Molly can’t sleep.
He’s been in her flat for 559 hours (he’s been keeping a running tally), day in and day out. He doesn’t ever leave because, well, dead men don’t traditionally walk the streets of London (but hey, you never know with this city). Every morning when she wakes up, he’s there. In the kitchen, in the sitting room, in the bath – he’s always there, always in sight, always next to her, and it’s driving her absolutely mad. To have him this close to her at all times, to have him nearby at any given moment – it’s infuriating. If she thought she was infatuated before...
It’s heartbreaking and painful and unbelievably frustrating to have him like this in her life, to see him but unable to touch him; to hear him, and yet unable to caress him; to smell him, and remain unable to taste him. The last thought makes her blush uncontrollably, and even now she remains paranoid that he can somehow see her, that he’ll somehow just know that’s she’s been thinking these things.
That’s why she can’t sleep.
She cringes just thinking about it, but it’s true: she’s just too damn frustrated. As in, too-uptight-due-to-a-severe-lack-of-sexual-contact-including-the-solo-kind. She’s the first to admit that she doesn’t really get out all that much into the dating world (misadventures with criminal masterminds aside), but usually she can at least count on a warm bath, a couple glasses of wine, and getting into bed with a copy of a terribly written but completely engrossing smutty Harlequin novel. If she couldn’t get a boyfriend well hey, she’s perfectly capable of getting things done herself.
Well, she had been perfectly capable. Until a dark-haired madman with stunning eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones had invaded her home.
She can’t bring herself to even try to alleviate any of her frustration herself out of a complete and total fear that somehow he will just know what she’s been doing, and he’ll make some sort of snide remark or cutting comment, and she honestly would literally die of total embarrassment should Sherlock Holmes make any sort of comment on her masturbatory practices. That said, however, she’s been losing sleep over it, unable to slip into a blissful restful state due to the tension that now dominates her body, keeping her wired and alert until the deep hours of the night. It doesn’t help that the star of several of her favorite fantasies is now sleeping in the next room, in the living and breathing form, while she tries to block out thoughts of her running her hands through his hair, his fingers on her spine, her mouth nipping along those graceful collarbones, leaving little red marks all along that alabaster skin...
Stop it! she tells herself, but it’s a losing battle she’s fighting, even as she squirms uncomfortably under the covers, trying so very hard to just forget about it and fall asleep.
[His lips on her skin, his teeth catching on the lobe of her ear, as his hand slips under her shirt and -]
“Oh, fuck it,” she mutters coarsely under her breath, and she decides in that instant to hell with it, she needs to sleep, and she’s just going to have to risk it after all.
She slides her hand down into the front of her pyjama bottoms, and sighs as her fingers make contact with her own warm skin, already sensitive from her few moments of stolen fantasies. She wants so badly to not think of Sherlock, not this time at least, but suddenly all other scenarios recede from her mind and the only thing she can think of is Sherlock, dressed in that lavender shirt, the first few buttons undone at the top, and she can almost reach out and touch the hollows of his neck, her fingers ghosting along his skin. She imagines his hand reaching out to meet hers, as he smiles at her, catching her by the wrist with his free hand, his fingertips digging into the flesh on her hips as he kisses her hard, her breath stolen away by the passion of his embrace. His fingers at her waist slip down even as he continues to kiss her, dropping down between her legs, and Molly can feel that heavy feeling sink down into the pit of her stomach, that feeling, the one of pure arousal, as she continues to work her fingers on herself, feeling the tension start to fade out of her, even as –
And then she freezes, startled.
Her eyes open in an instant, her brain registering the sound of movement from somewhere near the door. Her heart, still racing from her own ministrations, re-doubles its efforts, her pulse beating a tattoo in the side of her neck. She can’t quite see the door from her vantage point, so she pushes herself up on her elbows slowly, hoping against hope that she doesn’t see what (who) she sincerely hopes isn’t there...
And then she cringes, and flops herself back down onto the bed, her hands thrown over her eyes and her face already burning deep red, after she recognizes the silhouette of the one and only Sherlock Holmes.
“OhGodohGodohGod,” she breathes. “H-how long have you been standing there?!” she manages to get out, her voice nearly breaking several times.
“Less than a minute,” he answers.
She keeps her eyes squeezed shut, even under the protective cover of her hands. “Wh-why?”
“Bored,” he answers simply, succinctly.
Molly has never, ever been this embarrassed in her life. “Just – just g-go away, Sherlock,” she mumbles, wondering if she’ll ever be able to look him in the eyes again. Maybe she can just live in her bedroom from now on. Leave through the window, sneak in some bread – she could even just use the toilet in the M&S down the street, that way she wouldn’t even have to risk venturing into the hallway of her flat, she wouldn’t even have to see him-
“But you didn’t finish,” he says softly, and she has to process that statement twice before it really sinks in.
She forgets about covering her eyes for a moment, and pushes her herself back up onto her elbows, looking over at him. “W-what?” she whispers, her cheeks still burning hot.
He raises an eyebrow at her. “You didn’t finish.”
In mere moments she has gone from the most embarrassed she’s ever been to the most confused. “Sh-Sherlock, I don’t, don’t understand...”
Even in the dark, she can see him give her a reproachful look. “You did not reach orgasm,” he tells her matter-of-factly, as if she is the biggest idiot in the world (to be fair, there is ample evidence, in her opinion, for that factual accuracy of that claim).
If her face burned any redder she could be a stand-in for the sun. “Sherlock, if – if you think I’m going to... continue .... with you st-standing there, you’re really quite mistaken,” she tells him, barely able to maintain control of her own voice.
“I could offer you my assistance,” he replies, without missing a beat.
Molly wonders for a moment what drug she might have accidentally ingested in her lab today that would account for this type of hallucination. Her mind runs through the inventory mentally, but she can’t think of anything that would have had this type of delayed reaction, and with this type of vivid physical manifestation, which could only mean –
This is real.
She knows she should really think this through. She knows that she should seriously consider the ramifications of this type of development in their – what? acquaintance? friendship? – especially given the fact that she is pretty well completely in love with him and he seems to tolerate her at best, but given her current state of frustration and the opportunity to have Sherlock’s hands on her in any sort of way, well... she’d be a fool to say no. Wouldn’t she?
She doesn’t allow herself any time to doubt her decision (she can think about this – actually think about this – later). “Okay,” she whispers, her voice barely audible even in the silence of the room, as she lies back down and simply waits for whatever might happen next.
The next thing she knows, she feels a weight settle down on the bed beside her, her body tilting slightly to the side with his added weight on the mattress. She doesn’t know what, if anything, to say, so she just shuts her mouth and stays quiet in her anticipation, nervous and yet so very excited at the same time. She gasps involuntarily as she feels his fingers touch, and then close, around the band of her pyjama bottoms, taking hold of them.
“May I?” he asks softly, and she can only nod in consent.
He slides them down her legs, her knickers going with them as well, and she cringes in momentary embarrassment at the thought of Sherlock Holmes seeing her naked from the waist down. He doesn’t say anything, though, and she can’t help the sharp intake of breath that she takes as his fingers [those long, delicate fingers] press lightly at the edges of her folds. He pauses for a moment, as if lost in thought, and then begins to move.
Molly’s hands both grip the sheets in a mixture of pleasure and sheer incredulity at the touch of Sherlock’s fingers on her labia, his fingers stroking along either side before coming higher to press against her clit, rubbing in loose, uneven circles against it.
“Is this good?” he asks her, and she could swear that his voice is deeper now, more husky.
“V-very,” she manages to gasp, before moaning as his other hand reaches even further down, pausing at the edge of her entrance.
“Don’t stop,” she manages to breathe, her mind barely functioning now between her efforts in working towards the release she so desperately craved and the fact that it is Sherlock Holmes providing the mechanism through which that release is to be achieved.
He slips one finger in, then a second in quick succession, and Molly moves past all coherent thought, all considerations of self-consciousness and embarrassment and emotional confusion thrown aside to simply enjoy the moment, because God knows the next time Sherlock would ever provide this ‘service’ for her ever again,
She’s rocking against his hands now, her fingers digging into the mattress as she arches her spine up to meet the movement of his fingers, his body pressed up against hers even tighter now as he adjusts his approach. Without thinking, she releases one of her hands from the tangle of her sheets and reaches it down towards his own, covering the hand moving over her clit, the pressure from her hand pressing his palm down towards her pubic bone. He doesn’t even argue, adjusting his movements to accommodate her position, and before she knows it her whole body goes tense and then suddenly releases, biting back her cry despite herself (not wanting to embarrass herself even more in front of him, really). Her whole body shakes with the exertion, and she collapses back onto her mattress, her body reduced to little more than a ragdoll, useless and motionless.
A few moments pass, and then she feels him pull his hands away, though he doesn’t move from her side. As her senses come back to her, she notes his rapid breathing, the panting of his breath suddenly loud in the quiet room. She realizes that, asexual sociopath or not (she’s leaning strongly towards the or not now), he’s still physically affected by the situation, and she awkwardly wonders if protocol would dictate that she offer to reciprocate.
“Wo-would you like me to, to –” she starts, her voice faltering.
“No,” he answers quickly, his breathing still rough, still rapid. “No – I ... no,” he replies, and it’s the first time she’s ever heard that level of hesitation in his voice.
“Th-thank you,” she manages to say, though she can feel the embarrassment start to rise in her again, along with panic, and confusion, and (most of all) total and complete relief.
He clears his throat abruptly and quickly stands. “Yes, well...” he tells her, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “Goodnight.”
With that, he steals out of her room abruptly without another word, leaving Molly alone on her bed, immensely satisfied and yet entirely confused. Breakfast will be new levels of awkward, she can’t help to think to herself, even as sleep starts to overcome her in the wake of her orgasm, finally lulling her into the slumber that she has so desperately craved.