Short fill for the SherlockBBCKinkMeme prompt: For some reason, Sherlock and Molly get really drunk and end up sleeping together.
She's not sure when the wine turned to whiskey, or when separate chairs became them sitting together on the sofa, but she now finds herself pressed up against Sherlock Holmes' knee, entertaining the most inappropriate of thoughts.
He'd jumped off a roof thirteen hours before, both of them full of adrenaline and nerves and a strange combination of elation mixed with fear, and yet here they are, staring mindlessly at the television before them, some terrible late-night programming with no plot and no sense. She'd come to sit beside him when they'd decided to cheers their drinks, the whiskey in their glasses sloshing around as they clinked them together. She watches him as he drinks, his lips on the edge of the glass, his eyes half lidded as he tilts his head up to swallow the liquid down. She squirms a bit as she watches him, somewhat uncomfortable. It feels so alien to be this close to him, outside of the hospital, in her own home. That makes it even harder to sit next to him, to know he's close to her, and yet she still can't have him for her own. So she drinks a little more.
Her head is already swimming (not like she drinks much these days, anyways), and it must be the alcohol that makes her speak as she turns to Sherlock and locks her eyes with his.
"Have you ever... had anyone, Sherlock?" she asks bluntly, the drink having both erased her usual timid nature and made her longing that much more powerful.
His eyes stay fixed on hers. "No," he answers honestly.
"Have you ever wanted to?" she asks, burying deep the part of her that cries out that this is a bad idea.
"Not really," he answers, but his voice has dropped deeper now, and his finger is tapping on the edge of his tumbler, anxious.
"Would you like to?" she asks, feeling like this moment counts as the end of the world (and that's when you take those chances, right?).
He considers this, his normally clear and brilliant blue eyes clouding over with an alcohol-induced haze and, perhaps, the slightest tinge of lust. She wonders – briefly – if the adrenaline and the excitement of the day have gotten to him, releasing some animalistic part of him that he's never known before (because God knows it's done the same to her). His gaze leaves her face and rakes down her body, lingering on her chest and her legs, and she can tell that it's not just scientific examination that he has in mind. Molly shivers under his attention, and shifts closer to him.
He looks back up at her, at last. "Yes," he replies, a strange and unfamiliar hunger in his face now.
Her stomach explodes in the sudden flight of a hundred butterflies, but she pushes the nerves away as she moves even closer to him, before placing a hand on the side of his face and kissing him hard.
They don't even leave the sofa, stripping off each others' clothes in a hurry, Sherlock pressing her back down into the sofa cushions, raw instinct and human nature taking over control. He kisses her hard and fast and rough as his hands ghost down her body, exploring every inch of skin he can possibly find. She knows, somewhere beyond the reach of the alcohol, that they probably shouldn't be doing this, but all she's wanted for years is to feel his body against hers, and she'll be damned if she stops it now. She can feel his breath on her neck as he moves to slip inside her, so she wraps her legs around his hips and presses him tight to her body. He sighs against her lips as the television light bathes over them, the mindless drivel of twilight television the only other sound.
And at the back of her mind, she knows there will be serious repercussions in the morning, but for now, as Sherlock Holmes nips at the skin at the bottom of her neck, she finds that she just doesn't care.