memesss (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
memesss) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2014-06-01 05:57 pm
memesss) wrote in bakerstreet2014-06-01 05:57 pm
The Morning After Meme
the morning after
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ a meme
→ COMMENT WITH YOUR CHARACTER'S NAME, FANDOM, AND PREFERENCE.
→ PICK A CHARACTER YOU WANT TO TAG AND HIT UP RNG (01-10), OR CHOOSE A SCENE OF YOUR OWN.
→ PLAY NICE; NO WANK, FLAMES, OR GENERAL HUMBUGGERY.
( keep in mind that sexual scenarios are the basis of this meme! please enter with caution )
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ the scenarios
① BREAKFAST IN BED;
your partner is up and about -- maybe dressed, maybe not -- and in the kitchen. what are they making you? could it be... grilled cheese?
② HIT ME BABY;
③ ESCAPE FROM AZKABED;
④ THE AFTERNOON AFTER;
⑤ HANGOVER FROM HELL;
⑥ WET AND WILD;
⑦ I'LL SLEEP WHEN I DIE;
⑧ A BITTER PILL;
⑨ THIS ISN'T MINE;
⑩ WILD CARD;
② HIT ME BABY;
they're such a peaceful sleeper. a peaceful, sexy sleeper. actually there's too much of that sleeping happening. why don't you wake the up, world's kindest alarm?
③ ESCAPE FROM AZKABED;
you wake up to find they're rummaging about for their clothes, about to leave. why the rush, can't you convince them to stay?
④ THE AFTERNOON AFTER;
and the evening, maybe even the morning after after... hours have passed but you just can't leave each other! or maybe one of you just won't...
⑤ HANGOVER FROM HELL;
there's a tiger in the closet, a baby in the bathroom, and a total stranger curled up beside you. who is this person beside you, smelling of tequila and regret? do they know any more about what, or who, went down than you do?
⑥ WET AND WILD;
don't feel too lonely waking up by yourself -- the shower's on and the sound of water falling is mighty inviting. why don't you get cleaned up -- or down and dirty all over again?
⑦ I'LL SLEEP WHEN I DIE;
sleep? what is this sleep thing you speak of? dawn's breaking and neither of you have gotten a wink, or want one. who's ready for round xxx?
⑧ A BITTER PILL;
turns out the reason you scored wasn't your sparkling wit and magnetic confidence. your partner had an ulterior motive -- they already knew it and you're about to. recon? revenge? rebound? tag and find out, if you can handle the truth!
⑨ THIS ISN'T MINE;
that sleepy person in your living room had a great night -- with your roommate. well, might as well get to know each other while you're both there, right? ... right?
⑩ WILD CARD;
roll more than once and combine scenarios, choose your favorite, or make up your own!
no subject
Toby winds himself around Molly's legs and meows again. It's breakfast time for him too.
"Wait your turn," she scolds him as she pours the eggs into the hot pan to cook and places sausage in another to fry up.
She feels Sherlock's eyes on her and so he also might notice goose flesh rising at the awareness, her skin blushing even a bit more too. It's not all from anxiety either. Some of it is from remembering the night before. It's still hard to believe those are her memories now and not just another dream. But even with that between them, she doubts Sherlock is doing more than trying to glean some information from her body language. She can't imagine he ever just admires anyone. There's always a utilitarian reason. It's what has her worried about last night. Motive.
His voice interrupts her wandering thoughts, which is good because another few moments and she will have ruined the eggs. The question takes her off guard though.
"W...why do you think I'm afraid of something?" she asks as she pulls the pan of eggs off the burner and stirs them up a bit more, not turning to look at Sherlock when she speaks.
no subject
Sherlock is forced to review his conduct from last night and this morning. As far as he can tell, outside of his own biases, he hasn't done anything to deserve her doubt or suspicion. Her nervous demeanor still makes him feel kind of monstrous, as if he could snap at her at any moment. It makes him feel like he's poison and he's about to destroy her.
--Maybe he is a toxic person. Maybe that's the bitter truth of it. He has ruined so many people, no matter his intentions. He doesn't want to hurt Molly Hooper any more than he has done so already. She deserves someone better, far better, than he could ever be for her.
"Molly, I can't read anyone's mind," he says, trying to be patient, while he leans back in the chair. "Contrary to popular belief..." He stretches out his legs (stiff) (in a good way), then folds his arms across his bare chest. The direct approach is best, he thinks. No point in beating about the bush. "So, go on, out with it: why are you afraid of me?"
It definitely isn't an issue of consent. They were equally consenting last night. At times, enthusiastically so. Sherlock even asked her more than once whether or not she liked certain maneuvers, because he liked to experiment. He's a scientist at heart, even in the bedroom. Otherwise he wouldn't bother with sex and the rest of it.
no subject
Speaking of breakfast, she plates the eggs and sausage while he's speaking, letting out a slight snort when he says he can't read minds. This morning keeps getting stranger. He's the closest she's ever seen to a mind-reader, that's for sure and it's rare when he admits he can't do something.
She sighs then at his question and brings the plates to the table, sitting down across from him with her own coffee - cream, no sugar. She takes a large drink of it because she's going to need the caffeine if they're going to talk. Sherlock wants to talk. Jesus. Her hands hold on to the mug as she begins to answer his question.
"Last night was...fantastic," she starts out, blushing a bit in spite of herself. "Really. I...you were...yeah..."
Get it together Molly.
"You're still here."
Well, that didn't come out right. It was somewhere between accusatory, confused and surprised.
no subject
Then, inexplicably, he smiles at her for a tick. "Who am I to turn down the offer of free food?" he asks, picking up the fork for emphasis.
He takes a stab at the eggs; dwindling appetite or not, he should eat something soon. The body is a vehicle, you know, which requires constant maintenance and blah blah blah. (Sometimes he gets sick of himself. Lately, more often than not.)
Fantastic, she called it. Sherlock much prefers compliments regarding his intellect, but it's nice (more than nice) to know he didn't botch the whole thing. It's not like he goes out of his way to have sex with anyone, ever, for various reasons. He hasn't a bailiwick for getting his wick wet.
"Unless you believe it's more in my character to up and flee in the middle of the night."
There's something almost insecure about his choice of words--
Are his feelings hurt?!
"What would that even be like?" he demands scornfully. (Defense mechanism.) (One of many.) (Shut up.) "I'd come to my senses whilst up to my elbows in you and think, 'Dear god in heaven. I've seen Molly Hooper in and out of her knickers. How will I ever live with myself after this?'"
He shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth. They're acceptable. Could use some pepper, though.
"Molly, I don't do anything I don't want to do."
no subject
But she thinks what she said has hurt him too. At least she knows him well enough to know that some of what he's saying is because of that. It doesn't entirely make her feel much better and any attempt she tries to make to get a word in edge wise is, as usual, not possible until he stops talking. Her mouth opens and closes a few times and then she sighs.
"Sherlock..." she starts. "I....I didn't mean..."
But well, she did kind of mean she thought he would leave. She pokes at her eggs. She hadn't been at all hungry when she started cooking and now she definitely wasn't.
"I'm sorry...for thinking that you wouldn't stay. I...this is all just a bit...surprising. I don't just mean you staying. I mean...all of it. I'm still trying to catch up I suppose."
And well, it wouldn't have been the first time someone had fled her flat so as to not have to engage with her in the morning. She has her own insecurities she's dealing with as well.
no subject
He couldn't be everything John needed him to be, so how could he be anything worthy of Molly?
The eggs go down smoothly, but he has to avoid the sausage. He feels greasy enough as it is.
"Maybe..." Hesitation. More hesitating. If only he could properly assess whether or not something he's saying is wrong. Not in an observable, factual way, but where emotions come in. "Maybe we should start over. Consider that a trial run."
There are certain truths he'll never be able to tell her. He can't tell her that when he was dying, when he really had both feet in the grave, she was one of the internal voices to help him survive it. How bizarre, how off-putting would that be to her? 'I've got a wonderful figment of you locked up in my imagination. I'm so thankful to know you.' Not a good starter.
So, he settles for saying, "Good morning," with a (surprisingly genuine) smile. Then he says (still genuine), "Last night went well, don't you think?" STRIKE 1: making it sound like it was some sort of dinner party. "I don't know how soon I'll want to repeat it--" STRIKE 2: being honest about his intentions (or lack thereof) for a relationship. "--but I suspect those fair-weather suitors of yours weren't driven off by you so much as their own selfishness." STRIKE 3: blurting out the personal information he has deduced.
His smile is awkward, borderline painful, by the end of that.
"If it brings you any peace of mind. At all."
He's trying so hard.
no subject
If only he knew what telling her his figment of her in his mind palace helped to save his life would actually mean to her. That she would be flattered and touched by the knowledge, not put off. That otherwise she has no idea that he thinks of her like that - as someone that important, as someone who even holds a place in his mind palace at all. It might have made her more sure of herself this morning.
She still hopes for the best though as she smiles back at him and says "Good morning" in return.
She nods again and feels even more hopeful at his assertion that the night had gone well. The first strike in her mind only comes with the follow up statement. Not that it's a strike on him really in her view, just a disappointment. Her face falls a bit. It went well but he's still not interested. Of course, Molly, don't be silly. You were lucky to have last night at all. Don't be greedy. He's still here and he's trying (she can tell). She's ready to tell him it's fine. Really. The truth is preferable to the men who have lied (I'll call you.).
Her mouth opens but he's still talking and now he's deduced her reason for this morning (of course he has) and it all just makes her feel tired. Too many emotions.
She's not upset with him. The strikes he thinks he's racking up, don't add to three. This was a mistake of her own making. Or not a mistake, but a set up for her own disappointment. She knew it the whole time and now she has to deal with it. She's a big girl. She's dealt with worse.
"I suppose there's some peace of mind to be had there," she says, returning his painfully awkward smile with a somewhat sad one. "Although it does border on the old 'it's not you, it's me.'"
It's supposed to be a bit of a joke. That is basically what he just said though - it's not her, it's them (him). She does still appreciate the effort.
"More coffee?" she asks. It will give her something to do other than sit there and not eat. It will distract her from the pain in her chest.
no subject
He struggles to find the words. (Sorry.) (So sorry.) (Can't stop making a mess wherever he goes.) There's a reason he historically prefers to text: more distance, more impersonality, more time for a response. He hates being forced to watch an up-to-the-minute reflection of how hurtful he's being when he doesn't even mean to be hurtful. It makes him feel greasy, and slimy, and rotten all the way through.
"What I'm trying to say is that not even my own mother can expect me come Christmas. I've broken her heart countless times, and I'd just as soon break yours. I cannot promise I'd be there for you when you need me to be. By no means am I an expert in this area, but I do know from proximity to John and Mary--I know about commitment. It's important. Very important." Measuring out each word carefully, he concludes with, "You... deserve... better."
How mortifying. He studies her for a moment more (pale) (pretty) (lacking confidence) (yet he trusts her so much), then looks down at his plate. Out of the goodness of her heart, knowing she faced certain rejection, she was willing to prepare breakfast for him. A kind, simple gesture. Perfectly human. (A quality he lacks.)
"Even so..."
He looks off to the side, squinting through a brightening sunbeam. The sun is climbing higher in the sky. Time will continue to march onward, with or without them. Today he doesn't have much going on, but tomorrow could be an entirely different story. Tomorrow he could be juggling three cases involving a double murder, a stolen diamond necklace, and a rogue government agent. He doesn't know.
"When the stars align and my schedule is vacant, I wouldn't be opposed to showing you a good time." His lips quirk with obvious self-depreciation. (Compromise. According to John, this is important too.) "Though I can't guarantee a night out on the town won't involve at least one visit to a crime scene. Just the reality of it. Of..." He tilts his head thoughtfully. "... attempting to date me, I suppose. Or however it's phrased."
He reaches for his cup of coffee. His eyes remain set on the middle distance.
"Offer's on the table, Molly. Take it or leave it."
She can't expect him to change any more than he can expect to change her.
no subject
"You don't have to explain," she says quickly while he struggles to do just that. She knows his work is always going to come first (and be his sole focus); that he isn't interested in having the kind of relationships that most other people desire and need.
He continues anyway and she just nods along because she doesn't know what else to do. He's telling her things she mostly knows about himself already, but she shakes her head when he asserts that she deserves better. Maybe it's true. Maybe she can't see past her own stupid, human, messy feelings to see how much of a masochistic idiot she must be for loving him in the first place (or so says most of her friends). What they (and he) don't seem to realize though is she does know these things. She sees who he is. She has for a long time. Really knowing him and the man he is, is what has made her stupid little crush become something more. When the reality (self-centered, logical to a fault, emotionally detached, moody, arrogant) crashed into the fantasy (tall, dark, handsome, genius, charming), instead of leaving her disappointed and disillusioned (as reality often does), it only solidified what she felt. Even when she tried to deny it and move on, she couldn't make it go away. And what that taught her is that only she gets to decide what she deserves.
He's studying her again and in her self-consciousness she moves to clear their plates, but then he's talking and she once again sits back. This time she does not interject during the slight pause he gives because those two little words sound like hope to her. She holds her breath, uncertain of what's to follow. Sherlock, after all, is the master of trampling on her hopes without even knowing it.
This time though, what he says absolutely stuns her. It catches her entirely off guard, really, and she's sure her face shows it. If she was having trouble before believing that the past 12 hours had actually happened, well, now she was definitely questioning the stability of her mind. Sherlock Holmes actually said the word "date." He not only said it, but he said it in reference to her. To them.
A small laugh leaves her mouth unbidden. It is a laugh of surprise and relief and, well, joy.
It is far more than she expected from him this morning. Or ever, really. She studies his face for a moment, just to make sure he's not playing some sort of game. Don't be silly, Molly. He can be cruel, but not that cruel.
And when she only sees him being plain and honest, she smiles, a genuine one this time. Her hand impulsively reaches out to touch his that's now wrapped around his coffee mug. She needs to somehow feel that this is real, and for his attention to focus.
"Deal," she says as she looks at him, eyes bright and sure for the first time that morning.