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darnedchildSummary: Originally written in response to the large amount of anti-Sherlolly wank found in the Sherlolly tag on Tumblr. I bring you some Sherlock wank . . . literally. Fair warning, this is a tie-in to my fic ‘A Vicious Motivator’. You probably do not need to read that one to get the gist of this one–mostly because this one is pretty much just an excuse for smut–but it does make several references to events that happen in the other story if you get confused.
Rating: M
A/N - Hahaha. Sherlock wank because of fandom wank in the tag. Get it? I'm really not funny.
Impulses
You Must Have . . . Impulses
He had no idea why he’d done it. No idea why he’d kept the scarf.
Mrs Hudson had been annoyed with him when she’d brought up his tea that morning, although that wasn’t a particularly strange occurrence, so Sherlock hadn’t thought much of it. She’d begun to lecture him about digging through her things—again—without asking when he’d hissed that she needed to keep her voice down as Molly was still asleep in his bed.
In retrospect, judging from the way Mrs Hudson’s eyes had lit up and the excited chirping nose she’d made, perhaps he should have chosen a slightly different way to phrase it.
He had tried to explain that Molly had only stayed the night because she’d helped him with a case and ended up drunk off her arse in the process, but Mrs Hudson had only giggled and told him to bring Molly’s clothes down for a wash so the poor girl wouldn’t have to walk home like some rumpled walk of shame. Although why Molly should be ashamed of spending the evening helping him with a case, he didn’t know.
It had only taken a few minutes to gather up the things Molly had been wearing when she’d arrived at Baker Street the night before. He paused to hang up her coat and set her shoes near his slippers, then he had gone downstairs to give her the clothes and return the things he’d borrowed (without permission) from Mrs Hudson’s wardrobe. Sherlock had placed the pair of heels and skirt that Molly had worn on Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table, but something—some uncontrollable impulse—had made him pocket the black scarf instead of leaving it with the other items. He’d made up some story about the scarf being ruined, and managed to curtail another lecture with the promise of replacing it.
Then Mrs Hudson had started to go on about fifty shades of something and bondage, and Sherlock had promptly turned on his heel and hurried back upstairs.
He managed to put Mrs Hudson out of his mind completely after she’d brought up a plate for Molly and disappeared with another bout of giggling.
And now he was sitting in his chair staring down at the stolen scarf cradled in his hands. His fingers manipulated the bit of silk, tilting it back and forth so the glittery threads embedded in the black material could catch the light; before he lifted it up to his face and inhaled.
A light floral scent teased him. Rosehips and cherry blossoms. A tiny hint of lemon.
Molly’s perfume.
Was that it? Was that the reason he’d kept the scarf? Because it reminded him of . . .
No. Just no.
Because Sherlock Holmes did not think about Molly Hooper like that.
He didn’t wonder if he’d be able to catch the scent of her favourite perfume if he dared to walk past her in the lab. He didn’t itch to run his fingers through her hair to see if it really was as soft as it looked on the rare occasions when she wore it down. He most certainly did not remember how she’d looked the night of that Christmas party and think about what might have happened if only he’d . . .
The door to his bedroom slowly creaked open and Sherlock stuffed the scarf between the cushions of his chair.
To head off what would surely be an uncomfortably awkward moment when Molly finally worked up the nerve to come out of the loo, Sherlock tried to busy himself with reorganizing a few rooms in his mind palace. Unfortunately, the moment she made her hesitant way into the sitting room the only thing Sherlock could focus on was Molly.
She was wearing the dressing gown he’d left for her. It was far too big for her, the sleeves seemed to swallow her hands even though she’d obviously made an effort to roll them up. She’d tied the belt around her small waist, but the front gaped open all the same. He could see that she was still wearing the shirt (his shirt) that she’d fallen asleep in.
Considering the load of laundry Mrs Hudson was even now dealing with, Sherlock knew what she was wearing beneath that shirt.
Or, more specifically, what Molly wasn’t wearing.
He was rather surprised that she didn’t hear his sharp exhale as his treacherous mind put all the pieces together and made it very clear that Molly Hooper was only wearing her knickers under his shirt and dressing gown.
Janine had occasionally borrowed his shirts when she stayed the night, and Sherlock had never failed to be mildly irritated by it. The shirts would invariably need to be sent to the dry cleaners before he could wear them again, and it was utterly pointless when she could have just as easily brought something to sleep in when she packed an overnight bag.
Molly in his clothes, however, seemed to set off a completely different reaction in him. Rather than being irritated, something primal seemed to awaken inside him and he ached to go to her. To take her in his arms. To taster her mouth, her skin, her breathy gasps as he slid his hand into her knickers.
To his extreme horror, Sherlock could feel himself growing aroused. As she crept through the room, obviously trying not to disturb him as she looked for her things, he fought to get his erection under control. If she’d taken more than a second to actually look at him instead of her quick glances, she would surely have noticed something strange in his rapid breathing and flushed skin.
Thankfully Molly was distracted easily enough; first with the breakfast Mrs Hudson had left for her and then with the offer of a shower.
Of course, knowing she was in his shower—naked and wet—was another form of torture altogether.
Sherlock hopped up and began to pace the length of the sitting room the moment he heard the water come on. The text from Lestrade asking him to consult on a case had never been more welcome.
If he stayed at Baker Street just long enough to retrieve Molly’s things from Mrs Hudson and put them where Molly was sure to find them (in the bathroom), no one could fault him.
Could they?
It wasn’t as if anyone would know how long he’d stood next to the tub, his hands itching to reach for the shower curtain, the need to join her under the spray an almost physical ache. They wouldn’t know how tempted he’d been to throw away years of intentional celibacy for promise of losing himself in Molly’s arms. In her body.
In her love.
No one would ever suspect because everyone knew that Sherlock Holmes did not think about Molly Hooper like that.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
The case had been simple enough a child could have solved it. Sherlock had actually suggested Lestrade consider hiring one rather than relying on the rest of the idiots at the Yard.
Hours after he’d left Molly in his shower, Sherlock reluctantly let himself back into Baker Street. Somehow, he knew she was gone as soon as he stepped foot in his sitting room. Not that he had expected her to stick around, he’d been counting on just the opposite, in fact.
He dropped into his chair and his gaze found the spot where he’d first seen her that morning, tousled and sleepy and fresh from his bed. Almost the same spot where she’d stood that night she’d dressed up in that little black dress.
For him.
Sherlock’s tongue slipped out to wet his suddenly dry lips.
He’d been in no frame of mind to appreciate her efforts at the time, but now . . . Now it was all he could think about.
She’d left her hair down, soft and curling against her bared skin. He hadn’t realized just how small her waist was until he’d looked up to find her large eyes on him. Her lips had been a vivid red. He briefly wondered if it would have stained his mouth if he’d kissed her (really kissed her, not the brief press of his lips against her cheek). Briefly, just a tiny moment before he’d opened his mouth and ruined everything with his callous deductions, she’d turned and he had been gifted a glimpse of her perfect arse.
“Fuck,” Sherlock hissed as his cock twitched at the memory.
How long would it be before he could look at that spot without picturing her looking at him with her hungry expression? Wearing his robe, her breasts caressed by his softest shirt?
He closed his eyes and pictured her under the shower spray, soapy hands gliding over slick skin.
Would she have protested if he’d offered to strip down and join her?
Would she have laughed and splashed him?
Opened her arms and beckoned him into the water like a siren?
Licked her red, red lips as she lowered herself to her knees between his thighs, eyes full of filthy promise when she took him into her mouth.
Sherlock opened his eyes just long enough to make sure he’d closed the door as he worked his zip. By the time he had his erection exposed to the cool air, he was already hard. His hand closed around his cock as the Molly of his mind palace, wearing her little black dress, stood and watched.
As he stroked himself (his touch rougher than usual, urgent), Molly slipped one of the straps of her dress off her shoulder. She coyly bit her lip and nodded toward the other strap, silently asking if he wanted her to continue.
Somehow his free hand found the scarf he’d hidden in the chair, and then he was surrounded by Molly’s scent.
Drops of pre-cum leaked from the head of his cock, making the next stroke of his hand slick and hot.
“What do you need?”
Molly’s voice echoed through his mind. The words were familiar, but her inflection was completely different this time. Husky and seductive. Needy and wanting.
His answer remained the same. “You.”
She smiled, her hands dropped to her thighs and began to pull at the skirt of her dress, slowly raising the hem. Once it was high enough that he could just see a flash of her pale pink knickers, she turned and looked back at him over her shoulder.
“Please, Molly.”
She winked and finished pulling the skirt up, bunching the dark material around her waist so that he could see how her knickers rode low on her hips.
God, he loved her arse. It was something he’d never been able to fully admit to himself before, but now he’d never be able to deny it again.
Sherlock felt his bollocks begin to tighten as he thought of bending Molly over one of the tables in the lab, his fingers digging into her hips as he fucks her hard from behind.
Molly crawling onto his lap; her dress a black puddle on the floor as she rides him.
Molly in his bed. Under him. Over him. Calling out his name as she climaxes.
He barely has enough warning to toss the scarf to the floor and cover the head of his cock with his hand before he comes.
As soon as he’d caught his breath, Sherlock stalked to the bathroom to clean up; angry with himself for giving in to his urges—his impulses—as if he were a hormonal adolescent.
Still, after he’d showered and set the kettle to boil for a much needed cup of tea, Sherlock picked up the scarf and carefully folded it before tucking it behind a stack of books on his desk that Mrs Hudson hadn’t bothered moving in nearly a year.
Rating: M
A/N - Hahaha. Sherlock wank because of fandom wank in the tag. Get it? I'm really not funny.
Impulses
He had no idea why he’d done it. No idea why he’d kept the scarf.
Mrs Hudson had been annoyed with him when she’d brought up his tea that morning, although that wasn’t a particularly strange occurrence, so Sherlock hadn’t thought much of it. She’d begun to lecture him about digging through her things—again—without asking when he’d hissed that she needed to keep her voice down as Molly was still asleep in his bed.
In retrospect, judging from the way Mrs Hudson’s eyes had lit up and the excited chirping nose she’d made, perhaps he should have chosen a slightly different way to phrase it.
He had tried to explain that Molly had only stayed the night because she’d helped him with a case and ended up drunk off her arse in the process, but Mrs Hudson had only giggled and told him to bring Molly’s clothes down for a wash so the poor girl wouldn’t have to walk home like some rumpled walk of shame. Although why Molly should be ashamed of spending the evening helping him with a case, he didn’t know.
It had only taken a few minutes to gather up the things Molly had been wearing when she’d arrived at Baker Street the night before. He paused to hang up her coat and set her shoes near his slippers, then he had gone downstairs to give her the clothes and return the things he’d borrowed (without permission) from Mrs Hudson’s wardrobe. Sherlock had placed the pair of heels and skirt that Molly had worn on Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table, but something—some uncontrollable impulse—had made him pocket the black scarf instead of leaving it with the other items. He’d made up some story about the scarf being ruined, and managed to curtail another lecture with the promise of replacing it.
Then Mrs Hudson had started to go on about fifty shades of something and bondage, and Sherlock had promptly turned on his heel and hurried back upstairs.
He managed to put Mrs Hudson out of his mind completely after she’d brought up a plate for Molly and disappeared with another bout of giggling.
And now he was sitting in his chair staring down at the stolen scarf cradled in his hands. His fingers manipulated the bit of silk, tilting it back and forth so the glittery threads embedded in the black material could catch the light; before he lifted it up to his face and inhaled.
A light floral scent teased him. Rosehips and cherry blossoms. A tiny hint of lemon.
Molly’s perfume.
Was that it? Was that the reason he’d kept the scarf? Because it reminded him of . . .
No. Just no.
Because Sherlock Holmes did not think about Molly Hooper like that.
He didn’t wonder if he’d be able to catch the scent of her favourite perfume if he dared to walk past her in the lab. He didn’t itch to run his fingers through her hair to see if it really was as soft as it looked on the rare occasions when she wore it down. He most certainly did not remember how she’d looked the night of that Christmas party and think about what might have happened if only he’d . . .
The door to his bedroom slowly creaked open and Sherlock stuffed the scarf between the cushions of his chair.
To head off what would surely be an uncomfortably awkward moment when Molly finally worked up the nerve to come out of the loo, Sherlock tried to busy himself with reorganizing a few rooms in his mind palace. Unfortunately, the moment she made her hesitant way into the sitting room the only thing Sherlock could focus on was Molly.
She was wearing the dressing gown he’d left for her. It was far too big for her, the sleeves seemed to swallow her hands even though she’d obviously made an effort to roll them up. She’d tied the belt around her small waist, but the front gaped open all the same. He could see that she was still wearing the shirt (his shirt) that she’d fallen asleep in.
Considering the load of laundry Mrs Hudson was even now dealing with, Sherlock knew what she was wearing beneath that shirt.
Or, more specifically, what Molly wasn’t wearing.
He was rather surprised that she didn’t hear his sharp exhale as his treacherous mind put all the pieces together and made it very clear that Molly Hooper was only wearing her knickers under his shirt and dressing gown.
Janine had occasionally borrowed his shirts when she stayed the night, and Sherlock had never failed to be mildly irritated by it. The shirts would invariably need to be sent to the dry cleaners before he could wear them again, and it was utterly pointless when she could have just as easily brought something to sleep in when she packed an overnight bag.
Molly in his clothes, however, seemed to set off a completely different reaction in him. Rather than being irritated, something primal seemed to awaken inside him and he ached to go to her. To take her in his arms. To taster her mouth, her skin, her breathy gasps as he slid his hand into her knickers.
To his extreme horror, Sherlock could feel himself growing aroused. As she crept through the room, obviously trying not to disturb him as she looked for her things, he fought to get his erection under control. If she’d taken more than a second to actually look at him instead of her quick glances, she would surely have noticed something strange in his rapid breathing and flushed skin.
Thankfully Molly was distracted easily enough; first with the breakfast Mrs Hudson had left for her and then with the offer of a shower.
Of course, knowing she was in his shower—naked and wet—was another form of torture altogether.
Sherlock hopped up and began to pace the length of the sitting room the moment he heard the water come on. The text from Lestrade asking him to consult on a case had never been more welcome.
If he stayed at Baker Street just long enough to retrieve Molly’s things from Mrs Hudson and put them where Molly was sure to find them (in the bathroom), no one could fault him.
Could they?
It wasn’t as if anyone would know how long he’d stood next to the tub, his hands itching to reach for the shower curtain, the need to join her under the spray an almost physical ache. They wouldn’t know how tempted he’d been to throw away years of intentional celibacy for promise of losing himself in Molly’s arms. In her body.
In her love.
No one would ever suspect because everyone knew that Sherlock Holmes did not think about Molly Hooper like that.
The case had been simple enough a child could have solved it. Sherlock had actually suggested Lestrade consider hiring one rather than relying on the rest of the idiots at the Yard.
Hours after he’d left Molly in his shower, Sherlock reluctantly let himself back into Baker Street. Somehow, he knew she was gone as soon as he stepped foot in his sitting room. Not that he had expected her to stick around, he’d been counting on just the opposite, in fact.
He dropped into his chair and his gaze found the spot where he’d first seen her that morning, tousled and sleepy and fresh from his bed. Almost the same spot where she’d stood that night she’d dressed up in that little black dress.
For him.
Sherlock’s tongue slipped out to wet his suddenly dry lips.
He’d been in no frame of mind to appreciate her efforts at the time, but now . . . Now it was all he could think about.
She’d left her hair down, soft and curling against her bared skin. He hadn’t realized just how small her waist was until he’d looked up to find her large eyes on him. Her lips had been a vivid red. He briefly wondered if it would have stained his mouth if he’d kissed her (really kissed her, not the brief press of his lips against her cheek). Briefly, just a tiny moment before he’d opened his mouth and ruined everything with his callous deductions, she’d turned and he had been gifted a glimpse of her perfect arse.
“Fuck,” Sherlock hissed as his cock twitched at the memory.
How long would it be before he could look at that spot without picturing her looking at him with her hungry expression? Wearing his robe, her breasts caressed by his softest shirt?
He closed his eyes and pictured her under the shower spray, soapy hands gliding over slick skin.
Would she have protested if he’d offered to strip down and join her?
Would she have laughed and splashed him?
Opened her arms and beckoned him into the water like a siren?
Licked her red, red lips as she lowered herself to her knees between his thighs, eyes full of filthy promise when she took him into her mouth.
Sherlock opened his eyes just long enough to make sure he’d closed the door as he worked his zip. By the time he had his erection exposed to the cool air, he was already hard. His hand closed around his cock as the Molly of his mind palace, wearing her little black dress, stood and watched.
As he stroked himself (his touch rougher than usual, urgent), Molly slipped one of the straps of her dress off her shoulder. She coyly bit her lip and nodded toward the other strap, silently asking if he wanted her to continue.
Somehow his free hand found the scarf he’d hidden in the chair, and then he was surrounded by Molly’s scent.
Drops of pre-cum leaked from the head of his cock, making the next stroke of his hand slick and hot.
“What do you need?”
Molly’s voice echoed through his mind. The words were familiar, but her inflection was completely different this time. Husky and seductive. Needy and wanting.
His answer remained the same. “You.”
She smiled, her hands dropped to her thighs and began to pull at the skirt of her dress, slowly raising the hem. Once it was high enough that he could just see a flash of her pale pink knickers, she turned and looked back at him over her shoulder.
“Please, Molly.”
She winked and finished pulling the skirt up, bunching the dark material around her waist so that he could see how her knickers rode low on her hips.
God, he loved her arse. It was something he’d never been able to fully admit to himself before, but now he’d never be able to deny it again.
Sherlock felt his bollocks begin to tighten as he thought of bending Molly over one of the tables in the lab, his fingers digging into her hips as he fucks her hard from behind.
Molly crawling onto his lap; her dress a black puddle on the floor as she rides him.
Molly in his bed. Under him. Over him. Calling out his name as she climaxes.
He barely has enough warning to toss the scarf to the floor and cover the head of his cock with his hand before he comes.
As soon as he’d caught his breath, Sherlock stalked to the bathroom to clean up; angry with himself for giving in to his urges—his impulses—as if he were a hormonal adolescent.
Still, after he’d showered and set the kettle to boil for a much needed cup of tea, Sherlock picked up the scarf and carefully folded it before tucking it behind a stack of books on his desk that Mrs Hudson hadn’t bothered moving in nearly a year.