Fifty Reason Prompt: Because he/she is from one of the countries you haven't had sex with a person from yet

MizJoely beta'd this for me. Thanking you Miz. But any mistakes you find are mine. This story was inspired by the Dave Matthews Band song 'American Baby' .

Warnings: There is some autopsy talk and also some 'morgue type humor'. I'm not having a laugh at dead people, Molly is.

I own nothing (including the DMB song). Enjoy ~Lil~

I hold on to you

You bring me hope, I'll see you soon

And if I don't see you

I'm afraid we've lost the way

"I've given you everything you need. Do try not to cause an international incident. I've no patience for cleaning up messes at the moment. Also work on your American accent, it's not as good as you think it is," Mycroft said, handing Sherlock his passport and a folder of information. "Perhaps you should consult with an American citizen on this before you go. Brush up on you US History, as it were."

Sherlock scoffed. "Why on Earth would I need that? I've told you that I know all I need to for the case. And with whom do you suppose I should consult? I don't just keep people around for my disposal like you do, big brother." He glanced down at his new ID then back up at Mycroft. "Any idea how to get in touch with that CIA bloke?" he asked, knowing it was still a sore spot for his brother.

The older man bristled. "The one I had to deport before he murdered you? That's probably not a good idea," Mycroft replied with an eyeroll. "And the way you collect people nowadays, I wouldn't be surprised if you had acquired a new American friend." He spit the last word like it was filth. "Just ask Miss Hooper, she's been cleared and is in the inner circle, seeing as she's your little 'koi'."

Sherlock scoffed. "She not my k… wait, why would Molly know anymore about America than me?"

Mycroft's eyebrows shot high on his forehead. "Oh my God! You… you don't know!" He laughed, a full, rich belly laugh. "Oh, this is wonderful!"

"What are you talking about, Mycroft?" he demanded, anger rising as he watched his brother nearly double over with laughter.

Once he'd collected himself from his highly out of character laughing fit, Mycroft replied, "Perhaps you should have a little chat with Miss Hooper. It seems you've missed something once again."

Sherlock left the office angry, no, he was livid. Apparently Molly Hooper was American. How had he missed it? This was huge. Not Molly's got a date and I failed to notice that she was wearing her hair plaited so that it would be wavy when she took it down and picked it out. Not Molly bought a Christmas gift for her new love interest that didn't exist, because she was actually interested in me. Not Molly's new beau is apparently the criminal mastermind who's been taunting me for weeks. Okay, perhaps that's a bad example since it was fairly a big thing, what with being nearly killed… Damnit, I'm getting off track! Molly is not British? Bloody buggering bollocks!

He needed answers, but he was due to leave for a flight to Boston in less than two hours. Mycroft was wrong! He didn't need to consult with an American on the case. He had all the information and a perfectly acceptable American accent at the ready. What he did need was to vent his anger…

"...the discolouration of the tissue?" Molly used the bloody scalpel to indicate her point as she held up the necrotic liver. "Now, who can tell me what this might mean?"

Just then the doors to the morgue burst open, startling her, causing her drop the organ. It fell back into the body cavity with a wet slurp, splashing blood on the nearest med student, an unfortunately skittish young man by the name of Wilson.

"Molly Hooper, we need..." Sherlock started as he approached the group.

Holding up a hand, she stopped him mid-sentence. "Hold on Sherlock!" She turned to her students. "Wilson, go get cleaned up. And let me apologise on behalf of Mr. Holmes," she said cutting Sherlock a hateful look. "Ah, I suppose I'll have to dismiss..."

"No need, this will only take a moment," the detective interrupted. He walked until he was standing less than a foot away from her. "I have to go to America, a case for Mycroft, but when I return you and I will be having a very serious conversation, understand?"

Molly fumed at being spoken to like a child in front of a class of med students, no less, and for a brief moment wondered if she could get away with stabbing him in the hand with her scalpel. She quickly decided against it, there was a big difference between a plastic fork and surgical instrument.

Her instincts were to dress the detective down (or maim him), tell him to shove his very serious conversation up his shapely arse and kick him out. Instead took a deep breath and nodded. If she spoke at all she was certain it wouldn't have been pleasant.

As he turned to leave Sherlock looked at the group of students on the other side of the slab, then he zoned in on Wilson. "My God man, do something with yourself. You're a mess," he said before striding out of the room.

As soon as the door shut Wilson emptied his stomach on the morgue floor.

Two and a half bloody weeks stuck in Boston's shittest hotel! And of course he'd done the whole job alone; John wouldn't even consider leaving Rosie for that length of time. Sherlock was going to make his brother pay. Oh yes, Mycroft would pay dearly. He'd had nearly eight hours on the flight home to work out his revenge. Well, that's not all he'd done. He had also thought about the upcoming conversation he was to have with his pathologist. A plan was formed: shower, eat, sleep and once fully refreshed he'd let her know exactly how he felt!

How...he…felt…

That was a bit confusing, if he were honest. During the last eighteen day he'd had more than a little time to ponder the 'Hooper Situation' (though to be honest, he'd had her on his mind for far longer). Why was he so bothered (not quite obsessed, but close) about finding out that she was American? Was he slipping? No, this was something he should have deduced upon their first meeting. So how had he miss it and continued to miss it, for that matter?

He had repeatedly gone over that first meeting in his down time since learning of Molly's heritage. He'd come up with nothing. Not a clue that she was, as he'd since discovered, born in the DC Area to a school teacher (mother, he'd nailed that!) and diplomat (father, okay, he'd been a little off on that one).

His slightly obsessive pondering had started long before he discovered that Molly was a US citizen. Frankly things had been different ever since the events at Sharrinford. Even though he thought he'd handled the situation, having talked to his pathologist about his sister and her little game, it hadn't eased his mind as much as he had hoped. Two days after the harrowing family reunion, he had gone to Molly's flat and explained that when he said 'I love you' he meant it in a completely platonic manner.

"I never intended to hurt you, Molly, quite the opposite," he explained as he sat on her couch and sipped perfectly prepared tea. He had relived the entire escapade, giving Molly every detail he felt was pertinent.

She huffed out a little laugh. "Sure, I understand."

"I thought she was going to kill you," he added, wondering where Molly's righteous indignation was hiding.

"Sherlock, I get it. I was in danger, or you thought I was, you did what you had to do to save me." She stood and picked up her now empty mug. "I would have done the same if I'd have been in your place."

Following after her, he continued, "She said I couldn't tell you the reason, Molly, that…"

"Listen, I'm okay," she interrupted as sat down her mug and turned on him. "I'm not upset. If we're going to continue being friends, working together and co-Godparenting we have to forget about the fact that we said those...things. Don't you think? I'm not emotionally devastated or anything, Sherlock, I promise." She looked away for a moment and he thought he read hurt in her eyes for the first time since they'd started the discussion. But then she looked back and smiled. "More tea?"

Her response had confused Sherlock almost as much as his own reaction to her indifference. It was just fine? Molly Hooper was one of the most pragmatic people he'd ever known, but this… this was love that they were talking about. She had said that she loved him, and he knew it to be true, and he had returned the sentiment. Shouldn't she be hurt or hopeful or something?

Three months later he was nowhere closer to figuring out her lack of a reaction or his own discomfort with it. And then this 'not British' business started, confusing him even further.

The realisation that Molly could plague his mind, wasn't an alarming one. What was alarming, almost troubling was: why? Why was he so distracted at learning something new about his pathologist? When he thought about it, and oh, had he thought about it a great deal in the last several months, the answer was a simple one. Molly Hooper was important to Sherlock Holmes. She'd made an everlasting impression on his psyche with her kindness and unfailing loyalty. He had come to terms with that just about five minutes before disembarking the plane. And though it made a lot of sense, it didn't stop the fluttering sensation in his stomach when he considered seeing her once again. What the hell did it all mean?

After a shower, three of Mrs. Hudson's bacon butties and a fitful four hour nap, Sherlock shook off all the other feelings he was dealing with in order to confront her. How dare she keep something so important from him? And worse, how the hell had he failed to deduce it?

A quick mental check of her schedule (which he kept in her room in his mind palace) and he knew exactly where she'd be. "Barts Hospital," he told the Hungarian cabbie. Divorced, two estranged children, social drinker, excessive smoker. God I miss smoking... "You should have the mole on your neck looked at. It's most likely melanoma." HA! Still got it!

Sixteen minutes later he was walking into the path lab only to find it empty. In the morgue he found an elderly pathologist who informed him that Dr. Hooper had just headed to the locker room. Damn, should have come here first. No matter.

He walked into the locker room and immediately his senses went into overdrive. He couldn't see her, but…peaches and cream body wash, herbal shampoo and accompanying conditioner, the sound of rushing water and Molly Hooper singing 'We Didn't Start The Fire'. Ah-ha! She had a fire victim this evening. The woman had a song for everything. 'Sledge Hammer' for blunt force trauma. 'Doctor Feelgood' when she processed a drug overdose and strangely enough 'Feel Like Makin' Love' for aneurysms, heart attacks and other assorted natural causes. He still hadn't figured that one out. Not for the first time he wondered if she was secretly scripting Autopsy: The Musical in her free time.

The water shut off but the singing continued, almost painfully off key.

"...start the fire. It was always burning since the world's been turning. We didn't start the fire. No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fi… Ahhhhhh!" Molly screamed, nearly dropping the towel that was covering her torso. Sherlock, however, was nearly unaffected (well, at least he pretended that he was) as he stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the lockers. "What the fu… what are you doing in the ladies showers, Sherlock?!"

"And good evening to you too, Dr. Hooper," he said with a smile.

She was clearly livid. "GET OUT!" she screamed, pointing to the door.

"I warned you to expect a conversation."

She looked at him, then around the room as if the lockers and ancient walls would offer some sort of assistance. "You mean when you interrupted my class three weeks ago causing one of the med students to puke all over my floor?"

"What the hell does puke mean? Is it some kind of colloquial expression? And it was eighteen and a half days ago, by the way."

"Grrrrrr," she growled, actually growled, and stomped her bare feet causing water to drip from her wet hair. "I'm not talking to you whilst I'm naked!"

He looked down at her towel clad body then back to her face. "You're wearing a towel, Molly, that's hardly naked," he said, ignoring the stirring he felt in his stomach at the sight of her damp, barely covered form.

She took a deep breath, seated herself, carefully crossing her legs and said, "Okay, Sherlock, what do we need to talk about that's so important that it can't wait until I'm properly dressed?"

As if it were a completely normal setting, Sherlock removed his Belstaff and draped it over the bench. "A little warm in here, isn't it?"

"I was just showering, Sherlock. This is the only shower in the building with independent temperature controls. Don't go spreading that around, I like having it all to myself… usually." She glared at him. "And I like it warm. Which at the moment I am not, so could we speed this up." She motioned with her hand. "I have a comfy pair of trackies and a sweatshirt waiting for me in my locker…"

"Yes, yes… of course. Far be it for me to keep you from one of your famous kitten jumpers." He cleared his throat then graced her with his most accusatory glare and said, "You're not British."

A long beat passed while Molly stared at him as if she were waiting for more. Then finally, "And?"

"And? And I didn't know!"

"So?"

"So?" he repeated.

Molly rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Are you just going to keep repeating everything I say? Why is this 'discussion worthy'?"

"Why!?"

"I guess you are," she mumbled.

"It's discussion worthy, Molly Elaine Hooper from the United States of America, because you've kept this from me for nearly eight years!" he said, raising his voice more than he had intended. "You're supposed to be my... friend, yet you choose to keep secrets from me!"

Molly jumped to her feet, keeping a firm grasp on the towel, and closed the distance between them. "I kept nothing from you, you arse! I assumed that you deduced it like you did everything else about me the day we met. You know, my education, my love life, my measurements, my eating habits, my…"

"WELL I DIDN'T!" he shouted back, immediately regretting losing his temper. He didn't want to yell at Molly- didn't want to upset her. But he was filled was all these emotions and it frankly made him uncomfortable.

Except, he suddenly noticed, she wasn't upset. She was actually smiling. "You missed it," she said gleefully.

"You deliberately kept it from me." And yes, I missed it.

"No, that's not why you're pissed off. Not because I didn't tell you, no one has to tell you anything. You're Sherlock Holmes, you just know. Your pride is hurt because you missed something this big about someone you thought you'd figured out." She laughed. "What mysteries could plain little Molly Hooper possibly hold?" Walking toward him, causing him to back up, she poked him in the chest. "Well guess what, Mr. Know It All, what you don't know about me could just about fill up the Grand Canyon." She kept walking and so did he.

"Molly…"

"Do you know that I've met the Queen?"

"Why would I care…"

"Do you know that my parents didn't speak to me for nearly two years, at one point, because I was having a relationship with one of my dad's closest friends, who was more than twenty years older than me?"

"What?! My God, how old were you?"

"Do you know that I was a competitive dancer until I broke my fibula in a motorbike accident when I was seventeen? Do you even know that I can ride a motorbike?" She kept walking toward him and he kept backing up.

"Well, I knew about the broken fibula. You have an odd gait…"

"Do you know that I started university as a Fine Arts degree but switched to a degree in Medicine when I was studying anatomy for my portrait work?"

"I knew you switched degrees but I didn't know why. Art, Molly, really? That would have been a huge…" Sherlock stopped talking when he felt his back hit the wall.

"The point is, that you don't know me! You only think that you do! You took one look at me and thought you knew my life story. Silly, plain, malleable Molly Hooper. I thought for sure you learned this lesson years ago, but it seems that I was wrong. Yes, I'm from the States. My father worked at the American Embassy. We moved here when I was four and we all kept our American citizenship. You missed it. The question is, Sherlock, why does it matter so damn much?"

Molly turned to walk away but Sherlock was far from finished. He grabbed her wrist, jerking her back to him, their chests colliding in the process. "Why does it matter?" he asked as he gripped her hip with his free hand. "It matters because… because you're you."

The look on her face was pure confusion.

He licked his suddenly dry lips. "You… you see me, Molly. And I thought I saw you too, but I missed something so obvious. If I can't see you then..." Then there's no hope for me, was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't say it.

Her face softened, though she still looked a little confused. "Sherlock, I honestly assumed that you'd deduced it. Mycroft actually knew my father, they'd met once or twice before he died. I didn't purposefully keep this from you." She brushed a curl off of his forehead. "Is that really what all this is about?"

Is it? he wondered. Then he felt IT. It was impossible not to feel IT. As a matter of fact, Molly must have been feeling IT too by that point. I've got an erection. Hmm? Ohhhh… So that's what all this is about!

His mind reeled at the new information: she was his… his Molly. Completely his… in every way, except…

I love you.

I love you.

Memories of those words from his own lips assailed him, playing on repeat over and over in his mind. It was incredibly crystallising. His feelings for this woman were more than platonic. He wanted her and he loved her. His Molly.

Two birds… one stone...

He moved his hands to her lower back and drew her even closer. "Molly, I do believe that there are a few things about me of which you are not aware. For instance: I've never been with an American before, did you know that?"

Her face changed once again. This time confusion mixed with arousal. "Wh-what?"

"Nope. Never." He slowly started bunching up her towel, pulling it higher, looking for flesh. "I've never made love in a ladies showers before either, have you?"

She pushed against his chest, though he noted not very hard. "Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?" Suddenly he found what he'd been looking for, causing her to gasp. "Are you aware that you're touching my bare arse?"

"Very much aware since it's the first time I've ever done so." He emphasised his point by squeezing it lightly.

With a raised eyebrow Molly said, "I'm gonna ask you a question and I want you to think very carefully before answering because you have only one shot to get it right, understand?"

"Be my guest."

"Why are you touching my bare arse?"

"Because I just found out that you're hiding a dancer's body under those atrocious jumpers and lab coats?" he answered, phrasing it as a question.

"I said carefully, not Sherlockily!"

"Surely you feel my erection, Molly."

"It's hard to miss."

He chuckled. "Well then…"

"Sherlock," she warned.

"Because I want you," he answered, then added, "Obviously."

"So, you just want to get rid of this thing?" She pushed against him, forcing an unintentional groan out of the detective. "Let me get dressed and you can have your privacy," she said with an almost evil grin on her face.

Quick reflexes had always been one of Sherlock's best assets, and he'd never appreciated them more than when he switched their positions, pinning Molly to the wall before she even realised what he was doing. "No. I. Want. You," he whispered before pressing his lips to her neck. "I want to know everything about you, Molly."

He felt her shiver as he moved his hands to her bare shoulders. Taking that as an encouraging sign, he lowered his head and kissed her clavicle, nipping gently at her sweet smelling skin. "I see this as a day of discovery. For instance, what will you do when I do this?" He palmed her breast through the towel whilst inserting his thigh between her legs, causing Molly to moan and toss her head back.

"So...ah... this is merely a fact-finding mission?" she asked while he kissed his way up her neck.

With a dark chuckle, he caught her earlobe between his teeth and nibbled. "Nothing so pedestrian as that."

"Then why the sudden change?"

Sherlock sighed. He was going to have to answer questions before getting to the good bits, apparently. "Because I was gone for eighteen days and spent my every waking minute, that wasn't involved with the case, thinking about you and your heritage. Finally I asked myself, why? Why would I do that?" Tucking a piece of wet hair behind her ear he said, "My conclusion was that you are most important to me, Molly Hooper." He was suddenly graced with a blinding smile that made his chest swell. He'd done that; made Molly smile. "Then you were standing there in front of me, looking terribly inviting in naught but a towel, and it all made sense." He smoothed down her damp hair. "It's either that or the American thing. Perhaps your exotic heritage is a massive turn on for me. My kink, as it were."

Molly giggled and threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, causing him to actually shivver. "Either answer is acceptable, oddly enough. Now kiss me, my Beautiful British Beau."

He couldn't stop the roll of his eyes. Molly was the corniest person he'd ever met… and he absolutely loved it!

The moment his lips connected with hers it was like a key slipping into a lock. It was as if the final piece of a puzzle revealed itself and it was blinding. He tried to keep himself in check, this being the first real kiss he'd ever shared with her, but she was having none of that. She pushed his jacket off his shoulders and snaked her hands around his back as she nibbled on his bottom lip. With a swipe of her tongue, Molly made her intentions clear. Sherlock gripped her hips, grinding his erection into her belly and chasing her tongue as it retreated. A growl escaped him as she sucked his tongue into her mouth and pressed her nearly naked body even more tightly to his. The kiss became even more heated, deep and hungry.

Sherlock pulled back, taking a moment to admire Molly's bee-stung lips, then kissed his way across her jaw, searching for... Ah, there it is. A mole just below her jawline. He'd been distracted by that damn mole more often than he cared to admit.

He was sucking on her neck and she was gripping his shoulders tightly, moaning and keening as his mouth moved over her skin. He wanted to take his time, savour the experience, but she was driving him a little mad. He felt her fumbling with his trousers and was distantly aware that he'd been whispering her name along with words of encouragement as he felt her wrap her hand around his erection and tug. That's when he decided that the towel had to go!

He moved away from her just long enough to pull the terry cloth away from her body (more forcefully than was strictly necessary), and toss it to the locker room floor. Taking a moment to appreciate Molly Hooper's body, he felt a smile come to his lips. "Your clothes do not do you justice."

She huffed out a little laugh. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock, not a burlesque dancer."

"After the things I've learned about you lately, I wouldn't be surprised." He picked her up, using the wall as support and Molly, brilliant, beautiful Molly wrapped her legs around his hip, positioning him mere inches from where he wanted to be.

"God Molly, I need to be inside of you." His voice sounded detached and desperate, even to himself. He felt like he was begging, but he didn't want to have to move his hands to touch his own cock, it would mean having to release his grip on her luscious arse.

He was still feasting on her neck and kneading her arse when he felt her hand return to his cock. She gripped more tightly this time and pumped, causing his head to rear back. A grunt escaped from him as Molly ran her thumb over his tip. "Now Molly, for fucks sake…"

He heard her moan and wondered exactly he done to cause such a response, then he didn't care because she was teasing his cock through her folds, greasing him in her excitement. He had a split second of disappointment for not engaging in some form of foreplay, then he was inside her, and decided that there'd be plenty of time for that later.

Entering her for the first time was bliss. Her cunt felt like a wet vice, gripping him instantly and so tightly. He instantly regretted not preparing her as he heard her gasp. It sounded more like pain than pleasure.

"Molly?" he started, looking at her face he tried to decide if they needed to stop. Something that he would do, but with great reluctance.

"Don't fucking stop!" she said through gritted teeth. "You feel amazing!"

He leant forward and kissed her, hoping to distract her from any pain he might be causing and eased himself in a little further.

"Holy shit, Sherlock. No wonder you're so full of yourself all the time," she said with a sigh.

"You're just dying to make a bad joke right now, aren't you?"

Molly snorted and shook her head 'no'. After a few seconds she said, "Harder, please." Then she closed her eyes, her bottom lip caught in her teeth as he started to thrust up into her.

She was right, the time for jokes was long over. She felt fantastic, warm, wet...his.

Her arms were locked around his neck so tightly that he could feel her muscles starting to quivver. "Molly," he said, causing her to open her eyes. "You can let go, I'm not going to drop you. I've got you, I promise." That was a promise he was certain he could keep, though he wasn't sure that he was going to last long enough for her to find release. The way she was looking at him, her breathy little sigh and moans, it was all driving him to the brink, quickly. "Touch yourself for me." He leant forward and whispered, "I want to watch you come."

She grabbed him by the back of the neck, kissing him hard and deep as he felt her hand slide between them. He had to see. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock pulled back and watched as Molly rubbed her clit. It was a bit mesmerizing, if he were honest. His mind started to wander to all the other things he'd never done with this woman that he would now be able to explore. How he'd love to watch her touching herself in his bed, on his kitchen counter… his chair! Oh, that chair will never be the same!

"Fuck, Sherlock, I'm close!" she shouted, pulling him out of his frigging fantasy.

Somehow he had managed not to lose his rhythm whilst he was distracted; if anything he sped up. Reaching up with one hand, he palmed a breast, then pinched the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "God, Molly, the things I'm going to do to you," he growled, his voice rough.

Suddenly her hand was gone, then she was gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave a bruise, even through his dress shirt, grinding herself against him as he pumped up into her. He felt her walls start to spasm, constricting around his cock, milking him, as she shouted his name, the sound echoing off of the the locker room walls. Within seconds he was coming, losing himself inside her.

"Oh, fuck baby! Molly, Molly, Molly!"

He held her there, eyes closed, savouring the moment as long as he could before easing out of her, lowering her to the floor and adjusting his trousers. They were still standing against the wall, her head on his chest, his arms braced against the tiles, as they caught their breath when Sherlock noticed that she was trembling.

"Are you okay?" he asked, as he angled her head up to look at him.

With a deep sigh she said, "Yeah, I'm… I'm cold now." She giggled. "Did you just call me 'baby'?"

"I'm sure I didn't." He grabbed his jacket from the floor and draped it around her shoulders. Bloody, hell I did, didn't I? he thought. The jacket engulfed her, so large that it hung to her mid thigh.

"I think you did."

"Something to do with the acoustics down here." He waved his hand at the surrounding walls. "I could explain it to you but…" he trailed off, not really having any excuse other than losing his mind along with his seed.

Thankfully, Molly let it drop, though he had a sneaking suspicion that he'd not heard the last of it. "I need another shower," she said with an almost shy smile, tucking her head as she started to move out of arms.

She was about two steps away when he caught her hand in his. "Can I join you?"

Her expression showed excited confusion. I thought I'd made myself clear. But of course she still had her doubts. "I told you that you're important to me, Molly Hooper. And I meant it. Shall I spell it out of you?"

"Well you know, Sherlock, the rest of us are terribly slow."

He pulled close, holding her face between his hands. "I want to be with you."

She smiled as she hooked her hands behind his neck. "Is this about your new 'American kink'?" she asked with a smirk.

"No. It's because I'm in love with you," he said before kissing her and escorting her to the shower.

Please tell me what you think! I'd love to hear from you! Thanks so much for reading! ~Lil~