Title: The Perfect Man
Warnings: SPOILERS for "The Reichenbach Fall". And HOLY CRAP... DARK CREEPY FIC. Pseudo-Necrophilia and Non-Con Sexual Contact. You have been warned.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was not Molly's dream man. Until, for one short moment, he was.
Disclaimer: Arthur Conan Doyle, The Grand Moff and Mark Gatiss have a tight hold on these things. And if I'm willing to write this, it's a good thing I'm not allowed within several thousand kilometres of the real deal.
Author's Notes: I hate myself a little bit just for coming up with this idea, let alone writing it. I debated REALLY HARD whether or not to put this up. But I decided I really liked the story. And just to be clear: I was trying to be creepy as hell. I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me.
Sherlock Holmes was Molly Hooper's dream man.
At least, this was the common belief amongst their associates.
It wasn't entirely wrong. Sherlock Holmes was the most gorgeous man Molly had ever met. He was also the most intelligent and fascinating. However, Sherlock had one flaw.
Most would have said Sherlock had nothing but flaws. There was only one that really mattered to Molly, one that took him out of the running for 'dream man'.
Sherlock Holmes flustered Molly so much she could barely talk to him.
Sherlock Holmes stared deep into her, straight down to her soul.
Sherlock Holmes made her feel self-conscious.
But Sherlock couldn't do any of those things right now. Sherlock Holmes was currently lying on her autopsy table, blood on his face. He was still. He was quiet. He wasn't staring at her.
It was only an illusion. The drugs in his system would wear off shortly, bringing him back to the world of the living.
But for now, he was still. He was quiet. The temperature of the morgue made his nude form cool to the touch.
It was unprofessional. She told herself every time she was struck with the urge and she usually managed to suppress it. But this was not an ordinary circumstance. This was Sherlock.
Molly ran her hands over Sherlock's leanly muscled chest. They did not twitch in response and she bit her lower lip.
She was betraying Sherlock's confidence. He had trusted her. He had said he always trusted her.
But then, hadn't he asked so much of her and she asked for nothing in return? Couldn't she have this one thing?
Molly leaned in and pressed her mouth to Sherlock's. He was slack against her caress. Like Snow White. Only, he didn't wake up when she kissed him.
Good. Otherwise she would have to stop.
Molly closed her eyes and let out a moan. Sherlock was like a statue perfectly hewn from marble.
Just as beautiful.
Just as still.
Just as cold.
Molly wanted to feel that cold skin better. She made quick work of her clothing and climbed on top of the autopsy table, straddling Sherlock's form.
In all of the deductions and appraisals and downright cruel assessments, he'd never seen this in her.
Or perhaps he had. He just knew well enough to keep it to himself. Molly somehow doubted it. When had Sherlock kept anything to himself?
But couldn't she tell herself that? That he knew and tacitly approved? Sherlock, of all people, could appreciate the desire to keep distance from normal living people. He had an affinity for dead bodies.
Sherlock Holmes was the most brilliant detective in the world. He saw anything and everything. Yet he still trusted Molly with his beautiful, cold body.
She needed it to be true.
He wouldn't respond to her like a conscious man would have- like a live man would have. Then, wasn't that the whole point? She didn't need him to react. If he had, the spell would have been broken.
She ground herself against him. The friction of the cold flesh against her heated form caused her to throw her head back and let out a moan.
Molly's hands smoothed over Sherlock's chilled skin, revelling in the sensation.
She leaned down and pressed her mouth to his once again, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. His lips were forced open, but there was no reaction. He remained just as he was.
Just as still.
Just as cool.
Just as perfect.
Molly pulled back, panting. She thrilled at the fact his chest did not rise and fall with the activity. She ran a hand over his sharp cheekbone, smearing the congealed blood she'd not yet washed off.
She began to move faster, feeling herself reaching her peak. Her eyes were wide as she stared down at the beautiful, pale body beneath her.
Finally, she was there. The pleasure shot through her body and she squeezed her eyes shut, crying out Sherlock's name to his unhearing ears.
She leaned in and kissed him desperately, silently thanking him for this inadvertent gift.
Reluctantly, she slipped off of him. She dressed herself once again and began to clean him of the blood from his fall and the evidence of her attentions.
The drugs in Sherlock's system wore off not long after and he slipped back into the waking world to no ill effect. He put on the clothing Molly had gotten him from 221B and thanked her coolly for her assistance.
Molly gave him a silent nod and offered him a pack of cigarettes. She thought he might need them, she explained. He accepted them gratefully and seemed impressed by her correct assumption.
Sherlock Holmes was not Molly's dream man. For a brief shining moment, he was. He would be again one day. As Sherlock slipped one of the white sticks into his mouth and lit the end, Molly wondered if she should feel bad about helping to speed along the process.
POST-NOTES: *shudder* I creeped myself out writing this one. I actually started writing it, stopped, deleted everything and then re-wrote it. I was inspired by the BBC's website describing Molly as being "far more comfortable with the dead than the living". Kind of asking for it, in that case.
Yeah... Everyone who's reading "The Full House" is gonna stop now, aren't they? I promise, Molly's TOTALLY normal in that one.