Thank you for all my reviews, including the guests, wish I could respond.

Please remember my original thanks and warnings. Also, keep in mind that the chapter titles are important (and sometimes cheeky).

I own nothing, including the single line from The Reichenbach Fall*. Enjoy ~Lil~


Chapter 5 - Whipping Post - (Allman Brothers Band)

Molly's life couldn't have taken a stranger turn. She felt like Alice and this was one hell of a Rabbit Hole. Ten minutes after following Sherlock into his bedroom, she found herself naked, wrists tied to his bed and more than a little apprehensive. She was also blindfolded.

"You must relax, Molly," he said from somewhere to her right.

Easy for you to say, arsehole! She took a deep breath and attempted to 'relax'. Even though this was something she wanted, had wanted for a while, giving Sherlock Holmes control of her body - her pleasure, her pain, her orgasms - was much easier said than done. It made asking Tom to tie her up and spank her look like a walk in the park. He had been disgusted and she had been mortified, but somehow this was worse.

She hoped it got better.

She couldn't make her brain stop. What did Sherlock see when he looked at her naked body? What was he deducing? She knew she'd gained some weight after ending her engagement. God! Should she have groomed- exfoliated?

"You're still thinking too much, Molly. I'm not even going to start until you let go at least a little."

Fuck! Okay… let go…

She heard him walking around the room; a drawer opened, closed. Then she heard him strike a match and smelled something. A candle, of course. Oh… it's nice. Lavender, maybe? Taking several more deep breaths, she felt her body start to relax as she concentrated on the scent alone.

The bed moved and she felt his hand on her ankle, stroking slowly upwards. Oddly, she didn't tense. She just felt. The hand moved to her thigh, dancing higher, spreading her. She thought he was going to touch her centre, but he didn't. His body was suddenly next to hers, pressed up against her side.

He was still fully clothed. The bastard!

His hand moved to her stomach and his face was near her left ear. She could feel his breath on her cheek.

"I have a general idea of what it is you want, of course, but I still need to test some things out. If you want me to stop, simply say 'red'. Okay?"

"Red," Molly said, feeling much more relaxed from the candle and soft hiss of his voice.

"Good girl," he whispered then kissed her shoulder. "Pain is one element, obviously, but what about humiliation? Does that excite you, Molly Holmes?"

"I - I don't know," she admitted.

"Honesty is very important; I'm glad you seem to understand this already." As he spoke, his hand continued to softly caress her stomach. "Obedience is another important part of the equation. When I ask something of you, you must obey me."

"Don't I always?" she said absentmindedly.

He chuckled. "I mean in these situations, Molly. Don't get cheeky."

She almost explained that she wasn't being cheeky, just honest, but then his hand moved to her breast and started to knead and all thought seemed to escape her.

"Lovely," he whispered. "You've put on four pounds... and in the most interesting places, no less." She had no time to worry over his observation as suddenly she felt his lips on her nipple and involuntarily arched up into his mouth. Sherlock hummed approvingly before biting down just hard enough to hurt. The pain wasn't excruciating, but it was uncomfortable.

Molly's mind was not her own. It felt like her nipple and clit were directly connected, as they throbbed in unison. "Please," she begged.

His hand found her other breast, pinching and pulling her nipple. Though she wanted him to touch her clit, she couldn't deny the pleasure he was bringing her at the moment. He switched, moving his mouth to her other breast and his hand to the one that had just been in his mouth. The process was repeated.

Then, suddenly, he was completely gone. His lips, his hands, his body. Gone.

"Wha…"

"Patience, wife," he said from beside the bed.

Again, she heard him opening a drawer, then felt him returning to the bed, this time between her legs. After what felt like several minutes, but was probably less than sixty seconds, Molly felt something touch her stomach. It was soft, supple.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"No."

"You've seen me with one before. Think hard." The object continued to her breast, teasing her erect nipple.

Her mind raced until she finally found a memory from many years before. She couldn't stop the smile from forming on her lips. "A riding crop?"

"Very good, Molly. For that, you get a reward."

The tongue landed in a soft slap on the inside of her left thigh, causing Molly to gasp then moan.

"Gorgeous," Sherlock said with a sigh. "More?"

"Of course."

Her right thigh lit up with pleasure/pain as he struck her with the crop, then several spots bloomed across her stomach. His strikes to her breasts were softer, but nonetheless pleasurable. The tongue returned to her thighs, harder this time, causing her to writhe. Finally, he brought it down on her wet cunt once, then back to her thighs. Sherlock then jerked her legs further apart, spreading her wide. She could feel that he was moving, but had no idea what he was doing. Then she felt his warm breath ghost over her folds.

Please, please, please! she chanted in her mind. Oh, how she wanted his mouth on her…

But what she got was more movement - the bounce of springs. He was repositioning once again. Where, she had no idea. His fingers danced along her thighs: up the left, down the right.

When he returned to her center, his blow landed directly on her clit. Molly was completely taken by surprise as the crop rung an explosive orgasm out of her.

She shouted his name as she came, trembling and moaning. Distantly, she heard the crop landing on the floor, then she felt Sherlock untying her wrists. He folded her in his arms and draped her in a soft blanket before removing the cloth that covered her eyes.

"Feel better?" he asked.

She finally opened her eyes, but all she could see was the charcoal grey of his shirt. "Much," she said.

"Good, because that's just the beginning."

o0o0o0o0o

Molly woke up after, somehow, taking a nap, noticing that she'd been asleep for about an hour. How did I sleep? she wondered as she sat up. There was a bottle of water on the nightstand; she took a long drink. Once again finding no clothes (why do they keep disappearing?), she put on Sherlock's dressing gown and left the room.

Her husband was sitting in his chair, typing away on his laptop. Her intention was to go to her bedroom and get dressed. Sherlock, it seemed, had different ideas.

"Ah, Molly. Sleep well?" he called out when she had made it about halfway across the room.

"Yes, fine, thanks."

"Hungry?"

"Ravenous, actually."

"Good. I'm ordering Thai, if that's okay?"

She nodded. "No case tonight?" she asked, taking a step toward him.

Sherlock smiled as he closed his computer and sat it on the floor. "You're my case at the moment, Molly. Go get changed; I know you're uncomfortable in my robe." He stood and stepped closer to her. "Hopefully that will change soon."

I doubt that. "Nothing too spicy for me, please," she said as she practically ran up the stairs.


Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he watched his wife's retreat. He had missed her, wanted her, whilst he was away - there was no denying it whatsoever - and though surprising, he was finally resolved to the fact. Being with her almost daily only served to reinforce his need. It was a testament to his strength that he had managed being home for more than six weeks before touching her.

Thankfully, Molly had fallen asleep on her own this time. She didn't seem to appreciate being drugged and he absolutely had to take care of himself after tending to her needs. He hadn't masturbated so much since he'd discovered his penis did tricks in early adolescence. There was nothing for it; he had to ease her into the situation and sex would have to wait. This was about her, wasn't it? He kept telling himself that it was and that seemed to appease his conscience for the moment.

Knowing Molly the way he did, she must no doubt be wondering where he'd gotten his extensive knowledge of the world of D/s. The answer would surely surprise her.

Sherlock had deduced Molly's interest in this type of play within two months of knowing her. There had been several clues, one of which was her natural ease with his barked orders. To others, it probably seemed like the pathologist was weak and cowering - but he saw the truth, when he cared enough to look.

Submissive, his mind had whispered to him, calling on some heretofore unknown need deep inside and tempting him to push her further.

Even in the lab (though not so much in the morgue - the morgue was her domain and she was not to be crossed on her turf) she rather enjoyed doing his bidding, especially when he demanded it. When he'd tell (not ask) her to do something, she'd flush, her little tongue popping out to moisten her lips. Then there was the way her breath hitched when he stood too close, always straightening his spine, trying to appear even taller than he was, not difficult with their height difference. On several occasions, he'd observed her worrying her bottom lip between pearly white teeth as he verbally eviscerated some idiot. Only if they deserved it, however.

But her biggest tell was the riding crop incident.

No woman asks a man out just after watching him whip a corpse with a crop unless she was picturing herself receiving the blows. His feigned misunderstanding of her request had been very deliberate. At that time, Sherlock had no interest in pursuing any kind of physical relationship. It was also the reason he alternated between false flattery, demands and insults. Keeping her on her toes kept his mind where it belonged: The Work.

His tactic had worked flawlessly until she saw him.

"... don't just say you are because I know what that means…"*

He had been his normal dismissive self, trying to shut the woman up whilst he worked on the few clues he had to go on to find the missing kids. But she had persisted. She was strong that night, much like the night she had called him on his bad behaviour at the Christmas party. Molly Hooper was fierce when provoked, kind when someone was hurting, and pliant when given direction.

She was dangerous, plain and simple.

He was, of course, unhappy about having to leave everything he cared most about in the world to hunt down Moriarty's network (though a tiny bit thrilled at the adventure of it). However, he was also relieved to distance himself from the pathologist. That night was the first time he questioned his decision to not pursue anything with her physically.

Once safely ensconced in his new persona, however, he allowed himself to wonder…

As it turned out, there was quite a bit of downtime involved with rooting out a criminal organisation. About four months after he fled England, he found himself pondering the ins and outs of Dominance and submission.

He'd had plenty of vanilla sex in his life; in his early twenties, he discovered the joys of mixing drugs and intercourse. It was thrilling. Until it wasn't, that is. The emotional fallout most people experienced with that kind of intimacy was completely foreign to Sherlock. A few of his partners simply couldn't reconcile themselves with the detached, emotionless man he became afterwards. Not wanting anything more was fine for some people - and exactly what Sherlock was looking for - but after two women he'd been shagging confronted him (at the same time, no less), he started questioning if it was at all worth it.

Shortly thereafter he OD'd for the first time. Mycroft found him (hospitals and their rules!) and forced him into rehab. When he came out, there was a small amount of clarity to his mind that he'd been missing.

Drugs - sex: these were nothing but distractions.

While drugs could certainly aid him in quieting his ever-whirling brain (well, certain drugs did), he soon found that working - solving cases, finding the answers - was far more efficient, not to mention productive. He made a silent vow to himself to give up all outside distractions. The Work was all that mattered.

But Molly Hooper was an anomaly, one that plagued him whenever his mind wasn't focused on the Network. All it took was a few clicks and he had a plethora of information at his disposal; the internet was good for that.

Soon, Sherlock's means of coming down from a chase became returning to whatever was serving for a base of operations at that moment and researching D/s. He'd spend hours at his pursuit of knowledge. Some might even have called it an obsession, but he told himself it was simply keeping his mind occupied until the next leg of his mission.

Eventually, when he had gathered nearly all the information on the subject, it suddenly wasn't enough to just know… he wanted more. Some nights he'd lie awake, considering his own likes and dislikes - what might appeal to him in this new world he was discovering - planning out scenes and scenarios. There was a single common theme to each one: Molly Hooper. She had started him on this road and she kept appearing in his mind night after night.

His planning took yet another turn when he finally gave in to the notion that it was Molly with whom he wanted to explore and expand his newfound knowledge. What would she like? How would she want to be touched, teased, punished? How would she respond? Though at this point he didn't consider putting it into any kind of practical use, he allowed himself to fantasise… to imagine the two of them in various states of undress, doing all sorts of sexually adventurous things.

It was an interesting experiment, he told himself, to simply consider all the possibilities. I'll never act on these… urges? Was that was he was feeling? Did he truly want Molly Hooper or was he just so damn lonely that he had fixated on the last person with whom he'd had meaningful contact before leaving his home?

That question was answered when he next spoke to his contact in London. Sherlock had been very careful not to ask about John or Molly the few times he and Robin had communicated. It was too dangerous. But he found himself asking her, in a coded message, how Molly was holding up.

Engaged?!

The word turned his blood to ice then instantly had him questioning his own sanity. What should he care if Molly Hooper was engaged? The relief he experienced three months later when Robin informed him that the relationship was over created even more questions. This time, however, he pushed it to the back of his mind and moved forward with his mission.

He really needed to get back to London.

o0o0o0o0o

As they sat down for dinner, Sherlock made Molly her plate. The look of shock on her face was priceless.

"I said I was going to take care of you, Molly, and I meant it. I expect that plate cleaned, young lady." He poured them both a large glass of wine each, then tucked into his food.

She did manage to eat most of her dinner, pleasing Sherlock to no end. He had noticed her that her appetite had diminished since moving in. He was fairly certain that it was because of him and he had plans on changing that. She wasn't sleeping well or eating enough. If he needed to take control of her daily habits as well as her orgasms, so be it. He had no problem using subtlety or any other forms of manipulation to get his way.

"So," she said, sitting back with her wine. "You said we'd talk."

"You had questions, Molly. Ask away."

"Why is John so incredibly angry?"

Sherlock sighed. "Mary. It's to do with Mary."

Molly looked confused, understandably so. "He's angry with you and me about Mary?"

"He's angry because I sent Mary here to… keep an eye on the both of you," he said, unsure of how she'd take the admission.

"You what?"

"I should start from the beginning." Taking the last drink of his wine, he sat the empty glass on the coffee table. "When I left London, I went to the States and contacted a CIA man I knew. Though we weren't friendly, in the least, he was interested in the information I offered him. He introduced me to a group of officers, one of whom was getting ready to retire. Her partner had just been killed in the line of duty - some human trafficking mess - and she felt like it was time." He refilled his wine and took another drink, then stood and walked across the room. "Robin was… not like the other agents. She was interesting and clever and she didn't take my shit."

"Robin is Mary, I assume?" Molly asked.

"Got it in one." He smiled. "After meeting with her for a couple of days, I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. She was, fortunately, looking for a fresh start - something completely different than collecting and analyzing information for the Yanks, which she'd been doing since the loss of her partner. London evidently sounded delightful. She had no family to speak of so she packed up and put herself in John's line of sight."

"She got a job at his clinic."

Sherlock nodded. "Robin… Mary, I should say, is quite good at adapting to a given situation. I asked her to keep an eye on the both of you. I didn't know she was going to fall in love." He smiled. "But then again, I don't think she intended to either."

Molly leant forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "It's kind of sweet if you think about it."

"John doesn't agree."

"Oh, that's why…"

"Indeed. And he's convinced that you knew all about 'Mary's' placement and the entire deception. He's not exactly trustful at the moment."

"And you said John was angry with her...?"

"They're barely speaking, if I understand correctly."

"Poor Mare. I had no idea," she said, looking off across the room.

"What about you? Are you… upset that I sent Mary here?"

Looking back to him, she said, "My God, Sherlock, that's the least horrible thing you've done to me. Of course, I didn't marry her, so…"

"Yes, I do see John's anger with me. You, however… that's another story. I explained the situation to him this morning, but he seemed too enraged to listen. Hopefully, Mary will help him see the truth of things."

"Which is?"

"The man cannot hide emotion; he expresses what he feels every moment he feels it," he said with a roll of his eyes. "It was simply too dangerous for him to know anything. My fake death, Mary, your part. He would have been watched. You? No one was watching you, Molly."

She looked down, suddenly finding the floor fascinating. After several minutes she said, "Until now."

"Until now," he repeated. "I am sorry about your job."

Raising her head, she took a deep breath. "What's the plan, by the way?"

He resisted the urge to smile; he had been doing that too much lately. "The plan is to find who has it out for my brother and take them down."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going to kill anybody, Molly. Just find their weak point, as they have ours and…"

"Our weak point?" she questioned.

Damn. "I'm Mycroft's, of course."

Molly nodded.

"Yours is your job," he explained, dreading the next part.

"And yours?"

"Well, John would have been the obvious choice, but they seem to know that we aren't speaking…"

"Clearly."

"So… I suppose… it would be… you."

Molly's cheeks turned an alluring shade of pink as she nodded and started cleaning up their dinner dishes.


Sherlock's phone rang just as Molly finished the washing up. It was Greg with a case. Oddly enough the detective dashed into the kitchen and spoke with her before leaving to meet the DI at the crime scene.

"I'll try to be back soon," he said as he put on his coat.

"O-kay."

"Sleep in my bed tonight?" he asked. Somehow, he managed to sound both demanding and shy at the same time.

"I have a perfectly good bed, Sherlock," she argued as she dried her hands. Okay, the bed was awful and she hated it, but it was… fine.

"I am aware; I bought it." He wrapped his scarf around his beautiful neck. "But I am asking that you sleep in my bed because it is a higher quality and you've not been sleeping well." Then he, of course, had to play dirty. Raising his hand, he gently stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. "Please, Molly. For me?"

Oh, you bastard. "Fine!" She turned and tossed the towel onto the counter, mostly just to get away from him and those damn hands.

"Smashing!" he said as sprinted out of the room.

"I am not even close to understanding that man," she said to the empty flat.

Molly didn't start getting ready for bed until after midnight. What was the point? It wasn't as if she had work in the morning - depressing thought. Although it was entirely possible that she was simply putting off getting into Sherlock's bed. Finally, her face was washed, her teeth were cleaned and she was lotioned from head to toe. It could be put off no longer.

Standing next to the place where Sherlock had cropped her to climax just a few hours earlier, Molly and the bed fought a battle of wills. Oh, why is this so hard?! She'd slept there twice already!

Clearly Sherlock was experiencing some kind of breakdown; it was the only explanation. Or… or he actually wanted a sexual relationship with her. I suppose it could be simply physical, she thought as she stared at the bed.

In all their years of acquaintance, Molly had always seen him as a sex object but had a hard time making the connection between Sherlock and sex. She had, of course, asked him out. God, that was embarrassing. Then she had tried to entice him with that awful dress at Christmas. Well, he did notice my breasts, at least enough to insult them. Again… embarrassing.

She walked around the room, taking the time to observe Sherlock's most private domain. It was somewhat spartan compared to the rest of the flat, much more organised than the sitting room and kitchen. Molly smiled when she took notice of the periodic table on the wall. How did I not notice that earlier? It was the same one that was in the small office in her flat. Well, she thought sadly, not anymore.

There were books, of course: anatomy, forensic psychology, law and the like. No fiction, though. That made her sad for some reason. Everyone needed an escape. What was Sherlock's? Spanking your bare bottom seems to work quite well, a sexy voice answered.

"Oh, goodness!" Molly gasped as she turned, bumping into the bedpost in the process. "Now who's having a breakdown?"

Tea! she thought, I need tea! That bought her a little more than thirty minutes and by the time it was fixed and drunk, she was actually feeling a bit groggy. Making her way back into his room, she admitted defeat and crawled into the large, expensive bed. God, why am I'm suddenly so tired?

Her last thought before drifting to sleep was that, somehow, he'd managed to drug her again.


Lord, Sherlock... She's gonna kill you this time! Please review! As I explained in my original note, I am still finishing things up and your thoughts are incredibly helpful. Thank you so much for reading. ~Lil~