How the hell had it come to this?
In a way, the question was irrelevant. There was no way to predict these things, and when Sherlock was involved, getting caught up in the force of nature she incarnated was practically inevitable.
It didn’t stop the events that followed from being… unexpected. Not unwanted, but definitely unexpected.
Then again, this was Sherlock. Unexpected was a pleonasm.
It had started a few weeks ago.
Molly had walked into the lab and found John pressed up against the wall, Sherlock’s body trapping her there. John’s eyes were closed, a slight frown within her relaxed face, her mouth open as she breathed heavily. She had one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, her fingers flexed as she scratched Sherlock’s skin through her shirt, hard enough to mark the fabric. The fingers of John’s other hand tangled in Sherlock’s dark curls, holding her in place, face hidden in the crook of John’s neck.
The sight of the couple tangled together in a state of advanced arousal was such a shock for Molly that it took a moment for her to notice where Sherlock’s hands were. She had one arm wrapped around John’s waist to hold her in place, or up, if the strain in Sherlock’s shoulders was anything to go by. The other had slipped it’s way under John’s skirt, the fabric stretched around her arm, the dark blue contrasting with her pale skin, accentuating the slow and steady rhythm of her movements.
They hadn’t heard Molly come in and didn’t seem to notice her as she stood there, unmoving, overwhelmed by her sudden elevated heartrate. She felt a blush creeping up her neck. She blinked a few times, attempting to breathe calmly through her nose, before realising her mouth had come open when John hissed with pleasure.
If it hadn’t been for the coffee mug that slipped from her grasp and onto the floor, they would have kept going. Instead John’s eye snapped open and she pushed Sherlock’s hand away and hid behind her tall frame while she readjusted her clothes.
Sherlock seemed unaffected by Molly’s presence and had reluctantly untangled herself from John. When she turned, Molly could see how Sherlock’s lips and cheeks were flushed red, hair astray from John’s hand, her shirt askew from being tugged and clawed. She bore an irritated look, but her eyes betrayed her arousal and amusement. Her gaze traveled along Molly and she raised an eyebrow, as if intrigued, curious. Molly had to look away, embarrassed at the situation but mostly embarrassed by the intensity of her own arousal that she knew she couldn’t hide from Sherlock. She focused instead on the broken mug on the floor, mumbling excuses that John spoke over, apologising profusely for their inappropriate behavior and offering to help clean up the mess.
The next few minutes were a blur, and when Molly had finished cleaning up the mess, she glanced at Sherlock. She had a slight frown, the one she had when she was working on a case, trying to figure out a problem.
But she was staring at Molly with that look.
She was staring while rubbing her fingers on her flushed bottom lip. The fingers she had had buried in John moments ago. They were still wet, shining brightly in the hard neon lights of the lab.
Molly turned away and closed her eyes when Sherlock started to suck them into her mouth. She couldn’t watch, couldn’t deal with that sight, not now, not at work. She had no idea what excuse she gave them, she just walked away, hid from the pair until she could calm down and think straight.
She had no idea how long it took, but when she risked going back to the lab with a new coffee, they were gone.
The next time John and Sherlock came by the lab, nothing happened per se, but Sherlock kept… staring.
They had called ahead--well, texted--about a case. They didn’t stay long, but the entire time Sherlock stared. Looked. Examined. Molly felt like a mystery Sherlock was trying to solve and it felt exhilarating. But Sherlock never lost her train of thought and swept out of the lab as soon as she had the results she needed for their ongoing case.
Yet the entire time, Molly couldn’t help but flush at the memory of Sherlock rubbing her full, reddened lip with glistening fingers. And she knew Sherlock could tell. How else could she explain Sherlock reading the lab report while she rubbed her bottom lip with those same fingers.
Molly was starting to panic and was having trouble finding an excuse to leave that had nothing to do with getting coffee. They left in a rush before she had to.
She sucked in a shaking breath, and sunk into the nearest stool.
Molly didn’t hear from them for a week and a half. So, when Sherlock stepped through the lab door without a warning she almost dropped her scalpel into the body she had on the slab.
“Molly,” Sherlock said as way of greeting. “have you got any ears?”
She tried to answer, but it came out as a mush of “hi,” “hello,” and “what are you doing here?” Sherlock ignored her mumbled response and walked straight towards her. Molly could feel her heartrate accelerate the closer she got.
Once Sherlock was standing next to Molly, she leaned over the dead body, eyes roaming. “Smoker, 57, dog owner, died of… oh, where did he get that rash?”
“Animal smuggling.” Molly managed to answer even though her throat wasn’t cooperative.
Sherlock hummed and nodded once before she straightened. “Ears?”
“Sorry, fresh out.” She replied with a nervous breathless laugh.
She shook her head and tried vehemently to focus on her task.
“Fingers will do,” Sherlock said in a low voice, suddenly very close to Molly’s ear.
Molly closed her eyes and fought against the flush she could feel creeping up her neck, the sudden heat wave coming out of her collar. She had no idea how she managed to open her eyes and keep working.
“Sorry.” The word caught a bit in her throat.
“Mind putting some aside for me?”
Molly cursed the shiver that ran up and down her spine, the tingle in her neck as she felt Sherlock’s breath against her skin.
She felt rather than saw Sherlock spin around and walk away, heard the swish of her beloved coat as the door closed behind her.
Molly took a deep breath as she stepped away from the body and stared at the ceiling. “She’s going to kill me one day.”
It took three days for Molly to admit to herself how relieved and simultaneously disappointed she was by the absence of visitors. She knew it was for the best, that she had work to do, but it didn’t stop the memory of Sherlock and John’s brief sexual adventure against the wall from playing on repeat. Didn’t stop her eyes from constantly drifting to that wall and then huffing when she caught herself doing so. Didn’t stop her legs from pressing together as she remembered how Sherlock looked as she pushed wet fingers past her luscious lips. Didn’t stop the intense wave of arousal she felt at the idea of seeing it again.
Didn’t stop her from wanting to see more.
She couldn’t help it. As if it had flipped a switch in her, creating a constant reel of fantasies about what could have happened if she hadn’t dropped her coffee. If they hadn’t seen her. Or if they had; if John had opened her eyes, seen Molly there watching them, and…
Molly leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes and crossed her legs tighter. She had paperwork to finish and a couple tests to run in the lab before she could go home. It had been nine days since Sherlock’s last visit, and Molly’s attention span was getting steadily worse. By the time she had started running the tests, she was considering going to the loo to wank and take the edge off, just so she could concentrate and finish her ruddy day. As much as the constant state of arousal was a pleasant sensation, it was starting to be an inconvenience, because she couldn’t figure out how to appease it. It wasn’t from lack of trying, the fantasies just wouldn’t stop. When she was home she had her hands down her pants more often than not. Imagining what Sherlock would look like on her knees with thighs wrapped around her head. How her hair would look with John’s fingers buried in her curls as she tugged lightly, or not so lightly. How John would sound as she orgasmed…
Molly’s hands were holding onto the counter, preventing them from slipping down her trousers, her head hanging low when she heard a knock on the door. Her head shot up and she almost stumbled to the floor when she saw John push through.
Molly’s body froze into place, thrilled yet terrified at seeing John step into the lab. The sensation increased as she waited to see if Sherlock would walk through the door. Then she realised John was alone. It’s also then she noticed John was wearing a skirt.
“John. What-um, hi.”
John walked over, but she was looking anywhere but at Molly, mostly the floor. Even her walk was different, slower. Molly figured John was still embarrassed by… the event, and tried to act normal. They chatted a bit, John was friendly and warm as always, even if her discomfort was visible. Yet Molly was struggling; John was right there as her mind flashed image after image of the multiple fantasies she had spent days developing.
“So, um, what do you need?” Molly wished that didn’t sound as sexual as it did.
“Yeah, uh,” John shook her head a bit as she rubbed her neck. “Do you have the Frank Dawson autopsy report, from the arson case?”
Molly gladly focused on work. “Sure, I can email them to you if you want.”
She started turning to head to the computer when John stopped her.
“Actually, uh, Sherlock’s working on this new experiment; wanted to see if she could use your mass spectrometer and compare her results with the ones from the autopsy.” John pointed at the door over her shoulder. “She was right behind me, probably snuck out for a fag and thinks I won’t notice.”
Molly felt her knees go weak at the new information and was proud of herself for staying upright. She was grateful to have the perfect excuse to leave and try to get her shit together before Sherlock arrived.
“Right,” She replied breathily. “I’ll, uh, be right back.”
She fought to keep her breathing under control until she was safe in the filing room. As soon as she leaned against one of the cabinets she felt her heart in her throat.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” She whispered as she stared at the ceiling tiles.
Willing her mind to focus on anything but the never-ending reel of fantasies, she breathed deeply and counted to thirty before she retrieved the file. Slowly. When she started walking back she was considering dropping it off and finding an excuse to go home.
Maybe stop by a sex shop. Um. Maybe not.
She stopped when the lab door was in view. Just a few more steps.
She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and looked through the window.
Her eyes widened.
Sherlock had arrived while Molly was out getting the autopsy report. They were currently kissing languorously, arms wrapped around one another. As Sherlock slipped her hand under John’s shirt, Molly understood what was happening. Understood that John wasn’t embarrassed by what had happened, but rather by what was about to happen.
This was planned.
Molly should leave. She should, she really should. Should turn around, go into her office and not come out for at least an hour. Maybe two. Or call security. Or go home.
She really should look away, not peer through the wired glass and watch Sherlock kiss her way along John’s jaw and trap her ear lobe with her teeth.
Molly felt her pulse quicken, a blush creeping up and out of her collar, spreading across her neck and face. It tingled along her back as Sherlock pushed John’s shirt up and over her head before dipping down to capture her lips once more. Molly squeezed her legs together as they opened their mouths, their tongues meeting in the middle. Watched John tilt her head back as Sherlock kissed her way down her neck, nipping the skin every now and then, making John smile between labored breaths. The smile vanished, her mouth twisting into an O as Sherlock bit down onto her shoulder, her cheeks hollowed as she sucked her skin. John’s grip on Sherlock’s shirt tightened, the fabric straining as she twisted in pleasure. Sherlock held her with one arm around John’s waist, and the other cupped her right breast, still caught in her brassiere. Molly watched as Sherlock used the same focus she used in her work directed on John instead. For a moment, Molly imagined what that would feel like and shivered. Sherlock was paying attention to every detail, every one of John’s reactions to her lips and tongue, hands and fingers…
Suddenly John shifted and pushed Sherlock’s shoulders, twisting and moving until Sherlock was pressed against the wall. Before she knew it, Molly’s hand was flat against polished wood. She found herself rapt and fascinated at the sight of them. How they transitioned the lead from one to the other as seamlessly as they did in the field. Sherlock in the lead was clean and precise, fascinating to watch. She used every movement, every touch with efficiency to elicit maximum pleasure. When John was in the lead she was… feral, sexy, as if she was throwing herself in completely. John gave pleasure with every inch of her body, and seemed to feel as much pleasure giving as she did receiving. Molly’s forehead pressed against the glass as John kept Sherlock pressed against the wall, her hands next to her head with a tight grip on Sherlock’s wrists, a leg pushed between thighs. She tilted her head back as John ravaged her neck and shoulders, making Sherlock’s hips buck forward and slowly grind down John’s naked thigh.
Sherlock’s hips eased to a slow small circle suddenly. John must have said something because Sherlock smiled then, and whispered an answer Molly couldn’t hear. John leaned back to look at Sherlock’s face. Their gaze became heated. Sherlock leaned to John’s ear, her lips brushing against the lobe as she spoke. She pulled back, letting her mouth rub against John’s jaw as she did. She stopped just before her lips touched John’s, staring at them before looking up to John’s eyes and speaking again.
Just as John nodded, Sherlock leaned in and kissed her. There was a pause before the grip around Sherlock’s wrists lessened, her arms slipping down, off the wall and wrapped around John. One hand to John’s neck to deepen their kiss, while the other unhooked John’s bra as if she had simply snapped her fingers, letting it fall to the floor. Her hands ran up and down John’s back and sides before twisting them around and pressing John’s back against the wall. Molly’s breath caught as their position mirrored the one she had found them in the first time. Sherlock captured one of John’s breast with her lips as she guided the opposite leg up and around her waist.
The angle gave Molly and excellent view of John’s panties. Her drenched panties.
Molly stared at the darkened cloth between John’s thighs and felt her mouth water. She only noticed Sherlock’s hand sliding up John’s thigh until it was already there, covering her mound with her hands and pressing against it with her thigh. John gasped loudly enough for Molly to hear it through the door. As muffled as it was by the wood and glass barriers, the sound sent a shiver down Molly’s back and landed heavily in her pelvis. Her breath fogged up the wired glass as John’s arms pawed at Sherlock, her control crumbling slowly under her touch. All she could do was hold on for the ride.
Molly saw rather than heard Sherlock’s name slipped past John’s lips. She was overwhelmed by how strongly she needed to hear it. So much so that she didn’t notice she had pushed the door open until she was halfway through.
She stopped breathing, panic striking in fear that everything would stop when they saw her standing there. A small voice told Molly it was probably for the best. Another, much stronger voice, told her to close the door before John’s moans attracted attention.
The door closed silently behind Molly, just as Sherlock pushed aside John’s panties, rubbed the tip of her fingers against the delicate skin, making them glisten before pushing her middle fingers in. Molly’s eyes went from John’s blissed expression to Sherlock’s long finger pushing in. It moved in and out slowly until John was moving her hips and meeting each thrust.
Molly wasn’t sure what happened then, but John’s knees gave out. Sherlock pulled her hand away and helped John straighten and guided her to the nearest stool. The one where Molly was sitting when John arrived.
Once John was sitting securely, she spread John’s knees wide before her hands trailed up her thighs, scratching lightly. Sherlock smiled at the low moan it elicited and moved to licked John’s ear and bite hard enough to make John cry out.
She released the lobe and whispered. “Is she watching?”
Molly’s eyes widened at Sherlock’s words. All her senses were alert, waiting in anticipation to see what would happen next.
John forced her eyes open and scanned the room. It took a few seconds before she spotted Molly. Their eyes met, and it felt like the sexual tension in the room grew exponentially. Just their eyes meeting heightened the arousal.
“Yes,” John moaned, her head falling back but without looking away.
There was a low growl before Sherlock bit down on John’s trapezius, breaking their eye contact as John cried out. Sherlock’s thigh pushed between John’s legs, pressing and grinding repeatedly until John started scratching her back.
“Fuck.” The syllable caught thickly in John’s throat, gasping for air, her nails digging deeper into Sherlock’s back. “Do that again.”
Molly was curious to know what Sherlock had done, but it very quickly didn’t matter anymore when she heard John moan as if the sound had been pulled from deep inside her.
“Again,” John panted.
Sherlock hummed, clearly pleased to hear John in such a state. “Do you think she likes watching?”
John’s eyes opened once more, biting her lip as she looked at Molly from head to toe. “Yes.”
Sherlock put one knee to the floor and Molly heard herself whimper.
“Yes,” John repeated more to herself as Sherlock pressed her face against John’s soaked panties. “Oh, fuck yes.” She moaned as Sherlock pushed aside the fabric and licked.
Molly felt like her brain had stopped working, focused only on what was happening in front of her. She could see everything. It was nothing like she had imagined, it was so much better, hotter, filthier than she had dared fantasise. Not only were John’s moans making her squeeze her thighs together involuntarily, but the sounds of Sherlock licking and sucking were making Molly drench her panties--and probably her trousers, too, at this rate. She wanted to touch herself so much but her body was frozen into place, as if any movement on her part would break the spell.
John whimpered helplessly and arched her back as Sherlock pushed in two fingers. After a few slow thrusts, John’s hands flailed around, looking for something solid to hold onto. Molly took a step forward, ready to help John, when one hand gripped the edge of the counter and the other buried itself in Sherlock curls. The image so close to what Molly had pictured but so much better.
“There, yes, right th- fuck.” John cursed through her clenched teeth, close to a growl.
Molly had no idea what Sherlock had done, she was captivated by John’s face, how expressive she was. How she was tense but relaxed, how she let herself go in Sherlock’s arms yet guided her. Molly could tell she was close, a sheen of sweat covered her body as she undulated under Sherlock’s attentions, but something was missing. As if John needed a push.
Molly should have felt humiliated at the moan that left her lips, but she was too consumed by lust to care. She had wanted to hear John moan Sherlock’s name so badly that her eyelids drooped at the sound.
John’s hand let go of the counter and went up to her breast, her face contorted in frustration, flustered, as she attempted to give herself the push her body desperately needed. She opened her eyes and stared at Molly.
Molly could feel every hair on her body rise as their eyes met once more. Somehow, she knew what John wanted, needed.
“Please.” John whispered.
Molly breath came out shaky, wondering if she should pinch herself, if this really was happening, if she was really considering…
She took one step forward, unsure, but she already knew she wouldn’t turn away. She had walked through the door; how could she turn away now? Just the idea of seeing John come undone, with how reactive she had been since Molly had been privy to the sight, the memory of her and the sounds she would make as she orgasmed under Sherlock’s touch, under her touch…
Molly took a deep breath and took another step, and another, unsure if she remembered how to breathe by the time she was standing next them.
Sherlock hummed hungrily as she saw Molly, still not moving away from the delicate affair her tongue was having with John’s clitoris, shoulders moving in tandem as her fingers pumped in and out of John. John’s breaths were quick and ended in high complaintive notes, pleading her body to let her come.
Molly’s last resolve crumbled when John’s scent filled her nose, making her sway on the spot. Her hand was trembling as she raised it, her heartbeat loud in her ears, her breathing erratic as she saw her fingers brush against the skin of John’s arm. She wondered if this is what people meant by being drunk with arousal. Her fingers brushed soft golden skin, up to John’s neck, then back down again. Molly watched John, her head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open as she panted for her next breath. How her head lolled to the side, how she bit her lip after a full body spasm that started from her hips, arched her back, rolling through her shoulders, pulsing in the muscle of her arms, her hand tightening in Sherlock’s dark curls, the other tugging harder at her nipple.
Mouth parted, John turned her head and opened her eyes, pupils’ slowly came into focus, half hidden behind her lids. She didn’t seem alarmed or disturbed by Molly’s touch, rather she leaned into it, silently pleading her for more.
Slowly, Molly’s shaking hand made it’s way down John’s arm, past her elbow, catching up to where John was rolling her own nipple between her fingers. John’s breath caught when Molly’s fingers intertwined with hers, leaning into her touch, directing her, pulling her closer. Before she knew it, Molly was behind John, pressed against her back, her other hand sneaking around and cupping her other breast. John arched her back, her head falling backwards and landing onto Molly’s shoulder, breath puffing against her cheek. She looked down, saw John’s full breasts in her hands, her brain still trying to understand what was happening. It stopped working when her eyes met Sherlock’s, the only part of her face that wasn’t buried between John’s legs.
“Oh, my god.” Molly whispered, overwhelmed by the visual stimulation.
Sherlock eyes smirked, she did something with her hands that made John gasp and arch her back further, pushing into Sherlock’s mouth as she pressed her back against Molly. Molly’s hands cupped and pinched John’s breast harder as she bit her lip.
“I-I” John started to say, eyes shut tightly, mouth open wide. “Don’t stop, please don’t-OH, fffu-.”
Molly watched, mesmerized, as John’s mouth opened wide into the shape of an O, her entire body tensing, but not a sound came out, not at first. Her neck twisted, pushing her forehead hard against Molly’s cheek, her body jerking twice before the first of many deep shuddering moans came out of her. Her thighs tightened around Sherlock’s head, her hand twisting in the curly hair as she gasped and writhed in pleasure. It seemed to last much longer than Molly had ever experienced, and by the end she was also panting, her hands now simply cupping John’s breasts.
Sherlock’s left hand appeared and tapped John’s thigh lightly. Without any other acknowledgement on her part, John released Sherlock’s head. Sherlock leaned against John’s left thigh as she caught her breath, John giving her a lazy scalp massage as she basked in her rush of post-orgasm hormones.
John was heavy against Molly, but Molly didn’t dare move her, willing their bubble of lust to last as long as possible. Her eyes met Sherlock’s and she bit her lip when she noticed the wetness across Sherlock’s full lips, how it shimmered on her chin and down her long pale neck. Felt her breath catch as Sherlock’s tongue slipped out to taste, then sucked in her lower lip and hummed.
Molly had a brief moment of panic as Sherlock started moving, but then she uncurled herself to stretch over John, kissing her way up her belly, between her breasts, her lips catching on the tip of Molly’s fingers, but continued up John’s neck. As Sherlock’s lips found John’s, they were so close to Molly’s that she could have just turned her head and joined the kiss. It was over before she found the courage to do so, and noticed instead that Sherlock had pulled out her phone.
“Don’t you fucking dare take a picture,” John slurred.
Sherlock glimpsed at her with a smile tugging at her lips. “Case.”
“It’s in Brixton, you’ll have time to recuperate in the cab.”
“J-Just… gimme a minute.”
Molly was still flushed, her mind spinning to catch up with the situation. Before she could grasp what was happening, John had her shirt back on and following Sherlock out the door.
She stood in the lab, body still buzzing with arousal, wondering if she just had a very vivid dream.
She jumped when her phone pinged with a new text message.
Sorry we just ran out like that. You know how Sherlock is.
…Did that just really happen?
Not sure myself.
Molly stared at John’s text. Was she really…?
If you’re up to it, of course. Thought I’d… we’d offer, since that was… good.
Molly felt her face flush. Another text came in before she could think of a reply.
Very good. My brain is still not working properly, good.
She bit her lip and texted back.
I’ll think about it.