Yes, I'm sure you all just as shocked as me that I'm posting a Sherlolly story. The good news (if you enjoy my stories) is that I have an actual poop load of unfinished fics sitting in my laptop just waiting for inspiration to strike. The bad news is that I have an actual poop load of unfinished fics sitting in my laptop just waiting for inspiration to strike... sigh. I'll get there! Many thanks to MizJoley for betaing this little story. Bless her!

I'm gifting this to broomclosetkink. Hope you like it, sweetness! Hugs.

This is basically PWP. I should have part two up within the week.

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

Chapter One - The Gift

Sherlock owed many people debts. John Watson, for instance. The man had saved his life on several occasions and Sherlock had at least tried to pay him back as best as he could. Though he didn't really worry over it. John knew what he was getting into when he became Sherlock's blogger. John needed the excitement. That in and of itself was some form of payment.

He and Lestrade had a symbiotic relationship. Greg supplied the cases that Sherlock needed to sate his curiosity and in exchange the DI got his damn cases solved!

Mrs. Hudson had been paid in advance when he made sure that her abusive drug lord husband died in America. Though that didn't seem to extend to bullet holes in her precious walls.

He could never repay Mary. It was impossible. He did his best not to dwell on that.

Molly Hooper, she was a bit of a problem. The woman had done so much for him over the years. He had tried to repay her for her unfailing loyalty with respect and professional admiration. Her friendship he repaid with the massive amount of trust he had in her. She knew things about him that even John wasn't privy to. But recently she'd given him a gift so unexpected that it had taken him almost two weeks to find the appropriate form of repayment.

Now, he found himself outside Molly's door with a plan and a fair bit of apprehension. He really was of two minds concerning his decision. Though he felt he'd come to the correct conclusion, and a plan of execution, he had to admit that carrying out said plan was another matter altogether. He didn't like being pulled in two directions, hated it in fact. Embarrassment was telling him to turn around and leave, never come back (perhaps even move to the Continent). But a sense of duty and honor (not something Sherlock often cared much about) told him to raise his damn hand and knock on the sodding door!

He was genuinely confused.

It had all started several weeks before when he found himself, once again, at the pathologist's flat around dinnertime; a growing trend, it seemed. He had no real reason to be there. Though he'd stayed with her after his jump from Barts, and had used the Deptford flat for a bolt hole on several occasions, that evening he'd just showed up and suggested something for dinner. He had had no other purpose for being there.

Nine weeks prior...

He realised as he watched Molly place several pieces of sushi and sashimi on her plate, that this was the fourth time in two weeks that they had dined together. Odd.

He took his plate to the lounge, sitting on what had become 'his end' of the sofa, and started to eat. Molly followed, however didn't immediately dig into her food. No, first she systematically took apart a Philly roll, removing the cream cheese (then licking the remnants from her fingertips) before moving on to the next. She did this with all five rolls on her plate, carefully reassembling them after each cheese extraction.

It was fascinating. He was utterly entranced.

Why order a roll with cream cheese if she had no intention of eating it? This Is How We Roll (ridiculous name for… well, anything) certainly would have made her sushi the way she wanted it.

"Molly?" he said interrupting her careful dissection.

She looked up, sucking a bit of cheese off her thumb and causing his mouth to go ever so slightly dry then said, "Yeah?"

"What are you doing?" he asked, a bit confused. Clearly she liked the cheese, she kept (gulp) licking her fingers like mad.

"Fixing my sushi. Why?" Her expression was that of pure innocence.

"Why did you order a Philly roll? You clearly don't like cream cheese on your sushi."

"Well…"

"For instance, you could have gotten California roll," he continued.

"I didn't want crab; I wanted salmon," she said matter factly. "Besides, do I like cream cheese."

"Just not on your sushi?"

She smiled brightly. "Precisely."

"Why didn't you just order the roll without the cheese?" He was getting frustrated.

"Not really sure, I've always just taken it off."

Sherlock sighed. "It never occurred to you that you could order your sushi the way you liked it?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are a fully qualified pathologist, a member of Mensa and, frankly, one of the most intelligent people I know, yet you never thought to simply order your Philly Roll without cheese?"

Molly's face lit up. "Sherlock… that is the sweetest thing you've ever said to me!" She leaned over and kissed his cheek. When she pulled back he noticed the lovely blush that had covered her cheeks. "Soy sauce! Be right back," she said before hopping up and scurrying off to the kitchen.

He had somehow managed to compliment Molly whilst criticising her sushi ordering ability. Hmm, look how charming I can be. And I wasn't even trying. He had to make himself stop smiling when he heard her reenter the room. It wasn't the moment for smugness.

After they'd finished eating and Molly'd washed their dishes, she got up and said, "I'm off to bed. I have to go in early."

Sherlock felt an odd sense of disappointment that their evening was being cut slightly short.

"Just lock up when you leave or when you go to bed. The spare room's always available," she said before slipping into her room.

Things had progressed from there: more dinners, more of Molly's smiles and worst of all, more feelings that he didn't know what to do with. It was all John Watson's fault. His best friend was quite busy with his little Rosemund and Sherlock often found himself at loose ends. Well, at least that's what he told himself (it sounded better than 'lonely'). Suddenly eating take-away alone at Baker Street had little to no appeal. Even when he tried to tell himself that he'd stay home - not go to Molly Hooper's flat around the evening meal - he still managed to find a reason to hop into a cab, all the while hoping she hadn't yet eaten.

Molly almost always went to bed before Sherlock left. He couldn't quite figure that out. And after their sushi night, she was suddenly free with her kisses. Once their meal was finished and the dishes take care of, she'd get up and, placing her hands on Sherlock's shoulders, press a gentle kiss to his cheek. This routine varied according to her schedule. If she was off the following day they would stay up later, talking, sometimes arguing about cases or scientific journal articles they'd both read. Occasionally they'd watch some inane television programme. They even talked about life in general. He'd never known how passionately Molly felt about women's issues and politics. He found it oddly fascinating. It should have bored him to tears. He shouldn't have cared one iota. But he did.

Nearly two months after the cream cheese incident, they were sitting on her sofa, when Molly turned to him and said, "You seem more stressed out than usual. Wanna talk about it?"

He was stressed. But he couldn't talk to her about it because she was the cause of his anxiety. Their dining ritual, coupled with the giant elephant in the room (the fact that they never had spoken about the 'I love you' phone call), had his mind reeling.

Why did I not just explain why I had to say it?

Of course John had talked to Molly, relaying the facts of the events. But John couldn't have expressed how speaking those words out loud and making her say them back had made Sherlock feel. He himself wasn't sure he could properly explain it. Too much time had passed and now it was almost too big to talk about. And even though being around her made him feel conflicted and confused, he couldn't bring himself to stop… whatever they were doing.

"It's nothing, Molly," he responded. "No need to worry."

"Well I do, of course," she said with a soft smile, then she got a curious look on her face. "Will you let me… try something?" Nervousness suddenly radiated from her.

"What exactly?"

"Well, I always thought you came over here to sort of… escape from, I don't know, being Sherlock Holmes or something. If you can't relax here then…" she trailed off, then she shook herself. "I just want to try something that might help you relax."

He took her in for a moment. She was wringing her hands and biting that damn lip. The lip habit was frankly driving him to distraction. "Fine. But I'm not in the mood for some poorly acted period drama. The last one nearly killed me. I don't care how fond you are of kilts!"

"No. Nothing like that," she said with a giggle. Then she got up and left the room.

She returned with a bowl of water, a couple of hand towels and a small brown bottle. She set the water next to his sock clad feet on the floor and knelt in front of him. Then she placed everything else next to her and looked up. "This is going to involve touching. Is that okay?"

His mouth went dry, as dry as he could remember it ever being. After swallowing hard, he said, "I suppose."

Molly nodded. She then removed his socks and rolled up his pant legs. After soaking one of the small towels in the water, she preceded to wash his feet and legs, thoroughly, halfway up his calves.

Okay, I can deal with this, he thought. It's not overtly sexual. But of course it was. He'd never been (at least in his adult life) washed by another person. Well, he had received a spit bath or two whilst in hospital. But Nurse Velma certainly had nothing on Molly's dexterous little fingers. As a matter of fact Velma was downright hostile and more than a little heavy-handed with her scrubbing technique. Also, the halitosis…

Suddenly the 'foot washing' was finished and she carefully dried both feet. That's when he found out about the contents of the bottle. Massage oil. Molly poured a small amount of oil in one hand then rubbed it into the top of his left foot.

All right, this is quite lot of touching. His body tensed even as his foot seemed to melt into Molly's hands. It was a strange feeling.

She must have sensed his tension even though she was only touching his foot, because she looked up at him with apprehension and a bit of amusement in her eyes. "It's not going to work if you don't let yourself enjoy it, Sherlock." Her thumbs dug into the sole of his foot. "Just relax."

He relented, resting his head on the back of the sofa with a deep sigh. Just then he felt Molly start working the oil further up his leg. Achilles Tendon, soleus, gastrocnemius muscle… he named off in his head each time Molly's hand touch a different body part as a means of distraction. It felt good. So bloody good.

"You okay?" he heard her say, though he didn't dare look down, just kept his eyes closed and tried to regulate his breathing. He needed to get himself in control, his body was reacting (and reacting in a way he wasn't completely unaccustomed to), but it would be humiliating to have to explain his sudden erection to the woman trying to give him a foot massage.

"I'm fine, Molly. That feels…" Splendiferous! He swallowed. "You're right, it is relaxing. But there's no need to continue…"

"I've only done one foot, Sherlock. I'll not leave you uneven," she said with a giggle.

Then he chanced a look down at his pathologist and found her smiling up at him from between his splayed legs.

Mercy…

She looked so innocent, yet somehow seductive at the same time. Now focused on the task of 'relaxing' him (really...how he was supposed to relax when the woman was inches away from his swiftly engorging penis, he didn't know!), Molly had a look of concentration on her sweet face.

Deep breath, Sherlock. You can do this. You didn't even pop one in Irene's sitting room with her fully on display!

Several wonderfully torturous minutes later it was finally finished and Molly was wiping her hands off on a towel. "Feel better?" she asked, still kneeling between his legs.

"Indeed," he answered, silently praying that she wouldn't notice the tent in his trousers (the longer she had rubbed, the more evident his problem had become) or that he could think of a logical reason (other than the obvious) for hugging one of her floral cushions to his crotch.

That was too much to ask, of course. Either he was right about the non-existence of a higher power or the deity was angry at him for his denial. His prayers went unanswered.

She looked at his lap. "Umm… Sherlock?" she said, wide-eyed. For several moments she just stared, seemingly entranced by his erection, unable to look away. Finally she spoke, directing her words to the clothed bulge in his trousers. "That... doesn't look very... relaxing." Her voice was soft and a little rough.

He had no response, far too embarrassed at his body's reaction to a simple foot massage.

"Would you…" She looked up, meeting his eyes. He'd never seen anything like it before. Desire was burning back at him and he knew at that moment that he mirrored her expression. There was no way to construct a mask of indifference whilst she looked at him like she wanted to consume him. "Would you like some help?" she whispered.

How exactly does a man answer that question without sounding like a letch? Of course he wanted some help! He also wanted to run back to Baker Street and hide under his blankets!

Somehow his baser instincts kicked in and answered for him. Having not been used in such a long time, they seemed to have some difficulty forming words. "Wh-what d-did… what did you have in m-mind?" he stammered.

She bit her damn lip as her eyes shifted back to his hard cock and said, "I have a few ideas."

Blood...y hell!

"Why don't you just lean back and close your eyes?" she said, sliding her slightly trembling hands up his thighs.

Closing his eyes, he decided that was a pretty good idea. Looking at Molly, watching her, was proving to be a bit too much.

When he felt hot breath against his still clothed cock, he couldn't help but buck upwards. It seemed he was no longer in control of his own body. Those instincts were attempting to take over, completely. Then he made his first (or tenth, depending on how you looked at it) mistake: he peeked!

Molly's mouth was descending on him, then kissing his erection through his tailored trousers (he wasn't wearing pants… thank Christ!). Her hands made a slow ascent up his hips, to his oxford shirt. He was burning alive (and dearly hoping that she had plans of removing said shirt!). He was more than grateful that he'd taken off his suit jacket earlier in the evening.

Once again closing his eyes, he felt her working the buttons, slowly. He wasn't sure if she was trying to torture him or just apprehensive. The latter seemed more likely, considering Molly's personality.

With a tug, his shirt was pulled from his waistband, the last couple of buttons dealt with, then he felt her mouth pressed against stomach. He groaned, digging his fingers into the sofa cushions and trying not to thrust his erection up against her chest. Oh! he suddenly thought. How would it feel to slide my cock between those little perky breasts? Fuck! She palmed his prick as she moved further up his body, gently licking his nipple. His cock twitched as she closed her lips around the small bud.

She continued to rub him through his trousers as she switched sides, this time adding her teeth to the equation. It was just a simple graze at first, then she bit down, applying more pressure until Sherlock heard an odd sound. Molly sighed around his sensitive flesh, her free hand digging into his hip. Suddenly he realised that his hands were in her hair, stroking, cupping the back of her head, holding her in place with no memory of placing them there. He heard the sound again and it dawned on him that the sound was him moaning her name (or something close to her name), along with a plea for more. God, she made me beg, he thought as she moved to his sternum, kissing and nipping down his body. Irene would definitely be impressed. He hadn't begged once with the dominatrix. Perhaps Molly could give her a few pointers. With a cringe, he realised that thinking about another woman whilst Molly was turning his brain inside out was more than rude, it was disrespectful. Then he couldn't think anymore because she had finally opened his fly and slipped a hand inside his trousers to find his hard prick.

Molly abandoned his member to pull down his (tighter than strictly necessary) trousers. When the cooler air of the room touched his cock Sherlock sucked in a breath.

"Umm… Sherlock?" he heard and looked down to see what the problem was.

Of course. He lifted his hips, allowing Molly to tug the garment off of his hips. She apparently wasn't content with allowing them to pool at his feet. After removing them completely, she once again focused on working her way slowly back to his cock. Oh no! He was watching her again. Sensation was one thing, but actually seeing what she was doing to him seemed to make it far too real. He closed his eyes tightly as he raked both hands through his hair.

Her hand was warm and soft as she gripped him again, firmer this time, with obvious intent. The first touch of her tongue to the tip of his leaking glans caused his entire body to jerk, almost as if he wasn't expecting it. Then he felt her tongue teasingly tickle the base of his cock before licking up the length of it.

This is it! He was about to be engulfed in that hot little mouth. Those sweet lips… that tongue… would she use the slightest amount of teeth just like he... Where'd she go? Her mouth had disappeared. He very nearly groaned.

"You doing okay?" she asked, her breath ghosting over his hard, heated flesh.

NO! I'm not okay! I want this more than heroin! More than Mrs. Hudson's snickerdoodles! More than the code to the lockbox where Mummy keeps all the photos from my 'heavy metal hair phase'! (He was certain she had at least one of him with more than a little bit of eyeliner and plenty of hairspray!)

Opening his eyes and glancing down at her with what he hoped was a look of cool indifference, he froze. She looked angelically erotic, like some sort of unholy (or completely holy, depending on perspective) union of innocence and debauchery. He cleared his throat in order to buy a moment to compose himself then said, "Of course," in a voice that sounded much rougher and slightly desperate, despite his efforts.

She smiled sweetly, then wrapped her hand around him once again and slowly pumped, applying perfect the pressure. "As long as you're enjoying it." She stroked him with slow deliberate confidence. "I don't want to make you…"

"Enjoying it? Yes, yes. It's…" Stupendous, magnificent, majestic, resplendent, fan-fucking-tastic! "...fine"

"Just tell me if it makes you uncomfortable for some reason, kay?"

How could I possibly be uncomfortable? What fool had ever critiqued her hand job capabilities? She's a natural! Or is it experience? Damn, now I'm jealous.

Suddenly Sherlock was picturing Molly, her hand on some faceless man's member as he barked out orders: 'Tighter, Hooper! Focus on the head, twist your wrist on the ascent! And for God's sake don't forget the balls!'

As if his thoughts had compelled her, Molly's free hand found his scrotum, cupping him then petting his fur almost reverently. Fuck me! She's got ball handling skills too!

His head fell back against the back of the sofa once again as he let the dual sensations take over. It was wonderful. At that point, if his cock never made it into her mouth he could still die a happy man.

When her lips closed around the tip, Sherlock was certain that he was about to embarrass himself. But Molly, in all her brilliance, tightened her hold at the base whilst slowly slipping him further into her mouth. She took him deep. Really deep. Really, really… Oh my God! "Fuck Molly!" he called out as he looked down at her.

She was focused, eyes closed, lips stretched around his girth (which was pretty impressive, if he did say so himself!).

He couldn't help himself, once again his hands found her hair, digging his fingers in and thanking whoever was listening that she'd forgone her usual style in favour of loose locks for the evening. Her hair felt so natural under his fingertips.

As her mouth moved up, she twisted his length in her fist, her movements made easier now that it was spit soaked, glistening with her saliva. Sherlock moaned. Molly hummed around his cock, causing shocks to ignite his up spine. Her technique was very different than he'd experienced in the past. This wasn't about speed or even depth. She varied her approach in an effort to either find what he liked or keep him guessing. Whatever the purpose…. He loved it!

Soon enough he found himself bucking up into her mouth, calling out her name as he held onto the back her head. She ever-so-lightly grazed him with her teeth; he tightened his fingers in her hair.

"Oh God! Molly… yes...like that… fuck… fuck… yes! Let me come. Let me come in your pretty little mouth!"

She hummed again and he took it as agreement. Good! He wanted her to have it all. His baser instincts were now fully in control. Nothing of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, was left at that moment. Right then he was just a man who wanted to come down a woman's throat. She'd earned his seed and she was about to get it!

Prying his eyes opened, he looked down, needing to seer the image in his mind just one more time. She was watching him too, her eyes wide and pleading. He felt his bollocks start to rise, and Molly's hand tug them down.

Brilliant… his mind sighed as lightning struck, whiting out his vision. His body tensed and shook with pleasure. He unloaded, grunting her name. The feeling of her esophageal muscle working as she swallowed his seed was more glorious than he could have ever imagined (and he certainly had imagined!).

When his spirit (which he wasn't sure was something he actually had, but at that moment it seemed possible) returned to his body, he looked down to find her licking his slowly softening member. Once he was tidied up, she sat back on her heals and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I… um... " She stood.

What's wrong? he wondered, unable to speak. He was too tired and sated to deduce a damn thing at the moment.

"Ahh, just, you know, lock up when you leave or go to bed." Leaning over him (his head was still resting on the back of the sofa), she kissed his cheek. "Night, Sherlock."

Then she was gone. Just like that. She had sucked his soul out through his cock and left with a soft 'Night, Sherlock'.

This required thought…

So... how will he handle this? Perhaps not exactly how you think. Please leave me a review and let me know what you think. Thank you so much for reading. ~Lil~