Chapter Text
Anthea comes into the bathroom fully clothed and with a rapid, door-barging move that shows she's back to secret agent mode. There's a quick automatic smile at Molly that turns into a slightly longer glance up and down the other woman's naked body. But then Anthea's eyes are moving away, scanning around the room, and she pulls out her Blackberry and starts to type with nimble thumbs.
I've got it all wrong, Molly thinks, feeling heat in her cheeks that isn't just from the bath. Then Anthea walks over to her, another cheery smile on her face and holds up the screen of her phone.
She's so obvious sometimes. Camera is installed in chandelier over the right-hand basin.
This is Irene Adler's house. Of course there are hidden cameras in the bathrooms. And there must be microphones as well, if Anthea's doing that. Molly steps back towards the bath and turns on the taps full. This almost certainly won't work the way it does in the movies, but never mind. She walks right up to the other woman and stands on tiptoe, as she whispers into Anthea's ear:
"I want you."
Her breasts, still rosy from the bath, press against the soft black fabric of Anthea's jumpsuit. Anthea puts one arm round her, pulls in her closer. With the other hand, she's still typing.
I could take you to a safe house.
"I'm not interested in safety," Molly replies. Out loud.
So you want to drive two women wild at the same time?
Put it like that, and there's only one answer, isn't there? She's not sure she can give Irene much of a show, but she's quite willing to try.
"Yes," she says, and blows a kiss in what she hopes is the direction of the camera. "But I should probably turn off the taps first. And...could you put your phone away?"
By the time Molly turns back round from the bath, picking up a towel, Anthea's already stripping, with the unconscious confidence of someone who doesn't need any special technique to attract others. She just is sexy; not like Irene, who's trained herself to be desirable.
Molly folds up the towel carefully, putting it on the marble tiling. As she kneels down on it, she wishes that Irene wasn't quite so obsessed with uncarpeted floors. It would be more comfortable back on the bed, of course, but that feels too much like Irene's territory. Irene may get to watch them here, but she's not in charge any more.
Anthea walks across to stand in front of Molly. She has neatly trimmed pubic hair and Molly's hands, reaching out, can feel the muscle hidden within those slender thighs. All woman, all desirable. She wishes she was more experienced, but there's no use pretending.
"I've never done this before," she says. "With a woman. You'll have to tell me what to do."
Anthea smiles down at her, and the easy warmth is back in her voice, the tone that makes Molly feel she can do anything.
"You'll be fine," Anthea says, and her hand runs gently down Molly's cheek. "Just take it slowly to start with."
***
As Irene spotted, Molly's own experience of oral sex has been mostly disappointing. Apart from with Irene, of course, but she wasn't taking detailed notes then. But she's good at following instructions – a lab technician has to be – and nothing about bodies squicks her out. Her hands and tongue – soft and precise – open up Anthea at Anthea's own command, explore her, tease and push and nibble. Till Anthea's cool facade crumbles and she's wet and shuddering and messy and human. Her hands tighten painfully on Molly's shoulders as she comes, and Molly's knees and back are aching, but it's her name that Anthea calls, so none of the rest of it matters. She gets up stiffly and hugs Anthea, kisses her, face dripping with Anthea's own juices and then whispers into her ear again:
"Mission accomplished."
She doesn't need a photograph of Anthea's gorgeous smile at that point; she can't imagine ever forgetting that look.
***
Molly's still putting her tights back on when Anthea, already dressed, pulls out her small gun and starts checking it.
"I'm not quite sure how long Irene's truce will last," she says casually. "So I think we had better go now."
"Do you...are going to need that?" Molly asks, trying not to sound petrified.
"Very unlikely," Anthea replies. "I think that Irene will probably be replaying our last encounter right now. But I don't want any nasty surprises, especially not when you're with me. So follow me, and if I signal you to stop, stand still."
It's impossible to escape quietly from a house with hardwood floors when wearing heels. Molly wishes she'd read up more on chic outfits for burglars before she came, but Anthea doesn't seem worried about the noise she's making as they head towards the front door.
"Once we're outside, we turn immediately right and keep walking along the road," Anthea says. "I've ordered a car to meet us in a couple of minutes." She squeezes Molly's hand reassuringly. "You've been very brave tonight, Molly."
Her voice is cheery but impersonal, nothing like the passionate woman of quarter of an hour ago; but maybe it's just that her mind's back on her job. And certainly, now they're out of the seclusion of the bathroom, Molly finds herself growing nervous again. As they walk out of the house, she clutches at Anthea's hand for reassurance more than any romantic feelings.
"Here's the car," Anthea says, after a moment, and sure enough, there's a huge black four-by-four stopping just next to them. Molly doesn't normally approve of "Chelsea tractors" in London, but right now it looks wonderfully solid, able to survive anything Irene might plan. The driver's window slides down.
"Good evening, Miss Anthea," the chauffeur says. He also looks big and solid and able to take on all known threats.
"Hi, Tony," Anthea says brightly. She pulls out her phone, and checks it, even as she carries on: "We're done here for the night, so we need to take Molly home. She lives in Colliers Green. Hop in the back, Molly."
She opens the car door and Molly climbs a little awkwardly in; the car's quite a way off the ground and her legs are suddenly feeling like jelly. In fact, she aches all over and she's exhausted, now the excitement is wearing off. As she fumbles for her seat-belt, Anthea swings the door shut, and suddenly the car is pulling away.
"What are you doing?" Molly demands.
"Taking you home," the driver replies, "just like Miss Anthea says. Don't worry, Miss Hooper, it's all been arranged."
She's not sure what to say, but then Beyoncé sings out on her phone, and there's a text:
Thanks for all your help with Irene. Tonight was lovely, but I have to get clearance to see you again. The way I want to see you.
A (for Alice originally)
None of it makes sense to Molly's weary brain. But if she wanted to have things make sense she should never have got involved with a supposedly-dead dominatrix. Let alone with a woman whose real name she didn't even know. As she sits silently in the car, driving through the glittering London streets, the evening's events all start to blur into unreality. Did she really do that? Or was it just a few hours out of time, when Molly disappeared and mirror-universe Molly, who loves girls and doesn't care about consequences, took her place?
***
One month later
Sherlock comes into the lab at Barts when Molly's setting equipment up there. He's on his own, which is probably just as well; Molly might have had a hysterical fit if she'd seen him and Dr Watson together, after what she's been imagining when she drifts off to sleep for the last four weeks.
There's been no word from Anthea; Molly's starting to wonder if "getting clearance" was just an excuse. Maybe Anthea doesn't want to see her again, or isn't allowed to. But every time she looks at the photo that Irene took of them together, she remembers that at least she has something. The solid knowledge that Anthea, whose name is fake, whom Molly barely knows, is turned on by her. That Molly can break through that cool facade, turn Anthea into need and passion. And when she looks at the other photo, of Irene and her in bed...
She leaves the lab hurriedly, because Sherlock can doubtless recognise the exact expression made by a woman remembering her first cross-dressed same-sex encounter. And will then comment on it in a superior tone of voice. But eventually she creeps back, because...because he's the real thing after all. She still dreams about men, as well as women. At least about Sherlock, and now Sherlock-and-John, which proves that Irene has done something appalling to her subconscious. But maybe if she concentrates on Sherlock, her brain will unscramble itself.
She breathes deeply, trying to calm herself, and then walks back in, plotting a route which will "accidentally" take her behind him, so she can see what he's staring at on the computer screen. Sherlock's normally willing to make some kind of conversation with her about his work, if only to point out how her helpful suggestions are completely wrong. As she walks past, she recognises from the colours on the screen that it's an X-ray, before she registers that no-one's body looks like that. It's more like the images they use for security checking...a suitcase? No, just one rectangular object, she thinks, craning her neck slightly. And then she works out what it is.
"Is that a phone?" she says, and her voice comes out all high and silly, as usual when she's with Sherlock.
"It’s a camera phone," he replies, without bothering to look at her.
"And you’re X-raying it?" Why do I ask such stupid questions? I know he is.
"Yes, I am." Sherlock's still staring at the screen.
"Whose phone is it?" she asks, and then realises that she knows. It's surely too much of a coincidence that he uses the phrase "camera phone" just like Anthea did. He's still got Irene's phone, hasn't he? He's trying to unlock its secrets.
"A woman’s," he replies.
The Woman's. But she mustn't let on how much she knows about Irene now. She has to keep her mission secret.
"Your girlfriend?" she says hastily, and then thinks: Help, I shouldn't have said that. Because it suggests that I'm imagining him in bed. Or that I think Irene is his girlfriend because she's obsessed with him, except I'm not supposed to know about Irene, because she's officially dead, and does Sherlock know that or not, and...
Sherlock frowns. "You think she’s my girlfriend because I’m X-raying her possessions?"
She's coming across as completely mad, but that's better than him guessing. But why isn't he able to deduce what happened? That a month ago she had a threesome with Anthea and Irene, and there are pictures on her own phone to prove it. She mustn't look down at the pocket where her phone is, or he'll know. Sherlock can deduce anything. Unless she distracts him.
She laughs nervously and says: "Well, we all do silly things."
"Yes," Sherlock replies automatically, and then his body stills, as his eyes go wide. He's worked it out, hasn't he, in that brilliant brain of his? He lifts his head and looks round at Molly, and he knows everything, of course. She can tell that.
"They do, don’t they?" he announces. "Very silly." And then, at the moment she's about to confess, to tell him the whole truth, he jumps up, and whirls away. Hurries over to the X-ray machine to pull out the phone. Irene's phone.
"She sent this to my address, and she loves to play games," Sherlock says as he types into the phone.
"She does?" Molly says in dismay, because what if Irene's decided that Sherlock might want a souvenir photo from that evening as well? Or...her mind is dizzy at all the embarrassing tricks that Irene might be trying to play. But Sherlock's triumphant look at the phone has changed to exasperation now, and he puts it away and sits back down at the screen again.
He's not looking at her. He hasn't worked out about her. Sherlock Holmes, who can supposedly deduce anything, can't imagine that Molly knows information he doesn't. And as he ignores her, and starts tapping away at the keyboard again, she watches him intently.
He's beautiful and brilliant, of course, but she remembers abruptly what John wrote on his blog once about Sherlock being "spectacularly ignorant". He didn't work out about Jim, or Irene not being dead, or who her Christmas present was for, or...
Or the fact that she's sitting three foot away from him right now, wondering if he'd be as good in bed as Irene pretending to be him. She shouldn't be thinking about that, obviously, but now she is, the thoughts flood in. He's fit and sexy, of course, and his clothes are wonderful, and maybe underneath them he is better-endowed than average, but that's not all that matters, is it?
Because whatever else she's fantasised in the last month, she suddenly can't imagine Sherlock caring where her G-spot is. Or working out exactly what she likes, so he can give it to her. Sherlock in bed with her – with anyone – that's the fantasy, isn't it? Irene as Sherlock is more real by far. That may not make sense, but her body knows it's right.
Her body. Just the memory of Irene, of that night is getting her...horny. Wanting. She is sitting there wanting sex right now, and Sherlock hasn't noticed. And if she stripped naked and went and sat in his lap, he probably still wouldn't notice, and that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with him.
Not that she's going to do that; someone else might come into the lab. And she's a professional, she's at work, she has to behave professionally. She should not be sitting here, thinking about sex. She should be getting on with her job, not...
Not being bad. But she wants to be, it's just nobody but Irene ever realised that before. Not even Molly herself. She pulls out her phone and scrolls down to find Irene's message. For a moment, she wonders if Irene's changed the number since...since she died. Because if not, she may have found the one thing she could do that will get Sherlock's attention. She thinks for a moment about what to say in the text, just in case it is about to appear on the phone not a yard away from her. She needs to make sure that no-one but Irene will understand the message.
Meet me tonight, same hotel as before. 7.30 pm. I'll give you what you want.
Minnie C.
She types it out and then her hand hovers over the send button. It's not the sort of text that she sends. Not a polite What would you like to do? Or If you happened to be free tonight. Not the thing a nice girl writes to anyone, let alone to Irene Adler.
What am I doing, she wonders, and admits to herself it's the wrong message to send. It's not really what she wants, is it? She erases the last sentence and starts to type again.
Call another truce and I'll give you what you both want.
M
Then she scrolls down through her contacts, adds Anthea to the recipients list and fires off the text. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't, but she's at least going to try and get them together again. Because bad girls always want more, she thinks. And then she walks out of the lab past Sherlock, smiling sweetly at him as he glares impotently at Irene's old phone.