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[theonewhocounted]

The Bright Spot Meme


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

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[theonewhocounted]

"I can always bring you some when I come over," she says, forgetting for a moment that no one is coming over to 221B for a while. "Once you're back in, of course."

She takes one last bite of her curry before she makes herself stop. She's getting far too full for her own good.

"I'm not sure if it's creepy or kind of romantic that you've stalked my curry shop orders on my laptop in order to pick my favourite."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"I wasn't stalking, I was researching. And you know I'd have deduced it anyway." He's slowing down, too; he might be absurdly thin but he's not a bottomless pit. Plus the spice has, in fact, reddened her lips slightly, which is a very attractive and distracting look on her.

[theonewhocounted]

"Potato, potahto," she teases with a smirk as she starts putting the cover back on her container so she can save it for later, but then stops.

"Oh, did you want to try some of mine before I put it away? It is really good. Might become your new favourite too."

Molly is serious about plumping him out. As long as she doesn't also plump herself at the same time.

[punchmeitssubtext]

She keeps pushing back, challenging him in these very small ways, and every one makes him want to get closer to her.

"Game on," he says, and scoops up a bite for himself.

It's different--not as much heat as the one he likes, but a significant kick all the same, with an unfamiliar balance of sweet and savory. It's another clue to the complexities of what she prefers and who she is.

It's delicious.

"Mm--" He's almost reluctant to swallow. "--okay, that is vastly better than the one close to us."

[theonewhocounted]

She grins, entirely pleased that he's willing to try her dish. She's even more pleased that he seems to even enjoy it. Sherlock is a creature of habit who generally only seems to want to try the things he comes up with himself. Getting him to deviate is a proud moment for her. Actually, this whole day has been a deviation for him. Molly's version of smug is looking like someone brought her a puppy. They kind of have - floppy hair and all.

"Have more if you like," she says, pushing the container a bit closer to him.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"I'm okay for now. Much more and I won't be able to demonstrate."

He fastens the lid on his own container--she's right, they do give large portions--and sits up a bit, head inclining towards the front room.

"Ought to be enough space for it out front, when you're ready."

[theonewhocounted]

Molly looks confused.

"Demonstrate?" she asks, looking a bit confused and wary. His demonstrations at Baker Street usually have to do with noxious chemicals and explosions.

[punchmeitssubtext]

He gets to his feet, smirking faintly as he strides past her to put their food in the fridge.

"Front room, Molly. Fifth position."

(He's entirely forgotten that he left the Belstaff and his scarf and jacket in a crumpled heap in the front room the night before.)

[theonewhocounted]

Molly's eyebrows raise. He does like to be dramatic.

"Alright," she says slowly even has her wariness turns to amusement. She stands up and heads into the sitting room.

Toby has not forgotten about Sherlock's coat on the floor and has returned there for an afternoon snooze. Molly's initial reaction is to shoo him away, but he's looking so cute that she doesn't have the heart. Besides, Toby owes them from his usual routine being so rudely interrupted.

"Toby, you're not going to win him over this way," she says to the cat. One eye opens to look at her and immediately closes again.

[punchmeitssubtext]

It only takes him a minute to catch up to her--and his own expression ends up caught between amusement and offense.

"Mittens," he says, like Toby will understand the threat. "Furry little bastard."

Still, at least napping in the coat he can't interrupt.

"Right. Fifth position, arms out, stand facing away from me."

[theonewhocounted]

"I think he likes you," she says about Toby, not sure that's true at all.

She then goes to a clear spot on the floor and crosses her feet so the heel of her right foot is touching the toe of her left. Her arms come out in second as instructed. She then looks over her shoulder for him, curious as to what his plan is.

[punchmeitssubtext]

He's already moving up behind her. When she catches his eye his smile shifts, becomes something warm and secret.

"Keep your back straight and trust me."

And then he sweeps her into a perfect fishdive, handling her as if she's weightless. She's nearly parallel with her own floor, her feet higher than her head, and he knows exactly how to hold her so she won't fall.

[theonewhocounted]

The smile definitely warms her, that's for sure.

She doesn't have much time to sit in that feeling though before she is suddenly lifted and turned on her edge. A surprised squeak leaves her mouth but somehow, even taken by surprise, her muscles remember and her arm reaches forward and her leg goes into passé. It's been ages since she's done this though so she can't imagine she really hitting the pose that well. She didn't break herself though, so that's a plus.

"Jesus, Sherlock," she says, a bit breathless from the surprise of it and from his arm around her tightly, holding her up.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Even though she lets out a startled noise, he can feel her stretching into her muscle memory, following his lead. She really does have gorgeous hands, whether they're moving through autopsy work or perfectly curved for a ballet flourish.

"Started practicing again last year." His voice is low, breath warm on the back of her neck. "Helped me build my strength back up. Haven't gotten to do this since I was in uni, though."

[theonewhocounted]

It's one thing to be able to do a ballet lift, it's another entirely to have studied the art. It's the difference between her being impressed and her falling in love with him again. She pictures a young Sherlock in studio in dance clothes, practicing, or on stage in tights and costume executing leaps and turns and lifts.

"I had no idea," she says, still breathless, but now it's because she's getting turned on. Christ. Whether it's intentional or not, he's practically seducing her with ballet.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Gently he pulls her upright again, setting her lightly back on her feet. But his arm doesn't unwind from its place around her waist--instead he holds her against him, so he can lean down and whisper.

"Nor does anyone else."

Even John doesn't know about this. (And he's never really been inclined to share--at least not with the way John needles him sometimes about being, in his words, "a bit public-school".)

Another man might bring the woman he loves flowers. Sherlock, instead, offers her a secret, something tiny and precious and hidden.

[theonewhocounted]

Her arms settle on top of his as he keeps her close. She closes her eyes and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end when he whispers in her ear.

"John?" she asks, knowing that it's possible Sherlock doesn't consider John 'anyone else.' In Sherlock's mind, she thinks he probably sees John as more an extension of himself.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Hasn't got a clue."

(Well, that might not be strictly true, but Sherlock knows his best friend hasn't guessed how much training he had before they met, or that he specializes in ballet. For all John knows, he has no rhythm whatsoever and is just a very fancy tit who likes to go to the theatre more than average.)

His lips graze the curve of her ear; he takes a long, deep breath of her.

[theonewhocounted]

"Oh," she says like a revelation. This is just for her, for them. She's the only one he wants to share this with. (Mycroft probably knows too because he knows everything, but he doesn't count.) It's better than any actual gift. He's trusting her with this information, that she won't run off and tell or make fun of him for it. It makes her feel special.

A shiver runs through her body at the feel of his lips and him breathing her in. It makes her feel desired.

[punchmeitssubtext]

She sighs out the word quietly, a low and surprised breath, and it's as great a triumph as a standing ovation. Maybe more so, because she's not pulling away and she hasn't made any kind of biting remark. Instead she's still warm and pliant and poised in his arms.

He's given her something, and she's accepted it in perfect trust.

Now that he thinks about it, she's always been reliable with his secrets.

His arm tightens around her slightly; his other hand, which supported her through the lift, flattens gently against her thigh. And he can't help himself--he has to kiss the exposed curve of her throat, soft and slow.

[theonewhocounted]

Molly lets out a shaky breath as her head tilts to the side to give him better access to her neck. The previous chill she felt is quickly replaced by a heat that radiates from where his lips touch her and travels into her cheeks and down her spine.

She holds on to his arm tighter.

[punchmeitssubtext]

With her leaning into him, her body warm and relaxing against his, he simultaneously feels a deep thrill of danger and a sense of thorough safety. The cynical part of his mind, the part of himself he assigns Mycroft's clipped voice, is pointing out that he's only giving her ammunition to use against him later. That he's essentially laying himself out on one of her tables and handing her all the tools to open him up and take out all the vital stuff inside.

But she loves him right now. Setting aside however her feelings have evolved over the years, Molly Hooper loves him right this minute, and presumably for at least the next ten minutes after, and no matter what else happens to him he will have the memory of her laughter and her body tucked against his own.

That is small and inadequate and pitifully human, and it's enough for a lifetime. It's more than Sherlock has ever thought he'd have of love.

He shifts to support her weight more surely, just as if she were leaning in for anther lift or an arabesque, and sucks lightly at the pale skin above the collar of her jumper.

[theonewhocounted]

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.

[punchmeitssubtext]

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.

[theonewhocounted]

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.