Her slowing breathing and the warm contentment she's practically radiating, combined with the pleasant exhaustion of sex, act on him as powerfully as any drug. Sherlock's eyelids grow heavy even as he watches Molly drowse, and not long after she drifts so does he.
He sleeps more soundly, actually lets his body rest more, while he's sharing a bed with her. Eight hours of sleep next to Molly does more to recharge him than the night he spent in his own bed before heading to Cardiff, or any of the time he'd had in what was objectively a pretty comfortable hotel room there.
When he wakes, from a very pleasant dream of watching a very capable Giselle variation and realizing that the dancer is Molly herself, they're in roughly the same sort of position he'd awakened to on Saturday: him on his back, her sprawled against his side and... well. Cuddling him.
He's still not sure how he feels about the word, but the actual thing is pretty nice.
Sherlock doesn't think he's ever seen Molly asleep. Exhausted and half-dozing during a case, maybe, but not fully unconscious. His half-awake mind, still tangled up in ballet and the intense emotions of the night before, summons up a soft strain of Tchaikovsky--one of the fewfairytales Sherlock knows.
Which is, he knows, sort of an absurd thought for one thirtysomething professional to be having about another, but that he can't quite bring himself to be embarrassed about.
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Date: 2017-02-27 06:39 pm (UTC)He sleeps more soundly, actually lets his body rest more, while he's sharing a bed with her. Eight hours of sleep next to Molly does more to recharge him than the night he spent in his own bed before heading to Cardiff, or any of the time he'd had in what was objectively a pretty comfortable hotel room there.
When he wakes, from a very pleasant dream of watching a very capable Giselle variation and realizing that the dancer is Molly herself, they're in roughly the same sort of position he'd awakened to on Saturday: him on his back, her sprawled against his side and... well. Cuddling him.
He's still not sure how he feels about the word, but the actual thing is pretty nice.
Sherlock doesn't think he's ever seen Molly asleep. Exhausted and half-dozing during a case, maybe, but not fully unconscious. His half-awake mind, still tangled up in ballet and the intense emotions of the night before, summons up a soft strain of Tchaikovsky--one of the few fairy tales Sherlock knows.
Which is, he knows, sort of an absurd thought for one thirtysomething professional to be having about another, but that he can't quite bring himself to be embarrassed about.