6 Months Later…
Molly couldn't entirely claim that she didn't know when her life had gone from pleasantly boring—say like a park walk in April—to a controlled spin-out akin to skydiving with a parachute packed by an apathetic, distant cousin. Sherlock, of course, being the parachute, that wobbly assurance of protection in the face of calamity. And life with Sherlock, ironically, was the gravity dragging her to her doom.
God, it was amazing.
How could a walk in the park in the inoffensive sunshine compare to being woken up at 1am by a maniac and yanked out onto her tiny balcony into the freezing cold. She was given a hat, a mug of cocoa, a deck chair, and a finger pointing under her nose to the sky.
"Look," he rumbled, squatting next to her, his eyes lit with delight. "Isn't it fascinating?"
Groggy and disoriented, she peered up, through the fog of their mingled breath, and the mealy orange light pollution of London, at the moon.
A rare, stunning halo of light surrounded it, soft and fuzzy around its edges.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
"Indeed."
"I didn't think you cared about astronomy," she whispered, as if she might startle the moon and have it dart off into the undergrowth.
He wrapped his gloved, coated arms and hands around her and chuckled. "I don't bother with learning about it. That doesn't mean I don't find it beautiful." He readjusted his knees closer to her chair, folding her up and sighing as their layers melted together. "What is it?"
Molly smiled. "A moon dog. A refraction of moonlight on ice crystals."
"Can the same happen to the sun?"
"Yes," she nodded. "At the poles, it happens all the time."
A walk in the park? Ha! What about the time offered to have his brother forge her exam results as a solution to her constant studying (and his constant pouting)?
"Are you high?" she had shrieked, throwing her Histopathology book at him.
He dodged it with ease, batting it to one side and already reaching for his phone. "Not in ages, you know very well. And it's an easy fix, don't you see? You'll already ace these asinine tests and attain the highest achievement the Royal College sees fit to throw at you. Why not just let Mycroft take care of the boring formalities, and thus free up your to play with me."
Molly sputtered in amazement. Pride at the compliment—totally unwelcome—pinked her cheeks.
"Earning my specialist MD is not a formality! It's the whole bloody point! I'm not a proper doctor without it!"
"Psht," he scrolled for Mycroft's number. "Paperwork. You'll know nothing more after you take the test and earned the stupid thing than you do right now. The hospitals should be smashing down your door, offering you jobs and money and cars and corner offices with armies of underlings. You're brilliant, Molly. A rubbish detective, to be sure, but brilliant. And kind. And intuitive. And adorable. And—"
With his back turned, he let out a surprised burst of air when he was tackled, his phone scattering across the floor. His sprite wrestled him into a chair, which he clumsily fell into as she climbed in his lap and ripped him back by his hair. His hands gripped her hips. For balance! he salved his own pride.
She glared down at him, furious and thrilled. He blinked up into her savagery with only confusion. "What?" he barked.
She grinned. It was feral and too dangerous to be called happy.
"What?!" he yelled louder. "Just let me—"
"Open your trousers, Sherlock."
He froze beneath her. "I…need to…"
"You need to open them," she spoke clearly. Softly. It scared the shit out of him. He watched in horror as she slid off his lap, onto the floor. On her knees.
He didn't move. She didn't ask again.
"I…" she drew out, unzipping him. "…am going to take a 20-minute break from my studies." She palmed him through his boxers. He hissed like a good boy. "You…are going to sit here and get your cock sucked until you come in my mouth. Reason one being that you're wonderful and I love you and I like making you scream. Reason two being that you're an annoying prat that needs shutting up. Okidokie?"
"I…"
"Did you still want to call Mycroft?" she asked innocently. His clothes were pooled around his thighs. Her hands were on him.
"I…"
"Do you want your brother in your ear?" she whispered. Her tongue darted out and licked him. "Or do you want your girlfriend on your dick?"
"Oh fuck, Molly."
"Smart choice."
She sucked him deep into her throat and didn't let up until he was rigid, clutching at the armrests, fingers cupping her head, yelling out his penance. She knew he overstimulated easily. She didn't care. She shoved him down as far as she could, humming and licking over his loud approval. She blew him like a lollipop and was only satisfied when he bellowed her name and filled her mouth.
Needless to say, Mycroft remained uncontacted and mercifully unaware.
Or?! OR?!
The time she came across his little notebook.
She saw it peeking out of the mess of his kitchen table one afternoon. It immediately struck her, as Sherlock simply didn't take notes. He remembered everything, the gifted git. The idea of him jotting down anything made her want to know what was worthy of such an ordinary thing to do. So she unearthed it from the clutter of glass and metal apparatuses and flipped it open.
The Issue of Sexual Endurance Regarding One Molly Hooper was scrawled on the first page. She blinked. The words, making perfect sense individually, bled into a bizarre puddle in her vision.
She flipped through the pages.
There was a blur of information on each. One itemized sex toys. One sexual positions. Times of day or night. Use of bonds, balls and blindfolds. Locations. Words spoken before and during. Each item on the lists were cross-referenced with dates and numbers. …and a minute count.
His near-illegible writing shot straight through her optic nerves, through her mounting anger, and simmered between her legs.
Attempt #145- Early evening. Molly's bed. Standard missionary. Fully nude. No toys. Encounter initiated by my bringing home takeaway after a long day of classes. Full access to her body, face, and voice. Words spoken by Molly: "I love you", followed by my name with typical long-stuttered R. Both achieved single orgasm.
Time- 19m37s
Result- Unacceptable
Molly's tongue went strangely thick in her mouth.
Attempt #158- Late night. Alleyway. Upright against building exterior. Fully clothed. No toys. Encounter initiated by me, she was wearing that bloody skirt. Full access to her face and voice, limited access to her body. Words spoken by Molly: "Fuck me," "Please," "Love you," "You're beautiful." Both achieved single orgasm.
Time- 6m12s
Result- Unacceptable!
Her fingers tightened painfully into the grain of the binding.
Attempt #87- Morning. My bed. Reverse cowgirl. Fully nude. Me handcuffed to headboard. Encounter planned. Full access to her voice, none to face or body. Words spoken by Molly: "Sexy fucking bastard," "Shut up," "Don't you dare fucking come," "Love riding you." I achieved single orgasm. Molly two.
Time- 27m03s
Result- Improved
A small puff of amusement escaped her lips.
Attempt #201- Afternoon. My chair. Oral. Fully clothed. Molly blowing my damn brains out. Encounter apparently initiated by my wanting Mycroft to help her. Limited access to her voice, face and body. Words spoken by Molly: a great deal of moaning. I achieved single orgasm. Not allowed to reciprocate.
Time- 6m21s
Result- Bloody Predictable
Attempt #15- Late night. My bed. Doggy style. Fully nude. Molly handcuffed with thigh spreader bar, plugged, ball-gagged, me blindfolded using hip strap at all times. Encounter planned. No access to her voice or face, single touching point on bodies. No words spoken by Molly. Molly achieved four orgasms. I achieved single orgasm.
Time- 57m56s
Result- Consistent with Previous Endurance
…side note- will not replicate
Attempt #120…..
Attempt #75…
Attempt…
Attempt…
The words resumed their unintelligible blob and she lowered it from her eyes. Attempt #15, as it was labelled, replayed in her mind.
"You like this, pretty Molly?"
She'd moaned, the ball cinched in her mouth stopping all but the most muffled approval. She clenched her inner muscles instead to tell him.
"Thaaaat's my sprite," he'd cooed, clenching the strap tighter between his hands. The leather squeaked. It yanked her hips hard into his, the loud and repeated slap of their bodies rutting together in the dim light. Her hands, cuffed tightly, shook on the mattress as she bore the brunt of the impact on all fours. The thigh spreader, steel and merciless, kept her legs as far apart as she could manage without pain. And the anal plug, a new experience for her, was shocking. It gave her a sense of fullness she's never known, a man filling one place with it securing the other. It stretched out her G-spot from the other side of the wall, giving it no place to hide and Sherlock pumped with no leniency. She couldn't move. Couldn't speak. And Sherlock, well. He was blind to it all.
She could just see him in her periphery, the black cloth wrapped securely around his head, his chin cocked as he used his other senses. She keened a bit, arching and shivering, trying to explain through their colliding hips that she felt simply, wonderfully depraved, not thinking for a moment about his insistence that she snap her fingers three times if she wanted to stop. She never wanted him to stop.
He didn't leave her in doubt of his own enthusiasm.
"Christ, I love fucking you," he muttered, yanking harder. "Even like this, when I have so little of you, it's more than I can stand."
She nodded hard. Could he tell?
"Your cunt is perfection, Molly. Who knew Heaven was so bloody hot? And don't tell me how you could possibly feel better than before. You do. Maybe I should plug and spread you more often. I could die happily like this, laughing and fucking until we're ninety."
Sherlock and the plug did their job. She came hard around him again. She screamed grittily around the gag, tears streaming as her tormentor took no pity.
He simply nodded, not slowing his pace. "Number three. Good girl. One more, I think. I know you've got it in you. Perhaps if I tell you the plans I have for this cunt. With so many years ahead, I can't help but plan. Would you like to hear?"
She nodded again, her eyes rolling back with exhaustion and pleasure.
Another yank at the strap. She yelped at its pinch.
"Right," he began. "This perfect cunt is part of a perfect woman. My woman. A man gets ideas, Molly. Being so perfect, you've only yourself to blame. So I posit: What would happen if I fucked my woman's perfect little cunt when she's not on the pill?"
Molly froze.
Blind, he smiled at the wall. "Yes," he whispered. "What, indeed, would happen, doctor? Would you enjoy making a baby for me?"
Suddenly his cock inside her felt far….more. She went to snap her fingers. This was a conversation, not dirty talk. Sure she was on the pill and was in no danger. She loved that she could jerk, suck and fuck his bare cock with no barrier. It added to her pleasure, that sticky, perfect feeling of his come spent inside her. But they definitely shouldn't be talking about family planning during the actual deed. But something stayed her hand. And her overworked pussy, surely far too spent, was starting to wet and ripple all over again. She couldn't be revving up…again?!
She gave a little sputter of encouragement.
"Wouldn't you be so lovely," he sighed to himself. "Your stomach popped out. Your tits plumper. Watching you grow with my girl. You'd make me a such clever little girl. Fuck, you make me want that. Goddamn you for making me want that."
Molly let her tongue slowly circle the ball in her mouth, imagining sucking him while he spoke such shocking sweetness.
"She'd look just like you, I'm sure. Sooooo pretty. All cartoon eyes and pigtails. She would call me Daddy. She'd like science and dirt and danger. Imagine that. And all I have to do to get her is come in this Perfect. Fucking. Cunt."
Molly cried out in disbelief as her body gave over to him for an unbelievable fourth time. Her orgasm ripped her open, throwing her weight forward, just as the strap yanked her back and Sherlock roared at his terrifying decibel, balls-deep and emptying himself inside her. His hips pressed into the stem of the plug, making it and his cock stretch her to full capacity. Saliva dripped from the gag as Molly cried through her pleasure. They bucked together, gasping and melting into a heap. The rumble of his words dissipated, settling into the sweat of the sheets.
His aftercare had been thorough. He'd held her. He'd withdrawn himself and the toys from her body, unplugging, unhooking, unshackling. He'd kindly rubbed her favourite lotion into her chafed hips and reddened bum; an hour of hard fucking had left her tender and bruised. He'd murmured and kissed into her hair. She's felt his dedication. However, there had been a certain hesitancy in him as well.
Months and hundreds of shags later, they'd never mentioned that…session.
Now, reading about it in his little ledger, Molly shook with feelings she wasn't able to name.
will not replicate
will not replicate?
When he came home later that day, she hurled the bloody thing right at his head. It smacked into his cheek (damn, she hadn't meant to hit his best feature) and he cursed, ducking too late.
"What the bloody hell, Molly?" he yelled at her.
"What the bloody hell, Sherlock?!" she volleyed back.
He swooped down and picked up the notebook. She saw, minute as it was, the flicker of guilt that skittered in his eyes. He weighed it in his hand, staring at her.
"I see you've found my…notes."
"I'm waiting for an incredible explanation, Sherlock. One that doesn't make me feel like a pathetic little bug under your microscope. One that doesn't make me feel…" she shuddered. "…used."
The fire in the hearth crackled happily in the silence. Sherlock strode four steps across the room and flung the notebook into the flames.
Molly gasped. On instinct, she dove to retrieve it.
Sherlock grabbed her wrist, whirling her into his locked arms. "No. Leave it."
"What else was in there? How many hundreds of times have we made love that you dissected afterwards? Looking for what? How to improve your game?!" she spat up at him.
He seethed, his face lowered and inches away from hers. "It's not what you think."
"It couldn't be much else."
"It's not," he insisted. "It was…I only meant to…"
She waited, her lips sealed in a hard line.
Slowly, he loosened his grip on her. Not entirely, but just enough for her to understand he was relaxing, trying to think.
Finally, it turned into something more like a hug.
"I simply want to understand. Why I'm different with you. Why I'm…less."
She blinked. "You're never less. You're more than…more than anyone."
He shook his head hard. "I'm less. I have less control. I have less inhibition. I touch you and suddenly I'm wild… like everyone else. It's outrageous, Molly, don't you see? I need to be my most for you. Make you happy. Keep you satisfied. For as long as I'm able. If I keep blowing up after ten minutes of sex with you like a horny teenager, I'll just…" he cut himself off with a pained exhalation through his nose.
Molly felt herself go lax. Her body melded more fully with his. Her big eyes, the ones she was slowly learning to use to full advantage, turned soft. She looked up, through her lashes. She felt his appreciation for them in the smallest tightening of his grip on her elbows.
"You think you're not enough for me sexually?"
Looking at the floor, he nodded. "I know men have disappointed you. You reduce us so easily. It's hard…" he grimaced. "…It's just hard."
"And this little book. Was meant to… research a certain combination of variables? Where you give me what you think I need?"
He didn't look up. He nodded again.
She looked longingly at the fire. Suddenly the information therein was looking far more…sentimental…that it had a moment before. Lucky for her, she had only a slightly lesser head for details that he did.
"Attempt number fifteen," she said.
His eyes riveted to her. The look of guilt increased. "Number fifteen," he echoed.
"Yes. Tell me about your findings for fifteen."
"There were many encounters in that book. Many findings."
She pursed her lips. "And you'll recount all of them to me. Later. Right now I want to hear about that one in particular. It was one of our more…elaborate shags. And brought up something that we've never discussed before or since."
He didn't blink. But. His eyes reversed their focus. He was looking at something else, projected on the back of his skull. Molly shivered, still not used to witnessing the phenomena. "Her."
The fire crackled on its new meal.
"Who, Sherlock?"
He watched some home movie in his head. "I don't know. Some days she's Jenny. Others, you insist she's called Imogen. Sometimes, she'll write her name in Crayon and it says Charlotte." He slowly cocked his head. "Charlotte Holmes."
Molly watched in awe at her vacant boyfriend avatar. "Where are you right now, sweetheart?"
"Room five hundred and seventy-four."
"You've added a new one."
"Yes," he whispered entranced. "It's hers."
Molly took a small, centering breath. "But she's not real. The room has no memories."
"No. She's special that way. Hers is the only room built from…" he buffered.
"Hope?" she supplied gently.
Just like that, his eyes flipped their focus. Once again, she was in his crosshairs. He didn't speak. But she knew.
"You've never spoken of her since, though. And in your notes, you wrote 'do not replicate'. What about that night don't you want to repeat?"
He bit his lip. "So very many things."
Molly tried to keep the hurt from her eyes. She must have failed, for he yanked her until she was squished into his chest, the buttons of his shirt pressed uncomfortably into her cheek.
"No," he admonished her. "Not you. Not like that. In number fifteen, I experimented with how I would perform if you couldn't speak. Couldn't bewitch me with your damn eyes. Couldn't touch me in that way you do. But I still didn't trust myself, knowing how you affect me. Even the sight of your back, the feel of her hips under my hands, is too much. I removed all of it. Only then was I able to perform as I have in the past." He snorted. Started rocking them. "But you always find another way, don't you?"
Molly, from her crushed position, didn't feel the question was entirely aimed at her.
"You're still in here," he tapped his head. "My clever Mmmmolly. Even when I'm fucking you in a blind vacuum, you're still whispering to me. Taunting me. Showing me her. Promising me her. Telling me that all I have to do is my favourite thing in the world, and you'll make me another beloved little sprite. Another Molly." He squeezed harder.
The fire hissed. It had found the glue in the spine.
Molly couldn't help herself. "It might be a boy."
A startled chuckled burst from him.
As they continued to rock, she nudged his legs with hers, until they were half-dancing. She angled him to his chair, where she settled him, nestling into his lap, her head over his heart.
After a moment of silence, she sighed. "What on earth am I going to do with you?"
"You're managing splendidly."
"I mean it. We've been together seven months. You're talking about being ninety years old with babies everywhere."
"I'm scaring you."
She shook her head. "I'm scared at how not scared I am. Surely ex-prostitutes who tie each other up for fun and prance around London chasing criminals shouldn't be shopping for Swingamabobs."
"I don't see why not. Less capable people than us breed every day."
She giggled. "You want a kid as addicted to danger as you are. What happens when you both corrode all the plumbing with acid? Explode toxic chemical samples from a warehouse? Float dead pigs down the Thames to study how a body travels the current?"
He sighed longingly beneath her.
She smiled into his chest. "You're incorrigible."
"No. I'm simply yours. Don't tempt me with her if you truly don't want to consider children with me."
She stroked the V of skin at his open collar. "I'd consider anything with you."
"Lovely. So. You must forgive me if I don't care to replicate not having your eyes and hands and every little thing during sex. I know I can't give you as many orgasms, but I simply can't do without all of you. Will you endure my cloddishness when I come too quickly with your legs around me, your tits in my mouth, and your voice whispering how dear I am to you?"
At that, she sat up on him, laughing hard. "You never disappoint. Stop talking like that."
"I need a solemn vow."
"Fine!" she cried in his face. "I'll manage with just amazing sex instead of trussed-up marathon sex, if you insist."
"Smashing. Thank you."
They quickly set about having amazing not marathon sex on his chair. And against the wall. And on the kitchen counter. When they finished their final round, they lay in bed, gasping and giggling.
They didn't mention Charlotte again. But both knew. She was inevitable.
When Molly awoke the next day, she was confused to find she was alone in the twisted sheets. Cold toast greeted her on his bedside table, the plate balancing precariously on a pile of purloined case files. Garnishing the top slice was a small piece of torn paper.
Her brow settled in confusion. She plucked it from atop the melted butter.
It was a used ticket to a performance of Hamlet on the West End. The date was from several weeks before. Its edges were scruffy with a slash of mud across it, like it had been picked up from being discarded on the street.
Her eyes narrowed.
She knew without the need to mull it over. Sherlock was playing the game.
She shrieked with laughter, kicking the sheets away and doing a floppy-fish dance on the bed. He was hiding! She absolutely adored this silly tendency that had awoken in her only after meeting Sherlock. This…weird…childish, human fox hunting that possessed her normally orderly soul every month or so. The caper on the Isle of Dogs hadn't been the last, she'd pulled another two. One had led him to an abandoned Tube station, another had him huffing all the way out to Sheffield, just to make him work for it. He'd bellowed his usual outrage, shagged out his frustration, and purred in her lap all the way home.
Now, it was her turn.
"Yay!" she squeaked to the empty room, her fists pumping.
She ate the cold toast naked. No doubt she'd need the energy.
She showered so fast she practically dodged the water droplets. She dressed in that bloody skirt and her cardigan with wigged cats all over it, the one Sherlock took singular pleasure in mocking, then ripping off. She found a cold cup of raspberry leaf tea waiting for her in the kitchen. Rather than drink it, she dabbed some behind her ears and on her wrists.
She sat down in his Big Stupid Brain Thinking Chair that she'd debauched him in earlier, cupping the sad little ticket in her palm. Thinking.
Hamlet, she read silently. Shakespeare. Play. Theatre. West End? No. Too easy. Where would he go? It's a play. A tragedy. Irrelevant. Think, Molly! Ticket. Broken. Rubbish. Everyone dies. Half went mad. Is the date important? No. Think! A tragic play where everyone dies.
She huffed, jumping up. Without meaning to, she began pacing. Her feet led her around Sherlock's pacing path, back and forth in front of the fireplace. One particular floorboard creaked as she tread and retread over it. She didn't notice. Just like she didn't feel her gaze as it slipped away from the room and settled inward.
THINK!
A play of the dead. The dead's play. Playing with the dead. Play dead.
She stopped short. Her head shot up straight. Her pupils flared with a hit of adrenaline.
PLAY DEAD.
Yes? Really? she thought.
PLAY DEAD, her logic confirmed.
So. She was now the dog. Sniffing for a prey much smarter and bigger and faster than her.
PLAY DEAD, her instincts verified.
Okay, she resumed pacing. Play dead. I'm now Sherlock's bloodhound. Ha ha, very funny. Now what? Where does this lead me? Where is he hiding? Definitely not where the play is held. Too simple. Nor any of her previous final destinations. He wouldn't deign to copycat.
Turning the phrase over in her mind, she disappeared into herself for a bit. So this is what it feels like, she thought.
She didn't notice the time, so when she finally resurfaced with the answer (it was obvious, really), she wasn't sure how much time had passed. Twenty minutes? Two hours? No wonder Sherlock was always late to things.
But it didn't matter. Because now, she was positive, he would be waiting for her at Bart's morgue.
She had passed her exams last month. Flying colours, just as Sherlock had predicted. She had been training at their facilities for two years. And just last week, they'd informed her that they'd like to bring her on as an assistant pathologist to Dr. Mike Stamford. A position that made her so happy that she'd nearly fainted reading the letter.
Sherlock had been so proud. …and a bit unsurprised, which Molly didn't want to think about too much.
And now he was calling her to fetch him. Waiting for her among the dead.
She grabbed her keys. Her Oyster Card. When she left his flat, she was damn pleased that she didn't run once.
S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M+S+M
Despite the early morning, the large city morgue was completely empty. Again, Molly pushed away any thoughts that Sherlock was bossing people around, shunting them to the side to make room for her (and also himself). She footsteps echoed in the main lab. The oddly attractive smell of sterility invaded her nose. As she moved into the familiar space, the hairs on her nape stood on end. Would he be hiding? Or was this an ambush? Was she the one being hunted after all?
She put her chin up high, unafraid. This place didn't scare her. This man didn't scare her. She wasn't about to let the willies set in just because every move she made gave away her location.
"Sherlock?" See? Not afraid.
She set her bag and coat on one of the tables. "Was I right? Are you here? Somewhere?"
She heard a faint click against the tiles across the room.
She smirked. "Sherrrrlock," she called softly, using the stutter that drove him to distraction. "I woke up alone. Cold. Such a waste of a lovely, big bed. I missed you."
No reason not to rub it in a little.
"Mean girl."
The dark hiss stopped her short.
She giggled.
"Where aaaare yooouu?"
"Find me."
She rounded the next row of long tables with microscope stations. At the back, a row of small offices lined the wall, all locked with the blinds drawn. Except one. The light was on, the door thrown open.
Molly took a breath. Her hands were shaking. She walked straight up to it and popped her head inside.
She inhaled sharply.
The room was stripped of personal effects. The desk was bare. The bookshelves empty. The floor had been swept clean of any chairs or rugs.
Sherlock knelt in the centre. A beautiful man, bedecked in her favourite black suit, splayed on both knees, smiled at her with that smile that made her legs turn wobbly.
He said nothing. But both arms were stretched towards her.
He was offering her something between his joined, pinched fingers.
Silently, she shuffled in front of him, staring at him as he stared at her. Molly drew another amazed breath. It was a ring.
It was stunning.
White gold. The stone was faceted, and smoky grey. Its bezelled surface barely cleared the band, settling deep into its width. It was well made, solid, yet delicate. She'd never seen another quite like it.
"To my queen of the dead," he murmured. He raised it higher, closer to her. "Happy graduation."
She stared at it like it might bite her.
"Sherlock. That's…ah…"
"I love you, Molly."
"But—"
"You love me too."
"But—"
"I want Charlotte or Imogen or whatever you call her and the five that come after her."
"We—"
"I want to come to your office, show you my casework, get your opinions, solve murders, and then shag on your desk."
"I don't have—"
"This is your office," he didn't look around, only into her eyes, hypnotizing her. "Bart's and Scotland Yard have signed off on a collaboration, with us as their liaisons. Together we will solve any case they throw at us."
"But—"
"Move in with me. Today. I'm closer to your new work. We'll turn the second bedroom into a home office for you."
"Sherlock—"
"It took me ages to choose this," his bright eyes flicking at the ring in his outstretched hands. "It had to be unique, like you. Beautiful. Practical. Ridiculously valuable, as grey diamonds usually are. I picked this one because claw settings would rip your gloves."
"Diamond—?"
"Please."
The single word, in his flurry of explanation, struck her dumb.
A thousand wild, uncontrollable thoughts swirled in her mind as she beheld the insane love of her life, sprawled on his knees, offering her a diamond the size of a raisin in a very considerate, non-ripping setting, interrupting her and spinning her from one dizzying request to the next.
Her eyes must have looked huge. Why else would his crinkle at the edges, wonder and lust flitting into his unflinching stare? He was such a sucker for her eyes.
One of his hands left its pinch on the ring and gently, questioningly, reached for her left hand. "Please."
"I solved your riddle." She nearly smacked her own head and such an asinine, unhelpful thing to mention.
His smile increased a little, his hand held out like he was trying to talk her down from a window ledge. "I knew you would. My clever doctor."
"You're crazy, you know that? You're proposing marriage. In a morgue."
"To my queen of the dead," he reminded her. "I propose you take me however you'll have me. Marriage, shacking up, life partners, what have you. For as long as we both shall live. That is my only condition."
Her heart was now trying to escape her ribcage. It thrashed madly in its prison, wanting to break right through bone and throw itself at him. Her left hand joined the mutiny. Jet fuel filled her veins, charging them up and trying like hell to reach for him without her authority.
Her index finger rose.
Sherlock's gaze shot to the movement.
"I—I…" Molly stammered.
He stared. He waited. It made her tongue swell up.
"I—"
"Say yes," he crooned. "My lovely, stuttering Molly. Say you'll have me. Choose me and only me. Spoil me. Let me spoil you. Let me father your children. Let me take care of you," he drew a slow breath. "Take care of me in turn."
Her middle finger joined her index.
His brow arched. "One more and we have a majority."
She smiled, big and terrified.
She made a decision.
Her ring finger and pinkie joined the other two.
Suddenly, he was a blur of motion. He lashed out, curling his arm around her knees and yanking her forward. Molly yelped, falling into his crouched body. He laughed his deepest, most evil-sounding chuckle as he slid the ring on her finger. "I knew you would. My clever doctor."
She shrieked, falling into his lap and laughing until she couldn't breathe.
Sherlock was no help, capturing her lips with his and kissing her until breath became a serious issue. She grabbed his collar and yanked him away from her face. "No babies for at least a year. I'm a doctor now. I want a career." she demanded with the sternest face she could manage.
He pouted, but nodded. "Deal."
She grabbed his cheeks and snogged him again.
After three minutes, she yanked him back again. "Stop using your contacts to help me. I'll keep the office, but as of today, I earn my own way."
"Yes, miss."
She was comfortably tangled up with him for another five minutes before she shoved him onto his back, glaring down magnificently. "We will never shag in my workplace, for godsake! Stop being so irresistible!"
Pinned beneath her, his hair adorably mussed, his shirt half-pulled out and half-unbuttoned, his X tattoo displayed like a lewd treasure map, his cheeks pink and his eyes glittering, Sherlock was the picture of innocence. "Professional at all times, of course."
Eventually, she said yes properly to his proposal.
And yes, they had sex on her damn desk.
THE END