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Ducking out of a wedding that wasn't your own was an easy enough matter. Not that Molly Hooper had had ever ducked out of her own wedding, seeing as she'd never been married; however, she imagined it would be a tricky feat to leave without many people noticing. Being a mere guest certainly had its advantages.
Today, John Watson and Mary Morstan had pledged their lives to each other. It was everything Molly could have hoped for her friends. She was beyond thrilled that they had found each other, especially after everything the two had been through on their own. The wedding ceremony was absolutely beautiful and the reception absolutely joyous.
But happiness aside, Molly couldn't fight the encroaching melancholy that was so stupidly, stereotypically assumed of single people at weddings. Yet here she was, proving those assumptions right. And she was furious at herself for it.
The moment she made it beyond the warm glow cast by fairy lights on the stone patio outside of the reception hall, she shucked off her uncomfortable heels with a grateful sigh. The grass was damp with dew, telling Molly just how long into the night the reception had already gone. As well it should.
She wandered down the sloping lawn, making her way to a copse of trees that looked void of people and blissfully quiet. The sounds from the reception were already fading to a low din, but she didn't think there could be too much quiet for her to escape to.
Spying a bench, Molly moved over to it, sitting down on one end and stretching her bare legs along the length of the seat. She wiggled her toes—still slightly crampy from her tight shoes—and sighed quietly, enjoying the spring cool after the stuffy heat back in the hall. The pretty corsage on her dress tickled her chin, so she released the safety pin. She sat there for several minutes, twirling its trailing tail of purple, silk ribbon around her fingers.
It wasn't that she spent her time constantly bemoaning her single state. She had never felt like her life or her worth were lessened by her lack of a romantic relationship; however, that didn't mean her life wasn't sometimes a lonely one. She had wonderful friends who supported and encouraged her, but it would certainly be nice to love and be loved.
Sometimes, Molly's greatest struggle was acknowledging to herself that it was okay that she wanted those things. And seeing her friends marry, hearing them declare their love for each other, certainly did magnify that desire.
It just had never happened for her; that deep and trusting love that—alright, yes—she really, really wanted. She'd had boyfriends. She dated casually. But those relationships and flirtations never went far and Molly could name a few reasons why that might be. Most of them could be allotted to simple incompatibility with the men she dated.
But there was one obstruction in Molly's life that was perhaps the biggest reason for her failed pursuit of love.
And that obstruction just happened to walk into Molly's private, little grove of trees as she thought of him.
"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," she murmured.
She wasn't even sure how she was so certain the approaching shadow was Sherlock Holmes'. The moon cast enough of a glow that she could only make out vague features, but his stature and the lithe way that he moved would have told her who approached even if the moonlight were absent.
Sherlock watched Molly carefully as he picked his way toward her, almost as if he thought she might jump up from her seat and flee before he reached her. He finally came to a stop at back of the bench, looking down on her with an inscrutable expression on his face.
Molly wasn't certain why she didn't nervously spout out a greeting or demand to know why he was out there in her spot. Instead she just looked steadily back at him. Wordlessly, she curled her legs under her in silent invitation. Sherlock took it without prompting, skirting around the bench and sitting close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his hip onto the bare tops of her feet.
She went back to winding and unwinding the corsage ribbon around her index finger. It didn't feel like their shared silence was necessarily awkward, but it wasn't exactly easy, either.
Sherlock, for his part, was facing straight ahead, not fidgeting, but not sitting rigidly still. Molly could make out his long fingers moving and she imagined he was playing a violin concerto in his head.
As they sat there, she could hear crickets playing their own string symphonies, joined with the croaking bass of the frogs, the buzzing brass of nocturnal insects, and—she didn't think she imagined it—an owl, rounding the night concert out with its hooting woodwind.
Molly felt like some spell had come over her. Over them. Sherlock was, for once in his restless, brilliant life, content and quiet. He wasn't bemoaning the insufferable crowd back at the reception. He wasn't complaining about his best man duties (though they were pretty much completed now, so that might be part of it). He was simply sitting with her on a park bench, seeking the same respite as she.
Then, ever so lightly, she felt his hand on her foot. With just the tip of his finger, began tracing its bones and tendons. When he brushed his thumb gently across the tops of her toes, they curled at the sensation. But that was nothing to when he moved his hand back to the top of her foot, this time curving over its span so that his fingers now tickled the small arch of her foot.
She gave a small exhalation of restrained laughter and surprise as she waited to see what he would do next. He continued with his light tracing and she saw his lips moving slightly as he slowly moved up her foot. She wasn't certain, because he made no sounds, but she thought he might be reciting the names of each bone as he encountered it or its relative location.
Distal, medial, proximal phalanges. Metatarsals. Cuneiform. Calcaneus. And so on.
Why that should leave Molly feeling so breathless, she couldn't say, but it did. As his hand wrapped more securely around her ankle, she reveled in the warmth of his fingers against her night-chilled skin.
Finally, Sherlock turned his head, his eyes meeting hers across the short (long) distance of the bench. They watched at each other in the dark, his fingers idly stroking the skin of her leg.
Emboldened, Molly gently tugged her foot out of his light grasp, pushing herself up onto her knees. He merely sat there, watching as she edged her way over, until his shoulder brushed the curve of her breast. She steadied herself with a hand on the back of the bench as she looked down at him. He returned her gaze silently.
Ducking her head, Molly bent and lightly brushed her lips across his, hardly pursing them into the shape or feel of a kiss. She pulled back, seeing his pupils dilate further as she retreated, as he lifted his arms just slightly.
It was the first time she saw any flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He huffed out an impatient breath and curled those beautiful hands of his around her hips, tugging her firmly but gently over him. The restrictive skirt of her cheerful, yellow dress stopped her from moving her legs apart. Sherlock didn't pause, but instead began walking his fingers almost as if they were on the strings of his violin, pulling the fabric of her dress up with each stroke. Soon, he held the material bunched in his fists at the tops of her thighs.
He stared up at Molly, waiting.
Moving her hand from the cold, rough wood of the bench to the warm, soft fabric of his morning jacket, Molly swung her leg over him, sitting down again once she straddled his lap. She shivered at the warm material of his trousers rubbing the sensitive skin of the backs of her thighs.
Sherlock released his hold on her dress, bringing his hands up to the sides of her neck, his thumbs strumming her pulse points as he pulled her slowly to him. Their breath was still strangely metered though their responses to one another would not be described as even remotely disinterested.
When her chest was pressed to his, he tilted his head, still watching her carefully as he brushed his lips to hers once more.
Deciding they were beyond caution now, Molly inhaled sharply through her nose, bringing her own hands up, letting her fingers disappear into the curls at the back of his head. She crushed her mouth to his and he rewarded her with a surprised puff air before he responded to the movement of her lips.
Their mouths danced together and apart, again and again. The mist that heralds the earliest hours of morning comingled with their escaping breaths as they kissed furiously. Her tongue met his and his hands moved from her neck down to her thin cardigan. His fingers brushed under its knitted collar, pushing the fabric down until it caught at the creases of her elbows. His calloused hands stroked back up her bare arms and then back down again. Though the air was cold, his touch did more to warm her than that the thin material of her clothing, anyway.
She spared a moment to find amusement that it was now Sherlock's boutonnière that tickled her chin, pressed between the two of them as it was. The single rose's perfume reached her periodically, melding with Sherlock's own, clean and wild scent.
Her fingers got busy, loosening the tie he'd donned only at his best friend's request. Things like that reminded Molly of the underlying sweetness of Sherlock. A side he thought he kept well hidden, and probably succeeded in hiding from most people. But not hidden from her. Never from her.
She didn't bother to pull the tie from the collar; instead, she set about unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat before returning to the topmost fastenings of his shirt. Once she released those, she tore her mouth away from Sherlock's, only to press it to the newly exposed base of his neck. His sigh of contentment warred with his hands, which were once again holding tightly to the material at the bottom of her dress. Then his hands moved up her back, and she soon felt cool air moving down her skin in time with her lowering zipper.
She smiled against his neck, nipping his skin in congratulations for his decision-making skills.
The dress was form-fitting enough that the zipper didn't loosen the dress dramatically—if she wanted out of it, she should have to lift it over her head, and she just didn't have the patience for that. Neither did Sherlock, it would appear, as he seemed perfectly content to nuzzle the skin just below her draped neckline, his lips brushing against the tops of her breasts.
Soon, Molly realized she was rocking against him, sending pleasant shocks up from her center into her belly, stoking embers from a warm glow to a molten heat. And the more to she pressed against Sherlock, the tighter his fingers gripped her sides, her legs, her arms—his hands were never still
But it wasn't enough. Not nearly.
He was so hard and she was so desperate for him, she couldn't bother to care that she showed no grace as she hastily unbuckled his belt, unzipping his trousers with ungainly speed and shoving his pants aside to free him.
Sherlock sucked sharply through his teeth as the cold air reached him. But he didn't seem mind too much as his own hands delved under her skirt. One hand cupped her bottom as the fingers of his other brushed against the elastic band of her knickers. He put just the tip of his index finger under the band, returning once again to his languid stroking as he brushed his finger up and down the crease formed by her leg and torso.
Molly tried to shift in his lap. If he wouldn't touch her where she wanted, she would just have to move herself. Needs must. But then his hand was right where she needed and she was certain nothing could feel as good as Sherlock Holmes touching her as she'd dreamt and fantasized for so long.
He watched her, his look one of arrested fascination as she felt more blood move into her cheeks, as her arousal only increased. As if she were a fascinating puzzle that only his brain could truly appreciate. She felt fascinating. She felt beautiful. And she fell over a precipice at this realization, with Sherlock's hands, arms, and body to anchor her.
He breathed deeply against temple, simply holding her as she gathered herself again. Those embers in her belly still glowed for him, and she would be damned if she didn't stoke them to another inferno.
Shifting up onto her knees, Molly once again watched him calmly as she reached between their bodies, guiding him into her. As she slid down his length, her head fell back while his fell forward, finding purchase on her damp collarbone.
And then Molly was rocking against him once again, the friction stoking those promised embers with each slide of their bodies. She could do nothing but gasp for air, watching her breath fan above her head through heavy-lidded eyes. She could feel everything at once, and it was wonderful and astounding, mostly because it was real. She started shaking with it, trying to contain it all and explode apart at the same time in a deafening crescendo. And then she let it happen.
And Sherlock was right with her. She could feel him shudder each time their hips met; hear his gasps and the other low sounds of passion that escaped him. She could feel his blunt nails clutching at her hips with their rolling motions.
And then with a groan, he was shaking apart, too, his face pressed to the skin of her upper chest.
They sat there for some time, not moving. Molly felt reality trying to clear its throat in the back of her mind, trying to catch her attention. But she wasn't ready for that yet. So she combed her fingers through his soft hair and enjoyed the feeling of him pressed so closed to her.
It was only when the cool bite of air against her exposed skin caused her to shiver that he pulled back a little.
But, to her surprise, not much. Just enough to press his mouth in a kiss to the sharp corner of jaw just below her earlobe. And then be brushed his lips again and again along her jawline, stopping just shy of her chin. And then he moved his mouth up to place another soft kiss on the corner of her mouth for his lips covered hers entirely.
Maybe Molly was being naïve. Maybe she would end up brokenhearted. But she couldn't help but read into this kiss as being one of pure affection. Sherlock certainly was content to linger. It was a sweet kiss, not passionate or sultry.
Finally, though, that ended too. He drew back, his eyes watching his hands as he worked the zipper back up her back, and then her cardigan back onto her shoulders.
Though she was loathe to end the night entirely, Molly disengaged from him, standing up and working to set her clothes to rights while Sherlock did the same to his. She glanced at him periodically as she tried (futilely) to smooth wrinkles from her dress, but she finally just gave it up for a bad job. The wrinkles were certainly no more telling than then marks on her calves that perfectly matched up with the wooden slats of the bench.
Sherlock stood from the bench. After he'd tucked in his shirt once more and fastened his trousers, he began fidgeting with his loathed tie. Molly only watched him struggle for a brief moment before she batted his hands away and set about tying a Windsor knot that her father had taught her when she was young girl. Sherlock's hands dropped to his side as she worked. She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn't feel awkward or intimidated.
No, she just felt peaceful.
Once she had the tie knotted in a facsimile of how it had looked prior to their interlude, she finally allowed herself to meet Sherlock's eyes again. He was watching her so carefully. But not with any of the distance she worried he might try to wedge between then. His eyes, even in the dark, were still soft on her.
She offered him a small smile before she bent to retrieve her shoes and her poor, discarded corsage. It was a little worse for the wear, but its bedraggled state reminded her to look at his boutonnière. Her eyes widened in alarm, and he questioningly followed her gaze.
The rose had been crushed in the press and fervor of their bodies. While most of its petals remained, a good many of them were clinging with their last tenuous hold. Molly hummed in distress, reaching up finger the poor flower, as if she might reattach the petals and give it a second wind.
But Sherlock just covered her hand with his, as if he were trying to ease some of her distress.
She met his eyes and seemed to read something in them, for she nodded and dropped her arm.
Together, they left their secret place.
Making their way up the grassy slope, back to the cheerful pounding of dance music and laughter, their fingers brushed every so often as they walked.