A/N: Please excuse any grammar or punctuation mistakes as this is not beta read.

Warning: This fanfic contains explicit smutty material, and should be considered PWP. Viewer discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: Characters Do Not Belong To me.

She baked a cake.

A cake for him.

Molly baked a cake for Sherlock's birthday.

John couldn't make it, as he had to pick up Rosie. He asked them to save him a slice.

She said it was "Death by Chocolate" cake. She hoped it would be a type of death he could appreciate.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the joke, and blew out the candles.

Though he never says, he always appreciated death at the hands of Molly Hooper.

Aside from the brief encounter in the ambulance, he hasn't seen her in nearly a month.

He observes her tired eyes and notes the tension in his jaw. She handled the past weeks with such strength, setting aside her own personal grief, to take care of Rosie, dealing with his supposed "relapse."

Though he lies to himself that he and Billy Wiggins had it under control, that it was a necessary part in his plan to save John Watson.

She bears all of this with a regality of a queen.

A part of him is in awe of her, of her strength and her ability to keep herself together. A part of him notices that she is distant too, more wary of him. He won't stand for that.

The cake she was holding was too large for the plate. The edges catch on her hands, dotting them in chocolate icing as she sets it down.

Molly's little pink tongue goes out licks a bit off the back of her knuckles.

Noticing a streak of frosting on the side of her index finger, Sherlock bridges the gap. He grabs her wrist and brings it to his mouth. He slowly swipes his tongue over the length of the digit.

"Sh-Sherlock. W-what are you doing?" She stutters.

The detective doesn't answer. He notes that her pupils are dilating and her pulse is racing.

Good. She wants this too.

He takes a large finger-full of the frosting and smears it over her lip, along her jaw, down her neck, and across her collarbone.

Molly tries to say something but he doesn't let her. It is his birthday and there will be no objections. He intends to enjoy every minute of it.

His mouth descends, tasting, biting, licking, and sucking, until she is clean and free of the dessert.

Molly looks thoroughly ravished. Panting loudly, she grips the countertop behind her, and attempts to regain her bearings. Her thoughts are racing beyond her comprehension.

Before she can say a word or doubt him, Sherlock acts. He kisses her passionately, bending her back on the kitchen counter. He kisses her, teases her, presses his body against her, dominates her with his will and being. He doesn't let her go until Molly relaxes fully into him. She belongs to him. She said he could have her all those years ago. She is his pathologist. His Molly.

She needs this as much as him. She allows him to unbutton her blouse, revealing the plain simple bra underneath. She wasn't expecting this to happen in the least.

Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. His hands seem to worship her, those lovely violinist hands. They caress and massage her over the expanse of her body, while he peppers her with kisses. Molly can't help but moan. Nor does she notice the dull thump of her skirt and his suit jacket falling to the floor. He lifts her up onto the counter and spreads her legs. More frosting is spread on her inner thighs. He nips and sucks at her skin, causing her to shiver at the sensitivity. She flushes pink, as she is sure he can smell her arousal. Sherlock rests his head against her thigh and inhales deeply. She can feel the curvature of his cheek fitting against her, as if he was meant to have her legs around his face. She can also feel the bony prominence of his cheekbones, teasing her as he moves. He touches her everywhere but not where she needs it the most. When she is whimpering in need, he bites her.

"Cruelty thy name is Holmes," she thinks.

Sherlock stands up and kisses her, as if to balm his incivility. His fingers have other ideas though. They are rubbing her through her panties. Molly's hips buck when he manages to find her clit. The roughness of the plain cotton material against it drives her wild. Her head is thrown back, and the detective takes advantage by biting and sucking a mark on her neck. Sherlock's hand wastes no time and slips inside her waistband. Without the barrier of her panties, Molly is hot and slick. His fingers glide easily over the cleft of her pussy. Her eyes squeeze shut as she focuses on the sensation of his exploratory digits.

"Molly..." His baritone rumbles. "Look at me."

She turns her head, her gaze staring into his eyes. They are bright and she sees swirling colors of blue, green, and gold. It's his gaze that strips her bare and takes her apart. He can see all that she is. It's with that look that sends her trembling over the edge into her first orgasm.

Sherlock lifts her legs around his hips, and urges her to put her arms around his neck and lean into him, locking her ankles together. Molly is so small and slight, he only needs one hand on her lower back to hold her up. The rest is up to her, with her thighs squeezing him so tightly. She can feel his length through his trousers, its unmistakable how hard and ready his body is for her. Sherlock groans as he feels her wriggle against him. Supporting her with one hand and the cake plate with the other, they make their way to her bedroom.

He sets her down on the bed first, then the dessert on the nightstand. He steps backward and admires the view.

"Take off your bra." He orders.

Molly does what she is told. She crosses her arms over her chest self-consciously, when Sherlock does not move. This spurs him into action. He pulls Molly's arms to her sides, revealing herself to him. Her nipples are hard peaks.

He wants to commit this image of her to his mind palace. Molly's skin is flushed pink, the ends of her side braid curling around her breast, her knickers soaked through. Sherlock slides them down her legs, and tosses the offending garment away over his shoulder. He splays her legs apart. Molly instinctually wants to curl in on herself.

"Do. Not. Move." He warns her lowly.

The idea of tying her up is an attractive one, although he currently does not have the patience for it. Sherlock rolls up his sleeves. He once again reaches over and takes some icing onto his fingers. He paints her with swirls and symbols. From her angle, Molly can't see what they are. She doesn't want to break the spell he is casting. She never wants this feeling to end.

Sherlock admires his work. Molly covered in chocolate really is an indulgence. Before him, was the woman that mattered the most. The woman who always made him feel wanted and accepted. In a world that seemed simply want to use him for its own purposes, this woman gave him anything he asked, including all of herself. He never allowed himself this, to express how he felt about her. His work was too dangerous, his enemies too many. He could never allow himself to enjoy this feeling about her, even in his mind palace he never dared. He knew with his addictive personality once he started, he would never be able to stop.

Mary's death changed so much for him. He lost a dear friend. He lost John. He lost Molly too mostly, when she stepped in as her role as godmother to take care of Rosie full-time while John grieved. He understood now, that people can be taken away at any given moment. He knew if it was Molly in that position, she wouldn't hesitate to save him either. The thought of the possibility of her being dead because of him, turned him cold. He should let her go, let her live her life in peace and tranquility, but he is too selfish. She is his, she one of the few things that makes the wretched life of Sherlock Holmes worth living.

She is so strong, his Molly is. Sherlock has only to look at her to draw strength from her. She endures so much, especially because of him. He saw the pain and rage in her eyes when she examined him in that ambulance. He knew how betrayed she felt, and yet trusted and accepted his decisions to bring himself to the brink of destruction to bring back John Watson. After the Smith case was settled, she said nothing, just baked him a cake for his birthday. A celebration of his life, when he was once again so close to meeting his death. He knew he was unworthy of her. He knew he would continue to break her heart over and over in the future. But today is his birthday, and he made a wish when he blew out his candles. A wish to not be Sherlock Holmes, breaker of Molly's heart, but to be the man who wishes to express his feelings to his woman. The taint of the Holmes sense of responsibility will not touch him tonight.

Sherlock starts high, dragging his tongue around her neck, nipping at her collarbone, and moves his way downward. He catalogues every moan and sigh Molly makes. She is particularly sensitive on the underside of her breasts. He captures her nipples between his lips. She shivers, as he pulls on them with his teeth, while his fingers slide and dance along her ribcage. The detective descends lower, tracing his tongue over the chocolate designs he had drawn.

Eventually he makes it between her legs, making Molly gasp. Her hands sink into his curls, causing Sherlock to rumble against her in approval. Her legs come up and she digs her heels into his shoulder blades. His tongue swirls inside her, causing her hips to buck. Sherlock's hands press her down firmly, his control causes her to mewl piteously. He explores and investigates every nook and cranny of her sex, watching her reactions with his sharp cat-like gaze. It is everything she fantasized about him and more. Molly is undone. Sherlock gently laps at her, enjoying her taste. Molly pulls his head up, as she is far too sensitive post-orgasm, and kisses him. She can taste herself on his lips. It is an intoxicating combination, but there is another combination she wants to try.

She slides her hand over his erect bulge. Considering how tight he keeps his pants, he probably very uncomfortable. She unzips him, fishes him out, and strokes him.

"Molly…" He says in a low, utterly seductive, yet vulnerable tone.

Molly smirks at him. She takes two fingerfuls of frosting and spreads it along the length of his shaft. Sherlock's eyes are wide, and then they close as his head is thrown back, as Molly proceeds to lick him. Her movements are slow and sensuous. Sherlock grips the sheets on the bed, as her tongue traces every curve and ridge of his head, before taking him in her mouth and sucking him lightly. These are practiced moves, not an action of a novice. The thought of Molly performing this action with another man makes him boil with jealousy. The feeling is short-lived however, as the pathologist finally takes more of him into her mouth and his vision goes white. He is beyond overstimulated, the only thing he can focus on is the pleasurable sensation Molly is giving him. He tries to hold back as if his sanity depends on it, but Molly forces him to surrender to the feeling, especially when she expertly rakes her nails over his bollocks. Sherlock lets go, and he feels as though he is falling once again, only instead of meeting death, he feels the warmth and security of Molly Hooper. Unaware of how he ended up on his back, the detective lifts his head and looks at her. Molly is trailing kisses along the underside of penis. She gives him a wicked smirk that reminds him of "The Woman."

"Happy Birthday, Mr. Holmes." She says cheekily.

Sherlock growls, not to be outdone. He grabs her, and pulls her onto the bed and positions her on her hands and knees. He gets the feeling that Molly is laughing at him. He will not have that. He reaches into the drawer of Molly's side table, removes a condom from it. One of the only positive contributions "Meat dagger" has made in Molly's life, he thinks. He savagely rips open the packet with his teeth, and it isn't before long before he enters her unceremoniously. Molly lets out a loud grunt, and turns her head to catch a glimpse of him. She feels a cool sensation down her spine, and she sees that Sherlock has once again been in the chocolate. He drew a long line down the back of her neck to the base of her spine. Sherlock drags his tongue upward in one broad stroke, amassing the icing on his tongue as he goes.

Molly lets out a long drawn out moan. He kisses the nape of her neck while his pushes his cock forward, tentatively gauging her reaction. Molly thrusts back at him in a grinding and needful manner. Sherlock grabs hold of her hips, his thumbs massaging and pulling apart her buttocks. She shivers and clutches her sheets, as every part of her is exposed to him and the open air. His movements pick up speed, and it seems as though the pair have reverted to their most basic animalistic selves as man and woman. Molly's arms give way and she falls onto her forearms. The tilt of the new angle makes the detective groan. He leans forward, allowing his body to completely cover hers. His hair covers most of his face as he braces his arms on the bed, just over her shoulders. His chest rubs into her back. His forceful momentum causes the headboard to repeatedly knock on the wall.

Delicious fire and electricity course through Molly's veins, as she is consumed by the ecstasy of her climax, with his following moments after. Sherlock lifts her up, so she rests against his chest and thighs in a seated position. He still pumps into her from underneath, but at a much slower pace. One of his hands reaches around to pinch her nipple, while the other moves down to stroke her clit. His mouth places reverent kisses along her neck and shoulder. Molly shows her appreciation by swirling her hips. Sherlock lies back as he lets his pathologist do as she will. She twists her body around so she faces him. Sherlock reaches up to play with her breasts but Molly's hands cover his. They hold hands, palm to palm, fingers entwined as she rides him.

Something changes in the man's expression and he sits up. Molly leans backwards to angle herself. Sherlock follows after her and kisses her. There is no mistake that can be made that Sherlock Holmes is hungrily kissing Molly Hooper. He eases her down onto her back, his lips never separating from hers. When he finally does release her mouth, she is out of breath, panting and beautiful. When he moves inside her, it is slow, as if he savoring her. Being face to face is an intense feeling for both of them. Their eyes are locked on one other. Sherlock breaks contact first, resting his forehead on her shoulder. Molly's arms immediately encircle him, one hand digging into his scalp while the other claws at his back. There is an atmosphere of desperation, tenderness, and sweat as they cum together. Sherlock rolls to the side and lays next to Molly exhausted and out of breath. He raises his arm, to silently invite her to snuggle against him. Molly moves closer and lays her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat.

There are no declarations of love, and no promises made, as both don't know what the future will hold. Both are aware that once they set foot out of that bed, their isolated moment was over. He will turn back into Sherlock Holmes again, a man whose life is too dangerous for love, and she will be Molly Hooper, a quiet woman who silently loves the sociopathic addict.

Molly yawns, and fights to keep her eyes open. She knows once she falls asleep, he will be gone by the time she wakes up. So she tries to stay awake a bit longer, to extend their time together. Sherlock kisses her temple. He turns his head and notes that their cake has been reduced to a large pile of crumbs.

It seems that Watson won't be getting his slice of cake after all.

A/N: I will never look at chocolate cake frosting the same again.