I hate this TV programme. I hate it because I can't stop thinking about it. Oh well.

This is a follow-up to my previous story, "Three". This one is rated M for blatant sexual situations. No point in trying to hide that now, is there?


Sherlock Holmes is not a happy man.

Most would argue that he is never a happy man, or that he is only happy in the most inappropriate of moments, moments filled with blood and guts and foul play. He supposed that that was true. Usually blood and gut and foul play meant a case, and a case meant a problem, a problem meant an escape from the tedious world of constant boredom that other, ordinary people called real life.

But that's not why he's unhappy now.

He's unhappy because he can't figure out this one particular problem. It's stuck in his head, like something between his teeth, a constant nagging annoyance distracting him in every waking moment (and most sleeping moments, too).

He shifts in his chair, his fingers drumming a hard, fast rhythm into the cheap table top, little black marks appearing where his fingertips strike the faux marble surface. The room is a complete and utter mess around him - all discarded newspapers and old take away containers, interspersed with the occasional empty package of cigarettes. The cleaning maid had long stopped attempting to tidy his room for him, especially after the time when he'd chucked a stale biscuit at her when she'd tried to come through the door.

He'd tried everything he could think of to solve this current problem. He'd consulted the Internet on suggestions on how to rid himself of it (though he didn't exactly find any reputable sites). He'd phoned a help line to conduct more credible research (again, their suggestions were ridiculous, and he's is fairly certain that the idiot at the other end of the line did not fully grasp what he was asking her). Nothing. No help. No answers.

So he turned to other things, more material, more visceral things to try and rectify the situation. Food was first. He ate gourmet food, foreign food, take away - even the terrible greasy chips from the backwater hovel down the road - but to no avail. He tried alcohol next - from ale to wine and then to spirits, but all he got was a throbbing headache and a bruise on his left knee. More desperate measures were needed then, so he prowled the back alleys and deserted pathways until he found a supplier he could marginally trust, taking the cocaine and the morphine and escaping back to his rented hutch to try and rid himself of this problem once and for all.

But he couldn't make it go away.

This infuriated him to the nth degree, his anger and his frustration eclipsing anything he'd ever felt before in his life. How could he rid himself of something he - grudgingly - admitted that he didn't quite understand? How could he fix something that he didn't even know for a fact was broken?

His new mantra had become her name. Her cursed and damnable name.

Molly. Molly. Molly.

It had started with that kiss, that awful, terrible, wonderful kiss. On the train, that day, weeks ago, when she'd turned towards him and pressed her lips to his and everything had changed. The world slipped sideways and all he could feel was her, her skin against his, warm and supple and soft, so soft. A feeling burst into being at the pit of his stomach, a strange, alien sensation that he'd never felt before, hanging low in his gut like an anchor, dragging him down. The longer he kissed her the stronger it grew, and his first rational thought was to let go, to let that feeling fade away, but his body rebelled and pulled her closer, tighter, flush against him.

And then the train stopped and she left, but that feeling never faded away.

"Damn it all!" he cried out suddenly, throwing his hands out and knocking the table over in one fluid motion, pushing it away from him as if it were to blame. Food didn't work. Drink had failed him. The drugs... the drugs worked long enough to make him feel comfortable, safe again, but the minute they subsided the sensation came rushing back, and it was always worse than before, gaining strength every single time he sent it away.

"To hell with this," he mumbles to himself, and he picks up his jacket and retrieves his scarf, pulling it up to cover the bottom of his face, while he adjusts the wig on his head to hang low and obscure his eyes.

He sweeps out the door without a look backwards, heading for London and what he hopes will be his salvation.


Molly can't stop thinking about him.

It's all she does. When she's preparing her instruments for the day, she thinks about his face. When she's making her first incision, she thinks about his hands. When she cleans and disinfects her saw, she thinks about his neck, that long, porcelain neck. And when she files away her paperwork and turns out the lights, she can't help but remember his eyes.

She lives in a constant state of irritation. Irritation at herself, for letting herself become this emotionally invested in a possibly asexual highly functioning sociopath. It had been bad before, to be sure, but now, after the fall, it had become a demon of its own, a constant presence that wrapped itself around her heart and her mind and refused to let go.

At night she dreams about the kiss, the kiss on the train, and she always feels so frustratingly empty when she has to wake up.

She sighs to herself as she climbs the last stair up to her flat and puts the key in the door. "Oh, Molly," she mutters to herself, "you idiot."

She throws her satchel down onto the sofa, and switches the lights on with her free hand. It's late, maybe nine or ten in the evening already, and she can't be bothered to rustle up some supper for herself. Bath, wine, and bed? she can't help but think to herself, and she knows that that's probably exactly how this night is going to go.

So she steps over to the bedroom, already unbuttoning her cardigan as she goes, and nearly suffers a heart attack as she makes her way through the door.

"It's me," an oh-so-familiar voice calls out, and her heart threatens to give out again. Stupid, unreliable organ.

"W-what are you d-doing here?" she asks incredulously, and her pulse is still beating madly, thumping in her neck and in her chest.

Even in the half light she can make out the look of consternation on his face. "I... have a problem," he says slowly, as if the words were hard to spit out. Well, they would be, she supposed - it wasn't every day that Sherlock Holmes admitted he had a problem.

Her heart sinks a little at those words. "Is- is it drugs?" she asks cautiously, having heard from both Lestrade and John that the world's only consulting detective had had a long... relationship with drugs of both the respiratory and intravenous variety.

"What?" he answers distractedly, "no."

She looks at him, confused now. "Well... what is it then?"

There's a look in his eyes that she's never seen before, and it makes her nervous, though she can't quite figure out why.

He takes a step closer to her. "I need you," he says simply, and he takes another step.

Immediately, she becomes worried. What could it be now? Had Moriarty returned? Was John in danger? Was hein danger? "What is it? What do you need?" she asks him, and she rooting around in her wallet, looking for spare notes, wondering if she has enough money for him to get safely away.

When she looks up, he is right in front of her now, so very close. She stifles a gasp and clumsily puts her wallet away, stuffing it back into her front pocket.

"No, Molly," he says, and his voice is barely a whisper, as he looks down at her, his eyes locking with his. "I need you."

She stares at him for a moment, dumbfounded. "Oh. Oh..."

He takes another step, the final step, and now he's barely an inch away from her, still not touching, so close but yet so far.

"I can't think. I can't eat, drink, move, sleep without feeling that stupid feeling in my stomach, that feeling that only appeared after you."

She feels drunk, drugged, stupid. Was he saying what she thought he was saying?

"I need to get rid of it," he is saying, still looking straight down at her, his eyes like arrows straight into her heart. "I need to be able to think again. Nothing else will work."

He lifts a hand then, and laces his long fingers through the hair at the back of her head, and she can't help the shiver that runs through her at his touch.

"Will you help me, Molly?" he asks softly, and her faulty heart stops for a moment, unreliable as ever.

"Uh- um -" she stammers, and she mentally kicks herself for being so awkward, especially in a moment like this. "Y-yes," she finally manages to breathe, and the smile that crosses his face shocks her, such a happy expression on such a usually solemn face.

"Thank god," he murmurs, and suddenly she can feel his hand pull at the back of her head, pulling her flush up to him, his lips crashing against hers.

This feeling - the feeling of his mouth on hers - surpasses any other, beyond the scope of any narcotic, beyond the capability of any opiate.
She wraps her arms under his arms and over his shoulders, and he opens his mouth to run his tongue across her lips. She can't help the moan that escapes her as he deepens their kiss, and she tightens her hold on his shoulders, moulding her body around his.

He kisses his way down her neck, nipping at the underside of one ear as he makes his way across her skin, one hand still buried in her hair, gripping lightly at her scalp. She runs her fingers up along the base of his neck, brushing against the very bottom of his hair line, wrapping her digits into and around his loosely curled locks.

His free hand ghosts it way up her side, running up along her ribs once before dropping back down and slipping under the fabric of her shirt. She tries to block out all conscious or rational thought, because she knows that id she thinks about the fact that Sherlock bloody Holmes is cupping her still clothed breast with his hand, she might faint out of utter and complete disbelief.

She pulls away from him for a moment, shunting aside all of her usual awkwardness and self consciousness. She lifts her arms and pulls her shirt up and over her head, and she can't help but feel a small amount of pride in the way his eyes rake over her chest (small as it may be). With barely shaking fingers she reaches out and undos the buttons on his shirt, and she can feel his eyes on her as she releases every last one.

And then they are both standing there shirtless. Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. She doesn't want to move, to blink, to breathe for fear that she'll somehow shatter this illusion, and that she'll wake up to find herself passed out on her sofa, totally alone.

But then he wraps his arms around her, kissing her collarbone, and she decides she doesn't care if it's real or if it's fake, because it feels so damn good and she doesn't want it to stop.

He makes his way down her skin, lower and lower, and she can't believe that the man beneath that trench coat and scarf could be like this, so cool and confident, his hands like a surgeon, so precise and so accurate. She decides that she, too, can prove her own hard earned manual dexterity, and with a boldness that she did not know she possessed, she runs her fingertips down the length of his torso, slowly going lower and lower until her hand is resting on the crotch of his pants.

He groans audibly at her touch, even through the fabric, and again, that insane feeling of pride rises up within her. It was her who made him groan. Mousy Molly Hooper. And god knows she wants to make him do it again.

She unbuckles his belt in one deft movement, pushing down his trousers in one go. She doesn't look up at him - she can't remind herself who this really is - as she reaches down and wraps her hand around him gently, so gently. He hisses at the contact, and she smirks to herself, silently celebrating the fact that she's finally found an arena of combat where she has the upper hand.

She starts to move her fingers, slowly at first, sliding up and down his skin, alternating between strokes and brushes. He presses his head into her shoulder, his hand wrapped tightly in her hair now, holding her to him like a drowning man holds onto a life raft. She can feel his breath against her skin as she quickens her pace, and his other moves down to stop her motion, grabbing her by the wrist as he stifles a groan into her neck.

"Not yet," he murmurs, and suddenly the tide turns on her as he lifts her up and drops her down onto the bed, a predatory look in his eyes as he studies her.

She feels strangely naked as he looks down at her, flat on her back while he leans backs on his heels. She's still mostly dressed and yet she feels almost like he's mapping out an attack, looking for and identifying potential weaknesses in preparation for combat.

He smiles then, but it's a smile meant for himself, as he finishes his inspection and looks at her eyes again. He leans in, hovering over her, and whispers in her ear.

"My turn," he murmurs, and a frisson runs through her, simultaneously frightened but yet excited beyond belief.

He leans back and slips his pants off, and she can see her previous work is still working its effects. He grins at her, a crazy, mischievous grin that she's never seen on him before, and he moves back over her, planting his elbows down on either side of her, so close but yet so far.

He brings his face down towards her neck, and his breath tickles against her skin, teasing her so effortlessly. He does the same down across her chest and her stomach, and she can't help but squirm uncomfortably under him.

She can feel - but not see - him smirk, his face down by her navel. "What is it, Molly?" he asks her.

She groans out of sheer frustration. "Sherlock!" she exclaims, twisting her body up towards his.

He deftly moves away, still avoiding her touch. "Yes?" he answers, maddeningly, and she is definitely not pleased by the shift in power.

"Touch me," she moans, and he chuckles somewhere down near her ribcage, emerging victorious from his own invented game.

"With pleasure," he replies, and then his hands are on her, stripping off her bra and then sliding off her trousers, and suddenly they are both naked, naked in her bedroom. How deliciously strange.

He slides a hand down her body as he kisses her hard, swallowing her gasp as he brushes a finger over her apex, his handiwork light and incredibly precise. She presses up against him as he works his hand harder, flicking against her sex with the most skill she's ever witnessed. If she was still capable of thought she'd ponder just how he, the previously-assumed-asexual-detective, acquired such skills, but luckily she didn't have any neurons or synapses presently capable of processing such a thought.

She can feel herself getting closer to the edge, and she bucks her hips up towards him, eager and ready. But just as she can feel herself slipping over the threshold, his hand pulls back and slumps down against the mattress, painfully unfulfilled.

He's still sucking at the edges of her neck as he stops, so she nips at his ear in angry annoyance, and he pulls away from her, evidently amused. "What?" he asks, all fake innocence, and on a crazy whim she reaches down and squeezes him, hard.

"Umph," he gasps as she wraps her hand around him, and she grins to see the tables turned. He looks down at her and narrows his eyes, studying her carefully. "Not so mousy after all, are we?" he says to her, and she blushes from utter embarrassment.

"I- I don't k-know wha-" she starts, but then he cuts her off with a blistering kiss, and steadies himself on his elbows above her.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice suddenly soft, and she nods slowly as she wraps her arms around him.

She can feel him above her, poised and ready, and she closes her eyes as he slides himself inside, taking in a deep breath as she adjusts to the feeling of him inside of her. He presses his forehead to her shoulder, as he takes a moment to steady himself. She kisses the top of his head, holding him close, and he starts to move. Slowly at first, then speeding up, he twists his hips as he pulls and pushes back and forth, sliding against her.

She groans into his hair and he looks up to her, his normal crystalline eyes clouded over with the fog of desire. He kisses her over and over, one for every thrust, as he pushes against her, sending ripples of tingling pleasure up through her spine. She wraps her legs around him as he quickens his pace, his hands roaming across her body, cupping first her breasts and then her bum as he lifts her hips and drives into her.

"Molly," he moans as he pulls her even closer, but she can't quite hear him anymore, as her vision fades into blurs of false light, her fingertips gripping hard into his shoulders. She tightens around him, and he groans at her movement, his careful thrusts become more and more erratic, before he finally gives in, pushing against her one last time before he joins her in post-orgasmic bliss.

He rolls off of her, turning onto his side, and she opens her eyes to look over at him, suddenly wary. Was this all just a great game to him? To see how far he could manipulate her? She remembered now, all too clearly, who exactly she had ended up in bed with, and a sinking feeling started to form in the pit of her stomach, weighing her down.

But then he leans forward and presses his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as he rests against her. "Thank you, Molly," he says softly, and she starts to feel a bit better, a bit less on edge after it all.

"Better?" she asks him, boldly, and she surprises herself with her reply, an echo of what he'd once asked her, so many days and weeks ago.

He chuckles softly, "Yes." He kisses her then, just once, just lightly, right before they both drift off into a deep, satisfied sleep.


In the morning, she wakes up to the light streaming in through the window, to the sounds of the busy city below, and to the achingly empty spot beside her, alone in her bed.