Molly came home to her apartment after midnight. There was blood on her clothes, and her hair was dishevelled. She had now been awake for nearly two days, two days in which everything in her world had changed, and would continue to change.

Her fingers fumbled with the key at the lock. She was too exhausted, too numbed by the grief of others, to think about what might wait on the other side of the unremarkable beige door. Giving up, she let her hand drop, the key sticking in the lock. Her bag fell off of her shoulder onto the floor. She rested her head in her hands for a moment, nauseated by the smell of metal on her skin. Taking a deep breath she picked up the bag and attempted the key again, but the latch opened from the inside.

The door opened a crack, revealing nothing. The darkness was unbroken in the small flat, the curtains drawn to block out the streetlamps. His pale hand appeared in the breach, bare wrist and forearm reminding her forcefully of the vulnerable, desperate hours they had shared the night before. His fingers were cool on hers, guiding her in. She allowed him to lead her, seeing nothing once the door shut, closing out the electric glow from the corridor.

His hand slide up to her elbow, up her shoulder, the mate falling urgently on her other side to hold her towards the sound of his thumping heart. She heard unsteady breathing with not even a shadow to mark the source. She could feel his breath on her cheeks, smell his cigarettes and scotch. The slim bulge of his rolled shirtsleeves pressed against her jacket. She could feel the tension, the coiled energy in his muscles radiating through the fabric where they touched.

"Are they safe," he asked in a whisper with a tremor that evoked a last squeeze of pathos from Molly's heart, an organ she thought that had already been numbed.

"Yes, all of them. John refuses to go back to 221B, though, nor is he speaking to anyone. His sister came to pick him up, I called her with his mobile this afternoon," she responded mechanically, keeping her voice as quiet as his.

"Did he go with her?"

"Yes, without a word." There was a hiss, his palms slipped back d own her arms to cup her elbows.

"That's bad." A long pause followed, and Molly wasn't sure how long he was going to hold her there in the pitch black flat. Finally he dropped his head down to rest his forehead against hers. While his hands were cold his face was feverish. She was too tired to analyze the gesture. "But they're safe and alive," he concluded, relief clear in his voice.

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing serious. Are you hurt?"

"No, why would I be?"

"You reek of blood," he said as if he was only now identifying the odour. She raised a hand to touch where her ponytail lay over her breast. It was sticky in places.

"It's yours, from the pints we drew last night. John had it all over his hands and clothes."

She had been touched more, and done more touching, in the last couple of days than in the years since she lost her father. Hugging, hand squeezing, reassuring pats on the arm given or received by John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Preparing Sherlock for his 'death' had been a strange intimacy, physically and emotionally. She wasn't ready to think of it all yet, but now she found herself someone that Sherlock appeared comfortable touching, like Mrs Hudson.

Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness too slowly, and she could not make out his face. She lifted a heavy hand to his cheek and felt cool dampness against the warm skin.

"They're safe," he repeated faintly, then crumbled to his knees. She felt his body crash in hers, his head knocking the wind out of her as his hands slid limply down her body. She stumbled with his momentum, but Sherlock caught himself, fighting for control, and steadied them both. He pressed his face back into her shirt buttons, breathing heavily, clutching at her waist.

"I owe you their lives, Molly. I owe you my life."

He released her, on his feet and away from her so suddenly it left her cold. She could not see him.

His voice came from the other side of the room. "Name anything. Anything."

"I want nothing from you, Sherlock. My help doesn't have a price," she told the darkness, catching her breath.

"There must be something that you could want from m-" He stopped mid-word.

She could hear him approach, taking deep measured breaths.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper." His lips found hers carefully. He was hesitant, tasting her, testing the form of her. Inexperienced as he was purported to be, Molly found his slow, gentle kiss stirring. His hands found the curve of her hips, drawing her nearer to him. Her heart pounding in her ears, she broke away and stepped back, smoothing her blouse down.

"Sherlock, please don't feel the need to prostitute yourself out of gratitude. You're not thinking rationally, you're tired and worked up."

When he finally spoke his voice was deep and rich, aroused.

"I've never kissed a woman before."

"That was your first?"

He cleared his throat. She blushed unseen.

"How did I do?"

"Fine. But don't."

"I thought that would please you."

"A kiss out of obligation? Don't pretend you know things about emotions, Sherlock. I'm happy you're alive. If you're still here in the morning we'll talk more then." There was more heat in the words than she intended, and he caught her hand before she got more than a couple of steps away.

"Wait," he whispered. "I've offended you."

She didn't respond, her hand limp in his.

"Yes, I've offended you. Why?"

"A kiss is not a gift, Sherlock. It's what people do when they're attracted to each other, when they want to express affection. It's extremely personal. You don't just hand them out like tie clips and cuff links for a job well done."

She made to leave him again, but he drew her back to him.

"Well if that is your definition," he murmured, finding her lips again. This time she let him gather her to him, let him explore her with his clever mouth. Her exhausted body was starting a slow burn.

"This is wrong," she protested weakly, leaning her head against his chest to catch her breath. "You're a virgin. You don't want this. You don't want me this way. I know you don't."

He began pressing his mouth down her neck, behind her ear, along her collar. His curly hair tickled her skin.

"Don't I?" He whispered into the hollow under her jaw.

"You're in shock!" She gasped, feeling overwhelmed with longtime want for him, but sincerely doubting his desire. He took her hands and put them palm down on his chest for her to touch him. His heart was beating like a drum.

"So are you," he whispered confidently between kisses. "Would you like me to fetch you a blanket?"

"That's not funny," she threaded her fingers through his hair, "you'll regret this tomorrow. I want you, Sherlock, but you need to think about it first."

"I want to stop thinking. I'm finding this effective." His lips found hers again firmly, insistently.

Oh, I may be on the side of the angels... but don't think for one second that I am one of them. Molly remembered hearing Sherlock say to Moriarty on the rooftop this morning, loud and clear through the speaker on her mobile.

They both wanted this, but for different reasons. She inhaled sharply as his fingers explored up under her shirt. Could she take what he was offering? One night together in the utter darkness, with no romance, no change to their friendship? Was she irresponsible enough to do this with him right now?

"You don't know how," she said finally, not realizing that she had been unbuttoning his shirt until she grazed his bare skin. She felt a moan rumble deep in his chest, and responded with an enthusiastic kiss to his sternum. One arm released her and she thought she heard the heavy fall of wool and clatter of buttons of his coat hitting the tile. He guided her down by feel and lay beside her on the expanse of silky lining and scratchy wool, pillowing her head on what felt like his bundled scarf.

"I've always trusted you, Molly Hooper."