Mutually assured seduction (4/5)
BBC Sherlock
Rating: 18 (explicit femslash, threesome, role play, strap-ons, swearing)
Summary: Molly's ready for anything, she thinks. Except, of course, Irene's next seductive idea.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
The bed's so comfortable that Molly's almost drifting off when it happens. The door swings suddenly open and reveals a slim figure in a dark coat and a scarf dramatically silhouetted against the light outside.
"Here she is," the figure announces, as it sweeps towards her on the bed, pulling off the scarf. That goes over Molly's eyes, knotted skilfully behind her head as she instinctively raises it. She's blindfolded, but not before she's caught a glimpse of pale eyes, sharp cheekbones and a mouth to die for. Which means that it's Irene playing at being Sherlock, her brain belatedly works out. So the other person Molly can sense beside her now, whose woolly-jumpered arm she feels as she reaches out, must be Anthea. Well, unless things are getting really complicated.
"As I suspected, Miss Hooper is indeed in Irene Adler's bedroom," Irene announces, and though the voice isn't quite low-enough pitched to be an accurate impersonation, she gets the imperious tone almost right. "The question, John, is why she is here?"
"Sherlock!" Anthea doesn't sound much like John, but the clear subtext of Behave yourself is very Watson-like.
"Molly is in Irene's bed, naked, but unrestrained. The door is unlocked, but she still remains here; there's no trace of any attempt to open the window, to call for help. Conclusion? She is here voluntarily." A finger comes down to trace round Molly's left nipple, the leather glove soft against her quivering skin. "There are clear signs of sexual arousal: pulse rate, flushing around the chest and neck. There are also, however, traces of earlier sexual activity, which she has clumsily attempted to hide, perhaps out of embarrassment."
"Sherlock! You can't..." 'John's' hand squeezes Molly's shoulder and then rests on it, warm, firm. "Molly, it's OK. If you want to be taken home right now, just say so."
"Oh, John, you're so blind," 'Sherlock' replies. "Molly has come to Miss Adler's house and engaged in sexual activity in this very bed. Surely it's obvious with whom? Miss Hooper has discovered the dubious delights of Sapphic sex and fixed on Irene as her partner. What we need to consider now is the reasons for this action."
Yes, of course that's what Sherlock would be interested in, Molly thinks and then remembers that this isn't Sherlock. That the hands now moving confidently around her body, the grey eyes that are doubtless inspecting her minutely, belong not to Sherlock, but Irene pretending to be Sherlock.
She's not sure why she finds that so hot, but her brain's frankly got beyond why, to concentrate on more important matters, like What next and How soon? Though of course, you can't expect a manipulative genius to play to her timetable. The hands are removed now, and Molly's almost whimpering from frustration. Maybe she could reach down...But she can't - Molly wouldn't touch herself while Sherlock and John were watching, would she?
Irene has resumed Sherlock's monologue:
"Irene's motivation is obvious: she hopes to recruit Molly as an ally. But why is Miss Hooper doing this? She's been in love with me for years and yet she sleeps with Irene. An obvious attempt to attract my attention, possibly even to make me jealous. And also to try and convince herself that Irene can satisfy her desires." There's a telling pause and then: "A ridiculous assumption, of course. Molly is heterosexual. There is no satisfaction that Irene can provide that I cannot supply more effectively. And there are obviously things I can do that Irene cannot; even Miss Hooper's feeble grasp of anatomy should have taught her that."
The voice is deepening to a growl, far rougher than Sherlock's normal sexy purr, the one he puts on to manipulate Molly. But maybe if he was truly turned on, about to...about to...Her body tingles at the thought. Lips brush her ear, and a hoarse whisper says:
"You're hoping we're going to have intercourse, aren't you, Miss Hooper? You won't be thinking about Irene any more after that, I can assure you."
Her heart is pounding loudly, but she can still hear the rustle of clothing, and then Irene-as-Sherlock's gloriously confident voice rings out:
"I suggest you remove your trousers as well, John. You'd really be much more comfortable, and I'm sure Molly will excuse you under the circumstances."
The strong, reassuring hand that's still on Molly's shoulder removes itself abruptly.
"I...I..." says John - Anthea - and the note of panic sounds almost authentic. And then Irene/Sherlock announces:
"You're so ridiculously commonplace, both of you. Even your fantasies are dull. Molly dreams about me 'making love' to her. But her mind is far too conventional to realise that what she actually wants is me fucking her into the mattress, while John watches us both."
That's the point at which Molly's brain officially blows a fuse. There's a faint gurgling noise behind her that suggests John's mind is also overloading. Possibly even Anthea's. Sherlock and her...and John. She's never imagined that, of course, because it would be so absolutely, completely wrong. And now she can't stop thinking about it, the wicked, impossible images flooding into her mind.
"John, I suggest you move to the other side of the bed, so you can gawp without getting in the way," 'Sherlock' says, as calmly as if he's discussing an interesting corpse. "And Molly, since your mouth has now fallen open and conversation's not really your strong point, I think you should put it to better use."
The bed dips as 'Sherlock' straddles her, and a few moments later something is pressing against her parted lips. Not a finger or a tongue, but thicker, firmer...
For a fraction of a second, Molly's confused brain thinks it's real. That Irene - Sherlock - really has put a penis in her mouth. Then, as her tongue automatically starts to explore the intrusion, it registers that however realistic the shape is, this is nothing but plastic. The feel, the taste, is not quite right.
Except she's in a world where right and wrong no longer apply. She can choose to do this, to continue this strange fiction, and imagine it's real. She licks at the head of the thing - a dildo, her mind adds - and then, a little more daringly, takes some of the shaft into her mouth, sucking gently. She stretches her hands out, trying to work out exactly where Irene is. Her fingers run up smooth, firm, naked thighs and then reach some kind of harness. The straps that Irene mentioned earlier? There's something else softer brushing the backs of her hands and Molly realises that Irene still has her coat on. And when she raises her hands up even higher she finds the strokeable fabric of a fine cotton shirt. She hopes Sherlock's wearing his purple shirt; she's particularly fond of that one.
It's not Sherlock's shirt, of course. It's not Sherlock at all. But even though Molly knows that, she doesn't have to believe it any more. If she wants it to be Sherlock, she can make it be him. She can have whatever she wants tonight. So if this was Sherlock above her, the Sherlock of her fantasies, what would she do now?
Give him a blow job he won't forget in a hurry, she decides and pushes her mouth a little further down.
"Your mouth's rather small and my erect penis is above average size," 'Sherlock' remarks. "I don't suggest you try deep-throating, Molly, you'll only choke yourself."
He's such an insensitive prick sometimes, Molly thinks, and then a silent giggle bubbles up inside her at the accidental pun. Well, she doesn't have to be too careful, she decides, and it doesn't matter if her mouth's small. Her hands wrap round the base of the penis and she starts to rub it. Not quite as gently as she would under normal circumstances,
Her ears, hypersensitive by now, catch a moment's stutter in the breathing above her. However this thing works, 'Sherlock' liked that, and Molly licks and rubs enthusiastically, a twist to her hands now, as they squeeze around the dildo. Her jaw is starting to ache, and she must look totally ridiculous, but she's not stopping yet. Not when Irene's hips are starting to flex, and the plastic penis is now twitching in Molly's grasp.
"Yes," Irene mutters, and just for a moment, it is Irene's voice, not Sherlock's. Then there's a sudden sharp brightness that even Molly's blindfolded eyes can sense; a second and a third, and the body above her stills. John - Anthea - is taking photos.
But in the scale of bad things Molly's already done tonight, appearing in a few more dodgy photos seems nothing. And 'Sherlock' recovers his poise almost immediately, drawling:
"Don't put those on your blog, John, even if you do need to improve the hit count. It's the size of my intellect you and your pathetic readers should be admiring." The knees straddling Molly shift slightly and then 'Sherlock' adds, "I think we're ready for stage two, now that Miss Hooper has amply demonstrated her oral fixation."
Molly lets the dildo slide away, wondering what she was thinking. It's all a game to him, of course, all some bizarre way of proving his superiority. To John, to her, to the world. Just for a moment she wonders why she puts up with Sherlock.
Well, one obvious reason is because the hands - still in their leather gloves - are running down her body, and she knows exactly where they're aiming for. A finger dipping into her entrance...two.
"Vaginal lubrication seems adequate," a smug voice announces, and then deepens luxuriously. "Or to put it another way, Miss Hooper is hot, wet and ready to be taken."
Molly spreads her knees shamelessly, and wishes suddenly that the man would just stop talking and get a move on. But Sherlock shutting up is obviously a fantasy beyond either her or Irene. He's still talking - lecturing - as his fingers start to move inside her vagina, exploring it.
"The existence of the Gräfenberg spot is not in question, at least not for the majority of the human race. The issue is whether an individual woman finds it to be an erogenous zone or not, something best discovered empirically. Of course, the false modesty of some females makes them remarkably reluctant to reveal their own preferred sexual stimuli, but to the skilled observer-"
"Higher," Molly mutters, as the fingers press in a spot that is just that bit wrong. "There." The last word comes out more as a squeak, especially since Sherlock's thumb - someone's thumb - is now ghosting over her clit as well. Worrying any more about what Sherlock is saying now seems a complete waste of the brain space that should instead be devoted to the twin sensations of pleasure flooding into her. Her body flexes into the touch, wanting more, more, more.
After a while - too soon, of course, how could it not be too soon? - the fingers are withdrawn, and her body rocks disconsolately.
"More," she says, and she knows there's a sardonic grin on the face above her, even though she can't see it. And then her gut tightens in apprehension as she feels the dildo penetrate her. She remembers abruptly that sex in the missionary position hadn't actually been that enjoyable with the last really well-endowed boyfriend she had.
But Irene's a lot smaller and lighter than Colin - who had been big everywhere- so Molly doesn't feel she's being crushed by the weight of the body on top. And Irene's pushing in, very, very carefully, filling her slowly, not pounding into her. Molly also abruptly realises that she doesn't need to worry that this is all going to be over too soon. And since Irene is entirely capable of making sure she gets exactly what she wants from any sexual encounter, all that Molly has to worry about is herself.
The main thing is to get the angles right, and that's a matter of trial and error, along with knowledge of anatomy, which - thank you very much, Sherlock Holmes - she knows a lot about. Slide an inch or two further down the bed, push up till she can feel the grind of her pubic bones against Irene, and then start her muscles into the old, but still exciting rhythm, as Irene's hips begin a carefully controlled counter-rhythm.
Pressure and friction and then the liquid heat that obliterates thought itself, that reduces her to nothing but want, She can't remember what she moans at her climax this time, but only the quiet afterwards, when she lies there, her body emptied out. She probably ought to say something, do something, but warm, fuzzy oblivion is simply easier. She's not even up to the hard work of keeping her eyelids open any more.
***
It's not surprising, perhaps, that Molly falls asleep, even though she doesn't intend to. Too much excitement and too many late nights catching up on her. When she wakes, it's to an empty room and a familiar jaunty Beyoncé ringtone that sounds just like hers. It is hers. There on the other pillow is her phone, along with her neatly folded clothes. She knew a threesome involving Irene Adler was hardly likely to end with a group hug, but it's still not quite what she hoped for.
She checks her phone, and by this point if she found an invitation to an orgy at Buckingham Palace, it would seem almost plausible. But instead there are two messages: one from Irene and one from Anthea. She opens the one from Irene first, because she'd rather know the worst immediately. But all it says is:
When you're ready, Anthea will take you home. It was lovely seeing you, Molly.
IA
PS: I thought you might like a little souvenir.
The photo attached isn't the one she expected. It's the nice one that Irene took, showing her and Anthea smiling at the camera. For a fraction of a second she wishes it was the other one, but that would be too risky. Whereas this...
This makes Molly look almost beautiful, even if she's nothing compared to Anthea's elegance. This is the kind of picture you could put on your wall or carry in your wallet to show people. If you're willing to accept - to let other people know - that you're in love with an absolutely gorgeous woman.
She wishes it was as easy as that. She doesn't know...she's not sure what she wants, let alone what Anthea wants. What happens when they leave the bubble of Irene's house, where anything can come true. She opens Anthea's message then, but it doesn't provide an answer. All it says is:
For your eyes only. I've deleted the other two pictures.
A
The photo attached to this message definitely isn't one to put on your walls. Well, not unless you've expecting only very liberal-minded visitors. It manages to be staggeringly indecent while involving almost no nudity. Irene's body, as she kneels astride Molly, is covered from the neck down by her coat. Molly's bare arm and shoulder are plainly visible, but it's only inference that would allow a viewer to work out what her hand and mouth are wrapped around. Well, inference combined with the look of abandon on Irene's face.
Even very slightly blurred, Irene is still recognisable. Molly, with the scarf around her eyes, isn't, she suspects. How could anyone work out who she is from her arm alone? Sherlock certainly won't be able to; he couldn't even recognise Irene's naked body. Anthea surely wouldn't have taken the photos if she thought it was going to get Molly into trouble.
There's something more to the picture, Molly's convinced of it. She takes the phone into the bathroom with her, stares at the photo again as she starts to run herself a bath. She's not going to creep away; she'll go when she's ready to go and not before.
Anthea took three photos; what does this one show that the others didn't? Molly has to admit the composition is striking; the way the red buttonhole on The Coat stands out in sharp focus in the middle of the frame, drawing the eye in...
Oh. It's not just that it looks a lot like Sherlock's coat; it's almost identical, suggesting a level of detail on Irene's part that's more than a little obsessive. Just as her ability to mimic not just Sherlock's voice, but his speech patterns, must have taken hours, if not days of study and practice. The photo's not a threat by Anthea to expose Irene as a kinky lesbian; it's the threat to expose her as a kinky lesbian obsessed with Sherlock Holmes that's intended as leverage.
So where does that leave her, Molly wonders, as she eases her tired, sticky body into luxuriously excessive amounts of hot, scented bubbles. A pawn in the game, doubtless, caught between two clever, devious women.
No, she's not. She hasn't simply been a pawn ever since Anthea offered to take her home and Irene suggested she stayed. And there's one more thing left. She's done bad things and Irene's obviously enjoyed herself. But Molly hasn't yet heard Anthea come, calling her name. Time to remedy that. She eases out of the water and dries herself on one of the many fluffy white towels. Then she picks up her phone, and texts Anthea.
A. I'm ready for you now. Molly
Part 5
Rating: 18 (explicit femslash, threesome, role play, strap-ons, swearing)
Summary: Molly's ready for anything, she thinks. Except, of course, Irene's next seductive idea.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
The bed's so comfortable that Molly's almost drifting off when it happens. The door swings suddenly open and reveals a slim figure in a dark coat and a scarf dramatically silhouetted against the light outside.
"Here she is," the figure announces, as it sweeps towards her on the bed, pulling off the scarf. That goes over Molly's eyes, knotted skilfully behind her head as she instinctively raises it. She's blindfolded, but not before she's caught a glimpse of pale eyes, sharp cheekbones and a mouth to die for. Which means that it's Irene playing at being Sherlock, her brain belatedly works out. So the other person Molly can sense beside her now, whose woolly-jumpered arm she feels as she reaches out, must be Anthea. Well, unless things are getting really complicated.
"As I suspected, Miss Hooper is indeed in Irene Adler's bedroom," Irene announces, and though the voice isn't quite low-enough pitched to be an accurate impersonation, she gets the imperious tone almost right. "The question, John, is why she is here?"
"Sherlock!" Anthea doesn't sound much like John, but the clear subtext of Behave yourself is very Watson-like.
"Molly is in Irene's bed, naked, but unrestrained. The door is unlocked, but she still remains here; there's no trace of any attempt to open the window, to call for help. Conclusion? She is here voluntarily." A finger comes down to trace round Molly's left nipple, the leather glove soft against her quivering skin. "There are clear signs of sexual arousal: pulse rate, flushing around the chest and neck. There are also, however, traces of earlier sexual activity, which she has clumsily attempted to hide, perhaps out of embarrassment."
"Sherlock! You can't..." 'John's' hand squeezes Molly's shoulder and then rests on it, warm, firm. "Molly, it's OK. If you want to be taken home right now, just say so."
"Oh, John, you're so blind," 'Sherlock' replies. "Molly has come to Miss Adler's house and engaged in sexual activity in this very bed. Surely it's obvious with whom? Miss Hooper has discovered the dubious delights of Sapphic sex and fixed on Irene as her partner. What we need to consider now is the reasons for this action."
Yes, of course that's what Sherlock would be interested in, Molly thinks and then remembers that this isn't Sherlock. That the hands now moving confidently around her body, the grey eyes that are doubtless inspecting her minutely, belong not to Sherlock, but Irene pretending to be Sherlock.
She's not sure why she finds that so hot, but her brain's frankly got beyond why, to concentrate on more important matters, like What next and How soon? Though of course, you can't expect a manipulative genius to play to her timetable. The hands are removed now, and Molly's almost whimpering from frustration. Maybe she could reach down...But she can't - Molly wouldn't touch herself while Sherlock and John were watching, would she?
Irene has resumed Sherlock's monologue:
"Irene's motivation is obvious: she hopes to recruit Molly as an ally. But why is Miss Hooper doing this? She's been in love with me for years and yet she sleeps with Irene. An obvious attempt to attract my attention, possibly even to make me jealous. And also to try and convince herself that Irene can satisfy her desires." There's a telling pause and then: "A ridiculous assumption, of course. Molly is heterosexual. There is no satisfaction that Irene can provide that I cannot supply more effectively. And there are obviously things I can do that Irene cannot; even Miss Hooper's feeble grasp of anatomy should have taught her that."
The voice is deepening to a growl, far rougher than Sherlock's normal sexy purr, the one he puts on to manipulate Molly. But maybe if he was truly turned on, about to...about to...Her body tingles at the thought. Lips brush her ear, and a hoarse whisper says:
"You're hoping we're going to have intercourse, aren't you, Miss Hooper? You won't be thinking about Irene any more after that, I can assure you."
Her heart is pounding loudly, but she can still hear the rustle of clothing, and then Irene-as-Sherlock's gloriously confident voice rings out:
"I suggest you remove your trousers as well, John. You'd really be much more comfortable, and I'm sure Molly will excuse you under the circumstances."
The strong, reassuring hand that's still on Molly's shoulder removes itself abruptly.
"I...I..." says John - Anthea - and the note of panic sounds almost authentic. And then Irene/Sherlock announces:
"You're so ridiculously commonplace, both of you. Even your fantasies are dull. Molly dreams about me 'making love' to her. But her mind is far too conventional to realise that what she actually wants is me fucking her into the mattress, while John watches us both."
That's the point at which Molly's brain officially blows a fuse. There's a faint gurgling noise behind her that suggests John's mind is also overloading. Possibly even Anthea's. Sherlock and her...and John. She's never imagined that, of course, because it would be so absolutely, completely wrong. And now she can't stop thinking about it, the wicked, impossible images flooding into her mind.
"John, I suggest you move to the other side of the bed, so you can gawp without getting in the way," 'Sherlock' says, as calmly as if he's discussing an interesting corpse. "And Molly, since your mouth has now fallen open and conversation's not really your strong point, I think you should put it to better use."
The bed dips as 'Sherlock' straddles her, and a few moments later something is pressing against her parted lips. Not a finger or a tongue, but thicker, firmer...
For a fraction of a second, Molly's confused brain thinks it's real. That Irene - Sherlock - really has put a penis in her mouth. Then, as her tongue automatically starts to explore the intrusion, it registers that however realistic the shape is, this is nothing but plastic. The feel, the taste, is not quite right.
Except she's in a world where right and wrong no longer apply. She can choose to do this, to continue this strange fiction, and imagine it's real. She licks at the head of the thing - a dildo, her mind adds - and then, a little more daringly, takes some of the shaft into her mouth, sucking gently. She stretches her hands out, trying to work out exactly where Irene is. Her fingers run up smooth, firm, naked thighs and then reach some kind of harness. The straps that Irene mentioned earlier? There's something else softer brushing the backs of her hands and Molly realises that Irene still has her coat on. And when she raises her hands up even higher she finds the strokeable fabric of a fine cotton shirt. She hopes Sherlock's wearing his purple shirt; she's particularly fond of that one.
It's not Sherlock's shirt, of course. It's not Sherlock at all. But even though Molly knows that, she doesn't have to believe it any more. If she wants it to be Sherlock, she can make it be him. She can have whatever she wants tonight. So if this was Sherlock above her, the Sherlock of her fantasies, what would she do now?
Give him a blow job he won't forget in a hurry, she decides and pushes her mouth a little further down.
"Your mouth's rather small and my erect penis is above average size," 'Sherlock' remarks. "I don't suggest you try deep-throating, Molly, you'll only choke yourself."
He's such an insensitive prick sometimes, Molly thinks, and then a silent giggle bubbles up inside her at the accidental pun. Well, she doesn't have to be too careful, she decides, and it doesn't matter if her mouth's small. Her hands wrap round the base of the penis and she starts to rub it. Not quite as gently as she would under normal circumstances,
Her ears, hypersensitive by now, catch a moment's stutter in the breathing above her. However this thing works, 'Sherlock' liked that, and Molly licks and rubs enthusiastically, a twist to her hands now, as they squeeze around the dildo. Her jaw is starting to ache, and she must look totally ridiculous, but she's not stopping yet. Not when Irene's hips are starting to flex, and the plastic penis is now twitching in Molly's grasp.
"Yes," Irene mutters, and just for a moment, it is Irene's voice, not Sherlock's. Then there's a sudden sharp brightness that even Molly's blindfolded eyes can sense; a second and a third, and the body above her stills. John - Anthea - is taking photos.
But in the scale of bad things Molly's already done tonight, appearing in a few more dodgy photos seems nothing. And 'Sherlock' recovers his poise almost immediately, drawling:
"Don't put those on your blog, John, even if you do need to improve the hit count. It's the size of my intellect you and your pathetic readers should be admiring." The knees straddling Molly shift slightly and then 'Sherlock' adds, "I think we're ready for stage two, now that Miss Hooper has amply demonstrated her oral fixation."
Molly lets the dildo slide away, wondering what she was thinking. It's all a game to him, of course, all some bizarre way of proving his superiority. To John, to her, to the world. Just for a moment she wonders why she puts up with Sherlock.
Well, one obvious reason is because the hands - still in their leather gloves - are running down her body, and she knows exactly where they're aiming for. A finger dipping into her entrance...two.
"Vaginal lubrication seems adequate," a smug voice announces, and then deepens luxuriously. "Or to put it another way, Miss Hooper is hot, wet and ready to be taken."
Molly spreads her knees shamelessly, and wishes suddenly that the man would just stop talking and get a move on. But Sherlock shutting up is obviously a fantasy beyond either her or Irene. He's still talking - lecturing - as his fingers start to move inside her vagina, exploring it.
"The existence of the Gräfenberg spot is not in question, at least not for the majority of the human race. The issue is whether an individual woman finds it to be an erogenous zone or not, something best discovered empirically. Of course, the false modesty of some females makes them remarkably reluctant to reveal their own preferred sexual stimuli, but to the skilled observer-"
"Higher," Molly mutters, as the fingers press in a spot that is just that bit wrong. "There." The last word comes out more as a squeak, especially since Sherlock's thumb - someone's thumb - is now ghosting over her clit as well. Worrying any more about what Sherlock is saying now seems a complete waste of the brain space that should instead be devoted to the twin sensations of pleasure flooding into her. Her body flexes into the touch, wanting more, more, more.
After a while - too soon, of course, how could it not be too soon? - the fingers are withdrawn, and her body rocks disconsolately.
"More," she says, and she knows there's a sardonic grin on the face above her, even though she can't see it. And then her gut tightens in apprehension as she feels the dildo penetrate her. She remembers abruptly that sex in the missionary position hadn't actually been that enjoyable with the last really well-endowed boyfriend she had.
But Irene's a lot smaller and lighter than Colin - who had been big everywhere- so Molly doesn't feel she's being crushed by the weight of the body on top. And Irene's pushing in, very, very carefully, filling her slowly, not pounding into her. Molly also abruptly realises that she doesn't need to worry that this is all going to be over too soon. And since Irene is entirely capable of making sure she gets exactly what she wants from any sexual encounter, all that Molly has to worry about is herself.
The main thing is to get the angles right, and that's a matter of trial and error, along with knowledge of anatomy, which - thank you very much, Sherlock Holmes - she knows a lot about. Slide an inch or two further down the bed, push up till she can feel the grind of her pubic bones against Irene, and then start her muscles into the old, but still exciting rhythm, as Irene's hips begin a carefully controlled counter-rhythm.
Pressure and friction and then the liquid heat that obliterates thought itself, that reduces her to nothing but want, She can't remember what she moans at her climax this time, but only the quiet afterwards, when she lies there, her body emptied out. She probably ought to say something, do something, but warm, fuzzy oblivion is simply easier. She's not even up to the hard work of keeping her eyelids open any more.
***
It's not surprising, perhaps, that Molly falls asleep, even though she doesn't intend to. Too much excitement and too many late nights catching up on her. When she wakes, it's to an empty room and a familiar jaunty Beyoncé ringtone that sounds just like hers. It is hers. There on the other pillow is her phone, along with her neatly folded clothes. She knew a threesome involving Irene Adler was hardly likely to end with a group hug, but it's still not quite what she hoped for.
She checks her phone, and by this point if she found an invitation to an orgy at Buckingham Palace, it would seem almost plausible. But instead there are two messages: one from Irene and one from Anthea. She opens the one from Irene first, because she'd rather know the worst immediately. But all it says is:
When you're ready, Anthea will take you home. It was lovely seeing you, Molly.
IA
PS: I thought you might like a little souvenir.
The photo attached isn't the one she expected. It's the nice one that Irene took, showing her and Anthea smiling at the camera. For a fraction of a second she wishes it was the other one, but that would be too risky. Whereas this...
This makes Molly look almost beautiful, even if she's nothing compared to Anthea's elegance. This is the kind of picture you could put on your wall or carry in your wallet to show people. If you're willing to accept - to let other people know - that you're in love with an absolutely gorgeous woman.
She wishes it was as easy as that. She doesn't know...she's not sure what she wants, let alone what Anthea wants. What happens when they leave the bubble of Irene's house, where anything can come true. She opens Anthea's message then, but it doesn't provide an answer. All it says is:
For your eyes only. I've deleted the other two pictures.
A
The photo attached to this message definitely isn't one to put on your walls. Well, not unless you've expecting only very liberal-minded visitors. It manages to be staggeringly indecent while involving almost no nudity. Irene's body, as she kneels astride Molly, is covered from the neck down by her coat. Molly's bare arm and shoulder are plainly visible, but it's only inference that would allow a viewer to work out what her hand and mouth are wrapped around. Well, inference combined with the look of abandon on Irene's face.
Even very slightly blurred, Irene is still recognisable. Molly, with the scarf around her eyes, isn't, she suspects. How could anyone work out who she is from her arm alone? Sherlock certainly won't be able to; he couldn't even recognise Irene's naked body. Anthea surely wouldn't have taken the photos if she thought it was going to get Molly into trouble.
There's something more to the picture, Molly's convinced of it. She takes the phone into the bathroom with her, stares at the photo again as she starts to run herself a bath. She's not going to creep away; she'll go when she's ready to go and not before.
Anthea took three photos; what does this one show that the others didn't? Molly has to admit the composition is striking; the way the red buttonhole on The Coat stands out in sharp focus in the middle of the frame, drawing the eye in...
Oh. It's not just that it looks a lot like Sherlock's coat; it's almost identical, suggesting a level of detail on Irene's part that's more than a little obsessive. Just as her ability to mimic not just Sherlock's voice, but his speech patterns, must have taken hours, if not days of study and practice. The photo's not a threat by Anthea to expose Irene as a kinky lesbian; it's the threat to expose her as a kinky lesbian obsessed with Sherlock Holmes that's intended as leverage.
So where does that leave her, Molly wonders, as she eases her tired, sticky body into luxuriously excessive amounts of hot, scented bubbles. A pawn in the game, doubtless, caught between two clever, devious women.
No, she's not. She hasn't simply been a pawn ever since Anthea offered to take her home and Irene suggested she stayed. And there's one more thing left. She's done bad things and Irene's obviously enjoyed herself. But Molly hasn't yet heard Anthea come, calling her name. Time to remedy that. She eases out of the water and dries herself on one of the many fluffy white towels. Then she picks up her phone, and texts Anthea.
A. I'm ready for you now. Molly
Part 5