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Chapter Text

Collage by  @thisisartbylexie and writingwife-83 

In the north of Ireland nestled in a valley sat a jewel of a village called Ferndown. The winters were harsh, the spring and summer months were damp and more often than not cool. The war had changed much of the world, and Ferndown was not unaffected. They’d endured their losses the same as the rest. Prayed for the rest of the world to find the peace they seemed to enjoy more often than not. When the war ended, they celebrated in their own quiet way. For a time in Ferndown, life seemed to be one great happy yell. Pennants hung over the streets, flags were tucked into flower pots and all anyone could talk of was the war finally being over. And then as suddenly as the excitement of it had come, it was gone, and life was settled and quiet. Which, for anyone in Ferndown, it was exactly how things were supposed to be. Nothing, and no one, could possibly change it.

Sherlock Holmes set the brake and switched off the engine. The truck would need work soon, but he wasn’t overly concerned. So long as it got him to town and back once a week, he felt he could ignore the rattling noise for the moment. He swung his stiff leg around, turning himself to the back of the truck and lowered the wooden bench. Sliding the two crates carefully across the truck bed, he tested their weight just once more, glancing up at the clouds forming. His knee began to ache. Irritable already at the oncoming storm, he took the first load, stepping up onto the sidewalk, and into the Two-a-Penny Bakery.
As usual, Janine Hawkins was there holding the door for him. She blushed pink, which he ignored, but politeness kept his tongue in check. Instead he replied gruffly to her cheery greeting. Behind the counter Mary Watson stood, wiping her hands. Already some of the shelves were bare from the days’ sales.

“You’ve had a busy day,” he deduced, seeing she had not relit the fire in the oven. “Leaving early today?”

“I’d like to, if you’d hurry up and bring in your delivery.” Mary’s eyes sparked at him, and he knew she was all cheek. He deposited the first crate on the counter and went and fetched the second before he followed Mary around the counter and into the kitchen. Already they’d begun cleaning off the tables, and tomorrow’s bread was already proofing.

“Good haul this time,” she commented.

“It’s always good,” Sherlock insisted, refusing to hear anything negative said about his bees. “Two crates as usual.”

“Usual price then,” Mary handed him an envelope of money. “And any loaf you like,” she nodded to the front counter.
Sherlock took the one nearest at hand, soda bread. Before he could tuck it under his arm, Janine whisked it away and put it in a paper bag for him.

“If we knew what you liked, we could always make sure we had some left for you,” she offered, handing it over to him.

“Janine,” Mary gave a warning, clearly knowing where her stepsister was heading.

“I have no partiality. Whatever you or Mary make is sufficient.” He gave a non-committal wave. “See you next week.”

“Bye!” Janine called after, and the door shut, the bells on the doorframe clanging noisily. She gave a small sigh, glancing at Mary.

“Oo, love,” Mary shook her head. She rubbed her belly, feeling the baby within give a swift kick. “Time you gave up on that one.” Janine had no reply, she only watched as Sherlock went down the street to where old Mrs. McCreedy stood with her basket of groceries. As usual, he took the basket from her, gave his arm, and helped her cross to her little house by the teashop. He placed the basket inside her door, tipped his hat and returned to his truck. In a moment he was gone, and Mary called for Janine to hurry and wipe the counters. Maybe it was time to give up. Well…maybe.

The village of Ferndown was behind the times, in Sherlock’s opinion, the best sense. Post came once a week, the London Times was delivered with the rest of the mail, so that sorted news as well. Though a number of families had a radio, most got their news by word of mouth, or at the pub’s wireless. There was one telegraph station, set up during the war, and was left for the town’s use afterwards. The trains didn’t even run there. You had to drive twelve miles to the next county. There were three automobiles total in the entire village. One church, one bakery, one doctor, and one beekeeper. To be frank, he preferred to be the only one.

Sherlock rattled down the road, glancing in the side-mirror behind him, a habit he’d become accustomed to during the war. He squeezed his right knee, willing the pain away. During the war, he’d enlisted, he’d done quite a turn at Bletchley Park, until the higher-ups decided his particular skill set could best be put to use involving a bit more legwork. He used to enjoy a good caper. There was a time when Sherlock Holmes was the greatest detective in the entire world. Probably still was. The war had taken it out of him, left him without appetite for the game and he wasn’t terribly keen on getting it back. He was tired. Tired of secrets and lies and the twisted ways of humanity and all their selfishness and greed. He was glad the war was over, glad the whole wretched business was at last behind them. A bullet to the knee took him out of the effort. There was a time he didn’t think he’d even be able to walk again. But he was determined to get back out to the front. He persevered through the pain, took his time and eventually regained a considerable amount of mobility only to be handed discharge papers. With four years of fighting under his belt, Mycroft -and Mummy- had put his foot down. He’d never walk properly again, and it was agreed by all the higher-ups that he’d done enough for his country. Which was most probably the most ridiculous thing ever uttered to his face in his entire life. He was honorably discharged from the army, and for the first time in his life, utterly useless. No one needed a consulting detective in the middle of a war, much less one with a gimpy leg that required the use of a cane when the weather was sour. He drifted about London for a few months, until he received a letter from John and Mary Watson. John had been in the Northumberland Fusiliers, took a bullet in the shoulder, and had also been sent packing. His wife, Mary, had always disliked London, and so with a pension and nowhere else to go, they went off back to Mary’s home county in Ireland. Settled and happy in a little village no one had heard of, they invited Sherlock to join them.

They wrote to him of a man called ‘Hooper’, who owned an ancient and wild kind of farm, and a beautiful orchard which had fallen to considerable disrepair due to their owner’s failing health. The orchard needed tending, most especially the hives. Sherlock had always loved apiaries and held a particular fascination for beekeeping. It had always been a hobby, but now it was his bread and butter. Only a few months after his arrival, Old Richard Hooper sold Sherlock the orchard and the hives, and even gave him a small cottage on the grounds. Over the next three years, Sherlock tended the orchard and kept the bees. Still, to all outward appearances a man bitter in soul. No one in Ferndown blamed him. They knew he’d done his bit, and if a man came home from war angry, well, he’d a right to. The village was happy with his efforts in Hooper’s orchard. Under his care, the trees gave forth a plentiful harvest, enough to store down cellars throughout the year, and honey besides. There was not one house in all of Ferndown that did not purchase their honey from Sherlock Holmes. From it, he made a tidy business, and his life was consumed with the upkeep. It was the one solace in his life.

For three years he made offer after offer to Hooper, to sell him the rest of the land, and every time, he received an emphatic ‘No’.
“If you’re worried for the house, you needn’t fear, I’d be more than happy for you to remain on the property, I shouldn’t take that from you,” Sherlock tried to reason.

“It’s not just the house, it’s the farm,” Hooper would insist.

“Well…what of it?”

The farm wasn’t much of a farm. There weren’t any cows to speak of. Hooper got all the milk he needed from a cantankerous goat that had an affinity for escaping, having a bit of fun and returning pregnant. How this was accomplished was the town’s biggest mystery. Sherlock had never seen a goat more determined to have babies than Hooper’s ‘Rosy-lee’ as she was affectionately called. Baby goats came and went, and Hooper was never without milk, or for that matter, cheese. Hooper also owned two fat spotted pigs he used to hunt truffles, a scraggly rooster, six plump hens that he seemed determined not to eat, and four abominable geese. It was the oddest farm, but as Hooper had sold him the orchard, hives and cottage for a disgustingly low fee, Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself. Or he did his best to, anyway.

When poor Richard Hooper died, and the will was read, Sherlock wondered if perhaps the old man might have left him the rest of the farm. But no, it was left to his only daughter, Molly Hooper. For a year the village of Ferndown kept an eye out for Miss Hooper. There was quite a bit of talk. Why hadn’t she come to the funeral? Why had she never come to visit her ailing father? Nobody likes to speak ill of the dead so the townsfolk kept their tongues. After all, Hooper spoke often and well of his daughter. But when asked why she never visited, Hooper would shake his head and say it wasn’t the right time for her to come. Sherlock didn’t know who she was, just that she was cause for annoyance.

There the farm sat, unused. The Watson’s and their children (all seven of them, mind) came each day and tended the garden. Sherlock looked after the animals, that was easy enough since he was an early riser. For once, he was grateful that there were no cows or horses to look after. No stalls to muck out. Just make sure everyone was fed and watered. Watson came and saw to it the goat was milked and her hooves trimmed when they needed. Otherwise, they were all kept waiting. At one point a letter came to the house, but since it was sent with Hooper’s name on it, no one opened it, and it was sent back to London. Sherlock would have opened it, had he known. But Ferndown was superstitious and Mrs. Hawkins got it into her head it was bad luck or some nonsense to open a dead man’s post.

So Ferndown waited. 1946 came and went, and by the spring of the following year, they had almost given up waiting. Until one day, a message came down the wire, requesting a cart or car to be at the station that afternoon. The wireless operator, Killian, came running into the bakery amid the morning’s crowd, waving the telegram for all to see.

For a moment, no one knew what to do. It wasn’t unheard of for a car to be wired for, if someone was traveling to Ferndown, and couldn’t walk the twelve miles. That usually happened when the mail train came in, but the weekly mail had already come and gone. So someone must have been visiting! Word quickly spread, and soon everyone was talking. Who could it be? There were a few hopeful parents, quietly wringing their hands, wondering if their sons reported missing-in-action were perhaps found. No one tried to tell them otherwise, but nobody encouraged their hopes either.
By the time Sherlock got to the bakery with his weekly delivery, the crowd had somewhat lessened, though the shelves were nearly empty now, and still people lingered with their parcels. Sherlock looked questioningly at the group of ladies all gathered at the counter talking, and quickly deduced what was the cause of the hubbub. Mary saw him listening, and without moving from her place by the register, raised her voice and said:

“You’ll have to go, Sherlock,”

He set the last crate of honey down, straightening.

“Me?”

“You,” she answered. “John’s got the car out already, and Mrs. Mackintosh is away on holiday.”

“I most certainly will not. I’ve enough to do. Spring has been particularly wet and I’ve got to do more grubbing around the hives-“

“Please,” Mrs. McCreedy said softly. The old woman’s withered hands gripped her purse, trembling. “Please go and see Mr. Holmes.”

Mrs. McCreedy had one son. One in her whole life, and he’d given up everything to stay in Ferndown to look after her. When the war came, she urged him to do what he felt was right. Like so many, off Shane McCreedy went, never to return. He was reported missing in action, and his duffle was sent home. Every day Mrs. McCreedy waited for another telegram, one that would bring better news.

Sherlock looked at the old woman and nodded.
“I’ll wire if there’s news.” And he went out as quickly as he could manage.

Nine miles outside of Ferndown…
Molly Hooper-Mason sat on one of the suitcases, resting for a few moments. She’d come four miles already, no one would begrudge her a little rest. When she’d arrived at the train station, she asked when the train would depart for Ferndown.

“End of line, Ma’am,” he answered. “Ferndown is twelve miles north. Are you meeting someone?”
She looked so worn down and depressed at his words, the conductor felt awful. Clearly this woman was in mourning.

“No, no I’m not.” she replied. She hefted her suitcases, studying the road. “It’s only twelve miles? Well, I’ve walked that in London easily enough. Thank you.”

“Are you sure you won’t cable anyone? We can send a message, have someone come and fetch you.”
“No, no there isn’t anyone who knows I’m coming, thank you.” So sincere, so sweet, and so dreadfully sad was this woman, the conductor watched her retreating down the station and toward the road to Ferndown, and knew at once what to do. With a click of his fingers he ran into the wireless office.

“Send out a message quickly, let Ferndown know there’s someone needing a ride.” They’d send someone, sure enough, and they’d meet her on the road, saving her a good ten miles, with any luck. Feeling he’d done his duty, he stepped back onto the train as it began to unload the rest of the cargo.

But Molly didn’t know that the conductor had taken pity on her, and so she kept a good brisk pace until her arms grew heavy and stiff from carrying her bags. She only had two suitcases, but they both contained all she had. When she came to the ten mile marker to Ferndown, she walked another twenty minutes and then sat down.

As she sat and rested, she studied the mud on her shoes. She smiled to herself. Tom would’ve said mud was mud, it’d all wash out and anyway who wears fancy heels to Ireland?

“Well I didn’t know there was no transportation,” she said aloud. Indeed there was very little wrong with her outfit. Molly prided herself on being up to date with the latest fashions, much like her mother, and when Dior had marched out his new Spring line, Molly treated herself to a new wardrobe. The past two years had been dreadful. Strike that. The past eight years. The awful war, then her Mother died, then Tom…taken as a prisoner of war. Tom…missing. It was too much, and for the first time, Molly wanted to run away. Away from the blackouts, the aerial fights, the ration lines, and the bombs, keeping calm and carrying on, and the whole rotten business. She wrote to her father, desperate for his advice, desperate for his permission to live with him in Ireland. It wasn’t until after she’d mailed the letter that she found out her father had passed and was buried, effectively leaving Molly alone in the world. The final nail in the proverbial coffin (as if there hadn’t been enough of those about), was receiving official notice of Tom’s death. The army was constantly updating lists now that the war was over, names of English soldiers that had been executed years ago by the opposing armies. Tom was among them, having been taken POW somewhere in France, and so they notified her, sending along his medals, what they could, of his uniform and his identification tags. For a while, she wanted to die too. She waited for days, wrapped up in his coat, re-reading letters that she’d memorized long ago. Waiting for him to come through the door, to explain away the awful tragedy as some silly mistaken identity. Eventually, she realized that it simply wasn’t going to happen, and she somehow dragged herself out of the gloom. The official news of Tom’s death had come swiftly after her father’s, and for eight months she had sat in London, unable to fathom the life she used to enjoy. She couldn’t bear the city any longer. Too many memories. Too much silence. Even before, when Tom was away and fighting, Molly knew him well enough to guess what he’d say to her, and more often than not she was right.

After he died, it was too painful to even imagine his voice, his smile, his kind eyes and warm hands. The city was... too much. Her father had told her he’d found himself in Ireland, and when he separated from her mother, he found himself again when he returned. Late in December of 1946, a solicitor contacted her. Her father had left her the family farm. She wasn’t aware there was a farm, let alone one that belonged to her family. And suddenly, after almost a year of silence, she knew exactly what Tom would say to her if he were alive. He’d tell her to go. She loved animals, she loved Ireland, or at least the idea of it. After all she was half Irish.
“It’s time for a change, Sixpence,” she muttered to herself, using the nickname Tom had for her. It took time, selling her flat, selling her furniture and automobile, speaking of-

At the sound of one rumbling towards her, she looked up. A little jalopy of a truck came rattling towards her. The driver set the brake and for a moment fiddled with something in the truck until the vehicle heaved a shuddered sigh and the engine stopped. The door opened, and Molly stood up, curious as a man stepped out, took a cane from the passenger seat, and hobbled over to her.

“If you bothered to send a telegram, why walk?” he asked, rather waspishly. “We haven’t any cabs in the village.”

“I didn’t send a telegram!” Molly answered back, surprised at this stranger’s venom. This tall, terribly good-looking stranger’s venom, that is.

“Someone did,” the man narrowed his gaze, looking at the road behind her. “Were you the only one coming to Ferndown?”

She nodded in response. “I was the last one on the train. The rest were all cattle and sheep.”

“Hm.” He studied her a moment, and Molly found herself looking quickly over her appearance. “Molly Hooper, I presume.” He didn’t presume. He knew.

“Mason,” she corrected. “Molly Hooper Mason.” Her reply was met with a frown.

“Your father never mentioned you were married.”

“Who are you that my father should mention anything of his family to?” she shot back, having quite enough of this rude man’s gall. She hadn’t traveled almost five hundred miles just to receive a dressing down from a man who couldn’t even bother to wear a tie.

“I-“ and for a moment, Sherlock was stuck. “I was his friend,” he answered. Now she studied him.

“You’re the one he sold the orchard to.”

“He wrote to you about that?”

“Of course. The solicitor also reminded me the farm came with some obligations, one being the orchard and the hives. Part of the land, but not under the deed.”

Sherlock found himself staring at this woman. This ridiculously fashionable woman who had walked almost four miles in her high heels and Dior suit, white gloves, and mink stole, carrying her matched monogrammed luggage. And Sherlock suddenly realized with delight that this sort of woman wouldn’t last two months in the sticks of Ferndown. And when Ireland got the best of her, she’d do anything to get out of it and be rid of the farm. Sherlock could buy it, he could expand the apiary. It was perfect. He thanked heaven that there were women who could handle the wilds of Ireland, like Mary Watson, who seemed to be made to be part of this land. This Molly Hooper-Mason-whatever she wanted to call herself, was most certainly not made to withstand this country.

“What makes you say that?”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, what do you mean I couldn’t stand country life?”

“Oh…” he murmured. “I thought I’d kept that to myself.” Sherlock felt the tips of his ears turn red, somewhat ashamed. Usually he was better at keeping his acid thoughts to himself.

“You did. And I’ll have you know I am a very determined woman. When I set my mind to something, I do it, regardless of the trials. I am set on living here, where my father lived. I’m finished with London, and I have no intention of ever going back there. Thank you for rushing to my aid, but I can see my way home, thank you.” She turned then, and picked up her suitcases, and began again towards Ferndown.

He heaved a sigh, angrily looking after her. He was more than ready to jump in the truck and beat her back to the village and back home. But he could also hear Mary and John scolding him. Leaving a defenseless woman out just as dusk was falling, when wolves are about and no light, on a strange road. No, that would never do. Sherlock was annoyed with her, but he was not as cold-hearted as some believed him to be.
He called out: “Wait…”

She stopped, turning. For just a moment, Sherlock found himself admiring the figure she made in her tailored suit and fur, in those ridiculous heels and French hat. Blinking quickly, he shook those thoughts aside, and nodded to the truck.

“You can’t walk all the way to Ferndown. You’ll never make it before dark, and there’s wild dogs. Come on.” He went to her then, taking one of her suitcases in his free hand, setting it in the truck bed. She was about to heave the other one up alongside it, but he took it from her and nodded to the cab. “Temperature is dropping. There’s a rug in the truck if you’re cold.”

Going around to the drivers’ side, he climbed in, sliding his cane down alongside the door. He looked to her seat, only to find she wasn’t there. She stood instead at the hood of the truck, by the hand-crank.

“Switch it on then,” she called.

Too surprised to think of a retort, he obeyed. The engine burbled, forced a smoky cough and shook, before mercifully starting up. She scurried around and climbed in, setting the crank on the floor. Never in his life did he expect this sort of woman to know how to start a car, much less a truck of this age.

“By the way,” Molly said as they rumbled down the road. “You never told me your name.”

“Holmes.” He answered, glancing at her. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Chapter Text

John Watson wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve, grinning at the child trundling after him, weighed down by a bucket of feed.

“Can you manage that?” he asked.

“I can carry it myself!” the boy insisted, so Watson let him be, hefting his own load. When Mary had told him that Sherlock had gone to meet someone at the station, they’d loaded up the children and headed to Hooper’s farm. More than likely Sherlock would not be back until late, and the animals would need feeding and watering before then.

“Liam, go and fetch another bucket,” Watson called.

“I can’t find Rosy-lee!” he called from the barn.

“Never mind, she knows where she’s fed, she’ll be back before dark,” Watson answered. “Go on.” 

Liam heaved a sigh but obeyed. He was the eldest of the Watson children, just turned twelve. John and Mary had seven children altogether, four boys and three girls. Liam, then Sorcha and Cillian, swiftly followed by Brendan, Finn, Imogene and finally Deirdre. Seven, and one more on the way. Still, John Watson wouldn’t change his life for anything, not one bit. He’d never expected to settle so far from England, but for Mary, he’d move mountains. After he was wounded in the war and came down with typhoid fever, he was discharged from the army. Mary was desperate to get the children away from London, away from the Blitz and the horrid air. So they packed up the children and off they went, near five hundred miles by train, truck, car, cart, any way they could manage it in the middle of a war. John had never fancied himself a country man, but Ferndown had a way of working on a man. It was good to be a simple country doctor, looking after good people, even if it was a bit isolated. The children would grow up in a peaceful, green place, with as few cares as they could manage. Finn, Imogene and Deirdre would never remember London, and somehow, he was glad of that. London didn’t feel like home, and, having been away from it for so many years, it was bleak to look back on.

From the back door of the farmhouse, Mary stood shaking out the door mat.

“Imogene Watson, you mind where you step when feeding the chickens!” At Mary’s side stood Deirdre, the baby of the family, or at least until this next one was born. Mary patted her head. “Go on and help Brendan fetch the eggs, you mind not to touch any, let him put them in the basket, but you may help him count.” 

Brendan passed by his mother, taking his little sister by the hand and together made their way to the chicken coop while the hens and rooster were all busy feeding. All of three, Deirdre was not to be trusted yet with gathering the eggs, but she could watch, and it kept her out from underfoot. John turned at the sound of geese honking to see Sorcha and Cillian herding the gaggle up from the pond.

“All right?” he called, and Sorcha nodded.

“Present and accounted for,” she answered. “And we found Rosy-lee,” she tugged the lead in her hand, and from the edge of the path trotted up the oft wayward goat.

“Well at least she can be milked before we go,” John sighed. “Liam help Finn with the pigs, I’ll go and see about that.”

Inside the house, Mary gave one last look around, seeing that everything was in order before locking the door behind her. Settling her coat over her shoulders, she went to see how the egg-collecting was coming along.

“Uncle Sherlock, Uncle Sherlock!” Deirdre stood on the gate by the coop, looking towards the road. Sure enough, in the distance was Sherlock’s old truck, rattling towards them, a passenger within. A decidedly woman-shaped passenger. 

“Well, well!” was all Mary said. She took her coat off, tossing it in the car, called for Sorcha to follow her in. Together they hurried back into the house, pulling the holland covers off the furniture. “See about finding linen for the bedroom.”

“Who is the lady with Uncle Sherlock?” Sorcha asked, going to the linen cupboard.

“Most probably Mr. Hooper’s daughter,” Mary paused. “Molly, that’s her name.” She looked at the kitchen, then the larder. “I wish I’d brought another loaf of bread; the poor thing is probably famished.” She clicked her fingers. “Run and fetch that loaf I brought from the seat. I can make something else when we get home, but there’ll be nothing for her but eggs and milk.” 

Sorcha obeyed, somewhat glum because she’d been looking forward to her mother’s fresh brown bread. “We brought Uncle Sherlock a pot of stew,” she reminded her mother.

“Would that he knew how to make cheese,” Mary added, more to herself. “Well, this will have to do.” 

Together they made up the bed and saw to it there were enough warm blankets in the wardrobe. No doubt this Miss Hooper had no idea just how cold Ireland could be. By the time they’d finished, Sherlock was pulling up to the front of the house, looking absolutely uncomfortable.

“Goodness, who is this?” Molly asked, seeing the Watson family coming and going from the house and barn.

“The Watsons. They look after the house and farm, or have done. Now that you’re here they needn’t.”

John saw them first and wiping his hands, went to introduce himself.

“Doctor John Watson,” he said as he helped Molly from the truck. The children swarmed past them to Sherlock, who stepped down from the truck, greeting them all in turn. Molly watched, surprised to see the stern and absolute grump of a man she’d been riding with break into a warm smile, tossing the littlest up into the air, her blonde curls flying.

Realizing she had not answered Doctor Watson, she turned, “Molly Hooper-Mason,” she answered over the noise. “It’s good to meet you.”

“My wife, Mary,” John turned, gesturing to the doorway of the house. 

Mary stepped forward and took Molly’s hand, smiling warmly “Welcome to Ferndown.”

“Thank you.” For a moment, Molly didn’t know what to say. “I confess I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here when I arrived,” she said, somewhat nervously.

“I’m afraid we’ve rather surprised you, it looks like we moved in!” Mary laughed. “Come here, children!” Seven little faces peered up at her, all intrigued and somewhat shy. Mary made short work of introductions from eldest to youngest. Here, Sherlock watched Molly like a hawk, daring her to find even one thing wrong with any of the Watson children. He almost hoped she would be the sort to detest children. That alone would put her on bad footing in the village. Rather than grimace and limply shake each child’s hand, Molly knelt and greeted each child in turn, finding something to complement each of them on. She liked children and had always wanted some of her own. She and Tom never got the chance. She shook off her sadness before it got the better of her.

“Mr. Holmes tells me you have been kind enough to look after the house since my father’s passing,” she said, straightening and Mary nodded. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, coming all the way out here-“

“Indeed, then why did you come out here at all?” Sherlock muttered under his breath.  

“Why did you?” Mary retorted, winking at Molly. Her smile became mischievous as she leaned forward to stage whisper to Molly, “You’ll have to get used to direct and nosy questions, I’m afraid.” 

Molly had chosen to ignore Sherlock, instead smiling at Mary and then the children. “I don’t mind questions. I hope you know you’re all more than welcome to come and go as you please. You all know so much about chickens and such I shall need all your wisdom!”

“Do you know anything about keeping a farm?” John asked, and here Molly’s smile faltered.

“Not enough, I’m afraid.” Molly admitted, but was quick to add: “I’m willing to learn, and I’m not afraid of hard work.”

This satisfied John. “There’s a fair amount of that about, but not too much for a place of this size. The chores have been done for today, but we’ll start in the morning, early, we’re in the habit of coming morning and evening, we’ll keep on, until you find your feet.”

“I’m an early riser,” Molly shrugged with a smile. “Thank you, Doctor Watson.”

“Come inside,” Mary took her by the arm. “Sorcha and I have been keeping the inside at the ready, we never knew when you were coming, you see.” If there was any annoyance at this, Molly couldn’t discern any, and found herself glad for a woman like Mary Watson.  Still, Molly felt the need to apologize.

“I’m sorry I never wrote, I didn’t know who to write to, you see, father rarely mentioned names, and I only knew his address.” They stepped into the kitchen, and Mary found the light switch, quickly pointing out the coat hooks, mud room and bootjack.

“Why did you come out here?” Mary asked, she leaned against the counter, folding her arms above her belly.

Slowly, Molly took off the stole and her hat, followed by her gloves. “I had to get out of London, is the easiest answer,” she flicked a glance up at Mary, who was watching her intently.

“Lost in the war, was he?”

A small nod, and Molly felt herself wavering, she blinked and found her eyes filled with tears. “Sorry, I’m sorry-“

“Never mind that,” Mary soothed, she reached for her then, squeezing her arms. “I prodded more than I should have. I think we’re all entitled to a good cry now and then. Especially when it comes to that. I cried buckets when my John was wounded.”

“I know it’s what my husband would’ve wanted, my moving on,” Molly went on tearfully. “London was so painful, so many memories. But I don’t know how I’m going to go on without him.”

Mary looked at her quite feelingly then. “What was his name?”

“Tom,” Molly sighed heavily, rooting through her purse for her handkerchief. “Tom Mason. Captured as a POW, shot in a prison camp.”

“Was he a good man?” Mary asked suddenly, and Molly looked at her, surprised.

“Y-yes, yes of course he was,” she smiled, more to herself. “He was human if that’s what you mean. He wasn’t a war hero, not a big name, or a big business man. We quarreled a few times, nothing consequential though. We met when he first got wounded, sent to London to a Red Cross station where I was working, physiotherapy, you know, that sort of thing. He was so kind to me.” She sniffled. “Even when he was in hospital, bandaged up and in pain, he was so kind, so caring. My mother had died, while he was in London, and he rang me up, to see how I was. Three dates and we were in love, and by the time he was well and got his marching orders, we’d applied for a marriage license, married about four hours before he had to go away to the front. I saw him three times after that. With the war on, there was no waiting, and Tom so wanted to make sure I was provided for.” 

“Men always want to look after us,” Mary said at last, quietly. “They don’t realize we don’t give a fig for the money; we’d rather have them.” Her smile was lighter then, “Not that money doesn’t help,” she eyed Molly’s suit, somewhat envious. “You know, I don’t miss London, not usually. I do miss the clothes though.”

“Oh!” Molly felt her face redden. “I-well…Mother left me a little nest egg, and selling my flat and car, and, well with everything-“

“Tush!” Mary batted a hand. “The war is over, a woman’s a right to look marvelous! If I had my druthers I’d be head-to-toe in Dior too! Isn’t he marvelous with a wool suit?”

“After the baby is born, you are welcome to any of my things,” Molly found herself saying, glad for a kindred spirit who understood a good dress when she saw one.

“Aren’t you a lamb,” Mary squeezed her hand, touched by her generosity. It had been an age since she’d worn anything from a department store, let alone anything from a fashion house. When she saw the new spring line from Dior she’d nearly drooled. “But I don’t think we’re the same size.”

“Mink fits everyone,” Molly insisted. Impulsively, she draped the fur over Mary’s shoulders. “There, you know I think that suits you better than it does me. And I know there’s a few things I have that have far too much skirt, we can alter them.”  

“I couldn’t possibly let you,” Mary began, but Molly shook her head. The thought had taken root, and the more she saw Mary clearly enjoying the feel of the mink on her shoulders, the more she liked the idea. Anyway she had another fur in her suitcase, and Mary had been so kind to welcome her, and keep house for the whole past year.

“You can, and you will,” Molly answered, and that was that. “I can sew, and I imagine you can too. We’ll find a Saturday or Sunday and make a day of it.”

“Oh Sunday there’s Mass, but afterwards, we could do a little,” Mary agreed.

The kitchen door banged open and the children rushed in, followed by John with a covered bucket. Molly was somewhat taken aback as the children ran about, all talking at once, hanging on their father who answered them with patience and indeed, some tired amusement. Mary at once scolded them not to bother their father while he was busy with the milking. John simply passed them into the larder and to the cellar door. He disappeared for a moment, then returned, this time with a pitcher. He then blinked for a moment, staring at his wife in a mink coat, but made no comment as he handed the milk to Molly and waded back through the children with the empty bucket.

“Where is Sherlock?” Mary asked as he stepped out the door.

“Seeing to the truck,” John called. “I’m just going to rinse this, and we ought to go then.”

“Where is his house?” Molly asked suddenly. “I know it’s on the land, but it would be handy, if there’s ever a need to fetch him.”

“You see the orchard there,” Mary directed her gaze out the window, down the sloping hill. “And that little cottage at the front is where he is, only a half-mile, most days you ‘ll be able to see it from here.”

“Ma, here’s the loaf,” Sorcha handed her mother the package from the car.

“Oh, thank you, that reminds me,” she opened it and set it on the cutting board. “I’m sorry there’s only eggs in the larder, well, eggs and goat milk, but this will make a little addition to your dinner tonight. Richard, er, your father, he always made his own butter and cheese, but with him gone, there hasn’t been any need to stock things.”

“No of course, thank you.” Molly was truly touched. “I hadn’t even thought about dinner.”

“No one does when they’re traveling.” The children all came clamoring around the doorway, while John called over their noise that he’d start the car.

“I’ve kept you longer than necessary,” Molly realized. “I’m awfully sorry-“

“Anyone who hands me a mink may keep me as long as they like,” Mary retorted with a laugh. She pressed Molly’s cheek. “But I think I’d better go, the children are hungry for their supper. Everything you need should be here. Tomorrow, have Sherlock take you into town for groceries and the like. I’ll be at work, or I’d go with you myself.”

“Where do you work?”

“Two-a-Penny Bakery,” Mary replied. “I’ll be there most of the day, stop in!”

“I will!” She followed her to the door and waited for the Watsons to all pile in their car. She admired them all, their liveliness and joy. Doctor Watson, as clearly tired as he was, smiled and tickled his children as he rounded them up, herding them into the car.

“The barn is all locked up, chickens, pigs and goat accounted for, mind you keep it locked,” he said, and she nodded.

“Thank you, Doctor Watson!” she waved goodbye, and from the car, all the children stuck their hands out the windows, calling choruses of goodbyes over the din of the engine.  And then as suddenly as the noise had begun, it was gone, and Molly was left alone.

Or nearly. Something cold and wet snuffed at her hand and she turned with a start, seeing an Irish Setter curiously smelling her shoes.

“Hello!” she knelt then, scrubbing at the dog’s ears. “Aren’t you lovely!” The dog lifted his head and smelled her, decided she was agreeable and greeted her accordingly, nearly knocking her over. She burst out laughing, struggling to keep balance. “Down, you!”

“Gladstone!” a shrill whistle followed, and the dog was up and trotting off toward his master.

Sherlock stood at the truck, leash in hand. He didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not his dog greeting Molly as if she were an old friend. “Traitor,” he muttered to the dog.

“Oh, he’s yours then,” Molly stood, brushing off her skirt as if she hadn’t just been tackled by his wet-from-the-fields dog. “He’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock answered.

She looked uncomfortable, unsure of why he was looking at her so pointedly. Finally, she took a step forward. “I’ll- get my luggage, shall I?” she reached for the bags, but again Sherlock beat her to it, grabbing the first one to hand. “Go inside, I’ll fetch it.”

“Let me help,” she said, and took the other. Sherlock made no comment. He wanted to be done with her as soon as possible, after all. The sooner her luggage was inside, the sooner he could go home. The clouds threatened to break at any moment, and he didn’t relish walking the half mile in the rain. There wasn’t any type of road from the main house to the cottage, and he didn’t dare risk taking the truck across the field.

“Looks like a storm tonight, you’ll want to make sure all the windows are latched properly.”

“Yes, I will, thank you.” She took the bag from him, setting it with its mate by the stairwell. “Is there anything else I ought to know?”

“No.” He turned to go, then paused. “You’ll need wood for the stove. There’s enough for tonight and tomorrow. John will more than likely chop more in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

He paused again. “Do you know how to light it?” He nodded to the woodstove in the parlor.

She turned and looked at the stove, then back at him. For just a moment, he saw the uncertainty in her eyes. Instead of shrugging helplessly, she smiled.

“I’m sure I can manage. Thank you, Mr. Holmes, you have been more than kind. May I loan you an umbrella in case the rain comes before you make it home?”

“No.” And with that he was out of the house, Gladstone at his heels, the door slamming behind them.

Chapter Text

For one awful moment, Molly looked at that beast of a stove and wanted to cry. In London if she wanted to turn on the heat, she adjusted the radiator. The gentleman in the flat below hers had looked after the boiler so she never had to worry. This stove was another thing entirely. She walked around it, studied the chimney and then nudged at the enamel of the ash door. It seemed to be the only heat source of the entire house. Which explained why the house was so chilly. She looked at it for a moment, then unbuttoned her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. There was kindling, paper, and wood. She ought to be able to light a simple fire. For now, though, she was famished, and decided to handle one thing at a time. She looked at the gas range and was grateful it was similar to the one she’d had in London. She took comfort in that small familiarity. At least her supper would be warm.

Sherlock, for his part, was halfway to his cottage when the rain began to fall. He wished he’d taken an umbrella. Molly had offered one, but he’d been stubborn. Which was childish. It was sensible to take an umbrella if offered one. Now he’d be wet through, to say nothing of Gladstone.

His cottage stood at the edge of the orchard, overlooking the trees. He didn’t require much space, and the house didn’t need much upkeep. He had more than enough. If the nights were cold, Gladstone shared his bed. He found himself wondering if Molly knew just how cold winters were, or if she thought to be prepared for the sudden storms that swept across the valley. He had seen Mary leave, wearing the mink that Molly had worn earlier that day. Clearly, she had given it to Mary. Whatever for? What sort of woman simply gives away an expensive fur at the drop of a hat? Obviously one who could afford to. Clearly, the two women were fast becoming friends, and that did not bode well. Still, even his immediate dislike of Molly Hooper-Mason did not stop him from thinking that perhaps that was her only means of warmth. She came from London. Everyone in London had boilers and coal stoves, depending on how nice your flat was. Judging by her clothes, Molly had a very nice flat indeed. She certainly wouldn’t have packed any warm jumpers.

“Look at her, poor thing,” Mary had said to him, low, as she was getting in the car.

“What?”

“I’ll bet she’s not got a single woolen jumper in that nice luggage of hers.” Mary had some kind of twinkle in her eye that usually meant she was up to something. “I’ll just have to make her some.”

“What’s she supposed to do in the meantime?” he asked, trying to make the point that making her jumpers was all well and good, once they were finished.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something to help keep her warm.” Mary’s answering smile made him scowl. “Spring in Ferndown isn’t spring in London.”

Shaking the rain from his coat, he toed off his boots and made for the bedroom. Opening the dresser, he found what he was looking for. It was old, certainly not fashionable, but there was plenty of wear left and would certainly be warmer than anything she’d brought. Setting aside the jumper, he turned back to the kitchen where the stew Mary had left was keeping warm on the hob. Gladstone began wriggling between his legs, trying to wipe the rain from his fur.

“I’m sorry old boy,” he replaced the lid on the pot and went in search of a dry towel. “Come on, to me.” The dog obeyed, and Sherlock quickly rubbed him down, taking care to check his paws for burrs he was so prone to finding in his escapades through the underbrush. No sooner had he finished that the power winked out. “Oh for…” he heaved a sigh. “That’s that then.” Power would be on in the morning, he wasn’t terribly concerned, only it was inconvenient to do everything in the dark, not to mention pump water in the dark-

A sudden thought occurred to him: Did Molly know she would need to pump water?

Judging by her reaction to the woodstove, no. 

It was starting to alarm him just how much he was thinking about her comfort. He supposed he could simply leave her there. She would no doubt figure out the art of building a fire. She would keep warm that way. There would be enough water in the tap for her to have a drink and wash her face. Probably. If Mary thought to run the water that day. 

He looked at Gladstone, who was beginning to settle on the couch. “She’ll probably burn the place down trying to start a fire,” he explained to the dog, it being the most logical reason for him to be involved. “And moving a half frozen body that’s dead would be most inconvenient for my schedule.” Gladstone snorted, seemingly in response to his master’s threadbare arguments. “Hell.” Sherlock got to his feet with a grunt, his knee creaking in protest before taking his cane and easing his feet into his rubber boots. Gladstone was up in an instant, staying at his heels. Dark had settled over the valley, and with the rain coming down, it would be easy to get lost. Taking his torch from the counter and carefully folding the jumper into his coat, Sherlock tucked his scarf securely into his collar and stepped out into the night. The rain was cold as it dripped down the brim of his hat onto his neck. Gripping the handle of his cane, he began the trek across the field toward the farmhouse, which sat dark, and probably freezing cold.

Molly struck another match, grumbling to herself. She hated waste. It had taken her two tries to light the candle she’d found in the kitchen drawer. Now she was struggling to light the kindling in the parlor stove. She wished her pride hadn’t gotten the better of her tongue. She wished she’d simply asked Mr. Holmes to show her how to build a fire. But he’d looked at her as if she didn’t dare risk the nail varnish on her fingers, and she so wanted to prove him wrong. He’d been looking down his nose at her since he’d met her on the road to Ferndown.

“Easy, Sixpence,” she muttered to herself. “You’ll hurt yourself, leaping to conclusions like that.” Mr. Holmes was a grump, to be sure. Perhaps his leg was the cause of his anger. He’d a right to be angry about that, she couldn’t fault him there. Still, she hated being judged, especially so unfairly, and by a complete stranger. Nothing put her back up quite like that.  The fire flickered, and gave a feeble light. That was something at least.

“It’ll never burn properly with the wood stacked like that.”

She fell back with a start, too shocked to speak. There at the parlor entry stood Sherlock Holmes, Gladstone at his side.

“How did you get in?”

“Kitchen door was unlocked.” Gladstone went directly to Molly, snuffling around before seating himself at her side. Sherlock paused, then, narrowing his gaze at this, before looking at her in the dim candlelight. The fire she’d managed to light wilted into a wisp of smoke.

“Do you often break into people’s homes and tell them what they’re doing wrong?”

“Not lately,” he shrugged. He unbuttoned his coat, handing her a bundle he’d been holding there. “There. Until Mary knits you something, I doubt you’ve got anything to keep you warm otherwise.” He shucked his coat and stepped around her. “You’ve left no air-flow in-between the logs. Larger pieces go on the bottom, kindling and paper on top. Match.” He held out his hand. Wordlessly, she handed him the box.

“Thank you.” She murmured and meant it. He gave no response, but watched as she stood, jumper in her hands. It seemed too intimate a thing, watching her put the old jumper on, and Sherlock wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if she were undressing . He studied her while she was occupied with pulling it on over her head. She’d removed her jacket, and as he suspected the shirtwaist beneath was only swiss-dotted linen, hardly anything substantial. She’d removed her shoes as well, and he was again struck by the thought of intimacy. People didn’t go about in others’ houses in their stocking-feet. He wasn’t used to seeing women in proper hosiery either. Women in Ferndown wore woolen or cotton stockings. Nylons were still almost impossible to acquire all the way out in Ireland, especially for residents of Ferndown. Not so for Molly. Sherlock knew what nylons looked like (Mummy had once made him smuggle some from the United States), and now, having seen Molly in them, he decided that they were worth all the fuss. Molly’s head popped free from the neck of the jumper, and Sherlock quickly averted his gaze, flushing with embarrassment. He was not some schoolboy, so why on earth was he behaving like one, ogling a woman’s legs?

“Did you eat supper?” she asked.

“I have something at my cottage.” He answered, clipped.

“You can’t go out again in this weather,” Molly chided him.

“I believe you offered me the use of an umbrella earlier,” he replied. It was a fair trade, build a fire in exchange for the loan of her umbrella.

“Yes of course, but your trousers will still be soaked through. At least stay and dry off.”

“You’ll need water as well, with the power out,” he suddenly added.

“Yes, I tried the taps, but they’re all dry.”

“There’s a pump by the kitchen door. I’ll see to it.”

“Oh no you won’t, you’ve been soaked through twice on my account. I’ll go-“ Molly began.

“You’ll ruin your shoes.”

“Not if you loan me your boots.”

“You haven’t got boots?” he looked at her, skeptical. Who on earth moves to Ireland and not bring boots?

She shifted slightly. “Of course I have boots!” she turned on her heel and marched to her luggage, carefully opening it so that he could not see what she was retrieving. With her back to him, she carefully slipped on her short boots, more appropriate for walking through London than a farmyard, but they were better than her pumps. Before he could get to his feet, she dashed out the door with an empty pitcher from the larder. The pump hadn’t been primed in ages. There had been no need. Molly was too small, and Sherlock was positive she wouldn’t be able to get any water at this rate. With a put-upon sigh, he followed her out the door and nearly stopped where he was. The sight of little Molly Hooper-Mason furiously working at the pump, the sweater much-too-large on her frame. She’d sunk to her ankles in mud, but went on undaunted, determined to fill the pitcher.

“Miss Hooper-“

“Mason!” she called over the rain.

“I’ll do that, or there will have been no point in my walking all the way over here with a dry jumper for you.” She was a mess, and already wet through. She looked at him but didn’t stop what she was doing.

“I can do it-“

“No, you can’t, you’re not used to it. Go inside and dry off, leave this to me.” Anything to get her out of the way before she broke something or pulled something or fell over. He’d thought too soon, for as she stepped out of the way, she lost one of her boots in the mud and nearly toppled over, had Sherlock not caught her. She fell against him, cheek-to-chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t move. He’d twisted as he caught her, grunting at the pain in his knee. She saw him wince in pain and realized. 

“Oh I’m so sorry Mr. Holmes-“

“Never mind,” he answered through gritted teeth. “Just go inside. I’ll bring the pitcher. If you must feel useful, check Gladstone for burrs.”

She found her other boot and hobbled back into the house, depositing the ruined shoes by the door. Taking advantage of Sherlock being outside, she hiked up her skirt and unrolled her stockings, wringing them out as best she could. She would have to rinse them later once water had been fetched. Gladstone was stretched out before the cheery fire, so, candle in hand, Molly went to the stove to fix something to eat.

 Getting water proved to be much harder than Sherlock anticipated, but after fifteen minutes or so, the pitcher was full, so he made his way back to the kitchen with it. He took the bucket from the table and returned to the pump, filling that as well, just in case the power didn’t return by morning. By the time he’d finished, Molly had found more candles and placed them in the parlor. Gladstone was stretched out before the fire. On the grate, Molly had hung the sweater, and, to Sherlock’s surprise, her stockings.

Which meant-

He turned with a start as she padded softly by him in her bare feet.

“I insist before you go you have something warm to eat and drink,” she said, and carrying a tray to the parlor, set it on a tufted stool. “I found tea in the cupboard, and there is fresh milk. I don’t know how you like your eggs, but I thought I’d risk it and fry them. There’s no butter for the toast, I’m afraid, but it’s all hot.”

Somehow, between her speech and sitting down, he’d followed her like a sheep. Her and her bare legs. He sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, plate on his knees, cup in hand. Molly gave a kind of contented sigh as she dug into her own plate.

“Have you never gone so long without food, that anything tastes marvelous?” she asked around a mouthful.

“No,” he answered. If he kept his answers short she might stop talking. And he might stop staring.

She ignored his rather blunt tone and went on, “There isn’t any salt or pepper in the house, but I don’t mind it a bit. It’s good to eat.” A sudden gust of wind swept over the house, rattling the windows. She gave a small shriek, nearly spilling her tea.

“I would have thought you’d be used to blackouts,” he commented suddenly.

“Oh yes, in London,” she answered, glancing once more at the ceiling, wondering if the house was as steady as she hoped. “If there’s a blackout in London, you’re still surrounded by people, it made them easier, even if I was alone in my flat. Out here there’s nobody, and no moon tonight either. I’m glad I found the candles.” She paused then, seeming to think of something. “I probably should have asked before, but is the roof sound?”

“Sound enough,” Sherlock replied tersely. “It was re-thatched a year before your father’s passing.”

Molly nodded carefully, daintily setting aside her now empty plate and staring at her hands for a moment before daring to meet his gaze. “I’m so grateful you came back Mr. Holmes.”

 Sherlock knew very well he could have left any time he wished. He didn’t want to enjoy the eggs and toast she’d so kindly made him. He didn’t want to enjoy the fragrant tea she’d found in the cupboard. He certainly didn’t want to enjoy watching Richard Hooper’s daughter stretch her bare legs out, warming her toes by the fire. He didn’t want to do any of these things. But he did. Besides, his knee ached much less than it did before, having sat by the heat of the fire for so long. He finished his plate, and before he knew it, Molly Hooper-Mason had curled up in her chair like a cat and fallen asleep. He stared at her, unsure of what to do. Ought he stay, so she wasn’t frightened when she woke up? No that wouldn’t do. If word got out that he’d stayed the night- he shuddered to think of what the old hens in Ferndown would do with that bit of information. Make a meal of him, no doubt. No, it would be best for him to slip away quietly. His clothes and coat were sufficiently dry, and the rain had certainly lessened. He put out the candles, avoiding the creaking spots in the parlor as he went. He added another log to the fire, and draped the blanket from the sofa over Molly’s still form before whispering for Gladstone to follow him. He got to the door and turned, only to find Gladstone was not at his heel as usual. The dog was nosing at Molly’s face. She stirred, and Sherlock clicked his fingers. “Gladstone, to me!” One more sniff, and the dog went off to his master’s side. Sherlock never had a time getting Gladstone to behave. Apparently, Molly Hooper was taking not only his land but his dog too!

Opening the kitchen door as quietly as possible, he glanced around, then took the umbrella by the door. The rain would probably last through the morning, and likely she would need it back in time to do the chores, but he’d walked through the rain twice already for Molly Hooper-Mason. If she wanted her umbrella back, she could jolly well come and get it. A little rain wouldn’t hurt her. With all her sweetness, perhaps she’d melt. 

Chapter Text

Hooper Farm, Dawn

The rain went on all night, only just beginning to let up as the sun rose. The morning mist was fading quickly, and with it, the coolness of the night. Molly woke with a stiff neck, curled up in the chair by the stove. Someone had covered her with a blanket.

“And taken my umbrella no doubt,” she said over a yawn. Getting to her feet, she winced at the cold floors. The fire had gone out, save a few embers slowly smothering in the ash. She’d tend to that later. For now, she hurried to her suitcases and lugged them upstairs. The room nearest the landing was open, so she deposited them there on the bed. She’d no idea exactly when Doctor Watson would show up, but she wanted to be ready. Rooting through her suitcase, she found a pair of slacks. Molly had nearly forgotten the electricity was out when she stepped into the dark bathroom. A flick of the switch was the answer she needed: still out. Returning to the kitchen with a basin, she filled it and went back upstairs to wash her face and neck. Her skirt and blouse would need a good pressing, which would simply have to wait. The jumper Sherlock had so kindly brought her was now dry, and still warm from the fire. The wool was soft, and the weave was still tight. The initials ‘M.H.’ were embroidered on the collar, and Molly stopped to wonder just for a moment whose jumper this was that Sherlock had given her. It couldn’t have belonged to her father; his name was Richard. Perhaps Sherlock had a different first name. At any rate, she liked that the initials matched hers. It made it seem a little more welcoming.

Seeing her father’s home in the daylight, she felt she understood him better, or at least why he liked the house so much. He and her mother had separated years ago, when Molly had still been quite young. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to take Molly with him to Ireland. He’d said as much the day he left. But a girl must be brought up by her mother, and the wilds of Ireland was no place for a girl born in London. Molly still didn’t know if she agreed with her father’s logic, but she was glad to finally be in her father’s birthplace. The pictures on the walls were of the family, the Irish side, that is. Here and there was a picture of Molly, and even one of her mother holding her as a baby. Molly found she was glad of this. As difficult as their parting had been, neither her mother or father ever spoke ill of each other. She was glad to see how her father had honored her mother and kept a reminder of her at the house.

A motor was heard in the drive, so Molly hurriedly finished tying up her hair, and ran down the steps. She found her short boots by the door, the mud long dried. Banging them off on the steps, she shoved her feet in them and went to meet the Watsons.

Watson was just switching the engine off when the doors flew open, and out poured the children.

“Good morning!” she called and was greeted by a chorus of children answering back:

“Good morning Mrs. Mason!”

“You know where everything is,” Watson called over their noise. “Sorcha, you and Cillian measure out the feed, but don’t put it out yet.”

“Yes Da.”

Liam and Brendan went to find rakes for the barn floor, while Finn, Imogene and Deirdre tagged behind their father.

“You mind Mrs. Mason now, it’s her farm,” Molly heard John tell the children. It gave her a queer feeling, hearing him remind the children she owned the property. Shaking off her nerves, she smiled. 

“Good morning Mrs. Mason.” Watson thumbed the brim of his hat to her.

“Just Molly,” she insisted.

“John,” he replied and then nodded to the barn, “Ready to make a start?” He looked at her boots and gave a chuckle. “We’ll have to see about getting you some proper wellies after this morning. It’s hard to do chores in anything but.”

“Oh,” she looked at her short boots, toeing at the mud still clicking to the sides. “Yes…I ehm…I didn’t think…”

“Never mind,” Watson shrugged. “Easily remedied, especially now that the war’s over,” he led the way to the barn. “You can get some when you go into town today. Grover’s shop, he carries the like.”

“Oh good,” Molly relaxed her shoulders a bit then. “I hate to think I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“You’re eager to learn, and that’s a good start,” Watson assured her. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the crowd,” he stepped aside so she could go ahead of him.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the barn. A cacophony of honking, clucking, crowing and grunting met her ears, and Molly resisted the urge to cover them. Watson opened the gate and the geese and chickens came flooding out.

“Da, can we feed the chickens now?” Sorcha called, Cillian stood beside her, weighed down by two feed buckets.

“It’s Mrs. Mason’s farm, you mind her,” John answered.

“Please do, thank you,” Molly nodded, and the twins hurried to their task while John pointed out where everything went, and which pens belonged to which animals.

“Everyone goes in their separate pens – pigs in one, Rosy-lee in her own, and the chickens and geese roost where they please. For the most part the geese look after the chickens, and Rosy-lee is big enough to keep most pests away. Sherlock and Gladstone are about quite often, especially while he’s in the orchard. So long as you keep the barn shut up tight before you go in for the night, you needn’t worry about badgers or foxes. The geese will let you know if anyone is about.”

Molly followed along behind, minding where she stepped. Already Brendan and Liam were raking over the hay on the barn floor, taking out the spoiled, laying down fresh.

“Pigs have their wallows out back,” John said over the noise. “You’ll have to move them over in a few weeks or so. Right now the nights are still too cold, but I’ll help you move them once the weather turns.”

“I didn’t see Sorcha, how she measured out the grain.” Molly said worriedly.

“Everything has a line painted, all the scoops for the grain, for each animal,” Watson reassured her. “Pigs get kitchen scraps and the like, with some of the grain. The geese will wander about, they keep to the same routine every day- they’ll have their feed here, then make their way down to the pond, usually by way of the front yard. Come evening they’ll have to be rounded up and brought into the barn.”

“What are their names?” Molly asked.

Watson thumbed at his hat, bemused. “I don’t think your father ever named any of them, aside from Rosy-lee that is.”

“So he raised them for food?”

“Not exactly,” Watson answered slowly. “I supposed he just liked keeping them. The chickens do need to be thinned out, if you’re looking to keep them for food.”

“It doesn’t seem practical to keep so many and only have eggs,” Molly reasoned. “I…suppose people would frown on that?”

“Not at all,” John shrugged. “Everyone thought it odd your father kept so many. Nobody said anything about it, mind. There’s getting to be too many chickens to keep, and the more chickens, the bigger the risk of foxes, and disease, come to that. Mary and I can take a few off your hands. The pigs hunt truffles. They’re more useful for that than meat.”

“Then I shan’t worry about them, they’ll keep to their uses then,” Molly decided.

“Have you ever hunted truffles?” Watson wanted to know.

“No, is it difficult?”

“You more or less follow the pig, and mind what they do. You have to be quick though, they just eat them, and you’re left with nothing.”

“It sounds like fun,” Molly smiled. “But what about the chickens, is there a butcher, or will I learn that myself?”

“If you’re not opposed to it, you’ll have to do it yourself. I’ll show you how.”

“I’d be grateful,” Molly nodded, relieved. The chickens were all swarming at her feet, and she did feel somewhat bad, speaking of their demise while they went pecking at their breakfast. Still, her father had amassed eighteen fat hens. It was far too many eggs, and too many mouths to feed.

“Tomorrow is Saturday, I can come in the morning and show you,” John promised. “Best to learn it sooner rather than later.” Molly agreed, disliking the sickening flop in her stomach. Still. If she survived the Blitz, she could survive butchering a chicken. “You mustn’t be afraid to make this place your own,” Watson said gently. “Your father was well-liked, respected. Towards the end he spoke often of you, and wished he’d brought you here sooner. He wanted you to come and make your home here.”

Molly found tears in her eyes, and she blinked quickly, wiping them with the back of her hand. “I want to be respectful of the life he built here,” she murmured, voice wavering. 

“But you must also do what’s best for you,” Watson answered, handing her his kerchief. He smiled kindly. “It suited Richard Hooper to keep near twenty chickens and not even think about butchering them! Probably because he could only manage two or three during the war and didn’t dare think of cooking one! If that doesn’t suit you, then change it. I’ll tell you, there’s many a family who wouldn’t mind a chicken in their pot now and then.” 

“Oh and I do want to share, if there’s anything that I can, I’m more than happy to!” Molly insisted. 

“My dear Mrs. Mason- Molly,” he clapped hands on her shoulders, laughing. “Anyone who hands my wife the mink off her back in the very minute she meets her is either selling something, or the most generous soul to bless Ferndown, I very much think it is the latter.” 

Molly flushed, laughing. She handed Watson back his kerchief, heart very much put at ease.

Next John showed her where the grain was stored, where the boards were to mark how much was left in the bins and when to order more. There were charts for egg yield, which hens were laying, which weren’t, when Rosy-lee was milked and when she birthed her kids.

“You’ll find Rosy-lee gets into more trouble than anyone else. She’s a habit of coming back in the family way. Your father never minded much, as it keeps him in milk for the year.”

“Well I can’t mind that very much, as there isn’t a cow.” Molly laughed. “Is it like milking a cow?” Watson gave her such a funny look that Molly laughed again. “Someone donated a cow to the Red Cross station I worked at. Eventually we sent it off to the countryside, but for a while we kept it in the garden and we were able to have fresh milk for the soldiers. I got to be a fair hand at milking her!” As they took down the buckets for the pigs feed, Molly told him about what she did during the war.

“Mary mentioned you did something for the Red Cross. Were you a nurse?” John asked, hopeful. Ferndown wasn’t in dire need of another doctor, but John wasn’t one to turn his nose up as a competent helping hand now and then.

“Not exactly,” Molly replied. “I did physio before the war, and then during, it seems that’s quite a useful skill for convalescing soldiers.”

“For farmers too,” John added, thoughtful. “Would you ever come with me on house-calls? There’s a few elderly ones in the village I know could do less stubbornness and a bit of physiotherapy. Once they get to know you, they’ll warm right up, but I haven’t the time to do physiotherapy on top of all my other calls. I seem to look after animals as much as humans!”

“Oh I’d like that very much!” Molly answered, truly delighted. “I’d so like to be a help anywhere that I can.”

“I think you’ll settle into Ferndown very nicely,” Watson said with a smile. “We all tend to give a hand where we can.”

“Even Mr. Holmes?”

“Oh yes,” Watson chuckled. “He likes to act like a bear, but he does his bit. The orchard, for instance, the apples he sells to everyone, and the honey too. If it weren’t for him, Ferndown would be without fruit, we’d have to ship it in from Carcalles.”

“That’s the nearest town, isn’t it?”

“Mm, twelve miles. And fresh fruit is hard to come by. If it weren’t for Sherlock tending the orchards we’d be without it for the entire winter.” John replied. “It’ll be a big help to me,” he went on after a moment. “Once you’re established in the village, to look in on my patients when I’m away. It’s not often, mind, but I’m the only one who can fetch deliveries for my practice, medicines and the like, you know. It’s a good day’s drive there and back.”

“What do the children do when you’re gone?”

“Oh the older four all have school, but Finn, Imogene and Dierdre usually come with me.”

“If you would like, I could mind them,” Molly offered. “I know we’ve all only just met, but I do like children, and it might make the trip easier for you. They may like it better, to play here than in the car all day.”

John nodded. “It would make it easier at that, and no mistake. I’m due for a pick-up in about a month, I’ll talk to Mary and let you know, shall I?”

“Please do.”

“Mrs. Mason!” the youngest boy, Finn, came running up to her. “Mrs. Mason, there's another goat in Rosy-lee’s pen!”

“What?” Both John and Molly set their buckets down and went hurrying after him.

They came skidding to a halt in the barn, and sure enough, there stood Rosy-lee, and beside her stood a black and grey goat, long horns curled behind him. 

“He wasn’t there before!” Molly insisted.

“He wasn’t.” John agreed. “He must have jumped in, which means he’s been out in the valley all night,”

“But who does he belong to? He must live somewhere.”

John let himself into the paddock, speaking quietly to the goats. The male bleated, then lowered his head, pawing the ground.

“Oi, you cut that out,” John warned. The male stopped, giving a soft nicker. John made quick work, inspecting the animal, who seemed more intent on cozying up to Rosy-lee. “He seems all right. I suppose he just came to see his girl and see what all the fuss was about! Well, well, Rosy-lee, is this the father of your kids?”

Rosy-lee, for her part, simply shook herself, apparently pleased, and scratched her head against the post.

“He’s no collar,” John said, stepping out of the pen. “Anyone around here knows to put a collar and bell on their livestock, leastwise the ones that wander. That’s how everyone knows Rosy-lee.”

“Maybe it broke off,” Finn offered.

“It could have,” John scratched his cheek. “His hooves seem in good condition though. Well. If you’re not opposed to it Molly, keep him for now, I’ll make inquiries. If he doesn’t belong to anyone, it might not be a bad idea to keep him. Two goats won’t be much more to look after, and they’re good to have around to ward off predators.”

“I don’t mind. If it means Rosy-lee won’t escape.” Molly decided. “If he’s her beau, she won’t have any reason to run off.”

“Let’s let them out then, they’ll mind the geese and chickens while we finish chores,” John said and Molly quickly unlatched the gate, stepping aside. Rosy-lee and her fellow went out as a pair, trotting as prettily as a matched set of ponies.

As they watched them go off, Sherlock came up, cane in hand, Gladstone at his heels. He seemed to be studying Molly, and she found herself tugging at the cuffs of the jumper.

Sherlock, for his part, was having a terrible time forming a sentence, seeing Molly Hooper-Mason fairly drowning in the jumper he’d given her. She’d put her hair up in braids, looking like the proverbial milkmaid and hang him if she didn’t make a charming picture.

He realized he hadn’t spoken yet, so he poked his cane in the general direction of the two goats. “Who’s goat is that?” He asked, managing to frown.

“Mine, if it doesn’t belong to anyone else,” Molly answered. “Does it look familiar to you?”

“No,” Sherlock answered flippantly, turning to Watson. “Do you know if timber has been brought into town yet?”

“How should I know?” John retorted. “I don’t look in Grover’s stock every day. What do you need wood for?”

“I need planks,” he clarified. “Some of the hives need new frames.”

“If you need to go into town, I wouldn’t mind going with you,” Molly offered then. “I’ve a few things I need for the house.”

“Including a pair of boots,” John added, and she laughed, looking at her short boots, hopelessly ruined now from the barnyard.

“Yes, I won’t forget.”

“Come along children, we’ve got to get some of you to school! Say goodbye to Mrs. Mason!”

“Oh thank you, Sorcha, Cillian you did lovely work,” Molly said as they all came running. “And Liam and Brendan.” They both answered in kind. Finn and Deirdre outright hugged Molly and again, Sherlock scowled at this. Imogene tugged on his sleeve and he bent. She kissed his cheek before climbing into the car. Somewhat appeased by this, he managed a kind of smile as the children all hung out the windows, waving.

“Goodbye Mrs. Mason! Goodbye Uncle Sherlock!”

“See you this evening,” John called before they went on their way.

Once again, Sherlock and Molly were left alone in the yard, Gladstone sitting between them. An awkward silence settled between them, which was somehow made worse by the gaggle of geese all coming further into the yard, honking and squawking, chickens scattering behind them, the one rooster crowing and scratching in their wake, fluffing himself up, trying to be fierce.

The noise settled somewhat, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I brought your umbrella back.”

“Oh, thank you, I was going to come and get it myself.”

“I needed to come for the truck, it was no bother.”

“I appreciate it just the same,” she took it from his outstretched hand. “Would…that is…do you mind bringing me into town? I didn’t mean to impose before. I do need a few things for the house, and I don’t know if I can carry them all back.”

“Go fetch your coat.” With that he turned and made his way to the truck, opening the bed of it, he gave a whistle and Gladstone went tromping through the animals, jumping up into the back. Molly hurried into the house, looking worriedly at her clothes. She’d managed to keep clean for the most part, but her shoes needed to be changed. Kicking off her short boots, she grabbed a pair of brogues and slipped those on.  Grabbing a jacket from the closet, she went tromping down the stairs, flying out the door. She had the feeling Sherlock was timing her and if she wasn’t ready, he’d leave without her.

Sure enough, he was at the front of the truck, waiting with the crank. “Took you long enough,” he said rather tartly.

“I had to change my shoes and find a coat. I can’t go into town in dirty farm boots.”

“Too good for a farming village?”

“No of course not!” Molly answered back, now thoroughly annoyed. “For goodness sake, I moved here, didn’t I? I didn’t have to, I wanted to. I thought the decent thing to do was not track in barnyard leavings into every shop in town! That doesn’t strike me as polite.”

Sherlock found he had no answer, and before he could think of one, she’d taken the crank out of his hand and set it. 

“Go on, switch it over.”

Setting his jaw, he went stiffly around the truck and climbed in. “Mark me, Gladstone,” he muttered, and the dog poked his head through the rear window, nosing his master’s ear. “She’ll never last.” As if on cue, the ever-difficult truck roared to life, and Molly popped up into view, beaming. “I don’t want to hear it,” he grumbled to Gladstone, who snuffed in response. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock tried to concentrate on the road ahead of them. Somehow, the ten-minute drive to town seemed infinitely longer. Molly, for her part, sat quietly with her grocery bag on her lap, her ration coupons sticking out of her pocket. He supposed he should make conversation. Somehow, words fled him. Worse yet, rational thought. The sun came in and out from behind the clouds, and when it was shining, it caught Molly’s braids, making them almost glow.

Molly had the feeling she was being watched and did what she usually did: ignore it. Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t used to sharing rides, perhaps he didn’t like her. In any case she wished he wouldn’t figuratively bore holes into her skull.  

“I imagine rationing here is still very much as it is in London,” she at last said.

Sherlock blinked, quickly shaking his thoughts back to the present. “Yes. Though it is somewhat different out here. Most have vegetable gardens, and you haven’t a need to buy milk. You’d do well to spend it on bread and meat.”

“I looked down-cellar, it seems my father did a bit of canning. Do you know if he kept his recipe books?”

The idea of Molly in the kitchen amused him, and he didn’t try to hide his smirk.

“I can cook,” she insisted. “I just haven’t ever done canning. And if I’m to have cheese or cream, I ought to know the process.”

Her desire to work surprised him, and he managed a shrug. “I believe John and Mary stored all of his things in the attic. All his cheesemaking devices are most probably there as well.”

“That reminds me,” Molly spoke suddenly. “If rations are the same as London, it means you’ll only get petrol once a month, correct?”

“Y-e-e-e-s…”

“Well then I’ll try not to bother you for a ride,” she decided. “I’m more than happy to walk, it’s only today I’m in need of so many things, not including a mop and broom. The ones left in the cupboard are worn clean through!”

Sherlock was silent then, deciding not to tell her how he’d been using them to scrub out the gutters of his cottage. He suddenly recollected he’d pilfered some parts of the wireless from the front parlor to make some repairs to his own. This he’d never be able to hide, but until it was brought up, he decided not to mention it.

“Do you know where you’ll be shopping?” he asked at last.

“Yes, Grovers, that’s where John told me to buy wellies. That’s the market too, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh and I promised Mary I’d stop by the bakery.”

“Anywhere else?”

“I don’t think so.”

He didn’t respond to this, and she supposed he was hoping it wouldn’t be a long trip to town, but she still felt her answer somehow displeased him. There had to be a way of winning Sherlock Holmes approval, or at least crack that gruff exterior he seemed hell-bent on preserving.

There wasn’t much more time to ponder how, for they’d arrived on the main road in the village. Sherlock stopped the truck and stepped out, Gladstone wriggled through the rear window and sat down on the front seat to keep an eye on things. People were already stopping to look at the passenger seat, and Molly got a queer feeling in her belly.

“Molly!”

She turned with a start, seeing Mary at the doorway of the Two-a-Penny bakery, and felt relief.

“Hello!” She waved, quickly climbing out of the truck and hurrying to her.

“Did John and the children stop by?” Mary wanted to know.

“Oh yes, they were such a help,”

“Come inside, come inside, meet the crowd!” and Mary tugged her by the hand into the warm bakery.

Inside all the local ladies were at the counter, talk nearly ceased when Molly entered. The woman behind the counter shushed the rest of them.

“This is Molly Hooper-Mason,” Mary introduced. “She’s Richard Hooper’s daughter, just arrived yesterday.”

Molly smiled shyly, feeling like a schoolgirl all over again. She picked at the hem of her jumper. “Hello, I’m glad to know you,” she murmured, nodding her head to them all.

“This is Mrs. McCreedy, she lives just across the way,” Mary gestured to the diminutive woman. “And here is Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Walsh, Shannon McCarthy, Mrs. Ryan and Mrs. Kelly, and this is my step-sister, Janine Hawkins.”

“How do you do,” Janine smiled brightly. “Was the walk very long for you?”

“Walk?” Molly frowned. “Oh! I didn’t walk today. Sherlock- that is Mr. Holmes, he was kind enough to give me a ride. He needed planks for his hives, so he didn’t mind much.”

This seemed to cause quite a stir among the ladies, and Janine’s expression dimmed.

“He doesn’t come to town but once a week,” Mary explained quickly. “Come along, I’ve some lovely fresh soda bread here for you. Janine, can you wrap a loaf for Molly?”

“Have your ticket?” Janine asked, a little too loudly, so Molly carefully tugged it from her book and handed it over to her.

“Do you intend to stay long in Ferndown?” Mrs. Walsh wanted to know, so Molly again turned from the counter.

“I plan to live here,” she answered, smiling nervously. “My father and I wrote quite often, he always wanted me to come to live with him here. I hadn’t a reason before the war. I received quite a bad turn…and it seemed the right time for a change.”

“Her husband was a POW,” Mary explained. “News of his death came after the war.”

Suddenly the women were all crowding around her, murmuring their apologies and ‘God rest his soul’. Molly felt touched, warmed to her heart by their genuine concern for her.

“How long were you married?” Mrs. Kelly asked.

“A year, or a little over that. We were together maybe twenty days out of all of that.” Gentler, sorrowful murmurs followed that, and Molly felt a kinship beginning to grow. They didn’t look harshly at her any longer. They regarded her with understanding, knowing too well what the hollow ache in Molly’s chest was.

“What was his name?” Shannon McCarthy asked, pushing back her blonde curls.

“Tom,” Molly answered, a smile forming, she blushed. “Rather a whirlwind romance between us, but I shouldn’t change any of it. The time we had together was wonderful, but much too short. Mother died during the war, and Father after. With Tom gone too, I’m afraid I’m all alone in the world now.”

“Well, you’re home now dear,” Mrs. McCreedy said gently, and her emphasis did not go unheard, indeed it was echoed by the others. The elderly woman took Molly’s hands in her own withered ones. “We’ve all had losses too, you’re not alone in that.”

“No indeed,” Mrs. Bates added. “Take heart in that.” She paused then, a twinkle in her eyes. “Nor alone on the farm either! It’ll do you good to have a nice, strong man about!” The others all burst out laughing, agreeing with her.

“Just the thing to perk you up my girl,” added Mrs. Walsh. “Nothing like a handsome face to put a girl on her mettle.” The women again all laughed, and Molly didn’t know where to look, attempting to laugh with them.

Janine didn’t laugh, she handed Molly the bread and disappeared into the back. Molly didn’t have time to wonder what was wrong, for Mrs. Ryan was taking her by the arm.

“Richard Hooper never stocked his kitchen with anything but eggs and cheese. Come along to Grovers, we’ll get you set up with some necessities.”

They stepped across the street, Mrs. Ryan talking all the way.

“I used to bring your father a cake once a week. He’d live on bread and cheese, that man. My Aiden still says the man had the nicest garden and rarely did a thing with it!”

“Oh he did keep a lovely cellar,” Molly suddenly spoke up, feeling the need to defend her father. “I found it this morning, I don’t know if any of it’s good, but there’s quite a stock of canned things.”

“Aye, he had a fair hand at canning,” Mrs. Ryan agreed, whether out of guilt or not, Molly couldn’t decide. “There was never a more generous soul than your father,” they reached Grovers shop, so she paused to open the door for them. “And a more frivolous one I’ll never know, God rest his soul.”

At this, Molly smiled to herself. Yes, that sounded like her father. When he could, her father would always send her sweets. During the war, she never knew how he contrived it, but he would send her a small box of caramels. Molly fretted for the waste of sugar and ration coupons, but her father would not be swayed. He’d save his sugar and milk up and make the most delicious confections. Molly knew her father loved his tea very sweet, so the fact that he was going without for so long, only to make her such a frivolous treat, well it warmed Molly’s heart.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, so Molly went to the counter where a man stood.

“You must be Mrs. Mason,” he said, and Molly was too surprised to speak for a moment. “Word travels fast here,” the man laughed. “I’m Mr. Grover, and I carry all you may need. Mr. Holmes mentioned you needed a brush and mop and broom and a pair of wellies, he’s already collected them. I expect you’ll need a few things for the house?”

“Yes, I- oh how much for the broom and-“

“Never mind it, it’ll be a welcome gift,” Mr. Grover batted a hand. “Anyway the business Mr. Holmes gives me, I can let a few things go, and gladly. What else will you need?”

Molly had sorted through her coupons on the drive over, so she laid them out on the counter for the shopkeeper.

“All the staples then,” Grover nodded and got to work behind the counter, nudging the young shop boy to start up the ladder for the needed items. Molly felt a little more sure of herself, seeing the groceries filling her bag. The coupons were counted out, stamped and passed into the till. As she waited for the grocer to finish, Molly busied herself with looking at the items for sale inside the counter display.

“Looking to pawn anything?’ Grover asked, seeing her look. “I do a bit of that too.”

“No, no I don’t. I was admiring the pocket watch. My husband had one like it, he sold it during the war for boots.”

“I can take it out for you to see, if you like,” Grover opened the case and removed it, holding it out to her.

“Does it still keep time?”

“Oh yes,” and Grover took it from her, winding it carefully. “There’s no chain for it, and it’s an older one. But it’s real gold and enamel, runs fair. I could let you have it for £5.”

“Oh I-I couldn’t…someone may be looking for it.”

Grover shook his head. “The fellow went off to war, never returned for it. The Great War, mind, it’s been in my shop since my father ran it.”

Molly’s fingers curled around her change purse. She thought of a dozen and a half reasons for not buying it, but found herself opening her purse anyway. “£5 you said?”

“I did,” he nodded. “I suppose I could send it down to Dublin or Carcalles, have it properly looked at, but it’s sat in that case for near on twenty years, can’t much see how it’d be worth all that trouble. Someone ought to use it now while it still runs. It may need a bit of cleaning. There may be someone in town who can do that for you.”

“It’ll be of great use to me,” Molly promised, cradling the timepiece in her hands. She’d been horrified when Tom told her he’d pawned his grandfather’s watch. Supplies were scarce in France, and his boots had worn clean through. He’d written to her of the shop that he’d come across, a cobbler. They’d mended his shoes, but he couldn’t pay them. They didn’t take English currency. They liked his watch though, and he needed the boots more than the watch. The boots had lasted him the rest of the year, until he was able to get new ones, and the family was able to flee the country. Molly knew she’d have done the same thing. She’d been so proud of Tom then, and she’d vowed to buy him another watch when he returned. Only he never came back, and as she stood on the steps of Grover's shop, waiting for the errand boy to carry her bag of groceries out to her, she felt impossibly stupid and lost.

“Molly Hooper Mason, you’re a fool,” she muttered to herself. She clutched the pocket watch in her hand, staring at the shining timepiece. It was a beautiful watch, it probably belonged to a gentleman. There was fine engraving on the lid, and inside the face of the watch was enamel with hand-painted roman numerals. “Silly Sixpence,” she murmured, blinking back tears. “Time doesn’t stop, and you need a watch yourself.” She smoothed the lid of the watch, the guilty ache in her gut lessening with each passing moment.

“Finished?” She looked up with a start to see Sherlock standing before her. Behind him, the truck was loaded up with the timber, mop and broom. Her groceries were at her feet, so she stooped to get them, but Sherlock was faster. He took the bag, hefting it carefully. As he turned, she saw he didn’t have his cane with him. “Don’t need it,” he said, noticing her looking.

“Oh I’m sorry- I wasn’t-“

“Sherlock!” a voice across the street made them both turn. Janine waved, then fairly skipped across the street. “You surprised everyone, coming into town twice in a week!”

“I needed timber, and Mrs. Mason needed things herself,” Sherlock answered with a shrug.

“Well I brought you a loaf anyway, something to sweeten you up! I made it with some of the honey you brought in yesterday,” she folded her hands behind her back, standing straight and Molly tried very hard not to notice her leaning towards him. Was she usually so forward in public?! Unless of course there was something between Miss Hawkins and Sherlock, in which case Molly had no right to judge the girl. She might’ve done the same, had Tom given strange girls rides around London.

Sherlock frowned. Janine wasn’t usually so…forward. He’d certainly noticed her admiring looks and leading questions, but he never paid mind to them. She had never, in all the time he’d known her, come flying across the street in broad daylight to hand him a loaf of cake.

“Thank you…” he said, somewhat dumbly. “I…haven’t money for this though,” he made to hand it back, but Janine wouldn’t budge.

“You deserve a reward for being our shining knight here in Ferndown,” she beamed at him. “Will you come to the ceilidh next Saturday?”

Again he was floored, by her flattery and her change of subject. “I don’t dance.” He answered, clipped, and went around to the back of the truck to arrange things so Gladstone could sit comfortably. 

“He’ll never say, but he adores music,” Janine said, low, to Molly. “Sherlock has the best ear for it. He plays fiddle so beautifully. Always makes my knees go weak! He hasn’t played for me in ages …” she gave a dreamy sigh. “I’ll never forget the first time he played for me.” Molly felt vastly uncomfortable, and didn’t know where to look. Still, she understood being jelly-legged at a fellow, so she didn’t speak. She was surprised too, for Sherlock had made no indication that he was attached to anyone, and Molly had the feeling Mary would have mentioned it to her yesterday. Still, she’d only just arrived, what did she know of the town and it’s people? 

“I don’t play fiddle,” Sherlock said, coming around the other side of the truck. “I play the violin, there is a difference.” 

“Fiddle, violin, what’s it matter? Come for the music, you love music, Sherlock,” Janine insisted, taking his arm, nearly pressing herself to him. “You’re never about, we all miss you,” She sounded very much as if she meant to say ‘I’ rather than ‘we’.

Molly suddenly felt she was intruding on a private conversation, so she quickly busied herself with finding the engine crank. 

“Mrs. Mason, I am certain, enjoys music too, I am surprised you have not invited her,” Sherlock said, rather loudly so she was forced to straighten.

“Me?”

 “You,” he said, rather pointedly.

 “Oh I- yes I do,” she answered. “But I don’t know any dances for a ceilidh.”

 “Just the foxtrot I’d wager,” Janine laughed. “That’s a bit too highbrow for us, maybe it wouldn’t be fun for you.”

 “No, I’d like it, very much,” Molly suddenly felt as if she were caught. “But I haven’t been invited.”

 Janine managed to look somewhat ashamed of her sudden rudeness. 

Sherlock spoke up then, “Of course, you’re invited. It’d be an insult for you not to show up.”

 “Oh I- I didn’t know, of course I’ll be glad to come,”

 “Bring a dish, if you can,” Janine added, some mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “There’s always a big supper, and beer and cider.”

 “It sounds like great fun,” Molly agreed. “I know just what to bring, thank you, Miss Hawkins.”

 “Well, Sherlock, Mrs. Mason is coming, won’t you be persuaded to come? You could play for us all. You play the fiddle so beautifully.”

 He bristled again at this. He disliked playing for crowds. 

“Oh don’t make him,” Molly’s voice broke through his thoughts. She seemed to have a keen sense for people’s embarrassment, and somehow, he was relieved. “If you don’t want to play, don’t,” she smiled gently. “But do come, I am certain the Watson’s would like your help with the children, at the very least.”

There was truth in that. And to be quite honest, Sherlock was curious as to Molly’s dancing skill. He used to turn a very fine waltz and tango, but the foxtrot was his favorite. Still, if he attended the ceilidh, there would be no dances that he knew, and he would not be forced to sit out of the fun.

“I…suppose…” he answered slowly. “I could come for an hour or two.”

Janine, in her excitement, clapped her hands, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Oh, just wait till Mary hears this! Goodbye, Sherlock! See you in church, Mrs. Mason!” and she waved goodbye, scurrying across the street and back into the bakery. Sherlock was too stunned and bothered to speak. Janine Hawkins was behaving like a jealous schoolgirl and he disliked it. He could ignore her usual flirtatious behavior, usually it passed after ten minutes or so. Perhaps she was ill. 

Molly, however, got the distinct feeling Janine was attempting to stake her claim. Far be it from her to come between any couple, but she couldn’t help the sinking feeling in her stomach when she saw Janine kiss Sherlock. Shaking her head, she tried to clear her thoughts. She did not come to Ferndown to make eyes at the man who tended the orchard. True, she wasn’t expecting him to be so dreadfully, downright painfully handsome, but that was neither here nor there. If Sherlock was spoken for, Molly would rather die than ruin a happy relationship. She was better than that. Besides, the grump that was Sherlock Holmes intrigued her and she’d rather try and make him her friend. Or at least not scowl every time she looked at him. 

“All set?” Sherlock asked, and she turned. He held out the crank to her and she took it.

“Yes,” 

He climbed in, switching it on. In a moment the truck started up, and Molly was back in the passenger seat.

“Do you have anything that needs pressing?” she asked as they started down the road.

 “I beg your pardon?” His mind was still caught up in what the devil was the matter with Janine, and didn’t quite catch Molly’s meaning.

“Clothes, Mr. Holmes, clothes. If I’m to attend a dance next Saturday, and indeed, church on Sunday, I’ve some things that need pressing. Do you wish for me to press your trousers, or your dress shirt?” He had no answer, too confused at her offer. “You’ve been so kind to bring me to town, and fetch some of the things I needed, I thought I could return the favor. I could press your clothes for the ceilidh.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

“I’m sure Janine will be pleased at how you turn out,” Molly added, but Sherlock didn’t hear her. He was too busy trying to wrestle with what the hell was wrong with Janine Hawkins when he should have been thinking about the hives and the orchard.

  Women! 

Chapter Text

The evening passed much the same as the morning with the Watson’s, Mary included this time, coming to help with the chores. Molly felt a bit surer of herself, now that she didn’t have to worry about her feet. It had been a long day, and she was tired. The idea of another two or three hours of chores felt daunting. The wellies Sherlock had so kindly gotten for her felt heavy, and the mud in the yard sucked at her feet. More than once she nearly stepped out of her boots. By the time she got to the barn, she was exhausted. But she couldn’t sit yet, she still had chores to do. If the children could, then she could too. Molly followed behind Liam into the pig pen with a forkful of hay, while Cillian and Brendan swept out the soiled stuff. The pigs grunted and snorted, wriggling their bristly bodies. The size of them! They were absolutely massive! Wriggling and shivering as hay was being tossed into the pen, they came squealing over, crowding around Molly, smelling the feed bin not far behind her.

“Oh do stop! Go on,” The pigs didn’t pay her any mind and went on pushing against her. “S-stop!” They jostled past her to the gate, which Brendan rushed to close. 

“You have to close the gate Ms. Molly,” he said. 

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know I- oop-” one of the pigs stood directly behind her, the other crowded around the front of her, effectively sandwiching her between them, putting her on uneven footing. “You stop that!” Before she knew it, she’d toppled over with a shriek, landing in a pile of soiled hay. “Ohhh....no…” she groaned, disliking the feel, the smell. No, this was very much the opposite of good. In fact it was downright disgusting. 

“Don’t let them bully you,” John called. “Just boot ‘em. Keep talking to them too. They’ll listen to you the more you talk to them.” He stepped over the gate, pulling her to her feet. She scrambled and slipped through the muck, trying very hard not to grimace. John, to his credit, did try not to laugh. “It’s not the first time someone’s been crowded by the pigs, and it won’t be the last.”

“I was doing exactly what Brendan was doing,” she said mournfully, looking at the pigs with no small degree of annoyance and apprehension.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Come on, we’ll finish mucking out together.”

“Where’s Uncle Sherlock?” Finn asked suddenly.

“He’s out talking to his bees,” John replied. “Lots to fill them in on.”

“How’s that?” Molly asked, breathless as she pitched a shovelful of dung into the wheelbarrow.

“Oh, every beekeeper should talk to their bees, according to Sherlock,” said John as he evened out the load. “You’re supposed to keep them up-to-date.”

“Does that make them produce more honey?” Molly wanted to know.

John paused, frowning. “Come to think of it, I’ve no idea. I always figured it was Sherlock’s way of things. When he needed to work out a problem in London, he used to talk it over with a skull he kept on the mantelpiece. At any rate it doesn’t seem to harm them.”

Molly could only nod. There was something terribly endearing about a man who wanted to talk to his bees as if they understood him.

“See how the bedding is even, the pigs will sort it out for the most part, but as long as there’s a good layer on the floor, they’ll make their own nests, don’t be stingy with it either, especially come winter.” 

“Yes I see,” Molly murmured. She looked at the male pig, who boasted a rather cockeyed pair of tusks. 

“The man who trims the goat's hooves will take care of the tusks,” John said, seeing her look. Molly had always supposed pigs were sweet, docile creatures. The ones her father got were horribly bristled, tusked, wrinkled ugly things that looked ready to bite her. “Come on,” John said. “I’ll show you the way to the pond, we’ll meet the gaggle coming in. Liam and I will round them into the barn, you watch, and I’ll call you if we need you. Geese can bite.”

“They do?!” Molly looked alarmed, and rather disturbed.

“Nothing quaint about a farm,” John answered. “But it’s worth it in the long run. Come on, bring that cane on the wall there, we’ll use it to herd them.” Molly took the walking stick from the peg on the wall and followed clumsily after John, feeling deep down she was simply not up to the task.

Across the field, within the orchard, Sherlock sat amongst the hives. The old frames had been carefully removed and the new ones put in place. Already the bees were working on them.

“I don’t know about her yet,” Sherlock murmured to them. A few of the bees droned around his feet by the honeycomb he’d removed from the old frames. He took a daub stick and dipped it in, holding it out for them to sample from. “Everyone seems to like her. Even Gladstone likes her,” the dog in question was reclining against his master’s good knee. “You don’t usually take to people,” he scrubbed the dog’s ears. Through the orchard a soft breeze wended, the boughs shivering. Sherlock squeezed his right knee, getting to his feet with a grunt. Soon the orchard would be in full bloom, and there would be a tremendous amount of work. He was glad of that, anything to keep him busy and away from Molly Hooper Mason.

In the grass, he could hear a soft ‘clumph-clumph-clumph’ of wellies making their way closer and closer to him in a steady, sure-footed gait.

“Hello Lestrade,” he called, without turning around.

Greg, for his part, simply stared at the back of Sherlock’s head, flabbergasted. “I really don’t know how you know it’s me, every time.”

“What’d my brother send you here for this time?”

“He didn’t, thought you knew by now nobody sent me here.” Greg shrugged. “Okay to come over?” It wasn’t that he didn’t trust bees, he just…didn’t much like them. He wouldn’t be half-surprised if Sherlock had them all trained.

Sherlock shrugged, nodding to the overturned crate nearby. Greg took it, sitting down with a grunt. Greg Lestrade used to work for Scotland Yard. When the call-up went out for the war, he’d enlisted, and managed to come out unscathed, though a bit rattled. London life, and work for the Yard didn’t suit Greg anymore. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s ever-protective older brother, decided Lestrade would be ideally located in Northern Ireland, to keep an eye on Sherlock. Greg went, not so much because he was told, but because the idea of quiet country life in an out-of-the-way village sounded perfectly nice. Greg had worked hard all his life and had saved up a comfortably sized nest egg. He supposed it would have been better to leave it for if he ever got married, but after the war, it seemed silly to hoard it. So he took his savings and himself off to Ireland. He rented a very nice set of rooms above the local pub, where he was allowed to keep window boxes, which gave him no small degree of pleasure. For the most part he spent his days doing odd-jobs for folk that needed it in Ferndown. The war had made many widows, and many parents had had their children taken from them as well. There was always something that needed doing, and Greg was happy to be comfortable enough not to necessitate charging for it. Now and then, someone would insist on paying him, but for the most part, people would trade goods for service, a hot meal, or fresh eggs, sometimes butter or cheese. In the summer months he helped mind some flocks overnight, especially when wolves might be about. It took a stout fellow to keep watch when wolves were a threat, but Greg supposed it wasn’t any worse than sitting in the trenches.

“So, Richard Hooper’s daughter finally moved in, eh?” Greg finally broke the silence.

“Y-e-e-e-s…” Sherlock poked the ground with his cane, frowning.

“Well, that’ll be nice, won’t it? Someone to keep you company.”

“She isn’t staying at my cottage, Gregory. She’s in her father’s house, obviously.”

“Her house now,” Greg replied. “Word about town is she’s set to stay here.”

“Hm. We’ll see.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you haven’t seen her,” Sherlock answered. “She’s a London girl, all high-society airs and manners. You should have seen her tottering down the road to Ferndown in those ridiculous heels.”

“Heels, eh?” Greg lifted his eyebrows with a grin. Personally speaking, Gregory Lestrade hadn’t seen a woman in high heels since he left London. It was a sight he missed, if he was honest. “You eh…noticed she wore heels?”

“Of course I did!” Sherlock snapped. “She looked ridiculous!” But he’d said it too quickly, as if he didn’t mean it.  

“I’ll bet,” Greg laughed, shaking his head. “Word about town is she’s a bit of alright, not that you’d notice.”

“I noticed!” Sherlock bristled, tips of his ears reddening. “It’s not the important thing.”

“Then what is?”

“Obviously, that she is taking over the property, when I have been trying to buy it for the past three years.”

“Oh yes, your orchard. That’d be an awful lot of work, expanding it. You do all right with what you’ve got.”

“Yes, but if I could expand so much the better.”

“I think you just don’t want to look at old Hooper’s house any longer.”

“Don’t be sentimental, Greg.” Sherlock grumbled. Not many knew how close Richard Hooper and Sherlock had become. He’d been the first friend Sherlock had made upon coming to Ferndown. Richard Hooper didn’t pry, didn’t ask about his knee, didn’t try to make him talk about the war. He just showed him the cottage and showed him how to take care of the bees and the orchard. Richard Hooper made the world seem much less complicated than it had felt in years. Before he knew it, Hooper had become the father Sherlock very much wished for (his own being absent most of his life). More than that, he was a good friend. When he died, Sherlock supposed the grief he experienced would only be mirrored again in John Watson’s passing. He hated to look at the farmhouse, empty and dark. He hated stepping inside and not hearing Richard Hooper bumbling about the place. There were too many memories there. The tea was always too strong, too sweet and too hot. But the conversation was good, better than good. When evening fell, Sherlock had an audience for his violin, and there was no one who appreciated music like Richard Hooper. He kept a concertina and was a fair hand at it. He also kept with him a silver harmonica. This was passed on to Sherlock, and it was always in his pocket, though he had yet to play it. It seemed wrong, somehow. The concertina, however, was left to Molly, along with the house.

Yes, there was some truth in Lestrade’s words, but Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to admit it. So he decided to change the subject.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I was on my way to the farm, I thought I’d stop in and see how you are.”

“Tell Brother Dearest that I am fine.”

“He didn’t send me, Sherlock. I came because I hadn’t seen you in town, I thought I’d stop by, before you got busy.”

While he was talking, Sherlock was studying the former inspector. “What’s that wriggling in your breast pocket?”

“Something for Mrs. Mason,” Greg stood as he spoke.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. “Why should you bring anything to her? You’ve never met her.”

“It’s called being neighborly! Anyway I’m not the first gent to call on her, nor will I be the last. And I don’t have to explain myself to you!” Greg answered, a touch waspish.

“Humph.”

Lestrade knew Sherlock well enough to know when he was sulking, and hang him if it wasn’t amusing to guess why the former consulting detective was so bloody green about his new neighbor and her callers. Greg considered teasing him about it but decided against it, letting Sherlock stew instead.

“I’d better get on,” he said at last. “I see you’re busy with your bees. Heard from Janine you were going to the ceilidh. She was in a bit of a flush about it.”

“Word travels fast. Yes, I’ll be attending.” Sherlock added hastily: “For a bit.”

Greg chuckled. “I’d say I’ll see you Sunday but I know you’re never in church, so I’ll see you next Saturday then.”

“Hmmhm,” and Sherlock turned and went back to watching the hives. Lestrade, knowing his friend by now, simply shrugged and headed for the farmhouse. Sherlock watched him go, not liking the hitch in the former inspector’s step, nor the jaunty tune he whistled as he went.

Molly doesn’t need an old ex-copper.

Sherlock blinked, shaking his head. Where on earth did that come from? Who was he to say what Molly Hooper Mason needed or wanted? And why did he care?

By the time Lestrade got to the front yard, the Watson children were all having a merry chase trying to herd the geese into the barn, with no small degree of trouble. Their father joined the fray, using a crook to block their escape and they all went, irritable and noisy, into the warmth of the barn. Molly turned from the scene, hearing footsteps on the drive.

Quickly, Greg removed his hat. Rumors about town had indeed been kind to Richard Hooper’s daughter. She was doe-eyed, sweet-faced and roses bloomed in her cheeks. She also looked as if she had sat down in a pig pen. She was thin, but then they all were, coming out of the war. She studied him in turn, clearly not recognizing him, but she smiled just the same at him, and it warmed his heart. She was the sort of person who would smile at everyone and make them feel like it was just for them. 

“Oh, hello!” Molly turned, hands on her hips, smiling kindly. Quickly, she brushed at the seat of her trousers, trying to wipe the dried mud. She’d had a mishap trying to corral the geese and slipped down the embankment. Now she was muddy, bruised and smelled like pig leavings, and now a guest stood in her yard. Today was not shaping up well. She wasn’t terribly surprised to see someone on the property. Ever since she and Sherlock had gotten home that afternoon, neighbors had been stopping by. This time, it was a man of early forties, silver dusted his hair, and he stood only a little taller than her.

“Greg Lestrade,” he said with a nod of his head.

“You’re from London!” she gasped, delighted, and quite forgetting the state of herself. 

He laughed. “I am, though I haven’t been down that way in a few years.”

“I’ve just come from there myself.”

“Sherlock told me,” Lestrade nodded. “I heard around the village you’re here to stay, and I’m glad. Richard never would have liked to have the house sit empty. I brought you a housewarming gift,” he reached into his overcoat breast pocket and retrieved a kitten. Molly was overcome, seeing the wee thing just barely fitting in Lestrade’s hand. “He’s been weaned,” Lestrade went on. “But every farm needs a mouser.”

“Wherever did you get him?” Molly wanted to know as he handed her the kitten. She accepted it happily, cuddling the tiny thing.

“I do odd jobs around the village. A family I was mending the gutters for had more than they knew what to do with. Told them I’d take a couple off their hands, in lieu of payment.”

“Oh, thank you! I adore cats!” She cradled it, cooing at the tiny pink nose and wee white whiskers.

“He doesn’t have a name yet,” Lestrade couldn’t help but smile at her glee. “I reckon you’ll have the honors there.”

“Toby,” Molly said after a moment. “He looks like a ‘Toby’, doesn’t he?” The cat was tabby striped, and his ears were large and his tail long, sure signs he’d be a good mouser. “I do thank you, Mr. Lestrade, it was awfully kind of you to come all this way! And you’re not even knowing me!”

“Word gets out fairly quick around here, there’s no secrets in Ferndown,” he smiled.

“Will you have a cup of tea before you go?” Molly offered. “Mary Watson is inside now, it won’t take but a minute for us to put the kettle on.”

“I couldn’t impose, not with the brood you’ve got today,” he laughed as there was a scuffle between Finn and the rooster. Watson came along and booted the bird into the barn, barely a pause in his stride.

“I don’t mind, really.” Molly shrugged it off. “There is nothing I like so much as company!”

“Just like your father!” Greg laughed. “I can’t stay, but I do thank you just the same.” Part of him did want to take her up on her offer, to impose and have a cup of tea with her. But it would mean that the Watson’s would have to stay as well to chaperone, and with the hour growing late, it would mean gossip the next day. 

“Very well I won’t insist,” Molly relented. “But do come tomorrow then, if tonight is inconvenient. Doctor Watson will be showing me how to butcher chickens. I could offer you a bird.”

“A whole chicken eh? Well hang me if I turn down food, I’ll be happy to lend a hand!”

“Oh good!” she glanced back at the farmhouse. “I think I’d best be getting back but thank you for stopping by.

“Not at all Mrs. Mason. See you tomorrow.” And Greg went on his way, having accomplished what he set out to do.

Inside, Mary stood by the sink. “Was that Gregory I saw you talking to?”

“Yes,” Molly shut the door behind her. “I didn’t know he was from London too! It’s nice to know a few from back home. But Mary, look! He brought a kitten for me, as a welcoming present!”

“Isn’t it dear! And just what you’ll be wanting!” Mary smiled. “Well, well, Molly Mason, I’ve a feeling you’ll have no shortage of suitors!”

“Good grief, I shan’t!” Molly insisted. “He was just being neighborly.”

“Fine, don’t listen to me, nobody does,” Mary waved her hands. “But you mark me, you’ll have this town besotted by the ceilidh, if not before.”

“I don’t know if I want to ‘besot’ anyone,” Molly frowned. “I think I’d rather people like me for me, and be a credit to Ferndown.”

“Well, according to Sherlock, you’ve had quite a number of people dropping by today. Just wait until after mass on Sunday! Once the village has properly met you, there’s little that will keep them from popping by.”

“Oh dear, I hope I’ve got enough tea,” Molly said, more to herself.

“Never you mind, only the old ladies will want any,” Mary patted her hand with a smile. “Everyone else is just nosy and wants to know you is all. It speaks well of your father, for everyone to be so eager to meet his daughter.”

“Yes,” Molly’s smile was fond then, and the kitten purred against her breast. “Here, will you hold Toby, Sorcha? I still have to milk Rosy-lee.” She handed the kitten over to the girl and hurried back out, head full of worry over people’s expectations. She said as much as she sat on the milking stool, John stood over her, not really concerned with how she was milking, for she clearly knew how. Steady streams of white slowly filled the bucket while Rosy-lee, completely unbothered by the whole affair, tucked into the hay. The black billy goat that had been discovered earlier that morning was still alongside her (and thus dubbed ‘Bickies’), nickered softly. John had given him a thorough going-over and while there were a number of thistles and burrs stuck to the goat’s wooly belly, he seemed sound and in good health.Once all the prickles were removed, Bickies had settled down rather quickly, clearly set upon staying with Rosy-lee.

“I shouldn’t worry too much Molly,” John said at last, having listened to her fears.

“I’m a worrier, I always have been,” Molly sighed, cheek against Rosy-lee’s belly as she went on milking.

“You must have been a sight when your Mason got his marching orders.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever dry out,” she gave a bittersweet smile. “But this is different John. I knew my father, and I only know Ferndown from what he told me in his letters. I’m afraid I’ve rather built it all up in my head. Perhaps people won’t like me, won’t like what I may change, won’t like that I’m English.”

“We’ve just come out of a war, Molls,” John said quietly. “The last thing anyone wants to do is go and waste a lot of time and energy hating anyone else.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You just be yourself, and you’ll never go wrong.”

“I hope you’re right,” she stripped the last of the milk from Rosy-lee and carefully got to her feet, minding the bucket. “Will you take any of this with you?”

“Not a bit, you keep it. You’ll need a bit more on your bones if you’re to survive the winters up here,” John laughed.

“Honestly, it’s more than I can drink, and I haven’t found father’s cheese-making things.”

“We’ll sort it out later.” John said. “There’s only a couple of places they could be.”

“At least take some for Finn and Deirdre, they’re so small. Children need milk.” Molly insisted. The war had driven it into her to share and share alike. She’d more than enough milk and hated to see anyone go without, especially children.

“We’ll take some off your hands tomorrow,” John promised at last. “Come on, I’ll show you where the milk pans are.”

They headed into the house where the children had gathered. They were all huddled around Sorcha who still sat, cradling Toby.

“Oh da,” the girl murmured. “Can’t we…couldn’t we have a cat too?”

“Isn’t Daisy enough for you all?” John asked, a little hurt.

“She’s just an old dog, and she’s certainly not a kitten,” Imogene said.  

“What’s wrong with old dogs?” Molly asked.

“Daisy is John’s bulldog,” Mary explained, then turned back to Imogene “And she isn’t old either, she’s just worn out from minding you lot all day.”

“She’s a good girl,” John added. “When I got shot in France, someone gave her to me. I raised her from a pup. She got me through my convalescence when I came home and when we made the move to Ireland, she came with me.”

“She goes with da on his calls, and sits in the car all day,” Brendan added. “She’s nice, but I like Gladstone better, he runs and runs and runs!”

“I haven’t seen Gladstone run, but he is beautiful,” Molly agreed.

“Come along children,” Mary gathered up her coat and bag. “Let’s leave Ms. Molly to her supper, Sorcha you put Toby down. I’m certain you’ll be able to come and visit tomorrow.”

“Oh yes!” Molly immediately nodded. “Yes, any day you like!”  

The promise of seeing Toby the kitten secured, Sorcha handed it back to Molly and began helping her younger siblings with their coats.

“I mustn’t forget, Mr. Lestrade is going to come and help tomorrow,” Molly said. “I promised him a chicken, is that alright?”

John laughed. “It’s your farm, Molly, you invite who you like!”

“We’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early,” Mary kissed her cheek. “I close the bakery on weekends, what do you say to a lovely roast? Molly if you provide the chickens, we’ll take care of the rest.”

“Yes! Oh yes!” the children all danced around their mother, and Molly couldn’t help but nod in agreement. It sounded wonderful, and it had been far too long since she’d had a nice roast.

“Can Uncle Sherlock come? Cillian asked.

“Of course he can,” Molly said, unsure if her neighbor would even bother to come. Still, she didn’t want to be rude. “I’ll run over in the morning, once the chores are done and invite him myself.”

“Do,” Mary winked at her, grinning devilishly. Before Molly could ask what she meant by that, the Watson family hurried out the door, all talking with excitement over the thought of lovely roast chicken and perhaps even Yorkshire puddings! 

Removing her wellies, she set them by the kitchen door, grunting to herself. Her tailbone hurt from when she slipped by the pond. Her legs felt heavy and her back was sore from lifting the wheelbarrow and pitching hay. With a heavy step, she went around the kitchen, humming tiredly to herself. She set out a saucer of milk for Toby before tending to her own supper. Mr. Grover had set her up well, and she was soon happily frying bacon and eggs, enjoying the delicious smells when suddenly, from outside, she heard a tremendous ‘thwack!’ ‘thwack!’ ‘thwack!’

Switching off the hob and setting the pan to the side, she listened again, and sure enough, that same noise went on, echoing across the yard. She snatched her jumper off the back of the door and tugged it on, hurrying out the kitchen door.

By the light of the sunset, Sherlock Holmes hefted an ax, easily splitting logs and tossing them to the side. He’d removed his jumper, and now stood in her yard in his braces. The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled up. Sweat lined his face, damp curls clung to his forehead. He went on in the same fashion, swinging the ax with precision until there was a fair pile of logs where once only wood chips had littered the ground. For her part, Molly could only stand in awe (and no small appreciation) for the beauty of the human form, and indeed, the one that Sherlock Holmes was in possession of. His knee may have been bad, but there was nothing wrong with his shoulders, or biceps or forearms. His hands were sure, his back was strong. Sherlock Holmes certainly knew to exercise the rest of his body to his advantage and keep it strong.  And if Molly was being honest, there was something quite gallant and virile about a man chopping wood. She stood, rather enraptured by the scene. He seemed to be unaware of her presence, until he stopped finally to toss the last few quartered logs onto the pile. He turned, panting, at last noticing her.

He looked awkward, surprised, and neither knew what to say at first.

Silence stretched between them as the sun slowly sank behind the hills. 

“Hello,” he said at last.

“I- I heard a noise,” she stuttered out. “I came to see I- I thank you, thank you for making the woodpile. You didn’t have to, this is too much for you!”

“It needed doing,” he answered back, still unmoving. He frowned suddenly, pulling himself up straight. “Why? Do you think I’m too crippled to do it?”

“I didn’t say that!” she insisted.

“You were thinking it.”

“I was not!” she stamped her foot. “Sherlock Holmes you do love to put words into people's mouths, don’t you? It’s the end of a long day, the wind has been easterly, and if I’m tired and cold and sore, then so are you. You’ve spent half the day in town, and I saw you earlier herding Rosy-lee and Bickies back into the barn from goodness-knows-where. Now you’ve gone and filled my woodpile,” she gave a sniffle. “And here I was worried I’d go without because I am tired and don’t know how to chop wood, and everyone is being so nice to me.” 

He looked at her, rather alarmed. “I- oh.” 

She quickly wiped her eyes, trying to look cross at him, but only succeeded in looking pitiful. 

“I’m...sorry,” he said lamely. 

“It’s not your fault, I’m cross because I fell in the pig pen and then one of the geese chased me over the embankment.” She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry if I made you feel as if you weren’t up to the task. Tom always said I wasn’t terribly good with words.” 

“I’m the same way,” Sherlock admitted. Silence again settled between them, and neither knew how to break it. “I cleaned out the frames,” he blurted suddenly. “Of the hives.” 

“Oh?”

“I brought honeycomb.” He set the ax in the chopping block and went to where he’d laid his jumper. Beside it was a wooden bowl covered in a clean cloth. He brought it to her, lifting the corner of the cloth so she could see. “I- have too much at the house. I was bringing it over when I saw the woodpile.”

Her eyes danced, seeing the sweet golden syrup. “I’ve never had fresh honey before!”

“You should try some,” he blurted again, and was shocked at his boldness. This was not in keeping with his original plan to dislike her. In fact this was entirely the opposite. Still, he watched, transfixed as she dipped a finger into the bowl and tasted it.

“Oh this will be lovely on toast with my tea!” she declared, and her cheeks glowed, the pale, downcast spirit that had hung over her was quite nearly gone now.. “ Thank you Mr. Holmes! I wish I could repay you, you’ve been so patient with me. I don’t suppose there is anything I could offer you that you might be pleased to have.” She thought for a moment, then looked up at him. “Tomorrow, Mary and John and all the children are coming to help me butcher some of the chickens, we’re going to have a roast, will you come?” she asked. “You won’t have to do any work, you can only come for the meal, but I do want us to be friends.”

Sherlock’s every instinct screamed at him to say no. To snatch up his jumper and tug Gladstone across the field and slam his door loud enough for her to hear it from the farmhouse. Instead, he heard himself say:

“I should be glad to.” 

Chapter Text

The following morning, Molly was up before the sun. Toby already proved himself useful and deposited the remains of his first catch by her slippers, and then came high-stepping across the bed, yowling with pride. There was no chance of sleep now, no matter how much she longed for it. With a sigh, Molly threw back the covers and lit the lamp. She looked before she put her feet on the floor. She shook out her slippers, just in case, before scuffing them onto her feet. Armed with a broom and dustpan, she deposited the mouse outside before turning her attention to breakfast. Now that she was awake, she was famished. As she put the kettle on the hob and started a pot of oatmeal, she wondered just how messy she ought to plan on being. Butchering chickens couldn’t be a neat task. She hunted around the kitchen and cellar before at last she came upon a smock folded up on one of the shelves. Shaking the garment out, she held it up to the lightbulb in the cellar, seeing that the initials of her father had been embroidered on the collar. Rubbing her thumb over the letters, she smiled to herself. Clearly, her father had done the deed himself. The kettle began to whistle, so she tucked the smock under her arm and hurried upstairs again.

After breakfast, she went into the parlor and opened the dampers of the fireplace. Emptying the cold soot into the bin below, she added sticks and newspaper to the glowing embers she’d so carefully banked the night before. Soon a cheery fire was crackling away, so she set the screen in front of it and settled down in the chair by the wireless. It would be good to hear some news. Switching it on, she set the dial and waited. And waited. It didn’t whistle, chirp, or even give any static. Getting to her feet, she rounded the back of it, only to find that the wiring had been pulled apart! More than a little put out, she made a quick note to ask Sherlock if he knew anything about repairing radios. Now without a radio, she went to the shelves by the fireplace instead, perusing the books her father kept. There was a good deal of farming books, which she quickly took down, finding her father had marked helpful tips and chapters. There was a book on keeping pigs, which she reluctantly added to her pile. She did not relish facing them again this morning but needs must. She returned to the shelf for one final look when a plain cloth-bound book caught her eye. There was no title or author, simply the years ‘1938-1940’. A quick perusal revealed it to be handwritten. A journal! Molly sank to her knees before the fireplace, reverently tracing her father’s neat cursive.

‘15th February 1938

Talk of war and little else. Ministry of Food as well as Government has reached out a third time for farmers to plant and turn over all crop yields. The village is small, and I cannot help but think that if we were to give over our crops, what will we live on? What will the children have but what the War Effort deems unacceptable, inedible? To prevent the Germans from starving us out, we ourselves must starve for the greater good, or so the higher-ups have reasoned. 

We serve our country just as well as the rest, I should say this to any man and proudly. Ferndown doesn’t shirk her duty, but to take food from our mouths, who does this serve?

Molly’s heart was racing. She knew food from farms all over England had been shipped into cities, to the front, but hadn’t wanted to think about what that might have meant in a place like Ireland, how desperate were the local families then, left with scraps? Didn’t the rationing prevent this?

‘17th Feb. 1938

My dear heart Molly wrote to me today. The only bright spot in this time for me and it couldn’t have been timed better.

Have come to the decision. This land yields few crops, I’m no good hand at a plough. Livestock is what I must tend to.’

The rest of the page had been ripped out, and Molly felt her heart give a sickening flop. What had her father regretted writing? What had he felt the need to hide? She had little time to wonder, for the clock above the mantle began to chime. A quick glance at the clock and she set the books by the chair, vowing to read them later. 

She raced against the grey sunrise, throwing her clothes on and hurrying back downstairs. Toby was already curled by the fire, so she left him there. Shoving her feet into her wellies, she grabbed the smock and started for the barn. The Watsons weren’t there yet, so she hesitated. Inside, she could hear the animals beginning to stir. The goats were bleating, and the rooster was crowing noisily. She couldn’t very well stand outside all morning, but she hesitated to tackle the chores on her own.

That wouldn’t do at all. She’d come to work the farm, hadn’t she? She had to do it on her own, hadn’t she?

Armed with a bit more determination, if not confidence, she slid the heavy latch, and swung the great door open. A flurry of feathers, followed by a cacophony of geese honking and chickens clucking met her ears and they all swarmed passed her.

“Good morning!” she called to them, trying not to let her fear get the better of her. “I’ll have your breakfast sorted in a bit!” They paid her no mind, instead going to and from the puddles in the yard and nibbling at the grass by the drive. Inside the warm barn, she went directly to the feed bins, patting Rosy-lee and Bickies as she passed. The pigs, from what she could see of them, were still fast asleep, much to Molly’s relief, so she started measuring out the feed.

Midway through, she realized she’d forgotten to bring the slop bucket from underneath the kitchen sink, so she went back to the house, excusing herself as she went between the chickens. Perhaps that was silly, but she felt she ought to be extra polite to the hens, seeing as she was going to be killing them in just a few hours.

As she was coming back from the house, she caught sight of the Watsons coming up the drive.

“Good morning!” she waved as the car came to a stop. The children piled out as John helped Mary from her seat.

“You’ve beat us to the barn!” Liam said.

“I was up before the sun, and I didn’t like to keep them waiting. I was just about to feed the pigs.” Liam took the bucket from her and went off. “Oh I’d better,” she said. “I ought to get used to them.”

“You’ll have enough time for that,” John said, arm around Mary’s waist. “We’ll do the chores this morning, will you sit with Mary?”

“Oh dear, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Mary snapped, irritated.

“Nothing except you’ve been on your feet all week, and your due date is creeping up,” John added. “You need to put your feet up.” His eyes were pleading, and Mary’s shoulders relaxed somewhat.

“Just for a minute,” she said at last. “Greg will be here soon, and you’ll need help dressing the chickens-“

“All of which can’t be done until after the chores, Molly, will you take her inside?”

“I can go on my own,” Mary answered, waspish. Her expression softened suddenly. “I’m sorry John, I don’t mean to bite.”

“I know you don’t,” he pecked her cheek. “Good thing I’ve got tough skin. Go on, sit for the first time in weeks, why don’t you?”

“Come on,” Molly took her by the arm, leading her inside. “I’ve got a lovely fire going, and Sherlock brought some honeycomb last night! We can have that on toast.”

“Sherlock brought you fresh honey?” Mary was surprised.

“He had too much at his house. He had to make new frames and the old had to be cleaned out.”

“Very unlike Sherlock to share his prize honey,” Mary said, easing herself into the chair by the fire. Molly busied herself opening the drapes.

“I thought he sold it to everyone in town.”

“Oh yes, of course, honey ,” Mary said. “Honeycomb he can reuse. In fact, I’ve never known him to sell it.”

“Why would he give some to me then?” Molly asked with a frown. She was confused. Sherlock had made it clear he did not approve of her.

“Perhaps he’s trying to make a fresh start,” Mary suggested. “In any case, I’d love some tea and toast if it’s handy.”

“It is,” Molly went to the kitchen straight away. While in the kitchen, she looked out the window to see Sherlock coming through the rushes, Gladstone at his side. Deirdre, Imogene and Finn went racing across the yard to him. Deirdre reached him first, and he dropped his cane, tossing her up in the air. He caught her and set her on his shoulders while the other two went skipping at his sides. His limp was less noticeable today, but still there, to those that knew to look for it.

“What did happen to Sherlock, during the war?” Molly asked when she returned with a tray.

“I thought you’d ask about that eventually,” Mary took a cup and blew on it, stretching her toes out before the fire.

“Well, it’s only that some days it seems worse,” Molly answered. “It must be painful for him.”

“It is,” Mary confirmed. She fell silent a moment, then turned to look at Molly. “It’s what took him out of the war. It was a German sniper. He’s lucky he didn’t lose his whole leg. From what I understand it nearly blew his knee apart.”

“How awful,” Molly could barely murmur. She knew what war wounds looked like, knew that knee injuries were some of the worst ones, because it was so unlikely a person would fully recover.

“Nobody thought he would walk on it again, but Sherlock did what he does best, and proved the lot of us wrong. He fully intended to go back to the field, but the army felt he was a liability, what with the limp and all.”

“But he gets along just fine,” Molly insisted.

“Oh yes, but there’s times when he’s not so limber,” Mary added. “I’m sure you know with your work, weather plays nasty tricks on old wounds.”

Molly nodded, recalling too well. “I’m still a fair hand at physio, do…do you think he’d accept my offer to help? Just some light stretching, massages, all he could do himself, if he wouldn’t want me touching him.”

Mary bit back a grin. “I think if you could convince him, you could very well fly, Molly,” her eyes twinkled. “But then, you never know with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Did John tell you he wants me to start with him Monday on his house calls?”

“He did! I’m so pleased,” Mary sighed, rubbing her swollen belly. “He could use an extra pair of hands, I used to, but when we moved here, there was no bakery, we thought we’d do the village a fair turn and provide both bread and medicine.”

“You two do a fair job,” Molly smiled. “It’s no wonder you’re both near run off your feet. I’m ashamed to say how much help I need, I don’t know what I was thinking. Me, knowing how to run a farm!” she laughed.

“John says you do all right,” Mary said gently. “The can-do spirit is the ticket, more than anything else. Ferndown isn’t London, it isn’t even a town, really. We’re a one-street village that Queen Victoria once visited and gave us a square and a fountain.” Mary shrugged, smiling. “But if you like quiet, you’ll be happy here.”

“I think I will, I hope I will,” Molly said slowly. “I feel as though a large part of that is winning Sherlock’s approval.”

Mary laughed. “Oo he does grate on one, doesn’t he?”

Molly sighed, heavily. “He’s so- so-“

“Opinionated? Bossy? Stubborn?” Mary supplied with a grin.

“Yes!” Molly threw up her hands, frustrated. “I am trying, I don’t think I’ve been rude to him, but he just scowls at me…or stares.”

“He doesn’t adjust well to change,” Mary said, gentler. He was, after all, a good friend, and the godfather to her children. “He never has. When John took me courting, Sherlock scowled at me for months.”

“How ever did you win him over?” Molly wanted to know.

“He got used to me,” Mary shrugged. “Eventually, he stopped rolling his eyes and got to know me. Once he realized I wasn’t a threat to his friendship with John, or an impediment to their case solving, Sherlock warmed right up to me. As it happens, we get on very well, and he wasn’t losing a friend so much as gaining one. Give him time,” she squeezed Molly’s hand. “It’s only been a few days. I think he wants to know you, he just doesn’t know how to go about it.”

“Hmm, and without making Janine cross,” Molly added.

“Janine?” Mary frowned. “What’s she-“

The door banged open and the children came flooding in. “Ms. Molly, Ms. Molly come see, come see!” They grabbed her by the hands, pulling her to the door.

Into the cool spring air, they pulled her across the yard, all clamoring at once so she couldn’t understand them. She caught a word here and there, and one rose above the others that made her nearly stop.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute- who’s got babies?”

“You do!” John laughed from the barn entrance. “Come and see!”

“I’ve got what?!” Molly hurried in after the children, sliding to a stop where Gladstone and Sherlock stood, looking into the pig pen.

“You’ve got piglets,” John said.

Molly stared at the eight spotted, wriggling piglets. “I- I looked in the pen earlier, I couldn’t- I didn’t-“

“They were asleep, probably caught them between feedings,” said John. “They’ll pretty well bury themselves in hay. Speaking of, we’ll have to clear out all this soiled stuff. She must have had them in the night.”

“Are they all right? Are they healthy?” Molly hurried after him, taking the pitchfork and rake that he handed her.

“Seems like,” John said. “Let me go in first, mum’s can be testy about newborns.”

“And how,” Mary added, and Molly realized she’d followed the commotion as well. “When the doctor tried to take Liam to weigh him, I nearly took the man’s head off.”

Molly waited at the gate, watching John go in. She studied his movements, slow and deliberate, so the pigs weren’t startled.

“We’ll have to make a separate pen for the male,” John said. “To give mum and babies more room.”

“I- I don’t- know what to do…” Molly finally got out. She was confused, unsure, frightened. So many piglets would mean so much more food. The pigs did go out rooting, and there was slop and all, but that surely wouldn’t be enough! “Maybe I should sell him…?” Molly answered dazedly. “I never expected babies so soon…”

John shrugged. “I’m just as surprised, honestly. There haven’t been piglets on this farm since your da died. Guess that changed.”

“What can we do with the piglets though?”

“Once they’re weaned, people will take them off your hands and no mistake. You could turn a fair profit, sell them to a butcher in Carcalles. He’ll do the work for you, or you could rear them, show them at the village fair, and then earn a better profit,” John added after a moment. “It’s only a few more months, they’ll be in full color then.”

“Ms. Molly,” Sorcha stood on the bars of the pen. “May we please name them? We’ve already thought of some.”

“Oh yes, yes if you like, and I think we’d better name the mum and dad too.” Before she stepped into the pen, Molly saw Sherlock kneel down, wincing as he bent his right knee. Deirdre stood between his knees, and he spoke quietly to her, pointing out how the piglets fed from their mother.

 “Come in, come closer,” John waved her over. “The sooner Mum sees you and knows your scent, the better.”

Slowly, hesitatingly, Molly stepped into the pen and closed it behind her. She went nearer, keeping somewhat behind John, but he moved over and with a hand on her shoulder, guided her to kneel down beside him. One by one, John handed her a piglet, instructed her to hold it, and then set it down again. The mother, for her part, was quite docile. She grunted noisily but wasn’t disturbed when Molly picked up her babies. In fact, if Molly didn’t know better, she seemed pleased.

“She seems to be showing off,” Molly said with a nervous laugh.

“And quite right too,” John said. “Give her a scratch, she likes it behind the ears.” Molly did so, and the pig grunted, apparently pleased. “You’ll get better at reading them. She gave you quite a start last night, huh?”

“I thought she was going to charge!” Molly confessed.  

“You were a stranger last night, and animals take time to get used to a new master. The more you’re with us, the more they’ll settle in.”

“Rosy-lee didn’t take any time to get used to me,” Molly objected.

“She warms up to anyone who feeds her, she’s a bit of a turn-coat,” John answered glibly.

Molly sat, cross-legged in the pig pen, holding wriggly spotted pig after wriggly spotted pig, and she laughed to herself.

“I don’t know what’s funny, maybe it’s panic,” she managed to get out. “But it’s so nice to see wee little creatures.”

“It’s good for the soul, and no mistake,” John smiled. “We’d best let them be for now though. We’ll get them some fresh bedding and get mum and dad their breakfast.”

The morning went by fairly quickly, the worry of how she would take care of the eight extra mouths quickly gave way to the excitement of seeing all the Watson children enjoying naming the piglets and their parents.

Greg came strolling in just as they were moving the male, now called Wilfred, into his own pen.

“We’ll have to see about getting some paint so we can make sure everyone’s name is on their pen,” Molly said, and Liam promised he knew where there was a can.

Seeing Greg, Molly felt nervous, for now they had no reason to delay.

“Well I- I suppose we’d better, hadn’t we?”

“Come on,” John patted her shoulder. “I’ll show you the first, you do the second, and then Greg and I will take care of the rest.” Molly was fairly trembling, but she nodded. “There’s a reason we don’t name the chickens,” John added then.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have had the children name the pigs,” Molly laughed nervously.

Sherlock stood back and watched, for the first time with no judgement. He watched Molly steel herself, taking the hen by the legs and turning her upside-down as John instructed, and then laying it calmly on the chopping block. The hen was calm, and John made quick work of it. Molly, to her credit, didn’t flinch. In fact her expression went quite blank, and Sherlock recognized it from when he was in the field hospital, and the man in the next bed had to have his arm amputated. The nurse had the same expression that Molly did.

“It’s all over quickly, just a pinch, and then it’s done.” John said. Greg took it from him and hung it from the clothesline.  

“And…and that’s all?” Molly asked, wringing her hands.

“That’s all,” John promised. “You could wring their necks too…but I don’t like it.”

“No I wouldn’t either.”

“Come on,” John nodded her over. “Your turn.”

Swallowing hard, Molly took the axe from him, glancing between him and Greg, and then finally to Sherlock. Greg turned the hen over, and then placed it on the block.

“You see it’s perfectly calm,” John said, low. “So you be calm too. We don’t draw it out, just a quick pinch, and it’s done.”

“Just a pinch, Sixpence,” Molly muttered, and swung the axe.

Done.

Molly stepped back, trembling, and John clapped her on the back.

“Well done. The first is never easy.”

“No,” Molly felt some relief, setting the axe down, and squeezed her arms to get the feeling back into them. She stepped back, watching Greg and John finish.

“Well done,” Sherlock said quietly. In truth, he had not expected her to go through with it. He hadn’t expected her to sit down in the pig pen and hold every single one of the piglets, some still with fluid from the birth canal on them. In the end, the old smock that used to belong to Richard Hooper was damp with membrane and viscous fluids. He was surprised as Molly cooed as the mother pig (named Clementine by Imogene) cleaned off the babies, and helped John separate the larger ones from the smaller. All during the chores she’d gone back and forth, making sure the piglets were sucking and that the water trough was in reaching distance. She fussed and fussed with the hay, almost as much as Clementine did.

He was thrice amazed when she stepped up to the chopping block and butchered her first chicken. Molly Hooper Mason was a determined woman, and one he had severely underestimated.

Hearing Sherlock Holmes praise, Molly turned, surprised. “Thank you.” She felt as if she’d conquered a mountain.

In the end, five chickens in all were butchered. Three would feed the lot of them, and while they cooked, Greg went to deliver the other two to a couple nearby families. Mary showed her how to scald them to get the feathers off, before dressing them for dinner.

Cooking was the fun part, and Molly felt as if a tremendous weight had been taken from her shoulders. She’d butchered her first chicken. It wasn’t nice, but it was a part of life, and she’d managed it. In London, if she wanted a chicken, she’d step into the butcher’s shop and ask for the cut she wanted. It was quite another thing to feed the meat you put on your table. Her father had certainly fed the chickens well.

“I declare these are so fat, we needn’t lard to cook them in,” Mary said with some amazement. There would be more than enough drippings in the pan for a rich gravy, and thanks to Rosy-lee, there was plenty of milk for it, and the mash.

“We had more turnips than potatoes, so we brought some of each, if we make a big mash, nobody will know the difference,” Mary said, so that’s what they did. In the warm kitchen, she and Mary giggled and shared stories and recipes and how they contrived during the war.

“Sometimes it feels like it’s still going on,” Molly said. “The war is over but everything is still so hard to come by.”

“Is rationing still bad in London?” Mary asked.

“Oh yes, it’s the same as here, but I think sometimes it’s worse. At least here there’s land to grow a garden. If you have a flat, you’re not allowed window-boxes, and usually there’s not enough light for a plant, and the air isn’t any good for growing things either.”

“No room for chickens or pigs either,” Mary added. “At the end of the month, the wee ones will be getting out the foraging of the hedgerow with Sherlock and we’ll have more than could be found at any store. We’re certainly fortunate.“ She finished stirring the potatoes and turnips and set them in the warming oven. “There, that takes care of the mash, now we’ll just wait for the puddings to finish baking and we’ll call everyone in.” They’d let the batter sit on  the shelf above the stove nearly all morning, and it had risen up beautifully. The fat in the tins bubbled and hissed when they poured it in, and by now, even without peeking, Molly knew they were going to be massive.

Mary eased herself into one of the kitchen chairs. “Do you know what you’re wearing to Mass tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’ve got a frock I think would be just right,” Molly nodded.

“Go and fetch it then, let me see!” Mary clapped her hands, eager, so Molly hurried upstairs. She returned with the rust colored dress. It was fitted and tailored to her figure, and a wonderful sweep of fabric attached at the waist gave it an added swish. Mary nearly drooled. “Oo I love these colors!”

“And look,” Molly felt as if she were revealing Crown secrets, tugging out from the pocket of the dress-

“Nylons!” Mary gasped, nearly squealing. “Wherever did you- how did you?”

“When I went to Paris, I stocked up. I told you mum left me a nest egg, and then the car was new, and the flat-“

“Molly Hooper Mason you she-devil! I haven’t seen nylon stockings since 1939!” Mary squealed.

“I brought more than enough,” Molly said. “Take a pair with you,” she handed her the stockings. “These are new. I stuffed two pairs in every pocket of my dresses for safe travel. I thought if nothing else I can share some once I moved in.”

Mary cradled the nylons like a newborn. “Oh Molly…what a silly thing to cry over, and what a delight!”

“Don’t tell, but I bought six pairs,” she whispered. “The salesman saw me coming and I lost my head. If those get laddered, let me know.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Mary said, hushed.

“Won’t tell what?” Sherlock asked, coming into the house. Mary stuffed the stockings down her blouse.

“Never you mind. Where are the boys?”

“Outside, looking at the piglets.” Gladstone stood in the mudroom, shaking off before trotting into the living room where the children all sat playing with Toby.  In a few more minutes Greg and John came in, shaking the dampness from their coats before hanging them up on the hooks by the door.

“Here,” Greg set a large crock before Molly. “From Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy, to thank you for the chicken.”

“That’s wonderful!” Molly clapped her hands, delighted. “It’s just what the mash was needing!”

“It’s too bad that it’s still too early for vegetables but come July we’ll be able to have a nice cabbage and tomatoes to go with our chicken,” John said.

“’Our chicken’,” Mary parroted back. “It’s not ours, it’s Molly’s,”

“And I’m happy to share them,” Molly put in quickly. “Truly, I’d like to do this every week, we’ll have a Saturday roast, or a Sunday roast, I’ve the room, I’d love to, really. You’ve all been so kind, it’s the least I can do.”

“The least you could do is put on the wireless,” Greg teased. “Cricket match is going on, I’d love to hear the scores.”

“I wish I could,” Molly lamented. “But something’s wrong with it, it’s been torn apart!”

“Hey?” Greg frowned. “Let me see.”

Sherlock glanced between the group, ducking from Mary’s accusing gaze.

“Well, I’ll be switched,” Greg scratched his head, looking at the mangled wiring. “Are you sure that goat of yours didn’t get to it?”

“Can it be fixed?” Molly wanted to know.

“I don’t know,” Greg answered honestly. “Might be better to get a new one. Carcalles will have a shop, you could get one at a fair price there.”

“Well never mind the radio,” Mary said. “Dinner is ready, children, hands and faces washed, come on, don’t let dinner get cold.” She herded the children into the downstairs washroom while Sherlock, John and Molly quickly made room for everyone to sit at the table.

“I saved the neck for Gladstone,” Molly showed Sherlock the raw bones to him. He didn’t know what to say for a moment. “I thought it’d keep him from begging from the children,” she had a knowing smile, and he was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what he was going to feed the dog, Mary probably would put him outside while they ate, but Molly had thought of that too. “I found an old rug in the barn, we can spread it in the mudroom, and if you think he’ll stay there, he can have his supper inside, where it’s warm.”

“He’ll stay,” Sherlock said, finding his voice a touch hoarse. Her care for his dog rivaled, dare he say it, his own. He whistled and Gladstone got right up and trotted over to his master. Molly laid out the rug, smoothing out the creases before Sherlock pointed to the spot. Gladstone obeyed, and Molly set the bowl before him. She straightened, smiling up at Sherlock.

“There, that should keep him satisfied,” she said. He had no response, he couldn’t speak for a moment. He felt foolish, simply standing there, but Molly only shrugged and went back into the kitchen.

“Uncle Sherlock will you sit by me?” Finn tugged his hand, so he followed, happy that he wouldn’t have to put Gladstone out in the rain.

The table was laid out very nicely- three fat hens roasted golden, besides this there was a bowl of mashed turnips and potatoes, with a massive scoop of butter melting into it. Mary and Molly both took turns pulling trays from the oven and placed on everyone’s plate a beautiful, massive Yorkshire pudding and poured over it fragrant brown gravy.

Mouths watered, and John said grace with some degree of haste, though everyone could certainly, and whole-heartedly admit they were grateful for the bounty spread before them.

Dinner was merry, and Sherlock, to Molly’s pleasure, relaxed. He seemed happiest with the children, though he bantered with Greg and John and that of itself was a treat to hear. They regaled them with tales of their cases in London and all the tom-foolery they got up to until Molly’s sides ached from laughter.

The afternoon passed swiftly, with such merriment and warmth filling the farmhouse that Molly was dismayed when she realized it was time for chores.

“Go on,” Mary waved her off. “Go tend your animals, Sorcha and I will clean this up.”

Greg also bid them goodnight, and Sherlock took Gladstone out for a quick run around the property.

“You seem to be finding your feet all right,” John said as they started measuring out the grain.

“I don’t know about that, but I’m beginning to see the joys of a farm,” Molly smiled, then she stopped suddenly. “Oh I never went to fetch the geese!”

“Check the back door,” John nodded to the rear of the barn. She opened the smaller door and there stood the gaggle, all waiting to be let in. “They always make their way up around chore time. There was a fox around here a week or so ago, so we’ve been herding them in lately. Count ‘em and make sure they’re all there.”

“Yes everyone’s here,” Molly breathed a sigh of relief. As they laid out the bedding in the pens, Molly looked at the geese, at the chickens and pigs and Rosy-lee and Bickies, and suddenly remembered her father’s diary, and the ripped page. “John?” 

“Hm.”

“My father...I found his diary, the one he kept during the war.” 

John paused for a moment, before turning back, raking clean hay into a nest. “Oh yes?” 

“A page was torn out, I think more than one. He’d been writing about how the war effort was demanding crops from farmers, and how he was a poor hand at it...and then he ripped the page out.” 

John slowly set the rake on its end, considering his words carefully.

“John did my father not support the war?” Molly asked softly. John turned then, quite surprised, almost insulted. 

“Of course he did. He felt keenly that he couldn’t do his bit.”

“Then why…” Molly couldn’t finish the sentence. Her father had ripped a page from his diary, having revealed something he was ashamed of, but too afraid to leave written down for someone to discover.

“Your father saved Ferndown,” came the simple answer. 

“He what?” Molly couldn’t speak for a moment. “How?” 

“He wasn’t a farmer, leastwise one that had a green thumb. He could do a bit of canning and pickling, but he couldn’t grow a bean if you begged him. It’s a wonder he managed the orchard as he did. The Ministry of Food was demanding all farmers turn over every scrap and crumb they grew, that included livestock. We’re only one village. Between the war effort and the MOF, rationing nearly squeezed Ferndown dry. Milk, eggs, cheese, butter, meat it was all sent off. And everyone did it, gladly, but at the expense of their own children.” 

Molly felt her face grow hot. She felt ashamed, somehow, and she didn’t know what for. Everyone struggled during the war, everyone got thin, but to deprive children for the greater good seemed like the most backwards thinking she’d ever heard of. 

“Your dad,” John went on, “Decided on his own to raise livestock, and to keep it. He was good at it. He kept his pigs hidden for a while, and then slowly, quietly, made it known he was keeping livestock for the village. Ferndown shared their kitchen scraps and anything that spoiled to raise the pigs, and your dad shared them at butchering time. Rosy-lee at one time provided milk for half the village. Mrs. McCreedy will tell you the children used to line up morning and evening with a cup for their milk.” John’s face was shining, fairly bursting with pride. “Your dad learned to make cheese, learned to make cream, butter, anything he could get from an animal, he found a way, and shared it, so the village wouldn’t starve, so the village could give what they could to the war effort.” He licked his lips, finding his mouth dry. “The Ministry of Food wasn't nice, they became bullies, claimed your dad was selfish, didn’t love his country, didn’t support the men fighting,” John paused. “It nearly broke him, Molls. Your dad was a humble man,who loved everyone in this village, loved his country. No matter how many fines they gave him, he wouldn’t give in. He managed. Your dad saved children who were starving otherwise, and now there’s a new generation in Ferndown when the war might have wiped us out.” 

Running a hand over her eyes, Molly sniffed. “I wish he hadn’t ripped that page out of his diary. I never knew…”

“You needn’t read his diary,” John said gently. “Ferndown cherishes your father’s memory, he gave his reputation to save the children here, and any man, any woman here would stand up for his memory and no mistake. If he tore that page from his diary, he did it because he didn’t want to brag, and he didn’t want evidence of his intentions. He never spoke outright as to what he was doing, and the village didn’t either. Ferndown protected him, because he was the only one who stood up for them.” 

“I never knew...I never knew…” Molly squeezed her arms, hugging herself. She suddenly frowned. “What about Sherlock? Dad let him take the orchard, the bees?”

“That’s a tale for another time, and surely it’ll be explained in his diary,” John patted her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, but it didn’t seem right, your not knowing what sort of man your dad was, how much everyone in Ferndown looked up to him.”

“Thank you, John, truly.” Silence fell between them, and they went back to spreading the hay across the barn floor.

 A little more sure of herself, she and John made quick work of the chores and when it came time to milk Rosy-lee, Molly sent John on his way.

“You’re certain?” John asked.

“I think so,” Molly nodded. “I’ve just the milking left, and then I’ll look in on the pigs once more, and then lock up.”

“You’ll have to check them in a few hours.”

Molly nodded, removing the gold watch from her pocket to check the time. “Right. What might I expect to go wrong?”

“You never know,” John shrugged. “Sometimes pigs turn on each other, or there may be problems we don’t know of. No one was around to help Clementine when she was farrowing, so you’ll have to keep an eye on them for the next couple nights, make sure everyone is eating and drinking.”

“Right.” Molly nodded. “Thank you, John, truly. Will you give my love to Mary and the children?”

“I will. See you tomorrow,” a quick peck on the cheek and John replaced his hat, heading back to the house.

Molly settled down on the milking stool, stroking Rosy-lee’s coarse fur.

“What do you think, hm? Will you be a mum soon, too?” Rosy-lee gave a soft bleat, tucking into her feed. “Hm.”

“All accounted for?” Sherlock asked and Molly turned, cheek against the goat’s warm belly. She looked over her shoulder to the pig pen where the piglets were all rooting nests into the fresh hay.

“Present, accounted, nursed, watered and sleepy.”

Sherlock noted Molly looked exhausted as well, though she was trying not to show it. She looked as if she’d been crying.

“Thank you, by the way, for feeding Gladstone.” He finally said. “He usually has to stay outside during dinner if Mary and John are here.”

“My pleasure,” she smiled. Finished with the milking, she wiped down Rosy-lee and then carefully stepped out of the pen, minding not to jostle the milk bucket. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Hm?”

“Does…does your knee bother you very much?”

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. He had promised Mary earlier that day to be nicer to Molly. He didn’t think he’d be tested so soon. He hated that people stared at him, stared at the cane. He hated the whispers and the ‘thanks for your service’. His service in the war was what got him shot in the first place. He was left with only a modicum of the mobility he once had, and an almost constant pain that varied from dull to sharp, depending.

“Sometimes, when the weather is bad.” He finally answered.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” Molly went on quickly. “It’s a fine thing- I mean it’s a fine thing what you did for us, for the country.” She scrunched her face up, frustrated at her clumsy way with words. “What I mean is- if it’s bothering you, I used to do physio during the war, for convalescing soldiers. I could show you a few stretches, massages and the like, it would help with your flexibility, with any stiffness or pain-“

It took nearly everything in him not to bang his cane on the floor. He was keenly aware of the animals nearby and that Molly had worked hard to achieve the state of calm in the barn. 

“I’ve had physio,” he ground out. “A lot of good that did me, I’m still crippled, and still considered useless to King and country.”

“I only meant it would help lessen your pain-“

“Keep out of my affairs Mrs. Mason. I am not your husband.” With that he stomped off as quickly as his bad knee would let him, Gladstone at his heels. 

Chapter Text

By the time Sherlock had reached his cottage, he had cooled down. Somewhat. He knew deep down he shouldn’t have snapped at Molly. He shouldn’t have made reference to her husband. He most certainly shouldn’t have stormed out on her when she’d only offered him a kindness. The stinging agony in his knee made worse by his hurried walk across the cold field reminded him that while Molly’s suggestion may have caused him offense, it would more than likely be needed.

Sourly, he opened the door with more force than necessary, banging it against the opposite wall. What did she know, anyway? So what if she had done some physio during the war. Was she a doctor? A nurse even? Anyway, what good had physio done him, really? He’d gotten most of his mobility back, but beyond that, he couldn’t expect more. He would always hobble along, so there was no point in trying to achieve more.

He limped, wincing, into the house, Gladstone at his heels. He collapsed into the nearest kitchen chair with a grunt, squeezing his right knee. Tonight was going to be a bad night.

Molly was too shaken to call out to Sherlock. Too angry. Had she pushed? She didn’t think she had. She was trying to do him a good turn. If he regularly exercised his knee in a healthful way, it wouldn’t cause him so much pain. He was a genius (according to his friends), so one would think he would understand the simple logic of that reasoning. She was hurt, too, by him scolding her, as if she were some ill-intentioned stranger. True, they weren’t close and their acquaintance short, but his actions the previous night had given her hope that they were making headway.

Slowly, she made her way across the barn, looking at the piglets once more, and checking each pen was secure before locking up behind her. She didn’t regret offering Sherlock help. She only wished she understood why he was so angry. Molly wouldn’t pretend to understand what men who went to the Front went through. She only knew some of the aftermath of it. Tom wouldn’t speak to her of it, he’d always said it wasn’t right for a woman to know those things, he didn’t want her to feel sorry for him. Perhaps that was what Sherlock was upset about. He didn’t want Molly to feel sorry for him. She only wished she’d gotten a chance to tell him so. She wanted to help him, as a friendly gesture, nothing more. The more she thought about it, the more hurt and angry she was at Sherlock.

In the house, she tended the fire and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. She’d have to look in on the piglets in a few hours, she might as well read for a little bit. The temptation to crawl under her bed covers and not stir until morning was too tempting. She knew she’d never get up in time to return to the barn, so she settled in the parlor, deciding to start on the books she’d set aside earlier that day. It was going to be a long night.

In the haze of dawn, Sherlock groaned underneath the bed covers. Gladstone stirred between his legs, stretching with a groan before hopping down off the bed. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Sherlock sat up, looking out the window. As usual the sky was grey, and the air was damp. It would most certainly storm. Spring was at last upon them and the crocuses and daffodils were blooming by the dozen. They were due a good soaking, and today more than likely would be the day. He roused himself out of bed, scuffing to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He opened the back door and let Gladstone out. In the distance he could hear the rooster in Hooper’s barn crowing, and was reminded of his words with Molly the previous evening. He winced, recalling the cruelty in his voice, Molly’s rosy expression falling away to one of shame and deep hurt. He already knew he should apologize. He would. After breakfast.

“Blast it’s Sunday isn’t it?” he muttered to himself. He never attended mass, try as the women of Ferndown might, he refused to set foot in a church. He didn’t see the point. But Molly more than likely would be attending. Across the field, he could see her figure moving back and forth across the yard, the gaggle of geese and chickens scattered around her. Her steps were slow and measured, hands full of the milk pail. He turned back inside, whistling for the dog. Gladstone finished with his business and knowing his master would be making breakfast, hurried in after him.  

Molly didn’t feel right, heading to mass with such a stone in her heart. She’d been up part of the night, fretting over the piglets (who were all perfectly fine), and turning over and over what Sherlock had said to her.

‘I’m not your husband.’

He certainly wasn’t. Tom never would have been so cruel. He wouldn’t have behaved as Sherlock Holmes had, let alone treat her with such disgust. This was the man her father wrote to her and boasted of? The man who had built up the orchards and saved the bees? She had a hard time believing any of it. True, her father was apt to like anyone, but rude people he could not abide. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got, until as she made to leave for mass, she stopped in the doorway and bowed her head. Uttering a prayer to have some kind of peaceful heart, she heaved a sigh, and stepped into the cool spring air.

The winds from the previous evening had dried the roads considerably, so she left her wellies behind. Her hat was black felt with a wide-brim. She’d pulled the veil off, deciding it was too much. It was simple and elegant, just right for mass.

By the time she reached the churchyard, the Watson’s were all piling out of their car. Lestrade was at the door, apparently he was an usher.

“Morning, Mrs. Mason,” Lestrade smiled and waved her inside. She hesitated long enough to kiss Mary in greeting, nodding to John. Deirdre grabbed her hand, so Molly followed along with them, glad to help the Watson’s settle in their pews.

“You sit with us,” Mary invited. “Your father used to sit up front, but once he passed, I’m afraid we took that pew. It’s the longest one, so we didn’t have to take up two rows.”

“Oh of course, I don’t mind-“ Molly nodded. “I can sit somewhere else-“

“Nonsense, we’ll all bunch up,” John said. He was guiding the boys into the row. Only in mass did Sorcha and Cillian sit apart. As twins they were quite inseparable, but during the long service they were known for causing mischief. Molly sat down with Deirdre on her lap, and Mary sat as a barrier between the girls and boys, to prevent any nonsense. John took the end of the row, and before services started, leaned forward to look each of the children in the eye. That seemed enough to quiet them, and they sat up straight, eyes on the pulpit. Molly could feel eyes on the back of her head but didn’t dare turn to see. She busied herself with trying to set an example for the children and pay attention (though it did very little good, as it was all in Latin).

Afterwards, announcements were made, including Vicar Flanagan welcoming her to the congregation and to Ferndown. There were reminders of the Ceilidh on the following Saturday, and for all to attend, as well as there would be a sewing circle to make blankets for immigrants.

As soon as mass was concluded, the whole congregation began talking at once, and Molly was nearly swarmed, poor Deirdre still in her arms. Of all days she was to meet everyone in Ferndown at once! Molly was still fretting over the piglets, even if there might not have been a reason to. While her anger at Sherlock still flared, she couldn’t bring herself to speak ill of him, even as all the ladies in Ferndown clustered around her and sang his praises.

“Yes he’s been so helpful to Molly,” Mary put in. “He filled the woodpile for her, and brought her fresh honey as a welcoming present.”

“Oh how kind of him!” Mrs. Bates was beaming with a twinkle in her eye. “And he was good enough to bring her into town as well the other day, he doesn’t do that for just anybody.”

“Perhaps he has his eye on you!” Mrs. McCarthy added with a giggle.

“If anyone could bring Sherlock Holmes round and liven him up, it would be Richard Hooper’s daughter,” Mrs. Walsh added with a sage nod.

“Well I- I-“ Molly couldn’t speak, too embarrassed, and keenly aware Janine Hawkins was within earshot. “I just want to be a good neighbor,” she managed clumsily.

“There’s nothing more Christian than being neighborly,” Mrs. Bates said knowingly with a wink. “Sherlock Holmes could do with a pretty thing like you to put a bit of a spring in his step. He needs a woman in his life…”

“Why Kathleen Bates, on Sunday, mind your tongue!” Shannon McCarthy nudged her, shaking her head, though it was clear she was in agreement.

Molly didn’t know where to look. She gave a faltering smile, glancing from each of the women's faces to Janine and then Mary.

“What about the sewing circle the vicar mentioned?” she burst out, desperate to change the subject. “How many blankets do you think we’ll be able to make?”

“Oh we always manage a dozen or so,” Mary said, noting Molly’s discomfort. “You’d better hurry along home, those piglets will need tending!”

“Yes, yes you’re quite right.”

“Are you attending the ceilidh on Saturday?” Mrs. Ryan wanted to know.

“Yes, yes I am. Janine told me all about it the other day, she was good enough to invite me.”

“She’s such a sweet girl,” Mrs. Ryan nodded. “We’ll look forward to seeing you!”

Slowly, Molly made her way through the crowds, trailing behind the line of Watsons. At the door she greeted the vicar and thanked him for his welcome. In the churchyard everyone was filing out and starting down the road when a rumbling made some of them pause. Molly stood, shocked, staring as Sherlock Holmes pulled into the churchyard. For the first time since she’d first met him, Gladstone was not with him, and he was wearing a tie, of all things.

He stepped out of the truck, taking down his cane and limped over to them, wincing with every step. He nodded in greeting to the vicar before turning to Molly.

“It’s going to storm, and you didn’t wear your wellies. I’ll bring you back to the house.”

Molly was only too aware of the tittering behind her, and Mrs. Walsh’s barely restrained gasp.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps you ought to see Janine home first,” Molly said, looking back to the other woman who was attempting not to glare.

“Why would I do that?” he frowned. The clouds were swiftly darkening, and rain began to fall. Umbrellas were opened.

“We’ll squeeze Janine in with us,” Mary said, taking her step-sister by the arm. “We’re going by her place.”

With rain steadily falling, it was only a few moments before the churchyard was deserted, and Molly and Sherlock were left alone.

“Will you get in, or would you rather walk in the rain?” he asked, somewhat impatient. Cold water was already dripping down the brim of his hat into his collar, and he shivered.

She narrowed her gaze, and Sherlock immediately wanted to kick himself. Apologies were not his strong-suit.

“Thank you, I’ll walk,” Molly answered tightly.

“Don’t be foolish,” Sherlock called after her. “You’ll be soaked through and sick by the evening.”

“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Holmes, but as you reminded me last night, you aren’t my husband, so you needn’t fret over my well-being.”

“Dammit, woman, I am trying to apologize.”

“You are in a churchyard, Mr. Holmes, mind your language!”

“Are you really so proud, so foolish as to walk home and risk serious illness out of spite?” he asked. She stepped up to him, toe-to-toe and he was struck by a gentle wave of her perfume. Her brown eyes flashed at him, and he found himself staring at her red lips, clearly she’d applied some rouge. He hated it. He was also struck by the sudden urge to kiss the silly stuff off her. Soaked to the skin, her dress clung to her, and he was aware his own clothes were sticking to his skin. It was not as romantic as it sounded. In fact it was uncomfortable, and all he could think of was that his knee would be chafed raw from his trousers.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Molly snapped. “When you’ve gone out of your way to insult me-“

“Mrs. Mason you are dangerously close-“

The clouds overhead rumbled, and in a moment the downpour was upon them. Through the heavy rain Molly shivered, and she could barely see. Thunder crashed so loudly she felt it in her chest and bones. For a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Lightning flashed, followed quickly by another peal of thunder, deeper than the last. For an awful moment, she was back in London, in that ramshackle Red Cross station, pans and cups tumbling from the shelves, the roof caving in above them while they huddled under cots as the German’s bombed the city. Through her daze, she felt Sherlock take her by the hand, drawing her towards the truck. He boosted her in, before running around the front and climbing in. He’d never switched it off (a fretful waste of petrol), so he only maneuvered it round the yard and back onto the road.

They’d only gone about a mile from town when the engine began to wheeze and cough.

“No- no-nooooo…” Sherlock groaned, hitting the steering wheel in frustration. He pressed the accelerator, urging the truck on a little further before it eventually gave up, rolling to a stop. He looked to the passenger seat where Molly sat, huddled, still trembling with each roll of thunder. “Stay here.” He climbed out and lifted the bonnet of the truck. “I knew I shouldn’t have left it running,” he muttered. He shut it and got back inside. “Engine is overheated. We’ll have to wait-“ He turned to Molly, only she wasn’t in the passenger seat. “Mrs. Mason?” the door was open, and she was standing underneath the tree. “Get out from underneath the tree!” he shouted from the cab. He scrambled out, forgoing his cane. He rounded the back of the truck. “Are you mad? Get out from under there!”

“Mr. Holmes you are not-“

“Your husband, I know, but neither am I so cruel as to let you risk getting struck by lightning.”

“The cab is too small,” she shivered. “I needed to breathe.” Thunder crashed again, and the ground fairly shook. Lightning lit the sky, too close for comfort, the air fairly crackled with electricity.

“Please come out from under the tree,” he repeated, gentler. “It isn’t safe.”

Slowly, Molly stepped away from the boughs, and Sherlock took her hand firmly in his, guiding her into the cab again.

“Here,” he took the rug from under the seat and spread it over her shoulders. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not cold,” she insisted.

“No, you’re in shock,” he answered simply.

“What?”

“Shock,” he repeated as he sat down beside her. “Thunder sounds like bombs, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “It’s awful.”

“I wasn’t in London for the blitz,” he murmured, his gaze was distant. “That’s not to say there weren’t bombs, there were plenty of those. But you expect that when you’re in battle, or when you’re near the front. You don’t expect them in your back garden.”

“No…”

“Was it very bad?” he asked after a moment.

“I don’t want to remember it.”

“Ignoring it doesn’t make it better,” he replied.

She gave him a pointed look, directing her gaze to his bad knee.

“Right,” he cleared his throat, squeezing his right knee. “Well…the point still stands.”

Molly fell silent again. Another peal of thunder set her trembling, and she scrambled for the door. Sherlock prevented her, this time holding her hands.  

“Easy,” he murmured. “Take a steady breath.”

She took a shuddering breath. “The roof came down on us,” She shut her eyes tight. Thunder rumbled deeper and deeper, it was too similar to the bombs that fell over London, the awful booming crashes, the sound of rubble and streets being blown apart. “The soldier I was tending couldn’t get out of bed, so I slid him onto the floor, and dragged him underneath the cot for shelter. He didn’t have any arms, and a bullet had just been removed from his thigh and he still crawled over me, shielding me from debris…” she fidgeted, her voice was soft. “He died on me.”

“How long were you trapped in the rubble?”

Her gaze was hollow, her face drawn, Sherlock knew the expression well enough, having seen it on countless soldiers returning from the front. “Five hours or so.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He wanted to gather Molly up in a bundle and hold her until the hurt went away. Trapped under a building, trapped under a dead body. Trapped in the city you’re supposed to call home.

“No wonder you left…” he murmured at last.

“Yes well…” she blinked quickly, struggling to maintain composure. “London wasn’t the same after Tom died…and I couldn’t think of anything to look forward to if I stayed.”

“Do you have nightmares?” he asked after a long moment.

“Sometimes…” she dared to look at him, just for a moment. He was looking so intently at her, and for the first time, Molly felt as if someone at last knew what she meant. Both of them knew that ‘Sometimes’ didn’t cover it. You weren’t supposed to talk about the night sweats or trembling at loud noises. You were supposed to simply brush yourself off and carry on. That was all they had during the war, it was the only thing to cling to, to grasp some semblance of sanity and hold onto it for dear life. Chins high, eyes clear. But after the war, when you didn’t have to pretend to ignore the bombs or the rubble in the streets, what then? The nightmares were still there. The memories and horrors were all there and there was nowhere for them to go.

“You’re not in London anymore, Molly,” Sherlock said, the timbre of his voice was low, gentle. “I think you’ve had a stiff upper lip for too long now.”

“I’m not supposed- you’re not supposed to talk- it’s not right-“ she stuttered. “You- you went to war, I shouldn’t – bother. It’s nothing…it’s nothing what I went through- compared to you, to Tom- and John and-and-“

“It’s alright to be frightened,” he interrupted her.  She looked up and was surprised to see his own eyes were bleary. He offered an encouraging smile. “What you endured was terrible, and there is no shame in admitting that.” She gave a stifled sob, still trying to hold back tears. “There’s nothing we can do about the thunder, and the engine is still overheated, so hold onto me. You can talk...or not… if that makes it easier. We’ll ride out the storm together.”

Slowly, still trembling, she slid closer, tucking her arm through his. Lightning flashed again, and thunder rattled the cab and everything in it, loud enough that even Sherlock jumped. Molly heaved a guttural moan, burying her head in his shoulder. He put his free arm around her, resting his head over hers.

“Steady,” he murmured, low. “Can you hear my heartbeat?” The rain drummed on the roof, noisy, the storm was directly overhead. She pressed her ear to his chest, feeling the soft wool of his waistcoat. Beneath all the noise surrounding her, there was the deep thud-thud-thud-thud. “Count the beats,” he said. “Focus on that, nothing else. Don’t worry. You’re not alone, Molly.” He licked his lips, finding they were dry. She was holding so tightly to him, as if he were a lifeline. In that moment he couldn’t care less. “I’m here,” he reassured her. “I’m not going anywhere.”  

Chapter Text

When the engine had finally cooled, and Molly stopped shaking, Sherlock started the truck again and they made their way home. Molly was surprised to find Gladstone in the barn, having herded the geese and chickens inside out of the storm. Rosy-lee and Bickies had jumped back into their pen, and Clementine the pig and all her piglets were snuggled and cozy, Wilfred grunting in his own pen, rooting out a new nest. The sight of the animals had cheered Molly considerably. She’d changed in a flash and got straight to work sorting out the bedding again. She started on the chores, thanking Sherlock again for his kindness. He loathed to leave her so soon after, so he offered to start the fire inside. By the time she’d finished in the barn, he’d stoked up the fireplace and the house was warm as toast. The kettle had just boiled. She came in, carrying her father’s cheesemaking tools. She’d found them put aside in the barn and decided to bring them in.

Over tea, they sat in silence, suddenly finding words exhausting. Sherlock often felt that way after having flashbacks. He explained as much to Molly, who only nodded tiredly.

“You need your rest, if you’re to go on rounds with John tomorrow,” he stood, placing his empty mug in the sink.

“Sherlock,” Molly stood, and he stopped at the door. “I just- I wanted to say- I’m sorry, if I offended you yesterday. I didn’t suggest physio to hurt your feelings,” she fidgeted a moment. “I suggested it because I don’t like to see people in pain. I only wanted to help you. I want to be able to help my friends.”

“Are we?” he asked softly.

“What, friends?” she asked with a quiet laugh. “I hope so, I so want us to be, Sherlock, if…if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes,” he answered automatically, though he knew that the idea of placing Molly as his friend and nothing more felt…wrong. He couldn’t say how, only that it did. But still, the day’s events had made him realize that more than anything, Molly needed support, she needed family and friends. Whatever had happened in London, she’d endured it almost entirely on her own. He would daresay Tom Mason was a good man, probably a good husband, but an absent one, through no fault of his own. Molly had been forced to make do by herself, to be strong on her own, and for her own good. She’d never had someone take over for her, to lean on, so that she could step back for a time. Sherlock knew that feeling well. It was a hard lesson to learn, especially when you feel as if you haven’t anyone to lean on. Well…not so for Molly any longer. If he could be that to her, if that was what she needed, he would endeavor to do so. There was still the trouble of physio. It was a difficult subject, one he still felt he wasn’t ready to broach with Molly.

“Please accept my apology, for snapping at you,” Sherlock said, at last breaking the silence. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“You were angry,” Molly shrugged.

“It doesn’t excuse that what I said was hurtful,”

“No.” she agreed. “But I accept your apology,” she smiled gently then. Sherlock thought that she must have been the most forgiving woman in the entire world.

“Please,” he lowered his head, touching his upper lip with his forefinger, trying to find the right words to convey to her how he felt. “Please understand my own reservations though,” he cleared his throat.

Already, she was shaking her head. “You don’t have to explain-“

“Perhaps I should-“

“You don’t want to, though.” Molly objected. “I didn’t know, not really, how sensitive an issue it is for you. I won’t ask again, not unless you want me to.”

Sherlock was surprised. Her reaction was the exact opposite of what he’d expected. “Thank you.” Two small words, but he meant them.

He left shortly after, making the long trek through the wet rushes, Gladstone at his side.

Sherlock spent a sleepless night tossing and turning. He tossed so much that Gladstone left the bed with a huff, electing to sleep on the floor. Sherlock could not put aside Molly’s reactions to the storm. He worried, lest another storm come along. She could barely cope with the storm yesterday, what would happen if she were caught all alone in one? He kicked at his blankets, irritable. Sleep would not come, the rain had long stopped, so he got up and put the kettle on. Having spent part of the previous day in the cold and wet, Sherlock’s knee was complaining again. He thought to the conversation he’d had with Molly. How he’d held her. In those moments, everything was simple: he wanted to comfort her. He wanted to protect her and shield her from her horrible memories of the war.

He felt a great relief at her assurance that she wouldn’t offer help unless he wished for it. It wasn’t that he mistrusted her, only that he didn’t want to bring his hopes up again, only to have them dashed. He was fairly certain physio wouldn’t do him any good. And…he was afraid too. Molly, still fresh from her trials during the war brought back Sherlock’s own difficulties. Memories washed over him in waves, and he gave himself up to them.

When he’d been discharged from the army, he’d been dumped off in London. Baker Street hadn’t even been available to him. It was let as a convalescence home, so he was, for a time, put up with Mummy, until he thought he’d go mad, and then Mycroft got him into The Savoy. He’d felt lost, confused at the London he’d come home to. London wasn’t home any longer. Mrs. Hudson had died in the blitz, Baker Street was partially gone, and the rest of it was utterly changed from the war. His only solace had been in the letters John and Mary sent him. They were often writing to him, inviting him to move to Ferndown. He’d declined at first, having nowhere to live in Ferndown, and having no wish to crowd the Watson’s, who were already crowded as it was.

Out of the blue, he received a letter from Richard Hooper, just a short missive really, explaining he had a cottage available for use, an orchard he needed help tending, and bees that needed nursing. Suddenly, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. An orchard! An apiary! A cottage of his own! A place in the country that was surely more peaceful than the ramshackle town London had become. The idea of peace and quiet appealed to him greatly, a place far away from crowded streets and Red Cross stations and city-folk singing praises of the ‘brave boys overseas’ when really, the boys overseas just wanted to come home and stop fighting. You couldn’t say that at home though. You had to go on pretending that the war was glorious, and you were really thrilled to be fighting the good fight, rather than feeling sick to your stomach every day at the thought of it. Sick of bad tea from a dixie tin and trenches and mud and blood and dead friends and smelling gangrene. Sick of finding burned out villages and capturing POWs who were just as frightened as you were.

No. It was time to leave London. Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street one last time, to see what could be collected of his personal effects. The nurses running the home had let him in and directed him to a cupboard in 221C where Mrs. Hudson had put his clothes. It had all been packed neatly away in a suitcase, his violin, still in its case, sat on top of it. He looked it over, and in the end, added only the moccasin of tobacco and the skull he’d always kept on the mantlepiece. There wasn’t anything else he’d wanted really. Everything else belonged in London, its purpose was in the city, when he solved cases. That was a life he no longer wanted. It was time to leave it behind.

When he arrived in Ireland, a cable was waiting for him from John and Mary. She was in labor and they wouldn’t be able to meet him after all. So he’d walked from Carcalles to Ferndown, to Richard Hooper’s farm. The barn was shut up and quiet. Sherlock looked at the fencing that ran around the side of it, and the scuffed barn door. The old man saw him coming, took his bag from him, and showed him into the house.

“You’ll bunk with me, till you’re well enough on your own.”

“I’m fine.” Was his clipped response.

“Suit yourself.” Richard took him across the field, to the cottage. “It’s only a hunting cottage, but the stove is good, the straw ticking is fresh, and the roof is sound. It’s good and cozy. Just put in wood floors year before last.”

“With the war on?” Sherlock found himself asking. “I don’t object to it,” he added. “I’m only surprised the war effort didn’t rob you blind of your lumber yet.” Richard Hooper looked at him, appraisal in his eyes as he regarded him.

“House needs a floor, war or no.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said at last.

“Well, you know where everything is,” Hooper turned to the door, “Come to the house and have tea.”

“Thank you, I’m not hungry-“

“Yes, you are. Come on.” And he just made him come.

That first evening in Ferndown, Sherlock sat in Richard Hooper’s parlor, full of a warm roast dinner, cradling a mug of tea, sweetened with honey, while the old man regaled him with the trials of running a farm and orchard with the war on. It would be difficult work, and Sherlock worried lest his knee would prevent him from fully accomplishing the tasks Richard would set before him. Hooper asked to see the scar, which, Sherlock felt he must oblige. Having rolled up his right trouser leg, he carefully stretched his leg out, pointing out where the bullet had entered.

“Hmm, surgeon did a neat job. That’s not so bad is it?” Richard murmured. Sherlock blinked, unsure of how to answer. Thus-far, everyone he’d come across who saw him limping expressed nothing but pity, shock, holding him in some kind of awe. He hated it. Richard Hooper looked at him and saw the scar, but he saw Sherlock too. Suddenly, Hooper unbuttoned his shirt cuff, rolling up his sleeve to show Sherlock a massive scar on his elbow. “Mine was a German sniper too, only he missed his intended target.”

“Army?”

Hooper nodded. “Earned this in Verdun.” he smiled glibly.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock blurted out. He hated when people asked him if his knee hurt. Of course it bloody did. Somehow though, he had to know if Richard understood this awful pain. Inside and out.

“Oo when it’s cold, damp. Ireland is no place for war wounds, leastwise of the physical kind.”

“And the other kind?”

“That’s up to you isn’t it?” Hooper looked at him steadily. “You got shot.” A shrug. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but at what cost? If I had been allowed to get back to work, the war could be won that much sooner, I’m still useful!”

“Yes, you are, but not to the army.”

“I’m not army, I’m-“ here he stopped. Sherlock didn’t know where his head was, nearly disclosing what his occupation used to be in the war. Not that it mattered since any information he had would be old news.

“Never mind what you were,” Hooper waved a hand, as if wiping it away. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You did a good turn, worked as long as you did. That’s good and fair. Now you get to go on working, but for a different set of folk.”

“Working a farm?”

Hooper nodded. “Let me explain to you, Mr. Holmes, just what’s been going on while you fine men have been out living through hell in the name of King and Country…”

That night Richard Hooper explained just how difficult the rationing was. How the Ministry of Food and the Ministers of Agriculture, along with the War Effort, had nearly stripped Ferndown dry.

“We’re more fortunate than Londoners,” Hooper explained. “We that run farms can keep all the butter and cheese and eggs and cream we can hold, but if we’re donating all the livestock, which is what the Ministry of Food keeps demanding, we can’t have milk and butter, can we?”

Sherlock shook his head. These were affairs he was unaware of. Hooper told him how rationing and war efforts had nearly starved them out, but for Hooper’s farm. 

“I’m no hand in the field,” Hooper admitted. “Not a bit. I get by all right with the orchard, but I need a strong back to help lift it up again, she’s an old, scrappy thing. Apples aren’t so good. I need help.”

“And the livestock?” Sherlock asked.

Hooper looked at him carefully, suddenly quiet. “What about it?”

“You need help with the livestock.”

This subject suddenly seemed to make Hooper clam up. The old man sat back, rubbing his scarred elbow as he studied Sherlock. “You’re observant, Mr. Holmes.”

“I used to be a consulting detective.”

“Daresay the Intelligence Corps made a right good spy out of you.”

“I was dismissed from them, remember?” Sherlock asked. “Mr. Hooper, if there is something you are hiding, I promise you there is no person better to entrust it to than me.”

“Maybe…” Hooper stroked his chin. “Well…come along, it’s milking time.” He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to retrieve a large pitcher.

“What?”

“Come on.” Hooper waved him to follow, taking down a smock from the door, throwing it over his shoulder.

Sherlock followed him out into the cool dusk, and suddenly realized there was a line of people at Hooper’s barn.

“Who are they?” he asked, looking at the pale faces. The children were thin, their parents too. Not quite skin and bones, but Sherlock estimated no one there weighed over eight stones.

“Good evening all,” Hooper waved, and the children all chorused back:

“Good evening Mr. Hooper!”

“We’ll have you all settled in a moment, here,” he turned back to Sherlock, handing him a full pitcher. “Start pouring, I’ll go and milk Rosy-lee and get another pitcher going.”

Sherlock turned, dumbfounded, as the first child stepped up and held up a small tin cup. A line had been painted on the inside of it, midway up. He filled to the line, careful not to spill a drop. The child thanked him and stepped out of line. When every child had a cup of milk, they waved goodbye and started home.

“Morning and evening,” Hooper said to him. “They come and have a cup of the only milk available to them in near forty miles.” He looked at Sherlock once more, then nodded, decided. “You can come inside now,” he held the barn door open, and Sherlock went in. Eyes adjusting to the dim light, he was surprised. There was a goat, clearly this was Rosy-lee, and there were nearly a dozen pigs!

“I keep pigs,” Hooper admitted. “Chickens too, and geese. Ferndown gives away her produce, her sugar and meat and all…we can’t survive on tinned milk and the few vegetables that finally make their way to Ireland, Mr. Holmes. So…I keep these. Everyone shares their scraps from the garden, and in the autumn, they’re butchered and shared with everybody. Meantime, I milk Rosy-lee, put some aside for cheese, and the rest I give to the children. They’d waste away, Mr. Holmes,” Hooper’s voice was pleading then. “I know the war is important, I do, and God’s my witness, this village does her due diligence…but I won’t take food from babies’ mouths.” He straightened then, lifting his chin. “I won’t sacrifice children just so a toff general can eat bacon.” He suddenly looked nervous, but still, he held his ground. “So now you know, Mr. Holmes. Now you know how I run my farm. If…if it offends you, your principles…then I’m sorry. But I won’t stop.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. He was amazed. Ashamed. And suddenly he felt as if there was purpose again in his life.

“I see nothing here that offends me, Mr. Hooper,” he answered calmly. “It’s just an empty barn, is it not?”

Slowly, Richard Hooper smiled. He hefted the half-full milk bucket, careful not to slosh it.

“Come inside, Mr. Holmes, come inside and have a nip of brandy to take the sting out of that knee of yours.”

For the first time since he’d returned from the war, Sherlock slept. He slept deep and dreamless, for once feeling and believing the quiet that surrounded the small cottage.

The kettle’s piercing whistle broke through his thoughts, and he blinked quickly, removing it from the hob. Richard Hooper was frank, a fierce provider under a mask of utter innocence, the cheery farmer who liked to take a nip now and then. While Sherlock waited for his tea to steep, he looked at the photograph leaning against the salt-cellar on the shelf next to the stove. In the black-and-white were two men, one old, jovial farmer, straw-hat and smock and gaiters, the other a thin, ex-army intelligence officer bearing a cane and something resembling a smile. Between them sat an Irish Setter puppy, completely oblivious to the camera. It was his only physical memory of Richard Hooper. Mary Watson had taken the photograph of them, to commemorate the first autumn harvest in which every single tree in the orchard bore fruit. Ferndown had been overflowing with sweet, crisp apples. That harvest would see them through the hardest winter Ferndown had seen in ages.

Blinking quickly, Sherlock found his eyes were wet. Quickly swiping a hand over his face, he cleared his throat, turning back to his tea. He glanced again at the photograph, and this time managed a nod, a sign of respect to the deceased gentleman. The Watsons would always be Sherlock’s dearest friends, there was no disputing that. John Watson had been his first true friend. Richard Hooper had been his second.

Chapter Text

Ever since the storm, Sherlock had done his best to be more visible to Molly. In the week previous, he’d gone out of his way to be near impossible to find. Since Sunday, though, he made an effort to stop by the farm, see to the wood pile and stop in to see if she needed anything else mended. Monday, she was gone with John for most of the day, so he stopped by to see how the animals were faring after lunch. Later, he found out she’d be going with John every other day on his rounds. On Friday morning, Molly brought him some cottage cheese as a gift, her first attempt, as well as a sort of bribe for him.

“I’m sorry to be a bother about this. We’ve been able to stop by the barn to look in on the piglets the past two days, but today John and I are so busy there may not be any time, since tomorrow is the Ceilidh. I thought that perhaps you might be able to.” Molly explained.

“You needn’t have bribed me,” he said, accepting the crock from her. “I’d have gone over at any rate.”

“Anyway I appreciate it, I know it isn’t your job-“

“We are friends, are we not?” Sherlock asked, and Molly stopped, nodding with a blush.  

Later that afternoon, once he’d seen to the hives and the orchard, he headed over to the farm. On the back door Molly had left him a note to help himself to the biscuit tin, so he went inside, glad for the excuse to poke about unhindered. Old habits die hard, and he was still curious about the woman inhabiting his friend’s house. This time though, he wasn’t looking for an excuse to find something on her, but rather to understand her better. He liked understanding what made people behave the way they did - he always had, though over the past few years, he’d lost interest. He’d never lost his touch in deducing people, he simply hadn’t the energy or care to pursue it. Molly was somewhat of an enigma to him. A woman of high fashion, who apparently knew what money could buy, and yet one unafraid of work, of contriving and learning. She contradicted what he’d always known to be the habits of high society darlings. He wanted to know her better, and when he could not bring himself to ask her to her face, he resorted to his oldest method of finding out about a person: detection.

Snooping , he could almost hear his mother tutting.

There was still much of Richard in the house, the family pictures, his library and furniture. But small pieces of Molly were slowly being added to the rooms- she’d brought knitting from London, now the chairs in the parlor bore doilies and there was a sewing basket by Richard’s old chair. Women’s coats hung on the coat tree by the door, and feminine handwriting made up the shopping list tacked to the corkboard in the kitchen. Toby the kitten arched his back with a purring chirp before hopping down from the windowsill. Arching around Sherlock’s ankles, he mewed conversationally before he was nearly booted out of the way by Gladstone.

Sherlock absentmindedly picked up the kitten, depositing him on the parlor window seat before turning to survey the room. He was surprised to see a stack of farming books piled in one chair, pieces of torn out newspaper were being used to mark the pages. Molly was apparently doing her homework. This pleased him somehow, not that she wasn’t clearly making an effort, but anyone could do that. Molly was taking steps to ensure her knowledge, not simply by experience, but education too. By the torn-apart radio sat Richard’s concertina. It was a beautiful instrument in green leather, with ivory buttons and silver panels on the sides. Sherlock trailed a finger alongside the bellows, and then the cool metal. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the keys had been marked with pencil. He frowned, for Richard played the concertina well, he’d never needed to mark the keys. Beneath the instrument sat sheet music, and he recognized the handwriting as Molly’s.

Molly! Molly was teaching herself the instrument! His heart suddenly ached for his friend. Richard Hooper would have been overjoyed at the thought. He lifted the instrument, carefully unlatching it, testing the keys, listening if the reeds were in good order, if the bellows were pierced or damaged in any way. He played a few notes of the melody Richard always played, Sherbourne Waltz or something to that effect when suddenly there were footsteps in the kitchen.

“Oh, you play!” Molly gasped, her tired face breaking into a beaming smile.

“A little,” Sherlock nodded. “Your father was the maestro when it came to this instrument.”

“You play beautifully,” Molly complimented after a moment. “I love that waltz, Father used to play it when I was little, when he was in London.”

“It was what he most often played,” Sherlock agreed. He finished the song, but not really wanting to go on playing. It seemed wrong, somehow, without Richard there.  

“I ought to have you teach me!” Molly said after a moment with a nervous laugh.

“It’s simple enough,” Sherlock quickly slipped his hands from the straps and held the instrument out to her. She took it, copying how he’d held it. “Give it a go, then,” he nodded.

She looked at the concertina uncertainly, trying to find her finger-placements. “I always have such trouble,” she fretted, pressing a few, and then relaxing the bellows in a creaking noise. Sherlock bit back a laugh but gave way when he caught sight of Molly’s own expression.

“Here,” he said, chuckling. He stepped closer, placing his hands over hers, guiding her fingers to the correct placements. “It’s not like playing a piano, it’s tuning is fixed, the reeds are steel, so they won’t, or at least they shouldn’t, break. You just have to remember your keys,”

“I was so little the last time Father played,” Molly confessed. “I barely remember his movements…”

“You really only need to move one hand to guide the concertina,” he said, and showed her, his own hand still covering hers. “That’s the way- better,”

Sherlock’s hands were warm over hers, and Molly found herself staring at his long fingers, at how steady his hands were as he showed her what keys to press, how to extend and depress the instrument. In the end, she managed a few notes.

“Thank you-“ when she looked up, he was close to her, terribly close and he was looking at her so intensely, that Molly’s first instinct was to close the distance. The moment their lips touched, she realized what she’d done, and yet couldn’t stop herself. Sherlock’s hands moved from hers to her shoulders, sliding up to cup her face, tracing circles on the nape of her neck. As quickly as they’d started, they ended, for Molly stepped back, the instrument making a whooshing noise as she dropped one side of it to cover her mouth, shocked at her boldness. It wasn’t that she wanted to stop him, far from it! But John and Mary were right outside, they could come in at any moment, and then Mary would tell Janine, and there’d be an awful scandal in Ferndown. Swallowing thickly, she stepped further back, trying to steel herself by making a fuss about putting away the concertina.

Sherlock blinked quickly, finding he was unhappy at the distance between them suddenly. He hadn’t meant for them to stand so close. Only once he was near her, he found he liked how she smelled, he liked how she bit her lip when she was concentrating. He liked seeing her work out the problem she was having with the instrument. He liked that he was able to help her coax out a few notes from the concertina. And when she looked up at him to thank him- well…he liked that if he’d only lowered his head he could have kissed her. So he did. He liked how soft her neck was, and how she kissed him right back. But perhaps she didn’t like that. Perhaps she was thinking of her Tom, and how once upon a time it had been her husband who was standing so close to her. Before he could apologize, Molly spoke again:

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I shouldn’t have done that. Whatever would Janine say?”

“What on earth does she have to do with me?” Sherlock asked, baffled. This was the third time Molly had mentioned Janine out of the blue. Janine Hawkins wasn’t exactly the woman he wanted to be thinking about at this particular moment. 

“I think she’d have a lot to say, if she ever came in to see us like that,” Molly said.

“If she- what?” Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what Molly was saying. “We didn’t even do – what?”

“She’s your fiancée, isn’t she?”

“What?!”

The kitchen door banged open, and Mary Watson and the girls all came trooping in. “Boys out!” Mary ordered with no small degree of alarm in her voice. “Molly, I am in desperate need of your help!”

Somewhat jarred by the sudden change of mood in the room, painfully aware of the tension between herself and Sherlock, Molly quickly steeled herself, shaking her head. “Yes, Mary, of course, what is it?”

Sherlock watched her, still reeling from what Molly had asked him, amazed at her ability to appear calm and collected, leastwise for the most part. He noted her hands were trembling, and every now and again, her gaze would dart back to him, begging him to explain himself.  

Mary, meanwhile, was spreading out a dress she’d ordered from a catalogue.

“I don’t know what I was thinking when I ordered this, obviously not that I’d be the size that I am now!” Mary stopped what she was doing, seeing Molly was not exactly paying attention. She followed the direction of her gaze to Sherlock. “I said shoo!” she bustled across the room. “We’ve got fittings to do, and menfolk only get in the way!” So Sherlock left, unable to say his piece, nor to clear Molly’s conscience that there was nothing going on between himself and Janine. The idea! Who on earth would put such an idea into her head? Confused, and very much in need of advice, he went to the barn where Watson surely would be.

“She thinks you’re what?” John asked over the noise of the pigs eating.

“Engaged, she thinks Janine and I are engaged, where she got that notion, I cannot fathom.”

John scratched his neck, frowning. “Well…can’t say as Janine is exactly subtle in her feelings for you, leastwise lately she’s been more forward than usual.”

“I noticed,” Sherlock agreed.

“Probably she felt like she ought to stake her claim.”

Sherlock pulled himself upright, surprised. “You’re not saying Janine is saying to everyone-“

“No, no, of course not, it’d be all over town by now, if that were the case. But perhaps she just dropped a hint or two that you were spoken for is all.”

“And Molly being new to town would never know if there was truth to it or not.” Sherlock sighed.

“What brought this up, by the by?” John asked suddenly.

Sherlock, for his part, merely turned to look at the goats, suddenly absorbed in watching them eat.

“Sherlock…”

“Nothing untoward, John, honestly,” he tried to brush off the feelings that welled up inside of him at the thought of kissing Molly, of kissing her again. “You act as if it were something scandalous. We kissed- she apologized, thinking I was engaged. That’s all-“

“You kissed her?!” John nearly roared.

“Shush!” Sherlock hissed at him.

John lowered his voice to a shouting whisper, sounding quite fierce: “Do you have any idea what is going to happen if anyone finds out? They’ll say Molly’s fast, or worse-“

“Honestly, what could be worse? And does what people think really matter? Come to that, when has it ever?”

“Sherlock-“ John pinched his mouth shut, pondering his words very carefully. “Sherlock do you mean to court her?”

“I-“ Sherlock paused then, uncertain. He didn’t know what he wanted yet. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you’d better sort it out quick, because something like this won’t stay hidden for long, and people will make their own conclusions about the pair of you.”

“Only you and I and Molly know, and I won’t tell anyone, and you certainly won’t-“

“Mary knows,” John added.

“What? How on earth could she know?”

“Mary knows,” John said with a firm nod. “She always knows when something like this happens. She won’t tell, but it’s enough that she knows. You know how people talk in Ferndown. Nothing is said, but an awful lot is shared.”

Silence settled between them, John’s words hanging heavy in Sherlock’s mind. He hadn’t been thinking when he kissed Molly. He just did it. He didn’t regret it, not a bit of it. If he had the chance, he’d go back and do it again. He understood that his desire to kiss her wasn’t all carnal at least. There was some relief in being certain of that. But so much was left unsaid, so much still misunderstood and not known that he felt his stomach drop. He was confused, and he didn’t know how to even begin sorting his feelings for Molly out.

“For the record,” John said, his voice having lost none of its seriousness. “If this is something that you choose to do properly, then I want to say that I could not be happier for you, mate.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise at his friend.

“Having someone that you could love and could love you, well...it completes you as a human being. And you, Sherlock Holmes, would take to it very well.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, curiously moved by John’s words. He’d never thought that he needed anyone’s blessing for anything but once it had been given, he was surprisingly pleased to have it. 

With a clearing of his throat, John handed him a rake. “Come on, give a hand at least before you head home.” 

“Isn’t Molly coming out?” Sherlock asked.

“No, didn’t Mary say? She ordered a dress from a catalogue a month ago. It finally came in today, only it’s too much skirt and too little waist or I don’t know. Mary and the girls are staying here tonight to mend it and dress up the girls frocks for the ceilidh tomorrow.”

“Oh.” There would be no chance to explain to Molly.

“Don’t fret,” John clapped him on the shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “You’ll sort it out with Molly tomorrow, hey?”

“I suppose.”

John studied him for a moment, then shook his head. “Ahhh…go on, I’ll finish this. Go home and put your feet up. The boys are in the car, they’ll help me.”

“Are you certain?”

“Go on, won’t be the first time.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock bid his friend goodnight, and did as he asked, sending in the boys to help their father. He gave a short whistle, and Gladstone came around the side of the barn, breaking into a lolloping run to catch up with him.

Tiredly, he made his way across the field to his cottage. He was alarmed to see lights coming from the window. He hadn’t lit the lamps before he’d gone to Molly’s, nor had he tended the fire since that morning. He looked around the field, noting a set of tracks through the rushes, leading from the orchard. He bent low, wincing as he knelt, inspecting the footprints. The wet grass and patches of mud gave him all the information he needed, and sighed, annoyed.

Opening the front door, he hung up his hat and his coat, waiting until Gladstone stepped in before shutting the door.

“You ought to know by now Ireland is no place for oxfords, Mycroft.” He filled the kettle and put it on the hob.

“You’ve not lost your touch, I see.”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing, his back instantly up. “If you’re here for what I think you are, you’re wasting your time.”

“Can’t I visit my dear brother without needing a reason?”

“No.”

“Sherlock-“

“No,” he swiveled around, wincing at the sudden pull against his knee. “I don’t care what the King needs, I am not returning to London. I don’t do casework anymore.”

Mycroft studied his brother. Sherlock was thin, but it seemed that living in the wilds of Ireland had done him some good. He still limped, noticeably, but that was to be expected. He noticed Sherlock flexed his fingers over the handle of his cane, a nervous tick.

“I’m not here to collect you back to London,” Mycroft reassured him. “At least not yet.”

“Oh.” He visibly relaxed, somewhat. “Then what is it? Is Mummy ill?”

“No, she’s on holiday, I believe. Doing a bit of a world tour.”

“Oh.” He tapped his cane, willing the kettle to boil to give him something to do.

“I did come from London, though, to deliver this to you-“ Mycroft reached for the nearest chair where he’d laid his portfolio, retrieving a cream colored envelope with a seal and engraved lettering. Sherlock found his hands were clammy. He knew the seal well enough and knew there was only one family that routinely sent out engraved envelopes. “Shall I read it to you?” When Sherlock did not answer, Mycroft broke the seal and slid out the missive.

“To Captain Sherlock Holmes – Intelligence Corps- etcetera, etcetera – it is our wish to extend to you our thanks for services rendered to the crown in our greatest hour of need-

“I don’t want it,” Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft Holmes looked nearly apoplectic. He hated being interrupted, and he hated his brother’s lack of respect for the Crown. “Sherlock Holmes- it is a letter from your King, from your commander-“

“Who deemed me only worth something until I was shot!” Sherlock spat back.

“They want to thank you, Sherlock,” Mycroft went on, gentler this time.

“I don’t want a knighthood. It’s a load of bollocks and I refuse it.”

“It isn’t a knighthood. The King wanted it, but I knew you didn’t.” Mycroft laid out the letter, and Sherlock finally glanced at it, noting the lettering. “It’s the Victoria Cross, you ninny.”

Sherlock stared at it. Then looked at his brother.

“I still don’t want it.”

“Sherlock-“

“No, no, Mycroft. There are better men, braver men than I who died with no recognition, no merit. I don’t want it.”

“Is this about that old farmer-“

“His name was Richard Hooper, and he saved this village a thousand times over,” Sherlock could be fierce, and while Mycroft had no trouble going toe-to-toe with him, he knew when it would not help to push.

“Yes, I know all about him,” Mycroft sighed heavily. “You’ve told me a thousand times, something about raising pigs.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not bothering to correct his brother, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “Give him the Victoria Cross, why don’t you?”

“He wasn’t in the army.”

“Then give him an Order of Merit.”

“The Crown won’t have it, an unknown Irishman, withholding food from the Ministry of-“

“I’ll accept the knighthood if you do.”

Mycroft blinked, shocked at this unexpected suggestion. The King wanted Sherlock Holmes to be knighted. It didn’t look well for the most prestigious member of the Intelligence Corps to be overlooked for so long, nor for him to have fled to Ireland in the middle of the war either. It had been a fight to talk him down to the Victoria Cross. If Sherlock accepted the knighting, the Royal Family could say they had done their bit, and have no bad feelings, and the Investitures always made good press when the Royal Victorian Order was handed out. Sherlock wouldn’t be expected to go to any ceremonies post accepting the honor, that had been understood. If all that could be accomplished simply by acknowledging Richard Hooper’s bit for the village of Ferndown during the war…well, that was a much easier conversation to be had than explaining to the King that once again Sherlock Holmes told him to stuff it.

“Done.” To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock held out his hand, to seal the deal. Having shook on it, he turned and took the kettle from the hob.

“Now that you’ve accomplished what you’ve set out to do, I suppose you’ll be on your way.”

“Not right away, no,” Mycroft settled back down in the kitchen chair. “The investiture isn’t until the eighth of May.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t mean to say you’re staying here until then?”

“Good heavens no,” Mycroft chuckled. “Just the week. I’m escaping Mummy’s endless telegrams. She doesn’t know I’m in Ireland, and the less she knows the better. I do envy your ability to escape being reached at any and all times.”

“I suppose you’ll go hunting then.”

“Fishing,” Mycroft corrected. “There isn’t any decent hunting in these parts, and not a good hunter to ride for miles.”

“There is a ceilidh tomorrow, if you care to lower yourself to be seen with us country bumpkins.”

“Yes I know,” Mycroft nodded, accepting the mug his brother offered him.

“How do you know?”

“Mrs. Mason told me.” 

Chapter Text

Molly wasn’t sure what to expect, going to the ceilidh. She supposed it would be like any dance she’d been to, only a good deal more folk dancing. She wasn’t exactly brushed up on her Irish reels, though.

“Don’t worry, it’s all stuff you learn in primary school, a lot of skipping and jumping,” Mary reassured her. She affixed an earring to her lobe, turning to the mirror to see if she liked it.

“Yes, but there’s patterns, and I’ll never know when to turn,”

“Oh, nobody really does,” Mary laughed. “Just find a good partner and you’ll be fine.” Molly hummed in response. “Go on, turn around I’ll zip you up,” Mary said. She gave a small sigh of delight. “Red is your color Molly. I think you’re probably the first person in Ferndown to wear silk!”

“I am not, oh don’t say that,” Molly said, almost mournfully.

“Why ever not?” Mary asked, bewildered. “You look beautiful, and it’s a beautiful dress!”

“Yes, but I’d hate to start gossip, as if I throw money about- maybe I should just wear my dress that I wore to mass-“

“Don’t you dare, Molly Hooper Mason,” Mary ordered. “Nobody thinks you’re throwing money around, and anyway if they think that, what’s it to them? If they had money, they’d do the same! I surely would!”

“You-you don’t think the color is too much?” Molly touched the neckline of her dress nervously.

“If it were scarlet, I’m sure the old ladies would have something to say, but it’s really much darker than that, I shouldn’t worry. Good Lord knows this town needs more color!”

“And the neckline? It’s not too low?”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, do you think we’re all prudes?” Mary laughed. Molly only affixed her with a look, recalling too well how Mrs. McCreedy and Mrs. Walsh had thought Mrs. Kelly’s hat was ‘a bit too forward’ for a trip to town. “Well, maybe pin a flower to it, close it up a bit,” Mary said after a moment. “Would that I sent John for corsages!”

“Miss Molly! Miss Molly! A parcel came for you!” Sorcha and Imogene came running up the stairs carrying a box that looked like it came from a florist. Curiosity burning, Molly lifted the lid-

“Orchids!” Mary gasped, delighted. “These came from Mister Grey’s hot house, that’s a fact.”

“The cost…” Molly could only manage. “Such beautiful orchids…and so many, oh Sorcha, was there a card? Who brought them?”

“They were on the kitchen door,” Sorcha answered. “They’re sort of funny looking, Ma.”

“They’re from warmer climates,” Mary answered her.

“Mary, say you’ll wear some, please!”

“No, I shan’t. I’d be an absolute heel to take another girls’ flowers, especially orchids, especially when she’s already given me a mink and nylons. You keep them and let all the ladies wonder who’s spoiling you so!”

Hands trembling, Molly lifted the gorgeous spray from the box. Finding the pins attached, she affixed it to the front of her gown, hiding the cut of it.

“There, now you’re ready,” Mary checked her watch. “And not a moment too soon! There’s John with the car. I’d tell you to squeeze in with us, but I’d never forgive myself if your dress got crushed!”

Together, they all hurried down the stairs, Imogene and Deirdre were by the front windows, watching all the commotion.

“What’s all the fuss?” Molly asked from the kitchen; she was busy covering the pie she’d made with a clean tea towel, setting it in a picnic hamper.

“A stranger is in your yard Miss Molly!” Deirdre informed her. “A tall man with little eyes.”

“That’s Mr. Holmes, Sherlock’s brother,” Molly laughed.

“How do you know Mycroft?” Mary wanted to know.

“I met him yesterday in town. John and I had stopped by Grovers to fetch a few things for Mrs. McCreedy and we met him coming out. He was very polite, but it did strike me as odd, him knowing me before I knew him.”

“It’s his way,” Mary shrugged, and then said, low: “He works for the King, very closely, and he knows everyone .”

“I wonder what he’s doing here then.” Molly said, half to herself.

She didn’t have long to wait. Slipping her coat over her shoulders, careful not to wrinkle her dress, she stepped out into the yard.

“Good evening Mrs. Mason,” Mycroft tipped his hat to her. “Sherlock doesn’t like to waste petrol, so we thought we would walk to the ceilidh all together. The roads are quite dry, so you needn’t worry for your shoes.”

“Yes, I see,” Molly answered. Sherlock was coming up the path, minding his trouser cuffs didn’t get soaked by the grass. Once again, Sherlock wore a tie, and his good hat. He saw her bearing the large hamper and took it from her.

“Are you certain?” She asked and he nodded.

“Quite.” This was all they could manage to say, but if a thousand and one thoughts could be spoken by a look alone, then Molly was certain Sherlock had a veritable speech he was trying to convey to her by brain power alone.

“We’d better be off then,” John called from the car. “See you there!” The last of the children jumped into the car and they were off, leaving the three behind.

Molly was never one to voice her complaints, but she could have kicked Mycroft Holmes for his sheer presence alone. There would be no time to talk to Sherlock properly now, probably not until the following day, and even then, not until after mass! It was too irritating, but Molly did her best not to show it as they headed towards town.

“At least the weather is warm,” she said at last. “I expected it to tip down tonight.”

“We’re near the end of March,” Sherlock answered, as if that explained it.

“In like a lion, out like a lamb, is that it?” she replied, and he nodded with an agreeable chuckle.

“You never did say how you two met,” Sherlock suddenly put to Mycroft and Molly.

“Didn’t I?” Mycroft asked casually. “Funny that.”

“Outside of Grovers,” Molly supplied. “John and I were bringing Mrs. McCreedy’s things.”

“Hm.”

“Just a chance meeting, I assure you, baby brother.”

Molly could see Sherlock’s jaw set in the remaining dusky light. Clearly, he was not on the best of terms with his brother. There wasn’t time to wonder though, for they’d reached another family walking on the road into town, and in the distance, still another group.

The ceilidh was held in the town meeting house at the end of the main street. The doors were flung open to let in the cool night air.

Inside there were already people setting up the long tables by the far wall, and in the kitchens at the rear of the building all the older women were wearing their best aprons as they heated up pies and checked on dishes in the ovens.

Sherlock set the basket down at their feet, and before Molly could make a move, he helped her with her coat, handing it to the boy hanging them up.

“Thank you,” she murmured, aware of just how close he stood to her.

“What a charming corsage, Mrs. Mason,” Mycroft suddenly piped up. “And orchids too?”

“Yes, they arrived just a minute before you and Sherlock did,” she blushed at the flowers. “I don’t know who sent them, there wasn’t a card, and I’ll never know how they thought of my favorites,”

“Whoever he was has impeccable taste,” Mycroft complimented. “And they suit you very well.”

“Thank you.” For a moment, Molly wondered if perhaps it was the elder Holmes who had supplied her beautiful corsage, but she didn’t have time to ask. Mary was arriving, the girls in tow, all bearing a basket towards the kitchen. “I’d better go help now,” Molly said, and took the basket from Sherlock who had picked it up again. He was studying her so carefully as if begging her to admit something to him. “Thank you for carrying it,” she said. Both of them still held the basket, staring at each other.

“No trouble,” he finally managed, and released it into her hands.

“I’ll-I’ll save you a piece, shall I?”

“Do.”

Without another word she scurried after the Watson children into the kitchen. A minor cacophony of gasps and ‘Ooos’ as Molly stepped amongst all the ladies in her red silk frock, her orchid corsage and nylon stockings, rose up from the women. Much to her relief, there wasn’t one jealous eye regarding her that night. Well…perhaps there was one person, but she hadn’t time to notice Janine Hawkins, for she was immediately donning an apron and helping Mrs. McCreedy lift a pot of boiling potatoes from the stove.

“Whatever made you spend a small fortune on flowers for Mrs. Mason, Sherlock?” Mycroft wanted to know.

“Never you mind,” Sherlock answered back. 

“Well, well, Mr. Holmes!” John stepped besides the elder Holmes. “Surprised to see you all the way up in the wilds of Ireland. What brings you to our fair neighborhood?”

“Why the fishing of course, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft answered, a thin smile gracing his lips.

“Fishing my eye,” John muttered. “How do you like our Molly?” he asked, a little louder. “She’s settled right into Ferndown, hasn’t she, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was busy watching Molly move about in the kitchen. She was lifting and carrying for Mary and all the older ladies. She laughed as something was said to her. He could single out her laugh amongst the other voices. He found himself staring as she threw her head back, her long neck exposed in the warm light of the lamps strung overhead.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” He felt John elbow him. “Oh. Yes. Yes she has.”

“Mm,” John sipped his pint, licking the foam from his upper lip. “Richard Hooper would be proud of his daughter. She had a rocky start, and no mistake, but she’s settled right into our ways.”

Sherlock was only half-listening. He watched as Lestrade went into the kitchen clutching a nosegay, apparently seeking someone out, and certainly not old Mrs. Bates either. From a distance, he could just make out amongst the crowd moving to and fro Lestrade hand Molly something, but they weren’t in profile, and he couldn’t read their lips.

Sherlock was rising up on his toes to see over the crowded room, trying to see. What had Lestrade given her? No doubt the old copper had offered to be her escort. Sherlock should have done that. He should have left a bloody card in the flowers instead of leaving them on her stoop like a coward. He should have-

“What are you glaring at?” Molly’s voice broke through his thoughts and he turned with a start. Molly stood before him once more, this time carrying a tray of drinks. He looked her over, finding only a small bunch of cowslip added to her corsage, far too small to be the whole nosegay Lestrade was carrying. Clearly, he’d pulled it from the bunch.

Probably as an afterthought. Sherlock thought smugly to himself.

“I…I wondered what Lestrade was doing in the kitchen,” he said aloud.

“Oh, he was passing around flowers,” Molly said. “He’s given all the ladies working a nosegay.”

“But not you, I see,” Sherlock said.

“I think he was saving the last one for someone special.” From the tray she carried, she handed him a pint.  “You look like you could use a glass.” She handed another to Mycroft who took it to be polite but looked at it with some degree of disdain.

Janine stepped up amongst them, also bearing a tray. “Oh, I see you’ve already gotten to them, you work fast Mrs. Mason!” Her smile was too friendly and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. She turned to face the men. “Sherlock you didn’t bring your fiddle.”

“No. I didn’t.” He met her gaze with a frown, wondering why she was suddenly turning on Molly. He was missing something - had been missing something for quite some time now, if the last interaction with Molly was anything to judge by. Why had Janine’s name come up? As he understood it, they had been cordial to one another. Why all of a sudden was Janine’s dander up? Could John have possibly been right about her trying to  ‘stake her claim’?

“We could have used your talents,” Janine smiled warmly.

“I am sure the musicians selected will be a credit to Ferndown,” Sherlock answered evenly. “I believe my playing violin would only bring the party down.”

“Excuse me, I’ll see to the others,” Molly carefully extricated herself from what surely would be an uncomfortable conversation. She still had not gotten a clear answer out of Sherlock, and until she knew for certain or no what he and Janine were to each other, she preferred to keep away from them.

Lestrade fell in step beside her as she made her way around the room. “Molly, will you dance in the first set with me?”

“Thank you, Mr. Lestrade, I really couldn’t though, I don’t know any of the steps,” Molly in truth, had not danced with anyone since Tom died. She felt even more on uneven footing in an unfamiliar country dance. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass someone, including herself.

“That doesn’t matter, not really, everyone has a go!” Lestrade answered. “Really, nobody expects you to dance perfectly, or me, for that matter!”

“I will after the first set,” Molly promised, relenting. “But please don’t have me dance first, I know I’d make a mess of it.” She pleaded.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Lestrade agreed at last, knowing when not to push. “Now I’ll have to find someone else to be my partner.”

“Why not ask Janine?” Molly nodded over to the young woman still at Sherlock’s side. “Mary told me she’s a lovely dancer.”

“I may at that!” Lestrade decided and parted from her to go seek out success elsewhere.

Janine had left Sherlock’s side, moving around the room with a tray of her own, helping serve and pour before being called back into the kitchen.

“Did you hear?” Shannon McCarthy grabbed her arm.

“What?” Janine began loading her tray again.

“Mr. Holmes kissed Molly Mason!”

Janine set the tray down with a rattle. “What?” heart racing, she searched the crowd. Mrs. Mason was still making rounds, chatting and laughing, and wherever she went, Sherlock Holmes was nearby, watching her. The look on his face was one that Janine had always hoped to see whenever he’d come into the bakery and spoken to her, but it had never appeared.  . Here it was before her now: all warmth and tenderness, handsome features softening in the lamplight. Jealousy was bitter pill, and Janine couldn’t help but feed it just a little bit. She was angry, and more than a little disappointed and couldn’t help herself. That dratted Mrs. Mason! Janine had been in Ferndown all her life. Who had befriended Sherlock Holmes when he moved into town four years ago? Who had tried all the while to win his affections and try and help him understand her own feelings for him? The clueless lug!

“Janine, are you taking those out or not?” Mary asked.

“Did Sherlock kiss Molly?”

Mary looked at her, surprised at the sudden change of subject. She knew her step-sister’s feelings regarding the former consulting detective, but she had also known for a very long time that nothing would come of it, so she hadn’t encouraged the match. What puzzled her was how Janine knew. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Shannon McCarthy.”

“And how does she know?”

“Oh who knows anything in Ferndown?” Janine waved a hand, irritable. “Is it true?”

“If he did or didn’t, Janine, it’s none of your business.” Mary answered carefully. Janine looked as if she was about ready to cry. “Come along now,” Mary touched the corners of her sister’s eyes. “You know Sherlock was never that way for you. No matter how handsome a man is, it won’t carry over to marriage if love is only one-sided. You deserve a handsome man who’ll sweep you off your feet, same as any girl.” Mary soothed.

All at once, the anger Janine had towards Molly melted away into a bitter ache, and she sniffled.

“Oo love,” Mary gathered her into her arms. “Come on, none of that now. It’s a lovely party, and you don’t want tears to muddle it, do you?”

“No,” Janine sighed heavily. She looked up suddenly. “But I won’t dance. Not a step, not –“

“Miss Hawkins?”

Mary and Janine turned to see Lestrade standing before them, clutching a nosegay of cowslip and violets. Quickly, Janine wiped her eyes, never one to be seen crying in front of a gentleman.

“I saved this one for you,” Lestrade handed her the nosegay, tips of his ears red. “I wonder…I wonder if you’d like to dance the first set with me?”

“Oh…” the tiniest of smiles crept over Janine’s face, and she accepted the flowers. “Thank you, Gregory, I’d be happy to.”

Lestrade gave his arm, leading her out to the main hall. Mary only stood, hands on her hips, shaking her head. Janine’s feelings would need to be tended to, and there wasn’t a better man than the terribly eligible Greg Lestrade to do so.

The first set was called, and so Molly set her tray down, and Mary tugged her apron off as well. Everyone dancing stepped up and the music started. Molly had never seen such a lively dance! Everyone clapped and sang and, just as Greg and Mary had said, there were plenty of people who didn’t know all of the steps. Dancing in London was all foxtrots and waltzes and box steps. Men held their partners close, some cheek-to-cheek. It was intimate and quiet conversations were easily held between a couple. But here there was all chaos and laughter and shouts and whistles as the caller shouted over the noise all the steps. It looked fun!

“You ought to give it a go,” Mary nudged her.

“Oh I don’t know…” Molly hesitated.

“Come on,” John was standing by Mary. “The first is a long one, and Mary can’t dance. I’ll be your partner.”

“But I told Greg I wouldn’t dance the first,” Molly began, unsure of how dance-floor etiquette translated in the country. Perhaps the rules were the same. In London if a girl turned a fellow down, she didn’t dance the rest of the night.

“We don’t hold to city rules here,” Mary smiled, knowing her thoughts. “Go on. John’s itching to kick his heels up, and I’m dying to sit down.”

“Are you sure?” Molly asked.

“Very,” Mary gave them a push. “Go on, once around the track to get his ginger up,”

John kissed her in response. “Nag.”

“Mule!”

Into the fray John led Molly and she found her free hand grabbed by another, Mr. Grover. Round and round they went, then split down the middle and circled back. It was all confusion to Molly, but it was such fun! There was nothing familiar in this dance, and so she liked it all the better. Nobody minded if she forgot to turn, or if she faced the wrong way. They’d only laugh and redirect her, same as anybody else.

Across the room, Sherlock watched Molly join in, John on her arm. He was never one for country dances, but seeing Molly skip about on someone else’s arm…he had always been a man of science and logic before the war, cold reason above all feeling to keep a clear vision of the truth. But the battlefield had changed everything for Sherlock Holmes, who could now admit if only to himself that what he felt was jealousy as he watched Molly dance. He wanted to make her laugh the way John or Greg made her laugh. He wanted to be the one spinning her, making her red dress flare out. He wanted his hand on her waist, lifting her and supporting her. Sherlock could see her shining face amidst the crowd of people. She was laughing, relaxed, utterly at home. He knew his knee would never stand up to the exertion of dancing any of the country dances. The shortest of the sets was six minutes, far too long for him to be jumping and skipping. He was tempted, sorely, to ignore the pain, hang it all and ask Molly.

“What are you thinking, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, noting his brother’s pensive expression. Mycroft looked at his brother, then followed his gaze across the room again to Molly Mason. Sherlock flexed his hand over the handle of his cane, clearly sorting out whether or not it was worth it to spend the next week and a half in agony over one dance. Mycroft had a better idea. “You know, Sherlock, the Investitures ceremony is happening on the 8 th of May, which means there will more than likely be some sort of soiree at Buckingham following.”

Sherlock had almost taken a step towards the dancers when he took in Mycroft’s words.

“Oh?”

“Hmm.” Mycroft sipped the pint in his hand, fairly wincing.

“Stop that. You’ll insult the town if you gag on it,” Sherlock warned him. “You drink like a teenager.”

Mycroft quietly set the beer down behind him, deciding to change the subject.

“You know how Princess Margaret loves to dance, and now that Princess Elizabeth has all but engaged herself to the Mountbatten boy, they’ll all be looking for the chance to have a party.” Mycroft looked at his brother pointedly. “I am sure Mrs. Mason would enjoy receiving the medal on her father’s behalf…which means you’ll need to exercise that knee of yours, little brother,” he patted his shoulder. “What sort of escort brings a woman to a ball and then won’t stand up with her?”

He left him alone with his thoughts then, and Sherlock turned back to the crowded floor. Molly was dancing with Mr. Grover now, and the grocer was trying to remind her not to look at her feet, all the while laughing.

A whole month. He’d have a whole month to exercise his knee. He could walk, rather than drive so much, he could-

No. All the walking in the world wouldn’t help. He needed serious attention. And Sherlock only knew of one physio therapist in the whole of Ferndown who could and would help him.

A goal in mind, one he planned to keep private, he sat through three more sets before he decided he’d stayed long enough. Quietly, he slipped out from the crowded hall, collected his coat and started home.

Darkness had already settled over Ferndown, the new moon rose high in the sky, lighting the roadway.

“Sherlock!” he turned, seeing Molly come scurrying out the door, moonlight dancing across her red frock. “I didn’t know you were leaving so soon!”

“Yes I…thought no one would miss me,” he answered.

“You haven’t eaten anything yet,” she objected. “And…and you haven’t talked with anyone but your brother…”

“I am poor at conversation,” he tried, but she took a step forward again.

“But-“ she half reached for him.

“But what?” he faced her then, wanting her to finish. He wanted her to tell him to stay. He wanted her to tell him that she wanted him to stay.

“But…” she twisted her fingers, unable to look away from him. “You’ll be lonely tonight, and it’s…it’s such a pity to spend such a nice night alone.”

When he didn’t answer, she tried a different tactic. “Is it because Janine is dancing with Greg?”

“No,” he shook his head. “And there is a matter I would like to clear up. Here it is, once and for all, Janine and I are not engaged. We never were.”

Molly didn’t know what to say at first. Relief flooded her chest. She stood, awkward, smoothing her dress. There was still so much left unsaid. Were her feelings for Sherlock genuine? Was it because he was so different from Tom that she felt this way?

“Did you say there was pie?” Sherlock at last spoke. She looked up at him, relief in her smile. Her eyes were shining at him.

“Yes, there is,”

He gave his arm, and she took it, allowing him to bring her back inside.

He had been watching her, clearly turning over what he’d said, but there was more in her expression. He was more certain than he had ever been in his life. He wanted to be closer to Molly. He wanted to do all the foolish things Ferndown insisted on in a courtship- walking on Sundays after mass and picnics and all of it. But he also realized that perhaps she wasn’t ready for a new love in her life yet. If that were the case, Sherlock would wait, for however long it took. Sherlock could be patient, for things that truly mattered.

Chapter Text

To Molly’s surprise the following morning, when she set out for mass, Sherlock was waiting in the drive for her, worrying his hat in his hands.

“I’ve work to do in the orchards,” he said. “After mass, will you come and find me?” he shifted from foot-to-foot, apparently anxious.

“Yes of course,” Molly nodded. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, no, I only wish to speak with you privately. I don’t know of any better place than the orchard.”

Molly promised she would before setting out for town. She declined Sherlock’s offer for her to take the truck, deciding the walk would do her some good. The air was fresh and clear, the sky was blue in great swaths between the clouds, which was promising.

“May I join you on your sojourn, Mrs. Mason?” Molly turned to see the elder Holmes in tweeds, carrying a tackle basket and fishing pole.

“You’re not attending mass?” she asked, somewhat surprised. From what she knew of Mycroft Holmes he seemed the sort to not want to ruffle feathers.

“I never do,” he shrugged. “The King wouldn’t be very pleased.”

This gave Molly pause, but he offered no explanation, so she didn’t press. “Did you enjoy yourself at the ceilidh?” she finally spoke again.

“As much as one can.”

“I had a lovely time,” Molly shrugged.

“Yes. I trust the orchids my brother gave you lasted the evening’s festivities?”

“Oh yes! I’ve hung them to dry-“ she stopped suddenly. “Sherlock gave them to me?”

“Didn’t he say?” Mycroft pretended to be surprised, and not very convincingly.

“There wasn’t a card,” she answered slowly. “I didn’t think…why should he do such a thing?”

“I imagine for the same reasons any fellow gives a woman flowers,” Mycroft said, giving her a rather pointed look. When Molly didn’t answer, he changed the subject. “I understand my brother gave your father quite a bit of fuss over purchasing the orchard some years ago.”

“He did,” Molly nodded. “I found my father's diaries; he’d mentioned it a few times.”

“I never supposed Ireland would be good for my brother. He never struck me as the type, you know.”

“Yes, he was quite a famous detective, wasn’t he?” Molly recalled following the cases posted in the newspapers, always amazed and thrilled.

“He’s brilliant. One can’t help but wonder why he wastes his talents here when he could be making a name for himself elsewhere.” Mycroft sounded unhappy, utterly displeased and confused at his brother’s choice of life.

Molly was quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “I shouldn’t call it a waste, anybody can have a change of heart, and you must know, Mr. Holmes, that war changes men. It does awful things to people. If Sherlock has achieved some level of happiness and peace of mind here, then isn’t that what truly matters?”

Mycroft looked at Molly then, his expression unreadable. Molly didn’t try to decipher it.

“My brother, Mrs. Mason, was a veritable wreck when he came home.”

“He’d been shot, Mr. Holmes,” Molly answered back. “Shot and crippled, and then discharged from the army, after doing God-knows-what behind enemy lines. If that doesn’t alter a man, I don’t know what would.”

“Did you note any changes in your husband?” Mycroft asked suddenly. “Changes in his moods, his personality?”

Molly squeezed her purse in her hands, thinking. “I never knew him before the war, we met during, and were only together briefly. Most of our correspondence was by letter.” She said. “But I think there were awfully low points for him. He never wrote to me of how it was on the front, even when I asked him to. He knew what I’d been through during the Blitz and didn’t want to bother me.” She licked her lips, choosing her words carefully. “A half-written letter was given to me along with his things. His last…he did sound different. Angry…at the war, at the fighting. He wanted to be home.” She kicked at a rock in the path. “I see some of that anger in Sherlock too, the weariness of it. Knowing Sherlock now, what he told my father he went through, I can see how anyone would change from war, would come out of it wanting different things than before.”

Mycroft was quiet, clearly taking in her words. He straightened his shoulders, and he cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Mrs. Mason, for the pleasure of your company. I wish you a good day.”

“Yes, goodbye Mr. Holmes, happy fishing,” and Molly hurried down the path, realizing she had delayed considerably. She barely made it into the church and squeezed into the pew.

“Where were you?” Mary whispered, hushed.

Molly couldn’t answer her, too confused by the conversation she’d had with Mycroft Holmes. It was as if he was baffled, odder still that he felt the need to ask Molly about it, as she barely knew him.

After Mass, Molly was eager to get home to see what Sherlock wanted to talk to her about, but she was waylaid by several of the ladies.

“Did you have a nice time last night Mrs. Mason?” Mrs. Bates wanted to know.

“Yes, I did, it was such fun,” Molly smiled politely, looking for a way to excuse herself without appearing rude.

“And your pie did very well too, not a crumb left, that’s quite a compliment!” Shannon McCarthy added.

“I noticed Janine Hawkins transferred her feelings rather quickly,” Mrs. Ryan changed the subject, hushed.

“For a girl who was over-the-moon for Mr. Holmes, she changed her tune once Greg Lestrade came calling!”

“I think it’s sweet,” Molly piped up, unable to sit by and let idle gossip mar a blossoming relationship. “They’re both such lovely people, and isn’t it nice to see a new couple?”

“You’re a lamb, and no mistake Molly Mason,” Shannon McCarthy smiled. “You don’t know how long Janine’s been gawking at Mr. Holmes though.”

“Well…that doesn't matter so much, does it?” Molly asked. “Every girl is entitled to a crush now and then.”

“Aye, she’s got you there Shannon,” Mrs. Ryan laughed. “Haven’t we all admired a gent now and then?”

“And Mr. Holmes is a handsome one,” Mrs. Kelly added with a giggle.

“You mind your tongue on the Lord’s day!” Mrs. McCreedy ordered them all before taking Molly by the arm. “You never mind them,”

“I wasn’t, Mrs. McCreedy, honestly, it isn’t anything to me-“

“Mmm,” the old woman had a twinkle in her eye. “You go on, you seem in a hurry on this blessed day.” As they stepped out, they came across Greg waiting at the door, Janine was ahead of them. She reached for the basin to dab her forehead, when Greg suddenly dipped his hand in, scooping out some water for her. Flushed red, she wet her fingers in his palm and then scurried down the steps.

“You mind no patty fingers in the holy water!” Mrs. McCreedy scolded, though it was clear to all of them she was thoroughly amused. “Go on with ye, see your girl home.” Greg beamed, but was stopped by Mrs. McCreedy just once more. “Take her the long way round, it’s a lovely day.”

“Yes ma’am.” He tipped his hat and hurried after Janine. In a moment, they were arm-in-arm heading down the sunny lane.

“You’re a matchmaker, and no mistake,” Molly smiled. “I think he’ll do quite right by Janine.”

“So do I.” Mrs. McCreedy was still looking after the couple. “A girl needs something real, not a dream.” Molly looked at her questioningly, but the old woman only patted her hand. “Off with ye,” she urged her. “I know my way home.”

Molly went home at a good clip, as fast as her good shoes would take her. From a distance she saw Mycroft on the bridge, line cast. She waved before turning down the lane to the farm.

Once she reached the yard she broke into a run, hurrying upstairs to change into her blue print work dress, combing her hair once more before finding a sturdy pair of shoes to cross the field in.

Sherlock had removed his jacket, the sun seemed to be out to stay, and he was glad of it. Now with the sun overhead, he could study the progress of the budding orchard all the better. Nearly all of them were nearly ready to bloom, tips of pink edged each and every bud. The spring had been warmer than usual, and so the blooming season was ahead of schedule already. Every tree was packed with flowers waiting to burst. Around him was the hum of bees, working at each and every plant. Gladstone panted in the warm sun, and Sherlock thought to himself how he ought to have brought a sausage roll or something while he worked. Four years out of London and he still couldn’t break the habit of not eating while working. He’d lost a good deal of weight during the war, thanks to rationing, but also due to his own dislike of wasting precious time at a table when he could be working. In Ferndown, things were much more leisurely, and while there was always work to be done, there was no hurry. No one was rushing him, and he found that he had the time to pay attention to his body’s needs, and the work itself required more fuel than he had been used to. Which was why his stomach was rumbling. He could hear footsteps coming through the grass, and so he climbed down from the ladder, removing his gloves. Pushing back his hat, he found himself forgetting to breathe.

Molly Hooper Mason was coming across the field, through the deep green rushes, the daffodils and crocuses. She wore her blue floral print, a work dress that he favored seeing her in. It suited her. She looked so fresh and gay, as if she’d always belonged there. She carried too, a basket covered in a cloth, and his belly rumbled again, hopeful that perhaps she had packed a picnic.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” she asked, coming closer, shading her eyes to look up at him.

“Not at all. I was just coming down for tea.”

“Ah! Allow me,” and she set the basket down and procured a flask of tea, cups and sandwiches. “I only had time to cut sandwiches, but the tea is hot.”

“It is appreciated,” he said warmly, and accepted the cup from her, drinking gratefully.

“I didn’t forget Gladstone,” and she tossed him a crust of bread.

Now that they were alone together, Sherlock found himself losing his nerve. He flexed his hand, then searched for his cane, realizing he didn’t have it.

“Is it nearby?” Molly asked, noticing. “Shall I fetch it?”

“No, no, I’ll sit,” Sherlock turned to an overturned crate, and Molly did the same, sipping from her cup.

“I see why you are so happy here,” she said after a moment. “And why Father loved it so,”

He was watching her intently, unable to stop himself from admiring her profile, the light in her eyes, the warmth in her smile. “Do you?” he found himself asking.

“Mm,” she nodded. “It’s peaceful, and it’s gratifying, watching things you care for grow. And it’s beautiful here, too,”

“In a week or so the view will be better,” he added, finally dragging his gaze from her to his sandwich. “By the second or third week of April all the trees will be in bloom.”

“Will it be a good crop this year, do you think?”

“Barring any bad storms, I should think so. Look,” he scooted closer, pointing to a nearby tree. She leaned in, he noticed, following the line of his arm. “The branches are fairly crammed with buds, it’s been a warm spring so far, everything is blooming early.”

“Speaking of blooming,” Molly turned to him. “Thank you for the orchids, whyever did you do it?”

Sherlock looked at his feet, then at her. “I…wanted to.”

“And that’s all?” she raised an eyebrow.

“I – yes- no…” he shut his eyes, breathing evenly. “I’m usually better at this.”

“At what?” Molly asked with a gentle laugh.

“Talking, for starters,” he sighed. “I asked you to meet me here in private to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh,” she raised her brows, surprised. “Well if I can be of any help, I should be glad to.”

“I want…that is, my brother is in town. He rarely comes to visit unless he must. This time he delivered me a letter from Buckingham. I’m to be knighted.”

Molly sat back, quite shocked. “Gracious. Well! That is good news, wonderful news, aren’t you pleased?”

“Not particularly, no,” Sherlock answered. “I am accepting it as a favor,”

“A favor?” Molly frowned. “Isn’t…isn’t it the other way around?”

“Usually, but I think you know by now I’m not a usual sort of man.”

“That’s true,” she teased. “Go on then, what of it?”

“The investitures are the 8 th of May, that’s a little over a month away, I’m to wear some ridiculous costume of tails and stiff collar, and then there’s the long walk up to the throne, which I suppose I could manage with a cane but I dislike the idea of using it there, and then the whole business of kneeling on a footstool.”

Molly was watching him carefully, his hand flexed over his bad knee, and his words started to jumble together, so she reached out, and gently took his hand.

“You’ll need some physio then,” she supplied.

He took a steadying breath, and to Molly’s surprise (and delight), he covered her hand in his.

“Yes.” He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, staring at the grass. He nearly began to rock back and forth, clearly still overcome.

“Sherlock look at me, please?” When he finally met her gaze, she was surprised to see tears in his red-rimmed eyes.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asked softly. “What if it gets worse or I trip?” he wrinkled his nose, sniffing.

“It’s alright to be frightened,” Molly soothed. “You told me that once, remember?” She reached out, brushing the tears from his face and the corners of his eyes. “But I promise you, Sherlock, no one has ever gotten worse from physio, not if it’s done the right way.”

“But what if-“

“No buts,” she interrupted, and he felt her hand cup his face. “If you’re serious about this, then I’ll help you, Sherlock, but it means you’ve got to be sure,” she gently prodded his forehead. “Sure here,” and then she placed her palm over his heart. “And here.”

“But what will people say?” he asked softly.

“Why, when has Sherlock Holmes ever cared what people think?” she smiled, and it reached her eyes, but she quickly sobered, seeing that he was not amused, far from it. He worried his hands like a child, anxious. Sherlock Holmes had come to Ferndown a gruff, depressed soul, and had earned a reputation for being a terrible grump, albeit a helpful one. He never asked anyone for help, rarely accepted it. After Richard Hooper had died, he’d closed himself off somewhat, finding more than ever he felt like an outcast amidst the kind people of Ferndown.

“We needn’t tell anyone,” Molly said. “We can do exercises in my house, since there’s more room. There’s always loads to do there, you could easily excuse that you’re mending something for me. And we can go swimming in the brook, that’s a perfectly natural thing to do, isn’t it?”

“For the children, perhaps.”

“Well I’m from London, you may use me as the excuse then.” Molly squeezed his arm comfortingly. “Or we could use the pond. It’s deep enough to take care of your knee. You ought to know water exercises ligaments better-“

“Due to the pressure, yes I know,” he nodded. “Would we have to tell anyone?”

“No of course not,” Molly assured him. “No one you wouldn’t want to know.”

“I suppose we’d have to tell John and Mary.” He sighed.

“Yes,” Molly agreed. “It would be useful to have the children paddling about.”

The idea of Molly in a swimsuit gave him pause, and then Sherlock realized something else:

“I haven’t any swimming trunks.”

“Oh, any old pair of trousers will do,” Molly batted a hand. “Nothing too heavy though.”

“You don’t mind though,” Sherlock asked as she stood to collect the empty cups and flask. “Helping me, I mean?”

“No of course not,” she smiled at him. “I’m so pleased you did ask me, and I shan’t say a word to anyone, I promise you.”

As she made to leave, he caught her by the wrist, and as she turned to look at him, he bent and reverently pressed a kiss to her hand.

Molly Hooper Mason couldn’t have asked for a lovelier gesture amid the budding orchard trees, the sun warming their backs.

Sherlock stood, releasing her hand. “May I see you home?”

Her cheeks bloomed pink, and she nodded shyly. “Please.”

The next day, Molly was nearly bursting with excitement. She’d hardly gotten any sleep at all. That afternoon they would have their first physio lesson. She was so proud of Sherlock, despite his fears, going forward with it. She was proud too, of him being knighted. It seemed like one of those far-off fairytale things one always reads about. Knighthoods were for rich, elegant people who rubbed elbows with the monarchy. Or at least that’s what her father always said. Still, she thought her father would be awfully proud of Sherlock becoming a titled Sir and all. There was little to do after chores, so she returned to the parlor to see what books she could find when suddenly the kitchen door banged open, and Imogene came barreling in.

“Miss Molly, come quick, come quick please!” Tears streamed down her young face, and Molly took hold of the child, keeping her still. She wiped the straggled hair from her eyes, thumbing away her tears.

“Gracious, darling, what is it? What’s happening?”

“Mama’s having the baby only Dad isn’t here and there’s no other doctor-“

“Where’s your father?”

“He’s in Carcallas, he went to get the medicine for the town he’ll be gone all day, please Miss Molly, please come help!” Imogene was beside herself.

“I don't have a car,” Molly paused to think a moment. “We’ll take Uncle Sherlock with us, he can drive the truck.” Taking the girl by the hand, they hurried across the field to the orchard.

Sherlock was inspecting the hives when he saw Molly and Imogene rushing towards him across the field. Sliding the frame of the hive in place, he removed his gloves and the veil from his hat.

“What is it?”

Breathless, Molly said: “Mary’s having her baby, John’s gone to Carcallas, we’ve no way of reaching him.”

“Everybody in the truck, Gladstone!” he gave a shrill whistle and the dog came galloping through the grass. Together they hurried back to the truck, Imogene and Gladstone piled into the cab while Molly cranked the engine. Sherlock divested himself of his beekeeping smock and hat, leaving them at the front door.

They raced down the road, Imogene fairly trembling, clutching the dog, tears wet her cheeks.

“She’s crying so Miss Molly, crying and crying-“ she stuttered out.

“Having a baby is painful, Imogene,” Molly answered her gently. “Don’t you remember when your mother had Deirdre?”

Imogene shook her head. She’d only been three at the time.

“Where are your brothers and sisters?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“Sorcha and Cillian are with Da, Liam and Brendan are delivering bread today for Ma. She stayed home today because she felt poorly. It’s just me and Finn at the house with her.”

“Merciful heavens,” Molly could only shake her head. Sherlock reached over the seat, taking her hand and squeezing it. She looked at him, but he was keeping his eyes on the road, his jaw set in a grim line.

They made it to the Watson's residence, and all piled out. Imogene ran in ahead of them, shouting that she’d brought Molly and Sherlock.

“You’d better go up first,” Sherlock said to her. “I’ll- what- what shall I do?”

“Boil water, and find clean linens. Find me a pair of scissors and sterilize them.” Molly instructed. “Imogene, fetch me a smock or an apron, or an old towel to pin on. And a basin of clean water and soap, there’s a good girl.”

Molly followed the sound of Mary’s cries to the main bedroom upstairs. Mary clung to the edge of the bed frame, red in the face, hair clinging to her forehead.

“Easy, easy,” Molly soothed.

“Where’s John?” Mary wept. “He’s never missed a birth, never- and- oh Molly something might be wrong-“

“I worked in a Red Cross station, Mary, did I tell you that?” Molly interrupted her, her voice quiet and firm. “It was in Poplar, if you can believe that, right by a midwifery house. Quite often, we had to put soldiers up with the expecting mothers, and do you know I’ve seen all manner of births, some were born feet first, some head-first, some where they came out with the cord nearly strangling them. They never lost a baby, and I was allowed to help them deliver.” She hoped she sounded braver than she felt. Molly had indeed helped deliver many babies while in London. Available hands are helping hands and midwives weren’t picky about who helped, so long as you were willing and able. Molly learned quite a bit, but she’d only ever assisted midwives. She’d never actually conducted the birthing. But then they always do say that to truly learn something, you must teach someone else.

“Do you mind if Sherlock is in the room?” Molly asked. Breathless, Mary shook her head, her face contorted in pain.

“I don’t care- I don’t care- oh where is John?” she mourned.

“I’ll send Finn to send a cable,” Molly soothed. Catching sight of Imogene frozen at the door, arms full, Molly put on a comforting smile. “Imogene, is that for me? Thank you,” taking the items from her and setting about washing her hands while the little girl timidly approached the bed, fearful for her mother. “You see, she’s all right, Imogene, the baby is coming is all, it takes a good deal of strength to bring a life into this world, and your mother has that in spades, doesn’t she?”

Imogene gave a tiny nod, and Mary reached for her daughter’s hand, kissing it. “Lovey, you and Finn-“ she bit her lip, wincing through a contraction. “You and Finn go to my purse, and take some money, go and send a telegram to your father in Carcallas, will you do that for me? He’s at the usual place, they’ll know where to reach him, if you just tell them you need to cable your father.”

“What shall I say?” Imogene asked.

“Tell him the baby is coming,” Mary instructed her. “You and Finn do that, and then go to Grover’s and get a penny candy each to celebrate the baby, all right?”

“Yes ma,”

“Give us a kiss then, and off you go.” The little girl obeyed, and once the door closed behind her, Mary fell back onto her knees, head buried in the bedclothes as she keened.

“I need you up on the bed, come on, let’s see how far along you are.” Slowly, Molly eased her up onto the bed, propping her up with pillows.

“How am I, Doctor Mason?” Mary asked, managing a weak smile.

“You’re fully dilated,” Molly commented, surprised. “How long have you been in labor?”

“I felt my waters let around eight this morning, just after John left. I’m usually slower than this,” Mary panted. “This one is in an all-fire rush for I don’t know what-“ she grunted.

“Can you tell what position the baby is in? Has it shifted?”

“Hell if I know,” Mary gritted out.

“Right then,” Molly stood up, hands on her hips. “Gloves?”

“Toilet,” Mary nodded to the part way open door. “Cupboard above the sink. John always keeps them in there out of the children’s reach. Oh….I think- it’s got to be soon, it must be-”

“Did you need to push just then?” Molly wanted to know, worried.

Mary could only grunt, nodding. It was unusual, seeing the usually so confident and calm Mary Watson in tears, clearly frightened. She held still as Molly checked the position of the baby, unable to keep from tearfully groaning.  

“Well baby is shy, and no mistake,” Molly answered after a long moment. There was a knock on the door, and before either of them could answer, Sherlock appeared with an armful of linens and a kettle of water. He stared at the scene: poor Mary akimbo on the bed, clearly in agony, and Molly propped between her legs, finding the position of the baby. “Good, just the person I want to see,” Molly spoke up before he could flee the room. “Help Mary sit up, and give her a glass of water, did you bring biscuits?”

“What?” he managed to get out, dumbfounded.

“I need help, Sherlock, and Mary will need something to eat. Biscuits are usually on hand. Or a crust of bread and butter. Something she can eat without much fuss.”

“I- I don’t- I don’t know how to help…” Sherlock answered dumbly.

“I know,” Molly nodded. “So I’m telling you how. Mary will need a drink of water first.” This he did. He set the glass down and then turned to Molly again. “And she’ll need something to eat as well.” He ran downstairs and fetched the aforementioned items. Mary took the bread, chewing through contractions as Molly soaked a towel in boiling water, making a compress for Mary’s back. “And she’ll need to be propped up. Shoes off, get behind her, let her lean on you.”

“What about the baby, has it turned?” Mary asked.

“I need you towards the end of the bed, bum on the edge,” Molly ordered.

Mary did as Molly instructed, and Sherlock climbed up behind her, managing to prop her up without hurting his knee in the process.

“Now,” Molly knelt on the floor before them. “Mary, you are fully dilated, but the baby hasn’t shifted yet. It should have, but it isn’t.”

When Mary didn’t answer, Sherlock glanced between the two of them. “What does that mean?” he wanted to know.

“It means it’s a breech birth,” Mary answered him.

“Baby is coming bottom first,” Molly answered slowly. “The risk is that it may get stuck, it may not get oxygen.”

“Did you ever perform a breech birth?” Sherlock demanded, now well and truly concerned for Mary. She’d given birth so many times before, he had never considered the dangers of it. They just sort of…happened.

“I assisted on several,” Molly replied evenly. “I remember what to do, but-“

“I trust you, Molly,” Mary answered, tears hung in her eyes. “But I can’t hold on any longer- it’s- I need to push but I know if I do and baby isn’t ready-“

“It’s all right, we’re here, Sherlock and I are here to help you,” Molly soothed. She was surprised at her own voice, how calm she sounded! Inside, Molly was absolutely petrified, trying to remember precisely what had been done during those three breech births she’d seen.

Breech births are not pretty. Of course birthing itself never is. The results are always worth it, but getting there is a rather un-glamorous sight. When a baby is in breech, it can be born feet-first or bottom first, and if not removed from the birth-canal soon enough, it can be denied oxygen, among a host of other problems. The cord could become tangled, the head may not get down in time- Molly shook her head, waving those fears aside. Mary was already frightened, and Sherlock was surely petrified, this being his first birth.

“Pace yourself with your contractions,” Molly guided her. “Little pushes, Mary- pant-pant, little pushes- that’s the way- feet are born, hold on a moment-“ she took a clean towel from the pile Sherlock and brought and very carefully wrapped the legs. “Little pushes again, Mary, that’s the way- easy- I need you to hold on-“

Mary let out a frustrated sob, fairly clawing at Sherlock in agony. He held fast to her, soothing her. He stared in awe at Molly who ever so gently turned the bundle in her hands, encouraging Mary again to push. Each time Mary pushed, Molly turned the child a little more, until she could reach the first shoulder, easing the arm out. The bundle was then turned, and the other arm delivered. All the while Molly was encouraging Mary, urging her to keep on giving only little pushes, pausing to breathe. There was a sense of urgency, for the baby's head had yet to be born. Mary was fretting about, babbling that the baby had been too long in the birth canal.

“Sherlock, I need your help-“ Molly said over Mary’s cries. “Suprapubic, pressure, yes?”

“What?” He blinked, wracking his brain to try and piece together what Molly was asking him.

“Pressure,” Molly removed her hand from the bundle. “Here,” she pointed to Mary’s abdomen. “Gentle, rocking motion, firm.”

Sherlock obeyed, somewhat horrified that as he did so, for Mary cried louder, and he nearly removed his hand, had Molly not ordered him to stay where he was.

It was all a blur, and suddenly Mary was weeping in relief and joy as tiny squalls filled the room. In truth, Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed. It had really only been thirty minutes or so. But there was the newest Watson, delivered and crying and very much alive. Molly wiped her off as best as she could and handed her to Mary.

“Another little girl,” she informed her, face shining.

“Well done, you,” Sherlock murmured, and pressing Mary’s forehead before he climbed off the bed, making room for mother and baby.

Afterbirth was delivered, Molly set it aside for John to inspect and then went about changing the sheets with Sherlocks assistance before she was given the happy task of bathing the baby for the first time while Mary watched nearby, quite exhausted by the entire ordeal.

“You should have been a doctor,” Mary said sleepily.

“Oh no, I’d be a terrible doctor,” Molly shook her head. “But I do like some things about medicine. I like helping people.” Drying the baby off, she gently swaddled her and brought her back to Mary.

In her mothers arms, the child nosed her breast, clearly searching for milk.

“She’s a Watson all right,” Mary laughed tearfully, relieved to see the child behaving in a familiar way. She’d never delivered a baby in breech. There were horror stories of them, of course, and nobody ever told her about the happy outcomes, though there must have been some. Indeed, here was proof thus-far that a baby could be delivered successfully in such a position.

“Did you and John think of names, or will it be a surprise?” Molly asked.

“She’ll be christened Rosamund,” Mary smiled. “Rosie for short.”

“She’s a little rosebud, and no mistake,” Molly added. Mary suddenly reached for her friend, squeezing her hand.

“Thank you, Molly, thank you .”

Sherlock and Molly stayed until John returned. He came up the stairs two at a time, the children all coming up behind him. To the older ones, a baby was quite usual, and it was tradition once said brother or sister was born to run up and greet it as soon as father went up.

John was overcome as Mary boasted of Molly’s ability in delivering Rosamund.

“It was what I learned in Poplar, that’s all,” Molly insisted. “Truly, I’m sure John would have done a much better job.”

“I’d be tearing my hair out to get her to Carcallas for a cesarean,” John answered. “I’ve never delivered a baby in breech and I am astonished, and truly grateful to you, to both of you.”

“Molly did it all,” Sherlock said. “I only propped Mary up.”

“You’re a good prop,” Mary laughed. She tugged John’s sleeve, nodding to him.

“Right,” he cleared his throat. “Since we’re all gathered as a family, now is as good a time as any,” he looked at Molly. “We want you to be Rosamund’s godmother, Sherlock will be her godfather, as he has done for all the other children.”

“Me?” Molly was at a loss for words, touched, utterly thrilled and warmed to the core. “Truly?” she trembled, tears welling in her eyes.

“Yes of course, I can’t think of a better person,” Mary smiled. “If you hadn’t come when you did, Rosie wouldn’t be here. You’re a good friend, and one I want Rosie to grow up knowing, the same as the rest of the children.” Carefully, John passed Rosie into Molly’s arms, and the children all gathered around her to peer at the bundle in her arms. John returned to his wife, kissing her properly, checking her over once more.

Sherlock, for his part, only had eyes for Molly. He had seen glimmers of this brilliance in her. And now here it was, shining for all to see. She was marvelous . Suddenly too, he was struck by the scene: Molly surrounded by children, a baby in her arms. It was the most natural thing in the world to her, and she fairly glowed, addressing each child in turn, meeting their gaze as she spoke with them. Sherlock realized, perhaps startled by it, that he wanted such a thing for himself. He wanted a family with Molly, to see her carrying their child in her arms, cradling them as they went to sleep, nursing them. He had not realized how he envied John and Mary’s life, until he saw that he might have a chance at it, if Molly wanted it too. 

Chapter Text

The news quickly spread of the arrival of the baby in Ferndown, and while no one was surprised that it was the Watson’s, it did not lessen the joy of it. Mary had Molly call Janine to let her know, and to reassure her all was well.

“Greg took her walking, I don’t want to disturb them, tell her she’ll be looking after the bakery for the next few weeks.” Mary explained.

“Isn’t that the second time this week?” Molly asked, and Mary nodded, beaming. She was thrilled Janine was finally over her crush on Sherlock.

Janine was beside herself, and she and Greg stopped by that very evening to congratulate them. The following day, people began arriving with gifts of food, toys, diapers and blankets. Molly, having stayed the night, helped get the children ready for school, and then assisted Mary to receive visitors. She was not quite up to snuff after this last birth, and John fretted that so many people would tire her. Sure enough, they did, and Molly volunteered to take the children swimming for the afternoon, to give John and Mary and Rosamund a chance to rest.

“Are you certain?” John asked. “Seven children are an awful lot if you’re not used to it.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Molly batted the air, unbothered. “You both need a rest, and the children have to get their energy out somehow. It’s so much warmer now, and it’s such a lovely day. They may spend the night, if you’d like.”

Mary looked at John, hopeful. It would mean a blissfully quiet evening, and a chaos-free breakfast too.

“If you’re sure,” John relented.

“I’d love it,” Molly smiled. That was that, and so Sorcha and Imogene packed the girls’ things, and Liam and Cillian packed the boys’ things. Not much was needed, just fresh pajamas and a clean pair of clothes.

“They’ll need to be at school for eight ‘o’ clock sharp, mind,” John warned.

“I’ll make sure they’re there on time!”

Sherlock arrived to take Molly home, surprised to see the children all lined up in bathing costumes, two suitcases waiting by the door.

“What’s all this?” he asked, stepping out of the cab.

“We’re going swimming today, Uncle Sherlock!” Imogene fairly danced. “Will you come too?”

“He’ll have to,” Molly stepped into the bright sunshine. “I can’t mind all of you at once!”

“I should be glad to.”

They were a merry group, all the children piled into the back of Sherlock’s truck and away they went, Gladstone baying with gladness for the company. It was marvelous to have the whole afternoon to themselves without any pesky parents in the way. And it was a treat to go swimming too! Deirdre was small but was promised she could go wading and be quite safe. Sorcha and Cillian would keep an eye on her.

When they arrived at the farm, Sherlock left to change into more appropriate attire and Molly instructed the children to put their things up in the spare room while she changed into her swimming costume and put her hair up. If she were in Brighton, she’d have worn the wooden sandals she’d bought to go with the suit, but she knew she’d have to cross the front yard, and it just seemed silly. The children were all barefoot, so she forwent the shoes and took down a pile of towels for them all.

Having put their things up, the children had all hurried to the side of the barn to watch the piglets rooting around until Molly called for them.

Sherlock was already at the pond, having put his shoes and socks up out of the way of splashing children and a very wet dog (Gladstone had made for the water as soon as he saw his master’s intent, and was now trotting back and forth, soaked). Sherlock laid his things on a large flat rock, and looking down the path once more, undid his trousers. It was perhaps to his chagrin, that he had come across the pair of bathing trunks in the very back of his dresser. He felt stupid, standing there outside of the water, so he stepped into the pond, wading up to his waist.

He could hear Molly coming down the path, the children all clamoring about her.

“Now,” she said. “I must help Uncle Sherlock exercise for twenty minutes at the very least, all right? So you must keep out of the way until I say. And stay away from the deep end, I don’t want any of you ducking your sisters!”

“Nah, they’d duck us, Miss Molly!” Finn laughed.

“What’s wrong with Uncle Sherlock’s knee?” Imogene wanted to know.

“His knee hurts him, so to make it stronger, he must exercise it, and swimming is very good for him.”

He turned in time to see her remove the short jacket, dropping it on the flat rock by his things.

It wasn’t a revealing bathing costume. Not by London standards. But it was a bathing costume none-the-less, and Molly looked marvelous in it. He gave an awkward cough, almost wishing the children weren’t there. Then again, perhaps it was better after all.

The boys came whooping into the pond with a splash, Gladstone close behind while the girls all squealed with glee, though somewhat hesitant to get soaked just yet.

“You mind not to go too deep yet,” Molly warned, and waded her way into the cool water. “Oo!” she gave a startled laugh. “I’d hoped it had warmed up a little more!”

“Not until May, at the earliest,” Sherlock answered. “Anyway, there’s nothing for it now. Leastwise it doesn’t hurt as much.”

“We’ll go slow to start with,” Molly promised. “Let’s just start moving back and forth across the pond, does it get much deeper?”

“It’s a little over half a meter at the end,” Sherlock answered, his eyes glancing at their charges as they squealed in delight. “It’s quite gradual, so the children won’t suddenly disappear. Your ancestors had the forethought to take the stones from the fields and line the pond with them. The ducks and fish keep the reeds and moss at bay and the water clean.”

Molly admired the cleverness of it. She had rather expected there to be swarming bugs and mud in-between her toes. She was surprised to see the water relatively clear, and the rocks, rather than slippery and green with algae, were smooth under her feet. They moved slowly through the water, so to keep Sherlock from focusing on his knee, she asked about the willow trees, how old they were. Two beautiful weeping willows were at the far side of the pond, their vines just trailing the water. Large rocks rimmed the edges of the pond, so that one could pull themselves up out of the water to sunbathe, if they so wished.

“The trees have been on the property for nearly a hundred years,” Sherlock said. That was a story he was familiar with. Richard Hooper spoke with pride on the pond, for it had been a family project for generations. “Each generation has brought something to the pond,” he said after a moment. “Your great-great-great-grandfather dug it as deeply as he could manage, which I must say is impressive. You’ll notice between the two trees is a small stream, so fresh water is always flowing. Your great-great grandfather stocked it with fish, and also began putting stones in from the field. Your great-grandfather took boulders and ringed the pond, so he and the children could sit in the sun, your grandfather added more stones, and expanded it further in that direction,” he pointed to the left side of the pond which made the whole expanse of water more oval shaped than round.

“What did my father do?” Molly asked.

“He wanted to put a dock in,” Sherlock said after a moment. “There wasn’t lumber at the time, the war, you know. But he made sure to keep it stocked, and I believe those daffodils you see by the willows there,” he pointed. “Were his addition as well.”

“It does need a dock,” Molly decided. They paused by the willows, and she let him catch his breath.

“I could build it.” He offered quickly. “Well…Watson and I could build it. It can’t be that difficult.”

She laughed then. “That’s what everyone says when it ought to be but isn’t,” she studied him for a moment, taking in his features, if he was in pain. “How’s your knee?”

“Aching abominably.”

“We’ll go a bit slower, and crouch just a little when you step, only if you can manage it, and then we’ll try and paddle a little bit. If you’re unsteady, just hold onto me. I’m quite strong, and an excellent swimmer, so you needn’t fear that you’ll drown me.”

Her invitation to hold onto her was one he nearly took advantage of for the sheer sake of it, rather than his knee, though a few times he did necessitate her assistance. Sure enough she was there, holding him by the waist.

The cool water helped numb the pain somewhat, and the more he worked, the warmer he got. Still, Sherlock found that despite the ache in his knee, Molly’s kind smile was what kept him going. She corrected his posture with a gentle touch, her words were encouraging, but she was firm. He was out of his element, and she knew it. But she didn’t gloat, not that he’d expected her to, but he’d done physio before, and the last doctor he’d seen for his knee was an absolute bear who encouraged brisk marching and calisthenics. He nearly cleared the desk if the man hadn’t been a superior officer.

Two more very slow passes back and forth across the pond, and Molly at last called for the children.

“If you can swim, come and paddle out to Uncle Sherlock!” she waved, and waded back towards shore to collect Deirdre.

A cacophony of splashing and shrieking echoed across the water as six of the children plowed towards Sherlock who slipped under the surface at the last minute, ducking the nearest child (Liam). He popped up with a roar, tossing Liam up out of the water. Suddenly everyone wanted to be tossed, and Molly fretted lest Sherlock hurt himself, but he waved her off. In between the children splashing and racing, he paused, watching as Molly floated along, Deirdre had her arms around her neck. Molly had pinned up her hair in a red scarf, tying it in a bow under her ear. Soft wispy curls escaped the fabric, and his fingers itched to caress them. She was clearly in her element, with the children and in the water. Deirdre was happily telling her a story, and Molly was listening. Now and then, she’d catch him looking, and her eyes would twinkle at him. He was certain she did it on purpose, and his heart soared.

Gladstone diving off of the rocks, nearly on top of him, pulled him from his reverie, the children all squealing with delight. Up and down on the rocks, the children scrabbled up, dove into the water, only to do it all again. Liam and Cillian found out the willow tree branches were perfect for swinging down into the water, and soon it became a contest as to who could swing the furthest.

When the children had enough of swimming they climbed onto the rocks and dried off, watching as the fish came out of their hiding places. Molly left the pond first to change. She returned in a short while with towels for everyone, this time wearing the blue print dress Sherlock was so fond of. She’d seen how he’d looked at her when she’d come across the field on Sunday. Molly would have had to be blind not to, and she felt only a little guilty, wishing for him to look at her again that way. Her efforts were rewarded, for he regarded her again with warmth in his eyes, a gentle smile on his lips. 

“Come along, children,” she called. “You’d better go and change, and then we’ll have a bite to eat before we start the evening chores.”

The children all got up, quite dry and followed after Molly.

“Will Uncle Sherlock be coming to dinner, Miss Molly?”

“Why…yes of course, if you’d like to,” Molly smiled, turning to him. She got the distinct feeling he was taking his time toweling off. When she’d come to the pond earlier, he was already in the water. Now he was standing by his clothes and she realized he’d found a pair of bathing trunks and if she’d imagined he was fit by the chopping block two weeks ago, she had another thing coming. Sunlight rippled along droplets of water and she found herself following rivulets of water down his shoulders and chest. “If you’re free, that is,” she stammered.

“I’ve no previous engagements.” He scrubbed his hair with a towel, hopeful that he was hiding the glee he couldn’t help but feel at her obvious attraction to him. How strange! Janine looked at him quite the same way and it meant nothing to him. When Molly looked at him that way, he felt as if both knees might go at once.

“Then of course you must join us.” Molly encouraged.

“May we listen to the wireless after supper?” asked Finn.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I haven’t one,” Molly apologized.

“We don’t need the wireless,” Imogene piped up. “Uncle Sherlock can play his violin!”

“Oh yes! Please Uncle Sherlock!” suddenly the children surrounded him, tugging on his hands. He seemed amused by their antics.

“If you will stop hanging on me like a cat to the drapes, I shall go home and change, and fetch it back for after dinner entertainment.” He promised.

“And you all must hurry and change too, the wind is still blowing, and the sun may be warm, but it is only the end of March, so scoot!” As they all hurried toward the house, Molly paused, waiting for Sherlock to step into his trousers and collect his things.

“I do apologize,” she said, once he’d caught up to her. “I hope they didn’t embarrass you, demanding for you to play for us.”

“Not at all,” he shrugged. “The children are a good audience, and I shall be glad to play for you as well.”

She looked up at him then, and those large eyes of her quite arrested him. “I look forward to it.”

For a moment, neither one could move, but the children calling from up the hill at last made Molly turn, and she hurried up the path after them.

The night’s festivities began with Molly giving them all a lovely roast dinner that everyone happily took seconds of. Then she surprised them with a beautiful bread pudding, and sweetened cream sprinkled with nutmeg to pour over it. Besides this there was fresh milk from Rosy-lee, as much as the children could hold. Afterwards, Molly and the girls quickly cleared away, and everyone helped with dishes, which quickly turned into a towel flicking contest, which only ended when Sherlock accidentally flicked Molly’s bum, and she laughed so hard she had to sit down. Sherlock, for his part, was embarrassed and apologized, but she was laughing so much she wasn’t the least bit offended.

The great fun began when the kitchen was clean again, and everyone settled in the parlor. Sherlock tuned his violin, a painstaking process made much more enjoyable for he filled the time telling them of some of his cases from London. This held the children’s attention, and even Molly, though she knew them, jumped at the frightening parts. This was the side of Sherlock she adored seeing. He loved John and Mary’s children, more than that, he loved spending time with them. He listened to them, no matter what silly question they had, Sherlock never dismissed them. Molly wondered if this was truly the man she had so wrongly assumed was a wretched grump. How wrong she was! She understood what she saw in his eyes: a longing for what his friends had built, the family life of John and Mary --  such a precious gift, and one not available to Sherlock. Nor to her. But when he looked at her. Oh, those eyes! Those childlike eyes, that wistful smile. Sherlock Holmes wanted to be a father. 

The realization made her intake a soft startled breath.

She looked at Deirdre who was curled up beside her, on her other side Imogene, and at her feet, Sorcha and Finn. Liam, Cillian and Brendan sat at Sherlock’s feet, listening with rapt attention. For one lovely moment, Sherlock met her gaze, and in an instant, Molly could see them together, just like this, with their own family. They could have such a lovely crowd of children at their feet!

“Miss Molly your heart is racing!” Deirdre murmured, for her head was against her breast.

“Is it?” Molly asked softly. “I-I suppose it was the case. Your Uncle Sherlock is quite the detective.”

“Was,” he corrected her, getting to his feet, holding her gaze. “Let’s see if we can’t calm Miss Molly down, then,” and rosining his bow, began to play.

A true virtuoso, Sherlock played beautiful pieces. He played waltzes and polkas and pieces she’d never heard of that filled the room with such sadness that she felt choked, swallowing back tears. Soon, the children begged for songs they knew, and Sherlock relented with a nod, and began ‘Molly Malone’ . All together then the children raised their voices, singing in the way children do, resembling some sweet kind of harmony. He played all sorts from ‘The Wild Rover’ to ‘Raglan Road’ but the children’s’ favorites were the fast songs, and they pleaded and pleaded, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if terribly put out until suddenly he’d light upon the strings of his violin and race into ‘Irish Washerwoman’ and the children set upon a jig around the house. Sorcha and Imogene both took dance lessons and began clicking their heels in such a fine and merry way that Molly couldn’t help but clap and be amazed. Deirdre took her by the hand and began dancing with her, before suddenly her sisters pulled her away and Molly was left to reel by herself a bit. Suddenly she was face to face with Sherlock and the song was over. The children were all clapping, begging for just one more song before bed. Sherlock had not taken his eyes from Molly, and it was with great intent that he raised his bow again, and began playing just once more. The children all began singing, and Molly felt her heart begin to race again, for quietly, beneath all the children’s voices, Sherlock joined them, and as he looked so intently, his warm eyes shining at her, pleading with her, he sang:

I will build my love a bower

By yon cool crystal fountain

And 'round it I will pile

All the wild flowers o' the mountain

Will ye go, lassie, go?

And we'll all go together

To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the bloomin' heather

Will ye go, lassie, go?

All around them the children went on singing, and Molly felt as if slowly, the room spun around them, and she felt her eyes brimming with tears. Surety filled her heart, that pounding in her chest, gooseflesh breaking out over her arms and she felt as if inside she were one great yell!

The song ended, and Molly very nearly went straight to Sherlock’s arms, only the children were all there still.

“Time for bed,” she clapped her hands, finding she was trembling. “Faces washed, teeth brushed, yes?”

“Yes, Miss Molly,”

“Go on and say goodnight to Uncle Sherlock and head upstairs then.”

They all descended upon Sherlock, who was putting his violin away, kissing him goodnight. He hugged them and sent them upstairs, waiting until the doors to the spare room and Molly’s room both closed before he turned to her.

For a moment, neither knew what to say.

“Thank you,” she began at last. “That was such a treat, it’s been far too long since I’ve heard live music,” she smiled. “You’re wonderful, Sherlock.”

“Thank you.” He was looking at her so intently that for just a moment, Molly didn’t know what to do. But she got hold of herself and folded her hands neatly before her.

“If there weren’t children in this house, I might very well kiss you, Mr. Holmes,” and she marched into the kitchen to fetch his coat and hat for him.

He blinked, trying to make sure that he’d heard her correctly. He followed her, violin case in hand.

“So then if the house were empty…”

“You wouldn’t be here,” she finished, turning to face him. He set his case down and took his coat from her, slipping his arms into the sleeves. Before he could adjust the collar, Molly stepped up to him, and fixed his collar, brushing down his shoulders.

“But we are alone, now,” A thump from upstairs made them both look to the ceiling. “Sort of.” Again, silence settled between them, and he at last reached for his case again. “For the record…if there weren’t children in this house, I would kiss you back.” Before he could say another word, Molly placed his hat on his head, rose on tiptoe, and kissed the corner of his mouth. She’d pressed her lips so sweetly to him, with such reverence and love that Sherlock wished with all his heart for the woman before him. His heart ached.

“I wish…”

“Miss Molly!” Finn stood at the stairs. “Liam says I have to sleep on the floor!”

Sherlock and Molly cursed the wretched timing of it all, but they only shook their heads, laughing quietly.

“I’ll be up in a moment,” Molly called. She waited until the boy retreated back to the spare room before looking back to Sherlock. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Of course,” he straightened his hat, straightening the brim. “We’ve a physio appointment, haven’t we?” With that he stepped out into the night, whistling to himself, Gladstone at his heels.

Chapter Text

Happily, quietly, a courtship grew between Molly and Sherlock over the early weeks of April. There were whispers about town about the pair of them, some said they expected it. But everyone saw the changes in Sherlock, in his care for Molly, and were pleased. On days that she was not helping him with physio, Sherlock took Molly through the orchard and showed her what he planned. Sometimes she brought the concertina and Sherlock helped her learn the placements. She was getting to be a fair hand at it. 

Mycroft ended up staying in Ferndown for two weeks, apparently awaiting some piece of mail. He made use of Doctor Watson’s car, as the good doctor was not going far with a new baby in the house. John had no qualms about the elder Holmes borrowing the family car, so long as he filled it up on the way home.

Sherlock was in the orchard, stepping up and down off a crate as Molly instructed, careful to bend his knees when he heard his brother coming through the rushes. He ignored his brother for a moment, finishing his exercises before turning to face him.

“You’re steadier, brother-mine,” Mycroft commented after a moment. “Though I am surprised Mrs. Mason has left you to your own devices. Rather bad form for a physiotherapist.”

“She’s fetching tea, I thought I’d continue on my own,” Sherlock answered. “Did you fill John’s car?”

“Filled and parked in front of the house.” Mycroft delved into his coat pocket and retrieved two thick envelopes from it. “Mail is in as well,”

Sherlock spied the Royal seal on the front of it. “Ah. What now?”

“Corrected invitation for you.” Mycroft held out the first letter. “The other is for Mrs. Mason. It’s bad form to show up to the Investitures without an invitation.”

“I thought she would accompany me,” Sherlock replied with a frown.

“Yes, well, someone must accept Mr. Mason’s Order of Merit, it seems fitting that his daughter be the one to do so.”

Sherlock had half-hoped he might do the honors, but he knew Mycroft was right. That was how Richard would have wanted it.

Sherlock didn’t bother opening his letter, instead folded it in half, breaking the seal and stuffed it into his pocket. Mycroft tried not to wince.

“Now that you’ve gotten your mail, will you be heading back to London?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. I’ll be off tomorrow on the earliest train.”

“No rest for the wicked.” Sherlock smirked.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella into the soil. “What is going on between you and Mrs. Mason?”

At this, Sherlock straightened, looking directly at his brother. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing…” Mycroft shrugged, a little too quickly. “Your record with women has been…shall we say, lackluster.”

“The Woman doesn’t count, I was never involved with her,” Sherlock reminded him, a waspish bite to his voice.

“It doesn’t change the fact that you had feelings for her.”

“I never acted on them. I do not intend to replicate that behavior with Mrs. Mason.”

“Mrs. Mason isn’t a double-agent working for a faction of the radical Soviets, little brother.”

“As far as you know,” Sherlock couldn’t help but retort, attempting some kind of humor. No one had seen Ms. Adler’s double-cross coming and had left them all reeling. Mycroft did not share his brother’s humor at the situation and affixed him with a dark look instead.

“Where is all this coming from, anyway?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “When have you ever cared who I’m involved with?”

“Well, you must admit it happens so infrequently, it’s a bit startling when it does happen.” Mycroft shrugged, putting on quite a show of indifference.

“You’re fishing for something, whatever it is, it won’t work. What is it, Mycroft? Want to know if she’s working for the CIA?”

Mycroft snorted, shaking his head. “If she were, wouldn’t I already be aware? I simply want to know what changed. You’ve never been interested in a woman as much as you have her. There are hundreds of women in Mummy’s set that are just as pretty, a handful that could match your genius, or wit at the very least.”

“I don’t want anyone in Mummy’s set, nor your set,” Sherlock bit out. “If I’d wanted an unhappy marriage I’d have saddled myself off years ago.”

“You don’t agree with that sort of thing though, do you?”

“I happen to have my own ideals about marriage.”

“Hmmm. Not too long ago I recall you saying to me that marriage was a wretched institution for the idiots of the world who couldn’t bear to be alone with their thoughts, who were too flippant and foolish to put their minds to important things but instead waste them on baby-making and home life.” Mycroft studied his brother. “You still have tremendous promise, Sherlock. Why are you throwing away a career?” Sherlock made to protest, but Mycroft held up a hand, not finished. “I don’t mean at the palace, I don’t mean for government, obviously you wouldn’t fit in. But you could still be a useful agent to the Crown.”

“Desk work, you mean,” Sherlock huffed.

“Well, the time for legwork has passed.” Mycroft nodded to the cane. Sherlock got to his feet with a start, glaring at his brother.

“There is a reason why I left all of that behind, brother-mine,” he gritted out. “Thus-far, you are reminding me exactly why I did. I’m only useful until I’m not. I’ll only be allowed certain work, and only at big brother’s request, only on his personal favor.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “I don’t…want that anymore, Mycroft. London and I don’t suit anymore, and it isn’t simply because of my knee.” He shrugged. “We’ve outgrown each other.”

It was then that Molly was seen, coming closer to them with a basket.

“Yes I see,” Mycroft nodded quickly. When Molly approached them, he removed his hat, and handed her the invitation. “For you, Mrs. Mason. I trust you will be pleased.”

“Oh! It’s…it’s-“ She couldn’t get the words out as she tried to open the envelope and hold the basket. Sherlock took the basket from her, setting it down. It took her only a moment to scan the document, and she looked up at the elder Holmes, tears in her eyes.

“My father…my father honored with an Order of Merit?” Her red mouth trembled.

“It seems your father did a great many things to keep this village safe, Mrs. Mason,” Mycroft answered her. “His services during the war reminded the Crown that if we do not first look after our own, we do a greater disservice to ourselves than those who mean us harm.”

Molly said no more, only stepped up and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek, the letter clutched in her hands.

“Thank you!”

Unguarded shock registered on his face and Mycroft did not know what to say at first. Molly Hooper Mason was all sincerity and gentleness. As he dug through his pocket for his kerchief to wipe the lipstick from his cheek, fearing his cheeks had grown embarrassingly pink, he saw her go to Sherlock, showing him the letter. Instinctively, Sherlock’s arm went about her shoulders, soothing her arm as she tearfully read the letter again and again.

“Well, now my brief stint as the postman is complete, I shall be off, I’ve an early start in the morning.” Mycroft replaced his hat and took his umbrella. Before he could go, Sherlock held out his hand to him.

“Thank you, Mycroft.” He shook his hand firmly. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he only nodded instead.

“My pleasure, brother-mine.” He touched the brim of his hat, bidding goodbye to Mrs. Mason before he headed back across the field toward the road.

Now with invitations in hand, the game was on. Sherlock felt more pressure than ever to be in top form by the time came to step on the train for London. Molly’s insistence that he go slow frustrated him, but he did as she asked, knowing that ignoring her would only set him back. He wanted to exercise every day, which she insisted he build up to.

“Honestly, it isn’t as if you’re entering a dance competition,” Molly said one day after he’d nearly pushed himself too far. She had a hot compress on his knee, alternating it with an ice bag. “You’re only walking a little way for the Investitures.”

Sherlock had not told her he was really working to be able to dance with her. It was his own secret.

“It’s the kneeling before his Majesty that I fear might be tricker,” he replied. “I simply want to make sure I don’t misstep.”

“You won’t,” Molly answered confidently. She gave him a quick peck on the lips, smiling. “You’ll do us all proud.”

Sherlock hoped so.

He also knew that if he was to go to London, he needed to write his mother first, and let her know of Mrs. Mason. No doubt Mycroft had already informed her, but she would more than likely be waiting for him to explain. A letter sent ahead of them would keep certain unwanted attention from the society ladies at bay. Sherlock was looking forward to arriving with Molly on his arm. He had half a mind to go in his everyday tweeds, just to show them how different he was, how little he cared what they thought. But Molly would be horrified, and she was having such fun planning what to wear. He wasn’t allowed to know, but Mary said it was ‘positively dreamy’.

“It is,” John confirmed with a sage nod. Mary only laughed.

“How do you know?!” Sherlock asked, annoyed.

“Oh, she tried it on yesterday at the house. You know she comes to help out since Janine is busy at the bakery-“

“Yes but why’d she bring it here?”

“Because she wanted to show me,” Mary said, squeezing Sherlock’s arm. “I’m not going, and since there may not be photographs of the blessed event, I wanted to see what it looked like!”

“Of course there will be photographs!” Sherlock groused. “It’s a bloody Investitures. Press will have a field day.” He paused. “It isn’t a wedding, you know.”

“Not yet-“

“I should say not-“ both John and Mary spoke at once, catching each other as they did so with a laugh.

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked. Mary only shook her head.

“Oh, Sherlock, it’s just that everyone knows how you two feel about each other, it’s become a bit of a thing, guessing when you’ll stop dragging your feet and propose to her.”

“Yes…well…” The tips of his ears turned red. “Perhaps I am waiting for Mr. Grey to come around with that wretched ‘courting cart’ of his.”

“Don’t wish for things you don’t want,” John warned with a laugh. Already, Greg and Janine had endured the silly contraption. ‘Jaunting cart’ was the proper term for it, wherein the two riders sat back to back, a driver in between them.

“Janine only stood for it once,” Mary added. “After that she and Greg decided they liked walking better.”

Sherlock would not stand for such a ridiculous tradition, unless of course Molly wished for it. He doubted she would.

“I don’t think they’d make you, seeing as she’s a widow,” Mary said, knowing where his mind was going. “Anyway, the point is Ferndown is quite fond of Molly, and you, and we’d like the privilege of hosting your nuptials, so if you dare do anything foolish like elope to Gretna Green, you’ll have a whole pack of mightily disappointed ladies when you come home!”

“I shouldn’t imagine anywhere else for the occasion,” he replied. Though in his heart, Sherlock made a startling realization that of course marriage was the next step. He’d known that before, but now that he and Molly were together, it was that much more real. It wasn’t simply a possibility now, it was inevitable.

He snatched his hat and cane, hurrying out of the Watson’s.

“Where are you going?” John asked, surprised.

“I’ve a letter to write, John!” was the only answer he got.

April flew by, and Ferndown was fairly buzzing with the excitement of sending two of their own to London, to Buckingham Palace to meet the King and Queen. Molly was set upon every Sunday and anytime she went to town, everyone wanted to ask her what she was wearing, if she thought she might meet Princess Margaret or dance with a royal. Better than all that, though, was that everyone had a story for Molly about her father. Every day someone stopped by and dropped off something for the pigs and shared a kindness her father had done. At first, Molly didn’t know what to say, touched by her father’s love for his town, for his country. Sometimes, widows stopped by to tell how her father had dug a well for them or mended their roofs at no charge. They told of how a whole generation of children survived and thrived when Ferndown had been left to starve. How thanks to her father’s bravery, hiding all manner of livestock from the government, fed them so they could keep going. Richard Hooper had left a legacy behind that overwhelmed her.

Then, one day, the day before Molly and Sherlock were due to set out for London, she sat in Mary and John’s parlor, sorting through baby things.

“Did John ever tell you,” Mary asked suddenly. “How Sherlock and your da got on?”

Molly looked up. “I- don’t think so. But Father always wrote highly of Sherlock.”

Mary nodded. “I suppose I shouldn’t be the one to tell you this, but someone ought to,” She paused to think for a moment. “When Sherlock came to Ferndown, he was the same as many men who are sent home from the front- angry, bitter, quite run down by the whole show. I’m sure you know that Sherlock isn’t always the easiest to talk to, now add to it shellshock. He was downright impossible, some days.”

Molly was quiet. She’d seen men with shellshock. Fine one minute, the next something set them off and they’d be in an uncontrollable rage. It was frightening, because the men didn’t even know they’d be hurting someone, or even themselves until it was too late.

“What changed?” she asked quietly.

“Your father,” Mary answered simply. “I suppose because he knew what it was like, he’d been away from war and that sort of thing for so long he was able to understand how Sherlock felt, how my John felt. Your father had a way of talking to Sherlock that…well no one else seemed to be able to replicate, leastwise until you came to us.”

“Me?” Molly was surprised. “But you- and John, the children-“

“We’re good distractions.” Mary batted a hand. “We’re friends, but he wouldn’t want to bother us. You know how he is. He knew we were busy; Deirdre was just a newborn at the time. He was worried he might frighten the children, if he had a fit. Richard helped him work through all that, helped him with the night terrors, helped him see it was all right to be angry, frightened.”

Molly was quiet, thinking back to the time when Sherlock had comforted her in the storm.

“I probably shouldn’t share this, perhaps Sherlock wouldn’t like it,” Mary lowered her voice. “John saw him crying once, just once, mind. Something happened, I don’t know, he must have gotten bad news. I think his brother had been shot, but it set Sherlock off. Richard came in and held him like a babe, you never saw someone so gentle before.” Mary shook her head. “My John said he was so surprised, but so glad for Sherlock. All his life Sherlock had been taught all the wrong ways to feel, bottle everything up, you know.” Mary sighed a little. “I think it really did just about break him, when your father died. They were kindred spirits and that’s a fact. Richard Hooper was the first steady thing in his life after the war. Just what Sherlock needed at the time.” Mary smiled then. “Now it happens that just what he needs is you.”

Molly ducked her head a bit, hiding a blushing smile. “I never thought I’d love again…when Tom died. I wished I’d had my father with me through the Blitz, through all of those awful times. I wish I’d had someone …”

“Oo, love,” Mary reached for her, squeezing her hand.

“Seems like there were days I was holding my breath for the post.” Molly shook her head. “Praying for something from Father, something from Tom. Letters from Ferndown were…I suppose it must sound wretched…they were the best days. I ought to say letters from Tom were the best, but it was a different sort, you know? Father never really talked about the war, just about Ferndown, how pretty it all was, how good a help ‘the young lad from London’ was, all the gossip going on.” She laughed at this. “I wish I’d come sooner.” Her voice was small, ashamed. “I wish I’d been brave enough to come years ago.”

“You weren’t ready,” Mary answered. “Just as you weren’t ready when Tom first died. We do things when it’s time, and not before.”

“I’m frightened to go back to London, is that silly?” Molly asked after a moment.

“No,” Mary shook her head. “But you won’t be alone when you go, nor when you return home to us.”

That afternoon, Molly made her way across the field to the orchard. Sherlock was amongst his hives, and she could hear him speaking quietly to the bees.

“…Mummy says she’ll be sure, once she meets her, but she knows that it’s my decision. I am certain it is, as certain as my name. But is it too soon for her? Has she been given enough time to heal?”

Molly stopped where she was, not wanting to intrude, but realizing if she turned and left, she would perhaps alert him to her presence.

“I’m going to ask Molly to marry me, and that is really what this entire monologue has been leading up to. When…how…I don’t know, but they do say to tell bees when some big event is going to happen in your life, so there it is. Oh, and some silly Investiture where I’m to be knighted in a ridiculous costume.”

Molly took a moment to let her breath catch in her throat and to control the pull of her lips into a silly grin before she purposefully stepped on a branch, alerting him to where she was, still some distance from him, but on her way.

She came into the grove where the hives sat, and Sherlock stood, awkwardly fiddling with his cane.

“How long were you there?” he asked, nervous.

Molly looked at him. She studied the man who was at one time so wretchedly against her living in Ferndown, but somehow came to know and cherish her. The man her father had cradled, had helped to heal. Who had helped save Ferndown and carried with him so many secrets that she wondered how his head didn’t burst. Who wanted to be sure to give her time to mourn Tom, before marrying her.

In answer to him, Molly stepped up to him and winding her arms around his neck, drew him in for a kiss. It took Sherlock less than a moment to understand and respond in kind. In the warm fading light of the sun, underneath the fragrant blooming trees Sherlock kissed Molly for the second time in his life and prayed it would not be the last.

“I love you,” she said at last when they broke apart. She pushed back his short curls; her smile warm as she regarded him, taking in every expression that flashed through his eyes and across his face. He shut his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, breathing with relief.

“And I you.” After a moment, he sighed. “Blast this wretched Investiture. Can’t we just-“

“No,” she laughed, placing a finger over his lips, which he kissed. “And if you get any ideas about eloping in London, it’ll be you who faces Mary and all the old ladies when we get back!”

“I suppose.” Arm around her waist, he collected his cane and hat, whistling for Gladstone.

“I still expect you to propose properly, mind,” Molly laughed. She rested her head on his shoulder as they started back for the farmhouse. “I never had a proper wedding the first time round.”

“It was all rushed, wasn’t it?” Sherlock asked.

She nodded. “We just wanted it to be official. To belong to each other. With the war on there wasn’t time for anything, we just took what time we had. He had to be on a train only a little while after the ceremony.” Molly fingered the cuff of her jumper. “It’s an awful way to spend a honeymoon, all by yourself, not sure if you’ll ever see them again.” She turned to him suddenly. “Should I not talk about him?”

“I think you should,” Sherlock answered, looking back at her. “He meant something to you, a great deal.”

“He did- does.” Molly nodded slowly. “But…it’s…it doesn’t hurt any more, thinking of him. I do love him, but…it’s different now. He’s not here and…it makes it easier-“ She shook her head. “I’m not saying it right.” She took a breath. “I mean to say that I love you, Sherlock, don’t ever doubt that. I loved Tom, too, and I don’t ever want you to feel that if I talk about him, that it means I love you less.”

“I know that.” He crooked her chin, kissing her forehead reverently. “You have so much love to give, you’re like your father.”

“Only you didn’t want to marry my father,” Molly laughed.

“Certainly not!” he snorted but sobered quickly. “I do wish he was here though.”

Molly was silent then, realizing she had no mother, nor father to stand with her in church. It was jarring, remembering that she was an orphan in the world. One doesn’t think of grown people as orphans. People always think of babies and children, abandoned to some ugly asylum with stern matrons. But the death of her parents still made her an orphan, and she felt keenly the lack of siblings or relatives of any sort.

“You know,” Sherlock said after a long moment. “I am certain John would be very proud to give you away.”

Molly lifted her head, looking up at him. “Do you think so?”

“In fact, I’m sure he’d be downright insulted if you didn’t ask him.”

“Well…what about your groomsmen? Oughtn’t he stand up for you?”

“Oh…Greg can do that. At the very least Mycroft can, I’m sure we must invite him to our nuptials.”

By now, they’d reached the farmhouse, and it was where Sherlock would have to leave her until the following morning.

“Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. She knew how close he and John were.

“Silly woman,” Sherlock inclined his head to her, holding her gaze. “Don’t you know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you?”

“I’m beginning to see that,” Molly laughed. She kissed him once more before stepping up to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early for the train.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

With only a day before V-E day, and the Investiture ceremony, London was an absolute madhouse. Molly had forgotten what absolute bedlam London could be on a holiday. Victoria Station was a crush to get through, she was obliged to hold onto the strap of Sherlock’s uniform. As it was V-E day, he was required to wear olive-drabs about town, and for the ceremony the green dress uniform. Sherlock hated the dress uniform.

“I look like a waiter at the Ritz,” he groused.

“Darling, no one would mistake you for a waiter,” Molly laughed.

“’Darling’, eh?” Sherlock smiled at this and even amidst the crowd of people, bent and kissed her. Molly had the queerest sense of deja vu, only instead of Tom’s bittersweet smile bidding her goodbye, it was Sherlock’s warm grin beaming at her. Sherlock gripped her hand, seeing her distant smile. Pressing her knuckles, murmuring a word of encouragement, he led the way to the waiting car.

“It’s nice to see so many happy faces at the station this time around,” Molly admitted, once they settled into the town car Mycroft had sent for them.

“Is it hard, being back in London?” Sherlock asked after a moment. Molly was looking out the window.

“Yes and no.” She still held his hand. “There are good memories, and a great many bad ones. Most of the bad ones are far from where we’ll be, so I just won’t think of them.” She smiled up at him, putting on a brave face.

“That’s my girl.”He kissed her gently. “But if you ever have need to-“

“I will, one day,” she promised. “But not while we’re in London.”

“Fair enough.”

“Let’s just enjoy ourselves,” Molly said.

“How am I to enjoy myself when I’m forced to parade about in a ridiculous uniform with half the storefront of Foxhills pinned to my chest.”

“Oh shush,” Molly laughed.

They would be staying at Mrs. Holmes residence, where Mycroft also happened to be staying (his own apartments were apparently flooded with diplomats he had no desire to bunk up with).

If Sherlock was nervous about presenting his bride-to-be to his mother, he was very careful not to show it. It didn’t matter anyway, for Mrs. Holmes took one look at Molly in her fine Dior suit and mink coat that she welcomed her with open arms. It wasn’t until at the dinner table that Molly broke the news to the elated lady that she and Sherlock would be staying in Ferndown to tend the farm and orchard. Mrs. Holmes blanched considerably, about to make a fuss, but was placated when Mycroft reminded her that with such impending nuptials, it would stand to reason grandchildren would soon follow. Molly mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to him then, and he raised his glass to her in response.

V-E day began as noisily as one would expect, even in Mayfair. Pennants and flags hung from every door and street corner, firecrackers were being set off all over London, and children of all ages sang loudly as they made their way down to Trafalgar Square. There was to be a parade and Mycroft was required to ride in it. Mrs. Holmes did not care for parades, so she would be watching from the balcony at the palace, and decided she would take Molly with her for company. Sherlock disliked that immensely, every firecracker pop making him nearly jump out of his skin and too many strangers approaching him to shake his hand or clasp his shoulder in congratulations. He had to take several deep breaths to center himself and maintain his composure: too many years with little but bees and a sleepy town for company had not prepared him for returning to pulsating London. Keeping Molly with him would have been the ideal situation, but he didn’t even get to see a glimpse of her before he was hustled out the door, Mycroft in a rush to beat the traffic.

The parade was a beastly affair full of confetti and a great deal of shouting. Granted they all had a right to be glad. After all it had only been two years since the end of the wretched war. He was certainly glad it was all over and done with, glad for peace and safety. He attempted to focus on this as he was stuck in a carriage next to some dowager something and his brother, counting down the minutes until he could be with Molly and hope to catch a moment of quiet somewhere.

At last it was over, and he could step out and stretch his legs. Carriages were ridiculous contraptions for anyone with long legs. Especially when crowded in with ladies in long dresses.

There were still speeches to wait out, and God help Sherlock if he had to sit through another one of Churchill’s winded speeches. He was a bulldog of a man, and he was good for the public, though. On this account, Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged weary glances, but rode it out, along with everyone else. The speech finished and crowds went up in choruses of ‘God Save the King’, Churchill leading them all.

“And that’s why he’ll be Prime Minister again,” Mycroft clapped his brother on the back. Sherlock did not want to discuss politics with his brother, so he only hummed in response.

At last, it was time for the Investitures. As usual there was even more pomp and circumstance surrounding this event. Mycroft relieved him of any other duties, and so he went in search of Molly.

Amongst the small crowd of people being honored that day, Sherlock found Molly making conversation with a man from Dover. He had lost his sons in the evacuation of Dunkirk. Sherlock waited patiently, watching as Molly listened attentively to the man’s story. Eventually someone came to collect the gentleman, and Molly turned. Sherlock could see her properly now, and he drew in a breath. She went to him, folding her gloved hands before her.

“Will I do, Mr. Holmes?”

“If we weren’t in Buckingham Palace I’d kiss you.”

“I’ll bet you’d do it anyway,” she teased, eyes twinkling at him.

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured, low. He satisfied himself with taking her hand, kissing the patch of skin on her wrist that she could not get the buttons over. This was enough for her to blush, but she did not scold him.

At last, the doors were opened, and they were all filed into the ballroom, led to their chairs by a butler who looked about ready to collapse in his heavy costume.

One by one, names were listed, and each recipient went up to collect their medal or ribbon, exchange a few words with the King, and then bow away. Molly’s heart gave a lurch, hearing her father’s name, followed by her’s, for she would be accepting it on his behalf. Nervously, she fiddled with her hands as she got to her feet, Sherlock lent a hand to her elbow until she was steady. Afterwards though, she was on her own. She did beautifully of course. The King was in fine form, glad for the patriotism of the day and was remarkably kind to Molly as she accepted the velvet box displaying the red and blue ribbon and the gold and enamel medal within.

“I thank you,” she said, when it was handed to her. “My father loved his country, and he’d have been so proud, so very proud.”

“Most assuredly.” The Monarch held out his hand to her then so she shook it, then curtsied deeply and backed away.

At long last, the ceremony was ending, and it was Sherlock’s turn. Molly took the cane from him, resting it against her lap as he stood. On steady legs, with only a slight hitch in his step, Sherlock made his way to the front of the room. His dress uniform was a green wool short coat, a crown embroidered on one sleeve. Around her, Molly could hear the crowd murmuring. Amongst the quiet whispers, she realized they recognized Sherlock. Apparently, they were surprised he was back in London. Ignoring the people around her, Molly managed to keep hold of herself, ankles crossed under her heavy skirts, knees clenching as Sherlock lowered himself onto the stool, right onto his injured knee. She couldn’t see his expression, she hoped he wasn’t in pain. She was counting the seconds; how long did it take to bloody knight someone? His knee must have been in agony! At last, he could stand, and when he rose and bowed to the King, Molly released a breath she’d been holding. The ceremony was over, and so they all rose from their seats while footmen rushed to clear the chairs from the ballroom. They were all ushered into the gallery where long tables had been set up. Princess Margaret and Princess Elizabeth informed the crowd that there would be dancing afterwards. Sherlock expected Molly to be excited at this, but she said nothing, in fact she acted as if she hadn’t heard a word of it. She talked about what fun she had, telling his mother about life on the farm, and how shocked Mrs. Holmes was when Molly invited her to stay a weekend.

“I think she’ll decline,” Molly laughed. “But I couldn’t help it.” They had finally managed to find a quiet corner  to eat together, and Molly asked after his knee.

“Is it throbbing? Do you think it’s swollen?” she asked, clearly fretting.

“Two months ago, I’d have been in agony,” Sherlock said. “It’s much better, thanks to you.”

“Me? You did all the work.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t helped me,” Sherlock countered. “And I am grateful.” He covered her hand in his.

The orchestra in the ballroom was beginning to play, and people were filing in to take part in the festivities.

“Come on,” Sherlock stood, setting his napkin aside.

“Where?” Molly asked, following him.

To her surprise, he led her into the ballroom, and out onto the floor.

“I owe you a dance.” He held out his hand to her. To Sherlock’s surprise, Molly’s lovely eyes filled with tears.

“Are you certain?” she asked.

“Quite.” With that he drew her into his arms, hand settled on her waist as he led her into the crowd. It was a slow foxtrot, and the steps came back to both of them as easily as riding a bicycle. Perhaps they were standing too close for Buckingham Palace, but Sherlock had just been knighted so if that didn’t give him the right to hold the woman he loved close while they danced, then there was no justice in the world.

“Is this why you wanted physio every day?” Molly asked after a moment.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he answered. “Is…this a good surprise?”

She was beaming at him, teary-eyed and positively glowing. “Yes.”

“I’ve a better one,” he said as the dance finished, and he led her off the ballroom, behind a curtain into a dimly lit hallway.

“Where are we?”

“Doesn’t matter. We can still hear the music so we’re not far.” He felt along his trousers. “Blast mess uniform, never enough pockets- ah-“ he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved-

“It was my grandmother’s ring.” Sherlock held it between them. “I wrote to Mummy weeks ago, to ask her for it.”

“Sherlock…” Molly was breathless, she looked from the ring up to him, seeing once again his nervous smile, the worry in his eyes.

“You told me you wanted a proper proposal…so…here it is: Molly Hooper Mason- I wish- I want- I mean- will you-“ None of the words seemed right. How on earth was he supposed to propose to the most brilliant woman in his life when there weren’t enough words in the English language to convey properly how he felt, how honored he was to have her in his life?

A sniffle broke through his thoughts, and he blinked.

“Truly?” she asked softly.

“I said that out loud did I?”

“You did,” she laughed.

“Well…will you?”

“Yes.” She kissed him then, and Sherlock only pretended to be shocked at such a display in Buckingham Palace. He unbuttoned her glove, carefully removing it and tucking it in his breast pocket before he slid the ring onto her finger.  

“I don’t know what I would have done, if I hadn’t met you,” he murmured, in between joyous kisses as she laughed against his mouth. They stood in the dim hallway listening to the music in the other room. Neither felt like returning to the party.

“You know, if we hurry, we could catch the milk train, be home by morning,” he suddenly suggested. “We could cable John, so they’ll know to expect us.” He paused then. “If you want. Unless you’d rather stay here.”

“No.” Molly shook her head and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go home.”

“Home,” he murmured in agreement, and leading the way out, ducked his head to press her just once more with a warm kiss.

Hurrying back to the Mayfair house to change, they grabbed their valises and hurried to the station, leaving a note for Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes (at Molly’s insistence).

The sun was rising over Ferndown as John made his way toward Carcalles. The telegram had been slipped under the door in the wee hours, and Sorcha had collected it with the morning paper.

“Milk train,” John muttered to himself. “Of course it was the milk train.” He came to a stop in the road, seeing a familiar couple seated on their suitcases, apparently having a rest. John switched off the car, stepping out. “Trouble, Sir?” he asked with a laugh.

Sherlock glared at his friend. “You would think,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet and ignoring John’s inference. “That she would know to travel in sensible shoes by now.” He still held out his hand to help her to her feet.

“You said you’d cabled John with plenty of time so that he would know to come fetch us as soon as the train left,” Molly answered. “How was I to know we’d have to walk?”

“If you’re finished squabbling, I’d like to go home and get some breakfast,” John said, helping them place the luggage in the boot. “Of which I am certain Mary has made more of so you two can tell us all about the Investitures” They all crowded into the front seat so John wouldn’t have to play chauffeur, Molly telling him of the crowds in London and even at the station.

When they got to the Watson’s cottage, Sherlock stepped out first, then helped Molly. Before they had a chance to come around the car, the front door was flung open and Mary and the children came flooding out, Gladstone baying, followed by Daisy, Watson’s poor bulldog who only barked for the confusion of it all.

Molly and Sherlock were swept up in a wave of hugs and kisses and beaming faces. All the while Mary scolded the children to wipe their sticky hands lest they ruin Molly’s good suit. Everyone wanted to see Uncle ‘Sir’ Sherlock now, and everyone wanted to see how their beloved Mr. Hooper had been honored, which Molly proudly showed them. Sherlock flippantly held his own medal up at their request.

“I can show you something better than that,” he said to the children with a wink as he pocketed the box. He tugged off Molly’s glove, and together they showed the children and Mary and John the engagement ring. All at once there was an elated shout of joy. Everyone was talking at once and clapping hands, the little girls all skipped in a circle around Molly while John shook Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock and Molly could only look at the smiling faces and then turned to each other. 

They were at last home.

Chapter Text

The sun was high in the sky, a rare sight indeed for Ferndown, with hardly a cloud in the sky.

“Perfect weather for a wedding,” Mary said, passing Rosie to Molly. “Would you set her in the pram for me?”

“I’m so glad,” Molly sighed. “It would be such a pity for it to rain, there’s nothing worse than slogging through the mud in heels.” Carefully, she set Rosie in the pram waiting by the front door.

“And you would know,” Mary laughed. She checked her watch. “We’d better go now, if we want to stop by the hall to drop off the pies.” She stepped into the parlor where Sherlock and John were packing up the violin and concertina. “John, we’re going, you’ve got the boys, yes?”

“Yep, we’ll see you shortly,” he kissed her goodbye while Sherlock helped Molly into her coat.

“It’s nice of you to bring your violin,” Molly said after.

“Well…it is a party, after all, and Lestrade is an old friend,” excused Sherlock.

“I still think it’s sweet of you.”

“If I cannot dance with you, then I shall have to make do and play for you,” he answered, quirking a brow. “How are you, by the way?” he asked suddenly. “You were sick yesterday.”

“Oh, much better,” Molly answered, almost too quickly.

“You’re sure?” he asked, frowning. Molly had had a recent bout of sickness at odd times. He fretted perhaps it was something serious, but the symptoms didn’t last long enough for him to detect any pattern.

“Fairly sure, anyway it’s passed, so I shan’t think about it anymore!” She kissed him once more. “We must fly, see you at the church!”

“See you then,” he answered, still not quite sure Molly was telling him the truth. Knowing her even if she was ill, she would keep it to herself.

On the walk to town, the girls all ran ahead, carrying the baskets between them while Mary and Molly took turns pushing the pram.

 “I don’t know how much longer I can fit this,” Molly fretted, wincing as the fabric at her waist pinched uncomfortably, the zipper straining. She paused, suddenly nervous. “Mary…do you think I could borrow some of your maternity clothes?”

Realization dawned on her friend’s face, and Mary beamed, but just as suddenly as her smile grew, it faded into a shy blush. “Oh Molly! You don't mean- oh! Oh...dear…" she covered her mouth, unable to keep herself from smiling. "I don’t think I’ll be able to loan them to you...”

Now it was Molly’s turn to look surprised, and she and Mary could only helplessly laugh, hugging each other on the road.

“Whatever are we going to do?” Molly asked. Fabric was hard enough to come by. Her fashionable wardrobe suddenly seemed a dreadful waste.

“We’ll pull apart your clothes, and make them fit,” Mary answered simply. “The suits will just have to go to the back of the closet, or they could be passed on to someone else,”

“Mr. Grover’s daughter is going to Dublin, to University,” Molly added. “I’m sure she could do with a few new things.”

“The dresses we can easily make do with, there’s loads of wear in the skirts,” Mary decided. “That ought to keep you until more fabric can be got. I’m sure Mycroft could see that something is rushed out to you.”

“That’s true, I haven’t had to buy anything for the past year or so,” Molly nodded. “I’ve got quite a stack of fabric coupons in my booklet!”

Mary regarded her then, a twinkle in her eye. “Does Sherlock know?”

“Not yet,” Molly tugged at the front of her dress. “There hasn’t been time.”

“How long have you known?”

Molly looked sheepish. “Since this morning. I haven’t been feeling quite right for the past month or so. It all clicked when I couldn’t button my dress. I feel like an absolute fool for not seeing it sooner.”

“Sherlock will be delighted,” Mary grinned. “Are you going to tell him today?”

“No,” Molly shook her head. “Today is Janine and Greg’s special day, I’d hate to be any sort of distraction from that!” she paused. “Does John know?” she nodded to Mary’s just barely visible bump.

“He always does,” Mary laughed ruefully. “He’s gotten to be quite good at figuring it out, but then, we’ve got eight already, I’d be a bit disappointed if he didn’t know by now what I look like in this fashion!”

Back at the house, John and Sherlock were collecting the boys together.

“You go ahead,” John ushered the boys out the door. “Stay on the road, and out of the puddles, let me catch you with dirty shoes-“

“Yes da,” the boys all answered and started down the path. Sherlock closed the door to the house behind them, patting Gladstone on his way down the steps. The weather was mild, so he gladly left his cane behind. He needed it less and less these days, at least as the weather was growing warmer.

“How’s Molly?” John asked as they started after the boys.

“Fine,” Sherlock answered.

“That’s good,” John nodded. “When Mary was pregnant with her first, she seemed to get all the symptoms at once- the exhaustion, raised temperature, the awful morning sickness-“

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

John stopped, looking at his friend, almost laughing. “Come off it, Sherlock, don’t tell me you didn’t notice-“ seeing Sherlock’s expression, John sobered. “Oh…cripes you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Sherlock,” John was biting back a grin. “Your wife is pregnant.”

Sherlock stared. Pregnant? His Molly? A baby! A precious life growing in his wife and he didn’t know about it. He could just hear Mycroft ‘You’re slipping, brother-mine.’  He wanted to run straight into town and pick Molly up and bring her back safe and sound to the house and keep her there. “Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked softly.

“Likely she only just found out herself,” John shrugged. “Not to be crass, but you can see it when you look at her is all.”

“Why did you see it before me, she’s my wife!” Sherlock complained, he was angrier that he hadn’t noticed sooner.

“I’m used to seeing Mary like that,” John shrugged. “You tend to notice, when you’ve been there eight times before. They must be close together as far as their terms go.”

Sherlock suddenly turned and hurried back toward the house.

“Where are you going?” John asked, alarmed.

“I’m going to drive,” Sherlock hurried to the truck, John close behind. They picked up the boys on the way before speeding towards town.

Sherlock applied the brake outside of the town hall, the truck lurching to a stop. The engine hadn’t even settled when he jumped out and hurrying into the open doorway. Molly was shifting a table to one end of the room.

“What on earth are you doing?” he fairly shouted, genuinely alarmed.

“Oh!” she dropped the table with a start. “I didn’t expect you for another twenty minutes, goodness! Well you can help me move the table here-“

“What are you doing-” he repeated. “-Lifting anything in your condition?”

“My condition-“ she colored modestly. “Keep your voice down,” she whispered. “Come along,” she tugged him over to the coat room.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he pressed. “Are you sure you’re alright? We can go home right away if you’re not well-“

“Honestly, shush,” she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I’m fine, truly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked again, softer.

“I only just realized it this morning, there wasn’t time to tell you,” she answered. He drew her into his arms, pressing her neck.

“A baby…a baby…truly?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she laughed softly. Taking his hand, she placed it over her rounded belly, just beginning to show under her dress. It was too soon for him to feel the heartbeat or feel the gentle fluttering that Molly had only begun to feel herself. “I’m afraid you and John will have your hands full, with Mary and I both expecting.”

Sherlock cradled her face, pressing his lips to her forehead, her soft cheeks and finally her mouth.

“Are you certain today won’t be too much for you?” he fretted.

“Quite sure,” Molly promised. “Come along, lend a hand and help set up, we’ll be late otherwise, and you’re due to play the bride down the aisle.”

Sherlock obeyed, drawing her hand into the crook of his elbow. Amidst all the children and John and Mary and Greg setting up the hall, Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of Molly. Her condition confirmed to him, he memorized her shape, the swell of her belly, the softness of her hips. He had noticed an increase in her figure lately, but one doesn’t point that out to one’s wife, not if they want to continue sharing a bed. Now it all made sense! As glad as he was for his friend's nuptials, Sherlock was more eager than ever to get Molly away from the crowds, from the possibility of harm, back to the safety of the house where he could keep an eye on her. 

The day was a lively one, everyone exclaimed over how lovely the pews were decorated, how beautiful the bride looked, how proud the groom was. Janine and Greg were all smiles, only having eyes for each other. The reception after was a happy affair with tables groaning under all the food brought. Amidst the noisy, happy sounds of the town talking and laughing, singing and eating together, John at last stood nodding to the musicians to begin.

Sherlock started first, and the others joined in. Molly stood with Mary in the kitchen door, watching as couples began to fill the floor. Through the crowd, Sherlock found his wife’s gaze, and he quirked a smile at her. John and Mary joined the waltzing couples on the floor. Sherlock blinked, and for a moment, lost sight of Molly in the crowd. She appeared at his side, taking the empty stool. She picked up the concertina and joined in the music. She’d been practicing for a year now, so he was not at all surprised at her ease with the instrument, but it did not lessen how he felt, seeing her play her father’s concertina, seeing her laugh and sing along with the songs Richard had so dearly loved. The song ended and he bent down to kiss her gently.

“Are you happy, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, as the musicians tuned up their instruments again.

“My dear woman, if I were less happy, I may be able to talk about it more.” Hearing the others behind them beginning to play, he raised his bow, poising it over the strings. “However, I shall be more than happy to show you tonight.” With a wink at her, clearly enjoying her flushed cheeks, he joined in the song, weaving along with the music.

When at last everyone had their fill of dancing, and the food was eaten up and the beer and cider gone, everyone lent a hand cleaning up. Sherlock, for his part, excused himself and Molly early. Molly wanted to stay and help, but he insisted.

“It’s your first pregnancy,” he scolded, low. “You need to rest, John, tell her.”

“I think mums are allowed to do as they please,” John laughed. “But it wouldn’t do you any harm to turn in early, it’s been a busy week for you and Mary. The Grover's and the McCarthy's are going to stay and pick things up, so we're turning in as well.” 

“See?” Sherlock helped his wife into her coat, tugging her along as she lingered to say goodbye to everyone. 

On the ride home, Molly rested against Sherlock’s shoulder, sighing tiredly. With one hand, Sherlock reached under the seat, taking the rug out from underneath and setting it over her lap. 

“I wish Father were here,” she murmured sleepily. Sherlock glanced down at her, squeezing her knee. 

“He’d be proud of you, and that’s a fact.” he looked at her then, her face illuminated by the pale moonlight. “Your taking over the farm as you have-”

“Marrying you,” she laughed and kissed him. 

“You could do worse,” he sniffed. 

“Huh!” She kissed his neck before settling against him once more. “I think it would've tickled him, knowing you and I got married.”

“Made our home in his home,” he added. 

“Expanded the family,” she rubbed her hand against her belly, sighing with delight. “Did you ever think life could be this wonderful, Sherlock?” 

“No,” he shook his head, taking his eyes from the road briefly to look at her once more. “But I am more glad than I can say that I have been proven wrong in this regard.” He bent and kissed her then before turning the truck into the driveway. Gladstone sat by the front door, tail thumping as he caught sight of them.

It was good to be home.