300% More
Sherlock stayed in her flat a little under two weeks, during which time he spent the first half recovering and the second he spent pacing her living room making plans that he didn't share with her in the least. At first, she wanted to be upset with him because of it but quickly realized that she had no reason to know, therefore, he had no reason to inform her. At least she was fairly certain that's how he'd rationalized it.
There were no repeats of the "incident". That's what she started to refer to it in her mind and he never once mentioned it or even hinted at it. If Molly hadn't been an actual participant to the incident, she might have thought it never happened. She felt both relieved and disappointed in that fact. Relieved by the fact that they didn't have to deal with the obvious awkwardness that inevitably follows those sorts of things (not that she'd ever experienced exactly that sort of thing before). Disappointed by the fact that ignoring it and pretending it never happened made her feel rather cheap and unimportant. She knew she shouldn't feel that way, that if she'd been unimportant he never would have come to her for help in the first place but it didn't extinguish the burning sting, no matter how hard she tried to rationalize it as she knew he already had.
Then one morning, on her first day off since he'd started playing possum, he told her he was leaving. She asked where, he said he couldn't tell her. Of course he could tell her, he just chose not to and she chose not to question him further. Soon after, some rather official looking government types, the ridiculous idea of James Bond slipping into her mind, had collected him and he was gone.
However, not before he'd kissed her on the cheek and repeated his previous thanks to her.
"Thank you. Thank you Molly Hooper, for everything." It had warmed her just as much the second time as it had the first.
She didn't see him for two months. Ok, maybe it was more like seven weeks and five and a half days. She'd been home from a double shift at Barts for less than ten minutes when she heard a quiet knocking at her door. Checking the peep, her heart lodged itself in her throat when she saw just who was on the other side. It took her twice as long to open the door as it should have because of the ridiculous amount of shaking her fingers were doing but the moment she did, he stumbled inside, looking the worse for wear.
He had a gash above his right eye and blood had run into it, making him squeeze it shut. His hands were also a mess, the knuckles bruised and bloodied on one; the other was covered in blood. She didn't know if it was his or someone else's.
"Sorry for not ringing beforehand." He said as he stumbled in, almost taking her down to the floor when he'd nearly collapsed onto her.
"Oh, Sherlock," she managed to say as she pulled him into her kitchen, sat him on one of her stools and moved to fetch her med kit with little more than roll of her eyes as any indication of how bizarre and upsetting this should be. But since it was him, it just felt like what should be. At least, that's how she felt until he spoke a second time.
"They're dead."
Her hands stilled just as she finished cleaning his head wound.
"The three that attacked me." He seemed to have searched for those words. The next sentence came out even clumsier. "So no one could have followed me here."
"Oh." She cringed at her wholly unoriginal response as she pulled out a small vial of petroleum jelly and adrenalin hydrochloride in order to seal the cut and prevent it from bleeding any more. The wound seemed to want to continue to ooze, undoubtedly a result of his poor diet, making it harder for his body to from proper, fast forming clots. She started smoothing the small amount of paste just above his eye when he spoke again.
"You're safe." She absently nodded at the odd statement as she concentrated on applying two butterfly bandages to the wound. It wasn't until she'd finished applying the second and started to pull her hand away that she suddenly felt a massive wave of déjà vu. He gripped her wrist tightly, forcing her out of the mechanical mode of care giving doctor that she'd unknowingly fallen into. The quick, unexpected movement pulled her eyes to his and the déjà vu continued. She'd seen that same intensity of gaze before but this time it wasn't clouded by drugs.
She knew in that moment, she was the only thing he saw and was the only thing on his mind. To be the only thing on that man's mind was saying a lot.
Unlike last time, his approach was slower, more hesitant. While still sitting on his stool, he tentatively leaned into her.
This time she wasn't running entirely on adrenaline; she saw what he was doing and considered very carefully what she should do. She should step back, excuse herself from this before it started and put her med kit away. She should not let his lips gently touch hers as they were currently doing. She should voice her concerns, like how maybe this wasn't the best idea. She certainly knew that she shouldn't cup his cheek with her free hand as she had just begun doing. She should tell him that doing this again or anything resembling last time wasn't good for either of them, that it would only make their lives more awkward that it already was. That last time was easy to explain away and pretend to forget, a second time would be impossible to treat as such. Instead, when he released her wrist, she carded her fingers through his hair, uncaring that it was somewhat stiff with dried sweat and a little blood.
One of his hands slid to her waist, the other gripped the back of her thigh, just below her bum, pulling her between his legs. She couldn't help her intake of breath as she felt his physical reaction to her through the trousers of his leg. She finally found the will to act like an adult instead of the lovesick teenager that he always made her feel like.
She broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his. "We, we shouldn't." Well, it was 300% more words of sanity than she offered last time.
"I know," he answered against her lips before reclaiming them on the next breath with more force and confidence than he had at the start of this.
Well, at least he knew too. She foolishly and unsurprisingly found that it was enough for her. He stood then and turned them ninety degrees until she was pressed against the counter. This time, his fingers were on her pants' button and zipper for only a short time before they were successfully vanquished and both her kakis and knickers were being pushed down to mid thigh.
The entire time he did this, their mouths never left one another. This time, it was her tongue that invaded his mouth and he just accepted it, groaning each time she retreated for breath. Before long, she found herself hoisted onto her kitchen counter, a surprised squeak escaping her lips as the cold surface contrasted sharply against her warm, bare bottom. He chose that moment to taste the skin of her neck while undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. A ridiculous smile spread across her face a moment later when he took one of her hands and slipped it inside his shirt to touch his chest. He abandoned it the moment she took the hint.
He wanted her to touch him. Sherlock Holmes wanted her to touch him. It seemed that the world was ending once more and Molly was more than willing to sit there and watch it burn. It wasn't just the world that had caught fire either; she felt like she was burning up from the inside out. The feeling was too much, so with her unoccupied hand, not daring to move her other from his chest that she was fully exploring, she tried to one handedly removed his belt. He began to help her and together they successfully pushed down the hindering material but only as minimally necessary.
He pulled his face away from hers, a shuddered breath escaping him when she once again took it upon herself to guide him to her. Molly watched as he stared in rapt fascination at where he was slowly pushing inside of her. It's like he was studying it and continued to do so for several slow penetrations before he squeezed his eyes shut and clutched her to him, his mouth back on her suddenly.
From then, he seemed to lose whatever control he'd maintained at the start and started thrusting into her rapidly. She wrapped one of her legs around his waist and then arched her back when one of his hands slid under her shirt, exploring the expanse of her stomach before sliding higher to test the feel of her bra covered breasts against his palm. For her part, she just leaned back supporting herself with one hand on the counter behind her. Following her, his mouth fell to her exposed collarbone and that's how they stayed for the rest of this second, frantic coupling. He came with a grimaced moan while she just cradled his head to her chest, both panting.
"I like the way you smell."
Molly let out a single huffed laugh. "God, I smell like a morgue."
"I know." With that, he stood up and with that same odd fascination from earlier, he watched as he pulled out of her. She couldn't tell if his furrowed brow was an indication of concentration or disgust. She certainly hoped it was the former but didn't have the courage to ask after it.
He stepped away from her and she almost stumbled as she slid off the counter, trying to cover up her clumsiness by reaching down and grabbing her pants. Feeling like she was stuck on repeat she excused herself to use the restroom once again and took a quick shower. He said nothing as she did this and said nothing upon her return. That probably had something to do with the fact that he was once gone by the time she got back.
Tears pricked at her eyes but instead of giving into the desire to let them fall, she took a deep breath and set about sanitizing her kitchen surfaces. Sex in the kitchen was not the most sanitary of things after all. She wouldn't see him for another three weeks.
XxXxX
Safe to say, Sherlock had never gotten around to deleting that first sexual experience and found that in the rare times when he wasn't actively seeking out members of Moriarty's network, thinking back to it was rather… pleasurable. So far, the memory of it hadn't hindered any of his work so he didn't see the point in getting rid of it.
When he'd found himself back in London after several weeks tracking down some people in Germany, he'd checked up on Molly without her knowledge. He wasn't sure why, he was already certain that she wasn't in any danger, just as John no longer was now that everyone thought he was dead but he just felt the need to make sure she was ok. He'd let himself in rather easily and found himself somewhat aghast at how poor her locks were. After determining that everything was as it should be, no signs of anything amiss, he took a few moments to sit down on her couch. The moment the memories of this place and the life he'd been forced to leave behind started to seep in, he rose and left.
Two weeks later, he found himself in a rather physical altercation with a few of the more dangerous and better trained members of the network and in need of some medical attention after it was all done with. He probably could have patched himself up but didn't question his automatic response to seek out her assistance.
For the first few minutes in her flat, he berated himself when the desire to touch her welled up within him completely against his wishes and better judgment. The moment she'd finished patching him up, he'd worked out a thousand reasons why he should just thank her once more and leave. Against good judgment, those thousand reasons didn't win out over his one counter argument: he wanted to. So he did.
He'd taken what he wanted again but this time, he knew full well what he was doing. He might have still been high on adrenaline from the fight but this time his mind was unclouded by drugs. He'd wanted to touch her, to be touched by her. It had been fascinating to watch himself disappear within her and simultaneously feel the pleasure it brought. He'd wanted to watch the whole time, study the act but it had become too much to process. The sounds she made, the feeling of her hand as it clawed through his hair combined with the her clench and slick heat had overwhelmed him. He hadn't wanted it to end but then it had, all too soon. As he breathed deeply, trying to regain his breath, he noticed the scent of her and his post coital tongue started moving on its own. It had been the truth though he did like the way she smelled and she was right, she did smell faintly of the morgue. She smelled like his life before when his greatest complication in life was avoiding boredom.
That had been what forced him from her flat. Everything came back, the friendships he'd unwittingly formed, the attachments, the comforts of his life before Moriarty. Everything that he kept at bay while trying to regain it all. He knew leaving so suddenly was the wrong thing to do, that it might hurt her but he could only hope that she'd take it in stride as she had the last time. They'd been able to go two weeks in the same flat without it being too much of an issue before. Certainly she'd be able to do the same again, wouldn't she? But he'd been afraid, afraid that if he didn't leave then, if he saw her once she returned, he might not ever leave again.
Nostalgia. That's what it was called, something else humans normally experienced. But he was not normal; he was not supposed to know these things. Yet again, he found himself threatening himself with deleting all of this.
"Oh do shut up," he said to the emptiness of the room he was sitting in. He wasn't going to do anything of the sort. However, he was going to push it aside as he focused on the next cell in Moriarty's crumbling empire. So he did, for another three weeks.
XxXxX
CeffylGwyn: I'm glad you think I pulled it off. It's just so hard to even imagine how a mind like that works so writing his internal dialogue is sketchy at best. I'll do my best and I'll probably wind up taking the easy way out and mostly writing this from perspectives other than Sherlock for that very reason. Inspiration, especially with great reviewers like you, shouldn't be a problem.
AuroraRose16: Surprisingly smart for the social idiot that the tends to be. But he doesn't usually care if people are hurt by what he says. I just imagine that for ever smart comment he says aloud, there's probably twenty he deemed not as worthy of saying. Yeah, poor girl.
MorbidbyDefault: So pleased that you thought so! Sherlock does force her to deal with a lot of drama both intentionally and unintentionally. He doesn't seem to deal with guilt very well since he seems to have the emotional maturity of a three year old. He definitely gave it another go but I don't think anything was remedied quite yet, if anything he's just mucked it up further. Your review was lovely and thank you for that.
