Sherlock is the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. No infringement is intended and no money is being made from this fanfic. Mad SPOILERS for Scandel in Belgravia. We earn our M in this one... and then some.

Molly's thoughts swirled about her like a miasma of turmoil as she sat piled into the backseat of a cab next to Sherlock Holmes and tried to stop him from peaking at Greg's latest text message:

If he gets too Sherlock-y, call me. I'll stage a rescue. ;)

G

P.S. If he tries anything, I can arrest him.

For some reason her reluctance to allow Sherlock access to her messages made him more insistent about wanting to see. Molly was barely able to type the word "thanks" and hit send, before she finally had to resort to stuffing her mobile down the front of her blouse to stop Sherlock's attempts to grab it away from her.

Sherlock's icy blue eyes widened, completely taken aback by her actions and for a mad moment he seriously seemed to be considering going after it anyways. Instead he set his jaw and glared petulantly at her. "Since you obviously are putting great stock in my behavior as a gentleman, I won't disappoint you, but under the circumstances I have a fair suspicion that I was at least in part a subject of that particular message. As such I think I have a right to see," he huffed, his voice sullen.

"Greg and I do have entire conversations without your name ever being mentioned," Molly told him tartly. She tried to project an air of haughty sophistication. "What makes you think he wasn't just chatting me up?"

"You didn't blush. No... nervous giggles," he explained, waggling his fingers and letting a hint of contempt enter his growling voice, "None of the Molly noises that you make when someone says something overtly complimentary." Sherlock crossed his long arms over his chest and slouched back into the seat looking out the window sulkily. "John would've let me see..." he muttered to himself.

Molly was still trying to understand the chain of events that had led to her current situation—speeding off to dinner with the world's largest five-year-old. Molly had been trying to cure her hopeless crush on a certain irksome someone for almost as long as she'd known him. Failing in that, last Christmas she had resolved to make a decisive bid for his attention.

She'd found a little black dress that made her feel sexy and exciting. She'd done her hair and makeup, so that nobody could mistake her for Mousey Molly Hooper, the woman whom Sherlock invariably failed to notice. She'd even found him what she thought would be the perfect present and re-wrapped it three times to ensure it was impeccable for the hyper-observant detective.

When she'd removed her wrap John and Greg had both treated her like the gorgeous and sexy woman she'd wanted Sherlock to see. Greg's jaw had nearly been on the floor for a full minute, before he'd sneaked in a chance to touch her arm while offering her a drink. She'd been beaming as Mrs. Hudson cooed over her, but Sherlock alone had given her no reaction as he'd blustered on about John's blog.

She'd begun to hope after he'd rescued her from having made a joke about Mrs. Hudson's hip that was so awkward that only Sherlock had even recognized it as a joke. Refusing to cling to Sherlock when he was supposed to be noticing her for a change, Molly had begun making amiable small talk with Greg and John about their holiday plans. A part of her had been gratified every time Sherlock had injected himself into their conversation, despite his appalling comments to everyone. He'd finally noticed her when he'd shot her that warning look for letting it slip that he'd been complaining about John's Christmas plans.

After she'd amended her statement for him, Sherlock had turned his deductive eye on her in such a way that she'd begun to wish he'd never noticed her at all. He'd viciously exposed all of Molly's insecurities to the entire room—from her longstanding unrequited love to her intentions for the evening, even her body image issues! It had been a jolly game to him until he'd opened the card on the present he'd been dissecting. His face had fallen as he'd read his own name there.

Molly had steadfastly refused to run off in tears, no matter how much she'd wanted to at the time. She'd come there in that dress to show him strong, sexy, confident Molly Hooper. Strong, sexy, confident Molly Hooper plastered a grin on her face and called him out for the horrible things he said to her... in front of everyone that Molly Hooper said her piece. In front of everyone, he'd apologized to that Molly Hooper, going so far as to kiss her on the cheek until he'd received a text that could only have been from another woman. Then he'd locked himself away in his room with that woman's present for the rest of the party, while Molly downed her wine and let Greg Lestrade soothe her still bruised ego with his kind words and admiring glances.

That night Sherlock's deductive grandstanding had also driven the final coffin nail into Greg's marriage. After the divorce had been finalized last week, Greg had sent Molly the first of many very flirty texts. They'd still been unable to schedule their first proper date, but Molly liked the way Greg Lestrade made her feel. She liked the way Greg Lestrade made her feel about herself. So why was she sitting in the back of a cab with Sherlock Holmes, the man who always broke her heart? Things between her and Sherlock had been better since the day she'd confronted him about hiding his sadness from John. Things had been much better to be honest, but he'd certainly never given any indication that he'd viewed her help with more than gratitude and friendship before today.

She looked up to find Sherlock studying her with a hawkish expression on his chiseled features. She couldn't tell what thoughts were swimming around his brilliant but obnoxious brain at the moment, but his eyes seemed to almost burn through her with the intensity of his stare. This time he'd crossed a line far beyond mere flirtation to get what he wanted. Emboldened by her memories, Molly took a deep breath to steady herself before telling him, "It's cruel, you know? This game you're playing."

Sherlock looked for a second as if she'd struck him. "I'm not," he replied quietly.

Molly took the initiative to forge ahead. "You might not have known at first, but you've known for a while now... my feelings, I mean. Just when I think I can move past this... this bridle you have on my... my... heart, you have to spoil... and I always..." she let her voice trail off while she gathered her strength to articulate herself. "You were so happy to tell me Jim was gay! At Christmas you were positively gleeful until you read that card. For the sake of law and order I should give up on trying to have a relationship?" Molly's voice cracked and she had to turn her face away from Sherlock, who was watching her with a pained expression. "Why can't you just let me...?" she shook her head as she spoke, "Even Greg..."

Sherlock's derisive snort sent Molly whirling to face him, her features dark with anger. "If a man breaks up every attempt a woman makes to date any other man, what is the most obvious deduction, Molly?" he challenged, leaning over Molly in a way that made her remember exactly why she was in this cab beside him. This was the effect he always had on her, the power that he always had over her. Her heart felt as though it might break through her chest, and she actually had to scoot away from him in order to breathe.

"That he doesn't want her to date anyone who isn't him?" Molly spoke softly, making it a question. The answer made her feel even more vulnerable as she looked back at Sherlock for his reaction. She could feel her knees trembling, despite the fact that she was already sitting down.

"So why haven't you reached that same conclusion about my actions?" Sherlock asked. His eyes searched her features, as though he were sifting and weighing the minutiae of her response.

Molly hesitated. "Because you're never that obvious," Molly sighed, "and... and because you've never made a move of your own. At least nothing that wasn't designed to secure my help in the lab, or-"

"I'm making a move now," Sherlock reminded her. He was maintaining a close distance between them, allowing that charged feeling between them to build.

"W-why haven't you... sooner?" Molly asked, wrinkling her nose up and drawing her brows together. She seemed entirely unsure about this new direction that her conversation with Sherlock had taken.

Sherlock pursed his lips, his brain whizzing quickly through all the possible honest answers he could give her. "Because caring is a weakness, and I'm loathe to pollute my intellect with all the hormones and sexual chemistry that might cloud my ability to do the work," sounded too honest and completely counterproductive even in his own mind. "Because it was never bloody Greg Lestrade before," sounded only marginally better. "Because there was no need when the other man was gay Jim, or some unknown peon who never was heard from again, or best of all myself," sounded potentially worse. "Because I kept thinking I could push you away, but I'm actually too selfish to ever really part with you," sounded worst of all. The point was to get Molly to like him—well, she already liked him—but to get her to choose him rather than buggering off with DI Lestrade and forgetting all about Sherlock. Finally, Sherlock settled on, "Because I'm an idiot. Ask John. He'll tell you."

Molly suppressed a quick bark of laughter as best she could. "I don't need John to tell me that," she said. She looked quite pleased with his answer as she leaned into the seat allowing a little of her fatigue to show. "You've left it rather late... I'm not just going to dump Greg like yesterday's leftovers because you suddenly say you want me. Then things can go back to exactly the way they were before with lovesick Molly wrapped around your finger... I think that's what you really want," Molly shrewdly replied as she tried to observe and deduce Sherlock's thoughts from his responses.

Sherlock felt a surge of pride mixing into his disappointment. He had rather hoped Molly would prove to be pliable to his view of this situation. Instead, she was working herself up to make a stand against him, but he was intrigued by this new and challenging side to the normally docile pathologist. His eyes darting about in discomfort, he hesitantly posed the next logical question to Molly, "Where does that leave us?"

"I'm not seeing anyone exclusively," Molly admitted on a slightly shaky breath. "If you're serious about this... I'll give you a chance to show me that it's not just a game. However, I will still go out on dates with Greg, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't interfere."

"Do you think the Detective Inspector will be pleased at this latest turn of events?" Sherlock scoffed gently.

"No," Molly answered truthfully, "I think he'll probably call you every vile thing he can think of; but, if it means you aren't pushing in every time he's trying to get some time alone with me, I think he could learn to be amenable to that."

"That's outright blackmail," Sherlock accused.

"That's compromise," Molly corrected with a yawn.

"I won't interrupt your dates with the inspector anymore," Sherlock testily conceded, "but don't expect me to relinquish any other tactical advantages I may discover."

The cab had arrived at their destination, a very modern-looking ristorante named Notte Stellata. The stone facade gave way to long walls painted in ochre hues and decorated with elegantly framed black-and-white photos of Italian vistas. The tables were laid with crisp linens and more forks than Molly generally felt comfortable using for a meal. Despite being crowded at this dinner hour, the tables still maintained a certain air of privacy due in part to the generous use of plants and even a few dwarfed, potted trees to separate the spaces.

The maitre d' effusively greeted Sherlock when he led Molly inside. Molly noted that the immaculately suited young man was actually quite attractive with wavy brown hair and striking hazel eyes, and she immediately suspected he used his looks to ingratiate himself with his clientele. The man seemed entirely oblivious, however, to both the forced nature of Sherlock's smile and the uncomfortable sleuth's attempts to deflect the smaller man's praise.

"For you and your lovely lady we have nothing but the best, Mister Holmes," the young man promised. He turned his attention towards Molly. "Without this man there would be no Notte Stellata. He works miracles. He saved our entire ristorante. You, you hold onto this one," he instructed Molly with a wink, as Sherlock groaned in frustration beside her.

"Yes. Wonderful. I'm a genius. Molly is already aware of that fact," Sherlock lilted dramatically, causing a fair number of people to stare in their direction. Molly shrank with embarrassment. Noticing her discomfort Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in irritation. "The lady has had a very long day, and I'm certain she would prefer being shown to a table over an excursion down memory lane, Fabio," Sherlock added, dropping his tone to Molly's great relief.

"Of course! We have the best table for you," Fabio began as he led them through the the rows of plants and dining furniture to a secluded corner where a small table was set apart by a large fern and a potted palm. "The most private, the most romantic!" Fabio pulled out Molly's chair, waited for her to sit, and then pushed it into place as Sherlock took his seat opposite her and immediately turned his attention to one of the menus that he'd taken from Fabio's hand. "I'll be back with the champagne. For you tonight it is our treat," Fabio announced with a small bow.

"Good God," Sherlock breathed, "champagne in your condition and on an empty stomach... I'll have to carry you out of here if we aren't careful."

As undignified as the statement was, Molly knew he had a point. She'd already been awake for nearly twenty hours. If she'd been with anyone but Sherlock, Molly suspected she'd have picked sleep over food and already gone home to curl up with her fluffiest pillow and softest pyjamas.

"How exactly did you save this restaurant?" she asked, her curiosity piqued by the hero's treatment that Sherlock was receiving.

"Their original chef was murdered," Sherlock replied absently as he continued to peruse the menu. "Stuffed into the walk-in freezer and frozen to death."

"And you found the murderer?" Molly supplied, as she fiddled with the low vase filled with colorful miniature sunflowers.

"No. That was a completely boring open and shut case. Gambling debts. The real problem, from the restaurant's point of view at least, was that the chef had hidden all of their recipes for safekeeping. It included several signature dishes that only he knew the secret to mastering. He scrawled a hint to their location as he was dying. Fabio and his brother-in-law hired me to find the missing recipe book." Sherlock corrected, finally looking up from the elegantly printed menu. "How do you feel about the fish?" he asked catching Molly completely off guard. "Not so heavy as to make you drowsier, but plenty of protein after a fairly rigorous day... Their Tuscan Salmon seems to be the most popular dish here," Sherlock concluded after a brief look around the room.

"That sounds lovely," Molly yawned agreeably, and she set her menu to the side. She honestly didn't care what they ordered, and she found Sherlock's tendency to suggest dishes to her based on his logical analysis of what might be the best or most appropriate dish to suit her needs to be rather amusing. "I trust you to order," Molly told him, and Sherlock immediately grinned with pleasure.

Fabio soon returned with champagne, stuffed mushroom caps, and a crusty, wholegrain bread that was still warm from the oven. Sherlock gave him a detailed order for the rest of their meal right down to the dessert course, then he turned his attention happily to the appetizers that Fabio had left for them. Molly realized that this was the first time she'd ever seen Sherlock actually eat. She wasn't sure when his last meal had even been, but if his voraciousness now were any indication it had been a bit too long in her opinion.

As Sherlock added another stuffed mushroom to her plate with orders to eat a good basis before she dared have any champagne, Molly asked, "When did you first know it was the lion tamer's wife?"

He paused at her question, putting down his second slice of bread and fixing her with a mirthful gaze. "Honestly? About half an hour before arriving at your lab, but I still had to prove it." With that he turned his attention back to making up for an unknown number of missed meals.

"That is so typical of you," Molly said shaking her head softly and grinning ruefully.

"You had a fantastic time today," Sherlock told her between bites of mushroom. "Admit it. St. Bart's is always more fun when I have a request for you to liven up the humdrum of the daily routine. I expect I'm at least more lively than the cadavers."

The food arrived quickly, and it was indeed delicious. By the time they were halfway through the entree, Sherlock's appetite had slowed down to normal human levels. They settled into easy conversation, and Sherlock amused himself by having Molly make deductions about the other patrons of Notte Stellata before he revealed the truth about their fellow diners. Her answers were highly emotional and not very scientific, though still more accurate than John's usual observations.

He caught Molly mooning over a pair of honeymooners across the room as the couple gazed longingly at one another—their brains apparently awash with dopamine, oxytocin, and a veritable cocktail of chemicals that served to addict them to each other. Scientifically, Sherlock knew that the brain of a person experiencing love was most similar to a drug addict getting high. His history as an addict was one of the many reasons he'd refused to delve into this corner of human experience for so long. Not only was he unsure how it would affect his ability to function, but also he feared the uncertainty of becoming a slave to another person's romantic whims when their affection could be recalled at any time leaving him to suffer through the withdrawal without hope for a future fix.

"What is the human attraction to sex, Molly?" Sherlock asked suddenly, and Molly nearly knocked over the entire bottle of champagne as the question made her jump in her seat.

"Pardon?" Molly asked, her voice so tight that she could barely make a sound. The shock of Sherlock broaching the subject of sex quite out of the blue was enough to leave Molly feeling stupendously awake.

Sherlock regarded Molly evenly, as though this were the most natural question one could ask on a first date. She obviously did not share that sentiment, so Sherlock elaborated. "Until now, I've eschewed all romantic connections in my life, Molly. I'm used to seeing such relations strictly in terms of chemistry or as a potential motive for criminal acts. I can surmise what some of my acquaintances would describe as their attraction to the act. John would spout some romantic twaddle. Moriarty would probably have used it to stave off boredom or as part of some larger game. The Woman wielded sex as her weapon to gain power and material benefit in addition to her pleasure-"

"The Woman?" Molly asked, the pitch of her voice rising with insecurity.

"A dominatrix who tried to blackmail the entire British government. I once x-rayed her mobile," Sherlock answered without missing a beat, and Molly nodded slowly as she tried to wrap her mind around this new tidbit of information.

"So you were never... uhm... intimate with..." Molly stammered, as she began connecting where "The Woman" fit into the fabric of Sherlock's life and his behavior around last year's holidays.

"If I had, I'd hardly need you to explain the attraction to sex in terms that I might understand," Sherlock pointed out. "The only interactions I had with her were of the variety to convince me that the desire for another human being is the single stupidest and most self-destructive impulse in the human repertoire. Ultimately, her desires cost her everything. You, on the other hand, are something completely different. I think you might disprove my original hypothesis."

"Thank you...I-I think," Molly replied. She knew that Sherlock preferred to set himself apart from others, preferred to stay cold and analytical. Truthfully, the desire to melt that iciness out of him and find a part of the detective that no one had ever seen before was a part of Molly's attraction to Sherlock, though she was also in awe of his brilliant mind and unconventional problem solving. The fact that he was the most beautiful man she'd ever met didn't hurt either. Sometimes though his coldness became off-putting, and Molly had to stave off a mental image of Sherlock mentally and precisely cataloging the chemical processes occurring in his brain while his lover unsuccessfully tried to coax any normal degree of passion from the man.

Molly pushed the thought as far away as she could and concentrated on Sherlock's question instead. After a few unsuccessful starts, she finally decided on a metaphor that she thought Sherlock could appreciate. "Well, you... you know what it's like when you're showing off how clever you are, and everyone is admiring you?"

Sherlock had not been expecting this approach, and for a moment he gave Molly a look of such complete bafflement as to the direction that this explanation might take that he seemed almost to being undergoing a painful set of mental callisthenics to catch up to her line of thought. "Yeeeeeeeeees?" he answered, his eyes sweeping to the side as though he were doubtfully groping for the expected response.

"It's rather like that, except it's just the two of you. The more clever you are... the better your partner feels... and the more clever they are... well, the better you feel. So if you do everything right, everybody gets to feel good, and clever, and... and special..." Molly rattled on nervously. She was so lost in thinking about her explanation, that she had ceased to be aware of Sherlock's pale eyes studying her every movement with keen interest. As the final words left her mouth, her brows drew together in uncertainty, and she winced. "Well, so long as nobody bungs it up in the morning," she added with a little laugh.

"And just how clever are you, Molly Hooper?" Sherlock responded before the better part of his brain could censor him. With an involuntary squeak, Molly downed her entire glass of champagne. She ended up coughing and spluttering, as her nerves had left her throat far too constricted for the action, and Sherlock gave her a look of concern.

He called Fabio over as her breathing began to come back under her control and asked for their dessert to be boxed up to go. Molly goggled at him in disbelief. "Sherlock..." she hissed leaning forward once Fabio was safely out of earshot, "that was not an invitation to..." Sherlock held up his hand to stop her before she could say anything further. "I did not mistake it as such," he assured her with a glint of amusement dancing behind his eyes. "You've just drunk far too much champagne at one time," he told her, "and I think it's best we get you home before I actually do have to carry you out of here."

Molly blinked at him and leaned back into her seat. Unsure if she was relieved or disappointed Molly considered pouring herself another glass of champagne for the road.

By the time they reached Molly's building, it seemed the slightest thing was enough to send her into fits of riotous giggles. Sherlock had to half carry her to the door of her flat, leaning her against the cool wall while he unlocked the deadbolt. He quickly ushered Molly inside, placing her on the couch and their extraneous belongings on one of her cushy chairs. Then he sauntered off to the kitchen where he placed a portion of tiramasu on one of Molly's plates and put up a little coffee to help clear her head. Toby glared balefully at her from the back of the couch for being an hour late with his supper, thus forcing him to condescend to eating the kibble that she always left out for him just in case, and; Molly began apologizing to the disdainful feline.

Sherlock had been in Molly's flat a fair number of times during his days of playing dead and waiting for Moriarty's partner to betray himself. At first he'd found the alarming amount of pink to be disconcerting, but he'd quickly decided that the place was quite pleasant. Everything in Molly's flat was comfortable, soft, and unpretentious just like Molly, herself. He'd even gotten on well with Toby, and the tabby had been quite acceptable company during his visits to ask favors, plan his next moves, or occasionally just experience human companionship. As a result he had no troubles finding his way around Molly's small kitchen.

Sherlock returned to the main room with dessert while waiting for the coffee to brew. Molly was grinning at him in a way that he'd never seen from her before, and it was having a curious effect on him. He could feel a knot forming in his belly, as Molly watched him beneath hooded eyes and patted the cushion beside her. Sherlock's feet moved of their own volition as he strove to answer her call. Placing the plate on the oak coffee table, he settled himself on the couch beside her—one long leg curled beneath him as he half-knelt and stared down at Molly's relaxed countenance.

Her fingers curled in his hair, tousling his unruly curls and testing the softness of his locks. The corners of her mouth fluttered, as she noticed Sherlock's eyes darkening with passion. She traced her fingertips over his pouty lower lip, and Sherlock captured her finger between his lips sucking and licking suggestively at the digit. His eyes were boring through her again, pinning her in place with the intensity of his stare. Molly's breathing grew ragged as she enjoyed the sensations that he was producing in her body as he kissed her fingertips, her palm, the inside of her wrist. Molly's mind drifted to all the other places she'd like to feel his mouth devouring her like this. He released her hand and lowered his face to hers.

"I thought this wasn't an invitation," Sherlock purred against her lips. He wasn't sure what had come over him, but he was enjoying seeing Molly in this growing state of abandon. "It's not," Molly breathed back, and she pulled his perfect mouth down against her own kissing him with an unabashed hunger. She wanted to taste him, to explore every delicate corner of his mouth while he whimpered against her lips, and Sherlock was only too happy to oblige. Years of careful discipline and self-denial were washed away by the raging torrent that Molly had set free, and Sherlock had an inkling that this could be a sweeter high than any drug he'd ever tried.

Sherlock moved to deepen the kiss even further, pushing Molly gently back to the cushions while her tiny fingers languidly stroked his silky hair and ran down his back exploring the ridges of muscle through his dark suit jacket. He lowered his own hands to Molly's waist feeling the tininess of her body beneath him.

A loud knock at Molly's front door stopped Sherlock in his tracks. "Molly? Molly, are you in? It's Greg," called the deep voice on the other side of the wooden barrier. Molly turned her face toward the direction of the door, and Sherlock couldn't see her expression beneath the tousle of chestnut hair that he'd apparently freed from her ponytail during their kissing spree. Sherlock reluctantly got up and headed for the door. He could sense Molly moving to right herself in his peripheral vision.

"I was just in the area and thought I'd stop by... make sure Sherlock didn't drag you into any cases, or weird experiments... or just act like too much of an arse." Lestrade added with a chuckle, until Sherlock yanked the door open with a scowl. Sherlock was not happy about the interruption, and he rather hoped that his gaze was a poisonous as his mood felt at the moment.

"Jesus!" Greg yelled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Having dessert," Sherlock replied, acid seeping into his velvet voice. He hadn't bothered to straighten his hair or his rumpled suit before answering the door, and he was quite certain that the image of someone primly eating dessert was not the visage he was projecting.

Greg frowned, pushing Sherlock out of the way and barging into the room. On the table sat the untouched plate of tiramasu, and Molly was curled up on her side on the couch sound asleep and snoring quietly. "You'd better make that dessert to go," Greg jeered. "I don't know what you're playing at. I don't want to know what you're playing at, but I'll take it from here." Lestrade puffed his chest out and placed himself directly between Sherlock and the sleeping pathologist, apparently having reached the conclusion that Sherlock might somehow have tried to take advantage of Molly in her unconscious state.

Sherlock growled. "It appears that a double shift and a little champagne has finally caught up to our Doctor Hooper," Sherlock assured him. He latched the door behind them and crossed the room, while the bellicose police officer checked on the sleeping woman. "May I offer you some coffee, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, making himself at home in Molly's kitchen in much the same way that he co-opted John's personal belongs and space.

"No, Sherlock, you can't. This is not your bloody flat! You can wait by the door for me to get a blanket for Molly, and then you can get the hell out!" Greg roared pointing at the doorway.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock retorted. "We can't just leave her on the sofa, unless you want her to wake up as stiff as one of her patients." Setting his mug on the counter, he moved to pick Molly up and carry her to her room, but Greg cut him off.

Looping his arms behind Molly's shoulders and knees, Greg hoisted her into the air and nestled her protectively against his chest. He glared at Sherlock, as he carried Molly from the sitting room to her bedroom. He carefully laid her on the mattress and gave her pillow a little fluff.

He heard Sherlock opening the top drawer in Molly's dresser and rummaging through her things.

"What are you doing now?" Greg snapped, already beyond exasperated by Sherlock's behavior. Sherlock cocked his raven-head to one side, and looked positively angelic, as he dangled a long cotton nightgown from one of his pale fingers. "This one seems to be the most worn," Sherlock announced motioning to one of the frayed spots around the neckline. "It's probably her favorite by virtue of being the most comfortable," he continued, and the angry detective inspector looked on in disbelief.

"We've put her in bed; we are not stripping off her damned clothes and having a peepshow," Greg snarled. He quickly checked to make sure that his bout of temper hadn't disturbed Molly. Sherlock was disregarding him entirely again.

"Of course, we aren't" Sherlock said in a thin voice. He took a seat on the other side of the bed, and placed the nightdress on the spare pillow while he raised Molly against his shoulder. "Molly's modesty will remain completely intact. Now if you aren't going to be helpful, you can wait over there." He nodded towards the corner of the room.

"Don't hold your breath," Greg muttered, and he tenderly brushed Molly's hair away from her eyes. He was watching Sherlock like a suspected criminal, waiting for the pathologically invasive detective to cross the boundary of decency in any fashion so he could have an excuse to cuff him.

Molly had opened her eyes to see what all the commotion was about, but she wasn't even half awake as her eyelids immediately began to flutter closed again. "Molly, I do hope you don't make a habit of passing out in front of male houseguests," Sherlock chastised in a light tone, and Molly made an indecipherable noise in her sleep. "Good," Sherlock said, "do you think you can get changed with a little help?" Sherlock took the next indecipherable noise as a "yes" and Greg rolled his eyes.

Sherlock steered the nightdress over Molly's head and let it drape over her torso before starting on the buttons of her top. He was lucky that she'd worn a fairly convenient blouse for this. Lestrade looked impatient to bat Sherlock's hands away at any moment, so he quickly finished with the buttons and presented the silky white top to Lestrade for confirmation. Then he guided Molly to put her arms through the openings.

Greg raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Brassiere," he pointed out, smirking at the pale man. "Yes, I'd forgotten about that," Sherlock admitted. With a roll of his eyes, Greg gathered a large pinch of fabric from along Molly's back in his fingers and deftly unlatched the hooks. He gingerly bent her right arm while working the shoulder strap over her fingers and finally pulled the entire lace contraption out by its strap from the left armhole of Molly's nightgown. Sherlock noted that Lestrade had obviously had a great deal of practice with the manoeuvre.

After removing Molly's loafers and socks, they were only left with Molly's pants. Sherlock fixed Lestrade with a frown. "Do you want to hold her up, while I-"

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Greg exclaimed, running his hand through his closely cropped hair and looking for all the world as though he had a raging headache. After a moment he opened his eyes. "Right then," he said to himself. Steadying his hands on either side of Molly's head, Greg bent tenderly towards her until his lips were nearly touching her left ear. He exhaled softly allowing his hot breath to brush across her skin, and Molly made a distinct sound of approval in her sleep. "Molly, it's Greg," he whispered in a soft, husky voice. "I need you to raise your hips, Molly," he murmured. His lips tickled the shell of Molly's ear with every word he spoke, and she giggled playfully in her sleep. "Thatta girl... move your hips for me. That's good... Just like that..."

With a breathy sigh Molly raised her hips slightly, and Sherlock quickly stripped off her slacks pulling her nightdress down the rest of the way into place. He looked back at Lestrade with a look of positive revulsion, as the Detective Inspector stared back at him with a smug grin. "That always worked well when the ex had a little too much to drink," Lestrade admitted.

"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock hushed. "Your thoughts are indisputably repulsive right now. Let's feed Toby and go," he snapped, raising the blanket to cover Molly's sleeping form. Sherlock barely spoke to Greg as he hurried about the kitchen, dumping a can of cat food onto one of Molly's bread plates while Toby rubbed enthusiastically against Sherlock's calves depositing trace evidence to mark his presence. Meanwhile the DI was humming to himself while he turned off the instant coffee maker and placed the uneaten dessert into the refrigerator. With every bar of music, Sherlock's patience wore thinner until it was as fine as a gossamer strand by the time they had finished. As Sherlock was gathering his coat from the chair where he'd laid it earlier, he spotted Molly's mobile peeking from the pocket of her purse. His annoyance at Lestrade at the forefront of his mind, Sherlock slipped the phone into his coat pocket and followed Greg out the door.

"Get in the car," Greg ordered as they reached the street.

"Unnecessary. I'd prefer a cab," Sherlock responded raising his chin aloofly and dissecting Greg with a cold, clinical stare.

Greg Lestrade leaned against the bonnet of his car. He met Sherlock's icy gaze with an expression of fury that slowly burned across his hard-set features. "I know I said I didn't want to know, but what in the hell is going on here?" Lestrade ground out in frustration. "Is this a vendetta? Are you that incapable of allowing the people around you to be happy that you will go out of your way to keep them as miserable and alone as you are? For some idiotic reason I thought we were friends, at least after a fashion... that if you were dragging Molly off tonight there was going to be some insanely logical reason that you'd tell me about later, and that you of all people wouldn't-" Greg stopped short, exhaling angrily. "But you know what my gut is telling me right now? It's telling me I was wrong, Sherlock. Dead wrong. So why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

"Molly and I have reached a compromise. I have agreed to cease sabotaging Molly's dates with you, and Molly will date us both on a non-exclusive basis while I win her away from you," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"And Molly figured I'd be okay with this?" Greg replied raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

"No. She expected that you'd call me and I quote 'every vile think he can think of', but that ultimately you'd prefer it to the alternative of encountering me at every turn."

Greg pursed his lips and nodded as Sherlock spoke, the detective's dark eyes appeared vacant as he stared at some nonexistent point on the sidewalk. "I see," he said in a rough voice. He pushed himself away from the parked vehicle and strolled towards Sherlock with a barely maintained veneer of equanimity masking the tenseness of his rigid muscles. "Molly's wrong about one thing," he announced glancing back towards the darkened windows of Molly's flat. "I'm not going to waste my time calling you anything Sherlock," he announced with a chuckle, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise.

The next thing Sherlock was aware of was Greg Lestrade's fist connecting with the side of Sherlock's skull. "I'm gonna bloody well kill you, Sherlock," Greg yelled angrily, and Sherlock grabbed him around the waist pushing his back against the bonnet of his police car.

"You won't kill me. You're an officer of the law," Sherlock chided trying to avoid the elbow that Greg was threatening to drive into his ribcage.

"There's no jury in the world that'll convict me. All I have to do is produce anyone who knows you as a character witness!" Lestrade bellowed. Sherlock finally managed to land a blow to Greg's temple, cutting him across the eyebrow. After that they devolved into a haze of fists scuffling across the pavement, until a small crowd began to gather in the doorways of the nearby buildings.

Greg finally pushed Sherlock away and propped himself up by his hands against the side of the car while he tried to recover his breath. He was still shaking his head back and forth in disbelief.

Sherlock was bent over with his palms resting on his thighs as he panted from the exertion. He touched a tender spot on his lip and his fingers came away bloody. "You've split my lip," Sherlock protested indignantly. He was also reasonably sure that Lestrade had bruised his ribs with that damned elbow.

"I don't know why I'm even bothering with you," Greg declared. "You know why? Because I know you, Sherlock, and you're bound to bollocks it up. It'll get too real. It'll get too hard, or it'll get too ordinary. When that happens you're gonna run away, but the person who'll really get hurt is Molly. I'm not going to sit by and let that happen," Lestrade told him, his dark eyes full of accusation. "Now, get in the damned car."

Completely knackered after one of the longest and most eventful days of her life, Molly was too deep in sleep to even have registered the sounds of the fight coming from the street outside, but Sherlock and Greg were still having a profound effect upon her dreaming mind. Images from brief flashes of consciousness mixed with her sleeping brain's response to Greg's and Sherlock's very provocative comments to create one of the most vivid erotic dreams she'd ever experienced.

There was no room, no recognition of space, no objects such as a bed even... all that Molly was aware of was the strong body of the man lying on top of her—sliding deep inside her. In one moment it was Sherlock arching above her as he threw his head back and shut his eyes tightly in delight. In another moment it was Greg staring at her with eyes as deep and dark as night as he suckled her breasts, flicking their taut peaks with the point of his tongue. Back and forth they went, Sherlock's long pale body switching to Greg's planes of wiry muscle and then back again.

Through it all she could sense the silky caress of his firm skin against hers as he moved his body rhythmically against her, each man composing a symphony of pleasure within her as his body drummed against her writhing hips. With every thrust a spark was building deep within her lower belly, as though this composite of Greg and Sherlock were touching a live wire buried deep inside... in a place where only he could reach.

Molly was lost somewhere inside the ebb and flow of his heavy breaths and his blissful groans. She ran her hands through his short silvering hair, as it switched to ebony curls beneath her fingers, and she ground her lips against his. His mouth on hers was another source of intoxication, stroking the flames of her desire as he probed the softness of her mouth with his tongue as thoroughly as he was invading her tightening passage with his unyielding length. Greg. Sherlock. Greg again.

It felt as though this chameleon lover were filling every part of her being, and Molly could feel herself ready to shatter under the relentless assault of pleasure. She grasped the clenching muscles of his buttocks as he strained against her, willing him deeper as the rapid slapping of his hips against hers drove her closer to the edge. He was breaking down everything that was Molly Hooper and replacing it with the fullness and friction of his body, as he worked her into a frenzy.

Her body lurched beneath him, no longer able to contain all of the excitement that he was filling her with. The powerful contractions ripped through her, as her lover lost himself in a flurry of desperate thrusts against her core deepening the intensity for them both. She could hear Greg's raw cry of ecstasy echoing in her ears. She could see Sherlock's crystal eyes staring helplessly back at her as he lost himself in that moment of delight that was neither truly pleasure nor pain but a measure of both. She could feel his release flood her, this Janus lover whose true face remained hidden as he collapsed against her naked skin, damp with perspiration from their shared exertions.

Molly was drifting in a warm and secure place, held tight by strong arms. She felt herself cradled between two hot and insistent presences on either side of her. Opening her eyes, she found herself nestled between Greg and Sherlock's very naked—very aroused—bodies.

Greg was nuzzling her ear, teasing her with his hot breath. His hard length was resting against the side of her hip, and she could see a glistening drop gathering at the tip—a clear indicator of his excitement. Greg pressed his tongue into the hollow of her ear suggestively as he slid himself closer to Molly's entrance.

Meanwhile Sherlock was rolling her dusky-colored nipples between his fingers... lightly pinching... gently tugging. Both men were sending jolts of electricity straight to that hungry area at the juncture of Molly's legs, and she could feel herself parting her thighs as a needy whimper tore itself from her throat. With a groan Sherlock claimed her mouth with his own, slipping his tongue between her parted lips in order to taste her.

Molly moaned into Sherlock's mouth as Greg's hands slid between her legs, causing her to part them further as his fingers explored her moist sex. Sherlock pulled back from the kiss, leaving Molly breathless as he raised his hips alongside Molly's face. He let the swollen head of his long member brush across Molly's lower lip, and he gasped at the sensation of the motion. "Show me how clever you are, Molly Hooper," Sherlock purred encouragingly as he pressed himself forward into the heat of Molly's mouth and surrendered himself to her eager ministrations.

A fluttering kiss at the apex of her thigh made her aware that Greg had shifted himself between her legs and was lying with his face close to Molly's freely offered sex. "Move your hips for me, Molly," he rasped, fixing her with his dark eyes before burying his tongue in Molly's wet folds.

Molly woke with a start, intense spasms still radiating through her core. "Oh, God," she gasped rolling to her side and curling her needy body into a ball as the contractions closed upon emptiness in an almost painful intensity. Burying her face in the pillow Molly rode out the sensation, until she felt the tension finally melt away.

Her face flushed so red that she felt as though she might glow in the dark. "Oh, God," she repeated to herself remembering the vivid feelings of the dream. She'd dreamed of them both. She'd dreamed of them both at the same time!

Filled with embarrassment, Molly imagined how she would feel the next time she had to face either man with the image of them both panting and heaving over her trembling frame still engraved upon her memory. Greg was a trained interrogator, and he would know she was lying the second she tried to cover up the real reason that she was stammering and unable to look him in the eyes tomorrow. Sherlock would probably know everything from some ridiculous detail. She could almost hear his clipped voice announcing it to the entire world, "Molly Hooper obviously had an erotic dream about having it off with myself and the Detective Inspector last night. That's why her appearance is completely disheveled this morning, and she's forgotten to fasten her zip. Also note the mismatched socks... perhaps an unconscious association with the two different men she'd like to have."

Molly covered her face with the pillow and let out a primal scream, while Toby stared at her from the doorway with his typical feline condescension for Molly's silly human problems. "Oh, what are you looking at?" Molly snapped at him, rolling onto her side and trying to go back to sleep.

A big thank you to: mhoopers, Aelen Greenleaf, eccentricpetal, SexyKnickers, Spyder, FallonHolmes, ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe, hadia, fionajane, Hellscrimsonangel, PurpleYin, conchepcion, and Snarkland78 for reading reviewing. It's really encouraging, and I appreciate it.

I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. It was a really long one, but it was lots of fun to write. Poor Molly, but what a lovely dilemma to have. Torn between Sherlock and Greg. I'll be working on new chapters on the weekends, because my weekday schedule's getting a bit packed.