Author's Notes: This story is finally back! 3 years late... Apologies. This is a longer chapter to make up for it, but further chapters (which I am not intending to take 3 years to be updated!) will be shorter in length.


Quality Service:

Service that consistently meets or exceeds customer expectation.


The dressing gown was thin, worn and smelt of aftershave. Rubbing her eyes, Molly yawned and slowly padded out of the bedroom. She stopped when she came into the kitchen. He was already there, spoon tucked between his lips as he made tea and his head bobbing in time to the quiet radio. He looked around when she entered and grinned. It was a timid grin, the standard greeting expression between two people for this situation.

"Morning," he said lightly. It was his voice that had caused her to do it, among other things. Over chocolate mousse, she had met him. Creamy, light mousse had always been Meena's forte. Desserts in general. In the London morning, he leaned casually against the worktop and pushed a cup of tea towards her. His grin stretched into something more genuine. She returned it, hesitantly, and shuffled forwards. Her fingers curled around the cup. It was white, plain, the handle chipped. She drank.

"Good morning."

"So – what exactly happened with him?" A question asked by Meena as she'd washed up between courses; a question that had made Molly regret doing the kind thing of volunteering to help. "I know I promised not to ask," she'd explained. "But in my defence – you've been acting strange ever since your appointment with him."

"You slept okay?" She looked up at the question, looking into his green eyes. They were almost an emerald green. Carried a smile in them, like her father's. She sat at the kitchen table, some glass concoction with spindly metal legs that made her feel awkward about where she placed her hands and how she crossed her legs. She tapped her nails against the white china cup, humming softly some nondescript tune from an advert.

"Slept fine," she answered distractedly, her mind more on the previous night than any awkward 'morning after' conversation. Though Meena would refuse to believe it, she was an intuitive soul. She could see past words and focus on body language. Molly bit back a smile when she remembered how she'd quietly said only that she'd had fun on her appointment. Meena had given a cry of triumph before she'd stuck a foamy, Marigold-covered finger in Molly's direction.

"You did that when I first asked you about him," Meena had claimed, her finger wiggling and moving forward to tap Molly on the nose. "That whole – avoiding eye contact thing."

A tell she needed to work on, Molly thought as she sipped the tea given to her. It was bitty and thin, the tea, a symptom of a not properly washed kettle. She smiled and told him that it was good.

"That means you're deliberately avoiding talking about it." Meena's voice loomed up in her head again, an eyebrow raised and a withering look in her features. Molly cringed internally at the memory.

"Look, we – had fun," had been her exasperated response to Meena's enquiry. "What else do you want to know? How many orgasms I had?" (Meena had only truly dropped the subject when Molly pointed out the fact Meena hadn't mentioned her appointment at all until her recommendation.)

She blinked when she saw long fingers reach across the table and tap at the glass. Looking up, she saw his lopsided grin. There had been a range of reasons why she'd gone back to Carl's at the end of the night. He was sweet, flirtatious, could hold a good conversation. Molly supposed that it was Meena who'd been the true tipping point. Her inquiries, her interrogation, had switched something in her brain and made her want to forget about it all, if just for one tiny little moment. The hotel room, the thrum she'd felt and those damn blue eyes. Thankfully, Carl hadn't proved much of a disappointment to her faith. Though he'd been more skilled with his fingers than his tongue, he at least didn't demand she 'reward' him for his efforts.

"You looked like you were lost in another world there," he said, a joke in his tone.

"Mm – I space out, um," she bit her bottom lip, "sometimes. Quite a bit, actually. Makes it hard to keep track of conversations."

Carl took a gulp of his tea. Maybe he was as nervous as her. It was a comforting assumption. "I had an old uni friend who did that. Drove me mad. Had to keep repeating myself, updating them on where the conversation had gone – everything like that."

She laughed, weakly. "Hopefully I'm not as bad as that."

His returning chuckle was thinner than his tea. It was as if she, he, the both of them were kids, forced to socialise on the very first day of the new school year. "No, no you're – you're not."

They endured two or so more minutes of small talk before Carl broke and volunteered to make her another cup of tea. She gave a polite smile, avoiding his eyes as she stood.

"I'm alright. I just thought I'd – um – get a – I'll be okay. Just need to be heading home. Big day at work tomorrow." (He didn't mention the fact it was a Saturday.) With a smile and a needless wave of her hand, she headed back into the bedroom to pick up her things. Soon dressed, leaving his dressing gown folded neatly on the bed, she left the flat with a hurried goodbye.

Heading outside, she waved down a taxi, clambering into the warm cab, sinking into the safe seats. The taxi driver entertained her with some conversation about the London traffic as he pulled away. Molly chewed at her thumb. Numbly, she watched the grey scenery pass her by.


The bedsheets, crisp and white, pooled against her hips. The small and high of her back was exposed to the morning warmth of the room, spilling through the polished glass. She held the sheets against her chest as she sat up, blinking herself awake. He was stood by the table of refreshments, already half-dressed and his fingers working with ease at his shirt buttons. She studied the plain white of the bed. Flexed her toes. Pressed her lips together. Linked her fingers. Let her hands drop to her sides.

"What is it?"

She lifted her eyes towards him. Her index finger, now tracing patterns into the bedsheets, stilled. "What?"

"You want to tell me something," he said, still doing up his shirt.

Two months into this, and he was reading her mind as well as he read her body. (Soon after the second session, they'd decided on every other week. More discreet, her reasoning. The reality was that seeing him every week made it too real. Every other week kept it on the right side of a good thing.)

"Um – there was – a little thing," she mumbled. She closed her eyes.

A little thing.

Sex was never a little thing. Even if it only was a one-night encounter between strangers. Or a transaction. Bad, good, wonderful, average; it could never be a little thing. A memory, even the briefest, always took up some sort of room, bedding down into the hippocampus of the brain. (She'd seen more brains than anyone else she'd met, or would ever meet, most likely. She gave them names, most of the time. It seemed a waste otherwise, all those memories and thoughts and processes ending up as grey matter for her to pull apart and form into data.) She pressed the heel of her palm into the sheets.

"My friend held this dinner party, and I – met this – guy."

An amused smirk appeared at the corners of his mouth. He briefly ran his fingers over his dark curls as he sat on the edge of the bed. His back was to her. His smirk rose into a grin as he looked at her over his shoulder.

"You had a one-night stand."

Molly curled her legs up to her chest, letting the bedsheets slip from her hands, folding her arms over her knees. She tucked her chin against her forearms. Let out a breath.

"You're a client." His tone was crisp as he stood, something rehearsed in his professional manner. She breathed a little easier. "There's no personal connection, is there?"

His blue eyes remained on hers. Molly laughed and tucked her hair back behind her ear.

"Exactly."

"Mm-hm." He reached down, picking up his shoes. His fingers reached underneath the laces to flip them open with ease.

"Can I ask a question?" she asked into the quiet.

"Go ahead."

"Do you enjoy sex?"

Slipping on a shoe, he paused. He was unblinking when he looked back at her. "Obviously."

He was short with his words, his tone singular and smooth. Nothing significant about his demeanour had changed. He was still crisp, still calm but she saw it. He tugged at the laces now; hurried to loop them into knots. Something about her question, or the way she worded it, was off-putting to him. Molly shrank back, wishing she could take back her curiosity. Sherlock stood. He headed towards the two chairs. Neatly folded across one was his suit jacket.

"You think you've said something wrong. Don't." Turning back, he slipped the jacket on with ease. There was a hint of a smile beneath the cool professional. "And you're not off-putting. Next Sunday?"

She watched him as he strolled towards the door. Back in the realms of business, he was languid, relaxed. All she had to do was keep them there.

Hand on the door handle, he tilted his head. "Well?"

The trill of a phone had both of their heads turning. He searched his trouser pockets. She bent down, let the sheets slide free from her body, to open her bag. The screen of her phone glowed blue with an anonymous identity, a name underneath it. Carl. Her eyes settled on the green button that flashed, offering up the words 'Answer Call'.

It took a second for the ringing to stop. Call declined, the screen slid back to a default picture of an ocean wave. Just one she'd chosen at random. Meena, by contrast, changed hers weekly. A new picture of Lily beaming up at the phone camera one week. A blurred selfie of a rare night out, all city lights and laughter, the next.

"Sorry about that," she said. "It – wasn't important."

His eyes narrowed. Another minor shift in the professionalism. "I didn't ask."

She swallowed. Her throat felt achingly dry. Shaking her head, she chuckled. Silly.

Looking up, she smiled brightly.

"I know. Next Sunday?"

His mouth relaxed into a smirk at her echo of his words. Amusement returned to his eyes. Opening the door, he gave a mockingly sober nod. "Next Sunday."


"If I could be allowed an observation." He spoke without preamble. Her hair was damp and wound round her shoulder from the shower, and her hand was in her purse. It took two weeks of this arrangement to realise the brown envelope was too close to reality; that she preferred hugging her purse close to her, rather than nervously carrying an envelope like it was weighted down with rocks, the weight only heavier whenever she thought about her cargo and when she checked in and saw the glances exchanged from receptionist to receptionist.

Sighing, Molly straightened and moved towards him. He was in his suit, a crisp white shirt underneath the dark navy jacket.

"Do you usually have observations about your, um—" She gave a one-shouldered shrug as she handed him the money, "clients?"

"You don't seem to talk much," he said, thumbing through the notes, counting under his breath.

"I talk all the time."

"Not about yourself. See you next week?"

"Um, yeah, I guess—" Her phone rang, echoing in the room. Molly hurried round the bed, kicking her abandoned dress out of the way of her feet, she scooped up her phone, pressing it to her ear.

"Hey Molls, need a huge favour," Meena said desperately. She was on the edge of tears. "Simon cancelled on me. Could you take Lily for the afternoon? I've got to leave in five, the fucking hospital has called me in…"

"Yeah, of course," Molly replied. She made a mental note to kill Simon when next she saw him. He was a typical consultant. Swanning around, his own problems more important than his daughter. Once upon a time, he had been a gentleman. Pushing her tights to one side, Molly scooped up her dress, tucking her phone under her chin as she slid the satin material up her legs. The warm material ran over her hips. "I'll, um, just leaving now – I'll be there, traffic permitting in about twenty. I'll run the last mile," she added, glancing round her shoulder. Sherlock glanced back at her, cocking an eyebrow.

"I'll leave her with Mrs Dunbar," Meena's voice said faintly. "She'll rag on me for it, but the old hag's got grandkids, and they kick up enough of a noise when they visit—"

"Hey, I can deal with Mrs Dunbar, not that fragile," Molly said. She laughed, an apology following the noise. "Lily will be fine. I'll call you later."

"You're a fucking star, Molls," Meena replied, and the familiar beep told her the arrangement was made.

"I've got to go." Stuffing her tights into her handbag, sliding on her heels, Molly zipped up her bag and briefly reached up, brushing her lips over Sherlock's. "See you next week."

Heading out of the hotel room, she hurried towards the closing lift doors.

Through the doors, she saw him lock the hotel door behind him. His other hand brushed over his mouth.

Molly lifted her fingers to her lips. The pinked skin tingled, her mind flashing back to the goodbye.

As the doors closed, his eyes lifted towards her. She looked away. Dropped her hand from her mouth. Her nails sank against her palm as she clenched her fist, and she didn't explain the indents to Mrs Dunbar.

"Fun time," Mrs Dunbar grumbled, one of her grandchildren hugged close to her hip, and Lily stood, eyes pinked from tears and her thumb tucked between her lips, at her left. Mrs Dunbar tapped Lily on the back, urging her forward.

"Tell Meena to get a proper babysitter next time. Got enough on my plate," she muttered, shutting the door in Molly's face. Molly let out a breath, turning towards Lily. Lily looked through her, straight past her, as Molly sank to a crouch before her.

"Hey," she said softly. "What's up, bun? Mama's gonna be back soon, don't you worry."

Lily was silent in the 80s concrete corridor, among the cracks and cobwebs. Slowly, she lifted her hand up, her fingers outstretched. Molly smiled as she felt Lily's jam-sticky fingers and palm on hers. Pursing her lips, she whistled brightly, moving her hand in arcs with Lily's, as if they were separated by a window. Lily's mouth stretched into a smile.

Finally, Molly's whistle died on her lips as she returned Lily's grin, and she bunched her hands in her lap. "How about ice cream for dinner, and chips for pudding?"

"Mama never allows that," Lily said, awed, and the loud noise of Mrs Dunbar packed away in a box inside her head. Molly chuckled, raising her eyebrows as she spoke.

"I am not Mama," she said with a grin, standing. She offered out her hand. "C'mon. Let's get you home."


Filled with chips and broccoli, with ice cream fresh on her tongue, Lily slept soundly when Meena came tiptoeing through the front door of the flat.

"In bed," Molly mouthed at her.

"Tea?" Meena mouthed back.

"Love one," Molly said, standing and following Meena down the corridor towards the kitchen. As the kettle boiled, Meena unloaded the stories of last minute work. Molly laughed when Meena laughed, and got angry when Meena got angry. As Meena finished, they headed back into the living room, Meena closing the door behind her. She sat in the armchair by the window, crossing her ankles. With a sigh, she rubbed her temple, smiling lazily as she dropped her arm onto her lap.

"Anyway – your afternoon. Less hectic than mine, I'm sure."

"Same as always."

Meena's eyes flickered over her dress; the leaf green satin, the knee-length. The pair of nude heels tucked away in the left-hand corner of the living room.

"Uh-huh."

Molly fought back a blush.

"Molls…" She spoke into the growing silence with her tone that of a negotiator. "You will tell me if you're okay, won't you? I mean… we agreed…"

"M, trust me." Molly's tongue felt rough with the coming lie, like sandpaper, as she rubbed the heel of her foot. "I'm fine. I had lunch with my sister, and you know what she's like. Payday came around, so she booked a table at some super-duper posh place—"

She waved a hand, making a face. Meena chuckled.

"She would." Drinking her tea, her fingers linked around the porcelain mug, Molly curled up on the sofa. She swallowed back the warm liquid. The daylight was reflected a faint blue on the floorboards. The afternoon was approaching dusk. She felt Meena watching her. Certainly, she felt her question long before it was spoken.

"Thought maybe you'd gone out with Colin?" There was a horrible hope in Meena's prodding curiosity.

"No. He was… alright but just… No, he didn't totally do it for me. Not worth the money of a date, M, believe me," Molly laughed.

"He made you suck his cock and didn't even reciprocate, huh?"

"Could say so," she lied, her eyes on the faint blue dusk. Tea finished, she groaned, an old lady noise as she got up from the near-sunken sofa. "See you later."

"See you later. Thanks for looking after Lily. Hopefully, Simon won't cancel on me again next weekend, even if he has managed to convince some poor sod to drop her knickers for him—"

As Meena spoke, Molly slid on her heels and bent down, kissing her friend's forehead. "Someone might accuse you of being jealous on that basis, M."

Meena laughed, smacking Molly's hip with a cushion.

"Shut up. Go on, bugger off," she said, grinning, waving her off as Molly headed towards the flat door.


She was halfway through a stack of paperwork when Mike walked in to her office.

"Hi, Molly—"

Quickly, she held up a finger, gesturing for him to wait. Crumbs spat into her lap, her teeth clumsily chewing on a bite of croissant.

"Sorry," she said as she swallowed, coughing. "I've had to do a breakfast-work combo this morning. Hell."

"Not quite – just a Monday," Mike replied. Molly nodded.

"Mm-hm." Delicately, she wiped the crumbs from her mouth with her napkin, brushing more crumbs off her lap. Straightening, she smiled up at her boss. "Right, what do you need me for?"

"Uh, you've just got a bit of—" Mike's finger gestured to a spot at the corner of his mouth. Understanding, Molly blushed. Grabbing the napkin, she wiped vaguely over her chin.

"Got it?"

"Yeah. Molly, look, I was chatting to some colleagues this morning, in the break room – turns out, there's a pathology conference coming up, down in Middlesex. You'll have to stay overnight, but I think it would be great for you to attend."

Molly struggled to keep her polite smile fixed to her face. Instead, she opted for glancing down at her desk, indiscriminately shuffling papers. Mike was putting his own stamp on it, but the idea stank of concern, and screamed Meena.

"I don't if I've got time, Mike—"

"You're yet to use your holiday time, Molly. And I've discussed it with Jenkins. Had to strongarm him a bit, but he'll happy to cover for you."

"Oh, well – Jenkins is…" She let out a hard breath and shrugged. "That's kind of him."

"Great! I'll e-mail you the details. Any questions?"

"No, none at all," Molly said, returning to her bland, blank shuffling. "Just…"

She heard her office door close, the latch automatically falling into place.

"I just wish people would stop helping."


She should've known something as good as this, something with as much convenient distance as this, was not destined to last.

She swallowed, trying to assemble her features into a look of bemusement. She tilted her head, touching the curls she'd put into her thin hair that morning, in a random, strange impulse of needing to impress.

"Could you check again?" she asked. She could feel sweat gathering at her neck, beads of it on her forehead, under her armpits.

The receptionist's eyes sleekly scanned her, and their polite smile remained fixed on their face while they made a show of typing and clicking something on the computer screen before them.

"Yes, I'm afraid the room has been cancelled, miss." The receptionist's wine-red hair was brushed back into a large bun at the nape of her neck, and her chin swooped down in lines towards a sharp point.

"Any… reason why?" Molly asked, a fumbling attempt at innocence.

(Behind her, outside the hotel, a black saloon pulled up and a brunette, a City type more attached to their phone than the general world, stepped out, followed by a portly balding man in an opulent three-piece. The doorman bowed his head and opened the door without question.)

"We here at Claridge's vet all our clients as part of our quality service, miss, and we reserve the right to cancel a room at any time – despite any arrangements between clients, personal or business. Especially if they're both," the receptionist added.

Heat flooded Molly's cheeks. The receptionist's smile trembled with the threat of a nasty smirk. At once, Molly felt ill-fitting. Her shoes too big, her dress too shiny. Her make-up too thick, her purse too full.

"Understood," she said quietly. She turned around. The hotel doors, already being opened, felt ever more like a threshold, beyond which was the reality. It felt cold on her skin. Colder still as a well-suited pair passed by her. The whispered laughter of the two receptionists came to a swift end as the two approached the desk. Molly paused, watching.

"Sir," said the red-haired receptionist quickly. She looked eager to please. An established client, then, who spent well, probably. "It's wonderful to see you. We have a number of suites for you—"

"I've no need for a room," said the portly man. His voice was calm, but firm. A slice of amusement slivered into his voice, as if everything were a joke that only he could get. "Your manager is who I've come to see."

"Of course, sir. Yes, of course," said the second receptionist. "Follow me, sir."

"We have had recent cancellations—" tried the red-head again. The first receptionist paused, terror flickering through his face. The portly gentleman tilted his head towards the red-head. A small smile appeared.

"You are very eager for a promotion, aren't you?"

The red-head's confidence mellowed. She looked back to the computer.

"Yes, sir."

The portly gentleman left behind a sleek brunette, who was busy typing something quickly into a phone. Not looking up, the brunette sat on one of the lobby's leather sofas, crossing her legs and running her hand through her hair.

Her eyes flicked up, settling on Molly and she had the oddest feeling that this was an honour.

"You look tired," said the brunette. "Sit down."

"I am a bit," Molly replied, though her feet barely ached. The leather was soft underneath her. She sighed, closing her eyes.

"Funny…" she mused.

"What is?" the brunette asked, her attention returned to the phone screen. Molly didn't reply, lifting her eyes towards the hotel's ceiling. The chandeliers glittered with daylight, a mixture of yellow and white. Beyond the thick glass doors, Sunday traffic crawled past at a snail's pace.

What was funny was hard to describe. It had come upon the hotel so suddenly. A quiet, but not a quiet of someone to be feared. It was a respectful quiet, heard in a library or at church, when a bride recited vows. A quiet that would soon break.

"Miss Hooper?"

Molly lifted her head, blinking quickly in the face of the hotel manager. The brunette stood up, joining the side of the portly gentleman. Molly's gaze followed them as they left the hotel.

"Our sincerest apologies for the cancellation of your room. Our computers have been unreliable as of late. We will soon be being replaced with newer models." The manager took a breath. "Your reservation has been reinstated and please, accept this champagne, free of charge as a way of compensation."

A porter appeared at the manager's side, carrying a silver ice bucket. Nested within was a bottle of champagne, two crystal cut glasses tucked between the porter's fingers.

Molly swallowed thickly. Stumbling on her words, she stood, gathering up her purse.

"T-thank you."

"You're welcome, Miss Hooper. The porter will escort you to your room."

The manager's eyes darted towards the glass doors, back to Molly.

"Um. Thank you, yes, thank you." Gathering up her purse, she quickly walked across the length of the lobby, heading to the hotel lift. The porter soon fell into step with her, leaning forward to call for the lift.

The lift doors closed behind her, and the last thing she saw was the brunette returned, shaking hands with the manager.


"It was weird – watching all of it happen before me. How quickly the staff changed. It felt like I was watching the Queen."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, pulling her dress over her shoulders. Molly slipped out of her heels, looking away from him. His jacket was folded over the back of the chair. She'd cracked open a bottle of water, as she always did. A third of it was gone, slipped down her throat.

"I'm sure my brother would be flattered by that description," he said, his fingers dancing over the rim of the ice bucket. He picked up a handful of ice cubes, grinning at Molly's gasp.

"Brother? He—" She blushed beetroot.

"If he isn't too busy being the British government, he's making time being the CIA or the FBI, so of course he knows of my – choices. I think he likes being seen as the adult," Sherlock said casually. "How do you feel about ice, Miss Hooper?"

"Wait – wait. The CIA?"

"Shocked?"

Not particularly, she wanted to tell him. If anything, she was relieved. It made more sense than any explanation than she'd come up with by herself. She felt secured by it.

Molly let Sherlock lift her wrist, sunny side up, towards his chest. A studious look entered his eyes. The space between his brows crinkled as he let the ice cubes tumble back into the bucket. Between finger and thumb, he held one like it was a precious diamond, rather than mere frozen water.

The cold temperature was a lightning strike to her pulse. Her back flexed with a shudder.

It felt… good.

A beat passed. It felt too much like a heartbeat.

"Do you want more?" His voice was thick, luscious with promise. "It's all up to you."

She didn't feel quite in control of her limbs. Sliding her hand out of his soft grip, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, lifting his hand towards her neck.

The ice cube traced down from behind her ear, down the length of her neck. She shivered underneath it. Its cold wound its way through her body, warmth as it hit her gut, spreading out until she felt like her stomach was tightly knotted, stirring with want.

Her throat went dry.

His voice was hoarse. "Lie on the bed."

She scrambled to obey, lying on her back with her hands on her hips.

He appeared at the corner of her eye, his curls brushing the high of her cheek as his breath brushed warm against the shell of her ear.

"Relax," he murmured. Ice cold lined the underside of her breasts, travelling achingly slowly down towards the low of her stomach, close to her groin. She panted, hips bucking slightly at the feel of the ice lingering so close to her.

The ice between his fingers darted back up her stomach, through the valley of her breasts. Sharp, like a dagger on her skin. She gaped, gasped, a squeak at the back of her throat.

His plush, plump lips kissed the tip of her nipple, swiftly replaced by the ice, slowly circling both until they were hardened, and her pants were coming thickly in her throat. She moaned deeper, writhed more, the longer the ice cube lingered over her skin.

Finally, he paused his ministrations. Molly sank against the duvet, blinking up at the ceiling lights.

In the silence, between forefinger and thumb, he rolled it across her chest.

"I think," he murmured, "we're going to need more ice cubes."