The trouble with submissives, Sherlock Holmes reflected as he rode in a cab away from the bookstore, was that the ones he found interesting wanted too much from him. Intelligent, creative and comfortably sexual women were usually not content to be ignored by their dom while he buried himself in an experiment for days, or in a mystery for weeks at a time. Their submission only went so far. Sherlock had learned that no matter how much the woman said she could handle the periodic neglect, eventually she would break down in tears or be angry at Sherlock for not appreciating her submission to him. Or worst of all, she would walk away quietly, disappointed in him as a dom. They said he didn't care, or he couldn't give them what they needed to be happy. They were probably correct.
That had been the case at university, and shortly after leaving there, he simply stopped dealing with women altogether.
Women were a distraction. There were days when the distraction of a lovely sub on her knees by his chair had been a welcome reprieve from the boredom. Stroking their soft hair and rubbing the tender spots around the ears and neck that made them purr like cats…it was a soothing repetitive gesture that helped him think when Sherlock was pondering an unsuccessful experiment. Like idly petting a cat, except that this was an exciting human creature who would welcome him crushing her down into her narrow mattress after he'd solved the problem. It was exhilarating to take the leftover energy burning through him after a puzzle and thrust it into a submissive girl, making her take it all in and beg for more.
Determining how to make a woman submit to him completely was satisfying, but it never lasted long. He usually grew bored after figuring them out, and they rarely had compatible interests outside the bedroom. There wasn't much left to say if they didn't want to discuss the ghoulish murders that Sherlock was beginning to investigate.
And the dates, the tedious, predictable, prim and dull dates. Submissive women who were wild when he had them tied to his headboard with soft clothesline cord were suddenly very proper when Sherlock drew them into alleys after the cinema, his clever pale hands rummaging under their skirt, dipping beneath satin to soak his fingers in wetness. He wanted her to be his every moment, not just in the secretiveness of the bedroom. When he wanted his woman, he wanted her right then and there. He didn't give a damn what other people thought. He knew all the dark places to avoid being seen, but the risk was still very stimulating.
If he wanted to hold her shoulders firmly, and tell the woman to go down on her knees and suck his cock, he wanted her to say, "Yes, please" happily without hesitation.
He wanted her to make him hard as hell, his hands buried in her hair as he's sliding in and out of her throat until he's nearly bursting.
To pull her off the ground, turn her around and fuck her from behind, pressing her into the wall. His coat wrapped around them both, the rich fabric of it sliding over her exposed bum and thighs while he rides her ruthlessly in the cool darkness.
Her giving everything she has, and him accepting it and demanding more.
Sherlock wanted a woman who would give herself completely to him without artifice or reservation, but he also wanted her to surprise him. And that was the hardest quality of all to find. Once you have deduced every bit of information from the lint on their clothes, their condom choice, their perfume, Sherlock could predict every stage of the relationship, from the first hungry fuck until the final awkward pulling-away. No one ever surprised him.
Why even bother? Women were mostly a distraction from the work, and ultimately it was the work that kept him off drugs and out of psychiatric ward and jail. He could live without sex or having a submissive, but he couldn't live without the mystery.
Sherlock Holmes had done very well in the years since deciding that celibacy was the most effective way to live his life. He lost what little bit of self-consciousness he had after abandoning the pursuit of females. It had always been stressful and problematic, trying to understand other people's feelings and be what others considered "civil." Sherlock didn't much care about being civilized.
He lost his path for a short while in narcotics, and it was just as well that he had become celibate; he was a disaster for any woman to be involved with. Part of maintaining his sobriety was not losing control of his life ever again. Focus was essential; the game was what mattered.
Running into Molly Hooper in the bookstore wasn't a surprise; after all, its proximity to St. Bart's Hospital was why he had chosen that location. That afternoon, Sherlock had stopped off at the lab to temporarily confiscate a Bunsen burner (John had thrown his in the trash after setting the kitchen table on fire twice in one week; ridiculous, as it was barely a fire, more of a smolder). The lab had been unexpectedly occupied by a flock of medical students examining samples for a rescheduled infectious disease class.
Frustrated at being unable to secure the needed equipment, Sherlock redirected his annoyance toward his usual target, Mycroft. It was his birthday the next day, but it wasn't John who reminded him to buy a present. Sherlock never deleted information about his family, even the odious members like his brother. Mummy would be upset by his refusal to acknowledge the day, and life was easier when Mummy was happy. And so he had dropped by the store to do his duty, albeit sarcastically.
It was no surprise to Sherlock that Molly Hooper had submissive tendencies; he had exploited those tendencies for the past two years. It had only taken five minutes in her presence before he deduced that she was very pliable to his wishes, but that she was unaware of those desires and not actively engaging in sadomasochistic activity. After two more minutes in her presence, as she chatted about an American television program while removing a murder victim's slashed heart, he deduced that she had had less than five sexual partners, and no more than two of them were long-term. And none of them had ever dominated her properly. She was asleep, and it was not Sherlock's job to do the awakening.
Molly had become a constant in his life, the affable pathologist who responded to his unannounced morgue visits with a smile. There was paperwork involved with his visits, sometimes, but she always took care of it. She brought him coffee, and he knew from the scent and taste that she was brewing him a fresh pot every time, and using packets of a high-quality sugar brand she kept tucked in her desk's bottom drawer. He appreciated her efforts, but cautiously. Her crush was obvious but he could not be the man for her. He rewarded her with cool smiles but nothing more. It would've been cruel.
She was too sweet- he would drive her away within a week, and then he would lose his pathologist. There were others on staff, but they weren't as observant, they didn't take notes as specifically as she did about bruise shapes. Molly noticed not only what was there on bodies, but also what wasn't there. And sometimes what wasn't present was the key to the puzzle.
When Sherlock spotted Molly spying on him two years ago, the first time he had used a crop to test bruising on a corpse, he left St. Bart's as quickly as possible. The avid interest had woken in her eyes, he saw, and Sherlock had the mad impulse to drag Molly into a cleaning closet, push down her scrubs, and use his bare hands to show her what it was to like to feel the hot sting on her arse. Breaking his long celibacy in the most spectacular way possible. Tracing his fingertips lightly across her red hot arse cheeks and making her body shiver and her doe eyes glow, before grabbing hold of her thighs to lift her up and fuck her roughly, at a merciless pace. Holding her eyes the whole time so that she knows only he can do this for her. Leaning in and swallowing the noise of her orgasm, covering her mouth with his when she comes screaming and shaking.
But no. Instead, Sherlock rushed out of the hospital and texted Molly from the sidewalk. Sublimating his sexuality into his work had been effective and kept him from hurting women with his neglect. Lust passes. He needed her to stay just as she was. She was perfect this way.
None of the other morgue staff made him fresh coffee and tidied up after him in the lab. Sherlock was occupied by his cases, the world unfolding beneath the microscope, pinched between slides and laid out for his scrutiny. Molly took care of the lab housekeeping while he lost himself in cells, and she hummed as she placed tools back into the right drawers and checked her own samples. She would fill up the autoclave carefully, select the correct buttons, and stare dreamily at the wall for a few minutes before resuming her morgue duties.
Molly was a dreamer. She was kind and unbroken and uniquely generous, in a city full of absolute bastards. Sherlock being one of them. Sometimes he thought that the only kind thing he ever did for anyone before John came along was not take what Molly Hooper was offering silently, with her huge brown eyes and vulnerable lips.
Things began to change not the afternoon in the bookstore, but earlier- the day that John walked into St. Bart's with annoyingly cheerful Mike Stamford by his side. It was the same day that Sherlock had brought his riding crop in for testing a theory about the death of a local private school headmaster and about the accused, a recently fired teacher with a shaky alibi.
The first time he'd brought the crop in was two years past, and he had done his best to delete the memory of that day. He failed, but he had never seen that raw sexual spark in Molly's eyes again. Sherlock didn't consider the crop's effect on Molly as he worked the body over. He realized she was watching him and wincing occasionally, but she didn't run away as most people would. And after he was done, she offered him coffee as usual. He accepted and went up to the lab, musing on the strange case he'd just begun.
It wasn't until opening the door that he realized how Molly had phrased her offer for coffee. She always offered him coffee. Why would he pay any special attention now? Sloppy, sloppy. As the words repeated back in his mind, "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee," combined with her nervous shuffling, Sherlock had to face the obvious signs he'd neglected to gather and deduce. He had taken Molly for granted and missed that she was approaching him for more social contact. She wasn't content to have a crush from afar. She wanted more of him. A shiver went through him. I can't, he thought. I just can't, and he shut down.
He accepted Molly's coffee that day as he assessed his new roommate (hmmm have to do something about the useless cane), said something rude about her sweet mouth, and pretended that the awkward approach had never happened.
But he couldn't delete it from his mind, and from that day on, he was aware. Molly ceased to become part of the background and became a person to be noticed.
He'd been so caught up in his smug shredding of "Jim from I.T." (not very tall, not dom enough for Molly, and oh what's this? Gay!) that he missed the deliberate way that Moriarty had inserted himself into Sherlock's life, and the obviousness of the mobile number-leaving. He should have been suspicious, he should have known.
And Molly was hurt because of him. Not physically, but she was humiliated and the whispers followed her around St. Bart's. He had deduced that she didn't make friends easily, had not bonded with her coworkers due to rising to a respected position at a very young age, and that her only true friends were close female friends from university. He had no desire for Molly to become more isolated. She needed to be cared for. She needed to stay just as she was, for him.
As Sherlock's short ride to Baker St. ended, he concluded that Molly had changed, despite his efforts to preserve the peacefulness of their arrangement. When he wasn't looking, Molly had woken up and begun to embrace her submissive desires without his encouragement and direction. She was doing it without him; what if she found a dom and became his instead of Sherlock's? What then?
When Molly stared up at him in shock, in the aisle, grasping the purple-covered book that Sherlock recognized from his uni days, he knew that his excuses for pulling away weren't working anymore. The years of denial fell away, and Sherlock's logical mind broke everything down simply.
Molly wasn't frightened by his interest in crime and death; on the contrary, she shared much of it.
Molly was very intelligent, and would be a fantastic sub with a bit of training.
Molly gave selflessly, and did not feel demeaned by serving him; she relished it.
Molly was ready for him.
But was he ready for Molly Hooper?
Sherlock was surprised and a bit nervous to find that his answer was yes.
He hopped out of the cab and bounded up the stairs. There was much to be mulled over, plotted. For starters, he needed to order a new riding crop. He was quite certain that the pristine pathologist would not appreciate him using the same crop on her that he'd been using in his experiments all these years.
I want to thank everyone for the story alerts and favoriting! I didn't expect it, but I appreciate it so much.
Chapter 4 will be up within a day or two. It will involve a date. Well, the Sherlock and Molly version of a date, anyway. :)