Utterly ridiculous, really.
Utterly!
How the mighty have fallen, and in so embarrassingly short a time.
A week. One single week since he'd made the decision to offer himself to her, and since that fateful afternoon when he spent hours curled up around her, making her tea and refilling her blasted water bottle, his entire world had recalibrated.
He called Adler that very night and informed her that he and Molly would be leaving her employ, effective immediately. Adler was understandably angry, losing two MVPs in one phone call.
"What have you done?" she spat down the phone.
"Classic story, really, Irene. Meet. Cute. We're meant for each other. We're antiquing in Kentish Town. We've picked a house in the country and plan to raise heritage pigs and children. The first we'll name for you." Whether he meant pig or progeny, he didn't specify.
Adler lobbed some choice profanity at him before hanging up.
The conversation with Molly had been less enjoyable. He'd endured a very justified bollicking from her, his mind flying in too many directions to adequately defend his action to blow up her income along with his own. During one of her loudest indictments, he simply slid to his knees.
She stopped mid-sentence. "What are you doing?"
He wet his lips, looking at her feet. "Girlfriend."
She blinked. "What?"
"Girlfriend. I want you to be my girlfriend." The word fell from his lips like he'd learned it phonetically.
"Get up. Talk sense."
"No. I told Irene we quit because I cannot abide you in that house, getting pawed by morons that aren't fit to even look at you. You're better than that place. You've made me better than that place. I'll take more private cases, the idiotic ones I hate, to cover our pay. Please forgive me. I…"
He looked up.
"My mind seizes up thinking about you with someone else."
Molly just stood. Anger made her hands shake. Confusion swam in her eyes. Tenderness, as clear as ever, poured from her as it always did.
He pushed his luck one single inch. "Will you be my girlfriend, Molly?"
"You don't make my decisions. You don't earn my keep."
"I never will again. And I only offer you what I deprived you of at the bordello. The money is good, I swear it. I'll cover your education until you get in job in your profession. Please…" he paused, then simply repeated. "Please."
The ice in her stare warmed a bit. He felt his heart bloom with it.
After a torturous few seconds, she held out her hand to him. He was forgiven. He leapt up and grabbed her. "Say it."
She sighed. "Don't get cocky."
"I can't function properly until I get confirmation."
"You're really pushing it," she batted his upper arm.
"You forgive me and will let me take care of your temporary finances and put up with my eccentricities because you're my..."
Her eyes cut away. "...grlfrnd."
"Louder, please."
"Girlfriend!"
"Thank you! Now if you please, I'd like to spend the next three hours coming inside you. Have I your permission? I'm told it's polite to ask."
He may have miscalculated in his request, as she turned an interesting shade a red and looked ready to tear his head from his body. But luck was on his side, as the only thing yanked on his head was his hair as she screamed beneath him for one hundred and seventy-four minutes.
That had been five days ago.
He blamed it all entirely on two things: Molly herself and his addictive personality.
For whatever Molly believed, he was absolutely a solitary creature. He enjoyed being alone. It was quiet, and time could be sculpted into whatever use he needed it for, which was usually plumbing the depths of his own head. In silence. For a genius born in one of the biggest, most raucous cities in the world, Sherlock cherished silence. Alone he was the pilot of skies that spanned as far as his consciousness. Alone, he knew himself. His abilities. His limitations. In the vacuum of sound, he was free.
But now….
Now.
Abandon all hope ye who enter Molly.
And vice versa.
After she'd begrudgingly put her claim on him and invited him into her life, he'd invited her to his flat.
It wasn't a particularly odd occurrence to have a visitor. He often took cases from the comfort of his armchair while clients blathered about their grievances. And of course Hudders was always nearby, fussing and cleaning and insisting these unsolicited pains were not her job.
But Molly was a….guest?
Upon her entry in the door, Sherlock was flooded with the identical sensation of shooting heroine from many years ago. A beautiful foreign substance was injected into his inner sanctum. As she moved into his space with wide eyes and smiling lips, setting her coat and bag in the entryway, the ghost of that adrenal crawl started in his arm and moved up towards his chest.
Without a word, she stepped in. First, she looked at his books. Her index finger crept over their spines as she read their titles. Heart rate elevating…
She picked up Billy, his sounding board skull, flipping it in her expert hands. Her fingertips popped his jaw as she read the most helpful information in his teeth. Breathing shallow…
She rimmed the bullet holes in the wall. The need to explain rising…
She examined the messy sprawl of experimental detritus in his kitchen. Anxiety brought on by increase in neurotransmitters…
The mess.
The smell of chemical smoke.
The spray paint.
The signs of an unstable mind.
Bullets and skulls and knives and indicators of a man consumed by violence.
Molly…please…
The woman whirled around and threw herself into him with such force that it knocked the breath from him. His arms went around her instantly, his face blank but his soul reeling with relief as he lowered his cheek to her head.
"It's so wonderful," she murmured into his shirt. "Thank you."
She wrenched him down by his lapels and crushed her lips to his. He reacted without thinking and shoved them both down the hallway, bashing into walls as they stumbled into his bedroom.
Again, more mess. But at least it wasn't dirty. What sleep he could manage required clean sheets, though it never occurred to him to make the bed. The five-foot hurricane in his arms only added to the clutter, yanking his clothes from his body and throwing them to corners unknown.
Sparks crackled where her nails dragged over his bare stomach.
It was then that Molly could have demanded he take dynamite to his entire mind palace and he would have agreed to its destruction.
His pants were off and his cock buried firmly in her eager little mouth and every thought in his head whited out.
By God, could she deep throat. The physical properties of this woman beggared belief with their cocksucking stimuli. His arms raised up, his fingers clawing back into the wall, looking for escape or reinforcement. His groans reverberated in the small room as she took him all the way down and pulled. What the hell was she doing with her tongue? She'd taken all of him? Enough to lick the tops of his balls? Surely weeping in pleasure would be misread as dislike? She swirled and trilled around him and nearly blew him unconscious, so much so that he begged for release. She made a negative sound and sucked harder. He swore out loud and threatened to drown her in come if she didn't stop. She did so. With a pout that informed him that his dick would be serviced on a regular and...extreme basis if she had anything to say about it. He filed that information for later.
They managed to strip each other bare before falling back into the bed. Molly was an uninhibited lover. She propelled him on his back, kissing him like she needed the air from his lungs, and straddled him.
She cried out as she took him to the hilt.
Sherlock moaned, low and ragged.
Low latent inhibition: familiar stimuli interpreted in the same manner as new stimuli-
"Fuck, you feel exquisite," he gritted through his teeth. A cacophony of colour exploded behind his eyes as sight, touch, sound merged into the seismic shift that was sex with this woman. "I want you to tear me apart."
Molly was in no mood for compliments or demands. Bracing her hands on his chest, she threw her head back and worked herself hard and fast, their hips grinding and thrusting erratically.
-can be particularly effective in everyday use with regards to problem solving, data analysis, creativity, artistic expression and an infinite number of other possibilities-
"Where the fuck did you come from? How did I find you in a city of nine million people?" he bowed up into her punishing pace.
-the issue with LLI patients is their brains naturally work on a "why, why, why, why" basis until they get to the root cause or origins of anything, rules, thoughts, intentions, actions, machinery-
"Don't know," she panted, bringing his hands to her breasts. "Don't care." He pinched her nipples gently and she made an impatient whine of pleasure.
-Almost all those who have low latent inhibition are unaware that they are experiencing the world in a different way compared to other people. It is generally only through interaction with people who don't have low latent inhibition and the reactions of those people that brings about the feeling of being 'unexplainably different'-
"You're perfect, Molly. Do you hear me? You…see…me."
"Yes. And you see me." She reached back and cupped his sack, massaging him.
"Christ!" he swore up at her. "Your cunt is killing me. Do you know that? A lethal, pink orchid. It's going to liquefy my brain right in my head."
"Shut up," she gasped, tightening around him in excitement. "I don't wanna come ye-"
"Fuck you, sex orchid. Riding my cock and driving me crazy like you do. That's all I think of now, I hope you're happy. You have an addict who's addicted to your pussy. If you ever try to leave this bed, I'll hunt you down like a dog."
His words had their desired effect and Molly seized on top of him, screaming out her orgasm. Her tiny frame locked onto him and dragged him into the same, sweet oblivion. He accepted his little death with no complaint, despite his shout at the ceiling.
The architect of his demise moaned in her pretty voice before collapsing onto him. He was disgusted by his own contentment as he folded her up, nice and warm, his calloused hands making long sweeps down her back as he rumbled under her ear. Molly sighed, curving into his hands, an arc of shoulders and spine, just like a cat. She loved his touch. Moved into it like music. The muscles gripping his softened cock clenched so hard they forced him out, a dribble of come sliding down, still linking them together. The cold air hitting it was unpleasant. But no matter. Once she was ready, he'd simply harden up again. What had been a mindless ability at Adler's now proved a handy, boyfriendly service. Fuck when asked. Fuck often and without restraint. Fill Molly up and make her scream for him. Never before had such a simple thing as wanting to fuck been so obvious.
-associated with, but not causal to, obsessive-compulsive disorder, hyperfocus, stereotypy, set-shifting, and ADHD-
His mind palace survived the siege. As Molly hummed under his chin, already drifting into a nap, he accessed her room and walked in. Mind Molly was also asleep, curled up tight in their shared bed on the far side of the space. He took inventory of her things, making sure everything was in its place (Mind Molly, as impish as her real life model, often moved them around to frustrate him) before updating her uni schedule on the white board, setting out a chocolate cupcake (her favourite) and writing her a note that he left on her dresser.
I love you. My deepest condolences.
-S
He walked out and fell asleep.
S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M
They went two more rounds before dawn. Noisy, bruising affairs both.
When the sun cracked through the shut curtains, he awoke alone. Without opening his eyes, he felt his solitude in the sheets.
cold hurt upset curious why bathroom no flat no class no left me reason unknown
He opened them, turned his head to her empty pillow. A small square of paper balanced on it. He reached over and plucked it up.
A single stripe of pink lipstick. And one word.
FETCH.
Sherlock blinked.
Reread…
FETCH.
Processing…
gone running retrieve Molly missing not missing no danger fun gone hiding seek game clues observe where find Molly fucking sexy delicious adorable where lipstick pink doesn't wear lipstick clue makeup colour important pink
The game!
Sherlock bolted upright, naked and roaring with delight.
Oh, this woman. This ridiculous, ideal woman.
She'd marched into his home, with her kind and understanding heart, and seen him straight through to the marrow of his bones.
She had no class today. He had no cases. He accessed what she'd been wearing when she's arrived, right down to the tensile strength of her underwear. She'd be wearing the same clothing right now. She'd been gone no more than two hours. Radius narrowed, less two hours, 221 Baker Street point A.
He was showering, teeth cleaning, getting dressed without noticing.
fetch dog submissive demand retrieve incomplete hunt you down like a dog pink lipstick one line pink collect remember conversation no pink in this flat words used indicator
"A lethal, pink orchid."
Tying his shoelaces, he froze.
"Mrs. Hudson!" he roared down the stairs.
"Indoor voice, dear! Who raised you?" she called right back.
He leapt down the stairs in two vaults, grabbing his Belstaff from its peg.
"No time. Did you see a woman leave this morning?" he skidded to a halt as she appeared in her door frame.
She smiled knowingly at him. "Molly? Oh yes, we met. What a lovely girl. I hope she's not simply a client looking for a private investigator-"
"We shagged all night and you know it. Did she say anything?" he waved his hand at the air between them.
She giggled, a sound better suited to a woman half her age and yet fitting her perfectly. "Well, trying to be polite but you were making such a racket. Yes, she introduced herself. Will she be coming 'round oft-?"
"I'm madly in love and will do my best to keep her." Honesty coupled with shock was the best means of cutting through the chit-chat. "What. Did. She. Say?"
"Oh, that she wanted to let you sleep. Could she borrow some lippy since she didn't have any toiletries here. That she wouldn't be back today."
"Lippy. She put on lipstick."
"No, dear, I gave her a tube to take with her. She was so very polite, honestly, where did you find such an angel-?"
"That's all? That she wouldn't be back?"
"Well," she cast her glance upwards. "It was strange."
"Yessssssss?" he hissed.
"She said it so oddly. She said, 'Tell him I won't beeeeee back today."
Three mental cogs clicked into place.
"Bee?"
"Yes. Beeeeee."
"Thank you, Hudders. You're beautiful when helpful."
"Oh, you!" she shooed him away. "Go find her like she obviously wants to be found."
He bounded out the door and was once again brought short, this time by a large, pink heart drawn in lipstick on the sidewalk at his feet.
Conclusion reached: Molly wants me to hunt her down like a dog at Kew Gardens.
The cab ride from Baker Street to Kew Gardens took a totally-unacceptable twenty-three minutes. His fare had barely touched the driver's hands before he'd thrown himself from the vehicle, tearing across the manicured lawns, not even noticing the alarmed looks he was getting from tourists as he ran full speed to the Princess of Wales Conservatory. More money left his hands and he paid whatever stupid price they asked for admission to his prey.
hunting a lethal, pink orchid at the largest collection in England where is she
The Conservatory was a massive glass structure. Divided into ten floral ecosystems, its immensity meant he was forced to look at a multi-coloured map (complete with an eye-rolling You Are Here sticker, as if he couldn't tell) to find what he needed.
Zone 6: Temperate Orchids
Zone 7: Tropical Orchids
Sherlock's bark of laughter once again drew several looks.
Molly, wild and wise and wonderful, would only consider herself a temperate orchid.
He followed the path to the rather smaller greenhouse. Moist, hot air filled his lungs and stuck to his skin. The smell of life folding and recycling into itself was injected into Molly's Room, a rather strange scent when paired with the boreal forest he'd given her. But wasn't the mismatch just so very her?
He prowled around the perimeter, ignoring the dazzling tribute of botanical wonders around him. Until he saw the one and only wonder that mattered. A long, sleek ponytail. A goddess in boring clothes was bent slightly, reading about some exotic show-off that draped ostentatiously over her head. Her horrid outfit did nothing to hide her. Silly woman. Did she honestly think he would be fooled out of seeing the slim set of her shoulders? The flare of her hips? The maddening lift of her ass that made him want to bend her over a safety rail? That ponytail that needed tugging-
He didn't feel the ground beneath his feet, so he must have floated in behind her.
She didn't sense him. She was too busy being a brilliant biologist to be a sharp survivalist.
So when he eased his grip around her ponytail and lowered to fix his teeth on her bared throat, she jumped.
"Woof." He bit down gently.
Molly's hand flew back and grabbed his coat. A long, shaky breath escaped her lips that went straight to his dick.
"Good boy," she whispered, looking straight ahead.
"You left my bed. Was I not very clear what would happen if you did?" He nibbled his way to her earlobe. She tilted her head in encouragement.
"Very clear."
"And yet…"
"Oh, god."
"He most certainly won't save you."
"Who's asking him to?"
Exasperation gnawed at him. Is this what he'd become? Some perverted dog running his tongue all over his mistress, receiving pats on the head for obeying a command?
Raspberry filled his nose.
She turned in his arms. Marvel filled her eyes as she looked at him. He felt his spine grow straighter, himself taller, under her approval. She beamed.
"How long did it take you?"
He checked his phone. "I read your note thirty-seven minutes ago."
"Sherlock…that's…phenomenal…"
"Hardly. Pink. Bees. Heart symbolism representative of a woman's labia. Was it worth the ticket price to set me on you like this?"
She blushed. "I'm a National Trust member."
"Fuck's sake. You infuriating sprite."
"Are you really angry?" she stepped in closer, practically sharing his coat with him. "I can't tell."
"I'm angry at your venue choice. How the hell can I respond the way I want with Mrs. Wakefield's or Something's school trip wandering by?"
She cuddled deeper. "Surely a kiss won't go reported to security."
He growled and snatched his prize against her lips, demanding she open to his greedy tongue as he plumbed her mouth. The kiss quickly became inappropriate.
Good. One small thing in my control.
A fit of giggles erupted from a sea of navy and gold school uniforms. Molly broke away, shivering with laughter into his breastbone and using his lapels to hide her face.
"Really not acceptable behaviour with children present," lectured Mrs. Probably Wakefield at the couple.
Sherlock glared at her, then smiled blandly at the children. "We're in love, little ones. Never believe anyone who tells you love is not acceptable."
He looked down at the crown of her head. "Right?" he whispered.
She peeked out from one lapel, grinning at the kids. "Yes. Love is lovely," she slid back behind the wool.
The students were herded away by the scowling matriarch.
"Always get consent!" he called loudly after them, and Molly burst into hard giggles, now trying to climb into his ribcage with embarrassment.
"Come on," he pulled her away.
Outside, among the ancient trees and far from prying eyes, Sherlock knocked them both to the ground. Kissing, tussling, they laughed against each other's lips.
"We're in love?" she teased, sucking on his pulse.
"Love is lovely?" he parroted in her higher octave.
"It is!" she shrieked, popping several of his shirt buttons and running her hands everywhere.
"We are!" he yelled back, hitching her knees around his waist.
He flipped them, slamming her wrists to the ground and glaring down into her sparkling eyes.
Looming, he murmured, "Aren't we?"
Her chest rose and fell in a way that etched itself into his permanent memory, the way every-damn-thing did with her. Staring up at her dark storm cloud, complete with halogen lightening, she nodded. "Very, very much."
Satisfied, he lowered and resumed snogging her to death.
"We can't shag in Kew Gardens," she gasped between kisses.
"You think we'd be the first?"
"I don't care. I'm not traumatizing another class under an American redwood."
"Would you rather an English oak? More patriotic, I suppose."
"No!" she rubbed his arms as he lifted above her. "Let's go home."
"My home?"
"You're the exotic species, my bloodhound. You need your own habitat. We temperates can survive transplants better."
"This metaphor is killing the mood. Come back to mine and take me to bed."
"Yessir," she saluted with mock seriousness.
As they rose to their feet to brush off, Molly yelped when she was grabbed and dragged into him once again. "Don't," he hissed in her face, "leave again."
"Oh," she smiled into his ire. "Where's the game in that?"