The Only Drug I Need (Chapter 9)
REEEEEEEMMMMIIIIIXXXX! (aka Get on your Boots remix)
For this prompt on shkinkmeme:
Molly discovers, through use of a word, that Sherlock used to be a sub. At first she doesn't know what that means, but then she starts to take advantage of it.
Bonus points if she does it while he's in the lab acting like an ass to her.
Disclaimers:
SO NOT MINE. I pray that Gatiss and Moffatt do not release the lawyers of war upon my ass. I am not part of the BDSM scene, but I got knowledge from the Internet and friends. Everything is unbeta'd, but it was edited by me. If you find errors, please let me know.
Definitely not safe for work. Not safe for children. Really, not safe period. If your computer starts on fire, it's not my fault.
If you're new, go check out Chapter 1
Comments are love and I am a hooooor.
This wasn’t the first time Molly had been used by someone. The first time she was ten -- a supposed friend named Angela Mays pretended to like her just to get answers for their science homework. The last one was -- well, Jim. The less Molly thought about that, the better, really.
But Sherlock hurt the most, even though his action surprised her the least. Maybe it was because Molly felt she deserved it for letting him in -- she knew he plied her with flattery and smiles to get access to the morgue and the lab. This time Sherlock left in the night, with no note, no text to greet her in the morning once he got whatever it was that he wanted (What did he want? A distraction? Proof of a point?).
At least Jim had the courtesy to pretend to like her and watch Glee with her.
Not to mention the fact that she committed one of the bigger sins of the lifestyle. You never have a scene while intoxicated, she scolded herself. Dominants don’t lose control like that. And she never should’ve said Sherlock’s real name during a scene. She should’ve been strong enough to turn him away, instead of making some weak excuses.
Without a doubt, she was probably the worst dominant in existence, Molly berated herself. She got too close and got burned. No more, she thought. Never again.
She showered, scrubbing off all traces of him (but with a different shower gel than the one from last night), stripped the bed of its sheets and made the bed. After texting her friends to say she’d meet them for brunch to tell them the whole sordid mess, she messaged Sherlock, before blocking his number on her mobile.
Toxicology. Do not contact me again. If you want something from the morgue, contact Edwin Norris.
Sometimes to break an addiction, one must go cold turkey, she thought to herself as she bounded out the door.
~*~
Brunch helped soothe Molly’s wounds as her friends listened sympathetically to the tale of the one-nighter gone horribly awry. They all agreed that she did the right thing in telling that weirdo never to contact her again, as well as foisting the person off on Norris, who was a twit.
Being a brunch with the girls, they started having mimosas. Which transitioned into Bloody Marys. The tipsy group then decided to distract themselves with an afternoon matinee -- something action-filled with too many plot holes and not enough of shirtless Jason Statham.
By then it was evening, so dinner was a quick run to the fish and chip shop where they bemoaned the fact that Jason Statham was not shirtless enough in the movie they saw. Since it was Sunday night, the group headed to their respective homes earlier than the previous night.
Bless good friends, Molly thought to herself as she headed home, humming Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” under her breath. They helped soothe her wounded pride for a bit. Even though it was tempting to check and see if Sherlock e-mailed or texted her, Molly battled the urge.
“The scars of your love remind me of us, they keep me thinking that we could‘ve had it all,” Molly sang under her breath as she fed Toby, scratching him behind the ears as he ate and relishing his purr.
After feeding him, Molly headed to the bath with a good book and then headed for bed. In the back of her mind, she wondered if Sherlock got the message and what he would do, but she tried not to dwell on it.
Instead, she tried to focus on other things -- the lyrics to “Rolling in the Deep,” work, the fact that Jason Statham needed to make more movies and wear less clothing -- anything to keep her mind off of the way Sherlock’s hands slid over her skin, the affectionate look in his eyes or how electric his kiss was.
Then her stomach lurched and she felt a pressure on her bowels. Molly bolted up and staggered into the bathroom. Making it to the toilet in the nick of time, she chuckled bitterly as the first wave of diarrhoea hit.
Worst. Weekend. Ever. she thought as she felt her legs go weak and a wave of nausea slammed her. Someone may as well stab me in the neck now. I’m living Bridget Jones’ Diary. Only in a more pathetic form.
~*~
The last time Molly was this ill was back in college. She had celebrated the end of exams with her friends and overdid things. For two days, she had snuggled up to her dorm toilet, accepting glasses of water from friends as her body purged alcohol from her system. After that, she never drank tequila again.
This time, she knew it wasn’t just alcohol that was wreaking havoc on her system. But in her mind, she really didn’t care, given that the end result was the same -- a puking, shitting mess. Molly found it safer to sleep next to the toilet, the small bath rug being used as a makeshift pillow and her towel as a blanket.
With everything that had happened that night, it was some of the most restful sleep she ever had. The cool press of the tile against her cheek comforted her and the towel was warmer than she expected. And it was a quick movement to get to the toilet, should another round of puking or something worse occur.
Off in the distance, she could hear the faint buzzing of her mobile -- no doubt her friends were suffering the same predicament, she thought once, before dozing off again. Toby came in once, sniffed her, then left the bathroom with a flick of his tail in disgust.
Mostly Molly slept in the bathroom. It’s surprising how exhausting diarrhoea and vomit can be. Time became fuzzy for her as she slept for what seemed to be hours at a time with a few breaks between to use the toilet for one explosion or another. The entire episode continued on in intervals until there was nothing left but dry heaves and stomach cramps.
Some time later, she heard the door open and a set of solid footsteps enter her flat. Toby let out a curious meow, but then was quiet.
Great. Now I’m going to be robbed, possibly raped and probably murdered. Fantastic. she thought, before closing her eyes again.
The footsteps grew closer and then she heard the bathroom door open. “Molly,” she heard a familiar voice say. It wasn’t a question.
What Molly meant to say was: “Sherlock, how the bloody hell did you get into my house?” What came out was a soft groan as she opened her eyes for a moment to focus on him. All she saw was his legs before her eyes slid shut again with the desire to sleep. Then she heard Sherlock tapping away on his mobile before sleep overcame her.
~*~
“She’s fine Sherlock. Just a bad case of food poisoning,” Molly opened her eyes to see John checking her vitals.
“I could have told you that,” Molly wanted to say from her position on the bathroom floor. Instead something like “Grrrrrnnnnnnnggggg,” came from her.
John smiled slightly. “She’s awake and somewhat coherent at least,” he said. “Now, she just needs rest and some fluids -- I get the sense that she’s lost a lot of them thanks to this mess.”
“Easy enough,” Sherlock said. “I’ll stay here.”
“Why?” Molly asked. Her mouth felt like cotton and tasted like bile. It was a terrible sensation.
“Between cases,” Sherlock replied, quickly glancing down at her, finally acknowledging her existence. “It’s not a problem.” He and John left the bathroom and she could hear some talking between the two, but Molly couldn’t make out what they were saying. Instead, she rolled over, pulling the towel around her like a blanket.
Her throat was sore from throwing up and every muscle ached. She knew she looked horrifying, but was too tired to care. Her emotions were a roiling mix of humiliation, anger, surprise and curiosity, but she was too weary to do much about them.
After a few minutes, Sherlock re-entered the bathroom. He slid down to sit next to her, brushing the hair out of her face.
She closed her eyes, not wanting to read his expression.
Fingers carded through her hair, which was caked with sweat and bits of other things she didn’t want to contemplate. Then they left her. She could faintly hear Sherlock stand, then the sound of running water.
She felt his arms slide around her torso and pull her into a sitting position, before gently pulling her pyjama top up and off of her. Next, she felt him tug at the waistband of her panties, pulling them off of her.
Before she could issue a protest, Sherlock scooped her up with more strength than she imagined and deposited her in the tub. Molly let out a small sigh as warm water enveloped her. She could feel Sherlock’s fingers tip her head back and warm water run through her hair.
Her nostrils filled with the scent of her shampoo as she felt his fingers massage her scalp. Even though she tried to stop it, a small smile spread across her face. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had washed her hair that wasn’t her stylist. Perhaps it was when she was a child and her mum would wash her hair. Then she grew older and started doing things for herself.
Sherlock tipped her head back and she could feel the warm water running through her hair, as one hand massaged her scalp. She sighed again she felt a soapy washrag rub her skin, dipping down under the water, cleansing her. Then there was the warm water pouring over her again.
Next was her facial scrub, which he applied and massaged into her face briefly, before using the washrag to rinse her face.
Then she heard the water drain out of the tub. She opened her eyes and just saw him looking back at her with concern as he wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Please stand,” he said.
Even though her legs were as shaky as a colt’s, Molly managed to step out of the tub.
Molly stood still as he took a fresh towel and rubbed her skin down, gently drying her. He wrapped the towel around her head, rubbing her hair. Grabbing her brush, Sherlock combed her hair. Molly smiled, enjoying the tugging sensation as well as the feeling being clean after who-knows-how-long on the bathroom floor.
Once that was done, Sherlock left the bathroom, only to return with her bathrobe, wrapping it around her. He led her to the living room, settling her on the sofa, stretching her legs out so she was reclining comfortably.
“Just relax,” he said. “I’m going to get you a glass of water.”
Molly closed her eyes, feeling very confused as to what was occurring. Several questions swirled through her head: How on earth did Sherlock get into her house? What day was it? Why was Sherlock here? Did he need access to the morgue? Did Norris attempt to attack him with a postmortem hammer and he was seeking refuge here? Was he high again?
Sherlock returned with a glass of juice and a mug of tea for him on a tray. “Drink this,” he instructed, handing her the juice.
Molly sniffed the juice.
“For pity’s sake, it’s fine,” Sherlock said, grabbing the remote while he shifted her legs to make room for him on the sofa. In the end, her legs draped across his lap as he turned on the telly. “I didn’t put anything in it.”
Molly sipped the juice, which tasted better than it should have. “What day is it?” Even with the juice, her eyes felt heavy and she just had the urge to sleep again.
“Tuesday,” Sherlock replied as he opened the menu for her DVR and started an episode of Glee. “It’s 4:53 in the evening.”
“Oh.” Molly said softly, then leaned her head against the sofa, drifting off again to sleep as theme started.
~*~
“How on earth does a choir in America afford all these costumes? And how on earth does their auditorium have a rain machine?”
Molly cracked open one eye to see Sherlock, staring at the screen, his face screwed up in frustration as New Directions, along with their substitute teacher Holly Holiday, danced and sang around to a mash-up of “Umbrella” and “Singing in the Rain.”
It was night and the lights were out in the flat. The telly offered the only glow and she could see Sherlock’s face in profile as the screen images flickered on his face. He was still on a sliver of sofa, folded up with his arms wrapped around his knees.
“It’s a television show,” she said slowly. “The entire premise is basically a bit of fluffy fantasy.”
Sherlock handed her a glass of juice. “Sip,” he ordered. “It makes no sense,” he muttered. “If this is the American educational system, that explains everything about their society.”
Molly snorted. “It’s fantasy. Fluff. Not real,” she said, sipping again.
“I mean,” Sherlock continued, as if she hadn’t said a thing, “how on earth do they not realize that Rachel is perhaps the best singer they have? Why do they insist on battling over solos when she’s clearly the genius? Why is she the target of everyone‘s ire when she‘s obviously the most talented one of the bunch?”
Molly suppressed a giggle. Even though she was surprised that he was ensnared in the show, she wasn’t surprised that he would identify with Rachel.
“What was that for?” she suddenly felt his gaze on her.
“What?”
“The near-giggle,” he said. “Out with it. You think I’m Rachel don’t you?”
Molly simply smiled and sipped her juice.
He huffed for a moment, as the cast froze on screen with their umbrellas and the credits came on.
“Don’t pout,” Molly said softly. “Besides, who’s John?”
“The football player -- Finn,” was the immediate response. It was interesting to see. Sherlock’s mind was engaged and it was obvious they were playing a game together.
“So you’re saying there’s sexual tension between you and him and you’d fancy snogging him?”
Sherlock snorted. “I do not fancy kissing John,” he said. It was clear that he wanted to say something else, but restrained himself. “This is merely about personality traits, not some sort of storyline narrative.”
Molly grinned. “Fine,” she said. “What about Sergeant Donovan?” She remembered her from coming to pick up reports at the morgue. Molly thought she was fine, but apparently those two didn’t get along. It’s funny how quickly gossip filtered down to the morgue at times.
“Santana,” he said. “She’s just an odious person.”
“That forensics person -- Anderson?”
Another snort. “Simple -- Brittany.”
Molly began laughing. Of course he would see the two biggest antagonists in his life as the cheerleading squad. “How about Inspector Lestrade?”
“Mr. Schuster,” he said with utter sincerity. “He’s got to keep an eye on everyone. He thinks he has control, but really, he doesn’t. Which is why Rachel is not getting the solos she obviously deserves.”
There was another peal of laughter from Molly.
“You do think this is funny don’t you?” Sherlock huffed. “Sip your juice. Are you feeling better?”
Molly sipped her juice. “A bit,” she said, “But I’m also feeling tired.”
He nodded. “Don’t you want to know who I think you are?”
Molly shook her head. She knew as well as he did that he’d say Mercedes -- the one who was always relegated to the background and had two disastrous attempts at romance. One with someone who was using her to get to someone else and the other -- well, he was here with her.
“Just start another episode,” she said, handing him the glass. “I’m tired.”
She could feel him dissecting her with his stare, but didn’t really care. After a long silence, Sherlock started the episode and Molly pulled the blanket around her, letting the show lull her to sleep.
~*~
Sunlight streamed into the room, warming Molly’s face. She slowly opened her eyes and realized that she was in bed. Toby was nowhere to be seen, but there was a warm weight next to her in bed.
Rolling over, she looked to see Sherlock, sleeping above the blankets, one arm draped lazily over her.
Apparently after she had fallen asleep for the night, Sherlock carried her to bed. Then fell asleep himself, Molly guessed.
Things were definitely odd, she thought to herself.
“Good morning,” Sherlock’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts.
“Morning,” she studied him. His hair was a bit dishevelled and his shirt was wrinkled from him sleeping in it. She assumed his neat trousers were also a wrinkled mess. She could feel his arm tighten around her as he slid over to her.
“Feeling better?” he studied her intently.
Molly blushed. It would be so easy to kiss him right now. “Yes, thank you,” she said. She could easily picture pulling him close to her, sliding her hands through his hair as she nibbled on his neck. His hands would glide under the blankets, undoing the sash of her robe before his hands --
Molly blinked and forced those thoughts out of her head. As tempting as it was, questions had to be answered. “You have to answer some questions for me,” she said matter-of-factly.
He snuggled in closer. “Before coffee?”
“Yes,” Molly could tell she was getting her master tone, but didn’t care. “How did you get into my apartment?”
“Picked the lock.” Sherlock was very matter-of-fact about the entire situation.
“Why?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I got your message about not contacting you again and wanted to speak with you. When I visited the morgue on Monday, they said they hadn’t heard from you. I stopped by again on Tuesday and you weren’t there, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”
Molly sighed. Of course he would do that. And not think anything was wrong about it.
“Why did you leave after we --” her voice trailed off.
“I was a little unsettled,” he said. “I thought it was play and you used my real name, and not my other name. I needed to figure out a few things.”
Sherlock moved on top of her, so only the blanket was separating the two of them. “What I figured out --” he said, staring at her, “Was that I’m willing to forgive that, because really --” he lightly kissed her brow. “I would like to continue our arrangement.” There were two kisses on her eyelids, then a kiss on her nose. “Really, you‘ve been a most accommodating domme.” Then his lips connected with hers.
It was addictive, Molly faintly thought as her mouth opened automatically under his and their tongues slipped and swirled in each other’s mouths. She could have done this all day. One of his hands dipped below the duvet to stroke her skin and that’s when she jolted back to reality.
She slid her hands to his chest and gently pushed him back. “Ease your storm,” she said huskily.
It worked. Sherlock stopped long enough to pull back and she nudged him off of her. “Pardon?” He looked very, very confused, which also worked for Molly. Unsettling Sherlock probably would never get old for her. Even if this arrangement ended.
She sat up, wrapping the blankets around her like a shield. “I can’t do this.” Molly said. “I am not willing to settle for your scraps.”
“But I just said that I wanted to continue this,” he replied. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Molly shook her head. “Do you realize how often you’ve used flattery, sweet words and other things to get what you want? Which is usually access to the morgue? How do I know you’re not doing that now?”
“Why on earth would I stay overnight, watch Glee, clean you up from that mess and make sure you drank your fluids?” Sherlock looked practically petulant. It reminded her of previous boyfriends who looked put out when she said she wasn’t in the mood. The only thing missing was the phrase, But I bought dinner.
“Because you’re between cases and need a project,” she said. Before he could continue, Molly cut him off. “Do you realize I’ve fancied you for so long that I was willing to let you do anything -- take home body parts, whip bodies with a riding crop -- just so you’d notice me? I was ready to let that be enough.
“Then this all happened, and I remember you saying that it was a way to get over my ‘silly itch and stop mooning over you like a lovesick schoolgirl,’ and it didn’t. It made me want you more. I was willing to settle for whatever you gave me and I still am.”
Molly took a deep breath, realizing that this had been forming in the back of her mind for awhile now. “And that is why I am not going to do that. I deserve more,” she said. “After all that, I don’t believe you when you say you all those pretty words. I want to -- but I’ve had so many people tell me that including --” her hands made a useless gesture, “him. And you’re about as bad as him in using whatever you can to get what you want. Part of me believes you’re willing to sleep with me right now just to get back into my good graces so you don’t have to find another domme who’s willing to tolerate you.
“I know I cocked up that night -- but we both broke certain rules. Neither of us should’ve had a play session while utterly shitfaced,” she continued. “And to vanish in the morning and not even with a note like ‘Sorry, we need to talk later'? That’s just amazingly rude. Communication is key in this arrangement and you’re absolute bollocks at it.”
To his credit, Sherlock didn’t protest or look scandalized. “I see,” he said. “Is there any way I can change your mind?’
“First of all, don’t break into my flat,” she said. “If I wasn’t a puking mess on the floor, I would have called Scotland Yard and you would’ve had to deal with all those coppers who dislike you so much handling this situation.”
Sherlock winced. “You are a harsh one.”
“I was your mistress.”
“Would you still be?” there was a slight twinge of hope in his voice.
Molly thought it over. “I don’t know,” she said. “You‘re going to have to communicate more clearly what’s going on in that pretty head with me if I‘m even to consider it.”
She could see his mouth open in protest, but Molly cut him off. “And no, don’t say that you’re perfectly clear in communication -- maybe for you Mr. I’m Too Smart for Everyone -- but to me, I’m at least two steps behind you. You are going to have to come down to my level.”
He nodded.
A feeling of relief washed over Molly. It was terrifying telling him her stance, but once it was done, it was liberating. She wasn’t quite sure what his next move would be, but at least she said her piece, instead of swallowing her words.
“Do you feel up for eating something?” Sherlock asked, shifting off the bed.
Molly nodded.
“Stay there,” he said. “I’ll get it for you.”
She waited a moment after he left before she got out of bed and closed the bedroom door. Her legs were still a little shaky, but nothing too bad. Removing the robe, Molly pulled on a clean t-shirt and pyjama pants, then headed out to the kitchen.
“I told you to remain in bed,” Sherlock said, while rummaging through her cabinets. “You’re still ill.”
“I feel fine,” she replied, sliding into a chair and watching him. “Right now I’m worried about work.”
“Doctor’s excuse,” he replied, just as the toast popped. Rummaging around in a drawer, he found the butter knife and began spreading butter on the toast. “John notified them of the food poisoning and said you should be back on duty in a day or two.”
He slid the plate in front of her. “Eat,” he said. “Let’s see if this comes up or not.”
Molly bit into the toast and an audible moan escaped her lips as she tasted the bread, slightly nutty with its whole-grain texture, and the butter, salty and unctuous. She glanced up, seeing Sherlock’s bemused expression.
“It’s been two days of not eating solid food,” she said, blushing slightly. “This tastes better than sex right now.”
He nodded, the bemused look melting into a grin. Grabbing a glass, he opened the fridge and got the juice out, pouring her a glass, then draped himself in the seat across from her.
“Ease your storm?” he asked, as she munched on the toast. “Donne?”
Molly could feel her lips quirk up into a smile. “No,” she said.
“The Illiad?”
A giggle escaped her as she saw Sherlock‘s brow knit in frustration. “No, but kind of close.”
“Are you making this a game?” he stared at her intently, seeking some sort of clue.
“Maybe.” Molly wondered why she suddenly found herself bending to his will. It was inevitable, she guessed. He just had a way of shaping the universe to his whims.
His eyes began to sparkle and his grin became unsettling. “What do I get if I win?”
Molly chewed her toast and thought for a bit. “Two hours of play time,” she said. “If you want it that badly, you have to work for it.”
Sherlock’s grin became practically maniacal. “You’re on,” he said. “And it better be more than cleaning your flat or fixing you tea.”
She smiled angelically. “No promises. You get play time. That’s good enough.”
The rest of her breakfast was peppered with Sherlock tossing out various ideas of where the source of her quote could have been from.
Once she was done, Molly handed Sherlock his coat. “You’d best be going,” she said.
He put on his coat. “Whitman?”
“No,” she said, leading him to the door. “I’ll see you later Sherlock.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, digging his heels into the floor.
“I will be fine,” Molly said, tucking his scarf into his coat. “Now go.”
He nodded. “If I do not see you at the morgue tomorrow, I am breaking in your flat again.”
“And I will call the Yard,” Molly replied, gently pushing him out the door. “See you later Sherlock.”
As she closed the door, she heard him say, “Dante Alighieri?”
“Goodbye Sherlock.”
~*~
After Sherlock left, Molly puttered around her flat, tidying up, but mostly lost in thought. His impromptu visit made her realize that, as of this moment, he was terrible relationship material. Definitely not the prince her more romantic notions wanted.
After all, he broke into her flat to have a conversation with her. Who knows what else he’d do if he really got bored? She had terrifying visions of him popping into her workplace at all hours or showing up at a girls’ night out high on some substance if she didn’t answer a text message in time. She saw how well that worked out last time.
Not to mention the fact that if a case did get his attention, she knew he’d be gone -- for days, possibly weeks at a time. The entire incident with Jim and the pool also drove home the fact that he was always going to court danger. Any semblance of peace and quiet would be a false one at best.
Dating Sherlock Holmes would be like trying to wrangle a toddler -- just a large empty pit of need and nothing given back -- Molly cynically thought to herself.
Besides, this wasn’t a relationship, she reminded herself. This was an arrangement. Knowing Sherlock, the whole reason he agreed was based on convenience -- he’d have access to the morgue, a willing assistant and some of his darker urges taken care of. It was like one-stop kinky shopping really.
But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t potential for something enjoyable, she also thought. At least he began to see her in a new light and with a bit more respect than before. That was definitely better. Include the mind-blowing sex, coupled with the heady rush knowing that he gave her the power to control him, and Molly realized that she was definitely ahead of where she was months ago.
It might not have been the ideal relationship that she fantasized about long ago, but she also realized what she had now suited her just fine.
~*~
Molly’s return to work was less than peaceful. Since the lab was down a person for three days, things had piled up and Norris was grousing on about how he had to deal with Sherlock’s never ending questions and condescending behaviour.
“He’s been nothing but a pain in the arse,” Norris muttered. “Kept coming by asking about your whereabouts, then getting snippy with me when I said I assumed you were sick. Honestly, I have no idea why we tolerate that man. If I had half the mind, I’d file a report with human resources for the harassment -”
“You know we can’t,” Molly interrupted. “He’s got clearance from the top. Access to the morgue and its resources. I don’t know why, but he does.”
“Still,” Norris huffed. “It’s quite unfair and you’d think for a non-staff member he’d be more polite --”
Norris’ ranting faded into the background for Molly as she worked on catching up with the backlog. Her supervisor and coworkers were sympathetic to her plight, but it was also clear they were glad to have her back on the job.
Towards the end of the day, just as Molly was finishing up the last of her backlog, she heard the lab door open. Spinning her chair around, she saw Sherlock stride into the room, pointedly ignoring Norris.
“Hullo Sherlock,” she said.
“Afternoon,” he said, wandering over to her. “I‘m glad to see you‘re feeling better.”
“Thank you,” Molly looked up at him. “What can I do for you today?”
Sherlock’s head dipped down to her and she suddenly felt vulnerable under his gaze. Molly’s eyes darted over to see Norris staring at them, puzzled and curious.
“Clash of the Titans, the most recent version of the film,” he said in a low voice as his expression changed to something more playful. “I am still aghast at how they butchered Greek mythology.”
She bit her lip to keep from giggling. “Very good,” she replied after a long moment. “Do you want to double your time?”
“Yes Miss,” he replied carefully.
“What song did The Warblers perform at Sectionals ?”
Sherlock snorted. “Simple. Hey Soul Sister,” he replied. “You wanted me to win that one.”
Molly smiled. “Mayhap,” she said. “I will message you the details.”
“Thank you Miss,” Sherlock said softly, then briskly turned around and left the lab.
There was a long silence as Norris stared at Molly. “He just gets odder and odder,” the man finally said before returning to his work.
Molly smiled to herself, then returned to her report, her mind spinning different ideas.
~*~
By the time Jeremy Clarkson was taking the Ford Festiva through a car chase in a shopping centre, Sherlock was practically twitching next to Molly, which made her smile.
She was sprawled across the sofa, her legs draped over him, and he was gently massaging her feet as they watched a couple episodes of Top Gear. She could feel his cock gently moving against her foot, and she lazily traced a toe up and down his shaft.
He stopped rubbing her feet and she could hear a sharp intake of breath as bad guy’s Corvette slammed into a kiosk. She glanced over at him.
“Did I say you could stop?” she said sweetly.
“No Miss,” he murmured, half distracted, but the massage resumed.
She couldn’t help but grin. He was twitching with anticipation when she let him into her flat, greeting him with a chaste kiss. No doubt he had expect his reward immediately, but Molly had been spinning this scene for awhile in her head and she wanted to wind him up a bit. True, she made him strip naked and kneel at her feet as she fed him Chinese takeaway for a late lunch, but that was more of a power play in her mind. Besides, he looked so skinny that he needed a few dumplings. After light conversation, they settled to watch a couple episodes of Top Gear.
Sprinkle in a few sweet kisses here, the slide of a foot up a naked thigh and he was getting wound up simply from mind games. It was something easily recognizable -- a slight hitch of the hips, the forced nonchalance and an occasional shaky breath. All men were pretty easy to read in that area, Molly realized.
It was sublime knowing she had him rattled, she decided as Clarkson’s Fiesta stormed the beach with the Royal Marines to the sound of the 1812 Overture.
“You were expecting your reward right away Pup?” she teased, leaning over to whisper in his ear.
He nodded, shifting in his seat.
“Patience boy,” she murmured, before taking an earlobe between her teeth and nibbling slightly. “After this, you’ll get your reward.”
Sherlock twitched slightly and nodded, just as Clarkson said, “And on that bombshell, goodnight!”
Molly smiled brightly at him as she sat up. “Are you ready?”
He nodded again, eyes bright with anticipation.
“Good,” she said. “Now I’m going to change and get some things. Kneel and wait for me.”
“Yes Miss.”
Molly headed into her room and undressed. She pulled on a magenta slip with a black lace overlay that ended in a bit of ruffles that could be called a skirt, if one was liberal about their use of the word. Pulling on thigh-high stockings, Molly fastened them to the attached garters, before sliding her feet into a pair of black stilettos. As a final touch, she piled her hair up in a messy bun fastened by a few hairpins.
She then grabbed a set of handcuffs, silk scarves and condom before sauntering out of her room. It was high time she got one of her fantasies fulfilled.
He was kneeling in the middle of the living room, head pressed down on the floor and arms loosely at his sides. Molly bit her lip marvelling at his flexibility. She was definitely going to have to use that later. Maybe with some rope.
Molly prowled up to him, gently running her hand along his back and shoulders. “Do you know why I let you win the game?” she purred.
“No Miss,” Sherlock said, head still facing down.
Molly pulled his arms behind him and put the cuffs on him, locking them. “You can look up now Pup,” she said.
His eyes lit up when he took in her appearance. She could see him calculating various things -- what her outfit was made of, the perfume she wore, the height of her heels. But she also saw the logic battling the primal want his body was displaying.
“That’s why,” she said as she led him to the kitchen table. “I love how you look at me. That lust in your eyes makes up for your attitude in public. What does that look signify Pup?“
“That I’m yours,” he replied.
That was another thing that wasn‘t going to get old for her, even if it was just a script. “Don’t you forget that,” Molly grinned. “Now kneel boy.”
He did as she asked and with some assistance, she bound his legs with the scarves, ensuring that his legs would be immobile and stuck in a kneeling position. Crouching to his level, Molly removed the hairpins from her bun and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.
She leaned forward, kissing him. His mouth opened under hers with a groan and she nearly lost herself for a moment in the intoxicating kiss.
Focus Molly, she told herself, as she slipped the hairpins and a condom in his hands.
Molly hopped up on the kitchen table, so Sherlock’s face was at the perfect level with her sex. She noticed his smirk and could feel his hot breath along her thighs.
“You know,” she said conversationally, sliding her fingers along her thighs, “After our first encounter, I thought about you, bound like and your head between my legs. Because I like taking what I can from my toy.”
She traced his lips with her fingers and his mouth parted, tongue sliding out to attempt to lick her. Molly pulled her fingers away from him. “Patience boy,” she said, before continuing. “But I also know you and that you like a puzzle. Your challenge Pup,” she said, sliding her nails down his back and shuffling a bit to get closer to him, “is to get out of those cuffs with the hairpins I gave you.
“However, you also have another task and that is pleasuring me with your mouth. If you break out, there’s the condom and I will offer relief from your --” she arched an eyebrow, “condition.”
He rubbed his cheek against her thigh and Molly let out a gasp as he replied, “Yes Miss.”
It wasn’t going to take him much really, Molly knew. She had been humming with anticipation of their appointment. Even though she had taken matters into her own hands twice before he arrived, it still wasn’t enough. It anything, it just made things worse.
His tongue gently lapped at her and she could hear him chuckle quietly. Her fingers wound through his hair, pulling him closer as he nuzzled her. Molly’s back arched and she rested her legs on his shoulders briefly before his teeth gently nipped at her thighs, causing her to dig the heels into his back. He was probably going to have bruises later because of that, she thought.
She could see he wasn’t fumbling at the locks quite yet -- his fingers were working to get the hairpins in the right place to begin working on them. Then he began sucking gently on her clit and her mind flew away from the whole situation.
Molly fell back on the table, arching her back and letting out low groans as his tongue teased that nub, her hips rolling in rhythm to his ministrations.
“Oh fuck,” she moaned as she lost the last shred of composure she had as the first orgasm hit her. Molly’s heels dug into his back as she locked her legs, letting out a loud moan as each wave slammed into her. She ground her hips into his face, her hands gripping his hair as she let out incoherent moans and shrieks of pleasure.
Faintly, distantly, she could hear the cuffs hit the ground. Sherlock didn’t stop sucking on her clit, driving on another orgasm as he cleaned her. She could feel his arms moving to untie the scarves. Then he pulled away and stood.
Molly let out a soft moan of loss, until she heard him rip open the condom. She could feel his incendiary gaze on her as he spread her legs. One hand ran down her torso, tweaking at a nipple and she let out a gasp, her eyes flashing open.
“I win,” he said, his other hand spreading her legs further, before thrusting into her.
“Yes,” she moaned as she sat up to meet him halfway, lips tangling in a kiss as she tasted the mingling of her and him. He pulled away, tongue licking at the sheen of sweat covering her body. One hand grasped her around the waist, while the other slid between them to flick at her clit.
Her legs wrapped around his waist as he began to move in her. Her nails dug into his back as her orgasm wracked her body. She heard him softly saying things -- random ballistics facts, snatches of poetry, the average speed of a train going from London to Sussex -- in an attempt to stave off his orgasm.
She kept her eyes open, watching him. He seemed distant, lost in his own world of pleasure, eyes closed as his pace quickened. Then his eyes opened and locked on her and everything seemed to fade in the background. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around her as he came groaning her other name into her breast.
He fell forward, pinning her to the table. Molly’s hands gently carded through his hair and she could tell he was somewhere distant mentally. He face was relaxed, his breathing heavy and his eyes slightly glassy. Slowly he returned to her, nuzzling her neck.
“Thank you Miss for taking care of me,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow.
“You’re welcome Pup,” Molly said with obvious affection. “And it’s my pleasure to do so.”
Chapter 10
For this prompt on shkinkmeme:
Molly discovers, through use of a word, that Sherlock used to be a sub. At first she doesn't know what that means, but then she starts to take advantage of it.
Bonus points if she does it while he's in the lab acting like an ass to her.
Disclaimers:
SO NOT MINE. I pray that Gatiss and Moffatt do not release the lawyers of war upon my ass. I am not part of the BDSM scene, but I got knowledge from the Internet and friends. Everything is unbeta'd, but it was edited by me. If you find errors, please let me know.
Definitely not safe for work. Not safe for children. Really, not safe period. If your computer starts on fire, it's not my fault.
If you're new, go check out Chapter 1
Comments are love and I am a hooooor.
This wasn’t the first time Molly had been used by someone. The first time she was ten -- a supposed friend named Angela Mays pretended to like her just to get answers for their science homework. The last one was -- well, Jim. The less Molly thought about that, the better, really.
But Sherlock hurt the most, even though his action surprised her the least. Maybe it was because Molly felt she deserved it for letting him in -- she knew he plied her with flattery and smiles to get access to the morgue and the lab. This time Sherlock left in the night, with no note, no text to greet her in the morning once he got whatever it was that he wanted (What did he want? A distraction? Proof of a point?).
At least Jim had the courtesy to pretend to like her and watch Glee with her.
Not to mention the fact that she committed one of the bigger sins of the lifestyle. You never have a scene while intoxicated, she scolded herself. Dominants don’t lose control like that. And she never should’ve said Sherlock’s real name during a scene. She should’ve been strong enough to turn him away, instead of making some weak excuses.
Without a doubt, she was probably the worst dominant in existence, Molly berated herself. She got too close and got burned. No more, she thought. Never again.
She showered, scrubbing off all traces of him (but with a different shower gel than the one from last night), stripped the bed of its sheets and made the bed. After texting her friends to say she’d meet them for brunch to tell them the whole sordid mess, she messaged Sherlock, before blocking his number on her mobile.
Toxicology. Do not contact me again. If you want something from the morgue, contact Edwin Norris.
Sometimes to break an addiction, one must go cold turkey, she thought to herself as she bounded out the door.
~*~
Brunch helped soothe Molly’s wounds as her friends listened sympathetically to the tale of the one-nighter gone horribly awry. They all agreed that she did the right thing in telling that weirdo never to contact her again, as well as foisting the person off on Norris, who was a twit.
Being a brunch with the girls, they started having mimosas. Which transitioned into Bloody Marys. The tipsy group then decided to distract themselves with an afternoon matinee -- something action-filled with too many plot holes and not enough of shirtless Jason Statham.
By then it was evening, so dinner was a quick run to the fish and chip shop where they bemoaned the fact that Jason Statham was not shirtless enough in the movie they saw. Since it was Sunday night, the group headed to their respective homes earlier than the previous night.
Bless good friends, Molly thought to herself as she headed home, humming Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” under her breath. They helped soothe her wounded pride for a bit. Even though it was tempting to check and see if Sherlock e-mailed or texted her, Molly battled the urge.
“The scars of your love remind me of us, they keep me thinking that we could‘ve had it all,” Molly sang under her breath as she fed Toby, scratching him behind the ears as he ate and relishing his purr.
After feeding him, Molly headed to the bath with a good book and then headed for bed. In the back of her mind, she wondered if Sherlock got the message and what he would do, but she tried not to dwell on it.
Instead, she tried to focus on other things -- the lyrics to “Rolling in the Deep,” work, the fact that Jason Statham needed to make more movies and wear less clothing -- anything to keep her mind off of the way Sherlock’s hands slid over her skin, the affectionate look in his eyes or how electric his kiss was.
Then her stomach lurched and she felt a pressure on her bowels. Molly bolted up and staggered into the bathroom. Making it to the toilet in the nick of time, she chuckled bitterly as the first wave of diarrhoea hit.
Worst. Weekend. Ever. she thought as she felt her legs go weak and a wave of nausea slammed her. Someone may as well stab me in the neck now. I’m living Bridget Jones’ Diary. Only in a more pathetic form.
~*~
The last time Molly was this ill was back in college. She had celebrated the end of exams with her friends and overdid things. For two days, she had snuggled up to her dorm toilet, accepting glasses of water from friends as her body purged alcohol from her system. After that, she never drank tequila again.
This time, she knew it wasn’t just alcohol that was wreaking havoc on her system. But in her mind, she really didn’t care, given that the end result was the same -- a puking, shitting mess. Molly found it safer to sleep next to the toilet, the small bath rug being used as a makeshift pillow and her towel as a blanket.
With everything that had happened that night, it was some of the most restful sleep she ever had. The cool press of the tile against her cheek comforted her and the towel was warmer than she expected. And it was a quick movement to get to the toilet, should another round of puking or something worse occur.
Off in the distance, she could hear the faint buzzing of her mobile -- no doubt her friends were suffering the same predicament, she thought once, before dozing off again. Toby came in once, sniffed her, then left the bathroom with a flick of his tail in disgust.
Mostly Molly slept in the bathroom. It’s surprising how exhausting diarrhoea and vomit can be. Time became fuzzy for her as she slept for what seemed to be hours at a time with a few breaks between to use the toilet for one explosion or another. The entire episode continued on in intervals until there was nothing left but dry heaves and stomach cramps.
Some time later, she heard the door open and a set of solid footsteps enter her flat. Toby let out a curious meow, but then was quiet.
Great. Now I’m going to be robbed, possibly raped and probably murdered. Fantastic. she thought, before closing her eyes again.
The footsteps grew closer and then she heard the bathroom door open. “Molly,” she heard a familiar voice say. It wasn’t a question.
What Molly meant to say was: “Sherlock, how the bloody hell did you get into my house?” What came out was a soft groan as she opened her eyes for a moment to focus on him. All she saw was his legs before her eyes slid shut again with the desire to sleep. Then she heard Sherlock tapping away on his mobile before sleep overcame her.
~*~
“She’s fine Sherlock. Just a bad case of food poisoning,” Molly opened her eyes to see John checking her vitals.
“I could have told you that,” Molly wanted to say from her position on the bathroom floor. Instead something like “Grrrrrnnnnnnnggggg,” came from her.
John smiled slightly. “She’s awake and somewhat coherent at least,” he said. “Now, she just needs rest and some fluids -- I get the sense that she’s lost a lot of them thanks to this mess.”
“Easy enough,” Sherlock said. “I’ll stay here.”
“Why?” Molly asked. Her mouth felt like cotton and tasted like bile. It was a terrible sensation.
“Between cases,” Sherlock replied, quickly glancing down at her, finally acknowledging her existence. “It’s not a problem.” He and John left the bathroom and she could hear some talking between the two, but Molly couldn’t make out what they were saying. Instead, she rolled over, pulling the towel around her like a blanket.
Her throat was sore from throwing up and every muscle ached. She knew she looked horrifying, but was too tired to care. Her emotions were a roiling mix of humiliation, anger, surprise and curiosity, but she was too weary to do much about them.
After a few minutes, Sherlock re-entered the bathroom. He slid down to sit next to her, brushing the hair out of her face.
She closed her eyes, not wanting to read his expression.
Fingers carded through her hair, which was caked with sweat and bits of other things she didn’t want to contemplate. Then they left her. She could faintly hear Sherlock stand, then the sound of running water.
She felt his arms slide around her torso and pull her into a sitting position, before gently pulling her pyjama top up and off of her. Next, she felt him tug at the waistband of her panties, pulling them off of her.
Before she could issue a protest, Sherlock scooped her up with more strength than she imagined and deposited her in the tub. Molly let out a small sigh as warm water enveloped her. She could feel Sherlock’s fingers tip her head back and warm water run through her hair.
Her nostrils filled with the scent of her shampoo as she felt his fingers massage her scalp. Even though she tried to stop it, a small smile spread across her face. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had washed her hair that wasn’t her stylist. Perhaps it was when she was a child and her mum would wash her hair. Then she grew older and started doing things for herself.
Sherlock tipped her head back and she could feel the warm water running through her hair, as one hand massaged her scalp. She sighed again she felt a soapy washrag rub her skin, dipping down under the water, cleansing her. Then there was the warm water pouring over her again.
Next was her facial scrub, which he applied and massaged into her face briefly, before using the washrag to rinse her face.
Then she heard the water drain out of the tub. She opened her eyes and just saw him looking back at her with concern as he wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Please stand,” he said.
Even though her legs were as shaky as a colt’s, Molly managed to step out of the tub.
Molly stood still as he took a fresh towel and rubbed her skin down, gently drying her. He wrapped the towel around her head, rubbing her hair. Grabbing her brush, Sherlock combed her hair. Molly smiled, enjoying the tugging sensation as well as the feeling being clean after who-knows-how-long on the bathroom floor.
Once that was done, Sherlock left the bathroom, only to return with her bathrobe, wrapping it around her. He led her to the living room, settling her on the sofa, stretching her legs out so she was reclining comfortably.
“Just relax,” he said. “I’m going to get you a glass of water.”
Molly closed her eyes, feeling very confused as to what was occurring. Several questions swirled through her head: How on earth did Sherlock get into her house? What day was it? Why was Sherlock here? Did he need access to the morgue? Did Norris attempt to attack him with a postmortem hammer and he was seeking refuge here? Was he high again?
Sherlock returned with a glass of juice and a mug of tea for him on a tray. “Drink this,” he instructed, handing her the juice.
Molly sniffed the juice.
“For pity’s sake, it’s fine,” Sherlock said, grabbing the remote while he shifted her legs to make room for him on the sofa. In the end, her legs draped across his lap as he turned on the telly. “I didn’t put anything in it.”
Molly sipped the juice, which tasted better than it should have. “What day is it?” Even with the juice, her eyes felt heavy and she just had the urge to sleep again.
“Tuesday,” Sherlock replied as he opened the menu for her DVR and started an episode of Glee. “It’s 4:53 in the evening.”
“Oh.” Molly said softly, then leaned her head against the sofa, drifting off again to sleep as theme started.
~*~
“How on earth does a choir in America afford all these costumes? And how on earth does their auditorium have a rain machine?”
Molly cracked open one eye to see Sherlock, staring at the screen, his face screwed up in frustration as New Directions, along with their substitute teacher Holly Holiday, danced and sang around to a mash-up of “Umbrella” and “Singing in the Rain.”
It was night and the lights were out in the flat. The telly offered the only glow and she could see Sherlock’s face in profile as the screen images flickered on his face. He was still on a sliver of sofa, folded up with his arms wrapped around his knees.
“It’s a television show,” she said slowly. “The entire premise is basically a bit of fluffy fantasy.”
Sherlock handed her a glass of juice. “Sip,” he ordered. “It makes no sense,” he muttered. “If this is the American educational system, that explains everything about their society.”
Molly snorted. “It’s fantasy. Fluff. Not real,” she said, sipping again.
“I mean,” Sherlock continued, as if she hadn’t said a thing, “how on earth do they not realize that Rachel is perhaps the best singer they have? Why do they insist on battling over solos when she’s clearly the genius? Why is she the target of everyone‘s ire when she‘s obviously the most talented one of the bunch?”
Molly suppressed a giggle. Even though she was surprised that he was ensnared in the show, she wasn’t surprised that he would identify with Rachel.
“What was that for?” she suddenly felt his gaze on her.
“What?”
“The near-giggle,” he said. “Out with it. You think I’m Rachel don’t you?”
Molly simply smiled and sipped her juice.
He huffed for a moment, as the cast froze on screen with their umbrellas and the credits came on.
“Don’t pout,” Molly said softly. “Besides, who’s John?”
“The football player -- Finn,” was the immediate response. It was interesting to see. Sherlock’s mind was engaged and it was obvious they were playing a game together.
“So you’re saying there’s sexual tension between you and him and you’d fancy snogging him?”
Sherlock snorted. “I do not fancy kissing John,” he said. It was clear that he wanted to say something else, but restrained himself. “This is merely about personality traits, not some sort of storyline narrative.”
Molly grinned. “Fine,” she said. “What about Sergeant Donovan?” She remembered her from coming to pick up reports at the morgue. Molly thought she was fine, but apparently those two didn’t get along. It’s funny how quickly gossip filtered down to the morgue at times.
“Santana,” he said. “She’s just an odious person.”
“That forensics person -- Anderson?”
Another snort. “Simple -- Brittany.”
Molly began laughing. Of course he would see the two biggest antagonists in his life as the cheerleading squad. “How about Inspector Lestrade?”
“Mr. Schuster,” he said with utter sincerity. “He’s got to keep an eye on everyone. He thinks he has control, but really, he doesn’t. Which is why Rachel is not getting the solos she obviously deserves.”
There was another peal of laughter from Molly.
“You do think this is funny don’t you?” Sherlock huffed. “Sip your juice. Are you feeling better?”
Molly sipped her juice. “A bit,” she said, “But I’m also feeling tired.”
He nodded. “Don’t you want to know who I think you are?”
Molly shook her head. She knew as well as he did that he’d say Mercedes -- the one who was always relegated to the background and had two disastrous attempts at romance. One with someone who was using her to get to someone else and the other -- well, he was here with her.
“Just start another episode,” she said, handing him the glass. “I’m tired.”
She could feel him dissecting her with his stare, but didn’t really care. After a long silence, Sherlock started the episode and Molly pulled the blanket around her, letting the show lull her to sleep.
~*~
Sunlight streamed into the room, warming Molly’s face. She slowly opened her eyes and realized that she was in bed. Toby was nowhere to be seen, but there was a warm weight next to her in bed.
Rolling over, she looked to see Sherlock, sleeping above the blankets, one arm draped lazily over her.
Apparently after she had fallen asleep for the night, Sherlock carried her to bed. Then fell asleep himself, Molly guessed.
Things were definitely odd, she thought to herself.
“Good morning,” Sherlock’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts.
“Morning,” she studied him. His hair was a bit dishevelled and his shirt was wrinkled from him sleeping in it. She assumed his neat trousers were also a wrinkled mess. She could feel his arm tighten around her as he slid over to her.
“Feeling better?” he studied her intently.
Molly blushed. It would be so easy to kiss him right now. “Yes, thank you,” she said. She could easily picture pulling him close to her, sliding her hands through his hair as she nibbled on his neck. His hands would glide under the blankets, undoing the sash of her robe before his hands --
Molly blinked and forced those thoughts out of her head. As tempting as it was, questions had to be answered. “You have to answer some questions for me,” she said matter-of-factly.
He snuggled in closer. “Before coffee?”
“Yes,” Molly could tell she was getting her master tone, but didn’t care. “How did you get into my apartment?”
“Picked the lock.” Sherlock was very matter-of-fact about the entire situation.
“Why?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I got your message about not contacting you again and wanted to speak with you. When I visited the morgue on Monday, they said they hadn’t heard from you. I stopped by again on Tuesday and you weren’t there, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”
Molly sighed. Of course he would do that. And not think anything was wrong about it.
“Why did you leave after we --” her voice trailed off.
“I was a little unsettled,” he said. “I thought it was play and you used my real name, and not my other name. I needed to figure out a few things.”
Sherlock moved on top of her, so only the blanket was separating the two of them. “What I figured out --” he said, staring at her, “Was that I’m willing to forgive that, because really --” he lightly kissed her brow. “I would like to continue our arrangement.” There were two kisses on her eyelids, then a kiss on her nose. “Really, you‘ve been a most accommodating domme.” Then his lips connected with hers.
It was addictive, Molly faintly thought as her mouth opened automatically under his and their tongues slipped and swirled in each other’s mouths. She could have done this all day. One of his hands dipped below the duvet to stroke her skin and that’s when she jolted back to reality.
She slid her hands to his chest and gently pushed him back. “Ease your storm,” she said huskily.
It worked. Sherlock stopped long enough to pull back and she nudged him off of her. “Pardon?” He looked very, very confused, which also worked for Molly. Unsettling Sherlock probably would never get old for her. Even if this arrangement ended.
She sat up, wrapping the blankets around her like a shield. “I can’t do this.” Molly said. “I am not willing to settle for your scraps.”
“But I just said that I wanted to continue this,” he replied. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Molly shook her head. “Do you realize how often you’ve used flattery, sweet words and other things to get what you want? Which is usually access to the morgue? How do I know you’re not doing that now?”
“Why on earth would I stay overnight, watch Glee, clean you up from that mess and make sure you drank your fluids?” Sherlock looked practically petulant. It reminded her of previous boyfriends who looked put out when she said she wasn’t in the mood. The only thing missing was the phrase, But I bought dinner.
“Because you’re between cases and need a project,” she said. Before he could continue, Molly cut him off. “Do you realize I’ve fancied you for so long that I was willing to let you do anything -- take home body parts, whip bodies with a riding crop -- just so you’d notice me? I was ready to let that be enough.
“Then this all happened, and I remember you saying that it was a way to get over my ‘silly itch and stop mooning over you like a lovesick schoolgirl,’ and it didn’t. It made me want you more. I was willing to settle for whatever you gave me and I still am.”
Molly took a deep breath, realizing that this had been forming in the back of her mind for awhile now. “And that is why I am not going to do that. I deserve more,” she said. “After all that, I don’t believe you when you say you all those pretty words. I want to -- but I’ve had so many people tell me that including --” her hands made a useless gesture, “him. And you’re about as bad as him in using whatever you can to get what you want. Part of me believes you’re willing to sleep with me right now just to get back into my good graces so you don’t have to find another domme who’s willing to tolerate you.
“I know I cocked up that night -- but we both broke certain rules. Neither of us should’ve had a play session while utterly shitfaced,” she continued. “And to vanish in the morning and not even with a note like ‘Sorry, we need to talk later'? That’s just amazingly rude. Communication is key in this arrangement and you’re absolute bollocks at it.”
To his credit, Sherlock didn’t protest or look scandalized. “I see,” he said. “Is there any way I can change your mind?’
“First of all, don’t break into my flat,” she said. “If I wasn’t a puking mess on the floor, I would have called Scotland Yard and you would’ve had to deal with all those coppers who dislike you so much handling this situation.”
Sherlock winced. “You are a harsh one.”
“I was your mistress.”
“Would you still be?” there was a slight twinge of hope in his voice.
Molly thought it over. “I don’t know,” she said. “You‘re going to have to communicate more clearly what’s going on in that pretty head with me if I‘m even to consider it.”
She could see his mouth open in protest, but Molly cut him off. “And no, don’t say that you’re perfectly clear in communication -- maybe for you Mr. I’m Too Smart for Everyone -- but to me, I’m at least two steps behind you. You are going to have to come down to my level.”
He nodded.
A feeling of relief washed over Molly. It was terrifying telling him her stance, but once it was done, it was liberating. She wasn’t quite sure what his next move would be, but at least she said her piece, instead of swallowing her words.
“Do you feel up for eating something?” Sherlock asked, shifting off the bed.
Molly nodded.
“Stay there,” he said. “I’ll get it for you.”
She waited a moment after he left before she got out of bed and closed the bedroom door. Her legs were still a little shaky, but nothing too bad. Removing the robe, Molly pulled on a clean t-shirt and pyjama pants, then headed out to the kitchen.
“I told you to remain in bed,” Sherlock said, while rummaging through her cabinets. “You’re still ill.”
“I feel fine,” she replied, sliding into a chair and watching him. “Right now I’m worried about work.”
“Doctor’s excuse,” he replied, just as the toast popped. Rummaging around in a drawer, he found the butter knife and began spreading butter on the toast. “John notified them of the food poisoning and said you should be back on duty in a day or two.”
He slid the plate in front of her. “Eat,” he said. “Let’s see if this comes up or not.”
Molly bit into the toast and an audible moan escaped her lips as she tasted the bread, slightly nutty with its whole-grain texture, and the butter, salty and unctuous. She glanced up, seeing Sherlock’s bemused expression.
“It’s been two days of not eating solid food,” she said, blushing slightly. “This tastes better than sex right now.”
He nodded, the bemused look melting into a grin. Grabbing a glass, he opened the fridge and got the juice out, pouring her a glass, then draped himself in the seat across from her.
“Ease your storm?” he asked, as she munched on the toast. “Donne?”
Molly could feel her lips quirk up into a smile. “No,” she said.
“The Illiad?”
A giggle escaped her as she saw Sherlock‘s brow knit in frustration. “No, but kind of close.”
“Are you making this a game?” he stared at her intently, seeking some sort of clue.
“Maybe.” Molly wondered why she suddenly found herself bending to his will. It was inevitable, she guessed. He just had a way of shaping the universe to his whims.
His eyes began to sparkle and his grin became unsettling. “What do I get if I win?”
Molly chewed her toast and thought for a bit. “Two hours of play time,” she said. “If you want it that badly, you have to work for it.”
Sherlock’s grin became practically maniacal. “You’re on,” he said. “And it better be more than cleaning your flat or fixing you tea.”
She smiled angelically. “No promises. You get play time. That’s good enough.”
The rest of her breakfast was peppered with Sherlock tossing out various ideas of where the source of her quote could have been from.
Once she was done, Molly handed Sherlock his coat. “You’d best be going,” she said.
He put on his coat. “Whitman?”
“No,” she said, leading him to the door. “I’ll see you later Sherlock.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, digging his heels into the floor.
“I will be fine,” Molly said, tucking his scarf into his coat. “Now go.”
He nodded. “If I do not see you at the morgue tomorrow, I am breaking in your flat again.”
“And I will call the Yard,” Molly replied, gently pushing him out the door. “See you later Sherlock.”
As she closed the door, she heard him say, “Dante Alighieri?”
“Goodbye Sherlock.”
~*~
After Sherlock left, Molly puttered around her flat, tidying up, but mostly lost in thought. His impromptu visit made her realize that, as of this moment, he was terrible relationship material. Definitely not the prince her more romantic notions wanted.
After all, he broke into her flat to have a conversation with her. Who knows what else he’d do if he really got bored? She had terrifying visions of him popping into her workplace at all hours or showing up at a girls’ night out high on some substance if she didn’t answer a text message in time. She saw how well that worked out last time.
Not to mention the fact that if a case did get his attention, she knew he’d be gone -- for days, possibly weeks at a time. The entire incident with Jim and the pool also drove home the fact that he was always going to court danger. Any semblance of peace and quiet would be a false one at best.
Dating Sherlock Holmes would be like trying to wrangle a toddler -- just a large empty pit of need and nothing given back -- Molly cynically thought to herself.
Besides, this wasn’t a relationship, she reminded herself. This was an arrangement. Knowing Sherlock, the whole reason he agreed was based on convenience -- he’d have access to the morgue, a willing assistant and some of his darker urges taken care of. It was like one-stop kinky shopping really.
But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t potential for something enjoyable, she also thought. At least he began to see her in a new light and with a bit more respect than before. That was definitely better. Include the mind-blowing sex, coupled with the heady rush knowing that he gave her the power to control him, and Molly realized that she was definitely ahead of where she was months ago.
It might not have been the ideal relationship that she fantasized about long ago, but she also realized what she had now suited her just fine.
~*~
Molly’s return to work was less than peaceful. Since the lab was down a person for three days, things had piled up and Norris was grousing on about how he had to deal with Sherlock’s never ending questions and condescending behaviour.
“He’s been nothing but a pain in the arse,” Norris muttered. “Kept coming by asking about your whereabouts, then getting snippy with me when I said I assumed you were sick. Honestly, I have no idea why we tolerate that man. If I had half the mind, I’d file a report with human resources for the harassment -”
“You know we can’t,” Molly interrupted. “He’s got clearance from the top. Access to the morgue and its resources. I don’t know why, but he does.”
“Still,” Norris huffed. “It’s quite unfair and you’d think for a non-staff member he’d be more polite --”
Norris’ ranting faded into the background for Molly as she worked on catching up with the backlog. Her supervisor and coworkers were sympathetic to her plight, but it was also clear they were glad to have her back on the job.
Towards the end of the day, just as Molly was finishing up the last of her backlog, she heard the lab door open. Spinning her chair around, she saw Sherlock stride into the room, pointedly ignoring Norris.
“Hullo Sherlock,” she said.
“Afternoon,” he said, wandering over to her. “I‘m glad to see you‘re feeling better.”
“Thank you,” Molly looked up at him. “What can I do for you today?”
Sherlock’s head dipped down to her and she suddenly felt vulnerable under his gaze. Molly’s eyes darted over to see Norris staring at them, puzzled and curious.
“Clash of the Titans, the most recent version of the film,” he said in a low voice as his expression changed to something more playful. “I am still aghast at how they butchered Greek mythology.”
She bit her lip to keep from giggling. “Very good,” she replied after a long moment. “Do you want to double your time?”
“Yes Miss,” he replied carefully.
“What song did The Warblers perform at Sectionals ?”
Sherlock snorted. “Simple. Hey Soul Sister,” he replied. “You wanted me to win that one.”
Molly smiled. “Mayhap,” she said. “I will message you the details.”
“Thank you Miss,” Sherlock said softly, then briskly turned around and left the lab.
There was a long silence as Norris stared at Molly. “He just gets odder and odder,” the man finally said before returning to his work.
Molly smiled to herself, then returned to her report, her mind spinning different ideas.
~*~
By the time Jeremy Clarkson was taking the Ford Festiva through a car chase in a shopping centre, Sherlock was practically twitching next to Molly, which made her smile.
She was sprawled across the sofa, her legs draped over him, and he was gently massaging her feet as they watched a couple episodes of Top Gear. She could feel his cock gently moving against her foot, and she lazily traced a toe up and down his shaft.
He stopped rubbing her feet and she could hear a sharp intake of breath as bad guy’s Corvette slammed into a kiosk. She glanced over at him.
“Did I say you could stop?” she said sweetly.
“No Miss,” he murmured, half distracted, but the massage resumed.
She couldn’t help but grin. He was twitching with anticipation when she let him into her flat, greeting him with a chaste kiss. No doubt he had expect his reward immediately, but Molly had been spinning this scene for awhile in her head and she wanted to wind him up a bit. True, she made him strip naked and kneel at her feet as she fed him Chinese takeaway for a late lunch, but that was more of a power play in her mind. Besides, he looked so skinny that he needed a few dumplings. After light conversation, they settled to watch a couple episodes of Top Gear.
Sprinkle in a few sweet kisses here, the slide of a foot up a naked thigh and he was getting wound up simply from mind games. It was something easily recognizable -- a slight hitch of the hips, the forced nonchalance and an occasional shaky breath. All men were pretty easy to read in that area, Molly realized.
It was sublime knowing she had him rattled, she decided as Clarkson’s Fiesta stormed the beach with the Royal Marines to the sound of the 1812 Overture.
“You were expecting your reward right away Pup?” she teased, leaning over to whisper in his ear.
He nodded, shifting in his seat.
“Patience boy,” she murmured, before taking an earlobe between her teeth and nibbling slightly. “After this, you’ll get your reward.”
Sherlock twitched slightly and nodded, just as Clarkson said, “And on that bombshell, goodnight!”
Molly smiled brightly at him as she sat up. “Are you ready?”
He nodded again, eyes bright with anticipation.
“Good,” she said. “Now I’m going to change and get some things. Kneel and wait for me.”
“Yes Miss.”
Molly headed into her room and undressed. She pulled on a magenta slip with a black lace overlay that ended in a bit of ruffles that could be called a skirt, if one was liberal about their use of the word. Pulling on thigh-high stockings, Molly fastened them to the attached garters, before sliding her feet into a pair of black stilettos. As a final touch, she piled her hair up in a messy bun fastened by a few hairpins.
She then grabbed a set of handcuffs, silk scarves and condom before sauntering out of her room. It was high time she got one of her fantasies fulfilled.
He was kneeling in the middle of the living room, head pressed down on the floor and arms loosely at his sides. Molly bit her lip marvelling at his flexibility. She was definitely going to have to use that later. Maybe with some rope.
Molly prowled up to him, gently running her hand along his back and shoulders. “Do you know why I let you win the game?” she purred.
“No Miss,” Sherlock said, head still facing down.
Molly pulled his arms behind him and put the cuffs on him, locking them. “You can look up now Pup,” she said.
His eyes lit up when he took in her appearance. She could see him calculating various things -- what her outfit was made of, the perfume she wore, the height of her heels. But she also saw the logic battling the primal want his body was displaying.
“That’s why,” she said as she led him to the kitchen table. “I love how you look at me. That lust in your eyes makes up for your attitude in public. What does that look signify Pup?“
“That I’m yours,” he replied.
That was another thing that wasn‘t going to get old for her, even if it was just a script. “Don’t you forget that,” Molly grinned. “Now kneel boy.”
He did as she asked and with some assistance, she bound his legs with the scarves, ensuring that his legs would be immobile and stuck in a kneeling position. Crouching to his level, Molly removed the hairpins from her bun and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.
She leaned forward, kissing him. His mouth opened under hers with a groan and she nearly lost herself for a moment in the intoxicating kiss.
Focus Molly, she told herself, as she slipped the hairpins and a condom in his hands.
Molly hopped up on the kitchen table, so Sherlock’s face was at the perfect level with her sex. She noticed his smirk and could feel his hot breath along her thighs.
“You know,” she said conversationally, sliding her fingers along her thighs, “After our first encounter, I thought about you, bound like and your head between my legs. Because I like taking what I can from my toy.”
She traced his lips with her fingers and his mouth parted, tongue sliding out to attempt to lick her. Molly pulled her fingers away from him. “Patience boy,” she said, before continuing. “But I also know you and that you like a puzzle. Your challenge Pup,” she said, sliding her nails down his back and shuffling a bit to get closer to him, “is to get out of those cuffs with the hairpins I gave you.
“However, you also have another task and that is pleasuring me with your mouth. If you break out, there’s the condom and I will offer relief from your --” she arched an eyebrow, “condition.”
He rubbed his cheek against her thigh and Molly let out a gasp as he replied, “Yes Miss.”
It wasn’t going to take him much really, Molly knew. She had been humming with anticipation of their appointment. Even though she had taken matters into her own hands twice before he arrived, it still wasn’t enough. It anything, it just made things worse.
His tongue gently lapped at her and she could hear him chuckle quietly. Her fingers wound through his hair, pulling him closer as he nuzzled her. Molly’s back arched and she rested her legs on his shoulders briefly before his teeth gently nipped at her thighs, causing her to dig the heels into his back. He was probably going to have bruises later because of that, she thought.
She could see he wasn’t fumbling at the locks quite yet -- his fingers were working to get the hairpins in the right place to begin working on them. Then he began sucking gently on her clit and her mind flew away from the whole situation.
Molly fell back on the table, arching her back and letting out low groans as his tongue teased that nub, her hips rolling in rhythm to his ministrations.
“Oh fuck,” she moaned as she lost the last shred of composure she had as the first orgasm hit her. Molly’s heels dug into his back as she locked her legs, letting out a loud moan as each wave slammed into her. She ground her hips into his face, her hands gripping his hair as she let out incoherent moans and shrieks of pleasure.
Faintly, distantly, she could hear the cuffs hit the ground. Sherlock didn’t stop sucking on her clit, driving on another orgasm as he cleaned her. She could feel his arms moving to untie the scarves. Then he pulled away and stood.
Molly let out a soft moan of loss, until she heard him rip open the condom. She could feel his incendiary gaze on her as he spread her legs. One hand ran down her torso, tweaking at a nipple and she let out a gasp, her eyes flashing open.
“I win,” he said, his other hand spreading her legs further, before thrusting into her.
“Yes,” she moaned as she sat up to meet him halfway, lips tangling in a kiss as she tasted the mingling of her and him. He pulled away, tongue licking at the sheen of sweat covering her body. One hand grasped her around the waist, while the other slid between them to flick at her clit.
Her legs wrapped around his waist as he began to move in her. Her nails dug into his back as her orgasm wracked her body. She heard him softly saying things -- random ballistics facts, snatches of poetry, the average speed of a train going from London to Sussex -- in an attempt to stave off his orgasm.
She kept her eyes open, watching him. He seemed distant, lost in his own world of pleasure, eyes closed as his pace quickened. Then his eyes opened and locked on her and everything seemed to fade in the background. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around her as he came groaning her other name into her breast.
He fell forward, pinning her to the table. Molly’s hands gently carded through his hair and she could tell he was somewhere distant mentally. He face was relaxed, his breathing heavy and his eyes slightly glassy. Slowly he returned to her, nuzzling her neck.
“Thank you Miss for taking care of me,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow.
“You’re welcome Pup,” Molly said with obvious affection. “And it’s my pleasure to do so.”
Chapter 10