Dsiclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.
RAW SILK
She starts small. Shy.
Her hand on his shoulder, slowing him. Gentling his grip. A whispered, "please," as he kisses her roughly , holds her close, and when he looks at her she shakes her head a little. Bites her lip.
It looks like the words are hard to say.
"Not like that," she says and her cheeks blush dark. Her heart is thudding in her chest, he can feel it, and she looks... she looks so lovely he thinks he might break. "It's... It's a little rough..." she murmurs. "I know you're not trying to be, but you said you wanted me to say and, and,..."
She drops her gaze, hides for a moment behind the veil of her lovely long hair, now tussled by Sherlock's hands. By his passion.
He smiles down at her, relieved at her communicating and when she sees it she lights up, a soft glow. (With her, it's always a soft glow). He can see the relief in her eyes at his reaction and it makes something fearsome- something protective- coil in his chest.
He wonders what has made her so fearful of being honest, when she should have nothing at all to fear.
So he holds his hands out to her. Lets her take the lead. "Show me," he says simply and to his surprise she takes his hands. Curls their fingers together and kisses his knuckles before releasing him.
She keeps her eyes on him the entire time.
With slow deliberation she lies back. Stretches herself out for him. She takes his palms and presses them down to lift her breasts, the heels of his hands kneading her, his fingers splayed against the nipples. Brushing against them but not squeezing, not pinching, as he had been before.
She lets out a soft sigh of pleasure as he does it and Sherlock swears he feels the jolt of it go straight to his cock.
The sensation is exquisite.
"Like this?" he asks and when she nods he presses upwards. Pushes those small, perfect mounds of white together until she sighs in pleasure again. She pulls his head to her; He lays his cheek against her breasts, lets their warmth and softness soothe him. The scent of her skin fills his nose and her sweat salts his tongue. She feels so very small, there beneath him that he has to kiss her lips. Her collarbone. The puckering, rosy tips of her nipples, their flesh sweet against his mouth...
She gives a gasp and instinctively her hands come up, tangling in his hair and making him shiver. "So good," she murmurs, "Oh it's so good... I wish I could have you do that forever..."
Sherlock finds he wishes that too, but the words feel clottish- barbaric- in his mouth, so he settles for kissing her instead.
She grows bolder as time passes, her trust in him growing.
Having never before been considered trust-worthy, Sherlock is surprised by how much the sentiment effects him.
But when she sighs into his mouth- "Just like that, love,"- and when she moans his name as he touches her just so, he finds a sense of fulfilment he hadn't considered possible before.
It poleaxes him, to be honest.
Because it's not the sex, he thinks, it's the fact that the sex is with her. It's not just trust, it's that it's her trust. Endorphins and adrenaline and the will to propagate can only do so much... The missing ingredient in all his former amorous experiments had clearly been the lack of the right partner, he thinks as she moans beneath him.
Now he understands what possesses people to claim there's only one person for them.
For with her lithe, slim legs tucked up high against his waist and her beautiful, dark eyes staring up into his he feels centred. Present.
He feels... seen, in a way that's both unsettling and yet somehow very, very safe.
Sometimes though, it's too much, her gaze, and he finds he has to look away. Has to hide from it, because they see too much of him and he's not sure he can stand that.
Whenever that happens though, Molly holds him closer. If he presses his face to her neck or shoulder she doesn't stop moving, just slows her pace. Gentles it. She tangles her hands in his hair and murmurs that she's here now, that she has him, and her very acceptance makes it all alright.
Her acceptance makes him feel like he could do anything.
On those nights their lovemaking runs long and slow and breathless, and yet somehow it's never enough. He doubts it ever will be.
They come apart, lost and shivering, and clinging together in want.
There are blunter conversations, the longer they're together.
As Molly slowly becomes used to his patience she begins to be more forthcoming about her desires. Her needs.
Her embarrassment ebbs as she seems to accept that she is well and truly what Sherlock wants.
It is through this hard-earned honesty that he discovers how thoughtless her former lovers have been with her person. (They have often hurt her through carelessness). It is through this honesty that he discovers her assumptions regarding what he wants and needs. (She thought that the only sex he'd be interested in would involve nipple tassels and riding crops). It is also through this honesty that he discovers roughness brings her no pleasure, something she informs him of with averted eyes and a face darkened with shame-
Her attitude is that of someone admitting to some great personal failing.
She seems surprised when he tells her he deduced it already- Surprised and puzzled too.
"Don't you mind?" she asks and Sherlock finds himself flummoxed by the notion that she thinks that has anything to do with it.
"Your body is yours," he points out sensibly. "There's no point in my doing things you won't enjoy to it- That rather defeats the purpose of sex, doesn't it?"
Though his tone is arch, for a split second he feels a panic that she'll disagree. That there's something weird about his acceptance- Though he can't imagine what.
His worry is assuaged- nay, obliterated- however when she launches herself at him and proceeds to kiss him silly, right there on the couch of 221B.
He can feel her laughing through her kisses despite himself, he joins in.
"I'm so lucky to have you," she says when they pull apart, and there's wonder in her gaze. Sherlock doesn't understand it.
Surely he's the lucky one?
But Molly says it so it must be true, and he finds the thought more warming than any case or adventure might be.
They talk, and the talking leads to action.
It leads to experimentation, which is not always successfully- Though often it is.
She ties him up, because he admits he likes it.
He takes her astride him, because she admits she likes that.
There are interesting choices made. New experiences. New adventures. She's happy to try things with him, she says, because she knows he'll keep her safe. He's happy to experiment too, kept safe in her acceptance. Her grace. And so-
Side by side they make love, his thrusts shallow, her moans erotic and soft.
Sometimes he sets her on her knees and slowly, achingly, takes her from behind; one hand is filled with her breasts, the other with the soft, warm wetness of her mound.
She pants for him and calls his name. She takes him in her mouth, long and slow and languid.
She takes him in her fist, quick and hot and fast.
He learns the sound of her, the smell of her, the taste of her when she's coming- He loves to watch her do so.
They curl around one another most nights and let themselves wander. Let themselves explore. Sometimes they still have to stop, to ask. To re-set...
It doesn't matter though, because they trust one another.
Sherlock knows he wouldn't have it any other way.
Six months to the day after that conversation on that conversation on Bart's rooftop, he sends Mary 22 long-stemmed white roses. (They're her favourite).
It's a thank you for her advice from him- And his (he hopes) soon-to-be-wife
John doesn't know why the flowers appear and she doesn't feel the need to explain, just sets them on the mantelpiece and then goes to look after Rosamund.
Someday she'll be the namesake of another little girl but she isn't to know that yet-
She's just content to have been of help.