Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Please note, this chapter is sexy funtimes: if that's not your bag then you can leave off reading once you get to the word "Hesitant." Return to us on "contentment," to read the rest. As always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. But for now… Onwards!

HONOUR

The Blue Suite

Mycroft Holmes' Townhouse

He waits until Georgiana and Rosemund have been settled.

He waits until the servants have gone back to bed.

He waits until the house has once again sunk into utter quietness, utter stillness-

And then, like a thief he slips out of his room. He pads down the hall to where he knows they've put Molly.

He can't quite believe that he's about to do this, and yet he can't bear the thought that he might not.

He stops at that, breathes in the dark. At the thought of what he's about to do- of Molly and he together- the most delicious shiver runs down his spine. His stomach tightens into knots, as do other, less gentlemanly parts of his anatomy. Again he thinks about how much older he is now than when they first knew one another, again he finds himself fretting about how much he has changed, aged. Lost. He can no longer be the man she expects.

And yet…

It's Molly, he reminds himself, so it will be alright.

Everything is alright when it involves Molly. It has ever been thus, at least for him.

Calmed, he puts his hand on the door handle to her room and twists, pushes. It opens easily. His heartbeat, already loud in his ears, starts thumping painfully and his cock twitches in his smalls. His skin feels tight, it prickles with heat. Nevertheless he takes another deep breath. Tries to calm himself. Centre himself. It wouldn't do for him to lose control.

Slowly… Slowly he opens the door. Slips inside.

Molly's sitting curled up on the bed, apparently waiting for him.

"I thought... " She whispers, flustered. Lovely. She's lit a single candle but set it on the floor. "I thought people might see if I lit another..."

"There's nobody to see, Molly," he whispers.

"There's always someone to see."

He has no answer for that.

Nevertheless he comes closer. Takes in the sight of her. He sees her eyes flicker down to his bare chest, his dressing gown. The hardness tenting his pajama bottoms.

The appreciation in her eyes is very, very gratifying.

Sherlock supposes there are advantages in coming to her as a man, not a boy.

She's wearing her slip and nothing else; she hasn't any other clothes with her so of course that's all she has to sleep in. He can see the silhouette of her body illuminated by the candlelight. Sherlock's gaze rakes over her hungrily; just as he is no longer a boy, she is no longer a mere girl. The darkness of her sex, the curve of her breasts, both stand out starkly beneath the thin white cotton of her slip. Her nipples are peaked and ready for him. Her hair is hanging loose and her feet are bare.

"Bloody Hell, Molly," he breathes reverantly and he can't help it, he holds his hands out to her. Pulls her to her feet, to him.

She feels so… delicate, so warm, there in his arms.

She giggles, ducking her head and looking away. It seems that she's trying to control an urge to cover herself. "This is the first time I've… With anyone besides Thomas," she says quietly. She's biting her lip. "I should like to… But I'm not used to…"

"Neither am I."

And it's true. He's never played the rake, nor the womaniser; in this they are similar. Those who have interested him have been few and far between. So he takes her hand in his, brings it to his bare chest. He lets her palm rest there so she can feel how hard his heart is beating. The action is oddly… grounding for him. Their eyes meet and it's like they're connected, breathing in time. Feeling in time. It's almost unbearably intimate, Sherlock thinks.

And yet, he finds that he does not mind that, not if it's with her.

"This will be different for both of us," he says quietly. "Neither of us are beginners, but neither of us are profligates either, are we?" This time he ducks his head, this time he closes his eyes- He does not wish to say these words but say them he must.

"Should you change your mind though, should you not wish to-"

"Oh I do! I won't!"

She says this in a most gratifyingly blunt manner. She blushes at her own forwardness and they both laugh again. Smile again.

He brings her other hand to his lips and kisses it before he says the next.

"That's good to hear," he tells her, and she beams. "But should that change, we can stop. I want you to know that we can stop." He takes a deep breath, meets her gaze. It's important to him that she understands. "And should anything… Should anything come of this then I want you to know that I would be honoured to make good my gentlemanly duties to you-"

Her hand tightens against his chest: she knows what he means by that, knows that he is pledging both his name and his protection to her, should their union produce a child.

Some sorrow moves through her eyes and instantly all he can do is think about kissing it away.

He knows intellectually that he can't, but oh he wishes he could.

"I doubt that will be necessary," she says quietly. Something- Sherlock thinks it might be shame- steals into her expression; it looks so wrong on her sweet, lovely face. "I can't, you see," she's saying, "Thomas and I- we tried and tried and we couldn't- I couldn't-" She gulps. "So, you see, you're perfectly safe-"

She tries to force a smile and Sherlock shakes his head, tips her chin up so that she must look at him.

With careful, gentle reverence he presses a kiss to her lips, trying to communicate all he cannot trust himself to say.

She sighs into the kiss, presses her forehead to his. For a moment she makes herself still, makes herself small, her soft little body curling in against him. He thinks she understands what he's trying to tell her. So he pulls her to him, holds her tight. She's trembling, just as he is, and it sets something fierce and protective growling in his chest-

"Thank you for saying that," she whispers eventually, and her voice is tiny.

"There is no need to thank me," he says quietly. "Whether a child comes or not- Whether this only happens once or not- I just wanted you to know that I am a man of honour, and that I will honour you, come what may."

"I know you will honour me." A beat. A breath. "Just as I will honour you."

And she pulls back, looks at him. The words are soft. Hesitant. And yet they have the sound of an order about them, or maybe… Maybe a vow. Her gaze is hot, no- burning. Aroused. Arousing. Something has changed within her, he doesn't know what., but there's no doubt now about what she's doing, what she wants.

She's certain of herself and she's certain of what she wants to do with him and oh but that is a pleasing thing…

So holding his gaze she stands on her tiptoes. Kisses him. Her lips are warm and sweet and hungry. Sherlock can't help himself: He gives himself entirely over to her. He touches her, strokes her. He can't stop kissing her and it feels so bloody good. As she had in the carriage she threads her fingers through his hair, scratches his scalp. With a gorgeous smile she nips his lower lip, suckles it- he moans and she grins in triumph at the sound of it-

"Honour me," she teases.

"You first," he tosses back at her.

Her grin is infectious. "Alright then…" There's a sweet sort of devilishness in her eyes now. "Let' see what I can do to you…For honour's sake, of course..."

And, still kissing him, she turns him so that his back's to the bed. A small push from her and he's seated on its edge. He parts his knees and pulls her into him; she comes easily, kissing him, stroking his hair. They can't seem to get enough of one another and Sherlock can't help but feel that that is as things should be. Tangling her fingers through his curls she guides his mouth to her breasts.

"Show me first," he pants, "show me, I want to see you…"

"Do you, now?" And breathless, she pulls back from him. When he nods she tugs at her nightgown, lets it slide over her shoulders. Her breasts. Down, down, down, until it's pooled at her feet and she is bared to his gaze. For a moment Sherlock stares at her, enraptured: Her belly, her legs. The lovely, sweet wholeness of her. Her breasts are perfect, small, her areolas a deep, rich brown that makes his mouth water-

"Now that is beautiful," he breathes. He strokes his nose reverently against them. Fills his hands with the warmth of her buttocks, her hips. Her self.

"Your lips," she says, "I want… I need…"

"You need me to honour you."

This time it's his turn to grin and again he pulls her to him. Again he kisses her. He takes her left nipple between his lips, starts to suckle and tease. She gasps loudly and though he hates to do it but he shushes her.

He doesn't want them found but it seems she doesn't care.

"I want more," she mumbles huskily. "I want more from you- I've always wanted more from you-"

And she kisses him fiercely. Hungrily. He's so very, very hard now. Their tongues slick and slide together, velvet and wet and wild. He knows his control is unravelling- He just can't bring himself to care- so he takes his mouth to her breasts and licks them, suckles them. Cups them and kneads them. They taste so lovely, so perfect. So her. As he works her she steps out of her nightdress, clambers into his lap. Her knees settle on each side of his thighs, her mound presses down hotly onto his cock. The feel of it makes him swear, makes him stop for a moment. He will not come apart like some green boy. A panting breath, he shivers, he kisses her…

"Christ but you feel good," he rasps.

"So do you."

And she shoots him a smile, almost blinding in its brightness.

With a tug she pulls his mouth up to her lips again, their kisses turning clumsy and wild and sweet. Wanton.

"Need you, need you," she keeps muttering into his mouth. "Oh please, please…I need you..."

"Molly, Molly…"

He wants to be impressive and clever but her name seems to be all he can remember how to say.

They're both rutting against one another with abandon now. Again he brings his hands to her bottom, pulling her tight to him, feeling the softness of her. The fullness. She seems to have been built exactly to fill his hands. Their hips moving in a rhythm as old as time itself and Sherlock finds himself wondering how much longer he can last, whether he can get her there before he himself comes apart. Christ, he hopes so. Even as he thinks that though, she slides his dressing gown from his shoulders and off him. Sets to kissing and nipping and licking him the way he's licking and nipping her...

Her lips find the raised, puckered skin of his scars and for a split second he stops. Freezes.

The cold, desolate mud of a battlefield Riss behind his eyes.

He's embarrassed and he hates that he's embarrassed: he doesn't show people those and he's not sure he wants her to see- He's not sure he wants her to discover what became of that golden boy she knew-

At his reaction she pulls back. Looks at him. As she had when they were children she reads his expression, frowning. For an awful moment he thinks she's going to stop or cross-examine him or demand an explanation. He's not sure there's any explanation he can give. But then-

Gently, deliberately, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him.

It's tenderness itself, so sweet, so good. So soft. So Molly.

Holding his gaze she kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his cheekbones. The thudding pulse at his throat. The corner of his mouth. And then carefully, tenderly, she kisses the puckered, scarred skin at his shoulder blade. The back of his neck. She keeps stroking his flesh. Touching him.

"You're good," she moans softly, "you're so right for me, my darling…"

"Are you sure?" he mumbles helplessly. Heedlessly.

He's not sure what exactly he's saying.

"I'm sure," she whispers, "I'm sure, my darling…"

Another kiss and Sherlock tumbles them back onto the bed, his heart pounding. He's awash in emotion.

Another kiss and he reverses their positions so that now he's on top of her. Staring into her eyes.

Their gazes lock and it feels like the rest of the world has ceased to exist: He can feel her hands stroking his back, his sides, his buttocks. Feathering along each one of his scars. Blessing them.

It feels so right, so tender…

"I want you," she tells him helplessly. "You can't imagine how long I've wanted you…"

It's only as he's staring down at her that Sherlock allows himself to admit just how long he's wanted her- And how frightened he had been to admit it until now.

So he kisses her, breathes her in. Their eyes lock and he is spellbound. She wraps her legs fiercely- tightly- around his hips, kissing him. Touching him. There's a depth of feeling to what they're doing now that he's never felt before. Her hand hunts inside his pajamas, finds his cock. She palms his length, squeezing him gently. "I want to see you," she murmurs and he nods, working the garment down his hips and off. It feels so good to be bare for her- so good and yet still so vulnerable.

That he can bear it- that he can like it- surprises him.

Again he thinks he should not like it we're he with anyone but her.

When he's naked she smiles: Her hands roam over him. She touches him without fear or shyness. "Are you ready?" he asks and she nods.

"So ready."

A cheeky grin, almost teasing now. "Come and honour me, my darling..."

"I'd give you every ounce of honour I have, Molly."

And slowly, holding her gaze, he allows her to guide him into that sweet place between her legs. That seat of so much pleasure.

Slowly, holding her gaze, he allows her to take him into the heart of her.

It's not seamless but then it wouldn't be: it takes a moment to find the right way for both of them. The pleasure of bedsport is often like that, though, so Sherlock bides his time. When he finally finds what works for them both she sighs in pleasure, her eyes fluttering shut. The expression on her face is blissful. Satisfied, A snap of his hips and then he withdraws, making her moan for him. He enters her again and he feels rather than sees her smile.

She pulls him close. Nuzzling and licking her neck he presses inside her. Once, twice and then he hits his stride. He settles into a rhythm that seems to please them both. She gasps, mouth falling open as her fingers scrabble across his shoulders. His back. She starts raising her hips to meet his thrusts, she tightens her thighs' grip on him, holding him fast. Sherlock moans as he moves inside her, the smell and sight and taste of her almost more than he can bear- There's nothing else left in the world but he and Molly-

"Yes," she keeps muttering. "Yes, yes, yes…"

He knows his own babbling can match her and the thought brings such pleasure.

Were things different, were they alone, then he would try to make things last for her. Unfortunately however, he suspects that he cannot. He will not permit them to be caught, not even under Mikey's roof. So he sets a merciless pace, their bodies writhing together. Clinging together. The bed shakes as she moans for him. He can't seem to stop moaning for her. Letting her guide him he finds her pearl, teases it. He knows that a woman has need of that pleasure. To each thrust of his hips he adds his fingers and soon Molly is a panting, babbling, scintillating mess.

It makes her look so beautiful.

"Yes," she mutters, gasping, helpless… "Yes, and yes, and yes…"

She comes apart, her body bucking, head thrown back in abandon.

The sight is so lovely he swears he'll climax just from the seeing of it. Molly utterly sated, Molly utterly undone... And all of it by him.

Yet even as he strokes her through her aftershocks she smiles at him. Kisses him. "My turn," she mutters, and at her urging he turns. Takes her astride him.

He can't help how exciting he finds it.

"Hold me," she tells him as she takes him back inside her. "Hold me steady against your heart, darling..."

Sherlock nods, helpless. Heedless. He knows he won't last much longer. The sight of Molly atop him, the feel of her… It's making him come undone. And he doesn't last- She rides him, a mere few thrusts and he's coming deep within her, moaning and panting her name. Holding her close as he shatters. She kisses him and swallows the noises he makes. The babble and praises. When he's spent she collapses on his chest, panting. It takes him a moment to realise that she's still working her pearl, her hand thrust between her legs. As he watches she comes off again and he can't help himself: he kisses her. Touches her. Holds her tightly to him.

He feels utterly spent and yet utterly serene.

Molly sighs in contentment, there in his arms: when she looks at him he can't help but smile at her and her delight matches his.

"That was…" He puffs out a breath. Let his head fall back on the pillow. "That was…"

"Honourable?" she inquires mischievously and they both can't help it, they fall into a knot of giggling. For a moment it feels as if they're children again. It makes his heart so glad. They stifle their laughter, burying themselves in one another. When they finally subside they smile at each other, they stroke and touch and caress.

It just feels… right.

"I can't stay," Sherlock says eventually. "I want to, but-"

"But the servants might find you." Though the words are sensible he can hear the regret in them. The vulnerability. He knows she's trying to be stoical and in that moment he decides- He decides that the next time they do this there will be no sneaking away.

He will honour this new thing between them, he doesn't care what it takes.

"Mycroft's people won't talk," he tells her. "I can promise you that. But I don't want Rosie coming looking for me tomorrow morning…"

Molly laughs, shaking her head. Her tone is wry. "I have been meaning to have the birds and the bees talk with Georgie," she says, "but this isn't the way I want it to begin."

He kisses her knuckles. "I can't imagine it is."

At this she laughs. Pulls him close. Kisses him. Though he knows he should go, it's nearly an hour before he manages to force himself away.

He feels the wrench of it intensely as he closes her door.

He feels the twist in his chest as he walks away.

And yet he steals back to his room in the pre-dawn light, her perfume carried on his skin.

He can still feel her kiss like a brand against his lips.