Eleven Weeks and One Day Ago. Somewhere over the Atlantic
Even before the transatlantic flight had cleared the Irish coast, several passengers on-board the flight from London to New York City seriously considered trying to throw Sherlock Holmes off the airplane. Already he had deduced that one person would soon be bankrupt, that one couple would soon be divorced, that one woman was pregnant with a child which not her husband's, and that the flight attendant was banging both the pilot and the co-pilot.
But Sherlock needed to keep his mind occupied and far away from the events of the early morning hours at 221B Baker Street. Eventually, however, his mind forced its own agenda upon him and dragged the detective's thoughts back there whether he wanted it or not.
Sherlock had prayed to whatever beneficent forces were at work in the universe (forces he didn't himself believe in) that Molly would be asleep when he returned to his flat at 2:30 am after he and John had gained the information they needed from Simon Forster. He entered the flat quietly and found, to his surprise, that Molly had indeed listened to him and asked one of the members of the security detail inside.
"Mr. Holmes," the large man said by way of greeting.
Sherlock shushed him, hoping Molly didn't hear them. A second later, his hopes were dashed when Molly came out of the bedroom in her pajamas. "Sherlock."
"Molly."
She turned to the Secret Service agent in the living area and said, "Thank you for keeping me company tonight, Malcolm. You don't have to stay."
"Anytime ma'am."
"I told you: please call me Molly. And we'll have to have an another game of Scrabble some time. You're very good."
When Malcolm left, Sherlock turned to Molly, annoyed. "Scrabble? He's supposed to be protecting you, not playing games with you."
"He did both. He's quite a nice man Malcolm."
"Yes, well . . . I should be off to sleep. I have to catch a flight to New York tomorrow."
"Really? So whatever you and John did tonight, it's led to something, has it?"
"Maybe."
"Oh good, more vagueness."
"Look, Molly . . . "
"I don't want to argue anymore. I really don't. I just want to be free of all this nonsense and I want to go back to my life as soon as possible. I do trust you, Sherlock. Do what you need to do."
"Well, thank you," Sherlock said, surprised by Molly's reasonableness. "I, um . . . Molly, about what happened earlier . . . "
"Let's pretend it never happened, ok? I think that would be best."
"Really?" He was shocked and, if he admitted it, his ego a little bruised that she could so easily dismiss his kiss.
"Yes, what did you think, Sherlock, that I thought you really meant to kiss me? I know you were just being kind." Tell her she's wrong, Sherlock, he thought to himself. Molly continued, "Stress like the kind we've been under makes people behave in irrational ways that they never would otherwise." You're too good to me, Molly Hooper. And you're too good for me.
"I'm glad you see it that way," Sherlock lied.
"So, um, anyway, since you'll be in America I presume for at least a couple of days, there's no special reason for me to stay here, so I might as well stay at my own flat, right? Please, please don't make me go back to Greg's."
"Well, actually, I've already arranged for someone else to stay here with you."
"Oh, don't tell me you've forced John to babysit me. It's not fair to bring Rosie into a situation in which there is the least little bit chance of danger."
"I completely agree with you. John isn't coming to live here."
"Oh," she said with some surprise and much trepidation, "then who is?"
Sherlock winced. "Mycroft?"
Molly went nearly apoplectic. "What?!"
"I know it's not ideal."
"What? How? Why?"
"Three excellent questions. You see, because of Rosie, John's out of consideration. And you've already decided against Greg Lestrade's house. That leaves Mycroft and you can't stay at his house, so he's coming here."
"Wait, why can't I go his house? I mean, I don't want to go there, but I'm curious."
"Mycroft is a bit peculiar when it comes to his personal space, you see. He's even more OCD than you are." Sherlock laughed, but stopped abruptly when he saw Molly's very un-amused face.
"OCD? I'm not OCD."
"Ummm . . . yeah, yeah you are."
"No, I'm not."
"You really don't know you're OCD?"
"I really not OCD."
"Ok," he said, surprised at her own uncharacteristic lack of awareness, "if you say so." She glowered at him.
"Fine, I'll go back to Greg's. I'll risk getting hantavirus."
"Oh, come now, it's only a few days and Mycroft isn't that awful." Molly tilted her head skeptically.
"Ok, he's fairly awful, but you said you didn't want to argue anymore."
"Oh, you bastard."
Ironically, although prone to occasional binge-drug use, when it came to alcohol, Sherlock was actually a lightweight, so even the limited amount of liquor afforded on a transatlantic flight made him more tipsy than a man of his size or a man of any size should be reasonably expected to get. He had decided that for the benefit of his fellow passengers on the flight, he needed something to keep him from deducing them to the point of madness and possible homicidal mania. So began his drinking. His mood lightened and he found that he delighted in thinking how awful the next three days would be for his brother Mycroft. He felt sorry for Molly, but her surprisingly easy dismissal of his kiss the previous night made it a little easier for him to have just the least little bit of joy imagining her being driven insane by his brother as well.
By the time he'd actually landed in New York City proper, he'd had enough time for the little alcohol he'd had to dissipate and for a small hangover to set in, so that when he'd finally arrived at his hotel, now thoroughly wrung out from both the hangover and the jetlag, he just collapsed on the bed and went to sleep immediately.
When he woke up at 6:30 pm, he proceeded immediately to call John first. It would be 11:30 pm there. He answered on the second ring, whispering slightly. "Hello, Sherlock. Hold on, let me go into another room. Rosie is sleeping." A few seconds later, John resumed, at a normal speaking voice. "How was your flight?"
"Dreadful in every way. I still don't see why Mycroft couldn't procure me a private charter."
"Oh you poor dear. Where are you staying?"
"The London."
"Of course you are. So, have you ordered your hooker yet? Are you considering the 'around the world package' or are you keen to go to a specific region of the globe."
"How old are you?"
"Come on, it's not everyday that Sherlock Holmes gets a prostitute."
"In answer to your original question, no, I haven't called to make an, ah . . . would it be an appointment or a reservation?"
"A date."
"Oh good Lord, no. In any event, I am meeting with a member of the New York City vice squad tomorrow before I call to schedule our . . . our . . . "
"Date," John adds, chuckling. Sherlock groaned. "Remember, you can't kiss prostitutes on the mouth."
"While I don't have any interest in kissing or touching one anywhere, let alone the mouth, I am curious first as to why you know this and, second, why that rule exists. I mean it seems wildly innocuous given the other acts being performed."
"I think it's something about the intimacy of the kiss, that it's reserved for those one loves, not just those one fucks. I actually don't know for sure if that's its a hard and fast rule. My only source for it is the movie Pretty Woman."
"John, I am dumber for having been a part of this conversation. Good night."
"Good night. Remember to use a condom." Sherlock rang off, both annoyed and, if he admitted it, a little amused by John's occasional juvenile humor.
And now he found himself all alone in a foreign country, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. He did not have the instincts of a tourist. In one of the most dynamic and vibrant cities in the world, he wanted nothing more than to hole up in his London-themed hotel room and wait to start the American edition of The Game the next morning. He ordered from room service. Fish and chips, of course. He watched American television. He had to hand it to the Americans, their television programming was a deductive treasure trove of horrible trash reality programming. Sherlock delighted in turning the channels very fast and trying to deduce as much as he could about the various "everyday people" being used for crass entertainment.
But later on that evening, after exhausting himself watching television and showering, he lie awake on the bed considering that odd bit of conversation between himself and John earlier in the evening. You can't kiss a prostitute? Such a strange rule, if it exists, Sherlock thought. It would seem rather illogical to allow a cock inside one's mouth but not a tongue. Not for the first time, Sherlock thought, people are such irrational creatures.
Then his thoughts circled back to the idea of the kiss itself and that, of course, brought him back to kissing Molly the previous day. Her mouth had opened but slightly. She'd wanted more. But he'd already known that. But to feel it, be to be so close. What would have happened, he wondered, had he just opened his mouth as well? He'd only had open-mouth kisses twice with women before, once when 14 and the other more recently, with Janine. He had it admit that he liked kissing. If one analyzed it on a absolutely scientific and logical basis, kissing was absurd. It served no obvious biological function. Yet he knew many sexual acts were only tangentially related to the biological mandate to reproduce. Not for the first time, he congratulated himself on being intellectually above such needs.
Ok, he wasn't completely above such needs, he admitted to himself. There were quite a few times he had to excuse himself from a session of kissing with Janine to relieve himself in the shower. Once she had wanted to make him come manually, but he had stopped her after a few pumps and pretended to be ill. Again he had finished himself off in the shower. He hated that he couldn't always control his arousal. Although he found momentary pleasure in the act of masturbation itself, what he didn't like was his body's frequent reminder that something was beyond his complete control.
Strangely, he had a sudden overwhelming desire to call Molly. No, it's not strange at all, he reconsidered to himself. He knew why he was thinking about her. The kissing, again, the kissing. He couldn't call her. It was the middle of the night in London. So he just thought about her, sleeping safely in his Baker Street bed. He suddenly wondered if, when this was all over and she returned to her own flat, his sheets would still smell of her. If they did, he knew, just knew, he'd get aroused. And then, he found, to his real annoyance, that he was already getting aroused. You're such a 14-year-old boy sometimes, he chided himself, trying to will his penis to go limp. And then disaster. The memory of the photo he'd seen entered his mind, unbidden. He felt simultaneously awful and incredibly turned on. He decided that to do anything about it would be to dishonor Molly, to be no better than Tom and his friends, so he just ignored it as long as he could, knowing, that like all things, his cock, too, would return to room temperature.
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