Disclaimer: Not mine!
Author's Note: I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this and getting so much feels. Enjoy!
MATURE SEXUAL CONTENT BELOW, READER DISCRETION IS ADVSED
Sherlock ended up very carefully carrying her to her bed, setting her gingerly on the bed. "I'm going to turn off the lights, all right?" He asked, loosening the wet scarf around his neck. When she nodded, he walked back out of the bedroom, tossing his wet coat and scarf on the floor of the entryway, "It's supposed to rain for another two days," he told her as he walked through the flat, making sure everything was locked down, plunging the flat into darkness, "some are even worried about the Thames overflowing. But that's a good thing, a lot of bodies tend to wash up after a downpour." He didn't want her to sit in the bedroom alone, so he kept chattering, speaking fast as he went around.
"Are...are we really talking about the weather?" She called from the bedroom, her voice sounding less panic-stricken, more like his confident Molly. A part of him enjoyed the confidence with which he walked through the apartment. He was so familiar with it, so comfortable moving through it, he relished the intimacy of his knowledge. His home away from home.
It horrified him.
"No darling," he called back, "this is us. We're talking about dead body's washing ashore," he walked back into the bedroom, standing in the doorway to look at his Molly, "who cares about the bloody weather when you've got a pathologist and a consulting detective together?"
She was sitting ramrod straight, unable to get comfortable with her ribs and the stitches. His heart ached, his soul was on fire knowing she was in constant pain. He wondered if Leonardo had chosen her heart on purpose, not just for the symbolism but because he would hurt her in a way that would constantly remind Sherlock what he had done. Forget the scar that would forever mar the delicious skin between her breasts, but broken ribs were impossible to heal without the benefit of a cast or any restraint. Every time she breathed or laughed, it hurt her.
He took off his jacket, draping it on the back of the chair that was by the door, "no boring pillow talk for us," he stood with his hands on his waist looking at her. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying with purple shadows framing them, her hair a mess in the pony tail, dressed way down in old sweatpants and a t-shirt so big that the neck line kept slipping down one of her shoulders. She was more pale than usual, her arm covered a myriad of bandages form where the IV's and blood transfusion had been hooked through.
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He walked towards her, kneeling in front of her on the floor. She finally looked up from the floor, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks as he lifted her chin, "I'm here," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her as she slipped back into his care. He stroked her hair, her back, fighting a fit of rage that boiled like thunder inside him. That this woman, his woman, had been put through so much just because of him…
He reeled himself back, took a deep breath and smelled his Molly in his arms, and pushed everything else down…way down in the dungeons of his palace, where his other demons waited and plotted.
Molly needed him now, and that's all that mattered.
At least he could do this for her.
He knew he had disappointed her, disappointed John, disappointed himself by not being there to welcome her home. He should've been the first one there, he should've been the one to hold her hand as she walked out of the hospital, danced in front of her as she walked up to her flat. But he hadn't been…he stood outside her window like a coward and watched as one by one, everyone left. When he'd seen her mother leaving…something inside him had put him on high alert.
He couldn't handle it, couldn't handle seeing her in that hospital bed…couldn't stand the thought that her musical voice had been flattened by violence, couldn't accept that her beautiful body, the body that he worshipped because it contained her beautiful mind, had been so nightmarishly violated to prove a point to him. His brain had split into two…the part of him that wanted to tear Leonardo to shreds for having gone near his Molly, and the part of him that wanted to flee, wanted to shut down and reject everything he felt as he looked at Molly.
Sherlock's own experience with trauma had taught him that no matter how insistent someone was that they be left alone, under no circumstances was that person to be trusted. He remembered the night he'd returned from Musgrave…He'd told John he would be fine, that he could sleep alone. He was a man after all, a fiercely intelligent, even brave man who had single handedly dismantled vast terrorist cells and stared down psychopaths, serial killers, and terrorists in the eye. But he'd fled the darkness of 221B for Molly's arms, and spent the next months practically living with her, or made her spend countless nights on Baker street because he was afraid of being alone.
As he'd dreamt of Victor Trevor, his sister, the terrible things he lived through in Sherrinford…as night by night his memories returned, he woke up to find her beside him. He would nudge her awake, and they'd make love slowly, languidly, and she would hold him in her arms until he forgot the demons that travelled beneath the roads he travelled.
So he'd waited outside with lead in his stomach, wondering how she was doing as the rain thundered down around him, soaking him. His instincts had carried him to her door, whatever primal part of him that had attached itself to Molly Hooper animating him. He'd listened at her door, and heard her crying. He'd nearly smashed the door into pieces trying to get to her.
"Molly," he whispered now, kissing her throat, "my Molly," he smiled as he cupped her face in his hand, he licked her mouth, tasting her, "my love," he murmured as he licked inside his way inside his mouth.
He pulled back from her, and very carefully and silently he lifted her shirt from her, tossing it behind him. He wanted to rip off all her clothes and bury himself in her, in everything she was, in all her warmth and comfort. He wanted to stay inside her forever, until he knew that she occupied every pore of his being, until he could no longer breath or speak or live without Molly. He wanted to be physically possessed by her. But he was so fearful of hurting her, of touching her too carelessly and making her jolt.
So he took his time with her, ignoring the blaringly white bandage and kissing her collarbone, tasting her with his teeth as he wrapped his arms around her waist, scooting her to the edge of the bed. "Molly," he murmured, as he dipped his tongue into the delicious hollow at the base of her throat, "you feel so good," he told murmured against her shoulder, kissing his way to that soft spot behind her ear, his hands gingerly running from her stomach to her bare breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra, the garment would've been too painful for her to have on. "I missed you," he told her, brushing his lips against hers, demurely at first before licking his way deeper until she opened for him.
She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers digging into his hair, holding him steady, grounding him as he kissed her, his palms warming the tips of her breasts, kneading them until she moaned into his open mouth, "Sherlock," she gasped.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked quickly, pulling back enough to look into her eyes.
"If you ask me that again, I'll scream," she told him, "and not in the good way," she assured him, before pulling him to her again, kissing him as thoroughly as he had tasted her. He was grinning against her mouth, loving the fire that lived within her.
"I'll settle for you screaming for all the best reasons," he assured her, kissing his way down to nip at her chin, the column of her throat, whispering her name on a sigh as he drew her nipple into his warm mouth. She melted against him, arching as his mouth and tongue wreaked havoc on her body, her fingers gripping his hair as he moved to her other breast. She looked down, and he caught her gaze, the most deliciously evil smile crossing his face as he used his lips to suckle her, deliberately letting her see how he puckered his lips…curled his tongue...
"Sherlock," she said on a breath.
Too soon he pulled away from her, his lips swollen from their kisses. He stood up, quickly discarding his clothes, completely unaware of how beautiful he was, how his lithe, slim body drove her mad with longing. "Lay back," he murmured, his voice thick, deeper than usual. She obeyed, blushing furiously as he slipped her sweatpants and panties off. "Beautiful," he kept whispering, running his hands over her body, pressing the gentlest kisses over the bruised skin of her torso where her ribs were injured, careful of the stitches in her chest.
Sherlock was so achingly careful as he knelt between her thighs, spreading her legs with those broad hands, settling over, groaning in her ear as her hand found his erection, guiding him home, to the warmth that cocooned him. They both gasped as he entered her in one smooth stroke, but he didn't begin moving until she opened her eyes to look up at him, her hands running down his back, down…down to grip him where they were joined, urging him on, giving him the most angelic smile.
Soon they were both gasping, moaning for the other, dying, and hungry for everything the other was. They were no longer two individuals, two different people with different lives and hearts and pasts and souls…They were one person, combined in that moment. As they neared orgasm, they melded into one heart, one soul…one supernova in the universe…more than lovers.
They were soulmates…two halves of one person, finally complete.
Soon she couldn't stop herself…soon she threw her hands up over her head, gripping the medal frame of her bed as she wrapped her legs around his waist…urging him deeper, closer…Soon he was breathing heavily against her throat…he gripped her hands over her head, twining their fingers together as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her…
Soon she exploded around him, gasping his name, wave after wave of pleasure washing over her body, pulling him deeper inside her, crying out for all the world to hear.
Soon he was joining her, forcing his eyes to look deep into hers as his mouth went lax with pleasure, as he gave her all that he was, all that he ever had been, all that he would ever be. He threw his head back and roared…
Finally, the world around them settled, and he stayed inside her as the tumult of their love started to re-stitch the universe back together. "I love you," Sherlock told her, with no doubt in his heart or mind, with clarity in his pale eyes.
"I love you too," she smiled back, content in her lover's arms.
