Chapter 34

There were few things, in Sherlock's estimation, that were more appalling than the specious solicitude displayed by the average commercial flight attendant. It was one of the many reasons why he preferred to book with a charter firm whenever possible - that and the not inconsequential improvement in available legroom.

It couldn't be helped this time, however, so he was bearing up as well as he could.

Which, if he were being entirely honest, even he would admit wasn't all that well.

Why did she insist on smiling so much?

"I need neither a pillow, a blanket, a beverage of any kind of, nor a packet of 'snack mix'." He glowered up at the overly perky brunette that had been tormenting him for the past nine hours. "What I require, Pam, is five uninterrupted minutes that I might be permitted to devote to my reading."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Pam said, chuckling in misguided appreciation for what she plainly mistook as evidence of his wit. "Would you like me to show you how to access the plane's in-flight entertainment system?"

Sherlock wondered if telling her that the married pilot she was having an affair with was also having an affair with yet another woman would be enough to deflect her attention. Then he imagined the disapproving look Molly would give him, and instead he merely gritted his teeth. "I am quite sure."

"Alrighty!" Pam chirped. "Well, you just let me know if there's anything else I can do for you, sweetie." She gave him a slow wink and then sashayed away up the aisle, swinging her narrow hips as she went.

"Your reputation precedes you," Aline commented drily without looking up from the reports she was reading over. "Tu es une célébrité internationale, mon ami."

He made a disgruntled noise and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "How much longer is this wretched flight supposed to last, anyway? We've been suspended over the Atlantic for at least a week and a half."

"Anxious to return a ton amour, are you?"

Hearing the barely-suppressed amusement in her voice, he scowled down at her. "Don't try to be entertaining, Aline. It doesn't suit you."

She chuckled and flicked a smile up at him. "Oh, Sherlock. You need not be offended. I think your dalliance with the sweet Miss Hooper is quite charming."

"Charming," he said with a sneer, but she merely smiled and went back to her reading.

Sherlock shuffled pages, tapping them into a neat stack in the center of his tray table. He had read over the documents several times already, of course, but he still needed to parse the information, to break it down into usable bits, organize, collate and assimilate it with the rest of the case files in order to make sense of it. This trip had not been as productive as he and Aline had been hoping it might be, but he had managed to put together some new information regarding the order of the abductions, and he would need to update the timeline accordingly.

He repositioned his cramped legs under the seat in front of him and then leaned back and closed his eyes.

The desire for knowledge, for concrete data and unassailable facts, was always the driving force behind anything he did. He was always observing, always calculating. The tiniest details, which went unnoticed by the common herd, stood out to him as though they were under spotlights. He could merely glance at his fellow travelers and know them as well as if they had told him their life story - better in fact, since people tended to lie when they were confronted directly. The woman in the seat across the aisle, for instance, wouldn't be likely to own up to the fact that she had met up with an ex-lover during her business trip - wedding band, conference ID badge, smudged lipstick. Nor would the middle-aged man two rows up ever admit that he had visited one of the more specifically skilled garotas at Centaurus during his visit to Rio - telltale red ligature marks around the base of his wrists, self-conscious tugging at his shirt cuffs, trying to cover the marks. Sherlock wasn't trying to notice any of those things. They were simply there. He couldn't force himself to not notice any more than he could force himself to stop breathing. He noticed. That was what he did. All of those things were irrelevant and unimportant, of course, but he catalogued them nonetheless. There was other information that he desired at present, but did not have access to. He would willingly give up the entire nine days worth of vague recollections, unreliable eye-witness accounts and blurry surveillance photographs just to know one simple thing -

Where was Molly right this moment?

Her whereabouts were important because he would be able to picture her much more clearly if he could envision her in her surroundings. If she was at the morgue, she would be wearing her lab coat, her hair pulled back, away from her face, exposing her neck. If she were at home - at Baker Street, that is - it would be harder to pinpoint. She might still be dressed for work in trousers and a shirt, reading a journal over her dinner. Or she might be lounging on the sofa with a cup of tea, her hair wet from the bath, his blue dressing-gown sticking to her damp skin…

He sat up abruptly and banged his knee sharply on the tray table.

"Are you alright?" Aline asked.

"Hmmm," he replied without meeting her eye. He twisted in his seat. "I must have dozed off."

"Oh, certainly." Aline nodded gravely, but he could see the amusement dancing in her eyes.

Choosing to ignore her lest their conversation devolve into another bout of relentless teasing - which he could more than do without, thank you - he went back to examining the stack of police reports they had acquired in Montes Claros. He did not wish to discuss Molly with Aline at present.

They had been gone for nine days and, lamentably, there had been little in the way of communication during that time. A handful of texts and two brief, staticky phone calls had been the entirety of his contact with Molly since his departure. It couldn't have been helped, of course. Most of their destinations had been remote - tiny villages and encampments that invariably seemed smaller than he remembered from his previous sojourn. Basing their course on her own carefully-acquired intelligence, Aline had led the way - chasing leads from Meknès, Morocco to Mansa Konko in Gambia, from Iquitos, Peru to Temuco, Chile and then off to Montes Claros in Brazil before they had finally booked a last-minute flight home from Rio.

And so little to show for it. Two other disappearances had been identified - Kamal Hassine in Rabat and Diego Rosado in Chimbote, but the lack of useful information in both cases was nothing short of infuriating. He had sent a message to Mycroft through Interpol, alerting him to be on the lookout for either men and requesting notification the moment the bodies were identified. He and Aline had, at least, managed to locate a handful of his contacts - still alive and on high alert - which had both reassured and unsettled him.

If he could find them, so could someone else.

The best thing he could do for them now was to get home, compile the data and solve the damn case. So that is what he was going to do.

Right after he went home and buried his face in Molly's hair.

He would never admit it to Aline - or to anyone else, for that matter. What difference could it make to them? But to himself, in the privacy of his own thoughts, he acknowledged that he had missed Molly. No, even that was being disingenuous, which, within the boundaries of his own mind, seemed borderline pathological. He did not miss her. No. Ever the addict, he craved her.

His fingers itched to touch her skin, to sink into the fragrant curtain of her hair, to angle her head back so that he could taste her lips. He wanted to embrace her, to wrap her in his arms and lose himself in her body. He wanted to touch all of her, to taste all of her, to drown himself in the sound of her soft cries and then he wanted to crush her to him while the world went white around him.

But even more than the warm acceptance he knew he would find when he took her body, Sherlock wanted her. More even than touching her, he wanted to see her and hear her voice. He wanted those gentle brown eyes to smile up at him and remind him that he was more than an overactive brain in the body of an irredeemable arsehole. In her presence, he was a man, and worthy of the affection and devotion of an extraordinary woman.

It had been six weeks since the home invasion that had taken away both her beloved Toby and her sense of security. He had not expected her to recover quickly from the ordeal, and she hadn't. Nightmares full of death and blood and grasping hands had pulled her from her sleep for many days afterward. But she had refused to let it daunt her. Though she still paled when she had to be away from the flat after the sun went down, she stuck out her pointed chin and refused to let her fears identify her.

She had even been the determining factor in his decision to take this trip. Aline had suggested it when the trail went frustratingly cold in London, offering up whatever aid her own network could provide. John had tried to convince him not to even mention it to Molly so soon after the break-in, but the opportunity to examine locations and interview witnesses personally had been too compelling to resist. Molly had readily agreed that he should take the trip and had even wished them both luck. John had still seemed disgusted with him, which he thought was hardly fair. If Molly didn't object, why should John?

Sherlock was fidgety and short-tempered by the time the taxi pulled up to the pavement in front of Baker Street. He threw a handful of bills at Aline to figure out and was halfway out of the car before it had stopped moving completely. He heard the driver shouting something about his bag, but he had already unlocked the door and was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He trusted that Aline would bring the bag. And if she didn't, the hell with it.

If he didn't literally bust through the front door, neither still did he stroll in. And it nearly got him killed.

The door bounced off the wall with a resounding bang. Molly let out a shriek. And in half a heartbeat there was a gun leveled in very close proximity to his left temple. He froze.

"Hello, John," he said calmly.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John pulled the gun away at once, pointing it at the floor. "What the absolute hell!"

Mary and Molly were sitting side by side on the sofa, clutching each other in an astonishingly Victorian fashion. They were both wide-eyed and pale, but looked otherwise well enough.

He blinked curiously around the room at them. "Is there a problem?"

John gave a laugh that Sherlock had come to realize was not at all indicative of humour.

"Is there a problem, he asks," John said with a snort. "I nearly shot you, you moron."

"Yes, I did notice that, actually. Thank you for resisting the impulse."

"The night's not over yet," John growled, but he was holstering the gun.

Aline's head appeared from around the half open door. "Mon Dieu," she said on seeing the pistol. "I have missed something, I think."

"Not at all," Sherlock said, stepping smoothly aside to give her room. "I have entered my own flat and not gotten shot. My successful streak continues."

"I thought you were - I don't know - an attacker, or something," John said with a self-conscious shrug. He turned to the two women on the sofa, whose level of alarm had not yet receded sufficiently for them to notice that they were still clinging to one another. "Alright?"

Mary gave Molly a quickly assessing once over and then nodded, patting Molly's arm reassuringly. "Yeah, of course we are. We're fine."

Molly had managed to collect herself and gave a sheepish laugh. "Sorry, Sherlock," she said, pushing to her feet. She crossed the room and put her arms around him. "Not quite the homecoming you were expecting, was it?"

"Not quite," he agreed, returning her embrace automatically.

"Maybe if we had known you were coming home," John grumbled. "Perhaps a little bit of notice next time, hmm?"

"Hmm," Sherlock responded, but he was barely listening. Molly's slight heat seeped into him, warming him far more thoroughly than the laws of thermodynamics would seem to account for. Her familiar scent rose up around him. He tightened his arms and drew in a deep breath. She smelled of shampoo and hand cream as well as her own clean, natural scent. He could also detect the barest hint of antiseptic and lemon that still clung to her after a day in the morgue. He felt his body tighten and he pulled away abruptly, feeling flushed.

"So how did it go?" Mary asked. She had gone to John's side and hooked her arm through his. "Did you find out anything new?"

"Oui," Aline said. She dropped Sherlock's bag at his feet and slung her own across her shoulder. "We have some new information on our the timeline, and several eyewitness accounts."

Sherlock snorted. "For all the good those always are." A belated thought occurred to him. He frowned at John. "Why are you here? Didn't you move out?"

"Yes," John said, narrowing his eyes. "I did. But in case it's slipped your mind, someone broke into your girl- into Molly's flat a few weeks ago, and delivered a very convincing message. Mary and I thought it might be best if she didn't spend all of her time alone while you were off God knows where."

"We were following up on leads in the case." Sherlock's frown deepened. "As I told you before we left."

"Yeah, and what I told you before you left was - "

"It's alright, John," Molly broke in. She reached for Sherlock's coat and he let her pull it from his shoulders. "John and Mary have been keeping me company in the evenings while you were away. I told them they didn't have to, but I'm starting to suspect that they just enjoy being fussy."

"We do, a bit," Mary agreed. She began gathering the tea things together and nudged John until he stopped glowering at Sherlock and turned to help her.

Aline followed them into the kitchen, no doubt hoping for leftovers.

Over the sound of water running and dishes clinking together, Sherlock heard John ask Aline about the trip. He hesitated until he heard Mary offer to make tea and it became clear that all of them would be nattering away in the kitchen for at least the next few minutes.

Molly had just finished hanging his coat by the door. He was across the room in two long strides. And then he took her by the shoulder and spun her to face him. He saw the startled expression on her face for a split second before his lips came down on hers.

She squeaked in surprise, but recovered quickly, returning his kiss with enthusiasm. He felt her arms come up, her fingers tightening on his back, and realized that he had thrown her off balance. Without releasing her mouth, he straightened so that she could regain her footing.

God, what was this feeling? This relief? It was a sensation of coming home like he had not experienced even after being away from England for two long years. How could a mere nine days of absence result in this perception of having recovered something that wasn't even lost?

He made a low noise in the back of his throat and pushed the questions aside as he pushed Molly firmly against the wall.

She was sweet and soft, her lips parted and welcoming as he swept his tongue into her mouth. His hands were on her face and tangling in her hair. Her breath was warm, mixing with his own. He pressed his body into her and reveled in the way she pressed back, moulding her curves to him.

From the kitchen, John gave a bark of laughter.

Sherlock jerked and stood abruptly. Without his weight keeping her upright, Molly staggered sideways, pinwheeling slightly to keep from falling over. She blinked up at him, her eyes dazed, her lips reddened. And then her expression cleared and color crept into her cheeks.

"Oh!" She glanced toward the kitchen and covered her mouth with her fingers. But they were still alone for now.

Without a word, Sherlock grabbed her free hand and tugged her behind him, skirting behind the kitchen and heading determinedly toward his bedroom.

"Sherlock - " Molly began as he closed the door behind them.

But he was in no mood for talking just yet.

He turned and shoved her hard up against the wall, and then followed her body with his own, pinning her there with his length, with his mouth, with his hands.

It had only been nine days since he had last seen her. Nine days since he had held her. It was absurd that his hands shook as he touched her, that his breath came short and his body vibrated with need. His kisses were fervid, his fingers clutching, his breath coming short. He wanted her. He craved her.

"Sherlock!" Molly gasped when he broke away from her mouth to trail his lips down her throat.

"Hush," he managed to reply before returning his attention to the tender skin at the curve of her neck.

His questing fingers found the edge of her shirt, and he rucked it up impatiently. When his hands found the smooth warmth of her belly, he let out a deep, shuddering breath.

There was pressure building inside him - a heat that uncurled from his chest and radiated out until he was sure his fingertips must burn where they touched her skin. But she clung to him still, her breath coming in gasps as he touched and tasted her to his heart's content.

Her head was tilted back and turned slightly away as though she was offering up the elegant line of her neck to him. The rapid thrum of her carotid pulse was beating in her throat, and Sherlock felt the now familiar surge of satisfaction at the knowledge that he could bring her to this state - that the parted lips, flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes were all evidence of her arousal, of her desire for him.

Visceral need boiled over then and Sherlock thought briefly of the mindless desperation he had once felt for the drugs. Ever the addict. And then his palm was against her belly, agile fingers sliding under the waist of her trousers and into the wetness between her legs.

Molly moaned and moved against him, tilting her hips forward in instinctive welcome, encouraging his touch. He shuddered at the rush of pleasure that ran through him in a wave. It was a bliss more pure than any he had ever experienced at the sting of a needle.

Now. He needed her now. He couldn't wait any longer.

He pulled his hand free of her trousers, ignoring her gentle sound of protest. Her scent clung to his fingers, perfuming the the air around them. His nostrils flared and the primal desire to take her - to have her - surged through him.

If he had been the same man that had left England behind, or even the one that had first returned home, the unfettered, roiling chaos he felt right now would have terrified him. He would have shut down and pulled away. He would have banged out the door, angry at Molly for provoking him and furious with himself for letting it happen. He would have run away and never looked back.

But he wasn't that man anymore, and he didn't pull away. Instead, he let the feeling roll over him, let it have free reign. He indulged - reveled - in the pure, animalistic nature of sexual lust.

Now. It had to be now.

Sherlock was not gentle as he reached out and yanked Molly's trousers down over her hips. He heard her sharp intake of breath, but she merely braced herself and made no other protest.

It had been too long. Nine days was far too long.

He skimmed her trousers down over her thighs and then pushed impatiently at her knickers.

Molly stepped out of her puddled clothing while he freed himself in a few quick jerks. He was too impatient to do more than push his pants aside before he was nudging her knees apart. He positioned himself between her thighs finally and thrust into her, hard and fast. She cried out at the abrupt intrusion, her fingers digging painfully into his forearms. He grimaced and covered her mouth with his hand.

"Shhhh," he said in a hoarse whisper. His lips were touching the shell of her ear, his breath hot and moist on her skin. The indistinct murmur of voices still carried down the hall from the kitchen. He tutted softly. "You don't want them to hear, do you?" He waited until she gave a brief shake of her head before he thrust into her again, but he did not remove his hand.

He was slow and deliberate, his movements methodical and fierce. He drove into her body with sharp strokes that forced her up on her tiptoes. His breathing was laboured, but he stayed otherwise silent, focused.

Molly dropped her arms, bracing herself against the wall at her back as she fought to maintain her balance.

He took it away from her then, using his free hand to reach down and pull her knee up to his waist. She was forced to reach for him, her hands fisting in his shirt, clutching at him to keep from falling. She made a sound of distress that was muffled by the hand across her mouth.

"Trust me, Molly," he murmured into her ear, barely a whisper. "I've got you."

Her body was tense, her muscles quivering. And then, after the briefest hesitation, he felt her relax. Tentatively, she shifted, bringing her other leg up so that she could wrap them both around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back. Her weight rested entirely on him now. She was pinned to the wall, supported only by the pressure of his body, dependent on him to keep her safe.

He made a low sound of satisfaction and, with one last thrust, came hard, his body shaking as he pulsed inside her.

He stood for a long moment after the spasms passed, breathing heavily, leaning into her so that she stayed braced against the wall while he recovered.

Belatedly, he remembered to remove his hand from across her mouth.

There was no sound but their laboured breathing. And then Molly drew in a breath to speak.

"Sherlock?"

"Hush," he said again. Still inside her, he cupped his hands under her bottom and turned toward the bed. "I'm not done with you yet."

Later that night, Sherlock lay curled around Molly's slumbering form, frowning thoughtfully into the darkness. His body was sated, but he was still far too keyed up for sleep.

What was this feeling? Was it merely a new form of addiction? Had he given up his dependence on the artificial oblivion of cocaine only to replace it with an even more dangerous weakness for Molly Hooper?

Molly loved him.

She had never said it. He doubted that she ever would. She knew him too well to ever attempt that conversation. But he knew it nonetheless. He knew that she loved him because he observed. The evidence was all there, laid out plainly for anyone to see. He recognized the signs even if he didn't understand the sentiment. He knew what it meant that her eyes lit up every time he walked into the mortuary at Barts, knew why she insisted on feeding him even when he was in the middle of a case, why she shared her bed and her life with him, why she cared. When her hands caressed his face, or combed through his hair, or feathered gently over the scars on his back, he could hear her 'I love you' as eloquently as if she had shouted the words aloud.

He felt an odd stab in his gut and realized with an unpleasant jolt that what he was feeling was remorse.

No one cared if Sherlock used cases to keep his mind engaged and his sanity intact. Neither his clients nor the Yard had any reason to feel slighted if he poured himself into an investigation for entirely selfish reasons. Even when he had turned to drugs to dull the chaos of his overactive mind, it hadn't been healthy, but neither had there been overt harm done to anyone other than himself.

Next to him, Molly shifted and sighed in her sleep, her breath a warm exhalation against his chest.

He looked down at her and his frown deepened.

He could hurt Molly.

By clinging to her for selfish reasons, by keeping himself as a fixture in her life, he could hurt her badly. Sweet, shy, captivating Molly, who loved the same way a star gave light - wholeheartedly and with the entirety of her being. He would destroy her slowly. It might take years, but eventually she would realize and then finally accept that he was incapable of reciprocating her feelings. And then the love that shone out of her would begin to diminish and die.

And what of the marriage and children he knew that she hoped to have one day? Would she thank him for taking that possibility away from her? She was only thirty-two. There was still plenty of time left for her to have everything she wanted. Just not with him. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from her face. The thought left him feeling hollow.

A/N: I freely admit I rushed to get this posted today (9/17) because it is the actual one year anniversary of the day I originally started posting this monstrosity. Like WOW. So in honour of this auspicious date you all get both porn AND angst! Something for everyone! Also, this chapter is a BEAST, so congratulations if you made it all the way through!

Thank you, thank you to all of you for reading! I wish I could convey to you what an amazing experience this has been for me. I set out to write this story for a variety of reasons, but the response I have gotten from you guys has made it one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. I say it at the end of every chapter, but please know that it is heartfelt each time - Thank you!

All the usual hugs and kisses to Kate F for being her betalicious self and also for the half hour turn around time I required in order to get it uploaded before midnight... Even if she did make me take out almost all of my italics.