Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. No infringement intended.
For dietplainlite. Here, have some raunchy smut.
She shouldn't have told him. There is an unwritten rule about such frank discussion in their culture, and Molly violated it with gusto.
"We're having quite a lot of sex," she'd told him cheerfully when he'd asked after her fiancé, and Sherlock had frozen momentarily before rapidly changing the subject. Unnecessary information, and he was on a mission. John's stag do. That was his goal, nothing else.
He thought he deleted it, but somehow his brain has retained her words, and now, several months later, here he is, feeling… uncomfortable. Some of his discomfort comes from the fact that he now knows more about anyone's private life than he ever thought necessary, but he's mostly disconcerted by the frequency with which thoughts of Molly-and-the-sex-she's-having spring up, unbidden, in his mind.
Up until their conversation, he'd never really thought about her as a sexual creature. She was just his pathologist at first, and then, astoundingly, his friend. She was never someone who might crave such a base, human compulsion. As he'd grown closer to her, relegating her to his small 'Close Friend' column, he convinced himself that she, like him, was above something as common as sex.
When she told him about the frequency of her encounters with Tom, Sherlock had actually felt a small stab of betrayal. And after his initial, nonplussed response, he lost his certainty over just what it was that made him feel betrayed.
Oddly enough, it doesn't bother him until long after Molly has broken off her engagement with Tom. Perhaps it's because he's had two months of legitimate worries and concerns, and in only now facing some loathsome quiet time. Time to think. Time for intrusive, entirely ridiculous images to fill his head.
He sits in his chair, slouched down, legs stretched out in front of him, a man ready to accomplish something. He is going to delete her comment good and proper. He shuffles her voice saying those words around, isolating them from the rest of the conversation. He finds he likes to recall many of his interactions with her. No need to get rid of the whole day.
"We're having quite a lot of sex." Wide smile. Eyes crinkled with humor. It wasn't some innocent comment. Not that a comment about one's volume of sexual intercourse is ever innocent, but still.
She'd said it get a reaction from Sherlock.
He frowns, pausing in his efforts. What sort of reaction was she hoping for? A chuckle? A sputter? Congratulations?
He mutters, "That's wonderful, Dr. Hooper! I am glad to hear your vagina is frequently invaded by Tom's penis. What a feather in your cap."
Even facetiously, the words actually make him shudder.
Especially because, with the words, come the images.
At first, there isn't much illusory detail. Just Molly. All he can see is her in a dark room, rising and falling. Her shadowed breasts are bare and sway with the movement of her body as she moves over the man that is suddenly under her.
Thankfully, it's not Tom who is occupying her so. Tom, who proved to be a wholly insignificant variable in the grand scheme of things. It's Molly that matters. Molly, on top of some nameless, faceless man, her head bent forward as she rocks and rocks and rocks. Her own face is almost hidden by the curtain of her long hair, but he can make out the dusky shadow of her lashes, the flush on her skin, and the smile on her lips even as she pants with exertion.
Her hips are so strong that she needs some support to keep from moving right off of her lover's hips, so she leans forward a bit with a small whimper at the change of the angle. She flattens one hand to his belly and curves the others around his lower ribs, pressing into him.
Sherlock's hands reach for her hips to anchor her. He notes with satisfaction the little, blanched dips in her skin where the pads of his fingers clutch—
No. That's not right. Not his hands.
He scoffs out loud. Why on earth would he insert himself into this… simulation?
"Move on," he instructs himself.
The reason many people have sex, if not to procreate, is for the physical satisfaction. It would stand to reason that even Molly could be seduced (ha) by le petit mort. The tactile pleasure of sex is great, Sherlock readily admits. Even he sometimes enjoys the release of orgasm.
She is quiet. Even though he needs to be getting rid of the images in his head, he drifts off on a ponderous tangent, wondering what Moly sounds like when she starts to tremble, when her muscles tense and flutter and she comes.
A month ago, she caught a bad cold and lost her voice. Though she'd recovered quickly enough, her voice was husky and low for some time after her illness had passed. Without trying (or really giving his mind permission), Sherlock now has it in his head that she must sound like that as orgasm wracks her body, too. She wouldn't yell or scream. Just a hoarse cry under his mouth and fingers.
And by 'his', Sherlock reminds himself, he means Molly's phantom lover.
As her lips fall open with her quiet cry, her head drops back and heat floods into the apples of her cheeks.
His fingers twitch, wanting to brush over the red blossoming on her face.
He mutters words of encouragement even as the slick heat of her tries to rob him of breath and thought. But when he feels the tightening of her muscles and her body over him, his hands move from her hips to her waist, and his thumb tracing the protrusion of her bottom rib. One of her hands leaves his torso to clutch at his wrist, her nails scrabbling against his skin.
As she tightens around his cock, her muscles pulling his release from him, Sherlock rears up to latch his mouth onto her fluttering pulse, so he can taste the quiet sounds she makes.
He returns to himself, irrationally angry at his brain's inability to follow simple instructions. Frowning down the length of his body at the physical evidence of his failure, Sherlock sighs and pulls himself to his feet. As he makes his way to his bathroom, he tells himself that the timing just isn't right. He'll delete Molly's comment when he can do a mass file erasure and not have to focus just on her words.
He strips his clothes from his skin, noticing the arousal of not just his cock, but of all of his nerve endings. He almost vibrates with it, and he scowls in annoyance as he turns the shower on at its coldest setting. He jumps a bit when the frigid spray reaches his fevered skin, but it's worth for the way his erection flags under the water.
Dispelling Molly from his mind is a triumph as he busies himself with some fingernails for the rest of the day.
The victory proves to be Pyrrhic.
He climbs into bed that night, not really because he's tired so much as he has nothing better to do. A few hours of sleep might benefit him, though, so it's not too grudging a decision.
He settles into his soft sheets—no low thread count for Sherlock Holmes—and closes his eyes, trying to mull his way to sleep. When rest doesn't come to him as quickly as he'd prefer, he rolls over onto his stomach and tries some guided imagery.
A poor choice, it turns out, when one's imagery is behaving like a runaway dog, not easily guided.
He shifts over a bit and presses his face into the warm hollow of Molly's neck. She sighs and weaves her hands into his hair, tugging just past the cusp of gently until he shifts his body to cover hers fully.
Sherlock had never thought much on it before now, just how much bigger than she he is. But as he lowers his torso against her, he marvels at the way his whole body is a bracket around hers. He braces himself on his forearms, lifting his face to look down at her.
She smiles up at him, eyes hooded with arousal and shining with affection. As he watches her, she tickles her fingers down his flank, laughing when he jumps and pushes his hips against hers in reflex.
He can feel his cock harden in eager interest, especially when it brushes against the wetness between Molly's thighs. Grinding against her isn't nearly enough, but she seems happy to linger as she tugs on his hair again, pulling him down to kiss her.
The caresses of their lips are almost drugging. Though the proximity should bother Sherlock, he can't find it in him to care. Her tongue meets his, and his arms curl under her, pulling her even closer.
Eventually, though, he wants more, and Sherlock tries to shuffle his hips to position himself correctly, and Molly chuckles at his futile movements.
"It takes a bit more than that," she whispers as she slithers a hand into the tight press of their bodies.
Sherlock feels his eyes roll back a little when her tiny hand closes around his cock. She palms him, sliding her hand up and down, spreading the pre-ejaculate the leaks out of the slit at the head. Thrusting into her hand and against her belly isn't altogether unpleasant, but he is all too glad when she presses against his shoulder with her free hand, urging him to slide down a bit.
When he complies, she rubs the blunt head of his cock against her swollen clitoris. He hisses as he watches her bite her lip while her breath puffs out from her nose as she starts lifting her hips with each stroke, until she's found a rhythm that seems to work for her.
It's too much, and he finally reaches between them, too. Closing his hand around hers adds more pressure on his erection, but Sherlock merely grunts as he pushes her hand further down. Though her lip is still caught between her small teeth, she grins at him, and follows his lead, tucking the head of his cock into her slick entrance.
He pushes into her slowly, though she is dripping with want for him, easing his way. He pulses his hips shallowly, and Molly's breath catches in anticipation and sensation. When he's fully seated in her, she runs her hand down the length of his back before curling her fingers over the curve of his arse.
Groaning at the pricks of her nails digging in his skin, Sherlock starts moving slowly, feeling her get wetter with each thrust of his cock. His hips find and hold tempo with hers, and the sound of their skin meeting blends with the smells of sex and washing powder and Molly. His face returns to the curve of her neck as they move in their ebbing and flowing dance, and his arms stay wrapped around her.
He can't breath and he doesn't want to.
When they come together, Molly's head digging into the pillow beneath her, Sherlock bruising her with his tight grip, he realizes he's whispered her name like a litany.
It's enough to jerk him back awake.
Sherlock flings himself up from the bed, snarling. The white smear of his come glistens on the crisp sheets, and he catches a glimpse of it as he rubs his sweaty face with both hands. The bed is empty save for Molly's words and their erosion of his mind.
This is the last straw. He's going to delete sex entirely from his mind. There's nothing else for it.
He cleans up, pulls on a dressing gown, and trudges back into the lounge. Flopping down on the settee, Sherlock closes his eyes and tells his saboteur mind to focus.
Instead, he just sees Molly.
"Damn it," he whispers.
He runs into her three days later. The need for a distraction mingling with boredom drive him out of his flat and over to the Barts morgue. Though he'd deny it, he catches himself peering through the viewing bay windows to see if he can spot her.
When she isn't immediately visible, he isn't sure whether he's relieved or disappointed. And then he scolds himself for even wondering and mutters, "Relief. It's relief."
"What's relief?" someone asks behind him.
Sherlock whirls around, silently questioning what cruel machination saw fit to have Molly Hooper show up just as he's telling himself how glad he is not to see her.
A barbed tongue would be handy here, but that might hurt Molly, and that's something he actively avoids these days.
"I—I saw some steam coming from the vent by the body drawers," he lies. "I was concerned but realized there must be a relief valve to keep too much pressure from building in the refrigerant vessels."
She frowns and edges her away around him, pushing him to the side with a hand to his arm. "I don't see anything. We just had a the unit tested last week."
Shuffling away from her hand, which she's left on his elbow, Sherlock gives her a false, bright smile. "Then the valve is doing its job. Good, good."
Molly shrugs. "Guess so. What can I do for you, Sherlock?" She turns to smile sweetly at him and he fights a wince. If she knew what he's been up to in his mind the last three and a half days, she would probably run the other way.
He swallows thickly. "I was hoping for a tongue."
"Whose tongue would you like?"
Yours. On me.
She's wearing a colorful cacophony of a jumper today, and Sherlock wonders what she'll look like as she pulls it over her head at the end of her shift. She always changes into an enormous, unflattering sweatshirt and lounge pants once she returns home from a long shift.
Which then leads his mind to the thought of what she'll look like when he peels her out of those clothes. Or maybe he'll fuck her while she still wearsthe sweatshirt, the soft fabric rubbing against his bare skin as he ruts against her—
Molly jumps. "No what?"
Well, this is embarrassing. He really is losing his mind.
"Sorry. Just thought of something I forgot to do. Tongues. Old tongues. I'm looking at the correlation between aging and degeneration of taste buds."
"Then might I suggest you try the Central American restaurant down the road? La lingua is a specialty there, and would tell you all you need to know about the quality of your taste buds."
She snickers. "Get it? Because the main ingredient in la lingua is cow tongue? Oh, I am a funny bird sometimes."
He glares at her severely but she ignores him until she is content to stop on her own. Even then, the dimple in her cheek keeps making brief appearances.
He could press his lips to it.
No. He couldn't. He wants tongues. Corpse tongues.
His tone is stern, both aloud and to himself. "If you're quite finished, Molly, do you have any elderly, human patients who donated their bodies at the moment? I would appreciate anything that fits that description."
Nodding, though she still is quite amused with herself, Molly finally continues on to the morgue door. "As usual, we have plenty of those. Cremation's so bloody expensive, but Barts covers the cost if you donate your remains first."
Though he is well aware of the teaching hospital's body procurement policy, he manages to make an interested (ish) noise at her explanation. "Excellent. I know you'll need to hack them out of their former owners' mouths, so I'll just pop up to the lab and check my cultures while you do so."
He hurries away, yanking out his phone. Anything not to look back.
Two weeks pass, and now he can only think of her laughing.
Happy and confident, she wraps herself around him like a Molly-bow as he tries to tell her that there are serious matters at hand. This only makes her laugh harder, and she stretches up to kiss his cheek; such a strange, innocent contrast to the fact that they're both naked and wanting and he's trying to haul her back to his bedroom. They've not gotten further than the small bit of open space between the chairs in the lounge.
"Serious matters at hand? Don't you mean in hand?" she asks with an eyebrow waggle as she circles his cock with her hand, giving it a few, friendly strokes.
"Don't make innuendos out of everything," he sniffs.
She grins lecherously and moans theatrically. "Ooh, innuendo. Keep talking, you really know what gets me going."
Sherlock just rolls his eyes and tries to school his expression to match that of a man whose penis isn't currently hard, aching, and being gripped very, very nicely. "Some of us in this room aren't interested in joking around."
"I've always been a good multitasker," she replies, letting go of his erection and unwinding her other arm from around his waist. "Top marks, in fact."
"No hall of education gives marks in multitasking ability."
She laughs as she she drops to her knees in front of him, taking him into her mouth. Her tongue is like a slick inferno, and Sherlock rocks up on his toes, trying desperately not to pump his hips.
Molly makes a disapproving noise and mutters around his erection, "Lower back down. I can hardly reach you as it is." For added punishment, she tickles her fingers behind his knees.
He jerks back with a hysterical giggle.
"That's what I thought," she says with a firm nod before curling her lips around him once more, swirling her tongue around the head and stroking it back and forth across the sensitive underside. And then she laughs lowly, and the vibrations of it travel up his length.
Sherlock moans and wraps his fingers in her hair, trying not to pull too hard even as he looks down at her through half-closed eyes, noticing that the red of her lips is only a little darker than the red blush of his cock. As she takes him in as far as she can, he realizes he's babbling to her. Nothing remotely important; just common, base, filthy words. And when Molly's hand steels down between her legs while she works him, he knows she doesn't mind at all.
A warm tightening in his lower back tells him he's close.
He pushes her away and she does glare. But then she resumes stroking her clit as she stares up at him in challenge, rocking her hips into her hand.
The sight of her makes him dizzy.
Sherlock drops to his knees in front of her, pulling her mouth to his for a wet kiss as he reaches behind her, grabbing a decorative pillow from the chair.
He tosses it to the ground and begins manhandling Molly, directing her backwards and the pushing her down so that her hips and ass rest on the pillow.
Though he does indulge in a brief foray of sucking her off with his mouth, Sherlock stops before she can orgasm. Her frustration is even worth the way she kicks lightly at him in mock anger as he pulls away. He tugs her legs over his, kneeling and bracketing her hips and ass with his thighs. He lets his cock rest on her wet curls as he looks down at her officiously, resting his forearms on her bent knees.
"What?" she asks, the corners of her mouth twitching with gentle, aroused affection.
"I just realized that while you were fellating me—"
"Eugh, Sherlock, don't call it that!" she interjects, throwing a hand over her eyes and giggling.
He sighs, put upon. "I just realized that while you were going down on me, I may have said I was going to give you a good rogering."
Molly guffaws, her belly and breasts shaking as she fights tears of amusement. "Rogering. How piratical. Well come on then, Cappin'. Do hurry up and shiver me timbers."
He can't help but laugh even while he fights to keep his eyes rolling back into his head. She's warm and wet, and he fits perfectly in her.
"I'm going to have rug burn on my bum from this pillow," she says conversationally, and then pauses to hum her appreciation of Sherlock's cock.
"Do you want me to move it?" he pants, digging his fingers into her thighs.
She shakes her head and arches her back. "No, I can already tell this is going to do wonderful, wonderful things. I just was going to say that it's a pity it's a Union Jack flag print, not a Jolly Roger. Would have been fitt—"
He starts thrusting firmly, and Molly's words cut off abruptly.
His eyes blink slowly open and stares at the ceiling of his room.
His cock twitches in agitation, but Sherlock will not stand for a repeated nocturnal emission.
He tries to think about other things; cases, entrails, crap telly, Molly—
Fuck it all.
He collapses back into his pillows, so damn angry with himself but also anticipating.
Just like that, Sherlock gives in. There's not point fighting it, because clearly it's stronger than his mental acuity. And yet he's not had any trouble thinking about other things when he had two cases on last week, so he can't even use the excuse that thoughts of Molly distract him to his detriment.
Looking guiltily around, as if she might appear out of the shadows in his room, he pushes his pajama pants down past his cock, hooking them under his balls.
He could be embarrassed by how soon after he first starts stroking that he comes, but really, it's all Molly Hooper's fault.
The last straw drifts onto the camel's back a week later.
By then, he's doesn't know how many times or how many ways he's had her. Really, it's just melded into one big ball of fictional debauchery. He's not so much lost the will to fight it as realized that he doesn't want to fight it.
So imagine Sherlock's surprise when his mind doesn't take him to one of his rather vivid foreplay scenarios. He spares a moment of regret, because he was rather amused by his decision to make mention of his pulsing "meat dagger of love" to Mind-Molly as a small taunt. Instead, he finds himself in a very different scene.
They're not engaged in sex. In fact, from what he can tell, they finished that nearly a half hour ago. They're just lying in the middle of Molly's bed, quite still, really. Only their chests move regularly with indrawn and exhaled breaths. The bedding is kicked down to the foot of the bed and their clothes are scattered across the floor in fast-wrinkling piles.
None of this is what alarms him, though.
No, what alarms Sherlocks is the fact that he's holding Molly, his fingers periodically running up and down her back, over and over again. And when she sighs and nuzzles his throat, he tilts his chin enough that he can kiss her forehead.
There's nothing lustful about this. This isn't some prelude, or even really a postlude for that matter. Though their skin presses nakedly together, all Sherlock cares about is the fact that he's holding brilliant, wonderful, soft Molly and some, fierce whisper is telling him not to let go.
He aches for it in a sharp, new way. And then realizes where his mind has been trying to lead him in its unique and admittedly depraved way.
"Oh," he whispers. "Molly."
His heart jerks as a rush of neurochemicals flood it, and his brain confirms it.
She opens her door only moments after he taps on it, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
"Sherlock," she greets, "What are you doing here?"
She's wearing her ugly, enormous sweatshirt and lounge sweats, he can't help but notice, and he stares at her until she starts to fidget uncomfortably.
"Can I make you some tea? Get you some body parts? Steep some body parts in tea?" she tries again, desperate to change the already-heavy tone of his visit.
Wordlessly, he shakes his head.
"Are you okay?" She stills and her fingers clench worriedly, and he flinches, knowing there are some things that will take time to rebuild.
His voice is scratchy, and he has to clear it. "Yes, yes I'm fine."
They stand there expectantly for another moment before Molly presses him. "What do you need?"
And the answer is at once to simple and so complicatedly terrifying that it's almost a relief to get it out there, to let it float its way to her ears. And his mind finally calms.
"You, Molly. I need you. Very much."