AN: This is just a short, fluffy smutfic that's been sitting in my 'works in progress' folder for quite some time. Enjoy!
"The body is in full rigor mortis at this point."
"Molly. Wake up."
"Have you looked at the neck?"
"Yes. It's nice." Sherlock nuzzles his face into the crook of Molly's neck and inhales deeply.
The nuzzling doesn't work to rouse her; in fact, it has the opposite effect. A finger is unceremoniously jabbed in his cheek. He withdraws from his position just a bit, knowing full well how this will pan out if Molly continues to sleep talk. He learned his lesson long ago having suffered one too many night-time nosebleeds.
"It's green blue. Blue green. Greenish…blue. It'll spread to the rest of the body soon enough."
"Molly." He says it more forcefully this time - loud enough to startle her awake. Her body tenses as it makes the transition to full consciousness. He rubs at her bare shoulder to rouse her further and to assure her that she isn't dreaming anymore.
"Mmph. What time is it?" she mumbles, pulling more of the duvet away from him.
Sherlock glances at the clock on the bedside table. "Half past two."
"Why are we awake?"
"You were talking in your sleep," he points out.
"So?" Despite her grumpiness at being jostled awake, Molly settles back against him, sighing in contentment. With her tousled hair and twisted pajamas she looks just as endearing to him as she always does, perhaps more so. A stirring in his own set of pajama bottoms confirms that yes, 'more so' is an apt phrase to use.
"So you woke me up and now I can't get back to sleep," he shoots back.
"Sorry." She twists her body in order to face him, a move which causes her pajama-clad thigh to brush against his crotch. Sherlock doesn't bother to pull away; his body is already presenting an appealing plan to alleviate his insomnia. It would be pointless to deny that he is aroused and in need of an orgasm to help him settle down and go to bed.
"It's fine. I amused myself by talking back to you in your sleep addled state…only that didn't last as long as I hoped it would. So I woke you up. Do you mind?" he asks.
"You know me. I've always–" Molly cuts herself off as a big yawn stretches her facial features. "…I've always been a deep sleeper. I can drift back to sleep in record time."
Sherlock is well aware of this ability of hers so he makes a point to firmly grip her hip and pull her back within reach so that her rear is pressed against his front. "Are you?"
Now that he has her full, undivided attention, Molly stumbles over her words in her haste to answer him. "'What? Am I…what?"
Sherlock rolls his hips forward and is awarded with immediate friction and a small moan from Molly. "Are you going to drift back to sleep?"
She doesn't respond right away but the hand that comes to rest on top of his is an answer in itself. Still, he needs to hear her say it. "Hm?"
"No. I…no. I couldn't possibly."
Pajamas are kicked off in a hurry and thrown across the room. Once both of them are unclothed, Sherlock moves to turn Molly over so she's tucked beneath him. She stops him from doing so by rolling onto to her side again and presenting him with her back. "Like this. I'm feeling lazy."
Sherlock settles down beside her and wedges his knee in between her legs. Molly readjusts herself accordingly by hooking her right leg over the side of his thigh.
Next, they exchange a series of unhurried, imperfect kisses; the kisses of the wet, messy yet thoroughly satisfying variety. The sort of kisses that leave them breathless for a few seconds before they lurch for each other's lips again.
"I want you," Molly whispers in between each one.
It's remarkable, really, how three simple words are all it takes for Sherlock to lose what little resolve he's been holding onto from the start.
With an answering hum, he reaches between their tangled limbs and finds the wetness forming in the apex of her thighs. He dips a finger into the moisture and then hastens to add another.
Molly writhes and moans under his ministrations. Her tendency to turn to putty from the simplest of caresses is one thing that that drives him wild about her and tonight is no exception; the gyration of her hips and her little mewls of pleasure agitate his arousal to such a state that he skips any further preparation. There's no need to keep readying her. She's already slick with desire from the deep kisses and the teasing press of her supple backside against his front.
After shifting to better align his pelvis with hers, Sherlock takes his cock in hand and positions it at just the right angle so that he can slowly, languorously sink into the tight, wet heat of her body.
Molly doesn't miss a beat as her hips immediately snap back to meet his. She turns her head to kiss him again and then sighs against his mouth, "Slow at first. Rock against me."
Sherlock does as he is told. Molly murmurs her encouragement and digs her nails into his forearm, the one that is crossed protectively over her chest.
The only sounds in the room are of their slow, steady breaths and the quiet sound of skin rubbing against skin.
Sherlock thinks that these carnal noises might just be the most brilliant sounds in the entire world, far more gratifying than anything he can coax out of his Stradivarius or pay a hefty fee to experience in a crowded, stuffy room full of patrons.
Sherlock tells her this and Molly lets out a carefree laugh that quickly morphs into a sharp gasp as he hits just the right spot.
"Right there," she nods, letting go of his forearm to grab at his hipbone. She urges him to go faster and he is more than willing to comply. Making love in this position is fine with him so long as he can move at a pace that satisfies the friction they both need to reach completion.
He grabs hold of the back of her knee for leverage as he picks up the pace, relentlessly pushing inside until he's bottoming out each time. Molly's insides clench around his cock as he pulls back out. She's practically milking him for come at this point and Sherlock's willpower is hanging by a thread.
"Let go, Sherlock. Let go."
Her words, mumbled against his skin, are what push him over the edge. One last thrust of his hips and he's falling, coming undone at the seams with Molly in his arms. She follows him as she always does, one hand rubbing her clitoris and the other tangled in his hair.
It takes a moment for Sherlock to catch his breath as the shocks of pleasure rip through him but when he does, he feels Molly turn and huddle against him, her even breathing tickling his sensitive skin.
He stretches to kiss the top of her head and then slumps back against the mattress, utterly spent. "That was…ahem. Quite satisfying. Very satisfying. I'm not usually up to, as you would say, 'shagging' at this time of night but you can't really blame me, can you, not with the way you were so delightfully mussed, your hair a complete mess and your skin still warm from sleep—"
A noisy, drawn out snore cuts off his train of thought.
Another snore, louder this time, confirms that she is well and truly asleep.
Any other man would probably be at least slightly insulted by their lover falling to sleep so soon after a bout of lovemaking but Sherlock can't do much more than sigh and pull her close against him.
"I'll admit you present a convincing case," he yawns, settling in so his chest is pressed to hers. "After all, can one really argue with someone so adept at falling asleep as you are, Molly?"
"You can…cut through the pericardial sac to see the heart," Molly mumbles in lieu of a proper answer, her words slow and slurred in her sleep.
Sherlock just smiles and buries his nose in her hair. "Mmm. My thoughts exactly. Goodnight."