A/N: Warning: Sexual content ahead!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Control, Panic, And Temptation

Sherlock had it all well in hand now. It had taken two packs of cigarettes and the successful solving of three cases before he felt confident about that. When he was once again in control of himself, he wasn't sure where all the yearning nonsense and resulting alarm had come from. Probably something to do with lack of sleep. It had been days since he'd last rested, after all. Even his mind was susceptible to weakness once he'd reached his limits. Whatever the cause, he knew running was never the answer. It was the primary lesson one learned when one had a brother like Mycroft. No, when dealing with something that provokes fear or panic, the best thing to do was to take control of the situation by facing it head on, finding the chink in its armor, and disposing of it accordingly.

"You're back." Molly glanced up from where she sat reading on the sofa as he entered the flat.

As she had only stated the obvious, a response wasn't warranted. Something about hearing her voice gave him a brief resurgence of the alarm, but he promptly suppressed it. He was in control. Molly Hooper was a simple creature—honest, useful, biddable, hardworking and sometimes boring. Never, ever should she be a cause for alarm. In fact, if his life were a chessboard, he would be the queen and Molly would be nothing more than a pawn awaiting his next command.

So, Sherlock ignored her as he removed his coat and went into his bedroom to put it away. The effects of so many days in the same clothes motivated him into a bath. Once he was refreshed, he had planned to fall into his bed for a long slumber, but his empty stomach reminded him of its priority.

When he went into the lounge, food awaited him. A tall glass of milk and a plate filled with two sandwiches stacked neatly beside a steaming bowl of what looked to be tomato soup had been placed on the side table next to his chair. He looked to Molly, but her face was hidden behind a massive tome entitled A Game of Thrones. He smiled to himself. Yep, docile old Molly. Always getting him what was needed even if he didn't overtly request it. Satisfied with himself, he sat and tucked into the fare like the starving man he was.

It wasn't until Sherlock was finished that he bothered to look at her again. Her continued silence was odd. He'd expected her to demand to know where he'd been or at the very least, harp at him for details regarding the kidnapping case. He'd been prepared for that. After all, Molly usually liked hearing about his cases. Sherlock had also assumed she'd want some explanation regarding his whereabouts now that she had this new role in his life. He hadn't talked to her in days, hadn't even bothered to text. Females, in his experience, didn't like that. Come to think of it, John didn't like that. Or if nothing else, Molly would surely want to deconstruct, define, and categorize every element of their last encounter together. Isn't that what women in relationships did?

But Molly didn't do any of that. She remained focused on her book as if she hadn't a care in the world, as if he weren't even there. In fact, had she not spoken to him when he first arrived and obviously prepared the dinner for him, it might be easy to assume she wasn't aware of his presence at all. Bizarre. As much as his body was begging for rest, the curiosity Sherlock had behind Molly's behavior kept him rooted to his seat.

Was she angry? He knew people's response to anger usually involved the silent treatment. It was a tactic John had employed on him many times with limited success. Even Mrs. Hudson and Molly had done it to him when he'd gotten too exasperated at them and made some cutting remark. But as he hadn't done any such thing to her recently, Sherlock couldn't presume why he should apologize.

He observed her carefully, trying to denote further signs of held-in fury. If Molly planned to tear into him, he wanted to be prepared. Honestly, he welcomed her anger. It would feel good to vent some of the frustration he felt at her, where it belonged. He hated that she had brought about such weakness in him. Little Molly Hooper? Ridiculous.

But no matter how diligently he searched, there were no signs to be found. Molly was relaxed in her posture, a light smile on her face as if she were enjoying her book. She was leaning back against the sofa with a fluffy pink and white throw decorated with pictures of kittens tucked around her folded legs and lower torso. She wore a thin white robe with lace etched along the long sleeves and whimsical, baby pink ribbons tied neatly at her wrists. The high lace collar of the robe had a broader pink ribbon tied in an artful bow about her neck. The collar covered her neck and brushed the edges of her jaw. Except for her hands and face, every inch of Molly was covered. Maiden, elderly aunts the world over would have approved of such a garment.

Which is why the wave of arousal that hit him took him somewhat by surprise. He didn't panic this time. He was through with panic. It got him nowhere. Molly Hooper was not going to frighten him away from his own flat—especially not by simply wearing a nightgown that Queen Victoria had probably once owned a version of. He was in control, not her with those seemingly nonstop efforts to tempt him.

Except, she wasn't trying to tempt him. Her face was free of makeup, and her hair was piled atop her head in some kind of muddled knot. Hardly the guise of woman on the prowl. More to the point, she seemed completely oblivious to his presence. This made him a little less curious and a lot more frustrated.

Molly found him attractive. Sherlock knew this. His eyes, his dark features and pale, angular face, his height, his fit body, his neck and even the curls in his hair. She liked them all. On more than one occasion, he'd conducted little experiments. In addition to reacting to certain shirts he wore, she seemed to prefer when his hair either in wild disarray or slicked back from his head. When he took the time to conform his locks into some semblance of mild order, her reactions lessened. Her responses had become muted when he'd first returned to London, leading him to assume her feelings for him had irrevocably ceased. But he'd noticed the signs again at John's wedding when she saw him enter the church to take his place beside the bridegroom. At the time, he'd dismissed it as nothing more than a fleeting effect. Many women—and some men—found him attractive when he was formally attired. He cut quite the dashing figure. It was a mere consequence of the biology that had formed him thus, a consequence he'd found useful on more than one occasion. Now, dressed as he was in a grey silk pyjama bottoms topped with a close-fitting, white t-shirt with his hair slicked back from his bath, he knew she should be deeply aroused.

At the moment, however, the only thing that had garnered the slightest bit of interest in her was that damn book. His frustration grew, pushing him to speak. "What is that you're reading? More improbable zombie nonsense?"

"No." Her eyes remained on the page. "It's called A Game of Thrones. It's the first book in a series called A Song of Ice and Fire." She flipped a page. "That reminds me. I finished the Zombie Samurai trilogy. I left the last novel on the kitchen table if you'd like to read it."

"Why would I want to do that?" He shot back.

Molly didn't take the bait he'd so conveniently offered. She merely shrugged. "Up to you."

The frustration increased. "What's this Game of Thrones about?" he asked, taking in various details from the cover to make his deduction. "A comprehensive history of the English crown? If you wish to delve into something so mind-numbingly dull, you can always read John's blog."

"John's blogs aren't boring. They're about you. Well, your adventures together."

It was his turn to shrug. "He can make anything dull. He only writes about some of the cases—often leaving out the best ones due to some fit of pique. Ridiculous! Plus, his writing is atrocious. It's a wonder anyone endeavors to read it."

But just when he thought he had at last found a way to get her annoyed, she switched up on him.

"Well, this book is anything but boring. While the author has indeed been influenced by the chronicles of medieval royal politics both within this country and those in Europe, this story is complete fiction. He has even created his own version of Earth which experiences seasons differently than we do. For example, their summers or winters can last decades without abatement."

He found himself unwillingly intrigued. "And what is the plot?"

"It's too complicated to quickly explain. There are a lot of characters and a surplus of backstory surrounding those characters and their families which must be absorbed before you can truly understand and appreciate what is going on."

"Sounds too tedious and needlessly complicated to be enjoyable. I wonder why you would bother to waste your time."

She shrugged again. "Taking the time and patience to truly understand that which is overly complicated and superficially tedious can prove highly rewarding in the long run."

Sherlock scoffed. "Name one example of that ever proving true."

"You."

He had her attention now. She was looking right at him. If they'd been playing chess, she would have shouted "Check!" after a move like that.

Once again, Sherlock found himself aroused by Molly. Only this time, it had nothing to do with the overly prim outfit she was wearing. It was her wit. It also brought his frustration to dizzying heights. He straightened in his chair, angling towards her. Fisting one hand, he rested his chin on it as he inclined forward and, in blatant challenge, said, "You find me tedious?"

She shook her head and looked away. Something about hitting her with the full force of his attention made her do that. It had been a while since it had worked on her, and but he used the method to its fullest effect. He wanted her to squirm. It would be good for her to remember who held the power here, not only in their relationship, but in everything. Sherlock had never considered himself a control freak—No, that was Mycroft's area—but when it came to these last few days, he realized having control at all times was the only way for this thing with Molly to work. It was only those times when he allowed his control to relax that she seeped in—No, that the panic seeped it. Molly Hooper would never seep into anything where he was concerned.

"Did you solve the case?" she murmured, fingering the sleeve of her robe.

"Yes."

"And?"

She didn't look at him, but the tinge of frustration he heard in her tone made him smile. At least he wasn't the only one feeling that. "And it was the boy's tutor. Older woman in her thirties. She stopped tutoring him weeks ago; so I missed her in my initial round of interviews. No one thought to tell me about her until I hacked into his emails. He was careful to delete most of his correspondence with her, but not all."

Her gaze shot up. "Why—"

Anticipating her question, he said, "The boy was in on it. She'd taken him as her lover. The scheme, of course, was to get the ransom money and run away together."

"But the body parts—"

"Her idea. He went along with it because he loved her." Sherlock shook his head in disgust. "She told him it would demonstrate his commitment to their relationship. As she planned to murder him the second the money was in her hands, he would have done better to demand a few demonstrations of her affections first.

"I found them, of course. It was simple work once I realized who was behind it. I'm sure John will have the full details blogged by week's end—even though he missed the big finale by going to work." He rolled his eyes. "In any case, I also uncovered a theft by the upstairs maid. Lestrade and the parents were quite thrilled by my performance. As the father is a high political official, there was even a threat of having me knighted until, that is," he couldn't help the satisfied grin that came to his lips, "I informed the wife her husband was cheating on her with her brother. I was invited to leave then."

Molly gave a snort of humor and smiled. He looked at her, intensely. The longer he looked, the sooner all signs of mirth left her features. Then, just as he was about to command her to come to him, she moved. At first, he was startled, but then he realized she wasn't coming to him at all.

She put down her book, removed the throw, and got to her feet. When she stood, he got a flash of ankle before the gown and robe fell to her feet, so long they even covered her bare toes. He shot a peek at her, trying to discern if she'd done this to purposefully entice him. But she didn't even glance his way.

As passed him, she moved to take his dirty dishes. He caught her hand, looking up at her as she stilled. "Running away?"

"From what?" she asked.

The blush was still there, but that was the only sign that she was at all affected. Her brown eyes met his gaze and held it. Slowly, he brushed the lace back until her wrist was revealed. Then, he brought it up to his mouth, running the delicate skin back and forth over his lower lip. As expected, the light fragrance of lavender—something he was beginning to associate solely with her—was there. His tongue came out, delivering a quick lick.

Molly shivered. He smiled as he felt her pulse scatter and pick up. Blinking a few times, she seemed to come back to herself. As his hold on her was gentle at best, she easily slipped from it, taking the dishes and heading into the kitchen. "Do you want anything else?"

Sherlock didn't respond right away. Instead, he waited until she returned to the lounge and resumed her position on the sofa, her feet and ankles tucked back under her and hidden from his view by the throw. He was beginning to hate that blanket. Sherlock got to his feet and in one swift movement, claimed the space next to her. He threw his arm on the back of the sofa behind her and leaned in next to her, deliberately invading every ounce of her personal space he could. Running his nose along her collar, he inhaled. The lavender smell was deeper here, making him heady. Molly stiffened, telling him he wasn't the only one affected.

"Ask me again," he hoarsely whispered.

"Ask you what?" Her fingers gripped the book in her lap tightly.

His hand reached over to take the book, pushing it away from her grasp and onto the floor, where it landed with a heavy thump. "Ask me if I want anything else."

She inhaled, her breath wobbly and then said the last thing he was expecting, "When was the last time you slept?"

Sherlock pulled back at that. "What does it matter?"

She turned to look at him, a frown tugging at her lips. "I mean it, Sherlock. When was the last time you had adequate rest?"

Was she implying something by asking him this? Did she not want him as he did her? The signs indicated otherwise, but something in her tone said this was the case. He would need to do further tests, though, to be sure. "What day is it?"

"Monday evening."

"I last slept on Friday night. I'll be fine." He moved in again, reaching for the pink bow tied around her throat. He tugged it free. She didn't stop him. No, Molly just sat there as he pulled the collar of the robe away, baring her throat.

She gave a small sigh. "You're too tired for this. You should rest. You have dark circles under your eyes."

Sherlock wasn't going to be denied. He was in charge here. "There's no such thing as too tired for this." He leaned in, pressing kisses as he went. She shuddered and moved to give him better access. He smiled to himself and continued his exploration. His hand gently cradled her head as he moved down her neck and over her clavicle, pushing away cotton and lace as he went.

"You wore this gown to bed last night, Molly."

She jumped away from him then, edging closer to the other side of the sofa. Her hands trembling as she tried to pull her robe back around her. "And how do you know that?"

Sherlock slipped his hands under the large throw covering her lower body. He shoved it into the floor and the heat she'd been stockpiling underneath hit him. Like the predator cornering prey, he closed in on her, taking up all the space she'd put between them. "How do I know everything? For example, I know it's been two days since I had you. I know you want me as badly as I do you. I know you showered before I got here, hoping I'd be home tonight. I know you thought of me while you bathed, while you put on your lotion, while you took your birth control pill. I know you've thought of this every moment since I've been away, wondering if it was just a dream or a mistake or if I'd ever touch you again. I know if I don't have you soon I'm going to explode with wanting you."

Her breathing grew shaky once more, giving him the confidence to lean in until his face was mere inches away from hers. "Are you going to deny me, Molly?"

"No."

"Good."

He kissed her then. She returned the kiss wholeheartedly, wrapping both arms around his neck. Sherlock groaned, pulling her onto his lap. She came willingly, straddling him. His hands found her calves and marveling in the heat he felt in her silky limbs, he stroked up and over her knees. Her robe and gown parted like a sea of milk, revealing more feminine flesh for his touch. Molly's hands were in his hair, tugging on the strands impatiently as she kissed him. She ground down on him, rubbing herself delightfully against his hardening penis.

Sherlock moved aside the ribbons from the collar of her robe, jerking the garment off her and tossing it away. Only the thin material of the gown stood between him and what he sought. He rooted under the hem of her dress, moved up until he was cupping her bare breasts. Jesus, she's not wearing a bra. He'd known she wasn't, but feeling the proof in his hands made him want to send appreciation to a deity he'd didn't believe in.

He caressed her breasts, growing more frustrated by the gown which kept him from taking them into his mouth. The frock was so tight around her arms and shoulders, he knew he couldn't take it off as rapidly as he had the robe. He broke the kiss with Molly and shifted, grabbing hold of her hips. With a grunt, he stood, taking her with him.

Molly let out a little squeal and grasped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. With a slight wobble and some adjustment, he balanced her form in his grip and moved towards his bedroom. Molly was a sturdy woman, and fatigue had drained quite a bit of his strength. But Sherlock was determined. All too soon, he laid her across his bed. Then, he knelt down over her, his hands going to the long row of petite, pearl buttons running down the gown. His fingers fumbled, trying to push the pearls through the holes. They didn't go easily. When he only managed to get two undone in the range of several minutes, he looked down at her and said, "How much do you like this thing you're wearing?"

She grinned up at her, her hands playing with the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. "Why?"

Now she tries to entice me? "Because I'm three seconds from ripping it off you, woman."

"My mother gave it to me."

He groaned, knowing how much she loved both of her deceased parents, and made do with shoving the nightgown that had been the source of so much torture up to gather about her neck. Her breasts thrust up at him. Hello, old friends. He leaned over and took one in his mouth. Molly moaned and jerked up against him. After taking his fill of one breast, he moved on to the other as his hands explored the waistband of her white cotton knickers. With these, he met no resistance as he yanked them down her hips and off.

The second she was free, Molly opened her legs to him. The wetness of her core glistened in the overhead light, demonstrating how much she'd desired him all along. Had this all been some seductive game to her? Some way to increase his fervor? If so, it had worked. He was almost blind in his need for her. Sherlock sank between her thighs gratefully. The craving he'd experienced before was a mere shadow of what he felt now. He freed himself from his trousers and without preamble, thrust into her welcoming heat.

Her legs wrapped around his hips as he rocked against her again and again. Molly pulled him down, kissing him, holding him, urging him, a willing tool ready for his use. But it wasn't good enough. Sherlock wanted more. He wanted her bowing against him, straining in search of her own gratification, but his need was too great and he'd fought against it for too long. With a few valiant thrusts, the pleasure rushed upon him and he collapsed onto her in knackered ecstasy. He wanted to move, but his remaining strength was depleted. Molly didn't seem to mind the weight. Instead, she pressed kisses against his sweaty temple, caressed his shoulders, and murmured nonsensical praise in his ear. All were more comforting than he would ever admit.

Finally, he mustered a last bit of strength, rolled from her, and collapsed on the other side of the bed. It didn't matter that he was still half dressed, his head wasn't on a pillow, or that he wasn't lying in his usual position. Sherlock knew he'd be unable to move again until after several hours of rest.

Molly, however, did not suffer this problem.

It took every ounce of concentration he had to open one eye when he felt her leave the bed. He wanted to call to her, to find out where she thought she was going, but he couldn't.

She returned moments later with her throw. This she tossed over him, taking the time to make sure his feet were covered. As it was able to cover his tall form, he realized the blanket was bigger than he'd assumed it was. Molly then continued on, moving his head and shoving a pillow under it. Finally, with a tender kiss pressed against his forehead, she wished him pleasant rest and left him. She even switched off the lights and shut the door behind her.

Exhaustion held him prisoner. But with the last bit of brainpower he had, Sherlock Holmes grunted into his pillow as the truth hit him. If there was control to be wielded in his relationship with Molly Hooper, it was she who'd exert it. He was and would always be at her mercy. If their relationship were a chessboard, she was the queen and he was nothing more than a knight in her service.

Somehow, even as he was drifting off, this knowledge did not cause him panic.

A/N: This is the last time I will warn about the coming mature content. I don't like to ruin the surprise with spoilers, and it feels like that's what I am doing. So, if you don't like that, skim those parts and move on because I can promise that there won't just be chapters devoted to sex without furthering the plot. In fact, you will never know when either sex or plot is going to happen from here on out. Happy reading!