Fic: The Undiscovered Molly (Sherlock/Molly, NC-17)
Title: The Undiscovered Molly
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Molly/Sherlock
Word Count: ~2700
Prompt: For sherlockbbc_fic: Sherlock/Molly -- "the discovery of legs and breasts and, well, she does look lovely when she's naked (despite, of course, the clumsiness)".
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: Virginal yet slightly dominant Sherlock, some pinching and biting
Summary: With Molly's assistance, Sherlock applies the scientific method to sex. He fails spectacularly at objective observation.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: Yes, as a matter of fact, the title is a shameless and silly Star Trek pun! And no, this is not a rom-com, despite the summary.
It's not for a case, which is surprising, nor is it out of affection, which is decidedly less so. It is an experiment, born out of his need to gain the knowledge of an act that, being so important to the vast majority of people on the planet, would doubtlessly improve his deductive skills. A prostitute would, possibly, have been a better idea - sleek, professional, less messy, emotionally speaking - but there is a certain appeal in Molly's shy, gawky passion. An authenticity, if you will. He plans to take her somewhere, not to his flat (too many delicate experiments in progress, unrelated to this one) nor to Molly's (too many cats, too much pastel, too many doilies), but to a three-star hotel room, nothing too fancy or too trashy, for while Sherlock wouldn't care much either way about the arena if he were the only one involved, Molly certainly would, and Sherlock can't have either her awe or aversion to the décor interfering with the outcome. He's planned this out carefully, down to the precise date when her hormones will make her most susceptible to arousal and rampant emotionality (not like that's unusual for her); he even wears his tightest black trousers, impractical though they are, and his aubergine shirt, her favorite, with the first button undone and the sleeves rolled up so she can look at his wrists and collarbone, his neck, while he beats dead bodies and makes tiny things explode in petri dishes in the lab.
He propositions her after three hours have passed, enough time for it to seem spur of the moment. (It's a nod to John's influence that he makes certain to emphasize how this is not a precursor to a relationship and it's not an invitation to flirt, nor is it a promise that anything of the like can or will happen again in the future; before, Sherlock would have assumed Molly had figured that out by now. Before, he might not have cared if she hadn't.) She blushes bright red, touches her hair nervously, fiddles with a curl, accepts. For a moment, Sherlock flicks his eyes over her - she's of average height, healthy enough, thin lips and shy demeanor made up for somewhat by pretty eyes and, when he touches her arm to guide her out of the room (the first time he's willingly touched her, and she inhales with a whoosh when he does), a surprising solidity of figure. Intriguing, that; Sherlock had anticipated going to bed with a wisp, having to watch how he applied his strength (or not, just a little, to see a flash of fear rise in her eyes and quickly die), having to cuddle with her after the act (all right, perhaps he'll still have to do that, distressingly enough, or risk her tears. Sherlock can't stand tears, unless they're needed for a case).
Sherlock is confident he'll be the one to take the lead, to be the assertive one. After all, sex is a matter of mechanics, somewhat more complex than tab A into slot B but no more difficult (unless one partner is a complete imbecile, and Sherlock has rather more faith in Molly than that; besides, she's a doctor); yet somehow, he's at a loss when they finally do get into the hotel room, and Molly takes off her jacket and turns to him, stutters a moment, and asks timidly, "So, where should we start?"
Sherlock shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets, suddenly, inexplicably, unwilling to continue (he wishes she'd stop smiling like that, he isn't the type to be given that sort of look). His lip curls when he says, "Kissing, I suppose. Isn't that the done thing?" but he makes no attempt to hide it.
"You don't need to sound so disgusted by it," she says, crossing her arms protectively over her chest, looking down at her feet. Sherlock blinks, latches onto the vehemence in her tone, and tries to chase it down to its source. Couldn't be his half-feigned revulsion at the thought of kissing, now, could it, he's always been disdainful toward her and why would she expect anything different now? (He really doesn't think he could have been clearer than "this is solely experimental, I have no plan to let any possible emotion get in the way", but then, people are painfully oblivious when it comes to sex and romance.) No, that's not it, he needs to think on it some more, but the silence has dragged on for too long now so he files it away as another development in Molly post-Moriarty (a small section of his hard drive that is rapidly becoming full of tiny, useless observations that he doesn't delete for some baffling reason probably linked to her ability to procure him body parts under the radar).
Sherlock takes his hands out of his pockets, steps forward.
"Molly," he says, pitching his voice low, and when she doesn't look up - hurt, flushed, off balance, as is usual around him - he tilts her chin up with one finger and studies her expression. There's something both hard-edged and hard to see in her eyes, just for a moment, fading rapidly as her pupils dilate at his touch. Sherlock wonders, suddenly and vividly, if Molly is submissive in the bedroom, if she enjoys roleplay, if she - no, too distracting, he has no time for that today; he shuts down that train of thought momentarily. Pursue it later, he decides, and leans down and kisses her, and she instantly moves just a little closer, putting hesitant hands on his chest, and opens her mouth to him. Kissing, the hot slide of tongue on tongue, teeth clacking, all that saliva filled with digestive enzymes - analyzed down to its base components, just another bodily function. Sherlock didn't expect to like it, but he does, he likes it; when he puts a hand on the small of her back to pull her closer and when Molly rises to her toes and grips the lapels of his suit jacket hard, her hands caught in between their bodies, his brain temporarily shorts out and it takes him a moment to reassert control, to evaluate the situation. He estimates that a good half of his enjoyment comes from Molly's reactions, her panted breaths and the lovely little noise she makes when he slips a cold hand under the hemline of her shirt and holds her by the waist, and decides that he'd like it better if she was a bit louder. He backs her up until she bumps against the bed, and pushes her lightly to make her sit down.
"Wait a moment," he says, practically mumbling into her mouth, undignified, and pulls away enough to shrug out of his coat and his jacket - it's a well-cut suit, doesn't limit his movements, but (cold extremities aside) he's feeling rather overheated - and adds, a little sharply as Molly's just perched there, watching him (though the nearly avaricious look in her eye is certainly a triumph over her usual meekness), "I don't think you'll be needing your clothes from this point onward, do you?"
"Oh," she says, overwhelmed, and her fingers scrabbling at the buttons of her prim shirt are moving far too slowly, so Sherlock bats them away and does it himself, peeling away her top while she fumbles and finally drops her slacks to the floor; her bra is missish and practical, light blue cotton with pink lace in the center, and her knickers don't match it. Sherlock notices this, though in a detached way; he's far more interested in getting them off her, discovering the surprising beauty of her legs, the padding of her upper thighs and stomach, her pallid skin that shows off her full-body blush to wonderful effect. He presses his mouth to her skin, sometimes with his teeth, from her clavicle to her sternum to her breasts, which are unevenly sized, though the difference is infinitesimal and only he would notice; he wonders if that's common among women, or if it's peculiar to Molly, like so many things are.
He settles himself in the space between her legs, still fully clothed in appealing contrast to her nakedness, and cups her breasts. Molly shifts and tries to wrap a leg around him, tries to grab his shoulders and pull him close, clumsy, as he'd expect. Her eyes are very wide and her mouth is parted; he resists her attempts to move him and instead lowers his head, keeps his eyes on her the best he can, flicks his tongue over her nipple, like he's seen it done in films and read about in books. Molly gasps, and he does it again, and she twitches a little underneath him; Sherlock was well aware this was an erogenous zone, but he hadn't expected her to react like this, so easily teased. He drops his head and focuses nearly entirely on her breasts, sucking and licking and yes, biting, lightly at first, then harder, until she squeaks and whispers, "More." He complies, strokes his hand down her side as he does so, and pinches hard at the skin over her ribs. Hard enough that he may leave bruises, and still she sighs and asks him for still more and moves under him in a way that can only be described as a wiggle; as unsexy as that is, he still finds his hips moving, grinding himself against her thigh. His penis - no, too clinical, his cock is hard; he's excited by her discomfort, though whether it's due to the actual act of inflicting pain or the control she cedes to him by allowing it, he's not sure. Not sure if it matters, at least right now; he is too caught up in the thrill of discovery, he's on his knees and pressing her legs apart and leaving suck marks on the tender skin of her inner thighs. She's got a lovely vulva, in Sherlock's admittedly ill-informed opinion (a lovely cunt, he reminds himself, in sexual situations that's what you'd call it, and yes, the word does suit much better); he licks his fingers and carefully touches her outer labia, spreading them slightly, and tells her what he thinks of them.
"Sherlock," Molly says, the first time she's said his name all today, shocked and breathy and more than a little intrigued. He glances up at her, fixes her with the full brunt of his attention - he knows perfectly well the effect his eyes can have on Molly, has used it before, though never like this - and she gasps and lurches back, covering her face with her hands as he gently rubs her clit with his thumb.
"No, don't - look at me, Molly," he demands, and clears his throat; his voice is unexpectedly hoarse. He hasn't been running, or recently strangled, though his pulse is jackhammering and he's sweating and most likely flushed as if he had been - but then, his huskiness clearly makes Molly even more receptive to his attentions (and he tells her this, too, "You're wet for me, Molly," colloquial terminology he usually hates but fits the occasion so well, and she does enjoy it).
"Are you - do you want to - " she manages, gesturing at the bulge in his trousers.
"Ah, yes," he says - truthfully, he'd almost forgotten about it, having grown used to ignoring untimely erections during his teenage years when they'd pop up during time-sensitive experiments he simply couldn't leave - and has his belt and the top button of his trousers undone before remembering the condom, luckily scant inches away in his pocket. Now that his attention's been brought back to his body, not Molly's, his need for release is blocking most other thoughts from his brain; his hands actually shake ripping open the package, and he has to clench them tight for a moment before he can put the damn thing on.
When he finally does, he's instantly pulled by Molly so he's sprawled over her, her hands exploring under his shirt with light touches. His cock is nestled against her, though where precisely he's not sure, and his hips give an involuntary thrust, and God, yes, he's right where he's supposed to be, not yet inside her but close. The friction nearly undoes him, he buries his face against her neck and gives a shamefully loud groan. Her fingers are wound in his hair; she doesn't hurry him (for which he's thankful, otherwise this experiment would have been cut off embarrassingly short), but instead presses kisses against the parts of his head she can reach at that angle, a surprisingly bold move for Molly, and when he can manage to finally, gloriously press himself inside her, she rolls her hips to meet him and exhales explosively and says his name, again, her tone lilting upward and ending in a pleased whine. Sherlock's hips stutter slightly, momentarily uncontrolled - she is so hot, so tight, positively delicious and Sherlock is astounded he hasn't done this sooner, body-as-transport be damned - and he finds his rhythm and fucks her, hard, and though he tries to catalogue each sensation (the feeling of her muscles around him, her hands in his hair, sweat drops on his forehead and temples, the scent of it all, their bodily odors and the noises she makes that spur him on), he fails miserably, too lost in it to be scientifically objective.
When he comes, it's without warning and rather explosive. Sherlock thinks he shouts, though he can't be certain, and Molly tightens and moans, her body jolting around and under him. He keeps his eyes shut tight as his orgasm fades, shuddering slightly in the aftershocks, and drops his head to rest on Molly's forehead. She untangles her hands from his hair and wraps her arms around his torso and - and -
Just like that, it's suddenly too much, too much touching, too much closeness. Sherlock twists out of her grip easily, sweat-slick, and goes to pace around the room. His pulse is still far too high, though it runs fairly quickly even when he's sedate, and he jams his hands into his trouser pockets to resist fiddling with them. (His zip is still undone, he notices, though he tucked himself away immediately after finishing; he doesn't like to be vulnerable.) He wants desperately to go back to the bed, to bury himself in Molly and her scent and her sheer desire for him again, but - he is an addict, and no good as self-restraint or self-denial. Work and nicotine and sex all together, he's not sure he could balance the three; he certainly couldn't when cocaine completed the triad. Sherlock clenches his fists in his pockets, forces himself to ignore Molly's presence behind him and concentrates instead on something to distract him, anything - the chemical makeup of blood. Yes. And when dosed with GHB, so common yet very difficult to detect. He very carefully runs the formulas in his head, and minutely relaxes.
"Sherlock?" Molly, curious and slightly uneasy. He opens his eyes. Back in his head, and not in his skin. He's decidedly crusty from exertion, needs a shower, and probably better here than at Baker Street, where John would undoubtedly deduce what he's been up to. Shockingly slow on some things, but always very keen on anything romantic or sexual, is John.
Molly repeats herself, and he half-turns and says, modulating his tone to be the right combination of appreciative and dismissive, "Thank you, Molly. You've been a great help."
He glances at her, sees her shocked face and the lovely expanse of skin she's showing - she really is astonishingly beautiful, out of her clothes - and quickly turns away, almost guilty, though he can't fathom why. His experiment is a success; sex clearly is a disconcertingly strong motivator, even for him. It's good to know; he'll never fall into that trap, now.
Later, when Molly in a startling display of aggression pulls him into the morgue, slams the door, rips off his trousers, and proceeds to make him dissolve into a thorough wreck without Sherlock voicing one word of protest, it will occur to him that he already has.
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Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Molly/Sherlock
Word Count: ~2700
Prompt: For sherlockbbc_fic: Sherlock/Molly -- "the discovery of legs and breasts and, well, she does look lovely when she's naked (despite, of course, the clumsiness)".
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: Virginal yet slightly dominant Sherlock, some pinching and biting
Summary: With Molly's assistance, Sherlock applies the scientific method to sex. He fails spectacularly at objective observation.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: Yes, as a matter of fact, the title is a shameless and silly Star Trek pun! And no, this is not a rom-com, despite the summary.
It's not for a case, which is surprising, nor is it out of affection, which is decidedly less so. It is an experiment, born out of his need to gain the knowledge of an act that, being so important to the vast majority of people on the planet, would doubtlessly improve his deductive skills. A prostitute would, possibly, have been a better idea - sleek, professional, less messy, emotionally speaking - but there is a certain appeal in Molly's shy, gawky passion. An authenticity, if you will. He plans to take her somewhere, not to his flat (too many delicate experiments in progress, unrelated to this one) nor to Molly's (too many cats, too much pastel, too many doilies), but to a three-star hotel room, nothing too fancy or too trashy, for while Sherlock wouldn't care much either way about the arena if he were the only one involved, Molly certainly would, and Sherlock can't have either her awe or aversion to the décor interfering with the outcome. He's planned this out carefully, down to the precise date when her hormones will make her most susceptible to arousal and rampant emotionality (not like that's unusual for her); he even wears his tightest black trousers, impractical though they are, and his aubergine shirt, her favorite, with the first button undone and the sleeves rolled up so she can look at his wrists and collarbone, his neck, while he beats dead bodies and makes tiny things explode in petri dishes in the lab.
He propositions her after three hours have passed, enough time for it to seem spur of the moment. (It's a nod to John's influence that he makes certain to emphasize how this is not a precursor to a relationship and it's not an invitation to flirt, nor is it a promise that anything of the like can or will happen again in the future; before, Sherlock would have assumed Molly had figured that out by now. Before, he might not have cared if she hadn't.) She blushes bright red, touches her hair nervously, fiddles with a curl, accepts. For a moment, Sherlock flicks his eyes over her - she's of average height, healthy enough, thin lips and shy demeanor made up for somewhat by pretty eyes and, when he touches her arm to guide her out of the room (the first time he's willingly touched her, and she inhales with a whoosh when he does), a surprising solidity of figure. Intriguing, that; Sherlock had anticipated going to bed with a wisp, having to watch how he applied his strength (or not, just a little, to see a flash of fear rise in her eyes and quickly die), having to cuddle with her after the act (all right, perhaps he'll still have to do that, distressingly enough, or risk her tears. Sherlock can't stand tears, unless they're needed for a case).
Sherlock is confident he'll be the one to take the lead, to be the assertive one. After all, sex is a matter of mechanics, somewhat more complex than tab A into slot B but no more difficult (unless one partner is a complete imbecile, and Sherlock has rather more faith in Molly than that; besides, she's a doctor); yet somehow, he's at a loss when they finally do get into the hotel room, and Molly takes off her jacket and turns to him, stutters a moment, and asks timidly, "So, where should we start?"
Sherlock shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets, suddenly, inexplicably, unwilling to continue (he wishes she'd stop smiling like that, he isn't the type to be given that sort of look). His lip curls when he says, "Kissing, I suppose. Isn't that the done thing?" but he makes no attempt to hide it.
"You don't need to sound so disgusted by it," she says, crossing her arms protectively over her chest, looking down at her feet. Sherlock blinks, latches onto the vehemence in her tone, and tries to chase it down to its source. Couldn't be his half-feigned revulsion at the thought of kissing, now, could it, he's always been disdainful toward her and why would she expect anything different now? (He really doesn't think he could have been clearer than "this is solely experimental, I have no plan to let any possible emotion get in the way", but then, people are painfully oblivious when it comes to sex and romance.) No, that's not it, he needs to think on it some more, but the silence has dragged on for too long now so he files it away as another development in Molly post-Moriarty (a small section of his hard drive that is rapidly becoming full of tiny, useless observations that he doesn't delete for some baffling reason probably linked to her ability to procure him body parts under the radar).
Sherlock takes his hands out of his pockets, steps forward.
"Molly," he says, pitching his voice low, and when she doesn't look up - hurt, flushed, off balance, as is usual around him - he tilts her chin up with one finger and studies her expression. There's something both hard-edged and hard to see in her eyes, just for a moment, fading rapidly as her pupils dilate at his touch. Sherlock wonders, suddenly and vividly, if Molly is submissive in the bedroom, if she enjoys roleplay, if she - no, too distracting, he has no time for that today; he shuts down that train of thought momentarily. Pursue it later, he decides, and leans down and kisses her, and she instantly moves just a little closer, putting hesitant hands on his chest, and opens her mouth to him. Kissing, the hot slide of tongue on tongue, teeth clacking, all that saliva filled with digestive enzymes - analyzed down to its base components, just another bodily function. Sherlock didn't expect to like it, but he does, he likes it; when he puts a hand on the small of her back to pull her closer and when Molly rises to her toes and grips the lapels of his suit jacket hard, her hands caught in between their bodies, his brain temporarily shorts out and it takes him a moment to reassert control, to evaluate the situation. He estimates that a good half of his enjoyment comes from Molly's reactions, her panted breaths and the lovely little noise she makes when he slips a cold hand under the hemline of her shirt and holds her by the waist, and decides that he'd like it better if she was a bit louder. He backs her up until she bumps against the bed, and pushes her lightly to make her sit down.
"Wait a moment," he says, practically mumbling into her mouth, undignified, and pulls away enough to shrug out of his coat and his jacket - it's a well-cut suit, doesn't limit his movements, but (cold extremities aside) he's feeling rather overheated - and adds, a little sharply as Molly's just perched there, watching him (though the nearly avaricious look in her eye is certainly a triumph over her usual meekness), "I don't think you'll be needing your clothes from this point onward, do you?"
"Oh," she says, overwhelmed, and her fingers scrabbling at the buttons of her prim shirt are moving far too slowly, so Sherlock bats them away and does it himself, peeling away her top while she fumbles and finally drops her slacks to the floor; her bra is missish and practical, light blue cotton with pink lace in the center, and her knickers don't match it. Sherlock notices this, though in a detached way; he's far more interested in getting them off her, discovering the surprising beauty of her legs, the padding of her upper thighs and stomach, her pallid skin that shows off her full-body blush to wonderful effect. He presses his mouth to her skin, sometimes with his teeth, from her clavicle to her sternum to her breasts, which are unevenly sized, though the difference is infinitesimal and only he would notice; he wonders if that's common among women, or if it's peculiar to Molly, like so many things are.
He settles himself in the space between her legs, still fully clothed in appealing contrast to her nakedness, and cups her breasts. Molly shifts and tries to wrap a leg around him, tries to grab his shoulders and pull him close, clumsy, as he'd expect. Her eyes are very wide and her mouth is parted; he resists her attempts to move him and instead lowers his head, keeps his eyes on her the best he can, flicks his tongue over her nipple, like he's seen it done in films and read about in books. Molly gasps, and he does it again, and she twitches a little underneath him; Sherlock was well aware this was an erogenous zone, but he hadn't expected her to react like this, so easily teased. He drops his head and focuses nearly entirely on her breasts, sucking and licking and yes, biting, lightly at first, then harder, until she squeaks and whispers, "More." He complies, strokes his hand down her side as he does so, and pinches hard at the skin over her ribs. Hard enough that he may leave bruises, and still she sighs and asks him for still more and moves under him in a way that can only be described as a wiggle; as unsexy as that is, he still finds his hips moving, grinding himself against her thigh. His penis - no, too clinical, his cock is hard; he's excited by her discomfort, though whether it's due to the actual act of inflicting pain or the control she cedes to him by allowing it, he's not sure. Not sure if it matters, at least right now; he is too caught up in the thrill of discovery, he's on his knees and pressing her legs apart and leaving suck marks on the tender skin of her inner thighs. She's got a lovely vulva, in Sherlock's admittedly ill-informed opinion (a lovely cunt, he reminds himself, in sexual situations that's what you'd call it, and yes, the word does suit much better); he licks his fingers and carefully touches her outer labia, spreading them slightly, and tells her what he thinks of them.
"Sherlock," Molly says, the first time she's said his name all today, shocked and breathy and more than a little intrigued. He glances up at her, fixes her with the full brunt of his attention - he knows perfectly well the effect his eyes can have on Molly, has used it before, though never like this - and she gasps and lurches back, covering her face with her hands as he gently rubs her clit with his thumb.
"No, don't - look at me, Molly," he demands, and clears his throat; his voice is unexpectedly hoarse. He hasn't been running, or recently strangled, though his pulse is jackhammering and he's sweating and most likely flushed as if he had been - but then, his huskiness clearly makes Molly even more receptive to his attentions (and he tells her this, too, "You're wet for me, Molly," colloquial terminology he usually hates but fits the occasion so well, and she does enjoy it).
"Are you - do you want to - " she manages, gesturing at the bulge in his trousers.
"Ah, yes," he says - truthfully, he'd almost forgotten about it, having grown used to ignoring untimely erections during his teenage years when they'd pop up during time-sensitive experiments he simply couldn't leave - and has his belt and the top button of his trousers undone before remembering the condom, luckily scant inches away in his pocket. Now that his attention's been brought back to his body, not Molly's, his need for release is blocking most other thoughts from his brain; his hands actually shake ripping open the package, and he has to clench them tight for a moment before he can put the damn thing on.
When he finally does, he's instantly pulled by Molly so he's sprawled over her, her hands exploring under his shirt with light touches. His cock is nestled against her, though where precisely he's not sure, and his hips give an involuntary thrust, and God, yes, he's right where he's supposed to be, not yet inside her but close. The friction nearly undoes him, he buries his face against her neck and gives a shamefully loud groan. Her fingers are wound in his hair; she doesn't hurry him (for which he's thankful, otherwise this experiment would have been cut off embarrassingly short), but instead presses kisses against the parts of his head she can reach at that angle, a surprisingly bold move for Molly, and when he can manage to finally, gloriously press himself inside her, she rolls her hips to meet him and exhales explosively and says his name, again, her tone lilting upward and ending in a pleased whine. Sherlock's hips stutter slightly, momentarily uncontrolled - she is so hot, so tight, positively delicious and Sherlock is astounded he hasn't done this sooner, body-as-transport be damned - and he finds his rhythm and fucks her, hard, and though he tries to catalogue each sensation (the feeling of her muscles around him, her hands in his hair, sweat drops on his forehead and temples, the scent of it all, their bodily odors and the noises she makes that spur him on), he fails miserably, too lost in it to be scientifically objective.
When he comes, it's without warning and rather explosive. Sherlock thinks he shouts, though he can't be certain, and Molly tightens and moans, her body jolting around and under him. He keeps his eyes shut tight as his orgasm fades, shuddering slightly in the aftershocks, and drops his head to rest on Molly's forehead. She untangles her hands from his hair and wraps her arms around his torso and - and -
Just like that, it's suddenly too much, too much touching, too much closeness. Sherlock twists out of her grip easily, sweat-slick, and goes to pace around the room. His pulse is still far too high, though it runs fairly quickly even when he's sedate, and he jams his hands into his trouser pockets to resist fiddling with them. (His zip is still undone, he notices, though he tucked himself away immediately after finishing; he doesn't like to be vulnerable.) He wants desperately to go back to the bed, to bury himself in Molly and her scent and her sheer desire for him again, but - he is an addict, and no good as self-restraint or self-denial. Work and nicotine and sex all together, he's not sure he could balance the three; he certainly couldn't when cocaine completed the triad. Sherlock clenches his fists in his pockets, forces himself to ignore Molly's presence behind him and concentrates instead on something to distract him, anything - the chemical makeup of blood. Yes. And when dosed with GHB, so common yet very difficult to detect. He very carefully runs the formulas in his head, and minutely relaxes.
"Sherlock?" Molly, curious and slightly uneasy. He opens his eyes. Back in his head, and not in his skin. He's decidedly crusty from exertion, needs a shower, and probably better here than at Baker Street, where John would undoubtedly deduce what he's been up to. Shockingly slow on some things, but always very keen on anything romantic or sexual, is John.
Molly repeats herself, and he half-turns and says, modulating his tone to be the right combination of appreciative and dismissive, "Thank you, Molly. You've been a great help."
He glances at her, sees her shocked face and the lovely expanse of skin she's showing - she really is astonishingly beautiful, out of her clothes - and quickly turns away, almost guilty, though he can't fathom why. His experiment is a success; sex clearly is a disconcertingly strong motivator, even for him. It's good to know; he'll never fall into that trap, now.
Later, when Molly in a startling display of aggression pulls him into the morgue, slams the door, rips off his trousers, and proceeds to make him dissolve into a thorough wreck without Sherlock voicing one word of protest, it will occur to him that he already has.
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