Welcome to my follow-up fic to hobbitsdoitbetter's fabulous "The Trap In The Honey, The Honey In The Trap", in which MI5 Agent Molly Hooper and criminal mastermind Sherlock Holmes have an...interesting...relationship. Enjoy!


Part 1: Smooth Criminal

London, Borough of Enfield 1982

She locks the door behind her, leans against it for a moment, not bothering with the lights. Kicking off her shoes and dropping her keys and handbag on the low table sat by the front door, she pads into the kitchen. Toby mews and rubs against her ankles; she leans down to give him a quick scritch behind the ears before reaching for his dish.

She freezes as she realizes it's about half-full when it should be empty, the food too fresh to be leftovers from the morning.

Someone's been in her flat.

Someone's very possibly still in her flat.

Cursing silently, she straightens up, humming a bit as she pretends she only intended to refill Toby's water dish. Putting on a show in case someone is watching her, but praying they're hiding in her bedroom or the loo. Forcing herself to keep her movements casual, she makes her way back into the sitting room - just me, just Molly going to put my shoes away properly and hang up my handbag and oh, by the way, get my gun…

She makes it all the way to the low table before she's grabbed from behind. A hand slaps itself over her mouth, clamping hard, and her arms are wrenched behind her back before she can do more than touch the clasp to her handbag. "Don't make a sound, princess," the intruder hisses in her ear, and Molly's elevated heart-rate goes up to panic speed. She recognizes that voice, the voice of a man she helped put into prison six months ago, supposedly for life.

So why is he here in her flat? How did he escape?

More importantly, what does he mean to do to her?

She finally snaps out of her shock, her training kicking in when he starts to drag her away from the door, further into her flat. She kicks back with her stocking feet and attempts to bite but he's too quick, too ready for her. She manages to nearly knock them to the floor by tangling her legs around his; he grunts and staggers but manages to stay on his feet, damn him. She gets in a few good blows when she twists one wrist out of his hold, scratches his arm and grabs his hair, tugging hard as he stumbles, off-balance and cursing under his breath.

She tries to press her brief advantage by slamming her body against his, trying to overbalance them, knock him to the floor so she can make her escape but by then he's not only regained his footing and tightened his hold on her, but is...grinding himself against her.

Her mind goes blank as she realizes that all their wrestling for control has achieved is turning him on.

Not just him.

Both of them.

Because she not only feels every hard inch of him against her bottom, she can feel her own desire pooling in her sex. He chuckles, his breath hot on her neck, and despite the fear and anger she's feeling, a shiver of desire runs down her spine. A hot flash of wanting that's so wrong, so...depraved...that it's swiftly followed by a cold douche* of shame.

That shame causes her to renew her attempts to escape; she kicks out at the end table, attempting to knock it over, but he swings her around and she misses by mere centimeters. When she goes limp in another attempt to bring him down, he anticipates her move and hauls her tighter to his body. "Now, now," he chides as he manhandles her closer to her bedroom door, "none of that, princess. Remember, you and me, we have unfinished business."

She goes cold at those words, the same words he'd snarled at her on the day the guilty verdict had been handed down. He'd held eye contact as he was hauled out of the courtroom in handcuffs, twisting his head round to do so as the bailiff hustled him and his psychotic sister through the door at the back of the court and off to serve their mutual life sentences.

And here he is now, in her flat, apparently about to make good on the threat behind those words.

And here she is, entirely unsure if she's trembling more with fear...or arousal.

oOo

She's shaking, he can feel the trembling she tries to suppress, and he grins a cold, satisfied grin. She's properly terrified now; good. She bloody well should be. She should be shaking in her boots, begging him for mercy...begging him to fuck her again.

He frowns as he roughly manhandles her into her bedroom; he's not here for that, he's here to deliver a message. To tell her in person about the deal he's cut...and to warn her to stay far, far away from him in future if she values her precious (soft, warm, kissable) skin. It's why he broke in, so skillfully she never even noticed the tool-marks on her lock; it's why he disabled her answering machine so she wouldn't notice the blinking light, hear the message from Agent Anthea Bitch-Queen Winters warning her about his release.

Some things need to be done up close and personal.

It's why he made nice with her pussy (his inner adolescent snickers at this), feeding it and freshening its water to keep it quiet while he waited patiently for her to get home from yet another boring day of paper-pushing.

Her days as a field agent have been - at least temporarily - suspended because of her questionable actions at the Diogenes a year and a half ago. Questionable actions being a euphemism for letting him shag her boneless in Jim Moriarty's office the night she planted the fucking bug under his brother-in-law's desk. His still free as a bird, don't like to get my hands dirty brother-in-law.

Well. That won't last, not if William Sherlock Scott Holmes has anything to say about it.

Still, he can't help but notice that her trembling and increased heart-rate aren't entirely due to fear; there's a faint, delicate aroma which he's intimately familiar with, and he's certain that, should he dip his fingers beneath her skirt, brush his knuckles against her knickers, he'll find a damp spot.

She still wants him. Good. He can use that.

Or so he tells himself, trying to ignore the fact that, in spite of everything-

He still wants her, too.

The bedroom is at the back of the flat, with a single window overlooking the small garden patch, surrounded on four sides by tall brick buildings. The curtains are filmy things that allow enough moonlight to enter that the outlines of her furniture can be seen - the shoddy dresser (a leftover from her childhood she can't bring herself to get rid of, likely belonging to her parents before she inherited it), an Ikea wardrobe, a small bedside table...and the bed. A lovely piece of Victoriana inherited from a grandparent or great-grandparent, with a brass head- and foot-board, a worn quilt neatly spread over it, the pillows covered in frilly pink shams.

He tosses her onto the bed just hard enough to knock the air out of her, to give him time to wrap her slender wrists in the handcuffs - her handcuffs - he's thoughtfully laid aside for this very moment, draped around one of the brass tubes of the headboard and now securing her in place. "Scream and I'll gag you," he advises her, anticipating her very intention seconds before her lips part. No need for any genius-level deductive abilities to predict her next actions, at least not for this moment in time.

And so it proves as soon as she speaks, keeping her voice low and even. Trying not to show how frightened she is. "What do you want?"

He leans over her, resting his hands on either side of her body, grinning suggestively. "What do you think I want, princess?"

"You're no rapist," she blurts out, and this time she's not pretending she's not scared. Suddenly her confidence is back, and he blinks in surprise.

Once again, she's proven herself unpredictable.

"No," he replies, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers. "But I am a murderer, according to your testimony."

"Accessory," she corrects him, and his brows furrow: this is not how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to be terrified, cowed, in fear of her life, begging him not to hurt her.

Not calmly regaining the upper hand with just four words.

She maintains eye contact in the room's dim lighting as she continues speaking, conversationally, as if she isn't handcuffed to her own bed while a man she helped put into prison leans over her. "There's no way you've escaped, Sherlock, even with your contacts. Not this quickly."

"Could have bribed or threatened a guard," he suggests, edging one knee between her legs as he settles more comfortably onto the bed. He dips his head down low and presses a soft kiss to her throat, right above her racing pulse.

Intentions be damned, he's not leaving with just a warning for her to stay out of his way.

"If you'd, uhh, escaped," she gasps out as he switches to the other side of her throat, "I'd have been told. A m-message…" The last word ends on an almost-moan, and he grins and rewards her with a soft nip to her earlobe.

"Turned off your answering machine," he murmurs against her skin, feeling himself grow harder with every word. She shifts her body and he obliges the unspoken request - demand - by lowering himself so that they're touching from chest to groin.

"W-work," she breathes as he grinds himself against her, deliberately teasing. "I'd have heard at the off, the o-office."

"True enough," he concedes, leaning up on his elbows in order to reach the buttons on her blouse. It's colorful, with a bright, cheerful floral pattern, unlike the sober white and grey, high-necked granny-shirts she'd worn at the trial and sentencing. "So I haven't escaped then, you're right."

He unfastens each button with a flick of his fingers, tugging the blouse free from her skirt and spreading it open, resting his palms on her sides and just - barely - grazing the undersides of her breasts with the tips of his fingers. She inhales sharply as he presses a kiss to the valley between her breasts, even more sharply when he slides his fingers up and undoes the front clasp of her prim little white cotton bra. "So why am I here, then?" he mumbles around the nipple he's taken into his mouth.

"Jesus, Sherlock, just shut up and fuck me," she groans, arching her back and grinding her wet core against him. "I promise I'll listen to you gloating about whatever deal it is you cut - but not now. After."

He's more than happy to oblige her.


*This term taken is from Loo & Ben's 2015 Letters Live reading of "My Dear Bessie" and used quite deliberately and against the suggestions by both hobbitsdoitbetter and allthebellsinvenice cause I'm a stubborn wench!