Author's Note: Oh, to be a fly on the wall during that ambulance trip to the hospital in TLD. This is what I like to think happened. Because I'm trash - but this is an accepted fact ;)

Edited, but not betaed, and please bear in mind: all I know about the interior of ambulances is what I've seen in the movies/on television shows.

"For God's sake, I'm high, let it be," the shrivelled bearded figure, slumped on the ambulance's stretcher, snapped. He glanced about the cramped space. Molly's fingers gripped on the seat opposite him as the ambulance steered round a sharp corner.

"Did you remember my coat?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I did. Just like I always do everything you tell me to because I'm bloody Molly Hooper who obviously has nothing better to do with her time—" The ambulance jolted as they went over a speed bump. Molly's hand flung out instinctively, landing on Sherlock's chest. She snatched it away as if touching a flame. "And no, I won't 'let it be'. You're high! Let me examine you, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at her without reaction to her words. "Where's my coat?"

Molly glared and reached under her seat.

"Here!" She threw the Belstaff in his direction. "One of your many copies," she snapped. "Just like you ordered, Mr Holmes."

"Could do without the simpering tone," Sherlock muttered, smirking as if it were all a game. "What exactly will you examine? You can quite clearly see I'm high."

"Yeah, and in a few weeks," Molly said, leaning over him to grab a pair of gloves. Her nose scrunched as she tugged them on. "If you carry on the way you are, you'll be in my bloody morgue."

"What are you doing with those?" Sherlock asked, still with that horrid, irritating smirk. "Going to cup my balls Doctor Hooper and tell me to cough?"

Molly sighed and rolled her eyes, snapping off the gloves.

Slapping him the first time was a mistake, not one she was going to make again, however much he poked and prodded at her. Oh, he loved to poke and prod. He loved to rile people up. Must've been why he liked John Watson so much. Molly had never met another man with such a short fuse.

Chuckling, Sherlock covered himself in the coat, using it like a blanket. Molly's fists clenched. She stared hard at the closed ambulance doors, gripping for balance as it steered around another corner. Cars rushed past as they joined the main road.

"Molly…" Sherlock grunted from underneath his coat.

"What?" she snapped, still not looking at him.

"Why does my coat smell of you?" The coat slipped down the consulting detective's body as he propped himself up on his elbow. A sense of dread filled her ears with a mute pounding. She dropped her gaze. "More importantly—"

A blush, starting from her chest, crept up the path of her neck.

"Why does it smell of sex?" She stared at her knees, clamping them tight together. A wine-filled evening, too many viewings of Jeremy Kyle, loneliness. She'd found his coat, his copy, in the back of her wardrobe, left during the time he was a dead man and a fraud. She'd shrugged it on, trying it for size. Engaging in a tiny little fantasy that had always sat happily in the back of her mind.

Sherlock's hand pressed against her knee. His thumb dragged itself in circles against her leg. Her throat felt dry.

"There's a wine stain too," he said, voice dripping with amusement. His voice lightened as he continued speaking. She pressed her thighs harder together, hating him more and more. "Faded, as if someone tried to wash it. Scrub it off. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

His hand advanced up her thigh. She heard him shift, saw the coat put to one side and saw his toes touch hers.

"No," he said softly, an answer to his question. "You hoped I wouldn't. That I'd never need it."

She said nothing. Her body trembled, fury stirring in with arousal. His voice, even in this filthy, addled state, was velvet.

His hand inched further upwards, thumb tracing the shape of her skirt's top button. She snapped out of her reverie, grabbing his wrist and staring at him fully. His hazy eyes sharpened, but only briefly. She pressed her hand into his shoulder and with all of her strength shoved him back. Before he could stand, she stood and pressed her hands to him again, ignoring the heat of his skin, the sweat on his brow, and pushed him to lie on the stretcher.

"You're high. Whatever I do in my flat," she hissed, leaning down until they were nose-to-nose, "is none of your business, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckled again. "Oh, I know sexual frustration when I see it, Molly Hooper." His hand wound around her thigh, tugging her closer to the stretcher. His lips brushed over hers, his breath reeking of coffee and cigarettes and traces of whisky.

"Drugs with alcohol," she said, not moving from the position he held her in. "I'm not surprised."

"Reckless as well as self-destructive." His blue eyes shone cruelly. "Just your kind of cocktail, Molly."

She sunk her nails into his chest. He hissed. "Don't assume."

"I never assume. I predict." The tight grip remaining on her thigh, his other hand reached over. With a flick of his thumb, a push of his forefinger, he snapped open her skirt button. His eyes flickered towards the front of the ambulance.

Molly undoing his zip gained his attention. She slipped a hand underneath his boxers. He hissed as she drew her hand along his already half-hard cock, dipping down to cup his balls, gently massaging them. His eyes fell on her, heat and determination in one look. Her hand on his chest scrunched, catching the material of his shirt.

"Cough, Sherlock," she said. She gave a harshly sweet smile as her hand returned to his shaft, moving up and down his length. "You said you wanted to be reminded, didn't you?"

He returned with a hand at her neck and a joining of their mouths. His beard scratched, and he kissed her hard, a desperation not to be found in the drug-induced haze. As if he were trying to communicate something to her not yet understood by anyone, least of all himself. She let go of his cock, running her hand up his chest, sinking her fingers hard into his curls. Payback for all the poking, the teasing, the fact that he still had this hold over her, enough of a hold that she thought nothing of getting herself off on her bed, legs spread wide and panting with his coat, smelling of him, surrounding her and convincing her that maybe, perhaps one day, she'd allow the real thing.

The fact that he was going to be dead if he didn't let up and didn't care.

His death wish had seemed intoxicating once. The man who danced with death.

Kissing him in the cramped space of the ambulance, she knew he'd found a partner.

"Get rid of those tights," he gasped against her mouth, his voice descending into a growl, "and get on me."

It was an order she scrambled to obey. Hiking up her skirt, she pushed her panties to the side as he shoved down his boxers, letting his erection spring free. Her body ached for him, a gasp coming as he slid his fingers into her cunt. He grinned nastily as he crooked, beckoning her to gasp again and whisper a curse of his name.

"You're a prick."

"And you taste like heaven," Sherlock replied, biting on the last word, withdrawing his fingers from her and languidly sucking, tasting every inch of her. Molly stifled a moan, glaring down at him. Without preamble, she positioned his cock at her entrance and sank down onto him. He groaned and sputtered, throwing back his head, arching his hips. It was her turn to smirk.

"You feel like heaven," she whispered, rotating her hips, stirring him inside her. She began to rock against him, riding him.

"Yes," the word came from him in a sigh. "Take me, Molly. Ride me."

She increased their rhythm, as his hands held her hips, pushing her further down onto him. "Harder," he growled. "C'mon, Molly. Show me how you really feel."

She glowered at his words and leaned over him, keeping her hands beside either side of his head. At the new angle, he quieted, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Savouring it, like a prisoner and his last meal. Her body shook, a shiver thundering up her spine as his fingers found her clit, filling her up to the brim with him. Tom never made her feel this way. Jim, when he was Jim from IT, managed a fumbling fuck before he fell asleep. (She thought back to that night so many times, and wept when she remembered how clumsily he had touched her, how erratic his rhythm had been, how bad he'd purposely made it, another notch in his scheme.)

Sherlock's hand cupped her face. Her eyes flew open. Tenderness crossed into the haze.

"Not your fault," he whispered. He reached up, lips coming to brush her forehead, her temple. Turning her head, she caught his mouth, kissing him until she could taste smoke on his tongue. He nibbled on her bottom lip, his fingers sinking into her hair. His other hand worked at her blouse as they continued to rock together, working with the rhythm of the ambulance. His hand dipped underneath her bra, releasing her breasts and wrenching his mouth from hers.

"Sit up," he commanded. Molly's hands flew to his hair, their pace increasing as he bit the underside of her breast, licking a path up to her nipple and circling his tongue expertly, kissing the hardened nub. As she gasped and cursed, he did the same to the other, massaging the one he would've otherwise neglected.

She was close now, and she sensed that he was close too. She, Molly Hooper, was going to make him, Sherlock Holmes, come. A new determination, a white-hot fire, filled her. She would make him come, and obliterate the memory. Two birds, one stone.

She pushed him down onto the stretcher, lifting her hips and impaling herself on his cock once more. One final time. He roared with pleasure and arched his hips, pumping into her, holding her steady by her hips as she rocked and drove them both to the finishing point of oblivion.

Not your fault, he'd whispered. With a panting cry, she came, trembling around his cock and aching to forget a tenderness that, in its moment, had been more terrifying than any killer. Not your fault.