(A little flag pops up somewhere in Sherlock's brain: he wants to give Molly a compliment none of her previous lovers have ever given her. Which will take some thought, and right now thinking is, for once, not his top priority.)

He undoes the button of his fly one-handed, pushes his trousers down his hips. "And you can deduce what they're doing right now, I imagine. Or about to do. What they'd do to you if you were here."

Sherlock hasn't even needed to imagine Molly touching him to get off. Since Saturday, he's been reliving the sight of her face lit up by orgasm, the sense memory of her hot and strong around his fingers, the taste of her on his hand.