Paradise by the Dawning Light by chibiness87
Rating M. here be smut.
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: So, uh, yeah. My muse took my idea of a sweet morning after scene and turned it… well, into this.

He wakes to a room that is not his, and it takes him a moment to recall exactly where he is. The faint clatter of crockery and porcelain being moved helps, but it is the soft mew from the doorway that cements his brain.

Toby.

Molly.

And then he remembers.

Oh, does he remember.

The brush of lips against heated skin. The sigh as he entered her that first time. The taste of her passion as he sucked and nibbled on her clit, fingers deep in her core even as she clenched down around them, her hand fisting his curls as her back arched… he is half hard again from the memory alone.

The sounds from her kitchen continue, and Sherlock finds he is just the smallest bit apprehensive of seeing her, more so than even when he was high. Experience has taught him what to expect in those situations, but this? This is so completely new to him that he has no previous data with which to draw knowledge from.

Because, while this is not the first time he has spent the night here, not even the first night he has spent next to her in her bed, it is the first time they have engaged in coitus the night before. The night, and a few times in the dark hours of the early morning too.

If he wasn't so bloody terrified, he would be proud. Smug, even.

Only, he has never had to do this before. Never had a morning after before.

His previous sexual experiences at university had resulted in him leaving as soon as the act was completed, or deducing his partner so thoroughly they hurried out in a huff, more often than not only half dressed. He isn't exactly proud of his younger, more arrogant self, but it is what it is.

He has grown a lot since then.

Emotionally, if not physically.

And now, he has to face Molly. Molly Hooper, his one trusted friend, who has stood by him despite everything he is, and he finds, well, he finds he doesn't quite know what to do.

A grumble from his stomach makes him aware he needs food, nourishment at the very least, and the only way to get that is to get out of bed and go to the kitchen.

He wonders for a moment if he could wait for Molly to leave for work, before remembering that she has the next three days off.

Even he needs to eat something in that time frame.

With a martyred sigh, he pushes the duvet away, leaning over the side of the bed to hunt for his pyjama bottoms that ended up… not on his person last night. At least, not for very long. After routing around for a moment, he eventually spots them lying over the side of the chair next to her wardrobe, and groans.

Either, they were a little more… enthusiastic last night than he remembers, or Molly has already been up long enough to tidy certain things away. A quick glance shows that not only has his pyjama bottoms made the chair, but her nightshirt he definitely remembers throwing somewhere behind them has also been found and relocated there too.

Another grumble from his stomach, and he sighs. Runs a hand through his hair for a moment, making it more ruffled than normal no doubt, before he stands. Snagging the pyjama bottoms, he slides then over his hips, grunting at the slight ache in his muscles. A dressing gown is hanging on the hook on the door, one of his camel ones he notes idly, and he slips into the soft fabric, catching sight of his reflection in the long mirror on the wardrobe as he does so.

He stops. Blinks. A small smirk flits across his face for a second at the faint scratch marks across his chest, and the dark bruise on his neck, before he recalls just who put them there.

Silently, he makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway at the sight that greets him. Molly has decided, without any consultation on his part, that his shirt, the light blue one he was wearing yesterday, is more than enough coverage for her morning breakfast routine. The hem is just shy of decent, and she has only taken the time to actually fasten two of the buttons, leaving the top and tails to gape and float as they will as she moves around.

She turns, piece of toast in her mouth, mug of coffee in her hand, only to take a slight step back when she sees him loitering in her kitchen doorway. Chewing hastily for a moment, she clears her throat with a swig of coffee, before pointing to the kettle.

"It's recently boiled, if you want one." And then, like this situation occurs every day, she stands on her tip toes for a moment and presses a small, chaste kiss to his cheek, before sliding past him to the table.

Sherlock turns, following her with his eyes. "Uh…"

Molly continues on as if he is not the stuttering wreck that he is. "I'm out of cereal, I'm afraid, was going to pop to the shops later, but the bread's ok." She takes another bite of her toast as if proving her point, giving him a soft smile, only for it to fade when he remains silent.

"Sherlock?" She stands, moving her way slowly, almost hesitantly, to him. "Hey, you ok?"

"You're wearing my shirt." It's not what he was going to say, not even close, and he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to get his brain back on track.

Molly shrugs, making one side drop down over her shoulder, and he sees faint evidence on her pale skin of their encounters. A primal part of his brain swells at the sight, and he reaches forwards to brush a finger gently over the tender skin. Molly hisses slightly, and he pulls his hand back as if burnt. "Sorry."

"S'ok."

They stand there, blinking at each other for an unknown period of time, a tension building between them. Eventually, Molly sighs. "As fun as this is, I actually have things I was going to do today. You can stay, if you want to, you know where everything is. I need to shower." She takes a step to his right, obviously intending to move around him, and it is this, this familiarity, this Mollyness which snaps him out of his insecurities.

He has spent the night with Molly.

For god's sake, he isn't afraid of Molly.

Even if they had spent most of the night… well, shagging each other into the mattress, he thinks is the most accurate way to describe their carnal activities.

So as she huffs and moves past him, he reaches out, tugging gently on her wrist.

"What, Sherlock?"

Tentatively, he reaches forward, brushing his hand over the marks left by his mouth once more, stepping closer to her and drawing his other arm around her waist, until she is held loosely against him. Stooping down, he presses a gentle kiss to the bruised skin, feeling Molly gasp as he does so. Tightening his arm around her, he presses a kiss to her temple, letting his hand slip beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Molly sighs against him, her own hands slipping inside his dressing gown to rest on his hips. Her thumb idly traces the curvature of his hip bone, and it makes him shudder, arousal beginning to pool beneath his skin. Pressing closer, he makes sure she can feel what she is doing to him.

Molly meets his shy gaze with a sure one of her own, her hand coming round to trace him through the material of his pyjamas. The sight and feel of her small hand makes him moan, but when she pulls back slightly to dip her hand under the waistband and cradle his cock in her bare hand, he groans. He feels the whisper of fabric against his skin as she pushes his pyjamas down, never letting go of his heated flesh as she does so. His eyes falling closed, he ruts into her grasp, prolonging the contact as much as he can. Her grip tightens, and Sherlock cannot help the muffled curse he lets out against her neck.

His own hand has not been idle, and when Molly moves slightly to readjust her grip, he lets the fingers playing at her hip dip lower, tracing the seam of her lower lips, a shot of desire flooding him as he feels the wetness already pooling there. Molly lets out a sight whine, and he moves his fingers again, making sure this time to gently trace over her clit.

Part of him knows she must be sore, sensitive at the very least, from the previous night, but the way she tilts her hips just so, making the tips of his fingers catch slightly on her opening, makes the small part of his brain that was considering stopping to be buried under a much more pressing urge. A need, even.

Still tracing her lower lips, not quite penetrating her, he gasps against her skin, tongue coming out to lap periodically at the faint trace of sweat decorating the notch of her collarbone. Molly's head falls back at the move, and he feels her free hand, the one not caressing his erection, slip up and into his hair, pulling his mouth closer to her, a moan in her throat. "Christ, please, Sherlock, I need…"

"What?" he all but growls at her, arousal turning his voice guttural and low, "What do you need?"

Hazy eyes, the normal brown hue now nothing more than a slim halo around blown black pupils, greets his hungry gaze when she pulls his head back by his curls. "Inside. God, you, need you inside, please…"

Her gasped words end in a moan, as he finally lets one, then two fingers dip inside her dripping heat, feeling her inner muscles grasp and ripple around his invading digits. "Like this?"

"Ugh. Yeah. Like, ah fuck, just like that." He feels her stance widen slightly, giving him more room, her hand on his erection sliding in counterpoint to the rhythm he has set, and he bites back a curse. Pulling his fingers free, ignoring her whine of protest, he twists them both around, stepping out of his pooled nightwear as he does so, and moves them until her back is pressed against the wall of her hallway. Slipping his arm under her thigh, he curves her leg up and over his hip, propping her open, before letting his fingers sink back into her, thrusting deep.

Molly wails, her head flying back, and it is only his quick reflexes that means his free hand gets there in time to prevent her head from colliding with the wall. He's certain he'll have bruises later, but is too lost in the sight and scent of Molly to care about that now. Against his other hand he can feel her muscles twitching, caressing his fingers, even as he slips another inside, stretching her more. Her hand abandons his cock, instead scrabbling over the wall in search of purchase, her hips beginning to thrust back against him. Her eyes are screwed shut, breath coming in panting wheezes, and he brushes his thumb over her clit again, captivated by the sight. The second his thumb comes in contact with her engorged pearl, she goes rigid in his arms, a moan caught in the back of her throat, before he feels a gush around his fingers, her inner muscles fluttering madly. Gentling his rhythm, he lets her weight fall against him, even as he continues to fuck her through her orgasm, reducing the number of fingers gradually as she calms.

His own heart rate is racing still, and he cannot help the moan that escapes when Molly once again takes his erection in her hand. He gasps, watching with wide eyes as Molly bites her lower lip slightly, her thumb brushing against the beads of liquid which have escaped him. Slicking him with his own essence for a moment, she keeps her gaze locked with his as she then brings her hand to her mouth and swipes her tongue against her finger, tasting him.

Sherlock groans, mouth falling against her mouth insistently, drinking in the slight saltiness of himself on her tongue. Molly gasps, and then he feels her small hand cradle his balls, cupping them, fondling them, before running her thumb over the sensitive skin between them and his cock, and he is lost.

Pulling back, he hooks her leg higher on his hip, hoisting her other leg up so she is now pinned between the wall and his chest. Heart pounding, he presses up against her, letting her feel the heat of him against her belly. She moans, reaching down to reposition him at her entrance and tilting her hips slightly, and it is all the invitation he needs. With a curse, he presses forwards, feeling her folds part to allow his entry. Molly gasps as he enters her, and he feels her muscles flit and flutter around him, even as he continues to press inwards. A sharp sting on his back tells him Molly is raking her hands over him again, and he huffs, pausing for a moment, still only half in. Drawing back slightly, he presses forwards once more, this time not stopping until he is buried balls deep, her legs pressed as wide as possible to accommodate him.

He stills, breath coming in gasps, as he lets her get used to the feel of him inside her again. She groans, her arms coming up to grip around her shoulders, one hand coming to rest in his hair again. After a moment, he feels her shift, her hips beginning to gently move against him, seeking friction. Sherlock grunts, gently pulling out almost to the tip, before sliding back in, just as slow as before. He sets a slow pace, each breathy moan and sigh they produce a symphony to his ears, and he can feel his mind palace expanding, a whole new wing developing for this and this alone.

So caught up in the moment, he is taken by surprise when he feels Molly's hand slip down to stroke his balls once more. His pace falters, and then he presses harsher, faster into her, and Molly lets out a gasp at the increase in speed. She hitches her leg higher on his body, and he feels the angle change, slipping deeper into her on his next thrust, making them both grunt and gasp. He can feel her muscles begin to tighten again, and, keeping to the new angle and tempo she has inadvertently set, he pistons into her.

Molly moans, throwing her head back again, and he takes the opportunity to snag a nipple, tight and puckered with arousal, into his mouth, sucking deeply. He feels her clench on his still invading cock, a guttural groan falling from her lips. Pulling his mouth away, he sucks on the other nub, worrying it gently in his teeth before biting down firmly. It is this that finally sends her over the edge again, a cry falling from her lips even as he feels her clamp and ripple around his length, thighs tightening around his waist to keep him embedded deep within her walls.

It is too much, all at once, and he comes with a curse, feeling the pulse of his ejaculate spurting through his erection, drenching her inner muscles even as he continues to rut against her in the aftershocks.

Eventually, his own muscles weak and trembling, he sets her down, following her to the floor when neither of their legs withstand their weight. Hand catching in her hair, he pulls her to him, laying gently kisses over her eyes. Her cheek. Her mouth. Molly kisses him back, until they have to pull apart to breathe. She smiles at him, light and carefree, and the words that have been strangling him since he woke after their first time, pressed together in the dark of the night, break free. Instead of the terror he expected, there is only relief, and he pulls her to him again. Kisses her again.

When they break apart again, seconds or minutes later, Molly smiles, her hand coming up to brush his curls, in more disarray than he thinks they have ever been before, out of his eyes. Her eyes have returned to their normal brown, but there is a new spark in their depths. "Oh Sherlock," she sighs, "I love you too."

End

Thoughts?