(A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed so far! All of your comments have just been the highlight of my life lately! Feedback is so important to a writer and I just want you all to know how much every one of your reviews meant to me! Sorry I haven't had time to individually respond to them!
On another note: This chapter contains some M/NSFW material. Reader discretion advised.
And one more note, this story WILL have a sequel, entitled 'Silhouettes'.
And I'm done talking, enjoy the last chapter of TLG!)

And then those lips are on her own, and the world tilts on its axis.

Later she would wonder if that was from the kiss itself or from the oxygen deprivation, but right now the only thing she could even begin to comprehend is sensation. His lips are soft, the curve of his mouth fitting almost perfectly to her own and the touch does something rather funny to her brain. Tiny shocks of pleasure wrack her nervous system and she forgets that the planet is beneath her feet.

But above all, the contrast of how roughly he had just handled her and the gentle pressure of his mouth against hers is almost alarming to her sensory system.

His hand hasn't left her throat, but his free hand is suddenly at her hip. He pulls her away from the wall, slips his arm around her waist and she can't help but inhale sharply at the trill of pleasure that the sudden full body contact entices within her. Her intake of breath has caused her lips to part, and in effect, Sherlock has taken the opportunity to slip his tongue just past her bottom lip, with a request-that's-more-of-a-command that is so /Sherlock/ in nature that she has no choice but to comply; her tongue slips from her own mouth to meet his.

And it's absolutely magical; he tastes of so many things: of cigarettes and bitter tea, of spice and the mysteries of the universe. Discovery and elegance. Like books and velvet. It's a flavor unlike anything she's ever tasted and the only thing she can compare it to in its entirety is that it's simply Sherlock.

Suddenly, his arm around her waist is the only thing keeping her upright, because her legs have ceased to function and she's grasped at his coat; clutching at the fabric as if she depended on it, pulling him closer.

His mouth on hers is slow at first; experimental and testing, tasting her like she's tasting him. His hand on her throat has slid to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair at the base of her skull and it gives him better leverage to deepen the kiss.

Lifetimes fly by in the span of moments and as they test one another, things begin to deepen; she can feel his body respond to hers in a way that hers has long since reacted and when his mouth moves from exploring to demanding, she can't keep herself from complying. Her hands have found their way into his hair and the feel of glossy curls that glide between her fingers is made all the more satisfying in the fulfillment of a desire that's resided inside of her since day one.

There's a burning in her chest and she breaks away, gasping for air, against everything that wants very much to keep her there,. Her eyes are closed and she's almost afraid at what she'll find if she opens them. Her chest is heaving against his, and she's not sure if the pounding she feels is her own heart or his.

He presses his forehead into her temple, and the erratic movement of his chest proof enough he wasn't unaffected; his lips are grazing the line of her cheek, tiny puffs of breath mingling with the sensation.

She curls her fingers gently against his scalp, her nails just barely grazing the skin, and she's shaken from the stunned stupor that the kiss has left her in by the softest of groans that escape him. She pulls her head back and looks up at him, to find that he's already watching her.

The silence between them could have taken on a life of its own with the way that its presence dominates the moment; her fingers slip from his hair and she's suddenly very much aware of the way in which his arm is curled around her body.

As if he could read her thoughts by the proximity of their bodies alone, his hand drops from her waist and he takes a step back.

The step feels as if its more like bounds, like the act has taken years rather than a second; because as he steps away, any semblance of expression is drained away in the blink of an eye.

Her own arms are suddenly too empty and they fall to her sides as if weighed with lead.

They're now mirroring each others position from just minutes before, only now her back is to the window and his is to the door; his hands behind his back again.

"Why did you come here tonight?"

There's nothing that's he's asked from her tonight, and even if this were simply his continued method of obtaining what he needed, he's never taken things this far before.

She's rather proud of the fact that her voice has remained steady through each word, but her hands are not so fortunate and she decides to tuck them to her sides as she crosses her arms in front of her as she had before.

Then, it had been an unconscious act, but now it feels more like armor of her own; the only thing between the two of them.

He inhales deeply, as his eyes drift upwards and he's studying the ceiling as he speaks."As an ultimatum to prison for my crime, Mycroft has landed me an assignment in the Middle East."

"You're leaving again?" The words depart her lips in a whisper, "How long...?"

She thinks back to all of the nights that she's laid awake during the two years of his "death", wondering and distraught with worry. Was he alright? Was he safe? Was he even really still alive, or had she imagined the whole thing?

Even after she had met Tom it hadn't really stopped, but it had been easier to distract herself. And when she had caught sight of him in the mirror for the first time in two years, her heart had practically broken in relief

She couldn't do that again, couldn't spend two years worried about him like that. And even worse, she wasn't sure she could go without his presence in her life in the consistent manner he had begun since his return.

He looks at her then, and he's smiling.

Its the same smile that he graced her with the day he invited her along to solve crimes. Its the same smile that makes her insides hurt, because it's beautiful and it's sad and above all, its genuine.

"I've never felt it necessary to keep the unpleasant details from you, Molly; you're far too strong for all of that. Especially during the times when I've needed you to be so the most.'

And then the smile slips from his face. "Simply put; this will be the last time you and I will ever see each other. I came here tonight to say goodbye."

She's rendered speechless, but even so her lips part several times before closing, because no words will form. Her thoughts have been wiped clean of any coherency and all she can do is stare at him.

Because that's not right.

Because that's not /fair/.

Denial spirals through her like a funnel cloud, destroying things like vital organs and bones, crushing them like tissue paper and obliterating them into nothing somewhere in the vicinity of her chest until she feels more like a shell of skin than a person.

He's watching her and she wonders if he can see the way she's suddenly been hollowed out.

Her vocal chords protest, but she forces the word, trying to pretend it doesn't sound as feeble as it actually is. "W-When..?"

"Tomorrow morning."

She nods almost absentmindly, because what else can she do?

All of the things she's always wanted to tell him.

All of the ways she's always wanted to show him how she felt.

Everything she's always wanted to be to him and for him.

Every opportunity gone, snatched away in the blink of an eye.

Time has run out and everything is lost.

And it's not fair.

But perhaps... perhaps not /everything/. Perhaps she still has time for one more thing.

It's a ridiculous thought, insane. The idea that he would even allow for it is ludicrous, to say the least.

Because he's Sherlock and she's Molly, and maybe the gap is still bigger than she originally thought. But suddenly, she can't bring herself to care. The worst he could do is reject her, and they've been there before. The worst he can do is insult her, leave; and let's face it- that's nothing new.

But he's leaving, and does it matter what he'll think of her in the morning? If they never see each other again, does it really matter what his final opinion of her really is? Because he's seen the best of her, so perhaps in the final hours it wouldn't matter that he saw the worst.

Doubts and insecurities rise within her, but she shoves them away.

She's not sure what she means to him, but she knows that she has to mean something.

He came to her and lost control of himself, of his emotions- in front of her.
The man who wore Armani like pliable armor, who never let anyone close enough to see how unbearably sad he was; had come to her and broken himself open.

And he had kissed her.

His impeccable composure had been fractured during their exchange and he's allowed her to bare witness to it, to be touched by it. He had been something /Other/ during the brief moments that he had let go of himself; and while it was clear that the reason for the lapse in control resulted from his confession, once again he had come to /her/. Out of everyone in his life whom he could have chosen instead, he had chosen /her/.

And that knowledge is suddenly something powerful and precious; it seeps through her body, soaking her bones and muscles in the depth of its implications. Right in this moment, she's no longer the silly little pathologist; right now, she's not even the woman whose hopelessly, and tragically, in love with him

Right then, she becomes someone else entirely; some one strong, empowered and comfortable in every inch of her skin. She has to be, because if she's not, she will cry and she can't allow that. Not while he's still here; there will be plenty of time for that later.

She's graceful and strong; determination surging through her, infusing every fiber of her being and she can feel her posture shift to accommodate the change. And she can see it in the way that his eyes sweep over her that he can see it as well.

He's close enough to touch, and so she does. She reaches out to grab his scarf, and she's not sure if she pulls him or herself closer, but their lips reconnect. Where it had started out tentatively before, there's nothing but need now. She wants to imagine that its from both of them, and that he's possibly as desperate as she is, and maybe she might have even allowed herself to believe it in the past. But Molly Hooper has done a lot of growing up in the past year and she no longer believes in fairy tales.

His hands are at her waist now and she lets go; lets go of everything she's been holding back from him all of this time. All of the love and longing, all of the pain and heartbreak and worry, every flutter of a heartbeat at his faux flattering words, every sting of his insults, and now she has something new to add to the mix. Something so foreign to her, something that's bursting inside of her and at war with everything else she's always felt for him.

She's /angry./

Her fingers grasp at the knot of his scarf until its loose and she pulls it away, tossing it away from them thoughtlessly. Her hands then move to the buttons of his coat and somewhere in the haze of tongue and bruising kisses and hands that are skimming her back and sides, she forms the vague notion of being surprised that he hasn't shoved her away.

But she ignores it, because there are too many things, too many implications and thoughts behind that one and right now she can't handle them. She doesn't want to think about the why and she doesn't want to think of the when that's suddenly looming over them both. Nor of consequences or privilege. She just wants to get lost inside of that wonderful mouth of his, the mouth that had always been so quick to inflict so much damage. And now its her turn; because her kisses are unforgiving and she's sure she's bitten him three times already.

She doesn't question why he's allowed her too. All she'll allow herself to think about is that her dressing gown is no longer apart of the equation and his coat is gone. And that this standing thing is no longer an option. She pulls away, grabs his hand, and allowing their fingers to intertwine as she does,pulls him with her as she back into her bedroom. He's silent, his lips swollen, eyes alight with a strange fire that's so out of place for him, but no less mesmerizing and the moment his eyes land on the bed behind her, understanding slides into places like the remaining pieces fitting into the puzzle.

He doesn't question her actions, nor does he turn tail and leave, both of which she fully expects of him. Because she knows she's pushed further then she has any right to expect him to be okay with.
What she doesn't expect him to do, but what she's never been more fiercely glad for, is the same moment she witnesses him come to the decision. Because its the same moment that he advances on her.

He's suddenly in control of the situation in much the same he always has been and for it, she's grateful. Because she doesn't have the energy nor the emotional capacity any longer to be the one in control.

His mouth is on her own again and he's kissing her in such a way that she's not even aware they've moved until he suddenly lowers her onto the bed. Her fingers grasp at the material of his ridiculously expensive shirt as his body moves to cover hers and she's fumbling with the buttons, wanting nothing more than to not only feel his bare skin against hers, but to expose him in one of the most vulnerable ways a person can be.

Everything is a whirlwind and somehow in the midst, the kiss has been broken for breath and his mouth has claimed her throat. Her body feels as if it should be glowing in much the same way that radiation glows, because every grasp of his hand alters the part its touched, as if the touch itself seeps inside of her, and she never wants it to stop.

She feels feverish, her cheeks too warm and her vest has joined his shirt somewhere; she can feel the length of him pressed into the cradle of her thighs, in much the same way that her breast and belly are pressed into the warm, hard planes of his chest and everything in her /burns/ for him.

His hands are everywhere and she's dizzy with everything that she's only ever dared to dream of. Every sensation is intoxicating and she can't keep a gasp of unadulterated need from escaping her.

The sound stills him above her and he pulls back just enough to stare down at her. She can't understand the sudden loss of contact from him until he speaks.

"Make me stop, Molly."

She feels a wave of defiance well up inside of her to mingle with the zestpool of emotions, of which are too bright and too much to deal with just then and she suddenly has the urge repeat her actions from from the results of the drug test. This was something she wouldn't trade for the world, not this very moment.

"Absolutely not."

"/Molly/." He growls, and she catches a glimpse of the person from before; the one whom she had never seen before, and she knows that's its his intention to frighten her. "Tell me to stop."

"Shut up."

The first time that he slides inside of her, its as if she's suddenly taken a breath for the first time in her life. The noise that echoes off of the walls can't be distinguished between them, and the way in which he holds himself above her, hands planted on the mattress on either side of her head as he holds himself above her has snapped something into bright clarity inside of her.

Molly had no disillusions when she pulled him with her, or even when she was the one to pull him into the kiss. She knew that even if he allowed things to come to this, it would not be because he loved her.

Because he's Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock Holmes doesn't commit, he doesn't have relationships, and he doesn't love.

He doesn't love her, nor will he begin to. They've come so very, very far, but everyone had they're limit and she knew, knows better than to expect anything.

But even so, as he begins to move inside of her, his body almost awkward in the way that it does so, as if he's not quite sure exactly how to do so properly; in the back of her mind, she's screaming profanities and raging at him and there's a small part of her, in this moment that she realizes she hates him with.

Hates him, because of every time he's ever pushed her away.

Hates him for every time he's ever used her.

Hates him, because he's taken himself out of her life, and this time, there's no going back.

Hates him because she'll never see him again.

And because she's loves him /too/ much.

Suddenly everythings too much; she needs him to move faster, needs the pace to be as unrelenting and unforgiving as the kisses had been earlier and she slips her arms around his neck, pulls his body down to cover her own as she slides one leg around his waist and uses the other to give herself leverage before she begins to set the pace beneath them. A strangled noise escapes him against her neck at where he's buried his face at the change in pace, but he catches on soon enough, and she's quickly lost in the way that their bodies have joined, in the roll of hips. Soon, its easy to push everything away and allow herself to become lost in the bliss that slowly building inside of her. Lost in the last chance she'll ever have at this.

Sweat slick skin, cries, moans and gasps fill the room like their own personal symphony as places are touched, as their movements become frantic and she's building up in a way that she never has before. A way that's she's only ever been able to achieve while fingers stroke her between the thrust of bodies.

And then she's coming undone, her nails finding purchase in the grasp she has of his shoulder as she cries out; and he's following her in a progression of warmth that explodes deep inside of her, his own voice joining hers in an oddly strangled cry.

He collapses on top of her, and they lay intertwined in each other for a time that's too long to measure without the use of a clock, each trying to come to terms with their breathing and the things that have just taken place between them.

He leaves in the quiet rustle of clothing in the earliest hours of the morning, just as the rising of the sun has begun to slowly bleach the blackness of the sky into the barest hints of pearlescent gray.

She must have drifted off at some point, although she has no way of telling for how long, because the next thing she's aware of is that she's now lying on her stomach, a sheet tucked around in attempt at modesty, facing the window.

She doesn't speak, but she listens as she hears his movements while he dresses.

And when there's a brief pause, an absolute silence amongst her own breathing which she's managed to maintain, she almost expects him to speak, to announce that he's aware of the fact that she's awake.

But,he doesn't.

The very least she expects is a goodbye.

Instead, the softest of /clicks/ is all that's given and she remains absolutely still until she's sure that he's left, before she finally curls in on herself.

The sob that breaks from her throat hurts in so many ways and she pulls the pillow from under her head closer so that she can bury her face into it. Because this is the one and only time she promises herself to allow for tears.
Sherlock was right; she /was/ strong; but she was still human.
A silly human being who fell in love with a man who didn't know how to be.

It's four weeks later that she comes down with a mild stomach bug and takes the week off of work. And when she's still throwing up three days later, she makes an appointment with her primary care physician.

The results of her exam should not be as much of a shock to her as they are, but she'll later excuse herself for not connecting the dots sooner; after all, the Moriarty thing had been shocking(frightening) enough to drive everything else from her mind.

But as she sits numbly in the back of a cab, staring down at the paper in her hands, something occurs to her.

Its been a long game, and she's never been a willing participant, has never actually /wanted/ to play, and has even considered herself to be a victim of its rules. But perhaps the words on that sheet of paper make her the winner after all.

'/These are the official results of a pregnancy test administered to the patient- MOLLY HOOPER with the results of the test being POSITIVE. Patient is estimated to be four weeks pregnant as of FEBUARY 7th . Please schedule a follow up appointment with your current OBGYN for further prenatal care./'