*Fair warning – I am taking huge liberties with the UK train system. HUGE. Private train compartments are either a thing of the past or impossible for my usually reliable Google-Fu skills to find. However, I had a certain scene that I wanted to end my story with so I am going to take a bit of creative license. Please forgive me, it's for a purely smutty cause.

Part Eight

Molly would have preferred to have Sherlock with her for the long ride back to the train station, but he had remained at the Villa at the behest of the police. Instead she had to field all manner of excited questions from the other guests by herself.

"Did you two know that girl had been missing?"

"How did you find her?"

"Did you know about Michelle and Simon?"

"Is your husband a cop?"

She was sorely tempted to tell them that he wasn't her husband at all, he was Sherlock Holmes the famous Hat Detective; but she ended up shrugging and offering, "Something like that."

Marcy stood, ignoring the admonishment of the bus driver, and made her way down the aisle to take the seat next to Molly.

"Is she going to be all right? Anna, I mean?"

Molly had no doubt Anna would recover physically. Mentally, however . . . She suspected Anna would be dealing with the trauma of the last few weeks for some time to come.

Not that she was going to mention that to Marcy, who was currently watching her with a hopeful expression. Molly put on her most reassuring smile, the one she'd perfected during her residency when she'd still worked with living patients and their anxious families. "Now that she's getting proper medical care, I think she'll be fine."

Marcy nodded several times, then leaned closer and lowered her voice. "And the baby?"

Molly's reassuring smile morphed into something genuine. "I filled the medics in on what we knew about her condition, and they were able to locate a strong foetal heartbeat while they readied Anna for the flight."

The other woman heaved a huge sigh of relief and leaned back in her seat. "Thank God for small favours. That poor girl has been through enough. Do you think she'd mind if Jonathan and I went to visit her at hospital in a day or two?"

"I don't think she would." Molly touched the back of Marcy's hand reassuringly. "You were very comforting at the Villa, I'm not sure I would have been able to keep her calm without your help. My, uhm, Scott might be able to get some contact information for Anna's brother, if you'd like to give him a call and arrange something."

Molly put Marcy's number in her phone and promised to text the promised information the next day. The rest of the ride to the station wasn't quite as annoying with Marcy next to her, acting as a buffer to the noise and questions from the other guests.

The bus unloaded at the train station without incident. Molly couldn't help scanning the crowd as she waited for the train, hoping to catch a glimpse of her curly-haired detective even though she didn't actually expect that he'd appear. He'd still been deep in conversation with the local police when the bus had pulled out of the Villa drive.

She made her final goodbyes to Marcy and Jonathan, who were heading a different direction, and boarded her train. Molly sighed at the sight of the empty seat across from her, and resigned herself to a boring journey. She looked out the window and watched the movements of the crowd, listened to the sounds of arrival and departure announcements over the Tannoy and the faint bleat of police siren in the distance.

"Excuse me, Doctor Hooper?"

Molly turned away from the window to find a train conductor standing in the aisle. On instinct, she leaned down to grab her purse, intending to dig out her ticket in case he needed to see it. "Yes?"

"I apologize, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to move." He gave her one of those customer service smiles, the kind that fairly screamed 'We both know I'm simply attempting to placate you to keep the situation from escalating'.

"Move? I'm sorry, but why?"

"There's a problem. With the seat. A . . . malfunction." Molly noted that he refused to look her in the eye as he spoke. "I have been authorized to upgrade you to a private compartment in First Class, to compensate for the inconvenience."

Her pulse began to speed up. She wasn't naïve; perfectly normal train seats didn't suddenly have the sort of mysterious malfunction that came with a move to First Class. Not unless Sherlock Holmes was involved.

She gathered up her suitcase and purse and followed the conductor through two carriages. The third carriage had a small corridor on one side that was lined with doors that, presumably, opened to several private compartments.

The conductor stopped in front of one. "Here you go, Doctor Hooper. Please enjoy the rest of your journey."

Molly waited for him to walk away, staring at the curtains blocking her view into the private compartment until he had exited the carriage. She knew it was very unlikely, but she couldn't contain the rush of hopeful excitement at the thought that Sherlock might be waiting for her inside.

Unfortunately, she was doomed to disappointment as the little compartment was empty save for a pair of benches facing each other and a large tinted window overlooking the people outside. Only the memory of Sherlock's promise to find her when he came home kept her from kept her from pouting. He wasn't with her now, but he would be soon enough.

She hefted her luggage onto the overhead shelf and dropped onto one of the benches. For such a small area, there really was a fair amount of leg space. Molly wondered how much it would cost to upgrade to First Class every time she needed to travel by train. More than she would feel comfortable spending, most likely.

The train had just begun to roll forward when the compartment door was wrenched open. Molly gasped at the sight of Sherlock, dishevelled and out of breath.

"I was beginning to think I wouldn't make it in time." His grin as he tossed his suitcase onto the overhead shelf next to hers was infectious. He turned and struggled to get the door properly latched, then settled into the seat across from hers.

She'd thought he was incredibly sexy as Scott the accountant from Ipswich, but the man sitting across from her now was the answer to every single naughty school girl fantasy she'd ever harboured in her entire life. Sherlock's usual mussed curls, Scott's glasses, legs spread apart so that his feet rested to either side of hers, a mischievous smile hinting at all sorts of sinful things on his lips . . .

"How did you?" Molly asked, more than a little distracted by thoughts of all sorts of interesting ways to earn extra credit from Professor Holmes.

"Turns out one of the constables is the uncle of a woman I helped escape from an abusive marriage. Once everything was dealt with at Happy Hearts, and Michelle was taken into custody with Simon following behind in his soon-to-be repossessed sports car, I explained that I needed to catch a train. Uncle Frank offered to give me a lift. Sirens and all."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." He tilted his head and watched her, making her skin prickle in anticipation under his scrutiny. "It's a shame about that problem with our other seats. I suppose it's very lucky they were able to provide us this compartment, instead."

"Oh, yes. A terrible shame," she laughed, and he smirked in response. "How did you manage that, by the way? Our mobiles didn't work until we were minutes outside of town."

"It seems," Sherlock began in an 'I'm sharing a secret' sort of voice as he put his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her. "That along with sirens and colourful lights, police cars also have radios with far better reception than our mobiles."

Molly blinked. "Is that even legal? Using a police radio to change your train reservations?"

"I haven't been arrested, so let's just assume that it is."

"Fair enough." She worried her lower lip for a moment, then asked the question that had been running through her mind since he appeared. "And, uh, the glasses?"

He reached up to touch the frame of the glasses in an innocent gesture that was clearly and utterly insincere. "These?"

"Yes, those." Molly rolled her eyes. "The case is over, surely you're not still pretending to be Scott the accountant?"

"Well . . ." Sherlock drew out the word as he deliberately popped open the uppermost button of his shirt. "I believe we discussed the train ride home while we were in bed yesterday morning." His deft fingers slipped another button free. "Didn't we?"

Her mouth went dry and she had to swallow just to be able to speak. "I- I seem to recall something like that."

Two more buttons slipped loose in quick succession. Sherlock pulled his shirt tails free from his trousers and flicked the last shirt button open. "We can discuss it again, in exacting detail, if you come over here."

Another time she might have been embarrassed by how quickly she stood up, how eagerly she took the step to cross the small compartment; but the heat in Sherlock's expression wiped any hint of self-consciousness from her mind.

Molly started to sit next to him, but he shook his head and slid one hand over his thigh. "Nope. Over here."

She bit her lip and looked toward the door. The curtain was still drawn across the window.

"I locked it when I came in," Sherlock assured her. She didn't bother asking how he knew what she was thinking, it would have wasted valuable time that could better be spent having her way with a certain Consulting Detective.

"Planning ahead?" she teased.

"Let's just say I was feeling hopeful." Sherlock held out his hand and wiggled his fingers.

Molly laughed as she allowed herself to be guided onto his lap, facing him with a knee settled on the seat on either side of his hips. Sherlock's hands moved to grasp her waist, steadying her against the sway of the train car. Once she was comfortable, Molly leaned down to brush her lips against his. "Is this what you were hoping for?"

"Close." He leaned closer in an effort to chase her kiss. "Ideally, there would be less clothing and—Fuck, Molly!"

She had rolled her hips, pressing her centre against his cock. Molly was extremely pleased to discover that he was already half-erect and growing firmer with each passing second. "Good?" she asked as she did it again.

Sherlock's head fell back against the headrest, his eyes fluttered closed as if he wasn't able to keep them open. "Indescribably."

She would have giggled if he hadn't suddenly wrapped his fingers around her ponytail and gently tugged her head back to expose her neck to his eager mouth. Instead, she gasped at the feel of his hot breath against her throat and the velvet slide of his tongue against her pulse point. Molly jerked when he gently bit down on her sensitive skin. She pushed his loose shirt off his shoulders with one hand as the other cradled his head closer, urging him to be less gentle, to bite harder, to . . .

"Mark me," Molly begged. "Leave me proof that you want me. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and think this weekend was just a dream."

"Not a dream." He released her ponytail and lifted his head, making sure she could see the truth in his eyes. "I have wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Not just sex. I was absolutely serious when I told you I wanted everything you were willing to give me. Everything."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly sighed. She sunk her fingers into his hair and pulled him into a kiss that seemed to last forever and yet not nearly long enough.

He nipped and licked his way down her jaw, back to the spot that had made her beg earlier. She'd asked him to mark her, and he did. He held her with a hand on her back, just between her shoulder blades, while the other burrowed under her jumper. "Why do you wear so many layers?" he complained against her throat.

"I get cold," Molly replied, although she leaned back and let him pull the jumper over her head. His fingers immediately fell to the buttons of the blouse she'd been wearing beneath it.

"I'll keep you warm," he promised, before kissing her once more. Her blouse slid down her arms, and was quickly followed by her bra. He immediately put his hands around her waist and yanked her up onto her knees so he could lavish attention on her breasts.

Molly reached up to grasp the overhead shelf with one hand, and buried the other in his hair. She gasped when he used his teeth on her nipple, then sighed his name when he soothed the love bite with his tongue.

He panted something against her skin.

"What?" Molly hissed, pulling on his curls so that he lifted his face.

"Pocket."

She lowered her bum back to his lap, and looked at him in confusion. "What?"

Sherlock lifted his hips, nearly causing her to tumble backward, and dug into his trouser pocket. He triumphantly held up a condom. "Last one."

"Let's make it count." Molly grinned as she slid her hands between them to cup his erection.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he grew even harder under against her palm.

"No," Sherlock panted. He shook his head, and urged her off his knees. "No more of that. Clothes off. Now."

Molly quickly kicked off her flats and stripped off the rest of her clothes. Sherlock didn't even bother undressing fully. He opened his fly and pushed his trousers and boxers down to his calves before rolling the condom over his eager erection.

She grinned as she reached out and pulled the glasses off his face before tossing them onto the seat behind her. "We're definitely keeping those. You have no idea how many fantasies I've had since I first saw you wearing them."

"I promise, we can play dirty professor and naughty student later; but I need to fuck you now."

God, she loved the way he said that, the way he practically growled with his desire for her. She straddled his lap again. They both moaned as she grasped his cock and slowly eased down. Molly rolled her hips a few times until they managed to catch the rhythm of the train. She leaned forward to brace her hands against the back of the seat, and shifted her more of her weight to her knees to increase her range of motion.

He scooted forward. She briefly wondered what he was doing—it couldn't have been comfortable to slouch down with his arse balanced on the edge of the seat—then the angle and intensity of his thrusts changed. The tiny part of her mind that wasn't focused on the feel of him inside her realized that he was using his legs for leverage. Sherlock grabbed her hips, forcefully pulling her down with every upward surge of his hips and flex of his thighs.

Molly could barely catch her breath. A string of increasingly higher pitched pleas escaped her lips. "Don't stop, don't stop. Fuck, Sherlock. Don't you stop."

"Never," Sherlock gasped. He moved his hand between them, his thumb seeking her clit. She jerked at his touch, her inner muscles clenched around his length. He growled his approval. "So responsive. Never going to get enough of this. Never."

She grabbed his shoulders and dug her nails into his skin. The sound of his voice drove her toward her peak. When he pulled her closer with his other hand so that he could take her mouth, his lips hot and wet against her own, she came.

Sherlock groaned and pumped his hips twice more, straining to get closer, deeper, as he found his own release.

Molly fell against his chest, nearly boneless. Her thighs trembled and ached from supporting her weight for so long. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her back and refused to let her go when she tried to pull away.

"Not yet. Still basking in the afterglow."

She moved her face from where she'd had it pressed against his neck to find him smiling at her with the softest expression she'd ever seen.

Molly smiled back.

"Come to Baker Street with me."

"Tonight?" She sat up, and this time he let her slide off his lap into the seat next to him.

His smile dimmed, then disappeared almost entirely. "Is that a problem?"

"No!" Molly rushed to reassure him. "God, no. I just thought . . . I mean, we've been together all weekend, I thought you might need some time to yourself." She reached out to grasp his hand, hoping that he'd understand that she had been surprised rather than unwilling.

"Ahh. I'm positive I will, at some point. I'm notoriously bad at being sociable." He tightened his fingers around hers. "However, if I'm lucky enough to catch a good case tomorrow, you may not see me for a few days, so I would like to spend this evening with you. We could stop at yours to check on Toby first. We could pick up take-away. Give me a chance to tell Mrs Hudson about that new boiler."

Molly laughed and leaned her head against his shoulder, not caring for the moment that she was still naked on a train that would be pulling into the station in less than fifteen minutes.

Sherlock dipped his head to press a quick kiss against her hair. "We, uh, we don't have to have sex. I know you must be tired after the last few days."

Her snort was embarrassingly loud in the small compartment. "Oh no. We're definitely having sex."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly froze at the sound of someone bounding up the stairs to 221B, her mug of coffee halfway to her lips. She looked down at the far-too-large dressing gown she was wearing, the one that clung to her body in several places because she hadn't bothered to dry off after she'd stepped out of the shower, and winced.

Please don't let it be one of Sherlock's clients. Or anyone from Scotland Yard.

John burst through the closed (but not locked, apparently) door with a burst of early morning caffeine fuelled energy. He swung around with a quick turn on his heel once he realized the sitting room was empty, then stopped dead when he saw Molly standing in the kitchen.

"Morning." She leaned back against the counter and tried to appear nonchalant, as if there was nothing odd about being half-naked in Sherlock's kitchen. "Coffee? There's more in the pot."

"Uh, no, actually." John shook his head, clearly bemused. "I've already had some. Mrs Hudson insisted on trying to feed me up while she asked all sorts of questions about the plumbing company Mary and I used when we got the guest bath redone. Something about needing to replace a boiler."

He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze taking in her wet hair and borrowed dressing gown. "And now I'm beginning to understand why she started laughing as soon as she mentioned it."

"Really, John. It should have been obvious from the moment you walked in," Sherlock admonished his friend as he joined them in the kitchen. He was wearing lounge pants and another dressing gown, but his feet were bare and his hair was damp.

He reached behind her to get his own mug out of the cabinet. "You really should thank her for keeping you distracted for the last twenty minutes."

John grimaced.

Sherlock shrugged. "Would have been longer if the water hadn't gone cold."