A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Thirteen

[darnedchild]

Summary: 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 Thirteen

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

A quick glance at her watch told her it wasn't even ten, and yet Sherlock had already driven her batty more than once.

It started when Mrs Hudson appeared with tea, toast, and a rasher of bacon. She handed the toast and bacon to Molly, and passed a cup of tea to Sherlock. The entire time there was a knowing ear-to-ear grin on her face. Molly knew it had been too much to hope that Mrs Hudson had been out of the building earlier in the morning.

"I just brought you the usual tea, Sherlock, but I could fix something a bit more substantial if you've managed to work up an appetite this morning."

"Oh my God," Molly whispered, embarrassed beyond belief.

"Very amusing, Mrs Hudson. I see it's going to be a puerile sort of day. Have you been next door recently? I believe Mr Chatterjee received a meat shipment you may be interested in."

"Sherlock!" Molly's jawed dropped open in horror.

"Really, Sherlock. You could have just asked me to leave. You've done it plenty of times before."

He blanched and swallowed. His eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again his entire countenance was softer. "I apologize. That was . . . uncalled for."

Mrs Hudson held firm for a moment, then she took pity on him. "I suppose I started it. Teasing you about your new, well, about you and Molly."

Sherlock stopped her before she made it to the stairs, calling out toward her retreating form. "His wife in Doncaster did sign the divorce papers. He wasn't lying about that."

"Oh, that's wonderful news. Thank you." From her vantage point in the small kitchen, Molly saw Mrs Hudson come flying back into view, grab Sherlock's face between both of her hands, and plant a pale mauve tinted kiss on his cheek.

He was still trying to scrub the landlady's lipstick off his skin with his handkerchief when they heard the front door slam shut.

"I still haven't had the heart to mention the wife in Islamabad yet." He turned to find Molly glaring at him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You think I should tell her now?"

Molly shook her head. "That was rude."

"Ah, yes, I did manage to come to that conclusion on my own." He tossed the soiled handkerchief onto his desk, and hopped into his chair to reach for his teacup with his knees drawn up to his chest.

"Aren't you going to make it up to her?"

Sherlock stared at her over the top of his cup, his nose crinkled in confusion. "I apologized, what more would I need to do?"

Why was she surprised?

He sighed and set his cup aside. "I'll have flowers sent. Will that do?"

"Really?" She joined him in the sitting room and leaned her hip against John's chair. "Will you write something nice on the card?"

"Do you want her to believe the gesture is sincere, or not?"

She wanted to argue with him, but he was right. "Fair enough."

He bounced out of his chair and slipped past her into the kitchen. Before she could stop him, he'd snagged half of her bacon and a piece of her toast.

"Hey! I thought you weren't hungry?" She, on the other hand, was starving.

"I never said that." Once his hands were empty, he took the few steps necessary to stand in front of her. "I'm ravenous, and you look delicious."

Sherlock tried to lean in to kiss her, but Molly broke into a fit of giggles. She looked up to find him pouting, and had to try to tamp down her mirth.

"I'm sorry, it's just, well, that was a horrible line. Oh, come on, don't run off." She cleared her throat and forced herself to look serious. "I'm good now. No more laughing."

He waited for a moment, eyeing her suspiciously until he was certain she was done giggling, and then kissed her. He drew her lower lip between his teeth and Molly's knees buckled. Her arse hit the arm of John's chair, and Sherlock bounced away with a smirk to steal the last of her breakfast.

And he kept doing it over and over, all morning. Anytime she came within touching distance he would take her hand, pull her close, and kiss her until her eyes practically crossed. Then he'd go back to working on his laptop or pacing around the room.

"You can't keep doing that, you know." Her lips still tingled from his latest assault.

Sherlock didn't stop digging through the pile of mail on the mantel, several pieces of which were tacked down with the blade of a multitool. "What?" he asked, clearly restless.

"Kissing me when you've got nothing else to do. I mean, I like it when you kiss me, but not when you're only doing it because you're bored. I'm not just here for your amusement."

He froze for a long moment, then turned with a calculating look upon his face. "You could be."

"What?" What the hell was that supposed to mean?

His eyes darted about the room, analyzing what he'd said. Sherlock took a step in her direction. "I mean . . . you could visit more often, after everything with that arsehole Chapman is settled."

He shrugged his shoulders and took another step. "Or I could come to your place. Although, all of my things are here. And my bed is bigger. The mattress is definitely much nicer. Plus I prefer my sheets to yours, but I'm willing to adjust if needs must."

"Sherlock."

"Right, point. More time together. Not necessarily all the time, not yet at any rate. I don't know if either if us is quite ready for that. Not sure we ever will be, but I'm willing to consider it. If we make an effort, it could work, I think. You're quiet when you're not fidgeting. I like quiet when I'm thinking. You haven't complained about my violin. You smell nice. Very nice. Sitting next to you last night was . . . nice?" He titled his head and studied her expression, brow furrowing. "That's not the right word, is it?"

She realized he was nervous. Sherlock Holmes was babbling. Throw in a stutter or two, and he'd sound just like Molly when she was flustered.

"Sherlock," she said again, although there wasn't a trace of her earlier irritation.

"I'm not just kissing you because I'm bored, Molly. I like kissing you. Very much so. I almost feel as if I need to whenever I get close to you." He frowned. "It's rather distracting, actually. Perhaps the need will fade once we . . . Once I've had a chance to get used to it. I've held myself away from any real physical intimacy with anyone for so long, now that I've allowed myself the indulgence, I can't seem to get enough. Is that normal?"

Molly bit her lip and nodded. "It's not uncommon in new relationships."

"Do you not feel the same way?" The uncertainty in his question made her heart ache.

She rushed to reassure him. "Oh, I do. But I've spent years keeping my hands to myself in regards to you."

"Don't. Not anymore." He held one of his hands out to her, fingers beckoning her to come closer. "Although do try to exhibit some restraint in public. I won't have vulgar gossip about us getting out. I will not have those idiots in the press tearing you apart like a pack of vultures."

"Oh, Sherlock." She closed the distance between them and slid her hand into his.

He dropped into his chair and pulled her down onto his lap. Sherlock slid his hands into her hair and kissed her. His tongue slipped between her lips, just as her fingers slipped into the space between the buttons of his shirt. Her nails scraped against his chest.

He groaned her name against her temple and shivered. His hand flattened against hers, holding it still. She wondered if she'd gone too far, done too much, after what had happened that morning.

Sherlock flicked open his shirt buttons as he slanted his mouth over hers. He guided her hand back to his chest, now completely exposed to her touch. That was all the encouragement she needed. Her exploring fingers found his nipple, and he gasped.

His arousal began to harden against her hip.

She twisted, trying to wriggle her other hand between them so that she could reach the growing evidence of his desire.

He growled her name. The sound was harsh and ragged, a warning that she had no intention of heeding. Especially when it was immediately followed by a slow thrust of his hips that pushed his erection against her hand.

Molly captured his nipple between her thumb and finger and pulled. Sherlock bit at her lower lip, the gentle nipping of earlier kisses a fleeting thought.

Someone cleared their throat.

"For God's sake, again?" Sherlock grumbled against her mouth before he loosened his hold enough that she could hop off his lap.

Molly adjusted her blouse and brushed out a few wrinkles in her trousers in the hopes that some of flaming heat in her face might dissipate before she had to make eye contact with John, Mary, or Mrs Hudson. From the corner of her eye she could see Sherlock still in the chair, long legs nonchalantly crossed, calmly rebuttoning his shirt, and in no apparent hurry to make himself presentable.

"Sorry to interrupt, dears, but I'm guessing you didn't hear the doorbell." Mrs Hudson bit her lip and Molly knew with absolute certainty that the older woman was trying not to grin.

John wasn't bothering to mask his humour at all. He stood in the doorway, smirking like a fool.

Mary, on the other hand, didn't seem at all surprised to find Molly and Sherlock in a mildly compromising position. She simply smiled and greeted the two of them as she moved further into the sitting room and began to pull off her jacket.

John started to do the same. He paused long enough to tease, "You did ask me to come over for a play date, Sherlock, but if this is a bad time . . ."

"Do shut up." Sherlock stood and tucked in his shirt. "Don't bother taking your jacket off, we're leaving."

"Of course we are."

As Sherlock pulled on his Belstaff, John took a moment to give Mary a kiss on the cheek and promise that he'd text if they were going to be out for more than a few hours.

Sherlock disappeared down the stairs without a backward glance. Molly felt a tiny stab of disappointment, but she realistically hadn't expected him to do anything else. His work had always been the priority, and she didn't think that was going to change just because they were a couple now.

The last few days had taught her that she didn't need his constant attention to be happy, especially knowing that he wanted her to be an important part of his life.

"So, how long as this been going on?"

Molly grimaced. Somehow she'd managed to forget that Mary was still there. Who knew how long she'd been wistfully gazing down the stairs after the men left. She pasted a smile on her face and turned to face her friend.

"Don't expect me to believe that you haven't had John repeat all the salacious details from the other night at Scotland Yard at least twice already."

Mary grinned in response. "Guilty. Tea?"

"I could kill a cup."

While Molly got the kettle going, Mary leaned against the door in the kitchen that lead to the stairs.

"When Sherlock mentioned that he and John would be going out today, I didn't realize you'd be coming over, too. Not that it isn't-I mean, it's nice to see you again."

Mary lifted a shoulder. "I was desperate for a few hours of adult, female company."

"Where is Bethany?" Molly asked over her shoulder as she dug a box of tea bags out of one of the cupboards.

"We're testing out a crèche, trying to make sure we have the right one before we need one for an emergency." Mary gestured toward the cabinets. "Do you happen to know if Mrs Hudson took pity on us all and hid some biscuits up there?"

Molly pulled the box of chocolate digestives out and tossed it at Mary, who easily caught it.

"That woman is a saint."

"Most of the time," Molly grumbled. The kettle began to whistle, and Molly set about preparing two cups of tea.

"I take it this afternoon wasn't the first time she's caught you with your hand in the cookie jar?" Mary grinned and opened the biscuit box. "And by cookie jar, I clearly mean Sherlock's trou-"

"Mary!"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

At first Molly didn't notice anything strange. She was too caught up in the novelty of being able to talk to someone about the changes in her relationship with Sherlock. She hadn't been able to talk to Meena for more than a few minutes on the phone, and that had been taken up with making sure Toby wasn't making too much of a pest of himself.

Mary had been happy to listen, after the initial "I knew it!" was said and done. Then there were amusing stories about Bethany and John, which meant Molly didn't spend the entire afternoon feeling as if she were under the spotlight.

Still, there was something off about it all.

The little things slowly began to add up. When Molly took her teacup into the sitting room and settled into Sherlock's chair and expected Mary to sit in John's so they could talk, Mary chose the sofa. When Molly offered to put together some sandwiches, Mary stood near the door and told her anecdotes about Sherlock getting down on the floor so that he could be on Bethany's level for proper baby/godfather bonding. When Molly's phone chimed with a text and she had to search for it on Sherlock's desk, Mary suddenly appeared at her side with an offer to help.

It took Molly ages to realize that no matter where she moved in the flat, Mary found a way to be between Molly and the stairs (or the windows if Molly strayed too close to that part of the sitting room).

Even stranger, Mary never seemed to fully relax. Originally, Molly had chalked it up to some sort of Mother's Instinct; maternal anxiety brought on by being separated from her daughter. Mary did seem to relax a bit when she called the crèche to check on Bethany. But when she considered Mary's strange alertness and tension along with the other things . . .

The downstairs door banged open. Within seconds Mary was off the sofa and in the doorway.

John and Sherlock barely made it to the top of the stairs before Molly was covering her nose. "What is that stench?"

"Horse manure." Sherlock didn't bother to elaborate; just asked for someone to fetch a bin liner and began to strip off his coat.

"But why are you covered in horse manure?" Molly asked as she brought the requested bag to Sherlock.

"Because the Barretts have a stable and your boyfriend is a git," John bit off.

Mary and Molly both looked to Sherlock, uncertain as to how he would react to being called Molly's boyfriend.

He merely smirked and gave Molly a salacious wink before heading down the hall to the bathroom. He paused long enough to say, "Give me fifteen minutes to clean up and I'll explain everything. John, if you'd prefer to save Mary the bother of breathing through her mouth the entire car ride, you're welcome to use the shower after I'm done. I'm sure I've got something that you can borrow to wear home." He disappeared and then popped back into view. "In the meantime, don't . . . touch anything."

John's hands clenched at his sides. "I swear I'm going murder him one of these days."

Mary laughed. "If you haven't done it by now, he's probably safe."

It took Sherlock a little longer than the promised fifteen minutes to return. He walked into the sitting room with damp hair, carrying a bag full of the things he'd been wearing including--presumably--his coat. Even though he'd changed into trousers, a dress shirt, and his blue dressing gown, he was wandering around barefoot.

"I left the clothes on the toilet, along with a bin liner for your soiled things." He nodded his head toward the bathroom.

John gratefully took the hint and hurried to the bathroom.

In her peripheral vision, Molly caught Sherlock and Mary exchanging a meaningful look. Almost immediately the Mary that Molly was used to was back. The other woman plopped down into John's chair and leaned her head back to watch Sherlock dump his bag of smelly clothes next to the door. "So, the horse poop. You were going to tell us how that happened."

Sherlock moved to the windows and glanced out and then checked his watch. "Not quite yet. Another ten minutes should do it."

John had just returned from his shower--looking a bit unfortunate in a vest that was too tight across the chest and a pair of sweatpants that were too long--when Mrs Hudson led Mycroft up the stairs.

"Sherlock, it's your brother. Should I put a kettle on?"

Mycroft directed a smile toward her, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That won't be necessary, Mrs Hudson. I shan't be here very long."

Sherlock turned from the window with a theatrical billow of his dressing gown and stalked toward Mycroft. "It's all right, Mrs Hudson. I'm sure Mycroft doesn't have time for a slice of one of your delicious cakes. Do you?"

Molly saw Mycroft's lips twitch in annoyance before he managed to restore his usual neutral expression.

As soon as Mrs Hudson went downstairs, he turned on Sherlock with a grimace. "Really, little brother, what possible purpose was served with you showing up at the Club covered in . . . excrement? You were fully aware that I wasn't there before you walked through the front door."

"I was, yes." Sherlock looked rather gleeful at his admission. John cursed softly. "Still, it was one of the quickest ways to draw your attention."

"You barged into the Club, stinking to high heaven, and announced to all and sundry that you were looking for me! I'm told you left a stench in your wake, and that the bill to have the odious aroma cleaned from the carpets will be added to my Club dues." From his tone and expression, Mycroft was mildly put out.

"Oh, did I wipe my shoes clean on that pretty rug?" And there went Sherlock, pushing his brother's buttons again.

"It is an antique, worth more than you manage to make in a year playing at being a detective."

Molly rolled her eyes. Even she knew that Sherlock didn't care about earning money, he did his work for the challenge, not the profits.

"Oops," Sherlock mocked, popping the 'P' tauntingly.

John groaned. "All right, children. Let's not make me call your mother."

Both Holmes boys took a moment to compose themselves, then Mycroft cleared his throat and asked what was so urgent that they couldn't have taken the time to bathe before looking for him.

"I found your spy." Sherlock moved to stand next to his chair. Molly made to get up so that he could take the seat, but he put his hand on her shoulder and silently urged her to stay. "Barrett's spy."

Mycroft straightened his spine even more, which Molly hadn't thought possible, and suddenly looked interested.

"Was it the assistant?" asked Molly.

Everyone but Sherlock looked at her in surprise. Mycroft gave Sherlock a narrow-eyed glare, which Sherlock met with a smug grin. "No. Two more guesses."

"Husband?"

"Wrong again."

Mycroft impatiently grumbled Sherlock's name. Sherlock waved him off and kept his attention on Molly. John started to say something, and Mary put her hand on his arm and told him to hush.

"Well, it can't be the mistress or you wouldn't have taken this long to figure it out," Molly thought aloud. She looked up to find Sherlock arching an eyebrow at her. He seemed pleased, and a little amused, with her deductive reasoning.

She hated to disappoint him, but that was as far as she got. Molly shrugged apologetically and threw out a guess. "The stable boy?"


"Stable boy?" barked John, visibly confused. "Where did a stable boy come from?"

"Of course there's a stable boy," Mary piped up, giving a conspiratorial nod and wink to Molly. "You said they have a stable, so there must be a handsome stable boy. A tall, muscular, sweaty stable boy who is obviously having an affair with the mistress of the house."

Molly was hard pressed not to laugh at the expression of disgust on Mycroft's face.

"There was an affair, yes." Sherlock smirked at Mary's explanation. "But not with the stable boy; who is--in fact--fifty years old, a former champion jockey and therefore on the shorter side, and a woman."

With an obviously fake pout Mary slumped back against the chair. "I really thought we had it, Molly."

Mycroft loudly cleared his throat. "If you could stop playing around and move things along, Sherlock? The car is double parked out front."

Annoyed at having his dramatic reveal interrupted, Sherlock sat on the arm of his chair and sneered at his brother. "Please give my apologies to . . . Anthea, is it? I always have difficulty remembering that, but then Greek has never been my strong suit."

Molly might have missed the way Mycroft blushed ever so slightly if she hadn't whipped her head around to watch him as soon as Sherlock mentioned Anthea's name.

To add more fuel to the fire, Sherlock taunted his brother once more. "If I had realized she was waiting in the car, I would have suggested you invite her to join us. It's not too late. I'm sure Mrs Hudson would be delighted to have a chance to feed us all up. Except for those of us who need to watch our weight, of course."

"Christ," John muttered under his breath as he covered his face with both hands.

Mycroft fussed with his brolly for a moment, then pierced Sherlock with a look that promised retribution at a later date. "I'm sure she'll be fine until we've finished our business. Assuming you are planning to get to the point?"

"You said there was an affair?" Mary prompted before someone ended up getting stabbed with an umbrella. Molly mouthed 'Thank you' in the other woman's direction.

Even though he seemed reluctant, Sherlock allowed himself to be distracted from sniping at his brother. "Mr and Mrs Barrett have an adult son named Hollis, who takes after his father's side of the family in appearance. So much so that one might say he is the spitting image of Mr Barrett's late brother, who died in a yachting accident just a few months before dear Hollis was born."

"No," Molly whispered, thoroughly scandalized.

"Yes," Sherlock replied in a similar tone.

Mycroft gestured that Sherlock should get on with it.

"Someone found out that Hollis was fathered by the wrong Mr Barrett and began blackmailing your colleague. No one bugged her office. She's been slipping information to her blackmailer through various intermediaries on and off for a year. When people started to get suspicious, she fabricated the missing statuette story. Mrs Barrett is your mole."

"I was afraid that might have been the case. I admit, I had hoped you would have uncovered a different culprit. Veronica and I have been colleagues for many years." Mycroft's shoulders slumped for a moment, then he was back to his normal stick-up-the-arse self. "C'est la vie."

She could feel Sherlock tense beside her. Molly suspected he was annoyed that he'd been sent off on a puzzle Mycroft already had the solution to. Sherlock did hate being an errand boy for his brother.

"Do you know who she's been funnelling information to?" Sherlock asked.

"I had a suspicion." Mycroft cleared his throat and looked directly over Molly's head. "But that lead has run into a dead-end as information continued to be leaked even after . . ."

Sherlock paled and blinked several times. Mary and John shared a weighted look and then glanced away from each other, both making a point to avoid eye contact with Molly.

It was apparent that everyone in the room knew exactly who or what Mycroft was talking about. Everyone but her. And that was more than a little annoying. "Should I leave the room so all of you can discuss this, whatever it is, freely? I could go downstairs and have some tea and biscuits with Mrs Hudson, if that would help."

"Don't be absurd, Molly," Sherlock bit out.

At the same time Mycroft very politely told her, "How considerate of you, but we're done here."

The brothers exchanged an only marginally belligerent look, then Mycroft hooked his brolly handle over his arm and turned to leave.

Sherlock called out, "Oh, brother dear, be useful and drop those bags off at a dry cleaner on your way out, won't you? It would save Mrs Hudson the trouble."

As Molly fully expected him to, Mycroft pointedly ignored Sherlock and continued down the stairs.

John rubbed his hands together and nodded his head a few times, breaking the strange tension in the room. "Right then. Tea and biscuits actually sound rather good, now that you mention it, Molly. Shall I ask Mrs Hudson to send something up?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Rather than bothering Mrs Hudson for afternoon tea, they decided to order take-away. John and Sherlock went to pick it up, thankfully taking their soiled clothing with them to drop off at a cleaner on the way. Mary stayed behind with Molly.

In her head, Molly compared the other woman to a guard dog. It was a little disconcerting, seeing this new side to her friend. She made a mental note to ask Sherlock what the hell was going on.


When Sherlock finished his meal and began to dig into Molly's dessert, John laughed and grinned at her. Obviously he remembered the long-winded rant she'd gone on that day John had cornered her about her feelings for Sherlock.

As soon as they were done eating John and Mary made their excuses and left. Molly suspected they were anxious to pick up their daughter.

Barely half an hour later Molly had settled onto the sofa to enjoy a book. She was trying to, anyway. Sherlock was pacing around the sitting room, stopping to check his email on every circuit. Every time she'd finally start to get involved in her book Sherlock would start grumbling and pull her attention right back out of it.

She put up with it for as long as she could before shutting her book and tossing it on the coffee table. Molly tapped her hand against the sofa cushion next to her. "Sit. You're making me tired just watching you."

"I'm not in the mood to sit," he whined. "I'm bored. No good cases, nothing above a four. Half of my emails are about cheating spouses or missing jewellery. Dull."

Molly drew in a deep breath, held it to the count of five, then let it out again. "If you sit here." She patted the cushion again. "You'll be within touching distance."

"Why would I want to be . . . Oh." Sherlock blinked several times and then calmly stepped onto and over the coffee table to reach her side. He sat next to her. "Is this close enough?"

"It's a start." Molly grinned and shifted a little closer. "Are you always this worked up after a case is over?"

"Only if it was a big one. Something that took actual effort. There's all the build up, the excitement of everything clicking into place, and then it's over and . . . I'm at a loss." He lifted his arm so that she could slip under it. Molly gladly took advantage of the gesture and moulded herself against his side. "I'm usually either wired or exhausted to the point where I sleep for twelve hours straight. It's difficult for me to predict which it will be."

She nodded. Her hair brushed against his chin before she lifted her face to press a soft kiss against his jaw. "Wired this time, I take it?" Molly kissed him again. "You're very tense. Would you like me to rub your back? It might help you relax," she quietly offered.

Sherlock froze in place for a long moment. She thought he might have begun buffering and wondered if she should reach for her book. Finally, his head jerked in an emphatic nod. "How-how do you want me?"

Molly bit her tongue to keep from saying the first thing that popped into her head. Naked, eager, and under me.

She cleared her throat and tried to sound as normal as possible. "Uhm. Well, why don't you take off your dressing gown and turn around."

He stood, shrugged the gown off his shoulders, and then tossed it on the floor. Sherlock eased onto the sofa. He drew one of his legs up underneath him so he could present his back to her.

Molly got up on her knees and put her hands on his shoulders. She used her thumbs to search out a few knots in the trapezius muscle group, and began to work at them. Sherlock groaned as a particularly large knot dissolved. She leaned down and moved his shirt collar out of the way so that she could leave a kiss at the nape of his neck.

"It might be better if you took your shirt off, too. You don't have to, if you'd rather not, but-"

Before she could finish the last sentence Sherlock was popping open the buttons on his shirt. It ended up on the floor next to his dressing gown.

This close, she could see faint traces of pale scar tissue criss-crossing his back. Those were new. Her fingers ghosted over the scars. It looked as if someone had beaten him with something that had repeatedly bit and cut into the skin.

Molly took a deep breath and willed herself not to be sick as she realized there was a very strong probability that was exactly what had happened.

Sherlock remained still under her hand.

There were more scars; a few she was already familiar with, some she'd never seen before.

Just above his left hip was one left by a knife wound. It was older than many of the others, made when his back was still relatively unblemished. John had done the initial care and stitching. Molly believed that the cut would have healed nearly scar free if Sherlock hadn't reopened it chasing after a lead. Literally. He pulled the stitches open scaling a chain link fence.

John had been on a date, and Sherlock hadn't wanted to take the time to track him down before marching into the lab. She'd noticed how he was favouring his side, and only managed to convince him to let her take a look by withholding access to the lab equipment until he gave in. Her stitch work hadn't been as neat as John's, and it definitely left a scar, but it had done the job.

As if she'd passed some sort of test, Sherlock had started coming to her for quick patch ups when John was otherwise occupied (or mad at him) before the Fall. She hadn't had a reason to be this close to his naked back since he returned, and hadn't know about the new scars.

"It wasn't as bad as it looks."

She knew him well enough to recognize that he was lying, but she was willing to let it slide.

Her fingers feathered against his skin from his shoulders down to the waistband of his trousers. She felt him tremble in response. The hand he had rested on his thigh twitched, the fingers flexed as if he wanted to grab hold of something.

Molly turned her attention to the stiffness in his shoulders and neck. Her hands were small but strong. She was thankful for her knowledge of anatomy and musculature as the tension slowly began to melt from him.

Another knot unravelled under her fingers. Sherlock's head fell forward and he moaned her name. The sound was low and deep, and reverberated straight through her body to centre in her womb.

"Is that good?"

"God, yes. Don't stop."

She smiled and continued to work on his back.

Eventually there were no more knots or kinks to find, and Sherlock was practically boneless. Molly inched closer on her knees until she was pressed against his back. She slid her hands into his hair and let her nails lightly scratch against his scalp. Sherlock practically purred like a cat and arched his spine. His head dropped back to rest against her breasts. His eyes were closed, his lips barely parted.

The long line of his neck was temptation itself. Molly ached to slide around and sit on his lap, to nip at the cords of his throat, to lick the hollow of his suprasternal notch.

Her fingers traced along his jaw, enjoying the feeling of a hint of stubble.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Oh, Molly, when you look at me like that . . ."

She knew he could see her desire for him written across her face. She wanted to hear him say it, wanted to know exactly how he saw her in his own words. "Tell me. How do I look at you?"

"Like you want to devour me whole." He turned around, his chin tilted upward so that he could meet her kiss when she leaned down. As soon as their lips touched Sherlock wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto his lap. Molly eagerly helped, settling her legs on either side of his hips.

His chest was smooth and firm under her hands. He nipped at her lower lip, then soothed the bite with a long, slow pass of his tongue. Molly blindly sought out his nipples, smiling against his mouth when they turned into hard buds beneath her fingers.

"Turnabout is fair play," he growled against her neck as his hands grazed her sides on the way up to her breasts.

"I'm not complaining," Molly gasped when his thumbs brushed against her nipples, only to return to tease the sensitive flesh over and over again. It was a delicious torment, having him so close but unable to feel skin against skin.

She sat back and scrambled to remove her jumper. The ever observant Sherlock caught on quickly and helped pull it over her head. As soon as her arms were free, he was pressing a desperate kiss to her lips. Both of them began to work on her blouse buttons, their hands meeting somewhere in the middle. It soon followed her jumper, landing on the floor near Sherlock's discarded clothing. The kisses grew frantic, scraping teeth and invading tongues. Molly reached behind herself and fumbled with the hooks on her bra. She groaned in frustration as Sherlock's mouth distracted her for the second time; wet, open mouthed kisses along her throat. Then the bra was loose, and a shimmy had both straps dropping off her shoulders.

"You're killing me," he growled. "Do it again."

She did as he asked, her bare breasts pressing against his equally bare chest for the first time. It was the most perfect thing she'd ever experienced. And it was completely overshadowed seconds later when his hands returned to her breasts and the tips of his lightly calloused fingers caressed her naked skin.

Molly ducked her head and kissed his shoulder, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. One thought ran through her mind. Mine!

Not that anyone else was likely to see it, but she would know her mark was there.

He lightly pinched her nipple and Molly bit down. She would have apologized for hurting him but Sherlock thrust upward, grinding his erection against her centre, before she had a chance to utter a word.

She whimpered, unable to articulate just how amazingly good that felt. Her hips rolled forward in search of that electric contact once more.

Molly raised her head, and the expression on Sherlock's face made her breath catch. He was looking at her as if she were the most precious thing in his world. His gaze darted from her face to her breasts to her hair and back again. The way he said her name was weighted with so much desire and need that Molly knew there was no chance of denying them what they both wanted a moment longer.

Seemingly in awe of what he saw, Sherlock breathed out, "You are a goddess."

She kissed him one more time and then leaned back. He groaned in disappointment and reluctantly lowered his hands from her breasts. She realized he must have thought she was calling a halt to everything.

Molly reached between them and started to tug at his belt, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration. Sherlock's eyes widened and he dropped his hand to cover hers. "I thought . . .?"

Her hands stilled. This moment wasn't solely about her wants and needs, she wasn't the only one who had wanted to wait. "How did you say it? I think it's time to take matters in hand." Not the most seductive way she could have phrased it, but she hoped she got her meaning across.

Sherlock's face went completely blank. Perhaps she had misread the situation? John's room was still empty, toxic experiments notwithstanding. Surely Sherlock would understand if she locked herself away for a night so she could die of embarrassment in solitude.

"Unless, would you rather wait?" she hesitantly asked.

He blinked and looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Fuck no. No more waiting. Now." His voice threatened to break and he swallowed hard. "Now is good."

Oh thank God.

Molly momentarily sagged in relief, then continued to work at his belt. Sherlock tried to help and their hands tangled. She slapped him away, then kissed him to make up for the slight sting. He cupped her head between his hands and held her in place as he took her mouth over and over.

Once the belt was open, she reached for the snap of his trousers. Lowering the zip was a careful process, he was hard and straining against the trouser placket and she didn't want to injure him. Molly slid her hand under the waistband of his boxers and Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose.

She tried to ease away from him, but he held on to her and didn't want to let her go. She finally managed to gasp, "Down." He froze for a split second then pushed the coffee table back with his feet to make room for her. Molly slipped off his lap and dropped to the floor.

"You-you don't have to-" Sherlock started to stammer.

Molly smiled up at him, rather coyly she thought, and put her hands on his knees. "I didn't say I was."

He wasn't able to mask the brief flash of disappointment that crossed his face. She took pity on him and ran her hands up his legs to his waist. She tugged on his trousers, silently urging him to raise his hips so she could slide the material down his legs. Once the trousers were off, she caressed his legs from his ankles back to his upper thighs. His calves and thighs were perfect. God, if his arse was as firm as she hoped, she was going to die a happy woman.

"Molly, just so there's no misunderstanding, are we going to have sex?" He flushed a deep red as he asked, and her heart started to melt.

"That's probably a safe bet, yes."

"I can-" He had to stop and take a deep breath. "If you're certain that you want to . . . have sex, I can go to the bathroom and deal with this." He gestured to his groin where his arousal was tenting his boxers. "Like we talked about."

His thighs quivered when she slipped her fingers under the legs of his boxers. "There's no reason to leave," she offered as seductively as she could.

Sherlock stared down at her sitting on her haunches at his feet. His hands clenched at his sides. "You want me to stay here and-"

She licked her lips. "Please."

He swallowed again. Her eyes tracked one of his hands as it slowly lifted from the sofa cushion and came to rest on his stomach. He began to ease his boxers lower and then stilled. "Are you going to participate?"

"Would you like me to?"

Sherlock nodded.

She leaned forward to help him remove the last bit of his clothing, drawing the silky material down his legs and past his feet. When she turned back, he was already touching himself.

Her gaze was drawn to the movement of his hand, the way his fingers began to stroke up and down his erection. She glanced up at his face and found him watching her just as intently. Those pale eyes held her captive for a long moment. His foot nudged her, then he spread his legs wider in an obvious invitation. Molly bit her lip and moved between his knees. She put her hands back on his thighs and slid them upward until her fingers touched the dark curls surrounding his cock.

His lips parted, the tip of his tongue darted out moisten them. Her hands continued their upward journey until she was barely touching the base of his penis with her fingertips. On every stroke his hand would meet hers. His pace was slow and languid, pausing at the tip to pay extra attention to the head. Molly watched him, fascinated. Eventually curiosity won out, he had asked her to participate, after all. She waited until he was on a downward stroke and reached out to caress the head of his penis. Sherlock's hips jerked and a curse slipped past his lips.

"Door," he growled, his voice ragged and deliciously deep.

Molly was too distracted by the feel and sight of him to comprehend what he wanted at first. "What?"

"Locked. Is the door locked?"

His hand stopped its hypnotic movement, and Molly shook her head to clear it. The very last thing she wanted was another interruption from Mrs Hudson. "I'll check. Don't move."

She double checked the lock to make sure nothing and no one would interrupt them this time. Molly turned back to the sofa to find Sherlock sprawled exactly where she'd left him. His legs were wide open, and his erection was still impressive enough to make her knees weak and her mouth go dry.

She reached for the button on her trousers.

He began to stroke himself again. As she lowered her zip, his other hand reached down to cup his balls. Molly whimpered at the sight. His eyes never strayed from her as she pushed her trousers and knickers off her hips at the same time. She had to hop on one leg to pull her shoes off when she realized she was still wearing them. She blushed, certain that she'd ruined what had been an erotic moment with her ungraceful display and forgetfulness. Sherlock bit back a low "Fuck" and she realized he was watching her small breasts bounce.

His hand began to move faster, his penis taking on a beautiful rosy flush. "I don't know how much longer-"

Molly dropped to her knees between his legs. She pulled his hand away from his scrotum, using both of hers in its place. Sherlock's head dropped back against the sofa. He began to softly pant her name in time with his strokes. His abdominal muscles quivered and rippled.

She continued to caress his balls, shifting the weight in her hands until they began to tighten and draw up. Molly reluctantly released him. "Stop."

Sherlock's head snapped up. He stared down at her in disbelief. "What? Why?" he whined, sounding desperate.

"Let me."

"Jesus." He reached out to touch her shoulder and her hair, then very deliberately placed both of his hands flat on the sofa cushions next to him. "I'm yours."

Molly pulled at his hips urging him closer to the edge of the sofa.

His cock was proportionate to his build; long and eager, but not overly thick. He was hot in her hand, smooth and firm when she gently squeezed. Sherlock made a noise at the back of his throat.

"Show me how you like it," she whispered.

Without a word he wrapped his hand around hers, urging her to hold him tighter. After a deep breath, he started to move both of their hands. Down to the base of his erection, up to the tip. He pulled the foreskin down to expose the head of his cock to their fingers, taking care to show her exactly where he wanted--needed--to be touched. A few more strokes and he let her go.

Even without seeing his face, she knew he was watching her. When she leaned forward and licked the head of his penis, he stopped breathing. She did it again, then slid her mouth over the head and part way down the shaft.

It took her a moment to realize that his thigh and stomach muscles were drawn taut, and he still wasn't breathing.

Molly released him from her mouth and looked up with concern. His cheeks were ruddy and his pupils were blown so wide she could barely see any of the gorgeous blue that she'd fallen for all those years ago. "Breathe, Sherlock."

He let go of a rush of air, the words "Don't stop, please, Molly, don't stop" slipped uncontrolled past his lips.

The thought--the very idea--that she had managed to bring the Great Sherlock Holmes to this point, this close to losing control . . . It was intoxicating.

She took him in her mouth again. He was velvet against her tongue, his flesh hot and slick with her saliva. His hands tangled in her hair, moving the locks out of her face so that he could watch what she was doing to him. He stroked and pet her, needing to touch her, to ground himself in the reality of the moment when the sensations began to get too intense.

Sherlock started to babble. He told her she was beautiful, that she was perfect, that she was everything, that he was close, so close, so very close.

He tensed and curled around her as he came. His voice broke as he called out her name over and over. Molly continued to lick and suck him through his orgasm. Sherlock's entire body shuddered in time with each pulse of his cock against her tongue.



Part 1 / Part 14