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Molly’s heart wasn’t pounding. It wasn’t even beating, as far as she could tell – her fingers were cold and she couldn’t feel her legs even though they were still moving steadily toward Greg Lestrade’s office, which had never seemed so far away from the lifts before.
The click-clack of her shoes echoed in the empty bullpen, the sound bouncing off the caves of the desks and made louder by the sheer silence of the darkened, nighttime space. The lone light was from Greg’s office, and Molly could see him sitting at his desk, bent over in front of a folder of papers, one hand in his hair to support his head from falling over asleep.
Molly’s heart twisted, and then started beating again. She took a breath, and kept going.
“Molly?” asked Greg when she slipped into his office. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, and the words she’s meant to say caught in Molly’s throat. “What are you doing here, I said I’d pick you up at eight—“
“It’s half past ten now,” said Molly, and she locked his door behind her with a snick, and took a breath. Funny how she could hear him frown, even as she heard his squeaky chair turn so that he could look at the clock.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Greg, and Molly turned so that her back was firmly pressed against the door. “I’m sorry, I missed our reservation.”
“It’s okay. It’s just dinner.”
Greg shook his head. “It’s this sodding case, I can’t….”
“I know,” said Molly gently, and took a step forward, wishing she didn’t have to feel quite so brave about it. “You don’t have to say it.”
“If Sherlock was—” Greg stopped, closed his eyes. Molly’s heart twisted again, not from a painful sort of love this time, but just from pain. Greg’s eyes opened again. “I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow night, yeah?”
Molly was next to him now. She set her hands on his shoulders, and felt his hands rest on her coat, just above her hips. She could feel their warmth through the thin fabric, felt it slide against her skin as he curved his hands.
Molly took a breath. Now or never. He’d realize, in another moment.
“No,” she said, and pulled open her coat, and let it drop to the floor. It slid against the silk slip she wore underneath, caught on Greg’s wrists as he stared up at her, dumbfounded, his mouth falling open a little bit.
Molly shivered a little, in the cold office – and realized, a bit too late, that Greg’s window blinds were open. It was dark enough outside that she could see their hazy, out-of-focus reflections in the glass; Greg on his chair, tired and awestruck, his sleeves rolled up and his hair standing on end where he’d run his fingers through.
Molly ran her own fingers through, to smooth it down so that she could be the one to mess it up again, and Greg let her coat drop to the floor by her shoes. His hands landed on her thighs now, the silky smoothness of the hose she wore, and Molly caught her breath as he ran his fingers up lightly, until he reached the top of the thigh-highs and touched her bare skin.
And stopped.
“Molly,” he said, low, almost a growl, and Molly’s heart skipped a beat.
“Keep going,” said Molly, and brushed his hair back down again as she leaned in closer to feel his warmth.
He did, letting the black silk of her slip slide over his too-warm hands, deliciously warm hands, and he pulled her close as those hands cupped her bare buttocks.
Molly didn’t look at the window. Didn’t want to know if anyone was watching. Probably they were.
But when Greg pushed the slip up, past her abdomen, and rested his lips there against her stomach – Molly decided she didn’t care.
Let ‘em watch.