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Providing Context

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Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine.


PROVIDING CONTEXT


 

He means to speak to her, he does.

As he sits in the cab to her place, as he drags himself up the stairs to her flat, all he can seem to do is go through the words in his head, over and over.

I’m sorry, Molly.

It shouldn’t have happened like this, Molly.

I didn’t protect you from her, Molly, and I should have, I know I should have...

When he reaches her door, when he raps on it and watches her crack it open, the words are still there on his tongue. Words like sorry and ashamed and I’ve hurt you and I understand if the thing between us is over...

The words are there, but the moment he sees her eyes, staring up at him from behind her front door, the moment he sees her pale, bony white fingers curl around the door jam, the words disappear. They just up and leave him.

He looks at her and his hands go out, beseeching. Gentle. Cautious.

His thumb brushes her cheek and then ghosts down to her chin, strokes the underside of her lower lip.

She trembles, looking up at him.

He trembles, staring down at her.

The door opens and her hands come up, drawn to him as to a lodestone. Small fingers, small hands come to rest against his chest and he finds himself stepping forward. Moving into her flat, heedless of her lack of spoken invitation.

He is suddenly embarrassingly, terrifyingly aware of the loudness of his heartbeat. His breathing.

She gulps, nods as he moves towards her. He covers the tops of her hands with the flat of his palms and with another nod she steps forward.

Onto his feet.

Into his space.

The heat of her makes him shiver and when she tries to pull away at seeing it he tightens his grip on her hands. Shakes his head. Leans into her.

Her eyes are dark and luminous as she stares up at him and suddenly the only thing in the world that matters is that she’s here and she’s still bloody safe.

He feels the realisation go off like a bomb inside him. Muscles clench, neurons fire. His body knows this game is on. She frowns- misreading his reaction, perhaps- and before she can pulls back he leans in. Lays his forehead on hers. She sighs at the touch of their skin together and closes her eyes.

As if of their own accord his hands move away from hers, slide down her sides to her waist. She fills his hands, warms him. Grounds him.

He wants to do that for her.

When she opens her eyes and looks up at him he can’t help it, his smile is crooked. Sweet, he thinks. Idiotic-looking, he suspects.

“Are you..?” he starts to ask, but before he can she leans up. Kisses him.

It feels like a secret, whispered question.

“I meant it,” he hears his own voice say, quite without his giving it permission to. “I meant it, I just didn’t realise until it was too la-”

“Not too late,” she murmurs, her own arms tightening around his waist. “Never too late, not with me...”

And she pulls him to her. Kisses him again. Not questions, these kisses, oh no, They’re statements. Exclamations and apologies and pleas. They brand his skin and snatch his breath from his throat. They ache and soothe at the same time.

They’re hers, and that is all Sherlock has wanted for a long time, he suddenly realises.

Their arms tighten around each other, bodies meeting, and then they’re stumbling through her living-room. Sherlock feels the hardness of wood at his back as they reach what he belatedly realise is the door to her bedroom. It’s funny that he doesn’t find himself surprised to be here. There’s a voice inside his head, telling at him to wait. Yelling at him to be cautious, but he won’t yield to it- He’s done bloody yielding to it-

They tumble into her room in the pitch dark and, more through luck than skill, they collapse onto her bed in a messy bundle. There’s breathless laughter. Skin and hair pressed together in new and interesting ways. Pale orange streetlight spills into the room and he stops. Looks down at Molly, splayed there beneath him. She looks messy. Tired. Flyaway and glowing. She stares up at him and this time it’s him that moves, it’s him that swoops down. Him that won’t stop kissing her, tasting her, cursing his need for air even as he tries to ignore it-

Her hands make short work of his shirt- he only realises what she’s done when he feels it slide off his shoulders- and he blinks down at her, surprised at being bare. She frowns, opens her mouth as if to apologise- “Just unexpected, is all,” he says breathlessly.

“So you’re- It’s not-”

“I’m fine, Molly,” he tells her. A thought occurs to him. “Are you?”

“God, yes.” She nods, eyes lighting up and smiling to widely it’s almost blinding. She raises her own hands above her head and, after an embarrassing moment wherein Sherlock fails to recognise the invitation, he pulls her camisole top over her head. Lets her beautiful, perfect little breasts bounce free.

She bites her lip as he looks at them, thinking, perhaps, of every cruel thing he has ever uttered about them in her presence. He feels it suddenly, the weight of all he’s said to her. All he’s done to her, over the years.

“So bloody beautiful,” he says reverently, stroking a hand gently along their undersides and she blushes. Smiles in pleasure. He feels a rush of gratitude, that she believes him. “You’re so unbelievably bloody beautiful, Molly Hooper...”

“So are you, Sherlock-” She frowns. “Except, you know, in a manly way-” A thrill of laughter. “Okay, maybe we should both shut up-”

“I think you might be right.”

And he pulls her closer, presses her lush little body beneath him. This time when she kisses him, it’s different. Better. More confident. She removes his clothes and her own deftly, moving with surprising efficiency despite the darkness of the room.

When she’s done- when they’re both naked- she rolls Sherlock so that he’s beneath her. Splayed between her thighs. The warmth and wetness of her is intoxicating and his cock is now so hard he doubts he can think straight. She twines their fingers together, palm to palm, and kisses each knuckle, frowning at the marks his altercation with the coffin had left.

She looks like she’s going to ask him but he shakes his head-.He’s not ready to discuss Sherrinford yet- and she nods. Hums. Kisses him sweetly.

He takes himself in hand, guides himself into her and when he hears her long, low moan of appreciation as he enters her, he thinks it might be enough to drive him mad.

And then they’re together. Then they’re... Making love. He supposes that is the preferred term for what they’re doing now. They push and stretch and twine together, their bodies moving as two, trying to become one. The act itself is what he remembers it to be: Breathless. Wet. Awkward. Pleasurable. The body taking over, the mind letting go to ride the tide of sheer instinct and the dearth of sense...

But in doing this with Molly it feels different, he realises.

In doing this with Molly the act has meaning. The potential for communication. Emotional context, that’s what he believes others would call it, and though those words have been used to hurt him, they cannot hurt him here.

For their gasps and babbled pleas and praises aren’t the sum total of how he feels but they’re an approximation of it. A representation. The things he and Molly are doing together are more than fucking or procreation: they’re an alphabet of sentiment which doesn’t even need words. Every flick of his hips, every kiss is a message. Every moan and smile and breath he wrings from her has meaning beyond the pleasure of the here and now. As he thinks that he hears Molly call out, feels her buck and thrash beneath him as she comes apart-

Her orgasm is gorgeous. Loud. Fearless. Over-due.

His pleasure drives his own over the edge and within moments he’s as gasping and boneless with pleasure as she.

It takes them both a while to recover, once they’ve come; In instinct he pulls her closer. Wraps his arms tightly around her. He can feel the thundering of her heart against his chest and it’s a match for his own. There are words on his tongue now, words of devotion and sentiment and even, yes, gratitude, that he has lived to see this... That she was not taken from him today...

But he doesn’t speak them.

He finds he can’t speak them.

He wonders whether he should be worried by that.

In the coming days, he tells himself,  they will do this again and it will be different. Better. More skilled perhaps, more long-lasting, definitely. With familiarity he will learn to make it exquisite for her.

She is, after all, his Molly, and it is the least she deserves.

But that’s for tomorrow: Tonight they lie together, coming down from their climax.

Molly curls in his arms and traces patterns on his skin and for once, he allows himself to be content.