A/N: I have had too many things troubling me of late, so I apologize for the lateness of this. Also AussieMaelstrom has obviously been of assistance in this chapter, thank you dear, but this has been re-written a lot by myself. Mistakes are certain to have taken place! Thank you for all your lovely reviews and what-not. It's going to be a delight to finish this story soon.

Trust: Reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc., of a person or thing; confidence.

Fingertips slid over coarse paper effortlessly, as if it was a part of breathing, an extension of self. She half-expected it to be her turning the pages, a tingling sensation appearing in her fingers when she woke up. Hardly an unpleasant awakening, especially when she fought past the fog. Her brown eyes fixed themselves on the figure at her side sitting with a book in his hands - The Complete Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats. She was lying on her stomach, the duvet pooling by her waist, unable to struggle against the hapless smile brightening up her face. Lifting her head slowly up from her pillow, she propped her chin in her hand and stared unabashedly at him. Confidence she did not lack at the moment wherever her clothes were, though she longed for them to stay away.

"Morning," he mumbled, turning a page with a lick of his finger, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

Briefly she grumbled over that thought, her head turning towards the window. Snow pounded at the glass, making it impossible to tell what hour it was, "Afternoon?" she said.

The whole day wasted in bed, not that she felt weary, or shackled by such a thought. Unlike the other days spent in her own bed that would weave into each other - this morning had stretched beyond her knowledge, seeming like weeks, yet disappearing in fleeting seconds.

Hunger, sadness and guilt did not touch her in her current position.

"Not important," he said out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes unmoving from the page.

He didn't seem bothered with her presence, which she knew was a facade. It was barely held up when she laughed or stretched her arms above her head, trying to lessen the aches in her body. She could almost physically feel his train of thought when she slumped down on the mattress again, "Read to me?" she said disrupting it.

He frowned in return, a twitch instantly occurring between his brows, before he raised one of them.

"Please?" she added hopefully, biting her lip, soon hiding her increasingly pink cheeks with her pillow.

"Very well," he said sounding rather pained, yet the grin that started forming on his lips was evident, but he returned with overly furrowed brows to the pages before him, keeping up the charade.

Once again he was toying with her, something she found she rather enjoyed.

He licked at his thumb, prying the pages slowly apart, like they were ancient scrolls worthy of notice. His eyes were hurriedly darting across the pages, until one page made him halt.

She felt wary the second an assured smirk broke his focused mien, making her flushed at the thought that she had trapped herself by asking him to read Keats.

Her fellow classmates reasoning to keep their mouths shut was so apparent to her now, as they were all of them hopeful he'd be reading, though she perhaps understood it better than them.

She would still try to pretend to be unaffected, to play his little game, not allowing him to discern any emotion on her face, so she wouldn't be compromised.

Still she pressed out an expectant, "Sir?" giddiness increasing within her, unable to contain her excitement at the thought of him reading to her.

Here there were no other listeners, no one else drawing for breath, awaiting with anticipation to see his mouth deal out the beautifully written word without flaw.

Blue eyes flashed towards her briefly, before his deep voice started, causing her insides to dance – "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk."

It was the same poem recited the first day they'd met!

The intention to act coolly disappeared with her eyes widening and her struggle to swallow. His eyes were particularly soft, when he started drawing her towards him, as her mind reeled – how long? - "Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains – One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk."

A hand drifted to her breast, his palm stroking over the tip of a nipple that pebbled easily at his touch, "Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness."

No surprise racked through her when he threw aside the book, the words flowing knowingly from his mouth, whispered against her naked body, "That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot," kissing himself upwards between her thighs, letting the words breathe across her warmth, "Of beechen green, and shadows numberless." She cried out the instance his mouth was on her cunt, soon pulling away, "Singest of summer in full-throated ease."

Moisture flooded her, "O for a draught of vintage!" he spoke, his tongue twisting inside her, "That hath been cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, tasting of flora and the country-green." His warm breath murmured the words against her sex, tantalizingly close, as he gave a quick lick of her swollen nub, "Dance, and the Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!" Her hands found purchase in his curls pulling him up, making him tut loudly, before his hard cock drove into her quivering sex – "O for a beaker full of the warm South!"

She wrapped her legs around him, his mouth exhaling kisses between her breasts, thrusting into her as he continued to perform the words, "Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with the beaded bubbles winking at the brim." His lips met hers, breathing out, "And purple-stained mouth-," his tongue met hers almost imploringly, drawing back, "That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, and with thee face away into the forest dim." She drew him towards her, her hands on his sculpted back, nails almost drawing blood, as he pushed firmly into her again making her scream out in pleasure.

"Don't interrupt," he said with an arched brow, a laugh almost daring to escape from her lips, "Fade…far…away-," the rest of the poem dissolved into hoarse moans and chuckles.

The impatient pitter-patter of paws had been going on for a while, despite her attempts at ignoring the instigator. Her ears did still unfortunately pick up the sound of the dissatisfied clawing and meowing that only seemed to intensify. He was doing it deliberately, tearing her away from bed, and from Sherlock who was clinging to her. She tried to focus on the pleasant ways his hands rested on her skin, of the heavy weight of his head between her breasts and his breath tickling her – only to have a louder screech be uttered outside the door.

Molly stifled a groan by the use of her pillow, knowing that she would need to go to the bath at some point, but she still did not want to wake him. But he seemed to be aware of whatever was occurring, a grimace appearing on her professor's face, while he strained to sleep through it. In some ways he was such a child, especially since he'd pinched the sheets, for they were wrapped around his long legs, but she was fortunate enough to have his body keep her warm, among other things.

Barely awake he dropped a kiss on her breast, soon applying his tongue around the tip. Smiling at the sudden attention she knew she would need to pry herself away from him, and slid away from his grasp, before her heart and body could protest.

She covered herself with his robe that lay on the floor, drowning in the fabric, catching his half-open blue eye peering at her rather petulantly, "Morning sir." He looked particularly aggravated when she disappeared from within his reach, dashing away like a woodland nymph (words he flung out at her exit).

Her hands wrinkled against the warm water in the cream-white bath, which had tempted her senses too much. It could not be helped, especially where bath oils and foreign substances were involved, arousing her interest too much.

Resting her head against the ivory edge, she let herself partially drift off amidst the bubbles. There was no harm in a quick soak, no foul to be found, but she barely registered the door creak open, choosing to ignore it. Molly did, however, jerk upright when water sloshed out of the tub, as her professor had joined her looking very irritated.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, letting her eyes drift over his now wet form.

There was certainly something with watching water slide across his pale torso, slithering downwards - "How long do you think you were gone?" he said tilting his head to the side.

She gave him a sheepish smile, watching his narrowed eyes and pressing her lips together half-ashamed. He shook his head, grabbing a handful of water splattering it over his curls, "And?" he said at this, resting his arms on the edges.

He kept steady eyes on her, while she conjured up a reply, only to be grabbed the instant she intended to speak. She was soon pressed against his wet torso, settled between his legs, as he wrapped his arms around her.

"I would have joined you," he murmured into her ear, his words spreading colour in her cheeks.

"I didn't want to wake you," she said with a smile, as he lathered soap into his hands, spreading the froth onto her back, making her lean forward, her hands gripping at the tub itself.

"Did you intend to spend your entire day in the bath?"

"No," she said slowly, puzzled slightly by the question, though quieting when one of his hands disappeared into the water.

It would certainly be difficult to concentrate in class if he was going to give her so much to remember. "Pity," he said, one hand on a slippery breast, the other skimming between her thighs, "I would have thoroughly enjoyed you being wet."

Laughing, she turned her head, catching his mouth in a kiss, as he played her with nimble hands. Except, she sensed the blatant difficulty that arose with playing in water, her laughter wanting to be let out, while his lips were unmoving against hers.

In the end her laughter could not be contained, "Ah," he said in a bored voice, "A lack of friction."

"Yes, I suppose…" she said when his hand retreated, unable to disguise her amusement.

She was however amazed when he slowly started to rise up, stepping out of the tub with long limbs, holding a pale hand towards her.

Molly blinked up at him, letting her brown eyes plainly drift across his body, eyeing the droplets water that drifted across his chest, travelling further down to his cock that visibly jerked.

It was different to see him in the fluorescent lighting, the white tiles of the bathroom making him more pronounced and certainly not fictional. He didn't seem impatient with her sudden hesitance, only curious, and she took his hand feeling only somewhat timid.

It was an unfamiliar, yet familiar sight.

Once out of the water his mouth soon found hers, distracting her body that prickled from the cold air. He kissed her sweetly, opening her mouth with his, distracting her with his naked body, his hands clutching her bottom.

His eyes crinkled up when he drew back from her lips, "Place your hands on the edge of the bath," he said releasing a breath.

"Sir?" she said acting bemused, plainly ignoring the throbbing member that was making his intentions abundantly clear.

He looked at her pointedly, his expression darkening, as he leaned towards her ear. She didn't understand why he felt the importance of whispering, letting the words dance over her ear, "I want to have my breakfast, Miss Hooper – will you deny me that?"

Another game, and she almost did not play along.

Her hands went to the edge, clasping tightly, while she waited. He stood behind her, his hand gliding over her arse, biding his time. The excitement wasn't supposed to continue, her want was supposed to cool, to be supressed and in fact non-existent according to some. Here her body froze, yet the ache in her presented a heat that did not simmer down.

She could hear beads of water dropping to the tiles on the floor, steeling herself, as every other sense seemed to heighten.

His hand kept trailing a path on her lower back, to her arse, skirting around the area, but not touching her moisture. She bit her lip to hide away the whimper, for her body automatically pushed itself against him, but he did not obey.

Neither did she wish to beg, only gasping when he briefly stroked her outer lips, the touch fleeting. Within her gasp the words please and sir was uttered, and his hot mouth found her heat.

It was a sweet torture, for his mouth would pull back every time she started to rise above, her head dizzy, and her body almost succumbing. He seemed to be aware of every time she was almost driven to pure pleasure, only to take it away from her, stealing it off until she shouted, "Please," purposely saying it this time.

Seconds later he thrust easily into her, burying himself to the hilt, his hands digging into her hips.

There was no poetry to it, no elegance in the sounds of their bodies slamming together, blended with the cry of her voice, and his dark rumbles that were not able to be silenced.

But still now he seemed apt to play with her, drawing himself back excruciatingly slow, before pushing into her again. Every time she tried to rock back at him – her knuckles turning white grabbing hold of the tub for dear life – he almost pulled out of her.

He clearly wanted to have her beg with his slow languish thrusts that caused her to quiver, until he pounded into her yet again.

It was a slow burning torture, "What – is – my – name?" he said, the tone of his voice demanding, almost sending her over the edge, his cock withdrawing from her heat.

Her mouth had been spewing out obscenities, getting only worse by the second, panting as she tried to compose her words carefully – "Sh-," but he did not allow her to finish, picking up speed, thrusting into her fervently.

Every plunge made her almost lose her grip on the ivory bathtub; her body trembling from the contact, until she truly screamed out his name.

He lost himself at that, his voice a low growl without meaning or thought. They did not stay long in their position, her body weakening, while she almost slurred repeatedly the words, "Oh God," as she tried to gather her wits about her.

A dry towel surrounded her shaky frame, his large hands rubbing through the white cloth, while he made her stand steadily on her feet. He beamed down at her, barely shaken to her annoyance, but that dissipated when he captured her lips with a slow attentive kiss.

He lightly bit into her lower lip, holding her tightly to him with the towel wrapped around her, "Breakfast, then?" he said gently withdrawing from her lips, seeming out of breath. She let a silly smile take over her features when he realised his rather pleasant mistake.

Upon leaving the bathroom wearing his robe she was greeted with a cup of coffee on the kitchen table, which she took with some relief, her eyes soon seeking him out.

He was seated in the sitting room, wrapped only in a sheet, his strong legs tempting her by sheer sight. He was reading again – Keats – she wondered if he'd finish the poem, since he'd barely gotten through it the first time. She hid away her broad grin with the coffee cup, trying not to stare too much, "I play the violin," he said making her blink stupidly. He wasn't looking at her, his eyes kept on his book, "Helps me think."

"You do?" she said spotting the instrument settled near the fireplace, bewildered by his sudden line of thought.

"You don't mind?" he said looking up at her, setting the book aside with more care than previously.

"I'd love to hear you play," she said stepping into the sitting room, trying very hard not to call him sir, even if that word would have to come back to her naturally by the end of the holiday.

"I also don't speak for days on end," he said with eyes intently on her face, his legs barely covered by the sheet now, and she could see the sparse dark hairs between…

"I don't have a problem with that," she said clearing her throat, directing her attention to her cup, trying to look less like she was gawking at him, "I like reading."

"Yes…I know," he said, his eyes distant for a moment, and she wondered if he'd asked these particular questions before.

The loneliness she'd perceived in him was even more evident than usual, pushed forward by the silence in his home, "You have an interest in medicine?" he said interrupting her thoughts.

His way of thinking did jump rather quickly, though she didn't mind; it was nice to hear someone who didn't think in the same dull pattern as everyone else. He was like a book one would have to re-read the pages of, so one could ensure one had every single detail, for in one turn of the page you were sure to be left behind if you weren't paying attention.

"Yes, a little, well it's a bit – I wouldn't enjoy being a doctor, but-,"

"Dissecting bodies, Molly?" he said with clear amusement in his voice.

She grinned nervously, "I find the human body interesting, that's all. We all work differently, and there's loads of things we still don't know."

He looked genuinely impressed, "Honesty about your ignorance is the first step," he said, clearly not calling her stupid, but still not calling her brilliant, "I would not ignore your writing though, John does enjoy it."

She blanched, "Doctor Watson? He reads my papers?"

"Every time he is around, yes, of course those visits aren't as frequent anymore, but such is married life," he said sounding truly bored.

She chose to ignore that she had seen the pair arguing the evening before, but the way he proceeded to look at her suggested that he knew she'd been there, though he wasn't about to point it out.

"Oh right, well – that's nice, then," she said taking a long sip of her coffee, the mug almost jostling out of her hand when she recalled something. "Excuse me!" she said with an unintentionally squeaky voice, bounding up the steps to the upstairs bedroom.

Quickly she rummaged through her bag, getting out the little container of pills, sighing with relief that she remembered. Molly could only imagine how it would have been if she hadn't, and that was certainly not a future she intended for herself.

Upon returning downstairs he looked at her with a certain air of scrutiny, his eyes darting over her form, before he said, "The pill?"

"Err…eh…yes," she said.

He looked contemplative for a second, before he met her eyes, "Good." She felt awkward, not entirely certain what to do, shifting self-consciously on her feet. Her 'breakfast' was certainly not helping her nerves either, and she felt like she was bothering him by not speaking, "Come," he said.

It took her a second to understand his meaning, before she walked toward him and settled into his lap, "Relax, Molly…" he said softly, and she leaned into him for respite.

His body was warm and lenient, his arms gripping hers tightly towards his chest. He didn't seem to care that his sheet was dropping, not at all, but his intentions were entirely innocent.

"Si – Sherlock…I don't want to bother you, that's all," she said after a while.

She hoped he hadn't told her all of those things to scare her away, but somehow she knew it was to warn her if he did.

"You would know if you were."

Some minutes past, his hands lazily skimming through her damp hair, "It's good to know that your creativity isn't confined to making assignments, sir," she said all of a sudden, before she could stop her tongue.

His hand stopped, and she was surprised when she heard laughter coming from his mouth. There was comfort in the laugh, and she nestled into his chest, letting her eyes rest a little.

For minutes they sat like that, his hand weaving through her tangled hair, her smiling from the touch, while he dropped small kisses behind her ears. Being with him was comfortable, almost ordinary, like it was a place made specifically for her.

Hearing a loud meow she opened her eyes, as Sherlock stiffened underneath her. Toby appeared, bushy tail upright, seeming rather proud, as he dropped something on the carpet – a finger.

She stared silently for many minutes, unmoving, until she finally stammered out, "Is – is – what – is that a finger?"

"You did say you had an interest in dissecting, did you not?"

"What?" she said.

"It's a finger."

"I see that, sir-," she said with wide eyes, as her cat sauntered off leaving destruction in his wake.

She continued staring at the finger, while her heart pounded in her chest – the professor was a madman! Perhaps she was one of the many victims he had lured to his flat then eaten! Perhaps, this was why he was alone?

Surely she was being ridiculous, letting her imagination get away from her, and she calmed down, hoping there was a logical explanation to it all.

"I get samples from St Bart's," he said after a minute of silence, while she sat entirely still.

She felt like extricating herself from his grip, but he held on firmly, "They give out fingers?"

"Body parts."

He said it as if it was a good enough answer, and she certainly didn't know anyone who had such things. Staring at the pale finger on the floor she found she wasn't terrified, just mildly disturbed by the fact that there was an actual human finger simply on the floor like it was an ordinary event.

Cries of horror seemed more appropriate, but the whole situation still felt oddly regular. However, despite her lack of response she didn't feel particularly keen on picking up the remains of a person, especially without a set of gloves and some disinfectant.

She remembered something all of a sudden, her eyes seeking out the fridge in the distance, "Is that what's in the fridge?"

"Yes," he said rather carefully.

"Right, and – you do – what?"

"Experiments."

"Oh, ok…"

"Those I have - belonged to different sets of people who were willing to give their bodies up for science, Molly. There are very few who are willing to do that."

She turned to face him, his eyes on her, "It's just a bit odd, I suppose."

"I supposed it would be," he said with a hint of a smile on his face.

"If the violin and silence are your worst traits, sir, you did neglect a bit of an important one," she said nervously laughing.

He looked rather relieved; "I don't scare you, then?"

"No," she said, "No, you don't."

She proved her affection by dropping a gentle kiss on his lips, only to find his arms enveloping her, increasing the heat between them, which she reluctantly broke away from, "Si-," she paused, "Sherlock – could you – err – get rid of it for now?"

He grimaced slightly, seeming to disapprove her skittish response, "Are you afraid of a finger?"

Molly selected her next words with tremendous care, "There's a difference between yours and one my cat could possibly eat."

After his honesty regarding the defects of his character, she highly suspected he would henceforth keep to muted behaviour and playing long concerto's (some of which were noted in Doctor Watson's journal with obvious frustration), but none of it came. She was at a loss, though she did not argue with him feeding her delicious grapes, swallowing promptly as the juice of the fruit burst into her mouth.

"I hope I'm not distracting you – sir," she said from the carpet. She was lying on her stomach, her feet in the air, crossed at her ankles. He was occupying his chair, though she kept close to his long legs, marvelling over how dressed he was in comparison to her still in his dressing gown.

Her book was spread on the floor, readable due to the fire crackling soundly in the fireplace, warming her cold fingertips with every turn of the page.

"No," he said, withdrawing the palm that previously had a sole grape in it, which she had devoured.

He seemed pensive as he set aside the small sack of grapes, and engaged himself with his book.

Most of the day had been spent indulging in food or lying about, with Toby occasionally popping up from examining the Professor's home.

Luckily he did not reappear with another body-part, though Sherlock alleged the cat had gone through the bin. She had hastily read through more pages of Doctor Watson's journal that only increased her interest in the man. With her hands propped up on her chin, she said, "Did you really want to be a pirate, sir?"

His hand stilled on the page, eyes narrowing slightly as they met with her open gaze of unashamed amusement. She enjoyed calling him sir – relished it in fact. A slight crinkle would appear between his brows that she found terribly sweet.

He would perhaps not like being called sweet, but she found it rather endearing. Another word he would certainly not enjoy being called.

"Read more of the diary, then? There's traces of ink on your fingertips," he said, and she stared at her own fingers in surprise.

There was no ink.

She was about to correct him in this observation, when she found herself pinned to the floor, "Sir," she gasped in surprise, laughing amidst her discomfort, as he lay right on top of her, though he soon altered their positions, turning them both over.

She huffed her breath, hair flying from her face, as she stared down at him with a mock-exasperated expression.

"I do hate it when you call me that," he said disgruntled, his arms wrapped around her, one hand sliding towards her bottom.

She wore no thread of cloth underneath his robe, which he found out quite soon with his fingers between her legs, "Already?" he said smirking, clearly finding the moisture between her thighs.

She tried to push herself off him, feigning that she was angry, when he smothered her attempt with a kiss. His mouth drew her in as usual, the taste of him addicting, reeling her in every time.

She felt herself weaken at the softness of his mouth, the tentative stroke of his tongue, as his hands slipped underneath the robe.

Then a most unexpected event broke her salacious thoughts away, reminding her that there was another world beyond 221b – the doorbell rang.

He breathed firmly through his nose, while she stared at him wide-eyed, quickly pushing herself off him. He sat up, eyes darting around, when another long ring of the doorbell was heard, and he heaved himself alert on his feet, "Who's – who's – that?" she said uncertainly from the floor.

The doorbell went off in short repetitive bursts, vexation apparent on his face, "Only one man rings the doorbell like that. Wait."

She held on to her legs, watching him stride out of the room, hearing the sound of his feet running down the steps, until she heard another voice talking with him below.

It sounded urgent, though she couldn't discern the topic.

Not long after she heard him slamming the door and Sherlock returned, "Case. I won't be long," he said without looking at her, walking off to the bedroom.

"Oh," she said weakly from the floor, standing up a few minutes later, hovering in the sitting room wondering what she was going to do, when he reappeared immaculately dressed in an unfamiliar suit.

He looked different, the way he held himself unfamiliar - in the black dress jacket and trousers. The great dark coat he threw on after was also curious, but he only smirked at her as he popped up the collar.

"That's…different," she said.

"Yes, I suppose it is," he said thoughtfully, slipping on a pair of leather gloves, "Now, there are some spare keys underneath the skull on the mantelpiece – take them if you want to go out," he said.

She was afraid for a second he'd say leave.

"I will be back in about two hours," he said with raised brows, almost about to step out the door, until he swiftly turned around taking hold of her jaw, "Don't worry."

He gave her a chaste kiss, barely touching her lips, as if he was afraid he'd stay if he did. She longed to grab him, to properly understand what was going on, but she knew she'd have the chance to ask questions later. Molly knew why she felt rather disappointed, and it was only because he hadn't asked if she wanted to come along. Not long after this thought she realised that she couldn't.

Two hours passed without incident, while she patiently waited, sluggishly sat on a chair by the fireplace reading with Toby on her lap. When a third hour sprung upon her with no voice to be heard, but her own, she grew agitated. Her brown eyes were glued to the fire, wondering where on earth he was, while she tried to eat the stew she'd made for herself. She barely touched her food, unable to eat, overpowered by fear that something might have gone wrong. It was quite dark outside after all, though she knew that he was perhaps caught up with whatever he was doing, since the journal of Doctor Watson reassured her – Sometimes he'd be so immersed in a case he would forget to eat! Or he elected not to, his body used to that sort of torture apparently.

But when the fourth hour came, she decided to go to bed. She did not wish to seem foolish waiting for him all night, despite knowing her sleep would be fretful. Molly half-considered going out for a walk, but knew the dangers in such an idea.

She was abruptly shaken out of her stupor when the landline rang. Gasping she scrambled for the phone, hidden underneath papers, as it had to be him calling, "I accept," she choked out, not considering the dangers of such an enterprise, "Hello! Sherlock?"

It was silent for a second or two, "Hello?" she repeated again, hearing someone breathing on the other end.

"Miss Hooper, I presume?" said a voice.

This was not the familiar baritone she'd grown accustomed to.

No.

It belonged to a woman.

Her stomach dropped, the receiver faltering in her hand, "Yes?" Perhaps it was a friend of his, she thought, or hoped.

Another lengthier pause took place, "I would be careful…if I were you," said the woman.

And then all she heard was the dial tone.

She slammed the receiver down flabbergasted, staring bewildered around her, before she promptly dropped back into her chair. None of her thoughts made sense, scattered and lost, while she tried to understand what had just taken place. Did someone know about them? Specifically, did someone know about her? Clearly someone did and the idea frightened her. She was being warned, but against what – the thought that Professor Holmes was a man of dubious character didn't at all seem plausible! He was not a villain, but she still released a confused sigh, "I hope I'm not too late," said a voice.

She had not heard his entry, too distraught to notice, before he suddenly stood in the sitting room. He seemed to notice her distress, his blue eyes set on the phone, "Someone called," he said.

The tone of his voice gave nothing away, though the way he moved towards her quickly, bending down upon his knees before her - worried more than eased her, "What did they say?" he asked.

She stared at him, taking in his serious expression, while he took hold of her hand with his gloved one. She didn't know what to say, how to explain, but words brought from fear sprung out, "Are you married?" she said.

His hand shuddered against hers, but he did not pull away, "No," he said sounding offended.

She could not look at him, her eyes watering instantly, as if somehow she knew things would go wrong whether or not he was married, "Right…" she said drawing breath.

"Molly."

His hand clasped hers firmly.

"It was a woman."

"A woman?" he said looking astonished.

Her anxiety faded ever so slightly away by his obvious lack of understanding, "She told me to be careful," she said.

The second she said those words he released her hand.

He stood up from his bended position, the distance larger than just space between them now, as his back was to her. There he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, not settling her nerves whatsoever with his silence, until he finally turned around, "Did she know your name?" he said quietly.

Her hands were folded in her lap, her attention drawn to them, before she braved meeting his eye, "Yes."

He kept her gaze, unwavering, to the point of stern, none of which seemed directed to her, "Dinner, then?" he quipped catching her off her guard, as he was employing an unaffected expression heading towards the kitchen.

Molly could not let the topic drift, to let it disappear like he did, "Sir – do you know who that woman was?" she said.

"Barely," he said stopping in his stride.

"Barely? So you do know her a little, then?"

He whipped his head around at that.

"Is it so strange that I should know a woman?" he spat, ripping the scarf from around his neck. Once more the anger was not directed towards her, but an invisible recipient, still she felt he was keeping too many secrets.

"No," she said with a sigh, "It's just – you haven't told anyone?"

"No."

"Then how does this woman know?"

He seemed to be sharing her confusion for a second, until a grave expression settled on his face, "Do you trust me?"

Something in his face gave away that he trusted her, a thought that made her heart soar, yet when she thought if she…She did. She did not know why she did, not truly, for there was an ever-growing mist surrounding her professor – her lover. It was with some hesitation that she finally nodded, not certain she would manage to explain why.

"Then trust me – you will find out – anyway – I do hope I wasn't too late," he said looking more at ease now, for her benefit she supposed, as he removed his coat.

"You're here after all," she said, not managing to sound a smidgen pleased, despite trying to.

He met her eyes, stilling the removal of his coat, "I will always come back, Molly," he said looking conflicted for a second, until his cheerful disposition returned.

There was something troubling him, and she knew he'd tell her, but perhaps not today. He chose instead to retell his case, "Not with the attention to nonsense details like John however – I'm surprised you did not read more of it in my absence."

"I did a little," she said digging into her dinner, "But I don't want to keep snooping into Doctor Watson's belongings."

"He wouldn't mind – he wanted to have them published some day," he said slipping some food into his mouth, chewing every piece of food rather carefully.

Molly did not voice her opinion, busying herself with eating, but he took her silence with a laugh, "Not impressed?" he said, "John will be heartbroken."

"Err – it's just – well – he just needs it edited, I suppose."

"Grammar hasn't always been his strong suit," he said smirking.

A lot of things had happened that day when they'd finally succumbed to sleep, yet, nothing of true consequence. Molly did not allow herself to dwell too long on the phone call, especially when Sherlock told her that he had many foes. She did not know of any one in her own life she could consider such a thing, but she believed him when he told her that she was safe.

This Christmas would certainly prove to be different she was sure, as it was already felt strikingly unfamiliar to her previous years. Perhaps she shouldn't trust him, but she did. There was something in his eyes, something that spoke to her that she should, and the journal of Doctor Watson certainly did not portray him as evil. He did not have a cruel bone in his body, though she rethought that sentiment as he thrust into her with slow precise movements. With every encounter they had, it became easier, no chip on her shoulder, no anxiety to be found, as she lost every shred of decency she owned.

This was what art was founded on, what words in literature spun about, and she understood it. The exhilarating feeling that spread throughout her body, as his mouth found hers again and again.

While she lay on the bed, her legs tangled with his, his hand in her hair, "Sherlock?" she said in the dark.

He made a throaty noise in assent; obviously pleased she was using his name, "What will happen after the holiday ends?"

Instead of giving her an answer he just held her closer, silently stroking her back as he dropped a small kiss on the tip of her nose. Quickly muffling all her attempts of speech, his mouth found hers, and she found she could no longer care.