theonewhocounted | (no subject)

When he wakes up hard in his own bed--because of course he does, his brain might be extraordinary but it's housed in a human body--he either lets the situation deflate on its own, or he takes care of it as quickly as possible. It's always been entirely practical for him, the way hunger is, or the need for sleep when that manages to drag him down.

In Molly's bed it's different in a way he didn't think possible.

She's looking at him, taking in exactly what she's done to him and exactly what it means even as he pushes himself up and backwards to sit up for her. Molly is observing him, mentally disassembling clues and putting them back together in a proper order.

Brainy is the new sexy, Irene Adler said to him. He had no idea, he thinks, just how right she was.

"Better?"

"Much," she says as she takes in the rumpled mess that is Sherlock Holmes in her bed. His hair is sticking up at all sorts of angles, his cheeks are rosy and his pupils are dilated in a way she's only ever witnessed when he's high (on drugs or just murder). Maybe she can get him addicted to a new kind of high.

She smiles and there's a bit of mischief in it as she moves to straddle his thighs, tucking her legs underneath her so as to not put the whole of her weight on him. This is a much preferable angle to rid him of his shirt and she takes no time in leaning forward to capture his lips with hers while her hands start to make work of the tiny buttons.

The look she gives him is both fond and wicked, somehow, and it stays burned into the backs of his eyelids for a second when she kisses him again. People have given him all sorts of looks, and he's not so oblivious he hasn't been able to recognize other people undressing him with their eyes (which happens for a reason he's not at all sure of and only sometimes remembers to exploit), but this one registers because it's Molly. This one he'll have to make a study of.

Later, though. Right now she's unbuttoning his shirt, careful and efficient even though her eyes are closed.

She must have to undress corpses like this all the time, he thinks suddenly, and he doesn't know why that makes him even harder.

When Molly gets to the end of his buttons, she breaks the kiss and sits back a bit before going for the buttons at his cuffs. She's awkwardly trapped enough men (and corpses) in their dress shirts by accident, to remember to see to this detail before trying to push the shirt off. It's also an opportune time to catch her breath.

When she's done with that bit, she looks up and takes stock of the man in front of her again as her hands finally slide up his bare torso. He's far too thin thanks to the drugs and being generally terrible at taking care of himself when he's on cases. She'll have to see to that, starting with breakfast. But she still feels an awe at being able to touch him like this. He's still gorgeous.

Her hands slide over his shoulders and take the shirt with them, sliding it down his arms until it pools behind him on the bed.

"Better?" she repeats his last question to him.

There are a handful of scars on him, pink and tan marks on pale skin--burns, cuts, awkwardly healed breaks, a single white circle that indicates where a bullet punched into him. They stand out thanks to how thin he's let himself get, how far he's pushed himself recently for the sakes of those around him.

He can't really find the brainpower to spare for self-consciousness, though, because Molly's pushing his shirt down off his arms with smooth warm hands and it's so erotic he actually trembles a little.

No wonder there's so much murder over this. Though possibly it's just that everyone's as frustrated they can't be as improbably effective at it as Molly Hooper, he manages to think.

"Substantially," he nearly growls, as much a clear and open invitation as the way he leans in and kisses her bare shoulder, just below the strap of her camisole.

Molly can't focus on all the marks and blemishes on his skin right now. Each one brings her physical pain and is a reminder of how much danger he often puts himself in and how little regard he sometimes has for his own being. She vows though that later she will kiss everyone of them and be thankful that he's still alive.

He trembles at her touch and sad thoughts leave her mind. He is alive and responding to her in a way that makes her own body respond in turn. That's all she needs to focus on right now. Her hands settle at his waist, thumbs sliding over his skin idly.

She sighs as his lips touch her overheated skin. He's barely touched her at all so far and she's embarrassingly aroused; can feel her nipples poking against the thin fabric of her top.

Her breath is hot, angling down into his hair and across his neck, and it makes him forget to be polite with her for a moment. Free of his shirt now, the unbuttoned cuffs falling away from his wrists easily, he can bring his hands up to touch her. He can tell--he's trained himself to tell--what her body's doing.

It's the first time he thinks he understands it, though. And based on his very limited understanding...

One hand slides into her hair, to pull her in for a kiss. The other settles just below her breast, pressing upwards to feel the shape and soft weight filling his palm.

Something pops in his brain, a fuse overloading, some capacity for detachment burning away.

Molly kisses him back hungrily and a small noise leaves her mouth as she feels him palming her breast through her tank. Alert! Sherlock Holmes is touching your breast. Sherlock Holmes is touching your breast. And it's not even on accident like that one time he reached over her in the lab for a slide and his arm grazed her.

She wonders if her brain will ever reach a point where it's not totally flabbergasted by all of this. She wonders if he still thinks her breasts are too small.

Her own hands slide up his shoulders and hang on. One of her thumbs slide over his neck and feels his pulse racing. She's sure her's is thrumming a similar staccato.

She makes this little surprised sound, like the one she'd made last night (well, earlier) when they'd kissed for the first time, and another fuse pops.

This is almost exactly how he'd always imagined teenage fumbling around would be, except instead of being tedious it's amazing even if his arm is at sort of an awkward angle and he gasps when her thumb moves over his neck.

Sherlock's gasp confirms a hypothesis that she made earlier when she kissed his neck: Sherlock's neck is an intense erogenous zone. She files this information away and it reminds her how exciting the "getting to know you" phase of a sexual relationship can be. Terrifying to a certain degree but also exciting.

"You can take it off," she says of her camisole, barely breaking their kiss to get the words out.

"Thank Christ."

It takes him a second to disentangle himself enough to pull back, to grab the hem of her top and nearly yank it up over her head. It ends up flung in a corner of the room, but he can't concern himself much at all with where it lands because something very vital grabs his attention and holds it.

Her breasts look much better with nothing hiding them.

They feel better, too, her skin flushed and incredibly smooth under his fingers. One breast fits into his palm perfectly, and when he rolls it upwards he finds he can catch her nipple between the base of his index and middle finger. Somehow the sensation makes him dizzy, briefly, which doesn't make any sense, and that doesn't matter either because his focus keeps getting drawn back to what this touch is doing to her.

Molly huffs out a surprise laugh at his enthusiasm, bringing her arms up to help him rid her of the, apparently, extremely offending article of clothing.

"You don't have to wait for..." she starts but the thought dies in her throat as he's suddenly palming her bare breasts with his hands and trapping her hard nipples between his fingers. She let's out a whimper this time and unconsciously arches a bit to press her chest into his large, warm hands.

If he had more processing space right now, he'd feel absurdly proud of himself--zero practical sexual experience, and he's still figured out how to make Molly whimper. But the sound is too sweet and the thrill that goes all the way up his arms and into his chest is too intense to leave that much room for his ego. For once.

He pushes her backwards a little with his own weight, down toward the mattress, and the slide of so much skin on skin is a breathless revelation he knows it'll take him years to unravel.

Molly lets out a shaky breath when their bare skin comes in contact. There is so much relief in the sound., her eyes close to block out any other sensory input and just enjoy this feeling for the first time with him.

She sighs like his touch is a hit of morphine and she's been hurting for it, and nothing Irene Adler could do would ever have a quarter of the effect on him that one careless sigh does. Suddenly he has to have his arms around her, his weight bearing her down onto the mattress before he really knows what he's doing, giving in entirely to the wave of greed that buzzes through his veins. He needs to know what that sound tastes like in his mouth.

Molly has been hurting for it. It's always been him. Always.

The sudden power change is not unwelcome. In fact, his weight on her is like a dream and she's losing all brain power quickly. She lets out another breathy sound at the feeling and her legs open to accommodate him between them. Never has she felt this level of desire for a person even before all of their clothing has been removed. Her hips jut up to press against his and she full out moans this time as synapses in her brain fire with the pleasure her body's been asking for.

It takes every iota of willpower he's got--or at least every iota he's got left--not to come in his pants like a teenager when she moans. It's a lower, rougher, sweeter sound than he'd thought Molly Hooper capable of, a sound he somehow knows means that she knows what she wants and he's giving it to her.

The heat between her parted thighs is incredible, even with her pajamas and his trousers still between them. She squirms and grinds against him and some scrambling part of his brain fumbles to turn back on, so it can start pulling up trivia and minor distractions to keep him from getting so lost in the moment that it becomes anticlimactic. So to speak.

He rolls his own hips downwards, into hers, unaware of the flush spreading across his own neck and chest or of the breathless "oh god" that slips out of his throat.

Molly's certain she could come almost as easily. Even if she just thought too hard about the fact that this is Sherlock kissing her senseless and grinding his erection into her through his trousers, she might lose it. As much as she wants him to touch her, it's so tempting to just let go and rub her body against his to climax.

"Sherlock," she breathes out when he presses his hips into her again.

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.