A/N: Quite, QUITE M rated chapter as Our Hero and Heroine finally Do the Do.

Previously...

While her thoughts whirled, Sherlock spoke again. "No, Molly, becoming John's 'mistress' is not an option. Nor is remaining here. When Moran tells you you may go, that is exactly what you shall do."

She looked down her nose at him as he'd done to her so many times in the past. "No," was all she said, before turning smartly on her heel and heading for the bedroom door. However, she couldn't resist the urge to pause on the threshold and add, "If you'll excuse me, I have preparations to make before tonight's dinner."

She turned to close the door behind her, only to find an enraged Sherlock Holmes shouldering his way into the room. She let out a gasp and stumbled back a step, only to be stopped as he took her by the shoulders and shook her. Not hard enough to rattle her teeth, but not gently.

"You, madame, are the most infuriating woman I have ever had the misfortune to meet," he snarled.

She stared defiantly up at him, not bothering to attempt to free herself from his grasp. "And you, sir, are the most arrogant, obstinate, uncouth-"

He growled something she could not quite make out, shaking his head as if in denial of some unspoken thought. She opened her mouth to continue berating him, only to let out another gasp as he released her shoulders, took her head in his hands, and pressed a feverish kiss to her lips.

Without quite understanding how they'd come to this, she found herself holding him just as tightly, her hands curled into the loose folds of his sleeves as she returned the kiss with equal fervor. Some small voice in the back of her mind was trying to warn her, to remind of what had nearly happened the last time they'd kissed in this very bedroom, but she was far too swept up in the moment to listen.

No, Reason had no place in her mind in this moment, and had apparently abandoned Sherlock's as well. He pressed her against the wall, his leg firmly between her thighs and the fingers of one hand sweeping her mob-cap from her head, undoing her careful braids and scattering hairpins to the floor. She in turn was tugging at his waistcoat buttons, the collar of his pristine white shirt, the flies of his trousers.

He seemed more than eager to assist her, releasing her only in order to struggle out of his shirt and waistcoat, allowing them to fall haphazardly to the floor as he began divesting her of her own clothing. She moaned and gasped as he kissed and nipped at her lips, the shell of her ear, the bare column of her throat. And when she ventured to press her mouth to the bared flesh of his torso, he let out a groan that spoke not of the agony of pain, but only of the agony of want.

An agony she knew only too well.

A moment of clarity seemed to strike them both at once; they paused in their frenzied actions, stepped back as if sanity had reclaimed then both, but neither moved to cover themselves from the regard of the other.

Instead, they simply gazed upon each other. Molly was dimly surprised to realise she felt no shame, only a giddy sense of freedom as he swept his gaze over her from head to foot and back again. She flushed under his regard, but boldly made her own assessment - and hoped he found her as appealing as she did him.

No, not simply appealing; that was far too tame a word to describe how utterly entranced she was at the sight of his well-shaped limbs, his slender torso and muscular shoulders. She gazed unflinchingly at the sight of his arousal, how proudly his cock jutted from the nest of gingery hair in which its base was nestled, and licked her lips without quite knowing why she did so.

oOo

Sherlock groaned at the sight of Molly's pink little tongue darting between her lips, at the heat of her gaze fixed on his cock, at the sight of her deliciously naked body and the flush of pink spreading from her cheeks down her torso. Her breasts were small but firm, and he itched to feel them beneath his palms, just as he ached to feel her spread beneath him, receiving him into her body while she gasped his name in his ear.

The vision in his mind was so clear, so overwhelming he felt powerless to do anything but make it a reality. And when her eyes met his, no sign of virginal timidity in those darkened brown orbs, what little self-control remaining to him was ripped away. He growled her name, reaching for her, pulling her hard against his body so that she might feel the shape of his desire for her, and covered her lips in a greedy, demanding kiss.

Her little hands stole up the planes and angles of his back, and he gasped as he felt her nails raking his flesh as they traveled to his shoulders. Her mouth opened beneath his, a silent demand that he deepen the kiss, and he was more than happy to comply. A virgin she might be, but Molly Hooper was not at all frightened of asking for - nay, demanding - what she wanted.

And right now, he could see that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her - and neither of them were of a mind to deny themselves what had long been simmering between them.

Somehow they made their way the short distance to the bed, falling upon it in a heap of tangled limbs and feverish caresses. His lips danced over her body, seeming to drink her in, and she gasped aloud when those lips found one rosy nipple and suckled at it.

The breathless little 'oh' she made at the contact was one he would treasure in his mind and heart forever.

As would the way she shuddered and widened her legs as he stroked his fingers down the soft curves of her belly to the tops of her thighs. And the way she gasped at the first touch of his fingertips against the curly hair of her mound. "Sh-Sherlock," she moaned as he delved deeper into her most secret (sacred) regions. He had to force himself to keep his touch gentle, exploratory, soothing; his most base, bestial self raged at his restraint, urging him to satisfy himself now, immediately, but he held back.

No matter how desperate he was to plunge inside her, to feel her slick walls encasing his shaft, he would not - could not - make this all about himself. His previous mistresses might have already been well skilled in the arts of love by the time he had become intimate with them, but he was not unfamiliar with the discomfort - if not actual pain - a woman was forced to endure her first time.

He was determined to make his Molly's first time memorable in only the best possible fashion, and if that meant his manly urges must be restrained, then so be it.

With that firmly in mind, he continued stroking the soft flesh between her legs, pleased to feel her growing slick and wet with desire. "Sherlock," she breathed out his name again, her fingers tugging at the tie holding his queue in place, and he grunted with pleasure as she finally freed his hair and ran her hands over his scalp and through the loosened curls that he usually considered his bane.

Not today; oh no, certainly not this day. Molly's fingers were small, delicate, yet held a hidden strength of which he mightily approved as she tugged and pulled, moving his head so that he could lavish her other breast with the attentions he'd bestowed upon the first.

Would she let him...dare he attempt to…?

Without allowing himself to think further on the matter lest he talk himself out of it, he began kissing his way down her breasts, licking and nipping as he angled his body so that he rested between her legs. She whimpered in protest as he removed his fingers, but he was determined to take his pleasure and in doing so, give her hers as well.

oOo

Molly was lost in a haze of pleasure, so lost that it wasn't until she felt Sherlock kissing the skin of her inner thigh that she realised he had maneuvered himself into quite a scandalous position between her legs. She was ignorant of his intentions until suddenly she felt the flick of his tongue between the slick folds of her womanhood; she cried out in surprise and pleasure, but when he raised his head as if to stop, she found herself gripping his head to hold him in place and crying out, "Don't you dare stop, if you are a gentleman!"

His smile was slow and sinful as his eyes met her. "Oh Molly" he said lowly, "I am no gentleman when I am in a woman's arms, as you already know. It's past time, methinks, for you to see just how ungentlemanly I can be." Then he lowered his head and set those plush, beautiful lips of his to work, kissing her intimately, darting out his tongue to taste her as if she were the main course of a feast spread out for his enjoyment.

Pleasure grew, blossomed, nearly overwhelmed her; what was this sensation she was experiencing, how could such small, precise movements such as Sherlock was currently using, the merest touch of his tongue to her quinny - how could it possibly be enough to set her skin alight with such passionate fire? The growing heat between her legs would surely burn her from the inside out, a spark becoming a flame that would set fire to first herself and then him, the bed, indeed, the entire house until nothing would be left but ashes.

With a hoarse cry, she dug her heels into the mattress, threw her head back and gave herself over completely to that most delicious of conflagrations, unaware of the lewd thrusting of her hips and groin against his eager mouth as he drank every drop of the dewy honey his ministrations had produced between her now-trembling legs.

With another, softer cry, Molly collapsed bonelessly to the bed, her eyes tightly clenched, fingers falling away from those soft, dark curls in which they'd been entwined. In the delirious haze of pleasure achieved, she was barely aware as Sherlock pulled himself upward until his lips were against her ear. "Molly," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shocks of additional pleasure sizzling from her womanhood up her spine. "Say you'll allow me entry."

She blinked, uncertain of his meaning at first, then felt the blunt head of something - his cock, she realised after a few blurry seconds - pressing against her entrance. She forced herself to focus, to meet Sherlock's gaze, and was stunned by the look of entreaty on those haughty, aristocratic features. If she were to deny him, she knew instinctively that he would withdraw; no matter what he might have said about ungentlemanly behaviour, she knew he would never force himself upon an unwilling woman.

Even if that woman lay beneath him like the basest wanton.

Exactly as she was now.

As she gazed back up at him, she felt powerful for the first time in her life, knowing that she could deny him what he most ardently desired in this moment - and knowing also that she would never be capable of such cruelty.

He'd already given her pleasure beyond any she'd ever experienced; how could she not allow him that same fulfillment?

With a tiny nod and a smile, she braced her hands on his shoulders and said the only word she could manage.

"Please."

His eyes fluttered shut in an expression of purest gratitude; he shifted against her, easing the head of his cock between her legs, whispering for her to relax, not to tense herself lest he inadvertently cause her pain, and she followed his instructions as best she could when she had no idea what to expect next.

Oh, she'd been told in no nonsense terms by her Aunt Martha that a woman's first time was bloody and uncomfortable if the man knew what he was doing - and bloody and painful if he didn't. But knowing something in the abstract was certainly not the same as experiencing it first-hand!

He moved above her, one hand between their bodies; she felt his fingers brush against her mons pubis, then the head of his cock delved further between her labia mons and she gasped at the contact, then forcibly relaxed her legs and internal muscles, determined to experience every sensation, every touch, as Sherlock continued to whisper encouragement into her ear. "That's it, my lovely Molly, we'll soon be joined, I can't wait to feel you sheathing me, my love, my dearest one…"

His mumbled love words brought a blush to her cheeks that their physical intimacy had not caused, and she tried her very hardest to dismiss them as nothing but the ramblings of a man lost in the throes of pleasure. Her aunt had warned her about that when she'd delivered her no-nonsense lecture on what to expect from the marriage bed. "Men will say anything when they're wooing a woman, anything they think she wants to hear, anything they think will allow them twixt her nethers before the wedding night. So pay no mind to such things, Molly, and you'll be much the wiser - and happier - for it."

But even her aunt's remembered admonitions couldn't entirely erase the thrill she felt as Sherlock continued to praise her, to encourage her, and as she felt the slight burn between her legs when they were finally fully joined, they did much to ease that discomfort.

oOo

Sherlock held himself still after he fully entered into her, watching her face carefully for any signs of pain or continuing discomfort. He'd expected there to be more difficulty when he encountered her barrier, but had managed to pierce it with surprising ease. Her lips had tightened, eyes screwing shut and nostrils flaring as he'd done so, but now her expression eased and her eyes fluttered opened, her lips curving into a tremulous smile.

That smile very nearly undid him; he felt like an untried lad, and had to resort to mentally reviewing mathematical formulae in order to keep his body from betraying him into a premature finish. Yes, he'd already given Molly a very satisfactory introduction to la petite morte, but he was hopeful of inducing in her a second one, along with his own.

With that goal in mind, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, mindful that she might be repulsed by the taste of herself on his lips and ready to turn his attention to the delightful cure of her neck instead. When she kissed him back with equal fervency, he very nearly lost his head with delight at her fearlessness and lack of self-consciousness.

He was vaguely aware that he'd been speaking up until this very point in time, his mouth spewing out a stream of encouragement and love words without conscious direction from his mind, but found he didn't care a jot about this uncharacteristic lack of self-control.

With Irene, he'd always had to be careful lest he give her the upper hand; she'd always seemed ready to pounce should she catch him out at such times.

Molly, however, would never use him so. Never see their coupling as a competition where one would always come out the winner and one the loser. He knew that instinctively, without needing to question his reasoning.

He was safe with her, safe to show his true feelings to, and so he continued to croon tender sentiments into her ear as he began moving, slowly at first but with mounting urgency as she rocked her hips beneath his and once again dug her fingers into his unruly mass of curls. She spoke no words, gave only soft grunts and gasps as he pressed deeper and deeper within her, but her eyes sparkled with joy and he found himself kissing her smiling lips once again even as he eased his hand between their bodies and pressed his thumb against the same spot he'd so recently laved his tongue.

Molly's pleased gasp brought a smile to his lips; he watched carefully, refusing to lose himself fully to his own pleasure until he saw the flush of her cheeks, the dilation of her pupils, and heard the rising moan that signalled her oncoming release.

Only when her moans had turned to keening wails and her eyes had once again screwed themselves tightly shut as she rode out her pleasure did he finally allow himself to give in and join her.

End note: As always, thank you for your patience (and fabulous, wonderful reviews!). Many thanks to stlgeekgirl aka mouse9 for reading over this chapter for me!