A/N: I want to thank my Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration co-mod Lilsherlockian1975 for her encouragement while I was trying to brainstorm an idea for a Halloweenish fic. I also want to thank my husband, the Captain, for listening to me ramble plot ideas at him and for answering questions like "If you were going to try to hide a body in Victorian London, where would you put it?" His answer was the sewer, btw, which did make an appearance in my story. I also also want to thank an old friend and former beta once in another life who also answered the 'where would you hide a body' question for me (the Smithfield Meat market was her answer, and it featured heavily in my story) and helped me with loads of research via the sort of text messages that would make law enforcement give you the side eye.

Part Nine

It had been a strange courtship.

Nine months—Or more precisely eight months and twenty-three days, not that Sherlock had been counting.—of almost weekly meals in various restaurants and pubs, with either Hooper or Molly as the whim took her. There had been a few occasions where the demands of their respective jobs had necessitated the cancelation of the weekly walkabout for the sake of the social columns and gossip rags. Sherlock had not been facetious when he'd told her that he wanted the world to believe they had a love match.

Especially as it had quickly become the truth.

More often there would be a meal provided by Mrs Hudson at Baker Street followed by intelligent and sometimes heated discussions (often accompanied by even more heated kisses shared on the settee or even his chair on two very memorable occasions).

Rarely he would visit Hooper at 'his' home. The sight of Molly with her hair prettily arranged and her figure on display in a simple dress never failed to warm his blood and make him temporarily forget himself. Initially they had agreed to limit those encounters to only when they had gone more than a week without seeing each other, as that was when they had a tendency to push the boundaries of propriety the most. As understanding as Mrs Hudson was, neither Molly nor Sherlock wished to deal with her knowing looks and gentle reminders that there was a limit to the sort of thing she would allow unmarried couples to do in her home.

Since they had announced their engagement two months prior, they had found more and more excuses to dine at Molly's; until the evening they found themselves upon her bed with her skirts at her waist and his fingers seeking entrance to her feminine core. His index finger had barely discovered the wet proof of her arousal when he gently closed his teeth around a beaded nipple through her blouse, and Molly had cried out his name in unmistakable passion. If not for the damage to her reputation if they were overheard by her harpy of a landlady, Sherlock would have taken her that night, so great was his desire for her. They decided it would be best not to risk being discovered for a mere hour's pleasure, so they mutually agreed to limit their private meals to Sherlock's home.

However, once they had shared with their friends that they intended to marry (including Inspector Lestrade, who had been flummoxed to discover that the Hooper siblings were one in the same), Watson had seemingly made it his mission to interrupt whenever Sherlock and Molly tried to have a quiet evening at Baker Street. For instance, Sherlock knew for a fact that his friend had never had a craving for Mrs Hudson's shepherd's pie in the many years he had lived in 221B, and yet he'd shown up half an hour after Molly's arrival the day after the small engagement party. Almost as if he'd been summoned.

It only took Sherlock two 'spontaneous' visits to realize that Watson had enlisted Mrs Hudson's aid. The older woman must have been sending word every time Molly (or even Hooper) came to visit. He finally snapped the fourth time it happened. Sherlock had hissed that Watson was being ridiculous, there was no need for a chaperone.

Watson had smirked, visibly pleased that he was getting under his friend's skin. "Do you remember when I was engaged to my lovely Mary? And do you remember how we would return to Baker Street after an outing, to spend an hour together before I would escort her back to her parent's home?"

Sherlock had failed to see the point of his questions, but he'd answer them nevertheless. "Of course I do."

"Do you also remember how you would insist on joining us to discuss cases, regardless of how many times I suggested you might want to visit the Yard to see if they'd made any advancements or found something new to entertain you?"

Just like that, Watson's behaviour made sense. "This is a revenge plot."

"It is."

"In my defence, Mary truly was interested in hearing about our cases. She offered excellent insight into the Vultoro stabbing." It wasn't much of a defence, in hindsight.

Watson conceded his point with a brief nod. "Not as interested as she was in spending time alone with me. I believe you understand my frustration?"

"Yes. Lesson learned. Does this mean you'll stop now?" Sherlock had asked, not quite able to mask the hope in his voice.

Watson's answering grin was positively evil. "Oh no. No, there is still a few more weeks of amusement to be had. You forget, my friend, Mary and I had a long engagement."

And so, it came to pass that Sherlock and Molly were unable to spend more than twenty minutes alone together in the weeks leading up to their wedding.

Sherlock freely admitted to himself that the wedding night could not come soon enough.

Unfortunately, while the wedding day had occurred as scheduled two days prior, the much-anticipated wedding night had not.

The wedding had been an intimate affair held at Mycroft's estate (Mummy Holmes had insisted); with only Sherlock's brother and parents, and the Watsons in attendance. They had just sat down for an elaborate wedding breakfast when a messenger from Inspector Lestrade arrived with news of a murder/kidnapping.

Lestrade had sent his regrets; but the presence of Holmes and Doctors Watson and Hooper were requested at the earliest convenience.

Mummy had been understandably upset; but Molly had read Lestrade's message and informed Sherlock that there was no way either of them could ignore the abduction of a three-year-old girl, regardless of the day.

Mary had graciously offered to oversee the moving of the last of Molly's things to Baker Street while her husband assisted Sherlock on the case and Molly reported to the morgue as Hooper.

Sherlock had not seen his wife since he'd left the morgue after examining the murdered nanny two days ago. The case had sent him into the country on the trail of the missing child and her abductors; and he and Watson had only just returned after seeing the little girl reunited with her parents.

It was more than an hour after dark before he was able to let himself into his home on Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson hurried out of her parlour, her face lit up with a welcoming smile when she saw him. "Mr Holmes! We weren't expecting you, I thought for sure that once the sun set it would be too late for you to come home tonight." She softly clapped her hands together. "Mrs Holmes will be so pleased to see you. Came home from St Bartholomew's herself just before dusk."

An ache he hadn't known he'd been carrying in his shoulders eased when he heard that Molly was there. Another ache, deeper and hungrier, awoke deep inside at the knowledge that his Molly was so close.

He moved past Mrs Hudson toward the stairs, and she stilled him by putting a hand on his arm. "I'll bring up a supper tray in an hour and leave it outside the sitting room door, shall I? In case you get hungry." She tried to contain a mischievous grin, and failed. "For food, I mean."

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock burst out. Another man might have been scandalized by her implication, but he simply wanted her to stop delaying him from seeing his wife.

"Oh, go on, you. I'll lock up down here and make sure you're undisturbed for the rest of the night."

His foot paused on the next stair up, then he turned and hurried back down to Mrs Hudson's side. "You're a godsend, Mrs Hudson. A godsend." Sherlock pressed a quick kiss against her cheek, earning a round of giggles, then he dashed back up the stairs.

Mrs Hudson had said that Molly had only been home an hour herself. He wondered which version of her he would find. Doctor Hooper with his moustache and suit, or Mrs Holmes with her soft hair and pretty dress.

Would it matter to his desire to immediately take her in his arms? Not in the least.

It was neither, and both.

Molly looked up from the book she'd been reading, seated with her legs drawn up beneath her in his chair. Her hair was loose and free around her shoulders (he had never seen it fully down, and the sight punched him in the gut like a fist). Instead of a dress, she was wearing a rumpled dress shirt pulled out over the top of Hooper's trousers, her braces rested against her hips. Even from across the room, his sharp eyes could tell that she wasn't wearing her usual breast bindings beneath the shirt.

Just like that, without even touching or being touched by her, he felt himself begin to harden.

Her book fell from her fingers to the floor, and neither of them cared. Molly stood and took a step toward him. He finally noticed that her feet were bare, her toes small and pale against the rug.

"Sherlock? I wasn't expecting . . . Did you find her?"

"Yes." He pushed the sitting room door closed behind him and twisted the lock in place with a deliberate click. "She's with her parents, her kidnappers have been apprehended, and I paid the carriage driver handsomely to get me home as quickly as possible because I have missed you, Molly."

"As I have missed you."

He had her in his arms within a heartbeat. Their lips met and immediately parted. Sherlock groaned as the taste of her filled his mouth—ginger biscuits, a nip of port, and Molly.

Her hands slid into his hair and her nails scratched across his scalp in the way that never failed to please him. A fact she well knew after all these months. Sherlock pulled her upward onto her toes so that they were pressed together from chest to upper thigh. His full arousal nudged against her. Molly's small teeth nipped at his jawline in retaliation.

It was with some difficulty that Sherlock managed step away from his wife. "I would prefer to come to you without the grit and grime of two days' travel upon my skin. Give me a few minutes to bathe and I will return refreshed and ready to devote my evening to making up for our time apart."

Molly nodded, a shy blush stained her cheeks.

A quarter of an hour later, Sherlock stepped into the sitting room. He had changed into another pair of trousers and a clean shirt, with a dressing gown over it all. Much like Molly, he hadn't bothered with shoes.

But the sitting room was empty. He tilted his head to turn an ear upwards, straining to hear if there was any movement coming from the spare room above where the majority of Molly's things (including two trunks full of clothing) had been stored until they could find permanent homes in Baker Street.

There was a soft creak from down the hall in his—their—bedroom. With an anticipatory smile on his lips, Sherlock spun on his heel.

Molly was standing near the foot of the bed when he pushed open the bedroom door. She was wearing a dressing gown that wasn't much different than one of his own and a long shift that was so thin he swore he could see shadows at the crux of her thighs. Her hair was down, the ends brushing against the swell of her breasts.

It took him a long moment to find words, and then all that came out was a husky, "You are so beautiful."

"Thank you."

Sherlock closed the door, then locked it for good measure. He held out his hand to her. "Come here, Mrs Holmes."

Her hands twisted together at her stomach for a moment before Molly lifted her chin and took the three steps necessary to take his waiting hand.

Her pretty brown eyes fluttered closed when he leaned down to softly brush his lips against her own. He was determined to take his time and saviour this, their first time together.

Molly, however, was not so willing to take things at a slow pace. She allowed him his lead for a few moments, then drew his lower lip between her own. She captured it gently with her teeth and teased it with her tongue, before sucking it deeper into her mouth. Sherlock's hands clenched against her back, then fell to her hips and pulled her roughly against him. His earlier arousal returned, harder than before. Urgent.

She pushed his dressing gown off his shoulders, and he released her only long enough to let it fall to the floor. Her fingers turned to his shirt as she attempted to blindly release his buttons. Their kisses continued to grow more heated, almost frantic.

Impatience had him taking over the task of removing his shirt, and he struggled with the buttons at his cuff. Molly shrugged out of her dressing gown and tossed it over the nearby bedroom chair. She reached for her nightgown, and Sherlock abandoned his own clothing to reach for her hands. "Let me, my love."

He grasped handfuls of her gown and slowly pulled the material upward. By the time it cleared her hips and revealed the small thatch of dark curls guarding her mound his hands had begun to shake. Molly lifted her arms so he could draw the gown over her head, and he tossed it away once she was free.

Her breasts were lovely, not large but full and pert. They would fit perfectly in his hands, and he could almost feel their phantom weight against his palms.

"Do you need assistance?" Her tone was almost teasing. Sherlock realised he'd been staring at her while he stood there, still mostly dressed while she was bare.

He shook his head and finished unbuttoning his cuff so that he could pull his shirt off. While he worked open the fastenings of his trousers, Molly pulled the bedcovers down and crawled onto the bed. The brief glimpse he was afforded of her pale back and lush arse sent dozens of carnal thoughts scattering through his brain.

His member strained for freedom, making the removal of his trousers and pants a delicate operation.

Molly got one quick look at her husband's naked form before he joined her on the bed. He briefly considered dousing the lone bedside lamp, but his desire to see her overrode any outdated concerns for modesty that may have issued a feeble protest.

He braced one hand near her far shoulder and loomed over her, almost but not quite touching her.

"These last two days without you have been an insidious torture. I missed hearing your voice, reading with you, simply being in the same room with you. Watson called me a lovesick fool. I fear he was not incorrect."

She smiled up at him, soft and sweet. "I am afraid I have suffered from the same malady while you were gone. Stamford asked if my sister has been keeping me from my proper rest with her sorrow at your absence."

"Let us hope that tomorrow he refrains from asking if her joyful reunion is what kept you up all night."

Molly laughed, and Sherlock's lips were still curved with his own amusement when he leaned down to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him to her. They both groaned as his bare chest pressed against her naked breasts for the first time.

He could feel her nipples pebble against him. The hand that had been supporting him came down to cup her breast, his thumb searching for and finding a hard nipple. Molly gasped against his mouth.

Unable to wait any longer, Sherlock lowered his head to taste her breast.

They had touched each other intimately before, but never without at least one layer of clothing between them. Even the single time they had lost their heads to passion and he had briefly dared to seek out her feminine heat with his hand, he had remind fully dressed.

But now, as his tongue laved at her nipple and she gasped and mewled, there was nothing separating them. Sherlock inserted his thigh between hers, pushing upward to meet the unsure roll of her hips. His cock pressed between them, full and insistent. He slid his hand between Molly's legs, fingers searching for the centre of her pleasure.

She was wet for him. The discovery made him growl her name against her breast. He felt her hand against the back of his own, pressing him closer against her mound. Guiding him to find the spot that brought her the most pleasure.

Sherlock flicked his tongue against her nipple as he began to circle her clit with two calloused fingers. Molly threw her head back, body arching off the bed as she called out his name.

Her free hand found his back, her nails clawed against his skin as she came apart in his arms.

He lifted his head to watch her, fascinated. Sherlock continued to brush his fingers against her nub through her orgasm until she pushed his hand away.

"Good?" he asked as she caught her breath.

"Oh, yes." She bit her lower lip, and he surged forward to kiss her in response.

Molly wiggled a hand between them, and it took him a moment to deduce her intent. He caught her wrist in his hand. "As much as I will enjoy your touch in the future, I fear that if you touch that part of me now, we will be finished before we've really begun."

She pouted, and he relented somewhat. "Next time, I promise to let you have free rein."

"I will hold you to your word, husband."

"I will look forward to you doing just that, wife."

They smiled at each other, then Sherlock bent his head to kiss her once more.

There was a moment of not quite fumbling as her legs parted even farther and he shifted until he was laying between them. Sherlock reached out to take one of her hands in his, linking their fingers together.

Thankfully there was no pain as he slowly entered her. She was an active woman of age, to expect that her hymen would have remained intact would have been idiotic, and Sherlock was grateful that he did not have to hurt her. She was tight, however, and unused to such an intrusion. He took his time, easing in and out of her channel in small increments.

Her gasps of pleasure and the tightening of her fingers around his were the signs he'd been waiting for, on his next stroke he sunk to the hilt inside her heat. Molly cried out and raised her knees to cradle his hips in encouragement.

Soon enough his entire world had focused down to just her and the points where they touched. Their entwined hands, their chests pressed together and slick with sweat, the movement of his other hand against her clit, the point where they were joined most intimately.

The way her inner muscles suddenly began to ripple and clench around his length as Molly unexpectedly found her release once more.

His vision blurred, then went dark for a split-second, as his entire body jerked . . . and then he cried out her name as he came.

Sherlock lay draped over her just long enough to catch his breath, then he rolled to his side and pulled her against his chest.

Her hair was soft against his cheek. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face against her messy curls. "I love you."

She lifted her head to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "And I love you."

The End