Sorry for the slight delay in posting this chapter - it turns out you can get performance anxiety just *writing* about first-time sex! :-D
I don't think this chapter changes the overall rating, but I guess it tips slightly towards an M (just a mild warning!)...
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The next day brought him no resolution. In the background, his brother sent cryptic, irritating messages, hinting enigmatically at something that was clearly supposed to interest him. His mother sent him a text asking about his 'health' (subtext: 'are you on drugs again?'), John sent another one asking if there were any interesting cases on the horizon. He didn't respond to any of them.
Shortly before ten pm, he was outside Molly's front door. He hadn't rung the bell, and hesitated to use his key. She would hate him now, surely? He hadn't responded to her texts either, and she hadn't tried to contact him again.
He fumbled with his phone, his heart-rate building apace.
Can I come in? – SH
He quickly typed again.
Please.
Within seconds, the front door was opened and Molly was standing there in the same t-shirt and shorts, bare feet, her long hair wound into a bun. His breath hitched; she looked incredibly beautiful.
And there was no hatred in her eyes, no anger or resentment. Uncertainty, maybe.
"Hi," she said, softly.
"Hi," he replied, fixing her gaze with his.
The latch clicked shut behind him and they stood for a long moment, each waiting for the other. Slowly, Molly raised up her hand and gently took hold of his wrist, drawing him further into the house.
His brain now flooding with adrenaline, he lunged at her - there was no other way of putting it. Even while he was doing it, he cursed his inelegance, his inexperience. These things were easy to carefully choreograph when they didn't really matter, but now he was at the mercy of a higher force.
He kissed her hungrily, greedily, the voices in his head rejoicing in the fact that Molly was reciprocating, that the shock of his clumsy advances hadn't been too much. His restless, searching hands found her waist and he pulled her closer, every new sensation, every neuron igniting in his brain making him want more. He tried to dismiss the panic that swirled in the back of his mind, that he couldn't do this, that he would hurt Molly, that he would disappoint her, that their friendship would never recover.
Then Sherlock felt Molly's hand come to rest flat against his chest, against his heart, and he stilled. He didn't dare open his eyes, but when he was compelled to, she was waiting for him. Waiting for him to calm down, to regain some semblance of composure.
Too fast, he acknowledged, Let Molly take control.
"Sherlock...?"
He immediately understood every question that her tone implied. He bent his head so that his forehead could rest against hers, her hand still framing his heart.
"Yes," he replied.
"Come on," she whispered, lacing her fingers through his.
And then they were in her bedroom again, the door closing them off from the rest of the world and immediately making him feel safer, not so hopelessly out of his depth.
They stood facing each other, and Sherlock watched Molly slowly move towards him, her eyes on his the whole time – he knew she was looking for warning signs of his discomfort, and wanted to make sure she found none. She stopped in front of him, arching up on her toes and reaching up both hands to loop them around his neck; she drew his lips down to hers and led him in a slow, tender kiss. This time, when his hands found her waist, he was gentler, softly caressing her hips with his thumbs. She felt so small under his hands, but size had no bearing on strength, he knew.
As they kissed, one of Molly's hands left his shoulders and disappeared between them, popping open the button of his suit jacket. The hand then immediately moved to join her other, using both to slide his jacket from his shoulders; Sherlock shrugged out of the it the rest of the way without breaking their kiss, blindly depositing it close to where he knew there was a chair.
Molly's hands gently slid up his chest, and his own returned to her waist, drawing her a little closer this time.
"I've always liked this shirt," Molly smiled up at him, whispering.
For some reason, those words made him think about the seven years that had brought them to this point, and he felt himself smile. He toed out of his shoes, and as he did so, he noticed Molly's feet. More specifically, her painted toenails.
"The same shade," he said observed, Molly's smile confirming it. "It suits you. Very much."
"Thank you," she whispered, wriggling her toes, clearly a little pleased with herself. He was fairly certain her toenails hadn't been unpainted two nights ago.
They came together again, mouths exploring, testing, taking their time. Sherlock felt Molly's fingers come to rest on the top button of his shirt, staying there until she understood from him that this was okay. Slowly, she released one button, then the next, progressing until there was bare skin from neck to navel. Never before had he been undressed by another person – it put too much power in the other person's hands - but he found the experience of being undressed by Molly Hooper both tenderly caring and unutterably erotic. He felt himself growing hard in response, and he tugged the shirt out of his trousers just as Molly's hands slid up his sides to his chest, fingers gently skittering over all of his scars. She knew them all already, had treated so many of them; he was safe in her hands. Being bare to Molly wasn't frightening in the least.
She took his hand and walked them to the bed, climbing onto it and kneeling, waiting for him to join her. Sherlock felt his confidence beginning to return, every look and gesture from Molly building him back up. He reached for her, taking her face in his hand and kissing her again, changing the angle so he could taste her more deeply.
She responded enthusiastically, her hands moving over his biceps, his forearms, his stomach. Now almost achingly hard, Sherlock was already anticipating how it would feel to have Molly's body beneath his.
Her hands moved to the hem of her t-shirt, and Sherlock stopped her, sought her gaze. She nodded, smiling, and he carefully moved his hands up her sides, fingers grazing her skin as he worked the t-shirt over her head.
He swallowed hard.
He knew that she wasn't wearing a bra, but knowledge was one thing, and the visual was something else entirely.
And she wasn't shy - he was so pleased she wasn't shy with him, particularly after the cruel, unthinking words that still haunted him several years on.
"Molly..." he began.
His pulse thudded so hard in his ears, he could barely hear his own voice.
She was already coming to him, and to his surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug, her body flush with his. Sherlock was instantly reminded that before anything, they were friends.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, nuzzling his nose into her ear.
He knew a lot of big words, but he hoped she understood that this simple one came straight from his heart.
Molly's hand moved to cradle the back of his head, her fingers sliding from the nape of his neck into his curls. She pressed a kiss to his jawline.
"I think you're pretty nice, too," she said, and he felt her smile against his cheek.
She released him only for the time it took to straddle his lap, settling her knees on either side of his, watching him the whole time. She rested her hands on his shoulders, and Sherlock gave in to instinct, grasping her thighs and pulling her into him. Molly raised her eyebrows, bit down on a smile – apparently, both of them were surprised by the very obvious evidence of his readiness. Sherlock heard himself chuckle, and Molly buried her face in the crook of his neck to suppress a giggle. During days and weeks of agonising about this, he hadn't once contemplated the fact that it might be fun – that Molly Hooper would still be the same person in the bedroom.
"That all, um, seems quite in order," she said, eyes darting down to his lap before fixing him with a serious look, completely betrayed by the grin that was barely under wraps.
"Glad to hear it," Sherlock replied, with a quirk of a smile.
She started to kiss him again then, one hand cradling his face while the other held steady on his shoulder. Each kiss seemed to have the uniqueness of a fingerprint. Sherlock's own hands travelled from Molly's hips, up her sides, and he felt her brief, sharp intake of breath as his thumbs started to caress the undersides of her breasts. She murmured into his mouth, a hum of approval – she liked that; his touch was wanted. Almost immediately, he felt Molly's tongue sweep along his lips, seeking permission, and once he gave it, he was gone. Tongues and lips and hands took over, and where once he thought it would be too much, Sherlock found her couldn't get enough of it – enough of Molly.
With a growl that he barely recognized as his own, he dragged her further into his lap, but the friction was too delicious and the result was almost a sensation overload: there was a very real risk that he might not be able to stay the course. He could hear how quickly Molly's breath was coming now, too, feel her heart pounding against his chest.
Her lips moved away from his. Sherlock closed his eyes as Molly placed smaller, more delicate kisses on the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his brow: she was slowing them down. She slid from his lap, moving her hands to her hair to remove the pins and elastic, and Sherlock could only watch dumbly as it fell around her shoulders. He had never seen her like this – it felt like a new level of privilege.
He used the opportunity to scramble off the bed – he didn't care much for dignity at this point – and rid himself of his trousers (immediate relief) and socks. Molly had wriggled out of her pyjama shorts, revealing bee-patterned cotton briefs that somehow seemed so in character. She was waiting for him, backing up along the bed, her smile encouraging him to follow.
Very soon, Sherlock was exactly where he wanted to be, his hips cradled between the softness of Molly's thighs, his lips hovering above hers. Her fingers skated along his sides, caressed his stomach, never breaking eye contact with him. She felt so incredibly good, the press of her warmth against his erection exquisite beyond words.
As she went to kiss him again, he paused.
"Molly," he said, swallowing. "I…it's been a long time since…and never…not like this."
She nodded, looping her arms up around his neck.
"What I'm-" he started again. "…if it isn't good-"
"It already is," she replied, her face breaking into a beautiful smile.
Sherlock licked his lips, nodded, met her smile with one of his own.
He felt Molly's hand travel down the length of his body and – smiling wickedly at him – she brought it to land on his arse, giving him a generous squeeze through his pants.
"Sorry," she said with a gleam. "Bucket list."
He tilted his head, raised an eyebrow.
"Is that the extent of your bucket list?"
Molly bit her lip, and Sherlock could see the dilation of his own pupils reflected in hers.
"Not even close," she replied, smiling.
He leaned in to kiss Molly's shoulder, her neck, bracing his arms on the mattress at either side of her. He was pretty sure that it was he who was responsible for the low groan when the weight of his body brought them together more completely; he started to rock gently against her, feeling Molly match his every move, gripping him more tightly with her thighs. This would need to happen soon, or it might not happen at all.
Luckily, Sherlock was not alone in this thinking.
He felt Molly slide a hand between their bodies, and for the first time he felt her touch him, cupping him gently. Safe in her hands. All of you.
"Sorry it's a few weeks late," she whispered, smiling up at him. "You can cough if you like."
It took Sherlock a moment to make the connection – his brain definitely wasn't his most engaged organ at that moment – but then he snorted.
"I was in no fit state that day to make good on my overtures," he told her, genuinely surprised that he was able to get a coherent sentence out.
"Amazing the difference a few weeks can make," Molly smiled, caressing him.
It really, really was.
Sherlock brushed his nose against hers, marvelling at how every touch seemed to matter, seemed to bond them more closely.
"Sherlock…," Molly began, looking to catch his gaze. "Are…are you sure? Because if you're not, I-"
"Yes," he replied, keeping his eyes on hers. "Yes, Molly, I'm sure."
Bedroom etiquette really wasn't his area, but he needed to be certain beyond doubt.
"Are you?"
There was the briefest of pauses before Molly's face broke into a broad smile.
"'Course I'm bloody sure!" she said, moving both hands to frame his face.
Sherlock nodded, feeling his own smile break through the last residual atoms of anxiety. He dipped his head to place slow, reverential kisses on Molly's forehead, her cheek, her nose, before capturing her lips again.
Tonight, these four walls, and the beautiful, extraordinary woman there with him, were his world.
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There were so many things he shouldn't have done.
He shouldn't have let himself fall asleep in Molly Hooper's arms.
He shouldn't have accepted breakfast and eaten it in bed with her, both still in their underwear.
He shouldn't have initiated sex for the second time.
He shouldn't have let her kiss him when he left, or returned the kiss so fervently.
And those were just the headlines. Because, it turned out that he was exactly the reprehensible bastard that he thought he was.
The further he walked from Molly's flat, the more he was able to convince himself that it was the only thing to be done.
Because how could anything like this – anything that made him feel so good - possibly be sustainable? When he could barely navigate the peaks and pitfalls of friendship, how could he ever hope to give Molly enough, to be enough? He hadn't felt that way the previous night - when he'd told her he was sure, it hadn't been a conscious lie – but now it felt like self-delusion. She had too much faith in him, and the pain he would feel at letting her down, at being the cause of her disappointment…Sherlock knew he couldn't take it.
What happened was now consigned to history in Molly's house, and what lay ahead outside of that was what mattered, what had always mattered. There had been no agreement, no contract signed, no explicit statement of intent.
She sent him a text later that day, and he tried not to think of her thumbs hovering over the keypad as she tried to decide what would be appropriate.
Interesting GSW today. Flintlock pistol. Come by and see if you like – Mx
Molly was being cautious, trying to keep things casual.
He didn't reply.
Another one came through in the evening.
Home about 10. Too late for chips? - Mx
Again, he didn't reply.
Sherlock thought about blocking her number – it would have been easier than to have to see her name appear on his screen – but he couldn't bring himself.
He couldn't go to bed that night, terrified of how bereft he might feel. Everything, every part of him ached for her so badly – and this was one withdrawal that he would have to go through on his own, cold-turkey and out of sight of everyone who knew him.
And it was the most trivial thing that nearly made him break: a small, yellow hairband by the bathroom sink, left there when Molly was taking care of him.
The spontaneity and force of his own tears took him by surprise and left him gasping, gulping for air. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes to try to stem the tide, but his whole body shook – he couldn't live with this grief. Could he go back? Would she take him?
But then, in the middle of all this, his phone rang – John calling him. Just the sound – the interference of something from outside of his brain – snapped him out of it. He didn't take the call, but instead started to clean himself up, swiping at his cheeks with the sleeves of his jacket like a small child, trying to steady his breathing.
When the phone rang again seconds later, he answered, and in a frantic tone, John recounted having been attacked by a woman who claimed to be his sister. If ever Sherlock needed a distraction, the most colossal of all distractions had just crashed headlong into his path.
The last time he heard from Molly was when he checked his phone in Mycroft's car, on the way to the south coast, Sherrinford only a couple of hours away. It was a voicemail. Molly never left him voicemail messages; she knew better.
"Sherlock, it's me. Look, I just heard about your flat and what happened, and I…"
He heard her take a breath.
"God, Sherlock, I don't know what to say. I'm…I'm pleased, I'm so relieved you're alright...I've picked up Rosie from Mrs Hudson, because Mrs Hudson…she's pretty distraught; it's too much for her at the moment. Please…if John's with you, just…could you tell him so he doesn't worry? That's…that's all, really. Just…"
He heard a pause in the message, was afraid of what he might hear next.
"…just…that. Goodbye, Sherlock."
He wasn't sure why he didn't immediately delete the message; probably because Mycroft was eyeballing him from the seat opposite. But possibly because there was something in Molly's tone: resignation, acceptance – she was letting him go.
It should have been exactly what he wanted to hear, exactly the result he needed from this whole mess. And it should have spelt an end to everything.
But Eurus Holmes was just getting started.
