The Morning After

Sunlight filtered in through the blinds, draping itself across the bed and onto the sheets. These said sheets were a rumpled mess. A rumpled mess wrapped around two pairs of legs. One of these pairs of legs, rather a bit hairier than the other pair, began to move. But they didn't move away from the other pair of legs, they in fact moved closer, rubbing up against them ever so slightly. A soft sigh escaped from the lips of the owner of the other pair of legs. It was a gentle sound, barely discernible, but he was able to detect it.

"Molly … Molly, wake up."

An annoyed moan was the only response he was rewarded with. He rubbed his leg up against hers again, moving until his body was pressed flush against hers. This time he was rewarded with a moan of pleasure. His lips curled with a triumphant smile.

"Wake up, Molly."

She turned her face towards him, her eyes opening slowly, blinking away the sleep. Not a sight I ever expected to see, but oh hell, what a sight! His curls were mussed, sticking about in all directions. There was an obvious love bite on his neck, just below his jaw line. His pupils were blown wide, barely a hint of the blue-green sea that his eyes usually were. And he was smiling at her.

"Hello…" Her voice sounded odd, a bit raspy.

He dropped downwards to press a hungry kiss to her mouth. She lifted herself up, giving herself into the kiss, pressing her breasts to his chest. He held her against him, his arms curling about her waist, deepening the kiss.

"So last night wasn't a dream." She breathed. It wasn't a question, merely a statement spoken out loud to reassure her that all of this was very real.

He hummed against her mouth, kissing her again, "Does this feel like a dream to you?" He shifted their bodies so that she was seated directly on top of him. Her moan, he had to hold back one of his own, was a rather satisfying answer.

"Mmm … no, GOD! No, not at all."

His hands came to rest on her hips, moving her away from him ever so slightly. She let out a whimper then began to move on her own accord. The room filled with their breathy sighs and moans. She soon cried out, muffling it in his neck. He had bit down on her shoulder, and was now covering the bruised skin with kisses. Ever so gently he laid her down on her back, their legs stretching out, tangling together. They were both completely breathless, but still desperate to kiss; to extend the moment of their afterglow.

She had pressed her forehead into his chest, waiting for her breathing to slow. He was running his hands up and down her back, his fingertips tracing over her spine. She had the feeling that he was reciting the names of each of the bones as he touched them.

"Sherlock …?"

"Mmmm…"

"Do you have any paracetamol?

His hands stopped moving, "Head ache?"

"Mm, a little bit. Just a slight ache." She lifted her head and looked at him, "Drank too much of that awful wine." She winced slightly, recalling exactly why she had been doing that.

He studied her for a moment, "Let me check the bathroom, John might have left some when he moved out." He shifted away from her, slipping out from under the sheets and walking out of the room.

Good God what a fantastic arse he has!

Molly dropped her head to the mattress, her face most definitely turning bright red. She heard the soft padding of his feet as he returned and then the shifting of the bed as he laid back down next to her.

"Molly …"

She picked up her head and looked at him, he was holding out to her a glass of water and two pills. She took the glass and the pills. After swallowing the pills and downing all of the water, he took the empty glass from her and placed it on the bedside table. She shrieked slightly as he grabbed her, rapidly pulling her up against him. He chuckled, pressing his mouth to the skin right below her breasts.

"Sherlock … what is it exactly that we are doing?"

She felt him let out a huff of air before raising his head so that their eyes could meet.

"Reveling in post-coital bliss?"

The cheeky grin he gave her was rather un-Sherlock-like, but it was a sight that she could get used to.

"Not just at this very moment Sherlock, I mean all of this. Last night … now … what are we?"

Nothing like getting straight to the point! Damnit Molly, why can't you just leave well enough alone and enjoy what is happening right here, right now?

It was clear he was computing her question; his eyes had gone a bit unfocused, his pupils narrowing.

"Lo-ov-ers." He spoke the word slowly, his mouth not accustomed to speaking it.

She hesitated; unsure, frightened by what he was laying out before her. How should she proceed? Did he truly, really want to be with her? Judging by just his actions alone, last night and a few minutes ago, it would appear so.

"Are we?"

He slowly raised his eyes to meet hers, his pupils blown wide again and she was certain that her own were mirroring his.

"If you want to be. You do, want to be? Don't you?"

Wait a second, Sherlock Holmes nervous? Sherlock Holmes unsure?

"Yes."

He let out a great rush of air. His once tense body now relaxed. Leaning forward he pressed his mouth to hers. She could feel him smiling against her lips. For several minutes the only sound in the room was their soft sighs and pants as they only broke apart to catch their breath before delving into each other once more. Suddenly the sound of her stomach growling broke through the silence. She let out an embarrassed laugh as he leaned back from her.

"You're hungry."

"Mmm yeah, it would appear so."

"I don't know if I have any food."

She rolled her eyes, not surprised whatsoever, "Well, let's go and see anyway. You should eat something too."

He made a face, but she chose to ignore it as she slipped out of the bed. He followed her, somewhat annoyed that she wanted to leave the bed already. His annoyance soon ebbed away though as he watched her grab up one of his dressing gowns and slip it on. She smiled as he stood there staring at her, his mouth agape.

"See something you like?"

He swallowed, stepping towards her, "Most definitely."

It was her turn for a cheeky grin. She left her eyes drift down his body before flitting up to his face, "So do I."

He swallowed again, "You better stop Molly, or we're not going to make it to the kitchen."

She let out a gleeful little laugh as she tossed another of his dressing gowns at him and hurried out of the bedroom. He quickly slipped it on, following after her, not exactly wanting her out of his sight.

Sherlock Holmes was not a domestic man. He never had been. Even while growing up he always preferred being out away from the house, exploring (playing pirates). But this, sitting here at his kitchen table, eating toast and drinking tea with Molly sitting beside him, this was something he could very much so get used to.