ZThemes

Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice

Sidebar art by Krista ♥

I'm Chelsea, I'm twenty-one, a media studies and computer science major and an aspiring author. This blog is for things I think are cool and, occasionally, things I write. At the moment, I love all things Sherlock Holmes, and also enjoy Doctor Who, American Horror Story, Game of Thrones, The Avengers, and a whole lot of other things, including cute animals. I'm also working on getting fit. If you want to drop a note and say hi, feel free!

♥ Seth

Other blogs:

♥ John Watson, Irene Adler, Victor Trevor, Mycroft Holmes, and Sebastian Moran of
Texts from John and Sherlock

♥ livejournal
♥ AO3

 curious jerms

And then I accidentally Sigerson!verse

Anonymous asked: Molly/Lestrade, cunnilingus.

—

            Her last boyfriend wouldn’t do this for her.  The one before him wouldn’t do it either.  In fact, the only boy to do this without her having to ask—and Molly Hooper’s shy about asking—had been the one she’d dated in uni, and he turned out to be a real cad in the end so it wasn’t really worth it. 

            But Detective Inspector Lestrade—Greg, now, she reminds herself—isn’t a boy, and maybe that’s what makes all of the difference.  He’s fifteen years her senior, and married—well, loosely married with the divorce pending—and somehow that’s almost as scandalous as what he’s doing down between her legs.  Molly’s not sure her parents would approve of either of those things, the older-and-married thing and the oral sex thing, but—but—

            “Oh,” she says, breathless, tilting her head forward to try to look down at him.  “Oh, that’s—ss—”

            That makes him pause, and she wants to say no, no, please keep going, but she’s always been shy about asking.  “Okay?” he asks.  One of his hands is holding her thigh and for some reason that makes her blush.  He looks so earnest.

            “Yeah,” Molly replies, nodding.  “Oh, yes, it’s wonderful.”  After a slight pause, she blurts, “I just don’t understand why anyone would give this up.”

            He doesn’t say anything, and she immediately curses herself for being stupid.  Think before you speak, Molly Hooper!  Sherlock Holmes would tell her that if he were here.  (But he’s not here.  He’s Jeremy now and he’s all holed up in Siberia or something in a safe house with a secret agent.  At least, that’s what she got from his last text.  It was very confusing.)  Greg’s just looking at her, so she says, “Oh, I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”

            “No,” he says.  “No, I’m flattered.  It’s flattering.”  And he presses a soft kiss to her inner thigh, like a gentleman.

            They kiss for a while after he finishes her, slow and languid and lazy, and then he gets up to brush his teeth and fetch her a glass of water.  She props herself up on his pillow and pulls his blanket up to her chest.  She tells herself it’s because she’s cold, but really she’s still conscious of her small breasts, even though Greg seems to like them a lot.  When she looks in the mirror, by herself, she feels all mismatched.  It helps to have a contradicting opinion, though.  She wishes he’d come back to bed. 

            When he does, he wraps an arm around her bare shoulders, and they relax against each other.  “Someday,” he tells her as she drinks, “when everything calms down, we’re going on an actual date instead of just having sex all the time.”

            Molly pulls the glass away from her mouth.  “Do you not like just having sex all the time?”  She licks her lips nervously to clear away some water.  “I thought men liked that.  Sex, I mean.”

            He laughs at that.  “Well, maybe.  But I like you, and I like talking to you, and I just wish everything wasn’t so bloody tense and we had the chance to just sit and talk without anything else hanging over our heads.”

            “I’d like that too,” she confesses.  “I mean, I get to see you little enough as it is, it’s no wonder we’re practically ripping each other’s clothes off and…”  She’s not sure how to finish it, so she trails off.  “Tense is a good word for it,” she says at last, “what with your job and my job and your divorce and everything else.”  She doesn’t add that “everything else” includes Sherlock being alive.  That would sort of defeat the point of secrecy. 

            “Yeah.”  He shifts.  “Speaking of jobs, I should probably start looking for a new one, since the investigation’s wrapping up.”  He sighs.  He always sounds so sad when he sighs.  She knows how much he loves his job, and it makes her heart ache for him.  “Word is there’s going to be a major shakeup and I should pack my things.” 

            “I’m sorry.”

            “No, it’s all right.”  But it’s not.  Not really.  “I’ll get to spend more time with you and with my kids.  Maybe I’ll finally get this whole divorce done with so I can move on with my life.”

            “But you’ll be unhappy,” she says softly. 

            He pushes a strand of hair back from her face.  There are new lines around his eyes.  They don’t make him any less attractive, but they depress her.  “Is any man happy one-hundred percent of the time?”  He smiles dryly.   “I’ll be happy enough, whatever happens.” 

            “Okay.”

            Molly can’t say anything else. She smiles back and kisses him at the corner of his mouth.  She longs, desperately, to tell him what she knows: Sherlock will fix it for them.  But she can’t, so she just lets him fall asleep holding her, and, eventually, closes her eyes, following suit.