A/N: Thank you AussieMaelstrom for beta.

This story will be in five parts.

Warning: smutty flashbacks will occur.

I am gifting this to OccasionallyCreative because.

Clues

"Take off your mask," she slurred, hands on his cheeks, as she fingered the soft black fabric that covered the upper part of his face. Only his eyes were visible, his upper features disguised, perhaps it was the dark cloth that made his eyes seem dangerous, almost forbidden. Everything about him was an enigma wrapped in a tight-fitting black costume. The dark cape hung around his broad shoulders, the dark shirt tight yet loose, revealing sparse hairs on a pale chest, and the dark trousers sat just right.

She barely restrained her sigh, licking her lips silently instead, hoping he'd comply with her wish. They'd gotten so far after all, but he was still the silent figure. He'd barely said a full sentence, and the handful of words he'd spoken throughout the night had been murmured into her ear, his hands constantly ghosting on the lower part of her back, his voice husky and deep. Something about his voice, something about it gave her shivers and wants and needs.

She bit her lip, her eyes settling on his mouth, as she grinned at the silly drawn-on black moustache that was almost rubbed off by how much they'd kissed. Instead of answering he drew her closer, pressing her up against him more fiercely, tightening his hold on the back of her dress. "Take it off," she said meeting his gaze, her lips automatically parting, her mind wandering to other possibilities.

His eyes twinkled as he pressed a gloved finger against his lips, her eyes paying close attention to all of his movements, until his mouth met hers with undeniable heat. It was a kiss unlike any other, demanding underneath the surface, so much want hidden away and her mouth opened up to his easily, her own hands finding purchase in his darkness, smiling against his lips.

It was perhaps not an answer but she did not mind it one bit, her mind reeling, when he repeated the phrase he'd said earlier, as she'd led the way to her building. Though before it had been in a fake-accent, but this time it was spoken with a laugh.

"I'm a married man."

Her body arched underneath his well-sculpted form. Their hands pressed together, as he stole another kiss from her swollen lips muffling her loud moans. Thrust after thrust she met him unafraid in return, her brown eyes drenched in lust, swept away by how he filled every inch of her…"Oh my-,"

"God-," particles of hair and dust seemed to have accumulated on her tongue. It was like an indistinct fuzzy coat layered the interior of her mouth. Ugh. She obviously had not brushed her teeth the night before.

This minor inconvenience was nothing to the volume of how her head throbbed. Though she knew it was impossible; it felt like her brain would leak out any second, her liver aching soundly in the background seeming insulted by last night's escapades.

Slowly she sat up in her bed, a palm resting against her forehead as she surveyed the war-zone that was her bedroom. Her white glass-lamp from IKEA was in miniscule pieces on the floor, resembling eggshells; the bed sheets were in a crumpled heap by her door – and – her costume was ripped.

It did not resemble something Bo-Peep would wear anymore, but it wasn't tremendously accurate the night before either. "Oh God – oh God," she groaned, looking worse for wear herself.

Her hair was a tousled mess, dark smudges were smeared underneath her eyes and she was wearing a dark sort-of nightshirt. It wasn't hers, but it was soft, and she was glad to have it on, especially since it became clear no knickers or brassiere was under it.

She looked like she'd been burgled, though considering the tremendous ache between her thighs; another event had taken place – a man. Blinking against the light pressing on her eyes from the bright window, she began to wobble out of the bed only to feel a cold edge of steel by her fingertips, which made her halt, tumbling onto the bed again. She picked up the object, and proceeded to blink at a pair of handcuffs. "Oh."

"Please," she cried, frantic for him to enter her, instead of teasing her mercifully, her cunt sopping wet, while his cock stroked the outside of the tender flesh making her clench at air.

"Please – what?" he growled into her ear, biting at the lobe, as she tried to explain, her body wriggling desperately for more than just friction.

Sighing she took a longer sip of her tea, relishing the bitter flavour and trying to think of where her cat Toby was probably hiding (it was a way to distract herself). He was probably holed up in her guest bedroom, which was where he usually hid whenever she'd had Tom over back when she was engaged. Tom. "Oh my-," she began shaking her head, only to find it rebelling against the activity.

He'd been there – at the party – yes – he'd been at the party. Why she was hung-over became a bit clearer to her all of a sudden, even if everything was still foggy. But they were all right, weren't they? Certainly not good enough for this to happen exactly, but amiable, half-friends, the sort of people who could congratulate each other on their respective Facebook walls if either had a birthday (though only one smiley-face of course, more than that would look that they were trying too hard).

Molly drummed her fingers on the cup, glancing about with tired brown eyes at her surroundings. Pillows were strewn on the floor with a mysterious wet stain on her favourite bright pink pillow, and besides the pile of cushions there was a used condom. It was just lying there innocently, blatantly saying what her body seemed to recall physically.

Ugh.

She had marks, thorough marks, practically branded by her 'lover' – the mystery man. There were small bruises on and above her breasts, some scattered generously around her neck, even a couple on her thighs, inside her thighs, even on her knee (why, how, why). Studying bruises almost daily, she knew these kinds of marks properly, though she hardly expected to find herself sprinkled with them. No, that had never happened before.

Everything about her felt tender, though clearly satisfied, even if her head was not coping with the current climate. She'd not been properly hung-over in years, constantly keeping herself within her own personal limit, but she knew she'd had some good reason to partake in a bucket load of drink the night before. Tom.

It just seemed wrong, but she had a niggling sensation in the back of her head. She was angry with him, though she couldn't remember 'why' she was cross, which was disconcerting.

Taking a sip of her tea she tried clearing her scratchy throat, as she'd clearly been screaming a lot the night before. A small smile found its way on her face, dropping all of a sudden when she remembered one thing rather vividly – "I'm a married man."

Sweet and salty, thick and throbbing in her mouth, her saliva practically dripping on his cock, wanting him to be inside of her, pounding into her flesh like he was doing her mouth. He gripped at her hair, while she hummed, letting him feel the vibrations on his cock.

"So?" said Meena on the other end of the line, annoyance dripping off every syllable. "So you shagged someone? What's the problem? Hasn't it been ages?"

Molly clenched her eyes shut, tugging her bathrobe closer around her, as if to shield any onlookers from the sight of the myriad of love bites she'd procured during the night – "He was married," she hissed, the guilt overtaking her.

Married men were off-limits to her, they were mythical creatures from another world – these good men who she never ever would in a sober state ever consider. But last night apparently, common decency disappeared with enough strawberry daiquiris. She'd told Meena she hadn't wanted to go to St Bart's costume party extravaganza, only grudgingly complying when she was handed a costume – Bo-Peep. It had been a pale pink ridiculous monstrosity with enough bows to satisfy her needs, at least according to Meena ("Look it's pink and pretty – like you.")And now it was merrily a rag, a fact she didn't feel tempted to tell her friend of quite yet, silently transferring her some money for the costume instead.

"And what do you want me to tell you?" said Meena. "Bad – bad – Molly? Give you a slap on the wrist or something?" Molly frowned deeply. She'd hoped Meena would be cross or disappointed, especially since Meena recently had gotten engaged and was three months pregnant, but apparently some things would never change. Whatever Molly did, Meena wouldn't judge since Molly had never judged her when it came to her past silliness.

"Would help," she said feeling rather unsure. "Of course I might have heard wrong." Mishearingthe word married seemed unlikely, very much so, though she did wonder whom the man was? Was he an absolute stranger or someone she'd met before or was he someone she worked with daily?

She couldn't remember what he looked like, or what he was wearing, but he had certainly been intriguing. Of course she remembered the most important part, the one part that made her feel guilty, as if that was her lot in life.

It wasn't her fault that some married man had succumbed to such a thing anyway, since she was not the other woman in this scenario. Obviously since the man had practically fled her flat, he too was most likely utterly guilt-ridden by the incident, and probably off worshipping his wife, whomever she was.

Meena laughed. "You might have heard wrong? My God – Molly – how much did you have to drink last night?"

She remembered having a couple of glasses, and that's when her memory glazed over into a frantic thick fog of mystery. It was like one of those thrillers she watched on the telly occasionally (or often) where the lead character had lost their memory and would have to begin piecing together every little thing. Her hung-over did not sound like a mystery exactly, more embarrassing.

"A bit," she said carefully, hand placed on her hip, as she strode through the sitting room, aware of the watchful green eyes of her cat Toby who'd finally made an appearance. "Um – possibly a lot."

There was a slight pause, before Meena broke out in a fresh bout of laughter. "If it hadn't been for my bladder - I might have bloody witnessed this!"

"So you don't have any idea who it could be?" said Molly who pressed the receiver of her landline against her ear, biting on a nail nervously.

"You spoke to a lot of people last night – if there's anyone who should know it's you –," Meena paused slightly. "…You did talk to Tom though from what I remember, but I left at that point."

Molly grimaced. "I did?"

"I don't think you made a mess of it, he looked pretty pleased about himself," said Meena after a beat, sounding thoughtful. "Have you checked your mobile, though? Might be some clues there."

"This isn't a mystery, Meena," said Molly slowly, eyeing the offending phone on her coffee table, hating the electronic device with a passion.

"If it isn't - what harm can there be in checking your mobile? Everyone checks their mobile – twitter – facebook – there might be a clue – or wait – pictures – oh my god, that's right! There's got to be some."

"I'm not going through the photos."

"Might not even be one of you there," said Meena in small voice.

"You're going through the photo's, aren't you?" said Molly stopping in her stride.

"No…"

"Meena!"

"What? It's the first thing that pops up on my wall. Nothing embarrassing so far, but then again there's like – oh-," her laughter makes Molly's stomach take a plunge, a deep searing one.

"What? What is it?"

"No, just Miriam snogging Peter Beldam – who she apparently hates, obviously not by the amount of tongue down his throat – but still none of you, or well, I've seen you in the back mostly, pretty low profile really – you seemed to be standing in dark corners a lot."

"Thank God," said Molly relieved.

"There's a nice one of you and John Watson though – and he's apparently got his hand on your – wow – breast."

"What?" squeaked Molly.

"Kidding! - Now – go check your mobile– you kept away from the cameras, so we know you didn't start taking off your kit at least."

"Umm- maybe I-,"

"You expecting the married man to text you? If he isn't there now then you don't need to worry-,"

"But what if he's a boss or something-,"

"Well, there's the added bonus that you don't remember who he is."

"Meena - it's not – it's not good – I'll go around wondering-,"

"It'll pass! I promise! Just remember that you had amazing sex, and some man out there is a proper bastard – you did have amazing sex, right?"

She properly laughed this time. "Oh, you're probably right...doesn't really make me feel better though."

"So check your phone, and feel better about yourself – come on – it'll be like ripping off a Band-Aid!"

"Okay," said Molly with a smile picking up her phone, though her smile slipped off, immediately replaced with a gape. Several text messages littered her inbox, and several of them from various men she knew.

Not good, definitely not good.

"What's wrong?" said Meena at her silence, while Molly began to open several of the texts.

I think we need to talk about last night – Tom

Oh God.

She took a deep breath, trying not to jump too quickly to conclusions, checking the other from GregLestrade –

I need you to give me the handcuffs back ;)

And now she was really, really confused, even more so by John Watson's two texts –

We really need to talk.

Call me immediately!

"Feel better?" said Meena after a while.

"No."