So here it is, at last the second instalment to Molly's Choice – There's a third on the way!
Molly's Choice II
Closet sex always made Molly giggle, and Sherlock found himself smiling and chuckling as well as they put themselves and their clothing back in order. When they were both able and quite back in order sartorially, the pair stepped carefully and quietly out of the closet. Molly smiled and began collecting her things, getting ready to leave.
"See you there? I just need to go down there for a couple things, collect John and - We won't be long," said Sherlock.
"Yes, I'm going straight to yours," said Molly.
Sherlock made for the door, but had to turn around before he left.
"Molly," he said, stopping before turning the corner out of the office, "What are you planning? Hmm? Can't you say anything?"
"You're joking. That would be telling, Sherlock."
"I know, but I'm a little concerned about John. I know I've been a little, perhaps a little too unnecessarily direct, but I really don't want to alarm him. It's supposed to be - amusing, after all."
"I know. It's a bit of a problem. But I'm sure we'll all work it out, hmm?"
"Of course. Until then." And he was gone with a flutter of his coat's hem.
After gathering her coat and bag, Molly left Bart's, and hailed a cab. She let herself in to 221B with her own key. She mounted the stairs and entered the flat, dropping her bag, and hanging her coat on her usual hook. My choice, she thought. But she hadn't come up with any specific plan. She felt a little naughty, like an errant school girl without the day's assignment completed. She smiled at the thought and shook her head. No, the problem of John was not small, she thought. Yes, it was supposed to be fun, just as Sherlock had said, but anything she thought of seemed silly. She thought of Sherlock undressing John. Silly. What about the other way around? Silly. What about turning her choice to John's choice? Letting John decide what to do, let him take the initiative with Sherlock – but that was the point, he didn't know. He didn't know how to deal with the fact of their friend in their bed. So, how, she thought, how were they to inure John to Sherlock physically without – well, without frightening him too much.
She entered Sherlock's room and undressed, putting on a dressing gown. She lay on the bed, waiting. No, Sherlock would have to take the initiative. But how? - it was precisely what John was shy about, precisely the trouble they were having. Then she heard the front door, whispering, a bit of a chuckle from each of them, then footsteps to the bedroom and they were with her. She would have to wing it.
"I always feel as though we're about to film a porno, when we're all in here like this, with dressing gowns" Sherlock chuckled, and his friends joined him.
"Molly, love." John knelt on the bed and kissed her, working his arms around her, holding her. "What are you going to do to me, hmm?" He asked, holding her, smiling and then nuzzling her neck. She whispered and giggled.
"Not exactly sure, darling. We'll have to see how things go."
"Well, that's not the rules." He was kissing her lightly.
"I know, but I think I have the essence of it . . . I just have to think of how to . . ."
"Whispering?" Sherlock smiled.
"No, no whispering, Molly's just thinking how to . . . begin." John rose from the bed, and Sherlock took his place, kissing Molly lightly, then pulling her dressing gown open, and pressing against her. She looked into his face, as he beamed at her. He's always so attentive, she thought. He always begins with me in mind. She had a sprout of an idea.
"Ready?" She asked Sherlock.
"Hmm," Sherlock rose from the bed, and stood next to the chair where John sat.
"John?"
"Ahaha." John's head dipped down, and he rubbed his ear with one finger. Nervous habit, Molly knew. She smiled and spoke.
"Just to reiterate, nobody's doing anything that they don't actually want to do. And we stop whenever we want. We leave the room. If something seems impossible, the safeword is Alamo. Will you say it for me, both of you?" John and Sherlock said it simultaneously.
"Ok. John? Why don't you – undress Sherlock?"
"Oh," said John, as he rose.
"And if you want to, you can, well you can do whatever you like, John. But Sherlock, you must let John initiate, and you must be passive, yes?"
"Yes, of course," Sherlock smiled wickedly.
Molly smiled and watched as the two men faced each other at the foot of the bed. Sherlock hitched one knee onto the bed, and slowly sat down on the edge giving Molly a closer view, and putting himself in an inferior physical position to John who was now standing over him. Good, good, what a good boy, Molly thought. John approached his friend, smiling, a little bashful.
"Ah, there's a smile," said Sherlock, "I thought you might be on your way to the guillotine, but now here's a bit of a smile. What a relief."
John paused for some moments during which time, Molly saw them each of them blush.
"Oh, thank you," she said, "That's lovely, so lovely."
After another few moments passed Sherlock got a little fidgety.
"The suspense is killing me, I hope it will last," Sherlock quoted as they all waited for John.
"All right, all right," said John. He reached out to Sherlock's shirt, but stopped, and placed his hand on his friend's throat, gently, stroking him. Then John's hand travelled down, and unbuttoning a button, he traced the ridge of Sherlock's right clavicle. He pressed the skin there and watched it go white, then flood again with color. Now he stroked Sherlock's neck with the back of his fingers, and John's hand was at Sherlock's throat again when the two caught one another's gaze. John was surprised, but Sherlock was smiling and seemed more than a little amused.
"How about the shirt, John?" Sherlock's deep voice whispered gently, patiently.
John pressed his lips together, and smiled nervously, starting on the buttons. When the shirt was open, John peeled the fabric back across Sherlock's naked shoulders and ran his hands along his friend's pecks. That was when Sherlock burst out laughing.
"What? What is it? What is so funny, please? Molly?" Humiliated, John watched as Sherlock leaned over with laughter, and Molly giggled in the bed. Finally Molly spoke.
"I think Sherlock is – used to something - um – he's probably used to something different, something a little more practiced, John. Sherlock – don't - you mustn't - really - ."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John, I – oh my god."
"WHAT?, for gods sake, What?"
"It's just that it was as though you were – hahaha - checking me for a skin disease – no - partly checking for skin disease, and partly deciding if you would like to buy some poultry at Tesco's."
"What?" John threw up his hands and retreated to the arm chair in a huff.
"Is that what you do to women? Excuse me, Molly – oh, no, John, is that what you did with women when you – oh my god!"
"Oh, do shut up, for godssake."
"Gentlemen," Molly began.
"Look, I don't see – I don't see why I need to be laughed at while I'm – While I'm trying to – I mean – I'm terribly sorry that I'm not up to date on the techniques currently in vogue in the back rooms of the city's -." John stopped himself.
Sherlock paused in his laughing jag. John's comment hadn't hurt at all, but it sobered him. He couldn't help his mirth, and didn't feel a need to apologize for it, but John's comment reminded him of the loneliness of his previous life. Whenever he was confronted with the memory, the places, the back rooms, the men, the women - he was chastened. He cherished anew the safety he had with these, his dearest friends.
Molly let the moment pass, knowing that it had probably not caused any permanent damage.
"It's true, it's not fair, Sherlock, you mustn't laugh."
There was a quiet moment in the room, but then Sherlock started laughing again.
"Molly oh, no, I don't know if I can look at him the same tonight, I'm sorry, I'm sorry - ." Sherlock held his tongue, but continued to shake with stifled laughter.
"Well, that's – that's fine, that's absolutely fine with me, because - ."
"Now, hang on, John. Can we relax a minute, Sherlock?"
Sherlock sat up on the bed and pulled his most aloof, posh, prick of a face, but he quickly dissolved again into giggles. .
"I give up," John couldn't help but chuckle at Sherlock's giggling fit, he'd never seen him this way before.
"I know, I have an idea," said Molly, "Sherlock? Sherlock!"
Sherlock sobered enough to sit up and face Molly though he continued to laugh.
"Sherlock, what if we – would you please – undress John? But that's all. Yes? Just undress him. John?"
"Fine, all right." John stood up, but quickly had second thoughts when Sherlock stood up quickly as well. This was definitely more dangerous, risky. His adrenaline kicked in a bit and he felt a bit of heat rise in his neck and chest.
"Undress John? Well, all right," Sherlock purred, shrugging out of his shirt, leaning into John's personal space in a somewhat predatory fashion. He locked eyes with his friend, his expression remaining merry, amused, but becoming more predatory more hungry. He stepped around John, quite like a bird of prey, close enough to smell whatever product John had in his hair today. He made eye contact with him again, and without breaking that contact said,
"When do I begin Molly, dear?"
"When John says he's ready, but nothing more than buttons, zippers and elastic. Do behave for heaven's sake, or we have to stop."
"Oh, I won't make us stop, I assure you," Sherlock whispered as he faced John, well into his personal space, nose to nose with his friend, smiling about as wickedly as John had ever seen him do and it was completely unnerving.
"All right, John?" Molly asked.
"Um, I don't, I'm not exactly -." He paused. This is absolutely mad. Sherlock is in charge? But he has restrictions-. Only to undress me, and nothing more. Then what? Well, he thought, I can't second guess this all the way through. I have to – I have to – what was the word Molly used? Surrender a little, I suppose. He swallowed.
"All right," he agreed, glancing at Molly.
"Ok, just let Sherlock know when to begin," Molly sat up and leaned forward in preparation.
The two men made eye contact again, but John noticed that Sherlock had taken it down a notch and was only smiling amiably, and not in that mad hawk-like manner of moments before. He had also stepped out of the doctor's personal space, and with his hands in his pockets seemed quite harmless. Was he even slouching a little? John was disarmed for the moment, but he swallowed again, knowing that he was dealing with a master manipulator.
"All right, Sherlock. Take it easy though, please for god's sake."
John watched Sherlock's eyes flash as if there had been some electrical current involved, but it was gone in a moment. And then Sherlock was back in John's personal space, undoing the buttons on his shirt.
"When you're done, Sherlock, you'll stop and step away from John, yes?"
"Just as you say," said Sherlock, never breaking eye contact with John. Sherlock already had the buttons undone, and was easing the shirt off John's shoulders, still maintaining eye contact. Sherlock slipped the garment down off the doctor's shoulders as slowly as he could and as he did he whispered in his ear.
"New soap, John? It's very nice."
John was stunned by the immediate physiological response his body had to that simple remark. A buzzing, electric feeling, heat and - No, no not that! Think of England. Her Majesty.
"Now, wait a second. Is he allowed to talk to me?" John asked Molly.
"Yes, John, he's allowed to talk, for heaven's sake."
John tried to laugh this off, but it was alarming, very alarming how effective Sherlock's one little line in his ear had been. John registered a heat he'd only ever felt with women at this stage of physical intimacy. What other physical reactions would Sherlock be able to elicit from him? Keep calm. England. Think of Charles and Camilla.
It was uncanny, John thought, how he can maintain eye contact like that while he's doing all the work. John watched as Sherlock took John's shirt and carefully draped it over the back of the chair. He came back to stand in front of John, who still had on a simple cotton tee shirt. Sherlock slowly put his hands at John's sides, took a bunch of the tee shirt's fabric in each hand, and hitched the shirt out of the waist band of John's trousers. He held the shirt there for a moment smiling into John's face and spoke.
"Arms?" And he cocked an eyebrow. John complied, and put his arms over his head.
Sherlock ran his hands up John's sides, slowly pushing the cotton shirt up to his pecks. He paused a moment, now with his face quite close to John's, before he smiled, and slowly ran his thumbs over John's nipples. He then ran his hands with the shirt inexorably slowly over John's arm pits, and then, up his arms, finally, slipping the shirt off the doctor.
"Now, if anyone actually cares, that was a clear foul, any number of fouls, really." John tried to appeal to Molly. "You saw what he did there, surely, Molly."
"Yes," said Molly, her eyes glazed over, her pose languid, wanton. "It was a bit of a foul, Sherlock. Shall we stop, John?"
John saw the fix he was in, now. If he stopped he was a spoil sport. If he allowed this sort of play to continue, he was condoning more of Sherlock's little fouls, and what bigger fouls were to come? Oh god what have I agreed to, here? But he knew that moving out of his comfort zone was precisely the point of all this. Molly spoke again.
"We'll stop, then John? It's up to you." Molly was not at all on his side, he saw, as he took her in on the bed, pulsing her legs together, languid and grinning.
"Molly?" He scrutinized her more closely. Has she been touching herself? "Oh, god, this isn't fair."
John looked at Sherlock who was grinning, too, then he was suddenly serious. He stepped closer to John, not touching him, but noticing something – behind John? Oh, thought John, The scarring. Sherlock stepped up to his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"May I?" Sherlock asked.
"Um, it's not necessary- You have seen it before."
"Hmm. Not in this context, and never – um, never this closely." Sherlock ignored John, taking his brush-off as assent, and gingerly touched the massive reddened and purpled scar of his friend's shoulder.
"Sherlock," Molly warned.
"No – it's – It's all right, let him. He's just – it's scientific, you know." John consented, allowing his friend to touch him.
Sherlock took in the scarring, catalogued the pattern, the color, size and depth, calculated what muscles and bones had been in danger, calculated what type of weapon it had been, and the bullet trajectory, noted the muscle wastage, however small, had been involved. He probed the area carefully, delicately with this fingers.
"Does it hurt? Do you have feeling still?"
"There are patches that are pretty much gone, on the surface, but it's very – erm, serviceable. Not much pain at all. I was really lucky."
"Hmm. Yes, I can see that you were. It's much more serious than I'd – Hmm. John. There's a lot of – you carry a lot of tension, don't you? If you'll allow me, I think you'll allow me, won't you -?" Then, stepping behind his friend, he took both John's shoulders in his hands, and squeezed, carefully.
John's head jerked back, but not in pain. Molly used to work his shoulders out like this, but she didn't have the kind of strength that Sherlock had in his hands, and he'd started to ask her not to bother. But this. This was good, so very, very good. He allowed it, as Sherlock's fingers ground into him again, searching out the tension, releasing it, smoothing it away. Most people couldn't tolerate the level of pressure Sherlock exerted, but John could rarely find anyone who could go this deeply.
"Ah," John breathed out as Sherlock continued to grind his hands into his shoulders.
"Should I be concerned, here?" Molly asked.
"I'm fine, Molly, it's fine," John assured her.
"That's not what I meant," she said.
"Oh. No, no - it's just that he's much stronger than you are, in his – ahhhh – in his hands, it's – it helps - you know."
"Oh, I see, all right." Molly was feeling a little left out, but she didn't put too fine a point on it. This was, after all, precisely what they were all trying to get at, allowing John to get comfortable with Sherlock.
"Lie down, let me work it out a little for you. Since we're here, hmm?" Sherlock's tone was serious and he managed to keep his delight at this new development to himself.
John melted face down onto the bed, then turned his head to the side, facing Molly, reaching for her, and stroking her leg. Quickly, Sherlock straddled him, his knees on either side of John's waist, but hardly touching him. John tensed up, immediately, feeling a little overpowered, but Sherlock was aware of what was happening.
"Purely professional, John, all right? Just the shoulders, then we'll start again, all right?"
"Ok," said John a little tightly and then he tried to relax under Sherlock's weight, allowing his friend to dig slowly, inexorably into his shoulders. Sherlock continued for a while.
John breathed as steadily as he could but the release of tension was incredible, and he vocalized it.
"Please let me knwo if you're in pain, yes?" Sherlock paused.
"God, no, it's – I can't tell you, um – it's good, it's very -."
"Ah, good." Sherlock carefully disguised his glee. He continued, working carefully, but deeply for some time, working out a couple rather tight large knots. But now, John noted, things were getting a little too good. The pressure of Sherlock's weight straddling him, pressing him into the mattress, combined with the delicious rub down he was getting, was almost certainly going to cause – and there it was – he was getting hard.
Sherlock suppressed a chuckle as he felt his friend tense up beneath him, when he'd been completely relaxed only a moment ago. He had taken special care not to exert too much strength, or to apply too much of his weight to John's back, but just enough, just enough to educe a common physiological response to just such stimuli. He sank down ever so slightly, adding a bit more weight and pressure to John's back.
"How's that, then?" Sherlock's tone was all business, as he released his grip on John's shoulders and smoothed his palms down John's back to his waist.
"Um, that's – ahem." John's voice was a bit strangled. Sherlock's weight wasn't at all unpleasant, and he didn't want to have to turn over until . . . "
"Oh, sorry," Sherlock hopped off John, curling up next to Molly. John looked at his wife and friend smiling at him, smug as hell. He saw that they'd intuited his erection, and he covered his face with his hands.
"Nothing to be embarrassed about, John," said Sherlock. "It's a perfectly normal physical response to – ah, pressure, and certain physical -."
"Shut up, please, I know you did that on purpose, I'm not a complete idiot."
The three of them laughed the moment off, and John turned on his side, propping himself up on an elbow, his face and ears bright red, but smiling.
"Ah," Molly smiled at the sight of John's bulging trousers. Sherlock tried not to smirk.
"Well, John? How are you doing? Are you ok with this? Shall we go on?"
John turned onto his back and put his hands over his face again in embarrassment and mortification. How much more of this could he handle? How did the removal of his shirt and t-shirt develop into this raging and now painful erection? Jesus, he hasn't even taken off my trousers. He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
"I, I don't want to be a – kill joy – but, but –."
"Ok," said Molly. "Sherlock, no more fouls, ok, or we will really have to stop."
"Of course, yes, that was a bit naughty of me, before," said Sherlock reasonably, then he addressed John.
"But the back rub was all right, John?"
"Ah – yes it – oh, god. Yes, it was very – very – all right. Thank you." John continued to keep his hands on his face as if barring the light from his eyes could save him from further humiliation.
"I'm glad you liked it. Please feel free to ask any time," Sherlock purred.
"You're killing me, Sherlock."
"So, we're going on then, hmm? Sherlock?"
"Only if John wants to. I mean, he does – you do seem somewhat unhappy. I don't want to make him uncomfortable."
"Yes you do! That's half your fun. Oh my god, ahaha." John half shouted, laughing a little.
"I feel I must point out, John, that if you were truly completely uninterested in, ah – well - physical contact with me - you wouldn't be uncomfortable at all. You would either endure this, or you'd leave."
The truth of this sank into John and Molly, and Molly watched her husband tense up, and then relax into the situation in what seemed to be a new and more complete way. Surrender, thought Molly, he's almost there.
"All right," said John. There was a pause. "Whenever you're ready, Sherlock."
"You really must behave, though," Molly cautioned.
"Hmm?" said Sherlock as he bounced off the bed, and reappeared at its foot, at John's knees. He knelt gently at John's side smiling at him, and undid his belt buckle, and zipper, casually, easily, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of John's boxers, pausing. John realized he was about to have both trousers and pants stripped from him in one movement. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, silently asking for permission, and John averted his gaze in assent. Then, to Sherlock's surprise and delight, John raised his hips, and Sherlock slowly slipped the clothes down John's hips, and then legs, just as he had done with his tee shirt. John's erection sprang free, and bobbed. It was absolutely tantalizing for Molly as she lounged at the side of the bed on a couple of pillows, watching greedily. Sherlock managed to scratch the skin on the sides of John's legs a bit with his fingernails, leaving long red streaks as he withdrew the clothes, and John hissed a little at the contact. Once the clothes were gone, John remained lying on the bed with his hands on his face again, but Molly could tell he was smiling, laughing a little even at his own embarrassment.
"Foul, John?" asked Sherlock. "I notice you still haven't left the room. Your legs still work don't they?"
"No, no. It's – that was fine. Oh for god's sake. Ahaha."
"Molly?" Sherlock asked, grinning. "What do you propose?"
"Well, I think we should go on, don't you?" Molly leaned over and kissed John.
"Go on? What do you mean, go on?
"Well," said Molly, "I do have a thought."
To be continued tomorrow without fail!
I promise to get the next one to you tomorrow, ok?
The end of Molly's exhausting evening!
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