A/N: I can not thank you all enough for the support and encouragement. Really, truly, it means the world.

Song o' the Day: "Time Is Running Out" ~ Muse (because I needed a little BAMF inspiration for this one)

It wasn't a dream.

In the blurry moments between sleeping and consciousness, Molly felt the memories of the previous night solidify in her mind. Her body was more relaxed than it had been in a long while (three years, seven months, as Sherlock had so accurately pointed out) and the muscles of her thighs were sweetly sore. As if the physical evidence was not comfort enough that she had not been dreaming, she had the benefit of Sherlock's lean body wrapped tightly against her back, his hand placed firmly around her hip.

She had wanted nothing more than this for the better part of five years. Well, that was not entirely true. She had wanted to do her job well, to give answers to the families that came into her morgue and the crimes that needed solving. She had wanted the safety of her friends and colleagues, Sherlock most of all. In the years of her assignment at Bart's, she had wanted some way to make it all become her real life. She had rather hoped she could just slip away from her other obligations and live in the contentment of a normal career, a normal life; as normal as pathology allowed, at any rate.

After five years of attachment to a life that was not truly hers, her duties came roaring back and reminded her that it had all been very fleeting, no matter what she had wanted to cling to. Her heart had been slowly closing to the lovelorn feelings that had only brought her heartache and by the time she had been faced with leaving everything behind, Sherlock's indifferent behavior had only made things easier.

Strange how the life she wanted had decided to follow her and prove all of her intuition wrong.

The chill from the early morning air settled on Molly's exposed shoulders and she shivered, pulling the blankets up to her chin and snuggling further into the warmth of Sherlock's body.

Not surprisingly, he was already awake.

He shifted against her, sliding his hand along her stomach and making it very clear he was pleased to be waking up next to her.

She moaned softly as his hand drifted down, gentle in his exploration until his fingers brushed the exact right spot and she gasped, her body leaning into his touch. Nerves bristling with pleasure, Molly was almost embarrassed at how quickly her body responded to him. Her hands gripped blindly at the pillow tucked beneath her head, whispering his name as Sherlock continued to slide his fingers over her, pulling her to the edge.

She could feel her muscles fluttering, the slow build of her climax starting when he suddenly pulled away and she groaned in frustration. If she hadn't instantly heard the ripping of the condom packet, the man would have been in very hot water.

Sherlock pulled again at her hip, coaxing her onto her back as he came to rest over her, settling between her thighs. Unable to stop her eyes from roaming, she took in the sight of his beautifully muscled body, his smooth skin, his absolutely tousled hair, and his eyes staring into hers, dark with desire – a sight she had dreamed of for so long. Her hands slid along his torso and settled on his hips, pulling him towards her. He clearly got the message, pushing into her and latching his mouth onto the curve of her neck, sure to leave his mark.

Her previously interrupted pleasure returned tenfold and it wasn't long before the friction of his movements had warmth flooding through her, her legs shaking as her body convulsed around him. His movement only increased as she reached her high, leaving her gasping until he let out a feral groan, his own release pulsing inside of her.

If the night before had been a culmination of days and years of yearning, hastened and driven by the need to be together, the morning seemed to her the beginning of something deeper. She knew him well enough to understand that this sort of change in their relationship would not be allowed lightly, not with the way Sherlock conducted his life.

And the way he had touched her, the way he had whispered her name, asking her to stay with him. She would, too. The second the whole thing was over she would make it abundantly clear to Mycroft that St. Bart's morgue was where she belonged and he could bloody well keep his sharp nose out of their business from that moment on. No matter how much he had… helped.

"Molly, whatever has your mind occupied, kindly stop taking it out on my arms" Sherlock murmured, and she could feel his smile against her skin.

The fingers of her hands loosened on his biceps, allowing him to pull away from her. Molly missed him immediately, though it was eased by the way he propped himself up next to her, his free hand trailing along her side.

"Sorry," she said, running her fingers over the pink marks on his arm. "Just thinking… about when all of this can be over. And we can have our lives back."

"And it made you angry?" he said, his brow furrowing.

"No, no," she hastened to answer, laughing a little. "That thought made me very happy. The thought of your brother's meddling, however…"

"He frequently has that effect," Sherlock agreed. His frown deepened and he focused his gaze on the spot where his fingers brushed her ribcage. "Though I think I would prefer it if you didn't think of him when we're… otherwise engaged."

Molly made a valiant effort to control her laughter, rolling over to press several kisses onto his shoulder and neck while he firmly insisted he did not know what was so funny about the request.

"Trust me, I was not thinking about Mycroft during any of that," she said, smiling as she slipped out of his embrace and reached for his shirt that had been thrown to the floor. Slipping her arms into the sleeves, she nodded towards the bathroom. "Go clean yourself up, I'll make us some coffee."

"Have you always been this bossy, Molly?" he asked as he stood up and grabbed his pyjama bottoms, holding them strategically rather than putting them on.

"Not bossy, assertive," she corrected, popping the last few buttons of the shirt into place. She looked up to see him looking at her with that lovely half-smile on his face.

"It suits you."

The day unfolded in much the same way as the day before. Molly put in a phone call to Liam to report on what she knew from her undercover work and the location of the building. When she finished the call, she had to explain to Sherlock yet again why what they had found the night before could not be communicated until she was exposed to it legitimately.

"We broke in," she told him. "If we call in the guard and find nothing beyond a microbe experiment – however disturbing – it won't legally hold."

It did not shock her that the concept was hard for him to grasp.

The good news was that she knew they were not wasting their time and it was only a matter of waiting before she was able to get the evidence she needed.

When her phone chimed, alerting her to Sullivan's arrival, the mood was palpably different when she met Sherlock at the top of the stairs. He stared at her for only a moment before pulling her to him again, lowering his mouth to hers. Her head went light at his caress, the kiss ending far too soon. She looked up into his blue-green eyes when he placed his hands on either side of her head, tipping her face up.

"Put me out of your mind," he said quietly. "You can't risk any distractions."

"Not kissing me like that before I leave would go a long way in avoiding distraction," she said, though her gaze was sober.

"I am quite serious, Molly," he told her. "Your safety is the most important thing."

She placed a hand along his jaw, brushing his freshly shaved cheek with her thumb, and promised him she would be okay.

Her second day in the lab was as short, and only slightly less cryptic, as the first. Still relegated to the sterile room with only the equipment they deemed her worthy to use, she was tasked with going through vials of specimens and sorting out the viable ones, discarding the rest. She did not need the warning about extreme diligence with her protective gear from the man left to supervise her. Knowing what she was likely handling had put all her senses on high alert.

Logically, she knew that the cases of infection usually occurred in hospitals, mostly in people with weakened immune systems. However, those cases were naturally occurring and not the result of who knew how many months of artificial gene selection to create a veritable army of superbugs.

She removed every article of clothing, gloves, and mask as though her advising professor from Uni was watching, scrubbing out with great care.

The relief she felt upon leaving was too great to be ruined even by the liquored leer of Sean Finn as he drove her back to the city. The car turned onto the street of his favored pub, slowing as it approached. Molly noted an older man sitting on the bench outside, his pipe billowing smoke as his tethered dog strained to capture the attention of another patron leaning against the stone wall. Her eyes widened as they drifted up and landed on the man's face.

To anyone passing by, Sherlock would have looked just like any other boyo, taking a long drag on his cigarette as he stared down with annoyance at the pup desperate to be his friend. He had donned slate grey trousers, a deep blue knit jumper over his collared shirt, and a grey wool cap.

He looked downright delectable, even more so when he finally deigned to reach down and give the overjoyed dog a scratch behind the ear.

Molly gave no indication of their acquaintance as she climbed from the car, happy when Finn drove off with barely a glance in her direction. When she was sure they were quite safe, she turned a disbelieving gaze on him.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"The flat was getting unbearably dull," he told her, snuffing the cigarette out against the side of the building before tossing it in the waste bin on the sidewalk. "It was either this or finding out if I could shoot the flowers off their stems in the planter box. Something tells me your boss would not appreciate the waste of bullets."

The old man looked up at them, alarmed. Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes.

"You've had three whiskey's before five o'clock and you've been conversing with your dog," he said dryly. "Would you like me to explain which one of us is unstable?"

Molly grabbed his arm and pulled him away, shooting a quick apology to the man as she hurried them along.

"Do you understand that people at that pub could be involved?" she muttered under her breath.

"I certainly did not think Finn chose it for its charm," Sherlock said as he slipped his arm from her grasp and laid his hand at the small of her back, guiding her around the corner. "There was no one to be concerned with, unless you count the bartender peddling drugs in old beer kegs. That could be something to be concerned about. Terrible for the quality…"

"And yet you spent the better part of the day there," Molly said, choosing to ignore his interest in illegal drug quality.

"As I said, the flat was dull. It was the best way to find out if the network extended beyond what you have seen. And to make sure… you came back all right."

His chin tilted up nonchalantly as he spoke, his hand pressing firmly into her back. Molly smiled at his failed attempt to downplay his protectiveness, knowing what he was feeling was probably still foreign to his brain. It was taking her a great deal of effort to remember that it was all real and she had been aching for it much longer than Sherlock had.

He led them to her motorbike, parked a safe distance from the pub, and took the driver's position, throwing a smile at her as she climbed on behind him. It melted her heart and almost made her forgive him for neglecting to bring the helmets with him; something she planned to nag him for later. For the moment, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and reveled in his closeness as he drove them to the flat.

Five days passed with very little changing in the daily routine for Molly. She was slowly permitted to see more of the facility out of necessity for her work. The changes coincided with the appearance of more and more workers in the building, as though her presence was the signal that the hive could hum to life again. She still waited for the moment when the scales tipped in her favor and she could bring solid evidence of their intentions to the table.

Sherlock waited for her without fail at the end of every day, convincing Agent Sullivan with a minimum of words that he was perfectly capable of handling her transportation. As the activity at the facility increased, so did the presence of individuals Sherlock could not dismiss as harmless at the pub. Molly wanted to beg him to stop loitering in the building, but she knew the futility of the effort without even trying. Once he was determined, there was little to be done to sway him otherwise, and her newfound importance in his life only increased his resolve.

Fortunately, their nights belonged only to them and brought the safety and reprieve that gave her the strength to keep going. Despite his revelation that he was not, in fact, uncorrupted, he still reacted to every sensation as though it were the first time he was experiencing it. Perhaps, in his mind, it was. The first time she had turned him on his back and slid down his body to taste him, he had looked like a man possessed. Everything paled to the way he looked at her when she positioned herself above him, drawing him to his release with the rise and fall of her body, giving every bit of his control over to her. If he never found the ability to say that he loved her, she had no need at all to doubt that he did.

On the sixth day, everything changed.

Molly was escorted into the largest room in the facility and came face to face with the sight of glass tanks, pipes, and all manner of hydraulic systems. In the center of the room, lab tables held an assortment of testing stations, vats of chemicals, and what she assumed were cultures of viable microbes. The smell of chlorine and disinfectant assaulted her nose.

Only one thought entered her mind. Water.

The most essential of all human needs, the substance on which all life depended.

And they were going to poison it with an untreatable onslaught of bacteria.

Was it even possible? How far had they gone in engineering the genetics? Would it even work in industrial nations? Did that even matter when so much of the world lay prone to untreated sources of water, vulnerable in the extreme?

Molly nodded numbly at whatever instructions she was given, somehow registering her task of submitting cultures to various chemical compounds through the whirlwind of questions and fears in her mind. The day passed in a haze.

Sherlock knew the moment he saw her, though he kept a neutral expression as she hovered near the front door of the pub. She fiddled with her mobile, pretending to call for a ride as she always did while she waited for him to vacate the corner booth he took to when he felt the pub was safe enough. Waiting until he was only a few paces away, Molly turned and headed for the sanctuary of the outside world, knowing Sherlock would be right behind her. As she passed through the door, she was forced to skirt around a dark haired man entering the pub, glancing up as she muttered an apology. He stared down coldly, holding her gaze for the span of a breath with his black eyes before sliding past her.

Feeling her stomach drop, she turned in time to see Sherlock lock eyes with the man before barely dodging the fist flying at his face. The man lunged forward with the momentum of the punch that did not land, and Sherlock threw his weight into the man's back, sending them both sprawling into a table just steps from Molly. The pub exploded in shouts, some cheering the fight on, others calling for order. Molly watched both men stagger to their feet and it suddenly registered that the dark haired man had turned his attention on her. Not waiting for him to regain his footing, she stepped forward and let her elbow fly into his face, connecting with a satisfying crunch before kneeing him in the groin and watching him crumple to the floor.

She looked up to see Sherlock staring at her, dumbstruck.

"Run!" she shouted over the commotion, waiting only to make sure he followed her command before turning and bolting out of the door.

She hardly had the bike into the street when she heard the squeal of car tires behind them. Not even bothering to look, Molly hit the accelerator hard. With the car between them and the route into the main part of the city, she turned them towards the road out of town, hoping speed and agility would be in their favor.

"Who was that?" she shouted over the rush of air.

"The man you saved me from in London," Sherlock shouted back. "Looks like he finally tracked us down."

"Fuck."

"Aptly said."

A gun firing sounded behind them.

The first shot fired from the car missed, but only just. She felt Sherlock let go with one hand, reaching into his trousers to pull out his weapon. Holding tighter with the arm still wrapped around her, he turned and took steady aim, firing off several shots. One bullet struck its target, sending the gun flying from their pursuer's hand.

Molly felt his chest lay flush against her back again, though he kept the gun in his grasp at his side.

They had reached the edge of the city limits, pushing out into open country. She knew the route well at this point, her heart thudding in her ears as the road stretched out before her and the means to their escape tantalizingly close. She sent out a thank you to the universe for luck being on her side for once. It had to be timed perfectly, but if she could get them across the railroad tracks that intersected the road and onto the other side…

The cargo train horn blared as it rumbled down the tracks.

"Molly…"

His voice was a low warning in her ear.

She pushed down the hesitation it caused, knowing if she faltered it could mean their lives.

"Trust me," she said firmly over the rush of wind.

The blast of the train horn resounded wildly, hurting her ears with its intensity. She felt his hands clench at the fabric of her shirt.

"Molly."

"Trust me, Sherlock."

She pressed on the accelerator with all her strength, sending them hurtling towards the tracks.