Chapter 2: Gunpowder and Gasoline
Molly stirred as she woke; something was...different.
Sherlock felt her move before he completely came around, brain confused and lost until he recognized the scent of lavender and roses. Molly's brain was still muddled and couldn't quite pick out EXACTLY what was different until she felt movement beside her and the limbs draped over her body. Then EVERYTHING came roaring back to her: the previous night, Sherlock's return, going to see John...her and Sherlock making love... Sherlock's eyes snapped open to see Molly staring at him. He saw fear there...and what he thought was love. "Morning," he murmured sleepily.
Her breath caught in her throat. "Morning," Molly replied. Her brain was going at a thousand miles per second; he had told her that he loved John, but here they were. He was here, with her. She was waiting for him to get up and get dressed, to walk out and never darken her doorstep again, to say that it was a mistake, that it was wrong, that she took advantage of him. He brushed a lock of hair back from her face, twirling it around his finger before tucking it behind her ear. "That wasn't a dream, was it? Last night?"
She moved and felt her inner muscles twinge. "No, it wasn't," she said, slightly in awe. It really wasn't a dream. He was here, and he was...she wasn't going to say 'happy', because neither of them truly was. He had just had his heart broken, and she was dealing with the aftermath of hers being shattered to dust. He saw her wince, concern furrowing his brow. "Are you-are you all right?" Not emotionally, neither of them was all right that way.
She nodded, smiling at his concern. "Just a little sore; it's been...a while," she said.
"Ah, of course," he said. He leaned in and gently kissed her for a moment before pulling back. "Thank you."
She stared at him, searching his face. "For what, exactly?" she asked, reaching out and tracing absent-minded patterns on the skin of his shoulder with her fingertips. He shivered slightly at the touch, at the gentility of it. "You're wonderful, Molly. I really don't deserve all the love you've given me."
Her heart jumped to her throat and she could feel herself blushing. Really? You're blushing now, after you fucked him? she thought. She gave him a wan smile. "You do. You really do, Sherlock," she said.
He smiled slightly as her cheeks bloomed pink, shaking his head sadly. "I've done-I've done terrible things in my life, I've driven everyone away: my father, my brother..." he didn't say John's name but it was implied. "Yet somehow, you're still here."
She could hear the implication in his voice. John. She moved closer to him, so the line of their bodies from chest to knee were touching. "I'm stubborn; that's what my mum always told me," she mused. "And, well, I tend to get stuck on people. I'm stuck on you. I'll...I'll always be here for you, should you need me. Should you want me," she said. There was that sting of doubt again...she knew that he didn't love her, couldn't ever love you her mind whispered. She knew that even if he did, she'd be a pale substitute for John. But...she could live with that. Better a broken heart than no heart at all...
He rubbed her back as she scooted closer, eyes unfocused until he managed to push John from his mind, his heart twisting and aching. "I'm stubborn as well," he mused, half to himself. "I don't know if I can make the same promise, Molly, but I could try-can try." His eyes landed on hers and, god he could see how much this hurt her, lying with the man she loved but who did not love her back. The pain is so clear there, he thought.
She sighed, her breath ghosting over his skin. "I know. I know you can't. But...I'll...I'll be here," she said quietly, swallowing hard. She swore she must either be the world's biggest masochist or something was wrong with her head. Pulling her closer, Sherlock kissed her, slowly, still slightly sleepy, searching for the connection he'd felt the night before, that feeling of not being alone in the world. He wanted to be able to love her, or at the very least to return everything she'd given him.
She felt her heart ache and her throat grow tight as she held on to him for dear life. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat. He whimpered softly, wishing she could just take his heart and save him the pain, that she could glue him back together. Sherlock's long, pale fingers framed her face as they kissed, and as he felt her other arm on his side, he was suddenly ashamed of how emaciated he was, how much he'd let himself waste away. Molly could feel how those three long years abroad had changed him and made him a shadow of who he once was. She broke the kiss and looked him straight in the eyes. "You're beautiful..." she said. A kiss, and break. "I love you..." she whispered. A kiss -pain, pain!- and break. "I'm here," she said. A kiss -Truth; she prayed he could taste it on her tongue- and break.
He felt his face heat, the warmth trailing through his body. He was not beautiful, not really, but she loved him; somehow, inexplicably, she loved him, and she was here for him right now. He kissed back harder, trying to drink the love and truth from her lips, to try to really believe it, to shut up the doubts in his mind. He kissed her breathless, fanning the want that was present. She wanted so much for him to believe her; she wished there were some way for her to take what she was feeling and place it in his mind, in his heart, to let him know that she was no liar.
Then it clicked; it all clicked as she pressed her hand against his heart, rubbing the skin gently. He broke the kiss with a gasp, realization in his eyes. "You love me," he whispered, true understanding of the meaning in his gaze. "You really think I'm worth your love."
Her own heart fluttered; there was hope...a small, weak hope, but it was there. "Yes," she said, pouring as much feeling into that one word as she can. "Yes."
And he smiled, thoughts of John stowed away in his mind palace, too painful to face for now, his love for the doctor still there but left to fade over time, for now at least. "I never-it was never-this was never something I could entertain or understand, could believe would happen."
The hope grew stronger as he smiled. She kissed him fiercely, feeling as if she were on fire, like he'd set a match to gunpowder and gasoline. He matched her, kiss for kiss, touch for touch, pulling her on top of him as their tongues danced, his hands tangled in her long hair. She arched into him. They tasted of each other, and she could feel something primal in the back of her mind purring, pleased with itself. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, breathing shakily. "Molly," he whispered, stroking her cheek, his mind and heart a jumble of too many things to deduce and name.
"Sherlock," she whispered back, moving her fingers through his hair. She felt somewhat like a kaleidoscope: a mess of brightly-colored pieces that refracted and changed and shifted with a turn of the wheel.
He nuzzled her arm, her fingers gentle yet firm in his hair. "I care, I truly care about you. I can feel that now."
Her heart stuttered and faltered and her breath caught. She looked into his eyes; those blue eyes that could flay a scene to pieces and put it back together with the 'how' and the 'why'. She smiled, slowly. "And you know I care about you," she said before she bent her head to his and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth. He accepted it, the sensation overwhelming, shutting down his brain until there was only feeling. He felt her rock against him and he pressed back up to her, trying to hold her as close as he could.
He clutched her tighter and she felt like she wanted to devour him, to keep him there forever. He pressed back up and brushed against her, there, and she let out a quick breath. He wasn't even inside her and she felt like she was nearly undone. He felt the heat there, making him hard, hard for her. He rocked more, striving for touch, for friction, kissing her like it was air.
She broke the kiss and sat up, feeling him hard and wanting. She raised herself and then slid down on to him, her eyes rolling back into her head as he filled her. Once he was all the way seated inside of her, she looked down at him, panting. His neck arched back, pressing his head into the pillows, his brow furrowed slightly as she took him in. "Oh my god," he breathed, unable to open his eyes.
She watched him and felt a shiver run its way up and down her spine. She began to move her hips, slowly at first, then picking up speed, rocking him to the beat of her heart. He groaned, neck taught, hands coming up to her hips as she moved against him. "Molly-oh dear god-Molly..."
She let out a breath as he groaned her name, guiding her hips with his hands. She clenched herself around him, throwing her head back, exposing the long line of her throat. "Ah...Sherlock...!" she gasped.
His eyes snapped open, and he pulled her down, pressing his lips to her neck, kissing and sucking as he rocked back, thrusting harder. She fisted her hands into the cloth of the sheets, keeping the pace and feeling desperate, feeling hopeful, just feeling. His breathing grew ragged, growling low in his throat as he kissed up to her mouth, rolling them over so that he pinned her beneath him.
All of a sudden she was under him and he was growling and the sound ricocheted through her. She linked her ankles around his hips and pulled, needing all of him. His kiss to her mouth swallowed up her little cries as he pounded into her, and she knew she was close. Her taste, her feel, her sounds, everything about her was driving him mad and he couldn't fathom why, even more so when she locked herself around him, driving him on, pulling him to the brink. He could feel the lava pooling in his stomach again, vaguely aware of what was coming next.
Then, like glass, Molly shattered, rippling around him, brokenly calling his name as she crested and flew off the edge of the precipice. She sank her teeth into his shoulder to muffle herself as she bucked frantically. Her teeth in his neck sent him howling, his vision tunneling once more until he couldn't see anything, guided completely by sense and feel, whimpering her name until he reached the aftershocks, relaxing and panting like he'd just run a marathon.
She could feel her heart galloping as he rested on top of her, their sweat mingling. She breathed hard, like she'd been underwater. And in a sense, she was drowning in him, in his taste and his touch, in the way he cried her name, in the way he shuddered against her as he came. A ghost of a smile came to Molly's face, and she held him as their hearts and breathing calm slowly.
Sherlock lowered himself next to her once more, resting his hand on her heart, taking in her pulse and feeling her shiver. I did that, he thought, reveling at it. He didn't open his eyes yet, trying to regain his composure and his mental faculties for a few seconds before giving up, allowing the flood of endorphins and oxytocin to take over and rule. She traced a finger over his chest, feeling his own heart pound as well, and she had to wonder if he knew how she felt now. They stayed that way for a long time, hands over hearts, the light in the room growing stronger as the minutes pass.
Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes, allowing the light in the room to restore his vision. "You love me." It wasn't a question, and while he knew he didn't sound happy, he did have concern and care in his voice; he was worried what it would do to her to love him, to want him when he felt as if his heart no longer existed, shattered beyond repair.
"I love you," she repeated, determined to be there to pick up the pieces of his heart and put them back together, one at a time. She would wait...forever, if she had to.
"I know."
She breathed deeply. "And now where does that leave us?" she asked quietly, not knowing the answer herself. They were taking comfort in each other, in their bodies and in their minds and maybe in their hearts as well, but at the end of the day, they were both still lost. The blind leading the blind.
"The sad, broken detective and the loving pathologist," he murmured, fingertips caressing her cheek. "Two shattered individuals trying to pick up the pieces, I suppose."
She laughed, or sobbed; she couldn't tell which any more. After a moment of just laying there, letting him touch her, she sat up. "I need to shower," she said softly. She could feel him leaking out of her, running down her thighs and staining the sheets, and as much as she loved smelling of him, she was desperate to wash her hair and face, feeling her eyes swollen from all the crying she had done in the past 24 hours. He nodded, pulling his hand back. "I'll take the next one," he said, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
She nodded and left him. The hot water soothed her roiling mind and aching muscles, the steam clouding her thoughts as it did the small mirror. She washed herself and finished as quickly as she could so he could have hot water as well, wrapping a towel around her and letting her hair drip-dry. She wandered back into the bedroom, almost afraid that she'd find him gone. He was still there, unmoving, but he rose as she returned, heading to the shower himself. The water was soothing, washing away the grime and muck of travel and loss, and Sherlock stayed in the shower until the spray turned ice cold. He shut it off and took the spare towel, drying his body before returning to her room.
Molly was sitting on the bed and staring out the window, her towel gone and a pair of clean knickers in her hand. She was lost in thought and didn't even hear him come in. Her mind was moving over the events like she was reading Braille, touching each one, feeling the nicks and bumps that explained (or tried to) what exactly had happened.
"Hello," he said, startling her. "Sorry," he added hurriedly. "Didn't mean to frighten you."
She gasped and started as he spoke, a hand flying up to her chest. She flushed as she realized that she was naked and internally scolded herself again. Now you've fucked twice. Stop being embarrassed! She smiled at him. "Just startled me a little, that's all," she said as she rose and slid on her underwear before searching for her bra. She realized that it was in the living room, where she had thrown it the night before. It was draped over a bowl of fake fruit that rested on her coffee table, and she had to laugh a little at the picture it painted.
He followed her silently, observing things he hadn't noticed before: the slight sway of her hips, her girlish laugh that was in many ways endearing, the flush that bloomed across her features every time he caught her off guard. "I left my things back with Mycroft," he finally said as she pulled on a blouse and skirt. "Do you mind if I have him drop them off?"
Molly blinked a bit. Did...did he want to live with her? She looked at him for a moment. "Ah... yes, Mycroft can have your things dropped off here," she said slowly.
He fished in the pocket of his coat for his phone, shooting off a text that received an almost instant reply. "Prat," he grumbled, "Already on his way...saves time, though."
She had to smile at his grumbling. She fiddled with the hem of her blouse and wondered why he wanted to live with her? Wasn't he going to go back to 221B Baker Street? True, John no longer lived there so he'd be on his own, but...all of the questions whirled around her head and made it hard to think on a specific one. He glanced up at her. "I can't go back there, not yet." He swallowed, forcing the thoughts back into his mind palace. "And I really don't have anything to wear right now. At least until I figure out what I'm doing, do you mind if I stay here?"
She looked at him and felt her heart do...something. "You can stay here as long as you need," she said softly, giving him a small smile.
"Thank you-" he started before turning to the knock at her door. "Mycroft," he grumbled, going to answer it in his towel. Her eyes widened. "Wait!" she said loudly, running after him. She brought an old dressing gown of her father's (she kept it for sentiment) and threw it around his shoulders, quickly belting it shut and giving him some decent coverage. She breathed a quick sigh of relief as he became more presentable. He felt his face flush. "Thanks," before opening the door, reaching a hand out for his bag. "Thank you, Mycroft."
The elder Holmes child merely stared at his formerly absent little brother. "Good to see you back, Sherlock," he said brusquely, keeping the bag in his hand and stepping over the threshold of Molly's apartment. He cast his eyes about, taking everything in, noting the shirt that was crumpled in the corner, the coat still tossed over the couch. He raised an eyebrow. "Well." he said, not continuing with anything else. What's implied though, is the thought: Slumming, aren't you, brother dear?
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock growled, hand still outstretched. "You've brought what I asked for, so give it here and go. I'm not one for the sentimental reunion, you know that." The last part was hissed through clenched teeth, the anger easy when directed at Mycroft instead of John.
Mycroft nodded and handed over the bag before turning his attention over to Molly, who had been standing there, ignored. "Miss Hooper, thank you for looking after my brother. Should you tire of his company, give me a call, and I'll have some of my people come to collect him," he drawled, before he swept out of the flat and shut the door behind him with a resounding click. She glared at the closed door, her cheeks pink with anger and embarrassment. "What an arse," she muttered under her breath.
Sherlock chuckled darkly. "Always was, even as a boy." He headed to the bathroom, stripping off the robe and towel and pulling on a pair of black trousers and a purple shirt, letting the fabric hug and comfort him. When Sherlock left the bathroom, Molly had to suppress a groan and force herself to keep her jaw closed. He was wearing that shirt that he wore all those years ago in the morgue, the one that made her knees go weak and her head grow foggy, especially when she saw him working with that riding crop. She took a quick, steadying breath and let it out, carefully schooling her face into a neutral expression...or trying to, at least.
Sherlock felt his lips twitch. "Like something you see?" he asked, working towards being present and here, not dwelling in the past. She swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting her voice to stay steady. She turned and started fussing with the clothes that they had thrown around the previous evening. You have to remember; he's getting over having his heart broken. You made love twice, that doesn't mean you can force your affection on him like this. Keep your distance if you can, she thought.
He went to help her, bumping awkwardly, muttering "Sorry" a few times before managing to gather up his things. "Where would you like me to sleep?"
"You can take the bed...the sofa out here is comfortable. I don't mind using that," she said, keeping her tone carefully neutral.
"That's ridiculous. I'm not going to put you out of your bed when I'm the guest. I'll take the sofa."
She looked at the piece of furniture and back to him. "Yes, but you're too tall for it," she pointed out. If Sherlock were to lay down, full length, on the piece of furniture in question, his legs would hang off the end. Molly was considerably shorter than him and could fit quite nicely on it.
"We'll just share then. I don't mind. It-it seemed to stave off the nightmares last night." He fiddled with the hem of his coat as he said this, nervous of what will happen if he looked at her. She whipped her head up to look at him. Nightmares? Of course he would have nightmares; he was in different places for three years solid, hunting dangerous criminals, being hunted himself. Oh, Sherlock... "That's fine with me," she said.
"Good." He turned and headed back there, placing his things in the corner, glancing at the bed. God, they'd made a mess. He began to strip the sheets, determined to wash them for her.
"Ah! I-I can do that," she said, feeling flustered. The sheets were stained, and the room reeked of sex. She squirmed a little; truth be told, she could get used to that. Her mind brought her to a screaming halt. NO. Stop it, Molly, stop it. Remember. You're picking up the pieces; nothing more.
He glanced up. "You keep panicking," he observed softly. "Have I done something wrong?"
She jumped. "No! No, it's not you," she said, caught off guard. She had forgotten just how observant he was; she would have to be more careful.
"Then what? I think it's partly me, you usually are looking at me when it happens"
"It really isn't you...I just have to...to keep reminding myself that you're here," she said. It's a half-truth.
He raised an eyebrow but lets it drop, filling in the rest for himself. "I'm sorry if my being here is difficult for you. Don't hesitate to tell me off, Molly."
She looked at him, her eyes sad. "It really isn't you," she said again. "But I'll keep that in mind."
He stopped, walking over to her. "Why do you look so sad?" He could see signs on her face and in her posture, but he'd rather hear it from her. He was trying so hard to be considerate. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sounds came out. She breathed and tried again. "I have to keep reminding myself not to be selfish. It'll just hurt you more...hurt us both more, in the long run," she said quietly.
"Selfish?"
She closed her eyes and clenched her hands, driving her fingernails deep into the flesh of her palms. "I...I want you to stay here. I want you to be happy. I want to make you happy. I want you to want me. I know you don't, I know you...you can't. And me wanting...wanting this...it's not fair. To either of us," she said. She couldn't look at him right now. If she did, she was sure she'd start crying. He took her in his arms, just standing there and holding her. "I have to learn all over again, Molly. And it's not fair to you to deny yourself, not when I can help, not when I can be here."
Oh. He was being kind. And it hurt. She didn't say anything...she just stood there and rested her head on his chest, breathing slowly.
"I don't know if it's that I want you or that you're a substitute, I hope it isn't the latter, I don't think it is as I've gotten-hard-for you twice now. There's something there, Molly, I just-I just don't know what it is," he whispered into her hair.
She felt that fragile hope stir and flutter in her chest again. "All right," she replied softly. She slowly moved her arms around him, pressing her palms to his shoulder blades, resting her ear against his chest. She could hear the steady beat of his heart, and she closed her eyes. This...this could be enough. Sherlock smiled, standing there and holding the pathologist, the girl with hope. "Beautiful," he whispered. She took a deep breath, inhaling his scent, before letting it out in a rush. Molly allowed herself to smile as well, half-hearing his endearment. She held him tighter, as if she could dissolve into him. Slowly he started to sway, humming softly against her head.
She nearly started. This is...new. And odd. But nice. She could feel the vibration of his voice against her skull, and it tickled slightly. She moved with him, reminding herself of how they moved together last night and this morning. He tried hard to remember music he'd heard in passing, his brain filtering through the snatches of tunes on the radio he's heard, his deep baritone sliding through melodies like water.
She heard a tune she recognized in the midst of his vocal shuffling; a song that her mother would sing her when she was little. She added her voice to his, singing the words. "Once there was a way to get back homeward...once there was a way to get back home. Sleep, little darling, do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby..." (1)
"Boy, you're gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time" Sherlock added, surprising himself, the words coming from nowhere. We sound good together, he thought absently. (2)
Molly couldn't remember the rest of the words...only the ending, so she skipped to it. "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make," she sang softly, the tune reverberating through her chest. Sherlock sniffed, eyes pricking again. Damn it. "The love you make," he echoed back. (3)
She turned her head and placed a kiss to his chest, saying nothing. She just held him and let him hold her. He has a beautiful voice...it fits so well with the rest of him. The thought drifted through her head like an untethered balloon. He started singing again, unexpected solace in the activity. "The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful and so are you," pitching it so it fit comfortably in his voice. She smiled and sang back. "The wind is low, the birds will sing that you are part of everything." (4)
Sherlock pulled away so he could look at her, brain churning as it found the next song. "Is there anybody going to listen to my story-"
Molly twisted the lyrics a bit to fit them both: "-All about the boy who came to stay. He's the kind of boy you want so much it makes you sorry...still you don't regret a single day..." (5)
Sherlock felt a single tear escape his eye. "You are so kind to me, so loving and caring," he murmured, and he leaned down to kiss her forehead, kissing her nose instead as she tilted her face up to meet him. She wiped the tear from his face and wrinkled her nose a bit after he kissed it. She stretched up and pressed gentle kisses to his forehead and both his closed eyes, cupping his face with her hands. He leaned into her touch, her lips so soft. "That-that's really nice."
She smiled at him and rubbed her thumbs across his cheekbones, resting her forehead against his. This feeling was so...vast, so hard to encompass with words, so she stayed quiet. It was a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing. He nuzzled her fingers, kissing them gently, trying to sort out his head and heart, one vastly confused and the other surprisingly full. The earlier doubts and fear and sadness that she felt had ebbed somewhat; they still lurked, but for now...this was enough. For now, this was all she needed.
Sherlock's stomach growled. Very loudly. Startled, he looked down, confused for a moment before he realized what it was. "You wouldn't happen to have any food, would you?"
She looked up at him and she couldn't help it...she laughed. She laughed so hard she doubled over, gasping for air. When she finally straightened and got a hold of her mirth, she grinned at him. "Yeah...let's see what we can get you," she said. Molly went out to the fridge and rummaged around, finding things that he might want and setting them on the counter: beans, salad, leftover takeout, eggs, bread for toast, chicken...various bits and pieces. He reached for the takeout. "This'll be fine."
"All right. I'm going to follow suit," she said, taking a piece of fruit, a bright red apple, from the crisper drawer and putting the discarded items back. She gave him a fork before walking over to the sink and washing her apple before leaning against the counter and sinking her teeth into it, breaking the skin. He dug into the leftover lo mein, soon distracted as Molly began to eat the apple. It was then that something in his brain clicked again, much as it had that morning. He did more than care but he couldn't figure out why or how.
She took a particularly good bite and made a noise of surprise as juice ran down her chin, which she carefully wiped off with her fingers before popping them into her mouth to clean them. She happened to glance over at Sherlock and she flushed; she had forgotten he was there for a bit. Oh god... he must think I'm a complete slob now... she lamented in her head. Sherlock forced himself to keep eating, unable to stop staring at her mouth, at the apple, her fingers...oh God, what was happening to him? She finished before he did, tossing the apple core into the trash. "Want anything to drink? Tea, coffee, water...?" she asked as she wandered over to the cabinet and stretched up to fetch a glass.
"Water," he managed, swallowing as his brain went to war with his heart. She stretched up a little more, her blouse lifting slightly to show some skin above the waist of her skirt. Glass in hand, she smiled triumphantly and got water for the both of them, placing his on the counter in front of him. She held hers, taking small sips and watching him surreptitiously over the rim of it. He hadn't blinked in several minutes, moving out of habit as opposed to consciously, eyes taking in every aspect of her, every detail, John almost gone from his mind, the pain from that so numb that he forgot it, the heat of this moment overwhelming his sharp mind.
The intensity of his gaze was slightly unnerving. "What? Do I have something on my face?" she asked, tilting her head to one side, brushing her fingers over the surface of her skin to see if there was some dirt or bit of food stuck to her. That final motion snapped him out of his reverie, his trance. "Molly," Sherlock whispered, almost a gasp. "You-you don't know what you're doing to me."
"Oh...I'm...I'm sorry," she said, biting her lower lip and flushing, looking at her still-bare feet. She turned away to place the glass in the sink.
"But I don't want it to stop. And it's confusing me"
She turned back and looked at him. She was just as confused as he, and her breath was short now. That flutter of hope had grown stronger, turning into steady wing beats, fanning the fire in her heart. He should still be heartbroken, he probably still was. She swallowed. "Oh..." she said again, softly.
"I know I still love him, but it's-it's fading, the shock and pain are dull now, but I-I can't figure out what's happening in my head, my heart, God, Molly, I more than care for you, and it hurts. It all hurts and I'm scared and don't know what to do..." Everything was overwhelming as he tried to make sense of his head. She walked over to him and held him again, trying to make sense of her own head and heart as well. She knew what she wanted to say, but she thought it was too early for it. She hardly dared to think it, but the thought comes to her head anyway. He loves me...
He listened to her heartbeat, smiling slightly as it sped up. "Your heart really does beat for me, doesn't it?"
The air in her lungs left her in a rush. "Yes," she breathed, her confession to him after all this time.
"Good." He didn't know why that was the word he said; it just was.
She looked up at him, searching his face. She placed a palm over his heart, letting it rest there. And what of your heart, Sherlock? she thought, but she held her tongue. That question wasn't fair; his heart was still an open wound, especially considering the events of the day before. He saw the question in her eyes, so easy to read at times. He placed his hand over hers. "For now, at the very, very least, for now it beats for you."
Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, trying to wrap her mind around what he had just said. For now. Beat for her. His heart beat for her. His heart beat for HER. She felt as if she couldn't get enough oxygen into her lungs. He was on the floor in an instant, looking her over, checking her pulse. "Molly? Are you all right? Molly?"
She grabbed him and kissed him fiercely, all fire and joy and hope and please...please don't let this be a lie. He was surprised at the intensity, barely able to keep up and deciding to melt instead, kissing her back when he could, letting her be in control. His hands came up to frame her face, stroking gently. Molly finally broke for air, looking at him. Her eyes were huge in her face, her lips kiss-stung and swollen, breathing hard, blinking slowly, her hands fisted into the collar of his shirt. There was something akin to desperation in her actions, and she didn't know why. Sherlock met her gaze, panting heavily for air. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"Ah... university," she said sheepishly. She'd had a lover while she was there; it didn't work out because she caught him shagging her roommate about six months after they had started dating.
"Painful memories, but he taught you well," Sherlock murmured. "I only hope I'm keeping up with your lessons."
She smirked, a gesture stolen from the man in front of her. "I'm sure you'll rise to the occasion," she said. The twist of her mouth pulled him back, hungry for more. He kissed her this time, slow and smoldering, his fingers massaging the back of her neck as his lips pressed against and stroked hers. She melted into his touch, moaning into his mouth as his fingers hit just the right spots to cause her to break out into gooseflesh.
She really makes the most wonderful noises, Sherlock thought, deepening the kiss and pulling her onto his lap. Molly wrapped her arms around him, dragging her nails down his back, pulling him closer, tasting him, feeling him. He growled at her nails, mimicking the motion, pinned to his spot by her, desperate for more, unwilling to move.
She arched into him with a gasp as he copied her, grinding her hips against his. They were fueling each other, winding each other up. He dropped his lips to her throat before undoing the buttons on her blouse with his teeth, kissing the skin he exposed.
Molly's breath clogged her throat as he placed his mouth on her neck and undid the buttons to her blouse with his teeth, trailing kisses like raindrops down her collarbone, her sternum, resting between her breasts. She moved her hands to his shirt and started undoing his buttons as well, willing her fingers not to fumble as she exposed his marble-white skin to the air. She traced her fingers across his skin, brushing over his nipples and trailing them down to his abdomen.
The roaring in his head finally silenced as Molly took over, her touch/taste/scent, all of it pouring into him, surrounding him. He kissed her naval as her fingers finish stripping him. Only dressed for ten minutes, he thought before she was kissing him again and he somehow hauled them both to their feet, pressing her against the wall as he kissed her hard.
She could feel her eyes threaten to roll back in her skull as he pressed his mouth to her navel. Then suddenly she was against the wall and he was branding her with his kisses. Her hands went to his trousers and she quickly unbuttoned and unzipped them, working her way inside and wrapping her fingers around him, squeezing him gently.
Sherlock gasped, everything grinding to a halt as she wrapped her fingers around him. "F-fuck," he moaned, head hitting the wall gently, surprised at his language, but this felt so different from the times before, more raw, more powerful. Her eyes flew open as she heard him curse, the base word sinking its teeth into her in the best way possible. She moved her hand, gliding over him from base to tip and back again. She wanted him to lose control, to come undone, to let go. Sherlock trembled, too close already. "Amazing," he finally breathed, bucking against her hand, desperate for friction.
She suddenly had an idea; one that made her flush, but one that she wanted all the same. Slowly, she turned them so that he was against the wall before sinking to her knees and moving the cloth of his pants aside before taking him into her mouth. She ran her tongue around him, taking as much of him as she could without gagging, looking up at him through her eyelashes. His knees threatened to drop him on the floor as he scrambled for purchase on the wall, anything to stay upright, the feeling so intense. "Molly," he moaned, a prayer.
She began a rhythm, maddeningly slow to make him last, almost letting him go only to take him nearly all the way into her mouth again. The way he moaned her name went straight between her legs, making her squirm against the emptiness there. Sherlock was pressing his head against the wall so hard that his back wasn't touching it anymore, continuing to moan her name, almost begging her to stop. Almost. It was a new war now: make her stop and take her, or let her finish him then and there.
She hummed, pleased with herself and at what she was making him feel, wrapping her tongue around the tip of him. She slid a hand between her legs; she had to have some stimulation or she'd scream. Finally, he couldn't take it, he needed more. Pulling back, he yanked her up and spun her around, pinning her to the wall once more, tugging off her skirt and knickers, rubbing against her before sliding in and bringing her legs up around him. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held on to his shoulders as he began to move, and she was helpless before him; she could only reciprocate so much like this. Sherlock took her hard, surprised by his own tenacity, driving her into the wall, mouth and teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her ear.
"Oh...yes..! Yes..." she gasped, tilting her neck back to give him better access, raking her nails down his back, leaving marks that would take days to fade.
He was close again and hurtling toward the end fast, every noise from her making him ache and burn. She took a breath, and it was over for her; she screamed his name again and again, now whole, now broken, shuddering against and around him. And he was gone, his name on her lips the most beautiful music in the world, hers on his a moan, another prayer, his world not shattering this time but coalescing, coming together, reforming.
As she trembled from the aftershocks, she had the mental image of a glass shattering, being shown in reverse. The pieces jumped together and form a perfect vessel again, just as fragile, but whole. She dropped her head to his shoulder and pressed kisses there and to his throat, breathing ragged. "I love you, I love you, I love you," she whispered: a mantra, a prayer, a blessing, a benediction.
"I know," he whispered back, not quite able to say the words yet. "My heart beats for you," he said instead. Her eyes met his and she nodded. The terms are accepted, the contract made and bound. It was enough. It was more than enough. He kissed her softly, chastely. "I'll stay if you'll have me."
"Yes..." she breathed. Once more, she kissed his forehead and his eyelids and sealed it with a soft kiss to his mouth. There was no heat or desperation behind it...only acceptance.
"Thank you."
Molly unwound from around him, setting her feet to the ground and wobbling, thankful for the wall behind her and Sherlock in front of her. Her legs could barely hold her up from the aftermath of their lovemaking, and she had to giggle; she was like a newborn fawn learning how to walk for the first time. He steadied her, holding her gently up, making sure she was fine.
She smiled up at him and leaned forward, kissing the skin over his heart. She felt it beat and she fought the urge to let loose a snarl of joy; he had told her, twice now. Mine she thought as she guided his hand to hers. He rubbed his thumb in circles over her heart, feeling their pulses slowly synchronize, amazed at the feeling. Mine, he thought suddenly, I have her heart. This was uncharted territory for the both of them. 'Ware to those without a compass," she murmured.
"Two hearts as one..."
Her grin was blinding, and she felt incandescent. She took his other hand in hers and twined her fingers around his. He glanced at their hands, so many images and memories pouring through his mind as he looked at them. He let them flow through his mind, allowing a small smile of the night he and John were handcuffed together, eyes flying open as he realized there was no pain there. She felt concern as his eyes shot open and there was a look on his face that defied explanation. "Sherlock?" she asked, ready to be there, ready to help repair the hurt, or try to.
"It doesn't hurt anymore." He was astounded, amazed, and the smile that broke his features took a few years off him. "Molly, it doesn't hurt, the memories don't hurt."
She let out a breath that she didn't know she was holding, and she smiled at him, her heart singing for him. The pieces were set and the cracks are vanishing, for the both of them. They were the glue that holds the other together; tried by fire, tempered by pain. The song came unbidden to his lips, the words he never thought he'd say, unsure for the moment of its origin in his memory, "I love you, I love you, I love you." (6)
Time stopped. Everything stopped. She stared at him, eyes wide, hardly daring to believe she had just heard. He sang it to her; he sang her the words. The hope that was fluttering and then flapping inside her chest was now a hurricane, a force of nature, a supernova. Tears filled her eyes and she wrapped her arms around him, clutching him to her. She couldn't say anything; she couldn't find the words. He knew already. He lost track of how long they stood there, but it was some time before he felt her heart start to slow again, his chest very damp with her tears, but he didn't care. He knew. Oh heaven help him, he knew.
She felt like she could unlock her throat and sing out to the world, like she could do anything, like she could catch fire, like she could burn and burn and not ever stop, like she could level mountains and raise forests. He pressed gentle kisses to her hair, holding her tight and secure in his arms. She closed her eyes and sighed. She could die right now, 'to cease upon the midnight with no pain, whilst thou are pouring forth thy soul with such an ecstasy; still wouldst thou sing.'And she wouldn't care. All was right with her and the world. (7)
"I could get used to this."
She let out a breathless laugh. "I second that motion," she said softly.
In a sudden rush, Sherlock picked her up, spinning her as he kissed her, laughing. She let out a shriek of laughter as he lifted and spun her, kissing her again. She ran her fingers through his hair as he held her, his head nestled between her breasts, and she placed a kiss to the top of his skull, taking in his scent- their scent. He let her slide back down his body before kissing once more. "Flowers. You smell of flowers."
She laughed again. "Really? You smell like..." she pressed her nose into his skin and drew in a breath, "spice. And musk. It smells delicious," she said, showing her teeth in a grin.
"Spice?" he chuckled
She nodded. "You do...it's like..." she furrowed her brow to think of an appropriate description. "Cinnamon and pepper and clove," she finally said.
"Hmmmm, spices and flowers, a good match, that."
She nodded again, nuzzling him. "I think another shower is in order," she murmured.
"Shall I help?"
"That was my intent," she grinned cheekily at him.
"Oooh, naughty," he grinned back, tugging her gently after him.
Her grin became a smirk and she led him to the bathroom, starting the hot water and fetching fresh towels and washcloths for the both of them. Sherlock stepped into the shower first, letting the hot water relax his tense muscles. Molly followed him, letting out a pleased sigh as the hot water hit her skin. She tilted her head back to get her hair wet and reached for her shampoo. An idea occurred to her; she took a decent amount of shampoo in her hands and massaged it into Sherlock's scalp, washing his hair for him as the steam from the shower fogged up the air around them. He relaxed more into her touch, bending lower to give her better access, helping her rinse it afterwards. "My turn."
She passed the shampoo to him and turned, giving him free reign, purring as he moved his fingers through her hair. He worked it in thoroughly, relishing her noises as always, making sure to clean all of her hair. 'It's lovely long," he whispered, "But have you ever thought of cutting it?"
Her breath hitched. "No," she said softly. "The last time I cut it, save for a trim, was...was right after my dad died. Chopped it off to under my ears."
He stopped. "I-I'm sorry...I didn't know-"
She reached back and gently touched his arm. "It's all right, you didn't know. It was a while ago," she said.
He brushed soapy hair back from her face. "I feel like I say the wrong thing around you more than the right."
She gave a short laugh. "Funny, I think the exact same thing about myself..."
He smiled as he washed the suds down the drain, reaching for the conditioner and working it in, running his fingers all the way through her hair as the tangles seemed to dissolve under his touch. She purred, feeling boneless and relaxed; his hands were wonderful. He let the water run over her head again, intrigued by her hair's softness now, the smell of lavender thick in the air.
She looked up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded. She took a good look at him, taking in all of him, noting things that were lost earlier in the throes of their passion. There were slivery scars on his skin, wounds that had healed over. Some were pinker and new-looking, and it was those that she traced with her lips as if to make them vanish. Truth be told, though, she loved them. Well, she loved all of him. He watched as she kissed his scars, reminders of the danger and death he had faced for three years while he continued to brush her hair with his fingers. Molly rested her forehead against his chest, relaxing into him as his fingers still work through her hair. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to fall asleep," she murmured.
He chuckled softly. "I still need the conditioner," he said softly.
She glanced up at him. "Never took you as one for conditioner," she said, arching an eyebrow. She moved away from him to comply, working it into his hair, gently pulling and moving her fingers through his thick, dark curls.
"New appreciation after a particularly nasty tangle with one of Moriarty's men; almost had to cut my hair off completely."
Both her eyebrows went up at that. She bit her lip before risking the question. "What...what happened?"
"Weeklong stakeout gone sour. Wound up bound and tortured for a few days until I managed to get free. Those scars on my chest just below my ribs are my reminders of the event. The...remains of the men I took down gunked up everything, and it was several days before I was able to find a place to shower." He grimaced at the memories.
Her breath caught in her throat. Bound. Tortured. Images flashed unbidden across her mind of him, broken and bleeding. That brought back memories of the nightmares she'd had for nearly three years, him on her slab, actually having gone through with the Fall without her help, without a way out. She shivered and swallowed hard, feeling suddenly and inexplicably cold. He turned up the heat on the water, bringing her hands down from his soapy hair and holding her close. "That was a while ago, more than a year now. I'm safe, Molly."
She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Still..." she said softly. "You...you were hurt. You could have died..."
"But I didn't."
She nodded. "I know," she said, "I know." But that didn't stop her from holding him closer. Those damned images flashed across her eyes again: him broken and bleeding and cold, unmoving on her slab, eyes glazed over in death. She let out a shaky breath and focused on his reassuring warmth, the feel of his skin underneath of her hands.
"You've gone quiet." It wasn't a question. His eyes glanced over her. "You aren't here, you're somewhere else."
She gave her head a quick shake to clear it. "Bad dreams," she said.
"Tell me. Let me help." Soap dripped down the side of his face as he held her.
"Rinse first or you'll get soap in your eyes," she said, composing herself.
He leaned forward, bringing her hands back up to help, sighing as she helps work the tangles out. She finger-combed his hair as he washed the conditioner out, her mind elsewhere. She didn't want to tell him, didn't want him to worry, didn't want these things to darken the light of day. But knowing Sherlock, he'd press until she gave in. As always.
"Soap?" he asked. "I really haven't showered much recently."
She half-smiled as she handed him the soap and washcloth.
He lathered it up, scrubbing everywhere until his skin was pink and slightly raw. "Better," he sighed. "Do you mind if I wash you down?"
She blinked, surprised, but shook her head. "No, I don't mind," she said, almost shy. He was so gentle, rubbing the soap in with his hands instead of the rough cloth, memorizing everything. Of course, this was where the roses came from, her soap. Her breath stuttered as his hands moved across her skin, no washcloth between them. She didn't quite know how to feel or what to do, merely letting him touch her.
Sherlock took a few extra seconds on her hands, holding them and examining them before continuing. He helped her rinse, the floral smell only intensifying until he knew he would always associate it with Molly. She watched him, fascinated, as he paid extra attention to her hands. He observed each finger, trailing his touch up her palms, feeling the pulse in her wrist, tracing the veins and the arteries before helping her rinse. She could feel herself flush for no apparent reason.
Before he turned the water off, Sherlock pulled her in for a kiss, hard yet sweet, not demanding, more possessive and reassuring, lasting only a moment. The water shut off and Molly stepped out, wrapping a towel around her, handing one to him. He toweled off his hair first, shaking it out after squeezing the extra water from it before drying off. She watched, unable to stop herself, as water trailed its way down his neck and collarbone, down his chest, down his abdomen and she turned away to dry her own hair, wringing the water from it, running the towel down her limbs and breasts, between her legs and down. Sherlock was watching, very surreptitiously as she dried herself, suddenly wanting to do that for her and marveling at how quickly he'd become attached, how swiftly he'd begun to care...perhaps he always had but hadn't understood it.
Wrapping the towel around her, she exited the bathroom to find her clothes; they were still scattered about in the kitchen, the smell of sex strong there. It was...odd; he was heartbroken yesterday, and now he loved her. She could barely wrap her head around it. He followed her, scooping up his shirt first, the towel barely hanging onto his thin hips. Clutching the clothes to her chest, she brushed past him, catching a whiff of his scent. He smelled like her now; and something in her grinned and growled at it. Another part of her internally laughed; he smelled decidedly floral.
Sherlock shrugged on his shirt before grabbing his pants and trousers, tugging them on right there in the kitchen. She kept the door of her bedroom open as she dropped her towel and pulled on her underwear and clasped her bra. She cast aside her skirt and found a pair of jeans instead. She glanced out to the kitchen where he was only in his trousers, his shirt hanging off him loosely. She smiled at the sight; she could really get used to seeing that. She was lost in thought as she slowly put on her blouse, putting the buttons through the holes one by one. Leaving his shirt unbuttoned, Sherlock walked back to her room, leaning on her door. "I need a hand with something."
She turned to face him and her breath caught. God, he was beautiful. "What do you need?" she asked, echoing what she said those long years ago in the morgue, when he told her she counted, when he told her he was afraid, when he told her he was going to die. He felt the slight sadness in his eyes before it was gone. "Would you like-could you-" He planned to ask her back to Baker Street until the thought of John being gone overwhelmed him for the first time since the night before. He gasped, brow furrowed. He shoved hard against the pain, banishing the idea. "I need help," he whispered instead, the emotions still threatening to overwhelm him; it was too much too soon, trying to think of his flat mate and blogger so casually.
She stepped closer to him, and, like three years ago, repeated herself. "What do you need?" she asked him softly. She wanted to help him, to be there. He glanced at her, eyes burning. "Sit me down before I fall. Hold me. Tell me things will be all right." He felt like a child, lost and afraid after one of his father's many drunken rages. Her breath left her in a rush, and she took his hand without question, leading him to the bed and sitting him down. She did as he asked and held him, resting his head between her breasts and pressing her lips to the top of his skull. "I'm here... you'll be fine, I'm here..." she murmured.
He sobbed brokenly against her chest. "I can't-can't go back to B-Baker street," he whispered. "Memories are too s-strong."
She held him tighter. "You can stay here as long as you need. As long as you want. As long as it takes," she said, moving her fingers through his damp hair in a soothing gesture.
"I'm rather...difficult to live with."
"I don't care," she said.
He pulled back. "You're serious."
She looked at him. "Would I joke about something like this?" she asked him, daring him to tell her otherwise.
He shook his head. "Thought I-I should warn you...only fair prospective flat mates should know the worst about each other." He ignored the tears now, trying to find a smile even though he felt the familiar twinge of pain in his chest. Molly wrapped herself around him, feeling her throat tighten. He said that to John when they became flat mates; she recalled that conversation well. She rubbed his back in slow circles.
Sherlock cried until he had nothing left, taking solace in Molly's feel and smell, her amazing ability to comfort him. "I don't deserve this," he muttered, hugging her tightly before letting her go. She sighed. "You keep saying that, but you really do. What do I have to do or say to prove to you that you deserve to be loved?" she asked, genuinely confused and a little pained. Did he not get affection growing up? That could explain the way he acted.
"My father hated me, beat me regularly when he drank. He beat Mycroft as well, but only when he stood up to Father for me. Mummy was always...indisposed. Drugged up was more like it." His face was carefully blank as he spoke.
She felt her breath leave her in a rush. Oh, Sherlock...She held him tightly, fiercely. She willed him to feel how much she cared, how much she loved him. She tried to push back the pain he felt, to become what he needed, to become a solace to him. She wanted to keep him safe; safe from the memories of the past, from all those who would try to hurt him. If they did...they would have her to deal with.
Sherlock buried his face in her shoulder, the first person to really touch him aside from John, to want to touch him, be near him, to want to care for him She rested her head atop of his, her arms around him; at this moment, she was content to hold him. She rubbed a finger across his cheek and traced it down his throat to slip behind his ear and down the back of his neck, putting light pressure there, feeling the tension.
He leaned into her but pressed back against her finger slightly, feeling the knots in his neck. "Can you help with that?"
She smiled against him and moved her other hand to the back of his neck and bore down, gently but firmly, working her knuckles into the muscle on either side of his spinal cord and then down to his shoulders. "Christ, Sherlock, it's like you're welded out of metal," she said, feeling the tension and strain in him. He turned around, giving her better access, groaning as she dug into his strained muscles. Molly worked her way down his back, putting more weight into her hands, moving down to just above his buttocks and then moving her way back up. Sherlock's head rolled forward. "Ung...yeah, up a bit-ah!-yep, that's it, right there, oh, thank you."
She found the spot he was talking about (under his left shoulder blade and down a bit) and bore down hard. Sherlock groaned louder, the pain sharp and intense before dissipating. He relaxed back against her. "Thank you."
She merely smiled before working her way over to the other side and repeating the process. Then up to his arms and down each one, kneading the muscles. She worked her way down to his wrists and hands, down each finger; same for the other arm, up his neck once more and then to his scalp, gently working the small muscles that cover his skull. Soon he was whimpering and purring under her touch. "God, Molly, you're amazing," he whispered as she worked his scalp. "That was even better than the shower."
She chuckled lightly at his compliment and switched from massaging his scalp to running her fingers through his hair, then down his back to scratch it before trading that out for long, soothing strokes. She pressed a kiss to each of his shoulders, then draped herself around him, her hands joining at his sternum. He smiled, holding her hands, playing with her fingers, studying them. "Lithe and strong," he murmurs. "God, I really love it when you touch me like you just were."
She flushed. That was nearly dirty talk, coming from him. "Oh...ah...you're welcome," she said.
"Could I try?"
She blinked in surprise. "Oh! Yes, you may," she said, removing herself from him and turning so her back is facing him.
"Very eager...interesting," he grinned, lifting his hands to her shoulders, working slow circles at the nape of her neck before trailing his fingers down the tense muscles of her back, working the back sides of her ribs on his way up. She almost melted under the pressure of those large hands and strong fingers. She often forgot about how much tension she carried in her back from being on her feet all day, working over bodies, doing paperwork hunched over a desk in the morgue. She gasped as he hit a particularly tender spot. "Ah...! There, please," she breathed.
Both hands moved to her right shoulder, kneading circles in the muscle and feeling it relax before taking her shoulders and rolling them up, back, and down a few times. Her arms were next, then her hands and fingers.
Her eyelids fluttered shut and she moaned; she hadn't felt this relaxed in God knew how many years. "You keep this up and you're going to have to use a sponge to move me anywhere," she murmured, feeling distinctly liquefied.
"I-I don't think I would mind holding you...if you want," he murmured, kissing her shoulders, his hands coming up to massage her scalp and still damp hair.
She hummed and smiled. "No, that would be nice," she said as his hands moved through her hair and caressed her scalp. He scooted up on the half made bed, letting go of her head and lying down with his head on the white pillows, one arm sprawled out. She joined him, curling up on her side, knees bent. She looked at him, blinking almost sleepily. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close, holding her gently, tenderly. She smiled and nuzzled her head into his chest, letting out a sigh of content. A smile tugged the corner of Sherlock's lips before he fell asleep, exhausted from everything.
To answer your questions, yes we did have a Beatles lyrics contest in the middle there. We regret nothing, but in case you aren't familiar with the songs, here they are (and the poem we quoted from):
(1)- Golden Slumbers
(2)- Carry that Weight
(3)- The End
(4)- Dear Prudence
(5)- Girl
(6)- Michelle
(7)- Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
Read and Respond! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, subscribed, favorited, etc. Much more to come!