Sustain
or
Concerto for the Famished in D Minor

Part Three

Sherlock didn't know what was going to happen next with Molly. He'd had two busy weeks since Mycroft's attempt to interfere in his life yet again, filled with one really interesting case, one boring one that paid very well (which was still a dull notion, but was now also a consideration), and two full, mind-numbing days of sitting about at court, waiting to give testimony. Now, he sat in his flat, waiting for either a case beyond the run-of-the-mill bore-you-out-of-your-skull variety, or a change in the Molly situation. Either would suffice.

She wasn't angry, but neither was she entirely pleased with him. He'd been into the mortuary to see her twice, and both times she'd been friendly, but not overly warm. He had determined shortly after the Mycroft incident that he had to convince her that, while there was something not quite right about him, there wasn't anything particularly wrong, either. To that end, he'd set his phone to remind him to send her a fascinating fact via text at a different time every second day. She had responded to these in ways that seemed appropriate ("that's interesting" or "why did anyone fund this research?" or, in one memorable case, "that's really disgusting, Sherlock. I want to put my brain in the autoclave"). But she answered. That was good.

That last thing he expected that Saturday afternoon in July was to see Molly marching up his street with that determined little walk of hers.

"Come up," he called out the window, and tossed her the key.

As soon as she stood before him, she inhaled in that way that indicated she was marshalling her forces for - something. Was this it? Was this the day she told him to piss off? How was he going to overcome that? He could convince her to continue on; it was simply a matter of finding the right -

Instead, she opened her ridiculously oversized handbag and took out a package, obviously a book, wrapped in brown paper.

"Before you say it, yes, I know you're not my boyfriend," she said. "This is for you."

"Oh. Why?" he asked.

"I saw it in a shop and I thought you'd like it. You don't already own it, do you?" She looked slightly worried. "Anyway, I bought it for you."

He opened it. Oh, that was interesting. The text was Dutch, published by some firm he'd never heard of, which was rare in itself. It was mostly photographs: skulls juxtaposed with the faces of their previous owners, both in life and shortly after death. What a brilliant idea.

"Fascinating," he said. How had he never seen, never even heard of this book? "There is always something lacking in the artist's reconstructions."

Molly nodded. "Always, yes, it's always a bit off."

"That was very kind of you, Molly," he flipped through the first few pages rapidly, entranced. "Thank you."

She peered at him. "Are you trying really hard right now?" she asked.

He gave her a confused frown. "What do you mean?"

"You're being polite. You're saying thank you. You said it takes effort."

"I said it 'often' takes effort," he corrected her.

"And now?"

"And now, you've given me a fascinating book, and it's not my birthday or Christmas. It's not taking any effort at all." And truly, it wasn't.

"I don't even know when your birthday is," she said. "So, you like it?"

"It's the sixth of January, and, yes, I like it very much."

Mrs. Hudson gave him biscuits and fudge at Christmas, sometimes a scarf or gloves. John and he exchanged gifts, each priding themselves on finding the strangest thing possible. Mummy, of course. Mycroft and his brood, but that was out of obligation and he usually let Mummy pick the actual items while he signed the cards. Lestrade gave him cases, but he supposed that wasn't the same thing, at least to Lestrade's way of thinking.

But it was July. Not present weather at all.

"Again, thank you," he said, feeling slightly worried that he was missing something, but he distracted himself by turning another page.

Molly leaned close and pointed to one of the photos. "See this one? Notice how deep the cleft in the chin is?"

"I wouldn't have presumed that from the skull at all," he said, moving over so that she could sit beside him on the sofa. "The reconstruction probably would have emphasized it, too, and yet it would have had little bearing on the shape of the face."

"Now I'll hold your place, and turn to page 74. See the similarities in the faces?"

"But the skulls are quite dissimilar," he said, pondering the points of divergence.

"See why I wanted to show it to you?" she said.

"Yes, thank you," he said, more earnestly this time.

Molly put one arm round his neck and kissed him soundly on the cheek. "You're welcome," she said.

"Does this mean you've finished being angry with me?" he asked.

"I wasn't angry," she said. "A bit worried. And a bit flummoxed. Your brother is a bit terrifying."

"My brother is an idiot."

"At any rate," she said, "I'm over it."

He didn't believe her, but he wasn't sure if he ought to say so. He was torn between being very comfortable and very uncomfortable. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. It was better when things were one way or another, 'right' or 'wrong,' 'good' or 'bad,' 'up' or down, 'yes' or 'no'. 'Maybe' was horrible.

"Good."

She wrapped her other arm round his shoulder and squeezed him.

Ah. She came here on her own initiative. She'd brought him a gift. She was being very tactile. She was flushed and her pupils were slightly dilated.

Now he understood. Sex. She wanted sex. This was his opportunity, then, to make her like him the way she used to. He could do that.

"Do you remember," he began, his voice hushed, "a few weeks ago, when I was ill?"

"Of course," she said, her brow furrowed.

He gently, gently, cupped the back of her head in his hands. She was already quite close, so it required little effort to turn her face to his, press his mouth to hers, suck her lower lip between his teeth. Her body pressed to his was an understandable equation.

He broke the kiss, leaving her breathing hard. "Care to watch some euphemistic telly?" he asked the side of her neck.

She was panting when she answered him. "Not, um, not if, if it's going to be the way it was before."

"What do you mean?" he asked, straightening. What had he done wrong? He flicked his eyes over her. No, she was definitely in a state of sexual arousal. That much was unmistakable.

"It starts out well, Sherlock, very well," she said. "Then you sort of - turn off. One minute you can't get enough, the next minute you can't get away fast enough. It's - not good," she said, looking a bit apologetic, and a bit dazed.

"Ah." He replied. "That." He hadn't been aware he'd done that, honestly. He supposed there had been a few panicked moments, moments where he had disengaged from the intensity of the situation, rather than be overwhelmed by it. That was how he coped, always had. So that had bothered her? Of course it bothered her. Stupid, stupid.

She swallowed thickly. "Yes. That. If it's um, part of your, um -"

"It's not," he hurried to assure her. "And I can do better."

"It isn't?" she looked skeptical. "You're sure?"

Sherlock frowned. Of course it was. How much more self-evident could it be? "Does it matter," he asked carefully, "so long as the behaviour stops?"

"Can you do that?" she wondered. "I don't want to ask you to do anything you're not comfortable with."

That - that was insulting. His first urge was to snap at her, tell her how stupid she was, and order her to leave, but he held his tongue. He found being treated as though he were handicapped extremely offensive. In his experience, he could learn to do anything, provided he had sufficient incentive and practice and an understanding of what was required. Anyone with half a brain could, and he had a great deal more than that with which to work.

Molly's pulse rate was still quite rapid, as was his. She would be easily provoked in this state. But an argument would serve no purpose. He was trying to convince her to like him again, convince her he didn't deserve to be cut out of her life. Perhaps it was not the ideal moment to say exactly what was on his mind.

"'Course I can," he replied, nuzzling the corner of her jaw. "Watch me."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly would swear until she was blue in the face this was not what she had intended when she went into that book shop. She'd been in search of baby books, and perhaps one or two on autism spectrum disorders. But the photos of skulls had jumped out at her and practically screamed Sherlock's name. He'd been randomly texting her weird facts for the past three weeks - no editorializing, just the facts themselves - and it had occurred to her at some point that he was trying to make contact without being pushy, trying to let her know he was still around, without intruding. It was very unlike his normal, brash behaviour.

He was trying, and trying hard, to do what he thought was normal. Yes, his idea of normal involved sending her texts about the putrefaction rates of bodies submerged in oils of various viscosity, but still, he was trying.

The book was gorgeous, and ridiculously expensive, but she'd been squirreling money away for ages, and she'd thought, "Why shouldn't I? Why can't I give him something simply because I know he'd like it? We are, if nothing else, friends." Although, as soon as she stepped out of the shop with her bag of books on her arm, she'd begun second-guessing herself, and it took all her courage to go to his flat and give it to him.

Half an hour later, Molly looked down at him. His black hair was damp with sweat. The blush was spreading across his chest. She knew that now, and it stunned her to recognize her own familiarity with him, naked and aroused. He was so fair, his chest and throat and cheeks flushed red during sex. It was heart-stopping, the way the color spread across his beautiful body, insanely sexy.

Of course, she was finding everything insanely sexy at present. She'd thought the second trimester stories were myths, or excuses, or rationalizations. Turns out she'd been wrong about that.

He was smiling up at her, breathing heavily, his hands doing obscenely wonderful things to her breasts. "Good?"

"Very," she groaned.

She could still hardly believe it. She was going to have a baby. And she was - something - with Sherlock. Involved? Yes, involved was a good word; it could mean all sorts of things. Good and bad.

He wasn't exactly as she imagined, but what ever was? Still, she couldn't shake the feeling she was both ridiculously lucky and headed for some disastrous fall.

"What're you thinking?" he asked.

She couldn't answer honestly, so she lied. "Nothing."

Sherlock pulled her face to his and kissed her hard, harder, hardest, so hard she had to pull away to catch her breath. Then, in one swift move, he rolled her onto her back and loomed over her.

"I asked you what you were thinking, Mary Magdalen. Don't lie," he said punctuating the statement with a grind of his hips. "When you ask a direct question, you expect a direct answer, as you've told me on more than one occasion. Well, so do I. Kindly pay me the same courtesy. And why are you grinning?"

Molly adjusted her features so they reflected his. "'Kindly pay me the same courtesy'," she imitated. "Who says that during sex?"

"Apparently, I do." He ground his hips into her again and she gasped. "Out with it."

Molly closed her eyes to answer him. "I'm just - I feel lucky to be here. With you." Her voice was trembling. She hated the sound of it in her ears. "That's all."

He stopped moving. "Really." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." She cupped his face in her hands. "Really."

"Thank you," he whispered. He turned his head, kissed her hands, her palms. He pressed his lips to her wrists, the inside of her elbow, kisses running all the way up her arm to her shoulder, her neck. "Thank you," he whispered in her ear.

Less than a moment later he stopped moving, biting hard into his lower lip. But it was no use; he ejaculated, his fingers digging into her shoulder. She could tell it had taken him by surprise.

He collapsed, half on top of her. "In future," he said, "it would be wise to save your kind words for post-coital conversation."

Molly shook her head. What? He'd come because she said something nice? And it wasn't even all that nice, really. It made her want to kiss him, or pet him, or - something. She settled for running a finger down the length of his nose. "You're a strange man, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes shot wide. "This cannot possibly be new information, Molly Hooper."

"No, it's not," she answered.

Sherlock got back on task, started kissing his way down her torso. "You're gaining weight," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Eight pounds," he told the skin around her navel.

"Six pounds," she said, swatting his shoulder. "And it's not only all right, it's actually encouraged under the circumstances. Don't be nasty."

"Not being nasty," Sherlock said, concentrating most of his attention on nipping at the thin skin over her left hip. "Simply making an observation." He lifted his head. "Hello, have we met? My name is Sherlock Holmes and I observe." But his tone was playful. He returned to his assault.

"Um, Sherlock- ?"

"Hmm?" He buzzed against the her pubic bone, sending a jolt through her.

"What - um, oh - um, what are you doing?" she asked as he slid down her body and kissed her thigh.

"Really, Molly? My intentions are not obvious?"

"Well, yes they are, but - um - "

"You didn't finish," he said simply.

"I'm also, um," she said, squirming a bit when his nose nudged against - oh God - something, "full of, um-"

"Ejaculate? Yes, I know. It's mine. I put it there," he said before burying his face between her legs.

She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair. 'A very strange man,' she thought, before all the thinking ran out.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Two weeks later, he watched Molly, who was wrapped in his green dressing gown, making tea and toast in his kitchen. He'd asked her around the night before to sew up a gash in his calf that wouldn't stop bleeding but which he didn't have the patience to take to A&E, and she ended up staying. It was not as unsettling as he would have predicted.

"You're out of sugar," she said, hiking up the ridiculously long hem of the robe and attempting to fasten it in place with the belt. The gown was slick silk and the slight bulge of her belly made it impossible to secure.

The tea would be inferior to John's, but he hadn't had to ask her to make it.

"I can borrow some from Mrs. Hudson," he said. He pulled out his phone and started texting.

"Who?"

"My landlady," he said. "She lives downstairs in 221A. I've just sent her a text."

Molly leaned back against the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil. "Couldn't you just go downstairs and knock?"

"I could do," he said, "but she's in New Zealand at present and probably wouldn't hear me."

Molly frowned. "You're not going to break in?"

Sherlock stood, fastened the belt of his own dressing gown, which was all he wore. "Of course not."

"You're lying," she said.

"You're right," he answered and headed for the stairs.

There was something, he was discovering, painfully tolerable about Molly Hooper. He found, actually, that Molly didn't disrupt his plans at all. She wasn't clingy or demanding. Save for one surprise visit that had ended, he felt, well for all parties concerned, she never came to his flat uninvited, but would open her door to him at any hour of the day or night. Even though she was avoiding caffeine, she made him coffee when he asked for it. And now that they were regularly intimate, her face lit up the minute he walked into the mortuary. If anything, the smile she turned on him was brighter than it had ever been.

He noted again that it was pathetically easy to get into Mrs. Hudson's flat. Something needing doing there. The house itself was under twenty-four hour surveillance thanks to his brother's unending need to annoy him, and there were insanely sophisticated alarms on all external windows and doors, also his brother's doing. And yet Mrs. Hudson's door would barely present a challenge to determined two year old. He knew a slightly shady locksmith who owed him an enormous favour. In exchange for sugar, Mrs. Hudson was going to get a strong, new lock and a security door. One couldn't be too careful - sugar thieves turned up where one least expected them.

The question on his mind now was how to make certain Molly Hooper kept smiling at him. Making other people happy was not one of his strong suits, and if he didn't know how he managed in the first place, how on Earth was he supposed to keep it up?

Sexual satisfaction was clearly an important component. In the course of his cases, sex was one of the prime motivators where abandonment, betrayal, and deceit were concerned. The other factor was inevitably money.

The semen currently making its way down his shower drain was evidence that he was doing his best to keep Molly satisfied sexually. He could consider that issue covered. Finance, however, was another matter.

He'd always managed to get by, but his research indicated that he didn't have enough to provide for mother and child properly without embarrassing himself. There was his trust fund, but ever since his drug days, Mycroft had seen to it he could only access the monthly interest.

Normally, he took cases more on the basis of their potential interest than the payout, but needs must. Whatever was necessary.

Mrs. Hudson was, thankfully, a creature of habit, and he found the sugar exactly where it had been the last time he'd borrowed it. And the three times before that. Sadly, there were no more biscuits to be found. He must have borrowed the last of them.

He pulled Mrs. Hudson's door closed after him. Perhaps an alarm system, too?

"Thank you," Molly said when he laid his slightly ill-gotten gains before her. "She won't mind?"

"She adores me," he answered honestly. "And I did ask."

"She must have got your message," she said. "You're phone's been trying to vibrate itself off the table. Toast?"

"Please."

There was a text from Mycroft, which was immediately deleted, unopened; one from a woman in Norwich who wondered if her husband was cheating on her (probably), the final draft of something from his lawyer which was no doubt painfully tedious and which would have to be opened on the computer, four emails from jhwatsonabroad, which were relegated to the recycling bin, and hello, what's this? An email from Dr. Hawass, with a number of attachments. Curiosity piqued, he booted up his computer and waited for his email to load.

"Butter? Jam? Biological waste?" Molly asked him, her head in the fridge.

"Hmm?"

"Your toast?"

He looked up. "What?"

"What do you want on your toast?"

"Yes," he said, then returned to his screen. "Oh, wonderful!" he breathed.

Molly set a plate of toast with butter and jam at his elbow. "What is?"

"What is what?" Why was she nattering at him?

Molly frowned. "Case, is it?"

"Yes." he said.

"Big one?"

"Somewhat, yes." He read through the information. Missing antiquities. No leads to date. Substantial reward.

He checked the time, then the airline schedule. If he got packed and dressed in under an hour, he could be in Cairo tonight.

"Molly," he said, calculating flight times and connections, "leave."

Molly stopped mid-sip. "Excuse me?"

There was something in her tone. He looked up.

Not happy. Why? All he'd said was -

Oh.

"I have a case that requires my complete attention. I'll arrange for a cab to take you home. Thank you for the toast and the tea."

"And the sex?" she said.

"Yes, of course, that too." He waved dismissively.

"Say please," she demanded.

"What? I'll do no such - oh, you're teasing me."

"Yes, I'm teasing you." By this time, Molly had risen. She ruffled his hair. "Eat your toast," she said. She sounded very much like John sometimes.

Sherlock did so. It was a small price to pay.

Ten minutes later, he was in his room, piling hot weather gear into his travel bag. He heard the front door close and a taxi pull away. He wondered, vaguely, who had gone out. But it didn't matter.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was starting to wonder if something was wrong. She hadn't seen Sherlock since she left his flat Sunday morning. He had been so caught up in whatever he was doing on his computer at the time that she didn't bother to say goodbye. There wasn't much point when he was like that. She understood that now.

But he hadn't even been to Barts this week. He hadn't been by her flat with some minor injury she had to see to right this second. He hadn't emailed or texted anything ridiculous.

It might just be the case. Or something may have changed between them without her knowing. Or he might be dead in a ditch, covered in maggots. She hoped not, but she never knew with him.

During Friday lunch, she decided to send him a text. It took her twenty minutes to decide what to say. It was even true:

DR AHMED IS THREATENING TO HAVE THE TECHS BIN YOUR CULTURES. 17 THRU 21 ARE DEAD. SHOULD I BOTHER TO DEFEND THE REST? -MOLLY

He answered immediately.

YES, PLEASE. BUSY BEING SHOT AT PRESENTLY. WILL EMAIL LATER. -SH

Molly did her best to convince herself he was being metaphorical, then she saved Sherlock's cultures from Dr. Ahmed's tidying.

Late that night, her computer broke into song, letting her know she had mail.

Sherlock had written:

M-,

THE CASE IS PROGRESSING MUCH MORE SLOWLY THAN I HAD ANTICIPATED. I SHOULD BE BACK IN LONDON SOME TIME NEXT MONTH.

-SH

Ah. So it was that case. No ditches or maggots as of yet, apparently, which was, in her opinion, good. She wondered where he was. Would it be wrong to ask?

She sent him a reply. It took her an hour to word it just right:

DEAR SHERLOCK,

GLAD YOU DIDN'T GET SHOT.

-MOLLY

P.S. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

Again his answer was almost instantaneous:

M-,

AT THE MOMENT? THE KHAN EL-KHALILI. GOOGLE IT.

-SH

Molly did. The Cairo Market. Egypt. She could picture it perfectly, or imagined she could. She sent just one more email.

DEAR SHERLOCK:

SPF 40. AND A HAT.

-MOLLY

Sherlock had nothing to say to that.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock had planned to sleep all the way back to London, but, despite his exhaustion, it hadn't worked out that way. He'd slept deeply from Cairo to Berlin, but, from Berlin to Heathrow, he'd been on the edge of his seat

He choked down the pretzels, since he hadn't taken in anything other than coffee in nearly a week. They were overly-salty and overly-processed and reminded him how much he would have rather had Molly's fish and chips. Years of practice could turn the most mundane skill into a sublime art; Molly's frying was clear evidence of this.

He wanted to return to the comfort and familiarity of Baker Street, get something to eat, and sleep for two days. He wanted to hand Molly the cheque in his wallet, and watch her eyes go round as saucers as she counted the zeroes. And then he'd shag her into the mattress, because she liked that and it made her like him. It would be a satisfying conclusion to a case full of frustrating obstructions.

He hadn't given Molly a second thought while the case was on, but now that it was over, he was having difficulty thinking of anything else. Strange, that.

He ripped open another bag of pretzels and up-ended them into his mouth all at once.

It occurred to him over the Channel that, were he to send her a text now, there could be fish and chips and clean sheets waiting when he opened the door to his flat. Especially if said text was worded just so.

It was a brilliant idea. His knees bounced. He could barely keep in his seat for willing the plane to reach London that much faster.

Finally, the plane landed, but, as was so often the case, they had to wait. And then wait longer. The passenger beside him - chemical engineer, originally from Blackpool but living in Milton Keynes, married, with two children and a setter with a skin condition, dull - pulled out his phone as soon as they were allowed.

"Linda? Yeah, on time, supposedly. Yeah, well enough. All I've had is the bloody peanuts. No, really, Berlin to London and that's all they've got on offer. I was thinking Chinese tonight. Curry? Again? We had curry before I left," he said, entirely too loudly. "Yeah, no. sorry. Yeah. Just knackered. Whatever you want, it's fine. Yeah, love you too."

Linda's husband turned his phone off and stared at it. "Bloody curry it is."

An uncomfortable, almost claustrophobic sensation settled over Sherlock, making his stomach vault and his skin feel too tight, as if it had shrunk in the rain. He almost expected the legendary face mask to drop from the bulkhead, since all the oxygen that had been on the plane was now gone.

There was no way in hell he was calling Molly. He wasn't going home, either. He wasn't having chips or a fry-up or any of her deliciously horrid food, for that matter.

He was going straight from Heathrow to the club. And without the benefit of a shower or rest, he was going to beat another man with his fists until the desire to inhale the scent of Molly Hooper's skin passed.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock normally would have predicted the blow that connected so perfectly with his left eye. He usually sussed out the opposition within the first few minutes, anticipated their every move. That was one of the benefits of his club, the variety; fighters on their way both up and down in the rankings. One never knew what was coming. It kept the wits sharp.

Even as his head snapped backwards from the force of the blow, he assured himself he was learning, cutting away the dead wood from his thought processes. He wasn't simply taking a beating. Why would he do that?

It was the first bout he'd lost in years.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was coming out of the Tube near her flat, shopping bags cutting into her palms, when she saw him, leaning against a wall and - what else? - texting. As always, the sight of him sent a current straight through her. She lost her grip on her bags. And there he was, catching them and her without much discernible effort.

"I solved the Cairo case," he said by way of greeting, but looking away. Eye contact didn't always come naturally to him, she had noticed. And that was, according to some of the reading she'd done, to be expected.

"Oh. Good. Went well, then?"

"Well enough, yes," he replied, and gestured for her to continue walking.

"Um, did you have fun?" she asked. That was a good question, wasn't it? It was challenging, at any rate, Sherlock appeared to be pondering it pretty deeply.

"Fun? It was stimulating," he said finally, "but hardly groundbreaking."

"Well, that's something." Oh God, more witty conversation from Molly Hooper, she thought. Why did his mere presence turn her into such an idiot? For four weeks straight she had been fine. Bored? Yes. Lonely? Perhaps a little. But self-sufficient and competent, for all that. She supposed it stood to reason that the moment she saw him, she would do something to embarrass herself; that's how her life worked, after all.

When they reached the front door to her block of flats, she caught sight of his reflection in the plate glass, noticed some bruising around his eye. The one, she now realized, he'd kept turned away from her. She turned to him and looked closely. "What happened here? That looks fresh."

"Punched," he said, maneuvering to hold the door for her and the shopping, both, "at two thirty two p.m. today. Roughly. So fresh, yes."

"You've iced it?" She stepped wrong and nearly tripped. He caught her by the sleeve and kept her from collapsing in an ungainly heap. "Today? I thought the case was over."

Sherlock nodded. "Not case related. New chap at my club, from Barbados. Powerful right hook. I did not see 'that' coming." Which, for some reason, made him grin.

Molly's first job was to turn on the three fans she had situated at key points around the flat. It was a warmer than average summer, and humid, and she consequently felt as if she were in a sauna most of the time. She looked at him harder, and in an instant, she recognized the pattern of the injury. "So, you were boxing? You box?"

He gave her the briefest nod and the slightest smile in reply. If she'd blinked, she would have missed it.

"You boxed this afternoon?" she said. He had been back in London less than six hours and this was what he got up to? The image it conjured in her mind was, she had to admit, horribly attractive. "Why?"

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked and set - well, really, dumped - her carrier bags on the kitchen worktop.

"No reason, I guess. Sit." She began unpacking her shopping. Sherlock, rather than sitting, stood leaning heavily on the back of a kitchen chair, watching her every move. "Have you eaten? Are you hungry? I'm starving." She had two settings, now - ravenous or nauseated.

"No."

"Oh." Molly wasn't sure which of her questions he was answering, but it didn't really matter. She placed the boxes of nasty brown whole grain pasta in her cupboard and began unpacking the fruits and veg. "My father was a boxer. But you know that."

He didn't answer.

"How'd you get involved in it?" she said. "It doesn't seem very -" she stopped herself.

"Very?"

She winced. "Posh."

"No, I don't suppose it does," he replied. "At school. Athletics. We were required to do three sports. I chose boxing, fencing, and swimming."

"Oh. Why those?"

"Not really team sports, are they?" he said. His lips twitched. "Apparently, I do not play well with others."

She decided that was best not commented upon. "I like boxing, obviously, although it's not something we're supposed to admit to anymore, is it? Not politically correct at all." She looked him up and down quickly. "What are you, Light-Heavy? Cruiser?

"Heavy," he replied. Then, "Just."

"Oh." That didn't sound right to Molly. But then, 'Sherlock' and 'boxing' didn't sound right to Molly. He was quite muscular, true, had quick reflexes, and was both fast and light on his feet. Not a powerhouse, perhaps, but finesse and grace - those he had, and he could easily out-think any opponent. And the man hadn't built that lovely body by texting, after all.

Without looking at him she said, "I'd like to come watch a match, sometime." Molly felt herself blush. Nothing to be done about that. "Seriously, Sherlock, sit," she said, changing the topic before she could say anything else stupid. "I'm making tea. Want some?"

She heard the scrape of the chair legs on the tile. "Not if it's that horrid decaffeinated swill."

She put the kettle on. It was both weird and oddly normal. He sat at the table, his fingers steepled, watching her put away her shopping. It made her nervous that it felt like it could so easily become routine. The kettle whistled. She gave him tea in her best mug, with two sugars, the way he liked.

"Thank you," he said, unfailingly polite, but grimaced slightly after his first taste. "Oh God, this is much worse than the decaf."

She took a drink from her own mug and considered. It wasn't as expensive as what he kept in his flat, but it was perfectly serviceable as far as she was concerned. And better than the awful decaf she was drinking. "I promise you it's not," she said with a wry grin.

"Oh, I've something for you." He broke into a smile, reached into his shirt pocket, then handed her a slip of paper.

No, not a slip of paper. It was a cheque. A rather substantial cheque. She had to count the zeros twice. "What's this?"

"Finder's fee and recovery fee, plus substantial bonus," he preened. "It was a matter of stolen antiquities, valuable ones, obviously, which I recovered, intact. There will also be one from another insurer in a few weeks, too, but not as large."

She looked at it again. One- two- three- four- "Sherlock, I got less than this from the sale of my dad's shop."

He looked worried. "And?"

"This is a lot of money."

He shrugged. "Yes."

She handed it back.

"No no," he said. "Keep it. It's for you."

She couldn't have heard that right. "Sorry?"

Sherlock frowned. "You don't like it? Or, no, it's not that you don't -" His eyes narrowed. "No, you don't want it. Why don't you want it? Oh, you think your bank won't cash it? It will; it's a draft."

She placed the cheque on the table, then carefully stood, needing, suddenly, to be on her feet and moving. A quarter of a million pounds? He just walked in here and handed her a cheque for a quarter of a million pounds, just like that. She found herself pacing in the tiny amount of space her flat and growing belly allowed her.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Apart from everything?"

Sherlock was on his feet, now, too. He squinted at her, his mouth open, looking perplexed. It was a rare expression on his face, and would have been funny, if she hadn't wanted to cry.

"I don't understand why you're upset," he said slowly. "Is it not enough? I can get more."

Molly looked up at him, willing her voice not to quaver. "What am I supposed to do with this?" she asked. "This is - this is a lot of money."

"So you've said." Sherlock frowned. "Nappies? Baby food? Whatever a child needs. I've no idea, but I hear children are horribly expensive."

"A quarter of a million pounds worth of nappies?" she asked, boggling a bit.

Sherlock hesitated. "No?"

"Is this - are you giving me this money to get rid of me?"

Sherlock looked as befuddled as she felt. "Hardly," he said, shaking his head. "I am giving you money with which to purchase items you require. That's how money works," he finished, with a sarcastic edge.

"So, this is just, um -?" She searched for a word.

"Maintenance," he supplied.

"Maintenance? I could buy a flat with this," she said.

"Not in London, and not a very nice one," he replied. "And on that topic," he said, inhaling, "I've a suggestion. Hear me out. There's a very suitable, newly-renovated flat not far from my own. Two bedrooms, two baths, access to and use of the garden."

He looked slightly nervous, in his darting-eyes-pursed-lip-Sherlock sort of way, as though this might have been as important to him as delivering the cheque.

"Where?"

Sherlock still looked vaguely worried. "It's the basement flat; 221C."

"Oh. Very near, then," she said. Well, that was a shocker. He wasn't asking her to move in with him, thank God, but that was never on the table. He was, however, asking her to consider moving, essentially, next door, to stay close. Very close.

She wasn't sure what to make of that. In some ways, it seemed like a horrible idea. In others -

Well, it was such a nice area. The Tube stop was very handy. There were shops close, and Regent's Park was a short walk. If the flat was half as nice as Sherlock's, it would be ideal.

"Can I afford it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Would I have suggested it if you couldn't?"

This had to be difficult for him. "I could take a look," she said. "I've an exam in the morning and a busy afternoon. I could come after work." She rose up on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked, suddenly very stiff.

"Because you gave me £250,000. Because you found me a nice flat in a lovely neighbourhood, dodgy upstairs neighbour notwithstanding. And because you like it when I do that." She gave him another quick peck.

"If it pleases you to believe that, fine," he said, trying to sound haughty but only sounding ridiculous.

"You like it," she told him again. And she planted a kiss on the side of his neck. "You know what I'd really like?" she whispered into his ear.

"What?"

"A cuddle," she said, because she would. Nothing seemed so appealing at the moment as wrapping her arms round Sherlock and having him hold her. It wasn't something he'd done more than a handful of times, and she always had to ask. But she had missed him, and worried a bit, and she was glad he was back in London in one slightly bruised piece.

Sherlock squinted at her. "Be serious."

"I am. I know it's a bit pervy but, indulge me, hm?" She gave him as hard a look as she knew how, and he stepped toward her holding up his arms in a gesture of surrender. She pressed her head to his chest. His heart was beating like thunder; his back was as stiff as a board.

Slowly, gently, he came to rest his arms lightly on her shoulders. It took forever for his heart to slow down. It took nearly as long for his body to start to mould itself to hers.

"Isn't this better than being hit in the face repeatedly by someone you don't know?" she asked.

He hummed low in his throat in answer, in non-answer, really, but Molly knew what Molly knew. He'd just spent a month out of the country and his first act upon returning wasn't to go home, wasn't to sleep for three days, wasn't even to come here and pretend not to check up on her. No, it was to find a stranger to pound the snot out of him. She didn't have a degree in psychology, but for this, she didn't need one.

After a few minutes, he said, "There's a bit more of you."

She looked up at him. "What?"

He squeezed her very gently. "More. Of you."

"Oh. Right." She was blushing again. "Well, it has been a month. Up, um, fourteen pounds in total-"

"I think you'll find it's closer to -"

"Fourteen pounds, Sherlock," she insisted, "and leave it at that."

"Fourteen pounds it is, then. May I look?" he asked, his lips closer to her ear than was really necessary. "Or do you require more 'cuddling,' first?"

Molly pulled away, surprised. This was the first real interest he had shown. He'd always acted as if the stork was going to drop her baby off one day in the distant - very distant - future, not as if there was actually a child physically growing inside of her. Of course, at this point, it was kind of hard to miss. "I suppose so. Yes."

"Good. Thank you. Here," he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the fold-out bed she hadn't folded away that morning.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall open.

"Lie back," he said, "I want to see -"

She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and eased her head back onto her pillow.

Sherlock sat staring at her breasts and belly. It was a look she recognized - pure scientific curiosity.

"Your balance has been affected, I noticed," he said peering at her abdomen intently. "Is that normal?"

"Yes," she replied. "The body is full of hormones designed to loosen the joints to some degree, so that comes into play. Plus, there's extra weight -"

"Allegedly fourteen pounds worth," he interjected with a quirk of his lips.

She cuffed his ear, gently. "Actually fourteen pounds worth," she said, "but it's not evenly distributed, so it does alter balance, a bit. Center of gravity shifts."

"Your breasts are larger."

"Yes," she said, feeling a bit like one of his fiber samples.

"And this brassier," he said, touching the thick, padded strap, "is an aesthetic nightmare."

"It is," she agreed. It was white cotton, sturdily constructed, and made her feel like an old woman. She hated it with a passion. "But I need the, um, extra support."

"May I?" he said, holding both hands poised just above the mound of her belly.

She nodded and pushed the elastic panel of her trousers down. The change in her body since Sherlock had been in Cairo was massive. 'Self-conscious' didn't begin to cover what she was feeling.

He moved his splayed fingers softly over the taut flesh, gently measuring her new contours with his smooth palms.

"Does it, um, put you off?" she asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not. At. All," he said, making each word a complete sentence.

Molly allowed herself to exhale.

"And this?" He drew his finger from her navel to where her waistband rested above her pubis. It tickled and she flinched slightly. "This is new. What is this?"

"Oh. The linea nigra."

"'Black line'," he translated. "Why? What's it do, what's it for?"

"That's where they install the zip," she answered, mock-serious.

Sherlock quirked one brow. "I think not."

"It's just a dark streak of pigment," she explained. "Hormones. Usually fades after the pregnancy."

"I see." He looked up at her face, then. "And just how far does it extend?"

The purely scientific curiosity was gone, replaced by something more basic, something she always enjoyed seeing in his eyes: want.

Molly stood up, tugged the horrible maternity trousers, with their horrible elastic panel, down, and let them puddle on the floor, then unclasped the hideous bra. "Let's see, shall we?

"Oh yes," Sherlock agreed. "Let's."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Later, because it was insanely hot in her flat and her life wasn't quite strange enough, they were cuddling. Sort of.

With fingertips only, Sherlock stroked her belly, over and over, as he had been for a quarter of an hour. Then, like a shock, the mound of her belly rippled, and there was a tiny thump outward.

Mouth and eyes wide, Sherlock breathed, "Oh!"

It happened again. "He moved," he whispered, as if afraid of breaking the spell.

"He - or she - does that now," Molly said. "Especially when I'm on my back."

"He," Sherlock said absently, rubbing his fingers over the same spot, no doubt trying to elicit the same response.

"It might be a girl," she said.

"It's not."

He sounded certain. Molly frowned. "I told Mike not to ruin the surprise."

"It wasn't Mike," he said. "Can you make him do that again?"

"No, I can't," she replied. "And rubbing harder won't help, thank you."

Sherlock actually looked chagrinned. "Sorry."

"So why do you think it's a boy?

"I know it's a boy," he answered. His brow furrowed in concentration. He'd gone from rubbing her belly to drawing elaborate swirls with his index finger. "At your last check-up, the heart rate recorded was 126 beats per minute. Male fetuses habitually have slower heart rates than female fetuses, whose hearts are generally in the 160 range. Ergo, boy."

From what little she remembered of her obstetrical training, that sounded right. But -

"You weren't at my last check up."

He'd moved on to new shapes, hieroglyphs, she thought. "What? Oh. Molly, why must I keep asking if we've met?"

"Of course, silly me." The baby chose then to perform a rather impressive dive- roll combination.

"A son," Molly said, as Sherlock pressed his face to her belly and she ran his fingers through his hair.

"A son," he repeated, his eyes sparkling.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Turned out, the flat was gorgeous. It was just the sort of place she could picture herself and her baby living in. Blue where Sherlock's flat was predominantly green, streamlined and sleek where Sherlock's was fussy and Victorian, it was surprisingly light and airy for a basement. There were working fireplaces in the lounge and the master bedroom. The bathrooms were not overly large, but they were well-designed and well-fitted. The larger bedroom easily held a double bed, a table, a bureau and an arm chair, and had built-in cupboards. The smaller bedroom, while mostly unfurnished, was the perfect size for a nursery and later, a child's room. Even with a dining table, the kitchen was roomy, and had been outfitted with sleek worktops and gleaming new appliances.

The best part was that it was fully furnished. Well, almost fully. She'd need some baby furniture, a cot and high chair, a changing table, perhaps a rocking chair. But those were purchases she'd anticipated, so that was all right. And not having to move her nearly worn-out, well, everything, was a big plus, to her way of thinking.

"The garden is out this way." Sherlock led her to a door at the back of the flat. It was tiny, as any garden in this part of London would be, but it, too, had been recently renovated. Sunny and fully enclosed, there was a small patch of lawn, a deck big enough for a small table and a bench, and beautiful flower beds along either wall. Molly could imagine herself sitting here with the baby on a lovely spring day.

As she stood envisioning the future, she caught Sherlock, leaning against the garden wall in a fashion-model slouch, watching her closely. "Do you like it?" he asked.

She supposed she ought to weigh the rent more closely, but she had just come into a quarter of a million pounds, hadn't she? Even after taxes, that would go a long way.

It was almost too good to be true,

"I love it," she said. "It's perfect."

In a split second, Sherlock changed from concerned and brooding to grinning like a mad man. "I'll text Mrs. Hudson," he volunteered, striding across the garden. "She'll be back in three days and thrilled she doesn't have to look for a tenant."

Molly reached out as he came close, putting her arm round him, and kissing his cheek. "Thank you." For once they were on the same page.

"You're welcome," he said, looking oddly mischievous. It was a good look on him.

She never really forgot from moment to moment, but occasionally she was struck by the knowledge, bright and shiny and new, that he was simply gorgeous. He looked very pleased with himself, wearing his cocky little 'I'm the smartest person in the entire universe' grin, and this was one of those moments in which, instead of wanting to slap it off his face, she wanted to lick it off. Suck it off. Gnaw it off.

It was crazy how much she wanted him, sometimes, how visceral the feeling was. He was work, he would always be work, and he was so easily bored that she had no idea how long 'always' might last. Sometimes, he was so damned frustrating and obstinate that she wanted to hit him or scream or do both at once.

And then, other times, none of that seemed to matter. Other times, he did something thoughtful or kind or funny, and she felt like she was on heat.

She looked at him, standing there grinning at her, and suddenly all she could think was, 'this' and 'mine' and 'now.'

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock had expected Molly to like the flat; he had, with the help of an apparently well-regarded designer who owed him a very large favour, done his best to ensured she would. He had expected her to be pleased and even grateful. He had not expected Molly to show her pleasure and/or gratitude by herding him back into the flat, driving him toward the larger bedroom, then wrestling him to the bed. And yet, that's exactly what had happened.

He had never had a woman attempt to take his clothes off before, either, but that happened, too. He didn't offer much resistance, though; what would the point of that have been? Sex made Molly happy and agreeable and he liked her that way.

While always a full participant in sex and not shy about making her likes and dislikes known, this flat-out sexual aggression on Molly's part was new and surprising. And, from a purely objective point of view, interesting. Sherlock was, however, the subject of this particular full-frontal assault, so objectivity didn't really play into it.

These thoughts raced through his head as Molly licked the side of his neck and jostled the ribs he had not told her were a bit bruised. The pain and the pleasure augmented each other somehow, seared him as Molly kissed his mouth, nipped his jaw, licked his throat. It was pleasantly like being mugged.

His jacket and shirt were gone in short order, and he distracted her enough that she didn't bother with his vest. She didn't even fully remove his trousers; she merely pulled them to the middle of his thighs, rucked up her skirt, opened her blouse, and climbed astride him.

"Molly?" he said, not sure what he was asking her.

"Shutupshutupjustshutup" she said, and rocked against him.

He could do that.

He leaned forward to catch her exposed nipple between his teeth; he wanted his penis in her vagina and her breast in his mouth; a closed circuit of pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure, doubling and redoubling itself, and Molly's reaction told him she thought it was an excellent idea, too. His mouth tugged at her breast the same way the muscles in her vagina tugged at his penis. It had the potential to be overwhelming, but he fought that down, focusing only on the act, on the sheer animal feeling of it, and on the wild look in Molly's eyes.

She slid slick and hot almost completely off of his erection, then came down hard enough to make him gasp. She did it twice more and began orgasming hard, like a whirlpool pulling him under the waves, and Sherlock had to struggle to keep his own climax at bay.

Then she slid off him and swallowed him down to the hilt in one swift, fluid motion, and she looked undeniably mad. He normally didn't watch while he was being fellated; but there she was, her mouth stretched wide and staring straight into his eyes, and unlike all the times before, with all the interchangeable lips and teeth and tongues, the sensations weren't something that just occurred as if by magic. No, Molly was doing this to him, playing his body as if it were an instrument, as if he were her Strad.

Just as he was getting close, she stopped.

And it felt better than any drug.

He pulled her up to kiss her lips. Her mouth tasted of their sex and he wanted to be everywhere inside her, wanted to crawl inside her, to stay inside her, wallow in the scent and taste and touch of her.

She slipped back on top of him, rocking hard again, straining, quickly coming to another orgasm. He had resisted the tide of his body, stood on the precipice so long he felt as though he could resist indefinitely. His brain was pulled so tight he felt he might snap at any moment. There was a hallucinogenic quality to hovering so long on the brink of orgasm.

Not sure what else to do, he kissed her again in the confusion of her orgasm, kissed her and kissed her and, with his hands cupping her face, rolled her onto her back and positioned himself between her legs.

But he didn't penetrate her. Instead, he slipped his first two fingers inside her and stroked her clitoris carefully with his thumb, something he hadn't done with her before but which was generally well-received. He wrapped his left hand round himself and in a few quick strokes, he was ejaculating. On the dome of her belly. Her sex. Her thighs. His hands.

He collapsed beside her, breathing hard. Yes, very pleasantly like being mugged.

He picked up her hand, kissed the back of it. "Does this mean you'll take the flat?"

Molly came as near to laughing as she could when so close to sleep. "We've ruined these sheets," she said. "I guess I'll have to."