A/N: I've been reading a lot of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series. While this fic does NOT have a sassy time-travelling WWII combat nurse, nor does it have a dashing Scottish Highlander, I was inspired by something that happens later in the series when fate conspires to keep two characters apart for a prolonged period of time.

So, fair warning, there will be angst. But there will be light at the end of the tunnel. I hope!

Please forgive any typos - I'm desperate for a Beta reader. Please contact me here or on Tumblr (MissMollyBloom) if you're interested.

And the title is lifted from a line from Pompeii by Bastille. Sort of.


There was no way he could have known when he woke up that morning that the events to come that day would chart a course not only for his life, but the lives of his loved ones for decades to come. There was no warning, no chance to take extra note of his last few hours as Sherlock Holmes. If he had some word, some prophecy or foreknowledge, he would have paid more attention, would have etched each second into the very foundations of his mind palace. As it was, only brief snatches of the day remained. These moments which seemed simple, everyday, even mundane at the time would be replayed in his memory over and over, warming him on the nights when those memories were all that remained of his former life.

That morning he woke before Molly – something which rarely happened, especially on the days she worked. She was curled up on her side, facing the window. Her untamed hair fanned out over the pillow and Sherlock threaded a strand through his fingers. Hair like golden threads, according to a line he half-remembered from Shakespeare – a Sonnet, or maybe one of his epic poems.

He checked the time. It was just after 5am. Molly's alarm wasn't due for another half an hour. Sherlock smirked, thinking of how best to use that time, and moved closer, wrapping his body around hers. Now sharing a pillow, he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled the intoxicating fragrance. He could smell the vanilla of her shampoo, faded from her shower yesterday morning, mixed with the unmistakable scent which lingered in the sheets after their evening activities.

Their relationship was an accidental success. He'd never dreamed that another human being could stand his eccentricities, but Molly seemed to love him all the more for them. She didn't mind that on some evenings when she joined him at Baker Street, he woudn't acknowledge her arrival, let alone her existence for hours. She was happy to sit at his side even if his body showed no awareness of her presence. He guessed she didn't mind because she knew that at some point in the evening they would retire to bed and he would show her precisely how aware of her his body was. That very same awareness he knew was now pressing against the soft roundness of her backside.

He had mistakenly believed that the body was mere transport, that its needs could be ignored or supressed. And while he could control his sleep and his appetite for a time, he couldn't last forever. So too, it turned out, he couldn't ignore his attraction to the petite pathologist indefinitely.

It happened one night after she joined him at a crime scene at some ungodly hour – or so she'd said when he woke her up with his call. He had begun to rely on her more and more, particularly in such situations when he knew a similar call to John would be met with, at best, a sleep-slurred "fuck off" or, at worst, the long repeated ringing of a silenced phone. John had other priorities – Mary and Joanna – Molly, however, did not.

The scene that night had him frustrated. He knew there was something not right about the body, something he was missing, but he couldn't see what it was – like an encoded message without a Rosetta Stone. If he could just find it, he knew the case would unravel.

Molly sensed it too. They spent hours together scouring the scene for any minute detail to no avail. As a last resort, they had the body taken to Bart's where Molly performed a forensic examination. Once Molly tested a skin sample, she discovered that the body must have been kept at low temperature in an attempt to obscure the time of death. Armed with that knowledge, Sherlock knew one witness's alibi no longer held up and was therefore the killer.

Relieved, Sherlock intended to kiss Molly on the cheek. He didn't know what caused him to deviate from his usual custom, instead placing a firm, closed-mouth kiss on her lips. Molly's eyes widened with shock. Keen to deflect any tension, Sherlock asked if she'd like to grab some breakfast as they'd now worked through the night.

Sherlock was silent as they walked together to the café down the road from Bart's. He knew Molly was attempting the diffuse any awkwardness in her own way – by compounding it with chatter about something. He caught a few words like blueberry, ricotta, frittata, and presumed she was discussing the menu. Sherlock had other words floating unbidden in his mind – soft, sweet, tempting – thoughts about lips he had once foolishly described as "too small".

He'd made a decision, then, fuelled by the lack of sleep and the adrenaline of a case well-solved.

"I don't want to go to the café," he blurted out.

Molly stopped, looking at him in a vain attempt to hide her disappointment.

"Ok. I mean, I understand, you're tired and –"

"No."

"No?"

"I want you to make me breakfast."

When they arrived at Molly's flat, Sherlock lingered in the entranceway, slowly removing his coat while Molly busied herself in the kitchen. Her nerves were written on her face and in the way she bit her bottom lip while she searched through the cupboards. Her fingers drummed absently on the doors. Her hair, freed from the confines of her usual ponytail cascaded around her face while she bent to check the difference between plain and self-raising flour.

Without realising it, Sherlock had joined her in the kitchen. Molly, still fixated on the hunt for food, hadn't noticed how close he was standing behind her until she turned and bumped her nose into his chest. She started to move away, stammering through an apology which was silenced by his lips on hers.

At first, Molly squirmed against him, expressing her shock and confusion at the turn of events. But when Sherlock ran his hands through her hair and began pulling closer to him, she acquiesced, her body yielding to his possession of her as he pushed her back towards the cupboards.

Her lips were as soft as he remembered from their brief kiss in the lab, but he didn't treat them softly. He crushed his lips into hers, showing her the desire he had been denying himself since the night he stayed in her apartment after faking his death – when she stood in the doorway of the spare room, showing such concern for him that all he wanted to do was to invite her into bed with him.

But he didn't.

And when he returned and she was engaged, he cursed every neuron in his brain which caused such a massive miscalculation. He could have had her – and almost lost her.

But now, there was nothing to stop him claiming her as his own as he kissed her, held her, and began shamelessly grinding himself against her.

Molly was the first to break away; her lips, raw from his. He feared for a moment that she might not want to continue, wasn't ready to have him, or worse, had decided that he wasn't worth having at all. But Molly only said one word.

"Bedroom."

It was the first time he'd ever had sex without drugs clouding his perception. Sober, he could take it all in – the feel of her skin on his once the last barrier of their clothing had been shed, the breathless moan she made at the height of her pleasure, the look on her face in that endless moment after everything fell silent.

Later, as their heartrates returned to normal, Molly ran her fingers through his sparse, pale chest hair and muttered something he swore sounded like an apology. He asked her to repeat it.

"It's just, I'm sorry if- I mean – It's been a while," she stammered.

Sherlock couldn't help smiling at the irony. "I'd wager it's been longer for me."

Molly sat up, unable to hide her curiosity from him. "How long?"

"Ten-"

"It's been ten months for me as well." The look on his face silenced her.

"Years." It was a fact. He wasn't embarrassed by it. And judging from the expression on Molly's face, she was impressed that she was the one he broke his vow of celibacy for.

"Ten years?" She smirked.

"Yep."

"You're saying the last time you had sex, Tony Blair was PM?"

"Well, I wasn't thinking about it at the time."

"And Christopher Eccleston was the Doctor."

"Who?"

"Nevermind." Feeling the chill in the air, she pulled the sheet up to cover herself. "So?" She asked, failing to keep her tone as casual.

"So what?" He decided to try playing dumb for once. A first time for everything.

"What did you think?" She wasn't searching for affirmation, rather, a confirmation in words of all he had expressed with his body moments earlier.

He didn't give her words. But he did give her his body, again.

Once he had given in to his desire for her, he couldn't stop. Such was his appetite that Molly joked he was making up for lost time.

Time was certainly on his mind that morning – or, more precisely, the fact that he had less than half an hour before Molly's alarm would steal her away from his bed. He woke her up with soft kisses on the nape of her neck and his hand taking full advantage of the fact she wasn't wearing anything the soft, worn fabric of his favourite grey t-shirt.

Molly's soft moan made it clear that she appreciated the ways he'd chosen to bring her from sleep to consciousness. It didn't take long for her to take full advantage of his desire for her.

Afterwards, Molly's face radiated the warm glow of exertion mixed with contentment. Her skin shined with a thin layer of sweat from the warmth of their joined bodies. She sighed, closing her eyes and smiling. He loved that he could make her smile like that.

Sherlock traced the line of her face, his fingers continuing down her neck, along her clavicle, stopping to cup her left breast. His thumb grazed her nipple and Molly let out a sound of pleasure mixed with pain, pulling out of his grasp.

"Just a bit sensitive." She said in answer to his unspoken query.

"I'll be gentle," he said, and bent to place a small, soft, kiss here his hand had been before continuing to place kisses down her body.

The shrill sound of Molly's alarm stopped Sherlock from reaching his intended goal.

"Christ, it's 5:30!" Molly was across the room in an instant. All thoughts of the morning's activities had vanished. "I've got a meeting in less than an hour," she explained as she buttoned up the crumpled front of yesterday's blouse.

"Why don't you shower here?"

"No point, I don't have any clean clothes."

"Well, you really should fix that, Molly."

"I suppose I could bring an overnight bag when I stay– " His look cut her off. "Oh."

"Do you want to?"

"Do I want to do what, Sherlock?" Molly asked in a tone and with a smile that let him know how much she was enjoying toying with him.

"Molly Hooper, will you move in to Baker Street with me?"

She said her yes with a kiss and with a body that melted into his. All urgency to leave for work was lost as their bodies united to seal the new phase of their relationship.

When they finished, there was no time to bask in the moment. Molly quickly pulled on her stockings, zipped up her skirt, slipped on her shoes and headed for the door. Sherlock followed her, still naked, with the sheet wrapped around him for the sake of the cold rather than any thoughts of modesty.

On his way through the kitchen, Sherlock grabbed a crumpet from the tray Mrs Hudson had brought up for them. He took a bit before offering another one to Molly. She shook her head.

"I've been a bit off breakfast for the last few days."

Sherlock shrugged. "More for me."

Molly laughed. "Do you know I used to think you ran on coffee and cigarettes? That's all I ever saw you have. I never suspected that Sherlock Holmes had such a ferocious appetite."

"And not just for food," he said in his deepest baritone, and kissed her soundly.

"I really have to go," she said as she extracted herself from the kiss. "Come by later?"

"Definitely."

Neither of them knew that when she left Baker Street that morning, it was for the last time.

Later that day, after scanning through his emails and finding nothing worth investigating, Sherlock found himself picturing his new life with Molly. There were already traces of her scattered throughout his flat – a pathology journal next to the lounge, her favourite slippers next to his bed, feminine hygiene products in the top drawer in the bathroom.

Soon his space would be hers, too.

Years ago, the thought of sharing oneself as he had with Molly would have paralysed him with fear. Now, he found himself excited to see the changes she would bring as her life truly became shared with his.

He has always said that being alone protected him – but his life never reflected that. John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, they were all part of what enabled him to survive.

But Molly was something different. Molly helped him live.

He was different with her – even down to everyday things like food. He'd always regarded the needs of the body to be a necessary evil – he'd only ever eat because he knew that he had to. He didn't care what food it was or what it tasted like. But with Molly, he'd stop, savour food, even have an opinion about what they ate. Even down to the crumpet he ate that morning, or the bacon she cooked him the day before, or the frittata they'd shared at Speedy's the day before that, or-

Sherlock stopped mid-thought as something on the edge of his consciousness signalled an unfamiliar connection.

Molly hadn't eaten breakfast in three days. This morning she didn't want a plain crumpet. Yesterday, she said the bacon had an odd smell and threw hers in the bin. He didn't notice anything wrong with it. The frittata they'd shared the day before was all his after she'd only had one bite.

Odd, but nothing to worry about, Sherlock assured himself. Probably just a virus.

The text alert on his phone stopped his thoughts from developing further. It was Molly.

Don't come in. Was just sick. Leaving soon.

Sherlock tried not to imagine the indignity of losing one's stomach contents involuntarily.

She probably had a bug – or food poisoning.

But she hadn't been eating lately – certainly not in the mornings.

And her sense of smell was heightened.

And she had been complaining of headaches.

And her breasts seemed slightly larger and more sensitive that morning – but he assumed he was just imagining things – after all, his perception of her breast size had never been the most accurate reflection of reality.

But she was on the pill. And she took it religiously at 7am every morning.

But she did have a sinus infection a month or so ago. She had been on antibiotics.

And he couldn't remember the last time she had her period.

"Christ."

He cursed himself for taking so long. If it were anyone else the answer would have come to him almost instantly. But with her, he was clouded, like someone with myopia looking at the world without their glasses.

But now it was all too clear.

Molly was pregnant.