Molly jotted her final notes down in Tabitha Easter’s file, set the pages aside and zipped the body bag up. Sliding the gurney back into its chamber, she bumped the door with her hip to close it, wincing at the unfamiliar pain as the cold metal hit the bruise spread across her hipbone. After a moment, however, the pain brought a wistful smile as she remembered its forming.
Hips slammed against a metal desk, torso pushed down, breasts hot, pressed against cold steel. Her lover’s voice in her ear, teasing, dominant.
“You look so fucking good bent over like that for me. Cute little arse, just begging for it.” A slap and her hips jerk, crashing against the edge of the table. “Going to fuck you now. So hard you’ll be bruised for weeks. Tell me how much you want it.”
“Yes, god, please.” Not bothering to stifle her moans, she spreads her legs, feeling warm hands steady her.
Molly shakes her head, trying to clear the blush she knows is forming. She thinks she can still feel heat on her buttocks, though she knows the rosy flush has long since faded. She walks out of cold storage, back to the autopsy room where a very strange corpse indeed was waiting for her.
Staring down at Mr James, she contemplates how the autopsy will go. He’s lost a lot of blood for such a slight wound; she knows she’ll have to take extra care to establish if an extraction method was used. She’s placing her instruments precisely on a sterile tray when she’s interrupted.
“Ah Molly, you –”
“Here to see Mr James’ body, Sherlock?” She not an idiot; the corpse had been sent over by Anderson’s team with strange injuries. It was obvious Sherlock would arrive soon, imperious and demanding to see the body. She did take a bit of pleasure in the flicker of uncertainty that passed Sherlock’s face at her interruption.
He recovered quickly, giving her a fresh sweep of his gaze. “New beau I see. Not terribly careful with his teeth, is he?” Her hand flew to her neck where she knew the vivid purple bruise had blossomed.
“Ah, fuck.” She throws her head back, arching, pushing, doing everything she can to meet each thrust. She braces herself on her elbows and feels one hand at her breast, pinching her nipple punishingly. She’s close to coming, can feel it build, heat in her abdomen and the tight, demanding burn inside her body. She cries out and just as she’s there, on the peak, hovering before freefall, she feels a hand in her hair, pulling her head back and up as teeth sink into her neck. She comes, rocking into her lover’s body, the sharp, wet heat at the delicate skin of her throat a delicious pain.
Feeling the blush creep up her neck and flush her cheeks, she bit her lip, determined not to rise to his baiting. Behind Sherlock she could see Dr Watson rolling his eyes.
Pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s comment, she gestures to the corpse. “You’re here early; I haven’t even begun the autopsy.”
“Oh, cause of death doesn’t matter at this moment. I’m just interested in – yes, here we are,” he had raised the foot of the body, examining the ankle carefully. He dropped it with a thud that caused John to say his name in a tone half-exasperated, half-warning. Molly had long since given up protesting the small indignities he wreaked on the departed. She crossed her arms and waited for him to finish.
After a quick sweep of the body, an inspection of the fingernails, and a bit of sniffing near the corpse’s ear, Sherlock stood and turned to leave, gesturing to John to follow.
Halfway to the door, however, he paused and looked pointedly at her desk. Its papers were in slight more disarray than usual and where it generally sat parallel to the wall it was now a few degrees off. “Really, Molly, sex in the mortuary? How so very gothic.” He could never resist one parting barb.
She felt the flush rise and started to look away before thinking fuck it. “Well, we make do with what’s convenient. Not a long lunch break, you know.” She’s holding his eye contact and smiling, winningly, as if she’s discussing her favourite tv show. She hears Dr Watson attempt to stifle a laugh and grins a little wider.
In one last attempt to gain the upper hand, he snarks, “I do hope he’s not as gay – or murderous – as the last one.”
“Hm, well, murderous I’m not sure of, but I certainly hope she’s gay or our relationship will have taken a very strange turn indeed.” She thinks she can now die happy, seeing the look of shock on Sherlock’s face. Not often she gets one by him.
John is outright grinning now and steering Sherlock toward the door. Sherlock seems to regain his whirlwind energy and stalks out the door quickly. John pauses for a moment, glancing at her with a look of surprise and a hint of respect. “Good for you.” He nods and she knows that phrase has a multitude of meanings.
She’s collapsed onto the desk, body quivering and legs unable to hold her weight, as the dildo slides out of her. Distantly, she hears the jangle of buckles undone and the slide of leather against skin. The strap-on is placed on the desk next to her before warm hands stroke down her back, soft lips kissing each rib. She sighs, contentedly, and makes an effort to raise herself up. With a bit of help, she’s perched on the desk, naked body held against soft silk as her lover cradles her.
A whisper in her ear, “I do hope I haven’t broken you. Your boss would have my head.” With a chuckle, she straightens up.
“Not broken, just temporarily stalled.” She places a kiss on soft, full lips. “And it was more than worth it. So good to me, Anthea.” She holds the other woman’s gaze, hoping to convey all the emotion she couldn’t quite say yet.
Anthea smiles, the full, warm smile that only comes out when she is really, truly delighted. “You’re so easy to be good to, my dear.” She kisses her again, quick and soft, then kisses down her jawline. Molly can’t quite hide the soft gasp when her lips touch over the sore bruise already forming from Anthea’s teeth.
Pulling back, Anthea grazes her fingers over the tender spot on the side of her neck. “So sorry, Molls. I do rather get carried away sometimes.”
“You do, don’t you?” Molly quirks her lips up in a teasing smile then kisses her. “Good thing I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
She glances up at the clock. “Now, I still have fifteen minutes. Why don’t we see how we can fill it?” With a smile, Anthea kisses her hungrily. Molly pushes herself off the desk and steers them toward the chair. Once Anthea’s seated, Molly drops to her knees and Anthea obligingly parts her legs. Kissing up the soft skin of her inner thighs, Molly pauses, just at the crease of her hip, before parting her lips and landing a small, but sharp, bite on the delicate skin. Anthea gasps, body jolting in surprise and Molly grins up at her. “Have to give a little back, don’t I?”
Anthea rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, hands relaxed on her thighs. Molly ducks her head and leans in to taste her. Relishing the slight moans she causes, Molly licks slowly, languidly, drawing her tongue up through her wetness before flicking it over her clit. She does this a few times, teasing her, until she can feel the slight frustration, the want, the need, in the tiny, involuntary thrusts of Anthea’s hips. Taking that as her cue, she turns her attention fully to her clit, alternating circling and flicking it until Anthea’s hand flutters near her head. She picks up her tempo and is rewarded by Anthea grasping her hair, other hand curled tightly around Molly’s resting against Anthea’s thigh.
A few more seconds and she’s there, bucking up against her mouth and crying out. Molly keeps her mouth in place, licking her through it, until she settles, thighs spread loosely and breath coming in pants. Molly rises up and Anthea pulls her close, kissing her roughly. Anthea breaks away, breathing heavily, and they rest their foreheads together, mirrored smiles on their lips.
After a moment Molly stands, shaking the stiffness from the cold tile floor out of her body. “Have I told you lately how much I enjoy spending my lunch break with you?”