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“I know this is . . . difficult,” Molly says, tugging nervously at her white lab coat as she and John look down on the pale, still, naked body of Sherlock Holmes lying on her dissection table. He has a tag on his toe and a sheet drawn up to his chest, and there is nary a visible flicker of life.

“Yes,” John says. “It is. It's cold in here.”

“Well, that's for the best,” Molly says. “Because - ”

“I know,” John says, cutting her off. “It does look like him,” He traces a fingertip over Sherlock's collarbone. His skin is cool to the touch. “I just can't accept him being so -”


“Yeah. That. Well-behaved.” John lets his fingers trail down Sherlock's sternum, through that little sprinkle of hair. Molly reaches down and touches him too, her hand not quite touching John's – but getting ever closer to doing just that. “See, I'd be sure it's him, but he's had a stunt-double corpse before. As you bloody well know.”

“Sorry,” she murmurs, fingertip daring to circle Sherlock's right nipple, mere inches from the bullet hole. She isn't, not really. John knows this and he laughs a little as he presses up behind her and pulls her against him. His other hand is sliding up Sherlock's side, up into his armpit to tug at that little black curl.

“Squash ball in the armpit, you cock,” he murmurs as he tugs, testing. Oh yes, there's a little shiver. Just a spasm of a nerve. (He was ticklish in life. Apparently still is.) “Molly, let's move this sheet.” It's all that's preserving Sherlock's modesty. Not that he ever had much.

“Can you identify him from . . . not-his-face?” Molly asks.

“Of course,” he says, as his hand and Molly's together slide the sheet down, follow the trail of hair from Sherlock's navel to his groin, and start to lewdly fondle him. “I'd know this prick anywhere,” John says. He doesn't just mean the penis. He's trying really hard not to laugh as he pushes Sherlock's thighs a little bit apart to caress the incredibly soft and tender skin there. Molly is examining Sherlock's cock with a practiced medical grasp and grope, and it's starting to darken and plump in her hand.

“Huh,” she says. “Post-mortem priapism, interesting.”

“Typical of spinal cord injuries, isn't it?” John says as he nuzzles her neck and starts to awkwardly unbutton her blouse with one hand. Once he's got some buttons open, though, there is nothing awkward about the way his hand cups and strokes her right breast.

Sherlock's doing so well. Were it not for that flush of blood and shiver, John would almost believe it – and he is so very glad for just a moment that he doesn't really have to, not this time.

“I know it's unprofessional,” Molly says in a deep, low voice as John pinches her nipple, as her fingertips circle the moistening head of Sherlock's swelling erection. “but that's a really nice cock.”

“Yeah, isn't it?” John says between soft bites to her neck. His hand slides down her belly and works at the button of her trousers. “When that happens – I bet you get tempted sometimes, don't you? Some fit young thing all laid out and hard like that, don't you want to give him a good sendoff? Seems a shame to let that go to waste.”

“Er . . .” John spares her the indignity of answering by briefly flickering his tongue into her mouth as his hand sinks down her soft belly and into her cotton knickers, finding her slick and eager, and swipes a finger across her clit quickly twice, three times, before settling into a teasing rhythm. She cries out into his mouth.

“It's definitely him. It's Sherlock,” John says. “This is your big chance, Molly. Before you have a go on him with the bone saw.”

With a little whimper, she pulls her hand away from Sherlock's cock and licks the moisture she's gathered from her palm. John moans a little at the familiar scent of it, and pushes her trousers and knickers to the floor. She's still wearing her lab coat and her unbuttoned blouse and her unhooked bra, and Christ, that's hot. He's groping all over as he helps her climb on the table and straddle Sherlock's hips, and her hands are clutching at his, wanting more of his touch, pulling his fingers back between her wet ridges.

“Careful now,” John says. “You know sperm can still be viable for 24 hours.”

“Pill,” she mutters. “I know he's clean. Tested. I am too.”

He looks at Sherlock over her shoulder. Damn, he's good. Just a few shivers, a hint of a lip-bite; a swelling of his rib cage he can't suppress anymore.

It's a little clumsy, but she's ready, God is she ready. John smiles, takes up Sherlock's cock in his hand (oh, he can feel the pulse in it now, there's no trick that can hide that) and helps guide it to the right place between Molly's thighs, deep in her cleft. He teases her a little, rubbing that slick head against her lips and her clit for a moment and hears her whimper with anticipation. “Fuck, Molly, you're hot,” he mutters. “You know that Stones song? You'd make a dead man come.”

“I'm going to,” she smiles and sinks down on Sherlock's cock, trapping John's fingers for just a moment before he slides his hand back enough to toy with the tender, wrinkled skin of Sherlock's sac and the wet heat of the place where he's joined to Molly now. John shivers as she begins to move, riding him. He comes around behind, pushes Sherlock's legs apart on the table, and tries to find space to fit in; he opens his trousers and presses up against Molly's slowly rocking arse – not to penetrate her, just to rub against and feel.

As she rises back up and sinks down again, John can feel her muscles squeeze. And then Sherlock breaks; in a blink, Molly's hips are grasped hard by huge hands, and Sherlock bucks upward with a loud gasp and groan, thrusting up into her.

“It's a miracle, Molly,” John says, laughing. “God, your cunt can raise the dead.” She laughs wildly and leans down, hands on Sherlock's shoulders as he moans and growls.

“You lasted longer than I thought you could,” Molly pants to Sherlock, leaning over him.

“I've had experience,” Sherlock says between his deep breaths, releasing one of her hips and sliding his hand around to the base of his cock, and at that angle she can grind her clit just right on his knuckles as she rolls her hips so lewdly, and John can just tell, Sherlock is going to say something else smart-arsed, and ooh, maybe she'll slap him, that would be . . .

“God, John,” she gasps. “Go up to him. You're so hard. Stick it in his mouth, I want to see . . . “

And he wants to show her, so much, now that there's living flush back on Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock's mouth falls open as he moans with Molly's movements.

John abandons his position behind Molly and walks down to the end of the table where Sherlock's face is twisting toward him, looking eager to receive even if he's too lazy to even think of changing his position just yet. It's awkward, but the angle is manageable, and John for one is glad he isn't too tall. Even though John can't quite forget the way Sherlock tends to bite when he comes, still, now, that's hot and perfect and Sherlock is at least game to try to multitask . . .

John can see Molly's face clearly now as she bends down over Sherlock. Her face is feral, her lip curled, her eyes wild. With a filthy rippling of her body, she grinds down on Sherlock's hand and pinches his nipples, and then she goes taut and shakes.

Sherlock jerks his mouth off of John for just a moment as his eyes close and he savors the feeling of Molly clenching and clutching around him; in his own climax he goes rigid and lifts her weight with the force of his arching hips.

That dissection table was never built for this, and John can hear it creak and pop – but not break.

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock finally sighs. “What a devious little deviant you are.”

She giggles and nods, all false modesty.

“If I'd known you'd . . . make such requests . . . I'd have made sure I owed you a big favour years ago.”

She leans down and kisses him. “Now we owe John a favour.”

With a bit of a coltish wobble, she dismounts from Sherlock and the table and comes round to kneel by John, who presses forward to take Sherlock's mouth back. Sherlock's mouth isn't alone anymore, and now there are two deft tongues and two sets of lips gently, wetly fighting over the head of his cock. He thinks it's Sherlock's mouth he comes into at last, but he can't be sure, not even when he gets his consciousness back and looks down to see them sharing his come between them when they kiss.

He settles down on the floor, and three heads press together for a moment, before Sherlock finally lifts himself to a sitting position and stands up carefully. Naked, he looks as regal as it's possible for a man to look when he still has an ID tag on his big toe. “Do you have any more forbidden sex fantasies, Molly?”

She bites her lip, and grins widely as she nods.