booda77: Mum pretty clearly told me "I'm glad you faded to black." when I gave her this part, so she doesn't want to read that stuff from me. So I'll be a nice daughter and keep this one on the border and do something later on. I also fully and emphatically support Sherlock/Molly/Irene (I was actually begging for it a few days ago). If I inspired it, I am flattered.
Petra Todd: I will end up getting rid of those restrictions eventually. She doesn't have to read EVERYTHING I write.
Murmeltierchen: Having a mother who is in most of my fandoms and a fic reader can be a double-edged sword. But honestly, if she read it, she'd probably just roll her eyes and ask "Was that REALLY necessary?".
Growl Snarl: Sorry to disappoint! But glad you're liking everything else!
Hplover101: Wow... I'm chuffed.
SapphireMoon10: Wish I could keep up with the daily updates, but sadly, I don't think it'll happen.
Hellscrimsonangel: He did say that, didn't he?
PurpleYin: Thanks for the suggestions!
FangFan: Thank you for the encouragement! You've said so many wonderful things!
Spyder: Thanks!
PabloWis: Hey, Lady... You watch what you say. Brainy is the new sexy, but sexy is pretty sexy too. (I'm just kidding around guys, that's my mum speaking up since I passed the buck onto her. Don't let her presence scare any of you off. She's pretty chill.)
PART NINE
Sherlock Holmes was not a romantic. It was one of the few statements he could make and have absolute universal agreement on. Of course, others would try to throw in colour commentary such as 'Holmes is barely human.' or 'Who in the world would want that freak anyway?'
Not being a romantic, Sherlock did not expect to feel any different when he woke up after having intercourse for the first time. He was correct- as usual- in his assessment. He had not been gripped with the desire to bed Molly again as soon as possible nor to run out to buy her a ridiculously large diamond ring.
That wasn't to say he had no desire to do it again, per se. While he didn't eat often, that didn't mean he didn't enjoy it when he did it. He could see how incorporating this act into his routine could be advantageous.
While impractical- and symbolically binding- jewellery was out of the question, Sherlock had no want to expand his experience with other women. While a proper experiment would include a control group, he found the thought... Unseemly.
Bedding down with one woman was enough of a stretch for him. Besides Molly, the only other woman to show honest interest in him was The Woman. While he did find her attractive, he knew she could bury a knife in his back any time she thought it would serve her best.
As he looked down at the woman still asleep in bed, he realized the main reason he had no desire to seek other companions: He did not want to hurt Molly. That surprised him. He gave little thought to the emotional state of those around him, hoping they would take his cue and disregard them entirely.
Somewhere down the line, he had come to be fond of the tender feelings Molly held for him. He couldn't say he honestly returned them. He had cut himself off from as many feelings as he could. He did care for her; he could admit that much. But he sincerely doubted he was capable of puppy love.
Not that he would describe Molly's feelings for him as 'puppy love'. At one time they had been. She had been blinded by him- how had John described him?- 'being all mysterious with his cheekbones and turning up his coat collar so he looked cool'. She was the quintessential Type II fan. In fact, she had been his prototype.
She did not look at him with doe-eyed admiration any longer. He had ruined any romantic notions with his humiliating deductions of her life. He knocked himself off the pedestal. She saw him as just irritable, annoying Sherlock.
Yet affection remained. It was different now, but it was still there. Sherlock hadn't realized it until she'd spoken to him before his death. It had been the first time she'd spoken to him as he really was and not the object of insipid fantasies. She had deduced him. It had taken him by such surprise, he'd stammered as she was apt to do with him. She cared for him for what he truly was.
He knew it went to the point of love with four simple words:
"What do you need?"
His reputation had been in tatters. Everyone had turned against him. Yet Molly stood by him. Silly, mousy Molly Hooper believed in him no matter what. Not as a deerstalker wearing symbol or some romance novel hero. Whenever she pointed out the "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" campaign, he'd dismissed it. Only two people really, truly knew Sherlock Holmes and still believed in him.
And, despite much speculation, he had no desire to bed John Watson.
Sherlock looked down at the woman in his arms. When they had shared a bed previously, he had put the blame on her for their closeness in the mornings. This had been a deception on his part. He knew in fact he was the one who had drawn her in. He didn't sleep much, because his mind was always racing, never allowed him a moment of peace. He found some peace in her warmth. It was not disconcerting to him, although a part of him told him it should be. When he pulled her to him, he found himself truly able to rest.
Molly let out a small, sleepy moan and Sherlock jumped slightly. He realized he'd been running an idle hand up and down her bare arm. His lip curled in disgust. What had he been doing?
"You were analysing the data you'd acquired," Sherlock muttered to himself.
He was lying to himself now. And he was doing so poorly. It made him sick.
With a slight sneer, he pulled himself out of the bed and put on his dressing gown, striding out into the sitting room. Irene was sitting on the sofa, stretched out far too comfortable and posed to be anything but a display for him. She must have just arrived from her night out.
"It appears Doctor Hooper has another on me," Irene said with a smile. "The woman who brought you death... Twice."
Sherlock glared at her. "Molly hasn't killed me."
Irene purred softly. "Just a little death, Mister Holmes."
"Have you found anything?" Sherlock asked, brow arching. "Or are you just wasting my time with witty wordplay?"
"I would really be of more use to you if I wasn't forced to masquerade as other people. I do so hate it when my hands are tied." Irene stood up and strode to Sherlock. "Sebastian Moran only worked at one hospital prior to Barts. However, it was embroiled in a bit of a scandal, involving some shady plastic surgeries. But those charges seemed to have disappeared."
Sherlock nodded slowly. "If he ever walked in that hospital, I would be very surprised."
"Now, Mister Holmes..." Irene played with the collar of his dressing gown. "Not that I am trying to put a damper on your new interest in women- God knows I enjoy them myself- but are you giving in to the good doctor out of genuine interest?"
Sherlock's gaze narrowed and he shook his head at Irene. "Why else would I?"
"Moriarty is determined to get Doctor Hooper to turn on you. You're not... Giving her incentive to stay on your side, are you?"
Sherlock's brow furrowed. "My experiment plays no part in my game with Moriarty." He pulled Irene's hands from his dressing gown. "Nor is it any of your business."
"Just looking out for you." Irene reached around and gave Sherlock a smack on the backside. "You know what they say about a woman scorned."
Sherlock studied Irene's face. "I would have thought you would have been the woman scorned."
"You taught me my lesson well, Mister Holmes," Irene replied coolly. "I don't plan on making that mistake again. I am only here because we have a deal. I expect you to hold up your end of it."
Sherlock walked past Irene towards the bathroom. "Getting mixed up in my personal life is hardly part of our deal."
Irene laughed throatily. "Do you know how many people would give their eye teeth for a front row seat to The Courtship of the Consulting Detective? Good opera is so hard to find these days."
Sherlock continued to stride away. "It is not a courtship."
Irene nodded. "Right." She laughed. "It's an 'experiment'."
Sherlock turned back briefly. "I never do anything but," He then closed the door to the bathroom.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Irene was gone. Molly was now in her place, sitting on the sofa.
She looked uncertain. Nervous. It was the Molly of old once again, not knowing how to handle herself around Sherlock. It bothered him. While Sherlock's experience was limited to one, he thought it was inappropriate for a woman to be nervous in front of a man whose penis had been inside of her.
"How many acts of intercourse do you believe it will take for you to return to your former state around me?" Sherlock drawled from the door of the bathroom, rolling his eyes slightly.
Molly jumped from her place on the sofa, looking at Sherlock wide-eyed. "Huh?"
"You," Sherlock nodded to her. "You are behaving with a level of discomfort you have not displayed in front of me in nearly half a year. I greatly preferred you the way you were. The only thing that has changed is we have now engaged in intercourse. How many times will we need to repeat the act before you are comfortable with the change in our dynamic?"
Molly's mouth fell open. Her eyes widened and she continued to stare at Sherlock. Suddenly, she looked away, her chin to her chest. "So... Does that mean you don't... Regret it?"
Sherlock was about to respond scathingly, that the very idea was asinine, but he quickly rethought it. Clearly, Molly was only nervous because she thought that would be his response. "No, Molly. I do not. I would not offer to repeat the act if I did."
Sherlock went to the kitchen table and picked up the newspaper. He began to scan through the articles, looking for anything important. His gaze briefly flicked over to Molly. "I am sure you found the experience to be pleasurable."
Molly looked away. "It was good."
Sherlock lowered the paper slowly. "Good?" He repeated. "You have been in love with me for two years, Molly Hooper... And your reaction to our physical joining is 'good'?"
Molly grimaced. "Good isn't... Good?"
Sherlock rose to his feet. "Clearly it is not based on your reactions." He gestured to her. "I have disappointed you with my performance."
Two emotions warred within Sherlock: One was regret over the experience. If he was unable to do it properly, what was the point of doing it at all? The other was annoyance that they had to discuss it. He would have much preferred just pretending the experience had never happened.
Until they did it again. Sherlock- unlike Molly apparently- had enjoyed it quite a bit.
Molly jumped to her feet and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock, don't get the wrong idea! I was with you and being with someone you... Well... You know... It makes all the difference in the world, even if it's..."
Sherlock jerked his hand away from Molly. "Bad?" His lip curled in a snarl. He really shouldn't have been so quick to tell Molly he hadn't regretted the experience.
"It wasn't bad!" Molly cried. "You were just sort of... Overthinking it."
Sherlock glared at her. "There is no such thing as 'overthinking'."
Molly sighed. She got up on her tiptoes and threaded her fingers into Sherlock's hair. He wanted to push her away, but he still enjoyed the feeling. "Sherlock, it is never anything more than 'good' the first time. I mean, when you first started playing the violin, were you great at it right away?"
Sherlock scowled and finally pulled Molly's hand away from him. "I would appreciate if you did not speak to me like I am a child."
"Go along with me," Molly sighed. "The first time, you're unsure and trying to get to know each other... But you keep doing it and it gets better."
Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "You are saying we need to continue having sex."
Molly smiled nervously and looked down. "I mean, if you wanted to."
Sherlock eyed Molly. She was blushing, her gaze drifting up for only a moment towards him. Clearly, the experience hadn't been that poor. "It would... Be a very sloppy experiment to run only one trial."
Molly made a happy little noise that pleased Sherlock much more than it honestly should have. She threw her arms around him and gave him a sound kiss.
Sherlock ended it abruptly, pulling away from her. "We have things we have to do, Molly Hooper. Get showered and dressed."
Molly looked confused, shaking her head. "What's going on? What are we doing?"
Sherlock smiled at her. "We are going to see an old friend."
Post-Notes: Irene's joke about "Molly bringing Sherlock death twice" is a bit of wordplay. La petite mort (The Little Death) is a French idiom for orgasm. She's a classy lady and can make dirty jokes in French.
