The first time is after the Christmas party.

To say that Greg is smitten with Molly would be the understatement of the millennium. He always knew she was uniquely pretty, but he was never quite sure just how fit until tonight. From the moment she takes her jacket off he has to remind himself that he's happily married until Sherlock's deduction on Carol's infidelity with Meg's P.E. teacher tells him otherwise. Molly must be suffering the worst of it, though. Being told your spouse had gone back to cheating was one thing, but being openly mocked for your feelings for an aromantic and sociopathic man-child genius is quite another.

"You always say such horrible things," she says, nearly choking on her rising tears. "Every time. Always. Always."

Of course, Sherlock apologizes and even kisses her cheek, but she probably knows that it was all she is ever going to get from him. Truth be told, Greg can't help but feel for poor Molly. She'd always been very shy and insecure, but he never really knew why.

Unable take more of the painful awkwardness, half the party leaves early and in a huff. Greg, being one of them, decides that the pub is the best way to go, but he is stopped in the hallway by the sound of soft sobs. Around the corner he finds a younger brunette on the stairs with her knees hugged to her chest, sniffling back tears.

"Molly?"

She gasps and turns to him for a short second before wiping away her tears. "Lestrade," she says, trying to hide her broken voice. "I didn't see you there. Sorry."

"S'okay," he says with a weak smile. "And it's Greg, by the way. We don't need to be so formal."

Molly nods and smiles back just as weakly, but she says nothing. Her smile falls quickly. Greg sits next to her and searches his pockets for a tissue.

"Thank you," she sniffs and wipes away her tears.

"You all right?" he asks.

"I will be."

"Don't listen to him, 'kay? Sherlock's a prick. He shouldn't have said any of that."

Molly stifles a cold laughter. Stating the obvious is clearly doing her no favours. "If it's any consolation," Greg continues. "I was really proud of you for standing up to him like that."

Molly's eyes light up. She looks almost like a child who'd received her first compliment from a parent or teacher. "Really?"

"Yeah! I would have punched him, personally, but then there were ladies present. Although, if you want me to next time I see him…"

Molly's laugh is real this time and it brings the first real smile of the evening to Greg's face. Determined to continue to make her smile, he offers her a drink. Her original plan was to head home, buy herself a bottle of cheap merlot to take home for herself over a box of chocolates and an old movie, but Greg insists. Maybe she could use a friend. She nods, takes the hand he offers and they're off to the nearest pub.

"I'm sorry about your wife," she says on the way and suddenly regrets it. She mentally curses herself for making the worst conversation-starter known to womankind. He doesn't seem to mind, though. He simply frowns and shrugs it off.

"S'all right," he says. "To be honest, I probably should have seen it coming. It's happened before and…well, you get used to the inevitable, I guess."

At the pub, Greg orders a pint of lager and Molly a glass of merlot. Neither of them care how drunk they're eventually going to get. Over a lost count of rounds, they enjoy learning more and more about each other by the glass. For example, it turns out that Greg is a keen cook, was quite the punk as a teenager, has a fifteen-year-old daughter named Meg and his biggest guilty pleasure is Depeche Mode. Molly, on the other hand, is an equally keen knitter, could easily spend her last pound on books, has a tabby named Toby and is a closet Saw fan. She admires his passion and he her intellect.

Years from now, neither of them will know how it starts. Maybe it's when his hand is on her thigh or when she looks at him in the way she does, but soon they're kissing in the corner like randy teenagers at a party. Lips part, tongues touch and their hands are everywhere. When they finally remember that there are other people present and that they're in the corner table at the pub, they agree to take a cab to Molly's flat before paying their bill. They continue kissing fervently in the backseat of the taxi.

The door of her flat crashes open when they stumble inside, lips never separating. She nearly loses her balance while they strip each other of their coats until he has her pressed against the wall. She's crushed against him and feels him stiffen. His large hand cups her breasts as he kisses her neck.

"What the hell are we doing?" she asks in mid-bliss.

"I don't know," Greg pants between kisses. "Do you want to stop?"

"No. Do you?"

"God no."

"Good."

He kisses her again, hard and hungry for her. Molly wraps her arms tightly around his neck and gasps when she suddenly feels his hand between her legs. She thrusts involuntarily against it and lifts a leg to wrap around him. She's already moaning. Momentarily, he moves his hand. Molly groans in protest until she feels his warm hand move beneath her pants. She's already wet when his fingers enter her and he uses his thumb to make quick circles on her clit. Greg watches her expression as though in fascination, savouring every sound she makes. It's only now that he realizes just how gorgeous she is when she's aroused and it just does things to him that his touch is doing this to her.

"Kiss my neck," she commands. He obeys.

"Grab my hair," he commands. She obeys.

Her head is spinning. Her grip is tight on Greg's short hair as she feels his skilled fingers send her close to the edge. How did he get so good at this? Perhaps being married has something to do with it, a thought she immediately shakes her head of, but fuck if he isn't damn good at it. It certainly helps that his fingers feel amazing! Warm, nimble and just thick enough. She practically screams when she comes.

"Fuck!" she breathes.

"As you wish," he grins. .

Molly giggles as they kiss again and again, stumbling their way to the bedroom. Toby runs away with a frustrated meow as though to give them some privacy.

"Nice to meet you too," Greg calls back to the brown tabby, making Molly laugh again. He makes a mental note to do so more often. She looks so lovely when she laughs.

Another kiss, then another and then another. Their clothes flop to the ground, leaving a trail to where they stumble and fall onto the bed.

Sex with Greg is very different from sex with Jim or any of her past boyfriends. Jim was more focused on his own pleasure than hers and always fucked her too deep, too hard and too fast. With Greg it's a combination of tenderness and brutality.

He touches her first and makes her come again when he goes down on her. She tries to do the same, but then remembers her abysmal techniques with blowjobs. She gags twice, but Greg doesn't complain like a couple of her past boyfriends did. Instead, he kisses her, rolls her over so he's on top and stimulates her clit while he fucks her deep and hard.

"I'm close," he moans. "You?"

"Yes. Oh god, yes!"

Another kiss, then another and then another. A few kisses and caresses, moans and groans and a few involuntary thrusts later, she comes. He follows three thrusts later with a guttural cry of her name and collapses next to her.

They fall asleep, entangled and drenched in sweat, but at three Molly is roused from her sleep by a parched throat, a beating head and a ringing phone. She struggles through all her pockets until finally finding it buried under Greg's trousers.

Sherlock.

Damn.

"Molly Hooper," she answers. "No, I'm not busy. Mm-hmm. Oh, god! When? Yes. Yes, I can make some time. I'll be there in a few. Yeah. Bye."

It's a body in need of looking at and identifying. Of course, it is. What else would Sherlock need her for? At the moment he's the last person she wants to be with, but it's her job. She may not be good at much else, but she's good at her job.

The lamp turns on when she has her knickers back on. Double damn. She didn't mean to wake him.

"Molly?" Greg murmurs. "What time is it?"

"About three. Sherlock just called, there's a body in need of identification."

Greg rubs his eyes open and looks at her with a frown. "You're not seriously helping him at three in the morning, are you?"

Molly doesn't respond. Greg sits up with a furrowed brow as he watches her dress. He's about to say something, but whatever it is she doesn't want to hear it. She quickly slips into a pair of jeans and a sweater and doesn't bother with her hair or makeup.

"Molls…"

"Greg, don't," Molly interrupts. "And don't look at me like that."

"I'm not…"

"You should probably get dressed too."

Greg thinks for a moment and then groans, rolling his eyes before he grabs his nearest item of clothing. "Shit," he mutters. "I haven't even packed yet."

Molly furrows her brow. "You're still going to Dorset? After what Sherlock found out about your wife?"

"You're helping Sherlock after what he found out about you."

"It's my job, Greg. There's a difference."

Greg sighs heavily and proceeds to dress himself. "Let me drive you there."

Molly shakes her head. "He'll figure us out. Anyway, I don't think either of us are sober enough to drive."

"Yeah, you're probably right about that. At least let me call a cab. I'm a few blocks past St. Bart's anyway."

Molly smiles weakly and thanks him. When they're dressed and ready, Greg calls for a taxi and offers to pay. The ride to St. Bart's is too long and too quiet and Molly has never been more grateful for work than when the taxi stops. She unbuckles her belt and thanks him for the ride. He stops her by taking her hand before she can leave.

"Molly," he says. "Don't let him get to you, okay?"

She's hesitant. She isn't sure if it's because of what Greg is saying, the way he's looking at her or how warm his hand is on hers, but she finds herself slowly smiling.

"I'll try," she says. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well…about your wife…"

But Greg only shrugs. "I dunno. I'll have to confront her about it soon, but…not now, not at Christmas, especially with Meg around."

Molly nods, understanding. There's another awkward silence before she decides that she really should be going. That body's not going to identify itself. Molly leans forward for a hug, not quite expecting a kiss on the cheek, but she accepts. They exchange their "Merry Christmases" before parting and when Molly leaves and shuts the door, Greg watches her until the door to the hospital is closed and then guides the cab driver home.

Both are left wondering what just happened tonight.