Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.
And oh what a feeling
Inside of me
It might last for an hour
Wounds aren't healing
Inside of me
Though it feels good now
I know it's only for now
"It doesn't matter two" -Depeche Mode
It didn't happen the first night he spent at her flat. Sherlock Holmes was a dead man, after all, and Molly Hooper was not a necrophiliac, despite the ugly gossip in the morgue.
And it didn't happen the first time he was forced to return to London; a Moriarty's associate had proved himself worthier than the others he had already destroyed, and he needed assistance from the only doctor he could trust at the moment. Mycroft disagreed, but in the end Sherlock Holmes spent a week in Molly's bed, driving her crazy with his silence and the worry about his wounds.
It happened the second time he came back. He didn't leave her the time to ask what was wrong, because his lips were already on hers, his hands untying her ponytail, and he was devouring her, engulfing her breath until they both were panting.
It was frantic, desperate, and unsatisfying (for her). Then she had led him to her bathroom, and prepared a bath for him. When he entered her bedroom, she was already under the sheets, clinging to them like the last wreck in the ocean after a storm.
He woke her up after a few hours, and that time, he made Molly come twice, before emptying himself in her womb. She didn't ask why, and he never told her that two days before, he had witnessed one of Mycroft's men kill a woman with chestnut hair, and warm brown eyes, and thin lips.
He never revealed to her that for a moment, in the lifeless face of a cruel spy, he had seen his most terrible nightmare.
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