Chapter Text
The next morning when Molly woke up, at first she had no idea where she was. She felt soft, luxurious sheets and was trying to remember if she’d gone on holiday, when she smelled a unique musky scent, and it all came back to her in a moment.
Oh. My. God.
She’d had sex with Sherlock. She’d had mind-blowing sex with Sherlock.
A single glance told her that he was no longer beside her. No surprise there. She took a moment to snuggle down deep into the blankets and take it all in. She remembered his hands, his mouth, she remembered everything.
She had no regrets. Even if this was a one-off, it was more than she ever expected. More than she thought Sherlock was capable of. She lay naked in his bed and replayed the whole X-rated evening in her mind.
From out in the lounge, she heard Sherlock who seemed to be having an animated phone conversation with Greg Lestrade. He sounded stern and irritated, which was truthfully how he usually sounded. He was completely out of passionate-lover mode, and now was completely Consulting Detective.
Molly decided she should get up and out of the flat before some police officers or clients came over. She knew how much Sherlock valued his privacy, and she reckoned he wouldn’t want others to know she’d spent the night. So she went into the loo to get cleaned up, then came back to the bedroom to gather up her clothes which had been strewn about the room.
She had put on her trousers and was just fastening her bra when the door flew open and Sherlock came in, phone to his ear.
“I don’t care that your ridiculously incompetent forensic team says it was an accident, I can tell from that photograph you sent that this was clearly suicide. A toddler could see that! I am here with Dr. Hooper and I’ll show her the picture for a second opinion, although she is not a buffoon, so obviously she will agree with me.”
Sherlock thrust the phone at her and whilst she was looking at the photograph, she could hear Greg on the other end saying, “Molly’s there? At your flat? At 7 o’clock in the morning? What is she doing there?”
Molly ignored the question and studied the picture. “I’d have to see the body in person and do a full autopsy to be sure, but just from this picture I agree with Sherlock that suicide seems the most likely cause of death.”
She passed the phone back to Sherlock who wasted no time berating the Detective Inspector, “If you can somehow prevent the inept Scotland Yard from contaminating the scene before I can see it, send the body to Barts and we’ll meet you there shortly.”
Sherlock paced back and forth in the bedroom, muttering under his breath words like ‘incompetent’ and ‘bunglers.’ When he saw Molly staring at him open mouthed, he said, “What are you gawping at? You heard Lestrade, let’s go to Barts so you can start on the post-mortem.”
“I’m not even wearing a shirt.” Molly felt stupid as soon as the words left her mouth. It’s just that Sherlock was acting so… Sherlock. There was nothing in his speech or actions that were different in any way from how he normally was around her. Impatient. Brilliant. Focused on nothing but the Work. If she weren’t standing in his bedroom, that still smelled of sex, she wouldn’t know that anything had happened the night before.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, located her blouse and threw it to her. He was walking out the door, reaching for both of their coats and she hurried to button up the peach-coloured shirt she’d donned with such hope before coming to Sherlock’s flat yesterday.
She followed him down the stairs, and a surge of excitement flowed through her. She didn’t know what the future would hold for the two of them, but she was sure that life with Sherlock in it would always be an adventure.