This is inspired by the photo of Benedict Cumberbatch looking like a college professor in a magazine photo shoot, wearing a cardigan and tie. Only in this, Molly is the teacher and Sherlock is her brilliant student who is a bit of a jerk. As usual. This is un-beta'ed, and I don't know anything about English academia, so I just used American standards, because this is a brainless excuse for smut. Enjoy!


Molly Hooper smoothed her hands over her best tweed skirt and cleared her throat. The sound echoed through the nearly empty lecture hall. She set her stack of note cards on the lectern and scanned the room, grateful that most students were in bed sleeping off their weekend hangovers. Even the pathophysiology professor couldn't be bothered to turn up for a Monday morning class; as his teaching assistant, Molly had taken over for the last three Mondays running.

She rubbed the spot on the bridge of her nose where her ill-fitting prescription frames dug a groove into the skin. She had thought wearing her glasses and her best "professor" clothes would make her more confident but instead found herself obsessing over the tiny run on the knee of one stocking. The material made her legs itch and she felt smothered. She tugged her skirt downward again as she bent over to plug in the overhead projector.

Molly cleared her throat again and a few interested heads in the audience looked up. A familiar student slumped and dozed in the middle rows, but she didn't mind today.

If he's asleep, he can't complain about my lecture being boring or stare in that way he does, she reasoned.

And complain he usually did. It was what Sherlock Holmes did best, besides pointing out errors in the textbook and handing in brilliant but barely legible essays. He hadn't even turned up for the first month of the course, but lately had taken to haunting the lecture hall with annoying dedication. His intelligence was admirable and Molly loved his energy, but his brutal wit derailed many a class discussion.

And the way his electric eyes watched her when she spoke unnerved in a way she didn't want to name. She was just a TA but even she knew that fantasizing about her student was a terrible idea. No matter that he was the same age as her, and looked older. He was still beneath her in position and she would lose all respect from her male colleagues, being subjected to a gross double standard in academia. It was made worse with her being younger than everyone else, having skipped ahead two years in school as a child.

Molly prayed for the end of the semester to come faster. By then, she'd be finished with this painful process and on her way to medical school, now that she'd changed her mind about becoming a professor for real. The idea of spending all her time around corpses instead of college students was incredibly appealing. She clung to her index cards for dear life, and dove into the planned lecture.

You can do it! Just get out of here in one piece, only four more lectures this year, Molly urged herself on, forcing a cheery smile onto her face. Her speaking voice grew louder and more confident while she tackled the symptomology of Marfan's syndrome.

As the lecture rolled onward, a few more students stumbled in. Halfway through her discussion of pituitary dwarfism, Sleeping Beauty woke with a start, nearly falling off his chair. Titters scattered through the students, and the young man nonchalantly settled back into his seat. He ran his fingers through his head of dark curls and shrugged at Molly as their eyes met.

Even from a dozen feet away, she saw the mischievous gleam in his pale eyes and the suggestion of a smirk on his face. As he straightened up, she noticed something else.

Why is he so well-dressed today?

He normally slumped in his chair in black jeans and a worn shirt, but today he wore clean dark slacks, and a buttoned-up grey cardigan. Under it was a crisp white shirt and an honest-to-goodness tie. He'd even shaved, and without stubble around his mouth, she realized how full his lips were- a perfect Cupid's bow.

She stared open-mouthed for a few seconds before Sherlock's eyebrows rose in question.

Flustered, Molly fiddled with a note card and gestured at the diagram on the screen for a moment before realizing it was the wrong one. She scrambled for the sheets, and switched to the correct one. She tried to ignore the snickering students but her face burned.

"Right, that's enough for today. Um, we're having office hours after lecture, from ten to twelve. I am, I mean. Dr. Torrance is…away," she stuttered, "So I'll be covering. Stop by his office if you have any questions or need help. Okay, thanks," Molly finished, rushing out the last words while cramming her notes back into her folder.

I can't get away from this place fast enough, she fumed silently. She tugged on her skirt again, feeling the run in her stocking spreading farther. And if I don't get out of these itchy stockings soon, I'm going to scream.


The problem with playing most games, Sherlock reflected, was that he mastered them quickly and was just as bored afterward as he was at the start. Two years into uni, and already he couldn't stand the stifling environment any longer. The lectures, the exams, and the predictable lab assignments lost their novelty once he learned how to give his professors exactly what they wanted. When he felt like doing it, which wasn't often.

Everyone was easy to manipulate once you figured out what their secrets were. It hadn't taken him long at uni to realize he could use the same skills on women.

Though he had no interest in romance, he was very interested in sex at the moment. It was an annoying distraction, but he had faith once his hormonal peak passed, he could channel that energy into other endeavors more effectively.

And while it was a waste of time, it was a glorious one.

Every woman was their own miniature experiment, an exercise in deducing what made them tick, what made them moan. And what was most baffling at first to him was that they flocked to him, despite his coldness.

It seemed the more he revealed his detachment, the more women at uni pursued him. He'd even caught the eye of a few popular girls, but he was more interested in the women who frequented the bookshop and the chemistry lab. They were less tedious in their chatter, had better taste in research journals, and were more inventive in bed, he'd found.

That discovery had been enjoyable for a time, but he'd grown inevitably bored. The agreed-upon period was almost up and Mycroft couldn't hold his trust fund back any longer.

I kept up my end of the bargain, big brother, he thought. Now let. me. go.

Time to refocus his energies into his future, the detecting career he'd designed for himself with newly cultivated contacts at the Met. No more need to bury his frustrations into seducing classmates and faculty members so easily.

No more need, no. But one last woman wouldn't hurt, would it, he mused.

A goodbye to academia. A going-away gift to myself. One last indulgence.


Sherlock lounged in his chair in the lecture hall, and ran through his deductions of Molly Hooper while she rambled about growth disorders at the lectern. Her nails had grown progressively shorter over the few weeks he attended the course, and the ragged edge showed she was biting them. Shadows formed under her brown eyes, and a trace of pink chalk had been on her lips during their previous class- antacids chewed quickly before the lecture, he believed. She was nervous, hated public speaking most likely and every class was a trial.

She held herself higher and more confidently when she dressed nicely, he observed. The tweed skirt she wore hugged her slim legs, and her blouse was prim but flattering in a deep rose hue. When she knelt to fix the projector cord, the fabric rode up and he spotted the elastic top of a thigh-high stocking.

She'll keep them on when I have her on the desk, he decided.


Molly had only just opened up her briefcase and begun to work when the door opened, and Sherlock Holmes entered. She was searching for an old syllabus, and looked up to find his piercing blue eyes locked onto her.

The heavy door closed and lock clicked. Molly felt pinned to her place behind the desk. Her glasses had slid to the tip of her nose while she was digging through the drawer.

"Oh, Sherlock! You need help? That's…okay, that's good. I'm glad you've started coming to class, you were nearly struck from the registered list."

"Was I?" Sherlock asked blandly. He took a seat on the leather sofa stretched along the wall and gazed out the narrow window. His long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. "I've caught up now though, haven't I. Point of fact, I was never behind."

Molly laughed nervously and nodded. She pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. "I know I shouldn't admit it- but yes. Some people don't find professor lectures strictly necessary, but attendance is an issue for the university. You've got to come to class, even though it's dull. I know my lectures are- I'm sorry."

"They're not dull." Sherlock stood, and unbuttoned his cardigan as he spoke. "Well, they are, but they're less dull than most. You have an appreciation for pathophysiology far beyond the academic. You love the mystery of disease. You're wasted here. That's why you're leaving, isn't it?"

He strolled around the desk, and stood by the old-fashioned desktop phone. He idly toyed with the jar of pens, while Molly grew flushed.

"How did you know I was leaving? I've only told a few."

He tapped her purse atop the desk. Sticking out was a torn-open envelope with the return address of Barts and The London School of Medicine and Dentistry.

"Obvious. You're overqualified to be teaching. Tell me, Miss Hooper, did you even want to be a professor or were you just trying to please your late father?"

Molly felt her cheeks burn. "That's none of your business. Why would you even say that?"

"You talked about him in lecture a few weeks ago, the tangent about oncological conditions. You didn't say he was dead but it was obvious. As was your affection for him. I admit I don't understand the need to please the dead, but it seems like a common motivation."

Sensing the shift into uneasy territory, Molly stood and planted her hands on the desk. "Sherlock, this is not an appropriate discussion. What it is that-"

"I don't care about that. I came here to kiss you."

Her mouth dropped open ungracefully. "Sorry?"

Sherlock smiled, and his eyes shone. "I know you want me. That's fine. That's good. I know there's a song and dance to this but I've never had much patience for that."

He placed his hand over hers on the desk. Molly's eyes widened and she moved her lips again, but whatever she was planning to say was lost in his kiss.

Sherlock slanted his mouth across hers, and sunk his hands into the loose tendrils of hair at the back of her made a soft sound against his lips, and her eyelids fluttered shut. Her hands rose to push him away and somehow wound up tangled in his dark curls. His warm mouth moved over hers, and he nibbled on her lips until she opened for him.

His tongue dipped into her mouth, and Molly found herself responding in kind, holding him tightly and allowing him to settle between her thighs as he kissed the breath from her.

Sherlock dragged the tweed skirt up over her hips, letting the fabric bunch around her waist. The skin between her knickers and the tops of her nude stockings was smooth and pale pink. He dropped to his knees and pushed her thighs apart. He nuzzled at the soft flesh of her thighs, and Molly felt herself opening more, despite her fears.

"Sherlock, I'm your teacher. This is mad. You shouldn't- I shouldn't," she sighed, before sinking her hands into his curls. She bit her bottom lip. It was completely unethical, and it was all she could do to not press his mouth to her knickers.

"God I'm going to miss this," he muttered against her skin.

"What?" she gasped as he licked his way to the edge of her knickers.

"Nothing," he replied curtly.

One hand snaked around back to yank her pants down over her bum, and she shifted automatically to allow the satin scrap to fall to her ankles. He slid his hands over the silky stockings appreciatively, arching an eyebrow at the tear in one. She lifted her feet in turn and pushed the knickers aside.

In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. I'm leaving anyway. What have I got to lose? And god he is beautiful.

The last of her resistance gone, Molly reached down to caress his cheek, her thumb stroking the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His tilted eyes gleamed up at her. Gorgeous.

The word barely flitted through her mind before she was hoisted onto the desk, her bum smacking the oak surface, and her elbows falling back to brace her. Sherlock stood between her legs, bending her knees and spreading them. His cardigan and shirt were tossed onto the sofa in a bundle. Then he unbuttoned her blouse and pushed it over her shoulders to expose her bra. He cupped Molly's breasts through the fabric, and bent down to bite at her nipples until they pebbled and she moaned. He tugged the lace down and sucked the dark pink tips between his teeth until she squirmed and scratched at his shoulders.

Sherlock straightened back up, his bright blue eyes peering down at her. A wicked grin crossed his face. He plucked the glasses from her face, and set them on the shelf out of reach.

"Lay back and relax, Professor. I do believe you're well and truly compromised now." With that, he ducked his head between her thighs and slid his tongue into her folds.

Molly threw an arm over her eyes, her body on fire with the realization that the filthiest fantasies she'd had about her student were coming true. She grabbed the edges of the desk to anchor herself. The sharpness dug into her palms, but she couldn't care less. It was happening, and she gave herself over to the force of his will.

Sherlock's nearly black curls brushed her lower belly and his clever tongue found her clit. She ached for him already, having known from the moment the door locked what she wanted to happen even though it seemed impossible at the time. She was soaking wet even before his tongue began stroking her rhythmically, two of his long fingers slipping inside her to tease and fill her in matching time.

I should have known he'd be amazing at this too, Molly thought, before having her first orgasm of the day beneath the relentless ministrations of his mouth.


The amount of noise she made was gratifying, Sherlock thought.

The thick walls of the old university building were lucky for Molly, because otherwise her colleagues would've heard her whimpering while he tongue-fucked her. He squeezed her bottom, holding her tight against his face no matter how hard she writhed and bucked.

After bringing her to the edge with his attentions to her clit, he wandered lower, learning the textures of her sex, the spots that made her shake against him. He dipped his tongue inside her, and his demure professor arched like a wild thing. When Molly came, he tasted it and the satisfaction was so deep, he was fully hard without even touching himself.

Normally he'd get right to his pleasure after getting the woman off, but Molly's pleased sighs and encouraging moans challenged Sherlock. Her mellow voice was so simply happy, it pulled at him like a drug, like the cocaine he'd sworn off.

"You really are brilliant," she whispered, rolling her hips and throwing her head back again. Her long hair, fallen from its tidy bun, was a knotted mess.

"Yes," he reflected with a smile, "I am. And so are you." He hooked her leg over his shoulder. "I'm really looking to earn some extra credit, though."

"Extra credit. God, that's terrible." Molly laughed helplessly, not even bothering to cover her mouth anymore. It turned to a groan when his mouth brought her to a second peak within minutes.

"Enough, enough," she pled, tugging on his hair. "Let me up."

He lifted his head, his lids almost sleepy. His face shone with her juices. He wiped at the wetness, and then pulled her up to sitting. Molly locked her hands behind his neck and pulled him down for a kiss,

He was pleased. So many girls were shy about kissing him after he'd gone down on them. It was absurd to him. He slid his tongue into Molly's mouth, and he knew she would taste herself on him.

Molly stroked his shoulders, swirling circles with her fingertips. "Switch."

Sherlock stepped back, and unbuckled his belt. Tossing it aside, he shoved down his boxer briefs and trousers and threw them on top of his shirt on the sofa.

His cock was hard and thick, with a pearl of precum beading on the tip. He came to her stroking his length, his fingertips skimming over his balls whenever his hand returned to the base.

She sprawled back on the desk for a moment, watching him to see how he liked to be touched.

"Observation is key, naturally," Sherlock commented, and Molly realized he understood what she was doing.

She sat up and reached for his hips to pull him close. She hopped down off the desk on wobbly legs and went on her tip-toes to kiss him lightly on the lips. He tried to deepen the kiss, but instead she drew back and pivoted them around, nudging him until he stood with his butt against the desk.

"Sit," she ordered, injecting her best professor tone into her voice. The effect was ruined by the cheerful smile she wore.

Sherlock settled on the cool surface of the desk, rolling his cock through his fist. She slipped off her blouse and bra and neatly laid them on a shelf.

"If I'm going to break every rule, may as well do it thoroughly." She stroked his chest, teasing his nipples before sliding her hands down to cover his at his groin. She brushed his fingers away, and took over.


Oh hell, Sherlock thought, eyes rolling back. I should have done this months ago. Molly's mouth is a goddamn miracle.

He'd noted previously that her lips were thin and her face small; he'd deduced that she would provide minimally satisfying oral sex, and that the true pleasure would be in dominating his superior sexually.

I…may have been hasty, he thought when she sucked the length of his cock into her throat. Her brown eyes gazed up at him warmly. Gleefully, even. She loved it, he realized.

It was an ill-informed hypothesis. She squeezed his cock, using her spit to ease his way, and angled her head to flick her tongue over his balls. He hissed and tensed, but relaxed as she demonstrated her gentle, skilled touch.

Based my conclusions on limited data pools with a bias toward younger… The thought dissolved when Molly sucked the flesh of one testicle into her mouth and massaged it with her tongue. He tried again to form a coherent sentence, but lost the trail of thought with the flood of shivering sensation she induced. She paid the other testicle the same attention, rolling her tongue over him until the tension rose in his balls and he realized with a start he was about to finish.

"Stop." He yanked a lock of hair to get her attention, and Molly looked up, put-out.

"I'm going to come," he confessed shakily. "I want to come in you."

Her face cleared, and she smiled. "You liked it, then. Oh good. Good." She slipped her arms around him and buried her face against his chest. Her tweed skirt slid down her hips and hung on her to mid-thigh.

Yes, he thought, stroking her back softly. I liked it. I liked it too damned much. He had the sudden urge to throw their clothes on and drag her back to his flat so he could take his time learning every technique this woman had to offer, to explore every inch of her.

Instead, he squeezed her bum, and slapped it.


She yelped and grinned up at him. "Bad boy. Sofa?" Her eyes wandered over the comfortable leather seating, not far from the window.

"Why change now?" Sherlock resumed his cool façade. One last time, he reminded himself.

He hopped off the desk and scooped up his trousers, digging through the pockets to find the condom he'd stashed away. He returned to Molly and switched their positions again until the edge poked into her back. He kissed her thoroughly and hiked the skirt back up to her waist. He spun her around until her bum rubbed against his groin. Ripping the foil open, he slid the condom on and pressed his erection against her ass. Molly wiggled, smiling back at him.

Her eyes glowed for him and Sherlock felt something tighten in his chest. He discarded the sensation and grabbed Molly's hands, stretching her arms out in front of her and settling them on the surface. Her belly pressed into the wood, and her bottom was in the air with her bent over the desk.

"This is how I wanted you, all these weeks. Why else would I come to lecture?" Sherlock's hands smoothed over her back and one hand slipped between her legs again to tease her pussy. "It's nothing personal;all lectures are pointless. But thinking about how I would have you eventually, deciding what I wanted to see you wearing when I fucked you. Learning you before I ever touched you. Now that is something worth studying in this bloody place."

He stroked more firmly, encouraging her to rock her hips and grind her clit against his fingers. Molly moaned, barely processing his words.

"You mean you always…you wanted. Me. The way I wanted you."

"And now I have you." Triumph sounded now in his cool baritone. He grabbed her hips and his hardness nudged at her entrance. "Open for me, Molly."

She arched and spread her thighs, and Sherlock filled her. Molly shifted with the stretching of his thickness, adjusting to the aching sensation.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it," he remarked. He moved gently within her, thrusting shallowly at first and letting Molly set the pace.

She nodded, embarrassed at the question. She rocked harder back against him. "Yes. Yes. I'm glad it was you here, now. I don't care what…I'm just glad."

Sherlock rode her faster, sinking into her wetness and feeling the tingling returning in his balls. One last time.

"I'm glad," he gasped, fucking into her, "I'm glad it was you too."

He squeezed his eyes shut, and the orgasm rolled through him. His nails scraped her hips and she spasmed on his cock, her tight sex stroking him until he felt blinded by the force of his climax.

Molly shook, her heart racing from the exertion, her breath fogging the shiny polished surface of the desk. She laughed self-consciously and gingerly pried herself off the desk.

He grasped the condom edge and held it firm while he withdrew from her. After removing it carefully, he wrapped it in a crumpled ball of paper from the drawer and tossed it in the wastebin.

"This office reeks of um, us. I'll empty the rubbish before I go home tonight." Molly chewed her lip and considered the damage they'd wrought. Dr. Torrance wouldn't be back in before tomorrow so she could open the window to air it out, but the papers and books on the desk had been scattered and she didn't have a clue where some of them belonged.

"I noted where everything was before I approached you," Sherlock commented.

"Reading my mind again?"

"Watching where your eyes go. It's a logical conclusion." He shrugged and pulled on his trousers and shirt. They were remarkably unwrinkled, whereas Molly's clothing was a mess. He donned his cardigan and shoes, but stuffed the tie in his pocket.

"Why the tie?" she asked. "You're not putting it back on…" She pulled on her own clothing.

"You like them. The issue of Hello! you were reading last week, certain pages were much more handled and lingered over, based on the fingerprints and dog-earing." Sherlock gathered up the stray papers and rearranged them on the desk, in an order that looked correct to her. "You prefer male celebrities in formalwear; well-dressed, classic, conservative."

"Oh," she said. "Doesn't every woman?"

"You're the first woman I've changed my clothing for," he commented. "The others didn't seem to mind my usual clothes."

"Oh. Well. Thank you? I guess." Molly crossed the room and slipped her arms around his waist. "You're a strange one, Sherlock."

She felt him stiffen in her arms. "No! I meant- I like that. I like you. You're unusual." She gazed up at him, willing him to understand.

He studied her face, and his body relaxed. "Alright." Something like regret crossed his face. "Everything's back in order. I'm leaving now."

Molly stepped back, and slipped her feet into her heels. "I'll walk you out. I actually do have some work here I should finish."

"No. I mean, I'm leaving. I'm dropping out of uni. This is goodbye, Molly."

Her mouth dropped open. "I don't understand. Why? You're an incredible student. Lazy but the faculty appreciate your gifts-"

"I don't need them." He cupped her face, and bent down to capture her lips with his. He let go of her and headed for the door. "I've got to go. I did mean what I said though. I am glad it was you."


Crossing the lawn on the way back to his flat, Sherlock pushed aside the look of shocked hurt on her face.

Irrelevant; it was just one time. She enjoyed herself.

The pleasant hormonal high of orgasm was fading, and something low and sickening was taking hold inside of him.

It wouldn't be the worst thing if you occasionally indulged, would it. If you visited her again sometime.

No, he argued with himself. Make one exception and the focus is lost. I cannot have distractions and Molly Hooper has turned out to be something more than I realized. No more.

Once he was in his flat, he contacted Mycroft to let him known he was calling in his end of the deal. He wanted his trust fund freed up and available, immediately.

He sat down to design a new experiment that night, but lingering sensory observations from the morning flitted through his mind. The softness of her thighs, the sweetness of her moans, the touch of her tongue...

Already she interferes with your clarity. You made the right choice to stay away.

Sherlock knew he was right. Molly Hooper would get over their little fling, and most likely, they would never see each other again.

And that was as it should be.