A/N: My utmost thanks to MizJoely and just-mindy for looking this beast over and sharing their expertise with me. If you saw what my first drafts looked like, you wouldn't believe I even know how to speak the English language. Meanwhile, this fic I'm dedicating to dietplainlite (a brilliant author in her own right, believe me), simply because she's always been such a marvelously dear friend and I adore her beyond all sense and logic.

Disclaimer: I own terribly little, and Sherlock & Co not included in that count. I do, however, possess three very hairy Shih Tzu's that are spoiled beyond belief and are at this moment vying for mommy's attention. Does that count for anything?

I

Molly's key to 221B Baker Street is scratched, nicked, and discolored from an almost too close encounter with a corrosive substance. It's well worn and well used, and rests on a key ring with four other bedfellows, despite the fact that those keys are to Sherlock's old flats and she hasn't got a single use for them. They've become keepsakes at this point, little bits of Sherlock to keep in her pocket.

"Hello," she calls out once she's halfway up the staircase and trying to shove the keyring back in her tote bag. The large cooler she carries in one hand keeps bumping into the side of her leg, painfully so, but she bravely soldiers on. A bit of pain to bring happiness to Sherlock isn't much of a sacrifice, now is it? "Sherlock, if you're wearing a sheet, go put on some pants, you know how uncomfortable it makes me when you –"

There's a woman standing in Sherlock's lounge, wearing his blue dressing gown and nothing else. No, not just 'a woman', which would imply that it's someone random – this is the Maid of Honor. Janine. Janine the Maid of Honor stands in Sherlock's lounge wearing his second best blue dressing gown, heaving breasts on display, looking terribly shocked to see Molly.

"Um, hello," says Janine, with an awkward little laugh. She's eying Molly up and down, taking in the oversized jumper and leggings and comfortable boots. "Can I help you?"

Molly is having a terribly difficult time breathing. "Oh, it's – I'm Sherlock's – I brought him the liver and hands of a forty year-old woman." Thrusting the cooler forward, Molly immediately hates herself. Oh yes, bloody brilliant thing to say, Molly. Make yourself sound incredibly weird to this – this woman wearing – this can't be what it looks like. Can it?

"Oh, um, that's... nice?" Janine doesn't appear to impressed. Actually, she shrinks back a bit and seems wholly disgusted.

Honestly, Molly wants to snap, they're body parts, not a contagion.

Sherlock appears from the hall looking ruffled, startled, and a tad bit guilty.

"A liver!" Molly almost, but not quite, shouts. "And hands! She was a smoker, forty years old, hit by a car. Donated, of course, and I thought you might need some cheering up so I – here you go – I'll be on my way, sorry I intruded. You might, um, want to close the door. In case Mrs. Hudson steps out. Wouldn't want her to see, um... see..."

Tears. Oh, bloody fantastic, she's crying.

"Molly, wait a moment, please." Sherlock's reaching out, stepping forward. "May we speak? Privately?"

"Got to dash," she chokes out, smiling as best she can. Probably looks like she's having a stroke, but it's the only way she can think to attempt and save face. "Got dinner with Tom. You remember Tom, don't you? My fiancé? He's waiting at the – the restaurant. Yes. Goodbye!"

"Nice meeting you," Janine calls after Molly.

She's never loathed someone quite as intensely as she does Janine.

II

Half-four in the morning, Molly wakes up to a dark figure standing over her bed. A hand is clamped over her mouth and so her scream is a stunted thing, dying quickly, but she's flailing and kicking – there's a body on top of her now, heavy and warm. Breath rustles past her cheek and across ear, and then a voice comes. "Be still," Sherlock orders, wedging her knees apart with his own. "It's only me."

For what seems to be hours, Molly focuses on not having a heart attack. She's going to kill Sherlock – it's bad enough he's taken over her spare bedroom, does he really need to be sneaking into her bedroom in the middle of the night?

"What are you doing?" she hisses, once Sherlock has removed his hand. As panic and sleep clear from her mind, Molly realizes how terribly... terrible their position is. Sherlock rests between her bare legs, the fabric of his slacks slick and smooth.. (God, I haven't shaved in a week, she mourns, before furiously shutting that train of thought down.) He's lucky Tom didn't sleep over, it'd be incredibly awkward for her fiancé to wake up and find her all tangled up with another man.

Another man Tom quite dislikes, and thinks Molly is still pining over. Which she isn't. She's over Sherlock Holmes. Now they're friends, only friends, friends forever. Because Sherlock doesn't do relationships and women... or at least, he doesn't dorelationships and Molly Hooper.

"Waking you up, that should be obvious." Oh, he's teasing, trying to divert attention from what happened yesterday evening.

Molly grabs his nipple through the fabric of his shirt (where did the suit jacket go? He rarely takes it off if he's not working in the lab or in his flat), and twists so hard that Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, squeals like a little girl and kicks his feet. "Molly Hooper!" he shrieks, wriggling in all sorts of fun and interesting ways while trying to bat her hand away. "Release my nipple this instance!"

"You woke me up," she hisses, taking hold of the other one. Sherlock flops miserably, making noises in an octave she hadn't known he could reach. "You are a complete – you're an arse, Sherlock Holmes! Now get out of my bed!" She shoves, and Sherlock rolls... the wrong way. Instead of dropping to the floor and (hopefully) knocking himself unconscious, he lands on the opposite side of the bed.

"Ow," he whimpers, palms gingerly covering the abused areas of his chest. The streetlight outside throws a portion of his face into relief, and Molly can see the way his brow is drawn, and how his mouth pulls into a lush pout.

It's not at all attractive, she insists.

That's so bloody attractive. Her genitals are really terrible at lying, Molly's discovers.

"My God, I believe you've detached my left nipple."

"You deserve it!"

"For having another woman in my flat?"

Molly sputters indignantly. Not because he's wrong – he's absolutely right – but because he's calling her on the truth. "Why – why would I care? I don't care. I'm engaged, Sherlock. Happily. Blissfully. I don't care if you're – you're shagging some – some random woman you met a week ago. Not any of my business, is it? Now get out of my bed, get out of my flat, and leave me alone!" She rolls on her side, curling into a tight ball.

Tears burn her eyes, turning the shadowy view of her nightstand and the room beyond into nothing more than a blurred mess. It's too much to hope that Sherlock won't notice, but she can at least pray he'll be kind enough to keep his mouth shut about it.

The mattress shifts with Sherlock's weight as he moves, but it isn't to get up. Slowly he presses himself against Molly, until she is enveloped. He pushes an arm under her shoulders and curls it around, fingers clasping her opposite shoulder; his other arm is around her stomach, gripping her hip; Sherlock's legs wind with Molly's own; at the end of it all, there is no telling where Sherlock Holmes ends and Molly Hooper begins.

The crack in Molly's heart only grows.

"I am so truly sorry, Molly," whispers Sherlock, his mouth pressed behind her ear. His voice is thick with emotion, though what those emotions may be Molly cannot say. "I never wanted you to know about Janine."

"Trying to be kind to the lovesick moron in case you need to fake your death again?" Acid would be less damaging than Molly's tone. If her arms weren't half-pinned, she'd elbow Sherlock in the gut and escape his grasp. As it is she's trapped, unable to move. (And maybe, not so secretly, a bit happy to be there. Little moments like this can fuel a thousand fantasies, ones she thinks will still be held near and dear to heart even when she's old and gray and long married to someone else.)

"Is that truly what you think of me?"

"Honestly, Sherlock, I don't know what I think anymore. Not that it matters – you've got Janine. I've got Tom. I'm really very happy for you, but I don't think your girlfriend would like you being in bed with another woman. I know Tom would be furious."

"Does it seem like me? To have a woman staying with me? To have a... girlfriend?"

Biting at the inside of her cheek, Molly takes a moment to mull Sherlock's words over. "No," she admits, and then speaking isn't at all an option, because Sherlock has buried his nose in the nape of her neck and his mouth is pressing against the bare skin there, wet and hot.

"Not everything is as it seems," he murmurs. His fingers move, pulling up the oversized shirt she sleeps in, finding the flesh of Molly's hip. "Whatever you see, whatever it seems to be, it's not true. If I were to initiate a relationship with someone, it would certainly not be Janine."

Swallowing is difficult, Molly's throat has gone dry. Her blood is pumping so hard her jugular vein aches from the force of it. "Oh?" she breathes, trying to control her body and failing entirely. "Not your type, then?"

"No," he confirms. "Not at all."

Do not ask, Molly firmly demands of herself.

"If not Janine, then what is? Your type, I mean."

Fuck, Molly mourns, mentally dashing her head against a wall. She's setting herself up for disaster here, flirting with Sherlock while in bed and he's touching her and – Jesus. Jesus. She can feel him smiling against her neck.

"You know the answer to that better than anyone else." His words are slow and pained, as though Sherlock has to drag them out of some dark pit he tries to avoid at all costs. Molly's heart spasms in fearful hope, breath caught somewhere above her ribs and below her throat.

Slowly she moves a hand down, carefully pressing against Sherlock's fingertips and then each joint in succession. Against her neck his breath is a trembling rush and his body grows tense, as though this simple touch has undone him as much as it has Molly. Wary of spooking him, of breaking whatever spell he seems to be under, Molly slats her fingers in the spaces between Sherlock's own.

His reaction is immediate and grateful; he clasps her hand tightly, as though Molly is the lifeline he's been searching for his entire life.

He spends the night. They sleep tangled together, and Sherlock makes tea and toast for breakfast. Together they shrug on coats and ready to leave and start the day; in front of the door Sherlock hovers over Molly, hand around her wrist and a sad smile at his lips. How lonely the look in his eyes seems, as though he's standing outside a window and looking in at what he'll never have.

He kisses the corner of her mouth, and Molly steps into him without thinking.

"Have a good day," he says, and then he's gone, slipping through the half open door to disappear.

III

Janine brings Sherlock food while he's at the lab.

"It's Chinese!" she announces, the take away in two plastic bags that smell positively heavenly. "I thought you'd be hungry by now, Sherly."

Molly chokes on her coffee. "Did you just call him Sherly?"

For the first time since arriving, Janine pays Molly attention. Possibly because it sounds like Molly is dying, given she's hacking and gurgling on hot coffee that went down the wrong pipe. Of course, here she goes again, making a fool of herself in front of Sherlock's not-girlfriend.

"Pet name," Janine pretends to whisper, winking at Molly as she sits the take away bags on Sherlock's table. "I brought enough for three if you're hungry – um, Molly, right? Sherlock's mentioned you several times."

"She is the most capable and knowledgeable pathologist in the whole of the country." Sherlock gives this announcement while grudgingly backing away form his microscope. He smiles, but it's as flat as a doll's: it contains no emotion or pleasure, only forced charm. "You're so thoughtful, Janine."

She kisses Sherlock.

Molly's jaw is clenched so tightly it's close to breaking. The pop of her gloves coming off, practically tearing with the force she uses to remove them, prompts Sherlock to break away. "Thanks for the offer, Janine, but I've got some postmortems to do. By the way, you do know Sherlock doesn't eat while he's on cases, don't you?" Maybe the last part is too sharp... maybe Molly doesn't care.

"He does for me," Janine croons. "Don't you, Sherly?"

While his not-girlfriend unpacks the food, Sherlock's gaze bores through Molly. It's almost a physical touch on her back as she pushes the lab doors open, heading for the sanctuary of the morgue.

"He does for me," she mocks, rolling her eyes vicariously. "Sherly. Sherly! If he's not with her for a case, so help me God I'm testing him... he'd have to be back on drugs..."

IV

This is the beginning of the end.

"Was that Sherlock I saw leaving?" asks Tom, dropping his keys onto the wall hook by the door.

Surrounded by piles of soft, fluffy towels and flannels and socks and dish towels, Molly is folding laundry. In the little utility room the washer is banging around, sounding like it may up and walk away at any moment, or maybe even catch on fire. "Hmm? Oh, Sherlock, yeah. He was hungry."

"Oh. Well then." Tom's voice has gone all funny, taut and a bit too high. It pulls Molly from her thoughts, which are circling around Sherlock and the way he brushed his hand across her cheek before he left. "Yeah, so, he's hungry and pops over to your place and you feed him?"

"Made lasagna," Molly agrees, gesturing towards the kitchen. "There's garlic bread in there, as well. Homemade."

"All right, Molly – this has gone on long enough, don't you think? We're getting married, and you're making meals for another a man! A man that has a key to your place!"

"He's my friend, Tom. I know he's a bit hard to get used to, but –"

"Know what he said to me last week? He said I'm far too stupid to deserve a woman like you." Tom's chest his heaving and his hands are balled into fists; his lean body vibrates with badly contained fury. Molly looks at him – really looks – and feels something inside her shrivel up.

Still, she tries. (Moving on isn't easy, she knows this; but once they're married, once it's all done and legal, well... surely she'll feel differently...) "I'm sorry, sweetheart. He's very protective over his friends. But I'll have a talk with him, all right?"

"No. I want to marry you, Molly. I want to have children with you, grow old with you, and when I die, I want to buried beside you. But a relationship is a two-way street, and we can't have Sherlock Holmes popping in for meals, or demanding you run off and look at a body at two in the morning. Once we're married and have kids, it won't even been an option. So you've got to choose, Molly: him or me."

"Oh, Tom..." sighs Molly, a towel falling from her hands. She covers her mouth and tries hard not to cry, because in the end, there is no choice.

IV

Molly announces her presence by hurling a shoe at Sherlock. It lands in the fireplace, which is thankfully unlit.

Perhaps now is the time to mention she's a little bit drunk.

"Molly?" It's a truly rare occasion when Sherlock looks baffled, but he does now. Up and down his gaze moves, taking in every bit of Molly's appearance; what secrets does he find this time?

"You son of a bitch," she hisses, struggling to get the other shoe off. Unfortunately balance is not her strong suit, especially when down almost an entire bottle of wine. "You just wait 'til I get my shoe – I'm going to make you regret this –"

Not bothering to hide his amusement, Sherlock inquires, "And what, precisely, am I regretting?"

"Tom!" Molly shouts, flinging the second shoe. It bounces off the wall and flies into the kitchen. It leaves her without a weapon, and so she settles for glaring. "It's all your bloody fault, you stupid berk. We've fought and he's angry, and you're to blame, Sherlock Holmes! It's all because of you!"

Within seconds storm clouds roll over Sherlock's face, morphing his angelic features into something dark and demonic. "What happened, Molly?" he demands, moving from his chair as a jaguar hunting weakened prey might leave the cover of the jungle. "Are you injured? No, no; emotional wounds, obviously. Stay here, sleep it off; I shall deal with... Tom." he says her possibly ex-fiancé's name the way another man might say cockroach.

"Didn't you hear me? It's your fault, so I don't need you sticking your bloody nose into it now!" God, it's not fair. He's being protective of her, and it's... it's just horrid. Not because he is kind or obviously enraged at the thought of Tom causing her any sort of pain, but because it makes Molly want to hold him. To kiss him, to pull him down in front of the fireplace and show him exactly how okay she is with probably, almost certainly losing Tom.

"Perhaps you should explain to me how this is my doing?" Carefully he speaks, moving close. Too close. Sherlock never used to be one for invading Molly's personal space or touching, but now... since his return he's always a bit too close. He's ran his fingers through her hair when she's distracted, pulling gently at her ponytail; he's slept with his head in her lap on the sofa while watching telly; he often slept in her bed; the list goes on and on. Now is no different, and Molly can't stand it. She wants to smack him, to push him away, to leave Baker Street and never see him again.

So she does the exact opposite of all these things and kisses him. It involves yanking him down by his shirt front and standing on her toes, but then her mouth is on his and she pours every bit of her frustration, confusion, heartache, and fury into this kiss. She wants to shock him, to hurt him, maybe drive him away – but he groans and takes her by the hips, pulls her up higher and kisses her back. There's no hesitation, no thought; only his teeth on her upper lip, his tongue exploring areas previous undiscovered, and the way his breath flows into Molly.

And she is lost.

Lust hits her so hard it's like being struck by lightning, a bolt out of a clear sky that sets her hair on fire and evaporates her blood. God, oh God, her feet are off the ground, legs wrapping around those slender hips; and he's holding her up by the bum and staggering across the lounge, positively devouring Molly as he goes; but now they're falling back, and she's trapped under him on the couch.

"Feels so good," he's murmuring into the soft flesh under her jaw, one hand pushing up her jumper to find her bare stomach and the bra she isn't wearing. The sound he makes – it's hungry, and male, and Molly wants to wrap herself in it. "Better than anything else. Perfect, knew you'd be perfect for –" his words are cut off when his mouth finds her breast, while Molly cries out.

She throbs with want. Her hands scrabble at his shirt, tugging and pulling and not bothering with buttons, simply shoving her hands under it. Digging her fingers into his flesh, Molly tries to touch him everywhere, all at once. Her need for him is overwhelming, so violent that she wants to be absorbed into him, and it's terrifying. But his mouth is wet and hot, and he's biting her nipple just so, and the pain is so goddamn good that Molly can't help but lift her hips and whine – in all of this, there is no room for the fear of being overwhelmed and overtaken to grow.

Sherlock's breathing like a winded race horse and attacking her blue jeans as though they've given him a personal offense. It take a goodly amount of wiggling (which makes Sherlock curse and thrust into her, biting her neck in retaliation, which Molly fucking loves) to get a leg free, but she does. They're pushed down, down to the ankle of the opposite leg, where the denim scrunches up and refuses to move any further. That's all right, though, as Sherlock's hand is between her legs.

"I want to watch you," he says, and strokes her open with two fingers.

His words provoke a flush of heat to rush over Molly, her cunt pulsing so strongly a flood of new wetness escapes. She can't hold still when he finds her clit and begins to play it, hissing and moaning and clawing at the sofa cushions. It's all happening so quickly, she's still hazy from the wine, and yet she's never been more aroused in her life. Especially with Sherlock propped over her, watching (he likes watching me, Molly realizes, and nearly bites through her cheek in an attempt to stifle an embarrassingly loud moan), pupils blown wide while he plays her as he would his violin.

There's no warning before he pushes a finger inside, and Molly arches off the coach with a loud cry.

Sherlock's gasping for air. "Fuck, oh fuck," he keeps repeating, a fierce expression in his heavy-lidded gaze. "You're so wet, Molly. You want me to fuck you, don't you? You need me inside, right here –"

Molly keens, pressing her hips hard against his hand.

"Say it," Sherlock orders, head dropping to press a kiss between her breasts. He lingers there, breathing in the scent of her soap and skin and sweat. "Tell me you want me."

"Want you," she complies, hands already fumbling and struggling with his belt. "I need you. Oh God, Sherlock, please fuck me – I need you so much, I need –"

He growls like an animal, and suddenly Molly is empty. She cries out at the loss, tugs at his hair and pulls his mouth to hers. Blindly one hand finds his trousers, feels his own waging war against his zip, and helps push the expensive fabric down once they're opened. They don't go down far, just barely get down to the top of his thighs, because his cock is free and Molly immediately takes hold of him. He's fat and larger than average, and Molly feels as though her bones are liquefying with how desperatelyshe wants to feel him inside her.

For the first time in her life, Molly Hooper has unprotected sex. It's a thought in the back of her mind, a faint cry of common sense that flails its hands and shrieks in horror, but she's rubbing his cockhead along her cunt, and Molly hasn't got the patience to be sensible. Not now, not when Sherlock is this close, breathing heavily into her mouth and pressing his hips hard into her hand, against her pussy –

She guides him inside, and Sherlock thrusts home with a ragged cry. He trembles from head to toe, drops a foot to the floor for leverage and immediately proceeds to fuck Molly harder than she has ever been fucked before. All she can do is cling to him, hands fisted in his shirt as she sobs and wails and babbles ("Love you, love your fucking cock; feels so goddamn good, oh God, oh God, it's so good, you're so fucking good –"). She's overwhelmed by sex; the scent, the sounds, the indescribable feeling of fullness and friction and painful sort of pleasure when he goes deep enough to hit her cervix.

Like everything else that's happened, her orgasm is sudden, violent, and mind blowing. Distantly she can hear a thin shriek, while beyond it is Sherlock's voice – "Yes, yes, yes; Molly, yes, like that, just like that – you're so beautiful, perfect, I knew you'd be perfect..." – but it's all so far away, as though hearing a TV from another room. Everything is fire and darkness, an explosion behind her eyes and the feeling of being completely torn apart and pressed back together in a matter of seconds.

The highest point of orgasm passes, and Molly is left throbbing, limp, twitching, and on the edge of tears. Sherlock has her hips in a vice grip, and yes it hurts, but she loves it. He's thrusting into her sharp and hard, and it's so good; so she curls her legs up high around him, locks them behind his back and lifts her hips. Like a rising tide the pressure comes again; not so fierce or so hard, but there all the same.

Gripping the armrest behind her head, Molly strains towards release once more. Sherlock is watching her, hair falling in his eyes and mouth dropped open; he looks beautiful and erotic and she's going to remember him like this for the rest of her life. But then he's released one of her hips and spread his hand over her lower stomach, pressing down, his thumb stretched down to her clit and she can't keep her eyes open. It's hard enough to breathe, much less focus on anything aside from the pleasure, and Sherlock – oh, Sherlock –

"Did Tom make you feel like this?"

Molly's eyes snap open at this question, this forbidden topic, and she finds Sherlock has leaned further back. It gives him more range of motion, and they both benefit from it. She's making the most horrific squealing noise – God, it must grate Sherlock's nerves to no end – but she can't stop because there's this place deep inside, and Sherlock's pressing down on her stomach and his cock is rubbing just there with each thrust, and oh fuck she can't – she can't –

"Did he?" Sherlock demands. "Did he do this to you? Did you want him as much as you want me?"

"No!" One hand releases the arm rest, lifting to take a tight grip on Sherlock's shirt front. The seams groan under the strain, but Molly doesn't have enough mental resources to care if she rips it. "Never did this to me – never wanted him like this – I'd close my eyes and think about you, about you fucking me, your mouth on my cunt –"

This orgasm is, much to Molly's shock, even harder than the one before. It feels as though her muscles will tear off her bones with how taut she becomes. Sherlock can barely move from how tightly her cunt grips him; it's like a bomb going off, but Molly is the bomb, fracturing and flying apart.

Tendons standing out in relief and heavily flushed, Sherlock practically roars. He's pulling her up, forcing her upright until her head is on his shoulder and she's locked tight in his arms. "All mine, all mine, all mine," he's panting, each movement become desperate and erratic. The sound he makes is that of a sob, harsh and ragged, pulled from the very depths of his soul. He thrusts hard into Molly, holds himself there and presses her down, as though they will meld together and he'll never be outside of her again if only he uses enough force.

Afterward they strip, leaving a trail of clothing that leads to the bedroom. Molly's drowsy, ready to curl up against Sherlock and sleep, but he's kissing her shoulders and sliding down the bed. He ends up between her legs, uncaring of the previous mess that remains there. He stays buried in her cunt for so long that Molly becomes hoarse and convinced that if she has even one more orgasm she'll die.

He resurfaces as aroused as before, slick mouth seeking out Molly's. The taste of her own pleasure on his tongue and lips is far more arousing than she'd anticipated, leaving her suckling his tongue in a way that makes Sherlock whimper and thrust mindlessly against her stomach.

When they come together this time, there is nothing hurried or rushed about it. Sherlock rolls them so Molly is astraddle his hips and he's even deeper than before. Again the pain of being so full is a violent pleasure, one Molly takes full advantage of. She rides Sherlock for so long that her thighs and stomach are screaming in pain, and Sherlock is begging ("Please, Molly, please; anything, I'll do anything, just please – fuck – harder, I need – please –"), incoherent and desperate, but never taking his eyes off her for long.

It's as much a torture to Molly as it is to Sherlock, and finally she leans down, runs her mouth across his jaw before whispering, "Fuck me hard, Sherlock." She finds herself on her back between one breath in the next, a leg hoisted into the crook of Sherlock's arm. The bed frame squeaks and squeals, unused to such treatment, and the headboard sounds as though it may very well crash through the wall.

Sherlock is relentless. Sweat drips from his brow, he grips the headboard with one hand and Molly's arse with the other. "Tell me – tell me how much you wanted this."

"Dreamed about it," Molly gasps out, blunt nails digging hard into his shoulder. "Years. Fucked myself thinking about you. Oh my God, yes, that, please, please again –"

When it's over Sherlock collapses beside her, his face in her hair and arm around her waist. Molly threads her fingers through his. Even in sleep, Sherlock doesn't release her.

V

Molly writes herself a prescription for a morning after pill, and picks it up from a local pharmacy. She calls into work, feeling as though she's being twisted inside out as her body begins its reaction to the medication.

Curled up on her couch, wrapped in a blanket and soothed by leftover painkillers from a dental procedure she'd a month ago, Molly broods about the conversation they'd had before she left Baker Street. It was preceded by the sort of morning sex that poets wrote sonnets about and most women thought was a fantasy; it had been slow, sweet, and actually moved Molly to quiet tears.

"I'm going to have to continue seeing Janine," Sherlock had announced after a shower that took a ridiculous amount of time because someone couldn't keep his hands to himself.

It was rather a slap in the face. "Excuse me, what?" There was no way, no possible way, Molly had read his actions and words wrong. None. He'd wanted her as much as she'd wanted him, and it was obvious that he'd had nearly as much pent up lust and longing as Molly herself.

"It's for a case," Sherlock blurted out in a rush, shoulders tense as he turned away to start the kettle. "It's essential that she feel very, very strongly for me. But I won't – there won't be anything like what happened between us. And I'm afraid we can't do this again for a while. There's something I need to take care of, and I don't want you to become involved in it."

What other choice did Molly have but to agree to these demands? She doesn't like it, but she trusts Sherlock. He'd sworn it would go on for only a few more weeks, and surely she can wait that long. Especially when she knows what's coming to her at the end of it.

VI

"What do you mean I need to run a urine analysis on Sherlock?" Molly carefully asks John, while staring at Sherlock from the short distance between them. He's looking anywhere and everywhere but at her, eyes darting wildly while his hands twitch nervously.

"I found him in a flop house," John admits. "He swears he's only on a case, but we need to be sure. He's not... himself."

He looks like a junkie, Molly realizes, and feels as though she's going to burst into tears. Instead she steadies her nerves and digs a sterile cup out of a drawer before marching to Sherlock and thrusting it out at him.

"Pee in it," she orders.

"This is wholly unnecessary, Molly –"

"Sherlock Holmes," she hisses, "you're going to piss in this cup right now or I will catheterize you and get a sample myself."

She follows him to the bathroom, as does John. "Would one of you like to hold it?" Sherlock snarks, but she and John glower him into submission.

It's not that she doesn't trust John – she does – but he can be fooled. Two sets of eyes are better than one, especially where Sherlock is concerned. After, she takes the sample back to the lab and sets to work, praying for the outcome her instincts say she won't be getting. It doesn't long, not at all; the reactions are nearly instantaneous.

Snapping her gloves off, Molly tosses them to the counter. She wants to scream. It feels as though she's going to rip herself apart in rage – and hurt. So much bloody hurt. She's trusted him, she always has, and he does this. This beautiful, blessed bastard – he's born with the mind of a god and what does he do? He kills himself, bit by bit, using coke to jump start his brain and heroin to slow himself back down, when it all becomes too much.

"Well? Is he clean?" asks John.

"Clean?" Molly parrots, absolutely vibrating with rage. She rounds on Sherlock, stalking in front of him. He's sitting on the table, waiting for his punishment; she can see in his eyes how he's attempting to distance himself and failing, waiting for the axe to fall.

The sound of flesh-hitting-flesh causes everyone to jump in shock. Molly's palm stings, but she does it again, putting so much force into the hit that her entire arm begins to ache. Sherlock keeps his gaze downcast, a deadened look in his eyes. Still, this is not enough, and so she slaps him again, though with her left hand this time.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with! And how dare you betray the love of your friends! Say you're sorry."

"Sorry you're engagement's over," Sherlock spits, working his jaw. Had she really hurt him? God, she hopes so. "Though I'm grateful for the lack of a ring."

The bastard. Does he think reminding her exactly how she and Tom broke up is going to help him?

"Stop it," she orders, and hates how much it sounds like begging. "Just stop it."

He never looks her in the eye. Not once.

VII

Sherlock leaves several messages and texts her so many times that Molly turns off her mobile.

For the very first time, Molly thinks she may be completely finished with Sherlock Holmes. For as long as she'd wanted this very thing, she never imagined how horrifically it would hurt.