Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Sequel to "An Absence of Colour," told from Molly's POV and definitely NSFW. Enjoy...

~ AND HIS HEART WRAPPED IN RAGGED WINGS ~

He was so… gentle with her, when he finally got to the point.

That's the thing that had surprised Molly.

Once they'd begun, he'd been more gentle with her than anyone would believe.

She knows it shouldn't come as a surprise: He'd been the soul of tenderness with her that night in Hampstead when he, John and Mary had saved her. And he'd been patience itself during her recovery, even going to far as to stay with her in her flat for the first few weeks afterwards, barely returning to Baker Street for anything save a change of clothes or to assure Mrs. Hudson he was still alive. But Molly had always assumed that were they to begin a romantic relationship- as they had last night- then this tenderness would desert him. He would cease his carefulness with her and resume treating her as he did everyone else.

Which is to say, that he would behave like a git.

And she had accepted that. She hadn't cared that he would be impossible to live with. She hadn't cared that he'd probably break her heart. No, just being with Sherlock would, she had told herself, make up for all the overbearing, unpleasant behaviour in the world. The chance to be with him would be worth biting her tongue and keeping her heart safe and even listening to his occasional, spectacular emotional faux pas-

It wouldn't matter, she'd thought, because she would get to be with Sherlock bloody Holmes.

So imagine her surprise when, having shown her his tattoo and explained to her what it symbolised to him, he didn't then turn back into the consulting detective she'd always known. He didn't start yelling at her, or snarling insults, or even spitting deductions like knives.

No, he'd been gentle. Quiet. Hesitant.

His kisses had been loving things; They were soft- achingly soft- and so sweet. They burned her skin and made her heart clench.

Molly wasn't quite sure what to make of them.

And she's still not sure the morning after, she thinks, turning in bed to look at him in the early morning light. She's still not sure how to make her peace with the man in whose arms she's lying, and the man she's known for all these years.

The two don't seem to match up though they are, of course, identical.

She sighs at the thought, reaches out and strokes her knuckles gently along his cheek, trying to keep her touch feather-light.

Instantly his hand comes up to stop her, his long fingers clasping her wrist. "That tickles," he mumbles, eyes still closed. Voice slightly ragged. (Last night had, after all, been a trying one for him).

Molly pitches her voice to match his. "Sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you…"

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock opens his eyes. Looks up at her. His gaze is sleepy, hooded, and Molly feels heat beginning to soak through her at the sight.

Without her willing them to, her eyes flicker down to his lips.

"I didn't say I minded," he answers, pulling her wrist down towards his mouth, perhaps reading where her mind is going. He darts a small kiss to her pulse-point, then another to the heel of her hand. Nervous, but not so uncertain as last night, Molly reaches down and presses a kiss to his cheek in return. Then the frown lines between his eyebrows. Then his mouth.

He lets out the loveliest little sigh when she does so. Runs his nose gently along her cheek.

"Morning," he murmurs, burying his face in her hair and pulling her so that she's lying on top of him. She looks down at him and quite without her meaning to, she smiles. Tangles her fingers in his curls. She presses her forehead to his.

"Morning," she answers, eyes closed. She feels him kiss her eyelids. "Did you sleep well?"

Her eyes flutter open as he nods, pulling back to look at her, brushing her hair off her face. For a moment he makes eye contact and then his gaze drops until he's staring at her bare shoulders, visible above the sheets.

He swallows nervously and for some reason it makes Molly feel shy. Embarrassed, almost.

She has the oddest impulse to cover herself up.

Though they're both naked, she feels more… vulnerable in the early morning light than she did last night when she pulled all their clothes off and crawled into bed with him. When she kissed him and wrapped him in her arms and told him she would be that angel he'd said she was, if he would only let her close. So she doesn't understand her reaction now; they'd kissed and stroked and explored one another in the darkness, though they hadn't had made love. It had been intimate-sensual- So why would his merely looking at her embarrass her?

"You are beautiful," he says quietly, his voice breaking into her reverie.

He sounds… surprised by this.

Molly feels a slight pang at his tone but before she can say anything his gaze flicks up to hers. "I knew you would be," he says quietly. "I knew you would be so lovely, and now you're in front of me and I… I…"

"What is it, love?" The endearment slips out, not something she'd meant to say. He winces at it and she feels another spike of discomfort move through her, though she tries to remain calm. She mustn't succeed though, because Sherlock looks up at her, the normally hawk-like gaze open. Curious, rather than probing.

"Have I said something… Not Good?" he asks quietly.

He's frowning now, as if concentrating on a particularly difficult problem.

She shakes her head. He hasn't said anything Not Good, not really, and she's not going to start out on this… whatever-it-is between them by making him paranoid.

"You said a lovely thing," she says, pressing her lips to his bare shoulder.

His hand comes up, threads through her hair. The weight is warm, welcome. "But I said it in a bad way?" he ventures and when she looks up at him he looks so unsure that she nods.

He'll be able to tell if she's lying, she doesn't doubt that, and it won't make things easier.

"You sounded surprised," she says carefully. "You sounded surprised that I'm, you know, that you find me beautiful…"

"But I am surprised." Again she feels that twist of hurt, again she tries to order it down. He's not trying to insult her, she reminds herself. He is what he is. "I always knew that others found you attractive," he's saying. "I may not have wanted to acknowledge it, but I knew."

He presses a kiss to her hair.

"I just didn't think… I didn't think I had the capacity to appreciate it. I didn't think I had the capacity to appreciate you," he says. "I am oblivious to beauty and always have been, Molly. But still… Still…"

He takes in a deep breath, as if steeling himself to say something difficult.

"But still, I find you utterly lovely," he says quietly, the words spoken directly into her ear. "Even without an angel's wings I find you quicken me in ways I didn't think possible, in ways to which I had thought myself utterly immune.

And I find… I find I like that. I find I like being in the presence of such beauty, if it comes in the form of you."

He looks down at her, his expression questioning. "Does that make it clearer?"

She nods. Warmth floods her face, embarrassment and delight at his praise making her feel so…wanted. "That's much clearer, love," she says.

Some of the tension goes out of him.

"Good," he mutters sheepishly, pressing another kiss to her hair. "That was…"

"Difficult?"

"Hellish." He snorts. "Sentiment," he murmurs wryly. "I am not good at sentiment."

And he sets to pressing kisses along her collar-bone. Her throat. He hums as he does so, his breath tickling, the vibration dancing along her skin. Molly smiles at that.

"You seem alright at it to me." She feels his smile widen against her throat.

"You're biased," he points out softly. His tongue is- Oh, his tongue has found that spot behind her ear, that one she particularly loves. Her hands fist in his hair at the sensation, feet digging into the bed as her toes curl and she feels rather than hears him chuckle.

It raises an answering laugh from her.

"Something Not Good?" He raises his head to look at her, eyes mock-innocent, and she can't help it, she pulls him to her. Kisses him soundly. Her weight presses down onto his body, the sensation of his chest's hardness against her breasts making her squirm. Making her wet. She can feel her nipples tightening and she takes his hand, presses it up so that his palm cups her.

His hand is so big and so hot that it covers her entire breast.

"Like this?" he asks and he squeezes gently, lifting her, teasing and testing her breast's weight. He's staring down at her chest with that same look as before, one of absolute concentration: He shifts his hold on her, thumb sliding inadvertently over her nipple and she gasps. Tugs slightly on his hair. "You like that," he says quietly and she nods. Kisses him again. He repeats the gesture, a little more gently and she arches her back, pressing herself more into his palm.

"Firmer," she murmurs. "I'm not- You don't have to-"

He takes her nipple between finger and thumb, tugging and squeezing lightly. She moans. "Doesn't it hurt?" he asks and she shakes her head. Hands still threaded through his hair, she pulls him towards her. "Your mouth," she murmurs. "Would you- That is, I want you to-"

"Oh- Oh." He gets the point, for he leans down and licks a light, teasing path around her aureole before taking her hard, pointed nipple into his mouth and sucking lightly. It feels bloody divine. Molly must mutter something to that effect because he smiles, suckling harder before moving his attention to her other breast. Repeating the action.

He keeps his eyes on her the entire time.

She shifts and his teeth scrape against her nipple, a slight drag of pressure. The feel of it makes her keen aloud. Real wetness has started building between her legs now, making her thighs slippery and setting that heat in her belly tumbling through every inch of her skin. Without thinking she rolls him, straddling his hips as he comes to a rest beneath her. He feels so good between her spread legs; She can feel his cock, semi-hard and delicious, pressing against her mound. She leans down and kisses him again, loving the way his hands slide across her bare back. Her waist. His fingers trace gently across each notch of her spine before settling onto her backside.

Again he lets out that beautiful little sigh.

"You took your breasts away," he says, fingers digging into her arse, tone almost petulant. "I need something else to squeeze."

And she laughs again. Kisses him again. Her movement has knocked the bedclothes away from them both and now she can feel the warm morning air tracing across her skin. His eyes widen at the sight and she feels a frisson of, of power go through her at that. Her gaze travels down his face, his bare chest, sliding across his abdominals. The rounded curve of his bicep. As if drawn by a magnet they find that spot at the crook of his arm, that spot he where he marked himself for her, where he marked himself with her and with what she means to him, and her breath catches.

She presses a small, chaste, reverent little kiss to it.

Again she feels his hand in her hair, pressing her head and pulling her to him.

His hands have tightened on her waist and she hears his breath catch; Emotion rises in her, unexpected and unprepared-for. Suddenly there are tears in her eyes, though they mortify her and she doesn't know why. She closes her eyes, embarrassed by her behaviour and immediately his arms go around her, pulling her up to him, his voice whispering in her ear. He sounds so worried.

"What is it, Molly?" he asks quietly. "What did I-"

"You didn't do anything." She winces, hating that he immediately assumes he's at fault. Forcing her eyes open she looks at him, sees the worry in his face. The guilt. She wishes she could drive it far away from him, make sure it never returns. "You didn't do anything wrong," she says, more softly. "In fact, you were doing everything right. I just…"

She sighs. Leans her forehead on his, her hand going to the tattoo. Tracing it.

"This upsets you?" he asks cautiously, and again she shakes her head.

"Not upsets, no," she says. "It's just…" She lets out a long breath, tries to sort through her tangled feelings. It isn't easy, but for him she'll try. "I've loved you for a love time," she says eventually. "I just never, ever thought that you would love me. And now I find out that, that not only do you, but you've, I mean you've literally etched a reminder of me into your body-"

"It helped me keep safe."

"I know, I know that- I love that-"

"And that's making you cry?" He sounds bewildered.

She doesn't blame him. "It's making me feel things," she answers instead. "Sometimes feeling things just comes out as tears."

He looks like he's trying to understand. "So you're not hurt or upset," he says slowly. "You're just-"

"I'm just feeling things," she says, taking in a deep breath through her nose and trying to get a handle on herself. "I'm just…I'm just feeling things, and they came out in an embarrassing way."

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about that," he says gruffly. And he presses his lips to the side of her mouth. Without any warning he pulls her close, one arm scooping under her knees to tucks her against him, her head under his chin. Molly feels somehow tiny and fearless in his embrace. "You don't- I don't want you to be embarrassed with me," he's saying quietly. "I want… I want you to be able to tell me things. And I want to be able to tell things to you."

She relaxes slightly at that. She thinks she understands. "You too," she says. "I want that for you too. For us."

"Us." She looks up to see him staring down at her, an indecipherable look on his face. "I never thought I'd be part of an "us," before," he explains. "I think I like it."

Molly smiles. "I know I do."

And this time when she smiles he matches it. Something… Some tight, tense thing which had risen between them eases and Molly finds that she can breathe a little easier.

She fancies they both can.

So she pulls herself loose from his grip, leans back on her haunches. For a moment she just wants to look at him, this beautiful man with whom she's found herself bound. This beautiful man who means the world to her. He frowns, unsure and watching her as she slowly leans forward, pressing him back down onto the bed with one hand. He goes easily, clearly curious, and once he's on his back he stares up at her. Trusting her. Waiting to see what she's going to do. It strikes her then, how difficult that must be for him, how much he's trying to give her and as it does she feels a wave of tenderness flow over her, engulfing her. Feels all her own insecurities ease as she contemplates how much she wants the man before her. As she contemplates just what she wants to show him and why.

So she snakes her hand down his belly. Takes his hardening cock in her fist.

His breath shudders a little as she pumps cautiously, eyes on his.

"Like this?" she asks and he shakes his head.

"Harder," he says, voice turning slightly breathless. "I like it- I need you to-"

Red suffuses his pale, sharp cheeks and with a slightly devilish smile it occurs to Molly just what she wants to do to him.

She wants to show him that she values his body as much as he values hers- If he'll only allow her to.

So she lets go- he mewls in disappointment- before shifting, turning around so that she's planted between his spread knees. She hears his confused mumbling even as she lowers her head. Licks lightly along his length, smiling to herself when his hips jerk at her touch. She takes the head of his cock into her mouth, suckling lightly, her tongue teasing his slit; Her hands come up to tease and squeeze his sac. The delicate skin of his thighs. He hisses and jerks in surprise at it, letting out a mouthful of scattered curses and moans, hips pumping helplessly.

"What are you doing?" he breathes and she looks up at him, his cock still in her mouth, her loose hair sliding teasingly across his belly.

He seems transfixed by her.

She lets him go with a small, wet, popping sound that makes her stomach tighten. His pupils dilate at it. "What does it look like I'm doing, Sherlock?" she asks wryly.

He shakes his head. "You don't- You don't have to do that-"

"I know." She smiles. "But what if I want to?"

His expression tells her that of all the things she could have said, he expected that the least. To tell the truth, it surprises her: She's never known a man to turn down this opportunity before (though if one man were to, that man would be Sherlock Holmes). He doesn't seem unhappy though, he just seems confused. Surprised. "Will I get to do that for you?" he asks and if she didn't know better, Molly would have thought he sounded… disappointed at the notion he might not do.

"Of course," she answers, and he seems to relax. "You can try it now, if you'd like…"

And she grins mischievously, making as if to move away.

He shakes is head in protest. Shifts himself so that he's not flat on his back, his shoulders resting against the headboard. He looks… He looks eager and mischievous and embarrassed all at once.

He looks gorgeous.

"I want to watch," he says at her quirked eyebrow. "That is, if you want to..?" And he nods to his prick. His gaze has turned hooded.

Molly drops her eyes back to his cock, licking her lips at the sight. It's completely hard now, red and ready. Tall and thin and proud, she thinks, just like the rest of him. She leans forward and licks her way down from his belly, burying her nose in the dark thatch of hair at his pubis and inhaling his scent before continuing her trajectory. Taking him into her mouth again.

He feels so good against her tongue. Her lips. She looks up at him as she does it and he sighs. Nods. His gaze could burn her.

"Do what you want with me, angel," he tells her and his head falls back against the pillow. He sounds… He sounds so trusting.

The words sound like a term of endearment would from any other man.

So she returns to her task. Sets her heart to it. She'll show him what he means to her, even if she can't use words. Instead she showers his cock with all the attention, all the pleasure and affection she can. She kisses him, suckles him, teases him. Soon she has him pleading, moaning, his hand going to her forehead to brush her hair away from her eyes once more, his other hand fisting in the bed covers as he watches what she's doing to him.

It feels so, so good.

She almost wants to keep going, to have him come in her mouth but when he feels himself starting to lose control he pulls her up to him. Sets her splayed on his lap. Nose to nose, eye to eye, he presses his palms to hers, twines their fingers together. "Show me, angel," he says quietly, hitching his hips up towards her and without any hesitation she leans down to meet him. She can feel the tip of his cock just nudging the tip of her clitoris. Another twitch of her hips and he enters her, just a little, the feel of his cock a wanted, lovely thing.

Molly wants to go slow, had told herself she would but when the moment comes she can't help it: She takes him inside her body swiftly. He barely has time to become acclimatised to the feel of her before she starts moving her hips. Before she starts riding him. He draws his teeth back, a sharp hiss of pleasure sounding as she begins and when she looks at him his pupils are almost entirely dilated, the blue a thin line of luminescence around the black.

It is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

He pulls her head to his, sets his cheek against hers. Chest to chest, arms wrapped tightly around one another, they begin to move in time. They begin to lose themselves in each other. There's so much sensation, there's so much to touch and feel and none of it will fit inside words. Pleasure rises and ebbs, emotion knotting and tangling together before falling loose. The feel of him against her, inside her, is achingly lovely, delicious in a way she just can't define. Molly wants to hold on, she wants to take him on the journey. She doesn't want to lose herself, not when she's with him. She wants to keep him safe with her, just as she always has. But it's too much, it's too good, the things they're doing to one another, the way he's making her feel-

There's a hiss of joy, a sharp, bright flash of it behind her eyes and then she's coming apart, her orgasm sharp and emotive and jagged.

He holds her close through it. Grounds her. Shields her. His own climax arrives on the heels of hers, his movements turning ragged. Out-of-control. Graceless. She feels him spill within her, his throat bared as he calls her name.

When they come back to themselves they're still pressed tightly together, and Molly knows in that moment that there will never be anywhere else she'd rather be.

He's quiet in the aftermath, but it's not awkward. He seems content, rather than brooding. He keeps stroking his hand up and down her back, over and over, the sensation more soothing than anyone might guess.

"You should have wings," he says eventually. "I always suspected."

His tone is contented. Sleepy.

He murmurs something about her being an angel, but he's already halfway into slumber's arms.

Molly presses a quiet kiss to his lips and holds him to her heart. His breathing is calm and collected. His grip on her is tight. Her fingers slide down to trace his tattoo, to trace that mark he made for her. That mark he made of her.

She swears she can feel the brush of feathers where she touches him, but elects to keep the news of such fanciful notions for another day.