Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Bekah1218, ForShizzleRenizzle, SpenceFTW and NuggetsOfDemiGodWisdom. Glad you're enjoying these- Onwards!
#Braid
"What?"
Molly blinks at him. Touches her hair self-consciously.
Sherlock wets his lips, unable to look away.
"Am I...? Is it falling down?"
And she turns to look in the mirror above her mantle-piece, checks her hair. The thick, dark tresses are wound into a single braid, pinned against her head in an up-do that it is taking all of Sherlock's will power not to pull asunder.
Damn but she looks lovely like this.
It's the primness of it. The... properness. So feminine, and yet so severe. He hasn't seen her wear it like that since before she dumped Meat Dagger and he had, quite frankly, forgotten what it does to him-
Because seeing that thick rope of hair, all he can think about doing is wrapping it in his fist. Sliding it through his fingers.
He can picture it against his hands, dark against their paleness, and he doesn't know why but it, well, it... does things to him.
The way her glasses do.
The way her smiles do.
All of these things seem to have an Access All Areas pass right into his hind brain.
Sherlock has never thought of himself as particularly kinky (despite his time with The Woman) but there are certain things about Molly that he likes, things which almost amount to a fetish. Her Godawful fashion sense is one of them. That braid is another.
It calls out to him, whispers to him like a siren.
Pull me loose, it says. Set me free- You know you want to...
Without even realising it, he's gotten closer to Molly, the heat of her shoulder-blades reaching out to his chest as he stares at her hair and she stares at his reflection in the mirror.
"Are you alright?" she asks, turning to look at him in puzzlement and like an idiot he nods mutely.
Reaches out and slides his knuckles across the braid's raised, knotted surface.
"Does it look awful?" she asks, suddenly unsure, and he shakes his head, entranced.
"I'd tell you to wear it like that forever," he says, "but God only knows how I'd get any work done..."
Her cheeks pink at his words and he blinks. Stops. Realises how asinine that sounded, but Molly is grinning at him by now so he can't take it back.
"You like it?" she says and he nods. Smiles.
He can feel the heat of her body pressing against his.
He raises her palm to his mouth and presses a kiss to it. "Are you absolutely certain we have to go out today?" he asks, his hands sliding to her waist, the words whispered into her ear. He sees her pulse jump at her throat and feels a surge of triumph. His cock twitches, beginning to harden and that's it.
The game is on.
"We promised..." she says, but the words are breathless. They lack certainty.
Her hands are already moving to his shirt buttons, beginning to open them up... She's shifted so that her hips and chest are pressing tantalisingly against his...
An hour later Molly's hair is loose, spilling like silk across Sherlock's pillow.
He slides it through his fingers as she curls against his chest. Dozes.
"Much better," he whispers to himself, the words lost in her hair and his smile.