Sherlock lay on the bed, above the covers, lost in his mind palace. He knew he needed to draw out Moran. Wheeler, his second, was already in custody. He wasn't talking but having tried to assassinate the sister-in-law of the British government Sherlock knew it wouldn't be long. The question was how does one call out one of the most dangerous criminal minds that, since Moriarty's death, had nothing to lose?
Two short months ago, Sherlock Holmes left 221B Baker Street to spend Christmas with his family. Christmas night he killed Magnussen with one clean shot to the head. There were witnesses that no court could impeach. In an instant, one split second decision would completely destroy all that he had worked for, all he had done for years. Mycroft had done what he could. Mycroft kept him out of prison and, with the help of some clever software hackers, the Moriarty threat was revived. There still had to be some fallout from the murder he had committed, though, didn't there? He was worried about the new consequences that could crop up.
Sherlock Holmes had killed Magnussen with one shot. The bullet tore through his skull, just to the center of his left orbital. The projectile then exited, ripping through his brainstem, killing the blackmailer instantly. Magnussen's blood and brain matter spattered across the marble-tiled deck of Appledore.
It seemed wrong, somehow, that after he had committed such a horrific act something so good would come of it. Just a relative short time ago, Sherlock Holmes had committed murder, this morning; he was watching his wife, his Molly, sleep. They had been friends for a long time, a few years anyway. Sherlock knew she always wanted more. Now he was happy to give it.
When they were younger, Mycroft had gotten to him with his diatribe against sentiment and caring. Sherlock thought for a long time that his older brother was right, that caring wasn't an advantage. Facing his death he realized how wrong that was. He still struggled daily with trying to not be, as Molly put it, snarky or behaving like she was an idiot. Granted, a great many people were, but Molly certainly wasn't. Any changes in his attitude and general demeanor were on Molly. The pieces clicked into place and he finally realized his true fear.
Once she awoke, he gently caressed her cheek. "Molly, I'm frightened."
"Of what?" She replied.
"Losing you."
Her eyes seemed to fill with unshed tears, "Oh, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere."
"You don't know that. There are a lot of people who would see me dead. People who have the means, people who have the desire and drive to do so. There are many ways to kill a man, Molly. Moran came close, but Wheeler made a few mistakes. I don't know what I would have done if you had…" He couldn't finish that sentence. The idea of Molly's death was just that frightening to him. He didn't know when he started feeling this way. It was probably long before he admitted it. It scared him, but he would be damned if he suppressed his feelings for Molly ever again.
Molly silenced her husband with a kiss witch rapidly became heated. He pulled away, worrying about hurting her. He wanted her more than it was rational but not to the point of hurting her. Molly cradled his cheek almost instantly knowing what was wrong.
"Love, I'm OK. I'm going back to work tomorrow."
"Part time, light duty." He countered. Mostly paperwork, no post mortems for a while. Too bad, he wanted a brain to experiment on.
"True but I hardly think that making love will do me any harm if we take it slowly. It's been so long, Sherlock and I have been cleared, you know."
"I do miss you." He said, his voice getting husky in the tone saved only for her.
They made love slowly and gently without rush. It had been over six weeks since they last had. They needed the intimacy, they needed the affirmation of life that only this brought. He now understood why love was such a vicious motivator. This was an addiction. A flashed image appeared in his mind palace; Molly with a swollen belly then of a young child with a perfect blend of both their features. He buried his vision as he peaked, salting it away for analysis later.
His wife followed, sighing softly as she came down. They whispered I love you's and shared gentle caresses. All the while, Sherlock begged forgiveness for his thoughtlessness in hurting her the night before.
"I forgive you, Sherlock," was all she needed to say.
The pair drifted into an easy sleep until awakened a short time later by Mrs. Hudson bringing up a tea tray. She saw the closed bedroom door, left the tray and retreated back downstairs with a knowing smile.
They enjoyed a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea and then showered together. Sherlock mapping the new scars on Molly's body.