The Only Drug I Need (Chapter 17)
REEEEEEEMMMMIIIIIXXXX! (aka Let My Walls Come Down mix)
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.
This is the second-to-last chapter of the fic. Tomorrow: EPILOGUE! Thank you everyone who read this. I hope you enjoyed it. And I have to say that while editing can be a pain in the ass, I'm happier with this fic now and where it ended up, as opposed to when I finished it last year.
This was the chapter that was giving me fits -- the ending originally was just too abrupt and didn't really match the character's mindset. But one of the most frustrating things is to only see things from one perspective and be unable to see anything else. Why I wish I had a mind reading superpower. Hopefully this one is better than the original. I'd hate to think it was worse.
And now! 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.
Normally she didn’t worry when Sherlock vanished from sight. It was his prerogative and habit for him to disappear for days at a time with nothing but radio silence. Every time he did that, he would pop up again at the lab -- perhaps a bit bruised, a bit scraped, but fine and his ever arrogant and demanding self.
But when John called her the day after he left her flat asking about Sherlock, Molly began to worry. After all, keeping John out of the loop simply wasn’t normal.
“What do you mean you haven’t seen him?” Molly asked, when he stopped by the lab. “Judging by the way he left my flat, I expect him to head back home, pull you away from Sarah and drag you off on whatever he had planned.”
John shook his head, brows knitted in confusion. “He didn’t,” he said. “I’ve tried texting him, but gotten no response.”
A cold rush of fear washed over Molly. “I haven’t heard from him either,” she said. “But he’s on a case, and I never hear from him when that occurs. It’s like he’s got a bigger distraction to deal with.”
“I know,” he said. “I realize he does that, but I figured he’d contact you because --”
“Because of our arrangement,” Molly finished for him. She shook her head. “You know it’s not like that.”
“Like what?” John replied. “He spends time with you, you two seem to like each other, well, as much as Sherlock likes anyone, you’re --” his eyebrows waggled slightly.
Molly blushed. “You know he doesn’t feel things like that for me,” she stammered. “I’m not important. I’m just an object to be used. I‘m just taking advantage of being taken advantage of for once.”
“He’s not like that and you know it,” he retorted, a steely undertone to his voice. “I’d say he’s pretty attached to you, judging by his behaviour.”
Molly snorted. “John,” she said, levelling her gaze at him. “I doubt that. I don’t matter. I‘m just convenient.”
John rolled his eyes, as if he couldn‘t believe the truth in Molly‘s words. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll let you delude yourself with that. But if you ever hear from him, let me know?” He checked his watch. “I’m off to meet Lestrade and hopefully get a clue as to what’s going on.”
Molly nodded. “The same goes for you,” she replied.
Despite her urge to pester other people, Molly remained quiet, having faith that he would soon saunter into the lab and demand to see a body, terrorize Norris and then text her some cheeky messages.
It was all she could do. She tried texting him, but met with radio silence, so she didn’t bother to pursue it any further. All Molly could do was hope he would return soon.
It also didn’t help that John’s words needled her. Of course John would think that, Molly thought to herself. John’s the romantic. He’s normal. He’s the one who believes the best in Sherlock. This was an arrangement. But reality was different, Molly thought to herself.
Wasn’t it?
Sleep didn’t come easily for her. She found herself up at night, reading the news, surfing the Internet, hoping to find some clue as to what was happening with him.
After the third day news about a fire at a warehouse exploded. Lestrade’s sleep-haggard face was splashed all over the media, explaining that there had been five murders with connecting circumstances. Scotland Yard found the suspect at the warehouse, along with some evidence from the killings. But before they could apprehend him, a fire broke out and the suspect’s body was found after the fire was extinguished.
She heard about the news while at work and attempted to remain calm, hoping that Sherlock would text her.
He didn’t.
No worries, Molly thought to herself. Often she was the last person on his mind. If she had to hazard a guess, he would’ve contacted John by now.
Then she got a text from John asking her if she knew where Sherlock was.
That wasn’t a good sign. The façade of calm that Molly wrapped herself in started to crumble, replaced with a cold sense of dread. Additional calls to area hospitals yielded nothing. Molly cursed the fact that she didn’t keep up with her medical school alumni to abuse her connections in emergencies like this.
She refused to think the worst. If he was dead, he would’ve showed up at the morgue by now, Molly rationalized.
Unless he was incinerated in the fire, the dark portion of Molly’s mind helpfully whispered. Molly retorted that a warehouse fire couldn’t possibly get hot enough to incinerate all of a human being’s remains. Besides, even if he had been burned in the fire, there would still be a skeleton brought to the morgue for identification.
It was morbid comfort, but Molly took whatever she could get. At least it allowed her enough mental fortitude to finish her shift at work and return home for another sleepless night filled with worry.
Opening the door to her flat, she saw Sherlock’s coat on the couch and shoes in the entryway. Relief flooded her system and she let out a small cry of relief. She headed for the bedroom, where she saw him stretched out on her bed, fast asleep. She knew she should have been angry with him -- after all, he invaded her flat yet again without any consideration for her desires.
Overwhelming relief won out over annoyance. Kicking off her shoes, Molly slid into bed next to him, studying his face and what parts of his body she could see. Inhaling deeply, she could smell the smoky smell of the fire, which clung to his clothing and hair.
Before she could react, his arms snaked out with quick speed, wrapping around her and pulling her under him. His head nestled into the crook of her neck and one leg flung itself possessively over her body, pinning her to the bed.
His mouth pressed down on hers with a bruising kiss as his fingers began tugging at her shirt. Molly could’ve sworn that she heard the sound of fabric ripping. This was definitely weird, the logical portion of her brain whispered. Was he even awake? Was this a play session? If not, what the fuck was going on? They never did sex outside of the appointments.
He’s just burning off some adrenaline. Maybe he‘s sleep groping, her mind spoke up helpfully. Nothing wrong with reaping some of those benefits.
Any other thoughts were obliterated as his mouth began a hot, wet slide down her neck. She could feel his erection poking into her thigh and his fingers scrabbling to remove her bra.
During the whole time he was whispering again, hot words in her ear as his mouth pressed kisses to her cheek, her jaw line and her throat. For the first time, Molly wasn’t lost in a haze of arousal or on the verge of orgasm to focus on what he was saying.
“J t'adore,” he whispered in her neck, over and over again.
“What?” she stammered, attempting to pull away from him. It was impossible to move, what with his body pinning hers to the bed.
He didn’t respond. One hand began tugging at her trousers as his mouth continued to slide down her torso.
Panic overtook Molly as she yelped out, “Stop! Toxicology!’ and hit him with an open palm, trying to get him to stop. He didn’t say what she thought he said. He never would say that. It was impossible. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t believe in those words. This was low, even for him to manipulate her in this manner.
Sherlock pulled back, blinking in the light. As he got his bearings back, his expression morphed from owlish to blankly neutral in nanoseconds. “It’s French,” he rasped. “It means --”
“I know what it means,” Molly felt like the floor was falling out from under her. “I know basic French.” She sat up and attempted to pull her blouse around her. He did rip all the buttons off, she noted. Which was a damn shame, because this was one of her favourite work outfits.
He moved his hands off of her and propped himself up by one elbow and studied her. “You’re afraid,” he said.
For a moment, Molly respected Sherlock. Instead of offering a lame excuse like he was talking in his sleep, Sherlock simply moved onto the situation at hand, as if he had planned this from the very beginning. She moved further away from him, her arms wrapping around her knees in a vain attempt for protection. But the whole thing was just low, even for him, she thought bitterly.
“Let me guess -- you’re afraid I’ll go gallivanting off again and end up more injured, or possibly worse --” he began.
“No,” she interrupted. “It’s not that. That --” she waved between the two of them, “is not what our relationship is. This is based on intense, mind-blowing sex with lots and lots of props. You don’t need to manipulate me in this manner. I know you don’t do love. I‘m fine with it,” she gritted her teeth, hating the fact that her voice quavered, indicating that she was lying. She knew he knew it and that she was trapped.
“Not to mention the fact that you’ve just broken into my flat yet again and attempted to initiate something outside of our usual playtime,” Molly snapped, grabbing onto whatever distraction she could find. “You could’ve communicated this more clearly.”
“I thought my erection was clear communication,” he replied. “Is it wrong that I have been thinking about expanding our contract?”
“To what? Outside of playtime sex? Telling me you love me? This isn’t part of the plan Sherlock. And you don‘t go expanding the contract by ripping my clothes off. Usually it‘s a discussion. With words.”
“I’m not allowed to change my mind?” he asked, irritated. “I thought we were able to do that.”
“Yes, but sane people don’t drop bombs like this on other people,“ Molly shot back. “You never have in the past. You also have made it very clear that you didn’t fancy, much less love, me in that manner. You don‘t need to manipulate me into agreeing with this contract. I‘m perfectly fine with what we have. I don‘t need any more from you.”
“First off, you’re lying,“ Sherlock retorted. “I can tell by the way your eyes are looking at the ceiling. Secondly, things have changed. You know I said that before.”
“At the fish and chip shop,” she retorted, willing herself not to flee from the room, despite the urge to. This was even worse than before. At least before she knew she could rely on where she stood. This was like being flung over a cliff without the assurance of a net at the bottom.
“You never answered my question,” Sherlock said, continuing to stare at her. “Why are you scared? And you say you don‘t need more, but do you want more?”
There was no point in diverting him or distracting him, Molly realized. He would just focus and keep poking and asking the question until she caved. Like everything else he did, she thought with a rueful laugh.
“Of course I want more. How can I not want more?” she could hear her voice shake and suddenly she hated herself for not being braver. “But I know the truth. You don’t love me, you’ve never shown interest. The only reason I’m interesting now is because I’m doing this for you. It‘s so convenient for you -- access to the morgue and your kinks taken care of. And little Miss Molly will be so thrilled with what scraps she’s gotten that you can do whatever you like at the morgue.
“But I know you’ll tire of me soon. I can’t keep up with you. I can’t keep spinning new scenarios. I’m not as clever as you. Sooner or later I’m going to run out of tricks to keep you interested and then you’ll leave and just consider me another nuisance at the morgue.”
She swallowed, battling back the urge to start crying. “And it’s going to hurt even worse than before, because I love you. Not just in a temporary fashion like I know it’ll be with you. And you’ll be in the morgue beating those corpses with the crop and I’ll be remembering all these times and not just the incredible sex, -- which by the way, I’m now ruined for thanks to you -- but the lunches, the discussions, the actual, genuine smiles and it will hurt and I can’t do that.
“I may as well transfer to Birmingham, but knowing you, you‘d walk in the door demanding to see a corpse,” a hysterical, shrill laugh burst out of her. “I should do that Doctors Without Borders thing and go to outer Mongolia. But I know you‘d pop up out of a bowl of rice when I least expect it. We should end this now before I get even more hurt.”
Molly attempted to roll off the bed to flee. Maybe she could hide in the bathroom and lock the door and not come out until he left. That was thwarted when he grabbed her wrist with an iron grip.
“Wait,” he said. “Did you just say you’re in love with me?”
If there was a way to throw herself out of the window, she would have done it at that moment. There was no point in trying to pretend that she didn’t say it. He knew she said it. She knew she said it. He was just toying with her now.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been in love with you for a while you brilliant, insufferable prat and unrequited was easier to deal with than this.”
He began laughing -- not a condescending chuckle, but something that was exasperated in tone. Even with the exasperation, there was an underlying trace of warmth and lightness under it. “Don’t you already realize that I know everything about you and I haven’t left because I am in love with you?” he asked, prying her arms away from her knees.
Realization slammed into Molly, causing the breath to leave her body. He was right. He probably deduced everything about her the first time he looked around her flat. And yet, he still stayed. Instead of drawing back, he seemed more intent on eradicating any walls she had left. Breaking into her e-mail, the random lunches, purchasing the extravagant bed and other gifts, stalking her friends’ brunches and invading her flat should’ve been clues for her.
Stupid Molly, she thought. You had everything in front of you, but you couldn’t connect the dots.
Before she knew it, his head was in her lap. The expression on his face was one of smug delight as he stared up at her. For a moment, Molly wondered if anyone had ever told him that he was loved.
“Not by anyone who wasn’t a blood relative,” he said. “And even then, that was ages ago.”
She laughed, as her hands wound through his hair. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Yes,” he said, as he pulled her down so he could put his arms around her and return to burying his nose in crook of her neck, returning to his original mission. Sherlock’s lips began nipping along her collarbone and his hands pushed off the remains of her tattered blouse.
“I didn’t think you did sex outside of playtime,” Molly said.
“I have,” he murmured. “Just been awhile.”
“This isn’t a playtime is it?”
There was a disgusted snort from somewhere between her breasts. “No Molly,” he said. “It’s not a scheduled session. And playtime is such an infantile word.”
In the past, she would’ve stammered that Sherlock was right, playtime was an infantile word and they should’ve picked something else. But now? Molly giggled as she felt his fingers slide behind her, undoing her bra. “I find it adorable,” she said, as he shucked her top off, “it’s a cute name for what we do.”
Another annoyed huff came from around her navel. Sherlock’s head popped up as he stared at her. “What those times are is not cute,” he retorted, saying the word cute like it was a particularly dull question. “Those times are --”
She could feel herself rolling her eyes. “Dangerous? Dark? Mysterious?”
His mouth made a lazy journey up her body, before his face hovered above hers. “Addictive, intoxicating, educational,” he replied slowly, before kissing her. Molly could feel him unbuttoning her trousers and she lifted her hips up, allowing him to peel them and her panties off of her. Somehow he didn’t break the kiss, which impressed her. He pulled away, their lips barely touching. “Mind-clearing and soothing.”
Molly sucked in a deep breath as Sherlock‘s fingers slid between her legs and into her. “Fair enough,” she stammered out, arching her back, before he returned to his work and all witty retorts fled her mind.
Despite the overwhelming hunger he displayed earlier, Sherlock didn’t seem to be in a rush now that she was naked. Molly felt like one of his experiments -- not that it was a bad thing. It was interesting watching him observe her reactions. Even with his mouth buried in her, licking and humming away on her clit, his eyes were focused on her, watching intently. She could feel the blush spread across her body and she gripped the headboard, undulating under him.
Then he twisted his fingers just so in her and she completely forgot he was watching her as she slipped over the edge, wailing his name and convulsing involuntarily. Before she knew it, she was laughing, loud and long, as he made his way up her body again. If Molly cared, she would have thought she sounded absolutely barking mad.
But she didn’t. And judging by the impish expression on Sherlock’s face, neither did he. Reaching over to the nightstand, he pulled out a condom and tore the wrapper. Molly reached over and began undoing his pants, sliding her hands around to squeeze his bottom with a playful smile, ignoring his stern expression.
Taking the rubber from him, Molly gave a lingering kiss to the head of his prick, before rolling it on. Mission accomplished, she grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him over for a kiss and back into bed.
Rolling over, she pushed him on his back and straddled him. Molly rubbed herself along him, a wicked smile on her lips as she began to tease him.
“Say it again,” he growled, gripping her hips and pulling her back toward his cock.
“You first.” She leaned forward, unbuttoning his shirt to touch and rub his skin, savouring the feel of him against her.
“What language would you like?” Sherlock’s hands lifted her, impaling her on his prick.
Molly let out a breathy sigh of pleasure, then composed her thoughts. “Show off. I’d like to hear it in Mandarin.”
“Wo ai ni,” he said clearly and cleanly as he began thrusting in her. “How do you know Chinese?”
“I love you too,” she said, grinding her hips and squeezing herself around him. His face flushed in surprise and he let out a soft groan. “And that,” she leaned forward to kiss him hard, and place his hands on her breasts. “Is another story for another day.”
With that, she squeezed hard, rendering him momentarily speechless. Molly continued to kiss him, rubbing her body along his as she felt him start to lose control under her. Molly sat back, rose up and slammed her hips down. Sliding up, she tightened herself around him and repeated the action twice more, before he came.
His hands gripped her hips hard, which were sure to leave marks on her for days. Shaking below her, his hips arched up off the bed, nearly throwing her, but she held on, watching in fascination. His eyes closed and his head tipped back as he groaned out Molly before stilling under her.
It was the sexiest sight Molly had ever seen, not to mention the rush of power knowing that she reduced Sherlock Holmes to this was intoxicating.
“I think we should change your play name,” Sherlock drowsily mused, after they pulled away and cleaned up a bit. He was snuggled in her arms, nose buried in the crook of her neck. “Miss is too small of a word. I’d call you Scheherazade.”
“Only if you were my Sultan,” she replied, kissing him on the forehead.
“So she asks, so shall it be done,” he whispered, pulling her closer to him.
Chapter 18 and END
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.
This is the second-to-last chapter of the fic. Tomorrow: EPILOGUE! Thank you everyone who read this. I hope you enjoyed it. And I have to say that while editing can be a pain in the ass, I'm happier with this fic now and where it ended up, as opposed to when I finished it last year.
This was the chapter that was giving me fits -- the ending originally was just too abrupt and didn't really match the character's mindset. But one of the most frustrating things is to only see things from one perspective and be unable to see anything else. Why I wish I had a mind reading superpower. Hopefully this one is better than the original. I'd hate to think it was worse.
And now! 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.
Normally she didn’t worry when Sherlock vanished from sight. It was his prerogative and habit for him to disappear for days at a time with nothing but radio silence. Every time he did that, he would pop up again at the lab -- perhaps a bit bruised, a bit scraped, but fine and his ever arrogant and demanding self.
But when John called her the day after he left her flat asking about Sherlock, Molly began to worry. After all, keeping John out of the loop simply wasn’t normal.
“What do you mean you haven’t seen him?” Molly asked, when he stopped by the lab. “Judging by the way he left my flat, I expect him to head back home, pull you away from Sarah and drag you off on whatever he had planned.”
John shook his head, brows knitted in confusion. “He didn’t,” he said. “I’ve tried texting him, but gotten no response.”
A cold rush of fear washed over Molly. “I haven’t heard from him either,” she said. “But he’s on a case, and I never hear from him when that occurs. It’s like he’s got a bigger distraction to deal with.”
“I know,” he said. “I realize he does that, but I figured he’d contact you because --”
“Because of our arrangement,” Molly finished for him. She shook her head. “You know it’s not like that.”
“Like what?” John replied. “He spends time with you, you two seem to like each other, well, as much as Sherlock likes anyone, you’re --” his eyebrows waggled slightly.
Molly blushed. “You know he doesn’t feel things like that for me,” she stammered. “I’m not important. I’m just an object to be used. I‘m just taking advantage of being taken advantage of for once.”
“He’s not like that and you know it,” he retorted, a steely undertone to his voice. “I’d say he’s pretty attached to you, judging by his behaviour.”
Molly snorted. “John,” she said, levelling her gaze at him. “I doubt that. I don’t matter. I‘m just convenient.”
John rolled his eyes, as if he couldn‘t believe the truth in Molly‘s words. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll let you delude yourself with that. But if you ever hear from him, let me know?” He checked his watch. “I’m off to meet Lestrade and hopefully get a clue as to what’s going on.”
Molly nodded. “The same goes for you,” she replied.
Despite her urge to pester other people, Molly remained quiet, having faith that he would soon saunter into the lab and demand to see a body, terrorize Norris and then text her some cheeky messages.
It was all she could do. She tried texting him, but met with radio silence, so she didn’t bother to pursue it any further. All Molly could do was hope he would return soon.
It also didn’t help that John’s words needled her. Of course John would think that, Molly thought to herself. John’s the romantic. He’s normal. He’s the one who believes the best in Sherlock. This was an arrangement. But reality was different, Molly thought to herself.
Wasn’t it?
Sleep didn’t come easily for her. She found herself up at night, reading the news, surfing the Internet, hoping to find some clue as to what was happening with him.
After the third day news about a fire at a warehouse exploded. Lestrade’s sleep-haggard face was splashed all over the media, explaining that there had been five murders with connecting circumstances. Scotland Yard found the suspect at the warehouse, along with some evidence from the killings. But before they could apprehend him, a fire broke out and the suspect’s body was found after the fire was extinguished.
She heard about the news while at work and attempted to remain calm, hoping that Sherlock would text her.
He didn’t.
No worries, Molly thought to herself. Often she was the last person on his mind. If she had to hazard a guess, he would’ve contacted John by now.
Then she got a text from John asking her if she knew where Sherlock was.
That wasn’t a good sign. The façade of calm that Molly wrapped herself in started to crumble, replaced with a cold sense of dread. Additional calls to area hospitals yielded nothing. Molly cursed the fact that she didn’t keep up with her medical school alumni to abuse her connections in emergencies like this.
She refused to think the worst. If he was dead, he would’ve showed up at the morgue by now, Molly rationalized.
Unless he was incinerated in the fire, the dark portion of Molly’s mind helpfully whispered. Molly retorted that a warehouse fire couldn’t possibly get hot enough to incinerate all of a human being’s remains. Besides, even if he had been burned in the fire, there would still be a skeleton brought to the morgue for identification.
It was morbid comfort, but Molly took whatever she could get. At least it allowed her enough mental fortitude to finish her shift at work and return home for another sleepless night filled with worry.
Opening the door to her flat, she saw Sherlock’s coat on the couch and shoes in the entryway. Relief flooded her system and she let out a small cry of relief. She headed for the bedroom, where she saw him stretched out on her bed, fast asleep. She knew she should have been angry with him -- after all, he invaded her flat yet again without any consideration for her desires.
Overwhelming relief won out over annoyance. Kicking off her shoes, Molly slid into bed next to him, studying his face and what parts of his body she could see. Inhaling deeply, she could smell the smoky smell of the fire, which clung to his clothing and hair.
Before she could react, his arms snaked out with quick speed, wrapping around her and pulling her under him. His head nestled into the crook of her neck and one leg flung itself possessively over her body, pinning her to the bed.
His mouth pressed down on hers with a bruising kiss as his fingers began tugging at her shirt. Molly could’ve sworn that she heard the sound of fabric ripping. This was definitely weird, the logical portion of her brain whispered. Was he even awake? Was this a play session? If not, what the fuck was going on? They never did sex outside of the appointments.
He’s just burning off some adrenaline. Maybe he‘s sleep groping, her mind spoke up helpfully. Nothing wrong with reaping some of those benefits.
Any other thoughts were obliterated as his mouth began a hot, wet slide down her neck. She could feel his erection poking into her thigh and his fingers scrabbling to remove her bra.
During the whole time he was whispering again, hot words in her ear as his mouth pressed kisses to her cheek, her jaw line and her throat. For the first time, Molly wasn’t lost in a haze of arousal or on the verge of orgasm to focus on what he was saying.
“J t'adore,” he whispered in her neck, over and over again.
“What?” she stammered, attempting to pull away from him. It was impossible to move, what with his body pinning hers to the bed.
He didn’t respond. One hand began tugging at her trousers as his mouth continued to slide down her torso.
Panic overtook Molly as she yelped out, “Stop! Toxicology!’ and hit him with an open palm, trying to get him to stop. He didn’t say what she thought he said. He never would say that. It was impossible. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t believe in those words. This was low, even for him to manipulate her in this manner.
Sherlock pulled back, blinking in the light. As he got his bearings back, his expression morphed from owlish to blankly neutral in nanoseconds. “It’s French,” he rasped. “It means --”
“I know what it means,” Molly felt like the floor was falling out from under her. “I know basic French.” She sat up and attempted to pull her blouse around her. He did rip all the buttons off, she noted. Which was a damn shame, because this was one of her favourite work outfits.
He moved his hands off of her and propped himself up by one elbow and studied her. “You’re afraid,” he said.
For a moment, Molly respected Sherlock. Instead of offering a lame excuse like he was talking in his sleep, Sherlock simply moved onto the situation at hand, as if he had planned this from the very beginning. She moved further away from him, her arms wrapping around her knees in a vain attempt for protection. But the whole thing was just low, even for him, she thought bitterly.
“Let me guess -- you’re afraid I’ll go gallivanting off again and end up more injured, or possibly worse --” he began.
“No,” she interrupted. “It’s not that. That --” she waved between the two of them, “is not what our relationship is. This is based on intense, mind-blowing sex with lots and lots of props. You don’t need to manipulate me in this manner. I know you don’t do love. I‘m fine with it,” she gritted her teeth, hating the fact that her voice quavered, indicating that she was lying. She knew he knew it and that she was trapped.
“Not to mention the fact that you’ve just broken into my flat yet again and attempted to initiate something outside of our usual playtime,” Molly snapped, grabbing onto whatever distraction she could find. “You could’ve communicated this more clearly.”
“I thought my erection was clear communication,” he replied. “Is it wrong that I have been thinking about expanding our contract?”
“To what? Outside of playtime sex? Telling me you love me? This isn’t part of the plan Sherlock. And you don‘t go expanding the contract by ripping my clothes off. Usually it‘s a discussion. With words.”
“I’m not allowed to change my mind?” he asked, irritated. “I thought we were able to do that.”
“Yes, but sane people don’t drop bombs like this on other people,“ Molly shot back. “You never have in the past. You also have made it very clear that you didn’t fancy, much less love, me in that manner. You don‘t need to manipulate me into agreeing with this contract. I‘m perfectly fine with what we have. I don‘t need any more from you.”
“First off, you’re lying,“ Sherlock retorted. “I can tell by the way your eyes are looking at the ceiling. Secondly, things have changed. You know I said that before.”
“At the fish and chip shop,” she retorted, willing herself not to flee from the room, despite the urge to. This was even worse than before. At least before she knew she could rely on where she stood. This was like being flung over a cliff without the assurance of a net at the bottom.
“You never answered my question,” Sherlock said, continuing to stare at her. “Why are you scared? And you say you don‘t need more, but do you want more?”
There was no point in diverting him or distracting him, Molly realized. He would just focus and keep poking and asking the question until she caved. Like everything else he did, she thought with a rueful laugh.
“Of course I want more. How can I not want more?” she could hear her voice shake and suddenly she hated herself for not being braver. “But I know the truth. You don’t love me, you’ve never shown interest. The only reason I’m interesting now is because I’m doing this for you. It‘s so convenient for you -- access to the morgue and your kinks taken care of. And little Miss Molly will be so thrilled with what scraps she’s gotten that you can do whatever you like at the morgue.
“But I know you’ll tire of me soon. I can’t keep up with you. I can’t keep spinning new scenarios. I’m not as clever as you. Sooner or later I’m going to run out of tricks to keep you interested and then you’ll leave and just consider me another nuisance at the morgue.”
She swallowed, battling back the urge to start crying. “And it’s going to hurt even worse than before, because I love you. Not just in a temporary fashion like I know it’ll be with you. And you’ll be in the morgue beating those corpses with the crop and I’ll be remembering all these times and not just the incredible sex, -- which by the way, I’m now ruined for thanks to you -- but the lunches, the discussions, the actual, genuine smiles and it will hurt and I can’t do that.
“I may as well transfer to Birmingham, but knowing you, you‘d walk in the door demanding to see a corpse,” a hysterical, shrill laugh burst out of her. “I should do that Doctors Without Borders thing and go to outer Mongolia. But I know you‘d pop up out of a bowl of rice when I least expect it. We should end this now before I get even more hurt.”
Molly attempted to roll off the bed to flee. Maybe she could hide in the bathroom and lock the door and not come out until he left. That was thwarted when he grabbed her wrist with an iron grip.
“Wait,” he said. “Did you just say you’re in love with me?”
If there was a way to throw herself out of the window, she would have done it at that moment. There was no point in trying to pretend that she didn’t say it. He knew she said it. She knew she said it. He was just toying with her now.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been in love with you for a while you brilliant, insufferable prat and unrequited was easier to deal with than this.”
He began laughing -- not a condescending chuckle, but something that was exasperated in tone. Even with the exasperation, there was an underlying trace of warmth and lightness under it. “Don’t you already realize that I know everything about you and I haven’t left because I am in love with you?” he asked, prying her arms away from her knees.
Realization slammed into Molly, causing the breath to leave her body. He was right. He probably deduced everything about her the first time he looked around her flat. And yet, he still stayed. Instead of drawing back, he seemed more intent on eradicating any walls she had left. Breaking into her e-mail, the random lunches, purchasing the extravagant bed and other gifts, stalking her friends’ brunches and invading her flat should’ve been clues for her.
Stupid Molly, she thought. You had everything in front of you, but you couldn’t connect the dots.
Before she knew it, his head was in her lap. The expression on his face was one of smug delight as he stared up at her. For a moment, Molly wondered if anyone had ever told him that he was loved.
“Not by anyone who wasn’t a blood relative,” he said. “And even then, that was ages ago.”
She laughed, as her hands wound through his hair. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Yes,” he said, as he pulled her down so he could put his arms around her and return to burying his nose in crook of her neck, returning to his original mission. Sherlock’s lips began nipping along her collarbone and his hands pushed off the remains of her tattered blouse.
“I didn’t think you did sex outside of playtime,” Molly said.
“I have,” he murmured. “Just been awhile.”
“This isn’t a playtime is it?”
There was a disgusted snort from somewhere between her breasts. “No Molly,” he said. “It’s not a scheduled session. And playtime is such an infantile word.”
In the past, she would’ve stammered that Sherlock was right, playtime was an infantile word and they should’ve picked something else. But now? Molly giggled as she felt his fingers slide behind her, undoing her bra. “I find it adorable,” she said, as he shucked her top off, “it’s a cute name for what we do.”
Another annoyed huff came from around her navel. Sherlock’s head popped up as he stared at her. “What those times are is not cute,” he retorted, saying the word cute like it was a particularly dull question. “Those times are --”
She could feel herself rolling her eyes. “Dangerous? Dark? Mysterious?”
His mouth made a lazy journey up her body, before his face hovered above hers. “Addictive, intoxicating, educational,” he replied slowly, before kissing her. Molly could feel him unbuttoning her trousers and she lifted her hips up, allowing him to peel them and her panties off of her. Somehow he didn’t break the kiss, which impressed her. He pulled away, their lips barely touching. “Mind-clearing and soothing.”
Molly sucked in a deep breath as Sherlock‘s fingers slid between her legs and into her. “Fair enough,” she stammered out, arching her back, before he returned to his work and all witty retorts fled her mind.
Despite the overwhelming hunger he displayed earlier, Sherlock didn’t seem to be in a rush now that she was naked. Molly felt like one of his experiments -- not that it was a bad thing. It was interesting watching him observe her reactions. Even with his mouth buried in her, licking and humming away on her clit, his eyes were focused on her, watching intently. She could feel the blush spread across her body and she gripped the headboard, undulating under him.
Then he twisted his fingers just so in her and she completely forgot he was watching her as she slipped over the edge, wailing his name and convulsing involuntarily. Before she knew it, she was laughing, loud and long, as he made his way up her body again. If Molly cared, she would have thought she sounded absolutely barking mad.
But she didn’t. And judging by the impish expression on Sherlock’s face, neither did he. Reaching over to the nightstand, he pulled out a condom and tore the wrapper. Molly reached over and began undoing his pants, sliding her hands around to squeeze his bottom with a playful smile, ignoring his stern expression.
Taking the rubber from him, Molly gave a lingering kiss to the head of his prick, before rolling it on. Mission accomplished, she grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him over for a kiss and back into bed.
Rolling over, she pushed him on his back and straddled him. Molly rubbed herself along him, a wicked smile on her lips as she began to tease him.
“Say it again,” he growled, gripping her hips and pulling her back toward his cock.
“You first.” She leaned forward, unbuttoning his shirt to touch and rub his skin, savouring the feel of him against her.
“What language would you like?” Sherlock’s hands lifted her, impaling her on his prick.
Molly let out a breathy sigh of pleasure, then composed her thoughts. “Show off. I’d like to hear it in Mandarin.”
“Wo ai ni,” he said clearly and cleanly as he began thrusting in her. “How do you know Chinese?”
“I love you too,” she said, grinding her hips and squeezing herself around him. His face flushed in surprise and he let out a soft groan. “And that,” she leaned forward to kiss him hard, and place his hands on her breasts. “Is another story for another day.”
With that, she squeezed hard, rendering him momentarily speechless. Molly continued to kiss him, rubbing her body along his as she felt him start to lose control under her. Molly sat back, rose up and slammed her hips down. Sliding up, she tightened herself around him and repeated the action twice more, before he came.
His hands gripped her hips hard, which were sure to leave marks on her for days. Shaking below her, his hips arched up off the bed, nearly throwing her, but she held on, watching in fascination. His eyes closed and his head tipped back as he groaned out Molly before stilling under her.
It was the sexiest sight Molly had ever seen, not to mention the rush of power knowing that she reduced Sherlock Holmes to this was intoxicating.
“I think we should change your play name,” Sherlock drowsily mused, after they pulled away and cleaned up a bit. He was snuggled in her arms, nose buried in the crook of her neck. “Miss is too small of a word. I’d call you Scheherazade.”
“Only if you were my Sultan,” she replied, kissing him on the forehead.
“So she asks, so shall it be done,” he whispered, pulling her closer to him.
Chapter 18 and END