Disclaimer: All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Grand Moff" Moffat, the BBC, et al. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: Because apparently my Muse doesn't understand that I'm supposed to be working on some original fiction right now, and people kept making a variety of eyes at me over in sherlockbbc_fic on LiveJournal, (and Loo, wherever you are, just...forgive me, 'k?), so here's the story. Oh, and apparently Sherlock's bedroom is at the back of the kitchen. Okay, then...
by Alice Day
Molly shivered a bit in the chilly November air, waiting for someone to answer the door at 221B Baker Street. John had sounded rather upset on the phone - "He's left it in the refrigerator for five weeks, now," the doctor complained. "We had an agreement - four weeks and no more for body parts. And now he has one of his damned post-case headaches which aren't migraines no matter how much he whines about it, and he can't be arsed to move, so could you please, please, I'm begging you and offering any foodstuff or alcohol of your choice, just come over here and collect this damned intestine before I leave the damned thing on his bed? Sorry about the swearing, it's just - arrgh!"
She'd said yes, of course, and collected the necessary items before catching a cab to Westminster and Baker Street. When the door finally creaked open, Molly smelled butter and something baking as Mrs. Hudson peered up at her through the gap, a smudge of flour on one cheek. "Molly!" she exclaimed. "Come in, love, it's a bit parky out there. I know John's waiting for you."
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Molly said, glad that she'd stuffed the biohazard bags and cleaning materials into a Sainsbury's carrier bag before she came over. She liked Sherlock's landlady, and tried to keep the more distasteful details of the detective's assorted experiments from her. "Erm, is Sherlock here, too?"
"Oh, he's up there, but he's not in a fit state for company with one of his sick headaches," the older woman confided. "I could hear the whining all the way down here. I know having something warm and sweet can help, so I told John I'd do a bit of baking - only this once, mind you, I'm not their housekeeper, after all." With a wave, she bustled back towards her door. "Stop in before you leave, dear - I'll have some scones hot and ready for you."
"Oh, lovely, thanks!" Grinning now, Molly went up the stairs to 221B. As usual, the door was open; being polite, she knocked on the frame. "Um, hello? John?"
John came around the corner, looking more than a little strained. "Oh, thank God you're here," he said, grabbing one of her hands. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss it. "I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this, Molly."
"It's not a problem," she said, glancing around the flat. Crammed full of books, papers and other detritus as usual, the one thing it lacked was a tall, dark-haired detective in his usual position on the sofa. "Er, how's Sherlock's migraine-"
"John!" The pathetic baritone whine drifted from the rear of the kitchen. "I need caffeine! And chocolate!"
John shuddered, dropping her hand. "Look, we're out of anything edible, I just gave him the last of the aspirin, and I'm dying for a cuppa," he said. "Would you mind keeping an eye on him while I run up to Tesco? I've never seen him this whingy before-"
"Oh, Christ," the little blond doctor muttered. "Just - I'll be back."
Grabbing his coat before she could answer, he rushed down the stairs, slamming the front door behind him. Alone, Molly sighed and went into the kitchen, trying to avoid the lab glassware and sticky-looking purple puddle on the kitchen table. She opened the refrigerator door - yes, there was Mr. Davenport's large intestine, now a rather unattractive shade of grey-green, curled up inside a lidded storage bowl. Grimacing, she reached into the carrier bag for her items, when she heard a soft groan from behind the door next to the refrigerator.
Well, now I know where he sleeps. She moved to the door, resting a hand on the frame. "Sherlock?"
The groan was louder this time. Biting her lip, she tested the door handle. Unlocked.
Her uncle Richard used to get migraines, had to spend the day in a dark bedroom with a towel thrown over his eyes, and no one was allowed to bother him until he staggered out, pale and red-eyed from the pain. But John said these weren't proper migraines, more of a stress reaction to spending days awake on a case. I suppose I could just open the door and check.
The handle twisted in her hand, and she pushed open the door. The bedroom was mostly dark, a dim glow from the street filtering through the drawn curtains and throwing the furniture and other things along the walls into shadow. A double bed was against the far wall; on it was Sherlock, curled on his side and dressed in what looked like an old blue t-shirt and striped pyjama bottoms.
He tilted his head up, glaring into what had to be a blaze of light to him. "John!" he croaked. "Light hurts!"
"Oh, sorry!" She slipped inside and shut the door. The room went back to its comfortable dimness. "It's me, Sherlock - Molly. John went up to Tesco to get some food."
The curly head dropped back on the pillow with a thump worthy of an opera diva. "Moll. Y' can't have t' intestine - need it," he slurred.
"Oh. Well, I'll just leave it, then." John wasn't going to be happy about it, she knew, but she wasn't about to argue with Sherlock, especially not now. She moved to the foot of the bed, resting her hands on the dusty wood. "I'm sorry your head hurts. Is - is there anything I can do?"
A bloodshot grey eye cracked open, rolling wildly before settling on her. "Stroke 't."
She swallowed hard. "Pardon?"
"Mummy. Stroked m' hair. John won't do it - said it was inappropriate. Bastard." It was said so bluntly, no embarrassment at all.
And suddenly Molly understood the frantic undertone of John's call, begging her to come over tonight. "Would-" Her throat clicked dryly, and she tried again. "Would you like me to? Do that, I mean?"
His head raised long enough for a single bleary stare that said you idiot as clearly as words. "Said so."
"Oh. Um, all right." Shuffling along the carpet so as to avoid tripping over whatever could be lurking on his floor, she sat on the edge of the bed.
Grateful for the darkness that hid her nervous grin, she toed off her shoes and swung her legs up onto the bed, shifting over until her hip just nudged his head. She reached out and ran her fingers carefully over his crown, feeling the soft curls that were damp now with sweat.
He turned his head blindly under her hand, pushing his forehead into her palm like a cat. "There," he grunted.
"Oh. sorry." She refocused her attention on his forehead and temples, carefully applying pressure to the scalp as she stroked. It's almost like stroking Toby, if Toby was a tall, cranky, gorgeous man.
With a huffing noise he wriggled the upper part of his body into her lap, and she wound her left arm around him for support. On the one hand, it did make stroking his head much easier. On the other hand...Sherlock Holmes was cradled in her arms, head practically resting on her br- her chest. "Sherlock-"
"Um." She obeyed, maintaining a gentle pressure as she stroked, occasionally running her fingers over his crown to the nape of his neck and massaging there. She could feel his breath through the fabric of her blouse, warm little puffs tingling across the curve of one breast. It felt...nice.
Well, to be honest, it felt more than nice.
"Why don't they ever just look?" he mumbled. "Even th'r tiny brains should be capable of that. John's getting better, but sometimes he's so pigheaded, I swear he does it on purpose just to make me angry. And Lestrade's not much better, although he's head 'n' shoulders above th'se troglodytes at 't Yard, Why can't they just look? It's all there if y' bother to look, I don't ask for much, God, I wish it would all stop, my head, stop it hurting."
She pulled her legs up, letting him rest against them to take some of the strain off her arms. The vibration of his voice and the heat of his breath were directly against her breast, now. He shifted slightly, burrowing into the soft flesh there, and she gasped a little at the sensation.
"It hurts, Molly." It was a soft whine, the sound of pain.
"I know," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
"Make it stop."
"Make it stop." And now he was nuzzling her breast. It was more like a nursing infant than a man with a lover, but her breath hitched as the pressure of his mouth made her nipple harden. "Molly."
She stifled a squeak as he took her covered nipple into her mouth and sucked once, hard. The burst of heat and wetness seemed to go straight to her head, then ricochet between her legs. "S-sherlock, what are you-"
"Pressure change. In m' head," he mumbled. "Helps. Open y'r blouse."
A sigh, hot against her sensitized skin. "Washing powder - tastes foul. Open y'r blouse."
Is he - does he really - oh, my God. She stared down at his pale face, eyes closed, mouth working over her right breast. Do I - want him to?
Oh, God yes.
With trembling fingers, she eased a button through its hole, then another one, and another. The fabric fell open, revealing - yes, a plain white bra. Well, thank goodness it has a front clasp at least, she thought, almost hysterical at the thought of what she was about to do.
The clasp unhooked with a soft click and she peeled down the bra cup, feeling herself flush in the dark as her breast was exposed. There was a soft puff of warm breath that made her shiver, and then a sigh as his lips closed around her nipple. The tip of his tongue brushed across it once, causing her to gasp, and then he began to suck gently, his cheeks hollowing as he drew more and more of the areola into his mouth. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her closer as he nursed.
Molly let her head drop back, closing her eyes as she bit back a whimper. It felt hot and wet and sweet, and the occasional sweep of his tongue around her nipple, over it - God, yes. She could feel the dampness between her thighs already, and she focused on the slow pulsing sensation of Sherlock's mouth, the occasional soft scrape of teeth, the swipe of a velvet tongue.
Enjoy it while you can.
This wasn't going to go any farther; some horribly logical part of her mind already knew that. Sherlock would take what he needed, bizarre as it was, and then ignore her until he needed something else, as usual. So...she was perfectly entitled to do a little taking of her own. No touching, though. Much as she wanted to run her hands over more than his head, she was sure doing anything else would break the spell and wind up with her stumbling out of his bedroom, breast hanging out while he shouted at her.
But she could imagine anything she liked in the privacy of her own head, couldn't she? Such as what it would feel like to have that soft, soft mouth somewhere else on her body? Kissing her neck, sucking there while his tongue licked a swirl on her skin. Mouthing the curve of her ear, exploring the shell-like ridge down to her earlobe, nibbling it, then a harder nip. Kissing along the line of her jaw until he reached her mouth, opening it with his lips and tongue, pressing kiss after delicious kiss into her mouth, tongues working together in a hot wet slide, oh yes.
Breasts, she already knew - down her breastbone to her belly, then. His lips working across her abdomen, tongue stopping to dip in her navel, running along her hipbones. Nuzzling the tender skin between her iliac crests, the dark gossamer hair there, before continuing down.
His mouth moving between her legs, those long fingers ever so carefully opening her, spreading the soft, slick edges wide so that he could lick between them. She could feel it, the way he'd suck on the tender little bud of flesh, lapping at it over and over again, making her squirm against his mouth. Fingers slipping into her now, twisting just right, searching until they found a spot that made white spots dance behind her tightly closed lids. And then they would rub there, no hurry at all, a slow delicious friction in time with his tongue, making her ache with arousal until she wanted to scream-
She came with a shudder, hips rocking and mouth clamped tightly over the noises she so desperately wanted to make. In her arms, Sherlock made a muffled noise and the suction increased for a second. The white spots were now joined by red and black, and she let herself keen, just once.
Yes. Yes, love, yes.
Trembling with the soft aftershocks, she tried to remember how to breathe again. His mouth went slack around her nipple and he sighed. "Better," he mumbled.
Me, too. She bent over just enough to kiss Sherlock's hair, stroking it back from his forehead. "Good," she whispered, easing down into the pillows. "Sleep now."
Lulled by the quiet and the warm weight at her breast, Molly drifted off, content.
John came up the stairs, carrier bags in both hands, and saw Molly's jacket still slung over the arm of the couch. Sherlock hasn't kicked her out, then. Well, he's not moaning or shouting, so it must be all right. He detoured to the kitchen, putting the beans and other tinned goods away before opening the refrigerator door.
The intestines still sat on the lower shelf, gently rotting. Sighing, he found a spot for the milk and shut the door, then stepped to Sherlock's bedroom door and eased it open.
His eyes adjusted to the shapes in the dim light, and he blinked. Molly slumped against the headboard of Sherlock's bed, her blouse and bra half-open as she dozed, while Sherlock sprawled contently in Molly's lap, curly head at her breast. Suddenly, John understood what had happened.
With no little sense of relief, the doctor closed the door and tiptoed to the sitting room, settling down at his laptop. Thank God she came over - last time it looked like I'd been sexually molested by a ravenous Dyson...