This little drabble is the result of a prompt from flavialikestodraw over on Tumblr. She requested someone write a companion piece to her stunning drawing, called Aftermath.
Here is an attempt at a link- not sure if the Fanfiction overlords will allow it. Replace the "dots" with periods, remove spaces.
flavialikestodraw dot tumblr dot com/ post/ 43920900013/ aftermath-a-study-in-fandom-a-study-in-skull
Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the the BBC and others; no infringement intended.
He filled a glass with lukewarm water from the kitchen sink, gulping it down in seconds and then refilling it, drinking that just as quickly.
His heart pounded out a diatribe against his ribs, sending a Morse code message he didn't bother to translate. His gasping breaths weren't doing anything to calm its rhythm.
The sweat pooling in the notches above his collarbones, the skin above his sternum, and beading everywhere else spoke of his exertion. But he didn't feel weary.
He felt wide-awake.
He felt alive.
Yes, there was plenty of psychology and physiology that would explain his uncharacteristic joie de vivre at this particular moment. But, for once, his brain wasn't trying to analyze itself or the body it occupied.
Leaving him free to enjoy the visceral sensations.
He heard her footfalls on the faux wood flooring of her hallway. Every few steps, she would catch a creaking board with the ball or heel of her foot, until she finally appeared, framed by the arch of her kitchen's entrance.
Her skin was dewy and flushed. The apples of her cheeks an the perimeter around her lips bore the same blush as the stubble-rubbed skin of her bare breasts.
Her hair was a tousled mess, loose around her chest and back. The thick mass had more body than usual, its volume borne of a man's impatient, desperate fingers.
Her brown eyes were heavy-lidded, and her lips bore the smallest of smiles. A secret smile. His secret smile, he thought.
He tried to tell himself that he was being needlessly fanciful.
He failed.
She walked further into the room, stopping just in front of him. Taking the glass from his fingers, she filled it with more water and proceeded to drink it with as much gusto as he had a short minute before.
After she drank her fill, she placed the glass in the basin of the sink, then turned back to face him.
He watched her breasts rise and fall with each deep breath she took. Her pulse, fluttering in the lines of her neck, was a testament to the work she'd recently put in.
Letting his eyes skim over the rest of her, he noted how, in spite of its flush, her skin was still a pale alabaster. It contrasted starkly with the black, white and pink knickers she still wore.
They'd been in a bit of a hurry, and he'd never gotten around to removing them.
After he'd helped her shimmy out of her trousers, he'd spared her pants a glance. He smirked as he observed the skull print that gleefully exploded over the sole, flimsy material covering her.
She'd giggled at his expression, and he felt his mouth curve into a full smile. He looked into her warm, brown eyes with unabashed happiness. Then, he ducked his head to place a kiss on the tiny, pink bow on the knickers' waistband, just below her navel.
His nose nuzzled the soft skin of her belly only briefly before her fingers threaded through his hair to pull his head back up and his mouth back to hers.
They'd only grown more impatient and impassioned. Which was why, even in this aftermath, she still wore her cheerful skull knickers.
He was glad he hadn't accidentally torn them in his hurry. That would have been a waste.
Now, he leaned back against her kitchen counter, happy just to look at her. And she seemed content to respond in kind.
She once again stepped up to him, reaching out to fiddle with the waistband of his unfastened jeans, which he'd only pulled on as an afterthought before he went in search of water.
Her hands then settled just above his hips, her fingers lightly tickling his skin, still sensitive from their joining.
She bit her lip lightly as she looked up at him, and he lowered his head, his mouth drawn inexorably to hers.
His heartbeat, which had only just started to slow down, quickened again.
It was only then that Sherlock interpreted its Morse code message.
- - - - - .-.. .-.. -.- -
M-O-L-L-Y
He tried to tell himself that he was being needlessly fanciful.
He failed.