"How does one politely go about asking a man to pull your hair?"
Molly Hooper had been considering this question for several minutes while cheerfully sanitizing instruments in the autoclave, one mellow night in the St. Bart's morgue. The day had been tedious, filled with paperwork headaches and bodies that presented no interesting challenges. It was on days like this that Molly's imagination wandered and she let fantasies make up for her lack of a sex life.
After the disaster that was Jim Moriarty, Molly was happy to take a break from making emotional connections. Dating a possibly gay criminal mastermind was a great excuse to avoid meeting the "sweet" and boring men that her friends kept offering to set her up with. Molly would rather stay home with Toby and a good book than make small talk with weak men who didn't like to talk about autopsies.
Last week at lunch, her best friend Barb had complained about her husband wanting to spice up their marriage by tying her up while they were having sex. Molly's face lit up and an "Oh, realllly?" slipped out before Molly realized that Barb was not happy about this development. Molly tucked her hair behind her ear, laughed awkwardly, and changed the subject to a fantastically strange boil that she'd seen on a body that day at Bart's.
The main problem with Molly's sex life was that every man paled in comparison to that clever and overwhelming Sherlock Holmes, with his dark poet's curls and hypnotic eyes and perfectly tailored pants. Oh, those pants. One time Sherlock was wearing snug black jeans when he came in to assess a murder victim, and Molly lost all coherent thought, and couldn't remember the patient's cause of death, with the body in front of her. For weeks, Sherlock appeared in Molly's fantasies wearing nothing but those tight jeans.
When Sherlock left lab equipment in disarray, it should have angered her, but Molly took pleasure in helping him clean up. Actually he rarely helped. Sherlock would sit on the stool, peering into the microscope, still as stone, and occasionally inform Molly of which equipment he was done with. He would look up at her expectantly, with those hard mood-ring eyes, and Molly couldn't jump fast enough to dispose or sterilize or fetch whatever he wanted.
Molly did put her foot down when it came to him interfering with autopsies she was currently performing or her own research samples. It thrilled her to serve him in little ways with his cases, though. She loved it when Sherlock told her exactly what she had to do for him, in his clipped, precise way. That was her dirtiest secret. That's what felt really taboo to her.
That she, Dr. Molly Hooper, youngest staff pathologist St. Bart's had ever had, published in several journals, and happy feminist, loved being commanded by him, and wanted nothing so much as to be taken hard by this man whose brilliant mind turned her on more than charming banter from gentlemanly dates.
She wanted to feel those strong musician's fingers threading through her long hair, tugging, as he took her from behind relentlessly, flesh slapping together. Pulling carefully until her scalp tingled and her face flushed, while her hips rocked and begged for more pounding from Sherlock. Looking back at her man, seeing those curls wild, naked chest sweating, his icy eyes almost harsh but completely focused on owning her in that moment. That was her favorite fantasy.
Sometimes Molly would rest her palms on the cool edge of a counter in the lab, and imagine Sherlock coming up behind her late at night, and ordering her to keep her hands where they were.
Him unbuttoning her lab coat and her blouse slowly, spreading them open, pushing her bra material downward, while Molly's nipples grew taut from the sudden cold and tension.
His confident hands stroking the sensitive underside of her breasts, making her beg for a rougher touch, and then seeing the dark pinkness of her nipples sliding tightly between his slim white fingers.
Him completely in control, pinching and stroking her breasts and lightly biting and sucking on her neck, until she's grinding her bum against his hard cock and moaning his name, while holding onto the counter as ordered. Afraid he'll stop, afraid he won't. But oh God, it feels so good…
Molly isn't the least bit ashamed of her fantasies anymore. But she isn't quite sure how to go about making them happen, either.
She looks at the timer on the autoclave and sees that the instruments have finished sterilizing, while she was dreaming and doodling on a memo pad. In bold black ink, she's written "RESEARCH" in large letters and underlined it three times. "Alright, Molly Hooper," she says to herself, breaking the stillness of the morgue.
"Enough dreaming. Time for doing."
Chapter 2 will be up tomorrow!