Tonight, Molly thinks, is the night.

Sitting in the tub she idly churns the water, creating mountains and valleys out of the bubbles, and then picks up her bath sponge. She gives herself a good all over scrub. She runs her hands down her legs, fresh and smooth from a waxing earlier that day, and wriggles her freshly painted toes.

She towels off and rubs a lightly scented lotion all over herself before slipping into the new dress she bought. It's a slinky little number, dark purple, and it clings to her like a second skin. She knows he'll love it. Purple is his favorite color after all.

She's just finishing up her makeup when the doorbell rings. She dashes downstairs, stiletto heels clicking gently on the floor, and opens the door with a wide smile.

"Good evening, my dear," Mycroft drops a chaste kiss on her cheek.

"Hello. Are we ready then?" her heart is all a flutter and she becomes a nervous pile of feminine goo.

He offers her his arm, walks her to the car, opens the door, and ushers her inside.

They go to a new restaurant – Italian, her favorite – and the entire evening is lovely. They sit and talk. Not just speak in each other's general direction, but actually speak, and it's so wonderful she almost can't stand it.

He's not bothered by her strangeness, or how awkward she is, or the fact that she works in a morgue (which has sent more than a few men running for the door) and she doesn't mind that he's a bit strange, or that he keeps strange hours, or that he can't tell her things – "National security, my dear." – or that he sometimes disappears for days on end.

It's perfect in its own unbelievably imperfect way.

They're back in the car now. He slides in next to her and opens his mouth, no doubt to tell the driver to taker her home as he's done every time they've gone out for the past six months, but she stops him with a hand on his thigh.

He turns his blue eyes to her and arches a brow. Her tongue is thick and heavy in her mouth and her courage almost leaves her, but she steady's herself with a deep breath. "Can we go back to your place?" she asks.

His eyebrows rise a bit higher and his lips part just the slightest bit. He turns back to the driver. "Home," he says, and he places his hand on top of hers.

His home is a lovely little Victorian town house, tastefully decorated, and he leads her through it with that unwavering ease he always displays. You'd think a man who was about to get a leg over would act more excited.

He takes her to the kitchen, pours two glasses of wine, and rests himself against the counter. She fidgets with the stem of her wine glass and stares at the paintings on the wall.

She wasn't expecting this. Her plans had gone all kinds of awry. In her previous experiences, whenever she'd given the slightest indication that she was amenable to going home with a man, she found herself in his bedroom in under five minutes. She didn't have much time to think about what could go wrong or if he thought her breasts were too small or if the scar on her leg would put him off or if he liked hair down there or didn't or –

"Molly."

She snaps back to reality. "Sorry," she says. "Bit of a space cadet."

He smirks and steps close to her. She swallows thickly and looks up at him. He places on hand – Christ, have his hands always been that big? – on her cheek and leans down to kiss her.

It makes her a bit dizzy really, because it's more than his usual quick peck. It's heady and passionate and it steals he breath away.

His hands come to her waist as he pulls away and he spins her around so that she's caught between the marble countertop and him. He curves himself around her, his front to her back, hands splayed out on top of hers on the counter, and presses a kiss behind her ear.

"Do you want to stay the night?" he asks.

"Yes."

He brings one hand to the zipper on her dress and tugs at it, revealing the curve of her spine and the slight indentations between her vertebrae. He kisses the space between her shoulder blades. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Her entire body is humming with energy. She pushes back against him, pushing her bottom against his lap like her girlfriend Emily told her to, and gets a satisfying groan for her efforts.

She turns in his arms, her dress barely hanging on, slips her hands inside his jacket and pushes it off his shoulders. It's an expensive jacket, to be sure, but he doesn't seem too bothered by the fact that it's currently sitting on the floor. Hooking two fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat she tilts her head up for another kiss.

He obliges, pulling her dress down as she works the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt. Lifting her up he sits her on the edge of the counter and steps back. She's a pretty picture, black lacy bra and panties, thigh high stockings, and black stiletto heels sitting there on his kitchen counter.

He polishes off the buttons on his shirt and drops it onto the growing pile on the floor. Molly runs her hands across his chest and smiles at the dusting of freckles across his clavicles and shoulders. She wants to kiss them, to count each one, memorize their shapes and the way they stand out against his pale skin.

Instead she pulls him by his belt between her thighs and lies back on the counter, arms over her head, and waits. His hands are on her thighs, toying with the hem of her panties, and she can hear the wheels turning in his mind. "Bedroom," he says thickly.

"Here's fine," she opens her eyes and looks at him. He's watching her intently, blue eyes wide and wild. Ice on fire, she thinks.

He shakes his head. "Condoms," he says simply.

She lets out a heavy breath. "In my bag," she says.

He disappears from her field of vision and she hears the zipper on her bag go zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzick!

God, I hope I got the right size…

His hands are on her thighs again and he pulls her towards the edge of the counter. Her panties come off, sliding over her stockings and high heels, and two fingers slip inside her. "Hhhhhnnng," is not a real word, but it comes out of her mouth anyway.

The fingers stretch her a bit and disappear. Mycroft hooks her legs high around his waist and pushes inside. "Haaaa-ah!"

He finds a rhythm, her name falling from his lips in a steady mantra, and even though she's nowhere near orgasm just yet, she thinks she's going to come apart at the seams from the sheer happiness of being where she is, in the arms of a man who loved her and accepted her, desired her and made her feel like the most beautiful woman on the face of the planet.

I could be happy here. Lord, let me stay like this. I could be happy here.

She wakes the next morning tangled up in his crisp white sheets and smiles. It had been a while before they'd made it to the bedroom. They'd gone two rounds in the kitchen before proceeding to the bedroom, then the shower, and finally back to the bedroom. She was deliciously sore all over and there was a slight mouth shaped bruise in the hollow of her hip. She ran her fingers over it and smiled.

Mycroft Holmes was godly in sexual prowess and she would shout it from the rooftops.

She rolls over and frowns at the empty space beside her. On the night stand is a note. She picks it up and grins.

Dearest Molly,

I'm terribly sorry you had to wake up alone after our night together, but I'm afraid duty calls. You'll find everything you need in the bathroom and breakfast in the kitchen. I'll see you very soon.

MH

She tosses back the blankets and shuffles to the bathroom. Hanging on the back of the door is her dress from last night (How on earth he'd found a dry cleaner so early in the morning she would never know) and a new Chanel skirt suit with matching shoes. She'd never been given flowers by a man before Mycroft came along, so looking at it make her feel a bit giddy inside.

She pops in the shower and gets dressed before going downstairs.

Sitting on the exact bit of counter they'd made love on the previous night is a plate of French Toast, a mimosa, and a single red rose.

She sits down on the bar stool and takes a bite of her food.

Yes, she thinks. I could be happy here.