The first part of this chapter is definitely M rated. If that's not your thing, just skip over it. I wont be offended. My only wish is to avoid being nominated for the Guardian 'Bad Sex in Modern Fiction' Awards. So, consider yourselves warned!

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Sherlock was on his way to the solicitor's office to retrieve the removable hard drive which contained all the CCTV video files documenting Eurus's entire time spent at Sherrinford, except for the last couple of weeks.

He and Molly had spent the morning and half of the afternoon at 221B, mostly in the bedroom, strengthening their bond, or as Molly would say, 'having lots of sex'. It started innocently enough, with Molly nested in the C-curve of his body, his arms wrapped around her and his face burrowing into the nape of her neck, having swept her hair up onto the pillow, out of the way. He was savouring the sensation of bodily skin-to-skin contact, free from the obtrusion of clothing; she was just drifting back into sleep, feeling safe and secure, when she felt his lips begin to travel, tracing the line of her trapezius to the junction of her neck and shoulder. His morning stubble tickled, slightly, and she wriggled in pleasure. And then…he nipped her flesh, really hard.

'Ouch!' she squeaked and made to turn towards him but his arms tightened around her torso, restricting her movement, and she felt as much as heard a low, resonant basso profundo growl, right beside her ear.

'Don't. Move. If you know what's good for you.'

A frisson of excitement fizzed through her core and she froze as one hand encompassed her left breast and he began to tease her nipple, rolling it gently between finger and thumb; his other hand ghosted lightly over the contours of her abs and stomach, dipping down between her legs, where he commenced a slow, sensuous massage of her clitoris, eliciting a startled gasp from her lips followed immediately by a long, soft sigh, as she thrust her pubis into the cup of his hand.

As waves of arousal ebbed and flowed through her, Molly snaked a hand between their bodies and, finding his penis already semi-erect, she closed her fingers around it and began a reciprocal massage of her own, causing him to emit a guttural groan and gnaw at her shoulder.

Enveloped in an aura of sensuality, they both luxuriated in this uninhibited exchange of mutual gratification, rapidly advancing toward rapturous fulfilment but, on the very brink of elation, Sherlock suddenly abandoned his ministrations to her glans and deftly inserted a long, slim digit into her vagina, immediately locating her G-spot and hurling her into the abyss of orgasm, ripping a euphoric scream from her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath, her heart thundering.

Apparently oblivious to her state of utter abandon, Sherlock flipped over onto his back, taking her along for the ride, so she ended up sprawled on top of him, exposed to the elements.

'Stay with me,' he whispered into her ear, still intent on exciting her G-spot, giving no respite at all, as he reached out with his free hand and fumbled open a drawer in his bedside cabinet, felt around briefly to locate a condom, tore open the wrapper with his teeth then tipped them back onto their sides, with Molly, flailing like a rag doll, powerless to resist.

'Stay with me,' he hissed again, as he rolled the condom into place and, without pause, pulled her pelvis against his own, extracted his finger from her vagina and entered her from behind. The effect was cataclysmic as a second orgasm tore through her body and she shrieked, as if in pain.

'Stay with me', he gasped, for the third time, as he began to thrust his hips, gently at first but with increasing urgency, whilst applying the tip of his finger assiduously to the hyper-sensitive spot on her glans. Molly's body was burning, assaulted on all sides by sensations she'd never encountered before. She gasped for air but to no avail – her lungs were paralysed and her head swam with anoxia. Her hammering heart pounded in her ears and she grabbed a handful of duvet, desperate for something it anchor her as she was tossed helplessly on this tide of ecstasy. And just as she thought she might actually pass out through lack of oxygen, Sherlock spasmed against her and she heard him roar as a third orgasm overwhelmed her and her rhapsodic cry dueted with his.

'Oh, my god! Oh, my god! What was that?' Molly gasped, her head still spinning as her heart rate stuttered towards a normal sinus rhythm. Sherlock, spread-eagled on his back, was finding it difficult to think coherently, let alone speak actual words as she crawled towards him and rested her hand on his heaving chest but he did his best.

'The Woman,' he panted. 'Lesson No.3.'

'Sorry? What woman? That woman?'

'No, not that woman…The Woman,' he gasped.

'Well, whoever she is,' Molly wheezed, 'the woman deserves a damn damehood for services to sexual satisfaction!'

ooOoo

That was the first of several erotic adventures they enjoyed that day; none quite so athletic, obviously, but including one in the shower and another on the newly-installed Formica-topped kitchen table, a gift from Mrs Turner, whom they both agreed had probably never imagined it being put to such use, especially not by Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes and Pathologist Registrar, Molly Hooper. These interludes were punctuated by the occasional foray into the kitchen to make tea or raid the fridge – which is rather how the kitchen table got pressed into service – while they listened for the tell-tale sound of Mrs Hudson making her way up the stairs to complain about the noise, and giggled like school children at the prospect of her catching them 'in the act', which in fact she didn't, as it transpired that she had been out of the house all day; probably for the best.

They eventually did run into her, in the front hall, as they were leaving – Sherlock to go to the solicitors and Molly to go home and get changed into something more suitable before starting her night shift at the hospital. They had decided, at some point during the day, that she should keep a change of clothes and a set of toiletries at his abode, as he already did at hers, to avoid the Walk of Shame, when departing the 'day after' wearing the same outfit from the 'night before'. Unfortunately, on this occasion, it was already too late.

'Oh, hello, Sherlock! Hello, Molly dear, lovely to see you…again.'

Mrs Hudson looked Molly up and down, wearing a quizzical expression.

'That's a lovely dress. Going somewhere special?'

'No, just going home, Mrs H,' Molly replied, struggling to keep a straight face.

'Oh?' the old lady exclaimed. 'Well, have a lovely time,' she added. She was discombobulated but not sure why.

'Thank you, Hudders. We will,' Sherlock deadpanned and followed Molly out of the building, closing the front door firmly behind him, leaving Mrs Hudson standing in the hallway, with a puzzled frown on her face.

The cab they shared from Baker Street dropped Sherlock just around the corner from his solicitor's offices and continued on to Molly's house, but not before they bid one another a protracted farewell that had the cabbie suggesting they 'get a room', though Sherlock assured him this was not necessary since they both had perfectly good homes to go to.

But no sooner had the cab disappeared from sight, around the bend in the road, than Sherlock's expression sobered. Throughout the last few hours spent in Molly's company, he had been able to push this matter to the back of his mind but now she was no longer here, his endorphin levels were already beginning to dip and the issue had forced its way back to the fore – those two missing days.

Sherlock was no stranger to deleting things from his hard drive. He did it all the time but it was usually a voluntary action and limited to facts and information. He'd never deleted two whole days before – well, unless one included his deletion of a large proportion of his childhood memories. But, even then, he'd limited it to specific memories, not entire days!

He'd made light of it that morning, even joked about it, saying he couldn't have been doing anything very important. But now, left alone, he wasn't laughing. As he made his way into the solicitor's offices, he'd managed to identify his last memory before the two-day black out - going to bed on the Tuesday night. And then…nothing. Until he woke up on Friday morning. But, at some point during that time, he must have spoken with the Scottish Advocate and arranged the lunchtime meeting, texted his father to rearrange the meetup with him, booked his flight to Edinburgh and arranged the hire of the car. He knew this because the evidence was recorded, there, on his phone – calls and texts and emails, sent and received. But none of that, sadly, was saved to his brain. It was as though he had been operating on automatic pilot, completely unaware of his surroundings.

ooOoo

Sitting at the dressing table in the master bedroom of the Edinburgh town house, Eurus studied her reflection in the mirror; or, rather, in the mirrors, plural, as this antique dressing table had three such things – a large centre one, in the shape of a Florentine arch and two side mirrors, half the width and two-thirds the height of the main one, shaped like two halves of an arch which, if put together, would make a whole. The two side ones could be angled to provide a side or rear view of the sitter.

Eurus had used the mirrors to try on her new clothes when they arrived, earlier that day, and had rejected a couple of items that looked much better on the catalogue model than they did on her. But most of them were perfectly acceptable and would at least tide her over until she could pluck up the courage to actually go to the shops in the town centre. At the moment, she could only imagine walking down Thistle Street or George Street, where all the best ladies' fashions could be found. But she would get there, eventually. For now, she would make do with these M and S staples – t-shirts, slacks and sweaters in bright, Winter colours of red, green and blue. She was lucky, Charlotte had remarked, that with her colouring and body shape she could wear practically anything.

Right now, she was making use of the angled mirrors again, to check out the back and sides of her new hairstyle – and also to avoid having to look at her own face.

In Sherrinford, she had not had access to a mirror. When she stayed with Uncle Rudi, she did – in the bathroom, in the bedroom and even in the front hall, presumably placed there to allow the residents to check their hats were on straight, in the 'old days'. And she had come across mirrors during her escapades into the free world, in her several disguises. But she still had trouble looking at her reflection because, in her mind's eye, she was still that little girl who had been snatched away from her home, all those years ago; or, at best, a young adult in her late teens or early twenties, being escorted around town by her uncle but never allowed out of his sight. The mature woman who looked out at her from the glass just wasn't what her brain was expecting to see.

The 'crow's feet' lines around her eyes, fine and faint though they were, reminded her of the years she had lost and would never get back. They led her to wondering what sort of life she might have enjoyed had Rudi Vernet not been her uncle or if he had just not been that Rudi Vernet. But, as Charlotte kept reminding her, one can't change the past, one can only change the future. And, with Charlotte's love and support, she intended to live the best life she possibly could, from this point onwards.

She turned her head from side to side, taking in her new 'look' from every conceivable angle. She had gone for something quite radical - really short at the back and sides but longer and very textured on the top. It accentuated the 'heart' shape of her face and the sculpted nature of her cheek bones – not so prominent as Sherlock's but definitely more so than those of Mycroft, who tended to favour Rudi in appearance and, therefore, the Vernet line rather than the Holmes one.

'Yes, you do look more like Sherlock, now,' Charlotte remarked, from her seat on the bed. 'One can definitely tell you're related.'

'Except he's prettier,' Eurus shrugged, making eye contact with Charlotte's reflection.

'No one is prettier than you, my darling,' Charlotte replied. And she really meant it.

ooOoo

Inside Miss Gatsby's suite of rooms, Sherlock approached the Reception desk and waited, politely, while the receptionist finished a phone call then he asked to speak with the solicitor or her PA, explained he did not have an appointment and said he was happy to wait. He took a seat in the waiting area and accepted a cup of black coffee, two sugars from the receptionist who, apparently, remembered his preference from a previous visit. He sat, brooding on his 'lost midweek', sipping his coffee absently until a voice speaking his name drew his attention. It was the young man he knew to be Miss Gatsby's PA, though he didn't recall his name.

He followed the PA to an interview room and shook hands with Miss Gatsby, who rose to greet him.

'Monday again, Mr Holmes, but a cancelled hearing, so here I am!'

The significance of her comment was lost on him but he smiled and nodded anyway.

'I gather there were some rather surprising developments at the weekend,' she posited.

'Yes. I presume Drew Merriman has been in touch?'

'He has. I think he's a bit disappointed, to be honest. He was really looking forward to sticking it to the UK Home Office. But excellent news for Miss Holmes, of course.'

'In deed. For all of us, actually.'

'I'm sure it's a great weight off your mind,' she agreed. 'And something for the whole family to celebrate.'

Everyone except the matriarch, he thought. He and Mycroft would need to speak to their parents at the earliest opportunity. Any delay was pure cowardice.

'So, how can I be of assistance?' she asked.

Sherlock explained his intention to collect the portable hard drive he'd left with her for safe keeping,

'…and I'd be grateful if you would prepare your invoice – an interim one, at least, since I may need your services on another matter. It really depends on how things go in the next few days.'

Miss Gatsby saw no impediment to either request and thanked Sherlock for his business, assuring him of the law firm's continued commitment to providing for his legal requirements in the future, which he correctly surmised was what she said to all her clients. He took his leave and waited in Reception for the PA to appear with the hard drive then left the building.

Out on the street, as he scanned up and down the road for a cab with its 'For Hire' sign lit up, he felt his phone vibrate against his pectoral muscle from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. Taking it out, he saw that the caller was his father.

'Pa!' he exclaimed, misgivings furrowing his brow. 'What's happened?' Something must have happened for his father to ring him. It was something he just did not do.

'Oh, hello, son. I'm so sorry to bother you…'

Sherlock could hear some sort of commotion going on in the background of the call. It was his mother's voice and she sounded very agitated.

'You're not bothering me, Pa. You never bother me. What's happened?' Sherlock repeated, softening his tone to try and introduce an element of calm to what was clearly a fraught situation.

'We've had a letter,' his father replied, stress and strain alarmingly evident in his voice. 'It's from the Trevors…well, from their lawyer, actually.'

In response to her husband's words, Sherlock heard his mother's agitation ramp up several notches.

'What does it say?' asked Sherlock, calmly, even as, out of concern for his parents' situation, a cold fist of dread squeezed his heart. His mother was obviously distraught and his poor Pa was having to cope with this crisis all on his own.

'They're suing us, son…me and your mother…over little Victor. They want a lot of money, Sherlock. We're probably going to lose the house…'

Again, Mrs Holmes's volume and intensity increased.

'Pa, you're not going to lose the house. Mycroft and I would never let that happen,' Sherlock insisted, hoping that the vehemence of his tone would reassure his father. 'Tell Mummy, we are on our way. We will deal with this.'

'Oh, thank you, thank you, son,' his father gasped with relief. 'It's alright, Maura!' Sherlock heard him cry. 'The boys will deal with it!'

'Put the kettle on, Pa. Make a pot of tea. We'll be there as soon as possible,' Sherlock instructed, knowing that his father needed something concrete to do, something to focus on to help him cope with the tension, and that his mother needed something that would calm her down. A cup of tea might do that. He said goodbye and closed the call then immediately dialled Mycroft's number.

ooOoo

Well, how was that? Do I need to buy a new frock for the award ceremony?! Having said that, personally, I do like a man who can multi-task. ;)