theonewhocounted | (no subject)

She whispers his name and it makes his head spin so hard he whines, an involuntary slip as he tries to catch hold of control again. Just a high, hot breath of sound against her lips, but there's a tremor in it. When he manages to work one hand between them again, this time to catch one of her hard nipples and roll it between his finger and thumb, he's actually shaking.

The sound he makes goes straight to her clit and it throbs. Adding his hand on her nipple into the mix and she's moaning again, dangerously close to the edge.

"Mm, Sherlock," she says again, barely hanging on. "I'm gonna...I'm close..."

She can't even say the word for fear that if she says it she will do it.

He's got no idea how he manages to process that for what it is, to interpret what she's saying, but somehow it gets through.

Sherlock lifts his head, stares down at her intensely.

And then he makes a decision that won't surprise him until much later.

"Show me."

Just that look is almost enough to make her come. She bites her lip and then looks surprised at his words, her skin flushing deeper at the request.

"Like this? Or..."

She's not sure if he means he just wants to watch her face or he wants to watch her make herself come.

"Like this."

Without looking away from her for a second, he rolls his hips, grinding down hard. Even through far too much fabric he can just feel the outline of her clit, hot and shifting slightly when he presses his cock against her. Somehow focusing on her flushed face and startled soft eyes keeps him far enough back from the edge to keep moving, urging her on relentlessly.

That does it. Any control Molly was keeping over herself is gone now. She lets out another moan and her eyes roll back.

"Fuck."

Her own hips press up against his desperately, rubbing herself against him, sure her wetness has seeped through her pyjama pants at this point. It only takes her a few more moments of frantic movement and suddenly her whole body goes rigid. A keening noise comes from her mouth as she comes, thighs clamping around his hips as her body shakes and lights go off behind her eyes with the power of the thing.

She leans into it, rubs against him without shame or restraint, and then her breath catches and her thighs are impossibly tight around his hips, stronger than he could have guessed. The wet heat he's pressed into pulses, quick hard shudders radiating outward into her whole body, a sound escaping her that puts anything he's ever done with his violin to shame.

And the way the orgasm changes her, opens her mouth and tips her head back and makes her shiver, burns itself into his brain so clearly he knows he'll never be able to delete it.

The frantic little part of his brain that's been trying to stay functional to keep him from embarrassing himself manages to get hold of him long enough to slow his movements. Not stop, just slow, while she rides it out and chases the aftershocks.

Her arms and legs that have been gripping him tightly through her orgasm start to relax a bit, as does the rest of her body, even as small little shivers continue to run through her. She sighs and it's a shuddering thing before she takes in her first real lungful of air in a while. Her eyes open as she starts to come back to herself, but they are unfocused and she has to blink to be able to see his face. He's looking at her with a wonder and reverence she's never seen on his face before.

The smile she gives him is blissed-out and even a little shy. To come in front of someone is to be completely vulnerable in that moment and it's a little frightening.

He had no idea her smile could look like that.

The effect it has on him is powerful. He draws in a breath, one that spreads electric warmth through his chest, into his arms and his back... and then shivers down further, keeping his hips rocking.

"Molly," he nearly gasps. "I don't think I can stop."

Hearing her name come out of his mouth like this is almost enough to make her come again.

"Don't," she almost whimpers as one of her hands comes up to cup his cheek. She wants to see him come undone. She has to see it. Her legs tighten around him again, pulling his hips into her.

She's using her body to guide his, and he has to brace himself with both hands because he needs to move faster, harder, and she's the one watching him now--

His mouth drops open; his eyes close. His hips jerk and tremble uncontrollably, and he makes a choked little sound of surprise.

Sherlock comes harder than he ever has in his life.

It's less like the small, functional orgasms he's used to and more like a grand mal seizure (or at least what he imagines those must be like). He can't think. He can't breathe. He just feels, and it floods his brain with light.

Watching Sherlock Holmes come is by far one of the best moments of her life thus far. He is gorgeous and expressive and Christ almighty it's one of the sexiest bloody things she's ever witnessed.

She hangs on to him as he rides it out, feeling him twitching in his trousers. She has the thought in the back of her mind that his dry cleaner isn't going to be thrilled.

"God, you're incredible," she says to him in a hushed voice as she presses affectionate kisses to his forehead and cheeks, letting him come down in his own time.

It takes him a couple of seconds of gasping for air and shivering through it before he starts to drift back into himself again, eyes blinking open, almost startled.

"Holy shit," he manages. His arms are starting to go sort of wobbly, and he lets his head loll forward, his nose pressing into her cheek as his vocabulary starts to come back online. "You didn't even need hands."

Molly huffs out an amused, giddy sort of laugh at his statement. She feels the usual rush of endorphins that makes everything feel light and wonderful, but it's accompanied by the sheer glee of being with this man. It's a high she's not sure she'll ever get over.

"No, but next time I'll show you what my hands can do," she teases as said hands slide up and down his back in a soothing way.

"Next time." He's giggling again. His whole body is humming; he's light-headed not just with the effects of afterglow but with the realization that there's going to be a next time. That she wants there to be a next time.

For a second Sherlock feels this irrational need to brag to someone, anyone, about that.

Molly's hands on his back, smoothing over him like she can even out his breathing, soften that need into something sweeter. At least for the moment.

"God. That was brilliant. I had no idea."

For a brief moment when he starts to laugh, Molly's insecurities make her worry that he's laughing at her, at the idea of a next time. But when she looks at his face, she realizes that he's looking as joy-filled about the whole thing as she is and those worries fade.

"You..." Molly starts at his last statement, a bit surprised at it. "Wait...you've never...?"

She's heard people say that he's probably a virgin (out of jealousy or spite or just a need to gossip), but she hadn't put much stock into it. Not with the Not Her Face incident and just the general idea that he must have had sloppy snogs and feels in uni at least, even if he's found no use for them as an adult.

Two things occur to him, when she asks:

1. now that he knows what all the fuss is about (or some of it, anyway) there are probably going to be things people have said to him that make a lot more sense in retrospect, and
2. Molly Hooper is now a world's only, in a sense, which is pretty damn fitting.

"Nope," he admits, popping the 'p', grin stretching even wider. "Hadn't occurred to me. Till very recently."

Molly's mouth opens and then closes as she processes that information. He's never even thought to do it before. It blows her mind. And then what's really incredible is that he's only considered it with her. He's only done anything like this with her.

"Wow....okay," she says and then huffs out another laugh because she doesn't know what else to say to that. "Well...if you thought that was brilliant, wait until we have actual intercourse."

Just the thought of him inside her, makes her flush a bit all over again.

"Not that we have to soon. I mean...whenever you're comfortable."

She wants to keep whatever this thing is that they have going at least until they've had full-on intercourse. Somehow that's on the same level as hearing Lestrade's brought him a locked-room triple homicide.

Although it does bring a slightly more sober edge to his thoughts. No pun intended.

"I, ah." His ears are bright red. "I can have test results back within a week. And all things considered I don't want endurance to be a problem."

"I'm not worried about endurance," she says, her smile softening a bit. She looks understanding. "The first time...with anyone...it's never the best time. It can be awkward and fumbling and sometimes endurance is a problem, but it hardly matters if you enjoy the person you're with."

Sex isn't all about getting off for her and sex with Sherlock will be way more than that no matter how "bad" it is.

She shifts to try to turn on her side a bit. His weight on her is putting one of her legs to sleep she realizes.

"And with practice and proper communication, it can only get better."

When she starts to move it's suddenly obvious his weight is probably poorly distributed on top of her. Somewhat clumsily--he's still a bit shaky and sensitive--he tries to maneuver his hips out from where they're still pressed between her thighs. (There's absolutely a wet spot over his still-fastened fly. He's not going back out without his coat buttoned all the way down.)

"I'll take your word for it."

He takes a moment to simply look at her, this remarkable, surprising woman who's invited him into her heart and her bed and made him want to explore them both.

And then, because he's Sherlock Holmes and his brain-to-mouth filter is never great even without the high of an orgasm mucking it up further:

"It's funny, they look perfectly fine when you haven't got a shirt on."

Molly notices the wet spot as he shifts and it reminds her she needs to clean up as well. The fabric between her legs is wet and getting cold. It should be a little embarrassing that they've basically just dry humped like a couple of horny teenagers but she's miles away from caring right now.

His gaze on her, brings her back from her thoughts and she flushes as he looks at her like that. Like she's something precious.

She smiles back at him and then looks confused at his statement for a beat before she looks down at her bare chest.

"Oh, you git!"

She swats at his arm playfully. She's not really offended. He is saying that they look good, just not in clothing. He's really just offending her wardrobe.

He squirms, laughter warming his voice. "Ow--what, it turns out I didn't know how important it would be to see the raw data!"

Then he realizes he's just made a really terrible joke, and for some reason he can't stop laughing, more full and genuine than he has in months.

Molly swats him again but she's also laughing. She's not sure she's ever seen him laugh or even smile this much. It feels really good that she's the one who gets to see it, that she's the one causing it.

"You ridiculous man," she says fondly in between giggles. "You be nice to my tits if you want to keep cataloging any data, raw or otherwise."

She presses a quick kiss to the corner of his lips (because they're spread too wide for her to get to them properly) and then sits up.

"I think we both need to clean up a bit."

"Probably a good idea."

Sherlock pushes himself upright, stretches, runs a hand through his now-very-rumpled hair. Between bed head and sex it's a lost cause, but at least he tries.

"If you'll give me a minute in the bathroom, you can shower first, this cat is probably going to start knocking things about if one of us doesn't put food in front of his face." As if on cue, Toby yowls again outside, and a brown-and-white paw pokes experimentally under the door. "You haven't radically re-organized your linen closet, have you?"