theonewhocounted | (no subject)

Good thing his brother isn't tapping his mobile anymore.

Less than thirty seconds after that text, Molly's phone rings. There's an audible grin in his voice, one that warms it and pitches it at a low rumble.

"Good afternoon."

Molly smiles as soon as the phone starts to ring.

"Hi," she says to him when she answers, her body warmed just by the sound of his voice. She curls her body up onto her side like she's a teenager who's just gotten a call from the cutest boy in school.

Texting her has been--well, it's been fun, but hearing her voice is both a pleasure and a relief, somehow. He likes that she enjoys talking to him. He likes listening to her.

"So how exactly does this kind of conversation start?" His grin turns lopsided.

Even that bloody awful phone call of the previous week couldn't wreck Molly's enjoyment of Sherlock's voice over the phone. It always felt like he was telling you the secrets of the universe somehow. Maybe it was just because he so rarely talked on the phone that it felt special.

She laughs at his questions.

"Usually with 'what are you wearing?' but I'm going to disappoint you with that answers since I'm dressed to spend the day with an infant," she says. "I didn't bring my basque with me."

Although she does have something nice with her to put under her dress for the evening. Something for him to unwrap later.

He laughs, and it's almost a purr. "Considering I haven't got myself costumed or anything either, I hardly have room to be disappointed in what you're wearing."

There's a pause, and then:

"Now, how much you're wearing could be an issue for negotiation."

His heart rate's starting to pick up even though things are still playful--or maybe because they are. The hand not holding the phone slips that first button free and trails down to the next.

"True," she says with a smile.

"I am at this moment fully clothed. What would you like me to remove?" she purrs back into his ear, through the phone, her voice lowering a bit at the question.

She doesn't plan on getting fully naked in case she needs to see to Rosie, but she thinks she can take off enough to make him happy.

God, but this side of Molly Hooper is a fascinating surprise that just keeps evolving.

"Well. Shirts seem like a logical place to start." He undoes two more of his own buttons, remembering her clever hands on him. The smile is starting to fade from his voice, though the warmth stays, blossoming slowly into heat. "Doesn't need to be off completely, but. You should have better access to your breasts."

Molly would be terribly pleased to know that's she's capable of surprising Sherlock Holmes so much.

"Alright," she says and puts him on speakerphone so she can set her mobile down next to her on the bed. There is a rustling sound as she sits up and takes off both her jumper and the shirt underneath in one go. "I'm down to my bra. I hope you're also removing your shirt."

She lays back down on his bed. She turns her head and can smell him on his pillow.

He takes the opportunity to put his own phone aside when she does so he can finish getting his own shirt off--and his belt, for good measure, because there's nobody about for him to scare but Toby and he couldn't care less what that cat thinks.

And he hears her inhale, can tell she's taking in his scent, and his cock strains against the fly of his trousers.

"It's off," he says, a rough edge in his voice. "Do your nipples always get hard so quickly when you're aroused, by the way, or was Saturday an exception to the rule?"

"Good," she says and it's practically a sigh as she pictures him shirtless on her bed thinking about her shirtless on his bed.

"My nipples get hard easily in general. Arousal, the cold, hormonal changes due to my cycle."

It's out before she realizes that her answer isn't exactly sexy.

"Right now they're hard because I'm thinking about you."

That's better. A hand comes up to grab her breast under her bra, squeezing her nipple.

She might not think it's sexy, but it's a casual way of showing off her intelligence and a solid comfort in her own body, both of which are quite a turn-on for Sherlock.

"Imagining anything in particular?" he asks, palm flat against his bare stomach, fingers pointing downward but not straying to his zip just yet. "Something we've done, or something we haven't got to yet?"

"Right now just thinking about you laying half naked in my bed," she says. That's all it takes.

"But I have been thinking a lot about Saturday."

And there's of course been years of thinking about things they could do, but it feels weird talking about that because he won't have had that same experience she doesn't think.

"Have you?"

"Constantly," he rumbles, low and hungry.

He can't resist. His hand slides down, and he palms his hard prick through his clothes, breath catching audibly at the friction.

"You have incredible hands, Molly, has anyone ever told you?"

She closes her eyes at the sound of his voice and feels her center throb in instant want. From the way she hears his breath catch, she's not the only one.

Glancing over at the baby monitor to make sure Rosie is still out cold, she then starts unbuttoning her trousers.

"A couple times," she says to his question. "You do too. I've always admired them."

And wondered what they would feel like on her, in her. Now she knows.

(A little flag pops up somewhere in Sherlock's brain: he wants to give Molly a compliment none of her previous lovers have ever given her. Which will take some thought, and right now thinking is, for once, not his top priority.)

He undoes the button of his fly one-handed, pushes his trousers down his hips. "And you can deduce what they're doing right now, I imagine. Or about to do. What they'd do to you if you were here."

Sherlock hasn't even needed to imagine Molly touching him to get off. Since Saturday, he's been reliving the sight of her face lit up by orgasm, the sense memory of her hot and strong around his fingers, the taste of her on his hand.

"Yes," she breathes out as her own hand slips into her trousers to press against her mound over her knickers. "Tell me anyway?"

She doesn't specify for him to tell her what he's doing to himself or what he'd do to her. Either will be more than sufficient.

She too has barely needed much stimuli to get herself off since Saturday. Molly may not have the memory of Sherlock but she will never forget the look of him in orgasm, the feel of him fucking her with his fingers, or the sight of him licking her from them. If anything, the struggle was with blocking the images out while trying to work on Sunday. She would find her mind wandering back there and suddenly she's trying to work with wet knickers and stealing off to the loo for a quick wank during break time.

"God. Molly." He lets out a short, stuttering sigh as he pushes the waistband of his pants down--and the breath he takes as he strokes his cock slowly, root to tip, is audibly shaky. "If I were there--mm--two fingers, in deep. And I'd use my tongue on you."

He's been fantasizing about that, too, since Saturday. He knows women can have multiple orgasms without the same extensive refractory period the male body needs, and he wants to know if he can make Molly come more than once tonight.

The way he says her name when he's aroused makes her toes curl and her hand slips into her knickers, fingers sliding against wet flesh. She can tell by his breathing that he's touching himself too. The visual assaults her at the same time he's telling her he'd use his mouth on her and she can't help but whimper.

"Yes, please do," she says as her knees open and her fingers start sliding over her labia, circling her clit.

"You tasted good." His voice is nearing the lowest end of its register; he's almost whispering even though there's no one around to hear. But it gives him the opportunity to hear a tiny sound Molly makes, a sound that makes his fingers tighten a little on his cock.

Because now he can deduce that she's touching herself as he's talking.

His hand starts to move steadily, slowly, trying to replicate the way Molly's hand worked him on Saturday. "It made me--want to know what your clitoris feels like, on my tongue."

Phone sex with Sherlock has definitely been one of her past fantasies. Even under normal circumstances his voice can make her mouth go dry. Having him use that voice to tell her how he would perform oral sex on her is even better than she could have ever imagined.

Her fingers slide over her clit and she pretends it's his tongue instead and she moans.

"I want your mouth so bad," she breathes out, her hips moving with the hand in her knickers and the other coming up to massage her breast.

That moan makes his head swim for a second. It's still a surprise to him, that Molly has this kind of self-knowledge and capacity for desire, and he loves that, finds that utterly fascinating.

"You can picture it, can't you?" He shifts a little on her mattress, hips rocking slightly. "Me, watching you from--ah--from between your thighs, learning... what you like."

"Yes," she whimpers and can hear him shifting, the sounds of her own mattress familiar to her. Simultaneously she is picturing him in between her legs and him stroking himself while telling her about it. She's on overload from the mental stimulation. "I...I'll like it."

Not all men are talented in that area, but with women, half the battle is mental and she's not worried about being mentally aroused at all. Just seeing him between her thighs will get her halfway there. And she's certain his eagerness to learn will get her the rest of the way with no problem.

Sherlock's mind is similarly occupied: he's imagining what kinds of surprise and arousal and pleasure will cross her face, what they'll look like when he's looking up at her from between her thighs, what her face must look like right now as she fingers her clit in his bed.

It's a damn good thing he's got a very strong case for his phone, because he's gripping it so hard his knuckles have gone white.

"I want to know what you taste like when you come," he almost growls.

Molly whines in return.

"Yes," she says, her breath speeding up. She wants that too. She wants all of it. "Sherlock."

It's said as a breathy sort of moan. It's all the words she can muster right now.

He can practically feel her hot breath brushing his ear, and the image and the sound are so powerful that it makes one of those urgent ripples of heat surge through him.

"Molly--I want..."

The word trails off as he thrusts up into his own fist, hard and fast, spurred on by her voice.