'S' Words

Rating: Mature

Disclaimer: I own precious little, while the list of things I don't own is legion. Included in the latter are Sherlock and its characters. No infringement intended. Story title is once again in homage to SNL's Celebrity Jeopardy skits.

Warning: A whole lot of carnal knowledging happens up in here. In other words, if you do not care to read vivid descriptions of sex, then this miiiight not be the story for you.

Sex

Seduction

Sensitivity

Sentiment

Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes rarely had an occasion where he felt awkward. He liked to think he was above such feelings of inadequacy. Typically, he could fend off anything of the sort by reminding himself that he held the superior intellect in any given room. Any awkwardness was absolutely unfounded, because he was right and his opponent wrong.

These small reminders usually worked rather well, and Sherlock was able to exit as he entered: confident, with his head held high.

This was not one of those times.

He'd been staring at a nondescript wooden door for close to five minutes, now. He'd taken a couple of those minutes to inspect the grain of the wood (knotty pine—in poor health at time of logging), another few to study the smudges on the brass number four hanging just below eye-level (someone had started to polish it, but had apparently cut himself on a sharp corner of the metal). He was now having a glaring match with the door's peephole.

He would swear to anyone that it was mocking him.

Sherlock once would have balked at anthropomorphizing a couple of pieces of glass and brass drilled into a slab of wood. But now he knew better. That peephole was, at least temporarily, his fate. His judge, jury, and executioner, so to speak.

Up to that point, he had never given much thought to the concept of bravery. He'd always thought the concept was merely dressed-up risk analysis. And, sure, he set a lot of store by such assessments. Actions required calculations. If the benefits proved to outweigh the risks, then he would carry those actions to fruition.

If that made him "brave", then so be it.

But when all was said and done, he didn't know if he was brave enough to knock on that door, even though the benefits had to outweigh the risks.

And that was just stupid. He had absolutely nothing to fear or feel awkward about in the flat beyond. If he chose to go through its door, he wouldn't be forfeiting anything.

Well, anything besides his decision to avoid certain vulnerabilities. Many years ago, he'd made the decision to avoid any intimacy of a romantic or sexual nature. Other than a brief interlude with Irene Adler in Pakistan, he had held firm on that decision. So far, it had worked to his favor.

His brain was one that eschewed the slightest muddling. And lust, sex, passion, and, well, love were all more than a little muddlesome.

Yet here he was.

He'd been back from the "dead" for—a brief glance at his watch—a little over thirty-six hours now. If only all of life's milestone's could be clocked so handily. Beyond doctors noting your times of birth and death, the moments in between were typically a bit less metered.

Lucky him, he now had two times of birth bracketing one time of death. There was a nice symmetry to it. And this renaissance of his meant he had to face the decisions he'd made during his year-and-a-half-long absence.

What he'd had with Irene had felt different. He'd enjoyed it. He didn't regret it. It had been passionate, however brief it was. But it wasn't something he thought he'd ever repeat with her. He didn't feel at loose ends when they went their separate ways.

So he was more than a little discombobulated that he did not have that same sense of closure in this particular situation. Confused, because he hadn't even had a physical encounter with the particular woman inhabiting the flat before him.

No, all he had was one night's impulsive decision to send a text message. Then a second message, and then several more after that. Then, somehow, within a half hour of his sending that first message, Sherlock had found himself lying naked on the soggy, dirt floor of an abandoned barn, his spent cock softening in his hand as he gazed blearily at pixelated words on his mobile's screen.

Of course, there was more context than just that. Several years' worth. That didn't make the events of that night three months ago any less astounding. But it might explain why, where he and Irene said an easy goodbye, he was nowhere near ready to say farewell to Molly Hooper.

He'd only just decided a half hour ago to come here. As he hailed a taxi, he told himself he was making this trek for the sole purpose of gaining that closure. No other reason.

It'd be nice to see Molly again, of course. She was friend whose importance had only been driven home very recently, considering the seven years that they'd known each other.

But he wasn't about to start spouting sonnets or otherwise engage in the sentimental drivel of courting rituals. No, he was going to greet Molly, inquire about her health, then see if she'd be amenable to having a quick session of sex so that he could stop thinking about her.

He didn't see how this could go wrong.

With that thought, Sherlock lost patience with his own uncertainty. He reached forward and quickly rapped on the door.

For a brief, childish moment, he did think about covering the peephole with his thumb, though.

The sounds of slippered feet shuffling on the other side of the door quashed that idea, however. But it turned out he needn't have worried, as she opened the door without pausing to verify the identity of her late-night visitor.

Molly Hooper looked much the same as she had the last time he'd seen her. Her face was deceptively youthful, with smooth, pale skin unblemished by spots or wrinkles. She wore comfortable clothes that spoke of a night in reading after a long day at work.

The only thing slightly out of the norm, in fact, was that her hair not in its customary ponytail. He felt a brief jerk in the pit of his belly at this observation. The only time he'd actually seen it down and loose was one he'd rather not think about.

But he'd seen it unfettered plenty of times in his imagination in the last three months.

Sometimes, when he pictured its brown waves, it was innocent enough. He'd often wondered about its texture and scent.

But with alarming frequency, he imagined it spilling over the edge of a bed as she threw her head back to let loose a moan. He'd pictured her alone, reading the words he'd typed to her on his mobile that night; the muscles of her thighs clenching as she played herself like an instrument. He'd felt a surge of… something (pride?) at the thought of Molly imagining they were his fingers working furiously in the slick warmth between her thighs.

Alarming frequency.

And then sometimes, he didn't imagine her as she was that night. Instead, he imagined her with him. Together. He imagined what it would look like if it were his hands touching all of Molly's secret places. If it were his tongue, delving into those same spots. And if it were his fingers, tangling in that long, thick, hair of hers as their bodies tangled and moved together.

Like he'd said: alarming. As a man who'd never daydreamed or fantasized, he was now wasting a lot of precious thinking time doing just that. Ipso facto his knocking on Molly's door tonight.

It simply wouldn't do for him continue like this. It would get mightily tiring, forever hiding inopportune erections like a spotty adolescent every time a new scenario featuring Molly Hooper in various states of undress popped into his brain.

The sight of her now only reinforced his resolve. It was fortuitous that she happened to have her hair loose, as it meant he was one step closer to vanquishing these plebian fantasies.

Molly's eyes widened when she realized who had knocked on her door. She opened her mouth, but no sounds emitted for several moments, before finally managed to form a word. And even then, it was only his name.

"Sherlock."

She rocked back and forth on her toes, clearly at war with herself as she tried to figure out what to do next. It looked to Sherlock as if half of her body wanted to lunge forward, while the other half was apparently trying to curl in on itself in uncertainty.

"Hello, Molly," he greeted her. He was surprised by the sudden hoarseness in his voice.

She seemed to snap out of her initial stupor upon hearing his words. Stepping back into the flat, she invited him in with a wave of her hand as she quietly spoke again.

"I heard you were back. Greg was in the morgue today to follow up on a case and said you'd shown up at New Scotland Yard this morning. I think he had some new white patches in his hair from the shock."

She clasped her hands, tugging on her fingers impotently as she looked to him for a reply. When he only watched her, trying to surpass this blasted awkwardness that he was feeling, she continued on.

"I wasn't sure what you'd told everyone, so I tried acting surprised. Greg told me never to try my hand at gambling, since my poker face is so terrible," she laughed nervously.

Sherlock cleared his throat and finally spoke to her in earnest.

"I hope you know that my brother will see to it that you face no repercussions for your part in my ruse. But you were right to be cautious. We still probably don't want to blatantly advertise that the assistant dean of Barts' pathology department helped a man fake his death."

Molly nodded her agreement, offering him a weak smile

Then they just stood there, avoiding direct eye contact. Sherlock busied himself observing the knickknacks on her entryway table (a miniature skeleton model, a library book with a rapidly approaching due date stamped on a sticker, a pile of post, Molly's work bag), while Molly studied her feet.

They both inhaled as they prepared to speak at the same time, their darting glances meeting accidentally, when a shrill whistle coming from the kitchen had them jerking in surprise.

Molly glanced behind her, before turning back around.

"Would you like some tea? Kettle's on," she explained to his chin.

Sherlock nodded his acceptance, his gaze fixed on the blank space between her shoulder and ear, before he followed her further into the flat.

He'd mapped out the evening in his mind for optimal execution. He had been sure he knew what would happen. Upon opening her door, Molly was supposed to be overjoyed to see him. She was supposed to yank him into her flat by his scarf (which he'd made sure he'd worn for that purpose), push him up against the nearest wall, and then proceed to divest him of his clothing. Sherlock would respond in kind with hers. He'd felt a frisson of excitement at the mere thought of yanking off that cherry cardigan that now had such different meaning for him.

Then, a few satisfying orgasms later, they would get dressed again and shake hands companionably. As he made his way to the door, Sherlock would tell her to expect him at the lab in a few days' time so that they could discuss a mold culture he'd been thinking of growing. Done and done.

So far, none of this had happened. Molly hadn't even had the decency to wear the cherry jumper.

Sherlock was left trying to rescramble his plans in his mind. He could get it back on track. The night was still young enough for all of the moving on he planned to accomplish with Molly, once she returned to the sitting room.

Clearly, it would require some leading words on his part. He sat on her lumpy sofa as his mind raced.

What could he say that would convince her to cast the tea aside and drag him to her bed? He didn't want to spout anything too sentimental. The point of this night was closure, and he suspected telling her how much he'd missed her would not accomplish that.

Even though it's true, whispered a voice in his head. He firmly ignored it.

He strategized, rapidly flicking through a mental Rolodex of dodgy pickup lines that he'd accrued over the years, lest they become necessary for a case.

If I tell you that you're an angel, will you treat me like a devil tonight?

No, Molly might not be the most cynical of people, but if he tried that line she'd probably hurt herself laughing at him.

If your parents had never met, I would be a very unhappy man right now.

Considering both her parents were dead, Sherlock wasn't so sure that wouldn't turn the evening on a rather melancholy note.

Maybe if he complimented her appearance? Perhaps something that he'd previously maligned?

"I have never seen your breasts looking so lovely and inviting," he murmured to himself, testing how it sounded.

Unfortunately, just as he said it, Molly came back into the room, clutching two steaming mugs in her hands. She drew up short, blinking rapidly.

"Wh-what?" She stammered, standing frozen to her spot (though Sherlock noticed that she did attempt to obscure her chest by bringing her arms in closer to her sides and holding the mugs just so in front of her).

Sherlock realized that was most definitely not the way to go, so he quickly tried to backpedal.

"I was just… thinking of a code that I'm trying to decipher. For Mycroft. You know, humdrum government-types trying to make their dull jobs more amusing with titillating cryptography. Titillating…. I rarely make puns. Say, is that lapsang souchong? It has a very distinct smell, with its pinewood-smoked leaves."

He felt pretty sure he'd managed to adequately bury the lede and gave himself a mental pat on the back.

Molly, for her part, looked like she wanted to believe him. She nodded and handed him a mug, her fingers brushing his sending a zing traveling up his arm.

Once she'd curled up on the other end of the sofa, she faced him; actually looked at him.

"You're exhausted," she said, quietly but frankly. "Have you slept at all since you've been back?"

He shook his head as he took a sip of the strong tea, before setting the mug on the table in front of him.

"I needed to talk to John. It took a long while to explain everything to him. I had to make him understand why I did it."

"And does he now? Understand, I mean."

Sherlock spread his fingers wide and looked down at them, frowning at the tiny nicks and scars that dotted the backs of his hands. Some old, most new.

"He's trying to. But… he's not the same."

Molly slid one of her legs out from under her, stretching it forward so that she could nudge Sherlock's thigh with the toe of her slipper.

"You're not the same, either," she said when he tore his gaze away from his hands to look at her. "Give him time. He's hurting, but you know the greater part of him is just so stunned with joy that you're alive. He might be a bit slow to show it."

Stunned with joy.

Molly had always had an interesting use of words, when she wasn't tripping over her own tongue with nerves. He sometimes—fine, usually—forgot that.

He watched her carefully as she obliviously peered into her mug, likely watching the swirling bits of leaves that had escaped the tea diffuser.

And just like that, Sherlock didn't want to move on. He didn't want that ephemeral closure.

If that meant that all he ever had was a cheap mobile phone containing back-and-forth words of passion and nothing else, then he would accept it. She hadn't shown any indication of wanting to talk about what had happened between them that night.

He still felt a strange, new desire for her. But more important than that desire was the friendship she offered him time and again, when he'd so often been less than deserving. And he felt nothing but glad that he hadn't gotten up the nerve to ask for a night of definitive sex. If he had, more than just their so-far nonexistent sexual relationship would suffer.

Because the type of closure he was seeking, he realized, was closure from the vulnerability that Molly represented. And if he'd learned anything from his ordeal with Moriarty and in the time of his pseudo-death, it was that he had plenty of vulnerabilities, not matter how he tried to avoid them.

They finished their tea in silence. For Sherlock, the awkwardness had dissipated after his goal for the night had fled. He was felt this silence was actually hedging on, dare he suggest it even to himself, companionable.

All too soon, though, nothing but a few dregs remained in his mug, and he decided he should get back to Baker Street. He would be badgering Molly soon enough at Barts. And he was coming to realize that he could come to talkto her whenever he needed, and she would be nothing but gentle and understanding. She would be nothing but Molly.

For Sherlock, she was an exponential revelation. Slow building, certainly, but her import no less astounding for it. Each time he saw her, each time he realized her friendship was not a conditional, life-or-death one, it only compounded his appreciation for what she offered.

And now he was making himself uncomfortable with his internal, soppy monologue. He had to fight not to reassert Molly's previous role into his brain as a defense.

And that involved him leaving the quiet warmth of Molly's flat. Going back to his own, empty 221B, and maybe unpacking some of his bevy of books currently stored in John's old bedroom. He was certain Mycroft had taken no care in packing them in Sherlock's preferred order. In fact, he wouldn't put it past his brother to purposefully pack them in some sort of vindictive, reverse-chronological, color-coded arrangement.

Sherlock set his mug down again and stood, picking up the scarf he'd cast aside after the heat from the tea had reached him. As he wound it around his neck, he looked down at Molly, still seated and sipping from her mug.

"Goodnight, Molly. And thank you. For several things."

She gazed up at him with an inscrutable expression before she smiled a bit shakily once more.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. Have a good night. I'm sure I'll see you soon."

Sherlock nodded once and then headed for the door. He was reaching for its knob when Molly's voice drew him up short.

"Wait."

He turned back to find her hurrying from her seat and rushing through the few steps that separated them. Before Sherlock even fully registered that she'd moved, she was wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her forehead against the v between his collarbones.

He was unsure of how to proceed. While he showed Mrs. Hudson and his mother affection surprisingly easily, there was a world of difference between their matronly hugs and cheek busses, and Molly's surprisingly strong embrace.

And though he and John had shared a fierce hug the night before, once his friend's initial anger had faded, no one had really held him in a very long time.

He wanted to reciprocate. Quite badly. Tentatively, he moved his own arms around her, placing his left hand between her shoulder blades and cupping his right on the nape of her neck. He absently noted that her hair was a soft as it looked, but most of his concentration was dedicated to listening to her quiet breaths bouncing off the wool lapels of his coat.

With his arms hugging her close, Sherlock couldn't take it any more. He had to know.

"Do y—Do you ever think about our… exchange a few months ago?"

Good god, he was stuttering. But he realized there really was no elegant way to put it, so he hoped Molly hadn't pulled a, well, Sherlock and deleted the incident. He would be mortified, and that was definitely something Sherlock Holmes did not feel easily.

If it was possible, as she'd been quite still before he even spoke, Molly froze. Then, slowly, she tipped her head back so she could look at him. He responded in kind, tilting his face so it was parallel too hers. He could now feel her breath, which held the scent of the smoky tea they'd been drinking, dancing off of his lips.

She looked uncertain as she spoke.

"I didn't think you wanted to talk about it. I know that was a one-off. It must have been so lonely out there, Sherlock."

Regrettably, she dropped her arms from around him as she continued.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't meaning to make you uncomfortable and make you think I was angling for…. I'm just so happy to see you."

She started to pull out of his hold. He had to stop her. So he did the only thing he could think of. He applied a little pressure with his hands, bringing her back up against him.

Then he ducked his head and covered her mouth with his own.

Molly's hands jerked up to his waist, her fingers convulsively clutching the fabric of his coat.

They stood there, their mouths pressed together, their both sets of eyes wide in surprise.

Sherlock found his mind frozen. He wasn't sure what to do next. And he'd kissed people before! This was not new. It was ridiculous that he was feeling so unsettled now.

But then his brain slowly quieted and he tried moving, sliding his lips against Mollly's into a more comfortable kiss. He could still feel her breath, now through her nose, moving across his face. It started to quicken.

And then she responded, moved her own mouth so sweetly against his, and he forgot his uncertainty. He forgot about everything but Molly Hooper.

As he sank further into their embrace, he deepened the kiss, experimentally swiping the tip of his tongue against the corners of her mouth. She gave a small hum of welcome as she opened her mouth more, meeting his tongue with her own.

And then the tone turned from sweet to something far different. Molly suddenly reared up onto her toes. He dropped his arms so that they could band around her just below her ribcage, pulling her in even tighter, supporting her against him.

Sherlock heard himself emit a quiet groan when she pulled her mouth back enough suck his lower lip in between hers, her small, even teeth nipping at its flesh. He felt himself beginning to harden at her ministrations.

Their mouths' movements almost felt like they were choreographed, he thought hazily. It was like a dance. Not just the obvious, sultry passion of the tango. This was a paso doble, full of thrusts and parries with the tongues and lips. Their hearts were the stomping feet. Their rushing blood the swirling turns.

And wasn't it interesting that his mind was capable of making such human analogies? He supposed that, where Molly was concerned, his brain just didn't operate in its usual form.

He was surprisingly at peace with that.

He was still perfectly aware of the biological and physiological processes that were occurring with this type of arousal coursing through him. It just felt like more than he'd previously experienced.

Sherlock very nearly whined when Molly finally drew her mouth away from their kiss. He refused to loosen his hold on her, keeping her body as flush with his as their layers of clothing would allow.

"Sherlock," she gasped, "are you… is this some kind of experiment? I'm not sure that would be a good id—"

"I want you," he interrupted. Her eyes widened at his outburst, but he barreled on, not sure how to articulate what he was feeling even as he spoke.

"I've wanted you for some time, maybe even before that night. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have responded to your text messages the way I did.

"It doesn't come easily to me, wanting someone the way I find myself wanting you. I actually came here tonight to try to—to expel you somehow. Because you're taking up so much space in my mind right now. But then I realized that I don't want that. I just want you.

"And I've never felt so far out of my element before. I don't do relationships. Never have. But I can't reconcile the old you with the new one who comforts me and helps me; the one who's in my arms right now, and the more I try, the more my brain rebels. So now all I can do is try to find a balance. And if you'll let me, maybe we could try together?"

She looked at him, her brown eyes dark pools in the dim light from a table lamp.

"I guess that depends on what you're wanting to try. Because, Sherlock, I can't go back to you treating me like you sometimes did before you went away."

She hurried on when it looked like he was about to say something.

"I know it can be frustrating when people's brains don't move at the same speed as yours. But that doesn't mean I want to be in any relationship where someone tells me I shouldn't talk. I can't see us going anywhere if that's what you believe."

She reached up and fiddled with the fringe on the end of his scarf as she continued.

"I'm not saying this hurt you. There was a time when I would have leapt at what you're asking for. But we've both changed and I need to know if we've changed in a similar direction."

Sherlock felt shame replacing some of the arousal in his blood. Molly so rarely let on feelings of hurt or sadness, so when they peeked through, it was always a surprise.

He took her hands away from his scarf, lacing their fingers together as he frowned at his own incompetence where Molly was concerned.

"I can only apologize for the way I treated you at times before. And I can only promise that I will try my hardest to be better. I'll make mistakes. But I think I'd like very much if you were to teach me."

She seemed to recognize the rarity of Sherlock Holmes asking someone to teach him anything, because she smiled at him and nodded.

Then, without releasing his hands, she began backing through her flat, leading him down the dark hallway that led to her bedroom.

Sherlock wasn't remotely interested in observing the veritable infographic that was Molly Hooper's bedroom.

He was vaguely aware of soft, blue tones dominated by a rather welcoming bed, but beyond that, he couldn't fix his stare on anything but the woman currently unbuttoning his shirt.

He felt her knuckles brush the skin of his chest with each button she released, and shivered at the sensation. He remembered one line of text from that fateful night (remembered, or frequently re-read, but why quibble?) wherein she'd mentioned her fascination with his shirts. He couldn't help his small smile at the expression on her face now.

"The cat who got the cream" seemed an appropriate description for it.

She noticed his smile and half-laughed, "What?"

He just shook his head and leaned down to kiss her again as she reached his belt buckle. Her fingers on the sensitive skin of his belly had his muscles quivering, but it was just one of the many Molly-driven sensations he had to catalogue.

He tried to be somewhat clinical as he watched her nimble fingers unbutton the snap of his trousers then carefully lower the zipper, avoiding his insistent erection trying to make itself known through the fly of his pants. He fought disappointment when her fingers went no further, leaving the front of his trousers hanging open as she pulled the unbuttoned shirt from his waistband.

Molly broke their latest kiss to shove the white button-up from his shoulders before yanking his face back down to hers. His own hands were busy toying with the ends of her long hair, combing and twirling the locks, before he moved his hands down to finger the hem of her t-shirt.

Sherlock was distracted from his mission when he felt Molly's hands slide under the fabric of his trousers and pants and grip his ass cheeks. He breathed heavily as he looked at her dilated eyes and the (rather devilish, he though) smile she was shooting him.

Not that he was complaining too much.

Sadly, Molly all too soon removed her hands from the area that seemed to fit them quite nicely, by Sherlock's way of thinking. But his disappointment was short-lived when she hooked her thumbs into his loosened waistband and pulled his pants and trousers down, assisting them until they dropped to his feet.

He tried to shuffle them the rest of the way off, but met with resistance.

Noticing Sherlock's struggle, Molly tore her gaze away from his jutting cock to look at his feet.

"Ah," he supplied, "I forgot about my shoes."

He toed them off and then kicked his trousers aside. When he reached for Molly again, however, she put a staying hand on his chest as she continued to look at his feet.

"What?"

"What about your socks?" She asked his toes.

Sherlock shrugged, "Might as well leave them on. My feet do get cold easily."

He tried again for a kiss, but she was too busy shaking her head.

"I've waited good and long to get you naked, Holmes. And as romantic as the idea of you making love to me whilst wearing your black, silk socks seems—"

"They're cashmere, actually," he corrected.

"Whatever. As much as I find that particular mental image hard to resist, I'm afraid I'm going to have to."

She gave him a gentle shove so that he ended up seated on the edge of her bed, and then she knelt and perfunctorily pulled off his socks, tossing them over her shoulder. One landed on her cat, who'd been snoozing on a chair in the corner of the room. He cracked an annoyed eye open at them before going back to sleep.

Molly placed light, friendly kisses on each of Sherlock's kneecaps and then straightened back up, but not before she leaned in to give the head of his cock a glancing, teasing lick.

Sherlock didn't quite squelch down his surprised shout at that. Molly looked quite pleased with herself.

He wasn't completely distracted by the fact that he was so very naked while she wasn't at all. He put his hands on her hips and pulled toward him so that she stood between his spread legs. He quickly gripped her shirt's hem and pulled it up and over her head. Molly did little assist beyond raising her arms for him.

Once the shirt was cast aside, she stood before him, now only wearing her flannel pajama bottoms.

From his seated position on the bed, Sherlock's face was level with Molly's bare chest. He lightly traced a finger around the swell of both breasts, as well as along ridges of the bottom of her ribcage.

He leaned forward and nuzzled the underside of her right breast, breathing in the clean smell of her skin.

"Your breasts are lovely and inviting," he said, smiling up at her.

Molly laughed, her head dropping back in her amusement, and Sherlock grinned before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her sternum so he could feel the vibrations of her happiness against his lips.

He kissed his way over to one, dark pink nipple. He drew it into his mouth and suckled and nipped at it, then treated the other nipple in kind. Though she still giggled a bit, the majority of Molly vocalizations gave way to soft moans.

As he continued to pay homage to her breasts, Sherlock pushed her pajamas and knickers down her legs. Unlike him, she had no problem stepping out of them quickly.

He draped an arm around her narrow waist to hold her in place as his ducked his head further down to place kisses in no particular pattered across her belly, while his other hand brushed up her soft, inner thighs.

Molly's laughter had entirely subsided by now, though her face maintained an expression of happy passion as his fingers made their first contact with the damp curls that protected her sex.

He dipped his fingers further into her slick heat, glorying in the fact that he was touching her in the way that he'd, yes, fantasized about for almost four months now.

Sherlock experimented with his touch. He relied on the twitches of her brow, the beads of perspiration at her temples, and speed of her breath coming from her kiss-swollen lips as a map to guide him.

His middle finger dipped into the pool of wetness at her entrance before tracing back to the bud of her clitoris, circling and rubbing it over and over again.

He deleted a lot of things about the human experience, but Sherlock knew the sight of Molly shaking and falling apart, pouring over his fingers, was one that he would keep forever.

Her head had dropped forward, her hair curtaining her face as she panted. Her fingers dug into his shoulders almost painfully as she fought to keep herself upright.

Sherlock was only too happy to help her as he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and pulled her down to him for another, deep kiss.

As their tongues once again danced with each other, Sherlock began to shift in his seat, as his cock made its plea for attention known.

Fortunately, Molly seemed to be of a like mind. She seemed to have recovered enough to draw away from him to turn to her bedside table. She reached into the table's drawer and sifted through various papers and detritus until she found a condom.

She put her knee on the edge of the bed and pulled herself up onto the mattress. She scooted over to the far side, pulling him with her so that he now sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed. She climbed onto his lap, into his embrace. Settling in, she perched on his calves, her thighs spread across his, and her own ankles hooked behind him.

Sherlock let loose a combination of a moan and a gasp as she snaked a hand between them, wrapping her fingers around his thick shaft in a firm grip. As she leaned forward to place her mouth against his neck, her tongue lapping at the fluttering pulse there, his own head dropped forward. He rested his brow against her clavicle, unable to tear his eyes away from the shadowed recesses between their bodies. Even in that dark, her hand's pale skin was a sharp contrast to his thatch of pubic hair and cock springing up from it.

He watched as she moved her hand up and down his length, periodically swiping her thumb over its sensitive head, her fingers tickling his balls occasionally on her down strokes, until he very nearly saw stars.

"M—Molly," he stammered, trying to find the words to tell her he was about to embarrass himself.

Fortunately, she seemed to gather his intent from his desperate tone, because she quickly tore open the condom wrapper and rolled the latex down his shaft.

Molly scooted closer to him, positioned his penis at her entrance, and then he was inside her with one roll of her hips. They groaned against each other's lips as her wet heat enveloped him.

They held still for a moment as she adjusted to his presence. Their holds on each other were tight. She had one arm hooked over his right shoulder, the other looped under his left arm so that her hands could link between his shoulder blades. For his part, he had found he was happy to keep his own arms banded around her waist.

And then they started moving.

Molly rose and fell against him, slowly at first, but then with increasing speed. Her inner walls began to clench further and further on his cock, leaving him gasping, and groaning at this warm pleasure he found in her. With her.

The sounds of their flesh meeting with each movement of their hips, coupled with their panting breaths and the scent of their joining bodies pushed him closer and closer to a precipice that he wanted to fling himself over.

This was a fall he would readily welcome, because he knew that Molly would catch him, or at the very least pull him back up from wherever he landed.

He should have felt strange to be placing so much trust in another human body, but he could think of no better word for it than trust. He trusted her with himself as he brushed his lips against the damp strands of hair sticking to her sweaty temple and whispered unintelligible words of encouragement to her.

Molly's breaths came out in sobs as she neared her own fall. She pulled her arm out from under his to push a hand between the damp slide of their bodies. Sherlock let loose a growl as he felt her rubbing herself just above where they were joined, followed quickly by the rippling spasms of her reaching her peak.

His own orgasm tackled him from the base of his spine just as her keening moan quieted. He shouted his passion into the crook of her neck as his hips stuttered against hers before stilling.

They continued to sit there for several more moments, trying to get their bearings before they both slid bonelessly down to the bed beneath them, Molly landing on her back, her legs draped across Sherlock's thighs as he curled around her on his side.

He knew he should get up and dispose of the condom. He should move a bit so his muscles didn't cramp. He should go get them a glass of water, assuming her thirst was as great as his.

There was plenty he should be doing right now.

Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to her damp shoulder.

Sherlock was fine with wallowing for a bit in this strange, new happiness.

For the time being, he couldn't care that he and Molly faced a lot of work ahead of them to foster a healthy relationship. He couldn't care that he still had demons to face. He couldn't even care that sometime during their lovemaking, the cat had apparently gotten embarrassed and left the room, taking Sherlock's sock with him.

He was alive.

He was back.

He had John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.

He had Molly.

He felt like he was very nearly stunned with joy.

Note: Well, this turned into a fairly long one-shot. I think this qualifies as the law of diminishing returns: so little smut for a story that was supposed to be smut-tastic. I hope I didn't bore anyone to death. And I'm still very new to the writing of sex scenes, so this might be quite bad, indeed.

Thanks again to Petra Todd for letting me use her photoset for the plot of the first story and for suggesting an awkward reunion sequel.

If you haven't seen the photoset, copy this and replace "dots" with periods: petratodd dot tumblr dot com/post/41196777020/i-prefer-to-text-some-barriers-are-more-easily

Thanks for reading, all ye who entered here. Any questions, comments, and concrit are welcomed and appreciated, because Danielle Steele, I am not.