Molly was just having some luck getting the kindling to catch in the hearth when the door to her flat opened again. She glanced up, noticing a very changed Sherlock walking through the door. His previous anger had disappeared, replaced by laser focus and something she couldn't quite place as he looked at her.

"Is he gone?" she asked.

He nodded. "The blackouts have been hitting a large portion of the city. He was called away to handle it."

As he spoke, he removed his Belstaff and draped it over the back of her sofa. Molly stood up as he walked closer, concern starting to creep in.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

His eyes raked over her and in the next instant he took another step forward, his arms encircling her as he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was something different than it had been minutes ago, something softer and more needful. She had to fight not to be completely swept off of her feet by the feeling of it.

"Sherlock," she said firmly, pulling away just enough and sliding her hands up to cradle his face. "Please, talk to me."

"We have a lead," he told her, his eyes heavy with a fascinating combination of desire and the thrill of the case. They kept finding their way back to her mouth as he spoke. "A lab in China. It's practically a certainty. We could find out what - and who - started all of this."

Molly frowned a little and let her body sink closer to his. "When do you leave?"

"As soon as it can be arranged," he answered after a pause.

"Mm. Right then," she said, pulling his face down to kiss him deeply. There was absolutely no way she was letting him run off to China for however long without sharing one last night together. Especially since he seemed more than willing to redact his idiotic stance on 'distractions'.

She would save the long heart-to-heart they needed to share for when he returned.

oOo

It wasn't a mistake, he knew that now. No, it wasn't and never could be a mistake; it was a necessity, making love to Molly before leaving for China. A way to clear his mind, to sharpen his focus and remind him of all that he had to lose if this mission wasn't successful. John had been right - not that he would ever tell him so - when he'd reminded Sherlock that women like Molly were never a mistake. The only mistake he'd made had been when he'd pushed her away.

A mistake he intended to rectify, right here, right now. Kissing and being kissed by her was a good start, but there was also the matter of removing her clothing, because cupping her breasts through her blouse and bra was entirely too unsatisfactory; he needed to feel her bare flesh against his, the tactile sensation of her nipples rubbing against the palms of his hands, his mouth buried in her hot sex.

Molly, it would appear, was just as impatient as he; her fingers were nimbly undoing the buttons to his shirt as he continued to kiss her whilst simultaneously shrugging out of his suit jacket. He allowed it to drop to the floor, kicking off his shoes and socks and tugging up the hem of her blouse from where it was tucked into her khakis. He unbuttoned and removed the brightly patterned top as she undid the fastenings to his slacks, the work made slightly more challenging by the fact that neither one wanted to stop kissing the other. At the sound of her gasp he grinned against her throat; she'd discovered he wasn't wearing pants, splendid.

Then it was his turn to gasp as Molly, with a positively wicked grin, slid to her knees in front of him. He started to step out of his discarded trousers, but her hands on his thighs stilled his movements. He laced his fingers through her hair, reveling in the silky sensation. His eyes snapped shut as soon as her mouth landed on his prick, and he let out a groan of satisfaction as he felt her tongue gliding along the turgid length.

He made sure to exert no pressure on her head, simply enjoying the bobbing movement against his hands, although not nearly as much as he was enjoying the wicked way she was using her mouth. After a minute or so, however, he gently tugged on her hair to get her attention. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. "Bedroom?" he suggested hoarsely, jerking his head toward the room in question as he cleared his throat and tried not to look as undone as he felt.

She pulled her mouth away from his prick - unfortunate but expected - and glanced over at the fireplace, the message clear even in the semi-darkness of the room. He pulled her to her feet, stepping out of his trousers and swiftly divesting her of her remaining clothing. At last he could feel her naked body against his with nothing between them. He dove down for another kiss, and another, at the same time adroitly maneuvering her back toward the fireplace. As they passed the sofa he reached out and snagged the afghan hung neatly over the back, flinging it haphazardly to the floor.

He settled Molly onto its folds much more gently; she giggled and squirmed a bit as she attempted to straighten it out, and he smiled at the sight. Dropping to all fours, he leaned over her, their faces close enough to share breaths. Her giggles stopped, her eyes widening as he held her gaze. "Molly, I'm not good at these sorts of things…"

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, running her thumbs over his zygomatic arches. "Sherlock, I hate to contradict you, but I happen to think you're very, very good at these sorts of things."

"Not sex," he huffed, but with a hint of a smile at her cheeky interruption. "This. Us. Relationships. Apologies." The last word was muttered under his breath, but of course she heard it.

"Apologies?" Instead of being happy or relieved, he was alarmed to feel a sudden tension in her face and body that hadn't been there two seconds prior. What the hell had he done this time? "Is that what this is, Sherlock? An apology? Because if that's the case, you can take your 'apology sex' and shove it up your…"

"No! No," he half-shouted, rearing up on his heels and running agitated hands through his hair. "That's not what I meant at all! I just meant...I was wrong. I shouldn't have tried to...compartmentalize...this. Us. I mean yes, the timing was crap, but that's my fault. I should have let you know what I felt a lot sooner. Long before all this began."

The tension eased as he spoke, but wasn't entirely banished. "And what do you feel?" she asked quietly.

He shifted a bit, wishing suddenly for John to whisper the right answer into his ear. But even his mind-John was silent, as was his mind-Mycroft. The only one who had any sort of advice to offer was his mind-Irene Adler, and what she was suggesting was surely too simplistic to encompass the full breadth of what he felt for Molly Hooper.

In the end, however, there was only one truthful answer he could give. "Everything," he said, lowering his body to rest over hers.

He knew it was the right answer when she pulled him closer and kissed him deeply, her tongue meeting his in an urgent duet. The heat from the fireplace was nothing compared to the growing heat between them; he nudged her legs apart with one knee and settled over her as if nothing could ever part them again. She turned her head after the kiss ended, panting a bit, only to latch onto his throat, sucking hard while her fingers dug into the tender flesh of his scalp. The sensation was incredible, sending a thrill to every part of his body but seeming to center on his prick. He pressed that part of his anatomy more firmly against her core, feeling a fierce sense of satisfaction at the moan that escaped her lips when he did so.

He licked his way down her body, pausing only to cover her breasts with sucking kisses and soft nips. Just long enough to wring some gasps and groans of pleasure from her lips before moving on. "Fucking tease," he heard her grouse and smiled against the soft flesh of her belly. He pressed a gentle kiss there, then eased his mouth a few inches downward.

There were no more complaints as he slipped his tongue between her folds, gliding it over her clit, already rigid with desire and slippery beneath his questing tongue. Molly's moans became guttural, primal, her fingers groping for his head as she bent her knees and planted her feet more firmly on the floor, wordlessly encouraging him to go deeper. He happily obliged, gripping her thighs and burying his tongue inside her, fucking her with it the way he so very desperately wanted to fuck her for real, but determined to bring her off before seeking his own satisfaction.

That goal, once set, was one he pursued with the tenacity and dedication usually reserved for hunting down clues, and proved just as satisfying. Especially once her body began tensing, her fingers tugging frantically at his hair, sharp mewls pouring from her lips and ending with a worshipful cry of his name paired with that of a deity he'd never believed in.

He was more than happy to worship at the altar of her body, to find his faith in her steadfastness, to believe in her as fervently as she believed in him, however little he deserved it. And, of course, to taste the sweet muskiness of her pussy as she twitched and moaned through the finale of her orgasm.

He moved back up her body, curling around her and holding her closely as he waited for her breathing and heart to slow back to normal. Molly wasn't having any of it; she turned in his embrace, kissing him fiercely and wrapping her legs around his thighs. "Don't wanna wait," she said breathlessly. "Want you now, Sherlock." She gave him another sloppy, urgent kiss, pulling him down on top of her. "Please."

He was all too happy to comply, her hand on his prick the only guide he needed to sink deep, deep inside her. She slid her hands up his chest, clutching onto his shoulders as he nipped and sucked at her throat, a sudden urge to mark her as she had him outweighing the part of his mind that disdained such primitive instincts. She would have to wear a high collar tomorrow when she went to work, but the two of them would know what it hid and the idea of them sharing such a tawdry secret sent a thrill up his spine.

The slap of her hand on his ass cheek brought him back out of his own head; he reared back, giving her a look of mock outrage. "Really, Molly? You want to bring S&M into our relationship this soon?"

She blushed, as he'd known she would, but he began moving his body against hers as she returned the offending hand to his shoulder. Leaning down, he breathed into her ear, "Let's save it for when I can get my hands on a new riding crop, shall we?"

Her physical response was quite clear; a shudder ran over her body and she turned her head and practically shoved her tongue down his throat, her fingernails digging into the sweat-slickened flesh of his shoulders as he rutted into her. Her verbal response after the kiss was mostly incomprehensible, but sounded suspiciously like 'there go my fucking ovaries'. He chose to take that as a compliment and increased his pace, reaching down to grasp her hip and deepen the angle of penetration, thrusting hard and fast. She moaned and met him thrust for thrust, clawing at his shoulders and thrashing her head back and forth as he brought her to her second orgasm. It was unlikely they'd repeat their first-time record of four in one night, but he was more than happy to try.

Then she wrapped her legs around his waist and clenched her interior muscles around him and he felt the tightening in his bollocks and the base of his spine that meant he was close, so very close.

He came only a few minutes later, Molly still wrapped warmly around him with arms and legs, her lips pressing soft kisses to his chin, the side of his neck, his lips when he turned his head to fully face her.

Eventually they untangled themselves and made their way to her bedroom, detouring only for a quick wash up and a bite to eat in the flat's small kitchen. Molly, Sherlock decided as he watched her licking marmite from her fingers, looked absolutely ravishing wearing only his coat draped across her shoulders. He told her so, using his smokiest voice, and they barely made it to her bed before falling upon one another again.

As expected, no records were broken this go-round, but the second time Sherlock made sure to take things slowly, a tender love-making rather than the furious fucking in front of the fireplace. Molly's long day seemed to catch up with her after that, and she fell asleep in his arms. He eased her onto her side when the power abruptly came back on sometime after midnight, padding naked into the sitting room to flick off the various lights that had been left on and check that the fire was properly banked. After a quick glass of milk (it was nice how Molly always seemed to have milk, he never could manage to keep any in his flat for some reason) he crawled back into bed, curling himself around her and immediately falling back to sleep.

oOo

The memory of that night with Molly followed Sherlock as he and John flew by helicopter to China. For the first time in his life, he took heed to the words, "Be careful." He suddenly wanted to look out for his own safety, to make sure that his choices didn't result in hurt for those he left behind. He'd done enough of that already.

With a look at John, who had an undeniable spark in his eyes as they cruised through the air with an armored guard, Sherlock regretted that he hadn't learned his lesson sooner. Being willing to sacrifice his life just to prove that he was right with no regard to what his death would do to the people in his life...very not good. John had suffered through a great deal and had seen more than most ever would in their pointless lives, even with the viral plague that was currently haunting the world. He didn't deserve what Sherlock had done to exacerbate his suffering. When they made it through this nightmare, he would make a better effort to be a kinder friend. He would still drag him on absurd cases and there would be a good chance they would skirt the edges of the law a few times a month, but he would do it all with an intent to make John happy. That would make Mary happy, which always improved his life.

And Molly… he would do everything in his power to always make her happy.

As the helicopter began its descent towards Foshan, those thoughts of the future began to slip away. He and John looked outside onto the wasteland of Guangdong Province. The buildings, where they still stood, were mostly abandoned and crumbling. Not a soul was in sight. Cars and buses sat empty in the middle of the streets. From their vantage point, they could see what was left of bodies littering the ground.

"If they're saying this is where it all started, I believe it," John muttered, looking tense as the helicopter touched down on the flat rooftop. It was the building that Stapleton promised held the lab and, ideally, everything they were looking for.

With two soldiers armed to the teeth ahead of them and three behind, Sherlock and John entered the building through the rooftop access door, making their way carefully down the stairs. Stapleton had instructed them to focus on the third floor as it had been under restricted access during her time there. The hall to the access door was windowless and dark. Their escort lit their way with torches, rifles at the ready as they broke through the main door. Sherlock looked around, taking in the octagonal room with a large, circular desk in the center. Doors lined the walls around them, each with a small, square window at eye-level.

While the soldiers checked the room for safety, Sherlock and John entered the desk, quickly pulling file drawers open and searching for anything significant. Sherlock could feel his frustration grow as drawer after drawer came up empty, completely cleared of evidence.

"They knew this was coming," he said, yanking another empty file from a drawer and throwing it to the ground. "They had time to destroy or hideeverything. No wonder Mycroft couldn't find any personnel files; they must have deleted that information beforehand."

"Yeah, I got that," John said with a nod. "So we flew all this way for nothing."

"Not nothing, John," Sherlock said as he continued to search, holding out hope that something had been overlooked. "This confirms that this is ground zero, that they were engineering this virus to become what it has."

"Right...how does it confirm that, exactly?" John asked.

"Because if this lab was doing what they advertised - finding a cure for lyssavirus - don't you think they would be the first ones to offer up their research in light of what happened?" Sherlock told him. "Why else disappear? Why hide all of their research?"

"Mr. Holmes?" one of the soldiers interrupted. Sherlock glanced up, waiting for the man to continue. The soldier gestured towards one of the doors. "You'll want to take a look at this."

A torch was held for them so that they could look inside the room on the other side of the door. It was small, sterile white, with a single hospital bed and a counter along one wall. The cupboards were opened and all the shelves were bare.

That information was simply filler, peripherally filed as he focused on the more staggering aspect of the room - the body tied to the hospital bed. He'd seen a lot in his time, but there were always moments that made him pause.

Male. Thirty to forty. Dead for approximately four weeks, by the look of decomposition. The straps that held him down had been pulled to their limits. If the man had lived another day or so, there was a good chance he could have freed himself.

"Did Stapleton say anything about this?" John asked, his voice thin.

"The details of Mycroft's interrogation indicate lower primate and Mus musculus exclusively. Nothing about human test subjects," Sherlock said darkly.

"Right," John said through gritted teeth. "Then I think we know what we need to do here." He pulled the radio he'd been given from his belt and flipped it on. "We need full medic gear and a body bag and stretcher, right away."

The rest of the lab turned up nothing. The people who had cleaned it out had been very thorough. The only portion of the building that hadn't been touched had been the lab designed for actual vaccination research. According to the files they found, the lab had actually been fairly close to finding a vaccine that could be administered in the late stages of the disease.

Too bad it wouldn't do any of them any good.

It baffled him that so much care had been taken to cleanse the building of its hidden purpose, only to leave one body behind. He pictured the furious last moments of the lab, before it was abandoned, and tried to imagine the workers somehow forgetting to check the room. In no scenario he imagined could he see any of them having the lack of intelligence to fail to do a thorough check of the facility.

As he watched the team load up the body per John's instructions, Sherlock's eyes suddenly focused on the cupboards. Bare shelves, open cupboard doors. The room had been cleared.

"Oh," he breathed out. "Idiot."

"What's that?" John asked, coming out of the room as the soldiers carried the stretcher out.

"They didn't forget about him," Sherlock said simply. "He tied himself down. He was left behind. Infected, and he knew it. He stopped himself from infecting others. If it's possible, I guarantee a positive identification will show he worked here in some capacity. He knew perfectly well what was about to happen to him."

John looked in the direction the soldiers had gone.

"We need that body analyzed," he stated.

"Clearly," Sherlock agreed.

It was on the flight back to England that the mystery deepened for Sherlock. He received an email from Mycroft, informing him that the scientist Stapleton had been working under a Doctor Nicholas Boehm, did not exist. Well, he did exist in that the man Stapleton worked with had been a real person. Rather, Doctor Nicholas Boehm, the name, had only started existing two-and-a-half years before.

Sherlock shut his phone off and pocketed it, leaning back and steepling his fingers under his chin.