Overflow Post II
This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that were started on prompt posts that have since filled up or are close to full.
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"I want to wash out - we should wash your hair. Before you lie down." Sherlock can't blame Molly for not wanting blood on her upholstery, and tries to focus.
"Here, Sherlock. Just - kneel down and I'll get this out of your hair and I can get you to bed, all right?" The narcotic makes him feel relatively compliant and he leans over the edge of the tub with only a few muttering complaints. Molly takes the shower head and gently rinses out the blood before washing his hair with her shampoo. She tests the water to make sure that it's warm, but Sherlock can't stop himself from shivering.
Once she's washed away the blood she settles him onto the lid of the toilet before digging through a cabinet for fresh towels. The dark circles of her nipples show through her soaked cotton t-shirt, and she is too busy trying to cautiously dry his hair enough to apply a fresh bandage to care. It surprises him in some way, and Sherlock supposes he's never given a thought to Molly having these obvious anatomical features. She is all cardigans and layers, everything buried away from view.
She wraps his clean hair in a towel and with her arm around him, helps him into her bedroom. Sherlock perches on the edge of the bed as she strips from his body the remaining clothes that she has agreed to burn in the incinerator at Bart's. He shivers and Molly reassures him in a soft voice that it will only be a minute. Waiting is boring, a minute too bloody long, so he burrows into her bed, enveloped by the scent of clean cotton sheets.
"Oh," Molly says softly, not meeting his eyes before she sits on the edge of the bed. She holds out water and a mix of anonymous pills. There's another bitter narcotic among them, and probably an antibiotic. Molly suspects a fever, then. He takes them, wincing at the protest from his taped ribs when he tries to sit up. The glass clinks on the coaster on the nightstand and he lets his eyes flutter closed, but opens them to watch her when he feels her weight lift from the bed. She notices her suddenly translucent shirt and lets out a small squeak before digging into the drawer to pull out a new one, this time pale blue and sleeveless. She steps into the dark corner to change and Sherlock squints, just making out the shadow of the swell of her breast in the dim light. She would remind him of a sculpture that he's failed to delete, if sculptures were styled with ponytails.
Sherlock awakens several hours later. Molly is huddled beside him on the bed, knees drawn to her chest and a glass of wine in her hand. The glow of the bedside lamp favors her, softening the lines of her face and darkening her eyes. She notices his slight shifting in the bed and puts the glass down so she can lay her hand against his forehead.
"You don't seem feverish now. How's the pain?" Molly says softly. She doesn't need to whisper. There's no one around to hear her.
"Fine," Sherlock croaks out. He struggles to sit up and Molly helps, fluffing the pillows behind him.
"I didn't wake you, did I? I'm sorry, I just - I don't know where to be," Molly says. She lifts her glass once more to sip from it before she picks up her penlight, checking his eyes.
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Molly swallows and warily turns to face him, as if she expects him to strike at her as soon as caress her (he stores that away, unsure if it says more about him or her). Her fingers crush the sheets into a ball as she kisses his forehead, just at the edge of his hairline, the opposite side of the spot she had bandaged earlier that night. When he doesn't shrink away or yell at her, she kisses him again, at the juncture of temple and cheekbone and he remembers Irene, clever and scheming. Without thinking, he reaches for Molly's wrist, but she takes it wrong.
"Sorry," she whispers, "I'm sorry-" before she starts to pull away from him. He tightens his hold on her wrist, keeping her from sliding off the bed.
"I can have you," Sherlock says, calling up her nervous malapropism, trying to make it into a question but the end result sounds more like confusion. For some reason that seems to put Molly more at ease (of course, the playing field seems more even if he is out of his depth, obvious). She brings up the hand he isn't clutching in a trembling grip to stroke her fingers along the side of his face, thumb brushing over the sandpaper stubble of his beard.
"Sherlock," she says, her voice suffused with warmth and tenderness, and how could she do that to just his name? The sound carves out an empty ache in his chest that has nothing to do with cracked ribs or strained muscles. He leans into her hand, ever so slightly, and the small gesture instills enough hope for her to decide. She shifts closer until her thigh is alongside his, and a little half-smile forms at the edge of her lips.
"Small-diameter unmyelinated axons," Molly says, apropos of nothing, then looks down a bit shyly. He isn't sure if she's ever tried to string so many syllables together in his presence. The words jolt him out of the moment and any sort of plan he had going, pushing his mind to understand why she would bring up the peripheral nervous system. Nerve cells located in the epidermis, particularly sensitive to skin-to-skin contact, connected to the limbic system in the brain - survival, emotions. Ever so briefly, Sherlock's mouth forms a little "oh", just before she leans in to kiss him, perhaps a little clumsily but so softly. He doesn't respond at first, just taking in the data, the shape of her lips, how her hair falls over her shoulder, the gentle pressure of her thumb still stroking his skin.
Molly pulls away, just looking at him, and he can see nervousness well up in her, the fear that she's done something wrong, unethical even. She did give him a rather unusual medley of drugs today, after all. Sherlock lays his hand at the back of her neck to draw her back to him, swallowing down the surprise that he'd like her to kiss him again. He can taste the wine in her mouth as she deepens the kiss, her tongue pressing against his own. Molly runs her hand along his chest, her fingers skimming the edge of his bandages as she traces his sternum, his ribs. He doesn't want her to stop kissing him. He doesn't want her to speak.
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"Sherlock," Molly whispers again, and he still doesn't know why she is lowering her voice when they're alone, but the pleasure in her tone wraps around him like a veil. He's not quite the virgin Moriarty pegged him as, but Molly cares for him without the least hint of artifice, and that is entirely new.
Then Molly's hand drifts along his abdomen, fingertips just lightly brushing over coarse pubic hair until she finds what she's seeking. He gasps sharply as her hand circles his cock, and somehow it's the shift to Point B that he hadn't quite made until that moment, seeing Molly as someone who would want this basic, animal function from him.
"Shhh. S'okay," Molly murmurs against his ear. She rests her hand on his hip, her touch still firm but gentle. "I can stop. Do you want me to stop? Need me to? Sherlock?"
He blinks at her, trying to get his brain to respond coherently. Her eyes are searching his face for clues and he is sure that if he laid his hand above her heart he would feel it pounding.
"No. Molly," he says, noticing how low his voice is, and that indeed, it's quieter, intimate and just for her. Her whole chest moves as she takes in her next breath; she was tense again, fearful that he would push her away. Then he realizes that he can lay his hand across her heart, feel the rabbit-like beat go mad beneath his fingertips. He slides his hand down to palm the little swell of her breast and notices how her eyelids flutter when he flicks his thumb across the hard nub of her nipple. Is she so responsive for everyone, he wonders, or is this also just for him? He levers her up with his hands cupping her arse, so quickly that she scrabbles for the headboard behind him for balance.
Sherlock flicks his tongue over her nipple and watches the skin pucker and tighten as he blows cool air over it. He narrows his focus, trying to observe her reactions instead of the pain that is slowly ebbing away. His fingers trail the underside of her breasts, and the muscles and tendons of her arms tense above him as her grip on the headboard tightens. The Woman's forte, of course, would be to tie her to it, cuff her to it (his cock actually twitches at that image), but Sherlock rather likes the idea that Molly would cling out of desperation, of needing her hands to be somewhere solid.
His fingers catch in the waistband of her pajamas and he should probably ask before he slides them down over her bum, although the way she wriggles to help him along seems like a perfectly good answer. Molly is quite petite and he suspects this is the fleshiest part of her, when he cups each cheek in his palms she groans and kicks the rest of her pajamas out of her way.
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Molly strokes his cock again, a little more vigorously, and then with a rather clever shimmy of her hips he's sheathed inside of her. Sherlock digs his fingers into her waist with a gasp, because the tight, wet heat surrounding him is almost overwhelming.
"Need a moment," Sherlock manages to say, and Molly nods, her hands trembling slightly on his chest. He watches her breathe again, feeling like time has briefly suspended its march forward. He runs his hand over her thighs, and his brain stirs, noting the smoothness of her skin.
"You shaved your legs to fake my death?" Sherlock blurts, and then realizes that must sound rather odd, even for him. Molly claps her hand over her mouth and giggles, and the sound is far more pleasant than he might have expected, as is the tightening of her pelvic muscles around his cock as the laughter passes through her body.
When he begins to lightly caress her skin, fingers brushing beneath her breasts, Molly moves slowly and carefully, bending to kiss him and nuzzle his cheek with surprising tenderness. He tests out exactly how much he can move his hips before his ribs ache, and the answer is regrettably small, although Molly doesn't seem to mind. Her thighs are stronger than they look, firm muscle beneath soft flesh, and he grips onto them as a shudder of pleasure passes through him. She leans over him, gently running her hands over his chest, but also seems to know he needs breathing room. He doesn't think of sex like this, soothing and giving and Molly would give until she had nothing left, he can tell. The idea makes him want to wrap his arms around her, to protect her because she is precious and rare, but the fact is that he's always has been the trap set out for her, and he doesn't know how he could ever change that.
Molly tugs his hand back to where he stroked her before, where he can feel her stretched around his cock as she slowly circles her hips and shivers. Her body jerks slightly as he sweeps his thumb across her clit, and he settles his hand into the crease of her thigh and hip to do just that. She isn't particularly vocal, which he appreciates, just panting softly in rhythm with the wet sound of their bodies meeting.
Sherlock knows where this should lead, but the cocktail of painkillers and exhaustion makes his body less than inclined to cooperate. Molly notices him going soft and kisses him once more, before letting him slip out and tumbling clumsily to the bed beside him. She bites her lip shyly, not quite looking at him as she pulls the covers up over both of them.
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"It's fine, you know. I don't always - you know, anyway. With another person. Especially not the first time - not - not that I'm saying there has to be a second time," she adds hastily.
"Molly," he says with a faint hint of warning, because he really needs her to stop rambling, but then dread curls in his belly at the thought that she might slip away from him, contract back into that smaller, quieter version of herself. Awkwardly, he tries to slip his arm beneath her shoulders to make her turn towards him, to keep her close. Molly knows, of course. She kisses his shoulder and tries to nestle against him without disturbing his injuries, her thin hand resting over his heart. The sensation is at once foreign and pleasant, but then he has never been averse to touch so much as extremely selective about who is allowed close enough to do so.
"I don't think I've ever been so tired, Molly," he mutters, and Molly sweeps her fingers affectionately along his sternum in an unconscious Y-incision.
"Mmmm. Well, prolactin, you know. And you did have a bit of a day," she adds, and the understatement nearly makes him smile. The ghosts of his impossible day hover at the periphery of Sherlock's mind, but the soft rhythm of her breath across his collarbone lets him drift off again with only a fleeting thought of what his life might be like tomorrow, with the soft weight of Molly's hand on his chest as his lone remaining anchor.
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