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[theonewhocounted]

The Bright Spot Meme


(Was there every a more suitable meme for dear Molly?)

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[punchmeitssubtext]

Again it's different. This is like tackling a language whose roots he's never heard before. Every new piece of information is equally significant.

She tips her head for him, inviting his touch, and all at once he needs to kiss the bitter wetness away from under her eyes. His hand settles a little more firmly on her throat, and he traces a slow line down towards the collar of her jumper, mapping the terrain inch by inch.

[theonewhocounted]

Molly sighs at his touch and goose flesh rises on her skin. She wonders if he has any idea what his touch does to her.

[punchmeitssubtext]

He can feel the fine hairs rising under his fingers, a subtle shift in her breathing. A strange rush of accomplishment goes through him, one that also somehow registers as a kind of challenge. His hand curls around her shoulder, and then he's shifting his weight so he has a better angle to trail his lips down her cheek, all the way to the hinge of her jaw, over the hot skin of her neck.

[theonewhocounted]

She let's out a sound that's close to a moan as his lips trail over her neck. She's sensitive there in general, but the fact that it's Sherlock's lips pressing against her, takes it to a whole other level.

"Sherlock," she whispers.

She doesn't want to put a stop to what's happening, but she feels like before this goes any further that they need to just check in before she's totally at the mercy of her hormones.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Mm--" The way she says his name registers as something very important, something he needs to pay attention to. He pulls back to look at her, both of them flushed and rumpled and breathing hard. "You okay?"

It's telling, that that's the first question out of his mouth.

[theonewhocounted]

"I'm fine. I'm on a level of okay that's unprecedented in the levels of okay," she says with a slight laugh and smile as she slides her hand back to his cheek.

"This is...perfect and I...well I don't think I need to tell you how I've wanted this. But...you've clearly had an ordeal (that she still doesn't know the details of) and...I just need to know how far this is going tonight....or...(she looks at the clock, the sun will be rising soon), this morning."

She desires him terribly, but she doesn't want to rush this if it means he will regret it later on. This is a lot for both of them to comprehend and make sense of.

"I don't want you to feel like there's an expectation."

But she also wants to act accordingly and mentally prepare herself.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Oh.

Oh.

Well. He didn't think this part would happen, so he didn't come prepared for anything (except, you know, offering her a stolen coffee). And he knows the mechanics of the thing but it's a totally different matter with someone in his space who's significant in any way, and anyway he should probably get tested at some point in the near future now that he's only recently clean again, and this is rapidly starting to turn into something bureaucratic when all he really wants is to go back to kissing Molly.

"Right," he says, forgotten gears in his brain kicking into action. "Ah. Okay, first, I was--initially going to ask if you wanted to have breakfast later, and we could work something out from there." The implication being that the time in between would primarily have been for necking on the couch. "Second, before breakfast if that's an option, we're going to have to work out some kind of... compromise. Something safe. I mean. If you're up for it."

Smooth, Sherlock.

[theonewhocounted]

He looks...nervous again and caught a bit off guard at the turn in discussion and that he's working through details. That's not what she wants - him feeling cornered. She doesn't want this to be stressful, she just wants this to be whatever it is.

"Breakfast would be...good," she says. "Maybe after sleep."

She not had much of that and unlike him, she needs it to function generally (although she could probably run on the high of him for a while as well).

"What sort of compromise are we talking here?"

She's actually not sure what's running through his mind. She's fine with some more snogging and maybe curling up together. There's plenty of time to get to other things.

[punchmeitssubtext]

His brain-to-mouth filter does that thing where it starts to power down before he knows he's going to need it.

"Sleep would be good, actually. If you're all right with me staying. And--the kissing is good--look, do you want me to be explicit about this? Because we're both aroused, and I can make the negotiation process a lot quicker if it won't cost me couch privileges."

[theonewhocounted]

Molly blinks and then grins because this is the Sherlock she's much more familiar with. The one who is all pragmatic and logistical and matter-of-fact.

She honestly can't help but to press her lips to his quickly because it's just so him and endearing and now she is allowed to express with him how he makes her feel.

"Please, Sherlock, be explicit."

[punchmeitssubtext]

The kiss startles his lips into a smile, and her understanding tilts that smile and broadens it.

"Kissing from the waist up, hands only from the waist down."

[theonewhocounted]

She smiles wider. He is adorable.

"Come on, Sherlock Holmes, let's go to bed."

She kisses him again before she moves away, standing up beside the couch and offering her hand to help him up.

It's close to 5am now and they have both had an emotional couple of hours. They need to sleep. Whatever they decide to do after that will be better for it - breakfast or otherwise. He still needs to tell her about what's happened the past couple of days. They both need to see what this all mean in the light of day.

[punchmeitssubtext]

She looks so happy when she pushes herself up off the couch, when she turns towards him and holds out her hand. Sherlock almost never makes people happy. It's essentially his whole job to find things that run the gamut from upsetting to devastating. That tends to make keeping people at a distance much easier.

But he's not on the job, now. Or, rather, the job is no longer his whole life. There's more to him than work, and this is part of it.

He sits up, takes her outstretched hand, unfolds himself from the couch.

"Just don't put a pillow over my face if I snore," he says, and he's only half joking. (The terrifying thing about intimacy is that it leaves you totally vulnerable to a million different ways someone can murder you, but this is Molly, and she's still smiling.)

Sleep, breakfast, and fooling around (whatever the order of the last two might be) sounds much more human than he's used to, which is, frankly, a nice change.

"And if Toby jumps on me again I'll make him into mittens."

[theonewhocounted]

"If I haven't put a pillow over your face yet, I don't think snoring is going to push me over the edge," she jokes. There's been a few other moments during the years they've known each other that she would have liked to shove a pillow down his throat, but today is not one of those days.

"And you'll be nice to Toby or I'll turn your Belstaff into mittens."

She keeps a hold on his hand as she starts walking toward her bedroom, clicking the living room lamp off on her way. Early morning light filters in through the shades and allows them to see their way to her room. She thinks how incredible it is how much your life can change between one sunrise and the next. Molly is still almost expecting this to just be some elaborate dream that she'll eventually wake from.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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.

[theonewhocounted]

"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."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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.)

[theonewhocounted]

"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.

[punchmeitssubtext]

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.

[theonewhocounted]

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."

[punchmeitssubtext]

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.

[theonewhocounted]

"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.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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."

[theonewhocounted]

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."

[punchmeitssubtext]

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.