A/N: You! Yes, you, reading my story! Thank you.
Also, please encourage other sherlolly fans to write. We need more fic!
In today's episode: some sexy, a moral dilemma, some humorous banter and some eek!
S&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS
Sherlock burst into the morgue. "Molly, I need…"
He stopped when he saw her.
She was beautiful.
She smiled at him with warmth and a hint of mischief. "You need what?" she whispered, walking over to him.
How could he even have considered fighting how she made him feel?
He didn't want to fight it.
The only way to rid oneself of temptation was to yield to it.
He was yielding.
"You," he whispered back, pulling her against him.
His mouth found hers, hot and demanding.
Moriarty was forgotten. Reason was forgotten.
He had to have her. Right there, right now.
He pulled away long enough to lock the doors and turn off the lights. The only glow in the room came from light through the small windows in the doors.
"Sherlock," she whispered.
He pulled her against him again, lips finding her neck and biting the tender flesh, and she moaned. He pulled her back to an autopsy table and gently eased her down onto it.
He stripped off her knickers, then freed himself from his trousers, as fast as his shaking hands would allow.
He moved to lie on top of her and she wrapped herself around him.
They both gasped as he entered her, slowly pushed into her.
He began moving with her, both of them sighing and moaning as arms and tongues and lips tangled.
He wanted more and more of her, couldn't assuage the drive growing in him fast enough.
She cried out his name softly, hoarsely, her entire body clamping down on his, her shaking and spasms too much for him to withstand. He moaned against her neck.
He was on the brink of exploding.
"Sherlock?"
He continued moving within her, not caring about anything else.
"Sherlock?"
Her saying his name excited him more, made him moan again. He wanted to unravel her, make her scream…
"SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock gasped and wrenched himself awake.
He discovered that he was sweating, heart pounding, pulse throbbing…
And that the world's only consulting detective had just had an orgasm in his sleep.
And John Watson was beating on his door.
"Sherlock! Answer me, are you okay?"
"Yes," he managed to gasp out. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure? You were moaning pretty loud…"
"I am FINE!" Sherlock all but shouted.
"All right, all right," John answered. Sherlock heard his footsteps retreat, heard John mutter "some people are so tetchy… not naming any names, mind…"
After John left, as Sherlock's heartbeat began to stabilize, his eyes widened in amazement.
He hadn't had a nocturnal orgasm since he was a teenager.
He tentatively reached down and slipped a hand inside his pajama bottoms.
Yes, no mistaking it. Orgasm. He was wet and slick and a musky sweet odor rose to his nostrils.
Bloody hell.
Thirty-seven years old and having a… what did most people call them? Oh, yes: a wet dream.
It was an apt description.
The insane thing was, just remembering the dream made him impossibly start to harden again.
His fingers twitched where he was touching himself.
His heart was trying to decide whether or not to speed up.
It would be so easy. He was already a mess thanks to the dream: what difference would a little more make?
He was supposed to be learning about sex. Wasn't he going to be having sex with Molly that very next night? Why not learn a bit about his body now, before that happened? Moriarty was making him do it all. None of it was under his control. Why struggle against it? Why not let himself go, yield to the urge, experience the hunger and pleasure of the flesh?
His fingers trembled. His entire body trembled. He was nearly hard and very hot and it hurt and he didn't want to hurt.
It would be so easy.
No.
He couldn't.
If he did this now, he was letting Moriarty win on an entirely different level.
He knew what he was going to have to do with Molly. That was one thing.
But to let himself fall into this particular abyss would be crossing a line that Sherlock did not want to cross.
His suspicions had been confirmed to an extent. He'd learn the full truth when he got to the lab and analyzed the chocolates.
He gently withdrew his hand and just lay in bed getting himself under control as much as possible. His indulgence last night had definitely kicked things up a notch. More than one, actually. And he was going to see Molly for real later. And he had to eat more chocolates this morning. And his body was still aching and he didn't know how long he could stand it.
The phone seemed to be mocking him even though it was silent.
"No," he snapped at it.
There was only one thing for it.
Sherlock got out of bed and went to take a shower.
A very cold shower.
When he got out and dressed and went into the living room, he heard John in the kitchen cooking.
His phone beeped. Text.
Saving yourself for your girlfriend, fuzzy lumpkin? Soooo adorable.
He snapped the phone shut and curled up on the sofa to think.
John Watson had known Sherlock Holmes for nearly three years.
In all that time, with the exception of Irene Adler, Sherlock had shown no sexual interest in anyone, of any sort.
John had, at one insane point at the pool when they'd first encountered Moriarty, had the horrible, crazy urge to tell Sherlock and Moriarty that one of them should climb on top of the other and get it over with.
This was completely different.
Now here Sherlock was dating Molly, doing…. something with Molly, and...well. Either Sherlock had had a wet dream or he'd been beating one off. And maybe he was being forced to be involved with Molly somehow, but John didn't think what he'd heard earlier was because of coercion.
After walking away from Sherlock's door, John had figured out exactly what that moaning sounded like. He was no Sherlock Holmes, but he knew the sounds of sex when he heard them.
It was embarrassing. But amusing.
And crazy.
What did one do, exactly, after hearing one's best friend and formerly asexual flatmate moaning like that?
Apparently, if one was John Watson, and the flatmate was Sherlock Holmes, you started cooking breakfast.
Breakfast was a quiet affair, with Sherlock scanning headlines for any further signs of Kitty Riley snooping and John trying to decide whether or not to say anything about, well, anything.
Finally he couldn't take it any longer.
"Sherlock, are you okay?"
Sherlock blinked. "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well you've been a bit…"
"Tetchy, I believe is the word you've used twice now?"
"Yes, that, and…"
"And what?" Sherlock's voice was soft but his eyes said I don't think you'll do it.
"Nothing," John replied.
Silence.
"I mean, there's nothing wrong with it," John began, and Sherlock groaned.
"It's perfectly normal to have a sex drive," John continued.
"Thank you, John, now I won't lie awake sleepless again tonight agonizing over that," Sherlock said.
"I just don't want you to be embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed. If anyone is embarrassed, it's you."
"Me? I'm not embarrassed."
"Good. Now could we please stop having this discussion?"
"Of course," John said agreeably.
"Fine."
Silence.
"I could give you a couple of websites if you want…"
Sherlock flung the paper down and glowered before stomping off.
"You're welcome for the breakfast!" John called after him.
Silence.
John grinned. Teasing Sherlock about sex was wrong, maybe, but it was so much fun.
Molly had finished her first autopsy and was about to start her second one.
She pulled the man out and removed the covering.
She looked down at his body.
It took everything in her not to scream.
When she was able to think again, she called Lestrade.
Then she sent Sherlock a text.
This man was an ex-boyfriend from about five years ago.
And he had "S&M" carved in his chest.
Right above his heart.
Molly didn't have to be Sherlock to know it was a clue.
A very bad clue.