The night had turned cold, and the glass window looking out into the world was starting to frost over. He hated this, hated having to leave the comfort and safety of London in order to bring this case to a close.

Sherlock looked down at the young woman nestled in his lap. Molly had originally fallen asleep against the opposite window of the car, but had soon slumped down and was now curled up in his lap, a small smile on her face.

They were being driven by one of Mycroft's men- John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson were in the car behind them. John had wanted to talk, come up with a plan- but Sherlock wanted nothing more than to sit here alone in this government vehicle idly stroking Molly's untamed hair.

He knew where they were going, only because he had threatened his brother. The drive was far and the further out into the country they drove, the colder it was becoming. He looked back constantly to make sure he could see the headlights from the other vehicle. Not only did he want Molly safe, he needed everyone safe as well.

She stirred slightly and whispered something incoherent—while a small smile graced her delicate features. He couldn't believe it had taken her engagement to knock some sense into him. He wasn't sure when his feelings for Molly had shifted, but if he had to pin it down—he would say the night she selflessly gave herself to him for help. Moriarty wanted to turn everyone against him, but Molly had stood by his side—kept his secret safe despite the pressures and hardships she had to endure every day to keep his secret safe. That last night they had been together—he had watched her go into the bedroom with hesitation. She had wanted to ask where he was going and how he would go about tracking down Moriarty's network—but she hadn't.

He initially went into the bedroom to say goodbye, he wanted her to know how thankful he was for her help—and that he could had never done anything without her. He had wrestled with himself then—he wanted a strong memory to stick in his mind. He wanted to feel her soft lips just once—so that on dark nights he could think about that for comfort.

He also wasn't sure if he'd ever see her again.

And then it happened, kissing turned into making love—and love it had been. Sherlock had been careful with her, gentle. The surprised look on her face almost hurt, but then he realized she would have never expected something like this to happen between them. When she responded though—he couldn't help but take her.

That memory had kept him warm while he endured dark, dank living situations. The memory of her soft moans and searing kisses kept him alive. He had to get back to her.

Although she didn't know, while she lay asleep that next morning, he had kissed her silently and whispered against her skin that he loved her. He knew she wouldn't remember, knew she would be disappointed when she woke up alone—but he had to get it out in the open—just in case he never returned.

Now, over two years later—here he was. Riding silently in a government issued vehicle with the small pathologist curled up in his lap. He was right when he told Mycroft he wouldn't leave her alone.

He couldn't. He needed to know she was safe, and despite half of the British government keeping an eye on them—he didn't feel safe unless he was the one doing the protecting.

The loss of movement in the car caused Molly to stir once more and she opened one eye to look up at him sleepily, "Are we here?"

"I'm not sure, stay inside."

At his harsh tone she frowned and he mentally cursed himself for being so cross, "I don't want you getting cold, Molly."

He leaned down and pressed a small kiss to her cheek—and he knew he was in the clear. The smile that lit up her eyes told him he could leave her in the car without a fight.

He pulled his Belstaff closer and walked outside. It was dark, but a few feet away a small house was spilling candlelight into the grass.

He heard grass crunching behind him and turned to see John approaching.

"I guess this is it, then?"

Sherlock turned and looked at John, who was also pulling his coat closer against him.

He was about to tell him he wasn't sure when the driver of the car handed him a small cell phone, "Your brother sir."

Sherlock looked at John and rolled his eyes before addressing Mycroft, "Speak."

"As I'm sure you've deduced this home will be yours for the time being. John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson are stationed at another home just down the road…"

Sherlock was about to interrupt when Mycroft continued, "There's a series of tunnels that connect the two homes together. Actually these homes were designed with safety in mind. If anything were to happen, you'd go underground."

"How brilliant of you."

"Hum, I know—there's enough food and water to manage for a while—but remember Sherlock, I'll need you eventually."

With that he disconnected, knowing Sherlock was going argue with him. Mycroft wouldn't take no for an answer in this case.

"There's another home for you and the girls."

Sherlock motioned to the driver, "Where's the other home?"

"About half a mile from this one, sir."

Sherlock turned to John and briefly explained how the two homes were connected—meaning they could still interact with each other—especially now that no one had a cell phone on them, except for the driver.

"I'll gather Mary and Mrs. Hudson and explain what's going on. You need to take Molly inside before she catches a cold." He motioned his head to Molly who was now leaning against the sleek black car they had arrived in.

"I thought I told you to stay inside."

She smirked, "How often do I listen to Sherlock Holmes?"

He approached her and held his Belstaff up, wrapping her up in it once she got close, "You used to listen quite well to me."

She smiled, "I listen to some things you say."

Sherlock chuckled as they approached the front door to the house. It was small and quaint, but it would definitely do for now.

Inside they found an appealing décor, tasteful furniture, a big enough bed and a refrigerator stocked to the brim with food.

There was also enough tea to brew for all of England.

"Tea?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, actually I think that's just what we need."

After a few moments Molly joined Sherlock in the easy chair he was occupying. It was similar to the one at Baker Street and she was now sitting comfortably on the arm of the chair. He wrapped his arm around her waist and took the teacup with a smile.

"OY!"

Molly shrieked and dropped her teacup onto the floor. Looking down they noticed a small flap on the floor open—and John Watson pop his head through.

"This is bloody cool."

"Right, John—perhaps not as much for Molly."

Sherlock stuck his foot out and put pressure on the flap, causing John to go back under the floorboards,

"Tomorrow shall we?"

Sherlock nodded, "Next time, knock!"

Molly frowned at her shattered tea cup on the ground, "Well that's a shame."

Several hours passed and after Molly realized that Sherlock had dipped into his mind palace, she wandered off- exploring the small house.

It had one bedroom, one bathroom and a great bookshelf in the sitting room. She rummaged through it until she pulled a worncopy of "Jane Eyre" off the shelf.

She was now curled up in the chair on the opposite side of the room, reminiscing on earlier times in her life.

She looked over to Sherlock who had his legs crossed and his eyes closed. His fingers were centered at the top of his nose, and at this moment he seemed a million miles away.

She sighed, wondering idly if John and Mary were having more fun than she was.

After several more hours she finally heard him mutter, "Shower."

"Hum, what was that?"

He looked over to her, "I said shower. Would you like one?"

"With you?"

Her cheeks blazed a cherry pink at her words, he looked at her with a confused expression on his face—like he had no idea what she was saying.

"Yes, didn't you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard you—but I mean..."

She hadn't been completely unclothed in front of Sherlock in over two years, and even then it had been in the dark. For her, a shower was much more intimate than sleeping together. You had to be completely comfortable with the other person to shower in front of them.

She was confident in her skin, but she also knew how detailed his eye was. Would he complain about the mole on her back, or the scar on her right shoulder? He probably didn't notice those last time he was with her.

"Molly, if you're worried what I might think or say about your body, please don't. I've been very personal and intimate with your body in the past and even though you think I didn't see everything… I did."

She held her breath, and he continued, "You're beautiful."

He stood and walked toward her while extending one hand, "Now, shower?"

She took his hand hesitantly and let him lead her to the back. He turned the water on and let the room steam up for a moment.

She seemed to be in a trance and wasn't sure why. It was just a shower! There was nothing to be afraid of!

She realized now that she was alone and that a very naked consulting detective was behind the curtain humming to himself and commenting about the type of wash that the shower was stocked with.

She looked down at his clothes which now lay in a little pile on the floor, "Molly?"

She shook her head and slid her shirt over her head—she was being shy—and she hated it.

She threw her shirt onto his pile and then after a big swallow, slid her pants down and shimmied out of those too.

She drew back the curtain a little and was greeted with the glorious sight of Sherlock's side profile. The water was running over his surprisingly hard chest down to his well sculpted legs.

She swallowed again and stepped into the shower, immediately sighing as the hot water hit her chilled skin.

He turned completely toward her—and for the first time she got a real look at him. He stood directly under the faucet, so his normally curled hair was now hanging slightly—while water dripped off the ends. His thin frame was more built more than his clothes gave away.

She was afraid to let her eyesight drop any lower. Sensing her hesitation, he pulled her to him gently—letting the water soak both of them.

She sighed once more at the feel of his heated skin against hers. His hand was now traveling the length of her back—stopping when they reached the small.

Her hands were on his shoulder blades and she smiled when they retracted and flexed under her fingertips.

He reached up and grabbed her chin softly, angling her to face him—and captured her lips in a soft kiss.

Between the combinations of their naked bodies pressed against each other and the glorious feeling of the shower—Molly lost herself for a moment and pressed herself further against him—igniting another reaction within him.

His kiss suddenly became frantic, wanton. He needed to taste her, needed to feel her. His hands developed a mind of their own and were racing up and down her body as his urgent need to feel her went out of control.

He pushed them out from the stream of the shower and onto the back wall of the shower. She looked up at him with surprise when he broke their kiss and let his eyes travel down her body. Here, was Molly Hooper dripping wet, while her dark hair curled around her neck and back.

He leaped forward once more, capturing her lips and after a moment she noticed his hands reaching for the shower curtain.

She pressed herself against him and he groaned when she wrapped a small hand around him.

He lunged for the shower curtain and ripped it open—causing a few rings to pop off the curtain rod. He lifted her from the shower, and she wrapped her legs around his waist—while his mouth never left hers.

His intention was to go to the bedroom, but at this moment he couldn't remember what direction the bedroom was in.

The bathroom was steaming, and the wicked things Molly was doing with her hands was bringing him over the edge.

He pulled open the bathroom door and groaned when Molly started too nimble on his neck. No.. he couldn't make it to the bedroom.

He turned back around and led her into the bathroom. He threw a few towels onto the floor and laid her down gently.

And then… he was inside her.

He couldn't wait.

The mood inside the bathroom suddenly changed from frantic—to something else.

He groaned into her neck. It had been two long years—and finally he was with the woman he called home.

She looked up into his stormy eyes, the emotions betraying his calm demeanor. He began to slowly move and she whimpered softly against his neck.

At first he thought he might be hurting her, but he realized she was feeling overwhelmed like he was. This is what they had both wanted for so long—and had been denied for even longer.

She wrapped her arms around him—her palms resting against his shoulder blades. She was squeezing him so impossibly tight—but it wasn't tight enough. He needed to be closer and pushed himself deeper into her.

She moaned softly and after a few moments he could tell she was nearing her end.

In those soft moments afterwards he recalled the way she suddenly arched her back upward—the way he caught her lips in a soft kiss.

The way she whispered "I love you" against his skin—and the way he showed her time and again that night just how much he loved her.