This story was originally intended to be a birthday fic for Nocturnias back in July but I'm terrible and I never finished it. I pulled it out of the trunk this week and finally completed it. The story is set in the universe of Send Me The Thorns/The Sweet Sound, with Sherlock and Molly already established in their D/S relationship and living together.
Molly closed the door of 221B Baker Street after bidding John and his new wife Mary goodnight and a safe trip home.
"Thank you for the lovely birthday dinner, Sherlock. You should cook more often." Molly turned off the overhead lights and joined him on the sofa, snuggling up to his side as he stared at the burning logs in the fireplace, hands steepled in thought.
"Cooking is just chemistry of the boring sort," he replied absently draping an arm around her shoulders. "Though the garlic soufflé presents a minor challenge, it's just a matter of simple timing." His face was unreadable at the moment though she'd grown better at interpreting the subtle pulls of his face in the two years they'd been living together. His sharp profile reflected the light of the flickering flames. Molly wondered if she would ever grow used to his odd beauty, the feline angles of his bones and the pointed shape of his lips. She hoped not.
"Besides, I prefer it when I'm directing the meal and you're serving." The corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and he turned his head to take her in with his shrewd eyes. "Did you like your gift?"
Molly glanced back at the half-open white box on the kitchen table. "It's pretty. Should have you do all my shopping." The dimples in her cheeks deepened. "It covers me from high on the neck to midthigh. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to hide my body."
He frowned. "I wouldn't do that." He paused. "John thought it was not a suitable romantic gift."
Molly playfully poked his belly. "Since when do you care what anyone else thinks?" The jumper was somewhat plain in design and a muted grey color, but the material was soft and perfect for rainy days.
"Gifts are complicated. I've been told before that men understand nothing of women's needs." His eyes were mischievous now as they met hers. He was echoing back her own words at her, and they both knew it.
The week before, they'd had a terrific row over him disappearing immediately after a romantic dinner to chase down a suspected blackmailer. Molly had had a terrible day at Barts, with a carload of teen fatalities, and she had wanted a quiet night at home with him very much.
"You were upset. I disappointed you."
She nodded. "Yes. That's why you napped on the sofa instead of our bed for two days. I was angry. But you caught him and you saved a good family from losing their family business. It was worth it. Though I still say it could have waited until the morning. Not every case requires instant attention. I don't really want to talk about it tonight though. You're here and it's my birthday, and I would like a proper kiss."
She tilted her glowing face up toward him, and he cupped her cheek. Sherlock would never understand how so much love and strength and gentleness could reside in one person, and how he could have earned being on the receiving end of her generosity. There were days when he stumbled again, behaved selfishly or childishly, but she always forgave him. She never turned cold and distant as his parents had become toward each other after years of clashing. After two years of loving Molly, he was beginning to accept that he would really get to keep her, that he wouldn't drive her away by being Sherlock Holmes.
Impatient, Molly tugged him down to her and pressed their mouths together. He accepted her gladly.
"Hmm," she murmured against his mouth. "You taste like garlic, Mr. Holmes."
He smiled and kissed her again. "As do you, Dr. Holmes."
"Well, whose fault is that?" she giggled as he trailed kisses down her neck.
"Valid point. Incidentally, it would be expedient if you took off your knickers now."
Molly rested her chin on her crossed wrists, wiggling into a comfortable position. Her naked breasts and belly pressed into the sofa, lifting her hips up so her groin barely grazed Sherlock, despite being draped across his lap facedown. Her lifted skirt pooled around her waist. A cool palm smoothing across the backs of her thighs stilled Molly's restless motions. She shivered as he dragged his fingertips across the sensitive skin, his nails scraping her slightly.
He spoke as his hands roamed over her bare thighs and up the curve of her bum.
"Do you know, in the U.S. they have a tradition for birthdays- one smack on the arse for every year of life." Sherlock rubbed at the pale skin beneath his fingers, noting how Molly responded, closing her eyes and pressing her bum against his hands. She sighed as he massaged deeper, bringing the blood to the surface gradually until her flesh was light pink. Her forehead dropped to the sofa, her hair spilling around her face. Her voice was muffled and husky as she spoke.
"I've heard that before. Birthday bumps. Funny." She arched as he rubbed her briskly, slipping in soft pats to the warming skin. "Don't think I would've liked it much when I was a younger, but now-" Molly gasped and started as the flat of Sherlock's palm came down on her right arse cheek. The warm-up had left her hypersensitive, and the sharp contact left her skin tingling.
"One." She heard the rumble of his laughter. He swept his fingers lightly over the spot again, and his hand came down again, equally hard, on her left buttock. "Two."
Molly's breathing quickened. "One for every year?" She squirmed on his lap, adjusting her hips until her center was resting on the hardness in his trousers.
"Greedy Molly." Sherlock's tone was harsh, but when she turned her head to look, he was smirking. He slapped her arse again, and delivered a matching blow to the opposite cheek. "Yes, every year."
"That's- ohhh," Molly breathed as another pair of smacks landed on her stinging skin.
"Six," he murmured, his deep voice rougher now. "You were saying?" One long finger tickled the cleft of her arse, the skin still pale and unblotched there. Molly rested her forehead on the sofa, breathing into the fabric. Her heart was beginning to pound, wondering if he would stop at the required number of smacks, or could he be persuaded to do more. Sherlock preferred the crop, and so an over-the-knee, bare-hand spanking was a rare treat.
"I don't know." She laughed breathlessly. "It doesn't matter. Just- more, please."
He answered her with a stiff slap to the soft flesh of the cleft. Molly jumped and yelped. Heat flooded her belly. She unconsciously rocked her pelvis in his lap, and the tension in her belly moved lower.
Sherlock massaged her buttocks, working the muscles underneath back into relaxation. "Seven. I really should have you counting out the strikes but-" He raised his hand and landed three spanks rapidly in succession on her left cheek. "But I'd rather hear you moan than try to form unintelligible syllables. Open," he added impatiently, his hand slipping between her legs.
Molly spread her thighs as far as she could manage in her position. Her face pressed against the sofa, she smiled.
Sherlock trace the edges of her folds, slicking the way with the forming moisture of her body. "A pleasant start, but I think we can go deeper." Disappointingly, he withdrew his hand and pushed her legs back together. Molly chewed on her bottom lip to keep from protesting.
"Some believe that the tradition of North American birthday spankings stems from the desire to remind people they aren't in control of themselves, that their bodies are subject to the whim of those they obey." Sherlock cupped her arse, squeezing it to test the resilience. "I rather like the way your skin reacts to the crop, forming a perfect shape of the leather tongue, but there is something to be said for seeing my handprint on you. Marked raw by my fingers, my Molly." He punctuated his ruminating with a swift slap to each buttock.
"And the sound, the sound of my palm striking you. Do you like it?" he asked, his tone imperious.
"You know I love it." Molly writhed. "Touch me, please."
"Like this?" His palm struck the lower part of each cheek, the bottom edge of the territory he preferred to adhere to. Too low, on the more sensitive thighs, and it would affect her walking the next day at work. He was as precise with her body as he was when he played tunes on his violin. The aim, the angle and the pressure of his fingers was everything.
He worked her bum evenly now, landing softer, fast blows across the skin, increasing the speed until she was bucking on his lap and biting her lips hard.
"How many now?" His hard cock pressed into her navel now, though he was still frustratingly clothed. Molly shifted, trying to move herself up until the bulge would nudge her where she needed it, but he chided her with another swat on the backside. "How many, Molly?"
She fought to remember through the haze of want. "I don't…twenty…two?"
He rubbed the tender pink cheeks of her arse vigorously, the heat of her skin feeling like a burn now. "Correct. You should see how you look." He slipped his hand between her legs again and she opened happily. His fingers easily slid through the soaking wetness. He reached further and teased the bud of her clitoris until she yelped his name and dug her nails viciously into the sofa. "My Molly, my sub, my wife. All of this is mine." He stroked her clit, and reflected on the beauty of her giving while she moaned and pushed back against his hand. "Say it."
"Yours. All yours. Always." She lifted her head and craned her neck around to smile back at her husband. Her brown eyes shone with so much lust and love and happy submission, Sherlock felt something tighten in his chest.
He rewarded her with a round of methodical smacks while keeping his other hand tightly against her clit, letting her grind herself against him while he struck her bottom.
Molly rocked on her elbows, moving her hips and riding his fingers while his other strong hand drove her higher as it landed on her arse. Her body was flushed from head to toe, the hormones from pain and pleasure making her giddy and desperate for more.
Sherlock counted steadily, and stopped at 30. Molly looked up again, dazed.
"Get up," he ordered. She scrambled off his lap. Sherlock stood and stripped off his trousers and shirt so fast a button landed at her feet. Flickering light from the fireplace highlighted the toned planes of his lean body. He bent over and yanked down the skirt that had puddled around her waist, and threw it onto the chair.
Sherlock dropped back onto the sofa and grabbed Molly's hand. "Sit. On me. Now."
"But we're not done," she protested. She straddled his lap and settled onto him, with his erection pressing between her labia. She winced and then writhed as his hands found her bottom and his fingernails dragged across the bright red flesh. "Sherlock."
"No, not quite done, you're correct. Not questioning your dom, are you, girl?" He threaded his fingers into her disheveled hair, tugging on the strands until she wiggled.
"No. Whatever you want."
"That's right." He hauled her tight against his chest and took her mouth forcefully, his tongue slipping between her lips to find her returning the kiss just as decisively. He reached down and shifted his cock so he slid smoothly into her with a thrust.
"Move. Ride," he demanded. With the thorough warm-up, his cock filled her easily, stretching only to the point of pleasure while she rocked on him.
"Three more," she said breathlessly. She pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek to soften the reminder.
"Oh I know." His eyes dropped to focus on her chest and he amused himself with squeezing her breasts and sucking her nipples while he moved within her. As Molly relaxed and fell into a mindless rhythm, she was interrupted with a sudden stinging smack on the arse.
She laughed. "Oh you clever bastard. I do love you." Sherlock kissed her deeply, and she relaxed again in his arms. She worked herself on his cock, nearing orgasm only to feel another smart spank on her bum. This time she growled and dug her nails into his shoulders.
"I need to come, Sherlock," she pled.
"Then come," he said, calmly, raising one eyebrow. He was trying hard to hold onto his dominant composure now, Molly saw. She knew the signs- the way his biceps flexed and his jaw muscles moved when he tried to control his own urge to throw her down and be wild with her.
A bloody caveman inside the genius, she thought in passing, before the building climax stole her mind away.
Molly reached her peak moaning and riding him until a rough cry poured from her throat and spots danced before her eyes. She was only dimly aware of his hand coming down on her arse one last time, while the muscles inside her still rippled.
"Floor," Sherlock managed, his icy eyes blazing.
Molly crawled off his lap and onto the carpet by the fireplace. Dreamy with the rush of oxytocin, she gazed at the fire and sighed happily when she felt Sherlock's hands on her hips. On her hands and knees, she pushed back against him, barely keeping up the punishing rhythm he set. There was rarely any mercy when he took her this way, and she wanted none.
"Molly, Molly," he gasped when he came inside her, and her body dropped low to the floor with the force of his final thrusts. He collapsed atop her, his breath hot on her shoulder.
"Happy birthday," Sherlock said blandly, passing her the cup of tea.
Molly huddled on the sofa, shivering. The drop in her body's natural chemicals after playing usually left her cold for a short while. She thanked him, feeling oddly shy with her husband. There was always a trace of the enigma in him again when he topped her. He would never be entirely knowable, but after two years together, she accepted that.
"Put this on." Sherlock handed her the new grey jumper, with the tags cut off.
"Oh thank you, love." Molly pulled the top on. The sleeves were far too long, coming to rest at her fingertips. The hem of the jumper actually reached her knees.
"You're always cold, afterward." Sherlock settled on the sofa beside her, still naked, and picked up his mobile. He flipped through the messages.
"Yeah, I am," Molly agreed. "You know me, ha." She crossed her arms and nuzzled the soft knit of the jumper. "Wait, is that why you bought me this?"
"It seemed practical." He shrugged, his eyes glued to the mobile. He hesitated. "If you don't like it, I won't take it personally. Return it and-"
"No, no! I love it actually." Molly beamed. "It's perfect."
"Oh." The word held a trace of surprise. She could have sworn she saw a pleased look flash across his face. His thumb moved across the mobile again, and he frowned. "I told Lestrade not to message me tonight. Idiot."
"What's wrong?" Molly sipped her tea and snuggled against her husband.
"Nothing. Something about a head in Kensington Gardens. Doesn't matter. Dull, undoubtedly."
Molly leaned over and skimmed the text message. "Oh dear. I don't think you can ignore this one."
He looked at her cautiously. "Why not?"
"It says two heads in Kensington Gardens." She grinned. "Everyone knows two heads are better than one."
Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling and groaned. Molly burst into laughter, and after a minute, her husband joined her.
"Get dressed," she told him when they both calmed. "Go."
"It's your birthday. And I don't want to sleep on the sofa this week," he said.
"You won't have to," she reassured him. "Blackmailers can wait, heads…are another matter. It's alright."
"I don't like leaving you soon after playing. Sometimes your post-play emotions..." Sherlock's eyes moved to his discarded clothing on the floor.
"My emotions are fine. I'm sleepy now, so I'm going to go to bed." She kissed him on the lips and Sherlock returned the kiss fervently.
"I love you."
"I know." She hopped off the sofa and handed him the armful of clothes from the floor. He donned them quickly and grabbed his coat from the rack. She sat back down. Looping the scarf around his neck, Sherlock hurried over to Molly on the sofa and pulled her back to her feet.
"Almost forgot something." He spun her around and landed one more smack on her bottom. She yelped and laughed. He cradled her face and pressed a soft kiss on her lips. "On top of the total birthday spankings, there's always supposed to be one more, 'to grow on.'"
Molly rubbed her bottom, still hot and sensitive. "And one to grow on. I rather like that. Good luck with your heads, Mister Holmes."
"If it's a decent case, I'll make sure the bodies- well, heads- wind up at Barts." He headed for the door.
"Well that is thoughtful of you." Her dimples appeared, and Sherlock returned her smile before running down the steps.
Though she was joking, Molly realized that she also meant it.
Her husband's version of romance was never quite normal, but then, she had never been interested in normal.