AN: I'm really, really sorry for the long absence. I swear it started with Dragon Age: Inquisition, but then it just lapsed into other things and before I knew it, all this time had passed. Anyway, I wrote like 95% of this on my phone during lunch breaks, but I think I caught most of the auto correct mistakes. If I didn't, you might find Sherlock's name replaced with something like "Shalom" or another word my phone seems to prefer.

WARNING: This chapter contains a casefic, a lame 2-D villain, and more importantly, smut with feelings. You'll know when it's starting. (sexy saxophone music plays, oooohhhh yeeeaaaahhhh...) Story now has a rating change!

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A great cloud of steam rolled from the open bathroom door in Molly's exit. The warm scent of body soaps flowed down the hall, through the kitchen, and seeped into the flat's sitting room while Sherlock hung a photo printed on cheap paper above the sofa.

As he stood back and stared at the picture, he wondered how decorative his crime wall would become, or if it might remain a one-day case.

The following clinks from the kitchen indicated that Molly was fetching herself a cup of coffee. When she came to stand beside him, smelling fresh and showered over the steam of the brew, she pushed a second mug into his hands and asked, "Who is that?" and gesturing to the picture.

"Ezra Lowry. Our sculptor." He took a drink and set the coffee down in order to step onto the couch, pinning two more print outs up, one of the large familiar broken statue and the other an image of numerous bags of cocaine.

Molly breathed an uncomfortable sigh. "How much was there, do you think?" she asked.

"According to the police, approximately twenty-three kilos of high grade worth well over a million pounds."

"Good god," Molly gasped, collapsing in his chair. "The entire statue must have been packed."

"As was the pedestal on which it sat." Sherlock sipped his coffee and studied her. "How do you feel?"

"Oh," she started, a flush blooming across her face. "I feel like I'd been out on a binger last night like in Uni, but otherwise, I'm okay. Thank you."

With an uncomfortable nod, Sherlock turned back to the pictures on the wall. If Molly wished not to bring up last night's spontaneous crying spell, then neither did he, though he itched to know why it had happened. Had she simply been emotional? Had he done or said something wrong?

His mobile began to ring. He turned to answer it, but found distraction over the fact that Molly seemed rather dressed for work, though her hair was still twisted up in a towel. "Is it wise to go into Barts today?"

"I don't need to be in for another hour," was her reply. "It's fine. Besides, I'm sure you'll require use of the lab for something or other. Actually, I hope you do, I feel rather involved in this case now."

A feeling of unease passed through Sherlock at that. The last thing he wanted now was for Molly to be involved in this case. Or any case that he couldn't resolve without leaving the comfort of his flat, though that might be an exaggeration.

He answered his mobile. Molly set off to dry her hair.

It had been Lestrade who'd contacted him, so Sherlock rushed off to the Yard's station where could be briefed on the entire case he'd never been involved with in the first place. Lestrade informed him of the sample of cocaine withheld from the massive stack and made it very, very clear, that Sherlock would never see that sample without the laboratory supervision of Molly Hooper.

Being treated like a child was absolutely rankling.

Three texts were retrieved from three members of his homeless network. No one had been seen going in or out of Lowry's studio in three days, his flat for nearly a week.

There had been one person with Lowry at the studio just prior to his three day disappearance. Without more information, Sherlock was reluctant to assign that person as either a friend, family, or "business" associate.

At no point had Ezra Lowry been investigated or even mentioned in the police file. Sherlock decided it would be prudent to search both locations before the Yard or any Home Office agent descended on the place like a herd of stampeding, warrant-bearing rhinos. So Sherlock, unimpeded by the constraints of the law, climbed the fire escape and picked at the window hinges until he could pry it open, all the while muttering about John's declination to accompany him on the day's latest adventure.

The flat was sparse. Annoyingly so. Only the most basic of furniture and kitchen appliances were present, clean and tidy, which seemed unusual for a man who was unmarried. Girlfriend, then. This was reinforced by the discovery of an additional toothbrush in the bathroom and feminine clothes in the wardrobe. Finding little to go on, Sherlock observed the hardwood floors. They were clean as well, appearing to have been laid recently. New. Sherlock stepped over them with deliberate slowness until, after nearly ten minutes, he finally found a plank that looked a little more worn, almost indiscernible gaps along the edges. He tapped it with his foot. It was hollow.

Sherlock kneeled down and pried the wood up with his fingertips. As he suspected, there was a hollow casing in the small space beneath, the size of a child's lunch pail and inside that was, to Sherlock's great surprise, an envelope with his name on it.

Clever, he thought.

He unfolded the note that had been inside.

'Till Bury rip Mr Homig & Mrs Grappel 1514.'

If someone were intending to leave a note, surely they'd leave one far less cryptic than this. Unless of course that person was worried about the note being found by a more devious person. So Lowry was being followed. Sherlock realized that perhaps the flat was being watched by more than just his homeless network.

He'd spent too much time here anyway. He left the flat the same way he'd gone in.

If Sherlock felt that the flat had been remarkably tidy, then the studio was well on the other end of that spectrum. It was less a studio and more of a small warehouse, still tinny sounding and bright with natural light despite the grittiness of the wide windows and open skylight. The floor and work benches were covered with the artistic detritus of carving tools, blocks of stone and dustings of plaster. Newsprint paper lay flat and open, some taped to the walls, displaying high contrast sketches. A scaffold was set up to repair windows.

Sherlock found a crate padlocked shut, but a Swedish carving axe removed it fairly easily. Inside were molds the size of two foot garden gnomes, and he realized they were the familiar goblins and mythical creatures Lowry was known for. And they were molds for hollow statues, easy to make and move production along.

There was very little else to search for it seemed, so Sherlock decided to pay Molly a visit and see about that sample.

He'd hoped to catch her alone in the lab. Not for any particular reason, other than the simple fact that he liked being alone with Molly. So it was a little disappointing to find Lestrade hovering over her shoulder as they read articles on a laptop. Articles about cocaine and the chemistry thereof.

"Hello, Molly. Lestrade."

Molly jumped and Lestrade straightened up. "Sherlock, hi," said Molly.

"Read anything interesting?"

"I don't understand even half of that gibberish," Lestrade said.

"'Course you don't." Sherlock held out a hand, palm up. "Sample?"

It was Molly who retrieved a small sealed evidence bag. After dropping it into his waiting hand, Sherlock stared at her, wanting to inquire after her health and if she was quite sure that she was alright. She looked a little pale and wan. But Lestrade was standing right there and watching them with what must've been uncomfortable interest. Sherlock couldn't tell. The Detective Inspector could be surprisingly discreet when he chose to be.

Sherlock might've been observing Molly more intently than he realized. Maybe too long. She picked up on it and said very quietly, "I'm fine."

"Good," he said quietly back.

A faint blush colored Molly's cheeks as she looked away. Sherlock tried not to smile at that but failed a little and had to distract himself by popping open the bag and snapping everyone's attention back to the work.

"What are you going to do?" asked Lestrade. "A, what was it, quantitative analysis?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied. "I'm going to smell it." And then he leaned toward the open bag gave a great whiff. There was the chemical, bitter scent of cocaine, and an underlying pastry sort of smell. Flour. Baking soda.

"It's been cut two, no, three times. South America, Africa. Maybe Russia after that, or it might've even been right here. There's... "

He sniffed again. It was a clinical smell smothering the tempting bitterness of the drug.

"Levamisole."

Molly made a face. "Isn't that for, you know, deworming?"

Lestrade, looking disappointed but unsurprised, said, "Yeah. It's been on the rise as an adulterant in street cocaine. It's pretty awful stuff. It'd hardly be considered quality for a smuggling scheme like this."

"They don't much care for quality, I imagine," said Sherlock. "They're just more creative in getting it out. I'm sure a reasonably observant addict would buy elsewhere if they recognized this."

"Unlike you, there's not many addicts who make an effort to be observant."

"Something they have in common with the police force."

Lestrade made a noncommittal "Oi..."

Molly looked back and forth at them. "So what does this mean?"

Sherlock resealed the bag and slipped it smoothly into his pocket. "I have a few ideas," he said. "I'll need to look into a few things." At the disapprovingly arched eyebrows of Lestrade, and Molly who held out her hand and wriggled her fingers, Sherlock heaved a sigh and relinquished the bag.

"So no use of the lab, then?" Molly asked, glancing at the microscope.

If Sherlock weren't on such an interesting case, he was sure he'd fake some reason to stick around. But he loved the work. He loved the chase. He loved the cresting of a conclusion in the wake of the mystery's unraveling. He also played a little dirty, so he told her no, the microscope was not required.

"Pity," she'd said, smiling a little and saying goodbye. 'Be careful' were the words between the lines.

Later on he strode through an area of London's murkier, darker, stinkier shelter of society's beaten down dregs. He'd left Lestrade behind his red tape by hopping into a taxi the first chance he'd gotten. Legalities were dull. They slowed down the work.

He also did not want to get caught with the little evidence bag of cocaine that he'd swapped with the little evidence bag of flour and sugar. Molly wouldn't be able to tell the difference unless she were to check it herself but her workload was heavy and wouldn't likely have time to do so.

The drug den was dark as usual when Sherlock toed quietly in. There were some sighs and clinking of metal floating down the corridor, the walls of which were littered with graffiti. It didn't seem wise to use spray paint in an unventilated area but given building's purpose that was likely the point. Sherlock followed the sounds until he entered a room where Billy Wiggins was carefully packing a box. Three dirty blanketed lumps on mattresses breathed unawares on the other side of the room.

"Hello, Wiggins," Sherlock greeted neutrally. It caught Wiggins by surprise. He dropped a saucepan that'd been intended for the box and turned. This was unlike him. He should have been aware of his presence the second Sherlock had stepped through the door.

"Ah, oh. Mr. Holmes, good to see you," Wiggins said, more cheerfully than he looked. "You here for, ah- Oh, no. I guess not. You on a case then? You're dressed fine-like. Got that look on you, like you're on a case. How can I help you?"

Sherlock observed the twitchy, scrawny man. Wiggins looked awful, the circles under his eyes worse than he'd ever seen. "You're going through withdrawal."

Strangely, Billy Wiggins hung his head as though ashamed. "Thought I'd try and clean up."

This was one of those moments, Sherlock thought, where he should perhaps offer encouragement. "Good on you, Billy," he said, and thinking of Molly, added, "Best thing I'd ever done."

Wiggins looked at him with surprise. It eventually melted into something pleased.

"So who's going to watch..." Sherlock jerked his head at the people doped and dazed along the wall.

Wiggins shrugged. "This is their last night here. I mean, it's not like I've got authority to lock up a place I been squattin' in, but I can't watch'em. I've not got anymore goods anyway and two of my friends went missin' a few days ago. Ain't waitin' around for them cause I don't think they're comin' back."

"What do you mean, 'missing'?"

"Some bloke tried loading off some awful shite on us. George and Jerry followed him to the docks and I ain't seen'em since."

Cocking his head, Sherlock asked, "And you didn't think to come to me about this?"

Wiggins eyed him warily. "Didn't think your girlfriend would appreciate a junkie stoppin' by."

"She's not my-" and Sherlock cut himself off because yes, in fact, she probably is, if there ever came a time to slap a label on it. "Did it have anything to do with this?" He extracted the bag and tossed it over. Wiggins caught it with some slight fumbling before opening it and sticking a finger in. He smeared it on his gums and made a face.

"This is it. This is the stuff."

Sherlock pocketed it again. "Who was the man? Did you get a name?"

Wiggins shook his head. "I didn't get a name out of him, we all just wanted him gone. He wasn't an addict, and he was dressed like a normal guy, jeans and a t-shirt, a big coat. All clean."

"What else? Think, Billy, you're more observant than that."

"He had a camera bag which seemed stupid to carry 'round here. There was also somethin' on the bottom of his shoes. Not drugs. I think it was plaster dust. Smelled artsy."

That would incriminate the artist, Sherlock thought. That bothered him somehow, like a conflict with a notion he knew was right, but couldn't say for sure why it was right. Sherlock had little appreciation for a lack of evidence to back him up. He needed more information. There was no way Lowry, who was obviously in hiding, had been occupying his time peddling as a dealer when he'd been tied up with the smuggling process.

"Where did your friends go?" Sherlock asked.

"Port of Tilbury," replied Wiggins. "He had the port name, South side, written on a scrap of paper when he pulled out his sample."

"You couldn't have mentioned that earlier?"

Wiggins held his hands up. "I'm sorry! Look, I'm good at observin', not so much sharin' unless I think of it."

"Right." Sherlock sighed. His phone chimed with a message. He reached into his pocket again and from it, handed Wiggins a card he'd been holding onto. He'd known it would come in handy for the man when he was ready and willing to clean himself up. "Take this. It's a - a rehab facility. Tell them I – no, tell them Mycroft sent you. And good luck, Billy."

Once Sherlock was out in the light again, he checked his phone and found a message from John.

"Are you really on a case about drugs?"

Sherlock typed back. "Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Anything illicit in your pockets right now?"

"No."

There was no response after that which may or may not have been the silence of doubt on John's part.

When Sherlock went east along the river to the Port of Tilbury, he wanted to slap himself. He avoided the longshoremen before anyone decided to stop him and ask questions, as he was feeling absolutely foolish by having missed a glaringly obvious clue. The Port was exactly where he was supposed to be.

"Till bury," he muttered to himself. "Tilbury."

And as he wandered the South side he read the shipping containers' industrial painted logos and names, a slew of neutral and muted greens, blues, and terra cotta. Honsai. Frampt & Hollman. Homig & Grappel. "Mr. Homig and Mrs. Grappel, indeed," he grumbled, following the container numbers painted starkly on the steel doors.

1510, 1512, 1514.

Sherlock briefly hid behind the unit as a longshoreman staggered past, a massive knot of rope lugged over his muscled shoulder as he prepared to go home for the day, leaning a crowbar against the side of another container. Sherlock hadn't realized the hour and he didn't particularly care, so long as no one got in his way and they continued to leave convenient tools behind for his use.

Long after the sound of footsteps receded, leaving only the sound of the deep water channel rocking the massive docks and the freighters in their occupy, did Sherlock take the heavy padlock in hand. It was too heavy and strong to pry open.

It took him fifteen frustrated minutes to pick the padlock, wherein he'd considered running back to steal John's gun and just shooting the blasted thing off, but an unexpected reserve of patience was found until it clicked open. Sherlock threw the latch and pulled the door groaningly ajar.

The light outside was growing dimmer, and Sherlock had to shine a pocket torch over the good dozen of wooden crates stacked against each other. He fetched the crowbar and jammed it under the lid where it splintered and cracked open to the pressure. It was no surprise to find a myriad of small statues bundled amongst each other, wrapped tightly in reused packing material.

Sherlock tore one free, raised it above his head, and smashed it against the crate. The bags fell free like candy from a piñata.

He should contact Lestrade, he thought vaguely.

A shadow fell over the already scant light within the container. "I knew you'd be quick," said a voice from the steel door and echoing along the ribbed walls.

Sherlock turned the torch on the speaker.

The man shielded his eyes from the glare, but Sherlock knew it was Lowry. His clothes where stained with dirt and white powder, calloused hands and unkempt stubble weeding across his face. He stood slightly hunched and whether that was the result of years working with stone and sketches or the result of hiding from a drug cartel, Sherlock didn't know. He let the light dip.

"Well, Mr. Lowry, you've managed to lure me here. Now tell me everything."

Ezra Lowry nodded, leading the way back out into the cold vanishing daylight. Sherlock watched him as he drew the door closed and secured the latch, but not the padlock. "I waited here last night for you," said Lowry. "I wasn't sure when you'd find out, when you'd search my flat."

"I was only on the case since yesterday," Sherlock replied.

"I heard the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't sleep."

This irritated the detective. He thought of Molly, wretched and crying under the strain of influence. "I had other matters to attend, thanks to your carelessness. You may think you're clever getting me here by setting up the old women, but people have been placed at risk because of you. So stop wasting my time and tell me something relevant."

Lowry's eyes shifted in remorse. "They watch me sometimes."

"Are you being blackmailed?"

"No. Forced under threat of pain, really. At first it was just some bloke in my studio asking me about my work and stuff. He came back a few days later with two other guys, you know, the large beefy sort. I was an easy target, or my work was, anyway. I complied in the end. At first I only did it because they threatened me, but after a while, when I stopped caring about myself, I decided I'd go to the police about it and tell them everything, but I was stupid and I told him that, right to his face."

"Who is he?"

"He said his name is Jack. No last name, like he's too sodding good for one."

"So their new hold was on your girlfriend." The artist's eyebrows rose in surprise at Sherlock's accurate statement. "Where is she now?"

"I put her on a plane to Australia. She's confused as shit." He looked at the ground near his feet, fists clenching at his sides and reaching into his coat pocket for a folded envelope. He held it tightly and Sherlock watched him warily.

"And yet you still didn't go to the police," observed Sherlock uneasily. "You went to me. Why? Because I'm not as stifled by regulation as the Met?" And even as he said it, the timetable was working itself out. Lowry sought him out before he'd sent his lover away. He was going to go to the police yesterday, before Sherlock had actually done real work but he hadn't, he'd been waiting for him instead. Why? Was this 'Jack' making a new threat?

Sherlock held his hand out for the envelope. From it came photographs now bare before him and his jaw clenched.

Pictures of Molly.

Molly on her way to work. Molly sitting in the tube. Molly carrying a bag of groceries. Molly through the window of Baker Street in a borrowed blue robe and gazing out, unawares.

It was the same picture from that tabloid's website. He recognized two more from his brief search on the internet and it hit him that the man who smuggled drugs by night was a paparazzo by day.

This wasn't just a warning, this was a threat. A very personal one. And Sherlock did not take kindly to threats.

Somewhere from within the hot stewing rage a dark bubble of laughter rose and fell. This man was an idiot.

Lowry looked on like a witness to the detective succumbing to a maniacal episode. Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a text to John. "Invite Molly over for dinner. Don't let her leave until I say so. -SH"

"Vatican cameos?"

"Yes."

"Need assistance?"

"I've got a handle on it."

And because he knew Molly wouldn't wish to impose, he sent another text. "John and Mary are going to have you over for dinner. Go."

Of course, both texts he received in reply were along the lines of "What's happened?" and responded to with an enigmatic "Case. I'll tell you about it later."

Lowry was still watching him. "What are you going to do?"

Sherlock inspected the photos front and back. They were as professional as equipment would allow, but not so much for skill. "This 'Jack' is an idiot," he said. "He took these pictures. Could have gotten someone else to do them, but seeing as he's something of a local ring leader in this scheme, he'd have something of a day job, something that doesn't exactly rake in the money as an unskilled photographer. This was taken with a DSLR, 200 millimeter lens. Maybe 300. Not inexpensive equipment, is it?"

Sherlock went back to tapping away at his phone. He pulled up the tabloid's website.

He's been watching me since long before yesterday, thought Sherlock. And not just me. He's been watching Molly. That seemed strange, considering he'd never been consulted about this particular drug ring. "You've been threatening him with getting me involved, haven't you?" Sherlock realized. "He knew well in advance. He knew even as he sold these pictures to the papers, and at the same time he was writing a threat."

"I might've made a remark or two," confessed Lowry.

"And by dragging me into this stupid game, you've dragged her into this as well." Sherlock waved the photos angrily. "You're just as moronic as he is."

"It deflected attention off my girlfriend. I'd put anyone in danger if it spared her and don't pretend you'd do any different."

"I wouldn't get myself in such a position in the first place. I actually have brain cells." Sherlock slipped his mobile back into his pocket. He held his hand out to Lowry, who appeared antagonized. "Your phone. Give it to me."

Lowry cast him a dubious look.

"He calls you, doesn't he?" Sherlock added. "Sends a friendly text every now and then? It'd be set to a private number, I need yours."

Tentatively, Lowry was persuaded and gave up his phone. Sherlock searched through the messages until a private number from "Jack" appeared, a thread of seemingly innocuous messages volleyed back and forth. Jack's way of writing was short and pointed. Sherlock responded to one of them.

"This will end tonight, and this will end swiftly," declared Sherlock aloud, sending the text.

If this man wanted to peddle drugs in the U.K., then fine. He can join in aiding the rest of the degenerates and the mentally addled, but if he expected a threat aimed at Sherlock or anyone Sherlock decided was his to go unchecked, then he could expect a decisive end to his game. Moriarty once played a game and used Molly in the process. It would not happen again.

Luckily, this man was no Moriarty. He couldn't hold a candle to the consulting criminal.

Ezra Lowry looked at his phone and read the message Sherlock had sent.

"2 hours. Studio. Alone. Don't be late, Roland. - SH"

"Who-?"

"Roland Jacobs. A paparazzo, an amateur photographer selling photos to local papers. He's terrible at it; no wonder he works in the drug business as a side job, though I can't say he'll be much more successful in that."

"Amazing," Lowry said in awe. "You found him in minutes."

"Might've taken a full day had he not been so incredibly stupid by handing these over," said Sherlock angrily, thinking that Molly's shift should be ending around now. He sent her another text to tell her he'd meet her at John's.

Sherlock stepped away from the container and moved closer to the docks, studying the area for anything heavy that could be easily tied to a body, such as a cinder block. There wasn't much. The area, however, was likely loud during loading procedures. Machinery during the day moving containers, ships pulling in, horns blaring in the night. It would be the perfect cover for a gun shot or two.

Lowry followed as Sherlock began searching the docks, looking out along the larger ones. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Is there another shipping container he uses?"

Lowry shook his head. "Only ever used the one."

"These are the closest," Sherlock spoke to himself. "Criminals can be terribly uncreative. Dropping bodies off a dock is as old as... Well, docks. Oh."

As Lowry stood by in confusion, Sherlock found a barge docking pole. The detective braced himself along the edge and used the pole to maneuver out from beneath the dock something that had gotten wedged there by the tide. The red and white lights of the port made the reflections of sunset dance on the water, shadowing the darkened and bloated body that Sherlock pried free.

The corpse of Billy Wiggins' friend was found. The other was likely nearby in a very similar state.

As Lowry went sick, Sherlock phoned Lestrade, who brought the cavalry as well as port management. Lowry had not wanted to risk being seen with police were he being watched so he disappeared. Sherlock however had a viable excuse, having found the dead body of an acquaintance's friend. He said nothing of the shipping unit or the cocaine within should someone other than Lowry be hiding nearby.

The waterlogged body was soon pulled up. Sherlock knelt over it and ignored the smell, gesturing for Lestrade to do the same.

"Roland Jacobs," Sherlock started to say.

"You know his name?"

"Yes- no, not him. Roland Jacobs. He goes by the name Jack and he's the one getting coke on the ships, sending them through ports throughout the country. He knows I'm involved."

Lestrade breathed through his nose, gagged, and sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Alright," he said, clearly confused by Sherlock's train of thought. "How'd you figure all this out then?"

Sherlock pretended to examine the body as he explained the situation and the statues he'd found in the studio. He dodged the finer details and Lestrade didn't question it. By the end, he added, "And he threatened Molly."

"What? Sherlock if this is getting too dangerous to-"

"-She's fine. She's with John, but I need you to do something. I have forty minutes to get back to Ezra Lowry's studio and I need your people there." He shot a pointed look. "Quietly."

Quietly in case something should happen. Sherlock did like to have a backup plan.

So he spent precious minutes explaining the outlay of the studio warehouse, and where Jacobs might have people outside of it. But Jacobs wasn't the ring leader of the smuggling operation, just one lackey at the helm of one very large and demanding city. Sherlock did not particularly care about this, so long as any danger was removed from his pathologist. Besides, after one thread like Jacobs was pulled, the remaining ugly tapestry of a drug ring would unravel without his help.

Lestrade ordered police to the area immediately.

Sherlock took the anonymity of a taxi to within a block of the studio. Despite earlier traffic, he was right on time, seeing not a hair of police presence or otherwise as he walked the remaining stretch and into the building. Unlocked. He was not the first one in, then. He made a point to slam the door shut jarringly behind him and the resulting echo shook the tinny, outdated walls. Not a light was on, the only source being the skylight bringing in the haze of light pollution bouncing off the clouds. Pools of shadow stretched the room cavernously.

A shaking whimper rose from the shadow beneath the scaffolding across the warehouse. As Sherlock's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could barely make out the silhouette of a woman. A woman with long hair, gagged and bound in a creaking chair and muffled by barely suppressed sobs.

His heart stopped. "Molly...?"

Immediately bidden, he began to run to her but halted abruptly at the click of a gun. So focused on Molly, he'd failed to notice just where Roland Jacobs was hiding. The man emerged beside her from beneath the shadows of the scaffold and gripped an old steel pipe that ran from floor to ceiling, leaning against it, gun fixed on Sherlock who raised his hands out to show he was unarmed.

"So you figured it all out," Jacobs said, looking defeated and angry and trying not to let it show. "Sherlock Holmes, really not a fraud after all."

"You don't pay attention to the news, it seems. My name's been cleared for some time."

"Always room for doubt, eh?"

"Doubt, yes. But your stupid is painfully deliberate."

"Is it? I had a plan, but I could just shoot you instead. I should. This whole bloody thing's become more trouble than it's worth."

"I agree," Sherlock said with forced magniloquence. "You devised a frankly half-arsed, ill thought scheme of using me, realized that attempting to outsmart me was a colossal mistake, and now, what? You panic. You kidnap her as a last resort. Are you so eager to get on my bad side?"

Jacobs pointed the gun at Molly, who squirmed and sniffed. "Shut up. I could shoot her instead, if you like."

"Oh, stop that," barked Sherlock. "If you're going to point that at some one, then do it here." He tapped his chest with a fist. "Because if you harm her, I'll make you wish you had shot me first."

When he could see down the barrel of the gun again, Sherlock was relieved to note that he had his full, rapt attention. It was terribly dark, but the hand that held the weapon was shaking. Glancing briefly in Molly's direction, he cursed the black shadows that hid her face, having wanted to reassure her just a bit.

"So," Sherlock continued, "What will you do now that you've failed to get the cleverest man you know under your thumb? Because walking away, right now, is still an option. All you have to do is exit that door and no one is hurt."

"Shut up," Jacobs said again, betraying panic in the face of both Sherlock's accuracy and blatant lie. "I'm thinking."

"As admirable of a feat as that is, do you think you might hurry up? Because this is getting tedious. I've faced people with guns before." Sherlock sighed loudly and pityingly in his quest to dominate and cow the other man. "You must be new in the criminal business, trying to be bold and proving your mettle. I'll give you a tip: You should have stuck to photography."

A shot was fired. Molly screamed behind the gag and Sherlock held his breath, letting it back out when the bullet landed into the wall behind him. He supposed that was at least a little expected. Jacobs was too young, too new and unstable and stupid to try playing a game like this and was only now realizing it. He might very well try to kill them both, but Sherlock had backup.

Just as he wondered when that backup might make an entrance, a shadow passed the skylight and another deafening shot rang out. Blood erupted in a violent spray from Jacobs' head and his body hit the floor hard.

A beat passed. Sherlock looked up at the open skylight where Sally Donovan knelt over the window, stunned with herself, gun in her hands.

Behind him the door flew open in a burst of police and torchlight, preceded by Ezra Lowry. Someone got the lights on with the hum of aging breaker switches, momentarily blinded him with the flood of brightness as Lowry shoved past, crying out "Heather!" and making a beeline for...

...For the woman he, in his haze of fear and his focus on distracting Jacobs, had thought was Molly.

With the lights on, her hair was too blond. She was taller, tanner, and...and definitely not Molly. Her face was all wrong and even wronger when Lowry pulled the tape from her mouth and cut her loose and she fell into his arms with a cry.

It was a flurry of activity.

Sherlock heard very little of it.

He sent a text to Molly and cursed the way his hands shook.

"Are you alright? -SH"

His heart didn't yet calm even when he received the reply. "Of course. At John and Mary's. How's the case?"

Sherlock almost didn't reply. "Done. Wait there for me."

He tried to leave quickly, he really did. But various officers had stopped him and Lestrade arrived and Sherlock had to speak an awful lot, particularly about the shipping container. That should have been enjoyable considering the way he valued listening to himself, but he was distracted. Lowry and Not-Molly were busy clinging to one another. Donovan approached him and he felt numb as he realized they were shaking hands. She'd just killed a man, she'd be off the field for a while. She disappeared without even a lingering "Freak" in the air.

When he'd gotten outside and into the harsh glare of police lights and brisk air, he spared a glance at two cuffed men being manhandled into a vehicle. They must have been Jacobs' backup, however inept. Sherlock realized he'd missed something earlier, that they had killed Wiggin's friends. Lowry's inability to handle himself was more than enough proof that he'd never shot a man in his life.

Sherlock found that his relief at Molly's safety had not set in yet and it wouldn't until he could see her properly. Would she be opposed to sleeping in his room again? He hoped not.

He was about to walk the street until he could get a cab, but someone called out to him again. He sighed and turned around. "What?"

Lowry was standing behind him looking unfazed by the clipped tone. "I wanted to say thanks."

Sherlock nodded and peered in the direction of Lowry's girlfriend, who stood and watched awkwardly at a distance.

"I know you want to get back to your girlfriend, too, can't blame you for that," Lowry continued on. "Man, I got a taste of a dangerous life just now-"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Yeah, nothing compared to what you do, I'm sure." Lowry adjusted his coat. "You were right, though. I'm an idiot. She'd have been fine if I hadn't been keeping secrets from her all this time. She didn't get on the plane cause she thought I was acting too, well, sketchy I guess. She didn't know. I should've been honest."

Sherlock looked at him. "Honest," he echoed.

"Like they say," said Lowry, "You can't build a relationship on lies. Or you know, something like that."

Sherlock couldn't recall ever hearing a saying like that, but it sounded sensible. Sensible enough that he felt like the most insensible person in England.

When Lowry was gone and Sherlock was in a cab on his way to John's, he fiddled with his mobile. Slowly, he sent Molly another text.

"There's something I need to tell you. -SH"

And then he shut off his phone, lest he make the mistake of coming clean over a text message and even he knew how wrong that would be.

He knocked on the Watsons' door. It wasn't yet ten o' clock, but it felt terribly late. John answered cautiously and swung the door open at the sight of his friend. He looked at him carefully.

"You alright?" John asked carefully, letting him inside.

"Never better." Which was really a complete lie, but Sherlock said it anyway. "Where's-"

"-Sherlock!" Molly rounded the corner and after a brief hesitation, surged forward and hugged him. He accepted it gladly. Held her closer until the scent of soap and freshly cleaned hair permeated his senses. She'd done a messy autopsy today. Took a shower, went to John's, stayed safe.

"Molly-" he started.

"-Are you okay? What happened? Why did I need to be here?" She looked sheepishly at John. "Not that I don't like being here. I just mean..." She trailed off. Then she took a deep breath, reached up and grabbed Sherlock's face with both hands and stared at him intensely. Searchingly.

Sherlock stared back.

Molly's eyes squinted, but she must have come to an acceptable conclusion because she sighed with relief and sank back down, leaning heavily against him. "Don't scare me like that," she said into his chest.

John was raising his eyebrows but said nothing, even when Mary came into the foyer and watched quietly as Sherlock and Molly disentangled themselves.

"Is the little Watson asleep?" Sherlock asked, determined not to be embarrassed by the display.

"Yeah, she's in her crib," answered Mary, distractedly. "Do you want to..." She gestured toward the nursery down the hall.

"No, it's quite alright," Sherlock declined. "I don't want to disturb her. We should go, actually. Getting late. Molly?"

She was already putting on her coat.

They declined John's offer of a ride back to Baker Street, which seemed a common offer these days, Sherlock thought. The taxi ride home was pleasantly quiet, though Sherlock suspected that Molly had made a couple attempts to try and ask what had happened with the case. When they were home, she'd decided that tea was in order.

A cup for him was waiting beside his chair when he'd gotten out of the shower, having smelt of ships and drug den and London. He collapsed into his chair where a fire should have been blazing beside it, Molly sitting across him and looking anxious.

They sat that way in the cold, quiet room until she fidgeted and spoke her mind.

"It seems weird that I'm looking for a flat when I've not got much to move into it," Molly said. "But I suppose I'm still holding out on getting all my things back if it's possible, though I admit I want to cry a bit when I think of it." She sipped her tea and Sherlock drew in a breath to respond, but she continued quickly. "I enjoy staying here with you, and I'm grateful for everything, but I do need my own place. Maybe to figure myself out, or because I need my own space, or something else you might call nonsense, but that's what I think I need. I'm telling you this because I don't want you to think I'm running from you or that I'm ungrateful. I've ...loved being here with you."

No one would ever say they loved being anywhere with Sherlock Holmes.

No one had ever desired his presence so much.

He was at a loss.

"I assume you'd prefer that I desist in shooting down every available flat, then?" he asked, a corner of his mouth twitching up.

"It'd help, yeah." Molly laughed gently. A quiet moment passed again. "Anyway, you had something you wanted to tell me?"

Sherlock went rigid.

He stood up slowly and tried not to pace. He'd almost forgotten that he'd sent that text. Now he had to tell her everything and come clean and watch her back out the door and be rid of him, but he couldn't do that. Not after she'd said she loved being with him. Summoning steel, he tried to begin.

"I-" he started. "You'll hate me, Molly. I've made a mistake, and-"

"-I don't hate you," Molly sighed. "Look, I know what it is you want to tell me. I've already figured it out."

Sherlock blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"How could you think I wouldn't notice? I mean, yeah, I was really, really angry when I found out, but it's fine now. You're fine, I can tell. I'm proud of you, in a way."

"You're...proud. Of me." Sherlock felt undeniably dumbstruck.

Molly released a breathy laugh. "You've been running around London all day with a bag of cocaine in your pocket and you haven't used a smidgen of it. I'm sure you have your reasons, but please don't do it again. Even for a case."

Sherlock gave her a hesitant, wan smile and felt sicker than he ever had.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice flour and sugar? I bake a lot, you know." Molly narrowed her eyes after a moment. "You don't still have it, do you?"

"No." Sherlock sucked in a breath. "No, I gave it to Lestrade. There's nothing in the flat you should be concerned about."

"Good." She nodded. "You can sit back down now. You look nervous. It's making me nervous. Do you want me to start a fire? I can start a - a-"

Sherlock pulled the cup of tea out of her hands. He set it aside and stooped over her, knee braced against the chair, and pulled her into a slow and open kiss. The chair creaked under the weight. Molly tangled her hands in his damp, curly hair. Recent memories of some very specific research came to mind.

"Stay with me tonight," he said, pulling slightly away.

She breathed in and scratched gently along his scalp. "Okay."

"As in, with me. Being with me. Not sleeping." His lips found hers again, briefly.

"Are you sure?"

"God, yes."

She was up so fast that they'd nearly bashed their heads together. Sherlock pulled her through the kitchen and into his room where he promptly attached his lips to the column of her throat and reveled in the feeling of her hands in his hair again. He'd just gotten his hands under her shirt, backing her up against the bed when she went stiff.

"Oh," she squeaked. "Ah, wait, wait, wait a moment." She pushed him away and Sherlock wanted to growl 'no, no, let's not wait, we've wasted quite enough time!' but he didn't.

He did growl a little, though.

Molly said, "I'll be right back," when she'd worked herself out of his arms and flew through the door. Sherlock sat on his bed, dazed. Molly made a ruckus, running down the hall and back. Into the loo. He heard the faucet running and then... Is she brushing her teeth?

Sherlock did not watch a fair amount of television, but he had been subjected to the occasional romantic scenes that lead up to sex. He read the occasional novel, which was often times more explicit. No one had ever stopped activity in an obviously charged atmosphere to tend to their regular hygiene as far as he knew.

Sherlock removed his dressing gown and waited anxiously in his pajamas. Should he take those off, too? Hm, no, maybe not. Maybe Molly will do it. Oh, now there's a thought.

The bedroom door opened and Molly inched in meekly, looking sheepish. "It occurs to me," she began, "that it's not very sexy to run off and wash up so suddenly."

She fidgeted with a small box in her hands that he could see were condoms and the only reason he deduced that was because he'd gone and purchased some the week before. It had been an odd shopping trip, standing in the aisle, comparing product information.

"I've made things weird, haven't I?" Molly lamented. "Oh, god, I'm sorry. I'm the one who's done this before and I've still managed to muck it all up. Have I mucked it up?"

Watching her shift her feet, Sherlock couldn't help crack a smile, which turned into a chuckle, which evolved into him flopping onto his back and laughing. He wiped tears from his eyes as Molly stood before him and he pulled her by the arm until she fell beside him, still bewildered. He pulled the box away from her and squinted at it.

"Did you just go for the one statistically most likely to fit?" he asked.

Molly groaned and covered her face, mortified.

Not wanting any of that, Sherlock sought to fix the mood. He hoisted himself up and loomed over her, studying the pools of blue light and dips of shadows gathered along the contours of her features. He kissed her and trailed his lips over her eyelids. His hands worked around her wanting to feel skin and soon, without realizing it, one hand clenched and unclenched the material of her jumper at her waist. At the same time, Molly's cool palms slipped beneath his t-shirt and up along his back and while pleasant, the contact was jarring. Molly pulled away. "Are you okay?" she asked in a whisper. "You sort of stopped moving."

"Fine," he said, hands still clenching.

Perhaps he didn't sound convincing, or maybe there was a look on his face, but Molly sat up anyway and readjusted position properly on the bed, turning down the covers and gesturing for Sherlock to get in beside her. Once they were both settled, she took his face in her hands.

"Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?"

Sherlock leaned over her and thought on that. There wasn't a way to describe the sensation of her skin against his, no way he could separate newly acquired emotions from his physical senses. It all coalesced into an overwhelming overload of sensations that he wasn't sure he could keep up with, and he worried that Molly might want to go faster than he could adjust. Or learn. Or experiment.

He nodded and kissed her. "If it's acceptable to you," he said against her lips and feeling a little bashful, "May I take the wheel, so to speak? Set the pace?"

Molly seemed surprised, but acquiesced, running fingers through his hair again and Sherlock pressed his face against her neck and groaned.

"You rather like that, don't you?" she laughed.

He answered by heatedly pressing his tongue into her mouth.

Because of Sherlock's inability to quiet his own mind, even during this, he had to slow himself down by narrowing his focus to a precision that consisted only the woman beneath him. He set aside every thought that had little to do with Molly and himself, every possibly distraction, like the rain pattering against the window. He needed to remove all distractions and he started with her jumper, peeling it over and off and away, leaving bare skin exposed for examination until Molly squirmed slightly under the intensity of his stare.

Sherlock was too busy watching her to think about kissing again. Too busy cataloging the feel of her hands braced on his shoulders and the pinkness of her cheeks that not even the darkness could conceal. She bit her lip and then decisively pulled his mouth to hers, arching her back in assistance as Sherlock worked to unclasp her bra. Before removing it, he turned his head and pulled an earlobe between his teeth.

"You'll tell me if I do anything wrong, yes?" he said, voice low with need. Molly replied with a whimpered affirmative. Pleased, Sherlock tossed the bra away.

Everything after was done slowly and methodically. Sherlock took his time divesting Molly of her clothes with very little concern for his own. Twice she'd tried to undress him only to be ceased when he held her wrists down and kissed the life out of her, continuing when she was thoroughly dazed. He did try to explain that he'd read something about heightened arousal in women whose partners were still clothed, but Molly didn't seem to care too much for talking at the moment, and frankly neither did he.

Once her trousers were gone, Sherlock pulled her onto his lap. He clasped his arms around her back and lowered his head to trail a path down to her sternum, feeling the heatedness of her center rock against him, her questing hands setting nerves alive and electrified. She sighed and moaned gently, clenching fingers pulling at him as he sucked a nipple between his lips and lowered her back onto the bed. He continued downward, tasting and touching and feeling every inch of flesh exposed to him, only to expose more as his hands slipped into her pants and shucked them smoothly away. Lips touched the hollows of her hips. The inside of her thighs. She stilled.

"Um," said Molly, in no mind to be articulate.

Sherlock stroked her legs down to her knees and pushed them slightly wider to accommodate him. He noticed her hesitation. "Is this all right?"

"Ah..."

"Molly..."

"Y-yeah, but you don't have to... to... Oh..."

Oh, he really did. At the first dilatory lick to the swollen parts that made her melt and twist and writhe, he knew he'd be addicted. He knew he'd need more. The repetition of her moans became music, the beat thrumming with the pulse of his tongue as he buried it into her, stroking soft, wet walls and losing himself within her. It was too much. He wanted more.

Molly sought purchase for her hands, so he gripped one tightly while her other buried fingers in his hair. He used his other hand for something more pleasing, opening her folds wider to his explorations and finding that wonderful cluster of nerves that made her shriek and nearly leap from the bed. Sherlock held her to him, working her through with soft sucking and gentle scraping of teeth and tongue and fingers that pushed their way in to rub circles beneath, inside and up against a spongey softness. He was being relentless, he knew it, but never had he enjoyed giving so much pleasure to a person. He could do this for hours, keep her in this state of desperation, this need for his touch until he'd show mercy, until -

With a cry she came undone against his hand. His mouth. She'd tightened and flooded in sweetly tart flavors as he continued stroking her through it, listening to her hitching breath and barely contained sobs of satiety and he wanted to let her ride that high as long as possible.

In some deliberately ignored part of his mind, Sherlock realized just how hard he was and just how much he'd been rutting against his own bed for the mercy and torture of friction.

Molly wriggled and panted and he kissed his way back up to her mouth. Then she wrenched away from him and threw her hands to his chest and tore at his shirt. Buttons flew off. Neither cared. "Off," she demanded, heatedly. "Everything, off, now."

Her tone brokered no argument and she helped peel away his trousers and pants, damp with needy sweat. She grazed him boldly with the backs of her fingers and Sherlock was momentarily horrified that he'd give in prematurely. He caught her hands, pushed her back and stopped, his eyes clenched shut like fly traps. Breathing required concentration.

He felt Molly loosen his grip. Heard her reach and tear open a foil packet with no mind as to which box it came from. He felt a hand press reassuringly against his cheek. He opened his eyes to see her gazing back up at him with nothing less than love and want and encouragement, so he buried his face into the pillow beside her head when her hands reached down between them to give a gentle stroke first. When he was covered he released a puff of breath against her hair, committing to memory not just the look on her face, but the feel of them pressed together, his length brushing her sex as he lay between her knees. Slowly he kissed her as he eased his way inside the inviting softness of her body.

Self service really had nothing on a flesh and blood woman.

She broke for breath raggedly drawn in, releasing sounds he'd never tire of hearing. He'd pushed himself fully in, her walls making tight way for him and he paused, not only so that she might adjust, but because he needed a moment to register this feeling, to drop his mouth beside her ear and mutter her name in a cantillation.

He pulled out just so and thrust slowly back in. He rocked against her, pulled her further open by her knees and ground himself against her. Reaching up again, he held her face in his hands, arms braced beside her and she surged up and kissed him. Her legs locked around his waist as he picked up speed, thrusting forcefully but wanting to maintain a semblance of control, except that option had long disappeared when he'd first dreamt of her like this beneath him, flushed, heated, frustrated and clawing at his back.

His thrusts became almost erratic when she grew taut on the precipice of release. He moved faster, deeper, harder, wanting to hold on, but she moaned his name and he was sure that he'd splinter into a million pieces, never to be put back the same way again, ever.

Molly moved her hand between them to urge herself over. Finally understanding her need - he'd done his research after all - and wanting to be more than satisfactory in this endeavor, Sherlock replaced her fingers with his own and stroked the slippery ball of nerves there, eager to push her over and more than happy to follow.

It didn't take long.

She shuddered and cried out, tightening around him, clinging as he sought his own release which hit him like a cannonball. They rode the high together gasping and sweaty until the aftershocks ebbed away in a receding tide of pleasure.

When Sherlock collapsed bonelessly onto his back with Molly tucked against his side, he kissed her temple. This, he supposed, was the standard configuration of satisfied lovers and he was silently glad he'd gotten it right.

At the same time, guilt roiled firmly in his belly because this was all very, very unforgivable.

Not one single thought proved enough to keep his eyelids from dropping like weights, however. And his last thought was that while he'd been trying to ignite a flame, he'd failed to notice just how kindled he'd actually been, just how bright and burning his insides could be. He'd lit a perfidious match, though, and the flames of deceit would no doubt be painful in their immolation.

.

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AN: Welp, they dun gone and banged.

Despite this chapter taking forever, I feel like it's totally missing something, or maybe it has too much. It feels unfocused. Oh well, I tried. Thanks for reading this, guys! I'll try and update sooner!