Molly Hooper woke up hog-tied in rope, suspended over the River Thames by a yellow industrial crane. For fear that any flailing would send her shooting into the murky black water below, she instead chose the more sensible scream of terror. However, she had also been gagged. She looked down warily onto the dock, where Moriarty stood smiling with a megaphone in his hand. This was so disgustingly ridiculous that she nearly fainted from the comic villainy.

"Hellooo there, Molly-wog!" he called, his voice grainy sounding through the megaphone. "You were wondering earlier what got me off. Well honey, this is it."

She let loose another muffled scream. In the control box of the crane, she could see Moriarty's beefy henchman having a cigarette. The dock was secluded by stacks of metal shipping containers and nothingness. It must have been late, extremely late. There was not a boat in sight on the river. And even if there were, she was just a little fish wriggling on a massive rig. She started praying to several gods in which she didn't believe. And then also to Sherlock, in whom she did.

"So, on tonight's menu, we have your violent death by drowning, which would be very tasty. Or, we have Sherlock, coming to save you in a very yummy way."

So, Sherlock must know about this. She was giddy with relief; this sort of thing was irresistible to both. She already imagined Sherlock and Watson dashing around the corner with Lestrade and a billion officers to her rescue. Her hero.

"Tut-tut! Don't look so happy! He doesn't actually know you're in danger. In fact, he thinks you're just having a nice meal with me, the danger is inferred. I texted him. I'll be honest, mousey Molly, it doesn't look good for you. He's not keen about you, or your well being."

Bloody hell. There went that idea. Of course Moriarty was being a tricky wanker. Of course there was a catch. He couldn't even bring her decent takeout without it being some kind of nasty surprise. So Sherlock wouldn't come to check on her, even if he knew where they were. He just wanted her to keep playing Moriarty's game until it was "not boring" for him. In light of this realization, Molly starting wiggling her hands furiously, trying to find some way to slip out of the rope. And then what?

"Well, I'm bored. He's got five minutes, or into the water you go. All tied up like a little ham hock, dead from exposure or drowning or yadda yadda," Moriarty announced, starting to laugh into the megaphone. "You ask why? You're smart Molly-wog. I actually like you. One day, very soon, Sherlock is going to have a fall. I don't want you around to catch him. In fact, even if you, by some chance, get out of this mess, I want you to watch as Sherlock doesn't come around that corner. Because. He. Doesn't. Care."

Moriarty's voice darkened; it became almost a snarl. Molly was shivering in the air, still furiously twisting her hands until she could feel blood trickling down them, peeled from the rawness of the rope. She held back tears, thinking of her cat, her family, and her friends. She swallowed those tears with the hope that she could somehow escape, and would need clear eyes and a clenched jaw.

"Time is almost up. Before you die, I want you to know three things. Number one, this is a lot of fun for me. Number two, Sherlock is an idiot. And number three, your pussy is deeeelicious," Moriarty cackled as he nodded to the henchman operating the crane.

The crane's arm reached out further over the river, and Molly's wiggling turned frantic. The rope was simply too tight. She could see the metal latch that held the rope above her head. With one button, she knew it would open and send her shooting down into the water. Goodbye, tea and biscuits. Goodbye, snuggling with her cat. Goodbye, Sherlock. It would be an agonizing death. She had seen plenty of bloated bodies fished out of the Thames. Like bulging blueberries.

"Five minutes is up! Goodbye, Molly, I love you! Well, I don't really love you, but anything that makes you feel loved at the end, right?"

She didn't have time to process that hurtful statement. She plunged and she sunk. The water's surface hit her like a sheet of ice; it was so cold that it felt like peeled off her skin. Panic was everything, and her whole body flailed wildly for survival. She needed the rope to be loosened just a bit for her wrists to be free. Then she could use her arms to swim towards the riverbank, and hopefully survive the hypothermia. Her ears rang, everything hurt. With the gag, she hadn't taken a full breath before falling. Her chest screamed for air.

Molly might not have been strong, but in this particular moment, Molly was a lioness. She yanked her hands through the rope until the water around her swirled with blood. She freed her left hand, and it was just enough. With her left arm, she scooped at the water and swam up towards the surface, following the bubbles that rose up around her body.

She surfaced with a scream, sucking in air through her nose and trying to subdue the panic and the shivers coursing through her. Her body was shaking so hard that her left arm could barely paddle forward. Unsure how far she was from Moriarty and the crane, she simply tried to swim to the closest part of the dock. It felt like it took hours; she had no way of judging. In this crucial moment of survival, all she could think of was: who did she hate more? Moriarty or Sherlock?

Her left arm was numb and exhausted by the time she had made any headway towards the dock. She could soon feel the slime of mossy rocks beneath her, and used her arm like a sea monster to crawl up onto the scummy dock. It was disgusting, painful, freezing, and in every other way the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Well, she could have died.

With nearly supernatural strength, she wriggled up far enough onto the shore to be safe from the water. She laid face down on her stomach and used her free hand to try and undo the rope around her right wrist. Face squashed in the rocks, she cursed the day she ever laid eyes on Sherlock. Only secondly did she curse the day she was born.

"Molly!"

A voice from beyond screamed her name. Fabulous. The Angel of Death sounded exactly like Sherlock. She ignored it and continued working at the rope.

"Molly!"

The voice was beside her now, tugging free the ropes around her arm and legs. This was no mere voice, it was actually Sherlock. She groaned wearily as he undid the wet gag around her mouth. She was actually half lying in his lap now, looking up into his shocked face. He did come, he did care. But he had arrived late, so maybe he only half cared? She struggled to catch her breath and understand everything at once.

Shivering and still recovering, Sherlock removed his signature, gorgeous coat, and draped it around her. Her teeth chattered like a rattle. She was only slightly warmed by his concerned face and crinkled brow.

"So this was his game. To have me arrive too late," Sherlock said, mostly to himself.

Molly looked up into his adorable puff of dark hair, his violently beautiful Cupid's bow, his bright eyes. He was peering down at her like she was a burnt cake or a broken umbrella. It was pure objective pity, but right now, she didn't care. She had survived. She was alive.

In an act of daring completely unlike her usual fare, Molly sat up, wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck, and gave him a deep kiss while tucked beneath his thick coat. She was filthy from the Thames, and she could almost feel Sherlock cringing as the river water soaked through his purple button-up shirt. But she did not give one fuck. She held him tightly in her arms and kissed him like she had always imagined kissing him.

And, to her delight, shock, and joy, she could feel Sherlock's arm's tighten around her freezing torso. She could feel his lips pressed firmly against hers. Not perhaps the expression of unbridled lust she had wanted from him, but it was enough. He was kissing her back. For whatever reason, perhaps pity or an apology for being late, Sherlock returned Molly's icy kiss with gusto. She felt her heart electrified, buzzing like an alarm clock. A tiny part of him cared, and it was all she needed.

Sherlock Holmes kissed Molly Hooper. And it was fucking fantastic.

The End.

Thanks everyone for reading! I will be uploading a John/Molly erotic story craziness after this, so stay tuned for more. Hope you enjoyed this one, please review if you did. :) I love you guys!