Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hi everyone! Another story idea, yay! I wonder how long it will take me to finish this one now that school's back in. I think Christmas is a realistic goal, all things considered. I suppose I need to do a major warning at this point. THIS IS RATED WHAT IT IS FOR A REASON. It's nothing like what I've normally written … consider this meant for adults. See the end for the second major warning … okay, enough of the serious stuff. I really hope you enjoy something different from me!

Molly Hooper stumbled up the stairs to her fourth floor flat and struggled to fit the key into the lock. After much shuffling and scraping of metal against metal, the door swung open and Molly blinked in surprise.

"Sherlock," she slurred happily, dropping her keys into her handbag. "Good to see you."

She punched him on the shoulder as she walked by, gaily dropping her numerous bags and coat onto the floor just inside the doorway. Sherlock raised a solitary eyebrow as he closed the door.

"Molly … "

"Is there any food?" Molly asked, running into the wall on her way to the kitchen. "I'm starving."

Sherlock sniffed and detected alcohol … vodka and cranberry, he thought it was. More vodka than cranberry. He rolled his eyes as he followed her into the kitchen.

"Molly, you're drunk."

"Damn right," she said, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge. "I had forgotten about this. Drinks are on me!"

Sherlock stepped forward and pulled the wine bottle from her hands, a scowl on his face. He put the bottle firmly on the counter.

"You do not need more wine," Sherlock told her bluntly. "Go to bed."

"Nope," Molly shook her head in an exaggerated manner. "Not till you've had a drink with me."

"I am not going to drink."

"Yes you are," Molly said, stepping forward and using her fingers to climb up Sherlock's chest. "Come on, it will be fun."

"Molly," Sherlock started but was interrupted.

"Don't try to talk me out of it," Molly said. "I've had a rubbish day and it's just depressing to drink alone."

She went to the cupboard and pulled out two plastic tumblers.

"I know they're not wine glasses," she said matter-of-factly, uncorking the bottle with a loud pop that sent the cork into the ceiling, where it left a mark before falling to the floor. Molly glanced up.

"Damn. I know they're not wine glasses," she repeated, her dented ceiling forgotten. "But they're bigger."

She poured two generous servings of wine and held one out to Sherlock. For a reason he did not know – nor would ever understand, looking back – he took the tumbler and Molly held it up.

"To … to … to you." She finished her toast before taking several gulps of the drink. Sherlock sniffed the wine and found it to be quite a lovely bouquet, despite the plastic cup. He took a sip and found it was good wine, not the cheap stuff he'd been expecting.

He glanced past Molly at the bottle. It was an expensive bottle, running upwards of five hundred pounds.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, taking another gulp.

"Gift," Molly said, topping up her glass. "Drink up, there's plenty."

Sherlock sighed and while he detested drunk people, he wasn't going to let such a good drink go to waste, an action he would soon come to regret.

An hour later, the wine bottle was empty and a drunken Sherlock and a very drunken Molly found themselves in Molly's bed.

"I'm normally not like this," Sherlock mumbled as he showered Molly's neck with kisses, his hands tangled in her hair.

"Normally not like what?" Molly mumbled in response, her lips behind Sherlock's ear.

"This," he said. "I take things slow."

Molly pulled away and looked down at Sherlock.

"You still have your pants on," she said, an eyebrow raised. "That's not fast."

Sherlock grinned up at her boyishly and Molly grinned back.

"Let me help you with that," she said, her hand reaching down.

The next morning, Sherlock woke with a start. His head was aching mercilessly and he sat up quickly, unfamiliar with the setting.

This was Molly's room, not the sitting room and this was Molly's bed, not the pull-out sofa bed. He realized he was naked and for the first time in his life, he felt uncomfortable in his own skin. Sherlock glanced over at Molly and saw that she, too, was not wearing anything. Or, at least, she wasn't wearing a top and Sherlock assumed she wasn't wearing any bottoms either.

What had happened last night? He wondered, seeing his trousers and pants tossed across the room. He had no idea where his shirt was.

Molly had come home drunk, he remembered that, and he remembered the bottle of wine … how much had he had to drink?

No, this did not happen. Sherlock had not gotten drunk and ended up in bed with Molly. They hadn't … they hadn't had sex, had they? No, they couldn't have. He'd remember that … wouldn't he? It would've been his first time; he thought he'd remember it.

He glanced at the clock – it was only quarter to six – and then back at Molly. He imagined she would have one impressive hangover, if his headache was any indication.

Sherlock felt incredibly uncomfortable and quickly left Molly's bedroom and took the coldest shower he could stand to try and sober up. Evidence of their night abounded in the flat, he discovered as he walked into the sitting room.

The wine bottle, of course, but pillows were tossed about and a vase lay broken in the corner. One of the pillows was split, feathers littering the carpet. Had they had a pillow fight?

Sherlock went into the kitchen for some paracetamol and strong, black coffee.

He'd worry about cleaning up later.

By the time Molly woke up two hours later, the flat was clean and Sherlock was out. The young pathologist sat up and groaned. Her head, too, was pounding and the room was bright despite the curtains being drawn and it being a rainy morning.

She realized more quickly than Sherlock had that she was naked but she didn't realize Sherlock had been in her bed until she looked over and saw his discarded trousers and bottoms.

"Oh no." She said the words aloud, though she didn't realize they had passed her lips. Her hands found their way to her mouth. They hadn't … she hadn't … not with Sherlock.

Despite the fact that Molly had been blitzed last night – she knew that much, even if she couldn't remember it – she had a sinking suspicion that yes, she had lured Sherlock Holmes into her bed and had sex with him.

"Sherlock?" she called hesitantly as she stepped into the sitting room, her dressing gown tied tightly around her. She was relieved to find Sherlock gone and she read the note he'd taped to the back of the door.

Molly,

Out. Be back tonight.

SH.

Good. This was good. Molly crumpled the note and tossed it into the bin as she went to the kitchen for some paracetamol and water. It was a weekend and she wasn't scheduled to work, which suited her just fine. Once her head stopped pounding, she planned on taking a shower, changing the sheets, and erasing any signs of last night from the flat, starting with Sherlock's trousers in her bedroom.

I told you it was different.

Okay, second major warning. I know the fact that Molly and Sherlock had sex will deter a lot of you, as you can imagine where this will lead. I'd just like to ask you not to give up on it too soon. It will NOT be fluffy, I promise and it will be VERY in character for both Molly and Sherlock.

Your support (i.e. review) is really appreciated, especially as this is a bit out of my comfort zone. Thanks!