This is the last installment in the Romance with Thorns BDSM series, a one-shot to end the series that began with "Send Me the Thorns," and included "Forget Roses,""The Sweet Sound," and "And One to Grow On." The story contains mild kinkiness- bondage with a tiny bit of spanking in this one. All very consensual and loving. I don't think you have to have read the other stories to understand this one-shot.

Her intentions were obvious the second Sherlock Holmes stepped into the flat and spotted the CD. It was lying on the coffee table, alongside the unlit green tea candle. The steam of a recent shower drifted from the bathroom toward the living room, and he heard the blare of a hair dryer from their bedroom. He tossed his jacket on the sofa, and headed for the kitchen.

Spotting a bottle of uncorked syrah on the kitchen counter, he called out, "Is this really going to take so long I'll need to be drunk to withstand it?"

Molly popped her head out of the bedroom and wrinkled her nose at him. Her hair was still damp, and her eyelids were lined in kohl much darker than she usually wore.

"You could at least pretend to be surprised! Go sit down and wait. Oh there's take-away in the refrigerator, Thai from that place with the worn handle. Please eat, love. John says you've had no food in the past day and you haven't slept a wink."

He ducked his head into the refrigerator and came out with the container of spicy noodles and dumplings. Molly darted back into the bedroom, and he sighed when he heard the clatter of something small and metallic spilling onto the floor. His wife's clumsiness increased exponentially when she was excited about something.

"You and the good doctor need to stop texting each other about my activities. It's annoying. I solved it."

"'Course you did. Was it the handyman- was John right?" Her voice was muffled by the door, but he heard the aggressive drag of a brush through her knotted hair.

"Of course he wasn't right."

Not that he would ever admit it to his conspiring wife and his best friend, but Sherlock's hunger had returned with a vengeance on the cab ride home. He sat down on the stool in the kitchen and dug into the noodles. Immediately he began sorting information from the case in the rooms of his mind, his own way of enjoying the post-crime high. It would last a few hours before the frustration and need for fresh stimulation returned.

"The robbery was committed by a delivery man paid off by the father-in-law. They're both in custody. What number is belly-dancing on the list of things to do, anyhow?"

She sighed from within the bedroom. "Eleven. Are you even going to ask how my day was? If anything exciting happened here?"

Sherlock glanced around the flat, taking in her purse, the crumbs and stains on her coat sleeves, muddy shoes by the door, and the appointment card stuck to the bulletin board. The pieces flew together neatly in his mind.

"You went to work for a half shift, covering Dr. Davison so he could sneak off for a shag to acquire that new strain of super-gonorrhea, no doubt. Then you walked in Regents Park, stopped by the coffee shop across the street for a smoothie and two biscotti, and went to your annual check-up as planned." He looked up when he heard the bedroom door open, and set the fork down. "How did I do?"

"If I didn't love you, I'd hate you. But it was three biscotti. I'm positively starving today." Molly giggled, slipping behind her husband to wrap her arms around his waist. She slid her hands up to his chest, and unbuttoned the sapphire blue dress shirt. She tugged the shirt open and out of his trousers, letting her nails scrape lightly across his belly. "Are you done eating? I could heat up the rest if you want more."

He sucked a stray bit of spicy sauce off his thumb, and licked his lips. "Trying to fatten me up further?" He shuddered as her fingertips scratched over his nipples and her hands yanked his shirt open completely. She pulled the fabric over his shoulders and he relaxed his arms, letting her strip him bare from the waist up.

"You're not fat. You're more solid. Stronger," she observed. The beading on her top brushed against his back while she stroked and kneaded the tense muscles in his arms. "But you could use some relaxation."

"Oh relaxation, is that what it is?" He smirked and spun around on the stool. His mercurial eyes raked over Molly. She placed her hands on her hips and grinned proudly, before striking a pouty pose.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. The heavy eye-makeup and dramatically sensual pose weren't really his Molly, but the belly dancing outfit did accentuate the subtle curves of her body that he loved. She'd been begging for months to show off her newly acquired dancing skills, and it seemed she'd finally grown impatient enough to assert herself, despite her submissive leanings.

He wouldn't complain though, when she looked good enough to eat. Sherlock nodded slightly, his eyes skimming over her scantily clad form.

Molly pushed her long brown hair over her shoulders, displaying the deep blue bra top covered in beading and gold embroidery. The indigo and violet scarves of Molly's dancing skirt fluttered as she stepped back and crooked her finger toward him, beckoning him to follow. The fringed shawl around her waist kept the skirt snug on her hips, but exposed the rounded softness of her belly to him. She spun around and sauntered into the living room. When she bent to light the candle on the coffee table, her scarves parted, and he saw she was completely bare underneath.

Feeling suddenly fascinated by the art of belly dancing, Sherlock hopped off the stool and hurried into the living room.

"I have to question the historical and cultural authenticity of this class you're taking," Sherlock noted, settling back onto the sofa comfortably. He'd shed his trousers and boxer briefs on his way into the room, throwing them behind him carelessly.

"Oh, hush," Molly scolded him. She popped the CD, a compilation of belly dancing musical standards, into the player. She felt her husband's large hand squeeze her bum possessively.

"I fail to see the need for dancing when you're already undressed and aroused. I've got a fresh coil of rope in the bedroom, and a new shibari design I want to see you in."

He pouted, but his heart wasn't in it. Her pale skin looked pinker, contrasted against the royal blues and he founded himself liking the view more and more. He wondered how she might dance if her ankles were linked with a chain.

She turned to Sherlock, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "We can do that another day. And how do you know I'm aroused? You're too confident," she teased.

"I know," he said matter-of-factly, sliding his hand under the skirt to find her warm and wet between her thighs. He peered up at her, noting how her eyelids fluttered closed when his thumb glided over her clitoris. "You want me. You always want me."

"Yes," she agreed softly. A cheeky grin formed on her face and her eyes opened wide. "But I want to do this. Let me be your dancing girl tonight. Please, Sherlock."

She begged so beautifully, he reflected, or maybe marriage had just softened him. He found himself nodding and sinking into the sofa to watch her move for him.

Molly began slowly, allowing her abdominal muscles to flex gradually, while her bare feet shifted back and forth in small steps. She rolled her shoulders and let the music guide her into faster motions. The tiny cymbals were silent, with her fingers held straight, all the movement focused on the flow from her core.

Sherlock found himself analyzing the instrumentation of the musicians on the CD, and wondering how they'd manage to butcher a rather decent arrangement. The cymbals weren't helping, if he was being honest.

He watched the play of muscles with a clinical detachment, following the wave of motion throughout her body. Her torso rippled with the music, moving faster with the rhythms until Molly closed her eyes, forgetting his presence, lost in the music. She arched, her arms stretching and dipping and slithering over and then gracefully across her body to highlight her shifting hips. The swaying scarves hid and then displayed her thighs and the damp curls between her legs.

Hmmm now that is rather more interesting.

Sherlock sat up straighter and leaned forward. Molly smiled down at him, her eyes hooded. Her fingers snapped together, the cymbals sounding in time with the music accompanying her movements. She danced forward and touched his calf with her toes. She teased the skin of his bare thighs while he watched dispassionately, his eyes cool and assessing as always.

Sherlock resisted the urge to glance at the time on the CD, to see how much longer he had to sit and watch before he could touch her. He had the feeling that that was those not-good things that would have his wife disappointed in him if he were caught.

The music reached a fever pitch and Molly allowed her belly and hips to rotate, rocking at a frantic pace designed to take his breath away. She had nearly reached the peak of the climactic point when a pair of impatient hands landed on her waist and yanked her onto the sofa.

"Right, enough of that."

Molly yelped. Before she knew what had happened, she was face-down on Sherlock's lap with his cock pressing into her chest and his hands roaming over her thighs.

"Sherlock!" she protested. "I wasn't done. I really wanted to dance for you." Hurt crept into her voice.

He laughed, and she felt the rumble in his body against hers. "Oh you will. But I'm tired of waiting." He smacked her on the arse. "Up. Stand, feet apart. Take the cymbals off, set them on the table. Quietly, please."

Molly jumped off his lap, and stripped the zills from her fingers, laying them on the coffee table beside the candle. She took her position on the floor and looked expectantly at Sherlock.

He switched the CD to one of his, a Chopin collection. Intrigued, Molly waited. Sherlock was usually a careful dom, prone to planning out very particular ideas and schemes, but this would have to be something improvised, since she had been the instigator behind the night's activities.

Strains of music filled the room, and Molly recognized the sweet sound of it, the high notes touching a chord in her. It was one of the first pieces they'd ever made love to, and she knew it as well as she knew Sherlock now. Her heart ached with the beauty of it, and she wondered again how she could have gotten so lucky to have won the heart of Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't have asked for a better husband, or a more brilliant dominant, despite- or because of- all his peculiarities.

He bent down and Molly smiled, appreciating the view of his nudity. He dug through a drawer and pulled out a new coil of white rope and a pair of scissors. Working quickly, he cut the needed lengths and returned to her side. She was curious about his plans but trusted his judgment.

Throughout the flat were the eyehooks installed to anchor the ropes, so they could play anywhere in their home. Sherlock stood on the sofa, and threaded the longest rope through the hook on the ceiling, pulling it down.

"Arms together and up," he ordered. Instinctively she obeyed, presenting her position firmly. He wove the rope around her arms, securing them in a cocoon of rope until she was tied to the ceiling with her feet comfortably resting flat on the floor.

"The front clasp on this top, not exactly authentic is it?" Sherlock asked. He tossed the remaining rope aside, and cupped her breasts through the beaded top. He tugged the bra top aside, exposing one pink nipple hardening already. "Eager, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," she breathed.

"That's my girl. My girl. I do love owning you like this." He carelessly flicked open the clasp, letting the material fall to the sides. Molly grew more excited, feeling even more exposed with the fabric caressing her where it fell. Sherlock absentmindedly traced the undercurve of her breasts, teasing her until her nipples were taut without even being touched. He unknotted the shawl at her waist and let it drop. The skirt of scarves followed, landing in a puddle at her feet.

He smirked, and took his cock in hand. The thick length of him slid through his fist as his eyes moved up and down body, appraising her. Sherlock met her eyes once more and then without warning, dropped to his knees before her.

"You wanted to dance for me. Dance."

Molly tilted her head. Her bound arms shifted as she moved slightly.

Sherlock moved forward on his knees and nudged her thighs apart, settling his chest between them. "I want you to move for me." He opened her with his fingers, and then Molly understood. With his tongue and fingers, Sherlock made her dance.

She rocked and moved, and kept pace with his demands. His tongue slipped between her folds and massaged her clitoris while his fingers teased the tender skin of her thighs and labia. Molly moaned and rolled her hips, following where he led, obeying his rhythms. His hands cupped her bum and pulled her hard to his mouth, flicking her tongue deep into her, until she had no choice but to ride him and hope her legs would hold out. His hands slapped her ass when she slowed and kept moving steadily against his lips. Her arms stretched above her and she threw her head back and screamed his name when she came, shaking all over for him.

The ropes shook, and the hook wobbled.

Sherlock laughed. He stood and took his wife in his arms, letting her collapse against him. She lifted her head weakly, and kissed him. Her face glowed. He quickly untied her arms, and rubbed them, massaging the grooves and checking her all over. Molly sat on the sofa, while Sherlock retrieved a bottle of water, and then pulled her onto his lap.

Molly sipped the water and sighed happily. "You haven't come yet."

He shrugged. "I can wait. That was difficult on your arms, but I was curious to try it."

"I'm fine. It wasn't too long. It was perfect." Molly snuggled her head into the crook of his neck, and drank more. He stroked her back, smoothing over her hair. "I think I should tell you something. I probably should have told you earlier. But then you might not have done that, and oh that was just…lovely. I've been wanting to dance for you for ages, and I know you don't care about it, but I love it. And my belly isn't going to look pretty for much longer so I thought I should do it now. Before it gets…bigger." Molly stopped and looked up at Sherlock.

"Bigger." His gaze appeared calm as it met hers, but he swallowed hard. "As in, you plan on…eating more?"

"Well, yes, that is part of it." Molly wrinkled her nose. "I started to suspect something last week, and I had my annual appointment set for today anyway, so we had a quick blood test done…Yep. I am pregnant." She waited. Her brown eyes were serious and worried. "We haven't talked much about this, but I um. I'm happy. Can you be happy about it?"

Sherlock turned to take in the woman who sat with him. Once upon a time, he had sworn off all women in his need to eliminate distraction, to try and control what he was, and then a small pathologist had broken through all his barriers with delicate persistence and warm understanding. Her bottomless reserves of love and trust were something he could never understand or hope to earn. But those things existed and now she was telling him that she wanted to have his baby, be tied to him in entirely new and permanent ways, and that she was happy about it?

"What if it-" His throat closed.

"What if what?"

Sherlock steeled himself. "What if it's like me?"

"Sherlock." Molly threw her arms around him. "I know you couldn't have had the easiest time growing up, but you're the most extraordinary person I've ever known. Whatever difficulties arise, we'll handle them. He or she will have us for parents after all." She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "We will love our child. I love you, and I want to have this baby with you."

He envisioned their child being born, and growing up, toddling around London between them. Molly wiping jam off a child's face. Maybe the child would have her sweetness. He rather hoped so. Sherlock felt the knot of worry begin to loosen. It wouldn't disappear yet, but there was hope for the future, something he thought he had been long gone. That it existed at all was solely because of Molly. "We're going to have a baby." Saying it out loud made it terrifyingly real. He blinked.

"And I just had you tied up."

"I would've safe-worded out if it wasn't alright. I've spent the last two days reading about sex and pregnancy at work. just in case!" Molly admitted. She grinned. "First thing I thought of. I can't believe you didn't deduce it somehow. My hormones are going wild already. We just have to be careful but you can still tie me up some. Isn't that lovely?"

Sherlock hugged his wife tight, and slid his hand down over her belly. "Yes. It really is."