Driver II

Sherlock deduced (somehow) that she was likely to have parked on the third floor. They removed the tarp that her father placed on the car to keep dust off. While bending over to shove the tarp in the trunk she felt a breeze get under the skirt.

Molly suspected the 'uniform' had come from a costume store. She wondered if he had thrown it into that dry cleaning bag, perhaps it had come out of a package labeled Slutty Chauffeur. That's what costume shops carried these days, slutty versions of real jobs.

Sherlock opened the passenger door and Molly eyed him. "What kind of driver lets their passenger sit in the front seat?" she asked. He sneered and moved to the back. Molly climbed in the front. "Why did you need someone to drive you?"

"I can't drive."

Nothing Sherlock said shocked her anymore. She was still slightly inebriated and that probably meant she shouldn't be driving. But Sherlock had invaded her home and dragged her out on her birthday (the same birthday that her so called friends had forgotten) for some godforsaken case.

The car stuttered. The petrol had been sitting too long. Sherlock lounged silently in the back as she started the engine and drove it out into the street. He directed her out of the city and they were out on winding roads. Fog turned to mist. Then as they left the city it turned into rain.

Other cars faded away and it was only Molly's Audi and the consistent peck of the rain. In the mirror she could see Sherlock propped up in the opposite corner of the car, his eyes shining in the residual light from the dashboard. Even his silhouette was far too sexy. She knew part of it was the alcohol, but she didn't care.

She flicked the stick that jutted out of the side of the steering wheel, activating the car's full beam. It was almost four in the morning. Work would be a no go today.

Something heavy hit the back of her seat and Molly let out a shriek. Sherlock's face was pressed against the side of the headrest. The pale green light painted him an eerie color and there was a kind of fierce look in his eyes that she didn't recognize.

"Take the curve up here and follow it gingerly to the right." He held up his hand to show her what he meant and then something came to rest on her exposed knee. Molly's eyes shifted downward and she just nodded and made a sound that registered in her mind as the equivalent of 'uh-huh'.

Was it her imagination or was Sherlock moving his fingers against her skin? He moved his palm down the side of her leg and she wondered what all of this was about (not that she wasn't thoroughly enjoying it).

"What are you doing?"

"Keep left, we should be coming upon it any moment now."

The fog thickened and he pushed himself further up between her seats, she could feel his fingers etching a line up her inner thigh. All of the skin on her body tensed at once. She slowed the car and it was hard to remember to concentrate on the road. She didn't speak. She didn't dare glance down for fear she might break the spell that had befallen him.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open and he spoke in a whisper that was barely audible above the sounds of the rain and the road. "Almost there."

The skirt didn't leave him much cover to travel under. When he finally reached the hem of her knickers she let out a gasp and shuddered. The car whipped to the side. Lights filled the cabin and a horn blared as a passing lorry made everything inside of the car shake.

Molly brought the car to a crawl. Sherlock was messing about at the edge of her knickers. She found herself wishing she had worn better. More than that, she found herself wondering what the Hell had gotten into him. A flicker of lightning lit the sky a second later and Sherlock's mouth was right near her ear, his words vibrated the tendrils of hair against her cheek softly.

"There on the horizon, do you see it?"

Molly nodded in agreement and acknowledgment. She'd agree to whatever he wanted now. She'd dissect a live man when they got there if that was all that he needed. From what she could father in her brief moments of clarity, they were headed to a structure on a hill.

Molly edged closer to Sherlock's hand, pushing him closer to that vital spot. Sherlock nestled his face against the nape of her neck. His lips brushed against her skin. He didn't wait for permission. The rain was harder now, yet in the course of Sherlock's actions had lost its immediacy.

Sherlock kissed at her neck, his face brushed the uniform's collar and made a soft rustling sound. Molly swallowed as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of her underwear, she shivered with each stitch of the fabric that he caressed.

He hooked a finger inside of her. "There," he whispered.

She caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror and glanced back to the road, almost missing the turn. The anticipation caused a hungry swelling to well up inside of her. It reminded her of that sting on the first tangy bite of an orange.

Muddy puddles splashed over the window as she raced toward their destination. The headlights cut into the murky midsection of the long building. She barely managed to get the car into park. Sherlock's hand found hers and pulled the lever up. She chuckled softly before Sherlock turned his attention back to her.

He used middle and ringer finger in a pumping motion. She responded, bucking against him greedily, her cries muffed in his hair.

Molly thrashed further against him, the center console and the steering column. With the last bit of her fleeting control, she killed the engine. Sherlock's pace slowed and he thumbed her clit. Molly whimpered, tightening around his hand. In a flash of lightning she saw her breath fog the window over and there was a low rumble. Thunder.

"Sherlock." Her voice was little more than a rasp.

Molly didn't know how long it went on. When she finally climaxed it ebbed up on her like waves cresting against the shore and tapered off in a fit of spasms. Wordlessly she opened the door and climbed out. The ground was thick with mud. She pulled his door open and stood there, staring down at him. Sherlock's eyes widened as she straddled him. He hadn't planned this part.

She rode him hard in the back of the Audi. After bumping her head the third time she realized her car was too fucking small for sex (she could say fuck now because that's what people said during sex). With one arm braced against the padded roof and her other gripping the ends of Sherlock's belt, Molly swiveled her hips against his and between the moans, the laughs, the grunts and the sound of the cars shocks being worked perhaps a little too much, she had the most random thought.

If he knew what it would have taught me, dad would have burned all the hula-hoops and banned me from dance lessons…

Molly came four more times. The sex tapered off when everything felt too hot and sore to continue. Sherlock was smoking (it smelled good coming out of him somehow) and Molly was laying against his chest comparing her heart beat to hers.

"What is this place?"

"Ancestral Holmes property, I rode horses here as a boy."

For a long time she lay there. For once his eyes didn't drive her into stuttering fits. The scent of him, like clean sweat and cologne and expensive cigarettes, didn't make her self-conscious. It was nice to feel normal around Sherlock. But why had he done this?

Maybe he guessed what she was wondering. Sherlock didn't try and embarrass her. He didn't bring up how he had come to his conclusion or even go through any lengths to explain anything. He simply said three words.

"Happy birthday, Molly."