Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are some things that you cannot experience with another person without falling in love with them. Being saved from the wreck of a rapidly plummeting airship by a boy who can fly is one of those things.

(Did I mention the airship was on fire?)

 I suppose I should introduce myself.

My name is Talise, and I’m a nymph, or water spirit; an elemental, if you will. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance!
Now, something you should understand, my dear reader, is that- although in many ways it is quite like your own- in our world, magic is quite commonplace. In fact, everyone in this world has a magical companion, or familiar; an elemental spirit, like me, who goes through life with them as a magical helper and friend.
Each person has an affinity for one of the four elements- Earth, Air, Water or Fire- that usually makes itself known in the first few years of their life, and shortly thereafter, a spirit corresponding to that element will “adopt” them, so to speak; thus becoming their familiar for the rest of their life.
I’m the familiar of one John H. Watson, a young mechanic aboard the airship Recovery. (And I’m here to tell you his story, not mine, so I’d best be getting along with it, hadn’t I?)

John was born on the eleventh of March, 1846, to Margaret Watson. She raised John and his older sister Harriet in a small village south of London; they never knew their father.

John took odd jobs around town from a very young age, helping to support his family in any way he could. At the age of twelve, he found work at a clock factory, and there his love for machines and clockworks began.
When John was fourteen, his mother became very ill with tuberculosis, and passed away later the same year. It affected Harriet perhaps more than her brother, and she began to drink heavily and lead a reckless lifestyle of which John disapproved, creating a rift between them that has never fully healed.

He found refuge in books and his mechanical work, and at the age of fifteen, a family friend, Greg Lestrade, helped to send him to the Royal Academy of Mechanical Arts to train in (what else?) mechanics- specifically, airship mechanics.
He took John under his wing and, once he graduated at the age of nineteen, helped him get a job working on the brand-new airship Recovery.....and that was, oh, two years ago, now?

This airship is where our story truly begins- today, July the twelfth, 1867, is the date of the Recovery’s maiden voyage, and also, coincidentally, the day our Johnny’s life starts getting much, much more interesting.

So buckle up, dear reader, and come along for the ride!

Chapter Text

The day dawns bright, the morning sun stretching lazily and bathing London in its light. The city begins to stir; laughing children clamber out of bed to rouse their sleeping mothers; a young woman wakes her lover with a kiss.
Down at the docks, the sailors call back and forth, their yells mixing with the clanging of bells and gentle lapping of waves against the piers. Clockworks of all shapes and sizes scurry about, carrying cargo and loading the boats. The sailors pay them no mind; they're used to the funny machines, as most everyone is- they've become a normal part of life here.

At the airship yard, John Watson has been awake for hours. Today is a big day- his first day in the air! In just a few short hours, the magnificent airship Recovery- a luxury zeppelin transporting the wealthy and bored on a two-week voyage across Europe (first stop, Vienna)- will make her first flight. John will be aboard, though not as a passenger. No, he's of the working class; he's just a lowly mechanic, but he loves what he does.
John would much rather be belowdecks- making sure every cog and gear is in place and every clockwork is running smoothly- than above, laughing and gossiping, carefree and shallow. He's a steady sort of person, dependable and strong and there, and he loves the machines. He has a knack with them, taking them apart and putting them back together better than they were before.

John is a little like that with people, too.
Somehow, the lost souls come to him. Sad people, broken people; they find him, seek him out, and he makes them whole again; makes them better than before.

 “I’m not going.”

“PREPOSTEROUS!” Archibald Holmes, Lord Sherringford, yells, hurling an encyclopaedia across his study.

His son, Sherlock, catches it neatly in both hands. He regards his father coolly- is that the best you can do?

“I’m not going,” the eighteen-year-old repeats. “I refuse to be dragged along on this pointless vacation when I could be continuing my research.”

“I'll have no more of this bloody research nonsense, boy! You'll do as I tell you!” his father roars. His familiar- Azar, a fire spirit- hisses, sending off sparks.

Judging by the redness of Archibald's face, the tone of his voice, and the whisky stains on the shirt stretched tight over his large belly, he’s hung over and well on his way to drunk, though it’s just eleven o’clock in the morning. (This is hardly surprising to Sherlock, as his father is very rarely not hung over, drunk, or both).

 “No, Father, I don’t believe I will,” Sherlock says carelessly, depositing the heavy volume on Archibald’s desk and strolling out the large oak doors of the study. He senses the heat in the air that means his Fire familiar, Fia, is with him. She whispers in his ear- a tickle of warmth- "Run!"

Sherlock wastes no time in complying, and hears his father yell “BOY! GET BACK HERE!” as he makes his escape, racing through the winding halls of the Holmes manor.
He looks behind him, and once he’s quite sure that his father or Azar (or one of his father’s clockworks- much more likely, as they aren’t overweight drunkards, he thinks), isn't following him and Fia, they slow. Leaning against a panelled wall, he catches his breath and sighs; Fia whooshes through the air next to him.
Why does he have to be so controlling?

Despite his son’s repeated protests, his father continues to dismiss Sherlock's interest in alchemical engineering as "petty" and "common." Archibald insists that his younger son follow in his footsteps (and those of Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft) and take up the family business- politics.
Archibald Holmes- technically, Viscount Archibald Thaddeus Siger Holmes, Lord Sherringford- holds a “minor” (read: “very important and very classified”) position in the British government, one which Mycroft is well on his way to inheriting, even at the young age of twenty-five.

Sherlock, on the other hand, could care less about titles and politics and social affairs. He wants nothing more than to continue his studies.
But unfortunately, there are several factors working against his ambitions: the first being his family, of course, and the next being…well, more than a little different.

Puzzlingly brilliant, sharp-witted to the point of rudeness, and unusually, almost ethereally handsome, Sherlock is a curiosity for certain. But the one thing that makes him so different- the one thing his father tries so hard to hide from society’s prying eyes- is his dual affinity.

Every so often, a child is born with not one affinity, but two. It is an extraordinarily rare occurrence, and one frowned upon by polite society. These rare people are nicknamed “two-souls”, and viewed as abominations; they are mocked, shunned and even feared everywhere that they go, and for this reason, many of them live in hiding or exile, far away from the rest of the world.

Sherlock, being a young man of respectable heritage and a socially prominent family, does not have this luxury. When he was born, his affinity revealed itself to be Fire, like his father’s; his Mark formed and Fia made herself known. All seemed normal, until the afternoon of Sherlock’s fifth birthday. The family’s maid, Elizabeth, was bringing his birthday tea out to the garden when she discovered the little boy levitating- something only Air affinities can do- and promptly fainted from the shock.

From then on, the Holmeses have worked their hardest to keep the nature of Sherlock’s abilities hidden, but there is always the matter of the Marks.

Every person has a Mark- a tattoo-like symbol on the inside of their wrist, representing their affinity. But Sherlock has two: a burst of red and orange flames licking the inside of his right wrist, and a grey feather caught in a swirl of white, representing wind, wrapped around his left.
His father insists that he hide them under long sleeves and buttoned cuffs, but there have always been “accidents”- a button popping off, a sleeve rolled up carelessly- that lead to the revelation of both Marks, eliciting shocked stares from passerby or guests.
The ladies cover their mouths; the gentlemen cough and avert their eyes. But Sherlock lets them stare, meeting their eyes haughtily, unflinching.
He gave up caring long ago.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock?”

His mother’s voice floats from the open door of one of the manor’s many drawing rooms. Sherlock stops, and enters it hesitantly.

“Mummy.”

Lady Philomena Holmes smiles at her youngest son from where she sits on the velvet divan. Sunlight streams in from the picture window behind her, shining off the freshly polished tea service on the table and threading gold through her long auburn hair.
Brizo, her water-spirit familiar, twines himself round her shoulders like a barely-visible, watery blue scarf. One of the family’s clockwork servants brings her the teapot on a tray before scuttling back to its corner, and she takes it gracefully. She pours a cup and offers it to Sherlock with an inquisitive look.

“Tea, darling?”

He nods, stepping further into the room and sitting down heavily in a chair opposite his mother. He accepts the proffered cup of tea, and is barely seated when Mummy smiles at him in the way that means “we need to talk.”
He sighs inwardly. Naturally, he has already guessed what his mother wants with him, and his suspicions are confirmed as soon as she opens her mouth.

“Sherlock, your father tells me you still think you won’t be accompanying us to Vienna tonight.”

Sherlock scowls, taking a sip of tea so he doesn’t have to respond. It’s quite delicious- black with two sugars, just the way he likes it: how infuriating.
Mummy waits. She sets her teacup delicately in its saucer and raises an eyebrow- spitting image of Mycroft, Sherlock thinks.

“Well, he is absolutely correct. I won’t be.”

“Won’t you, now!” His mother’s voice is mock-surprised, almost patronizing, and Sherlock’s temper spikes. As much as his mother is the only person in the world Sherlock respects and views as an equal, he often forgets how like her he is, and thus how irritatingly cheeky they- he- can be.

“No, Mummy, I won’t. I want to continue my work, and the trip will be so boring.” Sherlock stops himself, realizing how whiny he sounds, but adds a “Please,” just for good measure. (Manners, and all that).

Philomena sets her teacup and saucer down and leans forward to take Sherlock’s hand in hers. Brizo shimmers down from her shoulders to meet Fia, who is twined round Sherlock's wrist in her usual manner. Steam results when they touch- fire and water. But Sherlock is pleased to see that she hisses and avoids contact- good girl.

“My dear, I know you would rather stay here and study. But we’ve a ticket booked for you- an expensive ticket, mind-“ Philomena adds pointedly- “and it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Besides, you never know; you might end up enjoying yourself…”
She winks, patting his hand and picking up her teacup again. She takes a sip, looking at her son over the rim of the cup with a firm expression that clearly says "and that's that."

Sherlock sighs again. “Fine. But I won’t like it.”
He is fully aware of how childish he’s being, but he doesn’t care. What kind of family doesn’t want their children to focus on their studies? he wonders, irritated. Mine, apparently.

He gulps back the last of his tea and stands to go. As he is turning to leave, his mother coughs pointedly; he turns back to her with a huff. She smiles primly and offers a cheek, which he kisses reluctantly before repeating the process on the other side. Her scent- rosewater and face powder- is soothing and familiar, and as much as Sherlock wants to be angry with her, he relaxes and finds that he simply can’t.

“Goodbye, Mummy.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock, darling. I expect you packed and ready to leave at four-thirty sharp!” she calls after his retreating back.

Back at the airship yard, John and his colleagues are in top form. They- with the assistance of plenty of clockworks- dash back and forth from ship to docks, loading food, booze, extra fuel and more supplies. John, being a mechanic, is soon called over, along with his friend Greg Lestrade, to do one of many last-minute checks on the fuel cells. If there’s a problem with even one of the thousands of cells, the ship will be hugely weakened, and the likelihood of a crash will go through the roof- but that’s not going to happen, John reassures himself. He’s in high spirits today, and refuses to let anything dull his mood.

Flying! At long last! John has dreamed of this day since he was a little boy, seeing dirigibles and the occasional zeppelin in the skies over London, and imagining how free it must be in the air.
No worrying about making enough money to eat that week- if I’m up there, surely I’ll have money, he remembers thinking; now, he smiles, thinking Well, not quite. No wondering where Harry is at all hours of the day (and night); no worrying about his sick mum. Just him; looking down at the world in awe, the wind in his hair and no ground beneath his feet, absolutely free.

“John!”
He is pulled from his thoughts by a shout from Greg. He looks over to see his friend gesturing him over, so he jogs (followed by Talise) to where Greg stands next to a large pile of trunks, bags and cases.
Some of the wealthier passengers- so, most of the passengers- have sent their luggage on ahead, to save time later on. However, it’s a time-consuming nuisance for the crew, and John sighs inwardly. His first flight and he’s stuck loading baggage with the clockworks?
Greg sees John’s face fall a little, and grins, clapping the shorter man on the back. “Hey, c’mon there, Johnny m’boy. We’ve all gotta do things we don’t want to, y’hear? Luggage detail’s not so bad.”

At that moment, one of their colleagues, a young man named Dimmock, lugs an enormous steamer trunk past them, followed by a large woman in purple holding a small dog and squawking orders at him.
“Idiot boy! Be more careful with that! That trunk is full of the latest fashions from Paree, and I won’t have them ruined by some porter’s incompetency!”
As Dimmock passes John and Greg, they hear him mutter under his breath “Not a porter.” Evidently so does the woman, as she shrieks “What was that? I’ll have no sass from you, young man!”

John and Greg struggle to control their giggles, and the red-faced Dimmock glares murderously at them as he continues towards the cargo hold. The clockwork that should have been helping him follows behind, buzzing cheerily.
 John raises an eyebrow and says skeptically “Not so bad, huh?”
Greg shrugs, grinning. “Well, there’s always the nutters. But buck up! We’ll be up there in no time,” he says, jerking his chin to the sky.
John nods. “Yeah, you’re right. I’d best be off, then.” He waves to Greg and sets off towards the pile of bags, followed by a whirring clockwork. It buzzes round him as he selects a trunk; he strains as he lifts it, glaring at the clockwork- a little help?
It reaches out its two metal arms and takes the trunk. John decides that the clockwork can hold a little more, so he carefully piles three hatboxes into its waiting arms, securing them properly before sending the clockwork on its way.
He then turns back to the pile of baggage, where another clockwork has already arrived and hovers patiently, waiting. He sighs and starts to load this one too, counting down the hours until they fly.

Chapter Text

At four p.m. sharp, three of the Holmeses stand waiting in the foyer of their enormous house. The older Holmes boy, Mycroft, leans against the wall and taps his foot impatiently. His Earth familiar Demetria rests on his shoulder. Mycroft checks his watch and raises an eyebrow: his brother is late, as always.

Lady Philomena, dressed elegantly in a green day dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat, holds a hatbox tucked in the crook of her arm; her earrings tinkle as she looks around the high-ceilinged room. The air around her ripples blue as Brizo darts around her shoulders.

Next to her, her husband Archibald- his large red face glistening with sweat- sighs impatiently, checking his pocket watch for what seems like the hundredth time in a few minutes. Azar hisses angrily and sends off sparks, otherwise invisible but for a shimmer of heat.

Archibald huffs angrily.

“Where is the bloody boy? I swear to God, if he doesn’t get his arse down here, I’ll-“

But his wife and older son never hear what Lord Holmes will do to Sherlock, because at that moment he appears at the top of the spiral staircase with a clockwork and his trunk in tow. Fia swirls round the wrist Marked with Fire.
Sherlock comes clattering down the stairs with a scowl on his face and comes to an abrupt stop in front of his father, followed closely by the whirring machine, which deposits his trunk next to the others before zooming off to join three others hovering in the corner.
Archibald grunts, clearly irritated, but says nothing; Mycroft sniffs and opens his mouth, but a sharp glare from his mother stops him in his tracks. The Holmes family matriarch claps her gloved hands and says with a bright smile “Well! Shall we be off, then? Aleksander has the carriage ready out front.” She turns briskly and marches out of the house, her bustle swishing; the four clockworks follow close behind, carting the luggage.

The men of the family murmur their grudging assent, clearly displeased with one another. Sherlock leads the way, stalking behind the parade of clockworks into the bright summer afternoon. The family’s driver, Aleksander, loads the carriage with the help of the clockworks before aiding Philomena in stepping up to the cab; she takes his hand and sits primly down with a smile. Sherlock climbs up next to her and sits heavily, crossing his arms and sinking low in his seat.
“I don’t want to be here,” he says low enough for his mother to hear.
“Maybe not, but you are here, and I expect you to behave yourself, Sherlock. You are a young man of respectable breeding and I expect you to act like it, you understand?” Philomena looks her youngest son square in the eye, her tone serious.
Sherlock sighs, but offers no other response.

Soon, Mycroft is seated next to Sherlock, his umbrella held across his lap, and Archibald has hefted his large form into the passenger’s side (with some huffing and puffing). Aleksander asks “Are we ready, then?” Lord Holmes nods curtly, mopping his forehead; and with that, Aleksander cracks the reins and they are off.

***

One awkward and painfully silent carriage ride later, the family arrives at the airship yard. It is a flurry of activity, with the Recovery looming in the distance. Her enormous hull shines soft gold in the late-afternoon light, and she bobs a few feet off the ground, tethered by two dozen ropes. Sunlight reflects brilliantly off the gondola’s many windows.
Before her, porters rush in all directions, shouting orders to clockworks and each other; passengers hug their families goodbye before heading in the direction of the boarding area, waving handkerchiefs tearfully; and inside the control room of the massive zeppelin, the crew are being given their instructions.

Commodore Hiram Levi strides about the room with his hands tucked behind his back as he speaks. His familiar- an air spirit, naturally; John doesn't know her name- darts playfully around him.
“Now, men, remember- your job is not to fraternize with the passengers. Be friendly, yes, be courteous, but if I catch any of you in a linen closet with one of the young ladies on board…”
He winks, twirling his mustache with one finger, and the crew, including John, laugh.
The Commodore is a large, jolly man with a shock of white hair who flies exceptionally well. His crew adore and respect him immensely, and John knows he is lucky to be flying with him. He claps his large hands once and says “Alright, then! Off with you!” before saluting his crew, who automatically salute back before hurrying off to wherever they need to be.

John turns to follow Dimmock and Greg out of the room, but the Commodore booms his name and he stops.
“Watson! Wait up a minute, would you?”
John whirls to face the Commodore, his face flushing immediately- has he done something wrong already? But the old man is smiling, and he gives a jolly laugh as he claps a hand on John’s shoulder.
“No need to look so scared, m’boy- you’re not in trouble. I just wanted to wish you good luck- today’ll be your first flight, if I’m not mistaken?”

John grins, surprised and pleased that the Commodore remembers this. “Yes, sir, it will.”

“Are ya nervous?” the Commodore inquires, his eyes twinkling.

“No, sir. I’m….well, I’m very excited, actually,” John replies eagerly, feeling his smile widen.

The Commodore laughs again, a big booming sound. “Excellent!”

He is about to continue speaking when one of the officers in the cockpit with them comes over and taps his shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir, but we take off in five minutes, and-“

The Commodore takes a large gold watch on a chain from his pocket and flips it open. His eyebrows rise as he checks the time.
“Great Scott! You are absolutely correct, Wilson; thank you for reminding me.”

The officer- whose hair is a rather alarming shade of red- nods curtly, salutes and returns to his post at the controls. He pulls a lever, and John can hear gears start to whir deep inside the machine.

The Commodore strides to a brass megaphone on the center console and lifts it to his mouth, flipping a switch. He clears his throat and begins to speak.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard! This is your captain speaking. We will be taking off in just a few moments, so I advise you to find a window- the view will be spectacular!”
Although he faces away from him, John can hear the grin in his voice, and he grins too. His toes tingle- soon! So soon!

The Commodore continues.
“Dinner will be served at eight o’clock in the main dining room, just off the lounge. Until then, make yourself comfortable; our crew will be happy to assist you with anything you may require. Have a lovely evening, and enjoy your time aboard the Recovery!”

And with that, they are off.

***

Chapter Text

John feels the ground move beneath him as the fuel cells start to lift. One curved wall of the cockpit is comprised entirely of windows, and he rushes to it now, pressing his face against the glass like a small boy at a candy shop. He stares out at the sky, his heart pounding.

The sunset stretches out in front of him. The sun is just sinking beneath the horizon, the sky streaked brilliantly orange and gold; the Thames appears to run red. It is breathtaking, and John can’t tear his eyes away.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching London spread out and gradually grow smaller beneath him. It is only when he feels a hand on his shoulder that he jumps back from the window, his face growing hot.

The Commodore says sternly “Off to work with you, now, Watson.”
John splutters an apology, but once again, the Commodore’s eyes twinkle and he claps John on the back. “Only joshin’ with ya, m’boy! Grand, isn’t it, the sunset?” John nods mutely.

“I remember me first flight like it were yesterday. Marvelous thing, flying…”

He gazes out the window, deep in thought, but after a moment the spell is broken. The red-headed officer, Wilson, calls “Sir?” from the console, and the Commodore sighs. “Yes, coming, Wilson, what is it? Goodbye, Watson! Enjoy your first flight,” he calls to John, who slips quietly out the door of the cockpit.

“You can bet your life I will!” John calls back boldly. He hears the Commodore chuckle as he makes his way down to the engine room with a light heart and a new spring in his step.

“Yes, Sherlock is a brilliant boy, but he simply doesn’t apply himself…If he just tried a little harder, he could be where Mycroft is now, isn’t that right, boy?”

Sherlock’s father claps him on the back, hard, and Sherlock stiffens and bites his lip. Mycroft smiles smugly.

Their mother says “Now, now…” warningly, with a meaningful glance at her husband. He guffaws, and the little group of his business associates who have gathered around them titters. Archibald swigs back some cognac and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before launching loudly into what he thinks to be a scintillatingly funny anecdote, involving the family’s gardener, a malfunctioning clockwork and a badly timed gust of wind. His ‘admirers’ pretend to listen intently and laugh much too loudly; all hoping for a raise or even a favourable glance from one of the most important men in London.

There may be many things Sherlock dislikes about his father, but even he is impressed by the power he holds.

While everyone is distracted, Sherlock takes the opportunity to slip quietly away. He finds himself on the other side of the lounge, next to a wall made entirely of windows. The sun is just beginning to sink behind the clouds, and Sherlock rests his elbows on the gilt railing and settles in to enjoy the show.

The sunset glows scarlet, the clouds ablaze before him. The clouds move slowly, gracefully, tinged gold with the last rays of sunlight. Sherlock smiles to himself, the glass cool on his forehead; lost in a daydream as London’s skyline is painted orange beneath his feet.

But soon- too soon- his mother’s voice pierces his thoughts.
“Sherlock?” she calls from across the lounge. He looks up. The little group of his father’s admirers have dispersed; Sherlock sees them crowded around the bar where his father now sits, laughing drunkenly and drinking deeply from a snifter.

Philomena calls again, this time with a hint of warning in her voice. “Sherlock….”

He sighs and gestures impatiently to her- yes, I’m coming.

He shoves his hands in his pockets with a huff and takes one last look at the sunset before turning and making his way across the wide, elegant space, past dainty gilt chairs and mahogany tables. Turkish rugs and marble sculptures add a sumptuous, if over-extravagant touch.

Sherlock makes it barely ten steps before crashing headlong into a sandy-haired young man dashing in the other direction. They collide, and suddenly Sherlock finds himself on the floor.

He is back on his feet in a flash, dusting off his bespoke trousers and ensuring that his beloved fob watch isn't damaged. He can feel his temper flaring. Beside him, the other man is scrambling to his feet too; Sherlock rounds on him and is about to start yelling, but something in the other man’s face stops him.

Immediately, the gears in Sherlock’s brain start spinning.

Water affinity; his cuffs are rolled up and there’s a water Mark on his left wrist. Plain white shirt; ship’s insignia over left breast pocket. Grease smudges on cuffs, callouses on hands- mechanic, then. Poor- orphaned young, probably lived on the streets before his training. When we collided, his hand jumped to his left shoulder, and he’s rubbing it now, although the impact was on the right side. Previous injury, then, and one that usually causes him pain. Gunshot wound? Could be.

“Oh, gods, I'm sorry, mate! Didn't see you there,” the blond apologizes hastily. His face flushes and he smiles sheepishly.

“No, I…” Sherlock starts, but for once in his life he is at a loss for words, and trails off.

Chapter Text

Across the ship, in the luxurious Bohemian Stateroom, Molly Hooper is having a staring match with the row of dresses in her mistress's closet.

She gazes on the colourful array of silk confections with an increasing sense of dread. Although they are only on the ship for two weeks, her mistress had insisted on bringing approximately one-third of her closet, which is larger than most women's entire collections. It is now Molly's job to pick a suitable one- something "spectacular", in her mistress's words- for tonight.

Around the room, open hatboxes and high-heeled shoes litter the floor; a corset and several crinolines and petticoats are scattered on the enormous bed. Several dresses lie discarded on the floor and draped over chairs. The search for an outfit has not been going well. 
Molly swallows nervously and casts a glance at the closed bathroom door, behind which her mistress is currently bathing. This is their first night aboard the Recovery, and her mistress wants to "make an impression."

On who, Molly's not sure, but she desperately hopes that whatever she picks out will live up to her mistress's reputation.

She paces back and forth, running her hands over elaborate evening gowns and (only slightly) simpler day dresses of all shades and fabrics. She is completely at a loss- but suddenly, her water familiar Aenon darts down from where he rests on her shoulder to hover in front of a bit of red silk, peeking out from between two day dresses. 

"What's that you've found?" Molly murmurs. She steps closer and pushes the dresses aside, a flicker of hope rising in her chest. 

She gasps when she sees it- perfect! 
Molly pulls it out from the mass of dresses and lays it fully on the bed, feeling pleased with herself. Aenon returns to her shoulder, and she smiles and whispers "Thank you!"

The dress is a gorgeous thing, made of finest silk; bloodred and elegantly cut in a style too daring for....for, well, everyone but the Lady Irene Adler, who is now stepping out of the bathroom. Steam billows from behind the open door, and there stands The Woman herself, wearing only a short white shift.
She looks...radiant, Molly thinks before she can stop herself. She quickly casts her eyes to the floor.

"Well, Molly, what have you got for me?" Irene asks. Her voice is tinged with a hint of her usual seductive purr. Molly swallows and brushes her hair from her eyes. She stammers "I- I think I've found you a dress, Miss Adler...."

"Oh?"
Irene examines the red gown. Her familiar, a fire spirit called Erasmus, swooshes over her shoulder and hovers to look as well. Molly waits nervously for what seems an eternity.

But at last, Irene turns. She faces her maid with a satisfied smirk and says "Mm, I think this will do very nicely. Well done." 
Molly bobs a curtsy. "Thank you, Miss Adler."

Molly hurries to retrieve the rest of her mistress's undergarments, and helps her dress in the many layers- stockings, garters, chemise, drawers, petticoats, and finally an exquisitely embroidered white silk corset.

Irene puts it on, fastening the stays in the front, and then grips one post of the four-poster bed, bracing herself. She looks at Molly expectantly.
"Now, Molly- lace me up."

Molly steps close and Irene takes a deep breath and holds it. Molly makes quick work of the corset, lacing it tightly; Irene winces, and Molly asks hastily "Too tight, miss?" 
Irene sucks in a breath and says with some difficulty, "No." 
Molly helps her tie the corset-cover in front, draping it prettily across her bust, and finishing with a beribboned petticoat tied tight round her tiny waist.

Irene steps into her hoops and then the ruffled taffeta crinoline, which Molly fluffs out around her, creating a magnificent silhouette.
And then, at last-
The richly coloured red silk dress goes on over Irene's head. Molly stifles a gasp when Irene pulls it down and spreads the skirt out.

She moves to examine herself in the looking-glass, the gown bobbing as she walks. She puts her hands on her hips, twisting to examine every inch of her reflection.

Irene smiles in satisfaction.
"Perfect."

The dress hugs her slim figure, accentuating every curve; the skirt cascades over the crinoline, nearly sweeping the floor.  The colour pops against her creamy skin like a rose in the snow.
Irene's dark hair is twisted skilfully into an updo by Molly, and she chooses a daringly high pair of heeled spat boots. Long kid gloves and a black lace fan complete the outfit- bold, provocative, and undoubtedly stunning, just like The Woman herself.

She is magnificent.

"Now, Molly- lips." 

"Shade?"

Irene smiles, catlike.

"Blood."

And finally, perhaps an hour later, Irene is all ready. She stands in front of the looking-glass again, turning and looking over her shoulder to inspect her finished outfit. Erasmus rests on her arms like a shawl.
Irene smiles and says "You've outdone yourself, Molly." 
Molly smiles back hesitantly. "Thank you, Miss...." She trails off.

Irene has stepped closer to her, and she takes Molly's chin in one gloved hand. She rakes her eyes over Molly's face, and Molly blinks nervously, her eyes wide.

"Such a pretty girl you are, Molly..." Irene murmurs.

She suddenly leans in close and whispers in her ear, "What a shame you're so shy..."

Irene presses a kiss to Molly's cheek. And with a whirl of skirts and the scent of amber, she is gone, leaving Molly standing in stunned silence, alone.

Chapter Text

Just before eight o'clock, all one hundred and twenty of the Recovery's wealthy and well-dressed passengers have made their way to the lounge. The air is thick with conversation, laughter and cigarette smoke, and clockworks wend through the crowd, toting hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne on trays. 
The ladies, in their jewels and bustled skirts, laugh and chatter animatedly, resembling a horde of exotic birds. Their husbands in frock-coats and top hats puff on cigars and gruffly talk business. 

Sherlock swipes a glass of champagne from a passing clockwork and downs it in one gulp, wishing for something stronger. He isn't sure how he'll make it through yet another boring dinner with his family, or worse, his parents' society friends- and this ship is full of them, he thinks with despair.
Mycroft regards him sternly. He gives a slight disapproving cough. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and shrugs. He flags down another clockwork and exchanges his empty glass for two more, eliciting a sigh from Mycroft. Sherlock smirks.

Eventually, the crowd makes its way to the dining room- an opulently decorated space, with gilt-framed windows all around, and a high ceiling. Polished silverware, china and crystal glasses sparkle atop white-draped tables. The Holmeses settle in to a long table in the centre of the room. The window to their right offers a splendid view of the velvet night sky, the lights of Calais twinkling below them.
The buzz of chatter from the lounge has not subsided; it now mingles with the clinking of glasses and silverware and the tinkling melodies of a grand piano, played by the ship's Commodore himself; a lively, jolly man with ruddy cheeks and a booming laugh. 

The air in the room shimmers red, blue, green. Everywhere, elemental familiars dart to and fro, exploring. Fia, however, stays where she is- like Sherlock, she doesn't enjoy meeting new people, and prefers not to interact with other familiars.

Lucky for Sherlock, none of his parents' stuffy society friends are joining them for dinner tonight. He notices immediately, however, that there is an extra chair at their table. His suspicions rise and he sits down warily, wondering what on earth his parents could have planned.

Mycroft sits down next to his younger brother and their father takes the seat opposite; Philomena sits to his right. She smiles and says "Well now, boys! How are you enjoying the voyage thus far, hmm?"

Mycroft looks rather pale as he says, clearly put-out, "I don't think I'm one for air travel, Mummy. I've been feeling quite ill. I'm rather thinking I should not have come; I'll have so much work to attend to when we return..."

Sherlock scoffs under his breath. "Loosen your belt a bit, before you bust something."

Archibald raises his hand to slap his son at the same time as Philomena cries "Sherlock! Be nice to your brother."

Sherlock neatly dodges his father's blow. Archibald gives him a murderous look and looks like he's going to say something, but is quickly distracted by a clockwork passing by with a bottle of gin. 

"Oi! I'll have some of that, there-"

The gin is poured and the man appeased. In the meantime, Philomena is comforting her oldest- "There, there, Mycroft, dearest, you'll get your sky legs soon enough, and we'll have a lovely time. Don't you worry." 
Mycroft shoots a peeved look at his brother, waving his mother off.
"Yes, Mother, I'll be fine. Perhaps we should have heeded Sherlock's wishes and left him at home; it would make this voyage more enjoyable for all of us..."

Philomena clucks and shakes her head reprovingly. "Oh, boys. Eighteen and twenty-five and still you bicker like schoolchildren...."

Sherlock sighs and spares a glance at his fob watch. Has it only been twenty minutes? Oh, good Lord, I've two weeks of this to look forward to.

They are midway through their salad course when there is a pause in the conversation. Sherlock's earlier apprehension returns suddenly, and his suspicions are soon confirmed- something is up.

Philomena and Archibald exchange a look. He nods slightly, and she clears her throat.

“Sherlock…” his mother begins cautiously.

Sherlock’s heart pounds. He tenses, and he feels Fia glow hot at his wrist.
What is going on?

“We have an announcement to make, dearest," Philomena continues.

“Yes?” Sherlock’s voice is polite, forced. “Do go on.”

His parents exchange another look. Philomena clearly knows that the news she's about to deliver will not please her youngest son. She takes a deep breath, clearly nervous.

Philomena Holmes is never nervous. This cannot be good, Sherlock thinks with a growing sense of dread.

His mother forces a smile.

"You're going to be betrothed!"

Sherlock grows cold. His head is suddenly filled with a bright white buzzing. Marriage?

‘’I…I….betrothed?” Sherlock splutters, not believing his ears. He feels himself standing, his anger rising, and Fia sends off sparks and hisses.

“What on earth- betrothed to whom?” he demands. Sherlock looks to his brother for support- did he know about this?-  but Mycroft pointedly avoids his gaze. He looks extremely uncomfortable- he did know, then. Bastard.

Suddenly, Sherlock remembers someone he’d rather forget- dangerously beautiful, charismatic, devious. He immediately starts to worry: it couldn’t be. Not still. Not her…

Sherlock stares round the table. Archibald twitches in his seat. His face grows increasingly redder as he takes another swig of his gin. Sherlock’s parents exchange another nervous look, and he pounces.

“Well? Out with it! Who’s the lucky lady? Who’ve you arranged for me to spend the rest of my life with, miserable and bitter and happily ever after?” he spits.

 He is shouting, he realizes. The gentle clinking of cutlery and festive hum of chatter in the air have died down, and the other people in the dining room are beginning to look at him and whisper amongst themselves.
Good.

He stares round the table, daring anyone to meet his burning gaze, daring them to say, to do anything. At last, his mother looks him square in the eye and says, her voice clear and measured:

 “Irene Adler.”

***

Chapter Text

At that moment, the doors to the dining room are opened wide with a loud noise. All across the room, conversation stops abruptly and there come the faint “pings” of metal hitting china as people drop their forks and turn to stare. There in the doorway stands The Woman herself.

Diamonds glitter at her throat, and in long slender fingers she holds a delicate black lace fan.
Her raven curls are piled in an elaborate updo. Her scarlet silk dress is cut daringly, hugging her slim frame tightly- scandalously. The skirt flares out beautifully and flows over her bustle in an elegant cascade of ruffles.
She is resplendent.

Irene Adler gives a lipsticked smile and a little wave of her hand, indicating that her audience should continue their supper as before. Conversation slowly resumes as she strides languorously across the dining room, leaving a trail of whispers and slack jaws in her wake- and heading straight for the Holmeses’ table.

“Ah, here she is, just in time!” Philomena says too brightly, trying to diffuse the black cloud that has settled over the table. She stands and greets Irene, clasping her hand and kissing her warmly on both cheeks.
“How have you been, Miss Adler? We haven’t seen you in simply ages; not since…”

Philomena blinks, turning away, and trails off. Archibald coughs and Mycroft shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Not since Iain, Sherlock finishes internally. He clenches his fists. The incident his mother is avoiding referring to is precisely the reason he refuses to marry Irene:

Growing up, Sherlock and Irene had been best friends. As the children of the Adlers and the Holmeses- two of London’s most socially prominent and powerful families- their childhoods had been comprised of giggling together under the tables at gala dinners; of swirling round the dance floor stepping on each other’s feet at the balls their parents hosted; and, once, stealing kisses behind the Adlers’ stables.

For their parents, the Viscount and Viscountess Sherringford and the Earl and Countess of Jersey, betrothal had always been the unspoken but logical next step in their children's relationship. It made perfect social sense, and as a bonus, their children would be happy. They arranged for Sherlock and Irene to be engaged when Sherlock turned eighteen, two years after Irene.
They smiled to themselves and watched their plans unfold as the two grew up and grew ever closer.

***

But some two years ago, when Irene was eighteen and Sherlock sixteen, Sherlock was involved in a scandal with Irene’s younger brother Iain.
At a country party hosted by some of the two families’ friends, Irene had walked in on her brother and Sherlock in what appeared to be a compromising position.

The now-grown-up and exceedingly beautiful Irene had always had feelings for Sherlock- ones she hoped might be reciprocated one day. But now, seeing him with Iain, she knew that that would never be. She threatened to tell the papers- or worse, their parents- what she’d seen, but Iain pleaded with her, insisting that he would die if they separated him from Sherlock.
And so, putting her own feelings aside out of care for her little brother, Irene relented.

Eight days later, Irene found Iain’s body.
She’d gone to fetch him for supper, but she discovered him lying in a pool of blood on his bedroom floor, wrists slashed, with a note clutched tight in his cold hand.
Irene screamed for her parents, and then quickly seized the note and tucked it in her corset before blacking out cold.

***

In his note, Iain explained that he had loved Sherlock, but Sherlock had rejected his advances. The thought of living without him had been too much to bear; and so, he ended his own life.

Lord and Lady Adler were devastated. Why had their son, an intelligent, witty and seemingly happy young man, suddenly killed himself? They immediately blamed themselves, and seeing the state her parents were in- utterly bewildered, grieving and thinking it was their fault- proved to be too much for Irene.
She confessed to them that Iain and Sherlock had been seeing each other- or so she thought.

 
The Adlers, horrified, blamed Sherlock entirely. However, they kept the plans for their children's betrothal intact: breaking it off so suddenly would seem suspicious, and draw more attention to Iain's death than they desired.

Irene stopped talking to Sherlock, finding it just too painful, and started to slip from society’s good graces; she rebelled, becoming notoriously promiscuous and seductive. Her reputation as “The Woman” was solidified when rumours about her and a certain young member of the royal family sprang up, very nearly causing a national scandal.
Her parents could not handle the trauma of losing their son and then, for all intents and purposes, ‘losing’ their daughter as well. They moved the family to France, hoping to sort out the wreck their lives had become, and only Irene returned to England- six months ago, just as infamous and beautiful as when she left....

***

 Irene clears her throat delicately and finishes for Philomena: “My Lady Holmes. It’s lovely to see you, as always.” She smiles; it doesn’t reach her eyes.

She turns to Sherlock now, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow as she purrs “Sherlock. It’s been far too long.”

If Sherlock is surprised by the familiarity of her greeting, he doesn’t show it. With the illusion of steeling himself for a very difficult task he says stiffly “Miss Adler,” and lets her brush a kiss to each of his cheeks. She stands back and looks him over appreciatively, saying “Well someone has certainly gotten handsome.”

Behind them, Mycroft gives a stifled little “hmph!”
That was certainly forthcoming, he thinks, but then again Miss Adler has always been bold…

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and says “And you, Irene- or do you prefer The Woman? I hear that’s what they’re calling you these days. You are quite as…charming…as I remember you.”
He smiles flippantly.

Philomena turns to her husband. Her expression says Was this a good idea?
 Archibald’s panicked glance in return clearly means I don’t bloody know!
He takes a gulp of his cognac, and then another, growing progressively redder in the face. Philomena only sighs.

Chapter Text

As the evening wears on Sherlock finds it harder and harder to keep his temper in check. Everything coming out of Irene Adler’s mouth is a vicious reminder of his past, masked in saccharine smiles and scarlet smirks.
She smiles and laughs and plays polite for his parents, but every so often she shoots Sherlock a dark, knowing look full of venom. She infuriates him.

Even her familiar, Erasmus, is being impolite- he teases Fia, chasing her around and getting far too close for comfort. She hisses and sparks and he gives a mean whistling laugh. Sherlock is appalled- familiars do not act like this; it’s simply not the social norm, and is extremely uncomfortable for both the familiar and their human.

Fia is clearly distressed and Sherlock feels his anger boiling hotter. He can take no more, and so stands and announces “I’m going for a smoke.”

Without waiting for a response for the rest of the table, he pushes back his chair- screeeech- and stalks across the dining room, Fia right behind him. The doormen open the heavy double doors wordlessly when he approaches, and slam them shut behind him.

The passenger lounge is mercifully deserted.  Sherlock’s head throbs.
He sees the balcony doors and immediately makes his way toward them. 

The cool night air hits his face; soothing him. He finds that he can breathe again, the red-hot anger beginning to drain away; he closes his eyes.

Suddenly he hears a rustle of movement, and opens his eyes to find that he is not alone.

A young man in crew's dress stands by the balcony’s railing. He stares at Sherlock curiously, and with a jolt Sherlock recognizes him- the mechanic he crashed into earlier.
Something slides into place for the other man too. A flash of recognition crosses his face.

“Oh, it’s you- I’m sorry, sir, that sounded rude; I only meant-“
The mechanic trips over his words, clearly flustered. His momentary lapse of proper crew etiquette throws him off.

Sherlock waves a hand. “Mm. We…met earlier.”

The blond man nods. “Yes, sir, we did. I’m sorry about that, it was really quite unfortunate timing, I didn’t mean-“

Sherlock interrupts yet again. “I know. No harm done- and don’t call me sir, it makes me feel like my brother.” He shudders slightly.

The other man says nothing in response, only smiles hesitantly in return; he quickly looks away.

Sherlock suddenly feels self-conscious. To distract himself, he fumbles for a cigarette in his jacket pocket, and conjures a spark with his right index finger to light it.
One especially handy aspect of his Fire affinity is his ability to call fire at will- it has proved very useful for lighting cigarettes (as well as the maid’s hair on fire, once- by accident…or supposedly so).

Sherlock puts the cigarette to his lips and takes a deep breath. He exhales with an “Ahh,” feeling calmer immediately. He hasn’t many vices, but this one small indulgence never fails to relax him.

He remembers that he is not alone and says, feeling strangely compelled to be polite- “Cigarette?”

“No, thank you,” the mechanic replies. He fidgets, clearly unsure of how to act.

Sherlock shrugs and takes another drag.
The other man’s familiar- a water spirit- darts out curiously, and Fia meets her in midair.
Immediately, Sherlock feels the energy when they meet; a warmth spreads through his body, and his skin prickles pleasantly. He’s read about this- the physical symptoms and manifestations of elemental compatibility.

 Interesting.

He sees that the other man feels it, too, when he shudders suddenly and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Sherlock can feel his gaze trained on him, watching, observing. The air between them changes, suddenly charged, alive; a powerful connection between the elements that represent their souls.

Sherlock drops his cigarette and stubs it out with his toe. The blond’s eyes follow his movements, and then slowly travel upward. Their gazes lock.

And then, suddenly, Sherlock is pulling the smaller man closer; feeling the tone and strength of his body beneath his work shirt, one hand moving to tilt his head upward, the blond’s fingers tangling in his curls;  the other man sighs, eyes sliding closed, and then their lips meet.

The heat between them is instant and intense.  Lips slide together, gently at first, and then more demanding, urgent. Sherlock feels the mechanic’s heart pounding against his chest, and he deepens the kiss, capturing his bottom lip between his teeth. The other man gives a soft moan against Sherlock’s lips.

When they break apart, after minutes or years, the blond asks quietly,
“What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

The other man’s eyes widen in recognition.

“Holmes- as in, the Viscount-?”

“Yes. He is, regrettably, my father,” Sherlock says, wrinkling his nose.

The blond speaks all in a rush- “I’m John- John Watson- but I’m just crew, and I shouldn’t-“

Sherlock hushes him.

“It doesn’t matter.”

He kisses him again.

A noise in the passenger lounge causes Sherlock to open his eyes. Over John’s shoulder he sees, not entirely to his surprise, the silhouette of one Irene Adler against the golden glow of the gaslights shining softly though the windows.

***

John seems to sense a change in Sherlock, and he opens his eyes too, meeting Sherlock’s with concern.

“Something wrong?”

“No. It’s not important,” Sherlock tells him.
 John seems to be satisfied with this response and kisses him once more.

Through the window, Sherlock makes direct eye contact with Miss Adler. He stares, lifting an eyebrow, his expression hard; as if to say- What are you going to do about it?

She meets his gaze for a few seconds, and then turns away.

***

Chapter Text

Soft hands ghost over Molly’s skin. Lips brush her face, a voice murmurs her name, and the scent of amber fills her head.
She looks up through half-lidded eyes to see scarlet lips and creamy skin, and-

Molly is jolted awake by the sound of a key in the lock.

She stands hurriedly from where she lies on her mistress’s plush bed. Molly brushes off her grey maid’s dress and quickly tucks a few stray hairs behind her ears, catching sight of her panicked reflection in the looking-glass: her cheeks are flushed and her pupils blown.  Oh, such indecent thoughts, she scolds herself, feeling her face glow hotter with shame. Aenon swirls around her, agitated; he can sense her distress.
 
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, really I hadn’t, and of course I didn’t mean to dream of-

“Miss Adler,” Molly squeaks as the door swings open. She bobs a curtsy and Irene shuts the door, hard, behind her. She deposits her fan on the vanity and gives a nod to her maid:
 “Unlace me, will you, Molly?”

She sits down heavily on the bed. Erasmus shimmers in the air next to her head, giving her something of a halo.

Molly nods hastily and moves to help Miss Adler out of her gown. Her fingers work quickly and deftly as Irene peels off her gloves with a sigh.

“H-how was the banquet, Miss Adler?” Molly inquires timidly, almost afraid to ask.

“Oh, it was fine,” Irene replies dismissively. “The betrothal was announced, and oh, the look on Sherlock Holmes’s face…”
She laughs shortly.

Molly swallows. “Betrothal, Miss Adler?”

Irene frowns. “Yes, Molly, of course- it’s been arranged since we were children. I thought you knew? That’s the reason we’re on this damned airship in the first place.”

The corset laces fall through Molly’s suddenly trembling fingers.
“Yes, I knew, my lady, but I assumed it was annulled after-?”
She breaks off. The topic of Irene’s brother Iain is always courteously avoided.

Irene waves a hand. “No. My parents, bless their greedy souls, are so desperate for power that they still insist on marrying me off to that freak, even after he caused the death of their only son.”
Her eyes narrow. “Fools.”

She stands suddenly and starts to pace about the stateroom. She unpins her hair, letting dark curls spill down her back, and then undoes the stays of her now-unlaced corset and removes it. She pulls her chemise over her head and says “But just because they want me to marry him doesn’t mean I will….and after what I’ve seen tonight, I doubt they will want this union to progress.”

Irene turns back to Molly and smiles wickedly, her eyes alight.

“Our friend Mr Sherlock Holmes has a few secrets of his own, I think…”

***

Molly opens her mouth to say something, although she’s not sure how to respond.
Luckily for her, Irene hasn’t noticed, and is now removing the rest of her clothes. Soon her mistress sits on the vanity stool in just her drawers and a satin dressing gown, lifting an ivory-handled hairbrush to her curls. She notices Molly staring, mouth agape, and turns around on her stool to face her maid, saying “Oh, Molly, don’t look so scared. Trust me on this, pet…”

She turns back to the mirror.
Irene catches Molly’s eye again in her reflection and holds up the hairbrush.

“Help me with my hair?”

Molly nods mutely and sits on the bed behind the vanity stool, taking the brush. She begins to comb Irene’s hair in long, gentle strokes, working out tangles and knots and removing any stray pins if she finds them. Irene closes her eyes and leans into her touch, humming softly in pleasure-

“That feels lovely, Molly, as always….”

She stands and inspects her hair in the looking-glass. Apparently she is satisfied, because she turns to Molly and says “Thank you, darling; I think that will be all for tonight.”

Molly nods and backs away with a curtsy, heading for the door to her adjoining bedroom- but Irene takes her by the hand and stops her. Molly hesitates.

Irene looks her in the eye for a long, long moment, and then, as if she’s decided something, lifts a hand to stroke Molly’s cheek. She leans in, and softly, gently, brushes her lips to Molly’s.

Molly gives a stifled gasp. Before she can react, the kiss is over, and Irene says “Goodnight, Molly.”
She shuts her bedroom door with a soft click.

As if in a dream, Molly reaches up to touch her lips, her heart pounding in her ears.

***

Chapter Text

There is a ball the next night- a grand formal affair. Crew and domestic help are invited, and so John dusts off his second-hand suit and polishes his best shoes and his watch, and even borrows a top hat from Greg. He feels a bit silly, in truth, but when he inspects himself in the small looking-glass in the cabin they share, he thinks privately that he could almost pass as the young heir to some fortune or other.
(Almost).

The normally spacious and un-crowded passenger lounge is packed with people- John guesses that every one of the Recovery’s passengers, their servants, and the crew are in attendance. (He even spots Commodore Levi twirling an attractive older lady dressed in furs round the dance floor, laughing his big booming laugh).

Greg leaves John’s side quickly enough. He gives a charming grin to a pretty redhead, who giggles demurely and lets him take her by the arm. With a wink to John over his shoulder, he whisks her off to dance, leaving John standing alone to take it all in.

The elegant room is dimly lit with red-and-gold shaded gaslights in the latest style, creating an atmospheric glow. A string quartet in the corner alternates between lively and slow tunes to accommodate the tastes of both the new and old money onboard and there is a constant buzz of convivial chatter. Familiars dart to and fro, socializing and amusing themselves just as their humans.

Laughter fills the air as the ladies swirl past, blurs of colour in their gentlemen’s arms, but Irene Adler stands apart from the crowd, her beautiful eyes sweeping the crowd, cool and calculating. Once again, The Woman is dressed to kill- tonight in a fashionably cut dress of indigo blue velvet, with diamonds in her ears and dark curls tumbling down her back. Her usual soft scent of amber surrounds her and Erasmus hovers near her shoulder.

After observing the crowd of dancers for a while, Irene hands her champagne to Molly, who stands behind her in a simpler dress of pale yellow taffeta, and announces “I’m going to dance.”

Molly watches as her mistress strides confidently through the sea of people. The crowd parts for her, watching her and whispering behind her. She is beautiful; and in her beauty, terrifying.

Molly cranes her neck and almost immediately spots Irene’s target- Sherlock Holmes himself, lounging against the wall in the shadows, alone but for his fire-spirit familiar. He straightens up when she approaches, and kisses her proffered kid-gloved hand (albeit reluctantly, Molly notes).
Miss Adler takes him by the hand and leads him out to join the dance.

A lively Schottische has just ended, and many tired, laughing couples leave the floor arm-in-arm, presumably to seek refreshments from one of the many clockwork servants hovering around the room.

Mr Holmes takes Irene in his arms- or perhaps more accurately, Irene arranges herself close in his arms, placing his hands round her tightly laced waist, while he stands stiffly and looks most uncomfortable.

The music changes to a slower piece in a minor key.
The crowd on the dance floor, only recently so tightly packed, soon thins considerably. No one hopes to compete with the dazzling pair that is Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes.

She, with blue velvet and raven hair against creamy skin, a sultry pout on her lips; and he, cutting a striking figure in a slimly tailored black suit and tails, a deep purple cravat at his throat and a top hat perched rakishly on his mess of curls. They are compelling, fierce, arresting in their glamour.
They are the couple in high society, regardless of past scandals, and no one dares challenge them: London's dashing young darlings.

Molly herself is struck by the two of them, by their sheer radiance; she is perpetually in awe of her mistress, but seeing her with Sherlock Holmes is too much. Emotions swirl round inside her, a sick cocktail of longing and hurt combined with shame, anger and above all, jealousy. She feels dizzy.

She moves to stand at the fringes of the crowd, against the wall. A young blond man in a slightly shabby suit leans on the wall next to her, and when she approaches and carefully sets Irene’s champagne down on a marble-topped table he sees her face and exclaims with a cry of recognition- “Molly Hooper?”

She turns, surprised, and recognises him immediately, despite not having seen him since they were both children- “Why, it’s John Watson! What a surprise to see you here, my good man!”
Molly curtsies, and John gives a polite little bow.
“What are you doing here, Johnny?” She smiles warmly, abandoning proper etiquette now in the thrill of seeing her childhood friend.

Molly’s mother had been the Adlers’ scullery maid until her early death from pneumonia; as a result, Molly had been born into and living in the Adlers’ household her whole life. But her mother insisted that she attend the village school in order to make some friends other than Irene and her younger brother Iain, and thus, Molly and John came into acquaintance and struck up a fast and lasting friendship.

Suddenly, Molly remembers a piece of advice her mother had given her, when she asked why she couldn’t simply take lessons with the Adler children, for convenience; what she had really wanted to do was spend more time with Irene.
“Be careful ‘round them, Molly, especially young Mistress Irene,” Jane Hooper had always warned her daughter. “She’s of the type of girl who’ll adore you til she decides you’re of no use to her. And when that day comes, she’ll toss you aside with no regard for how you feel…”

“I’m a mechanic now, Miss Molly,” John replies, beaming proudly. He shows her the ship’s insignia embroidered on his white shirt cuff.
Molly exclaims in delight, “Oh, so you’ve graduated from the Royal Academy! Oh, well done, John- er, Mr Watson,” she blushes. “ I remember you did so want to attend.”

He acknowledges this with a dip of his head and another smile. “And what of you, Mistress Molly? All dressed up and drinking champagne aboard the finest airship in Britain?” He gestures to her fine dress and raises an eyebrow teasingly. Molly laughs- oh, such a man! Her dress is nearly two seasons old (a hand-me-down from Irene, of course); any woman would have seen that!
But she is childishly delighted that John doesn’t know- he sees her as a pretty lady in a pretty gown, the wife of some stuffy high-ranking man perhaps, rich enough to drink champagne rather than to hold it for someone else.

She tells him so, a regretful smile on her sweet face. “Alas, not quite; I am a lady’s maid now. Neither the dress nor the drink are mine by my own right.” Molly shrugs.

John seems intrigued. “A lady’s maid! To what lady?”
Molly points. “Miss Irene Adler. You may recall I grew up in her household?”
John nods in recollection and follows her gaze. “The Woman herself,” he muses. “What must that be like, hm?”
Molly’s eyes linger on her mistress. Irene is still wrapped in Sherlock’s arms, their dark heads bent together as they swirl around the floor. Her stomach gives a pang at the sight of them.
She pulls her gaze away but her tone is distracted when she says “Life with Miss Adler is….unpredictable.”

John senses something in the wistful tone of her voice; Molly is withholding something, but it would be ungentlemanly of him to press her to go on. Instead, he feels strongly compelled to offer her some sympathy, to show her that he understands- perhaps too well. And so he lowers his voice and says softly, close to her ear so they will not be overhead:
“The man she’s dancing with- he kissed me last night.”

Molly’s eyes widen. Thankfully, she does not appear horrified or scandalized, just as John had hoped. Growing up together, the two had shared a sibling-like bond, and had always been completely frank and honest with each other, even about such delicate matters as the finer feelings. And when their school friend Percy Phelps had kissed John on a dare and he had liked it, Molly had been the first person to know. John is glad to see he can still trust her now.

Over Molly’s shoulder, John sees Sherlock’s eyes on them, whispering as closely as they are. As Miss Adler turns him in the dance he keeps his gaze fixed on them for as long as he can.
A delicious thrill runs through John at being watched. On a sudden impulse he takes Molly by the arm.
“Dance with me, Miss Hooper,” he commands.
Startled, Molly obeys, and places her arms round his neck. He sees the confusion in her eyes and wills her silently to go along with him.
He leads her out to the floor and they step in with the other couples, soon lost in the rhythm of the dance.

As the music swells to a dramatic climax, John and Molly whirl closely past Sherlock and Irene.
John and Sherlock lock eyes.
A current seems to pass through John’s body- this new, peculiar manifestation of the connection their elements share. And by the hard blaze in Sherlock’s icy blue eyes, he can tell that he feels the same way. John shudders and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, overcome with sensation.
When he opens his eyes again Sherlock is gone, lost again in the crowd.

The music slows, a dainty flute piping above soft, darting strings. It ebbs and flows like the tide, growing louder, faster, and then fading, coming back slow and rich. The dance mirrors it; sensual waltz steps change to faster ones and then back again. It seems to last an eternity, and the knowledge that that woman has Sherlock in her grasp makes John even more impatient. Molly senses his tension, but she, too, is watching them, that dazzling pair. Her eyes stay fixed on her mistress, longing.
Once, Irene catches her eye and smiles, languorous and teasing. Molly bites her lip.

When at last the song has ended, John bows hastily to Molly; she barely returns a curtsy before he is gone, tearing off through the reassembled chatting crowd to the doors.
Sherlock waits for him there, as he somehow knew he would. He stands in the shadow of a pillar and when he sees John approach, his eyes fierce, Sherlock turns wordlessly and leaves the lounge. Sherlock knows John will follow, and he does.

Sherlock strides through the halls of the ship for what seems ages. At last they reach a darkened corridor, far from the bustle and noise of the ball, and then without a word he takes John in his arms and kisses him fiercely.

John responds by knotting his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, pulling him closer.
“Seeing you dancing with her…” he murmurs against his lips, jealousy clouding his voice.
“You still smell of her perfume.”

 Sherlock steps backwards, still kissing him, fumbling along the wall for the doorknob he knows is there- when he locates it, he breaks the kiss only to swing the door to the Baker Stateroom open and then kick it shut behind them.

A short while later, Sherlock finds himself flat on his back on the plush eiderdown bed with John straddling his hips. They kiss still, and when John comes up for air he gives a short bark of laughter, looking down at Sherlock below him. His eyes gleam mischievously and Sherlock demands “What? What’s so funny?”

John smirks. “Lie back and think of England, Sherlock Holmes.”

***

Chapter Text

Later, they lie awake. They've lost track of time, but the faint noises of the ball can still be heard; they are safe for now.

Sherlock's arm is draped carelessly across John's chest. John absent-mindedly traces the lines of the Air Mark on his skin with his fingernail, making Sherlock shiver-
and then they both freeze.

An Air Mark? But Fia-  John thinks, confused. He searches Sherlock's face for an explanation. But Sherlock jerks his arm away and avoids John's eyes.

"Sherlock?" John asks hesitantly. "Why do you-"

"Why do I have two Marks?" Sherlock finishes. His eyes are crackling storms.

"Because I'm a freak,"  he snaps. "A Two-Soul. And don't tell me it doesn't matter to you, because it does, it always does- it matters to everyone- to my parents." He raises his voice, and John shrinks back, worried.

But the fire goes out of Sherlock then, so to speak, and he sinks back on to the mattress. He rolls over and Fia curls comfortingly around his shoulder.
John is stunned at the sudden change in Sherlock. One minute he was ready to bite my head off, and now he seems about to cry.

John places a tentative hand in Sherlock's curls. He stiffens at first but relaxes as John starts to stroke his hair and twine the curls through his fingers. They stay this way, silent, until finally Sherlock says, his voice muffled by the pillow-

"My father hates me for it. 
I bring shame to the family, to our name, and he never lets me forget it. My mother, she tries to pretend everything is fine; my brother ignores me. I'm no good to them. 
The way he treats me- the way they treat me- it's as if I'd chosen this. Chosen these two damned Marks on my wrists- and I don't even have an extra set of abilities, oh no; I'm a freak, and a useless one at that."

He raises his head and rolls over to look John in the eyes. The vulnerability there frightens John, more than he'll admit.

"Why would anyone choose to be like this? To be such an...aberration? "
Sherlock's voice is hoarse, thick with emotion. He swallows and lays back on the pillows, making his hands into fists and pressing them to his eyes.

John opens his mouth to contradict him but Sherlock says sharply, pleading-

"Don't tell me I'm not, please, John, don't lie to me. I know what I am and I hate myself for it. I'm useless and I'm selfish and I'm an abomination, and I don't deserve you. You're- you're whole, John, you're perfect, and I'm anything but.
Go! Go. Leave if you want to- everyone else does."

His slim frame is racked with stifled, gasping sobs, kept inside for years upon years. John is silent; he strokes Sherlock's hair and kisses his wrists until his ragged breaths slow.

"Sherlock," he says gently, 

"I'm still here."

They fall asleep after a time, Sherlock wrapped tight in John's arms, their familiars entwined around them.

Soon after sleep has claimed them, Mycroft Holmes returns to the room in the Baker Stateroom that he shares with Sherlock, and finds them there.
The light from the open door casts a thin beam over their sleeping forms.
Mycroft shuts the door quietly behind him and goes to the settee in the sitting-room, arranging books and papers to make it appear as though he fell asleep working. He knows Sherlock will ensure that this young man won't be seen by their parents, so he doesn't let this worry him.

As he extinguishes the gas-lamps and settles in for the night with his familiar Demetria nestled near his shoulder, Mycroft sighs.

The things I do for my little brother...

Chapter Text

John awakes the next morning in a plush, unfamiliar bed. He looks around wildly, confused for a moment- but stops and relaxes when he sees Sherlock's dark curly head on the pillow next to him.
John smiles and stretches, relishing in the golden haze of the previous night (and in the luxury of a soft feather bed, especially compared to his uncomfortable bunk in the cramped cabin he shares with Greg).

He fumbles on the bedside table and finds his battered pocket watch. He squints at it. The time reads five-nineteen.
He doesn't have to report to the engine room until six-thirty, but John knows he needs to change his clothes and eat (and, most importantly, get out of Sherlock's room before his family wakes up!)

Talise brushes impatiently past his face- get up!
John grumbles and swats her away. He takes one last fond look at Sherlock's sleeping form and deposits an affectionate kiss on the crown of his head.
Reluctantly, he throws off the covers and locates his clothes; placing his watch in his pocket he steals quietly out of Sherlock's bedroom and then darts into the sitting room.

There he discovers, to his horror, a rather plump young man with reddish hair sleeping on the chesterfield, still dressed in a fine dove-gray suit. His top hat rests on the parlour table amidst a mess of papers and open books.
This must be Mycroft, John thinks; the youngest-ever member of the House of Lords; the heir to Lord Sherringford's title; and Sherlock's older brother (and apparently an insufferable git). 
As John watches, he gives a delicate snore and shifts around so that he is no longer facing John.

John sends up a silent prayer of thanks and tiptoes the rest of the way out of the stateroom, Talise close behind. 
In the hallway, he looks around to ensure he won't be seen leaving the Holmeses' quarters- the scandal!, he thinks wryly- and then heads furtively through the ship to crew's quarters.

He meets no one on the way, mercifully, but when he closes the door behind him he finds Greg sitting on his bunk with a knowing smirk on his face.

"Well, hello, lad! Where've you been, hm?"

John sighs, but he can't hide the smile that breaks across his face as he turns away from his bunkmate and starts unbuttoning yesterday's work shirt.

"Piss off," he replies, his voice muffled by his undershirt as he pulls it over his head. He chucks his clothes into the small pile of washing in the corner and starts hunting for his other clean shirt and a pair of (hopefully not too oil-stained) trousers.

Greg laughs.
"Look at you, Johnny-boy! Red as a beet, y'are. So who was it yeh was dabbin' up? One of the lovely young ladies in first class? I heard Miss Sarah Sawyer had 'er eye on ya."

John hesitates. "Ah...no, not exactly."

Greg raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

John licks his lips nervously. "Twas one of the...the handsome young men in first class, rather."

He holds his breath, Talise quivering nervously at his side, as they wait for a reaction.

Greg stares for a moment, processing this- John can practically see the gears grinding into place- and then shrugs.

"Wouldn'tve had ya pegged for a mandrake, Johnny, but it don't make a difference t'me. Glad yeh had fun."
He winks.
"So, your lad- does he got a name?"

John swallows. Greg has reacted well thus far, but how will he take this next piece of news- ?

"Sh- Sherlock Holmes."

His friend whistles appreciatively. "Lord Sherrin'ford's boy!"
He adopts a hoity-toity accent.
"My, my, looks like our little Johnny's got aspirations."
He laughs, and John, relieved, joins in.

Greg grins and glances at his watch. Raising an eyebrow, he says "Alright, lover boy, time for you ta hook it."

"What, aren't you working too?" John asks. He frowns.

"Afternoon shift, laddie! You have fun tinkerin'- I'll be havin' a nice long nap." He leans in and stage-whispers "Late night."

 He smirks and lays back on top of the sheets, folding his hands behind his head and giving a great yawn. 
"Off wit' you, now!" he says, eyes closed. He waves a hand dismissively, his Earth familiar Flora flitting around his fingers.

John shuts the door behind him with a click and strides down the hall in the direction of the ship's kitchen. By his watch, he still has just under an hour until his shift starts, so he figures he'll see if he can sweet-talk Mrs Hudson the cook into parting with a cinnamon roll or two.
(She always will).

The early-morning sunlight is just beginning to stream prettily through the numerous portholes and windows.
The thought of hot coffee and Mrs Hudson's baking, combined with the giddy thrill of the night before and Greg's easy, comfortable manner this morning, has put John in a rather jolly mood. He finds himself whistling jauntily as he walks through the quiet halls of the sleeping ship; Talise swoops playfully through the air ahead of him.

In the back corridor which leads to the kitchen (from which lovely breakfasty smells are emanating: John's stomach growls and he quickens his pace), he is surprised to bump- quite literally- into Molly Hooper, accompanied by Aenon.
She is carrying a breakfast tray laden with a steaming mug of chocolate, a glass of orange juice and several covered plates and baskets, all of which she nearly drops in surprise; John quickly helps her steady it before everything comes crashing to the floor.

She blushes and starts to mumble a demure "Thank you, sir-" but stops and brightens when she sees who it is. "Oh, John! Good morning." 

"Good morning, Mistress Molly!" he beams. "How do you do, sweet lady? You're certainly up early."

Molly flushes prettily again and says "My mistress- she prefers to dine early in her room." She gestures with her chin, unnecessarily, to the breakfast tray.
"I am doing quite well, thank you; and yourself? Up early as well, I might add."
She smiles, but her eyes dart nervously. John doesn't see.

"I am most excellent, thank you!" John declares.

Molly seems rather surprised at his uncharacteristic exuberance.

"Ah! And what is it, pray tell, that has got you all aflutter?" she giggles.

John beckons with a finger for her to lean in. She does, as best she can with the tray in between them; and John whispers in her ear the events that transpired after he left the ball.

When he finishes and steps back, an eager, triumphant grin on his face, he sees Molly's expression change from one of curiosity to one of confusion.

"You mean you don't know?" Molly whispers, concerned.

John frowns, suddenly worried.

"Don't know- don't know what?" he demands.

Molly's eyebrows knit together.

"That Sherlock Holmes is betrothed to Miss Adler!"

Chapter Text

Time seems to stop. John is frozen.
“Betrothed?” he hears himself stammer out. Molly looks miserable as she nods slowly.
“I’m sorry.” She swallows nervously and gestures down the hall with her head.
“I should…I should go…Miss Adler will be waiting.”

John nods shortly and watches her go.  Talise flits around him, upset; he can feel his brilliant mood evaporating.

Betrothed!
And he had not considered mentioning that tiny little detail?  John thinks angrily.

He knows, of course, that Sherlock is from a well-to-do, high-ranking family; he’s of marriageable age (and his looks are nothing to scoff at, either).
This all makes him a highly-eligible bachelor, and that he’s betrothed should hardly come as a surprise.

Although John knows there is no way that they could be together: betrothal aside, Sherlock is gentry, while John is merely a working-class boy (and a boy, at that)- he still can’t help but feel betrayed that Sherlock hadn’t felt it necessary to perhaps inform him that he and Irene Adler were already promised to each other.

But in all likelihood, we would never see each other again, anyway, John reminds himself. You don’t even know that he’ll want to see you again for the rest of the voyage, now do you?

***

Breakfast tray clutched tight in her hands, Molly shuts the door of the Bohemian Stateroom behind her. She sets the tray on the parlour table and looks around.
“Miss Adler?” she calls tentatively, straightening her skirt. Her heart races.

The bedroom door opens and out comes Irene, wrapped in a white silk dressing gown, her long hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. At the sight of her maid she smiles, saying “Ah, Molly, you’ve brought breakfast. Thank you.”

And, leaning in close, she whispers conspiratorially-

“Have you done what I asked, then?”

Molly’s mouth forms a little moue and she casts her eyes down, remembering the shock on John’s face when she’d delivered the news of the betrothal, as requested by Miss Adler.
She nods slowly.

“Yes, Miss Adler,” she murmurs.

Irene grins triumphantly. “Good. There is more to be done, of course; but for now, breakfast! Won’t you join me, Molly, my dearest one?”

Molly swallows around the nervous lump in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to tell John; he was so happy this morning, and she hated to have to stir up trouble.  

But Miss Adler can be very persuasive…

Molly shivers slightly at the memory of Irene’s slender fingers carding through her hair, after the ball that night; her lips sweet against her ear, the heady scent of amber filling the air as she murmured “Would you do me a favour, pet…?”

Molly takes a deep breath. She steels herself and finds herself saying “Yes, my lady, of course”; she sets the table for two and sits down to dine with her mistress.
The food is, of course, delicious; but every bite of pastry and every tiny sip of tea sticks in Molly’s throat. She shrinks quietly into her chair, sick with nerves and the image of her dear friend’s heartbroken face.

Across the table, Irene’s eyes are bright, her movements sharp and expressive; she bubbles over with excitement. Even Erasmus is lively, darting round the room and playfully teasing Aenon.
 The first stage of her plan has been set in motion, and she is determined not to fail.
The Woman will stop at nothing to get what she wants- and what she wants is the betrothal annulled and Sherlock Holmes destroyed.

Chapter Text

 He that will work great things, must (as much as possible) take away corporeity from things, or else he must add Spirit to the body, or else awaken the sleeping Spirit, unless he do some of those things or know how to join his imagination to the imagination of the Soul of the World, now labouring and undertaking an exchange, he will never do any great matter.

It is impossible to take all this Spirit from anything whatsoever for by this bond a thing is held from falling back into its first matter or nothing.

This Spirit is somewhere or rather every where found as it were free from the body, and he that knows how to join it with a body agreeably, possesses a treasure better than all the riches of the world.

The Spirit is separated from the body as much as it is possible either by means of fermentation or drawn by his brother which is at liberty....

A slight cough from the doorway causes Sherlock to look up from his books.
His brother stands there, dressed casually; but even his expensively tailored waistcoat can't hide the beginnings of a bulbous belly, Sherlock notices with a bit of vindictive pleasure.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and inquires "Might I come in?" and then proceeds to cross the threshold and shut the door behind him without so much as waiting for an answer. Demetria rests half-hidden around his wrist.

Sherlock drops his fountain pen and slams his book shut with an exasperated look. He rolls his eyes. "What?" he asks rudely.

Mycroft eases himself into an armchair facing his brother. He takes his time responding. Sherlock drums his fingertips impatiently, and Fia hisses in warning.

Mycroft announces at last: "I have recently received some information from a very reliable source, pertaining to you, dear brother, as well as to a Mr John Watson and the...lovely...Irene Adler."
He frowns slightly, as though scandalized by the mere mention of her name.

"Is there anything you would like to share with me, Sherlock?" he says tartly.

"No, dear brother, there isn't," Sherlock replies acidly. "Would you be so kind as to take your leave and let me return to my studies?" He glares at his brother, who frowns down his nose at him.

"I am afraid I won't be so kind. You see, Sherlock, it seems that Miss Adler- your betrothed, in case you'd forgotten-" he says pointedly-

"-saw me kissing another man, yes," Sherlock says airily.

The elder Holmes gives a little start and a prim, surprised cough. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and Demetria gives a sharp little noise.
When he has recovered, Mycroft clears his throat and says delicately "Well- yes- to put it...bluntly. And now, apparently, she plans to make public this information, thus runing our family's name for ever!"

He seems genuinely alarmed by this prospect, and shudders slightly.

"Does this remind you of a certain incident just over twenty-four months ago, Sherlock?" Mycroft says severely. "Iain Adler now lies in Highgate Cemetery because you decided to have yourself some fun with no thought for the feelings of anyone else, or for the consequences your little fling may have had on our families!"

Sherlock suddenly pushes his chair back and stands.
"Their feelings, Mycroft? The same feelings you tried to bully me out of having when I was called freak as a child? And more than once by you, might I add!"

He glowers at his brother, hatred surging though him. Fia and Demetria dart at each other, hissing and sparking.

Sherlock's voice shakes with anger. "Iain Adler threw himself at me. I did not return his affections. The scene Miss Adler happened to witness at the country party was unfortunately timed: Iain made advances before I could stop him, and this is what Irene saw. 

"I didn't want it to happen, Mycroft, do you understand? I knew the shame it would bring on our families. I knew what it would do to your position if we were found out. I knew that, and that is why I told him I couldn't be with him! I wasn't simply- having some fun, as you so elegantly put it."

Sherlock sits heavily down again, sinking his face into his hands. He takes a long, slow breath and Fia returns to wend round his shoulders.

When he raises his head again, he says, low, quiet- "I had no idea he would be so affected....His death weighs on me every day, Mycroft. Every minute."

Sherlock's eyes are pained when he says

"I didn't love him, but I am not- I am not a machine."

Mycroft sighs heavily.

"I am sorry, dear brother. Truly, I am. But...regardless of past regrets, we must deal with the situation at hand."

He takes a deep breath. "If Miss Adler carries through with her plan, your little- tryst-" Sherlock flinches- "will be exposed to the world: a world which includes our father. And I am sure he will not....he will not be pleased, to say the least."

Sherlock tries to regain his composure.

"Yes. Yes, I- I know."

He turns his back to Mycroft again, his slim shoulders caving in on themselves; he hides his face. Mycroft has never seen his headstrong brother so vulnerable. 
He decides there is nothing to be gained from staying here, for the moment; and so, he rises with some difficulty and makes his way to the door.

He pauses before leaving and looks back at his brother with a pang of pity. He is silent for a moment, and then says quietly, hating to deliver one last blow-
"And what of your young gentleman- Master John Watson, if I am not mistaken? Is he aware of your- situation, or did that...slip your mind?"

Sherlock tenses suddenly and looks up, a flash of panic crossing his face. Mycroft bites his lip.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I will help you as best I can, but Miss Irene Adler is a...formidable woman, and used to getting what she wants. In this case, it would appear that she wants you...ruined." He opens his mouth to say more, but finds that no words come.

He closes the door behind him and Sherlock listens as his footsteps fade.

Chapter Text

The next day, at sunrise, John slips through the corridors to the balcony where he knows he’ll find him.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns. The sun starts to glow warm orange through the clouds behind him, giving him a halo of sorts, and he looks so young and beautiful that John has to catch his breath.
Remember why you’re here, he reminds himself sternly. He breathes in.

“Sherlock, I- I’m sorry but I have to do this,” he says all in a rush. “I found out from Miss Hooper that you’re engaged to be married to- to The Woman, and Sherlock, I- I can’t carry on like this.”

 Sherlock says nothing. John hesitates, but continues.

“I saw you…I saw you dancing with her, at the ball, and I could see how you both felt.”
John shifts awkwardly, his hands in his pockets. He trips over his next words-
“You make a lovely couple, really you do- just- radiant. I’ll only get in the way….complicate things.”

Sherlock is silent, maddeningly so. John bites his lip and turns to go, trying one last time for a response:

“So I’ll- I’ll be going, then-?”

Sherlock still doesn’t speak, and at last John’s temper spikes.

“Sherlock, say something. Say something, for the love of the gods! Do I mean nothing to you? I suppose I was just a bit of fun; another boy to be tossed aside when you’d finished with me?”

Facing away from John, Sherlock tenses suddenly. He clenches his hands into fists: he can’t know about Iain, there’s no way….
Sherlock takes a deep breath. He turns. His face is a mask, his voice formal and unreadable:

“I am sorry, John, that I failed to inform you of my…predicament. But I would have you know that it does not diminish what I felt…what I feel for you.”

“Well, what do you feel for me? Evidently not enough to tell me that you are betrothed to someone else, Sherlock! What the hell are you playing at?” John cries, exasperated.

“I am not playing at anything, John. What we felt that night- those nights- was real. The elemental connection…that’s real, John, you know it is,” Sherlock replies softly.

John stops, unable to retort. He’s right, Talise says inside his head. John sighs.

“Yes. Yes, that was real. Absolutely. I felt it too; you know I did…but it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change that you’re going to be married, Sherlock. It doesn’t change that you’re a Viscount's son and I’m a bloody tradesman- and I’m a man, Sherlock! There’s no way your family, your people, would accept me- accept us.”

“I’ve lived my entire life in a world of people who don’t accept me, John. My dual affinity, my extraordinary brain- I’m different, John, and I’m hated for it. My father-“
Sherlock breaks off, unwilling to finish his thought.

“Your father,” John repeats. “From what little I know of your father, he would kill you for this. I’m just another reason for them to hate you: something else that makes you different.  Don’t you see that, Sherlock? I’m no good to you. I’ll just…go. It’s better for both of us if I do.”

Without another word, John turns on his heel and goes back inside. Talise trails behind reluctantly; Fia coos sadly as they leave. Hot tears form behind John’s eyes as he breaks into a run without really knowing where he’s going.

He doesn’t notice the slight form of Molly Hooper ducking behind a silk fern near the door to the passenger lounge. She has seen enough, and returns to report to her mistress with a heavy heart.

Left alone outside, Sherlock stands frozen. He leans heavily on the balcony’s railing, sinking his face into his hands and clenching his curls in his fists.
What have we gotten ourselves in to?

On the other side of the ship, Molly delivers her message: John Watson has called things off with Sherlock Holmes, just as Irene had hoped and planned for.
 Irene, triumphant, takes Molly’s worried face in her hands and kisses her delightedly.
“You’ve done so well, beloved one,” she purrs. “Thank you. Now, if you please: fetch young Mister Holmes. I’ve important matters to discuss with him.”
She winks and sends a miserable, pink-cheeked Molly on her way.

***

Chapter Text

Some time later- could be hours, Sherlock doesn’t know- he at last goes back inside. As the doors to the passenger lounge close behind him, Sherlock notices a familiar-looking girl: slight, mousy-haired, wearing outdated but once-stylish clothes. He can’t quite remember where he’s seen her before…and then she glances over her shoulder towards him and he knows immediately. She’s Irene Adler’s maid, has been since we were children; called Molly, Molly Hooper, he remembers.
He barely has time to process this before she comes over to him, wide-eyed, and gives a nervous curtsy.
“M- Mister Holmes, sir? My mistress would like to see you in her stateroom…” the girl says.

Sherlock frowns. “Miss Adler? Whatever for?”

Molly Hooper looks around quickly and stutters out “I-I’m not sure, sir- I think it’s to do with the wedding- ?”

Sherlock winces. “Ah. The…wedding. Of course.” He sighs inwardly and tries to look less disgusted than he feels. He nods to Molly and follows her to the Bohemian Stateroom.

***

Molly knocks on the door and calls timidly “Miss Adler? I’ve brought Sherlock Holmes to see you…”
“Come in!” is the response from inside. She opens it cautiously.

Irene is lounging on the creamy velvet divan in nothing but her dressing gown, with Erasmus draped on her shoulders like a shawl. Molly’s mouth drops open and she stifles a gasp: this is hardly appropriate for visiting! When Sherlock sees, even he can’t stop his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Molly gives her mistress a panicked, what-are-you-doing?! look. But Irene isn’t fazed: in fact, she seems pleased with the effect she’s had on the two of them, and smiles languorously.

“Good morning, Sherlock, Molly, darlings. Please, Sherlock, have a seat –” she gestures to the empty wing-backed chair in front of her “–and Molly, would you be a dear and prepare some tea for our guest?” Irene smiles pleasantly, but her eyes betray her: she’s plotting something.
 Molly nods, dazed, and goes off to fetch refreshments. Irene’s attire is quite distracting: couldn’t she put something else on? A napkin, perhaps? She thinks wildly.

***

“So, Mister Holmes, I suppose you are wondering why you are here,” Irene says confidently. But Sherlock, who over the course of the morning has slowly been piecing things together, throws her off course by replying “Actually, I know exactly why I am here, Miss Adler.”

Irene raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says slowly. He frowns, and something darkens in his eyes. “It’s about John.”

Irene grins delightedly. “Oh, you are clever! I had hoped you’d come to that conclusion on your own- explaining it would have been tedious.”

Sherlock’s mouth hardens into a thin line. “I suppose you know that he’s- called it off- between us? That’s why Miss Hooper was hanging about the passenger lounge at sunrise, I assume: to spy on us for you.”

 “Not to spy on him, mind you. Just on you. It just worked out rather nicely for me that your Mr Watson knew where to find you this morning. Of course, Molly was the one who informed him of our…betrothal.” It sounds like a dirty word spilling from Irene’s pretty lips. “But it really isn’t my fault that he turned you down.” She smirks.

Sherlock feels his temper rising. Fia hisses at Erasmus. “Well, you have what you want now, do you not? John is out of the way, and you’ve got me all to yourself,” he says, low and full of venom.

Irene, to Sherlock’s disgust, throws her head back and laughs. “Do you really think that’s what I want, Sherlock, dear? Perhaps you’re not as clever as I thought,” she muses.

Sherlock frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I never had any intention of marrying you. In fact, quite the opposite: I want our betrothal annulled,” Irene says clearly.

“Fine,” Sherlock spits. “I’ll speak to my father-”

Irene cuts him off, holding up a finger. “I wasn’t finished, Mr Holmes. It’s rude to interrupt a lady when she’s speaking.”

Sherlock fumes, but lets her go on.

“I want our betrothal annulled, yes, but why should I stop there? I want you to feel the same pain I felt two years ago when you took my brother from me. All my life, Sherlock, I thought you loved me, as I loved you- and then to find you with Iain, my own beloved brother…”
Irene stops, bowing her head, and for a moment it seems she’s about to cry. But when she looks back up, the gaze she fixes on Sherlock is ice-cold and deadly.

“You killed him, Sherlock. Iain is dead because of you. And if that were not horrid enough, I lost the man I loved, as well as my brother: I lost you, Sherlock. Until that day I had always believed we would be married and be happy together. It was all I had ever wanted. And then to discover that you were- you were like him?”
Irene looks disgusted. “It broke my heart. You broke my heart, you selfish bastard! You deserve to feel the pain I felt. Why should you be happy with John when you were supposed to be happy with me?”

At last her tirade is over. Sherlock’s mind reels. He is about to speak when Irene says quietly, her voice full of hatred:

“I could never marry you, Sherlock. Not after what you did. I will never love again because of you.”

***

Some moments ago, Molly had returned with the tea; she stood unnoticed at the door as Irene raged to Sherlock. But hearing those last words- “I will never love again”- she feels something inside her break. She sets the tea tray on the ground with a clatter and runs out of the stateroom, feeling hot tears form behind her eyes. The door slams shut behind her and neither Irene nor Sherlock turn to look.

***

Sherlock hears the tray rattle to the floor and the door slam, signalling the Hooper girl’s abrupt departure, but chooses to pay it no mind. He is seething with anger; utter fury at Irene Adler and her scheming ways. He is about to fight back, a scathing remark on the tip of his tongue, when Irene fixes him with one last dagger-sharp gaze.

“I can’t marry you, Sherlock. But I can destroy you.”

In one lightning-fast movement, she has reached across the table for his left wrist. He cries out and tries to slap her hand away, but it’s too late: Irene has already pushed his sleeve back, giving a full view of his Air Mark. She smiles, a snake ensnaring her prey, and says coolly “How would you like the rest of the world to discover your little secret?"

***

Chapter Text

Sherlock gives his wrist a vicious shake and it falls free of Irene’s grasp. Quick as a flash, he rolls his sleeve down again and buttons it tightly. He glares at Irene, pure hatred in his eyes, and grinds out “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Irene replies. Her false smile has disappeared and her voice is almost savage. “I think I would, Mister Holmes. All it takes is one whisper at a dinner party; one anonymous tip to the press; and you would be disgraced forever. A Two-Soul, living among us for all this time?” she mocks.

“Of course, Daddy’s title - and his bank account - might protect you…Mummy would stand up for you, wouldn’t she, Sherlock?” Her words drip sarcasm. Sherlock clenches his teeth.

But Irene suddenly frowns, as though just realizing something:
“But oh! If Daddy were to find out about your John…Well, I’d imagine you’d be cut off: no money, no protection, not even a place to practise your beloved alchemical experiments. I suspect they would disown you, just for convenience….Of course, they don’t really care much for you anyway, do they now….?”

A flicker of pain crosses Sherlock’s face. This last statement rings horribly true. Before he can think, he raises a hand to slap her, this evil, cunning woman whom he thought he once knew….

“Slap me,” Irene Adler says calmly. “See if it makes a difference.”

Their eyes lock. Sherlock feels his Fire mark burn hot, anger pulsing through his veins. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Sherlock lowers his hand. The barest hint of a satisfied smile ghosts across Irene’s face. Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock speaks. He practically trembles with rage as he pronounces, low and heated:

“You. Repel. Me.”

He stands abruptly and leaves without another word.

***

“Your son’s wedding to Miss Irene Adler will surely be the event of the season,” Lady Frances Carfax assures Philomena Holmes as they depart from the dining room after breakfast.  Lady Holmes smiles graciously in response and is about to agree with her friend when she notices the son in question stalking through the passenger lounge. He looks upset; Fia is hot on his heels, trailing angry red sparks, and the other passengers are frowning and whispering as he passes.

 “Sherlock? Where are you going? What’s wrong?” Philomena calls. Her brows knit together. Sherlock gives no sign of having heard her, and has soon disappeared down a corridor. She is immediately concerned: what could possibly have upset him so?
She turns back to her friend. “Frances, dear, if you’ll excuse me…”

***

Sherlock slams the door of the bedroom he and Mycroft share behind him. He sinks down on the floor next to the bed and closes his eyes.

How could I have been so stupid?

I kissed John with her watching. I ran off with him after the ball:  anyone could have seen us leaving together. And the Mark - she’s known about it for years….

Sherlock still vividly remembers the afternoon he told Irene Adler his secret.
He had been around ten, making her about twelve. The Holmeses had gone up to Jersey to stay with the Adlers for the summer, as they had done every year before.
It was the very hottest day of the summer, and they had recently discovered a large pond a little ways away from the Adlers’ land, fed from the brook running across the back corner of their massive property.
 Irene had only wanted to dip her toes in at first, holding her skirts and too-hot petticoats up, ladylike, so they wouldn’t get wet. Sherlock, for his part, kept his long-sleeved shirt on, for fear of his father finding out that he’d exposed his Mark to someone outside the family, even Irene.
But the heat of the day soon won out over etiquette and the distant threat of Viscount Holmes and his wrath. Sherlock declared “I can’t stand this heat any longer!” and stripped out of his shirt and trousers, down to his britches, and jumped right in with a whoop. Irene shrieked, giggling, and covered her eyes: “Why, you’re in the presence of a lady! Put your clothes on, Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock grinned widely, his wet curls plastered to his forehead, and laughed. “You’re not a lady, Irene. Not yet, anyway. And you can’t be comfortable in that heavy dress,” he pointed out. “Just take it off!” He paused at her scandalized look and scoffed “There’s no one out here to see you! Just come in the water.”
Irene, standing on the shore, was beginning to perspire. She shifted uncomfortably in her layers and layers, deliberating, and finally decided to take off her petticoats and skirt- “It’s too hot to wear all this, even if it does look good,” she complained. “But I’m not going in the water.”

“Ireeene!” Sherlock persisted. “Come on.” She shook her head firmly, a smile playing on her lips. So Sherlock decided to take matters into his own hands. He swam quickly to the shore where she stood in her chemise and drawers and, quick as he could, grabbed her by the ankles. Irene tumbled into the water with a shriek that quickly turned into a gurgling laugh as she went under. When she popped up again, she swatted at Sherlock, playfully scolding him: “How dare you, Sherlock! That is most certainly not how you treat a lady,” she teased. Sherlock only smiled in response and, without thinking, reached up to tweak Irene’s nose - with his left hand. He realized he’d made a mistake. A flash of guilt crossed his face, barely noticeable, but Irene saw something change in her friend’s eyes. She had also seen something on the inside of his left wrist: a flash of silvery white where there should have been nothing at all.

“Sherlock,” she said, all playfulness suddenly gone, “what was that on your wrist?”

“Nothing,” he replied too quickly. Irene pouted. “You’re lying; I saw something there. Won’t you tell me? I’m your best friend…” she implored.

Sherlock gulped. His eyes darted nervously, thinking of the terrible scolding his father - and Mycroft - would give him…but suddenly, he made up his mind. Who cares what they think? I’ll do what I want!

“It’s an Air Mark,” he explained quietly. “I have two.” He held both wrists out of the water for inspection, and, indeed, a Fire Mark gleamed on one, an Air on the other. Irene gasped softly.

“You’re - a Two-Soul?” she exclaimed reverently. Sherlock nodded.

But his burst of recklessness abruptly ended as he realized what trouble he could have caused. “You- you can’t tell anyone, Irene,” he intoned seriously. “Anyone.”

Irene nodded seriously. “Of course not. It’ll be our secret, I promise- forever.” She smiled, and Sherlock trusted her with all of his little boy’s heart. He smiled back.

***

How wrong I was - how naïve, to trust her of all people. If only I’d known then what I know now, he thinks disgustedly.

Sherlock sighs, leaning back against the bed and hugging his knees to his chest. He thinks of how Irene had changed over the years, from the girl whom he’d trusted with everything to the dangerous beauty he knows today, whose every word is a double-edged sword waiting to turn on you. He thinks of the things she’d said earlier on; those cruel words that resonate so eerily with a grain of truth.

But it was a misunderstanding - all of it, with Iain - I didn’t want any of it. Why, I hardly knew him, and yet my actions cost him his life.

And it was true: Iain, although the same age as Sherlock, had never played with him, Irene and Molly. He preferred, like Mycroft, to spend time with their fathers, discussing politics: as oldest sons, this was practically expected of them. But Sherlock and Irene - a second son and a mere daughter, comfortable in their insignificance - were free to do what they liked.

Sherlock presses his fists to his tightly closed eyes, trying to stop the thoughts swirling round in his brain, but they continue.

Irene. I never loved her as more than a sister, a friend. I suppose I always knew we’d be married- it made perfect sense. And I was all right with that, because I trusted her; I saw her as an equal, but I never loved her. I didn’t know I had even the capacity to love, until – until…

He doesn’t let himself think John’s name.

But now Iain is dead, and Irene blames me. I barely know her anymore. And John….
I’ve lost John now, too, because of her.

Sherlock groans softly. Before he has time to sink any further into melancholy, there is a knock at the door. He looks up to see his lady mother enter the room. Philomena’s graceful features quickly turn surprised upon seeing her younger son hunched over brooding on the floor: She knows that Sherlock has his moods and dark spells, but her mother’s instincts sense that something else is amiss here.

“Sherlock?” she asks gently. Her petticoats and voluminous skirts rustle as she steps further into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She knows her husband is in the dining room - she slipped out quietly after a loud, raucous political debate sparked between him and one of his associates after breakfast; presumably it is still raging now. And Mycroft had mentioned something about settling down in the ship’s small library for some “light reading”, which she suspects means “a nap”. In any case, Philomena expects she’ll have some privacy to talk to Sherlock.

“Go away, Mother,” Sherlock retorts, although without much fervour. He doesn’t meet her eyes. Fia hovers protectively over him, and when Philomena’s Water familiar, Brizo, comes closer to investigate, she shoos him away with a shower of sparks.

“What is it, dearest? Has something happened with Miss Adler?” Philomena guesses. To her surprise, she isn’t too far off: Sherlock gives a slight shudder and suddenly looks at her head-on, his clear grey-blue eyes piercing.

“Don’t speak of her,” he orders. Philomena frowns at the anger in his voice.

“Are you two having a bit of a quarrel, now, Sherlock?” she asks, half-teasing.

Sherlock scoffs, disgusted. “You could say that- if that woman threatening to expose my secrets to the world is your idea of a bit of a quarrel, Mother.”

His mother gasps. “Your secrets? Sherlock, surely you don’t mean –“ Her eyes flicker instinctively to his left wrist. He follows her gaze and nods curtly. Philomena raises a hand to her mouth and stares wide-eyed at her son. Sherlock’s glare in return is hard, defiant…and afraid.

“But how?” Philomena whispers, suddenly distraught. “How does she know?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply right away. His silence tells Philomena what she needs, and something falls into place for her: “You told her,” she says – it isn’t a question. Sherlock nods.

“When?”

“One day, when we were children – it was an accident, please, you must believe me.” He pauses, and then decides to be honest about the rest: “But that isn’t all, Mother…there’s something else.”

And all in a rush, he explains about John: how they ran into each other, quite literally, on their first day aboard; how they met again later that same night, and about the instant elemental connection they shared.

To her credit, Philomena barely flinches when a very uncomfortable Sherlock tells her of kissing John. He cringes and mumbles the whole while, but she sees the light in his eyes when he speaks of his common boy, his John, and she can tell that he’s in love with him.
Her heart breaks for her proud, fragile son. She sees how miserable he is when he explains to her that John called things off between them. And were that not upsetting enough, Philomena learns that a jealous, heartsick Irene Adler plans to tell Archibald what she saw, and to expose Sherlock’s dual affinity and call off the betrothal in a humiliating – and certainly very public – way.

***