(So - here it is the new chapter, on time - that's a first! Thanks for peeking in at my next installment, here - I don't own BBC Sherlock - I'm just trying to have some fun, you know the deal - Also wanted to say that I have several more chapters - some are already completed, I'm just kinda fixing them up - I'm doing my own editing, so no beta here - please tell me all my mistakes, I really want to hear 'em - Would LOVE to have some reading and reviewing if you have time! Thanks!)

Morning After -

Sherlock woke with a start and found himself looking into Molly's smiling and somewhat smug face. Images of the events of the evening before flooded into his mind and they were accompanied by the damned emotional anxiety again. Down, he tried to push it down, and his interior struggle must have been broadcast on his face because Molly's expression was suddenly concerned, though still smiling.

"What is it? Something wrong?"

"No, no," He answered, taking her in his arms, mostly just so she wouldn't see his face as he tried to compose it, contain it. It was too much to process just now. Mornings were very bad for him, usually, and now, this sort of thing. And with these particular people involved. At uni he'd always hurried out before his partners had had a chance to waken. How had Molly beaten him to it? How was he going to do a runner out of his own flat? And the anxiety, the anxiety was mounting inside him, how was he going to manage?

"Where's John?" He asked, as he didn't see or sense him in the bed.

"Gone out for coffee. He's gone to buy it, and then," she said rubbing her face against his cheek and neck in a way that was not going to let him ignore her, "Then, he's going to come back and make it for us. Isn't he good?"

"Mmmm," Sherlock answered, nuzzling her hair and neck, but holding back, refraining from returning the caresses and kisses she was beginning to give him.

"Yes, yes, he is. Um, Molly?"

"Yes?"

"I have to – um –"

"Loo?"

"Um – " That worked. "Yes, excuse me." He untangled himself from her, and grabbing a dressing gown from the chair, made his way into the sitting room. He stood there for a moment in an utter panic for what to do.

Loo. Right. He fairly ran into the bathroom, and found a pair of trousers and shirt that he normally would have laundered before wearing again. Instead, he found himself struggling into the clothes with a desperation that made him giggle, it so reminded him of more than one occasion at school. This is absurd, he thought. Last night was something I want to do over and over again. What's this panic? But he couldn't put it down, he had to get out and breathe some air.
Waking with Molly in such close proximity and with her immediate and close scrutiny hadn't helped, either.

He looked at himself in the mirror. There was a stain on the shirt, small, but at any other moment, completely unacceptable. He left it on. Why did his left eye look larger than his right? His hair was beyond help. He splashed his face with cold water, and this did not help him at all. The panic rose in his throat, strangling him. He took a couple deep breaths. No. This is not working. This is not working!

Shoes? He wondered. His usual pair were in the – in the – sitting room? He padded into the room and quickly located them. He shoved his feet into them sockless, then grabbed his coat and scarf. What about Molly? What about John? Surely he could just pop his head into the bedroom and just say to Molly, oh, something like, oh, he could just say um – forget it, forget it, get out GET OUT, his brain screamed, and he lurched toward the door, and made it half way down the stair case before John popped in the door at the bottom with carrier bags from Safeway. He smiled as he made his way up the first few steps.

"What's up? I've already got some coffee and other stuff. Oh." John looked at him, and immediately recognized the male instinct to run.

"John, please forgive me, please – Um – I just need to – get some air."

"It's perfectly all right, please don't worry. Molly and I will have some coffee and get out of here, ok? Gone in an hour." John patted his arm.

"All right, but I – I don't mean to be awkward, I wanted to tell you that it was – it was so, um so - it's just – um – it's just that I can't seem to – that is I need to - "

"I completely understand, and so will Molly. I promise, we'll be gone within the hour," John tried to pass him on the stair, but Sherlock caught his shoulders, gripping them hard, and whirled John around to face him.

"Don't – John – you and Molly, Please - don't leave London."

"What!?" John laughed, as Sherlock released him, and bolted down the stairs.

"We'll be at home. Call me whenever you feel like it," John got out, before Sherlock banged out the door and into the street.

The morning air hit him like a blessing complete with diesel and fog. He sucked it into his lungs in big gulps, all the while shaking his head, rubbing his hair and face with his hands. He stopped and looked around him to get his bearings. He made a decision, walked to the high street, and then headed for Regent's Park. He kept his pace brisk, his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, as if he were on the lam. When had he last had a brisk walk for its own sake, he wondered? He couldn't remember. But who cared? He had quite enough exercise doing the leg work on his cases. He started to relax a little, but managed to keep his pace brisk, and commenced his game of deducing people on the street with as little time as possible as they passed him in the street.

Mother of two recently promoted at her office job late for work angry with her new boss; handy man in the park annoyed with new duties at this end of the park for some reason trouble with the wife or she's completely left him; college student had sex for the first time ever with her new boyfriend didn't like it much or doesn't like him much or both; professional man and wife married couple pushing a pram – wait. He stopped.

The couple looked up at him. He smiled and nodded at them and took his phone from his coat pocket pretending to answer a call as he watched the couple pass him on the walk. He took them in. Conventional. Acceptable. Liberal politics. No, liberal leaning. Middle class. Chanel here, Armani there, but mostly Marks & Spencer. He managed to glimpse a peek at the baby. Round face. Completely round with black eyes like holes into another universe. Alien. Tiny hands grasping out. Blue blanket. Their whole lives are mapped out for them, he thought. Certainly there would be bumps along the road. There always were, but these two – He must be - probably a barrister or financial something or other. And she – stay at home mum. How charming. How antediluvian. Sherlock allowed himself to imagine it for a moment, his gorge rising. This can never be my life, will never be, he thought. His certainty was so complete, he almost felt a tinge of regret at the utter impossibility of ever having these experiences for himself. Almost felt it, but not quite. He felt the tension in his shoulders abate, and he was able to roll them back and lift his neck up and out of the strained panicked hold in which he'd held it since running out of the flat.

He continued his walk, freer, more confident, less frenetic, less hunted. But the anxiety remained, though now it rose up in his chest and neck as something new, something different. Now, the anxiety seemed to be about having possibly offended John and Molly with his puerile behaviour this morning. No, not possible. John's reaction to him on the stair was one of forbearance and even humour. John would explain things to Molly and she would understand. They both knew him, too, they would know and understand what he was going through at this moment. He could explain it to them and they would accept him and his actions without comment. Why didn't the sound of this nauseate him anymore? When did something like this become a comfort and not a subject of derision? Last night? This was too much. He stopped at the thought. He stopped himself from running back to them that very moment. No, not yet. I need more time.

The park lay all around him now. Trees, grass, railings, walkways. He passed a café, and slowing his brisk clip, took out his phone again to answer an another fake phone call – it was, he found, an easily put on cover to allow him to observe behaviours. Even from a very close distance, he found, people would accept him staring into space, or even into their very faces, as long as he maintained an air of concentration with his phone to his ear. A younger couple sitting near the window in the café was Sherlock's target. The vitrine kept Sherlock from being able to hear the actual words the two young people spoke, but that was no matter. He could tell that the young man doted on his blond, leggy companion, and she doted back. They were smiling broadly at one another engaged in a laughing disagreement about something. After a few moments of the exchange in which Sherlock determined that the matter was serious enough, but not serious enough to have a spat over, the young man dipped his head, and offered his hand, palm up, conceding the point to his female companion, though it was obvious to Sherlock that the man held no conviction that her opinion was correct. Never happen, thought Sherlock, and walked on.

He couldn't engage in these pleasantries that made society work. He had no place in it, had he? In – oh, in society. And he'd done perfectly well enough without it until now. What was the question? What was the concern? Where was all this anxiety coming from? How had John and Molly soothed him so? Last night had been so - so very - oh god. He walked on, resuming his brisk pace.

Emotional entanglement. Run. That was his instinct at uni, and the trigger for that instinct was what he was acting on, now, he saw. But it didn't feel right. Uni was long finished. And now this horrible anxiety had been quelled when John and Molly – when they had – when they were - oh Christ.

The images of the night before came to him again in his mind's eye. Even as he walked here in public, he could feel the anguish abate, he could feel Molly's touch and John's voice – liniments against the fear, the torment of – What? What was it? Loneliness? Good lord when had this happened? The 18 months in hiding came back to him again. It had to be faced, it had to be accepted, relaxed into? Damaged? Was he damaged, now? Emotionally damaged?

He focused his mind on the last case. There had been no problem. It seemed to him that he'd solved it in a reasonable period of time. John and he had gotten along well enough with only the usual disagreements, he had ultimately been an enormous help, as usual. Molly had been her usual helpful self when they'd visited the lab a few times. Nothing different there. So, he was able to focus on cases. He looked back at his last few cases. All fine. No problems. The anxiety wasn't interfering with his work. He took a breath. Just get used to it – this unsettling feeling,? This loneliness? Just get used to it? What the hell for? Sherlock thought, and quite surprised himself.

He allowed the night's events to flash before him again. They came more easily, more fluidly than before. The dizziness that he'd experienced in those first moments as Molly, lovely Molly began touching his hair and face, came back to him, and he slowed his brisk clip to a more comfortable, easy pace. The ease and generosity with which John and Molly had offered themselves to him both embarrassed and chastened him. But as strange as the arrangement would certainly have seemed in other circles, he found that he wasn't able to reject them, as he was sure he would have in the not at all distant past. It was simply too completely good. It was simply too helpful and lovely and sweet. It was simply too much of exactly what he needed and wanted right now in his life.

"For as long as you want," John had said. And did he speak for Molly? She had seemed content to let him speak for her the other night. But how long could they really allow him, he wondered? How long could they make room in their lives for him in this way? Bohemia was a long way off, and wasn't at all what he, or John or Molly were from, or born to or – or what? It was a hard question he would have to find out about. He knew they would be able to hurt him at some point. But, Sherlock saw, if he, himself needed space and time, or if he couldn't handle the situation at some point, or if it simply were to stop working and he and took himself out of the equation of three, Molly and John would have one another to turn to again. The damage could potentially be fairly minimal. The elegance of the situation unfolded itself to him. At the same time, he could not foresee a moment when he'd want to end such an association. And the notion of hurting either of his friends in any way was abhorrent to him. John and Molly. Molly and John. The idea was all so new, so beautifully complex and interesting. And just weird enough to be quite, quite up his street.

Speaking of which, he found he'd done quite a walk indeed, and was now turning into Baker Street quite near the flat. He entered the street door, bounded up the stairs, and found that, true to his word, John and Molly had had some coffee, the signs of which were all over the kitchen, though it had been cleaned thoroughly, and left the place. Empty and lonely again. He sat in his chair. Unbearable. Boring. Unbearable. Boring. Unbearable. Boring. The remnants of the evening's meal had been gotten rid of almost thoroughly, and there were no obvious indications that the pair had been there, but he saw all of the not-so-obvious ones, and remembered again. He relaxed, stretching his legs, once again letting each image of the evening appear on its own before him, and then dissolve into another. He nodded off, drifting pleasantly in and out of sleep for an hour or so.

He glanced at the clock. Already two o'clock. He pulled out his phone and quickly typed a message to the happy couple.

Dinner, we three? Angelo's. 7 pm tonight?

SH

John quickly responded.

Are you sure? No rush.

- J

Sherlock responded quickly as well.

Perfectly.

SH

Molly next:

How lovely. See you there.

MH.

And John finally.

We'll be there.

- J

Sherlock quickly made a reservation. When he clicked off, the anxiety came in deadly earnest in the form of a very real, very impossible tension throughout his entire body. It felt as though he'd been lifting weights all day. It felt as though he were lifting weights right now. He threw himself on the sofa and tried to calm himself. Then he thought of his kit, hidden under the floor boards. There was a tiny bundle of white powder, as well, he knew. How had it escaped notice? Oh, yes – John had found the other kit after an exhaustive week long search, and was satisfied that he'd cleaned the place properly for good and all and knew all the hiding places. Ha! Even told Mycroft about it, who had appeared quite satisfied as well. Don't these people know with whom they are dealing? He should really get rid of the kit and the drug himself, Sherlock thought, but he'd kept it on principle. No, no, no, not at all what he wanted – not at all what he craved. He knew what that was now. Finally. Contact. Human contact. Molly. John. Wait, John?

The matter of John in the equation of three was an extremely interesting point for Sherlock. What on earth did John get out of this arrangement, he wondered? Besides to assuage a guilt that he proclaimed to have. Sherlock didn't doubt the veracity of his friend's stated need, but wondered what else, what other needs he found he had in relation to Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock had certainly found it interesting that John had completely taken the lead in last night's activities. And that Sherlock himself was content, interested and happy to follow. Very surprising, that had been he items in and of themselves had been sexually stimulating. And was there to be other contact with John besides his voyeurism, he wondered? He found that he was exceedingly interested to find out.

John and Molly met Sherlock at Angelo's as planned and dinner passed pleasantly with no mention of the morning, or previous evening until the coffee came. Sherlock cleared his throat. Man and wife glanced briefly at one another and smiled patiently as Sherlock visibly prepared himself, collected himself. He spoke slowly, with care.

"I wanted to apologize - to both of you for my – ah, behavior - this morning."

"Nothing to apologize for, Sherlock," said Molly and John simultaneously.

Sherlock cleared his throat again.

"Nevertheless – please - forgive me? It was very childish."

"Of course," said John. Molly was silent, but smiled in patient agreement.

"Then, too, I wanted to – thank you - both – for last night. It was – most – ah – diverting." He paused, and then "- and it was also quite – um -"

"Wait, sorry - diverting?" John smiled. "Are you saying that you had fun last night, Sherlock?"

"I believe I just did say that, yes, John," said Sherlock, a little put out at the interruption.

"Well, that's good, that's good." John tried to quell his impulse to laugh out loud.

"Shut it, John," Molly hushed. "You were saying, Sherlock?"

"Yes – um – it was also – I found that it was, I mean that I was -"

Molly and John were silent and still as Sherlock found the words.

"I found that I was quite – ah – moved. Quite moved."

"Ah," said John. "So was I - so was I. And Molly – "

"So was I, Sherlock, dear." said Molly, reaching out for Sherlock's hand.

The table was quiet then. Sherlock breathed a deep sigh, squeezing Molly's hand back. John reached out and took his wife's other hand in his and kissed it, making eye contact with Sherlock.

"So, shall we – ah – walk you to yours, after coffee, Sherlock? That is, since we're not going to be leaving London – at least not tonight. Ahaha." John and Molly exchanged a smile, and Sherlock joined them.

"That would be most agreeable," was his response.

Molly lit the candles on the mantel. John went to the kitchen and poured three glasses of port. The port was passed around and sipped and there was easy, simple conversation about Angelo's, an interesting shouting woman they'd passed in the street and then some minutia of new hospital policy at Bart's that would make all of their jobs slightly less convenient in some small ways. John and Molly arranged themselves on the sofa with their glasses, smiling up at their friend. Sherlock remained standing, regarding them over his drink,dreamily content to look at them for now. Content, happy, ecstatic to just look at them and let John (or was it John and Molly?) lead and set the pace.

Then something remarkable happened. Sherlock blushed. He felt it at his throat at first, and then it flashed up into his face. The heat spread down his chest, he knew, and across his shoulders, but, he thought gratefully, those parts of him weren't visible at the moment. He saw the blush reflected in the expressions of his friends, as they smiled and held his gaze. He put a hand to his face.

"No, please don't – " said Molly. "Oh, how lovely you are."

Sherlock made an effort and was able to bring his hand away from his face, and straighten his head, smiling marginally as he did so, but kept his eyes lowered.

"If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes – " John began, but mercifully ended the cliché there. They were all still for a few more moments, and then John addressed his friend.

"Want to sit down? Why not, um, sit across, yes directly across from us, can you pull up a chair?" Sherlock looked around. If he'd known he would be moving furniture this evening perhaps he should have worn other clothes. No, no, that's no way to treat the guests, he thought – find the chair. What chair? Which one is right? What does he want, what does he mean? He looked to John.

"Get a comfy chair, Sherlock, your one, or mine, hmm? Need help?" John made a movement as if to rise.

"No, no. I've got it." His hand gesture stopped John's getting up, and Sherlock managed to shift the chair into position.

When he looked up from his efforts, John and Molly were engaged in a relaxed but ardent embrace.

"It's all right, sit down, relax," John directed quietly with a relaxed hand gesture, almost rhetorically, and Sherlock followed, sitting across from the sofa in the his chair. He watched as the couple kissed, and held one another, how John stroked Molly's cheek, and then her breast, how he breathed in her scent at the neck. Then John pulled away from Molly and looked into her eyes, smiling and murmured a question. She smiled and nodded her head. John collected her port glass from her, and set his own and hers on a side table. Molly crawled into John's lap with her back against him, facing Sherlock, her legs straddling John's, her arms relaxed at her sides. Sherlock's breath staggered for a moment, but he maintained his bearing, he thought. His port was still in his hand, half empty. He drank the rest in one go, and managed to put the empty glass on a side table as well.

John continued to nuzzle Molly's neck and then his hands rode up to her breasts, and he cupped and pressed into them, while Molly held Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock could see that her impulse was to close her eyes into the pleasure of John's touch, but she struggled to maintain eye contact with Sherlock.

John began to unbutton Molly's blouse, leaving the garment in place the way he did the night before. A familiar moment in largely unfamiliar territory, Sherlock noted gratefully. John unclasped Molly's bra from behind, and looked at his friend.

"Sherlock? Maybe your chair could be a little closer, hmm?" Sherlock hauled the chair a few inches closer to the seated couple.

"Remember this?" asked John. Sherlock noticed that John continued to keep command and directness out of his voice. Sherlock reached to Molly's shoulders and gently pushed the garment down her back, and off her arms. He slowly did the same with her bra.

"Thank you," John smiled at Sherlock and immediately took Molly's breasts in his hands, pressing his face into her naked skin, now quietly humming his appreciation. Then he slid his hands to Molly's sides, and looked at Sherlock, cocking an eyebrow with some humour. Sherlock leaned forward. He gripped Molly's knees as they straddled John, and kissed her mouth. Lightly at first, and then more deeply as she hungrily accepted him, her hands in his hair, massaging and gently pulling. Molly, Molly, he thought, you've both made me feel sooooo - let me do that for you, I'll do that for you now, please, please let me -

Sherlock tried to quell his ridiculous thoughts as his hands slid up under Molly's skirt to her hips, feeling her silky pants there. He hooked his thumbs into them, pulling, encouraging her to lift her hips up, which she did. He slipped the lacy undergarment slowly down her legs, and pulled each foot out slowly, removing each of her shoes at the same time. He looked up. Molly's face was flushed and her breathing was rapid and increased with a hitch as Sherlock slid his hands up her legs, pushing her skirt slowly up over her knees, up to her thighs. It was light and loose, a flowing, cottony thing that offered little resistance. John was kneading Molly's breasts in his hands again, kissing and nuzzling her neck, holding her steadily against him. Sherlock continued slowly but inexorably pushing her skirt up and up until her sex was completely exposed, and the skirt was tucked up over her hips.

Sherlock took in the sight of her, of both of them. Molly's eyes were glazed over and half lidded, and John's hands continued to grip, and hungrily tease her breasts, her nipples. He looked up and Sherlock and gave him a small smile of approval and returned his attentions to Molly's breasts and neck and hair. Molly's hips and thighs visibly quivered in anticipation, and her sex, completely exposed, was visibly wet. Her legs were spread wide, straddling John's, and her sex was beginning to open, exposing her pinker folds which stood in contrast to her darker outer flesh and curls. Sherlock lowered his mouth to her mound, and simply breathed in her scent. Then slowly he began lightly kissing her, spreading her legs wider, pushing her knees apart slowly with his hands.

"Please, please – " Molly moaned straining to press against his mouth. John chuckled softly, humming his pleasure as she writhed against him.

Sherlock knelt between her legs, both John's and Molly's legs, he thought, and ran his mouth inside her thigh raking his teeth experimentally along the inner softer skin and she made a loud moan. He finally pressed his mouth to her open sex, slowly pressing his tongue as deeply inside her as he could, and she started to move against him immediately struggling to press against his mouth, moaning and keening in earnest.

The last time Sherlock had ventured into this particular realm had been more than ten years prior when he was a couple years out of university. He couldn't remember her name. It had been a disaster, as he had no idea what she'd wanted, or how to proceed. There had been no communication about anything. She'd simply pushed his head away from her legs, laughing, and started to dress. She'd left quickly leaving Sherlock to his humiliation.

Sherlock chuckled into Molly at the thought of it now, as he slowly pressed two fingers into her, and heard her gasp, and cry out his name, and then John's. What he lacked in actual experience, he found he could often make up in good solid research and old fashioned confidence. He began to slowly increase the pressure of his tongue against that tiny particular spot, while he paced his fingers' thrusting more and more quickly. He was rewarded with all kinds of new sounds and movement from Molly, mostly, he thought, directing him to continue to do exactly what he was doing. When she finally came, she arched her back up off of John, who was able to balance her carefully and keep her from falling off the sofa. John continued to hold and stroke her, as she lay back against him, the last spasms of her pleasure washing over her.

Sherlock rose and leaned in between John's and Molly's knees and kissed Molly deeply. He placed his hands on top of John's, managing to press and tease her nipples a little at the same time that John did. Then Sherlock leaned in with his mouth, and sucked one of her breasts through John's fingers. John didn't remove his hand, but after the two men made eye contact, John looked away somewhat diffidently.

What did that mean? Sherlock thought. Here John has brought all this together, brought us to this very particular moment, but he's shy with me? Sherlock tried to make eye contact again with John as Sherlock held his hands over Molly's breasts and John's hands, but only Molly looked up into his face, smiling languidly, openly, while John nuzzled Molly's neck. Or is he averting his gaze from mine? Sherlock was completely hooked now. Oh, we're going to find out all about this, he thought. But there's plenty of time. No need to make anyone uncomfortable. Not tonight.

Sherlock stroked Molly's cheek and as she came slowly back to herself she looked up at Sherlock and held his gaze for a moment.

"That was beyond lovely," she said with a smile, and Sherlock was grateful that she didn't say 'thank you.'

Now John looked up into Sherlock's face with his usual open expression. He's quite returned to himself, Sherlock thought. John stroked Molly's sides lightly, still giving her light kisses and nuzzling her neck. John smiled at Sherlock and said

"Take off your clothes?" John's inflection was upward making a command into a question that wasn't a question. Molly vocalized her approval.

"Mmmm, yes, please do. But don't make a show."

"Oh, ahaha, no, it's not a show, Sherlock. Just relax and – you know."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock's voice was a little hoarse as he moved to comply. He felt the heat at his throat again and it seemed to be following the same spreading pattern it had earlier in the evening, but neither his friend nor his wife commented on it, though Sherlock felt their eyes locked on him as he removed his shirt. It must be visible, even in this candle light, he thought. He put the thought aside as he toed off his shoes, and shucked off his trousers, pants and socks almost in one go. He stood, then, naked, his erection completely hard and bobbing.

"Have a seat, hmmm, relax, ok?" said John. "Oh, hmm, that leather chair must be cold. Molly?" John released his grip on her and Molly slowly slid to the floor on her knees and leaned forward with a facial expression that was nothing short of obscene. She half fell, half leaned in between Sherlock's legs and put her arms around his waist, sliding her mouth down the length of him slowly but surely, as far as she was able. She started to suck him, and work her tongue up and down his shaft, and then swirling over the helmet of him probing his opening with her tongue. He laced his fingers into her hair as gently as he could, as he tried to control the tension mounting in his entire body. How was it that there didn't seem to be a single muscle in his body that wasn't straining for control or release? He couldn't help but move against her almost immediately, but he controlled himself from bucking against her too hard.

John was standing over them now his face relaxed but now somewhat serious. He was taking off his trousers and shoes, now his shirt, putting the clothing to the side of the sofa. He knelt behind Molly, reverently stroking her hips, reaching his palms up her back, and looking at Sherlock the whole time. He used his knees to wedge Molly's legs farther apart, and then again a little farther apart, all the while rubbing her hips and back. When he was satisfied that she was spread wide enough, He took his length in his hand and pressed into her. He was slow and careful, but didn't stop, and his pressure and penetration made Molly moan, humming onto Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock moaned in response to this development, and then John was moving, and moaning and the room filled with the sound of their trio. John set a slow pace at first which could never last, but he quickly began to increase speed, losing control little by little. As he strained for control, but failed, John continued to stroke Molly's hips, grasping at them, and rubbing his palms up and down her back as she labored between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock's hands alternately gripped Molly's hair and ran along her shoulder blades as he felt his climax rising. The two men's hands met suddenly on Molly's back and they locked and held one another's gaze, as they strained harder and harder, faster and faster into Molly. They came together, John shouting Molly's name, squeezing his eyes shut, and straining hard against her, pulling her hips against him almost a little too forcefully. When Sherlock saw John go, it triggered him over the edge as well, but instead of Molly's name he let out a deep guttural,

"John."

Sherlock collapsed back into the chair, still stroking Molly's head as she slowly released his length from her mouth, swallowing. John recovered in a moment, and leaned back onto the sofa, bringing Molly with him. He found her sex and rubbing, and probing her there, finally brought her off to the climax she hadn't completed when he'd finished. There was nothing but quiet heavy breathing in the room for some few minutes. Molly broke the silence.

"I thought this was just going to be something simple and sweet, tonight, John? How did this get so complex and utterly exhausting, will you look at the time? It's nearly one." Molly admonished as she picked up her clothes.

"Sherlock upped the ante when he went for your pants. I thought he'd go for your breasts when I took off your shirt, but he just slipped right past me, darling. I'm sure you'll forgive us, hmm, Molly?" John smiled, getting up from the sofa.

"It was absolutely beautiful, I have no complaints at all, except that I thought we would be asleep by 10 or 11 tonight, and I have to be up at – "

"Shhhhh, has Sherlock passed out?"

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock got up from the chair.

"My room, yes? Come to my bed." Sherlock kissed Molly on the head, "Sorry if we wore you out," he said in her ear, leading her, and then called to his friend,

"John?"

"Coming. Oh, right. Does this mean you're in love with me, Sherlock? Hmmm? You called my name when you came, you know. Are you trying to tell me something?"

Sherlock turned, smiling and got in John's personal space, suddenly grasping the back of his neck.

"Maybe I am, John." Sherlock looked deeply into his friend's eyes.

"Ahaha," was all John could say as Sherlock leaned in as though he were going to kiss him, and watched his friend duck away.

"Hmm. That's what I thought." Sherlock smiled. "We'll have to see about that. I don't know if that will do at all. Do you? Do you, John?"

John smiled but made no answer.

(Please read and review if you have time - Or just say 'hi,' in the review section - That works! Next update on Sunday 01.27.13)