WARNING: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT
Molly would never have expected Sherlock to respond to her little... habit – the way that he did. She never would've expected to end up underneath him, subject to his piercing gaze and his inquisition. When he rolled up her sleeves and looked upon her bare, scarred skin with nothing more than cold, harsh apathy and cruel contempt in his eyes, she never even dreamed that his actions were borne of sentiment.
Most of all, Molly would never have expected this savage, desperate, passionate tangle of flesh. Articles of clothing are removed one by one, both participants feeling the carnal need for skin-to-skin contact. Thoughts and judgement are clouded with something much more intoxicating; neither Molly nor Sherlock can even bother to care.
When only one layer of clothing is left on each of their bodies, Sherlock can no longer hide his nervous movements. Both his fears and his desperation are tangible now. Molly can tell that he's struggling to move any further, so she does the honours of unclasping her bra and sliding it down her arms, discarding the garment somewhere nearby. Sherlock's eyes go wide and he swallows hard at the sight of Molly's bare chest, revelling in its beauty. He stutters, searching every corner of his huge brain for the right words. He settles on, "I – speechless. I'm trying to formulate a sentence to sum up what I see before me at this very moment, but I can't think of anything to say that would even begin to do your image any justice." He begins kissing down her neck to her chest, his fingers lightly grazing her sides as his lips land in the valley just between her breasts.
"Not too small, then?" She bites her lip, realizing that she sounds like she's fishing for compliments.
"That may be so," he mumbles, much to Molly's disbelief. He slowly looks up and finally meets her gaze, a devilish grin creeping onto his features. His eyes shine bright as he continues. "But your breasts -" he says, bringing his hands up to cup them lightly, "your lovely breasts – don't appeal to me merely because of their proportion," he scoffs. "No – I don't care that they're small. It's because they're attached to you that makes me adore them so."
As he hides his face between her breasts again, Molly thumps him playfully on the side of his head, effectively messing up his curls. Sarcastically, she quips, "You really know how to make a girl feel special, don't you?"
"Was that... was that wrong?" She smiles at his confused expression. "I was just being honest," he says defensively.
She takes his head in her hands and drags him back up to eye level, unable to hold back the idiotic grin gracing her features. She kisses him soundly before saying, "No, that was... thank you, Sherlock – for being honest, I mean. I appreciate that."
He smiles in response before returning to the path he'd just been taking down Molly's front. He carefully avoids Molly's nipples as he fondles and caresses her breasts, giving each his full attention, before slinking downward a bit more. He presses his cheek to her abdomen, basking in her warmth, before taking notice of the scars that Molly has been hiding on her hips. She unconsciously holds her breath in suspense, fearful of Sherlock's inevitable response. She just hopes that he won't get angry again.
No – instead, he kisses the skin softly, lightly, straying a bit from Molly's belly to leave lingering touches on her forearms too. "Where else?" She closes her eyes, biting her tongue. "Molly," he urges. "Where else have you done this?"
"M – my thighs. That's all."
He nods curtly, professionally almost, before moving further down her figure. When he finds the scars – worse than he'd expected them to be – he traces the lines with his fingertips, mesmerized by the faint patterns and the stories left in their wake. He closes his eyes and huffs, mostly out of sorrow. He also feels a twinge of remorse and guilt, and slight disappointment as well. Molly can read his expression like letters on a neon sign. She always can. He ruminates for a few moments, his thoughts lingering on each scar – each story in which he failed to notice her suffering. It's silly, really, to blame himself – after all, a single person can only prevent so much damage. But now that Sherlock has accepted the weight of his sentiment, it's hitting him like a freight train.
Molly feels relief wash over her whole being when Sherlock turns away from the damage, but a new type of anxiety takes hold of her when his attentions are redirected to her knickers. He looks to the little piece of fabric with a mix of intrigue and challenge, stalking the offending garment as if it were prey. Sherlock inches closer and closer, feeling the heat radiating from what lies just beneath the surface. He glances up to meet Molly's gaze before swiftly removing the garment and diving in wholeheartedly.
"Holy – mmm, Sherlock. Oh, god. Please." She lets out a throaty groan/whimper when Sherlock unceremoniously slips one finger into her. He moves the digit with practised ease, playing Molly like he would his violin.
He can't help but voice his awe. "Oh, Molly. You are absolutely exquisite – delicious," he hums, and she can't manage a reply.
He adds a second finger and gives her one final lick before moving back up her body, his fingers still carrying out their rhythm. He hovers over her, watching her face contort in pleasure – pleasure for which he is responsible. It's a heady feeling, to say the least – intoxicating, to say the most.
They pant in unison as Molly pulls him down to kiss him, made slightly uncomfortable by his scrutiny. She doesn't expect to take pleasure in the taste of herself on his tongue, but for some reason, it only adds to her arousal. It's not that it tastes good, per se – it's mostly just a reminder of where that tongue has been and what that tongue has done.
As Sherlock holds her close, he can read Molly like a book. He can tell when Molly's pleasure has spiked and he learns quickly what she does and doesn't like. He can tell that she's turned on by the prospect of receiving oral stimulation, but the act itself doesn't really do much for her physical pleasure. His fingers, however – something bigger and more tangible – can drive her straight to the edge and can keep her dwindling there for an eternity. This is all so very spectacular in Sherlock's eyes. This is a whole new field to master, a whole new set of talents to learn and to practice. Oh, yes. This will do quite nicely.
"Sherlock..." Molly moans. "Sh – Sher... Christ, Sherlock."
"What do you want, Dr Hooper?" He knows what she wants. Of course he does.
"You... God, you, Sherlock."
"Tell me, Molly. Tell me what you want from me."
Molly bites her lip. This is difficult, you see – because saying, "Fuck me, Sherlock" is very different from saying, "Make love to me, Sherlock." And Molly can't decide between the two. There are implications for each, but he's obviously expecting one of the two in particular. Think, Molly! What do you know about Sherlock and romance? Nothing. No one knows, actually. His game was elaborate and bordering on fairy-tale, as fucked up as that may seem. Wait – fuck. He doesn't curse. He's not opposed to it – it's just not a part of his vocabulary. He wouldn't be expecting it. So, the latter, then.
She smiles. "Make love to me, Sherlock Holmes."
He smiles like she's never seen before. He pulls back, drawing his fingers from her and sucking them clean with a look of ecstasy. Whilst he removes his pants, he says, "With pleasure." Molly regards his physique with awe, and he pretends not to notice. Checking the bedside table – ah, yes – Sherlock finds what he's looking for: a condom.
"How did you know -"
"Where else do people keep them?" He smirks as he closes the drawer and kneels back on the bed, but before he can take action, Molly takes the little foil packet from his hand. She swiftly rips it open with her teeth and slowly rolls it onto his length, noting how all of the oxygen in his lungs seems to suddenly evacuate on contact. His head lolls forward and his eyes clench shut as he tries to gather himself.
"Sit," Molly orders, pointing to the vacant space by the headboard. Wordlessly, he follows her command, and she eagerly straddles his lap. She doesn't take her eyes from his when she takes him in hand, stroking lightly. He moves his hands to rest on her hips, gripping them tightly, betraying the look of calm on his face. Molly smiles and kisses him once more, and both of them watch as she positions him at her entrance. All breathing ceases when she slowly sinks down onto his length.
Sherlock groans loudly and clenches his eyes shut, his jaw hanging agape. Molly stays still, her breathing laboured in an attempt to calm herself. "Look at me," Molly mutters, and when Sherlock opens his eyes, nothing but pure, carnal lust is apparent.
"Molly," Sherlock begins, urgency clear in his tone. He can't finish his sentence.
Molly smiles softly. "It's okay," she says calmly. "I'll be gentle."
"Don't you dare, Dr Hooper" he says, grinning deviously.
She chooses that moment to lift herself up and to begin moving.
Oh god, Sherlock thinks to himself. He's outwardly silent, save for a few moans and grunts. But inside, he's screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. THIS IS – OH MY GOD.
Molly – oh, Molly. Sweet, loving, beautiful Dr Molly Hooper. So tight, so close, so intimate – unlike every preconceived notion I may have had about sex. That's what I get for only ever having sex while high, I suppose – with people that I felt nothing for. I expected that it would just be messy and I'd be stuck breathing someone else's air while my body was being coated with their sweat. This is nothing like that. If anything, it's like a breath of fresh air, and the mix of sweat gathering on my chest is most welcome. It's so unlike manual stimulus – and I'll never be able to kid myself again thinking that. No, this is more. So much more.
I don't remember it ever feeling like this. I don't remember this strange pulling sensation coming from deep within me. I only remember chasing release and craving more. This – this is so much worse; this could be even more addictive.
And the worst part?
I don't give a damn.
Everything is communicated via eye contact. Molly looks like she's holding back, so Sherlock quickly flips them over, staying perfectly seated inside of her, before roughly pounding into her in his own rhythm of thrusts. "Oh god, Molly -" he whines, and Molly moans dramatically in return.
"God, fuck me Sherlock – harder, faster... let go."
And he does.
There is no fucking way that this is his first time being intimate. No – for your first time, there's a lot of awkward fumbling and unsure movements, and it's always over far too quickly. It's supposed to be that way, at least. Christ, there's no way in hell that this man making love to me – with as much passion and agility as an experienced lover, I might add – has never done this before.
So I guess he must have some experience in this field, however clinical or detached that experience may be. Did he experiment, then? Did he trade sexual favours for his next fix? Did someone teach him how to treat a lover? Or is he really just a quick learner?
Hell, my first time, the boy accidentally unseated himself at least a dozen times before staying with a rhythm long enough to bring himself to climax. Oh, and of course, I didn't even get an orgasm out of it – which should have been expected, really. Few men have actually achieved that much from me. Being with Sherlock is nothing like my first time – or like any lover I've ever had, for that matter. No, no one has ever been able to learn my body so quickly, and no one has ever held me here on the edge of climax. Oh, and he will most definitely bring me to climax. I know he will. He's just waiting for the right moment – something that every man I've ever been with has overlooked.
Molly can feel this – all of it. Every little emotion – she can feel the meaning, the passion behind each and every one of his deep, vehement thrusts. Oh, and he means them. It's wordless and therefore carries little merit, but he means everything that his hips and eyes are communicating to hers.
"Christ, Molly," Sherlock grunts at a change of angle. He finds her g-spot, hitting it repeatedly, and each time he manages to hit it, it adds more to Molly's pleasure. Molly is clenching around him, left a writhing mess from the sensations. "Oh God," he grunts almost painfully. His hips smash to hers, pressed against her there for just a moment as he grinds his pelvis to hers with shallow, hard thrusts. Molly lies there helplessly, moaning as Sherlock kisses her neck, grinds into her clit, and hits her g-spot simultaneously. He does this over and over for what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, before he pulls back and pushes back into her, hard. He's snarling, gritting his teeth as his orgasm approaches. "Come with me, Molly."
His sensual voice is like a trigger, and as he resumes the grinding and the shallow thrusts from before, he brings her over the edge. He pulls back and pounds into her mercilessly as he sees her through the throes of her orgasm, revelling in the pulsing tightness surrounding his length. His thrusts lose their cadence before he slams into her one final time, roaring and crying out as he spills into the condom. He rides the aftershocks with his mouth hanging open and his eyes clenched shut, his body convulsing on its own accord.
When he collapses on top of Molly, he accepts her lazy, messy kisses before pulling out and disposing of the condom. With that out of the way, he returns to Molly's side, gesturing that they should get under the covers. He lies next to her, holding her to his chest and stroking her soft hair mindlessly.
"I think I'm..." Sherlock begins, clearing his throat. With more sureness, he continues. "I think I have feelings for you, Dr Hooper."
Molly looks up at his stoic visage, shocked by his nonchalant tone and his frankly blunt statement. "Well I'd bloody well hope so!" He looks to her, confused. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be in my bed, enjoying post-coital bliss after having life-altering sex."
He blinks at her. "That was redundant, Molly. And I'd never actually admitted to having those feelings. Not until now, of course."
She strokes his cheek. "I knew anyway. You didn't have to tell me."
There's a long pause before Sherlock begins musing aloud, "And to think – we were brought together in the end by our worst vices."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that." He looks to her questioningly. "The drug use isn't your worst vice. Not by a long shot."
"Oh, really? Then what, pray tell, is my worst vice?"
She ponders this for a moment. "You have quite a few, like recklessness, cruelty, seclusion, and blatant disregard for social customs. But your worst, I'd say, is your ignorance." Molly knows by now that Sherlock is hardly ever hurt by insults of this nature. She's just 'being honest.'
Sherlock considers her evaluation for a moment. "I didn't think of those."
"You were thinking of the tangible sort. You disregarded the ones that involve internal behaviours."
Sherlock regards her with awe – he continues to be impressed by her depth of thought, time and time again, just when he believes that she has nothing left to show him. That's a foolish notion, really. Molly's greatness is infinite. Sherlock sees that now.
"Well what about you? Is your, you know," he gestures to her scars, "your biggest vice?"
She gives him a steady look. "No, not exactly. I mean, I have other vices, too. There's the self-harm, chiefly, but there's also the social isolation, my love for dead things, and my inability to let go of things and people. The worst one – I think I now realise – is my self-hatred."
Sherlock makes a sort of hmph sound in agreement, nodding his head. "Now that, I concur with. It's a great hindrance in your achieving success."
Molly nods carefully. "I know. I do know." She feels sorrow creeping in; it's the worst kind – the stabbing-in-the-gut kind. "Hold on, I'm going to run to the loo. Don't you dare move, Mr Holmes." She points an accusing finger at him, smirking as she removes herself from the room to go use the toilet.
God, why did she have to leave him here on his own? Now all he can do is think, and that is just agonising. Downright painful is what it is.
She's right about me, isn't she? She said, "recklessness, cruelty, seclusion, and blatant disregard for social customs." That sounds about right, I suppose. But "ignorance?" That surely cannot be my greatest vice. Stubbornness, maybe. No, not even that. Maybe she's right. She probably is.
Especially when it comes to her own vices – "self-harm, social isolation, a love for dead things, and an inability to let go of things and people." That paints a pretty accurate picture of Molly's inner turmoil. But oh, she's very clever – even she can see that "self-hatred" is her biggest vice. Of course it is. But that is hardly going to change.
But then again, the same can be said for my ignorance, I suppose.
Maybe that's what makes them the worst vices of all.
When Molly returns to the bedroom, Sherlock asks, "What about our virtues?"
He wonders aloud if, given that their vices brought them together, does that mean that their virtues kept them apart? Molly regards him as if he's a toddler that just made a profoundly mature statement. But of course, the world isn't black and white. Just because one brought them together doesn't mean that the other pushed them apart. But really, those vices that they previously discussed – they were most definitely a catalyst, but were they really the thing that brought the two of them together, in the end?
Molly decides that, to answer this question, they must first evaluate their virtues.
Of course, neither Molly nor Sherlock can see their own virtues – they're much too busy being blinded by their self-hatred and their ignorance, respectively.
Sherlock isn't exactly quick to point out Molly's best qualities, but he finds it in himself somewhere to articulate what he sees in her: generosity, humility, forgiveness, and intelligence.
She looks stunned for a moment. "And my greatest virtue?"
"I'm working on that one. Give me a minute."
Of course, Molly sees right into Sherlock's heart – maybe not his head, but definitely his heart, and can easily find his greatest virtues: impeccable self-control and self-efficiency, musical talent, and endless curiosity.
"Your greatest virtue? Easy. You do not merely 'see' – you observe."
Sherlock clears his throat, his eyes wide. He stutters for a moment. "You – I've concluded what yours is – your greatest virtue, I mean."
"And? Care to share with the rest of the group?"
"It's..." he begins. "It's your capacity for love."
"Hello?"
"Hey, Molls – it's Mary. Is Sherlock with you by any chance?"
Molly hesitates. "Why?"
There's a sigh on the other end of the line. "Well, he doesn't have his phone on him, and for some outlandish reason, John has become a fugitive, and he's being hunted down by MI5. I've been told that it's somehow Moriarty's henchman's doing. Needless to say, we need Sherlock. So, now that I've explained myself – is Sherlock with you?"
Molly's eyes widen in shock and she's left speechless. She just hands her mobile to a half-awake Sherlock. Molly hears a cartoon-like voice coming from the phone's speaker, only able to make out Sherlock's half of the conversation.
"Oh, for god's – has anybody contacted Mycroft? […] Oh, how wonderful. […] Well, who? There must be some other competent people besides Lestrade to help! […] Are you kidding me? He lowers the IQ of the whole street! [...] Fine, I'll permit Donovan to tag along. [...] For now, take the handgun to Mrs Hudson for safe keeping, fetch us all some takeaway, and I'll meet you at the Yard in an hour."
He ends the call and hands the phone back to Molly. "Well?" she asks anxiously.
He frowns.
"Vatican Cameos."
Of course, one shouldn't assume that Molly and Sherlock will live happily ever after. There's no such thing in the real world. No, because in the real world, vices like theirs aren't so easily abolished. In the real world, relapse is an inevitable pit-stop on the road to recovery. And in the real world, one cannot depend solely on another person to save them from themselves.
Just because the key is around Sherlock's neck doesn't mean that Molly won't grow desperate enough to use another weapon on herself. It doesn't mean that she won't have to sate the Monster in her head. It doesn't mean that she won't find other self-destructive routes to quell the urges. It doesn't mean that she won't soon find solace in excessive alcohol and prescription pain medication.
And just because the key is around Molly's neck doesn't mean that Sherlock wont construct another kit for himself. It doesn't mean that he won't fall back into drugs every once in a while. It doesn't mean that he's invincible to the wrath and the frailty of Genius. It doesn't mean that he has cured himself of addiction.
But really, that's not the point. They cannot be each other's saviour. They cannot save the other person, no matter how much love they pour from their hearts. In the end, in real life, the only true way to recover from these vices is by addressing it oneself. With the help of one's virtues, recovery can be achieved. But, by the same token, that doesn't mean that a little help along the way should go amiss. After all, recovery is impossible without motivation. And though they cannot be each other's saviour, they can definitely be each other's motivation.
That's what's most important in the end, really – because what point is there in trying to live when one's heart is bereft of love?
So, no – it's foolish to say that Molly and Sherlock will live happily ever-after. There will be bumps along the way – some more damaging than others – and many tears will be shed. There will be pain, and there will be sorrow. But at the same time, there will be vast amounts of togetherness, compassion, and support while each of them fight their own personal demons.
The highlight of this story is not meant to tell of how destructive one's vices can truly be; rather, it's meant to show how much can be solved by discovering one's greatest virtues, and how sometimes, all that's needed to kick-start one's recovery is a warm, loving hand to hold.
A/N:
Oh, and I forgot to ask: how incredibly obvious is it that I'm actually American?
Thank you to everyone who saw this story to the very end! I hope you enjoyed it and found the end satisfying. I put a lot of myself into this and I really hope that it turned out well. I cannot express in words how much all of your encouraging comments have warmed my heart. It's amazing to know that not only is this story relatable to so many of you, but also that it's turning out exactly as I intended it to. Your support is what fuels me.
I'm almost positive that there will be a sequel of some kind, full of angst and feels and all that jazz. However, I'm not exactly sure what I want to do yet, and I refuse to write a sequel without any real substance just for the sake of writing a damned sequel. And on that note, I'm open to ideas/suggestions if any of you have any thoughts on where this story should go!
As always, I really love reviews; both criticism and praise is greatly appreciated, as it helps me to improve myself in the future. Thank you for reading!