Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infringement of copyright is intended. This chapter was not beta read because I wanted to publish it and have no patience, but the rest was beta read by Miz Joely. Many thanks to her, and to everyone who has read and enjoyed. Hope you like this last chappie- enjoy!

The Duke Gets His Groove Back (And Then Loses It To Sherlock Holmes)

The next morning

Sherlock wakes up to the sound of clicking, huffing and low level swearing.

Molly is sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, her laptop in front of her. She's typing away, brows scrunched together, her little pink tongue poking out of her mouth to wet her lip. Her favorite mug sits on the bedside locker to her right, and every so often she reaches out and lifts it to take a sip as she writes, only to pause it on the way to her lips as she frowns at the screen. The mug is then replaced whilst she clatters through another frenzy of typing, before the manoeuvre is attempted again, and again goes uncompleted.

It is, Sherlock can't help but think, the most adorable thing he has ever seen, a thought he finds both horrifying and absolutely brilliant.

"Stop grinning at me," she says without turning.

Another round of loud typing begins.

Sherlock smiles. Stretches out. He's feeling decidedly more confident this morning than he was when he walked her home last night. "And why would I do that?" He asks with studied innocence, poking her playfully on the bum with his blanket-covered toe.

This time she does look at him, eyes narrowed, but he can see the smile in them.

Who knew he'd like it when Molly teases him?

"You should do that," she says, mimicking his tone, "because not only are you in my house, in my bed, and completely dependent on me for tea and biscuits, but because I said so." That prim edict announced, she turns back to the laptop. Continues typing. Unfortunately for her, however, if there's one thing which Sherlock will not tolerate, it's being ignored. So…

Still keeping his eyes on her, he huffs out a breath and tugs his blankets down to his waist, leaning back theatrically on the pillows. He then bites his lip, poking her again with his toe until she glances his way in question. Now that he knows she still wants him, this sort of behavior is a lot easier to pull off. "Molly…" he murmurs, making sure to lower his voice because he has reason to suspect that she likes when he does that. He also drags a hand through his curls (he bloody well knows she likes that!) and lets out another, louder sigh. Giving her his best puppy dog eyes, he lets his hand slide down his chest to rest against his stomach. He sees her gulp, pupils dilating, and he grins. Direct hit! He crows to himself. Take that in the eye, every bloke who isn't me!

"Molly," he says again, "Molly, I'm cold up here…"

She glances at him, an unwilling smile tugging at her lip, and when he waggles his eyebrows at her she snorts in laughter.

"Then you should pull back up those blankets," she says, turning back to her screen. "Don't want the Great Detective catching a cold, now do we?" She shakes her head. "Your mum would be so cross."

He pouts. "Or maybe," he says, sitting up and moving towards her, "maybe my beautiful, gorgeous, sexy girlfriend could warm me up, hmm?" He nods at the laptop. Tries to pull her to him. "After all, that's what Luisa would do for Benedict, in this situation..."

"Would she, now?" Molly avoids being entangled. Instead she sets the laptop onto the ground, turning to look at him. "Clearly you've never read what she does to him in The Sign of The Blackmailer when he annoyed her." There's a predatory light in her eyes which does rather naughty things to Sherlock's insides. Moving onto all found she starts stalking up the bed towards him, a smile on her lips. A twinkle in her eye. In her little pajamas and messy ponytail, he can't help but think she looks like a goddess, a playful, cunning, familiar, awkward, dear little goddess.

And it's because she is a playful, cunning, familiar, awkward, dear little goddess that he lets her press him down into the bed, her breasts against his chest and her hair tickling his bare shoulders. It's also why he lets her stroke her nose gently along his cheek, a hum of contentment sounding in her throat. In his. He is viscerally, embarrassingly aware of how loud his is, but he can't bring himself to care. Her eyes meet his, breath coming more quickly (as his is) and when their lips are an inch, no a hairs breath from one another-

She kisses the tip of his nose.

Scoots back to the end of the bed (and her laptop) with a devilish whoop.

She even manages to- finally!- take a sip of her tea.

"Duke Benedict isn't going to save himself," she tosses over her shoulder, reaching again for her laptop and replacing her tea on the bedside table-

"That's what you bloody think!"

And Sherlock grabs her, tickling her and wrestling her and writhing against her until she's pressed beneath him. She laughs, gasping, but before she can protest he presses his lips to hers in a kiss that steals both their breaths. It feels like bliss.

Within seconds she's squirming beneath him, one leg hooked around his waist and his curls in her hands as she scratches and tugs at his locks. There are smiles in her kisses and stars in her eyes. There's so much happiness in her, in them, that Sherlock can't quite believe it, and it's all he can do to not grin like a buffoon...

How, he finds himself thinking, did he ever go without this?

When they pull apart (they have to eventually) she beams up at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and Sherlock finds his match hers. Not even trying to stop himself, he swoops down quickly to kiss her again. When he pulls back her fingers are tracing lightly, lovingly, along his cheeks and her body is pressed against his in as many places as it possibly could be. It feels warm. Loving. Tender.

Everything but everything about this just feels so right.

Still holding her gaze he reaches down, touching her face. Her lips. He brushes her hair out of her eyes and, as she had done to him, he strokes his nose along hers.

The brightness of her smile makes his chest ache.

"Morning," he says, and he can't help it. Can't help the softness and the happiness and the joy in his words to her.

"Morning," she murmurs back. She presses another kiss to his lips. "I have to admit, this is a bit better than a morning with Duke Benedict."

She frowns, eyes drifting to the laptop.

"Though my publisher probably wouldn't agree..."

"Sod her." A thought occurs. "But isn't he- I mean, isn't Benedict me?"

Molly laughs and it makes him feel oddly affronted. He frowns down at her.

"Duke Benedict is no more really you than I'm really Luisa," she tells him. He raises his eyebrows in surprise and perhaps his scepticism shows because she continues. "I mean, yes," she amends, "yes, originally he was a way… I mean, he started out as a version of you."

Something moves through her gaze, something… vulnerable, and to Sherlock's surprise she pulls him closer rather than pushing him away.

"He was a way for me to have you, or a version of you at least, when I thought you'd never want me." The emotion in her voice at that admission makes him pull her closer to his chest. "But after a while," she continues, "after a while I realized that I liked the real you a lot better than the fictional version." She smiles warmly this time, her dimples showing, and buries her face against his heart. Her voice sounds muffled, and her little hands curl against his sleep shirt. "Real, weird, awkward, wonderful Sherlock is better than perfect, windswept old Benedict any day," she murmurs, "not that I intend to say anything like that out loud, you understand…" She peeks up at him. "Not in front of witnesses, anyway..."

The tips of her ears have turned pink, and at her praise Sherlock is sure that his can match them.

"So you'd rather have me?" He asks, and if his voice sounds a little… unsteady than what of it?

Molly doesn't even hesitate, and oh but he likes that.

"I'd rather have you than some old Duke of Slut character, any day," she says. She gives him a devilish smile. Another kiss. Her hands have somehow made their way out of his shirt and down towards the flesh of his arse. "And if you let me," she's whispering, "if you let me, then I'll have you plenty more times than Luisa will ever have dear Benedict…"

After that, conversation is quite curtailed for the day.

The naughtiness, however, has just begun.

Eventually, Molly will finish her next novel.

Eventually being the operative word, because she will spend the better part of the next year shagging Sherlock Holmes to her heart's content.

When Her Final Vow finally comes out, everybody comments how happy they are that Benedict and Luisa had finally gotten together.

Molly smiles and takes the adulation and the thanks, and never mentions that she, too, has gotten her happy ending.

That happy ending is currently spending a month on a case in Sweden, being slagged mercilessly by his best friend, and Molly knows Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

There now, thank you for reading and I hope it was worth the wait. Have a lovely day!