A/N: well, here is the final chapter. I hope you enjoy it. In the interest of continuity and trying to stay close to cannon, I'm tying up a loose end at the end. Reviews are still greatly appreciated. Thank you all so much for reading!

Her bedroom.

More candles. Did he have a thing for candles? He hadn't seemed the type. Perhaps it was all for her. Not that she was complaining. In fact, she would go to the candle shop tomorrow and buy a few dozen more.

He closed the door behind them, the soft click barely audible over the roaring in her ears. She already felt on fire and he'd barely touched her. How was it going to be when they…

She felt his lips on the back of her neck and twitched like she'd received an electric shock.

She felt the warm breath of his laugh on her skin and shivered. "Molly, are you all right?"

"Fi..fine. I'm fine. Really. Fine."

"You're stammering again," he said, but his tone was gentle.

"I…"

"Breathe, Molly."

She did as he said, drew in a long slow breath and exhaled just as slowly. He felt her pulse drop a bit and smiled. "There. Better?"

"Yes."

He moved to stand in front of her and pull her against him. She dared to reach up and kiss him and he responded, returning the kiss, fingers lightly stroking down her back with slow, gentle movements. She sighed into his mouth and melted against him, the kiss continuing slow and easy as she relaxed.

Sherlock was pleased, if not confused. He didn't understand how anyone could want him so much. Oh, the image, his façade, perhaps. Tall, dark and brooding was popular with a certain type. But Molly knew how he really was. Knew it and wanted him despite of it.

He moved his hands to her collarbone, then began working his way downward, slowly in case she started having a complete fit of the vapors. But she seemed to have gotten hold of herself.

He pressed his hands against her breasts, cupping them through her shirt, thumbs stroking her nipples as he watched the expressions on her face. He lowered his hands to the hem of her shirt and slowly pulled it up and off. Then he slid them to her back, skimming his fingers down to the clasp of her bra, feeling around the hooks for a few seconds before deftly unfastening them and drawing the garment away from her body.

She opened her eyes then, and he returned his hands to her breasts, now bared to his gaze. He moved down to cup them again…

And caught a look of pain cross her face.

Instantly he stopped, resting his hands on her waist. "Molly?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just… I couldn't…"

"What?"

"I couldn't help remembering what you said at Christmas…"

Her voice trailed off, but he didn't need her to continue.

"I'm sorry," she began, but he stopped her.

"Don't be. I was the one who acted like an ass. Not you."

"They are a bit-"

His eyes blazed as they stared into hers. "No. Don't you ever say anything bad about your body again. Do you hear me? You've got nothing to apologize for or be ashamed of. I was agitated and restless that night and I took it out on you. I was sorry then and I'm sorry now."

She nodded, dropping her head down because looking at him at that moment was just too painful. He sighed and gently tipped her face up to look at him again.

"I can't change the past, Molly. But things will be different in the future. I promise."

He looked so… sad. He really did. As though he was hurting because she hurt. She didn't trust herself to speak so she simply nodded.

He kissed her, a tiny kiss as delicate as a bird, then another, then he was covering her face with kisses and well, damn it, of course she forgave him, she'd forgiven him for so much already it would've been insane to stop now. Not now that he was holding her and kissing her and being so genuinely sweetly sorry.

He stopped kissing her face and looked at her. "You're lovely, Molly. And don't you ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

"I won't," she said, and smiled at him.

Sherlock smiled back, relieved that he was still forgiven. "Let me make it up to you?"

"By all means," she said with a small laugh.

He returned his hands to her breasts, then moved down and added his mouth, kissing, licking and nuzzling them until she thought she would collapse. He took one breast into his mouth, gently licking the nipple, then sucking on it until it felt hard as a tiny stone. He repeated it with the other breast, his hands roaming her hips and stomach as he did, until Molly thought she would explode.

He rose and grasped the snap of her jeans, unfastening them and peeling them off her legs. He dropped on his knees in front of her and did the same thing with her panties, Molly groaning inside that they were just a simple pair of dark green cotton. She reminded herself that Sherlock already knew perfectly well that she didn't dress fancy when she went to work, and if he wanted a woman who always looked like a whore, then he'd have one. But he didn't. He wanted her.

Then she felt his hands wrap around her hips and his lips on her stomach, and she wasn't able to think anymore.

He was good. Very good. How was a man who seemed so asexual so bloody good!

He didn't stop until he'd brought her to orgasm twice, his tongue flicking against her sex like a violin bow, playing her heat and wetness and need until Molly was crying out his name and bucking her hips against his face.

When her tremors finally subsided her hands flexed on his shoulders and she gasped for breath. He lifted his head and looked up at her. "Well?"

"You're probably forgiven for the next few days' worth of being an ass," she told him, and was rewarded with a laugh. "How the hell are you so good at that? No, don't tell me," she said. "You were reading my reactions, using them to figure out what I liked."

"I told you you were smart," he said approvingly, standing up in front of her and kissing her.

She could taste herself on him, a tangy musky flavor that was all the better for being on his lips. She realized that he was still fully dressed and decided she needed to remedy that.

She undressed him slowly, trying to keep her hands from shaking until she realized he knew, he always would know, and just decided to shove it and enjoy the task. When she was finished she drew a deep steadying breath and looked at him.

Oh, he was beautiful.

"What are you thinking?" he asked her, eyes sharpening as he watched her watch him.

"You're beautiful," she said simply. "More beautiful than any painting, any sculpture... just… beautiful."

It was moments like these, Sherlock decided, moments of her straightforward sincerity, which meant so much to him. True, he'd probably never have to wonder for too long what was on her mind. But playing games with people to get inside their heads was just that: games. And though he craved these games, he also got tired of them at times. There was precious little honesty and openness in the world. But now he had his own little piece of it with Molly.

"Thank you."

She took her turn with him now: kissed and nipped and licked paths of passion all over his body. She took his penis into her mouth, used every bit of skill she possessed, and was rewarded rather quickly when his chest heaved and he gasped. "Molly… wait."

She took him out of her mouth and sat back on her heels to look at him. His pale skin was flushed with desire, eyes glittering, hair disheveled… the sight made her want to do flips, to run down the street shouting to the whole world: "Sherlock Holmes is my boyfriend!"

He regained some control and reached down a hand, pulling her to her feet. "Perhaps we could have the rest of that dessert now?" he asked, and she smiled at the sexy eagerness in his voice.

She moved with him to the bed; they drew each other down onto it, kissing, tasting and touching until neither of them could wait any longer. Then reality hit Molly like a ton of bricks.

"Sherlock, I meant to say-"

"You are on the pill and have been for at least seven months," he said, kissing her again. "You know that you're free of any and all sexually transmitted diseases and are in good health."

She stared. "Ok, this time I want you to tell me."

"You've kept your receipts from the drugstore, and you've run tests on yourself in the lab. Your most recent set was an examination for HIV, herpes, syphilis and gonorrhea. Which I presume was after your… dates with Jim Moriarty."

"What? No. I never slept with that evil bastard!"

"Then why the recent exams?"

She looked down. "I was… I was going to try and find someone to date. I just wanted to be sure."

Sherlock was at a loss for words for once. "I see," he said finally. Then he smiled. "How fortunate for you, then, that you did."

She returned his smile. Then: "and what about you?"

"Clean all around."

"How long has it been since…?"

She felt stupid for asking, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Years."

She found it hard to breathe suddenly. "Oh."

"Yes, oh," he said. He raised his eyebrows. "Can you see me as a one night stand person?"

"Not really, no."

"And for you? How long?"

"The same," she admitted.

"Well, then. We're on pretty equal footing, I'd say."

"Yes," she said. "Odd, isn't it."

"A bit, Miss Hooper. A bit."

She leaned over to kiss him. "Well, let's rectify that, shall we?"

"Let's."

When it was over, and it took several hours and several orgasms for each of them for it to be over, they lay beside each other in the candlelight, her head on his chest, his fingers running through her hair, both of them utterly content.

"I'd tell you how amazing you are, but you hear it a dozen times a day and I don't want to cheapen it," Molly told him.

He laughed, nuzzling her hair. "My dear Molly, from you it will never sound cheap."

"Good." She yawned. "I am seriously knackered after that. But I bet you're wide awake, aren't you?"

"For now. I'll get tired later. But I'll stay with you until you fall asleep."

"You can use my laptop if you like," she said, snuggling closer to him. "Maybe you can find something to occupy that enormous brain of yours."

"One can only hope," he said dryly, and she laughed. "Go to sleep, Molly," Sherlock said, kissing her nose. "I'll be back later when I'm tired."

True to his word, Sherlock stay for the fourteen more minutes it took for her to fall asleep. Then he carefully got up and went into the kitchen where her laptop was.

A few hours later, after engaging in an anonymous, heated and reasonably satisfying debate with someone over whether photography was an art form, he yawned. He was just about to close Molly's laptop when a message appeared on her instant messaging program.

"Happy, Mr. Holmes?"

He froze, knowing there was only one person who could've sent it.

Irene Adler.

Irene, who had, admittedly stirred his interest. Irene, who was beautiful and ran hot and cold, was cruel and extremely clever, who used anyone and everyone to get what she wanted and made no apologies for it. Irene, who blazed a trail of mayhem and frenzy in her wake everywhere she went. Glamorous, ruthless, wits-that-cut Irene.

She was everything that Molly wasn't.

Molly was kind and devoted, accepting and patient. Warm and loyal, trusting and trustworthy. Molly, who would cook him breakfasts and listen to him rant and never get bored of him, who would keep him grounded and remind him that he was, actually, a human being.

She was everything that Irene wasn't.

Irene wouldn't ever be content to share the spotlight. Not really, not completely. She needed to live her exciting and dangerous life, where every corner could mean her death, with no deep attachments to any place or anyone. She would forever be in flux, and never need that connection that Sherlock claimed he didn't care about but desperately wanted.

Irene would never need him. But he needed Molly.

He smiled, a strange half-smile of knowing this could be their last personal communication. He'd see her again someday; he knew that. But he was a different man now.

He froze for a moment, realizing his thought and all that it implied.

A different man. And maybe, just maybe, a better man despite himself.

The half-smile turned into a full one, and he leaned forward slightly, long, elegant fingers giving her the simple, earnest truth.

"Yes."

He felt the pause, waited. After about half a minute, the reply appeared.

"Then Godspeed, Sherlock."

The connection disappeared.

For a moment he gazed into the glare of the screen. Then he signed off, shut the laptop down and joined Molly in bed.

As he cuddled close to her, she woke up. "Hey, you," she said softly, sleepily. "Everything OK? I mean, as OK as it can be right now."

He looked at her in the dim light, her wide sleepy eyes and softly curved smile and felt some pain he'd forgotten about fading away. There was still the matter of his faked suicide, and how and when he would return to the land of the living. And John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and what would happen when they found out he was alive. And Moriarty, because Sherlock no longer believed the man was dead. Two could play a game, after all.

But for now all those things had to wait.

And he wouldn't be alone. However long, however difficult it was, he wasn't alone.

Sherlock pulled Molly into his arms and held her as if she was the most precious thing on earth.

"Sherlock?"

He kissed her, trying not to let it show that he was on the verge of laughter and tears.

"Yes, Molly. Everything is OK."