Chapter 6

Hell of a woman!

Sherlock could not find peace as his carriage pottered along toward Baker Street. The velvet squabs he'd been sitting on had already been the silent target of his frustration. How the hell had Molly got the better of him for the second time - the second time, good heavens! - in just a few hours? Twice! Twice she had fooled him!

The first time, that note to Mrs Stamford, had been a magnanimous concession on his part, convinced as he was that he could somehow manipulate her. On the contrary the second one…well, the second one had been a shrewd move on her part.

Mrs Cowper, her landlady, was quite the bulldog. And Molly knew it. Very clever of her to allow him to accompany her home knowing full well that he wouldn't have the slightest chance of getting past the building's front door. Let alone enter her flat!

But in the meantime Molly had made sure to get him away from the Bennet Refuge. Why? Was it possible Alma Potter was hidden right there, practically under everybody's nose? No, no, it was impossible. Molly was smarter than that.

Her flat was a real probability, the Bennet Refuge was not. Too obvious even for fools at Scotland Yard if they bothered to investigate. The conundrum as to why Molly had managed his removal from that place, however, remained.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" he murmured through gritted teeth shifting slightly on his seat. What was happening to him? Hard as he thought, Sherlock couldn't remember once, one single case – and he'd solved many, some extremely difficult – where he'd been so…so what? Confused? Lost?

This wasn't like him. Never, ever he had been sure he had found the right track leading to a quick and glorious solution, and then shortly after having had to question everything again.

It was all Molly Hooper's fault. And her blasted golden-brown eyes! That woman was messing with his mind! He had to banish her immediately, relegate her to a far corner of his Mind Palace.

Sherlock closed his eyes. And cradled by the slow trot of his carriage, he tried to focus on the concrete elements of the Potter case that were in his possession. But not even three minutes had passed that he found himself staring at her unoccupied seat whishing she was still there with him.

"Damn it!" he growled under his breath. Why could he still vividly perceive Molly smell? That delicate concoction of lemon and soap that had flooded his nostrils when he had assisted her in climbing up into the carriage? Why did that lock of her brown hair, spilled out from its pinning, curling right next to a seductive mole on her neck, torment his mind?

Molly was a witch, he decided. She had cast a spell on him. There was no other explanation as to why from the moment he thought of kissing her something had snapped inside him and now he couldn't stop thinking about her and when he would see her again.

And not just because of the case. Not just because Sherlock thought she had played a significant role in Alma Potter's disappearance and it was necessary to pressure her into making a mistake that would lead to the finding of the young girl. No, not just for that. But because…because…

Well, why precisely? Sherlock thought about it for a few moments and the only thing that came to him was the same one he had taken note of an hour earlier at the Bennet Refuge. Because he was comfortable around her.

This rarely happened with male representatives, practically never with female ones. The women he had dealt with so far, barring three upon reflection, his own mother, his landlady and Watson's wife, Mary – all three for obvious reasons -, had always had seduction as their sole purpose.

Either to catch him, since he was considered one of the most coveted bachelors in the city or to secure his favours in case they were involved in unclear affairs or intent on cheating on their husbands.

And Molly was different in that. Oh, she teased and flirted too but not to seduce, rather to show off her wits. Not realizing that on Sherlock that was the most powerful seductive weapon a woman could pull off.

Not to mention the fact she was a riddle Sherlock couldn't work out. He hated riddles. Well, no, he loved riddles as long as he could solved them. So Molly intrigued the hell out of him, fuelling his desire to get to know her better.

He offhandedly leaned back in the carriage as a self-satisfied smile creased his lips. There was something fiendishly entertaining about imagining her stripped of the armour she was hiding behind and standing naked before his eyes.

Naked. Before his eyes.

He blinked disoriented. Naked.

He blinked again and again. Naked.

He rubbed his eyes. One, two, three times. Still naked.

It had to be a spell. Differently how could it be possible for him to see her like that in front of him?

Yet it was such a vivid and lifelike image that Sherlock could swear Molly was there in the flesh with her long hair braided over one shoulder, a twinkling light in her eyes and her lips just slightly parted, wearing nothing.

He should have banished that image of her from his mind. He knew he had to.

But that wasn't what he did. Sherlock let his mind, usually analytical and self-possessed, drift into that spell-like daydream in which he couldn't keep his gaze on her face.

His greedy eyes found themselves trailing like a light caress along her throat. Oh, how he wanted to nuzzle at the hollow where her jaw met her neck! Breathe her in. Her scent, an enticement to explore her soft, pale skin, more deeply. Maybe…just maybe…with his lips?

And lips be it.

He started on the inside of her wrist, working his way up to her elbow and then further up to her shoulder and nibbling at her delicate skin. She shivered, making him shiver the same way.

He envisaged her hands finding his upper arms and her neatly trimmed nails digging into his flesh as he continued to run his lips relentlessly along her collarbone and then pay equal attention to her other arm.

Sherlock couldn't help but let his gaze linger on Molly's breasts. Small but full and firm. Yes, he was sure, they fit his hands perfectly. He was already anticipating the sensation of touching and kneading them. And probably the same was true of her if her gasps were a correct indication.

Her nipples. Oh, God, her nipples! Two juicy pink buds. He had to swallow such was the urgency to take them into his mouth one at a time and lick, suck, nibble until make them so swollen and erect that her moans could be heard a mile away.

He slowly knelt before her, leaving a trail of kisses from her breastbone down to her flat belly. His fingertips gently brushed her ankles and in response to her stifled moan, Sherlock decided to proceed with that sweet torture reaching her calves.

Molly's breathing had become ragged and her eyes – he lifted his head to look at her -were coal black. The beautiful hazel iris no longer distinguishable. Her hands were on his shoulder for balance as her legs shook with brief intense quivers.

A long "Mmmmmm" escaped her lips as he went from brushing the backs of her knees to the insides of her thighs. And by the time his lips touched the small patch of skin so close to the centre of her womanhood, Molly's hands had slipped through his hair, tugging at it.

Every tug at his hair and every chocked "Mmmmm" of hers, sent jolts of arousing down to his groin until he couldn't take it anymore. Sherlock leapt to his feet almost knocking Molly off her feet in his rush. Luckily in this dream-spell there was a table behind her and her hands gripped the edge of it.

He smiled wolfishly and approached her. With a sudden peremptory movement he turned her around so that her back brushed his chest. Within seconds his hands were on her derriere, caressing and squeezing it. Then it was her back being the object of their worshipping. All the while his mouth savoured her skin alternating ravenous devastatingly kisses to gently ones. Goodness, she was positively meowing!

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Molly's waist and unceremoniously pulled her close to him so that her body almost…almost melted with his. He needed her. He wanted her with an intensity that took his breath away.

How long had it been since his body had reacted so eagerly to a woman? Years, ages maybe.

The last memory he had of an intercourse with a woman dated back to when, fresh out of college, he found himself frequenting a brothel called "Les petits plaisirs". The choice of such a place hadn't struck him as a bad one. At that time the natural physical needs of a perfectly healthy young man like himself were quite difficult to master.

On the other hand, however, Sherlock did not have the slightest desire to be romantically involved with any woman or young girl. He was still sore over Viktoria's refusal. What he just wanted was the company of a beautiful lady who might make his mind totally blank for a few hours, without implications of any kind. Period.

And so it had been for about two months. The madam had allowed him to pick the same girl every time he visited. And he had chosen one, blatantly beautiful, with raven hair and very blue eyes. Not just because of her good looks but because she seemed smart enough not to harbour feelings for one of her guests…for him in this case. Deduction which, alack, had turned out to be wrong.

He had had his last intercourse with her. With…hmm…Gosh, he didn't even remember her name! At any rate, they had spent two very pleasant hours together. Pure stunning passion. But when she had confessed to him that there was a possibility she was falling in love with him…well, Sherlock had literally run away. He had taken the steps from the bedchamber to the exit door two at a time.

And he had never set foot there again. Nor in other brothels for that matter. He was totally done with the fairer sex. If not even a harlot was capable of carrying on a relationship on pure physical attraction and had to put her feelings into it, then Sherlock decided women weren't for him and he would have gladly given them up, for good.

But this…this with Molly was something else entirely. Well, this time it was him who wasn't positive he could trust himself not to get emotionally involved with her.

Holding her like this in his arms didn't just inflame his loins. It inflamed his soul. A soul he believed he hadn't possessed for some time. A dead and buried soul.

"Sherlock, please!" she had turned to him and was now looking at his face, "Please". He groaned. How could he resist such a whispered plea? And furthermore…

"Mr Holmes?" not her voice. "Baker Street, Mr Holmes".

He blinked shifting his gaze toward the bearded man who was observing him from outside the carriage as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads. Then he blinked again shifting his gaze in front of him where until a few moments before he and Molly were about to…

No. She wasn't there. He was alone. Foolishly Sherlock glanced around as if she might be hiding somewhere, "Is something amiss, Mr Holmes?" the coachman asked, his brows knitting in a vaguely concerned expression. He shook his head in the negative.

For God's sake, why was something supposed to be amiss? He hadn't made a fool of himself, had he? He really hoped not. And even if he had, there was no way to fix it now. Crying over spilled milk was useless.

What he needed now was in his flat. His pipe and his violin. And the washroom, of course. He needed to find his release. The tantalizingly erotic version of Molly had left him with a fairly noticeable erection.

Sherlock motioned for the coachman to open the door, and it was at that exact moment the slender female figure appeared in the frame of the front door. Oh, come on! Was it a conspiracy? Did all the landladies in London now wait for their tenants to return before retiring to sleep?

"It's getting better and better!" he muttered through gritted teeth pulling his overcoat tighter around him. He didn't have to worry about hiding his particular condition from just one person, but from two! And what's more, one of them wasn't a complete stranger, as was the coachman whose opinion Sherlock couldn't care less, but it was none other than Mrs Hudson!

"Are you well, Mr Holmes?" she asked him as soon as Sherlock passed the threshold with his head down. His primary purpose was to quickly take the stairs. Prevent the old lady from entertaining him with trivial pleasantries, the second. And third, but not least, keep her from noticing he was as turned on as a fledging little boy.

He just nodded as he climbed the first two steps. "You stayed in the carriage quite a long time after it stopped" she persisted. "I was in my Mind Palace" he lied without bothering to turn in her direction, hoping the answer would convince her enough to leave him alone.

He had almost reached the first landing. A few more steps and then he would be hole up in the silence and intimacy of his flat. And above all, his washroom. But he should have known perfectly well his landlady would not slacken off until he told her what she wanted to know. And in fact…

"Mr Holmes" her tone was stern and assertive, "Aren't you hiding some kind of wound under your overcoat?". Sherlock stopped abruptly on the landing, "No, Mrs Hudson. No injuries" he snapped.

Sherlock saw the scowl on her face, "My apologies. I didn't mean to be rude. I just…" he said letting out a weary sigh. She looked oddly at him and he couldn't help rolling his eyes, but then he softened his tone and added "I just need some privacy, Mrs Hudson, you know…do my business".

"Oh!" was the short laconic answer of the old lady. He had just set foot on the next step when her voice reached him again "Can I help you with anything?". Sherlock thought about it for a second then he leaned over the railing, "Actually yes, Mrs Hudson. Be so kind as to display the signal for the Irregulars".

And so while Sherlock took care of his problem, Mrs Hudson tied a red neckerchief to the knocker of 221b, so that Wiggins and his gang would know Sherlock Holmes needed them.