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CHAPTER SEVEN: HEALTH AND SAFETY


Sherlock Holmes' flat, Montague Street

One of the More Mortifying Moments of His Career

What the bloody Hell was that? Sherlock asks himself.

What on Earth made you think that that was a good idea?

And he puts the phone down slowly, keeping his eye on it as if it might bite him. He knows it's a ludicrous reaction but he can't seem to help himself. The pleasure of climax is rapidly receding and his old foe, common sense, is making its voice heard.

As always, it sounds remarkably like Irene.

You called a client off the clock, it whispers.

You coaxed her into an interaction she hadn't agreed to- and which you never discussed charging her for- and now you've, now you've-

"Now you've come all over yourself," he murmurs, shaking his head and sitting up in the bed. "Silly, silly boy."

And he plants his bare feet on the floor, face in his hands even as he tries to calm his heartbeat into normality. The sticky mess on his belly, fingers and thighs is rapidly cooling in the bedroom air. It feels… It feels unpleasantly messy. Disordered.

The thought tugs at Sherlock's mind in the same way Minister Winstead's overlapping, unmatched perfumes had yesterday.

So he lurches to his feet, stalks into the shower. He turns on the water- never mind that it's freezing- and leans forward, resting his head on the cool white tiles for a moment. He just needs to clear his head. He can feel the water lashing at his back, dragging against his flesh like pinpricks of ice and he forces himself to turn around, to present his front to the onslaught. The cold water rakes at his chest, his thighs, his genitals even as it washes the mess he's made of himself away-

Taking a deep breath he steps directly under the spray and tips his head back, letting it lash his face, plaster his hair to his scalp.

He can see Molly Hooper's big, dark eyes behind his eyelids.

He raises his hands at the image, raking his fingers against the wet curls, the motion soothing. Necessary.

He's not sure how long he stands there but he knows it can't be long.

When he comes out he feels calmer. More together. He towels himself dry and pads back to bed, lying down in the same spot in which he'd been when he was… communicating with Molly.

At the realisation he sighs. Lets his head fall back. His eyes are dragged over to the phone and it's only with great difficulty that he manages to prevent himself from picking it up. Looking at the photos he sent her, the messages.

Oh course, he realises in dismay, the thing he really wants to look at are the messages she sent him.

His fingers itch to reopen them; again it occurs to him, how potentially dangerous it is to be this distracted by a client.

With a frustrated huff he closes his eyes, presses the heels of his hands against his lids and counts to ten in Latin. Then Greek. Then French. By the time he's gotten to Arabic he's feeling a little calmer, a little more himself. His heartbeat has returned to normal and the bed sheets have warmed up against his skin. So what if he'd started things off in an unlikely way? He tells himself. He'd known Molly was shy and he'd thought this a good way to get her to open up for next week. He'd thought it would save time with her when they met next in person, and nobody could fault him for that: It's his bloody job.

And the way she makes you feel? Ms. Common-Sense Adler demands in his head. That had nothing to do with it?

That bitten little lip and those big, calf eyes hadn't the slightest bearing on your actions tonight, eh?

Sherlock shakes his head. Closes his eyes tighter. Sometimes she's worse than Mycroft used to be, back when he was the voice of what passed for Sherlock's conscience-

At the remembrance of his brother he winces. Curls in on himself. A broken, blighted street and his mother's blank eyes rear up in his mind, the image so overwhelming that he pushes it away, shaking his head sharply to himself as he does.

He never purposefully tries to remember Mycroft and yet, sometimes he feels like he never does anything bloody else.

But he's not thinking of his brother now, he's not remembering what happened. He can't. He won't. With a frustrated growl he takes the phone, petulantly taps the screen to set his alarm for tomorrow and then turns the damn thing off. Effectively eliminating the temptation posed by Molly bloody Hooper's stupid bloody text messages. Effectively cutting off his mind from its rather wry inquiries into why he might have done what he did tonight, given what he knows about the dangers of muddying up his professional relationships.

Instead he turns off his bedside lamp, hunches down beneath the covers and prays for daybreak. It takes him ages to fall asleep, tossing and turning until the wee small hours.

But though he'll never admit it, when he finally succumbs it's the best night's rest he's had in years.


Molly gets through the rest of the week with a giddy, nervous sort of energy that everyone comments on.

Whenever they ask however, she merely puts it down to the stress of looking for a new flat.

The questions about this always segue way into the revelation that she and Tom are not getting married- The git at least had the courtesy to ring both his mother and her brother and explain things. (The former had demanded he try harder, the latter had explained that the next time he saw Tom he was going to deck him. He had then called his sister and given Molly the opportunity to cry to him over the phone, an opportunity Molly had not taken. She hadn't been surprised, really, that she had no tears to shed).

And that had been that; no massive, long break-up spiel. No lingering thoughts about getting back together.

More than anything, Molly had felt as if a weight were being lifted, and with every person she told she felt lighter and lighter still.

She's rather alarmed at how quickly her guilt is receding.

So by the time Monday has come around and it's time to meet Will, she's rather pleased with herself. Excited, even. She's about to embark on an adventure, a proper adventure, with someone who she can genuinely ask anything of. Someone she's fairly certain she won't shock. And when she's finished, she'll at least have some idea of what she wants in a partner, or whether there's something entirely, functionally wrong with her-

The business arrangement suits everyone, she knows, smiling as she pulls on her heels and checks herself in the mirror before heading out to The Dorchester. (Will has apparently gotten them a room there).

She grins all the way in, looking so pleased that even the cabbie notices it.

"Got a hot date, darlin'?" he asks with a leer. Another driver cuts him off and he flips him the finger, muttering mutinously under his breath about tourist drivers.

"No," she smiles serenely, barely noticing. "It's more what you'd call a business meeting."


The Dorchester Hotel Foyer

About Two Minutes Later

When she gets to the hotel a text tells her to go to the front desk, collect her key.

She's to ask for a room under the name Scott and the hotel staff will do the rest.

Molly is unsure when she realises that Will isn't going to greet her at the door but she does as he asks, picks up the room-key. The woman who hands it to her smiles beatifically and tells her she hopes she'll enjoy her stay, that breakfast is served until twelve and that if she wants anything until then she need only ask. This surprises Molly; she had rather assumed that she would be spending a few hours here at most, filling time until Will had to leave her for another client-

She mulls over this as she rides the lift to the seventh floor and hops off.

She mulls over it as she stumbles down the corridor to the room, clumsy in her nervousness and haste and relieved that there's nobody present to see it.

She even mulls over it as she finds the room, opens the door to find Will sitting on a white leather sofa, his back to her-

Inside the curtains are pulled, milky warm light pouring in through the windows. The traffic whispers outside and the breeze is tantalising. Cool.

Mr. Scott is perched on the very edge of his seat, the ankle of his left leg resting on his right knee. A stack of papers sits in his lap and he appears to be perusing his phone, frowning to himself.

He doesn't look up when Molly enters.

"Please have a seat," he says, still not raising his eyes from his mobile, and he indicates a single white wooden chair which has been placed directly in front of him, about a leg's distance away from the sofa.

Beside the chair Molly can see a small white coffee table, an array of various… accoutrements on it.

She spies a flail. A blindfold. A pair of handcuffs. A riding crop.

She also spies a selection of toys, ranging from the rather small to the intimidatingly large, all of them sleek and aerodynamic. These are not cheap devices.

A thrill goes through her at the thought, the jolt of it tightening her chest and setting her pulse speeding.

She can feel the beginning of wetness pooling between her legs.

So she takes the seat he indicated without saying a word, anticipation already making her belly twist and knot. She clasps her hands together in her lap, tries to stop herself from fidgeting.

She doesn't know why she finds it so difficult.

When she sits he looks up, nods but doesn't smile. She has the oddest feeling he's tense but she doesn't know why. Without a word he holds out his papers, tersely gesturing for her to take it, which she does.

Once she has them he seems to relax a tad, as if he's been reassured about something.

"Since this is our first session face to face," he says, "I thought we should discuss your preferences."

A small smile tugs at his features, though his expression suggests it does so rather against his better judgement.

Molly instinctively smiles to match him and instantly his grin fades.

"I didn't think it wise to ask these questions in the restaurant," he continues smoothly. "That day contained quite enough revelations, and I didn't believe you would enjoy being asked about these things where anyone might hear."

Molly gives a small nod and again he shoots her that unwilling smile. Again he seems his expression cools, again he seems to pull back from her.

"The object in your hands is a list of practices," he drawls, the effect somehow… forced. It reminds Molly strongly of his reaction when he first tried to proposition her at the restaurant. "We're going to go through it, and at the end you're going to choose the one with which we start our arrangement today.

"Be aware that blood, breath and scat play are off the menu- Not that I think you'll be asking about them."

"Certainly not," Molly says quietly. She has no desire to cut, strangle or defecate on the man before her and her expression must say as much.

This time when he smiles, his expression is… gentler.

"Yes, well," he clears his throat. He rakes a hand through his hair, making it stick up and just for a moment he looks ridiculously boyish. It's really rather attractive. "I just thought I had better say it," he says, shrugging. "It's not the sort of thing one wants any confusion about."

And Molly nods. Opens the list before her. The first few sentences she reads concern sexual safety, giving permission to use condoms, lube, asking about her sexual health status (with an attached report on his) and what type of contraception she's using. It's all fairly straight-forward, medical even, and she finds it oddly soothing.

The list of activities on the second page though…

Well, that she doesn't find soothing. At all.

For there's a list of sex acts, each slightly more alarming than the next. Each one prompting an unwelcome process of comprehension as she tries to work out what they are and hence why they might be attractive. Because how would she even know how she likes being tied up, let alone whether she'd want other people present? Having never tried a strap-on she's entirely unsure whether she'd like to be on the receiving end of one or give waving one about a go. And there are other things she doesn't like the sound of, things which seem to feature devices and health and safety warnings- who on Earth discovers that they're turned on by being wrapped in cellophane like a mummy and abandoned in a corner for an hour-?

"Molly, relax." His words cut through her discomfort and she realises with a start that she's breathing rather heavily, something which might be panic starting to claw at her.

She blinks up at him, embarrassed, and he reaches hesitantly out to her, lays one hand on her shoulder.

He seems reluctant to do so and she can't for the life of her understand why.

"Molly, this is not a shopping list of things you have to do," he says. "It's not even a list of things I have to do. I just thought, given how you said you wanted to experiment, that I would show you how broad an array of choices you have-"

"I don't want this." She says the words sharply, the lovely, bubbly confidence with which she'd entered the room has long since disappeared. She pushes the sheaf of papers back into his hands, shaking her head. "I- I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it, or, or anything, I just don't want-"

"You're more vanilla." He says the words without any inflection. They're a statement of fact, not a judgement. He even throws her that smile she saw last week, the crooked little one she actually liked, and nods.

Instantly she feels a little better.

"Yeah," she says, aware her cheeks are now turning pink. Jesus, she hates being this easy to rile. "I just- I just don't want to-"

"You don't have to. You don't have to do anything that you don't want to do." And he smiles again. Takes her hand and pulls her towards him. With another little tug she's on his lap, his chin at her shoulder as he invites her to look at the devices he's left out.

"Do you like the look of any of those, Ms. Hooper?" he asks and she nods. Smiles shyly.

She almost expects him to snap at the sight of it- Tom would have- but he doesn't seem bothered by it.

Though, to be fair, judging by that list he's seen a lot worse.

"I like the look of that one," she says, pointing at one of the smaller toys. It's a vibrator, the smallest jackrabbit she's ever seen. It would fit rather comfortably in the palm of her hand.

He nods, as if this is merely to be expected.

"Anything else?" And his arm snakes around her waist, his palm flattening against her belly. His fingers press circles on it. The weight is warm. Pleasant. Distracting.

She bites her lip, nodding towards the blindfold. She reaches out to pick it up and as she does the palm on her stomach dips lower, his fingers splaying out to caress. It makes her skin tingle. She leans back in, twisting in his lap until she can hold the blindfold up and press it gently against his eyes. She holds it there.

For a split second he stills and she murmurs an apology, makes to remove it, but then-

"Leave it," he murmurs. One hand comes to her wrist to still it, the palm which had been at her belly now sliding down her backside.

Without warning she moves, straddling him, and she can feel the barest hint of his cock hardening against her inner thigh as she does so. It feels divine. For a moment she ducks her head, about to kiss him, but then remembers that this is an arrangement, not a date.

She leans forward and whispers in his ear. "Can I kiss you?"

She feels like an idiot, a teenager, but he smiles. Nods. He turns his head towards the sound of her voice, tugging slightly at her wrist and pulling the blindfold down from his eyes.

When he looks at her, his pupils dilate, his tongue darting out to wet his lip and Molly feels her reaction to it through every inch of her skin. Her body shivers with it.

"Well?" he asks tartly. She didn't think it possible, but his voice has gone even deeper than before. "What are you waiting for, Ms. Hooper?"

She feels a thrill of mischief. "I'm waiting to hear you say it, Mr. Scott," she murmurs. Her smile widens. "I'm waiting to hear you say you want me to-"

"I want you to kiss me." The tone leaves no room for misinterpretation, or, indeed, argument. "I want you to kiss me, Ms. Hooper," he says, "and then I want you to take me into the bedroom behind us and fuck me until we both come.

"Is that acceptable?"

And his breath stills, his eyes coming to rest on her as if he's actually unsure of the answer. Wordlessly, she nods. She lets the blindfold drop, takes his face in her hands and kisses him. It's slow. Hesitant at first. He doesn't open his mouth, doesn't invite her tongue to tangle with his. He has the most wonderful lower lip though, soft and plump, and she sucks it into her own. Nips at it.

He lets out a decedent little moan, his head falling back against the sofa and she feels an entirely alien, entirely lovely sense of power, that she made him do that.

So slowly, she gets to her feet, holds her hand out. He takes it, lets her pull him into standing. She indicates the bedroom with a jerk of her chin and he nods. Follows her. He snags the blindfold and the toy as he goes, slinging his free arm casually about her waist and pulling her against his front as they walk into the bedroom.

She can feel his rapidly-hardening cock pressing between the cheeks of her arse.

Molly smiles at the thought, pushing to door closed with her back as she watches him pad to the bed. Sit down upon it. He looks up at her, his hair mussed and his lower lip stung from where she'd bitten it and he holds out both blindfold and toy.

Their fingers touch when she takes them and again her skin tingles.

"So… What are you going to do with me now, Ms. Hooper?" he says quietly.

She frowns at him. "I haven't decided yet," she says carefully. "But I think I'd rather like to use these..."

And she crosses the room, places the blindfold and toy on the bed. She stands, looking down into his face as she strokes her free hand through his hair. She traces the curve of his jaw, his nose. Strokes her thumb gently along his closed eyelids, marvelling at the feel of his eyelashes almost fluttering against her skin. Her thumb darts out, gently tracing the rise of his upper lip and he opens his mouth in invitation; She slides her thumb inside and he nips the digit lightly, his tongue swiping out to lick her flesh. When he sucks on it her breath catches, surprised that something so small could feel so, so… erotic.

She presses forward, kneeling on the bed and tipping his face upwards. Kissing him, chests and legs and arms tangling together.

It's long and slow and deep, just the way she likes it and at the thought she feels something, something tight inside her chest she hadn't even known was there, slowly begin to unclench.

One hand strokes down his throat- she feels it acutely when he swallows- while the other rakes through his hair again, the feel of it silky between her fingers. Pleasant. She pushes him onto his back and he goes easily, looking up at her through hooded, aroused eyes.

His erection is straining against the fly of his trousers, tenting the fabric.

His gaze flickers to the blindfold in invitation and she nods. Reaches out and takes it. She presses it against his closed eyelids and he sighs, his shoulders hitching apart and releasing a tension she hadn't even realised they held.

It is, she can't help but think, rather a beautiful thing to witness.

She ties the knot at the back of his head easily, making sure his hair doesn't catch and that it's far enough down that it won't dig into his skull when he lies back down. This he does, allowing her to press him backwards even as she scoots off the bed, stands and just looks at him. She's never really had a chance to just look at someone like this before: He's gorgeous and mussed and aroused and as she thinks that she leans forward, kisses him again-

Her tongue tangles with his and he smiles at her, head tipped back and throat bared in apparent abandon. Apparent carelessness.

"I'm going to undress you now," she says and she's so pleased it isn't a question. "Would you like that, Will?"

He nods. "Oh Christ, please, yes," he breathes.

He stretches his arms up eagerly, fingers catching at the underside of the headboard.

In this pose he looks captive, held down, though of course it's his own doing, not hers.

Molly rather likes seeing him like this though. She rather likes the way he's lying, splayed out and ready for her. She begins at his shoes, unlacing the expensive leather ankle boots. She pulls his socks off, smiling when he huffs in impatience, tilting his hips and cock towards her in obvious eagerness, the heel of one foot digging into the bed.

"Molly," he almost whines and she shuts him up with a long, passionate kiss, suckling on his lower lip again.

"Molly," he says again and this time it sound thankful. Breathless.

She takes the hint with a smile, reaching for his fly and he actually hisses when her hands make contact with his cock through the fabric of his trousers, her fingers reaching easily inside to squeeze him through the fabric as he huffs and presses into her palm. She unbuttons him, carefully pulling both trousers and underwear down and over her hips. He helps, raising his arse off the bed as she pulls them free and sighing in pleasure when his bare skin meets the cool air of the room-

The sound of it makes Molly's mouth water.

Her hands go to his shirt buttons, pressing them open and pulling the fabric apart, his pale skin revealed to her in bits and pieces. Whorls of black wiry hair pepper his chest, his nipples dark and erect and she can't help it, curiosity compels her: She reaches out, scratches lightly at them.

He hisses in pleasure and she leans down. Nips lightly at the left one before suckling it.

His right hand leaves its place at the headboard, gripping the back of her head and pulling her towards him, his voice murmuring, "Again, please. Again," and she grins. Obliges him.

His fingers dig sharply into the back of her skull and this time it's her turn to moan.

She keeps grinning though, tongue lapping lightly to soothe the hurt even as he swears for her. Even as he twists, his cock reaching ever greater hardness. It looks almost like he's in physical pain. His prick arches up, straining towards his belly and with grin of triumph she takes it in her hand. Squeezes lightly. She traces her thumb along the delicate underside, the veins along its length.

She's rewarded by a string of breathless curse-words, his hips pushing helplessly into her palm.

With another smile she pulls away, reaches underneath her dress and finds her tights and knickers. Pulls both down. She's so wet, so slippery now and at the thought she grins even more. This is, she has no doubt, going to be so good.

"Where are the condoms, Will?" she murmurs and he hisses, jerks his chin in the direction of the bedside dresser to the left of him. Molly leans over him and opens the top drawer, feels around before she snags the small foil packet. She pulls it out with a huff of triumph and bites it open, pulling her prize out and sliding it onto him with practiced ease.

He lets out a long, shallow sigh as she does, hand coming to rest at the flare of her hips as she climbs atop him. As she leans down and kisses him again and again. And again and again and again.

It feels so, so… wicked, her being clothed and he as naked as the day he was born.

One hand sweeps down, his thumb pressing lightly against her clit as he steadies himself for her. Their hands wrap, one over the other, to hold him in place.

"Is this what you want?" he mutters. "Do you want to fuck me, Molly?"

"Oh God yes." She nods, breathless and excited. She can feel his cock head pressing inside her, the width of him opening her up. Widening her.

With a small moan she brings herself all the way down on him suddenly, feeling him press sharply inside herself.

It's a lush, filling sensation, one so good that her eyes nearly roll back in her head.

She leans back, her hands pressed flat onto his abdominals, her nails catching lightly at his pale skin. He hisses in pleasure at each and every scratch, at each and every undulation of her hips. It makes her feel so bloody good. She reaches forward, tugs at his head and brings his lips to her own. Kisses him. He sighs and swears in pleasure as she does it and with that she begins to… There's no other way to say it: She rides him.

Keeping her own time she raises herself up then brings herself down again.

The stretch and width of him pull at her flesh, setting goose-bumps rising on every inch of her skin.

She shivers in pleasure, shakes with it; The bed rattles energetically with each and every movement, her thigh muscles burning at the hitch and stretch of what she's demanding they accomplish. She can hear his breathing mixing with hers, loud and out-of-control as a locomotive. His abdominals jump and clench beneath her hands with her every movement and she can see the pleasure she's giving him written on every line of his face.

So she keeps going, pushes him harder. Pulls him along in the wake of her own pleasure. He begs and pleads with her, asks her to finish him. Begs her to let him finish her. The thumb he'd pressed into her clit begins working magic there, massaging and pinching her with each heady rise and each decedent fall-

Both his hands leave the headboard, searching under her skirt to knead and press at her arse, to drag her more tightly to him.

Molly welcomes it. Moans out encouragement. She can feel the press of his fingers parting her arse-cheeks, stroking the sensitive flesh between them and as she thinks that she reaches out almost blindly. Their flesh slaps together, loud and debauched and delicious in the still, quiet room. Without ceasing moving Molly grabs that little toy she brought in here with her. She fumbles with the switch, turns it on and then burrows it under her skirts, bringing it right to the place where his most sensitive flesh joins with hers- Nearly there, she thinks, nearly there-

Ah.

And then-

Sweet Jesus fucking Christ.

For the toy's effect is immediate. Electric. Her body jerks in pleasure, buzzes with it. She presses it more tightly to her clit, sliding the vibrating length to stroke against the small stretch of cock that's not inside her and Will tosses his head back, his body arching helplessly at the feel of what she's doing to him. Orgasm rips through her, relentless and overpowering, breathless and uncontrollable and as she screams her completion he loses all control, hips pistoning helplessly into her.

He keeps going through her own orgasm before finally surrendering to his.

He comes in a breathless stream of swear-words, the cords on his neck standing out, his fingers digging helplessly into her buttocks. Molly collapses forward on him, turning her head to press tiny, open-mouthed kisses to his Adam's apple. His jaw.

"Christ, that was good," she murmurs and she feels him nod. He doesn't pull out of her.

She takes this to mean that he agrees.

His arms come up around her and pull her to him tightly, but though she expects him to speak he doesn't. He just curls himself around her as her heart quiets, his fingers tracing light, sweet circles around the flesh of her thighs. Every so often he presses a kiss to her hair. She's always been shy after climax and today is no exception but for once he doesn't berate her, or demand she act differently.

No, he seems content to let her lie there and oh but that is a lovely notion.

Molly smiles at the thought, pressing kisses to his chest, his throat- If this is a sample of what he can do, she thinks, then this week is going to be wonderful-

Were she looking at his features- sans the blindfold- however, she might have seen the disquiet written across his face.