Chapter Text
Everything began the day the body with the strange wound came into her mortuary. The young man had staggered out of a cab in front of Bart's and collapsed on the pavement, only to die an hour later in A & E, the doctors there mystified by his symptoms, as well as by an unusual, half-healed wound in his side and a swollen growth in his lower abdomen.
Molly had been focused on getting a sample of the necrotic tissue around the wound, which was oddly striated in color, when the swelling abruptly burst, splattering blood and fluids in her direction.
Molly was accustomed to repellent things but at the moment she could barely hold down the urge to gag. The rest of the autopsy could wait until tomorrow, because now she had to find out what this was. And probably file some kind of horrid incident report paperwork. She wiped the fluid off her neck, dropping the cloth into the biohazard disposal bin.
When John Doe was secured in his drawer, Molly packed up the samples she needed to take to the lab. It was bad enough to feel personally invested in the tests, but she also felt like she'd never be clean again.
Naturally, at that moment, Sherlock Holmes appeared for the first time in over two months.
Lovely, Molly thought with a sigh. All she wanted was a shower and now Sherlock would be distracting her for hours. Then Molly thought a bit harder about what was happening – it really had been a long day.
"What on earth are you doing here?" Molly hissed at Sherlock, tugging him into her small office space, away from the window. "You can't just pop up here, people will recognize you!"
"You're the first to notice, actually," Sherlock replied. "Now tell me about the body you had for autopsy this afternoon."
Molly shrugged. "South Asian male in his late twenties to early thirties. Unusual scarring around a wound in his side – I thought he was stabbed but the wound is strange, jagged. And there was this very odd growth in his abdomen –it burst."
"Burst?" Sherlock leaned forward in the chair – her chair – that he had already occupied. "And were there any – unusual findings?"
"Some kind of sac of fluid? Rather disgusting. You do see gases make a corpse move occasionally but that was unusual. Why are you interested anyway?"
Sherlock studied her briefly, then began flipping through her file. "He was working for one of Moriarty's associates. An associate who used to work at a government research facility."
Molly's stomach dropped in panic. "Was it – some kind of biological weapon?"
"Don't know. Doesn't seem to have been. Why?"
"Some of that fluid, it sprayed on me, got past my kit. I haven't had the chance to analyze it yet."
Sherlock's eyes widened. "What? Why not?"
Molly glared, as if it should have been obvious. "I was interrupted."
"Then we'll examine it together." Sherlock looked out into the morgue. "I trust that at this hour we're likely to be alone?"
"Yes," Molly said, trying not to sigh. Time was, she would have thought that a splendid thing, but while worrying about Sherlock getting caught, it seemed like the worst idea possible.
Still, nothing had changed in light of Sherlock getting what Sherlock wanted. An hour later, Molly looked up from the microscope and gave Sherlock the bad news – there was no explanation for the strange swelling in the corpse's abdomen.
"Nothing. There's nothing coming up. No signs of bacterial infection, no spores or viruses. Nothing." Molly sighed. "Maybe he just had some vascular condition I've never seen before. There was quite a lot of blood."
"Hm," was Sherlock's succinct reply. He nudged Molly over to look in the microscope himself, and she tried not to wince at him touching everything in the lab. Not that she really expected anyone to be looking for his fingerprints anytime soon.
"Are you wearing perfume, Molly?" Sherlock asked, still gazing into the microscope like something would appear if he just waited long enough. Molly felt a deep blush creep into her skin beneath his fingertips, because apparently she had to compensate for Sherlock being awkward with additional awkwardness of her own.
"N-no. Why bother, I mean – there's no one –"
"No one to notice in here, no." Sherlock frowned and pulled away from the microscope.
"What's wrong?" Molly said, sounding more serious. She dared to gently touch his arm, forcing him to look at her. If something was distracting him, he could make a mistake, and Sherlock couldn't really afford a mistake. For a moment, he didn't answer, only looked at her with slight surprise.
"Would you take my pulse, please?" Sherlock asked, holding out his wrist. Molly blinked at him for a moment, then carefully took Sherlock's pulse. She frowned.
"It's rather fast, actually," she said. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Fine," Sherlock said, his gaze on her swiftly approaching the creepy level. He looked to the side. "That is, to answer your question. I am not ill."
"Are you – worried about something?" Molly guessed, trying to think of reasons for a fast pulse and being "not ill."
"Hardly," he said. "It's probably nothing. And it's quite late – I'll accompany you home."
Molly was rather surprised by that – Sherlock had kept her late at work without concern plenty of times. But then everything in Sherlock's life had shifted when he leaped from the roof. He had very few things left to protect, and Molly supposed that she was one of them.
Even so, she didn’t expect accompanying her home to involve slipping his arm around her shoulders to walk beneath a shared umbrella. Although Molly supposed that it made him even harder to recognize. Nor did she expect Sherlock to invite himself into her flat – she would have, of course, but he swept into the room ahead of her, looking around for – whatever Sherlock looked around for when he was feeling paranoid. Intruders, she supposed. Toby eyed them both suspiciously before stalking off to the kitchen.
"Tea?" Molly asked, and followed Toby. She put on the kettle and busied herself with mugs and measuring. She expected Sherlock to look around her flat, perhaps switch on her telly but instead he followed her, watching her make tea in a galley kitchen as if it was some fascinating anthropological display.
"So," Molly said quietly. "How long do you need to stay?"
"Stay?" Sherlock blinked, as if he'd been distracted by something. "A few days, I suppose." He fiddled with a small whisk from the side of her sink, twirling it between his fingers like a tiny baton.
"Well that – that'll be, um, nice." Molly smiled, and Sherlock didn't, and she shrunk away awkwardly. She opened the cabinet to get them some biscuits and gasped as Sherlock appeared at her shoulder, reaching past her to pull down the box.
"Here," Sherlock said, somewhat gruffly. He didn't move away at that point, leaning back against the counter with a few inches between them.
"Thank you," Molly said, confused about why he wasn't moving away. Sherlock tended to be rather mindful of his personal space, if not of anyone else's. The kettle clicked off and Molly poured the water, eerily aware of Sherlock's gaze over her shoulder. She handed him his mug and scurried towards the living room, muttering something vague about getting some takeaway.
Sherlock followed her, and managed not to say anything insulting for the next ten minutes while she drank her tea and watched a talk show that seemed to be slightly perplexing to him. Once he had drained his own mug, he sank back into the sofa, then shifted his knees up, and Molly cleared her throat as she realized that he was about to stretch out regardless of her presence at the end.
"Oh. Of course. May I?" Sherlock asked, and Molly just stared for a moment.
"Yes, I suppose –" Molly didn't quite know how to finish the thought as Sherlock folded his long form to fit onto the couch and laid his head in her lap. Molly found herself slightly flummoxed by the entirely unexpected question of where to put her right hand – behind him was awkward, around him even more so. He shifted a little in her lap, trying to get comfortable and Molly noticed a little flicker at her core, probably just her hormones checking in to note his closeness. Sherlock squirmed against her thigh again, and thinking to soothe him, she touched his hair and hoped he didn't notice the trembling in her hand. He didn't protest, and she combed her fingers through the soft curls, smiling a little as Sherlock closed his eyes and made a noise Molly would have interpreted as blissful in anyone else. In Sherlock's case, she supposed it meant that the immediate moment was not completely boring. The whole thing was more than a little strange, but perhaps Sherlock was simply rather lonely. Even if he could spend days on his own without noticing, it was quite another thing to find oneself alone for weeks on end. Besides which, since moving in with John he had become used to company, and now he was deprived of it.
That said, John probably didn't sit around petting Sherlock's hair. Molly was not about to ask.
They watched the news, Sherlock muttering discontentedly about the reader's obvious gambling problem, and halfway through a story about the Greek financial crisis Molly was surprised to realize that she felt relaxed, and rather like she could just melt into the couch. Right up until the second that she remembered one of her original goals at the hospital had been to get a shower as soon as possible because of that disgusting bursting thing in a corpse's abdomen.
She took a breath. "Right. Sit up, Sherlock? I need to go shower."
"Now?" Sherlock's voice was distinctly rather whiny.
"Yes, now. Disgusting autopsy accident, remember?" He sat up just long enough to let her stand before flopping back onto the sofa. Molly hurried to the bathroom and proceeded to scrub herself silly. She dawdled in the bathroom, taking the time to blow dry her hair and brush her teeth. Maybe he'd go to sleep, if she left him alone long enough. Either that, or he'd just go through everything she owned deducing what little life she had.
With that simply delightful thought in her head, Molly rushed out of the bathroom, still wrapped in a towel because of course she'd left her bathrobe, pajamas, and anything else that could possibly be useful in her bedroom.
So naturally, Sherlock was seated on her bed waiting for her, knees drawn up to his chin and a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Did you need something?" Molly asked, clutching the towel to make sure it stayed closed. She glanced around the room, looking for anything out of place.
"I hardly need to go through your drawers at this point, Molly," Sherlock said calmly. "I've just been thinking about the research that man was involved with at the facility. About its purpose."
"And what was that? The purpose." She backed up a step as Sherlock leapt to his feet, and suddenly no more than a few inches separated them.
"Pheromones," Sherlock murmured, circling her like a wolf until he finally paused in front of her. "They were studying pheromones."
Molly swallowed. He was too close again. Far too close. "Pheromones. Undetectable scents - to make someone more attractive."
Sherlock smiled and swept his thumb along her collarbone and she shuddered. "Indeed, Molly. But also to make others more amenable. Imagine the power someone could gain if a person would do anything they asked."
"Imagine," Molly said softly, thinking of pretty much everything she'd ever done for Sherlock, and he smirked.
"I never had to cheat," Sherlock insisted, whispering in her ear, and Molly shuddered outright when he pressed a kiss to her neck, just below her earlobe. His arm sliding around her waist saved her from the humiliation of her knees giving way as his mouth curiously trailed down her neck. She hated to admit that she still fancied him like mad, but by the time he nipped lightly at the juncture of her neck and shoulder her breath sounded like an obscene phone call.
"Wait, Sherlock, what are you – " Molly paused with a little gasp when she realized Sherlock had backed her against the bed. And then her towel fell away. Instinctively she moved to cross her hands over her breasts, but Sherlock startled her by grabbing her wrists. He loomed over her, his gaze alone forbidding her from covering herself again.
That should not have been seductive. At all. But Molly felt the tug of arousal across her belly tighten, her mouth falling open a little as if every part of her body wanted to swallow him up. Which was alarmingly close to the truth, in all honesty. Sherlock bent and slipped his arm beneath her knees to sweep her up onto the bed properly, and smiled as he crawled over her.
"This angle's much better, don't you think?" he asked calmly, and proceeded to trace the line of her clavicle with his mouth. "I believe your little – industrial accident may have exposed you to this particular experimental substance."
Molly trembled, grabbing onto the sheet because some part of her was afraid to touch him, make the reality of what he was doing sink in for him. "Experiment seems to have been successful," she replied with a squeak.
"Mm. Yes," Sherlock said vaguely, as he dipped his head to her breast and curled his tongue around one nipple while he flicked his thumb over the other. Molly arched into his touch and moaned softly, finally unable to resist threading her fingers into his hair. She shifted to slide her leg between his, noting a small grunt from his throat as her leg brushed against the spot where his cock was straining against his jeans.
"I love how you taste," he murmured, in that way that he talked in the lab when she wasn't exactly meant to answer. "It's like – rose petals and strawberries and sugar and, and, I don't know, Yorkshire pudding and tea."
Molly blinked at the ceiling, her brain temporarily noticing the oddness of Sherlock's ramblings. She was relatively certain she shouldn't have tasted like any of those things. Certainly not Yorkshire pudding. Pheromones that made you taste like – England? Someone was patriotic.
Then Sherlock's tongue swept along her navel and her belly and he knocked her thighs apart with one hand. And Molly knew despite how badly she wanted him to do whatever he was planning that this was a terrible idea.
"But this is – you're not – " Molly wanted to slap herself for it, but she sat up and touched Sherlock's cheek until he looked up at her. "This isn't real. It's as if you're – drugged or something."
Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose. Isn't that interesting?"
"Interesting? Sherlock – " Molly froze when Sherlock lifted a finger to her lips.
"I'm not bored. And now I'm curious." He loomed over her, making her back up on the bed. "I like the taste of you, Molly. In fact, I like it so much, I need much, much more of it." She barely had time to shiver at the rumble in his voice before he kissed her forcefully, and added, "There's really no need for discussion."
He stroked her thigh as he pulled away with a smile, then tugged her towards the edge of the bed as easily as if she was a doll. She watched as Sherlock fell to his knees and tasted a new path along her inner thigh. His fingers threaded through the thatch of curls between her thighs, parting her labia and making her squirm by blowing a little hiss of air over his skin. Then she felt his tongue, sweeping and probing over her sex before sucking on her clit. Molly knew from the ache inside her that she was growing wetter and wetter, and Sherlock was lapping up every drop he could, drinking her like she was nectar.
"Perfect," Sherlock whispered, his breath hot against her. Molly inhaled sharply as he pressed his tongue inside her, shifting to rub circles over her clit with his thumb. He noticed this, of course, and he imitated the motion with his tongue a moment later. Molly writhed against the duvet when he slid a long finger inside her with ease, but it wasn't quite enough.
"Use two," Molly groaned, "It's a bit more – oh, yes." Sherlock explored cautiously, his eyes darting up to watch her reactions to each place he tested. She nearly arched off the bed as Sherlock found the perfect spot to amplify the sensation of every stroke, pleasure spreading like wildfire through her body. He began alternating between flicking and stroking his tongue across her clit, and it was only when Molly found herself gulping for air that she realized she had forgotten to breathe. The rush of oxygen brought her climax through her body with a shudder. Sherlock looked decidedly pleased with himself, and clambered onto the bed, so that Molly found herself beneath a heap of jeans and slightly sweaty t-shirt.
"Take all of that off," Molly muttered, feeling rather like she was somehow drunk. "I'm not doing your laundry after, you know."
Sherlock laughed – actually laughed- and quickly doffed the clothes, tossing them to the floor. Molly stared at him because really, Sherlock was honestly, utterly nude and she needed to commit that to her memory. It was completely surreal, as if she hadn't entirely expected him to be a man like any other man under his coat and suits. Yet here he was, the smooth planes of his back leading into strong shoulders and long arms that wrapped around her as he kissed her again. He nipped at her throat and ground his erection against her belly, as if she could possibly have not gotten the hint.
Molly shifted to envelop him in her legs, as he dipped his head to lick a drop of sweat from the thin skin of her chest.
"Do you think it tastes like haggis and whiskey if you're from Scotland?" She asked idly.
"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock huffed.
"Oh, come off it. Haggis is always funny."
"Molly," he warned, and tweaked her nipple with just a little viciousness. Molly yelped and shuddered, clasping her legs just a little more tightly around him. Sherlock smiled at that, and Molly knew he was just storing it all away for later analysis.
Then Sherlock grasped his cock and pressed inside her, biting his lip to stifle the groan that tried to escape his throat. He didn't move right away, and Molly could feel his breath, hot against her ear. She kissed his neck and lightly traced the musculature of his back with her fingernails until he finally did something delicious with his hips and began to thrust. He moved shallowly at first, slowly pressing deeper until they couldn't possibly be closer. Molly could feel him on every inch of her skin, could breathe in nothing but his scent, taste only his kiss in her mouth. Sherlock moved with a musician's perfect rhythm, and Molly rolled her hips to meet every thrust. Already sensitized by Sherlock's mouth, her body responded even more quickly than before. She felt the flutter of internal muscles again as a rush of aching pleasure seemed to flood her entire body.
Her heart was pounding against her rib cage as she realized that it wasn't receding entirely, the ache not turning to oversensitivity right away. She felt like she was hovering on the edge again already...then gasped as another wave of pleasure washed over her. This never happened to her, ever. Hell, she was fairly certain it shouldn't have been possible in this position.
"Side effect," she wondered aloud. Sweetening the deal to make less than desirable attention more appealing, perhaps.
"What?" Sherlock slowed his pace, taken out of wherever he was by her speaking.
"No, no - don't stop," she pleaded, "Not until you have to. Think about something else, just – don't stop."
Sherlock nodded, studying her, the hunger that she knew was written all over her face. Molly arched her back, grabbing the pillows beneath her head, and cried out, almost overwhelmed as another climax swept through her.
Molly was almost relieved when Sherlock swore and his steady rhythm faltered. His thrusts became frantic and uneven, and Molly tangled her hand in his hair as he buried his face against her neck. He was everywhere, filling every one of her senses, every inch of his skin touching her, his hoarse moaning beside her ear and the slick slap of every movement of his hips. His scent was delicious and Molly tasted him on her lips, unable to resist dragging her tongue along his throat. Sherlock finally came with a sort of violence, shuddering from head to toe. He looked surprised, she thought, which was a bit odd, but then it was rather surprising on her end, so she wasn't sure why it should be any different for him.
"That was quite - interesting," Sherlock muttered into her ear.
"Er. Yes," Molly replied, "I think I need to send your secret military research facility a thank you note."
"Jokes, Molly," Sherlock grumbled, but he kissed her neck and wrapped his arm around her. She turned her head to see his eyes, wanting to make a visual connection between his face and the fingers gently brushing against her side. There was something almost tantric about it, gazing into Sherlock's pale eyes as their breath merged into one slow, steady rhythm. She had never felt so content in her life, and yet part of her was buzzing, like she could feel every molecule of air pass over her skin.
That couldn't last, of course, and Molly expected Sherlock to get up, steal all the hot water in her shower, and generally act like nothing had happened while he stole her laptop to record some sort of data. Instead he stayed beside her, skin pressed hotly against hers, long limbs heavily tangled up in her own. The stroke of his fingers slowed, and Molly thought he was falling asleep.
Except he wasn't really dozing off, Molly realized, because his eyes were open. Nor was he exactly looking at her so much as at a point somewhere around her ear. Her stomach dropped as she finally noticed what was missing.
Sherlock wasn't blinking.
Then to her utter horror Molly realized that he wasn't breathing. Before she could even move her mind raced from one catastrophic possibility to another – aneurysm to cardiac event to stroke.
"Sherlock!" Molly cried out, and tried to sit up, to push him off of her, but a sensation that she was trying to slice open her own abdomen stopped her. She gasped in pain, confused and increasingly terrified that this experiment was even worse than it had initially seemed. With a trembling hand she detected a weak, thready pulse in his neck, but when she tried again to get into a position to try CPR the excruciating pain tore through her again, worse than the first time.
"No. No," Molly said harshly to herself. "I can do this. There is no reason that I can't do this." She took a deep breath to steel herself and pressed her hand into his shoulder to lever him off of her.
With that attempt, the pain sharpened so acutely that Molly's vision swam before her eyes. The last words to pass her lips before she lost consciousness was to plead with Sherlock to wake up, to figure this out and put an end to what was obviously madness.