"All you have to do is breathe, and you seduce me." ― Grace Draven
Molly Hooper knew many things. It was in her nature to seek out the truths hidden within, the reasons behind the reason. Maybe that's why she was at first entranced and then enthralled by the self-styled Consulting Detective. Something about him appealed to her meticulous nature even though he seemed to be chaos incarnate at times. There was always a method to his madness but God help her if she could understand his purpose now. There was no reasonable explanation for this, for him, for everything.
Her thoughts were storm tossed winds the longer it went on. One corner of her muddled mind sorted and studied each action and reaction. How could he know? How could she ever tell him? Taut as a bowstring, she could feel every muscle, every nerve ending, every gasp attune itself to him and how he moved over her, around her, within her. His fingers splayed over her ribs…blood and bone responsive to each feather light brush of his hands. His lips grazed her cheek, her forehead, and her lips. Not kisses. Just simple exchanges of pressure and breath…pulling her in deeper, pushing her higher.
She found herself poised right on the edge…on the cusp of letting go and that's when everything changed.
Step 4: Conduct an Experiment. ...
Once he'd decided upon the details of his experiment, it then became necessary to put his plan into action. How to seduce a woman wasn't something he'd readily considered before now but there was a veritable fount of information to had if one knew where to look. That didn't mean that each agreed with the other; indeed, the whole subject was fraught with contradiction. So called experts with their weak grasp of true science declared an opinion only to abandon it as soon as a new trend became fashionable. His head ached at how tedious he found it. Best for him to trust in his own observations attained through his own experience through the use of his own senses. That and that alone could be trusted.
Sherlock fired off a text politely requested her presence that evening at 221B. To his exasperation, she didn't reply for ten point four seven minutes and when she deigned to answer, it was with a flurry of interrogative marks. Despite the convenience, he really did detest the inanity of this form of communication at times. He responded with something he knew would pique her interest….a soft little please (small letters and a ridiculously effusive font) and a pout emoji. As expected, she came back with a kiss face and I'll be there shortly. Six point seven seconds that time. Sherlock eyed off his mobile and resolved to conduct an experiment on which fonts and pictorial embellishments elicited the swiftest turnabout times. Surely John, Lestrade and a few others wouldn't mind participating.
That settled, he turned his attention to his preparations…things he to introduce throughout the evening to ascertain the optimal outcome. The first step, the easiest to his mind, was to construct a playlist of suitable music to accompany the evening. One that he particularly enjoyed was Tchaikovsky's Nocture in F. Another that Molly mentioned as a favorite of both her and her father was one he was unfamiliar with but found he quite enjoyed…Strangers on the Shore. Others, he selected at random after listening to the first few notes. Sherlock thought they blended well together and that Molly would appreciate his efforts.
The next task was to assemble his menu and it was here that he went to some trouble. Briefly, he considered texting Molly to see if she had any known food allergies but that would give the game away. A little assistance from Wiggins and he had soon had what he needed, the pertinent information from Molly's employee physical when she first came to Bart's. No known allergies. Well, then. That meant anything and everything was on the table as far as food choices. Fruits and cheeses and toast points prevailed. Honey and chocolate and cream whipped into delicate frothy peaks. He abstained from silverware, considering that there was a certain earthy satisfaction that comes with eating with your fingers and in feeding your partner. Part of him quailed at how very unhygienic the prospect was but another smaller, quieter part of him was properly fascinated.
A picnic begged for a blanket set in some out of the way location surrounded by grass and sky, a bit difficult to procure in the midst of Central London. Instead, he spread out and layered several duvets on the floor of his flat, including all the fluffy pillows and cushions that he could find, borrow or steal from Mrs. Hudson. Candles, low lights burning in discreet corners, and sprays of lilies and lilacs adorning the table tops rounded out his setting. It was then time to get himself ready.
Foregoing his usual dark jacket or even a dressing gown, he put on his favorite aubergine shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his top two buttons left undone and then donned a pair of close-fitting black trousers. His hair was left to fall in unruly waves over his forehead. Looking at his image in the mirror, he blew out a breath and blinked a few times until he had the nervous flutters in his stomach under control. The stage was set and the curtain lifted…all that remained was for the players to take their marks. She was due in just under ten minutes and his Molly was nothing if not ever punctual.
She was shocked and a bit charmed to hear Van Morrison's "Crazy Love" playing sweet and low as she ascended the stairs and found the door standing ajar. The light inside wavered and wobbled, as if made up of nothing but fire and moonlight. What in the world? Molly's jaw dropped when she pushed through the entry and found that was indeed the case. The air was filled with the subtle fragrance of flowers and beeswax candles, augmented by the all too familiar scent of his cologne. Covering her mouth with her hand to keep from gaping about like an idiot, Molly turned in a slow circle to make sure she missed nothing. It looked like paint by numbers scenes from a Hollywood production. He'd gone to so much trouble and apparently it was all for her benefit.
"You're here."
That deep voice had a way of cutting right through her; especially with all the contradictory thoughts running amok in her mind. His blue eyes…each pupil dotted with a tiny spark pulled from the candles scattered about…swept her from head to heel, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth and he came toward her. He was beautiful, his spare form edged in trembling gold…graceful and long limbed as he met her in the doorway and took her hand.
"I hope you're hungry."
"Famished," she confided, well aware that she hadn't eaten since early morning and that was only a pastry washed down by a cup of cold tea.
"Come, sit down." He led her to the closest pile of cushions and, after she sat, lowered himself down beside her and handed her a glass of white wine. She took a sip and laughed low in her throat at the flavor. Only he would do something so wonderfully unexpected as to choose a flower whose very essence was embodied in the wine. "What would you like? I wasn't sure so there's a bit of everything." Before she could speak, he picked up a plate and began to fill it. Molly contented herself to sip her wine, leaving it up to him. She raised a brow when he settled back down but twitched the plate out of her reach. "Allow me," he murmured as he picked up a toast point spread with caviar and held it up to her mouth. "There's crème fraiche if you'd prefer, or lemon. Maybe some egg?"
"This way is fine," she mumbled and then took a bite, the movement causing her to graze the tip of his fingers. Sparks danced up his arm and there was an accompanying shiver up his spine when her tongue licked a bit of the crème fraiche from her bottom lip. Hesitant, she picked up a wedge and held it before him, fighting to hold it steady as those blue, blue eyes flicked playfully up to hers before he took the food from her hand. He toyed with it…small little bites interspersed with kitten licks to his lips to savor the crème. The last was prefaced with a fleeting little kiss to her knuckle before he took the final bit. Those doe brown eyes were saucer wide as they studied him.
He smiled often as he watched her over the course of their meal. Her soft sigh at the tang of taleggio, apparently a favorite, was almost as precious as her wonderment when she tried prosciutto and fig presumably for the first time. Her gaze didn't waver from his when he finished each morsel he'd offered her. His own glass sat forgotten by his knee but he attentively kept hers topped off. In the background, The Scientist merged effortlessly into the opening eye strains of La Boheme's Che gelida manina 29.
Molly bit into a ripe peach and then giggled when the syrupy juice slicked her lips and then ran over her chin. She went to wipe it off but was stopped by his gentle grip on her wrist. He shook his head and then leaned in, using his free hand to daub most of it away. Without dropping his gaze, he licked the sticky liquid off his thumb before edging closer still to drop butterfly pecks on her chin and on the edges of her mouth. It was his turn to be surprised when she turned her head and captured his mouth fully.
Slender fingers threaded through his hair to hold him steady as she deepened the kiss. Lightning flickered in his veins when she rose to her knees and sidled closer until she was in his lap, her mouth moving hungrily against his and her low moans drowning out the music. His arms twined about her, one around her waist; the other, around her shoulders to keep her fully against him. His mind, usually racing in a thousand different directions…came to focus on her with an almost brutal intensity. He sorted through each and every sensation, every shift, every movement…the way she tasted, the silk satin feel of her hair, the slight weight that held him in place with more strength then he thought her capable. Oh but it was heaven…the way she moved.
Nimbly, she divested him of his shirt and then lifted her arms so that he could slide hers off and toss it aside. The rest swiftly followed…his trousers, her skirt, shoes kicked aside in their haste to get down to bare skin. China rattled, a wine glass thudded against wood as it was tipped off the blanket. Neither of them noticed. He relinquished her mouth only to slide down the velvet smooth column of her throat, pausing on the pulse point that fluttered like a wild thing. "Sherlock." How could she turn the two syllables of his name into an infinite? It beggared belief. There was no explanation other than that time itself had expanded around them…each second a lifetime, each lifetime a universe.
Rolling her onto her back, he settled into the cradle her thighs made, her legs ribboned around his hips. He then ascended her collarbone, nipping along the length until another more tempting target made itself known. "Oh my God." Her inarticulate prayer was a distant thing on the event horizon of his attention as he worried a pale pink tip between his thumb and forefinger before paying it homage with his mouth. She groaned her approval, fisting his curls to keep him there, her back bowed as shudders wracked her form. "Please. Now. Oh…oh…oh please don't make me…don't make me wait."
Never would her ever keep her waiting if it was in his control. Finding her lips, he kissed her slow and deep and loving as he fused them together. Her thoughts were storm tossed winds the longer it went on. One corner of her muddled mind sorted and studied each action and reaction. How could he know? How could she ever tell him? Taut as a bowstring, she could feel every muscle, every nerve ending, every gasp attune itself to him and how he moved over her, around her, within her. His fingers splayed over her ribs…blood and bone responsive to each feather light brush of his hands. His lips grazed her cheek, her forehead, and her lips. Not kisses. Just simple exchanges of pressure and breath…pulling her in deeper, pushing her higher. She found herself poised right on the edge…on the cusp of letting go and that's when everything changed.
"Molly." That his beloved voice was as tattered velvet didn't escape her notice. Nor was the way he shook against her, fighting with every fiber of his being to hold on, to wind it out. "Molly, my love, oh God." He slid one hand into the crook of her knee, lifting it higher on his hip to let him go deeper, find another angle that curled her toes...made her curse roundly under what breath she'd managed to drag into her laboring lungs. Again, his name slipped out of her…mushy, rounded, garbled bits of sound.
Molly, my love….
She opened her eyes and caught his…felt the first tremors course through her. Her nails bit into the small of his back as the wave crested, held, broke over them…surging like a restless tide does against the shore. He followed after, the bruising hold on her hips the only thing anchoring her to the earth as he gasped out her name and then said it again…those three little words. Those longed for; dreamed of, heart wrenching words. "I…I…love…you."
Who knew a heart could simultaneously shatter and piece itself back together all at once?
a/n There will be one more chapter to this whatever it is. Just for fun, the songs mentioned throughout are the ones I listened to while writing. That probably shows exactly how all over the place I was in my head during the process but hopefully…it works. Thanks bunches for reading.