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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch (thank, love!) Enjoy.

~ ERMINE ~

London,

St Martin in the Fields Church,

1892

"Do you, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

And Molly Hooper blinks. Holds her breath and tries to ignore the rapid thudding of her heart as she waits for the vicar to reach the end of her vows. As she waits to say the words that will change her life forever- The fateful I do.

He drones on about for richer, for poorer, etc as she tries to hide her impatience. She wants so much for this wretched day to be over with. She's so uncomfortable: Her corset's laced too tightly and it's making breathing difficult. Inside her silk white gloves, she can feel sweat beginning to pool in the gaps between her fingers, at the heel of her palms. It's trickling down her back, between her breasts, and she already regrets allowing Mama to talk her into wearing the ridiculous metallic tiara upon her head, as well as the extraordinarily long veil...

While both may look impressive in her wedding photos, both are also incredibly heavy.

In fact, if she didn't know better she'd think her head might snap clear off from the strain of pulling them along and if that's not a metaphor for this entire day then she doesn't know what is.

Eventually- mercifully- the vicar finishes the vows however, asks the question he has to ask, and in a quiet, calm voice Molly hears herself say, "I do."

To her relief, her voice doesn't shake and the breath she didn't know she was holding is released in a whoosh.

She has, for once in her life, managed not to embarrass herself.

That preliminary out of the way- the groom has already said his vows- the vicar nods and smiles. Praises God and presents the new couple to the congregation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he booms proudly, "I present to you Mr. And Mrs. William Holmes!"

Organ music swells; The room claps politely, the crowd getting to their feet. From the corner of her eye she can see her Mama and her new husband's mother gossiping together and wiping tears from their eyes. Her new brother-in-law, Mycroft, is making smalltalk with his father and hers, his elegant, heavily pregnant wife at his elbow and smiling. Patting her stomach. He smiles at her and for a moment Mycroft Holmes might be quite the handsomest man in the church.

Feeling slightly awkward at that thought- as well as her newly married status- Molly tries to navigate her way down the steps from the altar and nearly trips on her tent of a wedding dress.

Her new husband's hand comes down and grips her elbow to steady her just in time.

Immediately her stomach gives a little flip; She looks at him to thank him but he's not looking at her, oh no. Out of instinct Molly's gaze follows his and she realises that he's staring at a stunningly beautiful woman in a second row pew of the church. She's dark-haired and scarlet-lipped, covered in ermine and diamonds. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, mouth twisted in a bitter, joyless smile which Molly doesn't understand-

Molly looks at her husband's matching, coldly devastated expression and suddenly she does understand.

Oh God, she does.

Not even so innocent and closeted a creature as she can misinterpret the look that is passing between this woman and her new husband.

It is the look of one who has had their heart broken thoroughly and at exactly this moment.

Molly's stomach flips once again, this time as if she's been tossed from a great height. Her heart races, face flushing as she realises what this means. How foolish she has been. She'd thought… She'd hoped…

Lord, she was such an idiot.

She bites her lip, tries desperately to contain her emotions. She cannot make a scene, she reminds herself harshly. She will not make a scene.

But she can't help the disappointment, the hurt roiling within her: For as much as she has always known that her father wished her to marry into the aristocracy, she had allowed herself to believe that her groom felt some… approval of her, if not affection. And she had allowed herself to hope that his approval would lead to affection if given enough time. William Scott Sherlock Holmes might be an infamous bohemian, and have his hands soiled with trade to boot, but he had also seemed to Molly at their only meeting to be both ridiculously handsome and astonishingly clever. He had even gone to the trouble of asking her- privately, of course- whether she felt happy with the prospect of wedding him.

"No matter what your parents say," he'd told her, "you do not have to wed me if you do not wish to."

He had looked very hard at her, his expression piercing. Molly had been mortified by how brightly she'd blushed.

"I assure you, Miss Hooper," he'd added, "I will not have a wife who has been forced to wed me."

His thoughtfulness in ascertaining her feelings had touched her; Over the months after that meeting they had corresponded and as they did, her feelings for him had grown... warmer. More affectionate. More hopeful. She had allowed herself to believe theirs might end up a love match, for all the little they knew of one another now.

And yet, staring at him on her wedding day, watching him big farewell to another woman without even speaking, Molly is suddenly aware of how ridiculous those hopes of hers had been. Aristocratic marriages were made for money, for property and status, not for love. She has always known this. Money and property she has in abundance; status was to be provided by the Holmes' family's title, and their pedigree. That was all that this marriage was about. Love affairs were made from attraction and desire- Something her new husband clearly did not feel for her, not if he could stare at the ermine-clad beauty before him with that look on his face-

"Don't say anything," she hears him murmur in her ear, voice clipped. Strained. He's looked away from the woman and he's staring at her now. "For God's sake," he hisses, "don't make a scene."

He reaches out, takes Molly's hand. Though the gesture should look courtly, when he squeezes her fingers Molly realises that it's a warning. A sharp one.

Don't say anything, even if you're upset, he's telling her.

Don't embarrass me or yourself in front of all of these people, you silly girl.

For a split second Molly wants to rebel. To snap at him. She wants to scream bloody murder at him for not deigning to warn her that the woman he truly loves would be at their wedding- That there's a woman he truly loves in existence-

But then she takes a breath. Centres herself.

Aristocratic marriages are not about love, she reminds herself.

You know this. You've always known this.

And if you didn't before, she thinks darkly, then you bloody well do now.

So head held high, Molly clears her expression. Makes herself smile. She's had to bite back worse insults than this during their courtship, she reminds herself.

This is just one more task she must perform.

When he sees this, Holmes relaxes slightly and gestures for her to follow him down from the altar and through the church to the door.

From there, they'll get into his carriage and toss the coins, and then this whole, tedious charade will be over with- Thank the Lord.

On wooden legs, they walk down the steps and into a the crowd, the woman in ermine watching them as they do so. Holmes has plastered a smile onto his face and Molly makes herself do the same, makes herself concentrate on looking happy though it's the last thing she feels. There's a kaleidoscope of well-wishers, of ladies' dresses and smiles, of gentlemen's hands to be shaken, but Molly doesn't see it.

She sees nothing.

All she can think about, oddly enough, is the look on Mycroft Holmes' face as he looked at his wife.

Later that night, Molly lies in bed in Musgrave Hall.

Her new husband lies beside her and the two stare into the dark in silence. In expectation.

One could cut the tension with a knife.

Molly knows what she's expected to do tonight- She knows what a husband is entitled to from his bride, and she's resolved to give him it, no matter how little she might desire such a thing right now.

She can't stop thinking about that woman in the church, and what her presence might mean.

When she turns on her side to look at Sherlock though, she can't bring herself to say anything; She supposes that's for the best. A man ought to lead in matters such as these, she thinks. For a moment he looks at her, his mouth opening as if to speak, and then just as quickly he shuts it again. Turns his back to her. Surprised but slightly relieved, Molly does the same.

The silence stretches out and neither of them are willing to break it.

Molly doesn't realise it, but Sherlock will spend the entire night watching her sleep, wishing he knew what to say.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the wonderful likingthistoomuch, who also provided the initial plotbunny- Thank you so much, love, for letting me use it. The response to the first chapter has been overwhelming, and thanks for their reviews go to lemondropped, gabriella_t, rooneykmara, theSapphireSky, Pamc, rottenbrainstuff, MetricJenn, Strawberrychampagne, JaneDi, SherlockedTardis, devilgrrl, GracefulMurder, Alonzo_Anonymous, MissMollyBloom, SanazAb, whenIsayrunrun, OhAine, Jazz221, deby, Jinikinz2468, Mistykins06, Nursekelly0429, daisybouquet, ms_smilla, EIG and Limaro, as well as everyone who left kudos. Enjoy! 

~ GRACENOTE ~

London,

Baker Street,

Two Years Later

"So you've heard about Adler."

And Dr. John Watson crosses his arms. Looks pointedly at his best friend.

Said best friend, one Sherlock Holmes, cocks an eyebrow in retaliation and continues to play his violin- That question being too asinine to warrant a response. Despite what conclusions the good doctor has drawn, the piece he's currently composing has nothing to do with Irene Adler: On the contrary, it's a piece for his wife. Her birthday is at the end of the month and he has decided that this year, he will give her something to show how he feels about her. Though he often composes for Molly, he can seldom bring himself to show her the fruits of his labours, meagre as they are.

This year he means to change that.

At this thought he feels an uncomfortable... something tightening his stomach and as he always does he pushes the thought away.

If he lives to be a hundred, he will never become comfortable with how his wife makes him feel.

Silence stretches out; When it becomes obvious that Holmes is not going to rise to the bait, Watson divests himself of his greatcoat and hangs it up. Walks over to take his usual seat in his usual haunt, gaze still on his friend and that friend's violin. The scrutiny would make Sherlock uncomfortable were he the sort of man that cares about that sort of thing, but he's not so it doesn't. (At least that's what he tells himself).

After a few moments however he stops playing. Sits down opposite Watson.

"Whatever it is you want to say," he says warily, "I suggest you get it off your chest, John."

A small smile tugs at his friend's lip, beneath that ridiculous moustache of his. When he speaks his tone is suspiciously even, however. So- He has thought this through before coming here, Sherlock muses.

Sherlock can already see Mrs. Mary Watson's hand in this.

"I merely wondered whether you had bothered to inform Molly?" Watson is saying mildly. "About Adler? And her return? All of town is buzzing with the news of it..."

Sherlock frowns. "Whyever would I do that?"

He may not be the perfect husband, but even he knows it's a rum thing to do, mentioning your former mistress to your current spouse. In fact, if he had his way, Sherlock would never utter the name Irene Adler in Molly's presence.

His lady wife need not be sullied with any reminders of his lamentable past.

Watson gives him that annoying look he gets when he thinks he's about to impart some domestic wisdom though, and Sherlock rolls his eyes on general bloody principles.

He listens however because- alas!- Watson has a history of being right about this sort of thing.

He's also like a dog with a bone when he won't.

"If you don't tell her," John points out sensibly, "then doubtless one of those drawing-room vultures she has to interact with will ambush her with it. She's not popular, you know: Aside from her continuing her education, and her support of suffrage, the Ton have never let Molly forget where she comes from, or how her father made his fortune-"

"The creation of industrial machinery is nothing to be ashamed of," Sherlock interrupts irritably. He's had this conversation rather too many times before for his taste. "Peter Hooper was a genius- As is his daughter. Genius should better itself, or else it's for naught. And besides, what have those idiots in the Ton ever done that's useful? What have they contributed to the world? Nothing." He snorts in disdain. "I therefore fail to see why they would feel comfortable looking down on my wife-"

"You know that Molly's family is respectable, and I know that," John interrupts this time, "but the Sebastian Wilkes and the Alicia Smallwoods of this world will never believe it. Not given how you let her live, and how you let her behave-"

Now that, Sherlock muses, is rich, considering John's choice of partner. "Let her behave?" he scoffs. "Heavens, man, have you ever tried to let Molly do anything?"

John's smile is wry. Despite himself, Sherlock's matches it. Small and quiet as Holmes' wife is, she nevertheless possesses a spine of steel. Watson likes that in a woman.

"You forget," he points out, "I'm married to the country's leading proponent of women's suffrage- I know all about living with a headstrong lady, thank you."

And he smiles contentedly. Leans back in his chair. John's fondness for his wife is really rather revolting, Holmes can't help but feel- Never mind that he's terribly fond of Mary Watson too.

Why, if there were another woman in England to equal his Molly, Sherlock muses, then it would most certainly be she.

"So what are you suggesting?" Holmes asks eventually, since that's clearly what all this is leading to. Watson wouldn't have brought it up unless he had a plan of action he wanted his friend to try-

His wife has him better trained than that.

"I'm suggesting that you tell Molly your former mistress is back in town," John says bluntly. "Warn her for the talk which is doubtless coming, and the questions she may be asked. Even if you don't see the point in it, I assure you that Molly will- I know it's awkward, and I know you don't like bringing The Woman up, but surely it's the least you owe her, eh?"

And with that he nods to himself. His piece said, he settles more comfortably in his chair and sets to reading the day's papers.

He lights up a pip and every so often flicks ash onto the carpet, doubtless content in the knowledge that, since he no longer lives here, Sherlock will get the blame from Mrs. Hudson for it.

Sherlock frowns however, uncertain at the thought of making such an announcement about Adler. He has, after all, taken great pains to never mention the Woman in front of Molly- Not after that stunt she pulled at his wedding, and its repercussions for his marriage. The memory still mortifies him: the shock of seeing her alive after Sebastopol had brought emotions to the surface which had no place in his wedding to another, and by the time he'd managed to bring himself under control it was obvious to Sherlock that his new wife had guessed all. Molly had clearly surmised how very foolish and very rash he'd once been for the sake of an adventuress and traitor to the crown.

Her obvious disappointment in him had been torturous; He feels the burn of it to this very day.

The damage to his relationship with Molly had been done, however. In the days, weeks and months which followed he and his new wife had settled into a polite, vaguely distant relationship which had only recently begun to thaw into a genuine friendship. It had certainly never regained the warmth and sweetness which their early courtship had, and it certainly contained no hint of either attraction or sentiment on his wife's side… No, all that was done with. All that was over. All that was finished because Irene bloody Adler had decided to sneak into his bloody wedding and cast the proverbial spanner into the proverbial works, no matter how much trouble it caused him-

"For God sake, man, just tell her," John's voice pipes up. He sounds testy. "Go. Find her. Get this off your chest. It will be made no easier by your endeavouring to delay- Trust me."

He makes a shooing motion with his hand. "Off you go, before you get any more wound up.."

Though he dislikes agreeing with John on general principles- it sets a rum example- Sherlock nevertheless nods, electing to take his friend's advice, and gets to his feet. Shrugs on his coat.

Needs must, after all, when the devil rides- Even if the devil riding is John Watson's idea.

The good doctor doesn't look up from his paper as he does so, but then he doubtless knows where he's off to. He merely smiles once more.

Sherlock feels a surge of affection for the insufferable git but he's far too well-mannered to utter so uncouth a thought.

"The new campaign headquarters are near Temple," Watson tells Sherlock airily. "Above the Cock and Hen on Fleet Street, since sponsors have been thin on the ground since the last riot. Mary tells me the committee will be meeting until three today, so Molly should still be there-"

"If she's there I'll find her," Sherlock interrupts. He feels his face start to burn a little but- "Thank you, John."

The good doctor smiles again. "You are very welcome, old friend."

With a curt nod of his head Sherlock picks up his top hat and cane, steps out onto his landing and sets off down the stairs at a fierce clip. His mind is already on Molly and how he might handle this situation delicately, how he might makes things easiest on both of them-

Unfortunately for him, however, his interests in women's' suffrage has been piqued just a little too late.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch- Thanks, love. Thanks for their reviews go to theSapphireSky, deby, devilgrrl, Vervainqueen7, SanazAb, MetricJenn, lemondropped, OhAine, Bobsyouruncle, Aphrael, whenIsayrunrun, Icecat62, gabriella_t, SerafineSnape. Pamc, Mistykins06, Nursekelly0429, IrksomeIrene, MerriWyllow and GracefulMurder. Enjoy!

~ THRUPPENCE ~

Meanwhile,

In the Cock and Hen Public House

Temple

"Why, have you two met?"

And Miss Kitty Reilly, landlady of The Cock and Hen and reluctant sponsor of the Women's Suffrage Party, looks shrewdly between Molly and the newcomer before her.

The dark-haired, scarlet-lipped, ermine-clad newcomer whom Molly has seen, if not met, before.

Unfortunately.

"We share a mutual acquaintance," Miss Adler declares before Molly can speak, reaching out a diamond and silk-encrusted hand and offering it to shake. "Irene Adler," she says. "Miss Irene Adler. And you're-"

"Mrs. Molly Holmes, I am aware."

Molly's not sure why she puts the emphasis on the Mrs.- It's not as if this woman, or her husband, for that matter, will care. She is also painfully cognizant of the fact that the other high-born ladies in the room are watching her with interest.

Suffrage or no suffrage, they like their gossip as much as the next woman.

Nevertheless Molly refuses to be cowed. So she straightens up. Holds her head high and meets Adler's gaze. She also takes the other woman's hand and gives it the sort of firm shake the navvies her father used to employ taught her to give.

She's been practicing on Wiggins.

The adventuress seems to find this amusing- her own handshake is as firm- but she says nothing, merely nods and then steps further into the meeting room. Takes off her coat. She sidles idly about her in open curiosity before pulling the pin out of her jaunty little tricorn hat and setting it on the bench beside her, along with her parasol.

Before her backside has even hit the bench however she's stopped in her tracks.

"Oi! You want in, you pay your dues!" And Miss Sally Donovan appears at Molly's elbow, hand out-stretched for Adler's entrance fee.

She is the Party's treasurer, after all- Treasurer and sometimes gate-keeper.

With a curt nod of her head Adler fishes out a thruppence and places it in her palm.

"There you go," she purrs coquettishly. "Buy yourself something pretty."

"We're looking for nothing less than the full emancipation of the feminine class," Donovan sniffs. "I'll grant you that's pretty, but it costs a damn sight more than thruppence- Sweetheart."

And with a rustle of skirts Sally makes for the money box underneath the bar, pops the thruppence into it before nodding to Kitty to close the doors so the meeting can begin- They're ten minutes late already, and the pub will need the room back soon.

Taking this as their cue, the other women shuffle to the benches, sitting themselves down and applauding as Mrs. John Watson takes the floor and starts running through the status of their various campaigns in London. Adler slides elegantly into the space beside Molly, though there's more than enough damn spaces to go around.

Instantly the younger woman grits her teeth, aware of how many eyes in the room are on them.

"I feel you and I should know one another better," Adler begins, sotto voce. "Given the acquaintance we both share with Sherlock-"

Molly opens her mouth- to snap, to hiss, to tell this woman not to act with such familiarity as to call Molly's husband by his nickname, she's not sure- but before she can the doors to the pub crash open.

Two men tumble through them.

There's a snarl of swear-words and punches and then her husband lands at her feet, a policeman's wool-clad arm locked around his throat-

It's only when he notices Adler however that he really starts to swear.

"Sally!" the policeman whom he's holding down barks, and for a moment the entire room is distracted from the scene before them by the realisation that a member of the Metropolitan Police Force is being assaulted on their premises.

(Given how often the members of the Women's Suffrage Party have been assaulted by policemen, their sympathies on his attack may best be described as... lukewarm.

At least, it looks that way to Sherlock.)

There's nothing lukewarm about either Molly Holmes' or Sally Donovan's reactions to this eventuality however: the former glares at her husband, the latter unhesitatingly smacks her boot out and kicks the policeman in the balls, causing him to curl in on himself and glare at her in distress.

"What the devil was that for?" he barks.

"You know bloody well what it was for," Sally barks back.

Within seconds the other ladies of the Party have surrounded him, some bearing parasols, other bearing their (illegal, but still common) hat pins and glowering down at him. Mrs. Watson pushes her way into the centre of the scrum and cocks an eyebrow, a small snub-nosed pistol in her hand.

To say that she does not look pleased would be putting things rather mildly.

"Explain yourself, Anderson," she says imperiously to the policeman, "and Molly, help your husband up. He appears to have been hurt."

Though her mulish expression makes it clear she wishes to do no such thing, (whyever would she be so cross? Sherlock thinks in bewilderment) Molly nevertheless helps him to his feet. Walks him over to a bench farthest from the crowd and sits him down on it. Sets about checking his person for injury as Mary interrogates the unfortunate Anderson.

He's already whining like a kicked puppy.

"Do you want to explain what that was about?" Molly asks quietly as Mary has her way with the unfortunate policeman.

"He was peering through the keyhole at the meeting," Sherlock says, nodding at the other man. "Mary says you've had problems with spying before- Despite the fact that you're doing nothing illegal."

He takes a small breath, allows Molly to tilt his head back and dab away a spot of two of blood from his nose.

Her attentions are always so satisfyingly quick and straightforward, he can't help but think.

"Anderson is merely taking advantage of his position in order to keep an eye on his former wife," he continues. "But if he's willing to step outside the boundaries of the law to do so then someone has to intervene and bring him back in line-"

"And that someone has to be you?"

As is often the case, when his wife speaks to him he can hear the amusement in her tone, which is rather one of his favourite things about her. Like Mary, she has no tedious notions of proper behaviour in a husband, something for which Sherlock often finds himself rather grateful.

He smiles at the thought, and as he does so he suddenly remembers Irene Adler, opens his mouth to ask Molly would she come speak to him in private about her return-

This is also, unfortunately, the same moment when he spots that same Adler, sitting on a bench to the left of him and watching him with that familiar, sly grin which so characterised their former acquaintance-

Her eyes meet his.

She gives him a jaunty little wave.

Quite without his meaning to, he lets forth a string of rather colourful expletives.

Instantly he feels Molly tense up beside him- In fact, if he didn't know better he'd think he just heard her swear. too But that couldn't be true- Could it?

Whyever would his kind-hearted, gentle wife be swearing at a time like this?

When he looks back to Molly her face is grim, lips pursed in a tight line as she checks him for injuries. She's shifted so that her back's to Adler, the better to turn her attention to him. Given that her chosen area of study is medicine, she knows quite well how to do so without causing him any pain; Nevertheless, the fingers of her left hand have tightened against her skirt, the knuckles whitening. She cheeks are peaked but she herself is pale.

Sherlock feels a shot of alarm at the obvious emotion in her eyes. Her posture.

"Molly," he tries, "Molly, I-"

"Say nothing," she snaps, lowering her voice even more. That white-knuckled grip on her skirt tightens. "What a man does on his own time is his own business, no?"

And she makes a show of turning her attention back to checking his wounds.

Sherlock tries to explain. "Molly, I- Myself and Irene, we haven't seen one another since my wedding to you-"

Molly looks at him. "You haven't seen one another because she's been in the United States," she points out bitingly. "Had she been here, are you telling me you wouldn't have seen her?"

Sherlock frowns. He doesn't see the point of that question. "Of course I would have seen her," he points out reasonably. "I could hardly have avoided her. She's an old friend, and a former comrade, however ill-advised her arrival at our wedding was-"

Molly's eyes flare. "Ill-advised?" she hisses. "Ill-advised? You brought… You brought…"

Terrifyingly for Sherlock tears prick her eyes and suddenly she looks mortified.

With a fierce, mulish shake of her head she tilts her chin up. Gets to her feet and dusts off her skirt.

"You'll live, husband mine," she says more loudly. Her voice isn't quite steady. "Now if you'll excuse me," she adds, "I'm afraid I really shall have to run out- I appear to have forgotten an appointment."

And in a flurry of skirts she's fled him, her jacket and hat on and her parasol in her hand.

She's out the door and down the stairs in moments, her little feet clattering on the stairs. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but for once nothing comes out; how ever did he find himself in this position? But then-

"Just because a woman leaves a room, Mr. Holmes, it doesn't mean that she wishes you not to follow."

Sherlock blinks at Mary Watson, nodding stupidly at the pointedness of her advice. Before he can get himself into any further bother, he picks up his hat and cane and takes off after his wife.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch- Thanks, love. Thanks for their reviews goes to OhAine, TheSapphireSky, Rainmyselfinharmony, Aphrael, lemondropped, whenIsayrunrun, Bella_Cuore, Mursekelly0429, adesperatemelodifulsoul8, Pamc, Vercainqueen7, Mistykins06, MerriWyllow, gabriella_t, GracefulMurder, SerafineSnape, danimonteith and Strawberrychampaigne. I hope this continues to entertain :-)

~ MISCHIEF ~

Fleet Street

Outside The Cock and Hen

I will not weep, Molly chants to herself as she exits onto Fleet Street.

I will not weep, and I will not repine.

Hands shaking, she reaches into her reticule and searches for some change, trying to focus on the twin tasks of both finding her money and spotting a hansom into which she can disappear, though she has no notion of where she'll ask the cabbie to take her-

Her finger is just closing on what feels like a guinea when a hand grabs her elbow and yanks her backwards.

She collides with something solid and warm- a man's chest?- but before she can call out she recognises her husband's voice, muttering her name and calling her an imbecile.

"For heaven's sake, woman," he's snapping, "are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Molly blinks up at him, unsure for a moment what he's referring to. He seems a little blurry and she realises, much to her chagrin, that she is indeed crying.

"I beg your pardon?" she stammers and immediately Sherlock's angry expression softens. Gentles.

His large hands surround her smaller ones, clasping them together.

"You nearly walked out into traffic, my dear," he says, more kindly. "It's rush hour- Surely you wouldn't normally be so cavalier with your safety as that?"

And he cocks his head to one side, his hands tightening on hers. He's peering at her with an odd look on his face, the same one he wears when he's trying to puzzle something out. It's- It's adorable, is what it is, Molly thinks irritably. No matter how long they live together, or what he's done, she still finds that that expression pierces her heart, whenever he wears it.

More's the bloody pity, she thinks tartly.

Perhaps this shows on her face, for as quickly as it appeared that soft expression disappears from Sherlock's countenance, to be replaced by his more usual, sombre look. "You have been upset," he says stiffly. "Of course, being upset, you were distracted."

He drops her hands, steps away from her.

With a sharp, insistent motion he holds out his arm for her to take.

"Allow me to escort you home, wife," he says in that same stiff voice. "I believe you and I have things to discuss, things which are not for the ears of others-"

Molly's about to tell him just where about his person he can stuff his "things to discuss," when there's a sudden boom above her.

A spray of brick-dust and detritus puffs into the air, raining down like hailstones on her head, and then the outer wall of The Cock and Hen simply bursts outwards, as if punched by a giant's hand.

Acting on instinct Molly tries to look up, but before she can she is dragged sharply against Sherlock's body, his large, lanky form curling over her to protect her from the blast. The world goes dark for a split second, her head cocooned against his breast, and then both she and he are knocked backwards onto their sides, Sherlock only managing to avoid flattening her at the last possible moment-

He rolls them so that he is above her, his face mere inches from hers, his breath harsh and panting.

There's a ringing in Molly's ears, a sense of, of... discombobulation, and the world seems untethered for a moment, loosened from its moorings. But then-

Screams rend the air, the cacophony nearly drowned out by the neighing and whinnying of horses and the thud of carriages overturning or skidding to a halt. A forest of legs seemingly appears out of nowhere, surrounding Molly and driving against her. Several heavy feet stomp on her legs and her splayed hands, the pain making her hiss.

With remarkable dexterity, her husband gets to his feet and gathers her up, her weight seemingly little to him. His hat has been knocked askew, his fine greatcoat sprayed with dust and even as Molly notes this she hears Mary Watson calling out for her-

"Molly!" she's yelling. "Molly- We need a medic. Now!"

The blond woman staggers out of the entrance to The Cock and Hen, Kitty Reilly all but dragging from her shoulders. Her face is a mask of blood and soot. Sally Donovan appears behind her, several of the ladies from the Suffrage Campaign close at her heels. The unfortunate Anderson is there too, another lady in his arms and his face cut and bruised. There's a bloody handprint across his jaw.

"Police!" he's yelling, "police! Someone call Scotland Yard-"

Dizzy, shaken, Molly nevertheless nods. Makes to push away from her husband. In answer he tightens his grip on her, causing her to look up at him askance. The expression on his face is one she's never seen before, though she fancies both John Watson and his wife have.

It is the expression of a man for whom no measure is untoward, in the pursuit of his goal.

"Sherlock," she tries, "Sherlock, I am needed-"

"Bugger your being needed," he snaps, and then colours. He has never before sworn to his wife's face. "Forgive me," he says, his tone contrite, "but you may be hurt-"

"A couple of bruises, that is all," Molly says. "I daresay there's few here who can boast as little damage." As if to make her point for her Kitty Reilly starts to wail like a banshee; she had, mercifully, been dazed when the blast happened but she would appear to be coming back to herself. "I am needed, husband," Molly says, trying to keep her voice calm. "I can help, in a way others cannot.

Surely you don't expect me to ignore this, do you?"

Though he looks displeased at the prospect, nevertheless Sherlock swallows and gives her a single, sharp nod of his head.

With surprisingly gentle hands he sets her back on her feet, though he does not relinquish contact with her completely; whether he notices it or not, his hands maintain contact with her hips. Their weight is warm and steadying.

"Go," he says sharply. "You have work to do."

Molly nods once, makes to move away; The hands at her hips stop her, however.

"Be careful," he says, lowering his head to whisper in her ear. "The person responsible may still be about." His throat works harshly and again something moves in his eyes. Something she finds she cannot name. "I should- I should be sorry, were you to come to harm," he all but whispers. "Not when we have-"

Before he can finish, he is cut off by Mary Watson grabbing his shoulder, snapping at him to let his wife get on with things.

He colours but nevertheless nods, stepping away from both women and straightening his jacket. "I shall be summoning your husband," he tells Mary and she smiles grimly.

"I would expect nothing less," she answers, "but it's your better half who is needed now."

And with a curt nod she gestures towards the end of the street, where Sally Donovan and some of the other woman are setting up a makeshift triage station. Several of the passersby have stopped to help; some of the men, having seen action abroad, are already tearing at their shirt sleeves and fetching water. Makeshift stretchers are being improvised from the debris, and runners are being dispatched to the police and the ambulance service (such as they are).

Squaring her shoulders, Molly makes her way into their midst, Mary at her heels. She throws Sherlock a final look before setting to work, classifying the patients' by the severity of their injuries-

She's so busy that it doesn't occur to her that Irene Adler doesn't appear to be amongst the casualties...

Being famed for his powers of observation, however, this is the first thing that occurs to her husband.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks, as always, for their reviews, go to danimonteith, whenIsayrunrun, Nursekelly0429, lemondropped, MizJoely, Bella_Cuore, Aphrael, Pamc, bobsyouruncle, gabriella_t, MerriWyllow, Icecat62, deby, GracefulMurder, devilgrrl, OhAine, Limaro, Pam, SerafineSnape and staypee. There's some fluff on the way, but first, o f course, there needs to be some badassness... Enjoy!

~ PURSUIT ~

Sherlock knows that Adler can't have gotten far.

She had been in The Cock and Hen when he left to pursue Molly; Even assuming that she had disappeared out the back door before the bomb went off, she couldn't have made much progress through streets this crowded.

It was also highly unlikely that she herself had emerged from the blast unscathed.

That being the case, he thinks, she would stick to the back alleys and side streets for which this part of London is infamous, rather than risking drawing attention to herself on a main thoroughfare. That meant more than likely ducking into Temple and hoping to disappear amongst the law students-

The law students. Sherlock smiles grimly to himself. If there's one group of people with whom a woman like Adler is familiar, he muses, it's law students.

Temple it is then, he thinks and sets off at a fierce clip .

Despite the chaos of the streets, he makes good time as he moves towards the Inns of Court, calculating Adler's most likely path as he goes. If she expects pursuers- and it's always wisest to assume there will be some- then she's likely headed into the maze of the Inner Temple, the better to hide herself in some poor devil's chambers. (Sherlock knows for a fact that several of the Benchers were among her clients before she left for the Americas, and they would thus, presumably, be happy to see her again-

A man's happiness in seeing her being something on which Adler can usually depend.)

He scans his surroundings as he darts through the Inns of Court, though the streets are deserted this early in the afternoon. Most of the students are still in chambers or rousing themselves from bed. He moves restlessly, this way and that, tracking Irene's most likely route. He is assured that he's on the right track when he passes her expensive red silk cloak and dress, abandoned in an alleyway leading off Pump Court. (She is too wise to discard her jewels and money, though she has also left her reticule).

Encouraged, he picks up his pace, darting down into the Inner Temple proper, pausing for a moment in Hare Court only to spot a suspiciously fleet-footed young law student making their way towards the far side of the court, directly on a path which will lead to the Victoria Embankment. He narrows his eyes, calculating; despite the robe and wig, the person in front of him walks with rather more fluidity and grace than an ambling student might, and appears to be a good deal lighter, to boot.

Any doubt is banished when said student pauses, looking back over their shoulder surreptitiously.

Adler's face is clearly recognisable, despite her disguise and the smudges of soot and blood which she has not yet managed to entirely wipe away.

She sees him and her eyes widen in fright.

"Irene," he calls but rather than answer she breaks into an outright run, sprinting through the winding streets and scattering a group of students like pigeons, the young men swearing as both she and Sherlock knock them this way and that, determined to outrun each other.

The pursuit is dizzying, zigzagging through an area they both know well.

With each corner turned and laneway managed however, the smaller, more agile Adler gets further and further away-

It can't go on forever, though, and it doesn't. Through sheer luck- or more likely, panic- she darts through the gate and into the courtyard of one of the chambers before doubling back. Flattening herself against the wall and trying to keep out of sight.

Unfortunately for her however, Sherlock had suspected she might do so- Irene being far too clever to allow herself to be cornered- and thus he had taken the precaution of hoisting himself onto the top of the courtyard wall, waiting for her to look around and note his absence before stopping to catch her breath.

Once she has done so he swings down behind her, grabbing her by the waist and pressing a hand tightly against her mouth lest she scream.

Her eyes widen in fear and she begins to fight him.

He has too good a grip on her, however; hissing under his breath he drags her, kicking and struggling, into that self-same court-yard. She wriggles, tries to scratch and bite, but he is merciless, forcing all his weight against her as he presses her bodily against the wall to his right and brings his free arm up to rest against her windpipe.

At that, she stills considerably.

She knows what he's capable of doing to someone when he has them in this position.

"I'm going to move my hand," he hisses into her face, "but rest assured, if you scream then the next time you're conscious, you'll be sitting in Newgate awaiting the noose."

Her expression is mulish but when he removes his hand she doesn't raise her voice.

Perhaps it has occurred to her just what sort of trouble she's in.

"I've never known you to make threats, darling," she says, voice trying for provocative but missing the mark.

Sherlock is having none of that- He's not playing Irene's game, not today.

"Do not speak to me thus," he snaps, the anger he's been holding onto since the blast beginning to boil over. "Molly was in front of that building. My wife was nearly killed by your little jaunt-"

"It was nothing to do with me," Irene speaks over him. Tries to sneer. "I didn't plant that bomb- You're not that impressive a conquest, darling."

Sherlock shows his teeth. "Then who did?"

He tightens his grip on her and she blanches.

For one who knows her well, it's a rare thing to see- Rare, and also telling.

"I don't know," she allows reluctantly, something he believes not a jot. A woman like Irene Adler didn't miss that sort of detail. "I was talking to Mrs. Watson when I smelt sulphur," she continues. "It was too strong to be anything domestic…"

"So rather than warning anyone, you ran and saved your skin, eh?" Sherlock shakes his head in disgust.

At that, she does bristle. "And you'd know all about running and saving your skin, wouldn't you, darling boy?" She sneers. "Or have you forgotten Sebastopol, hmm?"

Though the words are designed to wound- though they do, in fact, cut deeply- Sherlock nevertheless shakes them off. This is not about he and Irene's past, this is about endangering Molly and the other suffragists.

Besides, so obvious an emotional ploy suggests there is indeed something she had rather he not ask her about. He frowns, reviewing the information-

"You suspect you were the target," he says, surprised he didn't see it sooner.

A curt nod. "The thought had occurred," she drawls. "I've made myself more of a nuisance than any one of those sweet little suffragettes ever has."

Despite himself, Sherlock, smiles grimly. "I rather think you're underestimating Mrs. Watson," he points out, something Irene concedes with a grim smile of her own.

"Perhaps," she allows. She shoots him another, shark-like smile. "Last I heard however, the price on my head was up to a thousand guineas, dead or alive- Hers has only ever reached half of that. Quite the fine figure, don't you think?" She snickers. "More than enough to tempt some stray little lamb into criminality."

"Doubtless." Sherlock pauses though, weighing her theory. It does, after all, have merit. Word of Adler's return is all over London, and the sort of people who might build a bomb to collect on her bounty would have heard of it before anybody else.

Such creatures would also be more than willing to harm innocents in order to do so.

And Irene being the target certainly made more sense than one of the suffragists being involved. Nobody in the suffrage meeting, save perhaps Mary, would invite the sort of ire that led to assassination-by-bomb. No, the ladies of the Suffrage Committee were society matrons and idealists; nobody in that group would have either the skill or the temperament to attempt such a bombing, which ruled out an accidental detonation too. And Mary, being the only one with such knowledge and having survived such schemes during her service in Petersburg, had no time for the notion that violence would help their aims.

Violence, she is fond of pointing out, merely gave the police an excuse to vilify the cause and arrest people, which was the last thing their campaign needed.

So no, the likelihood of one of the campaign being involved was slim. Which meant…

Irene is nodding, smiling more widely now. "You see it, don't you?" she says.

Sherlock is not willing to draw conclusions yet. He has been fooled by Irene before. However…

"I have theories," he states. "Nothing more- yet."

But still, he eases away from Adler. Lets her straighten up. Though she seems uncomfortable, she knows better than to try and push him away. Not with how angry he obviously is right now.

She knows better than any how dearly he holds the ties of family.

"But you're willing to concede it's possible?" she hazards, perhaps trying to lighten his mood, and he nods. Taps his lip thoughtfully.

"It's possible," he allows. He frowns, reviewing the information he has at his disposal, already theorising where he might find more. "I shall have to speak to Mary," he announces, "and Molly-" He shoots Adler a sharp smile.

"My wife is, of all the women I know, by far the most observant."

The look on Adler's face suggests she doesn't agree with that statement- Sherlock doesn't care- but nevertheless she nods. Shrugs her disguise back into some semblance of order and places her purloined wig back on her head.

She somehow manages to make the damn thing look rakish.

"Then let's go find this observant little woman," she says wryly, "since you find her so very useful…"

And with that she and Sherlock set off the way they came, heads bowed together and thoughts turning darker by the moment.

If either of them notice that they're being followed, they elect to keep it to themselves.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to OhAine, MetricJenn, devilgrrl, lemondropped, Mistykins06, GracefulMurder, MerriWyllow, Strawberrychampagne, Rainmyselfinharmony and whenIsayrunrun. Enjoy!

~ DEARHEART ~

The Remains of The Cock and Hen

Temple

By the time Sherlock and Irene exit Temple onto Fleet Street, the authorities have arrived.

What had been a scene of devastation is slowly starting to right itself; the injured are being seen to, while policemen argue with London's more recalcitrant cabbies and passersby about why they can't continue up through the Strand, damn it, and yes, you can be arrested if you make a nuisance of yourself by continuing to ask. Smoke still hangs over the street, mixing with the greying skies and London smog and setting a dark, dismal atmosphere.

It all feels rather... funereal.

Still, the detective nods sharply to Irene and then makes his way towards a nearby Chief Inspector (Dimmock, he thinks his name is). Irene saunters along behind him, somehow managing to make her disguise look like an evening gown. Heads pass as she does but she ignores them, as does Sherlock. He wishes to ascertain where Mary and his wife have been taken, and the ranking police officer on-site is the most likely to know.

All else is superfluous, in his estimation.

As he nears Dimmock however, he is distracted by the sound of angry voices, one male and one female. His eyes are drawn from the chief inspector to a large, mustachioed bobby who is arguing with a soot-covered, weary-looking female figure.

She is gesturing quite sharply to the unconscious form of Kitty Reilly, lying on a makeshift stretcher and looking like nothing so much as a broken doll. As Sherlock gets nearer the woman says something sharp and the bobby reaches out, grabbing her elbow and dragging her roughly towards him, his hand swinging back to hit her-

Recognition goes off inside Sherlock like a firework: The woman being manhandled is Molly. Molly.

His Molly.

Sherlock is not bloody well having that.

Heedless of the situation- or Adler- he charges across the Strand and shoves the policeman sharply away from Molly, making sure to catch her as the motion knocks him off-balance. The bobby glares at him- "What the devil are you about?"- but Sherlock doesn't answer, merely shoves him roughly away again and places himself in front of his wife. He straightens himself up to his full height and has the pleasure of seeing the policeman's confidence slip somewhat: Apparently threatening people half his size is more this man's style. He can feel Molly's hand at his arm, trying to hold him back, but he shakes his head. Refuses to look at her.

There are some things, he knows, which are not to be borne, and someone harming her is one of them.

"You'll not treat my wife that way," he snarls and at these words he hears Molly give a soft gasp behind him. It occurs to him, somewhat irritatingly, that she is surprised at finding a champion in her husband.

Surely, he thinks, she can't have so little faith in him as that?

"No lady is to be treated in such a manner," he continues, brushing so uncomfortable a thought away, "and certainly not one who has spent the last hour helping the treat the wounded-"

"Treating the wounded, was she?" The bobby grins, a hulking, ugly thing.

Apparently he feels himself on familiar ground now.

"There wouldn't be any wounded if it weren't for the likes of her and her harpies," he hisses. "Why else do you think we're rounding them up?"

He smiles, showing yellowing, tobacco-scarred teeth.

"Everyone knows what sort they are- tearing apart families," he continues. "Throwing themselves in front of carriages and scarring decent men, and for what? Votes for women?" He spits, the spittle just missing Molly's boots (and Reilly) though the message is obvious. "A belt from her husband, that's what she needs- What the lot of them need." His smile turns lewd. "That or a good, proper fu-"

The blow comes out of nowhere, so fast and sharp that the bobby doesn't even see it coming.

Truth be told, neither does Sherlock, and having seen Irene fight he supposes he shouldn't have been so naive.

Adler merely grins, enjoying both his surprise at her speed and the policeman's flabbergasted expression- Even Molly appears surprised by her strength.

The smile she shoots them is incendiary.

"Don't talk about what women need when you clearly know nothing about them," she tells the policeman wryly. "Now shouldn't you be trying to arrest me for assaulting a member of Her Majesty's police force, hmm?"

She makes a shooing motion.

"Toddle off, there's a good man, and get some reinforcements- I'll play nice and wait for the long arm of the law here."

The bobby opens his mouth then closes it; his expression turns ugly but though he squares up to her, Irene doesn't back down.

"Off you go," she repeats, voice more even. "You're getting to make an arrest tonight- Probably the only one. You should be pleased. Oh, and tell Popewilliam that I expect the best cell he has in Belgravia knick- I'll be sorely put out with him if he tries to stick me in the icehouse."

Confused, but knowing that he should follow procedure- especially concerning someone who knows to call his guv'nor by his preferred nickname- the policeman lumbers off, calling to a couple of his fellows and demanding of someone named McCabe that he hand over his pair of handcuffs post haste. McCabe grumbles but does so; Both Sherlock and Adler find themselves rolling their eyes at the man's slowness, something which Molly doesn't seem to like at all.

His wife's feelings are not Sherlock's only care in this, however. "What are you about, Irene?" he asks, sotto voce.

She shrugs, an elegant, sharp gesture which Sherlock recognises all too well.

"I need somewhere safe to lie low," she tells him. "Popewilliam owes me a favour- I'll more likely be in his bed tonight than anywhere else." She grins. "I might even get some information out of him- He's such a gossipy little thing, when he's all tied up."

Her smile dims somewhat.

"And if the police arrest someone tonight, they're less likely to continue harassing the rest of the women here- Or those on the street." For a moment her eyes are far away. "Nobody needs trouble like that, not with what happened today."

Molly sounds suspicious, something Sherlock thinks wise. "That's awfully generous of you, Miss Adler," she says. "To think of those so much less fortunate than yourself."

Irene turns a wintry smile on her. "Despite what you may have heard, I am not without feeling, Mrs. Holmes." Her tone is dry. "Why, according to some I'm practically a saint."

Her smile turns anything but saintly.

"Now, shouldn't you and your husband be heading back to Baker Street to start plotting with the Watsons, hmm?" She gestures to the unconscious Reilly, who is now being lifted gently into an ambulance cart. Makes the shooing motion as the other woman is loaded in. "Off you young lovers go, chop, chop. I'll see you in the morning-"

Sherlock hesitates. Grasps her arm. "Irene, you can't-"

Her tone is firm. "I can," she tells him. "It's no concern of yours what I do or do not do- Not anymore." She pulls her arm back, straightens her purloined robes. "Besides, do you honestly think I would choose such a course if I didn't think it the best way to secure my safety?" A snort. "Think of who you're dealing with, dearheart."

Sherlock remains unconvinced.. "But you could come to Baker Street-"

"Dear God, you really are an idiot, aren't you?" Though the words sound hostile, the tone is fond. Still shaking her head, she looks over at Molly. "Now I can see how things have gotten this way between the two of you," she tells her. "He's utterly immune to common sense." She smiles fondly. "But then he always was."

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue but before he can say anything the bobby is back, McCabe (and his cuffs) beside him.

"There you are, darling," Irene coos. "Now off to the jail-cells with me, and I can start my journey back towards the straight and narrow- Huzzah!"

For perhaps the first time in her life neither man smile and Irene shrugs. With her usual theatricality she holds her hands out for the cuffs to be put on- Cuffs which Sherlock doubts would hold her for more than half a minute if she had a mind to have them off.

For all he knows, she might well do.

Hips swaying, she saunters away from he and Molly, making her way towards the arrest wagon in which so many other members of the Suffrage Committee are sitting.

Sherlock and Molly watch her go, an uncomfortable silence settling between the couple though when he offers it, Molly takes his arm. Walks with him. Together they set off towards the Embankment, hoping to find a hansom.

It's only as they disappear around the corner that Irene relaxes-

That is, until she realises that, despite her best efforts as bait, the person who was following she and Sherlock through Temple is now following he and Molly.

"Oh, for the love of tits," she mutters to herself as the police wagon takes off and she starts working quietly away at her cuffs.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to Aphrael, lemondropped, Nursekelly0429, always_annajane, devilgrrl, deby, LadyJenn, MerryWyllow, whenIsayrunrun, OhAine, Mistykins06, Staypee, Bobsyouruncle, danimonteith, Icecat62 and TraesaLally. Enjoy!

~ FORGET-ME-NOT ~

Gower Street

One Hour Later

The journey in the hansom proves unspeakably uncomfortable.

Though she had allowed him to hand her into the cab, Molly finds herself unable to make conversation with her husband. She is too rattled by the day's events, too annoyed with his behaviour towards her, and more specifically, his behaviour towards Irene Adler, to make such an effort as that.

After all, it is one thing to know that your husband cares for another woman; it is entirely another to hear him invite that woman into his home.

In the moments when he had defended her from that loathsome policeman Molly had allowed herself to start to hope, to think that maybe he… But no. His behaviour afterwards had put paid to that inanity.

Indeed, she knows that she has only her own foolish heart to blame for it.

So she says nothing, keeps her thoughts to herself. For his part, Sherlock seems to be distracted: he does not pay his wife any attention, nor does he make useless conversation. He merely sits opposite her and occasionally smiles to himself, his hands steepled before his lips. Clearly, he is lost in his Mind Palace, and trying to work through the case of the bombing. Seeing how irritable Molly's feeling right now- and the import of what he's doing- she sees little point in trying to draw him out.

Instead she sits in the cab, shivers as rain pelts the windows. Her coat isn't quite up to keeping out the unseasonal chill. It's grown dark outside, and the glimmermen have started lighting the street lamps. Each one flares into brightness, a buttery spark of yellow in the gloom and there's something… soothing about their appearance, Molly fancies. Something cheerful. It reminds her that no matter what she might have experienced today, there is still the chance of light in the darkness. There is still a chance that some things will work out well.

As she thinks this however, the cab comes to a halt, jolting Sherlock out of his reverie; as he comes back to himself, Molly hears the name "Irene," leave his lips, and just like that, her wisp of hope is gone, replaced by the same thing which has gotten her through the last two years: stoicism. Obstinacy.

She will not be ruled by her feelings.

Unaware, apparently, of his slip of the tongue Sherlock blinks at the cabby, reaches into his greatcoat and pulls out a note before handing it to the man. He looks out the window- "Is this the closest you can get us?"- and the cabbie nods. Shrugs.

"Not unless you want to spend another hour sitting in traffic, sir," he says apologetically.

Molly feels a twinge of sympathy: he looks utterly soaked.

"Very well, then." With a weary nod Sherlock opens the hansom door and hops out.

He shrugs off his greatcoat and then reaches inside, helping Molly out too.

As soon as her boots hit the pavement he drapes the coat around her and starts walking briskly towards the safety and dryness of Baker Street, getting soaked himself in the process and forcing Molly to hurry to keep up with him. The rain slicks his hair and paints his shirt and waistcoat to his pale skin, turning both garments nearly indecent to Molly's eyes.

She can feel her face starting to heat but she can't seem to look away, something which makes her blush further.

She is suddenly painfully aware of how attractive she has always found her husband, and the thought does little to calm her pounding heart or heated face.

By the time she reaches 221B Sherlock has opened the door and darted inside; Molly follows on his heels, only to feel him take the coat from her shoulders and hang it up before removing her own, lighter one and hanging it up too. A match flares, illuminating Sherlock's face starkly, and then he's coaxing the hall lamp into brightness. Picking it up and moving toward the stairs up to 221B.

He turns and looks at her expectantly.

"This way," he says and though she's uncomfortable with him Molly follows, curious despite herself about the infamous Baker Street flat where her husband and his best friend ply their trade. Though she has often heard of this place- and though her husband spares an inordinate amount of time there- she has never before set foot in it. (She usually stays at their townhouse in Grosvenor Square, or her family home in Clapham Green, if she must spend a night in London at all).

She creeps forward, following closely behind Sherlock and trying not to stare at the paintings on the walls, at the obvious evidence of bullet-holes and misadventures. When he ushers her inside the flat she is taken aback by how clean and warm it is; a fire burns in the grate and someone- his housekeeper, perhaps?- has left out some food and a set of dry clothes for him, as well as his housecoat, slippers and pipe.

He turns and looks at her and she is surprised to see that he looks somewhat... abashed.

"Forgive me," he says softly. "I had asked Mrs. Hudson to leave out a change for you too, but she appears to have forgotten." His cheeks darken and he clears his throat. Suddenly he seems fascinated with his feet. "There is… That is to say, I have some clothes which will fit you here.

They can be found upstairs, in the room to your right."

And her confident, sharp-tongued husband jerks his head shyly towards the stairs they've just come up. "If there's anything you need then simply ask for it," he tells her, handing her the oil lamp. "By the time you've changed I should have the fire going better than this-"

Their fingers touch where he hands it to her and he jerks, turning from her rather suddenly and making himself busy with the fire and the food.

Unsure of what just happened- but eager to find these clothes he thinks will fit her- Molly does as he bids and climbs the stairs, taking the door to her right and pushing it open.

What she sees when she does so is a genuine surprise.

For she finds an cosy, well-appointed bedroom. Another fire burns merrily and the thick curtains are closed, blocking out the noise from the street outside. A heavy cotton night-rail and peignoir has been laid on the double bed, a silver hand-mirror and brush beside them as well as slippers. Stockings.

Everything looks like it's just her size.

On the night-table to the bed's right there sits a small decanter of port and two glasses. Picking one up, Molly realises that they are engraved with a series of what looks like forget-me-nots, as well as an elaborately intertwined MH and WSH-

She hears a throat cleared behind her and sees Sherlock staring at her, dressed only in his trousers, still-wet undershirt and braces. His normally slicked hair has turned wavy from being wet and his ears are tipped red.

There's a look on his face she doesn't recognise.

"They were meant to be a gift," he says, his voice slightly… strained. He looks nervous. "For our wedding night- And any night thereafter." He clears his throat, crosses the room and pours himself a port.

After a moment's hesitation, he pours Molly one too.

"Initially I had planned to bring you here and not Musgrave Hall, you see..." He trails off, staring into his glass. "Obviously, it didn't work out that way."

"Obviously-" Though Molly doesn't think it obvious at all.

Intrigued however, she sits down on the bed. Looks down at the sheets (looking at her husband will merely result in her embarrassing herself). Again she spots the same pattern, forget-me-nots and she and Sherlock's initials. They have been embroidered onto the linens, and, she realises with a start, the night-rail too. They even decorate the brush and hand-mirror. Given that forget-me-nots are her favourite flower, she finds the gesture rather sweet- Unexpected too, given that she has never revealed a fondness for those flowers to anyone…

"You were wearing forget-me-nots in your hair, the first night I saw you," Sherlock blurts out.

As sometimes happens with him, it feels as if he's reading her thoughts.

She looks up at him, surprised that he remembers such a detail but now he's staring into his glass again, his face troubled. "The dress was periwinkle blue," he continues, "and you, you had a green shawl; you were using it to sneak a copy of De Hanault's Biologica Formica into the ballroom so you would have something to read rather than dancing with anyone- Especially the boors who were trying to catch an heiress' eye. I saw it and I remember thinking..."

"What do you remember thinking?" For some reason, Molly must repress a shiver and she doesn't think it's because of her wet clothes.

He looks right at her. "I remember thinking that I had to know who you were," he says quietly. "That I would have to have my mother arrange an introduction."

She blinks. "So you weren't… It wasn't my father who approached yours?"

That was, after all, how she had assumed their courtship had begun.

Sherlock shakes his head. Drains his glass before sitting down on the bed beside her, rather more closely than is necessary. Indeed, it belatedly occurs to her that this might be the closest they've ever been to one another.

The heat and solidness of his thigh feels rather… pleasant against her own.

"I asked about you," he says quietly. "I… I pursued you, though I had sworn I would never do such a thing."

Molly frowns, not understanding. "But why?" she asks. "Why were you so interested in me?"

A smile flits across Sherlock's face, one Molly's never seen before. It's… soft. Wondrous and boyish and gentle.

It sets a swarm of butterflies loose in her chest.

"Who wouldn't be interested in a woman who sneaks biology textbooks into a dance?" he counters. "Who wouldn't be interested in a wallflower who wishes to read about dead bodies? You know how damn tedious those affairs are: were I permitted an overabundance of silk skirts in which to hide books, then you can be sure I'd have been reading De Hanault too…"

And he laughs. It's bright, joyous, and Molly finds herself joining him. He looks at her warmly and she feels it again, that spark from earlier. That hope. That tenderness.

This time, however, she doesn't think to push it away.

Instead she finds herself staring at her husband, her chest tightening, breath growing shallow as she shivers. This time she doesn't even try to hide it.

His gaze darts from her eyes to her lips and despite herself, Molly's face heats.

Slowly, as if fearing to startle her, Sherlock cocks his head. Leans forward. He gives her plenty of time to pull away but Molly doesn't move. In fact, she feels rooted to the spot. His lips brush hers- just a touch- and heat ignites through her body, setting constellations of feeling sparking through her. It feels- It feels so unexpected- So different and yet so pleasurable-

Without her quite meaning to, her hands move, sliding gingerly up his chest and pulling him closer to her.

He moans into her mouth at the contact and heat flares within her. She presses herself against him and feels the warmth of his chest, the solidness of it, even as his mouth moves against hers, over and over and over again. Something within her seems to shake loose; her pulse pounds and her body softens. Their mouths moving together, breaths heaving in the warm, welcoming room. Despite their wet clothes, both of them seem furnace hot; the need to get closer-closer-closer- is pounding like a drum through her veins and she can't seem to make it stop. She doesn't want to. Without warning, he tips them both over so that she's splayed beneath him, staring up at his dishevelled hair and beautiful face and hungry, sea-green eyes…

"Are you alright?" he gasps and she nods, her chest heaving, her hands tightening around his neck.

"Are you?" she asks, feeling stupid as soon as the words leave her mouth, but his bright, sharp smile banishes the feeling almost as soon as it can manifest.

"Never better," he says, "wife…" He strokes his nose along hers, eyes fluttering closed. "Lovely, lovely wife…" And he lowers his head again, instinct making Molly reach up for him. Her lips tingle with the desire to feel his kiss again…

Which is, of course, when they hear John Watson shouting a warning from the foot of the stairs.

It is also when they hear Mary let off a round from her trusty pistol.

The most unexpected thing, however, is hearing Irene Adler's voice, demanding Mary point her weapon somewhere else-

"Well, bugger," Sherlock mutters and for once, Molly has to agree.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to Herstory_Angel, reesiesteve, Vervainequeen7, gabriella_t, Mistykins06, whenIsayrunrun, Pamc, devilgrrl, MetricJenn, Aphrael, Nursekelly0429, IHatePlotHoles, MerriWyllow, WillSherJohnKhan, renniejoy, GracefulMurder, deby, OhAine, ms_smilla, lemondropped, rockcandybar, Rainmyselfinharmony, adesperatemelodifulsoul8, SerafineSnape, Reine and rottenbrainstuff. Hope this continues to entertain- Enjoy!   

~ DISTRACTIONS ~

Baker Street

One Minute Later

The look on Mary Watson's face should be grounds for murder, Sherlock thinks irritably as he stares down the steps at her.

Of course, the knowing smile on John's face isn't much better.

Irene is outright grinning at him, something which makes him roll his eyes and pull back up his braces- he refuses to straighten anything else, he's far too pleased with what his wife just did to him to fix it.

As if called by his thinking of her, he hears Molly's light tread behind him, feels her sweet little hand reach out to touch his arm. He turns to her and smiles. Takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles while she blushes prettily.

The sight of it sets something fierce and sharp and joyful loose within his chest.

Were they properly alone, it would be more than enough to prompt a return to his attentions in the bedroom.

To his disgust, Mary lets out a whoop of delight and holds her free hand out to her husband; with a long-suffering sigh John fishes out a coin and places it in his wife's palm. "Fine!" he says. "Yes, I shouldn't have bet against you, my love."

"Quite right," Mary nods, tucking the guinea into her bodice. Some habits have never, alas, left her. "But might I importune the love birds a moment?" She nods to Irene. "I found this one breaking into your lodgings-"

"I was not breaking in," Irene objects. "I was chasing off an intruder. Besides, I had been invited." At the Watsons' collective wince she smiles. "And yes, before you ask, I did point out to Sherlock that such a course would be unpopular with the little woman." She aims another sly smile at he and the "little woman," in question. "Though this slip does not appear to have scuppered his chances in that regard-"

Molly's blush worsens and Sherlock glares. "Move onto another subject," he says curtly.

He'll not have his Molly embarrassed in his home, and certainly not by Irene.

Adler grins wickedly up at him. "Come down here and make me- dearheart-"

Sherlock makes to step down the stairs but before he can Mary Watson clips the adventuress sharply behind the ear. "I've spent two years trying to get them this far, Adler," she says sternly. "If I have to shoot you to keep them up there, I will."

Though Sherlock is surprised by the words- Mary has been trying to help with his marital problems?- he elects to focus on the problem at hand, namely the former mistress before him. Irene shrugs, gives a moue of disappointment. "Have it your own way," she says. "I suppose I shall simply have to keep my warnings and observations to myself... Or use them for leverage with the authorities..."

John rolls his eyes at this but Molly steps forward. "You have a warning for my husband?" she asks quietly and to his surprise and pleasure, Sherlock feels another, gentler puff of warmth in his chest, that despite their difficulties, his wife wishes to see to his safety-

Truly, he can consider himself a fortunate man.

Irene nods though; her expression suggests she knows just where Sherlock's thoughts have led him. "A youth trailed your husband and I through Temple this afternoon, Mrs. Holmes," she says. "I assumed this person was following me, since Sherlock would have noted them had they been following him for any amount of time." She smiles. "You have him distracted, my dear, but not that distracted."

Again she shrugs, a preening gesture Sherlock knows only too well.

It is, to use legal parlance, an attempt to lead the witness.

"I tried to lead this person astray with my arrest," Irene continues, "but alas, they followed you two instead..." Another sharp smile. "I can't imagine why, but doubtless their purpose is utterly harmless…"

"So they were here, in Baker Street." Molly's hand tightens protectively on his arm and Sherlock fights down a stab of annoyance. He doesn't, on general principles, like to worry his wife: Molly is not like Mary Watson, trained for the field and used to danger. Allowing her to see the danger he and Watson often place themselves in will do nothing but worry her, or worse yet, drive her away-

And that, he knows, is not a burden he would wish to bear

But though he expects her to be horrified, she simply moves past him and starts descending the stairs. "Assuming I believe you," she's saying, "what can you tell us about this fellow that can be verified?" She crosses her arms over her chest. "Forgive me, Miss Adler, but you must allow your story sounds a tad... convenient, when you've been caught red-handed breaking into your former protector's rooms."

She hesitates at the word "protector," and Sherlock winces. Nevertheless, she continues.

"Whatever you relationship with Sherlock," she says, "nothing I have heard about you would encourage me to trust you..."

"A wise attitude," Irene speaks over her. Her tone is somewhat amused. "I am, I assure you, utterly untrustworthy and always have been. It's rather a gift of mine."

Her smile dims.

"But your husband is one of the few people for whom I care- for whom I would risk myself, even," she says. Her voice rings with that rarest of things for her: genuine emotion. Sherlock's cheeks heat. "Whatever your opinion of me," she's saying, "never doubt that I care about him. No matter what may have passed between us, I shall always care about him."

And she looks away, perhaps uncomfortable with such honesty.

Relief and gratitude swells in Sherlock's breast at those words, though they will not, he knows, make his situation with Molly any easier.

Whatever her opinion however, Molly nods thoughtfully at the words, moving down the stairs to stand beside Adler; with a nod to Mary the latter lets former stand up, tucking her pistol back inside her reticule. She shoots Adler a look which Sherlock knows translates as Behave Yourself and then opens the door to the parlour.

"Shall we step inside and partake of some tea?" she asks. John, as ever thinking with his stomach, nods eagerly. "And I shall help you out of those wet things, shall I, Molly?" she adds, gesturing to Molly's wet clothes.

It's only with these words that it occurs to Sherlock- His wife is still soaking and will probably catch a chill. Truly, he should have made sure to help her change before he started kissing her!

As ever, he muses in annoyance, the role of decent husband eludes him.

Perhaps Molly's thinking the same for her cheeks heat too. "If you could help me then I would be most grateful, Mrs. Watson," she says. "I'm afraid I have no clothes here-"

"Never mind that." Mary speaks over her, bustling up the stairs and shooing the young medic towards the bedroom she has just vacated. "I'm sure we'll work something out-" She looks at Sherlock and her husband. "Just try not to let Adler escape before we get back, hmm?"

And with that she leads Molly back into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. Sherlock finds the click of it rather... ominous and a look at John tells him his friend agrees.

He hears Irene snort. "I sometimes wonder how men ended up in charge of everything," she says wryly. "Considering how utterly clueless they always seem to be."

And with that she saunters into Sherlock's parlour and sets about pouring herself a well-earned cup of tea.

She even helps herself to a biscuit.

Meanwhile,

Upstairs

"Are you sure these are for me?"

And Molly stares, open-mouthed, at the wardrobe full of dresses in front of her. A veritable rainbow of her favourite colours is before her: There are evening dresses, day dresses. Tea dresses and housecoats. Shoes, boots and slippers sit in rows, as well as the sort of serviceable skirts and blouses she favours.

There's even a couple of pairs of trousers, for bicycling.

She looks at Mary and the other woman smiles. Nods. "He's never told you he did this, has he?" she says. She smiles fondly. "Sherlock Holmes: a man with the astonishing ability to keep quiet about all the best things he does."

Though Molly dislikes hearing her husband insulted, she nods. "No," she admits, "he never told me." A dark thought occurs. "These aren't Irene Adler's, or her predecessor's, are they?"

Mary snorts. "Do any of those look like they'd fit someone as tall as Adler?" she asks tartly. "Or that she'd wear them, peacock that she is?"

Molly must allow the truth of both those statements.

"No," Mary says, settling about unbuttoning her dress and shirtwaist, "he had these made for you, when your engagement was first announced. Had my heart broken for weeks, asking about what you would need. What I thought you would find suitable." She shakes her head. "I swear, there were times I thoughts I'd end up strangling him with a length of French satin, or Belgian lace."

Molly frowns. "But why didn't he just ask me?"

The other woman shrugs. "That would have been a bit too much like common sense, for Sherlock," she says. Her voice softens. "I also rather imagine he wanted this to be a surprise."

"Well it is." Molly knows her tone is tart, but she can't help it: tonight has been such a revelation for her. First, the knowledge that her husband would defend her and her political beliefs from a policeman. (She had long known that he didn't object, but to hear him sympathise was something else). Next the realisation that he feels an attraction to her which might prompt him to, prompt him to… She forces herself to think it: To kiss her like a devil. A delicious, wonderfully endearing devil. And then on top of that, to discover that he had planned to bring her here, to his home, after their marriage. That he had, in fact, made space for her in the place he loved above all others...

To her surprise, she finds her throat tightening. Though not one for tears overmuch, she feels her eyes grow a little wet. There is so much, she is just realizing, that she doesn't know about the man she married... So much that she never imagined...

"There, there," Mary says quietly, patting her back. "There, there. I know this day has been trying for you." She finally gets the last of Molly's dress buttons open and starts working her bodice down her torso and off (her corset and petticoats are damp but the rest of her underthings appear to be fine.) "I assure you, however, it will turn out well in the end-"

"How?" Molly asks, and she's not sure what she's talking about. Whether she's referring to her problems with her husband, the mystery interloper Irene Adler says she interrupted or something else. Something she hasn't a name for.

It's all just so confusing, she doesn't know where to start.

Mary's smile, however, is reassuring. "It will turn out well because we will make it so," she says softly. "That, and because you're about to give Sherlock Holmes a taste of how happy life can be, when he doesn't keep it a secret that he thinks often of his wife- in and out of her clothing."

And with that a laugh she starts taking gowns out of the wardrobe, laying them on the bed for Molly to try on.

She particularly seems to favour the lower-cut ones.

Though the thought of wearing a new dress without corset or shirtwaist feels scandalous, Molly nevertheless allows her friend to help her choose what to wear next. After all, if she is to help cross-examine Irene Adler then she had best see that she wears her battle dress…

So distracted is she by thoughts of her husband that she doesn't even hear the creak as someone moves stealthily down the stairs...

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch because I didn't show it to her; I didn't want to wait. Thanks for their reviews go to Vervainqueen7, lemondropped, MetricJenn, Nursekelly0429, devilgrrl, applejacks0808, danimonteith, MizJoely, SexyDiva122868, rottenbrainstuff, Bella_Cuore, OhAine, renniejoy, MerriWyllow, Rainmyselfinharmony, SimplySpectating and SerafineSnape. I hope this continues to entertain. I would just ask that, since RL is very busy at the moment, people don't keep asking for new chapters: when I have time to write I do but I currently have two jobs. That said, enjoy!

~ DEVOTION ~

Baker Street Living Room

Two Seconds Later

Sherlock stops. Listens. Frowns.

He's across the room, the poker from the fireplace in his hand, before he has consciously realised what he's doing.

There's someone on the staircase above.

At the thought he tenses: after all, Molly is up those stairs. And whoever is sneaking through his house is not getting anywhere near his wife.

That, beyond anything else, is the rule here in Baker Street: it is safe for him and his.

From the corner of his eye he sees Irene and Watson react to his rising, the latter frowning and reaching for his pistol, the former stalking smoothly over to Sherlock, a wicked-looking hatpin in her hand (and just where, he wonders, did she get that from?)

Adler raises her eyebrows in question and he nods. Gestures to John.

With the ease that comes with practice Holmes allows Adler to slide into place on the other side of the door jam. (John, being their team's sharpshooter, follows up at the rear.) Holmes waits a beat, ensuring that everyone is ready before throwing the door open and bathing the landing in the light from both the lamps and the fire. As intended, the sudden brightness shocks his intruder; the stocky, black-clad figure freezes, momentarily unsure what to do.

This momentary doubt, Holmes vows, will prove his undoing.

The interloper's gaze flicks swiftly between his three foes: Moving in concert Sherlock, Irene and John surge onto the landing, Holmes at the head, Adler moving to block the second set of stairs down to the front door. John, being the best shot, hangs behind, being most dangerous from a distance. For all his genial demeanour he will not hesitate to shoot; after all, he too has a wife up those stairs.

For a moment all seems to be going well, familiarity making their work together seem easy. Sherlock tackles the interloper while Irene blocks his possible retreat and goes for his weapon, some sort of small firearm by the looks of it. As Sherlock wrestles him onto his chest, using the steps' edge to knock the wind out of him, Adler slams her pointed heel of her boot down onto the interloper's wrist, forcing him to drop his pistol. She then takes it and turns it on him, grinning smugly at both Sherlock and her victim-

And that, of course, is when everything goes to Hell.

For Molly appears at the top of the stairs wearing little more than her petticoats and pelisse, Mary at her elbow. She lets out a gasp at the scene before her: The intruder sees her and digs his elbow sharply into Sherlock's ribs, managing to twist out from under the larger man.

He struggles to his feet, takes a step towards up the stairs, and Holmes sees red: Intellectually he knows that Molly's safe, that Mary's there and more than happy to protect her, but intellectualism is of no use to him now. Where his heart is concerned, it never is. For the sight of a hostile interloper moving towards his wife sets off something in Sherlock, something powerful. Something rarely seen.

Indeed, the last time it had made an appearance, he and Irene Adler were fleeing a Russian Prince in the port of Sebastopol.

With barely a pause he's up the stairs, hurling himself bodily at the intruder.

As assaults go it's less than clever- and it has the expected result.

For his opponent has seen his loss of composure; he knows he's not thinking. Such a show of weakness will always have unpleasant consequences, when one is in the middle of a fight. There's a flash of silver and a curved blade slices the air, the blow something Sherlock would have seen coming had he been calmer. The intruder's weapon slashes Sherlock at his shoulder, the force of it knocking him off balance and making him drop his poker.

He clenches his hands together, trying to manage the pain, even as he feels his arm turn alight with heat and blood.

At the sight of his bleeding Molly gasps, tears spring to her eyes. She tries to move towards her husband but Mary holds her back.

Again the intruder moves towards her but this time Mary pushes her friend behind her, pulls out her pistol- Just like her husband, Mary rarely misses. The intruder sees the weapon and hisses, spitting out something which is clearly a profanity in a language Sherlock doesn't recognise before spitting in Mary's face and throwing himself at her, his blade once again raised.

Her hands steady, eyes narrowing as she cocks the pistol, Mary prepares to shoot her target.

She's not aiming for a minor clip, she wants to permanently stop him.

But that won't do- They need to question him. Sherlock therefore yanks at the intruder's ankle viciously and the man falls forward on the landing, his knees going out from under him. He sprawls momentarily- breathless? Stunned? - and then suddenly he bites down sharply. Twitches. Once. Twice.

His blade tumbles from his grasp, thudding lightly down the steps towards the landing.

His mouth starts to foam and with a call John's beside him, Mary at his elbow. She gestures for Molly to join them but Sherlock intervenes. Pulls her to him.

"No," is all he says and though she looks inclined to argue, she merely nods her head in acquiescence. Wraps her arms around him.

She's shaking ever so slightly, but then so is he.

Time seems to still, then to sputter into spinning. Within moments the interloper is no longer breathing, his body turning cold. He appears to have poisoned himself, John is reporting; such a method is common amongst the more... devout members of the intelligence community. In some nations, refusal to die rather than be taken will be enough to see to it that your entire family is killed, Holmes knows.

But it makes no sense, he thinks: why would this sort of man make an attempt on Molly, of all people? Why, when faced with operatives like he, John, Adler and Mary would he seem intent on assassinating the only civilian in the room? The only civilian with absolutely no ties to the Home Office? And why did he react so viciously to Mary, when he hadn't seemed particularly irritated by any of the other people trying to kill, beat or otherwise importune him?

It's as he's thinking this, his arms tightening around Molly, that Sherlock spots Irene moving quietly towards the stairs, the interloper's blade in her hand.

She may not be moving fast but she's clearly making a break for it.

She gets about three steps before one of Mary's bullets hisses into the ground at her feet, stopping her neatly in her tracks and warning her that any other attempted movements will be dealt with harshly.

The look on Mrs. Watson's face would make braver creatures than Irene Adler quail.

"Something you want to share with the rest of us?" the blond woman asks pointedly, and at this Irene winces. Glares. And then makes her way back into the parlour to resume her tea and biscuits.

"You're not going to like it," she tells Mary- Something nobody in the room doubts.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to Agilityvet, MizJoely, MetricJenn, adesperatemelodifulsoul8, WillSherJohnKhan, lemondropped, Nursekelly0429, applejacks0808, Aphrael, devilgrrl, SimplySpectating, Limaro, OhAine, Strawberrychampagne, MerriWyllow, Rainmyselfinharmony and GracefulMurder. Enjoy!

~ BLADE ~

Baker Street Living Room

Moments Later

With a small, sharp nod Sherlock moves back into the parlour. Takes a seat beside Molly.

Not knowing what to do, she nods at him and leans as close as she possibly can.

After a moment she is gratified to feel his free hand reach out and take hers.

She looks up at him and there's something in his eyes that makes her heart flutter like a sparrow in her chest.

He says nothing of it, merely gestures to Mary, who forces Irene rather sharply into a chair by the fire and then takes the blade she was attempting to hide from her. Brings it over to him and shows it to both he and her husband. The knife is wicked-looking, sharp and curved with a matching handle. The workmanship on it is intricate, though it appears to be well used. This is no ceremonial weapon, Molly muses, but a thing made for carnage- And it had hurt her husband.

At the thought she grits her teeth and glares at Adler.

Adler, being Adler blows her a kiss but the gesture seems forced, not playful, as it might have earlier in the evening.

For their parts, the Watsons are sharing a thoughtful look. "It's not real, dear heart," Mary tells John, to which the doctor raises his eyebrows in question.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks, and at this the blond woman smiles.

"Because if this were truly a kukri," Mary says quietly, "Then we wouldn't have caught its owner- Believe me. My father served in Nepal with those men, their reputation is indeed deserved."

Her smiles grows sombre.

"But you already know that, don't you, Irene?" And she turns her attention to the dark-haired woman. "So why don't you tell us what this is really about, hmm?"

And at this both she and Sherlock turn to look at Adler. The sudden movement causes Sherlock to wince in pain, the blood at his cut arm oozing more strongly, rivulets of it sluicing down his arm.

Molly lets out a little cry of pity at the sight of it and he gives her hand a squeeze, trying to comfort her, the silly man, when she should be comforting him.

Rather than say that Molly presses a small kiss to the inside of his wrist.

Sherlock grows still, his eyes becoming unfocused, brows drawn together. He looks like he doesn't know how to respond., something which surprises Molly. He certainly seemed to know how to respond to being kissed when they were upstairs. Not noticing, John bustles over to one of the cabinets, opens it and begins pulling out medical supplies. He works quickly, taking what he needs and then coming back to his patient. Calmly swiping the cut with alcohol- this makes Sherlock wince slightly- before examining the wound.

He's tutting like a mother hen- Interspersed with some rather colourful swearing.

"Don't hold your tongue on account of me," he's telling Adler. "You of all people know I can patch Sherlock up and listen- I've done it before."

He makes a shooing gesture. "Now talk."

And with that he continues to treat Sherlock. Adler acknowledges his words with a curt inclination of her head, but still she doesn't speak. She merely bites her lip, trying to look innocent, Molly thinks, though she finds herself surprised that so wise a manipulator would try a ploy so unlikely to succeed.

After a moment though she seems to realise that this won't work on her audience because she sighs, takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. Sits up straighter.

When she looks at the room at large, her expression is almost bullish.

"You're right," she tells Mary. "I don't believe that the man we just saw is really one of the Gurkha regiment." She gestures to the blade- which tells Molly that this must be her reason for naming that legendary body of soldiers. "The carrying of that is an attempt to suggest as much, but we you're correct- A true Gurkha would not have been so sloppy, or so easily caught."

She purses her lips.

"Then who do you think it was?" Mary prompts. "And why were you attempting to defend them?"

Again Adler seems reluctant, but this time she answers.

Her eyes fixed on the fire, she begins, quietly, to speak.

"You know me, Mary," she begins hesitantly. "You know my methods: I make my way in the world, I cause trouble, and when I do I walk away. That's who I am, that's always been how I've lived. But after…" She clears her throat uncomfortably, "After recent events, after Sebastopol in particular, it occurred to me that perhaps this was not the best way to live.

Perhaps it was not the only way in which I might be happy."

She throws a sad, wry smile at Sherlock.

To Molly's great discomfort, she sees her husband's face heat, but he says not a word.

"The thing about having someone else walk away from, you is- Suddenly you realise how it feels," Adler continues quietly. "Suddenly you realise it feels ghastly."

Though the detective opens his mouth she rushes on before he can speak.

"But that's neither here nor there- What's important is that in the aftermath of Sebastopol, I decided to evaluate my life. My choices," she says. "I travelled as far from that wretched Prince Vronsky as I could and I found myself in India, working as a ladies' companion, of all things. I was taken into the employ of Lord Carnavron-"

"Her Majesty's envoy to India?" Mary interrupts and Adler nods.

Trust Mary to know that, Molly thinks.

But truth be told, Carnavron was known to most suffragists, though not because of his ties to India. His wife, Lady Sophia, had recently caused a massive outcry by pursuing a divorce and the subsequent scandal had allowed the broadsheets much merriment. She was alleging adultery and cruelty as her reasons, something which the stout-hearted British press were having none of: she was well-taken care of, had never had a hand raised to her (by her own admission) and lived a far wealthier life than she might have as a minor gentleman's daughter.

What was she complaining about?

Never mind that she was confined to her quarters no matter the country her husband brought her to, never mind that she was forbidden from communicating with her sisters and her mother- her husband had every right to do such a thing, according to public opinion, no matter the effect it had on his wife. Was this the reason for this night's difficulties? Molly muses. Had Adler, in her role of companion, witnessed Lord Carnavron's behaviour? Might she be considered a witness worthy of pursuit, and was that why someone had been following her?

But then, why attack either she or Sherlock? Why would the interloper seem to be focussed on Mrs. Molly Holmes more than Miss Irene Adler?

It made no sense, at least none that Molly can see.

Judging by Mary Watson's unimpressed expression however, Lord Carnavron is not the reason the spies in the room have conjured for a pursuit of Irene Adler. Not at all. For-

"Oh, you didn't," Mary is saying, something which prompts Adler to glare at her.

"Lady Sophia is a beautiful, intelligent woman," the adventuress bites out. "Of course I bloody did."

"But you were, apparently, trying to lie low," Mary snaps back. "Trying to reassess your life and your priorities, etc, etc, etc."

"Preferring the company of women is not the sort of thing one reassesses," Adler says acidly, for the first time seeming truly annoyed. She stands, begins pacing. She wrings her hands together, mouth twisted in a thin, sharp line. "When one is given the chance to worship a goddess, one becomes a supplicant," she says tartly. Both the Watsons roll their eyes at that. "Besides," Adler continues, "I refuse to apologise for finding my Sophie, or for persuading her to finally leave that bastard she was married off to- There is nothing in the world which would prompt me to do such a thing-"

"Of course there isn't." Mary rolls her eyes and turns to her husband. "And they say it's only men who can't keep it in their trousers," she says dryly. She nods to Sherlock, then to Adler. "Between the two of you, I think you might just disprove every falsehood ever uttered about the sexes and sex, do you know that?"

Sherlock winces, narrows his eyes. "Do not speak so freely of unseemly matters before my wife," he says stiffly, something which causes Adler to snicker and Mary to snort.

"Well, someone needs to talk to her, since it seems you won't," Mrs. Watson fires back.

Trying to keep the peace Molly raises her voice before the bickering can worsen. "I'm sorry," she says, "But I'm afraid you've lost me- What are you implying about Miss Adler and Lady Carnavron? And why might it result in an apparently fake Gurkha officer invading my husband's home?"

At this Sherlock's face flushes and Adler shoots him a ghost of her usual, feline smile. "Shall I tell her, dear-heart?" she asks archly, "Or should you?"

Sherlock clears his throat. Straightens up. Though Watson is still working on his arm, this appears to be the thing that's making him uncomfortable. "Miss Adler has a… preference," he says curtly.

Molly raises her eyebrows at him in question.

"She prefers the company of women," he elaborates, when his wife doesn't speak.

"What has that to do with anything?" Molly asks and at this Adler does laugh because Sherlock's face turns completely puce.

His jaw works but he doesn't say anything.

"What your darling husband is trying- and utterly failing- to say," Adler smirks, "is that when I say I prefer the company of women, I mean I prefer them for my bedsport. I prefer them as my lovers. I even prefer them as my partners, whatever the gossip about your darling Sherlock there might claim."

As she speaks, Sherlock's face goes redder, something which doesn't surprise Molly. She's sure her own can match it. She's heard of such things whispered but she's never had them confirmed by anyone- Much less proudly proclaimed like they're nothing to be ashamed of, which is what Miss Adler is doing here.

And yet, Molly supposes she can understand a little, if Adler is speaking of a, a lover rather than a mere friend or companion. To have watched someone she cared about treated in so cavalier a fashion by her husband as Lady Sophia alleges must have been difficult indeed. It occurs to Molly how she might react, were someone to mistreat Sherlock, and as she does she stiffens, her hand tightening on his-

He hisses in pain and instantly she steps away, dropping his hand and frowning.

Despite John's imprecations, he rises to his feet and goes to her. Takes both her hands in his and squeezes. "Are you terribly shocked?" he asks quietly and she shakes her head.

"I just don't like seeing you hurt, is all," she mutters. "What Miss Adler does on her own time is her own affair."

She sees it again, that frowning, unfocused look, as if he's utterly lost as to what he's supposed to do now- As if his mind has suddenly been drawn to a place from which he can't recall it. Emotion seems to do this to him and as she thinks this she can't help but feel a great swell of affection for him-

Molly's about to ask him if he's alright when there's a loud banging on the door.

They hear shouts, the thudding of loud footsteps on the stairs below- And then Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police Force marches into the room, bold as brass, with a warrent for Miss Adler's arrest.

The fact that there's a dead body on the stairs really rather complicated matters, however...

Chapter Text

Disclaimer : This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to OhAine, MerriWyllow, Aphrael, tutu1b, irvine1321, MizJoely, applejacks0808, MetricJenn, ChiefDoctor, GracefulMurder, Rainmyselfinharmony and Mistykins06. Enjoy! 

~ BREATHLESS ~

Baker Street Living Room

An Hour Later

Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police Force are unbelievably tedious, Sherlock muses as he finally closes the door to Baker Street and the last of Inspector Lestrade’s boys.

They should have gotten Adler out of here ages- and not mere moments- ago.

But they hadn’t; indeed, they’d made a bloody production out of it. Had even attempted to rope the Watsons into coming in “to help them with their inquiries,” something which had prompted both John and Mary to leave.

Mary had even threatened to call her contacts in Whitehall for their impertinence.

With a sigh at that memory, Sherlock watches the paddy-wagon drive off, Adler secured inside. He knows from bitter experience that he’ll learn no more from her tonight: Once the police had arrived in she had refused to say another word about the Carnavrons, and with a corpse on the premises Sherlock had had more than enough to be getting on with, trying to keep the police from casting aspersions on either he or the Watsons. This had not, exactly, helped with his patience or his temper. The fact that Lestrade couldn’t seem to stop staring at Molly, astonished, he claimed, to have finally met her (though no doubt more taken with both her beauty and her state of undress, Sherlock thinks darkly) had also not helped with his mental state-

In the end he had been required to wrap her up in his dressing-gown and shoot the Inspector a rather pointed glare before the other man had finally gotten the bloody message.  

While it might not have blinded Lestrade to his wife’s charms, it had, at least, made him realise what a boor he was being, and how Sherlock was reacting to it.

It was for that reason that George had beaten a rather hasty retreat, taking both Adler and the body of the interloper with him, the former for jail, the latter for autopsy.

The whole thing had seemed to take forever.

With a tired sigh, Sherlock rubs his eyes and rakes his hair back from his face, trying to force his fatigue away. Trying too, to ignore the vague throbbing in his arm, made worse because he can’t safely take anything for the pain of it. Not anymore. Not for a very long time. As always that siren-song whispers at the thought of having an excuse- just a little laudanum,darling,  just for a few days - and it makes him grimace, both the shame and the fear of it turning his mood darker-

“Are you… Are you coming to, um, to bed?”

He doesn’t hear her coming, merely turns to see Molly standing there, still wearing his dressing-gown, her hair a halo in the pale light from the landing gaslamp.

She looks utterly lovely .

She’s staring at him, her thin, sweet little lip bitten, one thin, sweet little hand twisting over and over again in the sleeve of his robe. Her eyes are fathomless and dark and grave, and they are all he wants to see at the minute.

Indeed, he muses, they are all he’s wanted to look at for some time.  

When he doesn’t answer right away- and how can he, with her looking so fetching as that?- she blushes and turns away, mumbles something about not wishing to be forward. She makes it a mere two steps up before Sherlock’s catches her wrist. Halts her. She bows her head, not looking at him and with slow, gentle hands he reaches for her waist. Turns her on the step.

She opens her eyes and with her standing on the stairs and he on the floor, for once they’re both the same height, able to look one another in the eye.

Time seems to stutter to a halt as they do so.

For as soon as their gazes meet Sherlock’s heart starts drumming in treble time, his throat drying up, his body tensing. He has the overwhelming desire to fold her into his arms and never let her go.  

“Forgive me,” he says softly, “That was…” He finds he doesn’t have the words to describe it, at least none that don’t sound clottish and dull. “I know you are only seeing to my comfort,” he says instead, “But…” And he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound . “But I should like you to join me, were I to venture to bed, Molly,” he says, and he sees surprise flicker through her expression. It makes him fight back a surge of frustration-   Can’t she see how lovely she is? How lovely he finds her?-   But of course, being Molly, she can’t. “And that being the case,” he continues, “I want to- Rather, I should like you to-”

He sees her hand reach out, feels it come to rest hesitantly on his chest.

His heart seems like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest and into her keeping.

“Are you asking me to sleep with you, husband?” she whispers, voice breathless, and rather than trusting himself to speak he nods. Steps closer to her.

Her scent and heat reach out to him, surrounding him, and suddenly it feels like there truly is nobody else in the world but she.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” he asks and at so bold a question she blushes again. Nods.

Quite without his willing himself to, Sherlock finds himself resting his forehead against hers. He watches her eyes flutter shut. Feels her sweet breath fan his face and oh, but is is lovely.

“Then to bed,” he says softly. “To bed… wife.” And slowly, shyly, as he had earlier that night, he reaches out and brushes his lips against hers. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth he deepens the kiss, pressing harder, and he has the unutterable delight of feeling her melt against him.

It is bliss.

She sighs and leans into him, her fingers tightening against his chest even as his own grip the flare of her waist. He can feel the press of her breasts and her breathing against his own heart and the pleasure of it is heady indeed. Her kiss is unschooled, slightly clumsy but nonetheless passionate; It seems to thread through Sherlock, working him loose, working him over, until he’s breathless and hopeless with the wanting of it, until he feels like he’ll die if he can’t have more of her....  

Perhaps she feels this too, for without warning her arms tighten around his neck, her little fingers finding his nape and scratching. That she guessed such a thing would be pleasurable tells him that his clever wife is clever indeed. He pulls back, needing to breathe, needing to tell her as much, but before he can speak she shakes her head. Presses a finger to his lips.

“No talking, husband, not until after,” she says breathlessly. “Let me… Let us have our first night together, the first night we wanted rather than the one we got…”

And she reaches down. Takes his hand and squeezes it. After a moment she brings it to her lips and kisses the heel of his palm.

She keeps her eyes on him the whole time.

“Show me,” she says softly, “show me the wedding night you wanted to give me… The wedding night you wanted here in Baker Street….”

Heart pounding, head spinning, Sherlock nods eagerly, taking her hand and picking her up. He carries her up the stairs to their bedroom and over its threshold, her head pressed like a sparrow there against his heart.

He can feel her trembling.

For her own part Molly comes eagerly, and if her heart’s in her mouth and her hands shake slightly, well she’s not going to say that to him. She’s not going to think about it. No, she’s going to see what a husband she’s married- And what being a wife might really mean… -

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to OhAine, MizJoely, MetricJenn, Aphrael, rottenbrainstuff, SimplySpectating, WillSherJohnKhan, Pamc, tutu1b, renniejoy, MerriWyllow, rainmyselfinharmony, ChiefDoctor and Mistykins. Please note that this chapter contains sexual content so if that's a turn off for you then skip. If, on the other hand, you like that sort of thing, well then read on, fair reader, read on...  

~ TRYST ~

Baker Street

A Handful Of Heartbeats Later

Molly thinks her heart might be about to beat its way out of her chest.

She's so nervous that she can't even look at her husband; the thought of making eye contact after what she just said is more than she can manage. So she tucks her head into the crook of his neck, breathes in the scent of him. She can feel his pulse pounding against her lips where they brush his throat and though she knows she shouldn't, she finds his obvious excitement absolutely thrilling-

She never dreamed she would bring the man she married to such a state as this .

Sherlock's grip on her is strong and his tread is light. Though silent- and injured- he maneuvers her easily into the bedroom he set aside for her and sets her gently down on their bed. She lays on her back, staring up at him; For a moment he remains leaning over her, his breathing shallow and his eyes dark. Molly can feel something stirring against her calf as he stills his body against her and it's with a half-mortifying, half-delighting shock that she realises her husband is… Why, her Sherlock is…

"Is that you?" she asks, and instantly she wants to disappear through the floor at his embarrassed nod, mortified by her own ineptitude and innocence.

She's fairly certain neither Irene Adler- nor any of his other mistresses- ever asked him anything so facile as that.

Though she's discomfited however, she tries not to let her own disquiet ruin things. Rather, she moves her leg and it presses more surely against the organ in question. She is, after all, rather curious about it, and the man to whom it belongs. Sherlock hisses slightly at the contact, his lips drawn back from his teeth, and Molly feels her eyes grow wide at such a reaction- Why, they must be round as saucers-

At seeing this he shakes his head, moves swiftly so that he is sitting beside her on the bed rather than leaning over her.

His expression is chagrined and wary, and though he doesn't move further away from her he doesn't move any nearer, either.

The look in his face is also decidedly guilty, something she understands not at all.

"What is it?" she asks faintly, "Is it something that I-?"

"No!" The reply comes out as a bark and she blinks at him, surprised by the vehemence and also, perhaps, a little hurt. He needn't have raised his voice to her. Nevertheless she rises to her knees, nudges herself closer to him. So much has happened between them in the last twenty-hour hours that she can't bear the notion of their moving apart again. She nearly lost him tonight, he nearly lost her today: Their marriage, for so long a quiet, sad little thing, has been transformed utterly by that, and she wants to see it transformed some more. So-

"Are you alright?" she tries again, and this time she pitches her voice more quietly, reaches out and lays one of her hands on his.

After a moment he reciprocates, and lays his other hand on top of hers.

He meets her gaze for a skittish, delicate second and then presses a single chaste kiss to her forehead.

The sweetness of it makes her heart twist oddly in her chest.

"You're awfully new to this," he's saying quietly, eyes moving back to their joined hands. "We're both awfully new at this, far more than two people married for as long as we've been should be." He looks at her with a lopsided smile but despite its wryness, there's pain in it too.

It's a pain Molly thinks she may understand.

"I'm not claiming that I've been a saint by any means," he's saying, "but this will be… This will be the first time I make love with my wife.

I should…. I should like to do right by her- I mean by you-"

He shakes his head in frustration and this time it's Molly who hushes him.

"I want that too," she says softly, aware her cheeks are turning a stunning shade of crimson. "I want… I assure you that I want to make love with my husband very, very much..."

"You do?" At her nod he again presses a kiss to her forehead. Then her lips.

That deep, velvet voice of his thrums with sincerity and Molly fancies she feels her insides melting.

"Do you want me, wife?" he asks and there's something in the question, an edge to it that Molly doesn't fully understand and yet instinctively feels drawn to. Nodding, she uses the hand he's holding, pulls his towards her mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles. Then his wrist. Then the heel of his hand. She presses herself closer to him as she does so, chest to chest, and though she knows she's being clumsy and inelegant and unladylike, she finds she can't bring herself to care- Not if it means she gets to touch her husband as she has always wished she could-

"I want you," she murmurs at each kiss, "You can't imagine how long I've wanted you, husband..."

"As long as I've wanted you, I'll wager, wife." And Sherlock kisses her more heatedly. More passionately. Once again he leans his forehead against hers, sighing at the contact and she smiles at it, something which prompts an answering, warming smile from him.

It's as bright and fierce as sunlight, and twice as welcome.

With hesitant hands he cups her cheek, tilts her face up until it's facing him. This time when he kisses her it's warm, inviting. His chest is pressed against hers and his arms encircle her waist; at his prompting she moves closer, trying not to fall on him and yet aware that he seems to want just that.

For with smiles and nudges he manages to manoeuvre her so that she's draped over one of his thighs. At his urging she parts her legs, allows him to press his knee in between them. The pressure of it is warm- shocking even- but when she gasps he merely smiles at her again. Pulls her gently to him.

His hands slide down to grip her bottom and he drags her flush against his thigh.

"Roll your hips," he murmurs against her lips and when she complies the effect is immediate: Pleasure blooms at the spot where she nestles against his leg and despite herself she gasps. Presses herself down on him more sharply. She feels it again, that warmth. That pleasure. It's like a gracenote is being struck within.

"It's good, isn't it?" he whispers and his voice is pleased and dark and teasing as she nods. He moves his leg, pressing up into her as she presses down and Molly keens a little. It suddenly feels like she's rather short of breath. "That's it," he murmurs, "That's it, my darling. Take what you need from me… Take it… Take your pleasure from your husband… "

And he tightens his arms across her back, pressing her to him and showing her how to move. How to ride him. Their pace is picking up, their arousal too, and Molly doesn't know anything except that she never, ever wants to stop. "This is better than sidesaddle, isn't is?" he murmurs and though she knows her cheeks are flaming, Molly can't help but nod again. Keen again. Kiss him again.

It feels so unbelievably good .

Sherlock moans and she quickens her pace, begins moving more forcefully. He grins at her when she does so, thrusting up to meet her movements with ones of his own until their bodies start moving together, responding to one another as if repeating the steps of a dance. His nods and kisses and encouraging, crooned words make Molly feel reassured, they make her feel safe and lovely and bold and wanted- She feels so, so wanted-

"That's it," he whispers, lips nipping at her throat and shoulder. "That's it, sweet, you take all you can get. Your body was made for pleasure, pleasure is what it deserves."

And with a smile he brings his fingertips to her mouth and presses them against her lips. When she kisses them he sucks sharply on her throat before sliding his fingers gently into her mouth. Murmuring to her to suck.

Not sure what to do, Molly's tongue slides against them; she's rewarded for this daring by his smile and another, bolder kiss. And then, with a steady, grave look into her eyes he slides the fingers she'd wetted down, traces his way under both his dressing-gown and her nigh-trail. She feels them steal up her inner thigh, higher, then higher, then higher again, until they stall at that sweet, secret place between her thighs. That place that's now throbbing with pleasure and need for him.

"Do you want more, wife?" he asks and she nods helplessly, too breathless to do more than whimper. "Do you want me to show you what coming feels like, hmm?"

Again she nods helplessly, bearing her throat and letting her eyes flutter shut. "Yes," she whispers, "Oh yes, husband… Please, please show me what it feels like…"

And to her shock and delight, she feels… Why, she feels him slide his fingers inside her. Still wet and warmed from her own mouth they press gently within her; They stroke and tease and caress, the movement unlike anything she's ever experienced before. Molly jerks at the contact, shocked, and instantly Sherlock stills. Looks at her.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks but though she's surprised, she finds herself shaking her head. She's become accustomed to the feel of it how and she finds… She finds she wants to discover what it will lead to. What her husband wishes to do to her.

"I trust you," she mutters and at those words she sees something bloom inside him. Something warm. Something fragile. It answers something within her, something that's been wound tightly for so long that she'd ceased to notice the stress of it. A calmness moves through her, as if suddenly she's finally where she needs to be, and as that happens all she can do is grin.

Sherlock matches her; He kisses her again, sighing against her cheek as he renews his ministrations and this time when he slides his fingers inside her she makes herself relax. The invasion is not so surprising, when she decides to let him in. Her hips are still rolling against his thigh, his fingers working gently in counterpoint to them. He keeps kissing her lips, her cheeks, her throat, every inch of her he can lay his hands on-

Her body is alive with sensation: she doesn't think she's ever felt so good before.

So she moans and gasps. Gives herself over to him. She's climbing now, higher and higher, and she's no idea what lies at the top, knows only that when she finds it, it will be with him. She shudders as his teeth nip playfully at her lower lip and it's shockingly quick, surprising, when she tumbles off the precipice. She has no warning: One moment she's wrapped in pleasure, feeling him moving within her, and then next she's…. She's wrapped in something else. Something explosive. Something wordless. Something she's never, ever felt before but has been searching for all her life.

The experience is jagged, emotive. It scalds through her like tears. Her limbs spasm, pleasure roiling through her though she can no longer seem to control herself. "That's it," she can hear his voice crooning to her, "that's it, come for me. Come for me, my sweet little Molly…"

And he holds her to him, his hips now pistoning sharply against her. She feels a splash of wetness against her skin, feels him spasm against her and hiss her name and she realises belatedly that she's clinging to him with all her strength, her arms wrapped around him as if he were an anchor. As if she were his. She's being churned this way and that with pleasure, with sensation and emotion and jarring, overwhelming pleasure, and all that's holding her grounded is Sherlock, her darling husband Sherlock…

And then the groundswell of it all passes, leaving ripples of pleasure in its wake.

With soft words and kisses he lays her onto her back. Pulls her tenderly onto his chest so that she's resting against him. She can hear his heartbeat thundering in her ear.

When she comes back to herself, his eyes are on her and despite what she said earlier, she feels rather… vulnerable beneath their gaze. Uncertain. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her.

"That was...That was… " She tries again. "What was that?"

She can hear the bewilderment in her voice and she can't seem to make it go away.

Sherlock smiles though and strokes her cheek gently. His eyes are very warm and very, very kind. "That's married love, it would seem," he says, one hand sliding up under her night-rail to caress her bare hip. She can feel wetness against her skin and she realises with a jolt that it probably came from inside her. That he doubtless knows as much, because he made her, he made her wet with arousal.

Oh, she thinks. Oh, God.

Molly looks shyly away, focusses on his still-clad chest. She doesn't want to think about her body, doesn't want to ponder what they've done. "Is married love any different from the other kind?" she asks instead, and at that he barks in laughter. Smiles at her.

When she looks at him his eyes are crinkling in amusement, his expression younger and more carefree than she's ever seen it before.

"I wouldn't know," he tells her warmly. "Married love is all I'm familiar with." She senses there's something in that sentence that means more than he's saying, but before she can ask him he takes her mouth in a soft, honey-sweet kiss. He pulls her on top of him and she can still feel wetness against her bare knees though she can't find any evidence of his earlier arousal. The thought makes her frown and he tips her chin up to look at him.

Once again, she thinks how he sometimes seems like a mind-reader.

"It's gone," he says softly, taking her hand and pressing it to the wetness in his trousers. "You did that: You made me come in my smalls like a bloody schoolboy, and you made me enjoy it too." He presses a kiss to her shoulder. "You should be proud of yourself- Minx."

Molly frowns. She doesn't understand. "So you… You liked it?" He nods. "But then don't you… I mean, don't you don't need to take your pleasure of me now?" she asks quietly. "You don't want to?"

He presses a kiss to her lips. "I want to," he says softly. "I want to very, very much. You can't imagine how many nights I've lain in this bed, imagining you here with me. Your hair down and loose as it is now, your body covered with the things I've bought you, as it is now. I've imagined you on your back, on your knees, riding me while I gaze up at you like the goddess you are. I've imagined you kissing me and loving me and smiling at me, I've thought of this a great deal, I assure you, my dear."

He sighs. Laces their fingers together.

The next words seem hard for him.

"But even with that," he says haltingly, "I've never imagined taking advantage of you."

She frowns. "But… But…. Isn't this just what married people do together?"

His smile is wan. "It's what married people do together- Eventually. When one of them hasn't had a major shock this morning, and the other hasn't had his armed stitched up that night." He kisses her when she continues to frown skeptically at him. "It's what they do when neither of them have spent two years apart and not talking for who knows what reason," he says. "It's what they do when they know each other well, and they're comfortable enough to not be ashamed or afraid. But we're not there yet, are we, darling?" He kisses her knuckles. "Be honest: we're not, are we?"

She blushes, embarrassed but having to allow his point. This will not be the first time she finds herself decrying his observational skills, she can't help but think. "No, I don't suppose we are," she says sadly.

"But we will be," he answers. He sounds absolutely certain. "And until we are-" His grin suddenly turns fierce- "until we are, we shall simply have to experiment a little more with other kinds of married love, besides the obvious." He kisses the tip of her nose. "Does that sound amenable to you, wife?"

Despite her turmoil, and nervousness, and the surprises of the last few minutes, Molly smiles. Nods. Cuddles in closer to him.

"That sounds wonderful, Sherlock," she murmurs, tightening her grip on him. "I should be happy to experiment with you. But you- Do you swear we will continue in this? Do you swear you won't leave me a bride without her bridal bed? Or her bridegroom?"

The word, "again," hangs unspoken in the air, but then of course it does.

The look on his face is tender though. "I do," he tells her. "You have my word on that, Molly…" He kisses her. "My sweet, minxish Molly…"

And despite everything, Mrs. Molly Holmes finds that she believes her husband.

Whether her husband has such faith in himself, on the other hand, is rather another matter… .

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to MetricJenn, girlwhowearsglasses, SimplySpectating, OhAine, ChiefDoctor, MizJoely, Mouse9, Pamc, Mistykins06, devilgrrl, Rainmyselfinharmony, MerriWyllow and gabriella_t. Warning: there is smooches in this one too, as well as detective-related stupidity. You have been warned.

~ DRAGONSTEETH ~

Baker Street

The Next Morning

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock opens his eyes.

Slowly, slowly, he stretches out.

For the first time in a long time, he muses, he feels truly rested.

Turns out, married love is everything he hoped it would be.

And speaking of married love… In the pale light of morning he can see Molly through his lashes, her white-clad form moving through the room like a ghost. Her long, dark hair hangs down around her shoulders; Pale, bare skin is revealed as her night-trail slips down on her right shoulder, tantalizing him. Calling to him.

She looks almost unbearably lovely in the early morning light.

She's humming to herself, brushing her hair with the silver brush Sherlock bought for her two years ago; she doesn't gaze at her reflection in its matching mirror, merely continues to brush and hum, her eyes closed, her lips pulled into a small, secret smile. At the sight of it Sherlock feels both his heart- and other, less mentionable, parts of his anatomy- begin to flush with feeling- How lucky is he, that such a sight is before him this morning?-

At the realisation he groans a little, unwilling to let his wife see his reaction to her. (She should be able to expect more from him than a morning cock-stand, he tells himself sternly, especially after the day she had yesterday).

His having made a noise, however, she stops humming. Turns and looks at him.

Her eyes flicker down his body to rest at the point where his prick must, he thinks with embarrassment, be making quite a spectacle of itself- So much for telling her they would take things gently-

With slow, careful steps, however, she moves towards him. Comes to sit at his side on the bed.

She puts down her brush on the nightstand and, keeping eye contact, leans in towards him, taking the edge of the sheet and making to pull it away. Making to peel it from his body. To bare him to her gaze as he wishes she were bared to his.

The words "You shouldn't," rise in his throat but, sinner that he is, he doesn't utter them.

He doesn't try to stop her, doesn't call a halt.

No, he merely licks his lips as she pulls the bedclothes away from him, aware that his face is probably as red as hers now that his his arousal is revealed to her in all its obviousness-

Her eyes drift lazily down his form and come to rest on his prick.

There is surprise and, and interest in her gaze.

He finds it immeasurably exciting.

With slow, careful hands, she leans into him. Stares down at his cock. Neither of them seem to be breathing, and the air is thick with something, something wicked and innocent and new. Something Sherlock's never felt before. Her head dips and she's so near he can feel her breath on him in the cool morning air. His prick lengthens, hardening, almost as if reaching out to her. As if showing her how much its mistress she is.

With a furtive look at him- "Yes," he says clumsily, "Yes," though he doesn't know what he's agreeing to- Molly places one small, pale palm on his abdomen, the other sliding up his thigh to trace the crease of his leg. Then his sac. With gentle deliberation her fingertips slide over his length, the edge of her thumb following the veins at the head and when he hisses in a breath she looks at him, startled-

"Does that hurt?" she asks and he shakes his head.

"No," he says gruffly, and then, at seeing her worried expression, "No, I assure you my darling, it feels very, um... very good."

She looks at him with guileless eyes. "As good as it felt last night?" and he nods. Gulps.

His own hand has drifted down his torso, quite without his permission, and now it's hovering next to hers. Ready to envelope her. Ready to show her how to give him pleasure. The head of his member begins to leak, white seeping out and at the sight her eyes widen. A small, surprised smile tugs her lip. "This is your seed?" she asks and he nods. Grunts.

The arousal he's feeling is climbing, he's not sure whether he's going to be able to stay still much longer.

"You, you… quicken me," he tells her. "You make- You make me hard, wife. You make me eager." He gives in and takes his own hand, covers hers with it and tightens their grip on his member. "This is what being around you does to me, Molly," he whispers and at his words she blushes and averts her eyes.

Her hands do not stray from his body, however.

"You make me eager too, husband," she says quietly, breathlessly, and though her cheeks her scarlet her body is loose. Open. She is nervous, but she is not frightened.

He feels the relief of that like a dart to the chest.

"I have thought of you often, like this," she's saying, still breathless. "I have wondered what your body would look like- How it would feel-"

"Beneath your hands?" he asks, and she nods. "Between your thighs?" he asks and though she bites her lip she nods again. Looks at him.

Quick as a ray of sunlight she darts a small, brave kiss to his lips.

Sherlock swears he feels it down to his toes.

"I had thought it would make things easier," she says. "Our wedding night, I mean. If I could- If I were to- I had imagined kiss- kissing you, and t-touching you, and, and, I wanted to know- That is, I wished to discover-"

"Oh, God." And Sherlock closes his eyes, the image that she's conjuring too delicious to ignore. His wife, thinking of him in her bed at night. His wife, pleasuring herself with the thought of him. He's not sure he's ever heard of anything more alluring in his life. So he takes her other wrist, pulling the hand at his abdomen towards him and, with that impetus, the rest of her follows.

Still guileless, still lovely, she comes to him, kneeling so that they're face to face on their bed. His cock still in her grip.

His lips are mere inches from hers.

Thoughtlessly, artlessly, he's started stroking himself, her hand in his and soft against him, and as he does so she nods. Gulps again. She reaches up to kiss his mouth and though she is still unpracticed, unskilled, there is passion in it, the sort of passion a man can get drunk on-

She sighs into his mouth as his tongue slides along hers and, to be perfectly honest, at that soft, sweet sound all hell breaks loose.

For suddenly, it's all too much. Too much feeling. Too much sensation. Too much Molly. Hedonist that he is, Sherlock knows he'll always give into pleasure and this morning is no exception to that.

For before he's really sure what's happening he's pulled Molly's night-trail down, her sweet, perfect, little tits bouncing free even as he quickens their shared ministrations. With wide eyes she gasps, staring at him and before she can say anything he's brought his mouth down to suckle her. To take one perfect, full breast into his mouth and make her come. Make her moan- Oh Christ, he wants to make her moan for him-

In that moment he truly feels like he's never wanted anything as much.

That she has never felt anything like this is obvious- She lets out a startled gasp, half shocked, which meanders into a sighing, breathy murmur as the pleasure of what he's doing makes itself felt to her. Her eyes flutter closed and her head drops back and that's all the encouragement Sherlock needs.

For with one swift moment he topples her onto her back, her grip on him coming loose even as he presses himself between her thighs again. As he gathers her wrists in his own and pins them above her head. With sure, certain movements he pulls her night-rail down her slim, delicate hips and along her legs. Baring her before him as he himself is bared. She nods as he does it, eager and breathless, and as soon as she's free of her night-trail she opens her arms to him, calling him to her. Welcoming him.

He crawls up her body, wanting to feel her against him and to his delight she presses herself to him insistently.

Could it be that she wants this as much as he?

She must do, for her hands stray everywhere, stroking him. Coaxing him. With an impatient huff he grabs one of her knees, yanks it up so that her legs curl around his waist. She gasps at the movement, her sweet little foot sliding over his buttocks and curling around by his upper thigh-

"Oh Christ, Molly," he mutters and though she's staring at him wide-eyed, she doesn't stop. Doesn't protest She merely kisses him again. With more passion. With more fervour. She feels better than he ever imagined she would. She's started moving her hips against his, thrusting in time with him as she had last night and the feeling of it is so good Sherlock never wants it to stop. "Touch you," she mumbles between kiss-bruised lips. "Want to touch you, husband- I want to feel your flesh beneath mine-"

Unwilling to disappoint her in such a plan- and really, why ever should he object to his wife familiarizing herself with his body and her desires?- Sherlock twists suddenly so that now he's on his back and she's atop him. Riding him. Controlling him.

She looks so lovely, now that he's beneath her.

The sudden change in their positions shocks her, he can see that, but despite her obvious surprise Molly doesn't seem to mind. Rather, after a moment's thought she starts the slow rocking of her hips again, her eyes drinking him in. Her breath coming unsteadily. With an oddly endearing sort of carefulness she leans over him, her long hair whispering across his chest and shoulders, and starts...

He supposes exploring him is the word he would use.

For she traces his chest with her fingertips, her lips. Her nose ghosts along his left nipple and the feel of it makes him squirm. Her tongue slides along the length of his clavicle before dipping into the notch in the middle and tracing its way around his adam's apple. He hisses and bares his teeth but when she stops in question he shakes his head- "Good," he says gruffly, "It's, um, it's very good when you do that..."

Her smile is bright. Gorgeous. "It is?" she asks shyly and he nods. "You like it?" she adds and at this he shakes his head. Frowns.

"Of course I like it," he tells her, taking one of her hands down and pressing it against his still-hard member. "I thought we had already ascertained how much I like it when you touch me?"

Molly opens her mouth- to retort, to tease, he's not sure- but as she does her eyes fall to the crook of the arm he's touching himself with. More specifically they fall upon the one scar Sherlock has which he has never wanted her to see. Thin, ragged, white and raised and pale, it traces its way along his veins, his mark of Cain, the reminder of what an unworthy creature he was before he met her-

The realisation that she can see it sets panic hissing through him.

She opens her mouth- doubtless to ask- but before she can he's out of the bed and into the dressing room next door. He doesn't even think about it, he merely hauls her roughly off him and flees.

With a suddenly-hammering heart and a suddenly-constricted throat he stares at himself in the mirror above the wash-basin- What are you doing? his mind whispers, What the hell do you think you're doing?

He hears Molly's soft knock upon the door but he doesn't know what to tell her...

By the time he comes out, Lestrade is in the parlour downstairs, looking for Irene Adler.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to DrHooper, Aphrael, breizhbit, MetricJenn, Mistykins06, Pamc, Icecat62, Ploy, applejacks0808, OhAine, Rainmyselfinharmony, darnedchild and gabriella_t. Enjoy!

~ TANGLEWEED ~

Baker Street Parlour

Molly's hands shake, ever so slightly, as she serves Lestrade his tea.

Nevertheless, to an outside observer Sherlock muses that she would seem entirely composed. Entirely calm. Her smile is slight but serene, her voice soft as she inquires after the policeman's health. As Sherlock walks into the room she may stiffen slightly- so slightly that only he would notice- but she says nothing. Merely nods to him before turning her attention back to Lestrade.

Sherlock feels the prick of it sharply.

The ease of this morning is gone, he thinks, and he has nobody to blame for it but himself.

Even as he frowns in disappointment she turns, offering him the cool, calm smile which up until last night had been her usual greeting to him. Her body angled slightly away from him, she looks every inch his solicitous wife though she fails to meet his gaze.

Her smile does not reach her eyes either, and Sherlock finds he hates that. The desire to wrap her in his arms rises up within him, but he knows that he has lost the right to that intimacy- If he had ever earned it at all.

He suspects that he has not, and that knowledge irritates him too.

"Good morning, husband," she says evenly. "Mr. Lestrade is here, looking for Miss Adler."

And she pours him a cup of tea, putting in his milk and sugar just as he likes it before handing it to him and then retreating to a chair on the farthest side of the table. Pouring a cup for herself and then taking a sip.

Aware that he's gawping at her like a simpleton, Sherlock takes the hint and walks over to the table, sits down beside Lestrade. (He does not, after all, wish to importune his wife with his closeness after what she just learned about him).

From the corner of his eye he sees her wince, just for a moment, as she registers how far away from her he is and he inwardly curses himself, aware suddenly of how discourteous he is being. (Is there anything he can do right by her this morning?)

He can hardly stand up and change seats however, not without making an ass of himself and making even Lestrade aware of the discord between he and his wife. Instead he sips his tea and turns his attention to the policeman- "How long did you manage to hold onto Irene?" he asks wryly and has the pleasure of seeing the other man blanche.

"We managed to keep her for approximately four hours before she scarpered," Lestrade says testily. "Stole a police uniform and waltzed right out the front door. We were hoping she might have come back here, but your lovely wife tells me that's not the case-"

Molly inclines her head. "Inspector, you're more than welcome to search the house, or any of my or my husband's properties: I assure you Miss Adler isn't in any of them." She clears her throat slightly, turns her attention to her teacup. Her next words sound carefully chosen. "And if I may venture an opinion, a woman like that wouldn't be so foolish as to hide anywhere you might think to look for her-"

"I'm aware of that." The dark look Lestrade shoots Molly tells Sherlock that Lestrade agrees with her and is therefore unhappy with having been sent here to ask after the adventuress. Which means-

"So which one of your masters has decided I must be involved in this, Lestrade?" Sherlock asks, and it is a measure of how long the other man has known him that he doesn't seem surprised he worked it out.

"Carnavron," the policeman says sourly.

To her credit, Molly gives no indication that she's heard that name before, or that she's heard it in conjunction with Irene's latest lady love.

Sherlock feels a shiver of pride at the thought.

"His Lordship seems convinced you know something you're not telling," Lestrade is saying, "and he's said as much to my guv'nor. I've told him that if Adler's in the wind then she's in the wind, but he insists that you must be hiding her. Even insisted that your wife must be in on it, since she was willing to host Adler here last night-"

Molly opens her mouth to say something but Sherlock speaks over her. "Make it clear to Lord Carnavron that if he believes Miss Adler is being hidden by me then he is entitled to that opinion," he says sharply. "However, if he wishes to slander my wife with the insinuation that she would harbour a fugitive then he may deal with my solicitor or my pistol, is that clear?"

"Sherlock!" Molly sounds slightly horrified, but Sherlock shakes his head at her. He may be an utter clot when it comes to the marital bed, and he may be as unworthy of her as a fellow can be, but he'll not have her disparaged like that. Besides, judging by what Irene has told him about the blighter's treatment of his own wife, Carnavron would think nothing of publicly smearing someone else's, merely because they were associated with Lady Carnavron's lover.

Come Hell or high water, he thinks darkly, he'll protect his Molly.

It's the very least he can do for her.

While his words are sharp, Lestrade seems more amused by them than anything else however. He smiles at his friend, his eyes twinkling.

"Holmes," he says, "you may say that to a peer of the realm: I've a notion to keep my job and my manly particulars all in one piece, if you catch my meaning." Molly blushes at the joke but nevertheless smiles, and to his dismay Sherlock feels a small twinge of jealousy, that it's Lestrade who brought that out of his her and not he.

Surely he's not so childish as that?

"Besides," Lestrade continues as Sherlock wrestles with that unpleasant thought, "while I know there are plenty of idiots in this city who would love to find that you're harbouring a fugitive, I know you- and Adler- too well for that.

The Woman may have a fondness for you, but she's not stupid. This would obviously be the first place we looked for her, therefore she's somewhere else." He looks shrewdly at Holmes. "Which brings us to the question: do you have any idea where she might be?"

For a moment Sherlock is tempted to take Lestrade into his confidence, to explain what Adler told him of the Carnavrons and their marriage last night, but at the last minute he decides against it. While he suspects that Irene is to be found wherever Lady Carnavron is to be found, he knows better than to tangle the policeman up in an allegation against an aristocrat.

A man such as Carnavron would think nothing of ruining Lestrade for merely suggesting there was something untoward in his relations with his wife.

That being the case, for Lestrade's own safety it would be better that he be kept in the dark, at least until Sherlock has a better idea of what he's up against. So-

"Adler's burnt or alienated just about every criminal in London," he says, "but the country isn't just London, is it?"

Lestrade taps his lip thoughtfully. "You think she's fled to the Continent already?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I think you might look further North than you have been," he says. "She had some of her early training in Edinburgh: A crooked little place off The Royal Mile." He shrugs. "Long Jenny's, I believe the house was called- Perhaps that august personage might know where she is to be found.

One can only ask."

Lestrade narrows his eyes. "So you want me to haul myself all the way up to Edinburgh?" he asks. "Are you trying to get me out of the way, Holmes?"

Though the question is addressed to Sherlock, it's Molly who answers him.

It's just as well, considering how sharp Lestrade is apparently feeling today.

"I'd fancy he's trying to give you the sort of lead a policeman who's not related to half Her Majesty's secret service might be able to follow up," she points out calmly. "The sort of lead one can follow without ruffling the wrong sort of feathers- or damaging one's manly particulars- if you take my meaning?"

Lestrade cocks an eyebrow at her. "In other words, the sort of lead which will keep me out of trouble?"

Sherlock offers him a tight smile. "Oh no," he says. "You're far too adept at getting yourself into mischief, my friend, to be out of its way for long." He glances at Molly, who looks away shyly, then back at the policeman. "But there's mischief, and then there's trouble: You need none of the latter. Just go to Edinburgh. Talk to Long Jenny. If there's anything else, you have my word I'll let you know- In a few days.

You have a few days to spare, surely?"

Though his grimace tells Sherlock that he knows what he's being asked, Lestrade merely grunts an affirmative and gets to his feet. As is proper, he thanks Molly for the tea and then makes his way out of the parlour, his face more thoughtful than Sherlock likes. (A thoughtful Lestrade's not really a good thing, the detective can't help but think. The man gets himself into trouble).

Once he's out of the house Sherlock turns back to Molly but she's already gathering up the tea things, preparing to bring them to the kitchen. "Molly-" he begins, but she says nothing. Merely flinches.

He takes a step towards her and she, instinctively, takes a step away.

"It's fine, Sherlock," she says softly, her eyes on the cups. "It's… I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, considering how I was behaving. Truly, I'm- I'm grateful for you calling things to a halt before I could embarrass myself further."

Sherlock blinks in surprise. Should he live to be a hundred, he doubts Molly will ever lose her ability to blindside him. "You embarrass yourself?" he asks. "I'm the one who went and hid in the bathroom like a schoolboy."

Her cheeks heat and it occurs to him that, rather than helping, his words have made things worse.

"You removed yourself from the situation," she answers stiffly, "after I had started behaving in a wholly wanton, slatternly manner." She puts the cup she was holding down, the tremble in her hands returning as she says the rest. Her voice has suddenly become very breathless and very fast. "When a man takes his wife to bed," she says, "he expects a lady, not a, not a-"

"An enthusiastic lover?" Sherlock supplies, and though her blush worsens he crosses the room, closing the distance between them. When he's right in front of her, he tips her chin up so that those beautiful dark eyes of hers are right on his.

To his horror, there are tears of shame shivering in their depths.

He feels a stab of pain as he realises how much he has hurt her; In his worry at what she would think of him, he hadn't stopped to consider what she might think of herself. "I encouraged you to take your pleasure of me," he says quietly, unwilling to allow her to continue in this for even one more moment. "I encouraged you in all we did. If there is fault to be found in this morning, it's mine. I encouraged you and then at the last moment I, I-"

"You fled." She says the words and he nods, feeling wretched. How could he have so badly misread the situation this morning? In the silence he had fostered, his sweet ladylike wife had come to the conclusion that he was disappointed in her- That he disliked her native passion and lovely joy.

Clearly, he has a great deal to learn about dealing with his wife.

"So you didn't run because I had behaved in an unladylike manner?" she asks eventually, her voice tiny, and immediately he shakes his head fiercely. Kisses her forehead.

To his relief she doesn't push him away.

"No," he says. "Never. I would never run from you for showing me your passion. I will never be disappointed in you for showing me how much you want me. You should desire your husband- After all, I desire you, wife."

And he kisses her gently. Again she blushes but this time it's edged with a smile.

Despite himself, Sherlock smiles back.

"But sometimes," he continues, "sometimes I need to… Rather, I find it difficult to…" He tries to continue but the his voice trails off, his throat knotting like tangleweed. Though the words are there, he finds he cannot speak them; He could detail for her the reality of his past, the brushes with the law, the depths to which his dependence on cocaine drove him, but he can't bring himself to.

He can't bear the thought of her thinking badly of him, not when they're finally becoming close.

So instead he takes her face in his hands. Tilts her head up to him and kisses her softly. Chastely. With every fibre of his being, he wishes to show her how much he cares for her- physically, if he can't any other way. "I am sorry, wife," he tells her. "I should not have acted as I did this morning." He looks down at her, his hand still at her cheek. "Forgive me?"

She sighs nods, lays her forehead on his chest.

Slowly, hesitantly, she wraps her arms around his waist and he beams.

"Thank you for explaining things to me, Sherlock," she says quietly. "I know… I know we are neither of us proficient in that art." Another small smile. "Perhaps it is because we lack practice at it?" When he nods her smile widens. "Then we shall have to do it more often," she tells him.

And slowly, gently, she tilts her face up to his. Offers him her lips once again.

The kiss is soft. Gentle. Tender. Sherlock feels it down to his toes, and he fancies his wife does too.

Of course, it's also the reason why he's distracted when the gunshot goes off… And when Irene Adler nearly ruins his marriage for the second time in as many days…

Chapter Text

Disclaimer : This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch. Thanks for their reviews go to MizJoely, Nursekelly0429, Mouse9, applejacks0808, tutu1b, Aphrael, Ploy, OhAine, Icecat62, Mistykins06, Giselleg2015, MetricJenn, Katya Jade, devilgrrl, darnedchild and gabrielle_t. Sorry updates have been so sporadic but RL has been kicking my arse lately. That said- Enjoy.

~ INSTINCT ~

Baker Street Parlour,

A heartbeat later,

Even as the glass shatters, Sherlock is slamming Molly to the ground.

It’s more instinct than decision; his time spent in the field has left him with excellent reflexes, and the sound of breaking (shot-shattered) glass is particularly distinct.

It is also, unfortunately, one with which he is particularly familiar.

With a gasp Molly lands on her back, her body fighting against her momentum even as Sherlock braces himself to land on top of her- Cover her- He will not allow her to be harmed, for what is a husband but a shield for those he loves-?

This action knocks the wind out of her however, increasing her fear and confusion. Still flustered she lets out a small shriek, her fright made worse by the hail of shattered glass which sprays the floor around her, landing in her hair and his. Digging into her little white hands and raining down atop Sherlock’s shoulders. His back and arms.

It even manages to scratch against his cheek.

What worries the detective however is not the glass, but that he can’t tell from down here where the shots are coming from: Does he move from his position protecting Molly and check, or does he drag her to safety first? (Such decisions were never a problem, he muses darkly, when he and John- or indeed, he and Irene- were in the field. Both could shrift for themselves.

Molly, on the other hand, is not someone who can understand what is going on, and he must, therefore, proceed with caution.)

Just as he makes the decision to drag her to safety however he feels a splash of wetness against his skin, where his hand has gripped her hip in order to move her.

She also lets out a gasp of pain at his touch and Sherlock’s heart seems to freeze in his chest.

Horror spreads through him- For the wetness he can feel is warm and close and it’s soaking the wool of her skirt.  Oh God, that’s all his mind can process for a moment. Oh God, oh God, oh God- Not my Molly, not my Molly-

With a hiss of horror- “Wife?” he snaps, rolling her to her side and checking her for injury, “Molly, where are you hurt, my darling? Where are you hurt?”- he scrambles into kneeling, uncaring for about the shooter outside.

He is thanked for his efforts by another shot striking the wall behind him, and barely missing him, something which tells him that his assailant must he both near enough and elevated enough to see at least a little of what’s going on inside Baker Street. This revelation means nothing to him, however- save for making up his mind to drag his wife bodily from their place in front of the window and into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

As soon as they’re on the landing he kneels beside her again, his hands going to her side to look at her injury. She hisses in pain again- “What are you about?”- but when he looks at the thick, sensible woolen waistcoat she’s wearing, he can see no sign of a bloodstain. The fabric is wet, yes, but the discolouration is not that of even a minor wound. He looks up at her, about to bark a demand for an explanation, and sees the confusion in her eyes disappearing, replaced by a soft sort of knowingness. A gentleness.

How on Earth can she be gentle at a time like this?

But she is talented, his Molly, and gentleness must be a strong thing in her. For she reaches out and takes his face in her hands, tilts it up to look at her.

“It’s tea, husband,” she says quietly, making sure to pronounce the words clearly even as Sherlock continues to gape at her like a simpleton.  “It’s- the tea things were on the table beside us when that shot went off.” She trembles slightly as she speaks, but she manages to keep her voice even. “I rather think they’re done for- Them, not me. Not me.” She winces at the words. “It stings a little but it’s merely a small burn; I haven’t been-”

“You haven’t been shot.” Sherlock says the words in a whoosh, a relief so great it would floor him were he not already kneeling going through him. With a small, crooked smile Molly nods and presses a soft kiss to his lips. Then the hand which has been at her side all this time.

“Indeed, my darling,” she says. “I have not been harmed.” Another kiss, this one to his palm. “But I could ask for no better protector, had I been...”

She opens her mouth, about to say more apparently, but before she can Sherlock hears the sound of thundering footsteps. Sees Mrs. Hudson round the corner from her flat below and proceed far more quickly up the stairs than someone with an apparently problematic hip should be able to do.

That woman, he muses, is made for secrets and no mistake.

She’s holding her favourite shotgun ready, handing off a small pistol from within her pocket to Sherlock when she reaches him before coming to a halt just outside the door-jam of 221B.

Her normally friendly face is set and grim.

“Vatican cameos, is it?” she asks, and Sherlock nods curtly. “Indeed.” He sees Molly’s look of confusion, but to her credit she doesn’t slow things down by asking for clarification.

Sherlock’s opinion of his wife just keeps going up and up today .

“Any idea where they are?” the older woman asks, using the butt of her shotgun to pry the door of Sherlock’s flat open.

A hail of bullets is her thanks for the effort.

“Somewhere that looks in on us,” Sherlock snaps over the noise, pushing Molly protectively behind him. “Do you think someone got into one of the flats on Gower Street again?”

“Again?” he hears Molly mutter but he shakes his head and says nothing.

To his relief she dutifully holds her tongue, trusting him to fill her in later.

“The angle of the bullets’ trajectory looks right,” Hudson retorts,  “but Chatterjee’s laundry has been empty since he left for his pilgrimage. The building’s in a better state of repair and we’re less likely to be suspicious if we see it occupied.” She grimaces. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I think I might have gotten a little complacent in my old age-”

Sherlock snorts. “Nonsense.”

“Tell that to our friend across the way- Or to your lady wife.” At these words Hudson pumps the shotgun then uses its butt to slam the door open. Darts from one side of it to the other, letting off two shots as she goes before taking up a mirror position of her first on the other side of the door.

Another hail of bullets flares through the (now open) Baker Street door, piercing the walls above their head and coating both Molly and Sherlock in dust and debris.

“He’ll have to reload after that,” Hudson points out. “Get downstairs-” this is addressed to Molly- “and stay by the door to my rooms. I’ve already wired Anthea, Mycroft’s boys will be here in no time. You can let them in.” She gives the young woman and Sherlock a thin-lipped smile. “So at least the front door will survive one of our little adventures in one piece, eh?”

And she laughs, for one moment the adventuring quartermaster Sherlock remembers from his training days.

It makes him feel just a little bit better about this whole mess, but then Martha always does.

Though he doesn’t like the idea of sending her away, Sherlock nods, looking at Molly. He expects some argument but gets none; rather she begins crawling towards the stairs, keeping as low to the ground as she can and cursing her voluminous skirts all the while.

At the first step she stops and turns, looks at Sherlock.

“Please- Please don’t die,” she says simply, her voice trying for light and missing it.

She worries her lip and his heart twists.

“You have my word, wife,” he answers. He allows himself a small smile. “After all, I still owe you a wedding night.” Molly blushes scarlet but says nothing, merely starts gingerly making her way down the stairs. She’s surprisingly adept at it, he can’t help but think, though she continues to mutter oaths about her skirts and their weight the entire way down.  

As soon as she’s out of earshot he looks at Hudson- “Did you really send a telegram?” to which the older woman looks affronted.

“Do you think your mother, or your brother for that matter, would ever forgive me were I to fail to report this?” she asks, gesturing to her ruined walls.

This earns a small, feral smile from Sherlock which she returns.

The detective nods. “I suppose not. Thank you, though, for getting Molly out of the way.”

Hudson’s smile turns sharp. “Couldn’t have her getting into mischief, not when you finally got your act together and brought her here.” She clucks her tongue, reloading her shotgun as she does. “About bloody time, if you ask me.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer her- it’s tedious admitting she might be right about something, but judging by his success with Molly last night he may have to allow that she’s probably had a point all these years - but before he can say anything he hears the doors to Baker Street burst open down below. Hears the sounds of boots thumping on the stairs, too heavy and too many to be Mycroft’s people, or even Lestrade’s. Another tread can also be detected, one which sounds suspiciously like the click of high heels.

He and Hudson exchange frowns, unsure of what’s coming next- Which is not, generally, a thing Sherlock likes.

A strange stillness falls as the boots reach the landing, their approach prompting both he and Hudson to take cover, their weapons trained on the newcomers. Sherlock counts about seven, crowded into the small space of the landing and therefore easy enough to pick off, should he and Hudson retain the element of surprise-

Before he can make a decision about this one way or the other however, he sees Irene Adler hauled onto the landing and thrust to the fore, as if she were being used as a shield. Standing behind her, his grip on her arm tight, is a man Sherlock recognises as Charles Frederick, Lord Carnavron and husband of Adler’s erstwhile lady love. The aristocrat looks distastefully around the ruins of what had been Sherlock’s flat and turns his ire on Irene, who, being Irene, looks resolutely unrepentant.

Sherlock notes, however, that the trace of a signet ring, of the sort Lord Carnavron is currently wearing, can be seen marking his friend’s cheek. A tiny trace of blood can likewise be seen on the ring in question.

The realisation makes him see red.

“I thought you said I’d find my Sophie here, you lying trollop?” Carnavron is snapping at Adler, something to which Sherlock and Hudson can do nothing but begin to (colourfully) swear.

In fairness, Irene looks like she doesn’t blame them.

“I said that I thought Holmes had brought her here,” she says sharply. “I didn’t say she was here already, m’lord-”

Carnavron opens his mouth to snap something back at her- something which Sherlock doubts will be pleasant- and as he does so the detective hears, very softly, the click of Baker Street’s front door opening stealthily, presumably allowing Molly to escape…

A glance at Hudson tells him that she, too, heard Molly’s departure, and his wife thus secured Sherlock clears his throat, makes to step forward and gain Carnavron’s attention-

Which is when, unfortunately, the second gunfight of the day descends upon Baker Street.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. It's been a while since I worked on this story so I apologise if this reads a little but clunkily. That said, I will be able to get back to it more regularly now, so hand in there. Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed, now enjoy!

~ BRETHREN ~

About Three Seconds Previously...

Molly's so intent on getting out of 221B quietly that she doesn't even notice her assailant.

Her eyes are glued to the hinges of the door, her breath held in worry for her husband, and she simply fails to notice the man standing behind her until it is too late.

As soon as she has gotten the door closed however, he grabs for her elbow, yanking her backwards and towards him. Even as she feels herself being pulled backwards Molly twists on her heel, tries to get a look at his face.

Panic rises as she takes him in.

He is thin and wiry, his lower face covered with a filthy scarf to hide his appearance. His clothes are soot-covered, deliberately nondescript;They might belong to a sailor or a factory worker, and will enable him to blend into a crowd easily.

This is more trouble than some random pickpocket or padfoot would put themselves through, she thinks with a frown.

Every inch of his flesh is covered, including his hands, so there isn't even any vulnerable skin at which to scratch, the first thing a woman in distress always looks for. He has a rag in his hand, one which stinks of chloroform, and as Molly realises this instinct kicks in: she lashes out, her boot making contact with his shin, the blow causing him to hiss in pain and loosen his grip on her just long enough for her to pull free.

She darts around him, makes a run for the end of the street and the greater foot traffic of the Underground Station.

This early in the morning it will be alive with people, including at least one policeman- If she can get to it in time.

Unfortunately for her, however, her kick had merely surprised her assailant rather than hobbling him. Within moments he's grabbed her again, doubtless having guessed her plan.

"Stop struggling, you little scold," he snarls, arms tightening indecently around her waist and pulling her to his person.

He stinks of old gin and tobacco smoke; To her surprise Molly finds his voice familiar, though she can't place from where.

She has no time to ponder this, though. Not willing to waste time of talking- or let him get his chloroform-soaked rag to her mouth- she instead redoubles her efforts, throwing her weight furiously this way and that and using what momentum she can muster from this to pull free.

She tries once, twice, and on the third time she is successful.

He loses his grip on her and though she stumbles towards the ground she manages to right herself and take off again.

At least her size is good for something: She is clearly more fleet of foot than he.

He swears in exasperation, running after her; He seems surprised at the fight she's putting up but he shouldn't be. Both Mrs. Watson and Miss Donovan teach self-defence to the ladies of the Suffrage Association, and Molly is not, therefore, nearly so helpless as he had assumed.

Besides, she has the heightened excitement of her encounter with her husband's assailant's still running through her and this, perhaps, is giving her more strength than she might otherwise have been able to muster-

As she runs she hears him call out and a ragged-looking gig comes to a halt right in front of her- Both the man driving it and his passengers are likewise wearing masks, something which Molly feels bodes no good at all. She skids to a halt, managing to just about keep out of the reach of the men in the gig but even as she does so she feels her first assailant reassert his grip upon her arm. Not taking any chances, this time he lifts her clear off her feet and pulls her harshly towards him. She lashes out, kicking again, but he now has too good a grip and succeeds in forcing the chloroform to her face- The sweet-dank smell of wafts around her and she holds her breath-

"You'll have to breathe eventually," the man driving the gig jeers, but she ignores him.

She's not bloody making this easy for anyone.

Before she can prove her mettle however, the sound of gunshots once again hit the air. She's starting to feel ever so slightly like she's living in the American Wild West. Bullets hiss into the pavement at her feet, the walls of 221B beside her. She finds herself roughly tossed onto the street, the masked men turning the gig and taking off at a ridiculous clip.

Her initial assailant is left running to try to catch up, only barely managing to get himself on-board as they turn off onto Gower Street and make their escape-

Her head spinning- the smell of chloroform seems everywhere- and her elbows and knees bruised, Molly tries to sit up, only for a pair of hands to grab her again.

She screams and, taking no chances this time, swings out her fist, determined to harm her assailant; This time however, her hand is caught by her brother-in-law, Mycroft, in a far stronger grip than one might expect from a mere government official.

He raises one hand and, as suddenly as it had begun, the shooting stops; At his nod two young women dressed as scullery maids take off after her assailants on foot, disappearing around the corner in moments.

She gapes up at him like a simpleton, unable to believe the speed at which her circumstances have changed.

"It's alright, Molly," Mycroft says quietly, and though the words are gentle, the look on his face is not.

No, the look on his face would put the devil himself to flight, Molly can't help but think.

"Did you see-?" she manages to stammer out and he nods. Chucks his chin to someone to his left and immediately his wife, Lady Anthea moves over to Molly's side. Gestures for her to step aside.

As mechanical as an automaton, the young doctor does as she's bid.

As she does it Molly notices, with an odd sort of disconnectedness, that both Lady Anthea and her husband are carrying pistols. She looks around and realises that several other people on the street are too, their weapons at odds with their otherwise civilian attire.

Is this, she wonders to herself, Mycroft's version of The Baker Street Irregulars?"

She's fairly certain she's never seen so many guns on a London street before.

She doesn't have time to ponder it though. Lady Anthea is demanding her attention. "We were at home when the message came through," the other woman says calmly. "We came straight here- Do you know who's shooting at Sherlock?" A slight twist of her lips. "Today, at least?"

"Sherlock?" Molly repeats dumbly, and then, remembering the other remarkably traumatic moment of her day she nods. Tries to take a steadying breath. "Yes, Sherlock... He... He and Mrs. Hudson are holed up in the parlour-"

"Yes, yes," Lady Anthea says impatiently. "We know Hudson is in there. Parlour's the likiest place for them to be, since Chatterjee's Laundry on Gower Street is the easiest place from which to shoot on the house." Her tone is briskly matter-of-fact, and its very briskness makes Molly feel better. It reminds her, ever so slightly, of Mary Watson. "The question is, do you know who's shooting at them?"

Molly shakes her head. "I was hiding in Mrs. Hudson's flat when they came in," she tells them. "I peeked through a crack in the door but I didn't recognise any of them- Well, any of them except Irene Adler..."

Mycroft's head flicks sharply around to her. "Adler's in there?" he demands, to which Molly nods. "So I take it the intelligence I've received is correct: you and my brother hosted her here last night, when she escaped from custody?"

He sounds rather annoyed by this but Lady Anthea merely clucks, moving away from Molly and smoothing down the lapel of her coat. She makes it look like she's literally smoothing down his feathers.

"Sherlock has always been foolish, where Adler's concerned," Anthea points out soothingly. "Besides, knowing Irene, I doubt she asked for an invitation before she made herself at home-"

She might have said more had she had the chance; however, at that moment the door to 221B Baker Street quakes open and Sherlock marches out, his hands held above his head.

Mrs. Hudson is with him, as is Irene Adler.

It's when Mycroft sees the well-dressed gentleman standing behind them, however, that he really starts to swear...

"Well, I'll be damned," Lady Anthea mutters as she pulls out her pistol and trains it on the newcomer.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer : This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. This story came to a grinding halt for a while (I just couldn’t move it forward, and had to let it lie quiet) but now I think I have it in hand again. I hope you guys enjoy it.

~ TENDERNESS ~

“Carnavron,” Lady Anthea bites out. “Step away from my brother-in-law, now .”

And she cocks her shotgun loudly. Moves forward, her weapon  (and gaze) trained upon the well-dressed gentleman behind Sherlock, Adler and Mrs. Hudson.

Despite the way her stomach is roiling from the chloroform, Molly can’t help but think that she sounds awfully angry.

At hearing her voice, the gentleman- Carvavron- blinks at her and glowers. Looks past her to glare at her husband.

Good .

Mycroft gives the aristocrat a nonchalant little wave in greeting. “Holmes,” Carnavron calls distastefully, “Are you still unable to bring your termagant of a wife to heel?”

Mycroft saunters over to join the termagant in question, his own firearm trained on Carnavron.

He shoots Lady Anthea a small, tight smile and she beams.

“Whyever would I try to do that?” the elder Holmes drawls. “When she’s so magnificent as she is?”  

The other man rolls his eyes in disgust; this seems to amuse Lady Anthea no end.

“Now I see how all the Holmes women end up with such ridiculous ideas about themselves,” he snaps. He gestures towards Adler. “Like this one- thinking she could lie to me and get away with it.”

And with calm, dismissive elegance he swings his hand back and smacks Irene harshly across the cheek, the sight of it making everyone present wince

Adler shoots him a glare, opens her mouth to say something which Molly doubts will be polite, but before she can the earth seems to tilt on its axis. Molly finds her knees buckling, her weight dragging her downwards as she finally loses her battle with the chloroform-

“What the devil is wrong with her?” She hears someone yell as the world upends itself, followed by a “bloody hell, get after Adler now!”  

There’s tumult, noise. The sound of more gunshots. So much of it that it takes Molly a moment to realize that she hasn’t hit the ground. In fact, she hasn’t collapsed at all. For, with a fleetness of foot which is admirable, Sherlock has manages to dart forward and catch her.  His arms come up roughly about her, saving her from swooning, and when she looks up at him his expression is horrified. Pale and worried. There’s sweat on his ace, blood and grime.

He looks unutterably, impossible dear to her.

“What on Earth has been done to you?” He asks.

Molly opens her mouth to speak- her tongue feels thick and clumsy- but before she can Lady Anthea leans into her husband, one gloved hand placed gently at his shoulder. “There was an attempted kidnap,” she says quietly. “We got here in time, but the men nearly-“

“Nearly what?” Sherlock turns a furious face towards Carnavron, and to Molly’s immense satisfaction, she sees the other man pale.

It cannot have escaped his notice that he is now alone, so many of his men having run after Adler.

“That wasn’t me, Holmes,” he says, his voice betraying his nervousness. (Both Lady Anthea and Mycroft snicker to to hear it, and were she not feeling so faint then Molly would do the same.

“Why should I believe you?” Sherlock snaps back, standing up and bringing Molly with him.

The motion of it makes her feel as limp as a rag doll.

“There’s no reason for me to attack your little mouse,” Carnavron snaps. “It’s not like anyone believes she’s important to you, not in the grand scheme of things-“

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, his gaze furious, but before he does Molly manages to find her voice. She can feel the chloroform working, washing through her, and there’s something she has to say before it pulls her under entirely. Something that’s just occurred to her.

“I don’t- I don’t know what happened inside,” she says softly, “but husband… Husband, I doubt that this person-“ she nods distastefully to Carvavron “I doubt this person had anything to do with it...”

Again the darkness rears up before her, again, she manages to fight it back.

The thing she’s just realized is too important to give in.

Sherlock looks at her tenderly, leans into her as Carnavron makes some irritating-sounding comment about the Holmes men always coddling their women.

“Why do you say that, my darling?” He asks quietly.

This close, she can see how pale, how worried he looks. Oh how she wishes she could soothe him.

Molly swallows hard. “The men,” she says. “The men who tried to take me….  I think I recognized one, or at least, at least, I think I recognized his voice...”

And she frowns, the identity of the braggart in question suddenly dancing out beyond her reach. The knowledge of it an slippery, willful thing though a moment ago, it had been certain…

Blackness wells up around her a final time and she knows nothing more.

It is probably for the best that she doesn’t witness how her husband takes this eventuality, and what he chooses to do to Lord Carnavron because of it.

She wakes, who knows how much later, and finds herself stiff and aching all over.

In the dim light she can just make out a shape beside her bed, one she assumes is a nurse. So certain is she of this that when she clears her throat and asks quietly for water, she is genuinely surprised at the size of the large, male hand which brings a cup to her lips.

She is also surprised at its owner.

She blinks, vision hazy as the bedside lamp brightens and the features of her bedside companion drift into focus.

“Sherlock,” she says, surprised, because what is her husband doing at her bedside? Surely he would be out with Mycroft and Lady Anthea, tracking down Adler or some such? Surely he wouldn’t wish to stay by her, away from all adventure?

And yet, she muses, here he is.

For some reason, the realization makes her eyes prick with tears.

She sniffs, embarrassed both by her display of emotion and by the fact that she can’t seem to quell it, but Sherlock says nothing. Merely moves the cup to her lips and, when she’s taken a sip, brings her hand up to his own mouth to kiss.

“There’s my girl,” he says softly and that, too, makes emotion flood its way through Molly.

She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her.

“Where am I?” She manages to rasp out- why is her throat sore? - and something shutters in Sherlock’s gaze. “We’re at Mycroft’s,” he tells her. “We needed a safe place to keep you, after what-“ His throat works. “After what happened today.” A twist of his mouth. “With Carnavron. With Irene. With your attempted kidnapping-”

And that turn of emotion tugs at his face again. The sight of it breaks Molly’s heart. Shetries to sit up but her muscles protest. She looks down at her hands, lying bandaged there on the counterpane, and Sherlock nods.

“You fought like a lioness,” he says quietly, though whether he’s reassuring her or himself, he’s not sure. “At least, that’s according to Anthea.” He presses another kiss, to her wrist this time. “She was very impressed,” he tells her, “and that’s no small thing, from Mycroft’s right hand woman.”

Molly nods, frowning. The day is coming back to her in snatches, Adler, Carnavron, the attack on Baker Street. That man who tried to take her, his smell of old gin and cigarettes, the way he grabbed her, tried to pull her off her feet… The waiting gig and oh God, oh God, what did he mean to do to her..?

Her stomach twists into knots as she remembers.

The panic which she hadn’t allowed herself earlier comes rushing over her in full force.

Again the tears come but this time she lets them. She’s not usually given to feminine emotion, but she supposes that what happened today might give her leave. She expects Sherlock to be awkward, gruff, as he often is when faced with emotion. But to her surprised her moves out of his chair, joins her on the bed atop the covers.

He gathers her gently into his lap, mindful of her injuries, and rocks her as she cries out the stress of the day.

How long they stay there, she could not say. The display surprises Molly: she never imagined that she and her husband would share such tenderness. She never imagined that she would let him this close- or that he would wish it. Even in the early days of their courtship, she had imagined him always cool and aloof. A perfect, aristocratic gentleman. And yet, he holds her and rocks her and lets her cry it all out, with nary a complaint or a disparagement. No, he merely holds her close and soothes her. Kisses her.

Eventually, when she’s quieted and calmed herself, he strokes the hair back from her face and looks at her, his expression oddly… open. Soft.

His eyes are as wide and deep as a universe.

“Enough?” he asks and she nods, a little ashamed of herself.

She shouldn’t be crying like a child.

“Aren’t I supposed to be in possession of one of those famous stiff upper lips?” she asks and Sherlock smiles at her.

He brings his nose to stroke against hers and despite everything, she smiles.

“Darling,” he points out softly, “in the last two days you’ve nearly been blown up, arrested, had a man murdered on our stairs, been accused of harboring a fugitive, been shot at, nearly kidnapped, shot at some more, and you’ve also, apparently, discovered that our relationship is a great deal more… emotive than either of us have ever admitted to.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead.

“If all that didn’t merit a few tears, then I’m not sure what would qualify.”

Despite herself, Molly smiles more widely. Leans into him. She can’t imagine how, but somehow in the last few days the idea of doing so has become somewhat… normal, where once she couldn’t imagine even touching his hand without his express consent. And it seems that the same is true for him, for he pulls her closer and kisses her with no sign of worry or constraint. She might almost believe that the last two years- their great estrangement- had never happened at all, when he looks at her like this.

He leans forward and, after a moment’s hesitation, presses a kiss to her lips.

“I’m just so relieved that you’re alright,” he breathes.

She curls against him, liking the feel of his closeness. “As I am, with you,” she stammers out. Something occurs to her, the same bright, sharp thing which she had realized about her kidnapper today and, perhaps feeling her stiffen, Sherlock pulls back. Looks at her.

“What is it?” He asks, his tone worried. “Are you-?”

She shakes her her, hushes him. “I am fine, husband,” she says, and the relief in his expression warms her to her core. “But I should like you to call inspector Lestrade,” she adds.

A knot of excitement, relief , is bubbling up inside her.

“Why?” He asks.

She looks at him, and the words are a pleasure to say. “Because I remember, now, how I knew the man who tried to kidnap me today,” she says. “He covered his face, but I recognized his voice- the scoundrel.

Sally will be furious when she finds out.”

And she then proceeds to tell her husband why he should arrest Phillip Anderson, forthwith.  

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. I know I have been away from my fic for a while, but I'm hoping to update this a bit more regularly now I have some time. Thanks to all who have reviewed and mentioned the story to me, I hope you enjoy it.

                                                                 - Skeleton Keys -

A great deal of tiresome expense is gone through in order to keep Phillip Anderson away from Sherlock (or, perhaps more accurately, to keep Sherlock away from Phillip Anderson).

Knowing what friends Holmes' has in the constabulary, the location of the Knick in which he's placed, let alone his cell number, is a closely guarded secret. He is given a code name by which he is referred to, and he is deliberately not mentioned in front of Holmes, Watson, or any of their set. Given, too, that he admitted to his part in Molly's kidnap plot within seconds of being arrested- there were tears and trouser stains, apparently- there is no chance that he will be released on bail. He therefore need not worry about running into mischief at the hands of certain Irregular sorts on the streets of London, particularly Baker Street…

Of course, all of this is for naught: within a day of his arrest and confession, he is standing across his cell, facing a coldly furious Consulting Detective, and the Watsons.

"We're here to provide an alibi," John tells him dryly, "should something unfortunate happen to you whilst in our friend's company."

For some reason, Sherlock muses, the prisoner does not seem to find that comforting.

How curious.

"Now, Holmes," Anderson begins, his voice threaded through with the sort of quiver which Sherlock finds most gratifying. "Now, now, you must understand, you must understand that this business with Molly-"

"Mrs. Holmes." Sherlock's voice is a whip crack.

Anderson blinks and Holmes gives the man his most frighteningly bland smile.

The pathologist swallows and nods. He takes an instinctive step back. "Yes," he says, his voice nearly soundless, "Yes, of course, beg pardon, quite rude to be so familiar. Ahem, the business with Mrs. Holmes-"

"Was rather more than someone of your limited intellectual abilities would come up with, Phillip."

This from Mary. On her speaking, Anderson shoots her a look of deep, sharp loathing; his dislike of her has always been pronounced, especially since she had supported Sally in the first, difficult months of her leaving their marriage. Sherlock lets his smile widen slightly, Mary's matching it, and Holmes has the pleasure of seeing the miscreant before him pale.

Perhaps some of his thoughts show on his face for again Anderson swallows. This time his eyes flit to the door.

"I've told the police everything I know," he says nervously. "It was… We just meant it to frighten the little termagints! Something to put them back in their place! It was a jape, really…"

"A jape?"

Sherlock's voice is quiet but his tone, oh his tone is deadly.

The expression on Phillip Anderson's face tells him he realizes, now, just how massive a misstep that word was.

"Well, well, not a jape, exactly," he stammers. "We were… I mean, we just meant to explain to her, how much damage she and her little group are doing. How much they're hurting families, what with all this women's rights nonsense. Some thought we should go for Mrs. Watson-" At this Mary grins though John stiffens, "but obviously, I mean obviously-"

"Obviously my wife would have cleaned your clocks for you," John finishes for him. He throws the wife in question a loving look. "Excellent shot, fine hand to hand combatant and bloody clever opponent, that's my Mary."

Phillip looks like he wants to dispute this glowing panegyric but suspects it would be unwise. (It would be).

This, for some reason, irritates Sherlock more than anything else he has said today.

"So instead, Phillip," he snarls, "you chose my wife. My gentle, sweet-natured, utterly helpless wife-"

Anderson snorts, bravado apparently overriding common sense. "There's much to be said of your wife, Holmes," he drawls, "but helpless is definitely not a word one would apply to her-"

Sherlock darts towards him and instantly John is between them, a hand on his friend's chest. "Lestrade will be blamed," he says quietly. "Should anything happen to young Phillip then our friend will receive the punishment for it, though he had nothing to do with us being here. You know this, Holmes."

He presses softly to take the sting out of his words, but Sherlock knows he is right. It is most irritating.

With a stiff nod and a short curse, he steps away from the prisoner and retires to the other side of the cell to glower.

His injured arm aches dully with the stress of it, but he forces himself to stillness.

Anderson breathes an audible sigh of relief, something which is short lived since the stage has now been handed over to the Watsons, one of whom has rather a lot of experience in questioning suspects. Mary used to do it for Her Majesty's Secret Service, after all. As John keeps watch his darling wife saunters over to Anderson, her look arch and knowing. The other man grimaces with distaste and her eyes positively twinkle.

"You don't like us ladies much, do you, Phillip?"

Her tone is blandly conversational.

His look turns darker. "I like ladies well enough," he sniffs. "I just don't like women who don't act like women." His mouth twists with distaste. "Problem with this country today," he mutters, "nobody knows who they're supposed to be anymore-"

"Oh, I am not confused," Mary says grandly. "Nor are the men of my circle. As for yourself…" She gives a tiny, elegant shrug which somehow manages to be the last word in condescension.

It makes Sherlock smile and Anderson glower.

"But you raise an interesting point, Phillip," she continues. "Quite despite yourself, I'm sure, but still."

Again her smile is sweet and Anderson, being Anderson, looks confused.

He is, however, clever enough to sense a trap afoot.

"I have nothing to say," he mutters, "to a… personage such as you." His tone suggests he would rather like to call her something else, but daren't. He attempts to turn his back, a difficult thing in so small a cell; if Mary notices his words or his rudeness, she gives no indication. Rather, she starts to pace.

"There are many people who feel strongly about the women's suffrage movement," she continues, musing. "Enough to give you the notion you might not be pursued rigorously by the police, enough to help you try and kidnap a member of the campaign- Is that not so?"

The tips of Anderson's ears turn pink and Sherlock knows his friend has hit her mark.

She is excellent at this sort of thing, after all.

"Which means that, if, as you say, you just meant the use Mrs. Holmes attack as a scare tactic, then I can see how you might have talked- or been talked by- some of your compatriots into a kidnapping." Her eyes narrow. "Long term tactical planning does not seem to be you or your group's strong suit, but stupidity often seems wise, in the heat of the moment,"- her smile turns knife-like- "and what you did at the Cock and Hen was very stupid, Anderson."

"Now here!"

For the first time in their interview, Anderson seems genuinely angry, and Sherlock genuinely surprised. The look on Watson's face tells him that his friend had not realized Mary held such suspicions about Anderson and the bombing either, though of course now it makes sense now she's said it. It also makes sense, now, that she had requested to interrogate the prisoner.

After all, just because Adler was there, that didn't necessarily make Adler the target…

In a rage Anderson darts towards Mary, only to remember at the last moment that she is a)more than a match for him and b) flanked by two men. He comes to a rather sudden, rather obvious halt about a foot from her, breathing hard and glaring like a viper, but under the rage a quivering sort of fear is, for the first time, visible. Sherlock can't say he's surprised by his reaction: The bombing of the Cock and Hen had caused a massive amount of damage to Fleet Street, as well as injuring several innocent bystanders.

If it were proved that Anderson and his cronies were responsible for that then the consequences would be dire indeed.

"Listen here," Anderson is biting out each word in what he clearly believes is an intimidating manner, "you may say what you wish of me and Mo-" a glance at Sherlock and he backpedals, "about me and Mrs. Holmes, if you need to. You may say that I am wrong to have tried kidnapping another man's wife, even if she is a har-" Holmes stirs, flexing his uninjured fist- "mistaken in her beliefs.

But I had nothing to do with what happened in Fleet Street. Nothing. On that, you may depend, Madame."

And he straightens himself up, tries to look arch.

He is singularly unsuccessful in that endeavor.

Mary cocks a cynical eyebrow at him; She has that look on her face that Sherlock has learned to associate with the prologue to an exchange of gunfire.

"Really, Phillip?" She drawls. "Really? So you, leader of a virulently violent and lawless anti-suffragist mob just happened to be there, spying of us, when a bomb nobody will claim responsibility for went off? You just happened to try blowing up the women who helped your wife finally leave your sad excuse for a marriage bed, hmm?" Again she smiles that knife-like smile. "The universe is rarely so lazy."

"The universe has always been lazy, when it comes to me!"

Anderson must realize how that sounds- John's snort of amusement surely underlines the fact- but he doesn't back up. Rather he presses his face into hers, egged on by her apparent lack of maidenly concern.

Mary shrinks back from him but Sherlock knows her well enough to see it is a ruse.

"Things will not change," Anderson hisses, pulling at his chains, and for the first time Sherlock sees the man Sally Donovan must have seen, the man she felt she had to leave.

How terrifying must it be, he muses, when the man bullying you is a policeman?

"The great truths of men and women will not give way," Anderson is snarling, "no matter how much baggages such as you try to undo them. Women are for making beds, babies and meals, that is all." His lips pull back from his teeth in something utterly unlike a smile and for the first time John looks unsure at the man's proximity to his wife.

"And come our time, Madame," Anderson hisses, "you and every other ungrateful, wretched little harpy in your organization will be made to see how hard life is when you refuse the requirements of nature and the needs of your masculine superiors-"

"So there is an overarching plot."

Suddenly Mary's voice sounds smug and certain. Suddenly she no longer looks in the least bit frightened.

"Just as there is a puppet-master, pulling at your strings." A sigh. "I thought so."

Anderson blinks, stares at her, and then all the colour rushes from his face. Suddenly he looks ashen. Horrified. And they say, Holmes muses, that it's women who can't hold their tongues…

"I didn't- I didn't say that," he stammers.

Again his eyes flit towards the door of his cell, but this time in fear, not in hope. Sherlock and John both note it.

"You didn't need to," Mary says quietly. "I have suspected for some time, but now I have proof-" she inclines her head. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Anderson."

And she sweeps towards the door. Pulls it open. John comes to her side, offers her his arm, and as if she were the veriest little lamb, Mary takes it. Sweeps out.

Sherlock nods in the prisoner's direction and does likewise.

"I didn't tell you anything,"Anderson is stammering, his voice bouncing of the walls of the corridor. "I didn't tell her anything!" He yells, though who he might be talking to is anyone's guess.

Or maybe not, Sherlock thinks, looking at Mary. Maybe there is more that she knows. He waits until they're inside Mycroft's carriage, Molly with them, before John turns to his wife and asks the question which has clearly been buzzing in him since her words to Anderson.

As is often the case however, Sherlock beats him to it.

"What the devil was that about, Mary?" He barks.

Molly jumps at the loudness of his voice and instantly he winces. Presses a kiss to her wrist in apology.

She is still so nervous after what Anderson tried to do.

Mrs. Watson throws a long-suffering look at Sherlock. At her husband and Molly. "Sometimes it takes a soldier to recognize an enemy combatant," she says softly.

And then she raps on the carriage roof, indicating that they should pull away, and elects to enlighten her menfolk (and Molly) about her suspicions as to what's going on.

Chapter Text

This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely MizJoely, though all mistakes are mine. And thank you to all who are still reading and reviewing, you make writing  so much more worthwhile... 

- SURPRISES -

For a moment Mary says nothing, apparently marshaling her thoughts.

This does not bode well for Molly- she is rather familiar with what it takes to quieten Mary Watson- but she wisely elects to keep her nervousness to herself.

Rather, she closes her eyes and concentrates on the feel of her husband's warm body beside her in the carriage; after a moment, he takes her hand, fingers threading through hers, and when she opens her eyes to look at him askance he brings their joined hands to his lips for a chaste kiss.

Despite her best intentions, Molly's cheeks colour slightly and he smiles.

Mary clears her throat, her expression wry, and immediately Sherlock turns his attention to her.

He does not, however, surrender Molly's hand, and the realisation warms her.

"What I am about to tell you," Mary begins softly, "I can only state as my own opinion. It is, I assure you, an opinion built on my years of good sense and experience in the field, but it is, I must stress, only an opinion."

Clearly surprised at this start- Mary is not in the habit of prefacing her statements thus- John and Sherlock nevertheless gesture for her to go on.

"In the last two years," she continues, her voice growing firmer, "it has come to my attention that certain elements within the government- our government-" She inclines her head towards the two men- "have become involved with businesses in which much harm is done, and little but profit for the few delivered-"

Sherlock rolls his eyes impatiently. "If that is your idea of a revelation, Mrs. Watson," he says, "then you must truly be losing your flair for dramatics-"

Mary snorts, some of her seriousness leaving her. "That there are bad people doing bad things while in power is not a revelation, Sherlock," she says dryly. "That they are doing so under cover of righteousness, and propriety, and that they are breaking the very laws they swear they are upholding, is." She shakes her head. "Queen and country is one thing: hypocrisy is quite another."

"So you have suspected a conspiracy for quite some time." This from John, and it is not a question. When she hears it, however, Mary nods curtly, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze.

"I had no wish to keep you in the dark about this, my heart," she says quietly. "But, your closeness to the Holmeses notwithstanding, I feared that bringing you into my confidence would endanger you-" A wry smile. "And you are quite capable enough of endangering yourself, without my helping the process along."

At this Watson huffs, but his expression suggests that he agrees with his wife. "Yes, well," he says diffidently. "I have had my fair share of enemies, I will admit-"

"And it was one of those enemies who first suggested the possibility of this scheme," Mary says. She purses her lips, her eyes going, inexplicably, to Molly. "Tell me," she says carefully, "how much of our boys' experiences with Professor James Moriarty have you heard, Molly?"

At this, Sherlock shifts uncomfortable, and Molly blinks. "He was- He was a master criminal," she says uncertainly, looking at her husband. "He and Sherlock were, well… I understand that there was a great deal of animosity before his suicide…"

Both the Watsons snort at this and Sherlock narrows his eyes. Mary meets his gaze straight, ignoring his scowl. "There is no need to impugne Molly's modesty with discussions of a matter which long preceded her marriage to me," he says. "Desist."

His tone brooks no disagreement.

Mary rolls her eyes, however. That tone might have worked on a governmental official, or an aristocrat, but it would have no effect on her, Molly knew. "There is plenty of reason for her to understand the sheer reach of the man you destroyed, Sherlock," she says bluntly. "And if she does not understand it, then she will not understand much of what else I have to say-"

"Then she will not understand." Sherlock's tone sounds slightly panicked. "She will, however, be safe-"

"From what?" Molly asks, and she has the distinct displeasure of seeing her husband's cheeks pale. When he looks at her, it is as if he is peering at a delicate piece of glass which is just about to shatter, and despite her nervousness since Anderson's attempted kidnapping, it irritates her immensely.

"Sherlock," she says with some asperity, "whatever it is you are trying to keep from me, I assure you that I probably already know of it- Or some of it, at least." At his astonished look she softens. "Surely you must know that my father wouldn't have allowed you to court me without checking into your background first?" When his astonishment increases she shakes her head. "You thought he didn't inquire into your character?"

"Of course I assumed he didn't!" he barks. "Had he truly known of it, he would never have allowed us to wed!" She recoils at his raised voice and suddenly her calm, elegant husband looks rather…frightened. He lowers his head, tries belatedly to control his temper. "For if he did know, and did tell you, then that would mean- Then that would mean that you have always-"

"I have always known that you had brushes with the law before our marriage," Molly says, her voice equally quiet. "I also know you have not always acted wisely with your health, or your own safety- All of London knows that. And I know that you had a period of destitution a few years before we married, I know something of that business with Magnusson-" Unable to help her herself, she presses a small kiss to his cheek. "It was that, husband, which convinced my father to consent to our marriage." She smiles a little at him. "It is one of the things which I have always admired about you,in fact, that you stood up to that man for all those who could not."

Sherlock looks at her, his eyes flickering rapidly across her face as if trying to read her thoughts there. She has seen him do this often enough when he deduces someone, and so Molly allows it: she may not understand why her husband is so surprised at her knowledge of his past, but if he is then she needs must allow him to accept it.

Besides, it is not only his fault that they know so little about one another, she must admit.

They have been married these two years, and in all that time it never occurred to her to ascertain what he thought he knew about her knowledge of him.

After a moment, he blinks, seemingly coming back to himself. "So you know… You know me," he murmurs, and the surprise in his voice breaks her heart. Had he truly imagined her unaware of the manner of man she married? she muses.

And yet, the evidence is there that he did.

They stare at one another, unable to break the moment. Molly suddenly finds her heart is beating faster, and despite herself she impetuously brings her husband's hand to her mouth this time, pressing a kiss to their joined fingers...

"When you left London to take apart Moriarty's network," Mary continues, reminding them rather pointedly that they were not alone, "I did not believe that Moriarty's reach could possibly be as all-encompassing as you claimed."

Immediately the moment is broken; Sherlock turns his attention back to her.

"You doubted me?" And it's odd, but he sounds almost put-out.

This time Mary smiles. "Governments may have that kind of power," she says softly. "Sometimes men of money or status. But a professor of mathematics at a minor university, pulling those sorts of strings?" She shakes her head. "I must admit, in all my years in the field, I never thought such a thing possible. Even you allowed it far-fetched, at first.

And yet, as you and John and Adler waded your way through his organization, it became obvious that you were in fact right." She shakes her head again, her eyes, suddenly, far away, and then suddenly she is back in the present. Rather impetuously, she reaches out and takes John's hand, prompting Molly to wonder what dark memory of her friend's had surfaced just then. "But then I rather think that that's what I get for doubting you, Sherlock," she says, and despite himself Sherlock's expression softens.

Perhaps he saw the same worry in her that Molly did, she thinks.

"So," John prompts, his tone slightly impatient (though he has not relinquished his wife's hand) "you believe that the key to Molly's attempted kidnapping, the bombing of the Cock and Hen, and Anderson's fear of being seen to inform, are all related in some way to Moriarty?"

Mary shakes her head. "I believe they are related to an organization, as wide in reach as Moriarty's and far more clever," she says. "One which has been using men like Anderson and anger at the suffrage movement as a way to drum up support, perhaps reach at people without arousing suspicion." She gestures to herself. "If someone from a criminal organization were to target me, for example," she says, "what would be the repercussions?"

"I would thrash them." John's voice is calm and matter-of-fact. His smile is, however, hard.

Mary acknowledges that with a curt nod of her head. "Indeed." She looks at Sherlock. "And what would you do?"

Sherlock nods, seeing her point. "I would investigate," he says softly. "And then I would bring the long, pudding-loving arm of the law down on those people, in the form of my brother." He looks at her. "My brother, Mycroft, who is the British government, in essence."

Mary nods.

"Exactly. And yet, everyone knows that since he married Anthea, Mycroft Holmes' morals have been rather less… flexible than they once were. His willingness to go along to get along with the rich and powerful has been somewhat overturned.

Whereas, if it were merely an idiot like Anderson who has an axe to grind against the women's rights movement, what happens?"

"Nothing." This from Molly. "We would assume that was all there is to it and, once Anderson is behind bars, cease to wonder about his motivation." A horrid thought occurs. "Which means that- That my kidnapping was merely a distraction-"

A dart of fury pierces her, that she should be frightened and attacked for no better reason than being a means to an end. Sherlock winces but Mary shakes her head. Takes her hand and squeezes it.

"On the contrary," she says. "Your kidnapping was important, because whoever arranged it went through an inordinate amount of trouble to do so- Just as they did to arrange trouble for myself, and for Adler, and for our respective husbands."

Molly purses her lips. "So you think that this is a personal matter, rather than a political one?" she asks. "You think we have gained the attention of this… cabal, and it is merely trying to cover up the fact?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly sees Sherlock puff his chest in pride at her deduction and she can't help it- Once again she leans over and kisses his cheek.

The tips of his ears and his cheeks turn the most becoming shade of scarlet.

Molly's match them.

The Watsons both shoot them smiles which would put the Cheshire Cat to shame.

"So if this is personal," Sherlock says, his voice a little… distracted, "then you believe that the unwanted attention will continue?" Mary nods. "And that being the case…" He trails off, his gaze turning to Molly. She doesn't like the amount of worry she sees there. "Then you are not safe, wife," he says softly. "And you will not be safe until this matter is resolved-"

"Exactly." John nods. "But it will be resolved, Holmes, I promise you." Mary nods again, taking her husband's hand and then Sherlock's. "We will not allow anything to happen to one of our unit, surely you know that?"

And she squeezes his free hand, gives Molly a reassuring smile.

"Besides, it's more than past time that you started bringing Molly into our business-" A mischief enters her eyes- "He is, I assure you, always a boor to be around when he has to leave you behind, my dear-" At this, Molly's eyes widen in surprise-

Which is when the sound of a shot rings out, a rough shout rising up to their right as the Hansom cab lists with sudden, nauseating sharpness-

Molly is thrown against her husband, the Watsons wedging themselves into their seats with what looks like the ease born of practice-

The door to the hansom opens and a man reaches inside, grabbing roughly for Molly, since she is nearest. She kicks at him, catching him on the jaw and as he falls back the cab comes to a halt, totters onto its side, the horse outside whinnying in terror as it thrashes and drags the cab to and fro-

"Come out," a voice sounds, and both Sherlock and the Watsons frown as they recognize the owner.

"How about you come in here instead, Carnavron?" Mary shouts and then the air is split with the sound of shots…

Meanwhile…

Inside Phillip Anderson's former prison cell…

The figure nods to itself. Smiles.

There is always more satisfaction to be had in a job done by one's own hand.

With a small flourish, they tie off the rope they have rigged to the top of the cell's bars and set Anderson's lifeless body swinging.

His eyes are open, a warning for the others.

Quietly, quietly, the figure opens the cell. Steps outside into the darkness.

They're almost out the door of the prison when the alarm sounds that Anderson's body has been discovered, but they neither slow down nor stop…

And if anybody notices them, well, they say nothing at all…