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She didn't realize it, but Molly Hooper was not alone in the dimly lit locker room of the basement in St. Barts Hospital.

If she were paying attention, she would be able to hear the soft sounds of the door clicking shut, a breath sharply exhaled, or the swish of wool against cotton trousers as steps were quietly taken. But the only things she heard were the rattle of the steel locker door vibrating open and her own quiet humming of a Michael Jackson song she can't quite place.

She pulled the stray brown locks around her face up into the elastic, retying her hair. Reaching into her locker, she intended to pull out her striped bag.

"Molly."

His deep voice reverberated in the dark, startling her. Instincts took over and she whirled around, back pressed against the lockers, a hand to her heart. Her breath hitched in her throat.

She recognized that voice.

It had been years since she heard it, but she knew she would recognize his voice until the day she died.

He moved closer to her, coming into the light. The glare from the hallway lights outside filtered in through the windows and bathed his face in an ethereal glow. Despite the light tan to his pale skin, his face was more angular than she remembered. His gaunt cheeks were more hollowed out than they were before. New lines adorned his forehead, the corner of his mouth and eyes.

His eyes.

They were fixed on hers, piercing into her with the intensity of drowning man. And she was his lifeline. She had always been his lifeline. When he had come to her in the darkened lab, much like he was now, he had gazed at her in the same way. He had turned to her, in his last hours, because there had been nobody else.

For him, there would never be anybody else.

He had held her, gripped her close, pulling her to him, his lips finding purchase with her own. For too long he kept her at arms length, despite her timid advances. For far too long, he had wondered what would happen if he let her in.

His mouth had sought out the hollows of her neck, struggling for breath. He had to know. He knew he was going to leave, or if worst came to worse, die, and his scientist's mind – he was still unable to reconcile that, in fact, it was his heart that pushed him towards her – was unable to leave without knowing the taste of her, without cataloguing the contours of her slight frame with his fingers. It had been rushed, a desperate man's plea for life, but she had obliged him willingly, sighing his name and giving for everything she received in return. He hadn't been able to go without letting her know that in his strange way, he had always cared for her.

He noticed how the light caught the sparkle of a diamond on her left hand. The silvery band shimmered, glaringly reminding him that he was too late. His mouth set in a grim line. He had half a mind to leave, that he was being stupid, that she was perfectly happy living a normal, safe life now. That she didn't need him in her life to muck it up again. And he didn't want to put her in danger.

Not Molly, not the one who matters.

Moments passed like mini eternities of silence filled with unspoken words between them.

She simply stared at the ghost of the man of years past. He watched her carefully step into him, her wide brown eyes brimming with unbidden tears. Ignoring any pretense of personal space, her hands splayed open and softly, so gingerly, came to a rest on his chest. Her gaze shifted to her hands as a shaky breath she didn't realize she was holding escaped from her. From the curve of her cheeks, he could see that her lips had upturned into the smallest of smiles, and his own followed suit.

Her arms slid around his torso, beneath his coat, and she leaned into him to bury her face against his chest. He was much thinner, in a wiry way that made her worry, but she stored these thoughts aside for another time. It was not the time for that. For now, he was here. He was real, solid, warm, and here. Her hold on him tightened as if he would disappear as quickly as he came.

Tucking his face into her hair, he wrapped his arms around her, curving his body into hers. He felt the fabric of his silk shirt dampen with her tears before he could hear her muffled sobs. In his arms, her body quaked with each convulsion and he wondered with a frown if these were tears of happiness or anger. She had every right to be upset, he mused. With each kiss, with each murmur of her name against her skin, he had pledged whatever was left of his heart to her.

And then, he had left. Without any goodbyes.

With no way to safely let her know that he was alive, to let her know that he burned for her touch those lonely nights away, he had stayed away from her. He kissed her hair and crushed her tighter to him, as if he could still her pain if he stilled her form. Her soft hair tickled his nostrils and he smiled at the fact that she still smelled of disinfectant, coffee, the citrusy shampoo she used, and beneath all of that, a heady scent that he could only describe as her own.

With a choked cry, she untangled herself from his arms and took a step away. She was hurt, he could see that in her eyes and in the way she balled her fists in her white doctor's jacket. Furiously, she wiped the tears off her face. She swung back the hand that was still wet with her tears and threw it forward, whipping it across his face. His head swirled sideways from the collision, his cheek reddening where she had hit him. A tingling sensation rose from her fingertips, up her palm and into her arm.

"That was for the three years of silence," she began in a watery voice. "And this –"

His curls fell over his brow as he ducked his head down. He deserved it and more. He stood, unmoving, and waited for her to finish her attack. This was his penitence and he would endure it.

" – This is for coming back."

She launched herself against him, reaching up to cup his face in her small hands, and fiercely pressed her mouth to his. Despite the ferocity, it was a chaste kiss, unlike their last. She pulled away, too soon for his liking, but her locked hands behind his neck appeased his need for her closeness. She looked up at him with worry in the middle of her eyebrows.

"Is it over?" She whispered. Their breaths mingled in the small space between them.

He nodded slowly. It was a lie, but he didn't need to worry her. Not yet.

"I'm home," his voice, hoarse from disuse, cracked on the second word before his lips reclaimed hers.

He curled his fingers around her hips and tugged her body closer. She let out an involuntary yelp that was drowned in his mouth, their tongues dancing to a forgotten beat. When she licked around the curve of his bottom lip, he lost all pretense of control.

With a growl, he lifted her up so her face was level with his, simultaneously stepping forward to close the gap between them and the lockers behind her. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, grateful for his touch. Pushing her weight against the locker doors, she sighed as he kissed a line down her neck.

She was beginning to heat up. The thin white jacket became too stifling and she wondered how he could be comfortable in the large coat he was wearing. With shaking hands, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders. One arm at a time, using the other to hold her up, he shrugged his jacket off. The Belstaff fell to the floor in a clump around his ankles, unceremoniously.

When he nibbled her ear – and she very nearly moaned his name when he did – she tried to wriggle out of her own jacket. He huffed in frustration and put her down, swiftly yanking the offending thing off. She was caught between the lockers and his body and was very aware of a growing hardness close to her hip. Catching his lips once more, she quickly undid the buttons on his shirt.

It was wrong, what she was doing. It wasn't wrong before, but now, with Rafe waiting for her at home, it was beyond wrong. And yet, when the cool air hit the flushed skin of her chest, when his calloused hands cupped her breast, she found that she was finding it difficult to care. And when he slid her bra off her shoulders and his deft fingers pebbled her nipples to a peak, thoughts of any other man left her mind as quickly as the low moan did her throat. It was Sherlock, and the fact of the matter is, she had been in love with him for far longer than either of them realized.

She arched into him, their skins finally touching, warming each other up and fueling the fire of their passionate flame. With his mouth suckling that heavenly spot behind her ear, his hands wandered down her body, unbuttoning her trousers and pushing them down. Slipping inside her panties, he found her slick and waiting. She inhaled sharply and clutched his shoulders as his fingers circled and pressed the sensitive nub at the apex of her thighs. Her legs spread open of their own accord and she rolled her hips into his hand. She needed more.

"Please," she whimpered.

He didn't need to be told twice. As one hand stripped the last piece of clothing off of her, the other's forefinger slid into her warmth easily. Molly let out a guttural moan as a second finger joined the first inside of her and they curled as they pumped in and out. He dropped to his knees in front of her, the sudden onslaught of cold air to her chest shocking to her flushed skin. But when his warm tongue massaged her clit, she nearly all but exploded.

It was seeing him doing this that did it. The sight of him below her, mouth buried between her legs, with only his ocean eyes peeping up at her beneath his unruly hair, that made her come undone. He sucked the bundle of nerves into his mouth and she sucked a staggering breath into her lungs. The fact that it was Sherlock Holmes on his knees in front of her, fucking her with his tongue and his fingers. She pushed her palms against the lockers, rattling them, pressing herself into his mouth. He lapped at her like a man dying of thirst, humming appreciatively as he did so.

Her senses shut down for the split moment of clarity, and all she knew was him. Her knees buckled and if it weren't for him holding in place, she knew she would collapse. There was a reason the French called it a 'petit mort,' she realized.

He let go of her and gave her one last lick before turning his attention to his coat on the ground. A frown flitted over her features as she crossed her arms over her heaving chest.

"Seriously?" Her annoyance was hard to hide despite her breathlessness.

He simply chuckled and beckoned her down to sit with him.

"Do you want to be on top or shall I?" He said with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

She pushed him down on his back. With a shake of her head, she pulled her hair out from its elastic and it fell around her shoulders like a waterfall. She stood over him, uncharacteristically self- assured. Her arms rested on her hips, her legs slightly apart.

"Take your trousers off," she said softly.

She didn't know where this bravado was coming from, but was delighted to see him comply so willingly with her demands. He sat cross-legged. He was already stiffened when she knelt down and held him. She slowly pumped her hand, watching his reaction.

"Don't tease, Molly," he said darkly.

With a grin, she stopped her ministrations and kissed him instead. He gripped her hips and flipped her over, landing her softly on his coat. He was pressed against her core and she moaned at the sharp pang of pleasure echoing up her abdomen. He kissed her so softly, as if she would break, and repositioned himself. He searched her eyes for any discontent, but she merely smiled against his lips and rolled her hips against him, creating a friction that made him see stars.

"Sherlock, please," she sighed.

Pushing himself into her gently, his head bowed into the crook of her shoulder. He whispered her name like a benediction as he slowly began to move over her, inside of her. Her arms grappled and held onto his shoulders, digging in, the curve of her nails etching marks in the skin.

Their lips met between gasping breaths and throaty groans, the push and pull of their magnetism electric. With her legs wrapped around his waist, and with each sigh of his name, she was bringing him back to life again.

He couldn't think, couldn't even begin to think of anything but the woman beneath him. Of the way her back was arched, pressing her heated skin to his, fusing them together even further. Or of the painfully exquisite way she was clenching around him and the stars – the stars he was seeing. They couldn't really be there.

There was a precipice before him and the closer he got to it, the less control he had over his long, languid strokes into her tight core. What had began as slow and tender had evolved into something rough and animalistic.

He harshly pulled her arms up, over her head, and pinned her wrists to the ground with a free hand. She urged him on, meeting each thrust with one of her own, grinding her self onto him each time he buried himself to the hilt inside of her. With her arms restrained, her breasts bounced with his thrusts. He caught one with his mouth, laved the rosy peak with his tongue and nipped at it.

This was them. Sherlock and Molly. Molly and Sherlock. Some would say that it was immoral, what he was doing. He hadn't missed the glint of silver, but in this moment, he also hadn't missed the way her heart was beating a staccato rhythm beneath his lips. Or the way she was writhing and moaning against him with abandon.

Fuck it all.

He was consumed with the urge to make her his, even for a moment, to pull her over the edge with him into the chasm below. With a great shudder and a keening cry, Molly's eyes tightly shut. His name on her lips, in her voice dripping with sex, pushed him over and he was falling.

Ursa major.

Orion.

Cassiopeia.

These stars, these pointless constellations she had once pointed out to him eons ago. Dots in the blackness of the most pleasurable moment of quiet in his over active mind.

He steadied his final thrusts, slowing and easing out of her. Sometime during the fall, he had released his grip on her hands and she cradled his face, pulling him down for a bruising openmouthed kiss.

They gasped for air, breaths and heartbeats synchronized. Gently rolling to her side, he pulled her into his embrace, holding her as their bodies struggled to reach a homeostasis.

No words were spoken. They lay next to one another till their flushed skin cooled. Her head rested on his chest and his hand was absently rubbing circles into her upper arm while her foot stroked up and down his calf.

He was the first to dare to break the silence.

"Does he make you happy?"

Molly stiffened, her foot halting their travels. She couldn't see his eyes unless she tilted her head up, but she didn't know if she wanted to see them right now. Her left hand lay on his chest and her ring gleamed brightly in the low light. She curled her fingers into her palm as her vision became increasingly blurry.

Rafe had been the only light in the darkness of the aftermath of Sherlock Holmes. When she confronted Mycroft a year after his fall to demand to know if Sherlock was alive, he curtly replied in the negative. Rafe was the one who put her back together. He was the only person who she truly opened up to, having recently lost someone himself. Loneliness loves company, she guessed, and together they healed their broken hearts as best they could.

"Yes, he does," she murmured sadly, awash with guilt.

He nodded once and kissed the top of her head.

"Good," he replied, his throat suddenly dry. "Come, let's get you home."

They redressed in silence.

She suddenly felt shy around him, reverting back to her mousy demeanor. Turning around, she dressed facing the lockers. When she at last pulled on the green overcoat that hung in her locker and swung her striped bag over her shoulder, she faced him to find that he was tugging his scarf back around his neck. Her eyes darted to the soiled coat on the ground and he shrugged, picking it up and slinging it over his arm. He offered his hand to her and reluctantly, she took it.

They held hands in silence the whole taxi ride to her flat.

She knew why he didn't let go, because it was the same reason she was holding on.

They clambered out of the cab, hands still entwined. It wasn't until they walked to the door of her building that their hands parted.

He held her face gently and she wrapped her hands around his, willing herself not to cry. The look in his eyes told her a million different things, and the gentle way his lips pressed against hers told her a million more.

"Sherlock, I love you," she mouthed against his lips with her eyes still shut.

She didn't want to see his expression. She didn't want to see pity, if it was there, and she also didn't know if she wanted to see the same sort of love staring back at her. She tasted salt and realized the tears and finally spilled.

He was the first to pull away and she finally opened her eyes. With the pad of his thumb, he wiped her streak marked cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut as he kissed their corners. His hands till cradling her face, and her hands still gripping onto his wrists, he rested his forehead against hers.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper," he whispered placed a tender kiss on her forehead before he let go. With one last longing look backwards, he turned and walked down the steps, down the street with its wrought iron lights casting a harsh yellow glow in the darkness.

She stood there on the top step watching him go. And even after he had turned the corner, out of her sight, she stared stoically at the brick wall he had turned behind.

Numbly, she touched her lip as a fresh wave of tears flooded her vision.

He was lying. His kiss tasted of goodbye.

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AN: I was inspired by the Sherlock trailer, and I know a bunch of these locker room reunions are floating around out there, but I couldn't resist. I'll get back to writing Surviving Sherlock soon, I promise. But this has been bubbling in the back of my mind and it demanded to be written.

It's been pointed out that they're kind of OOC and I apologize, but apparently I uploaded a slightly different version than I intended to, hence the second update. :S It is a very specific situational experience that they're going through, and I hope you can forgive me (and the characters) if you don't necessarily agree with what happened. I hope this version explains things a little better. I hope that I was able to sort of reason out the whys for the both of them.

And I really hope you enjoyed it and don't want to set me on fire. :)

Lovelovelove,
Skye

P.S. Would any of you aboard the RMS Sherlolly like to be my beta? I'm currently looking for one. Drop me a PM if you or someone you know is interested!