Chapter Song: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper
Please enjoy my chapter with some great additions by hobbitsdoitbetter sprinkled throughout to make it more readable for you folks. Smexy times ahoy!
Once outside they stealthily make their way to the same car in which they were driven to this rural hellscape. The helicopter has flown off, presumably at Eurus' command. Any remaining guards (and whoever the hell Dr. Topher is) are also presumably inside the house with the rest of the loonies - Mary excepted, Molly generously allows on Sherlock's behalf.
She quickly fishes the keys from Locke's trouser pocket, stoically ignoring the blood and brains spattered across all three corpses, while Sherlock contemplates his dead brother-in-law's broken, bloody body-
His expression is blank, but Molly knows, oh she knows how much must be going on in that big brain of his, behind those mercurial blue-green eyes.
She starts to slide into the driver's side but Sherlock stops her with a hand on her wrist. She shivers at the touch, not entirely because of the coldness of his flesh against hers. Shock, they've both been exposed to a series of shocks in this longest of long nights, and all she wants to do is to go home. To enter the safety of her own flat, to crawl beneath the covers of her own bed-
To curl up against the man to whom she silently, obediently surrenders the keys. To share her warmth with him. She wants to try and make sense of everything that's happened tonight, to sort out what exactly it all means and what the future might hold now that the world's been turned upside down-
"You're thinking too loudly, princess," Sherlock says as they peel out of the drive and onto the main road. "Stop it."
"I will if you will," she shoots back, and he gives her a lopsided grin that in no way reaches his eyes. But he puts his free hand on hers, laces their fingers together as they drive into the direction of the rising sun, and she feels some of the tension drain away.
oOo
"We're here."
Molly wakes with a start, having no idea when she'd drifted off to sleep. The sun is fully up, and they're parked, not in front of her flat, where she'd assumed they were going, but...somewhere else. Somewhere she doesn't recognize as anything except Not A Good Neighborhood. "Where-" she starts but Sherlock cuts her off.
"Somewhere safe," he says. He steps out of the vehicle, leaving the keys in the ignition; Molly starts to object, considering the insalubrious nature of their current surroundings, but subsides when it finally percolates through her sleep-fogged mind that he's done it on purpose.
Of course he has; they won't want to be traced, won't want the car found anywhere near them until they know exactly what their future holds.
What the unholy Eurus-Mycroft-Anthea triad intends to do to them.
Her thoughts are interrupted by Sherlock letting out a series of short, sharp whistles. There's movement from a nearby doorway, a slumped figure shambling to its - his, she somewhat doubtfully concludes - feet, and Sherlock carelessly flashes a wad of cash that he tosses onto the driver's seat before taking Molly's hand and tugging her down the pavement.
She lets him lead her, away from the vehicle and the stranger and the money, and from there down a bewildering maze of alleys and narrow, filthy streets until finally they fetch up at a nondescript metal door at the back of what she thinks is a pub. Sherlock knocks - once, twice, a hesitation, then a third knock.
The door opens; Molly can't see who it is but Sherlock speaks to the shadowy figure in a low tone she doesn't bother trying to either hear or understand-
She's still too damned tired, too damned emotionally compromised to care right now.
More money exchanges hands; she and Sherlock are shown up a narrow set of creaky stairs to a door, and they make their way inside the room it opens into. Sherlock closes the door behind them; she hears the click of a lock and sits heavily on the edge of the surprisingly comfortable bed that is the room's main piece of furniture.
They've hardly spoken two words since slipping out of Musgrave, mostly because of her unexpected nap in the car, but now- now, she needs to say something. To ask something.
"Do you believe him?"
No need to identify the 'him'; Sherlock demonstrates that by shrugging. "Yes. No. Maybe. Mycroft always was a good liar. Can't process it yet, need some sleep first, clear my head-" He leers at her, but there's no real intent behind either that or the (expected) proposition that follows. "Fucking is a great head-clearer, what do you say, princess? You up for it?"
"No," she says. "And neither are you, Sherlock." She pats the bed. "If you're sure we're safe, then let's take advantage of that, yeah?" She yawns, stretches, and kicks off her shoes. "Sleep with me. Just sleep," she adds with a tired smile when he leers at her again. "Like you said, clear our heads so we can figure out what comes next."
"What should come next is you, followed immediately by me, but if you're not in the mood I suppose I'll just have to wait." He toes off his shoes. Removes his jacket, undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Removes his belt.
Molly's pulse quickens at the sight, but she tamps down on her visceral reaction to his disrobing when she looks up and takes in the paleness of his face. The dark circles beneath his eyes. She reaches up to him, mildly surprised when he allows her to take his hand and lead him beneath the covers. To pull him into her arms and rest his head on her chest.
He closes his eyes and they're both asleep within minutes.
oOo
Sherlock wakes up slowly, frowning as he feels the warmth of another body close to his. No, not close to - entwined with. Memory returns in a rush but surprisingly it doesn't bring with it a return of the confused emotions he's been wrestling with ever since discovering that Myc was still alive.
Instead, all he feels is a rush of...tenderness. Tenderness for the woman still sleeping in his bolthole. In his bed.
In his arms.
He looks down at her, grateful that for once he can merely observe without being threatened, barked at or knocked out of kilter.
Agent Molly bloody Hooper. How the fuck had they come to this? He doesn't normally believe in any bollocks like fate or destiny, but right now, in this moment, he's not as violently opposed to either concept as he might have been under other circumstances.
After all, he has just apparently witnessed a man rising from the dead.
She makes a noise, a murmur, and shifts just the tiniest bit, just enough so that her warm little bum makes contact with his cock, causing it to go from soft to semi-hard. Why does the merest touch from this woman turn him into some randy porn-star character, ready to shag at the drop of the proverbial hat? Why does he completely lose control with her, again and again and again?
"Fuck it," he mutters, ordering his brain to shut up as he curls himself more closely around her. She's still only half-awake when he presses a series of soft kisses to the nape of her neck, but her sleepy waking-up noises turn approving, and as she shifts against him again he goes from half-hard to full on iron bar. Quite without running it by him his hands fill themselves with her soft breasts and it occurs to him, quite reasonably, that they are both wearing entirely too much in the way of clothes.
So he remedies that, stripping them both bare, grumbling quietly at how long it takes (not very long at all, he's quite efficient when he wants to be and oh yes, right now he definitely wants to be). Ignoring the giggles escaping her lips as she pliantly allows him to remove blouse and skirt and bloody stupid, annoying stockings and then, mmm, only her underthings remain, lacy scraps easily discarded as he once again presses his (now entirely nude) form against hers.
"We need to shower," Molly mumbles, a semi-protest, but makes no move to pull away from him. Indeed her breast is plump and heavy in his hand, her nipple hard as he brushes his thumb against it, and one leg has come to rest atop his as they lay on their sides.
"Hush, princess, you're spoiling the mood," he admonishes her and she giggles but he swiftly turns those giggles to sighs of pleasure as he slides his free hand down her abdomen, her hip, dipping the tips of his fingers into the wet slit of her sex.
She tries to sound arch. "Keep that up and I'll have to, mmmmmmmm, have to, uhhh…"
"Have to what?" he asks, thoroughly enjoying her lack of coherence under his ministrations.
She flips her hair out of her face and turns her head to mock-glare at him. "I'll have to do...this!"
Suddenly she's fully facing him, and just as suddenly he's on his back. Her swift and efficient 'attack' startles a laugh out of him, but laughter quickly turns to shared moans and sighs as she leans down and kisses him. He pulls her flush with his body, wanting to feel, oh, all of her that he can at one time, and tangles his fingers in her glorious cinnamon hair.
He wants to tease her, to talk dirty to her, but somehow the words don't come. Instead, he holds her closer, kisses her and caresses her, lets her decide when that's not enough and she simply must have more. She bites his lip, lifting herself up only to settle herself back down on his aching cock.
It feels like nothing short of heaven.
It feels like coming home.
Speaking of coming…
He smirks up at her, his hands on her hips. "Nice day for a ride," he quips, and he's rewarded by her warm laughter and her (even warmer) cunt sliding up and down his cock.
"Better behave or next time I'll bring my riding crop," she shoots back. She leans back, watching him through narrowed eyes as she moves her hips in tiny, agonisingly good increments.
The sight is bloody breathtaking.
His cheeks flush with heat and his grip tightens as an involuntary shudder of pure desire ripples through him. Molly, observant girl, notices, and her smile turns knowing. Tender. "Next time," she whispers, leaning down and pressing a teasing kiss to his lips. To the lobe of his ear. To his throat.
"Next time," he gasps out in response as she starts moving faster. Starts properly riding him. She moans, biting her lip, and he presses up into her. She takes his hand, kissing his wrist, and shows him how she likes her clit played. They gather momentum, her movements going from slow and languorous to fierce, driven, almost frantic as she chases her completion. He doesn't mind the uneven pace, not at all; it allows him to just relax and enjoy it as she takes the lead, as she uses him to bring herself off.
She keeps panting, moaning, fucking him and it drives him bloody wild.
It should be unsettling, letting someone else take control, letting himself be used the way he normally uses others, but it isn't. Partly because she's not using him in the usual sense of the word; she's not treating him as a disposable object, she's fiercely determined to bring him along with her, he can see it in her eyes. He can hear it in her hoarse, panting breaths too, feel it in every clench of her cunt against his cock-
"Christ," he finds himself hissing. "Christ, I'm bloody close…"
And then she leans down again and kisses him, the tight buds of her nipples and the ends of her hair brushing against his chest, and she whimpers, "Oh God, Sherlock, please, come with me, please, my darling, please, please come…"
He does. With a hoarse shout, with a momentary whiting out of his every sense, with his arms tight tight tight around her slender form and his eyes squeezed tightly shut to hold back the tears he feels forming in the corners of his eyes, he comes.
He comes so hard it floors him.
She collapses atop him, having ridden out her own orgasm at the same time. Lies panting atop his chest for a moment before making an abortive move to roll off him.
Abortive because he refuses to let her go.
Rather, he continues to hold her tightly as the cooling sweat slicks their bodies and she laughingly tries (and mostly fails) to blow her hair out of her face. "Sherlock, we have to clean up, showers, remember?" she admonishes him, but he merely shakes his head. Holds her closer.
He rolls them onto their sides in deference to their continued gasping breaths, but refuses to let her go.
"Later," he mumbles, exhaustion suddenly and completely overtaking him again. And why shouldn't it? It's been an exhausting 24-hours - no, 36-hours now - and they have nowhere to go at the moment. Besides, they're safe here, alone together in one his most private of private boltholes, the one even Mary doesn't know about.
Safe enough to fall asleep in one another's arms again, to will away the world outside for a few hours more.
Safe enough that he doesn't have to contemplate parting with her just yet. So-
"Go to sleep," he mutters, kissing her softly, tenderly. Savouring the feel of her in his arms, treasuring (though he would deny it if pressed) the way she'd called him 'darling' during the height of her passion.
He may not wish to admit it to himself but he doesn't want this to end.
So they sleep, warm and comfortable and sated. Sherlock doesn't know how long it lasts, but then-
Reality once again rears its ugly head, the door shoved violently open and an intruder bursting into the room, catching the two of them completely and utterly by surprise.
They instinctively reach for their guns, movements stopping as the intruder's gun is aimed at them.
"Well, well," Eurus proclaims, her wide smile not even remotely reaching her cold, cold eyes, "isn't this cosy."
Her finger tightens on the trigger.
Hers, and Molly's, and Sherlock's…
End note: Whaaaa-?! An evil cliffie? How unlike m...wait, no, it's EXACTLY like me. Stay tuned as this tortured saga draws closer to a conclusion! Thank you all so much for your comments and reviews, they've made both authors extremely happy!