This was originally written for a prompt at the Sherlock-BBC kink meme on LJ, requesting Sherlock/Molly with a lazy Sherlock letting Molly do all the work. I've done some editing since posting it there. I wrote it without events of S2 in mind. These are decidedly not my characters, I'm just borrowing them for a little fun!
Molly peered at the eerie sight before her. She had processed the body – Mr. Harper - just 36 hours ago, following the harvesting of the man's organs, surprised to find that he was still in ownership of something Sherlock had been looking for: one essentially healthy human heart (inappropriate for donation due to the presence of excess plaques). Said heart was now beating away through the aid of a slight electrical current, treated with some sort of antioxidant bath mounted in a strange apparatus in Sherlock's bedroom. It was like looking at an exhibit in the queerest museum on earth.
Oh yes, in Sherlock's bedroom. She was trying desperately not to be all that interested in that bit. She was focusing on the heart specifically to avoid thinking about that, in fact. She would have expected to be delighted to be there, rather than in her current emotional state of teetering between disgust and awe.
She looked up at Sherlock, who was hovering entirely too close at her shoulder. He was fairly beaming with pride, and she couldn't help but notice how different it looked from the smiles he gave her when he wanted something. His expression was more open, and with more warmth, despite the cat-that-got-the-cream overtones.
"It's fascinating," Molly said finally. "But what does it prove?"
"That there was a reason for the man's blood to continue circulating after his death, thus muddling the time of death information. Someone wanted to keep him warm – like bypass, but they weren't interested in him actually being alive."
"That's – well, it's ghastly, really. But fascinating."
"Isn't it? I thought you'd appreciate it," which Molly took to mean that John had not. Which was hardly surprising, Molly wasn't kidding about it being ghastly. He stepped away from her then, and Molly heard the slight creak of the mattress behind her as he sat down. She almost didn't want to turn around – she was sure she would blush and that was ridiculous. As if she didn't know Sherlock Holmes owned a bed, and periodically spent some time in it.
"Pass me my phone?" Sherlock asked, and Molly noticed it on the dresser. She picked it up and turned to hand it to him, but briefly froze. He wasn't just sitting on the bed, he was sprawled out on it, waiting expectantly. He seemed relaxed, almost undone, as much as Sherlock ever appeared that way to her.
Molly approached the side of the bed and handed the phone into his upturned palm. Sherlock sent a text quickly and Molly waited to be dismissed. Or maybe she was simply supposed to figure out that it was time for her to leave and he was going to just forget that she was standing here at all.
"One question, Molly," Sherlock said, apparently studying her. Molly could not imagine that there was anything left for him to deduce about her. Sherlock had made it clear before that she was an open book, and an easy reader at that.
Molly restrained herself from flinching in anticipation. "What's that?"
"Are these for me?" She gasped as Sherlock's hand stroked along the back of her thigh, brushing over the garter holding up her stocking.
"No!" Molly spat out, stumbling to the side and experiencing a brief vision of horror where she could have landed in the creepy beating heart mess. She blushed crimson as she tried to explain. "I just – Toby wrecked my last pair of proper stockings and I had to wear a skirt – and that's ridiculous, Sherlock, I had no idea I'd even see you today."
Unsettlingly, Sherlock's smile didn't leave his face. "And no one could see them beneath your lab coat anyway."
"Um. No." Molly paused. "Wait. You saw me without my coat earlier. I was coming back from lunch when you got to the lab."
Sherlock had an approving look on his face. "Very good, Molly. I thought it was – a surprising choice on your part."
"They're just – long funny socks, Sherlock," Molly said weakly. It wasn't entirely true, of course. She liked how they made her legs look, she had enjoyed the knowledge of what was under her skirt through her long morning of staff meetings.
"If they were just socks you wouldn't carry yourself differently in them." Something in Sherlock's gaze seemed to darken. "You know very well they are flattering to you. That men have found you attractive while wearing them."
Molly swallowed. "I'm not different around you, now am I?"
"No." Sherlock seemed vaguely disappointed by that. "But you're here, aren't you? When I asked you to come by, you said yes right away. So I don't see how that's relevant, really." Molly wasn't sure what to say to that, and she just felt awkward standing there.
"I should go – " she began, but froze when Sherlock's long fingers brushed down her thigh again.
"Show me," he said calmly, and Molly suddenly wondered if inviting her over to see his strange experiment was the Sherlock Holmes equivalent of inviting her up to see his etchings. Before she could even splutter he continued, "I want to see how they look on you." He eyed her up and down, something in his expression suggesting that he didn't quite believe himself.
"You – want to see my stockings?"
Sherlock tilted his head. "I want to see how Molly Hooper looks when she thinks she can bring a man to his knees."
She took a shaky breath and for some reason, some stupid, irrational reason, she reached for the zip on her pencil skirt, letting it fall with trembling hands. Her heart was pounding and she could feel how much her face was on fire. Sherlock traced along the satiny straps, up over her thigh and pausing just before he reached her bum. He met Molly's eyes and she barely nodded, shivering as he gently squeezed her, his fingers grazing a place Molly couldn't quite believe.
"Does that mean you're getting on your knees?" She said, hating the breathy sound in her voice but congratulating herself on the surprising lack of a stammer.
"Absolutely not." Sherlock actually laughed a little at that, and Molly thought it hurt just a little, considering he was the one groping her. His hand suddenly closed around hers, and she met his eyes, unsure of what she saw there. "But you can show me, if you like. What you can do. What you would do."
Initially she wasn't entirely sure that he could mean what he was saying. It was so awkward, and so strange, and for a moment she was frozen, silent, with only the hiss of Sherlock's experiment in the air behind her. On the other hand awkward and strange was how Sherlock did a lot of things, and he wasn't the sort of man who was going to buy her dinner first. He was far too blunt and honest when he shouldn't be, but when she got down to it, Sherlock was just a man, and Molly knew what to do with a man.
"All right then," Molly whispered, and Sherlock lifted his hand away, watching her. She crawled onto the bed and made quick work of his trousers, tugging them out of her way. She didn't bother pulling them off – he seemed to mean it when he said he wasn't moving and there was something filthy about doing just enough to get the job done right now. She grasped his newly freed cock and stroked the length with her tongue, before circling the head thoughtfully, savoring the taste of him. He groaned and Molly was briefly tempted to just shatter him into a thousand pieces with her mouth. But Sherlock would never reciprocate and the idea of leaving with the knot of desire still tight in her belly stung just a little too much. She guided him into hardness, brushing her hair to the side so he could see her working her mouth over him.
He wasn't quite telling the truth about not moving. He barely shifted his hips but stroked her thigh, fingering the lace of her stockings. Did Sherlock Holmes have a fetish, perhaps? He certainly hadn't expressed the least interest in what she could do for him before, outside of the procurement of very dead things. Then his fingers slid to her sex, just teasing along the lips and dipping ever so slightly inside, and Molly decided to stop thinking about it.
She glanced up at him and smiled to see his face, his eyes dark and his mouth half-open in very un-Sherlock-like pleasure. Quite enough of that, then, or she would definitely be leaving unsatisfied, and she was a little tired of getting nothing back where Sherlock was concerned.
"Rubber?" She asked.
"You're on the pill," Sherlock replied.
"It's a ring, actually, and I still want one." Molly wasn't stupid, even if she'd never seen him with a partner she knew he had some sort of past.
"Bathroom," Sherlock nodded. "John keeps some in there."
John keeps condoms in there and not I keep condoms in there, Molly thought to herself, and maybe if her brain wasn't reduced to the basic functions of survival that would have been something worth asking Sherlock about at some point. Molly padded across the bedroom, feeling the cool floor on her stocking feet. In the privacy of the loo she fiddled with the hardware of the garter belt to take off her pants, because there was no way she was attempting something that graceless in front of Sherlock. She grabbed a condom from the box under the sink – quietly praying that they were actually the right size – and then grabbed a second because her hands were still shaking badly enough that she thought she might tear the first one she opened. With the packets in one hand, she peeled off her blouse as she walked back to the bed, letting the cool air hit her skin. Her bra didn't match the garters, and since it was a front-close and easy enough, she let that fall to the floor, too.
He'd shifted his trousers when she got back, so that they were rumpled at the bottom of the bed, but he still wore his shirt. It was a strange mix, letting the most vulnerable part of him be free while covering up what wasn't even indecent – but then Molly supposed that perhaps for Sherlock, that wasn't where he felt vulnerable at all. She stroked him briskly a few times before slipping the condom over his erection, shifting to straddle him. She teased herself a little, closing her eyes and dragging his cock along her sex once, twice, three times. He was going to feel so good inside her, she just knew it, and leaned on one arm to balance herself as she took hold of him.
"I believe John would point out that I need to be very clear that I don't have any interest in a romantic relationship with you," Sherlock blurted abruptly, and Molly looked up in utter disbelief.
"I believe John would say that you should have pointed it out considerably earlier," Molly replied, and couldn't help smirking a little that he'd bring it up now. "But that's – not a problem. I don't have to be a consulting detective to catch that, Sherlock."
With that she slipped him inside her, just enough to feel that he was really there. She eased down on him slowly and gently, moaning at the jolt of feeling stretched and filled for the first time in a rather long time. Molly bit her lip and began to ride him, first just lightly rocking her hips and grinding against him, then letting her movements become stronger. He really wasn't going to be much help, she realized, and brought her hands to her breasts, stroking and pinching at her nipples. She leaned forward, changing her angle a little, and oh yes, there, that was what she wanted, Sherlock's cock hitting just that spot over and over. Molly started to move faster as she brought her fingers to her swollen clit.
"Oh, fuck," Molly exclaimed with a gasp, and she nearly forgot that Sherlock was there. Her entire world condensed and focused on the ache building between her thighs, the sound of her heart pounding in her ears and the waves of pleasure passing from where their bodies were joined through her entire body. She realized that she had shut her eyes and opened them, briefly stunned by how Sherlock was looking at her, like he'd never seen anything quite like her before, the opposite of every look he'd ever given her. His cheeks were flushed and his breath was ragged, but he still didn't move to meet her thrusts.
"Sherlock?" Molly asked, slowing her pace a little. She wasn't even sure what she was asking.
"Don't – More. Please," Sherlock answered, his voice low and hoarse and pleading. It was all she needed to hear. She gave a little shout as the world seemed to break apart, deep muscles throbbing wildly as she kept riding him. Her thighs burned but he was still hard and she could feel him trembling beneath her, getting close to his own edge. She pulled her hand from her clit when touching herself became painful and leaned further forward, driving her hips in a desperate rhythm until Sherlock gave a strangled, low moan and jerked beneath her. He only moved enough to dig his fingers into her hips at that moment, tipping his head back into the pillows.
As she felt him go soft Molly eased herself off of him and curled up on the bed. She sincerely hoped he didn't expect her to move any time soon because walking was going to be out of the question for at least half an hour. She closed her eyes and felt the bed shift as he got up a few minutes later. She opened them again at the strange sensation of him peeling off her stockings, which she realized were rather damp with sweat. He deftly unfastened the garter belt as well, and pulled the duvet over her naked body. Molly looked up at him, surprised when he leaned in and gently kissed her lips. She laughed softly at the backwardness of the gesture, how out of order it was now, but combed his messy hair with her fingers and let herself enjoy the feeling of warmth towards him when he did it again. She expected him to point her towards her clothes and the door, but instead the hissing and clanking of the lab equipment in the room lulled her towards sleep. Sherlock's fingers trailed along her throat and settled on the side of her neck, and the vague thought drifted through Molly's mind that he was taking her pulse as she fell asleep.
She awoke a few hours later, the bed empty and a note beside her head. New case, the note read, Will need something very fresh to study shoulder torsion. See you at Bart's?
Something about it being a question instead of a command made her smile. Perhaps he wouldn't be alarmed if she told him that she'd be interested in any other experiments he had in mind for the extension of a living heart.