A/N: hello, sweeties! Here at last is part one of THE chapter. Thank you all for your reviews, support and patience! Things have been hectic and I'm having burnout a bit, so please keep reviewing to motivate me!

This is dedicated with special hugs and kisses to: Heartgrater and CumberChelz. I don't know what I'd do without my "dearest" and my Shiny Jewel! And a big thank you to Emcee Frodis, who helps more than she can ever realize.

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Sherlock stopped outside the door to her flat. "I'll be inside in a few minutes," he said, kissing her again briefly. "I need to make a call."

She nodded. "All right." She unlocked the door and went in.

He waited about ten seconds after she closed it and took out his phone. "NOW would be good," he snapped.

As if on cue (and it was, really) his phone sprang to life.

"Change my pitch up! Smack my bitch up!"

He wrenched it open. "I am not your bitch," he snarled.

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh, but you are. And Molly's. Goodness me, how lucky. Speaking of lucky, you're about to be. Hooray for the consulting detective. Are you nervous?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's sex. Why would I be nervous?"

"How sweet. However have you managed to keep all your admirers at bay all these years? Meant to say: it was nice of your brother to give you condoms. Personally, I wouldn't mind a big family of Holmes children. They could distract me when they got old enough to play the game."

"I think you're satisfied that I'm keeping my part of the bargain," Sherlock said coldly. "Now it's your turn."

"Of course. I do have an imagination, after all. Oh, by the way: I did you a favor."

"A favor?"

"Yes. I gave Kitty a false lead, had her staking out the wrong restaurant. We wouldn't have wanted a photo of you and our dear friend Miss Adler to be on tomorrow's front page, now would we?"

"No. Your generosity overwhelms me," Sherlock droned. "How did you recognize her, by the way? Even I didn't know it was her until she spoke."

"That's my little secret. And as for derailing Kitty: I'm just a romantic fool. Now go on. Off you pop. Or get popped, in this case."

"Must you be crude?"

"Why do you care? It's just sex, remember? Oh, all right. Go consummate the burning passion that rages between you. Better?"

"No."

"So hard to please. What should I say, then?"

"Not a bloody thing," Sherlock said with a smug grin, and turned off the phone.

He drew in a deep, ragged breath. After a week of near-constant surveillance, he was free. It was only for six hours, but that was six hours that he intended to enjoy every minute of.

He slipped the phone in his pocket and went inside.

Molly had turned off the lights and lit candles. He heard music coming from what he knew was her bedroom. He slowly walked further into the living room.

She had removed her shoes and was standing in the hallway leading to her bedroom. She met his eyes and smiled. "Everything ok?"

He slowly crossed the room to her. "It is now," he said softly.

They moved towards each other simultaneously, lips and fingers and skin pressing together, melding them into a pleasure poem. Sherlock placed a kiss on the side of her neck, nuzzling the skin below her ear, and smiled against her when she shivered and sighed. Her mouth moved to his jaw, nipping and kissing a line across his face while the fingers of one hand pressed hard on a nipple , making him gasp. He knew the mechanics of arousal, but a textbook explanation conveyed no descriptions of the raw pleasure it produced. And even if it had, it would have paled in comparison to what he felt.

There was still a bit of drugs and hormones in him from the chocolates. He had no way of knowing exactly how much they were enhancing his experience. But it didn't matter. He was there to enjoy it, not analyze it, although knowing himself as he did it would be impossible to completely turn his brain off no matter how much pleasure he felt.

Molly pressed herself tightly against him, one arm winding around his neck, the fingers on his nipples trailing teasingly down his chest and stomach, making him gasp again. Her other fingers wound in his curls and his mouth found hers again, his own hands gliding up her arms to rest near her shoulders. When the kiss finally ended they stood looking at each other as though making certain it was all right to proceed. Whatever Molly discerned from his expression made her smile, and she took his hand in hers and slowly pulled him down the hall and into her bedroom.

He barely had time to deduce anything before he found himself kissing her again, no longer as gently or slowly as earlier. It seemed all his neurotransmitters were thrilled about the free reign they had in his brain at the moment, and were busy sending waves of synaptic messages to each other about how Molly was all warm and soft and goodness: they had no idea her licking the corners of his mouth could do that. The sensations were pouring in, too many too fast, and he nearly panicked before taking a deep breath and getting himself under control.

A control which he promptly lost as soon as her mouth trailed down his neck.

He gasped sharply, pulling back, and she grew alarmed.

"Sherlock?"

He shook his head, grasping her hands tightly to reassure her. "It's… so much. So much sensation. How on earth do you process it all?"

She studied him. "It's very different for most people. Most people don't have your, ah, capacity for taking things in." She frowned slightly. "Sherlock, we don't have to do this if you're not ready…"

"Yes, we do," he said without thinking, and she stared at him in confusion. "I mean, we have to because this… awareness I have is never going to change no matter how long we wait. My mind is always going to race. I can't let it stop me."

Molly looked skeptical. He pressed a kiss to her lips. "I want this."

She nodded. "Ok. Then help me. I don't want you to be overwhelmed…"

"No. I don't want you holding back from me. Just… understand. That's enough," Sherlock said quietly.

Molly nodded again, her lips moving to his, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence when she felt him respond. Time had no meaning for her; there was only his mouth and his hair and his body pressed against hers and every despairing dream, every painful fantasy she'd ever had about him was a pathetic comparison to this.

Sherlock felt Molly tremble against him and his brows knitted in confusion. He was still at a loss to understand how anyone could want him so much. He'd been told before that he was attractive. He'd also been told he had a face like a horse: long and narrow. The reports were somewhat conflicting, and he was no judge. He had many of the biological markers: the height, the intelligence, the strength and agility. But he wasn't one of those broad-shouldered, square-jawed, rampantly muscular men that seemed to grace most romance novels or magazine covers. He was observant far beyond normal human ability, and he could definitely tell when a man or woman fancied him. He'd known Molly fancied him the second time he was in her presence.

A slight pang of guilt washed over him as he thought about the times when he'd flirted with her to get his way with a corpse: the things he'd said about her mouth and breasts. He didn't know why he had felt the need to pick her apart as he had. Yes, he was abrupt and (according to John) dismissive and ignorant of the effect his arrogance had on others. But he'd never told John his mouth was too small, or made derogatory remarks about his physical attributes. Or Lestrade. The only time he'd even commented on Donovan's appearance was to snidely get Anderson know he was aware of their shenanigans.

So why had he always cut Molly down? Why had he spouted off so derisively at the Christmas party? She had, in fact, looked quite beautiful. And when he'd opened the tag on the gift and realized in an ashamed rush of breath that he'd gone too far, he'd kissed her cheek. It had been a confused impulse not rooted in sexual desire, but a desire to make amends by offering her something he rarely gave: a small part of himself.

Had he been unusually cruel to try and drive her away? Had he not wanted to hurt her in his own bizarre fashion? Or had he subconsciously been afraid that she could do what all his fans and Irene Adler could not and truly, deeply touch his heart?

He came out of his analysis to find that Molly had released him and moved back a step, eyebrows raised and a confused expression on her face. "Sherlock, where are you?" She asked with a small, resigned laugh.

Sherlock smiled ruefully and pulled her back to him. "I was thinking about you. About the things I've done. How I've treated you."

"Oh." She looked more confused than before. "You've got my tongue in your mouth and you're thinking about how you used to treat me?"

He gently brought her against him and looked her in the eye. "I never understood before now why I was so awful to you. Why I said those horrible things. I was trying to push you away. Not because I didn't care. It was because… somehow I've always known I could care too much."

Molly's eyes widened. "Oh," she breathed, a smile of wonder and happiness spreading over her face. "So, that's ok now? For you to care?"

"It's no longer in my power to choose," Sherlock told her softly. "It is already done. It would be foolish and pointless for me to deny it. I want you, Molly. I want this. I want us."

Sherlock kissed her again, leaving no room in Molly for doubt, and for that blinding, revolutionary moment she silenced everything in his head.