A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Sixteen
Jul. 29th, 2016 11:05 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 Sixteen
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
The sky had begun to soften with predawn light by the time Molly was allowed to leave the police station.
As Sherlock had predicted, several members of the local Sussex police force had answered his 'summons'. Molly, Janine, and Sherlock had been rather forcibly asked to give their statements at the station. Chapman had been sent to emergency with a police escort to have his arm and the lump on his head looked at. Molly spent the entire ride to the station silently thanking Mary's foresight for not only coaching her on what to say to manipulate Chapman, but also passing along tips for acting appropriately upset and flustered when she was questioned by the police.
Not that she had to fake being upset. She was shaking the entire time an officer took her statement. Molly had to stop and collect herself twice, or risk breaking into tears as the fear she'd managed to tamp down during the confrontation with Chapman threatened to finally break free.
She was ready to drop--emotionally and physically exhausted--when they finally finished asking her questions and told her she was free to leave. She stopped dead at the sight of Janine (who had, thankfully, been allowed to change into jeans and a jumper before leaving her cottage) and Anthea waiting in the small lobby.
"What are you doing here?" Molly couldn't help blurting out as soon as she got close enough to Anthea.
"Mr Holmes sent a text to his brother saying you were going to need a ride back home from a police station in Sussex."
"Does that mean he's ready to leave?" Molly looked around but didn't see his familiar head of curls anywhere.
Anthea shook her head. "No. He's still inside, and probably will be for a bit longer. There's a lot of questions that have to be answered when you've shot a man. Even more when they don't die." She shrugged.
Molly couldn't tell if Anthea was joking or if she was completely earnest. Janine laughed, so Molly offered a hesitant chuckle of her own.
"Don't worry. I've spoken to the lead detective, and from what I've heard I don't think Mr Holmes will be in any insurmountable trouble." Janine looked almost as relieved as Molly felt at Anthea's words. "It's fairly clear that the odious tosspot assaulted Miss Hawkins, held Mr Holmes hostage at gun point, and tried to shoot Molly. Add to that possession of two illegal firearms, and Mr Chapman's chances of getting away on this one are very slim."
"Are you sure? Francis is a rich man." Janine had a valid point. Chapman had managed to worm his way out of being arrested before.
"He's got money, but I doubt that will do him much good this time. I don't imaging Sherlock Holmes will stop until he's seen Mr Chapman sentenced and behind bars," Anthea reassured them. "You've both had a really long night, go get some rest. Soter is waiting with a car outside. He's been instructed to take you both home. That includes London, Miss Hawkins, if you'd rather not stay in Sussex Downs."
Janine sighed in relief and immediately headed for the door. "Oh thank God. Do you think he'd be willing to stop by the cottage long enough that I can pack a bag?"
Molly started to follow her, then realized Anthea hadn't moved to join them. "You're not coming with us? How will you get back?"
"Mycroft is on his way. He wishes to speak with his brother personally. I'll be riding back with them."
Molly's eyes widened when the other woman said his given name. "Mycroft?"
Anthea's lips tilted upward in a shy, sweet smile.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Her plan had been to pack up her things and wait for Sherlock to come back to Baker Street before she called a taxi.
A real one, not the one driven by Soter. She was really going to miss that man. He had promised to meet her for coffee in a few weeks so he could give her advice on plants for a window box in the spring. Then he had walked her to the door of 221B for the last time.
Unfortunately, by the time she'd gathered up the surprisingly large number of her things that had ended up strewn around the flat, Sherlock was still not home. The thought of leaving without seeing him made her physically ache, and Molly couldn't bear to consider it for more than a moment. She set her packed suitcase and several carrier bags next to John's chair, and laid down on the sofa to take a short nap while she waited for Sherlock.
Molly had no idea what time it was when she woke up. The room was brighter (Gently floating dust motes were visible in the sunlight from the windows.) so it must have been early afternoon. She sat up and stretched, wincing at the soft pops and clicks along her spine. When she began to rotate her neck to work out the last of the kinks from her nap, she saw him.
Leaning one shoulder against the open doorframe, his arms crossed defensively across his chest, was Sherlock. He was still wearing his Belstaff, and his hair was even more ruffled and mussed than usual. His face was a blank mask. She wondered how long he'd been standing there, watching her sleep.
"You're leaving." It wasn't quite an accusation, but it was a far cry from the casual observation his expression was meant to convey.
"Well, yeah. Toby misses me, I'm sure. And Chapman is in police custody so you don't need to babysit me anymore." She was confused. Surely he wasn't surprised that she was going back to her own flat?
Sherlock dropped his arms and took a short step toward her. She saw his hands clench at his sides before he tucked them behind his back and out of sight. "You were just going to pack up and leave without saying goodbye?"
"No!" Molly hopped off the couch and debated with whether or no she should approach him. Her body swayed in his direction, drawn to him, even though her feet remained in place. "No, I would never-"
"Then what are you doing?" Again, his voice betrayed him, each syllable a harsh staccato beat.
"I'm not leaving you, I'm just going home." He visibly flinched when she spoke. For the first time Molly wondered if he had wanted her to stay. They'd never actually discussed what would happen after the mess with Chapman had been dealt with. She'd always just assumed that she'd go back to her place and they'd continue with this new stage in their relationship.
She wasn't sure what else to call it. It wasn't really dating, was it? Sherlock dated Janine. This was something different. Something more.
Love.
Molly approached him cautiously, as if he were a wild animal that might bolt at the slightest provocation. Once she was close enough, she reached up to sink her fingers into his beautiful hair. She fully expected him to petulantly draw away from her touch; instead, he tilted his head so that he could lean into her hand. His eyes briefly fluttered shut.
She'd never seen him look so fragile, so vulnerable. Molly cupped his jaw with her other hand and brushed her thumb over his prominent cheekbone. "I love you."
"Then why are you leaving?"
His pale eyes opened and looked down at her with so much warmth and need it made her want to promise him the world if she could, but she also didn't want to ruin everything between them by moving too fast. "Because we've only been together such a short time."
Sherlock shook head. "It seems like it's been forever. You've been a part of me for years."
Molly thought her heart would burst with love for the man before her. "Come to my place tonight. I'll cook dinner. Give us a chance to get used to being a normal couple--well, as normal as we'll ever be--before we rush into anything too-too . . ."
"You still think I'm going to change my mind." Sherlock took a step back, disappointment and sadness drawing his lips into a pout. Her hands fell from his face to his rest against chest.
"I think that you are everything I've wanted for so very long, and part of me is convinced that this is too good to be true." Molly needed him to understand. "We've never had a conventional relationship, and I don't expect us to now, but I need some time to convince myself that all of this is reality, not a dream. I don't want to push too far, too soon. I want you to be absolutely sure this is what you want. That this is what we both want. I need to know that you'll still want to be with me when we aren't involved in an exciting case, when things are boring and dull. I don't want you to feel trapped, like you have to find somewhere to hide because I'm here all the time and you can't think." She bit her lip, wondering if she'd just jinxed them somehow.
"Like Janine, you mean."
Molly shrugged. She knew the circumstances were totally different, but Sherlock was Sherlock and he would always have his idiosyncrasies to deal with. She wanted to ease into things to make sure they were going to be able to find common ground that worked for both of them. Staying at Baker Street--living at Baker Street--was a giant leap forward, and she honestly didn't think they were ready for it. Not yet.
Sherlock looked as if he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue. She knew the exact moment when he accepted that she was right. "Dinner?" he asked.
"Please?"
"Can I stay the night?"
Dear Lord, the things that man's voice could do to her.
"That can probably be arranged." Molly raised up on her toes so she could press her lips against his. Sherlock wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tight against his chest to help support her as the kiss deepened.
"You can leave on one condition," he murmured against her lips.
"Tell me what it is, and I'll consider it," she offered as he slowly lowered her back to the floor.
He nudged her further into the sitting room and pushed the flat door shut behind him. "I'm going to need something to tide me over until I see you tonight." Sherlock pulled off his Belstaff and let it drop to the floor.
"What?" Even to her own ears, Molly knew she sounded breathless and eager.
Sherlock took her hand and began to lead her through the kitchen toward his bedroom. "You."
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
A few weeks later found Molly spending a relaxing afternoon at Baker Street. She'd had a lovely lie-in with Toby curled against her back that morning. Then lunch with Meena, who still called Sherlock 'the arsehole' (although there was a tiny hint of affectionate tolerance in it now that she could see how happy Molly was).
Sherlock had invited her over to spend the afternoon experimenting with whatever random things he pulled out of the refrigerator. Mrs Hudson had put her foot down that the fridge needed to be completely sanitized (or replaced, she was willing to negotiate) before she would do any more errands for him, and that meant it needed to be emptied. Sherlock and Molly agreed it would be a huge waste to toss everything without getting a chance to play with it a bit first.
They'd moved on from the really interesting stuff to trying to figure out what the unrecognizable mass of congealed slop stored in a margarine tub might have been in its former life. Molly's guess was either a stew or Shepherd's Pie; but Sherlock was leaning toward pancreas marinated in bile (although he couldn't remember if or when he'd brought something like that home). They didn't have access to the more sophisticated equipment at Barts, so they were making a game of improvising ways to deduce the answer with only items available in the flat.
It was rather fun actually.
Molly's pen eventually ran dry and Sherlock refused to let her steal his. He slid it out of her reach. "This one is mine. Find your own."
"You just want me to waste time searching so you can figure it out first."
"Perhaps." His grin was mischievous as he placed another slide into his microscope.
She rolled her eyes and went in search of a new pen. The desk seemed the obvious place to start. There were several writing utensils on the desktop but most of them were either long dried out pens or broken pencils. "Why are you saving these?"
"Bin them if you'd like." He barely spared her a glance.
The long shelf on top of the desk proved more productive as she immediately found a working pen next to a stack of books. Molly almost walked away before she noticed the familiar bundle of dark material that had been carefully folded and hidden behind the books.
Somehow she'd managed to forget the mystery of the Reappearing Ruined Scarf in all the Chapman drama.
"Is this the scarf you borrowed from Mrs Hudson?"
Sherlock looked up from his microscope just long enough to glance at the small mass of silk in her hands. "Yep." He popped the last letter in that particular way of his that was equal parts annoying and childishly adorable to her.
"I thought Mrs Hudson said you'd told her it was ruined?" Molly ran the soft fabric through her fingers, watching the glittering threads catch the light with her movements. The scarf was intact, not a single snag marred the material.
"I did."
"You lied to her?"
Sherlock sighed and slid his chair away from the kitchen table, turning to give her his full attention. "I would have assumed that was obvious."
"It was on your desk." She continued to play with the scarf, enjoying the feeling of the silk against her hands.
"Was it?" he asked as if they were discussing whether or not it would rain.
"Why?"
He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "It seemed a convenient place to put it at the time."
"That's not-I meant why did you tell her it was ruined?" Her voice turned husky as she voiced the question she'd truly wanted an answer to. "Why did you keep it?"
His face remained impassive as he stared at her for a long moment before he answered her. "Because it smelled like you."
Molly looked at the scarf as if she'd never seen it before. "What?"
"Your perfume. You had a bottle in your purse. Most likely in case you felt the need to refresh it during your blind date with the boring imbecile. You used it before we left for the bar."
Sherlock grimaced and shook his head as she lifted the scarf to her nose and sniffed. "It's gone now. There's no scent left."
He was wrong. There may not have been any trace of her perfume, but there was a masculine aroma embedded in the silken threads. She closed her eyes and rubbed the material against her cheek, inhaling the scent that she would always recognize as Sherlock's.
Her eyes slowly opened to find him watching her.
It was clear that he hadn't just left the scarf behind the books; he'd held it, touched it, managed to get his scent all over it. Molly felt her entire body go warm as she wondered what, exactly, he'd been doing with the silk scarf since it had been 'ruined'.
All sorts of deliciously filthy ideas ran through her mind. "It smells like you."
His face went suspiciously blank. "Does it?"
"Why would that be, I wonder?" She leaned her hip against the desk and continued to play with the fabric. "What have you been doing with it, to make it hold your scent?"
His lips curled into what was quite possibly the sexiest smirk Molly had ever seen. "You tell me." His voice dropped low and smooth, and her body reacted as if he'd physically touched her.
"It was on your desk." She mused, thinking aloud.
"You've already established that."
She'd heard him mention watching porn on John's laptop at least once. Perhaps he had . . . ? She looked at the desktop, then back to Sherlock. "Your laptop is on the desk."
"An astute observation." His face gave nothing away, and the rest of his body remained completely still. No obvious tell to let her know she was on the right track.
Molly frowned. That wasn't it. He'd watched porn, admittedly, but not for entertainment. She bit the inside of her cheek as she puzzled through it. She'd found it on the desk just now, but it had been tucked between the cushions of his chair the day she'd brought him the cooler of hands from Barts. Her gaze had focused on the glass panels next to the kitchen doorway while she'd thought, and she smiled as everything clicked. "It's not the laptop, though. It's the view."
And there was the tell. Sherlock sat up straighter. His body tensed. She could see his biceps flex under his indecently tight dress shirt.
She moved to stand behind his chair. "From the chair at the desk, you have a straight view of that spot." She pointed to the place where she'd been standing that horrible Christmas party when Sherlock had brutally deduced her and then apologized. "Practically the same view from here, but this chair is much more comfortable, I would imagine."
"That is true." Sherlock nodded. "It is a comfortable chair."
"So what is it that you wanted to look at while you held something that smelled like my perfume?" He didn't answer, but she hadn't really expected him to. He seemed to be enjoying watching her work through it on her own. If he'd been bored, he would have already insisted it wasn't important and gone back to his experiment.
Molly patted the top of his chair. "Could you do me a favour? Sit here. Help me visualize the scene of the crime, so to speak."
He huffed, but did as she asked.
She leaned down so that her breath stirred the fine hairs around his ear. She loosely draped the scarf around his neck and smoothed it down his shoulders. "I don't see anything in particular that would hold your interest, perhaps it's not something there now?" Molly turned her head and brushed her lips against his earlobe. "A memory?"
He shivered at the feather-light contact. Molly smiled, feeling proud of herself and more than a little sexy. She whispered, "I remember standing right about there when I came to your Christmas party. Do you know how fast my heart started to race when I saw you?"
"I can make an educated guess based off the average resting heart rate of a woman your age and your lifestyle . . ." He groaned. "And that was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?"
Molly sighed and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. "Yes." She stood up and ran her fingers through the curls on the back of his head. "I was trying to set a mood, Sherlock."
"Ah." He leaned his head back to look up at her and held out a hand in invitation. "If you come here, I'll tell you what I used to do with the scarf," he offered in apology. "That might bring the mood back."
She took his hand and let him draw her around the chair into his lap. Sherlock silently indicated that he wanted her to look at the spot they'd been discussing. "You came up the stairs that night, bags of presents in your hands and that ridiculous bow in your hair, and stopped right there to take your coat off. I don't think I'd ever seen your hair down like that before, surely I would have remembered."
Molly shook her head. "Not very practical in the morgue."
Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. She turned so that she could see his face. His eyes had gone slightly unfocussed as he got lost in the memory.
"It looked so soft. So touchable. I had to look away. Centre myself. But I could hear John and Geoff practically salivating over you, as if they had a right. One quick glance seared your image in my mind. I stared, unseeing, at John's blog and knew that I would never be able to forget how you looked in that dress. You kept drawing my focus, distracting me, and I couldn't have that. And then there was the present. The one meant for the man you clearly cared about, the man who wasn't me, and I couldn't stop it . . . Couldn't stop the flood of hurtful words."
His hand found hers on her lap and he covered it. "I didn't recognize it at the time, but it was jealousy that made me do it. Pure and simple. I thought it was just pique at being forced to host that annoying party. I'd already taken out my frustration with everyone else in the room and you were just the next target on the list. That's how I justified it." His thumb began to draw small circles on the back of her wrist.
"You were so hurt, I had to do something to make it better; hence the apology, the kiss on the cheek. You were wearing that perfume. I've noticed it so many times since then, how could I not? For so long I refused to attach any significant importance to the way it always reminded me of that moment, the look on your face as I leaned in to kiss your cheek that first time."
He blinked and looked at her, gazed drawn down to her softly parted lips. "I've wished so many times that things had gone differently. That I'd kept my mouth shut. That I'd told you how lovely you were. That I had kissed you properly, on your pretty red lips. I have imagined all of those scenarios and more since I let myself begin to think of you that way."
Sherlock pulled the silk scarf from around his neck and brushed the end against her cheek. "I really had meant to return this. It was with the other things I took down to Mrs Hudson that morning; but I pocketed it at the last moment and told her it had been ruined. I was still trying to figure out why I kept it, when you came out in my shirt and robe. I'd never been so hard so fast in my life. I couldn't say anything without running the risk of sounding like a stammering fool, so I just sat here until I could think coherently again. Later, when I left your cleaned clothes in the bathroom while you were in the shower . . . I didn't peek, I swear it, but my God I wanted to. I'm surprised you didn't hear me panting like a randy teenager, clenching my fists to keep from reaching for that damn shower curtain. I had to leave, obviously."
She let him continue to ghost the material across her skin, along her jaw and down the length of her throat. "I thought you'd had a case?"
"Solved it in ten minutes, spent the next four hours insisting Gerome give me something challenging until he threatened to have me arrested."
Molly caught her lower lip between her teeth in an effort to keep from laughing.
He dropped the scarf onto her lap and slid his hand around the back of her neck. He pulled her close enough that he could press his forehead against hers, his breath hot against her lips. "You were gone when I came home. All I could think about was you in my shower, you in my bed, you standing right over there in that tight black dress, in my robe. I didn't even make it to the bedroom, Molly."
Sherlock groaned and nipped at her lip, urging her to open her mouth for him. His tongue found hers as soon as she gave him what he wanted.
"Right here," he groaned against her lips in between hot, open mouthed kisses. "I didn't even bother undressing, just unzipped and had my hand around my cock in under a minute."
She whimpered and turned as much as she could in his lap so that they were pressed chest to chest.
"I'd shoved the scarf in the chair cushions when I heard you get up that morning. I didn't mean to grab it, but I was suddenly burying my nose in it. With my eyes closed, I could imagine you were here. Standing right there in that black dress with your hungry eyes, watching me get off."
"Oh yes," Molly moaned. She started to tug at his shirt buttons, popping them open as quickly as she could. "Is that all you wanted me to do? Just watch you?"
"No! I wanted-" He broke off as she kissed him hard, all teeth and tongue and heat. Sherlock tried to follow her when she withdrew, but Molly ducked her head so she could finish dealing with his buttons. "Touch me. I need . . ."
She pulled his shirt free of his trousers and ran her palms over his newly exposed skin. "Tell me what you need, what else did you think about when you touched yourself?"
"You turn around and pull up your dress so I can see your knickers. I love your arse."
Her hands stopped moving as she looked at him, eyes wide and surprised. "You like my bum?"
Sherlock dropped both hands down to fill them with her arse cheeks. "No, I love it. Thank God you wear those hideous lab coats at Barts, else I'd never get anything done for staring at your arse."
"How did you even know what my bum looked like? You rarely saw me outside Barts." She gasped when his hands slipped under her blouse and into the waistband of her trousers so that his fingers could graze the top of her buttocks.
He smirked. "I'm very observant."
Molly pinched one of his nipples in retaliation. He hissed and his hips jerked upwards, pressing his arousal against her thigh. "Do I keep my knickers on?"
"Sometimes." Her waistband kept his fingers from getting any lower, and he groaned in frustration. "Sometimes you take them off and come sit in my lap."
"Like this?" she questioned just before she lowered her head and took the nipple she'd pinched between her lips and sucked.
Sherlock moaned, long and low. He released her bum and started to blindly pluck at the buttons of her blouse. "Facing away. You lean forward and let me fuck you, hard and fast. I can look down and see my cock disappear inside you, touch your beautiful back. I never last long when I imagine that. Please, Molly, let's go to bed."
He was practically begging, desperate for her. She was just as desperate for him. Molly knew she was wet, her nipples ached, and she wasn't at all sure she'd be able to wait until they made to his room and got undressed.
She slid off his lap and finished unbuttoning her shirt. He started to stand and Molly held out a hand to stop him. "Stay. Right there."
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Molly?"
She shrugged off her blouse and quickly reached behind to unhook her bra. "Take off your trousers. Don't get up, just slide them off. Pants too." She knew she was being a little bossy, but the last few weeks seemed to indicate that Sherlock rather enjoyed it when she got a bit assertive in the bedroom.
"Here?" His eyes closed and he began to breath heavily through his nose.
"Don't you want to?" Molly wondered if she'd read the moment wrong.
He groaned and gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Yes, I want . . . Just give me a minute. I'm already close just thinking about . . . Fuck."
Watching him fight for control only managed to make her even more aroused. She finished undressing quickly, then nudged him with her foot. "I'm waiting, Sherlock."
His eyes snapped open. He moaned at the sight of her standing in front of him, feet planted wide apart, completely bare to his gaze. Sherlock's hands dropped to his belt and he wrenched it open. He toed off his shoes, then braced his feet on the floor and lifted his bum so he could slide his trousers and boxers down his legs.
The scarf had fallen to the floor when she stood up. Molly bent to retrieve it, revelling in the way he moaned her name as her small breasts moved. By the time she was done he was only wearing his unbuttoned shirt. She thought about asking him to take it off, but he looked so deliciously debauched-- slouched low in the chair, shirt open and chest bare, cheeks flushed, hair a mess of curls, his erection straining toward her. She wanted him to stay like that forever.
She leaned down and touched him, gliding her hands from his neck down his chest and stomach to his erection. Sherlock bit his lip and grabbed the chair arms again. Molly loosely wrapped the scarf around his cock and began to stroke him. His back arched and his bum actually came up off the chair as he jerked toward her. "Fuck!"
"Have you ever done this before?"
"Yes," he panted, those pale eyes locked on her hands and what they were doing to him. "Not often, didn't want to, oh God, to ruin it." His hips began to rock into her touch.
Molly considered letting him come like this, but she wanted him inside her, filling her. She pressed her lips to his, drawing his lower lip into her mouth and releasing it with a loud pop. Sherlock cupped the back of her neck to keep her close enough to kiss again and again. His other hand palmed her breast, playing with the nipple.
"Closest condom?" she whispered against his jaw. "Bedroom or . . . ?"
Sherlock gasped, "Wallet. Trousers on the floor." He wrapped his other hand around hers, stilling her movements. "I need you. Now."
She released him with a pleased murmur and bent down again to find his wallet. He removed the scarf and tossed it aside. Molly passed the condom to him and waited for him to put it on, pressing her legs tight together in an effort to ease the ache between her thighs.
He reached for her and she shook her head. "You said you wanted me like this." She turned and sat on his lap, opening her legs so they were on either side of his; scooting closer until her back was against his chest, and his penis was snug between them.
"I love you," Sherlock breathed against the back of her neck before lightly scrapping his teeth against her shoulder.
Her laughter was soft and breathless and full of joy. "Try telling me again when you're not desperate to come." She shifted her hips, lifting herself just enough to give him room to do what they both wanted.
"I will, promise."
She felt him reach between their bodies to position himself; then she slowly eased down, taking him in. They both groaned as he filled her. Once she was certain what they were doing was feasible and not some porn fantasy impossibility, she coyly looked over her shoulder. "Now?"
Sherlock pulled his lower lip between his teeth again and nodded. She felt his thighs tighten beneath her as she leaned forward to brace her hands on his knees; exposing her back and arse to his gaze, just as he'd described. She lifted off his lap, barely able to touch the floor with the pads of her feet, then down one more time. Sherlock's hands fell to her waist, offering support as they began to come together faster. Harder.
The sounds of sex filled the sitting room; the sharp slap of flesh against flesh, Molly's delighted gasps as Sherlock pulled her onto him with more and more force, his low growl when she would briefly slip a hand down to caress his balls.
Sherlock spread his knees for leverage. Her feet no longer touched the floor, and she was unable to close her legs. They were completely exposed if anyone were to walk in at that moment, and Molly didn't care.
One of his hands caressed her arse for a moment, then slid around to find her clit. The other wrapped around her body and pulled her back against his chest. She reached up behind her head to sink her hands into his hair as he continued to work her nub with his fingers.
She moaned his name. "Close." The tension was building inside, like an ever tightening rubber band just waiting to snap.
"Thank God," Sherlock gasped against her ear. He bit her shoulder and Molly came. He whined deep in his throat as he continued to thrust through her orgasm; then his rhythm stuttered and he joined her. "Molly!"
It took a few moments to catch her breath, and she spent that time limply draped across his chest. "Oh, Sherlock, I love you."
She could feel, more than hear, his breathless laughter. "Try telling me when I haven't just made you come."
Part 1 / Part 17
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 Sixteen
The sky had begun to soften with predawn light by the time Molly was allowed to leave the police station.
As Sherlock had predicted, several members of the local Sussex police force had answered his 'summons'. Molly, Janine, and Sherlock had been rather forcibly asked to give their statements at the station. Chapman had been sent to emergency with a police escort to have his arm and the lump on his head looked at. Molly spent the entire ride to the station silently thanking Mary's foresight for not only coaching her on what to say to manipulate Chapman, but also passing along tips for acting appropriately upset and flustered when she was questioned by the police.
Not that she had to fake being upset. She was shaking the entire time an officer took her statement. Molly had to stop and collect herself twice, or risk breaking into tears as the fear she'd managed to tamp down during the confrontation with Chapman threatened to finally break free.
She was ready to drop--emotionally and physically exhausted--when they finally finished asking her questions and told her she was free to leave. She stopped dead at the sight of Janine (who had, thankfully, been allowed to change into jeans and a jumper before leaving her cottage) and Anthea waiting in the small lobby.
"What are you doing here?" Molly couldn't help blurting out as soon as she got close enough to Anthea.
"Mr Holmes sent a text to his brother saying you were going to need a ride back home from a police station in Sussex."
"Does that mean he's ready to leave?" Molly looked around but didn't see his familiar head of curls anywhere.
Anthea shook her head. "No. He's still inside, and probably will be for a bit longer. There's a lot of questions that have to be answered when you've shot a man. Even more when they don't die." She shrugged.
Molly couldn't tell if Anthea was joking or if she was completely earnest. Janine laughed, so Molly offered a hesitant chuckle of her own.
"Don't worry. I've spoken to the lead detective, and from what I've heard I don't think Mr Holmes will be in any insurmountable trouble." Janine looked almost as relieved as Molly felt at Anthea's words. "It's fairly clear that the odious tosspot assaulted Miss Hawkins, held Mr Holmes hostage at gun point, and tried to shoot Molly. Add to that possession of two illegal firearms, and Mr Chapman's chances of getting away on this one are very slim."
"Are you sure? Francis is a rich man." Janine had a valid point. Chapman had managed to worm his way out of being arrested before.
"He's got money, but I doubt that will do him much good this time. I don't imaging Sherlock Holmes will stop until he's seen Mr Chapman sentenced and behind bars," Anthea reassured them. "You've both had a really long night, go get some rest. Soter is waiting with a car outside. He's been instructed to take you both home. That includes London, Miss Hawkins, if you'd rather not stay in Sussex Downs."
Janine sighed in relief and immediately headed for the door. "Oh thank God. Do you think he'd be willing to stop by the cottage long enough that I can pack a bag?"
Molly started to follow her, then realized Anthea hadn't moved to join them. "You're not coming with us? How will you get back?"
"Mycroft is on his way. He wishes to speak with his brother personally. I'll be riding back with them."
Molly's eyes widened when the other woman said his given name. "Mycroft?"
Anthea's lips tilted upward in a shy, sweet smile.
Her plan had been to pack up her things and wait for Sherlock to come back to Baker Street before she called a taxi.
A real one, not the one driven by Soter. She was really going to miss that man. He had promised to meet her for coffee in a few weeks so he could give her advice on plants for a window box in the spring. Then he had walked her to the door of 221B for the last time.
Unfortunately, by the time she'd gathered up the surprisingly large number of her things that had ended up strewn around the flat, Sherlock was still not home. The thought of leaving without seeing him made her physically ache, and Molly couldn't bear to consider it for more than a moment. She set her packed suitcase and several carrier bags next to John's chair, and laid down on the sofa to take a short nap while she waited for Sherlock.
Molly had no idea what time it was when she woke up. The room was brighter (Gently floating dust motes were visible in the sunlight from the windows.) so it must have been early afternoon. She sat up and stretched, wincing at the soft pops and clicks along her spine. When she began to rotate her neck to work out the last of the kinks from her nap, she saw him.
Leaning one shoulder against the open doorframe, his arms crossed defensively across his chest, was Sherlock. He was still wearing his Belstaff, and his hair was even more ruffled and mussed than usual. His face was a blank mask. She wondered how long he'd been standing there, watching her sleep.
"You're leaving." It wasn't quite an accusation, but it was a far cry from the casual observation his expression was meant to convey.
"Well, yeah. Toby misses me, I'm sure. And Chapman is in police custody so you don't need to babysit me anymore." She was confused. Surely he wasn't surprised that she was going back to her own flat?
Sherlock dropped his arms and took a short step toward her. She saw his hands clench at his sides before he tucked them behind his back and out of sight. "You were just going to pack up and leave without saying goodbye?"
"No!" Molly hopped off the couch and debated with whether or no she should approach him. Her body swayed in his direction, drawn to him, even though her feet remained in place. "No, I would never-"
"Then what are you doing?" Again, his voice betrayed him, each syllable a harsh staccato beat.
"I'm not leaving you, I'm just going home." He visibly flinched when she spoke. For the first time Molly wondered if he had wanted her to stay. They'd never actually discussed what would happen after the mess with Chapman had been dealt with. She'd always just assumed that she'd go back to her place and they'd continue with this new stage in their relationship.
She wasn't sure what else to call it. It wasn't really dating, was it? Sherlock dated Janine. This was something different. Something more.
Love.
Molly approached him cautiously, as if he were a wild animal that might bolt at the slightest provocation. Once she was close enough, she reached up to sink her fingers into his beautiful hair. She fully expected him to petulantly draw away from her touch; instead, he tilted his head so that he could lean into her hand. His eyes briefly fluttered shut.
She'd never seen him look so fragile, so vulnerable. Molly cupped his jaw with her other hand and brushed her thumb over his prominent cheekbone. "I love you."
"Then why are you leaving?"
His pale eyes opened and looked down at her with so much warmth and need it made her want to promise him the world if she could, but she also didn't want to ruin everything between them by moving too fast. "Because we've only been together such a short time."
Sherlock shook head. "It seems like it's been forever. You've been a part of me for years."
Molly thought her heart would burst with love for the man before her. "Come to my place tonight. I'll cook dinner. Give us a chance to get used to being a normal couple--well, as normal as we'll ever be--before we rush into anything too-too . . ."
"You still think I'm going to change my mind." Sherlock took a step back, disappointment and sadness drawing his lips into a pout. Her hands fell from his face to his rest against chest.
"I think that you are everything I've wanted for so very long, and part of me is convinced that this is too good to be true." Molly needed him to understand. "We've never had a conventional relationship, and I don't expect us to now, but I need some time to convince myself that all of this is reality, not a dream. I don't want to push too far, too soon. I want you to be absolutely sure this is what you want. That this is what we both want. I need to know that you'll still want to be with me when we aren't involved in an exciting case, when things are boring and dull. I don't want you to feel trapped, like you have to find somewhere to hide because I'm here all the time and you can't think." She bit her lip, wondering if she'd just jinxed them somehow.
"Like Janine, you mean."
Molly shrugged. She knew the circumstances were totally different, but Sherlock was Sherlock and he would always have his idiosyncrasies to deal with. She wanted to ease into things to make sure they were going to be able to find common ground that worked for both of them. Staying at Baker Street--living at Baker Street--was a giant leap forward, and she honestly didn't think they were ready for it. Not yet.
Sherlock looked as if he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue. She knew the exact moment when he accepted that she was right. "Dinner?" he asked.
"Please?"
"Can I stay the night?"
Dear Lord, the things that man's voice could do to her.
"That can probably be arranged." Molly raised up on her toes so she could press her lips against his. Sherlock wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tight against his chest to help support her as the kiss deepened.
"You can leave on one condition," he murmured against her lips.
"Tell me what it is, and I'll consider it," she offered as he slowly lowered her back to the floor.
He nudged her further into the sitting room and pushed the flat door shut behind him. "I'm going to need something to tide me over until I see you tonight." Sherlock pulled off his Belstaff and let it drop to the floor.
"What?" Even to her own ears, Molly knew she sounded breathless and eager.
Sherlock took her hand and began to lead her through the kitchen toward his bedroom. "You."
A few weeks later found Molly spending a relaxing afternoon at Baker Street. She'd had a lovely lie-in with Toby curled against her back that morning. Then lunch with Meena, who still called Sherlock 'the arsehole' (although there was a tiny hint of affectionate tolerance in it now that she could see how happy Molly was).
Sherlock had invited her over to spend the afternoon experimenting with whatever random things he pulled out of the refrigerator. Mrs Hudson had put her foot down that the fridge needed to be completely sanitized (or replaced, she was willing to negotiate) before she would do any more errands for him, and that meant it needed to be emptied. Sherlock and Molly agreed it would be a huge waste to toss everything without getting a chance to play with it a bit first.
They'd moved on from the really interesting stuff to trying to figure out what the unrecognizable mass of congealed slop stored in a margarine tub might have been in its former life. Molly's guess was either a stew or Shepherd's Pie; but Sherlock was leaning toward pancreas marinated in bile (although he couldn't remember if or when he'd brought something like that home). They didn't have access to the more sophisticated equipment at Barts, so they were making a game of improvising ways to deduce the answer with only items available in the flat.
It was rather fun actually.
Molly's pen eventually ran dry and Sherlock refused to let her steal his. He slid it out of her reach. "This one is mine. Find your own."
"You just want me to waste time searching so you can figure it out first."
"Perhaps." His grin was mischievous as he placed another slide into his microscope.
She rolled her eyes and went in search of a new pen. The desk seemed the obvious place to start. There were several writing utensils on the desktop but most of them were either long dried out pens or broken pencils. "Why are you saving these?"
"Bin them if you'd like." He barely spared her a glance.
The long shelf on top of the desk proved more productive as she immediately found a working pen next to a stack of books. Molly almost walked away before she noticed the familiar bundle of dark material that had been carefully folded and hidden behind the books.
Somehow she'd managed to forget the mystery of the Reappearing Ruined Scarf in all the Chapman drama.
"Is this the scarf you borrowed from Mrs Hudson?"
Sherlock looked up from his microscope just long enough to glance at the small mass of silk in her hands. "Yep." He popped the last letter in that particular way of his that was equal parts annoying and childishly adorable to her.
"I thought Mrs Hudson said you'd told her it was ruined?" Molly ran the soft fabric through her fingers, watching the glittering threads catch the light with her movements. The scarf was intact, not a single snag marred the material.
"I did."
"You lied to her?"
Sherlock sighed and slid his chair away from the kitchen table, turning to give her his full attention. "I would have assumed that was obvious."
"It was on your desk." She continued to play with the scarf, enjoying the feeling of the silk against her hands.
"Was it?" he asked as if they were discussing whether or not it would rain.
"Why?"
He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "It seemed a convenient place to put it at the time."
"That's not-I meant why did you tell her it was ruined?" Her voice turned husky as she voiced the question she'd truly wanted an answer to. "Why did you keep it?"
His face remained impassive as he stared at her for a long moment before he answered her. "Because it smelled like you."
Molly looked at the scarf as if she'd never seen it before. "What?"
"Your perfume. You had a bottle in your purse. Most likely in case you felt the need to refresh it during your blind date with the boring imbecile. You used it before we left for the bar."
Sherlock grimaced and shook his head as she lifted the scarf to her nose and sniffed. "It's gone now. There's no scent left."
He was wrong. There may not have been any trace of her perfume, but there was a masculine aroma embedded in the silken threads. She closed her eyes and rubbed the material against her cheek, inhaling the scent that she would always recognize as Sherlock's.
Her eyes slowly opened to find him watching her.
It was clear that he hadn't just left the scarf behind the books; he'd held it, touched it, managed to get his scent all over it. Molly felt her entire body go warm as she wondered what, exactly, he'd been doing with the silk scarf since it had been 'ruined'.
All sorts of deliciously filthy ideas ran through her mind. "It smells like you."
His face went suspiciously blank. "Does it?"
"Why would that be, I wonder?" She leaned her hip against the desk and continued to play with the fabric. "What have you been doing with it, to make it hold your scent?"
His lips curled into what was quite possibly the sexiest smirk Molly had ever seen. "You tell me." His voice dropped low and smooth, and her body reacted as if he'd physically touched her.
"It was on your desk." She mused, thinking aloud.
"You've already established that."
She'd heard him mention watching porn on John's laptop at least once. Perhaps he had . . . ? She looked at the desktop, then back to Sherlock. "Your laptop is on the desk."
"An astute observation." His face gave nothing away, and the rest of his body remained completely still. No obvious tell to let her know she was on the right track.
Molly frowned. That wasn't it. He'd watched porn, admittedly, but not for entertainment. She bit the inside of her cheek as she puzzled through it. She'd found it on the desk just now, but it had been tucked between the cushions of his chair the day she'd brought him the cooler of hands from Barts. Her gaze had focused on the glass panels next to the kitchen doorway while she'd thought, and she smiled as everything clicked. "It's not the laptop, though. It's the view."
And there was the tell. Sherlock sat up straighter. His body tensed. She could see his biceps flex under his indecently tight dress shirt.
She moved to stand behind his chair. "From the chair at the desk, you have a straight view of that spot." She pointed to the place where she'd been standing that horrible Christmas party when Sherlock had brutally deduced her and then apologized. "Practically the same view from here, but this chair is much more comfortable, I would imagine."
"That is true." Sherlock nodded. "It is a comfortable chair."
"So what is it that you wanted to look at while you held something that smelled like my perfume?" He didn't answer, but she hadn't really expected him to. He seemed to be enjoying watching her work through it on her own. If he'd been bored, he would have already insisted it wasn't important and gone back to his experiment.
Molly patted the top of his chair. "Could you do me a favour? Sit here. Help me visualize the scene of the crime, so to speak."
He huffed, but did as she asked.
She leaned down so that her breath stirred the fine hairs around his ear. She loosely draped the scarf around his neck and smoothed it down his shoulders. "I don't see anything in particular that would hold your interest, perhaps it's not something there now?" Molly turned her head and brushed her lips against his earlobe. "A memory?"
He shivered at the feather-light contact. Molly smiled, feeling proud of herself and more than a little sexy. She whispered, "I remember standing right about there when I came to your Christmas party. Do you know how fast my heart started to race when I saw you?"
"I can make an educated guess based off the average resting heart rate of a woman your age and your lifestyle . . ." He groaned. "And that was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?"
Molly sighed and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. "Yes." She stood up and ran her fingers through the curls on the back of his head. "I was trying to set a mood, Sherlock."
"Ah." He leaned his head back to look up at her and held out a hand in invitation. "If you come here, I'll tell you what I used to do with the scarf," he offered in apology. "That might bring the mood back."
She took his hand and let him draw her around the chair into his lap. Sherlock silently indicated that he wanted her to look at the spot they'd been discussing. "You came up the stairs that night, bags of presents in your hands and that ridiculous bow in your hair, and stopped right there to take your coat off. I don't think I'd ever seen your hair down like that before, surely I would have remembered."
Molly shook her head. "Not very practical in the morgue."
Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. She turned so that she could see his face. His eyes had gone slightly unfocussed as he got lost in the memory.
"It looked so soft. So touchable. I had to look away. Centre myself. But I could hear John and Geoff practically salivating over you, as if they had a right. One quick glance seared your image in my mind. I stared, unseeing, at John's blog and knew that I would never be able to forget how you looked in that dress. You kept drawing my focus, distracting me, and I couldn't have that. And then there was the present. The one meant for the man you clearly cared about, the man who wasn't me, and I couldn't stop it . . . Couldn't stop the flood of hurtful words."
His hand found hers on her lap and he covered it. "I didn't recognize it at the time, but it was jealousy that made me do it. Pure and simple. I thought it was just pique at being forced to host that annoying party. I'd already taken out my frustration with everyone else in the room and you were just the next target on the list. That's how I justified it." His thumb began to draw small circles on the back of her wrist.
"You were so hurt, I had to do something to make it better; hence the apology, the kiss on the cheek. You were wearing that perfume. I've noticed it so many times since then, how could I not? For so long I refused to attach any significant importance to the way it always reminded me of that moment, the look on your face as I leaned in to kiss your cheek that first time."
He blinked and looked at her, gazed drawn down to her softly parted lips. "I've wished so many times that things had gone differently. That I'd kept my mouth shut. That I'd told you how lovely you were. That I had kissed you properly, on your pretty red lips. I have imagined all of those scenarios and more since I let myself begin to think of you that way."
Sherlock pulled the silk scarf from around his neck and brushed the end against her cheek. "I really had meant to return this. It was with the other things I took down to Mrs Hudson that morning; but I pocketed it at the last moment and told her it had been ruined. I was still trying to figure out why I kept it, when you came out in my shirt and robe. I'd never been so hard so fast in my life. I couldn't say anything without running the risk of sounding like a stammering fool, so I just sat here until I could think coherently again. Later, when I left your cleaned clothes in the bathroom while you were in the shower . . . I didn't peek, I swear it, but my God I wanted to. I'm surprised you didn't hear me panting like a randy teenager, clenching my fists to keep from reaching for that damn shower curtain. I had to leave, obviously."
She let him continue to ghost the material across her skin, along her jaw and down the length of her throat. "I thought you'd had a case?"
"Solved it in ten minutes, spent the next four hours insisting Gerome give me something challenging until he threatened to have me arrested."
Molly caught her lower lip between her teeth in an effort to keep from laughing.
He dropped the scarf onto her lap and slid his hand around the back of her neck. He pulled her close enough that he could press his forehead against hers, his breath hot against her lips. "You were gone when I came home. All I could think about was you in my shower, you in my bed, you standing right over there in that tight black dress, in my robe. I didn't even make it to the bedroom, Molly."
Sherlock groaned and nipped at her lip, urging her to open her mouth for him. His tongue found hers as soon as she gave him what he wanted.
"Right here," he groaned against her lips in between hot, open mouthed kisses. "I didn't even bother undressing, just unzipped and had my hand around my cock in under a minute."
She whimpered and turned as much as she could in his lap so that they were pressed chest to chest.
"I'd shoved the scarf in the chair cushions when I heard you get up that morning. I didn't mean to grab it, but I was suddenly burying my nose in it. With my eyes closed, I could imagine you were here. Standing right there in that black dress with your hungry eyes, watching me get off."
"Oh yes," Molly moaned. She started to tug at his shirt buttons, popping them open as quickly as she could. "Is that all you wanted me to do? Just watch you?"
"No! I wanted-" He broke off as she kissed him hard, all teeth and tongue and heat. Sherlock tried to follow her when she withdrew, but Molly ducked her head so she could finish dealing with his buttons. "Touch me. I need . . ."
She pulled his shirt free of his trousers and ran her palms over his newly exposed skin. "Tell me what you need, what else did you think about when you touched yourself?"
"You turn around and pull up your dress so I can see your knickers. I love your arse."
Her hands stopped moving as she looked at him, eyes wide and surprised. "You like my bum?"
Sherlock dropped both hands down to fill them with her arse cheeks. "No, I love it. Thank God you wear those hideous lab coats at Barts, else I'd never get anything done for staring at your arse."
"How did you even know what my bum looked like? You rarely saw me outside Barts." She gasped when his hands slipped under her blouse and into the waistband of her trousers so that his fingers could graze the top of her buttocks.
He smirked. "I'm very observant."
Molly pinched one of his nipples in retaliation. He hissed and his hips jerked upwards, pressing his arousal against her thigh. "Do I keep my knickers on?"
"Sometimes." Her waistband kept his fingers from getting any lower, and he groaned in frustration. "Sometimes you take them off and come sit in my lap."
"Like this?" she questioned just before she lowered her head and took the nipple she'd pinched between her lips and sucked.
Sherlock moaned, long and low. He released her bum and started to blindly pluck at the buttons of her blouse. "Facing away. You lean forward and let me fuck you, hard and fast. I can look down and see my cock disappear inside you, touch your beautiful back. I never last long when I imagine that. Please, Molly, let's go to bed."
He was practically begging, desperate for her. She was just as desperate for him. Molly knew she was wet, her nipples ached, and she wasn't at all sure she'd be able to wait until they made to his room and got undressed.
She slid off his lap and finished unbuttoning her shirt. He started to stand and Molly held out a hand to stop him. "Stay. Right there."
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Molly?"
She shrugged off her blouse and quickly reached behind to unhook her bra. "Take off your trousers. Don't get up, just slide them off. Pants too." She knew she was being a little bossy, but the last few weeks seemed to indicate that Sherlock rather enjoyed it when she got a bit assertive in the bedroom.
"Here?" His eyes closed and he began to breath heavily through his nose.
"Don't you want to?" Molly wondered if she'd read the moment wrong.
He groaned and gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Yes, I want . . . Just give me a minute. I'm already close just thinking about . . . Fuck."
Watching him fight for control only managed to make her even more aroused. She finished undressing quickly, then nudged him with her foot. "I'm waiting, Sherlock."
His eyes snapped open. He moaned at the sight of her standing in front of him, feet planted wide apart, completely bare to his gaze. Sherlock's hands dropped to his belt and he wrenched it open. He toed off his shoes, then braced his feet on the floor and lifted his bum so he could slide his trousers and boxers down his legs.
The scarf had fallen to the floor when she stood up. Molly bent to retrieve it, revelling in the way he moaned her name as her small breasts moved. By the time she was done he was only wearing his unbuttoned shirt. She thought about asking him to take it off, but he looked so deliciously debauched-- slouched low in the chair, shirt open and chest bare, cheeks flushed, hair a mess of curls, his erection straining toward her. She wanted him to stay like that forever.
She leaned down and touched him, gliding her hands from his neck down his chest and stomach to his erection. Sherlock bit his lip and grabbed the chair arms again. Molly loosely wrapped the scarf around his cock and began to stroke him. His back arched and his bum actually came up off the chair as he jerked toward her. "Fuck!"
"Have you ever done this before?"
"Yes," he panted, those pale eyes locked on her hands and what they were doing to him. "Not often, didn't want to, oh God, to ruin it." His hips began to rock into her touch.
Molly considered letting him come like this, but she wanted him inside her, filling her. She pressed her lips to his, drawing his lower lip into her mouth and releasing it with a loud pop. Sherlock cupped the back of her neck to keep her close enough to kiss again and again. His other hand palmed her breast, playing with the nipple.
"Closest condom?" she whispered against his jaw. "Bedroom or . . . ?"
Sherlock gasped, "Wallet. Trousers on the floor." He wrapped his other hand around hers, stilling her movements. "I need you. Now."
She released him with a pleased murmur and bent down again to find his wallet. He removed the scarf and tossed it aside. Molly passed the condom to him and waited for him to put it on, pressing her legs tight together in an effort to ease the ache between her thighs.
He reached for her and she shook her head. "You said you wanted me like this." She turned and sat on his lap, opening her legs so they were on either side of his; scooting closer until her back was against his chest, and his penis was snug between them.
"I love you," Sherlock breathed against the back of her neck before lightly scrapping his teeth against her shoulder.
Her laughter was soft and breathless and full of joy. "Try telling me again when you're not desperate to come." She shifted her hips, lifting herself just enough to give him room to do what they both wanted.
"I will, promise."
She felt him reach between their bodies to position himself; then she slowly eased down, taking him in. They both groaned as he filled her. Once she was certain what they were doing was feasible and not some porn fantasy impossibility, she coyly looked over her shoulder. "Now?"
Sherlock pulled his lower lip between his teeth again and nodded. She felt his thighs tighten beneath her as she leaned forward to brace her hands on his knees; exposing her back and arse to his gaze, just as he'd described. She lifted off his lap, barely able to touch the floor with the pads of her feet, then down one more time. Sherlock's hands fell to her waist, offering support as they began to come together faster. Harder.
The sounds of sex filled the sitting room; the sharp slap of flesh against flesh, Molly's delighted gasps as Sherlock pulled her onto him with more and more force, his low growl when she would briefly slip a hand down to caress his balls.
Sherlock spread his knees for leverage. Her feet no longer touched the floor, and she was unable to close her legs. They were completely exposed if anyone were to walk in at that moment, and Molly didn't care.
One of his hands caressed her arse for a moment, then slid around to find her clit. The other wrapped around her body and pulled her back against his chest. She reached up behind her head to sink her hands into his hair as he continued to work her nub with his fingers.
She moaned his name. "Close." The tension was building inside, like an ever tightening rubber band just waiting to snap.
"Thank God," Sherlock gasped against her ear. He bit her shoulder and Molly came. He whined deep in his throat as he continued to thrust through her orgasm; then his rhythm stuttered and he joined her. "Molly!"
It took a few moments to catch her breath, and she spent that time limply draped across his chest. "Oh, Sherlock, I love you."
She could feel, more than hear, his breathless laughter. "Try telling me when I haven't just made you come."
Part 1 / Part 17