theonewhocounted | (no subject)

Molly has loved Sherlock for as long as she can remember. She's loved him throughout bouts of careless words and drug overdoses, his own death and a two year absence. She loved him throughout her engagement to another man, through his killing of an unarmed man, and now through that terrible phone call. It's unlikely at this point there is something that would be the end of that love.

Love, however, does not guarantee a happy ending. There's still an awful lot of work and compromise that has to be done to nurture and maintain a relationship, even one rooted in such unerring devotion. It's not something she's sure Sherlock understands, but they will have to take it moment by moment and then day by day.

For now, this is enough. His body enveloping hers and his mouth at her neck are everything in this moment.

She lets out a quiet whimper as he sucks at the sensitive skin at the juncture of shoulder and neck. The feeling pools low in her belly.

There's going to be a red mark there later, one she'll have to cover with a shirt or a scarf. The thought of Molly in her lab coat, bending over a dish of organs, in a room full of people who don't know that she has marks on her neck that he's put there...

The sound she makes vibrates against his tongue, something he can taste and hear and feel all at once. Sherlock's head starts to spin.

He finds himself moving up a little, fixing his mouth on a spot that'll be more difficult to cover up. They'll know you've got someone. But this will be your secret and mine.

They'll know someone wants you and they'll never suspect it's me.

Molly whimpers louder this time. She knows what he's doing. He's marking her. He's saying "mine." And she knows that this mark will be hard to cover up and that it's wholly unprofessional to go into work with hickeys, but she can't find it in her to care right now. She'll do her best to mask it with cover up, but she knows she won't be that disappointed when it doesn't entirely do the job. All day, she'll keep touching it without realizing and think of him.

The sound she makes is sweeter than the last, warmer, nothing like a musical note but far more fascinating. Her skin is flushed now, her arousal fueling his own.

She knows what he's doing and she likes it. She likes that she'll have a reminder.

His hand slides further up her thigh. For a second his teeth press lightly into the soft skin of her throat, and then the pressure eases and he kisses the mark he's just left, blindly, his nose grazing her cheek.

When his nose slides across her cheek she turns her head and attempts to capture his lips with her own. She's held fast by his arms so she's not able to do much more than turn her head and chase after his mouth, but she needs to taste him. Her desire for him is overflowing at this point.

She turns and tips her head, finding his mouth with hers, and for a few seconds all Sherlock can do is kiss her. The first long taste of her leaves him stunned for a second, unable to do anything but process the sweep of her tongue against his own, the flavors that have nothing to do with what she's been eating and that are simply hers.

When they separate for a moment, as he loosens his grip enough to let her turn and face him, he manages a single word against her lips, a low moan and a request--

"Molly..."

--and then he can't help himself, he has to kiss her again, has to taste her answer before he hears it.

As soon as his arms loosen a fraction, she's turning to face him, her hands coming up to his cheeks as she attempts to devour him. The sound of her name on his lips and she can't help but to crush her body to his.

"What?" she breathes out in return even as they continue to kiss. She thinks she hears a question in the way he says her name. Chris, the way he says her name... It's an unreal sound. Her body is on fire for him immediately, between her legs already wet and ready even though her brain knows there's nothing to prepare for until he gets tested. She doesn't care. There's more to sex than intercourse as they've already proved earlier that day.

"It's not..." She's kissing him like she's trying to memorize him, intense and deep and searching, and areas of Sherlock's brain start to go dark again. "...not too early... to go back to bed. Is it?"

"Let's find out..." she manages to get in, in between kisses. Her hands fist in the front of his button down and she starts to walk backward in the direction of her bedroom even while she tries to keep her mouth on his and his body pressed to hers. This morning was for discovery, for them to get acquainted with each other in this way. Now is about pure heat and desire and emotion.

What was it she'd said earlier? The first time is never the best time? He absolutely gets what she means, now, because she's tugging him back into the bedroom and it's so different it's almost dizzying.

Once they're across the threshold he kicks the door shut behind them, pulls her in close again, slides one hand up and under the hem of her jumper to rest at the small of her back. And even though it's still relatively chaste as far as touching goes, it makes him almost uncomfortably hard.

Molly hums against his lips when he pulls her close and presses her body into the hardness she can feel straining his trousers again. Maybe she'll even get to take them off this time, she thinks. She aches to see him naked, to watch his face as she wraps her hand around him for the first time.

The thought leads her to begin unbuttoning his shirt, starting from the top.

The little noises she makes are so expressive. Even in this unsteady state he can't help but catalogue each one, taking them in almost greedily.

She's started on the front of his shirt again, and before he can think twice about it he's tugging the hem of her jumper upwards with both hands. They're both a bit slower with one another this time, touches lingering instead of frantic.

And this time Sherlock knows what he wants, has some idea of what this can be like. The conviction makes him lean down and almost purr in her ear once he's peeled her jumper off.

"Hands, this time."

Molly removes her hands from his shirt long enough for him to get the jumper over her head and off. Underneath is a pink, lace, demi-cup bra. She may have been banking on him getting to see it. She's glad she had the forethought.

Her hands return to the ends of his shirt to undo the final couple of buttons, but pause as he purrs in her ear.

"No question," she agrees breathily as she looks up at him and her fingers pop the final button open. She's thought about her touching him, but her brain finally registers that he will also be touching her. Those beautiful, large hands on her heated skin, between her legs. Her clit throbs painfully just thinking about it.

(Huh. Either this one is newer, more accurately fitted for her, or the shirts and bras she wears when he usually sees her have really thrown off his assumptions. The lace suits her, and there's something weirdly endearing about the fact that it's pink--that's a very Molly thing to do, he thinks, and that's exactly why he likes it.)

She makes quick work of his remaining buttons, slides her hands over his bare skin, and he nearly shivers. The few times other people have explored him in any way, as an adult, it's either been with piercing glances or with words and tools meant to leave scars. It's beyond new to be the one under the spotlight, being examined as thoroughly as a fascinating piece of evidence. It's dangerous and thrilling.

She turns dark, searching eyes up at him, and he has to kiss her again, breathing a quiet moan into her mouth.

She moans in return, her hands sliding up his back as she presses herself close to him again. They then slide back down and into the very top band of his trousers, just sitting there in the dip of his lower back as they kiss. The warm skin under her hands makes her want more skin to touch and taste.

"Tell me what you want," she says into his mouth.

Edited 2017-02-07 18:40 (UTC)

For half a second his thoughts run together, separate ideas colliding and fusing under the heat of her hands and her kiss. There are at least six different and correct ways he could answer this question. And though a deep breath does precious little to steady him--especially since it fills his lungs with Molly--it does simplify all those potential answers down to one.

"As much as possible."

(The simplest answer is, of course, you, but that encompasses more than just sex. And there's a more reckless answer in the mix, too, but he doubts she'll be wholeheartedly enthusiastic about him going down on her before he's tested. Especially since his research into the topic has been, up until now, incredibly limited.)

Molly huffs out a laugh at his answer. It's so very Sherlock in some ways. He's always all in, full speed ahead. But in the fact that they're talking about sex, it's also very not him. Or at least, not him prior to 4 hours ago.

"I think we can work on that," she says before she starts to push him back towards her bed. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, she removes her hands from the back of his pants and gently pushes on his chest so he'll take a seat. She would love to go down on him right now, but that might skip a couple steps since she hasn't even laid eyes on his penis yet. Also, she remembers his rules and she won't break them.

Once he sits, she stands between his legs. It's nice to finally have the height advantage, as slight as it even is. She leans down and captures his lips again, her hands tangling in his hair.

He lets her direct him, lets her push him down. How long, he wonders, has she been so assertive with her lovers? Is this something she's kept hidden from him the whole time, or is this a Molly who's been dormant, who's only coming to life now that they're together? The more he sees of it, the more drawn he is to her, a beautiful and constantly evolving puzzle.

When she kisses him again, her still-damp hair falling around his face in a dark curtain, and he flattens both hands against her back to pull her close. Even with her quick breaths pressing against his palms, he still wants more.

He's never actually undone a bra that was on a living woman before, and despite the slight tremor in his hands he manages to think, for a moment, I don't see why people complain about this part so much. It's easy.

It took Molly some time to be comfortable in herself enough to get what she wants in the bedroom, but her assertiveness started before Sherlock Holmes. Her appetite for sex is a healthy one and she's not shy about it. She's learned over the years that men of any worth are turned on, not intimidated by this.

She doesn't, however, mind assertiveness on the part of her partner either. Being a bit submissive can also be a turn on when you trust the person you're with. Some days you feel like being in control more and some days you're happy to let the other person drive. And sometimes it's a shifting dance the whole way through.

She can feel his hand move to undo her bra and she wonders if he's going to succeed on the first go.

Is it his imagination, or does Molly's mouth curve a little against his own when he starts to get the hooks undone? He both wishes he could tell what she was thinking and sort of loves that it's impossible to know.

It turns out that being an excellent violinist is an advantage here. His fingers are strong enough and accustomed enough to precise work that he can get it undone one-handed on the first try.

Sherlock is ridiculously proud of himself for a moment.

Molly is impressed as she feels the hooks release and the fabric loosen around her rib cage. And she can tell he's proud of himself by the curve of his own lips against hers.

"Bravo," she says, her own smile widening so they're no longer really kissing. She leans away so she can let the straps slide down her arms and toss the garment aside. She thought that she would be more self-conscious around Sherlock, considering the things he's said about her body in the past, but earlier had been so surprising and a bit frantic, that she hadn't even had time to feel that way. Now that they're taking more time, some of those little thoughts creep in but she knows it's silly. She doesn't think he's really going to care about the small pockets of cellulite on her arse and clearly the size of her breasts and mouth have yet to be a problem.

Again, he has to take a moment to reassess her bare breasts. Definitely improved by the absence of something covering them, he decides, and the fact that they're much closer to his eye level now is an even greater improvement. This close, he can also see much smaller details--freckles, dips, faint stretch marks--and it makes him dizzy again.

He resolves that he'll teach himself how to read her body and its history, more thoroughly and intimately than anyone who's ever been with her has done. Everything that makes her Molly Hooper is vitally important to him.

He trails a line of sucking kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, along the curve of one breast.

Her hands stay tangled in his hair as he starts kissing down her chest. A sigh leaves her mouth and the heat that had subsided a little starts to creep back in - her cheeks and neck getting pink. His hands on her breasts had been nice earlier. His mouth is even better.

She idly wonders if he's more of a breast or arse man. He hasn't really come into contact with the latter in a close way yet, nor has he ever made comment about it.

He's noticed both or either on other people, in passing, merely images filed away for later or discarded. But he's kept himself so separate from his own human wants for so long that any kind of preference is new.

Sherlock knows he wants to explore every inch of Molly before he makes up his mind which parts he likes best.

Her sigh lets him shift her a little--enough to lean her back slightly so he can fit his mouth around one hard nipple. One of his hands trails down her side and over her hip, down to the fly of her trousers.

Molly for sure knows that Sherlock's arse is a work of art. At least in his tight trousers anyway. She's had enough glimpses of it as he was bent over a body or microscope over the years. She should feel guilty about all the times she checked it out, but she doesn't. If he ever knew, she's sure he liked the attention. Sherlock likes attention.

When he takes her nipple into his mouth, her sigh becomes a whimper and her eyes slip shut at the sudden sharp feeling of pleasure that travels through her body. She wonders how he can possibly be doing this for the first time. How does he know? Her earliest and most inexperienced sexual partners had all been fumbling with seemingly no interest in what would make her feel good.