april
1st Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2006
- Messages
- 1,164
- Points
- 38
A very good friend of mine wrote this for me and I am posting it here with his permission of course 
Featuring Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper from the BBC series Sherlock. I hope you enjoy, I know I did
Sherlock and Molly
http://youtu.be/CsYAqUOzZWk
“Mr. Holmes.” Molly said, stopping suddenly and taking a step back in surprise. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Because I didn’t tell you, Ms. Hooper.” Sherlock was sitting at Molly’s desk with his feet up, scrolling unceremoniously through his phone as he raised his arm, a long slender finger pointing off without him ever actually shifting his gaze. “Your coolers are locked.”
Molly followed the direction of Sherlock’s finger to the square metal doors behind which the dead were kept, each of them now secured with a small lock. “Oh, that.” She said demurely, a tremor of the nervousness she always felt in his presence creeping into her voice.
“Yes. That.” He said, taking his feet from the table and rising, the long form of him extending as he tucked his phone into his pocket. “As you’ve likely guessed I have already searched the entirety of your desk for a key but was unable to find it. I don’t suppose you are afraid of them coming to life and trying to eat brains? If so I assure you Molly, London is notably lacking in that particular delicacy these days, so please dear, the lock.”
“Which lock?” Molly asked, the speed of his words dizzying her as they always did, she was a smart girl, probably capable of keeping up with his acerbic whit could she manage to get past the striking sharpness of his cheekbones.
“The lock on the freezer. Were you not listening? Why are there locks at all? They are dead.” Sherlock said the last bit with a kind of paused intention, as if it were a fact that had slipped past her.
“Orders from upstairs.” Molly answered him.
“And why would anyone want to lock up dead bodies?”
“Because people who don’t belong in here keep coming about to molest them.” She said, dropping her purse down on her desk and looking at the mess Sherlock had made of it, her drawers ransacked. “Look at the state of my desk!”
“Molest seems a rather derogatory word Ms. Hooper, certainly I inspect, occasionally experiment a bit, but they never complain.”
“How could they, they are dead?”
“Which is exactly why I am here, Molly. Someone is dead! And unless you tell me where you have hidden the key I wont be able to molest or otherwise abuse the poor ladies corpse so that I might deduce exactly what it is that has taken her life.”
Molly reached for the key, taking it from her pocket where she had secreted it away, then paused. “Do you have the proper form?”
“Form?”
“Yes, we were told that no bodies were to be inspected unless the proper form had been completed and authorized.” Molly glanced at Sherlock’s empty hands. “Do you have it?”
“Molly.” Sherlock said, sliding around the desk and to her side where he casually rested a hand. “What is that intoxicating scent you are wearing?”
“Hmm?” She mumbled, unable to form words.
“Do I detect a hint of lavender? That is new for you. Perhaps there is a new man in your life, just as I finally begin to realize how captivatingly beautiful you are.”
“Well… I…”
“No need to say any more.” Sherlock said, stepping away from her and brandishing the key triumphantly.
Molly’s hand went quickly to her pocket, her shocked expression following his back as he turned away from her and paced determinedly over to the lockers. “Sherlock!”
“I’m sorry Ms. Hooper. Truly, well perhaps not truly, but all of your prattle about forms and molestation was nearly more than I could stomach. You do smell rather nice though, which seems important considering you work with the dead.”
Molly followed him over to the cooler and watched as he lifted the lock, noticing that there was a section of bent paperclip stuck in the mechanism he had to wrench free.
“Lock picking is a bit more complicated than it seems, I was just educating myself when you returned, though I believe I could now do it with some bit of ease.” Perhaps for no other reason than to prove it to himself Sherlock placed the key in his pocket, picking up the two bent pieces of silver metal and inserting them into the lock. Molly watched as his fingers worked for a few seconds and the lock clicked open unceremoniously, allowing Sherlock to slide it free and toss it across the room toward her desk where it landed with a loud bang.
“Sherlock you really shouldn’t.”
“Molly.” Sherlock stopped and paused for a moment, turning away from the metal door before opening it to address her fully. “Have you ever known me to be a man to not do things that I shouldn’t?”
“Well…”
“Exactly. Never. So…” He reached down and pulled the small metal door open, not so much as cringing his nose at the dull odor of death that escaped. “In case you have not yet read her file, this body inside the bag was that of one April Moore, 32, and recently found deceased at a local fetish club after hours.”
“Fetish club?” Molly asked, innocent to the idea.
“Whips, chains, rope, the type of things a dull girl like yourself fears rather than embraces. It would seem our dead girl here had a more exotic taste than yourself though, at least in the realm of pleasure.” Sherlock looked over her nude body, even in death the woman had a kind of classical beauty about her. “And larger breasts as well.”
“I think they are fake.” Molly said defensively, leaning forward for a better look.
“Bravo to the surgeon then. Now Molly, have you ever heard of someone being tickled to death?”
“To death?” She asked. “No, but I certainly have felt close myself.”
“Ticklish then are you?”
“A bit.” She confessed.
He looked her over for a moment, and then went back to the girl. “Well, as it stands our beautiful April here was tied to a sort of bench. One that kept her hands bound at her sides and her feet splayed out in front of her. According to our suspect, the clubs owner, he and April were engaged in a type of tickling fetish, when her heart suddenly stopped. I normally would not find it very interesting, only it’s Anderson’s case and he believes murder to be the true culprit, and I am desperate to prove him wrong.”
“Why?” Molly asked, she had never understood what exactly it was that Phillip Anderson and Sherlock hated so about one another.
“Because I hate him Molly.”
“But why?”
“Because he is Anderson. Now, while I agree that the story seems unlikely, I do know that the Roman’s once used goats to inflict a similar torture on victims that eventually lead to death.”
“Certainly I misheard you Sherlock, did you say a goat?”
“Indeed. They would take a victim and suspend him over a type of scaffolding through which their feet were exposed. Underneath this scaffolding would be one or more goats. The pleasant fellow doing the torture would coat the bottom of the victim’s feet with honey and salt, causing the goat to lick it for hours at a time. Eventually this would drive the man mad.”
“So you can be tickled to death then.”
“Don’t be daft Molly. Those men were not given food or water, they were also beaten and likely kept in horrid conditions. You can’t compare the two. Our corpse here was clearly in excellent physical condition and must have been accustomed to this type of thing to some extent. I have thoroughly inspected her body and cannot find a single defensive wound on her, so if the club owner is in fact a killer, he certainly managed to lure her into his trap rather than forcing her there.”
Sherlock rolled the body over and inspected the back as well, noticing nothing out of the ordinary before slamming his hand angrily against the wall. “Damn it. I know that this woman was not murdered, I can see it Molly, I just don’t know how to prove the mans innocence, and April here is no master conversationalist. Though I am pained to say it, I am unsure of what to do next.”
Molly went to her desk and fetched the lock that Sherlock had tossed there and secured the body back in the locker. She then took a look at the destruction of her desk and set to straightening it, as Sherlock all the while paced slowly back and forth, mumbling to himself and stopping occasionally to stare at the locker, as if he could almost make out the shape of the dead girl there.
“I’ve got it!” He exclaimed after some time, looking around the room as if he was somewhat surprised to find himself there. “We don’t have a goat, or a Roman prisoner, but you will stand in well enough for the latter of the two and despite my lack of horns I believe I can replicate the job of the goat to some degree or another in this particular instance.”
Molly was listening to him, watching as he crossed the room to her quickly and drew his belt from his trousers in a single quick pull. “Sherlock, what are you-“
“Practical application Ms. Hooper, we must replicate the circumstances in which April died, in order to see if we can achieve a similar outcome.”
Before she could argue against the idea Sherlock was already behind her chair and pulling her arms behind her. Her chair was built in such a way that the arm wrests acted like barriers as he drew her hands together and wrapped his belt tight around them. “Sherlock!” She said. “Release me this instant!”
Molly struggled to free herself, but found that her hands were in fact quite secure there, and though she could lean forward and squirm a bit there was no hope of fending off what she feared was coming.
“Why Ms. Hooper. I don’t believe I have ever heard you speak to me in such a tone. I find myself offended as well as intrigued. All the same it’s a bit late for that, you being tied up and all.” He knelt down and flicked open the small leather strap keeping her patent leather pump in place and set it gently aside, treating her shoe far nicer than he had the lock. When he took her by the ankle and looked up at her from below, the striking blue gray of his eyes cut through her and despite her terror, Molly went still.
“Please.” She whimpered, but Sherlock only smiled.
“Put your worries to rest Molly, I won’t tickle you until you die, I only wish to know if such a thing is possible. How about this, if you believe I am taking things too far you say a simple word, and I will stop, so that you can allow me to proceed with my little experiment without fear of becoming overwhelmed.”
“What word?” Molly asked, surprised to hear herself sounding as though she were almost agreeing to what he was suggesting. She could not deny she had always had feelings for him, if this were a chance for some of those feelings to come to life in a physical way, she could at least allow it a chance, she supposed.
“Something simple, how about… Elocution.”
“That seems a difficult word to say in a hurry.” Molly protested.
“Funny isn’t it, considering the nature of the word?” Sherlock said, and then carried on anyhow. “Now in order for us to best approach this experiment I first need to know where you are most ticklish. Do you have much experience with being tickled?”
“Not since I was a- STOP! Ahhhhahahahahah!” She screamed, the scream turning into laughter as he drug a finger across the soft bottom of her foot. A strange feeling shot through her foot and up into her leg, finally coming to rest there with a pleasant warmness. “I wasn’t ready!”
“Nobody is ever ready for a thing of this nature I imagine.” He said, drawing his finger again down her foot and sending her into a fit of laughter and shivers. He traced his finger across the lines of her sole, and then when she was kicking with sickening delight he set that foot down and went to the other. Knowing what was coming made Molly all the more sensitive, and she was giggling and squealing before he ever touched her.
“I dare say that you may be enjoying this too much Ms. Hooper.”
“Was the dead girl not enjoying it you think?” Molly asked. “Because if not, perhaps Anderson has bested you this time after all Mr. Holmes?”
He stared at her with a look of shock, if such a look was possible for Sherlock Holmes, and Molly found herself quite proud of her little verbal jab, that was until he put her foot down and brought his hands to her ribcage. “Despite what many of the plebs believe, I assume that as a pathologist you know every human has twelve sets of ribs, man and woman alike. So, I will start at the bottom most rib and count my way to the top, making note of the severity of laughter accompanying each numbered set of ribs. That way we can begin to gather some data as to how best achieve maximum levels of stimulation.”
His fingers sunk gently into her sides and every muscle in Molly’s body went taut with anticipation. As he began exploring her ribcage he took great care to listen to the rise and fall of her unstoppable laughter, but it did not take long to discover that the fleshy hollow of her underarm was the most ticklish. It was not without some pleasure of his own that he spent some time there gently poking and stroking at her, stopping only when her face was wet with tears and each breath was coming in a harsh ragged pull.
“Sherlock…” Molly gasped. “Please… just…”
“Begging does not become you Molly.” Sherlock said, then let his hands fall to her hips, causing her to jump. Sherlock looked down, then opened his hands and let his fingers rest against her thighs, fingers tracing delicately around her hipbones. When he pressed harder she giggled again, and then as he began to let his hands dance across her thighs and hips the giggles gave way to hysterics once again, and she thrashed and kicked against the chair. Sherlock discovered that with each location of her body, Molly laughed in a slightly different pitch, and found himself playing the instrument of her flesh as though it were his violin perched gently in his arms. He strummed her foot, grazed her hips, stroked ever so carefully across her ribs until her cries became a delicious melody of confusion and pleasure.
There was no hope for Molly, she, like a roman prisoner, was subject to the relentless assault for this beautiful man as he watched on with fascination while tears streamed down her face, finding her chin and leaping away. She was his, for that moment, and though she knew it would end and he would once again go back to seeing her as nothing more than a tool he could use to solve his mysteries, there, in that instant, they were connected just as an instrument and it’s true master must be, making beautiful music together.
When she could take no more, when her breath would no longer come and her vision began to spot over with the splotchy flare of impending unconsciousness, she gave in to her body and cried out. “El… El… Eloc…”
“You want me to electrocute you? No no dear girl, this is strictly about the tickling.”
“El..” She continues to try and say, but the maniacal laughter gripping her would not cease, nor would the beautiful sociopath torturing her.
“Eloquent? Elephant? Elegant?” Sherlock asked, and then just as darkness invaded her vision completely and her body began to tingle and go slack, Sherlock finally relented.
“Ms. Hooper, it may be that you may have helped save a man’s life today. I doubt I can convince Anderson so easily but perhaps if I can find myself a goat I can make the point all the more clearly.” Sherlock said, sliding her shoes back onto her feet and loosening the belt at her wrist. “Or even better, it may kill him.” He finished with a smile.
“You are welcome.” She said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“If it’s thanks you want go find the accused club owner, being allowed to participate in my investigation should be all the appreciation you require, I would think.”
“No, it’s just that I thought… Well… I don’t know.”
Sherlock nodded, adjusting his belt back into place. “It’s best that way, leaving the thinking up to me. It’s not that you are completely hopeless of course. Either way, I suppose you did offer me your service when I may have had to pay a prostitute, so thank you for that. There, you have your thanks after all, do you feel better now?”
“Sherlock…” She said to him, as he pulled his phone from his pocket and began making his way toward the exit.
“Yes, Molly, I know. This was a one-time thing. You are not some sick and twisted individual who, like the late April, gets her kicks by being controlled and as you so eloquently put it earlier, molested. Don’t worry yourself over it, I won’t stalk the corners of your lab waiting for my next chance to pounce upon you and secure you to a piece of furniture so I can use your body for experiments as well as my own personal amusement. Nor do I think that this makes us special to one another in some strange way. But if you should find yourself recalling something about the event that you think may help me converse Anderson give me a call… better yet just text me, you know how I deplore too much conversation. Good day Ms. Hooper.” Sherlock Holmes said to her, and he was gone with a swirl of his black coat as the door closed behind him.
“No.” She said to the door, knowing he could no longer hear her. “You never gave me back my key…”
End -
Featuring Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper from the BBC series Sherlock. I hope you enjoy, I know I did Sherlock and Molly
http://youtu.be/CsYAqUOzZWk
“Mr. Holmes.” Molly said, stopping suddenly and taking a step back in surprise. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Because I didn’t tell you, Ms. Hooper.” Sherlock was sitting at Molly’s desk with his feet up, scrolling unceremoniously through his phone as he raised his arm, a long slender finger pointing off without him ever actually shifting his gaze. “Your coolers are locked.”
Molly followed the direction of Sherlock’s finger to the square metal doors behind which the dead were kept, each of them now secured with a small lock. “Oh, that.” She said demurely, a tremor of the nervousness she always felt in his presence creeping into her voice.
“Yes. That.” He said, taking his feet from the table and rising, the long form of him extending as he tucked his phone into his pocket. “As you’ve likely guessed I have already searched the entirety of your desk for a key but was unable to find it. I don’t suppose you are afraid of them coming to life and trying to eat brains? If so I assure you Molly, London is notably lacking in that particular delicacy these days, so please dear, the lock.”
“Which lock?” Molly asked, the speed of his words dizzying her as they always did, she was a smart girl, probably capable of keeping up with his acerbic whit could she manage to get past the striking sharpness of his cheekbones.
“The lock on the freezer. Were you not listening? Why are there locks at all? They are dead.” Sherlock said the last bit with a kind of paused intention, as if it were a fact that had slipped past her.
“Orders from upstairs.” Molly answered him.
“And why would anyone want to lock up dead bodies?”
“Because people who don’t belong in here keep coming about to molest them.” She said, dropping her purse down on her desk and looking at the mess Sherlock had made of it, her drawers ransacked. “Look at the state of my desk!”
“Molest seems a rather derogatory word Ms. Hooper, certainly I inspect, occasionally experiment a bit, but they never complain.”
“How could they, they are dead?”
“Which is exactly why I am here, Molly. Someone is dead! And unless you tell me where you have hidden the key I wont be able to molest or otherwise abuse the poor ladies corpse so that I might deduce exactly what it is that has taken her life.”
Molly reached for the key, taking it from her pocket where she had secreted it away, then paused. “Do you have the proper form?”
“Form?”
“Yes, we were told that no bodies were to be inspected unless the proper form had been completed and authorized.” Molly glanced at Sherlock’s empty hands. “Do you have it?”
“Molly.” Sherlock said, sliding around the desk and to her side where he casually rested a hand. “What is that intoxicating scent you are wearing?”
“Hmm?” She mumbled, unable to form words.
“Do I detect a hint of lavender? That is new for you. Perhaps there is a new man in your life, just as I finally begin to realize how captivatingly beautiful you are.”
“Well… I…”
“No need to say any more.” Sherlock said, stepping away from her and brandishing the key triumphantly.
Molly’s hand went quickly to her pocket, her shocked expression following his back as he turned away from her and paced determinedly over to the lockers. “Sherlock!”
“I’m sorry Ms. Hooper. Truly, well perhaps not truly, but all of your prattle about forms and molestation was nearly more than I could stomach. You do smell rather nice though, which seems important considering you work with the dead.”
Molly followed him over to the cooler and watched as he lifted the lock, noticing that there was a section of bent paperclip stuck in the mechanism he had to wrench free.
“Lock picking is a bit more complicated than it seems, I was just educating myself when you returned, though I believe I could now do it with some bit of ease.” Perhaps for no other reason than to prove it to himself Sherlock placed the key in his pocket, picking up the two bent pieces of silver metal and inserting them into the lock. Molly watched as his fingers worked for a few seconds and the lock clicked open unceremoniously, allowing Sherlock to slide it free and toss it across the room toward her desk where it landed with a loud bang.
“Sherlock you really shouldn’t.”
“Molly.” Sherlock stopped and paused for a moment, turning away from the metal door before opening it to address her fully. “Have you ever known me to be a man to not do things that I shouldn’t?”
“Well…”
“Exactly. Never. So…” He reached down and pulled the small metal door open, not so much as cringing his nose at the dull odor of death that escaped. “In case you have not yet read her file, this body inside the bag was that of one April Moore, 32, and recently found deceased at a local fetish club after hours.”
“Fetish club?” Molly asked, innocent to the idea.
“Whips, chains, rope, the type of things a dull girl like yourself fears rather than embraces. It would seem our dead girl here had a more exotic taste than yourself though, at least in the realm of pleasure.” Sherlock looked over her nude body, even in death the woman had a kind of classical beauty about her. “And larger breasts as well.”
“I think they are fake.” Molly said defensively, leaning forward for a better look.
“Bravo to the surgeon then. Now Molly, have you ever heard of someone being tickled to death?”
“To death?” She asked. “No, but I certainly have felt close myself.”
“Ticklish then are you?”
“A bit.” She confessed.
He looked her over for a moment, and then went back to the girl. “Well, as it stands our beautiful April here was tied to a sort of bench. One that kept her hands bound at her sides and her feet splayed out in front of her. According to our suspect, the clubs owner, he and April were engaged in a type of tickling fetish, when her heart suddenly stopped. I normally would not find it very interesting, only it’s Anderson’s case and he believes murder to be the true culprit, and I am desperate to prove him wrong.”
“Why?” Molly asked, she had never understood what exactly it was that Phillip Anderson and Sherlock hated so about one another.
“Because I hate him Molly.”
“But why?”
“Because he is Anderson. Now, while I agree that the story seems unlikely, I do know that the Roman’s once used goats to inflict a similar torture on victims that eventually lead to death.”
“Certainly I misheard you Sherlock, did you say a goat?”
“Indeed. They would take a victim and suspend him over a type of scaffolding through which their feet were exposed. Underneath this scaffolding would be one or more goats. The pleasant fellow doing the torture would coat the bottom of the victim’s feet with honey and salt, causing the goat to lick it for hours at a time. Eventually this would drive the man mad.”
“So you can be tickled to death then.”
“Don’t be daft Molly. Those men were not given food or water, they were also beaten and likely kept in horrid conditions. You can’t compare the two. Our corpse here was clearly in excellent physical condition and must have been accustomed to this type of thing to some extent. I have thoroughly inspected her body and cannot find a single defensive wound on her, so if the club owner is in fact a killer, he certainly managed to lure her into his trap rather than forcing her there.”
Sherlock rolled the body over and inspected the back as well, noticing nothing out of the ordinary before slamming his hand angrily against the wall. “Damn it. I know that this woman was not murdered, I can see it Molly, I just don’t know how to prove the mans innocence, and April here is no master conversationalist. Though I am pained to say it, I am unsure of what to do next.”
Molly went to her desk and fetched the lock that Sherlock had tossed there and secured the body back in the locker. She then took a look at the destruction of her desk and set to straightening it, as Sherlock all the while paced slowly back and forth, mumbling to himself and stopping occasionally to stare at the locker, as if he could almost make out the shape of the dead girl there.
“I’ve got it!” He exclaimed after some time, looking around the room as if he was somewhat surprised to find himself there. “We don’t have a goat, or a Roman prisoner, but you will stand in well enough for the latter of the two and despite my lack of horns I believe I can replicate the job of the goat to some degree or another in this particular instance.”
Molly was listening to him, watching as he crossed the room to her quickly and drew his belt from his trousers in a single quick pull. “Sherlock, what are you-“
“Practical application Ms. Hooper, we must replicate the circumstances in which April died, in order to see if we can achieve a similar outcome.”
Before she could argue against the idea Sherlock was already behind her chair and pulling her arms behind her. Her chair was built in such a way that the arm wrests acted like barriers as he drew her hands together and wrapped his belt tight around them. “Sherlock!” She said. “Release me this instant!”
Molly struggled to free herself, but found that her hands were in fact quite secure there, and though she could lean forward and squirm a bit there was no hope of fending off what she feared was coming.
“Why Ms. Hooper. I don’t believe I have ever heard you speak to me in such a tone. I find myself offended as well as intrigued. All the same it’s a bit late for that, you being tied up and all.” He knelt down and flicked open the small leather strap keeping her patent leather pump in place and set it gently aside, treating her shoe far nicer than he had the lock. When he took her by the ankle and looked up at her from below, the striking blue gray of his eyes cut through her and despite her terror, Molly went still.
“Please.” She whimpered, but Sherlock only smiled.
“Put your worries to rest Molly, I won’t tickle you until you die, I only wish to know if such a thing is possible. How about this, if you believe I am taking things too far you say a simple word, and I will stop, so that you can allow me to proceed with my little experiment without fear of becoming overwhelmed.”
“What word?” Molly asked, surprised to hear herself sounding as though she were almost agreeing to what he was suggesting. She could not deny she had always had feelings for him, if this were a chance for some of those feelings to come to life in a physical way, she could at least allow it a chance, she supposed.
“Something simple, how about… Elocution.”
“That seems a difficult word to say in a hurry.” Molly protested.
“Funny isn’t it, considering the nature of the word?” Sherlock said, and then carried on anyhow. “Now in order for us to best approach this experiment I first need to know where you are most ticklish. Do you have much experience with being tickled?”
“Not since I was a- STOP! Ahhhhahahahahah!” She screamed, the scream turning into laughter as he drug a finger across the soft bottom of her foot. A strange feeling shot through her foot and up into her leg, finally coming to rest there with a pleasant warmness. “I wasn’t ready!”
“Nobody is ever ready for a thing of this nature I imagine.” He said, drawing his finger again down her foot and sending her into a fit of laughter and shivers. He traced his finger across the lines of her sole, and then when she was kicking with sickening delight he set that foot down and went to the other. Knowing what was coming made Molly all the more sensitive, and she was giggling and squealing before he ever touched her.
“I dare say that you may be enjoying this too much Ms. Hooper.”
“Was the dead girl not enjoying it you think?” Molly asked. “Because if not, perhaps Anderson has bested you this time after all Mr. Holmes?”
He stared at her with a look of shock, if such a look was possible for Sherlock Holmes, and Molly found herself quite proud of her little verbal jab, that was until he put her foot down and brought his hands to her ribcage. “Despite what many of the plebs believe, I assume that as a pathologist you know every human has twelve sets of ribs, man and woman alike. So, I will start at the bottom most rib and count my way to the top, making note of the severity of laughter accompanying each numbered set of ribs. That way we can begin to gather some data as to how best achieve maximum levels of stimulation.”
His fingers sunk gently into her sides and every muscle in Molly’s body went taut with anticipation. As he began exploring her ribcage he took great care to listen to the rise and fall of her unstoppable laughter, but it did not take long to discover that the fleshy hollow of her underarm was the most ticklish. It was not without some pleasure of his own that he spent some time there gently poking and stroking at her, stopping only when her face was wet with tears and each breath was coming in a harsh ragged pull.
“Sherlock…” Molly gasped. “Please… just…”
“Begging does not become you Molly.” Sherlock said, then let his hands fall to her hips, causing her to jump. Sherlock looked down, then opened his hands and let his fingers rest against her thighs, fingers tracing delicately around her hipbones. When he pressed harder she giggled again, and then as he began to let his hands dance across her thighs and hips the giggles gave way to hysterics once again, and she thrashed and kicked against the chair. Sherlock discovered that with each location of her body, Molly laughed in a slightly different pitch, and found himself playing the instrument of her flesh as though it were his violin perched gently in his arms. He strummed her foot, grazed her hips, stroked ever so carefully across her ribs until her cries became a delicious melody of confusion and pleasure.
There was no hope for Molly, she, like a roman prisoner, was subject to the relentless assault for this beautiful man as he watched on with fascination while tears streamed down her face, finding her chin and leaping away. She was his, for that moment, and though she knew it would end and he would once again go back to seeing her as nothing more than a tool he could use to solve his mysteries, there, in that instant, they were connected just as an instrument and it’s true master must be, making beautiful music together.
When she could take no more, when her breath would no longer come and her vision began to spot over with the splotchy flare of impending unconsciousness, she gave in to her body and cried out. “El… El… Eloc…”
“You want me to electrocute you? No no dear girl, this is strictly about the tickling.”
“El..” She continues to try and say, but the maniacal laughter gripping her would not cease, nor would the beautiful sociopath torturing her.
“Eloquent? Elephant? Elegant?” Sherlock asked, and then just as darkness invaded her vision completely and her body began to tingle and go slack, Sherlock finally relented.
“Ms. Hooper, it may be that you may have helped save a man’s life today. I doubt I can convince Anderson so easily but perhaps if I can find myself a goat I can make the point all the more clearly.” Sherlock said, sliding her shoes back onto her feet and loosening the belt at her wrist. “Or even better, it may kill him.” He finished with a smile.
“You are welcome.” She said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“If it’s thanks you want go find the accused club owner, being allowed to participate in my investigation should be all the appreciation you require, I would think.”
“No, it’s just that I thought… Well… I don’t know.”
Sherlock nodded, adjusting his belt back into place. “It’s best that way, leaving the thinking up to me. It’s not that you are completely hopeless of course. Either way, I suppose you did offer me your service when I may have had to pay a prostitute, so thank you for that. There, you have your thanks after all, do you feel better now?”
“Sherlock…” She said to him, as he pulled his phone from his pocket and began making his way toward the exit.
“Yes, Molly, I know. This was a one-time thing. You are not some sick and twisted individual who, like the late April, gets her kicks by being controlled and as you so eloquently put it earlier, molested. Don’t worry yourself over it, I won’t stalk the corners of your lab waiting for my next chance to pounce upon you and secure you to a piece of furniture so I can use your body for experiments as well as my own personal amusement. Nor do I think that this makes us special to one another in some strange way. But if you should find yourself recalling something about the event that you think may help me converse Anderson give me a call… better yet just text me, you know how I deplore too much conversation. Good day Ms. Hooper.” Sherlock Holmes said to her, and he was gone with a swirl of his black coat as the door closed behind him.
“No.” She said to the door, knowing he could no longer hear her. “You never gave me back my key…”
End -
