Disclaimer: Yeah…I own nothing.

Summary: There are not many things that surprise Sherlock Holmes. In fact, there is hardly anything. Except for Molly Hooper.

Author's note: This is based on PetraTodd's amazing photoset: post / 53815549899 / Sherlock – gets – word – that – moriartys – associates – are

(take out all the spaces and replace the (dots) with actual full stops, if this doesn't work, the link is up in my profile!) It is seriously a masterpiece and she has been very generous and kind to let me take her idea and run with it. So PetraTodd, thank you so much for entrusting me with this and I sincerely hope I did this justice!

This is also dedicated to a very very special author: soyeahso / dietplainlite. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! I'm late, I know I am, but I hope you accept this gift because you are so incredibly talented and wonderful and just…words cannot describe how amazing you are and I hope that you enjoy this little gift of porn.

I should also state some warnings, just in case: voyeurism, mentions of murder, nudity, explicit sex, oral sex, fingering, masturbation, vibrator, cursing, there is definitely some possessive!Sherlock and maybe some traces of dominance, but not much, at least I don't think too much, but still, it's there. I think that's about it. Oh right, it's porn. Reviews are always appreciated and any mistakes are mine and mine alone! Hope you enjoy! The title is taken from Explosion in the Sky song of the same name.

The catastrophe and the cure

One-shot

There are not many things that surprise Sherlock Holmes. In fact, there is hardly anything that surprises Sherlock Holmes. He's seen and observed things that other people could not even dream of, nor would they want to. He's gone head-to-head with criminals the world over and he's won (barring this particular circumstance, but every situation is a special one, isn't it?)

He has killed, destroyed and saved lives.

So, no, there are not many things that surprise Sherlock Holmes. In fact, there is hardly anything. Except for Molly Hooper.

(Then again, there is always something, isn't there?)

He is made aware of it in Brazil. It's a particularly sweltering night, as he weaves his way through the crowds of people (tourists, some locals but largely tourists) to make his way back to his run down flat that he currently inherited from a dead man. Sherlock doesn't feel bad about it; the dead man had a hand (somewhat at least) in his fake death (everyone in Moriarty's network had a hand in his fake death, self-induced exile and currently, his murderous, only sometimes merciful, at least when Mycroft gets involved, quest to take down Moriarty's network.)

He is a block away from the flat when he feels his phone in his trouser pocket vibrate against his leg. He pulls it out and answers it, "Mycroft," he starts gleefully.

"There have been grumblings about Doctor Hooper's involvement in your death." Mycroft interrupts him. "You and I both know what that means."

It means, that her security has gone up. It means that her life, the life that she very willingly risked and the life that he promised would not be harmed, is now on full display to the depraved men and women that Moriarty enlisted in his network, which despite the number rapidly decreasing within the last two and a half years, they are still vicious and brutal, as Sherlock has often seen first-hand.

Which leads him to the question of how. Because Sherlock Holmes is meticulous. He is careful, so how did Moriarty's associates find out about Molly Hooper?

"It seems," Mycroft continues, unaware or rather ignoring the inner turmoil in Sherlock's expansive mind, "that Sebastian Moran is evidently more observant than his counterpart."

Without thinking, Sherlock turns in the opposite direction and picks up his pace, "watch her." Sherlock growls into the phone, "and Mycroft-"

"The plane is waiting for you." Mycroft finishes for him and then hangs up.

The moment Sherlock's phone is safely tucked away in his pocket, he races down vaguely familiar streets and pushes his way through the crowds of tourists, their angry screams and indignant rage echoing behind him. He attributes his desperation at getting to his destination as the last vestiges of adrenaline from killing three men earlier.

(The walls of his mind palace shake with his misplaced and blatant lies.)

It occurs to him, on the plane, that he could entrust her life in Mycroft's hand. Because Mycroft owes Molly just as much as Sherlock does and despite his protests to the contrary, Sherlock does know that Mycroft's people would die before they let anything happen to Molly Hooper.

(But Sherlock Holmes made Molly Hooper a promise that she would not be harmed and he intends of following it through.)

Mycroft and Anthea are waiting for him when he steps off the plane.

He inhales the London air deeply and makes his way to the car.

"You're staying in the building across the street from her. She doesn't know you're back."

"Surveillance?"

"Anthea has collected everything and it's waiting for you at the flat."

It's a complete invasion of her privacy and he knows that she'll be angry, livid really, but he thinks her anger is a small price to pay to ensure that she stays alive. (She saved his life and has been quite possibly the only welcome constant in his life for nearly ten years and he thinks it's about time that he repays the favor, after all, it is essentially his fault she's in this mess.)

"Present surveillance?"

"We've added cameras and audio recording strategically throughout her flat as well as Bart's lab and morgue. Your laptop will have streaming from all three locations, at all times." There is a pause and Mycroft looks at him, eyes cool, "I have my men dismantling the rest of Moriarty's network in your absence."

Sherlock nods and stares out the window at the black London sky. He doesn't say thank you. He never says thank you.

(The sound of Anthea's rapid typing makes him believe that everything is back to normal, that everything is how it used to be, two and a half years ago.)

The flat is small and dark when he walks in. He turns on the light and goes straight to the window. He looks down to the street below him, eyes watching figures move rapidly and deducing who they are, what they're doing and when they'll be leaving. His eyes move to the flat right across from his and his breath catches.

It's dark inside the flat (she's sleeping off a fourteen hour shift) and for the night, Sherlock is content that she is safe.

He grabs the recordings and his laptop and settles himself against the headboard of the bed.

He starts with Bart's lab and morgue. He watches as she teaches, her enthusiasm for Pathology going over the heads of intimidated students. He watches as she performs autopsies and takes immaculate care of her corpses, treating them with respect that he doesn't have the patience for.

He watches as she talks with colleagues and volunteers and watches, with clenched fists as the new pathologist flirts with her. Molly, for her part, will smile politely and nod, her feet shifting, a telltale sign of her discomfort.

He watches with rapt eyes as John comes in daily. He progressively becomes happier; his eyes gaining back the spark they once had and Molly laughs and talks easily with him.

"I'm meeting Mary's parents tonight." John confides in her.

Molly nods, "she told me. Are you…this is a good thing, right?"

"I'm horrible with parents." John admits and then laughs, "but yeah, it's…it's a good thing."

He rolls his eyes when Lestrade comes in with Anderson and then smirks when Lestrade asks Anderson to wait outside.

"I don't…I mean…not trying to be rude or anything but why…?"

"Do I keep him around?" Lestrade finishes with a tight smile. "Despite everything, he is competent." There is silence and then Lestrade shifts. "But he's no Sherlock Holmes."

Molly looks up at him and shrugs, "there's no one quite like Sherlock Holmes."

There is something in her voice, a wistful, almost regrettable tone that makes his chest clench and hurt.

By the time the sun has come up, he's gone through Bart's recordings with notes sprawled over the bed and desk. His eyes flit over to the window and he stands, stretching his legs and cracking his vertebrae as he presses a button on his keyboard. He watches as a new window pops up and it cackles with static noise for a moment before he can see her flat from different angles.

Her bedroom is a mess, her bed unmade as she hurriedly yanks on her flats and grabs her bag. She puts some food out and some milk and lets out a playful whistle. He can see her smile softly at the cat that comes sauntering into the kitchen and Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at Toby. (Sherlock remembers the cat from when he stayed with Molly. The cat regarded him indifferently.)

"Be home soon, Toby. Love you." She pulls the cat to her and hugs him, kissing the top of his head before dropping him back to the floor, grabs her keys and leaves her flat, locking the door shut behind her.

Sherlock gets up from his spot and makes his way to the window, watching as she comes bounding out the front door and manages to catch a cab on her third try.

He watches the cab until he can't see it (her) anymore.

He showers quickly after Molly leaves her flat and is wrapping himself in a dressing gown (not his, but it'll do) when he takes his seat at the desk and goes through her flat recordings.

He remembers her routine from when he stayed with her for a week and is unsurprised when she follows it.

She comes home with groceries and wine, she'll cook, she pet and coo at Toby, she'll turn on the telly to some show that she never watches but likes the fact that there is some sort of background noise and she'll recount her day. (When he was indisposed on her couch, that was quite possibly the better part of the day, her coming home and telling him about the autopsies she performed and whether or not there was anything interesting about them.) She had a way of storytelling that, despite his aloof and uncaring expressions, entranced him in a way only Molly Hooper can.

She doesn't eat at the kitchen table, but instead, curls onto the corner of the couch, balancing her plate of food and glass of wine, precariously on the armrest as she watches telly, flipping through the channels constantly, until she always, always lands on a rerun of Doctor Who, or Misfits or God forbid, Skins (he was quite fond of EastEnders, not that he ever let her know that.)

After that, she'll soak in the tub and then go to sleep, the door to her room softly but firmly slamming shut.

On the occasional night that she's too exhausted to cook, she'll grab some takeaway, (always Thai), skip telly and eat while in the tub. (He's only ever seen her do this once and it was the day before he left, when she had to do an autopsies on two suicide victims, one murder victim and one car accident victim.)

When she comes home that night, he forgoes the recordings and watches her through the laptop. There is a part of him that is smug when he sees her go through the familiar motions and then the smugness dies when she disappears into her room and the camera, essentially goes with her.

He remembers catching glimpses of her robe clad body as she hurried from her bedroom to the loo and from the loo to her bedroom, those days when he invaded and conquered her couch, his mind, hazy with drugs and lingering pain never thought to think about it (her) any further.

Now, he finds, it's all he can think about. All he can see and observe.

There is a sort of precision in the way she takes off her clothes. She starts with her necklace (it was gift from her father, it used to belong to her mother), then she unclasps her bracelet (it's a worn multi-color thing, made out of thin rope, it was made by her niece), she toes off her socks (first her left foot and then her right), she takes off her shirt (if it's a pullover, she crosses her arms at the hem and then pulls it up swiftly, making a mess of her neat ponytail. If it's a button down, she takes her time in unbuttoning each button and shrugs it off her shoulders in one fell swoop), her trousers come off next (her fingers unbuttoning the top and then pulling down the zipper, shimmying out of them and kicking them off to the side.)

He shifts in his seat, adjusting his trousers as his traitorous cock hardens at the sight of Molly in her matching knickers and bra set. It's purple and lace and he leans forward, his nose practically touching the screen as she pulls the elastic out of her hair and massages her scalp with her fingertips, letting out a soft moan and then she bites her lip as she gingerly redoes her hair, piling it atop her head in a distorted bun.

His mouth runs dry when he sees her hands find the clasp of her bra behind her back. With one deft twist of her wrist, the clasp comes undone and her bra falls to the floor. (His mind brings him back to that Christmas when he remarked on her breasts being too small, he's never been so wrong. Her breasts, he sees, are perfectly proportionate to her body and more than that; her breasts would fit perfectly in his hands. He can picture it clearly in his mind, his hands covering them, her nipples hardening underneath his palms, his fingers indenting on the soft mounds as he kneads and squeezes and she writhes and moans and begs for more.)

He leans back in his chair, trying to alleviate some of the strain against his cock, when he sees her fingers hook into the waistband of her knickers and pulls them down.

(There is a part of his mind that is roaring at him to turn away, that this is Molly and she doesn't deserve his perversions and then there is another part of his mind, one that slyly reminds him that he's ensuring her safety, he needs to look. The latter part of his mind wins.)

He glimpses at the patch of hair at the apex of her thighs before she pulls on her robe and despite trying to alleviate any pressure, despite trying to regain some sort of semblance of humanity, he grows harder and wonders what she tastes like.

He's relieved when she leaves and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

For the first time in a decade, he thrusts his hand down his trousers and pants and strokes himself roughly, head tilted back, his eyes on the closed bathroom door on the screen and pictures Molly.

His eyes follow her as she walks from the loo to her bedroom and he watches as she picks up her discarded clothing, folding them and placing them on the chair, throwing her knickers in the laundry bin and placing her bra on top of her clothing.

(It's late, the sky is black with grey clouds moving in, covering the sky from whatever stars and moon illuminate it, but Sherlock can feel the electricity in the air.)

Molly hums softly as she removes her robe and sinks into her bed, the covers pushed down past her knees. Even though the light in her room is off, she has the bedside lamp turned on and Sherlock narrows his eyes as her hands trail down her body with familiarity. He curses himself (and Molly) when his cock hardens again, as her hands come to rest on her breasts and she plays with them, pinching and pulling on her nipples, little moans emitting from her mouth.

When her right hand drifts lower, smoothing a path down her torso and through her curls that he can just imagine being soaked (not only from the remnants of her bath but from her.) Sherlock's breath hitches the same time hers does and he watches as her fingers swirl in her opening and he watches as she writhes against her hand, back arching, he watches as the hand on her breast continues to squeeze and pull, he watches as she whimpers, he watches as she inserts another finger, feet planted on the bed, knees bent ninety degrees and pumps her hips to match the movement of her fingers, thrusting in and out of her.

He knows she's close when her eyes slam shut and her head thrashes from left to right. Her mouth forms an O shape and her whimpers, moans and gasps become louder, "oh, oh, yes, God, please yes, Sherlock…Sherlock…" with one twist of her hand and one pinch of her nipple, her back arches violently and she cries out, "Sherlock."

Sherlock jolts in his spot, jumping from the chair and running both hands through his hair, his throbbing cock heavy and aching in his pajama trousers. Despite trying to, he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the screen as she continues to pet herself and he grips the desk as her hands trails up to her mouth, watching intently as she sucks the two fingers in her mouth. He's still watching as she sleepily pulls the covers over her sweaty body and turns off the lamp, leaving him in the dark.

He hurriedly grabs the other recordings of her flat and inserts a disc in, forwarding through her morning rush and hours of empty flat time. He forwards past when she walks through the flat door and prepares dinner and presses play as soon as she's in her room, shedding her clothes. She takes off her clothes with precision and always starts and ends the same (starting with her jewelry and ending with her tossing her knickers off to the side), except instead of purple in this recording, she's wearing a deep crimson matching set (he wonders what other colors she owns and thinks that she would look devastating in blue.)

He watches as she comes out of the bath and enters her room and watches as she sinks into her bed (after folding her clothes and placing them on the chair), hand between her leg, fingers working her clit, back arching, little moans, gasps and whimpers, giving way to cries and keens of "ah, ah, oh, God, yes," until finally, her hand stops moving she cries out his name in the throes of orgasm, "Sherlock, Sherlock. God. Sherlock."

Going through disc after disc, he finds that she likes to change positions. Sometimes, she's on her stomach, both hands between her legs and rubbing furiously, cheek against the pillow, stifling her gasps and his name (he hates nights like that, because he wants, needs, to hear her cry out his name when she comes, he wants, needs, to see her eyes roll back in pure ecstasy.) Sometimes, she forgoes her hands and brings out a vibrator, the sounds echoing through the recordings but never drowning out the sound of her.

He wanks (such a juvenile term but it's the only apt enough to describe what he's doing) to the thought of Molly on her back, stomach, side, knees, so hard, he gasps, a guttural cry tumbling from his lips. "Molly."

He gets a message from Anthea, whom he knows sent it on behalf of Mycroft. False alarm.

Sherlock knows he's talking about Moriarty's henchmen believing that Molly had anything to do with his death, or rather, fake one (which she did.) Sherlock knew that there was no threat the second night, but by then, he knew, saw, heard and observed the way her hands trailed all over body.

By then he knew, saw, heard and observed the way she wailed his name (only ever his name) as she reached completion.

By then, Sherlock Holmes knew he couldn't leave. Not yet.

(Because in his heart of hearts, Sherlock Holmes is an addict and Molly Hooper is his drug.)

He loathes the way the new pathologist, slides to Molly's side, he loathes the way the new pathologist winks at her but most of all he loathes the way the new pathologist doesn't seem to understand that Molly Hooper is his and always has been.

He sends a message to Anthea, whom he knows will relay it to Mycroft. Fire him.

(The new pathologist isn't so much fired as transferred to Edinburgh.)

Which is fine for Sherlock.

On one of Molly's rare days off, a blonde woman named Mary, is welcomed readily into the flat (Sherlock realizes that this is Mary Morstan, John's Mary.)

The two women talk incessantly, almost about everything and nothing, when suddenly the conversation shifts.

"Oh! I almost forgot, there's this guy I know-"

Molly groans, "Mary, no more matchmaking, please."

"No, no, Molly, this guy, he's really nice. His name is Devon and he's-"

"No."

"But you haven't even-"

"Mary." Molly's voice takes on earnest pleading that not only shocks Sherlock but also Mary.

Mary bites her lip and takes in a deep breath, placing her glass of wine on the table. "Have you…I just…have you dated, and I mean really dated, anyone, since…you know?" Mary fumbles with her words.

Molly smiles sadly at her and shakes her head. (Sherlock releases the breath he didn't know he was holding.) "No. I can't."

"Why not?" Mary asks softly. There is no judgment in her tone. There is no exasperation, just support and a bit of curiosity.

Sherlock leans forward and turns up the volume, awaiting her reply.

"Because Sherlock Holmes has…he's…he's…damned me." She lets out a choked sob and buries her head in Mary's shoulders.

It's not the answer he was looking for. Truthfully, he doesn't know what answer he wanted to hear.

(But he takes the answer anyways, because roundabout is fair play. She's damned him to deepest depth of hell and he welcomes the slow burn.)

That night, after Mary has left, Molly doesn't bother taking off her clothes, she doesn't bother moving to her bedroom, instead, she stays rooted on the couch and puts her hand down her trousers and knickers.

He moves away from the computer and stands by the window. He has a perfect view of her (and furiously, he wonders who else is able to see her) and he watches as her head lolls back against the couch and watches as her mouth forms the familiar O shape and watches as her chest heaves and knows, he just knows, that her nipples have hardened and are aching to be sucked and nipped and pulled. He knows the moment gasps start to be torn from her throat and from his vantage point he can see the moment she starts rubbing against her folds and clit roughly, inserted fingers thrusting deeper within her walls.

He can hear (through the laptop as he watches her from the window) as she starts moaning, "please, please, more, ah, ah, ah, oh." But there's something different in her inflection, something more desperate, something more primal and it makes his entire body come alive. He grips the window pane, his body hidden in the dark of the night, as he watches her hips arch off the couch and this time, she doesn't cry out his name so much as sobs, "Sherlock, please."

(She's begging for him and he wants nothing more than to sink to his knees in front of her and answer all of her prayers.)

That night, when he's in the shower, the cold water beating down his body, and his cock in hand, he realizes that she's humanized him. She made him into something that he promised himself he'd never become.

He's become a slave to sentiment that he has always been adamant didn't exist inside of him.

Molly with her pleas and moans and gasps and whimpers, Molly with her cries and the way his name rips from her throat, manages to bring him, Sherlock Holmes to a withering mess by his own hand, with images of her, breaking down and destroying the walls of his revered mind palace.

(Molly Hooper brings him more pleasure without even touching him than Irene Adler ever did.)

Sherlock records Molly crying out his name on his phone and puts it on repeat. His hand is on his cock before she even finishes his name.

(Irene Adler's recording is finally deleted.)

It's been two weeks of Sherlock keeping vigilant watch over Molly. It's been two weeks of hearing his name come from her mouth and it's been two weeks of watching her sink into bed, with her hands on her body and him on her mind.

It's been two weeks of this, when he catches sight of a shadow moving through Molly's darkened flat.

He's out of the flat and running down the stairs within a minute, bursting through the front door and quickly making his way to Molly's building. He makes his way up the fire escape, aware that Molly always leaves her window unlocked.

When he steps into the flat, he toes over the floorboards that he knows creaks and makes his way through the flat, his gun already in his hand. His breath is hard against his chest and he struggles to keep quiet as he creeps towards her bedroom, looking at every corner.

When he reaches her bedroom, he can see light shining underneath the crack of the door and he pushes it open (he knows the flat was dark when he raced out of his.)

Molly Hooper greets him with a small guilty smile, perched on the edge of her bed.

"I don't think you'll be needing that." She says quietly, gesturing her head to his gun.

He shakes his head and puts on the safety and dismantles it, putting them on the far side of bureau. His throat is dry. "No." He says, his voice harsh to his own ears. "I don't think I will."

She stands up and makes her way to him, "I should apologize."

He doesn't need to ask for what. He already knows what for and he already knows that she won't apologize and he won't let her.

"You've been watching me." She says this quietly, her hands resting on his chest.

"I have." His eyes bore down on her and he watches a flush make its way up her neck and to her cheeks. He sucks in a deep breath as her hands leave his chest and rest on his shoulders, pressing her body against his and turning him around, pushing him onto the spot on the bed she just vacated.

"Good." She nods and backs away until she is a few feet away from him.

She starts with her necklace (it was gift from her father, it used to belong to her mother), then she unclasps her bracelet (it's a worn multi-color thing, made out of thin rope, it was made by her niece), she toes off her socks (first her left foot and then her right). She's wearing a button down shirt today and he stops her before she reaches for the first button. Instead, he gets up and with surprisingly steady hands; he unbuttons each one until it hands loosely around her shoulders. She shrugs it off and Sherlock barely bites back a groan at the sight of blue lace (her nipples have already hardened, chest heaving with every breath.) He trails his hands down her stomach and watches in rapt fascination as her stomach muscles ripple with pure want. She leans her head back and lets out a sigh as he unbuttons the top of her trousers and pulls down the zipper. He pushes them down her leg and she steps out of them, kicking them to the side and bearing her almost nude body to him.

(He was right; she does look devastating in blue.)

She undoes her hair and goes to pull it back up, when he stops her and shakes his head, running his hand down her arm and grabbing the elastic from her fingertips. He drops it on the bureau and buries his hands in her hair, massaging her scalp. She presses herself harder against him and lets out a contented mewl. (He feels his trousers tighten.)

He feels her shifting and pulls back, leaving her hair a mess, as she reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, pulling it down her shoulders and arms.

He grabs her around her bare waist and pulls her to him, pressing his mouth against hers in desperation. She gasps into his mouth and he thrusts his tongue into hers, tasting her, devouring her. His hands trail to her front and cup her breasts, he groans, completely correct in how her breasts fit perfectly in his hands. He kneads and squeezes them as she moans and sighs into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck.

She rips her mouth away from his as his fingers pinch and pull at her nipples. He bends down, face level with her breasts and his warm mouth encircles one nipple, nipping and sucking with reverence. Her hands thread in his hair and she whimpers, "Sherlock. God, yes, Sherlock." He treats the other nipple with the same treatment.

She pulls his head away, her nipple falling out of his mouth with a wet pop. She's panting heavily, eyes dilated with desire. "You're wearing too much clothes."

He doesn't respond, finds that he can't. All he does is lead her to the bed and presses her against it until she's sitting. He sinks to his knees, mouth kissing her inner thighs. He smells her arousal and he closes his eyes briefly and then reopens them, his fingers hooking through the lace and pulling the wet fabric down her legs and tossing it to the side. "You've thought about me like this." He says. It's not a question. Of course it's not a question. It's a statement of fact.

"Yes." She moans.

He grabs her legs and puts them over his shoulders, his eyes staring up at her. "I've wondered how you'd taste."

"Find out." She croaks.

He grins and then buries his face in her, lapping up her juices and relishing in the moans, gasps and whimpers that are coming out of her throat. Her thighs close instantly around his face and Sherlock presses his mouth and tongue against her harder. "Oh, oh, God, yes. Sherlock. Fuck. I…Sherlock…" Sherlock grins against her and when he inserts a finger in her, she arches violently and cries out, "Sherlock," as she comes into his mouth. (She tastes like lemons and strawberries and entirely Molly.)

(Hearing her cry out his name like this hardens his cock even more than it already was.)

She falls back against the bed and loosens her thighs. He carefully extracts them from his shoulders and continues to lap at her, until she pulls him away, wincing with sensitivity.

Her body is flushed, nipples still hard and chest still heaving. She shakily sits up and watches as he takes off his shirt, toes off his shoes and socks, lowers his trousers and pants and she reaches for him, grabbing his hardened cock in her hands and stroking it lovingly.

When her mouth closes around his tip, he grips the back of her head and lets her envelope him in her mouth. It's with great difficulty that he pulls her away from him after a couple of minutes of her sucking and licking him. She looks up at him confused but he just pushes her back, propping her at the head of the bed and he lowers himself atop her, closing his eyes at the feel of her body pressing into every inch of his.

He carefully, and he's shocked to find, with trembling hands, pushes sweat matted hair away from her face and kisses her, just as desperately as before. He can taste himself in her mouth and knows that she can taste herself on his as well.

"Molly," Sherlock says, his voice echoing throughout the empty room. "Condom."

She stretches out and reaches for the small bedside bureau, where she digs around and then hands him a square foil. He takes it from her and rips it open, throwing the wrapper on the floor and reaches between them, his knuckles brushing against her as he rolls the condom on and she inhales and bites her lip.

"Sherlock, please, I can't…just please, I need…oh!" He sinks into her and she bucks, her hands finding purchase on his arse cheeks as she squeezes him and pulls him down, filling her up.

He takes her hands from his arse and grips them tightly as he stills inside of her and she continues to writhe beneath him. He interlaces their fingers and he starts to pump steadily, leaning his head into the crook of her shoulder and sucking a dark mark on her pulse point. She kisses his head and pants, moans, gasps and says his name over and over. "Oh God, Sherlock, yes. Yes. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock." She arches her back and wraps her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back as she explodes, wailing his name as she thrashes her head left and right.

He rolls them over until he's on his back and she clambers on top of him, grabbing him and repositioning him at her entrance. She gives him a tired smile and sinks down on him, her slick walls opening and stretching for him, as if he was made to be there (and he wouldn't be surprised if he was.)

Grabbing her arse, he grounds her down on him as she moves up and down, palms placed on his slick chest. Moving his hands from her arse, he grabs her breasts and sits up, hearing her squeal with surprise as he shifts her legs so that she's wrapped around him completely. With vigor, they pump against each other, guttural cries emitting from him and keens coming from her, "Molly." He groans, "Molly. Molly." He repeats her name over and over again until he comes tumbling over the edge, coming with such strength that he closes his eyes and presses his head against her chest, lips sucking the spot where her heart beats thunderously.

She whimpers and shifts, eager for a second release.

He pulls her off of him and turns her around on her knees, he presses her back against his chest, his cock twitching and leaking against her arse, but his hands reach forward and play with her breasts, his lips continuing to suck her neck. One of his hands leaves her breasts and trails down her stomach, cupping her dripping pussy and inserting a finger. She thrusts back against him in shock and cries out when he inserts another finger.

The hand on her breast leaves and cups her face, turning her towards him and he kisses her roughly, tongue thrusting in. "You have no idea what I've thought about doing to you." He whispers. "Seeing you with your hand between your legs and my name tumbling from your mouth. I crave you Molly Hooper."

She sobs and reaches behind her to grip his head and kisses him like a starving woman. With one flick of his wrist she shrieks and falls against him.

He shifts her onto her back and he flops down next to her, bodies emanating heat and the smell of their mixed orgasms and sex permeating through the air.

He's sore in place he didn't even know he could be sore and looking at Molly, still struggling to catch her breath, he knows that she feels the same.

"Sherlock?" Molly whispers.

He hums in response, too weak and spent to say anything else. He turns his head when he hears her shift and she winces as her sore muscles move with her.

"You know…you didn't have to transfer Luke."

Luke…oh, the new pathologist. He growls. "I didn't. I wanted him fired."

Molly laughs and kisses him when he pulls her to him. "Sherlock?" She says against his lips.

He hums in response, busy nipping at her bottom lip and relearning the contours of her mouth.

"I love you."

He kisses her harder and presses her against him harder so that neither of them knows when ones begins and the other ends.

(She understands. Molly always understands.)

There are not many things that surprise Sherlock Holmes. In fact, there is hardly anything.

Except for Molly Hooper.

soyeahso/dietplainlite, I really really really hoped you liked this! Happy anniversary darling, because you truly are awesome and wonderful and so very very talented and this is my thanks for being so fucking wonderful and supportive and just an absolute amazing person with an even more amazing soul.

PetraTodd, I sincerely hope I did your photoset justice! It's been an absolute privilege to be able to write this and it wouldn't have been possible without you, so thank you a million times over, for allowing me to take your creativity and run with it! Again, guys, her amazing photoset is here: post / 53815549899 / Sherlock – gets – word – that – moriartys – associates – are

(take out all the spaces and replace the (dots) with actual full stops) if this doesn't work, the link is up in my profile!

It's NSFW but it's gorgeous (well, Petra is just gorgeous anyways) so, ye've been warned.

Phew! Okay. So…that was pretty porny, right? Or maybe it's just me? Either way, I hope you all enjoyed it!

I also just want to take this time and say thank you thank you thank you, to everyone who has supported me this weekend through a pretty shitty weekend, but your guys message and constant uplifting words has made everything so much more better and easier to deal with. So thank you.

MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,

BB