Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Looking out the window at the street below. Consecutive diminishing pools of light line Baker Street. Raindrops sift gently down through these illuminated shafts. No wind, and no signs of life out there.

The room is lit only by a low lamp in the corner. It is a quarter to three in the morning, and the heating is on the fritz, stuck on high. Too hot to sleep. Not that he was trying to.

He opens the window and leans out, letting the tiny rain drops kiss his face and shoulders, and collect in his dark curls. Inhaling the rain as if it were a cigarette. He stands there long enough for the droplets to gather and run slowly down the long highway of his spine, all the way to the waistband of his navy blue underwear.

The heat affects him in a way the cold never can. He finds it messing with his thoughts in strange ways. Bringing back memories of that terrible family holiday somewhere in Spain, and a seventeen year old girl with chestnut curls and freckles. The taste of beer and sand, and the sting of fingernails on sunburn. Experiments with behaving like a normal boy. Always after dark, of course.

A sigh escapes his lips, as his thoughts send little memory messages to his body. The brush of her thumb on his hipbone, her lips on his collarbone.

A little gasp behind him jolts him from his reverie, and he knocks against the window in surprise. When he turns around, he is shocked to see Molly Hooper's outline in the doorway. She clears her throat.

“Did you forget I was staying?”

“What?”

“My flat, the exterminators.... you said I could use John's old room? For the weekend?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Had he said that? How extraordinary.

She's wearing a satin robe. Quite short. Held closed at the neck with one hand, defensively.

“Sorry. I just, ah, came down for some water.” She swallows. Her hair is down, mused from tossing and turning. She is having trouble sleeping too, he surmises. Is she blushing? Hard to tell in this light. He likes it when she blushes.

“I'll have a glass if you're getting one.” He turns back to lean out the window again, thoughts returning to Spain for a moment. He drifts.

“Here.”

When he turns she is standing right behind him, holding a glass towards him. He is suddenly quite aware of the fact that he is wearing only underwear, and she, has a glass of water in each hand, leaving the neck of her robe to reveal a glimpse more than she normally would. There's nothing under the robe, he realises, and the idea is... intriguing. He swallows a sudden urge to lean down and delicately lick the tiny beads of sweat from the centre of her chest.

“What day is it?” He shifts his gaze from her cleavage, up to her face. She is blushing now. Has noticed him, noticing her.

“Sunday. No, Monday morning.”

“Ah. Should be getting the heat fixed in the morning then. Thank Christ for that.” He takes the glass of water from her, and drains it. Not realising how thirsty he was until the first swallow. As he leans over to place the glass on the table beside him, he realises she hasn't moved. He turns back to her slowly, knowing how she gets when he stands too close, like this.

“Molly.”

“Hmm?”

“Don't forget to breathe.”

As she opens her mouth and takes a breath, he takes her glass of water from her and places it on the table beside his, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, tucking it back behind her ear. His mind seems to be asleep, like he's hypnotized. She's looking up at him, those brown eyes wide, and a bit lost.

His hand remains, resting against her neck and jawbone, as she tilts her head to look up at him he leans down to press his lips to hers. What are you doing you fool? But the alarm bells seem distant, and she is right here, with those lovely little breasts pressed up against him, and the satin of her robe brushing against his nipples in a most delightful way. Oh god, he hasn't felt like this in years. Hasn't let himself want it.

Oh he's wanted Molly Hooper alright. Enough to make him angry and slightly irrational. Because he knows it can't work, and he doesn't want to hurt her, and more than anything, he wants her to be happy. And he can never make her happy. Not really.

But, oh gods, her arms are around him, and she's snogging him like her life depends on it.

He pulls his face away from hers, and opens his mouth to says this is a bad idea, but she cuts him off.

“No! I know what you're going to say, and I don't care. So just shut up and kiss me.” Then her fingers are wrapped in his damp hair, and she's pulling his face down towards hers again. He's drowning. In heat and kisses and want. Those things he keeps in a little wooden box, locked in the draw of an old fashioned desk, in a dark room, deep within his mind. He doesn't take them out very often. They are dangerous play things.

What he should do is apologize and go take a cold shower. But this thought only illuminates an image in his mind of Molly, standing under the shower in his bathroom, long strands of wet hair down her back, touching herself.

He moans softly against her lips, and moves his kisses down her jaw and neck, sliding a hand under the neck of her robe and pushing it back, half off her shoulder, so he can run his tongue along her collarbone. His other hand is at the back of her head, fingers curled in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of her neck. Her scent is unravelling him. The combination of her subtle womanly muskiness in this heat, the soap she uses, and her vanilla hand lotion combine to send lightning strikes from his brain, down through his core.

Her arms have embraced him, and fingers slide against his rain-wet back, leaving hot trails in their wake. He imagines steam might be rising off him. He lowers his kisses further, to her breast bone, bringing both hands to nudge aside the satin fabric and cup her breasts together gently so he can bury his face between them. She exhales a sigh at the contact, and then draws in a sharp breath as he takes one rosebud nipple into his mouth, playing it with his tongue to illicit a sweet moan from her.

She's running her hands through his hair over and over again, almost hypnotic, and though his hands leave her breasts, his mouth does not. His fingers roam up the backs of her thighs, until they encounter the swell of her buttocks, and his cock throbs with the realisation that she'd not wearing any underwear. He chokes back a sigh of “Fuck.” It comes out needy and wrecked, and he's on his knees before her, his nose pressed into the folds of her robe, right over her pelvic bone, drinking in the scent of her nectar.

He is distressed when she pulls away from him, but then she takes his hand and drags him, still on his knees, over to the couch. She's tugging the tie open on her robe, and tugging his underwear down, almost in one movement, and he's still on his knees, but she is bending low from her seated position, to wrap a hand around his length, and before he can react, her mouth is on him.

His mind just stops altogether for a moment there. Time stutters as the sensation engulfs him, and his next coherent thought is simple wonder at how he could ever have said that mouth was too small.

She pulls back to look at him for a moment, but he reaches for her immediately, pulling her to the edge of the couch and wrapping his arms around her. He brushes his nose and lips, so slowly, down the sweep of her neck, and smooths his hands down her back to clutch her ass, and draw their bodies against one another. His cock is so fucking hard right now, it's exquisite the way she's rubbing against him. He feels her breath on his shoulder, hot and quick, the way her thighs are gripping his waist. He won't last long like this.

He reaches down between them, exploring her. Focused on her breath and the little noises she's making. Finds the spot, and the right circular movement. Her knees spread further, inviting him in, and she's so wet. His sweet little Molly. She gasps and bucks against him as his longer fingers slide into her, and he almost goes over the edge at the sensation of her contracting around his fingers as he keeps up the circular motion with his thumb. She's tipping, shaking with the waves of pleasure rolling through her, and he can't, he just can't hold back any more.

He withdraws sticky fingers from her and grasps his cock, lining up and slamming into her. Thrusting hard, grabbing her hips, and her head is thrown back in ecstasy as she spasms and calls out his name. Her nails digging in to his back. Just three or four strokes inside her and he's coming. Messy and undone. She collapses back into the sofa, and he collapses into her, cheek to her chest, sweaty torsos pressed together, arms around each other.

His brain is all floaty and soft. He drifts away on a cloud of post-coital bliss.

* * * * *

 “Tea, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson's voice rattles him from sleep.

He's on the couch, curled up facing the wall. He feels sticky.

“Oh Sherlock! You've let the rain in!” She bustles over to shut the window. “The man will be here in an hour to fix the heating. You might want to put some clothes on.”

“Where's Molly?” He mutters sleepily.

“Molly Hooper dear? Isn't she away on holiday? Staying with Henry while her flat gets sprayed?”

Ah, shit.

He's awake now, but very determined not to roll over and let Mrs Hudson see the schoolboy mess he's made of his pants.

* * * * *

Chapter Text

Well, he certainly hadn't anticipated this.

Heat had risen in his cheeks, and his knees seemed to be made of some kind of jelly. Most peculiar.
The most off-putting thing of all though, was his brain, and the things it was spitting out. Like a sort of blender with the lid off, combined with a skipping record.

Molly's bare shoulder. A sensation of hands on skin. A whiff of vanilla hand lotion. A groan. And back to the shoulder. The weight of breasts in his hands. His cock...

Oh Christ, his cock. No no no no no. Think of something else. The life cycle of maggots. Yes. What kind of maggots? Errr....

Lips. Lips against his own. Heat and tongues...

No, just.... COME ON Sherlock, you can do this. For fuck's sake it was only a dream.

“Oh, good morning.” Molly looked up from her microscope, noticing he had entered the lab. She gave him a little smile. Those lips.....

He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. So he gave a little cough to cover it up and tried again.

“Good morning Molly.” Oh dear, that didn't come out right, a bit squeaky.

She looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Are you alright?”

He looked down at the slide she was studying, just so he could avoid looking her in the eye. Classic avoidance behaviour. He wanted to kick himself.

“Yes, yes. Fine. What do you have for me today?”

She gestured vaguely toward the other room, eyes turning back to the microscope. “Ms Fitzgerald. Heart failure. 63.”

As he swept out of the room, he could feel her eyes on his back. Nothing unusual about that. Except the way his stomach did a little flip in response.

* * * * *

221 Baker Street was quiet. Well, not “quiet” quiet. It was London quiet. An echo of traffic and distant sirens, a constant low rumble of the mechanisms of a large city. A suggestion of clockwork below the surface, like the hidden parts of a music box.

It was a week since the dream.

Sherlock had been to St Bart's four times. There had been no lessening of his response to Molly's presence. It was.... perplexing.

He registered the sound of a key in the lock, and John's footsteps on the stairs.

“Why aren't you dressed?” John was frowning at him from the doorway.

Sherlock was draped over the sofa, his cheek squished into the arm of the furniture. He lifted his head enough to speak one word.

“Tea.”

John just sighed, and headed into the kitchen. “Well, I am parched. You know if you'd changed your mind about coming out tonight, you could have said.”

Sherlock wasn't listening. He was still considering the Molly problem. How might he evict her from his thoughts? Distraction hadn't worked. As soon as he finished a case he went right back to thinking about her. So he had decided that desensitization was what he needed. He had taken the dream out of it's box, and reviewed it until he was chafed. The masturbation had been satisfying at first, but quickly paled into an uncomfortable sort of.... longing? Sadness? Was it... loneliness? Surely not. It was at this point that John had been in touch to ask if he wanted to come along to Lestrade's birthday celebration. He had no idea why he'd said yes.

He reached under the couch and retrieved a cigarette. Fumbled under the cushion for a lighter, and lit up, changing position so he was on his back with his feet up.

“You've actually got milk!” John called out from the kitchen.

“I'm not incapable of taking care of myself you know.” Sherlock grumbled in reply.

“Yeah, well, I'm not sure it's a good idea to keep it in close proximity to these mold experiments of yours.”

Good idea. Close proximity. Experiments.

As was often the case, John Watson was the catalyst for a solution, and he didn't even realize it.

“Is that...? Are you smoking?”

“Ran out of patches.”

John huffed at him in annoyance.

* * * * *

Sherlock felt oddly nervous in the cab to Lestrade's. Social gatherings didn't usually occasion nerves in him. Usually it was the dread of boredom resulting from inane conversation with idiots that drove him to distraction. And there were bound to be idiots in plentiful supply tonight.

But he was becoming more and more aware, that ever since his return from death, the people around him had changed. Or more precisely, the dynamics of his interactions with them had changed. Lestrade had hugged him, hugged him(!) when he had announced his not-dead-ness. And not only that, the D.I had continued to physically demonstrate a camaraderie that left Sherlock initially quite confused. Friendly little shoves and elbows, fake punches to the arm.... when he finally mentioned it to John, the good doctor was able to provide a workable theory for the emotional puzzle.

“Well, on the one hand I suppose he's sort of, making sure you're real. That you really are back. And I guess too that he might have been a bit lonely since the divorce and that. It really knocked him for six. Maybe you being back has given him a bit of hope that life isn't all wading through mud and shit. Or, you know, maybe he's gay for you.” This last was spoken through that cheeky Watson smile, and earned an eye-roll from Sherlock at the time.

So now here he was in a cab on the way to a birthday party. Because now he felt somehow that he owed Lestrade something. Some sort of social transaction type thing. Sentiment was so..... sentimental.

Yet here he was, looking forward to it.

And wondering if Molly would be there.

* * * * *

“Hi John. Sherlock! You came.” Lestrade was beaming at him.

He frowned back. “John suggests that I “need to get out more”, whatever that means.”

Lestrade just laughed and opened the door wider. “Come in, come in. End of the hall.” He already had a merry glow in his cheeks.

The “end of the hall” was an open plan kitchen and living area, dominated by a set of shelves full of stereo equipment and records. Sally Donovan stood with wine in one hand and record cover in the other chatting to Mike Stanford. Three men Sherlock didn't know stood in the kitchen talking animatedly, probably about sports judging from the hand gestures. On the couch sat Mary, clutching a glass of water, and Molly, with a large glass of white wine propped on her bare knee.

Sherlock clocked her from head to toe. A 1950's style dress with a full skirt in a bold floral print, dusky pink cardigan (too large) with a tissue tucked into the sleeve, one of those silly bows in her hair, teamed with flat sensible shoes. Always that strange combination of frivolity and practicality. She turned to stare at him with that unblinking stare, at precisely the same moment he was thinking what it might be like to slide his hand from her knee, up her thigh, and find out what sort of underwear she might be wearing.

His heart stuttered. He gave her a small smile of greeting and looked away, removing his scarf and coat as he did so. It was quite warm in here after the biting chill of the wind outside.

Several whiskeys later, he was standing at the kitchen counter when he watched her get up from the couch and make her way down the hall towards the bathroom. He put down his drink, and went to stand next to the bathroom door.

When she came out, she turned the corner and walked straight into him.

“Ow.” She reached up to rub her nose, which had bumped into his shoulder. “Sorry. Are you ok?”

For a fraction of a second, Sherlock considered if he would need to start this conversation with a bit of buttering-up in the way of personal chit-chat. He hit upon a combination of subjects that would bring him to the point quickly, since he really did need to use the bathroom.

He cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry about your engagement Molly.”

She inhaled sharply. Held her breathe. Then exhaled. “Was it the ring?”

“Not just the ring.” He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to let her know he had known for the last three weeks. Her hand was still on his arm, steadying herself. He leaned fractionally closer. Not enough to be noticed, just enough to encourage a confessional atmosphere.

“Do you miss the sex?”

“What? Oh...”

“You did say you were having a lot of sex. You and Tom. I understand the body becomes accustomed to certain chemicals in the brain produced by..”

“Yes. Yes I do miss it. Not sure if I miss him though. Might seem a bit callous I suppose.” That stare again. She always looked people in the eye. He could always rely on her honesty.

“You wouldn't have broken it off if you weren't having doubts. Trust yourself Molly.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. An echo of a previous kiss, though his own body was tingling from head to foot, and screaming at him to grab her and crush her to him, just to feel the heat of her body against his own.

He drew back, quickly composing himself, with a blink of his eyes.

“Molly, there's an experiment I require your help with.”

“An experiment?” She raised one eyebrow. “No, no, don't tell me now. We can discuss it on Monday, if you're coming in to Barts? My brain won't be so muddled then. A bit much Pinot Gris I'm afraid.” She gave a rueful little grin.

“Alright. It's a date.” He smiled winningly, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Molly shrugged and turned back towards the sounds of laughter and music.

* * * * *

Chapter Text

* * * * *

“Oh! I'm so sorry!”

It was the third time she had bumped into him. This time she paused in her work.

“Hang on. Why are you... hovering?”

It was true. He had been “hovering”. He was attempting to calculate his body's response to her proximity. But that wouldn't do.

“What perfume are you wearing?” He tried instead.

“I'm not wearing any.” She gave him a strange look, then sighed. “This is about your experiment isn't it? What's it about? And what do you want from me?” Her hands were on hips. That was better than being crossed in front of her. Less defensive, more.... confrontational.

I want you to suck my cock so I can determine if reality lives up to my dreams.

Instead he went with... “Molly, would you have dinner with me? Tonight? At Baker street.”

Molly's mouth opened and closed, twice, before anything came out. “What are you going to make me eat? And why?”

He laughed. “Dinner is not the experiment. I'll order in some take-out, so you needn't worry. Seven o'clock?”

She nodded slowly, but still looked puzzled. “What do I need to bring?”

“Some wine.”

“Nothing... experimenty?”

“No, just yourself.” It was hard for Sherlock not to smirk, but he succeeded in keeping his face carefully innocent.

Maybe leave the underwear at home.

As he stalked out of the lab, Molly's face was a mixture of hope and suspicion.

* * * * *

“Sherlock?”

He was just tucking his shirt in, long pale fingers smoothing the dark silk down, when Molly's voice drifted in. He froze.

“Sherlock? Are you here?”

“Ah, yes. Just a moment.” He took a deep breath, suddenly a bit anxious, and runs his fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower. He stepped through the doorway and down the short hall to the kitchen, where Molly was leaning against the sink, bottle of wine in hand.

She wore a wide necked jumper, a strange colour. Peach? Apricot? With little white polka dots. It revealed one smooth shoulder and a luscious expanse of collarbone, crossed by a slim black bra strap. Her black knee length skirt is a stretch knit fabric, the cheap kind, as are her tights, a not-quite-opaque charcoal. Shoes, good quality, tan leather ankle boots, brogue-style. She puts down the wine and pushes the sleeves of her jumper up to the elbows, gives him a little smile.

“Hello Molly.” He places a hand lightly on her shoulder and brushes his lips, calculatedly casual, across her cheek, quickly breaking contact and leaning past her to open the cupboard and pull out wine glasses.

Self observation: Lips, tingly. Pulse, slightly elevated.

Molly was very still for a few seconds.

“Um. I didn't know what we were having so I.... I bought a red and a white.” She was pulling another bottle of wine out of a plastic carry bag, lips quirked to the side in a half smile.

He attempted to mirror the smile. “Excellent. I've never looked into wine and food matching. Shall we start with the Sauv?”

“Yes, lets.”

As Sherlock was pouring very large measures for them both, Molly started going on about the staining effect of red wine on the mouths of corpses, and it's use in ancient embalming practices. This lead Sherlock to relate a murder case he had read about, which lead Molly to suggest a Youtube video, which led to another, and another, which was how they came to be sitting on the couch together watching a chimpanzee corpse being meticulously prepared for burial, when dinner arrived. Molly seemed to find this hilarious, and couldn't stop giggling. “Monkey glands.” She whispered as she bit into a spring roll. And that set Sherlock to sniggering too. As they drank wine and ate fried rice and sweet and sour pork, and talked of things that no one else would find to be suitable dinner table conversation, he forgot his experiment for a while, and simply enjoyed the company.

All it took to remind him of his goals, was the touch of Molly's thigh against his, as they sat down together to watch more videos.

“You've got a ladder in your stockings.” It was a hole the size of a penny, on the outside of her left knee. The ladder ran down to mid-calf, as well as up her thigh and under her skirt. When he was at school, the boys called it a stairway to heaven.

“Oh blast! Now that's going to annoy the hell out of me all night. How did I do that?” She ran a finger around and around the small hole, as if massaging the skin beneath. I'd like to do that for you. But instead he said “Why don't you take them off if it's that annoying?” He didn't look at her as he said it, focused instead on fiddling with the laptop on the coffee table.

She took a large swallow of wine, looking doubtful, but then she shrugged. “I guess so. It is pretty warm in here anyway.” And off to the bathroom she went. She returned tight-less and barefoot. She had pretty little feet with pink polished toes, which she tucked up under her on the couch. It made him think about how different tonight was, to the days he had spent holed up in her flat after his fall. They hadn't sat together on a couch then. They had hardly spent any time in the same room, even when they were in the same room, his head was buried in the work. What had changed so much? Between then and now? A few years? A dream? A simple dream had done this to him? How could that have shifted his perspective so much? Something that wasn't even real had turned him inside out. But... what if the dream wasn't the cause, but just a symptom?

“Molly, do you dream?” He turned to her, searching her face as she stared at the screen.

“You mean, when I'm asleep? Or when I'm awake?” She turned to face him, puzzled. Her face was slightly flushed with the alcohol. They were half way through the second bottle of wine.

“When you're asleep. How can you dream when you're awake? Do you mean daydreaming? That's not the same.” He shook his head.

“No, I guess that's more like fantasizing.” As soon as the word was out of her mouth, he saw her blush properly, though she just kept talking. “I thought you might mean, like, 'Having dreams' as in goals and ambitions and that.”

“No, I meant the nocturnal kind.” His voice had sneaked down into its lower register. Molly gulped.

“What do you dream about Molly.”

“What do you dream about Sherlock?”

I dream about running my hands up your thighs and plunging my fingers into you and making you moan and wriggle and call my name. I'm so hard in my dreams, I feel that I'll die if I don't sink into you and disappear inside you.

“I asked you first.”

She broke eye contact then, and looked down at her own hands. “Ordinary stuff mostly, I suppose. Sometimes I dream I'm running late for work.” After a pause, she went on. “After you went away, I had a dream where I saw you jump from the roof, but instead of falling, you flew. Sometimes I dreamed you had sneaked into my room and scared the living shit out of me, and I'd wake up suddenly and look around, but you were never there.”

“I'm here now.”

Silence stretched between them on gossamer threads. The point where her knee was touching his thigh seemed to burn, and when her eyes met his once more, he felt trapped.

Respiration rate rising. Blood flow increasing to the extremities.

“What do you dream?”

“Close your eyes, and I'll tell you.” His words came out in a whisper.

Molly's eyes widened, and then she closed them. As he leaned in to whisper in her ear, he slid a hand over her knee.

“I dream of you, Molly Hooper.”

* * * * *

Chapter Text

I dream of you Molly Hooper

It was more of a sigh than a sentence, and Molly replied with a sigh of her own. His mouth hovered just over her earlobe, his breath hot against her neck. He drew in minutely closer to press his lips to the spot just below her ear, and in that moment she seemed to melt. As if all the puppet strings she had used to hold herself upright, had all snapped and recoiled. Her forehead dropped to rest against his shoulder, and her own shoulders rose and fell as she inhaled him.

There they stayed for a long moment, just breathing against one another. He felt as if he were hovering on the edge of something, but didn't know if it was a fall or a flight.

If I could just stay here in this moment with you...

But Molly was tensing, straightening, pulling back to look him in the eye. Searching.

Whatever she found there, it didn't seem to be what she was looking for.

She turned away from him. “I'm sorry. I... I can't.... why are you doing this?” Her voice was tight with suppressed emotion.

“I need to know.” He stopped there.

I need to know the touch of your fingers on my spine, the taste of the skin behind your knees, the smell of you when you sleep.

But it was insane, wasn't it? To say those things...

She just sighed sadly and looked at him. “Sherlock, I'm not....an experiment. I'm fragile. I break.”

“But, you are the strongest woman I know.”

She looked confused, torn. Standing up from the couch, she crossed the room to pick up her bag, clutched it in front of her. “I think I should go.”

His chest constricted. She moved towards the door, and he stood to follow quickly after her. Her hand on the doorknob, she paused and turned with mouth open to speak. He moved in closer.

What if this was the last chance? Seized with a need for action, he slid his arms around her waist and shoulders, and kissed the words off her mouth. There was a split seconds resistance, and then she dropped her bag to the floor, her lips began to move against his own, and her arms rose up to hold his head in her hands, fingers moving against his skull. He moved into her until she fell back against the door, their bodies pressed together from thigh to lip.

The taste of her mouth was like nothing he could have imagined, and her tongue, so hot against his own, was kindling a fire in his pants. He groaned softly against her mouth as he felt his prick harden, and Molly responded, franticly pulling his shirt from his pants so she could slide her hands underneath the fabric and up his back, her fingers scrabbling against his skin as if looking for a way into his soul. Then she broke away from their kiss and shoved him back. But her fingers only went to the bottom of her jumper, whipping it up and over her head. Sherlock mirrored her actions, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it to the floor. He stared at her a moment, awed by her expression. Eyes dark and hungry, mouth parted, breathing heavy, a look almost of pain, of exquisite need. He wondered if his own face displayed his feelings of awe and dark desire.

Their bodies crashed back together, tearing wildly at one another. Belt, bra and shoes went flying. At last he fell to his knees before her. Naked to the waist, with his trousers undone, he placed a hand to the outside of each of her thighs and slid his fingers up under her skirt, grasping the elastic of her knickers, and tugging them down to her ankles. He thought it was about the hottest thing he had ever seen as she braced herself with hands against his shoulders and daintily stepped out of them.

Still on his knees, he wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her tightly to him, cheek pressed to the bare flesh of her stomach, his hair softly grazing her breasts. She bent over him, nuzzled her nose into his dark curls, and uttered one word in a low and throaty voice.

“Bedroom.”

* * * * *

Her skirt still on, hiked up to the top of her thighs now, she rode him. His mind was blissfully focused on this and this only. Molly rocking above him, clenching around him, invading his nostrils with her sent, and his ears with her sighs. This was no dream. This was painful reality, the sting of which, only heightened the pleasure. Sinking into her body had overwhelmed him, made him tremble. He couldn't breath. And then she had moved beneath him, and he gasped. After that, she took control. When he came, spilling into her, it was how he imagined the big bang. Everything expanding and contracting at once. He hid the small tear that appeared in each eye by pressing his face to her shoulder. They dozed like that for a while, tangled together, until he felt Molly shift away from him.

“I have to go, Sherlock.”

“I know.” He sighed and turned towards her. “No one can know about this.”

She didn't meet his eyes, but she nodded.

“I mean it. It could be very dangerous, if ...”

“Yeah, I know.” With that, she left.

* * * * *

For two weeks, they pretended nothing had happened. Sherlock immersed himself in a case. But when it was over and he finally went to bed, he fell straight into a dream about Molly that was so vivid, he awoke with cock already in hand, and her name on his lips.

The next day he saw her at Bart's and couldn't resist the urge to feel some part of her beneath his fingertips. So he casually placed his hand on her shoulder, on the pretext of reaching past her for a pen and paper. He let two fingers touch her neck. Lingered there. No one would notice. But she definitely did.

“Locker room. Five minutes.” She whispered, not even looking at him.

They fell on each other like starved wolves. Fast and dirty, she had him in the toilet cubicle, pants around his knees as she took him into her mouth and looked up at him. He almost blew it right there, from the look in her eyes.

* * * * *

Another month passed. They were both at a pub for some occasion. John's birthday? When they passed in the hallway to the back courtyard, he pressed a kiss to her neck, but left it at that.

A week later, he turned up at her apartment. She had been asleep, but as soon as she laid eyes on him she pulled him into her arms and just held him. She made him a cup of tea, which he didn't drink because he was too busy languidly exploring her sleep-warm body.

The day before Christmas eve she text him. “Give me something to get me through the holidays.”

At Baker Street, he laid her out on his bed and worshipped her with fingers and mouth. He fucked her slowly, and looking into her eyes, used his fingers to bring her to the brink. When she came, falling apart beneath him with a sob, it made him question everything that had come before.

“Was that the first time you....?”

“Yes.” Her voice small, reluctant. Ashamed perhaps.

He held her tightly, peppering her face with kisses. Feeling both honoured and afraid. Her limbs shook when she got up from the bed to go, and he didn't like the thought of her going out into the world trembling. So he pulled her back down into the bed with him, and held tight a little longer.

* * * * *

And after New Years....

“Sherlock, I can't do this any more.”

It hurt. But it wasn't unexpected. He steeled himself, to be understanding about it. To fix his mask in place.

“I've met someone. I want to try and have a real relationship. Someone I don't have to sneak around with and always question where I stand.”

“See, you are strong. Didn't I say?” He smiled at her then, grasping her by the shoulders. “I hope you'll be very happy Molly Hooper.” He pulled her into a hug, so she wouldn't see his mask slip and his lower lip shake.

* * * *

That night, he dreams of her again.

This time is very different.

They are old, grey haired and slow of movement. It's summertime. He is sitting on a bench under a tree. Dappled light dances around him, and she comes to sit beside him.

She takes his hand in hers and smiles.

* * * *

Chapter Text

An Interview with Dr Molly Hooper. Modern Love Magazine - 12^th August 2047. Sussex.

We interviewed Dr Molly Hooper, companion to the great detective Sherlock Holmes, on the subject of their enduring and unusual relationship.

Q: How are you enjoying your retirement Ms Hooper?

A: (laughs) Oh, you know. I'm busier than I thought I'd be. When I moved here to the cottage I thought it would be like being on holiday, but Sherlock keeps me on my toes!

Q: Does he? Does he still take on consulting work? Or is that all in the past now?

A: Oh, he gets requests now and again. Technology being what it is, he sometimes does virtual consulting for NSY. Less and less these days though. He's very interested in his bees, writing another book. I can't make head nor tail of it of course.

Q: Ms Hooper, you've had what some would call an “unconventional” relationship, haven't you?

A: Have I? I suppose you could put it that way. But then, what's “conventional” these days?

Q: Was it love at first sight for you and Sherlock Holmes?

A: (laughs) Oh I don't know about that, you'd have to ask him. He certainly rang my bell, but I was young then, in my twenties. I was sort of blown away by that big brain of his. Sort of, swept along in his wake. It was intoxicating to be around him, but exhausting. But that's not the sort of thing that lasts, and you don't realize that until you're older. “The first blush of lust” sort of thing.

Q: So when did the two of you actually get together?

A: Oh well, it wasn't... it was.... sort of...I don't know really. Oh, I could tell you when we first did the deed, but that's not really an indicator. It was something that sort of, simmered for a long time. I think we both tried to deny it was happening, because it wasn't turning out like either of us had expected. Back then, there were more expectations about what love was, and how a relationship should be.

Q: It's been said that the two of you were swingers?

A: Oh no! It wasn't like that! Ha! Lord no. I know people are very casual about that sort of thing now, but, no. Sherlock has always been.... compartmentalized, I suppose you'd call it. He and I, it was something he always kept separate for years. The work came first. It's a relief to be able to talk about it now, actually. After so long.

Q: So, the work always came first? Was that hard for you?

A: No. It was as it should be. I don't think I would have been able to forgive myself if he had given it up for my sake. He was never more attractive than when he was firing on all cylinders working a case. I think John was absolutely correct when he wrote that in his book.

Q: Speaking of John Watson, did he know what was going on between you and Sherlock for all those years?

A: No. At least, I don't think so. He's said he had no idea, and I can't think why he would lie about that.

Q: And how did you feel about those endless rumours about John and Sherlock?

A: Well, what's to say. John is a wonderful man, and he and Mary made a wonderful couple. I think it's sad that people can't accept that. But on the other hand, John and Sherlock had always had a very intense friendship, right from the start. And a lot of people don't understand that. They want to put it in a box that they can understand. I mean, someone sent me a link to some “fan fiction” years ago, and my god. I couldn't look John in the eye for weeks without blushing! John, if you're reading this... (laughs), I'm sorry! It's the most surreal thing, that kind of stuff, about people you know. I've steered well clear of it ever since.

Q: So, back to you and Sherlock. Why keep your relationship a secret for so long?

A: Well, I don't know if you've noticed, but Sherlock isn't like other men. (laughs) I think for years, neither of us knew what was really happening between us. We just seemed to fall into each others arms randomly, without there being any “relationship” to speak of. It was more like a series of extraordinary one night stands. I really didn't know how to explain what we were doing to myself, so how could I explain it to other people? It was easier not to try. And Sherlock, I guess Sherlock didn't want anyone to know either, because in his eyes, it made him vulnerable to anyone who would want to hurt him. He thought it would put me in danger. I think that just set the tone, and it carried on that way. Of course, it is very exciting, having a secret lover. (more laughter)

Q: Did you have doubts?

A: I went through a lot of confusion and self doubt at first. I broke it off on more than one occasion. I'd had such a huge crush on him for so long, that the reality was sort of a slap in the face. I expected him to break my heart at any moment. But I became ok with that. Or, not ok, but I accepted it as the price I paid for living in the moment. You know, for the longest time, I could see the expressions on peoples faces whenever Sherlock and I would interact in front of them. That whole “Poor Molly, she's hopelessly in love with Sherlock and he doesn't give a damn” thing. I'll admit, I'm not that good at acting like I don't care. It just became easier to let people think it was unrequited. Sherlock of course is brilliant at pretending to be cold and distant. It was his protection mechanism. Of course he was trying to protect me too.

But yes, I had doubts to begin with. It was unknown territory.

Q: I understand you dated other people?

A: Yes. It wasn't enough you see. When I was younger. I was still looking to settle down, and that was something I didn't think Sherlock would ever do. But no one else ever really...clicked. We still kept seeing each other whenever I wasn't seeing someone else. I didn't think about it at the time, but that was probably a bit cruel. I'm amazed Sherlock went along with it, now that I know how he feels.

Q: And how does he feel?

A: Well, I can't presume to speak for him. No, actually, maybe I can tell you something he said to me. Something that meant a great deal to me. It was, oh, about twenty years ago now. One morning, after he had sneaked into my flat in the night, he was sitting there just reading the newspaper. I was just heading out the door to go to work, when he stopped me and took my hand. I don't know what prompted him to say it, but he looked me in the eye and said “Molly, you know, there's no one else for me. You're it.” As simple as that. By the time I got to work, I'd realised it was true. There was no one else for me either. And you know, after that, everything got easier and easier.

Q: Easier?

A: Well, I finally began to accept things the way they were. I'd been seeing this man secretly for, oh, twelve years or something? We'd never lived together, we'd never been on a date. I had always been expecting something to change, when really they only thing that needed to change was me. After that I began to appreciate all the wonderful things about not living with the one you love! Really, I think that's been the secret to our longevity. If we had gone the traditional relationship path in our thirties or forties, we would have snuffed out like fireworks. I suppose if I'd been able to have children it might have been different, but really, I wouldn't trade in what we have now for anything.

Q: And how is it now that you are living together, after so long?

A: Oh well, Sherlock has his end of the cottage, and I have mine, and we meet up in the middle. So, you know, I still get the chance to miss him when he's squirrelled away doing experiments for days on end. He gets the chance to miss me when I'm off on lecture tours and all that. Although, I do have to get someone in to feed the cats. Still can't trust him to remember to do that.

Q:How was it that you did end up finally living together?

A: When Sherlock retired to the cottage, I was still working. We were sneaking around, back and forth, mostly out of habit. Then one day he realised, he wasn't making enemies any more, we didn't need to keep quiet. I took some time off work, spent more time with him at a stretch than I ever had before. We could both see how it could work for us, now that age had mellowed us both. It wasn't easy, transitioning to a normal, well, almost normal, style of relationship. There are still friends who haven't forgiven me for lying for all these years, and that's been hard. Some of them actually refuse to believe that I could have been shagging Sherlock Holmes on the side for thirty years and no one knew.

Q: Really? No one?

A: Well, one person knew. But he's gone now, and we don't like to speak ill of the dead. So best not go there.

Q: One final question Dr Hooper, what's the most romantic thing Sherlock has ever done for you?

A: Oh, I'd say coming back from the dead is right up there. (laughs) No, this is probably silly, but the truth is, (and I can't believe I'm admitting this), it's the dreams. He tells me about them.

Q: Dreams?

A: Yes. Sherlock Holmes dreams about me. He still does, after all this time.

At first he used to say he was searching for a cure, but I think he succumbed to the disease a long time ago.

* * * * *

END

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