Sherlock had stormed out of the reception like the big drama queen John had accused him of being. No one followed him and he quickly reached the train station and went back to London.

Now, the following morning, he sat on the floor in front of his couch. He was dressed in his comfy trousers and dressing gown. No point getting dressed for staying at home moping. The television was on but even Jeremy Kyle couldn't help today. Honeymoon was a stupid word. What did it even mean? Maybe the moon was made of honey, manufactured by giant space bees. Although, if that were true, he'd probably know it.

Mary was great – he was happy to admit it. She was perfect for John and she even tolerated Sherlock's occasional comments. But it wasn't the same. John was gone…gone from Baker St. And now, if there was a case, he'd have to text him and wait for him to come over. Tedious.

Sherlock stayed on the floor, hugging his knees and staring, uncomprehending, at the tv.

Molly had enjoyed the wedding more than she expected, despite the obvious attention Sherlock had paid the bridesmaid. Tom was well behaved apart from the unfortunate "meat dagger" incident. Murder had been averted. But her enjoyment was put on hold when she saw how sad Sherlock looked. They were all on the dance floor. She saw him leave. Molly wanted to follow him but it would be rude to leave Tom on his own. After a few more dances, she'd realised Sherlock had not returned, and presumed, quite rightly, that he was off somewhere in a huff. As she lay beside Tom that night, having rebuffed his advances, she came to a decision.

But when she came down to breakfast the next morning, Sherlock was still absent.

He heard the door open, a brief exchange and a different set of footsteps come inside. She stepped lightly on the stairs. He could imagine just the tips of her toes on each step as she ascended. What would be her ploy? A case? Something fun to study in the lab? Well, it wouldn't work.

"Sherlock, can I come in?"

"It's open."

Molly entered the room. Her hair was pulled into a loose plait and slung over one shoulder. She wore jeans and a t-shirt which said "Pathologists do it in morgues". Morbid, even for her. A sudden flash of her recent comment about Tom floated through his mind.

"Well, you look miserable," was her opening gambit.

Sherlock looked down at himself. He did not agree. Ok, maybe he hadn't shaved today but he wasn't quite at the level of unwashed catatonic recluse yet.

"Go away."

She did not.

"Whatever ploy you have won't work, Molly. I'm staying here for a while longer. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

"I wasn't going to stop you."

That stalled his argument.

"Then why are you here?"

"Thought I'd hang around."

Sherlock groaned, ruffling his hair with his hands.

"No, I don't want company."

"You would if I was John."

"You're not John."

"You've called me his name enough times. We're both short. Are you sure?" Her brown eyes twinkled.

"If you're staying, you must be quiet."

She nodded and plopped down on the couch, one leg either side of his body.

Sherlock twisted around to look at her, a very strange angle.

"What? I'm being quiet," she protested.

He shrugged and returned to Jeremy Kyle.

Molly kicked off her sandals. Her toe nails were painted yellow, presumably still from the wedding. Her feet were tanned in a strip across the middle. She was obviously wearing the same sandals a lot. She flexed her toes and then scrunched her feet in closer to him.

"What are you doing?"

"My feet are cold."

"Wear socks then."

"I don't have any here. Please, it won't kill you."

He huffed out a "fine" and put up with the not-unpleasant feeling of her little feet in against his side.

They watched the show in silence. After a few minutes, Molly scooched forward on the sofa and took Sherlock's head in her hands.

"Get off me!"

"I was just going to give you a head massage – thought it might help you relax – but if you don't want me to…" She trailed her fingers through his messy hair.

"I'm not your cat, waiting to be petted," he grumbled.

"Shame, you might find you liked it…"

Molly leaned back against the couch but Sherlock was now uncomfortably aware of her body heat.

Damn her proximity. He liked it better when she was in awe of him, stuttering and doing his biding. No, that wasn't even true. He liked her much better like this. He even liked the way she was running her foot up and down his thigh. What the hell?

Sherlock grabbed her right foot and stroked a long index finger down the sole. Molly tried to pull away from the tickle, more reflex than wish to remove herself. He followed up with a soft kiss to her ankle bone and released her foot.

"Got there at last did you?" she enquired.

He twisted around to look up at her, this time appreciating the unusual angle. He could see the curve of her breasts under her shirt, the end of the plait hanging down, her smiling face, slightly apprehensive.

"Are you trying to start something, Dr Hooper?" he said quietly.

"Me?" she said, the picture of innocence. "You're the one who just kissed my ankle. Tres risqué."

She leaned forward, reaching for his head once more and placed a soft quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. She returned to her original position, searching his face for a reaction.

Sherlock, for his part, said nothing but tugged sharply on her leg, still in his grasp.

"Hey!" she cried, as she was dragged forward and suddenly found herself on the floor beside Sherlock.

"That's a much better position," he pronounced, lunging forward to grab her with both hands.

Two sets of eyes, now on a similar level regarded each other.

"What about Tom?"

Drawing back, Molly waved her left hand across Sherlock's face and he saw that her ring was missing. He actually gasped with surprise. This moping obviously was affecting his usual powers of observation.

"Did you lose it?"

"I gave it back."

"Why?"

"I felt sorry for you, all alone."

"So you felt that was worth ending a year long relationship with a man you planned to marry?"

"There was a longer relationship to bear in mind."

Sherlock suddenly found his pyjama buttons very interesting. He was quite overwhelmed, presuming, not unreasonably, that Molly had moved on and he missed his chance, before he ever realised he wanted it.

"Sherlock?"

He knew then he hadn't said any of that out loud. He lifted his head and smiled.

It was Sherlock who initiated their second kiss, slowly licking his own lips before he brushed against hers, his tongue sliding over hers with delicious exploration. Sherlock pulled her onto his lap, his hand caressing her waist on its way up to cup the nearest breast.

"Oh, do that again! But harder," she instructed.

Sherlock did not need to be told twice.

"I like this bossier you," he commented as he leaned in, nuzzling her neck.

"Well, in that case, I prefer you clean shaven."

She stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"Didn't I just tell you to shave? I'm not having beard rash all over my body."

"Why would….oh…"

Molly made her way down the corridor pausing at the bathroom door to usher Sherlock in. He looked at her in wonder.

"I'll be in your room."

He'd never shaved faster, stopping only to remove his top. No point getting shaving foam on it.

A few minutes later, Sherlock entered his bedroom. Molly was lying on his bed, having removed her jeans but still wearing the horrible t-shirt. She smiled at the contrast – he'd left his top off.

Straddling her, he crouched down towards her face.

"Dr Hooper, are you sure about this?"

"Sherlock, I've just broken up with my fiancé. I've waited a long time. Get on with it."

"You need not have waited so long if you hadn't insisted on my shaving!"

Molly decided there was enough talking and rose up to capture his lips.

This was what it was meant to be like. Giving and taking pleasure in each other, not worrying about the lights being on or the marks and scars of living on her body. Before long, Sherlock's hands dived under her t-shirt, lifting her out of it.

She lay back on the pillow, grinning as he raked his eyes over her now naked torso.

"Oh will you stop looking and touch me already!"

Once again he proved unexpectedly good at taking orders. His hands sought her boobs.

She gasped as one rough hand and one softer one covered her – the marks of a violinist. His body too bore marks of less pleasant experiences. As she reached her arms around Sherlock, Molly's hands glanced over what were the obvious recent scars of a beating.

"When did these happen?"

He raised his head from between her breasts to look her in the eye.

"I'm not really interested in sympathy right now."

"Oh, aren't you? Then why am I here at all?" She moved as if to try and get off the bed but Sherlock held her firm.

"Ok, I might have been lying. I don't want you to leave. I just don't want to discuss being beaten by a Serbian soldier while Mycroft watched."

Molly's face showed alarm at this remark but she wisely chose to move on.

"What are you interested in then?" she continued.

Sherlock smiled broadly at her.

"I should think that was rather obvious."

"Well, perhaps I want to you to e-nun-ci-ate it," she said slowly.

"Perhaps, I would rather show you," he parroted, grinding his hips into hers. Molly reared up, reaching for the drawstring on his pyjama bottoms.

"You'll have to stand up. Laws of physics, despite what happened in Zoolander say these are not coming off you in your current position. And I really must insist they come off."

Sherlock paused to wonder briefly what Zoolander was and then shrugged his bottoms off.

His bed mate stared unabashed at his now naked form.

"You are lovely. I knew you would be. Come here." She held out her arms.

Sherlock complied but took the opportunity to remove her underwear and doing some staring of his own before leaning back down over her.

Molly sighed as he settled between her legs, his arousal very evident, and began kissing her neck.

After a minute, Molly exclaimed "it's no good."

Sherlock coloured a little…

"Well, I'm out of practice but just give me a chance."

"No, dummy, I want to be on top. I'm trapped by your weight and can't touch you properly," she smiled.

She rolled the two of them, with some assistance from Sherlock, so she now straddled him.

"Is that better?"

"Much," she sighed as she leaned over to kiss him, rolling her hips just once to add a bit of pressure.

Sherlock placed his hands on her hips – so large they almost met around her back. His thumb swiped against the surprisingly reddish curls between her thighs. He arched an eyebrow.

"You wouldn't have guessed at the red from my visible hair?"

"No. Quite happy to be wrong though."

"Shall we get on with it then?"

"You don't want me to to…" words failed him for once as he struggled to say what he meant and gestured.

Molly grabbed his long index finger and slid it inside her labia.

"Later, yes, but now I'm ready for the main event. Have been for years."

He nodded, and reluctantly removed his hand to reach for the condom Molly was holding.

"I'll do it."

"Are you always this bossy in bed?" he asked again.

"You'll have to do further testing to find out," she said from under her hair as she deftly performed the task at hand.

"I fully intend to."

"Good. Glad I didn't end an engagement for a one afternoon stand. Ready?"

With Molly's hand around his cock, it was quite hard to force out any words but he managed a grunt as she rose up and guided him inside. They both groaned loudly with the contact, for one so long anticipated and the other so wonderfully unanticipated. Molly closed her eyes and revelled in the moment, until someone became more than a little impatient and thrust his hips upwards. She let out a loud sigh and helped him find a rhythm. Again, Sherlock found himself surprised at the level of abandon Molly had during sex. It was something she never displayed in other aspects of her life. Bracing her hands on his chest, she quickened the pace and Sherlock's fingers stroked her intimately guiding her towards a speedy climax, which he wasn't ready for. Molly came shouting his name. It was a magnificent thing and aroused him even further. She collapsed down his chest as she regained her breath.

"Oh god that was terrific. Sorry I came so fast…"

Sherlock made no response but neatly flipped her over so she was now on her tummy. Leaning over her back, he whispered in her ear.

"I hope you don't mind but I'm not finished and you're more likely achieve a second orgasm in this position."

Before she even had time to finish a delicious shiver at the feeling of his breath on her ear, Sherlock was back inside her. He was very much in charge now. He set a driving pace, completely different from before yet utterly exciting. Molly felt the pressure begin to build in her a second time. She reached own hand down to stroke her clitoris as Sherlock slowed down, hitting his own climax with a single shout of her name. Breathing hard, his fingers joined her own and soon coaxed a second release for Molly. He lay atop her for a moment and then mindful of her previous comment, rolled to the side.

"Well, I hope that was worth breaking it off with what's his name?" he grinned, gently pushing her hair out of her eyes.

"It'll do for a start," she replied coolly, "I think I should feel sorry for you more often!"