Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Deal

It took a few seconds for Molly to realize what she was doing and whom she was doing it on. She jerked away from Sherlock, horrified by her breakdown. "I-I-I'm so sorry."

The victim of her emotional display frowned disapprovingly at her. Between the weeping and the large, wet swath now splashed across the front of his shirt, annoyance was to be expected. Dear God! Is that snot? Please tell me I did not smear him in mucus. She cringed. Grabbing a nearby hand towel, she tried to dry him. Just as quickly, he snatched the towel away from her, tossed it back onto the counter, and pulled her back into his arms. Trapped, she could do nothing but stare up at him in confusion.

"Your constant concern for my safety is preposterous given all you know about the various skills I possess. I'm almost offended. You admit love and lust for me." He nuzzled against her neck, dropping a series of short, strategic kisses. "Yet, the second I return home, you reject my advances, wasting valuable time we could have spent having copious amounts of sexual intercourse." His breath was hot against her ear as he said, "What have you to say in your defense?"

She shivered involuntarily, very aware of what he was doing. Why must everything be a game to him? Especially at a time so serious? "But, Sherlock, I—"

"You are a distraction to me. This is true." He pulled back slightly to look at her, keeping their faces level. "But have you ever considered that there are times when distractions can be welcome?" He moved to kiss her, but she turned her head away, leaving his lips nothing but her cheek as target.

She struggled against his hold, but his grip was too strong. The placid, seductive timbre in his voice vanished when he said, "If our relationship is to be successful, Molly, you must learn to trust me."

Her head whipped around at that, her forehead almost colliding with his chin. She was appalled. Is that what he thinks? "I do trust you."

His gaze pierced her. "More than Mycroft?"

What? How? Suddenly, everything snapped into place. He knows Mycroft talked to me. Of course, he knows. He always knows. Well, she mentally amended, he can't know everything. "Yes."

"Then stop allowing him to wedge himself between us. That's his aim. Divide and conquer, a tactic as old as time. Don't fall for it."

"But he … he said … He's right that—"

"When it comes to political intrigue, global power plots, and war maneuvers, Mycroft is always right. But when it comes to you and me, he isn't. How could he be? He's never had a live-in girlfriend."

"Of course not. He's gay."

Sherlock blinked, then grinned. "And you've discerned this how?"

"It's obvious. He tries to act all aloof and asexual, but I know a homosexual male when I meet him."

"As I recall, you missed the fact that Jim was gay."

"He wasn't gay. He was a pansexual psychopath."

"A what?"

"He would have sex with anyone anytime if it meant he could get what he wanted. He acted heterosexual to be with me and then gay that one time to get your attention."

"Pansexual. This is a new word for me, but a good one to know. You are correct, of course." Sherlock's hold on her tightened briefly. "In any case, my point is that Mycroft doesn't understand our relationship."

"Neither do I." She shook her head. "Neither do you."

He hesitated before giving her a rapid nod. "Be that as it may, whatever happens between us should be just that—between us. Do you agree?"

Sherlock sounded so composed and reasonable. Molly wanted to fight against the strange aura of calm settling over her, but it was such a welcome relief after the hellish week that she couldn't.

"There," Sherlock said, as she relaxed in his arms. "That's better." He released her and took one of her hands in his. "Now, if you'll follow me to the bedroom, I think we've denied ourselves long enough, don't you?" He dipped down to kiss her.

She almost let him but jerked back again at the last second when common sense returned.

He sighed, the very epitome of exasperation. "Are you conducting some kind of experiment on me?"

"What? No!"

"Are you sure? Because it seems as if you're deliberately rejecting me in order to determine the exact point which marks the end of my endurance. Allow me to assist you in your endeavor. We have reached it."

"I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven. I'm going to kiss you now, Molly. And I warn you, if you pull away again, I vow that I will not stop until I've taken you against this very counter top."

A hot flash of lust ran through her at the sheer thought of that. "Umm … No."

"Why?" He sounded angry. She didn't blame him.

Molly was almost afraid to admit it but knew there was no other way. "I need a wash." She waved at her swollen eyes and overheated face. "You can't kiss me like this. I must look a fright."

His free hand cradled her jaw. One thumb brushed over her wet cheek. His mouth was so wonderfully close. "I don't care," he declared before seizing her lips.

Molly fell into the kiss, too tired to fight him anymore, too overcome by the passion his mere presence always brought about in her, too deprived of him—of this—for too long. Sherlock kissed her intensely, yanking her to him as his mouth claimed her over and over again. This wasn't about finesse or sport or even lust. No, his kiss was a brand. He was marking her as his—even though there was no one here to witness it, no visible indication which would be leftover in a few hours which would demonstrate his ownership.

It's for me, she realized. He's doing this for me. She kissed him back just as keenly. He groaned and broke away. Before she could get her wits about her, he'd reclaimed her hand and towed her along to his bedroom. She hurried after him.

Once inside, they exchanged swift, sloppy kisses, pausing only to pull a jumper and undershirt over the head (Molly), rip open Sherlock's shirt (Molly again), or shuck trousers (Sherlock with a lot of help from Molly). Shoes, socks, and a sensible bra went flying as they stumbled back to the bed. It was only then that Molly realized Sherlock was completely naked while she was still clad in trousers.

Molly unfastened the waistband, and Sherlock reached to wrench them down. When he stopped abruptly, so did she. She was about to ask him what the issue was when he straightened, holding up the beige parcel she'd had in her pocket.

"Oh! I was going to ask you about that. It was on the table when I put down your lunch. I'd forgotten I put it in my pocket to get it out of the way."

Sherlock smirked. Molly wasn't sure how to take that.

"I didn't mean to keep it," she assured, lest he think she had.

"I meant you to find it." He handed her the box. "Open it."

Molly stared at the small, flat rectangle in her hands. Sherlock had bought her a present? She didn't know how to think about that. Part of her wanted to flood him with kisses. The other couldn't stop remembering all the dire warnings and plans from Mycroft. Is this a sign that he's losing it? Am I contributing to him losing it? What will that mean for … everything if he does?

"Go on. It won't bite you." Sherlock winked before he added, "That's my job."

Molly looked up, head tilted in bewilderment. "Was that a sexual innuendo?"

"Possibly." His cocky expression wilted. "Did I do it wrong?"

"No."

"Then what's the problem?"

"It's not something you typically do."

"I used to flirt with you all the time."

"To get body parts, you mean?"

He wavered, seeming to reconsider the wisdom of bringing that unwelcome fact up minutes before he was about to get lucky. "Among … other reasons."

"That wasn't flirting, Sherlock. That was giving me puppy dog eyes until I went along with what you wanted."

"It's a type of flirting," he muttered to himself.

Molly bit back a grin, glaring just to watch him squirm. "What was that?"

"Just open the box, woman," he ordered.

Molly's eyes darted briefly to the parcel in her hand and back up to him. "What is it, though?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, not the least bit discomfited to be standing there completely nude. "Open it and see. But a word of caution: Don't get overly attached. You can't keep it."

"Why?"

"Because it isn't mine to give you."

"Then why am I opening it?"

"Because I asked you to."

He had her there. The box was old and unlike anything she had ever seen before. With the way it was shaped and the shallowness of the container, she would have assumed it was some kind of fancy pen or a brooch. Instead, it held a narrow, velvet drawstring bag. Setting the box aside on Sherlock's dresser, she opened the drawstring top of the black bag and tipped the contents into her palm.

Huh? I don't understand. On a delicately-woven gold chain hung the largest, three-stone pendant she had ever seen. The uppermost crimson gem was heart-shaped, secured with a golden mount connected to a brilliantly clear, circular stone. Both of these were balanced on top of a matching crimson, pear-shaped stone.

"Put it on."

She kept still, unable to do anything but stare at the necklace and repeat herself. "What is this?"

Losing patience, Sherlock took it from her and looped it over her head. The chain felt cold against her skin. The pendant was too as it landed between her bare breasts. Sherlock stepped back, seeming pleased. "There. Yes," he said. "That's nice. As I imagined it would be."

"Where did you get this? It isn't real, is it?"

"Could any pendant that large be real, Molly? Its size is almost obnoxious—or it would be if it didn't go perfectly with your breasts," he asked, pulling her close. "Now, where were we? Oh yes. Here, I think." He kissed her.

There were two choices at hand. She could either discuss this mysterious necklace which would no doubt turn into a lengthy conversation about the case—since she knew it had to have something to do with that—or she could postpone everything and make love with the boyfriend she'd missed desperately all week. Molly had often prided herself on not being a procrastinator. She had always been the kind of person who just plowed on through the hard stuff to get the job done. No excuses. No justifications. No rash promises to do it all later.

Until today, that is. Today, she didn't give a jot about anything but kissing Sherlock.

There were no more thoughts after that, only feelings. As Sherlock's body settled over hers, she relished the contact of warm skin on skin. As she feverishly kissed and caressed him, she felt a rising hunger for him she feared would never be satisfied. As his clever mouth and fingers stroked over and under and around her naked form, she burned hotter than the sun. As they finally joined, she looked up at him looking down at her, savoring the unexpected tenderness in his expression. And from that instant until the last peak of sublime pleasure crested, Molly felt her abiding love for this man overwhelm her until there was no room for worry, dire warnings, curiosity, or anything else.

They parted briefly, each struggling to catch their respective breaths from opposite sides of the mussed bed. Yet, all it took was one questioning glance, one answering smile and they reached for each other again. This second coupling was less zealous. Molly rode him leisurely. Sherlock seemed to prefer this position as it gave him an unobstructed view of the necklace bouncing evenly with her breasts. After he had looked his fill, he fondled the pert mounds for a while before extending himself upward so he could take the nipples into his mouth. Moaning, she gripped his shoulders and tossed her head back to give him better access. He held her tightly to him, thrusting into her over and over.

"Yes, yes, yes," she chanted as her orgasm built.

"Molly—Oh, Molly!" He started to shake.

The beginning might have started slow, but the ending surrender was swift, scorching, and so, so sweet. With a shout of utter completion, Sherlock collapsed back onto the bed. Molly went with him, unable to care that she was dead weight atop him. Her body was so relaxed and sated she couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to.

"You alive up there?" he asked.

She smiled to herself. "If I'm dead, it's your fault."

"You can thank me later."

Molly laughed at his arrogance. When a semblance of her strength returned, she rolled off him. Usually, she moved away the second their passion was spent. But this time, she lolled on her belly, leaning her head on his shoulder and leaving one arm stretched across his chest. Sherlock, for his part, didn't seem to mind. In fact, he used her close proximity to run his fingers lightly up and down the vertebrae of her back. He paused every once and a while, as if he were counting to see how many she had or as if he were labeling each one in his head.

Probably the latter.

At first, she enjoyed the intervening silence. It was nice. But all too soon, her worries resurfaced. "Are you going to tell me about the case, most especially what had you running out of here the other night?" she asked.

"As long as you understand that we'll be reviewing your conversation with my meddlesome brother regarding the status of our relationship afterward, I'm fine with that."

He gave a hearty yawn, exhaustion finally catching up with him. But Molly knew better than to say anything. So, she nodded instead of giving a verbal response.

Mycroft wouldn't like her blabbing—in fact there were things she'd sworn never to tell Sherlock for fear of …. No, it might not happen. He said he wasn't sure. He only … Molly squelched those traitorous thoughts. It would only lead to more anxiety, and she already had more than she could handle right now. No, I need to talk to Sherlock. He's not going to let this go. Besides, he was bound to have words with Mycroft eventually about cornering her in the first place. Plus, Sherlock wasn't wrong in what he said. Some things in their relationship should be just between them.

"Where would you like me to begin?" he asked.

She shivered as his caress started again at the base of her spine. "Well, I'm caught up with the professor, and I know who the earl is. Why not start with what I said that sent you off in the first place?"

"You don't understand the lead you gave me?" Before she could answer, he said, "Of course you don't. OK. You said Earl Denton's game of choice was making predictions. You're right. So that meant whatever Moriarty is planning, it's so complex he needs Denton's foresight to know whether or not it will prove successful."

"But you and Mycroft were hinting at that already. How did I help you understand anything?"

"The earl often keeps to himself at his estate in Cornwall. According to rumor, even his family have to make appointments with him."

"He's married?"

"Yes, with two children. A daughter, around 17 or so and a son, aged 10."

Molly was amazed. It seemed strange that a genius of such significance to the world would have something as commonplace as a family. It would be like Sherlock having a wife and children, and if that wasn't a bizarre mental picture, she didn't know what was. "So how did I help you?"

"The earl only gets involved when he wants to. It's like me taking only the cases that spark my interest. The more complicated the question he must answer, the better. It didn't occur to me—until you mentioned the bit about everyone having their game of choice—how someone like Moriarty would be able to get to Denton."

"Through his family, you mean? I thought you figured that out. Something to do with using Magnussen's information to blackmail him?"

"Yes, I supposed it to be through blackmail but no, I did not think he got the information from Magnussen. That was Mary." Presumably bored with exploring and classifying Molly's back, he claimed the hand she'd rested on his chest. He brought her wrist to his nose for a moment and gently inhaled before releasing a soft, gratified grunt. Molly was bewildered. What in the world is that about?

Then, as though it were the most normal thing in the world, Sherlock laced his fingers with hers and folded their joined hands neatly over his neck. Gently, he rubbed the side of her hand back and forth against the underside of his chin. A bit of stubble, which he'd failed to remove upon his return home, gently abraded her skin, but she didn't mind. In fact, the simple act made her heart melt a bit. The whole scene reminded her of something a child would do with a well-loved blanket to comfort himself.

He continued speaking, seemingly unaware that her mind was focused on other things. "It would be too difficult for Moriarty to get the information from Magnussen—who carried all files in his impeccable mind palace."

Molly blinked, regaining her concentration. "But Moriarty could get to anyone, couldn't he? If he wanted to?"

"It's possible, of course. But Magnussen has been dead too long to be of any use to Moriarty, and I seriously doubt he left anything just lying around. He was too careful for that."

"So how did Moriarty get the information to blackmail Denton?"

"That, my dear, is where you come in."

"Me?" Molly was now completely baffled.

"When you mentioned the game, it got me thinking about things differently. What if Moriarty didn't need to use blackmail? After all, with Denton, simple blackmail won't hold him for long. He'll figure a way around it or he'll get one of his powerful allies to handle the matter quietly and quickly. Moreover, if what Moriarty is planning is as complex as I assume it is, he would need to acquire quite a bit of time with the earl and cooperation. Real cooperation."

Molly pondered this for a few moments before she said, "He simply created the best, most complicated question ever and challenged the earl to answer."

"Exactly!" Sherlock rewarded her response by pressing a swift kiss against her wrist.

"But how did all of that send you running out of the flat? And where did you go?"

"I knew I needed to get to the earl. Eventually, that meant going to Cornwall."

"You went to Cornwall?"

"Not that first night, of course. I hoped he'd be in London."

"He wasn't?"

"No."

"But wouldn't Mycroft be able to tell you where the earl was? Wait—no, he was sacked, wasn't he? But surely he knew someone who would know—"

Sherlock shook his head. "Even if he had retained his position, Mycroft wouldn't necessarily know where Denton was at any given time. That information is only released at the highest levels and only on a need-to-know basis. Plus, I had to check out a few other items first. Mary was quite helpful in assisting me with that. But once we'd ascertained that we'd need to go to Cornwall, she returned to collect Abby and John and I left."

"So you've been in Cornwall all this time?"

"Of course not."

"Where else have you been?"

"Well, no matter who I talked to or what I did, there seemed to be no way I could get to the earl. John finally gave up and went home." Sherlock smirked. "It took some time, but I eventually found a way around it."

"So you talked to Denton? What did he say?"

Sherlock released her hand and reached out to finger the necklace she wore. "I haven't spoken to him yet, but I will. Never fear."

Molly nodded, trying to figure out how he planned to do that when he'd spent the better part of a week unable to do so. Sherlock was good, but if the great and powerfully-connected Mycroft couldn't ascertain the earl's whereabouts, what could his younger brother hope to do? And, when Sherlock did find the earl, what would he intend to do then? Did he now think Denton was in league with Moriarty? If so, how could he ever hope to outwit two such geniuses—especially with Mycroft now sacked and powerless? Molly opened her mouth to ask these questions, but Sherlock stopped her.

"I've been as patient as I'm going to be, Molly Hooper. I've kept my side of bargain by explaining what had me running out of here the other night and where I've been the last week. It's now your turn to explain your discussion with Mycroft."

Molly wanted to argue—especially considering that they were hardly done talking about the case and he had yet to explain this mysterious necklace—but knew better. The grim determination in his eyes declared arguing would be fruitless. He wasn't going to give in.

So, with a sigh, Molly pulled away from him, rolled onto her side of the bed, levered herself up against the pillows, pulled the blankets up around her, and stacked her hands across her chest. No, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to like this. Hell, she didn't like it.

Finally, with an apprehensive sigh, she said, "Fine. Let's talk about Mycroft."