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[theonewhocounted]

The Bright Spot Meme


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

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[punchmeitssubtext]

Some fragment of his brain is still active enough to realize she's experimenting on him, which makes him whine into their kiss. It's just a brief burst of sound, one he's not even aware of making--just as he's not aware of the louder, more insistent noise she draws out of him a moment later.

She's just done something really inventive with her wrist, somehow, and she's gripping him exactly as hard as he needs it, and this time he can sense the imminent shutdown.

"Molly," he manages, because it's somehow important that she knows how close he is to the edge.

[theonewhocounted]

The noises he's making are incredible. She's never heard him sound like that - so needy and emotional and uninhibited. She could get addicted to those sounds.

It's the loudest ones though that catch her attention and tell her what he likes. She hears the difference and keeps doing exactly what he was responding to the most except that she speeds up even more, knowing he's close.

"Come Sherlock," she says in response to him. "Come for me. Right now."

Her eyes are open and watching his face. It's already got the most beautiful look of pleasure and pain on it.

[punchmeitssubtext]

On some deep human level he hasn't yet learned to recognize, he understands the sound of her voice as a cue that means he's safe.

His back arches. His whole body shudders violently. The orgasm overloads him, overwhelms him, and he can't be sure if his eyes are open or closed because all he can see is brilliance anyways as sticky heat spills between her fingers and over her belly in short thick bursts.

The breathless sound that escapes him is almost a sob of release.

[theonewhocounted]

Molly watches him - the sight and sound and feel of him twitching in her hand are almost too much for her too. He is obscenely gorgeous as he falls apart. It's like he's been saving this up all those years, just for her to witness. She assumes he's pleasured himself before, but she knows it's always different when someone else is doing it. It once again hits her that she's the only one who has ever touched him like that, has seen that look on his face.

Her hand continues to pump him slowly as he rides out his orgasm but stops as soon as he seems spent. She leans in to press a soft kiss to his jaw as he comes down from the high. She is sticky and will need to get a tissue to clean them up soon, but she just wants to live this moment with him first.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Gasping, shaken, he shifts towards her so they can lean on one another. His whole body feels loose. He's trembling, and too lost in her to know or care. For several long moments, he simply lies undone and spent in her arms.

But gradually the lights in his mind start to flicker back on, and he turns his head slightly, lips brushing over her forehead.

"Oh," he says at last, very softly, much the same sort of 'oh' as she'd let out not half an hour before when he'd shown her the fishdive. She's knocked the breath out of him, dragged him down out of his brain and into his heart and body.

[theonewhocounted]

Molly can feel him shaking and hangs on to him, unsure for the moment if this is good or if he's overwhelmed. She does worry a bit that he'll suddenly realize that his emotions are too much to deal with, that it was simpler not to feel. She's certainly had times like that, but she's never been good with denying what she feels.

She sighs happily when he kisses her forehead, taking that as a good sign.

"Why do I feel like a new door just opened in your mind palace," she teases quietly when she hears his soft exclamation. It makes her feel a bit proud that she's knocked all the big words out of Sherlock Holmes' big brain.

[punchmeitssubtext]

(She's not wrong--there's an entire new wing now, dedicated solely to the things he's learning from Molly's hands and body and clever mouth. It's not the least bit organized yet, but that hardly matters.)

His mouth quirks into a helpless smile. Words are still difficult, but at least he has her as a lifeline to keep him steady while he makes his way back to coherent thought.

"Molly Hooper, hidden talents of." He's slightly hoarse; he tips his head down so he can press his nose into her cheek.

[theonewhocounted]

They have all the time he needs. Her only the plan for the day had been to do laundry, but screw laundry. She'll just buy a new wardrobe, if if means spending all her waking, non-work hours just like this.

She smiles at the new category he's created for her in his mind.

"I've always wondered if I have a space up there," she says quietly. She assumed if she did it was a tiny little corner filled with pilfered body parts and ugly jumpers.

She turns her head a bit to nuzzle his nose with her own and look into his eyes.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"You do."

This moment right now is already being recorded for that space: Molly looking at him without fear or hurt, hair tousled and face flushed, fascinating.

It's an image he never expected to see, much less enjoy. And somehow he thinks he's better for having the chance.

As the shaking subsides, he lifts a hand to brush her hair back from her cheek, away from her marked throat. Even if the words themselves don't come at the moment, there's a clear I love you in that touch, and behind his eyes.

[theonewhocounted]

"Does it have loads of cats in it and Hobnobs?" she jokes but her smile turns softer and sober as he looks at her like that. She understands it, her eyes say she does. They also say and you know how I feel.

She files this moment away into her own mental file. It's not a palace, but her most important memories are there to be recalled when triggered or when she needs them. She knows the memory of this day will be called on frequently.

[punchmeitssubtext]

His smile stretches a little, not wide but far warmer than he's ever let anyone see.

"It's got the yellow dress and your excellent passé form," he admits. "Just the one cat, though."

He drapes his arm over her languidly. Because it seems wrong, somehow, not to be keeping her as close as possible.

[theonewhocounted]

"The yellow dress, really?" she says, surprised. "I wouldn't have guessed."

She smiles in return but when he drapes his arm over her she realizes that she still hasn't cleaned up.

"One second."

She leans in to give him a quick kiss before she gets up to grab a tissue for them.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Sherlock watches her, the shift of muscles under her skin as she moves. He's never thought to imagine how her bare shoulderblade might look when she stretches for something, or how a patch of sunlight might fall over the barely-visible ridges of her vertebrae, but now that he's seeing it he wants to write it into a line of music.

That is, after all, usually the best way he can think of to say things that are difficult for him to sort out into neat, clever words.

He sits up a little, watching her intently. Already he's resolved that if she tries to put on any clothes yet he'll voice an objection immediately.

[theonewhocounted]

Molly sits up puts her feet on the floor before she reaches for the tissue box on the night stand. She grabs a couple and starts to clean his release off of her stomach. It's only when she's in the middle of it does she feel how he's watching her.

She looks over her shoulder at him and blushes, looking a bit shy before she puts the tissues into the rubbish bin. The final tissue she brings over to clean him up a bit before also throwing that one away.

"Do you want any water or anything while I'm up?" she asks him.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"What I want is for you to finish being up and get back in bed."

That falls out before he can stop it, and because he's Sherlock and possibly a little insecure, he fumbles for a joke to follow up on something so sentimental.

"But if getting a glass of water is some kind of post-coital etiquette I don't know about..."

[theonewhocounted]

Your lame joke is too late, Sherlock Holmes, Molly is already beaming at you and hears nothing after "get back in bed."

"It sounds like someone wants to cuddle," she teases him as she slides herself back into bed and proceeds to tangle herself up with him again, pulling the duvet over them both. "For lack of a better word which you have yet to provide."

She grins and kisses the side of his mouth. Sherlock Holmes is a post-coital cuddler. Who would have though?

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Shut up," he says, but it's fond and not at all sharp.

He does enjoy lying here like this with her, the way they did when he woke up this morning: him on his back, her weight pressing gently along his side and chest, arms draped around one another. It's easier to recover and process everything going through his head with her tucked against him, a reminder that being human isn't so terrible after all.

His head lolls to one side, so he can look her in the eye again. The smile really does do wonders for her mouth.

[theonewhocounted]

His "shut up" only makes her look at him more fondly. It feels like they're a normal couple doing normal couple things - having afternoon sex and cuddles and bickering.

When he turns his head to look at her, she leans in to press a kiss to his lips.

"I love you," she says quietly and seriously. She doesn't need him to say it in words again, but she feels compelled to tell him.

[punchmeitssubtext]

It's almost funny, that the facts about biochemistry and the relationship between hormones and pair-bonding stay firmly at the back of his mind where they belong. That she can always seem to find a way in past his genius to a part of him that simply cares too much to deflect something of real importance.

"I love you," he murmurs. Which is itself a statement of fact, just not one meant to break the heady power of the moment they're sharing.

[theonewhocounted]

Those words from his mouth fill her with a warmth like nothing else. Yes, he had said them last night, but it's hours later and he's still saying them.

She kisses his brow tenderly and then his lips before she tucks her head under his chin and sighs happily. Her bare body relaxes against his and the skin to skin contact is wonderful.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Before now, he's wondered how people could stand something that sounds as crushingly boring as simply being alone together. But lying here in contented quiet with Molly is... actually okay. His thoughts aren't trying to pull him in a million directions at once, and she's not demanding anything of him he isn't willing or able to give.

He runs a hand through her hair idly, learning the texture of it.

[theonewhocounted]

She sighs happily at the feeling of his hand in her hair. It feels like everything she has always been too afraid to really hope for when it came to this man. It feels like her dreams come true.

"I want you to know what all this means to me - you being here, saying and feeling the things you are. I know these sorts of feelings are generally not your area. I know a lot of awful things have happened to bring you here and I wish they hadn't, but I am so very glad you're here."

Molly speaks these words quietly as her hand traces patterns over his bare chest, paying special attention to his scars.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Her fingers draw gentle lines between the marks his cases and bad habits have left on him, and he stores away those patterns she's tracing and the words she's saying like a Rosetta Stone. Somehow the circumstances here are all right enough that he can hear and interpret what she's saying, even though it's in a language he's never bothered to learn.

And somehow he can trust that when he speaks, she'll be able to translate for herself.

"I'm glad to be here," he admits, very quietly. "This... this is good. I mean the whole thing--lunch, talking, sex. All of it."

[theonewhocounted]

Molly's mouth blooms into a smile as he speaks. He can probably feel it where the side of her face rests against his chest.

"It is, isn't it?" she says, happy he feels that way as well. "Not so awful and scary as you imagined, sharing your heart and body with someone?"

She doesn't look up at him, although her instinct is to do so. She doesn't want to upset the delicate balance of them talking about their feelings. He is uncertain about these things and she doesn't want him to feel uncomfortable. She does want to know if he's any doubts though, wants him to feel comfortable expressing them or anything else with her.

[punchmeitssubtext]

He does feel that smile, curving against his skin, and he almost wishes it would leave a scar. Just so he has physical proof that he's made Molly happy, if only for a short time.

"Not so awful at all."

And it's true. Opening up this much of himself has been excruciating--a long rollercoaster ride through grief and guilt and horror and self-loathing--and this part, the sweetness of love and trust and discovery, is something he legitimately didn't expect.