Disclaimer: see chapter 1.
A/N: Ok, HERE we GO! Sexy times (sort of). Be gentle. Also, remember rated T.
Molly took five more deep breaths as she walked carefully from her room to Sherlock's. She tip toed down the hallway, fearful of breaking the still silence of the flat.
She finally faced the white paneled door. Her hand formed a fist, hovering over the painted wood.
The door swung open suddenly, causing Molly to take a few steps backwards. "Sherlock!" She exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, of course. Were you expecting someone else? Bad form. Also, bad form waiting for the door to gain a mouth and swallow you up, Molly. I could practically hear your panicked thoughts from the other side." He took a step backwards, allowing his mate to pass by him. "Do not think I would not wish for the same. Neither of us care particularly for this process, especially with the inspector who will most likely be coming next week. Now, hurry up and get inside so that we may finish."
Molly nodded solemnly and scurried past the tall brooding man.
Sherlock lay examining his ceiling. He could hear the sounds of shower up the stairs. He sniffed and adjusted his sheets. His newly placed sheets. His sheets newly placed because of a certain activity. A certain activity that involved Molly. And Molly's body. And Molly's breaths, lips. And Molly's fluttering eyelashes. Molly's smooth thighs and calves wrapped around Sherlock's rough ones. Sherlock coughed and shifted once more. The images that had not left his mind since the previous night were bombarding his mental peace.
Sherlock was shocked as to how quickly the main event happened. He had expected difficulties on both ends. However, there was no difficulty, except in the beginning. Molly's nerves caused a slight delay, considering that Sherlock knew the best bet for a pregnancy involved Molly being completely relaxed. He discovered through trial and error that kissing produced a highly excitable and relaxed reaction in his mate.
Sherlock felt he learned the art of kissing last night. Kissing lips, kissing necks, shoulders, and milky white thighs. It was an experiment in kissing and it succeeded. They achieved their primary purpose, with minimal fumbling, and now Sherlock was perplexed. If my experiment was such a success, why does it only cause dissatisfaction now?
What happened last night?
What happened last night? Molly found herself continually asking herself.
It started off amazingly well. Sherlock seemed to have the idea of how to loosen Molly up, but once the clothes came off, it was as if Molly felt doused in cold water. Considering it was frighteningly freezing in Sherlock's room, the phrase is particularly apt. Molly remembered Sherlock seeming to have a good time, but for Molly everything fell flat. Sherlock collapsed on the bed with a sigh, and Molly was left laying on his silken grey sheets with a thin veil of confusion. That was IT?! She had headed off to bed with a slump in her shoulders and Sherlock's snores in her ears.
Molly shook her head as she sliced Mr. Vantrop's liver. Molly went to the store before work that morning to pick up a few pregnancy tests, just in case. It was unlikely, but Molly couldn't help but hold out hope. While being with Sherlock wasn't what I expected, Molly figured, it wasn't painful or scary. It was fine.
Molly sighed. Maybe that was the problem. I expected it to be more than fine. I expected it to be fantastic and earth-shattering.
The doors banged as they swung wildly open. Sherlock's crazy curls bounced as he sauntered into the morgue. Molly shook her head again at Sherlock's lovable antics. At least, we can be friends through all this ordeal. With a small smile she turned her attention to her mate.
"Molly," Sherlock greeted her.
"Sherlock," Molly returned, as Sherlock circled the body on the slab.
"Alcoholic," Sherlock stated with confidence. Molly nodded in agreement. He cleared his throat as he re-positioned himself to face her. "Last night -," he started.
"Went not exactly as expected," Molly interrupted, not desiring to hear Sherlock's minute assessment of their respective performances.
Sherlock hmmed. "Agreed. We will need a repeat performance," he stated in monotone.
Molly felt like a bobble-head with all her nodding. "Of course, Sherlock." She smiled at him, hoping to give him reassurance that she would do her part of the program.
Sherlock hmmed again.
With a flourish, he turned his great coat and whipped through the double doors.
"I need help." Sherlock never dared to imagine those words leaving his cupid bow lips.
The calm and wise voice on the other side of the conversation never wavered or laughed at Sherlock's ineptitude.
"I don't understand what went wrong for Molly," Sherlock stated, running his hands through his wild raven hair. He turned his aquamarine eyes to his conversation partner. "My part of the performance went exceedingly smoothly."
Mary laughed at the slight blush on the detective's cheeks. "Well, that may have been the problem. You focused too much on yourself. You have to make sure she feels as much pleasure during the whole experience as you do. You have to care about her. That's what being in a relationship means. It takes work. With John,-"
"Oh please, God, no. Stop." Sherlock interrupted, feeling the faint stirrings of deeply held disgust bubble its way up his throat.
Mary laughed again. "Don't worry, you delicate flower. I won't go into details. Just know that practice makes perfect. Figure out what she likes, both in the bedroom and out. Get closer to her, and she'll open up to you in return."
She winked as she stood to go to the bathroom, for the third time that afternoon.
As Sherlock sat for a moment stewing in the idea of caring for Molly, his phone chimed. Sherlock found a text from Lestrade which read, "Found the scientist. Heart attack. W Molly."
Sighing heavily, he left the Morstan apartment.
Anthea Scott had an above average intelligence. She could predict the movements of the great Mycroft Holmes with a grin and a flourish. It was easily why Mycroft chose her to be his assistant in the first place. Her education and her previous employer's recommendations suggested a level of competence and style that coincided well with Mycroft's unique needs for diplomacy, stealth, and secrecy.
Somehow, the idea that she would betray him, never entered his mind. Thinking back, Mycroft realized it most likely started the day they first met. He had been sure to not let word get out that he needed a new assistant. His office easily would be flooded by all sorts of spies and idiots had he made that information public, so he kept it mum.
He had been greeting an ambassador from the Spanish embassy at a dinner party when she sauntered in, clacking her forest green heels against the wooden floors. Anthea's swift movements in the shadows hid her presence even from the ever-observant Holmes. Only when he was reaching for a spot of tea did she made herself known. She handed him his tea, exactly how he liked it, lots of sugar and no cream, when he faced her. She smiled without showing her teeth, and stated in a demure tone, "Anthea Scott. Administrative Assistant, to the Spanish ambassador. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."
At the time, Mycroft put his tea to his lips to taste, as his eyes roamed over her long tanned legs and lithe body. Immediately, he was impressed with her stealth and her observant nature. He could tell she was native Scottish, and she yearned to return to the U.K. despite her penchant for travel.
How Mycroft berated himself as he sat alone in his prison. He should have seen her dominant and manipulative nature. He should have seen how putting her in such a position would harm him. He scoffed aloud, filling the silence around him. Even so, it would have been a boon to his work. She would only have impressed him more with her ability to hide that part of herself.
Hence, why he essentially agreed to consider her for his assistant when he returned her greeting.
"Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes."