Archive of Our Own

It all started because Sherlock was annoying her. Normally Molly had a high level of tolerance for his shenanigans -- primarily because he was so beautiful to look at with the long lean body, piercing eyes, that head of dark hair she wanted to run her hands through and well-tailored suits -- but that day was different.

He was in a pique. Muttering about the ineptitude of the lab and how they destroyed some samples he needed for a case. He was behaving like a sullen child, in Molly’s opinion.

She was attempting to drown out his nattering as she filed a report on the latest body in the morgue (white female, age thirty-six, cause of death: apparent drug overdose) by listening to her Glee soundtrack (Lady Gaga’s Telephone) when he apparently decided that he needed to torment her.

“What the devil is that infernal music?” he snapped.

Molly sighed to herself. Of course the charm would wear off, she thought to herself. Sherlock was friendly up to a certain point -- the point when he got what he wanted from you and you were no longer of use to him. Even though she knew that, she still found herself bending to his will when he offered a sweet smile and an odd compliment or two.

She looked up at him. The music was hardly blasting in the lab -- it was on the softest volume level possible without muting the music. Of course he would hear, she thought again. The man’s powers of observation were almost superhuman.

Molly hit pause. “It’s Telephone,” she replied crisply, irritated because people were already breathing down her neck for the report and she didn’t need him haranguing her at that moment.

Sherlock stared at her as if she had burst out with Esperanto. “What?” he flatly stated.

“Telephone, originally by Lady Gaga and Beyonce, but this is a remake from Glee,” she said.

“It’s annoying,” he retorted. “I can’t concentrate.”

Molly bit her lip. The urge to reply I can’t concentrate with you stalking around the lab like an over-entitled three-year-old danced around in her brain, but she chose something more tactful.

“It’s the joy of working in a lab,” she replied. “You learn to live with distractions.”

“Those lyrics are inane,” he snapped. “What the hell is ‘bub’?” he made the word sound like a particularly painful medical procedure.

“Bubbly -- champagne,” Molly sighed. He was handsome, even when annoyed, damn him. His eyes were blazing in fury and for a moment, she wondered what colour they were -- today they seemed to be ice blue, but other days they were stormy grey.

Sherlock continued on his tirade about the lyrics. “Why the hell would someone call someone in a nightclub? Those things are notoriously noisy. And if she’s not answering, why are you repeat calling?”

Molly could feel her shoulders begin to tense and the urge to reach over, smack him and tell him it was a bloody pop song and therefore mindless fluffy fun that he should stop analyzing, shut up and let her finish her report was overwhelming.

“If it annoys you so much, why don’t you go and get us some coffee at the café, boy?” she asked. Normally she never called him nicknames. Molly never called him by anything other than his name, which would fall from her lips like a wish and a prayer. But today she felt like knocking him down a couple pegs and calling a man a boy sometimes irritated her co-workers, so she hoped he’d get the clue.

There was a sudden change in his demeanour. Sherlock stood straighter, his chin dropping to the floor as he averted her gaze. “Yes ma’am,” he said, his normally low voice pitching even lower and a submissive tone colouring his words. He immediately turned around and left the lab.

Molly would be the first to admit that she wasn’t the most observant person -- especially in comparison to Sherlock -- but the change in attitude was something even a blind and deaf person could notice. She quietly filed it away in her mental filing cabinet under, “More Weird Things About Sherlock Holmes” and went back to working on her report.

When he returned ten minutes later with the coffee, he was flushed red and breathing heavily. “Your coffee ma’am,” he said, placing it on her desk.

She looked up at him and studied him. Sherlock was wound tighter than normal and twitching slightly. Molly took a sip. The coffee was just the way she liked it -- three creams, one of them being the hazelnut flavor ones she liked so much.

“Thank you boy,” she said quietly. “It’s perfect.”

“Do you require anything else?” Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, before going back to examine his shoes.

“No,” she said, even though every nerve in her body burned with the desire to ask, the hell is going on? Molly returned to her report. “That’s it for now.” A thought flickered through her mind as Sherlock turned around.

“One thing,” she said.

Sherlock visibly shuddered. “Yes ma’am?” his voice was slightly strangled in tone.

“Don’t make fun of my music.”

~*~

Molly, despite all her stammering and stuttering around Sherlock, wasn’t a dumb girl. She didn’t survive five years of medical school, a year of Foundation Programme and working at St. Barts because her brains were made out of pudding.

Anyone standing next to Sherlock would seem like a half-wit and it was impossible not to feel like an idiot, especially when he focused the “I can’t believe you have enough brain cells to breathe” stare on them.

Not to mention the fact that he looked good. Amazingly good. No one that intelligent should be able to wear pants that tight, Molly once mused, before questioning how such a skinny git could have such a well-shaped arse. Seriously -- Molly could easily imagine Oscar Wilde writing bawdy sonnets about that arse. It was entirely unfair that someone could look so good, dress so well and be utterly brilliant in the mental genius department. Thankfully the fact that he was an utter prat helped balance out the karmic scales.

Molly, being a relatively intelligent woman, waited until she got home to satisfy her curiousity. After making dinner and settling in with an episode of Ramsay’s Best Restaurant blaring in the background, Molly opened her laptop and began researching.

She knew the trigger was “boy.” In the past, when she snapped at him, Sherlock ignored her and continued on his merry, yet insouciant, way. But when she called him “boy“ today, it was as if he was possessed by a mild-mannered mouse. Superman became Clark Kent. So what was it about that word?

Like many people who were curious about a situation, she turned to an Internet forum for advice:

Hi! I’ve never done this before, but I have an issue. Where I work, we occasionally get a regular who is kind of charming, but only because we have something he wants (which is not easy to get normally).

We were working together one day when he was getting on my nerves and I used the word "boy” around him. Suddenly, he became compliant. I remember using it in jest and asking, "Boy, can you go get me some coffee?" and he did -- got it perfectly with the right amount of cream and one of those hazelnut flavours I like so much.

He’s normally very arrogant and condescending, but in this case, he didn’t look at me -- his eyes were cast down on the ground and his tone of voice was subservient. So my question is: What the hell happened?

Within a couple hours, she had more than enough explanation and links to several interesting web sites.

It was an educational evening. Molly had sex before -- she wasn’t completely innocent -- but this was a side never seen before. Most of it made her laugh out of shock and surprise. Then she went and poured a glass of wine and hysterical giggles flowed out of her mouth as she envisioned Sherlock in leather masks, harnesses and gags.

Eventually her giggles died down and the dark side of brain started whispering phrases like, He deserves this you know? Because he treats you so badly when he sees you. He’s just using you every time he compliments you with his little sweet words, so why not use this and have a bit of fun?

Molly shoved those thoughts out of her head as she drained her glass, turned off the television and prepared for bed. It wouldn’t be right, she rationalized. He’d find out and make her life even more of a living hell than it already was when he’d flounce into the lab. Nothing good could come of this. No, it was better to leave this alone.

But the thought of him servicing her while clad in tight leather pants was rather entertaining, the devilish side of her admitted. Besides, if he was a complete wanker to her, some retaliation would be a good thing to have on hand, she rationalized. Even if it was just coffee.

Only when he’s a complete tosser she promised herself. We aren’t going to use this to our advantage, tempting as it may be.

~*~

It was a week until Sherlock stopped by the morgue -- this time placing himself square in front of her and refusing to leave until he had access to a body (white male, mid-forties, peculiar case involving possible poisoning and a parrot). He was attempting to ply her with charm, complimenting her on her lipstick and how she did her hair.

It worked. Molly capitulated to his whims and let him in to see the body, despite the fact that the morning was going terrible and things didn’t look to get better. Usually on those days, having Sherlock underfoot was about as enjoyable as a fork in the eye.

After he inspected, poked and prodded the body to his satisfaction, he returned to the lab with a few tissue samples.

“Did you find everything you need?” she asked, smoothing her hair absently.

“Mmm-hmmm,” he hummed as he began rummaging around for a microscope and some other items before getting lost in his own world.

A calm fell over the lab as Molly puttered about gathering lab results and processing reports. It was another frantically busy day as she fielded phone calls from colleagues wondering why things were delayed or results questionable. Of course it didn’t help that her coworker called in sick, doubling her work load. For awhile it appeared that Sherlock would be pleasant and this would be a rather painless interaction until he looked up at her.

“Coffee,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Normally she would have, just to be nice. But this time she was on the phone, dealing with a particularly irate person questioning her report and belittling her. If she wasn’t having her ear chewed off by that gargoyle, she would have been more polite.

But this time the words flew out of her mouth before she could even stop them. “Get it yourself, boy,” she snapped, putting her hand over the speaker and half-listening to the insults aimed at her. “And get me one too.”

The change was instantaneous again. Sherlock stood, looked at the ground and was nearly out the door and out of her hair when he managed to battle back his urges. Making long strides over to Molly, he grabbed her arm with a tight grip and wrestled the phone from her.

“She’ll have to call you back,” he said in an icy tone, before setting the phone down on its cradle.

The look in his eyes was familiar to Molly -- it was frustration and anger and it was directed at her. She gulped.

“Let’s both get coffee,” he growled, grabbing her arm. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt her, but it conveyed the idea that fun and games were definitely done.

A shiver of fear ran through Molly as she was dragged upstairs. Logically, she knew that Sherlock wouldn’t dare hurt her in St. Barts -- there were too many people around and security cameras everywhere. But that didn’t stop cold fear from brewing in the pit of her stomach.

They headed into the cafeteria where Sherlock unceremoniously dumped her in a chair. “Stay there,” he said, locking his gaze on her. “I will get us coffee.”

Oh shit, Molly thought to herself as she watched him stalk away. I’ve overstepped now. Her fingers started to ache, and then she realized they were digging into the tabletop.

He returned minutes later with two cups of coffee and deposited one in front of her. Again it was perfect and just the way she liked it.

Sherlock slid into the seat in front of her and focused his piercing gaze at her. Molly took a deep breath and willed herself to meet his gaze and not falter. She got herself into this mess and she would face it head-on like the woman she knew she could be.

“So,” he said after awhile. “You know.”

She nodded. “It was when I called you ‘boy’,” she admitted.

“What do you plan to do about it?”

Molly blinked. She hadn’t thought beyond the snickers and images of fantasies of Sherlock doing her bidding. “I --,” she stammered. “I have no idea.”

Sherlock leaned back and smiled to himself, sipping his coffee. Molly could feel herself losing control of the situation at hand and she could see two choices:

1) Get up, stammer apologies and run for the hills. Perhaps transfer out of St. Barts to somewhere else. Siberia was sounding good right now.

2) Go down the kinky rabbit hole and learn something new. If anything, Sherlock would be forthright and honest in what he knew, which could be interesting.

“So what do you do?” Molly whispered, a sudden flood of questions bubbling forth. “Why do you do it? Do you like pain? Have you ever had nipple clamps? Been pegged? Sawhorses? Do you wear gags and get whipped? Does John know?”

For a moment, she was proud of herself -- Sherlock’s eyes widened in momentary surprise and a sardonic chuckle bubbled forth.

“It’s been awhile -- the last dominant I had moved and I haven’t found someone I trust as much as that one,” he said. “It helps me think. Pain releases endorphins which also help me think. Yes. No. Yes. Sometimes. John probably suspects, but doesn’t know for sure.”

Molly bit her lip to keep from laughing hysterically at his honesty. The entire conversation was just too bizarre for her to believe was occurring. “Are you and he?” she asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I am married to my work,” he replied. “John fancies Sarah.”

Molly gulped, more questions flying out of her mouth. “Do you miss your dominant? How often did you go?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes,” he admitted, sipping his coffee. “She was on call when I needed her. Depending on how I was between cases, it could be rather frequently.”

“Was it sex?”

“Sometimes,” he said, smirking slightly as she blushed at those words. “Depending on the scene she came up for me. That also helps me think -- clears away all distractions.”

Molly nodded, taking a deep breath. Recalling the last orgasm she had, she said, “That makes sense.” She could feel an insane idea whisper in the back of her mind and she blinked, trying to will it away. It was too outlandish to simply ask someone she was acquainted with, even if she was very, very attracted to him.

“You want to volunteer?” Sherlock’s words permeated her thoughts, jolting her back to reality.

“I didn’t say--” she stammered, but the smirk on his face told her Sherlock knew exactly what her thoughts were.

“You could,” he continued smoothly. “I don’t think you’d be very good at it, but I also don’t think you could do much harm.”

“What do you think I would do?” Molly asked defensively.

Sherlock’s smirk got wider. “Molly,” his voice was a deep purr of arrogance and self-satisfaction. “I know you’re attracted to me. I also know you’re one of the most mild-mannered people I’ve met. No doubt your idea of dominating someone requires silk handkerchiefs as the person is tied up and tickled with feathers.”

Sherlock leaned forward, staring her down. “I doubt you could go as far as I require, but if you want to try, that is fine. Besides, I suspect you are just looking for an excuse to sleep with me, so if this will scratch that silly itch and get you to stop mooning over me like a lovesick schoolgirl, that is also a boon.”

Molly’s face felt hot from embarrassment, then anger. Leave it to Sherlock to take a dark thought in her head and verbalize it in the most humiliating way possible. Why not have a go? her darker thoughts whispered. Think of it as a challenge to prove him wrong. At worst, you get to ogle his naked body for awhile, maybe have your way with him too.

She scrutinized his expression. There was a hint of arrogance, but that’s how Sherlock’s face looked normally. If he was aroused by the idea of her dominating him, there was no indication. If anything, this was a challenge.

Okay, okay, okay. You can do this, you can do this,, she thought. “You have a deal,” she replied.

Sherlock smirked and finished his coffee and checked his mobile. “I have to go,” he replied. “E-mail me your terms and requirements.”

Molly nodded, then watched as Sherlock left. It was only then that she allowed herself to expel a deep breath as she wondered what the hell she just agreed to.

~*~

It took her a week of research before Molly felt comfortable enough to invite Sherlock over to her flat for their first appointment. She couldn’t call it anything else and keeping it as clinical as possible made her feel less strange about the whole thing.

During that time, Sherlock informed her of what he required and much like the man, it was entirely unhelpful.

Think of me as your toy, he wrote. I have a high tolerance for pain, don’t require much aftercare and really don’t need anything. I am here for your disposal.

Molly huffed when she read that e-mail. That was the equivalent of letting a mouse loose in a cheese factory in her mind. Thankfully, the people on the BDSM forums were very polite and kind when it came to offering advice and beginner scenarios as well as encouragement. The overall goals were to keep everything safe, sane and consensual.

During that week, she spent her free time researching and thinking up scenarios for him. Some of them were truly perverse with car batteries, razor wire, knives and bloodletting. The forum users talked her out of those, saying that was a bit advanced for most beginners, even if they had a medical degree and understanding of the human body. Some of them were sexual with him naked, fulfilling every single dirty fantasy she ever had about him, as well as some new ones.

It was all strange and intimidating for her. She had free rein with the object of her desire and quite frankly, she was frightened of being a disappointment.

Don’t worry about disappointing him, one forum member wrote. It sounds like he’s already placed a lot of trust in you, agreeing to do this and giving you wide berth, despite your beginner status. Also, if he doesn’t like it, he can safe word and you can talk it out and figure things out.

That was encouraging for Molly. In a way, she hoped she’d fail, simply because then it would be over and she could return to her normal life without worrying about keeping Sherlock satisfied. The fantasy would be done and she could go on with her life. Maybe they’d joke about it in the future as one of those “what were we thinking” sort of things.

But to get to that point, she had to survive this first.

In the end, armed with all this knowledge and the secret hope that he’d hate it and it would be done and over with, she figured out a scenario that was perfectly Molly.

~*~

He was an hour late to the appointment, which infuriated, but didn‘t surprise her. But she knew he was attempting to test her immediately, to see if she was truly ready for the task.

She let him up into her flat, but before he entered, she slammed down a shot of vodka to help steady her nerves. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she fluffed her hair slightly and took a deep breath.

“Let’s do this,” she told herself, attempting to ignore the fact that she felt utterly stupid in the black thigh-high boots, tight red boy shorts and lab coat with nothing underneath it and a riding crop. She looked like the nerdy-sexy scientist in soft core porn fantasy about alien plants that emitted a pollen that made people‘s libidos light up like Las Vegas. The only thing missing was a pair of black-frammed glasses with tape around the bridge that she could whip off and suddenly become a sex kitten.

But it was key to what she had planned, and therefore essential. Molly locked Toby up in her room and prepared for the afternoon.

She opened the door and let Sherlock in, ignoring the knowing smirk on his face as he his eyes scanned her appearance. He was at least dressed in what he normally wore, which was per her instructions. She led him to the small living room where he stood in the middle, hands at his sides.

“What’s the safe words Pup?” she asked, enjoying the fact that she came up with that nickname for him and the slight grimace of distaste on his face.

“Hypothesis means more, osmosis means slow down and toxicology means stop, Miss,” he said, his eyes darting up to take in her appearance, before lowering. She wasn’t sure if he was pleased with her look or finding it cliché, but it was too late to stop the whole thing.

“Very good,” she said, circling him carefully. “Now I have to say, I am greatly disappointed in your behaviour. You’re late to our appointment and that doesn’t show me the proper respect that I deserve.” Molly was amazed at the fact that her tone became sterner and that she could feel herself standing straighter. The people on the forum were right -- sometimes when you fake knowing what you’re doing, you end up knowing what you‘re doing.

“I am also disappointed in the fact that you do not have faith in my own powers to address your needs,” she added, inspecting him carefully. “As a result, I think you need to be shown who’s boss.” She took the riding crop and tapped him lightly on the backside. “Strip Pup and you are not to speak unless I say you may.”

Molly settled on her couch and watched as Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and folded it half, before toeing off his shoes. Inwardly her thoughts were along the lines of Oh God, oh God oh God. Sherlock Holmes is getting naked in my flat. OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD.. Externally, she was chewing on the inside of her cheek to keep from giving away too much, even though she knew he knew she was enraptured.
Molly knew Sherlock was a lanky bloke. What she didn’t anticipate was how muscular he was underneath all that clothing. Or the fact that his legs were that long -- it was like they started around his shoulders. Rather, they should’ve, but that would’ve gotten in the way of that torso that Rodin probably carved out of marble, before destroying all the previous models.

Part of her wanted to put her hands over her eyes as he began unbuttoning the top button of his trousers, but she knew wasn’t what a domme would do. Dominants do not avert their gaze or turn bright red. However, the squeak she tried to suppress came out as a little gasp, which caused him to smirk ever so slightly.

Not that the smirk was undeserved. That bottom was as nice as she suspected. But then again, his trousers left not much to the imagination. As for his cock -- well, it would be a long, long time before she could find the proper words to describe it without blushing furiously and stammering.

But that was in her own mental space. Externally, Molly took a deep breath, attempted to steady her legs and stood. She stalked around him, inspecting him closely. Not a blemish anywhere. The man was carved out of marble, but without the pesky fig leaf covering his privates. For a moment, she expected him to sparkle in the sunlight. Sherlock’s eyes remained on the ground, but she knew he was waiting for her next command.

“Very nice,” her voice was husky. “Now stay there and wait for me.”

With that, Molly headed into the kitchen. After taking several deep breaths to calm herself and keep from freaking out over the fact that Sherlock Holmes was in her living room starkers, she pulled out a glass bowl with water in it, a knife and a thick ginger root.

He was still standing in the middle of the room, arms at his side and looking down at the ground.

“You may look up Pup,” she said, as she began peeling the ginger root.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he watched what she was doing. Molly suppressed a grin as she noticed his skin becoming pinker in tone.

“You know what I’m doing?”

He nodded.

“Good,” she said, breathing deeply and wondering if he could sense the changes in her normal demeanour around him. “Have you ever had this done before?”

He nodded.

The root was almost ready and she continued to soak it in the water. She was actually proud of herself -- it looked like the pictures she had seen online. But then again, she had been practising for the past few days, making sure it was according to specifications.

“What was it like for you?” she asked. “You may answer Pup.”

“Hot and painful,” he said calmly. “It definitely causes the blood to rush to your nether regions.” Even when he was stark naked, Sherlock still carried himself with arrogance and steadiness. Molly idly wondered if he could come completely undone in circumstances that didn’t focus on a crime scene.

Molly noted that he was semi-hard and his breathing was a little more erratic, which was a good sign in her opinion. “Did you like it?” she asked.

He nodded. “It was rather stimulating.”

She smiled. Admittedly, she getting aroused by the entire situation -- having Sherlock naked in her flat, talking about sex in that deep baritone was something she wished she could tape and save for later.

“Thank you for the information,” Molly managed to say. “Now bend over Pup.”

He did as she asked. Sherlock was surprisingly flexible -- able to reach the floor and have his hands lay flat on the ground, without bending his knees. She made note of that for later, if there was a later. Molly took the root out of the water and shook it off. She walked slowly around him, examining his body, her wet fingertips gliding over his skin. His breathing had definitely become more erratic and she could smell his cologne -- something rather expensive -- mixed with his own distinct scent.

Sliding her hands down between his buttocks, Molly lightly toyed with the ring of muscle, feeling it jerk and spasm and relishing the way his breathing quickened. “Now breathe and relax Pup,” she said sternly. “If anything hurts or feels strange, you tell me immediately.”

“Yes Miss,” he said.

She took the ginger root and rubbed it gently around the sphincter, watching in fascination as it moved in response to her ministrations. Molly slowly pushed the root in, hearing his breath quicken and watching a sheen of sweat pop up along his back. For a moment, she worried that he would say the safe word, but nothing happened, so she continued.

Once the root was inserted, she let out a small sigh of relief. “Everything all right?”

“Yes Miss,” Sherlock replied. He was turning an interesting shade of red and sweat was beginning to cover him.

“You may stand up Pup,” she said.

Sherlock straightened and Molly immediately noted that he was trembling. Sweat covered his body and she noticed his eyes were watering. He was also sporting a massive erection, which Molly had to will herself not to giggle at.

“Excellent,” she smiled. “Now follow me.”

His gait was unsteady and his breathing was heavy as he followed her into the kitchen. There was a bucket with soapy water and a toothbrush.

“Now Pup,” she said, with a sadistic grin. “Your job is to clean my kitchen. Top to bottom. Fridge, stove, sink, cabinets, floors, everything. I know you’re a brilliant mind, but it’s time we put that beautiful body to work.”

Molly sat down on a chair and stretched her legs out, watching Sherlock. Ever the perfect submissive, Sherlock showed no reaction and began cleaning.

True, she might not get laid today, Molly thought with a slight smile as she tapped a beat out with her riding crop on the table, but the kitchen did need a good cleaning.

~*~

Four hours later, Molly surveyed her clean kitchen.

Sherlock did do an excellent job, she mused to herself. The floors were scrubbed, cabinets cleaned and reorganized and the proto-food/science experiments in her fridge were tossed out and the containers scrubbed. He even got the crud in the spot behind the faucet and the splatters on the stovetop.

“Excellent work Pup,” she said, glancing over at Sherlock, who was standing still next to her. He was still nude and his skin was bright red and covered in a sweaty sheen. It was in interesting look, Molly mused to herself.

He tried to test her a few times, but Molly found herself quickly lashing out with the riding crop when he slowed or appeared to take a shortcut or two. As a result, his back and rear were covered in red stripes, which Molly guessed would be marking him for a few days.

“Thank you Miss,” he murmured, his eyes focused on the ground.

“You’ve earned your reward Pup,” she said, smiling slightly. “Now, bend over.”

He did as she asked in the middle of the freshly cleaned kitchen. Molly noticed that he seemed to flinch at her touch, as small shuddering gasps escaped from him.

He was indeed slick with sweat and warm to the touch. A thought of the two of them entwined, her licking the sweat off his flesh flickered through her mind, but she continued to tamp down the desire that was warming her body.

Her fingers slid between his buttocks and Sherlock jerked, his entire body trembling.

“You want something Pup?” she asked. “You may speak to answer questions.”

“Yes,” he hissed. “I need relief.”

“Understandable,” Molly replied. Molly’s hands slid down his back and one hand slid down the front to take an experimental tug at his cock. He was hard and she could feel pre-come leaking slightly. She grinned to herself.

He was hot and slick to the touch. It was tempting to force him to lie down and climb on top, riding him until she was a shaking, screaming mess, but Molly continued to exercise control.

“I doubt you could go as far as I require, but if you want to try, that is fine. Besides, I suspect you are just looking for an excuse to sleep with me, so if this will scratch that silly itch and get you to stop mooning over me like a lovesick schoolgirl, that is also a boon.”

That and Sherlock’s arrogant smirk flashed in Molly’s mind. It was better than a cold shower.

Her hand moved from his cock to stroking his balls. Sherlock’s breath quickened and she could feel a shiver throughout his body. Molly moved her hand to slide down between his buttocks and take an experimental twist of the root. Sherlock let out a gasp.

“Oh if the Yard could see you now,” she purred, feeling a new confidence course through her veins. “Sweating, shuddering, nearly undone by a simple ginger root. You know I’m going to treasure this image don’t you?”

“Yes Miss,” he gasped, as she twisted the root one more time. The dark hair was slick with sweat and the scent of lemon-based cleaner mixed with his musky odor.

“What should I do with you now Pup?” she asked quietly, blowing a cool breath along his back and watching him shiver.

“Whatever you would like Miss,” he said softly and without any arrogance and attitude. Molly made note of the date and the time for the first time Sherlock Holmes was not an arrogant arse to me.

“That’s my boy,” she purred, draping her body over his, savouring the feel of her skin on his warm, wet body. Slowly she pulled the root out of him and peeled her body away from his.

Molly heaved a sigh. Now came the hard part.

“You may stand Pup,” she said as she threw the root away.

Sherlock stood straight. He was breathing heavily and she could feel the nervous energy coming off of him in waves. There was a long moment of silence as different images races through Molly’s head. She wanted to come to him, kiss him, feel his mouth open under hers and pull him to the ground and feel him between her legs and they fucked.

“Get your clothes on Pup,” she said coolly. “Then leave. If you hadn‘t been late, then you could‘ve experienced some relief from --” her eyes dipped down to his erection and she could feel a smirk tugging at her lips, “-- your condition. But our time is now done.”

A flash of surprise flickered over his face, but his quickly recovered his composure. “Yes Miss,” he said.

She followed him to the living room and watched as he dressed. Like a magic act, the clothing concealed all that Molly had seen -- the expanses of flesh that came close to being undone by her hand were disappearing before her eyes.

After Sherlock donned his coat, he nodded curtly at Molly.

“You may leave Pup,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t waver.

He nodded. “Thank you Miss,” then left the flat, closing the door softly behind him.

When she was certain he was gone, Molly let out a deep breath and slumped down into a chair. Her hands were shaking and the riding crop dropped to the ground with a dull thud. The only sound Molly could hear was the whooshing of blood in her ears.

Her head flopped back and she stared at the ceiling as she felt the adrenaline buzz through her system. Molly’s fingers brushed over her skin and she let out a few deep breaths. Slowly her hands slid down between her legs and she let out a soft sigh, stroking her flesh and toying with her nipples.

Unbidden images of Sherlock flooded her mind, which wasn’t unusual, since he was part of her fantasy file. This time, the images weren’t so innocent. Darker images of a nude Sherlock, licking her black boots up to her thighs, played in her mind. She could hear him say the word “Miss” reverentially, the same way she would sometimes say his name.

She could imagine his perfect mouth between her legs, that nose bumping up against her clitoris as he worked her over. The image of his hands, cuffed behind his back, flitted by in her mind and she could feel the heels of her boots digging into his back, leaving scratches and bruises on that perfect skin. He’d emit a low hum and then ---

The orgasm hit. Molly arched her back, grinding down on her fingers, wailing and shuddering. When the post-orgasm fog cleared, Molly started to laugh as she wiped her fingers on the lab coat and stared at the ceiling.

“Well,” she chuckled. “That was interesting.”

~*~

Even though the fantasy portion of her brain hoped, prayed and wished Sherlock would suddenly see her as something more than what they were currently (which was nothing), the realistic portion of Molly’s brain shut that idea down quickly.

Just business dear, she kept telling herself in the days after their meeting and after a few cursory texts went unanswered. If he cared about you, he would’ve have messaged you. Has he? No. Hell, you don’t even know if he wants to continue it. Don’t expect anything, you know it’ll end badly. Keep him at arm‘s length.

While she may have told herself that, Molly also felt an odd empowerment knowing she had control over him, however brief it was. Reports of what occurred resulted in praise and gentle critiques from the BDSM forum members, which also bolstered her confidence.

When she returned to work on Monday, Molly found herself wearing a shirt that was a bit lower cut in cleavage, a skirt that skimmed her knees and a pair of black boots. True, they weren’t the thigh-high boots, only reaching her knees, but she felt dangerous, which gave her a bit of rush as she battled the reports and caught up with the weekend’s intake.

There was still silence on Sherlock’s end. After two days, Molly decided that he had forgotten about her. Ego slightly bruised, she resolved to get on with her life. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in continuing -- the whole point of the exercise was to keep her happy enough to allow him access to the morgue.

When she arrived at work one morning, Molly noticed she had a visitor. Sherlock was standing at the door with two cups of coffee. The fact that he thought of bringing her coffee surprised the dickens out of her. As usual, he was impeccably dressed and standing ramrod straight. But instead of the normal air of impatience, he appeared as if he had all the time in the world.

Molly could feel her heart flutter as the images of him naked and sweating flooded her memory. Stop, she thought. Be cool Molly. Have some composure.

“Morning Sherlock,” she chirped as she unlocked the doors and let him in the lab. “What do you need today?” Molly put her coat away and donned her lab coat, willing her hands to keep from shaking. It was unnerving -- the man’s charisma was so potent that he didn’t have to do a thing and her body began aching for him. Is this how drug addicts feel when they go between hits? she wondered.

Sherlock set down the coffee cup in front of her. “I just thought I’d come by and we could discuss what occurred before.” His expression was inscrutable and it could have been anything he was talking about ranging from the weather to a lab report. Not being figged, forced to clean a kitchen and then unceremoniously booted out of Molly’s flat.

“Oh?” Molly picked up the coffee and sipped it. Perfect, as usual. “I hope it was to your satisfaction.”

“I have to admit I was surprised to find it was,” he said.

She couldn’t help but snort. “You underestimated me,” Molly was astonished to hear the blunt works issuing from her mouth.

He nodded. “Yes,” he admitted.

“The great Sherlock Holmes was wrong for once,” Molly smiled into her cup. “I’m going to have to mark this on my calendar.”

She was rewarded with a reddening across his face, which made me smile more. “So what do you want Sherlock?” she asked, leaning back against the countertop. She was wearing a green sweater, black trousers and feeling good about her appearance. Molly noticed his eyes briefly flit across her body, but said nothing. Sherlock‘s eyes always flittered over her and ultimately it was meaningless. There was probably a stray cat hair from Toby of he was determining what brand of laundry detergent she used.

“I have to admit, I am impressed by your scenario, and I was wondering if you would be willing to meet again?” Again, Sherlock stated the question as if he was inquiring about a tricky lab result or the weather.

Molly took a deep breath. “If you would like,” she bandied back. “It was a rather educational and stimulating afternoon.”

“Indeed it was,” he said softly.

Molly didn’t want to explore that statement further for several reasons -- but one of the biggest ones was that she was at work and since she didn’t have a spare pair of knickers around, she didn’t want to be sitting in wet panties all day.

“When would you want another appointment?” she asked, sipping her coffee.

He smiled -- a bright, genuine smile that caused his eyes to crinkle in the most delightful way. It occurred so quickly that Molly wasn’t even sure it existed before it vanished.

“Next weekend?”

Molly ran the date through her head. “That could work,” she said. “I’ll e-mail you the dates, times and requirements.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very good,” he said.

“Is there anything else you wanted?” Molly asked.

“Actually yes,” he said. “I need access to a body that came in last night -- white male, mid-thirties? Found stuffed into the boot of a car?”

Molly chuckled. Of course he would want to see a body, not her. The more things change, the more they stay the same, she thought to herself.

She couldn‘t help but smile when she replied, “Came in last night. I’ll get it for you.”

That’s how Molly Hooper’s life took a turn for the weird.

~*~

Sherlock and Molly did have an agreement hammered out regarding the new facet of their “arrangement.” Most of it was standard BDSM jargon -- the contract would last for a month and allow Sherlock at least two appointments a month with Molly. Any other appointments would be subject to her approval. They would begin on Saturday afternoon and go until the evening.

Molly muttered some excuse to Sherlock about a brunch with friends on Sunday morning, but the truth was that she didn’t think she had enough control to keep herself from taking a step she would later regret if he stayed longer. Even though Sherlock said he was willing to do nearly anything -- public scenarios and bringing in other parties were the only unacceptable terms Molly got from him after a prolonged grilling over e-mail -- Molly didn‘t trust herself.

As a result, she started creating personal rules for herself. No matter what, she wouldn’t never, ever kiss him. Kissing, as she remembered from Pretty Woman implied a certain intimacy she didn’t have with Sherlock. Actually, if at all possible, her lips would never touch his body. Down that way madness lay.

This is good enough, she kept telling herself. This will have to do.

But even with those rules in her head, Molly realized that she could have quite a bit of fun with Sherlock at her disposal. She knew what irritated him -- the man dripped contempt for practically everything. The test would be to see how he could endure those things under her supervision.

One oddity was the amount of communication between the two of them. In the past, Sherlock would speak with her only when he needed access to the morgue, which left him in the realm of fantasy. But now, the text messages flew between the two of them constantly and she started to get glimpses into his personality, which further piqued her interest.

Depending on how bored Sherlock was, Molly found herself dictating the detective’s every waking moment. Even though it wasn’t part of the contract, Molly couldn’t help but issue orders. It didn’t take much time or effort to tell him what to do and she didn‘t even want to imagine what it would be like to deal with a sulking Sherlock.

Good morning Miss. Molly’s mobile chirped one morning. It was clear that he was bored this morning and seeking some relief.

Good morning Pup, her fingers flew over the mobile’s miniscule keyboard. I would like to see you wear your black pants, grey pressed trousers and light blue dress shirt with the black suit jacket -- the Prada one. Keep your collar unbuttoned -- I like getting a glimpse of your neck. Also the black polished loafers, but with the grey plaid socks. Send me a picture when you are done.

In a few minutes, Molly’s phone chirped and she checked her messages. There was a picture of Sherlock, dressed in exactly what she told him to wear. His hand was pulling up the waistband of his pants, so she could see they were indeed black and he stood with his foot on the bed, so she could also see that his socks were grey plaid. As usual, he looked fantastic.

Excellent work pup, Molly quickly texted back. For breakfast, two cups of coffee, one piece of dry toast and four blueberries.

She knew better than to push him too far one way or another -- John would find out and inevitably get suspicious, which would result in questions and potential humiliation. Molly didn’t want to deal with anyone smirking or laughing at her for this current, well, whatever it was.

Do you require proof Miss?

No. I trust you Pup. You wouldn’t want to do anything to upset me would you? For every infraction it will be ten stripes.

I know Miss. And I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.

Good Pup. Have a nice day.

He must not have a case, given how soon he had messaged her today, Molly thought to herself, as she pocketed her mobile and headed to work.

The morning passed quietly until lunch, when Sherlock arrived in the empty lab.

“I have a confession,” he whispered in her ear, when Molly allowed him access. She tried not to quiver at the sound of his voice, raspy and raw in tone. “I couldn’t have blueberries for breakfast. John finished off the container.”

Molly felt a shiver of arousal slide through her body and she bit her lip, figuring out how she was going to punish him at St. Barts. She couldn’t believe he was challenging her at work -- of all places. Obviously he was bored out of his skull, she mused. That was the only reason for upping the ante.

She pulled back and studied his expression. Carefully neutral, Sherlock’s face didn’t indicate a want for discipline or an aversion to it. Molly sighed. Thankfully the morgue was empty -- her coworkers had left for lunch and wouldn’t be back for about an hour or so. She knew he knew that, which is why he was in front of her right now, confessing his infraction.

“I am very disappointed,” she said softly. “There is no excuse for what occurred. You asked me for direction and I gave it to you. How can I trust you, Pup, if you don’t obey my orders?”

Sherlock’s face became flushed and he looked down at his shoes. “I’m sorry Miss,” he murmured.

“I know you are,” she said quietly. “But you realize that you are going to be punished right? I told you what was going to happen if you didn‘t obey me.”

He nodded. Molly noticed that his breathing was speeding up a bit. An idea came to her quickly and she handed him the report she was working on. Leaning past him, she locked the lab door, then led him to a desk out of sight of the door. For a moment, the worried about the security cameras, but remembered they were in the halls, not in the lab. Sherlock went in and out of the lab at all hours, so the cameras wouldn’t pick up anything unusual.

Truth be told, the entire thing gave Molly a bit of a thrill.

“Now Pup,” she said softly. “Put the report on the table. Then put your hands flat on the table. Put your nose to the report and read it out loud.”

Sherlock nodded and bent over, “The patient was a 19-day-old male of African heritage with a history of
hyperglycemia and metabolic acidosis who was transferred seven days antemortem --” he began to read steadily.

Molly pulled her hand back and smacked him on the arse as hard as possible. Her hand stung and she winced in pain. Sherlock abruptly stopped and looked back. His eyebrows twitched slightly in surprise, but other than that, his gaze was inscrutable.

“Keep reading,” she said coolly, erasing the pained expression from her face.

He nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Sherlock turned his head back to the report.

“Days antemortem to rule out neonatal diabetes and inborn errors of metabolism. The patient was born through a normal spontaneous vaginal delivery at 39 weeks of gestation with a weight of 1675 --”

SMACK. Molly could feel the atmosphere change -- the air became warmer and more charged as he kept reading. The annoyance she had with Sherlock about being disturbed at work was replaced by something else -- even though she knew exactly what it was, Molly forced it to the back corners of her mind.

“Grams to a 21 year old G4P2 mother who reports drinking two beers and smoking two cigarettes per week throughout the pregnancy.”

SMACK. Her hands burned at the violence of the strike and she could feel a different type of heat coil in her belly. There was the temptation to soothe his bottom and run her hands gently along it, but she was more incensed that he chose to ignore her order. Discipline must be meted out, after all. Sherlock knew what the consequences were.

Sherlock’s voice remained steady and strong as she continued to dole out the rest of the spankings, which increased in tempo as she attempted to rattle him. The tempo quickened as Molly fantasized pushing him against the table, clawing at the buttons of his shirt and pulling his cock out of pants for a quick animalistic fuck, biting and marking him as hers.

“The constellation of changes with the prominent prognosis and Alzheimer Type II changes is most consistent with an inborn error, likely coupled to abnormal organic acid or amino acid metabolism,” Sherlock finished with a small gasp as Molly dealt out the last smack.

A silence fell over the lab, punctuated by their heavy breathing. Sherlock collapsed on the desk, shaking slightly. Molly fell forward, adrenaline wearing off, laying along Sherlock’s back and breathing heavily in his ear, one hand on his shoulder, the other on the desk, next to his. Her mind was lost in fantasy, imagining her fingers winding through his hair, pushing him down as he brought her to orgasm with his tongue.

Sherlock’s pinky stretched over and gently stroked her hand. His touch was absolutely electric and Molly started out of her reverie.

Standing, she adjusted her lab coat. “Stand up,” she ordered.

Sherlock did as she asked, straightening his jacket.

“Did I give you permission to touch me?” she asked coldly.

“No Miss,” he said.

Her hand flew out and she slapped him across the face. It was like smacking a marble countertop -- all hard edges and cold to the touch. A flicker of shock and surprise flew across his face, but he looked downward.

“I apologize Miss,” he said.

“Do not do that again,” she growled. “You are to not touch me without my permission. Am I your toy?“

“No Miss.”

“Don’t forget that,“ she said, stalking over to the lab door and unlocking it. “You are my toy and I can do with you as I please. Now leave. Do not disobey me again.”

His face was flush and Molly could sense a nervous energy humming from him. She didn’t dare cast her eyes downward, knowing exactly what she’d see. And if she saw that, all sense of decorum would be lost.

“Yes Miss,” he said softly, before shutting the door. Molly collapsed on her chair, breathing deeply and forcing herself back to reality and work.

Not two minutes later, her mobile chirped. Molly fumbled to retrieve it out of her pocket, nearly dropping it in her shaking hands.

Thank you Miss, the message read.

Molly groaned. You are welcome Pet, but this was a violation of the contract. Public places are forbidden.

Technically no one else was there and the morgue is not open to the public. It was a perfectly private location at that time.

Molly snorted. She could imagine Sherlock smirking as he wrote it, the cheeky bastard.

Do not question me. Coworkers could have seen your arse and my hands all over it if they chose to come back early for lunch.

Yes Miss.

And I had something special planned for this weekend, Molly smirked as she typed on her mobile. My order of bondage tape just arrived.

It was a few minutes before Sherlock answered.

Tape?

You read correctly Pup. Now I have to come up with something different for you. To discipline you. Do not bring this into the lab again.

Yes Miss.

Molly smiled as she began working on her reports. Now she’d have to figure out a way to discipline him, but there were plenty of rooms in her flat that needed a good cleaning. Maybe she’d also play some Lady Gaga to torture him also.

~*~

If you asked Molly weeks ago if she could have pictured herself as a domme, she would have burst out laughing. The thought of her beating people for pleasure seemed just as likely as her winning The X Factor with her rousing rendition of Dreamgirls’ “And I am Telling You.”

Maybe it was the fact that thanks to recent events, Molly felt like her entire life was out of control. But that was nothing new -- Molly always had the peculiar feeling that she was just a pawn in a greater game, being prodded and pushed around by forces greater than her. It was depressing at times. Every single time she tried to take control of her life, something thwarted her.

So having control over something was kind of intoxicating. It made her feel powerful. Stronger and a bit more confident. She didn’t even want to mull over what would happen if Sherlock decided to end this arrangement. Powerful people didn’t worry about things like that, Molly decided.

What a difference a month makes, Molly thought with a chuckle to herself as she watched a shirtless Sherlock enter the living room. His hands were cuffed to a spreader bar. In his right hand was a saucer and in the left, a cup of tea. The bar ran behind his neck and rested on his shoulders, with a collar securing his neck to the bar. In his mouth was a packet of crisps.

Clothed, naked, inbetween, he was still a delight to look at, Molly mused.

With a great deal of ease and elegance, Sherlock kneeled and put the saucer on the table next to her. Shifting about, he put the cup of tea on the saucer. Finally he placed his head in her lap and deposited the packet in her hand.

Molly smiled and ran her hands through his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into her touch and a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It had been a fairly productive afternoon. As part of his atonement, she had him clean her bathroom and prepare the tea. True to form, she blasted Lady Gaga. Despite his efforts to hide his displeasure, Molly knew he hated every minute of it. And that pleased her.

She took a sip of tea as her other hand carded through his hair.

“Good work Pup,” she said smiling. “You’ve pleased me.”

Judging by his expression, if Sherlock could’ve purred, he would have. Molly picked the key up from the table and unlocked the cuffs and collar, removing it from Sherlock and setting it on the floor.

Sherlock looked contrite as he placed his hands in his lap.

“You may speak,” Molly said.

“I’m sorry about what happened at the lab Miss,” Sherlock softly said. “Please don’t play Lady Gaga again.”

Molly leaned back in her chair and sipped her tea, as she figured out her next move. It was still unnerving having a pliant Sherlock in her flat. He actually seemed to enjoy her company, which she had a hard time believing as real.

“You are forgiven,” Molly said. Truth be told, she had forgiven him awhile ago, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. Knowing Sherlock, if he discovered she got an odd thrill from that visit, he would take advantage of it and show up at her work at all hours confessing to random indiscretions and demanding punishment. “But no promises on banishing Lady Gaga forever.”

He smiled a genuine, bright smile that caused Molly to draw in a breath. Just what the hell was going on?

“Thank you Miss,” he said softly.

Molly pulled herself back from the urge to stroke his hair again. “Pup,” she said, straightening herself. “We should really talk about contract. It’s been a month and I think we need to discuss whether or not you want to renew. Please get dressed and meet me here.”

Sherlock nodded and left the room. Molly took a deep breath, a bit fearful of what was going to happen next. She headed to the kitchen and poured a mug of tea for Sherlock. Grabbing another bag of crisps, she headed back to the living room.

Sherlock was sitting there, all gangly legs and arms, fingers pressed together and staring off into space. Molly could feel herself sliding into the meek and mousy role. Taking a deep breath, she moved forward into the room.

“Tea,” she handed him a mug.

Sherlock accepted it and sipped it. “Do you want to continue this?” he asked.

Molly sat down and opened her bag of crisps. “Do you?” she asked, resisting the urge to place one in his mouth. They were not playing now.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “You’ve been unorthodox in technique, but also very accommodating to my needs.”

“The others weren’t?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I suspect showing up and texting at all hours may have angered a few of them,” he confessed.

Molly chuckled and held the bag out to him. Sherlock refused the crisp with a gentle shake of his head. “You are a rather demanding person,” she said.

“I know.”

“Are there areas in which I can improve?” Molly asked.

Sherlock sipped his tea. “Don’t be afraid to use me,” he said, looking at her thoughtfully. “I am your toy during these sessions. You should see how far you can push me. I trust you not to harm me.”

Even though she was flattered that she had earned Sherlock’s trust, Molly bit back a reply. “You forget -- I’m new to this,” she said, sipping her tea. “I need guidance.”

He gave her a curious glance, but continued. “You’re doing adequately. I just wonder if you agreed to this just because your flat needed cleaning.”

“Maybe I did,” she retorted, happier to shift to safer footing. “You know you could do this if the consulting detective thing falls apart. I mean, naked housekeeping is a niche market. I’m sure you could earn a pretty penny doing that.”

“I just thought that you’d be using my body to fulfil all your desires by now,” Sherlock said, fixing his gaze on her.

Molly hated it when he did that to her. It felt like he could deduce her every secret and use it as a weapon against her. He probably knew the truth, so there was no point in lying, she realized.

“I don’t want to sleep with someone who doesn’t want me,” she said bluntly, staring defiantly into his eyes.

He nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I don’t doubt for a moment that you’ll figure out some rather creative scenarios without a sexual element.” His mobile chirped and he pulled it out of his pocket. Reading the message, he turned to her. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I have to leave. Apparently Lestrade is confused about a case and needs my help.”

Inwardly, Molly breathed a sigh of relief. “So to recap then,” she said, watching him don his shoes. “This arrangement is fine and you would like to continue?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said as he put on his coat. “You also?”

She stood and headed over to him. Taking his scarf she looped it and then put it around his neck, tightening it. If she was a sensible woman, Molly would have said no, but the subtle change in his breathing caused her to say, “Yes. I do like having my dear sweet Pup around,” her hands smoothed the scarf. “Another month then?”

That bright smile flitted across his face, before vanishing. “Make it two,” Sherlock said as she arranged his collar. “Same terms?”

“Yes,” Molly replied. “Also, don’t be afraid to text me. I’ll let you know if it’s too much.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock breathed.

Pulling away, Sherlock said his goodbyes before heading out the door. Molly closed it behind him. Leaning up against the door, she closed her eyes.

What the hell am I getting into? she thought.

~*~

The minute the body came in, Molly knew Sherlock would want to see it. It had all the indications of something curious -- a healthy woman dead of an apparent heart attack. Nothing suspicious on the surface, but there was one thing that sparked her curiosity. Molly filed the first report and took some samples from the body for the lab. Then she waited.

True to form, Sherlock came into the morgue an hour later, with John in tow.

“Afternoon Sherlock, John,” Molly chirped before Sherlock could even get a word out. “Here to see the Matherson body?”

Sherlock’s lips formed into a thin smile. “Yes,” he said.

She could see John’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. “How did you --” he began.

“When you’ve worked with Sherlock as long as I have, you start to see patterns in what interests him,” Molly replied. “It was a curious report admittedly. Caught my interest also.”

Another genuine smile from Sherlock. Those still unnerved Molly. “How so?”

Molly bit her lip. This was strange territory for her. Normally she liked to present him the body and leave him alone to find the solution. But this time she felt like she could add something to the discussion.

“I’ll have to show you,” she said, leading the Sherlock to the body. “Just look at the fingernails.”

Sherlock glanced at the fingernails. “She’s got nail polish on. So?”

Molly felt a slight thrill knowing something he didn’t. “Look closer.”

“It’s chipped and streaky,” he said impatiently. “What of it?”

Molly leaned over. “It’s cheap nail polish,” she said, lowering her voice. “Does this woman -- from what you know -- look like she’d wear a single coat of cheap polish from the corner store?”

He chuckled. “Observant girl,” he said, lowering his pitch. “I would have been looking all over her body today to see how she was poisoned.”

She could feel her face flush with his praise. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve already taken samples and they’re ready for you in the lab.”

Another bright, genuine smile. Molly could feel her legs shaking, but steeled herself.

“One question, did you find out how she was poisoned?”

Glancing at John who was in the doorway, checking his mobile, Molly shook her head. “I might have,” she whispered. “But I’m not telling you. You have find out for yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes were bright and he let out another bark of laughter. “Very well,” he said. Ducking closer, he whispered in her ear, “Do I get a reward if I’m correct?”

Molly bit her lip. “Of course, Pup,” she whispered. “But you have to be correct.”

He pulled away and directed his gaze to the fingers. Molly knew that she had given him a big clue, but really, she wanted him to win the prize she had planned. He had been a good boy since their arrangement began and by now he deserved something more than another wet toothbrush and a floor that needed scrubbing.

After a bit, Molly headed back into the lab, after exchanging some pleasantries with John. Watching from the window, she saw the two huddled over the body and chuckled at how animated Sherlock was -- leaping around the body, examining the fingers.

She returned to her work, filing reports and receiving information. In a few minutes Sherlock burst into the room, John trailing behind.

“Find what you were looking for?” she asked.

There was a brisk nod. Sherlock turned to John. “Call Lestrade,” he barked out the order. “Tell him to meet me here and I can explain what happened to Ms. Matherson. I can‘t believe those people he calls detectives missed such an important detail. Watching them makes me feel like my brain is slowly dying.”

John shot Molly a glance and shook his head. “In their defense, it was a puncture point under the fingernails, which were polished,” he said. “The odds of someone spotting that were a million to one.”

Molly smiled sympathetically. She understood how much John probably wanted to throttle Sherlock. “Did he drag you away from work?” she asked.

John nodded, huffing a sigh. “I’m lucky Sarah has such a sense of humor about everything,” he chuckled as he dialed.

Molly nodded, leaving him to his call. Sherlock was in the midst of setting up the samples and running tests on them. She returned to her work and attempted to ignore the fact that she could feel Sherlock’s gaze on the back of her head.

“Sherlock,” she could hear John say. “I’ve contacted Lestrade and he’ll be here as soon as he can. As for me, I’ve got to get back to work.”

Molly heard Sherlock grunt in response, then the door to the lab open and shut. A moment later, she felt Sherlock behind her, his hands on the desk, not even touching her.

“I can’t help but wonder Ms. Hooper, how you knew about the fingernails?” he breathed into her hair.

Molly smiled as she kept her gaze on the paper. “Mr. Holmes,” she said softly. “I know that brand of nail polish. I made the mistake of buying one bottle and I regret it. I recognize the streaking pattern.”

“What color?”

“It was a bright red, hooker red,” she replied.

“I never expected that of you.”

Molly closed her eyes and savoured the nearness of him. She could imagine his lips curling up into a slight smile as he said that.

“You never looked before,” she replied.

“So,” Sherlock spun around and leaned against her desk, looking down at her. “There was an injection site underneath the ring finger of the left hand.”

Molly smiled. “Good work,” she purred.

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” Sherlock stared down at her. “How did you know?”

“I dated someone in the British Army,” Molly said.

Sherlock blinked.

“In truth, someone who tried to enlist and was rejected because of his eyesight,” Molly laughed, remembering the disastrous two dates. “He was really into weapons, the military and violence. One day he told me that assassins would inject poison under the fingernails -- it’s virtually undetectable. I thought he was a nutter, but then the body came in and I saw the nail polish.”

She found herself shaking slightly as she explained to Sherlock her theory. She was waiting for him to cut her down and call her theories bollocks, which caused her to speak faster and stammer more.

“I mean, she came in, dressed impeccably, designer duds and it’s obvious, even in death, she was the kind of woman who liked things to be perfect,” Molly could feel herself babbling madly, unable to stop. “But that nail polish? Why would someone with Christian Louboutin shoes wear cheap polish from the corner store? It didn’t make sense. And the polish didn’t match her outfit.”

Sherlock’s expression was inscrutable. “So what do you think happened?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Molly thought to herself and she continued.

“I think someone tried that,” she continued. “Except that the needle caused some bruising. Maybe she didn’t have nail polish on before and so whoever did it put that awful polish on in hopes of covering up the bruise.”

“You didn’t check?” she could hear the contempt dripping from his voice.

“We don’t have nail polish remover here and besides, you arrived before I could look myself,” she stammered. “It was just a hunch, a wild guess. I just thought it’d be fun to play a game with you before our next meeting. If I’m wrong --”

“You weren’t,” he said, bending down, so his lips barely brushed her ear. “Your hypothesis was absolutely correct.”

Molly closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh of relief. She couldn’t disguise the fact that she was quivering like a strawberry jelly.

Before she could say anything, he was back at the lab counter, puttering away with the samples. Soon Lestrade arrived in the lab. Molly watched as Sherlock led Lestrade to the body and began his explanation. Watching them from the window, Molly could see the DI listening as Sherlock explained her theory. A smile broke out on Lestrade’s face as the two headed back into the lab.

“Bloody brilliant,” she heard Lestrade say as they headed out of the lab. “I would have never noticed that.”

“You just have to know where to look,” she heard Sherlock say. “Molly?”

She lifted her head from what she was working on. “Yes Sherlock?”

“Can you put the samples away for me? Lestrade’s got a lead he wants me to examine.”

Their eyes locked for a moment and she swore she saw him wink before blazing out the door like a comet.
Molly sighed and began tidying up the mess he left behind. He may be her Pup in private, but in public, he was still the alpha in this game, she thought to herself.

She was still in a morose mood when a messenger arrived with the final mail delivery of the day. Signing for everything, she noticed a small package addressed simply to “Miss.”

Molly cautiously opened the package. Out tumbled a bottle of Chanel nail polish in a dark, bold red with the name “Dragon”.

Giggling, Molly rolled the bottle between her fingers. The weekend plans might be modified, but her Pup was being a good, good boy.

~*~

Even though Sherlock had been behaving the last time she saw him, Molly still planned on getting something out of him before offering him his reward. This time he was prompt, arriving precisely on time and she could see him enter her flat from her vantage point.

“Welcome Pup,” she called out. “Please remove your shirt, socks and shoes and meet me in the kitchen.”

She took a deep breath, steeling her resolve, because no matter what, seeing him in her flat, complying to her every request was insanely intoxicating. He removed his shoes, peeled off his socks and then unbuttoned his shirt. Folding it neatly he strode into the kitchen.

Even though he kept his eyes on the floor, she could see confusion flit over his face for a moment as he took in the sight. She was wearing a simple white sundress with a black flower print. The skirt barely skimmed her knees and she decided to forgo the underwear, just to see if he would react. But instead of the boots, her feet were in a small plastic tub, which was filled with warm water and bath salts.

“I thought you could use an education today Pup,” Molly said. “I sense that nail polish and other things like that aren’t in your mental hard drive and it might be something useful for the future. So today you’re going to learn how to give someone a pedicure.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Sit on the floor Pup. Make yourself comfortable, because you’ll be there for a bit. You may also speak freely if you wish.”

He sat in front of her, eyes darting about the area. A red flush spread across his torso, up his neck and past his ears as he noticed Molly’s lack of knickers. His eyes quickly darted elsewhere, nothing the basket containing pumice, foot scrub and other items in front of him as well as towels to dry her feet. Sherlock spied the bottle of Chanel nail lacquer and a small smile danced across his face.

“First thing first, is to take the foot scrub and wash my feet,” Molly said.

Sherlock nodded and opened the container of scrub. The scent of peppermint filled the room as he applied some to her right foot and began massaging her feet with his fingers. She let out of a soft sigh of pleasure as his fingers slid between her toes before moving onto the arch and the heel.

“This pleases you Miss?” he asked.

“Yes,” Molly sighed, relaxing under his touch. “You have very talented hands Pup. I always knew that from watching you, but physical confirmation is always nice.”

His hands slid up her calf, massaging those muscles, before moving back down to her feet. With that done, Sherlock gently put her right foot back in the small tub and he gently pulled out her left foot. Another generous dollop of the foot scrub went on her foot as he began rubbing and massaging her. Yes, she could get used to this. It was practically addictive.

He put her foot back in the water and rinsed her feet and calves off.

“Now dry them Pup,” she commanded. “Do a good job because you’ll be polishing my nails after this.”

Sherlock grabbed a towel and took one foot out and dried it carefully, the towel swiping between her toes. With the same efficiency and care, he repeated the process.

“Take the water and pour it in the sink,” Molly said.

Once that was accomplished, Sherlock was back at her feet, waiting for her next command.

Molly handed him a coat of clear nail polish. “Base coat,” she said. “Be careful as you put it on. I don’t want any on my skin.”

“Yes Miss,” he said softly. “Why not your fingernails?”

“Because the chemicals could affect lab results,” Molly said. “And it probably would chip too quickly with all the work I do. I also like knowing it’s a secret between us.”

He nodded. Finishing up with the basecoat, he closed the bottle and set it on the floor.

Molly picked up the Chanel nail varnish. “I have to say Pup,” she said, twirling the bottle between her fingers, “I was genuinely surprised by this gift. I didn’t expect it. And Chanel? You do know your labels.”

“We passed by an advert,” he said, taking the bottle from Molly and opening it. “And I wanted to say thank you for speeding up the process a bit.”

Molly smiled. “You’re welcome,” she said. “Did you ever tell others about what I told you?”

“No,” Sherlock said.

Molly’s smile faded a bit. It was disappointing to hear, but not surprising in a way.

“Are you upset Miss?” she heard him say. She looked up at him. His expression was blank -- there was no trace of remorse or glee on his face. This was getting too close to reality for her comfort.

“Careful Pup,” she warned. “You’ve nearly dripped the polish on the floor. It would be disappointing to have your reward delayed because you were cleaning my floor.”

Sherlock blinked. “Sorry Miss,” he murmured, before putting the brush back into the bottle. There was a tense silence as Sherlock quietly polished her other foot.

In the silence, Molly gnawed on the discontent that was plaguing her. Of course he wouldn’t tell people that, she discovered something before him. It was part of his public face. People tolerated -- sometimes barely -- his arrogance and bad manners because he was brilliant. If anyone discovered that a simple morgue worker came up with this solution, questions would be asked and his reputation would be in jeopardy.

Oddly enough, while Molly would have loved some credit, she didn’t want it at his expense. Maybe that’s what separated her from some of the other people he dealt with. She was probably a bigger fool than them, she mused.

There was a solicitous cough from Sherlock. Molly looked down to see that both feet had red polish on them and Sherlock was waiting for further instruction.

“You will need to put a second coat on when this dries,” Molly said.

“Why?”

“Makes the colour better and richer,” Molly replied. “But you have to wait for it to dry completely.”

“How long does that take?”

“An hour total,” Molly replied.

Sherlock snorted. “An hour? What on earth do you do in the meantime?”

“Watch crap telly, read books, relax,” Molly said.

“You don’t do this?” Sherlock gently picked up a foot and pursed his lips, blowing cool air over her toes.

Molly couldn’t help herself, she began to giggle wildly, her head falling back and peals of laughter issuing from her throat. She could feel herself losing her breath as he picked up her other foot and blew cool air to dry her nails. An undignified snort issued from her as her giggles slowed.

“I believe they are dry,” Sherlock said. Molly didn’t dare open her eyes as she felt a blush spread throughout her body.

After her breath returned, she opened her eyes and nodded. “Very well Pup,” she said. “And I must warn you, while I admire your inventiveness, you are bordering on cheeky.”

Even though his expression was impassive, Molly could see a bit of a merry twinkle in his eyes. “Yes Miss,” he said, starting the second coat.

Molly watched him quietly, enjoying how studious he was about the job. His head was bent down and all she could see was dark hair and pale flesh. His grip was gentle on her feet and she could feel his warm breath on her toes.

Once he was done, and after another round of giggle-laden blowing on her toes, Molly handed him the topcoat. “Top coat,” she said. “Protects and seals the colour in.”

He nodded and began to work. “You never did answer me Miss. Are you upset?”

“I was, a bit,” she said softly. “But I’m not any longer.”

He nodded, finishing up the final nail. Molly was relieved that he didn’t pursue it further. Another round of unorthodox nail drying and Molly examined her toes. The pedicure was absolutely perfect.

“Beautiful job Pup. Maybe you could also open a nail salon,” she said. “I believe you’ve earned a reward.”

He looked up at her, bright eyes shining in anticipation. “Have I?”

“Yes Pup,” Molly smiled. “Are you ready?”

“Yes Miss,” he said solidly.

Standing, Molly pulled out a chef’s knife, a sharpening steel, the riding crop, a few needles, a lighter and a feather on the table along with the role of bondage tape and a silk scarf.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“Strip Pup,” she said. “You’ll need to be naked for this.”

He nodded, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers. Molly quietly watched him, enjoying the fact that he seemed rather eager to be divested of his clothing.

Once naked, he stood, hands at his side and looking downward.

Molly got a black scarf. “You’ve been a good boy Pup taking care of my needs as I take care of you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady and tamp down her arousal. “So I thought you deserved a bit of a reward. Sit down please,” Once he was sitting in the chair she was previously in, Molly placed the scarf over his eyes and tied it on as a blindfold.

“Comfortable Pup?” she asked.

“Yes Miss,” there was a tone of eagerness in Sherlock’s voice. Curious that. Most men wouldn’t be excited at the thought of being blindfolded with a woman armed with a knife, Molly thought to herself.

She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or another sign of the lack of Sherlock’s sanity.

“Good,” she replied, grabbing the roll of tape. “Now I’m going to be securing you to this chair. Let me know if you feel uncomfortable or in pain. And that’s an order. Understood?”

“Yes Miss.“

Sherlock practically wiggled at that command. Molly suppressed a giggle, as she slid her hands down his flanks and began taping his legs to the chair. Then his arms were taped to the back of the chair. She inhaled, taking in his distinctive scent -- peppery, musky and mixed with various chemicals.

She worked in silence for about twenty minutes before she was satisfied with her work. During the time, Sherlock’s breathing quickened and he let out an occasional sigh as Molly’s fingertips brushed up against his body. By the end, he was securely bound to the chair, but there was enough flesh for her to play with.

“Still comfortable Pup?”

“Yes Miss,” he whispered.

Molly‘s fingertips slid along his shoulders and down his back. “You look lovely in this,” she said softly. “I love knowing you’re my little toy. What colour is the tape Pup?”

“Blue Miss,” he said.

“Good memory,” she said, “Care to take a guess as to why I chose that?”

He shook his head. “My eye colour?”

Molly snorted as she picked up the riding crop. “Not quite Pup,” she said, taking the crop and gently tapping it along his legs. “Your eyes are an odd shade to me -- I can’t tell what colour they are because they keep changing. Guess again.”

“My scarf.” He was beginning to shake and he was erect. Molly couldn’t help but smile as she put down the crop. Molly put down the crop and grabbed the chef’s knife and the sharpening steel. Sharpening the knife, she savoured watching the way Sherlock’s breath came out in ragged gasps and pants.

Quietly putting down the steel and the knife, Molly grabbed the butter knife she had secreted in her skirt pocket.

Sauntering over to Sherlock, she ran her fingers across his chest, her nails digging in slightly. Sherlock trembled, then let out a small, bitten-off cry of surprise.

“Do you trust me Pup?”

“Yes Miss,” was the ragged response.

“I’m amazed you didn’t react when you saw the chef’s knife,” Molly continued conversationally, before dragging the butter knife along a bicep.

Sherlock jumped -- as well as a man can when they’re tied to a chair. “I trust you,” he gasped.

Molly bit her lip to keep the unsaid question Why? from escaping her lips. Dommes didn’t do that, she thought to herself. This wasn’t the time to explore why he chose her.

“Right,” she said, sliding the knife along his torso, before circling a nipple. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you --” her fingers reached out to twist the other nipple and she emitted a low, dirty laugh, “-- much.”

“I know Miss,” he groaned.

Secreting the knife in her skirt pocket, her fingers danced down his side and he trembled harder. Molly let out a low chuckle before blowing a cool breath on his neck. “I didn’t realize you were ticklish,” she murmured into his ear.

There was just a low groan as Sherlock continued to shake. Molly then noticed that he had an erection. It was a pretty nice erection, in comparison to what Molly encountered in the past. It would be so easy to take a lick, Molly’s darker thoughts whispered. Just a taste -- couldn’t hurt at all.

No. This was the same man who would compliment her to get what he wanted, Molly thought. The nail polish was another form of flattery to keep her from telling people secrets and keep her close to him. Given the designer duds he had, it probably was a pittance for him, Molly thought.

Instead, Molly continued to tease Sherlock, rattling him with a slide of her fingers through his hair, tugging at his locks until he let out a moan. Pricking him gently with needles elicited strangled moans and a feather dragged along his shoulder blades resulted in a half-yell of surprise. The butter knife between his thighs caused him to jump, which made her smile wickedly.

He was sweating harder and whispering words under his breath too softly for Molly to hear. It was time for the final act.

Abruptly walking away from him, Molly headed into the kitchen. Sherlock let out a moan of disappointment and loss, blindly twisting his head, searching for her.

Molly quickly returned with a small silk cloth in her hand. Wrapping that around his prick, she began rubbing it over him, relishing the way his hips began to buck against her hand.

“Miss --” Sherlock whispered.

“You may come,” she replied.

Semen dribbled out of his cock and all over her hand as he let out a loud groan and thrashed. Molly watched rapt as one her hand stroked him ruthlessly, while the other steadied her. After the shudders subsided, Molly pulled away and began untying Sherlock. Eventually she lost patience and fetched the EMT scissors and cut him loose. After that, she removed the blindfold.

He blinked for a moment, eyes adjusting to the light as she examined him. His expression was dreamy, lost in a world of his own. It was angelic in her eyes and Molly felt a rush of pleasure knowing she caused that expression on his face.

“Hey,” Molly softly said, lightly pinching his arm. “You need to clean me.” She held her hand out to his mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes lit on her and he nodded. Leaning forward he began to lick her hand, cleaning it carefully. Molly closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning at the sensation of moist heat cleaning her fingers.

Simply business she keep telling herself. This is a business arrangement. Nothing more.

“I’ll be back in a second,“ she whispered, pushing him back into the chair. Molly left him for a moment to get a wet towel, which she handed to him.

“Clean yourself Pup,” she said. “Our time is up and you don’t want to go out with a wet spot on your trousers. Everyone will know what I’ve done to you.”

“Yes Miss,” he said, wiping himself clean. In the span of a few seconds, his expression had changed from that otherworldly sweetness back to piercing calculation.

Molly nodded, watching him dress. Once the shirt was buttoned and jacket donned, his playful nature seemed to vanish before her eyes.

“Thank you Molly,” he said.

“You’re welcome Sherlock,” she said crisply, nodding in his direction.

And with that, he was gone.

Suddenly the flat seemed a little more empty. Molly’s arousal dampened as she flopped into her chair, listlessly turning on the telly. Her mobile chirped and she checked it. It was a message from her friend Katie:

Girls are getting together for some dancing and drinks, you better come.

Molly smiled. Thank heavens for friends who magically knew how to lift your spirits, she thought. She quickly messaged Katie back and bounced off to get ready for a night on the town. An hour later, and dressed in a miniskirt, tight t-shirt and the knee-high boots, Molly bounded out of the door, ready for a night on the town.

~*~

Starting at Katie’s flat with a few drinks to get well lubricated, Molly and her four friends -- including Sophie, Megan and Gen -- headed out for a night on the town. Even though all the girls agreed it was a hen night and boys were the last thing on their mind, the women were dressed to impress. It was Egg, which was a fun club, after all.

It was a good thing that they had drinks at Katie’s, given how much they spent to get to the club, Molly mused as they made their way into Egg, which was a walk from the King’s Cross Station. The club was packed, with people jammed in the five different dance floors connected by twisty hallways. A thumping mix of techno, dubstep, house and bits of pop tunes wove together to create an intoxicating blend that got her hips shimmying.

Molly whirled to the beat, conducting screaming conversations with her friends and giggling madly. It had been awhile since she went out with the girls, she realized. All thoughts about Sherlock faded as she swayed to the beat.

Even though it was bloody cold, the girls headed out to the garden to get a quick drink and cool down before heading back for more dancing.

That’s when things started to get complicated.

Molly would later say that it seemed like a scene out of a terrible romantic comedy where the crowd parts, and there’s the leading man/antagonist to the heroine.

She spotted him before he saw her. Really, it was impossible to miss Sherlock in a crowd. Unlike the blokes outside, who where shivering in their polo shirts as they smoked and sipped beers, he stood out like a sore thumb. For starters -- Sherlock was a bit taller than some of the crowd, so it was hard to miss that head of dark hair. Secondly, he was the only one with enough sense to wear a jacket outside.

Molly dropped her head down before he could pick her out. “Oh for bloody fucking sake --” she began to swear.

Katie glanced over at her. “What?”

Molly let out a giggle. “Of course the universe would fuck with me like this --”

“What?” the girls huddled closer. They all could sense juicy gossip and demanded a part of it.

“You know that bloke who keeps coming into where I work?”

“The weirdo you have a crush on?” asked Gen, puffing on her cigarette. “The one who was flogging a corpse with the riding crop?”

Molly’s face flushed as she remembered using that same crop on Sherlock’s arse. “Yes,” she hissed. “He’s here.”

Four heads shot up at once, scanning the crowd as the group began clucking, “Where? Where is he?”

Molly rubbed the temples of her head with her fingers. Of course that would happen, she thought. A group of drunk women out for fun is about as subtle as wearing day-glo pink to a funeral. One may as well have yelled out, “OI! SHERLOCK! MOLLY’S HERE! AND SHE’S PISSED! FANCY A SHAG?”

Her head cautiously rose and she began scanning the crowd, before breathing a sigh of relief. He was gone. Hopefully Sherlock found whatever information he needed and left to go torture someone else at a crime scene. She didn’t want to think. Especially about him.

“He’s gone,” she sighed. Slamming down the rest of her drink, Molly glanced at the girls. “I must be dealing with too much work,” she giggled. “Let’s go back in. I’m freezing my arse off.”

The four nodded and they headed back into the club. You need to get out more Molly thought to herself. Whatever this is with Sherlock, it’s dicking with your head too much.

The group plunged back into the club and things seemed to be back on an even keel as they enjoyed the drinks and music. Molly felt pretty good -- buzzed, but not completely gone -- and the music was making her forget about spotting him in the crowd. Yep, it was going to be a good night, as the song playing blared.

Then she felt a pair of masculine hands on her hips and a familiar scent hit her nostrils.

“Hullo Molly,” a low baritone voice rasped into her ear. “Fancy meeting you here.”

She couldn’t help but smile as turned to face him and leaned closer to talk in his ear. “Sherlock. What a surprise. I figured you’d be at a crime scene or harassing someone at the morgue.”

Molly glanced around her -- apparently her friends had scattered to the four winds. Not surprising really, she mused. The place was turning into a labyrinth the more they drank and danced. Hopefully everyone would meet up and make it home safe, she thought.

Then she felt his fingertips brushing along her arms and saw the affectionate expression on his face. It was, frankly, worrisome. This was not the self-proclaimed sociopath that she knew. Then he pulled her closer.

“Are you high?” she asked.

“Yes,” he nuzzled her, his lips nipping her ear.

Molly sighed. Of course any sign of affection from him would not be genuine and either related to work or pharmaceutics. She remembered him coming into the morgue at all hours, high on some substance, focused on his work and unpleasantly jittery.

“What is it?” she asked, slowly feeling the slumbering arousal from earlier waken as he ground his hips into hers.

“MDMA,” he murmured into her ear, his hands sliding down her back. “You look absou-bloody-lutely amazing,” he purred.

“Why?” she asked, starting to sway to the beat with him.

“Bored,” was the answer.

“Of course,” Molly chuckled. No one else she knew would get bored and take drugs. Those people were sane. Sherlock‘s sanity she wasn‘t sure about. “So what have you learned from this?”

“I’ve learned that the feel of silk is amazing, American pop is still crap, many people here are dressed like tossers and the universe must have wanted me to find you, because you’re here, looking like an angel,” he rasped as one song segued into another. “And you smell fantastic. I want to lick you.”

She could hear the singer in the mix talking about going all the way tonight and having no regrets, just love as his leg slipped between hers. He smelled fantastic and she battled back the urge to run her tongue along his neck to lick up his sweat.

“I saw you outside with your friends,” he whispered in her ear. “I never realized, until recently, that you had a life outside of the lab.” Their hips were grinding together to the beat and Molly’s arms were draped on his shoulders in an attempt to keep standing. “I pictured you living in the lab, sleeping in the cooler until you woke for work and brought me coffee.”

“I brought you coffee to be polite,” she retorted, gasping slightly as a dip of his hips began to stimulate her in the most interesting ways. “You are not the center of my life.” Her fingers dug into his back to keep her balance. Strictly balance, Molly tried to tell herself.

“I could have been mistaken by the looks you gave me,” he grinned. “Mouth slightly parted, rate of breath increasing, the slight lick of your lips. All indicators of sexual arousal.”

“I won’t deny that I find you very attractive,” she confessed. “But I figure you deduced that when you first met me.

Sherlock’s grin got more Cheshire-catlike as he bent his head down to lick her neck. Molly let out a gasp and her fingers automatically wound into his hair. The arousal that she was trying to tamp down flared and she ground herself on his leg.

Eyes closed, she heard the singer warble something about taking a chance and not looking back, not ever looking back. She inhaled Sherlock’s scent and her restraint began to crumble.

“Pup,” she gasped.

He pulled back. “Miss?”

“Kiss me,” she ordered.

He dipped his head down and their mouths connected. Molly clung to him, her mouth instantly opening under his and their tongues sliding past and around each other, tasting and nipping. He tasted like vodka and some overly-sweet energy drink. She didn’t know much about Sherlock, but she now knew he was a very good kisser.

Why couldn’t he have been awful at this? She thought to herself. It’s simply not fair that he’s also a potential sex god, judging by his dance moves and that kiss. No man is supposed to be this appealing or unattainable.

Molly’s lust-laden logic argued that if this was under the guise of a play session, then the emotional fallout wouldn’t hurt as much. The rational part of her brain pointed out that was stupid, but then Sherlock’s fingers slid up her shirt, stroking her skin, causing her to moan into his mouth and everything sane and rational left the building.

She pulled away, conscience pricking her. “I need to message my friends,” she said, rummaging in her purse to pull out the mobile and tapping on the keyboard.

“Whatever for?” he asked, his hands skimming along her legs and brushing her bottom.

“I want to let them know I’m not going back with them,” Molly said, as he began nipping her ear again.

“What do you have planned Miss?” he lips moved down to her neck. She could feel he was semi-hard and she moulded her body to his.

Molly grinned as she read the text messages teasing her and demanding details in the morning. “You are coming home with me,” she said. “And you are going to use those fantastic fingers and that mouth to make me feel good.”

~*~

The cab ride back to Molly’s flat would have been embarrassing if Molly was sober enough to care. During the entire ride, Sherlock’s hands ran up and down her body as he nuzzled her, whispering various observations about music, food, cars they passed and even the cab driver.

When they reached her flat, Sherlock tossed some money at the cabbie before they headed upstairs, stopping to kiss every few steps. By the time they tumbled into her flat, Sherlock’s shirt was unbuttoned, Molly’s skirt was partially unzipped and both of them were peeling their coats off of each other.

Slamming the door behind them, Molly took a deep breath as she pulled away from him. “Here’s the game sweet puppy,” she said, licking her lips as she took in the sight of a rumpled Sherlock. “You are going to undress, then remove my clothing. Then you are going to use your considerable talents to make me come -- at least twice. Then you may fuck me into oblivion. Are we understood?”

Sherlock nodded, unbuttoning his shirt and folding it. Next the shoes were removed and socks. Then he unbuttoned his trousers. The entire time he was staring at her hungrily. When he stripped off his pants, Molly could feel herself getting even wetter.

He took two steps over to her and his hands slid behind her, unzipping her skirt. She stepped out of it, while his hands grabbed the bottom of her t-shirt and pulled it over her head. Sherlock’s hands skimmed over her shoulders and down behind her back, deftly unfastening her bra. He attempted to duck his head down to take a taste, but Molly gently slapped his hands.

“Focus Pup,” she growled.

Sherlock’s hands slid down and tugged at her boot. Kneeling at her feet, he brought one leg up to rest on his knee, tugging gently at the boot. Then the other leg was divested of its boot.

Molly realized she would never get tired of him doing that, seeing him kneel at her feet. Perhaps she should wear boots more often, she thought to herself. Especially if it paid off like this.

Next his hands slid down to her knickers and tights. Long fingers grabbed the waistband of her tights, rolling them down. Sherlock’s gaze was focused on Molly and the incendiary heat from it caused her to bite her lip to keep from moaning. Again, one foot was placed on his knee as he removed the tights. His hand stroked her skin, eliciting a moan from her. That foot was put back down on the floor as the other one was placed on his knee, as he finished unrolling her tights.

He rose up, pressing all of his body against her. One hand slid down around her knickers and there was a ripping noise as Molly felt the cool air around her body.

It was the first time she ever had someone do that with her. And it nearly made her orgasm right then and there.

“That was cheeky Pup,” she heard herself say. “Now you have to give me three orgasms before you can take your pleasure.”

“Sorry Miss,” he murmured into her hair. “I guess I got overeager.”

“Cheeky Pup,” she sighed as his lips ghosted over her shoulders. One hand took an experimental slide between her legs and she instantly parted them, holding onto his shoulders for balance. She was ready, aching for him ever since she first saw him naked. Even though she had tried to take the edge off herself, the close proximity to him just heightened the ache for him.

His fingers brushed against her clit and she started, moaning and thrusting her hips into him.

“Bed. Now,” she gasped. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stand with this.”

Molly took his hand and led him to the bedroom, where she fell backwards onto the bed. Toby, who was dozing there, woke, stared at them irritably, then huffed out of the room.

Sherlock stared at the cat as it stalked out of the room. “There‘s that cat I knew you had.”

“That‘s Toby,” Molly said. “He’s the only one who comments on my blog.”

Sherlock chuckled as he lay down next to her. “You are a woman of many layers Miss,” he said quietly, staring into her eyes.

Molly could feel herself blushing under him. “Less talk, more pleasure,” she managed to say, attempting to sound commanding -- or as commanding as a woman on the verge of orgasm could sound.

“Yes Miss,” he grinned, sliding his mouth down to nip at her breasts. Two long fingers slid into her and Molly’s back arched as she began to whimper and moan. The first orgasm hit her immediately and Molly let out a long, low moan as she rode his fingers and felt his tongue apply wet heat and pressure to her nipples.

Good lord. If he kept this up, she was going to be a puddle of goo, Molly thought to herself, when she finally got her breath back. Perhaps the most sated puddle of goo in existence, but definitely a puddle of goo.

“That’s one,” Sherlock murmured as he stroked her hair. Molly opened her eyes and caught his expression -- a mix of deviltry, adoration and outright lust.

“He can count,” she smiled. “How many do you have left?”

“Two Miss,” he said. His fingers danced up and down her arms, then swept over her torso.

Molly closed her eyes and let out a breathy sigh before he kissed her.

“You are amazing to look at when you come,” he said. “I do believe your eyes nearly rolled back into your head.”

“That’s your next challenge,” she teased. “Make it happen.”

“Yes Miss,” he said, voice low and full of dark promise.

This time his head ducked down, and she could feel him placing firm kissed along her ankles. His lips trailed upward, nipping and tasting her legs.

“What are you wearing?” he asked. “You taste fantastic too.”

“My shower gel,” Molly gasped, as his tongue swept past the backs of her knees. How the hell was she getting aroused again so quickly? “It’s got honey in it.”

“Mmm,” he said, before spreading her legs and using his hands to hold her hips down to the mattress. “I can also smell the jasmine.”

“Yes,” Molly said, drawing out the “s” sound as he began performing a fantastic act of cunnilingus on her. She could hear him saying something faintly, but indecipherable, which caused her body to reverberate in time with him.

She tried to stave off the oncoming waves of pleasure, wanting to make him work for it, but it was futile. Molly’s moans got louder as she thrashed under him, arching her back and calling out his play name. Her fingers fisted in his hair and she was rewarded with a dark chuckle from him as she twisted under him.

Her body stilled as he pulled away, rising up to kiss her again. Molly licked his mouth, savoring the mingled flavours of her and him.

“It’s nice to see that you can use your mouth for something other than smart-arsed comments,” she said, ruffling his hair with her hands.

He chuckled. “I have learned something new.”

“Really?” Molly could feel herself falling away, floating on a sea of bliss. But Sherlock’s voice kept her rooted in reality.

“You taste as good as you smell. It‘s utterly intoxicating.”

She felt a blush spread across her body. It was definitely weird, the affectionate side of Sherlock. But also irresistible.

Molly felt him roll her over onto her stomach and she followed his direction, limp as a rag doll. Who’s domming who? her mind whispered.

Who cares? her mind replied as Sherlock began massaging her back, strong fingers kneading her muscles. I don’t -- not when I’m feeling like this.

She felt liquid, floating along on a sea of bliss as his rubbed her flesh, quietly talking under his breath. If he got a third orgasm out of her, she would be surprised, Molly thought to herself. But the thought of going over the edge one more time started to fill her with a sense of anticipation as she wiggled her bottom.

“You know, I want to see you in tight jeans someday,” Molly whispered to no one in particular. “I think you’d be hot in skintight jeans.”

There was a low chuckle. “Perhaps Miss,” he said. “Perhaps.” Then she felt his teeth gently drag down her spine, which caused her to gasp.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to wring another one out of me,” she gasp, wiggling under him.

“You gave me a task Miss and I intend to complete it,” he replied.

Then there was bit of silence as his tongue swept between her buttocks and he took a gentle nip out of her. Molly let out a squeal as he kissed the areas he marked. She could feel him slide up her body again and cover her as one hand slid possessively down her waist to touch her clit.

Molly drew in a breath, waiting to see what he would do next.

It was quiet at first, but she could hear him whispering in her ear. It was nothing in particular, snatches of sonnets, song lyrics, filthy descriptions of her body. But as she felt his erection press against her back and two fingers dipped into her, reaching that small bundle of nerves that created an electric reaction from her.

“But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new fired,” he whispered in her ear, grinding up against her as her hips arched and she began bucking under him. “The boy for trail needs would touch my breast; I, sick withal, the help of bath desired; And thither hied a sad distempered guest --”

Molly could feel her climax reaching yet again as she began laughing. All coherent thought was obliterated as she focused on her pleasure and his hot breath emitting sonnets in her ear.

“But found no cure, the bath for my help lies; Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress’ eyes.”

With that, he flicked his fingers in her one more time and she let out a loud wail, grinding into him as the third orgasm hit. Molly’s hips buckled as she writhed under him. She could feel him nip at her neck, tasting the sweat that covered her body.

After what seemed to be eons, Molly finally returned to her body. “Well done Pup,” she murmured into the pillow. “Check the nightstand table. You’ll find condoms there. Take what you want of me.”

There was a low chuckle. “Yes Miss,” he said as he pulled away, much to her disappointment.

She could hear him open the drawer, find the small foil package and then there was the ripping sound. After a moment, he rolled her on her back and spread her legs. Without much preamble, he thrust into her.

“Fuck --” he whispered.

Molly sighed happily as they lay still for a moment. He felt fantastic. Even better than what she dreamed about. Then he began to move.

He bent down to kiss her and she wound her hands in his hair, keeping him close to her. The entire thing was messy and inelegant, but for her, it was utterly perfect. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she could feel herself saying various words and phrases as he moved faster and harder within her.

Sherlock was close -- she could feel it and see it as his skin became more flush and pink in colour. Molly raked her nails down his back, savouring the way he gasped under her touch. She began to match him stroke for stroke as his orgasm ripped through him with a loud groan. One twist of her hips and Molly soon followed, her back arching up to him as he placed hot, messy kisses on her neck and collarbone.

“Sherlock,” she could hear herself say as she came, repeating his name over and over like a mantra.

When it was over, she curled up against him. Sherlock’s hands continued to brush over her skin, kneading her flesh as he whispered endearments into her ear.

It was absolutely perfect. More than what she ever dreamed of when she fantasized about him. Part of her wondered if the whole thing was even real and hoped that the morning wouldn’t come.

But it did, along with reality.

When she woke in the morning, hungover, bleary-eyed and alone, Molly was disappointed, but, strangely, not surprised.

~*~

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.

Her feet were in his lap and he was gently massaging them 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. 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.”

~*~

Molly’s mobile chirped. She sighed, ignoring Norris’ curious glance and checked it.

I want to renegotiate the contract -- SH

His last case must have finished up, she mused to herself. After a week of sparse communication, mostly for access to the lab, he texted her eight times already, asking her to dictate his clothing, breakfast and morning routine. Sometimes Molly wondered why on earth they had the contract if he chose to run roughshod over the rules. She sighed.

Working she typed into her mobile.

Lunch?

Molly smiled. He was incorrigible. You’re paying. And it has to be more than a couple packets of crisps.

Yes Ma‘am.

Work continued quietly until the lunch hour when Sherlock arrived to take Molly out for lunch.

“I don’t like the way Norris looks at you,” he said under his breath as they headed out the door.

Molly shrugged. “There’s nothing to worry about -- he’s just finds you odd, that’s all,” suddenly a thought came to her and she began laughing. “You’re jealous aren’t you?”

Sherlock merely huffed as they headed out the door. They walked along in amicable silence, until they reached Smithfield Market and headed to the restaurant upstairs. Somehow they were seated at a table, despite the fact that the place was stuffed with other people seeking a meal.

“You are eating,” Molly said. It wasn’t a question.

“I ate breakfast,” he countered. “I’m not hungry.”

“Do not make me order for you,” Molly said, using her Miss tone.

He arched an eyebrow, just as the waitress arrived. Molly instantly understood that expression -- it meant I dare you.

Molly smiled sweetly at the waitress. “We’ll be splitting the rib eye steak please, medium rare,” she said, ignoring his sulky expression. “Add a cup of soup and two coffees please.”

There was a moment of silence after the waitress left as Sherlock glared at her. “You’re not the Miss right now,” he said.

“It’s hard to tell when you keep texting me for instructions when you’re bored,” she replied, leaning back against the leather banquette. “Let’s see today -- you asked about what to wear, what to eat, who to bother at Scotland Yard and you now want to renegotiate the contract. What’s on your mind?”

“I want to make the contract exclusive,” he said flatly.

Molly arched an eyebrow as the waitress dropped off the coffees. Even if they weren’t officially in a relationship, she knew this was major. She poured a bit of cream into the coffee and sipped it, quelling the flicker of jealousy that whispered through her. “Did you have other dommes during this time?” she asked. Somehow she wouldn’t have been surprised if he did -- a bit of variety would have kept him from being bored.

He shook his head. “Too busy,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Have you --”

Molly shook her head. “You keep me too busy,” she said in half-jest before the soup arrived.

There was the briefest flash of a smile from Sherlock as she tasted her soup. “Try this,” she pushed it to him. “It’s wonderful.”

She watched as he picked up the spoon and sniffed, then his tongue darted out to taste the soup. Molly felt warmer as she recalled that talented tongue between her legs more than a week ago. He saw her blush and a slight smile passed his lips before he took the spoon in his mouth, finishing the mouthful.

Molly swallowed, attempting to get her hormones under control. “What else do you want?” she asked, as she took the spoon from the bowl and took a sip.

“I want more time,” he said.

“Unacceptable,” she said.

“You haven’t even heard how much more,” for a moment, it sounded like Sherlock was whining.

Molly took the spoon and licked it slowly, swirling the bowl around her mouth, sucking on the warm metal. Sherlock stopped talking for a moment.

“Now that’s just a blatant distraction,” he muttered.

“It worked,” she replied, just as the waitress brought lunch over with an extra plate.

“Why can’t I have more time?”

“Sherlock,” Molly sighed, before cutting the steak in half and putting half on his plate along with a helping of chips. “You already take up enough of my time. You’re even texting me for instructions when you’re bored -- which was not in the original contract. I have been nice to humour you, which was probably a bad decision on my part -- you need to learn boundaries,” she took a bite of the steak. It was delicious. “Now eat your food and stop pouting.”

“Boundaries are dull,” Sherlock picked at his food. “I would have thought you would consider it flattering that I want more of your time,” he said.

“Is that why you took the MDMA?” she asked. “Because you were bored and I was unavailable?”

He didn’t answer her, but the way he avoided her gaze, she could tell that’s what happened.

“Did you know I’d be at Egg?”

Sherlock shook his head. “John kicked me out of the flat,” he said. “Told me to stop abusing the furniture and go somewhere where that was considered acceptable -- like a nightclub.” He took a bite of the chip, then a nibble of the steak.

“So you picked Egg.”

“I just told the cabbie I wanted to go out to a nightclub and take me to one -- any one -- and he dropped me off there,” Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly. “Look, you’re already doing more time than previously agreed -- judging by the fact that you do answer my texts. And you answer them promptly. So why not just agree?”

Molly sighed, then continued to eat her lunch in silence. The man was right, damn him. Ever since what she called the “Egg incident” and the aftermath, she had been answering his texts more and finding herself sliding into her role effortlessly.

It dawned on her why he was demanding more time -- it was either this or some illicit substance. And at least with this, both of them had more control over what went into his system.

“What do you want Sherlock?”

“You, on call, when I need you,” he said crisply.

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “We’re there already,” she said, conceding. “But I demand something in exchange.”

“Ravaging me isn’t enough? Cleaning your flat isn’t enough? What‘s next? More pedicures?” his expression was practically playful as he nibbled on a chip. Molly noted that he was like a toddler in his eating habits. Where she had nearly finished her portion, he still had a plate full of chips and steak.

“No it’s not,” she replied. “I’m giving a lot of myself over to you, spinning these scenarios, and you’ve yet to offer something in exchange --” Before he could protest, she continued, “other than fantastic, mind-blowing sex.”

Molly could sense his ego growing at the last statement, but she continued talking. “I do have work and a life outside of you and if I have to babysit you, I‘d like for something in return. I need a break too.”

“Very well,” he said, with a slight smirk. “What do you want?”

She couldn’t believe how fast the words popped out of her mouth. “I want you to dominate me at once a month,” she replied. “That’s also going to require your considerable talents for planning and organizing. That should also keep you distracted between cases.”

He grinned. “Very well,” he said. “Anything triggering? Did you and he --” there was a harsh edge to the way Sherlock said he.

“No, nothing,” Molly said. “He just watched movies and Glee with me.”

Sherlock snorted. “I told you he was gay.”

Molly coloured, but shrugged. “You just told me something that was in the back of my mind for awhile,” she muttered. “You don’t go out with someone for multiple dates without some physical contact. If so, you know you’re a friend.”

“He never touched you?”

“Nothing more than a friendly hug or a peck on the cheek,” Molly changed the subject. “Anyway, I trust you.”

He looked surprised. “Really?”

Molly nodded. “Just remember that I’m new to this. But I’m curious to see what you‘d do.” She couldn’t believe she was telling him this. Images of him flogging her like a corpse with the riding crop flooded her brain and a rush of arousal and fear ran through her body.

He obviously read her thoughts, because an evil grin passed over his face before he took another bite of steak.

“Oh shut it,” Molly said, before a giggle bubbled forth.

After lunch, the two headed back to St. Barts. The entire time, Sherlock pointed out the secrets passers-by had in a low voice. Even though she was tempted to say Brilliant Sherlock! How did you discover that? she suppressed the near-overwhelming urge to do so. The man’s ego was already overwhelming -- inflating it further would be a bad idea. Hell, admitting the fact that he was a good shag was enough to inflate anyone’s ego to massive proportions.

As the two headed down to the basement, Molly grabbed his arm firmly and steered Sherlock into a supply closet. He clearly wasn’t surprised, given the fact that she was able to manoeuvre his body around -- which would have been near impossible in most circumstances -- and pin him up against the door.

Her hands slid down the front of his trousers, unbuckling the belt and undoing the front. Standing on her tiptoes, Molly whispered in his ear, “You’ve been very impertinent, and for that, you will get disciplined,” before taking a nip at the lobe.

Her hands dipped down, toying with his cock and she watched his eyes widen and a smug smile spread across his face. Feeling him harden with her strokes, she slid down to a crouching position and licked him from head to balls.

She watched as his eyes closed and his head fell back against the closet door with a soft thud. Then she took him in her mouth, sucking slowly.

His hands -- still in those leather gloves -- tangled in her hair. Looking up, she could see him staring at the ceiling, whispering words that she never could comprehend. Molly nipped at his thigh, warning him to be quiet and instead of whispering, she saw Sherlock mouthing words.

She grinned slightly, before diving back down to him. Molly’s fingers gently brushed along his perineum and ass as she took him in her mouth again, sucking harder and swirling her tongue about.

Relaxing her throat, she took him in entirely, relishing the way his hands tugged her hair and how his hips bucked under her. She could hear him gasp and for a moment she wondered if he was surprised by this talent. Then she did it again. And again. She could tell he was close -- circumstances being what they were, there wasn’t much time for fun and games. Sensing his body shake under her, the slight bucking of hips, Molly led him out to the edge, then pulled away from him.

Standing up, she tucked him back in his trousers, zipped his fly up and smoothed her hair. Ignoring the look of pure vengeance in his eyes, Molly leaned forward.

“You are testing my patience boy,” she growled, licking a hot stripe from his neck to his ear. “If you want satisfaction, you will learn to wait.”

With that, she opened the closet door and left, not looking back.

~*~

Do you want to know what I’m about to do? Molly texted Sherlock later that day. He had been strangely quiet after escorting her back to the lab after lunch and she suspected he had another case to keep him occupied. But tormenting him seemed like a splendid plan before she headed out for dinner with her friends.

Busy. he texted back.

Are you still pouting?

No.

I can tell you are.

Maybe a bit. Molly laughed at the last admission.

You didn’t like that I left you hanging, literally?

Not funny Molly.

I think it is. Anyway, do you want to know what I’m going to do tonight?

You’re going out with your friends for dinner. I’m going to be bored.

Flirting and bantering with him was never going to get old now that they were on somewhat equal footing, Molly realized. Yes, but after dinner?

Watch some crap telly, read your book about cadavers and then sleep while I lie in anguish?

She chuckled -- she could practically hear the petulant tone in his voice. Even in midst of coitus, he was taking in information. He must have seen the Mary Roach book on her nightstand.

Drama queen.

You’re not the one who just had his blood rush to his nether regions when he saw your text.

That made her breath catch for a moment. It was an admission that she affected him as much as he affected her -- well, at least in a physical manner. But she continued in her assault.

You will live. After all you’ve still got enough brain power to reply to me.

I’m a genius. That’s not difficult.

Some genius. Your answer is still wrong.

There was a long pause. She could picture him, brow furrowed and obviously confused.

Pardon?

You’re wrong Molly bit her lip and texted the next half. I plan on lying in bed, with my vibrator and using it until I turn into a frantic, sweaty mess thinking about you and your cock.

It‘s not perfect, her fingers flew over the keyboard. Not as satisfactory as you, buried deep in me, but it will have to suffice.

Another long pause. Molly wondered if he had dropped his phone. Or if he was really working. She pictured him getting hot and bothered as Scotland Yard looked on, then giggled.

I could come and remedy that after dinner.

Molly sucked in a breath. For a moment, her fingers were poised, ready to type out that yes, he should come over around eleven that night, after dinner. She could imagine them tumbling into bed, taking whatever pleasure they wanted from each other before falling asleep sated. Maybe he’d stay in the morning and she could make pancakes with a bit of lemon juice and powdered sugar and --

She shook her head, attempting to clear the deluded fantasy out of her brain. The likelihood of that happening was well -- she didn’t even want to imagine what the odds were, but she knew they were going to be pretty awful.

The whole reason for his offer wasn’t that he wanted to be near her, she rationalized. He just had an urge and she was the most willing partner to take care of it. It wasn’t worth feeling used and tossed away like a crisp packet in the morning, Molly thought.

Remember what I said about waiting?

Yes Miss. You are harsh and cruel.

Molly grinned. Don’t you forget it. she typed.

~*~

Perhaps it was a bad idea to taunt Sherlock before his first session as Dom, Molly thought as the cab took her to Baker Street.

It had been purely accidental -- not long after their texting war, Sherlock notified her that he was heading to Glasgow to help on a matter. But he promised that when he returned, he was taking charge for one day and on no uncertain terms, she was to meet him on his turf.

Other than that exchange, that week was quiet. If it was any one else she had gotten involved with, Molly knew she would feel a bit of jealousy or fear. In this case, Molly felt a bit of relief. He was out of her hair for a bit, off on a case, and she could just enjoy a distraction-free week.

Upon his return, he flooded her inbox with e-mails and instructions on when he wanted to see her and how she was to present herself.

Come to Baker Street as soon as convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway, was the final missive from him.

Her heart was pounding as the cab pulled up to the flat and she rang the bell. Sherlock requested that she wear what she normally wore for the exterior, but sent her some lingerie -- black and lacy with a matching set of knickers -- thankfully not a thong. She wasn’t surprised that he knew her bra size, but it was impressive, given that sometimes she didn’t know her bra size.

John opened the door. “Molly!” he exclaimed when he saw her on the doorstep. “You’re the reason why Sherlock is booting Mrs. Hudson and I out?”

Molly could feel herself blush. “He’s kicking you out of the flat?”

The man’s face split into a grin. “Not without concessions,” he chuckled. “He’s sent Mrs. Hudson to go visit her friend in Brighton and he offered to pay for a posh night out for Sarah and I, as long I don‘t come home tonight.”

“What did he tell you?” she suddenly had the urge to run off, embarrassed by the way John was grinning.

He motioned for her to come inside. “Just that he had an experiment that was probably going to go all night and be rather annoying for us,” she could hear John’s voice become a slight leer. “You’re assisting?”

Molly reddened at John’s jesting tone. “Yes,” she said, feeling her ears start to burn.

John burst out laughing. “I knew there was a reason why he was so even tempered between cases,” he said, leading her up the stairs. “On behalf of Mrs. Hudson, the wall and I, bless you woman.”

She couldn’t help but laugh as he led her upstairs to the flat.

Sherlock, wasn’t in the sitting room. “Molly?” he called from what she assumed was his bedroom.

“I’m here,” she said.

“I’ll be popping out soon,” John said.

“You’re still here?” both of them could hear the annoyance in Sherlock’s voice.

“Yes.” John huffed. “I just need to grab my bag and I’ll be gone. Relax. Your experiment --” the tone was definitely a leer, “can wait a bit.”

Molly giggled as John grabbed his bag and waved goodbye before heading down the stairs. Faintly she heard the door open and then shut. Then adrenaline started to course through her veins. She scanned the flat, which was cluttered with papers, books and random mugs strewn about. The wallpaper was a bit outdated and a smiley face was spray painted in on wall, adorned with bullet holes. Molly instantly understood why John said the wall thanked her for whatever this was.

Somehow, given the fastidiousness of Sherlock’s dress, she assumed the flat would be a tad neater. Obviously, that was not the case.

After a few minutes, she heard Sherlock call out, “Ms. Hooper?”

Molly stilled -- that was the pet name they had agreed on -- “Sir?” she called out, using his master title.

“Is he gone?”

“Yes.” Her hands began to shake in anticipation, but she closed them into fists to control herself.

“Please undress. Leave your underclothes on and sit on the couch, eyes downward,” his voice had a silky menace to it.

Molly did as he asked, waiting quietly for him. Her eyes darted furtively about trying to get more clues as to what he had planned, but no answers presented themselves.

Soon she heard his footsteps in the room. “Hullo Ms. Hooper,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “It’s been awhile since we saw each other.”

She nodded, noticing that he had bare feet and was wearing a pair of jeans.

“You may look up,” he said.

She looked up at him. He was shirtless and wearing skintight jeans. Molly’s eyes lit on faded bruises that dotted his torso. She wanted to open her mouth and ask him what was happened while he was gone, but knew better than to do so.

He had a riding crop in his had and he was Molly’s mind flashed back to her saying drunkenly I’d love to see you in skintight jeans and her body suddenly felt warm. Her hands itched to reach out and touch him, check his bruises and feel his skin against hers.

He must’ve noticed the slight twitch because Sherlock gently flicked the riding crop at her hands -- not enough to hurt, but enough to startle her.

“Ms. Hooper,” he said. “Apparently you have as hard of a time controlling your urges as I have in the past.”

Molly nodded.

“Stand please.”

She did so. She could see him circling her, inspecting her closely, the crop waving in the air like the tip of a cat’s tail.

“Lovely,” he said, sliding the crop down between the vee of her cleavage. Molly let out a gasp, feeling her back arch and her legs become shaky.

“You know,” he said softly. “When we first started this, I envisioned you as this mere wisp of a girl, not someone as solidly built as you are. Earthy in a way,” his head ducked over and he whispered in her ear. “Lovely and fleshy,” his tongue darted out to take a lick along her neck.

Molly shuddered.

“Now,” he said. “I wasn’t quite sure what to do today. I thought about how you left me hot and wanting in the supply closet last week, or how you figged me good and proper, those months ago, then forced me to clean your kitchen, only to boot me out unceremoniously and with a raging hard-on.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say ‘raging hard-on‘,” Molly said under her breath.

The riding crop lashed out and hit her across the backside. She let out a gasp. Clearly he wasn’t playing around.

“Did I say you could speak?” The tone was now icy.

She shook her head.

“In any case, it‘s my turn now,” Sherlock sat down on the sofa, fingertips pressed together and stared at her.

The silence was unnerving and his eyes seemed to stare through her. Molly exhaled softly, wondering what he had planned.

After what seemed to be forever, he stood and paced around her. “Now I know you take yoga and pilates,” he said.

How did you -- Molly’s eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

“Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock huffed. “How long have we known each other? That was practically child‘s play. You leave your mat rolled up and in your umbrella stand and there’s a pilates DVD by your television. As for your flexibility --” he gave her a significant stare.

Molly felt her blush deepen a bit more.

“Now, I’m just curious to see how flexible you are,” he said. “Bend over, hands on the ground please. Downward facing dog if you will”

Molly did as he asked. She could feel him pull her knickers down a bit and his hand slide between her legs, checking her. Her hips twitched involuntarily, following his touch, then his hands moved away.

“Two rules Ms. Hooper,” she could hear him say, along with the sound of a zipper being unzipped and a wrapper -- probably a condom -- being opened. “You are not to come until I tell you to and you will be silent unless I ask you to speak. Do you understand?”

Molly nodded. She was feeling a little light-headed from the blood rushing to her head when suddenly she felt Sherlock’s prick in her, his hands gripping her hips roughly as he began fucking her hard. It was clear from his actions that he was concentrating more on his enjoyment than hers, but she didn’t mind at all. It was the sub’s role after all. Instead, she could feel her body begin to clench around him and the slow spiral of arousal wind up in her spine.

The only sound was the wet slapping of his body moving against hers and his heavy breathing. Molly was breathing deeply, doing her damnedest to keep from making any sounds at all, as the arousal pooled and churned in her belly. She began thinking of something -- anything other than the roughness of his jeans around her bottom, the slight bite of the zipper against her skin or the deep thrusts that she could swear she was feeling tickle the back of her throat.

She was staring to get light-headed when his thrusts became harder and more erratic. One of his hands slid forward to toy with a lace-clad nipple before he let out a long groan, his prick pulsing in her from his orgasm.

The silence was broken by his breathing. Then he pulled away and she could hear him fiddling around before zipping his pants. His hands moved to pull her panties back where they originally were.

“You may stand up,” he said, breathing heavily. “Take your time, I don’t want you to get dizzy.”

Molly slowly stood and turned around, feeling slightly dizzy and similar to being hit by a freight train. He was flush and his hair looked a little more wild than when she first entered.

“Follow me,” he said, turning around and stalking off towards the kitchen.

Molly knew exactly what was going on -- he was going to make her clean the kitchen. The question was whether it was with a toothbrush or not.

“Up on the table please,” he ordered.

Molly nodded, then did as he asked, attempting to ignore the fact that the table was festooned with lab gear and what she suspected was a jar of eyeballs. Sherlock sat down in front of her, pulling her hips close to the table.

Without any preamble, he buried his mouth in her. Molly arched her back and gasped as he tongued her through her panties. This in addition to the rough fucking made her realize that it wouldn’t take much to turn her into a writhing, screaming mess.

She closed her eyes as two fingers slid into her.

“You are so wanton,” she heard Sherlock say as he rubbed his cheek along her thigh. “You’ve been desiring this since I left, haven’t you? Please feel free to make those pretty noises.”

She arched her back and mewled incoherently in response. The waves of arousal slammed into her as his fingers stroked her mercilessly. She could feel the orgasm coming -- just one jerk of his fingers and she’d come, probably knocking over the jar and having eyeballs scatter all over the floor.

He pulled away. Molly lay on the table, gasping in shock as her hips twisted and writhed. She felt his hands on her hips, gentling her and heard a low, low chuckle.

“Now,” he said. “Clean my kitchen.”

Molly sat up, staring at him. His eyes were bright with amusement. She looked about the kitchen. Most of the items had been tidied, but there was a film of crud and she could see the soapy water in the sink and the stack of dishes.

A devilish thought overcame her and she headed over to wash the dishes. Feeling Sherlock’s eyes on her, Molly sauntered over to the sink and began washing the dishes. Conjuring up every terrible music video image in her head, Molly was a little sloppy in washing the dishes. She wiggled her hips as she scrubbed a frying pan caked with -- what exactly, she didn’t dare speculate -- and on occasion glanced back at him, with a coquettish expression.

Once the dishes were done, she tidied up the kitchen table and the counters, bending lower than she needed to so he could get a view straight down her cleavage. Even though he seemed calm on the exterior, a quick glance downward told her that she was definitely getting the reaction she wanted. His hands gripped the crop tightly and she could see he was breathing a bit more heavily than before.

Again, all of these things wouldn’t be noticeable to most people, but most people hadn’t shagged Sherlock Holmes rotten for the past months.

She stood in front of him, leaning down and stretching father than needed to wipe a corner of the kitchen table, then wiggled her bottom again.

There was a strangled groan from behind her and she grinned to herself. She felt the tap of the riding crop on her thigh and looked backwards, with a sweet smile.

“Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock said, with a slight smirk. “I do appreciate the show, but if you want to experience the rest of what I have planned, I suggest you get cracking.”

She nodded and continued cleaning the kitchen, a bit faster now, but with no less sensuality in her movements. Every now and then she snuck a furtive glance to see him squeezing himself under the jeans.

When it came to cleaning the floor, Molly got down on all fours and took the sponge and began scrubbing. Her breasts swung gently under the movement and she could hear his breathing coming out in ragged pants as he watched her scrub the floor.

She wondered if he would crack. Sherlock’s self-control was legendary. He could go for days with little sleep and food for a case, so denying him pleasures of the flesh should be simple.

Then she heard the soft sound of a zipper unzipping and a low, husky “Ms. Hooper. Come here. I need you.”

Molly turned around and crawled along the floor to him. His cock was already out and slick. His hand gripped himself tightly and she could see his pale skin flush and pinkish in color. His gaze was hungry and intense.

She laid her head in his lap with an angelic smile.

“Your mouth please,” he said sternly.

Molly’s smile grew bigger as she took him in her mouth. Looking up at him, she saw his head tilt back to face the ceiling. His fingers wound in her hair and tugged gently as she continued to take him in her mouth.

Her tongue swirled around him and she felt his hips buck underneath her. Following his signal, she sucked hard and began to move her head at an agonizing pace. It was short work before he bucked his hips in orgasm with a loud groan and calling his pet name for her.

Molly swallowed, then slowly released him from her mouth, sprinkling kisses along his thighs and flaccid cock. She could feel her arousal brewing yet again.

After a moment, Sherlock stood, tucked himself back in his jeans and then zipped them. “Please get back to work Ms. Hooper,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I’m going to the living room to send some e-mails and perhaps doze. This should be done by six and you should be showered and clean by then. I will tell you the next part of our evening then.”

Molly nodded, then crawled back to the bucket and sponge. Behind her, she heard Sherlock suck in a deep breath, before he headed to the living room.

~*~

“You know,” Sherlock mused. “If more meals were served like this, I suspect I’d eat more, instead of finding it a dull exercise in survival.”

Molly let out a chuckle as she slid a piece of sushi into his mouth, savoring the way his tongue licked and sucked on her fingers.

She was laying flat on the table, absolutely still and absolutely naked. Pieces of sushi, laying on banana leaves, dotted her body and a rosette of pickled ginger was nestled in her navel. Wasabi dotted her nipples, which tingled in a way that was mildly uncomfortable, but also arousing.

Molly had finished cleaning the kitchen and then showered to Sherlock’s satisfaction. Then he told her to lay down on the table. After which, the takeaway containers of sushi started appearing like a conjurer’s trick and she became a buffet for him and given her permission to speak freely.

He leaned over and picked up a succulent piece of tuna off of her torso and handed it to her. She opened her mouth and took the sushi in, licking his fingers. His eyes widened a bit and she could see his breath become a bit irregular.

“If I knew that this is what it took to make you eat, I’d cook naked,” she said.

“Bit messy and terribly unhygienic,” he replied, sipping his sake. “Tip your head up Ms. Hooper.”

She did so and he let her have a sip of tea.

“Deep frying would be hazardous,” Molly grinned. “But if Sir requested it, it would be done.”

There was another bright smile from him and he fed her another piece of sushi. She shivered, the heat of the arousal pooling in her stomach. But it never really left -- the heat, that heightened sense of his presence was always there, whispering darkly in her subconscious.

“May I ask something Sir?” she asked, after swallowing.

He arched an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. “Yes,” he said slowly.

“What happened in Glasgow?” she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Kidnapping,” he said. “I was hired to help find the woman. John came along and it was good thing. We were accosted by some hoodlums and both of us had to dispose of them.”

Molly shivered. She had never seen this side of his work before. She knew it existed -- hell, she dated him and heard about the aftermath at the pool -- but seeing the fresh bruises and scrapes brought a certain gravity to the situation.

It was a reminder that no matter what, he courted danger. Sought it out and needed it -- for whatever reason, she didn’t dare speculate. The man had his addictions and this was one of them.

Oddly enough, it didn’t bother her as much as she thought.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

“We found the woman, still alive, but heavily guarded,” Sherlock said quickly. “John managed to dispatch some with his gun -- don’t tell Lestrade about that, he’ll be very much put out -- while I had to battle some of them.”

Molly blinked. It was clear that he didn’t want to linger on that too long. Obeying his silent wish, she looked down. “You don’t want more Sir?” she said softly as her fingers slid down to grab a piece of eel resting between her breasts. “The unagi is particularly good.”

Sherlock learned forward and took sushi from her fingertips, his hands gently stroking her forearm as his fingers sucked the sauce off of hers. She let out a soft sigh of bliss and shifted her hips slightly, trying to ease the growing heat in her spine.

She noticed an impish gleam in his eyes, just before his lips slid over her nipple, sucking off the wasabi. The arousal began to burn and her fingers wound through his hair and she began moaning his other name as his hands gently pinned her to the table, stilling her.

He pulled back up and kissed her collarbone, before finishing off his sake.

Molly gaped for air. “I can’t believe you ate all that wasabi Sir,” she panted.

“Definitely stimulating,” he replied, kissing her deeply. Molly could taste the wasabi on his tongue and it burned in her mouth. Her tongue licked past it, seeking his flavor, before she began sucking on his lower lip.

In the back of her mind, she hoped he would bring her some relief to the arousal she was feeling. Molly’s entire body was twitching madly and she didn’t know how long she could endure the delicious torture. It seemed like Sherlock was about to alleviate the situation as his hands slid down her body, knocking off the sushi and leaves.

Then his mobile jangled.

Sherlock‘s head shot up and he fumbled for his mobile. Molly sighed. Of course.

She saw him read over the message, his eyes lighting up with interest. He glanced over at her. “Terribly sorry,” he said, as he got a washrag and gently cleaned her. “Lestrade apparently needs my help on a case.”

Molly sat up, suppressing the urge to scream in frustration as she began tidying up the mess. Sherlock left the room, when he returned, he was buttoning up a dress shirt.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asked.

She looked surprised. “Pardon?”

“Come with me,” he said. “Just stand in the background, be unobtrusive and it shouldn’t take long.”

Molly smiled as she approached him, buttoning his shirt and tucking it into his trousers. “Are you sure I won’t lower the IQ of the street?”

“If Anderson’s there, it can’t go any lower,” Sherlock muttered.

Molly began giggling. “Do you want me there Sir?” she looked up at him.

“Yes Ms. Hooper,” he said, “I’ve found an extra pair of eyes to be helpful at times and since John is off with sa petite amie, you’ll have to do.”

Molly nodded.

“Get dressed Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you ready for a game?”

~*~

Molly couldn’t stop shaking, Part of it was arousal -- Sherlock kept whispering dark, filthy scenarios into her ear about what he was going to do to her when they returned to the flat -- and some of it was nerves.

She couldn’t remember the last time she went to a crime scene. Instead, she dealt with the quiet aftermath of processing the body, writing reports and sometimes comforting those coming to claim a family member or loved friend.

But here she was -- at an incredibly odd situation -- with Sherlock. Sergeant Donovan let them in, cocking an eyebrow at Molly, but saying nothing. Shortly thereafter, Lestrade met up with Sherlock and led him further into the situation as Molly chose to stay behind.

It was a special trick her friends said was her superpower -- she could fade into the background and become almost invisible at will. It worked fantastically at parties when she didn’t want to deal with awkward situations. So far the only person invulnerable to it was Sherlock. Damn his brilliance.

“I don’t understand it,” she heard Anderson say to no one in particular. “Why would a bride get married then flee during the reception? Why not call it off beforehand?”

Molly recognized the groom -- a Lord Robert St. Simon -- one of the flashier members of the upper crust who was known for wining and dining several of London’s attractive female celebrities. Rumour had it Sienna Miller had a go with him before running back to Jude Law, but the upper crust, being the upper crust, managed to keep it rather quiet.

The bride was a Henrietta, or Hattie, Doran, an American hotel heiress. Molly remembered seeing pictures of the young woman, on the tabloid covers. It was one of those weddings full of taste, elegance and money at the Ritz. She would have felt out of place, except that there were gobs of members of the Yard there questioning people. They were all dressed about as well as her, so she fit in amongst the law enforcement.

She watched Sherlock question everyone in his brusque manner, taking everything in with his eyes, constantly calculating and analyzing, before demanding to see the bridal suite upstairs. “Ms. Hooper,” he called out. “Come with me please.”

Molly nodded, attempting to ignore the stares now focused on her, and scurried after him.

The ride up in the elevator was silent and she could see he was absorbing information and taking in data. Lestrade was with them, watching the two quietly.

“Where’s John?” he finally asked after a long silence.

“This case is so elementary I decided to be considerate and let him enjoy an evening with his lady friend,” Sherlock said. “I was with Ms. Hooper and she agreed to join me.”

Molly had the sudden wish that the elevator floor would swallow her as Lestrade’s gaze focused on her. Then there was the sympathetic smile. “He was tormenting you at the morgue eh?” Lestrade asked.

“He said a pair of extra eyes never hurt,” she said, perhaps a bit too brightly as relief washed over her. “I was just getting off when you called.”

Lestrade nodded. “Hopefully you can see something -- we‘ve got the press breathing down our necks. The sooner this is resolved, the better.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a quick smirk pass over Sherlock’s face just before the elevator doors opened at what was the bridal suite. It was enormous, shiny and sleek with red rose petals scattered and leaving a trail through the living room towards the bedroom. There was a wet bar, kitchenette and enormous flat screen TV. Two of Molly’s flats could have fit in the living room alone.

Sherlock strode about, examining different objects. On occasion, he dropped to the floor and stared at the carpet.

Lestrade and Molly stared at him. “What happened?” Molly asked.

“Odd one,” Lestrade said. “You know about Lord Robert right?”

Molly nodded. “I’ve seen the tabloid covers of the two.”

“Well, they got married tonight and had the reception here. The bride goes up here complaining of a migraine and says she’ll be down in a bit. She never came down. Lord Robert comes up wondering where his bride is and she‘s vanished.”

“Were they happy?”

“Apparently very so,” Lestrade said, with a bit of cynicism in his tone. “They all say that though.”

Molly nodded. “Anything taken?”

“Nothing of note. It’s like she just vanished.”

Molly nodded again. She wasn’t quite sure what to ask -- this is why she worked in the morgue. It was less messy and complicated than trying to figure out puzzles like this.

Sherlock glanced over at them from the bar, where he was inspecting some glassware. “If you don’t mind,” he said somewhat peevishly, “I need some quiet to think. Lestrade, can you wait elsewhere while we look about?”

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll be waiting in the lift,” he said, turning around and leaving the suite.

Molly began shivering, but not from a draft. He wouldn’t dare defile a crime scene she thought to herself. If Sherlock even attempted that, she knew she’d use the safe word and leave. Probably. Maybe. Definitely maybe.

“Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock’s voice had a silky menace to it. “Can you come with me to the bedroom? I need a woman’s eyes to see if anything odd is missing.”

Molly followed him along the trail of rose petals. Their fragrance filled her nostrils. The bedroom was enormous, with floor to ceiling windows and an amazing view of downtown London.

“What do you want of me Sir?” she asked softly.

“Look around,” he said, his eyes darting about. “Just take in what you see and tell me what you think.”

Molly wandered about the room, opening drawers and looking at the luxurious items. Her fingers ran over La Perla lingerie, designer clothing and other items. She examined the bathroom, with a bathtub that was bigger than her kitchen and clear glass shower doors. One thing bothered her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“What do you think happened?” she started at the sound of his voice.

Spinning around, she glanced at him. “It’s obviously odd,” she said.

He snorted. “Anderson could have figured that one out,” he replied.

She ignored his sarcasm. “No one leaves all of their items behind at a hotel without some reason,” Molly said thoughtfully. “But there’s no signs of struggle.”

“What do your instincts say?” he asked, circling her.

“Was there anything unusual at the reception? Any disruptions?” Molly asked.

“A few odd things,” Sherlock said as he began poking around in the bathroom. “A former friend of Lord Robert’s tried to gain entrance to the reception, but was denied,” he said.

“Would that be Fanny Millar?” Molly asked. “I remember seeing her on Dancing on Ice. She got her start on Big Brother you know -- very famous for her --” she could feel herself colouring a bit as she remembered the reality-star celeb who was known more for her magnificent pair of tits and outsized personality than her brains.

He nodded. “Also, a stranger stumbled into the reception, had a few words with the new Mrs. St. Simon,” he said. “People thought it was some gate-crasher and they escorted him out, but it was clear that he rattled her somehow, because that’s when she complained of the migraine and headed upstairs.

“The detectives are going through the surveillance footage with Lord Robert to see if he can find the man,” Sherlock added.

Molly stared at the sink area, piled with toiletries and other items. Turning around, she headed out of the bedroom and to the wet bar. There was one glass, half-filled with what appeared to be Scotch.

She squatted down and peered at it, studying the glass and then sniffing it and the room. There was something harsh and unpleasant under the floral scent. “I smell something odd,” she said.

“Marijuana?”

Molly shook her head. “That too,” she replied, hazy university memories flickering in her mind, “but something really unpleasant. Whoever smoked it tried to cover up the scent with the rose petals.”

“But you can smell it?”

Molly nodded. “It bothers me,” slowly an image began to form in her head. “Someone drugged her and took her. They probably gave her something laced in a marijuana cigarette.”

“What do you think happened next?” He was now barely touching her and she could feel his breath on her neck.

“She was rattled by something at the reception -- that man I suppose,” she said out loud, her mind humming with different ideas. “So she came up here to get her bearings. Someone she knows either is here or she lets them in. They smoke something and it’s drugged and she’s then taken away. I‘m not sure how though.”

Sherlock checked his mobile. “Interesting theory Ms. Hooper,” he said crisply. “I observed the same things also. In any case, I think I have all the data I need right now and you’ve also given me food for thought. In any case, I think we should be leaving.”

“But the case --” Molly started. There was a woman’s life at stake, she thought. Sex -- despite her bestial urges protesting -- could wait.

“I’ve figured it out, with a bit of help from you,” he said, grinning. “I’ll tease Lestrade with a few facts, and then tie it up in the morning. For now --” he ducked closer so she could feel his hot breath on her ear. “I think my little pet needs to be rewarded for all her efforts today.

“Things might be a bit curtailed, since I will need to hunt down these clues,” he nibbled on her earlobe and she leaned back, biting her lip to suppress the moan brewing in her. “But I suspect that if we prolong this any further, you might go up in flames.”

“Is that an order Sir?” she asked. “I don’t like the idea of not finding her immediately.”

“If it is what I think it is, they’ll be questioning people for hours,” Sherlock murmured. “Everything right now is circumstantial, nothing enough for a trial or conviction. More digging needs to be done. She has to be alive for their plan to work.”

He gently steered her towards the elevator and pressed the button. “It’s the groom,” Sherlock announced. “He’s drugged the bride and dragged her off. Possibly for ransom, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he plans to kill her for her inheritance.”

Lestrade blinked. “What makes you think --”

“Whoever was up here didn’t break into the suite -- there’s no marks of forced entry,” Sherlock began rattling off. “The elevator security system runs on cards and the ride up to the suite took ten seconds -- too short for a passkey hacking system to decode this on the fly. I suspect if you get the hotel key from the groom, you’ll see that the data matches. He kidnapped her or had someone else do the job.”

“All grand, but highly circumstantial,” Lestrade interrupted.

“If the data matches like I predict, it will not be circumstantial,” Sherlock interjected. “In any case, this is child’s play.”

“But the drugging?”

“The entire room reeks of marijuana and something else under the cloying roses,” Sherlock said as the doors opened. He stalked out of the elevator, with Lestrade and Molly following. “I have some things I need to tie up, but I suspect we’ll be able to find the bride by morning, at the latest. Come along Ms. Hooper -- we have a lead to follow.”

Molly glanced over at Lestrade and offered an apologetic smile as she hurried after Sherlock. They walked down to the corner, where Sherlock spoke with a homeless person asking for change. Molly watched in fascination as the two nodded, Sherlock wrote something down in a pad, handed it to him and then hailed a cab, opening the door for her, while barking out her flat’s address.

“It’s closer to here,” he whispered in her ear, and Molly shivered in anticipation. It was like her skin was oversensitive. He wasn’t even touching her and she could sense his presence, smell his cologne and it was getting overwhelming. If he didn’t do something soon, she was probably going to commit a felony against his person in the cab. Hopefully he wouldn’t press charges.

“Are you on fire?” he whispered low, so low that only she heard.

She nodded, swallowing.

“I know you want me,” he said slowly, steadily. “I know you like it when I touch you.”

Molly felt the smoldering arousal flare up yet again. This was him, pushing her limits and seeing what he could get away with and how much control she had. It was an experiment for him -- Let’s see how long I can push Molly before her knickers start on fire.

“I can practically smell you,” he continued to say, low and conversational. “You smell like sex and desire. You’ve always smelled like that to me -- even at work, surrounded by chemicals and the sterile lab environment. I know it’s because you’ve wanted me to fuck you ever since you met me.

“Can you imagine my cock in you?” he asked. “Maybe I’ll just take your mouth and leave you wanting, just to see how long you can tolerate this. After all, you’ve tolerated it for months. And you know why you tolerate it?”

Molly stared straight ahead, willing herself to not quaver when she answered, “Because I’m yours.”

And there, her heart clenched. She knew it was only play, that it was the line you say in this game, but there was weight to those words that frightened her. She glanced over at him. His expression was carefully neutral and blank. Thankfully she couldn’t read anything -- scorn, embarrassment, affection or indifference.

“That’s right,” he said, settling back into the seat. “You are mine. And I will take what I want of you.”

The rest of the ride was silent and much too long for her taste.

When they arrived at the flat, Sherlock tossed a few notes at the driver as Molly sprang out of the cab. The march up to her flat was silent, with her leading the way. She could feel his eyes on her body and she continued to control herself. She was so close to her reward that she didn’t want it to blow up in her face.

Once they were in her flat, he removed his coat and handed it to her. She put it away and then stood in the middle of the room, her hands at her sides, gaze down.

“Lovely Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock said, stalking up to her. He tipped her head up and kissed her. Instantly she was gone, whimpering and moaning as he nipped at her lips. The urge to press up against him was overwhelmingly strong.

He pulled away. “Undress please,” he said.

Molly quickly removed her clothes and resumed her original position.

“Bedroom,” he said. “You will get out two silk scarves and kneel on the bed, face down.”

Molly skipped into the bedroom, pulled out two white scarves and lay them on the nightstand. Then she got on the bed, kneeling down so her forehead touched the mattress. Her body thrummed in anticipation and she could feel herself getting wetter as she waited for Sherlock. She twitched her hips slightly, then wiggled her nose as it began to itch.

Soon she heard him enter the room.

“Very nice,” he purred, as a hand ran from her bottom up along her spine to her shoulders. “I approve of this greatly.”

Molly let out a soft sigh and wiggled her bottom.

“So eager,” he said. “You’ve been dying for this haven’t you?”

“Yes Sir,” she said.

“Very well,” he replied. “Arms out please.”

Molly extended her arms. Sherlock bound one wrist and secured it to the headboard before doing the same to the other arm.

“Comfortable?”

“Very,” Molly said.

“Good,” he replied, and the mattress dipped slightly as he got on. “You will tell me the minute you are uncomfortable, right?”

“Yes Sir,” she said.

She felt his hand around her hips and then a perverse thought flickered in her brain. Very deliberately, she closed her legs. If Sherlock could conduct experiments on her, she could do the same to him, Molly thought.

There was a long pause. To make her message absolutely clear, Molly waggled her bottom at Sherlock.

“Are you denying me what I want woman?” his voice was a growl.

“Yes,” Molly said, hoping is understood her. She hadn’t said the safe word yet. But just to emphasize her point she looked back at him and licked her lips.

With that, Sherlock snarled, “Where is the spreader bar Ms. Hooper?”

“Under the bed,” Molly replied, her body becoming hot. “You wouldn’t dare use it.”

“I will take what I want Ms. Hooper,” he said, getting off the bed and rummaging around a bit. She heard him pull it out from under the bed. The mattress dipped again and she felt Sherlock’s hands take her ankle firmly. She pretended to resist, but in the end both legs were cuffed to the bar.

Sherlock ran a hand down her flanks and chuckled. “You can’t deny you’ve been wanting this Ms. Hooper. I’ve been seeing the way you look at me today.” One hand dipped between her legs. “And you are clearly aroused.”

Coherent thought broke down and Molly let out a low moan as she felt him rub his cock up against her.

“Yes,” she groaned.

“I could just leave you here,” Sherlock mused. “Leave you begging and needy.”

“You wouldn’t,” she whined, attempting to rub her bottom against him.

“Say you want me,” he said.

“I want you,” she groaned. If the teasing kept up, she was certain she would make him pay later. If she had to, she’d strip him, fig him and force him to clean every flat in her building in retaliation.

“Beg for it,” he sounded amused as one hand slid around to toy with a nipple.

“Please Sir,” she moaned. “I need your cock in me now. I’ve been dying for this all day and I’ve been so good. Please --”

“You can come now,” he growled, before he thrust into her.

Molly nearly hit her head on the headboard from the force of his movements. He was fucking her hard, one hand toying with her clit. With all the pent of frustration, it was no surprise that her orgasm hit harder and faster than she anticipated. Molly screeched “Please,” over and over, her forehead grinding into the mattress as she fell over the edge, screaming incoherently.

His fingers dug into her as his pace quickened and she rode it out, thrashing and screaming the entire time as the only thing she felt was him and the orgasm. Her arms began to burn from pulling on the restraints and her body arched in rhythm to him. Coherent thought shut down as she slammed her hips back into him, writhing and moaning. She suspected she began speaking in tongues, but at that point, it didn’t matter much.

Faintly, distantly, she felt his fingers dig into her hips as came, groaning her play name. Molly’s body slumped forward and her mind was lost, floating somewhere else.

Soon she was freed from the spreader bar and then she felt him untie the scarves.

“Ms. Hooper?” Sherlock’s voice pierced through the fog.

She whimpered in reply.

He lay next to her, pulling the duvet over them. Long lanky limbs circled her and she felt his body press up against her. His lips sprinkled kisses along her ear and down her neck.

“Good?” he asked, pinching her skin.

Gradually her power of speech returned. “Yes,” she said. “That was amazing.”

“Subspace,” Sherlock’s voice was a low chuckle. “It’s a nice place to be sometimes. Very mind clearing.”

“The endorphins and the rush -- I can see why you enjoy this,” she said, yawning.

“Indeed,” he replied.

“Have I been able to do that to you?” she asked, her mind slipping and sliding around -- keeping focus on things was becoming difficult. Not to mention, she felt utterly boneless and blissful.

“Yes Ms. Hooper,” he said, rubbing her skin with his hands.

She giggled, then yawned. “I know you have to go Sir,” she said softly. “But may I may a request?”

“What is it Ms. Hooper?”

“Stay with me until I fall asleep?”

Another low chuckle. “You’ve been in subspace my dear,” Sherlock said, nestling closer. “What kind of master would I be to abandon you right now? You’re aboslutely helpless, like a newborn kitten.”

Molly chuckled, tilting her head slightly for a kiss before sleep overcame her.

~*~

The morning news was filled with the arrest of Lord Robert and the salacious accusations that he drugged his new bride. Apparently there was a kidnapping plot as well as allegations that he planned to murder her to receive her inheritance, since upon marriage he became the heir to her fortune.

Hattie Doran had been found in a slummy flat. News reports said other than being drugged, she was safe and currently recovering in a hospital.

Molly watched it all with a bit of interest, spotting Sherlock’s fingerprints all over the case, even though his name was never mentioned. Instead, Inspector Lestrade was credited for cracking the case quickly and without harm coming to Miss Doran.

She then remembered how she felt after Sherlock took credit for her noticing the nail polish, then wondered if he sometimes wanted more recognition for the deeds he did. Why didn’t he take credit for his obvious genius?

Sipping her coffee, Molly scratched behind Toby’s ears. She woke up alone, but feeling absolutely relaxed and sated. A Saturday filled with good sex, coffee and a lazy Sunday morning, with a brunch later with the girls -- what could be better?

Then her mobile rang. In the back of her mind, she knew who it was, but Molly was in the midst of getting ready to leave. Not to mention, she was running late, so she decided to ignore his messages as she headed out the door.

It couldn’t have been Sherlock, she rationalized. He just finished a case and probably was sleeping or trying to discover what was used to drug Hattie, Molly thought.

Any thought of texts were gone as she headed into the tube to get to the restaurant for brunch. By then, Molly did worry a bit about whether or not Sherlock had texted her, but the thoughts quickly fled her mind.

He wouldn’t, she reasoned. He got what he needed from her -- a distraction, good sex and a crime to solve. It was a trifecta for him. It was too soon for him to be texting her.

Ladybrunch, as the girls called it, was a monthly gathering of Molly, Sophie, Katie, Megan and Gen. The women had been friends for more than a decade now, meeting in university and never losing track of each other. It was a great way to catch up on each others’ lives -- from who they were dating to the random rant about work.

Bunch had been ordered and the girls were settling into their business of catching up on gossip when she suddenly heard a voice behind her.

“Hullo Molly.”

Molly closed her eyes and half-smiled as she swore. The four girls began laughing hysterically as her eyes opened and a bright smile slipped over her face. Turning around she saw Sherlock, looking as if it was perfectly natural for them to be at the same place for brunch. John was behind him with an expression of embarrassed sympathy on his face.

“Sherlock,” she said. “Fancy meeting you and John here.”

“So,” Megan said between giggles. “Introduce us to them!”

Molly sighed. She didn’t want this to happen simply because she wasn’t ready to share this part of her life with the rest of the world. Having John know that she and Sherlock were seeing each other was odd enough because it wasn‘t a real relationship in her mind, but her friends was a different sphere. It was her world and for some insane reason, he insisted on crossing over into it.

But manners are manners, she thought, as introductions were made and room was made at the table for the two men, with Sherlock sitting next to her. She also made note to voice her displeasure and to discipline him later.

“Friends of yours?” Gen asked.

Molly nodded. “Sherlock I’ve told you about --” she started. The four other women’s eyes met and a flurry of giggles swept the table. “John’s his flatmate.”

Sherlock’s smile was perfectly polite. “I suppose a bit of notoriety is to be expected.”

Katie’s eyes were bright and merry. “Oh, we’ve heard a lot about you,” she said grinning. “What brings you out today?”

“I was seeking Molly,” Sherlock’s tone was pleasantly civil. “I tried texting her earlier, but sadly she wasn’t available.”

Molly shook her head. Yes. There would be discipline later. “As you can see Sherlock,” she said politely, “I’m not at the office right now. If you need a body, please contact Marjorie Brennan. She’s the attendant on duty right now,” she took a sip of her mimosa, trying not to blush under his gaze.

John nodded. “I told you,” he said to Sherlock, before leaning forward to look at Molly. “My apologies. When I got back this morning, he was very adamant about finding you.”

Molly shrugged. “I’m not even going to ask how he knew where I would be brunching,” she said calmly. “I know you. If you want something badly enough, you’ll find a way to get it.”

“But I’m interested,” Gen said, a bright grin across her face. Her eyes practically sparkled behind her glasses. “How did you find out?”

Molly inwardly winced, hoping and praying that Sherlock wouldn’t say something creepy like “I hacked into her mobile and read her message,” or “Followed her to here because I was bored.”

“E-mail,” Sherlock said flatly.

Everyone’s eyes at the table widened. John let out a bit of an embarrassed laugh. Molly vowed to kill him later. Slowly. With lots of ginger root.

“I must have mentioned it in an e-mail,” she said, her hand sliding down to squeeze his leg in a death grip. Part of her wasn’t even sure why she bothered to protect him.

He instantly understood the squeeze. “Oh yes,” he said. “You told me if I wanted something Brennan was in charge this weekend. You mentioned something about brunch, ‘Heading to Smiths of Smithfield. Been dying for a an omelette. Ta!’” Sherlock’s voice rose an octave and sounded disturbingly perky at the “Ta!”

John’s eyes widened as he stared at his friend and Molly barked out a strangled laugh.

“Well as you can see Sherlock, I’m off duty,” Molly placed special emphasis on the last part of her sentence, hoping he’d get the hint. She wasn’t into the mood to play games right now.

“Actually, I have something else to ask you about,” Sherlock said, turning to focus his gaze on her. “Are you free in two weeks Ms. Hooper? The London Symphony is performing Rimsky-Korsakov’s ‘Scheherazade’ and I was wondering if you would accompany me.”

Molly felt her skin warm with the use of her pet name. Ignoring the chorus of coos from her friends, she replied, “Let me check my schedule, but I think I’m free,” she said. He obviously was warming to the idea of domination, given how eager he was to do a scenario again.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said smoothly, before standing. “Ladies, John and I must be going.”

John’s face contorted into an expression of relief.

“You sure you won’t stay?” Gen asked, a merry smile on her face. “The oysters here are fantastic.”

Sherlock’s smile was practically charming. “No, we’ve got an appointment,” he said. “But thank you for the offer.”

The two men turned and walked briskly out of the crowded restaurant, Sherlock’s coat flowing behind him like a cape.

“Well,” Gen said with a slight smirk, her eyes flashing under her glasses. “No wonder you fancy him so much. He’s quite the looker. Now, come on, tell the class all about him.”

Molly began laughing. “Not much to tell,” she admitted, sipping her drink. “We’ve got an --” words failed her for a moment. “An arrangement.”

The women hooted. “Any good?” Megan asked.

Molly blushed. That was enough for the friends to know exactly what was going on.

There was more hooting.

“I wish I had an arrangement like that,” Katie said. “You think he’s willing --”

“No,” Molly quickly said, much to the laughter of her friends.

~*~

Brunch hadn’t been so bad after Sherlock’s visit, Molly mused as she strolled down Baker Street. Despite his intrusion, the focus of the conversation shifted to other topics, which relieved her.

In the back of her mind she was worried that he would do something completely asinine like made grand deductions of her friends, stripping them of their secrets and talking down to them as if they were schoolchildren.

However, she was furious about Sherlock hacking into her e-mail account. And planned to tell him that.

Ringing the doorbell, Mrs. Hudson let her in with a merry smile. “Here for Sherlock? You must be the girl John was telling me about,” she said brightly. “He’s upstairs, working on some experiment. Said he didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Molly smiled sweetly. “It’s rather urgent,” she said. “I think he’ll forgive me for disturbing him.”

Mrs. Hudson grinned. “Just keep it down a bit dear,” she said with a smile. “I’m watching Downtown Abbey right now and don’t want to be disturbed. And I don‘t think John would appreciate coming back from market to find some hanky-panky going on.”

Molly nodded. “I’ll try,” she said, before marching up the stairs.

Sherlock was indeed in the kitchen, hunched over a microscope, staring at a slide. Molly slammed the flat door, causing him to look up.

“Hullo Molly,” he said.

“How dare you crack my e-mail,” she snapped, storming over to him. “That is private.”

He turned to face her. “We’ve seen each other naked and done some of the most intimate acts possible and you’re upset about me reading your e-mail?”

Molly closed her eyes and snorted. Trust him to try and turn logic against her. “That is private,” she said. “It goes to me. Not you. And if I want to share e-mails to you, I will send them to you. Those are my thoughts and my correspondence. It is none of your business.”

Sherlock snorted. “Privacy is merely an illusion,” he replied, staring at her. “Do you realize how quickly the government could access your correspondence? So why would you care if I read it?”

Molly sighed. “Because it’s you. I know you. And I know the government could access my things if they wanted to -- I know my face shows up on cameras thousands of times a day -- but there’s something different when it’s someone you know.”

“Why is that?”

Molly wasn’t quite sure how to articulate the next part, but she tried. “Because I allow you access to my body does not mean that you have access to everything about me. I am not something you can dissect, shove under a microscope and then toss in the bin, once you’ve gotten everything you want from me.”

There was a long silence as Sherlock absorbed her words. Molly wasn’t sure if he was going to end things right then and there, but she didn’t care.

He reached over to a pad of paper and a pen. After writing, he handed the paper to her. Molly stared at it -- it was filled with a jumble of letters, numbers and punctuation marks.

“Passwords to my e-mail, websites and banking accounts,” Sherlock said crispy. “You have a point. I would never ask of you something I wasn’t willing to do myself.”

“I don’t understand --” she said.

“You now have access to everything in my life,” he said, returning to the microscope. “If you want to spy on my e-mail, I wouldn’t object.”

It was the weirdest and sweetest thing that anyone had ever done for her. Totally not the point she was trying to make, but she could sense that he was trying to understand where she was coming from.

“Sherlock,” she said, touching his arm.

He turned to face her.

Molly leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t the hungry clamouring of teeth and tongues during their couplings. This was sweeter. She could feel his body still as her arms circled his waist. His arms slid around her body. There was a soft moan from him and her tongue slowly slid into his mouth, tasting coffee and something that was distinctively him. His grip on her tightened as his tongue entered her mouth, sliding and slipping around her teeth.

After a moment, Molly pulled away.

“What was that for?” he asked, confusion tingeing his voice.

“Thank you for your trust,” Molly said. Leaning over, she lit a Bunsen burner. “But I can’t accept this.” She lit the paper on fire, then dropped it on a metal tray. “It’s something I would never ask of you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I won’t do that again.”

Molly smiled. “Good.”

“So what were you going to do for the rest of your day?”

Molly shrugged. “I was considering going to see the Bodyworks exhibit at O2,” she said. “But it’s not as much fun going alone and the afternoon is getting late.”

“Your friends weren’t going with you?”

Molly shook her head. “Not their cuppa tea. We tried once and Sophie refused to eat meat for three months afterwards.”

Sherlock chuckled. “She saw the morbidly obese person slides?”

Molly nodded, giggling. “I had no problem with meat, but those slides put me off of pancetta for awhile,” she glanced over at the table, which was a makeshift lab. “What are you doing?”

“Running an experiment,” he replied, “I have some theories on blood plasma I wanted to test.”

“Do you want an assistant?” she asked.

He nodded, pulling a chair over next to him. “If you’d like.”

They worked together quietly in tandem until evening approached, when Molly realized she had to return home. Sherlock thanked her for her time.

“Why did you kiss me?” he asked as he walked her downstairs.

She was surprised that he didn‘t figure that one out immediately. “What did the other ones do?”

“Told me to piss off and never call them again,” he said, looking very confused. “Why didn’t you?”

Molly shook her head. He had a lot to learn, she realized. “You’re the genius,“ she said. “You’ll have to figure out,” she said, before leaving Baker Street.

“Not even a clue?” he called after her.

“Goodnight Sherlock.”

~*~

Pup -- You will need some discipline Molly texted Sherlock on Wednesday.

Whatever for Miss?

Breaking into my e-mail, interrupting my time with my friends with your demands.

I thought that was settled earlier.

Now he was bantering, Molly thought with a grin. Yes, but you still need your discipline. You said you wouldn’t do it, but you still need to suffer the consequences

When and where Miss?

Saturday, come to my flat. I want to see you in trainers, t-shirt, boxers and baggy cargo pants.

She knew he’d hate the clothing. He favoured well-tailored clothing that fit his body well. The rest of the plan was likely to drive him mad. Molly grinned evilly. It was going to be fantastic.

The rest of the week passed smoothly at work and home. Sherlock would show up at the morgue, demand to see a body and putter around the lab, creating minor explosions in Petri dishes, abusing their equipment and in general being underfoot.

Molly had the sense that he wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but just wanted company. It also helped that he usually brought her coffee.

When Norris wasn’t around staring in terror at Sherlock’s experiments, the detective would sidle up to Molly and attempt to get a clue about what she had planned for the weekend.

“Camping,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “It’s been too wet.”

“Don’t tell me you like to camp,” he replied, shuddering slightly. He was leaning against her desk, watching her do paperwork.

“It can be great fun,” Molly said as she scanned a report. “You get enough alcohol and fire and anything’s enjoyable.”

Sherlock chuckled. “No thank you,” he said. “I prefer London.”

“Besides,” Molly said, pitching her voice low and continuing as if she didn’t hear him. “Outdoor sex can be very fun. Just avoid the poison ivy and poison oak.”

She was pleased to see him colour slightly. “Oh,” he said, before Norris returned to the lab. Sherlock soon left, muttering about Lestrade and a case.

Shortly thereafter her mobile buzzed.

You are full of secrets. When did you have sex while camping?

If it was a friend or a past boyfriend, Molly would have answered truthfully immediately. But this was Sherlock. It wouldn’t be fun unless it was a game.

If you behave on Saturday, I‘ll tell you the story.

Saturday couldn’t have arrived soon enough. Sherlock was on time and dressed according to her specifications. He was wearing a dark blue t-shirt, baggy beige cargo pants and a pair of black Converse trainers. He still wore his long black coat, which hid the entire outfit.

Molly was also casually dressed in a red sweater that accentuated her best assets and a pair of tight jeans. She didn’t want to outdress him for their encounter and look mismatched.

It was hilarious. Even though he tried to hide it, his expression reminded Molly of a picture she saw of a cat forced to dress like Edward Cullen from the Twilight series. She always suspected that after the picture was taken, the cat killed everyone in that room.

“Tell me what you think about the outfit Pup,” she said, after she strolled around him, inspecting him from head to toe. “You may speak freely -- for now.”

He sighed. “I feel messy,” he said. “The pants, while I can see the pockets being useful, feel like they’re about to fall off and the shirt is cold in this weather. It’s soft, but I feel like I’m wearing my pyjamas out in public.”

Molly grinned. “How about the trainers?”

“Those could be useful Miss,” he said thoughtfully. “They do feel more comfortable than the dress shoes.”

Molly moved closer and leaned close. “Now Pup, how about the boxers?”

He shuddered. “Hideous,” he replied. “I feel a bit,” he quieted, trying to find the right words, “loose.”

“Oh Pup,” Molly cooed. “I should have made you go commando.”

“Commando Miss?” He breathed.

“No underwear,” she leaned forward and licked his ear. “I could have so much fun with that. You’d like that wouldn’t you Pup?”

He nodded, shivering slightly.

“You’d like for me to get you out of these clothes wouldn’t you?”

“Yes Miss,” he said.

“You’re not,” she said, pulling back. “We’re going out. Once outside you will be a perfect gentleman. That means no smarting off, being polite to everyone and not saying anything negative. If you can’t say anything nice Pup, don’t say anything at all.”

Molly leaned closer and stood on her tiptoes, so their lips were barely touching. “If you do that, you will be properly rewarded,” she said.

He nodded, a slight smile passing over his face. She knew he’d look forward to the challenge. “Yes Miss,” he said.

Really, the scenario was easier to plan than she thought it would be. Her list of Sherlock’s dislikes could have filled up the phone book easily. And she used that to her advantage.

They were standing in front of the cinema. “Now Pup,” Molly said softly. “Get us two tickets to --” her finger pointed to the biggest, dumbest action movie she could find. It was something starring an American comedian in the usual superhero-vigilante comic book story. Molly didn‘t doubt for a second that he‘d be a frothing mess after that matinee. “That.”

She was impressed. Sherlock nodded and said, “Yes Miss,” as they queued in line.

Tickets obtained, a small bucket of popcorn and two sodas later, they were in the back row of the crowded theatre waiting for the film.

Molly picked out a piece of popcorn and held it up to his lips. “Eat Pup,” she said softly. “Haven’t you ever been to a film before?”

He took the piece of popcorn from her fingers gently with his mouth, then shook his head. “Only as a child,” he said. “It wasn’t something that interested me.”

Molly nodded. She could sense he wanted to say something more, perhaps go off on a rant, but he restrained himself. He really was attempting to be a good boy, she thought, as the previews started.

The previews were for more loud, dumb action movies and comedies in which slovenly men somehow managed to have successful, if slightly screechy, women fall in love with them. There were copious jokes about marijuana and drinking. None of the movies looked good to her. Not even if she watched them sloshed with her friends.

She glanced over at Sherlock. His expression was carefully neutral as he took in everything. Molly picked up another piece of popcorn and held it up to his lips. His mouth opened and she popped the kernel in, which he began to munch quietly.

“Excellent,” she whispered into his ear. “You’re doing wonderfully.”

The movie was as horrendous as she thought it would be. It was low on logic, continuity and plot. However, it was chock full of physical laws being broken, loud explosions, unfunny jokes and cleavage.

On occasion Molly would glance over at Sherlock, handing him a morsel of popcorn on occasion. She could tell he was taking everything in -- brows were knitted together in concentration and she could tell he was chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep from exploding with rage over the movie.

Her hand slid down to squeeze his thigh as she leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder. She could hear his breathing quicken slightly, almost imperceptibly.

If she closed her eyes and didn’t think about it, it seemed like a real date.

After one hundred and eight minutes, the movie finally ended and the credits rolled.

“What now Miss?” she heard Sherlock rumble.

Molly’s head lifted off his shoulder and she glanced up at him. “I’m hungry, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” he said. “I just had ten pieces of popcorn.”

Molly chuckled. “You will eat Pup,” she said softly. “Nothing fancy -- just some fish and chips. Perhaps a pint or two?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes Miss,” he said softly.

They ended up at a grotty little fish and chip shop Molly knew about that wasn’t high on atmosphere, but the chips and fish were absolutely perfect. They stood at the window, watching people wander past, during which, Molly bubbled on about the movie.

“I thought it was extraordinarily clever that they made the car a front wheel drive instead of rear wheel,” she said brightly. “And the explosion that blew a bulldozer that far and they survived? Amazing!

“I just love these sort of movies,” she babbled, “They’re just so much fun to see. Completely, utterly, mindless fun.”

Sherlock’s smile widened a bit, but Molly realized it was a false one, because it didn’t go to his eyes. He popped a chip in his mouth and chewed vigorously.

“You would like to ask a question?” she asked.

He nodded, taking a microscopic nibble of fish. “You promised me you’d tell me about outdoor sex,” he said. “I want to know how you know.”

Molly took a sip of her pint and watched as a family wandered past, the little girl lagging behind as her parents walked ahead lost in conversation.

“They’re expecting another child,” Sherlock said. “Total surprise.”

“You read their lips,” she said. “Her hands were also straying to her abdomen.”

He nodded. “That and the way he’s hovering over her. He’s feeling very protective of her. I wonder if it was a difficult pregnancy, hence his behaviour.”

Molly didn’t say what was in her mind, which was the usual cooing praise Sherlock often heard. That wasn’t what the dominant did.

“Amuse me,” she said, looking at him over her glass. “Tell me how you think I would know this?”

Sherlock studied her quietly for a few minutes. It felt like he was actually looking at her, studying her -- not just seeing her as an obstacle he had to charm his way through to gain access to what he needed.

“In the past, I would have assumed that you found out about this from one of your friends,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. “Given your dress and demeanour at work, I never thought of you as a sexual being.”

Molly snorted. “It’s work Pup,” she retorted. “That would be called harassment.”

He nodded. “Ex-boyfriend,” he said finally, brows knitting together. “I suspect it was in university. Perhaps a celebration of some type? Had to be at one of the forests -- a common family campsite wouldn’t offer the right amount of seclusion. The poison oak and poison ivy is just common sense.”

Molly took a bite of fish and watched as a group of people wandered past the window. Then she glanced over at him. “Correct,” she said. “It was after exams my fourth year, I had a boyfriend who was a business major. We went camping to celebrate and one day, while hiking --” she felt her face flush at the memory of the hurried coupling in a small clearing. He wasn’t the best boyfriend, Molly recalled, but that was a great deal of fun.

Sherlock’s grin was wolflike as he savoured his win and the fact that he made her blush. “Really,” he said. “You do surprise me Miss.”

“As I said before, you weren’t looking then.”

“And now?”

Molly smiled and took his hand. “Now I’m ready for you to look,” she sipped her pint. “My turn. Did you ever graduate from University? I always pictured you were a genius who graduated at fifteen.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I tried Cambridge and Oxford,” he said. “But it didn’t go so well. Professors don’t like being told they’re wrong.”

“So you never finished?”

He coloured slightly. “No,” he admitted, then pulled his hand away from her.

Molly blinked. Curiousier and curiousier. She turned to face the street again.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, more to herself than anyone else. “I always heard that the geniuses who did the greatest things never finished university -- I mean, Einstein, Bill Gates, the kid who developed Facebook, Lady Gaga -- they never really did a higher education, but they did all right.”

Molly glanced over at him. Sherlock was also staring out the window, but she could tell he was listening to her. He always was attuned to everything. “Besides, the requisite courses are rubbish,” she said. “It’s like they break down your mind so they can just form it the way they want it.”

There was a long silence.

“Technically Einstein did finish his degree in 1900,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “He just withdrew from the Luitpold Gymnasium because he didn’t like their teaching methods.”

A laugh escaped her. “How is it that you don’t know the earth goes around the sun, yet you know Einstein?“

“I don’t know,” he huffed. “Ever since the incident at the pool, my mind’s been filling up with odd random items. Like nail polish colours,” he shot a sidelong glance at her. “I just remember that about Einstein.”

Molly shrugged. “It makes sense though. You both can‘t stand authority,” she replied, ignoring the small grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “We need to get going,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“I have one last thing planned before home,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”

The look on his face was cautious trepidation. “If you say so Miss.”

~*~

Molly led him down to Piccadilly Circus, making their way past the tourists, street vendors and ilk. She continued to rave about the movie, while Sherlock politely nodded and remained diplomatic.

They stopped in front of Ripley’s Believe it or Not. For a moment, Sherlock’s mask faded and he shuddered.

“You have an objection Pup?” Molly asked sweetly.

He shook his head. “No Miss.”

“Good,” she said, leading him inside. They skipped most of the exhibits, Molly leading him to the mirror maze. She could sense his mind spinning various ideas.

“Have you ever played hide and seek?” she whispered in his ear.

He nodded. “Not since I was a child.”

“Then you know how to do this,” Molly said, with a grin. “Here’s the game -- I will go in first. You will wait a minute. Then come and try to find me in there. If you do, then I’ll reward you at home. Do you understand?”

He nodded, eyes bright and a smile playing on his lips.

Molly kissed the corner of his mouth. “Good luck Pup,” she said, before disappearing into the crowd. Almost instantly she got lost, which was easy to do, given that every single wall in the maze was covered with mirrors. Molly at times found herself bumping into a wall when she thought it was an open passage.

She felt herself getting aroused by the prospect of him catching her. She wondered what he was thinking, which senses he was using to find her. On occasion she’d spy him in the a reflection, before she went darting another direction. Once their eyes locked via a mirror and he grinned, nearly striding into a mirror.

Molly suppressed a giggle at his confused expression before darting into the crowd.

It was fun, she realized. She enjoyed being pursued by him and she swore she could smell him in the air, hear his breathing and sense his presence.

One wrong turn, and she found herself pinned in a dead end. An infinite number of Mollys saw an infinite number of Sherlocks stride towards her. Towering over her, he smiled.

“I win,” he said.

Molly wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him deeply, not caring about the noises of the tourists around her. If she could have wrangled it after hours, she would have done unspeakable, filthy acts on his person in the maze. A dark thought of her, bent over, her hands bracing the mirror as he fucked her roughly flashed in her mind and she let out a low groan, her hands skimming down to brush against his ass.

She could feel his erection pressing up against her as his hands tangled in her hair. Molly pulled away.

“Let’s go home,” she said softly, running her fingers along his cheek. “You need to get your reward.”

Once home, Molly pressed her body up against Sherlock, her lips nipping and biting his. He remained stock still as she nibbled and nipped his skin.

She could have taken him on the floor of her living room, she thought. But no, she had something planned and needed to control herself to execute it. She pulled away from him, taking a deep breath.

“You are utterly intoxicating,” she said.

“Thank you Miss,” he said.

“Undress,” she ordered, “and wait for me in the bedroom.”

A bright smile spread across his face as he went off to the bedroom.

She went to the bathroom, removed her clothing, put on a short silk robe, before stealthily moving to the bedroom. He was naked, per her instructions, but instead of his submissive stance, he was staring at the row of clothespins tied together with twine and the silk scarves.

No doubt he noticed the hooks she put in her ceiling -- ostensibly to hang some Chinese lanterns as décor, but could also be used for other things. In this case, the twine ran through the hook and was attached to a paperweight.

“Pup,” she said, pitching her voice low for some menace. “What are you doing?”

His head dropped to look at the floor.

“You were speculating on what I had planned for you didn’t you?”

He nodded.

“Lie down on the bed -- arms out please,” she ordered.

Sherlock complied and she tied his arms to the headboard. For a moment, Molly wished there was a way to tie his legs to the bed so he would remain spread-eagle for her. Straddling him, she attached a clothespin to a nipple. He let out a deep breath, hissing slightly.

“How do you feel?” she asked, before ducking her head down for a kiss.

“It pinches, but not too bad,” he said, after she pulled away.

Molly grinned. “We’ll see how it goes,” she said.

She attached the other clothespin to the other nipple, then placed the remaining four about his body. Each time they were secured, Sherlock let out a deep breath. His erection flagged slightly with each attachment, but he never said the safe word.

Molly placed the paperweight -- a small bronze cat -- in Sherlock’s hand. She moved off his body and studied him. “You look fantastic Pup,” she purred, her hand sliding down to stroke his cock. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” he said, extending out the “o” sound.

“Now Pup,” Molly said. “Your goal is to hang onto the weight as long as possible -- you know what will happen when you drop the string?”

“The clothespins will come off of me,” he replied.

“Now,” Molly continued. “I think you’d like to keep the clothespins on.” She bent forward, her tongue swirling and dipping in his navel. She felt his muscles tense under her and she began to nip along his skin. “But you know I’m going to make that difficult for you right?”

“Yes Miss,” he groaned, hips twisting.

Molly chuckled darkly, before she moved off the bed. While it would be tempting to simply begin with sexual acts, she knew he was expecting it. Instead, she moved off the bed.

“I will be right back,” she said. “If you have any discomfort, call for me.”

Sherlock nodded.

Molly headed into the kitchen and gathered ice and a few other things before strolling back into the bedroom. Sherlock’s eyes were bright with curiosity and his breathing was relaxed.

She picked up the riding crop from under the bed and gently dragged it over his skin. “Now,” she said, tapping his thighs lightly. “What will I do with you? You’re all stretched out and lovely looking.” Molly lightly flicked at his thighs with the crop, enjoying the soft gasp.

“Whatever you desire Miss,” he said.

“Correct,” she said, grinning. Reaching into the container she pulled out an ice cube and held it in her hand. Cold drops of water hit his skin and she watched as his skin reflexively jumped.

Falling to her more base instincts, she put her mouth down on the trail of water, lapping it up.

“How does it feel Pup?” she asked.

“Cold, then hot,” he gasped. “Your mouth is like fire.”

She laughed, a low, dirty laugh, before getting another ice cube. She could see his cock hard and already wet. It was too tempting to cave and take him in her mouth right now, but she tamped down that desire.

Instead, she took the ice cube and gently rubbed it across his lips. Sherlock’s tongue darted out to lick at the ice cube and he sucked at her fingers, causing a small moan to emit from her. The ice then skated down the tendons of his neck and water pooled in his collarbone, where Molly lapped it like a cat.

He was losing control, judging by the way his hips twisted and jerked and the way he began to whisper her play name. Once the ice cube was gone, Molly sat back and stared at him.

“I wonder,” she said idly, her fingertips skimming his torso. “Are you ticklish?” Her grin grew. “No -- don’t tell me Pup. I’d rather discover for myself.”

She began to assault him mercilessly, fingertips dancing along his torso. He didn’t emit a laugh, but a low groan escaped him.

Molly moved lower going for the base of his feet, which jerked and she was rewarded with a giggle.

“I like your laugh,” Molly said, moving to tickle behind his knees, which elicited another chuckle. “I like knowing that you do have happy moments and aren’t such a grump.”

The laughter stopped as Molly skimmed her fingernails down his torso. Instead, a ragged moan came from him and his body twisted. She began to pinch his skin, before using her mouth to nip at his skin. She was sure that she’d leave marks, which inflamed her senses.

“Miss,” he groaned,

“What Pup?”

“Please,” he twisted his hips and licked his lips.

Molly sat back. “Why would I want my toy to have that yet?” she asked, her hand reaching into the container for some ice. “Why should I let you finish?”

“Because I’ve been wanting this all day,” he begged. “Ever since I saw you in that sweater and those jeans. You looked amazing.”

“I never thought you’d describe me as that,” she said.

“You are,” he said softly. “Utterly amazing.”

Molly said nothing, but slipped her cold hands down between his legs. She knew she was blushing at his words and part of her wanted to stop everything and begin interrogating him on that statement, but she knew now wasn’t the time. Instead, she watched with interest (and a bit of lust) as his cock jumped at her touch.

Popping an ice cube into her mouth, she grinned devilishly and then took him in her mouth. His hips rose up to meet her and she could hear him making choked, moaning noises above her. The ice was cold and the water dribbled out of her mouth all over him.

Her wet fingers danced between his legs and she slowly toyed with his ass, relishing how he twisted and writhed under her touch. His back arched and she could tell he was getting close as he strained against the ties.

Popping her finger in her mouth as she blew him, Molly made sure her fingers were wet and freezing before she pushed them into him. That had the expected reaction -- he came instantly in her mouth, arching his back and emitting what sounded like a howl to her. She also heard the paperweight go thunk on the floor and another cry of anguish as the clothespins flew off his body with a loud clatter.

Swallowing, Molly brought her head back up and glanced over at him. His eyes were wide and glassy and he was breathing heavily. She nipped at his inner thigh.

“Hey,” she whispered, rubbing the spots where the clothespins had been. “You OK?”

There was a long, low moan that Molly translated to be “Yes.”

She grinned, sitting up. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “your domme just gave you a mindblowing orgasm and you don’t even bother to thank me? If I don’t hear you say it, you’re using your mouth to bring me to a gibbering mess.”

He blinked. “Tha--”

“Too late,” Molly smile became mischievous as she moved up his body until she was positioned over his head, knees resting in the hollows of his armpits. Lowering herself carefully, she held onto the headboard as she felt him licking and sucking her. She could hear him humming, saying something softly, feel the vibration along her body and that tipped her over the edge, wailing and moaning as her hips jerked under his ministrations.

She could feel him cleaning her, lapping up everything and she twisted above him, crying out incoherently. When the shudders finally subsided, Molly moved off of him and leaned over to untie him from the headboard. Molly retied her robe, which had come undone along with her.

“Thank you Pup,” she said, kissing him gently, before inspecting the marks on him. Reaching into her nightstand table, she pulled out some salve and began rubbing it on his blossoming bruises.

“You’re welcome Miss,” he said. “Thank you also.”

Molly nodded, massaging the salve into him. “So what did you think of the movie?” she asked, a small smile playing on her lips. “You may speak freely.”

“It was awful. Absolutely awful,” Sherlock’s face contorted in pain as he remembered the film. “The plot made no sense -- why would you pretend to be a criminal and why those awful masks?”

Molly began laughing. “And the explosions? If a car was buried like that and blown up, the dirt would’ve covered them, not blown the bulldozer away from them.”

Sherlock watched her, a lazy smile on his lips. “I knew you didn’t care for it,” he said. “The way you glanced at the ceiling when you said you loved it told me you were lying.”

She kissed a mark on his chest, before rubbing salve on it. “I don’t mind some mindless fun, however that one had plot holes you could drive a bus through.” Finishing her task, she lay next to him, kissing his neck softly. “And the acting was horrendous.”

“But I will say,” Sherlock said, nestling closer to her. “I did enjoy the mirror maze. That was fun.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Molly grinned. “What did you like about it?”

“The chase,” he admitted, a yawn emitting from him. “Catching glimpses of you, but not knowing exactly where you were. It was exciting.”

Molly nodded. “I know you like a good game,” she said softly.

She waited for a response from him, but all she heard was his breathing, slow and heavy. Glancing down, she saw his eyes were closed in slumber. A soft snore emitted from him and she smiled, ruffling his hair.

“Goodnight Pup,” she whispered, before closing her eyes.

~*~

“I was wondering,” Molly said one day during lunch, “how would you feel about me buying a few things?”

Sherlock stopped poking at his meal, which he was staring at with suspicion, and focused his stare at her. “Pardon?”

For reasons that she didn’t quite understand, Sherlock stopped by the lab today, not looking for anything in particular. Instead, he asked her to join him for lunch, where he was picking at a sandwich and taking tiny nibbles.

Unlike the past, where conversation had been awkward and borderline contemptuous on Sherlock’s end, Molly found herself teasing him, mocking some of his observations (“She’s having several affairs -- you can tell by her wedding ring,” he said. “Maybe she works in a lab and need to take her ring on and off frequently,” Molly retorted with a grin. “Or she’s a trapeze artist and the ring cuts into her.” “Wrong,” he countered. “Look at her trapeziums muscles. Those are not the muscles of a circus performer. I doubt she can even do a pull-up.”), when the question burst out of her like a firework.

Molly felt an adrenaline rush from fear slam into her. It was an idle thought she was considering after he left over the weekend. Suddenly she felt foolish, but she already said it, so forward she had to go.

“I was thinking about getting a few toys for us,” she said as quickly as she could. “I saw something online called sport sheets and thought it would be nice because they have Velcro restraints and can be put under the bedsheets so nothing gets mussed.”

She gulped her soda, suddenly wishing it was something stronger. Like vodka. “I did notice my headboard was getting a bit dented from our, ah, activities, so I thought that it might not be a bad idea for the sport sheets, just to save a bit of wear and tear. I’m not trying to push you into anything, but I was thinking it’d be nice to obtain some things for our --” her voice cracked slightly as she was seeking the right words. “Arrangement.”

The silence was long and lingering as Sherlock studied her. Molly stuffed a mouthful of salad in her mouth, waiting for him to veto the idea.

“Yes,” he said. “I like that idea. What if it was a bondage bed?”

Molly squeaked. She had idly stared at the gorgeous wrought-iron bed that cleverly hid the bondage elements during her kinky shopping spree, but thought it was too expensive.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “But that’s a bit out of my price range.”

He shrugged. “I’ll buy it for you.”

Molly blinked. Was this a commitment? What did it mean? Most people didn’t spend thousands on a person they’re just fucking. If it was anyone else, she could figure out what they meant by the gesture. But this was Sherlock -- any action of his seemed to be laden with secret meanings that were little tests for people.

“It’s just a gift,” he said, as if he read her thoughts. “And I do have some personal interest in it.” He took a small bite of his sandwich. “It’ll allow me to fully surrender to the situation.”

He had made up his mind, Molly realized. Even if she refused, he’d order it and have it delivered to her flat. He’d also break in to help set it up while she was at work, she thought. Even though she’d fuss about the expense of the present, the fact that her privacy was invaded and the fact that it wasn’t proper, in the end, the bed would be in her flat and he’d be happily tied up in it.

By accepting the bed, it was saving herself a headache later, she realized. Some battles aren’t worth winning.

“Very well,” she said. “Thank you.”

He nodded, then took another small bite out of his food.

“I never asked you what you thought of my job as dominant,” he said after a short silence.

Molly looked at him, surprised. Even though his face didn’t give anything away, she could tell he was nervous.

“I think my reaction afterwards should tell you everything you need to know,” she said, a slight smile creeping over her face. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“Is there anything you would change?”

“One thing --” she began.

A sharp intake of breath emitted from him. Yes, she thought. Definitely nervous. Very odd.

“It was external,” Molly said. “But I’ve been mulling it over and while I enjoyed seeing you at work, I don’t think that I’m well suited to join you on cases. I’m very flattered that you decided to share that part of your life with me, but it’s not me.”

He flushed slightly. “Why?”

“That wasn’t a bad introduction,” she said thoughtfully. “But I think I can be more of a valuable resource in a quieter situation, like the lab.”

His brow knitted. She could tell he didn’t quite understand. “I see,” he said softly.

Molly reached over and took his hand. She’d reflect later that was unusual for them. Outside of their physical encounters, they barely touched each other. But she wanted to offer some reassurance to him that it wasn’t a rejection.

“I remember what happened with him and how dangerous it was. If I was in a situation like that with you, I know things wouldn’t have ended well,” Molly explained. “John, from what I know of him, is the best ally for you in those situations. He’s been in battle, he knows how to handle himself.

“Besides, you won‘t endear yourself to the Yard if you come in with an entourage. From what you‘ve told me, Lestrade‘s probably one hair away from being in trouble for consulting with you.”

He didn’t withdraw his hand, which was a good sign so she continued talking.

“My best assets are in the lab. I’m trained in that area and that’s the area I can help you best.” she added. “Think of me as your own Pepper Potts.”

Sherlock looked at her, a slight smile growing. “I take it that’s a movie reference?” he said.

She nodded. “We really need to teach you about other things besides crime and kinky sex,” she teased. “It’s from Iron Man.”

“Was that a good superhero movie?” His tone was one of bemusement.

Molly grinned, recalling Robert Downey Jr.’s arse in the racing suit. “Yes,” she said. “Anyway, she’s the hero’s support -- takes care of his personal life, helps deal with the day-to-day, patches him up, that sort of thing.

“My point is,” Molly continued. “One person can’t be everything. John’s excellent support out where there’s danger. I’ve always been your help in the lab. I can focus there to get the best results for you.”

He nodded, apparently understanding what she said. His index finger brushed over her knuckles and Molly let out a soft sigh of pure pleasure.

“Fair enough,” he said. “But if you’re going to be like that, I demand that you wear a French maid’s outfit in the future.”

Molly couldn’t help but emit a bark of laughter and her cheeks became hot. “You’re thinking Alfred from Batman. But I would for you.” Her grin became wicked. “However, don’t be surprised if I make you wear a chauffer’s uniform one day for my own enjoyment.”

Sherlock flushed slightly and his grin matched hers. “You know --” he said thoughtfully, “I do know where we can get our hands on a rather nice car.”

“Later,” she said, savouring the warmth of his hand. “Finish your lunch.”

~*~

The new bed looked innocent enough. It was a four-poster bed with clean, modern lines in a black wrought iron. It was, without a doubt, the most expensive thing Molly ever received from someone. Despite her objections, Sherlock also insisted on a new mattress.

“How old is this this thing?” he asked when he visited her flat one evening, ostensibly for a report, poking at her mattress.

“I got it used from Sophie,” Molly said a bit defensively. “Mattresses are expensive.”

“That explains why you’ve only allowed me in your bed a handful of times,” he said. “I also don’t fit on it stretched out. Look.” He flopped down on her mattress and lay spread-eagle. His hands and feet dangled off the edge.

It was a tempting sight, Molly had to admit. She could picture him tied up. Maybe shove a gag in his mouth to stop his ranting. Sprinkle catnip all over the bed, drop Toby on him and then watch Glee n the living room.

“I also feel something lumpy poking me in the back,” he said, sitting up. Digging around, he pulled out a cat toy, then dropped it on the floor with a bit of disgust.

“If we are to continue our arrangement,” he said, “I demand a new mattress.” Before Molly could say anything he continued. “Consider it part of the bed frame purchase.”

Molly blinked. “Do you always do this?” she asked. “Just bluster in and take over lives shouting orders and such?”

He grinned at her.

“Of course you do,” she sighed. “But I am buying the bed sheets and duvet,” she interjected over his objections. “I have to live with this, so I want something that I would like.”

In the end she opted for some simple solid colour cotton sheets, but splurged on a fancy brown duvet with vivid pink cherry blossoms printed on it and matching pillowcases.

She didn’t know how he did it, but three days after their discussion, Sherlock showed up at the lab, cornered her and told her that the bed had arrived and he needed access to her flat to get everything arranged.

Knee-deep in reports, Molly handed him her spare key with the warning that he was not to make copies of her key. Her body began to itch in anticipation of seeing the new bed. Sherlock was right, Molly thought. The old mattress was just too lumpy, but she had been loathe to buy a new one simply for herself.

She wondered if the entire thing meant Sherlock would be spending more time in her flat, with her, but she shoved that thought out of her head. Just enjoy what you have now, she thought to herself, reading any more into it is futile.

At the end of the day, she picked up some Chinese takeaway and headed back to her flat. Attempts to text Sherlock resulted in silence. She wasn’t sure if he’d still be there, but if anything, leftovers were always good, so she ordered enough for two.

Unlocking the door, Molly noticed that Sherlock’s coat was still draped over her sofa. “Sherlock?” she called. Toby greeted her with a happy meow, winding his way around her legs.

Putting the food in the kitchen, she headed into the bedroom to see her new bed, made up with the new sheets. He was sprawled across it, spread-eagle, his head resting on the pillows. But this time his limbs were all on the bed.

“See?” he said. “I fit perfectly on this. And no lumps.”

Molly gawped at the bed. It was gorgeous. She feared that it would overpower her room, but it fit perfectly. The sheets also added the feminine touch that she wanted. And it looked perfectly innocent. No one would know what depraved acts occurred in her room.

“You did all of this?” she asked.

There was a flurry of long limbs as he sat up and looked at her, eyes bright and a grin on his face. “Yes,” he said.

Molly couldn‘t help but laugh. A sentimental thought tickled the back of her brain, but she batted it away, choosing to enjoy the vision in front of her.

She flopped down on the bed next to him. It was indeed a very comfortable mattress. He really did spare no expense. “You know --” she began thoughtfully.

His mobile chirped. Molly groaned as he pulled it out and read the message.

“I have to go,” he said. “Lestrade needs my help.”

She got up and escorted him to the door. “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Admittedly I was hoping we could test out the D-rings, but perhaps another time?”

Molly shook her head. “This week is looking bad,” she said. “I’ve got several deadlines and someone --” she shot him a serious look, “Is breathing down my neck for results from that drowning.”

He chuckled. “Any results yet?”

She shook her head. “Everything’s backed up. I’m doing what I can though.”

“I know.”

There was another wink, a grin and then he was gone.

Molly was eating dinner when her mobile buzzed.

If you’re so busy this week, I demand more time on Saturday. Starting at noon. -- SH

Molly snorted, finishing her mouthful of beef and broccoli. I am busy. You’ve seen the lab. And that makes Saturday a very long encounter with the concert.

I’ll need the time anyway, he texted back. I have plans.

Molly let out a deep breath as dark thoughts danced in her head. Oh really?

Yes. I‘ve been practicing my knot tying skills.

Arousal blazed through her at the image and she dropped her chopsticks. Do tell.

She could imagine him grinning at her message.

Shan’t. You’ll have to wait Ms. Hooper.

Yes Sir, she replied, idly wondering if it would be cheating to pleasure herself in the new bed without him.

Oh and Ms. Hooper, wait for me before you get your enjoyment. I’d like to christen the bed with you.

She burst out laughing at the message. She must not be subtle if he could read her thoughts from a great distance. Of course Sir. I shall wait for you. On tenterhooks.

Thank you Ms. Hooper.

~*~

The case turned out to be more of a puzzler than either of them thought it would be. Sherlock vanished from Molly’s life for a few days, offering nothing more than terse texts, saying things had become complicated. She tried texting John for information, but got nothing more than assurances that they were fine and were in Blackpool.

There was nothing for her to do but wait and bury herself in work in a futile attempt to distract herself as she cursed herself for becoming attached to Sherlock. She refused to say it was anything more than friendly concern for him. It wasn’t. Everyone worries about friends, she reasoned, especially friends who have an unnatural attraction to danger.

Saturday morning she woke to the sound of someone moving about her flat. Despite the urge to panic and hide under her bed, Molly got up, pulled on her dressing gown and grabbed the spreader bar from under her bed, wielding it as a club.

Opening the door, she let out a squawk of surprise as she came face to face with Sherlock standing in her kitchen, sipping coffee and scratching Toby behind the ears.

“I never thought of using that as a weapon,” he said nonplussed as Molly dropped the bar on the ground.

She couldn’t help herself. Molly bounded over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. “You’re safe,” she said, completely forgetting to lecture him about breaking and entering her flat. “What happened to you?”

He was stock still in her arms -- probably startled by her reaction. “It wasn’t that much of a worry,” he said in her ear. “Really, just a bit of a puzzler, but nothing too dangerous.” Then there was the low rumble of a chuckle. “You were worried about me.”

There was no use lying, given her outburst. “Yes,” she said, “John said you weren’t eating or sleeping.”

“Well, I’m fine now,” he said, pulling away to pour her a cup of coffee.

Molly studied him. “Have you slept?”

He shrugged, handing her the mug. “A bit on the train.”

“That’s a nap,” she replied. “You’re going to sleep right now. No more coffee,” she grabbed the cup out of his hands.

“I thought I was the dominant today,” he said petulantly.

“It’s not noon yet,” she replied, pushing him towards her bedroom. “Go to sleep. I know you’ve been spinning some scenarios and you need your energy to make them real.”

“I’m fine,” he protested.

“Do not make me tie you up and force you to sleep,” Molly retorted. “Today’s your day to dominate. Get some rest. I’ll still be here.”

“Fine,” he replied, removing his shoes and falling backward on her bed. “But do not look in the bag I brought Ms. Hooper,” his voice got more commanding. “When I wake, I expect you to be cleaned and neatly groomed. I have plans.”

She did as he asked, bathing and cleaning herself (this time using the shower gel she knew he liked) and then lounged in the living room, munching on a bit of toast for breakfast and watching the morning news.

Splashed all over the headlines were Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, credited for discovering a trove of art treasures in a Blackpool warehouse. The pieces were stolen by the Nazis during World War II and lost after the war, but somehow Scotland Yard got a tip about a major underground auction featuring these pieces. The brokers behind the auction were also arrested.

Molly smiled. The entire thing screamed Sherlock.

After watching the news, she peeked on him. He was still asleep, clothing rumpled, breathing softly and steadily, hands fisted on the duvet. Toby strolled into the room and jumped on the bed, finding a stray beam of sunlight to curl up in as he kneaded the blankets.

She felt her chest clench, then a small smile crept over her face as she shut the door and went to read a book in the living room.

Hours passed. He must have been more exhausted than he let on, Molly mused as she finished one book and then started another. She stretched, checked her e-mail and continued to wait for him. In a way, the wait was deliciously agonizing. She knew he had something planned for her, but wasn’t sure what it was and she couldn‘t stop her mind from spinning dark and dirty scenarios. The black duffle bag sitting in the entryway was too strong of a temptation. Even in sleep, Sherlock knew how to toy with her, she thought with a slight smile.

After awhile, she heard movement from her bedroom, then a small “mew” from Toby.

“Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock called out.

“Sir,” she called back from her place on the couch. Blood started to thrum through her body.

“Today’s events will be a bit curtailed,” he said. “I was quite weary, but that won’t stop me from getting some enjoyment from you. Please meet me in the bathroom in five minutes.”

She could see him pad out of her bedroom and into the bathroom. Three minutes later, she heard the shower start running. Precisely two minutes later, she joined him. After all, she didn’t want to disappoint him.

Steam had begun to collect on the mirror and she could tell he had turned the water on as hot as he could get it. The faint outline of his body could be seen through her shower curtain. Molly’s eyes followed the curve of his arse and a slight grinned tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Right on time Ms. Hooper. Please remove your clothing and come into the shower.”

She did as he asked. His pale skin was turning a bright pink under the water -- which was almost scalding hot.

“Wash me,” he ordered.

Molly nodded and started with the shampoo. Without needing to say anything, he crouched slightly, allowing her access to his scalp. Her fingers massaged his scalp, lather building up. She could hear him humming a bit in appreciation.

He stood straight and rinsed his hair. Molly leaned past him and got her bath puff and shower gel. Pouring a generous amount on it, she worked up a lather, then began massaging it across his arms and chest.

Mentally she did a catalogue of his body. He was indeed fine -- there were no marks on him indicating that violence. Inwardly she breathed a sigh of relief as she inhaled the scent. Water was dribbling down on them as she crouched down to wash his torso and slid her hands lower.

“Behave Ms. Hooper,” she heard a warning from above. “My only desire to is to be clean after that case.”

She nodded, lathering his legs. A gently tap of her hand on his ankle resulted in one foot being raised so she could wash it. Another tap resulted in the other leg being raised and her washing his foot. Her hands slid between his legs and she lathered his arse then cock and balls.

Despite his warnings, she couldn’t help but gently caress him, feeling him twitch in one hand, while her other slid between his buttocks. It would be so simple to take him in her mouth, she idly thought.

“Ms. Hooper,” he said. “There will be plenty of time for that later. We don’t have much time before the concert and I have plans for you.”

She nodded, rising to stand.

“Please exit and get a towel for me.”

She did as he asked, grabbing one of her blue towels from under the sink. The water stopped flowing and Sherlock came out of the shower, rivulets of water dripping all over the place.

“Dry me,” he said.

Molly took the towel, starting by rubbing his hair, then slowly moving down his body, wiping the moisture from him. She could feel his gaze on her and the air felt heavier in a way she couldn’t explain.

The more she tried to deny it, the more she realized it was true -- whatever feelings she had for Sherlock had gone deeper than she wanted. She could tell because she was enjoying this, which wasn’t about sex. It was about taking care of him and surrendering to him, trusting him not to hurt her.

And that scared the everloving shit out of her.

“Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. “You need to focus.”

She nodded.

“Dry yourself and meet me in the bedroom. We have to prepare for our outing tonight.”

Skin and hair dried, Molly returned to the bedroom. Sherlock had pushed the bed up, making room for whatever he had planned. Hanging on her closet door was an emerald green silk wrap dress and below it a matching pair of heels. Sherlock was standing in the open space, dressed in those impossibly tight trousers and the aubergine shirt that she liked so much. He was holding a coil of rope in his hand. Molly instantly noticed that the rope matched the dress’ colour.

“Come here Ms. Hooper,” he said.

She did so.

She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. “Tell me,” he said, “What do you know about Japanese BDSM? And please, speak freely.”

Molly inhaled deeply. “Not much,” she said, flashing back to a University costume party where she was having a good time, flirting with a cute computer programmer dressed as a samurai, until the hosts put on Urotsukidoji. Once she saw the explicitness, which was highly unexpected, she and her friends left the party. “Isn’t it all about tentacles, nosebleeds and gigantic monsters raping women?”

There was a low laugh as Sherlock kissed her shoulder. “Interesting response,” he said. “I may need hear the explanation of this someday.

“Now, I had a plan to wind you up and have you as a quivering mess --” he kissed the back of her neck and she shivered. “However, time is running short. I haven’t been to the symphony in awhile and Scheherazade is a piece I know you will like. It suits your more romantic sensibilities. Spread your legs and arms out please Ms. Hooper.”

Molly did as he asked, trembling in a mix of anticipation and fear.

“Do you trust me Ms. Hooper?” he asked, as he began measuring out the rope. His focused his gaze on her.

She swallowed and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Always.”

There was the briefest hint of a smile, then he put the rope around her neck, tying a knot below her collarbone, then placing a kiss there. He continued to do that at regular intervals down the front of her torso, placing kisses at each point where a knot was made.

Molly took in a deep breath, attempting to maintain control.

“This is shibari,” he said as he ran the rope between her legs and then up her back. “Japanese rope bondage. I’ve been thinking about this and how I’d love to see you squirm. What I have planned is pretty elementary since I didn’t want you to be too frightened.”

Molly bit her lip as felt his hands skim her back and a few soft kisses be placed along her spine. He moved in front of her and began weaving the rope around in patterns on her skin. The pressure of the rope between her legs was light, almost teasing in a way, while his touch kept her anchored in the moment.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I’m nervous about going out with this under that dress, but this is also incredibly arousing.”

“That’s why I wanted to do this as soon as possible,” he said as his fingers skimmed over the tops of her breasts as he wove the rope. “Originally I was going to keep you trussed up this afternoon, slowly tightening the ropes and perhaps adding a knot or two.”

Molly whined softly at the image and her hips jerked unsteadily. He firmly placed his hands on her, stilling her.

“I want to make sure you can compose yourself Ms. Hooper,” he chided. “Given your reaction to the mere suggestion of what I was going to do, I’m going to keep the pressure light so you can get used to this.”

“I know,” she breathed deeply, watching him concentrate on his work. She felt the ropes place pressure on her breasts, squeezing them lightly and also lifting them a bit. The pressure increased between her legs and for a moment, she was glad he didn’t place knots near her clitoris or anus, because she doubted her own self control. If he could get her aroused just by the mere description of what he had planned, then this was definitely going to be a difficult challenge.

It didn’t take him long to finish the job. After tying the last knot right on her mons and placing a lingering kiss there, he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.

“Magnificent,” he said. His gleeful expression was similar to when Molly showed him a particularly interesting body in the morgue. “Do you want to see yourself?”

She nodded. Taking his hand, he led her to the bathroom where she could see herself. It was impressive, she had to admit. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but seeing the diamond pattern running down her torso in the dark green made her smile. The pressure was light, but ever-present. It was unmistakably him and erotic at the same time.

What made her smile more was the expression on Sherlock’s face -- hopeful, eager and aroused. His fingers skimmed her cheek and chin and she automatically tilted her head up to kiss him. Teeth gently nipped at her lip and Molly let out a soft moan, pressing her body against his.

He pulled away. “Patience Ms. Hooper,” he said, nipping at her ear. “You still have yet to get dressed for tonight.”

They returned to the bedroom and out of the bag he produced thigh-high stockings, which he helped her put on. Molly let out a soft whimper as his fingers skimmed up her legs, only to tease her between her legs.

“Breathe,” he said, chuckling from between her legs. “You will have to maintain control.”

She nodded, standing as he helped her into the dress.

“Do you like the dress?”

“It’s gorgeous,” she said. “But it’s too much. You don’t need to buy me gifts.”

“Ah pet,” he murmured, “the problem is that you have nothing that would have worked for tonight.”

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but quickly shut it. Of course he’d know what was in her closet, she thought to herself. And he was right. Everything she had wasn’t posh enough for what a night at a concert hall. That was the only reason why he bought that for her, Molly rationalized. One has to make their pet presentable.

Next was a simple pearl necklace and earrings, with some small sparkly accents.

“Do you want my hair up or down Sir?” she asked.

He studied her for a moment. “Down,” he said. “Every time I see you at work, it’s up. When you have it down, it reminds me that you’re not just a morgue attendant. You‘re also my toy.”

Molly nodded, then headed to the bathroom to finish preparing. She brushed and styled her hair. A bit of green eyeshade, lip gloss and powder, plus a dab of perfume and she was set. He was quite clever, she thought. The ropes were hidden by the jewellery and her hair. The trick would be maintaining composure.

She breathed deeply, feeling the slight pressure of the ropes on her skin. “You can do this,” she told her reflection. “You can do this. You will not embarrass yourself or Sherlock by bursting into flame at the concert.”

With that, she left the bathroom. Sherlock was standing in the living room with the heels.

“Lovely,” he said, motioning for her to turn around like a model, which she did. “You can’t see the ropes. Sit please.”

She did as he asked and his hands slid down her legs to her ankles and he helped her put her shoes on. Standing, he offered her his hand and she took his arm.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “You have the power to end this any time you want.”

Molly nodded. “I will not let you down Sir,” she said.

There was an flash of pride on his face. “Thank you Ms. Hooper,” he said, before producing their coats. Helping her into her coat, he took her arm and they left the flat.

~*~

Molly wasn’t one for classical music. The last time she was at the symphony, she was a child. But it was clear that this was important to Sherlock, so she leaned back in her seat and studied her programme. Even though they missed the first act, they arrived in time for Scheherazade.

He had chosen seats wisely at Barbican Hall. They were in the in the first row of the dress circle, with no one surrounding them. This allowed Molly a little bit more breathing room to squirm and feel the pressure of the ropes. The cab ride had been excruciating, despite his efforts to divert her mind from the rubbing against her body.

Of course, his choice to educate her in Japanese BDSM and a tale called “The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife” (which apparently was the basis for much of Japan’s tentacle erotica) wasn’t exactly the most appropriate thing. Especially when he was speaking in quiet tones in her ear so the cabbie couldn’t hear him. Molly had to bite her lip to keep from exploding in giggles as he quoted some of the text on the painting.

“You hateful octopus! Your sucking at the mouth of my womb makes me gasp for breath! Aah! yes... it's... There!” he whispered in her ear, high pitched and in an attempt to imitate a woman. “With the sucker, the sucker!”

It was supposed to be entirely conversational and, in his defence, he focused on the storytelling aspects of the story most of the time. But all Molly could focus on was his baritone, the proximity of his body to hers and that the cab apparently found the bumpiest route in all of London. Every single time the car jolted, she had to suppress the desire to rub her legs together or moan.

By the time they got out of the cab, Molly’s legs were shaking and she was taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself. Fortunately, Sherlock was acting like a perfect gentleman, offering his arm for her as they entered the concert hall.

“Have you ever been to the symphony?” he asked, as they settled into their seats.

She shook her head. “Only as a child,” Molly said.

“Did you like it?”

Molly thought back. “Honestly, it’s been so long I barely remember,” she replied. “I remember being thrilled that it was a school trip and I could miss class.”

He chuckled. “You know Scheherazade? From 1,001 Arabian Nights?”

She nodded. “I’m familiar with 1,001 Arabian Nights,” she whispered, as discordant notes of the orchestra tuning up started. She twitched slightly in her seat, the Shibari ropes rubbing against her. The low bass notes from the brass and percussion went thrumming through her body.

His hand reached out and grasped her fingers, steadying her as the conductor raised his bow and the first movement began. Molly took a deep breath as the opening bars -- regal, stately and thundering -- washed over her body. In the back of her mind she expected the entire piece to be like this, with the bass lines thrumming through her body and requiring her to focus on nothing but her composure.

Then the violin solo started. Molly didn’t know how to describe it except as “pretty,” which she knew was small words for such a solo. It was high and lilting, feminine, but strong and it caused her breath to catch for a moment.

She glanced over at Sherlock. His eyes were closed and a small, blissful smile marked his mouth, indicating that he was also lost in the music. Molly felt herself relaxing, savouring the sensations around her. The music buoyed her, creating images in her head of beautiful and wily Arabian princesses taming temperamental sultans with a never-ending trove of stories.

As the final violin solo filled the concert hall, Molly felt loose and pliant, more relaxed than she thought she would be. She glanced over at him as the lights came up and the audience applauded. His eyes closed in rapture and that smile still lingered on his mouth.

It would be so easy to reach over and kiss him, Molly thought to herself. But subs do not do that. They wait for their master’s orders. So she waited. Waited as the audience left and they were the only two left sitting in the hall and the final ringing of the last notes of the violin solo faded into the night.

She felt his hand on her arm. “Ms. Hooper,” he said. “Are you hungry? I don‘t want my pet to be uncomfortable.”

She nodded.

He led her to the Barbican Lounge, a lounge on the first floor. He scanned the menu. “No, nothing too heavy for you my dear,” he mused. “I want you awake and able to react to what I have planned when we get home.”

She couldn’t help but smile wickedly at those words. “Yes Sir,” she said.

A waiter floated by and Sherlock ordered a few bar snacks and a glass prosecco for her and water for him. “Did you enjoy the concert Ms. Hooper?”

“Very,” Molly purred. “My knowledge of classical music is very limited, but that was so lush and beautiful. I loved the violins.”

He grinned. “I do play the violin,” he sidled closer to her. “How are the ropes?”

“They remind me of you,” she whispered in his ear. “Every time I move, it reminds me that I belong to you. I remember your hands on my body.”

His eyes widened slightly and she could see him swallow. “Behave Ms. Hooper,” he said. “If you keep this up, we’ll never eat and I know you need your energy for what I have planned.”

Molly breathed slightly. Before more could be said, the waiter flitted by, dropping off the plank with smoked fish, olives and other items, the wine and the water.

“You may eat Ms. Hooper,” he said.

Molly assembled a bit of smoked fish, cheese and bread and took a small bite. “Aren’t you going to eat Sir? You do need your energy.”

“Make me something,” he replied. “Then feed it to me.”

Molly shook her head, smiling as she assembled a bit of fish and prosciutto. Placing it on the bread, she held it up to his mouth. He took it, placing a small kiss on her fingertips, which she responded with a small, shy smile.

It continued for a bit until the plank was cleared and the wine consumed. During the meal, Sherlock offered an impromptu lecture on the Russian composers and the history of Scheherazade. Molly didn’t understand everything he said, but with that voice, he could’ve recited the phone book and she would’ve been enraptured.

“Now Ms. Hooper,” he said, taking her hand. “I think it’s time we return to your place.”

The ride back to her place was quiet. Sherlock’s fingers lightly stroked her arms, the back of her neck and Molly kept biting her lip to keep from moaning. She tried rubbing her thighs together, but a gently tap on her arm reminded her to behave.

Once they were in the flat, he helped her remove her coat and heels.

“Wait here,” he said.

She stood, waiting patiently. Toby greeted them both with a meow, wrapping himself around her legs and rising on two legs to sniff at her fingers. Molly could hear the bed coming down from the upright position that it was left in.

After a few minutes, she heard Sherlock call for her.

He was lying on the bed, back propped by up pillows.

“Strip Ms. Hooper,” he ordered. “I want to watch you.”

She nodded, then undid the sash of the dress. Unbuttoning the side, she slowly peeled it off her, exposing the ropes to him.

He let out a soft “mmmm” of appreciation. “Lovely,” he said. “I am very pleased with how you behaved at the concert hall.”

Molly put one leg on the bed and rolled the stocking down. His breathing was heavy and she could see him getting hard under his trousers. She repeated the same action for her other stocking.

He got up off the bed. “Lay down please,” he said.

She did as he asked. He went over to the bag and produced a pair of leather cuffs and two lengths of rope “Arms up over your head and spread your legs please,” he said.

Once she obeyed his request, he cuffed her hands to the headboard. “Comfortable?”

Molly wiggled her fingers, then waggled her eyebrows. “Very,” she purred.

“So insolent,” he chuckled, then kissed her. Molly’s back arched as he ran his hands down her body and over the ropes. “Hips up please.”

She obeyed. Sherlock slid a few pillows underneath her to prop her up, then took the rope and tied her legs spread eagle to the bedposts. “Comfortable?”

“Yes Sir,” Molly replied, wiggling her toes.

“So lovely. I could do whatever I wanted to you right now,” he said, fingers sliding down between her legs. “You are so eager,” he chuckled. “As prime as goats, as hot as monkeys.”

A low groan escaped her as one finger wiggled past the ropes and into her.

“You did fantastically Ms. Hooper,” he said. “I believe it’s time for your reward.”

“Yes,” she moaned, hips undulating under his touch. There was a sigh of loss as he pulled his hand away from her to loosening the ropes between her legs, parting them.

“But I think you can wait a bit,” he said.

Her eyes flashed open to meet his. There was a bright twinkle to them and she arched her back, letting out a low whimper of protest.

“You can and you will,” Sherlock said. “Besides, I have you spread open for my whims. I definitely want to take advantage of that. I‘ve been meaning to do some experiments.”

Molly squeaked.

Sherlock slid off the bed and opened the bag. He pulled out a vibrator, some wipes and a bottle of lubricant. “I’m going to have fun with you.”

Returning to the bed, he turned on the vibrator and gently dragged it along her breasts. “Now, I was thinking,” he said almost conversationally, “and I have come to the conclusion that despite your varied sexual background, you’re missing something.”

“Which is?”

“You haven’t had anal sex,” Sherlock said, sliding the vibrator down her torso.

Molly could feel herself redden as the vibrator buzzed merrily down between her thighs and along her hipbone. He was right. It wasn‘t something that she really was interested before. Everything she had heard from her friends was that it was painful, dirty and not really satisfying. “How --”

“Lucky guess,” he said, grinning at her. “You just told me everything. Are you scared?”

“A little,” she admitted.

The vibrator gently bumped up against her mons and she arched her back again, emitting a ragged gasp. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he studied her body’s reactions. Gooseflesh began popping up on her skin and Molly took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

His hand moved between her legs, first stroking her sex, then moving to the perineum, before lightly circling her hole. Molly’s hips twitched as she let out a small gasp.

“Give me a word,” he said, looking up at her.

There shouldn’t be a need for a word, Molly thought to herself. Sherlock would be smart enough to know exactly what she was thinking, but it was comforting to know he wanted to hear it from her.

“Osmosis.”

“Do you want to stop?”

She knew she could if she wanted to and that was enough. “No,” she said after taking a deep breath and letting it out. “Just go slow? Please?” her voice quavered. You know I’d never say no to you, she thought, hoping that he wasn’t a mind reader.

Sherlock’s gaze was intense as he processed the information. “That’s my girl,” he said. Setting down the vibrator, he squirted a bit of lube onto his hand. Slowly one hand slid down past the ropes to toy with her perineum, then her ass.

He was covering her body with his, kissing her deeply, as his finger toyed with the ring of muscle. Then his mouth moved to ear, whispering bits of a poetry that helped reignite her lagging arousal as one finger slowly breached her.

Molly’s back arched as she let out a gasp.

“How does it feel?” those eyes were staring into hers, scanning for information about her state of being.

“Strange,” she murmured. “It’s not unpleasant, but it’s kind of odd.”

“Give me a word.”

“Hypothesis,” she breathed out. It was strange -- a certain fullness, but nothing painful, like what her friends had told her. Instead of hesitation, curiosity took over.

Sherlock pulled back so he was kneeling between her legs. She could feel a second finger slide into her, scissoring her gently, opening her up. Before she could say anything else, Sherlock placed hot kisses along her thighs, causing her to moan and jerk as arousal began to pool in her lower belly. Her wrists strained at the cuffs and she could feel the ropes bite into her ankles as he lavished attention along her torso.

Pulling back, he pulled his fingers out of her. Molly craned her head up to see what he was doing. First he cleaned his hand off with a wipe, then Sherlock undid his trousers and pulled a condom on. “Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded.

With that, he grabbed the vibrator and rubbed it along her sex. Coherent thoughts and words shut down as he slid it into her at an agonizing pace. This she was familiar with, right down to the fantasies of Sherlock accompanying the buzzing sound.

What wasn’t familiar was the feeling of him entering her a different way, achingly slow and gentle. Molly thought she was sort of worldly. Maybe not in the whole “porn star I’ve had four cocks at the same time” worldly, but she thought she had some experience.

This -- this blew those beliefs out the door. It wasn’t like how her friends described it -- it wasn’t painful. Molly couldn’t describe it other than feeling full. Every nerve was singing with the sensations she was feeling and there was an ache, a need for something more.

One hand ran down her flanks and he looked at her. “What do you feel?”

“Full,” she managed to say.

“What do you want?”

“More,” she breathed.

“More of what?” There was an impish gleam in his eyes.

“Move,” she moaned trying to move her hips, but his hands were stilling her. “More of you.”

“Ask nicely pet,” he said, offering nothing more than a shallow thrust, which didn’t offer the relief she wanted.

“Please.”

Sherlock began to move, slowly. He took her nipple in his mouth, gently biting it. She could feel herself reach the edge, twisting under him, helpless to anything but react to the sensations he was layering on her.

His mouth was travelling all over her -- from her breasts, he began nipping at her ear and offering dirty words of encouragement as she jerked under him. From her ears, his tongue travelled down her neck and along her shoulders.

One hand slid between them and rubbed her clit and she twisted underneath him. He looked up at her with a debauched grin.

“Come for me,” he said, sliding his hands down her torso. “I want to see you.”

Later Molly would reflect on his uncanny ability to read her and time everything perfectly, but at that moment, she came instantly, as the pent-up arousal from the past hours and his ministrations was unleashed. Her back arched and as she wailed and shuddered beneath him. She wanted to wrap her legs around him, but instead, her legs strained against the ropes, scratching and burning her ankles.

His strokes began to move faster as she writhed under him. Sherlock leaned forward, kissing the hollow of her throat, whispering something Molly couldn’t make out as she thrashed under him, crying incoherently. A few strokes later and he came, groaning her play name into her ear.

After a few lazy kisses, Sherlock began cleaning her before he undid the cuffs. Next was the ankles.

“You do need to help me by moving a bit,” he chided, as he began undoing the shibari ropes.

“Can’t move,” she groaned. “You’ll have to call work and tell them I’ve been fucked into submission.”

There was a chuckle as she felt the burn of the rope as he pulled it out from under her. “You do realize that I need the results from that drowning report?” he said. “I will drag you into the office by hook or crook Ms. Hooper.”

“Yes, but good luck getting results out of me,” she reposted. “You’ll have to talk to Norris for that. I believe my brain is now the equivalent of pudding.”

She could feel his hands sliding over her body, examining her for bruises and cuts. The drawer opened and he began massaging salve into her scrapes.

“Norris is terrified of me,” he said, before placing a soft kiss where a knot had been. “That wouldn’t do at all. He’d throw any result at me and say that was it. He’s about as reliable as a drunken Anderson. No, you‘re the one I rely on.”

Molly chuckled. “If Sir wishes, it shall be done,” she said, with a faint hint of sarcasm. “Besides, if you check my messenger bag, you will notice that there is a certain report that you have been seeking.”

She wasn’t surprised to see him bounce off the bed and scurry off to the living room. Molly half-expected to hear him shout a goodbye as he headed out the door. What she didn’t expect was him coming back into the bedroom, laying next to her.

She rolled over and glanced at him curiously.

“I can read in this bed also,” he replied. “Besides, I can poke you if I need answers to my questions.”

She couldn’t help but giggle. “How convenient for you.”

~*~

“Sherlock, I said I was tired,” Molly snapped. “I know it’s my turn, but this week was like a sledgehammer to the brain and you’ve been a pain in my arse the entire time.”

Sherlock stood in the doorway and silently huffed.

“Don’t you have a case to do? Someone to torment? Perhaps Lestrade? What about John?” Molly grabbed her remote and turned on the telly. In the past, she would have felt bad about wearing her pink pyjama pants with the sleeping kittens printed on them and an ancient t-shirt. She would have also felt a bit guilty about her unwashed hair and the fact that she was wearing glasses, instead of her contacts.

But then the boundaries between them slowly crumbled. After the hell that was her work week, Molly hated to admit that she didn’t have time to plan a kinky scene for him. Part of her felt guilty, but he was there to witness the work that she was doing. Sometimes reality interferes in other parts of your life, she thought.

Apparently he thought otherwise, because he continued to stare, brows knitted in annoyance. Molly could feel irritation brewing in the back of her mind.

“Must I list everything?” she sighed, stabbing at the remote’s buttons “Let’s see -- one morgue’s refrigeration unit broke down so all the bodies had to be relocated to St. Barts. We’ve had five questionable deaths come in on top of that.

“Then you kept popping in demanding access to reports made thirty years ago, before the system became automated, so I‘ve been running into the archives to dig up those old dusty things. Not to mention snapping at poor Norris, who is already contemplating a transfer thanks to your behaviour.

“Despite what you may think of him, the man has his merits and you’re reducing him to a wibbling mess thanks to your demands,” she sighed. “So I’ve been dealing with placating superiors on top of everything. Do you realize you’re one step away from being banned from St. Barts?”

She glanced over at him. His face was impassive, but she knew he was taking in every word and filing it away -- for what purpose, she didn’t exactly know.

“So unless you want a domination scene in which you give me foot rubs and get some takeaway from that Chinese place I like so much, I’ve got nothing. You’ve drained me,” Molly finished off, picking out an episode of Glee. “I don’t want to think about play names, bondage, nipple clamps or making you not think about whatever obscure case you’re dealing with. I just want to not worry about taking care of you, which I‘ve been doing all week anyway.”

He turned around and walked out the door.

Molly sighed and rolled her eyes. Of course he wouldn’t stick around, she thought. He’s not going to get what he wants.

The episode was about halfway over, with Kurt and Finn’s parents dancing down the aisle for their wedding, when the door opened. Molly glanced over and saw Sherlock enter with a few bags of takeaway.

“If the lady insists, this is a scenario,” he said, placing the bags on the coffee table, then going to remove his shoes and coat.

Molly sighed. “This is not a scene,” she muttered. “This is Molly Hooper tired, not Ms. Hooper or Miss. Molly Hooper is desiring the beef and broccoli in that container, a crunchy spring roll and the ability not to think. Molly Hooper is also wondering why she is talking in third person.” She made a face and glanced up at him. “Do all people who know you eventually lose their sanity?”

He settled down next to her and made a face, mulling things over. “Eventually,” he said, his head bobbing back and forth as if it was shaking up memories. “Or at least they tell me that.”

He brought the food out of the bags and placed it on the coffee table. “And this could be a scene,” Sherlock continued. “You‘ve told me what you want from me. Remember, domination isn‘t just about sex.”

She sighed, then rooted around the bags for the beef and broccoli and some rice. There’s a certain point where there’s no reason why you argue with Sherlock, she thought to herself. If he couldn’t get what he wanted via logic, he’d find a different way to get it -- be it breaking and entering or pretending that this was a scene she had planned.

The worst part, she mused, was that he was right. Everything she read said that dominance wasn’t just about sex -- it was anticipating the person’s needs and caring for them. And she told him what she needed -- Chinese food, time to not think and a foot rub. Ever the perfect sub, Sherlock was trying to comply with her wishes, even though they weren’t part of any scenario.
Or was there another reason for this? Molly shoved the thought out of her head. Knowing him, he was just doing what he needed to do to remain in her good graces.

Toby leaped on the couch, then scooted near Sherlock, who fed him a bit of the fish and eggplant that he had chosen for himself.

She gently tapped his hand. “Don’t,” Molly warned. “I don’t want to have to clean up cat sick because of that.”

Sherlock nodded and stopped feeding Toby.

They ate in silence, watching at Santana revealed that she took Finn’s virginity to Rachel. Actually, Molly watched in silence as Sherlock sneered at Santana’s nerve and wondered yet again why she didn’t get a solo, especially at something as important as Sectionals.

He cleared away the clutter, without her asking him to, and settled on the couch, pulling her feet up into his lap.

No, she wasn’t going to enjoy this foot massage, Molly willed herself, as his long fingers began working on the soles of her feet. She was still annoyed at the way he insulted Norris’ lab techniques, comparing it to an untrained baboon. Then he stated that the archiving system was created by blind, deaf and dumb chimpanzees. For reasons beyond her, she managed to escape his insults, but it was still unpleasant having him hovering around her, monitoring her every action.

Then his knuckles kneaded her arches and she had to steel herself to keep from moaning aloud. His hands slid under her pyjama pants, stroking her calves.

“What are you doing?” she finally asked.

“You said you wanted a foot rub,” his expression was one of perfect submission.

“This doesn’t mean that I have a scene planned for you because you’re being nice to me,” Molly retorted. “So why are you still here? I‘ve got nothing for you.”

“John asked that I not return to the flat until late tonight -- or tomorrow morning,” he said, giving her a quick, sidelong glance.

Molly chuckled. Of course. There was another reason for it. “And you didn’t think it would be that big of a deal since normally you’re here --”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Molly said, amazed that she was apologizing to Sherlock, when any other person would have apologized for their abhorrent behaviour. “You can‘t go back can you?”

“He was rather adamant,” Sherlock said, eyes focused on the screen. “Said he would like to get off with Sarah and present a flat that didn’t look like Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop. He added that I’ve been an utter pill all week thanks to this case and I should ‘Go out and get laid for fuck’s sake. Or beat a corpse or whatever you do to calm down.’” His impression of John’s exasperation was uncanny, Molly had to admit.

Molly closed her eyes and felt all the puzzle pieces suddenly fall into place as to the reasons behind his crap mood. “So what‘s the case about?” she asked, curiosity overtaking her. “You think those deaths from thirty years ago are linked to the five that came in now?”

He nodded. “The similarities of circumstances is just uncanny,” he said.

Molly felt a pang of sympathy for him. She moved her feet off his lap. “Go get my messenger bag,” she said. “I managed to get those reports for you just before I left work last night.”

Sherlock’s face brightened as he went to get her bag, which was stuffed full of reports. “ Finally,” he said. “I noticed the overfull bag and guessed it was the reports.”

“You were expecting it as a reward after a scene?”

“Maybe.”

Molly laughed. “Sometimes I just like to do nice things for you,” she admitted.

A quick, shy smile flitted across his face as he flopped down on the couch next to her. He tore open the bag and began pulling out the folders, stacking them on the coffee table.

“I also took liberty of bringing back the reports from the five bodies that came in this week,” Molly said.

“You knew I was wondering about them?” he looked at her surprised, but pleased.

Molly smiled. “Just read the reports,” she said. “I’m going to get something to drink. You‘ve got a case to work on.”

One quick trip to the refrigerator later, Molly strolled back with two glasses of water. She deposited one in front of Sherlock and sipped out of the other one.

The next few hours passed quietly as the two read over reports and making notes. Even though Molly didn’t mind reading about death and how people died, the reports from three decades ago elicited more than the usual sympathetic pang from her. All of the people murdered were young teenagers, on the verge of adulthood and independence. Many were about to start university, when they vanished, only to be found a few days later, tortured and nearly beheaded, bled to death.

What was more unusual was when Molly began reading over the reports of the five suspicious deaths. They were near mirrors to the incidents twenty years ago. When they first came in, Molly suspected that they were the work of a single person, but until she saw the reports from those years ago, she didn’t realize that it was history repeating itself.

Suddenly Molly heard a bark of laughter from Sherlock.

“It’s not the same person,” he said, face bright with excitement. “Look --” he shoved two photographs into Molly’s face. One was from thirty years ago -- the picture in question had a portion of the skin on the back of the neck removed in a odd flowing shape that reminded Molly of an abstract butterfly.

The other picture, of one of the five bodies, had the same shape cut out of the back of the neck, but the lines weren’t as flowing -- there were odd jagged marks and lines.

“It’s a copycat,” Molly said. “Or the person’s out of practice.”

“No,” Sherlock breathed in her ear, victory colouring his voice. “You’re right. It’s a copycat. With a knife of some type and little experience,” he chuckled, clapping his hands together in victory. “Serial killers don’t forget things like that. It’s ingrained into them. Like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget your little insignias like that.”

He took a sip and grinned, “That helps narrow things down a bit,” he grabbed his mobile and tapped out a message. “I have to let Lestrade know. I think we’re closer than before. Very, very close, but something more is needed,” he muttered. “I just have no idea what it is.”

Sherlock drained the glass, then stood. “I’ve got to get going,” he said, pocketing his mobile. “I think I know what’s going on, but I’ve got to revisit scenes before the Yard tramples them like a herd of cattle.”

He began donning his shoes and coat. “Thank you Molly,” he said. “You’ve been a great help.”

“You should also thank Norris,” Molly replied, ignoring the blush that spread across her cheeks from his praise. “He’s been covering for me while I’ve been combing the archives and pulling favours for you.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a pout. “But --”

“He’s been helping you by helping me,” Molly said firmly, as she stood to help him with his coat. “If anything, do it for me.”

He looked down at her. “Very well,” he said. “I will.”

She smiled, buttoning his coat. “Thank you.”

Another grin, a wink and then he was gone. Molly had to suppress the urge to tell him to stay safe.

If she knew that he was going to disappear for three days, with nothing but silence and John frantically inquiring about his whereabouts, Molly would have tied him to the bondage bed and cooked up a scenario to keep him from leaving her or getting distracted by danger.

~*~

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.

“Je te amie,” 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.

~*~

Strangely enough, being in a relationship -- Molly finally felt safe enough to use that word -- was no different than what they had previously. Sherlock still had problems with boundaries, terrorized the lab regularly and on occasion snapped at Molly with a cutting remark.

“Is he like this with you?” she asked John one day after Sherlock flounced into the lab, lectured Lestrade on a particularly gristly death and bumped Molly over so he could run tests on her lab equipment. In her head, Molly was already planning revenge.

“You mean an idiot with impulse control problems?“ John asked, a grin threatening to break out of his face. “Yeah. But he’s not just my problem now -- he’s yours too.”

When there was a compelling case, he still refused to eat or sleep and had the habit of disappearing for days at a time. She still fretted and harangued him to contact her and to take care of himself. At least now, she felt safer in voicing her opinions about his well-being.

“This is who I am,” he said after she told him her fears. “You know this.”

“But you can change your mind and your habits,” she replied. “You’ve done it before. I‘m not asking you to stay at home and sip tea all day, because really, you‘d probably spike it to see what kind of physiological reaction you could get. I‘m asking for a text message -- ‘Am fine. Bad guys captured.’”

He may have grumbled but the next time he vanished with John for a week in Kiev, she got a text.

Am fine. Bad guys captured. What are you wearing? -- SH

It was a start, she admitted to herself.

I’m at work. What do you think? When will you be back?

Tomorrow. And I suspect it’s something lacy. Can you sent me a photo? I have a bet with John.

I am not taking a photo for you to show John. You‘ll have to deduce it from my texts, genius. She took some glee in typing that. But when I see you, I’ll make sure not to have knickers on.

There was a pause and she grinned. One perk of after his return from a case was the adrenaline that needed to be reduced to an acceptable level, which required a bit of work on her part.

Those moments he was more playful, flirtatious and a bit cheeky. It really was like dating a teenage boy, Molly thought. Coming off a case, he didn’t have the mental discipline to do strict scenes and Molly was too relieved to have him back safe to enforce the rules so most of scenes were loosely structured.

Promise?

You‘ll have to see to find out.

~*~

There will be a car coming for you today after work. -- SH

Molly stared at her mobile. Pardon?

No arguments Scheherazade. There will be a car waiting for you after your shift at the corner. Your driver will handle the rest.

Molly snorted. That obstinate lunatic, she thought. Where did he get a car? For a moment, she feared that Sherlock was going to show up in an unmarked white van. If it was anyone else, she’d tell them she was trapped at work and unable to meet at the appointed time.

But this wasn’t anyone. This was Sherlock. And he used his pet name for her. There was no choice.

So the sultan asks, so shall it be done. Molly texted. Whatever he had planned, she was thankful that she didn’t have knickers on, as promised. And she was wearing a simple grey shirtdress with boots for work.

She was covering for a colleague on the second shift, so by the time she got done with work, it was night. Instead of businessmen and bankers, the streets were filled with people heading out for a night of fun. True to his word, there was a car at the corner. Thankfully it wasn’t a white van, but a sleek and menacing looking black Jaguar sitting at the corner.

Standing next to the car, the vision of perfect servitude was Sherlock, dressed in a black suit and wearing a chauffer’s cap.

The urge to smile was overwhelming, but Molly schooled her features carefully. “I take it this is my ride?” she asked, approaching him.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he opened the car door for her.

She slid into the backseat and he shut the door. It was definitely a luxurious car, Molly thought, scanning around. Leather seats, heated, enough room for a family of four to live in comfortably, a drink console and video cameras discreetly hidden in the rear-view mirror and dashboard.

“Where did you get this car?” she asked, suspicion tingeing her voice as he pulled away from the curb.

“Borrowed it from a relative,” he said. “We’ll need to get it back within an hour.”

“Did you know there’s video cameras in this?” she asked. “If you’re talking about making a movie of us, I’m not doing it if others can see it.”

“Sharp eyes and yes about the cameras,” he replied. “Don’t worry though. I’ve circumvented the system. Right now the feed is going into my laptop.”

Molly poked her head between the seats and saw the laptop sitting there with two images -- one of a blank car and the live feed of them in the car. She settled back in her seat. Just that brief moment close to him, where she could smell his spicy cologne and feel his body heat, took most of her willpower not to grab him by the tie and drag him into the backseat with her.

“Mind you,” he said idly, his eyes concentrating on the road. “My brother probably already knows I have the car by now, but at least he won’t see what we’re doing in it.”

“Wait --” Molly blinked. “You have a brother? What’s his name? And this is his car? What does he do?”

Sherlock chuckled. “You’ll probably meet him soon enough. He has a flair for dramatic introductions. It’s Mycroft. This is his car for work and he‘s just an auditor for the British government.” The way he said his brother’s job title told Molly that it wasn’t quite the truth and not to poke at it any further.

“What’s he like?”

“My worst enemy.”

Molly snorted. “So a family member then,” she leaned back in the seat and peeked at the drinks console. Water and nothing else. “I take it your idea of family fun is to glare at each other during a competition of, ‘I’m Not Hungry.’”

The car glided into Hyde Park and down a path as Sherlock chuckled. “That does sum up a lot of our interactions.”

The impish part of Molly’s brain lit up like a Christmas tree. “I take it we’re using this car --” she began.

He didn’t answer, but she felt the atmosphere become more charged. “What do you plan to do with the video feed?” she asked.

“It’s not being saved to the laptop,” he said, glancing back at her. “I was tempted, but didn’t know how you felt about it, so I decided against it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “We can discuss that later. Right now --” she spread her legs slightly so he could see up her skirt and notice that she wasn‘t wearing panties, as promised. “I’m in the mood for other things than a lengthy negotiation.” Molly then crossed her legs primly.

She could see his eyebrows shoot up in the rear view mirror as the car glided down a dark service path. Sherlock parked the car and turned the lights off. The only sound was the soft pings of the engine cooling down. The air definitely warmed and she licked her lips in anticipation.

Before she knew it, he was moving with a feline grace into the backseat of the car. Her hands grabbed the lapels of his coat, pulling him towards her as their mouths collided.

It wasn’t refined, practiced or seductive. This was the kiss of two people who missed each other intensely. Molly suspected she nipped his upper lip and she felt his teeth knock against hers as her mouth opened, but it was heavenly. She couldn’t help but moan as she pulled him closer and he groaned her name.

His hands were already sliding up her skirt as she pulled him on top of her. She was fumbling for his flies, her hands stroking his erection.

“God I missed you,” Molly panted as his fingers skimmed her ass. “How was Kiev?”

“Easy,” he said, sliding into the seat and pulling her to straddle him. “Mycroft’s mission, but child’s play,” he unbuttoned the top of her dress and grinned at the black lacy bra underneath. He nipped at her neck. “It was a Zanzibar market.”

“A what?” she asked as she unwrapped a condom and slid it on him. It was especially difficult since he was tonguing her nipple through the lace and the warm wetness from his mouth was causing her to lose focus on the conversation.

“Black market -- one night auction for especially valuable stolen goods,” he said, sliding his tongue along the lace and moving his attention to her other breast. “Mycroft wanted --”

He didn’t finish his final words as she slid down the length of him, hot and slick. Molly let out a sigh of bliss, settling on him and stilling for a moment. It was delicious and badly needed.

“Oh God,” he groaned, tipping his head back and resting it on the headrest as his hands gripped her hips. “I missed this.”

“Me too,” Molly moaned, hands twining in his hair as she pulled him closer.

All talking stopped as he thrust into her and she began to match him stroke for stroke. Her nails dug into his back as he thrust deeper into her and ran his tongue around her lace-clad nipples. One hand relinquished grip of her hips and slid forward, rubbing her clit.

That was all it took. Her arousal -- which was simmering since she got his text the night before -- ignited as her hips slammed into him and she cried out his name. He pulled his mouth away from her breast and she kissed him, whimpering in his mouth as she sucked on his tongue.

She could feel him shudder under her, groaning as his hips bucked wildly under her. Molly clung to him, savouring the way he was coming undone with her, knowing that she was the only person to see this.

Their kisses slowed and became lazier as she pulled away and rested her forehead against his.

“I love you,” she said, punctuating each word with a small kiss.

He hummed happily, wrapping his arms around her. Since that first time he told her he loved her, he never said it again. Not that Molly objected, nor did it stop her from telling him. Especially when what she got in return was a quick smile or a blush that went up to his ears. He didn’t need to say it -- his body told her everything.

She stared into his eyes, the same blue (or were they green? Or grey? She never was sure) eyes that could flash a myriad of emotions in milliseconds as they darted around a room collecting information. They were content as he studied her face. His mouth, which could cut people down with an insult or a well-time deduction had a lazy sated smile painted across it.

His eyes narrowed as he studied her.

“What?” she asked, recognizing the expression.

“The sign of a happy relationship is that typically someone will put on weight,” his hands caressed her thighs before moving up around her hips and waist and cupping her breasts. “I see you’re living up to the statistics.”

Molly rolled her eyes and snorted. Rather, she would have except his fingers were starting to do wonderful things to her body, shutting down her ability to answer with a cutting retort. Fortunately her brain allowed her mouth to whisper a “Welcome home,” before silencing him the best way she knew how.