Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Again, this chapter features some smut so if that's not your bag, just jump down as far the scene in Mycroft's house. My spell-check is still on the fritz so apologies if there are more typos than usual. And thanks for their reviews go to Katya Jade, Analena, Aphraelsan and ifyoudieidie02. Please note there's more smut so if you'd rather not read it, skip down to the section in Belgravia. Enjoy!
~ CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE SPY WHO FLASHED ME ~
221 B Baker Street
The Next Morning
Molly wakes up to the sound of a violin playing.
She rolls over, cocking an ear, and smiles at the beauty of the tune.
After a few moments the music starts becoming louder, and the door to the master bedroom opens: Sherlock enters and grins down at her, the instrument at his shoulder, his hair tousled and messy with sleep.
He is, it should be noted, as naked as the day he was born.
With a wide smile he puts the violin down and kneels on the bed, crawling up towards Molly, a gorgeous, sinful smile on his face; by the time he reaches her she's already opened her arms to him, pulling him down to her and tangling him against her body for a long, sweet kiss. They pull apart, the need to breathe having overcome them both, and she sits up. Pulls the bedclothes open and beckons him to join her beaneath the sheets.
It's only then that she remembers that she's absolutely naked.
The cool air of the morning is feels surprisingly pleasant against her bare breasts.
She starts, embarrassed, her hands coming up to cover herself but at the last moment she stops herself. Places her hands on her husband's shoulders instead and smiles up at him. Nods to him before taking one of his big, calloused hands and placing it on her heart.
Her skin feels afire, red stretching all the way from her hairline to her abdomen.
Her heart is beating very loudly in her chest.
Something tender moves in Sherlock's eyes, his smile softening, and with gentle, exquisite care he leans in. Ghosts his fingers over one, puckering nipple, wetting it. He presses gentle kisses to each of her breasts before nuzzling his nose into them. Licking and caressing their undersides. Pushing them together and burying his face into their warmth. Molly sighs in pleasure, winding him closer and spreading her thighs for him in invitation: as she does so however, she is unfortunately reminded of last night's activities, and their repercussions.
She winces, a soreness unlike any other she has experienced spreading through her muscles.
She is suddenly, viscerally reminded that she is no longer a virgin, and while she welcomes the news she doesn't welcome the messenger.
She shifts uncomfortably and instantly Sherlock stops, looks at her askance, before his expression clears and he nods. Pulls away to press a softer, more chaste kiss to her cheek.
"Ah," he says. "I'd forgotten about that."
"You'd forgotten already, husband?" she murmurs, trying for nonchalant. "I fear I shall have to do better next time, then."
And she smiles, tries to make light of it, though truth be told she's a little disconcerted by how sore she is. How... raw. Though she had expected it, the reality is something different. More... visceral, somehow. More real. Hearing about something and experiencing it for herself are two different things.
She does hope that such pain will keep her out of her husband's arms for too long, however.
Sherlock's looking at her closely, perhaps cateloguing her reactions in that way of his. She wishes to reassure him- She is, after all, aware of her duties to him, in bed as well as out of it. She doesn't want to disappoint her new husband with her lack of fortitude. Holding eye contact however, he slides his hands down, twines one around her ankle, the other beneath her arch. His palm looks big and white and unexpected, there against the skin of her calf. He takes her hand at her arch and slides it up her body, presses her heart until she's lying on her back, her eyes staring up at the ceiling and her breath coming quick and sharp-
And then he sets to stroking every inch of her legs, kissing and caressing her toes. Her calves. Her thighs.
Within minutes he has her panting, gasping, though she winces when she imagines him pushing his way inside her again.
He must realise as much, for he hushes her, pressing a kiss to her lips before telling her to relax. "It's merely an experiment, love," he says. "I shan't put myself inside you- I know you're too sore today."
Molly blinks in surprise, raising her head to look down at him. He looks absolutely delicious, resting between her splayed thighs. "Then what do you intend to do?" she asks and his smile turns sly. Wicked.
The mere sight of it makes her cunny grow hot. Her cheeks can match it.
"Why, I'm going to see how many ways there are to get you off without my cock, darling wife," he says matter-of-factly, as if such as asperation were the most normal thing in the world to voice. "I have heard of women who can come merely by being caressed, or licked, " he continues. "Perhaps you are one of them?
I wish to find out."
Molly lets her head fall back against the pillow. Trust Sherlock, to think on such a thing. "To be perfectly honest," she tells him, "I have no idea if I am, husband mine."
She feels, rather than sees, the wider smile which splits his face at this information.
"And ascertaining that, my dear," he tells her, "is the point of the experiment." He presses a sweet little kiss to her ankle before she can gainsay him. "That, and letting me see you come so beautifully again- I rather fear I'm growing addicted to the sight of it, you know."
And before she can ask him anything else- or even offer him some relief, for she doesn't wish him to be left wanting- Sherlock sets his wry, clever mouth and his calloused, inventive hands to her. He spreads her, splays her. Licks and sucks and caresses her. He discovers every nook and crevice and secret place in her body that can make her gasp. That can make her shudder.
It turns out that she can indeed come without the aid of his cock, or even his tongue.
Eventually- about three climaxes later- Molly finally persuades him to lay back and allow her to explore him in the same way, her experiments ending with him gasping, hard and sweet and needy beneath her as she suckles him in her mouth.
He comes undone with a muttered oath.
When he kisses her in the aftermath, she can taste both herself and him on her tongue and she finds the notion excites her terribly. He's delighted when she tells him.
They lie together in the pale light of morning. Gasping. Boneless. Satisfied; By the time their breakfast, papers and mail arrive (courtesy of young Archie) Molly is convinced she might just be married to the most wonderful man in London- Or, perhaps, the world.
And then she sees the morning headlines- Magnusson's death has made several front pages- and the invitation for her and Sherlock from the head of Mycroft's organisation, M.
Even the handwriting in which it's written looks severe.
"I'd try to hide you away," Sherlock says. "But I've found M to be bloody relentless- Best we get this over with."
And so he and Molly dress and summon a hansom, heading straight for Mycroft's townhouse in Mayfair.
They hold hands all the way there.
Mycroft's Townhouse,
Grosvenor Square,
Belgravia
By the time they reach Mikey's house, Sherlock has managed to regain control of himself.
After all, waking this morning with Molly had brought out the hedonist in him, and he's been a little worried that it might shock his wife. (She is, after all, a lady, however she may have been raised).
Molly had, however, reacted with her usual aplomb, much to his delight: Her willingness to allow his explorations was really rather unexpected, and her insistence on reciprocating had him eager to be alone with her again- As soon as possible.
Sooner, if he could manage it.
But before such a thing could happen, he suspected that he would have to give the head of his organisation- and the only person Mycroft truly answers to- their proverbial pound of flesh.
M really did get tiresome, when she felt she had to drag news out of him.
And so, with as much dignity as he can muster, he makes his way into Mycroft's morning room, Molly's hand in the crook of his arm.
Perhaps she senses his unease because she's smiling encouragingly at him.
Inside he sees Anthea and Mycroft, sitting side by side and looking utterly unruffled. The only giveaway that this is not a meeting of mere comrades is the slight flush of red at the back of his brother's neck- And the small, serene smile which tugs at Thea's lip.
John's sitting in too- at Mikey's right- and with him is Mary Morstan. The blond woman's fist is wrapped where she punched Adler during an apparent escape attempt, and she's trying to hide it by keeping it under her reticule (Sherlock can tell just by looking at it that the binding is Watson's handiwork).
To their left stands Greg Lestrade, M's contact in the Metropolitan Police Service, while to their right Mrs. Hudson doles out tea and sandwiches (she alone has security clearance to serve at functions such as these).
And there, looking resplendant in a deep burgundy day dress with matching hat, sits M, head of the British Secret Service and most wanted spy in the known world.
The Holmes brothers know her as Mummy.
"Will!" she calls when she sees him, gesturing to two places which have been set (ominously, in Sherlock's opinion) beside her.
There's no way around it, so Sherlock squeezes Molly's hand and leads her forward, darting forward to press a kiss to the older woman's cheek.
Best get this over with.
"Mummy," he rejoins warmly. "You look radiant as ever." The older woman's eyes flicker to Molly and he takes the hint, realises that trying to deflect her interest with flattery will not work in this particular instance.
He can hear Mycroft snickering behind him and it is only with great difficulty that he represses the urge to stick out his tongue.
"And may I present my new wife?" he says instead, trying to keep his voice officious. "Doctor Molly Hooper, may I present my mother? This is the Viscountess Undershaw, Lady Alexandra Holmes.
She is the head of our little organisation."
Molly blinks, surprised, but she quickly rallies and sketches a passable curtsy, dropping her head. Sherlock guesses that this is not the strangest personage she has ever faced. "My lady," she says politely. "Forgive me, I didn't realise I was to meet any more of Sherlock's family today-"
"Tosh!" the older woman speaks over her, smiling. "Don't worry yourself, my dear- I'm just relieved you're actually real, and not some sort of figment of my son's sordid imagination."
Before Molly can comment Mummy stands, starts walking around her. She looks her up and down and Molly cocks an eyebrow, drawing herself up to her full height, a reaction which makes Mummy bark with laughter.
Looking slightly unsure, Molly nevertheless smiles back.
"She's a game little thing, I'll give you that, Will," Mummy tells him. Her tone in impressed. "She'll not be bullied by you, I imagine- Not that I would expect any less from either of my boys."
And she winks at Molly, then at Anthea. Behind them Sherlock hears Watson give something which sounds suspiciously like a snort, but when he looks at him from the corner of his eye he appears as blandly calm as ever, even if Mary Morstan is stroking her shoe surreptitiously against his calf. (The action is making Watson somewhat hot under the collar).
Maybe Mummy sees this too because she again laughs, before gesturing to the chairs beside her and indicating Molly and Sherlock should sit. Anxious to show that he has some manners, Sherlock pulls out his wife's chair before seating himself, something which causes Mycroft to mutter in despair behind him.
Mummy merely nods, looking thoughful.
"Now that that's out of the way," she says, "I shall need my mission report: I've read the headlines about Magnusson's death, but I assume that's not the whole story?"
"No," Mycroft supplies. "No, it is not."
His gaze goes to Thea and then slides away, the back of his neck again turning red.
If Mummy makes a note of it, she elects to keep it to herself.
"Magnusson made a play to gain control of our organisation," the elder Holmes begins. "He was using surveillance equiptment to gather compromising material on anyone who visited his home."
"Photographs?" Mummy asks with asperity and Mycroft nods.
"Images, as well as cinematographic material-"
The older woman blinks. "He had a camera which coulld be kept secured?" she asks. "All of our prototypes have been too loud or unreliable for spywork- Your father's tried everything. In fact, it's been making him rather boorish around the house." She shakes her head, mutters to herself that,"I rather fear he needs another hobby."
Mycroft nevertheless nods. "When we raided Magnussen's house this morning, we took his device," he says. "I'll make sure it's sent to Daddy's workshop in the Quarter Master's Lab, you may depend upon it, Mummy."
Mummy gives a sharp nod. "Thank you, Mikey." Her eyes go to Sherlock and Molly and both, despite their best intentions, fidget slightly beneath her gaze. "But what about this business in Sir Henry Knight's house?" she asks, turning back to the rest of the party. "Knight was a person of interest for us, but I hadn't expected him to come into play nearly so early-"
"That was my fault, Ma'am," Mary says.
Mummy cocks a challenging eyebrow, surprised at being interrupted. "Oh?"
And before Molly or Sherlock can say anything, Mary launches into an explanation of her surreptitious following of Knight, followed by a description of the race to Grimpen and the eventual extra-stellar menace they encountered there. She spares no detail, even going so far as to describe how Molly managed to persuade Sherlock to actually accept medical assistance, and Anthea managed to stop Adler before the pocketwatch device took her over entirely.
This former impresses the party more than the latter, Sherlock can't help but think.
Mummy listens in silence, stopping her only ocassionally to ask questions before nodding and pulling a small pocket-book from her reticule. Scribbling something inside it and handing it to Mrs. Hudson. "See that it gets to Sherrinford, Martha," she tells the other woman and Hudson nods, bobbing a curtsy before exiting.
Mycroft watches her go, a frown on his face, but he says nothing.
Mary, likewise, appears to recognise the name Sherrinford, though she has the good sense to keep it to herself.
"Do we have any idea why the device responded to Adler, and not Knight?" Mummy asks. The question is directed to the room at large.
Mycroft shrugs. "She was more susceptible to it," he says. "Feminine weakness, perhaps-"
Mummy and Anthea both clip him sharply around the ear and he pouts but nods in acquiescence. He should have expected nothing less, in this room."Yes, well, that's General Sharlto's opinion, not mine," he points out.
"What is yours?" It's the first question Molly has asked and all eyes turn to her, causing her to blush slightly.
Sherlock curls her hand in his and brings it to his mouth to kiss, in an effort to soothe her. Mycroft smiles though, impressed perhaps that she guessed he had a theory.
"Adler was born near Torchwood House," he says. "Spent her formative years in the convent school there- As did many others in our secret current service. Those who've spent time in that area have exhibited abilities, tendencies beyond the usual."
He shrugs.
"There have been reports of meteors and sundry other extra-stellar objects arriving for centuries- Even when our family had land there, the place was imfamous." Again, the elegant shrug.
"A link may be in evidence," he says. "Or it may be nothing but coincidence."
Sherlock can tell nobody in the room believes that- The universe, according to both Mummy and Mikey, rarely being so lazy.
Of course, nobody in the room has the poor manners to say as much either, so the party slumps into an uncomfortable silence.
Apparently deciding that the briefing is finished, Mummy rises and dismisses the group. She nods to Molly, offering her her hand and welcoming her to the family; She says the same to Anthea, though she seems rather more amused by the young spy's success with her elder son than she is with the young doctor's success with her youngest-born.
Sherlock supposes that if either of her children were going to end up married, the smart coin would have been on him.
Greg Lestrade, apparently relieved that he will not have to explain how he ended up allowing Magnusson to convince one of his (admittedly more stupid) officers to try arresting Sherlock and John stands and shakes Sherlock's hand, wishing he, Molly, Mycroft and Anthea luck before heading towards the door-
As he opens it, however, he is greeted by the sight of Sir Henry Knight, standing in soot-covered clothes and looking rather worried.
Sherlock can see two of Mycroft's burliest footmen standing behind him, apparently at a loss as to how to keep the young engineer out of the house.
"Good God," Mary says on seeing him. "Whatever is the matter, Sir Henry?"
Knight's eyes, worried and grave, come to rest on Molly. He opens his mouth, once, twice, as if afraid to speak, but then-
He holds out his hand, and there is a fire-blackened key is it.
"Miss- That is, Mrs. Holmes, I fear I am the bearer of bad tidings," he says. "I went to visit your clinic today, and I found- I found this in the ruins." He shakes his head. "I am afraid it has been incinerated-"
He shakes his head, closing his eyes and muttering something which sounds distinctly like, "Sally..."
Which may be why he seems so relieved when the less-than-dulcet tones of Miss Sally Donovan cut through the house, demanding what that silly cove Knight's done now?