A/N: This chapter is for my captain MizJoely for taking the time to look over it and making sure that my smexy scenes are up to par.

So, yes, there is some sexy times ahead.

Thanks again for all who have been following this fic!

"Fuck." She said again as he slammed the bathroom door shut behind them. She was glad he wasn't looking at her and couldn't see the look of horror on her face. Not only for the fact their cover had been blown, but for him. What on earth had happened to him?

"We don't have much time," he said, already stripping out of his shirt. Molly was relieved to see that the bruises covering his face didn't have matching counterparts on his torso.

Molly quickly stripped out of her slip and joined him under the heat of the shower spray.

Once alone together, where she was sure they could safely be themselves, Molly couldn't hold back any longer. "What the hell happened to you?" she demanded.

"Nothing."

Molly reached out and brushed his bruised cheek. "This isn't nothing."

Sherlock snatched her hand away. "It'll heal, which is a damn sight more than will happen if Henderson finds you."

Molly nodded.

They stared at each other for a moment. Molly, so full of anger at him – or perhaps at Bill. No doubt it was Bill who got himself in such a situation. Or Sherlock, enjoying one last outing in Bill's shoes.

Sherlock was glowering, too. "So, I'm waiting," he said, running his hands through his locks to brush the curls out of his eyes.

"For what?"

"For an apology," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Our case is almost certainly blown because you – or was it Bill – couldn't behave for just one week, and you expect me to apologise?" Molly turned away, the shower spray running down her back.

"I blew the case? Molly, you're the one who forgot who you are."

"And you're the one who's been ducking our surveillance all week. Perhaps if I'd been prepared, I wouldn't have reacted the way I did."

Sherlock seemed to agree with her. Enough, at least, to drop it.

"We can be extracted soon. Just give Mycroft these GPS coordinates." Sherlock rattled off a series of numbers, which he had Molly repeat back three times.

Molly shut off the shower, towelled, dried, and headed for the door.

Sherlock's hand stopped her from turning the handle.

"Things could get dangerous from here," he whispered into her ear. "Henderson definitely has the room bugged. Report back to Mycroft and get out."

Molly turned, eyes wide with worry. "But what about you?"

Sherlock smirked, "I've been through worse."

Molly couldn't help smiling at the morbid memory of his faked death and eventual resurrection. Definitely worse.

She was ready to leave, but Sherlock held the door closed. The bruises around his eyes couldn't mask the fear in his eyes. And something else, something she'd only seen Bill exhibit.

"Sherlock?" A question, and barely a whisper.

Before she knew it, his mouth was on hers. It took her a moment to respond to his desperate claiming of her with teeth and tongue and lips as harsh as the words they sometimes spilt. She could get lost in him, lost in his attempts to take her, but the reality of their situation couldn't be ignored. Nor could she ignore the pretence which had almost brought them to this position twice already: Cindy and Bill.

Molly pulled away, breathless.

Sherlock's eyes were dilated, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"Who are you?" Molly asked.

"I don't know anymore," he said with complete, raw, exposed honesty.

"Who do you want me to be?"

He searched her eyes before answering.

"Yourself."

That was all she needed to hear. She kissed him, yielding to the demands of his lips on her lips, his hands on her breasts and the growing pressure between her legs where their nakedness was certainly becoming impossible to ignore.

She opened the door and they stumbled into the bedroom, collapsing on the bed with his weight awkwardly trapping her underneath him.

There was no time for foreplay or to stop and enjoy the moment. He filled her so quickly and completely that she let out an involuntary groan. He stilled, making sure he hadn't hurt her, but all she could do was nod to let him know she was fine.

He didn't hold back, and neither did she. Their coupling was fast and frantic. They fucked like it was their last day on earth – because there was a distinct possibility that that was true.

He came quickly, like a man who hadn't had sex in months – but it was Sherlock, perhaps it had even been years, Molly wasn't sure. But Bill? Who knew what he'd neem up to during his time in Vegas.

As his breathing returned to normal, Molly kissed him softly before rolling out of bed.

Sherlock's mind was blank. Ever since he entered the room and Molly said his name, his real name, he had been running on instinct.

It was instinct, and his baser nature, which had taken his pleasure in her so quickly.

But as she dressed, and his thoughts returned, there was something else.

Fear.

He was afraid for her. For himself. For everything. He couldn't remember the last time he was so afraid.

Molly lent forward so he could hear her, "I'll report to Mycroft straight away. We'll extract you when we can."

Sherlock caught her hand. "You have no idea how much I want to go with you," he said.

"You can't." She replied, and left.

Sherlock didn't want to think any further about the events of the afternoon. There was work to do, some loose ends to tidy up. Chiefly, how could he lose Smith, his ever-present shadow, and rendezvous at the safe house Mycroft had set up?

Sherlock played through several scenarios as he showered, using the distraction of his mind to block out thoughts of the taste of Molly's lips, the touch of her breasts and feel of her wetness and the look on his face when he entered her.

His growing erection showed his failure to block it all out.

Sherlock dressed and headed down to Smith's town car. Sherlock played through all sorts of plans while Smith drove him back to his flat. He could distract him with a fire alarm. He could lure him into the laundry with an overflowing sink. He could just knock the man out cold, but he didn't like his chances when Smith outweighed him by at least 30 pounds.

Sherlock was lost in his thoughts as he entered his flat. Perhaps that was why he didn't notice the small muffled yelp until it was too late.

Molly. Tied up. Gagged. In his lounge room.

Henderson standing by her. Gun barrel pointed at her head.

"Welcome home, Sherlock Holmes," Henderson grinned as he flicked the safety off on his pistol.