A/N: Thanks yet again and a thousand times over for reading and reviewing! If you Tumble, I'm sherlolly over there.

BTW: Saying that Molly's middle name was Elizabeth was a one-time tribute to eccentricpetal for her story "Take This Hand, We Can Do It." Molly's actual middle name in my fic is Kathleen as stated in an earlier chapter. Apologies for any confusion it caused.

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When he slowly spiraled down from the hormonal high and his blood began to redistribute itself from his groin to his brain, he opened dazed eyes to find Molly pressing a kiss to his hip, looking at him with a wicked smile on her lips and a spark in her eyes.

"I like second dessert," she told him, and he laughed.

"If I tell you that was amazing, will it sound too cliché?" Sherlock asked.

"I like a bit of cliché now and then," she said, moving up to lay half on top of him, half pressed against the front of the sofa.

"Good, because I'm not entirely sure I'm up to original thought just yet," he said, wrapping his arms around her as she buried her face into the side of his neck.

Molly giggled slightly. "Now you know what all the shouting is about."

"That was beyond shouting. That was a deafening chorus."

She moved to look down into his face. "I'm glad you liked it."

He raised his eyebrows. "You mean there are men who don't?"

"Most do. But no, not all."

"I find that incredible. How could a man not like that? That was like solving a decade-old triple homicide."

Molly burst into laughter. "Sherlock Holmes, you are the only man I have ever known who would compare an orgasm from oral sex to solving a homicide!"

"A decade-old triple homicide," he corrected, and grinned as she stuck her tongue out at him.

Her humor faded and she reached a hand out to brush his hair away from his forehead. "Sherlock, I don't want you to get the wrong idea with this, but… it might be a good time for us to have a talk."

Thankfully, in this instance, Sherlock was Sherlock, and the words "have a talk" didn't cause him to freak out. "All right."

Molly glanced down, and despite everything she'd done to him already that evening she blushed a bit. "I know you've never…. that you're not used to all this. And I kind of, well… accosted you earlier. But I want you to know, as far as… actual sex goes, we can take it as slowly as you need to."

He blinked in surprise. She went on.

"Normally I wouldn't do…what I did… with a man so soon. But we've known each other for years, and we're friends…"

"Molly, if you're worried that I think you're the Whore of Babylon on the side, the answer is no," Sherlock told her wryly.

"No, thank you, but no, it's not that. It's… well… things are moving along really well with us, and I think we should discuss this now, before we get to that point."

"Oh," he said faintly.

"I want you to know that I'm clean; I test myself at the lab twice a year. I can show you my records if you want to see them…"

"That's not necessary. I trust you."

She glanced down again. "Ok, thank you. Also, I'm, ah, I'm on birth control, have been for years. It really does help with the hormones."

"Naturally," he agreed. "So… what you're telling me is…"

"From STI and pregnancy perspectives, we can have sex anytime we're ready, on my side." She paused and looked at him as though waiting for him to say something.

Sherlock frowned. What was she asking? She knew that he was a virgin, so no STI's to worry about. She was on something, most likely a pill or implant knowing Molly as he did. So what did that leave?

Oh.

"I have never shared a needle in my life, and it has been… a while… since I did any drugs," he told her. "If it will make you feel better, however, I'm fine with you testing me at Bart's."

Molly shook her head. "No. I trust you, too. I figured you were smarter than that, but… it's always best to be completely sure."

"I understand," he assured her.

There was a pause between them; a pause that grew thick and lingered like a fog.

"You saw the marks," he said. "When you had me in the morgue for the fake autopsy."

"Yes."

"You've never treated me any differently because of it."

"Why would I? I figured you're too smart to be a junkie. Anyway, I'm no one to judge you."

He looked up at her, into her dark eyes, so earnest and accepting, and felt a sudden, horrible, unexpected stab of guilt. He deduced people almost as often as he breathed, and with his deductions came conclusions, and judgments. It was nothing he planned and nothing he could control. It was just him. And here she was, looking at him with the same love she'd always had for him, not caring if he'd shot himself full of cocaine or eaten meth for breakfast.

He'd always thought he was superior to pretty much everyone else. But there was more to superiority than intelligence. He didn't like this realization, but disliking something never made it less true.

He took her face in his hands and sighed. "I'm reasonably certain that I don't deserve you, Molly Hooper," he told her, brushing his lips against hers.

"Lucky for you that I'm a glutton for punishment, then," she said, and grinned as he laughed.

She kissed him and sighed. "As much as I enjoy this, I do have to go back to work in the morning."

He nodded, watching in fascination as she put his clothing to rights, then moved off him to stand up and stretch. He stood up as well, feeling odd for some reason. It took him a moment to identify it. She hadn't really pushed anything. Hadn't stripped him, or herself, naked: was sending him home and hadn't even asked for anything from him. He wasn't sure what he thought of it.

"Molly…"

"Yes?"

"You didn't…" he halted, uncertain as to how to express what was in his head.

She smiled. "It's fine. I wanted tonight to be for you."

"Oh."

She smiled again, reaching up to kiss him. "There's plenty of time for that."

No, there isn't, he thought, but of course he couldn't tell her that. Instead he said: "I'd like to come by Bart's tomorrow and see you."

"I'd like that too," she told him.

He put on his coat and scarf and called for a taxi. When he closed his phone back up, Molly slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his neck and chest.

Oh. She was feeling… huggy? Cuddly? He wasn't quite sure what to call it, but obliged her by embracing her and resting his chin on the top of her head.

It was… not unpleasant.

He leaned down to kiss her, a slow, gentle kiss intended to affirm, not incite, and she sighed happily when it ended. He realized she'd been happier in the past few days than in the rest of the time he'd known her put together, and there was no need to deduce that he was the reason.

The bruises on her face were almost healed, and her back would be fine in a few more weeks. Both of these things paled in comparison to the scars he was probably going to be forced to figuratively leave on her heart. It angered and sickened and yes, saddened him somewhat to think about it. Which was why he tried not to.

The taxi driver honked the horn, and they walked to the door together. "Thank you, Molly. I had a … delightful time," he said with a grin.

She smirked a bit. "So did I. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, Molly," he said softly, giving her one last brief kiss before he left.