Neither remembered the journey back to Baker Street. And it was not even that important anymore. Molly felt faint from anticipation and Sherlock kept his hands on her and he had not even started analysing the recent turn of events; neither did he care to.
As soon as the door was opened and as soon as they made up the stairs and into his flat, all patience faded away.
She reaches up to kiss him. He grabs her by her waist and hoists her up. She pushes the jacket off his shoulders. She manages to trip on her dress and dragging him along, falls on the carpeted floor. Except, she hardly registers the fall.
But she could feel.
Feel his lips on hers, giving her everything she had craved, hard and bruising and demanding. Feel his body above hers, feel his arm beneath her check their fall then snake up so his fingers could twist in her hair and crank her head up.
Her already racing heart leaps so hard she thought for sure he could feel it. She could feel his heart though. Racing as fast as hers. Desire tingles her blood more. His free hand finds the zipper on her back and yanks it down. She helps him pull down her sleeve. As soon as the red fabric is out of his way, he finds her nipples; she cries out in the semi-darkness (no one turned on the lights), into him.
He rubs the nipple between his fingers and thinks he likes the sound she just made. The last sexual experience was a foggy memory but it did not matter anyway. He actually wants this, wants her; and this surprises him a bit.
Her right leg is free; she wraps it around his waist, pulls him closer to her. Her back scrapes against the rough carpet and she does not care about the carpet burns she is bound to get. All she cares about, all she wants, is to feel his bare skin against hers; all she cares about is that he would not stop and leave her there on the ground.
Her fingers shake as she fumbles with his shirt buttons, moving as quickly as she can despite the distraction of his mouth on hers again. His tongue dances against hers, his fingers curls around the back of her neck. She gives up on the buttons, reaches under the shirt instead, finding warm, smooth skin and hard, lean muscles. His heart pounds beneath her palms, she slides them across his chest and feels light brushing of chest hair he had.
"Molly," he says, a gasp into her mouth as his lips devour hers. Cool air hits her stomach, her chest; he has bunched up her dress up out of the way. She yanks it over head as his teeth scrapes the skin of her throat, over her collarbones, down farther until he caught her nipple in his mouth and pulls it hard. Heat explodes through her body; his hot, wet tongue teasing her, his teeth almost, but not quite, digging into her skin.
Her voice echoes around the room. She has no idea what she is actually saying. She believes she is just repeating "please" over and over again. Her right hand is tangled in his hair and her back has arched up off the floor and her left hand clutches at his shoulders so hard it hurts.
"Please, please, Sherlock, please…" She can not stop; she drags his head up, his mouth back to hers. Yanks his shirt up so she can feel his skin against her, so she can run her hands over it, then slide them farther down, over his ass, lifts her hips and pulls him even more closer so his erection grinds against her. His belt buckle gives with a sharp tug, his buttons with another; he gasps against her lips when she pushes her hand into his open fly, grips the heavy solid length of his cock through his boxers. It jerks against her palm and her insides go liquid.
"Shit, Molly…oh damn…" He kisses her harder, his hips moving against her hand, until her ears were ringing and everything in the room disappears. She does not even know where they are anymore. All she knows is that he is here, and for that moment he is hers, and she had waited too long, wanted him for too long, and she could not wait another minute. All that mattered are his beautiful hands over her body, caressing her thigh, her stomach, her breasts, her face, like he is trying to touch her everywhere at once.
Her panties disappears with an audible protest she pays not the slightest attention to, especially not when they are almost immediately replaced by something better. His hand find her smooth bare skin, hesitated; then pressed forward, exploring her, and she has a second to be almost embarrassed by how wet she is, by how badly she wants him and how he knew it, until she pulls his boxers out of the way and found she is not the only one.
He is hard and hot, swollen and slick with his own desire; she closes her fingers around the thick shaft and twists gently, played the heel of her hand over the blunt head. He gasps her name again as his hips presses forward and their kiss, their long, shared kiss, became something even more; like she is breathing him in. She wants to look down, to see him, but she can not pull away from that kiss. Can not bear to end it.
She fumbles with the waist band of his trousers, trying to push it down but unable to ignore his two fingers working inside her and the way her inner muscles are clamped down on them, astonished and pleased that he had found exactly the right spot with his thumb and is stroking it in exactly the right way.
"Shit, yes…please don't stop, Sherlock, please don't stop-"
"I am not stopping," he growls. And thankfully he did not. She needs air because all her blood has left her head and is congregating farther south and she clutched at him and her eyes squeezes shut and she explodes.
He does not let her a chance to come down before he takes out his fingers and he thrusts into her, all of him at once stretching inside her and sending her over the edge. Still he did not stop. His hips pounds against her giving her what she had begged for, what she still wants.
As he shudders, shaking even harder than before, as his muscles tightened under her hands, she holds him closer and feels her blood burning, her eyes burning as well. She knows this sensation. She fists her hands so she would not hurt him. She pulls him deeper into her, onto her, relishing his weight above her for one last second before his fingers convulses, his entire body convulses; she feels him throb inside her. Her eyes shoot open on their own and rolls back in her head and she hears her name on his lips as one long, low moan before he falls still.
He raises his head and locks his gaze with hers. He takes a shaky breath when he notices the golden yellow hue in her eyes. Then right before his eyes, they change colour back to her original warm brown. He swipes a strand of her hair over her face and says, "Your eyes."
"My nails too," she says as she opens her fists. Her nails are going back to normal and she also notices the wounds she had created when she had curled her fingers, slowly start to heal. He grabs one of her hands and kisses her palms.
He murmurs, "That's okay."
She smiles at him and says, "Do we plan to go to the bedroom? This carpet is not that comfy." She almost fears he will say no or worse, tell her this is an one time thing and now send her on her way. But instead he kisses her nose and says, "Werewolves don't tire that easy. I need to note that down."
She half laughs and half cries when he gets up and drags her along with him to the bedroom.

As Molly was busy getting carpet burns, halfway across town, Augustus Lowndes was drinking scotch and scratching his chin. He had doubts before but after tonight, after he had taken a long whiff of the scent he had been familiar to once, he had made a decision. He was going to make a move. It was a personal and a political move. He was going to have so much fun.

Molly turns on her back. She slowly blinks her eyes open. She could actually pinpoint the places she is especially feeling sore. As last night's memory drifts around her, she smiles and blushes. They had somehow made to his bed and his mouth had taken possession of hers again and she had gladly given in. She untangles herself from the sheets and swirls her head around for clothes when she notices the robe that he had laid out for her. A superbly idiotic grin breaks on her face as she drapes the robe around her. He had actually done that for her.
She strolls onto the kitchen and halts in her step to appreciate the view in front of her. Sherlock is making tea and the sunshine pouring from the windows fell on him, framing him in a halo-like way. It makes her a little breathless. But that sweet ogling moment is over when she spots her destroyed panties near the fireplace. She bites her lips and stares at it with complete horror and sadness. That was her favourite buy from Victoria's Secrets!
He feels her presence. He turns around to look at her and sees her mournful expression. He follows her gaze and barks in laughter. She tears her gaze from her underwear and frowns at him. He stops and says, "I can replace that if you want to."
As the thought of him walking along aisles of lingerie display formed in her mind, she starts to blush and desperately tries not to giggle like a schoolgirl.
She finally manages to say, "Well you do go very fast. People, when they like each other, go on dates first, not go on an underwear shopping spree first."
He puts down a cup in front of her and says, a tiny frown forming on his face, "Oh."
She realises she had said something wrong, so she walks up to him and wraps her hands around his waist. She places her face in the crook of his neck and says, "But you're a bit different. And different is good. And I lo-like different."
She feels his arms around her. He says, "Well then Molly Hooper, will you go out for dinner with me tonight?"
She laughs a little and looks up at him, "So we are doing this backwards?" He nods with a smile. "Okay Sherlock Holmes I would gladly go out for dinner with you."
He twists his hand in her hair and places his lips against hers. She feels giddy all over. As she is about to tease him with her tongue, his phone goes off. She pulls away, but he tries to kiss her again. She arches away and says, "Sherlock, that could be important."
He frowns, sees her point and unwraps himself from her embrace. He picks up his phone. He sees Stiles name flashing on the screen. "Stiles," he all but growls.
"This is Derek."
Frown deepens, " What do you want?"
"Since you disappeared before I could find you, I could not inform you that Vlad, person from the Jablonski pack, has agreed to talk with us. I called him a few minutes ago and he has agreed to meet us at your place in an hour."
Sherlock checks the time. He says, "Okay then." He switches off the phone.
Molly had, as usual, heard the entire conversation. Now panic swelled in her. Her underwear was destroyed and she can not wear her dress and be nonchalant about it. Plus she did not know if Sherlock wanted to let everyone know of this new development. As if hearing her thoughts, he says, "I don't care what they think, you can stay."
Relief crashes over as she walks up and pulling his head down, kisses him soundly.

So Molly puts on a t-shirt and pyajamas borrowed from Sherlock after another round against the kitchen counter. She is drowning in the clothes, but still, it feels great to wear his scent on her skin. The idiotic grin is back on her face.
The bell rings and Derek enters. He takes one look at them both and a crooked smile crawls up his face. Well, he had guessed right then yesterday. Sherlock gives a smug expression and goes back in his bedroom to change into his usual outfit of shirt and trousers.
Molly admires her toe nail colour and Derek clears his throat. She looks up and fights the grin threatening to break on her face. Suddenly she remembers something. She wrings her hands and says softly, knowing that Derek will hear her well but Sherlock won't, "Umm, Derek, is it normal to, umm, well, almost turn, if umm…you, err, you know if you're…overwhelmed?"
Derek gets her poorly hidden meaning loud and clear. He stifles a laugh and says, "It is not uncommon. Both activities are driven by hormones."
She blushes some more and murmurs her thank you. The bell rings again as Sherlock emerges from his bedroom, all dressed and ready. Heavy footsteps climb up the stairs as everyone takes their positions—Sherlock in his chair, Molly on said chair's armrest and Derek leans on the table.
The door swings open and in enters Vlad. Sherlock stands up and waves his hand on the chair opposite. Vlad takes a seat. He says, "Looked you up. They say you good? Are you any good?"
"I like to think I am the best," Sherlock replies. Molly rolls her eyes and Derek mentally groans.
"Good, good. I can trust you then, huh?"
"Yes." Vlad looks at the other two. "I can vouch for them too."
Molly and Derek nod their heads in agreement.
Vlad takes a deep sigh and begins, " I know what you are thinking. Why I would go against my current leader. Well the reason is simple. I don't trust Augustus. Not one bit. Did not trust him way back when Igor bought him to the pack when he was a boy of sixteen and I don't trust him now-"
"Why?" Sherlock asks.
"W-why?"
"Yes why. Why don't you trust him?"
Vlad scowls and tries to search for an answer. He licks his lips and says, "He don't feel right. Like there's something inherently wrong with him. You could say it's a werewolf thing."
"He's right," Derek speaks up, "When he shook my hands yesterday, my skin crawled."
"Mine too," Molly says softly.
Sherlock looks at them both. He leans back and steeples his fingers. He mutters, "Yes. Augustus Lowndes is a rotten one. I did not need be a werewolf to feel that either."
Vlad nods, "But that's not all. I learnt something new as well after Igor died."
"What?" Sherlock asks.
"Augustus Lowndes is Igor Jablonski's own flesh and blood. Gus is his son."