Molly spoke Sherlock's name as she awoke from a vivid dream about him. Her pulse was still racing, and the sensation of his imaginary touch still lingered on her skin. She'd had dreams about him before, but none of them had been as intimate and detailed as this one. It was probably due to the fact that he now sometimes spent the night in her flat, or her bed to be exact. He wasn't here at the moment, since she would be in the spare bedroom if he was. A glance at her alarm clock revealed that it was only two in the morning, yet she felt wide awake and wasn't sure if she'd be able to fall back asleep. She felt like she needed a shower, even though she'd taken one before going to bed. It would cool her off and refresh her, but it would also probably wash away any remaining hope she had of getting anymore sleep tonight.
She decided to go get something cold to drink instead. The first thing she noticed when she opened her bedroom door was that the lights were on. The next thing she noticed was that Sherlock was standing a short distance away from her. Her mouth went dry, and she desperately needed that drink now. She hurried to the kitchen without saying a word to him. He followed her and watched her quickly gulp down half a glass of water.
Molly avoided looking at him. "When did you get in?" She had given him a key in case he needed to enter her flat when she wasn't home. It was one of the few places in the city where he could hide while everyone thought he was dead.
"About an hour ago. I wasn't going to wake you, and I would have slept in the other bedroom."
A small smile played over her lips at his assumption that she would give up her bed to him in the middle of the night. The man never changed. He took, and she gave. Yet their relationship had undergone a radical change after he asked her to help him fake his death. They had a friendship of sorts, and he had shown a gentle regard in his attitude toward her. She was content with the new bond they had, and she had given up on wanting something romantic from him. Judging from her latest dream, her subconscious mind was slow to get this memo. Well, there was no harm in indulging herself in her dreams if she couldn't in her waking life.
"You're still aroused," Sherlock noted. "Didn't you climax?"
Her heart nearly stopped beating before feeling like it was going to explode out of her chest. Without her permission, her wide-eyed gaze flew to his face to see him studying her intently.
"I thought at first that you had someone with you," he continued when she didn't answer. "Then I heard you call out my name and realized that you were masturbating."
Molly had thought that she couldn't feel more mortified than when he had embarrassed her at his Christmas party. His apology was the only thing that had prevented it from being her worst Christmas ever. The way the night had ended with him identifying that naked woman in the morgue had put the final nail in the coffin for her foolish hopes that he would ever be romantically interested in her. Until then she had consoled herself with knowing that he didn't have a girlfriend, so she had as much of a chance with him as any other woman. The realization that he might have a secret sex life that nobody knew about had shocked her and destroyed her confidence in being able to attract him. Even without knowing what the woman's face had looked like before her violent death, Molly could tell that she had been beautiful.
"I wasn't mas—" Molly trailed off, unable to speak the word.
"You're turning scarlet," he observed. "There's no sense in being embarrassed about it. It's a normal way to relieve sexual frustration, but women seem to be ashamed of it for some reason. I…uh, someone told me that many of them also have trouble letting themselves go enough to climax."
"I wasn't mas—" She again tried and failed to say the word. "It was a dream. I was having a dream." Telling him that was now the least embarrassing option for her.
"You were having a dream about me? What was I doing to you to make you moan like that?"
She had been moaning too? Why did he always have to be around to notice all her most embarrassing moments? She had finally earned some respect from him, and now she was back to feeling ridiculous in front of him. Of course, a normal person would have never mentioned overhearing her in the first place.
"I don't remember," she lied. "Well, goodnight." She set the glass down on the countertop and turned to see that he had stepped closer to her.
"But you haven't climaxed," he protested. "Do you want me to help you?"
"Help me?" Molly squeaked. She nervously wet her lips.
"Licking your lips suggests that you want me to kiss you," he said. "It won't make you climax, but it will help you let go of your inhibitions enough to allow me to touch you in the right place to facilitate an orgasm."
His deep, masculine voice had always had a powerful effect on her, but now it was positively hypnotic. As she stared into his blue eyes, she was vaguely aware that there was something different about them tonight. Just before he kissed her, she realized what it was. They were slightly darker than usual, presumably with passion. Molly also knew the signs of arousal, but she could scarcely believe that she was the cause of his.
She used to wonder what it would be like to kiss Sherlock, and she had even dreamed about it many times. Molly had discovered that few things in life were as good as she had imagined them to be, but this was one of the rare things that surpassed her imagination. She became completely lost in it, and nothing else mattered to her in that moment.
He eventually moved from her mouth to her throat as his hand trailed down her body. She was wearing no underwear, and there was nothing to impede his contact with her skin once he slid his hand beneath her short nightgown. Molly gasped when she felt him touch her the way he had in her dream.
"Ah, Molly." His voice was a deep rumble against her neck. "You're so very aroused."
She expected to go up in flames at any moment. It would be a curious case of spontaneous human combustion with Sherlock as the only witness. Would he deduce that he had ignited the spark that doomed her?
Oddly enough it was her own voice that jolted her out of her erotic trance. Her solitary moan as his fingers began to stroke her sounded loud and jarring to her ears, and she was self-conscious again.
Molly broke contact with him as she backed away. "Why are you doing this? You never showed any interest before."
He smiled at her. As cold as he could sometimes be, he had an amazingly warm smile. "I want to thank you."
"Thank me," she repeated dully.
"Yes," he confirmed. "You've done so much for me, and now I can do something for you."
Her heart plummeted in disappointment. "Thanks, but I can manage it myself."
He looked rather disappointed himself. "Are you sure? Because I can—"
To her horror, she felt her eyes well with tears. Molly lowered her head as she swept past him, praying that he wouldn't notice. She needed to keep at least a shred of dignity. "I'm sure. Goodnight."
She hurried into the spare bedroom and shut the door firmly behind her. Then she looked at the empty bed and began to quietly weep. The last thing she wanted was for Sherlock to hear her crying over him. This is the last time, she promised herself. She was going to get over him and move on with her life.
Notes:
Sorry if I didn't get the tone of the characters right. I'm new to this show, and I'm not completely up to date on it. I read spoilers though, because I just couldn't wait to find out what happens next. Sherlock is my new favorite show, and Sherlock and Molly are my new favorite ship. I can't deny that his chemistry with Irene is scorching hot, but I identify with Molly. I've used the dream thing before, but not in this fandom. What a voice that man has! I don't even have to look at him. That voice alone…
All I can say is wow! Anyway, sorry for rambling on. Thank you to anyone who reads this story.