Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This was a gift for the wonderfully talented Darned Child, whose works should be read by everyone (#go shoo read)

~ MOONLIGHT ~

"So…" Sherlock says.

"So…" Molly answers.

They're standing on the steps which lead up to her flat, snow drifting softly around them.

It's their three month anniversary, and the first date they've been on that hasn't ended in imprisonment, illegality or an argument.

It must, Sherlock knows, be something of a record.

This late at night, the street is utterly quiet. The streetlamps pick out stray hairs from beneath Molly's woolly hat, turning them into a halo, and her pinked, cold-flushed face is split in a smile. Beyond this quiet cul-de-sac and it's sleepy houses, Sherlock is certain that adventure is awaiting in London, that something interesting and exciting and adrenaline-pumping must be happening-

And yet, he has no interest in pursuing it.

Standing here, staring at Molly, he finds himself utterly rooted to the spot.

She must feel the same, for with a small, shy smile she moves up onto the third step in front of her house, the height of which is enough to bring her directly into Sherlock's line of vision. Her breath is misting in front of her face in the cold but she seems utterly uninterested in going inside; rather, her gloved hands come to rest on his chest. The lapels of his coat.

The weight of them feels… soothing.

He swallows. "It's cold," he says quietly and she nods. "It's a bad night to be outdoors," and she nods to that too.

"Maybe you should come inside then," she says quietly, and when he looks at her she's looking away. Head cocked to the side. Lip bitten in nervousness.

Sherlock feels a jolt of something, some mixture of alarm and pleasure spike through him.

"Do you want that?" he asks, laying his hands on hers. Stepping in closer to her. Quite without his deciding to, his thumb finds its way underneath the edge of her glove to stroke her pulse point, and this time it's her who gulps.

"Yes," she says, her voice fast and certain. "Yes, I definitely think you sho-"

She doesn't even get to finish the sentence before he's making his way up the steps to her front door.

Her soft, relieved laugh flutters from behind him as he makes his way to the stairs.

Breathe, Sherlock tells himself as they near the front door to Molly's flat.

Just breathe- You want to be here. You asked to be brought inside.

It's only Molly, man: Surely you know you can trust her?

But though he's repeating this to himself, he can't help the way his heart is pounding in his chest, the way his pulse is racing. Molly seems oblivious to it, but then she would be, wouldn't she?

She's… invited people up before.

Sherlock, on the other hand… It's not that he's no experience with sex. No, on the contrary, his sexual history is both gymnastic and impressive. But those adventures were strictly the purview of his addictive years; when he got clean he became celibate. Any pleasures besides those of the mind had been deemed too dangerous to indulge in. And he has maintained this belief for years, despite the best efforts of several people- including Irene Adler- to get inside his boxers-

Which makes his current recklessness all the more surprising.

If there's one thing he knows he can live without, it's sex.

But, he reminds himself, that was before Sherrinford. Before the phone-call. Before he finally admitted to himself just what he felt for Molly.

It seems a lifetime ago now, that happy, content celibacy, and at this thought he has to physically force his hands not to shake.

He is painfully aware he does not succeed.

By this time they've made it to Molly's front door and she's fished out her keys. Opened it. She stands wide and allows him inside, his hand automatically going to turn on her light. "Don't," she says softly, catching his wrist, and he looks at her askance.

She's standing there, staring at her feet, and again, again she's biting her lip.

Sherlock honestly thinks that she's going to drive him mad.

"What is it, Molly?" he asks and when she looks up at him he recognises her expression. It's the face she makes when she's trying to decide how to tell him something she doesn't think he'll like.

"Lamplight is… softer," she says after a moment.

Sherlock frowns, not understanding. "Is it more romantic?" he asks, and though she nods he knows without being told that she's not telling the truth.

She really is ridiculously easy to read, sometimes.

He reaches out and tips her chin up, makes her meet his eyes. "What is it?" he asks and to his surprise her cheeks darken, a blush moving over them. Her shoulders tense up and her hands fist together at her sides.

"I'm… I'm nervous," she says, her voice very small and very quiet. "I- I know I shouldn't be, but, well, it's you. I can't help it." She lets out what he suspects is meant to be a light, careless laugh.

It doesn't sound that way, however.

"I- Look, I just don't want you to think… I mean, I know about Janine, and Adler, and, and, I'm sure, others, and well, they're not… I mean, I'm not…" She stops. Shakes her head in annoyance. Lets out a small huff of breath before forcing herself to look up at him.

"I'm thirty-seven years old, Sherlock," she says softly. "Just… bear that in mind before I start taking my clothes off." She looks away. "I'm not- Don't expect too much, alright?"

He stares at her for a moment, nonplussed. "How could I not expect much?" he asks. "You're- You're Molly. You're my Molly. Of course I expect a lot: You're you."

Her cheeks flush darker, body language tensing up and he realises that he must have said something a Bit Not Good. He closes his eyes, reviews the last few moments. She- Ah. He sees it now. She's feeling self-conscious at the thought of being compared to The Woman or Janine, and she's asking for reassurance. She must- He frowns to think it but realises that the conclusion is correct.

She worries about his opinion of her body, perhaps because he has said so many nasty things about it in the past?

He reaches out haltingly, places his hands on her hips and lets them rest there. She's closed her eyes, head turned away, but after a moment she leans into him, her forehead coming to rest on his chest. "You are beautiful," he says softly. It feels like his mouth is full of rocks. "I- I have only allowed myself to pretend otherwise in the past because I didn't feel capable of dealing with how lovely you are.

Forgive me, please."

And he leans down. Presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

As he does so some of the tension goes out of her shoulders, and she curls slightly closer into him.

Her hands once again make their way to his chest.

"I know it's silly," she says softly. "I promise, I'm not normally this insecure. But… It's you." She shakes her head. Smiles sadly, and presses her forehead back to his chest. Her next words are muffled against his shirt. "You're pretty much the definition of sex on a stick," she says. "I just don't want to disappoint you-"

He cups her cheek, tilts her head up to look at him. "And I don't want to disappoint you."

She blinks, surprised perhaps, but Sherlock forces himself to meet her gaze. Hearing her worries has made him wonder whether seeking reassurance might be a good idea for him too.

"I have…" He shakes his head. Tries again. Putting feelings into words is not his strong suit, he knows that. "I haven't done this in a while," he says softly. "The last time- every time in fact- I was, well, I think the technical term is, "off my tits on drugs."" He sees the surprise in her expression. Hastens to reassure. "I assure you, I am clean- I have been for years- but, well…" He sighs. Looks down at her. "I too am thirty seven," he says, "and this will be the first time I attempt to have sex with someone I care about whilst completely and utterly sober." He grimaces slightly.

"I fear the odds are not quite in my favour."

Her hand reaches out. Takes his and squeezes. "So you've-"

He nods. "First time," he says. He runs his nose along her cheek. Her jaw. "I must say, I'm thankful it's with you." And when she looks up at him he smiles. Kisses her. Her arms come up around his neck as she kisses him back. As she pulls him more fully to her.

Still in the dark they stumble back towards her bedroom, shedding clothes as they go. Molly's hat and Sherlock's gloves are tossed somewhere, possibly to be feasted on by Toby. When they get to Molly's bedroom she pulls him through the door and into the moonlight-strewn room, still kissing him as she goes. When they break apart- they have to oxygen has become an issue- he looks at her in the pale light and she smiles. Blushes again. She presses him into sitting, there on the edge of her bed, and as he watches she raises her hands above her head, pulls off her blouse. She's wearing one of her no-nonsense little sports bras beneath it, white and cotton and perfectly, utterly Molly.

It's at this moment that Sherlock realises he's beginning to become hard.

So he reaches out. Pulls her to him by her hips until she's standing between his spread knees. He looks up at her- about the only time he will ever have to, probably- and hooks his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Her hands to go his hair and his splay against her arse. She kisses him, soft and passionate, and when she does he sucks her lower lip between both of his, nips at it.

The sensation of it makes her whimper.

"Up," he murmurs, pressing hot, butterfly kisses against her throat. Her clavicle. "I want you nearer," he tells her and without any warning she hikes her skirt up to her thighs. Kneels on the bed so that now she's straddling him.

He can feel the heat of her, warm and insistent, pressing against his cock.

Sherlock's mind stutters, thought processes short-circuiting for a minute at the luxurious, delicious new sensation. His arms tighten around her, pressing her pert little breasts against his chest and when he kisses her this time she lets out the most gorgeous moan. Her hips begin to move, grinding her down onto his growing erection even as her fingers find the buttons of his shirt. Start popping them loose. Within moments it's off his shoulders and he's nearly bare to her, his trousers too tight and his breath coming like a locomotive; He shakes his head, his hands going to her sports bra and, with a nod of permission from her, pulls it off.

Her perfect little tits bounce free and this time it's his turn to moan.

He looks up, meets her eyes, and she must like what she sees because she nods again. Pulls him to her. "Your mouth," she whispers. "I want- I need-" His lips find one heated, dusky nipple and she keens. Scratches her nails against his scalp as she pulls him to her. He takes the nipple into his mouth and she nods, her hips moving in time with each suck against her breast. Her hands are raking through his hair, her motions growing wilder with each pass, and it feels so good Sherlock honestly thinks he might just die.

But there's more to it, she's not finished, she's not letting this be the end of it. With a moaned, "No, darling, no," she takes his cheeks between her hands. Pulls his mouth from her and tilts his face up to meet hers. "Undress me," she says, and her voice is deep and hoarse with arousal.

Sherlock finds it unutterably erotic.

Without being asked twice he hoists her off his lap, tosses her onto the bed. She bounces a little against the mattress and lets out a whoop of slightly breathless laughter. Sherlock stands, pulling down his trousers and boxers and toeing out of his shoes and socks before grabbing her by her knees. Pulling her bodily towards him. He kneels between her spread thighs and slides his hands up her calves. Over her knees. His thumbs hook into the waistband of her sensible little white cotton knickers and he slides them and her skirt briskly down and off. She lies before him, naked and breathless, her eyes gleaming and smiling and still, even after all this, just a little bit shy-

His face softens, and he leans over her. Presses a kiss to her lips.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and she nods.

"Are you?" she asks, and he nods in return.

"Never better," he says. "It's… It's very good, being with you."

He knows that there are other words, better words, in which to convey that, but honestly he's surprised he hasn't embarrassed himself entirely by now, so he's counting his lucky stars. Perhaps Molly guesses some of his thoughts, because her eyes gentle and she reaches for him. Pulls him close once again. "Are you sure you want to..?" she asks, and he nods. Kisses her.

"I'm perfectly happy with where I am, thank you," he says and this time her smile is wide. "I assume you're ready?" She nods. "And I assume the procedure hasn't changed in my years of celibacy?" She laughs again at his joke and nods.

"Yep," she says, popping her Ps. "Willy still goes into the vagina- I can give you a hand with that, if you'd like…"

He laughs, and tickles her, a… lightness moving through him at the notion of her teasing. As she giggles he takes himself in hand and slides himself into her, halting and gasping at the not-quite-familiar sensation of being inside another person.

It's every bit as intimate as he thought it would be, with her.

He pumps his hips experimentally and she gasps. Nods. Whispers his name lovingly. She presses one hand above her head and into the headboard, holding herself in place. The other she brings down to her clit, pressing in time with Sherlock's movements. Making her own pleasure, expanding it. Her gasps and moans are exquisite to behold.

He can't seem to get enough of them.

They find their rhythm- or maybe it finds them- and then they're moving together, hot and unstoppable as wildfire. Familiar and trusting as a spring day. They press together, over and over again. Moan and thrust and sigh. It seems to go on forever, though he knows that ust be his imagination. Pleasure such as this doesn't last forever, it can't. And then there's a twist, a hiss-and-spark of pleasure and Sherlock's coming, losing control of himself. He finds himself hoping, somewhat desperately, that he was able to get Molly there before he lost himself to pleasure-

When he comes back down, she's gasping. Boneless against him.

She kisses his temples and holds him to her, muttering under her breath about how much she loves him. How wonderful that was.

Sherlock winds her in his arms, holding her close and waiting for both their heartbeats to settle before he speaks again. Kisses her again.

"Was it..?" He can't bring himself to say the words but he doesn't have to. She understands, and to his immense satisfaction, she nods without hesitation.

"It was," she says. "For both of us, I hope?"

He nods. "Oh yes."

And with those words Sherlock cuddles her into his chest and lets out a contented sigh. Allows himself to finally, finally relax into Molly's embrace.

Moonlight streams in through his window, and he finds that all is well with his world.