Ten minutes later they were sat on the sofa drinking their tea in comfortable silence. Sherlock indicated to the piano in the corner in the room that was covered in papers and books.

"I didn't know that you play the piano."

"Oh, well, yes. A little." She replied, looking down at her hands and setting her mug on the small magazine laden table in the middle of the room.

"I'd like to hear you play." He said, setting his cup next to hers

"Who is it, Sherlock?" She asked suddenly, "The one you keep thinking about." Slowly he raised his hand to her face. He ran his thumb gently across her jaw. Her breath hitched. It was now or never.

"Who do you think?"

She only stared at him, her eyes almost watering in surprise. Neither of them needed to answer the question. He leant in slowly and pressed his lips to her with precision. Interesting. Not unpleasant, in fact, rather enjoyable. She moved against him and he responded to her eagerness. So, she liked it too. They worked together and her arms wrapped themselves around his neck confidently, her chest pushed to his. Well, that was unexpected and… new. She pushed him back onto the sofa and soon they were pressed closely together. It was warm, intimate. It wasn't nearly as bad as John's porn videos had made it out to be. It wasn't vulgar or coarse; it was nice – it was comforting.

They continued for several minutes before, without warning, Molly's hand slipped down his front and grabbed the waist band of his trousers. A white hot flush shot through him. He assumed that this was how it was meant to go. Elevated heart rate, sweaty palms, shaking hands – excitement, anticipation, apprehension. Rerouted blood flow – sexual arousal? A small breathy moan escaped his mouth. Yes, yes it was.

"Sorry." She muttered breathlessly.

"N- hng." Was all that he could manage. A few minutes later his shirt was unbuttoned and halfway off his shoulders and hers lay discarded on the floor. He was trying to think, make deductions, observations, conclusions, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. He had planned on kissing her, but he hadn't even considered the possibility that it could go further – that he would want it to go further.

He wanted more. It wasn't slow like he'd imagined it to be, like in a romantic film. He realised as his trousers were being tugged off that it was fast and frantic, and it was bound to get messy. He had to tell her.

"Please." He whispered. She stopped. He hadn't wanted that, but he had to tell her.

"What? Is there something you need?"

"Yes." He said, sitting up a little more. She stayed and watched him patiently, "I haven't – I've never – I've never done this before."

"I don't usually do this so early-"

"No I mean, I've never – I've not ever – done this." He couldn't think straight. All his common sense seemed to have fallen out of his head, but she had to understand.

"You – you're a – never?" She seemed to be as distracted as he was, but she realised what he meant, "I'm sorry. We can stop." She made to move away, but he gripped her wrist tightly to stop her.

"No, don't stop." He pleaded, "It's just – you lead. I'm lost here." Even in his state he could tell that that had made very little or no sense, but she understood him. His voice broke and he spoke words that he didn't mean to, that he hadn't even been aware that he had been thinking, "I'm scared." She kissed him.

"Don't be."

She always understood him.


The sunlight was painful to his bleary, heavy eyes. The room around him seemed white and far, far too bright. He was in an unfamiliar area, but he could still tell that it was between the hours of eight and nine. He rubbed his eyes and his surroundings came into focus. He was in a bedroom – Molly's bedroom. It was more muddled than his. Photographs, letters and postcards covered the walls. Books were piled high and several items of clothing lay about in a state of disorder; he recognised his own trousers amongst the collection on the footboard. The curtains were open, unusual for a girl like Molly, which implied that she was otherwise occupied last night…

Oh. He turned to his left and there she lay, as quiet and as beautiful as ever. The activities of the night before returned to him and he regarded her blankly. The emotion he was experiencing – was it satisfaction, discomfort, pride? He accepted all three as answers and rolled onto his side to face her. She was a heavy sleeper. Or perhaps she only was after sexual intercourse. He wouldn't know. Her face displayed something akin to modest triumph. She had enjoyed last night.

Had he? He couldn't remember. Was that a good thing? He focused his mind on the memories. Obviously he had no previous experiences to measure his pleasure against, but he was fairly sure that they were spectacular together. He pushed a strand of hair from her face and smiled. It soon fell to a frown as he realised that this latest development left his investigation hanging in the air. They had slept together unexpectedly and they had enjoyed it, or at least she had enjoyed it immensely, but what next? Where did he go from here? Did he go anywhere from here? Was this experiment at an end?

A soft vibrating caught his attention and traced it to the floor on his side of the bed. His phone screen glared up at him accusingly. He carefully retrieved it and opened the message.

Where are you? Lestrade called in. He has a case for you.

It was from John.

Slight detour. I'll be back in half an hour.

SH

He sent his reply and looked over to Molly. He kissed the top of her head gently and pushed the covers off himself. He found his clothes and began to dress as quietly as he could, repeatedly looking over to her. He didn't want her to wake up, but at the same time he did. He frowned as he retrieved his left shoe from beneath the bed. Was he meant to feel this confused? Sherlock froze as Molly stirred. His shadow must have woken her up.

"Are you going?" She asked, squinting against the light. He pulled on his shirt.

"Lestrade called with a case." He replied. She nodded her understanding, "Where's my blazer?"

"Um, it's probably still in the living room." He sat on the edge of the bed, tying his shoelaces, and she watched him. He could tell that there was something on the tip of her tongue and so he waited for her to speak, "I wish you could stay."

"I have work and so do you." He paused, "Molly, you won't tell John, will you? It's – this is private."

"Of course I won't, if that's what you want." She replied softly, crawling across the bed and planting a tender kiss on his jaw.

"I never got around to thanking you." He murmured. She laughed.

"Consider us even." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Thanking with sex is cheap, Molly. I will pay you back for everything that you've done for me, I promise." She shook her head.

"I don't want you to pay me back."

"But-"

"Just, say it."

He kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Thank you."


Note to readers: Hope you liked it! Thank you so much for those who alerted/favourited/reviewed. It meant so much, seeing as I was convince it was terrible! We will get to babies very soon, I promise. Next chapter teaser: what happens when John finds out? Any writing/character tips for future reference would be much appreciated.