CHAPTER XI:

WHAT WE WANT TO HAVE

The same night the Irish paid his beloved consulting accountant a visit, he also touched himself thinking about him. Sherlock Holmes and his dark and soft curls; Sherlock Holmes and his white and porcelain skin; Sherlock Holmes and his grey eyes and sharp cheekbones; Sherlock Holmes and his long hands and fingers; Sherlock Holmes and his long and endless legs. Outside his room's door, Sebastian Moran was putting his black leather gloves on. He had been instructed by the best man he could have ever wished for. If he was able to skin a cat, he was also able to skin Sherlock Holmes. With a cat, you can certainly make a pair of modest flat shoes. But with Sherlock Holmes' skin, Seb knew he could make a nice pair of high and posh boots for his employer.

Moriarty's moans were bestial, almost like the roar of a wild animal. Behind the black glasses he was wearing, Seb closed his eyes and cursed the consulting accountant's name.
His employer didn't want to believe him, but Seb knew Sherlock Holmes was hiding something and he wasn't talking about dirty laundry or rubbish in his bins, no. Sebastian Moran knew Sherlock Holmes was playing with James Moriarty, and he knew Sherlock Holmes was the one behind the lost fourteen million Euros. He just needed proof. And yes, he got it.

When a man digs for so long, he always finds everything he was looking for, you see. Sherlock Holmes needed to be more careful.

"I'm here to pick up Mr. Holmes's painting." Molly appeared the following morning dressed as always, smart and perfectly, wearing a strong scent John couldn't erase from his memory not even now. Her red and dangerously high heels hit the wooden floor of John's flat at Baker Street forcefully when she walked in. The thief was reading the papers and sipping his tea when he saw her coming.

"He gave me strict and specifics instructions to take it to 666 Belgravia Street."

Johnny Boy looked at her from head to toes, scanning her feminine figure, wondering how many times that woman had been possessed by Holmes. He tried to look for traces of his touches on the pale skin of her long and exposed legs, traces of those cupid-bow lips on her porcelain neck. He nodded while he gestured her to follow him to the kitchen.

"I imagine you came here in that black car. I'll carry it downstairs-"

The blonde thief never expected Molly to touch his shoulder and say the things she had told him. John had always heard that determinated voice on her, always trying to be secure about herself even when her face never matched her attitude. Poor and fragile Molly, always hiding behind that long coat. Poor and fragile Molly, always being touched in front of everyone. Poor and fragile Molly, always being used to fill a human and primitive need. Poor and fragile Molly, always wanted to do the job. Poor and fragile Molly, always ignored, never loved by the man she wanted him to do so.

"Mister Watson, I'd like to have a word with you."

Watson only nodded and both sat in opposite chairs around the kitchen table. 'The Falls' was still covered with that dark fabric.


A decoy. It had been a decoy, of course, we are talking about Mrs. Adler-Holmes. It started like that and it continued like that. An unspoken agreement between a threesome in which money, wealth, fame, two important names and dynasty was the main prize for a good game. A man capable of increasing anyone's fortunes with deductive and financial plans and a woman capable of directing an orgy of judges to win the most difficult court cases and then smile with joy for the press.

That was the way Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler misbehaved to get what they wanted.

She remembers the first time she saw him. As soon as her green eyes had glanced at a picture of him in the papers, her long red nails were already pressed against it. The long and hard riding crop looked good on him, of course. And when "I want him" escaped from his red lips, Sarah was already calling Molly to arrange a meeting.

That's what it takes.

Now, ask Sherlock Holmes what made him marry that woman. Was the pressure of the money, power and family? Was the need of an heir, someone to carry on with his blood and his intelligence? Was it Irene Adler's beauty? You're so wrong, friend. What made Sherlock Holmes marry that woman, the very same one that was capable of sleeping with more than three different men in one night just to prove how powerful and strong she was not only in court but in bed too, was her mind. Because so far, the Adler woman had been the only one capable of keeping up with his intellect, his mind games and his riddles, because the consulting accountant Sherlock Holmes was a mass of pieces, a puzzle hard to read and impossible to solve. But after the meeting, the brunette woman, owner of those green eyes, red lips, long legs and modest breasts, she showed Sherlock Holmes she was the only woman capable of not only messing up his mind but his body as well. Because being alone between four walls and in the unique company of a bed, Holmes and Adler understood the world could be a better place to live if they become a couple.

That sounds so selfish. But it's the truth. Although, the consulting accountant also did it to mock his older sibling, he also did it for the well being of his brain. He was bored, and Irene had something to offer. The powerful lawyer did it because she knew it was for the best. She had an appearance to keep up, an image to maintain. The image she wanted to show the people wasn't perfect if Sarah was in there as well. The Royals and the PM's lawyer, a lesbian? The world had changed and they weren't on the medieval times, but even while living in the twenty first century, there were things that needed to be hidden inside a closet.

"I want you in bed with me, Sherlock. Like the first time, remember? Can you remember, Sherlock?" murmured Irene was she hit her husband's stomach hard with the riding crop. He was lying on his back, under her thin frame, savoring with his tongue the traces of his own blood left on his arm after Irene hit him. "Can you remember how many times I screamed your name until you came inside me?" she asked as she undid her lacy bra and threw it to the floor. With a quick and easy movement, Sherlock made her roll on her back until he was the one on top.

"I do remember. And I also recall the state of the bed after we had intercourse. And your state," said the consulting accountant as he looked into her green eyes. Their faces were inches apart from each other and both could feel the other's breath.

"Love. We made love that time, Sherlock," Irene corrected softly. Her left hand traveled down to her husband's crotch area. He successfully suppressed a moan and kept looking at her, his eyes burning with smothered lust.

"I made you mine. Do not deny the times you thought about me while Sarah was here, touching your skin and kissing your lips," whispered the dark haired man while he moved his hands further between her long and pale legs. Contrary to Sherlock, she did moan and she did it loudly, filling all the rooms of the house.

"You're the only man I can be with and the only one I'll ever love, Sherlock."

His grey eyes scanned her face, studying her gestures, her long eyelashes, her perfect eyebrows, her newborn wrinkles and her red lips. No matter the situation, Irene Adler's lips were always red painted. But without saying a word, Holmes moved his hand away from between the woman's legs and wrapped himself in his blue gown, his face clouded when he smelt Sarah Sawyer's scent on it.

"Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side, Miss Adler."


"Molly, I have known you since... a long time. You can call me John, you know," Johnny Boy offered with a sincere and modest smile. He felt how relieved Molly was as soon as he smiled at her. She felt more secure and confident immediately.

"What do you want to talk about?" asked John, crossing his legs, while Molly gulped hard before taking enough air to continue.

"John... what do you think about me?"

Surprise. That was John's first feeling when she asked him that question. She looked at him expectantly, but she was also looking at him for unspoken answers. And then John saw that film with Molly in it flashing over his retina, that film many people say they see when they're about to die. All the moments of his life with Molly on them were filling his mind. His blue and tired eyes from the shag of the day before betrayed him. He blinked once or twice before his answer could meet Miss Hooper's ears.

"I think you're a beautiful woman, Molly. Smart, loyal too," he admitted. But Molly wanted more.

"I want to know what you really think of me, John."

And Johnny Boy understood she wasn't going to let this topic go before she had heard what she really wanted. And what she really wanted was the truth. What for? Why did she want to hear his opinion? Was John's opinion important to her? She really cared for what John had been thinking of her?

"Just say it. You have seen me preparing cocaine lines. You have seen me being touched in many places by Mr. Holmes. You have seen me naked, John. I want to know-" she tried to explain, but John cut her off.

"And why do you want to know what I think about you?"

"Just say it." She made it sound like an order. And a man always obeys orders from Ms Molly Hooper.

"I think you're a very beautiful woman, and if things were different, believe me, I'd be behind your legs all day. You're also a very good assistant. I think you do your job perfectly, if what I have seen you doing is what I can call "a job". I don't like it when Sherlock touches you in intimate places in front of everyone. You should respect and love yourself a bit more and don't let him do that and-"
The blonde thief forgot the direction his words were taking, until Molly cut him off with a high tone of voice he had never heard from her. She was blushing and she looked angry. Her high heels hit the wooden floor again and for a moment John feared she could fall while she moved her exposed legs.

Molly stood up from her chair and walked around the kitchen, trying to hide her red face. "I love myself!"

Watson sighed inwardly. "I'm sorry-"

"John, I love Sherlock with my life. I work very hard for him. I do whatever he wants me to do and I keep silent. I wear clothes I don't like and shoes I can't use. I use makeup as a mask, only to be liked by him, to be the woman he likes to kiss, to smell, to caress. The Molly you see here now is the Molly Sherlock Holmes likes. The real Molly, the one who likes kittens, jeans and trainers is the Molly Sherlock Holmes will never love. He will never like her."

John could only keep quiet. The entire flat was silent and the only audible sounds were those coming from the street outside.
"Why are you telling me this, Molly?" the thief asked when he saw the blonde assistant drying the few tears that had fallen from her eyes. Those tears were dark, her makeup was ruined and her pink cheeks were stained with mascara. She looked at herself in the mirror which hung on the wall opposite the sofa.

"He's sad, John. And I don't know what to do to save him."


Sherlock Holmes locked himself inside his room. He threw himself on his big and comfy mattress, feeling a hard and painful erection pressing in his abdomen. He knew he had to take care of it, and Molly was nowhere to be seen. The single thought of Molly brought him back to reality, and after looking inside his desk drawer he found the nicotine patches that had always helped him to think after he stopped using cocaine.

Molly. Poor and fragile Molly. For how long had he been able to keep her by his side? For how long was Molly going to stay until she could say stop? Poor and fragile Molly was everything he needed, but yet he wasn't able to see her differently. Molly was Molly. And that little sentence with three words meant that Molly was always going to be his assistant, the one picking up his phone when it was ringing inside his pockets. But Molly did a lot more than that. Miss Hooper was the one sleeping with him when he felt alone, vulnerable and ill. There she had been, lying by his side, combing her fingers through his dark curls when he wanted her to. There she had been, letting him kiss her and having sex with her when he wanted her body, when his sexual and primitive needs were haunting him, the man he was. There she had been when he wanted to get high and there she had been when he wanted to quit.

What would he do without her? Did he know about her feelings? Of course he did. And what did he do about them? Nothing. Why? Because he knew things left unspoken were for the best. He knew Molly hated those dresses, those high heels, the makeup and the fake appearances. Sherlock knew Molly loved to wear jeans and trainers. He knew she wanted to have a cat, that she wanted to be more than just an assistant to him. But Sherlock did not want her that way. He just wanted her to be on his leash, wearing dresses, shoes and makeup as a costume. Selfish and heartless bastard he was.

But then, what did Sherlock want? My dear friends, if you don't know the answer to that question, I can tell you. It is simple, really. What Sherlock wanted was John Watson. He only wanted blonde, short, wounded, kind, tea-drinking and jumper-loving John Watson. Something he knew he would never have.

No matter how hard he tried.


"Save him? Sad? What are you talking about Molly?" Johnny Boy asked, worried. Of course he was worried. And Mycroft's words came to his mind. He had told him something about Sherlock forgetting important details. And the thief had a bad feeling.

Molly finished wiping away the black tears that had fallen from her eyes and looked at the thief. "I know he's sad. And I know what he feels and what he thinks. I can feel him, John. He has always had everything he could wish for. He owns most of this city, he has more money you could ever imagine. But I know he wants something he can't have. And he's in danger," Molly sniffed, looking at John for permission to continue. The thief nodded, waiting expectantly for her to continue. "The Irishman, the one you have been stealing money from, he's dangerous."

Hooper felt shivers creeping down her spine as she remembered James Moriarty and his assistant Sebastian Moran. She had been keeping an eye on them for quite a while now, and she knew what they were capable of when their plans turned awry. And she also knew that the game Holmes had started would end up badly. She had warned her employer but he enjoyed the thrill too much and couldn't bring himself to stop playing a little game with the Irishman.

"He will find out about the two robberies and he will kill him, John. And he will kill you too."


The Irishman, Moriarty's right hand man, smiled inwardly when he received the material he had been expecting for ages. All he received was a black envelope, but its content made the hit man very happy. He playfully toyed with several photographs of a blonde man carrying a Luis Vuitton bag, getting inside an Italian restaurant and meeting Sherlock Holmes. His source, a man close to the thief, had given him ample information and data about the thief in charge of the two robberies against his employer James Moriarty.

And Seb couldn't deny the informer what he asked: protection. He sold him the heads of four people; including Sherlock Holmes's, only to be protected by Moriarty's right hand.

Now Seb had sufficient evidence to convince his employer that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a man to trust. Sherlock Holmes deserved to be turned into a pair of nice, snug shoes.


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