![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
emmagrant01Title: Seventeen First Dates
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom/Pairing: BBC Sherlock, Greg Lestrade/Molly Hooper
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Molly and Greg are not dating. Or are they?
Length: 8800 words
Genre: Romance, het
Warnings: none
Note: Written as a very late birthday gift for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
drinkingcocoa, my wonderful beta and friend. I hope you know how much I adore you! Partly inspired by the Fucking Sherlock roundtable in episode 9 of the Three Patch Podcast.
Links: LJ | AO3
*****
The first time she sees Greg Lestrade again is in the cafe near her flat on a Saturday morning. She's waiting at the counter to pay for her bacon-egg-n-cheese croissant and latte when she spots him sitting at a table, tapping at the screen of his phone with the thumb of one hand while raising a cup of coffee to his lips with the other.
She's momentarily paralyzed by indecision: should she say hello? Would he even recognize her? They haven't interacted much, and not at all since everything happened. He was nice, she remembers. He used to flirt with her now and then, which she always liked. Well, it seemed like flirting, but it probably wasn't – he's probably just nice that way and she read far too much into it. (Not that it matters anyway because he's married.) But his smile was infectious and his eyes sparkled when he talked to her, and he always had a way of making the people he was with feel important, as though what they had to say actually mattered to him.
He still hasn't looked up. Someone behind her clears a throat and she realizes the queue has moved forward several steps. She flushes and murmurs an apology, and steps forward.
He's probably busy, she thinks as she hands a tenner to the cashier. Working, even. It's not as if NSY closes up shop on the weekends – no crimes until Monday morning, please and thank you! She grins and the cashier gives her an odd look. She steps aside to wait for her latte to be made and her sandwich warmed, and chews on a fingernail. Maybe he'll look up, notice her first. He'd definitely say something, wouldn't he? Maybe he doesn't remember her. She's dressed in Saturday clothes, worn jeans and a faded jumper, and the last few times he saw her she was either dressed up or at work.
"Twenty-two!" the woman behind the counter calls in slightly-accented English, and Molly turns to get her breakfast. She hesitates a moment more before deciding not to bother him (he looks busy), but instead to sit at a small table on the opposite side of the café from him. Not too close to the door (too obvious), but near enough the exit that she might catch his eye on the way out (probably not).
She takes a bite of her sandwich. Not that any of it matters: he's someone she's met a few times, someone who was very nice to her. She should just get up and say hello, get it over with. He'd probably look at her with blank eyes and say, "Oh, hi," in that way people always do when they've no clue who you are. He'd make small talk until it was excruciatingly obvious that he didn't remember her and then she'd pretend she had somewhere to go, or maybe he would, just to get out of the situation, and that would be that. They'd probably never see each other again anyway, what with Sherlock "dead" and her not having any reason to work with NSY, who have their own forensics people after all, and—
"Molly?"
She looks up to see him standing next to her table, smiling, and she nearly forgets to swallow the bite of sandwich before replying. "Oh, hi! It's… it's Greg, right? God, it's been ages."
"Yeah, it has." He gestures vaguely with the coffee cup. "I moved into a flat down the street a few weeks ago, but I haven't explored the neighborhood much yet. Thought I'd try this place today."
He glances at the empty chair across from her and she nearly upends her coffee in her enthusiasm to point at it: yes, please, do sit, oh-my-god. She'd been prepared for nearly anything but actual conversation, and her mind races now, searching for a topic that would be interesting enough to justify his coming over here. She takes another bite of sandwich instead. (It buys time.)
He sits. "So, how have you been?"
She swallows her bite of sandwich and washes it down with a swallow of coffee. "Very well, thanks. You?" (God, that was pathetic.)
His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I've been better, to be honest. Trying to make a new start."
She raises her cup to her lips again, and pauses halfway when she understands. Her eyes flick to his left hand and back up again. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was my decision to end it. And it was long overdue, to be honest." He looks away and takes a sip from his cup.
Her eyes follow the line of his throat as he swallows. "It must have been difficult."
He shrugs. "Making the decision was the hard part. Once I'd decided, the rest was easy enough. Well, until the solicitors got involved, anyway."
"I can imagine. Well, no, actually I can't, because I've never been married, and even my parents are still together, so I've no idea what that entails, not really." (Babbling.) She takes a drink of coffee to shut herself up.
"Me either, until now." He sighs, apparently not finding any of this awkward at all, damn him. "I'm glad I already know one of my neighbors, though."
"Who?" she asks, and then gets his meaning, and blushes. "Right, well… welcome, I suppose. It's not a terribly friendly neighborhood, to be honest. Well, except for the pensioners, they're all rather nice. Where is your flat?" (Probably too personal, shouldn't have asked.)
"Round the corner, back down Ellen Street, number 135F. I should have you over for a drink sometime."
Molly's cheeks flush before she can think of a response, and she sees his eyes widen.
"Oh, well, a friendly drink, of course. I didn't mean—"
"No, it's fine, I didn't – I just – a drink would be lovely, yes."
"I was thinking of organizing a get-together, you know, invite some folks over. John, for example. I'm not sure how much he gets out these days."
A screw twists inside her, intensifying guilt that had finally started to fade. "Yes, of course. Right." She realizes she isn't smiling at all. She should smile at this, shouldn't she? She tries, and is certain it comes across as utterly false and dopey.
Greg's smile has faded slightly, to her dismay. "Well, it was lovely to see you. I'll let you know about drinks; maybe next weekend?"
"Right, of course." She nods (far too enthusiastically).
He pushes his chair back and stands, and holds out a hand. She takes it, and his handshake is just as warm and firm as she remembers.
"See you, Molly."
"See you," she says to his back as he walks away.
Drinks next weekend, then. That could be nice. But of course, he probably only said it to be polite. People did that sort of thing, not exactly lying, but saying let's do that and then not following through. They would forget, but she never would and would then be too embarrassed to say anything lest she look desperate. He's probably not like that, though. He seems the type who would follow through.
Of course, he doesn't have her number. She sighs and sets her latte aside.
*****
The second time she sees him is a few days later at the local Sainsbury Express. He's staring intently at a selection of frozen meals, empty basket dangling from one hand.
She takes a deep breath, releases it, and crosses to stand next to him. "If you're looking for a recommendation, the store's brand of lasagna is nice. You can get the big one and eat it for days."
He turns and smiles at her. "So you're an expert?"
"At cooking for one, yes." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugs. "Not that this is cooking. I mean, I can cook, of course, but lasagna is easier when someone else makes it for you. Cheaper too, to be honest." (Shut up.)
"If it doesn't come ready-to-eat, it's cooking in my book." He pulls a package of frozen lasagna from the shelf and drops it into his basket. "Can you recommend a tetra-brick of red wine to go with that?"
She nods. "Italian or French?"
He holds up the lasagna and inspects the label. "Which goes better with horse meat?"
She slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh, and he grins at her.
"You're right, it doesn't matter. I'll choose the wine by price then, shall I?"
They finish their shopping together, and he gives her an amiable kiss on the cheek before he leaves.
Three steps away, he stops and turns back. "Still interested in that drinks thing this weekend?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"I'll talk to John and let you know." He waves and is off once again.
He still doesn't have her number, but she has a feeling the drinks thing is on anyway.
*****
She gets the text message at work two days later.
Elephant Head, Friday, 6:00?
She stands and stares at it for a moment. It can only be from him. Well, it could be a text sent to her by mistake, she supposes. (It happens ridiculously often.) Or it might be from someone else, but that someone always signs his texts, and besides, he's nowhere near London as far as she knows. Not that he'd need to see her anyway. Unless he needed another corpse. Which, considering, is not unlikely.
She types out a response of Yes, see you then and saves the number to her contacts. He must have asked John for her number. That or he already had it, somehow. Perhaps NSY can just look anyone up? Or perhaps there is a secret file tucked away in a cabinet deep underground, full of information about one Dr. Molly Jane Hooper and all of the potential havoc she could wreak on the British people should she so choose. She snorts at the thought.
Though considering what she's involved herself in over the last few years, there probably is such a file, highly classified.
*****
She arrives at the pub a few minutes early, and stands outside for a moment, shifting from one foot to another in the chilly November air. She doesn't want to be early (too eager) or very late (uninterested), but even worse would be to be seen standing out here waffling like a lunatic. She decides to walk down to the shop on the corner and buy a packet of mints.
She examines her reflection in the mirror behind the cashier, and has a moment of doubt. She changed clothes three times (too fancy would look out of place, as would too casual) and spent twenty minutes carefully applying makeup before wiping it all off (didn't want to look like she was trying to impress) and then putting half of it back on again (Friday night, after all, and she was trying to impress, to be honest), and God, it wasn't like this was a date or anything. It was just drinks with friends, and that was all. Drinks with friends, one of whom she's repeatedly lied to about the whereabouts of his significant other (and hasn't been able to face since), and the other of whom is a very sexy recently divorced man she has a very large crush on. Why is she doing this again?
She takes her change from the cashier, who admonishes her to smile. She does, and then kicks herself on the way out the door. She hates it when men do that, and that she responds so automatically. Her feet are already starting to hurt in these stupid heels she decided to wear, and a bitter wind tears down the street and blows her hair all over her face. She picks strands out of her lipstick and sighs.
She could just go home. She could text Greg that something came up at work and she can't make it, and then she could go home and curl up on the sofa with Toby and heat up some frozen lasagna and have a glass of cheap wine and watch a sappy movie.
Or, she could go have drinks with friends. Right now.
She opens the door of the pub with a bit more force than she intended and a cold wind whips in, causing everyone in the vicinity of the door to turn and glare at her. She mutters, "Sorry," and closes the door behind her, and has a look around. She finally spots Greg sitting alone at a table in the corner, staring down at his phone as people laugh and talk and drink all around him. Everyone seems to be there with a group of friends, blowing off steam after a long work week, and there he is sitting in the midst of the storm of revelry – alone.
He glances up and sees her then, and his face splits into a smile. She feels her pulse quicken, feels the jolt of attraction that runs through her, the warmth spreading to her toes. She smiles back before she can stop herself, and she's certain her cheeks are pink and she looks like a complete idiot, wind-blown and probably still overdressed, but there's nothing else for it. She crosses to the table, slides out of her coat and hangs it on a hook, and then leans in to kiss him on the cheek in greeting.
"Can I get you a drink?" He gestures to the bar.
"Yeah, cheers. A lager is fine."
She watches him cross to the bar, and lets her eyes linger on the breadth of his shoulders, the line of his shirt down his spine, the curve of his arse under his trousers. She bites her lip and then remembers the lipstick, and frantically scrubs at the bottom of her tooth with her tongue. (This is not why she's here.) (Though it is, admittedly, a side benefit.)
When he finally returns with two glasses of lager, she immediately takes a large drink from hers.
"Rough day?" He's only teasing, but it doesn't prevent her from blushing in response.
"Thirsty, I suppose. Is John running late?"
He sighs. "Not coming. He just texted me before you arrived."
"Is he all right?"
Greg shrugs. "Who knows? The last few times I've tried to get him to go out, he's canceled on me. Something always comes up at the last minute."
Molly takes another large drink.
"I don't know how he's getting along, otherwise. He took a position working A&E, did you know?"
She shakes her head. "I haven't seen him since the memorial service. He doesn't exactly pop round to the morgue on a regular basis anymore."
"I suppose not." They're both quiet for a moment. "I suppose it's just us, then."
"Just us," she says, and looks up at him. His eyes are striking, and she can't look away.
"We need to catch up, anyway. You first, tell me what you've been doing these last few months." He holds her gaze steadily, and doesn't seem to find the situation awkward at all.
"The same as before, really. There's not much to tell."
He leans forward with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "What, no tales from the morgue?"
She grins, almost laughs. "Well, I did an interesting post-mortem the other day – the family was sure the cause of death was drugs rather than a heart attack as the doctor had claimed – and the man was tattooed from head to toe. Even his penis was tattooed. It looked like it was meant to be a dragon when… erect." She feels her face heat (honestly, why tell him that one?) and she picks up her glass to cover the urge to giggle.
"I don't even want to know how much that would hurt." Greg winces and shakes his head. "A dragon, really?"
"Well, I didn't examine it all that closely, to be honest. I mean, I would have liked to, because how often in life do you get to see something like that in person? But there are guidelines about respecting the dignity of the body and all, so I didn't... well."
"Stretch it out to get the full effect?"
"God, no!"
Greg laughs, and the sound of it makes her heart beat a little faster.
"Okay, your turn, what sorts of mad cases have you worked on lately?"
"Nothing that interesting. Nothing I can talk about, anyway. At least not here." He shrugs apologetically. "How did you get into that line of work in the first place?"
She tells him the story, and he listens, seeming genuinely interested. When their glasses are empty, she ignores his protests and goes to buy the next round. She lets her hips swing more than she usually would as she walks to the bar, just in case he's watching.
(God, what is she thinking? He's a friend, a recently divorced friend at that, and this is definitely not a date. Just because he's handsome, sexy, charming, smart, nice, and actually seems interested in getting to know her doesn't mean he's interested in anything more.) (Does it?)
She pays for the pints and returns to the table to see him looking at his phone. (Already bored, and probably looking for an excuse to end the night early.) The after-work crowd is starting to thin out anyway, everyone heading home or to dinner or to wherever people go. She sighs and sets the drinks on the table.
"You've probably got something going on later—" he begins, not quite meeting her eyes, and she cringes a little, "—but if you're not busy, do you want to go somewhere to get a bite to eat?"
She blinks, surprised. "Oh. Um, yes, I would. That would be. Yes."
He scans his phone again. "There's a Thai place nearby that I haven't tried. Madame Mam's – is it any good?"
"Yes, though I've only done take-away before."
"Great." He pockets his phone and picks up his glass. She isn't sure if it's the light or the alcohol, or just her imagination, but his cheeks look a bit rosier than they did a moment ago.
*****
They linger over dinner and glasses of plum wine, and it's nearly 11:00 when they stroll back towards her flat. The wind has died down, and the air has a crispness to it that makes it feel almost Christmasey.
"This is me," she says, gesturing towards the door of her building. She turns to look at him. The harsh streetlight sharpens his features and makes him look strangely younger. "Thanks, Greg. I had a lovely time."
"Yes. We should do it again."
"Yes, whenever you like. Just… text me or whatever. I'm free weekends. And weeknights, really, though you might not be, so weekends are fine or. Yeah." (Oh God, shut up.)
"Definitely, yeah." He stares at her, and for a moment she thinks he might kiss her. "Good night then."
"Good night." She waits a moment more, and then leans in to kiss him on the cheek. A quick, friendly kiss. (Because they're friends. Just friends.) She smiles and waves and unlocks the door.
She closes it behind her and leans against it, eyes closed tightly. If he were interested, he would have kissed her then. They'd had a fantastic night, and far too much to drink, and he could have kissed her and she would have kissed him back and invited him up and they would have snogged against this door and then made their way upstairs, and she would have pushed him down onto the couch and unfastened those trousers and sucked him off before he'd even known what hit him, and then she would have straddled his face and he would have licked her until she came twice, and then—
She presses her thighs together and whimpers. Bath. She's going to draw herself a nice hot bath, and she'll get her favorite waterproof vibrator, and enjoy a lovely fantasy about Greg Lestrade, and then sleep for nine hours, and try very hard to forget about all of it in the morning.
*****
She thinks about texting him all day Saturday.
Really enjoyed dinner last night. Thanks!
If you're free tonight, there's also a great Chinese place around the corner.
I usually go to that café on the corner on Sunday mornings, if you want to meet there sometime.
Want to get an after-work drink on Monday night? I've got four post-mortems scheduled and I'll likely need one.
If you're looking for a booty call, I'm available.
She grins and makes herself another cup of tea, and never even takes her phone off the charger.
*****
When she wakes up on Sunday morning, there is a text message waiting on her phone: Brunch?
She stares at it for a full second before flopping back onto her bed with a huge grin.
*****
Brunch is at a restaurant a taxi ride away, to her surprise. It's a place he's clearly frequented in the past, since the staff seem to know him, and they both eat too much and laugh a lot and talk about their school days and how horrible they were. They share a taxi back and then part ways with nothing more than a friendly hug.
It continues this way for the next two weeks, and Molly isn't sure what to make of it. Every few days he texts to invite her for a drink or a meal, and they have a lovely time, and that's… it. He doesn't try to kiss her or make any other sort of affectionate gesture beyond what might happen between friends. She's enjoying his company, of course, but she has no idea what he's thinking.
And she's afraid to ask, of course – if this is all he really wants, what would happen if she asked for more? He'd realize his mistake and back off; he wouldn't want to lead her on. And this, whatever it is, is something she's enjoying far too much to lose.
Her girlfriends have noticed that she's suddenly unavailable for coffee and book club meetings, and they question her about her new boyfriend.
"He's just a friend, Liz," she tells one of them over the phone.
"A hot friend you go out to dinner with three times a week? That's called dating, Mols."
"You and I have done exactly the same thing, and we never considered ourselves as dating."
Liz laughs. "I never knew you thought I was hot."
Molly rolls her eyes. "He's never even tried to kiss me. I don't think he's interested in me as more than a friend."
"Have you tried to kiss him?"
It's a rhetorical question, she knows.
*****
"Really, you've never tried the coffee here?" Molly opens the door of the small café, and there is a brief moment of confusion about who ought to walk through first before she realizes Greg is trying to hold the door for her.
"I've walked past half a dozen times, but I haven't had a chance to stop." He follows her through and nods as he looks around, apparently finding the place as welcoming and cozy as she does. The large shiny coffee machine at the counter is belching steam, and three baristas are working furiously behind it, calling out orders and laughing as they work. Half a dozen small wooden tables line the art-adorned walls, and the queue is ten people long.
They finally reach the front, and the young man behind the counter smiles at them in greeting.
"Molly, my love! How are you? Soy latte with cinnamon?" He casts a glance at Greg and raises his eyebrows in question.
"That's my usual," she tells Greg. "Tad, this is my friend Greg. He's new in the neighborhood."
Tad gives Greg a very thorough onceover before turning on his most flirtatious smile. "Greg, very nice to meet you. What's your poison?"
"Ah, thanks. How about a macchiato with an extra shot?"
Tad scribbles on the side of a take-away cup. "That extra shot is on me." He looks up and winks at Greg. "Unless you'd rather have it in the cup?"
Greg laughs in response, and Molly stops, watches the two of them for a moment. The thought hasn't occurred to her before now; it seems quite unlikely still, but perhaps there is another reason Greg hasn't shown anything other than friendly interest in her.
They pay for their coffees and manage to snag a table by the window while waiting for their drinks.
"This is fantastic," Greg says, looking around, but Molly only nods in response, lost in thought. It could be a reason behind the break-up of his marriage, couldn't it? She wonders why she didn't think of it before.
Their order is called out and Greg retrieves their coffees, and she bites her lip, thinking. If that's really what's going on, best to find out now. Then she'll know that he's just going to be a friend, and she can put it out of her mind. They can continue as they are now, and she'll be disappointed, of course, but she'll get over it and it will be fine.
"You all right?" He sits and hands her a paper cup with "Molly" written on the side.
"Yes, of course. I'm fine. Why shouldn't I be fine?" She takes a sip and winces; too hot.
He gives her an appraising look in return. He knows her too well now, and he can see when something is bothering her. She puts the cup down on the table and interlaces her fingers around it. It's warm, and her hands are still chilled from the walk here.
"Tad likes you, I think."
Greg smirks. "I get the feeling he likes everyone. Good for business, isn't it?"
She nods pointedly at his coffee cup. "He gave you his number."
Greg picks up the cup and turns it to see the string of numbers Tad scribbled on the side. He glances over to the counter, where Tad gives him a lascivious wink.
"So he did. Well, that's rather flattering."
Molly raises her eyebrows. "Is it?"
"Considering that I'm old enough to be his father, yes."
"You should ring him up sometime." She manages to keep her eyes focused on his, though it's difficult.
He grins, and then seems to realize that she isn't joking. He takes a sip of coffee. "He's not exactly my type."
"Too young?"
"Too male." He stares at her for a moment before looking away again.
"Ah, right." She feels her face heat, and she raises her cup to try to hide her embarrassment. Should she say something? She probably should. "I didn't mean – I mean, I try not to assume anything, you know? I thought you might… Well, no. Never mind." (She should have said nothing.)
"No, it's fine. It's nothing to be offended about, is it?"
"It's not." She looks up again to see him watching her, his expression cautious. She forces a smile. (Think of something, anything.) "So have you heard from John lately?"
He looks surprised at the change of subject, but apparently decides to roll with it. "No. I should text him, though. I could invite him to have drinks with us next Friday."
"Yeah, that'd be lovely." She only barely manages to keep a note of disappointment from her voice – the thought of having to share Greg with anyone else, even for one evening, is unexpectedly unappealing.
*****
She hates going in to work this early, but she's got a post-mortem that was supposed to be finished yesterday and too many meetings scheduled in the afternoon to get anything else done. Breakfast is from the Tesco by the Tube stop, and she finds herself staring at a selection of pastries when she hears a familiar voice behind her.
"Molly?"
She turns to see John Watson standing behind her. He looks thinner than she remembers, and older too, but he's smiling. She gives him a hug and a kiss on impulse, and he grins at her.
"John, it's been ages. How are you?"
"I'm fine, I am. Just got off my night shift, so I'm knackered. How are you?"
"I'm good. I'm great."
"Keeping busy?"
"Yes, as always."
His smile turns a bit sly. "And how is Greg?"
She hesitates a moment. "Oh, he's fine, I think. I mean, I haven't seen him for a few days, but—"
"Oh," John says, and his expression shifts to one of embarrassment. "Are you… It's none of my business, I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry."
"No, it's fine. He's fine, I think. He's been busy this week with that double homicide in Soho. Did you hear about it?"
"Yeah, saw something about it on the news." He stops then and is quiet for a moment, and she knows they're both thinking the same thing, that it's the sort of case Sherlock would have loved.
She swallows and looks away. "So anyway, we haven't had a chance to get together."
"Right, sure. I haven't seen him in a while. I don't exactly get over to the Yard much these days." His smile is tight and his eyes are a bit distant, and she finds she doesn't know what to say.
She wants to say, He's not dead and I'm so sorry that you, of all people don't know that. I'm sorry that he chose me for this and not you and I don't know why, but I did it for him and for you and I hope you don't hate me when you find out that I've known all this time. Please don't hate me, John, and don't hate him either, because he loves you more than you know, more than he could ever tell you.
Instead, she reaches out for his hand and squeezes it.
They make a bit more small talk, and he buys a croissant and leaves, and she chooses a pastry, something far too sweet and starchy, and walks the rest of the way to Bart's. She unlocks the lab and sits at a table with her pastry and a hastily-made cup of tea, and checks her email on her phone.
Her phone pings while she's checking her bank balance: it's a text from Greg, apologizing for not being able to meet her for dinner last night after all, and promising to make it up to her as soon as the case is closed. She smiles and taps out a reply, telling him that she expects something better than local takeaway after five days without his company.
She presses send and sets her phone down and takes a sip of tea, and then freezes. What is she doing? She's thinking of him as a boyfriend. They go out several times a week and text each other constantly, as if they were in a relationship. But they're not. Are they?
Even John thought they were dating; he said as much. He could only have got that idea from Greg, but Greg doesn't think they're dating – does he?
She presses one hand against her forehead and groans in frustration. It's been fun and she's enjoyed this time with him, but if they're only going to be friends, she needs to know, even if it means this strange thing between them will end. She needs to find out one way or another before she makes herself crazy.
*****
She waits until the weekend, until the case is over and she doesn't feel like she's bothering him. She hesitates with her finger over the call button for nearly a minute before she finally presses it. Three rings, and then he answers.
"Molly, hi." He sounds surprised. Of course, this is the first time she's actually called him (she usually texts), so he probably thinks something is wrong.
"I was calling to ask if you're doing anything this evening? You probably are, Saturday and all, but if you're not there's a film I've been wanting to see and I thought maybe we could go see it. Together."
"Oh, right, yeah. What film?"
"It's that documentary about the photographer whose took all the films of melting glaciers. I think it won an Oscar, or got nominated, or something." She cringes – maybe he wouldn't like this sort of thing at all. She should have picked something with guns and shooting and super-villains and spies. That's probably the sort of film he'd like. "Or not, you know, if you—"
"No, it sounds great. Want to get something to eat first?"
They set a time and she ends the call. She sinks into her sofa, simultaneously relieved and terrified at the thought of what might happen next.
*****
They meet outside her flat, as usual. He looks nice and smells even better when she hugs him – just out of the shower, and he's shaved as well; his cheek is smooth under her lips. There is a tingle in her belly at the thought that he might have done that for her. They take the Tube to Leicester Square and find a Chinese restaurant for dinner, a busy spot with large tables full of families eating and talking and laughing. They're almost the only couple in the place. (Not that they're a couple. Not really.) They talk about their crazy weeks at work over shared lo mein, and Molly tries to bring up the subject of them three different times, but each time loses her nerve. (Later, after the film. Don't ruin it all now.)
The cinema is an art house a few streets away, the sort with small screens and cozy rooms. Their own theatre is nearly full and they have to squeeze into a back corner to find seats together. The chairs are small and their thighs and shoulders are pressed together, and Molly finds herself having trouble focusing on the film. She wants to reach over and touch him, to take his hand, intertwine their fingers, anything to have a bit more contact, to tell him without words what she wants so very badly. She steals glances at him to see his eyes fixed firmly on the screen, riveted. She does nothing to upset the balance. She sits, and aches for him, and Jesus, when did this happen? How has she fallen so hard for someone she hasn't even kissed, who may only think of her as a friend?
They sit through the end of the credits, and talk about the film on the Tube and during the walk back to her flat. She listens to his words, to the way his emotions were roused by the film and the powerful images in it, and nods her head, but she doesn't say much herself. Instead she watches him, sees the way his hands slice through the air to emphasize a point, the way his lips press together when he's trying to find the right word.
He stops, and it's a moment before she realizes they're standing in front of her door. He turns to look at her, and she can only stare at him for a moment. He's passionate about things, cares very deeply about people and the world and the future. He's smart, and dedicated, and open and nice and clearly has so much to give.
And he's afraid, she realizes. She can see it so clearly now: he's been hurt, profoundly so, by a bad marriage and a painful divorce, and he doesn't see himself the way she sees him. He isn't sure that she would want him like that, and so he hasn't pushed the issue. But it's completely clear now from the way he's looking at her, from the mix of fear and desire in his eyes, from the way his shoulders are tense and his hands are clenched, as if he wants to reach out for her, but he's afraid of what might happen if he does.
He wants her too, and she's just never seen it until this moment.
She doesn't say a word; she simply launches herself at him, presses her mouth against his and throws her arms around his neck. He is clearly surprised, but he doesn't hesitate; he pulls her tightly against him and kisses her back. It's nothing like a first kiss at all: it's raw and wet and hard, and there is nothing awkward or tentative about it. His tongue is hot and slick against her own, and she can't get close enough, can't hold him as tightly as she wants, can't quite feel the heat of his body through these layers of clothes and coats and time, God – they wasted so much fucking time!
She breaks the kiss and takes a step backwards, and looks up at his face. His emotions are raw there, his expression full of want and relief and a touch of confusion about what to do next. She has no such difficulty, though: she takes him by the hand and pulls him to the door. She fumbles in her purse for her keys with one hand, afraid he might bolt if she lets go, and finally manages to unlock the door. She takes him up the stairs and to the door of her flat, where there is yet another excruciating scramble to unlock the goddamn door before she can finally push him back against it and kiss him again.
His hands are glorious, first in her hair and then trailing down her neck, over her shoulder and down her back until they reach the swell of her arse. He pulls her against him and she can feel how hard he is through his trousers, how much he wants this. Wants her.
"We're idiots, aren't we?" she whispers against his lips, and he nods, turns her head so that he can kiss under her jaw, down her neck, suck on the point where her shoulder begins. Her hands work their way between them, pull his shirttails out and slide up his chest, fingertips sliding through the soft hair there, then down again to press the flat of her palm against his erection.
He hisses, and she strokes once more before unfastening the button and working his trousers down enough to free his cock. All her fantasies of the last few weeks flood her mind now, all the things she dreamed she would do if she ever had him here, like this. She feels a bit like a child in a sweet shop – what to do first?
She sinks to her knees.
"Oh, fuck," he says, and she looks up at him, holds his eyes while she licks once up the underside of his cock. He grasps the doorframe with one hand, as if desperate for something to cling to, and his other hand tangles into her hair, not pushing, just holding. "You don't have to—"
But she's already taken the head into her mouth, is already swirling her tongue around the delicate skin there, and his words morph into a moan. It's been a while since she's done this, but it's a bit like riding a bicycle, she thinks: suck, lick, stroke with one hand, pay attention to the frenulum and the slit, take it in a little further each time, watch the teeth, feel the way the glans fits perfectly against the roof of her mouth, where she can massage the sensitive underside with her tongue.
"Oh, God, stop," he says, and pushes gently on her forehead. "I don't want to come yet."
She sits back on her heels and looks up at him. She must look a mess now, with her hair tangled and her lipstick smeared and her mouth wet, but he's staring down at her like she's some sort of revelation. "When do you want to come?" she asks, surprised at her own boldness.
He pulls her to her feet and kisses her again, hard, and she feels like melting against him. "Ask me again in a few hours," he says, and kisses her so thoroughly that she's sure her feet aren't touching the ground anymore. Her head is swimming and her cunt aches and she just, God, she wants.
She finally recovers enough presence of mind to lead him to the bedroom, where they shed their coats and tumble onto the bed still fully clothed. His hand is inside her shirt, caressing her breast through her bra, and it's too gentle, not what she wants at all.
She pushes him up and pulls her shirt over her head, tugs off her bra, and wriggles out of her jeans. He stops her before she can take off her knickers, though, and she lies back and props herself up on her elbows, letting him look. She's not particularly confident about her body, but she's never been overly concerned with it either. He's looking at her now like she's a feast, and that's just fine with her. He unbuttons his shirt and tugs it off, then stands enough to step out of his trousers and pants. His cock juts out before him and she can't help but stare at it. That's going to be hers now. All hers. She bites her lip at the thought.
He sits and grins at her still-besocked feet, and she grins back, and then he crawls over her. Her hands go to his cock, but he pushes them away with a shake of his head and then positions her arms up over her head.
He kisses her then, slowly, gently, sucking lightly on the tip of her tongue before moving to her neck, and her shoulders, and then up the ticklish underside of her arm. She laughs and pushes him away, and he trails his lips around one of her breasts instead, slowly circling inwards to the nipple. When he finally flicks the tip of his tongue across it, she gasps, and he continues, his tongue maddeningly light until he finally takes the nipple into his mouth and sucks.
She feels her clit throb, and her eyes open in surprise. She's never thought of her breasts as particularly sensitive, but this, this -- it's something entirely unexpected. He repeats it on her other breast, and by the time he finally releases that nipple and kisses his way down to her navel, she's nearly shaking with need.
He pushes her thighs apart and settles between them, and trails his fingers down the damp fabric of her knickers. "Do you always get this wet?" he asks, and tugs the fabric aside. She feels the air hit wet skin and realizes it's him, it's his breath – he's that close.
She whimpers and pushes her hips up, unable even to form words at the moment. He seems to take pity on her and pushes her knees together enough to tug the knickers off. He leaves them dangling from one foot before he presses her thighs apart again. She can feel hot breath against her skin, and God, it almost hurts now; she's sure she can't take another minute of this torture.
He touches just the tip of his tongue to her then, traces up the length of her labia and down again, then back up to flick feather-light against her clitoris. She's clenching the duvet above her head with her fists, her mouth open and her eyes squeezed shut, and it's incredible. He works her open slowly, and she loses track of time completely. It seems like he's been in her bed for years, gently sucking on her clitoris until she's on the edge of coming, pulling back to slide his tongue into her vagina, curling the tip and wriggling it against the walls. He sucks the inner labia harder, tugs at them with his teeth, and covers her entire cunt with his mouth, engulfing her in wet warmth, and sucks her like she sucked him against the door, rhythmic and wet and sloppy and hard.
She's barely coherent by the time he presses two fingers into her and fucks her slowly, and flicks his tongue against her clitoris faster and faster until she finally comes, so hard that she cries out and arches her hips up against him. She sees stars afterward, and her fingers and toes are numb, and she lies there, limp, dazed.
"Oh my God," is all she manages to say.
"Can I?' he asks, and she says "Yes," and then, "Wait, do you have—" and he says, "Yeah," and she looks down to see him rolling on a condom. She grins at the thought that he'd had one in his pocket, just in case. Just like the box she bought that's now in the drawer of her bedside table.
She wraps her legs around him when he pushes into her. She's still shockingly sensitive, and it feels glorious, and she angles her hips as best she can, and there, there – he understands when she clenches his biceps and he rocks against her until she comes again, this time biting hard into his shoulder.
"Sorry, sorry," she says, kissing the spot as gently as she can.
"It's all right, it's fine. Are you--?"
"Yes, go." She buries her fingers in his hair and turns his head and whispers against his ear, "Fuck me."
He does, and it's rough and fast, and she loves it, loves the idea that he's been holding back all this time. She presses her hands back against the headboard for leverage and tries to meet him thrust for thrust. It doesn't take long – he pushes in one last time and stays there as he cries out and collapses against her with a stream of swear words.
He tucks his face into her neck and breathes like he's trying to inhale her skin, and she wraps her arms and legs around him, holding him there. She wants him inside her like this, connected, for as long as possible, but after a minute his cock softens inside her and starts to slip out, and they both laugh at the strange sensation of it.
He kisses her again, slow and soft. She can smell herself all over his face, and it's incredibly erotic. He rolls off to the side and props up his head on one elbow, and smiles down at her.
"Wow," she says, unable to stop herself from grinning.
"Wow is good."
"Wow is amazing, actually."
He grins. "We could have done this weeks ago."
"I know. We're idiots."
"To be honest, I wasn't sure you were interested."
She raises a hand to his face, strokes her thumb over his lower lip. "I thought the same. I kept waiting for you to kiss me."
"I'm glad you got tired of waiting." He kisses the pad of her thumb and covers her hand with his own, presses the palm against his lips.
"So… why didn't you?"
He sits up, tugs off the condom, and ties it off before wrapping it carefully in a tissue from the box on her bedside table. He stretches out on the bed beside her, and she slides in closer, snuggling under his arm with her head pillowed on his shoulder.
"I don't know. I wasn't sure."
She nods, even though she's not certain she understands. "Sure of what?"
He is silent for a long moment. "I was married for almost twenty years to a woman who wanted everyone but me for the last ten of it." He sighs and wraps a lock of her hair around one finger. "I spent almost half of my life with her, and now here I am, starting over. I have no idea how to do this dating thing anymore, you know? I never thought I'd have to do it again. But it was so easy with you, and I didn't want to fuck it up by making a pass at you. I suppose I didn't think someone like you would be interested in me."
"Someone like me? What does that mean?"
"I'm twenty years older than you, for one thing. And you're beautiful and smart and funny and—" He glances pointedly down at her naked body. "—hot and you have your whole life ahead of you. Why would you want to get tangled up with someone like me?"
She resists the urge to laugh, because she knows he's serious about this. "Because you're amazing. You're kind and thoughtful and smart and—" She mimics his earlier ogle. "—hot and passionate about your work and the people in your life and the things you care about." She lets her eyes slide down his body again. "And you've got a really big cock, though I didn't know that until tonight."
He laughs and kisses her, and pulls her on top of him. She plants her knees on either side of his hips and presses her still-wet vulva against his penis, and wriggles a bit.
"Okay, yeah, I think I might be able to do that again," he says, with a note of surprise in his voice. "If you keep doing that, anyway."
She sits up and his hands come up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. "Or I could finish what I started earlier." She swings one leg over and leans down to plant a kiss against the foreskin.
"Come here," he says, and she settles against his side again. He kisses her forehead and sighs. "Give me an hour and then you can suck it as long as you want."
She giggles at that. "Okay."
He presses one hand over his face and laughs. "I haven't said anything like that in a long time."
They're quiet for a moment, and just as she thinks he's gone to sleep, he says, "So what about you? Why didn't you kiss me?"
"I did tonight."
"I mean before."
"I guess I thought the same as you. I haven't had much luck with relationships lately. I haven't had a proper boyfriend since I finished my graduate work. I've gone on lots of dates and I've had quite a bit of meaningless sex. But nothing ever… stuck."
"So what do you want?" The question is tentative, loaded.
She inhales, considers. She still doesn't know how he feels about this. He's just divorced, after all. Maybe he's looking for a fling, someone to make him forget and feel like a desirable man again before he moves on to a more serious relationship. She's not sure she could handle being the rebound romance. Best to find out now.
"I want a really good friend, someone I can do things with, who'll listen to me talk about work and won't get squeamish about the details. I want to have lots of amazing sex, as often as possible, with someone who isn't too busy getting himself off to make it good for me."
"This is all sounding good so far."
She smiles up at the ceiling. "I want someone I could fall in love with, who might fall in love with me back. Someone who'd like going out to fancy restaurants every now and then, but who'd also be happy eating frozen lasagna and drinking cheap tetra-brick wine on a Saturday night."
"Is the lasagna before or after the sex?"
"Both, actually." She grins and nips at his shoulder. "Someone who isn't allergic to cats—" She pauses to look up at him and he shakes his head. "—and who will hold my hand when we walk down the street, and at the cinema, and even just when we're sitting on the sofa on a Sunday morning. Someone who likes to try new things and dreams about traveling, and who makes a good cup of tea and likes to go out for coffee." She pauses and takes a deep breath. "Someone who plans on being in my life for as long as we're happy together, and not just until someone better comes along."
She can see his throat move as he swallows. "That's quite a long list."
"Oh, and he has to have a tremendous cock."
His expression changes completely at that, and he bursts out laughing. He buries his face in her pillow and she finally resorts to tickling him to get him to look up at her again. His face is flaming, to her surprise.
She props her head up on her hand and smiles at him. "So that's the job description, then. Now taking applicants for the position of boyfriend."
He leans in to kiss her breast. "I think I submitted my application earlier, but if you'd like me to come in for another interview…"
"I'm fairly certain you're ranked number one for the position, but if you've other skills on your C.V., I'm ready for another demonstration."
He kisses her again, and she smiles against his lips.
Molly and Greg. She likes the sound of that. And after a ridiculously long string of first dates, apparently, so does he.
*****
~ fin ~
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom/Pairing: BBC Sherlock, Greg Lestrade/Molly Hooper
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Molly and Greg are not dating. Or are they?
Length: 8800 words
Genre: Romance, het
Warnings: none
Note: Written as a very late birthday gift for
drinkingcocoa, my wonderful beta and friend. I hope you know how much I adore you! Partly inspired by the Fucking Sherlock roundtable in episode 9 of the Three Patch Podcast.Links: LJ | AO3
*****
The first time she sees Greg Lestrade again is in the cafe near her flat on a Saturday morning. She's waiting at the counter to pay for her bacon-egg-n-cheese croissant and latte when she spots him sitting at a table, tapping at the screen of his phone with the thumb of one hand while raising a cup of coffee to his lips with the other.
She's momentarily paralyzed by indecision: should she say hello? Would he even recognize her? They haven't interacted much, and not at all since everything happened. He was nice, she remembers. He used to flirt with her now and then, which she always liked. Well, it seemed like flirting, but it probably wasn't – he's probably just nice that way and she read far too much into it. (Not that it matters anyway because he's married.) But his smile was infectious and his eyes sparkled when he talked to her, and he always had a way of making the people he was with feel important, as though what they had to say actually mattered to him.
He still hasn't looked up. Someone behind her clears a throat and she realizes the queue has moved forward several steps. She flushes and murmurs an apology, and steps forward.
He's probably busy, she thinks as she hands a tenner to the cashier. Working, even. It's not as if NSY closes up shop on the weekends – no crimes until Monday morning, please and thank you! She grins and the cashier gives her an odd look. She steps aside to wait for her latte to be made and her sandwich warmed, and chews on a fingernail. Maybe he'll look up, notice her first. He'd definitely say something, wouldn't he? Maybe he doesn't remember her. She's dressed in Saturday clothes, worn jeans and a faded jumper, and the last few times he saw her she was either dressed up or at work.
"Twenty-two!" the woman behind the counter calls in slightly-accented English, and Molly turns to get her breakfast. She hesitates a moment more before deciding not to bother him (he looks busy), but instead to sit at a small table on the opposite side of the café from him. Not too close to the door (too obvious), but near enough the exit that she might catch his eye on the way out (probably not).
She takes a bite of her sandwich. Not that any of it matters: he's someone she's met a few times, someone who was very nice to her. She should just get up and say hello, get it over with. He'd probably look at her with blank eyes and say, "Oh, hi," in that way people always do when they've no clue who you are. He'd make small talk until it was excruciatingly obvious that he didn't remember her and then she'd pretend she had somewhere to go, or maybe he would, just to get out of the situation, and that would be that. They'd probably never see each other again anyway, what with Sherlock "dead" and her not having any reason to work with NSY, who have their own forensics people after all, and—
"Molly?"
She looks up to see him standing next to her table, smiling, and she nearly forgets to swallow the bite of sandwich before replying. "Oh, hi! It's… it's Greg, right? God, it's been ages."
"Yeah, it has." He gestures vaguely with the coffee cup. "I moved into a flat down the street a few weeks ago, but I haven't explored the neighborhood much yet. Thought I'd try this place today."
He glances at the empty chair across from her and she nearly upends her coffee in her enthusiasm to point at it: yes, please, do sit, oh-my-god. She'd been prepared for nearly anything but actual conversation, and her mind races now, searching for a topic that would be interesting enough to justify his coming over here. She takes another bite of sandwich instead. (It buys time.)
He sits. "So, how have you been?"
She swallows her bite of sandwich and washes it down with a swallow of coffee. "Very well, thanks. You?" (God, that was pathetic.)
His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I've been better, to be honest. Trying to make a new start."
She raises her cup to her lips again, and pauses halfway when she understands. Her eyes flick to his left hand and back up again. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was my decision to end it. And it was long overdue, to be honest." He looks away and takes a sip from his cup.
Her eyes follow the line of his throat as he swallows. "It must have been difficult."
He shrugs. "Making the decision was the hard part. Once I'd decided, the rest was easy enough. Well, until the solicitors got involved, anyway."
"I can imagine. Well, no, actually I can't, because I've never been married, and even my parents are still together, so I've no idea what that entails, not really." (Babbling.) She takes a drink of coffee to shut herself up.
"Me either, until now." He sighs, apparently not finding any of this awkward at all, damn him. "I'm glad I already know one of my neighbors, though."
"Who?" she asks, and then gets his meaning, and blushes. "Right, well… welcome, I suppose. It's not a terribly friendly neighborhood, to be honest. Well, except for the pensioners, they're all rather nice. Where is your flat?" (Probably too personal, shouldn't have asked.)
"Round the corner, back down Ellen Street, number 135F. I should have you over for a drink sometime."
Molly's cheeks flush before she can think of a response, and she sees his eyes widen.
"Oh, well, a friendly drink, of course. I didn't mean—"
"No, it's fine, I didn't – I just – a drink would be lovely, yes."
"I was thinking of organizing a get-together, you know, invite some folks over. John, for example. I'm not sure how much he gets out these days."
A screw twists inside her, intensifying guilt that had finally started to fade. "Yes, of course. Right." She realizes she isn't smiling at all. She should smile at this, shouldn't she? She tries, and is certain it comes across as utterly false and dopey.
Greg's smile has faded slightly, to her dismay. "Well, it was lovely to see you. I'll let you know about drinks; maybe next weekend?"
"Right, of course." She nods (far too enthusiastically).
He pushes his chair back and stands, and holds out a hand. She takes it, and his handshake is just as warm and firm as she remembers.
"See you, Molly."
"See you," she says to his back as he walks away.
Drinks next weekend, then. That could be nice. But of course, he probably only said it to be polite. People did that sort of thing, not exactly lying, but saying let's do that and then not following through. They would forget, but she never would and would then be too embarrassed to say anything lest she look desperate. He's probably not like that, though. He seems the type who would follow through.
Of course, he doesn't have her number. She sighs and sets her latte aside.
*****
The second time she sees him is a few days later at the local Sainsbury Express. He's staring intently at a selection of frozen meals, empty basket dangling from one hand.
She takes a deep breath, releases it, and crosses to stand next to him. "If you're looking for a recommendation, the store's brand of lasagna is nice. You can get the big one and eat it for days."
He turns and smiles at her. "So you're an expert?"
"At cooking for one, yes." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugs. "Not that this is cooking. I mean, I can cook, of course, but lasagna is easier when someone else makes it for you. Cheaper too, to be honest." (Shut up.)
"If it doesn't come ready-to-eat, it's cooking in my book." He pulls a package of frozen lasagna from the shelf and drops it into his basket. "Can you recommend a tetra-brick of red wine to go with that?"
She nods. "Italian or French?"
He holds up the lasagna and inspects the label. "Which goes better with horse meat?"
She slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh, and he grins at her.
"You're right, it doesn't matter. I'll choose the wine by price then, shall I?"
They finish their shopping together, and he gives her an amiable kiss on the cheek before he leaves.
Three steps away, he stops and turns back. "Still interested in that drinks thing this weekend?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"I'll talk to John and let you know." He waves and is off once again.
He still doesn't have her number, but she has a feeling the drinks thing is on anyway.
*****
She gets the text message at work two days later.
Elephant Head, Friday, 6:00?
She stands and stares at it for a moment. It can only be from him. Well, it could be a text sent to her by mistake, she supposes. (It happens ridiculously often.) Or it might be from someone else, but that someone always signs his texts, and besides, he's nowhere near London as far as she knows. Not that he'd need to see her anyway. Unless he needed another corpse. Which, considering, is not unlikely.
She types out a response of Yes, see you then and saves the number to her contacts. He must have asked John for her number. That or he already had it, somehow. Perhaps NSY can just look anyone up? Or perhaps there is a secret file tucked away in a cabinet deep underground, full of information about one Dr. Molly Jane Hooper and all of the potential havoc she could wreak on the British people should she so choose. She snorts at the thought.
Though considering what she's involved herself in over the last few years, there probably is such a file, highly classified.
*****
She arrives at the pub a few minutes early, and stands outside for a moment, shifting from one foot to another in the chilly November air. She doesn't want to be early (too eager) or very late (uninterested), but even worse would be to be seen standing out here waffling like a lunatic. She decides to walk down to the shop on the corner and buy a packet of mints.
She examines her reflection in the mirror behind the cashier, and has a moment of doubt. She changed clothes three times (too fancy would look out of place, as would too casual) and spent twenty minutes carefully applying makeup before wiping it all off (didn't want to look like she was trying to impress) and then putting half of it back on again (Friday night, after all, and she was trying to impress, to be honest), and God, it wasn't like this was a date or anything. It was just drinks with friends, and that was all. Drinks with friends, one of whom she's repeatedly lied to about the whereabouts of his significant other (and hasn't been able to face since), and the other of whom is a very sexy recently divorced man she has a very large crush on. Why is she doing this again?
She takes her change from the cashier, who admonishes her to smile. She does, and then kicks herself on the way out the door. She hates it when men do that, and that she responds so automatically. Her feet are already starting to hurt in these stupid heels she decided to wear, and a bitter wind tears down the street and blows her hair all over her face. She picks strands out of her lipstick and sighs.
She could just go home. She could text Greg that something came up at work and she can't make it, and then she could go home and curl up on the sofa with Toby and heat up some frozen lasagna and have a glass of cheap wine and watch a sappy movie.
Or, she could go have drinks with friends. Right now.
She opens the door of the pub with a bit more force than she intended and a cold wind whips in, causing everyone in the vicinity of the door to turn and glare at her. She mutters, "Sorry," and closes the door behind her, and has a look around. She finally spots Greg sitting alone at a table in the corner, staring down at his phone as people laugh and talk and drink all around him. Everyone seems to be there with a group of friends, blowing off steam after a long work week, and there he is sitting in the midst of the storm of revelry – alone.
He glances up and sees her then, and his face splits into a smile. She feels her pulse quicken, feels the jolt of attraction that runs through her, the warmth spreading to her toes. She smiles back before she can stop herself, and she's certain her cheeks are pink and she looks like a complete idiot, wind-blown and probably still overdressed, but there's nothing else for it. She crosses to the table, slides out of her coat and hangs it on a hook, and then leans in to kiss him on the cheek in greeting.
"Can I get you a drink?" He gestures to the bar.
"Yeah, cheers. A lager is fine."
She watches him cross to the bar, and lets her eyes linger on the breadth of his shoulders, the line of his shirt down his spine, the curve of his arse under his trousers. She bites her lip and then remembers the lipstick, and frantically scrubs at the bottom of her tooth with her tongue. (This is not why she's here.) (Though it is, admittedly, a side benefit.)
When he finally returns with two glasses of lager, she immediately takes a large drink from hers.
"Rough day?" He's only teasing, but it doesn't prevent her from blushing in response.
"Thirsty, I suppose. Is John running late?"
He sighs. "Not coming. He just texted me before you arrived."
"Is he all right?"
Greg shrugs. "Who knows? The last few times I've tried to get him to go out, he's canceled on me. Something always comes up at the last minute."
Molly takes another large drink.
"I don't know how he's getting along, otherwise. He took a position working A&E, did you know?"
She shakes her head. "I haven't seen him since the memorial service. He doesn't exactly pop round to the morgue on a regular basis anymore."
"I suppose not." They're both quiet for a moment. "I suppose it's just us, then."
"Just us," she says, and looks up at him. His eyes are striking, and she can't look away.
"We need to catch up, anyway. You first, tell me what you've been doing these last few months." He holds her gaze steadily, and doesn't seem to find the situation awkward at all.
"The same as before, really. There's not much to tell."
He leans forward with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "What, no tales from the morgue?"
She grins, almost laughs. "Well, I did an interesting post-mortem the other day – the family was sure the cause of death was drugs rather than a heart attack as the doctor had claimed – and the man was tattooed from head to toe. Even his penis was tattooed. It looked like it was meant to be a dragon when… erect." She feels her face heat (honestly, why tell him that one?) and she picks up her glass to cover the urge to giggle.
"I don't even want to know how much that would hurt." Greg winces and shakes his head. "A dragon, really?"
"Well, I didn't examine it all that closely, to be honest. I mean, I would have liked to, because how often in life do you get to see something like that in person? But there are guidelines about respecting the dignity of the body and all, so I didn't... well."
"Stretch it out to get the full effect?"
"God, no!"
Greg laughs, and the sound of it makes her heart beat a little faster.
"Okay, your turn, what sorts of mad cases have you worked on lately?"
"Nothing that interesting. Nothing I can talk about, anyway. At least not here." He shrugs apologetically. "How did you get into that line of work in the first place?"
She tells him the story, and he listens, seeming genuinely interested. When their glasses are empty, she ignores his protests and goes to buy the next round. She lets her hips swing more than she usually would as she walks to the bar, just in case he's watching.
(God, what is she thinking? He's a friend, a recently divorced friend at that, and this is definitely not a date. Just because he's handsome, sexy, charming, smart, nice, and actually seems interested in getting to know her doesn't mean he's interested in anything more.) (Does it?)
She pays for the pints and returns to the table to see him looking at his phone. (Already bored, and probably looking for an excuse to end the night early.) The after-work crowd is starting to thin out anyway, everyone heading home or to dinner or to wherever people go. She sighs and sets the drinks on the table.
"You've probably got something going on later—" he begins, not quite meeting her eyes, and she cringes a little, "—but if you're not busy, do you want to go somewhere to get a bite to eat?"
She blinks, surprised. "Oh. Um, yes, I would. That would be. Yes."
He scans his phone again. "There's a Thai place nearby that I haven't tried. Madame Mam's – is it any good?"
"Yes, though I've only done take-away before."
"Great." He pockets his phone and picks up his glass. She isn't sure if it's the light or the alcohol, or just her imagination, but his cheeks look a bit rosier than they did a moment ago.
*****
They linger over dinner and glasses of plum wine, and it's nearly 11:00 when they stroll back towards her flat. The wind has died down, and the air has a crispness to it that makes it feel almost Christmasey.
"This is me," she says, gesturing towards the door of her building. She turns to look at him. The harsh streetlight sharpens his features and makes him look strangely younger. "Thanks, Greg. I had a lovely time."
"Yes. We should do it again."
"Yes, whenever you like. Just… text me or whatever. I'm free weekends. And weeknights, really, though you might not be, so weekends are fine or. Yeah." (Oh God, shut up.)
"Definitely, yeah." He stares at her, and for a moment she thinks he might kiss her. "Good night then."
"Good night." She waits a moment more, and then leans in to kiss him on the cheek. A quick, friendly kiss. (Because they're friends. Just friends.) She smiles and waves and unlocks the door.
She closes it behind her and leans against it, eyes closed tightly. If he were interested, he would have kissed her then. They'd had a fantastic night, and far too much to drink, and he could have kissed her and she would have kissed him back and invited him up and they would have snogged against this door and then made their way upstairs, and she would have pushed him down onto the couch and unfastened those trousers and sucked him off before he'd even known what hit him, and then she would have straddled his face and he would have licked her until she came twice, and then—
She presses her thighs together and whimpers. Bath. She's going to draw herself a nice hot bath, and she'll get her favorite waterproof vibrator, and enjoy a lovely fantasy about Greg Lestrade, and then sleep for nine hours, and try very hard to forget about all of it in the morning.
*****
She thinks about texting him all day Saturday.
Really enjoyed dinner last night. Thanks!
If you're free tonight, there's also a great Chinese place around the corner.
I usually go to that café on the corner on Sunday mornings, if you want to meet there sometime.
Want to get an after-work drink on Monday night? I've got four post-mortems scheduled and I'll likely need one.
If you're looking for a booty call, I'm available.
She grins and makes herself another cup of tea, and never even takes her phone off the charger.
*****
When she wakes up on Sunday morning, there is a text message waiting on her phone: Brunch?
She stares at it for a full second before flopping back onto her bed with a huge grin.
*****
Brunch is at a restaurant a taxi ride away, to her surprise. It's a place he's clearly frequented in the past, since the staff seem to know him, and they both eat too much and laugh a lot and talk about their school days and how horrible they were. They share a taxi back and then part ways with nothing more than a friendly hug.
It continues this way for the next two weeks, and Molly isn't sure what to make of it. Every few days he texts to invite her for a drink or a meal, and they have a lovely time, and that's… it. He doesn't try to kiss her or make any other sort of affectionate gesture beyond what might happen between friends. She's enjoying his company, of course, but she has no idea what he's thinking.
And she's afraid to ask, of course – if this is all he really wants, what would happen if she asked for more? He'd realize his mistake and back off; he wouldn't want to lead her on. And this, whatever it is, is something she's enjoying far too much to lose.
Her girlfriends have noticed that she's suddenly unavailable for coffee and book club meetings, and they question her about her new boyfriend.
"He's just a friend, Liz," she tells one of them over the phone.
"A hot friend you go out to dinner with three times a week? That's called dating, Mols."
"You and I have done exactly the same thing, and we never considered ourselves as dating."
Liz laughs. "I never knew you thought I was hot."
Molly rolls her eyes. "He's never even tried to kiss me. I don't think he's interested in me as more than a friend."
"Have you tried to kiss him?"
It's a rhetorical question, she knows.
*****
"Really, you've never tried the coffee here?" Molly opens the door of the small café, and there is a brief moment of confusion about who ought to walk through first before she realizes Greg is trying to hold the door for her.
"I've walked past half a dozen times, but I haven't had a chance to stop." He follows her through and nods as he looks around, apparently finding the place as welcoming and cozy as she does. The large shiny coffee machine at the counter is belching steam, and three baristas are working furiously behind it, calling out orders and laughing as they work. Half a dozen small wooden tables line the art-adorned walls, and the queue is ten people long.
They finally reach the front, and the young man behind the counter smiles at them in greeting.
"Molly, my love! How are you? Soy latte with cinnamon?" He casts a glance at Greg and raises his eyebrows in question.
"That's my usual," she tells Greg. "Tad, this is my friend Greg. He's new in the neighborhood."
Tad gives Greg a very thorough onceover before turning on his most flirtatious smile. "Greg, very nice to meet you. What's your poison?"
"Ah, thanks. How about a macchiato with an extra shot?"
Tad scribbles on the side of a take-away cup. "That extra shot is on me." He looks up and winks at Greg. "Unless you'd rather have it in the cup?"
Greg laughs in response, and Molly stops, watches the two of them for a moment. The thought hasn't occurred to her before now; it seems quite unlikely still, but perhaps there is another reason Greg hasn't shown anything other than friendly interest in her.
They pay for their coffees and manage to snag a table by the window while waiting for their drinks.
"This is fantastic," Greg says, looking around, but Molly only nods in response, lost in thought. It could be a reason behind the break-up of his marriage, couldn't it? She wonders why she didn't think of it before.
Their order is called out and Greg retrieves their coffees, and she bites her lip, thinking. If that's really what's going on, best to find out now. Then she'll know that he's just going to be a friend, and she can put it out of her mind. They can continue as they are now, and she'll be disappointed, of course, but she'll get over it and it will be fine.
"You all right?" He sits and hands her a paper cup with "Molly" written on the side.
"Yes, of course. I'm fine. Why shouldn't I be fine?" She takes a sip and winces; too hot.
He gives her an appraising look in return. He knows her too well now, and he can see when something is bothering her. She puts the cup down on the table and interlaces her fingers around it. It's warm, and her hands are still chilled from the walk here.
"Tad likes you, I think."
Greg smirks. "I get the feeling he likes everyone. Good for business, isn't it?"
She nods pointedly at his coffee cup. "He gave you his number."
Greg picks up the cup and turns it to see the string of numbers Tad scribbled on the side. He glances over to the counter, where Tad gives him a lascivious wink.
"So he did. Well, that's rather flattering."
Molly raises her eyebrows. "Is it?"
"Considering that I'm old enough to be his father, yes."
"You should ring him up sometime." She manages to keep her eyes focused on his, though it's difficult.
He grins, and then seems to realize that she isn't joking. He takes a sip of coffee. "He's not exactly my type."
"Too young?"
"Too male." He stares at her for a moment before looking away again.
"Ah, right." She feels her face heat, and she raises her cup to try to hide her embarrassment. Should she say something? She probably should. "I didn't mean – I mean, I try not to assume anything, you know? I thought you might… Well, no. Never mind." (She should have said nothing.)
"No, it's fine. It's nothing to be offended about, is it?"
"It's not." She looks up again to see him watching her, his expression cautious. She forces a smile. (Think of something, anything.) "So have you heard from John lately?"
He looks surprised at the change of subject, but apparently decides to roll with it. "No. I should text him, though. I could invite him to have drinks with us next Friday."
"Yeah, that'd be lovely." She only barely manages to keep a note of disappointment from her voice – the thought of having to share Greg with anyone else, even for one evening, is unexpectedly unappealing.
*****
She hates going in to work this early, but she's got a post-mortem that was supposed to be finished yesterday and too many meetings scheduled in the afternoon to get anything else done. Breakfast is from the Tesco by the Tube stop, and she finds herself staring at a selection of pastries when she hears a familiar voice behind her.
"Molly?"
She turns to see John Watson standing behind her. He looks thinner than she remembers, and older too, but he's smiling. She gives him a hug and a kiss on impulse, and he grins at her.
"John, it's been ages. How are you?"
"I'm fine, I am. Just got off my night shift, so I'm knackered. How are you?"
"I'm good. I'm great."
"Keeping busy?"
"Yes, as always."
His smile turns a bit sly. "And how is Greg?"
She hesitates a moment. "Oh, he's fine, I think. I mean, I haven't seen him for a few days, but—"
"Oh," John says, and his expression shifts to one of embarrassment. "Are you… It's none of my business, I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry."
"No, it's fine. He's fine, I think. He's been busy this week with that double homicide in Soho. Did you hear about it?"
"Yeah, saw something about it on the news." He stops then and is quiet for a moment, and she knows they're both thinking the same thing, that it's the sort of case Sherlock would have loved.
She swallows and looks away. "So anyway, we haven't had a chance to get together."
"Right, sure. I haven't seen him in a while. I don't exactly get over to the Yard much these days." His smile is tight and his eyes are a bit distant, and she finds she doesn't know what to say.
She wants to say, He's not dead and I'm so sorry that you, of all people don't know that. I'm sorry that he chose me for this and not you and I don't know why, but I did it for him and for you and I hope you don't hate me when you find out that I've known all this time. Please don't hate me, John, and don't hate him either, because he loves you more than you know, more than he could ever tell you.
Instead, she reaches out for his hand and squeezes it.
They make a bit more small talk, and he buys a croissant and leaves, and she chooses a pastry, something far too sweet and starchy, and walks the rest of the way to Bart's. She unlocks the lab and sits at a table with her pastry and a hastily-made cup of tea, and checks her email on her phone.
Her phone pings while she's checking her bank balance: it's a text from Greg, apologizing for not being able to meet her for dinner last night after all, and promising to make it up to her as soon as the case is closed. She smiles and taps out a reply, telling him that she expects something better than local takeaway after five days without his company.
She presses send and sets her phone down and takes a sip of tea, and then freezes. What is she doing? She's thinking of him as a boyfriend. They go out several times a week and text each other constantly, as if they were in a relationship. But they're not. Are they?
Even John thought they were dating; he said as much. He could only have got that idea from Greg, but Greg doesn't think they're dating – does he?
She presses one hand against her forehead and groans in frustration. It's been fun and she's enjoyed this time with him, but if they're only going to be friends, she needs to know, even if it means this strange thing between them will end. She needs to find out one way or another before she makes herself crazy.
*****
She waits until the weekend, until the case is over and she doesn't feel like she's bothering him. She hesitates with her finger over the call button for nearly a minute before she finally presses it. Three rings, and then he answers.
"Molly, hi." He sounds surprised. Of course, this is the first time she's actually called him (she usually texts), so he probably thinks something is wrong.
"I was calling to ask if you're doing anything this evening? You probably are, Saturday and all, but if you're not there's a film I've been wanting to see and I thought maybe we could go see it. Together."
"Oh, right, yeah. What film?"
"It's that documentary about the photographer whose took all the films of melting glaciers. I think it won an Oscar, or got nominated, or something." She cringes – maybe he wouldn't like this sort of thing at all. She should have picked something with guns and shooting and super-villains and spies. That's probably the sort of film he'd like. "Or not, you know, if you—"
"No, it sounds great. Want to get something to eat first?"
They set a time and she ends the call. She sinks into her sofa, simultaneously relieved and terrified at the thought of what might happen next.
*****
They meet outside her flat, as usual. He looks nice and smells even better when she hugs him – just out of the shower, and he's shaved as well; his cheek is smooth under her lips. There is a tingle in her belly at the thought that he might have done that for her. They take the Tube to Leicester Square and find a Chinese restaurant for dinner, a busy spot with large tables full of families eating and talking and laughing. They're almost the only couple in the place. (Not that they're a couple. Not really.) They talk about their crazy weeks at work over shared lo mein, and Molly tries to bring up the subject of them three different times, but each time loses her nerve. (Later, after the film. Don't ruin it all now.)
The cinema is an art house a few streets away, the sort with small screens and cozy rooms. Their own theatre is nearly full and they have to squeeze into a back corner to find seats together. The chairs are small and their thighs and shoulders are pressed together, and Molly finds herself having trouble focusing on the film. She wants to reach over and touch him, to take his hand, intertwine their fingers, anything to have a bit more contact, to tell him without words what she wants so very badly. She steals glances at him to see his eyes fixed firmly on the screen, riveted. She does nothing to upset the balance. She sits, and aches for him, and Jesus, when did this happen? How has she fallen so hard for someone she hasn't even kissed, who may only think of her as a friend?
They sit through the end of the credits, and talk about the film on the Tube and during the walk back to her flat. She listens to his words, to the way his emotions were roused by the film and the powerful images in it, and nods her head, but she doesn't say much herself. Instead she watches him, sees the way his hands slice through the air to emphasize a point, the way his lips press together when he's trying to find the right word.
He stops, and it's a moment before she realizes they're standing in front of her door. He turns to look at her, and she can only stare at him for a moment. He's passionate about things, cares very deeply about people and the world and the future. He's smart, and dedicated, and open and nice and clearly has so much to give.
And he's afraid, she realizes. She can see it so clearly now: he's been hurt, profoundly so, by a bad marriage and a painful divorce, and he doesn't see himself the way she sees him. He isn't sure that she would want him like that, and so he hasn't pushed the issue. But it's completely clear now from the way he's looking at her, from the mix of fear and desire in his eyes, from the way his shoulders are tense and his hands are clenched, as if he wants to reach out for her, but he's afraid of what might happen if he does.
He wants her too, and she's just never seen it until this moment.
She doesn't say a word; she simply launches herself at him, presses her mouth against his and throws her arms around his neck. He is clearly surprised, but he doesn't hesitate; he pulls her tightly against him and kisses her back. It's nothing like a first kiss at all: it's raw and wet and hard, and there is nothing awkward or tentative about it. His tongue is hot and slick against her own, and she can't get close enough, can't hold him as tightly as she wants, can't quite feel the heat of his body through these layers of clothes and coats and time, God – they wasted so much fucking time!
She breaks the kiss and takes a step backwards, and looks up at his face. His emotions are raw there, his expression full of want and relief and a touch of confusion about what to do next. She has no such difficulty, though: she takes him by the hand and pulls him to the door. She fumbles in her purse for her keys with one hand, afraid he might bolt if she lets go, and finally manages to unlock the door. She takes him up the stairs and to the door of her flat, where there is yet another excruciating scramble to unlock the goddamn door before she can finally push him back against it and kiss him again.
His hands are glorious, first in her hair and then trailing down her neck, over her shoulder and down her back until they reach the swell of her arse. He pulls her against him and she can feel how hard he is through his trousers, how much he wants this. Wants her.
"We're idiots, aren't we?" she whispers against his lips, and he nods, turns her head so that he can kiss under her jaw, down her neck, suck on the point where her shoulder begins. Her hands work their way between them, pull his shirttails out and slide up his chest, fingertips sliding through the soft hair there, then down again to press the flat of her palm against his erection.
He hisses, and she strokes once more before unfastening the button and working his trousers down enough to free his cock. All her fantasies of the last few weeks flood her mind now, all the things she dreamed she would do if she ever had him here, like this. She feels a bit like a child in a sweet shop – what to do first?
She sinks to her knees.
"Oh, fuck," he says, and she looks up at him, holds his eyes while she licks once up the underside of his cock. He grasps the doorframe with one hand, as if desperate for something to cling to, and his other hand tangles into her hair, not pushing, just holding. "You don't have to—"
But she's already taken the head into her mouth, is already swirling her tongue around the delicate skin there, and his words morph into a moan. It's been a while since she's done this, but it's a bit like riding a bicycle, she thinks: suck, lick, stroke with one hand, pay attention to the frenulum and the slit, take it in a little further each time, watch the teeth, feel the way the glans fits perfectly against the roof of her mouth, where she can massage the sensitive underside with her tongue.
"Oh, God, stop," he says, and pushes gently on her forehead. "I don't want to come yet."
She sits back on her heels and looks up at him. She must look a mess now, with her hair tangled and her lipstick smeared and her mouth wet, but he's staring down at her like she's some sort of revelation. "When do you want to come?" she asks, surprised at her own boldness.
He pulls her to her feet and kisses her again, hard, and she feels like melting against him. "Ask me again in a few hours," he says, and kisses her so thoroughly that she's sure her feet aren't touching the ground anymore. Her head is swimming and her cunt aches and she just, God, she wants.
She finally recovers enough presence of mind to lead him to the bedroom, where they shed their coats and tumble onto the bed still fully clothed. His hand is inside her shirt, caressing her breast through her bra, and it's too gentle, not what she wants at all.
She pushes him up and pulls her shirt over her head, tugs off her bra, and wriggles out of her jeans. He stops her before she can take off her knickers, though, and she lies back and props herself up on her elbows, letting him look. She's not particularly confident about her body, but she's never been overly concerned with it either. He's looking at her now like she's a feast, and that's just fine with her. He unbuttons his shirt and tugs it off, then stands enough to step out of his trousers and pants. His cock juts out before him and she can't help but stare at it. That's going to be hers now. All hers. She bites her lip at the thought.
He sits and grins at her still-besocked feet, and she grins back, and then he crawls over her. Her hands go to his cock, but he pushes them away with a shake of his head and then positions her arms up over her head.
He kisses her then, slowly, gently, sucking lightly on the tip of her tongue before moving to her neck, and her shoulders, and then up the ticklish underside of her arm. She laughs and pushes him away, and he trails his lips around one of her breasts instead, slowly circling inwards to the nipple. When he finally flicks the tip of his tongue across it, she gasps, and he continues, his tongue maddeningly light until he finally takes the nipple into his mouth and sucks.
She feels her clit throb, and her eyes open in surprise. She's never thought of her breasts as particularly sensitive, but this, this -- it's something entirely unexpected. He repeats it on her other breast, and by the time he finally releases that nipple and kisses his way down to her navel, she's nearly shaking with need.
He pushes her thighs apart and settles between them, and trails his fingers down the damp fabric of her knickers. "Do you always get this wet?" he asks, and tugs the fabric aside. She feels the air hit wet skin and realizes it's him, it's his breath – he's that close.
She whimpers and pushes her hips up, unable even to form words at the moment. He seems to take pity on her and pushes her knees together enough to tug the knickers off. He leaves them dangling from one foot before he presses her thighs apart again. She can feel hot breath against her skin, and God, it almost hurts now; she's sure she can't take another minute of this torture.
He touches just the tip of his tongue to her then, traces up the length of her labia and down again, then back up to flick feather-light against her clitoris. She's clenching the duvet above her head with her fists, her mouth open and her eyes squeezed shut, and it's incredible. He works her open slowly, and she loses track of time completely. It seems like he's been in her bed for years, gently sucking on her clitoris until she's on the edge of coming, pulling back to slide his tongue into her vagina, curling the tip and wriggling it against the walls. He sucks the inner labia harder, tugs at them with his teeth, and covers her entire cunt with his mouth, engulfing her in wet warmth, and sucks her like she sucked him against the door, rhythmic and wet and sloppy and hard.
She's barely coherent by the time he presses two fingers into her and fucks her slowly, and flicks his tongue against her clitoris faster and faster until she finally comes, so hard that she cries out and arches her hips up against him. She sees stars afterward, and her fingers and toes are numb, and she lies there, limp, dazed.
"Oh my God," is all she manages to say.
"Can I?' he asks, and she says "Yes," and then, "Wait, do you have—" and he says, "Yeah," and she looks down to see him rolling on a condom. She grins at the thought that he'd had one in his pocket, just in case. Just like the box she bought that's now in the drawer of her bedside table.
She wraps her legs around him when he pushes into her. She's still shockingly sensitive, and it feels glorious, and she angles her hips as best she can, and there, there – he understands when she clenches his biceps and he rocks against her until she comes again, this time biting hard into his shoulder.
"Sorry, sorry," she says, kissing the spot as gently as she can.
"It's all right, it's fine. Are you--?"
"Yes, go." She buries her fingers in his hair and turns his head and whispers against his ear, "Fuck me."
He does, and it's rough and fast, and she loves it, loves the idea that he's been holding back all this time. She presses her hands back against the headboard for leverage and tries to meet him thrust for thrust. It doesn't take long – he pushes in one last time and stays there as he cries out and collapses against her with a stream of swear words.
He tucks his face into her neck and breathes like he's trying to inhale her skin, and she wraps her arms and legs around him, holding him there. She wants him inside her like this, connected, for as long as possible, but after a minute his cock softens inside her and starts to slip out, and they both laugh at the strange sensation of it.
He kisses her again, slow and soft. She can smell herself all over his face, and it's incredibly erotic. He rolls off to the side and props up his head on one elbow, and smiles down at her.
"Wow," she says, unable to stop herself from grinning.
"Wow is good."
"Wow is amazing, actually."
He grins. "We could have done this weeks ago."
"I know. We're idiots."
"To be honest, I wasn't sure you were interested."
She raises a hand to his face, strokes her thumb over his lower lip. "I thought the same. I kept waiting for you to kiss me."
"I'm glad you got tired of waiting." He kisses the pad of her thumb and covers her hand with his own, presses the palm against his lips.
"So… why didn't you?"
He sits up, tugs off the condom, and ties it off before wrapping it carefully in a tissue from the box on her bedside table. He stretches out on the bed beside her, and she slides in closer, snuggling under his arm with her head pillowed on his shoulder.
"I don't know. I wasn't sure."
She nods, even though she's not certain she understands. "Sure of what?"
He is silent for a long moment. "I was married for almost twenty years to a woman who wanted everyone but me for the last ten of it." He sighs and wraps a lock of her hair around one finger. "I spent almost half of my life with her, and now here I am, starting over. I have no idea how to do this dating thing anymore, you know? I never thought I'd have to do it again. But it was so easy with you, and I didn't want to fuck it up by making a pass at you. I suppose I didn't think someone like you would be interested in me."
"Someone like me? What does that mean?"
"I'm twenty years older than you, for one thing. And you're beautiful and smart and funny and—" He glances pointedly down at her naked body. "—hot and you have your whole life ahead of you. Why would you want to get tangled up with someone like me?"
She resists the urge to laugh, because she knows he's serious about this. "Because you're amazing. You're kind and thoughtful and smart and—" She mimics his earlier ogle. "—hot and passionate about your work and the people in your life and the things you care about." She lets her eyes slide down his body again. "And you've got a really big cock, though I didn't know that until tonight."
He laughs and kisses her, and pulls her on top of him. She plants her knees on either side of his hips and presses her still-wet vulva against his penis, and wriggles a bit.
"Okay, yeah, I think I might be able to do that again," he says, with a note of surprise in his voice. "If you keep doing that, anyway."
She sits up and his hands come up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. "Or I could finish what I started earlier." She swings one leg over and leans down to plant a kiss against the foreskin.
"Come here," he says, and she settles against his side again. He kisses her forehead and sighs. "Give me an hour and then you can suck it as long as you want."
She giggles at that. "Okay."
He presses one hand over his face and laughs. "I haven't said anything like that in a long time."
They're quiet for a moment, and just as she thinks he's gone to sleep, he says, "So what about you? Why didn't you kiss me?"
"I did tonight."
"I mean before."
"I guess I thought the same as you. I haven't had much luck with relationships lately. I haven't had a proper boyfriend since I finished my graduate work. I've gone on lots of dates and I've had quite a bit of meaningless sex. But nothing ever… stuck."
"So what do you want?" The question is tentative, loaded.
She inhales, considers. She still doesn't know how he feels about this. He's just divorced, after all. Maybe he's looking for a fling, someone to make him forget and feel like a desirable man again before he moves on to a more serious relationship. She's not sure she could handle being the rebound romance. Best to find out now.
"I want a really good friend, someone I can do things with, who'll listen to me talk about work and won't get squeamish about the details. I want to have lots of amazing sex, as often as possible, with someone who isn't too busy getting himself off to make it good for me."
"This is all sounding good so far."
She smiles up at the ceiling. "I want someone I could fall in love with, who might fall in love with me back. Someone who'd like going out to fancy restaurants every now and then, but who'd also be happy eating frozen lasagna and drinking cheap tetra-brick wine on a Saturday night."
"Is the lasagna before or after the sex?"
"Both, actually." She grins and nips at his shoulder. "Someone who isn't allergic to cats—" She pauses to look up at him and he shakes his head. "—and who will hold my hand when we walk down the street, and at the cinema, and even just when we're sitting on the sofa on a Sunday morning. Someone who likes to try new things and dreams about traveling, and who makes a good cup of tea and likes to go out for coffee." She pauses and takes a deep breath. "Someone who plans on being in my life for as long as we're happy together, and not just until someone better comes along."
She can see his throat move as he swallows. "That's quite a long list."
"Oh, and he has to have a tremendous cock."
His expression changes completely at that, and he bursts out laughing. He buries his face in her pillow and she finally resorts to tickling him to get him to look up at her again. His face is flaming, to her surprise.
She props her head up on her hand and smiles at him. "So that's the job description, then. Now taking applicants for the position of boyfriend."
He leans in to kiss her breast. "I think I submitted my application earlier, but if you'd like me to come in for another interview…"
"I'm fairly certain you're ranked number one for the position, but if you've other skills on your C.V., I'm ready for another demonstration."
He kisses her again, and she smiles against his lips.
Molly and Greg. She likes the sound of that. And after a ridiculously long string of first dates, apparently, so does he.
*****
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Date: 2013-09-06 11:04 am (UTC)I loved their growing relationship and mutual total missing of hints, and how Molly seemed to get more comfortable in his company but less confident about what was going on at the same time (right up until the 'oh fuck it' moment).
I loved that it clearly wasn't set in isolation from other events and John's cameo was great. Also mmm, yummy sex at the end. :D Thanks for writing this one, Emma.
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Date: 2013-09-15 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-06 02:10 pm (UTC)This was such a nice read with my coffee on a vacation day at home. Fantastic voices, great pacing, HOT sex...perfect. Loved it.
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Date: 2013-09-15 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-06 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-09-06 06:25 pm (UTC)I love him.
I love that he shaved for her. Shaving isn't his favorite activity. I love that Molly is aware of responding to a man telling her to smile. You know she's not going to fall for that next time. I love that you gave us Lestrade who is unaware of his appeal. That's so true to Rupert Graves' characterization. Innocent about his attractiveness, confident about most everything else.
I'm going to hold his hands again now. Your Lestrade has such wonderful hands.
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Date: 2013-09-15 05:40 am (UTC)I don't know if that is something we have explicitly discussed before, or if it's something we just happen to both like, but yes. YES. I love him like that too!
I wrote the first draft of this and then went back and listened to the Fucking Sherlock panel, and I realized I'd already worked in a few of the things you mentioned in it! The hands were one of those things. ;-)
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Date: 2013-09-06 10:41 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-09-10 09:09 pm (UTC)And Greg! Such a gentleman and well, human. He has wants and needs but he's just not sure.
Nice work! Considering that I love these two together can can definitely see something like this happening. *squees*
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Date: 2013-09-15 05:42 am (UTC)