theonewhocounted | (no subject)

"You just haven't had the opportunity--" (Which isn't technically true, he's been in and out of the hospital enough in the past year that she could have killed him at any time, but that's not actually the literal point of this.) "--and shut up, you like that coat too."

(Toby does, too, actually. He's decided it makes a way better place to sleep than the living room floor.)

He's invited himself in here so many times before that he could make his way around with his eyes closed, and yet the context makes it a place he hasn't really been before. He knows the geography, but not how to move through a space like this when he's here for its emotional function and not just someplace he's crashing during a case.

His fingers twine through hers again, letting her pull him along through the hazy half-light.

Edited 2017-01-28 19:46 (UTC)

"It's not so much the coat as the man wearing it," she says as she looks back at him with a soft smile. "Although the coat's nice too."

When they get to her room, she doesn't bother with the light as she walks them over to her bed and lets go of his hand. She's thankful her room is mostly clean. There's no dirty knickers on the floor and only a couple errant pieces of clothing laid over a chair in the corner.

"Make yourself comfortable. I just need to use the loo."

"Right. Oh--" It occurs to him to let her know, because somehow it always occurs to him with her, never with anyone else. "--if you don't mind, I know you've got the same kind of phone charger as I do, I'll just plug in mine for the duration. I ran it down to thirty percent battery looking up how to do the latte."

(What? There's a lot he doesn't have to keep in his hard drive if he's got easy access to Youtube tutorials.)

"Don't mind at all," she says, impressed that he's actually asked beforehand. "It's on the desk."

With that she leaves him and goes to use the toilet. Once that's done she can't help but look at herself in the mirror. It's not possible, but she thinks she looks a little different. Maybe being loved back by the person you've loved for so long, changes you. Or maybe it's just her perception of the world that's changed.

Five minutes or so later, she comes back to the bedroom.

While she's gone, he shuts the door to prevent any further cat invasions, toes off his shoes, plugs in the mobile (and sets it to silent, because if anyone calls him about anything right now he'll throw it into the street). Coming off as polite has never been something he's cared about much, but these are things that seem important. These are things he knows will matter to her, and that's a factor now.

The mattress is a little imbalanced. She prefers one side of it to the other, he realizes, and somehow that's funny in a way he doesn't think he can articulate. Charming, that's the word. And though he settles on the side that doesn't bear curves pressed down by her body, he finds he has to flatten his hand against the space next to him, touching the place where she sleeps.

He's still like that when she comes back into the room, fingers splayed over the curve that corresponds to the small of her back.

Molly closes the door behind her, aware that Sherlock's probably closed it to keep Toby out. Toby won't be happy about that, but he'll live.

When she finally turns toward her bed, the sight of Sherlock curled up in it is another one of those moments she has to stop and take stock of and remind herself that it's real. He's figured which side of the bed is hers she notices (of course he has) and seeing his hand pressing to the place where her body would be, makes her chest feel tight in a way that she knows is a psychosomatic response to her feelings of love and adoration for this man.

He looks comfortable and right there in her space.

Before she climbs into bed with him, she pulls off her jumper and hangs it on a hook behind her door. She then walks over and climbs in next to him, settling on her side so they are face to face.

"Hi."

There's no height difference between them here, which is unusual but gives him the opportunity to see her face from a different angle. And without that ratty, oversized jumper, she doesn't look small or frail or mousy. Those capable hands shouldn't be drowning in huge sleeves. Maybe he can do something about that later.

Later being the operative word, of course.

"Hi."

It's a greeting not just to her but to this new, delicate thing between them.

"Comfortable?" she asks him, suddenly feeling a bit more shy. She doesn't want to assume he's interested in cuddling or holding her, so she keeps a small, polite distance away from him. Her hand though, rests on the bed between them.

"Mostly..." Even though she's mostly painted in washed-out shades of brown and grey by the ambient light, he can read her body language well enough to know she's keeping her distance. So he shifts towards her, closing that short gap between them, bringing himself closer. And somehow the absence of that jumper makes him bold enough to drape one arm around her, lightly, testing the waters the way she did with that first, tentative kiss.

"There. That's more like it."

Her lips turn down slightly, worried that her bed's not up to his standards or that he maybe doesn't like sharing space like this. It only takes a second though for those thoughts to disappear entirely as he shifts closer and puts an arm around her.

She smiles brightly and drapes her own arm around his waist as she settles more comfortably into the bed, their legs tangling a bit. A moment later, she leans in and presses her lips to his gently just for a moment before pulling away.

"Good night, Sherlock Holmes."

He smiles. There's something strangely reassuring about having her this close to him. Like knowing he's got a gun in his jacket, or a knife up his sleeve, even though she's only vulnerable flesh and blood like him.

"Good night, Molly Hooper."

*

From: John
To: Sherlock

Sent: 8:47 AM

Sherlock you're late for your check-in. You'd better be out getting chips.

Sent: 9:01 AM

Where the hell are you?

Sent: 9:05 AM

Right. We'll do it the hard way. There's more than one GPS tracker on your phone.

Sent: 9:15 AM

Took me a minute to remember the address. What I said when I thought it was just Irene? That still applies. It'll be good for you, trust me. Molly's a good woman. Don't blow it.

*

For the first time in weeks, Sherlock sleeps without dreaming of Eurus, without hearing terrible and beautiful music, without having to listen to his brothers try to bait him into shooting them. Instead, there's only rest, and a sense of warmth, and a vague knowledge that he's just pulled off something incredible.

Edited 2017-01-28 21:42 (UTC)

Molly also sleeps better than she has in a while, surrounded by Sherlock's warmth and familiar scent. It's past 11 when she finally stirs. The sun is streaming in through the cracks in her blinds and she can hear Toby scratching at the bedroom door. Poor thing is probably wondering where breakfast is. As she blinks her eyes open, she realizes that 1. Sherlock is still there (not a dream), and 2. she's effectively turned the man into a living body pillow. He's on his back and she's got both her arm and leg hiked over his body and her head tucked into his shoulder.

She blushes and lifts her head gently to see if he's still asleep and if she can attempt to extract herself before he wakes.

The sunlight is very pleasant, as is the warm weight pressing against him all along one side. He's drowsing, comfortable, the busy parts of his brain still basking in welcome rest.

So when she moves, it's something other than his brain that makes him sigh faintly and roll towards her to tuck her against him. Even if he doesn't know it on a higher, conscious level, he doesn't want her out of his reach. Not yet.

Well, alright then. If he's intent on keeping her close, then who is she to argue? She forgets her initial embarrassment at becoming a Sherlock barnacle and relaxes back against him.

Toby, on the other hand, does not forget his hunger and adds a meow in for good measure.

Molly sighs and mentally curses the feline. Just let me have this moment. She doesn't move and hopes he'll just give up for now. It wasn't like he was going to starve to death. He had reserves.

Edited 2017-01-28 23:37 (UTC)

It's the meow that pulls him back towards wakefulness, a sound asking to be identified. His expression sort of tips downwards for a moment as he starts sleepily assembling the context for that noise.

"Mittens," he says after a moment, his voice still thick. "Mm. Good morning. I think. Wait--yes, it's before noon, the way your window's facing."

It's not unlike an engine sputtering before turning over, the way he sort of drops bits of his thought process.

(There are messages on Molly's phone, too.

To: Molly
From: John

Sent: 9:02 AM

Sherlock didn't show up this morning. Has he tried to get in touch recently?

Sent: 10:32 AM

If you ever need me to talk to him about it, or punch him in the face about it, let me know. But if I'm honest, good on you.)

"I'm reconsidering..." she jokes about Toby even though she would never let anyone hurt her baby. Still, he is annoying her this morning.

Her voice is rough and she clears her throat before speaking again.

"Good morning."

It's a very good morning indeed.

"Did you sleep alright?" she asks and tilts her head up to look at him, but doesn't make any effort to move from her very comfortable, warm location.

Edited 2017-01-29 01:35 (UTC)

His eyes are still closed, but he's smiling now, that slanting smile that he reserves for moments when he's well and truly pleased about something.

"Really well, thanks." Sherlock breathed in, out, and finally his eyes fluttered open. It took him a second to find a focus on her, but the pleased look didn't fade a bit. "You?"

That smile gives her life and when his eyes finally open, he's greeted with a similar smile on Molly's face.

"Better than I have in ages," she admits.

Sometimes the reality of sharing a bed with someone could be challenging. Too much body heat can bake you or someone's stealing the covers or constantly moving around. And maybe it was just due to complete exhaustion on both of their parts, but sharing her bed with Sherlock just seemed natural, like they've been spending years cuddled up together.

"And after I brought you coffee, even." His smile quirks. He hadn't expected to be so calm after earlier, but he feels renewed and calm and not at all bored, which aren't generally three things that go together for him.

It's pretty brilliant.

"We'll get to do this part again later, right?"

Playful, morning Sherlock is maybe her new favourite Sherlock she decides as she watches him smile.

Brilliant, indeed.

"By this part do you mean the cuddling? Because we can do that anytime you'd like."

She images calling into work on Monday. Sorry, Mike. Can't come into work today. Have some important cuddling to do.

"Ugh." His nose wrinkles. It doesn't chase away the grin, though. "That is a revolting word for something this enjoyable, Molly."

Molly huffs out a laugh at his aversion to the word. It does please her immensely that he's enjoying it so though.

"What would you prefer to call it?"

"I don't know. First time I've thought about it, actually." One of his hands flattens against her back, sunlight and her hair both a tangled spill over his knuckles. "I'll have to look up alternatives later and get back to you."

"Alright," she says with a smile. Her back warms under his touch and she tucks her face into the crook of his neck and inhales pure Sherlock. She can't think of a more perfect morning in the history of mornings.

Outside, Toby mewls. Molly sighs. Almost perfect.

He captures that sigh for later, guiding it under glass in his mind like some frail insect, to be studied later with things like her laughter and the press of her lips against the corner of his mouth. It feels like an accomplishment.

Her breath tickling his throat, though, that's different. It feels... warmer, not just physically but in some other way he's having trouble classifying at the moment. His heart speeds up a little at the sensation of her face burrowing into his neck.

There's a reason he hates wearing a tie, or even keeping his shirt collar buttoned all the way. There's a reason the only scarf he owns is ridiculously expensive and softer than anything else in his possession. And abruptly he realizes having a sensitive neck is something he now has to think about in an entirely new context.

She shifts a little against him, and that extra heat suddenly makes sense, too.

"Um." He's been in more awkward situations than this, arguably, but it still makes his ears burn. "You're--welcome to ignore that."