I was going to wait 'til tomorrow, but I just can't wait!

Hello, my yummy, lovely followers and readers and fellow inhabitants of the world! I love you so much - I kiss you all. Yes YOU, I put my cyberlips on yours and . . . You get the picture - Thanks so much for checking out the latest installment - Very mild BDSM, het so far, sex, nakedness, self love . . . now I've said too much . . .

Aubergine Tie

Sherlock woke with a start, his back arching, lifting his face up with a jerk – no, no, no he thought, the case was finished, all finished. No need to wake. No need to move. He let his head fall back into he pillow. The niceties were all wrapped up the night before. Plenty of other idiots for Lestrade to assign to do all that paperwork. Thank god he never had to. He could have a bit of a lie in if no one bothered him. He closed his eyes again. This one had been a particularly wearying and uninteresting case that he was forced to work on by and with Mycroft. Political intrigue: boring. And his brother had forbidden him to allow John to assist, which was extremely inconvenient. He was also forbidden to even speak of the case to anyone until after it was through, which he could tell was creating some hard feelings, and misunderstandings with John and Molly, but particularly with John. He would have to take care of that today.

But it had been quite a difficult case, if not elegant, so there was a certain satisfaction when it was completed. Nothing interesting, though, no sparklingly brilliant evil mastermind at the center of it. In fact, it basically came down to numbers and bank accounts, grubby little mean spirited bean counters and air traffic control. Very uninspiring.

Sherlock stretched. How to amuse oneself today? He sighed and looked at the clock his vision still slightly fuzzy from sleep. 5:15. Hmm. Ante or post? he wondered, without bothering to check the clock again, and grabbing a dressing gown from a chair, he sauntered into the sitting area with absolutely no plan of what to do once he'd gotten there.

"Well, hello, bright eyes, feeling better?" John was clinking something around in the kitchen, and Sherlock's mood brightened immediately.

"John, you're here, good. Please allow me to explain - I - I was on a case, you must have known, surely – I've been on this case of Mycroft's for . ."

"Yes, I know, the air traffic money case. Mycroft rang me earlier. Explained things. Your absence and your – more than usual reticence with me and Molly. So, all's well, ok? Molly is mollified -

"Good lord, John."

"Haha, over that little spat you two had the other day? And I – well – you know, I'm fine, now that I know. God you're an idiot. Um, you know you might have just texted something along the lines of 'case, explain later,' and left me to figure it out - was getting a little worried."

"Yes, I might have done. I really should have but – ah - I was quite, bogged down, if not absorbed in it."

"Sounds really boring."

"Agh, it was. And having to work with Mycroft every day was absolutely – it was exactly like being back in the nursery with mummy around the corner and I - Um, oh, what -?" Sherlock was stopped by the sight of John, as he rounded out of the kitchen holding two glasses. Besides repressing a smile, the doctor seemed to have a fresh haircut, was wearing a rather new looking suit coat and matching trousers, and a silk bow tie. His shoes were spotlessly shined, and the cufflinks – well, John was wearing cufflinks. After a moment, Sherlock was a bit crestfallen. John and Molly clearly had plans for the evening. Wait, was it evening? And he had been hoping to, that is, hoping to have some time with - to – um. How long had it been?

"You and Molly must be going out," Sherlock threw himself into his chair, and sulked for a moment.

"No, no, nothing like that, but she is – ah, coming," John said with a twinkle. "She's on her way. Here." John winked and proffered one of the glasses with a smile. "Cognac?"

"Oh, thank you. I think I will, just the thing," said Sherlock, accepting the glass and rearranged himself in his chair in a more attentive attitude. He sniffed the glass of amber coloured liquid. Very nice. John had reached for the top shelf for this, he thought.

"Well, John you certainly look very pretty this evening. Oh – um- is it evening?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded.

"Anyway, what's that one's name? Daniel Craig had better have a care...?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow. Had he gotten in a complimentary joke properly, or would he offend? John laughed and reddened slightly. He took his own chair, sipping his drink. Sherlock took his first sip as well.

When the first sip of alcohol hit his system Sherlock found himself suddenly wide awake and almost fully himself after the uncharacteristically long sleep he'd just had. While John smiled at him, waiting, Sherlock took in the room quickly and carefully for the first time. John and Molly must have been very busy in his absence as the room, and indeed the whole flat, had been cleaned within an inch of its life, and the floor seemed to have been polished. Rugs were newly cleaned. There was a fire in the fireplace, and the mantel had been thoroughly cleaned and cleared except for the skull, the knife and a couple of candle sticks which burned, having been only recently lit.

The coffee table had been cleared and scoured and on it there was what must be a glass of water and a small plate of Sherlock's favourite sandwiches. Cucumber. With the crusts off. How utterly embarrassing that John had found this out. Blast Mycroft's telling Mrs. Hudson. Blast Mrs Hudson and her incessant provision of delightful snacks and other food. Of course it was his own fault that John had seen the sandwiches in the fridge that day. He should have eaten them all, taken them with him, or thrown them out that same day. But Sherlock couldn't bear to, they were so tasty. He continued to take in the room, the leather sofa gleamed. What had they done to it? Sherlock smiled. What's the game? he wondered. But realized this was to be something a little out of the ordinary. He tried to let go of any preconceived notions of what might be afoot. He actually attempted to cease to deduce it, and to simply remain, what was that idiotic phrase? In the moment. Yes, he realized, he was ceasing to deduce it – for the fun of the surprise. It was extremely difficult, he found.

"When is Molly due?" Sherlock tried to sound casual.

"Ahaha," John chuckled softly, leaning his head to one side. "Soon, don't worry." He paused, now grinning broadly at his friend. "We – uh, wanted to make sure you'd had enough rest after you got home. Um- I suspect you haven't eaten anything for about," he looked at his watch, "Two days? so I suggest you eat a little something, before that drink hits you too hard, hmm? That's right, go ahead. No, no, I've had what I need for now, thanks. I'd like you to finish them all, but if you can't, do try to eat some of it."

"Just as you say - it has been a while," said Sherlock. He had picked up the plate of sandwiches from the coffee table and was trying to maintain some dignity as he ate rather quickly.

"Plenty of time for you to eat that, ok? Plenty of time," John continued. "And there's plenty of time for a shower, if you'd like, hmm? Might be nice?" A question that wasn't a question.

"Of course," Sherlock half rose from his chair as if he might take the plate of sandwiches into the shower with him.

"Ah, ah, plenty of time, relax." John had risen from his seat and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, guiding him back to his chair and lingering for a moment. "We were beginning to wonder when we'd see you again, you know."

"I – John, yes it's - very agreeable - to see you. So, Molly's no longer - cross with me?" Sherlock asked lowly, making eye contact with his friend.

"No, not at all." John smiled and dipped his head, as he ambled toward Sherlock's room.

"Oh, and try to drink a little water, too, don't want to get dehydrated. I'll be right back. Oh, I'm just setting out a few things for you, just suggestions, nothing in stone. Eat. Don't forget a little water."

Sherlock finished the sandwiches and drank almost all the water. He looked at the empty plate he still held, then set it down, and quickly made for the shower. He sensed that John had scheduled the evening's activities according to his, Sherlock's readiness, and he didn't want to be an ungrateful, slow or awkward guest. It was very liberating, Sherlock reflected again, allowing John to set the tone, lead the way. It was refreshing, freeing. Someone else, someone else to take the reigns – to look to – and someone he trusted - besides always himself. But this all seemed so uncharacteristic of John. Sherlock wondered how much Molly might have to do with these – interludes.

John knocked on the door and poked his head into the bathroom, averting his eyes.

"Take it easy, ok? – no rush. Try to enjoy the – you know. Antici. Pation."

"I am enjoying it, I assure you," Sherlock answered, stripping off his clothes, and with that he turned on the shower, waited for the water to heat up and stepped in. He lathered up some shower gel immediately and took his now almost completely hard erection in his hand and quickly gave himself the release he'd needed almost from the moment he'd seen that John was in the flat.

Showered, with teeth cleaned, and feeling a little less anxious, Sherlock re-entered his bedroom and put on what John had set out. Merely a black suit coat and trousers, and his aubergine shirt, something he might have chosen on his own, but he put the items on with care in any case. The belt was one he hadn't worn in ages. Why this belt? He wondered. The buckle was too big, aesthetically, he thought. Do as he directs. A small voice in his head suggested. He paused, on the verge of rebellion, but then put it on. What sort of rebellion is a rebellion against a particular belt? He thought. He stepped into the sitting room again where John was poking at the fire.

"Ah," the doctor said, seeing him there, "Very nice." Here Sherlock noted that John very deliberately looked at the belt and nodded approvingly, but made no comment. John came over to a side table where Sherlock was standing and reached around him, invading his space a little. He picked up a small blue gift box, and set it closer to Sherlock's hand on the table. John tapped the box, still holding it, and then left it.

"Small gift."

"How touching," Sherlock said, trying his hardest to be remain cool. His expression became quizzical, however, when he looked at the box. "A tie, John? Really, you know I don't wear them."

"Gift's not just for you."

"Ah, I beg your pardon," said Sherlock but he made no move for the box.

Now, John, wondered, will he put on the bleeding bloody tie under his own steam, or do I have to strangle him with it? he thought. Instead, however he said,

"You do know how to tie a tie, right? Or, of course, I could help you . . ." John had picked up some psychology along the way, naturally.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said Sherlock, picking up the box. Really, he thought, does John have to play that stupid psychology trick on me all the time? My god, does he think it works?

"Won't be on for long, in any case, you know." John smiled marginally.

"No, I –" Sherlock dipped his head. Embarrassed? How could he be? – well, it had been weeks since they had all—wait, months?

"John," he asked, taking out the tie, "How long has it been since I – that is since we – how long have I been – "

"It's been about three months, Sherlock."

The detective's stomach churned and wrenched as the concrete tally of those days and weeks stretched out, filling his mind with images of the events that had taken place during the case. During this length of time he'd only come to the flat once in a while when he was waiting for information, or a development in the case. Even though John and Molly only lived down the street he'd rarely seen either of them. He couldn't bring any evidence, any information with him and had to do all his research and work in the Mycroft-provided offices and locations that he barely remembered now, so there was no point in coming to Baker Street. His existence had been one of office buildings. Tall glass walls, off-white corridors. Rows of cubicles filled with imbeciles doing tiny pieces of tiny research. He'd caught cat naps on office sofas. Hardly a breath of fresh air. But how had he let go of the passage of so much time without any awareness of it? It was a more than a little staggering. But he'd never before wondered how he'd spent so long on a case. Any time spent on a case was time well spent. And he'd never before questioned it. When had this changed? Was this the longest case? It had been long, but not the longest, not by a long shot. But still, how had this happened? Three months without spending any time with John. Molly.

"How -?" he said, frozen in place, leaning over the gift box, with the tie in his hand as the realization of how much time had passed was still hitting him. John looked at him with some concern.

"It's all right," he said, It's over now, you're here. Hey," and here John put his hand on his friend's shoulder, then, stroked and patted his back. He was gratified to feel Sherlock relax almost at once, and straighten up with a deep breath.

Emotionalism. It won't leave me alone. It's because of those 18 months of isolation and constant danger after St. Bart's. I need to get a hold of myself. Then, Sherlock saw the tie in his hand, and immediately felt his aversion to the object. But he remembered what the evening might have in store, John's and Molly's presence and involvement. This isn't Mummy dressing me for the opera, he thought. Just put on the bloody tie. He took in the tie. While it wasn't a particularly fine piece of work, it was the least possibly offensive tie, Sherlock mused, as it exactly matched the color of his shirt, and was a simple solid silk. He tied it briskly and expertly, only stretching his neck in irritation once or twice. Or maybe three times.

"Thank you. Hmmm. Windsor. Very nice." John was again quite close to the taller man, and Sherlock could smell his aftershave or was it his soap? Mercifully, Sherlock noticed, John had left off wearing cologne. Every detail. Their eyes locked.

"Yes, Windsor. You know your knots." Sherlock said. John smiled and reddened somewhat.

"Well, I've had occasion to – tie knots - from time to time. Army. You know." John smoothed the tie briefly with his fingers. "Good," he said, tapped the tie twice, and turned to the coffee table, and picked up his own cognac, and Sherlock followed suit.

"Almost there. So. A toast to your finishing the case all on your own and with Mycoft to answer to? Congratulations on being out of it. I know it must have been rather tedious for you."

Sherlock regarded his friend. It was at moments like these that John's self-deprecation and gentle kindness almost overwhelmed Sherlock. His ordeal during his absence after his leap from St. Bart's had definitely changed him, he knew. What to say? How to proceed? He wasn't facile any longer with aloof off-putting comments, though he managed, he thought, to keep up appearances. And the combination of his own gratitude and John and Molly's ever increasing generosities and kindnesses were getting harder and harder to - He tried to form what would be an appropriate response to John's toast.

"Thank you, John. I really could have used your help. I wish you had been - To the case, then. Thank you. You're – you're very kind." John took in the tone of Sherlock's response before sipping his cognac.

"Ah, ah, ah – don't get all senti on me, now, hmm? I love it, don't get me wrong, you're adorable when you do that, lately."

Sherlock looked at him. Adorable? He thought.

John continued, "But right now we're looking for that aloof prick we all know and love, hmm?"

John crossed the short distance between them again and lowered his voice, taking the taller man's upper arm with a light grip. "That's what we like to – um – break down a bit, hmm? I think you do too, yes?" He looked into Sherlock's face, but Sherlock averted his gaze.

"I don't know what you're talking about, John." Sherlock's back stiffened, and he looked back at his friend with a mask of studied casualness. John was put off at first but then smiled.

"Ahh, yes, that's better. Oh, you had me, there, you bastard, and this is supposed to be my game. Haha." Sherlock smiled. John chuckled again.

"Good, good. Game face for Molly. Oh, she's here."

She must have been standing in the hallway listening to their whole conversation, for exactly on cue she stepped into the room.

It was like the theatre. Even Sherlock had enjoyed the theatre as a child. The lights, the colors, the beauties to be enjoyed, both tangible and ethereal. The mysteries. Molly was dressed in a deep red strapless ball gown with ruching that spilled what seemed to be yards of fabric onto the floor. She wore long black gloves, a sparkling necklace and earrings. Her hair was simply but elegantly swept up, and her make-up seemed to be nothing more than some eye shadow, mascara and a deep shade of lipstick that matched her dress. Genuine Hollywood diva. The two men took in the view for several long moments as Molly smiled at them, unselfconscious, content to stand where she was just inside the door arms relaxed at her sides.

"Have a seat, Sherlock," John said, but before he turned to Molly, he added sotto voce,

"Oh, and, when we- that is when we get to it, if you will, try to remove as little clothing as possible, all right? That's what she likes,um -for this, hmm? And lastly, I suppose you know what a safeword is, and what it's for?"

"Yes, but good lord, John, what are you – "

"Shhh. Good. Tonight the word is cascade. Don't be frightened, it's very mild." John winked, and walked over to Molly.

What? Sherlock considered being frightened for a moment, but then bristled slightly at the word. But then John and Molly approached and the moment was over.

Sherlock did as he was directed, taking his chair without another word. What in the world did they have planned? Sherlock continued to be fascinated to be the silent one, the one who would be the last to know. And John seemed very much in command. Captain had been his rank, Sherlock recalled.

He watched as John took Molly in his arms and kissed her neck hungrily. He pulled her waist closely to him, and his hand at her breast, he squeezed her somewhat greedily. He whispered urgently into her ear, biting and kissing her neck for some minutes, and then finally released her, still composed and unmussed, while John himself looked quite agitated for a moment. He took a deep breath, and held his hand out for her, leading her half way to the men's two chairs, and then let her go, and took his seat. The two men took another sip of their drinks.

Molly slowly approached the two chairs, keeping her eyes on Sherlock. She stood directly in front of him, finally, and held his gaze.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it? All this . . . and so many women do it. Not all this, of course, not all the time, but you know, all the things that women do. The shoes, the lipstick. The shaving. What do you think?"

"Of the dress? The outfit and you in it?" Sherlock cocked his head. "It's very transforming. I know there's a kind of power for some in wearing this kind of thing."

"Yes," she said, "And so many women know how to use it. How to act, how to wield that power. And it's a real kind of power, of course. We've seen it throughout the ages. John, may I have a drink?"

"Of course, so sorry," John dashed off to the kitchen.

"But what about me in the dress? Is there anything in it?"

"Turn around. Slowly, if you don't mind," said Sherlock. And Molly complied slowly, gracefully, but without turning the action into some ironic comment.

"Here, my darling." John handed Molly a cognac.

"I was just asking Sherlock what he though of me in the dress. Is there any power in the dress for me to wield, in the way that so many can and do so successfully?

Sherlock swallowed hard. It was undeniable.

"Oh, yes, Molly, there is."

"Really? But I'm standing in front of you talking normally, yes? I'm just being myself. Is it the male imagination? John?"

"Perhaps." John maintained his smile. "You do look stunning in it, darling."

"Goodness, if that's all it is – and why wouldn't it be? - I wonder – then everything is so simple, isn't it? Everything should be so simple. But I think you have to learn these things. These behaviors, from others, from other women. I didn't have that, and then I learned that I wasn't interested in those things, anyway."

"I'm not sure that's entirely true," said Sherlock.

"No, perhaps not," she said. She paused and then turned to John.

"More?" she asked, "more of the dress?"

"I don't think so," John answered. "Sherlock?"

Molly held out a hand to Sherlock who put down his glass and stood up. Is this allowed? He wondered. She put her arms around his neck, and turned her head with a smile, allowing him to scent her neck. He put his arms around her and drew her to him, feeling the texture of the silk, feeling the coarse skin of his fingers snagging the tiny fibers, hearing the crinkle of the paper like fabric. He took one of her arms and ran his hand along the glove, extended her arm out, and brought her hand to his mouth to kiss. He smelled her hair, kissed her ear, then looked at John.

"Zipper?" asked John. "But I think that will be all, yes? She can manage the rest on her own."

Sherlock reached behind Molly as she looked up into his eyes smiling. He found the zipper, and slowly worked it down her back as he held her gaze. When he finished, he touched her cheek and traced her lips with his fingers. He was dying to kiss those lips, but sensed that this was not yet allowed. Molly smiled and backed away and Sherlock sat back down in his chair.

"It's not a striptease, remember, Molly." John cautioned.

"Of course not, I know what it is," she said over her shoulder to John. "It's just normal Molly, taking off her abnormal dress."

She stepped away from Sherlock and stripped off one glove, then the other, simply, and placed them on the coffee table. Earrings and necklace were next. Then she shrugged her way out of the dress, which fell around her feet in a heap and she stepped out of it, picked it up, and put it out of the way. She stood a moment, now bare to the waist before Sherlock, before continuing. His breathing hitched at the sight of her, and he tried his best to control himself. She bent down straight legged and unbuckled her shoes and stepped out of them, coffee table. Then she rolled her stockings down to her feet, and disposed of them, too. She whisked off her pants, and tossed them to Sherlock who held them briefly with a smile, and then tossed them to the coffee table with the rest.

"Molly," John warned, smiling.

"Sorry, couldn't resist."

She was naked now, and began to take down her hair. It was a somewhat long process, there seemed to be about a thousand bobby pins, but finally her hair was shaken out, almost waist length, practically obscuring her breasts from view.

"Here, darling," offered John, holding out a handkerchief.

"But I'll spoil it with the lipstick, John, dear."

"It's all right, love, do take it off, hmm?"

Molly took the cloth from John, and wiped her mouth clean.

"What about now? Sherlock? What do you think of me now, out of the dress? Is there any power left for me? To wield?"

"Oh, yes, Molly."

"Really? It's as if I weren't aware of it somehow."

"You're aware of it, or you wouldn't be asking me."

"Hmm. Of course you're right. Obviously. Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it. Thank you." She smiled.

"Darling, that's enough, go welcome Sherlock home properly."

Molly stepped forward and sank, naked, into Sherlock's fully clothed lap with a purr of contentment.

"We missed you so," she said kissing him on the mouth slowly, waiting for him to respond. He let himself sink into the feeling of her, wrapping his arms around her gratefully. He stroked her flank, hip and leg, deepening the kiss, moaning into her mouth. He gripped her bottom, and then made to delve a hand between her legs when John coughed.

"Oh, uh, not quite yet, I think, hmm? Soon, I promise. Molly, darling- tie?"

"Oh, of course. Sherlock, what a lovely tie. Thank you so much for wearing one tonight."

"A pleasure." What was with the tie?

"And what a lovely color, it exactly matches our favourite of your shirts. May I take it off? The tie?"

"Yes, of course, please do."

Here, Molly giggled slightly and loosened the tie, and as she did so, kissed him again, this time even more deeply, but when she whisked the tie out from under his shirt collar, she broke away. She looked in his eyes, with a twinkle and stroked his cheek. Then she was up and out of his arms. Sherlock watched as she handed the tie to John, and then sank into his lap. They kissed and stroked one another's faces, whispering things to one another, and then John asked her.

"Are you ready?"

Molly nodded, and rose from John's lap.

She was unsmiling as she returned to face Sherlock, and knelt before him, her knees wide. She shook her hair out, letting it fall where it would, long and lovely around her shoulders, covering her here and there, but not obscuring Sherlock's view of her. She avoided Sherlock's eyes, and ran her hands up and down her sides, and clutched her breasts, squeezing them, offering them. Then, Sherlock with a mounting tension, watched as she reached one of her hands between her legs and parted her folds there. She pushed two fingers deep inside herself, then rubbed herself slowly, still clutching at her breast with her other hand. Now she lifted her gaze to Sherlock's and their eyes locked as she continued to rub herself between her legs.

Sherlock licked his lips, and tried to maintain his calm, as Molly smiled with a wicked twinkle, then leaned her head back and slowly dropped back to the floor, spreading her legs to his view. How did she manage to drop back like that? She must have some kind of gymnastic training, thought Sherlock. She popped her knees out from under her one at a time, and now, with her legs quite fully spread to his view, flat on her back with her knees bent, she continued her attentions to a particular spot between her legs. Now her other hand trailed down her body, and she pressed two and then three fingers deep inside herself, pressing, and then thrusting harder and harder. She started to vocalize a bit, just slightly, but Sherlock could hear her speak John's name here and there with her other lovely mewings and 'ahs,' and 'ohs.'

"Ok," John said quietly, and Molly stopped but continued to moan and writhe on the floor in frustration. Sherlock glanced at John, and then refixed on Molly.

"All right, go ahead," said John softly, and Molly continued her rubbing, and occasional thrusting.

"You should make yourself comfortable, Sherlock," said John, unclasping his belt buckle, and taking out his cock, stroking slowly. "It generally takes a little while, but you don't want to go first, hmm? You'll wait 'til she's done, won't you?" Sherlock adjusted himself to be more comfortable, but didn't open his belt buckle. Molly continued to rub herself, now slowly and languidly, now more quickly and frenetically, trying to find her rhythm.

"Ok," said John again.

"John, oh, god, no, John, I'm getting close -, please, let me go . . ."

"I know you're getting close, darling, that's why we're asking you to stop, hmm?"

"Mmmmmmmm, pleeeeeeze, darling?"

"All right, go ahead," he said, and she continued, now looking up at Sherlock.

"Do you like it? Do you like what you see?" She asked.

"Now, that's not fair, darling, that's not according to the rules." Molly continued to smile, but held her tongue.

After some time watching Molly almost come undone, and then being thwarted by John, Molly seemed to be quite near the end of her rope. She was really thrusting hard, now and Sherlock thought John might let her finish. She was whimpering and keening, and almost finished, he was sure, when John said,

"Ok," again.

"Mmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm," was Molly's urgent response, complete with tears, her hands flying to her head, gripping her hair.

"Jesus, John." Sherlock breathed.

"She's dazzling, isn't she? All right, go ahead, you can finish, now darling, I won't stop you again."

Molly redoubled her efforts. Her hands, Sherlock saw were slick with her own juices, and she had to continuously wipe her hands off on her thighs, so she could get some kind of friction. Finally, she was close again, and started her keening, but then opened her eyes, and looking at Sherlock, started to beg,

"Please, please, please fuck me, Sherlock, please do it, please, now, please?"

"Ah, ah. Cheating. That would be cheating, Come for us Molly, please?" John said.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.

"Come for me, Molly, please come for me, hmm? You're so beautiful, so lovely, so lovely, lovely, lovely Molly."

"Mmmmppphhhhh –!" Her release was loud and long. She shrieked at first, and then rode out the last waves of her pleasure while grunting guttural sounds Sherlock had never heard elicit from her before. With the last wave of her orgasm, Molly's arched back flattened onto the floor with an audible whap, and as she lay there, John went to her.

"You were magnificent, sweetheart, so lovely, so lovely, so generous to include us, thank you, thank you so much, my love." He petted her, holding her head and shoulders in his lap, kissing her and smoothing her hair. She opened her eyes and smiled at Sherlock.

"You're quite a vision," said Sherlock looking down at Molly, swallowing the lump in his throat. He smiled and licked his lips. Her legs were spread wide before him, and she spread them further, and lifted and bent her knees up, as she looked at him. Her cunt was visibly wet even in the darkening room. Her face and chest were deeply flushed, her hair in disarray and in her face.

"Yes, she is," said John, retrieving Sherlock's tie from the chair. "A vision."

"What about now, Sherlock? Any power for me to wield?" Molly's voice was deep and husky. There was no trace of the unapproachable woman in the ball gown of earlier. In her stead was an earthy goddess of the soil, a Venus of debauchery and fertility before him. A complete transformation.

"Oh, god, Molly," Was all he managed.

Now holding the tie, John made a slip knot with the center of the it and bound Molly's wrists together loosely so she could move her wrists about but couldn't pull away.

"All right?" He asked, and she whispered her assent with a nod.

He wrapped the other end of the doubled tie around his hand and pulled her arms out, over her head, stretching her out on the floor before Sherlock, as she spread her legs even farther apart for him, bending at the knee. John sat at the edge of his chair holding the tie, Molly's arms stretched above her head along the floor suspended in the air. Her eyes were filled with need, now, dark and begging. Sherlock rose from the chair.

John took a condom from his pocket and handed it to him.

"The safe word is cascade, remember," and John was quiet.

Sherlock knelt between Molly's knees, spreading them further apart with his hands, then rubbing his arms against her skin, running his arms under her thighs.

"You want to feel the clothes against your skin, I understand, Molly?"

She whimpered in assent, and he lowered himself onto her and pressed against her roughly.

"Where do you like to feel it, here? On your legs? On your breasts?

He rubbed his chest back and forth across her breasts, kissing her a little roughly.

"Do you feel the buttons? The wool? What about the zipper?"

He ground his pelvis into her. Then he remembered the belt.

"What about the buckle, hmm? It's the buckle, isn't it, Molly? Where do you want that?"

He lowered himself, positioning the belt buckle at her sex, grinding into her carefully, not wanting to hurt her, only give her what she was begging for. She whimpered and then gasped as the contact of the buckle hit its mark. She bucked against him. Sherlock continued to grind against her carefully, as she bucked and thrust against him. She seemed to find a rhythm, and he tried to stay with her as she bucked and writhed and finally came against him whimpering love noises and sweet 'thanks yous.'

He rose from her, reaching to undo his buckle, and as he looked down, he saw his trousers were rather spoiled and wet. He smiled, and chuckled, leaving the belt loose and undone without taking it off. Molly whimpered in anticipation. His rock hard length sprang from his clothes, and he lowered his trousers and pants, keeping them on, but allowing his entire sex into view. He opened and rolled on the condom and looked into Molly's eyes, and then into John's who was only slightly farther away, holding the end of the tie, watching.

"John?"

"When you're ready, take your time."

"Molly? All right?"

"Pleeeeese, Sherlock, please don't make me wait anymore."

He didn't, he leaned over her, nose to nose and pressed the head of his cock against her entrance, she was completely wet, he could feel and had no trouble pushing deeply into her in a swift but controlled stroke. Before he started to move, though, he took her face in his hands and kissed her carefully and thoroughly, and then he started to thrust in and out.

"You want to feel my coat against your face?" He put his arms on either side of her head, and she pressed her cheek against him, fairly scraping her skin against the fabric.

"You like that? Can you feel it?"

After a few thrusts, he kissed her, and then looked at her, smiling.

"You want the buckle again? Hmm? Shall I?"

"Yes, please, please."

Sherlock reached down for the belt buckle, and pressed it against her, letting her move to find the right positioning. When she found it, Sherlock leaned against the buckle, trapping it between them, and began making shallow thrusts in quick succession, while she wiggled beneath him.

"What about your legs? Hmm? Can you feel the wool against you?"

Here, he rubbed his leg against her, trying to give her as much contact with fabric as he could. But after only a short time, she was spent for the third time in this evening and Sherlock abandoned himself to his friend's wife, letting himself go, finally calling out her name over and over. He collapsed onto her, collecting himself, and then rolled off her, completely spent, but at once was at her ear, whispering.

"I'm not done with you yet, Molly, love. " He kissed her, and trailed kisses down to her abdomen, and started kissing her, and biting her inner thighs, raking his teeth against her knees. He thrust his fingers inside her and with his mouth and tongue he found her nerve bundle, and started nuzzling, licking and sucking it while she made her little love noises. He took his time, kissing and licking her languidly, all the while, John held Molly's arms over her head, and watched and listened, and breathed in the air, as the perfume of Molly's sex filled the room. After some time of Sherlock's careful and thorough attentions, Molly came with a quieter expression of her release this time. But she wasn't to rest yet, as Sherlock exchanged places with John. He took the tie from John, and sat in his chair, holding Molly's hands over her head, while John made love to his wife.

As Sherlock watched their love making, he noted that even after such a long and physically arduous evening for Molly, she was still fresh and ardent for John. When Sherlock and she were together, she'd seemed more animalistic. Wasn't she growling into his neck, and biting him rather hard? But with John, she'd quieted, and was more like a child needing attention, and John was ready with soothing words, and loving murmurs. Sherlock was moved. How long will they allow me into their inner world in this way, he wondered? How would he live without it, now, if they were to leave him? He couldn't bear the thought and tried to keep his attention on the moment.

When John finished, and rolled to Molly's side, Sherlock untied the tie and let Molly's hands free. But before she took them back to her sides, he grasped one of her wrists, and pressed his face to it with passion. "You are a goddess," he breathed into her skin. He leaned closer to her face, "I adore you, I adore you and I would do anything for you." And he bit her neck gently.

"Mmmmmm, Sherlock, I adore you, too." He picked her up off the floor, cradling her like a child, kissing her face and hair.

"Come to my bed. John, all right?"

"Yes, good, coming."

Soon they were settled under Sherlock's duvet, holding one another like children. Sherlock was at Molly's back, but he couldn't help but reach out and stroke John's shoulder.

"Hmmm?" said John, not wanting to acknowledge Sherlock's touch. "Ah, that was lovely, ladies and gentlemen." He chuckled contentedly. Molly, how are you doing? I'm afraid we've worn you out."

"I think you did, a bit, but it was lovely, John, so lovely. Welcome home, Sherlock, we missed you so much. If we had known it was a case – "

"Yes, I should have texted you something, I completely agree. I'm sorry, so sorry. Forgive me, forgive me both, please."

"I'm sorry we bickered the other day, I was a little – wound up." Molly sighed deeply.

"All unwound, now, I think, hmmm?" John was facing Molly, his eyes already closed.

"Yes, I'm sorry too." said Sherlock, pressing his face into her hair and the nape of her neck. He was trembling, he knew. Would she notice? Would John? He couldn't control it. Trembling with the feeling of it all. Or was it just exhaustion? Would he ever be able to control himself again? he wondered. But all he said was,

"Yes, it's good to be back."

I've rather loved writing this chapter - I would love to hear what you think either in a review or a private message - or just say 'hi!'

Next chapter on Sunday! I absolutely promise - Unless I post earlier - I have a couple rather short sexy chapters coming up! Have a lovely weekend! Jenn of the Glenn