Disclaimer: I own nothing, which you know, saddens me greatly, but I get by. Sometimes. Okay, fine, maybe never. Sheesh, can you blame me?

Summary: He'll never get tired of worshipping her body, she is his savoir, she is his home, she is his non-existent and much denied heart and soul.

A/N: This is for Nocturnias/Sherlolly, whose birthday is this month. You wanted fluff, herebe fluff (eermm…as fluffy as I could get it because well, apparently I don't do fluff all that well, but you should have seen the other thing I started to write, it was angst galore!) and smut too! WOOHOO! It's established Sherlolly. I hope you enjoy it! I hope you all enjoy it! Any mistakes are mine and mine alone!

Warnings: Smut. Sex. Nudity. Much needed lovin', you know. The usual.

Also: title is taken from the song below. HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY!

Surrender honestly

One-shot

You're my backbone.

You're my cornerstone.

You're my crutch when my legs stop moving.

You're my head start.

You're my rugged heart.

Phillip Phillips – Gone, gone, gone

"Oh…oh…hello there. You're…you're not supposed to be here. Who're you?"

He turns around and studies the petite brunette in front of him. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective and you're the new Pathologist." His eyes flit around her body, learning the memories of her life.

Her eyes light up in recognition and she nods, her eyes twinkling and her nose scrunching as she studies him as intently as he's studying her. (Oh, she's a formidable one, isn't she?) "Molly Hooper."

"I know."

He watches intently as she unbuttons his shirt, biting the corner of her lip and smiling shyly at him. Her hands are small, dainty, yet calloused from wielding scalpels and other medical instruments for the majority of her life. They are deceptively soft, eager to explore the expanse of his chest (even though he's certain she has every muscle, every bone, every freckle memorized by now.)

He feigns disinterest as she sheds the shirt off of him and it takes all his willpower to not respond when her fingers, light as a feather, trace along the planes of his chest. He fails miserably when she places the palms of her hands in the space just above his hips, curling her hands just so and pulling him closer to her. He leans forward, his head by hers as she shifts her knees and suddenly the bulge in his trousers that he tried desperately to ignore is pressed against her.

She stretches beneath him, pressing her body into his every curve and he feels his body set aflame. She smiles at him, hair mussed from sleep and pillow crease marks on her face. She leans up and presses her lips against the corner of his mouth and he suppresses a shudder (his body is traitorous when it comes to her, she is the only one to have complete control over his body and mind and his non-existent heart.) "You're late." She whispers, her voice echoing through the still and tense room.

"Angry then?" He asks, bowing his head down and pressing his lips against the spot on her neck, beneath her ear and his body hums in response to her breathy moans. She wraps her arms around him and trails a finger down his spine and his body bucks against hers and she grins wickedly as she kisses him, stealing the breath from his lungs. He gives in easily (he'll always give in when it comes to her, always.)

His hands trail up her hips and he bunches the shirt she's wearing (it's his) around the waist and pulls it over her head, eager to access as much of her skin as possible.

"Was it mother-in-law or co-worker?" She asks him. It comes out as a gasp as his mouth engulfs a nipple, mouth sucking and teeth nipping.

He lifts his head up, the nipple falling from the warmth of his mouth with a loud sound. "Co-worker." He frowns as she grins triumphantly. "Why?"

"I've a bet with Mary and thanks to you, I just won." She arches her back as his fingers tease the lining of her panties (purple lace, his favorite pair.)

"So," he says, "you're not angry, I'm late?" He studies her face as she gasps and moans and clenches the bed sheets as his fingers pulse in and out of her, his mouth moves downwards and she lets out a sob as his mouth replaces his fingers. His hands grip her legs, wet fingers leaving traces of her pleasure across his inner thighs. He licks and sucks as she orgasms in his mouth (he's never tasted anything sweeter, anything more intoxicating than her.)

He makes quick work of his trousers and pants, his erection almost painful and his body humming with want (he'll never get tired of worshipping her body, she is his savoir, she is his home, she is his non-existent and much denied heart and soul) and then rolls her panties down her thighs and through her feet, throwing it on the floor, on top of their pile of clothes. He kisses her then, tongue thrusting inside her mouth, making her taste herself on him. He grips her hips and positions himself, her hands find their way to his hair, burying themselves in his black curls. She pulls away and looks at him when she says, "you being late is nothing new. It's who you are and I…I love you…I just want you home at the end of each night…no matter…no matter the time." He pushes himself easily into her at the end of her proclamation and she moans and gasps and sobs with pleasure.

He is no better; he loses himself in the feelings of her (she reduces him to nothing but an animal as he thrusts in and out of her, groaning and losing all sense of sanity until all he thinks about, all he feels is her, always.)

She is still sleeping when he wakes up, one of her legs is thrown over his and an arm hangs limply across his torso.

He should push her off of him (he abhors physical touching) but there is something so tantalizing, something so constant about her touch. (He'd never tell her that, but he thinks she knows and knows better than to question him. She knows better than to demand the words from him when they both know, everything he does and doesn't say, is expressed through his actions.)

He runs his hand through her hair and knows she's awake when she presses her nose against his collarbone. Her hot breath on his neck. "Morning," she murmurs and buries herself deeper in his embrace, as if trying to lose herself in him.

"Morning." He answers.

"I was angry with you." She admits. He can feel her grin, "but then you came home with that orchid and well…that's just it, isn't it? You came home."

He presses his lips to her temple and shifts, pressing her body closer to his (he wants to mold her into him, she is a permanent fixture in his veins, in his blood. She is his drug of choice and he welcomes the sweet high with open arms.)

"How'd you know orchids were my favorite anyways?" She lifts her head from its place and he feels the loss of heat immediately. He pulls her back towards him and he can feel her body shudder as she giggles.

"You told me three months after I first met you. Your mother used to own a flower shop in the country."

She gapes at him. "That was nearly ten years ago…and…Sherlock, I thought you were in your mind palace."

"I was." He remembers the day clearly, it was a particularly trying case and he went to the morgue to clear his head, to enter his mind palace to sort everything out and he was almost done, when he heard her soft familiar voice through the cracks of his mind. He listened intently to what she said and then his eyes snapped open, to find her smiling shyly at him, biting the corner of her lip and stammering out an apology. He left the morgue in a hurry, his mind reeling. (No one, not even John had managed to penetrate his mind palace, but Molly did. Molly always does.) "But I heard you…I always hear you."

There is pause, an intake of breath and he feels her shift until she lifts her body, brown hair falling into her face, breasts pressed against his side and she kisses him softly, full of promises, full of everything he has denied himself for the better part of his life. "I love you too." She whispers against his lips.

He rolls her underneath him and shows her, not with words, but with actions just how much he burns with her around him.

"Why Molly?"

"Why not Molly?"

"Come on, Sherlock. You've made her life miserable. You've made her cry. You use her for access to body parts and the morgue and the lab, so tell me, why Molly?"

"When I was gone," he says carefully, "I thought of all of you. Of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, you, I even thought of Mycroft a few times." He pauses, his fingers gripping the glass of scotch tightly, his eyes roaming around 221b Baker Street, until they land on Molly in the kitchen, laughing at something Mary said and blushing as Mrs. Hudson wags a finger playfully in her face, "but I found myself thinking of Molly more often than not." There is another pause as he takes a sip of his drink. "I made her a promise you know."

"What was that?"

"That I'd always come home."

Nocturnias, my lovely lovely lovely Nocturnias, this probably not nearly as good as anything else that has been gifted to you and it most certainly does not compare to your utterly magical masterpieces but here is my humble offering to you. I hope that you've enjoyed it and I hope that you liked it. Happy Birthday, darling!

Likewise, I hope you all enjoyed it because seriously, you guys are amazing. My mind is literally blown by all of you amazing people who make me so happy when all I want to do is drown in my self-pity. Much appreciation to all of you!

MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,

BB