"I haven't got much time," said Sherlock, sweeping through the mortuary doors, eyes fixed on his destination. "Show me your torso."
"Show you...what?" said Molly, smiling at him uncertainly and looking more like a schoolgirl in that moment and than a medical professional.
"Your dead torso," he clarified, a point which he had hoped wouldn't require clarification, particularly in this venue. "You said it was urgent."
"I said it was important," she said. Important, urgent, what was the difference? If it was important, then he needed to see to it immediately. "It would have kept."
"Kept until when? Kept until I finished watching some insipid television programme? Kept until John fixed the tea?"
"Right," said Molly, teeth digging into her lower lip just slightly and fastening her top button when, Sherlock suspected, she thought his attention was elsewhere. That warranted a closer look, obviously, and he catalogued her faintly flushed cheeks and dilated pupils, her fractionally elevated rate of respiration.
"Enjoying yourself, were you?"
"What? No!" she said, far too quickly and far too vehemently. "I was...in the office."
"Looking at questionable content on your laptop? I do hope IT wasn't monitoring you."
"Reading," she said, now unzipping the body bag more as a distraction than because he'd expressed any need for urgency, he was sure. "Nothing...questionable." Sherlock just looked at her; he didn't particularly care what she'd been doing, but he did hate being lied to so very badly. "I was in the privacy of my office," she relented. "A girl is allowed to read whatever she likes in the privacy of her office."
"I suppose if you must," he said.
"You know how it is, these late nights, all on my own."
"I mean," she went on, more and more flustered, as though he'd asked her for some sort of halting explanation of her activities, "sometimes you've just got to...entertain yourself."
He finally looked at her, though that didn't seem to help the situation. Her flush was far more pronounced, her lip visibly bitten and pinked. "So I'm told," he said. "Though I wasn't aware the impulse often came upon a person so urgently in her place of work."
"What, so you never...?" He was fairly certain that one didn't even warrant an answer, and so he continued to just gaze at her instead. "What about with...someone else?"
"On those rare occasions that I desire the company of someone else to get off," he said finally, if only to return to the more urgent matter at hand, "I find it much less complicated to simply pay for my necessities." Just as he would any others, such as food, or toiletries. It was a practical and efficient system, when used properly.
"Necessities!" she said, almost indignantly before she caught herself. "You must know you haven't got to pay for it."
"Of course I don't have to." The torso of the body was mottled with bruising that had emerged since his last examination, in a pattern that was just familiar enough to slip around the edges of his memory, and he traced his gloved fingers over it.
"You could always just find someone willing," she said slowly. "It could still be uncomplicated. Whatever you wanted would be...all right."
The bruises on the corpse were more interesting, but when he looked over at her, Molly's top button was open again and even for Sherlock the signs were clear.
"This isn't one of those rare occasions," he said, just as the silence grew long enough to become awkward.
"Oh," said Molly, and hurriedly closed her collar with one hand as though she'd been showing more than a tiny wedge of skin to begin with.
"But I'll keep your offer in mind," he said, as though she'd actually made one. "Now, the body, if you don't mind?"
"Right, of course," she said, and they finally got to work.
* * *
"Does your offer still stand?"
Molly looked up from her report, pen poised overtop of the signature line, and took a moment to recall the last thing Sherlock had asked her for. "We haven't got the right kind of foot in yet," she said finally, "but I'll let you know when we do."
"No, not that offer," said Sherlock. "The other one."
Sherlock always had a look of surety about him, whether it was calm surety or frenzied surety or simple, arrogant surety, but it was missing tonight. Oh, he still looked poised and imposing, but decidedly unsure.
"The metacarpals?" she tried.
"The sex," he said, with such a put-upon sigh. "A rare occasion is upon us."
"Oh!" said Molly. "Oh, of course, I've just got to..." Really, all she had left to do was sign the report, which she did without another moment of hesitation. "Shall we go back to mine?"
"I find it best to just get it over with, so I can get on with things," he said, looking around the mortuary. She wondered if he thought there might be a sofa tucked into a corner somewhere. "Unless of course you require a little more in the way of romance. I don't usually do that bit."
A little romance wouldn't go awry, but her expectations were more realistic. "No, that's fine," she said. "A few kind words maybe."
"Your shirt brings out the colour in your eyes," said Sherlock immediately, and with almost disconcerting sincerity. "May I take it off you now?"
"I've locked the door."
"There are windows."
"It's one o'clock in the morning," said Sherlock. "How many people do you suppose are still here?"
At least a dozen, she thought, but none of them likely to come anywhere near the mortuary after midnight, not even the cleaning staff until they were certain she'd gone for the night. Which didn't make it any more sensible...or make her want it any less.
She unbuttoned the first button of her blouse, blue today with little white birds embroidered on the lapels. Sherlock took it from there, pulling the rest open so quickly she thought she heard something tear. She'd often imagined this moment, imagined how Sherlock would be, but she'd never imagined that he would be quite like this.
"My coat," she said in the moments before his lips met hers, firmly and confidently and parting almost immediately. He fumbled the coat off her shoulders, and as she kicked it out of the way her blouse followed moments later, catching on the corner of the autopsy table and hanging there, a splash of blue in a sea of surgical steel.
He swung his own coat off and tossed it over the end of the autopsy table, then grabbed her waist and lifted her up on top of it. "Trousers," he said, and didn't specify hers or his but it didn't really matter because they were both going to be open in moments.
Sherlock knocked her shoes off more than pulled them, then tugged her trousers and pants right off and spread her legs so he could step between them.
"Sherlock..." she said--breathed, really, finding it hard to voice anything at this point--and wrapped one heel around his thigh. It was dizzyingly fast and her heart was pounding and what she really wanted to do was wrap all her limbs around him and claw at his back and get him to finally do what she'd been thinking about him doing for so long.
"Wait, I've got to..." he said, and reached up to gently cup her breast through the thin fabric of her bra. It felt tentative, as though it were something he thought he ought to do rather than something this rare and primal impulse of his was telling him to do.
"It's all right," she said, and though it felt very nice she still took his hand and put it back at the hem of his shirt and helped him pull it up and off. He didn't, strictly speaking, need to take it off, but it certainly made everything feel more intimate. For her. "You don't need to be gentle."
The sloped table meant that, when Sherlock pressed in closer again, wrapped an arm around her back and kissed her like a starving man, he was in exactly the right position to slip right inside her, if she just moved her hips like so. He didn't, not yet, but the idea that he could made her breath catch and sent sparks between her legs.
Then he tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling and his mouth hung open as he caught his breath and she really wanted him in all kinds of inappropriate ways.
"I've got a condom in my purse," she said, but he shook his head and murmured something inaudible before dipping his head back down to look at her.
"I came prepared," he said, with another soft sigh as he backed away from her to take care of things. In the weeks since he'd mentioned to her his relative indifference to sex, she'd thought a lot about his level of inexperience, about what things she might teach him if she ever got the chance. But her imagination had always involved a bed and at least a few hours, if not other niceties like a snack or props. This was not that chance, and if he was inexperienced, it was certainly not in this basic act.
"Are you comfortable?"
"I don't care," she said, and hooked a leg back around him again and then he was gripping her and tipping his head forward and sliding into her without so much as a pause. She actually gasped when it finally happened, and let out a high-pitched exhalation, holding onto him all the tighter.
A moment later he was kissing her again, firm and demanding, the kiss of someone who had no doubt about how you were going to react to it. If he could read her kissing style into anything she did in the laboratory, well, she didn't want to know it.
He wasn't gentle, but then neither was she, running fingernails down his skin and squeezing him with her thighs and, when he gripped the edges of the table and started thrusting inside her with a single-minded determination, digging her heels into him and biting his lip and twisting her hips to make it just exactly what she liked.
She'd seen him excited before, she'd seen him pleased and she'd certainly seen him determined, but she'd never seen this, she'd never seen him let go, she'd never seen him take such singular pleasure in something so decidedly not cerebral. In the corner of her mind not devoted to navigating the twists and turns to orgasm, she marvelled in this whole new person inside her and in front of her and wrapped around her.
When she reached that point just hovering over an orgasm, like she could reach out and touch it, like any motion could set it off, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and kissed him hard and stilled the rest of her body so she could hover in this moment as long as she could. It stretched out even as he continued to thrust, until he bit her lip and sent her soaring over the edge.
"Oh God, I felt that," he said, and just hearing words again was a little bit shocking, hearing his words and his voice made her throb even harder. She was loose but not limp in his arms as he held on, partly to her, partly to the table, and brought himself off moments later.
She had seen Sherlock undone, and it wasn't something she would ever forget.
Sherlock pressed his forehead to her shoulder and let his fingers slip down her back and seemed to be pulling himself together even as she watched him. A moment later he moved away and turned around to take care of the condom, and she memorized the view of him like this just in case she never got to see it again.
When he turned around again, he'd picked her knickers up off the floor and was handing them to her, which was very gentlemanly, in its way.
"This seems...an acceptable substitute to my old arrangement," he said finally. Molly was pretty sure that meant it was good. "Have you seen my trousers?"
"Behind the table," she said, where she'd heard them fall alongside her spare pen and an empty clipboard.
"Right," he said, and as he retrieved them she sat up, stretched out her sore muscles and slipped off the end of the table. Even through the thick fabric of Sherlock's coat, it would surely have left marks on her thighs and backside. When she was dressed to the waist again she looked up and saw Sherlock smiling at her, a strange and new smile. It looked fond.
They he looked away again and she looked around for her blouse and they both dressed, separated by a metal table and a silence that neither one of them seemed to want to breach.
"I'll come see about the foot tomorrow," he said finally as he retrieved his coat and headed for the door. "Two if possible. They do come in pairs."
"If we've got one," she said faintly as she watched him go, not even looking back.
She'd meant it when she said no complications, because she would take what she could get and occasional sex with no complications was delightfully refreshing, but as Sherlock left all she could think was that things just got complicated.