"Did you know it was wrong when you did it?" His cold baritone rose from the place where he nestled between her knees. In the darkness, his precise hands roamed between her legs.
"Yes." She sucked in her breath as he drew his nails across the soft skin of inner thighs.
"And yet you chose to do it again." His voice held traces of both scorn and amusement.
She frowned, and then squirmed as his fingertips ticked the crease where her leg met her hip. "It wasn't a choice. It just…happens."
"One sin is easily forgiven; two is not so simple. Stay still, Molly." In the dimness she saw his pale eyes flash. He edged forward closed to her belly and the white square at his throat seem to grow larger. She curled into her hands into fists, trying to resist the urge to snatch the collar from him.
"I can't control my thoughts. I try, but you know how I feel..."
"Peace and focus can be found through denial of the baser self. You can control your body and you choose not to. You've reclined another ten degrees and widened your legs by five centimeters." He slid his strong hands under her thighs and leaned into her, the fabric of his trousers rough on her legs and belly. His curls brushed her forehead as he bent toward her.
"I'm sorry." She swallowed, and laid her right hand flat against his chest. "Help me."
Molly grabbed his shoulder with her other hand and he clasped her arms tightly to restrain her.
His breath was hot against her lips when he spoke. "Go on. Fight it. Say the words again."
"Wash away," she began and then hesitated.
He shifted away from her body, releasing her arms. "Wash away all my iniquity," he said, pressing on her shoulders until she felt back onto the bed. He knelt between her thighs again, pushing them further apart abruptly.
"Wash away all my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin," she rushed out, sinking her fingers into his dark curls as he bent to kiss the soft mound between her legs.
His tongue moved over her flesh seeking out the secretive places that made her body shake and her toes curl. Her hips rocked with every flick, and she moaned his name over and over like a prayer.
He always looks so good in black, Molly thought, eyeing Sherlock happily as he strode into her morgue one peaceful Saturday evening in October. The clipboard of paperwork in front of her was forgotten by the time he reached her.
With his ghostly pale skin, dark curls and angular features, to her the consulting detective resembled a Renaissance chiaroscuro painting she'd once seen at a museum. The effect was magnified by him being clad in snug black trousers with a matching overcoat in a plainer fabric than he usually wore. The cheap wool scarf draped around his neck was charcoal grey, and the dimming lights of the morgue cast Sherlock's face in shadows. The only real color was in his blue-green eyes which sought her out with purpose.
John Watson hurried through the door after his friend, texting and looking weary. The doctor scratched his head and sighed. "Right, Lestrade says to come by in the morning after they've picked up the suspect, to have a look. Sherlock, can this wait until tomorrow? I've got to be at the clinic in eight hours and I told Mary I'd call her before I turned in."
Sherlock's face brightened as though he hadn't heard his friend say a word. "Molly! Show me the knifing victim from Doonsbury Lane." He added an utterly false smile as an afterthought.
Molly turned her face away to hide a grin. She'd stopped falling for the detective's manipulations ages ago, but she still loved making him work a bit for access to her morgue.
She set down the lengthy report she'd been sorting through, and glanced at the clock. "They just brought him in so he's right at the front. I haven't examined the body so you can't actually touch it yet; the overnight shift will take care of him. It'll just be a sec. I'm off in ten minutes so if you could, um…?" Molly smiled hopefully, and stuffed her hands in her labcoat pockets nervously.
"We'll be out from under your feet in five minutes," John replied with a pointed look at his flatmate. "Nothing changes, eh Molly? Sorry about this."
"It's alright," the pathologist called, pulling on gloves and opening the body drawer. "It's nice to see you two back working together like you were never apart."
Ignoring Molly's chatter, Sherlock pushed past her impatiently and leaned over the unzipped body bag.
"Yeah, a bit surprising how easily it all comes back. Getting chased by murderers and whatnot. Same old, same old," John agreed. "Though I thought after three years of playing dead and us forgiving him, Sherlock might be less of a prick." Molly giggled and the doctor smirked. Sherlock shot an icy glare at his friend and returned to sniffing the corpse's mouth.
"Done." Sherlock straightened up and whipped out his mobile, his brow furrowed and his thumb flying over the keys. As he walked away from the drawer, the thin scarf slid off his neck and landed on the tiled floor. Sherlock spun around, his black coat gaping open at the neck, and Molly saw for the first time what the scarf had been concealing.
"Problem?" Sherlock's left eyebrow rose, his cool gaze skimming over her face and form.
Molly's wide eyes were locked on the stiff strip of white material at Sherlock's throat. The stark paleness of the collar was unmistakable. She saw now that his black shirt wasn't one of his usual finely made ones, but something simpler, more like what a member of the clergy would don. The buttons strained as they did in his usual shirts.
"No," Molly managed in a high-pitched voice, before coughing and trying again. She hoped the rush of heat she felt wasn't visible in her cheeks. "Nope," she said lightly. "The…collar? That's new."
John laughed. "Don't worry, he's not taken any vows. The church wouldn't care to employ someone who ridicules Heaven in front of children. I think." He shrugged carelessly, and Molly was glad to see how relaxed the doctor was in the company of his flatmate.
There had been a tentative strangeness between the two men for a month after Sherlock's return, but apparently John had let go of the lingering resentment. They popped in and out of St. Barts as easily now as they did before Sherlock Holmes was publicly disgraced. The only downside of having his name cleared was that Molly's quiet refuges, the morgue and the laboratory, were once again the playgrounds of a brilliant pain-in-the-arse and his good-natured assistant. His visits were the high point of her day often, but goodness, he made a terrible mess.
Sherlock rolled his head back and his eyes upward in exasperation, exposing his throat again in the process. "We needed to get into the diocese headquarters unnoticed and John had reservations about wearing the disguise. Apparently he'll invade a country but he won't impersonate a 'holy' man," he scoffed.
Molly chewed on her bottom lip, looking everywhere but at Sherlock's neck.
"Got to draw the line somewhere," John said with a wry grin. "Sorry for troubling you, Molly. Thanks very much." As he headed out the door, mobile in hand, she heard him speaking with Mary. Molly hadn't met his girlfriend yet, but Sherlock hadn't been able to come up with a decent insult about her and so Molly knew she must be an extraordinary person.
Summoning up her professionalism, Molly zipped the body bag closed and secured the drawer. Peeling off her gloves and scrubbing her arms down at the sink, she glanced up at Sherlock who still hadn't moved. "Did you need something else..?"
The detective scooped the fallen scarf off the floor and tossed it in the rubbish bin in the corner without looking. He took three steps forward until he was looming over Molly with the barest hint of amusement in the curve of his lips. Without a word, he tipped her chin up with one crooked finger.
Startled, Molly's eyes lifted from her damp hands. She knew she was flushing now. It didn't matter how many years she'd known him, or how well they'd gotten to know each other arranging his 'death' or in his erratic visits, during his three lost years. There was still an aloofness in him that made her stomach do flips and her pulse race. She felt his eyes stripping her to the bone now.
"What?" To avoid his stare, she dropped her eyes lower. Big mistake, she thought. Now her vision was filled with the sight of his chest covered in the tight black shirt, and that damned white collar just below the cords of his neck. Her nails dug into her palms.
His hand fell to his side.
"Good night, Molly Hooper." Sherlock closed his coat, and stepped back. With a crooked smile, he turned around and strolled out of the morgue.
Molly swore loudly.
"And a good evening to you too, Father Holmes," she muttered under her breath. She sighed with relief, and rubbed at her cheeks. Minutes after he left, they still burned.
He entered her flatwithout knocking. That was hardly new. He had picked the locks of her door and crashed on her sofa so many times during the first year of his exile, she'd finally broken down and had a key made for him.
Molly took her hair out of its work ponytail and changed into her comfortable sleeping shirt. She was fixing a cup of tea in the kitchen when she heard the sound of the door closing. Feeling like every fool in a horror film, she found herself calling out, "Hello? Who's there?"
"If I were an intruder, it would be incredibly stupid to give away your position, Molly," Sherlock's smooth voice responded from the living room.
"Oh hush," she replied cheerfully, picking up the mug and padding into the other room. "It's not a killer, it's just you-oh."
Sherlock dropped his coat onto the sofa, and turned on a lamp. He still wore his black clothing and the stiff white collar at his neck. In the soft light, his shrewd eyes were green with flecks of yellow around the center. She fancied she saw hints of red in his dark curls, as well. After a moment, Molly realized she was staring unabashedly, and that her tea was growing cold.
She took a sip.
"So what do you need? I thought you and John were both headed back to Baker Street."
"He is. I know what you want, Molly."
"Sorry, what?" She smiled and tucked one arm under her chest as she drank her tea.
Sherlock crossed the room and plucked the mug from her hands, setting it down on the coffee table. He laid his right hand on her neck, his long fingers draped over her flickering pulse. Molly opened her mouth to speak, but the darkness in his gaze stopped her. Sherlock leaned in and his lips nearly brushed her earlobe as he spoke again.
"Hardly any brown left in your eyes, pupils so dilated. Pulse," he said, stroking her throat. "Pulse elevated, breathing more rapid, you're shifting your weight from one leg to the other. Trying not to meet my eyes. Since when do you bother hiding how much you want me, Molly?"
"I um, I don't. I don't…hide," Molly stuttered out. She cursed herself inwardly. She had gotten so much better at not letting Sherlock turn her into a blushing mess over the last few years. One bloody collar was undoing it all.
"In the bedroom, Molly. Now."
Sherlock flipped the light switch as they passed through the doorway, and the small bedroom fell into darkness. Light from the city poured through the narrow window onto the covers and the tiny end table squeezed between the bed and the wall. Molly stood by the window, arms crossed over her belly, trying to make the butterflies go away. The unnamable tension grew, but she couldn't bring herself to speak and break it.
She looked down several stories, to the bustling street below. It was late, but the neighborhood pubs were still open. Dogwalkers and the occasional beggar dotted the pavement with activity. Goosebumps rose on her skin. Molly rubbed her arms nervously, and glance back at Sherlock.
He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves, his eyes still trained on her. The little square of white at his neck shone in the dimness. Molly had the urge to lick at the skin just above that pure ivory patch.
Sherlock laughed softly, and she got the feeling he knew exactly what she was thinking. She spun around and peered out the window.
"There's that man on the street, the one who does that trick with the shells and the-"
Sherlock's warm body pressed against her back, and she clapped her mouth shut. His arms wrapped around Molly, and then found the hem of her nightshirt. With a sudden yank, the shirt was up around her breasts. She instinctively raised her arms to allow him to lift it over her head. He tossed the shirt backward, into the dark somewhere, and slid his hands around to stroke her belly. Molly smiled and bit her lip as his fingers skimmed over a ticklish patch of skin.
"The window," she began. Even though she knew no one would be able to see her in the shadowy window, she couldn't help cupping and covering herself.
Sherlock's large hands covered hers and pried her fingers away from her flesh.
"They can't see you," he said, in a maddeningly calm voice against her ear. He held her arms tight to her sides. "Down on the street. No one knows what you've been doing or thinking, when you're sitting on the tube with your knees squeezed together tight. Reading. Dreaming. Thinking about me." He released her arms and dipped one hand down the front of her knickers.
A tiny 'oh' slipped from her mouth.
"They don't know you're wishing you were on your knees for me. Especially tonight. Wanting me to tell you just how dirty you are." His voice rumbled in her ear, and she felt his fingers threading the curls between her legs. "I've barely touched you and you're already soaking through your knickers, Molly."
Molly braced herself against the wall, one hand on either side of the window, and let her head drop. Her hair fell forward, creating a curtain to hide her burning cheeks behind. Sherlock's knee nudged between her thighs and her stance widened, letting his hand roam further into her wetness.
"Such a good girl, aren't you, Molly. Well-behaved. Proper. It started when you were in school. A good Catholic girl, bit of a crush on a handsome young priest. All that power and authority and knowledge. And that's what you like, isn't it, Molly." He pressed his fingers firmer against the bundle of nerves hidden in her folds, and rotated slowly, steadily until she whispered his name and bucked against his hardness forming in his trousers.
"Father. More?" He slid his damp hand from her knickers. She sighed as he ghosted over her clit again.
His groin pulled away from her arse, and she heard the sound of a zipper. After a tense moment of waiting, she felt the brush of his cock against her arse.
Molly gripped the edge of the wall harder, and tilted her pelvis, pushing her arse tight against the wet tip of his cock.
He stepped back suddenly and tugged on the waistband of her knickers, drawing them down to her feet and letting her kick them aside. He stood and snaked his arms around her again, cupping her breasts and nuzzling her neck. The coarse fabric of his shirt rubbed against her back and his cock ground against her bare arse, bringing him to full hardness.
"I hope they see you," he murmured in her ear. He tilted his head and nipped at her neck, exploring the sensitive terrain just below her ears. He sank his teeth into the nape and was rewarded with a yelp from Molly. She rocked back into him, uncaring if she could be seen and heard by anyone else.
"That's right. Let them see how much you want to fuck a man of God." He took his cock in hand and slid it between her thighs. Molly reflexively squeezed her legs together to caress him. "Good, very good."
He began to move gently, pumping between her legs and letting her strong thighs stroke him. Bracing her against the wall with one arm, Molly reached down to graze the head of his dick with her palm. His hands dropped to her waist to hold her steady and he pressed his hips harder into her now, his breath coming faster as he fucked. She arched and lifted her arse to give him better access, her belly muscles shaking with effort, and it was the final push he needed. His fingers dug into her hips, and then his come splashed the front of her thighs.
His head dropped to her shoulder and Molly felt him breathing heavily with his chest against her back. He pressed a kiss to her flushed skin, and after a moment he stepped back, leaving her nude and cold in the window.
Molly spun around and jumped away from the glass.
Sherlock smiled, his eyes cold and smug. "Look at you, all sweaty and filthy with my come and loving it. Accept what you are." Her hair was a wild mess, tangled and hanging over her breasts. He grabbed a tissue from the box on the end table and wiped away the small amount of semen left on his groin. "Get on the bed. We're not finished."
"I'm not bad," Molly said defiantly. "I'm not- not dirty." Grabbing the tissue box, she wiped the remains of his come off her thighs and crawled onto the bed. She sat on the edge, her knees closed as ladylike as she could manage.
Sherlock tucked himself back into his trousers and zipped up. He walked around the bed, pushed Molly's knees apart and knelt on the floor between them. Her calves hugged his sides.
His electric blue-green eyes captured hers, and he smiled faintly. "We both know you spend a lot of time thinking about me in here."
Molly looked to the side, and bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a smile. "Maybe a bit."
"Do you come for me every night, think about taking your priest to bed? Do you think about all the filthy things you would do, if you weren't pretending to be good?"
Her cheeks were pink now. "Maybe. Once or twice."
He slid two fingers into her soaking wetness and stroked her clit, engorged and unbearably sensitive. She whimpered and spread her thighs further apart.
"Did you know it was wrong when you did it?"
Thrown back on the bed, Molly pled and groaned and tugged on his hair. His mouth was relentless between her thighs, drawing out guttural moans that embarrassed her with their loudness. He sucked and licked and teased every inch of flesh in his path. He worked her pussy until she began to babble, formless half-words spilling from her mouth as she rose to her peak.
"Need-oh god-Sher-please. Fuck. Just let me." He ignored her pleading and took his time enjoying the salty sex beneath his tongue until her last boundary fell away.
"Oh- Father. Father."
With that, he sat up, wiping his face and grinning in triumph. "Good girl, Molly. Do you want to come for me, now?"
Without a word, Molly scooted back further onto the bed, grabbed his shirt and dragged him with her. She fumbled at his zipper, pulling it down to find him achingly ready for her again. Sherlock hopped off the bed, took off his trousers and reached for his shirt buttons.
"No!" Molly said.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, rejoining her on the bed.
Molly slowly unbuttoned the lower four buttons of his shirt, exposing his lean abdomen and its firm muscles. She stroked the skin of his belly and reached down for his cock, sliding him through her fist until his eyes burned with want. Sherlock made to push her down again but she brushed away his hands.
Instead she switched sides, and shoved him down onto the mattress. Surprised, he landed with a grunt. His dark curls were wild and sticking up and he looked nearly obscene with the black shirt splayed open, only the white collar at his neck keeping it on. Molly straddled his body and planted one hand on his chest to steady herself. She rotated her hips, letting her wetness rub on his cock. The corners of his lips curved up.
"I think I'm…prepared to forgive you." Sherlock caressed her breasts and thumbed her nipples until she shivered.
"I don't need your forgiveness, Father," Molly replied with a happy grin. "I just need you to fuck me hard." She impaled herself on his dick, sliding him into her wetness. His eyes blazed and his hands tightened on her breasts as she rode him hard. The thorough pleasuring with his tongue had readied her, and the torment was finally over. Molly rocked on his lap, letting his thickness move in and out of her at an unforgiving pace. She ground her clit against him as she arched her back and cupped his hands on her body, forcing him to pinch her nipples harder.
With the slow buildup, it wasn't long before her body was quaking, her sex clenching around his cock and squeezing the come out of him.
Molly collapsed on his chest with him still inside her. After a few minutes of gasping and holding each other, she lifted her head. Sherlock's chest moved with quiet laughter and she saw mirth in his eyes, even in the darkness.
"What?" Molly swatted him.
"I do so love discovering your kinks, even by accident." His arm around her tightened.
"And you love indulging them, mister know-it-all. Are you staying tonight?" Molly slid off his chest and tucked herself against his side.
"Three nights in a week without explanation will make him wonder." He paused. "It would be easier to simply text him where I am in case anyone comes by Baker Street with a case. You still don't want him to know?"
"You're getting back to normal with John. I don't want it to get weird again at work when he finds out that you're…that we're…" She considered for a moment, while tracing circles on his chest with her fingertips. "And I sort of like that you're just mine."
"John is a big believer in sex and emotional entanglements. He would approve." He turned his head toward her. The moonlight from the window reflected on the milky white collar at his throat.
"Do you think he will?"
"The jokes about me being married to my work, and you being a pathologist and therefore part of it, they'll grow stale within a day. It would be worth it. But I think you rather like the secret."
Molly shrugged. She rubbed her right thigh muscle, tender from the athletic sex. "Perhaps I do. Can't you deduce my reasoning?"
"After tonight I don't think I have to. You love secrets, and taboos. Won't people be horrified when they find out you're the girlfriend of a sociopath," Sherlock said in a faux-shocked voice. "Yes, you love anything really taboo."
"Alright. Yes. I'm a kinky bird, I admit it. And are you sorry that I am?"
Sherlock pulled her into his arms again and Molly found herself running her thumb over the collar as their mouths moved together. He lifted his head and smiled down at her.
"I'm not sorry one bit."