A/N: You know 'The Elevator Game'? This is pretty much in the same vein.
The mistakes are all my fault, just saying.
"Are you okay?"
The words repeat in his head - slow then quick. He hears them leaned back in his seat rigidly, shoulders tense, hands clutching the sturdy armrests. Sherlock can feel the trickle of sweat slide down from his neck to his back, like he can hear her concern practically dripping on him, but he ignores it.
His seat belt is secured.
The seat belt light is off.
No smoking.
Not an unfamiliar concept.
Flying.
It's just like falling…
"Sherlock?"
His sharp eyes turn to her. "WHAT?" he says through gritted teeth, unable to keep his composure, as several of the flight attendants, besides passengers eye him nervously. He's one of those passengers, the grit in an otherwise well-functioning machine.
It's the safety instructions – the masks – the breathing.
He is breathing.
He is taking in air.
His lungs certainly are. "Okay," he hears her mumble, disappointment clear in a simple exclamation.
It's not a good 'okay'; her voice says it, the slight sigh, the hitch, though he can't find himself able to set it right. There are no drugs this time, nothing to set him right, and he won't be able to do it.
Not now.
Not – right – now.
This is not how it is supposed to turn out; it's a holiday, though he suspects a train would have kept him centred. Instead his thoughts are scattered. Instead he's scattered. He barely registers when her palm is hot on his, or the way she is rubbing tender circles on his knuckles. Her way of comfort, her attempt to remove the thoughts dribbling in, leaking in through every corner.
"So…you could have told me you have trouble with flying," she said out of the corner of her mouth, a streak of worry on her face.
Somehow her grip comforts him, for it's not meant to placate him, it's to tell him – I'm here – he faces her brown warm eyes, and sees the slight upturn in the corner of her sweet mouth – "Go to the loo," she whispers, biting at her lip.
He blinks in response.
There's hesitance in her suggestion, which he frankly finds stupid, too stupid for her to suggest. What would he gain by going there? He would still be in an aeroplane.
"Wha-,"
"Go to the loo," she says again, whisper still in place, but a giggle added this time like it will diminish the pressure in his mind.
He doesn't like the toilets, doesn't consider them an improvement, but her raised brows, her gestures give him way to indulge her. To take his shaky legs further than where he's been, passing the other passengers with some annoyance, as he doesn't know how relieving himself pre-emptively will soothe his nerves.
He is however not nervous.
He's on the edge.
There's a clear difference.
He doesn't like the feeling.
He doesn't like this 'control' that his mind has over his body.
It's different.
Regularly if he has to fly he would take drugs, suppressers, but he knew she frowned on that. And he would not let her go through that. For a minute he waits for the toilet to become vacant, then he sees the slide of green appear before him, and he pushes himself into the tiny cubicle staring at his reflection.
He looks gaunt, and splashing water on his features does not improve the matter. It takes him back to when everything he cared about was the rush through his veins, and his hands cling to the wash, his breathing swallow, as he tries to breathe better, to think more clearly, his head running away from him in the process.
Sherlock gives up and slides open the look, jerking the door towards him, but is surprised to find someone squeeze themselves through. Her shape, her face familiar to him, as she smacks the door shut behind her, leaning against it with a look on her face.
"Molly," he says confused, sensing the sudden minor tremble of turbulence, his eyes immediately closing, as his legs wobble against it.
Valium.
Vicodine.
Anything.
He'd be delighted for any other feeling, than the internal discomfort that translated itself into his body.
"I thought I might help," she says in an innocent tone, but he knows that tone.
His eyes flash open, instantly narrowing, until he hesitantly chuckles at her suggestive smile momentarily distracted from the moment, from the now. "We are not-," he begins to argue, losing the battle immediately when she takes one step forward and collides against him, her hand on the back of his neck, her soft lips on his mouth.
It's sound relief - the taste of her lips on his, the pressure of her breasts against his chest. He can feel her pebbled nipples through the fabric, as her hands tangle themselves into his curls, beckoning him closer, until his shaky hands take hold of her waist, giving in to the feel of her body against his.
She shoves her hips against him, moving in a familiar pattern, which his body easily reciprocates with a low moan. He doesn't regret the reaction his body gets, the stir below the belt, leaving every other pestering thought behind, as his hands dig more into her curves, and her hands go for his trousers, palming his already hard bulge.
Logically he should send her away, swat her fingertips from unzipping his trousers, from sliding underneath the fabric, her hand gently caressing his cock - the contact making him groan into her mouth, soon sucking on her tongue, relishing the sweet flavour.
It's elevators all over again.
Molly drags down his trousers, as the plane trembles soundly, but she doesn't seem scared unlike him, barely a visible shiver in her body, except from where his hands land, caressing, blessing her skin. The second she's freed him from his trousers he knows there is no turning back, not that there was ever a time to, and she seems to take her time. She let's him saviour the feeling, allowing the pressure to drizzle off, until her mouth wraps itself around him, like they have all the time in the world.
He feels scattered in a different way now, his hands clinging to her hair, letting those lovely waves tangle into his hands, while she hums with him in her mouth, licking and sucking her way down his throbbing cock.
It's all about the cure, the trembles of the machinery translating itself in her mouth, every little wobble forcing every nerve in his body to take off. She is taking care of him, making him forget with her sweet mouth. His gasps only spur her on, firmer and faster, until he's on the verge, and she draws back, letting him feel the cold air, until he feels her hands direct his to her bare arse.
He is in the air in other ways, observing her with her skirt hiked up, looking at him questioningly, but his hands find true purchase in the soft firmness, slithering across them gently. She parts her legs and his fingers slide into her heat, her moans stifled, as he lets his thumb brush across the pearly nub, and her moan is almost a wail.
His Molly is already so wet, how typical, and he drags the skirt further up, settling his cock between her parted thighs, teasing her moist folds slowly, feeling her legs tremble against him, until he is with one quick thrust enveloped by her cunt, the familiarity a welcome sensation, her warmth sucking him in with ease.
It's alarming how quickly he forgets, as he starts to pound into her furiously, savouring the feel of her, of him inside her, of how close they are. Her moans sound more marked than the engines low drone, ushering him on, keeping him centred, as her hands are splayed against the wall.
There is a sense in urgency in the way she pushes against him, while he thrusts within her, the way he almost slides out of her because she's so utterly wet, and undone, her brown eyes that seek him out utterly blown away. He leans forward, resting his hands on top of hers, continuing to push and pull within her, his groans indecipherable.
It's that familiar clench, that pull he feels within her and her shivers that take overhand that tells him. With one long hard thrust he comes within her, her cry echoing his own. The plane could fail – fall - but he would not care, another rush of weightlessness flooding throughout him, linking him to her.
He gives her a look when he settles down into his seat again, faking a rather stern expression, while she is unblinkingly cheerful directing her attention to some bubble-gum pink film on the screen in front of her. Sherlock helps himself to a kiss on her cheek, and a brush of her bare knee, catching sight of the wedding band on his finger. Molly's fingers slide across the band, a smile on her face, as they both know why the majority of the passengers are seemingly unbothered by their antics.
For a beginning, it's a terribly good start.