My first-ever fanfic, and my first time writing in third person since seventh-grade English.

Note: Non-consensual sex is not okay. Please don't read if you find work like this offensive, as you well should! For all of you like me, who like skipping to the smut, you'll find it mostly in Chapters 3 and 4. Ah, the wonders of fanfic.

Again, to reiterate: WHAT HAPPENS IN THIS FIC IS NOT OKAY IN ANY SENSE OF THE WORD

Update: If you enjoyed this then I encourage you to subscribe even though it's finished (for now) because I uploaded it all at once (being a newbie) and it didn't have time to gather followers, which in turns deters people from reading it.

Molly Hooper was a virgin.

It wasn't from lack of interest. Far from it. In fact, sex was never far from her mind.

Looking at her, quiet and mousy in her white lab coat, you would never believe the images her brain teamed with: fat glistening cocks thrusting deep into her pussy, slick hard cocks ramming her from behind, thick hot penises pulsing down her throat…

It wasn't from lack of opportunity, either. She wasn't very pretty, but she wasn't bad-looking, either. There had been plenty of nice-looking men she could have slept with had she wanted.

Yet Molly Hooper remained a virgin.

A virgin who's not getting any younger, she reminded herself gloomily as she sliced into a corpse. It was a young man's corpse. A mere boy, really.

Part of the reason was the fact that she expected too much from a man, and she knew it. No man's fingers could surpass her vibrator collection, no man's penis could possibly be longer or thicker or harder than her dildos. Or last longer, for that matter. No man could last as long as one of her dildos, and needed more than five minutes of penetration to satisfy herself. And back to the size issue: it wasn't like you could ask your date to pull it out over dinner, whip out your tape measure, see if you really wanted to take him home!

Take this corpse, for example. Nice face, nice abs, but his cock! Even doing the math, doubling it to estimate how it would be when it was erect—it was nothing at all like the king of her dildo collection.

She had named the dildo Oscar, after the American hot dog company.

And, no matter what men said about the motion of the ocean, Molly believed strongly in boat size. When most men were packing sailboats, Molly wanted a battleship.

And she had cut up enough male corpses to know that when it came to cocks, there was no matching Oscar. Or even Tony, Marcus, or Danny. And men had no natural arc like her slim silver darling Steve, perfectly curved to hit that lovely sweet spot every time.

Well, there was that one corpse, but he had a genital deformity. Ugh. That one had caused her to skip lunch and question the hospital's policy of examining the entire body during an autopsy.

I wonder what a man would say if I pulled out my vibrator in middle of sex, she thought to herself as she pulled off her bloodstained gloves and tossed them in the trash. There's no way even oral sex can be that good. There's only so much manual stimulation can do, right?

And to lie there, legs open, unsated, while he satisfied himself—she refused to allow herself to be used like that, like a toy for someone else's pleasure, because no matter what the man's best intentions were or how much he wanted to please her, she knew she would feel used.

There was also the problem that she was simply not very sexually attracted to men. Not real men, anyway. Aragorn, yes. Thranduil, yes. (The Lord of the Rings weren't her usual kind of movies, but she had been glad she had gone). And Johnny Depp—check there, but only as Sweeney Todd or Jack Sparrow…(those were date movies. Upon reflection, Jim's renting Sweeney Todd should have been a red flag). She wasn't even attracted to the actors, but to the characters they played.

And then, of course, there was Sherlock Holmes.

There was a cool inhumanity about Sherlock, a certain detachment, an unreality, that added him to the roster of beautiful men who only existed in people's collective imaginations, and could therefore be made to do and be anything she wished.

There was no emotional messiness to fear with Sherlock. She was not sure he was capable of even sexual messiness, and that added fuel to her sex fantasies of him, a lot like those girls who would drool over untouchable gay men.

Not, she thought to herself as she scrubbed her hands, that good gay porn is not hot.

Perhaps that untouchable gayness had been what subconsciously attracted her to Jim when he was pretending to be gay.

No, you're not afraid of sex. You're afraid of bad sex.

She thought for a moment about Jim leaning on over the lab's sink, arms hooked over the rim for support, being taken from behind by Sherlock—
The obscene slap of balls and skin—

Sherlock, with Jim's cock shoved deep down his long beautiful throat—

She smacked her forehead to jar the images out of her brain. She had been trying to tone down her sexual fantasies lately, to keep them within the realm of possibility. No more spitroasting or exhibitionism. All that did was heat a furnace that could never possibly bake anything.

And he's not "Jim," he's MORIARITY, a MURDERER, she reminded herself. He killed over a dozen people and blew up an old woman, for heaven's sake!

In that case, Moriarity being held down and raped by an entire prison block, Moriarity spitroasted on his hands and knees—

No, none of that! Think of nice, ordinary vanilla sex. Red silk sheets, candles, rose petals…

Nice, ordinary, boring vanilla sex.

She was straitening up the lab, waiting for her next corpse or tissue sample, when Sherlock entered, coat swishing out like a superhero's cape, gray-blue eyes even sharper and more intense than usual.

She could tell Moriarity was bothering him too simply by the look on his face.

Though somehow she didn't think it was exactly the same kind of bothering.

Too bad.