Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, Sherlock and Molly would have lots of really hot sex. And even more scenes together. Alas, I don't. But I'm still holding out hope for the sex.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is Molly Hooper's greatest tragedy. During and after the Fall.
AN at the bottom. Reviews are always so greatly appreciated. They are my life. You guys are awesome. I love you all. Hope you enjoy! Warning, it's a little dark and a little heartbreaking. Some dubious things going on. I seriously have no idea how what I planned morphed into this. Ye be warned.
Only if for a Night
And the only solution was to stand and fight
And my body was loose and I was set alight
But she came over me like some holy rite
And although I was burning, you're the only light
Only if for a night
Florence and the Machine – Only if for a night
The first time she has sex with Sherlock Holmes, it's after the Fall goes according to plan. It's late at night, when she finally stumbles into her flat with a dead (but not really dead) Consulting Detective. She's exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally but for some reason she can't shut down. She can't take her mind off of what just happened. She can't help but see John's face and his utterly destroyed faith in the world that he was just starting to get back into.
It's adrenaline, she thinks, it's just the adrenaline. And oh God, is it ever the adrenaline. It's coursing through her veins in a way that she didn't think was possible. She feels high. She feels like fucking Superwoman. They just pulled off, what has to be the greatest plan in history and Molly Hooper is excited and utterly terrified. Her heart is beating fast and it feels like all her senses are heightened.
If she feels like this, she wonders how Sherlock feels. She wonders how fast his heart is beating and she wonders if breathing is difficult for him too.
She collapses on the sofa next to him, probably a little too close for his comfort, but Molly doesn't care. Molly just helped him fake his death. All she wants to do is sit next to him and feel his body heat, just to assure herself that yes, this really did work and no, he's not really dead. It's all just an elaborate game (she's always hated games.)
She toes off her shoes and shrugs off her jacket. It's freezing outside but she feels hot. She feels like her body is on fire.
She feels emboldened. Which is why she kisses him (this will prove to be her first and biggest mistake.) She only meant for it to be a little peck, just on the lips, so she can say that she knows what Sherlock Holmes' lips feel like. She pulls back and stares at him. His eyes have widened just a fraction, bright blue stark against his dark clothing and pale skin. (He's heart achingly beautiful and so completely out of her league.)
She laughs quietly, "I'm sorry, I just…I couldn't help…everything is just…" she's stumbling through her words until she doesn't talk anymore because his hand slides underneath her skirt and rests on her thigh. Her legs are cold but his hand is burning hot.
And then everything happens fast. Too fast. She's straddling his legs, her core pressed against the his bulging cock through his trousers and she's kissing him desperately, running her hands through his curls, tugging them and pulling at them, just to make sure he's there. That this is really happening.
(Molly doesn't kid herself; she knows this is a one off. It won't happen again and she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry until she vomits.)
She's embarrassingly wet already but he doesn't comment on it when he slips his fingers inside of her. Instead, he pumps steadily and she pumps her hips in accordance. She's making little breathy noises that turn into moans because, really? Really? His fingers are magic.
She's desperate and needy and he doesn't say anything, he just stares at her as if he's never seen her before. She clutches his shoulders, her blunt nails digging through his shirt and she comes undone on his fingers. He pulls them out and without hesitation licks them clean. It's single handedly the most erotic thing she's ever seen and it makes her want him so much more.
She's unzipping his pants and silently begging and praying that he doesn't stop her, because she can't, she couldn't take it if he rejected her now. He's still not saying anything and still staring at her with his intense blue eyes that make her feel like she's being stripped bare, even though they're both fully clothed. He raises his hips and she pulls his trousers and boxers down.
He's magnificent. Really really magnificent. She grips him in his hand and his hips thrust instinctually. His cock twitches in her hand and hardens even more. His fingers are under her skirt again and pushing aside her underwear. She belatedly thinks about a condom but she doesn't want to get up and there is a feeling in the pit of her stomach that if she doesn't have him now, she never will and this doesn't seem to be an option for her. She places her forehead against his, "I'm on the pill. Sherlock, I'm on the pill."
He still says nothing (she wants him to say something, anything, she just needs to hear his voice) but grabs her hips and guides her onto him. She's always liked being on top, but being on top of Sherlock is akin to setting her aflame and she burns so well, she finds. She squeezes her thighs and his hips thrust into her. His shirt is still buttoned, her skirt is pulled up around her waist and she's having sex with Sherlock Holmes.
She looks down at him and studies his face, committing him to memory. He'll be gone in a few hours for God knows how long and she'll probably never see him again. This, will never happen again and Molly's heart constricts with that knowledge.
His eyes are wild and when she removes her hands from his shoulders to place them on his chest, she can feel his heart conducting a concerto inside of him. She wants to know what he's thinking. She wants to know what he's feeling. She wants to know everything there is about this man, but she never will and that is her tragedy.
She leans closer to his face, their hips still moving in perfect synchronization (she pushes, he pulls, she gives, he takes, it's how it's always been), her lips are hovering above his, not kissing but close enough to share a breath. "Sherlock." She whimpers. She can feel herself building and she's going to fall apart. She's aware that his thrusts are more sporadic (desperate, almost) "Sherlock, please…" Please what Molly? Please what? And then she almost sobs with relief as he thrusts and she falls apart.
His hands are on her waist and they're gripping her tightly (tight enough to leave bruises) and three thrusts later, his eyes widen, his mouth forming a perfect O and he lets out a low groan.
Her mouth is still hovering over his, still sharing the same breath. "Molly." He breathes out, his voice labored. "Molly." She looks at him, body trembling and then he says the one thing that shatters her already fragile heart. "It's the adrenaline. It's the adrenaline." He repeats it like it's some sort of prayer.
She smiles (it's fake. She knows it's fake. He knows it's fake) "of course. Of course." Then she kisses him and laughs against his lips until she's sobbing.
(She'll never tell anyone, but she's almost certain that not all those tears are hers.)
She removes herself from him, rights her underwear and smoothes out her skirt. He pulls up his boxers and trousers and zips them up. The smell of sex still lingers but neither of them mentions it. Instead, she watches as his phone vibrates and he looks at it. Then he stands up and looks at her. He doesn't say anything.
She opens her mouth to say something but he's opening the window and climbing out of it.
He doesn't say goodbye.
She doesn't say what she wanted to say. (What she's always wanted to say.)
(I love you. Be safe. Please, please, come back. To me.)
Instead, she gets up, avoids looking at the sofa, strips off her clothes and gets into the shower.
She cries in the shower. Gut-wrenching sobs that probably even her neighbors hear. She doesn't care. Her heart is breaking.
(It's always breaking.)
He comes to her a little over three months later.
It's late and she's just got home from a long shift and an even longer night out with some of her friends. She's trying to get on with her life (she's trying to forget about the bruises long gone on her hips and the feeling of him inside of her) and she's almost succeeded. She has a date the next night with a nice man named Andrew. He's just a little bit taller than her with blonde hair, brown eyes and dimples. He's a curator for the London Museum and he's nice. He's attentive. He's everything Sherlock isn't.
Her flat is dark and she doesn't even bother turning on the lights. She toes off her heels, throws her jacket over the sofa (she's taken to sitting on the chair) and unzips her dress while making her way down the hall to her bedroom. She's slipping out of her dress, when she turns on the light to her room.
She lets out a shriek when she sees the man sitting on the edge of her bed.
He looks worse for wear. He's thinner than when she saw him last. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced. He's bleeding from cuts that thankfully don't look deep but still bleeding and she can see bruises on his body. She wonders what he's done. Who he's killed in the time that he's been gone.
He's staring at her (just like he did all those months ago) "I require medical attention." He says, his baritone sounding more tired than she remembers ever hearing it.
She nods, grabs an oversized shirt from the floor and slips it on. She grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers (she shivers, remembering those fingers undoing her) and pulls him into the kitchen. She puts him on a chair and grabs her first aid kit. She patches him up as best as she can.
Her heart is beating loudly against her chest and she can feel her stomach tighten. She wants him. Even after everything, she still wants him. Needs him. Loves him. God help her, she will never ever stop loving this man.
(She needs to get away from him. She needs to not be around him because she knows that she will do something.)
"I'm just…you can stay…the sofa," at this she blushes furiously, "I'm going to sleep." She still stutters and stammers around him. It's good to know some things never change, she thinks as she leaves him on the kitchen chair and makes her way towards her bedroom. She closes the door and slides underneath her covers.
Not even five minutes later, she hears her bedroom door open. Her heart lurches as light suddenly fills the room from when he switched the light back on, she hears his footsteps and she feels the cool air hit her body as he lifts the covers and slides in next to her. Without pausing, he wraps an arm around her waist and pushes her onto her back.
She can see him so clearly in the light. It unnerves her.
He hovers over her, her covers covering them but Molly can feel him. He tugs at the hem of her shirt and she doesn't stop him when he pulls it over her head. She doesn't stop him from unclasping her bra and she most certainly doesn't protest when he slips her underwear over her thighs, down her legs and through her feet, tossing the garments to the ground.
He's still fully clothed but he places his hands on either side of her head, blue eyes boring into her brown ones. "Sherlock…" she starts and then cuts off as his mouth places hesitant open mouthed kisses along her jaw, collarbone and breasts. His teeth pull at her right nipple and she arches her back, gasping, hands flying to his hair. Oh God. She wants this. She needs this.
She needs him.
He's unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his trousers as he continues to place kisses over her body. If this were any other man, she would think that he's worshipping her body. But this is Sherlock and she never knows what he's thinking.
His head is in between her legs and he's reduced her to a withering mess with his tongue. She doesn't bother holding back her moans, her hands gripping her bed sheets tightly. He slides up her body and swallows her sudden cry as he enters her with one thrust. He's much more intense than the first time. His thrusts much harder. "Molly." He growls in her ear. "Break it off."
"Wha…?" She's not even able to finish the word.
"Your date." He spits out the word and grounds into her harder. "Break. It. Off." Every word is reinforced with a deeper thrust and she mewls. "No one else. No one else."
Andrew, she thinks wildly, he's talking about Andrew. How did he even…?
He stops and she protests, she arches her back and claws at his back, desperate to get him to move. "No one else, Molly." His fingers slide across her stomach and to her clit.
She almost sobs with pleasure. "No one else." She agrees hoarsely. "God, Sherlock, there's never been anyone else. Only you. Only ever you." She shuts her eyes when he begins to move again.
"Look at me. Molly, look at me." Her eyes snap open and he's staring at her, blue eyes wide and intense and desperate. She's never seen him like this. It terrifies her. It excites her. "Me, Molly. Me. Mine."
She explodes as soon as he says mine, him following shortly after.
(She remembers vaguely thinking that he's using her. Using and abusing her. And she'll let him because Sherlock Holmes is Molly Hooper's greatest tragedy.)
Sherlock is gone when she wakes up.
She breaks off her date with Andrew.
Sherlock comes to see her once a month.
It's halfway into the second year of his disappearance that she tells him she can't do this-whatever this is-anymore.
"I can't." She blubbers, "Sherlock, I can't. I love you and you don't love me. You can never love me and that's not okay with me anymore. You're killing me. I'm not strong enough. I miss you. I need you but please…please, don't."
He's staring at her like she's some sort of foreign alien and she's sobbing. Her eyes puffy and red, tears staining her cheeks.
She really can't do this anymore. It hurts too much. Every time she wakes up and he's gone, it kills her and she won't…she can't…not anymore.
"You are my only contact." He tells her. His voice is laced with a vulnerability that she's never heard before and that makes her feel worse than she's feeling now. He's making his way towards her and she's immobile. She can't move. "Molly…"
She lets out a sob and he places a kiss on the side of her neck, then the other side and both her cheeks. He nibbles on her bottom lip and she grips his biceps.
"Would you send me away?"
No, she thinks hopelessly.
It's different that night. They don't just have sex once but over and over, throughout the night until Molly's voice is hoarse and until Sherlock loses his sense of self. It's sometimes hard and fast and it's sometimes slow and languid, both of them taking their time.
Their last time that night is in her bed and they're both spent but he's still inside of her and she's already drifting off to sleep, "it was never my intention to hurt you." He tells her quietly, so quietly, she thinks she imagines it, "I am sorry Molly."
The next morning, he's still gone.
He doesn't come back the next month or the month after that.
Or the month after that.
She sobs until one of her neighbors practically breaks down her door in concern.
Then six months later she sees him on the news.
She remembers what she wanted to tell him the first time he left, after the first time they had sex (I love you. Be safe. Please, please, come back. To me.)
He never comes to see her.
Sherlock Holmes is still her greatest tragedy.
She enters her flat with traitorous tears streaming down her cheeks.
He came to the lab today with John and Lestrade. The three of them acting like they did before the Fall.
Sherlock doesn't say anything to her that doesn't pertain to the case or how awful she looks.
John reprimands him and Molly goes stock-still. She can feel the blood drain from her face and suddenly she's dizzy and she has the urge to vomit. Her heart is beating and breaking at the same time. She takes off her gloves, gives Lestrade a small smile, grabs her jacket and bag and then leaves. She calls Mike on her way out, pleading and begging for a half day. She can't do it, she tells him, not now. It's too soon and oh God, she can't take it. Please, Mike. Please.
Mike doesn't know what she's blathering on about, just that she's hysterical and he tells her to take time off. It's okay, Molly. It's okay. Everything will be okay.
Somehow, it doesn't surprise her that Sherlock is in her bedroom when she walks through, clothes falling off and ready to fall into bed. "Don't you have a case?" she asks tiredly. She gives up. He wins. Whatever fucked up elaborate game (she's always hated games) he's playing, he wins.
Molly doesn't want to play. She always loses.
"Solved. It was the uncle." His eyes follow her as she slips on an oversized shirt, she remembers it's the same one he stripped her of that one night.
She slips underneath her covers and turns so her back is facing him.
"I have hurt you."
She laughs and it's harsh and bitter and she can feel him wince. "You always hurt me. Every time. Always." She hears rustling and he climbs underneath her covers with her.
"It was never my intention." He tells her quietly, pressing a small kiss to her neck. "You have…been instrumental in my success."
She snorts and then twists around so that she's facing him. "How?" She asks, "do I give you some sort of sexual outlet? Put all your frustrations and sadness on Molly Hooper who loves you so much is fucking hurts, she'll make it better. She'll fuck you without question." Everything is coming together and falling apart. She cannot hold this in anymore. She feels like she's dying. He's killing her. "I helped you fake your death. That's it. I've fucked you when you couldn't fuck anyone else." She's never cursed this much in her life.
His mouth hovers over hers, reminiscent to all those years ago. "You saved me, Molly Hooper." It's a confession. A quiet one. One that he will most likely never repeat.
"I'm tired." She tells him. And she is, she really truly is.
He says nothing, just places his forehead against hers and she closes her eyes, hands placed on his chest. His heart is conducting a concerto underneath her fingertips.
Against her better judgment, she falls asleep like this.
When she wakes up, it's dark and Sherlock is still there, staring at her with bright blue eyes.
Sherlock Holmes is still her greatest tragedy but maybe…just maybe, she's something similar to him.
So, a little depressing and it definitely went in a different direction than what I had planned on, I blame Florence and the Machine. But voila! Here it is. Because I really wanted some angsty Sherlolly smut and absolutely no plot. Sheesh, wonders will never seize. Also, I'm really nervous about what you guys think of this. I personally have no idea what to think of it. I just…yeah. It's darker and Sherlock is kind of a user yeah? It's very very Sherlock/Molly based because in her darkest moments, I honestly think that he drives her to the brink of insanity. It's all so very consuming. I'm losing me mind, guys. HELP ME!
So…I've got an idea for another fic that is kind of crazy and probably really stupid but who wants to see Bruce Wayne in Sherlock? With Molly. Making Sherlock jealous. Because it's swimming in my mind and honestly, Alfred would rock as Molly's uncle. Then again, I'm crazy.
Anyways, hope you've all enjoyed this! Thank you all so much for being awesome. You're the bestest! Seriously, words cannot describe how fantastic all of you are! Any and all mistakes are mine. I love you all.
Thanks again and much love!