This was written for a prompt on the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme:
. ?thread=25161790#t25161790

I wrote with the intent to make this more explicit, but it came out like this (which I like), and I didn't want to add anything.

Beta'd by phantressrose on Tumblr.


He'd told her early on that he wasn't interested in sex. "It's nothing to do with you," he insisted, "I've known since my late teens that I don't find sex appealing."

"Okay," Molly said, smiling at him over her coffee, "That's fine." It was, of course, fine with her. Yes, she was a little disappointed (who wouldn't be?), but she knew that her relationship with Sherlock was so much more important than sex would ever be. She smiled and offered him the section of the paper she was done with, noting the look of relief in his eyes.

Molly knew how to take care of herself, and did so frequently. At first, she tried not to when Sherlock was in the flat; she'd never masturbated when someone else was there but not participating, and it took her awhile before she was comfortable with it. Even then, she would lock herself in the bathroom.

Until the night that she woke up from a hot and sweaty dream, facing the reality of Sherlock wrapped around her. The moment Molly came into full consciousness she knew she needed to get off and get off now. Unfortunately, Sherlock was a horribly light sleeper. There was no way she would be able leave the bed without waking him.

So her fingers slowly drifted between her legs. She knew he wouldn't mind ( after all, he'd picked the lock on the bathroom before just so he could watch her), and she was so desperate. She keened quietly when she came, trembling in his arms.

"Does my proximity aid you in reaching orgasm?" Sherlock asked a moment later, making her jump.

"A bit, yeah," she mumbled, cheeks burning. How could she have thought that her actions wouldn't wake him up?

"Hmm." He studied her for a little while, then shrugged, closed his eyes, and promptly fell back asleep.

A few days later, Molly was lying on their bed, gently running her favorite toy over herself. The whole process was taking longer than normal, and it was beginning to frustrate her. She'd all but given up when Sherlock's voice drifted from the doorway.

"Would you like some assistance?"

Molly froze, bit her lip, and slowly nodded. Sherlock walked over and lay down next to her, tucking his head into her neck. Her orgasm didn't take long after that.

Molly felt horrible the next day. He'd told her that he didn't want sex, but neither of them had bothered to expand upon that. Last night had certainly been sexual contact, but she had no idea whether or not she'd asked him to do something he hadn't wanted to. She'd curled up in her chair just thinking about it, worrying herself sick.

Sherlock knew what was wrong the moment he walked in. He knelt in front of her carefully and collected her hands in his own. "Last night was perfectly alright," he said slowly, "My... disinterest in sex does not extend to lying next to my partner while she achieves orgasm."

"Are you sure?" she asked, still worried, "I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"I'm positive," he assured her, face showing nothing but honesty. Molly sighed with relief. "Let me take you out tonight," he offered after kissing her gently.

"Okay."

"Fucking hormones," Molly mumbled as she made her way home after work. Sherlock had come in today to look at a body, and his voice, combined with the hormones coursing through her body at this point in her cycle, had put her on edge. She just wanted to get home, have a hot bath, and rub herself silly.

Which would have been a perfect plan if her tub wasn't full of something thick and green.

"Sherlock!" she bellowed, "What the hell is in my tub!?"

"I'm cleaning up an experiment!" he yelled back almost sheepishly, knowing full and well that all cleaning was supposed to be finished before she got home, "Almost done!"

Molly sighed and went into her bedroom. That tub was going to need a thorough scrubbing when he was done. Which, also caused by her coursing hormones, was enough to stress her to the point where she knew she wouldn't be able to come unassisted.

"Sherlock," she said hesitantly once he had 'cleaned' the tub ("Sherlock, there's still goo on the edges."), "Would you help me?"

Sherlock looked over to her. "What can I do?" he asked, knowing she would never request something he would be uncomfortable with.

"Talk to me?" she suggested, "Just, say things. It doesn't even matter what they are."

So he did.

They were having a baby.

Molly had assumed from the start of their relationship that if they were to ever have kids she would be the one to bring it up. She was wrong. One morning she awoke to Sherlock crouching next to her on the bed. The first words out of his mouth had been "Let's have a baby." Molly had been ecstatic. She'd always wanted kids and she knew Sherlock would be an excellent father.

"I'd like that," she said, smiling brightly. "Are you thinking you'd like to adopt, or use in vitro?"

Sherlock frowned. "I'm going to be impregnating you."

"So in vitro, then," she clarified.

He shook his head. "You enjoy sex, and you haven't had any since we've been together. I'm not sure you understand how much I appreciate that you are willing to abstain." He had looked away from her and spoken the last part quietly. Looking back to her, he continued, "I will not ask you to bear my child without having given you pleasure at the conception." Molly tried to argue, but Sherlock was stubborn, and eventually she agreed.

She started taking fertility medication, hoping to get pregnant as soon as possible. They had sex three times, each months apart. Molly could tell that, although he seemed to enjoy the sex while it was happening, he wasn't happy about having it. She was so happy to tell him when the test came back positive.

Pregnancy made her terribly horny. She went straight to their bedroom after coming home nearly every day. And it was fine. Well, it was adequate.

But sometimes she needed help.

This was one such night. She'd slept horribly, and woke at three in the morning wishing for a come.

"Sherlock," she whispered to the naked man next to her, "Will you talk to me?"

He sighed and moved closer to her, so that his mouth was next to her ear. "Let us go then, you and I/ When the evening is spread out against the sky..."

Some people don't understand how couples can be intimate without the act of sex. These people's partners are rather unfortunate; having sex is not the only way to make love. For Sherlock and Molly, their love-making is when they lie together, and he speaks, and she comes.


The poem Sherlock starts reciting is "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," which apparently BC has memorized.

*please note that Asexuality and Erotophobia are not the same thing.