The door to the abandoned basement supply cabinet banged open.
"How much time do we have," Molly asked breathlessly, all but ripping the buttons from his shirt.
"Eight minutes, forty-two seconds. John's checking in with Mary and the baby," Sherlock paused the unzipping of Molly's flounce skirt, "Nine minutes, thirteen seconds if Mary is feeling frisky." He pulled the skirt off, bending to his knees.
"But why would she be frisky, you were only - oh," she moaned, "you were only gone two weeks," she pulled him up with a tug of his curls, making him groan. "What took you so long?"
"Don't be cheeky, It was a 10! And Beaumaris didn't have a Molly Hooper to help me. It took ages to sort out the bones, and I had to lay a trap, then the thing with the peacocks..."
A gentle squeeze brought him back to the present. "Sherlock, I'm sorry I asked. Focus. Seven minutes."
"Right," he perched her on a shelf, using clever digits to efficiently bring them back up to speed before entering her on a moan.
She pulled his hair, he panted in her ear. They exchanged nothings and everythings. It was quick and satisfying, but then they'd practiced a lot. And it had been two weeks.
By the time they were back at the front NSY foyer to meet John, ten minutes and twenty-seven seconds after Sherlock left him, they were mostly set to rights.
"Oh! There you are. Just got off the phone with Mary, she's eager for me to come home," the couple exchanged a knowing look, "so let's get this over with. Molly, what are you doing here?"
"Oh, just dropping off some results. Say hello to Mary for me, and give Izzy a kiss. See you at Bart's," she called as she bounced away.
"Glad to see she's gotten over that ridiculous schoolgirl crush."
Sherlock glared, "It was never ridiculous," he snapped before turning toward the doors and the waiting reporters.
"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes," they shouted as their cameras shuttered away, "can you give us any details on the case? When were you certain it was the Countess who poisoned all those people?"
"I'm sorry, we cannot discuss anything at this moment," John said, pushing through the crowd.
"Mr. Holmes, you look thoroughly shagged!" one of the voices called, "Your buttons aren't even done up properly."
After only a brief pause, all their questions changed.
"Is that what took you and the good doctor so long?"
"Did you have a good tup?"
"Are the rumors true then, are you lovers?"
"Mary is going to have a field day with this," John muttered under his breath.
"Listen," Sherlock's deep voice boomed and everyone shushed immediately, "Anyone who could look at a happily married man and his friend and think 'gay lovers' simply because they lived together and have a close bond is delusional, and obsessed with seeing something where nothing exists," he glanced off to left, into the alley, "Dr. Watson is devoted to his wife, and I -" he held out his hand to the shadows, "- I am desperately in love with my pathologist."
There was a soft gasp, and the slender body of Molly Hooper, specialist registrar, walked forward from her hiding spot, and took Sherlock's hand, "I love you, too."
There was a cacophony from the crowd; questions coming from all directions, cameras fighting for the best shot.
But above all of that, there was an incredulous, "What?"
Sherlock Holmes ushered his pathologist and his blogger into an awaiting taxi, "We'll explain on the way to Baker Street."