A Proposition
A short fill for the SherlockBBCKinkMeme prompt: For some reason, Sherlock and Molly get really drunk and end up sleeping together.
She’s not sure when the wine turned to whiskey, or when separate chairs became them sitting together on the sofa, but she now finds herself pressed up against Sherlock Holmes’ knee, entertaining the most inappropriate of thoughts.
He’d jumped off a roof thirteen hours before, and yet here they are, staring mindlessly at the television before them, some terrible late-night programming with no plot and no sense. She’d come to sit beside him when they’d decided to cheers their drinks, the whiskey in their glasses sloshing around as they clinked them together. Her head is already swimming (not like she drinks much these days, anyways), and it must be the alcohol that makes her speak (or her persistent lack of sex life in the last few months), as she turns to Sherlock and locks her eyes with his.
“Have you ever had sex, Sherlock?” she asks bluntly, the drink having erased her usual timid nature.
His eyes stay fixed on hers. “No,” he answers honestly.
“Would you like to?” she asks, feeling like this counts as the end of the world (and that's when you take those chances, right?).
He considers this, his normally clear and brilliant blue eyes clouding over with an alcohol-induced haze and, perhaps, the slightest tinge of lust. She wonders - briefly - if the adrenaline and the excitement of the day have gotten to him, releasing some animalistic part of him that he’s never known before. His gaze leaves her face and rakes down her body, lingering on her chest and her legs. Molly shivers under his attention, and shifts closer to him.
He looks back up at her, at last. “Yes,” he replies, a strange and unfamiliar hunger in his face now.
They don’t even leave the sofa, stripping off each others’ clothes in a hurry, Sherlock pressing her back down into the sofa cushions, raw instinct and human nature taking over control. He kisses her hard and fast and rough as he slips inside her in one fluid motion, both of them groaning and sighing as the television light bathes over them, the mindless drivel of twilight television the only other sound.
She’s not sure when the wine turned to whiskey, or when separate chairs became them sitting together on the sofa, but she now finds herself pressed up against Sherlock Holmes’ knee, entertaining the most inappropriate of thoughts.
He’d jumped off a roof thirteen hours before, and yet here they are, staring mindlessly at the television before them, some terrible late-night programming with no plot and no sense. She’d come to sit beside him when they’d decided to cheers their drinks, the whiskey in their glasses sloshing around as they clinked them together. Her head is already swimming (not like she drinks much these days, anyways), and it must be the alcohol that makes her speak (or her persistent lack of sex life in the last few months), as she turns to Sherlock and locks her eyes with his.
“Have you ever had sex, Sherlock?” she asks bluntly, the drink having erased her usual timid nature.
His eyes stay fixed on hers. “No,” he answers honestly.
“Would you like to?” she asks, feeling like this counts as the end of the world (and that's when you take those chances, right?).
He considers this, his normally clear and brilliant blue eyes clouding over with an alcohol-induced haze and, perhaps, the slightest tinge of lust. She wonders - briefly - if the adrenaline and the excitement of the day have gotten to him, releasing some animalistic part of him that he’s never known before. His gaze leaves her face and rakes down her body, lingering on her chest and her legs. Molly shivers under his attention, and shifts closer to him.
He looks back up at her, at last. “Yes,” he replies, a strange and unfamiliar hunger in his face now.
They don’t even leave the sofa, stripping off each others’ clothes in a hurry, Sherlock pressing her back down into the sofa cushions, raw instinct and human nature taking over control. He kisses her hard and fast and rough as he slips inside her in one fluid motion, both of them groaning and sighing as the television light bathes over them, the mindless drivel of twilight television the only other sound.