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She couldn't have told you why she'd done it.
Well, she could have. She'd been more than a little in love with him since Day One, though she would have protested that it was a clean, virtuous sort of love, an I'll-do-anything-for-you-never-mind-what-I-get-in-return kind of love, and she would have denied to the death any allegations of wanting more than being able to help him out, once in a while.
Though that wouldn't have been completely honest. She had imagined this (never hoped, it wouldn't have done to hope for something that couldn't happen): her lips on his, his hands on her, her legs draped over his as he sat in the armchair in her living room. She had wanted it.
It was after the paperwork, after the body had been signed away, after she had sneaked him into her flat so that he could clean up before disappearing completely and totally for God knew how long (yes, he'd told her that much).
He'd sat there, hair still damp from his shower, already dressed (his jeans and a button-down shirt), and he'd simply sat there, expression unreadable, fingers tapping an arrhythmic tattoo on the arm of the chair.
She'd talked at him, telling him that everything was done, that he needed to calm down, offering him coffee, money, asking - when she remembered John's hurt, hopeless look in the morgue - if he was sure there was nobody else he'd like to tell, and, finally, when he hadn't responded, she'd knelt at his feet and looked at him until he looked back at her with those eyes of his, and he'd been about to stand and leave, she was sure of it, but she had levered herself up, a hand on his knees, and kissed him.
It was a small kiss. She meant it as a goodbye kiss, a now-or-never kiss, since it was perfectly possible that she might not see him again, and she was going to apologize for it afterwards. But somehow it became more than that. It became more than that when Sherlock's lips parted, just a little, maybe in surprise, when she slid onto his lap, when he put a hand on the side of her neck. And it became something very different when she felt him start to kiss her back, felt his tongue lick gently into her mouth.
She made a sound not unlike that text alert tone of his that had been so embarrassing at Christmas, but she didn't think it mattered very much.
They pulled away after a little while, too soon, Molly thought, and she could already feel her pulse racing, her breath coming in deep gulps. She started to say sorry for it, like she'd meant to do, but he put a finger to her lips.
"I'm not ungrateful, Molly Hooper," he said in that voice of his, and a little puff of breath escaped her at that. "For what you've done and for so much more."
And he kissed her, light and lingering, on the corner of her mouth, as he pulled her closer.
"You - you don't mind then?" It was a silly thing to ask at that point, Molly knew that, but she still couldn't quite believe it.
"No." And that was accompanied by a hand running down her spine, and his touch made her shudder and gasp. She licked her lips, swallowed, and, studying him, took stock of the situation: her on Sherlock's lap, about to kiss him again, and she had just helped him fake his suicide. Right.
She did kiss him, harder this time, sucking on his luscious lower lip, and he made a little noise, an almost-groan at the back of his throat. She felt his hands running up and down her back as she pushed her tongue into his mouth, as he flicked his tongue against hers.
It happened slowly, nearly imperceptibly, when Molly moved her mouth away from that deep, long kiss, up Sherlock's jaw, to the shell of his ear, which, only recently, had been drenched in blood (not his). He took his hands away from the somewhat safe area of her back to her waist, down her thighs and up again, while her own hands - one was flat against his chest, feeling his breath, his heartbeat, and the other was running through his damp curls.
Consenting adults, she thought, as he went on to press his lips against her neck, going down to the triangle of skin just above the first button of her blouse. That's where this is going, isn't it, but that's all right, we're two consenting adults...
She gasped when he first touched her breast, cupping it through her blouse and underwear, drawing his thumb over the nipple through several layers of cloth. It suddenly became more real then, something that was actually happening to her, Molly Hooper, and that it was sexual - yes - became an acknowledged fact.
She wasn't quite sure what she did while he unbuttoned her blouse, undid her bra (she wished she'd worn something nicer, but what could you do), but she was sure she'd made some sort of noise when he first touched her bare skin, and then a louder noise than that when he had put his mouth on her, his lips and tongue and teeth teasing her nipple into a hard, pink peak. She had a hand on the back of his neck, drawing him closer, and her head was bent down so that her nose was in his hair that smelled of her shampoo and conditioner. He was quite good at it, or at least it felt very good, and she tried not to think of whether he'd done this before and who he might have done it with. She remembered, unwillingly, the woman whom he'd identified on Christmas, how he'd known her from her naked body, and she fiercely didn't remember it, something that was mightily helped along by his transferring attentions to her other nipple.
She couldn't help it then, the bucking of her hips on his lap, and she could feel herself getting more and more aroused with every lick of his, every clever twist of his tongue. When he pulled away, finally, she pressed herself against him, the expensive fabric of his shirt a new thrill altogether against her sensitive skin, and he kissed her, deeply, irrevocably, those hands of his caressing her shoulders and upper arms as she threw herself into the kiss with a biting and a clicking of teeth, giving in to the kiss and the hormones and the wanting she'd had since forever.
Well, no, not forever, she amended mentally. But for a very long time. And the thought was lost when Sherlock put his arms around her, sucked hard on her tongue.
She closed a fist tightly around a handful of dark curls. She was going to miss him when he left, though at least, at least she knew the truth of it.
But that thought was for later, because he was still here, wasn't he, and she had her legs spread over his lap, and her knees against the outside of his thighs on the seat of the chair; if she didn't pay attention, she could lose her balance. Though given how he was holding her, one hand in her hair, and an arm looped about her midsection, actually falling off seemed unlikely.
He pulled out of the kiss, breathing hard, and looked up at her. Molly, not looking too closely back (afraid that she might see something that invalidated this, not that it was anything, not really), put one hand on his shoulder, the other on the back of the chair, and pulled herself up so that she was level with his crotch. And she began to move.
She rocked against him, hard, grinding down on the suggestion of a bulge in his jeans. She worried for a bit that it might be unwelcome, but he began to match her, pushing up between her legs, and she groaned, softly, as the pressure and friction increased just where it was good. Sherlock buried his face in her neck, murmuring things that she didn't catch, fingers tripping over her back, her belly, her sides, her breasts. He was starting to get hard, she could feel it through his trousers and her slacks as he grew more and more erect. He bit down on her clavicle as she continued to move, relentless, because she was close enough to the edge that nothing mattered save the sensation of him rubbing against her clit.
He caught her mouth again in a desperate tangle of tongues and teeth, and he managed to ease her backwards, giving himself enough space to undo his fly, and Molly helped him pull his cock free of his trousers.
This is happening, she thought. Yes.
She paused, forehead to forehead with him, and she took a few gulps of air (mostly his exhaled carbon dioxide), before going to her knees between his parted legs. He must have read her intentions though, because, before she had so much as leaned forward, he said, "No. Not that."
And before she could feel hurt beyond feeling baffled, he touched her cheek and her chin, and said, "You, Molly, not your mouth. You."
"It's not too small, you know," she said, getting up, and turning away to undo her slacks. "My mouth, I mean, not - not--"
She lost the you somewhere as she pushed her trousers down past her knees and ankles, and her knickers with them, and faced him. She was naked in front of Sherlock Holmes, and that was pretty much as naked as you were ever going to get. She wondered what he could see there: the appendectomy scar would be obvious, and the scar from that bad fall when she was a teenager, and - God forbid, she thought, looking down and away - what about the nights she couldn't sleep thinking of him, did those show?
If they did, he didn't say anything about it. He reached out, hand brushing the side of her hip, beckoning her closer. And when she took the few steps forward so that she was straddling his hips but still standing, he drew a finger across her entrance, feeling how wet she already was, and her stomach clenched, tight and pleasurable, when he slipped it easily inside of her. He crooked it in there, just so, and her knees buckled, and almost gave way, and when he pulled it out, she made a choked sound, a sort of stuttered moan.
When she came back to herself, she settled on his lap, the denim rough against her bare skin. He slid down on the seat a little, took himself in hand, and she put a hand over his, guiding him inside. The head of his cock slid slickly past her labia, and she thought, briefly, of condoms and diaphragms and IUDs, but she abandoned that soon enough, as, slowly, she took the rest of him in.
"Sherlock," she said, and it was almost a question, asking for confirmation, and in answer he kissed her, gently and with great control, on the mouth before thrusting, hard, pushing himself deep inside of her.
She didn't know how long it lasted, the actual sex: it was good, it was very good, but all it was cresting, pounding waves of sensation and no sense of time. But she was aware, through the haze of her own orgasm when Sherlock came, hot and hard, inside her, his hands tight on her hips, and she curled her legs around his, clutched at him, fingernails digging crescent moons into his back, when he cried out.
***
Molly didn't say goodbye to him when he left, and she didn't ask where he was going, or when he was going to be back, or what would happen then. But she touched his face when he lingered in her doorway with that coat of his on his arm, and he gave her a kiss on the cheek, a friends-kissing-friends kiss, before going.