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Come On In Boys, The Water Is Fine

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Molly hadn’t expected to find it so easy. She knows herself; she’s a terrible liar, awful at keeping secrets or a straight face, likely to burst into nervous giggles at one suspicious glance. She’s mostly just glad that Mycroft Holmes knew as well as she did what had happened, because if he had somehow been kept in the dark he would have taken one look at her face and known everything.

One thing she’s thankful to Sherlock for is that he’s made absolutely no attempt to contact her or let her know what he has been doing. That way, it’s much easier to talk about him as if he were dead.

‘Dead’ and ‘gone’ are almost the same, aren’t they?

She’d thought the hardest part would be talking to John. He looked afterwards the way Sherlock had looked in the days leading up to his ‘death’; moments when he thought nobody was looking his expression would cloud. He wasn’t broken, that she could see, but he seemed adrift, as if he was waiting for something to happen. She’d catch him lost in his own thoughts, expression blank, before he’d shake himself, smile slightly, and be back to normal, chatting to DI Lestrade just like it always had been. The two of them have become good friends, and that she’s glad for. She isn’t sure if she could have borne it had Sherlock left John as alone as he had been before.

As far as she knows he still lives at Baker Street with Mrs Hudson for company downstairs. He’d invited her round for a drink a couple of times in the months following, but she’d felt too raw, too jumpy to be able to cope with his pity, his grief, or his questions.


Now, after about six months have passed, she looks at the text on her phone with consideration.

hi molly, its john.
going for a quick pint
with greg lestrade
after work. fancy
joining us? been too

She strokes the ‘reply’ button thoughtfully, and before she can second-guess herself, taps out a response.

Hi John. That
would be great! Where
are you going? Molly

The reply comes quickly, as if John has been waiting by his phone for her to text him back.

old red cow,
of course :) where


The Old Red Cow is about five minutes walk from Bart’s, she presumes John had got to know the place very well as a student. She orders herself a gin and tonic, and having arrived much earlier than either of the others are likely to, finds a comfortable table and pulls out her book to read while she waits.

She’s so absorbed that she only notices John and DI Lestrade have arrived when they pull up a couple of chairs at her table, pints in hand. John gives her a wide smile and shuffles awkwardly ‘round to her side of the table to give her a kiss on the cheek, and Lestrade leans over to give her a one-armed hug. They both smell like cold winter air.

“Um, hello John, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg, please.”

“Greg, then” she gives a little laugh, “nice to see you both.” She tucks her book back into her bag and gets a good look at both of them. John looks about ten times better than he had the last time they’d bumped into each other, though he’s clearly had a long day at the surgery if his tired eyes and rumpled shirt are anything to go by. Greg Lestrade is looking like he’s been waiting all day for the chance of a pint of cold lager; he gulps down the first mouthful with a look of blissful relief.

“God, I bloody needed that,” he sighs out, slumping in his seat a little. “What a bleedin’ rubbish day.”

“Oh dear,” says Molly, “anything I’ll be dealing with later in the week?”

“Hm?” He turns to her, “Oh, no, actually, those days are the good ones, if you’ll believe it. It’s paperwork. Bloody paperwork that has to be done in triplicate, then signed off about a million bloody times, then it’ll get sent back because it’s missing one bloody detail and I’ll have to do it all bloody over again.”

He pauses to take in a deep breath. “And then I had a bloody press conference, about a case we know fuck all about but God if it isn’t some bloody minor celebrity’s cousin’s friend’s bloody dog or something, and the press are baying for blood or details and we can’t give them either. Bloody wankers.” He takes another long draw from his pint and huffs a laugh.

“Sorry, just, you know…” he trails off.

John puts a hand on his shoulder to give him a squeeze, and Lestrade smiles tiredly.

After that, the conversation goes surprisingly easily. Molly was half expecting them to stumble into weird silences when someone should have mentioned Sherlock, but it seems like John and Lestrade--Greg have already broken that barrier together; when he’s mentioned it’s with fond exasperation, not grief.

“I found a cat’s head frozen into the ice at the back of the freezer last week,” John is saying, laughing. “A fucking cat’s head. And I sat for at least five minutes trying to think of a case that we might have needed a cat’s head for, but the more I thought on it the more I thought he probably just found it and decided he liked it. Like a bloody magpie, except with body parts rather than shiny things.”

Molly leans in and interjects, “When I was little my mum and dad used to have lots of dead things in the freezer. It was all just… roadkill and things, they got them stuffed. My mum once went to the freezer to get some steaks for tea and she came back with a frozen hedgehog in a Tesco bag.”

Greg is wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, John snorting into his pint.

“They got stopped by the police because the back of their Land Rover was leaking blood all over the road once.” She looks at Greg with a giggle, “When the policemen opened the boot, there was a big black plastic bag covered in blood and wrapped in rope, about human sized. They said the police looked about ten seconds away from putting them both in handcuffs. It was a dead badger.”

Greg stifles some very unmanly sounding giggles.

“So now we know where you developed your love for dead things, I suppose?” asks John.

“Oh no, I’ve always liked the dead,” she says, and pauses thoughtfully. “They’re very quiet. Easy to work with.” She waves her gin and tonic at John, “I thought about being a GP, but… well, I prefer patients that don’t cause as much fuss.”

John smiles wanly, “Yeah, I don’t love the days of sickly babies, hypochondriacs who’ve already diagnosed themselves and explaining to people with colds why antibiotics won’t work. Could do with the odd exciting GSW now and again.”

“I could do with less of those, thanks,” says Greg, finishing his pint and giving John a soft pinch on the elbow. “Want another?”

“Mm, please.”


“Um, yes please, let me just get my purse--”

Greg waves her off and weaves his way through the now busy pub to the bar.

Molly gives John a considering look.

“Do you and Greg see each other quite often then, John? Do you still help him with cases?”

“Me? Oh, no,” John defers, “No, they’ve got their own medical specialists, forensics, much more experienced than me. I was just there to keep Sherlock from inciting anyone to grievous bodily harm, really. That and shoot things, when required.”

He looks over at Greg with a fond expression. “We started going to the pub together every so often. After, you know. Indulging in our sorrows, what a couple of miserable bastards we were.” He huffs, “Greg was suspended, I was… I don’t know, in shock, maybe. It was…good, to talk to someone other than my therapist.”

“Yes, I can see,” says Molly, “You look a lot better, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

John gives her a lovely smile, and suddenly she sees the why of his army nickname. “Yeah? Thanks, that’s good to know.”

Greg returns, cradling three drinks in an awkward clutch, deftly not spilling any as John and Molly manoeuvre theirs out of his fingers. They all laugh. It’s nice.


After that evening Molly finds herself more and more often invited out with John, or Greg, or both. She ends up at the NSY Christmas Party, chatting to Sally Donovan about the university they both went to (UCL) and sharing horror stories about student halls.

By the end of the party they’re both very tipsy and are laughing wildly as Molly tells Sally a story about a menu translation at her local Chinese restaurant.

“And,” she slurs slightly, “It said-” she stops, giggling hysterically, “It said, in big, in big captic-, capital letters, FAT FAT RABBIT DUCK CHICKEN STEW.”

They both dissolve into helpless giggling, Molly is wiping tears from her eyes, Sally’s makeup is running and she’s holding her stomach.

“Hey Molly, Donovan.” John approaches with a small smile on his face at the two of them.

“Doctor Watson.” Sally’s stopped laughing, and is looking away from John, her face pensive.

There’s an awkward silence, then Molly starts giggling again, unable to stop herself. Soon John has joined in and then all three of them are laughing for no reason, John with a grin on his face he seems unable to wipe off. He suddenly stoops down, draws Sally into a quick hug, and kisses her on the cheek before swiftly retreating back towards where Greg is standing at the table set up as a bar. Greg leans close to say something into John’s ear and John laughs.

Molly’s flat is only about twenty minutes from Scotland Yard and she’s sobered up somewhat since Sally left, so she finds her coat, tucks her hair into a hat and heads out into the cold towards home. She’s got about a hundred yards down the road when she hears someone calling out, “Molly! Molly!

It’s John, jogging slightly to catch up with her, breath puffing out white plumes into the freezing air. He draws level with her and hooks an arm through hers, turning to give her a beaming smile.
“Walk you home?” he asks.

They walk in easy silence, stumbling and giggling every so often when one of them slips on the icy pavements until they reach Molly’s front door.

“This is me,” she says, turning to unhook her arm from his and looking up towards his face, which is flushed pink with cold.

“Is it,” he murmurs, and looks at her for a long moment. His eyes flick down towards her mouth, and for a moment she thinks--

Then he sweeps her upwards into a crushing hug, lifting her slightly off her feet, brushing a kiss against the soft join between her jaw and her ear.

“’night, Molly,” he says softly, breath warm against her ear. She wraps her arms around him and squeezes back, burying her face into the warm skin of his neck and giving it a quick, dry kiss. “Goodnight, John.”

He brushes the hair back from her face and thumbs at her nose, then pushes her gently towards her house. “Go on, get in out of the cold.”

She tugs her coat further around her and watches from the step as he walks off in the direction of Baker Street. She watches until he rounds the corner, and then makes her way up to her flat.


She sees Greg more often than she sees John, what with their jobs crossing paths fairly often. It’s less often now (Post-Sherlock, as she refers to it inwardly), but still at least once every couple of weeks, sometimes more. It always gives her a little thrum of pleasure to see him striding in through the door rather than DI Dimmock (who is perfectly nice, if a little cold) or DI Gregson (who is, frankly, a bit of an arse). Plus there’s the fact that Sally works with Greg more often than not, and Molly gets on very well with Sally these days. She gives a little smile as the two of them push the double doors of the morgue open, both pairs of eyes searching for her. Greg is plainclothes as usual, Sally looking sharp in uniform.

“Morning Molly,” Greg runs a distracted hand through his hair, making it stick up at strange angles from his head, “Good old gunshot wound again, is it? Wonderful.”

“Mm, quite straightforward cause of death in this one.” She laughs a little, and then stifles it; people feel odd about laughing in a morgue. She leads them over to the slab where the body of a young man lies, drained of colour aside from a bright bloom of angry red on his neck where a bullet had torn through his jugular. The entry wound shows traces of powder, suggesting a point blank range, and she tells Greg as much.

“Interesting.” He peers at the wound, “It wasn’t self-inflicted, forensics ruled that out, so we’re possibly looking at an execution style murder. Strange place to shoot someone though, usually with these kinds of shootings it’s through the forehead or the heart. Neck suggests whoever did it wanted the person to bleed out. Nasty.”

She nods, “Okay, well there’s a little more.”

His attention is focussed on her immediately, Sally scribbles in her notebook, “Right. Tell me everything.”

Once she’s gone through everything she knows about the corpse of the young man, checked and double checked Sally’s notes and speculated with them both about a possible motive, it’s lunchtime.

“We were gonna head to a café just down the road for a soup or something,” says Greg, when she’s put the body back into cold storage. “Fancy joining?”

She checks her afternoon schedule, and finding nothing ‘til two, packs her handbag and pulls on a coat to follow the two of them out into the chilly winter sunshine.

In the café, the conversation turns to Sherlock. Molly has been dreading this, and although she’s talked about him before she really doesn’t want to answer questions.

She doesn’t feel guilty about keeping his secret. That’s perhaps the most surprising thing; she’d expected to feel horribly guilty, especially keeping it from John. John is made of stronger stuff than many people think though; had to be, she reasons, to be friends with Sherlock in the first place. She knows Sherlock will reappear at some point; maybe next week, maybe in ten years time. She also knows that she can’t regret what she did, and that’s enough to keep her feeling not guilty about what she will never tell anyone. She’ll take it to her grave, if she has to, and that thought is suddenly comforting. Her panic recedes. All they want to do is talk.

“I miss him, the wanker,” Sally is saying, looking down into her soup with an expression on her face that Molly can’t read, “I miss his stupid flouncy coat and his ridiculous hair. It almost feels weird that nobody is there to reveal all my deep dark secrets to everybody at the Yard.”

Greg looks sideways at her across his panini, swallows, “You know it wasn’t your fault, Sally. He knew it wasn’t your fault.”

Sally looks up at him, “I know, God, I know. I just can’t believe--he knew what was going to happen.”

Molly looks away, feeling like an intruder. Greg’s foot nudges hers under the table.

After Sherlock’s ‘death’, people had started to come out in support of him across the country. Yellow graffiti began to appear all over the city, bearing the message 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'. People came forward in their droves to sell their Sherlock stories to the Sun, the Record, saying how he couldn’t have been a fraud, how there was no way he could have known what he knew through pure resourcefulness and trickery.

The more people who came forward, the more the Met had come under pressure to come up with some proof, some perfect example that showed that Sherlock hadn’t been a fraud. Of course nothing could be proved, but the more they looked, the more the officers he had worked with saw how they had been played, how there were details that Sherlock had seen that would have been impossible for him to fake or discover any other way. How it would have been impossible for him to set up most of the cases he’d solved. By then, of course, it was too late.

Molly puts her hand over the table to squeeze at Sally’s fingers. “He’d laugh so much if he saw you saying that you miss him,” she says, knowing it to be true. Sally cracks a grin,

“God, he would, wouldn’t he. Insufferable twat.”


Greg heads back to Bart’s with her to pick up the paperwork he’d forgotten to take with him. Molly takes the opportunity when they’re walking to take a good look at him. He looks weary.

Molly hesitates, then nudges his arm.

“Greg? Are you…I mean, are you okay?”

Echoes of a conversation she’s had before. She ignores the tight feeling in her throat.

“Hm?” Greg looks at her, brow furrowed.

“Um,” she says, “It’s not--you’re--you look tired. I suppose I’m a bit worried about you.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, takes a breath, “Yeah, no. Well, nothing you need to know about. I’ve just… had a rough year. I’m okay though. Thanks.” He rubs his bare ring finger reflexively.

When he goes to leave to head back to the Yard after collecting his paperwork, she pulls him into a tight hug. He stands frozen for a second before reciprocating awkwardly.

“If you ever need…anything,” she says, voice muffled in his coat, “well, I’m here.”

“Thanks Molly,” he says gruffly, then retreats quickly from the morgue, glancing back at her with a strange expression on his face.


In February, she gets a text from John while she’s making herself breakfast one Sunday.

film night at mine
tonight? greg’s coming.
bring beer/wine/delete
as applicable

She turns up just after eight with a bottle of Merlot. John answers the door wearing an enormous smile.

“Molly! I’m glad you came, we’re just about to put on The Big Lebowski.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t bring the makings for white russians then,” says Molly with a giggle.

“Ah, you’ve seen it before, sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, smiling, “it’s just nice to be here. I’ve not seen you both in ages.”

John has rearranged the furniture since the last time she was in his flat, and the sofa now sits facing the small television. The coffee table is still in front of the sofa, and on it rest the socked feet of Greg Lestrade.

“Hello Greg,” Molly says brightly, leaving her coat and bag in the hall and moving to sit beside him. He looks relaxed, happier than she’s seen him in weeks. His ring finger is still bare, tan line gone.

Greg beckons her into the bracket of his arm, which rests along the back of the sofa, and she shuffles closer, giving him a quick hug. John comes back with some glasses for her wine and sits on the other side of him.

“Shall I start it?” Greg fumbles for the remote, trying to poke it towards him with his foot before giving up and picking it up with his hands. John jumps up to switch off the lights. There is shuffling on the sofa for a few minutes before they get comfortable, Molly tucked in at Greg’s side with a glass in her hand, his arm around her and his legs still on the table, John leaning slumped against the arm, feet tucked under Greg.


She wakes up, disorientated. It’s dark; the wine must have made her drowsy, but the film is still only about half way through so she can’t have been asleep for long. She’s leaning against Greg in the semicircle of his arm, feels him moving slightly. She looks up. He has his head tilted away from her, and he and John are kissing slowly, lazily. John’s mouth opens under Greg’s and their tongues touch softly; his hand tightens where it’s resting on Greg’s thigh near her leg. She makes a small noise of surprise, she can’t help it, and they separate, both of them turning to look at her.

“Molly,” says John, his voice husky.

“Um,” she says, flustered, “I--”

Greg’s arm tightens a little around her as she tries to stand up, not stopping her but making it clear that he doesn’t want her to move. She relaxes slightly back into his grip, still looking between them. Greg shifts, looking at John then back at Molly.

“Um,” he says, and moves a little closer to her, “can I? I mean, can we--” he trails off, eyes darting down to her mouth.

She hesitates, nods tightly, not knowing what will come out of her mouth should she open it.

He darts down and presses a small, slightly wet kiss against her mouth. His mouth is wet because he’s been kissing John, and the realisation causes her to gasp. As soon as her mouth opens, his tongue darts out to run along her bottom lip and her breath hitches. She pulls away, licking her lips, to glance over at John, who is looking at them with a dazed expression.

Greg leans back and uses his hand to nudge John forward across his lap. Molly leans in, unsure, but then John’s hand comes round to cup the back of her head and he is kissing her deeply, tongue licking out against her own, darting over her lips teasingly. Her heart is threatening to beat out of her chest, just the feeling of John’s hot wet mouth against hers and Greg’s hand firm on her thigh has her trembling.

She breaks away gasping, overwhelmed. John looks endearingly nervous as he regards her, biting his lip.

“Is this--was that okay?”

She chokes back a slightly hysterical giggle, but can’t restrain her smile.

“Um, yes, yes it’s--” she darts forward to press another kiss on John’s mouth, does the same to Greg. He chases her a little with a lick of his tongue and she giggles.

John looks back at Greg, who grins and pulls him down for what looks like a truly filthy kiss. They’re both gasping when they pull apart, and Molly shuffles backwards slightly, allowing Greg to pull John properly on top of him. John straddles Greg’s lap, Molly beside them tucked in by Greg’s arm.

Watching them kiss is fascinating. She’s seen people kiss before, of course; she’s seen men kiss women, men kiss men, women kiss women, but she’s never been this close or been invited so clearly to participate. Just seeing the way Greg’s tongue touches John’s gently, the way John’s mouth opens easily under his, the way his fingers come up unconsciously to brush against Greg’s stubbled jaw makes something heavy and hot swoop in her abdomen.

God she’s so aroused she can’t think properly, eyes glued to the changing space between their mouths. The thought that they might do more, that she might watch. She swallows, squirming a little against Greg’s side.

They pull apart gently and the twinge of disappointment she feels is batted to one side as John disentangles himself from Greg and pushes her shoulders against the back of the sofa, opening his mouth against hers with a groan.

“You two look gorgeous,” says Greg from beside her. She feels John smile against her mouth.

They kiss until her jaw aches, until her fingertips are tingling with arousal and her lips feel tender and chapped. It doesn’t escalate further; Greg’s fingers grip at her waist but don’t move to slide under her top, John pulls her flush against him but although she can feel that he’s hard, he doesn’t move against her. She’s half disappointed, half relieved when it becomes clear that it’s not going any further than this tonight. She leaves with Greg at about midnight; John gives each of them a long, searching kiss at the door.

When she gets home, she gets into bed, takes all of her clothes off and slides two fingers inside herself (and God she doesn’t think she’s ever been this wet), coming in about thirty seconds with a trembling thumb on her clit. She strokes herself gently through it, thumb moving slowly, lightly until she comes again, gasping.


Her phone buzzes with a text the next day at work, and just looking at it makes her blush even though the content isn’t anything risqué.

Hi you two.
Dinner at mine on
friday if you’re free?

Her fingers quiver slightly as she thumbs out a reply,

Shall I bring
anything? Molly

Just your
lovely self. 7pm.


She knows she’s going to have to have a talk with the two of them about… whatever this is.

It’s one thing being friends with someone and lying to them about their best friend being dead, but it’s another thing when that becomes more than friendship. And she’s pretty sure both Greg and John would say that what they have is more than friendship. She rehearses in her head what she’s going to say, repeating it in front of the mirror while she’s brushing her hair after showering. I’m not looking for a relationship right now, I’m not looking for a relationship right now, I’m not looking for a relationship right now . Omitting the truth is better than lying, right?

She looks at Toby with a sigh, “Convincing?”

He gazes back at her with knowing yellow eyes.

“Oh, shut up.”


She decides she needs a bit of liquid courage to broach the subject; three glasses of wine is about two more than she’s used to and she feels pleasantly fuzzy ‘round the edges. The three of them are crowded around Greg’s cosy little kitchen table, pasta plates piled up on the sideboard and the remains of a sharp lemon torte crumbled on the plates in front of them. Molly’s feet are in Greg’s lap, and he’s stroking them idly as he and John have a heated but good-natured argument about football.

“Penny for your thoughts, Molly?” says John after a bit, and she turns to him, startled out of her contemplation of the line of Greg’s jaw.

“No idea what you’ve been talking about, sorry,” she says with a giggle.

Greg rubs her toe and they both look at her expectantly.

This is it, then.

She takes a breath, pauses, plunges.

“What is this?” she waves her glass, indicating the three of them, “I mean, what--what are we doing? What are you doing? With me. Not that--oh bugger, I just. I’m not sure,” she snaps her mouth shut. Opens it again before either of them can speak.

“It’s just. Um. I’m not really, that is, I don’t think I want to be in a relationship just now. So if that was what, um, this is, or is going to be, I don’t know, I just…” she trails off, hoping she made some kind of sense because she’s not sure she can say any of that again.

John looks speechless for a second, then seems to rally his thoughts. “Um, well, did you like the other night?”

Yes.” says Molly emphatically with a flush, “Yes it was lovely. And. Well, what I’m saying is that I really wouldn’t have any problem with that…um…continuing,” she’s sure she’s beet red by now, she grasps her wineglass tighter for moral support, “but I’d want to, um, stay as we are now, I suppose. And…and if that’s not how it is for you, that’s fine! But I’d have to bow out, as it were.” She gives a small, slightly hysterical sounding laugh. “Yes. That’s me said my bit. And now. I’m just going to die of embarrassment.”

Greg looks like he’s trying very hard to keep a smile from his face, and he squeezes her foot tightly, looking at John.

John leans forward to pull one of her hands across the table, strokes a finger over her palm. “So, friends with benefits?”

Molly feels her face heat, if possible, even further. “Yes. I mean, if that’s alright with…both of you.” She looks over at Greg.

He raises his eyebrows incredulously, “God, Molly, like I’m going to say no to that.”


She’d thought that might be the point at which they’d just throw caution to the wind and fall into bed together, but John had brought a copy of ‘O Brother, Where Art Thou?’ (“since the Cohen’s proved so popular last weekend”) and so, like the last time, they end up snuggled together on the sofa, Molly sandwiched between the two of them.

They do manage to get through the whole film this time, though Molly hasn’t been paying that much attention to what’s on screen; she’s mostly distracted by Greg’s warm stomach pressed into her back, his right hand wrapped snugly round her middle. Her legs are draped over John’s lap and he’s rubbing her thigh unconsciously with his thumb. She thinks it’s unconscious anyway, until she looks up into his face and finds him looking at her out of the corner of his eye, wicked little smirk on his face.

Molly shifts a little against Greg, feels him press his nose into the back of her neck. She shivers, and suddenly John has moved her legs from his lap and is climbing up over her slowly, pinning her back into Greg and kissing up her neck. She gasps, arching slightly, squirming when she feels Greg’s hands that are now most definitely pushing her top up and insinuating themselves over her ribs.

“God.” That’s Greg, and John leans over her shoulder to pull him up and press their mouths together softly. Molly makes an embarrassing sort of squeak at that, entranced. Their mouths part with a slick wet sound, and John sighs, “Bed?”

“Mm,” says Greg, mouthing at Molly’s ear. Molly just nods, wide eyed.


Any thoughts she’d had about this being weird and awkward (and she’d had a lot) dissipate as soon as she sees John on his back, arms pinned above his head by one of Greg’s hands, being kissed thoroughly. She can’t believe how good they look together. She’s lying on her side, very content to watch, eyes hungrily taking in every move they make. She slowly comes to the conclusion that they haven’t done this before, they aren’t quite co-ordinated in their movements and they seem a little unsure of each other.

“Get over here, Molly.” John pulls his head to one side, Greg kissing down his neck. She shuffles closer, pushing her mouth against his and swallowing his little gasps as Greg begins to work his way down John’s stomach, pushing up his t-shirt to lick along his waistband.

Emboldened by the general atmosphere in the room, and possibly a little by the wine, Molly moves to sit up on the edge of the bed and pulls off her top and skirt efficiently. She’s unhooking her bra when she realises the movements on the bed have stopped.

Both men are looking at her with matching expressions like they’ve been walloped over the side of the head. She giggles. She finishes with her bra and climbs back towards them, leaving her knickers on.

“Jesus Christ,” says John, “Look at you.”

She looks down dismissively; nothing particularly special about them, she’s always thought she was rather average actually. John reaches upwards to brush one of her nipples softly; she bites her lip and leans into the touch, eyelids fluttering.

She leans down and tugs John’s t-shirt up over his head, watching as Greg presses his thumbs under the waistband of John’s unbuttoned jeans and drags them, along with his underwear, unceremoniously off his legs.

Greg is now the only one wearing all of his clothes, and John shares a quick glance with Molly before they wrestle him to the bed and strip him, giggling as he squirms and laughs. He stops laughing when he ends up straddling John’s waist, John pushing up against him with a sigh.

“Hold him still,” Greg instructs Molly, sliding down the bed to press his face into John’s stomach. Molly obeys, pinning John’s shoulders and kissing him into submission until he’s gasping beneath her. The gasping could also have something to do with the way Greg’s tongue is darting out to flick lightly against the head of his cock.

Molly wishes there were a way to kiss John and watch Greg at the same time. She settles for lying alongside them both, stealing short sweet kisses from John and brushing his nipples delicately with the tips of her fingers. He groans, twisting his hips, and Greg presses fingers into them mercilessly in a way that’s bound to leave bruises. He’s licking teasingly with the tip of his tongue, taking little tastes but not providing any real friction and John attempts to squirm towards his mouth. Molly pinches a nipple hard, and John lets out a high-pitched noise, stilling.

“Good boy,” she says, flicking it gently with her thumb.

“God, you’re going to kill me,” moans John. Then he’s just moaning as Greg sucks the head of his cock softly into his mouth.

Molly keeps one hand where it is, flicking daintily at John’s nipple and moves the other to scratch a nail up the seam of her knickers. They’re soaked through; if she wasn’t wearing them she’d be dripping down her thighs, and she’s so close to coming she doesn’t do more than rub gently with one finger, biting her lip and keeping her eyes glued to Greg’s mouth. He seems to be giving the softest, most devastating oral sex Molly has ever seen. John’s thighs are trembling, his eyes are closed and his head is thrown back. He seems to have given up trying to thrust upwards into Greg’s mouth and is just lying back being slowly taken apart.

She sees the moment that everything coalesces for him, Greg’s mouth works slightly faster and John begins to pant loudly, tensing up and spreading his legs. It’s incredibly sexy watching him shiver and arch upwards under Greg’s mouth, and as he chokes out a moan and flings his head backwards, she strums her finger hard over her clit and comes, gasping.

She’s lying trembling on the bed when she feels her knickers being dragged slowly down her legs and looks down to see Greg looking up at her. His mouth is red, swollen and wet, eyes enormous and liquid. He pushes her thighs apart and oh-so-gently touches his tongue to her, tasting. She shivers, fighting the urge to arch away from the contact. John’s rolled onto his side and watches them with a heated gaze.

“Molly,” Greg murmurs from between her legs, voice rough, “can I fuck you?”

She feels heat swoop in her belly, closes her eyes for a second.


He gently manoeuvres her onto her side and slips in behind her, licking a wet stripe up the back of her neck and making her giggle and squirm against him. John unrolls a condom onto his cock, making him huff a small noise into Molly’s hair. He lifts her upper leg and hooks it over his thigh so she’s spread open, almost reclining on top of him, then he grasps hold of her hips and slides into her in one sweet movement.

“Oh, God.” she breathes, “Oh,”

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he grits out, shivering.

He moves experimentally, a slow slide out and back in and they both groan. She feels Greg jump slightly and gasp against her back, and then feels the tentative touch of John’s fingers ghosting gently around where they’re joined. Greg rolls his hips again and she almost sobs from how good it is. She grinds back into him when he grasps her hips and begins to fuck her in earnest, panting into the back of her neck. He’s moving in a steady rhythm, pulling almost completely out on each thrust, letting her feel the stretch of the head of his cock slipping back in.

“God,” she pants, “Oh God.”

John’s fingers explore her softly, dipping down every so often where he must be stroking equally gently over Greg from the moans behind her. Greg pulls her leg further up his thigh, spreading her wider to John’s touch; he’s rubbing her clit in tight little circles, fingers slippery and hot.

When he moves his head down she almost forgets to breathe, taking in a huge shuddering breath in surprise. The slick slide of his tongue rapidly dismantles her ability to think clearly, and when he begins to kiss, sucking on her and mouthing her gently she can’t help the broken moan that escapes her. She squirms on the heavy length of Greg’s cock pushing into her, and the combination of that and the wicked little flicks of John’s tongue drive her rapidly towards a second orgasm.

“Oh God, God, God, God, keep going, oh, like that.”

“That’s it,” says Greg, “God yeah, come, come on. I wanna feel you come on me.”

She throws her head back with a squeal, clamping down on Greg’s cock and twitching extravagantly against John’s mouth.

“Oh, oh! God that’s--oh.”

Greg fucks her slowly through it, each movement of his cock inside her exquisite as she feels her muscles contracting around him. John’s tongue lazily licks over where she’s stretched around Greg, making him moan as he continues to leisurely slide into her; her skin feels oversensitised and every brush of John’s mouth has her gasping.

She feels John move his mouth slowly down and Greg suddenly jerks up into her with a gasp.

“Oh, fuck, John.”

“Tell—tell me what he’s doing,” says Molly, bold and relaxed from her orgasm.

Greg pants onto her neck, swallows, “He’s--God, his tongue, it’s almost--” He spreads his legs wider, stilling slightly; Molly hears John making little contented noises.

“He’s licking me, fucking hell, John. Oh.

It’s enough to make Molly almost wish she hadn’t already come, and also that she could see more clearly. God, what they must look like. She watches as John hooks Greg’s leg over his shoulder, feels Greg’s cock twitch and swell inside her as he begins to move jerkily.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” he sobs, “Christ, yeah.”

He thrusts into her erratically, holding her hips steady and dislodging John from between his legs. John moves his hands to caress up his thighs, dipping one down as Greg jerks into her with a long, drawn out moan.

Greg keeps rolling his hips minutely into her, shivering out the end of his orgasm as he mouths the back of her neck softly. She arches slightly against him, letting out a contented sort of hum and grasping his hips when he tries to pull out.

“Just a second,” she murmurs, relishing the feel of his cock still inside her for a long moment, before regretfully rolling off him and leaning up to lick into his mouth for a hot wet kiss.

John crawls up her body to press a dry kiss onto her lips, then rolls out of bed and goes into the bathroom. There’s the sound of running water, then he comes back to slide in beside her, grinning, a bit of toothpaste on his lower lip. Molly kisses it off.

Greg hasn’t moved from his spot on the bed, his eyes are drooping shut and his mouth curls at the corner in a very self-satisfied fashion. Molly scoots towards him, stroking lightly over his belly, his softening cock, the curve of his shoulder. He huffs a breath out of his nose.

John licks the side of her neck, kisses her ribs. She turns and straddles him, pinning his arms up above his head with a little grin. He’s hard again, having been the first to come. She glances down at his cock, quirks an eyebrow at him.

“You know, I think I’d actually just like a cuddle,” he says, “I am almost forty, you know.”

Greg makes a “psht” noise from the other side of the bed, and John laughs, gathering Molly into his arms and rolling her over so she’s in between them.

“You youngsters, with your stamina,” mumbles Greg, half asleep.

“Stop making this more weird than it already is,” says Molly with a giggle, kissing him to shut him up, “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to cuddle up to you two old men and go to sleep now.”

John pokes her indignantly in the side, Greg’s mouth quirks.

On the edge of sleep, tangled in both of them, her thoughts wander meanderingly. She’s thrown in her lot, made peace with what she’s done. For now there’s friendship and comfort, and she’s going to take it with both hands and hang on to it. No regrets.