Disclaimer: This fanfction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Written for the lovely MizJoely- Thanks, Cap'n

~ THE TRAP IN THE HONEY, THE HONEY IN THE TRAP ~

Club Diogenes

Soho, London

August 8th, 1981

11pm

"This is the place."

And Agent Anthea Winters turns to soon-to-be- Agent Molly Hooper. Gestures to the building to her right.

Said building seems to throb in the sultry, buzzing night air of the city, music and people spilling out of it onto the pavement and even the road. The band playing inside are popular, they've been on Top of the Pops; For that reason there are crowds of teenagers and twenty-somethings waiting to get inside, a seeming army of huge, heavily-built bouncers standing at every door and making sure that nobody who hasn't paid their entrance fee gets to sneak in-

One small, thinly-built boy attempts it and both Winters and Hooper watch as a bouncer picks him up and literally tosses him out onto his backside.

"Don't even think about it, sunshine," the bouncer drawls as the boy gets to his feet and starts swaggering belligerently towards him. "I've got snots bigger than you- On your bike, son."

The words don't seem to register with the boy- he's too drunk to really understand the danger, Molly thinks- but even as he tries to make a run at the bouncer a slim, elegantly dressed figure darts out around the giant. Steps in front of him.

Thin and pale and dark-haired, she smiles as sweetly at him as a child.

The boy comes to a stand-still, staring at the newcomer stupidly, and beside her, Molly feels Agent Winters tense up. Swear under her breath.

This is Molly's first sight of their target in the flesh.

This is her first sight of the monster that is Eurus Holmes.

Holmes seems unaware of the boy's befuddlement; rather she walks towards him, smiling sweetly and holding her hand out. In the pale streetlight she seems like a princess from a fairytale, a creature from another world. It's hard to believe, Molly thinks, the atrocities she's been responsible for. "Why, aren't you lovely?" she's saying and the boy nods in answer. Stammers an uncomfortable, "Ta, love," in a thick Yorkshire accent.

"You're not so bad yourself," he adds.

At the sound of it Holmes claps her hands in delight.

"Why, you're new!" she exclaims. "New to London! New to everything!" At her pleased response, the boy's cheeks heat. "I love new things, don't I, Harold?" she says and the bouncer nods stiffly. Makes a point of turning his attention away.

Eurus' smile has turned coy.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" she asks.

"Rober- Robbie," the boy answers shyly.

He looks rather smitten, Molly thinks.

If he knew the death-toll his lady love was responsible for, he'd not be looking so taken as that.

"What a lovely name," Eurus coos, "Why, I'm certain that Jim and I can find a use for a sweet little thing called Rober-"

"He's just a junkie, sis."

The voice is baritone deep and bored, the accent impeccably clipped, like something out of an old Pathe newsreel. As Molly watches, a tall, whip-thin young man in a sharp suit saunters past Harold The Giant Bouncer. Takes a drag of his cigarette.

He throws an assessing look at the boy before gesturing to him to scarper, ignoring Eurus' pouting objections and Molly swears she feels her bloody ovaries go boom.

The man is bloody gorgeous.

Unaware of his being watched, the newcomer stares the boy down. For a moment the boy looks like he's going to take exception at the interruption, but then the newcomer flicks the cigarette butt at him, hissing something unintelligible, and he pales. Backs away.

After a moment, he breaks into a run, disappearing into the night.

"Not fair, Sherlock," Eurus mutters to the newcomer. She's crossed her arms and is glaring at him. "You know I was only looking for someone to play with-"

"You play with another underage boy, Euri," the newcomer answers, "and it'll be the Old Bill coming in here, not me. Asking questions. Poking their nose in." He shrugs. "Surely, sis, you don't want that- Not after all that trouble with that Lestrade git?"

And he lights another cigarette. Takes a long drag of it. The smoke curls around him in a halo and there's something about it… Something Molly finds herself unable to look away from.

Christ, she can't help but think, he is fit.

He's also apparently the brother of a murderous sociopath, her inner monologue points out tartly, but Molly elects to ignore that.

Rather, she turns her attention towards Sherlock: Eurus is glowering up at him but when he says nothing she shrugs, saunters up to him and removes the cigarette from his mouth, lifting it to her own to take a drag before handing it back.

She presses a kiss to his cheek, staining it red with her lipstick.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're no fun, little brother?" she says archly.

Sherlock person merely smiles and Molly- much to her consternation- feels an entirely inconvenient fluttering in her belly at the sight. She's beginning to suspect that her volunteering for this mission might not be the best idea, not if this is the way she reacts to that man. "I'm plenty of fun, sis," he's saying. "For the right sort, that is."

And he waggles his eyebrows devilishly at his sister. With a snort and then a flounce she stalks back inside her club, leaving her brother outside grinning.

He rakes a hand through his dark curls, ignoring the admiring looks from the women outside before sauntering back into the club-

"Try not to get killed or shag him," Winters says tersely, reading her expression. "Make sure you plant the device where nobody will think to find it, and then get the Hell out."

And with that she pops the BMW door open and gestures for Molly to take her leave.

The young would-be agent squares her shoulders and grips her bag, before walking into the lion's den…

Christ, Sherlock thinks, I'm bored.

Behind him he can hear the band- passable, ska boys just up from Coventry- but though he can appreciate their energy he can't bring himself to really give them his attention.

Not when he has so much going on at the moment. Not when he has to watch his sister so closely.

She's been getting worse for months now, and her new husband's not exactly helping with her condition-

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Eurus and said husband, Jim, sharing a bottle of whiskey, canoodling together in one of the club's darker corners. Old Man Hendrix from across the river is sitting with them, probably trying to finagle himself more say in how his manor's run, and when the newlyweds spot his attention they all raise their glasses to him. Indicate that he should join them.

Sherlock would rather have a nail shoved through his hand than join in the plotting at that table again, but he can hardly say that.

Instead he shrugs, effects a mild grin- one of his specials- in order to ward off their summons. While Euri seems content to let it lie he sees the familiar ire spark in Jim's eyes- He doesn't like the idea of being disobeyed. Gets himself into quite a flap about it, Sherlock can't help but note, though wee Jim's whimsical Gaelic moods are not the sort of thing Holmes has an interest in hearing about, not tonight-

So rather than get into an argument, he gestures to the dance-floor. Picks a person at random and points to them, indicating that he's rather… busy at the moment. Busy in this case being a euphemism for On The Pull, So Kindly Bugger Off.

Old Man Hendrix guffaws and gives him a thumb's up but the sharpness in Jim's expression doesn't abate.

"Don't you love your sister?" he mouths sarcastically, causing Eurus to slap his arm lightly and scold him. Jim stops this by his usual method- Snogging his wife silly. Within moments the pair of them are all over each other, completely oblivious to Old Man Hendrix- Or anyone else, for that matter. It's really quite the spectacle.

They haven't been this bad, Sherlock thinks, since before Moran got taken out by Shan's boys.

While both their attentions are diverted- and knowing they won't stay diverted unless he gets out of the line of fire- Sherlock makes his way over to the random woman he'd pointed out. Slides deftly into the pit of heaving bodies which is the dance-floor and takes her hand. He leans down to whisper in her ear, making sure to make eye-contact as he does so.

If he's looking for a cover, after all, he'll have to make this appear believable.

Fortunately for him, however, if there's one thing he never says no to, it's a good, sweaty shag.

"Do you want to do something stupid and naked?" he asks her, and to his amusement she blinks at him in surprise.

Freezes.

Stares at him.

Up close she's rather pretty, all big brown eyes and peaches and cream skin; she smells of vanilla and lemons, and her skin-tight black dress shows a figure that's just the sort he likes- This is a lovely handful of a woman, and no mistake-

At this thought- and to his surprise- Sherlock feels himself starting to get hard.

Turns out a nice, dirty screw might be just what he needs to take the edge off tonight.

"Don't you- Don't you even want to know my name?" she asks, her voice amusingly high and at this he shrugs. Grins.

There are advantages to being the Boss's little brother- You know how much is expected of you, and what you can get away with.

"Does it matter?" he asks airily. "I like what I see- You like what you see-" She opens her mouth to correct him and he shakes his head. "Your pulse is elevated, princess," he tells her. "Pupils dilated, breathing shallow, and you can't stop staring at my arse- I could see you across the room."

This latter is, admittedly, a guess but it's clearly a good one: The girl's face goes bright red.

"So," he says. "You. Me. Something naked and stupid. Chemistry's right, and what else are you going to do on a Saturday night, hmm?" He grins. "Come on- be wicked.

You'll like it, I promise."

The girl blinks at him slowly, looks him up and down. He straightens up, lets her ogle her fill- He learned that with Irene, you have to give a woman a look at what she's getting.

"Do you have any condoms?" she asks, and at this his opinion of her intelligence goes up.

"I'm on the Pill," she says, stammering slightly, "but, well, there's-"

"There's more can happen to a woman than getting knocked up," Sherlock finishes for her. "I know- princess."

And he reaches into his wallet, pulls out a rubber. He has the pleasure of seeing her cheeks heat at the sight, something which makes him feel unaccountably… pleased. It's been so long since he's been pleased by anything that it takes him a moment to recognise the emotion for what it is.

"Are you ok?" the girl asks, and at this Sherlock realises he'd been buffering again. Inwardly he curses himself- It's a dangerous thing to do in public, with the sort of company he keeps.

Life with Eurus means always being on his guard, he knows that.

"Just fine," he lies, making sure to loosen his body language. Look confident. One must always endeavour to look confident, in this shark tank of a club. "So- You. Me. Debauchery. Yeah?"

The girl's cheeks heat beautifully but she nods. Bites her lip. "Is there… Is there somewhere private we can go?" she asks. "I'm- I'm not really taken with the idea of shagging in a toilet stall…"

With a slow, wry smile it occurs to Sherlock that there is indeed somewhere they can go. Somewhere nice and quiet. Somewhere totally secluded. Somewhere which will piss of wee Jimmy no end.

Decision made, he takes the girl's hand and brings it to his lips. Presses a kiss to it.

"I know just the place, princess," he says. "Follow me…"

And hand in hand, he and the girl make their way through the club to Jim's office.

What are you doing?

What. Are. You. Doing?

And Molly takes a deep breath, tries to calm her pounding heart. Tries to remember her mission.

She looks at the broad shoulders and perfect, rounded arse of the man in front of her and she gives it up as a lost cause.

Her mouth is dry and her palms are sweating, but she doesn't even think about stopping- She's promised Agent Winters she'd help her nail the Holmeses and she has no intention of letting her mentor down. Not when such an opportunity has fallen into her lap. Besides, she tells herself, she's in no imminent danger; she has her sidearm in her handbag if she needs it, right along with the bug she has to plant. She will be fine. The music from the club has faded as she moves deeper into the building; She's now clearly in the office space, a warren of dingy corridors and greying Victorian splendour which is utterly at odds with the neon brightness of the Diogenes dance-floor-

Overhead, a dull yellow bulb flickers and she might be wrong, but she thinks… She thinks she can see streaks of red on it.

She doubts those streaks are red paint, or nail varnish, and the thought makes her gulp.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seems like he hasn't a care in the world. He walks in front of her, his stride confident, a slow, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. Every so often he looks back at her, a dark, teasing thing which scalds her insides and makes her blush. She can feel his big, warm hand enveloping her small one and even that insignificant touch is driving her wild: Her mind keeps conjuring what those large, calloused hands would feel like, touching her all over. Squeezing her breasts, her arse, her thighs… What would those fingers feel like, sliding inside her..?

"You're new to this, aren't you?" he says out of nowhere and she's so surprised she blinks at him, for a horrible moment thinking that he'd guessed what she's supposed to be doing here…

At her look he smiles though. Moves closer to her.

Not sure what to do, Molly totters a couple of nervous steps backwards, stopping only when her back hits the wall.

She stares up at her companion with eyes which she suspects are as wide as saucers, clutching onto her handbag for dear life. Her expression must please Sherlock however, for with slow, sinuous grace he stalks towards her. Presses their palms together and then links their fingers, his greater weight pushing her hands to her sides and caging them against the wall. Beside her body.

He has her pinned utterly and despite herself Molly likes it, though she knows she probably shouldn't.

The feel of his lips against hers makes her body warm and loosen and melt; when he pulls away she gives a disappointed little moue of disappointment which she can't believe she uttered aloud. Smile widening, eyes still on her, he lowers his head and slowly, oh so slowly brings his lips to her throat. Then her earlobe. Then the valley between her breasts. She lets out another moan at the thought and he grins, presses his half-hard cock against her hip and she can't help it, the sensation causes a rush of wetness between her legs…

It's in this moment that Molly realises she's not really in charge of herself any more.

In the next moment she realises that she doesn't care.

For Sherlock is pressing against her. Kissing her. Teasing her. "You are new to this," he murmurs, sliding his body even closer to hers. His hands have slid up and they're kneading her breasts through her dress, his fingers pinching the nipples lightly. He ruts slightly into her; when she reciprocates, her hips moving in time with his, he licks a path along her pulse-point and again she moans. All she can do is nod dumbly to his question- "Not really my scene this, sneaking off into back-rooms with gorgeous men-"

His eyes warm at her babbled words and she's not sure whether she wants to kiss him or slap him.

"So you think I'm gorgeous, do you?" He presses a kiss to her nose. "What an observant girl you are."

And he leans down again, runs his nose along the edge of her chin before pressing himself more tightly against her. Kissing her more intently. His hands steal underneath her skirt to stroke her thighs and, her own hands released, Molly wraps her arms around him. Pulls him good and close.

With a small, pleased grunt he gives in, allowing her the movement; her fingers trail up his nape to thread through his hair and she's rewarded for this by a low, decedent moan.

This time it's her turn to grin.

"Like that, do you?" she inquires innocently, but rather than answer Sherlock lets out a growl. Grabs her and swings her into his arms.

He kicks his way through the door to his right, doesn't even bother to turn on the lights: The streetlamps from outside illuminate a sofa, two chairs and the largest desk she's ever seen.

"Let's see how clever you are," he hisses, "when I'm making you moan."

And without any further ado, he tosses her onto that big, impressive desk. Her arse has barely made contact with the wooden surface before Sherlock is on her, his mouth on hers, his body flat on top of hers.

With impatient hands he grabs her underwear, tugging it roughly down and off her (she has to raise her arse off the wood to help him). Her knickers are swiftly followed by her tights and shoes before he roughly pries her knees apart and steps between her thighs.

She can feel the rasp of his trouser fabric against the delicate skin of her inner thighs and the sensation makes her so, so wet. Not to be outdone she reaches down, begins opening his belt but he slaps her hands away. Grabs her wrists and once again pins them to her sides-

"I decide when you get your treat, princess," he says darkly, his grin sly. Smouldering. "I decide when you've earned it- Me and nobody else."

Molly tries to gather her focus, glowers at him. "And what do you think I'm going to do to "earn it," eh?"

His answering grin is dark and sinful as the devil himself's. "I think," he tells her, "that you're going to scream for me- princess."

And with slow, sinuous grace he pulls her to the edge of the desk by her knees, sits down on the wing-chair behind it. As Molly watches- his eyes are impossible to look away from- he lowers his head to her bare mound and presses a single, chaste little kiss just above her slit before quickly, deliberately darting his tongue inside her. Licking her cunt before blowing softly on the trail of wetness he's slicked onto her.

The sweetness of it makes her toes curl.

Before she can react, he repeats this manoeuvre; the invasion of his tongue is quick, unexpected, and despite herself Molly jerks at it.

When she tries to sit up however he presses her back down, leans over her again.

Still holding eye-contact he sits back down. Darts his tongue inside her again, licking delicately around the rise of her clit before sucking suddenly. Pulling that little nub of pleasure against his teeth and making her hiss in bliss. Again she tries to sit up, again he pushes her back onto her back. Again he slides his tongue inside her, and again he suddenly sucks sharply, the sensation of it so good this time that Molly's hips jerk against his mouth, her arse thrusting up lewdly off the desk. It makes- It makes her feel like a slag-

"That's it, sweetheart," he whispers, "that's it, you let me have my fun now…"

And without another word he leans down and starts licking her again. Suckling her again.

He takes his big, calloused hands and spreads her lower lips wide for him, licks and kisses and nips at her until she's a writhing, heaving, breathless, helpless mess.

Molly gives herself over to it, moaning the entire time.

For her breasts feel heavy, her nipples aching points; she grabs them. Squeezes them with her own hands. She arches her back and tosses her head, her eyes tightly shut at the feel of what he's doing to her. His tongue works inside her, over and over againl Every time she thinks she'll come he pulls back, lets her arousal and frustration mount. Every time she tries to force herself over the edge he punishes her, slaps her inner thigh lightly and telling her to hold herself still or he'll stop. It's agonizingly good, Molly thinks- So near and yet so far from bliss, so ready for it and yet somehow not wanting it to come yet-

And then suddenly, when she's near boneless and delirious from pleasure, suddenly his tongue is gone.

So are his fingers.

Suddenly he's tearing open a condom wrapper and sliding the rubber on himself, just before he grabs her off the table and hauls her right into his lap like she weighs nothing.

She lands in his lap with a startled gasp, their faces eyelash to eyelash.

His breath and his kiss are hot, scalding against her skin. They wrestle and writhe together and and then suddenly he's opening his fly. Pulling her close to him. At his urging Molly doesn't think, she doesn't ponder, she just spreads her thighs and sinks down on his cock, sighing as he enters her. Moaning aloud at the feeling of being filled by him.

It's hot.

Wet.

Sweaty.

Delicious.

Utterly debauched and utterly decedent.

He fills her up and spreads her open for him.

The sensation of him moving inside her is so, so good that it makes her want to keen.

And keen she does. Moan she does. With shaking hands she rocks her hips just so as and as she presses sharply down on her clit, she does indeed scream with her orgasm, just as he'd promised. What makes it even better are the filthy, lewd things he's muttering in her ear. Her climax bursts through her, turning her limbs to butter even as Sherlock moans, hisses a string of profanity before thrusting up more sharply into her. Fucking her roughly. Taking her more roughly.

"Now it's time for my treat, princess," he hisses.

He drags her hips down to smash against his body and take in more and more of him.

"That's it," he growls, "that's it, you fuck me harder- You fuck me like I need it, princess- You fuck me good and proper-"

And he redoubles his pace. Becomes even more frenzied.

He keeps gasping and moaning, pulling her hair and nipping at her throat.

His arms are like a vice around her and they just pull her downward, forcing her to take more of him- More of him- MORE- MORE-

"More," she can hear her own voice mewling, "More, I need, more of you-"

"There isn't any more, princess," he snarls into her ear, and at those words she comes again.

This time it's sharp, emotive. Glittering and jagged as diamonds.

Molly tosses her head back and lets herself be swept away by it. Lets it tear all the stress and pressure and feeling out of her and toss it out into the air as if she's nothing more than a handful of dust. A handful of wind.

It feels like nothing she's ever encountered before.

Sherlock must feel it too for he also hisses, his lips drawing back from his teeth and his face contorting in pleasure and lust. His fingers dig into her bare arse so hard his nails leave scratch marks behind them and as he empties himself into her he keeps thrusting, trying to make the pleasure last. Trying to keep on making her moan for him some more.

It's sharp. Delicious. Filthy.

When he finally stops moving Molly feels like she's run a marathon.

Molly stares at him, her body slicked with his sweat and his juices, and though she knows she really should do now, she still can't bring herself to care.

She doubts she ever will do.

For a precious few moments he holds her there in his lap, his eyes fluttering closed, his fingers tracing patterns on the bare skin of her shoulders…And then just as suddenly he's picking her up. Dumping her back on the desk.

Standing up.

There's an en-suite at the side of the office and he tugs off the condom, disappears into it to (presumably) dispose of the rubber and freshen himself up a bit.

Molly hears the sound of a toilet flush and running water. As soon as the door closes she gets to her feet. Shrugs on her shoes and goes hunting for her handbag.

By the time he comes out she's planted to bug Agent Winters sent her in with and she's halfway through the Diogenes, knickerless with her shoes in her hands and the certain knowledge that she just shagged a criminal in the course of an investigation.

No, not a criminal, a criminal mastermind, right hand to the most vicious gang boss in London.

But all she can do is smile at the feeling of his hands still imprinted on her body.

All she can think about is how little she regrets this, and how much she wants it to happen again…

By the time Sherlock exits the bathroom the girl is gone, and all that's left of her are her knickers, the scent of her perfume and the thick, lovely stink of sex which wafts through Jim's office.

Feeling oddly pleased and thoroughly sated, he pockets her knickers and struts out, back to the Diogenes dance floor. Back to his sister's empire and his shark-tank club.

He grins the whole way.

By the time he steps out into the club proper he feels lighter, pleased by his choice of encounter and even more pleased by the thought of how pissed off Jim's going to be when he goes back to his office- His Princess certainly made her mark in there-

It'll be a year before he sees her again, and this time it'll be in a courtroom.

He and Eurus will be in the dock, charged with the murder of their prick-of-a-brother Mycroft, that bitch Anthea Winters having put them there- That bitch and her traitorous, whorish little friend.

His princess will be in a witness box this time, and as soon as he recognises her Sherlock knows what questions he's going to have his counsel ask… Just as he knows that she's going to deny it…

Fortunately for him, however, Agent Molly Hooper's rather more unpredictable than he might have otherwise guessed…