A/N: For the May 18th prompt - "Write about a place you know, but not well." Sequel to Looking. Let's call this fic a hard T.

Sherlock had the case solved before Molly was finished with the autopsy. "Poison," he declared after looking at the man's fingernails. "Arsenic, small doses over a long term. Obviously the wife, slipping it into his port every night. Her motive being, of course, money."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Money isn't the only reason why a woman would want to kill a man," she muttered.

He heard her, of course. "True," he acknowledged, smirking at her, "but I think it is safe to assume that if Lady Barrett was annoyed with her husband to the point of killing him, she wouldn't have used such a slow method."

"Well, whatever the reason," Lestrade said, "I'm just glad this is wrapped up quickly – I can hear my bed calling me."

"As can I, Inspector," Sherlock said, giving Molly a knowing look.

Molly just rolled her eyes. As soon as everything was settled and Lord Barrett's body was on the way to the undertaker, Lestrade left and Molly found herself once again alone with Holmes.

I suppose I should consider him my fiancé now. What on Earth do I say to him?

"So," he murmured, "shall we?"

"I'll go home and change first. I'll meet you at Baker Street."

"Very well." He leaned to murmur in her ear, "If you lose your nerve, Molly, I will be very, very disappointed."

She raised an eyebrow. "You or your cock?" she murmured back.

Spots of color appeared on his cheeks and he murmured, "Both of us." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek then he left the morgue.

Molly spent the entire time she was changing thinking about Sherlock. Why am I so attracted to him? He's pushy, arrogant, childish, reckless, insatiable … brilliant, curious, passionate, dedicated, and incredibly handsome. She groaned quietly. Perhaps I can send him a telegram stating that I can't make it.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The simple blue dress accentuated her curves and complimented her coloring. With her hair up prettily instead of braided and pinned to her head the way she wore it under her wig, Molly thought she looked quite nice. Not that my hair will be up long. I'm sure he'll have me undressed the moment I walk into the flat.

She had only been to his Baker Street flat once before, when Sherlock had invited her and Lestrade over for drinks. At the time, she thought he was lonely with John and Mary away on holiday in Scotland. But now, things looked very different. What if he actually only wanted to see me but invited Lestrade as our chaperone? She thought about that visit as she put on her coat and hat and left her building.

A short walk later, she was at the front door of Sherlock's building. Just as she was going to knock, the door was opened by the consulting detective, who was giving her a look so intense she had to look away. He brought his fingers to her chin, raising her head until her eyes met his. Sherlock smiled at her, his eyes hungrier than she ever remembered them being, then he ushered her inside.

Taking her hand, he led her upstairs to his sitting room. Molly took off her coat and hat and hung them up behind the door. Sherlock took the opportunity to wrap his arms around her waist from behind. Molly jumped slightly then relaxed as he lowered his head to kiss her neck.

"You look beautiful," he murmured.

"You're just grateful that I came," she murmured. "I could have come here in a potato sack and you would have said the same thing."

Sherlock gently turned her to face him. "You think lust has blinded me? I can see the effort you've made, Molly, and I appreciate it."

Suddenly overcome with an emotion she couldn't name, Molly nodded, not trusting her voice, and took in his attire. He wore his royal blue dressing gown over a white dress shirt and black trousers. His hair was, as always, severely slicked back and Molly desperately wanted to muss it.

"Why do you always do your hair like that?" she asked softly.

"It's more distinguished this way." He held her flush against him, his arousal pressing into her stomach. "Molly," he murmured, his voice low, "unless you have a genuine need for tea and small talk, I would very much like to move this conversation to the bedroom."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "I'm giving you my virginity, Sherlock. Don't you think I should at least get some tea and biscuits first?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson is asleep."

She chuckled. "You poor, helpless male." She walked into the kitchen, a room she hadn't been in yet. Sherlock followed her, most likely out of curiosity.

Molly put the kettle on then found some chipped but clean teacups. She turned to him. "I suppose biscuits are too much to hope for?"

Sherlock thought a moment. "Wait here." He left the room.

As if I would do anything else, Molly thought. Of course, if I had any sense at all, I never would've come.

Sherlock reappeared just as the kettle started to boil, a plate of biscuits in one hand.

"I suppose this means I will have to replace Mrs. Hudson's biscuits later," she said as she accepted the plate then steeped the tea.

"Unnecessary, my dear – simply moving in will be enough for her. She longs to have another woman around now that John and Mary are across town."

"So, you are serious about marrying me?"

"Yes, of course, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock asked, confused. "Tonight is only more evidence of something I have known since that night in the abandoned church – you and I are immensely compatible."

"I want more than just compatibility, Sherlock. I want to be on fire for someone, and have him be on fire for me."

"And you think I'm not?"

"In your loins, perhaps, but not your heart."