22: Stress Relief

Once upon a time, Molly Hooper could come home to her modest flat after a long shift and completely relax, perhaps with a long bath, a good book, and an episode of Downton Abbey before going to sleep. Those days seemed like a very distant memory, or a lovely dream, to poor Molly now. Now it was work that was her sanctuary from home, rather than the other way around like it should be. Why? Because she was harboring a legally deceased (but very much alive) Sherlock Holmes.

The young pathologist stood outside of the front door to her building late one spring afternoon, taking a few moments to try to prepare herself for facing him again. She never knew what fresh criticism or complaint he was going to throw at her anymore; the only guarantee she had was that there would be something rather than nothing, because he never spoke to her without complaining or criticizing her anymore.

Molly couldn't find it in her good heart or strong conscience to really blame him, considering the horrible situation he had been put in and the monumental task that lay ahead of him. Rather, she found it much easier to blame his older brother, because neither she nor Sherlock had heard a peep from him in six weeks. Sherlock could not begin his mission until Mycroft contacted him with the information he needed, such as a secure identity and the names/locations on potential leads in the network. Being the British government, Mycroft could get all of these tools securely, and Sherlock, being legally dead and hidden away, could do very little in his position.

So they waited. And it was driving both of them up the wall in different ways: Sherlock's was to lash out, Molly's was to withdraw in.

Finally, after some very deep breaths and a few repetitions of a well-versed mantra in her head (Sticks and stones, sticks and stones, sticks and stones), Molly entered her building and slowly but surely walked up the two flights of stairs to her floor. On the way, she released her hair from her ponytail - Sherlock never criticized her hair if it were down. It was these kind of tidbits of information that were keeping her sane throughout this.

She knew that Sherlock would hear her approaching, would hear if she lingered outside the door and then shout at her to stop dawdling and get inside. So she did not pause as she walked to her door, pulled out her keys from her coat pocket, unlocked her door and entered her flat. After hanging up her coat and taking off her shoes, she slowly walked further into the flat.

Molly found Sherlock where he always seemed to be since he came here: lying on her sofa in the sitting room. What surprised her, though, was that nothing came out of his mouth when she came in. Stepping inside, Molly looked at Sherlock to see why he was being so uncharacteristically silent. But what she saw gave her no answers.

Though the consulting detective was not saying a word to her, he was certainly looking at her. No, "looking" or "staring" were too kind in describing what he was doing. More appropriate would be "glaring," "glowering," attached to adverbs along the lines of "piercingly," "menacingly," and "witheringly."

Bottom line, Sherlock Holmes looked like he wanted nothing more than to reduce her to ashes with just the power of his gaze.

Safe to say, this change in routine immediately unnerved poor Molly, and she couldn't help but feel afraid of him when he looked at her with such hate, for she couldn't imagine it to be anything else. Of course, her stutter came back full force and it took all of her strength to say, "Uh-uh-uh-um, I'm just g-g-g-going to make some, u-um, t-t-t-tea," before practically running into her kitchen.

Once out of his sight, Molly let out a great breath, feeling as though she had just escaped the lair of a dragon. Knowing she needed to calm down by giving herself a task to do, Molly decided to do what she had said she would do: make a full pot of her favorite tea. With shaking hands, Molly filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. Once her task was done, Molly turned to the counter, clutched it and leaned forward, willing her breathing to slow and even out. But her mind and heart were still racing and pounding restlessly. Poor Molly would actually welcome someone to enter her kitchen and knock her out; at least that way she would get a break by being unconscious.

Then, when Molly felt someone had entered the kitchen and was looking at her – and Molly knew that could only be one person – poor Molly wanted nothing more than to evaporate into thin air and blow far, far away.

Slowly, filled with dread, Molly turned around and faced Sherlock, who was standing in the entrance to the kitchen. Again, he was staring at her in a way that could only be described with four words: if looks could kill. Any calm Molly had gained, or tried to gain, in making her tea flew right out the window, and began to shake. Her mind rapidly raked through the past few days, looking for something, anything, that she had done to deserve such a hateful glare, but she found nothing. And when he started to walk – no, stride – no, march – towards her, poor Molly truly had no idea what to expect.

"Sherlock, please, whatever I have done, I ap – mpfh!"

Molly could get no more words out because Sherlock had stopped right in front of her, took her face in his hands, and crushed her lips with his own in a very passionate kiss. And Molly's mind went completely blank, both from the complete shock and the pleasure she could not deny overwhelmed her at this long-time fantasy coming true, as her eyes instinctively closed. Though the rest of her body was frozen in shock, her lips just couldn't help but tentatively reciprocate the kiss.

When it ended, Molly didn't open her eyes until she could feel her feet on the kitchen floor again. Sherlock's hands – which were warmer than she expected the pale, long-fingered limbs to be – were still cradling her face gently, in contrast to that demanding kiss. But the look on his face hadn't changed. Thankfully, her now very close proximity and what had just happened allowed Molly to truly understand that look.

No, Sherlock didn't look like he wanted to kill her…he looked like he wanted to eat her.

Oh, good God…thought Molly, and she felt the area between her legs…well, the best metaphor was an oasis springing in a desert.

"Sherlo–" But she couldn't even get his whole name out before Sherlock's lips were on hers again, and his tongue was demanding entrance into her mouth oh so persuasively.

This action caused Molly to throw all rational or conscious thought out the window with one firm thought stemmed from her battered heart and high stress:

Oh, sod it all!

With that thought, Molly opened her mouth and let her body relax against his, her own hands coming up to touch his neck; his hard arousal pressed against her stomach. This contact caused a growl to emanate from Sherlock's throat, and his hands descended from her head to the backs of her thighs. In the next moment, he had lifted Molly up onto the counter, never once lifting his mouth from hers. This improved the situation greatly for the both of them, because now neither of them had to strain their necks as much to reach each other.

Molly fulfilled another of her greatest fantasies by raising her hands from his neck and sinking her fingers into his raven curls, and oh God they're even softer and more wonderful than my best dreams could be! In response, Sherlock let out something between a growl and a moan as his mouth descended down her neck, marking her as his. I've always been his, always, always…Molly moaned, her fingernails scratching his scalp in response.

So lost was Molly in the wonderful sensation of Sherlock's work on her neck that she didn't notice his fingers practically tearing the buttons of her blouse free. Only when he tugged at it did she let her hands fall from his head just long enough for him to take the blouse off her and toss it to the tiled floor. As his mouth descended further down her chest, his hands moved to the button and clasp of her trousers and promptly pulled – more like ripped – them off and tossed them on top of her blouse.

His mouth had captured hers again as her hands shakily unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, so she could slip her hands beneath the fabric and hold his warm shoulders. But when she felt his hands withdraw from her bare waist and heard the unbuckling of his belt, Molly came back a little closer to Earth. She broke the kiss (with some effort), took his face in her hands firmly (she needed him to hear and answer what she needed to ask), and looked into his eyes (his pupils were so dilated only a ring of his turquoise irises were visible).

"Are you sure?" she breathed, her voice rich with pleasure but full of insecurity. "Is this really what you want?"

In response, he dropped his trousers and boxers, stepping closer so that she felt him touching her entrance; Molly couldn't stop the whimper that escaped her lips. His hands gripping her bare hips (she only noticed now that her panties had come off with her trousers), he said, "I need this. Please, Molly, I need a release."

His voice was like a rumble of thunder, the arousal so apparent Molly thought she would melt. But Molly also heard, beneath this intimidating rumble, the desperation and the vulnerability in this plea, for he was indeed pleading, practically begging. Molly looked down between them, and gulped. She didn't have a lot of experience, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't aroused by the sight of him.

Looking back into his eyes, she saw that they matched his voice. Still holding his face, Molly found the confidence she needed to answer. She gave her consent by leaning in and kissing Sherlock with her whole heart on her lips. Sherlock responded to the kiss passionately, and her fingers sank into his curls again.

A moment later, he was entering her, his mouth on her neck again. In the next moment, Sherlock entered her fully with one thrust. The cry she let out had more pain than pleasure in it, for though she felt both at the sudden action the pain was just a bit more intense. It had been a while for Molly and she didn't have a lot of experience to begin with. But the last thing Molly wanted to happen was for him to stop now. So she bit her lip to silence herself, clutched his shoulders, and wrapped her legs around his waist, telling him that she wanted him to keep going.

So he did. Sherlock immediately set up a rhythm for her to keep up with: fast and hard, reflecting his desperation for release and frustration for what his life had become. Tears spilled down Molly's cheeks as he went – not so much from the pain, which lessened as the pleasure took over with each thrust, but because the desperation and frustration he felt was as palpable as the air she breathed. Molly's arms wrapped around his shoulders, kissing his head as each thrust made her moan and cry out. He was everywhere around and within her, and she was at his mercy completely as both found their release.

Well, he did, anyway. For soon after he had begun – too soon for Molly – Sherlock came with a desperate moan against the skin of her neck that he had marked, spilling inside of Molly with a last few lazy thrusts. His body practically collapsed against hers, and she barely noticed her head hit the cabinet above the counter as a result. Her arms and legs remained wrapped around him, and she continued to leave sweet kisses against his head, brow and cheeks.

The shrill sound of the ringtone of Sherlock's mobile suddenly rang through the flat. For a moment, Sherlock froze in Molly's hold, and then he was out of her and walking away from her, back into the sitting room to answer his mobile. Molly fell off the counter in reaction, but managed to land on her feet, her entire body (naked except for her bra) shaking, cold and vulnerable. And when she heard Sherlock answer his phone with a terse, "Mycroft," as if nothing had just happened, Molly wanted nothing more than to scream. Instead, her eyes burning with tears, Molly hurriedly picked up her clothes and silently ran to her bedroom, firmly shutting the door so she was alone.

Letting her tears fall, Molly's shaking hands somehow managed to dump her clothes in her laundry basket and unclasp her bra. Walking to her bed, she felt the soreness between her legs with every single movement – it wasn't irritating, but it certainly reminded her of what had just happened. The angry voice of Sherlock could be heard through the closed door, but it was muffled and Molly didn't try to make out the words when her own mind was screaming at her. Feeling like her limbs would fall off from so much shaking if she didn't lie down soon, Molly crawled into her bed and curled into a fetal position under the blankets and sheets as she let herself silently cry.

Though Sherlock may have found his release – and now his escape, since Mycroft had finally gotten in touch – Molly felt like nothing more than a clumsily-used appliance. And her mind would simply not be quiet. There was no relief for her.

I shouldn't be surprised, not one bit…That was just like him and the way he goes about any task: fast, full force, and for selfish gain…He never cared what satisfaction others might gain as long as he got what he wanted…Thank God I'm on the pill, since he didn't stop and think about protection…Then again, he must know that, the bastard's probably been through every nook and cranny of my flat…Stop this, he's been through something terrible, he needed…something to make him forget the hell he has gone through…At least I could give him that...after I've been nothing but a pain in his eyes since he had to hide here…No wonder I wasn't given release…Now he'll go, without a goodbye, to make those he loves safe…Something I never was and never will be…

Thankfully, Molly was already so tired from her long shift and what had just happened that she only got to cry for a good five minutes before sleep mercifully claimed her.

Molly felt herself waking from a dreamless sleep by the feeling of warm hands rhythmically rubbing her back, and gentle lips kissing her face and murmuring her name. She moaned a bit and stirred, only to freeze as she discovered that her naked body was pressed against another naked body under the sheets – male, judging by something quite firm pressing her thigh. Her eyes flew open only to stare into the turquoise eyes of Sherlock Holmes – just inches away from her own. The fact that his face was illuminated by the light of a setting sun told Molly that she had been asleep for at least less than an hour, perhaps even ten minutes.

"Sh-Sh-Sherlock?" Molly managed to stammer, completely taken aback by the look in his eyes, so different than anything she had seen in the last six weeks, even as long as she'd known him. The only thing Molly could compare it to was the look in his eyes when he had told her that she had always counted, he'd always trusted her, and that he needed her help. She gulped, knowing that look could only be the prelude to something paramount.

"Molly," he replied, his voice soft, deep, and full. One hand continued to rub her back, while the other rose to sink into her long hair.

Molly's heart began to pound just as it had when he had cornered her in the kitchen, for she was again faced with a Sherlock she never, and I mean never, expected to encounter. "Wh-what are you still doing here? I know Mycroft called, and he wouldn't call unless he could give you the go-ahead to leave and start your work."

"Correct," said Sherlock, his fingers playing with her hair like spun gold. "He wanted me to leave right away. But I told him that since he made me wait six weeks – when I am positive he could have contacted me after just three weeks – he can wait another 24 hours for me to report to him. The world can turn without me for a little while longer."

Molly gulped down a gasp, well and truly shocked. Sherlock's finally given the go-ahead to leave and he…turns it down? As her mind grasped for a plausible explanation to this most unexpected turn of events – he's high, I'm still sleeping, he's hit his head, I'm going insane – the only thing that could come out of her mouth was a pathetic-sounding, "Why?"

The right corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, and the warmth in his eyes intensified. "Because I have unfinished business right here."

Gently but insistently, Sherlock rolled Molly onto her back so he could lean over her, both faces illuminated in the setting sun's light coming in through the window. The regret in his eyes could not be denied, even to the shocked Molly. "I cannot say that I regret what just happened, Molly…but how it happened, and my behavior these past six weeks…all of the stress and pain I've put you through…I am truly sorry."

Molly felt her throat close up from emotion, and she swallowed forcefully so she could speak. "I-It's fine, Sherlock," she said, working hard to keep her voice steady. "I never said no, and I didn't want to. As for the rest…you've been through hell, and you've had to be hidden away, unable to even go outside…I always understood that, even when I…"

"Even when you were hurt," Sherlock finished for her, lowering his eyes to the finger he was tracing along her collarbone. His lips pressed tight together during a moment of silence, as if gathering himself. Then he caught her gaze again, his hand moving up to stroke her face. "One more day is not nearly enough time for me to make up for all of the hurt I've brought you, Molly…but at least I can start to before I have to go…starting now."

As he spoke, he slid down her body a bit until his face was directly above her breasts. His hands caressed them, making Molly practically purr, even as her cheeks flushed self-consciously. As if sensing her insecurity, Sherlock lifted his face before saying: "And, for the record, your breasts are perfect."

Then his mouth joined his hands, and Molly arched her back, her head pressing into the pillow as her eyes closed in a moan. This felt so wonderful, but so unexpected! The insecure tension in her body calmed under his masterful worshipping of her chest, but rose again as she felt his hands and mouth move down her ribs and belly. Sherlock felt it, and raised his face again. He waited until she met his gaze across her body before he spoke, his voice rich and reassuring.

"Let me give you your pleasure now, Molly," he said. "Let me relieve you, please."

Touched, Molly nodded, and let her head rest on the pillow again as Sherlock disappeared beneath her sheets. In the next moment, he was kissing up her inner thighs until they hit home between her legs. It was a blur of pure, unashamed and much-needed bliss for Molly after that, and the only action she could clearly remember was reaching down for Sherlock's head, her fingers sinking into his curls, and him growling in response without pausing in his actions. Soon she came completely undone, crying out without restraint before melting on the mattress in a shuddering, spent heap.

Molly was brought back when she felt Sherlock crawl back up her body and nuzzle her neck. She stroked his curls again and brought his face up so she could look at him. His mouth was wet with her juices, and she could feel him hard and hot against her thigh. Looking at him, she understood: he wanted, needed, her permission, first.

But before she could give that to him, Molly knew she had to tell him something. There were so many ways she could have – some traditional, some sappy, some melodramatic – but Molly chose none of those. Instead, she chose something simple, factual, but more than enough:

"This…this isn't just…it can never be…just some physical release for me, Sherlock."

Her tone was almost apologetic and more than a little frightened, but she had to say it. He would leave tomorrow, and this may be her only chance.

Sherlock did not respond for three long seconds as her words – and everything else that went unsaid with them – registered in his genius brain. And when they did, he touched her nose with his as he responded:

"Molly…if this was purely and selfishly physical to me…I would have left when Mycroft told me to."

His beautiful eyes were practically glowing, and Molly felt, no knew, that he meant every word.

Relief even sweeter than she had felt after her climax flooded her as tears flooded her eyes. She shut them, brought his lips to hers, and wrapped her legs around his waist in joyous and welcoming consent.

This time, he made love to her slowly, gently, and oh so sweetly, even when their speed increased as their pleasure grew. Both savored every sigh, every moan, every touch and every kiss exchanged, saying all that needed to be said. The stress that had weighed so heavily on them both for weeks was fast falling apart as they found their healing relief in each other. The way it was always meant to be.

They came together, one and whole in every sense, their mouths desperately pressing to each other, before collapsing in a pile of limp limbs and sated souls. Sherlock's head rested above Molly's breasts, almost shaking because his relief was so powerful. Tears fell from the corners of Molly's eyes as her hands stroked his back and curls.

They fell asleep for a little while after that, and a good thing, too, because neither of them planned on stopping there before he left. There was still quite a bit of stress to be relieved, and both were known to be nothing if not thorough.

The End

A/N: I'm all caught up with Sherlock now, so no need to censor your reviews (please review!)