Drink up one more time and I'll make you mine.
Keep you apart, deep in my heart.
Separate from the rest, but I like you the best.

- Elliott Smith, "Between the Bars", Either/Or

Molly realizes someone's watching her as she winces at the burn from her first shot of whisky. Glancing around, she finds disinterested patrons—some familiar, some not—talking and not even looking her way. As she is about to give it up for paranoia, though, she spots a man in the corner, gazing steadily at her. The pub's dim lighting and dark wood only exaggerate the shadows that try to swallow him.

She tamps down her first instinct to straighten and fidget with her clothes. Instead, she orders another shot and a basket of chips, and makes a show of watching the football game on the large television above the liquor shelves. Despite this, she can still feel his eyes boring into her. Her shoulders itch with it. Normally, she'd be put off, would shoot a few dirty glares in his direction, but tonight… tonight is different. She glances over once or twice, but only to make sure she isn't imagining his continued gaze.

After a sleepless night spent with a stultifying Netflix binge, she'd whiled away the morning with some errands that she'd put off until the bitter end, and then resumed her spot on her sofa, picking up with the next episode of her series. As the room around her had grown dim with sunset, she'd sat up, sick with herself.

"You're hardly the first person to get hurt by a man," she'd hissed as she pulled on her anorak, grabbed her keys and bag, and headed to her favorite pub.

Though she normally prefers company for pub visits, she'd been in no mood for it tonight. She had promised herself she would make the effort to go out but not wade too far into indifferent masses. Sure, she'd merely swapped her sofa and solitude for a pub and a public solitude, but it was the gesture that mattered. And after yesterday, when she'd been too stunned and raw after her phone call with Sherlock to do anything but sit in her lonely house… well, she decided she'd earned a fucking drink or three and a basket of chips.

Now, she equivocates over the attention being paid to her from across the room. Is she in the mood to shoot a glare at the man? Should she ignore him? Or does she want to let loose some pent-up frustration?

She's still undecided when he grows bored with staring. He picks his way between half-crowded tables, the direction of his gaze guaranteeing that she's his target.

Well, that's her decision made, she thinks, resigned.

"At least you understand me," she mutters to her chips. She nearly pats them when they remain silent, in fried solidarity with her mood. Chips don't require deep conversations or flirting or even companionable chatting. That's what she came for and now she's about to lose it.

"Did you just talk to your chips?" His voice is startlingly close, even though she'd known he was going to speak to her.

Sliding a glance at him, she nods. "They'll take my secrets to the grave."

"They'll take them somewhere, certainly." He sidles up closer, glancing around to take stock of the changed vantage.

Snorting, Molly digs through her basket until she finds a particularly greasy, fat chip to inhale. "Nothing like toilet humor," she muses while she chews.

"So, do you come here often?" her uninvited company asks, unaware of just how tired and cliché he sounds with the line.

Rather than ask him if it hurt when he fell from heaven, she shrugs. "Often enough."

If her short answers annoy him, he gives no indication.

When she arrived at the pub, Molly had smugly sat at an empty corner of the bar. Not only did her spot deter anyone from approaching (present company excluded), but she'd also had a second stool available to her. Why use her own stool's footrest she could be more comfortable using another?

So of course he has to sit down on her (extra) stool and put his own shoes on the rest so they bracket hers. She scowls and pulls her feet away from him.

The owner/bartender, Ann, spots Molly's glare and her new companion. Frowning, no fan of fuckbois (her term, not Molly's), she calls down the bar, "Alright, Hooper?"

Affecting a happier expression, Molly salutes her with her basket. "I'm great. Good do on these, by the way."

"I'll tell my industrial fryer that you send your compliments. Need anything else right now?"

"Water, please, if you get a moment. No rush, though."

Ann turns to the man at Molly's side. "Anything for you?"

He considers the rows of well drinks, but only leans forward and taps Molly's empty shot glass. "Whatever was in here, two fingers, with ice, please."

"Risky," Molly muses. "What if I was drinking water and vinegar?"

He smirks. "I'll take my chances."

Silence revisits in short order and Moly picks at her chips. She's no longer hungry, but she wants something to do with her hands. She's not sure why she hasn't shut this interaction down, but something has her awkwardly lurking.

And restless.

"Seems like a fairly nice clientele," he muses, nodding his thanks to Ann when she delivers his Mystery Drink.

"Not what you were expecting?"

"Well, it is called 'The Hung, Drawn, and Quartered.'"

"We save that for Saturdays," she says blandly, and he snorts. He's about to make some other, pleasant, inane comment, she can tell, so she makes up her mind without even realizing it. The words leave her lips before she can rethink them: "Do you want to go to my flat?"

His eyes widen fractionally, darken, and slide over her, but his expression remains inscrutable even as he nods. "Okay."

"Okay."

As she's about to signal Ann back over to settle her tab, his expression grows troubled. "Are you drunk?"

She appreciates the concern, but she'd assumed he'd been watching her from the start and should know how much she's had to drink. Still, she shakes her head. "No. I've only had two shots. I decided to pull some bloke before I could have my third."

It's a relief that this doesn't shock him or leave him scrambling to let her down easy. She congratulates herself that she's not missed the signs so far.

Instead of replying, he downs the rest of his whisky in one swallow and stands, fishing out his wallet. He peels off enough notes to pay for their drinks and her chips, and nods to her. "Shall we?"

She bites back a crude joke about what two shots and a snack will get him. Not out of any sense of propriety—she did just proposition him, after all—but because she wants to see what he'll come up with unprompted

They make the walk from the pub to her flat in silence. She wonders if she should be more uneasy or shy about this. She's never pursued one night stands before, so she's surprised by her willingness to start now. But it's no matter. She's enervated and turned on, and she figures, why not try for a whole new Molly?

While she fiddles with her keys, working to unlock her front door, she glances back at the man who's going to share her bed with her for a few hours. His eyes are black pools, and she fancies that it's not merely the dark that has his pupils dilated as they watch her. That's when the first strike of arousal hits her, sending a warm jolt through, pooling in her lower belly.

All at once, she's impatient for him.

As soon as they're safely ensconced in her flat and she's secured the door, she turns to face him. He is as surefooted as an hour ago, she can tell, so she decides to test his balance.

"Would you rather fuck me on the sofa or the bed?"

Success.

His eyes widen and he blinks a few times before he regains most (but only most) of his stability. "I dunno," he drawls. "Do you have a preference?"

She considers it. It'd be less… involved… if they stay out here, but her condoms are in the bedside table.

Deciding to save herself the return trip, she jerks her head down the hallway. "Might as well," she says.

Toeing off his shoes, he follows her into the bedroom. The moment they're in, she starts stripping off her clothes. It's only after she's shucked her jeans and tugged off her bra that she notices he's gone quiet behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she finds him staring at her hungrily, hands hanging limply at his sides. Wetness pools in her knickers when she sees the prominent bulge in his trousers. The heat of his gaze scalds as he sweeps it from her shoulders, down her spine, across the flare of her hips, her arse, legs, feet, and back up again.

She needs to break some of the tension, so she says, "Problem?"

"Not much comes to mind right now," he assures her as he flicks open his cuffs and moves his nimble fingers down the front of his shirt, unfastening its buttons and untucking it at the same time.

Molly allows herself the satisfaction of moving to him. He drinks her in as he drops the shirt, letting it land in a crumpled heap at his feet. When the back of her hands brush his bare belly while she reaches for the button closure of his trousers, he jerks at the contact. She realizes it's the first time they've touched. Her eyes snap up to his, but she doesn't stop, questing fingers seeking out the pull tab of his fly, unzipping it carefully over his straining cock.

As she moves her hands back to his hips to shove the trousers and his underwear down, his hands dart up to her face, and he yanks her against him.

Furiously, his mouth meets hers, and she gasps at the biting way they kiss. Their tongues slide hotly against each other, their teeth nip and tug at lips, and they share breaths as they gasp into each other.

His hands are busy, tugging her long hair out of her ponytail, fingers combing through it and gripping, tugging her head somewhat gently where he wants it to go as he periodically kisses along her jaw, only to return inexorably to her lips.

She's managed to shove his trousers and pants down to his knees, and she grumbles into their kiss while she tries to divest him of them. Giving it up for the time being, though, she settles for scratching her nails over the top of his bum and around to the front of his hips. If the way he rubs his cock against her belly is anything to go by, he appreciates this far more than her efforts to get him fully naked.

He continues to run his hands over her, sweeping over every bit of exposed flesh on her torso. Mapping it. She shakes the thought away, mouthing at his neck when he pinches her left nipple before cupping her small breast in his palm and kneading it. She notes that he's somehow freed himself from his trousers when he backs up, dropping down to sit on the bed. Dragging her to stand between his legs, he wastes no time replacing his fingers with his mouth. Molly grabs frantically at his shoulders, nails digging in, hoping to keep upright as each pull of his mouth on her breast sends a lancing heat down to her core. Vaguely, she wonders if she should be embarrassed by the desperate whimpers that escape her as he sucks and nips at her breasts, but it's too distant a thought to give it much concern.

Eventually, he kisses his way back up to her upper chest, giving her sensitive skin a break. She's flushed with the burn from his stubble, but too floaty to care. She's not sure she didn't come at least once from his attention to her chest alone, and she happily cards her fingers through his hair, giving it a tug at the roots until his head drops back so she can kiss his mouth again.

His tongue traces hers gently, and she huffs a laugh at the tickling sensation. She helps him pull her knickers down, and she holds onto him to maintain her balance as she kicks them away somewhere behind her.

Dipping her hand between her legs to gather some of the slickness that's gathered there, she reaches forward and grasps his thick cock in her hand. Gratifyingly, his eyes flutter and his mouth drops open on a wheezing moan when she slides her grip down to the base and back up again, several times, swiping her thumb over the bulbous head at the top of each ascent. As she picks up speed, she feels more and more pre-come slicking the way for her, and she gives in to temptation. Dropping to her knees, she pushes his foreskin back so it's fully retracted and swipes her tongue over the salty slit at the top of his cock.

He gives a small shout at this, and she rubs her thighs together to relieve some of the pressure of her arousal while she takes him into her mouth as far as possible before backing off to tongue and suck at the underside and head once more. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his white-knuckled grip on the duvet and she revels in it.

She doesn't suck him off for long before he's stuttering and pulling her off of him, tugging her back to her feet. He takes time to kiss her wetly before he slowly traces his hand up her inner thigh.

At the first brush of his fingers against her slick folds and a fingertip darting over her clit, her knees nearly buckle. He wraps one, strong arm around her waist, supporting some of her weight while he slides first one finger, then a second inside her.

He fucks her like that, steadily, thumb dancing across her clit with each thrust of his hand, his obsidian eyes watching her face for her reactions. But she's not quite comfortable and he reads her frustration. He withdraws his fingers from her sopping heat and tugs her down with him as he drops back onto the mattress.

Molly grinds against his thigh, ready for him to resume his ministrations, but he has other ideas. He scoots up the bed until he reaches the pillows, and then he grabs her hand and tugs. He manhandles her until she's kneeling on the bed by his shoulders. She doesn't have much time to figure out what's going on before he pulls her over him.

"What?" she gasps, breathless, even as she lets him situate her legs so she's straddling his upper chest.

He only shrugs innocently as he hooks his arms under legs, cups her bum, and pulls her forward so her dripping cunt is over his mouth. At the first swipe of his tongue against her entrance and then up to her clit, she makes a squeaking, gasping noise and she has to catch herself on her headboard when she falls forward.

Burying her face in the crook of her elbow, she rides his face, biting at her forearm to muffle the steady stream of moans, cries, and curses that escape her while pleasure swamps her.

His tongue torments, stroking and flickering against her clit repeatedly, only letting up occasionally, in order to draw the nerve bundle it into his mouth so he can suck on it. A handful of times, he thrusts his tongue into her cunt, mimicking fucking her. Relentlessly, he draws three orgasms—or was it two, with the second lasting several minutes?—out of her before she has to stop him. Sensing her going boneless, he snakes an arm up to help guide her down to the mattress so she lies perpendicular to him, a calf still thrown across his chest.

When she catches her breath enough that she can open her eyes, she finds him watching her, one hand holding his cock, stroking it lazily. His pupils are still blown, but he isn't in any rush to move things forward.

When her mouth twitches into a small smile, he returns it with a breathtaking one of his own. He lets go of himself, reaching up to lift her leg and press a kiss to her inner ankle.

It's too intimate, too much something a lover would do… She needs to put a stop to that immediately, so she pulls her leg free and scoots around on the bed until she's lying on it properly. She relaxes back against her pillows, fluffing them. Thoughtfully, she frowns and grabs one that fell off the bed earlier. Lifting her hips, she shoves it under her bum.

He groans while he watches and he sucks in an excited breath when she crooks her finger at him. Rolling up onto all fours, he crawls gracefully up over her, dipping down to kiss her hotly while he reaches over their heads to grope around in her bedside table drawer for a condom.

She "helps" him roll it on (meaning, she does her best to torment him while he does it), and then she pulls him down onto her, sighing at his weight bearing her down into the mattress.

When it looks like he might be content to continue to kiss her and nothing else, she pushes at him until he's kneeling once more. She reaches between them to guide him to her entrance.

Molly wraps her legs loosely around his thighs as he slides into her, pulsing his hips over and over again until he's in to the hilt of his cock. Her mouth drops open on a silent moan. When he begins to move in earnest, steadily thrusting in and out of her, resting his weight on his fists by her waist, the pressure of another orgasm begins to build, this one deeper, coming from where he hits her with his cock on every downward stroke.

Her mouth drops open, but no sound can escape as his thrusts grow more and more powerful and urgent. Her bed groans at the force of the onslaught of his body on and in hers. Her muscles begin to lock and she tries to let loose a sound trapped in her throat. She's not sure if she needs to scream or moan or weep. It's too strong, it feels too good, but nothing can escape. So she strains to pull in air, instead, and to enjoy this painful pleasure that comes from this man being inside of her.

Eventually, she has to find some sort of relief. Letting go of her death grip on his back, she reaches down to rub furiously at her swollen clit. His hips stutter and a groan escapes him as he watches her touch herself while he moves in her.

And finally, horribly, wonderfully, a dam bursts in her and the orgasm sweeps through her. She shudders and shivers with it and she sobs. She wonders hazily if she should be embarrassed by the gush of wetness that escapes her as she comes, but it only encourages him, and he's now panting into her neck while he fucks her with no rhythm or pattern. She has only just stopped coming when he presses in deeply with sharp jerk of his hips, and his arms vise around her.

A few lazy thrusts and then he stills.

Molly clenches her eyes shut, wondering what sort of post-coital persona he'll adopt. Will he tear out of her room, hopping into his clothes as he escapes? Or will he linger, recover some, maybe even sleep a little?

She doesn't have to wait long to find out.

Lifting his head, he stares down at her. His face is open and soft as their eyes hold. A bright flush sits on his skin, his lips are swollen, and his hair a disaster. She pretends she won't store it away in her mind to remember when this is over.

Still watching her with near reverence, he leans up and kisses her. It's every bit as hungry as their first kiss earlier that night, and she is torn between the impulse to stop him and the instinct to hold him there for another hour or so. She kisses him back with all the passion that he sends her, despite her turmoil.

For the first time tonight, she wonders if she's made a mistake.

All too soon (or not soon enough), he draws back, pulling out and rolling off of her and up out of the bed. She watches him retreat into the en suite to dispose of the condom. Vowing that she won't stare at him with any sort of need while he dresses and leaves, she rolls onto her side so her back is to the bathroom door.

Ostrich-ing. I'm burying my head in the sand, she thinks, angry with herself. But not angry enough to roll back over.

She startles when fingers brush her arm. She'd not heard him come back into the bedroom, and when she looks up, he is standing over her. He's still naked, not having bothered even with his underwear before he'd approached her, and she feels a swell of anger at just how at home he is, walking around her flat without a stitch on and no shame to supplement it.

Running his hand down across her hers, he links their fingers together. Tugging at her arm, he shakes his head when he sees that she's about to protest.

Reluctant and nervous, she allows him to pull her from the bed. Her muscles might be gelatin now, and she staggers a bit as he leads her back into the bathroom. She nearly balks again when he leans into the tub area and turns on the shower, but something convinces her to wait him out.

Once the water has reached a satisfactory temperature, he steps into the bathtub and draws her in after, hand not leaving hers until they're both under the warm spray. She shivers as it reaches her sweat-chilled skin.

Wide-eyed, Molly watches as he gathers some shower gel in his palm and sets to washing her, spreading her fragrant soap across her shoulders and clavicles, her breasts, stomach, arms, and back. Gently, so gently, he washes the tender flesh between her thighs. The intimacy of it amplifies the panging ache in her chest. It began the moment he kissed her in bed and she wonders how he thinks she's supposed to handle this with any sort of dignity and grace.

He refuses to slide his gaze from her and she can't do anything but stare back at him. His eyes have lost their blackened wildness from before. For every fleck of color she can see in his irises now, she feels proportionately more vulnerable.

Once he's backed her into the spray, he repeats the path that he took with the soap, this time smoothing water over her skin. Shoulders, clavicles, breasts, stomach, arms, back, the swollen, sensitive places he'd inflamed so handily not long ago that he now caresses with such care. Pliant and sad, she lets him. He draws back, satisfied that she's fully rinsed off, but his brow furrows and he reaches forward. He traces a lone finger along the curve of her breast. She follows his gaze to see a smattering of bruises, left by his urgent mouth, covering her chest and the ribs immediately below.

"Sorry," he says sincerely.

She shakes her head, refusing to say that she wants them there, however true it is.

Eager to change the subject, she puts her hands on his waist and shuffles around him again, getting him under the shower once more so she can wash him in return.

As she moves her hands over him, soaping away the scent of sex and sweat—the scent of her—from his skin, she bites back a humorless laugh, thinking how she'd just wanted a fucking drink or three and some chips.

As soon as the soap is rinsed from his skin, she turns to step out of the tub, to begin building her wall of emotional distance. His hand catching her wrist stops her, and he reels her back to him, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her again.

"We need talk about this, Molly," he murmurs against her lips.

She feigns ignorance. "Talk about what?"

He combs wet fingers through her hair. "You're a terrible liar."

"You're a really good one," she says. She winces as soon as she's spoken, but he doesn't drop his arms.

"When have I lied to you?" he asks, genuinely curious.

Snorting, she blinks up at him, pressing closer so his body shields her face from the shower's spray. "We had a bit of a chat yesterday, you'll recall. You were trying to save my life, but I didn't know. I made you lie to me so I wouldn't feel quite as pathetic. Let's just say this whole mess is thanks to my inability to face heartbreak with any sort of emotional honesty."

He's frowning now, puzzling out her words. "You didn't make me lie."

"Let's not do this," she pleads, but he merely raises his eyebrows expectantly. She sighs. "We survived it. That's enough."

"But you think you forced me to do something I didn't want," he insists.

She rolls her eyes, ignoring how much this hurts. Every time."Fine. I manipulated you, then."

Still surprised by her words, he shakes his head. "I wasn't manipulated. You demanded an honest response from me, so I gave it. It was not the best place for the revelation. Hardly 'romantic'"—here, he unflatteringly uses air quotations—"but what's done is done."

She stands there, stunned, trying to figure out her next argument, but all she can hear are his words, 'You demanded an honest response from me, so I gave it.' They play on a loop and her mouth works soundlessly.

The water has gone cold, she half-notices, but she's too busy gaping at him to move. He growls, twists around, and shuts off the faucet. Dripping, they stand there, staring each other down. He's squinting at her like she's a strange, new organism.

"Why do you think I came to you tonight?" he asks patiently.

She blushes. "I wasn't coy. I figured you knew I wanted to get you out of my system."

Theatrically, he glances back out into her bedroom, which is a warzone that will require a change of sheets and duvet before it is fit for anyone. "I'm not sure it worked," he offers, watching her carefully.

Something tells her she could damage this moment irreparably if she doesn't try for some sincerity. "No," she admits. "Not remotely." His lips curve slowly. "You were being honest?" she asks weakly. Hope licks at her, luring her in.

He rolls his eyes, but he nods. "As I just said, yes, of course. Well, more on the second go-round. First was sort of knee-jerk. Doesn't mean it wasn't true both times, though."

"You—"

"Molly, you won't convince me that I don't know what I'm talking about, so why don't we skip that part and get back to our embarrassing, cloying displays of affection?"

Satisfied with her stunned silence, he grabs her towel from the warmer and buffs it over her, leaving her hair a staticky, tangled mess as he drapes it over her shoulders. He has to maneuver around her to climb out of the tub. Dumbly, she watches him tie a clean towel around his waist and turn to her expectantly, holding out an imperious hand for her.

"But…"

He heaves a gusty sigh, steadies her as she climbs out onto her bathroom floor. "Do you at least agree that I have some time to convince you?"

Discombobulated, she answers, "Yes." She's off balance, having flung herself from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other in such short order.

"Good," he nods gravely. "Now, as I said, this is about to get really embarrassing." In demonstration, he lifts their entwined hands and places a soft, sweet kiss to the back of hers. "See what I mean?"

She nods, strangely breathless. "Yeah. I'm beginning to."

End

AN: Yeah, IDK... Steven Moffat said Molly probably got drunk and slept with someone to get over the events of TFP. So I was like, "Damn right she slept with someone. She slept with Sherlock." And this happened.

My apologies for just how smutty this got. I have no excuse.