#sherlolly trope duos

[musicprincess1990]

3 and 19 from the trope pairs list please! 😁👏

3: Bed-sharing; 19: Godparents. Taken from this list, and as much as I want to keep taking prompts, I'm going to have to close them, I just don't have my writing juices flowing right now.

But anyways, welcome to Angst Central! Proceed with caution. 😉 I am SO sorry I’m getting to this so late, but I guess better late than never?? Anyway, hope you like it!

~*~

Open Arms

Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the prone form of his best friend as the machinery beside his bed kept track of his vitals.  The quiet but steady beep of the monitor was both reassuring and a nuisance, as was the occasional puff of air through the oxygen tube.  Across the room, just outside the microscopic window, a light snow had begun to fall, and though Sherlock was not one to believe in signs or portents, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was an omen.

The door to the hospital room opened, but Sherlock didn’t turn, already knowing who it was.  A moment later, a hand softly touched his shoulder, and then its owner spoke.  “He’ll be fine, Sherlock,” said Molly, her voice as gentle as her touch.  “John is too stubborn to let this keep him down.”

“I wish I shared your optimism,” he answered, his voice low and gravelly.

She let out a sigh, then sat beside him on the tiny, uncomfortable sofa.  “You heard what the doctor said.  The procedure went well, his vitals are good, he’s breathing better every minute—”

“What if she’s wrong?” he asked, not taking his eyes off his injured friend.

“They’ve been very thorough, Sherlock,” she reassured him.  “They’ve run every test imaginable, if they do anything more, he’ll start to glow in the dark.”  Sherlock scowled at her terrible joke, but in fact he appreciated her trying to lighten the mood.  In a more serious voice, she added, “He’ll be well taken care of, I promise.  And we need to take care of Rosie until he’s healed.”

The mention of their goddaughter, who was currently in the care of Mrs. Hudson and blissfully unaware of her father’s current state, gave him considerable strength.  With a deep breath, he nodded his head.  “You’re right.  Best not keep Mrs. Hudson from her ‘herbal soothers,’” he said with a wry grin.

Molly beamed.  “There’s the Sherlock I know.”

With one last look at John, he allowed Molly to lead him out of the hospital.  The snow had increased a bit, leaving very few cabs on the roads, so they instead took the tube.  By the time they reached Baker Street, exhausted and emotionally spent, a layer of white at least two centimetres deep coated every surface.  Molly wordlessly held out a hand for Sherlock’s keys, and he handed them over, leaning against the jamb while she unlocked the door.

Mrs. Hudson greeted them cheerfully but was clearly as exhausted as they were.  Molly lingered for a quiet chat, while Sherlock gathered a slumbering Rosie against his chest, picking up the nappy bag on his way up the stairs.  She hummed sleepily, her hand closing over the lapel of his Belstaff, and he hesitated mid-step, afraid she’d woken, but she only sighed and shifted a bit before settling against him again.  Sherlock set her on the centre of his bed while he set up the travel cot in the corner of his bedroom.

As he finished the task, Molly appeared with a somewhat bemused frown.  “Why have you set it up in here? There’s more space upstairs in John’s old room.”

He didn’t answer immediately, his ears warming and likely turning pink, though thankfully that wouldn’t be visible in the darkened room.  “I… didn’t want her to be alone.”

Molly’s face softened, and for a moment, she looked as though she might start crying.  Please don’t, he silently pleaded; he was in no shape to comfort anyone at the moment, he’d undoubtedly muck it all up.  He was relieved, then, to see Molly smile in the next moment.  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Sherlock,” she complimented.  “It’s… unnerving, at times, waking up alone.”

As ever, Molly saw right through him, to the secrets he kept even from himself.  Without another word, she crossed the room and dug through a drawer until she found an old pair of pyjamas.  “Give me a few minutes to change, I’ll be back.”

Sherlock found himself unable to speak, only nodding in response.  Molly left the room, and a moment later he heard the bathroom door close.  He dazedly grabbed another pair of pyjamas, just tying the drawstring belt when Molly returned.  He swallowed against a wave of desire that washed over him at the sight of her wearing his clothing, and not for the first time, he questioned whether he’d made the right decision all those months ago.

After Sherrinford, Sherlock had taken a few days to sort out the crumbling debris of his mind palace.  He had hundreds upon hundreds of repressed memories, and all the emotions that came with them, and he’d been more than a bit daunted at the prospect.  At the end, though, everything had been sorted and catalogued, every thought and feeling… including those for Molly.  She’d been a central figure within his mind for years, but as the dust settled and he revisited his newly reconstructed mind palace, he finally understood just how central she had become.

She was everywhere.  In every room and corridor, even those she had no business being, such as the wing dedicated to his childhood and adolescence, there she stood.  Sometimes, she wore her lab coat and a familiar ensemble of her usual frumpy clothing; other times, the little black dress she’d worn one Christmas, complete with curled hair and red lips and ridiculous silver bow.  But always, always, she was there, watching him with those wide brown eyes, as if waiting, wondering what he would do.

What would he do?  Well, he didn’t know himself.  All he knew was that she mattered to him, more than she could ever know.

In all his years of chasing criminals and solving mysteries, he had never been more frightened than those three minutes.  He was terrified of losing her, of never seeing her eyes, hearing her awful jokes, working alongside her in the lab or the morgue, or sharing a cuppa as they kept an eye on Rosie.  Even as she said the words, and her life was saved—and then, when it became clear she was never really in danger to begin with—the fear remained.  He feared he’d already done too much damage.  After years of being dismissive or outright rude toward her, compounded with being forced to make her expose her heart in perhaps the worst three minutes of his life… how could they ever hope to repair that?

And yet, somehow, they had.  Molly, true to the person she had always been, had accepted his apology and explanation without question, and agreed to rebuild their friendship.  She did not, however, say a word about anything more than friendship, and Sherlock took that as a sign she was no longer open to more.  He’d felt some disappointment, but also relief, as he’d never attempted a romantic relationship—well, a real one.  Friendship, however, he was comfortable with, and it was more than he’d expected from her, so he accepted it without question.

But now…

Now, here she stood, all warm and soft and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.  Even in the borrowed pyjamas that were far too big for her frame, she was absolutely radiant.  And as he watched her scoop up the still-sleeping Rosie, cooing softly as she laid her in the cot, his desire for her became more than simply physical.  He wanted love, he wanted family, he wanted… God, he wanted to spend forever just wrapped around her, doing absolutely nothing but being with her.

He loved her.

And he was finally ready to do something about it.

Molly ruffled Rosie’s blonde curls before straightening and smiling at him.  Sherlock barely noticed his own movements, only realizing he’d stepped toward her when he came toe-to-toe with her.  Her brows pulled together in a frown, her confusion evident, and he was tempted to press a kiss to her forehead to smooth them out.

“I love you, Molly,” he said, the words tumbling out in a low, breathless murmur.

For a moment, shock flickered across her eyes, followed by… sadness?  She gave him another smile, but he could see it was forced, strained.  “I know you do, Sherlock… I know we’re friends.”

“No,” he shook his head, lifting his hands to her face, cradling her head between them.  Molly’s eyes were wary, anxious, and his stomach twisted with guilt.  Of course, she misunderstood him, she had no reason to believe he meant it.  When she glanced away, he shook his head and gently swiped his thumbs along her cheekbones.  “Look at me, Molly… see me, the way you always do.”

“Sherlock—”

He let one thumb slide over her lips, the softness of them driving him mad.  His eyes followed the movement, before he dragged them slowly back to hers.  Sherlock opened himself to her, letting every ounce of his feelings—all those complicated little emotions—show in his face as he willed her to believe.

“I love you,” he repeated himself.  “Please, Molly… please see that I meant it.  That I mean it.  I’m… I’m rubbish at this,” he half growled, frustrated with his blundering.  “I’d be a shit boyfriend, you know I would.  I’d forget to call or text, I would spend days away on cases, I haven’t the slightest inclination toward conventional courtship, and I really don’t see the point in marriage, and—”

“Sherlock, stop,” she cut him off with a quiet firmness.  His eyes found hers again, and to his surprise, they were wet with tears… but she was also smiling.  Molly’s lips trembled as she grinned up at him, her left hand reaching up to brush at the hair on his forehead.  Sherlock’s heart thundered in his chest at the contact, and he waited in breathless anticipation for her next words.

“Whatever gave you the impression that I wanted conventional?” she asked.  “I fell in love with you, didn’t I?”

There were no words for the feeling of relief, joy, and affection that rushed through his every vein.  He couldn’t have said who moved first, but suddenly, their mouths connected, and the sensation was at once everything he’d imagined and nothing he’d ever expected.  Her lips—soft, delicate, definitely not too small—teased at his with assuredness, and she left him wanting more, severing the contact all too soon and blessing him with a smile that outshone the sun.

“Come on,” she whispered, her hand sliding into his, and she led him toward the bed.  For a moment, he panicked, but sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, she added, “We don’t want to wake Rosie.”

Sherlock glanced at the cot where their goddaughter lay, oblivious to all the tension crackling in the air around them.  That tension eased, however, as he turned back to Molly, still wearing that sunny smile and waiting patiently for him.  He crawled under the covers and into her open arms, and the last coils of his anxiety were soothed away, all but forgotten.

~*~

I have a soft spot in my heart for Sherlock and Molly just cuddling and falling asleep together. I tend to write that A LOT, and I’m not sorry. 😁 Thanks again for the prompt!

[little-paperboat]

What ships be your OTPs rn! I’ve seen some posts bout some of em and they’re all such moods and great ships! Feel free to list em and even rant bout em if ya want! :D

heyy thanks for your ask ♡

i think my all time favourite otp top 3 are

rose & the doctor (esp. nine and ten) from doctor who

jamie & brienne from game of thrones

zuko & katara from a:tla

they mean the world to me and i will never tire of them even though only 1/3 is (kinda) canon 😅 i could elaborate for hours literally but there is just something so fundamentally beautiful about them, they complete eachother and learn to grow together and to be the better version of themselves and it’s aaaaaahhhh

and more recently i've been really into

bg3 characters shipped with eachother and tav/durge, it’s my current full time obsession and i will let it consume me forever <3 i confess i have a soft spot for anything including astarion, gale, wyll & halsin (and some *thoughts* about rolan x tav and durgetash too………)

hogwarts legacy’s ot3 with ominis, sebastian and the main character - sebinis is also great in itself but it was my true ot3 awakening and i will never emotionally recover from that ! it also got me back to writing and reading fics :)

jack x phryne from miss fisher’s murder mysteries - the chemistry is UNMATCHED. the tension is on a whole other level i have never been so intensely wishing for something to happen. they’re a great duo and it’s just so fun to watch them

gereon x lotte from babylon berlin ; i haven’t watched the last season and it’s less light hearted than the one above but i love them and they are so GOOD for eachother and so in love it hurts i just want them to be happy and free 🥺 but yeah The Kiss is forever seared into my brain

sherlock & molly from sherlock bbc. it’s wishful thinking but the potential was RIGHT THERE and they are so fun to watch and so vulnerable with eachother too ; i do really like johnlock as well but the sherlolly energy from the show will always be superior to me

and i feel like that’s mostly it for the otps 👀 i like a good enemies to lovers or unexpected allies to lovers kind of trope hihi

[writingwife-83]

For the trope duos: Sherlolly of course, Uni!lock and Trapped together?

I couldn’t work on this when I first got it but I’m happy to say it’s prompt time now hehe! This is taken from the trope duo prompt list that @musicprincess1990 made.

Manhunt

Molly ducked into the gardening shed, shutting the door as quietly as she could before backing into the shadows.

“Don’t scream.”

Molly nearly jumped out of her skin, having to clamp a hand over her mouth in order to follow those explicit instructions. She narrowed her eyes, looking more closely in the darkness. Not that she had any doubt as to whose voice that was.

“Oh, hi, Sherlock. I didn’t know you were hiding in here too. I- I can find somewhere else if-“

“No, Molly,” he whispered with a sigh. “Just try to stay quiet and I’m sure we’ll both be fine here until we get an opportunity to run for the base.”

“Sure, ok, sounds good.”

She stepped a little closer to him so she was all the way in the back of the shed. In fact, they were very close she realized, as his arm brushed hers and she caught a whiff of his soap or shaving cream or whatever that intoxicatingly crisp smell was.

“Surprised you’re out here tonight, playing manhunt, to be honest,” Molly whispered.

“Is conversation a requirement of the game? I rather think it would tend to be the opposite.”

Molly rolled her eyes, not that she let it get to her. She was used to his biting remarks and razor sharp wit by now. They’d developed a sort of friendship? She supposed that was the best word for it. They had a good working relationship, which was more than could be said for most others and Sherlock.

“John convinced me to join in,” Sherlock finally replied. “Shouldn’t be a long game, seeing as most players are already drunk.”

“Mm, you’re probably right.”

A moment of silence passed as they heard a bit of chasing and yelling happening not far from where they were hidden.

“I imagine you’re here because of...Tom, is it?”

Molly blushed, thankful for the cover of darkness. “Oh, um, well...I suppose so. Not that we’re together! Not yet, really. I mean, he hasn’t exactly asked me out.”

“He’s planning to.”

Molly whirled to face him. “Is he? Wait, how do you- oh right, that’s a stupid question. So, do you mean he’s going to ask tonight? Or-“

“Obviously I don’t know all the details, Molly,” he replied in a hiss. “It’s just nauseatingly obvious he’s interested, that’s all.”

She frowned a little. That was an interesting tone.

“He’s nice,” she retorted, feeling a bit on the defense now.

“I never said he wasn’t.”

“But you don’t like him.”

“I didn’t say that either. Perhaps you should stop attempting deductions.”

“Perhaps what I should do is find another hiding spot,” Molly huffed, taking a step but stumbling a bit.

In an obvious attempt to prevent the potential noise that the large array of rakes and assorted university grounds equipment might create if knocked about, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in against him and keeping her from toppling over.

“Sherlock-“ she gasped.

“Shh.”

Molly quickly realized there were footsteps nearby, so she stayed silent and statuesque. That is, aside from her heart, which was currently doing an embarrassingly wild dance in her chest. The way his hands engulfed her back, his eyes shone into hers in the dim lighting, and his entire form was pressed against hers...did things to her. As she saw him gulp and draw an unsteady breath, she wondered if she wasn’t the only one.

Times like these, it was a little harder to define their relationship as “friendly” or “working.”

Maybe that was because she didn’t want to.

[mizjoely]

In case you didn’t know...

...I have many side blogs, most of them BBC Sherlock or Ben C. related (but not all). I am mizjoely, yes, but I am also (*DRAMATICALLY WHISKS CURTAIN AWAY FROM STACK OF SIDEBLOGS*):

Adstrade-Lestradler - As advertised. Home for one of my fave rare/crack!pairs

BBC Sherlock References - Just an attempt to help people who are looking for references for various sets, characters, costumes, dialogue, etc.

Benedicterotica - Sensuous manips, fanart, gifs and pics of the fabulous Mr. C! Rather NSFW/lemony, so be warned!

Khanolly Cannoli Canoodling (mizjoely’s Khanolly blog) -  A home for all the Khanolly (BC’s Khan & Molly) fics, manips, art and others posts.

Life-on-the-magic-roundabout -  A home for Cabin Pressure fanart, broken out by episode and character.

Sherlollilists - Like Victorian!lock? Wed!lock? Teen!lock? Uni!lock? Got a hankerin' for a wankerin'? Find all that & more here! All your favorite tropes listed in one convenient location.

Sherlolly Fanart - Lists organized by artists and some favorite tropes like Victorian, snuggling, kissing, etc.

Sherlollyfun - Gifs, picsets, picfics, crack, fanvids, etc. of our favorite duo!

And last but not least, mizjoely’s-forever-reblogs, which is my non-fandom faves. Looking for that one post about the squirrel on the birdfeeder? It might be here! How about that post showing the real life Simpson’s intro? Got it! Go, shoo, explore!

[musicprincess1990]

Sherlolly trope duos: 2&15 please ☺️?

2: Bad day turned good; 15: Flatmates.  Taken from this list, prompts are closed for the time being.

Technically, this is a pairing I’ve done before, but since you’re one of my most devoted readers, I’m just gonna do it again. 😁 Read the first one here, and hope you like this second one too!

For some context, the setting is just after The Empty Hearse, and Tom is not in the picture. Nobody misses him. 😉

~*~

Quiet Strength

The door slammed with greater than usual force, the sound of which dragged Sherlock out of his mind palace, where he’d been sorting through and deleting files on his latest case.  Thunderous footsteps on the stairs soon followed, and he braced himself for a prospective client, or perhaps a former client who had been dissatisfied with the results of Sherlock’s efforts.  It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time.  But as the figure trudged into view, he was surprised to see…

“Molly?”

She ignored him, continuing up the next flight of stairs to her room.  Sherlock might have rolled his eyes at her theatrics and gone back into his mind palace, had he not caught a glimpse of her face just before she turned away from him.

She’d been crying.

For some reason, that bothered him.  He couldn’t account for it, which bothered him even more.  It wasn’t difficult to deduce that she’d had a rubbish day, perhaps an unpleasant interaction with one of her colleagues, or a challenging post-mortem with an uncertain cause of death.  There was also the possibility that it was related to her love life, or lack thereof.  As far as he could see, she hadn’t had any romantic paramours since the infamous “Jim from IT.”

Sherlock was relieved, to be honest.  Molly was more clear-headed, and more accommodating, when she had no dates or boyfriends.  Nevertheless, it always upset Molly, who wanted very much not to be alone.  He could understand that, and though he had no place for romance in his life, he admittedly did prefer to have people around him, especially at home.  It was why he’d offered her John’s old room in the first place.  221B was entirely too quiet with only himself and Mrs. Hudson, who was often gadding about with Mrs. Turner, or with this week’s lover, or simply insensible due to her “herbal soothers.”  He needed a companion, a friend, someone to fill the silence, and Molly was the only person besides John who fit the bill.  With John soon to be married, he was no longer an option.  So, he offered a key and a ridiculously low rent price, and she moved in a week later.

Three months had gone by since then, and his friendship with Molly had deepened. He had always trusted her, as he’d told her himself, but now he felt more confident in calling her his friend—a fact which he did not take for granted, as he had so few.

However, that did not explain why seeing her cry made him feel as though someone had kicked him in the ribs.

He didn’t like this feeling, and in spite of his attempts to relieve or ignore it, it persisted.  Well, there was only one thing to do: find out why Molly was upset, and help her to be not upset.  Not really his area, but the alternative was distraction and discomfort, and he was not about to give in to either of those.

Sherlock stood and made his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on, washing out a pair of cups while he waited for it to boil.  He smiled to himself as he imagined the look of complete shock that John would be wearing if he could see him.  Knowing Molly’s preferences, he prepared a simple herbal peppermint with sugar, and an earl grey for himself, then made his way upstairs with both cups.

Using his elbow, he knocked on the door.  “Molly?”  Silence.  Not entirely unexpected.  “I have tea,” he told her, and then he heard her soft footfalls inside the room.  He stepped back a bit, and she opened the door.  The rib-kick sensation doubled upon seeing she’d been crying even more.  Sherlock held out the peppermint, and she took it with a frown.

“Why are you giving me tea?” she asked, her voice timid and broken.

“Because you’re upset,” he answered.

Molly blinked slowly.  “Oh… well… thank you, that’s nice of you.”  She gave him the least convincing smile Sherlock had ever seen, then moved to close the door.

Thinking quickly, he placed his hand flat against it.  Her eyes flashed with confusion and anxiety, and he felt another imaginary kick to his ribs.  “I…” he hesitated, wondering why in God’s name his pulse was elevated.  Swallowing hard, he forced himself to continue, “I don’t like that you’re upset.”

Her expression softened, and she stared openly at him.  “You… don’t?”

Sherlock bristled.  “Of course not, Molly, did you honestly think I would?”

“NO!” she blurted out, then winced at her volume.  “Sorry, no, I just… I didn’t think you’d care one way or the other.”

That, he had to admit, stung quite a lot.  “I do care, Molly.  You’re my friend.”

Molly smiled again, this time sincerely.  “That’s good to hear.”

For a moment, they stood in awkward silence, neither of them quite sure how to proceed.  Finally, Sherlock asked tentatively, “Would you like to… talk?  About why you’re upset?”

After a few seconds’ hesitation, Molly nodded, and the two of them shuffled downstairs into the sitting room, he in his usual chair, she occupying the chair he’d always thought of as John’s.  It didn’t… bother him, precisely, seeing her sit there, but for some reason, it didn’t seem right to him.  Something to think about at a later date, he decided.

Molly took a sip of her tea before she spoke.  “I was called into a disciplinary meeting today.  Mike and his superiors finally cottoned onto the fact that I helped you face your death.  I don’t blame you,” she hurriedly went on, “and I don’t regret helping you, not in the least.  But it’s… it’s not good.  I’m on a forced leave of absence for the next two weeks while they determine the best course of action… and being sacked is not completely off the table.”

Sherlock went perfectly still, even held his breath.  Of all the possibilities he’d considered, that had not been among them.  The idea that Molly might face consequences for her actions hadn’t even crossed his mind, much to his shame and regret.  Worse still, she might lose her job, which she loved, and he would lose the only pathologist willing to work with him, the only one with any degree of competence.

No.

Without a word, Sherlock slid his phone out of his pocket and began typing out a text.

“What are you doing?” Molly asked, sounding both curious and wary.

“Texting Mycroft.  I’m sure he can use his influence to ensure your position is—”

“No, Sherlock, please don’t,” she shook her head, and he paused, staring at her in disbelief.  “I’m not afraid of facing the consequences.”

“Molly, it’s as good as done,” he insisted, then quickly finished his message and pressed send.  “There, it’s done.  You’ll probably still face some form of disciplinary action, but nothing drastic.”

“Sherlock—”

“You’re not losing your job, Molly,” he cut her off firmly.  “Not on my watch.  And it’s my fault you’re in this situation in the first place, so ensuring you keep your position is the very least I can do.”

Again, she shook her head.  “I told you, I don’t blame you.”

“I do,” he blurted out, surprising both of them.

They were stunned into silence, gaping at one another as the air around them seemed to hum with electricity.  Sherlock noted the subtle dilation of her pupils, and at the same time realized his own pulse had become elevated.  The electric current intensified, and Sherlock was on the verge of… something… taking some form of action, God only knew what… when his phone let out a chime, effectively shattering the strange and rather worrying moment.  He happily turned his attention to his phone, reading the response from Mycroft:

IT’S ALREADY DONE.  YOU’LL BE TAKING MUMMY TO THE THEATRE IN THREE WEEKS.

“There,” he gave a satisfied nod, rising to his feet as he pocketed his phone.  “I expect you’ll receive nothing more serious than a few months’ probation and observation, during which you will no doubt prove both your capabilities and professionalism.”  When his eyes finally landed on her face again, his chest constricted.  “You’re crying again, why are you crying?”

With a watery laugh, Molly wiped away her tears, then she stood and walked toward him. Time seemed to grind to a halt as she leaned in, placing a hand on his chest to steady herself, then reached up to press a feather-light kiss to his cheek.  A warm, tingling energy spread from the point of contact down each of his extremities, while his heart danced a samba beneath his ribs.  He was surrounded by the scent of vanilla and lemon soap and a trace of formaldehyde, and something else just underneath the more obvious aromas, something sweet and lovely and entirely Molly.

As he lingered within that moment, memorized her scent and the touch of her lips, he finally understood the feelings that had been plaguing him since he first saw her tears.  The pain of knowing she was upset, the buzzing energy surrounding them only minutes ago, and now the racing of his heart and the warmth of his skin as she touched him… they all pointed to one obvious conclusion.

He was attracted to Molly Hooper.

Shit.

Molly stepped away, perfectly oblivious to the turmoil raging inside his head.  She smiled bashfully, her eyes lowered, and Sherlock had to suppress a shiver at the loss of contact.  “Thank you, Sherlock.  I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

He shook his head.  “This is me repaying you, Molly,” he insisted.  “And it is nowhere close to enough.”

“I’d do it again,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, but still resonant with the quiet strength he knew she possessed.  “Without question.”

The electric charge returned in full force as their eyes connected, and Sherlock began to question his resolve where sentiment was concerned.  Caring is not an advantage, his brother’s voice taunted from within his mind, and he immediately disregarded it.  What further proof could there be to refute that claim?  Here before him stood a woman who loved completely, unconditionally, and without restraint, and beneath her soft, slight, sometimes child-like exterior, she was a pillar of strength.

Sod it.

In an instance, Sherlock’s arms were at her waist and dragging her towards him. Molly scarcely had time to gasp and put her hands on his shoulders before his lips claimed hers.  Every sensation he’d felt thus far was amplified tenfold, and his hands curled into fists around the fabric of her jumper.  After the initial shock wore off, she relaxed in his arms, though her grip on him never loosened, as if he were the only thing that kept her standing.  Sherlock, acting purely on instinct, responded by hoisting her up, crushing her against him as he took advantage of the new angle and deepened the kiss.  Then Molly—his strong, brave, beautiful Molly—surprised him by wrapping her legs around his waist and raking her fingers through his hair.  He groaned against her lips, hungry and aching for more… but well aware that this wasn’t the time.

Slowly, with great reluctance, he ended the kiss, but unable to bear releasing her just yet, kept hold of her and touched his forehead to hers.  For a time, neither of them spoke, their laboured breaths the only sound.

Eventually, Molly broke the silence.  “Well… that was unexpected.”

“Quite,” he agreed.  She tensed, and his eyes shot to hers in concern.  “Molly?”

“Why did you kiss me?” she asked plainly.

“Because I wanted to.”

“Why?” she persisted.  “You’ve never… not once… and I just… why now?”

Sherlock shoved aside the flash of irritation at so many unfinished sentences, and answered her with a single word: “Sentiment.”  When her brow puckered with confusion, he went on, “I’ve dismissed it as a weakness for years… but thanks to you, I’ve realized that it’s anything but.  It’s strength.  And I am tired of fighting it.”

Her lips curved into a radiant smile, which soon turned mischievous.  “So… you fancy me?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he rolled his eyes, then silenced her giggles with his lips.

~*~

I live for Sherlock realizing he’s caught feelings for Molly and just going, SHIT. 🤣 Thanks so much for the prompt!

[musicprincess1990]

33&9?

9: Date sabotage; 33: Omegaverse. Taken from this list, prompts are closed for the time being.

Sorry this is so late my dear! I have no excuse, other than me being a space cadet. 😜

Also, OOF. Y’all just love forcing me out of my comfort zone, huh? Alright-y then, here it is. (Don’t let me fool you, I fucking loved writing this!) It’s not smutty, mainly because I’m still new at writing smut, but I’m calling it M-rated anyway, just in case. And as such, the story will be under the cut, for those who don’t enjoy the M-rated stuff. Thanks again for the prompt!

The Heat of the Moment

Molly was fuming.  Seething.  Practically steaming as she all but leapt from the cab as it stopped in front of 221B Baker Street.  Her heels clacked furiously on the stairs, and she damn near rolled one ankle on her way up, which only served to fuel her anger.  If Mrs. Hudson heard her—if she was even in—she must have known better than to approach.  In the flat above, the sound of a soft, soothing violin melody met her ears, but had no effect on her whatsoever.  She was far too cross to be soothed just now.  She stopped in the open door to the sitting room, giving the figure by the window a murderous glare.

“Evening, Molly,” Sherlock greeted as though nothing was wrong.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she screeched.

Sherlock had the decency to wince at her volume, though he slipped almost immediately back into his mask of cool indifference.  “That depends on who you ask, I suppose.  John likely has a long list.”

Her vision tinted red, and an angry flush rippled beneath her skin.  “YOU HAD MY DATE ARRESTED, YOU TWAT!!”

“Really, Molly,” he scolded, “there’s no need to shout.  He was a criminal.  I did you a favour.”

“He had one ASBO from when he was seventeen!”

Sherlock gave an unaffected shrug.  “Criminal activity in one’s youth significantly increases the chances one will turn to crime again later in life.  Better to be safe than—”

“Sherlock Holmes, if you don’t stop talking right now, so help me God, you will never see another body part from the morgue again!”  At this, he finally shut up.  “Good.  Now for the last time, stop meddling in my love life!  You have absolutely no right, none at all!”

“Molly,” he tried to interject, but he was overridden.

“Every date I’ve had for the past two months, you’ve somehow found a way of ruining it!”

“Molly—”

“Well, I’m sorry if you don’t like that I can’t be at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day, but I’m a grown woman and I have wants and needs, and not all of them involve you!”

That, it seemed, was the wrong thing to say.  Sherlock’s eyes flashed, and in a split second, he crossed the room and took hold of her wrists, shoving her against the wall behind her and lifting her hands over her head.  Molly struggled against him, still flushed with anger and—

Oh.

That wasn’t just anger.

Shit.

Her insides quivered as he loomed over her, nostrils flared and eyes flicking over her face.  The heavenly scent of him grew stronger, sharper, as a result of both her growing heat and his responding arousal.  And oh, he was aroused, the tent forming in his trousers made that abundantly clear.  It’s just a reaction to the heat, she told herself.  It’s not me he wants, not really.

“I believe you’re lying, Molly Hooper,” he murmured, pitching his voice lower than normal, and she drew a shuddering breath.  “I believe all of your wants and needs involve me.”

“Sh-shows what you know,” she tried to bite back, but it came out sounding more like a sigh.

“Tell me to stop then,” he challenged her, and then bent his head toward hers.  Against her will, Molly felt her own head tip back, bringing her lips closer to his, but still not quite touching.  With one hand still pinning hers to the wall, he trailed the fingers of his free hand up her side, ghosting over her hip, her waist, barely grazing her breast, and Molly let out a whimper.  “Well?”

“You-you don’t want m-me,” she stammered.

His eyes flashed again, and Molly barely had time to take a breath before his lips crashed against hers.  Everything seemed to spin as he swept his tongue along the seam of her mouth, demanding entrance, and she relented with a low whine at the back of her throat.  He tasted like dark chocolate and mint and a hint of cigarette smoke, and it was everything she’d ever imagined and more.

Breaking the kiss, he met her gaze again.  “I want you more than you can possibly know.  I only avoided this out of respect for you.  You deserve better… you deserve everything.”  He swallowed hard.  “But I don’t think I have the strength to resist anymore.”

Molly’s mind was growing foggy, but she still had enough clarity of mind to understand his words, and to see the truth of them in his eyes. And in contrast to the words themselves, he seemed to be hovering just on the edge of taking action, holding back and waiting for her response.  All her fears subsided, and with a quiet surety, she reached up a hand and brushed her thumb along his cheekbone. 

“Then don’t.”

[musicprincess1990]

For the prompts:

3 & 33!

Apparently I'm into 3s (3somes?!? NO NO!!! Oh dear, that went sideways real fast)

OH MY GOD. 🤣 Thank you so much for the laugh, and the prompt!

3: Bed-sharing; 33: Omegaverse.

Taken from this list, and I am still taking prompts. I have a bit of a backlog, so it may be a few days, but I will answer them, I promise!

Fair warning, HERE BE SMUT.  I’m not going to use the new community labels, because I’m wary of them and I don’t want to potentially hide this from people who do want to read it.  I will, however, put the story under the cut, so if you’re not into the M-rated stuff, you’ve been warned, and you can just keep scrolling.  Those of you who embrace the smut, enjoy!  I sure did!

HEAT WAVE

This was not good.

This was very, extremely not good.

Sherlock’s mouth watered as the tantalizing aroma wafted up his nose and hardened his cock, need and desire pulsing through his veins.  The source of that scent, one Molly Hooper, seemed blissfully unaware as she crawled into the other side of the bed.  It was obviously in the early stages, she likely thought it was the lingering warmth from the shower, but to an Alpha, whose entire biology was built to track that very scent—the scent of Omega heat—it was unmistakable.

And they were sharing a bed.  An unfortunate necessity, as the storm raging just outside had taken them by surprise, forcing them to take whatever accommodations they could find.  The small inn was busier than normal, and only had rooms with one bed available.  It wouldn’t have been a problem, if not for this equally unforeseen circumstance.

Fuck.

Sherlock had spent the better part of seven years suppressing a powerful attraction to the pathologist.  She may not fit the rest of the world’s description of ideal beauty (idiots, the lot of them), but her elfin features and wide brown eyes had immediately captured his interest.  In the next moment, of course, he resolved never to pursue that interest.  He couldn’t let anything get in the way of his work, and knotting and bonding with an Omega would most certainly be in the way.

And yet…

Within a few short weeks, it became clear that they were not only physically compatible, but mentally as well.  Her skills of observation could never compare with his, but she was undeniably intelligent, and easily kept up with him when he launched into a stream of deductions.  And quite frankly, she was the best pathologist Bart’s had ever seen, her skill and her intellect as appealing as her pretty, pink mouth.  He’d lost track of how often he’d gone hard just watching her perform an autopsy, and how often he’d had to sneak off to the loo and take care of it.  He felt filthy, wretched for the way he imagined it was her hand, her mouth, her cunt wrapped around him, and he came within seconds every time.

As Molly slid beneath the covers, he could feel the warmth radiating from her small body, her scent threatening to overpower him, and her heat was only just beginning!  Sherlock rolled onto his side, facing away from her to hide his now fully-hard erection, and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that the night would pass without incident.

If there was a God, either he wasn’t listening, or he found the situation vastly amusing.

A few minutes later, Molly tossed the first layer of blankets aside.  Soon, another layer followed… then another… and with each passing moment, the aroma grew stronger, deeper, more irresistible, and he had to physically grip the edge of the mattress to hold himself back.  His mind raced through the entire periodic table twice over in a fruitless endeavour to distract himself, but despite his attempts, he knew it was only a matter of time.  It could be seconds, minutes, or hours (unlikely, given the rate at which her temperature was rising), but the conclusion was inevitable.

“Shit,” he heard her hiss in the darkness, and knew she’d finally caught on.  The mattress shifted as she began writhing in discomfort, and Sherlock’s nails bit painfully into the palms of his hands.

Then she moaned.

“Sod it,” he grumbled, and in one swift motion he positioned himself above her.

Molly took a shuddering gasp.  “Sherlock, what—what are you doing?”

“What does it fucking look like?” he growled, then lowered his face to her throat, inhaling noisily.  “God, you smell divine.”

“Sh… Sherlock,” she panted, her body growing warmer still.  “I’m in… this isn’t… you don’t want this,” she finally finished, her voice lowered to a despairing whisper.

Sherlock pulled away immediately, and she gave an involuntary whine at the loss.  He took one of her hands and pressed it to the left side of his chest, letting her feel its thunderous beating.  To further prove his point, he ground his erection against her centre, and her eyes flew open, the warm brown of her irises barely visible around the wide black expanse of her pupils.

“You were saying?” his voice rumbled deep in his chest.

“B-but it… it’s just biology—” she argued feebly.

He resisted (barely) the urge to roll his eyes.  “Biology or no, Molly, if this wasn’t something I wanted, I wouldn’t be offering it.  The fact is, I’ve been drawn to you from the moment I met, but I foolishly kept you at arm’s length, thinking I could overcome my attraction.”  Sherlock nudged at her centre again, and the whimper she let out was immensely gratifying.  “Clearly, I was wrong.  I can’t overcome this… nor do I want to.”

Molly hesitated, her eyes somewhat glazed from her building heat, but still clear enough to show how frightened she was.  The sight triggered something in his Alpha instincts—Omega scared, must comfort, must protect—and he forced a bit of distance between them, trailing a gentle finger along the side of her face.  “If you want me to stop, I will… but if you’re willing, Molly, I would like to make love to you, knot you, bond with you, make you mine in every possible way.  For I am yours, always have been.”

She gaped openly at him, her breath coming in short, laboured bursts.  “Y-you mean it?”

Instead of a verbal response, Sherlock bent his head toward hers and placed a feather-light kiss to her lips.  Before he could pull away, her hands reached behind his head and she crashed her lips insistently against his.  Any remaining hesitation was tossed aside as they snogged like randy teenagers, hands exploring one another through their clothing.  Eventually, that was tossed aside as well, and Sherlock groaned at the sensation of her fevered skin against his.  He rutted against her hip, and she made the most unexpected sound, a low, frustrated growl.

“Inside me,” she breathed, “now.”

Now, that just wouldn’t do.  Though he loved this fierce side of his pathologist, the natural Alpha in him could not allow his Omega to make commands.  Not this time, not this first coupling.  He withdrew, and she gave a cry of despair, arms reaching out to bring him back to her, but he quickly took her by the wrists and pinned both hands down above her head.

“Not just yet,” he smirked.

She attempted an angry huff, but it sounded more like a desperate pant.  “Sherlock, please.”

With a low chuckle, he shook his head, then lowered it to the junction of her neck and shoulder, where he would later sink his teeth and begin the bonding process.  For now, though, he only kissed and licked and breathed her intoxicating scent.  Instinct prompted her to turn her head, exposing her neck to him for easier access.  Sherlock hummed his approval, but still did not bite, and he both sensed and smelled her mounting frustration.

“Patience,” he murmured against her skin, then slowly began venturing southward.  He was determined to make her come at least once before he joined with her, and he desperately wanted to see if she tasted as good as she smelled.  He worshiped every inch of her skin, spending extra time at her breasts, nipping and suckling until her back arched and she ground against his thigh where it rested between her legs.  His ministrations grew rougher as he neared his destination, sucking and nibbling purple marks in the skin just beneath her breast, then just over her left hip.

Sherlock paused over her centre, the heady aroma making him almost dizzy with want.  He met her eyes hungrily, holding them as he lowered his head and licked experimentally.  Molly threw her head back with a yelp, and Sherlock greedily lapped up the nectar coating her legs and her quim.  His primal brain rejoiced at the knowledge that he was the cause of her arousal, that her dripping, gushing wetness was all for him.  He slid his hand up the outside of her thighs, and gripped her hips as he dove in again.  God, she tasted wonderful… sweet and sour and musky and entirely Molly.

It took almost no time.  His tongue circled her clit once, twice, and as he plunged a finger into her entrance, and then another, she screamed his name and her walls clenched around him.  Sherlock continued to lick and suck, drawing out her pleasure until she trembled against him.  Finally, she stilled and went limp, her panted breaths and high-pitched moans a symphony.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she sighed.

Sherlock laughed, wiping her juices from his lips.  “I take it you approve.”

“Uh-huh,” was her oh-so articulate response, accompanied by several nods of her head.

He crawled up and positioned himself at her entrance, but held himself back, not wanting to rush this.  Molly, however, had other ideas, and her hands gripped his backside, forcing him into her with one hard thrust.  They grunted in tandem at the sensation, both going very still as they adjusted.  Sherlock’s lips found hers, their tongues tangling in a sensual tango, and finally, he started to move.  Words were meaningless as they gave into their desires, every slap of their hips providing the soundtrack.  Soon a chorus of groans and sighs and animalistic growls joined in, as their pace went from languid to frenetic.

As he felt his climax building, Sherlock paused and flipped her over, and she eagerly offered herself to him.  He yanked her towards him, unconsciously baring his teeth as he pushed in from behind.  The change in position made all the difference, his balls hitting her clit in just the right way.  As her cries grew louder and his thrusts grew shorter due to his rising knot, he bent over and worked the skin on her neck.  The moment he broke the skin and tasted her blood, she came, her walls clamping so tightly he had to use all his remaining strength to push his knot inside her, and then with a roar of completion, he lost himself in the best orgasm he’d ever had.

Molly sagged with a long exhale, and Sherlock carefully laid on his side, curling himself around her as they waited for his knot to recede.  He lapped at her wound, his saliva mingling with her blood, and already he could feel their souls binding together, becoming one.  That would be solidified later, when he knotted her again, and she would bite him.

“I can feel you,” she whispered.  “I feel you in my head… in my heart.”

“Mm,” he agreed, tightening his hold on her.  She turned her head, and their lips met in a tender kiss, the frenzied heat and passion gone for the moment.  It would return, and they would make love several times over.  Sherlock made a note in his head to adjust their reservation.  The drive back to London was too long to attempt during Molly’s heat, there wouldn’t be enough time between cycles.  Most inns and hotels had policies in place for this exact circumstance; he doubted they’d have any trouble extending their stay another few days.

Sherlock snapped to attention as he sensed her unease.  “Molly, what’s wrong?  And don’t even think of saying ‘nothing,’ I can feel your anxiety.”

Molly huffed quietly before answering.  “I just can’t believe this is real… that you want this.”

He sighed.  “I thought it might be something like that.  I’m sorry, Molly.  I’m so sorry for all the pain I’ve put you through.  I should have accepted my feelings and acted on them much sooner.  I was a stubborn fool.”  He traced his mark on her neck with the pad of his thumb, and Molly shuddered in his arms as a smaller orgasm rippled through her, and Sherlock groaned as he joined her in the aftershock.

When they had both caught their breaths, Molly spoke again, her voice timid.  “You realize I might be pregnant?  Even if I’m not now, I could be after… well, after,” she finished with a becoming blush.  “I’m on the pill, but during heat, the chances of it failing are about fifty-fifty.”

Sherlock didn’t immediately respond, taking a moment to consider the possibility.  To his surprise, the prospect of parenthood neither frightened him nor put him off.  In fact, the idea of a little boy or girl with his hair and Molly’s big, brown eyes… was anything but unappealing.  He pulled her closer still and brushed his lips along her throat, eliciting another shudder from her.  “I don’t mind,” he murmured.  “I rather like the idea of you carrying my child, actually.”

Molly’s relief was palpable, bond or no bond, and she reached back to tug his head down for another kiss.  “I love you, Sherlock.  I know you may not be ready to say those words to me, and that’s alright, but I wanted to tell you now before I go mad with heat again.  I love you.”

He smiled, rubbing his nose against hers.  “My Molly… I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.  I love you.  Now and always.”

They lay in companionable silence for another twenty minutes before Sherlock’s knot reduced enough for him to slip out of her.  Molly turned their bed into a cosy little nest while he ordered room service.  It was lucky there were laws in place for all establishments to have some nibbles handy for just such an occasion.  Within minutes, there was a knock, and Sherlock opened the door to find a tray of fruit and cheese waiting just outside.

Words could not fully describe the emotions surging through him as he popped cubes of cheddar into her mouth.  Knowing she was trusting him to not only love her but provide for her needs… it filled him with pride, yet somehow it also humbled him beyond belief.  Never before had he loved anything or anyone so completely.  He scarcely remembered the reasons he’d had for avoiding this, though it had only been an hour since it all began.  Any and all misgivings had fled, and as Molly’s heat rose again and they began round two, he was immeasurably grateful they’d been forced to share a bed.

[musicprincess1990]

16 & 2; 20 & 8; 8 & 9; 29 & 3. Too many?

Lord, this has taken forever… please forgive me, my friend. This will be a 4-chapter short story, and as much as I wanted to wait and reply once it was all finished, I think I need the extra time to finish. But I wanted to at least give you something, so... yeah.

Anyways, here is Chapter 1, and Chapter 2 will be posted next Wednesday. Thanks again for your patience, and for the prompts!

[musicprincess1990]

Writing Wednesday

A Study in Living With Your Lab Partner

Chapter 4: "Discussion and Discovery" || Read from the beginning

Here we are, the final chapter! Also, as an FYI, I’ll be taking a short break from writing, just until the New Year. The holidays are super busy for my family, and they are ultimately my first priority. But I give you my word, come January, I’ll be back in the game, with a brand new slow-burn to celebrate! 🥳

So, happy holidays to those who celebrate, and to those who do not, even though the season doesn’t have the same significance for you, I still hope you’re happy. 😁 Love to you all!

[musicprincess1990]

Sherlolly prompt please? “For science!” and Friends to lovers!

Taken from my Trope Duos prompt list (prompts are now closed).  #16: “For Science!” and, #17: Friends to Lovers.

Two of my absolute favorite tropes together, you’d think it’d be easy to write… but NO, I stared at this prompt for WEEKS before I finally managed this fluffy bit of Teen!lock.  Please forgive my tardiness, and happy reading! (I hope…)

*

For Science

Molly Hooper.

Yes, she would make the perfect test subject.

For some weeks now, Sherlock had been forming an idea in his mind, an idea regarding his future.  He had no desire for the staid and proper career paths to which so many of his peers, and his superiors, subjected themselves.  He much preferred the idea of working on a freelance basis, particularly in regard to his field of choice: criminal justice.  Scotland Yard was out of the question, the “detectives” there were lazy at best, incurably stupid at worst.  No, he would be their consultant, offering a second (superior) pair of eyes whenever they were out of their depth.  It was quite genius, really.

Using the new memory technique he’d learned, Sherlock had begun constructing a palace within his mind, storing any and all information that might be relevant to his career.  Most of it could be found in books, on the internet, or buried within his subconscious, but there was one area in which these methods fell short.  Social and emotional context was best studied on another person, and also in person, with the subject providing both something to observe, and their own descriptions.

Which brought him back to Molly Hooper.  As a young woman who typically wore her heart on her sleeve, the observation aspect would be fairly easy, and despite her being a year behind him, she was in his chemistry class.  Therefore, she would provide much better insight than the other dullards in the school.

Also, there was the matter of her being his only friend.

Not that Sherlock minded, he couldn’t care less what the rest of the idiots in the school thought of him.  They were, as previously stated, idiots, and he aimed to keep such people at as far a distance as possible.  That said, it would be difficult to convince anyone with whom he was not on good terms to assist him in any experiments, much less this particular one.  Fortunately, he did have Molly, and her innate kindness and similar interest in the sciences substantially increased the chances of her accepting.

His decision made, Sherlock waited until lunch and sought her out in the dining hall.  As usual, he found her seated in a corner table, isolated from the rest of their classmates.  Unlike him, Molly actually liked people, but her shy disposition kept her from reaching out to them.  The two of them would never have been friends, had they not been assigned to one another as lab partners.  The year had set off to a rocky start (Molly timid and stammering and occasionally clumsy, Sherlock aloof and insistent that he preferred to work alone), but over time, he had grown to respect her intellect, so obviously above the cattle surrounding them.  In turn, she had found her strength, no longer stammered, and was unafraid of standing up to him.  Granted, some things had been easier before she’d grown a spine, but he found her much more interesting now, and, most surprising of all, she never bored him.

The focus of his thoughts lifted her head as he approached the table, her usual grin curling her lips.  “Hello, Sherlock!” she greeted cheerfully.

He offered a nod of his head, taking the seat opposite her.  “Molly.  Enjoying the roast pork?”

Molly glanced down at the barely-touched meat and gravy on her tray, wrinkling her nose.  “Not particularly, no.  The potatoes are rubbish as well.  Still,” she added, “it’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

“Mm, debatable,” he countered, and she rolled her eyes with a fond smile.

“Well, most of us need to eat regular meals, Sherlock.”

He groaned dramatically.  “How unbearably dull.”

Molly sniggered, then took a purposeful bite of the roast pork, holding his gaze the entire time.  She grimaced, but did not look away, even after she had swallowed the disgusting food.  “There, see?  I’m not afraid of doing unpleasant things.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her in response, then used her bold statement as his means of changing the subject.  “Speaking of which,” he began, “I have rather an unusual experiment I’m hoping to undertake, and I’ll need assistance.  After some consideration, I’ve decided you would be best suited to help me.”

It was Molly’s turn to lift an eyebrow.  “Had to sit and think about that one, did you?”

“Yes, well, I never said it was a lengthy period of consideration, did I?”

Molly speared another bite of pork.  “Right, come on then.  What’s this experiment?”

“Kissing.”

The fork clattered onto the tray, sending several drops of watery gravy splattering in all directions.  Sherlock frowned and scooted backwards to avoid the spray.  “What the hell was that about?”

Molly’s eyes, already bordering on too big for her face, nearly doubled in size.  “Y-you… you want to… that is…”

“Really, Molly, I thought we’d gotten past the stammering by now.”

“Don’t be a git, Sherlock,” she snapped, and he noted with satisfaction that her voice was much steadier.  “Explain yourself.”

Sherlock sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table (thankfully, the gravy eruption had not reached his side of the table).  “You already know my career plans, of course.”  She nodded in confirmation.  “It has recently come to my attention that certain behaviors, certain… reactions… would be most helpful to understand.  Particularly the reactions following specific forms of sexual stimuli.”

Molly blinked a few times.  “So… you want to know what it looks and feels like to be kissed?”

“That’s rather oversimplifying the matter, but… essentially, yes.”

She fixed her eyes on a spot of stray gravy, gnawing thoughtfully on her lower lip.  Sherlock waited, mustering no small amount of patience to do so, knowing if he pressed the matter, she would be far less agreeable.  Finally, she lifted her eyes to meet his.  “This is all just… an experiment?  Strictly for science?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

Molly inhaled slowly, deeply through her nose, and Sherlock saw the decision in her eyes before she vocalized it.  “Okay.  I’ll do it.”

*

Two days later, on an unusually sunny Saturday, Sherlock and Molly took the weekly bus into the nearby town, and made for the most secluded spot available: a little cluster of trees within the town’s small park.  The boughs of four fir trees, standing close together, created a nearly fully enclosed space, the gaps just wide enough to slip through sideways.  Molly grinned to herself at the smell of pine and earth, grateful for the memories and the brief distraction it brought.  Too brief, she mused, as Sherlock sidled in behind her, reminding her of the reason for this unorthodox destination.

Her nerves were sky-high as he invaded her space, his fingers gently closing around her upper arm to turn her around.  Molly didn’t meet his eyes immediately, opting to focus on his shirt buttons (bad idea, they were straining to keep their place against his surprisingly toned torso), counting to three in her mind before finally lifting her head.

…And finding the same nervousness in his face..

“Right,” he murmured, his voice breaking so slightly, she thought she must have imagined it.  “So… shall we?”

Molly swallowed thickly.  “Well, ah…  first let’s… let’s talk about some of the… chemical reactions.  You’ve done, erm, some research on that?”

“Yes,” he said a bit too loudly, clearly grateful for the delay.  He cleared his throat.  “Preliminary research indicates that the act of kissing another human being produces a flood of dopamine, serotonin, and, in cases of great affection in one or both parties, oxytocin.”

“Mmhmm,” she nodded.  “What else?”

“Physiological signs of this release of chemicals include flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, elevated pulse, and labored, erratic breathing.  And, in the male’s case, there may even be an erection.”

Molly fought the embarrassed blush that bloomed beneath her cheeks at his use of… that word.  “Right, well… I think that, erm… just about covers it.”

Sherlock, whose expression had become passive as he recited the science behind kissing, snapped his gaze in her direction.  He looked… well, he looked properly terrified, to be honest, like she’d just told him his mother was coming for an impromptu visit (which had happened once, though the headmaster had been the one to inform him, rather than Molly).  Certainly not for the first time, Molly wondered if this really was such a good idea.  Yes, she’d secretly fancied Sherlock since she clapped eyes on him.  Yes, she’d fantasized about snogging him on numerous occasions, though usually in a more romantic setting.  And yes, she was also aware that this was as close to that fantasy as she would ever get.  But if he was going to be miserable the whole time… she couldn’t do it.

“Look, Sherlock, we don’t have to do this.  I know you want to gain as much knowledge as you can, anything that might help your career, but if you don’t want to kiss me—”

“It’s not that,” he interrupted her, his eyes downcast.

“Oh… then… you do want to?”

“No.”

“No?” she parroted back, just a little bit hurt.

He hesitated, a familiar little crinkle forming between his brows as he pondered this.  Molly had a feeling that crinkle would become much more prominent in a few years, as often as she saw it.  Finally, he looked at her, his crystalline eyes wide and worried.  “I’ve never kissed anyone.”

Molly paused, waiting for the rest of his explanation… but after a few moments of silence, it became clear that that was the whole explanation.  “Well, I sort of knew that… I mean, if you had, you wouldn’t be carrying out a snogging experiment, would you?”

Sherlock was perfectly still for fully ten seconds, before finally asking, “So… you don’t mind?”

“Of course not!” she laughed, taking care that she didn’t come off as mocking him.  “It’s not like I’ve been snogging boys left and right myself.  I’ve only had one real boyfriend, and... well... you know how that turned out.”

“Hm, yes I remember,” he mused.  "How is dear Jim faring in prison, I wonder?"

"Who cares?" she muttered.  "My point is, you don't need to be self-conscious."

"I'm not…" he began, but cut himself off when he saw the look of annoyance Molly gave him.  "Okay, fine.  I may be the slightest bit out of my depth here "

Molly smiled.  "I should be recording this."

"Don't make jokes, Molly."

"Don't be a prat, Sherlock."

"I'm not—" he was cut off again, this time by Molly, who had abruptly grabbed his face and crushed her lips against his.  Sherlock instinctively closed his eyes as his mind raced to process all the new data and stimuli presented to him.

Warm… soft… smells like cinnamon… wonder if she tastes like it too?  As if reading his thoughts, Molly's lips parted on a breathy sigh, and Sherlock slid his tongue out to taste her.  Mmm, yes, tastes like cinnam—oh, God…  Her hands had drifted upward, fingers carding through his hair, and he simultaneously shivered and flushed, heat spreading all the way down to his toes.

In the back of his mind, a voice whispered that he was supposed to be doing something… but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was.  All he could think was, not enough.  She wasn't close enough, he wasn't touching her enough.  Well, he soon remedied that, firmly locking his arms around her and lifting her off the ground.  Molly gasped against his lips, and the sound sent another flash of heat through him.  A quiet groan met his ears, and as her wide, startled eyes met his, he realized it had come from him.

They remained still, eyes locked and panting for breath, before Sherlock slowly lowered Molly back to the ground.  His arms dropped limply by his sides, and she took a step backward, avoiding his gaze.  At one point, her eyes did stray in his direction, and the pink blush on her cheeks darkened.  Sherlock followed the trajectory id that embarrassed glance, and found—oh.  Well, he had been enjoying himself, hadn't he?

"I-I’m sorry," she stammered.

He frowned.  "Why on earth are you sorry?"

Molly shrugged one shoulder, still not looking at him.  "I dunno… I just… it's fine," she mumbled quietly as her arms wrapped around her middle.

Sherlock watched her begin to shrink into herself, and felt a painful tug against his navel.  In his current, befuddled state, he did not pause to think about what he was doing, he simply acted.  His hands found her shoulders, gently pulling her back toward him. She stiffened, and he held his breath, as if the slightest puff of air would send her running.  Her dark eyes lifted, and finally, the scientific portion of his brain kicked in, noting the physiological signs in her.  Eyes dilated… face flushed… breathing irregular… his left hand shifted slowly up along her neck… elevated pulse.

He couldn't help the gratified smirk he felt stretching across his face.  Molly's eyebrowed pulled together in confusion.  "I'm afraid the results of this experiment were rather… inconclusive."  Cradling her face in both hands, he bent his head, his intent obvious.  "Further study is required."

Molly grinned, all shyness cast aside, and her fingers toyed with the collar of his coat.  "Well… I suppose I can manage that.  In the name of science," she added with mock seriousness.

Sherlock dove in and captured her lips again, hoisting her up off her feet as he had before.  This time, Molly's legs wrapped around his waist, and she eagerly kissed him back.  And as the endorphins and hormones flooded his brain once more, Sherlock decided this was easily the best idea he'd ever had.

[musicprincess1990]

Hi! Are you still doing the trope duo list? 'coz I just found it this morning, and was hopping to make a request. I was going to ask for 41 and 43, then I thought, no... too obvious... then my head automatically goes to 1 and 2, but that's an easy one, so I end up with 1 and 11, would you take it? 😊

SHIT, HOW DID I MISS THIS??? I am soooo sorry for the wait, @rabbit-in-blue! Allow me to make it up to you with some Victorian!lock. I hope it will suffice!

1: Arranged Marriage; 11: Drunk!lock.  Taken from my trope duo prompt list.  As much fun as it’s been, I will not be accepting any more duo prompts at this time.  I have one more overlooked prompt in my inbox that I will fill soon, then prompts will be closed for a while.  Thanks everyone!

Alone No More

Molly awoke to the sound of a nearby thud and frowned into the darkness.  Damned cat, she thought grumpily to herself, thinking Toby had gotten himself into some mischief or other.  However, in the same moment that she realized Toby was, in fact, curled up against her leg, she heard another thud, followed by a colorful string of words spoken in a deep, very recognizable voice.

With a sigh, Molly slid from the warmth and comfort of her bed, pulling a thick tartan dressing gown on over her nightdress, before emerging into the sitting room and lighting the nearest lamp.  Indeed, there was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, proper genius, and her husband, sprawled out on the floor like a sea star.  Before she could verbalize her annoyance (or quiet amusement), she noticed a slow stream of blood making its way along his temple, beginning at his eyebrow.  In addition, his eyes were shut, and he almost looked as though he might be unconscious.  Molly sighed again, quickly turning back to retrieve a bowl of water, and the bandages she knew he kept in one of the kitchen cabinets for this very purpose.

As she knelt beside him, his eyes opened and shot to her so abruptly she gave a small start.  He stared at her, his expression one of utter bewilderment.  “You are bleeding,” she supplied an explanation, though he had not asked for one.

“That explains the headache,” he drawled.

She nearly smiled at him, the corners of her mouth twitching as she fought it.  She could not explain it, but somehow, she felt if she laughed now, at this moment, it would suggest she approved of the situation—which she most certainly did not.  Particularly now that she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.

“It will be worse in the morning,” she pointed out sharply.  “I didn’t think you liked to drink.”

Mr. Holmes scowled up at her.  “I am not drunk.  I had one—no, two—maybe three...” he trailed off, his brow crinkling as he tried to remember.

Molly raised an eyebrow.  “If it is that difficult to recall, I’d wager you’ve had more than enough.”  He rolled his eyes, then winced and hissed at the pain caused by the action.  Part of her took a bit of petty satisfaction at this, knowing he had brought it upon himself, but she quickly silenced that part of herself.  Deserved or not, he was injured and in pain, and he needed her help.  Molly doused a bit of cloth in the water, wrung out the excess, and dabbed at the wound.  He hissed again, but remained still.  When the silence between them became strained, she asked, “How exactly did this happen?”

“Watson,” he muttered, and his eyes slid shut.

She frowned at him.  “Watson… you mean your friend, Dr. Watson?”

He scoffed, and Molly grimaced at the more concentrated scent that wafted up to her nose.  “I don’t have friends,” he slurred.  “I have enemies and colleagues, and that is all it will ever be.”  He laughed suddenly, but there was no humor in his voice.  “According to Watson, I push everyone away, including my own wife!”

Molly stilled, a quiet gasp falling from her lips.  She watched his face carefully, waiting for it to dawn on him that he was speaking of the very woman who was at this moment tending to his wound.  When he gave no such indication, she returned to the task at hand, hoping to ignore the subject.

“He doesn’t understand,” her husband spoke again, his voice pitched low and rumbling.  “Alone is what I have.  Alone protects me.”

She paid no mind to the single tear that escaped from the corner of her eye and focused on applying the bandage.  Molly had been under no illusions upon entering her marriage.  Sherlock Holmes made his position on love abundantly clear from the moment they first met.  The only reason they were married at all was because of their mothers.  She knew not what threats Mrs. Holmes had imposed upon him, but they must have been dire indeed for him to have agreed to the union.

For Molly’s part, she had been aware of her family’s dwindling finances since her father died, leaving his widow and seventeen-year-old daughter with barely enough to survive. They had sold their home, and everything in it, save a recent portrait of the family of three, and a single suitcase full of her father’s favorite books.  With that money, they bought a small, seaside cottage in Sussex, near Brighton, large enough only for the two of them.  Molly and her mother learned to cook, clean, sew, light fires, and tend their small garden.  She had also learned how to manage their finances, ensuring that they had enough to get by.  And she learned they did not have sufficient funds to support themselves for long.  Even with careful scrimping and saving, they would run out within a few short years.

The solution, her mother had told her, was clear: she would have to marry into money.  Fortunately (or not so fortunate, depending on one’s viewpoint), Mrs. Hooper still maintained a steady friendship with one Violet Holmes, who was eager to see her younger son married and settled.  His inheritance was certainly less than what his elder brother, Mycroft, would receive, but the wealth of the Holmes family was quite substantial, and her marriage to the younger son would secure her well-being, and her mother’s, for many years to come.  In any case, the elder Mr. Holmes had married the previous year, and was therefore not an option.  Thus, she was promised, and duly married, to Sherlock Holmes.

Had she known what it would be like… had she suspected she would fall in love with the man…

No, she shook her head.  That knowledge would not have swayed her decision.  To refuse would be unforgivably selfish, as it was not merely her own situation under threat.  Though her unrequited feelings weighed on her heart, she could never have done such a thing to her mother.  A heavy heart was a struggle, but one she could bear.  Would bear.  No matter how infuriating her husband could be.

As if he knew her thoughts had strayed to him, Mr. Holmes opened his eyes again, his gaze landing upon her face.  Something in those eyes made her pause, her fingers still resting against his forehead, and found herself quite unable to move.  The air grew thick with mounting tension, and Molly knew… something was about to change.

“Why do you stay?” he breathed.

Molly blinked, frowning in confusion.  “Your wound needs tending”

“No,” he shook his head.  Slowly, he shifted into an upright position, his eyes never straying from hers for a moment.  Her throat grew dry as he leaned forward, inspecting her as though she were the most fascinating, bewildering puzzle.  “Why do you stay with me?”

Her heart thundered in her chest, and she drew a trembling breath through her lips.  “You are my husband.”

“Mycroft sees his wife twice each year—on Christmas Day, and on our mother’s birthday—and the remainder of the year, they live in separate homes, corresponding through the occasional letter.  Husband and wife are under no true obligations to one another, except those the law dictates.”  His eyes narrowed at her.  “Why.  Do.  You.  Stay?”

His meaning became clear to her then; he did not want her.  He wished for her to leave.  Another tear made its presence known, and she turned her head to hide its descent.  “If that is the sort of marriage you wish for,” she breathed, heart crumbling even as she spoke, “I will make arrangements to leave tomorrow.”

Molly moved away from him, unable to stomach the inevitable look of relief that would undoubtedly be written across his handsome face.  She was stopped, however, by a large, warm hand lightly encircling her wrist.  She looked down at it, then swallowed as she turned her eyes to the owner of the hand, and was astonished to find not relief, but fear.  Wild and furious panic blazed in his ice-colored eyes, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

“Mr. Holmes—” she began, but she was unable to finish her sentence as his free hand reached out, and the pads of his fingers lightly traced the contours of her face.  Molly drew a trembling breath, stunned by the contact.

He had not touched her since their wedding day, and one could hardly consider the quick, perfunctory pressing of his lips to hers as a real kiss.  At the time, she had thought nothing of it, having no more desire for his touch than he had desire to give it.  Her love for him had built slowly, so gradually that she could not determine a precise beginning.  Indeed, she had no notion of the change of her feelings, until the truth of them washed over her like the waves of the sea—sudden, bracing, overpowering. And despite his indifference toward her, it only served to grow over time.

And now, almost a year later, he was touching her, and she had to fight to keep her wits about her.

“Can it be…?” he whispered, leaning closer still.  “Is it possible, after all this time, all that you have endured, that you might… choose to be here?”

Molly heard the true question hidden behind his words, and her breath caught.  She searched his eyes, still wide and panicked, looking for any sign of indifference in him, and found none whatsoever.  He was afraid, yes, but in those crystalline eyes, fear mingled with desperate hope, the same hope she now felt bubbling up inside of her.

It was neither a declaration, nor a grand romantic gesture, but such things were not in his nature.  This, however, the look in his eyes, the warmth of his touch… was more than enough.

“Yes,” she answered him finally, baring her heart to him with a single word, and praying he would not trample it with his usual cutting words.

Mercifully, he seemed to have no intention of doing so.  The hopeful embers dancing in his gaze were fanned into a blaze, and in a move as fast as lightning, his hand cradled the back of her head and guided her lips to his.  The fire transferred into her through the contact, warming every inch of her, burning ever hotter with his continued touch.  Her hands moved of their own accord to his chest, relishing the feel of his racing heart beneath the tips of her fingers.  Not so indifferent, she thought with a smile.

Sherlock felt her smile and drew his head back to look at her. “Something amusing?”

Feeling emboldened, Molly inched closer, settling herself into his lap.  Her hands slid up around his neck and into the soft curls at the back of his head.  He sucked in a breath, eyes darkening with unmistakable lust.  She stopped just shy of kissing him, her lips hovering teasingly over his.  “I believe,” she murmured, “you like me, Mr. Holmes.”

His answering grin was decidedly wolfish as he wrapped his arms around her.  “An excellent deduction, Mrs. Holmes,” he replied, and moved to kiss her again, grunting in frustration when she leaned away

“Even though ‘alone is what you have’?” she quoted with a wry smile. “‘Alone protects you’?”

“Oh, sod what I said,” he grumbled, yanking her back towards him until her chest was flush against his, and the wall that had stood between them crumbled into dust and rubble.  “I’ve pushed you away long enough.  No more.”

Molly was moved to tears once again, though these were a much happier sort.  “Thank God,” she breathed, and his mouth captured hers once again.  He tasted of brandy and cigars and Sherlock, and she had never tasted anything so mouth-wateringly delicious.  His hands roamed her back, her sides, her neck, while hers buried themselves in his hair.  When she experimentally curled her fingers and lightly scraped his scalp with her nails, he groaned his approval into her mouth.  Then, in one astonishingly deft movement, he was on his feet, sweeping her up into his arms.

“I hope you don’t mind, Molly,” he said in a low growl, “but I’d very much like to take you to bed.”

Giggling softly, she pressed a fervent kiss to his lips.  “Get on with it, then.”

[musicprincess1990]

Sherlolly Tropes Duos I’d like to read something containing 24 (jealous Sherlock) and 39 (Reflex Affection) Nice game, I’m curious how it turns out! 😊

Taken from this prompt list.  Blimey, this was hard.  Not the jealous Sherlock part, that’s always easy (and so much fun!), but I couldn’t find a way to fit the reflex affection in until the very end.  Still, I’m pleased with the turnout.  Thanks for the prompt!

*

Molly tried to listen to the conversation, she really did, but her attention just kept creeping back to the scowling detective across the table from her.  She had stumbled upon Sherlock and John while looking for a place to have dinner with her cousin, Ivan, who was in town for the weekend.

They’d been close growing up, being close in age and neither of them having any siblings, and though he now lived in Scotland, he always made time for her, whether it was coming to London for a visit, or their weekly phone calls, or if she went to visit him in Edinburgh.  That became even more true when her father passed, leaving Ivan and his wife and children the only family she had left.

John, always friendly and polite, invited them to join him and Sherlock, who were just on their way to Angelo’s.  Sherlock was on a case, but John would be eating there, even if Sherlock did not.

Throughout the exchange, Sherlock remained silent, his eyes trained on Ivan, narrowed in scrutiny.  Molly cringed, hoping he would at least keep from blurting out any unpleasant deductions to Ivan’s face.

Now, here they sat, munching on bread and butter (except Sherlock), half the party oblivious to the other half’s unease.  John and Ivan quickly found common ground through medicine, as Ivan was also a doctor.  They were currently swapping stories of the strangest patients they’d encountered.  Molly listened and laughed along, at first, but as Sherlock continued to scowl, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but him.

Why on earth was he so upset?  And so quiet?  She couldn’t believe he hadn’t said so much as a word to Ivan, not even a passing deduction.  Normally, he would eagerly demonstrate his intelligence by rattling off details of where a person grew up, their family life, their drinking habits... but now? Nothing.

“Molly?”

She started, and by the way all eyes were on her, she guessed someone had just asked her a question.  “Oh, um... sorry, I didn’t hear...”

“That’s Molly for you,” Ivan teased with a grin.  “Always has her head in the clouds, this one!”

Molly opened her mouth to retort, having plenty of fodder to meet her cousin’s teasing and then up the ante.  But before she could say a word, Sherlock finally spoke, “Perhaps you don’t know Molly nearly as well as you think you do.”

What?

“What?” Ivan echoed her thoughts, laughing openly.

“Well, I’ve known Molly for nearly ten years, and have never once thought she ‘always has her head in the clouds.’  As a matter of fact, she is easily the most intelligent and competent pathologist at St. Bart’s, able to read minute details and extrapolate data with precision and efficiency.  She also has the cleanest Y-incision I have ever seen.  Would she be able to do all that with her head in the clouds?”

Now, all eyes were on Sherlock, stunned by this outburst.  Molly’s heart swelled at the remarkable praise he’d given her.  She’d rather expected him to agree with Ivan’s remark.  Heaven knows, she had a tendency to fantasize... especially about him.

“Well,” Ivan cleared his throat.  “I won’t worry about you making friends here anymore, Molly.  Clearly, you’ve made an impression.”

Sherlock frowned at this statement, but before he could say anything more, John cut him off.  “She certainly has.  You really are brilliant, Molly.  And I’m sure your cousin agrees,” he added, emphasizing the word with a pointed look at Sherlock.

His eyes widened, and he looked at John.  “Cousin?”

“Well, yeah, Ivan is Molly’s cousin,” he replied.

“How do you know that?”

“Because she told us, you ponce,” John rolled his eyes.  “I knew you weren’t bloody listening.”

Sherlock stared openly at Ivan, blinking a few times, and Molly almost laughed aloud.  Glancing at John, she saw him cover his mouth with his fist, eyes dancing with mirth.  “Ah,” Sherlock finally said, and she could have sworn his ears turned a bit pink.  “Right then.”

The chirp of a mobile interrupted the awkward silence, and Ivan glanced at his phone.  “Oh, that’s Emily, wants me to call her.  Excuse me for a moment.”  He stood and walked toward the door, dialing his wife’s number and pressing the phone to his ear.

“‘Spose now’s a good time to head to the loo,” John said, then pointed a finger at Sherlock like he was scolding a little boy.  “Don’t go swanning off without me this time, right?”

“I don’t go swanning off,” he grumbled, but otherwise offered no argument.

And then there were two, Molly thought.  Sherlock seemed intent on looking at anyone and anything but her.  “So,” he began, still averting his gaze.  “Cousin.”

She bit back another laugh.  “Yup,” she replied, popping the “P” as he often did.

Nodding his head, he absently replied, “Good, good...”

“Is it?” she asked playfully.

He gave a quick, one-shouldered shrug.  “I would assume so.  I can’t think of any cousins off-hand in my family, so I have no real frame of reference.”

“Well, Ivan and I are a bit closer than most cousins, so...” she trailed off, still smiling.

“Hm,” he nodded again.  “I suppose he would know you quite well then.”

“Yeah, he does.  But, thanks for saying all those lovely things,” she added.  “I had no idea you felt that way.”

Finally, his eyes met hers.  “I do,” he confirmed.  “Haven’t you wondered why I refuse to work with anyone else?”

“I figured it was because I’m the only one who doesn’t get in a tiff when you start spewing deductions,” she ribbed good-naturedly.

His lips curved up into a little smile that set loose a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.  “That too,” he allowed.

“Sorry about that,” Ivan said, announcing his return.  “Emily says hello, Molls,” he added as he took his seat.  “She’s miffed she didn’t get to come with me this time, but what can you do?  Bedrest means bedrest!”

“Too right,” Molly grinned.

A minute later, John came back as well, and it seemed the awkwardness had dissipated.  Sherlock, though visibly less tense than before, still did not join the conversation, opting to pull out his phone and scroll through his emails.  Molly almost scolded him, but decided against it.  At least he wasn’t scowling.

They were halfway into their entrees when Sherlock’s phone chimed. He jumped to his feet with a loud, “Yes!” that startled the entire restaurant into a hush.  “It’s Lestrade, the idiot’s running this way, just as I expected!  Come on, John!”

John dropped his fork and fished out a few bills to set on the table.  “Here, that should cover my portion, I’m sorry!” he said in a rush, then sprinted out the door after Sherlock.

Ivan stared at the bills for a moment, before turning wide-eyed to her.  “What the hell was that?”

*

Later that night, after explaining Sherlock’s work to Ivan and seeing him back to his hotel, Molly got a text from the detective asking him to meet her at Bart’s, “if convenient.”  Which, Molly knew, actually meant, “Immediately and without question.”  She knew better than to protest, and despite the exhaustion of the day, made her way dutifully to the hospital.

Sherlock was already in the lab when she arrived, at his favorite microscope, peering through the lens at whatever he was analyzing.  Molly sighed.  “I wish you’d stop picking the lock,” she said tiredly.

“Time is of the essence, and a woman’s alibi depends on this analysis.”

“Took me all of ten minutes to get here.”

“And that’s ten minutes less that she’ll have to wait.”

Molly rolled her eyes, but dropped the argument.  “Right, then.  What do you need?”

He stilled for a moment, so brief she thought she might have imagined it, before changing the slide and peering at the new one.  “John’s with Mary.”

“How dare he choose to be with his wife?” she deadpanned.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Molly.”

“Avoiding the question doesn’t become you, Sherlock.”

He finally looked at her.  “I didn’t avoid the question.  I answered it. John’s with Mary, and was unwilling to come.”

“So?”

“So,” he huffed, “I work better with an assistant.”

Another person might have been annoyed at his use of the term assistant. That person may also have been angry about being practically dragged from their home back to work, which they’d only left a few hours ago, simply to babysit a grown man.  But that person wasn’t Molly.  Molly saw the hidden meaning of his words, and she couldn’t help smiling at the ridiculous man.

“You could just say you don’t want to be alone,” she told him.

He blinked in surprise, then frowned, turning back to his microscope.  “Rubbish,” he muttered, and for the second time that night, his ears turned pink.

Satisfied at having guessed correctly, Molly said nothing more, and went about doing some of her own work.  If he needed something from her, he would ask, but until he did, she might as well get ahead on her paperwork.

They worked in silence for close to an hour, before Molly started yawning.  She checked her watch, and groaned at the small hand pointing to the number eleven.   “How much longer have you got, Sherlock?”

“Not long,” he said.  “Just waiting for that last dirt sample—” a loud beeping from the analyzer cut him off, and he darted his gaze to the computer screen.  A wide smile broke out across his face.  “Oh, yes!”  He shot up from his stool and grabbed his coat.  “I knew it was the sister-in-law!  If you wouldn’t mind emailing me those results, Molly, I’ll need to phone Lestrade right away.”

Molly was used to this, Sherlock firing off instructions and leaving in a whirlwind.  Truth be told, it was a bit of a rush for her, as well.  However.. this time, he did something very unexpected and out of character.  As he swung his coat around and pushed his arms through the sleeves, he crossed over to her, standing only inches away.  Then, quick as lightning, his hands cupped her face, and he pressed a firm, searing kiss to her lips.

When he pulled back with a loud smack, Molly stood frozen, eyes shut, listening as he swept from the room.  Eventually, her eyes opened, staring dumbly at the spot he’d just vacated.  She lifted a trembling hand to her lips, which had been claimed by his only moments ago.

“What... the hell...?”

[musicprincess1990]

Trope duos! 2, 34 please?

2: Bad day turned good; 34: On holiday.

Good Lord, this took forever... I’ve said “I’m sorry” to y’all so much, it’s starting to lose all meaning.  Hope this is enough to earn your forgiveness.  🙏

Taken from this prompt list, keep sending me prompts y’all!  I tried not to make this TFP-related… I didn’t try hard, but I did try.  It just fits so well!

*

Always

Molly swiped at the remaining tears clinging to her face as she pulled up to the quaint coastal inn.  Once parked, she grabbed her hastily-packed bag and checked her reflection one last time.  Well, she mused with a sigh, there's not much I can do about that.  Her eyes were red and puffy, and she had what she suspected might be a pimple forming on her chin. Lovely, she grimaced, then decided she didn’t care, and with a resolute nod, Molly climbed out of the car and made for the lobby.

The concierge looked up as she entered, and his brows furrowed momentarily in concern.  Molly worried he would ask if she was alright—which she was decidedly not—but his features smoothed into a polite smile.  “Welcome, miss.  Checking in?”

“Yes,” she nodded, approaching the desk.  “Molly Hooper.”

He scrolled and clicked a few times on his computer, then asked, “May I have your card, miss?”

Molly set her credit card on the desk, and the concierge swiped and clicked some more, before handing it back to her, along with her key.  “We have you in room six.  Up the stairs, second door on your left.  Enjoy your stay,” he added with another smile.

“Thanks,” she breathed, and quickly made her way up the stairs.  Room six was fairly small, but had a decent-sized bed and a private bathroom, and was decorated in a homey cottage style.  She dropped her bag unceremoniously by the door, rested her back against it, and slid down to the floor in a boneless heap, smiling for the first time in more than twenty-four hours.  At last!

After a few minutes on the floor, not moving, not thinking, just being, Molly got up and crossed over to the bathroom, readying herself for bed.  She took a bath, soaking in the hot water for perhaps longer than necessary, then trudged back over to the bed, plopping gracelessly onto it, not even bothering to put on her pyjamas.  She was alone, after all... always alone.

No! she told herself sternly.  This holiday is not about self pity!  With a resolute nod to herself, she curled up in bed, delighting in the feel of the soft, cool sheets against her bare skin.  It took only a few minutes for her heart to slow down, her breath along with it, and her mind to surrender to a peaceful sleep.

*

Molly’s next awareness was the sound of waves crashing and seagulls calling from outside her open window.  Odd, she thought.  She couldn’t remember it being open before, and she was certain she hadn’t opened it.  As she slowly gained more and more consciousness, she became aware of other strange things.  Such as the warmth against her back, the weight of something draped over her abdomen, and the soft puff of air against her neck.

Her eyes snapped open, first taking in the ceiling, then turning to her right to see a sleeping Sherlock Holmes lying on top of the covers beside her.  He was fully dressed, complete with Belstaff, and smelled a bit like a bog.

“What the hell...?” she whispered.

“Not quite the reaction I’d hoped for,” he said, startling her, before opening one sea green eye to look at her.

Groaning in exasperation, Molly moved to get up, but remembered at the last second that she was nude beneath the blankets.  Oh, God...

“Close your eyes,” she grumbled at him, and a wrinkle appeared between his brows.  “I’m not dressed, and I refuse to talk to you until I am, so close your eyes and turn your back while I get dressed.”

He rolled his eyes, but obediently closed them, covering them with his hand for good measure.  Molly slid out of bed and grabbed the first things she could get her hands on, which turned out to be a pair of skull-pattern knickers and a Doctor Who tee-shirt.  She decided to forego a bra and trousers, her curiosity winning over her desire to punish him for showing up unannounced.

“Okay,” she mumbled, sitting on the bed again.

Whatever she’d expected to see in those lovely eyes of his as he removed his hand, it certainly wasn’t the intense remorse and almost reverence in them now.  Sherlock sat up, his gaze never straying from her.  She felt as if she were under a microscope, and started to fidget with the hem of her tee-shirt.

“I am so sorry, Molly,” he finally said.  “I never... it was not my intent to hurt you.  Please believe that, if nothing else.”

Molly gnawed on her lip.  “Then what was your intent?”

He took a slow breath, releasing it just as slowly.  “To save you from yet another psychopath who threatened your life.”

An ice-cold shudder moved down her spine at his words.  “What?”

“You’re not actually in danger,” he hurriedly assured her.  “I only thought you were, and I had to make you say it to save your life.”

Perhaps she ought to have been upset that the only reason for this emotional upheaval was a perceived threat.  Perhaps she should make him miserable, giving him a taste of his own medicine, as it were, not offering her forgiveness until he begged.  But she couldn’t do that.  She loved him too much, and she knew that, in his own way, Sherlock did care for her.  He cared enough to go to desperate lengths to save her, and that, she had to admit, was rather a high compliment.

“I believe you,” she said quietly.  “And I forgive you.”

He must have expected the rage she had dismissed, because he sat there gaping, mouth open—buffering, as John called it.  “You... just like that?”

Molly frowned at him.  “Sorry, did you want me to shout and carry on?”

“No!” he blurted, then scrunched his face up in annoyance at himself.  “No, but I thought... I expected...”

With a rush of uncharacteristic boldness, Molly put a hand on his arm.  His eyes shot immediately to her hand, but he didn’t flinch, which she decided was a good sign.  “Sherlock, I know you.  I know what you used to be, and I know who you are now.  I know that you would never intentionally hurt the people you care about, and I know that I am one of those people.”  She took a breath, steeling herself.  “I know you don’t love me the same way I love you, but the way that you love me... it’s enough.”

“No,” he shook his head, and she reared back in surprise.  “No, you’re wrong.”  He shifted so that his hand held hers.  “I’m not... I don’t really... this isn’t my area,” he finally stammered out.  “I’ve avoided romantic entanglements for so long, told myself I didn’t want... didn’t need...”

Molly couldn’t remember a time she had seen him so inarticulate.  Words came easily to him, powerful words, eloquent words... sometimes hurtful words.  But now, he seemed at a loss, and something told her that was important.

When he spoke again, it was almost under his breath.  “I’ve been a bloody fool.”  His eyes lifted to hers, and his throat worked down a swallow.  He was actually nervous.  “An absolute idiot to have missed what was right in front of me... what has been there since I met you.”

She anxiously liked her lips, her insides twisting in anticipation, and was it her imagination, or was he moving closer? “What has been there?” she prompted breathlessly.

Now he was definitely moving closer, and the hand that wasn’t holding hers reached up and touched her face.  When he was near enough that she could feel his breath on her face, he finally replied in a whisper, “Sentiment.”

And then their lips met.  Molly’s entire body trembled, and she gripped him for support.  His other hand joined the first, cradling her head, tilting her head to allow him to deepen the kiss.  She felt as if she might burst with the sensory overload, and clung to him tighter, a silent plea to not let her go.  And it seemed he was more than willing to comply. As her fingers buried themselves in his hair, his arms circled her waist, pulling her as close as possible.

When oxygen finally became a necessity, their lips parted, and Molly gazed in wonder at him.  The beautiful blue-green iris was merely a thin ring around a wide, black pupil, and as she slid her hand along his neck, she could feel the frantic pulse in his carotid artery beneath her fingers.

“I love you,” he said abruptly, unbidden, and unashamed.  “I’ll say it as many times as you want me to, it’ll always be true.”

She grinned at him, touching his forehead with hers.  “Always?”

With a tender smile that she would forever think of as her smile, he replied, “Always.”

*

(I accidentally posted this before I finished it. Here’s the completed work!)

[musicprincess1990]

1 & 24 from the sherlolly trope list, pretty please?

1: Arranged marriage; 24: Jealous Sherlock.  Hehehehehe... 😈

Taken from this prompt list, and a nice bit of Victorian fluff.  Enjoy!

*

“Mr. Holmes, if you clear your throat one more time...” Molly trailed off, eyes still trained on the book in her hands.  She’d been meaning to reread Sense and Sensibility since... well, since her wedding day.  And now, on the day she finally cracked it open, her husband saw fit to lounge on the sofa and distract her.  Not that his distracting her was anything new, mind.  She was distracted by him on a daily basis, the handsome wretch.  The throat-clearing, however, was new, and decidedly unwelcome.

The rustle of fabric against the velvet cushions of the sofa caught her attention, and she glanced up to see him now sitting upright, and watching her.  No... glaring at her.  She reared back in surprise.  “What on earth have I done to deserve that look?”

“Why did Mr. Sinclair call on you today?”

She blinked at the abrupt change of subject.  “Pardon?”

“I know you have not suddenly gone deaf, Mrs. Holmes, and I know you’re an intelligent woman, and understood my question perfectly.”

Molly glared back.  “The question itself is not what I was questioning, rather the subject.  What has Mr. Sinclair to do with the scowl on your face?”

“That,” he replied, “will depend on your answer to my question.”

It was a few moments before she pieced it all together, and she had to try very hard not to smile.  “Mr. Holmes... are you jealous?”

Predictably, he scoffed, and began pacing.  “Don’t be absurd,” he snarled.  “It doesn’t suit you.  Now, for the last time, will you please answer me?”

Molly folded one corner of the page down to mark her place, then closed her book and set it aside.  “Mr. Sinclair came to offer his apologies for insulting you at the Watsons’ dinner party, the night before last.  You were in the drawing room with Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade at the time, no doubt discussing your latest case.  Mr. Sinclair mistook your disappearance and made a disparaging remark, which I will not repeat.  I quickly set him straight, and I do believe I may have frightened the poor man,” she finished with a small laugh.  “Nevertheless, he has apologized, and that is the whole of it.”

To his credit, Sherlock looked properly ashamed of himself for doubting her fidelity.  “I see,” he muttered.

Emboldened by his behavior, Molly stood and crossed the room, sitting beside him.  “Mr. Holmes, you have no need to fear on that account.  Our marriage may not have started on the best of terms, but... I have no interest in Mr. Sinclair, nor in any other man.”  She smiled gently, taking his hand.  “I am yours, and yours alone.”

His lips parted at her bold declaration, then spread into a brilliant smile.  “Oh, thank God,” he murmured, and then those lips descended upon hers in the first kiss they had shared since their wedding.  And it was well worth the wait.

[musicprincess1990]

Prompt for trope mush up, (I hoped for Clueless Dating alas no such trope to choose so) you get to choose which combo you want: 1 and 12 or 39 and 40. :P

1: Arranged marriage; 12: Enemies to lovers.  (Sorry, I forgot clueless dating!)

Taken from this prompt list, and HOLLAAAA, this fits as a prequel to my last trope duo fic, found here! Cheers!

*

“WHAT?!”

“Margaret Alice Hooper, lower your voice!” her mother hissed.

“It is bad enough I am being forced into marriage as it is, but to him?  Of all people, Mother, why did it have to be him?  You know how he dislikes me!”

“Oh, tush,” Mrs. Hooper.  “He may be a bit standoffish, but he is willing to go through with the marriage, despite your... oddities,” she finished, tossing the word out as if it were a rotten cabbage (not that she would ever have touched a cabbage, rotten or otherwise).  Molly’s interest in science and medicine had been a proverbial thorn in her mother’s side ever since she reached marrying age, and she believed it to be the reason she remained single at the ghastly age of twenty-three.

Molly shook her head.  “I won’t do it.  I will not marry him!”

“You will,” Mrs. Hooper glowered at her, “or you will kiss your books goodbye!”

Gasping in horror, Molly stared at her mother, once a kind and caring woman, now obsessed with marrying her off.  That is unfair, she reprimanded herself, thinking of her poor father.  He was quite ill, and unlikely to have much time left.  The very thought broke her heart into pieces.  She could only imagine what her mother must be feeling.

Even so, the threat against her beloved library seemed all too much.  Her books were her escape, her sanctuary.  If she were robbed of them, she would truly have nothing.

“Is there truly no one else?” Molly sagged in defeat.

“I’m afraid not,” she replied.

With a sigh, Molly squared her shoulders.  “Very well.”

Thus, her future was decided, and she and her mother began planning for the day she would become Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

*

....Shit.  Now I wanna flesh this out into a multi-chapter.  May not be able to, though, so... you’re welcome, I guess.

[musicprincess1990]

11 & 20 for trope duos?

11: Drunk!lock; 20: Guilty pleasures revealed.  Taken from this prompt list.

Ask, and ye shall receive!  This ficlet is just utter ridiculousness, hope you don't mind.  I was giggling the whole time I wrote it.  Thanks for the prompt!

*

“You do what now?” Molly nearly choked on the wine she’d already had way too much of, staring at her boyfriend (oh, but he hated that term), who had himself ingested almost an entire bottle of brandy.  They were sat in his sitting room, he on one end of the sofa, while she sprawled out and rested her feet in his lap.

“Oh, come on, doesn’t everyone watch telly?”

She coughed a short laugh.  “Well, most everyone, but I didn’t think you did!  And American Pickers, of all things!”

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat.  “Some of the antiques they come across are rather interesting.”

Molly laughed again.  “Who would’ve thought?  Sherlock Holmes is a closet history geek.”

“If you breathe a word about this to John—”

“You’ll what?” she countered, lifting one imperious eyebrow.

“I won’t have sex with you for a week, that’s what!”

Molly snorted in disbelief.  “As if you could keep your hands off me for that long.”

He scowled at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching, then he relented.  “Fine.  Just don’t tell him when I’m in the room, okay?”

She scooted closer and pressed a pacifying kiss to his cheek.  “Deal.”