Author's Note: Surprise! Yeah, I've been sitting on this for a while. It originally came about because of wankers in the Sherlolly tag on Tumblr, but it got finished today as a little pick-me-up for broomclosetkink.

Edited, but not betaed. Don't hold that against me.

Something he's discovered about Molly Hooper: in this kind of weather, humidity wrapping around London like a hand at a throat, she wears entirely distracting clothing. Short grey shorts lined by white at the hem, shorts which cup her backside, short grey shorts which he very much wants to take off for her. Turning his head back towards his microscope, he smiles. Behind him, she's making herself a hot chocolate (she's found it hard to give up the luxuries of mortality, and he doesn't blame her), but he hears her curses as she spills something on her vest. The camisole lands next to him on the kitchen floor.

She disappears into the bedroom, a blur leaving and returning, wearing an old t-shirt with her hair brushed back by her fingers into a ponytail. Sherlock grabs her as she passes, holding her wrist. Gently for what they are; a mortal would cry out, demand what he was doing. Tugging her down to sit in his lap, he smiles at her laugh turning into a yelp. He catches her mouth in a lengthy, languid kiss.

At the end of it, her fingers are in his hair and she's straddling his lap. His curls are tangled with her fingers buried within them. He remembers previous lives, previous kisses taken in low candlelight, a robe wrapped around her body. He remembers wiping the blood off a cold neck. That memory gives him cause to hold her, to wrap his arms around her waist and curl his cheek against her chest, breathing in the scent of her. She keeps her hands in his hair, but her hold becomes gentle. She kisses the top of his head, says nothing. Only waits.

In the silence, intimate more than words, his hands leave her waist to draw over the small of her back. One of his hands smooths up underneath the back of her t-shirt. She shivers at the slightest touch. He heard once that losing virginity (the social construct that it was, is, he stopped caring about human society's current morals centuries ago) made the body hyper-aware of every touch. He is painfully aware of everything about this moment. The temperature of her body, now equal to his own. Her soft hum becoming a sigh, a moan, cold and fresh in his ear as his other hand slides underneath those grey shorts, caressing her backside with languid touches, only occasionally sinking his fingers into her skin, kneading the flesh. He urges her body closer to his, down towards the growing bulge in his trousers. She bites at his lobe in retaliation, exchanging the bite for a kiss at the edge of his jaw.

He turns his head as his hands find her hips. She bucks, grinds, on him. Her fingers flutter over his shirt, and the buttons are soon scattered across the kitchen floor as the material rips into two. The haze in her eyes fades.

"Oh shit," she says, still breathless, and to him it is all kinds of erotic as she bites her bottom lip, unable to cease her body from writhing on him, her lips taking a taste of his neck even as an apology for the ruined shirt comes from those same lips.

"I've got plenty," he says, cutting off the apology and wrapping her legs around his waist. With ease, he stands. It's not their first time together, exploring each other's bodies, but it's certainly the first time he's been this impatient. Usually, he walks the pace of a mortal, occasionally nipping at her neck as she pleads for him to hurry. Usually, he holds her with one arm against the wall of the flat, bringing her to climax with his fingers and grinning madly as she curses his name.

The adverse effect of those grey shorts, however, is present as ever, an itch he needs to scratch. Perhaps more than that. Much more. Whatever it is, if he doesn't scratch it, at least broach it; it's entirely possible he'll go insane, clawing and biting at her body, with the full knowledge that immortality gives him all the time in the world to take her as roughly, as hard as he wants. Just to test her. See how far this supposed 'loyalty' of hers goes.

The bedroom door slams open behind them; he drops her on the bed then drops to his knees before her. She sighs and touches herself with him before her, her feet planted into the duvet. He blinks.

She can read his thoughts. And she loves every last idle desire for depravity. Of course.

He growls as he grabs her by her ankles and pulls her until her knees are wrapped around his shoulders, her heels digging into his back. She wiggles in anticipation, still agonisingly covered by the short grey shorts.

That's solved with a flick of a wrist. A rip and the shorts are in tatters at her sides.

"Sherlock – I liked those," she whines.

"I liked my shirt," he retorts, tasting her. She's wet, aching for him and it's the grunt of an animal he gives as he tongue-fucks her. She bucks. He lifts his eyes to watch as he takes her clit into his mouth, slipping his fingers inside her. Her hands hold the duvet, light as she possibly can. He understands the effort. (They've begun to get rather odd looks from the cashiers at their local supermarket.) So he doubles his. Damn odd looks. He wants her thrashing, he wants her to scratch holes into that damn duvet, to destroy it until they're surrounded by goose feathers and cotton scraps. He lifts his head, climbing over her body as he crooks his fingers within her, urging her closer. He wants evidence that he can make her as insane as she does. Her hand flies towards his neck, tugging him towards her mouth. She tastes herself eagerly on his tongue, panting, moaning but never letting go. He happily stays with her as she gives a muffled cry as she trembles against his hand.

Wordlessly, he stands up away from her. He shrugs the destroyed shirt from his shoulders; it pools on the floor. He toes off his shoes and socks, his trousers and pants coming next. Molly, meanwhile, scrambles to lie fully on the bed.

He stares at her bare body, pliant and obedient and wanting, knowing exactly what she expects. His cock in her cunt, her legs around his waist, her nails at his back, drawing blood from his shoulder blades. Her teeth on his neck.

He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between her thighs. She eyes his cock hungrily.

"I'd say you were eager for my cock, Molly," he says softly, touching himself, drawing his hand up and down his length. "But eager is kind. You're desperate for this, aren't you Molly? My sweet immortal slut. So desperate to be filled, desperate to be fucked and shown exactly who you belong to." As she speaks, she slightly squeezes her thighs together. Her right hand slides over her hip, dancing towards her groin.

A blur of his hand and he has her disobedient right hand pinned hard above her head. She whimpers, eyes on his hand which he keeps moving against his shaft. If he comes over her, so be it. It'll be a lesson taught, that she cannot make him this mad, derail his mind this much, without expecting some kind of consequence.

"You won't come," he snaps. "Only I can make you come."

"Yes," she breathes, nodding furiously and he remembers that she's a newly turned. She's so much stronger than him. She could bring about his destruction in a moment if she so wished. The thought makes him harder than ever. "Yes, yes of course. Only you Sherlock, only you—"

He stops his hand on his cock. Reverently, he holds her hips. His immortal strength flows through him. He flips her onto her stomach, then positions her hips up high, her thighs spread. Pliant as she is, she obeys to his indulgence with an arch of her back, pressing her hips against his hard cock, begging.

"Please, please my darling," she whispers, "please – give me your cock, give me all of it—"

Babbling. Falling to bliss. He has an eternity of her bliss to revel in. He slides his hand between her thighs, testing her wetness. He switches his hand for his tongue and she yelps, sensitive to his touch, then laughs, sinking into the familiarity.

"May I try something?" he asks, voice low and throaty, dropping a kiss on her left cheek, on her lower back. She mellows with another laugh. She trusts him, trusts him. The fact of her trust, the fact that he possesses the privilege of that trust, is a forever absolute. Something he will never forget and always believe in, even when he will struggle to.

Her body twitches, a gasp coming, at the first touch of his tongue to her ass.

"Do you—"

"Don't stop, don't you dare stop," she barks, her forehead dropping onto the pillow. He grins, a finger rubbing circles at her clit as he continues to tongue her ass, opening her up, exposing her until she's nothing but his, his to play with and pleasure.

She groans, knuckles white as she grasps at the duvet. Goose feathers explode from beneath the material, dangling in the air and falling like snow. She moves against him, obeying his silent commands, using her gift and channelling it beautifully.

She was his light as a mortal. It is the same now, but immortality awaits them. He ceases and her whole body relaxes, her head turning until her cheek is pressed against the pillow.

"Fuck me." She murmurs the plea. It gets stronger when she repeats it, over and over. "Fuck me, fill me—"

"Oh I'll do exactly that, Molly Hooper," Sherlock says, reaching forward and grasping locks of her hair. She lifts her head, arches her back until her back is pressed against his chest and his manic grin is at her ear. "I'll fuck you so that you cry and scream and everyone knows what a whore you are for me, and me alone."

He is as selfish as they come, and this is the only time he indulges that selfishness. When he orders her onto all fours with thighs spread and shaking. Gripping her hips, he sinks his cock into her and she almost screams with the relief. He sets a punishing pace, the bed creaking dangerously underneath their mutual strength, Molly flailing out and holding the headboard with one hand. The wood crunches underneath her grip, falling into splinters onto the pillows.

"Sherlock, Jesus, Sherlock, your cock – it feels so good—" she's half sobbing, and he's made her like this, which fills him with a ridiculous primitive pride, "Harder, fuck me harder, I can take it, give me your cock, every – everything—"

He obeys without question, more than prepared to give her anything she wants and more if she demands it. Bending over her body, as she brushes her hair from her neck, he bites down. Her blood is thick and dark like treacle, still lingering on the side of human, sweet and sickly. As the venom sinks down, it'll become congealed and bitter like any other vampire. So he savours the taste and commits it to memory, the entire infrastructure of the East India Company easily sacrificed for a portion of Molly Hooper.

Her fingers thread into his curls, clutching as he drinks, body keening as she comes. His hips judder erratically and come to a still as he gives one final irregular thrust, climaxing, his tongue replacing his teeth at her neck. Her blood drips onto the pillow.

Together, they sink into a ruin of splinters and goose feathers.

"Molly?" he says a few moments later, the both of them drifting off into sleep among the destruction. He brushes his fingers over her long brown hair. He catches a stray goose feather. Smiling, he tucks it behind her ear.

"Mmph?" she says, her arm thrown over his stomach and ankle curled around his. Her other leg sticks out, bent at the knee. Sprawled, exhausted and sated.

"Happy anniversary."

"Hm?"

He smirks. She can barely manage single word sentences.

"It's been six months." Since he turned her.

"Well if you insist on doing that for every anniversary," she murmurs (he blinks), stirring enough to smile up at him, "that bodes incredibly well."