Sherlock had lost weight. It seemed like the case had carved into his face until it was all hard lines and shadows.

He'd flinched when he had pulled her off the chair, as if hiding some sort of injury. And Molly had not missed the tremor in his hands.

But he was here. Sherlock was alive and in her kitchen.

Molly had thought she understood what gratitude was. But this—this was sharp and painful. Relief filled the hollows between her ribs, making it hard to breath.

She could barely look at him. And yet all she wanted to do was look at him.

Wanted to trace the way his hair curled against his collar and his wrinkled suit hung off his narrow shoulders.

Sherlock was livid with her. She had tasted the rage and whiskey in his kiss.

Molly has known he would find out eventually. Was surprised that he hadn't already deduced her secret life.

And also not surprised, aware that the going's on of Molly Hooper barely registered on Sherlock's list of things that mattered.

The truth was, she'd been working for Mycroft for years—secret jobs too sensitive for traditional channels.

And he paid her well. So well that she'd been able to buy that cottage for her mother last year and finally pay off her own loans from university.

But money was not the only reason she had said yes to Mycroft all those years ago.

She'd agreed for the excitement of it.

It was something that made her heart beat between dull staff meetings and lunch breaks in the hospital cafeteria eating soggy chips and making small talk with colleagues. Something to remind her that she was alive.

Molly knew why Mycroft had chosen her for his clandestine little jobs. She wasn't a daft.

It was about Sherlock. Just like everything in her life seemed to be. Mycroft came to her because he knew it would irritate his little brother.

And up until recently it had been fine. It had been all fine. What she did in her free time hadn't been anyone's business because Sherlock hadn't been hers. But now…

"Brother," Mycroft sniffed, stepping into the room.

Sherlock sneered. "Mycroft."

Mycroft lifted his chin, looking regal as anyone possibly could in her tiny flat surrounded by her mother's crocheted doilies.

He scanned Sherlock from the mud on his leather shoes to the grease weighing down his curls. "I see that nasty business in Warsaw has concluded just in time for the holidays. Mummy will be delighted."

Sherlock's hands curled into fists. "Tell me what you are doing here before I rip out your tongue."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Such vulgarity." He shrugged one thin shoulder. "Why don't you ask your…what do I call her? Girlfriend? Plaything?" Mycroft drew out the last word so it sounded dirty. "Lover?"

Molly grabbed Sherlock's arm before he could throw a punch. It would not do to have widow Porter call the Yard about a noisy brawl in the wee hours of Christmas Eve.

She glanced back at the dead man on her kitchen island. Yes, it would be difficult to explain indeed.

Sherlock's mouth was pressed into a thin line. His pewter eyes flashed. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into Molly? You know how dangerous…How could you be so—"

"Don't you say it Sherlock Holmes," Molly snapped, drawing herself up as much as she could while wearing a pink dressing gown and fuzzy slippers.

Sherlock blinked. She lifted her chin, struggling to keep her voice even. "I am a grown woman, and I will do what I want. I owe you nothing—especially an explanation."

She swallowed. "Our personal lives are separate from whatever is happening between us. You have made that abundantly clear."

Sherlock's face went blank, the way it usually did whenever she alluded to anything deeper between them. Molly dropped her hand from his arm.

Mycroft smirked over Sherlock's shoulder. Molly narrowed her eyes at him, grateful suddenly for the distraction.

She pointed at the most dangerous man in London. "Don't you get self-righteous Mycroft Holmes, or I won't tell you what I have discovered about our friend over there."

Mycroft scoffed, "You most certainly will. This is a matter of national—"

Molly waved at the body, interrupting. "This man was murdered."

Sherlock's gaze turned to the corpse on her kitchen island. Molly could see the wheels turning inside his mind, each bit of data a cog. She wondered if he would solve the case before she could even speak it out loud.

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Are you quite certain? The first medical examiner insisted it was a heart attack."

Molly crossed her arms. "If you knew the cause of death, why bother dropping this gentleman on my stoop?"

Sherlock stalked over to the body, pulling his magnified glass from his jacket pocket. "He comes to you, because you're the best," he mused, almost to himself as he examined the bottom of the dead man's foot.

Molly tucked her hair nervously behind her ear, fiddling with the instruments laid out on her cookie sheet.

She had always assumed that Sherlock used her as his pathologist because she was easy and shy and did what he wanted. It never occurred to her that he thought she was the best at anything.

Molly slipped on a new set of gloves. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her. Could feel him trying to solve this new mystery.

It was strange being under his scrutiny, as if he were rearranging all the things he knew about her into a new conclusion.

She liked it. Liked being the object of his curiosity. Molly felt parts of her stir to life—warm parts that had nothing to do with autopsies.

Mycroft waved a hand impatiently. "I don't have all night."

Molly blushed, and slid on her safety glasses. She cleared her throat. "Your last medical examiner was correct. This man died of a heart attack."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the sweet smell of rot that was just starting to wafted off the body. "How could it possibly be murder and a heart attack Dr. Hooper?"

Sherlock moved closer, the light of the kitchen island catching in his dark hair. His long fingers danced on the edge of the dead man's arm.

He muttered under his breath, a steady stream of observations that he couldn't seem to keep to himself. As if John were standing nearby to absorb his thoughts.

She loved watching him work. Loved the intellect that burned behind the prism of his eyes.

He was still angry with her. She could see it in the tightness around his lips and the way his gaze landed everywhere but on her face.

But this was a case.

A part of the game that just happened to be in her small kitchen. And mystery always trumped matters of the heart.

Molly lifted the dead man's arm. "Some sort of electric current stopped his heart. I wasn't sure at first. But then I found this mark." She pointed at a pinprick hidden in the man's armpit hair.

Mycroft leaned in to get a closer look, careful to keep his suit away from the blood pooling on her formica.

She shook her head. "I've not seen anything like it before. Some sort of thin, stiff wire pierced his skin here and entered his heart. An electric current was passed through it and into the organ. It is likely that he died instantly."

Molly glanced up at Mycroft over the top of her glasses. "He was intoxicated? I haven't gotten the lab results yet, but I assume since there was no sign of struggle."

Mycroft nodded, looking flustered for the first time. "He was found dead in the bathroom at the Royal…" he hesitated. "At a Christmas party."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but Mycroft just stared down at the dead man for a moment and then pulled out his mobile. He muttered to himself as he typed.

"Trouble in the British Government, brother?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft reached for his umbrella, tucking it in the crook of his arm as he made to leave. "That is none of your concern."

A muscle ticked in Sherlock's jaw. "Anything that happens to Molly is my concern."

Molly's heart squeezed.

Jealously and possession were not love. But they were close cousins. And she would take what she could get.

Mycroft didn't bother looking up at his brother's icy tone, still pecking away at his phone. "Don't be dramatic Sherlock, sentiment is unbecoming on you."

Sherlock stiffened, but Mycroft was already on his way to the door. He glanced over his shoulder at her. "I'll send my man to clean this up, my dear. This unfortunate mess will be gone by morning."

It was their usual routine.

Mycroft's mobile ran. He flipped up the collar of his coat, addressing Sherlock. "I'll see you tomorrow. Mummy is making goose for Christmas dinner. It should be positively dreadful."

Sherlock's eyes glittered dangerously. "If I see you here again, I'll kill you."

xxx

An awkward silence filled the flat as soon as the door closed. Sherlock stood still, staring at the place his brother had been.

Molly had been hiding things from him. Mousy, predictable Molly—his Molly—was not who he thought she was. The fact was so startling that his sluggish mind couldn't seem to make sense of it.

She had slipping a secret by him all these years, hidden behind shy stuttering and hideous jumpers. He was baffled. And afraid.

Fear was a useless emotion if one wasn't concerned with death—just an outdated survival instinct designed for cavemen.

But he was afraid now. Afraid that some of the darkness he hunted had followed him back to this small flat with its neat line of potted plants on the window sill and the small plastic snowman next to the kettle.

So Sherlock stood still, head bent as his tired mind tried to work out this new version of reality.

The solace he had hoped to find in Molly's bed seemed foolish now. He should leave. But Baker St seemed very far away.

Behind him, he heard Molly tuck the plastic back around the corpse. Heard her take off her gloves and wash her hands. Heard the soft scuff of her slippers.

The light clicked off. Darkness settled.

Her fingers found his, her hand small and delicate within his own. She tugged him gently down the hallway without a word.

He followed her. Like a mindless idiot, he just followed her down the hall and into the loo without a word.

She closed the door behind them.

It was a tiny room. There was a picture of a kitten in a bathtub on the wall. Next to the sink, a glass bowl held a variety of colorful little soaps. The white bathmat was thick and soft under his feet.

Molly didn't turn on the florescent light overhead. Instead, a nearby street lamp shone through the single window, washing the bathroom in a pale glow.

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, her fingers going to the sash at her waist.

"Molly," he said, his voice gruff, unsure of what he was planning on saying next.

Molly let her dressing gown slip off her bare shoulders. It pooled on the tile at her feet.

All that she was wearing was a flimsy pink camisole that didn't quite reach to the waistband of her black panties.

Sherlock pressed his palm to the sink. It was cool under his hand.

Nothing she was wearing was lacy or fancy—just department store panties and a camisole that had a small tear at the hem. Molly shifted nervously under his gaze, her toes curling in the fuzzy bathmat.

Her nipples were peaked underneath the thin camisole. He wanted to put his lips there.

Wanted to feel the cloth on his tongue as he rolled that small nub in his mouth. Wanted to watch the fabric go dark and her eyes turn molten.

Sherlock looked away, shocked by the violence of his desire. Unable to watch as she leaned into the shower and turned on the faucet.

He was still angry. And exhausted. All he should want was sleep.

But that was not what he wanted at all.

Molly touched the side of his neck and he jumped, surprised to find her so close. She watched her own hand slide inside his shirt collar.

He swallowed and felt her thumb caress the hollow of his throat. "Let's get you cleaned up shall we?" she said, her voice husky.

Sherlock could see the two of them in the mirror over her shoulder. Could see the vulnerable curve of Molly's neck as she unbutton his shirt. Could see his own haunted eyes as her fingers danced down his ribs, pausing on each one as if she were counting them. As if she were making sure he was all there.

He should stop her. Should demand to know what the hell she was thinking committing crimes in her kitchen. Should warn her that Mycroft was more dangerous than she could ever imagine.

Should warn her that he was more dangerous than she could ever imagine.

That she should kick him out of her cozy bathroom and into the gray snow before the darkness that clung to his shoulders settled permanently in her life.

But Sherlock just stood still as Molly pulled his shirt tails free from his trousers.

Her knuckles brushing his stomach. He sucked in a breath. She paused, her breath feathering his collar bone.

His whole body ached to touch her. But he held still.

The room started to fill with steam. In the mirror, he watched Molly lift her head a fraction. Watched her find the place where his pulse pounded in his throat. She brushed the spot with her lips, the touch like gossamer.

And then she was undressing him again, as if it were her job instead of something else entirely.

He toed off his shoes and kicked off his trousers.

She reached for the waistband of his pants. His fingers curling around her wrist.

Molly finally looked up at him. Mist dampening the tendrils of her hair that had come loose from her hair clip. Her dark eyes were unreadable.

"What is this Molly?" he growled—unsure if he was asking about the corpse or the need that skittered across his skin like radio static.

She traced the bow of his lips with one finger, her brow furrowed as if she were thinking hard.

Finally she smiled. A quiet smile that wasn't for him. "It's the game, " she said softly.

Molly stepped away, steam caressing her in all the places he wanted to touch. "You just didn't know I was playing until now."

He blinked as she shimmed out of her panties, pulling the camisole over her head in one smooth movement. Sherlock tried to think of a logical response, but Molly was already slipping into the shower, taking her skin and mystery with her.

Sherlock stared at the shower curtain. He could see the silhouette of her body in the dim light. Could see the way she stretched and sighed underneath the shower spray.

The room filled with the smell of oranges and vanilla.

"It's warmer in here," she called and he didn't miss the hint of teasing in her voice.

He never in a million years would have deduced Molly Hooper as a seductress. She was not The Woman. She was just a woman.

He had clearly miscalculated.

Sherlock stepped out of his pants and followed her into the shower. Molly's eyes were closed, her head tilted back to as she worked the shampoo out of her hair. Soap bubbles slid between her breasts and over the soft curve of her belly, tangling in the curls between legs.

The sight made him want to get on his knees. To follow those droplets of water until he found a different kind of warmth. Until her teasing smile was gone.

Molly opened her eyes, her expression flickering rapidly from desire to surprise and worry. "You're hurt!" she exclaimed, stepping closer.

He had forgotten about the fist shaped bruise on his ribs and the abrasions circling both his wrists. Molly's fingers traced the ugly black contusion and he hissed, not from the pain but from the softness of her touch.

"What happened," she asked.

He buried his nose in her hair, pressing his palm between her shoulder blades to keep her close. "I was temporarily under the care of a rather unpleasant gentleman. It's nothing."

Molly looked up at him. Her eyelashes were wet spikes, framing her dark eyes. Droplets freckled her nose and cheeks and the pink of her lips.

Sherlock kissed her. There was no other choice.

He pulled Molly against him, gasping into her mouth when their bodies collided. She slid into his arms, slick and warm. The lack of friction made him dizzy.

Molly made a sound in the back of her throat. A tiny sob that danced across his skin. He tilted his head, drinking the water and the want from her lips.

Her hands were on the back of his neck, tugging him closer. His fingers skimmed down her spine and over the curve of her hip. He cupped the inside of her knee, pressing her back against the cold tile.

He lifted her leg, bending his knees as he took her mouth. If he just…if she just…

Molly pulled away, laughing, the bright sound cutting through the haze of desire and steam. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, her cheeks flush.

"Have you ever had sex in a shower, Sherlock?" she asked breathlessly, her fingers still caught in his hair.

He shifted his hips, pleased at the little gasp it invoked. "You know I have not," he growled.

Molly grinned, her eyes dancing. "Well I have." She poked him in the chest. "And you, sir, are not ready for it."

He frowned, but Molly just spun him so that he was underneath the shower spray.

It was hot. Almost scalding. He felt his muscles loosen as the water hit the back of his neck. It felt almost as good as holding a warm, willing woman against his naked body.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back. His head swam. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and wondered if it was possible to fall asleep standing up.

When he finally managed to peel his eyes back open, Molly was rubbing soap onto a wash cloth.

His brow lifted. "I can wash myself," he observed dryly.

Molly gave him a sly smile. "This is more fun." She twirled a finger. "Turn around."

He was too tired to argue. Sherlock pressed a forearm to the cold tile as the rough cloth passed over his back, down the curve of his ass, and across the back of his legs. He watched the water between his feet turn gray where it swirled down the drain.

Molly was all business as she turned him again. She dropped the cloth and ran her soapy hands over his arms and chest. Her fingers skimmed carefully over his bruised ribs and then lower.

He shuddered as her small hands circled his erection. He was hard and leaking, but she pretended not to notice, her movements quick and efficient.

Her indifference was so arousing he had to steady himself on the wall.

She crouched, moving lower to wash the rest of him. Her dark hair stuck to her shoulders, her mouth was so close to where he wanted it that he groaned.

Molly must have heard because she stood slowly, making sure her skin touched him everywhere it mattered.

"Vixen," he ground out.

Molly laughed again, the sound cracking his eggshell heart. She reached around him to turn off the water.

He wanted to grab her. Wanted to pick her up and take her against the bathroom sink or on the plush rug.

There wasn't much he didn't know about the mechanics of sexual intercourse. He'd done his research years ago—the data essential to his work.

But it turned out reading an article was not an adequate tutorial for physical intimacy. In short, he was a novice. And dead on his feet.

So he just stepped out of the shower and dried off with the fluffy towel Molly handed him.

She scrubbed at her hair and he tried not to look too closely at the water that clung to her collar bone and the curve of her hip.

He paused, the towel wrapped around his waist as if it could hide something she hadn't seen. "I don't have any clean clothes," he said stiffly.

Molly hung her towel on the back of the door, the tips of her hair still dripping into the small of her back. "Come to bed," she responded.

He followed Molly's wet footprints down the hall and into her bedroom.

It was nearly as small as his own, the decor simple and comfortable like her.

There was a stack of books piled next to her bed, an empty tea cup and alarm clock balanced precariously on top.

She'd strung white Christmas lights along the ceiling. It made the small room glow as if lit by candle light.

"We need to discuss the new parameters of this…" he cleared his throat, "relationship."

Molly's face flickered at the word, but she just pulled back the thick covers, still unabashedly naked. Her skin made it hard to think. "Tomorrow," she said, gestured to the bed. "Get in."

He hesitated and then got in, moving over to make room. The sheets were blessedly cool and crisp. The last time he remembered sleeping, it had been on a flea infested cot in a drafty farmhouse.

Sherlock sighed as his head sunk into the pillow. He felt drunk, his head spinning from exhaustion.

Molly slipped in next to him, pulling the covers up to her shoulders.

He started to close his eyes, but then she was in his arms, her skin damp and warm.

In one smooth movement, she pressed him inside of her. She was impossibly hot and wet and he almost came without a thought.

His fingers dug into her hip as she swallow his pathetic sound of protest.

He hadn't even realized she was kissing him. His hips jerked up involuntarily but her knees pressed into his side.

Molly said his name, just a whisper against his lips as he tried to adjust to her tightness. As he tried to remember how to breath.

After a long moment, his fingers relaxed.

Molly's wet hair hung around his face. Her tongue darted along his bottom lip and he opened for her. He ran a hand up her side, his thumb brushing her nipple. Molly hummed in response.

"Hold on my love," she murmured against his lips.

His hand squeezed her thigh as she started to move above him.

This was not slow and lazy. This was hot and fast and she pressed a palm against his chest to steady herself as he watched himself disappeared inside her heat.

His hips jerked, and he considered doing math equations in his head to draw out the pleasure, but then Molly was reaching a hand between her legs.

Her fingers disappeared into her wet folds and he came so hard his vision swam.

He might have touched her. Might have reared up to find her mouth. Might have pound himself into her one more time. But it was a blur, the pleasure crashing against his exhausted body like waves in a storm.

And then Molly was back in his arm, her body trembling as she rode her own release. He ran a finger down the sweaty line of her spine, until she was boneless against him.

Through the window, he could see the first rays of sunrise lightening the sky. Molly sighed against his neck.

He pulled the covers back over them and searched for something to say. Searched for a way to say the words that were tattooed on his heart.

But his eyes kept drifting shut.

Molly nestled into his side, her head tucked under his arm. Her leg was warm and heavy over his own.

He wondered if this was it.

Wondered if love was just finding someone who fit against you in the quiet of the morning.

Molly's hand rested just above his heart, her breath softening. Sherlock was still wondering about love when sleep took him.