Chapter Five: The Yeti's Offering

It wasn't that they didn't know exactly what they'd do when they returned to the yurt. Though they did not say it aloud, Sherlock felt no misunderstanding about the fact that he and Molly were about to embark on night of depraved and probably excellent shagging. So the bout of nerves and shyness that struck him as he paced a radian in the yurt rankled.

He busied his hands, suddenly shaky, by gathering up a few receipts and notes from his pockets and stuffing them away in his suitcase. He willed his face to remain nonchalant without looking dismissive, calm without looking uninterested. Glancing at the privacy screen, he felt a flicker of annoyance that Molly apparently felt nothing so juvenile as bashful wrong-footedness.

She'd even managed to carry on a normal conversation as they drove away from Callanish I.

"What is it," he'd asked, shifting a little in his seat as he stole glances of her.

She'd smiled a little at something on her mobile before locking it and tucking it in her bag's front pocket.

When she'd turned to him, lips still curved gently, he carefully met her gaze—expression schooled and oh-so-mature. It wouldn't do to look gauchely eager.

"Just got a message from Mary. The baby took her first steps today."

"Who?" he asked. He'd been busy thinking about sinking his teeth in her earlobe.

Molly hadn't looked terribly impressed, so he'd retraced her actual words. "Oh," he nodded. "Good, good." And then he frowned. "Isn't eight months awfully young for that?"

"You're joking, right?" she asked blandly.

"N—yes?"

She shook her head. "Eight months would be alarmingly early for a baby to walk. Which is why it's relief that Beatrix is thirteen months old."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but he started counting back, coming to the conclusion that Molly was, distressingly, right.

"She's your goddaughter," she had started in. He'd rolled his eyes. "You spend inordinate amounts of time with her, but you don't know how old she is?"

"Unlike the attention-hoarding masses, she didn't demand a fuss over her birthday. I'd simply forgotten the event."

"She smeared her entire smash cake in your hair at her party," Molly reminded him, deadpan.

"Infants are quite good about sharing. It's only in toddlerhood—often defined as age one and on—that they become changeling nightmares," he'd informed her primly as he brought the Peugeot to a stop in front of the yurt.

Snorting, she moved to unbuckle her seatbelt. "And you're saying these infants normally reserve their cake largesse for non-birthday events, so why remember the occasion?"

"The point is," he said loudly, "Bea and I recognize that age is often a societal construct that determines neither maturity nor physical development. I feel entirely confident in saying that she would have wanted to share her cake with me even at eight months. Why should walking be any different?"

"Interesting logic gymnastics," his passenger had conceded, albeit with a smirk. His eyes had narrowed as he'd followed her inside, but as he'd been about to suggest that they forget about walking hellions and return to their earlier, far more interesting activities, she'd breezily hurried to her suitcase and gathered up an armful of clothes and tablet, moving towards the bathing area with her treasures.

"I'm headed for a bath," she'd called over her shoulder. Before he could voice his dismay, the creaking faucet had drowned out any chance of being heard.

Fifteen minutes later, and about five after the water had stopped running, Sherlock still paced, unsure of Molly's plans.

Perhaps the forecasted depraved-and-excellent-shagging had been a misapprehension. She certainly hadn't thrown the deadbolt and torn away his trousers in the style of male strippers (ever so rarely, his imagination did tend to edge towards the puerile). She'd not shoved him against the door and breathlessly told him to take her then and there. She'd not even looked flushed while she announced her bathing designs.

Paired with their earlier, non sequitur discussion about John's sprog, of all things, and Sherlock found himself questioning everything.

It wasn't that he thought he was getting the short shrift. Molly could damn well decide when and where they should take that step, and he'd go along. But he'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't let the anticipation coast him all the way back to their holiday rental. The way she had bitten her lip, grinned conspiratorially at him, and taken his hand so insistently as they made their way back to the car from the standing stones had certainly felt like they were in accord.

Her bath announcement didn't fall in line with that anticipation.

And what could he do? If he were in a more tactless mood, he would have loudly asked her, "Are we going to have sex now or not? I need to know for my diary," through the partition. But Molly had apparently caught him on a good day, what with her winsome, rosy cheeks, her pretty eyes, and her drugging kisses. So he held his tongue.

Instead, he paced, listening to dribbles of water, imagining her lifting her hand or foot and watching the streaks slide down the pale length of her arm or leg. Had she filled it only to her shoulders or up to the overflow drain, warm water tickling her chin where she sat? She'd always struck him as the neck-deep sort, and that tendency would only be encouraged by the cold of the Hebrides.

Distressingly, he forced himself to acknowledge that such a warm bath would likely keep her comfortable and occupied for a while. Yet there he was, pacing like a dolt, waiting for her to reemerge and get down to the business of intercourse.

Issuing instructions to himself to grow up, Sherlock turned from the wall and scanned the yurt, looking for something to do. There was a small selection of books; mass market novels. Boring. He could make dinner, but he figuredMolly would not bombastically cast off her knickers at the prospect of another Cullen Skink.

His eyes landed on her mobile, currently resting on a small table by the front door.

He could do some work.

Hurrying over, he picked the phone up, mentally telling it and himself that he'd just wait Molly out and follow her lead. An odd sensation all around, but certainly better than offending someone he'd ostensibly like to see naked with some regularity.

Eying the privacy screen, he unlocked the screen and set about checking his email and voicemail, making sure Molly'd not missed a call from Maurice Stonebridge while they were in not-nearly-flagrante-enough delicto.

Seeing not a word from his elusive client, Sherlock scowled. Molly could be seducing him from the warm comfort of his own, Baker Street flat, were it not for the oaf.

Of course, had they not found themselves all but stranded on a remote island, they wouldn't have had the help of that ridiculous hand tying and ogham text to engender thisoxytocic, fluttery feeling. It would have made the timeline of events slightly more protracted than what this trip fostered.

Ah, ogham. He should do a little research and translate those words that had puzzled him. Molly would be entertained to hear a literal translation of their little foray into pagan ceremony.

Just as he pulled up the web browser on the mobile, however, it's screen changed, signaling an incoming call. Sherlock frowned, not recognizing the number, noting that it wasn't a contact saved in Molly's address book.

Shrugging, he thumbed the answer bar, engaging the call.

"Molly Hooper's phone," he answered officiously.

"Hi there!" chirped an echoing voice. "I've a need to hire your services."

Sherlock looked up sharply when the person began speaking. Her voice came from both the receiver and from behind the privacy partition.

"Molly," he called sternly.

"I'm sorry, you're awfully muffled," she replied. "Would you mind speaking more directly into the phone?"

"You can hear me just fine." He heard an echo of his own voice float back to him. So she had him on speakerphone. But what phone was she using, he wondered, baffled.

"I hope you can help me," she said lowly, forcing him to lift the mobile back to his ear to hear her.

"With what?" he asked cautiously.

Sherlock heard twin splashes, milliseconds between in-yurt and through the cellular waves. "I need your consultation on something," she said. He could hear the smirk in her words.

"Consult on what?" He told himself that the nervous edge to his voice was only in his imagination.

"Come here," was her only reply.

Something kicked, low in his belly, and Sherlock was movingtowards the screen before he'd given himself permission to do so. His heart rate significantly picked up its pace in the short space between where he'd stood and where Molly waited.

Clearing the screen, he stared at her.

Not covered in water, then.

It barely reached her ribs. She lay there, reclined back with arms braced along the lip of the tub, bare breasts shining in the low light from water that streamed down her torso. Her nipples were hard pebbles, exposed to the air as they were, but she showed no evidence of being cold herself.

"Consultant on what? How'd you call me?" His voice cracked noticeably. He tore his eyes away from the ripples of clear water above her waist, disguising nothing below its surface.

Molly lifted her far hand, revealing her tablet device. Disconnecting what appeared to be a Skype call, she let it fall back to the floor without paying it any mind.

"Come closer," she prompted him.

He stepped [stumbled] further into the 'bathroom', stuffing her mobile in his trouser pocket. The area was small enough that one stride of his had him standing level with her hips. His eyes darted over her again, transfixed.

"You see, Mr. Holmes," Molly said, biting her lip ruefully, "I just need some answers. I'm hoping you can give them to me."

He nodded mutely. At that moment, she could ask him anything and he'd give an earnest reply without blinking.

She smiled up at him for a second, a flash of curved lips and dimples, before she schooled her expression once more. "I was just wondering…. When you put your hands on me, how are you going to do it?"

Throat dry, Sherlock stared down at her. A voice in the recesses of his mind told him that he needed to respond instead of blinking uncomprehendingly, but he continued to do nothing.

Molly looked up at him, waiting. When he remained stock-still, she shifted a little. "Sit down, Gus. You're making me nervous."

"Gus?" he said absently.

"The Big Sleep. Never mind. You certainly know how to loom."

Sherlock sank to his knees in front of the tub, unaware that he'd moveduntil he looked down at his white-knuckled grip on its edge, and Molly's left fingertips brushing the side of his hand.

"What are you doing?" It was a rare feat, to mystify Sherlock Holmes. Molly certainly had a knack for it.

"I would think it's obvious," she smiled.

He looked up and down the length her, scanning her and clearing his throat. "

"You want to know how I would touch you?" he asked, his voice pitched low with the dizzying onset of arousal.

She looked up at him so guilelessly, considering her open splay in the tub, breasts on bold display, one knee bent and her thighs slightly parted underwater.

"Would touch me?" she asked

He cleared his throat, feasting his eyes over her again. "Will touch you. How I will touch you."

She relaxed infinitesimally, the barest fraction that he only caught because he was studying the jut of her ribs and collarbones and the quiver of muscles in her belly.

"How will you touch me, Sherlock?" she asked again.

He licked his lips, vaguely noting that they'd gone as dry as his throat when he stepped around the partition.

"I plan to—" he began stiltedly, and then he realized he had no idea. He'd given no thought the pre-intercourse portion of their evening. "People do this for fun?" he asked her instead, darting his gaze back to her face.

"Sit in rapidly cooling tubs? It's been known to happen. The fun bit is a shifting scale," Molly said with a grin.

He looked at her severely, to cover his dismay that the evening he'd reconciled having had fled with the ringing of Molly's mobile. Sure, he'd pictured eventual, energetic shagging, but in a far more… traditional way.

Molly's impish smile did things to him. So he shook his head, to clear the cobwebs and to correct her. "People talk about the sex they'll have instead of just… getting on with it?"

Not looking at all perturbed, she reclined back. "Don't tell me you've never been excited by a little dirty talk, Sherlock 'Begging For Mercy Twice' Holmes."

"How'd you—never mind. John has a big mouth."

"I'm getting wrinkly," Molly said instead of continuing to allude to Irene Adler. She examined her fingertips with a wrinkled nose.

This conversation did little to boost Sherlock's confidence in the spoken foreplay department. He idly wondered if this was what it felt like to be cut adrift in a rubber dinghy.

"I can give you some talking points," she offered helpfully.

"Hush," he admonished, eyes roving over her, cataloging pulse points and recalling places he'd seen her touch and massage when a shift at work stretched too long.

"I'll start with your neck; just touching your skin. I'll eventually move my way down." He looked to her for approval.

She nodded eagerly. "And?"

He relaxed a little. It was cartography, a matter of explaining his plans of exploration.

"I've only touched your breast once." He kept his gaze on her chest, cheeks warming at the memory of that morning, "I can guess its weight by observing it. I should know, but it hardly registered because we were lying down when I touched you."

"So you'll do that next," she prompted.

He nodded. "The neck is an erogenous zone. So many nerve endings. I'll kiss you there while I hold and tease your breasts. They'll fit perfectly in the palms of my hands." His eyes continued their darting run from her face to the places on her anatomy that he admired with words.

"Eventually, I'll move my lips from your neck, across your collarbones, and down, until I have one of those rosy nipples in my mouth." She drew in a sharp breath, and his lips curved for the first time, her reactions centering him. "I will suck and nip them until you are panting for me."

"Perhaps," Molly agreed noncommittally, but he saw her pupils dilate and felt the fingertips of her left hand stroke along his pinkie, back and forth.

His confidence kicked in more and more with each passing second and each approving reaction from her. "I'll run my hands up and down your back, over and over, scraping my thumbnail along the length of your spine, because the way you shivered against me back at the rocks excited me."

She did just that, a small spasm moving across her body, and he could follow its progress over her skin and below, in the contraction of muscle and sinew.

"I like kissing you, Molly Hooper," he whispered, and she settled back in, but this time with a shy smile. "I like it, so I don't see any reason why I wouldn't keep doing it periodically while I'm touching you. I crave sensation, after all."

He smiled back at her, genuinely and without reserve. They stayed that way for several moments, until his cock throbbed, encouraging him to resume their game.

"Eventually, though, I think I will move away form your lips and your breasts and kiss these moles." He reached forward, the tip of his index finger barely glancing over the marks in question: a cluster of three moles directly below her right breast.

She jerked a little at the fleeting contact, emitting a surprised squeak at his slight bending of the unspoken rules.

"I like the protrusion of your bottom ribs. I want to bite them," he added, conversationally. He amazed himself with his candor and the ease of his admissions. "I will bite them. Same thing with your hip bones. Maybe I'll suck marks there, too."

"Oh?" she asked breathlessly, one eyebrow arched.

"Depends on our mood," he conceded, but he allowed the same finger that had touched her moments before to lightly trace figure eights on the precipice between her ribcage and the softness of her belly. He dipped his hand into the hot water, moving to circle his fingertip over the swell of her hips, the slight convex of her stomach, and back to her ribs.

He followed the same path over and over again, not noticing the repetition's soporific effect on him for nearly a minute. When he finally did, he shook his head, glancing up at her face. Her eyes were glazed as she looked down her torso at his stroking finger.

When he spoke again, voice rough, she jumped in surprise.

"I'll bite and suck on your breasts, your ribs, your hips, right below your belly button, and here," he said, moving his hand to trace the same shape on her inner thigh. She twitched at the contact, her breath coming faster

"Where else?" she murmured.

"Where else would you like me to taste you, Molly?"

She licked her lips, eyes slipping closed at his touch. "You know where."

"I think I do," he crooned. "Is it… here?" He grabbed her thigh just above her knee, giving her a tickling horse bite.

If she'd startled before, it was nothing to the way she jerked in surprise at the contact between his hand and her leg. Water went sloshing as she jerked and shrieked.

He laughed out loud when she splashed water at him in reproof. He likedthis feeling, this throbbing arousal paired with genuine amusement and teasing enjoyment. He could get used to it.

"Oh, so not there? My mistake. What about here?"

He slid his hand back up the inside of her thigh, up, up, until he was parting her folds and stroking her with just as light a touch as he'd used to finger the constellation of moles on her ribs.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

And then she was moving his hand away. Before he could ask her if something was wrong, she scrambled up on her knees, moving over to him. When she reached him, Sherlock stood, hauling her up with him. The claw feet of the tub brought Molly's height a couple of inches closer to his, so he hardly had to duck his head when he bent to kiss her for the first time in over an hour.

There was no slow build in its passion. Their teeth clacked a few times, and the kiss itself was wet and nearly artless. It felt wonderful.

He barely noticed the water sluicing off of her, soaking his shirt and trousers. He paid no mind to the challenge of lifting her out of the tub and keeping her legs wrapped around his hips as he carried her out of the bathing area. His hands couldn't find much purchase on the slick flesh of her thighs, but the bed was too ambitious a goal to reach, anyway, so he lowered back down to his knees right where he was, on the yeti rug in front of the stove.

Molly lay back languidly, sprawled before him. He knelt between her knees, stroking his large hands up her legs, pushing her thighs further apart. She whispered his name again, her head rolling a little as he once again touched her, sliding against her wet flesh, slippery with arousal now that she was out of the bath water. He dipped his fingertip into her and moved it up to circle the bud of her clitoris.

One of her hands groped for his wrist. She clutched him tightly in place and he watched hungrily as she began rocking her hips, moving against his hand. Her back arched and her head fell back against the rug, her free hand convulsively gripping the long, white fur beneath them.

He hushed her protest when he moved his hand, but when she realized it was only so he could slide one and then two fingers inside of her, she eagerly began moving again. She made low sounds in the back of her throat with the sway of her hips, Sherlock's cock throbbing time with her. He wanted to free himself from his trousers, and stroke his hand up and down his swollen length in sympathetic motion to the furious pitch of Molly's hips as she fucked herself on his fingers, but he wasn't sure he had the coordination.

So he watched as she neared a precipice, manipulating his thumb so that it rubbed her clit with the strokes of her hips.

She shouted when she came, and the fluttering of her muscles around his fingers nearly made Sherlock spend himself then and there. He panted along with her, only withdrawing his hand when she started to push it away.

He leaned over her, reaching up to brush her damp hair back from her face. Still breathing deeply, she opened her eyes blearily, smiling brilliantly at him, and he smiled back.

Though her body lay lax, her hands clutched at him, tugging on his sopping shirtfront until he brought himself down on top of her. He groaned against her lips when her legs wrapped around his waist again, and he thrust against her, enjoying what little friction he could get. Her arms held tightly around him, and his around her, and he wasn't sure how they'd manage the logistics their lovemaking when neither of them seemed particularly inclined to let go of the other.

No matter. He could probably orgasm just thinking about what they'd just done, what Molly had just done. There were worse ways to go.

She solved it for him, though. Reluctantly unwinding her arms and untangling the fingers of one hand from his hair, she wedged her arms between them and began wrestling buttons loose. He lifted himself more firmly on his elbows to allow her space to work, and she unsnapped and unzipped his trousers while she had the chance.

Sherlock was sure he was the epitome of clumsiness while he tried to shuck his clothing as quickly as possible, but Molly eagerly rubbed her hands up and down his chest while he worked.

He arched an eyebrow at the way her eyes, dark pools in the dim light, watched him and she bit her lip in anticipation.

"I'll admit, the dirty talk was arousing. But this is hardly a striptease."

She waggled her eyebrows at him. "I'm trying to figure out a way to sing a slow-groove version of the Free Willy theme song. You're like a big, sexy, beached fish."

Naked, he returned to her, smoothing a hand over her head while he smiled down at her. "You're so strange," he murmured.

"I know you are, but what am I?" she said, winding herself around him.

He gave a small gasp as his leaking cock brushed the damp curls between her legs. She hummed in agreement against his lips, and then squirmed her arm back between them, her small hand closing around him. When she gave him an experimental, squeezing stroke, his hips flexed involuntarily, and he felt the exposed, sensitive head of his cock break through the circle of her fingers and brush her belly.

Burying his face in Molly's neck, Sherlock muttered, "I hardly think that's necessary."

She laughed breathlessly. "Well then. Should we cut to the chase?"

Nodding eagerly, he lifted himself back up on his elbows to look down at her. The glow from the stove's grate cast a slotted pattern of shadows and light on her face.

She'd never looked so beautiful to him.

Molly cupped his cheek, and he lowered his head to kiss her again, sweetly, in contrast to the furor of the last several minutes and the frenzy of what he was certain would follow.

"Don't suppose you have some condoms hiding on your person?" she asked him against his lips.

He shook his head, ashamed that he'd not thought about it. If she'd not brought it up, he'd already be pushing his way inside her. Fortunately, his Molly was rather level headed even as she wiggled against him periodically, letting his cock stroke along her clit.

"Lucky for us, your mum snuck some into my suitcase," she laughed/moaned.

"I'll be mortified later," he said flatly. "Fetch the johnnies."

She flung an arm to the side, her scrabbling fingers just shy of reaching her bag where it lay. "So… far… away," she gasped dramatically.

Rolling his eyes (though, again, he refused to move away from her and he only had an advantage due to his longer limbs), Sherlock grabbed the bag and brought it close enough to her that she could reach into a front pocket and extract a large box of prophylactics.

Sitting back on his knees, he watched as she tore open one of the packets. He breathed sharply through his nose when she, too sat up and gave him a few more pumps with her hand before rolling the latex down his rigid length.

"Ready?" she whispered, grinning at him.

A snarky retort [I have a massive erection that's already dripping with pre-ejaculate and you're asking me if I'm ready? Are you really a doctor?] nearly passed his lips. Seeing this, Molly moved forward quickly and covered his mouth with her hand.

"Yes, I am, in fact, Captain Obvious," she whispered, giggling. Before he could ask her to explain the reference, she pushed at his chest until he allowed her to guide him back onto the rug. The plush sheepskin felt strange on his bare arse and back, but he could hardly complain. Especially not when she swung a leg over his hips, coming astride him.

Molly positioned him at her entrance, and his eyes fluttered as she sank down, warm, slick, and tight around his thick shaft. She breathed deeply as she came to a stop with him fully seated in her. The way she looked on top of him, hands braced on his belly, had Sherlock reaching up to cup the back of her neck and pull her down to him so they could kiss again.

As their tongues stroked against each other, he angled his hips and swiveled them slightly, only moving in and out of her a little. Her short, round nails bit into his pectoral muscles as he repeated the motion, and soon he was taking her with a steady rhythm that had Molly dropping her face to his chest and puffing out small sounds of pleasure with each stroke.

Sherlock pressed his face against the side of her head, breathing in the clean smell of her hair combined with the sweat and scent of sex around them.

His range of motion was limited enough that he soon felt like he'd hit some kind of—admittedly, highly enjoyable—plateau. Molly must have agreed, because she finally sat up and began riding him in earnest, her fingers clutching her thighs while she rocked and swayed over him. He managed to pry her hands loose, weaving their fingers together. She squeezed them tightly as the slick sounds of their joining increased with each plunge and retreat of their bodies.

He moaned loudly, and spared a moment to be glad that they had no neighbors, since both he and Molly weren't any facsimile of quiet. Especially not while she clutched tighter and tighter to him, and his tenuous grasp on control slipped with each passing moment.

When he felt the undeniable signs that his orgasm was imminent, he reared up, winding his arms under hers, hooking his hands over her shoulders so he could pull her down on him roughly. Molly made a high-pitched noise when he did it, and her pace increased in encouragement. He felt the brush of her fingertips as she slid a hand between them, down to wear they were joined.

Soon, the cry she gave and the clench and release of her muscles around him swamped him with sheer pleasure and he let go, coming in buckling pulses inside of her.

They stopped moving, cheeks pressed damply together, seemingly stunned into submission finally. And then they both slid bonelessly back to the ground, sprawling across the large rug. The strands of fur stuck uncomfortably to his skin, exacerbated by the swelter of the stove beating down on them. But he couldn't bring himself to care or to move. Blearily, he knew that he should get up and dispose of the condom and fetch them some water, but he was content to lie there a bit longer, feeling the reassuring weight of her leg across his hips, since she'd not had the energy to pull fully away from him.

Eventually, they did move. They dragged themselves on rubbery legs over to the bed and collapsed on it. Significantly cooler, Molly curled up along Sherlock's side, and within minutes, her slow breathing indicated that she'd fallen asleep. Her head on his arm might eventually cut off circulation, but he relished her closeness for the time being, and he held her tighter.

His mind buzzed, a current of electricity firing across synapses and nerve endings His brain had the clarity that endorphins so often provide, and though he was content to stay pressed to Molly, he didn't think he'd sleep for a long time. He began formulating plan. He'd her rest for a couple of hours and then entice her into another round or three. It was early evening, yet, after all.

He stroked her fingers that rested on his chest, over the delicate bones of her wrist and up her arm, until he distinctly heard her saying, Don't be creepy.

Deciding that he could see her point, Sherlock looked over to his bedside table. He'd grabbed her mobile from his trouser pocket as they staggered up off of the floor, and he figured now was as good a time as any to get back to his ogham translation. He wasn't sure what had him so bothered by it, but he knew he'd not settle until he figured it out. Not relinquishing his hold on her, he reached out and dragged the mobile near enough with his fingertips that he could pick it up.

It was a simple matter to pull up the translator and key in the mystery word. As usual, Molly's superior data service yielded results right way.

The first hit in the search engine was a bit amusing, but he vetoed it right away. Language was such a fluid thing, after all.

The second hit gave the same result, and he frowned.

The third hit, though with slightly different phrasing, had a definition that was similar enough that he felt that foreign sensation of worry.

By the time Sherlock had scrolled through four pages of Gàidhlig translations and had found not one deviation from the initial definition, and then spent another thirty minutes reading about the lore of Odin Stones and binding ceremonies, he had no other choice but to accept it.

That evening, he and Molly Hooper had performed a ceremonial handfasting. They'd exchanged oaths, bound their hands together, and had kissed beside a stone formerly used to make unbreakable promises.

And now they were as good as married.

"Oh," he breathed, careful not to wake the sleeping woman curled around him, "Hell."

A/N: Thank you so much to all who favorited, followed and commented on the last chapter. I am so pleased people are enjoying the story in all of its ridiculousness, and I hope this chapter won't be the straw that breaks the camel's back in levels of enjoyable-ish-ness.

Thanks so much to dietplainlite for taking the hash that was the first draft of this chapter and helping me make it less of a strange mess.