A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Fourteen

[darnedchild]

Summary: Molly was happy with her life. She's got a job she loves, a nice flat, her cat, and she's even begun dating again (now that she's over her infatuation with Sherlock, mostly). Then Sherlock dragged her out for a few hours of dress up and undercover work, and everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.

She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.

Chapter Fourteen

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Sherlock was still breathing hard when she sat back on her heels. He had slouched against the sofa, practically boneless after his orgasm. His expression was soft and relaxed . Molly didn't think she'd ever seen him so . . . carefree.

She suspected that anyone short of Moriarty himself could walk in at that moment, and Sherlock wouldn't even bother opening his eyes before lazily telling them to bugger off.

Molly, unfortunately, wasn't feeling relaxed at all. Touching him, hearing him call her name repeatedly as he came, knowing that he'd needed her--Her!--so much that he'd practically begged her to let him finish . . . She didn't think she'd ever been so aroused in her life.

She squirmed, pressing her thighs tighter together in the hope of finding some relief.

He finally began to stir. Sherlock opened his eyes and a lazy smile blossomed on his lips as he focused on her.

His upper thighs twitched under her touch. Sherlock took both of her hands in his and raised them to his mouth one at a time. He pressed an open mouthed kiss to the palm of one, then nipped at the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb on the other. Molly moaned and squirmed again.

It only took him a second to flick his gaze from her flushed face to her trembling legs and back. His head tilted to the side as he deduced her, not that her condition was that difficult to figure out. She was desperate for a shag (or a bloody fantastic orgasm at the very least).

That lovely voice of his spoke two words that were music to her ears and several other erogenous zones. "Your turn."

Sherlock had to help her stand as she felt a little shaky. He began to lead her toward his room, but Molly hesitated.

"What about our clothes?" She gestured toward the haphazard pile near the sofa. "What will Mrs Hudson think?"

"She'll think it's about time. If we're lucky, she'll bake a celebratory cake. Possibly decorated with little fondant genitalia if she's already been at her evening 'herbal soothers' and feeling creative." He impatiently tugged on her hand. "Isn't there something else you'd rather be doing than worrying about Mrs Hudson's non-existent delicate sensibilities?"

He had a valid point. And, Molly was happy to confirm as he walked in front of her, an arse to die for. "I'll just pick up later, then."

"Much later," Sherlock agreed.

She froze as another thought occurred to her.

Sherlock huffed and turned to face her. "What now?"

It probably wasn't the best time to bring it up, although ten minutes from now would be even worse. She blanched and looked extremely apologetic. "I wasn't expecting . . . I mean, I was hoping, obviously, when we decided I was going to be staying here, after the kissing and everything. But, well, I didn't actually expect this to happen, and I didn't bring anything."

He frowned and looked confused. She knew she was babbling again, but this was one of those important discussions couples needed to have before they had sex for the first time. "I haven't been, uhm, with anyone since Tom; but I am still on the pill because my cycle is a bitch. A pain, I mean. It's a pain. So we should be okay tonight, but even with the pill I don't usually . . . not without-"

"Molly," Sherlock softly interrupted her. He held a finger to her lips to stop the nervous stream of words that had been pouring out. "I've got condoms."

"You have?" she asked as soon as he removed his finger, her voice dangerously close to a squeak. "Why?"

"Because you weren't the only one who was hoping this would eventually happen. I didn't want to assume you were on birth control or that you would have taken precautions. Even if you were still on the pill, that didn't necessarily mean you would be comfortable having sex without a condom. The least I could do was take some responsibility for what might happen. For what I very much wanted to happen."

Molly stared at him with a goofy grin for a long moment. "I have no idea why I find that so hot, but I really, really do."

She let him finish pulling her down the hall to his bedroom. Sherlock tugged her into his arms and kissed her. The feel of his body pressed against hers without a stitch of clothing to get in the way made her breath catch in her throat. He left her standing next to the bed as he switched on a floor lamp and pulled down the covers. Then he made a point of closing and locking the bedroom door.

Molly hadn't moved from where he'd left her. He didn't seem to care that he was walking around as naked as the day he was born, and it hadn't really bothered Molly that she'd been doing the same until she found herself awkwardly standing there. When he turned to look at her she had to fight the instinct to try to cover herself with her hands. They curled into fists at her sides.

"Have you changed your mind?" She had no doubt that if she said yes, he'd accept her decision.

She shook her head and forced her hands to unclench. Molly tried to give him a reassuring smile. The concerned way he was looking at her told her that she missed the mark. She felt like a complete idiot. This was something she'd wanted--dreamt of--for years, and now that it was about to happen she was overwhelmed by insecurities and nearly paralyzed with the fear that she was going to say or do something to screw it all up. Which was utterly absurd after what they'd just done in the sitting room. Wasn't it?

Sherlock studied her for a moment, then nodded once as if he'd made some sort of deduction.

What did that mean? Did he figure out how nervous she was now that they were focusing on her rather than him?

He looked as if he wanted her to do something. Was he waiting for her to make the first move? Should she kiss him? Crawl into bed? Should she suggest something? What if she did and he didn't like the idea? What if he suggested something and she didn't like it? Oh, God, what if they had sex and it was disappointing rubbish?

Molly bit her lip and tried not to appear as if she were having doubts.

"Am I correct in thinking that you are unsure of how we should proceed?"

He understood. Molly felt a wave of relief wash over her. She looked down at her feet and whispered, "Yes."

Sherlock tilted her chin back up so that he could see her face. "Would you like me to . . . lead the way? Just until you're comfortable again."

She nodded.

He released her chin and gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Get on the bed, Molly."

Five words. Five little words spoken in that belly clenching, bone melting voice, and her world shifted on its axis.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at him expectantly.

His smile turned into a seductive smirk. He tsked at her and playfully shook his head. "Not there. I want you stretched out so that I can observe every delectable detail of your body."

She eagerly scooted toward the middle of the bed. Sherlock gestured for her to lay back. Molly smiled as she did so, her earlier arousal beginning to return.

He moved so that he could brush his fingers against her ankle. "Open for me, Molly. I thought I made it clear that I want to see all of you."

There was only a second's hesitation before she did as he asked. She shivered as the cool air of the flat hit the heated flesh between her legs.

She almost missed his whispered, "Beautiful."

Molly held out her arms, desperate to hold him again. He eased onto the bed and crawled to her, over her. The muscles in his arms and back rippled as he moved, remind her of a panther she'd once seen at the zoo. Watching him was one of the most erotic things she'd ever observed.

He lowered himself against her and they both groaned at the glorious contact. Sherlock looked into her eyes for a long moment and she could read his love for her in his warm gaze. "Molly. My beautiful Molly."

He dipped his head and kissed her. She gasped against his mouth, and he slipped his tongue between her lips. Her hands moved down his back to his arse, and she pulled him into the vee of her thighs. When she scrapped her nails across his firm, delicious looking bum, he groaned and thrust against her. Her knees came up to cradle his hips, delighting in the feeling of him so close to where she needed him most. His scent surrounded her, reminded her of all those times she'd ached to be this close to him.

She knew that no matter what the future held for them, she would never regret this moment.

Sherlock began to slide down her body, pausing to pepper kisses and nips against her throat and collar bone on his way to her breasts. Her nipple pebbled under his teasing. When his mouth closed around the tip of her breast, Molly gasped. She nearly came up off the bed when he scraped his teeth against the hard bud. He pressed her down, using his weight to hold her in place as he touched and caressed, nipped and sucked.

Far too soon he left her breasts and licked his way from her sternum to her navel. Then he blew on the wet skin and her stomach muscles clenched in response. His curls brushed against her abdomen as he pressed a kiss just below her belly button.

She wanted to touch those curls, tangle her fingers in them. Before she could act on the desire, Sherlock was pulling away from her. "Why?" escaped her lips, and she vaguely realized she sounded as needy as he had in the sitting room earlier.

He stood next to the bed and smirked down at her. She started to sit up, but he motioned for her to stay where she was. He leaned over to slide his hands up her legs to her waist, and then he forcefully pulled her to the edge of the bed. The action was unexpected; Molly yelped in surprise, then started to giggle.

The smirk returned. That, coupled with his bare chest and tousled hair, gave him a roguish air. Good Lord, he was without a doubt the sexiest man she'd ever met. He stepped between her legs and leaned down once more so that he could pluck at one of her nipples. Molly took her lower lip between her teeth and bit down hard to keep from calling out his name and earning another knowing look from Mrs Hudson in the morning. She reached out for him, but he ignored her silent entreaty. Instead he grabbed one of the pillows from the top of the bed and helped tuck it under her head. He answered her unspoken question with a devilish grin, "I want to make sure you can see everything I'm about to do to you."

Her breath caught in her throat when he sunk to his knees. He lifted one of her legs and pressed an open mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh. Molly's sigh turned into a gasp and her back arched off the bed when she felt the small sting of his teeth. He hooked both of her legs over his shoulders.

Was he going to . . .? "Oh God."

"Not quite, but I'll take it as a compliment." He brushed his palm against her curls, letting her adjust to his touch. Molly bit her lip to keep from telling him she was more than ready and could he bloody well hurry up? Sherlock parted her labia with one hand, and began to explore her with the other. One finger circled around her clit, almost but not quite touching it. Her hands dropped to her sides and pulled up handfuls of the blanket. She felt him dip a finger into her wetness, entering her just enough to make her crave more. He looked up at her face to make sure she was still watching him, and then slowly slid that finger into his mouth. His lips closed around the digit, cheeks hollowing as he sucked it clean. She didn't even try to stifle her whimper.

Sherlock lowered his head, keeping eye contact with her until the last possible moment, and then he flicked his tongue against her sensitive nub. Molly fought not to squirm as he licked her clit and down to her wet entrance. He varied his technique, using her gasps and moans to deduce where and how she liked his tongue. Desperate, unintelligible noises began to escape her lips. Her hips gently rocked against his mouth.

"Sherlock, please," she begged, although she wasn't sure what, exactly, she was asking for.

There were long, sweeping strokes of his tongue that alternated with quick flutters against her clit. Then he inserted a finger, and her toes curled. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him tighter against her. The finger began to move in and out, and when she thought she couldn't stand anything more he added a second. With a bit of experimentation, he found the spot that nearly made her scream. Molly's head dropped back against the pillow as a wave of pleasure began to build inside.

Sherlock flattened his tongue against her pearl and his fingers pulsed against her g-spot like a virtuoso with his violin. She was close. Just one more little push and she'd be there. Molly tried to tell him, but her words began to run together in a barely coherent jumble.

He wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked. Supernovas exploded behind her eyes. She nearly came off the bed as her orgasm ripped through her. Molly barely had the presence of mind to muffle her cries into her pillow.

Her legs were still trembling when he lowered them to the floor. He stood up and stared down at her intently. His cheeks were flushed, his mouth and chin glistening with the evidence of her arousal. "Molly?"

"Yeah?" she sighed, sated and sleepy.

"I need you."

Molly leaned up on her elbows to see that he was fully erect. As she watched, his hand drifted down to stroke his cock. Her eyes widened in surprise. Realistically, she'd expected a longer refractory period. Hours, possibly even waiting until the morning, before they'd be able to have intercourse. "Already?"

"Apparently so." His hand stilled and he frowned. "Is that a problem?"

"Oh God, no." Her earlier drowsiness was forgotten as he pulled open the drawer of his nightstand. She scooted back to the centre of the bed so that they would have plenty of room. The condom wrapper crinkled as he tossed it on the pillow next to her head. Sherlock joined her and ran his hand from her sweat dampened stomach to her breast. She leaned up to kiss him, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck to steady herself. He settled between her legs with a long, deep groan. Molly bit at his lower lip, and he urgently ground his hips against her centre.

"Condom," he panted against her mouth, his hips snapped forward as if he couldn't control the need to move against her. She nodded and kissed him again, sucking his lower lip between her teeth. Sherlock let her for another long moment, then he practically begged, "Molly, we need the condom."

He pulled away enough to open the wrapper, and she saw that his hands trembled slightly in his eagerness. Molly took it from him and helped sheath him. Touching him, hearing him bite back a moan when she wrapped her small hand around his cock, seeing him flushed and eager for her . . . It brought her arousal to a fever pitch all over again. She urged Sherlock over her and held him between her thighs.

"I was going to kiss you, touch you," he gasped as his erection slid against her heat. "Tease you, drive you crazy a bit longer, but I'm don't think I can wait any longer."

"Don't. I need you, now. Please, Sherlock."

He reached down to guide himself into her. His eyes fluttered shut as he began to move; tentative, uneven strokes at first. Molly moaned and dug her fingers into his shoulders. As his confidence grew he quickly found his rhythm. She rolled her hips to meet him, urging him deeper. He opened his eyes and arched his spine so that he could reach her mouth again.

Molly pulled her knees higher around his waist and dug her heels into his arse. Her nails raked down his back. Sherlock loudly called out her name and thrust harder. "If you do that again, I'm not going to last," he panted.

She laughed as she did it again, the sound was breathless and fully of filthy promises. His rhythm faltered. "Fuck, I can't-can't . . . Touch yourself. I need to feel you . . . While I'm inside," he gasped as he pressed his forehead against hers.

He was going to come undone and she desperately wanted to go with him. With every movement against her clit, her fingers brushed against his cock. She could see that he was trying to hold on to his control long enough for her to come first; his eyes were tightly closed and his arms were beginning to shake. Suddenly, without warning, the tension that had been slowly building inside of her burst. Sherlock's eyes snapped open as she clenched around him. He growled her name and surged against her, continuing to thrust through her orgasm. And then he was coming, and he was beautiful.

Sherlock nearly collapsed on her as his arms finally gave out, the brunt of his weight landing on his elbows. They both lay there, waiting to catch their breath and for their racing hearts to slow.

It took a moment for his gaze to sharpen. He carefully pulled out and rolled to the side. "I'll be right back. Do not move."

She watched him duck into the bathroom, marvelling again at that perfect arse. He returned a minute later, having disposed of the condom. As he'd requested, she hadn't moved. He sat on the bed and studied her. Molly stared back at him, her body a lovely mix of aches and pleasurable aftershocks.

"I can't stop looking at you." Sherlock reached out and wrapped a lock of her hair around his fingers.

She knew she must have looked a fright. Her hair was a mess, lips swollen, her face was undoubtedly flushed and blotchy. Molly tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.

He leaned down to kiss her once, very gently. "Those wide eyes. The long, beautiful hair that just begs for me to tangle my hands in it. And your lips." He dragged his thumb across them, tugging slightly at the lower one. "I was right. You are a goddess." The sheer reverence in his voice made her tremble.

Molly whispered, "I love you."

"I know." She pursed her lips and smacked him in the arm. "Which works in my favour, because I love you, too. More than I ever thought possible."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Her first day back to work was relatively uneventful; a pair of autopsies and a backlog of paperwork that her temporary replacement hadn't managed to finish. Soter had apparently ditched the Mercedes as the taxi made an appearance every time she stepped foot outside 221B or Barts. He'd even escorted her back to her flat so she could pick up more clothes and some other things to make her extended stay at Sherlock's a bit more comfortable.

She was going to miss Soter when all of this craziness with Chapman was over. Perhaps Mycroft would pass along her well wishes every once in awhile. Then again, she'd probably have better luck asking Anthea.

Soter walked her to the door and waited as she unlocked it. "Have a good evening, ma'am." He tipped his non-existent hat and stood there until she was safely inside.

The door to the flat was open, so Molly tucked her keys into her bag as she finished climbing the stairs. There had been no formal gifting of the keys from Sherlock. They'd simply appeared on her key ring one morning. When she'd tried to ask him about it, he'd changed the subject and distracted her with a kiss and questions about the paper she was writing.

She wasn't surprised to see that Sherlock was home, or that John was with him. Sherlock was sitting in front of his laptop and John was leaning over him, one hand on the desk as he looked over the consulting detective's shoulder. If she'd ever been asked to imagine the two of them working together in the flat, this was the sort of thing she would have pictured. Perhaps with their roles switched; John typing away at his blog and Sherlock offering sarcastic quips over his shoulder.

John looked up as Molly dumped her bag next to the door. "Hello, Molly."

She warmly greeted them both and headed toward the kitchen. Sherlock didn't look up or even acknowledge her presence in anyway, intent on whatever he was reading. John frowned and looked as if he wanted to say something, but Molly waved him off with a smile that made it clear she wasn't bothered by the snub.

She'd known Sherlock for years and had grown very familiar with his rude idiosyncrasies and extreme focus. Just because they were in a relationship, she didn't expect that he was going to suddenly change his personality to dote on her. It was a bit of a relief, actually. He wouldn't seem normal if he was hanging on her every word and casting doe eyes in her direction every time she entered the room. It would be too much like his saccharinely sweet, fake relationship with Janine.

"I'm going to make some tea. Would you like a cup, John?" She started to fill the kettle.

"That would be great." He looked back to Sherlock's laptop and pointed at something on the screen. "That can't be right, the breaks are inconsistent with a fall from a second floor."

Sherlock considered it for a moment. "Good eye. I knew that idiot at the morgue wasn't paying attention. Thank God Molly is back at Barts."

She smiled at the implied complement and leaned back against the kitchen counter as she waited for the kettle to boil.

She'd always known that Sherlock was good at what he did; but once he'd started working with John, he'd become something more and it really was lovely to witness it firsthand.

The kettle began to whistle and startled Molly out of her thoughts. She gathered the cups and prepared a tray. A few minutes later she carried it into the sitting room and set it on the desk. She passed a cup to John and set another next to the laptop within Sherlock's reach. Molly picked up the third cup and let the heat warm her hands, inhaling the fragrant steam.

John straightened and politely thanked her, stressing her name in an effort to remind his friend to do the same. Sherlock ignored him.

Along with the tea, Molly had brought a small plate of her favourite chocolate biscuits. She ate one while John filled her in on the case they were working on. "The witness says Miss Green fell from the second floor balcony and snapped her neck on impact. But the autopsy seems to indicate something different."

"May I see?"

John stepped out of the way so that she could move into his spot. She frowned as she looked at the digital copy of the post-mortem. "Do I even want to know how you got a copy of this?"

"Probably not," Sherlock answered as he leaned back in his chair and absentmindedly reached for his teacup. He took a sip and hummed appreciatively.

John rolled his eyes. "Greg emailed it. He thought there was something odd about the witness' statement. The one who saw her fall. Brother-in-law, his wife stands to inherit a large chunk of money now that her sister is dead."

Molly nodded and scanned through the report to find the pertinent bits. She'd just found what she'd been looking for when Sherlock reached out to drag the biscuit plate out of John's reach. "Nope. Not for you."

"What?" John froze with his hand hovering over the space where the plate had been.

"The biscuits. Those are Molly's. Not for you."

She had to hide her grin behind her cup until she could control her expression. "Sherlock, John can have one if he wants."

The consulting detective shook his head and pulled the plate even further from his friend. "If he wants a biscuit, there are some plain ones in the cupboard. I'm sure he can find them. And if he can't, he can go bother Mrs Hudson for some. These are yours. I had to deal with that moron of a Tesco's delivery boy myself to get them for you."

"But you ate some of them the other night?" Molly reminded him.

The self-satisfied smirk on his face told her he was about to say something that would probably embarrass the hell out of her. "Only because we were getting ready for bed and I know how much you enjoy the flavour."

John sputtered and nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. Molly's cheeks burned.

Sherlock--the arse--continued to look pleased with himself. "You know, I'm beginning to grow rather fond of it myself."

Molly groaned and hung her head, praying for Greg to pop in with a nice distracting murder that would make John forget what he'd just heard. "Oh God."

By the time she looked up again, John had already pulled out his phone. "Mary is going to love this."

She did the only thing she could, Molly pointed at the document on the laptop screen. "Is it possible that her neck might have been broken prior to the fall?"

Sherlock gave her a knowing look that told her he knew what she was trying to do, but he went along with her diversion anyway. "I'd considered it. If you agree with John's assessment of her other injuries, then I believe her death was no accident. We have a killer on our hands."

"And you already know who," John muttered as he finished texting Mary.

"And I already know who. Oh, shut up, John."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The men had left to meet up with Greg hours earlier, and Molly contemplated finishing one more chapter in her book before going to bed early. She'd changed into her pyjamas and settled into John's chair for a little light reading after a long day at Barts.

She tensed when the stairs creaked, and turned to peer over the back of the chair to see who was coming. Sherlock stormed through the door, frowning, and immediately threw himself into his chair.

"How did the case go?" He looked upset. Not a good sign. "Was it the brother-in-law?"

Sherlock's eyes met hers, and she suspected he hadn't even realized she was in the room until she'd spoken. "What? Yes, the brother-in-law. He broke down and confessed to Gavin within minutes of our arrival at his home."

So if it wasn't the case that was bothering him, then what was it? She didn't think it was anything she had done. A few months ago she might have jumped to that conclusion, but things were different now. Her confidence in their relationship had grown considerably, especially after Sherlock told her he loved her.

She debated whether to ask him or let him sort things out on his own. "Is something wrong?"

He tapped his fingers against the arms of his chair and grimaced. "Janine. She should have been back from her business trip last night, but I haven't heard a thing from her all day." He reached for his laptop and flipped it open. "Something's not right. We agreed she'd check in daily until we figured out how to deal with Chapman. She's missing."

Molly felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn't given Janine more than a passing thought in days. "What happened?"

"Janine is missing," Sherlock snapped. "How are you unable to understand such a simple concept? I expect better of you, Molly. That's the sort of inane question Anderson would ask."

Oh, wow. She bit her lip to keep from snapping back or, even worse, apologizing. Molly knew she wasn't a meek little mouse anymore; and she wasn't going to let Sherlock reduce her to that behaviour again, just because he was in a bad mood. She opened her book and forced herself to stare at the pages, ignoring him. If he was going to act like a child, then she was going to treat him like one.

His fingers danced across the keyboard for several ticks of the clock before they slowed to a stop. She lifted her head to find him staring at her over the top of his laptop screen. His eyes were wide and panic stricken.

"I-that-I didn't mean to-that was-" Sherlock stammered so much that she started to feel a tiny bit bad for him, but she wasn't about to let him off the hook completely.

Molly raised her hand to cut him off. "That was something that we will discuss in-depth later. After you've figured out what is going on with Janine, and how to find her if she is--in fact--missing."

He nodded once and turned back to his laptop for a moment. She didn't even have a chance to find where she'd left off in her book before Sherlock quietly lowered the screen. "I can't. I need to know how to fix it," he implored her. "Tell me what to do."

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighed. "Look, I am aware that in comparison to you, I'm an idiot-"

He rushed to interrupted her, "Almost everyone is." As if that made things better.

She growled his name in warning.

"But you aren't."

"I'm sorry, what?" That was unexpected. Sherlock wasn't known for tossing out compliments about someone else's intelligence. He was notorious for doing exactly the opposite. On the extremely rare occasions when he had done the unthinkable, the compliments were always grudgingly given.

"You're not at my level, very few people are. And you are nowhere near Mycroft, I barely am. But you are not an idiot, Molly, far from it. Don't ever say that again." He almost sounded angry with her, and then he seemed to remember that she was the one who had a reason to be annoyed with him. "What I said was . . ." He paused as if searching for the right word.

"Uncalled for?" Molly prompted. "Rude?"

Sherlock grimaced and nodded, looking chastised and more than a little lost. "Probably both. We've just found this thing between us, I don't want to you lose you already."

Molly shook her head. "You're not going to lose me because you misspoke one time. If you were going to chase me away just by being you, it would have happened years ago. But that does not give you free rein to say whatever horrible thing pops into your head with me. Take a moment to think before you speak. Don't belittle me, and we'll figure the rest out as we go."

He continued to watch her, as if unsure of whether or not she was telling the truth.

"I promise. You'll have to try harder than that to make me leave." His shoulders started to lose their tension at her words. "As long as we love each other, then you're stuck with me, Sherlock."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, then Sherlock gave her a hopeful, boyish smile. Molly nodded in return and pointed at his laptop. "Janine."

She watched him work, once again amazed at how completely he could shut the rest of the world out to get lost in his thoughts.

From the first moment she'd seriously considered what it would be like to be involved with Sherlock (as a real couple, not just fantasies about shagging him silly), she'd always known there would have to be a few allowances made for him that weren't required for the other men she had dated. She understood that he had a tendency to focus to the point of obsession when he had an interesting case, and that wasn't something she had any intention of trying to change. Molly was under no illusion that he would let her even if she'd wanted to. She fully expected that there would be times when he would tell her to be quiet or ask her to leave so he could concentrate on his work; but he would have to learn how to temper that razor sharp tongue if they were going to be equals in their relationship. And Molly refused to settle for anything less.

Now, however, was not the time to get into all of that. Not if Janine really had gone missing.

She closed her book and prepared to stand. "Is there anything I can do to help before I leave?"

Sherlock's head jerked up. "Leave? Why are you leaving?"

"Because you're working." She stood and smiled down at him indulgently.

He seemed utterly confused by the concept. "Yes, but why are you leaving?"

"To give you space, so you can think. So you can figure out what's going on with Janine." It seemed like a reasonable suggestion to her. She wasn't sure why he was protesting.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and his nose crinkled. "Why would I need space? You aren't a distraction. You're so quiet while you read, I hardly remember you're there sometimes."

Well, that was a boost to the self esteem, wasn't it? She was pretty sure that was meant to be a compliment. Probably.

"You know how it helps me to bounce ideas off of someone. You're a much better option than Billy." Wonderful. She beat out the skull on the mantel. He kept talking. "Perhaps not as good as John, but you're considerably more pleasing to the eye, and you do offer the occasional burst of insight that has been quite helpful in the past."

"Thank you." It had been a compliment in Sherlock speak.

"You're welcome."

"So, is there anything I can do?" she offered again.

He frowned as if he couldn't believe they were still discussing it. "Stay."

"Just . . . stay?" There was still that bit of uncertainty that made her need to hear him say it one more time. She knew that he valued her, but there was still the odd moments of fear that it was all a dream.

Sherlock nodded and gestured toward John's chair. "Just stay."

Molly sat and made herself comfortable, curling her legs under her. "Done."

She had no idea how long she'd been reading. Every once in awhile she would look up to check on him. At some point he'd closed the laptop and tucked it into the space next to him in the chair. The last time she'd looked his legs were drawn up against his chest, his feet bare, and he'd steepled his fingers into his thinking pose.

"It makes no sense," Sherlock's voice softly broke into the comfortable silence. He didn't sound as if he wanted a response, so Molly didn't bother offering one. She turned the page, a small part of her registering what he was saying while the rest concentrated on her book. "Chapman intimidates his victims. Mental abuse. Physical abuse. Limited to sexual situations in almost all cases. Other than the attack at your flat, his pattern hasn't changed. The abduction attempt with you was . . . an aberration. As far as he was aware you didn't fit his profile, yet he came after you anyway. What caused him to leave his comfort zone? Molly?"

She looked up at the sound of her name. "Pardon?"

"Why would he switch to kidnapping women? That's not what he enjoys, it's not subtle enough. It's not part of his game."

"I, uhm, never really paid that much attention in my psychology class at uni," Molly admitted, looking more than a little sheepish. "Are you, well, are you sure it was him?"

Sherlock shifted until he could drape both legs over one of the chair arms. "The probabilities that she would go missing on her own or that a stranger would abduct her just twenty-four hours after returning to London are too small to be a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy. Who else would it be?"

"Moriarty?" She threw out the only name she could think of.

"Jim Moriarty is dead," he scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "I saw him blow his brains out myself."

"I know he's dead, I did the post mortem," Molly scoffed right back. She looked away, focusing on the odd shadow box on mantel, the one with the beetles and the bat. "Someone needed to verify that his wound was self-inflicted, and your brother asked that I be involved. There were . . . rumours. Rumours that you murdered an innocent actor before jumping to your death. I couldn't let people think that about you." Moriarty had been a criminal mastermind and all around arse, but she had been in a relationship with him (short-lived and bittersweet as it was). She wouldn't have even done the autopsy if Mycroft hadn't insisted.

Sherlock's expression softened. "I'm sorry." He looked as if he meant it.

"I didn't mean Moriarty took her," she clarified. "I meant whomever is pretending to be Moriarty. Her name has been linked to yours in the papers quite a bit. Perhaps she was taken to get back at you."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Not a possibility."

"Why not?" She thought it was a valid theory.

"Because there is no criminal pretending to be Moriarty. That was Mycroft throwing up a diversion to have my exile orders revoked. The sentimental fool didn't want me sent on a mission that would most certainly end in my death."

The sound of her book dropping to the floor was loud in the deathly silent room. Sherlock paled and swung his legs down so he could face her completely.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" It was difficult to force the words out. It felt as if there was something in her throat, a large, painful lump threatening to cut off her air supply at any moment.

"You should probably forget all of that." He grimaced and straightened his shirt cuffs, then looked around the room at anything but her. "I'm . . . not sure if it would fall under your clearance. Regardless, I wouldn't bring it up in conversation with Mycroft. He thinks I don't know, even though it is utterly obvious to anyone who might bother to think about it."

"You were going to be exiled? What the hell did you do, Sherlock?" She didn't give him a chance to answer, speaking over him as soon as he opened his mouth. Well, not speaking so much as yelling. Or perhaps screeching might have been a more accurate term, as she was aware that her voice was getting higher and higher with each question. "You were being sent off to die? And you didn't tell me?"

"I said goodbye!" he shouted in return. He took a deep breath repeated himself in a much calmer tone. "I said goodbye. That day at the lab."

Molly tried to understand what she was hearing. "You came to my lab and said goodbye, and somehow I was supposed to know that meant you were never coming back and you knew--You knew!--you were going to die?"

"Of course you weren't supposed to know. No one was supposed to know any of that. Mary suspected at least part of it, because Mary is . . . But I couldn't tell anyone." His eyes seemed to silently plead with her to understand. "Jesus, Molly, do you have any idea how far I had to push to get permission to even see you one last time? They wanted me out of the country and they wanted it quick. Mycroft had to pull strings left and right to grant me an extra day to get some things in order. That it gave him additional time to arrange his little diversion was neither here nor there."

It was almost too much to take in. She'd been so close to losing him forever and she hadn't even realized it. "That's why there was someone waiting outside the morgue, wasn't it? You were being watched."

"Guarded. There were some . . . concerns that I was going to run."

She snorted in disbelief. "Then they, who ever 'they' are, don't know you very well."

He shrugged. "I might have, if I thought there would have been any chance of it ending in anything other than a public trial and an official death sentence."

A death sentence? What did he do?

"I couldn't have put my family or John through that. Not after everything they'd gone through when the world thought I was a crime orchestrating fake. I did kill a very important man in cold blood in front of a dozen or more witnesses, there was no way I'd be able to get away without facing some consequences. But I knew that before I pulled the trigger. The exile seemed to be the best choice I had."

The blood drained from her face and Molly felt lightheaded. She was fully aware that Sherlock had done some horrible things in the course of his work. She'd known there was a chance that he might have contributed to the death of some of Moriarty's associates while he was gone those two years, but she had never heard him directly admit to killing someone before.

The entire time she tried to sort through her thoughts, Sherlock observed her. He didn't move, didn't change position, barely even breathed. He just watched her, silently waiting for her to react. It was maddening.

"Did I know him?" Why that mattered, she hadn't a clue; but something in her needed to know.

"Personally? Doubtful." His voice wasn't cold, exactly, just devoid of the warmth she'd grown accustomed to over the last few days. He was holding himself back. Shutting himself away. Trying to protect himself from the rejection he was expecting.

"Did I know of him?"

"It's possible, although unlikely, that you had heard of him prior to the reports of his mysterious demise. Charles Magnussen, prominent international businessman, found shot dead in his home after an apparent burglary gone wrong. There had been a small mention of him being brought before a parliamentary committee to answer some queries, but that story got buried rather quickly. It would have been very easy to miss."

It was as if a spotlight had been cast at one of Sherlock's evidence walls, highlighting transcripts of conversations she'd had over the last few months. Sherlock had dated Janine for a case, something that involved her employer. The boss that had been killed in a burglary around Christmas. Anthea had mentioned his name in the car the day of the Barrett party, said his name was . . . Oh God, Sherlock.

"You killed Janine's boss." Molly tried not to sound as horrified as she felt.

He nodded without a single word of explanation.

"Is that why, uhm, is that why you proposed to her? To get close enough to-to shoot him?"

He didn't even flinch, as if he'd been expecting the question. "No. I needed access to his office. The proposal seemed the most expedient option." She believed him. It was such a typical 'Sherlock the Arsehole' thing to do that there was no doubt in her mind that he was telling the truth.

Molly bit her lip as she continued to piece things together. "Was that what Mycroft was talking about, when he said the lead had hit a dead-end?"

Sherlock nodded again.

"Jesus." Her expression turned stormy, and she glared at the horrible, innocent bat again. "I hope to God that wasn't Mycroft attempting to make a morbid pun."

A sharp bark of laughter had her looking at Sherlock once more. He quickly sobered when he realized Molly hadn't been making a joke.

She bent down and carefully picked up her book, setting it on the small table next to the chair. Once that was done, she took a deep breath and asked a question that probably said a lot more about her than Sherlock. "Did he deserve it?"

Regardless of his answer, was she really going to act like there was any reasonable excuse to kill a man?

Molly thought about all the bodies that had come through her morgue. All the innocent men and women who had lost their lives at the hands of another. She thought about Chapman and how badly things could have gone if Jacob hadn't burst into the hall to defend her. She thought about what she would be willing to do to save Sherlock. And just like that, she had her answer.

She owed it to him to give him a chance to explain, to wait until she knew why he'd done it before deciding how to proceed.

"It's not up to me to judge whether or not a man should live or die. That has been made extremely clear to me." He studied her face, looking for something. Probably a hint to her thoughts or feelings at the moment. She kept her expression as blank as possible, not wanting to get his hopes up in case she couldn't deal with it.

"Were you in danger?" Not that she wanted him to be, but self defence would go a long way toward making all of this easier to accept.

Sherlock remained unnaturally still, as if he knew how desperately she was searching for something to make everything better and nothing he would say would fix it. "No. If he'd lived I would have been in a great deal of trouble, but I wasn't in any real danger."

Molly appreciated his honesty. He could have lied to her, made up some story to sooth her conscience; but he told the truth knowing full well it might drive her away.

"Someone else? Was he going to hurt someone else?"

"Yes."

Her eyes closed and she took a deep breath, then opened them to meet his anxious gaze. "Someone you care about, one of the people on your list?"

"More than one." Was she mistaken or was some of the tension beginning to melt away from his shoulders? Did he deduce her before she'd even admitted she'd made a decision herself?

"In your opinion, at the moment that you . . . did it, did he need to die?"

Sherlock's nod was sharp and confident, not a hint of doubt on his face. "Yes."

Molly stood up and reached for his shoulder, squeezing it briefly. "That's all I need to hear." She moved toward the kitchen, aware that her hands were shaking. Even without turning around she knew he was watching her, could practically feel his gaze on her back. She grabbed the kitchen counter and lowered her head for a moment, before reaching for the kettle. "If I'm going to stay up much later, I'm definitely going to need caffeine. Coffee?"

"That's it? Just an offer of coffee. I admitted I murdered a man in cold blood and you're fine with that?"

What the hell else did he want from her? Did he want her to run away? Was he trying to scare her off? And she really, really wished he'd stop saying that.

In cold blood.

Those three words were making her stomach rebel.

She finished filling the kettle with water from the tap and slammed it down on the cook-top, shooting him a disgruntled look in the process. "I didn't say I was fine with it. I may never be fine with it. I said that's all I needed to hear." She flicked on the burner and pulled one of the chairs away from the table so she could sit while she waited for it to boil. "I trust you, Sherlock. I trust you with my life. And if you felt you honestly had no other choice-"

"Molly," he interrupted her. "You need to know the truth, before you . . . I had other choices. I've been able to think of dozens since that day, things I could have done with more preparation. If I'd just understood Magnussen sooner. If I hadn't been so certain that I'd be able to outwit him. But none of them would have protected the people I cared about, not with the limited time and resources I had to work with at that moment. I made a split second decision and a man is dead because I shot him, point blank."

"Then you did what you had to do."

"How can you say that?" She'd never seen Sherlock look so puzzled. If she'd been closer, she might have tried to physically comfort him.

"Because I can't say with one hundred percent certainty that I wouldn't have made the same decision to protect someone I loved." You.

He looked as if he wanted to protest, but Molly shook her head. "I'm sure John and Mary are very grateful for the sacrifice you were prepared to make."

He went very still other than a tell-tale tic at the corner of his lips. "Who said anything about John and Mary?"

"Your list isn't very long, Sherlock." And she'd always been able to read him better than he thought. "If you were protecting your brother, he wouldn't have needed to find a way to keep you in the country. They would have been threatening you with a medal or a knighthood instead. Mycroft would move heaven and earth to make sure your parents were safe, so it couldn't have reached the exile stage for them, either. That leaves a very small number of people." She thought for a moment and smiled. "I suppose it could have all been for Mrs Hudson and Greg, but I figured it would be a safe bet to go with John and Mary."

The way his gaze softened as he studied her made ache to tell him everything was all right. It wasn't, not quite, but it would be. "You're on that list, you know."

"I am now," she agreed.

"No." He stood up and cautiously approached her, giving her time to tell him to stay away. "You've always been on it, Molly. From the moment I realized it existed." Sherlock held out his hand and Molly took it.

They stayed like that, holding hands and looking at each other with love in their eyes, aware that they'd managed to get past something that could have easily ripped them apart. Eventually the kettle whistled, and Sherlock stepped back so she could get up and make her coffee. "So it's not Moriarty, and you can't think of anyone else who would want to spirit Janine away. You said that Chapman had been escalating his abuse over the years, is it that much of a jump to kidnapping?"

"It's a possibility. It might be that this thing with Janine is a special case. She dumped him, ran to another man. Another Alpha male that Chapman would see as a threat. He talked about punishing her; when he couldn't manipulate her into coming back, he may have decided abduction was his only way of making her pay for causing him to lose face."

"Or she could just be jetlagged and fell asleep without checking in with you." She knew which of those options she'd prefer. The thought of Janine at the mercy of that creep made her shiver in disgust.

"Sure, that could be what happened." His expression made it more than clear that he didn't believe that for a second, but he was making an effort to keep from saying anything insulting.

Molly poured the steaming water into a mug and reached for the instant coffee. She grimaced at the jar and shoved it back in the cupboard, then dug around until she found a box of cocoa packets that had mysteriously appeared the day after she'd come to stay. "Any ideas?"

"She's not answering her phone. There was no one home at her flat or the cottage earlier. I sent someone out to both while John and I were in transit. One of Mycroft's lackey's has been keeping an eye on Chapman's home, but he hasn't brought her there, either."

"Hotel?"

"Too risky. Too many people around."


That made sense. She thought about asking another question as she sipped her cocoa, but he looked as if he'd already become lost in his thoughts. Molly decided her book would help keep her busy until Sherlock needed a sounding board again. She took her cocoa back into the sitting room and made herself comfortable. She noted that he'd settled into the kitchen chair she'd vacated earlier. Eventually he got up and joined her, curling into his chair, before picking up his violin. He plucked at the strings, making her wince and worry about what Mrs Hudson might think about the noise this late in the evening. After awhile Molly managed to tune out the individual sounds until they were equivalent to white noise, and they became almost soothing.

Her eyelids grew heavy and she nearly missed the hum of Sherlock's mobile phone vibrating on his desk. He continued to play with the violin as if he hadn't heard it.

"Your phone went off. I think you've got a text."

"Read it to me."

She looked from him to the now silent phone on his desk, well within his reach, and back. Molly rolled her eyes and got up. "It's locked. I don't have the passcode."

He rattled off several numbers so quickly she barely had a chance to catch them all. It took a moment to locate the proper icon, and then she was reading aloud, "It says 'I miss you. Need to see you tonight.' Simply signed 'J'. And there's a picture of-of someone's cleavage squashed into an uncomfortable looking nightie."

Sherlock held out his hand with a frown. "Let me see." He glanced at the photo, then shoved the phone into his pocket. "That's definitely Janine. She's at her cottage. Or, more precisely, she was when the picture was taken. Obviously a setup, but to what end?"

He'd done it again. Identified a woman by 'not her face'. She knew he hadn't had sex with Janine or the Dominatrix but he clearly had a strong familiarity with their bodies if he could identify them with a single quick look. "How do you know?"

"That it's the cottage? The wainscoting in the background. Runs through the entire place. Janine hates it, keeps complaining she's going to rip it all out, as if I care one way or another about how she plans to redecorate. How do I know it's a setup? She is well aware that I have no interest in seeing her in lingerie. It does nothing for me. Never has." He got out of the chair and stood in front of her. "Or were you asking how I recognized her from that photo?"

Molly wanted to die of embarrassment. She sounded like a jealous cow, and she'd felt a bit like one too. Just because she'd been confronted with proof that he'd dated another woman, fake or not.

Sherlock pulled her out of the chair and tilted her chin up with two of his fingers. "I had a part to play as her attentive boyfriend, that necessitated a certain level of familiarity. She has a small birthmark at the base of her throat, you can see it clearly in the picture. Rest assured I've deleted anything else I may have made note of while we were 'dating'." He stepped closer until he was pressed against her. "You, on the other hand, have burned yourself into my memory. I couldn't delete you even when I desperately wanted to."

He leaned down and softly kissed her, the barest brush of his lips against hers. "We can discuss it more when I get back, if that's what you want. I want you to be absolutely sure of my feelings for you. No doubts."

Molly shook her head. "I don't have any." She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. "Not about that."

"I need to go." Sherlock leaned down to kiss her cheek, then pulled away. Almost immediately he had switched over to his consulting detective mode, rushing around the flat to gather up the things he wanted to take with him when he left.

"Are you going to call Gavin? I mean Garret. Greg! Oh, screw it, are you going to call Lestrade?" Molly knew she was getting flustered; but the happier Sherlock looked, the more nervous she felt.

He shook his head and pulled on his Belstaff. "I've got a better chance of remaining undetected while I have a look around without him lumbering along behind me."

She bit her lip, uneasy at the thought of Sherlock walking a situation he had already identified as a setup without taking someone with him. "What about John?"

"That would be ideal, yes, but Bethany has been fussy the last few days and I fear Mary far more than I fear whatever elaborate plan Chapman has concocted to best me and convince Janine to come back to him." He finally stopped moving and stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips. "What am I forgetting?"

"Shoes." Molly pointed toward his bare toes.

"Right." Sherlock disappeared down the hall to his room and returned a few minutes later. He hesitated at the door for a moment, then hurried over to her one last time.

"I don't suppose you would . . . But no, that wouldn't work, would it?" He picked up her hand, the one that she'd used to break Chapman's nose, and ghosted his lips against her knuckles. "You'd be a distraction, but for all the wrong reasons, I think."

Even though she wanted to tell him not to leave, Molly held her tongue. She was always going to worry about him, but that didn't mean she would ask him to stay. "Try not to get hurt this time. I didn't pack my first aid kit," she joked, hoping he would recognize it as her way of asking him to be careful.

He grinned as he looped his scarf around his neck. "No worries. John made me get one of my own when he moved out. You look tired. Go ahead and go to bed, I'll wake you when I get home."

And then he was gone.



Part 1 / Part 15