Reacquainted

"John, we're out of su- " Sherlock called out from the kitchen to the sitting room, but stopped himself quickly at the sight of John's empty chair. John and Molly had wed some months prior, and Sherlock admitted to himself that now the flat was much too quiet. Much too quiet by half, and even a bit - lonely, though he'd never use such a sentimental word aloud. He thought he really wasn't getting the hang of it at all, this complete solitude, and it was starting to concern him. He'd called John's name out to the empty flat a number of times, and had held forth in long important conversations which included sarcasm, wit, and important suggestions for protocol for future cases that the two should follow, which had never been attended at all by the doctor. It was beginning to be embarrassing, even if no one else was present.

His return to his former life after his leap from St. Bart's had been almost simple. Ridiculously simple. Everything seemed to fall back into place without a hitch. It was like a dream. Only one thing jarred his now near perfect reality - John and Molly were married, moved into their own absurdly, infinitesimally small flat, and had practically abandoned him., though of course, John still aided him in his cases.

Lies. He was telling himself lies, he knew. Own up, he thought. His return had not been so simple. Logistically simple, yes. But emotionally, he knew he had to admit it, it had not been so easy emotionally, and he was having a lot of trouble keeping his sentiments at bay, more than ever before in his life. During the months of his 'death,' he had been almost entirely alone and faced dangers at every turn. He'd had Mycroft and Molly to turn to: Mycroft for information, and Molly, after she'd helped him fake is death, for solace, the odd shower, and some meals. B for the most part it was him on the ground with two or three revolving incompetent idiots of Mycroft's, tracking down Moriarity's network, and eventually wiping it out. It took 18 months, but it was astounding to Sherlock in retrospect that they (he!) had been able to accomplish it at all. Thank god it was done! He had been jubilant. Now I can go back to them, John, Molly, dear old Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and even that wanker, Mycroft. Steady on, there I go again, he thought.

This emotionalism. Was it age? A couple more years of age and wisdom should certain help the situation, not exacerbate it. Was it the lengthy separation from any society at all during the mission? He'd never needed it before, why would it affect him now? Was it time to relapse into drug use? He considered it more often than not, lately but found himself to be completely uninterested. That wasn't at all what he was after. What was? Was he facing some kind of a crack up? He pulled one of the the sitting room window curtains aside and looked into the street. If he lost his mind how would he continue, he wondered?

Too depressed and annoyed to continue to make his pot of tea, and very disinclined to make any tea at all if there were no sugar, he threw the spoon he was holding into the sink with a loud clatter as it hit several pieces of glassware and crockery which, he noticed, had somehow piled themselves into the sink. "Agh," he said to the full sink of dirty dishes, and waved his hand at it, as if to dismiss an irritating line of questioning.

Molly married John. He still couldn't get over it. She was naturally still at her post at the morgue, and he saw her whenever he had a case that took him to Bart's. But it wasn't at all the same, was it? Her adoring presence in the morgue was replaced by a self possession and confidence that was startling to Sherlock. Of course she was kind and accommodating, perhaps even more kindly and patient than ever, but she'd moved on in his absence, and she and John had found one another.

Naturally Molly and Sherlock had become close while she was hiding him and helping him, soon after his leap off the roof of St. Bart's. They had spent two weeks together in her flat, and they had succumbed to the inevitable sexual tension several times almost from the beginning. At the time he'd very clearly expressed to Molly that he couldn't promise her anything except that he would come back if he were able. He cared about her deeply, but for his mission to remove the threats to Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John to be complete, he'd have to go abroad indefinitely to take apart Moriarity's network. He'd put up his usual defenses, walls, barricades to emotionalism, but eventually, in his solitude on the mission, he would recall his memories of Molly, her body, her skin, the sound of her voice. He recalled them more and more often as time went on, they became source of great comfort. In a way the memories, and his reflections on the kind of life he might be able to give her in the future had gotten him through that time. It had taken him 18 months to wipe out the network, but when he got back to London, he'd seen what a fantasist he had been. What had he been thinking? He could never give someone like Molly the kind of life she expected, and wanted, and then, of course, women wanted children. He was not merely ill-equipped for such an endeavour, he was baldly unequipped.

So, Molly and John were married. No matter how many times he repeated it to himself, he couldn't take it in. Mine, he thought, wasn't Molly always mine? The thought made him feel like a child whose toy had been taken, and for the umpteenth time, he actually shook his head as if to get that particular cobweb out of his brain. John and Molly. Molly and John. How can I go on like this? They were a little less his, and wholly belonged to one another. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, and barely did to himself, but he felt alone and quite left out. He felt completely left out. How could they treat him like this? After what he'd done, after what he'd sacrificed, and risked. He shook his head again, naturally he didn't begrudge a bit of it. But he lacked their familiar, easy company and there was an enormous void in his life where they had been. It had to be faced, admitted, at least to himself.

He sulked much more often than ever, though no one was there to see, and spent hours on the sofa in a fetal position in pajamas and a dressing gown. He would have to take himself in hand, he knew. A course of physical exercise? Something must be done in any case.

He played a few strokes on the violin of his own composition, but he was soon bored and put the instrument down. Molly. He reached into the desk drawer, pausing before picking up a gun. Thinking better of it, however, he left the weapon in its place. He let out a heavy sigh. John.

Then he suddenly remembered - tonight? Yes, John had invited himself and Molly over for this very evening. Highly unusual, that, and Sherlock had gruffly said no at first, claiming to be too busy, but John knew how to manage it, and they were due – Sherlock looked at the clock. Any minute. Well, at least they were bringing take-out. There was no way these dishes were going to get done before their arrival. He grabbed the violin again, and launched crazily into something Klezmer that he remembered from a recent case.

Molly and John arrived, and there presence was a balm. Though Sherlock managed to keep his aloofness, he thought, there was no repressing his smiles, as Molly and John's laughter and simple conversation soothed him deeply. Their usual and often annoying habit of touching him, as well as one another, seemed instead to quiet his interior anxiety and tension. And even after the hugs, and shoulder slaps of the couple's initial greetings, there was no end of the pair touching his shoulders and arms throughout their dinner. At any other time, it might have quite annoyed Sherlock, but tonight he was lightened by the familiar contact with his two friends.

Now, the take-away had been annihilated, three bottles of wine were being felt, and each of the three breathed out an audible, satisfied postprandial sigh almost at the same time. All three joined in chuckling at this, as they made eye contact each one with the other two. There was a lull and a quiet in the room that wasn't at all uncomfortable, but which, it seemed at least to Sherlock, held a certain suspense. These two were communicating silently, Sherlock thought. Even though they'd been married a relatively short period, they'd developed a deep bond and facile shorthand of communication. Sherlock could practically hear the dots and dashes of their personal Morse code. What was it about, he wondered? They've got something on their minds. He looked at John questioning silently. The room had darkened, and Molly lit a pair of candles on the table, the only lights on in the flat as the evening drew in around them.

"Ah, Sherlock," John began, "We've rather missed you."

"Yes, we really have," Molly added.

There was a pause, where Sherlock might have said something but he only dipped his head, and looked at his hands. John and Molly exchanged a look. Of worry? Of complicity?

"Actually, we've been meaning to talk to you about it."

"Yes, we have," added Molly, and she left her seat, and walked over to Sherlock's chair which he'd pushed out from the table a bit to stretch his legs after the meal.

Sherlock looked up at Molly's approach, and took her in. She was lovely tonight, he thought. She was wearing her hair long, with a few strands from each temple caught loosely in a barrette at the nape of her neck. A pale lavender blouse with frills buttoned down the front. Finishing a chic bohemian look that was not at all his old Molly, she wore a loose crepe skirt that Sherlock realized only now, was a little too fancy and fine for a take-out dinner at an old friend's and looked rather more like date-night attire than - Suddenly her hands were in his hair and she was gently kissing his head, and stroking his cheek.

"Um, Molly?" Sherlock asked, as she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, and then swung a leg over his lap, straddling him in his chair.

"Yes?" She responded innocently. They were nose to nose, the heat of her legs' sudden contact with his own was undeniably arousing. He smelled her soap and shampoo, noticing gratefully that she'd dispensed with using perfume tonight. She remembered, he thought. But what on earth?

"Don't you remember this?" Molly whispered in his ear, her hot breath making him quite dizzy. Yes, he thought, I remember, god, of course I remember. Another wave of dizziness followed. She'd done this to him in her flat, sitting in his lap and had caught him quite by surprise, and they had -

"All right, Molly," said John from his seat, "Don't tease too much, hmm? The thing is, we've been meaning to have a word Sherlock, for a while, and, well, I guess I've been embarrassed about it. I've kept putting it off." Molly was now lightly tracing Sherlock's hairline behind his ear with her lips, now and then giving tiny kisses. It was all Sherlock could do to keep his hands off her – they still floated in the air at either side of her in an attitude of surprise.

"Ah, John, your wife is sitting in my lap. She's – she's kissing me, John." Sherlock managed to half speak half whisper to his friend seated directly across the table from him.

"I know, isn't she lovely?" John sipped his wine. "She convinced me a direct approach would be best tonight. The thing is, god, how to start this? Well, I guess the beginning, right?" Here, John paused and took a breath.

"You see, Sherlock – um, we wanted to say - Molly and I are together because of you. And, I don't mean that you simply introduced us – though I'm not sure you ever actually introduced us properly, but that's no matter – God how can I?- but we're together because of you – We're together…good lord, just a minute."

The doctor paused – with emotion? Sherlock glanced over and the doctor made eye contact.

"That is, Sherlock when we," and here the doctor smiled, and reddened somewhat.

"When Molly and I – when we come together - in the beginning, when we first started seeing one another, and even now – a large part of what we're doing when we are – um, are intimate – "

"When we have sex," Molly purred close to Sherlock's ear.

"When we're intimate, yes, when we have sex, what we feel we're doing in large part, is well – we're trying to feel closer to you."

Sherlock stopped breathing and looked at John to confirm what he'd just heard. He took in his friend's open expression, then looked at Molly, who smiled patiently. Then she continued her attentions to Sherlock's neck and ears, but now pulled away, cupping his face in both her hands, and then stroking his cheeks, tracking the line of his lips.

Then, Molly looked at one of Sherlock's hands, still suspended in the air, and frowned, glancing at John in disappointment. They connected, and agreed silently.

"Of course, we don't want t embarrass you, or ourselves for that matter, so, since I think you can see where this might be going to some degree, we'll just. . Molly?."

Molly moved to lift herself from Sherlock, but quickly, without thinking, he grasped her hips and brought her back down in his lap, and then ran his hands up and down her back, pulling her closer, looking, smelling, remembering.

"Oh, you see, John, you see? I told you, I told you. He's lonely for us too, aren't you?" She purred, pushing her hands into his hair, gently pulling.

John smiled, and reached across the table, laying his hand briefly on Sherlock's arm as the two men made eye contact again.

"Good, all right," said John breathing out with some relief. "So, to continue, I guess, well, that's the main thing, we miss you - somehow we always have. There's a sort of – don't get me wrong, we work, we're in good shape, I think, but it's just sometimes, even when we're – well, we can't stop feeling there's a void - an emptiness between us, that neither one of us is responsible for, nor capable of filling for the other."

John went on. "Another thing, I have to say, I need to say to you - I always knew Molly had feelings for you, cared about you. But didn't we all think it was crush? But what I didn't know, I didn't know that you—I mean I know you know that Molly came to me – while you were – covert.

"I sent her to you," said Sherlock.

"I know. She's only recently told me that. But I didn't know any of that then, of course, I thought you were dead, for godssake, and and we, Molly and I – well, as you know."

John tried to collect himself a little before continuing.

"And, now well - Molly's told me now, about the time you spent together, that you were um, quite close in the days just after – you know," John paused for control.

"And I don't mean – that is, I'm glad that you were able to – turn to one another during that time, I'm very grateful that you had one another to- I wish I- I wish we-"

"John," Molly breathed into Sherlock's neck, "you're doing beautifully, just beautifully, I'm here, darling."

"Yes," John continued, "Um, she told me about all that – that you were intimate but what I wanted - I wanted to say, I didn't know that you were -that you had feelings for her. I didn't know. Before Bart's, you'd never said a thing that made me think – But I guess I should have known. And now Molly's told me about your time together. What I'm trying to say is, – "

And here John afforded himself a little chuckle.

"Well, I guess I feel quite guilty for having stolen your girl. But, you'd never said anything, and then you staged the jump - I'm sorry I'm getting jumbled. Hang on."

John shook his head, and took in the sight of his wife and his friend holding one another. Sherlock was still trying to keep his head from spinning. Molly was increasingly bold and uninhibited in his lap and had started pulsing her legs together against Sherlock's as she kissed and stroked his hair, and the detective was rendered almost speechless. His hands travelled to Molly's face, gently stroking her cheek, looking into her eyes while remaining absolutely attentive to what John was saying. She smiled, and kissed him tenderly on the mouth, and trailed down his chin and neck, as she began to unbutton his shirt.

"John, your wife is unbuttoning my shirt."

"Yes, she's lovely, isn't she?" Said John. "So that's the second thing, and for Molly's part, I mean, she's said that she feels she betrayed you to a degree, as well. She had that crush on you for years, and then – well it must have deepened into love while you were covert, yes?"

"Yes," Molly said, kissing Sherlock lightly on the mouth again. He couldn't hold back any more, and slowly, but relentlessly deepened their kiss, only breaking finally when John continued.

"And then there were those months when you were completely out of contact with her. And Mycroft. We were frantic to help you, to know what you were doing, if you were ok, but what could we do? We begged Mycroft for information, but he assured us he had none. – God – you were completely alone out there and we were here, safe because of you. It's almost –" John stopped and began again.

"So, that's what we wanted to say. We want to – we''d hope you would – god. Um. We're still missing you. There. And if you're at all missing us – if you are - well, we want to share, is all. But only if you'd like, naturally. Unless it's uncomfortable for you. But it's not as though any one of us conforms to any kind of middle class, normal - We just don't want you to be left to yourself when we both – uh –

"Love," said Molly.

"Yes, when we both - care for you… so much. Ok. That's it. Sorry, god that was rather sappy, but we had to get that out."

Here, the doctor took a deep breath and put down his wine glass, which he had been gripping he now realized, far too tensely, and rose from his chair. He rounded the table, and approaching Sherlock's chair, looked down into Molly's face, smiling.

"So, my dear, I'll just – um, call me when – um, that is, I'll pick you up, yes?" And here he nuzzled her neck, and kissed her deeply, with no hesitancy or embarrassment.

"I love you, John, darling."

"I love you too. Ok," and he turned from the table to locate his coat. But as he turned, Sherlock shot a hand out, and gripped the doctor's wrist. There was a moment of stillness in the room.

"No need to rush off right away, John." Sherlock said, "Weren't you just saying that you missed me?"

Molly hummed with delight. "You see? You see, John. I told you." Sherlock chuckled at this, and took John's hand, and placed it on Molly's shoulder. The contact of both men's hands on her made Molly arch her back with a deep hiss of pleasure and she almost lost her balance in Sherlock's lap, but he steadied her.

"John," she said in a whisper, leaning back into his hands. John gripped his wife's shoulder's, and looked at his friend in silent agreement. He smiled at Sherlock reassuringly as he reached forward and unbuttoned Molly's blouse affording Sherlock a view of Molly's lacy demi cup bra. His eyes darkened, as John left the open blouse, and reaching underneath at her back to unclasp her bra, but left the garments in place. John kissed and sucked her neck, as she purred and mewed with pleasure, then he pulled away, just maintaining contact with his hand on her shoulder.

"I'm here," he said, taking away his hand, "I'm not going anywhere, just over here," And he stood for a moment at the edge of the light in the room and he made eye contact with his friend. Sherlock, without taking his eyes from John, lifted the thin fabric of the blouse from Molly's shoulders, and let it fall on the floor. He slipped the bra straps from Molly's shoulders and the black lacy undergarment followed the shirt to the floor. John watched his wife lean back as Sherlock practically devoured her breasts, mouthing and nipping at them, tonguing them, now roughly, now tenderly, sometimes just dragging his face across her skin, with short guttural sounds one mightn't have expected from him. John took another sip from his glass, and another small step away from the chair where his friend and wife were joined in one another's arms. Again, Sherlock made eye contact with the doctor.

"I'm perfectly all right, Sherlock, this is all perfectly all right." said John, moving a little closer to the couple in the chair. "Molly and I have found that I'm, ah – well, a bit of a voyeur – hmm? And we're all – well, you know – human sexuality, hmm?" Here, John lifted one hand from his wine glass, palm up, as he rolled his eyes and shrugged. He sipped his wine. "Don't worry," He continued, "I won't be content to sit on the sidelines all night. But for now, lets give you too some space and let you get reacquainted, Hmm?" and he was gone, stepping into the darkened peripheries of the room away from the chair and the candlelit table.

Molly had already unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and was trying to get it off when he turned his gaze back to her.

"John," said Sherlock, stroking Molly's hair, and face and neck, "Your wife is taking off my shirt."

"Yes, she's beautiful, isn't she?" John, in the darkness, now in a different part of the room, a quiet, reassuring presence.

"I've always thought so," Sherlock said to Molly directly.

"I've missed you so," she said, and they fell into another searing kiss. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I had no idea I would be gone so long, and I wanted to talk to you every day and hold you every day and feel you, why should I think you'd wait for me but John is so clearly the better choice for you, I'm glad you found each other, but I'm lonely and selfish, but you're here now which is sooooo - So, long, it's been such a long time since you've been in my arms, and now here you are, and John, too, and, dear god, how long will it last?

His thoughts were mad and uncontrollable. He spoke not a word of them, but tried to put all his feeling into his touching her as they kissed and caressed one another. In another moment, she let him help her peel off her skirt and pants, cast them aside and resettle, now naked, in his lap. Sherlock stroked her sides, her hips, and purred into her neck, "I have, it's true," he whispered hoarsely, and then more loudly so that John could hear him properly. "I've missed you, too - both of you." And his kisses came more urgently as he gripped Molly's hips, grinding her into him. He pulled back a little and widened his knees, looking down at her, between her legs. He ran his knuckles across the skin of her neck and breasts, and trailed his hands down her abdomen and stroked her sex.

"John. Sherlock." Molly smiled.

He held the small of her back steadily with one hand, and pressed the fingers of his other hand deeply into her. So warm, so wet, he thrust into her, letting her buck and writhe in his arms, contract around his hand, as he breathed against her neck as she moved and moaned. With his thumb he rubbed her where he knew she wanted him, and moved back and forth, driving her to buck against his hand with more urgency and sound.

"Molly, you may be making a mess, hmm?" Asked John quietly, now from the area where the sofa was. "Trousers?" A question that wasn't a question.

"Yes," said Sherlock, helping Molly stand, standing himself. Whose hands were whose? One wondered as Sherlock's belt buckle, buttons, zipper and elastic were dealt with, and the clothing was flung aside. The pair, now naked, stood panting, facing one another, not touching, consciously or not awaiting John's approving, reassuring words. And the doctor appeared, at Sherlock's elbow, still holding his wine glass which was now a little more full. When had he filled it? Sherlock wondered, the bottle he knew had been at his elbow the whole time, how did he – oh, what the hell, who cared? Sherlock dismissed his thoughts as hormone-addled and useless and tried to place his concentration on the moment, Molly here, and John, too, all that he had been thinking of all week so excruciatingly, no, for months, he realized, now. But this, he'd never imagined anything like it – when and how had John?

The detective felt John's hand on his shoulder.

"Relax, Sherlock," he said softly, directing him to sit back into his chair. "Take a seat." And to Molly, he said, "Here my love." John carefully placed the union jack pillow between Sherlock's feet, and he was away in the darkness again. "John, you are so lovely, darling," Molly purred, adjusting the pillow, kneeling down and burying her face in Sherlock's lap, kissing, sucking, licking, all the while drawing herself closer, encircling his waist with her arms, until she was closely molded against him, his rock hard length deep in her mouth. Sherlock's hands laced into her hair as he threw his head back, his mouth open in a silent moan. There was silence in the room for some minutes but for the kissing and sucking sounds Molly made as she luxuriated in Sherlock's lap.

"She manages beautifully, doesn't she?" John in the darkness. Sherlock made no answer. Then the naked couple sensed John's presence directly behind Molly, dragging something. Sherlock opened his eyes to see the doctor arranging Sherlock's duvet on the floor. Sherlock couldn't speak at the moment, but thought he thinks of everything..

"Don't wait too long," said John. "Sherlock is getting pretty close, aren't you?" And here, the doctor ruffled Sherlock's dark curls with one hand, his fingers lingering on his neck, taking his pulse? Sherlock wondered, as the doctor slipped into the shadows again. His words were only quiet, rhetorical, and though they had been practically in Sherlock's ear, they'd seemed far away. Anyway, no one answered him. Sherlock reached down, drawing Molly's face up to face him, then leaned down to kneel on the floor himself, pushing her back, back into the fluffy but hard duvet bed that John had fashioned for them on the floor behind her.

Quickly, Sherlock's hands were back in her hair, his knees were between hers, pushing her legs apart farther and farther, as he was kissing her, and bracing his knees and body, poising himself to impale Molly, when he felt John at their side again.

"Um, sorry," John said, as the sound of a plastic wrapper crinkled. "My wife, and all, should have thought of this before. Erm, if you'll allow me, I'll just -" and here the doctor reached between the two of them, firmly grasped Sherlock's cock in one hand, and quickly and efficiently guided a condom onto the tip, and down the length, as Sherlock tensed with a growl, and then relaxed somewhat.

"Sorry. Ok," John said as he slipped away again.

"Quite right, John, I should have – "

"Not at all –"

"That is I should have – oh, fuck –" Sherlock said as he plunged in to Molly without any further preamble. Her sex was glisteningly wet, and Sherlock had no difficulty finding the right angle of entry as he fluidly lifted one of her knees to his shoulder, but then held her there, both of them immobile, and now nose to nose.

"Remember this?" Sherlock whispered in Molly's ear with a wry smile and she answered with a sigh,

"Yes, oh, yes."

"All right?" Sherlock asked her.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine –" she clung to his neck, writhing from side to side encouraging him to move, but Sherlock held the pair almost immobile until, with a smile he managed to husk out,

"All right, John?" to the room at large.

"Ahh," John purred from near the fire place where he was stoking the last embers of the evening's fire, a fresh log just starting to catch.

"It's lovely of you to ask. I love that you've thought to ask me, but, yes, when you're ready, Sherlock, - my dear friend, do please shag my wife until she cries."

Sherlock didn't wait for the completion of the sentence, and started moving slowly, but firmly and deeply into Molly, who for her part, now with a little ability to move, bucked her hips almost uncontrollably, already with tears running down her face, and was gone in about ten more strokes, with a light yelp, and lay beneath Sherlock, riding out the final spasms of her pleasure.

"Ahh, sorry about that," said John, now somewhere in the area of the sofa. "She does that sometimes, right away like that, the build up, you know. Isn't it adorable? I love it, but really, don't take it personally – or do, as you will. Oh, I forget myself, you probably know all about it" He chuckled.

Sherlock's jaw was clenched tight and even in the dim light all of his muscles visibly taught and straining as he tried to keep a slow pace, waiting for Molly to come to herself again before taking his own pleasure.

"Ah, John, I don't know how long I can – "

"Well," said John's voice, now a little more strained, a little more hoarse, "Of course it would be lovely if you could wait for her a little and bring her off again, but Sherlock, really there's plenty of time to take care of her again later – and there are two of us after all, so – "

"Yes, uh, I—" Was all Sherlock could manage before his mind shut down and his body took over completely, thrusting hard and deep, now, quickly, now waiting a bit, but harder and harder as Molly seemed to come to herself again with Sherlock's now more athletic movements. She immediately struggled against him for friction to achieve a second climax. She could sense he was close and clamoured frantically for purchase, gripping his shoulder, and flank, and her sudden physical enthusiasm caught Sherlock off guard and pushed him to his release with a loud long groan and Molly followed almost immediately, panting "John" and "Sherlock," and "darling" and then crying out her release in a bit of a shriek. Sherlock collapsed on top of her, whispering her name and then rolled to one side as the pair panted there together, wordless for several moments.

"Incandescent," said Sherlock, finally.

"Sherlock, did you say 'incandescent?'"

"Yes, I think I did" He chuckled. "Are you ok?"

"Sherlock, oh god, yes, how can you ask? I've been missing you terribly. You're so lovely." She kissed him lightly, and stroked his cheek briefly. "But where did John go? John?" She called into the darkness.

"Hmm?" was the response, strained, and guttural. The couple could just glimpse the doctor, naked now, on the sofa. He was stroking himself, his head thrown back and didn't look as if he would last too much longer.

"Oh, John, love," said Molly, and getting up, scampered over to him just in time to bury her head against him, taking his length in her mouth. John cried out a short series of 'ah's,' and was spent. Molly kissed her way up the length of his body to his mouth, smoothing his hair and kissing his neck. She curled up next to him on the sofa, and then called to the pool of light that remained around the table, where Sherlock was now sitting up on the duvet.

"Come, Sherlock."

He stood up, reaching for the duvet on the floor, then walked over to the recumbent couple on the sofa.

"Come to my bed," he beckoned his friends. "John?"

"Hmmm? Yes of course, here we go." John rose, and the trio herded themselves into Sherlock's room, and arranged themselves in his bed under the duvet.

"That was lovely, you two," said John, "Brava, well done, Molly dear, are you all right?" Molly purred her contentment.

"And, Sherlock, are you – urm, ok? I guess we didn't scare you off?"

"Hardly," Sherlock smiled into Molly's shoulder.

"Good. We were pretty sure we'd read the situation correctly. So, we have, have we?"

"I think so, John. I am – that is, I have been –" Sherlock couldn't finish.

"We can talk about it later." Said John. "We're not going anywhere."

"Yes," Sherlock said, "I mean no – that is, yes, we can talk later, and no, please don't– go anywhere."