Molly pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to stave off the chill of the evening air. Wiggins had slung the folding leather roof over the carriage and clipped up the drapes but a slight breeze whistled between the numerous gaps. She could not wait to get back to Ash Street. She would love a cup of tea and to swaddle herself with a blanket in front of the parlor hearth. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears brought on by the bitter-sweetness of that thought. Sherlock's house had become her home and she'd just told him she wanted to leave.

Her lids flew open as she felt the side of the carriage dip. It creaked in protest as someone climbed aboard. She crossed her ankles and drew her legs backwards as Sherlock stepped through the part in the drapes. He settled himself into the seat across from where she sat in the front quarter. His face was swathed in shadow, she could barely make out his expression. All she could see was the heavy set of his brow, the grim line of his mouth and the glint of his eyes as they flicked over her form.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to take so long," he apologized.

His fingers flexed and drummed on his knee as if he were anxious about something.

Molly licked her lips. "I-I do not think that much time passed."

She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. Her posterior was beginning to go numb. The leather seats were stiff and cold. Something about the near blackness of the interior of the cabin made it seem even frostier.

"You sound as if you are cold," Sherlock observed.

"I'm f-f-fine," she replied.

A dark crease appeared between his already brooding brows.

"Come," he held out his hand. "Sit with me."

She drew in a shuddering breath. "Really, I a-am fine."

He cursed under his breath. "Molly, don't be ridiculous. We have a half-hour journey before we arrive home. I do not want you to get sick again. So, please, would you join me so that I may keep you warm?"

Molly pursed her lips. Why did he always have to phrase things so that he sounded as if he was ordering her about, even when he deigned to ask? With an exasperated sigh, she stood but the carriage chose that moment to jerk into motion. She was thrown her off balance, pitched towards Sherlock and landed in his lap with her hands on his chest. He managed to catch her but instead of moving her to the seat next to him, he clutched her hip and knee and scooted her closer so that she was right up against his torso.

"This is not necessary!" She bit out.

She could see his face much better at this close proximity. His thick, dark hair had relaxed over the course of the evening and curled over his forehead. His skin almost glowed in the sliver of moonlight that gently bathed his handsome features. He ran a tongue over his teeth and for a moment she thought he was going to scold her again but his sculpted lips just twitched before he spoke.

"It's necessary," he mumbled.

He reached around her, his hands skimmed her back as he grasped the edges of her shawl and pulled the fabric up over her shoulders. Once she was covered again, she felt his fingers on the side of her neck. With the barest insistence, he urged her head onto his collar. She stiffened.

"Must you always be so belligerent?" He sighed.

She snorted against his neck. "Must you?"

"Apparently," he muttered, his breaths fanned her hair.

Despite her misgivings, Sherlock's warm body offered a bit of respite from the cold. In fact, being in his arms was heavenly. Molly closed her eyes as the gentle bump and sway of the carriage lulled her into a sort of trance. His fingers stirred on her neck and absentmindedly stroked the flesh at her nape. He was so warm, it was as if she cuddled with a hot water bottle. As she breathed in his scent, she detected just a hint of his cologne; a mix of woodsy lemon, musk and faint spices. She knew she flirted with lunacy. She knew this closeness with him was all sorts of ill-advised but she coveted it like nothing she had ever desired.

The wheels of the carriage lurched over a bump in the road, jostling them in their seat. Sherlock shifted beneath her and then unexpectedly, the atmosphere in the carriage altered. She could distinctly hear each of his inhalations as they deepened. Every renewal expanded his chest beneath her fingertips. His left hand tensed on her thigh while the right stilled on the back of her neck. His hairs tickled her cheek as he turned his head slightly. The weightlessness of Molly's limbs quickly receded and she became aware of nearly every inch of her body. She swallowed. She did not know how to deal with this strain in her being, except that she felt as if it required a balm. Tentatively, she raised her head and found herself staring into the glittering depths of her husband's eyes.

"Molly," he whispered raggedly.

Sherlock's hand dropped from her neck and squeezed her shoulder. She was so close to him, his breaths feathered across her lips. His eyes kept flicking up and down.

"Molly, open your mouth for me," he ground out.

Her insides flushed. Warm tingles spread out from her belly. With a nervous inhalation, she parted her lips. He leaned closer and hesitated. Then, he nudged her nose with his, invited her to turn her mouth upwards and covered it with his own. The moment his plush lips closed over hers, need rampaged through her and she gripped his sides tightly. She felt his muscles flex beneath her fingers as he leaned even further into the kiss and plunged his tongue into her mouth.

She gasped against his invasion. It was so raw, so unexpected. However, she did not dislike it. In fact, the stroke of his wet flesh over hers kindled a fire in that unmentionable place between her legs. It was as if she tangled with a demon's tongue. His caresses and the way he probed was a sort of wickedness. She wanted more. So much more.

"Molly," his lips left hers and skimmed her jaw. "Dear God, Molly, you make me . . . want."

Sherlock tasted the flesh of her neck. A groan vibrated his chest.

She swallowed. "You inspire that in me as well."

He lifted his head. His eyes bored into hers. His hips moved and she noticed a difference in the feel of his lap under her seat. Her face burned with a scorching heat. He was aroused. She knew enough from medical training to know a man's member engorged when he was in that state. Oh, this was not even a little bit good.

"Do you know what it means for me to . . . want . . . you?" He asked gruffly.

The carriage bounced over another uneven patch of road. The drapes swayed and light from a nearby lamp briefly illuminated his face. His beauty stole her breath. Molly pressed her lips together and nodded. She was a doctor after all.

"I am aware of what h-happens between a man and a woman when they . . . they . . . erm, c-copulate."

Sherlock studied her face intensely. "From textbooks, I imagine? You have no practical experience?"

She grimaced. She felt so awkward.

"I was waiting for marriage."

He bunched a handful of her skirts in his grasp. She could not resist looking at him again. His eyes softened around the edges even though the intensity in their depths increased. He leaned closer.

"You are married now, Molly Holmes," he murmured.

Oh, Lord, the things his baritone voice did to her. She tried to quell her panting. Each breath felt hot and damp leaving her lips. What was he recommending? Was he mad? She began to tremble. Her insides clenched.

"Are you suggesting w-we . . . ah, become intimately acquainted?"

She briefly thought he was going to shake his head but he licked his lips. His eyes constricted.

"Yes."

Her breath caught. How could one little word wreak such havoc on her body?

"N-Now?" She stuttered, her face was on fire.

"In this carriage?" He raised his brows. "My dear wife, I am not such an animal that I would deflower you here and now. However tempting it would be to rearrange your skirts and bury myself in you, I do have some modicum of self-control."

Molly quivered all over. "So, then you want t-to . . . to . . ."

He sighed noisily. "When we arrive home, I would like to take you to my room so that I may take you, understand?"

Sherlock's deep voice reverberated through her every fibre. He closed his eyes briefly as if afflicted. His arousal seemed to grow more noticeable under her bottom.

"B-But," she stammered, she felt as if she were going to faint, "we are supposed to get an annulment. We cannot, that is, we should not engage in marital activities."

He huffed as he looked at her again. "Hang what we're supposed to do. I never do what I'm supposed to do and neither do you, Doctor."

Sherlock's head tilted, his hand reached up to her face and he studied her mouth intently. He brushed a thumb over her lips as his voice dropped an octave. "Do you not want to cast off these shackles? Do you not want to reject all these rules society places upon us and give in to your desires?"

She opened her mouth to make an impassioned denial but her words died on her lips. His gaze was so full of longing, his were round and expectant. She swallowed. Oh, good God, she had no idea what to do.

Nerves assailed Molly as she stepped into 221 Ash Street after sharing the most tense carriage ride of her life. She slipped out of her shoes and turned quickly to face Sherlock who watched her with a scowl as he divested himself of his great coat and shoes. She swallowed and glanced around, unsure of what to do with herself. Should she hang up her shawl? Offer to make tea? She felt her face warm again. When she looked up, he was practically upon her. He grasped her covering, whipped it off her shoulders and flung it over the balustrade. Then, he cupped her face and swooped down to kiss her hungrily. Her neck strained with the forcefulness of his embrace.

"Will you come upstairs with me?" His breaths were heavy.

She steadied herself on his torso as her chest rose and fell. She was still so confused. It was all coming at her like a runaway locomotive.

"I-I don't know. I can't help thinking this is terrible idea."

"Terrible?" His brows twitched.

"Or w-wonderful," she whispered. "I don't know."

He ran his fingers down her arm and clasped her hand in his. Then he tugged her towards the stairs. She told herself she would go so far as the top of the steps and then part ways with him but outside Sherlock's room, he fell on her again, pinning her against the wall with another searing kiss. Her hair came loose. Curls escaped and fell around her neck. She anchored her arms around his neck. Her entire being felt aflame. Her thoughts were a jumble.

"Molly," he stilled his hands on her waist as he searched her face anxiously. "Christ, you are shaking like a leaf. Are you okay?"

"Yes, I-I am just not sure of what to do. I don't want to disappoint you."

He frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. You tie me in knots. That is about as far from disappointment as I can imagine."

He backed her slowly into his room and kicked the door closed behind them. Then he bumped her into the bed. His room was much larger than hers with a green and black wallpaper and black wainscoting. It was very much a man's room with its heavy, dark furniture. Her eyes flitted to his as he loosened his bowtie and tugged it from around his neck. He deposited that, with his blazer over the nightstand and began working on his cuffs. When he had pushed sleeves of his black shirt up his forearms, he stopped the dissemination of his clothing.

"I do not know what you have been told of sexual relations, Molly," he murmured as he stared down at her. "I am going to touch you, everywhere, outside . . . inside. You will be different afterwards."

She could only bow her head in agreement. Oh, God, it was decided then. She was alone with him, in his room, and practically on his bed. She was going to have relations with him. Her belly quivered at the realization of just how easily she had been persuaded. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers softly as his fingers began working on the pearls at the back of her dress. She felt a tightening of her loins as each pearl popped apart and the bodice loosened around her midsection. The dress whispered to the floor followed shortly thereafter by her underthings. Cool air prickled her skin and she shivered.

He sucked in a breath as he looked down her naked body. His hand curved around her breast and he rubbed a thumb over her nipple. Her legs felt like jelly.

"Mm, give me a moment to dispense with my clothing. I'll . . . warm you."

Sherlock peeled back the bed linens and she scooted backwards on the bed. His hands flew over the buttons of his shirt and the clasps of his trousers and in mere moments, he was as naked as she. She chewed her lip as he covered her body with his own. All the sensations Molly felt at once were overwhelming. His skin scalded. He was hard where she was soft. Hairs on his chest and abdomen gently abraded the sensitive flesh of her breasts and stomach. Then there was his shaft, impossibly large and jutting brazenly against her hip and along her belly.

"My word," she choked out, "are they all that large? H-How does it fit?"

Sherlock dropped his head to her shoulder as he laughed. "It just does. Do not fret. I will ensure you're ready."

"H-How?"

He raised his head again and he shifted one side. A dark look washed across his face. She felt one of his hands move lower.

"Spread your legs," he murmured.

Her face burned. Molly felt so clueless. He lowered his head to kiss her quickly. She tentatively parted her legs and then he pushed them open further. She closed her eyes and nearly jumped off the bed when one of his long fingers parted her folds and stroked over her sex. The sensation was like a strike of lightning. Her inner walls clenched tightly.

"Unh," she cried.

That delicious friction was what she had been missing all her life. He rubbed up and down over a particularly sensitive spot and her back arched. She clutched the bedding as he continued. The stimulation was like the static spark of wool being rubbed together until she almost felt as if her hair stood on end. He kept at it until she writhed. Every so often her hips would buck. When she thought she would almost explode, his finger slipped lower and penetrated her body. His mouth stifled a cry as he withdrew his digit and pushed it back inside. With a swift shift of his hips, he raised himself up over her and dipped his head to close his mouth over her nipple. He swirled his tongue over one, then the other as his fingers continued their ministrations.

"Sherlock, um, oh God," she panted as she dug her fingers into his back.

His fingers felt slick between her legs. His breaths were loud in her ears. He withdrew his hand, groaned and settled his weight on top of her until his straining member pushed between her legs.

"Molly," he ground out, "I am nearly undone. I will try to be gentle, but you are very small and this may, um, . . . will probably hurt."

"It's fine, it's fine," she almost thrashed beneath him. "I need . . . you."

Her womanhood ached between her thighs. When he removed his fingers, she had felt bereft. She wanted to be filled again. As if reading her mind, he dragged her back a bit so she was better positioned under his body. He guided her legs up and open. She slipped her hands under his arms and wrapped them around his back as his first probe pushed apart her folds. She sucked in a breath as she found herself stricken by the moment. It was really happening. The blunt girth of his head as it sought entry was all too visceral. Sherlock was going to be inside her and he was going to breach her maidenhead. She quavered as the pressure built and he pushed into her body. He inched in slowly and she knew there was no going back. They were coming together.

She dropped her head back against the bed and bit her lip as he advanced into her body with a texture like a smooth rope. The fit was so tight, she could feel the imperfect details of him as he slid along her inner walls, stretched and filled her. Then, he encountered some resistance and hesitated.

"I am sorry for this, Molly," he whispered.

He paused, repositioned his hips and with a quick thrust, cleaved through her virginity and embedded himself deep into her womb. She inhaled sharply and cursed. The pain was searing, like the sudden slice of a knife. She clung to him as the throb of it subsided.

"Are you alright, my darling?" He whispered in her ear.

"Y-Yes."

It was then she could appreciate what had happened. He had staked his claim and she felt fully possessed by him. So greedy was her sex, it sucked onto him as he moved. He shuddered as he withdrew.

"God, Molly, this feels . . . so . . . good," he mumbled.

He plunged back into her depths and groaned. She tilted her hips and lifted her legs to take more of him in. With a grunt, he started stroking in and out of her. Each return was easier as he became wet with her arousal. Her hips bore the weight of him over and over as the bed jerked around them and the pace increased. Soon, an unbearable tension built. She almost drifted out of herself and had to focus on that one insatiable point of need that begged for slaking to keep her grounded.

Her limbs weakened as she got lost in the sensations overwhelming her core. Then, as if slipping from a wet boulder, she felt a falling sensation and her internals burst into a torrent of ripples like she had plummeted into a pool of water. She clenched around him and felt another wave of pulses. It was such a release, such overwhelming satisfaction, that she went almost completely limp.

"Uum," she moaned, "oh, Lord . . ."

Sherlock shuddered as the spasms overtook her body. Then, he with a few last, rough penetrations, he slammed back inside her and tensed. She felt his member stiffen, then pulse very much like she had and push something along its length several times. His hips bucked and she knew he must have reached his end because he softened slightly.

"Molly," he whispered. "Molly."

They lay there for several minutes recovering their strength. Molly almost laughed maniacally as she came to appreciate what they had done. She had just experienced something decadent and addictive and she would never be the same.

Sherlock, her husband, had taken her virginity. The thought made her eyes roll back in her head.

She twined her fingers in his soft curls and kissed the side of his neck as a dull, distant pain replaced the pulsations he had created.

"How are you?" Sherlock asked when he rose over her again.

She rubbed her lips together. She felt bashful as he gazed down at her.

"I am well," she said softly. "Perhaps a little sore."

He nodded and kissed the end of her nose. "It will not hurt the next time."

Molly's eyes widened. "Next time?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Yes, next time."

She shook her head. "Sherlock, we are supposed to be getting an annulment . . ."

His brows drew together. "We're not getting an annulment. It is no longer an option."

Molly's moth fell open. "B-But, this doesn't have to change that. We just don't tell anyone . . ."

"Molly, I just made you my wife," he growled. "I spilled my seed inside you."

He inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. Wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.

"Forget about an annulment, Molly Holmes. You are not going anywhere."