A/N: Yeah, I was bit by another plot bunny, driven by the extreme dearth of Sherlock-as-vampire Sherlolly romances. So that's what this is. Enjoy!

It is close to midnight when he arrives, strolling through the front door as if he owns the place. Just as he always does. Even though she is certain she locked the damned door, even engaged the deadbolt, there he is, door wide open behind him so she can clearly see that he has chosen not to transfer his essence into a semblance of night fog and simply seep in through the cracks the way he sometimes does.

No, he wants her to see him in his human form, a form she's admired and craved for so long. It's his way of letting her know that tonight is the night she's waited for, so patient and forgiving of his teasing and games that mask a hesitation only she would be able to spot – and only because, in spite of what he is, what he has become, she knows him better than anyone. Even John Watson, his best friend and blogger, knows less about Sherlock Holmes than does Molly Hooper at this point in time.

Her heart is beating a thunderous tattoo in her chest, so loud that she is certain he would hear it even if his senses weren't particularly attuned to the movement of blood through the human body now.

She should have been in bed hours gone by, but something about the look he gave her earlier, when he was finishing up an experiment in the St. Bart's path lab, warned her to stay awake and wait for him.

It isn't the first time he's come to her flat in the middle of the night; he did it even before he was Turned, showing up at odd hours to read or sulk or use her laptop or borrow her mobile or simply join her on the sofa to watch crap telly and sometimes even talk.

It is, however, the first night he's done so in the past six months with a particular purpose in mind. One that sends shivers of desire and fear up and down her spine, that sets her hands to shaking and widens her eyes in the dim lighting of her sitting room.

The fear is not of him, of what he has become, but of rejection. What if she is wrong, what if he is only here because of a case or to actually watch telly…

As he shuts the door behind him, she sees the pleased smirk on his face and her fear drains away. "You appear to be waiting up for something, Molly."

She smiles at him, helpless not to, hands no longer shaking as she recognizes the uncertainty beneath the thin veneer of self-satisfied confidence. "Not something, Sherlock," she corrects him, watching as he sheds his Belstaff, hanging it neatly on the hook next to her own coat. "Someone. You," she adds, as if he requires clarification. Which he most certainly does not, his annoyed twitch tells her.

She refuses to let it put her off. She has become much more accustomed to his moods, ever since that night two years earlier when he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's to save the lives of three other people. She is the only one who knew the truth – well, his brother worked it out, of course, although he wasn't supposed to, but Mycroft Holmes is always sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted – until his dramatic return six months earlier, when he revealed his vindicated self to the world at large.

John Watson is the happiest to have him back among the living, followed closely by Martha Hudson and Greg Lestrade. If only, Molly muses to herself as he drifts closer to the sofa, still smiling at her although it has softened from the smirk into something showing genuine affection, if only they knew the truth, the deeper truth that Molly is the sole keeper of once again…how would they react, she wonders, if they knew that Sherlock's triumph was so swiftly followed by a stunning defeat none of them could have seen coming?

He certainly hadn't, and Molly shudders when she recalls that night, the sight of Sherlock so still and silent, pale and bloody, draped across her sofa like a sacrificial offering…it was even worse, in a way, than seeing him on her autopsy table at Bart's. At least then she knew he wasn't actually dying but this time…

She still curses Moriarty's memory, for that night and for everything else he has inflicted on Sherlock. For of course he is the one who nearly killed Sherlock for a second time, the one who then revealed himself to not only be not dead, but actually a member of an Undead community that ghosted through the world like the mist they could so easily take the shape of. The fact that "James Moriarty" was as much an alias as "Richard Brooke" had been a hideous discovery to make.

The fact that "James Moriarty" was actually more than a criminal mastermind, that he was a vampire – Molly still has trouble processing that bit. Moriarty is dead for real now, not the fake death he arranged for Sherlock to witness, but truly turned to ash with a stake through his heart at Molly's own hands.

"You're thinking about him. Why? He's dead now." Sherlock's voice is so close to her ear, a deep, reverberant hum, that she jumps and turns to face him with an annoyed glare. She hates it when he does that, just vanishes from one part of the room and appears in another, moving so quickly human senses can't detect it. He knows she hates it and does it anyway. The git.

"Why do you think?" she responds, answering his question with a question of her own. So much has changed about the world as she knows it, that it couldn't help but change her as well. Saving Sherlock not once, not twice but three times has made her so much less timid around him, has utterly banished her stutter, that at times she feels as if the old Molly Hooper is as dead as Moriarty. But the heart inside her still beats for only one man, the man now sitting next to her on the sofa, one arm extended along the back and the other reaching toward her, his hand clasping hers gently.

She still loves Sherlock Holmes, has never stopped no matter what changes he has gone through. And that love is what has allowed her to be so patient with him these past six months.

Sherlock has been struggling with his new existence. He is still himself, mind like a razor's edge, but to acknowledge the fact that the supernatural world is not, as he once scoffed, so much hogwash, has been difficult to process. During his first weeks after being Turned he was harsh and cruel, lapsing into behaviors Molly hadn't witnessed since before he jumped, treating her even worse than he had then. Almost seeming to hate her for having kept him alive, for not allowing him bleed to death from the pair of matched puncture wounds in his throat when she found him lying across her sofa. Where he'd been placed by his attacker. He'd lost so much blood, Molly had been so desperate to save him…

…when Moriarty had strolled out of her bedroom and into the sitting room, casually plucking her mobile from her hand as she was about to call for the EMTs. "No, dear, that's not how to help," he'd admonished her while she stared at him, stunned, shocked to see him still alive when Sherlock had told her he'd literally blown his brains out on the roof of St. Bart's. "Yes, yes, I'm alive, never was dead – well, not for long, anyway. Can't kill one of my kind with a bullet, don't you know. No matter what kind of damage is done, it all heals right back up." He had inclined his head toward her as if inviting her to examine his scalp. "Not even a scar."

His glance had returned to Sherlock, and a grin had stretched his mouth. Molly had gasped, oh how she had gasped and stumbled back and fallen onto her chair when the backs of her legs had hit it. Moriarty wasn't even trying to hide his fangs at that point; how had she ever missed them before? Oh, she knew so much now, how vampires could go about in daylight – but couldn't alter their forms they way they could at night – and how their fangs could retract until they appeared to simply be slightly elongated canines…there was a great deal more Molly had learned since that night, but at the time all she could do was stare and wonder and tremble at the sight.

"It wasn't like seeing a man with fake fangs," she'd told Sherlock later, trying to describe how visceral her reaction to seeing Moriarty as his true self had been. "It wasn't like watching a cinema vampire, where you feel that fake thrill. It was different. I could tell right away…I was terrified, and not just because he was alive and in my flat. It's like something deep inside my psyche recognized him for what he was."

She is not sure even now if Sherlock believes her, or understands what she was trying to tell him, how she simply knew it was real and not some sort of illusion or disguise.

She will never regret the choice Moriarty gave her on that terrible night, although for a while she thought Sherlock would never forgive her.

"He will die," Moriarty had told her as she stared up at him. "He will die from blood loss long before this – " he had tossed her mobile up into the air and caught it in his hand without ever taking his eyes from hers " – could be of any use. But if you want to save him…"

He'd gone silent and Molly had finally found her voice. "How?" she'd demanded. "Please, Jim, tell me how I can save him."

"Oh, the usual way the movies show it, they got that much right, anyway," had been his amused reply, that unnatural grin splitting his lips while never reaching his dark, dark eyes. "I've already given him a bit of my blood to start the process; now all he needs is some human blood to drink, to recharge the system, as it were. Fresh human blood from a fresh, living human body."

Dear. God. She'd closed her eyes briefly as panic tried to sweep her into its clammy embrace. Moriarty was telling her the only way to save Sherlock was to allow him to drink her blood. To sacrifice herself for him.

She knew then, just as she knows now, she had only one choice. Sherlock was willing to sacrifice himself to save his friends, even if it was a cheat in the end, but Molly knows that if no other way had presented itself, he would have jumped anyway, without hesitation.

She made such a leap of faith herself that night. She remembers how numb she felt as she rose to her feet and stumbled over to the sofa, stained with blood, so much blood, and saw the smears of blood on Sherlock's lips that she'd missed before in her shock and fear.

She remembers Moriarty suddenly appearing at her side, moving swiftly and silently before she was even aware of movement, grabbing her arm and tugging up her jumper's sleeve and sniffing delicately at her wrist before leaning down and biting her.

She still doesn't know why she didn't scream and pull away; vampires have none of the mental powers Stoker and countless other writers have posited. Well, she does know; screaming would bring help, but only for her. Sherlock would still die and Moriarty would be long gone before help arrived. So she simply stood there and allowed him to slash open a vein in her wrist, then force her to her knees as he pressed her bleeding wrist to Sherlock's slack mouth, watching with an avid, nearly gleeful expression on his face as the blood dripped and pooled and spilled over the other man's lips.

Molly had been terrified that it wouldn't work, that it was too late, then gasped as she felt Sherlock's lips moving against her skin. She'd gasped again and might have fallen if she wasn't still being held in place by Moriarty's iron grip – one hand still on her wrist, the other now firmly grasping her by the head – when she felt a pair of tiny pricks piercing her skin. Pricks from the two bloody fangs that Sherlock's canines had transformed into.

"I woke up with the taste of your blood in my mouth," Sherlock murmurs as she remains lost in her memories of that fateful night. "It was the most delicious, intoxicating thing I had ever tasted in my life, and I remember thinking that all I wanted was more."

Molly nods; she remembers watching as his eyes snapped open, as he pulled his head back from her wrist and stared at her with nothing human – nothing Sherlock – in his eyes. The irises and sclera had flooded with red, the tell-tale sign of a vampire in a feeding frenzy, and he had shoved Moriarty's hands away from her without any sign of recognition. The other man had laughed and stepped away and allowed Sherlock to lunge at Molly like a shark, pressing her down on the floor and sinking his fangs deep into her carotid artery, instinctively abandoning her wrist for her neck.

"I thought I was going to die," Molly says, her voice soft but not at all timid or shy. She is telling Sherlock nothing he does not already know, but since the past defines the future, the words are necessary if they are to finally put it to rest. "I thought I was going to die before you ever touched me, but when you went for my throat, I was sure of it. But I was okay with that, because it meant you would be alive."

"And I rewarded you by treating you like utter shit for the next three weeks," Sherlock replies, his voice wry. "Molly, how do you put up with me? Honestly, I cannot believe you still love me after all I've put you through."

She rests her forehead on his, lightly stroking the fingers of one hand along the back of his neck. "Oh, Sherlock," she murmurs as she gently rubs her nose against his. "You don't give yourself nearly enough credit. Your cheekbones alone are worth every sacrifice I've ever made for you."

He does not appreciate her attempt at humor, but then, he never does and she has long since given up worrying about it. He pulls back, but she keeps her hand pressed to the back of his neck. He could break that light grip even when he was still fully human, but the fact that he doesn't is telling. He isn't really searching for an excuse to leave, the way he has so many times in the recent past.

She is heartened by this small gesture on his part. She knows she hadn't misread that earlier look he'd given her in the lab. He truly has come to terms with his new existence, enough to stop feeling as if he will be contaminating Molly by allowing himself to be with her, to share his body with her once again.

She is shamelessly aroused by the idea of having sex with Sherlock in his new form, of the thought of him sinking his fangs into her throat and drinking her blood while his cock pulses in and out of her body.

Sherlock clearly reads her flood of desire in her eyes, hears the increase in her heartbeat, possibly even smells the hormonal changes, the pheromones she is giving off. Or perhaps it is simply the scent of her arousal; whatever the reason, he sucks in a breath before lunging forward and drawing her into a deep, satisfying kiss.

Molly groans and clutches him to her, pressing her torso against his and practically climbing into his lap. It has been so long since he gave her more than the briefest, tentative kiss that this is like water to someone dying of thirst.

Their relationship has been physical in the past; when he jumped and she saved him and brought him to her flat to hide during his recovery from his injuries, they spent more than one night together. But since the night Moriarty Turned him, he has buried that part of himself, too focused on the struggle to learn how to adapt to his new form to allow himself such a distraction.

She is very glad that sex is still possible, which was something she secretly despaired over in the first weeks after Sherlock's second return to life. Vampires, they have both learned, are not actually walking corpses. They still have heartbeats and pulses and even breathe, although at a much, much slower rate than a human. Blood still flows through their veins and arteries, although it is thicker and a deeper red – almost black – and has an entirely different chemistry to a human's blood.

Male vampires can have erections, as Sherlock discovered to his embarrassment one night experimenting with vampire blood in the path lab, when Molly bent over in front of him to pick up a dropped petri dish and unthinkingly brushed her bum against his crotch. They still produce semen, although the spermatozoa appear to be inert if not actually dead. Molly has spent more than a few hours imagining how Sherlock determined that particular fact. She is not put out that he didn't solicit her assistance in researching the matter; she knows how he has struggled and that the distance he has erected between them is only temporary.

She is patient, always has been, but now that Sherlock is in her flat, kissing her breathless, she knows that her patience has finally come to an end. If he pulls away, if his self-doubts and fears and the remnants of loathing he has for his new form get in the way again, she will personally stake him.

Well. Perhaps nothing so drastic, but she will certainly give him more than a piece of her mind.

Fortunately for Sherlock, she is not forced into such drastic measures. He deepens the kiss of his own accord, flicking his tongue across her lips, teasing her into opening her mouth while simultaneously hauling her tighter against his lap, so close she can clearly feel his hard length pressing into her thigh.

His body temperature is cooler now, but not the icy cold of a corpse. It is noticeable, but only to the touch or when in close proximity to the uncovered portions of his body, which Sherlock avoided long before he was Turned. She knows John will have to be told one day, that Sherlock is avoiding doing so, but one battle at a time. And Molly is just selfish enough to want this one to be the one he loses first, the one she wins for herself.

Besides, John is busy with his wedding plans; it would be unfair to drop such important news on him while he and his fiance, Mary, are so close to their wedding date.

She puts John Watson out of her mind, focusing exclusively on the man she is kissing. She knows that Sherlock's question from earlier, the one she answered with a (forgiving herself the pun) cheeky comment, still lies between them. He is not one to let things go, and will return to the question of how she can love him still, but she intends to put him off for a long time – hours, even – before giving him the honest answer, the one she doubts he will be willing to believe.

He thinks she loves him in spite of what he sees as his many shortcomings, when the opposite is true. She was attracted to him from the very start not only because he was beautiful and frighteningly intelligent and piercingly, often even painfully honest, but because she'd never met another person who saw the world the way he did. She saw the way his digs at her – so much more personally wounding than the things he said to anyone else (you've gained three pounds since I last saw you; Miss Hooper has love on her mind) – were meant to push her away, because deep down he never believed himself worthy of love.

She is still working to prove that he is wrong about this one thing, two years after he told her she counted and that he'd always trusted her. Being Turned has been a setback, but not as insurmountable as he still seems to believe. Even if sex were, indeed, off the table, she would still be with him, still love him for the sum total of who he is, not just what he is.

Those are her last clear, determined thoughts before Sherlock's hands begin to slide their way across her back and shoulders, dipping down to glide across the bare flesh revealed between her red tank top and the matching boy shorts she has donned for sleeping in even though it is a cool autumn night. She lifts herself up and straddles his body, eliciting a grunt of approval from his mouth as she seeks out his lips for another smoldering kiss, her arms laced behind his head, fingers running with wanton abandon through his dark locks.

She grinds herself against him lightly, pulling a moan from his throat, feeling it vibrate along her lips and tongue where they are touching him, then disentangles her hands from his hair and begins to unbutton his shirt.

Being a vampire hasn't changed his fashion sense one bit, although she did tease him about it once he was finally comfortable enough to be teased about anything. He still wears the Belstaff even when it's a bit warm for a coat like that – but then, he did that before so even John and Mrs. Hudson haven't commented on it. He is wearing one of his silky dress shirts tonight – a deep royal blue one that does wonderful things to his eyes. His dress trousers are black, and he is not – for once! – wearing a suit jacket. Good. It's so much easier when there are fewer clothes to worry about.

He seems to agree, as he is reaching to tug her tank top up over her head as soon as she has relieved him of his own shirt. She keeps herself busy unbuttoning and lowering the zip to his trousers, but is distracted by his mouth on her right breast. She gasps at the coolness of his lips against such an overheated portion of her body and wonders deliriously how his tongue will feel against her sex. She'd had to teach him the mechanics of oral sex but he had proven to be an apt and eager pupil, and she freely admits it is one of the things she has missed most about sharing his bed.

Of course, what he is doing now – sliding his lips across her skin, alternately sucking and licking her nipples into full hardness – is nothing to sneeze at, as her American cousin always says. She digs her fingers into his scalp and drops her head back on her shoulders, arching her back in order to give him better access. He murmurs his approval against her skin and she slides her hips backwards and forwards, grinding very lightly against his thickening cock.

That does it; with a growl he pulls his head away from her chest, grabs her around the waist and presses her down onto the sofa cushions, covering her body with his own. Before she knows it the rest of their clothing is on the floor and Sherlock's fingers are sliding into her welcoming wetness. She shudders at the contrast between his coolness and her own heat, but the differences in temperature quickly fade.

His face is buried in her neck, but he is not biting her, not yet, just licking and sucking and generally driving her mad with desire. "God, Sherlock," she breathes, her hands reaching up to dig into his shoulders, one leg hooking itself around his hip as she grinds against his fingers. "God, Sherlock, please, yes..."

She is panting and gasping, sweating and trembling and he is...doing none of those things, actually. But she knows it is because of his altered physiology and has nothing to do with how aroused he is becoming; that shows in the predatory gleam in his eyes, the way his fangs have elongated into feeding mode even though she knows he can't possibly need blood so soon after she'd watched him suck down three entire bags of A positive in her office earlier. And his cock, so thick and hard and lovely, pulsing coolly against her thigh, must feel positively feverish to him.

As her thoughts go, so goes her body. Her hand reaches down and grasps him, eliciting a pleased gasp from his lips, causing his own fingers to work deeper inside her until she feels herself start to spiral out of control, her orgasm so near she can almost taste it...

And then he does the unthinkable. He pulls away, lifts his body from hers and grins down at her smugly. She gasps and glares up at him, reaching once more for his cock but he won't allow her to touch him, grabs her hands and holds them down on either side of her head. She twists and bucks in his hold, calling him every name she can think of but all he does is continue to hold her and smirk down at her until she finally collapses back against the sofa, panting and glaring and wondering what the hell he thinks he's doing.

Before she can draw the breath to demand an answer to that very question he is on her again, thrusting one leg between hers, nipping at her neck but not hard enough to draw blood, lowering his chest against hers but careful not to put his full weight on her body.

He doesn't let go of her hands, and she nearly growls in frustration as he begins sliding his body along hers, teasing her with his cock until she finally manages to speak again. "Sherlock, if you don't – if you don't fuck me right now, I swear I'll never speak to you again!"

He laughs, resting his forehead against her shoulder, body shaking with mirth that she does NOT appreciate at this point in time, thank you very bloody much. "Oh, Molly," he finally says, nuzzling her neck and nudging her legs further apart. "We both know you don't mean that. However, in the spirit of compromise..." He releases her wrists and lifts himself up again, then folds himself practically in half in order to rest his head between her legs.

The first flick of his tongue is all that it takes before she is bucking against his mouth and calling his name and digging her fingers into his scalp, tugging on his hair as she comes. She is almost embarrassed at how quickly it happens, but Sherlock's reaction wipes any such emotions away. He raises his head and stares at her, his eyes darkened with lust, fangs fully protruding as he literally growls her name and once again covers her with his body.

This time, however, there is no teasing, no attempts at self-control; he takes himself in hand and presses his tip into her entrance and then suddenly he is inside her, deep inside her and it is so good, she's missed this so much and even though she is still coming down from her orgasmic high she is ready, willing and more than able to climb right back up that particular mountain.

And so is Sherlock. His hands move once again to pin hers by her head, frustrating her attempts to grasp his shoulders. His mouth moves against her skin but this time she feels his fangs grazing her throat and nearly comes just from the sensation alone, as he continues to thrust against her and into her. She meets his frantic movements with her own, raising and lowering her hips and groin in tandem with his, the rhythm growing and building until she finds herself once again riding that incredible edge, feeling her body ready itself to plunge over the side...

...and then Sherlock's fangs sink into her throat and Molly nearly passes out from the sheer intensity of it all. His lips are moving against her throat as he drinks in her blood, his body is pressed to hers, his cock is buried deep inside her as he comes, his fingers are entwined with hers and she has never, ever, felt anything like it in her life.

She doesn't realize she has passed out until she hears Sherlock frantically calling her name. "Molly! Molly, can you hear me? Are you all right?"

She stretches and nods, eyes still shut as she slowly comes back to herself. "Relax, Sherlock, this can happen when the physical experience is so overwhelming...the body just shuts down temporarily. Nothing to worry about." She cracks open an eye and smiles at him. "Just take it as a compliment, all right? Maybe one day I'll fuck you unconscious instead."

That startles a laugh out of him, but his hands are still on her body, lightly stroking her sides and stomach as if he needs to reassure himself that he hasn't harmed her. There are traces of her blood on his lips and she finds it an incredibly erotic sight – and wastes no time in telling him so.

He seems a bit taken aback by her reaction, but eventually she coaxes him into settling down in her bed, after some mutual cleanup. They nestle together, spooning with her back pressed comfortably against his front, his arms holding her close, his chin resting on her shoulder, and she is more relaxed than she has been for a long time.

She wishes the same were true for Sherlock, but apparently her little spin into unconsciousness is still bothering him. She can feel the lingering tension in his body and sighs quietly to herself. "Sherlock, I never thought I'd be the one saying this, but you do realize you're thinking too hard for me to fall asleep, right?"

"Molly, you passed out during sex," he replies tersely. "Please tell me why that isn't bothering you more than it is."

She turns in his arms and gazes up at him. "Because that was the best sex I've ever had," she answers him frankly. He quirks an eyebrow up in surprise, but she continues before he can say whatever it is he is clearly gearing himself up to say. "And if you even think about threatening not to bite me the next time, I swear I will grab a stake and plunge it right into your heart, you hear me?"

Her mock indignation works to ease some of the tension, and his lips curl into a smile before he leans down and presses a kiss to her lips. "In that case, I withdraw any such threats before they are made. I must say," he adds, his tone musing, his eyes gone distant, "that drinking your blood during sex certainly added a certain...frisson to the experience."

Molly raises both eyebrows at his choice of words. "Better watch it, Sherlock, your French is showing."

His eyes darken as his pupils expand, and she feels her mouth go dry as he lowers her abruptly to the mattress. He whispers into her ear as his hands drift down to her breasts, teasing her nipples into taut nubs and pulling a groan of desire from her throat. He is speaking French so she only understands about every fourth word, but those words are filthy, erotic, and soon she is wet and ready for him to put his mouth to better use.

This time when his tongue flicks across her clit she manages to hold onto her self-control although it is a close thing. When his long, clever fingers slide into her, however, all bets are off. She squeals and bucks against his face, but he raises his other hand and presses it against her abdomen. Once again the relative temperature differences between them make themselves known but not in a bad way. She loves the coolness of his touch, how it only serves to emphasize her own growing heat, and wonders how her skin feels to him. Wondering turns to questioning, and she gasps out her inquiry only to lose her voice instants later when Sherlock swirls his tongue in slow circles against her clit, sending her once more over the edge.

When she is able to think again, he is lying next to her, head propped up on one hand and that insufferably smug grin that she loves and hates decorating his lips. "To answer your question, Molly, the difference in our temperatures does indeed add to my pleasure, a most unexpected bonus of my new state." His grin deepens as he adds in his most provoking tone: "Shall we see what it takes to send you into unconsciousness again?"

Although part of her longs to wipe that smug grin from his face, the rest of her is rejoicing at the fact that he is no longer brooding about it; has he actually listened to her for once, believed her when she told him it was the best sex she'd ever had and that he should take her reaction as a compliment?

Apparently so, since his next act is to lower his head and take her mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss that steals her breath so completely she is gasping and shaking when he finally releases her mouth. Her hands are resting on his shoulders and he is easing his way between her legs for the second time that night and she is certainly in no fit state to fight him, even if she were so inclined.

Which, for the record, she most definitely is not. If anything she spreads them wider, reaching down to grasp his erection and glide her hands up and down his length, raising a strangled moan from his throat. "We should really conduct some empirical experiments to confirm that conclusion, wouldn't you say?"

Then she pushes him off her body, which he allows, just as he allows her to flip him onto his back so she can straddle him, one hand still stroking his shaft, feeling it warm up beneath her fingers, thicken and lengthen until she knows he is ready for her. She raises herself onto her knees and eases her way down onto him while he lays passively beneath her, fingers twitching but not leaving his sides as he watches her settle onto him.

When he is fully seated inside she begins to move, hips raising and lowering, her hands resting on his chest. She can feel the slow beat of his heart, slightly faster now in his arousal but still nowhere near as fast as a human heartbeat. She finds nothing about his new state off-putting and hopes this night together helps drive that point home.

She giggles to herself at the unintended double entendre, which leads her mind back to the filthy stream of French words Sherlock whispered in her ear and suddenly she is moving faster, pounding herself up and down on his shaft, fingers digging into the smooth planes of his chest as he finally starts moving with her. He brings his hands up to settle on her hips and she is delirious with the feel of him, leaning forward so he can nip and suck at her breasts. The change in angle is enough to bring her to her third orgasm of the night, or is it her fourth? She cannot remember and right now doesn't care, not one damn bit. All that matters is that she and Sherlock have connected on this physical level once again, that their emotional connection is still strong as ever in spite of the many trials they've gone through in the past two years.

As she clenches around him, she feels his orgasm building, feels it when he finally lets go, throwing his head back, eyes shut tight, fingers digging into her hips but immediately releasing so he doesn't bruise her. She appreciates the control he has over his increased strength and wonders what it would be like if they were on an equal physical playing field.

She squelches that thought as soon as it drifts across her mind; she and Sherlock have never discussed the possibility of her being Turned, and she suspects it will be a long time before the subject is broached, if ever.

Another item to be pushed to the future, which is fast filling up with Things Sherlock Needs To Address.

But not tonight. Tonight has been glorious and she wants nothing more than to simply bask in the afterglow for a while before possibly initiating another round of sex. Sherlock's stamina has always been phenomenal, and it stands to reason that being a vampire is more likely to increase it rather than reduce it.

Either way, Molly Hooper looks forward to finding out.