My first and final attempt at smutty writing. I blushed way too much when checking my spelling of 'Clitoris'.

Apologises in advance for mistakes, wording sentences and possibly OOC Holmes.

Thank you for popping by.

It was an unforeseeable revelation that a two year long exile would be the force behind Sherlock's new attitude towards his friends. Friendship, he had always observed, was something most did out of superficial custom and while he acknowledged its occasional advantages, he didn't truly appreciate the notion of having friends until the eight month of his 'trip', shacked up in a Siberian mountain hut, where their noticeable absence was particularly felt.

Since his return [a miraculous resurrection hailed the press, a case of fool's luck by his colleagues], Sherlock attempted to demonstrate this new sense of gratitude to his friends. Under John's encouragement, he found not only were his expressions of thanks well received but rendered successful outcomes for him as well.

An impromptu vase of flowers delivered to Mrs. Hudson ensured a week's dinner and a tidy kitchen. A pint of lager and an honest apology with Lestrade improved his company greatly. However, there were exceptions to John's advice; Anderson who in Sherlock's mind, did not deserve gratitude or otherwise, remained unresponsive to all his attempts, a somewhat unsurprising reveal to his character.

The 'new' Sherlock was rejoiced by his friends, particularly by an impressed John and while he was pleased with their responses, he was satisifed with all but one.

Molly Hooper was a crucial figure in his return to the living. She gave him everything he asked for; her expertise in covering his death, her home and space and most importantly, her silence. A bouquet of magnolias hardly seemed to be a fitting gift in comparison.

So he went with John's recommendation of a 'heart-felt' speech, ignoring his usual protocol in regards to this kind of sentiment, to properly give Molly Hooper the thanks she deserved.

Her response was surprising to say the least. While Sherlock anticipated a meek blush, a couple of unnecessary tears and maybe, an awkward initiation of embrace, the reality was far from these expectations.

She only smiled. She didn't even bother with an offer of coffee afterwards. Sherlock felt vaguely unsatisfied with this exchange. Of course it was preferable to an overly sentimental scenario, however, it was completely devoid of the characteristics he associated with the Molly Hooper model of emotional reactions.

He decided then, that since this thanks was not enough, he would require something more thought-provoking, of greater signficance to really demonstrate his gratitude to Molly.

But as he consulted all best and available data, discussions with John, Mrs. Hudson [even an attempt with a cashier at Sainsbury's], Sherlock remained at an impasse.

What can you give to someone who gave you your life again?

The reception area of Spencer, Billingham and Adams, draped in sophisticated furnishings, was purposely designed to impress and intimidate all who came in.

Though its intention was lost on our detective, who sat bored stiff across from the prim secretary [artificial blonde hair twirled by shaking fingers, indicating an imminent smoking break]. The silence of the reception grew to be too much and before he could lose his mind to the ennui of the place, Sherlock loudly informed the secretary, who jumped up in surprise at his voice, that he would wait outside.

There were two smokers already there, puffing away against the wall. He stood a reasonable distance from them, although their voices, full of mirth and girlish pitch, carried over to him.

He delved back into his mind, drawing the case out to begin his work. The scars made on the dead lawyer's hands and cheeks, incorrect depth for a paper cut, obviously a kind of letter knife was employed, consistency of cuts were indicative of emotional response, therefore the attack resembled a revenge-motivated murder.

"So he apologized?" A soft voice filtered intrusively into his mind.

Sherlock seized the scent as a wind brought over a cloud of thick smoke. His last cigarette, fourth of August, Beijing. He looked down wistfully at his arms.

"well, in his own special away." The second voice was particularly sly. Sherlock peered at them by the corners of his eye, a sneaking glance revealed the sight of two women, late twenties [Interns, presumably by their modest clothing and brand of cigarette]. The second woman spoke again. "So Alec brings over a bottle of Pinot Grigio, I think okay, so he's sorry..."

"But.."

"But then we have a drink so half the bottle is gone and then he gets on his knees." The two women laughed crassly. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the dull turn of their conversation but before he makes his way back inside, the second woman speaks again, her voice huskier than before. "So he pushes my legs apart and starts to kiss up my thighs. At this point, I'm melting. But he keeps going."

"Well that's one way to show his gratitude." Another harrowing laugh follows but abruptly ends as the two women turned sideways to face the man now staring unabashedly at them.

The other woman gawks while her companion, a cigarette dangling carelessly from her mouth, asks in a curt tone.

"Can I help you?"

To their surprise, Sherlock only grins, a pronounced smirk widens over his face.

It was an enlightening idea, Sherlock noted, the act of intimacy as means of gratitude was undoubtedly an old-age tradition. John employed it frequently in situations of displeased girlfriends. To his recollection, Sherlock remembers that their moods increased positively, and given their appreciative calls during the process, the end results were far from unsatisfactory.

Further research online [John's computer used for this occasion] affirmed the notion of pleasuring a woman orally would be beneficial for mutual parties.

Excellent, he could thank Molly in a way most satisfying to her and gain the benefit of a happy pathologist, all the better for both of them.

There was little to suggest that Molly would dislike the idea. He was assured of her sexuality, clearly heterosexual, as exhibited by her past partners, her distinctively feminine attire and the presence of a concealed calender of 'naughty firemen' he spotted in her locker. Furthermore, she was unattached and her history of repetitive and uninteresting suitors would indicate a rather boring sex life. Not to forget Molly's obvious attraction to him would be even more advantageous to her. As Sherlock considered these variables, he was certain that this gift could not be bestow at a better time.

Of course he would have to put side his previous notions about intimacy for the evening. While he could not be more inaccurately described by Moriarty's nickname, 'The Virgin' [a university fling his first, a cold reunion with Ms. Adler, his last], he did have reservations, disagreements, with the frivolity of intimacy. It was an unnecessary distraction which could only interfere and disturb his work. He consoled himself with the knowledge that this was to be a brief arrangement, no possibility of forming a habit. And once she considered the finality of his tone, he was assured that Molly would come to a similar conclusion.

Content with this confidence, Sherlock began to set the plan into motions. For Molly, he thought proudly of his unselfishness.

His plan was simple put. Sherlock, under the guise of a case, would invite Molly out for the evening. She would join him under the pretense of being his 'escort', not unusual for her as Molly became well versed in Sherlock's methods of investigation, during their time together in his exile. He contemplated the option of taking her out to dinner, however the traditional setting appeared too much of an advance, a risk of affection Sherlock was keen to avoid.

Fortunately, he found the perfect venue that day; a wine tasting event in Soho. As he arrived at Barts, at the end of her shift, he patted down his suit, his front pocket containing two tickets [courtesy of his brother, blissfully unaware that he had been pick pocketed during his visit to Baker Street that day].

Although Molly was tired, the promise of alcohol and adventure [and his company also, Sherlock thought arrogantly] was enough incentive to persuade her to accept his offer somewhat happily, with the condition that she could return home to change beforehand.

And with that, they set out for Soho, both oblivious to what the evening had in store for them.

Later that evening

"So...we drank th-the romannee-what?"

"Romanée Conti."

"Was that the one I spilt on my skirt?"

"Yes. An eighty-four thousand pounds stain."

"Oh-ohdear god. No wonder that man was glaring at me!"

"I thought he was rather smitten with you."

"Was that before or after I split his very-very-expensive wine?"

"Before the incident, obviously."

Molly moaned sadly, tugging the hem of her skirt. Sherlock observed the dazed smile on her face, her slowing gait and slurred speech, all indicating a relaxed mood. She had been pleasant company, excluding the incident of split wine but it was made up to him as Molly fumbled to make amends with the gentleman, accidently uttering an offhand pun, "shouldn't cry over split milk" as means of apology. The expression on the face of the distinguished Frenchman was enough to keep Sherlock amused for days. He thought kindly of it as he steered a very tipsy Molly away from the increasingly irritable gentleman.

The stage of his plan, to lubricate Molly to a certain level, ensuring her ease but not to inebriation, was moving steadily as they walked around the gala. He contently noted that as she consumed more wine, the more comfortable she became at his side and as soon as he was satisifed that she was in the perfect mood for the final act, he lead them out of the venue.

He immediately hailed a cab down, directed the cabbie towards her house and guided a quiet Molly into the car before settling in beside her. Their trip was silent for most the way. Sherlock, too focused on the procession of styles, approaches, unraveling in his mind, as he decided on the best method of bringing up the subject to her.

"So, did you get to talk to the suspect?" She rasped softly, pulling Sherlock back into the cab and out of one particularly 'interesting' scenario.

"Hmm? No."

"Oh. I'm sorry." She mumbled.

He turned to her with a look of confusion.

She answered him with a small wave, "Sorry it's been a waste of an evening. For the case."

He contemplated answering but felt anything but the truth would be entirely inappropriate. Fortunately, his answer didn't matter anyway as she was unaffected by his silence, staring contentedly out of the window.

They finally arrived at her street and as she fumbled out the door, her heel caught in the gap between the street and the cab.

"I'll escort you upstairs."

"No-no, I'm fine...I'm fine." She tripped again as she spoke.

His answer was final, gripping her arm tight as they walked up the steps. The silence from the cab followed them inside the building as Molly jumbled through her purse for the keys.

"This is my door. Isn't it? No, yes, my door-this door." She mumbled to herself, before pushing into her flat.

She was either unaware or didn't care that he followed her inside. Molly fell ungracefully onto her sofa, sinking into the large cushions. Sherlock stood from afar, though his eyes were running over her furniture, the familiarity of the room swfitly coming back to him, his mind was racing through his next action.

Her unconscious choice of location was most helpful, the sofa being the easiest and most comfortable place to initiate his plan.

He was weighing up the options of the prerequisite of kissing her neck or whether a more direct, somewhat hasty approach would suffice when she suddenly groaned.

"Here, let me." He walked over, knees bent down as he began to remove her shoes, the subject of her discomfort.

They had been a surprisingly part of his evening, the red strapping heels were not an item Sherlock had ever imagine Molly would own, let alone wear. There were indeed a new purchase, considering their barely worn soles and her apprehensive pace in them.

Her eyes were closed, head leaned back against the sofa, as Sherlock glided his hands over her feet, removing the shoes quickly.

Then suddenly Sherlock took notice of his position. He got on his knees.

The thought quickly dried his mouth and the scenarios, previously alight in his mind, seemed to disappear as he sat, frozen in his stance.

Did he overcompensate his confidence for this evening? Possibly. A bunch of expensive flowers didn't seem so an insignificant gift now. He dismissed these thoughts immediately, remembering his duty.

"Molly."

Molly shifted her body slightly, his hands still wrapped around her ankles.

"Molly, although I have previously discussed this with you, I would like to again, express my-Are you listening?"

"Hmm? Yes, yes." Molly muttered, her eyes still closed. "I think I am."

"Well I have been trying...trying with great difficulty to properly formulate such an expression of thanks and-"

She moaned, interrupting him mid sentence. He looked to his hands, to see that during his speech, they had moved up to her thighs.

"You were very important to me. I-I could have never done what I did without-without you.."

He was sure she wasn't listening now, her eyes were firmly shut but her mouth was parted open.

" And I wish- I wish.." He grounded himself, ending his pitiful stutter. Molly, still inattentive to his speech, moaned softly again.

"I wish to express that gratitude in a way...pleasurable..." Sod it. His mouth fell awkwardly onto the skin of her leg.

Undeterred by her stiffen posture, aware that she was staring directly down at him with wide eyes, he moves his lips, tentatively at first, across the skin.

The sharp intake of breath tells him she's alert now, in short, her consent is shared in the expel of a shallow moan, so he continues up, albeit slowly, until his mouth reaches the inside of her thighs. He pauses, awaiting a slap or a shove, but Molly only groans louder, the sound echoes in his ears as his other hand grips onto her leg.

Clinical images printed across the forefront of his mind, as he replays the pornographic loop he acquired that morning, the inspiration between his moves. The statuesque blonde, from John's laptop, however has already begun to transform, her faint white hair darkening to a familiar brown.

He's following the strict routine of the man in the video, his lips mimicking his, over Molly's skin, an action that suddenly pushes her to grab his hair forcefully.

Stealing a look, he sees her, eyes wide open, no movement bar her heaving chest [breathing speed has increased, eyes dilated, he fears that the thudding in his ears is not her heartbeat, but his own.]

Then the loop stutters, the moving couple halts and Sherlock with them as the warmth of Molly's legs against his heated face, the scent of wine from her skirt, mixed with her bath soap, all these useless pieces of information, flood his mind.

In an attempt to distract his overpowered senses, he ducks his head underneath her skirt, his lips immediately pressing against her. She jolts unexpectedly, pushing forward her hips into his face, in a way he could only describe as distracting.

The hands in his hair are gripping him painfully, so with her blessing, Sherlock pulls out his head before rather roughly pushing up her skirt. Whether she shivers because of the sudden chill to her exposed skin or whether it was his kiss, ghosting over her, getting closer than before, Sherlock cares not.

He silently recites his technique as he gently pushes aside her panties [Baby blue, cotton, more irrelevant information]. A gentle kiss at the opening, then press tongue to the center of labia, lather clitoris for one to three minutes before the insertion of fingers. He certainly does not note the softness of her under his tongue nor does he take pleasure in the audible moaning chant, flowing from her mouth. "Yes. yes."

He trials a move; his lips enclose over the nib, sucking it deep inside his mouth, she responses in kind with a sudden pull of his head. Sherlock continues with Molly's hands, steadily holding him close to her. Pleased with the increased wetness emanating from her, Sherlock utilizes his shaking fingers next.

The ministrations are short-lived, as Molly, under his mouth and hand, begins to quiver. Sherlock awaits the rushed exclaim of moans, the sounds the blonde made he doubts Molly will repeat, but he is disappointed when she only utters a low moan, devoid of any words, including his name.

His own body reactions ignored, [its presence, unsurprising given the circumstances] Sherlock deals her a soft, final kiss. They sit for a moment just as they are, Molly slumped onto the sofa, her breathing, yet to return to its normal pace and Sherlock, rests against her thighs, the adrenaline still speeding through him.

Then it passes.

Sherlock abruptly removes himself from the position between Molly's legs, the discomfort of the situation begins to dawn on him as he tries to extract himself from Molly's grasp. He almost thinks he hears a sad sigh as he places her hands back to her, but when he looks up, he sees that she has already crawled up into a sleeping ball.

Unsure of what to do, [he had planned and prepared for the awkward aftermath of light conversation], Sherlock stands there, frozen in step and watches Molly's body rise and fall. He's certain that she couldn't have fallen asleep so quickly, mere moments after she was gasping, alert and alive under his touch. But nevertheless, he makes no attempt to disturb her. He pulls a cover off the edge of the sofa and throws it gently over her. He hovers awkwardly before heading straight to the door. But before he could turn the handle, he hears a soft voice call out from the sofa. "Thank you."

With nothing more to say, Sherlock nods hesitantly, before he exits the flat, down the stairs and out the building into the brisk, cold evening of London.

A gift well received.