise. (Picturing him hanging around outside the morgue in a fireman's costume gave Molly a fit of absurd giggles.) Telling her the details of the investigation, the danger, what he needed her to do for him, the controlled tones of his deep voice vibrating in her ears. Molly's anxiety began to fall away, and a baser excitement sparked in her.
And so she was somewhat surprised when Sherlock met her at 9:04 P.M. dressed as he always was- his flashy beauty of a coat with the collar turned up, black trousers and dark blue button-up shirt. No scarf tonight. His curls were slightly damp and wild as though he'd come to her straight from the shower and hadn't bothered with his hair at all. No effort whatsoever put into his appearance, and it was all Molly could do to not reach up and drag her hands through those curls. Just once, she thought. Just once I want to dig my hands in there and see if it's as soft and springy as it looks. The raw wanting made her braver.
"Hullo, Sherlock," Molly said a little too loudly in the quiet hallway. "So…is this an adventure we're having?" Dimples appeared in her cheeks, and she laughed mischievously and forced herself to not cover her mouth or turn it into a quiet giggle. I will show him I'm not a mouse, she thought. I can be brave, and do what he's asking of me.
Sherlock was pleased; Molly had stood just outside the morgue door at 9, dressed as he had ordered. The evening was off to a promising start. Pink skirt, ivory-colored cashmere jumper. Soft, warm colors and fabrics. He wanted to stroke underneath the fabric to see if her skin would be equally soft.
Sherlock felt a rare moment of uncertainty. What if she didn't like what he planned? Women liked restaurants and films and talking about things, didn't they? Perhaps he should've planned a more orthodox evening. He was badly out of practice with dating. Not that he was ever very good at it to begin with. But he understood submissive women, and he understood scientists. He thought- he hoped- Molly would be happy.
"Right." Sherlock cut the silence with a quick but genuine smile. "To the roof."
The roof of St. Bart's was quite easy to access, as long as you knew that one of the three doors had a broken lock and that the emergency alarm attached to it could be disengaged by placing a weight (a chair, usually) against the sensor of the alarm. Until they got around to refitting the building, as they kept threatening to do in the papers, the lock would stay broken.
Sherlock held the door open for Molly, who stepped through with wide eyes. She had never seen this part of the hospital before, despite hearing rumors for years that employee smokers sometimes went up there against hospital policy. She walked cautiously across the roof, until she was a few feet from the edge, and was then unable to speak.
Molly stood perfectly still, mouth slightly agape, eyes panning across the night skyline. Her breathing grew deep and slow, and Sherlock disappeared from Molly's mind.
It was beautiful. This was a London she had almost forgotten existed, when caught up in the bustle of everyday life on the ground and in the sterile morgue. This was why people still loved the city, still came to London and fell in love and stayed. The taller buildings around Bart's obscured the royal blue sky in some places, but those structures provided intriguing little alleyways and mazes for Molly to peek down into. She saw glowing streets flow between buildings and over bridges, endless strings of light that turned into noisy rows of cabs outside theaters, outside clusters of restaurants and pubs. Looking down at the street, while staying safely away from the edge, Molly could see dozens of people down below. Laughing, shouting, fighting, rushing about and forgetting that this place was magic. They were above the world, up here on the roof, with a slight chilly breeze blowing her loose hair around, and everything was so clear. You could see far across London from the roof of this old building. A sprawling grid where everything makes a sort of sense. Imagine that.
Molly's eyes welled up for a moment, before she laughed self-consciously and looked back, remembering Sherlock's presence. She looked down, smiling, shook her head and looked back at him.
"I don't understand?"
He smiled crookedly, uncertain again. His curls moved with the wind. "I wanted to show you this."
"Show me what?"
"What you saw just now. What you observed. Well, you probably didn't notice the man who was about to commit a robbery two blocks down, but…London…it's a great jumble, even once you know the streets. There's always something happening. Seldom boring." He laughed in a careless way that was uncharacteristically boyish. Molly wondered, Is this the man that John Watson sees all the time? This awkward smile that takes away the icy beauty of his cheekbones and makes him human and even lovelier. She was envious.
"Seldom boring…well, that's just the nicest thing you could ever say about anything, isn't it?" Molly grinned widely up at him, unconsciously stepping closer. She spontaneously reached out and clasped his upper arm.
"Thank you for sharing this with me. I'm still not…Sherlock, why did you ask me to meet you here tonight?"
"What page are you on?"
Molly wrinkled her brow and dropped her arm. "Sorry?"
"What page are you on?"
"What page am I on in what, Sherlock?"
He tilted his head slightly and his eyes were suddenly cool.
"I would appreciate it if you were to not ever play games with me, Molly Hooper. What page are you on?" he enunciated the question carefully, each word a beat.
She took another deep breath, and nodded.
"148. I've been reading slower than I normally would- lots to take in." She turned scarlet and chewed on her bottom lip.
"Stop doing that." He stared down at he mouth, handsome and unreadable, the laughing man gone.
"Why?" Molly said, truly puzzled.
"Because I should." Sherlock leaned in before she could respond and took her mouth.
Molly was shocked again for the second- no, third time that evening. Perhaps a record for the even-keeled pathologist.
Sherlock Holmes was kissing her. Sherlock Holmes was biting her. And it was, oh, it was lovely.
Molly opened for him beautifully. After a few seconds of surprised stillness, she wrapped her arms around his neck and followed his lead. Sherlock sucked on Molly's bottom lip, rolling it between his lips, massaging it with his tongue. Sinking his teeth lightly into the spot on her mouth she had been abusing herself a moment ago. Replacing her marks with his. With Molly's sensitive, easily flushed skin he knew her body would mark easily. He would have to be careful.
It had been too long for Sherlock. It was supposed to be a brief claiming kiss, to inform her that he was going to be training her, but he needed more, the dam was breaking. As Molly groaned into his mouth and pressed her breasts against his body, Sherlock had the sudden ungentlemanly urge to shove Molly down onto the cold hard roof, toss her skirt up, pull out his cock and brand her as his with a rough fuck. It appealed to his primal side, the hunter who tracked criminals and would take a woman with the same hunger and ferocity.
The worst part about that plan was that Sherlock knew she would love it if he took her that way.
He would have her on this roof someday, her hair spread over his coat laid out as a blanket beneath her. But not now. Now he cradled the back of her head as he tasted her mouth, and nipped, and drew throaty gasps from Molly.
Molly, silly Molly Hooper. Thinking he was someone worth having. What a strange girl she was, really. He didn't quite understand her.
How the cheerful pathologist could become a writhing moaning mess in his arms on a rooftop within minutes.
How the dazed and happy look in her brown eyes made his cock harder than any pornography ever could.
(Not that he looked at porn anymore, but it was hard to avoid when going through John's laptop.)
He'd expected a protest or two about the semi-public location, but she didn't say a word when he slid a hand down to cup Molly's bottom and pull her tight against his groin for one last kiss. Gripping her bum with one hand, the other still buried tightly in her hair, Sherlock pulled his mouth away suddenly.
Molly's mouth hung open, lips glistening and eyes heavy-lidded. Barely any brown left, pupils dilated completely. He felt true regret in stopping, but this wasn't the plan. He had to stick to the plan he'd spent all week mapping out. If he couldn't remain in control of even himself, he'd really lost the knack for being a dom. And he would not let that be the case, now that he'd let Molly know how much he wanted her.
Sherlock slid his hand out of the mess he'd made of Molly's hair, and pushed stray strands behind her right ear.
"You said something about an adventure earlier?"
Molly, still dazed, nodded and stared at Sherlock's mouth. She was considering pulling him down to her again, he knew. Bad girl. He wouldn't punish her for it tonight.
"Well…there's adventures and there's adventures. The night's young."
Sherlock led Molly back into the hospital by the arm, and then all the way downstairs, onto the street. Hailing a cab, he held the door for her to enter first. Popping into the car with a fresh burst of energy, he looked over at Molly, who sat quietly, processing the whirlwind of the past half-hour.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked. Molly looked up, wondering that herself.
Sherlock's mouth curled up at one corner, and his green-grey eyes sparkled. "221 Baker Street."
He knew Molly was equal parts excited and alarmed now. It was all there in her body language. She was so wonderfully expressive.
"There's something else I need to show you, Molly."
Tomorrow: Chapter 5: The Date, part 2