A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Twelve
Jul. 29th, 2016 10:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darnedchildSummary: Molly was happy with her life. She's got a job she loves, a nice flat, her cat, and she's even begun dating again (now that she's over her infatuation with Sherlock, mostly). Then Sherlock dragged her out for a few hours of dress up and undercover work, and everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.
She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.
Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.
Chapter Twelve
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Things had begun to heat up considerably (Molly had finally managed to get her hands under his shirt and his chest felt glorious under her fingers.) when the front door slammed shut and Mrs Hudson trilled her usual "Ohh-hoo!" greeting. Even before they heard her coming up the stairs, Sherlock had rolled off Molly and on to the floor, very nearly overturning the coffee table in the process.
He was up and standing behind his chair, dressing gown closed and tied for once, by the time she made it to the top of the landing. Molly had barely sat up and smoothed down her hair, although she did have a smiling greeting for the landlady when Mrs Hudson stepped through the door, arms loaded down with several grocery bags.
"Since I was out anyway, I thought I'd pick up a few things for you two. I know Sherlock hasn't been to do the shopping in ages, and I'm sure you're getting tired of take-away by now, Molly." Mrs Hudson hauled the groceries to the kitchen table and began to unpack the bags.
Molly had hurried to help the older woman while Sherlock mumbled something about changing for dinner. He quickly disappeared down the hall to his room. Mrs Hudson finished emptying a bag, and then reached out and grabbed Molly's hand.
"I've got horrible timing, don't I?
"Oh, no. We weren't . . . I mean, we were. A bit. But not-" Molly stammered, clearly flustered and feeling uncomfortably like a teenager who had been caught making out in the sitting room by her boyfriend's parents.
"We were. And yes, your timing is horrible." Sherlock called from his bedroom, and Molly flushed bright red.
Mrs Hudson grinned in response. "You could have shut the door, Sherlock."
"You would have knocked and barged in anyway." He stepped into the kitchen and finished buttoning his shirt.
"I wouldn't," Mrs Hudson denied with a mischievous twinkle in her eye that told Molly the older wasn't being completely honest.
Molly didn't know where to look. Her gaze kept being drawn to the tempting expanse of pale skin that was rapidly being covered by the dark blue material. She was very conscious of Mrs Hudson watching her as she, in turn, watched Sherlock. Molly grabbed a box of chocolate digestive biscuits and crammed it into one of the cupboards.
Mrs Hudson shoved a pint of milk at Sherlock. "Make yourself useful. So you're going out for dinner, then?"
Molly's head snapped up. That was the first she'd heard about going out to eat.
"Mmm, yes." He looked at Molly as Mrs Hudson gathered up the empty bags. "You may want to change. Though I personally find you wrapped in my silk dressing gown to be rather . . . appealing." He smirked, and she was reminded of him saying he'd fantasized about to draping her in silk earlier.
Molly snorted when she realized that's exactly what he'd been doing each time he left the same gown out for her.
"But you may want to change into something a bit less casual than your pyjamas."
She took his advice and dug out one of the outfits she'd brought along for work. It wasn't anything special--just a pair of khakis, a paisley shirt, and a plain jumper--but it was better than the sweatpants and vests she'd packed for hanging around the flat.
Somehow Sherlock managed to hail a cab instantly. It was an almost supernatural feat she'd seen him perform many times in the past. If Molly needed a cab, she was routinely forced to bounce up and down on the pavement, waving her hand like a loon for several minutes. If she was lucky, a cabbie would take pity on her. If she wasn't, well, that's what the Tube was for.
He opened the door so she could slide in, and leaned through the open driver side window to give their destination to the cabbie before following her inside. Sherlock had just settled next to her when Molly realized the man behind the wheel looked very familiar.
"Soter!"
The cabbie turned and gave her a brief nod in greeting. "Miss Hooper."
Molly turned to Sherlock with narrowed eyes. He shook his head and offered a quick denial, "Not me."
Soter spoke up from the front seat. "Wrong Mr Holmes, Miss Hooper." He gave his full attention to pulling the cab into traffic and left her to direct her confusion toward Sherlock.
"Why would Mycroft still have his men hanging around? I would have thought he'd have more important things to deal with."
Sherlock glanced out the back window as he shrugged. "I imaging Anthea has something to do with it." He turned back around to face front and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "I'm under the impression that she has grown fond of you."
Molly blushed and made herself busy watching the pedestrians and other cars go by.
They pulled up in front of an unremarkable building with a small sign written in Chinese over one of the three doors facing the pavement. After they got out of the car, Sherlock handed a few bills to Soter (who took them with a grin). As Sherlock held the restaurant door open for her and gestured that she should go in ahead of him, she saw the cab pull farther down the street to an empty parking spot and the TAXI light switched off.
The restaurant was busy. The menu was predominantly written in Chinese, with the names of some of the dishes written out in English to the side. Sherlock asked if she had any preferences, then offered to order for them both if she'd like.
The food was amazing. Molly vaguely remembered John mentioning going out for Chinese with Sherlock in his blog, not long after they'd first met, and she wondered if this was the same restaurant.
Every so often, she caught Sherlock looking up when the door opened. His intense stare would take stock of the new customer and then quickly dismiss them. She fully expected him to pay attention to their surroundings, that was what he did; but other than the brief examination of the people coming in and out, he remained uncharacteristically focused on her.
He listened when she talked. Offered her bites from the variety of dishes spread across their small table. Watched her mouth as she ate. He stuttered to a halt in the middle of a scathing discussion about Nestor--the Yard's current incompetent forensic scientist, who somehow managed to make Anderson look like a genius--when she licked traces of sauce from her lips. By the time they were ready to leave, Molly wanted nothing more than to lean across the table and kiss the stuffing out of him.
Sherlock led her outside, pausing in the doorway to scan the pavement and street before waving a hand for a cab. Soter pulled up almost immediately.
They arranged themselves in the back of the cab, and then Sherlock put his arm around her shoulders to pull her against his side. She saw him glance through the rear window again as they pulled into traffic.
"Do you think Chapman followed us?"
"Doubtful, but it never hurts to be vigilant." Sherlock relaxed against the seat and stretched his legs out as much as he could. "I seriously doubt he'd risk coming after you in public like this. Not to mention that I'm with you. He'd be a fool to try another abduction while I'm at your side."
Molly nodded, and rested her head on his shoulder for the rest of the ride home.
No, not home. Baker Street. Mustn't forget the difference.
She thought about Chapman and what Sherlock had said. How Chapman wouldn't dare try to abduct her again while she was staying at Sherlock's flat.
Molly frowned. That wasn't quite right though.
Chapman hadn't tried to kidnap her. He'd wanted her to call Sherlock and lure him to her place. He hadn't want to take her anywhere, at all. He wanted to keep her there, use her as bait. And then, when she lied and said Sherlock wouldn't come, he wanted to use her as some sort of warning or punishment for Sherlock to find.
Sherlock slid his fingers under her chin and lifted her face so he could press a soft kiss against her forehead. "Stop worrying, Molly. You're safe now." His mouth drifted lower, brushing against her lips once, then twice.
Molly whimpered when the tip of his tongue teased at the corner of her mouth.
Soter coughed in the front seat. Sherlock huffed and pressed his warm cheek against hers. "Wrong time, wrong place."
She waited as Sherlock made sure the street and pavement was clear before offering her a hand out of the cab. He unlocked the door to 221B, then hurried her in.
The muted sounds of a telly drifted out from Mrs Hudson's rooms.
Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips, and took her hand to lead her up the stairs.
"Tea?" he asked as soon as they were in the sitting room.
"No, I'm good. Thanks." Molly hung up her coat and rubbed her hands together, unsure of what to do now.
He slipped his scarf from around his neck. She watched the material slide free, exposing the long expanse of his throat and the hint of chest visible above the unbuttoned vee of his shirt.
Oh God, he's gorgeous.
Sherlock finished hanging up his Belstaff and titled his head to study her. "You're nervous. Why?"
"I haven't the foggiest."
"Right." He dug through a small pile of paperwork near his laptop and pulled out a remote. "Let's see what mindless garbage is on the telly. Chair or sofa?"
"Chair or sofa what?"
He plopped into his chair, knees spread wide as he made himself comfortable. "Chair." Sherlock patted his thigh with his free hand. "Or sofa?" He tilted his head toward the other piece of furniture.
She knew what he was doing. He was giving her a chance to put some space between them, to calm her nerves.
With a gulp and an embarrassing lack of finesse, Molly crossed the small room and settled down on his lap. Sherlock pulled her legs up across both of his so that they dangled near the arm of the chair. He tucked her head under his chin as he clicked on the telly.
The programme was mostly white noise as far as she was concerned. Instead she concentrated on the feel of his chest under her cheek, his heartbeat against her ear, the firmness of his thighs under her legs. His breathing was slow and steady, other than the occasional huff as someone on the telly said something particularly moronic. Molly's fingers played with one of the buttons on his shirt, almost but not quite slipping it through the hole.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?" She felt his head move, shifting to the side enough that he could look down at her.
"When you asked about having sex this evening?"
He squirmed underneath her and she could see him begin to drum the fingers of the hand not around her waist on the arm of the chair. "Are we back to that? I thought the moment had passed, when we went over everything earlier today."
Molly lifted her head to look him in the face. "Again, Sherlock, clinically asking someone out of the blue if they wanted to have sex later isn't a 'moment'."
She didn't think she'd ever seen him look so piqued in all the years she'd known him. And that included the few times she'd seen Sally Donovan do her best to rip him down with her pathetic insults about his methods and personality.
"It wasn't out of the blue. There was a clear line of thought that lead up to it."
No, she'd been paying attention through the entire conversation leading up to the sex thing, and there hadn't been so much as a hint. "Okay, walk me through this line of thought, then, because I must have missed the important bits."
He started to speak several times, then frowned. His brow furrowed, and she desperately wanted to reach up and soothe the creases. "I told you how terrified I was when Geoff called to tell me that you'd been attacked."
She rolled her eyes. "No, sorry. And Greg should have asked me before calling you, anyway. I could have told you I was okay, so you wouldn't have had to worry."
"Hmm. Did I mention how, when I read the report and saw that there were blood samples that would need to be processed, my first thought was that Chapman had hurt you? And that I knew if I saw him at that moment, there wasn't a force on heaven or Earth that would keep me from wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing until his beady little eyes popped out." His hands flexed, then curled into fists.
She whispered, "No." Her arms wrapped around him, trying to offer reassurance that she was fine.
He pulled her closer, seemingly needing to feel her touch as much as she needed to give it. "What about my utter knee-weakening relief that you weren't hurt?"
Molly shook her head.
"So I probably didn't tell you that realizing I wanted to kill a man for daring to hurt you was a pretty obvious clue that you mean more to me than a mere friend. That it must mean you were on that list of people I would gladly suffer for if it meant keeping them safe."
"Nope." She was starting to smile at his growing frustration.
He tilted his head down to see her more clearly. "When I finally looked at you, as you were explaining that you'd broken his nose, you had that fierce look in your eyes that said you could and would defend yourself. Chasing shortly behind that immense feeling of relief was the most inappropriate urge to drag you into the nearest room with a lock, press you against the door, and snog you senseless." Sherlock shrugged. "That's when I admitted that not only did I care for you, greatly, but I loved you and wanted you. Both in my life and in my bed. That's when I finally gave myself permission to do what I'd been wanting to do for so long, and I kissed you."
"Oh, wow." Molly bit her lip and reached up to touch his jaw. "That's actually romantic."
"I thought so. Just as I thought I'd clearly explained all of it prior to asking if we'd be having sex."
She shook her head and brushed her fingertips against his lower lip, fascinated by their shape and texture. "Well, there's the problem. You didn't actually tell me any of that. I'm sure you can understand my confusion now."
"A bit, yeah."
He nipped at her finger. Molly squealed and nearly toppled off his lap.
After her giggles faded away, her expression turned serious once more. "So, back to you asking?"
"Hmm?"
"About sex. Asking if we were going to have sex because you had to prepare."
Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back against the chair cushion. "Why are we still talking about this?" His head lifted just enough so that he could eye her down the bridge of his nose, and he smiled rather devilishly. "I vote we stop talking and start doing. What do you think?"
She lightly smacked him in the chest. "What did you mean by that, needing to prepare?"
His head fell back again. "Right. Well, as I explained and we discussed in excruciating detail earlier, I haven't had intercourse in close to two decades. I do remember the feeling being . . . intense. Extremely intense, in fact." One of his hands moved to rest against her thigh, and he began to gently knead the flesh there. "Therefore, it isn't difficult to deduce that I would be in danger of ending things before they had a chance to really begin if I didn't take matters into my own hands prior to engaging in sexual congress with you. Literally."
Molly stared at him for a long moment as she processed everything he'd said. "You wanted to masturbate before we had sex to decrease the odds of premature ejaculation."
"That's a rather blunt way to put it, but yes." He sat up straighter and tried not to look embarrassed. He failed magnificently.
"That's oddly sweet." Even as the words slipped past her lips, Molly grimaced. "What is wrong with me?"
"I'm sure we could come up with a list. The first item would most likely be that you love me, if that helps at all."
"Strangely enough it does, actually."
Sherlock leaned in to kiss her. There was no hesitation this time, just heat and bone melting desire. The hand on her thigh slid upward to cup her arse. Molly knew she needed to slow things down. There was something she wanted to say before she lost her head completely. She let him kiss her one more time before pushing away from his chest with both hands. His arms loosened to give her the space she wanted.
"Before things get out of hand, I need you to know that I'm not ready to have sex with you."
He arched a brow and the side of his mouth tilted upward in a lopsided smirk.
"All right, parts of me are completely ready. However, mentally . . . I need a bit more time. I've only just found out that you care for me-"
"Love you," he firmly interrupted. "Not merely 'care' for you."
Her insides began to melt again. Molly struggled to strengthen her crumbling resolve. "I need time to adjust to the idea of us being, well, an 'us' before I can even consider taking that big of a step with you." She bit her lip and studied his face, hoping to get a clue as to what he was feeling. "I'm sorry."
With an impatient gesture of his hand, Sherlock waved away her apology. "Don't be. I'm at an advantage in that I've known how you felt about me long before today." He took one of her hands in his, and rubbed small circles against her skin with his thumb. "We don't need to rush into anything."
"Are you sure you're all right with waiting?" She knew there were some men who wouldn't be.
"I'd be an arse of the first order if I wasn't. How many years did you wait for me to stop ignoring my . . . feelings." There was so much disgust encapsulated in that final word that Molly should have been insulted. Instead, she rolled her eyes in amusement.
The telly continued to ramble on. Molly glanced at it briefly, but didn't register anything that was happening on the screen. She worried her lower lip as she wondered if she was making a huge mistake. Here was Sherlock, ready and willing to make another of her dreams come true (the first being his declaration of love); and she was wibbling about like an uncertain virgin on her wedding night.
Sherlock shifted, repositioning himself and Molly so that they were both a little more comfortable. "You should know," he began in a deceptively conversational tone. "Even though I am prepared to engage in intercourse--that I want to make love with you--I do have some reservations of my own."
Surprised, Molly jerked her head back around to look at him. Sherlock eyes were on the telly even though he continued to speak to her. "Small ones. Tiny, really. But they exist. Mostly I'm afraid I'm going to fail to please you, especially after such a long build up. What if the reality doesn't live up to your fantasies and you decide I'm utter rubbish at it?"
He finally turned his attention back to her. "I haven't had a chance to do any real research on the matter, and John refuses to leave his laptop here unsupervised any longer; therefore, my technical knowledge in this area is limited and out of date."
"Technical knowledge?" Molly grinned. "That's what we're calling it?"
"Hush." Sherlock's lips tilted into a boyish smile. "I just wanted you to know that I understand, and am more than willing to wait until we're both ready."
"Thank you." A tiny part of her continued to wonder how she'd managed to be so lucky. Surely everything that had happened that day was part of a dream, and she was going to wake up at any moment.
"You're welcome. Now quit squirming, I'm trying to watch . . . whatever this is, and you're distracting me."
She liked knowing that she could distract him. Probably liked it a little too much, honestly.
They watched the telly for awhile longer. Well, she watched it and Sherlock zoned out after a bit. She imagined he was sorting through something important in his head, possibly in regards to one of his cases. Molly thought about asking if he'd like her to get up and sit somewhere else, but she couldn't quite bring herself to give voice to the suggestion. Every so often his fingers would twitch against her thigh or she'd feel a little tug on her hair as he played with a lock.
As one programme switched over to another, she caught herself yawning for probably the second or third time. She'd just begun to consider sliding off his lap and leaving Sherlock to his thoughts when he picked up the remote and shut off the telly.
"Time for bed." Once Molly was up, he took a moment to stretch out his legs and then stood.
She hesitated, unsure of where she should go. They hadn't really talked about the sleeping arrangements for the night. She'd started out on the sofa that first night. Sherlock had crawled into bed with her the night before, but she didn't want to assume that meant they would be sleeping together now. Since they'd agreed not to have sex, would they both be more comfortable if she took the sofa?
Sherlock solved her dilemma by grasping her hand and leading her down the hall to his room. He must have assumed her uncertainty came from worrying that he was going to try to seduce her, because Sherlock was quick to offer reassurances. "Just sleep. Nothing more. Not tonight."
Molly wanted to tell him that she didn't need to be reassured, that she trusted him to be as much of a gentleman as he usually was, but her mouth went dry at the sight of him popping open the buttons of his shirt with one hand as he pulled open a dresser drawer with the other. Sherlock toed off his shoes and then dug out a pair of deep green pyjama bottoms.
He turned to find her standing next to the door, mouth open in what was surely a very unattractive manner, watching his every move. His shirt hung open, the ends pulled free from his belt. Her hands tingled at the thought of touching every bit of that newly exposed flesh. Or, better yet, pressing open mouthed kisses from his throat down to his navel.
The pyjama bottoms were waved in her direction. "The things I do for you, Molly Hooper. I hate wearing anything to bed."
She remained frozen in place for several moments after he disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of the toilet flushing forced her into action, and Molly scrambled to change into her own pyjamas. There was a huge contrast between the expensive material of his bottoms and the well-worn comfortable cotton of her vest and shorts. After a quick glance at the door, Molly dug through her things until she found the nice camisole and short set she'd packed. Even though they weren't going to be doing anything, she still wanted look pretty for him.
Sherlock knocked on the door and asked if she was done changing before entering the bedroom.
They shared a weighted look as they moved to stand next to their respective sides of the bed. It wasn't the first time they'd shared a bed, but this was different. This time they were doing it simply because they wanted to. There were no nightmares or houseguests taking up the sofa, no more convenient excuses that didn't hold up to the harsh light of day.
He pulled down the covers and flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. "Come to bed, Molly."
The temptation in his voice and words was more than she could resist, even if she'd wanted to. She slid into the bed, her heart pounding in excitement even though she knew nothing was going to happen. His arm reached out and pulled her close. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to have him spooned behind her. He generated so much heat that she knew there was no possible way she'd get cold in the night. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss against her hair, and Molly hummed in contentment.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
For the second morning in a row Sherlock was still in bed with her when she woke.
Even though she'd woken up at least once to find that they'd separated in the night, he was once again curled around her. His chest was pressed against her back, his arm thrown across her side. His hand-- His hand!--was on her stomach, under her camisole.
She could feel his fingers, lightly calloused from years of violin playing, painting small circles against her skin. It reminded her of the night she'd confessed about her reoccurring nightmare of his fall, only a thousand times more intense.
He mumbled something against her hair, possibly her name.
"Sherlock?" Molly whispered. "Are you awake?"
The fingers stopped moving. His voice was rough with sleep when he grumbled, "I am now."
She waited, holding her breath, for him to withdraw his arm and get out of bed.
Time seemed to stand still as neither of them moved. Slowly, as if he was afraid she was going to protest, his hand opened until his palm was flat against her stomach, just above her belly button.
He groaned, his mouth close enough that she could feel his hot breath against her ear. "You are so soft. So warm. How is that possible?"
Molly hoped the question was rhetorical because there was no way she could form a coherent answer.
His fingers began to ghost against her skin once more. Not circles this time. Shapes and swirls that seemed to spiral out in an ever increasing pattern. Her skin prickled at the sensation, her belly involuntarily tightened under his touch.
"Is this all right?" His fingers paused momentarily as he waited for her answer.
Molly knew that if she asked him to stop he would, but that was the very last thing she wanted. She nodded.
The feeling became almost too much, moving from innocent to erotic in the span of a heartbeat. She tried to turn, but his arm tightened to prevent her from moving. She could feel Sherlock shake his head behind her. "No. If you turn around . . . We agreed to wait last night and I want to honour that." He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again she could hear a husky quiver in his voice. "But I want, oh God, I want to touch you. May I? For just a bit longer?"
As if there were any chance that she would deny him at this point. "Yes. Please."
Those tempting fingers continued to caress her. They brushed against her navel, then upward in a lazy arc.
Slowly the contours of the body curled around hers began to change. She could feel him hardening. Instinct had her moving, trying to increase contact with his body. They both groaned when his groin briefly nudged against her bum.
His hand slowly drifted, still creating swirls and patterns, as if he was giving her every opportunity to stop him. The first touch of his fingertips against the underside of her breast made her gasp. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then completed his upward journey with a feather-light brush against her nipple. An involuntary shiver raced through her body.
She pushed against him, flattening her back against his chest and pressing her arse against his erection.
Sherlock moaned her name, and ground his arousal against her. She knew that he needed the friction as much as she did.
He covered her entire breast with his hand and gently squeezed. Her budded nipple rubbed against his palm. "Perfect. So perfect. It's as if you were made to fit my hand."
She bit her lip as old insecurities reared their ugly head. "Not too small?"
He released her so fast that she couldn't do anything more than whimper at the loss of his touch. Sherlock impatiently brushed her hair aside so that he could press his mouth against the sensitive skin behind her ear. "I was so fucking jealous when I said that." She could hear the disgust in his voice and knew that it was directed entirely at himself.
His hand delved back under her camisole, and quickly returned to her breast. Molly whimpered at the firm caress. She squirmed, trying to relieve the building pressure between her legs, and Sherlock ground himself against her arse again.
"I didn't realize it, wouldn't admit it, but that's what it was. Jealousy. You were mine, even then, and I just couldn't let myself see it."
He plucked at her nipple and Molly's hips bucked. "Fuck, Molly," Sherlock panted against her neck. He scrapped his teeth against her throat, then sucked hard at the sensitive flesh. He was fully hard, and neither of them were even bothering to pretend that he hadn't begun to rhythmically thrust against her.
His hand moved, abandoning her breast to slide down her belly once more. It continued its torturous path past her stomach and downward to encounter the waistband of her shorts. Molly held her breath, anxious to see what he would do. Sherlock gently bit her earlobe as those long, clever fingers dipped beneath the elastic band. They brushed against the curls there, then lower still until his palm was pressed against her pubic mound and his middle finger rested against her pudendal cleft. That talented finger nudged against her clit, and Molly called out his name without a single thought to what Mrs Hudson might overhear.
Suddenly he was gone. He rolled off the bed as if the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Molly turned to watch him find his footing. It was obvious from the tenting of his pyjama bottoms that he was still aroused. Impressively so.
Molly ached to reach out to him. She wanted nothing more than to untie the drawstring of his bottoms and touch him in the same way that he had so recently touched her.
He looked so contrite, nearly panicked, that she thought she might have laughed if she weren't dying for him to come back and finish what he'd started.
"I am so sorry. We talked about this, and agreed, and I . . . I need a shower." Sherlock bolted for the bathroom before Molly could tell him that she'd changed her mind. She didn't want to wait.
She wanted him.
Now.
Molly threw her head back against the pillow and drummed her fists against the bed in frustration.
Part 1 / Part 13
She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.
Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.
Chapter Twelve
Things had begun to heat up considerably (Molly had finally managed to get her hands under his shirt and his chest felt glorious under her fingers.) when the front door slammed shut and Mrs Hudson trilled her usual "Ohh-hoo!" greeting. Even before they heard her coming up the stairs, Sherlock had rolled off Molly and on to the floor, very nearly overturning the coffee table in the process.
He was up and standing behind his chair, dressing gown closed and tied for once, by the time she made it to the top of the landing. Molly had barely sat up and smoothed down her hair, although she did have a smiling greeting for the landlady when Mrs Hudson stepped through the door, arms loaded down with several grocery bags.
"Since I was out anyway, I thought I'd pick up a few things for you two. I know Sherlock hasn't been to do the shopping in ages, and I'm sure you're getting tired of take-away by now, Molly." Mrs Hudson hauled the groceries to the kitchen table and began to unpack the bags.
Molly had hurried to help the older woman while Sherlock mumbled something about changing for dinner. He quickly disappeared down the hall to his room. Mrs Hudson finished emptying a bag, and then reached out and grabbed Molly's hand.
"I've got horrible timing, don't I?
"Oh, no. We weren't . . . I mean, we were. A bit. But not-" Molly stammered, clearly flustered and feeling uncomfortably like a teenager who had been caught making out in the sitting room by her boyfriend's parents.
"We were. And yes, your timing is horrible." Sherlock called from his bedroom, and Molly flushed bright red.
Mrs Hudson grinned in response. "You could have shut the door, Sherlock."
"You would have knocked and barged in anyway." He stepped into the kitchen and finished buttoning his shirt.
"I wouldn't," Mrs Hudson denied with a mischievous twinkle in her eye that told Molly the older wasn't being completely honest.
Molly didn't know where to look. Her gaze kept being drawn to the tempting expanse of pale skin that was rapidly being covered by the dark blue material. She was very conscious of Mrs Hudson watching her as she, in turn, watched Sherlock. Molly grabbed a box of chocolate digestive biscuits and crammed it into one of the cupboards.
Mrs Hudson shoved a pint of milk at Sherlock. "Make yourself useful. So you're going out for dinner, then?"
Molly's head snapped up. That was the first she'd heard about going out to eat.
"Mmm, yes." He looked at Molly as Mrs Hudson gathered up the empty bags. "You may want to change. Though I personally find you wrapped in my silk dressing gown to be rather . . . appealing." He smirked, and she was reminded of him saying he'd fantasized about to draping her in silk earlier.
Molly snorted when she realized that's exactly what he'd been doing each time he left the same gown out for her.
"But you may want to change into something a bit less casual than your pyjamas."
She took his advice and dug out one of the outfits she'd brought along for work. It wasn't anything special--just a pair of khakis, a paisley shirt, and a plain jumper--but it was better than the sweatpants and vests she'd packed for hanging around the flat.
Somehow Sherlock managed to hail a cab instantly. It was an almost supernatural feat she'd seen him perform many times in the past. If Molly needed a cab, she was routinely forced to bounce up and down on the pavement, waving her hand like a loon for several minutes. If she was lucky, a cabbie would take pity on her. If she wasn't, well, that's what the Tube was for.
He opened the door so she could slide in, and leaned through the open driver side window to give their destination to the cabbie before following her inside. Sherlock had just settled next to her when Molly realized the man behind the wheel looked very familiar.
"Soter!"
The cabbie turned and gave her a brief nod in greeting. "Miss Hooper."
Molly turned to Sherlock with narrowed eyes. He shook his head and offered a quick denial, "Not me."
Soter spoke up from the front seat. "Wrong Mr Holmes, Miss Hooper." He gave his full attention to pulling the cab into traffic and left her to direct her confusion toward Sherlock.
"Why would Mycroft still have his men hanging around? I would have thought he'd have more important things to deal with."
Sherlock glanced out the back window as he shrugged. "I imaging Anthea has something to do with it." He turned back around to face front and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "I'm under the impression that she has grown fond of you."
Molly blushed and made herself busy watching the pedestrians and other cars go by.
They pulled up in front of an unremarkable building with a small sign written in Chinese over one of the three doors facing the pavement. After they got out of the car, Sherlock handed a few bills to Soter (who took them with a grin). As Sherlock held the restaurant door open for her and gestured that she should go in ahead of him, she saw the cab pull farther down the street to an empty parking spot and the TAXI light switched off.
The restaurant was busy. The menu was predominantly written in Chinese, with the names of some of the dishes written out in English to the side. Sherlock asked if she had any preferences, then offered to order for them both if she'd like.
The food was amazing. Molly vaguely remembered John mentioning going out for Chinese with Sherlock in his blog, not long after they'd first met, and she wondered if this was the same restaurant.
Every so often, she caught Sherlock looking up when the door opened. His intense stare would take stock of the new customer and then quickly dismiss them. She fully expected him to pay attention to their surroundings, that was what he did; but other than the brief examination of the people coming in and out, he remained uncharacteristically focused on her.
He listened when she talked. Offered her bites from the variety of dishes spread across their small table. Watched her mouth as she ate. He stuttered to a halt in the middle of a scathing discussion about Nestor--the Yard's current incompetent forensic scientist, who somehow managed to make Anderson look like a genius--when she licked traces of sauce from her lips. By the time they were ready to leave, Molly wanted nothing more than to lean across the table and kiss the stuffing out of him.
Sherlock led her outside, pausing in the doorway to scan the pavement and street before waving a hand for a cab. Soter pulled up almost immediately.
They arranged themselves in the back of the cab, and then Sherlock put his arm around her shoulders to pull her against his side. She saw him glance through the rear window again as they pulled into traffic.
"Do you think Chapman followed us?"
"Doubtful, but it never hurts to be vigilant." Sherlock relaxed against the seat and stretched his legs out as much as he could. "I seriously doubt he'd risk coming after you in public like this. Not to mention that I'm with you. He'd be a fool to try another abduction while I'm at your side."
Molly nodded, and rested her head on his shoulder for the rest of the ride home.
No, not home. Baker Street. Mustn't forget the difference.
She thought about Chapman and what Sherlock had said. How Chapman wouldn't dare try to abduct her again while she was staying at Sherlock's flat.
Molly frowned. That wasn't quite right though.
Chapman hadn't tried to kidnap her. He'd wanted her to call Sherlock and lure him to her place. He hadn't want to take her anywhere, at all. He wanted to keep her there, use her as bait. And then, when she lied and said Sherlock wouldn't come, he wanted to use her as some sort of warning or punishment for Sherlock to find.
Sherlock slid his fingers under her chin and lifted her face so he could press a soft kiss against her forehead. "Stop worrying, Molly. You're safe now." His mouth drifted lower, brushing against her lips once, then twice.
Molly whimpered when the tip of his tongue teased at the corner of her mouth.
Soter coughed in the front seat. Sherlock huffed and pressed his warm cheek against hers. "Wrong time, wrong place."
She waited as Sherlock made sure the street and pavement was clear before offering her a hand out of the cab. He unlocked the door to 221B, then hurried her in.
The muted sounds of a telly drifted out from Mrs Hudson's rooms.
Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips, and took her hand to lead her up the stairs.
"Tea?" he asked as soon as they were in the sitting room.
"No, I'm good. Thanks." Molly hung up her coat and rubbed her hands together, unsure of what to do now.
He slipped his scarf from around his neck. She watched the material slide free, exposing the long expanse of his throat and the hint of chest visible above the unbuttoned vee of his shirt.
Oh God, he's gorgeous.
Sherlock finished hanging up his Belstaff and titled his head to study her. "You're nervous. Why?"
"I haven't the foggiest."
"Right." He dug through a small pile of paperwork near his laptop and pulled out a remote. "Let's see what mindless garbage is on the telly. Chair or sofa?"
"Chair or sofa what?"
He plopped into his chair, knees spread wide as he made himself comfortable. "Chair." Sherlock patted his thigh with his free hand. "Or sofa?" He tilted his head toward the other piece of furniture.
She knew what he was doing. He was giving her a chance to put some space between them, to calm her nerves.
With a gulp and an embarrassing lack of finesse, Molly crossed the small room and settled down on his lap. Sherlock pulled her legs up across both of his so that they dangled near the arm of the chair. He tucked her head under his chin as he clicked on the telly.
The programme was mostly white noise as far as she was concerned. Instead she concentrated on the feel of his chest under her cheek, his heartbeat against her ear, the firmness of his thighs under her legs. His breathing was slow and steady, other than the occasional huff as someone on the telly said something particularly moronic. Molly's fingers played with one of the buttons on his shirt, almost but not quite slipping it through the hole.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?" She felt his head move, shifting to the side enough that he could look down at her.
"When you asked about having sex this evening?"
He squirmed underneath her and she could see him begin to drum the fingers of the hand not around her waist on the arm of the chair. "Are we back to that? I thought the moment had passed, when we went over everything earlier today."
Molly lifted her head to look him in the face. "Again, Sherlock, clinically asking someone out of the blue if they wanted to have sex later isn't a 'moment'."
She didn't think she'd ever seen him look so piqued in all the years she'd known him. And that included the few times she'd seen Sally Donovan do her best to rip him down with her pathetic insults about his methods and personality.
"It wasn't out of the blue. There was a clear line of thought that lead up to it."
No, she'd been paying attention through the entire conversation leading up to the sex thing, and there hadn't been so much as a hint. "Okay, walk me through this line of thought, then, because I must have missed the important bits."
He started to speak several times, then frowned. His brow furrowed, and she desperately wanted to reach up and soothe the creases. "I told you how terrified I was when Geoff called to tell me that you'd been attacked."
She rolled her eyes. "No, sorry. And Greg should have asked me before calling you, anyway. I could have told you I was okay, so you wouldn't have had to worry."
"Hmm. Did I mention how, when I read the report and saw that there were blood samples that would need to be processed, my first thought was that Chapman had hurt you? And that I knew if I saw him at that moment, there wasn't a force on heaven or Earth that would keep me from wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing until his beady little eyes popped out." His hands flexed, then curled into fists.
She whispered, "No." Her arms wrapped around him, trying to offer reassurance that she was fine.
He pulled her closer, seemingly needing to feel her touch as much as she needed to give it. "What about my utter knee-weakening relief that you weren't hurt?"
Molly shook her head.
"So I probably didn't tell you that realizing I wanted to kill a man for daring to hurt you was a pretty obvious clue that you mean more to me than a mere friend. That it must mean you were on that list of people I would gladly suffer for if it meant keeping them safe."
"Nope." She was starting to smile at his growing frustration.
He tilted his head down to see her more clearly. "When I finally looked at you, as you were explaining that you'd broken his nose, you had that fierce look in your eyes that said you could and would defend yourself. Chasing shortly behind that immense feeling of relief was the most inappropriate urge to drag you into the nearest room with a lock, press you against the door, and snog you senseless." Sherlock shrugged. "That's when I admitted that not only did I care for you, greatly, but I loved you and wanted you. Both in my life and in my bed. That's when I finally gave myself permission to do what I'd been wanting to do for so long, and I kissed you."
"Oh, wow." Molly bit her lip and reached up to touch his jaw. "That's actually romantic."
"I thought so. Just as I thought I'd clearly explained all of it prior to asking if we'd be having sex."
She shook her head and brushed her fingertips against his lower lip, fascinated by their shape and texture. "Well, there's the problem. You didn't actually tell me any of that. I'm sure you can understand my confusion now."
"A bit, yeah."
He nipped at her finger. Molly squealed and nearly toppled off his lap.
After her giggles faded away, her expression turned serious once more. "So, back to you asking?"
"Hmm?"
"About sex. Asking if we were going to have sex because you had to prepare."
Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back against the chair cushion. "Why are we still talking about this?" His head lifted just enough so that he could eye her down the bridge of his nose, and he smiled rather devilishly. "I vote we stop talking and start doing. What do you think?"
She lightly smacked him in the chest. "What did you mean by that, needing to prepare?"
His head fell back again. "Right. Well, as I explained and we discussed in excruciating detail earlier, I haven't had intercourse in close to two decades. I do remember the feeling being . . . intense. Extremely intense, in fact." One of his hands moved to rest against her thigh, and he began to gently knead the flesh there. "Therefore, it isn't difficult to deduce that I would be in danger of ending things before they had a chance to really begin if I didn't take matters into my own hands prior to engaging in sexual congress with you. Literally."
Molly stared at him for a long moment as she processed everything he'd said. "You wanted to masturbate before we had sex to decrease the odds of premature ejaculation."
"That's a rather blunt way to put it, but yes." He sat up straighter and tried not to look embarrassed. He failed magnificently.
"That's oddly sweet." Even as the words slipped past her lips, Molly grimaced. "What is wrong with me?"
"I'm sure we could come up with a list. The first item would most likely be that you love me, if that helps at all."
"Strangely enough it does, actually."
Sherlock leaned in to kiss her. There was no hesitation this time, just heat and bone melting desire. The hand on her thigh slid upward to cup her arse. Molly knew she needed to slow things down. There was something she wanted to say before she lost her head completely. She let him kiss her one more time before pushing away from his chest with both hands. His arms loosened to give her the space she wanted.
"Before things get out of hand, I need you to know that I'm not ready to have sex with you."
He arched a brow and the side of his mouth tilted upward in a lopsided smirk.
"All right, parts of me are completely ready. However, mentally . . . I need a bit more time. I've only just found out that you care for me-"
"Love you," he firmly interrupted. "Not merely 'care' for you."
Her insides began to melt again. Molly struggled to strengthen her crumbling resolve. "I need time to adjust to the idea of us being, well, an 'us' before I can even consider taking that big of a step with you." She bit her lip and studied his face, hoping to get a clue as to what he was feeling. "I'm sorry."
With an impatient gesture of his hand, Sherlock waved away her apology. "Don't be. I'm at an advantage in that I've known how you felt about me long before today." He took one of her hands in his, and rubbed small circles against her skin with his thumb. "We don't need to rush into anything."
"Are you sure you're all right with waiting?" She knew there were some men who wouldn't be.
"I'd be an arse of the first order if I wasn't. How many years did you wait for me to stop ignoring my . . . feelings." There was so much disgust encapsulated in that final word that Molly should have been insulted. Instead, she rolled her eyes in amusement.
The telly continued to ramble on. Molly glanced at it briefly, but didn't register anything that was happening on the screen. She worried her lower lip as she wondered if she was making a huge mistake. Here was Sherlock, ready and willing to make another of her dreams come true (the first being his declaration of love); and she was wibbling about like an uncertain virgin on her wedding night.
Sherlock shifted, repositioning himself and Molly so that they were both a little more comfortable. "You should know," he began in a deceptively conversational tone. "Even though I am prepared to engage in intercourse--that I want to make love with you--I do have some reservations of my own."
Surprised, Molly jerked her head back around to look at him. Sherlock eyes were on the telly even though he continued to speak to her. "Small ones. Tiny, really. But they exist. Mostly I'm afraid I'm going to fail to please you, especially after such a long build up. What if the reality doesn't live up to your fantasies and you decide I'm utter rubbish at it?"
He finally turned his attention back to her. "I haven't had a chance to do any real research on the matter, and John refuses to leave his laptop here unsupervised any longer; therefore, my technical knowledge in this area is limited and out of date."
"Technical knowledge?" Molly grinned. "That's what we're calling it?"
"Hush." Sherlock's lips tilted into a boyish smile. "I just wanted you to know that I understand, and am more than willing to wait until we're both ready."
"Thank you." A tiny part of her continued to wonder how she'd managed to be so lucky. Surely everything that had happened that day was part of a dream, and she was going to wake up at any moment.
"You're welcome. Now quit squirming, I'm trying to watch . . . whatever this is, and you're distracting me."
She liked knowing that she could distract him. Probably liked it a little too much, honestly.
They watched the telly for awhile longer. Well, she watched it and Sherlock zoned out after a bit. She imagined he was sorting through something important in his head, possibly in regards to one of his cases. Molly thought about asking if he'd like her to get up and sit somewhere else, but she couldn't quite bring herself to give voice to the suggestion. Every so often his fingers would twitch against her thigh or she'd feel a little tug on her hair as he played with a lock.
As one programme switched over to another, she caught herself yawning for probably the second or third time. She'd just begun to consider sliding off his lap and leaving Sherlock to his thoughts when he picked up the remote and shut off the telly.
"Time for bed." Once Molly was up, he took a moment to stretch out his legs and then stood.
She hesitated, unsure of where she should go. They hadn't really talked about the sleeping arrangements for the night. She'd started out on the sofa that first night. Sherlock had crawled into bed with her the night before, but she didn't want to assume that meant they would be sleeping together now. Since they'd agreed not to have sex, would they both be more comfortable if she took the sofa?
Sherlock solved her dilemma by grasping her hand and leading her down the hall to his room. He must have assumed her uncertainty came from worrying that he was going to try to seduce her, because Sherlock was quick to offer reassurances. "Just sleep. Nothing more. Not tonight."
Molly wanted to tell him that she didn't need to be reassured, that she trusted him to be as much of a gentleman as he usually was, but her mouth went dry at the sight of him popping open the buttons of his shirt with one hand as he pulled open a dresser drawer with the other. Sherlock toed off his shoes and then dug out a pair of deep green pyjama bottoms.
He turned to find her standing next to the door, mouth open in what was surely a very unattractive manner, watching his every move. His shirt hung open, the ends pulled free from his belt. Her hands tingled at the thought of touching every bit of that newly exposed flesh. Or, better yet, pressing open mouthed kisses from his throat down to his navel.
The pyjama bottoms were waved in her direction. "The things I do for you, Molly Hooper. I hate wearing anything to bed."
She remained frozen in place for several moments after he disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of the toilet flushing forced her into action, and Molly scrambled to change into her own pyjamas. There was a huge contrast between the expensive material of his bottoms and the well-worn comfortable cotton of her vest and shorts. After a quick glance at the door, Molly dug through her things until she found the nice camisole and short set she'd packed. Even though they weren't going to be doing anything, she still wanted look pretty for him.
Sherlock knocked on the door and asked if she was done changing before entering the bedroom.
They shared a weighted look as they moved to stand next to their respective sides of the bed. It wasn't the first time they'd shared a bed, but this was different. This time they were doing it simply because they wanted to. There were no nightmares or houseguests taking up the sofa, no more convenient excuses that didn't hold up to the harsh light of day.
He pulled down the covers and flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. "Come to bed, Molly."
The temptation in his voice and words was more than she could resist, even if she'd wanted to. She slid into the bed, her heart pounding in excitement even though she knew nothing was going to happen. His arm reached out and pulled her close. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to have him spooned behind her. He generated so much heat that she knew there was no possible way she'd get cold in the night. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss against her hair, and Molly hummed in contentment.
For the second morning in a row Sherlock was still in bed with her when she woke.
Even though she'd woken up at least once to find that they'd separated in the night, he was once again curled around her. His chest was pressed against her back, his arm thrown across her side. His hand-- His hand!--was on her stomach, under her camisole.
She could feel his fingers, lightly calloused from years of violin playing, painting small circles against her skin. It reminded her of the night she'd confessed about her reoccurring nightmare of his fall, only a thousand times more intense.
He mumbled something against her hair, possibly her name.
"Sherlock?" Molly whispered. "Are you awake?"
The fingers stopped moving. His voice was rough with sleep when he grumbled, "I am now."
She waited, holding her breath, for him to withdraw his arm and get out of bed.
Time seemed to stand still as neither of them moved. Slowly, as if he was afraid she was going to protest, his hand opened until his palm was flat against her stomach, just above her belly button.
He groaned, his mouth close enough that she could feel his hot breath against her ear. "You are so soft. So warm. How is that possible?"
Molly hoped the question was rhetorical because there was no way she could form a coherent answer.
His fingers began to ghost against her skin once more. Not circles this time. Shapes and swirls that seemed to spiral out in an ever increasing pattern. Her skin prickled at the sensation, her belly involuntarily tightened under his touch.
"Is this all right?" His fingers paused momentarily as he waited for her answer.
Molly knew that if she asked him to stop he would, but that was the very last thing she wanted. She nodded.
The feeling became almost too much, moving from innocent to erotic in the span of a heartbeat. She tried to turn, but his arm tightened to prevent her from moving. She could feel Sherlock shake his head behind her. "No. If you turn around . . . We agreed to wait last night and I want to honour that." He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again she could hear a husky quiver in his voice. "But I want, oh God, I want to touch you. May I? For just a bit longer?"
As if there were any chance that she would deny him at this point. "Yes. Please."
Those tempting fingers continued to caress her. They brushed against her navel, then upward in a lazy arc.
Slowly the contours of the body curled around hers began to change. She could feel him hardening. Instinct had her moving, trying to increase contact with his body. They both groaned when his groin briefly nudged against her bum.
His hand slowly drifted, still creating swirls and patterns, as if he was giving her every opportunity to stop him. The first touch of his fingertips against the underside of her breast made her gasp. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then completed his upward journey with a feather-light brush against her nipple. An involuntary shiver raced through her body.
She pushed against him, flattening her back against his chest and pressing her arse against his erection.
Sherlock moaned her name, and ground his arousal against her. She knew that he needed the friction as much as she did.
He covered her entire breast with his hand and gently squeezed. Her budded nipple rubbed against his palm. "Perfect. So perfect. It's as if you were made to fit my hand."
She bit her lip as old insecurities reared their ugly head. "Not too small?"
He released her so fast that she couldn't do anything more than whimper at the loss of his touch. Sherlock impatiently brushed her hair aside so that he could press his mouth against the sensitive skin behind her ear. "I was so fucking jealous when I said that." She could hear the disgust in his voice and knew that it was directed entirely at himself.
His hand delved back under her camisole, and quickly returned to her breast. Molly whimpered at the firm caress. She squirmed, trying to relieve the building pressure between her legs, and Sherlock ground himself against her arse again.
"I didn't realize it, wouldn't admit it, but that's what it was. Jealousy. You were mine, even then, and I just couldn't let myself see it."
He plucked at her nipple and Molly's hips bucked. "Fuck, Molly," Sherlock panted against her neck. He scrapped his teeth against her throat, then sucked hard at the sensitive flesh. He was fully hard, and neither of them were even bothering to pretend that he hadn't begun to rhythmically thrust against her.
His hand moved, abandoning her breast to slide down her belly once more. It continued its torturous path past her stomach and downward to encounter the waistband of her shorts. Molly held her breath, anxious to see what he would do. Sherlock gently bit her earlobe as those long, clever fingers dipped beneath the elastic band. They brushed against the curls there, then lower still until his palm was pressed against her pubic mound and his middle finger rested against her pudendal cleft. That talented finger nudged against her clit, and Molly called out his name without a single thought to what Mrs Hudson might overhear.
Suddenly he was gone. He rolled off the bed as if the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Molly turned to watch him find his footing. It was obvious from the tenting of his pyjama bottoms that he was still aroused. Impressively so.
Molly ached to reach out to him. She wanted nothing more than to untie the drawstring of his bottoms and touch him in the same way that he had so recently touched her.
He looked so contrite, nearly panicked, that she thought she might have laughed if she weren't dying for him to come back and finish what he'd started.
"I am so sorry. We talked about this, and agreed, and I . . . I need a shower." Sherlock bolted for the bathroom before Molly could tell him that she'd changed her mind. She didn't want to wait.
She wanted him.
Now.
Molly threw her head back against the pillow and drummed her fists against the bed in frustration.
Part 1 / Part 13