A/N: Here be smut, be warned!

Whatever Sherlock son of Svartalf had expected from this day, being kissed by the girl he'd (temporarily) kidnapped wasn't it. Enjoying the kiss was even more unexpected, but then, he'd always been attracted to women with brains. He could blame his mother for that; seeing how much she and his father loved one another, inheriting her love of scholarship and learning, it was inevitable that he'd fall for someone very much like the girl he was now holding in his arms (wait, when had that happened?) and exchanging urgent kisses with.

Distractedly, he thought about his friend Johann; would the older man wait with the boat as he'd promised if Sherlock didn't appear at the appointed time, or would he come storming into the village in search of him? Didn't matter, Sherlock decided as he molded the girl's body closer to his and ran one hand down to squeeze her backside. Johann could – and would! – have to wait. As would questions about the girl's beekeeping habits. Right now the only thing he wanted to know was exactly how far beyond kissing she was willing to let him take her…and, perhaps… "What's your name?" he growled as he pulled his mouth away from hers.

"Molly," she replied, rather breathlessly, her lips shiny and swollen from his kisses. She'd opened her mouth to his when he ran his tongue over her lips and although she'd gasped and held tighter to his shoulders, she'd allowed the intimate contact without protest. A good sign.

"Sherlock," he said, offering his own name in spite of the inner voice of his mind (sounding suspiciously like his elder brother Mycroft) warning him not to tell her anything that could endanger him. Hah, as if a slip of girl could do anything to endanger a Viking warrior! As if anyone in her humble village could do much either, singly or combined, he thought smugly.

His smugness vanished as he felt her tugging at his sword-belt; when had her hands moved from his shoulders, and why hadn't he noticed? Oh yes, of course; because she was kissing him again and his mouth was moving against hers without consulting his brain. Considering that all the blood in his body had rushed southward some time ago, he shouldn't have been surprised. He gave up trying to think entirely when she traced one small hand over the heated bulge in his trousers, too busy drinking in her avid, yet somewhat nervous, expression as her eyes darted up to meet his.

Whatever she saw there must have encouraged her; she resumed her timid explorations of his body, becoming bolder as he finished undoing his sword-belt and pulled his tunic over his head. He'd foregone the leather armor he usually wore, opting for stealth and speed over protection he was confident he wouldn't need, and was extremely glad he'd done so. Especially when he saw how interested she was in not only his body but in the tribal markings he'd chosen to decorate said body. She reached out and traced delicate fingers over the whorls and swirls, lips moving as she deciphered some of the runes he chosen to represent his personal beliefs. More proof that the girl was far better educated than most Gaels of her station. It was somewhat disconcerting to hear her speaking the words "Unanswered questions are more dangerous than any warrior" in her native tongue…disconcerting and yet, very, very arousing.

As he claimed her lips for another kiss, he reflected on how one girl could so easily cause him to overthrow his usual disdain for sex, but there was something about her – an only child with a dead mother and an unwell father, used to faring for herself, well-educated and intelligent for a female Briton, not to mention a careful and responsible bee-keeper – that piqued more than his intellectual curiosity.

In spite of her current boldness with him, her actual inexperience at seduction was obvious from the combination of enthusiasm and clumsiness with which she was currently exploring his body. Although he was hardly the master of the romantic arts that Johann was, he was no shrinking virgin, either. A lovely young thrall-turned-shield-maiden named Sally had taken care of that when he was barely fourteen, and he'd had more than a few other encounters since then.

This, however, would be his first time doing the deflowering, not that he'd ever admit such a thing to any of his fellow Vikings. A man had a reputation to protect, after all. Not that he was interested in getting between the legs of an unwilling maiden, of course, but that wasn't anything he needed to worry about today. The girl – Molly – tiptoed up and kissed him again; with a harsh growl he pulled her closer, then spun her around so she was pressed up against the sturdy trunk of the nearest tree. Her hands were in his hair, her soft breasts pressed against his bare chest, and the few layers of clothing between them nothing but an impediment to be removed.

She caught on to what he was attempting very quickly, in spite of the way she was responding so prettily to his kisses; soon there was nothing between them but skin, and Sherlock took the time to appreciate the sight of her nude form before tugging her down to lie next to him on his outspread cloak. Her flesh was pale but not unhealthy, and there was a spattering of freknur* on her nose and neck that just begged for his attention. He saw an equally appreciative gleam in her eyes as she took in the sight of his erection, and proudly stroked a hand over it just to watch her eyes widen and hear her suck in a breath, her pink little mouth rounding in an 'O' that gave him some very lustful thoughts indeed.

He pressed his lips to her throat and covered her pert little breasts with his hands, kneading them softly and smiling against her skin as she whimpered and tugged at his hair. Her nipples were stiff from the cool air as much as his touch, and he soon bent his mouth to tug at each of the rosy nubs, moving his hands lower on her body until they settled on her hips. With his thumbs he stroked the soft flesh of her belly, wishing he could take his time but knowing that a leisurely exploration of one another's body's was far too dangerous. And although he reveled in taking risks, he knew the consequences for her, should they be caught in so compromising a position, would be far worse than any he might face. Especially since he was still confident that, even naked and vulnerable as he might appear, he would certainly be able to best anyone that stumbled across them.

Besides, it would sour the mood if he were forced to kill someone she knew.

And so, with regret, he picked up the pace, rolling her onto her back and partially covering her with his body, resting his prick against the warmth of her sex, kissing her over and over again as he reached between her legs and stroked her slit. Ah, she was already so wet, more than ready for him! Although he longed to taste her, instead he had to satisfy himself with long, deep kisses. He gave a startled – but pleased – grunt when he felt one small hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, move down to brush teasingly against his prick, her surprisingly strong fingers grasping him, silently urging him closer as she widened her legs. "Please," she begged, gazing up at him from eyes that were now more black than brown as her pupils revealed her desire for him. "Grá a dhéanamh liom."**

Ah, when a woman said such lovely things, how could he refuse? He allowed her to help guide his prick so that the head entered her slick warmth, then gently tugged her hand free, kissing the palm before setting in back on his shoulder. "This will burn a bit, but what comes after should more than make up for it," he warned and promised her at the same time.

"I'm ready," she assured him, but he felt her grip on his tattoo-covered shoulders tighten a bit.

He lifted on leg so that it was bent at the knee, giving him more room and widening her opening just a bit, then with one thrust pushed his way deep inside her.

oOo

Molly gave a soft cry as she felt the promised burn as his prick pushed into her, passing the barrier of her maidenhead with less pain than others had so darkly warned her to expect. However, she did have to consciously relax her hands as she felt her nails digging into Sherlock's well-formed – and beautifully inked – shoulders. She appreciated the way he paused after he'd fully seated himself inside her, giving her time to get used to the feeling of fullness, and the stretch of her cunt around his prick. When she was ready she nodded, keeping her eyes locked on his blue-green orbs as he began to move again, slowly easing himself in and partially back out of her, while she clumsily attempted to meet those movements with her own hips.

It wasn't long before they found a rhythm that worked for them both, and Molly slowly felt the rising tide of pleasure that signaled the onset of what might be an orgasm. She held her breath in anticipation of the much-sought-after delight, the one so few of her female friends claimed to have experienced, at least not without using their own hands!

With that in mind, she shyly pried the fingers of her right hand away from Sherlock's shoulder, gliding it down his arm and then his hip, nibbling at her lower lip as she contemplated what she was about to do. Would he feel she was insulting his manhood or abilities as a lover if she chose to take the whispered advice of her more experienced friends? Only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath, she eased her hand between their joined bodies, slipping her finger down to the hidden pearl that all women possessed, but so few seemed to gain true pleasure from.

She heard Sherlock gasp and then groan, lifting his body away so that her hand had enough room to reach its goal. He turned his head and whispered, his mouth almost touching her ear, "Yes, do it, Molly, touch yourself. If we had more time, I promise you, I'd show you so many ways a man can bring a woman pleasure."

She was sure the overwhelming sensation that washed over her just then was as much due to his words as to the uncertain touch of her thumb on her slippery flesh. She cried out as pleasure washed over her, drowning her in its intensity, her body moving insistently, nearly mindlessly as she shuddered and gasped and tried to catch her breath when the wave had crested. The drumming of her heart in her chest made her feel as if she'd just run from the beach to the forest, as she'd not done since putting up her hair on her fourteenth birthday.

Clearly Sherlock was nearing the same peak she'd just reached; she could feel his heart beating just as rapidly as hers, and his breath was coming harsh gasps as he rested on his elbows above her. He'd stopped moving at some point when she was no longer aware of anything but the sensations coursing through her own body, but as soon as their eyes met again he began thrusting his hips, pushing himself deeper inside her now-aching sex. Her grip on his shoulders tightened again and she grit her teeth, breathlessly waiting for him to join her in fulfillment.

She hadn't long to wait; within minutes he was gasping out her name, sweat dripping from his hairline as he rested his head in the crook of her neck. She automatically held him in her arms, running one hand down his back in soothing, sweeping motions as she felt his prick pulsing inside her. The burn subsided, but she suspected a soak in a hot tub of water would be in order once she returned home.

The thought of home, and her ailing father who patiently awaited her return, brought a gasp from her lips. With a hint of panic in her eyes, she stared at her new-made lover, who began moving from her body, his lips thinned in an expression of…what? Distaste? Anger? Or mere unhappiness at her own less-than-pleased expression? "N-no, it's not you," she stammered as he sat back on his heels, gazing down at her with eyes and face gone blank and unreadable. She scrambled to her knees, reaching out a placating hand and resting it just above his heart. "It's my father, I've left him alone all this time when I was only supposed to be gone an hour at most, he'll be worried…"

Sherlock's lips on hers silenced her, and she closed her eyes in gratitude that he understood what she was trying to say. "I'd ask you to come with me," he murmured when the kiss ended, "but I suspect you'd say no."

"My father needs me," Molly said simply, in response to the question that wasn't a question. Sherlock nodded, and she lowered her eyes, unable to continue to meet his gaze. Running away with a handsome young Viking was the stuff of fantasies, and sadly Molly had always been a very practical girl; she'd had to be, with her mother's early death in childbirth to a younger sister that hadn't survived two winters, and an ailing father who coughed up blood from his enfeebled lungs at an alarming rate. But oh, at least she'd always have this magical encounter to remember!

She startled a bit when Sherlock thrust a hand under her nose as she fussed with her simple leather belt, then blushed as she realized he was handing her a bit of cloth dampened with wine with which to clean herself. There wasn't much blood, but a great deal of their comingled fluids dribbling down her legs, and she murmured a quiet thank you as she self-consciously began wiping up the signs of their recent activities. So much for preserving her maidenhood for some potential future husband; however, that dream had already begun to fade, replaced by the prospect of lonely spinsterhood and a life of beekeeping. At least it would be a useful life she reflected as she finished dressing herself.

Sherlock was fully clothed now as well, and she smiled shyly at him, the spell of wild recklessness he'd brought out in her finally broken. "Well, good-bye," she said awkwardly. "I promise not to tell anyone…"

"Sherlock!" His name was shouted from the lips of a fair-haired stranger, shorter and stockier than Sherlock but clearly a Norseman as well – in fact, even more obviously a Norseman, with his shaggy blond locks and matching braided moustache. He was holding a shield and short-sword and dressed much like Sherlock, with blue eyes widened in surprise as he took in her presence. He let out a short curse that Molly blushed to hear, then turned his attention back to his comrade. "The idiots from the next village spotted the boat, we have to leave unless you want to fight your way through a mob of terrified farmers again!"

"Again?" Molly raised an eyebrow and stared at Sherlock, who merely shrugged and grinned at her, a devil-may-care grin that melted her heart. "Go," she said, making shooing motions. "I'll try to delay them as long as possible."

The expression in Sherlock's eyes was almost adoring as he grinned and swooped in for a swift kiss, nearly lifting her off her feet as he enveloped her in a fierce embrace. "Good-bye, Molly," he said. "I'll never forget you." Then he and the other man, who she heard him call 'Johann' were off and running, as swiftly and silently as deer, vanishing into the depths of the forest in a direction that would eventually bring them to the shore.

Molly tamed her hair as best she could with her fingers, swiftly replaiting it and smoothing her rumpled clothing into a semblance of neatness. Everyone who knew her knew of what they dubbed her 'eccentricities', including the way she still scrambled about the forest like a child as she searched for herbs and dragged in firewood for the modest home she and her father shared. As she heard the sound of running feet and excited murmurings from a large group of men, she drew in a deep breath and shouted.

Swiftly settling onto the bracken, she cradled her ankle in her hands and rocked back and forth, whimpering as if in pain. When the villagers and farmers burst into the clearing, she thanked God as loudly as she could, then spun a tale of being knocked to the ground by a large group of fierce Viking warriors, who'd headed in the exact opposite direction Johann and Sherlock had actually taken.

One man was left behind, tasked to help her limp back home, and as soon as he left her with her father she breathed out a silent prayer that Sherlock and Johann would make it safely away, undiscovered by the terrified but enthusiastic men chasing after them. Not out of fear for them, of course, but strictly out of concern that anyone else would be harmed.

After giving her worried father a similar story to what she'd told the Viking-hunters, he gave her a hard stare, head tilted to one side, but said nothing further. The only person she ever told the truth to, at least at first, was her dear friend Mary, whose eyes sparkled at the adventure her friend had shared with a handsome Viking lad.

(Yes, yes, "To Be Continued!)

*In case you haven't guessed, freknur is Old Norse for freckles!

** This is an attempt at "make love to me" in Irish Gaelic. It's probably wrong since it's from Google Translate, but I tried!

P.S. There miiight be a jollocky version of this chapter in the works as a bonus after the story is over. Just sayin'.