Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.
#HurricaneHooper
For such a little thing, Sherlock sometimes muses, his Molly is awfully bloody bossy.
She's handsy, and energetic, and hell on shirt buttons- But then that's the price of living with her, Sherlock knows.
When they'd first begun going out he'd been nervous; it had, after all, been quite a while since he had had a... paramour. His relationship with The Woman notwithstanding, sex was not something which he had pursued in quite some time, and he had therefore been rather worried that he might end up scaring Molly off.
That was, obviously, the last thing he'd wanted to do.
But he'd assumed- given how sweet and lovely she is- that she would be the sort of shy, vanilla girlfriend he'd spent his entire twenties avoiding. He'd assumed that she would want candlelight, and soft music, and all sort of sentimental, courtly gestures in order to get her in the mood-
What he had discovered, however, (within moments of propositioning her, in fact) was that Molly Hooper is no scared little bunny, ready to scarper at the first sign of coitus.
No, rather she resembles the sort of bunny they sell in Ann Summers. The sort of bunny whose libido can run and run and run- And then run and run some more.
It had been completely bloody brilliant.
Because from that first (delightful) night, she has shown a truly delightful degree of enthusiasm. She has taken him in hand- quite literally- and then set about, in her own words, "Shagging him bloody silly."
And she has turned out to be every bit as good as her word- Thank Christ.
She's pulled him into cleaning cupboards. She's snogged him in her office. She's taken to jumping into his arms (and into his pants) with delightful regularity every time she visits Baker Street, and never mind if Mrs. Hudson can hear them. ("She's seen worse," is what Molly says, and by that point Sherlock is usually too breathless with pleasure to gainsay her at all)
No shirt is safe around her, nor is any pair of trousers.
He has had to start wearing underwear to try and dissuade her from some of her more... ambitious plans when they're together, out in the field.
And the most wonderful thing about it? Every time Sherlock starts to get nervous about what to do, or how to move things along, well, Hurricane Hooper takes over and gets him through it.
Every time he starts to fret about his past, and his suitability as boyfriend material, Molly smiles and snogs him and lays him and his fears- and his clothes- to rest.
It's wonderful: If either of them asks for something new they usually do it. If he wants to make sure she comes, well, Molly will make sure he knows how to do that too. He never has to worry about being a good lover because, quite frankly, Molly Hooper never gives him a chance to cock it up: She is blessedly, blissfully, open about getting what she wants and telling him how much she wants it from him, specifically-
Sometimes Lestrade teases him about it, about who wears the trousers in their relationship, and Sherlock's answer is always the same: He couldn't give a toss,, considering how wonderful being with his Molly is.
Besides, he now knows wearing trousers to be over-rated.
His jaunt at Buckingham Palace laid the foundation of this suspicion, and Molly Hoper has proved it absolutely bloody true.
When he tells Molly this she grins, looking up at him with wicked eyes before going back to sucking a black mark on his throat that even his scarf won't be able to hide.
"Problem?" she asks through her suckling, and he feels the vibration of her laughter against the skin of his throat.
"Definitely not," Sherlock says, his eyes closing in rapture.
He drops his head back against his pillow and sighs in bliss as Hurricane Hooper lays waste to him once again...