Molly tries to imagine the events of an evening. Slash, het, mention of m/m. Sherlock distracts her.

Molly' Choice I

At her desk, Molly twirled her pen in her fingers with one hand, and twirled a strand of her hair in the other. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, things were winding down in the lab, and other staff members were either out getting coffee, or in meetings. She was left to hold down the fort in the lab. The paper work she was meant to be doing was shoved in a disorderly pile to the corner of the desk. She was reclining in her chair, an office chair with some give, and had one foot propped up, the heel of her shoe hooked on the edge of an open desk drawer. It was a completely uncharacteristic image of Molly, the usually very active Molly, always onto the next task, never taking a moment's break. One supervisor she'd had when she was starting out in her career had remarked in a report, "This woman never walks, but always is striding briskly to the next job in her day's work." Today was different. Her imagination had gotten a hold of her and she had given in to it completely.

Molly's imagination was fully engaged, and she hardly took in her actual surroundings at all. She didn't notice her skirt hiked up over her knee to mid thigh. She didn't notice that one of her blouse's buttons had come undone during the day and her bra and part of a nipple were showing. None of these things registered in her mind at all. She sat and imagined her husband and her friend engaged in various sexual scenarios. She was to choose an evenings activities soon, though she didn't know when, exactly, but she was getting a little obsessed with it, and her job was suffering this afternoon.

She imagined many things. First and foremost she wanted to watch the two men make love without her involvement other than as a silent but very present witness. The very idea made her weak and hot and faint. Just the image of them standing close together – when they came into the morgue and so much as leaned in close to one another to confer privately on one or another points of a particular case she felt herself get hot and wet all at once and had to lean against a table's edge for support.

But these things had to be orchestrated gently and patiently. She knew John wasn't ready for a number of things and she wasn't going to push him into anything. At the same time it was unbearably delicious whenever Sherlock took the lead and tried to kiss or touch John. So far John had never fully pulled away, or left the room, as he was certainly free to do. Instead John would follow his friend's lead in little ways, allowing him to gain small advances, win tiny bits of ground, and Sherlock had intuited this, and gone extremely slowly with his friend. Molly found that watching John surrender in this way, tiny bit by tiny bit was driving her absolutely insane. She wasn't sure, however if she wanted to treat herself to an evening of torturing John in this way. She didn't want to bludgeon the issue. She certainly didn't want to frighten John or make him uncomfortable, it was supposed to be fun, after all. She wanted to let the teasing go on forever, frankly, but she knew there would come a time, however remote it may seem now, that John would become more and more comfortable. So perhaps a combination of sweet tortures and . . . what?

"I have to go down to the MET, Molly." Sherlock had swung around the corner of the room, rounded the corner of her desk and stood above her smiling.

"Hmmm?" Molly looked up smiling. Oh. "Case closed?"

"Yes – ah –. Loose ends, and collect John." Sherlock's head swam as he took her in. He could almost feel the path in his body his blood was taking from his head straight to his erection. He tried to control it, but there was absolutely nothing he could do.

"You look quite lovely, Molly. Do you know what you look like, I wonder?"

"No, I don't. What? What do I look like?" Molly smiled up at him.

"I don't know."

Sherlock pressed his fingers into his temples as he looked down at her, one nipple practically visible through the lace of her demi cup, her leg hooked wantonly up over an open desk drawer.

"I don't know, but I'll never forget this. You're not you somehow, are you? What are you doing . . . ? What are you thinking about?" Sherlock smiled, utterly confident that she was thinking about the three of them. What is cooking up for tonight, I wonder? Something delightful. I know it will be delightful.

"Tonight, I think – tonight then?"

"Yes, ah, that is, yes I think so – John ah, of course would be ah - . . ." Sherlock would always defer to John in matters of the bedroom, Molly knew. He became diffident and seemed almost unsure of himself if John wasn't around to answer even a simple question about how or when events would occur.

"My choice," Molly said smiling, but with steel in her tone and her face still languid.

"Yes of course," And Sherlock smiled, knowing that Molly wanted to break John down in bed as much as he did, but neither was willing to be too forceful.

Sherlock continued to consume Molly with his eyes. When had she become this supremely confident bacchanalian? She was at once so pliant, so malleable, but not at all cloying, very much her own woman, very much in control of what she wanted, and how she would have it. Her expression is obscenely wanton, but her voice. Has she been touching herself here? He wondered. No, he determined, she's just relaxed, thinking. Of us. Oh, god.

"I must - ah go -."

"So, tonight at yours? I'll pack it in, and go now. See you there?" said Molly. But Sherlock found he couldn't physically turn around, he couldn't leave her without touching her.

"Molly, you –." Sherlock knelt at her chair, burying his face in her neck, gripping her exposed knee. She moaned as he bit into her neck dragging his afternoon beard across her skin down her throat and between her breasts, his hand gliding up the length of her thigh.

"Oh, love," she moaned into his hair as he tongued and bit her exposed nipple, his hand slowly gliding up her leg. He pushed the fabric of her pants aside, and gently explored her somewhat dry outer folds He pushed into her a little farther, finding her much wetter and then easily pushed two fingers deep into her. She moaned against his head, biting in a mouthful of his hair, and pulled it gently. He lifted his head to kiss her, and she drove her tongue into his mouth as he thrust his fingers into her.

"Molly, Molly, please let me have you, now - the closet, yes?"

"All right, if you promise not to leave me hanging."

"When have I ever -?"

"Last time"

"That was because Lestrade came into the morgue shouting. I had nothing to do . . ."

"Nevertheless."

"I promise, please, for godssake!"

"Come on."

They whisked one another into a small coat closet where Sherlock had her blouse, bra and pants off her in seconds. He quickly undid his his belt and Molly was already stroking him with her hand as he e pushed her against the wall. Sherlock hiked up her skirt and her legs and pushed into her, but held her there immobile as she tried to squirm.

"Remember this?" He asked. The first time they had ever made love, just after he'd staged his jump, and she'd saved his life by helping him, they'd succumbed to their sexual tension almost immediately they were alone. In a seedy hotel she'd found for him to hide in, they were barely in the door before they started tearing off one another's clothing. Upon entering her the very first time he held her close, immobile, nose to nose, and she'd allowed his gaze to bore into her. He held her hard, determined never, never to let her go, to hold her to him and impaled like this forever, and wordless, he had tried to communicate all this with only his eyes, then his kisses. Finally moving and struggling together, they quickly plateaued and their respective orgasms had been simultaneous and explosive, shattering the world outside them in a way that was permanent in many respects. Their bond after this hurdle appeared to be unbreakable, irrevocable.

"Always," She whispered fiercely in his ear, bucking against him with all her strength, and he answered her movements with his own. He slowed then, and placed his hand between their bodies, pushing his thumb against her clit, gently pressing it against her pubic bone in a circular motion. He watched her eyes open wildly at the contact, and then he used short quick strokes into her, which he knew drove crazy almost immediately. She came like a train, her whole body tense with a long hard guttural moan that he had to quiet with his own mouth on hers, for fear someone might hear them.

"Mmm, did you come, Molly?" Sherlock purred against her neck when the last waves of her pleasure had passed. "Hmm? Did you, dear? I wonder if you did? Maybe you'll tell me?"

Molly whimpered her assent and Sherlock smiled, kissing her, holding her, feeling the complete surrender of her body's muscles in his arms.

"God I love you so much, I love you both so much," Sherlock whispered, grazing her face with his lips. Then Molly felt him smile as he kissed her mouth.

"Do you mind if I come now, Molly? Hmm? Please let me, all right? Let me come in you now? Hmm?" He chuckled into her ear as he began to thrust hard into her without waiting for her to respond. It didn't take him very long.

...…. To be Continued . . .

Molly's evening to come. Should post by Sunday 02.08.13 – Thanks to all you wonderful reviewers and followers and favers! I'd love to hear from you, if you have time, even if it's just to say 'hi,' in the review box, or in a PM (private message). Hope you have a great Friday and weekend!