theonewhocounted | (no subject)

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?"

Molly's never seen him look better.

"You can take a shower if you'd like," she says as she swings her legs over the side of the bed and then gets up to pull on her dressing gown and strip off her pajama pants, dropping them into the hamper in her closet. Toby cries again unhappily.

"Linen closet is the same as last time you stayed over. More or less."

She doesn't really recall exactly how her linens were organized when he was using her place as a bolthole but she's not done anything drastic.

"Good, then I've still got a change of clothes here from last time."

He's used her place as a bolthole a lot, over the years--enough to have started tucking a clean shirt and trousers into a corner behind some towels where they won't be in her way. Which means at least he won't have to go home in a sheet.

"And I'm okay to have the shower second, I need to check my messages anyway." He blinks, and glances down at the watch he'd forgotten he's still wearing. "Oh. Damn. Yeah, two seconds, I'll be right out and you can get started. Should let John know I'm not lying in a ditch somewhere."

"Oh," Molly says, not realizing that he'd tucked clothes away somewhere. Apparently she's really not cleaned out the closet in a while. "Well, that's good."

She's just checking her own phone on the nightstand when he mentions checking in with John. She reads her messages and huffs out a laugh.

"I think we've already been found out," she says as she holds her phone up for him to read the messages from John even though she assumes Sherlock's phone holds double the amount and of escalating concern.

Sherlock blinks at her mobile, and the instant he parses John's second message to her his whole face lights up bright red.

"Oh." He blinks rapidly. "Well. That. I guess that's sorted."

And it just now occurs to him that he forgot to tell John where he was going last night. He forgot to tell anyone, though he's sure his brother must know by now where he is and what he's been doing.

He can almost imagine the distasteful look on Mycroft's face. It's sort of a delight to think about, actually.

Trying to shake off the sudden embarrassment, he crosses to her desk to unplug his own phone, then sort of gestures towards the bathroom with it.

"Back in a minute, then we can discuss breakfast. Or... possibly lunch at this point."

(And because he's a very efficient multitasker when his mind is clear and the bathroom door is shut behind him:

To: John
From: SH
Sent: 11:57 AM

I'll bear it in mind. Check-in later. If this is on the blog no one will ever find your body.)

"Yes. I guess it is."

At least with John (and more than likely Mycroft). Molly feels some embarrassment that John already knows, although she also feels some pride. She knows John has pitied her over the years when Sherlock was awful to her and she still loved the man. She assumes everyone thinks she's a sad case whose love will always be unrequited, and she doesn't blame them. There were many times she thought that about herself.

She hopes Sherlock isn't too embarrassed that people find out she is...whatever she is to him. They're nothing official right now anyway.

"Alright. I'm going to go feed Toby before he scratches down the door."

When he heads to the shower, she deals with a very angry cat. She gives him extra portions for her negligence and then goes about putting the kettle on for them.

She then texts John back.

To: John
From: Mx

12:08: Thanks. We're sorted. Sorry to worry you.

12:10: Mind keeping it to yourself for a bit? I think Sherlock's embarrassed.