Disclaimer: It does not surprise me, in the slightest, that I still own nothing.

Summary: Molly Hooper likes sex. Molly Hooper wants to have sex…like right now. With Sherlock Holmes. She just needs to get him to shut-up. Set after the Fall. Smut and maybe a little bit of plot. Maybe.

There is sex people. Just giving a fair warning. Thank you all for reading and giving this a shot! Reviews are greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

This is Real

One-shot

She is going to break her fingers. Or at the very least tear her bed-sheets if she keeps gripping as tightly as she is. Or she's going to spontaneously combust and none of that will even matter anymore. Or, she's going crazy. Which wouldn't be that much of a surprise to her. Or to anyone, really. She's probably imagining this, no, she's definitely imagining this. It's all in her head. She's making this up. She's having a very very vivid daydream. Because this is not real.

(Did she take anything earlier? No. She had a couple pints with her friends. Oh. Maybe they slipped something in her drink. Well, she huffs silently, that wasn't nice of them.)

And then she gasps and arches her back and looks down to see two very blue, very inquisitive, very mischievous eyes staring back at her from in-between her legs.

Oh. Oh. She's not imagining this. It's not all in her head. She's not making this up and she most certainly isn't having a very very vivid daydream.

Because this is real.

Because the man that she's been absolutely-one-hundred-percent-fucking-crazy-about-for-three-long-excruiating-years has his head between her legs and is currently doing very naughty (and really, what ought to be very illegal) things with his mouth.

Right. How did she get here again? Not that she's complaining but memory loss isn't on top of things-she'd-like-to-experience.

He's been hiding out in her flat. Sherlock Holmes has been hiding out in her flat because he cares and because she counts. If the brevity of the situation didn't weigh down on her, she'd be doing her happy dance. Except, the brevity of the situation is weighing down on her. John is depressed. Lestrade is depressed. Mrs. Hudson is devastated. And Molly, well, Molly is a liar.

She comes to this conclusion one month after the Fall, while elbow deep in some poor dead sod's abdomen. Molly Hooper is a liar. Sherlock Holmes has made her into a liar. And oh, oh, she's going to be sick. Really, how can she even have the gall to face John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, all of whom are in actual mourning and she's pretending. She's never been a liar. The last time she lied, she was fifteen and tried to pretend that she didn't sneak out to meet some friends and that no, officer, I'm not drunk, only to slur her way through the speech. She spent the night crying because of how disappointed her dad looked at her. ("It's not `cos of the drinking Molls. Darlin', I knew you'd be drinkin' sooner or later. It's the fact you lied. Just own up to it. Yeah, you're pissed. But I'd rather you not try to lie, horribly I might add, about it. I'm just…disappointed in you, love.")

But here she is, thirty-one years old and lying. Only this time, she's not lying about sneaking off and drinking, this time she's lying about a dead Consulting Detective who isn't actually dead. This time, she could actually go to prison if anyone were to find out her part in his fake death. Her father (God rest his soul) would be turning over in his grave if he could see her now. Actually, her father would probably really kill Sherlock.

So, when her friend Mary from Pediatrics (they bonded over the equally horrible chocolate pudding in the cafeteria, "honestly, how do you fuck up chocolate pudding?" Molly loved her right then and there) asked her to come out with her and few of the nurses that night, she said no. At first.

"Molly," Mary said, her voice pleading, "You need to get out of your flat. It's not right, this depression. You're mourning and sweetheart I know how much you loved him, but just come out with the girls. Please. It's not healthy being cooped up in the morgue with dead people and then being home alone. Just this once."

Well, yes, she is cooped up in the morgue with dead people all day but when she goes home, she's cooped up with a not-so-dead Consulting Detective who proceeds to drive her heart right out of her chest with his hot-and-cold routine. Really, I should invest in a mood ring for him. (He'd probably scoff, call it rubbish and proceed to explain, very articulately, how stupid she is.)

"You know what?" Molly says, looking at her blonde friend, "you're right. You are absolutely right. Yes. Yes. I will come. Where are we meeting?"

Mary smiles widely. "Perfect. Hart's End Pub at eight o'clock."

"I'll be there." She promises.

Great. Now, all she has to do is decide on what to wear.

Her shift ends at five o'clock, but after stopping to talk to a few people, by the time she's reached her flat it's almost six. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen and Molly doesn't worry. (Okay, well, she worries a little bit but he usually goes out in disguises and if anyone is good at disguises, it's Sherlock.)

She jumps in the shower after she feeds Toby and takes a little bit longer than necessary. She's shaved her legs carefully and plucks her eyebrows. She's humming a pop-tune and she's in a happy mood. She's in an energetic mood, for the first time in months, she's looking forward for tonight.

She lets her hair dry naturally, curling just a little at the ends and she opens her closet rummaging through the hangers. Right. She knows she has it somewhere. Ah. There, in the back is her dark blue dress. She's had the dress for years and has only worn it a handful of times. It's tighter than it used to be, but not so tight that it makes her look like she's squeezed into it. She studies herself in the mirror. Yes, she quite likes the way it accentuates her curves (yes, Sherlock, she frowns, I do have curves.)

She's just finished putting on her make-up (lightly, she was never too fond of too much make-up. It made her face itch) and pulling her hair back in her mother's old clip, when she hears the telltale signs of the window opening.

She rolls her eyes and slips into her heels. "Is there a reason you can't use the front door like normal people?" (She's gotten better at the not-stammering thing around him. It helps when he drives her crazy and she's at her wit's end with him. But still, she'll sometimes revert to stammering and stuttering like a fool because she loves him and it hurts. It really really hurts.)

"Because I am supposed to be dead." He answers back. His voice holding a twinge of irritation. "And as far as I'm aware, dead men do not use front doors."

"Dead men." She replies, coming out of her room and holding her clutch, "are also supposed to be dead."

He turns around, mouth open, ready to say a scathing retort when he stops. And stares at her. His eyes narrow. "No."

Her mouth drops. "I beg your pardon?"

"You've finally accepted the invitation to go out from that Pediatrics Nurse, Mary, who for the last couple of months has been following John with her eyes. No. You can't go."

She can feel a headache coming on but most of all she just feels her blood start to boil. "I'm going."

"What if I said I need you here." It's not a question. It almost sounds like a threat.

Her heart leaps to her throat and her stomach jumps excitedly…then she shakes her head. He would, wouldn't he? He would make up some excuse to keep her in the flat, either to bounce ideas off of her, or for her help in some sort of experiment and God help her, she'd say yes. Because Molly Hooper will never ever deny Sherlock Holmes anything and the fucking bastard knows this. It's what he does. He's been pulling her on a string since the day she met him and she's been weak enough to let him. But he doesn't need her. Not really. He needs John. He needs Lestrade. He needs Mrs. Hudson and to a certain extent he needs Mycroft, but he doesn't need Molly. He needed her to help him fake his death but that was because Jim from I.T. (who wasn't really Jim from I.T. but rather a psychopath who enjoys killing and strapping bombs to people, nice going Molly, really nice) planned on killing the three people who count in Sherlock's life.

You do count. A little voice (that oddly sounds like Sherlock) tells her.

I don't. She counters back, not really.

"You don't get to do this." She says and she's horrified that her voice croaks with emotion. Oh God, Molly-girl, don't cry. "I've done everything for you. I've risked my life, my job, for you. I've let you into my home and I've let all your insults and horrible remarks slide because I know this is truly killing you and I don't want to add my horrendously fucked up emotions to your already unstable ones." She holds up a hand, "and don't…don't…pretend that you don't have any. You do. I know you do because we wouldn't be in this situation if you didn't. But this…this is low. Even for you Sherlock."

I love you, she rails in her mind, I love you and you don't even notice. You don't even care.

He stands stock-still and stares at her, she can't read his expression. She can never read his expression. "I've hurt you. I…apologize."

You don't just hurt me, you kill me. Every single day. She thinks.

His face crumples, just a little, his eyes widen and Molly clamps a hand on her mouth. Oh. She didn't think that. She actually said it. "I'llbebacklater." She spits out and then she rushes out the door, without a backward glance to the man standing idle and alone in her living room.

It's nearing eleven o'clock and Molly is knackered. She's had fun. She even drank a couple of pints, she met some guys, fended off most of the guys and she's almost (almost but not quite) forgotten about the earlier confrontation with Sherlock. She says goodbye to the girls, because she really just needs to crawl into her bed.

They plead with her to stay longer and even though Molly is off tomorrow, she still needs sleep. She begs off and promises to do this soon. She takes a cab home and makes small conversation with the cabbie driver. Then she pays him, making sure to give him a tip and unlocks the front door.

She's not tipsy. She doesn't even have a buzz, she's just…content. Until she gets to her flat door and then hesitates to bloody open it.

It's my home. She thinks, as she unlocks it and walks in, making sure to lock the door as soon as she enters. It's dark, which means that Sherlock isn't here. She's thankful for that. She toes off her shoes and walks barefoot to the kitchen, throwing her clutch on a small table next to the sofa. She turns on the light in the kitchen and jumps back with a small shriek when she sees Sherlock sitting on a chair at the kitchen table. "Oh!" She says, her hand automatically going to her racing heart. "You're here."

"I have no where else to go." He admits quietly.

Molly instantly feels like shit. "Look, I'm…sorry, Sherlock. I know you're going through a horrible time and I know this is frustrating and I know I'm not John but I…I'm…" You're what Molly? In love with him? There for him? Want to throw him on the floor and shag him rotten? (yes, to all of the above, obviously.) "I'm not your punching bag."

And this night keeps on getting worse and worse. Congratulations Molly Hooper. You have the sensitivity of a gnome. She takes in a deep breath and leans against the kitchen counter, hands braced on the edge behind her. Her toes making shapes against the linoleum floor as she waits in silence for him to say something. Anything. She's probably driving him away. God. If she were him, she'd leave. She'd pack her stuff and leave. Because despite saying he has nowhere else to go, she knows that's a lie. His brother could and was going to handle his lodgings. Of course, Sherlock for some reason, abhors asking his brother for any favors so he declined. Not so politely, she might add.

Mycroft for his part smiled and then looked at her. Molly read that look. Molly knows that look. It's the look all the doctors and nurses and security guards and volunteers give her, it's the God help you Molly Hooper look.

"Is this truly what you think of me?" He asks her. He stands up and Molly is suddenly aware of how tall he is. He's still in his dress pants and a black shirt (why do all his shirts have to be so sinfully tight? He's driving her insane.) "You think I use you as my punching bag?"

"You constantly insult me." She points out.

"I constantly insult everyone."

He's getting closer with every word until suddenly he's there. In her space. He braces his hands on the counter, each hand next to hers, trapping her in his almost embrace. If she just bends her back, she could…no. No. Molly, don't do this.

She bites her lip and sighs, "Sherlock, I'm tired. I don't want to fight with you. I'm sorry, really I truly am. I just…I wanted a night for myself, that's all. A night to have fun."

"Did you?" He studies her face and then trails his eyes down her body and if this were any other man than Sherlock Holmes, she would say that he was checking her out. But he's Sherlock Holmes and she's Molly Hooper and she has to face the facts: Sherlock Holmes does not and will not ever love her. He barely tolerates her. He leans in and Molly can feel his nose brush against her neck. She feels like she's being electrocuted. This is not fair. "You smell like a man Molly. Cologne. Hugo Boss. Who was the man, Molly?"

Oh. The hotshot lawyer who would not stop bragging about himself. He planted himself next to Molly and yes, kept touching her and she liked it, for all of a second and then she started in on the comparisons. His hair too light. His eyes too brown. His cheekbones not high enough. Not tall enough. Good God, no wonder she's still single, because she compares every prospect to a supposed dead man. Molly, you need therapy. Loads of it. Might as well go in for shock therapy too. "No one." She answers truthfully. She lifts her head and meets his eyes. "And even if he were someone and even if I did let him touch me and hold me and kiss me, which he didn't, but if I did let him, it would be no business of yours."

His eyes flash. "No business? No business?" He leans forward and places his mouth by her ear. "You, Molly Hooper, are my business."

She doesn't understand. Maybe she is as stupid and ordinary as he's always says but she just doesn't understand and she would tell him that if she could talk. But she can't. Because her mouth is busy kissing Sherlock. Right. When did this happen? Not that she cares. She opens her mouth and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her. She's on her tiptoes because really, the man is tall and her body is aching to mold herself into him.

His lips are moving against hers expertly and his hands are digging into the small of her back. Fingers yanking the fabric of her dress. He presses his hips sharply into hers and she bumps into the counter, wrenching her mouth away from his she lets out a startled yelp. He moves his mouth to her neck, place open-mouthed kisses on her pulse point, biting and sucking hard. (She's going to have one hell of a mark.)

His whispering things in her ear and for the life of her Molly can't remember any of it. She's concentrated on his hands and his body and how she's pressed against him and how she's suddenly finding it hard to breathe. She can feel her heartbeat in her ears and all she wants to do is drag his mouth back to hers. She wants to run her hands all over his body because God-finally.

"Shut-up." She groans out. "Sherlock, for the love of everything that is holy, shut up and fuck me." Molly Hooper likes sex. Molly Hooper wants to have sex…like right now. With Sherlock Holmes. She just needs to get him to shut-up. She looks at him and grins. "Really, that's what gets you to shut-up? Cursing? Jesus, I would have started cursing around you years ago. I have a filthy mouth." (She really does. She grew up around boys and was never shy around any of them.)

There is a glint in his eyes and he cocks his eyebrow. "A coincidence, I'm sure. As do I."

She tilts her head back and tries to settle her raging heartbeat. "Show me."

Judging by the literally breath-taking kiss her plants on her and his expert steering into her bedroom, she figures that her challenge is accepted.

He unzips her dress and pulls it down but before she can say anything, he pushes her back on the bed and his fingers hook in the waistband of her lace panties (She's wearing her matching set; they match her dress) and pulls them down over her thighs, past her knees, down her legs, through her feet and throws them to the side.

She's wet. She doesn't even realize how wet she is until one of Sherlock's fingers strokes her. She's gasping and moaning and thrusting her hips upwards. She's dying in anticipation. "You said something about a filthy mouth." She reminds him breathlessly.

"I did, didn't I?" And without any warning his head goes right to her sex and Molly nearly jumps off the bed from the shock of it. He's kissing, licking and sucking (oh, the sucking) and she's helpless. She's totally and completely fucking helpless. She bends her right leg at the knee and throws her left leg over his shoulder.

And then she starts praying. "Oh, God. Oh, God." It's a mantra but she can't help it. It's doesn't take her long to feel the burning sensation in her gut and it definitely doesn't take her long to orgasm, especially when he adds one finger and curls it just so. She gasps, arches her back and explodes. She looks down to see two very blue, very inquisitive, very mischievous eyes staring back at her from in-between her legs. "Where did you learn to do that?" She asks laughing. She lets the leg on his shoulder slide down and she bends both legs at the knee to cradle him as he slithers up her body, his mouth trailing kisses on his way up. "Actually," she amends, "don't tell me, I don't want to know." Then she frowns. "What do you still have clothes on? Sherlock, for fuck's sake, take off your clothes."

She struggles to sit up and she quickly undoes the buttons of his shirt and peels it off his shoulders and throws it on the floor. She's biting her lip and working on the belt when she feels his hands around her back, working on the clasp of her bra. He unhooks it after a few clumsy attempts (it mostly has to do with the fact that she's now holding his erection in the palm of her hand) and she wants to laugh. She wants to laugh hysterically because she knows, she just knows, that this will never ever happen again.

She's moving her hand up and down, alternating between soft, light touches and harder grips. He makes the most interesting sounds against her neck and his hips thrust into the palm of her hand instinctually. Then his mouth is wrapped around a pert nipple and one of his hands is squeezing her other breast. His mouth is so talented. Really, she could write sonnet after sonnet about his mouth. And his cheekbones. And his mind. God, she should write a fucking series about Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock." She moans. She can't wait anymore. She pushes down his pants and his boxers and he kicks them off and lets them land on the floor. "Now. I can't…don't…I need you now."

She leans over to her bedside bureau and pulls open the drawer and takes out a condom. He snatches it out of her hand and rolls it on quickly. He pulls her body so that she's directly under him (and boy-oh-boy she can feel everything) he positions himself above her and looks imploringly at her. At her nod, he pushes his full-length in.

She lets out, what is sure to be, a very unattractive yelp because really? A little warning would have been nice. But then he moves and she thinks, oh, this is more than nice. The only sounds are her breathy moans and his pants and occasional groans. She doesn't last long, her body is so wired and it suddenly occurs to her as he pulls out and then pushes all the way back in, his thrusting suddenly increasing, that she's having sex with Sherlock Holmes.

She turns her head as she clenches her inner walls, she's close, she's so close. "Molly." Sherlock pants, "look at me. Look at me, Molly." She turns her head to stare at him and she almost rears back at the look in his eyes. His pupils are blown back and so intense and he keeps her stare. His fingers are making permanent indents on her hips and she wraps her legs, hooking them at the ankles, around his back, her hands reaching down and gripping his pale sculpted arse. God, the statues in Italy have nothing on this man.

For the second time that night, she explodes. As in, her body feels like it's being torn from all sides. A broken cry, which oddly sounds suspiciously like his name, is torn from her throat, until she is left a limp, panting mess. He thrusts three more times, until he stretches out, head thrown back, his face twisted in utter relief and he growls, literally growls, her name. "Molly." He drops his head down to her neck and his lips latch on to the mark he made earlier, sucking and licking it. "Molly."

She's running her hands through his damp curls and breathing heavily. She can feel him go limp inside her and he pulls out but doesn't pull away from her. Instead, he places his head between her breasts and stays there.

Molly, too tired and sated and full of every single emotion known to mankind, doesn't argue.

She fully expects him to be gone the next morning.

She's surprised when he's not.

She doesn't know what to make of things. She doesn't know where they stand, or even if she wants to know where they stand, all she knows is that she would really really like to do this again.

"This…" he says, his voice groggy from sleep, "was not a one time thing and I would prefer it if you would withhold any other male companionship for the foreseeable future. It would be in both of our interests to exclusively keep each other company."

"Sherlock…are you…asking me to be your girlfriend?" Oh God. This is a dream. Sherlock Holmes cannot be asking her to be his girlfriend. Wake up Molly. Face your heartbreak like a man…er…woman.

He scoffs and his blue eyes open. "Of course not." Ah, other shoe, I've been looking for you. "I much rather prefer the term companion." Dear heart, I would appreciate it if you started beating again.

"Really?" She asks with disbelief.

"Molly Hooper, you have been…indispensable to me since I first met you." He says quietly and quickly after a moment of silence.

It's as much as a confession as she's going to get out of him. "Really?"

"Do not make me say it again."

"I wouldn't dream of it." She teases.

He tosses her a lazy grin. "You're cheeky. Why have I never noticed it?"

"Because you never looked." There's a pause. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I don't have to go into work today."

"I'm well aware of you sch-oof!" She rolls atop of him and grins, kissing him deeply until she feels his cock stir beneath her. "Vixen."

She laughs and kisses his chin. "How's about we have some more of that mind-blowing sex?"

His response is to kiss her again.

(Molly knows that he'll have to leave soon to take on Moriarty's network and she'll always worry but she also knows that when he comes back, and it will always be when, never if, she's dragging him into her room, locking the door and having her way with him for an entire weekend.)

But at this moment, staring down at him and watching every single emotion he denies, flicker across his face, she's not thinking about the future. She's just thinking about him (she's always thinking about him) and her and how they fit like they were made for each other.

This isn't a dream. She isn't imagining things.

This is real.

I'm blushing. Like seriously blushing. It's my first time at this so let me know what you all think! Also, I think it's safe to say that I'm addicted to these two. God, please please please let there be more interaction between Sherlock and Molly in season 3. Please please please.

So, yes. Thank you all so much. I love you lots! Hope everyone's enjoyed this!

Thanks again and much love!