AN: Tom's not going to exist in this universe.

Slipping off her gloves and tossing them in the bin, Molly rubbed her neck, a little sore from standing in the same position all day. She'd been working for twelve hours, but it felt like a lot longer. As long as it kept her from thinking about Sherlock though (damn it), she was fine. It had been two years since he had stopped coming to her place.

She made her way to the locker room, opening up her own, when she suddenly noticed a flash of black through the mirror. Willing herself to not get too excited (how many times had she fantasized about him coming back?), she glanced into the mirror again. Her breath catching in her throat, she spun around.

"Sherlock," she whispered as he took several steps closer.

"Molly." His deep voice rumbled. He stared at her unblinkingly, not saying a word, until she began to fidget.

"Welcome back," she nervously said with a smile.

"Indeed."

He took another few steps, closing the distance between them. He always had an air of authority from his height alone, but for some odd reason he seemed downright menacing now, Molly noted as she unconsciously took a step back, her back bumping into the locker behind her.

"Sherlock?" Her voice was hesitant, halting. "What..."

His arm gradually reached out toward her, and he slid his fingers through her hair, dislodging her hairband. He played with a lock of her hair, twisting it in his fingers, his eyes never leaving her own.

She couldn't breathe.

He took another step forward, until his body was so close to hers she could feel the heat radiating off of him. Unconsciously, she brought her hand up to halt his progress, pushing at his chest.

Only to discover he had most definitely bulked up over the two years and was going nowhere. Noticing her hand was still pressed to his chest, she coughed awkwardly, her hand dropping to her side and her face turning away from his to avoid his gaze.

Unwittingly, that allowed him to press forward until his chest was pressed against hers. She could feel her nipples pebbling.

He tilted her chin up until she had to face him, had to face his eyes and curls and (damn that glorious bastard) the desire she could see so clearly etched onto his face in that instant.

"Did you miss me?" His mouth hovered a centimeter from hers.

"Yes," she whispered.

He crushed his mouth to hers, his tongue begging hungrily for entrance. She responded in kind, moaning softly and sucking his lips between her own, her hands tangling themselves into his curls.

He groaned, low and deep, and grabbed her hands, forcing her arms over her head. She strained forward, seeking his lips.

He pressed his hardness against her, sucking at her neck and growling when she ground her hips against him. He sucked in a breath. That little tease.

He suddenly pulled back, taking in her dazed expression and pouty, swollen lips, and went back to attacking her, his lips trailing down from her lips to her neck, her collarbone, his hands wandering beneath her jumper and cupping her breasts gently, kneading them until she moaned.

Two minutes later, their clothes lay scattered over the floor, all except the Belstaff he had laid under Molly. She lay sprawled on it, her eyes wandering greedily over his bulging muscles, when he bent down and took one nipple in his mouth, his tongue rasping over it and painting circles around it until she was panting.

"Sherlock," she moaned, one hand grasping his length.

He lined his cock up at her entrance, his teeth bared in a feral display of possession.

"Beg me."

"Sherlock, please."

He thrust into her hard, drawing a content "oh, god," from her lips as she clutched him to her, kissing him hungrily.

"You don't know how long I've waited to do this," he revealed as he continued to thrust into her with all his pent up frustration. He had dreamed of her all too often when he was away, of every single way he would take her.

Her lips formed a silent 'Sherlock' as she felt a surge of pleasure rush through her, her cunt milking him until he came in her, his seed leaking out.

After an hour, he had taken her three more ways, all standing up, and she was suddenly very glad he had built so much muscle. She lay curled on him, her hand playing with his chest hair (he had curls there too), in shock at what had happened.

She had sex with Sherlock Holmes.

His arms suddenly tightened around her, and he tilted her chin so she was looking at him.

"I love you," he told her, his voice clear and unwavering.

Tears welled in her eyes. It had been five years. Her love wasn't unrequited anymore.

"Did I do something wrong?" He pulled the both of them up, her still sitting in his lap as he gently wiped away her tears. "I'm sorry. Was I too rough?"

Molly shook her head.

"I wanted our first time to be special, so that's why I chose the missionary position for the first, since it's the most common position. I've read the Kama Sutra to..."

She shut him up by kissing him. Leave it up to Sherlock Holmes to think doing it in the morgue was romantic. But she was glad at least they did do it once on the floor because she was sure her back and bum and thighs would be black and blue tomorrow from him pounding her against the lockers.

"I love you, too. And it was perfect," she added. Didn't want to bruise his ego, after all. Although she would have to have a talk with him in the future about his stamina. Maybe all that muscle wasn't a good thing after all, because she could feel him hardening against her bum again, but she was completely beat.

"You dolt," she whispered, her arm curled around his neck and her head laying against his chest.

She could feel his heart thumping steadily. This time, finally, thumping for her.