A/N: Bless my amazing beta, MizJoely, who makes silk purses from sows' ears. And thank you to everyone that's been waiting, and leaving such lovely reviews and kind thoughts about my mom. I appreciate you all so much!
Updated to remove errors, all thanks to MizJoely!
The two weeks since Molly left her home, in what Erasmus stubbornly refers to her 'grand rescue' (though she has a difficult time hearing that term used, probably because it's far more true than she's comfortable admitting), have been fourteen days of absolute upheaval. It all still feels very unreal, and there's a moment each time she wakes in the mornings that she believes she's going to open her eyes and find herself back in her room, that Sherlock and his family were nothing more than a bittersweet dream. There's still an awkwardness to living with them that she can't escape, though she's beginning to see the openings and edges where she can slot herself into the flow of their lives; sometimes she thinks, it's like they've always been waiting for me, while others she can't help but despair, I'm nothing like them, this will never work out.
To her, Sherlock is a safe island in the middle of a storm tossed sea. They aren't together as often as she'd like, as often as she suspects he'd like, as he's still a university student and his Omega appearing in his life doesn't take away the daily responsibilities of his education. He takes the train home at least twice during the week, and these are the nights Molly likes best, especially when Erasmus is present. Dinners are loud, filled with interesting conversation, laughter, and brotherly bickering. Mycroft's appearances are less often, for which she's grateful for, as he tends to look at her as though she's something filthy and subpar; there's a certain tension to his mouth when he speaks to her, a glint in his eyes that clearly states an Omega from a lower-class, Catholic family is by no means up to the standards he's set for his brother.
The parts of her that have been conditioned by her mother's abuses, they make her want shrivel up and hide away from Mycroft and his not-quite-sneers. The other bits, the ones that are becoming brave and strong simply by the virtue of Sherlock's smiles and lingering touches, are less inclined to hide. Who does he think he is, casting judgement on her? He may come from a wealthy family with above average intelligence, but in the end he put his trousers on one leg at a time, just like everyone else, and if he doesn't like her, then he can shove off and mind his own business. What's between she and Sherlock is just that, between the two of them. And Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have made it exceptionally clear that they want her with them, in their home, and as a part of their family.
They give her a room, and somehow this is the single most meaningful gift she's ever been given in her entire life. It was a guest room until just a week ago, furnished in the muted sort of way that made it clear it belonged to no one in particular, with moderate colors and little life besides a tall, flowering plant near one of the two windows. It was Mr. Holmes that brought her to it, pushed the door open and gestured for her to step inside. "You like it?" he'd asked, hands pushed into his trouser pockets.
"It's lovely," she'd answered, and he'd beamed.
"Well, so long as you've got no objections, it's yours, now. You can decorate however you'd like, and we've sent for your things – one of your aunts will be bringing it over soon. Maura's planning on buying new bedclothes and such, so you can put your stamp on it." She'd managed not to cry, but her vision was all fuzzy from the tears in her eyes, and her cheeks hurt from the massive grin on her face.
Lying in her bed, in the first place that Molly can remember as being hers without conditions or locks to keep her inside, she luxuriates in the safety. It's addictive, feeling safe; if she had to go back to her parents' today, she doesn't think she'd be able to survive the constant stress and fear. Which makes her so guilty she could vomit – what kind of daughter is she? – but also begins to shape her ideas for the future. She knows her life is going to be with Sherlock from here on out, knows they're bound together in a way that she thinks is more destiny than simple biology (though she imagines he would scoff at the idea of such a thing), and she's glad of that. Because one day, when they're older and more ready, they're going to have a house of their own, and it's going to be just like this: calm, happy, and, above all else, safe. Especially for the children they may have (Molly can't help but blush and squirm, both ashamed for wanting something so far away and so silly, and so overwhelmed with a dizzying sort of desire that it makes her hands curl into fists, as though she's trying to cling onto the fantasy of the children she may bear).
There's a knock on the old, solid wood of the door. It opens with a creak of ancient hinges, and Mrs. Holmes steps inside. The fire has died down during the night, but from the warm light of the simmering embers Molly can see the pillow creases on the older woman's face. "Molly," she calls in a soft, cajoling tone. "Wake up, sweetheart."
She sits up with a yawn. The quilt falls off her shoulders and puddles onto her lap, and she shivers at the cold air. "I'm awake," Molly admits, giving Mrs. Holmes a crooked smile.
"You're quite the early riser, aren't you?" Paddling across the dim room, as the sky outside is still dark and there's little to no moon to speak of, she takes a seat on the edge of Molly's bed. "Are you sure you're feeling up to going out, today?"
"Oh, yeah!" Nodding enthusiastically, Molly has to force herself from bouncing. "I'm dying to get out! I mean, it's not that I don't like spending the days with you and Mr. Holmes, but – but I'm used to going to school, and doing stuff…" Lamely trailing off, she blushes, looking down.
Mrs. Holmes' laugh is kind. "I understand completely. I thought we'd give Sherlock a ride into the city since we're heading in ourselves, and he's got an early lecture, so we need to be out of here by seven at the latest." Her mouth twitches, and there's a bright sort of knowing her eyes. "He's a beast in the mornings when he actually lets himself sleep, but I suspect you'll have an easier time getting him up and moving than I would. Do you mind?"
Molly's stomach twists into delightful knots. "Oh, um, yeah, sure; I can manage." She's got the feeling her attempts at nonchalance in no way fool Mrs. Holmes, but it's thankfully left unmentioned.
After putting her feet in a pair of warm slippers, ones from home and brought in the two small boxes of possessions delivered by her Aunt Lily, Molly heads to the toilet. In a household of their size, what with Sherlock and Erasmus constantly staying over, she's discovering it's rather a privilege to get to brush her teeth and have hot water without someone shouting through the door to hurry up. She uses the toilet, brushes her teeth and gargles and washes her hands, even tries to straighten her messy hair before giving it up as a bad job, and then scampers to Sherlock's door. First she tightens the belt of her dressing gown, shifting from foot-to-foot nervously, debating on knocking. He probably wouldn't hear it – by now she knows that when he gets into a good, deep sleep bombs could go off and they'd be lucky if he so much as rolled over. Nothing for it, then; she's going to have let herself in.
Despite having been sent in by Mrs. Holmes herself, Molly feels like she's doing something naughty. Probably because she's hoping Sherlock won't be a complete bear and that maybe before the morning is over he'll kiss her. There've had spare few enough of those in the past week, as it seems Erasmus has been intent on playing chaperone. Just last night he'd strolled past Sherlock's open door, where they were reading (pretending not to stare at each other and doing a terrible job of it), and reminded them, "Keep those hand where I can see them, kids!"
And it was just as Sherlock had sneaked a hand over and laid it on her thigh, making Molly's blood pound in her ears and her fingers shake. It'd taken a supreme force of will not to hurl a book at Erasmus' head.
With that memory in mind, she opens the door just enough to slip inside, and shuts it behind her. If she were braver, and more willing to break the rules of the house, she'd lock the door. She knows that would go over about as well as setting the sofa on fire, though, and stays her hand from it. She takes a moment to let her eyes adjust the darkness; the fire burnt down so long ago that there's not even a warm glow to guide her, just the light of an early winter morning before sunrise.
Carefully she makes her way across the room, sliding her sock-clad feet against the floor to avoid bumping into something or tripping. Once she's at his bedside she takes a deep breath for courage. With her heart pounding, she leans over him, feeling very daring as she takes in the outline of his lean body under the quilt. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she gives him a soft shake. "Sherlock," she calls, lowly, not wanting to startle him. "Sherlock, it's time to wake up. Sherlock."
He groans, and it makes her blush right to the tips of her ears. Pushing himself up on a forearm, he cocks his head back. Molly can see his eyes glinting in the gray darkness. His nostrils flare as he takes a big whiff of air in, and it has the effect of making her knees knock together because it's like he's scenting her. "Molly?" he asks. His voice is rough and low from sleep, and she's got the mad urge to tackle him to the bed and snog him stupid. His hand comes up, half-blindly searching, landing against her stomach and the knotted belt of her robe. Unable to bring herself to move, Molly can only take a breath in and shudder because the weight of his hand is against her belly, and for some reason it's very – very good – "What're you doing?"
She replies in a choked voice, "Its morning. Your – your mum sent me to wake you."
Nodding, he scoots further towards the head of the bed before sitting up. When the quilt falls down she can see that he's not wearing a shirt, can see the skin on his sharp shoulders gleaming, and she has to dart her gaze up to the ceiling and take several deep breaths. Which he can undoubtedly feel through that hand, the fingers of which he hooks into the knot, almost – but not quite – pulling it loose. "What time is it?"
"Oh, um, a little after five."
There's a flash of teeth when Sherlock smiles, and then he's tugging the fabric of the belt until the knot unwinds and the ends flop down. "Take the robe off," he orders, but there's no need because Molly was already shrugging it off her shoulders before he'd begun speaking. It puddles on the floor behind her feet.
Still, she feels the need to half-heartedly point out, "Sherlock, your parents are waiting for us…" Even though she's got a knee on the edge of the mattress, even though he's pulling the covers back so she can climb in beside him. The bed is made for one occupant, but Sherlock squirms back until he's against the wall, and Molly slides in between the sheets. Having left her slippers on the floor, her bare feet rub against his the soft fabric covering his legs as she settles in, heart lurching with a painful sort of excitement as she lowers her head to the indent he left on the pillow. He leans over her, hand hovering in the air above her stomach before it finally drops, fingers spreading out so he's palming the soft flesh covered by thin cotton.
"Is this alright?" A fierce sort of adoration seizes Molly when Sherlock asks this question. She doesn't have experience with boys, at least not in this area, but she's spent a lifetime watching her older cousins explore the path of relationships and sex, both in and outside of the dynamics of an Alpha and Omega and even Beta. From what she's seen, boys of Sherlock's age are often prone to expectations, to demands; how many times has she heard female cousins grumbling about boyfriends that act as though they're owed some sort of rights to their girlfriends' bodies?
"It's great," she answers honestly, unable to keep what she's sure is an utterly besotted smile off her face.
Carefully he runs a hand over the side of her face, where the once livid bruises are fading into a dull, ugly mottling of yellows and greens. "Does it hurt?" he asks, and Molly doesn't need light to know that he's wearing a dark frown; it's the same expression he always wears when they discuss her healing injuries. She's quick to flutter a hand between them, accidently smacking his chin in the process.
"It's fine, really, I hardly – oh, no, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hit you, I'm so sorry!" Sherlock's laugh is a quiet, throaty sound that makes something low in her stomach tie into a hard knot. Before she can realize his intentions, his fingers have pushed into her hair and he's lowered his head, brushing his mouth along hers in a light sweep that makes her toes curl. He exhales into the space between her parted lips, making Molly's head spin. She wraps her arms around his back and neck, feeling each point where bare skin meets bare skin and wishing her nightshirt would simply dissolve away so she could feel more, like his stomach on hers and her breasts against his chest. The thought of it makes her moan and tighten her arms, the thought so erotic that she's got sparks flaring behind her closed eyes.
She kisses Sherlock as though she's starving for him, and as though each wet press of tongue and scrape of teeth is the only thing keeping her alive. It certainly feels like it, right now. There's a little part of her that's panicking, that is urging her to stop or at least slow down, to pull back and ask if she's doing anything wrong, if he actually likes this – but he's settling his narrow body over hers, between legs she hadn't consciously parted, and she's convinced that whatever she's doing, it's right. Especially when he groans and the sound practically reverberates into her, and when he runs a lightly shivering hand up her side and, after a bare moment of hesitation, palms her breast. Molly has to break the desperate string of kisses, throat aching and head pushing back into the pillow as she gasps for air she suddenly can't seem to get enough of. It feels as though she's grabbed onto a live wire.
"Judging by your – your accelerated pulse and respiration, you like this," Sherlock breathlessly states, and Molly squirms helplessly when he squeezes the little mound of warm flesh. Her head bobs quickly up and down in the affirmative. "My research indicates that many women enjoy different types of stimulation – especially in this region – and I think it would be beneficial to – to judge several different stimuli and gage their effects." He has to stop and swallow, and she's entranced by the bob of his Adam's apple. "With that in mind, I propose a test, the parameters of which involve partial nudity and stimulation from my mouth –"
"Shut up and take my shirt off," she gasps, already trying to tug the fabric up. Her elbows flail and she finds removing her nightshirt difficult, mostly because Sherlock isn't moving off her and she can't lean up far enough, but she's got it pulled up to her shoulders when his head drops. The first touch of his tongue makes Molly moan; too loudly, she's afraid. She immediately clamps a hand over her mouth. The fingers of the other hand find Sherlock's hair and dig into the thick curls, hanging on as he makes a deep, hungry noise against her skin and sucks her nipple into his mouth. She's never felt anything remotely like it and suddenly understands why the nuns insist on total abstention, because this feels so sinfully good that she knows there's no stopping now that she's had a taste.
There's a heavy throb settling between her thighs, harder and more insistent than the banging of her heart, even. Molly squirms, but it does nothing to relieve this ache. Without really meaning to, she shifts her hips up, seeking – something, she's not sure what – and cries out against her palm when she presses against what is undoubtedly Sherlock's erection. For a moment he's very still, face turned into the valley between her chest and one hand clamped hard on her hip. Each breath he takes is gasping and shallow.
Slowly, he licks the underside of one breast, and Molly swears she's going to scream – which is ridiculous, because none of her romance novels ever said that was a place that was supposed to make her feel good – and then pushes against her. She chokes on air, reaching out to dig her blunt nails against his sides. "Do that again," she demands, and promptly bites her lip in an attempt to keep quiet when Sherlock forcefully obeys. Hooking her feet behind his knees, Molly follows the movement the next time he repeats it, and it's even better this time.
Sherlock grunts and it sounds like her name, and Molly can't keep herself from writhing. She's overwhelmed by how good this all is, and how brilliant he feels, his stomach pressing against hers when he straightens his back and rises over her. They're moving together in hard, artless movements, rutting like animals in heat. And maybe that's not too far off because when he takes one breast in hand and pinches her nipple, a little too hard but she's not going to complain, Molly growls. Legitimately, honestly growls. Later she's going to be horridly embarrassed about that, but now, well, she's got other things to worry about.
"Mine," she pants, kissing his shoulder, the line of his neck where sweat is beginning to glisten in the dim light. "My Alpha."
He laughs and it's a choked, breathless sound of giddy madness. His nose bumps into her own, runs over her cheek before moving further down, and then his mouth is at her ear. "I want to give you my knot," Sherlock pants, a raw admission that makes the bottom drop out of Molly's stomach. Under his weight she twists, legs lifting so her thighs are at his sharp hips and she's curling under him, practically offering herself up for the taking. She's clawing at his sides, his chest, some instinct she hadn't even realized she possessed driving her to score his flesh until he gives a furious thrust and pins her with his body, grappling until he's managed to get her wrists in one broad palm. She's awed at how big his hands are, how he can pin her arms over head and grind against her until she's tipping her chin back and showing him her throat in blind submission. It makes stars pop and blink in front of her eyes, and no matter how much air she sucks in she can't get enough, and now there's a hard shivering in her limbs. It feels like there's something, something she doesn't have a name for and it's chasing her – or maybe she's chasing it –
As quickly as they'd been caught, her wrists are free. Sherlock is holding himself on his knees, mouth twisted in a scowl as he tangles his fingers in the fabric of her pajama trousers, tugging and pulling. "We can't, Sherlock, we can't," she's choking out, even though her hands have joined his. They're getting in each other's way, his bony wrist knocking her fingers away, her palm catching his thumb and pinning it to her stomach. She's terrified he's going to – that they're going to – that right now, in his bed with his parents and brother downstairs going about their morning – they're going to have sex. It's too quick and soon and not the right time at all, but while logic is howling like a panicked animal, the rest of Molly is squirming, fighting to get the fabric down far enough that maybe, maybe –
Pajama pants and panties bunch together at the top of her thighs, and the chilly air winds through the now bare thatch of hair. It's shocking because it makes her realize that she's – between her legs, she's wet, and she tries to push up on her elbows and scoot away. The biological response of the female body isn't new to Molly, at least not in terms of text books and the science that goes into sex, but surely this can't be right. She's done something wrong, because yes, the vagina is meant to lubricate but this is too much, way too much, and she can't let Sherlock find out, she'll die if he's disgusted –
"You think I'm going to knot you now?" There's a ragged edge to Sherlock's voice when he speaks, and his words come in a desperate rush. He bats her hands away, gaze focused between her legs, and there's just enough light that he can see too much for Molly's liking. "I want to. I want to." He exhales in a rough tremor. His palm is warm and heavy against her pubic bone as he presses against that mound, and Molly's frozen, a high noise of desperation in the back of her throat as she does her best to keep absolutely still. "God, I want you. It'd be so easy, so good, but I won't. Not yet. Because when we do – and we will – we're going to need more than this. More than a quick fumble, trying to be quiet so my parents don't hear us… I just want to feel, Molly. May I? Will you let me feel you?"
So dizzy that it feels like the bed is rocking and swaying under her, Molly's arms give out and she topples to her back again. Her eyes are tightly closed, because she's hoping not seeing will help distance her from the mind numbing everything going on, but it only makes it worse. She can feel everything more acutely; her hard, tight nipples and how they're aching, how heavy and swollen her breasts feel; the pulse between her legs, forcing her hips to lift up against Sherlock's hand, seeking more pressure, more something; the sound of his breathing, fast and urgent, like he's been running for miles, and how it makes her stomach swoop out from under her again.
Jerkily she nods, not quite meaning to. "Yes," she hears herself murmur, and she hasn't got time to take it back or think it through, because Sherlock's making this low, masculine sound of pleasure and his hand is – moving –
Molly's eyes shoot open after he's pushed his hand between her thighs, after his fingers are curled to hold the most private part of her body so intimately that her nose and eyes burn with a sudden rush of tears. Gaping up at him, feeling very much as though he's stripping her skin away and displaying every painfully sensitive nerve ending to the world, she's able to see the way his mouth drops open and how his narrow body shudders. His middle finger pushes past slick outer lips, sinks into wet flesh just above the aching opening of her body.
He groans, "You're so wet," his other hand reaching out, curling over one bare breast and clinging as though he needs to be anchored. It is obvious how affected he is, how he likes the excessive moisture, and Molly's previous worries are entirely forgotten. She arches her back and pushes against him, wordlessly crying out. Carefully he begins to stroke with light touches, learning the new landscape presented to him. It's almost by accident that he ghosts a touch over a place that makes her knees jerk and her throat close, and if Molly's eyes hadn't snapped closed she would see the smirk stretched across Sherlock's face. "There," he murmurs, as though he's talking to himself, before he carefully parts the folds of her center and sets his fingertip against the bundle of nerves.
She knows it's her clitoris, can see the anatomy diagram flashing behind her eyes, but the knowledge is secondary and is overwhelmed by the flood of sensation. It's so good it's almost painful, and she's writhing, legs spasming as she alternately tries to press her thighs shut and strains to open wider. Her range of movement is hindered by the sleep pants and knickers shoved down on her thighs, but it doesn't keep Molly's muscles from jerking and twanging. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears, louder than Sherlock's heavy, excited breathing. It's like he's playing her, like she's the strings of his violin, and that pressure from before is surging back, harder and more intense.
"Oh my God, stop, something's happening," she gasps out, taking the sheets under in two great fistfuls even as her shoulders arch off the mattress. She doesn't know if she really wants him to stop but thinks maybe he should, because this can't be normal, can it? This – this feeling of hurtling through space, flying into something so massive her conscious mind can't even truly comprehend it.
Sherlock pauses and Molly pries her eyes open, staring at the ceiling and gasping for air. She can't stop shivering, can't stop her hips from pressing up, seeking to renew the pressure. "Haven't you ever done this before?" he asks, and all she can do is shake her head back and forth, because words are suddenly beyond her. "Never? You've never touched yourself?"
"No," she admits, and thinks she's going to swallow her tongue when his fingers dip down to the entrance of her body, pressing against the tight ring of muscle. Something that's half a groan and half a laugh is pulled out of Sherlock as he does this, and it's only when he brings his attention back to her clit that Molly realizes he was slicking his fingers in her moisture. It makes sense, the need for easy friction, but that's as far as her mind can go before it's shutting down under the hot wash of pleasure.
"It's okay," he breathes, leaning over her. The kiss he gives her is sloppy and quick, but Molly wants more, whines when he pulls away. "I want to make you feel good, Molly. My Molly… my Omega… it's okay, it's alright, I'm here. You're safe. There, you can feel it, can't you? Your muscles are tensing, I can feel it, here, how you're tightening up inside…" His thumb presses against her entrance, circling, and yes, Molly can feel it. Can feel something, pulling and stretching her, like she's a rubber band being stretched back, farther and farther – and if he doesn't stop, oh, if he doesn't stop she's going snap –
"Sher – aghhh –" The last remains of logic force Molly's arm up, over her open mouth, where she bites down on her own flesh to stifle a wail. The tension can't go any further and, like a train that's run out of rails but has a full head of steam, she catapults through darkness into some great, unknown abyss. Stars are blazing past her in hot flashes and it's like – it's like she's been turned inside out, but it's so good, it's the best thing ever – and she can feel her whole body shaking and shuddering, can hear Sherlock gasping, "God, you're beautiful, my Molly."
The initial, blinding rush fades and she finds herself limp on her back, twitching and jerking and moaning against the inside of her wrist. She opens her eyes to the sight of Sherlock, in the blushing light of sunrise, tugging his pajama trousers down. His isn't the first penis she's seen, not by a long shot, because she's a girl from a huge family and Pat remains untouched by shame of his body and has a habit of walking around starkers in his room even when she's over. Exhausted and hazy as she is, she's feels her interest perking because Sherlock's penis is nothing like the ones she's seen before, floppy and vaguely worm like. It's angrily red and stiff looking, and very wide, so wide that her eyes grow in size as she contemplates ever attempting to take him inside her body.
Curious, she watches as Sherlock takes himself in hand strokes – realizing that he's using the same hand he'd only just used to give her such monumental pleasure with, which makes her stomach fall out and her toes curl – head dropping forward as he does. He's watching her with hazy eyes, mouth damp and open, tongue touching the corner before he whispers, "I could watch you come a dozen times." A grimace of something like pain crosses his face and Molly can't keep from reaching up with trembling hands, cupping his cheeks and pushing her sluggish, weak body up so she can kiss his mouth. At the first touch of her tongue on his bottom lip he jerks and exhales hard, shuddering above her, and she can feel something hot and wet splashing across her lower stomach. Something fierce and hot flares through her as she realizes that he's orgasming, that he's feeling the same feeling she felt, like he'd ripped her soul out and held in his hands, and it was simply because he'd watched her.
He ends up lying beside her, an arm wrapped over her stomach and the other pillowing her head. "I'm sorry," he mutters hoarsely, snagging excess sheet and wiping her belly clean. He's blushing. "I should have asked, first, before I…" Trailing off, he seems at a loss for words.
Molly shakes her head. "I don't mind. Really. I – I liked it, actually. I – I know that's probably weird, but –"
"Who cares?" He kisses her artlessly, joyously. "I liked it, too." Together they squirm, tugging their clothing back into place – though Sherlock seems decidedly put out to have her breasts out of view, which does wonders for ego as her cousins always made fun of her little chest – before he tugs the quilt up and covers them both. His eyelids are drooping.
"We need to get up." She may be reminding him, but she's also rolling onto her side and curling against his body, burrowing her face into the crook of his shoulder and inhaling deeply of his sweaty, musky scent.
"Mm," he gives vague agreement, "in a minute."
Erasmus wakes them twenty minutes later by yanking the quilt off their bodies and leering. "You little pervs," he praises, waggling his eyebrows. "Better hop in the shower and air this room out before Mum catches a whiff, there's enough pheromones in here to light up a neon sign."
It'll be days before Molly can look him in the eye again.