Means to an End, 919 words. Moriarty/Molly, one-sided Moriarty/Sherlock and Molly/Sherlock, R.
Seduction is easy. Waiting is hard.
Allusion to dub-con and spoilers for "The Great Game". Beta-read by apolesen.
After the DVD finished, after the umpteenth small-screen sing-a-long adventure, Jim kissed Molly's temple, leaning from where he sat slumped against her from the slumped position that he had forced himself into. (It was a Jim-from-IT-position, so awkward and nervous.) Molly smiled, her eyes on Toby the cat. He kissed her again, tracing the line of her jaw, inching towards her lips. She gasped at the first brush of his lips against her. Another kiss or two, and Molly opened her mouth slightly, her breath hitching at Jim's hand advancing up her leg, fingering the hem of her skirt. He checked himself when his hand was against her inner thigh, palm against her tights. He was moving too quickly; he was far too forward. Jim was a fumbling sort of boy. (But how, he wondered, can anyone be fumbling at this? How can anyone struggle with seduction?) As his one hand stopped, he kissed her again, and with his other hand, he brushed strands of hair from her face. Tenderly, innocently. She squirmed, delighted, at his touch, her awkward hands against his chest, as though she was uncertain what should happen now. When they broke apart, Molly laughed, and Jim followed suit, high-pitched and giggly.
'Bedroom?' she murmured when the giggling subsided, glancing up at Jim from beneath her eyelashes, aiming, he supposed, at the erotic. He giggled again, so exaggerated, and nodded. Her smile was a mixture of euphoria and trepidation and, taking his hand, she led him towards her small bedroom. (He had been in there before, of course, but he wasn't telling her that. Girls do not generally go for the casual house-breaker, though he had never understood why.)
Standing among the mess of her bedroom floor, covered in self-help books, cushions and cuddly toys, Molly leaned up to kiss Jim, hands on his shoulders, eyes firmly closed. There was an assurance in the kiss that Jim hadn't felt before, a kiss that made him wonder if she was stronger than he had thought. He answered the kiss as softly as he could, hands on her waist, forcing himself to remember that he was Jim the clumsy admirer, Jim the well-meaning geek. They stayed like that for a few minutes, like the foreplay of nervous teenagers' first time, neither wanting to stop there, neither quite sure how to continue. When Jim finally tugged at the hem of her shirt, everything picked up pace. Molly gasped with their shared breath. As though trying to catch up on lost time, they shed clothes with careless alacrity. Illuminated only by the half-light from the street outside, Molly was strangely alluring in her M&S underwear. Something akin to passion blurred Jim's mind for a moment and taking her face in his hands, he kissed her with a zeal that surprised even him.
They tumbled onto the bed, Jim on top, Molly underneath, eyes begging. With her gaze upon him, Jim thought of Sherlock. (Sherlock, oh, Sherlock. He was what this was all about. He was the goal of this whole scheme: Sherlock on his knees for him, Sherlock on his back for him, Sherlock's begging eyes.) Her gaze fell from his after a moment, but his thoughts remained. Shuffling upwards on the bed, she discarded the last of her clothes and naked, she looked at Jim again. He smiled at her and leaned over to kiss her. (Not at all like he meant to kiss Sherlock. It would never be a tender kiss, and never on a bed.) Her skin was warm against his touch. Her kiss was eager. She was ready.
At the first thrust, she uttered something, a half-moan, half-whimper. He stalled, fingers sprawled over her shoulders.
'Are you okay?' he murmured, face in her hair, which smelt of supermarket shampoo and that ever-present hospital odour.
'I'm fine,' she sighed and did her best to reassure him with kisses and murmured encouragement.
She hurt. Why shouldn't she, being torn into like that? (Sherlock would hurt, too, but he would be too foolhardy to admit it; he would bite his lip until it bled before he would utter a sound.) But, for his own sake rather than hers, he was tender, taking her slowly, murmuring sweet nothings in her ear, tracing her neck with his kisses. Throughout, he thought of Sherlock and how she was nothing like him. She was all curves and wanting smiles, so unlike the lithe, sardonic man. Jim thought of how he would succeed where she failed. However much Molly had wanted to seduce Sherlock Holmes, it was something she would never manage. Jim, on the other hand...
He was gentler than he thought possible; she leaned into each of his touches. The tears in her eyes disappeared; mouth wide, she took everything Jim was willing to give her.
It was over far too soon. Her breathing calmed and she smiled at him, eyes glittering, mouth too small. He lay beside her, as though he cared, as though she mattered to him. An arm across her waist, a hand tracing patterns against her bare skin.
'Will you stay tonight?' her question was almost unintelligible, just a breath.
'Yes,' Jim promised, kissing her shoulder. He imagined that the corners of her mouth twitched with exhausted satisfaction.
She shifted, her body against his, a near-perfect fit. Soon, they both slept, and wrapped into each other, they dreamt of Sherlock Holmes.