Molly veered between wanting to weep with happiness and wanting to throw up. Her stomach clenched, as she tried to calm herself in the back of the cab. Sherlock's thigh brushing up against hers on the seat wasn't helping. But when he did shift naturally away as he looked out the window into the busy London night, Molly felt cold and slid over close to him again. His head turning toward her, his gaze swept down from her eyes to Molly's legs. Sherlock moved his hand down to her thigh, tracing circles lightly as he turned his face back to the window.

Molly smiled and tilted her face downward to watch his fingers. Everything he did was so sure and so precise. She would say that he had doctor's hands, only his were so much more powerful and deft than hers were. With his glacier-cool demeanor and clever hands, he would've made a wonderful surgeon. Certainly he would've been a great pathologist if he'd been interested in a traditional career path. For a moment, Molly imagined Sherlock stationed in the morgue in a white lab coat, and her stalking the dangerous back alleys of London in a dark coat with the collar popped up. It was a sexy fantasy but really, Molly preferred to stay in her white coat and Sherlock in his dark trousers and button-bursting shirts. And even in her Sherlock-the-pathologist fantasies, he was still the one in control.

Molly giggled. Sherlock looked at her quizzically. Her dimples deepened, and her loose hair fell over the side of her face as she looked down at her legs again.

"It's nothing. I was just… my imagination was running away with me."

"You do that a lot. Given how often you blush and cross and uncross your legs repeatedly when you're staring at blank surfaces in the lab, I'd say you entertain sexual fantasies at least every thirty minutes."

Molly blushed and tried to think of a clever response, but the truth was, she thought "every thirty minutes" was a low estimate. It was more like every fifteen.

"…possibly more. And most of them involve me." He leaned in and lightly kissed Molly's forehead at the hairline. She could feel him smiling against her skin.

The cab began to slow down, and Molly's belly seized up again for a moment. She calmed herself with deep breathing, and by reminding herself that nothing would happen that she did not want to happen. She still had no clue what he was planning, but she trusted Sherlock. Granted she was also completely confused by this sudden turn of events, but it was her wildest wish coming true.

Don't overanalyze, Molly. Go with it before he changes his mind or you wake up from the best dream ever.

She wished she'd been able to finish the book before he decided to come for her.

Only as they were arriving at 221 Baker Street and stepping onto the sidewalk did Molly think to ask, "Will John be home?" If he was, then perhaps she'd read the situation wrong.

"No, he's in Glasgow for the next two days." He paused, and smiled directly at her in a wicked way she was still getting used to. "Why? Did you want him to be here?" He whispered in her ear, "Is that one of your kinks, Molly Hooper?"

"NO! Oh no no, not at all! Not that there's anything wrong with that, that, that sounds just. Fine. For people. But not me, I like simple. Two is good. Three is too much. I like two, or one specifically. I, I just want you."

Molly felt like a fool, but Sherlock looked amused, not disgusted by her babbling. He opened the door to 221, bounded up the stairs and gestured for Molly to follow.

She'd never seen the inside of his flat before. It was oddly enough, exactly what she expected. Rich in its darkness and fabrics, but a little worn, comfortably shabby in places. Acid stains and what looked like scorch marks on a clean kitchen table. A very expensive microscope was sat on the table, uncovered. The skull on the mantle and the bullet holes in the wall were perfectly Sherlock. The flat felt very masculine but still warm and homey. She had thought his place might be a bit messier, but she suspected that John was responsible for the tidiness here, the way she tidied up after Sherlock in the labs and morgue.

Sherlock briskly took Molly's coat off her shoulders the moment she walked in the door, and hung it up along with his own.

"Take your shoes off and sit at the table, Molly. There you go," he said as she kicked off her ballet flats and padded over to the kitchen area to take a seat. An idea began to form in her head.

"Sherlock, did you bring me here to help you with an experiment after all? I mean, after…the roof, and everything? The microscope…wait, this isn't one of Bart's , is it? The medical student advisor said he caught you trying to nick a burner last week; is that true?"

"No, it's not and yes, it is. Well, not nick. I would've returned it when I was done with it." He paused, and then added, "The microscope was a gift from Mycroft. He said Mummy bought it, but Mummy isn't an expert on microscopes, not her field. I should've tossed it in the bin, but it is an excellent piece of equipment."

"It's lovely, Sherlock. Are you…going to show me something?"

"Correct." He went over to the refrigerator, and removed a small plastic case and a liquid-filled glass bottle with an eyedropper.

On the counter, Sherlock prepared a slide using the unlabeled materials. He brought the slide over to Molly, slipped it into the stage clips and adjusted the knobs until he had it focused how he wanted. He then gestured for Molly to stand and peer into the eyepiece.

Sherlock stepped back, hands in his pocket to disguise the nervous fiddling. He waited for Molly's reaction, as she took in the sight, the tiny cells magnified into a dazzling array of electric blue and blood red and grass green that swirled together in a pattern that was almost paisley.

"I was experimenting on tissue removed from that fellow who drowned in petroleum. The freak accident at the Priory School. Tried to find a more precise way to estimate time of death using some interesting ingredients sold to me by this Hungarian janitor I know who lives in Birmingham. It was a failure."

Molly pulled her eyes away from the colors. "Oh. Wait, a failure? What is this then? The pattern and movement is very strange."

"Well the chemicals did nothing productive to help determine the cause and time of tissue death in this case beyond the obvious, well, drowning without the last seven days, which we already knew. But the unusual combination of elements in this case produced a visual effect that was unique. Given your appreciation of "happy accidents" as you call them, I thought that I might show you the unplanned result before disposing of the useless ingredients." Sherlock rushed the explanation out in his usual clipped manner, rolled his eyes at "happy accidents," and then shrugged in a less characteristic way. He breathed deep, ruffled his curls with one hand, and then stared straight at Molly, waiting for a reaction.

She paused, processing.

"Sherlock, are you saying you showed me this because you thought…it was pretty and I would like it?" Molly asked incredulously.

"I- yes."

She stared, with a shy smile growing. If she didn't know any better, she would think this was the Sherlock Holmes equivalent of bringing her flowers.

Not knowing what else to do, Molly sat back down in the kitchen chair.

He walked over to her and crouched down in front of Molly. His dark curls glowed with red highlights underneath the kitchen light. Sherlock placed his hands on her knees and pushed them slowly apart. Leaning into her, he reached up to cup Molly's cheek and guide her mouth down to him.

Just before their lips met, he whispered, "Do you like it?"

"Yes, Sherlock, yes I like it very much."

"Would you rather I had taken you to the cinema? Or…for a pint" He wore a sardonic smile now. So close to her face now.

"No. I want to be here. I want you to do...what you were doing before. On the roof. Only this time, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly Hooper?" He nuzzled her lips now.

"Do you think you could pull my hair a bit harder?"

Sherlock raised his thick expressive brows, but rewarded her courage by sinking both his hands intoMolly's hair, and pulling firmly, but not recklessly, at her hair. Rubbing at her scalp, mixing in little tugs, using it to direct and tilt her head to where he wanted her. There was an art to it, and the skill returned to Sherlock smoothly after his absence from domming. Molly gave off little mewing cries as he took her mouth, tongue dipping in and massaging hers, matching the rhythm of his hands.

Molly's scalp tingled and her face burned with the flood of sensations running through her. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck, pulling him tight. But Sherlock was not having that. He withdrew his hands and used them to grasp her arms and then push them behind her back, holding her tightly by the wrists. All she could do now was lean into him harder and trust her would keep her from falling without having the use of her arms to balance her. Sherlock took the opportunity to nip at her neck, leaving a trail of love bites from under her chin to the edge of her jumper neckline.

As Molly's arousal grew to a fever pitch impressively fast, Sherlock realized he had to slow down or the evening would be over within two minutes, on his kitchen floor. He'd only covered half of his plans so far. Though he had learned to adjust ideas in his detecting based on new data, he didn't want his dominating to be so careless. He wouldn't be able to consider him her dom if he let her overwhelming want derail his plans.

He pulled his lips away from her neck and gently pushed Molly against the chair back. She looked slightly wounded.

"I need you to do something for me first."

Molly was happy to have the direction now. "Yes, Sherlock, of course."

"Stand up. Peel off that furry jumper and toss it on the floor. Cashmere makes me itch." His intense eyes burned into her the immediacy of the order.

"Oh! Yes of course." Molly's cheeks were on fire, but she pulled the jumper over her head happily. The flat was warm but the sudden exposure left Molly's nipples peaking in her lacy bra. She pulled her shoulders back with a touch awkward defiance. She wouldn't hide herself away now that he was taking what she had been offering for so long.

"Good. Now slip your knickers off, leave them with the jumper."

Molly made to pull down her skirt, but Sherlock's narrowed eyes stopped her cold.

"I said knickers, not your skirt. Listen, Molly. Have you not gotten to the chapter on listening yet?"

He stepped in close to Molly, and tipped her chin up. Modifying his plan slightly (minor improvisation was needed on occasion to make the overall plan flow smoother, he assured himself), he reached around and unsnapped her bra. He slid the straps down her arms until she was nude from the waist up.

Molly looked down reflexively, but remembered herself and looked back at Sherlock. Shoulders back, proud of herself and her body. Her breasts were barely average-sized but she liked them. He will like them, she told herself.

Sherlock's face was impassive, his now-green eyes appraising. Molly could not read him at all.

She reached down, pulled up her skirt, and rolled her knickers down over her thighs, to the ground, and kicked them to the side, as ordered. She held his gaze the entire time.

Sherlock was not feeling as reserved as he looked. What he wanted, it was all here finally. He had abstained for so long, and made sex and domination irrelevant. Now that he let it back into his life, he felt it coming in like high tide. The need rising, the triumphant satisfaction in seeing his submissive obey him sweetly. Not perfectly, not yet, but Molly was ripe. She would respond well to the nudge of his crop when the time came.

He led her over to a simple wooden armed chair in the sitting area. He had dragged it into the room after John left, knowing this one would suit his purposes.

"Sit. Lean back, relax." Sherlock smiled in a slightly predatory way.

Molly shivered. She felt like a mouse about to be devoured by a big cat.

Sherlock went to the kitchen and retrieved from a drawer a coil of poly clothesline rope. Very soft, disposable, perfect for his uses. Subs used to come to him at university expecting to be bound in silk scarves and ribbons. Ridiculous. This rope was safer, not to mention cheaper and more hygienic than reusing scarves involved in sexual contact.

He returned to Molly and bent down to kiss her lightly on the mouth. He paused and spoke carefully.

"Molly, if we start this, it's not going to be easy. I don't mean the rope, I mean, me. I'm not easy. I'm rubbish at people. But I am good at this," he said, waving the coil of rope. "I can make you happy for now, and when I don't make you happy anymore, you can leave and you'll still be my pathologist."

Molly didn't know what to say. She bit her lower lip and thought for a few seconds. Then she smiled, and said, "Sherlock, you are a complete prick sometimes. And I might still tell you that sometimes. You know how I feel about you. I can't hide it, I never could and you might break my heart. But if I don't do this now, that would absolutely break my heart. Please. Alright?"

He found he couldn't look away from her brown eyes, sparkling with need and-something else, something sweeter. He kissed her again, this time less gently, and more thoroughly. "Alright. Lean back and open your legs."

Molly relaxed into the wide wooden seat. Sherlock lifted the bottom of her long pink skirt and bunched the fabric up until it pooled around her waist. She lifted her hips up so he could push some of the excess fabric under her bum. Molly had expected him to ask her to take the skirt off. He saw the question in her eyes.

"I've always had a liking for a girl with her skirt shoved up around her waist when I was in her," Sherlock explained casually. "I did years ago, anyway. I wanted to see if it still worked for me. A small experiment. " He added as an afterthought, "And you look nice in pink."

Molly smiled and Sherlock grinned in response. All Molly could think was, what fun! She felt beautiful to be open for Sherlock, sitting back and holding her legs open, so the top of her curls down below were undoubtedly showing. She felt very womanly, and very naughty to be displaying herself for him.

Sherlock began cutting pieces of the rope, quickly and in equal lengths. He had never lost the knack for it, having occasionally restrained criminals over the years. Within two minutes, he had both of Molly's forearms tied to the arms of the chair. It was not a tight binding- she had some room to wiggle and adjust to being bound, but she would not be able to pull them away from the chair as well.

Sherlock watched her carefully for any signs of panic, and said, "Isotope."

"What?"

"We didn't choose a safeword. I meant to in the cab. Your fault, you were teasing me with your thighs. 'Isotope' will do for tonight. Understood?"

"Oh yes, of course. Isotope."

"Brilliant!" Sherlock beamed in a boyish way that took her breath away for a few seconds. He then lifted Molly's right leg up until it was draped over the arm of the chair, just beyond her arm. He bound that as well, checking the circulation. She had a bit of wiggle room but wouldn't be able to pull her leg down.

Molly looked nervous now. She understood. She couldn't choose when to open and close herself with binding on. This is what it meant to commit to being in bondage. She had to trust in the safeword and in Sherlock.

She trusted him completely. She relaxed back and her hips tilted up slightly.

He saw her acceptance, and her unconscious offering of herself, and so he bound the left leg in the same fashion. She was now completely exposed to him- the darker curls, the moisture gathering, the curve of her bum underneath. He knelt down and studied her with great interest.

No, he observed her. She watched him as he learned her, solely with his vision. Every centimeter of flesh, taken in by him. The scent of her, the sounds she was beginning to make at the sight of her dom so close but not touching. He had already memorized the curves of her body, and this was the last piece of the puzzle.

"This is the first lesson, Molly," Sherlock explained fiercely, when he finally drew his focus away from the intriguing design of her. "You have no secrets from me now. This is mine, while we play. All of you, give it to me. My Molly, my toy."

"Your pathologist?" Molly said cheekily, feeling invincible. It was all kinds of wrong, she knew intellectually, but Molly gloried in his claiming her, even if it was just temporary.

"Yes, that too, though I can't claim sole rights, unfortunately," Sherlock said lazily, with one side of his mouth curled up. "Mmm very pretty, you are. All over. Molly, I may blindfold you at some point. Is that allowable?"

"Yes, yes, of course. That would be…lovely," she breathed. "But I don't want…gags or things in my mouth. I don't like things that get in the way of breathing." She reconsidered and looked down at Sherlock's groin and giggled. "Well, not everything. But um, no gags. Please. Thank you."

That she could still be so damn cute even while bound and spread filled Sherlock with a rush of affection. He would really truly try his best to put off disappointing her.

Sherlock leaned in suddenly and began doingjust brilliant things with his tongue that made Molly shriek. If she hadn't been tied to the chair, her thighs would've closed in reflex.

Molly Hooper thought she had imagined every possible raunchy scenario when dreaming in the slow hours at the morgue. She had envisioned positions galore, role plays and costumes, and given a fair amount of thought to Sherlock's crop reddening her bottom. But she had not considered that the simple act of a fully dressed Sherlock Holmes's face being pressed into her lap would blow all those fantasies away.

She was completely helpless and unable to assist in her pleasure. It all had to come from him, while Molly moaned and wiggled and begged for more pressure. She couldn't pull her eyes away from that head of dark curls. His burning green catlike eyes would frequently peer up at her, and they would lock gazes until the feelings growing in her belly distracted her. She pulled at the arm bindings, wanting to dig her hands into those curls, tugging him to the right spots. The movement only caused her bunched up skirt to roll down a bit and obscure Sherlock's ministrations. It was frustrating, but then not being able to watch him became another form of excitement.

Molly groaned in frustration when Sherlock extricated himself from the falling skirt and kissed her full on the mouth, forcing her to taste herself before she could reach her peak.

"Oh fuck it," he murmured confusingly against her lips. She felt his fingers scrambling to undo her bindings. He rubbed her forearms and carefully lifted her legs back down onto the seat. She shouldn't be in any pain, it had been less than nine minutes, but he wanted to be certain.

"You're fine, yes good, right?" Sherlock's eyes were blazing, and Molly reached out for him. He took in his arms, and laid her down on the carpet. He stood, unbuttoning and unzipping as he moved. Normally Molly would've enjoyed a slow peeling-off of Sherlock's gorgeous clothes, but right now she needed him to be skin-to-skin with her, when she was close to the end.

Sherlock snagged the condom packet, and made quick work of it. It would seem that he never lost his university-era taste for pretty skirts tossed up around the waist. Rocking into Molly, he gave all he could and she gave it in return joyfully. When he filled Molly with his hard cock, she felt perfectly, deliciously full. It took less than a minute before he was rewarded with her loud peaking. It shouldn't matter, the volume, but Sherlock liked hearing his little mouse wail without self-consciousness. And with that, he gave in and let himself go completely for the first time in over a decade. His hips jerked as he spasmed and came so intensely that spots danced across his vision.

Sherlock collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily into the nape of her neck. Molly stroked his back and kissed his shoulder, the only place she could reach as he was pinning her down. She hoped it would never end, that moment.

But it had to. The sweat on their bodies cooled, and Sherlock grabbed his blue robe off the couch and laid it over the two of them. Walking to the bedroom seemed like too much work so they laid there for a few minutes. Sherlock pulled her tightly to his chest as her ragged breathing slowly returned to normal.

Brushing his thumb over the faint marks on her forearms, Sherlock informed Molly, "There actually is an experiment I need your assistance with. I've ordered a new tool for it. Due to arrive tomorrow. Beautiful piece. You interested?"

"Of course, Sherlock. You know I'm always happy to help." She snuggled her head against his neck contentedly.

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. He was quite sure Molly would be a valuable partner in this particular project.

Stay tuned, there will be more tomorrow! After all, Sherlock still has to introduce Molly to the crop, for starters. And Molly's going to have a lot of feelings about what happened their first night.

Thanks for the all the great reviews! I'm happy people are enjoying this story. Apologies for the times when my American-ness shows through. :)