Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Please be aware that this chapter contains smut: if that is not your thing then just skip down to the word "boneless." For those of us who like smut however… Well, a little of what you fancy does you good, eh? Happy holidays!

THERMAL NUCLEAR ENGAGEMENT

A Bothy on The Isle of Skye

AKA Molly Hooper's Personal Heaven

Now

Yes, Molly thinks, and God, this is just from kissing, Molly thinks, and Oh sweet little kitty Jesus that's good, right there, RIGHT THERE, RIGHT THERE-

What she manages to say is, "umfgh!"

And "Sherlock!"

And "Nggg!"

All of which Sherlock, thankfully, takes as permission to proceed, which is what those interlocutions meant.

(Molly assumes his own "yesss," and "please, please, please," and "sweet little thing," mean something similar- At least, she is proceeding under that assumption.

As if to agree with this notion, Sherlock drags her body roughly against him, his big, hot hands gripping her bum and pressing her into the heat of his chest, his hips. Pressing into her and kissing her and licking her and just generally having his way with her every bit as much as she's having her way with him.

It feels. Fucking. Brilliant.)

"Want you," he's saying between kisses, nibbling at her throat. "Need you..."

His voice is hoarse and deep and desperate and bloody hell, the things it's doing to Molly…

"Want you too," she gasps out, hands reaching for his thick Aran jumper and pulling it roughly over his head, leaving his curls gloriously disheveled. Underneath he's wearing a shirt and a vest and she makes similarly short work of both, kissing him in between tearing them off his body and tossing them aside. Nipping at his throat and sucking his lower lip into her mouth as she kisses him.

The way Sherlock's panting seems to suggest this is rather welcome behaviour.

The fact that as soon as his upper body is free of pesky clothing he picks her up and starts carrying her towards the bed in the room further supports this interpretation.

Yes, Molly thinks, Yes, YES, YES!

With a growl she grips her thighs around his waist and holds onto his neck for dear life; they smash into the bed with a delicious, energetic "Oomph!" And collapse on top of one another with a gasp. More kisses. A growl.

And then she's on her back, Sherlock on top of her. His trousers and waders around his knees as he tries desperately to pull them off, toe off his shoes and kiss Molly silly at the same time. (One has to admire his ambition).

Molly helps by grabbing him and pushing him onto his back. Yanking off his shoes and then pulling down his waders and trousers with a satisfyingly assertive "there!" And tossing them aside. She then sets to work kissing him again. Licking him again. Scratching and squeezing him again.

Why, she thinks dazedly, does someone who looks that good naked ever bother with clothing..?

For a moment Sherlock is left in nothing but his socks, panting, and then just as suddenly he's on top of her, kissing her. Smouldering down at her. Popping open the buttons of her onesie and tugging it down to her bum. Her thighs. "God, you;re gorgeous in that thing," he mutters as he kisses her, again and again and again.

Molly makes a mental note to fill her wardrobe once she gets home with every type of thermal underwear known.

His forearms bracket her head as he presses his body against hers and slides his fingers between their bodies. "There…" He murmurs, his thumb brushing her clit and Molly grins. Wraps her legs once again around the lean, taut solidness of his hips before opening herself to him. She reaches down, repositions his hand slightly- "there!"- And then takes him in hand. Guides him inside her. Their eyes meet, his breath clouding her face, his curls tickling her forehead. He looks at her and she nods, smiling. "Yes," she says and "yes," he answers her and then…

Then…

Then he's inside her. Warm. Heavy. Wet and wanted. Filling and hard and again, she thinks it, again she murmurs aloud yes…Yes…God, yes…

He sputters out a string of swear words as he slides inside, Then out, then in again, that deep, low voice sending shivers through her as he growls out about how good it feels to be buried inside her heat. He thrusts, hard and steady, the pace he's setting making them both gasp in breath. There's a sudden screech and crash and the bed's legs go out from under it. The frame and mattress land on the floor with a loud thump; Molly laughs in surprise or relief- she can't say- and Sherlock joins her. The feeling of him laughing as he's inside her is something that makes her heart flutter in her chest.

"Are you alright?" He asks, looking down at her, and she grins. Nods. She's still giggling.

"The Earth moved," she quips.

The look he shoots her is sinful. "Of course it did," he growls. "Why wouldn't it, with us?"

Another laugh and she sees his eyes go to her breasts, still jiggling with her laughter. He smiles. It's bright. Gorgeous. Everything he is at his best. Everything that makes him Sherlock, and oh but Molly loves it.

Keeping his eyes on hers he leans down. Takes one jiggling little nipple into his mouth and suckling it, then the other. He nips. Licks. Of course he's good at that, she thinks. Of course he is.

His fingers begin working against her clit as he does it.

Molly sighs in pleasure and he thrusts, gentler this time. Perhaps worried about her, more likely worried about the bed but who cares about that now? If the Earth cracks open under the bothy, she's still not bloody moving. Molly threads her hands through his hair. Presses her hips up against his and kisses him. Strokes him. Breathes in time with him.

"There," she murmurs, and with anyone else she'd probably be embarrassed at how breathless she sounds, but somehow with him she isn't. (Maybe it's the way he's still smiling at her. More likely it's because it's him).

"Molly," he breathes out, pressing inside her. "Molly, my Molly," he says and at the words he shifts his position. Raises himself up on his elbows so it changes the angle at which he's entering her. He bites his lip, his eyes intent on hers, and burning.

Molly lets her lashes flutter shut at how utterly good it feels and she feels him press his forehead against hers.

"Yes, Sherlock's," she whispers, "and like that," she whispers and "God, that feels good," she whispers, over and over again…

She never wants it to stop.

Sherlock's own words mirror hers, breathless and happy. Every so often he murmurs something nonsensical and fond to her and buries his face in her neck. Every so often her touches her clit just so and practically makes her growl. And when Molly finally feels herself coming apart he watches her through lidded eyes, one thumb stroking her cheek as she thrashes and digs her heels into the mattress.

"Yes, sweetheart," he murmurs. "That's beautiful… You're beautiful…"

Molly means to answer, she really does, but words have finally failed her. Instead she holds him close and kisses him.

When she's come, the sensations of it still fluttering through her, she switches position. Climbs atop Sherlock. Understanding moves through his expression and he nods: This time she rides him, this time she has the pleasure of making him come. And come he does, gasping, his eyes clouding over and his throat bared in ecstasy as he goes boneless beneath her…

"Bloody hell!" He says when he comes back to himself. He looks delicious. "That was... That was..." A glance at her. "Is it always like that for you?"

Molly cocks an eyebrow and she sees something, some flickering nervous thing ghost through his expression. She wants to ask him, but she doesn't. Instead she wraps her arms around him. Lays her head on his chest. Something tells her that this is not the time for that question. "I don't think I should answer that," she says instead. She risks a sneaky grin at him. "I don't want your head getting any more inflated."

She feels him relax beneath her, hears a puff of laughter.

She realises that she said the right thing, and oh it makes her glad.

"Molly," he says with mock gravitas, "you know my head is already enormous: what harm can a little more honest appreciation do it now, hmm?" He waggles his eyebrows at her. "Especially if you want more orgasms."

When she looks at him he's grinning, and then he starts tickling her. Tussling with her. Their laughter fills the bothy. Their hope too.

Molly is suddenly, viscerally glad that she allowed herself to be dragged into the middle of nowhere by Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"Thank God for that," he laughs when she tells him, and Molly finds herself laughing in return.

The next four days are filled with honeyed, runny toast and hot whiskies and as much rumpy pumpy as two people living in thermal underwear can manage…

Turns out, Sherlock has the most ridiculously short refractory period, and quite the imagination when it comes to Molly in thermal underwear.

Lettie McKenzie will eventually receive a massive bottle of whisky and an invitation to young William Holmes' wedding. (Both bride and groom are rather keen on having her along. The mother of the groom too.)

When she does she'll demand the happy couple buy her a new bed and they will prove more than happy to oblige her-

So long as they get to test it first, of course.