Molly Hooper knew what she wanted and who she wanted; she just didn't know how to get what she wanted. So she did what she usually did when presented with a problem, a challenge, or a new hobby: she went to the bookstore. There unfortunately was no reading material entitled, "How to get the man of your dreams to smack your bum." (Nothing came up when she Googled that query, anyway.) There were several intriguing books online, but Molly wasn't sure which one was actually useful, so she wanted to browse in person.
Molly strolled through the doors of the spacious chain bookstore, determined not to blush as she passed through familiar aisles into a section she usually skipped over. Doing her best to not look intimidated, Molly traced a finger across the glossy spines of sex manuals, porn star biographies, and nude photography books. Seeing a popular BDSM title that she recognized from her online research, Molly slid the book out.
The soft cover depicted a blindfolded and restrained woman surrounded by rows of purple-tinted, bound hands. Flipping through the pages, Molly found the writing surprisingly friendly and not at all sleazy. The doctor in her appreciated the discussion about physically safe and hygienic "playing." Playing, that's what it was called. Molly liked the sound of that. "I want to play," she said aloud quietly, smiling, testing the words.
She set her purse on the floor, and stood in the aisle skimming the book, eventually forgetting to feel self-conscious. She'd never realized that the kinky world was so…organized. Proper terms and rules for everything, patterns on skin and warming-up rituals. Molly loved a nice set of guidelines in all facets of life.
On one page, a variety of tools were described and displayed, including a black riding crop that look just like the one Sherlock brought in sometimes to test theories on the bodies. Molly had never been jealous of a corpse until the day two years ago that she saw Sherlock pop a button off his snug purple shirt because he was cropping the still form so hard. Stopping after a few minutes, Sherlock had then thrown his coat on, tucked the crop handle into a deep pocket, and walked out of the morgue with a sidelong smile at Molly, who'd thought she'd gone unnoticed peeking through the window.
A text message appeared a minute later with instructions to let him know what bruising pattern formed within twenty minutes. Until that moment, Molly had no idea that he knew her mobile number. The idea of him seeking out her telephone number made her pink and happy for a good hour.
Molly never believed that she was into being hurt; who would enjoy that, right? But after that odd morgue visit, she spent the night in bed fantasizing about him even more intensely than usual. Sherlock warming her bum up with his crop, tight little smacks that stung and made her wiggle and arch and burn…she pleasured herself so long and so well that when she finally came, she nearly fell off the bed.
So Molly thought that perhaps she was slightly more masochistic than she had ever realized.
Time flew by in the bookstore as Molly grew absorbed in the exciting world being laid out before her in the book. She was tilting the book sideways to appreciate a bondage diagram when her thoughts were interrupted by a deep familiar voice.
"Well hello, Molly. Doing a bit of shopping?"
Molly froze, afraid to look up. It can't be. That's not fair. She was utterly exposed. Her thoughts ran together in a rush of ?
She clapped the book shut and looked up into Sherlock Holmes's eyes, her face so hot that Molly knew her cheeks must be blazing red and her eyes wide and blinking too much.
Closing the book however just made it worse, as the cover's photo with a nude and hand-cuffed woman told Sherlock exactly what sort of book Molly Hooper was interested in buying, if he hadn't been able to deduce it solely from her reaction. She considered dropping the book and bolting from the store at top speed but instead summoned her courage and stood her ground. Sherlock followed the struggle apparent in her squirming body language and smirked, and tilted his head when she breathed deep and spoke casually.
"Yes, Sherlock, I was just…reading a bit." Molly realized there was a book in Sherlock's hands, too.
"Oh! Doing some shopping yourself, of course. Good book?"
"Don't know," Sherlock responded crisply. "Last-minute present for my brother. John insists that family members are required to buy presents for one another's birthdays and I have been…convinced." Sherlock held up a paperback copy of Dr. Atkins' New Diet Revolution and smiled proudly.
"Well, that's thoughtful, I guess. I didn't even know you had a brother! Is he like you then, is he..." How could she finish this line of thought safely-is he gorgeous too? Mad? Heroic? Genius? Does he have a beautiful arse?
"Is he nice, then?"
Sherlock looked revolted and vaguely offended by the question.
Flustered, Molly tried to resume her casual pose by reaching down to a lower shelf, and picking up a few more books look at. Forgetting this was the Sexuality section, Molly was surprised to find herself holding, at the top of the small stack, a copy of Tom of Finland's Dick, with her fingertips resting on a beautifully drawn soccer player's penis. Sherlock raised a perfect eyebrow at her.
"OH!" And there was a collection of thumps as the pile of books hit the floor.
Sherlock made an exasperated noise and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. She was already scrambling on her knees to gather up the erotic art tomes. Shoving all of the books back on the shelf somewhat messily, Molly bit her lip and smiled, and shrugged. This was actually rather funny, she thought to herself. You get to a certain point in being mortified, and then you have to let go. "Get up and just talk to this man you want like a normal person, Molly Hooper!" she berated herself silently. She moved to get up off her knees.
"No."
Molly stopped immediately, and stayed on the floor, but looked up, puzzled.
"They don't belong there," Sherlock's crisp voice bit out. His eyes were focused sharply on her again. Now they were an icy grey, with only the slightest green tint. Without breaking her stare, he spoke quietly but with steel in his tone.
"Put them in the correct order."
Molly bit her lip, feeling something beginning in her belly. She knew that feeling. Usually it's in the lab or in the morgue, when Sherlock is barely acknowledging her presence as she obeys his whims. Humiliation, and the desire to please, and something darker and hungrier, too.
She moved the books around on the low shelf until she believed they were in their original order, alphabetically arranged by the author's name. Looking up at him for approval, Molly was rewarded with a small smile, and his eyes were less icy in some way she couldn't quite pinpoint. Less of the cool grey iris, perhaps, and more of the dark center.
Molly beams.
There was a second when she thought, this is not the place for this, but that whisper of thought couldn't compete with the feeling of being there with him, looking up at that lean form towering over her, handsome and with his electric eyes observing nothing but her.
Sherlock nodded, and went down on one knee, close to Molly. She instinctively pulled back a few inches from the invasion of her personal space.
He leaned in and lifted her hair away from her ear before she could pull away further. Molly felt her heart thumping in her chest, so loud she was sure he must be able to hear it, though she knew that wasn't possible.
With his other hand, Sherlock reached past Molly's chest to the shelf. He slid the purple-covered book with the restrained nude on the cover out of the row and placed it back into Molly's hands.
"This one is yours, isn't it," he breathed into her ear, as she looked down at the picture of the submissive woman.
"Yes," Molly whispered, with the beginnings of a smile. She turned her head toward him, with a question growing in her soft brown eyes.
He avoided meeting her gaze, and stood up quickly.
"I thought so." And then he's off with a whirl of his coat, out of sight in the labyrinth of tall shelves.
Molly stayed on her knees another moment before feeling calm enough to stand. She wasn't quite sure what had happened or why, but confidently strode up to the counter to purchase her book.
This chapter was less smutty than the first, I know. But the smut will return in the next chapter, have no fear. Molly's only just beginning to have fun!