Chapter 7

Sherlock insisted that they proceed with his prosaic plans, so at precisely eight o'clock they were seated in a private room at one of London's most expensive restaurants. Red rose petals decorated the table and a single red rose was draped across Molly's plate, its perfume permeating the entire room. Soft violin music accompanied the candlelight and Molly suspected that Sherlock had picked out the music personally, though the rest was no doubt arranged by someone else. Strangely, the thought that he had delegated the romantic responsibilities to someone else didn't bother her, the mere fact he'd even considered it was enough.

To her surprise, Molly found that she was able to sit, albeit with some slight discomfort which garnered her a small smirk from Sherlock's lips as he noticed her shifting in her seat. He studied the menu dutifully. "Is something wrong, Molly?" He used that clinically detached voice he often used in the lab, the one that hinted at his mild annoyance, whether it was sincere or not. It was the voice that made her want to break through that icy calm exterior and discover what lay beneath, even more so now that she knew what he concealed.

"You know very well what is wrong," she said, trying to sound equally remote, but failing miserably and allowing herself to fall into a fit of giggling. Their private room and very discrete staff allowed them the freedom to speak and Molly took full advantage of it. She leaned over and whispered in Sherlock's ear, "I am probably too sore to ever have sex with you again." She enjoyed his look of shock. "Whatever will we do with our time?"

His hand found its way onto her thigh and slid under the hem of her dress even while he continued to peruse the menu without interruption. "I see. What would you like?"

She wasn't sure if he meant for dinner or… later. She took a deep breath and steadied herself, trying to sound nonchalant. She glanced towards the doorway, very grateful that the table linens were floor-length and conveniently placed. "Salad, then the salmon I think. After coffee we will go home, where I plan to tie you up and have my way with you."

His hand made its way further up her leg, under her knickers, and brushed against her clit. "Hmm… That is not how this works," he said in that silky-smooth voice that he knew made her shiver. "If there is something you want to do, you may ask me for it. Better yet," he said, setting down the menu and whispering in her ear, "beg. You know how I like hearing you beg." He very lightly rubbed her clit, careful of how tender she'd become with all of his previous attention. "But if anyone is going to be tied up, it is going to be you, my love."

Molly closed her eyes and nearly moaned just as the waiter entered. Sherlock's very talented fingers didn't hesitate, didn't pause, as he spoke to the waiter about various wines before settling on something, the specifics of which Molly was oblivious to given that all of her attention was directed at staying still and quiet. That task proved increasingly difficult the longer Sherlock's inquisition of the waiter continued.

"Miss?" The waiter looked at her expectantly, like it wasn't the first time that he had asked for her order.

"Go ahead," Sherlock urged gently, seductively, his voice low and full of dark promises. "Don't keep him waiting." It was getting harder and harder to maintain her composure as she fell closer and closer towards release.

"House salad, and um… ah… salmon."

"Very good," the waiter said with a nod before he left.

"Sherlock…" Molly closed her eyes and spread her legs further apart, and she was rewarded with one of Sherlock's fingers slipping inside of her.

"Yes, Molly?" he asked innocently. Even with her eyes closed, she knew he was smirking at her, the corner of his mouth upturned in that decadent half-smile. She felt his breath tickle her ear as he said, "do you want to come already? Here, in a restaurant, where anyone could walk into this room as see you flushed and breathless?" A second finger easily joined the first as she was so wet. She was close; she could feel her muscles clenching around his fingers, trying to draw him in further, all the while small whimpers escaped from her lips. "Are you going to scream when you come, my sweet Molly? Shall we let our young waiter hear you?"

Molly shook her head, but her body had already made up its mind; there was no stopping the upcoming orgasm. Her whimpers turned to a nearly constant moan.

Sherlock's voice changed from teasing to commanding in a heartbeat. "Do not come. You do not have my permission, do you understand? Let me see you fight it."

Her eyes flew open and her eyes met his, her lips slightly parted with unspoken frustration. "I can't… I'm too close…."

"You can, and you will," he said with a tone that made it clear he expected her to obey, but his thumb rubbed harder against her clit. She tried to distract herself, to think about anything else except the feel of Sherlock's hand hitting all the right places, playing her body masterfully. "Watch me, Molly. Don't look away from my eyes," he ordered, and she found herself obeying him automatically. She'd always had trouble holding his gaze before. It made her feel like he saw every one of her flaws, but this time his command made it easier, knowing that he wanted to see her this way.

Their waiter chose that moment to deliver their salads. Neither broke eye contact while the plates were set in front of them and just as Molly's concentration faltered, she let out a moan and clenched her eyes shut. Sherlock used his free hand to grip the back of her neck and pull her mouth forcefully towards his. His kiss was possessive and forceful, and she melted into it as he swallowed her small cries of pleasure as she came against his fingers, drenching them in her juices.

Sherlock knew the waiter had gone from the room with some haste as soon as he kissed her, but he doubted Molly was aware of that fact, and he found himself fascinated at her complete surrender to him. She could have used her safe word or given him some indication that she wanted him to stop long before that time, but her desire to please him and be pleased by him had overridden her deeply ingrained self-consciousness.

As she steadied herself, her palms flat on the table and her eyes closed, Sherlock wondered how he could have been so blind to her for so long. He supposed it was habit mixed with his conscious desire to avoid any attachment, let alone love, but her quiet acceptance of everything he was pierced his formidable defenses. He felt incredibly privileged to be the recipient of her trust, and at the same time, completely unworthy of it.

He held her close and kissed her temple lightly as he withdrew his hand from her. She shifted slightly and whimpered at the loss, which made her even more beautiful in her vulnerability, trusting him fully to care for her in every way. While he admitted to himself that he was in love with her many months ago, he had never felt so completely overpowered by it. He loved her more in that very moment that he ever thought he was capable of, and the enormous responsibility of it frightened him. Was he even equipped, socially or emotionally, to deal with this? Was he cheating Molly out of the life she deserved?

Being a professional dominant meant having clear boundaries: he was expected to maintain an emotional distance, which suited him very well. His clients provided him with a mutually beneficial arrangement where he deduced and produced their deepest and darkest fantasies while their money provided him with a steady supply of heroin. Now he had enemies, true enemies who would not hesitate to use Molly against him or even to kill her. What if they had children, which he knew Molly wanted?

Previously, Sherlock had pacified himself with the assumption that in spite of his best efforts and his desire to the contrary, Molly would soon tire of him once he provided the realization of her fantasies, then move on to someone more suited to raising a family and working "normal" hours. Someone who was not him. He had been thoroughly convinced that in spite of his good intentions, he would have "thoroughly mucked this up", as John would say, long before now. If he was completely honest with himself, he could admit that he had expected her to accuse him of pushing her too fast, of violating some boundary sexually that she would find unforgivable, or more likely, that after the initial joy of having her heart's desire wore off, she would finally see him. She should blame him for all of the shortcomings that would inevitably be illuminated in the harsh light of day once the haze of endorphins had passed.

But here she was, in his arms, willing to do anything he asked of her. Never once had it crossed her mind to deny him in any way, not before the revelation of his feelings for her and certainly not after. Perhaps she just needed more time to come to the same foregone conclusion. Yes, it would hurt him deeply when she left, but people like him didn't deserve to be happy. Not really.

He held her tenderly, like she were priceless and fragile as her breathing slowed and she finally opened her eyes. "What's wrong?" she asked him carefully. "You're trembling."

He'd thought it was her, given the circumstances, but she was correct he abruptly realized. "Am I?" He tried to pull back slightly to cover for his unintentional display of weakness.

"Sherlock, please don't hide from me, not anymore. I can't bear it." She grasped his hand gently, and he tried to return the gesture, but the doubt had already taken hold. It was just a matter of time.

While he considered her words, he sank back into the seat and tried to calm his racing thoughts. Could he really perpetuate the lie any longer? How could he have ever thought he could make her happy? He'd never mastered the task John so often assigned him of not being himself. "Molly," he said seriously and she watched as his too-familiar walls began to close in around him.

"No, Sherlock, don't…" Her fingers worried at the back of his hand and he could feel her anxiety building to match his own. "Please, I know I came without permission, and I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. I tried. I will make it up to you, I swear I will. You can tell me how, can't you? You can do anything you want to me. I won't stop you or use my safe word… you can just get it out of your system and we'll be okay again," said Molly, nearly frantic. "If I wasn't good enough..."

"God, no," he said, pulling her tightly against him with a desperate intensity that only worried her more. "I am not angry with you, only myself." He inhaled the smell of her skin and closed his eyes, temporarily struck by the knowledge that it was that scent, her scent, which now permeated every hallway of his mind palace. "I love you so much, Molly, and I am not certain how to process that."

"I love you too, Sherlock." She kissed him on the lips briefly, then settled her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence like that for several minutes, until the waiter returned to inquire if there was a problem with their meals.

"No, sorry," Molly answered, seeing that Sherlock was lost in thought. "They're fine." She took a bite to prove her point and seemingly satisfied, the man left without another word. Turning back to Sherlock, she said, "I can help you through the emotional part, the relationship, if you will let me. I know that really hasn't been your thing in the past…" She waited for him to say something, anything, but she was left wondering if he'd even heard her. She disentangled her hand from his. "It's okay, I mean I understand if it's still not your thing…I will just…" Her long-standing nerves around him made a rapid reappearance.

"Yes," was all Sherlock said, staring straight ahead.

Molly had already gotten used to the idea of him rejecting "sentiment" with her when he said the word. "What?" She asked, incredulous.

He turned and gave her the playful smile that had always made her melt. "Yes, mistress?" She giggled and squirmed in his arms, the tension between them evaporating instantly. When they finally settled down, Sherlock suggested they eat their salads before the waiter became cross.

"So," Molly began, "if we are going to have a serious relationship, Sherlock, then we need to be honest and open with each other, wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock studied her for a moment, and it was all she could do not to look away as she had so many times before. "You are going to ask me questions I do not want to answer."

"Well, yes," Molly admitted since there was no point in denying it. "But sharing our past helps us get to know each other better, and we are hardly secret-free with regard to each other, are we? Understanding each other better is important if we plan to have something more intimate than just the incredible, amazing, mind blowing sex."

"Ah, so you are enjoying that part?" He licked the tines of his fork, delighted at the effect it had on his pathologist. She was blushing. After all they had done together, he loved that he could still make her blush with a simple word or gesture.

"It doesn't take someone of your, um, considerable skills to realize that not only have I been enjoying every second, I think everyone within a kilometer knows that too. But you can't get out of every uncomfortable conversation with me, every time that you feel insecure, by seducing me or switching the topic to sex."

"But you make it so easy, Molly," he said with a smile, considering doing just that. She tried for her best disappointed glare at him, but he brushed it off easily.

"Alright then, you can ask me first, anything you want to know," she said confidently.

"I know everything about you that I need to," he replied quickly.

"Yet here you are, having dinner with me even after you solved every one of my mysteries? I doubt that. You'd be bored."

Sherlock paused and just stared at her for a moment, wondering when he'd become so transparent. "Very well, ask," he said finally.

"Really?" She stared at him, incredulous that he would give in so easily.

He would not remind her that every time he had asked her such things, or let her know what he had learned from her, he had hurt her. Doing that to her again was unthinkable, even if it meant telling her things he never wished to speak of again.

"Alright," Molly said happily, taking a bite of her salad. "Why are you and your brother so cross with each other?"

Sherlock said, "He blames me for the death of our parents," as if that were sufficient explanation.

She took his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. But why would Mycroft blame you? It's not like you killed them." Sherlock said nothing and Molly suddenly became more anxious. "Did you?"

"I heard arguing in the study late one night. That by itself was nothing new, in fact, it was a regular occurrence during my childhood, but it was my mother's screams that made me investigate further. Father accused her of disobeying him by buying me particular chemicals and an infrared spectrometer for my research, and he was beating her with his fists when I entered the room. Mother was nearly unconscious by that point, but motioned to me to leave. Obviously, I refused. While I would never describe my relationship with her as loving, she seemed to favor me over Mycroft, who was Father's favorite, while I was merely a disappointment as I had no inclination to follow in his footsteps like my dear brother did."

Molly couldn't believe that Sherlock would tell her such things. She had never heard him speak of his childhood before this, not once, and now she began to realize why. She kept quiet, still holding his hand, but afraid that if she said anything, did anything, that she would ruin the moment of Sherlock's revelation.

"I instructed him to stop his assault. He turned to me and said, 'this is all your fault, Sherlock. She has defied me for the last time.' Then he reached for his cricket bat. I should not have hesitated, but I was afraid of him, as he made a habit out of beating me as well as Mummy. Father was not a man who forgave easily, and I knew he would turn on me if I attempted to interfere any further while he struck her several times. The sound of her skull cracking caused me to act. I took the small knife from his desk, the one he used to open letters, and I stabbed him with it three times, puncturing both of his lungs and lacerating his aorta." Molly's flinch did not keep him from finishing, as Sherlock knew she had seen and heard far worse during her career. "He did not expect me to intervene and therefore he had turned his back, but I knew enough anatomy at that time to ensure my attacks were efficacious. He turned and tried to strike me as well, but I was smaller and more agile, enabling me to avoid the blows, and a short time later he collapsed. Mycroft entered just after I had removed the cricket bat from Father's hand, and he found me holding the bloody knife and bat. Mummy was already dead by that point, and Father died shortly thereafter."

When Sherlock paused, he did not look directly at Molly, but instead focused on the wall in front of him. "God, Sherlock, I had no idea. I'm so sorry you had to go through that." When he didn't respond at all, she asked, "How old were you?"

"Eleven." He pulled his hand back and ate a bite of his salad with a totally blank expression on his face. Molly didn't know if he was just suppressing the emotions of the memory or if he truly felt nothing at all.

"So Mycroft blamed you for both deaths, even though you were only defending your mother."

"I believe I already stated that."

That was the Sherlock she had known for years. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have asked." They finished their salads in silence as she began to wonder if they would ever have anything like a normal relationship, one where they really could know and be completely comfortable with each other. She'd known for years that Sherlock must have suffered some sort of emotional trauma, likely repeatedly during his childhood, but this was worse than she had imagined. "It's alright if you don't want to tell me things but I'm sure you already know that I would never tell anyone."

Their waiter chose that moment to clear away their plates and serve their entrees. Once he was gone, Sherlock said, "Mycroft is nine years older. He was granted legal custody of me the promptly sent me to boarding school in Switzerland. I did not return to England until I entered Oxford at age sixteen. There, I was introduced to cocaine and heroin, to which I quickly became addicted. I left university after my third year as they had nothing else of interest to teach me, and I lived on the streets for the next five years, which provided me with an excellent working knowledge of the tunnels and abandoned buildings of London, the opportunity acquire skills such as breaking and entering, and form the first incarnation of my homeless network."

Molly was stunned at his matter-of-fact retelling of his life's events, without a trace of emotion, not even regret. She had seen him do the same with the victims of crimes as he described them and their last moments with a detachment that made people uncomfortable. She suddenly felt very sad for him that he'd been forced to learn how to lock himself away like that.

"Mycroft abducted me and forced me into various rehabilitation programs without success until he sought my help with the espionage matters he was too stupid or too lazy to resolve on his own. Several years later I came to the attention of the local police and eventually Scotland Yard, which suited me better, as I had no desire to follow along in the path that Mycroft and Father had so carefully laid out for me when I was a child. I believe you know the rest." Still without making eye contact with her, he picked up his knife and fork and began eating his chicken methodically, cutting each piece precisely while at the same time paying it scant attention.

"Sherlock?" Molly said carefully, not sure how to handle the situation. When he didn't respond, she considered texting John for advice, but thought better of it. She slid closer to him until their sides were touching then she rested her head on his chest and when he did not object, she put her arms around his waist. "It's okay, Sherlock. This doesn't change how I feel about you. I still love you, maybe even more since you trusted me enough to tell me these things. Everything that's happened to you in your life brought you to me, brought you to the point that you could love me, and let me love you."

He abruptly turned his body towards her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly to his chest as if he were desperate to keep her from leaving. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, and as they passed the next few minutes in silence, Molly thought she felt a few wet tears drop down onto her hair.