Author's Note: Much thanks, again, to MagsyB who looked this over many moons ago. The chapter has since evolved, so all mistakes are solely mine. Thanks to my patient readers and reviewers of past chapters. I hope this is to your liking, as it is to my satisfaction.

"… fiercely to fool
(and from my thighs which shrug and pant
a murdering rain leapingly reaches the
upward singular deepest flower which she
carries in a gesture of her hips)"

––e.e. cummings

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

4. fiercely

Molly woke in stages, Sherlock discovered during their first morning together.

First, came the nonsensical mumbling, in which she indistinctly recited what he recognized as Avogadro's constant, "… six point oh two two… ten to the twenty-third power…" Bewildered, he tilted his head toward the sound of her voice, but saw that her eyes were still closed.

Several minutes later, he felt movement from between their intertwined legs. For a mad second, Sherlock thought Toby had somehow managed to crawl underneath the covers––the creature did have a disobliging talent for choosing inopportune moments to make himself known. Upon lifting the duvet covering the two of them, he was relieved to discover that it was merely Molly wiggling her toes.

Following a half hour of inactivity, she moved again, executing a full-body stretch, that––had he not already been awake––might have succeeded in startling him out of sleep. She pointed her toes and raised her arms above her head on the pillow, like a ballerina in a recumbent fifth position.

He managed to suppress a quiet, endeared chuckle as he looped his head in between her outstretched arms and engulfed her body in a gentle embrace, tucking the crown of her head under his chin. He felt her breathe a sigh of contentment into the hollow of his neck before settling down once again.

Pre-dawn light began to seep in through the blinds of Molly's bedroom, but Sherlock had been awake for almost an hour, taking in this altogether new sensation, both physical and emotional. His inability to sleep this time was not borne from the usual restlessness that plagued his mind. It was because he carried an impatient knowledge in his breast that something pivotal had transpired that night.

It had been exactly two months since his exile, and two months and five minutes since he began working to eradicate Britain of the "Moriarty" problem, once and for all. He exhausted himself for the better part of the past several weeks, with the single-minded goal of preserving the safety of those he cared for, and––yes, he would allow himself to use the word––loved. After finally overcoming his arch-nemesis and his band of followers, Sherlock believed he had earned and achieved a sense of normalcy in his life. But, as usual, there was always something.

He accompanied Molly back to her flat, like any other night––a habit that originated at the height of the Moriarty terror alert. Convinced that she would be a plausible target, Sherlock began seeing her home, citing distrust in Mycroft's people in their ability to keep her safe. Sometimes, though more often than not––not that he was keeping count––he ended up spending the night at hers.

After helping her devour whatever sort of takeaway she fancied bringing home, they passed their evenings watching telly until the frequency of Molly's yawns clocked in every two minutes, and she resigned herself to bed. He kept vigil over her from her lumpy sofa, on the other side of her closed bedroom door. He didn't even bother with the pretense of needing her spare bedroom as a bolthole. Satisfied as to her safety, he dozed for a few hours. When he woke the following day, he would find that a cotton throw had been placed over his body and breakfast pastries were waiting for him in the kitchen. The two of them hardly saw each other during the day, save for the occasional official business that summoned him to St. Bart's, but Sherlock never failed to appear by Molly's locker at the end of her shift. The routine continued, even after his second and permanent defeat of Moriarty and his organisation.

There was nothing unusual about last night, except, when Molly rose from the sofa to retire to bed, she paused in front of the coffee table, dropped her hand beside her and held it out to him. He did not relinquish contact with any part of her body for the rest of the night.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

In the small hours of the morning, Sherlock found himself in Molly's bed, her sleeping form wrapped in his arms. The lack of sleep was not unusual for him, but what was odd was the absence of feeling compelled to be elsewhere; that though his mind was racing, he was exactly where he wanted to be. He was not normally given to reflection unless it was for a case, but this occasion warranted it. He directed his thoughts to the activities of the previous night––or perhaps just a few hours ago––after they had made love for the second time, when an unnamed something tugged insistently at his chest.

Their first time together was exploratory, fumbling, full of "sorry"s and false starts, partly due to Sherlock's lack of experience and Molly's lack of opportunity. But they made up for the experimental touches and nervous laughter in eagerness to taste one another.

In the welcome haze of their first contact, he could not recall who kissed whom first, but he certainly catalogued the sensation of their lips' inexorable connection. Their bodies connecting, well, that was a given, too. They paused just long enough for him to awkwardly fret over not having a condom in his possession, and for Molly to soothingly inform him that she was on the pill. As soon as the words left her mouth, pleasure––not transport––became the sole purpose of his body. They came together, culminating in a physical catharsis of the emotions they long denied themselves, and they raced toward completion rather gracelessly.

Even while he waited for his heartbeat to return to its normal rhythm, he was already plotting how to redeem himself, and as he watched her face he knew she was of the same mind.

Being with Molly the second time was like hearing a composition that had never been played before, but he somehow knew by heart. He was, if anything, a fast learner, who had a partner who was equally adept. They tumbled each other into exhaustion again, but neither of them could bear to succumb to sleep. They sought to replenish the oxygen they had stolen from one another, while exchanging gentle caresses to reassure themselves that all that had happened was in fact real.

Sherlock was prone on his stomach, with his head turned toward her, a cheek resting on the crook of his arm. His other hand bridged the small gap between them. He stroked her hair––which he earlier liberated from its usual ponytail in between fervent kisses––twisting a lock of it around his index finger, and admiring the way it had come to frame her face, in disarray, wild from their activities.

She was lying on her side, the flat sheet modestly covering her body, tucked under her armpits on either side. Her head was supported by her palm and balanced on an elbow. She held out her other arm, and with a finger, traced what he imagined were stoichiometry matrices or the anatomy of the muscles on his back. Though there was hardly any light in the room, lit only by the glow of the digits of the bedside clock, he could tell she wore an amused smile on her lips. He was in the middle of recounting his latest case when her hand stopped moving abruptly, and she gave him a questioning look.

Her finger traced the paths of old scars. "Were these from…?"

"Yes." He winced involuntarily at the memory of being struck by the Serbian soldier before his brother finally deigned to intervene. Although they were not exceptionally deep, the scars became visible under her deft fingertips, especially by one who examined human tissue for a living.

Molly withdrew her hand from his back, and his skin immediately felt the loss of contact. She closed the space between them again, however, moving her body nearer to his. He heard the bedlinen's fabric rustle as she let it pool on her side of the bed. Sherlock's eyes drifted over her torso, giving her breasts a bit more than a casual perusal, before surveying her face. She swept her tousled hair to drape over one shoulder, managing to nearly cover one of her breasts, obscuring the nipple. He kept his eyes trained on her, but did not move when she left his field of vision. She rose on her knees and straddled his backside.

The initial thought that crossed his mind was that Molly was initiating their third encounter of the night. His body had most certainly already recovered by then, and he was eager to prove a willing participant. His heart beat riotously in his chest as if it threatened to dislocate itself from his ribcage.

Instead, he felt her pepper featherlight kisses on his back while her strong hands held on to his flanks, her hair faintly sweeping along his side. It felt so intimate an act, even though they had already made love twice that night. He wanted it seared into his memory.

An unexpected thought sprang from where he had stored it away in his mind palace. Edmond Locard, a pioneer in forensic science, once conceived of the principle of exchange: that at any given crime scene, every contact leaves a trace. While that prevailing wisdom was what inspired his investigative genius, Sherlock now concluded that the same is true, too, of Molly's kisses. They left more than just an incidental trace, but a mark so imperishable, so irrevocably fixed that anyone would be able to decipher the evidence and discern the truth––that he belonged to her.

And though he never believed in the restorative power of kisses in healing one's injuries, he could not deny the indescribable levity he felt in his chest. His eyes fluttered shut while another sort of fluttering commenced inside his ribcage, as she continued to skim his back with kisses to her satisfaction. He intended to savor the sensation, which he now galvanised into his mind.

He never imagined he would ever allow himself to be so moved by a person. It took him years to finally realize that she had chosen him, actually and truly, but it still remained beyond his comprehension as to why. He wanted to discover the answer to that quandary, and knew that it lay buried in her inimitable mind, in her unfailing goodness, and––as he had discovered just a few hours ago––in the way her body moved under his. What he wanted more than those, though, was to be worthy of her choice.

He turned his torso to face her. He reached up and drew her up to his chest, their legs ribboning together. He held her there for several moments, reveling in the sure weight of her body on top of his.

His heart swelled for her, spilling over into a smile on his lips. A hand travelled down her back, while the other clasped hers above his sternum. When he brought his face even closer to hers, he paused briefly to kiss her upper lip in request, though the hunger behind it did not go undetected. She responded by pressing their lips together in a fuller kiss, slanting and opening her mouth to his. Their tongues met in the middle, and she let him in, a prelude to what they both knew was to happen.

The hand that was idle on her back wafted down the length of her spine, while his other hand cradled the back of her head. Her own hands tangled themselves in his hair, her nails scraping his scalp lightly. Without breaking their kisses, Molly began to move her body on top of his titillatingly, undulating her hips gently at first, and creating friction where her pert nipples rubbed against his chest. Sherlock's hand found its way to an arse-cheek and gave it an encouraging squeeze. Molly laughed into his mouth, still unaccustomed to this fairly new sort of intimacy between them. He answered her with a chuckle of his own to concur, then captured her lips and tongue with renewed interest as if to steer the mood to a more serious direction. Molly happily complied.

He could feel his arousal beginning to grow, and just as surely, he knew that if he dipped a finger inside her, he would find her already wet for him. The mere thought caused him to groan against her mouth. She allowed him a punctuating kiss on the lips before he laid her on her back and covered her body with his.

Once settled in this new position, Sherlock pressed intermittent kisses down her neck, clavicle, and chest, wordless pledges that trailed upon her skin in the hope that they might permeate into her very veins. He brought a hand to glide down her body to rest on her inner thigh, lightly brushing her pubic mound with his fingertips. His mouth hovered briefly at the curve of her breast, before he covered a dusky nipple with his lips. He swirled his tongue around the nub, which pebbled at his ministrations. He ventured a gaze up at Molly, whose eyes were trained on him, the expression on her face shifting somewhere between delight and arousal, wholly unapologetic and completely maddening.

Sherlock suspected he must have the same look mirrored on his face, but he ignored his current desire to absolve himself of the primal need to simply sink himself deep inside her heat. Instead, he distilled his efforts in the meticulous reverence of her body. He closed his lips over her other breast, and lavished the same attention on it, sucking, licking, and lightly biting her nipple. The hand that was stroking her thigh seemed to move on its own accord, coaxed by Molly's persuasive writhing. He finally let a finger slip into her waiting entrance, finding it indeed already wet. He easily added another finger while his thumb rubbed small circles on her clit, applying the amount of pressure he discovered she liked just hours before.

With forced concentration, he marked the sounds emanating from her, erratic pants offset by languorous moans. Sherlock could feel Molly's increasingly slick walls contracting and releasing around his fingers. He was finding it difficult not to rut his prick against her leg in a rather undignified fashion––though, from the way Molly responded to his touch, they were decidedly past decorum.

He simultaneously longed to join her in her impending release, but also wanted to see her to completion. Mercifully, Molly decided for him by pulling his body upwards and locking her legs around his. Her impatience became deliciously evident in the way her hands roamed across the expanse of his moist skin. A breathy sigh and vague syllables that resembled his name fell from her lips when he moved his fingers away from her. His mind was beginning to form the conclusion that the sight of Molly nearly unravelled was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld.

Before he could tender further deliberation to the thought, Sherlock felt Molly's hand snake between their bodies until her grasp encircled his length, reminding him how painfully hard he was. He gave himself over to Molly's loving hand, which pumped him needlessly, though the gesture was entirely not unwanted. His hips began thrusting upwards, instinctively trying to find release. While he still possessed a trace of his wits, he managed to still her hand with his. "Need you," he choked. (He never wanted to stop needing her.)

As if in affirmation, her lips found his, and she opened for him once again. Their tongues met, scraping against teeth, in hot, wet kisses. Her hand stopped stroking his cock, and he groaned against her mouth when she moved the tip of it at her entrance. He all but needed to tilt is hips ever so slightly, and he slid into her easily. He entered her slowly––or as deliberately as his need would allow––letting one another grow accustomed to the sweet ecstasy. And when they both gasped with pleasure, he moved, renewing the sensation.

The sounds of their sighs, half-formed words, and meeting flesh filled his head, and his heart insisting to leap out off his chest for all its thunderous beating. He plunged in and out of her, while they touched and kissed and explored. In syncopation, she matched the movements of his hips, building on each other's growing and greedy thrusts. She released his lips long enough to breathe his name. "Sherlock," she begged, and without being told, he brought his hand between them again to rub her sex and usher her to release.

When she came, her back arched and hands clutched his shoulders to hold herself steady. He barely registered her fingernails marking trails down his back as his own orgasm followed shortly, encouraged by her clenching walls. He answered her cry with a grunt of his own, slowing his thrusts to a rocking motion, culminating in a final thrust. Spent and exhausted, he sank his head on the curve of her neck, drawing in her scent, panting a little to regain his breath. A satiated sigh rushed out of Molly and she turned to him with a wide smile and a small giggle. He beamed at her, only partially out of his senses still, before rolling over on his side once more.

He let his hand drift to rest on her cheek, and a thumb lightly stroked her fully kissed bottom lip. She reached to cover what she can of his hand, and moved her head to kiss his open palm. He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips before letting his drowsiness settle in. His penultimate thought before sleep came was how easily the words formed in his mouth, and how no feeling––not even a 10––rivaled the elation at hearing Molly whisper the words back to him.

His last resolve before sleep was that he would dedicate an entire wing in his mind palace to preserving the memory of the last few hours.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was initially confused to find himself surrounded by walls that were not of his own bedroom. But once he drew breath of the familiar scent that he had come to classify as simply and indelibly Molly, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

There were many times in his life when he feared the darkness would swallow him up whole. His old self would have given in to the fear, and retreated into his accustomed shell of non-sentiment and cold reason. But now he came to realise that Molly had always been the bulwark that prevented him from irretrievably disappearing into the abyss of his own self. She saw him precisely because she emitted a source of light that rendered him visible in her spectrum. The same light ebbed away at the darkness that he had been drifting through for so long. It was only now that he was able to name the surge of emotion he felt last night––it was an epiphany that from then on, his existence would be categorised between his life before and his life after knowing Molly in these past few hours.

Just as he had descended into the land of the dead with her help, he found himself ecstatically aware of life––of the sounds of London waking in the world outside Molly's bedroom, of the cars and buses motoring passengers through the streets below, of the first flights soaring into the dawn, but especially of the breaths issuing from the woman who was beginning to stir awake in his arms. He gladly welcomed her help again.

They still had much to talk about and even more to decide when the rest of the morning ushered in, but there was one thing Sherlock was certain of. The moment his blue eyes met her brown ones, he decided he would live to watch Molly Hooper wake up next to him.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

4/4

I realize that this part of the story is told anachronistically. This was done intentionally. I wanted to bookend Sherlock's relationship with Molly (Parts 2 and 3) with the moment he realizes he loves her and the moment he acts on it. I really hope this was to your liking. I had a tremendous time writing it, trying to wring out my take on the Sherlolly relationship. Thank you so much for reading, and as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Cheers!