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They’d fixed their relationship since the drug use.
Fixed it, and now… he wasn’t sure what they were. He knew he didn’t like it when she dated other people, and it wasn’t even just when she went on dates. He didn’t want her flirting with other people, smiling at them the way she used to only smile for him.
Because though they’d become friends again, and even farther, she’d also pulled away from him.
He was fairly certain when she flirted in front of him, it was mostly just to set him off. It worked, sometimes.
More often than he’d like to admit.
And every time, in the middle of their fights, she would demand, “What are you doing to do about it?”
And every time it brought him up short. Because what could he do about it? What could he do to stop her from giving her affections to others when he wanted it all?
He didn’t know, though he felt he should. It was a rat, crawling in his mind, gnawing and nipping and leaving its marks everywhere, but he couldn’t find an answer.
Because she wasn’t his to claim. She wasn’t his to demand her attention or affections.
So, he would withdraw from the argument. “Nothing.” He could do nothing. Because she was her own person. Just steps away and yet, miles and miles of mental ground between them.
He saw her shoulders sag every time he responded as such. Saw them sag, as though she expected a different response. As if… she was baiting him on purpose. For what though? Because this was the same woman who asked him for coffee, and out to dinner, and dressed up for him in that gorgeous black dress that he had spurned, and surely she wouldn’t feel the need to play games with him.
The fight would end just like that. Sherlock would leave her alone, wouldn’t bother her for weeks, until she would come with a cup of coffee and a smile and things would be all right again.
He noted, after a few such fights, that the flirting stopped while he kept his distance. He didn’t know what to make of that.
But then, they were met with it again. Another fight, because of a wink.
She threatened to go on a date with Dr. Riddle from the Intensive Care Unit.
“Don’t. You. Dare.” He ground out the words, glaring down at her. She didn’t even like Riddle. Stupid name. He was a jerk, and had in the past harassed her in her workplace for being a woman pathologist. He wasn’t nearly good enough for her.
She had the gall to smirk. “What are you going to do about it?”
Those words again. How many times did she throw them at him?
And for what purpose?
Then, it hit him. There was no purpose. Because he knew, despite her words, it was all a means to get his attention. She would never actually accept Dr. Riddle’s invitation to dinner, because she hated him as much as Sherlock did in that instance.
So, he didn’t back down.
He didn’t reply to her either. He just pulled her against him – they’d been so close, their chests were touching anyway – and bent down to kiss her hard. She didn’t fight him. She sank into the kiss with a pleased moan, - this, he knew, was exactly what she’d been waiting for. He shows her exactly what he would do to stop her from going on any other dates.
She was his Pathologist. Not Dr. Riddle’s. And not anyone else she happened to wink or smile coyly at.
There was a clatter as Sherlock lifted her onto the counter and something fell to the ground, but both of them ignored it, too engrained on each other.
Clothes were stripped – her jumper, shirt, and bra all tugged up and over her head in one go, his shirt unbuttoned and left to hang open because neither of them wanted to separate long enough for him to shrug out of it.
His lips went to her breasts, and her hands went to his curls, tugging hard and whining for him to never stop, and he didn’t, sucking and nipping and lavishing each nipple until they were both tender points, damp and glistening with his saliva.
He wasn’t sure which one of them undid his trousers – he thought it was her – but he did know it was he who hiked up her skirt, pushed aside her knickers, and thrust inside her with a groan as her tight heat encased him, already wet and ready and Gods above, they’d both wanted this for too long.
She keened as he began to thrust, rolling her hips as she tried to match his pace. He cupped her arse as she sucked a dark mark on his neck in between her own little whines of pleasure.
She brought a hand between them to tease her clit, and with every thrust he could feel her working herself into to a frenzy.
He could feel her hot breathe on his neck, and the sounds – whose throat were they coming from?
She came first. He remembered that much, though he wasn’t far behind.
When it was over, her head resting on his shoulder and he cupped the back of her neck and around her waist. After a few stark moments of just panting, trying to regain their breath, they both laughed. Laughed at their idiocy, laughed at the situation.
Their first time so frenzied, in the morgue where anyone could have walked in, neither of them being especially quiet and he wanted it again, though perhaps in a more private setting, because now he had her, and he had no intention of letting her go.
He pulled out of her carefully, and Molly handed him a box of tissues so they could clean each other up.
Sherlock handed Molly her shirt and jumper, but her bra was tucked into his back pocket with a sly grin before he fixed his own shirt and trousers.
They both smelled of sex. There wasn’t much for that, and again, they found themselves laughing, as Sherlock pulled her against him, and she tugged him down for another kiss.
“I’ll have to flirt with others more often if this is your reaction.”
He cocked his brow and smirked. “Don’t you dare.”
Her eyes sparkled. “What are you going to do about it?”
He took her back to 221B, and showed her exactly what he would do about it, again.
And again.
Several times, in fact, before she acquiesced. Besides, if she was his pathologist, then he got to be her Consulting Detective too.