A counterpart to the previous one, because I'm fairly sure it's only logical that I write it. Yes, this one is indeed in the POV of our favourite consulting detective.
Enjoy my lovelies, I think you all deserve this after some lovely comments of the first :P
Sherlock Holmes was falling.
It wasn't a pleasurable experience; falling meant he was out of control of his own body. Sherlock was all about control, he needed it to keep himself steady. Without control he would quite surely go mad, thus ending up no better than Moriarty. The thought sent a horrid lurch in his stomach, and in anyone else it would have been from the fall. Not now. The clenching of his gut screamed at him just how much he loathed the idea of lacking the control Moriarty did. Yes, him and Moriarty were one of the same, but Sherlock would be damned if he was ever as insane as that monster.
The ground came sailing towards him in a blur, and Sherlock's odd human instinct howled at him to scream, or fight, or both. He felt that he had to do something in aid of stopping his descent, and he struggled to collect the realisation that the operation was perfectly safe. Sure enough, he felt the strain of his body as the cord reached its end, knocking the breath out of him. He felt the trembling in the cord through his coat, and distantly he cursed the possibility of his precious coat suffering damage in the retched pull. His stomach clenched with the force of his sudden halt, his arms reaching down until his fingers almost kissed the concrete. He swallowed, drew in a breath, and then went flying up the way he'd come.
Humiliatingly, he felt a violent jolt of panic, making his body thrash in the air. In the moments it took him to feel the vast rise and the threat of gravity pulling him once again, Sherlock swivelled in mid air. He focused on the white figure in one of the windows of St. Barts, the figure that made all of this possible in the first place. Angling his feet, he aimed for the only source of light he could glimpse through this greying world, the most pure source of light he would ever glimpse. Swinging, his feet slammed against the glass, shattering it and making him deaf with the deadly symphony it created. As soon as the shower of glass subsided just enough, he latched his eyes onto the only thing that had gotten him this far.
Hazel. Huge, dazed, terribly beautiful hazel eyes gawped at him like a hawk, and they were hardly the eyes that one could look away from easily. Over the years Sherlock had found them endearing, but had never really acknowledged the endearment of them until now. It had never seemed logical before. Now, though, they were all he could see, and he couldn't hold back his smugness upon knowing that he was the reason for the wonder that shone in those wondrous eyes. So, in addition, he held his gaze on them as he freed himself from his harness, his natural speed and efficiency once again working in his benefit.
He felt himself spring free and spun, shaking any rouge shards of glass free from his beloved coat. Molly Hooper remained frozen in her place, staring at him, her mouth agape. He guessed that she was trying to work up some kind of rational response to his sudden arrival, which amused him more than it should have. Molly had never been good with words, and he was quite sure he had knocked all the rational sense out of her entirely. As time frozen around him, he took her in with his eyes, yet somehow no words presented themselves to him. Molly didn't need to be deduced because she was an open book and always had been. Timid, fragile, wonderfully pure and simple, she offered him something that no one else could; silence. No words, no calculations, just Molly.
He had every intention of just leaving, for time was desperate to challenge him. However he couldn't just go, not when she just stood there like that, gaping like a kitten eying up a toy mouse. Ruffling his hair free of glass, and of course out of the quick decision to do what he was about to do, he came towards her with all the determination he possessed. His heart remained calm, but he could practically hear the pounding of hers. Her eyes dilated, almost becoming consumed in black, which only urged Sherlock to do what he intended. He reached for her, delicate, treating her like a specimen of great potential and wonder, because that is indeed what Molly Hooper was. His hands grabbed her face, holding her in place, controlling the situation in a way that he knew Molly would never protest against. He angled himself against her, instinct carrying him on, and finally stared at her mouth for the briefest of seconds.
Then he went in for the kill, and kissed Molly in a way he was sure she'd never been kissed. The moment his mouth touched hers, he found himself folding in on himself, every muscle coiling before relaxing as he melted against her. It was almost a painful sensation, to feel so at home, to experience such relaxation like this. The only other time he felt this stress-free was in the few hours after solving a case, where he would usually unwind with John by the fire in 221B. He didn't have that anymore, though, so he took the next best thing and relished in it.
She tasted wonderful, like strawberries, and that was without the movement of his lips. A new type of tension built up, his head spinning, his body awakening with an electrifying jolt. He pushed against her warm lips urgently, sinking, falling, desperate to fight off the need to take this further. He so badly wanted to kiss her further, to delve against her lips in a need to satisfy his curiosity. His fingers clenched ever so slightly against her hair, fighting an inner battle to resist touching her elsewhere, like her neck, her shoulders, the small of her back. Her scent was intoxicating, a mix of her own sweet aroma and her perfume, but that wasn't what nearly finished him.
Her fingers touched his neck, hot on his skin, and the curiosity in her fingertips almost drove him mad. A muscle in his jaw jumped and he succumbed to a low moan, and in any other circumstance he would have cursed himself for being weak. Not now. Her fingers trailed up, cradling his face, adding pressure to keep him against her. Sherlock, a naturally steady, confident man, shuddered beneath her hands ever so slightly. Who would have thought that such a simple creature like Molly could make a complicated man like Sherlock come undone as easily, just by a touch? He didn't even care.
Time suddenly burst behind his closed lids, and Sherlock could have sworn bloody murder with frustration. However, he came to one last decision, one that would stay with him and with Molly until the last of their days. He opened his mouth on hers, pushing slightly as he folded his lips around her own, her flavour exploding on his tongue like popping candy. Molly gasped hotly into his mouth, making his eyes snap open with bliss and surprise. She fell into him, her hands gripping his face desperately, and it took all Sherlock had to push her none-too-gently away. Had he pushed her gently, he would have only wanted to go back to her for more which he simply couldn't do.
Sherlock hated being deprived of what he wanted.
Molly stumbled awkwardly, eyes snapping open to stare at him. Sherlock smirked devilishly, winking as his fingers grazed her cheek. He held her eyes for just a few moments longer, memorising her features; strong jaw, small lips that in that moment were somewhat swollen, large eyes that saw more than they let on, auburn hair pulled back neatly from her face. He drank her in, needing that image, locking it away in his mind so that he could later come back to it for comfort along with the others, such as John. She was the final ingredient to ignite his determination.
Finally he spun away from her, striding away from the room and slamming open the doors, walking away with all the purpose he had. With a grin he lowered his face, casting it in shadow, and marvelled in the fact that once he came home again, he was sure Molly Hooper would be waiting.
This scene will never get old, I can tell you all that much!