A/N: Well, my mind is well and truly in the gutter now. Here's the lemon promised by the rating of this fic XD Much Sherlolly smut. I have to say though, I really love writing Sherlock XD
Disclaimer: BBC's Sherlock to Moffat & Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes himself to SACD.
Whirling around the formal dance-floor in a Holmes-sponsored silk dress at Hampstead Ball was not how Molly pictured spending her Friday evening, especially when the partner who had chosen her was the very man that had bought her the dress.
"But it's really not my colour..." She admitted sheepishly, more to the point, it looked horrendously expensive.
"Do you really think I'd make a mistake like this? Besides, you have nothing else in your wardrobe you'd wear for the ball."
She sighed and reluctantly conceded to try it on at least, elated to find the low-backed corset ties span her back delicately, and the material float down to her ankles. She looked elegant.
Molly grinned and looked up at Sherlock, who, as with everything he did, was ensuring he danced with nothing less than perfection.
"I can't believe I nearly turned this down!" She beamed.
"You know I wouldn't have let that happen, though I am glad you kept that dress. It suits your eyes." An almost smile. If Molly had looked over Sherlock's shoulder at that point, a near impossible feat having looked into his eyes, she would have seen John sat with Sarah, smiling knowingly in their direction.
"Thank you for inviting me." Molly said with another smile.
"John recommended it, actually, said I should after the," he coughed, "Moriarty case." Sherlock saw a shadow flit across Molly's eyes, and in an uncharacteristic movement, brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, brushing away imaginary tears. "I'm sorry you had to be involved." Molly was shocked, had he just apologised? Minutes later, the music stopped and Sherlock guided a giggling Molly out onto the balcony of the grand building, the London skyline lit up beyond them.
The next part of Molly's memory is fuzzy, up until the moment when Sherlock's lips met hers. She doesn't dwell on how whatever happened started; instead, she prefers now to savour the feel of Sherlock's hair between her fingers, the press of his hand in the small of her back, and later, the feel of his bare skin against hers.
On that balcony, Sherlock turned her towards him, tipping her chin up lightly on three fingers a chastely kissing her, pulling back with a smile to see her stunned in front of him. He chuckled, a deep, rumbling laugh that shook right through her and then, Molly, the shy girl from Bart's snagged her fingers in Sherlock's dark locks and pulled him back down to her. However, Sherlock was quicker, as always anticipating the next move; he shifted so that one hand was cupping her jaw, the other pressing into the small of her back, pulling her closer as he captured her mouth with his. The kiss was heated, and had they not been very close to public view, it would've been one that could've got carried away with great ease. When Sherlock pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, watching her mouth curl into a content smile, Molly could swear she was dreaming when she heard the next words purred into her ear.
"As much as I love that dress, at this precise moment, the amount your pupils are dilated with lust does somewhat detract from that. This can, however, be remedied at Baker Street." The shocked and slightly confused look that Molly wore prompted a very Sherlockian explanation. "The dress and the lust." That was when Molly Hooper's jaw practically connected with the floor. Sherlock, however, as calm and collected as ever, simply placed a hand in the small of her back and guided her back through the room to John and Sarah.
"I was just telling Molly about our latest case, I think her knowledge may be useful, so I'll be seeing you back at the flat." He gave by way of explanation, and with that, the pair left.
John turned to Sarah, giving up on stifling his fast growing laughter.
"That's his version of 'come and see my etchings', you'll be amused to know!" He spluttered.
As Sherlock and Molly left the building, he quickly and with practised skill hailed a cab, and within a few minutes, they had returned to 221b. The consulting detective unlocked and held open the door, showing Molly up to his and John's flat. As usual, it was an absolute tip, 'experiments' littering every surface in the kitchen, papers scattered over the lounge, skull on the mantelpiece, knife holding unopened correspondence in place.
Molly let out a small giggle as she cast her eyes around the flat.
"I should've known it would be like this!" She chuckled to Sherlock. He flashed her an out of character grin and used his hold on her hand to drag her closer, pressing his other hand to the small of her back before kissing her senseless.
When she mustered the brain-power to move from the detective's warm hold, she blinked at him, dark eyes flitting around them, looking for a door. Sherlock turned her around and pulled her once more in, so her back nestled into his chest, and whilst plotting a line of kisses from her ear to the crook of her neck, guided her to the dark door, beyond which lay his bedroom. All mouse-like attributes long-gone, she pushed the door open to find a similarly tip-like room behind. A low king-sized bed filled most of the space, mirrored wardrobes lining the opposite wall. It was typically Sherlock. A greyscale night-time skyline hung over the ebony cotton bed sheets and a paper-covered dark-wood bedside table, the light atop which was already on. Molly took all of this in in a matter of moments before she found herself pinned to the wall just inside by the taller man, the door swinging shut behind them as he placed a searing kiss upon her lips, gently grasping her bottom lip between his teeth, smiling slightly as she gasped into their kiss, allowing his tongue to duel with hers.
It was need for proper breath that forced them apart a while later, Sherlock's bowtie hanging, undone, around his ruffled collar, shirt unbuttoned half way down, jacket in a crumpled heap on the floor. He had too much liking for Molly's dress to deal with that in such a hurried manner. Instead, he guided her away from the wall, laying kisses from the crook of her neck, over her shoulder and down to where the corset back fastened. There, his nimble fingers loosened each thread until the satin fabric dropped, pooling around her ankles. With a smile he admired his handiwork in the mirrored wardrobe, the morgue assistant standing, flushed with arousal, standing in lacy underwear in front of him. Lake a predator, he prowled around to face her, and with an equally predatory growl, took her mouth again, hand ghosting down her back. He savoured the way she shuddered towards him as his hand drifted over her hip bone and down her thigh where it scraped teasingly, tempting her knickers to ride lower on aforementioned hipbones. Molly Hooper allowed a moan to escape, followed by a breathy "Sherlock" into his mouth as her hands in turn found the remaining buttons of his shirt and worked to do away with the white cotton, memorising the twitches of the muscles she brushed on her way down before he shrugged the shirt away. She traced each panel of his chest, unsurprised at the defined, muscular torso, watching his eyes as defence by cool defence fell away. As she felt both parts of her remaining clothing fell away, she watched as the same eyes as they roamed over new territories.
She lingered when her delicate fingers worked at the flies of his suit trousers and as she noted the hardening below, Molly allowed a soft smile to curl the edges of her mouth, before both trousers and boxers were disposed of. She was determined, however to let him lead from now on – he had initiated this and she wouldn't be the one to ruin it, though it was a relief when he once more kissed her, laying kisses down, down, down, until his tongue flicked at each nipple in turn, earning whimpers from Molly. If she could've seen his eyes at that moment, she would've seen their depths unlike most people had, free and barrier-less. When he dragged her down onto the onyx sheets, his hands were gentle, but his grey-green-blue eyes, in all their new darkness, showed the need her eventually vocalised.
"I wa-no I need you, Molly Hooper." Was the strained growl that told her so, because, as much as Sherlock wanted to savour this first time, indulge in elaborate foreplay first and all that, but the need was making itself painfully known somewhere near his groin. Sherlock was relieved when Molly smiled at him and kissed his collarbone lightly, watching his eyes as he shifted to hold himself above her, tip pressed against her entrance. His first movement was slow, not unsure, but cautious as he watched her face. Her eyes widened briefly accompanied by her mouth forming a small "o". He stopped, filling her entirely.
"Are you ok?" He asked, voice husky.
"Y-yeah, just, been a while." She breathed, wrapping her arms around his neck in encouragement. With a smile, Sherlock moved again, back, biting back a chuckle as he felt her already trying to hold onto him. Forwards, a whimper from Molly. Back. From there, it was all searing heat and blazing passion. Sherlock's teeth scraping across the pulse-point in her neck, hips meeting as Molly started moving with him. A small cry as Sherlock bit down on soft skin, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark, his mark.
They moved faster, rising together, fire coiling in both of them as she moaned his name, sweat mingling between their bodies as he growled hers – a feral proclamation of what John had been trying to tell him: the Sherlock wanted her.
When she fell over the edge, hands clawing at his shoulders, he watched, keeping rhythm as she keened his name, eyes rolling back. He wasn't long to follow, spilling into her before realising ant sort of protection had long been forgotten. Sherlock threw caution to the wind, making a mental note to talk to Molly when he could, having regained conscious thought. He was curled around her, his tall frame enveloping her, his arm over her shoulder, holding her to him. Watching the back of her head produced a fluttering in his stomach and Sherlock's mind went back into its normal hyperactive state. That was three emotions he had felt tonight: happiness (when Molly had appeared on her doorstep wearing The Dress), arousal (need I explain that?) and a third, the strange stomach-flipping, brain-slowing one that took a moment to indentify itself.
"Oh, shit." He whispered, provoking Molly to roll over to face him, a questioning look on her face.
"What? Are you ok?"
"Huh? Yeah, fine. Two things though, firstly, tell me you're on the pill or something?" He was grateful when she nodded. "Secondly, shit, Molls." She smiled at the nickname. "I think I love you."
"Well that would come second, wouldn't it, you heartless sod!" She protested and pressed her hips to his with a sly smile. He growled, hand already at the small of her back, holding her there.
"Should've thought about that before you did it, Molls." He whispered and shifted against her slightly. She wriggled free with a laugh and picked her way to the door.
"I'm all sweaty, can I take a shower?" The look on her face was more sultry than Sherlock thought was possible for her.
"Of course." He smiled a wry smile. "Would you like me to show you where it is?" She nodded coyly. As he rose, he took note of the rumpled bedding, now significantly stained. Apparently black was all well and good until love-making was involved.
A while later, the shower (long gone cold) stopped running and the giggles of Molly and rumbling chuckles of Sherlock would be heard in 221b. Wrapped in a bathrobe each, the couple returned to Sherlock's bedroom, via the kitchen, where making tea somehow involved Molly sat on the counter and extra "mess" that needed cleaning up afterwards, then the lounge where the sofa received some uncalled for abuse. When they had eventually returned to Sherlock's room, John arrived back, greeted by Sherlock's grunts and female cries. He shook his head slowly.
"Now there's something I didn't think I'd need to deal with when I moved in here." He said to himself.