Molly practically molds herself against him, sighing out delicious little breaths against his lips in the moments he's not kissing her, and every faint breathless sound she makes breaks over him like a high unfolding through his veins.

He could drown himself in this, in the sensation of her hands curving around his face, in her hungry kisses. Sherlock won't fully grasp it for some time yet, but he's been starving himself all his life in a number of ways and this is one of them. Molly is an absolute feast.

He's not really sure how, but suddenly one of his hands is trailing through the soft hair at the nape of her neck. The bun comes loose easily, spilling all that long hair over his fingers, and he moans again.