SiS Day 21 (Post 1/2): "Before and After" by sc010f
Name: sc010f
Type of work: fic
Category: Het.
Title: Before and After
Prompts used: Molly/Sherlock, pity f*ck; Molly/Lestrade, wallflower
Rating: R
Warnings: Explicit sex.
Notes/Acknowledgments: Many thanks to the village that it took to get this story into shape: annietalbot, bluestocking79, machshefa and pyjamapants. And of course I made no money from this endeavor!
Consider this work for voting?: Yes
Before
Before Jim, there had been Sherlock.
It was a one-time thing, she told herself. He wasn't interested in her. She wasn't stupid. She knew this. She'd always known it. Even from the first time they met.
The worst part was that it wasn't the last time she would take pity on somebody that didn't deserve it.
She knew that, too.
But he'd looked lost. And she did rather fancy him - Mike Stamford had told her about him: brilliant, rude (well, she could work around that), and impossible to resist.
Even Mike Stamford - straightest of straight men - seemed to have a crush on this man. Mike, who was chatting with him in the mortuary as Sherlock fingered a riding crop.
Molly wasn't prone to metaphor, but even that was a bit much.
She pushed open the door.
It was bucketing down - a typical Monday afternoon. At least she'd remembered an umbrella; it helped with the worst of the downpour.
"Are you lost?"
"No. Thinking." Sherlock's reply was telegraphic. Rain dripped from a sodden curl onto his collar.
"You're getting all wet." Molly stepped forward to offer him the dubious shelter of her umbrella.
"It is raining. Bravo. Excellent observation." He ducked away with a quick grin.
"Don't you want my umbrella?"
"No. What I want instead is … you."
"Me?"
"Yes. More specifically, access to your mortuary."
"My… mortuary?" She felt as if she'd been punched.
"Of course! Shall we?" He winked at her and stepped aside with a flourish, as if to bow her into the building.
She blushed as she noticed him checking her out as she punched in her access code.
It was a body he'd come to see.
"A friend of mine." He'd leaned close to her, whispered it in her ear.
She shuddered and looked at her list. No name. A man. Caucasian. Mid-twenties.
"Do you need to identify him? Surely the police…"
"The police? Don't waste my time." He spun away from her.
Ouch.
He did have a nice arse, though. No harm in looking - he was handsome and clever. She liked clever. And it had been months since she'd even looked at a man.
Not since… not since Gary had left her for Stewart.
So she didn't care if Sherlock was manipulating her, if it meant he'd look at her twice.
"You're investigating?" she asked.
He looked at her as if she were dim, and she flushed with embarrassment.
"He died because of me."
"Oh, I'm…" Was the floor going to open and swallow her? She hoped so.
"Don't waste your time apologizing. You didn't do it."
"Are you here to say goodbye, then? Surely the funeral, the wake…"
His smile was taut - brittle, even.
"His family wouldn't appreciate it."
She left him then, to say his farewells.
When he came out of the mortuary, he was stuffing something into his pocket, but she hardly noticed that. What she did notice was that his hands were shaking and his cheeks were wet.
Maybe he needed help. Comfort, even. Not pity.
"Maybe I can help you?" she asked.
He flashed her a smile and she blushed again.
"Maybe you can, at that."
"… natural causes. He worked here. I knew him."
He barely glanced at her.
"We'll start with the riding crop."
"I'm Molly, by the way." She offered her hand. He looked at it as if she'd offered him a dead fish.
"I know. Sherlock." He nodded.
"Would… I'm off to get some tea, d'you…"
"No. Thanks."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
His eyes narrowed.
"Your lipstick. It makes you look nice."
"Erm, thank you." She blushed.
"Make it a pint instead," he said with a smile. "And perhaps you'll let me back into the mortuary if we do this regularly. Make you think that I care about you."
"I, uh…"
"Not good?" He frowned. "Didn’t think you'd be hurt by that. Stupid custom, being nice."
"No, no, it's fine." She manufactured a smile. "Let's, uh, go. You surprised me, that's all."
"Bad day?"
"Watch to see what bruises form in the next thirty minutes - a man's alibi is at stake!"
"I don't think you should be drinking so much," she can't help admonishing him.
"Why, because I remind you of your father?"
"What? No, that's… his drinking has nothing to do with this. How did you know?"
His smile was looser. She felt the tension coil in her belly.
"There's a lot I know about you, Molly Hooper."
"I…" She gaped at him.
"You're right. I shouldn't be drinking this much. There are other things, more pleasurable things."
"Are you… do you miss him?" She nodded her head in the general direction of Bart's, hoping not to blush.
"I caused his death. I don't miss him. I don't miss people."
"But you feel guilty."
"Guilt is boring. So is sex. Which is what you’re thinking about. What I’d be like in bed. That you could offer me comfort."
Oh.
"Oh."
He leaned back in his chair, arms spread wide.
"Boring. This whole world is DULL," he cried.
"Hush!" Molly looked around furtively as the other drinkers glared at them.
"Why?" Sherlock pouted.
“It’s rude.”
That smile again.
“Social norms, mores. So unusual for the pretty girl who works in the mortuary. Maybe I do need some comforting.”
That. That was the point where she should’ve asked him what he really wanted.
But after Gary…
“Weren’t you wearing lipstick?”
“I took it off, it wasn’t working for me.”
“Ah, it makes your mouth… smaller now.”
“I am drunk, yes.”
“I’ll call you a cab.”
“You don’t have to baby-sit me.” He sagged forward onto the table, nearly upsetting her gin and tonic.
She stood and walked around to his chair. He leaned against her for a moment and she caught her breath, taking the chance to run her hand through his unruly hair.
“Come on.” She hauled him up and he grunted. “Where do you live?”
He was leaning against her, warm and heavy. She was a bit drunk too, if she thought about it.
Molly tried not to think about it.
“Why don’t you kiss me instead? You want to. You feel sorry for me.”
Okay, that was a new one. Not that Molly had a great deal of experience with pickup lines.
“Okay. Erm…”
They went to her flat, of course.
“You don’t want to go to my flat in Montague Street,” he said, tucking up against her in the back of the cab.
“Why not?” She squirmed around him, maneuvering herself to a better position. She wished he didn’t feel so good. And really, he had just lost his friend. Not that that was an excuse for wanting to feel more of him.
“You… don’t. My roommates wouldn't like you. Mmm, were you eating onions earlier?” He licked her neck and she shivered.
“Erm, with my lunch. I did brush my teeth, though.”
“It’ll have to do. I have condoms, so you can stop worrying about that."
Which was when he kissed her, sliding his hand up her leg. His tongue was hot and demanding in her mouth and she tried not to groan.
She failed.
The cab driver glared at them.
He managed to get out of the cab all right when they arrived at her flat.
And then immediately collapsed to the pavement.
“You’re really drunk,” she noted. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
“No, I’m fine. I am perfectly capable of making decisions. I’m only in mourning.”
“I thought you said grief was a waste.” She wrestled him up the stairs and into her sitting room.
“I said guilt. This isn’t guilt. This is mourning. And I don’t want to be alone.”
“Fine. You can sleep it off on the sofa. I’ll even pull out the li-lo.”
He kissed her again.
“No, Molly, I want this.”
She pulled away and looked at him.
He looked just as he’d done in the rain outside of Bart’s that afternoon. Lonely. Slightly bedraggled.
She felt a wave of pity.
His smile again, tugging at the corners of her heart.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him toward her bedroom.
This wasn’t something that she usually did.
But maybe that explained why she never did get a great deal of sex, either way.
***
It wasn’t great. She should’ve said something, she supposed.
But it wasn’t terrible, either. He at least managed to get her off before he stumbled into the loo, threw up noisily, stumbled out and fell asleep across her bed.
And he didn’t complain about her blow-job. That was something.
Molly Hooper, queen of the pity-fuck.
He woke up at about two, just as Molly was contemplating trying to move him so she could get some sleep.
She started as he transitioned into wakefulness and stared at her for a long moment.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be leaving now.”
Molly boggled.
“It’s two in the morning!” she exclaimed.
“Excellent. I see a bright future in forensic pathology with your observational skills.”
“But won’t you…”
“Good night, Molly. It wasn’t … terrible.”
The man with the cane looked amused. It was bad enough being humiliated by Sherlock Holmes in front of a stranger.
But the worst, of course, was the stifled bark of amusement from Mike bloody Stamford.
Molly slammed out of the lab.
After
After Jim, well, was there really an after?
"Weren't you invited?" Mike asked her, stepping in front of her as she tried to return to the mortuary.
Molly didn't look up from the paperwork on her clipboard. "Yes, but I wasn't planning on going."
"Oh, why not?"
"Because," Molly said, trying to push past him, "I'm not interested in being insulted about my weight. Or my hair. Or my mouth being too small. Or my deplorable choice in boyfriends."
"Oh, ah. But John said he was rather hoping you'd come."
"Well, John can get used to disappointment."
"Molly, come on."
"Dr Stamford, I'm not interested. Why are you so worried, anyway?"
Mike had the grace to look embarrassed.
"Because I won't know anybody there but John. It's all people from Scotland Yard, it sounds like. And their housekeeper. "
"Bring your wife, then."
"She's visiting her mother. Please, Molly."
Molly sighed.
"Fine," she said. "But you're taking my seminar next week and the week after."
Mike's grin lit up the tiny, dank hallway.
"It's a deal," he said.
Molly didn't do parties. Like sex, they seemed to elude her, or when she did manage to obtain one or the other (sex or parties), it was terribly embarrassing or disappointing.
She could count on one hand the number of parties she'd enjoyed. Just as she could count… oh, never mind.
It figured, she supposed. Which is why she was standing in the corner of the kitchen, a glass of white wine warming in her hand as she watched Mike and John slap each other on the back as Mike congratulated him on his engagement.
"So sweet, I knew they were meant to be," Mrs Hudson had cooed at her when she'd entered. "I just had to throw them this little do. Make yourself at home, dear, and try the cheesy bits."
Good God, the woman was actually fluttering.
John had given her a bear hug and thrust a glass of wine into her hand.
"I'm glad you came, Molly. I… thank you."
"Yeah, well…" Molly looked at her shoes.
"I know," John said, sounding a bit embarrassed. "But really, you know, you've known us since the beginning of…" he paused, "us."
"Yeah," Molly mumbled.
"Ah, well… look, I know Sherlock's been a complete berk to you, and… well, I'm working on that."
Molly looked up. The room felt full of people. John continued. "You know, telling him when he's been a bit not good, and the whole socially acceptable thing."
"Erm, thanks," Molly replied. "I know I'll appreciate that." She failed entirely at keeping the sarcasm out of her voice, but by then John had already squeezed her hand and moved away.
Around the flat were scattered various people, some of whom Molly recognized from Scotland Yard - DI Dimmock, the DS that worked with DI Lestrade. Anderson, the SOCO, flashed a smile at her. There was no sign of Lestrade himself, though.
There were also a few doctors from John's surgery, laughing and talking.
Molly's head was starting to hurt. She took a desperate swig of wine and smiled like a death's head until she could back herself into the kitchen. It was small, clean, and rather nice, she thought.
She admired the sign that read "no body parts - human food only" on the refrigerator. John's handiwork, no doubt; probably part of the whole "socially acceptable thing".
Curiosity and the desire to get away, more than any sense of politeness or well-brought-up-ness, drove Molly out of the kitchen and into the hall.
She'd never been to 221b Baker Street before, and she rather liked it.
Her flat was in a dreary 1980's building, all concrete and painted steel, and she hated it. The thought of living above Sherlock Holmes gave her pause, but she wondered if Mrs Hudson was willing to let the rooms above. Hell, she'd even take the moldy basement, if it meant living in a building that had character.
Upstairs, however, was an open door - another bedroom. A man was in the bedroom, leaning out of the window, obviously sneaking a smoke. She paused for a moment to admire the backside. It wasn't the wine - she'd only had half of her very full glass - it was just that it was, for all intents and purposes, a very nice arse.
On the floor beside the arse was a bottle of whisky.
"Oh, hello," she said, as it was rude to stare, either at the arse or the whisky.
The back straightened, and a silver head collided with the open window sash.
"Ouch, fuck!"
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," Molly cried, hurrying to DI Lestrade, who had managed to duck back into the room. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Nah, it's all right," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "Serves me right for sneaking off for a quick smoke." He tossed the smoldering butt out the window. "Dr Hooper, right? Greg Lestrade."
"Molly," she said, holding out her hand.
"Nice to meet you, Molly, at least socially - I'm always pleased to see your name on the autopsy reports I get," Greg said. "You're so much more thorough than Dr Hipkins."
"Oh, thank you!" Molly smiled. "I try to do what I can to help, you know." It was odd, she supposed, to feel quite so gratified by his thanks. And how had she never noticed how handsome he was?
"Well, I appreciate it." Greg grinned.
Oh, that's why. She'd never seen him smile, at least not like that.
"Thanks," she said. "Not a lot of people…"
"Yeah, the song really should be a 'pathologist's lot is not a happy one,' " Greg said with a smile. He reached down and took the bottle of amber fluid off the floor. "Drink?" he asked.
"No, thanks, I have my wine," Molly replied, raising her glass.
"Ah, yeah, sorry, I see. Managed to nick the bottle from Mrs Hudson on the way up here for a quick fag - couldn't stand the noise downstairs, you know."
"Me either," Molly confessed. "It's so… I guess I'm just not a party girl."
"Nothing wrong with that," Greg said with a nod. "I think I'm just getting too old for it. Give me a quiet night in with a good round of whisky," he lifted the bottle, "and this is very good whisky indeed - maybe a nice meal, one or two good friends…" They both flinched as a raucous laugh, Anderson's from the sound of it, filtered up the stairwell, followed by Sherlock's shout.
"That sounds lovely." Molly couldn't keep the wistfulness out of her voice. "Just a quiet evening, good friends. Your girlfriend's lucky."
"Ah, no girlfriend." Greg looked embarrassed and took a swig straight from the bottle.
"Boyfriend? It's totally fine, you know, I'm… some of my best friends are…"
"No, no boyfriend, either. It's okay, I'm just… who'd date me? My hours are shit, I'm a failed ex-smoker, probably bordering on alcoholic…" Greg flinched and touched the back of his head gingerly. "I haven't seen a pair of tits on an actual woman, not a picture, since… I don't remember when. Oh, shit… erm, sorry… It's the whisky. No, no it's not. I'm… Christ…."
"Do you want me to take a look at it?" Molly asked.
"At…" She could have sworn Lestrade looked at her breasts and blushed.
Well, you were ogling his arse.
Nothing wrong with that. If he wants to ogle back…
"Your head. You could be concussed," she said helpfully.
"Ah, yeah… that's not a bad idea." He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. It was a rather appealing sight.
"C'mon, sit here," Molly said. She pulled him to the bed and kicked off her shoes and climbed up behind him. "I promise I'll be gentle."
"Is that what you say to all your victims?" Greg laughed and flinched as Molly prodded the back of his head.
"Only the ones I like," she said with a smile. He couldn't be that drunk; there wasn't that much of the bottle missing, and damn it, Molly was tired of being the one left out. The one people shagged out of pity. The one who attracted the psychopaths and sociopaths.
It wasn't such a great track record, after all, and a failed ex-smoker Detective Inspector with a very sexy arse was an improvement. At least he was straight, and not using her for anything.
He wasn't injured, but Molly took the opportunity to slide her hands down his neck and shoulders. His neck was warm, his shoulders broad - the muscles (as far as she could tell beneath the suit jacket) relaxed.
He smelled of smoke and shaving soap and shampoo - an appealing mixture. Better than formaldehyde at any rate.
Why the hell not? He's probably drunk, and that's going to be about the only way you're going to get at least a snog.
He made an inquisitive noise.
"Just checking for any other possible injuries," she said, hardly daring to believe that the words coming out of her mouth were hers.
This wasn't normal for her, but she'd take it. Maybe this time she wouldn't hate herself quite so much.
"Ah, well, it doesn't hurt to be careful." Greg's voice was husky. Molly felt her face suffuse with heat.
"And we'd want to do a thorough evaluation," Molly whispered, bringing her lips to the side of his neck.
"Molly," Greg groaned. "I don't usually… we should…"
Molly's heart sank.
"You want to stop."
"No! No, I want to continue more than - oh, God, you have no idea how much I want to continue - but you probably think I'm drunk and pathetic, and you'll probably laugh when I tell you how long it's been since I've had a decent shag, or any shag at all, for that matter."
"No, Greg," Molly said. "I think we're both a bit tipsy and pathetic. And I promise not to laugh. Because it's been a long time since I've had a decent shag either."
"You and Mor-" He stopped suddenly.
Molly chuckled - for some reason, after almost a year, she found she could finally do that. "Gay, remember?" she said. "Sherlock had him pegged from the moment he came into the lab that day."
Greg frowned.
"Well, bugger all," he finally said.
"Hmm." Molly pulled a face. "Perhaps not on the first go 'round," she said and kissed him.
Molly only belatedly realized that it was John and Sherlock's bed they were snogging on.
Greg's kisses were sloppy, desperate, and heavenly. His hands seemed to be everywhere, and Molly loved it.
"Molly, I'm serious, if you want me to stop…" Greg pulled away from her and looked down.
"Greg, if I wanted you to stop," Molly said, yanking his suit jacket down over his shoulders as best she could, "I wouldn't be doing this."
"Ah, well then…" he replied, leaning back down to kiss her.
"You could even," Molly whispered, pulling her mouth away from his, "take off that suit jacket entirely…"
"Is that…" he started to ask.
"Oh, yes. But we should… we should probably find a condom first, or something." She blushed and squirmed beneath him.
Greg grinned and rotated his hips against hers.
Molly gasped.
"Yes," he murmured, "that'd be a very good idea indeed."
"Do you think they'd notice if we…," Molly whispered.
"Absolutely. All the more reason to do it. It'd really get on Sherlock's tits, too," Greg giggled - giggled - against her ear. "Here, budge up…" He rolled off of her and crawled up to the head of the bed.
"I'll look in this drawer," Molly offered, taking the opportunity to shed her blouse as Greg stopped and stared.
"Jesus Christ, but you're gorgeous," he said, catching his breath.
Molly knew she was blushing as she bent to the drawer. She was thankful to discover she was on John's side of the bed, which happened to also be the side that contained the lube and the condoms.
"Found them!" she said, bouncing to the center of the bed.
"Thank God," Greg replied. "All I found was…" He trailed off with a shudder.
Molly giggled and walked over to him on her knees.
"Oh, Christ, you are the most beautiful…" Whatever Greg was about to say was cut off he brought his mouth to her bra-covered breast.
The bra didn't last long.
Nor did Greg's shirt and trousers.
Or Molly's skirt.
Soon, they were skin to skin, the covers of the bed pulled back.
"Molly," Greg whispered, sliding on top of her. "Do you … this isn't … do you want to do something that'll really get up Sherlock's nose?"
Molly giggled, bucking her hips against him.
"What did you have in mind?" she asked as Greg groaned, dropping his head to her neck and licking the flesh. She shivered.
"Turn over," he whispered, "and make as much noise as you want."
"Greg!"
"Because, Molly, you sexy, wonderful, gorgeous woman, I promise I'll make you come. And when we go back to my place, I'll do it again."
Molly blushed and turned over as Greg guided her hands to the headboard.
He made good on the first part of his promise. Very good indeed.
Laughing, they redressed, trading swigs from Greg's bottle. It was wonderful - just as Molly had always imagined her teenage years were supposed to be: pawing at one another, kissing, laughing, drinking, carefree and stupid. And then Greg caught her, and lowered her back onto the bed, tossing aside the skirt she'd just pulled on to the bed.
"I want to make you come again," he whispered in her ear, pulling down her knickers.
"Greg!" Molly tried to push him away as he knelt between her thighs.
"I want to," he whispered, pressing a kiss into the inside of her knee. "Let me kiss you, lick you, make you come again so loudly, it'll make Sherlock blush."
Molly sighed as his hands worked their way up her legs, resting on her pelvis.
"Please, Molly." His wicked tongue darted out, tracing a circle around her hip bone and down.
Molly grinned - a wonderful thought crossing her mind. "Oh, yes," she said, scooting up to the headboard and grabbing a pillow. "But I want to watch."
Much later, they managed to stir themselves. From the sounds downstairs, it appeared the party was in full swing.
"I think…" Molly said, running her fingers through Greg's silver hair.
"Dinner?" He finished her thought, lifting his head from her abdomen, where he had been tracing patterns with his finger on the soft skin of her thigh.
"Yeah… all this alcohol."
"C'mon… Sherlock, damn him, showed me a great little Italian place just down the road."
"I'm starving!" Molly blurted as they pulled on their clothes and hurried down the stairs.
"Shh, they'll hear us," Greg giggled against her neck, as, impossibly entangled, they stumbled into the hall.
"I thought that's what you wanted," Molly said, as they crashed into a wall. "And I should really return the favor."
"Well, there is that…" Greg replied. "Er, if you want to…"
"Oh, God, yes."
Greg and Molly peeked in the door. The partygoers stared at them. Molly caught a glimpse of Mike's shocked face, Anderson's pinched one, and Sally's broad grin leering at her boss.
John was looking annoyed.
"Lestrade, what the hell were you doing up there? With Molly! It sounded like a herd of elephants…" Sherlock called out.
"Sherlock," John snapped. "For Christ's sake…"
"Sherlock," Molly said, grabbing Greg's bottle and taking a drink before setting it carefully on the floor. "Fuck you. John, thank you for the invitation."
"Yeah," Greg said, wrapping himself around her even more than she thought possible. "Ta very much, John. We're going to dinner."
"Well, fuck me," Mike Stamford could be heard to say as they staggered down the stairs.
"What an excellent idea," Greg whispered in her ear as they grabbed their coats and headed out into the night.
Type of work: fic
Category: Het.
Title: Before and After
Prompts used: Molly/Sherlock, pity f*ck; Molly/Lestrade, wallflower
Rating: R
Warnings: Explicit sex.
Notes/Acknowledgments: Many thanks to the village that it took to get this story into shape: annietalbot, bluestocking79, machshefa and pyjamapants. And of course I made no money from this endeavor!
Consider this work for voting?: Yes
Before
Before Jim, there had been Sherlock.
It was a one-time thing, she told herself. He wasn't interested in her. She wasn't stupid. She knew this. She'd always known it. Even from the first time they met.
The worst part was that it wasn't the last time she would take pity on somebody that didn't deserve it.
She knew that, too.
But he'd looked lost. And she did rather fancy him - Mike Stamford had told her about him: brilliant, rude (well, she could work around that), and impossible to resist.
Even Mike Stamford - straightest of straight men - seemed to have a crush on this man. Mike, who was chatting with him in the mortuary as Sherlock fingered a riding crop.
Molly wasn't prone to metaphor, but even that was a bit much.
She pushed open the door.
It was bucketing down - a typical Monday afternoon. At least she'd remembered an umbrella; it helped with the worst of the downpour.
"Are you lost?"
"No. Thinking." Sherlock's reply was telegraphic. Rain dripped from a sodden curl onto his collar.
"You're getting all wet." Molly stepped forward to offer him the dubious shelter of her umbrella.
"It is raining. Bravo. Excellent observation." He ducked away with a quick grin.
"Don't you want my umbrella?"
"No. What I want instead is … you."
"Me?"
"Yes. More specifically, access to your mortuary."
"My… mortuary?" She felt as if she'd been punched.
"Of course! Shall we?" He winked at her and stepped aside with a flourish, as if to bow her into the building.
She blushed as she noticed him checking her out as she punched in her access code.
It was a body he'd come to see.
"A friend of mine." He'd leaned close to her, whispered it in her ear.
She shuddered and looked at her list. No name. A man. Caucasian. Mid-twenties.
"Do you need to identify him? Surely the police…"
"The police? Don't waste my time." He spun away from her.
Ouch.
He did have a nice arse, though. No harm in looking - he was handsome and clever. She liked clever. And it had been months since she'd even looked at a man.
Not since… not since Gary had left her for Stewart.
So she didn't care if Sherlock was manipulating her, if it meant he'd look at her twice.
"You're investigating?" she asked.
He looked at her as if she were dim, and she flushed with embarrassment.
"He died because of me."
"Oh, I'm…" Was the floor going to open and swallow her? She hoped so.
"Don't waste your time apologizing. You didn't do it."
"Are you here to say goodbye, then? Surely the funeral, the wake…"
His smile was taut - brittle, even.
"His family wouldn't appreciate it."
She left him then, to say his farewells.
When he came out of the mortuary, he was stuffing something into his pocket, but she hardly noticed that. What she did notice was that his hands were shaking and his cheeks were wet.
Maybe he needed help. Comfort, even. Not pity.
"Maybe I can help you?" she asked.
He flashed her a smile and she blushed again.
"Maybe you can, at that."
"… natural causes. He worked here. I knew him."
He barely glanced at her.
"We'll start with the riding crop."
"I'm Molly, by the way." She offered her hand. He looked at it as if she'd offered him a dead fish.
"I know. Sherlock." He nodded.
"Would… I'm off to get some tea, d'you…"
"No. Thanks."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
His eyes narrowed.
"Your lipstick. It makes you look nice."
"Erm, thank you." She blushed.
"Make it a pint instead," he said with a smile. "And perhaps you'll let me back into the mortuary if we do this regularly. Make you think that I care about you."
"I, uh…"
"Not good?" He frowned. "Didn’t think you'd be hurt by that. Stupid custom, being nice."
"No, no, it's fine." She manufactured a smile. "Let's, uh, go. You surprised me, that's all."
"Bad day?"
"Watch to see what bruises form in the next thirty minutes - a man's alibi is at stake!"
"I don't think you should be drinking so much," she can't help admonishing him.
"Why, because I remind you of your father?"
"What? No, that's… his drinking has nothing to do with this. How did you know?"
His smile was looser. She felt the tension coil in her belly.
"There's a lot I know about you, Molly Hooper."
"I…" She gaped at him.
"You're right. I shouldn't be drinking this much. There are other things, more pleasurable things."
"Are you… do you miss him?" She nodded her head in the general direction of Bart's, hoping not to blush.
"I caused his death. I don't miss him. I don't miss people."
"But you feel guilty."
"Guilt is boring. So is sex. Which is what you’re thinking about. What I’d be like in bed. That you could offer me comfort."
Oh.
"Oh."
He leaned back in his chair, arms spread wide.
"Boring. This whole world is DULL," he cried.
"Hush!" Molly looked around furtively as the other drinkers glared at them.
"Why?" Sherlock pouted.
“It’s rude.”
That smile again.
“Social norms, mores. So unusual for the pretty girl who works in the mortuary. Maybe I do need some comforting.”
That. That was the point where she should’ve asked him what he really wanted.
But after Gary…
“Weren’t you wearing lipstick?”
“I took it off, it wasn’t working for me.”
“Ah, it makes your mouth… smaller now.”
“I am drunk, yes.”
“I’ll call you a cab.”
“You don’t have to baby-sit me.” He sagged forward onto the table, nearly upsetting her gin and tonic.
She stood and walked around to his chair. He leaned against her for a moment and she caught her breath, taking the chance to run her hand through his unruly hair.
“Come on.” She hauled him up and he grunted. “Where do you live?”
He was leaning against her, warm and heavy. She was a bit drunk too, if she thought about it.
Molly tried not to think about it.
“Why don’t you kiss me instead? You want to. You feel sorry for me.”
Okay, that was a new one. Not that Molly had a great deal of experience with pickup lines.
“Okay. Erm…”
They went to her flat, of course.
“You don’t want to go to my flat in Montague Street,” he said, tucking up against her in the back of the cab.
“Why not?” She squirmed around him, maneuvering herself to a better position. She wished he didn’t feel so good. And really, he had just lost his friend. Not that that was an excuse for wanting to feel more of him.
“You… don’t. My roommates wouldn't like you. Mmm, were you eating onions earlier?” He licked her neck and she shivered.
“Erm, with my lunch. I did brush my teeth, though.”
“It’ll have to do. I have condoms, so you can stop worrying about that."
Which was when he kissed her, sliding his hand up her leg. His tongue was hot and demanding in her mouth and she tried not to groan.
She failed.
The cab driver glared at them.
He managed to get out of the cab all right when they arrived at her flat.
And then immediately collapsed to the pavement.
“You’re really drunk,” she noted. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
“No, I’m fine. I am perfectly capable of making decisions. I’m only in mourning.”
“I thought you said grief was a waste.” She wrestled him up the stairs and into her sitting room.
“I said guilt. This isn’t guilt. This is mourning. And I don’t want to be alone.”
“Fine. You can sleep it off on the sofa. I’ll even pull out the li-lo.”
He kissed her again.
“No, Molly, I want this.”
She pulled away and looked at him.
He looked just as he’d done in the rain outside of Bart’s that afternoon. Lonely. Slightly bedraggled.
She felt a wave of pity.
His smile again, tugging at the corners of her heart.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him toward her bedroom.
This wasn’t something that she usually did.
But maybe that explained why she never did get a great deal of sex, either way.
***
It wasn’t great. She should’ve said something, she supposed.
But it wasn’t terrible, either. He at least managed to get her off before he stumbled into the loo, threw up noisily, stumbled out and fell asleep across her bed.
And he didn’t complain about her blow-job. That was something.
Molly Hooper, queen of the pity-fuck.
He woke up at about two, just as Molly was contemplating trying to move him so she could get some sleep.
She started as he transitioned into wakefulness and stared at her for a long moment.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be leaving now.”
Molly boggled.
“It’s two in the morning!” she exclaimed.
“Excellent. I see a bright future in forensic pathology with your observational skills.”
“But won’t you…”
“Good night, Molly. It wasn’t … terrible.”
The man with the cane looked amused. It was bad enough being humiliated by Sherlock Holmes in front of a stranger.
But the worst, of course, was the stifled bark of amusement from Mike bloody Stamford.
Molly slammed out of the lab.
After
After Jim, well, was there really an after?
"Weren't you invited?" Mike asked her, stepping in front of her as she tried to return to the mortuary.
Molly didn't look up from the paperwork on her clipboard. "Yes, but I wasn't planning on going."
"Oh, why not?"
"Because," Molly said, trying to push past him, "I'm not interested in being insulted about my weight. Or my hair. Or my mouth being too small. Or my deplorable choice in boyfriends."
"Oh, ah. But John said he was rather hoping you'd come."
"Well, John can get used to disappointment."
"Molly, come on."
"Dr Stamford, I'm not interested. Why are you so worried, anyway?"
Mike had the grace to look embarrassed.
"Because I won't know anybody there but John. It's all people from Scotland Yard, it sounds like. And their housekeeper. "
"Bring your wife, then."
"She's visiting her mother. Please, Molly."
Molly sighed.
"Fine," she said. "But you're taking my seminar next week and the week after."
Mike's grin lit up the tiny, dank hallway.
"It's a deal," he said.
Molly didn't do parties. Like sex, they seemed to elude her, or when she did manage to obtain one or the other (sex or parties), it was terribly embarrassing or disappointing.
She could count on one hand the number of parties she'd enjoyed. Just as she could count… oh, never mind.
It figured, she supposed. Which is why she was standing in the corner of the kitchen, a glass of white wine warming in her hand as she watched Mike and John slap each other on the back as Mike congratulated him on his engagement.
"So sweet, I knew they were meant to be," Mrs Hudson had cooed at her when she'd entered. "I just had to throw them this little do. Make yourself at home, dear, and try the cheesy bits."
Good God, the woman was actually fluttering.
John had given her a bear hug and thrust a glass of wine into her hand.
"I'm glad you came, Molly. I… thank you."
"Yeah, well…" Molly looked at her shoes.
"I know," John said, sounding a bit embarrassed. "But really, you know, you've known us since the beginning of…" he paused, "us."
"Yeah," Molly mumbled.
"Ah, well… look, I know Sherlock's been a complete berk to you, and… well, I'm working on that."
Molly looked up. The room felt full of people. John continued. "You know, telling him when he's been a bit not good, and the whole socially acceptable thing."
"Erm, thanks," Molly replied. "I know I'll appreciate that." She failed entirely at keeping the sarcasm out of her voice, but by then John had already squeezed her hand and moved away.
Around the flat were scattered various people, some of whom Molly recognized from Scotland Yard - DI Dimmock, the DS that worked with DI Lestrade. Anderson, the SOCO, flashed a smile at her. There was no sign of Lestrade himself, though.
There were also a few doctors from John's surgery, laughing and talking.
Molly's head was starting to hurt. She took a desperate swig of wine and smiled like a death's head until she could back herself into the kitchen. It was small, clean, and rather nice, she thought.
She admired the sign that read "no body parts - human food only" on the refrigerator. John's handiwork, no doubt; probably part of the whole "socially acceptable thing".
Curiosity and the desire to get away, more than any sense of politeness or well-brought-up-ness, drove Molly out of the kitchen and into the hall.
She'd never been to 221b Baker Street before, and she rather liked it.
Her flat was in a dreary 1980's building, all concrete and painted steel, and she hated it. The thought of living above Sherlock Holmes gave her pause, but she wondered if Mrs Hudson was willing to let the rooms above. Hell, she'd even take the moldy basement, if it meant living in a building that had character.
Upstairs, however, was an open door - another bedroom. A man was in the bedroom, leaning out of the window, obviously sneaking a smoke. She paused for a moment to admire the backside. It wasn't the wine - she'd only had half of her very full glass - it was just that it was, for all intents and purposes, a very nice arse.
On the floor beside the arse was a bottle of whisky.
"Oh, hello," she said, as it was rude to stare, either at the arse or the whisky.
The back straightened, and a silver head collided with the open window sash.
"Ouch, fuck!"
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," Molly cried, hurrying to DI Lestrade, who had managed to duck back into the room. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Nah, it's all right," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "Serves me right for sneaking off for a quick smoke." He tossed the smoldering butt out the window. "Dr Hooper, right? Greg Lestrade."
"Molly," she said, holding out her hand.
"Nice to meet you, Molly, at least socially - I'm always pleased to see your name on the autopsy reports I get," Greg said. "You're so much more thorough than Dr Hipkins."
"Oh, thank you!" Molly smiled. "I try to do what I can to help, you know." It was odd, she supposed, to feel quite so gratified by his thanks. And how had she never noticed how handsome he was?
"Well, I appreciate it." Greg grinned.
Oh, that's why. She'd never seen him smile, at least not like that.
"Thanks," she said. "Not a lot of people…"
"Yeah, the song really should be a 'pathologist's lot is not a happy one,' " Greg said with a smile. He reached down and took the bottle of amber fluid off the floor. "Drink?" he asked.
"No, thanks, I have my wine," Molly replied, raising her glass.
"Ah, yeah, sorry, I see. Managed to nick the bottle from Mrs Hudson on the way up here for a quick fag - couldn't stand the noise downstairs, you know."
"Me either," Molly confessed. "It's so… I guess I'm just not a party girl."
"Nothing wrong with that," Greg said with a nod. "I think I'm just getting too old for it. Give me a quiet night in with a good round of whisky," he lifted the bottle, "and this is very good whisky indeed - maybe a nice meal, one or two good friends…" They both flinched as a raucous laugh, Anderson's from the sound of it, filtered up the stairwell, followed by Sherlock's shout.
"That sounds lovely." Molly couldn't keep the wistfulness out of her voice. "Just a quiet evening, good friends. Your girlfriend's lucky."
"Ah, no girlfriend." Greg looked embarrassed and took a swig straight from the bottle.
"Boyfriend? It's totally fine, you know, I'm… some of my best friends are…"
"No, no boyfriend, either. It's okay, I'm just… who'd date me? My hours are shit, I'm a failed ex-smoker, probably bordering on alcoholic…" Greg flinched and touched the back of his head gingerly. "I haven't seen a pair of tits on an actual woman, not a picture, since… I don't remember when. Oh, shit… erm, sorry… It's the whisky. No, no it's not. I'm… Christ…."
"Do you want me to take a look at it?" Molly asked.
"At…" She could have sworn Lestrade looked at her breasts and blushed.
Well, you were ogling his arse.
Nothing wrong with that. If he wants to ogle back…
"Your head. You could be concussed," she said helpfully.
"Ah, yeah… that's not a bad idea." He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. It was a rather appealing sight.
"C'mon, sit here," Molly said. She pulled him to the bed and kicked off her shoes and climbed up behind him. "I promise I'll be gentle."
"Is that what you say to all your victims?" Greg laughed and flinched as Molly prodded the back of his head.
"Only the ones I like," she said with a smile. He couldn't be that drunk; there wasn't that much of the bottle missing, and damn it, Molly was tired of being the one left out. The one people shagged out of pity. The one who attracted the psychopaths and sociopaths.
It wasn't such a great track record, after all, and a failed ex-smoker Detective Inspector with a very sexy arse was an improvement. At least he was straight, and not using her for anything.
He wasn't injured, but Molly took the opportunity to slide her hands down his neck and shoulders. His neck was warm, his shoulders broad - the muscles (as far as she could tell beneath the suit jacket) relaxed.
He smelled of smoke and shaving soap and shampoo - an appealing mixture. Better than formaldehyde at any rate.
Why the hell not? He's probably drunk, and that's going to be about the only way you're going to get at least a snog.
He made an inquisitive noise.
"Just checking for any other possible injuries," she said, hardly daring to believe that the words coming out of her mouth were hers.
This wasn't normal for her, but she'd take it. Maybe this time she wouldn't hate herself quite so much.
"Ah, well, it doesn't hurt to be careful." Greg's voice was husky. Molly felt her face suffuse with heat.
"And we'd want to do a thorough evaluation," Molly whispered, bringing her lips to the side of his neck.
"Molly," Greg groaned. "I don't usually… we should…"
Molly's heart sank.
"You want to stop."
"No! No, I want to continue more than - oh, God, you have no idea how much I want to continue - but you probably think I'm drunk and pathetic, and you'll probably laugh when I tell you how long it's been since I've had a decent shag, or any shag at all, for that matter."
"No, Greg," Molly said. "I think we're both a bit tipsy and pathetic. And I promise not to laugh. Because it's been a long time since I've had a decent shag either."
"You and Mor-" He stopped suddenly.
Molly chuckled - for some reason, after almost a year, she found she could finally do that. "Gay, remember?" she said. "Sherlock had him pegged from the moment he came into the lab that day."
Greg frowned.
"Well, bugger all," he finally said.
"Hmm." Molly pulled a face. "Perhaps not on the first go 'round," she said and kissed him.
Molly only belatedly realized that it was John and Sherlock's bed they were snogging on.
Greg's kisses were sloppy, desperate, and heavenly. His hands seemed to be everywhere, and Molly loved it.
"Molly, I'm serious, if you want me to stop…" Greg pulled away from her and looked down.
"Greg, if I wanted you to stop," Molly said, yanking his suit jacket down over his shoulders as best she could, "I wouldn't be doing this."
"Ah, well then…" he replied, leaning back down to kiss her.
"You could even," Molly whispered, pulling her mouth away from his, "take off that suit jacket entirely…"
"Is that…" he started to ask.
"Oh, yes. But we should… we should probably find a condom first, or something." She blushed and squirmed beneath him.
Greg grinned and rotated his hips against hers.
Molly gasped.
"Yes," he murmured, "that'd be a very good idea indeed."
"Do you think they'd notice if we…," Molly whispered.
"Absolutely. All the more reason to do it. It'd really get on Sherlock's tits, too," Greg giggled - giggled - against her ear. "Here, budge up…" He rolled off of her and crawled up to the head of the bed.
"I'll look in this drawer," Molly offered, taking the opportunity to shed her blouse as Greg stopped and stared.
"Jesus Christ, but you're gorgeous," he said, catching his breath.
Molly knew she was blushing as she bent to the drawer. She was thankful to discover she was on John's side of the bed, which happened to also be the side that contained the lube and the condoms.
"Found them!" she said, bouncing to the center of the bed.
"Thank God," Greg replied. "All I found was…" He trailed off with a shudder.
Molly giggled and walked over to him on her knees.
"Oh, Christ, you are the most beautiful…" Whatever Greg was about to say was cut off he brought his mouth to her bra-covered breast.
The bra didn't last long.
Nor did Greg's shirt and trousers.
Or Molly's skirt.
Soon, they were skin to skin, the covers of the bed pulled back.
"Molly," Greg whispered, sliding on top of her. "Do you … this isn't … do you want to do something that'll really get up Sherlock's nose?"
Molly giggled, bucking her hips against him.
"What did you have in mind?" she asked as Greg groaned, dropping his head to her neck and licking the flesh. She shivered.
"Turn over," he whispered, "and make as much noise as you want."
"Greg!"
"Because, Molly, you sexy, wonderful, gorgeous woman, I promise I'll make you come. And when we go back to my place, I'll do it again."
Molly blushed and turned over as Greg guided her hands to the headboard.
He made good on the first part of his promise. Very good indeed.
Laughing, they redressed, trading swigs from Greg's bottle. It was wonderful - just as Molly had always imagined her teenage years were supposed to be: pawing at one another, kissing, laughing, drinking, carefree and stupid. And then Greg caught her, and lowered her back onto the bed, tossing aside the skirt she'd just pulled on to the bed.
"I want to make you come again," he whispered in her ear, pulling down her knickers.
"Greg!" Molly tried to push him away as he knelt between her thighs.
"I want to," he whispered, pressing a kiss into the inside of her knee. "Let me kiss you, lick you, make you come again so loudly, it'll make Sherlock blush."
Molly sighed as his hands worked their way up her legs, resting on her pelvis.
"Please, Molly." His wicked tongue darted out, tracing a circle around her hip bone and down.
Molly grinned - a wonderful thought crossing her mind. "Oh, yes," she said, scooting up to the headboard and grabbing a pillow. "But I want to watch."
Much later, they managed to stir themselves. From the sounds downstairs, it appeared the party was in full swing.
"I think…" Molly said, running her fingers through Greg's silver hair.
"Dinner?" He finished her thought, lifting his head from her abdomen, where he had been tracing patterns with his finger on the soft skin of her thigh.
"Yeah… all this alcohol."
"C'mon… Sherlock, damn him, showed me a great little Italian place just down the road."
"I'm starving!" Molly blurted as they pulled on their clothes and hurried down the stairs.
"Shh, they'll hear us," Greg giggled against her neck, as, impossibly entangled, they stumbled into the hall.
"I thought that's what you wanted," Molly said, as they crashed into a wall. "And I should really return the favor."
"Well, there is that…" Greg replied. "Er, if you want to…"
"Oh, God, yes."
Greg and Molly peeked in the door. The partygoers stared at them. Molly caught a glimpse of Mike's shocked face, Anderson's pinched one, and Sally's broad grin leering at her boss.
John was looking annoyed.
"Lestrade, what the hell were you doing up there? With Molly! It sounded like a herd of elephants…" Sherlock called out.
"Sherlock," John snapped. "For Christ's sake…"
"Sherlock," Molly said, grabbing Greg's bottle and taking a drink before setting it carefully on the floor. "Fuck you. John, thank you for the invitation."
"Yeah," Greg said, wrapping himself around her even more than she thought possible. "Ta very much, John. We're going to dinner."
"Well, fuck me," Mike Stamford could be heard to say as they staggered down the stairs.
"What an excellent idea," Greg whispered in her ear as they grabbed their coats and headed out into the night.