The blurred noise that falls out of Sherlock's throat might be some variation of 'oh thank god', but it's too breathy and choked to tell. His hips twitch forward, straining for more than the few light touches he's getting now. (And, weirdly, he's glad he only kept a spare pair of trousers here and not pants. One less layer to deal with.)

She's definitely ahead of him in the whole vocabulary-erasing area, and that's totally fine, because he can always go back and dissect her lessons later.

None too gracefully, he manages to use both hands to push her knickers down slightly past her hips, just enough so it's easier to slide one of those hands down into the heat between her legs.