A/N: Here there be smut, folks. And bad language. And did I mention smut? Many thanks to asteraceaeblue for looking this chapter over for me. Hockeylock comes to an end, I hope you enjoyed the ride! Thank you for all your lovely reviews of chapter one!

Part Two: March

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. Why had he opened his stupid mouth? Why hadn't he just kept his stupid, jealous deductions to himself? Why had he utterly humiliated her in front of the entire team and coaching staff at what was supposed to be the team's moment of triumph?

Why, he thought as he shot John Watson a sharp glance, hadn't anyone thought to just shut him the fuck up?

"Not my problem, Sherlock," his so-called best friend said as Sherlock rubbed his face, still stinging from the slap Molly had delivered after he'd deduced the existence of her supposed new boyfriend while at the same time managing to insult both her looks and her hopes for her new relationship. A relationship that had existed only in his own, thick-headed skull. "You're the idiot that opened your mouth and stuck your bloody foot into it. With your skate still on," John added maliciously.

Mary walked over to the two men, rubbing her hand on John's back. "Sherlock Holmes, you may be the most brilliant skater in the league, but when it comes to interpersonal skills a kindergartener could dance rings around you."

He scowled at the GM. "I could deduce a few things about you you wouldn't like," he said darkly.

She had the temerity to laugh at him. "Oh, Sherlock, you really are such a child sometimes. There isn't one person in this room - hell, in this league! - that you couldn't deduce something about. That's not the point, and you know it."

He folded his arms across his chest and scowled. "I told her I was sorry…" he started, but neither Mary nor John allowed him to finish the sentence.

"Some apology!" "You need to do more than just apologize, you git!"

"They're right."

Sherlock rolled his eyes; great, now Coach 'Papa' Lestrade was getting in on the act. "Seriously, Sherlock, you need to go after her. Not just tell her you're sorry, but show her."

He raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Show her how?" he protested. "And why on earth would I go after her when she's just told me and everyone else in the room how much she hates me?"

"Oh, she doesn't hate you." Another eyeroll as another busybody joined in the chorus, this time Sally Donovan. "You can trust me on that. But she will if you don't do something to fix this, Holmes. And I'm not just saying that because I don't want to have to break in a new medic, either."

Sherlock went very still at her words. "You think she might...leave?"

Sally shrugged. "Maybe. I probably would if anyone ever said anything like that about me in front of my coworkers. Or possibly file a harassment suit."

"But if I go after her, if I tell her I really am sorry…" And he was, so very, very sorry. "...won't she think I'm just doing it to keep her from doing any of that? Quitting or filing a grievance against me?"

"Depends on how you do it," Lestrade said with an odd look in his eyes. Sherlock frowned; it almost seemed as if the older man was looking past him at something else, but when he started to turn, Lestrade reached out and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Look, mate, I'm not here to be your father or tell you how to run your life…"

"He's got Mycroft for that," John muttered. Mary smacked him, and he gestured for the coach to continue.

"Anyway, if you really do regret what you said, then just tell her. And not in that snotty 'I'm just doing this because everyone and their uncle wants me to do it' way. Be sincere - I mean, you are sincere, aren't you? You really are sorry?"

"I wouldn't have said it to her if I wasn't!" Sherlock practically bellowed, raking his fingers through his no-longer-tidy curls. "I just wish I hadn't opened my stupid, jealous gob in the first place!"

"You were jealous?"

Sherlock tensed at the sound of that unexpected voice coming from directly behind him, then shot Lestrade a poisonous glare. The man had the temerity to simply smile at him smugly, clearly feeling no regrets for keeping the truth from Sherlock: that Molly Hooper had returned to the party and was listening to every word he said.

"Sherlock?" she said, looking up at him through those big brown eyes that always had him on the back foot, whether they were twinkling with mischief or narrowed in anger or - like now - wide and steady as they met his. "Did you mean it?"

"I...not here," he said in a rush, pushing his way through the small group clustered around him. He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the door. "Can we do this in private?"

"Well, you started it in public, so it seems only fair we get to hear the rest of it," Sally called after them with a smirk, but Molly allowed herself to be dragged away from the crowd. The small smile playing on her lips was a point in his favor, but he refused to be heartened by it; she might simply be enjoying his well-deserved discomfiture.

The party was taking place in the rink, not because of any sort of financial restrictions - Mycroft ran far too tight a ship for that to be a consideration - but because it was where everyone wanted it to be. The scene of their victory, where they'd beaten the Baskerville Hounds for the Challenge Cup.

The scene of his possible defeat in the arena of love, unless he could fix things with Molly. With that in mind - something he would never have considered before meeting her - he brought her to the locker room, which had been cleaned up in case any of their guests decided to visit. Thankfully anyone who was so dull as to be curious about what a hockey team's locker room looked like had already done so. No one was likely to interrupt them, especially after the scene he'd caused. Thank God the press had already gone home, having scavenged as much food and liquor as they could before faffing off to find some other party to leech off of.

"So. You have something to say to me?"

Molly was standing near the door, arms folded across her chest, hip cocked, eyebrows raised expectantly. He placed his hands behind his back, for once in his life at a loss as to what he should say. His suit suddenly felt too tight, and he was thankful he'd refused to wear a tie no matter how Mycroft and Mary had badgered him. "What I said...I shouldn't have."

She nodded, but gave no other indication of her current mood, which he was finding damnably difficult to read. Was she still furious and hurt? Somewhat amused? Delighting in his misery? Nothing for it but to plow on until he once again, as John so eloquently put it, ended up with his foot in his mouth, skate and all. "And yes, I said I was sorry and yes, I meant it, which you already know because you heard me say it. And then you heard me say it to John and Mary and everyone else so you know I wasn't just saying it so you wouldn't be mad at me."

God, he was rambling like a lovestruck teenager trying to convince a girl he liked to go to the cinema with him. Or how he imagined one would sound, since he'd never actually been a lovestruck teenager, having decided at that point in his life that the only goal worth pursuing was hockey. Everything was a distraction, didn't this evening just prove that?

Then he looked at Molly again, standing there in her tight black cocktail dress with her hair flowing down her back, a tacky little silver ribbon bobby-pinned in place above her temple and her lips painted a bright red that matched the ribbon on the gift she'd got for him - not for some imaginary other boyfriend - and all his resolve about staying aloof from romantic entanglements just melted away. "I am sorry," he said softly, taking a step forward. "I was jealous. I thought you'd fallen in love with someone, and I was jealous that it wasn't me. I thought you'd finally done the sensible thing and realized what a terrible person I am."

"So, what, in case I hadn't quite got the picture, you decided you'd better make it clearer?" He wasn't off the hook, not yet, but there was a glimmer of hope in the way her eyes had softened a bit at his admission.

He shrugged. "I figured that if you already had someone else, why bother trying to be a better person for you? I'd already lost my chance, or so I thought." Another step closer, until he was in arm's reach. "Have I, Molly?" he asked softly. "Or are you willing to give me another chance?"

Finally her tense posture relaxed, and the smile he'd been hoping for curved her lips into something soft and forgiving. "Of course I do, you daft man," she said, lowering her arms to her sides and finally moving closer to him. Invading his personal space, he believed it was called, but he hardly felt crowded when Molly was so close all he had to do was lean forward and he could kiss her. "I've been in love with you since - well, since day one, to be honest." She gave a rueful laugh. "Not one of my wiser decisions, but you know what they say: the heart wants what the heart wants."

"And what does your heart want, Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asked, feeling the uncomfortable tightness in his chest finally easing.

"You, Sherlock Holmes," she breathed. "Only you." Then she leaned forward, teetering on her toes, and kissed him. Her hands curled into the lapels of his jacket and his arms encircled her waist as he closed the remaining space between them.

oOo

It was only supposed to be a kiss; just a kiss to show him he was forgiven, that he hadn't irrevocably destroyed her feelings for him. But the kiss turned to another, and another, and suddenly she was pressed up against the wall between his locker and the door to the showers, with his thigh between her legs and her hands in his dark curls. The kisses deepened and desire sparked through her body as she felt his arousal stirring in a very literal manner. She moaned as he licked at her lips, teasing for entrance, and moaned again as his tongue invaded and danced with hers.

She could feel his hands sliding up her body, coming to rest on the undersides of her breasts, not quite touching, and correctly read his hesitancy as a wordless request for permission. She responded by arching her back and squirming against him. This time he was the one who moaned, mumbling something along the lines of 'oh thank god' against her lips before once again capturing them for a heated kiss. Permission granted, he cupped her breasts through the silky fabric of her black dress and the lacy bra she wore beneath it, running his thumb over her nipples. Even through the double layers of fabric she could feel the warmth of his touch, and her nipples responded by hardening instantly.

She was holding his face between her hands as they kissed, and he pulled her closer, reaching around to fumble at the zip to her dress. He slid the straps of her dress down her arms and she shrugged out of the garment, allowing it to fall to her ankles, as he fumbled with the buttons to his tight aubergine shirt. She was more than happy to help him with that, stumbling a bit as she tried to simultaneously step out of the black dress now pooled around her ankles. He solved that little issue by lifting her in his arms, his lips once again on hers as she draped her arms over his shoulders and crossed her ankles behind his back.

He carried her away from the cold concrete of the wall, laying her down on the low bench sat in front of the row of lockers. The wood was cool and hard beneath her overheated flesh but she couldn't possibly have cared less, not when Sherlock was draped over her, dropping hot, wet kisses on her throat, her shoulder, her collarbones, his hands winding through her hair. He tugged impatiently at her bra straps; she struggled back to a sitting position while he sat back on his heels, the two of them hurrying to remove the rest of their clothes.

She giggled a bit as she heard the distinctive sound of a popped button, but the hungry, feral look in Sherlock's eyes killed the urge to laugh, stopping the sound in her throat as her own eyes widened at the sight he presented: pupils blown, leaving nothing but rings of blue-green around the rims, cheeks stained pink, tongue darting out to tease the corner of his lips...with a groan, Molly lunged forward, topping them both onto the carpeted (and thankfully recently steam-cleaned) floor. Sherlock grunted as he landed on his back with Molly straddling him at an awkward angle, then snaked his arms around her waist and hauled her closer. "God, you're sexy," he gasped as she leaned down to kiss him.

"You too," she said, wishing she was better at the sexy talk. Then his lips covered hers and his tongue was in her mouth and talking proved to be entirely unnecessary. She moaned as he reached up to knead her breasts with his large, callused hands, and moaned again when she wiggled her hips and felt his erection sliding against her pubic mound.

She reached down and grasped that impressive piece of his anatomy, sliding her thumb over the head and enjoying the slick feel of pre-cum on her fingertips. With a sharp growl, Sherlock snaked his arms around her waist and carefully flipped them so that she was resting on the carpeted floor. He came to rest on one elbow, kissing his way down her body as far as her breasts. He licked and nibbled at the sensitive peaks while his hand continued downward, pausing only to stroke the sensitive insides of her thighs before zeroing in on his true goal.

Molly squirmed and let out soft little mewls of pleasure as his fingers tickled their way to her sex, those long, elegant fingers probing at her slick entrance, slipping inside and proving to be just as talented at bringing a woman off as they were at manipulating a hockey stick. "He shoots, he scores," she found herself whimpering, her back arching as he curved those wicked fingers deep inside her.

"God that was awful, Molly," he mumbled as he raised his head from her breasts in order to first give her an annoyed look, and second to kiss her absolutely breathless. "Dirty talk isn't your area, best leave that to me," he added after the kiss ended. He turned his head and breathed against her ear, "I promise you, I'm as adept at that as I am at anything I turn my...hand to." He curled his fingers again, his thumb brushing against her engorged clit, and Molly came with a stifled wail as she pressed her mouth to his shoulder.

Two minutes later, heart still racing, she was guiding him into her, murmuring encouragement against the same shoulder that now bore her teethmarks and would very likely bruise. Her professional side chided her for causing such an injury and tried to scold her into doing something about it, but the rest of her told that part to piss off and returned to enjoying the wicked things Sherlock was doing to her.

He sank into her with a groan, eyes screwed tightly shut, mouth blindly seeking hers. She turned her head and they traded urgent kisses as they began moving against one another, Sherlock's hands locked on her wrists, trapping her arms above her head. She raised her legs, wrapping them around his slim hips, and he groaned out a string of curse words interspersed with her name and some very naughty suggestions as to what he'd like to do to her once her got her back to his flat. "Oh, so you want to shag me more than once?" she asked, making sure he saw her exaggeratedly wide-eyed look of innocence.

"As many times as you'll let me," he assured her, punctuating his words with a little thrust of his hips. "I'll even, ungh, take you on, ahhhhhh, dates if you...in...sist." His words trailed off into an incoherent series of guttural moans and groans as he increased the speed of his thrusts.

Molly met his movements with a near-frantic enthusiasm, having completely lost her own ability to speak as she felt herself heading for a second climax. All that came out of her lips was panted breaths and something that sounded like 'uh-uh-uh' in time to every thrust of their joined bodies. Then Sherlock twisted and ground against her and the world exploded behind her eyes as she let loose with a scream that would undoubtedly have been heard by the partygoers at the other end of the arena if he hadn't had the foresight to cover her mouth with his own at just the right moment.

She was vaguely aware that he'd come not too long after her own release, felt the warm stickiness of his semen between her legs as he rolled them so that she was once again sprawled atop him. They were flushed and sweaty with their hair in equally rumpled messes; everyone would know exactly what they'd been up to as soon as they rejoined the party...and Molly couldn't care less. "That was amazing," she said as soon as she'd come back to her senses. "Absolutely amazing."

"Hmm, it wasn't bad," Sherlock said with a smirk. She mock-smacked his shoulder as he laughed and pulled her down for a lingering kiss. She pretended to resist for about a half a second before returning the kiss.

"So it wasn't bad, eh?" Molly said as she finally, very reluctantly, sat up, shivering a bit as her body began to cool down in the aftermath of their exertions. "Guess we'll just have to try a bit harder next time."

"Mm, yes, and I predict that that 'next time' will be in roughly one hour," he replied as he helped her to her feet and handed her her dress. "Slightly less if we go to your flat instead of mine."

"But the party - everyone will be expecting us to come back," Molly protested, only half-jokingly. She ducked into the loo in order to wipe herself down with some damp paper towels after quickly slipping her dress on. "We can't just faff off without saying good-bye!"

Sherlock joined her, casually grabbing a handful of paper towels for himself and dampening them as he cleaned himself up. "Why not? We've already said hello to everyone and did all the boring congratulations everyone insists on. Quite frankly I've used up about all the small talk I'm capable of producing."

He tossed the towels into the bin and stepped into his trousers, which had been draped over his shoulder. Molly couldn't help but notice that he didn't bother with his shorts, just wadded up the cotton garment and chucked it into his locker as soon as they returned to the main room. She hunted around for her own knickers, getting a bit worried when she couldn't find them, then heard Sherlock clearing his throat. She looked over her shoulder and saw him dangling the scrap of pink fabric from his fingertip. "Looking for these?"

"Oh God, please don't tell me you two actually had sex in here?"

Molly gasped and flushed beet red at the sight of an equally red-faced Coach Lestrade standing in the locker room door.

Sherlock simply continued to smirk as he stuffed her knickers into his pocket and scooped up his shirt and jacket. "Sorry, Coach, won't happen again. Probably. At least it won't happen again tonight, as Molly and I are leaving. Do give everyone our regards, and, oh yes, well done on another excellent season, although frankly I think our success had as much to do with Sally as it did with…"

He fell silent as Molly shot him a quelling look, cleared his throat, then continued in a more subdued tone, "Yes, um, well. Good season. See you at camp in a few weeks, all right? Molly, shall we?" He held out his hand to her; she gave Coach Lestrade a shy smile as she took it, pausing only to step into her discarded heels.

As they started to walk past Lestrade, Sherlock paused and looked the older man straight in the eyes. "Don't worry, Coach," he said, all traces of sarcasm gone. "You won't regret your part in pushing us together." He glanced over at Molly with a soft smile that stole her breath away. "And if I ever do anything to piss her off, we both know she's more than capable of taking me down a peg." He ostentatiously rubbed his cheek, then slung an arm over her shoulders. "Now. Let's get out of here, shall we?" The smirk returned as he added, "I'm really looking forward to some more post-season action tonight!"

Coach Lestrade groaned and Molly rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the small giggle that escaped her lips. She waved good-bye to the older man and allowed Sherlock to hurry her down the hall.

After all, he wasn't the only one looking forward to a continuation of their earlier activities!