A/N: OK, so I lied. THIS is the penultimate chapter. :) One more to go for realsies after this, then I'm done! Finished, even! And off to possibly work on a darker version of this theme once I finish up Academic Pursuits and Bad Boys and Torn! We'll see!

It was a bit odd, Molly reflected later, when she and Sherlock were on their way to the Baker Street flat he still shared with John, how many of her male acquaintances had now seen her completely naked. Because of course, hard on John's heels – nearly knocking him off his feet, actually, since he'd frozen in the doorway as soon as he realized he was seeing Molly's naked arse being cupped by Sherlock's cuffed hands while the two prisoners snogged furiously – had come Greg Lestrade, and then Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock's brother was the one who managed to retain enough presence of mind to whip off his suit jacket, walk over to the narrow bed holding the two prisoners (who'd broken from their embrace, Sherlock's expression decidedly irked, Molly's mortified), and cover Molly with a murmur of apology for not arriving sooner.

His actions had spurred John and Greg into movement of their own, each mumbling apologies and attempting to look anywhere but at the bound couple. Fortunately their sudden interest in the floor beneath their feet lead to the rapid discover of the key ring and dagger. While Mycroft strolled around the bed and read aloud the message that had been left for him on his brother's posterior ("Missed me again, Mikey!"), Greg donned a pair of latex gloves and busied himself unlocking the handcuffs, while Sherlock instructed him on the proper method for removing the pommel of the knife in order to unlock the ankle-cuff. The dagger came in useful for slicing off the ropes, since BroomyHilda had apparently learned knotmaking in either the Girl Guides or possibly the Royal Navy, and Sherlock declared his interest in preserving them for future study.

Not a single personal item was found in the entire compound, outside of Molly's handbag and the clothes she'd been wearing earlier in the evening. Even her mobile had been returned to her, resting on top of her handbag with a hundred and seventy three unanswered texts messages (mostly from John and her mum) and an overflowing voice message box (same two culprits).

What followed (after Molly had been allowed the privacy to redress herself and clothing had been procured for Sherlock) was interrogation and debriefing and are-you-certain-that's-all-she-said, the "she" in question being the only one of the cultists Mycroft was really interested in, Lady Abylene/Auntie Draco.

In the end it was Sherlock who finally shut his brother and his incessant questions up by rising abruptly to his feet, grabbing Molly's hand, and announcing, firmly but with an undertone of menace: "That's enough, Mycroft. She's told you everything she knows or at least everything she currently remembers. If during the course of the next few days she recalls anything further, I will be sure to pass it along to you. Now, if you don't mind, Molly and I would very much like to go home."

An hour later the two of them were safely ensconced in Sherlock's Baker Street flat, where they remained for approximately ten minutes, with John and Molly uncomfortably trying to make conversation while avoiding one another's eyes after Sherlock left the room with a "wait for me, Molly" before vanishing.

He emerged from his bedroom with a small overnight back in one hand and the signs of a quick shower having been taken showing in his still-damp hair and freshly scrubbed face. His borrowed clothing had been replaced by one of his tight button-ups (the aubergine one that always made Molly's mouth water) and a pair of immaculately pressed black trousers, a pair of expensive Italian loafers on his feet. John and Molly stared at him as he walked past them and headed directly for the door, pausing to don his trademark Belstaff and black leather gloves before turning back with an impatient look. "Well, come on, Molly, let's go. I'm sure your neighbor would like you to take your cat back after keeping him for this long."

"I, um, yes, of course...um, Sherlock?" Molly stammered out.

He gave her another impatient look. "What, Molly?"

"Um, where are you...going?"

He rolled his eyes and swiftly walked back so he was standing right in front of her. "Really, Molly? You have to ask?" He huffed out an exaggerated sigh. "Very well. I am going with you to fetch your cat from your neighbor. Then I am accompanying you to your flat to spend the night, as this – " he raised up the overnight bag, " – should have already informed you. Unless you'd rather we continued our previous activities here, with John in the other room? You won't mind if I shag Molly into the mattress while you read the paper, will you, John?" he added with no change in inflection and no pause for breath.

"Uh..."

"No? Fine, then." Sherlock dropped the bag to the floor with a thump and crossed his arms. "We'll stay. Chinese or Thai for dinner, Molly?"

"Uh..."

He raised an eyebrow as Molly's response echoed John's. "Not hungry, then? Excellent!" He clapped his hands together and beamed at her. "My bedroom's just this way..."

"No, Sherlock!" "I think you're right, I should really get Toby back!"

John and Molly spoke at the same time while Sherlock just stood there and grinned at them. The git. He hefted his overnight bag in his hand and raised one eyebrow at Molly, who'd turned beet red. "So. Not staying here tonight?"

She shook her head, grabbed his hand and mumbled a good-bye to John, remembering at the last second to thank him for coming to their rescue, although she was still unable to meet his eyes.

"Um, yeah, no problem," he replied. "I'll, ah, see you around, yeah? And, uh, you too, Sherlock, later. Not later tonight, got that, no problem, but uh, just...later."

oOo

John stared bemusedly as Sherlock and Molly headed out of the flat and down the stairs. What the hell had happened at the cult compound?

On second thought, he had a pretty good idea what had happened…and didn't want to know any more than he already did. Both Molly and Sherlock were alive and well, and in the interim he'd gotten to know Mycroft's assistant 'Anthea' well enough for her to tell him her real name. He didn't know why she didn't like it; there was nothing wrong with Mary.

He just hoped she'd put down the blasted Blackberry when they went on their date this evening.

oOo

Sherlock and Molly practically ran into Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the stairs. She was on her way into her flat, her arms full of carrier bags from Tesco. "Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed, allowing the bags to drop the floor with a loud thunk – and the decided sound of something splatting as it burst. She didn't seem to care, too busy hauling Sherlock into her arms for a warm hug, telling how worried she'd been and so glad he was home, and oh, the lovely Dr. Hooper, how wonderful it was that she'd been the one to find Sherlock and get him home intact...

"Not quite intact," Sherlock muttered into Molly's ear as she was, in turn, embraced by his overly emotional landlady. Molly glared warningly at him over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, then turned the glare into a hasty smile as Mrs. Hudson stood back, hands on her shoulders, and tutted over how worn out Molly looked. "Oh, such a terrible ordeal for the two of you! Being kidnapped, then Molly having to join some awful cult just to save you – oh, Sherlock, you be sure and tell Mycroft he owes this poor girl a medal! Why, look at her! She's clearly exhausted! Shame on you, Sherlock dragging her back here first instead of taking her home so she can get into bed and get a proper rest!"

"Just what I was about to do, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interposed hastily, as Molly got redder and redder with the effort to stifle semi-hysterical giggles at the older woman's unintended double entendres. She didn't dare meet Sherlock's eyes, at least not until he'd solemnly reassured Mrs. Hudson that getting Molly into bed was his highest priority at the moment, and that he planned to stay with her to make sure she hadn't been traumatized by the things that she'd witnessed while in the cult.

"Good, Sherlock, nice to see you willing to show the proper gratitude to someone who's done so much to help you! Have a nice night, you two!" she warbled as Sherlock gathered up her bags – including one dripping with what looked like tomato sauce – and bundled them and his landlady into her flat.

Molly completely lost it the second they were in the back of the cab, trying and failing to stifle her giggles as Sherlock had to resort to shouting their destination to the cabby, who looked somewhere between alarmed and amused at his fare's apparently inebriated date.

She managed to calm herself by the time they arrived at her flat, but only by keeping her eyes safely glued to the window. She could feel Sherlock's smirk the entire ride, and knew that if she looked at him even once she'd completely lose it again.

She headed to the front door while Sherlock paid the cabby, unlocking it and waiting until she felt his hand on her waist (Sherlock's not the cabby's, as she confirmed by glancing over her shoulder – it paid to be safe, after all!) to push it fully open.

Once inside the front hall, with the door safely shut behind them, Sherlock pressed her up against it and proceeded to snog Molly breathless. She heard the faint 'clunk' of his overnight bag hitting the floor, then felt his hands sliding beneath her jumper, tugging impatiently at her blouse until skin met skin – oooh, no, not skin meeting skin, no, he still had on his black leather gloves, and they felt like sin incarnate as they ghosted across her flesh.

She gasped at the sensation, and Sherlock pulled back to smile devilishly at her. "Have I found one of your kinks, Molly? A bit of a leather fetish, hm?"

"Not until now," she practically growled at him as she yanked his head down for another searing kiss.

"Molly? Is that you?"

With a gasp of embarrassment Molly pulled out of the kiss and peered past Sherlock's shoulder – he refused to budge even when she tried to shove him out of the way – and met the startled eyes of her upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Lavender. "Oh, um, hi," she said weakly. "I'm back, thanks for watching Toby for me!"

"Oh, it was no problem, dear," the older woman replied cheerily. "You and your young man had best get up to your flat, though; Mr. and Mrs. Wilson will be home any minute!" Then she turned to her post box, inserted the key and began going through her mail. Sherlock finally moved and Molly once again found herself fighting down giggles as she took his hand in hers and moved for the stairs. "Oh, and Molly?" Mrs. Lavender added.

She paused and turned to her still-smiling neighbor. "Um, yes?"

With a wink and a nod at Sherlock, she said, "I'll keep Toby for the night, dear. Come and get him tomorrow afternoon." A pause. "Or whenever. No rush."

Blushing, Molly stammered out a thanks. Then it was Sherlock tugging on her hand, practically pulling her up the stairs as he took them two at a time to Molly's second-floor flat.

Fortunately Molly still had her keys in her hand, so there was no fumbling them out of her pocketbook, although it was certainly the first time she'd done so while someone whispered rather filthy suggestions in her ear the entire time.

The third time she tried to get the key in the hole and completely missed, she turned to glare up at him. "Sherlock!" she hissed. "I can't concentrate when you do that!"

"Good," he replied, his voice a shade deeper than usual. "Because I wish to see how much of an incoherent mess I can turn you into with just my voice."

Molly stared up at him, mouth open, keys dangling half-forgotten in her hand. Well, she thought dazedly as Sherlock brushed his lips against her ear and whispered something about his tongue needing a better work-out than speaking or mere kissing could provide, she might have created a monster, but there was no way in hell she was running from this 'Creature'!

Sherlock continued to whisper into her ear as Molly clung to him with her free hand, feeling her knees literally trembling as his lips brushed against her sensitive flesh with every hot, filthy, word that left his mouth. She distantly felt his hand on hers, tugging the keys out of her slack grasp, then heard him immediately hitting the lock on the very first try – without even looking, the bloody showoff – and unlocking her door.

Then they were inside and the door was closed and locked behind them and Sherlock was tossing Molly's keys into the bowl where she usually kept them and that. Was. It.

She dropped her handbag to the floor, her coat and shoes landing next to it. Sherlock had unbuttoned his Belstaff and unwound his scarf; Molly snatched the piece of fabric out of his hands, threw it down to join her belongings, and pressed herself against him, the warmth radiating from his body matching her own. She reached up and pulled his head down to plant a kiss on his lips, her tongue demanding entry and her fingers not the slightest bit gentle as she tugged impatiently at those glorious dark curls of his.

She had every intention of doing all the things she'd ever fantasized about doing with Sherlock Holmes – well, not all tonight, certainly, especially not the ones involving the path lab or the morgue (would he think she was twisted for wanting to do it on an autopsy table, a clean one of course, or next to his favorite microscope in the lab?) – but there were quite a few that involved her hands and his hair and the placement of his mouth over a certain portion of her anatomy…

"Shower," she gasped out, pulling abruptly out of his arms as he gave an annoyed growl. "I haven't had time…you have to let me shower, Sherlock!"

"Very well," he replied, allowing his coat to join hers on the floor, drawing off his gloves one finger at a time – but instead of dropping them, sliding them over Molly's shoulder in a teasing motion. "The one I took at Baker Street was too brief; a long, hot soak sounds…perfect."

His voice was a velvety purr and his gloves were soft as butter against the parts of Molly's skin that weren't covered by clothes; she gave a bit of a growl of her own as she grabbed his hand and pulled him determinedly along to her small bathroom.

End note: Yeah, that was a mean place to stop. But the next part will be worth it, promise! I will try to have it done before Christmas, but no promises.