Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead. He was back and more popular than ever. The press surrounded him anytime he stepped out his front door. They had the story. There wasn't that much more to tell but everyone was looking for a new angle, a new exclusive. As a result, Sherlock took to hiding at Molly's flat—not often, but enough that it felt a little like habit.

She didn't want to raise her hopes, but she knew he found comfort in her presence. They were friends. Nothing more, but it would do, she thought, feeling a sweet, stabbing pain in her heart. She glanced at Sherlock who was currently stationed at her laptop, tapping away at something. He was frowning at the screen, but he seemed relaxed. He wasn't really working on anything important then—some research of his own. She'd ask him about it later. Right now, she was enjoying the cozy domesticity of the moment, curled on the sofa with the cat as he worked. She yawned.

"It's getting late, Sherlock. Are you staying here for much longer?" She stood up to head toward the kitchen, "I can heat something up and you are welcome to stay if you'd like," he looked up at her then, a piercing gaze.

"I—uh—I just meant you can take my bed if you don't want to fight the press to get home." She stumbled even though she knew he knew what she meant. He'd done it before. He stayed with her briefly right after his "suicide" and right before his "resurrection." He knew what she meant. It was her own poorly suppressed desires getting in the way again. In her embarrassment, she tried to save face.

"I should set up a little plaque, like they do on historical buildings, you know?" he stared at her without speaking, and she foolishly continued her rambling, "Sherlock Holmes slept here. I could charge to let people tour. Heh!" He blinked at her and looked back to the computer. No, he'd never cared much for her jokes. Or for his fame, for that matter.

She felt her face flush, but she never did know when to quit.

"Hey, I could put one up for Jim Moriarty too, charge double! The Crime of the Century tour we could call it. Have a stop outside of St. Barts, the courthouse…" She was rambling. Shut up, Molly. Shut it, she scolded herself.

Sherlock's eyes had snapped back to her.

"Moriarty?" he asked.

"Yes?" she wasn't sure what he was asking.

"Moriarty slept here?" his tone was carefully casual. Uh-oh. He wasn't happy.

Molly stayed quiet, but she smiled a foolish smile and rather aimlessly raised a hand before letting it drop, "Um-"

"You were with him. You slept with Moriarty." He seemed taken aback and a line was beginning to form on his forehead. His full attention was on her. She shuffled uncertainly, taking a step backward toward the kitchen.

"You knew Jim and I dated." She said nonchalantly. She turned, "I have some leftover takeaway or I could heat up some soup or—"

"I didn't say you slept with Jim," Sherlock interrupted her brusquely. "Though maybe you did," he amended looking at the flush rise in her cheeks, "I said, you slept with Moriarty." He was calm, but there was something in his voice that alarmed her. He was angry.

"What's the difference?" she asked, shaking her head. What was the difference?. Oh, she knew there was. So did he.

"I thought he wasn't your boyfriend? Only went out 3 times, you said." He punctuated the last statement by jabbing his finger at her.

"We did only go out 3 times, though he came by here..once." She protested, "It wasn't a date." It wasn't. It was consolation—Sherlock Holmes had disappointed them—they found comfort in each other. And the sex—well, that was very good too.

"I knew you were sentimental to the extreme, but I never thought that you could be such a fool," he hurled the words at her, cruel—but not cold. He was hot with his fury.

"How can you possibly judge me. Me! After the games you played with him." Molly shook her head in disbelief.

"Hardly the same. " Sherlock sneered at her. "I didn't have a physical relationship with him. I didn't give him my affection," his mouth twisted, mocking her with the word.

"Maybe not to him. " Her look was significant. He needed to stop this. Stop it now because while she still stupidly loved him, she hadn't forgotten his rejection of her.

"But maybe you did the same with the one who worked for him." She didn't need to say the name. Let him deduce who she was talking about. He was good at that.

Sherlock blinked and pursed his lips. She'd never, ever alluded to Adler before. Never. He thought Molly above such things, honestly.

"Not physically," he objected. "Sex is…it's not my area, Molly. I'm not like the masses, needing to rub up against each other in some animalistic struggle all for a transitory spark of pleasure. "

That's what he thought sex was. No wonder he avoided it. Just like he avoided food until you put a plate of dim sum in front of him after he'd solved a case. Then he was an animal at trough.

"You didn't then?" she asked. Her heart squeezed with…hope? Fear? "You didn't have anything with her?" She tried to keep her features blank. Don't let him see how it hurt. How much she hoped.

He stood up from the desk and began to pace before her, "I was briefly…mentally distracted. That's all. I am not so easily controlled by my base, physical desires." He threw a contemptuous glance at her—like you, the look said.

"Well, hooray for you," Molly said rudely. Who the hell did he think he was? He could just take himself right off that pedestal or she'd help him off.

He watched her warily. Angry Molly made him nervous. He liked to dominate. He would outlive God to get the last word, John often said. He wanted to win at everything. But an angry Molly—he never seemed to triumph against an angry Molly. He tried a different tactic.

"You did count, Molly," he said softly, "More than I knew. You do count."

"Hooray for me," was the flat reply.

"I did not mean to—to hurt you, but I cannot pretend to understand your sexual needs, Molly." He was trying to explain, honestly. "Sex for me is brainwork. If my brain is stimulated, I have pleasure. I've never required such…intimacies." He felt a blush stain his cheeks. This was not a conversation he ever intended to have with anyone, let alone Molly.

"Never?" She was honestly surprised. How could a man who looked like that, moved like that, burned like that never…

He suddenly looked embarrassed. Dear Lord. Was he really that innocent? He had given truly everything to his work.

"That's not the point." It bloody well was the point as far as she was concerned, but he pressed forward, "The point is, you haven't even apologized for what you did."

"What did I do?" She asked, exasperated.

"You had sexual relations with James Moriarty, knowing full well who he was!" Sherlock exploded. He was righteous as he stared down at her. He'd revealed too much of himself. It was her turn to explain her deplorable actions. She ducked her head.

"Oh, well," she stammered a moment before breathing in her resolve and staring him straight in the eye said, "I'm not sorry for that."

His mouth dropped open and his face…oh, his face was a picture. Offended confusion—what did she mean? Did not compute. She wondered for a moment if she'd broken his brain. Smoke would be coming out of his ears in a moment.

"I'm not sorry," she said again. "It was lovely and he made me feel pretty and desirable." And that was the truth—unlike you, she was too kind to add that part out loud. "He wasn't afraid to show me that he wanted me."

"He had people killed, Molly!" Sherlock shouted. This woman was unbelievable. This, exactly this, was why he never wished to dabble in relationships—too much energy spent on things that shouldn't have to be explained.

"So does Mycroft!" she shouted back. Sherlock's head snapped back at that before giving a brief nod. True enough.

"Besides," Molly hissed savagely, "look who you fell in love with—hardly an upstanding citizen." She glared at him. Yeah, that's right, Mr. Self-righteous.

"I wasn't in love with anyone," Sherlock's voice was angry, tight. "I was a foolish, and arrogant and enjoyed showing off."

"Hmm. Then we aren't so different are we? You couldn't imagine the things I can show off," and with those words, little Molly, shy and earnest, was suddenly as seductive a creature as Sherlock had ever seen in his life. "They don't call me Little Miss Perfect, for nothing. I'm good at anything I put my mind to." Her high sweet voice, dropped into huskiness and those shining brown eyes were heavy lidded, sensual. His face paled.

She took a step toward him, her voice still low and seductive, "I told you once that we all do silly things. Are you sorry?" She smiled a smile he'd never seen on her face before. It was knowing. It knew something he didn't. He felt his belly tighten. He wondered what it would be like to kiss that smile off her face. Where had that thought come from?

"Are you?" she insisted, taking another step toward him. He could smell her now—soap and clean clothes and that particular Molly scent, the one that sometimes filled his nose when they worked together in the lab or the morgue, that warm, woman smell of her that rose above the chemicals and the decay.

"Oh, God…" he uttered in absolute frustration—at himself? At her?, "at this point, more than you know."

"Good." Molly spat the word. Her eyes lost the dreaminess and she was fire-bright in her anger. Her little hands clenched into fists. She was furious—how dare he? How dare he try to make her feel bad for that small bit of warmth and comfort she'd had from the only other person on the planet who could ever have understood how she felt—the only person even more obsessed than she was with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock raised a hand to his lips, wiping his chin, and took a step forward, back, forward again. He was so upset he was literally, physically moved. Both hands went to his head before dropping to his sides, hanging limply. They stood, both tense, facing each other in the dimly lit room.

"What did you show Moriarty—you're a show off didn't you say? What did you show him?" Sherlock was the first to speak, and his eyes were dark, his voice—oh, that voice, was low and angry. He was growling at her. The hairs on her arm raised—fear, desire—all the same it seemed for her.

She tried to control her voice, but it still trembled as she answered him, "nothing you're interested in, I know."

Her chin was firm and she held herself proudly. She didn't have to explain anything to him. She knew Jim hadn't been a good man., but then, neither was Sherlock most of the time. He wore a peculiar expression—a mixture of anger, regret and—she didn't want to imagine it, she didn't want to fool herself into seeing something that wasn't there, but it was—desire. Desire for her.

He was on her in a matter of seconds, his motion toward her too rapid for her to register until he had her by the shoulders, one hand on her neck. Dazed she felt him roughly pull her to him, even closer.

"You don't know anything," he hissed.

Before she could respond, his mouth slammed against hers. It was awkward, all teeth and dry, tense lips. That sensual mouth and he had no idea how to use it. If he ever did, he'd forgotten. He pulled back and stared, panting and wild-eyed at Molly who stared back, just as stunned.

She started to speak, but his mouth was on hers again, and this time, he seemed to understand how his mouth should fit with hers—oh yes, it was angry and forceful, but it was good. She tilted her chin up to better get at that lush mouth. He was trying to punish her with his lips—punish her for enjoying the kisses of another man—the only man that could ever begin to compare to him. She'd hurt his feelings. Well, about damn time.

She bit his lip, not that hard, but it was enough to make him suck in a surprised breath, and she slipped her tongue into his opened mouth, tasting him, feeling that sharp tongue of his so soft, so warm now, cautiously move against hers.

What followed was nothing like the sensual seductions she'd imagined when she let herself imagine making love to Sherlock Holmes. They didn't make it to the bed. He was too eager, too intent on proving her wrong, and when she tried to lead him, he threw off her guiding hand, and manhandled her to the sofa before they decided it was too narrow and moved to the hard, unforgiving floor. At first, it was all knees and elbows. He popped a button off his shirt in his eagerness, and she forgot to take off her socks. Her head bumped into the leg of the coffee table as he moved over her, completely artless.

To Molly, it was absolute perfection. Not physically, he wasn't going to last long. He was too rough in his eagerness, overwhelmed and lost in his own emotion—listening only to the demands of his body, his heart. There would be time to teach him later, and she knew he was an excellent student when he was interested in the topic. But he was giving in to her—finally, oh yes, and his mouth was warm on her lips, on her neck. His eyes were roving over her breasts, her face, his hands moving everywhere at once, as if he didn't know where to touch first. She reached out to pull that curly head down to her, kissing his temple. His chin dug into her shoulder and she wrapped her arms around him.

She helped him find a rhythm, and oh, yes—that was it. He had it now. He lifted his head to kiss her desperately before throwing his head back, sucking in a deep and noisy breath. She watched his face, saw his brow furrow, his eyes widen, and his beautiful mouth became a kissable O of pleasure. She lifted her head and kissed that mouth again, and he shuddered and groaned before collapsing on top of her.

She ran a soothing hand down his back, her face in his hair, crooning nonsense, soothing him as lay boneless and overwhelmed, his weight pressing her to the floor. He murmured something into the damp, hot skin of her neck. She stiffened, her hand stilled its gentle petting. What had he said? She tugged gently at his hair until he raised his face to look at her. His mouth was full and sweet though his eyes flashed with irritable embarrassment—"You heard me," he muttered and buried his face into her neck again.

She lay very still. Replaying those three words in her head. He sighed and shifted position so he could hold her against his chest. He kissed her hair.

Well. Look at that. She'd won.