"You said he was with his sister?" He repeated, eyebrows furrowing, not believing he was hearing what he was hearing.
"I said he was visiting his sister. He's been living with a Miss Molly Hooper; lovely woman and she's so sweet on him. I'm pretty sure they have a marvelous time if he keeps coming back. Military men are usually the most passionate." She gushed, her hand over her chest, other arm cross across her stomach. She seemed genuinely happy for him, like it was the sweetest thing she could have ever witnessed.
Sadly, that sweetness left a bitter, poisonous taste in Sherlock's mouth, his head tilting to the side a little as his lips parted.
"Pardon?" He asked, eyebrows furrowing.
"It's no secret, no matter how desperately John wishes to keep it one. If I had as many passionate nights as those two had-" She stopped, drifting off as she -no doubt- thought about it, playing with the necklace around her neck. "well, I would still have a husband."
She turned as the kettle began screaming, the sound mirroring his mind as he imagined John and Molly sharing the same...wild...passionate...
He couldn't. It made him hurt just thinking about it.
He couldn't blame John though. He was gone for a year, and feeling how much his body ached for him now, after just waking up? But still, the thought killed. He didn't respond to that, instead, he turned back to his laptop, shaking his head.
He was trying to keep himself from thinking about it. From dwelling on the fact that right now, the man he loved -and the first person he let himself be vulnerable with to the extent he had- was off with...a woman they'd had problems with in the past- what the hell was wrong with him?
He brought up the email and typed in John's username and password, chewing idly on the inside of his lip as she poured a beaker of tea for the both of them. "Sugar dear?" She asked.
"Two sugar." He replied quietly as he clicked on the inbox.
Scrolling through all of the emails John had, he began to tally all of the cases they missed out on. All of the jobs John couldn't do because he was gone; all of the people who died, or were missing, or had things stolen from them that he couldn't help with because he was gone.
Walking over, she put he cup of tea down for him before taking a seat at the table as well. No words were exchanged for a long moment before she finally spoke. "Is everything alright, dear?" She put her cup down and reached forward, resting her hand on his.
"Fine." He replied simply. "Everything's fine. For the first time in nearly 110 years I'm at conflicts with myself for being bloody stupid -which as you might be able to tell doesn't happen often.. Being bitter at a man who I know is alive and has living persons needs so I can't blame him for that, going off and doing those needs while I'm here floating around. But who the bloody hell can be mad at him when I've been gone for an entire year unable to make sure those needs are met, so he found them in the arms of a woman he would have inevitably ended up with if I didn't exist in the first place." He babbled, voice laced with hurt, anger and self loathing. His blue eyes burned with both anger and sadness as he felt his ridiculousness come to fruition. He didn't even care that he practically sounded like a madman, saying he was 110 years old.
Mrs. Hudson stared at him as he spoke, a look of concern on her face as she watched him babble, his face switching between a sarcastic smirk between words and crunched with anger on the next. When he finished, she didn't say anything right away, just staring at him as he trailed off, fingers running through curls, flashing off the caved in part of his forehead.
Suddenly her look of concern turned to one of shock as she stared at him, her hand going to her mouth, other hand pointing at his forehead.
"That's...now I know why you look so familiar!" She cried out, sounding both intrigued and horrified. He looked up confused, eyebrow furrowing. "You're Sherlock Holmes." She leaned in, looking at him closely. He went rigid, freezing still as he stared at her. "You are! Oh," She pushed herself to her feet, hands up as she made her way around the table, heading for the door.
"Wait, wait-" He turned to stand up, but when she turned back around and started coming back with her purse he stopped. Pulling from inside it a small photo-album, she took her seat again. Opening it, she pointed to an old photograph of the detective and Lestrade.
Sherlock stared at it in shock for a moment before taking the photo-album. He looked at the photo of when he was alive, a smart picture of him with his coat and pipe, Lestrade at his elbow. A small smile came to his lips as Mrs. Hudson leaned over.
"I got this album from an old woman I knew. She was my baby sitter and the Detective Investigators second wife." She said, pointing to the photo, reminiscing. "She said that her husband was a great detective, but there was one who was even better. Mr. Sherlock Holmes." She laughed lightly. Grabbing the album, she flipped the page, pointing to another photo of the detective, and beside him was a familiar face. One that brought sadness and loneliness to him. "I never could tell who this man was. Neither could Leslie, to be honest. Her husband never told her, always said it was too painful to talk about."
"Mycroft." Sherlock replied, touching the picture of the larger man. A stern look on his face. "My older brother." He added when she looked at him in confusion.
"Oh dear." She frowned. "Are these painful? I-" She lifted her hand up, making to take it back. "I can put it away."
"No," Sherlock pulled it away, looking through them. "It's fine." He replied, looking up at her. Turning the page, he saw another picture of Mycroft, thin and wirey and dead looking and he could only wonder if...maybe that had been after he'd died. A year or so, hairs turned grey and a great look of someone who had given up on everything. But beside the sag to his face, he looked no older than maybe one or two years.
He flipped the page again, more photos of him, a couple more of Mycroft, then a handful of photos that didn't originally belong to Lestrade. They were Mycroft's -he could tell from the delicate scroll of the handwriting on the lower right corner. But why would they have been compiled into this scrapbook?
He flipped the page and what he saw made him laugh. Light hearted, warm, but sad. "Mycroft Holmes, Lili Laveau-Holmes and their daughter Hyacinth Holmes. So he had a daughter." He muttered. "A niece I never knew about." He frowned. "Someone I've never met."
"Oh and she was a lovely woman. Very very lovely our Hyacinth." Mrs. Hudson agreed. "Very odd though. Very regal, very beautiful." She nodded, hands cupped before her resting on the table as she stared off into the distance as if reminiscing on her.
"Was?" Sherlock looked at her, eyebrows furrowed as he flipped the page, a close up photo of the woman. And she was beautiful. High cheekbones, cold eyes with skin as pale as pearls and hair as black as night. Her hair curled, looking like a mess of black roses and lips as red as rubies.
"She died. Quite a horrific way too." She sat up straight, bringing her hands to her lap. "She died in 1968 by the hands of a James Moriarty." She replied. "He was involved with a great many drug trafficking and torment circles. Absolutely dreadful business and she fell into the wrong crowd. Apparently it was her drugs. She needed to sustain her habits, poor dear." She turned her head, hand rubbing her chest. But the name tickled the back of Sherlock's mind for some odd reason. Like the driving of a nail.
His forehead crinkled as he silently whispered the name over and over and over again. "James Moriarty. James Moriarty. James-" Wait. His eyes widened with clarity. The visage of the psychotic man with the white suit standing in the livingroom flashing before his eyes for just a split second, then fading away to darkness. "No," He whispered, voice quiet.
"No what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson looked up at him, her own forehead crinkling as she rested her elbows on the table top.
"James Moriarty, what became of him?" He stood up, pacing back and forth as he tried to figure out how this could have happened. It was too much to assume they were the same person, but for both James Moriarty's to be in similar crime circles?
"Oh, he passed away dear." She replied. "Cornered by police near Bart's Hospital and shot dead. Good riddance, the man was a menace." She explained sounding grateful, but that wasn't the news Sherlock wanted to hear. That wasn't the information that Sherlock wanted.
"What year did he die?" He asked, turning and looking at her, his fingers held up straight as if blocking the outside world from the corners of his eyes as he focused. She didn't respond right away, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as she thought, lips pursed as he hand rested on her shoulder.
"196...9? 1970?" She offered, not quite sure.
"So James Moriarty died near Bart's Hospital 44 years ago." Sherlock confirmed, but it still didn't make sense. None of it made sense. If James Moriarty died 44 years ago, but the James Moriarty that kidnapped Harry was about 43-44-" He stopped, shaking his head as his eyes narrowed. "That can't be possible." He mused, stopping dead in his tracks as he stared into the livingroom, staring at the ghost of the man in the white suit, staring at him mockingly. He walked forward, looking into the phantom man's eyes, feeling them burn a hole through his skull as their eyes connected.
"What isn't, Sherlock?" Jim asked, smile pressed into tight and pretentious lips.
"You being alive." He whispered.
"Reborn." Jim corrected, licking his lips.
"It doesn't work that way." Sherlock insisted, taking a step to the right, circling him, Mrs. Hudson looking concerned from her spot at the Kitchen table.
"You think it doesn't, Sherlock." The man joked, not bothering to turn and watch him.
"How?" Sherlock hissed, keeping his steps evenly paced, circling the mans image.
"Figure it out." Jim played, eyes rolling back to look at him. "After all, you're oh so clever." He sneered. Sherlock stopped, shaking his head as he tried to figure out how it could be possible. How it could have happened. Who James Moriarty really was. "Do you need a clue?" The man sang, stopping Sherlock in his tracks. "You will die, detective, for what you have done to me." The smug smile dripped off of the man's face, eyes whirling around to look back the detective.
It all came crashing back. The name of the man who'd killed him, James Moriarty who died all of those years ago, and the man who nearly killed John and John's sister.
"J.M. Magnussen." Sherlock whispered.
The man vanished, leaving Sherlock standing in the middle of the livingroom, eyes wide as he thought over everything that had happened. J.M. Magnussen, the criminal who had been the crime lord in England for years before his crime ring was broken up by Sherlock and the man was sent to a high security asylum for the insane. He had managed to escape back into the world to find and exact his revenge on Sherlock after the horrendous care he'd received back when he was locked up.
Some how, he'd managed to continue existing, from one body to another. But how? How was that possible?
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson spoke from behind him. Her timid and concerned voice ripping him out of his own mind and dragging him back into the world around him. "Are you alright?" She asked.
"How...are you able to see me, Mrs. Hudson?" He asked, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder. The question took her off guard a little, causing her to stare at him confused for a long moment, mouth hanging open. She shook her head, shrugging her shoulder as she gave a quick look out the window towards the ocean.
"I've always been a bit touched." She replied. "In the supernatural sense. You see, many years ago, my husband murdered a poor gay man in our house. Such a horrible horrible thing, but my Charlie insisted that it was because the man was pulling a move on him. Tragic really, I quite liked the poor boy." She explained. When a look of irritation came to the detective's face, she swallowed the rest of the unnecessary words and continued on. "I believe firmly in reincarnation. Every soul is recycled, and every soul that isn't, is stuck here on earth until it can be." She explained. "I think it's because of my acceptance of the spirits world that helps me see them. Poor things." She cupped her hands.
"So, when did it start, after your husband murdered a homosexual or before that?" Sherlock asked flatly, wanting her to get her story straight.
"Oh much farther before that. I used to see them when I was little. Grew up in an old house that a lot of people died in. I could hear them whispering and knocking on the doors when no one else could." She flashed a small, nervous smile. "Much like the knocking I hear here." She added. But that little bit of added information confused the ghost, his eyebrows crinkling as the words escaped her lips.
"What knocking?" Cocking his head to the side, he turned it, listening. There was a very very light pounding noise. Very gentle, but it sent a shiver of ice up his spine.
"The knocking." She repeated as if it were to clear anything up. "Behind the book shelf, in the library." She pointed off across the livingroom. The ghost's blood ran cold, heart skipping a beat. Knocking on the basement door?
Whirling around he rushed across the livingroom and towards the office door, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind at the dining room table. Gasping, worried she might have said something wrong, she wiped her hands on her skirt and followed after him.
Pushing the door open to the office, she pushed her way past the threshold, stopping right beside Sherlock who just stood and stared at the bookshelf in worry. There was a knocking on the shelf, like wet knuckles on wood. The same level of hardness, same pace, never faltering, never slowing down, never relaxing. Like the pounding of a ceremonial drum. Water puddled out from beneath the door, soaking the carpet as it gathered.
Then just like that, it stopped.
Sherlock held his hand out, putting his arm half out in front of Mrs. Hudson as if trying to keep her back -not as if she were trying to get closer to begin with. There was a jingling, a light thudding as the bookcase jiggled, and Mrs. Hudson took a step back.
"John?" A soft, deep, garbled voice spoke. "John, please open the door. I can't-" It creaked. The ghosts sight flashed like a television with bad reception, a dark mist seemingly pouring out of the cracks. Sherlock's heart started racing. "John-" It swung open a little, three, long, black fingers sliding out into the open air, but they stopped, not pushing the door open any farther as the sunlight beamed in.
"Mrs. Hudson, don't...move..." Sherlock warned, taking a hesitant step to the side.
"You don't have to tell me twice," She whispered, staring at it. She leaned as Sherlock moved closer, just enough to see into the crack while keeping his distance. But what he saw made him stop; for the first time in a long time, he felt fear. Pure, white blooded terror as a single, wide eye peaked out at him, surrounded by pitch black.
"There you are." It whispered.
The blinds let go, dropping and covering the windows, darkness spilling out and into the room to make it darker and the door started shaking, trying to push it open. Sherlock gasped, stumbling back just a little as his head whipped around, watching as the shade cast over the room was much darker than it should have been.
"Mrs. Hudson, go back to the dining room!" He ordered, but she was already turning, making her way out of the room and towards the kitchen. He ran forward, slamming himself against the door, the monsters fingers trapped in the way.
He forced his full body against it, the demon screaming as the crackling of it's fingers echoed throughout the room. With one more hard shove, the fingers fell to the floor, forcing it back behind the basement door once again, all of the darkness fading. Lifting his hand, he grabbed a lock at the top of the bookshelf and slit it up in place, the iron bar slipping up behind the head of a stag.
Gasping, he pulled away, staring at the basement door in horror. What was that? When did that get there? Was it from when he drowned?
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
"John?" It spoke. Sherlock felt his heart leap in fear and he turned around, making for the door, slipping back out into the living room.
"What the bloody hell was that thing?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking at him worried, hands over her mouth.
"No idea." He replied, moving to grab his tea. "It wasn't there when I came up." Taking a drink, he closed his eyes, hands shaking as he tried to calm his nerves.
"I've noticed the knocking for a few months now. I've had no idea who or what it was, but it was always so quiet." The older woman wrung her hands, looking at the ghost who was now a bundle of nerves.
"It's getting stronger." He replied, putting the cup down. He remembered that there had been one more time that he'd died. A time he died before he drowned. The time he'd shot himself to prove a point to John.
That was the only time he'd actively died as a direct result of emotion for John. Perhaps-
The front door opened, both of them turning and looking at it as John came in, carrying a few bags. He smelled like strawberries and cream -a scent that pulled Sherlock from his fear back into his feeling of being betrayed.
"Hello Mrs. Hudson," He greeted, not having yet looked up and seen Sherlock as he worked his shoes off. He hung up his coat and pulled his scarf off. When he turned to look at the older woman he froze, looking at the tall figure of the man he loved. He felt his heart leap, but there was something about it that made him feel guilty. "I...I hope the...cat didn't bother you much." John replied, looking at Sherlock as John made his way in.
What the ghost was doing hovering out in the open was beyond him, and to be honest, it made him nervous. He wasn't sure how long he'd been back, given he hadn't been back himself in nearly a month, but for Sherlock to be present in front of other people was unusual.
"The cat was fine, John, but you failed to mention your ghosts." She huffed, back stiffening. Immediately, John felt his stomach drop, his heart skipping a beat, but the word ghosts didn't register as a plural to him. He forced a chuckle, although there was a look of nervousness in his eyes.
"What? I...what are you talking-"
"She knows I'm here, John." Sherlock cut the bullshit for him. The shorter man dropped his gaze, lips pressed tight together as he felt both embarrassed yet relieved to hear that.
"How long?" He asked, dragging his tongue across dry lips as he looked back up at him.
"How long what?" Sherlock asked, turning to put the tea back on the table.
"How long have you been back?" The ghost didn't answer right away, keeping himself quiet as he debated on whether or not he wanted to let himself be as petty as he wanted, or spare John that horrid experience.
"I just came back today." He decided on letting John get away with it. He was gone for a long while, he couldn't blame John for it -although he certainly bloody wanted to. "A few hours ago." he admitted.
"It's...it's good to see you." John said, a smile coming to his lips.
"It's good to see you too, John." Sherlock replied. "And even more so knowing all of this time no cases have been solved. I'm sure Scotland Yard is having a field day." He forced a bit of a smile. "Speaking of which, I have a new case for us. A woman entered an elevator in a local motel, vanished into thin air. A week or so later they found her corpse in the local water system underneath the motel." John looked at him shocked, unable to believe that he'd just come back and already he wanted to run off to another case.
"I-I-Sherlock, no, I...I really can't." He tried to turn him down gently. "I promised Molly that I'd go to dinner with her tonight." He replied. Immediately, Sherlock's expression fell flat, his smile turning a bit bitter. Nodding his head, he grabbed his cup of tea and made his way over to the sofa.
"Alright then, have fun." He said plainly. Mrs. Hudson looked at him concerned.
John turned, watching him as his mouth hung open a little, forehead crinkled. He chuckled a little, shaking his head as he watched him sit down. And even more shocking, Sherlock grabs the remote and turns the telly on. Sherlock never watched telly unless angry about something.
"Sherlock?" He walked into the livingroom, standing between the ghost and the television bolstering the food network. "What's wrong?" He asks, hands by his sides.
"Hm?" Sherlock turned his head away from the process of sauteing garlic and rosemary in butter and looked at the man he loved -although incredibly pissed at him. "Oh, nothing." He lied, turning to look at the telly once more. John didn't say anything for a long moment, turning to look at the television as the standoffish responses of the detective started to fester inside of him. His anger was sort of like boiling water, starting off as just a simmer before the bubbles became larger, building the pressure up.
"Sherlock, I think I know you a little better than that. What's wrong?" John insisted, digging to get to the bottom of his lovers piss poor attitude. Grunting, Sherlock pushed himself off the sofa, putting his cup on the coffee table. He cut across the livingroom to the kitchen where his chemistry set was left and grabbed it.
"Please lock the basement door behind me on my way down." He patted Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, giving her a light smile. She looked at him shocked, her eyes flickering back and forth between Sherlock and John, wondering exactly what it was that was going on, before it started to sink in.
"Oh Sherlock." She groaned, sympathetically.
"What do you bloody mean Oh Sherlock?" John nearly snapped, but he held his tongue, watching as the detective strutted past him and into the office.
"Have a good dinner, John." Sherlock insisted, ignoring his question, giving the man a gentle smile.
"No, no, you're not going to bloody walk out of here until you tell me what the hell is going on!" John followed him. "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something? Oh, should I say tub?" Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, standing in front of the basement door. He didn't say anything right away, nor did he move. The light knocking on the basement door sending a terrifying chill up John's spine.
Reaching up, Sherlock pulled the lock down and grabbed the door handle. Turning, he looked over his shoulder and flashed him a semi-bitter smile. "Good night, John." Pulling the door open, he slipped into the stairway before whatever it was on the other side could slip out and shut the door behind him.
Mrs. Hudson rushed in, grabbed the chair from behind the desk and stood on it, sliding the lock back up into the wall. John stared after the spirit concerned, angry and hurt as Mrs. Hudson climbed back down off the chair.
"You don't want to go down there, dear. There's a demon." She informed nervously before shivering. "Very terrifying dear. Would you like some tea?"
"No." John replied shortly, the anger setting in full force now as his blood boiled. "No I damn well don't-" He stopped, trying to keep from taking his frustration out on her. His fists were clenched by his sides, lips puckered as he ground his teeth. He hated it. He hated how everytime the ghost got angry he could just poof away and run from the topic without having to discuss it. He bloody hated it. "That pompous, dead piece of-" He bit his lip.
Lifting his hands, he forced a smile and stepped back away from the door. "Never mind. Never bloody mind. I'm leaving. If cheekbones decides to slither out of his hole, tell him I am gone and he has the house to himself again." He snarled.
"Oh John, don't be like that." Mrs. Hudson groaned, watching him as he turned and made for the other room. He grabbed his coat, not listening to her. He didn't bother to, and he couldn't.
"Good night Mrs. Hudson!" he hollered to her. Grabbing his car keys he whipped open the door and made his way out onto the porch, slamming he door behind him.
He nearly lunged off the steps, feet landing in the semi frozen mud at the bottom of the steps. He made his way across the yard to his car. Pulling the door open, he popped the key back into the ignition and turned it on and buckled up.
Fishing his mobile out of his pocket, he hit the redial button and held it to his ear, waiting for an answer as he backed up and turned around, making for the line of trees.
After three or four rings, Molly answered, sounding a little busy, but still sweet as ever. "John! Hello dear." She greeted, her voice sounding like a chorus of angels. He could hear the blush among her words as she spoke. "So I hope you like Linguini." She said, the sound the kitchen sink running in the background.
"I love it." John replied, his smile feeling pulled tight because of the asshole inside.
"Good. I also hope you like cherry pie." She added, sounding a little coy, "because that's what we're having for desert."
"I was rather hoping I'd have you for desert." he replied, pulling out onto the main road, flirting.
"I'm sure we can make arrangements to the menu." She giggled, her shyness sounding adorable, even over the phone. He just wanted to eat her up. "You'll be here soon, right?"
"I'm on my way now." He replied, smile at his lips loosening the further away from the tension he got. He shifted his weight, legs spreading as he pushed the speed limit, licking his dry lips as he imagined Molly's pale skin under the dim lights of her room.
"I can't wait to see you." She whispered.
"See you in a couple minutes." he replied. Reaching up he took his phone from his ear and hung up, stuffing it into his pocket. He freezes for a moment as he does, his eyes falling on the video tape he'd stuffed in the side pocket in the passenger side door. The white label across the front saying Happy Weddings. It brought back memories of the last time Sherlock and John were with each other. How content and happy they were -before things went tits up of course.
That tape had been in there for an entire year, only being touched to move it out of the way. He'd probably have to watch it soon, figure out what was on it. But not tonight, tonight, he was with Molly.
He washed the spaghetti sauce off of the plates, rinsing them good as the warmth of Molly's apartment swirled around him. She stood behind him, her fingers brushing little pieces of hair from the back of John's neck as he worked, sending a shiver down his spine.
"What are you thinking about?" She asked, a wine glass in her left hand. She rested her chin on his left shoulder, fingers gently ghosting over his skin, working goosebumps up and across his flesh.
"Hmm...what I'm going to do to thank you for dinner." He replied, a loving smile on his face as he looked back at her. Turning the water off, he wiped his hands dry on a hand towel before turning to face her. She smiled at him lovingly as he did, stepping back to give him room.
Once his hands were dry enough, he reached forward, resting his hands on her hips, pulling her close. "I take it you've already found a way?" She asked playfully, letting him pull her close so their bodies were touching.
"Oh God yes." he let out a breathy sigh. Leaning in, he kissed her neck, pulling the wine glass from her hands. Biting her lip, she let her head roll back, her hair falling over her shoulders like fire. His hands reached around, grabbing her skirt and pulling it up till his fingertips touched smooth skin, and the folds of her bottom.
She was so warm and so soft, but everytime his fingers pushed past her bottom, slipping between her thighs, he kept expecting the smooth flesh as it descended into male genitalia, and it confused and upset him nearly every time. But he could never let her know that. He would never let her know that her pleasantly feminine body brought a little disappointment to him.
Reaching down, she pulled her shirt off, exposing her soft, pale flesh and he stared at it. Stared at the way it slid down her clavicle and sloped down to the cleft between supple breasts.
Leaning down, he kissed her right breast, right hand moving up to work on the clip behind her back, freeing her from the confines of her bra. The moan she let loose, her body quivering ever so slightly as the tension was released and her straps fell down her arms was enough to make his body throb in anticipation.
Foreplay was over.
Grabbing her legs, he hoisted her up onto his hips -much to her surprise- and carried her off to her bedroom where he spilled her out across the bed. He felt his heart pound in his chest, fingers grabbing at the waistband of her skirt as he fumbled with the buttons.
"John," She gasped, her legs spread, heels propped up on the mattress as he pushed himself between her legs. He grabbed her hips hard, giving her a hard thrust against her panty covered lips, forcing a gasp from her again.
She had no idea where this sudden hostility came from, and to be honest, it scared her a little. And he didn't even notice.
Yanking her skirt down her hips and thighs, he tossed the cloth across the room, then her panties, pulling them off so roughly they left a slight redmark down her delicate thighs.
He was like an animal, and all she could do was watch as he pulled his shirt off and yanked the front of his pants down. In a matter of seconds, he was in her and her mind went fuzzy, back arching as he thrust into her roughly. She gasped, yelping as her fingers went down, grabbing at his hands which clung to her boney hips so tight they would leave bruises.
"Ow, John," She whimpered. He pulled out again and thrust in just as hard, her jaw dropping as pain rippled through her. "ow, John, please go a little more gently." She begged.
"Oh come on, I'm not going that bloody hard." He laughed, panting a little. But when she lifted her head, look of pain in her eyes, lips parted, he realized that...perhaps he was going a little too rough. But he didn't want to hold back. He didn't want to go gentle, he was tired of going gentle, he wanted-
He stopped when he realized exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he craved, and exactly what Molly couldn't give him.
He wanted raw, sadistic, carnal sex. One that would hurt him with every hard thrust he gave. But he couldn't stop right now. He couldn't...
Leaning in he gave her a gentle kiss, bringing his hands up to her shoulders to hold her close. "Sorry love." He whispered. He rolled his hips, thrusting gently. Nice, slow, gentle. She seemed to enjoy that more, moaning as he slid out of her before pushing back into her depth, her legs quivering as his hips met the backs of her thighs.
Her fingertips ran over his muscles, feeling his retired military body beneath her touch sent a shiver of pleasure up through her, her nipples hard.
John trailed kisses down her jaw, pecking down her neck and clavicle, across her chest and down her breasts till he reached her nipples. Parting lips clamped around them, hands wandering down her arms to her waist as he pulled her up closer to him. He sucked, tongue flickering across swollen buttons as he began to push his luck.
He started thrusting faster, the bed starting to creak a little. He listened to he reaction; more moan gave him permission to go harder, more whimper made him slow down.
He never had a problem with making love to Molly before. He always enjoyed it, actually. The feeling of her tightening around him, arms and legs curling around him like a koala on a tree branch. But there was something so boring about it now. He wanted to see the twitching of the flesh beneath him as he drilled himself in hard. His hips aching and cracking from such hard thrusts, and the voice below him screaming his name. Nails digging into his arms, back arching as his body shook violently.
God he wanted to hear screams.
He wanted to feel pain, and feel the pleasure from causing his partner pain.
Being begged to hurt them over and over and over and over-
He gasped, pulling away, arching as his hips shook, orgasming hard enough for his vision to blur with each pulsating wave of pleasure. He was vaguely aware of Molly's grasping hands beneath him, clawing at him as she cried out, soaking the blankets beneath her.
He came down, his heart fluttering with anxiety as he looked down at the pleasured face beneath him. It wasn't the face he wanted to see. He didn't want to see Molly's face, her thin lips or fiery red hair.
He wanted to see Sherlock.
He wanted to feel the violent and carnal love making between a sadist and a masochist. He wanted to complete Sherlock in the same way Sherlock completed him. He wanted rawness and red skin and teeth marks.
But then it hit him.
Like a ton of bricks, it hit him.
He knew why Sherlock was so upset with him.
Sherlock knew he was having an affair with Molly.
But why didn't he bring it up? Why didn't he scream at him when he was there.