A/N: Hi, and welcome back to another edition of "Vintage Villain can't write smut" - I'll be your host, Vintage Villain. Hopefully this isn't as terrible as my brain keeps telling me. :)

0o0

Sherlock was unusually silent on the cab ride home. Molly was used to long periods of silence from Sherlock when he was lost in thought, but there was something different about him this evening. Something that left her concerned and uneasy.

Molly sat back, watching as Sherlock stared pensively out of the window. Since leaving Moriarty's room at the hospital, he had hardly said two words, leaving her to say goodbye to John and give instructions to the taxi driver. She couldn't blame him really, the day had been exhaustingly thought provoking, especially for Sherlock, who was a notorious over-thinker.

When the car pulled up outside Baker Street, Sherlock sprung out of the door and into the building before anything could be said. More concern flooded her system as she paid the fare. He was closing himself off, and there would only be a small window for her to break down the walls he was rapidly building before she lost him to this case forever.

Molly paused at the door to 221b and steeled her resolve. She had no idea what was waiting for her on the other side of the door.

Shoulders hunched, Sherlock stood behind his chair, leaning his weight on the chair back and staring silently into the cold fireplace. He looked lost, paler than usual, and Molly could feel the waves of emotion radiating off if him. Her first job, she knew, was to calm him.

She had never seen him this unsettled before and therefore found herself approaching like you would approach a wounded animal. Step. Pause. Watch. Step. Pause. Watch. As she got closer, she became more attuned. She could hear his breathing, along with the sound of his fingertips gripping and releasing the leather chair.

"Sherlock?"

His name was a trigger. Sherlock tightened his grip and lifted his chair, throwing it against the wall in the corner of the room. The chair collided with the bookshelf, making a few of its contents fall to the floor. "He shouldn't get to live!"

Molly tried to not physically react to his outburst, however this violent side of Sherlock was new and unusual to her. "Sherlock?"

The consulting detective moved to the chair, that now lay on its side, and kicked it. Repeatedly, his foot connected with the cushion and base of the seat, punishing the chair for the world's shortcomings. Molly stood back, waiting for him to exhaust himself. He did eventually, turning and sitting on the floor beside the mess he'd made. "Moriarty shouldn't get to live if Greg dies." Sherlock sighed, hands pulling at his curls.

"Sherlock..." Molly sat beside him, a soothing hand on his back. "...he's..."

"You don't know Greg won't die." Sherlock began quietly. "And you don't know Moriarty won't live."

"I don't." Molly admitted, moving her hand from her back to rest on his knee. "But I get the feeling the Moriarty won't live if Greg dies."

He took a shaky breath. He wasn't sure if the words Molly had spoken were intended as a joke or a suggestion, but either way he didn't quite know how to take them.

"I've never had to bury a friend." Sherlock admitted softly. "But you've told me how hard it was for all of you to bury me. I don't want to do that."

Molly curled up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, wrapping a comforting arm around him. Sherlock lifted an arm to remove her embrace, but paused, finding himself just clutching her arm and holding it the way a dying man would cling to a life raft.

"We'll never know what tomorrow will bring Sherlock." Molly whispered. He listened to her words, taking each one and locking them into his mind. "The first twenty-four hours are critical in cases such as this, but with every hour after that first day, his outlook brightens. He's made it this far Sherlock, against all odds, there's still some hope, and that hope grows by the hour..."

Whilst she had been speaking, Sherlock had been overcome with the urge to kiss her. To silence her truths and thank her for her words, for her presence, her calming energy. So he did, cutting her off mid-sentence with his lips on hers.

Molly allowed herself to be swept away by Sherlock's lips. The emotion of the day and of what she had been saying before she was so pleasantly interrupted washed away as his lips gently brushed hers, softly, innocently.

Sitting on the floor in the broken corner of the room, Molly angled herself into Sherlock's embrace, wanting further access to his lips. Sherlock accepted the movement, pulling her into his lap as their mouths continued their gentle assault on each other. Wrapping his arms around her felt comfortable, so he took his opportunity to pull her closer to his chest.

Within minutes, Molly, weak with lust and emotions, pulled away. She bit her swollen lips to avoid Sherlock's intense gaze as she continued to untangle herself from his needy body. He looked shocked as Molly stood, separating their bodies entirely. Her behaviour was confusing to his inexperienced mind but he didn't have the time to ponder her actions.

Molly swallowed her unnecessary nervousness and held her hand out to Sherlock. He looked at it, confused, still wondering why she had interrupted their kissing in the first place. When he finally did place his hand in hers, and Molly lifted him to his feet, pulling him down the hall to the bedroom.

Molly reseated him on the bed, stepping herself between his knees to look down into his eyes. Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken as her delicate hand brushed a curl off of his forehead, hands dropping to push his suit jacket off of his shoulders. Sherlock locked his eyes on Molly's as his hands raised to her hips, stepping her forward and pulling her down into the bed with him.

She fell on his chest, making him release a breathy laugh. Molly grinned, her hair falling around his face, curtaining them. Sherlock brushed it behind her ear and pulled her closer, reattaching their lips.

Laying across the bed was awkward, but neither cared as their kisses and caresses grew in passion. Sherlock stroked her cheeks before moving lower, over her chin and neck and then down to the buttons of her shirt.

When they started kissing it had been to comfort one another, but as Sherlock made quick work of her shirt, a switch was flicked within him. Overcome with desire, Sherlock had never wanted someone as much in his whole life. This time, unlike the few other times he had had sexual relations, he felt both a physical and emotional connection to his lover. The rising, unspent passions he had been fighting since they started dating were threatening to break over the levy. He not only wanted her, he needed her.

Molly assisted him in shucking her shirt. She could sense where this was headed, and the anticipation building in her was hitting a crescendo. She was minutes away from making love to Sherlock Holmes for the first time. It felt right. Perfect.

Sherlock rolled them so that Molly was pinned beneath him, and took a deep breath to steady himself, to stop him from acting like a foolish teenager. Molly deserved to be treated carefully, lovingly, no matter how much he wanted to ruthlessly devour her.

Their position made it almost impossible for Molly to reach his buttons, causing her to squirm and whimper pitifully. Sherlock smirked down at her and lifted himself to allow her to access, revelling in the sweet, victorious smile Molly gave. His shirt soon joined hers in the growing pile of garments on the floor.

Hands working from her hips as his mouth moved down from her neck, Sherlock left no part of Molly unexplored. His caresses making her moan and occasionally giggle. Sherlock catalogued her reactions, taking not of her ticklish spots for future reference. He would never grow tired of this, he knew, of having the ability and importantly the permission to touch Dr Molly Hooper whenever he wanted.

Molly's fingertips moved up her spine before stopping abruptly. Sherlock took one last steadying breath before whispering "I am not good with bras."

Molly blinked, her lust addled mind taking a while to register the fact she was just given. Molly knew that this would be the perfect opportunity to make a joke at this one area of inadequacy that Sherlock had, but instead reached behind herself to unhook the garment. Sherlock looked thankful as Molly shrugged out of the fabric.

Without further conversation, Sherlock took one of her peaked nipples into his mouth, raising his hand to gently play with the other. Molly moaned almost instantly, arching off of the bed, pushing her breast further to him. Sherlock grinned around her, excited by the eagerness of the woman before him.

His mouth's attention travelled to the other breast as his hand travelled downwards, using her distraction to unbutton her trousers and carefully slide his hand into them. The pleasant intrusion caused Molly's eyes to open and a moan to escape her. The sound shot straight to his groin, making him push his hand further beneath the fabric until he brushed against her warmth.

Molly's hands tried to push at her pants, but Sherlock swatted them away, content with fumbling below the layers of her clothes, teasingly brushing against her wetness. While his technique was clumsy due to the constriction, the noises it was soliciting from Molly made it all worth it.

Soon his fingers brushed against a spot that reduced Molly to a mess of begging moans. He worked her clit with increasing pressure, making her groan his name greedily, again shooting molten need to his own groin. He wanted her with his whole self, but what he wanted more was to please her.

Molly dragged his mouth back to hers, making him swallow her noises as his hand continued to drive her to oblivion. He continued, keen to have her a whimpering mess in his arms, just as she had been last time they had shared this bed. But he wanted more. Wanted her to experience more.

Molly could feel her resolve slipping. Sherlock's talented hand assaulting her was a heavenly torture. He was a quick study it seemed, as his previous claims of being inexperienced was now mere smoke on the wind. He was learning her body the way he would compose a violin piece, testing and playing by ear.

But suddenly his hand was gone and the weight that shared the bed shifted. Molly opened his eyes, watching as Sherlock stood, and almost aggressively ripped her trousers and pants down her legs, discarding them across the room. Her question about his behaviour died on her lips as he suddenly dropped to his knees and pulled her to the edge of the bed, replacing his fingers with his eager mouth.

The earlier exploration of his fingers was now echoed by his tongue. Every inch of her oversensitive body tingled, goosebumps spreading from where his hands held her thighs, and Molly could feel her orgasm approaching. Sherlock must of sensed it too, as he soon increased his mouth's endeavours.

She came with a cry of his name and abruptly pulled him back onto the bed, shocking him when her mouth immediately latched onto his. Her kiss was hungry, intending to devour him whole, but Sherlock found it arousing that he was sharing her taste with her insistent lips.

As her heartbeat returned to resting, her kisses became lazy. Molly held Sherlock's half dressed body against her nudity as she explored the skin that was exposed. He felt tense and Molly assumed it was a strain to not act on his obvious arousal. She reached for his belt, finally ready ti continue, but Sherlock stilled her action carefully.

He rolled on his side and dug in his bedside table draw, producing a full box of condoms, still wrapped in the plastic security wrap from the store.

"Recent purchase?" Molly asked playfully.

Sherlock looked nervous. "A few months ago."

Molly did the calculations, knowing that the date of purchase would have been when he was 'dating' Janine. Surprisingly, Molly realised she didn't care. Past was past, and present, this very moment with Sherlock was all that mattered. She placed a hand on his back, and Sherlock went to work opening the box and setting out the small foil package on the edge of the bedside table.

"Now where were we?" Sherlock grinned. Molly returned his effortless smile, her hands rapidly undoing his belt and freeing him from his pants.

Finally naked before her, Molly explored his body the way he had explored her, palms and fingers brushing soft patterns in his heated skin as she kissed him again and again. She pushed him against the mattress with one hand, reaching for the condom with the other.

Sherlock watched as she carefully tore open the packet and rolled it onto him. In that moment he realised that one of the things he loved most about Molly was her take charge attitude. Especially now, as she was kneeling above him, positioning herself. She caught his amazed gaze and suddenly looked nervous. "Is this ok?"

"Of course." Sherlock assured her, his hands coming to rest on her hips, and together, they aligned their bodies. Molly eased herself down onto him carefully, and finally they were joined.

Molly leant forward to kiss Sherlock as he started his slow, steady trusts into her. She met his hips as they built a rhythm, and soon they were moving in perfect synchronisation, complimenting each other as they did in so many other ways.

Soon Sherlock had no choice but to give in to his slipping control. He gripped her hips and turned abruptly, surprising Molly as she was thrown carefully onto the mattress, their bodies still joined and regaining their motion as though there had been no disruption. While she had enjoyed the intimacy of their previous arrangement, there was no denying the coil of lust and arousal that was resetting inside of her as she looked up at Sherlock.

A curl stray curl stuck to the sweat of his brow, and Molly couldn't help but lift her hand to brush it away. Sherlock stilled at her movement, turning his head to kiss the inside of her wrist. It was a bizarre move, especially considering the notable intimacy of their current position, but Molly's heart near exploded from the look of love and admiration in her lover's eyes.

Lifting her hips and she encouraged him to move once more. Sherlock continued, setting a pace that was previously unexplored. His own selfish needs danced before him, tempting him to buckle under the pressure building within him, but he knew he was not prepared to do that without Molly at his side.

And by the sounds his pathologist was making, it would not be long before she was ready. He was becoming a collector of her sounds, a connoisseur of her expressions. He lifted his hand awkwardly, pulling her lower lip from where she had been worrying it between her teeth, kissing it carefully.

"I love you Molly." He mumbled, breathless.

"I love..." Molly began, pausing mid sentence to arch her back slightly, meeting his body with hers. "...you too."

Words and actions combined, making his head swim as his body sped towards its end. He needed to take his release, and selfishly found himself moving his hand between them, rubbing her oversensitive clit in an attempt to speed her own approach to ecstasy.

"Sherlock." The moan was a warning mere seconds before everything tightened around him. He continued to move in her within her as his name tumbled from her lips like a prayer. Sherlock followed only seconds later, collapsing against her chest as he spilled within her.

Molly carded her fingers though his hair as they both came back to themselves. Sherlock looked up at her, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. She smiled, and despite everything that was happening in their crazy lives, she was happy.

0o0

The ripping sound of scissors through paper filled the quiet room. The lone occupant diligently cutting articles from a selection of newspapers. The room was covered in clippings: floor, walls and ceilings covered in the dulled grey of newsprint.

The article most recently clipped however, was a special one indeed. The headline 'The fall of Scotland Yard' accompanied an amazing picture of the pile of rubble that was once the iconic building. This one was so special, it was going in the book.

Large and leather bound, the book was a collection of career highlights of Moriarty. Starting at the first game, when the criminal waged war on Sherlock, through the Richenbach dilemma and the return if the fallen geniuses, every article that mentioned Moriarty by name was in this book.

It was a journal, a keepsake of achievements, a resume, some may argue, and tonight, it was getting a crowning jewel. The destruction of Scotland Yard.

As Sarah Moriarty flipped back through the pages and pages of work she wished for one thing, and one thing only...

She wished her stupid little brother would stop taking credit for her hard work.

A/N: boo to technical difficulties! Boo, I say! Thanks to all the people who enquired why i had been putting up and taking down this chapter the last few days. I think I've I finally got it sorted.