A/N: No beta, just me I'm afraid.
Originally published on tumblr, but this is a slightly longer version for reasons of course.
He'd offered, she'd said yes.
She hadn't thought it through really, her eyes half-shut at the time, as she yawned her answer. They were both adults, both of them tired after a long night out working on a case, as John had been too busy. Of course she still hadn't expected to be in John's old bedroom. Sherlock had even readied the bed, retrieving sheets and everything, while she protested that she could sort it out, but he didn't listen to her. The instance he left the room she'd dropped onto the bed fully clothed, gingerly shrugging off her clothes until she was only in her underwear.
That was an hour ago.
Whatever had lulled her almost to sleep earlier evaded her now entirely; she was utterly awake, staring up at the ceiling with a frown. Molly knew why she awake, though she tried to make up other reasons – like it being an unfamiliar bedroom, or that she didn't have her own pillow or that she didn't hear the soft purring of her cat Toby besides her, spreading his fur on top of her sheets.
No, she knew why.
She almost felt like leaving, except it was three in the morning, and the idea of hailing a taxi in the darkened streets of London didn't really feel tempting. There was really no point; she knew she'd fall asleep in a while anyway.
Closing her eyes, she folded her hands on her stomach, trying to distract herself with thoughts, any thoughts that didn't surround him.
Not that it became easy when she opened herself to the idea, seeing herself steal through the darkened rooms of Baker Street, before she placed herself besides him on his large bed. Like anything would happen if she did, as if he'd take hold of her, clutching her towards him, before his mouth would crash softly on hers, his fingers digging into her bare skin.
Molly opened her eyes; maybe it wasn't a good idea to keep them shut, adjusting her eyes to the dark again she hoped she could will herself to sleep. Perhaps she'd become so wretchedly tired she wouldn't imagine how it could feel to have his mouth on her collarbone, or his tongue circling her nipple or his clever tongue in her – stop it – almost giggling she tried to keep her thoughts from threading fully over to a place of no return.
She had been through that before, and usually those evenings ended with her letting her fingers slip into her heat, allowing her to bask in memories she didn't really own, some things she would never see.
That wasn't something she could do here.
He'd know if she did, his eyes darting over her in the morning, before he'd pale slightly on the idea that she got herself off. Somehow that thought amused her, she liked terrifying him slightly with a casual mention of sex, throwing him off his centre, letting that cool brow of his furrow, as she forced him to have to visualize whatever remark she threw out.
She didn't know if he did actually visualize it, perhaps he just thought it unnerving, because her in such a position was unnerving. Her on her knees that became raw from being on the floor, her arms almost unable to keep her up, as he thrust into her, the pair of them unable to utter a single coherent word.
Maybe you should stop thinking about it she thought, shutting her eyes again. The instance she did that she could see his face beneath hers, the look of awe on his features, the wild expression in his blue eyes, the blue almost eaten away by his darkened pupils, as she thrust down on him, feeling him fill up her with every inch, her body shuddering.
Barring her eyes open again she sighed, quickly rising from the bed, hoping that a glass of milk or water would settle her thoughts. Molly walked out in the dark; not caring that she wore barely a thread, since she hardly supposed he'd be up, for he had seemed as tired. Walking carefully down the steps, she found the sitting room empty and quiet, no shred of light anywhere to be found, and she walked towards the kitchen, heading for the fridge, hoping to find her salvation when she heard a noise.
Stopping in her step she froze, blinking slightly, "Molly," instinctively she rushed towards his bedroom neglecting her state of dress, convinced that he was in some sort of danger, but as she slammed open his bedroom door – "Oh my God!"
She quickly learned he wasn't.
No, Sherlock stretched out on his bed naked with his hand around his hardened cock, didn't really spell danger.
Hands pressed against her face she spluttered, "Sorry – I should have – knocked-," blindly she tried to get out, only hitting the wall with her back – "I'll – umm-," she was surprised to find hands trying to pull hers away from her face.
Reluctantly she let her hands drop, staring up at him in wonder, "I – I -," she was turning into a stuttering mess in front of him, but with a good reason. Her state of undress was decent considering how he's not dressed, "I thought you were in trouble-,"
He is smirking rather widely, "Did you now?"
"I did," she bit back, trying not to think over the fact that he has her pressed against the wall, his well-sculpted body inching closer and closer, and his cock quite evidently twitching against his thigh. It takes her only seconds to know she is already ready for him, already aching for him, the hairs on her body standing up.
"You wanted to save me Molly?" he murmured, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Any second she expected the rug to be pulled from under her, for him to have simply played some joke, though she hardly expected him to have this brand of humour, he was supposed to be the one put on the spot, not her.
Well, she thought biting at her lip, before she did something utterly stupid.
She almost loses it the second he groans leaning against her, his breath hot against her neck, his palm thrown against the wall for support, as she wraps her hand around his cock, sliding pre-cum from the tip to the base.
He's completely undone in her hands, she feels it, knows it in the way he bites down at her neck, making her almost tremble, as her hold tightens around his cock. Every breath is taken with ragged intakes, his eyes closing, while she sees the visible pleasure in his face.
"Molly," his voice gasps, the urgency evident in his voice, and soon in his hands that grabs her to him, his hands undoing the clasp of her bra.
She savours in the feeling of his fingers digging into her back, and his mouth that seeks hers out, opening hers with ease, almost making her lose her grip on him.
But she doesn't allow herself to be distracted, even when he's nibbling on her lower lip, or when he's dropping kisses on her collarbone leaving hot trails on her skin, making the wetness more blatant in her knickers.
He's on the verge, she can feel it when his hands are palming her breasts, cupping them gently, letting her nipples stand to attention at his brief administrations. "Molly," he growled, throwing her bra aside.
Sherlock's fingers hook themselves on her knickers, and that's the very instant she gives up trying to torture him, to torture herself. This is mad, completely and utterly mad, but she doesn't feel like stopping it, not when his fingers slide across the fabric of her knickers, almost forcing a moan out of her, brief and gentle caresses that make her shiver.
She doesn't know how she winds up on the bed, her back on the soft sheets. Frankly she doesn't care, only thinking of how he practically rips off her knickers, of how his mouth is warm against her cunt, teasing the bud until she feels all her nerves are tangled. Then he begins to fuck her with his fingers, slowly thrusting them inside - she writhes against him, lifting herself almost off the bed, her mouth spewing out a thoughtless amount of curses, and he's almost dragging her over the brink, until he suddenly stops.
Molly gladly wants to slap him again, but her frustration disappears the instant she feels him enter her in one long hard thrust, pulling out entirely, before slamming into her again. She's clinging to him, with hands, nails and legs, wrapping herself around him, as he slams into her again and again.
This isn't supposed to happen like this, she thinks and she opens her eyes, staring up at the ceiling with annoyance.
Even her fantasies do it wrong she thinks, crossing her arms across her chest, knowing very well she's still in John's old bed and that not thinking about Sherlock pounding into her with fierce abandon is impossible.
Sighing she does get out of bed this time, knowing that actually drinking some milk or something would be a better thing, than letting her mind drift off like that again. The flat is quiet as expected and she pours herself a glass of milk, pondering if she should heat it up, but she eyes his microwave suspiciously, knowing that he's probably not cleaned the insides free of – "Molly."
She almost drops the glass in her hand, her hand clasping it hard while she shakes her head, convinced she's hearing things.
"Molly."
Apparently she isn't hearing things; reluctantly she walks towards his bedroom door, soon hanging outside of it, "Sherlock?"
There's no answer, slowly she opens the door and she finds him barely covered by his sheet, her eyes widening slightly at the sight, before she said in a sultry voice, "Do you need any help?"
Her eyes turning almost hungry at the sight of his throbbing cock, his hands wrapped around it, as he looks at her with interest.
No.
No, it wouldn't happen like that.
Sherlock groaned, sinking his head into his pillow with a sigh, knowing fully well she's asleep upstairs, and there's no point in him fantasizing that she'd dare to appear in his bedroom. With one long sigh he wrapped his sheet around him, soon walking out of the bedroom, intent to keep himself busy with something else than his idiotic thoughts, except when he enters the kitchen she is stood there with a glass of milk.
"You're up," he said with a gravelly sort of voice, soon clearing his throat with good measure.
"Couldn't sleep," she said in a small voice, taking a very long sip from her glass, the contents soon empty. There she is standing just in her underwear, just like he wanted, and his mouth dries up at the sight. She puts the glass on the kitchen table, giggling slightly, wiping at her mouth, "You?"
"Same," he said.
"Oh."
He should say something, he should do something, and he knows he should, but he doesn't know how to proceed. There's a difference between reality and fantasy, for in fantasy they achieve things without thought, without proper consequence, there are no feelings to be considered. In fantasy there's never the morning after, both a blessing and a curse, "So?" he begins.
He doesn't know where he was supposed to go with that sentence, neither does she by the look of her knitted brows, and he almost walks back to his bedroom defeated, "Umm-,"
"Molly – I-,"
"Maybe we should-,"
They both fall silent, it's a terrible silence, one he wanted to avoid, but he's in it now, and it's unavoidable in a way.
He doesn't know how it entirely happens, perhaps that's how it always happens in reality, somehow he relishes in this reality where he has her on the kitchen table, both of them unable to speak, as he thrusts into her, her legs over his shoulders, the sheet on the floor.
Tomorrow they'll speak, for now it's the fluid motions of their bodies that address the topic wordlessly, their hands clasped together, as she moans into his mouth, his lips indulging in the taste of her. Instruments of great cost, glasses, all of them tumble with a sound crash on the floor, the wooden table creaking soundly beneath their movements. Her cheeks are flushed, the flush crawling to her chest, as he lowers kisses between her breasts, hearing her intake of breath while she clenches around him.
He almost laughs at the breathy moaned words from her lips that soon form his name, as his thrusts deepen, her slick wetness being the only thing he can focus on in the end.
They have tomorrow after all.