~ Resolved ~
For the 'New Year' prompt
Chapter 1: That Other Eden
As their train sped toward London in the final hour of their idyllic honeymoon, Sherlock Holmes found his lips quirking in a secretive smile as he watched his wife, sitting opposite him in the luxurious private compartment he had insisted they hire, just as he had done on the outward journey to Portsmouth seven weeks before. He had waved aside her mild objection to the extravagance. After all, it wasn't every day that one brought one's new and much beloved spouse to the home of which she would now be mistress.
Molly would, of course, share the management of 221B Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, as she had done for several months prior to their marriage. She had been retained to do so after the elderly landlady took a fall down the front steps, injuring herself badly enough to need temporary assistance. Molly had taken over the majority of the responsibilities associated with the running of the residence during that time, and had done an exemplary job, too, considering she had little direct experience in such things. However, Mrs. Hudson had been fully healed and able to resume her role in time for Sherlock and Molly's honeymoon, and would now continue to assume the greater portion of the work since her erstwhile assistant would be otherwise occupied. In a fortnight's time, a new year would begin for the students of the London School of Medicine for Women and Mrs. Molly Elizabeth Holmes would once again grace its hallowed halls. Menial tasks such as cooking and cleaning would take second place to her demanding studies - or rather third place, when one considered the undeniable importance of her other wifely duties.
He watched her now with great pleasure. She was wearing an elegant traveling suit of deep green velvet, a charming foil for his own plaid tweeds, but she had one small, booted foot tucked up under her, and her posture was not quite erect as she leaned against the squabs, relaxed and intent upon the book in her lap: Osler's Principles and Practice of Medicine.
So studious. Her brown eyes so innocent as they absorbed the challenging material. Yet he now knew in glorious detail what lay beneath that fashionable ensemble, the prim clothing of a young matron. He knew every curve, every dimple; he'd counted the fine bones of her slender feet, run his fingers over every inch of smooth, pale skin, explored all her secret places, sometimes with slow reverence that brought hissing moans and soft gasps, and sometimes with a burgeoning, abandoned skill that made her curl into him, desperate to muffle her cries against his neck or shoulder. He had kissed tears of replete ecstasy from her cheeks. He had held her trembling form warm and tight until she was a little recovered - or until she slept, completely undone.
And God knew - God knew! - she had favored him with similarly intimate services, rejoicing as she began to realize the power she wielded over his mind and body.
It was strange to think that two months ago he'd had no idea what love could be, had scoffed at what had seemed the nonsensical nattering of poets. And now… well, he could almost write his own.
Molly looked up at him, suddenly, and saw his expression. She must have felt the weight of his eyes upon her, the tenderness of his gaze. She gave an answering smile and set down her book.
He held out his hand, and she reached for it and allowed herself to be pulled smoothly, if a little abruptly, across the space that had lain between them. She landed, laughing, in his lap.
"Were you missing me?" she asked, and kissed his cheek.
"Yes," he said, and turned his head, taking her lips with his, a sensual delight. Tongue… teeth… the taste of her heating his blood…
"Oh!" she breathed, when he pulled back a fraction. She laid a hand against the side of his face and kissed him softly again, then said, "We should wait… won't we arrive in London soon?"
"We have half an hour." He gave her a wicked smile as he reached down and began to ruche up her heavy skirts. "I can wait, but let me touch you."
"But husband..." she muttered with a frown.
Yet she made no further objection, and, indeed, facilitated his plan as best she could. With some effort he finally managed to slip a hand beneath the mountain of various materials that hid his objective, but then it was his turn to frown as he made a startling discovery: beneath the layers of stylish frock and snowy linen she wore only a scandalous scrap of undergarment, rather than the chaste, frilly knee-length drawers he'd expected. "Oh, shameless!" he accused, trying not to laugh at the smirk that was now gracing her lips.
To his great satisfaction, her impudence quickly grew less as he set aside his astonishment (and an almost painful surge of desire) and proceeded toward his stated goal. She did manage to look into his eyes for a few more moments, though, and uttered in reply, "Yes… God knows, I am shameless… but only for you, my heart! Only for… ah! Sherlock… Sherlock!" And then words quite failed her, and he had to kiss her again.
o-o-o
In spite of his imperative need to be private with his wife, Sherlock realized that a liaison would have to wait when their carriage drew up to 221B Baker Street and an ecstatic Mrs. Hudson and raucous Archie rushed out to greet them. Molly, once again precise to a pin thanks to the mirror and basin that had been a feature of their first class compartment on the train, embraced their two housemates joyously, blushingly assured Mrs. Hudson that every moment of the honeymoon had been nothing short of heavenly and she would presently tell them all about it - well, not everything (her blush deepened at this, and she glanced at Sherlock, who probably looked as smug as he felt), but all about their travels and the sights they'd seen.
"You can have no notion how beautiful Italy is, Mrs. Hudson! And the people are so kind, too. Every moment was an adventure!"
Martha Hudson gave Molly an impish smile, with a bit left over for Sherlock. "I have no doubt of that, my dear Mrs. Holmes. But come, let's go in! There are some surprises waiting for the two of you, and I do think you'll be vastly pleased by them. It will soon be time for us all to sit down to dinner, and then you can tell me… almost everything!"
Sherlock said, "Come, Archie, help me with these cases. Ladies require an unconscionable amount of luggage, as you can see."
Molly turned to meet his teasing glance, looking so pink-cheeked and happy that he could not help but grin.
But Archie said, "No! Mr. Holmes, I'll get the bags and things, You have to carry Molly across the threshold! Mrs. Holmes, I mean." And the boy gave Molly a little bow and a grin by way of apology for addressing her in the familiar style of former days, when she was merely Mrs. Hudson's hired companion.
"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, and looked at Sherlock uncertainly.
He said, however, "You're quite right, Archie, and I thank you for the reminder. There are far too many niggling traditions surrounding weddings, but this is one to which I can give my unequivocal approval." And with that he swept Molly up into his arms.
Archie gave a cheer, and he and Mrs. Hudson (and the cabbie, and a couple of random passers-by) stood back, applauding as Sherlock carried his lovely, laughing bride up the steps and over the threshold of their home.
o-o-o
Mrs. Hudson's surprise was a new kitchen, and a French chef to go with it.
"It was your brother's idea," she said to Sherlock. "He paid for the remodeling of that old back parlor and the adjoining anteroom - such a to-do, and the noise and dust! You wouldn't credit it. But it's done now, and really it has everything the modern kitchen ought to have. And Alphonse may be a little condescending and high-handed at times, but he makes the most wonderful food!"
"Mycroft has always been quite the slave to his stomach so I have no doubt of that," said Sherlock dryly, as they walked down the hall to the new kitchen to investigate. "Let's see what this Alphonse has in store for us tonight."
But though Alphonse favored them with a polite bow, the look in his eye told a different story. He obviously didn't like being disturbed in what he considered to be his domain, and, though he rattled off a menu at Sherlock's insistence, it was all in a heavily accented French that Molly, to her mortification, could barely understand. Her old governess, Miss Beaufort, would be so disappointed.
That wasn't the worst of it, though. Sherlock was absolutely fuming as he and Molly made their way upstairs to change for dinner, and once they were behind closed doors he launched into a diatribe that basically consigned his brother, Alphonse, and the entire breed of personal chefs, particularly those of the French persuasion, to a special hell. Molly listened patiently and did her best to interject a soothing word or two, but it was not until just before they went down that his ill-humor was assuaged by her efforts - and that seemed more to do with her appearance than with any words she had uttered.
"You look beautiful," he said, quite sincerely, looking her over with regret. "To think that I wasted the last hour complaining of such trivia when I could have taken you to bed - or had you on the couch, or in the bath…"
"Sherlock!"
"You protest?" he exclaimed, obviously wounded.
"Of course I do!" She came to him and brushed light fingers across his chest, over the heart that beat so strongly for her beneath the superfine broadcloth of his dress coat. "We would not have had enough time!"
His expression lightened considerably. "My dear, I believe there may be something to be said for haste in these matters, if the moment is propitious. But time has run out and we must postpone that debate." He bent down and gave her one last, lingering kiss, then straightened, looking quite satisfied that he'd once again left her dazed.. "Later!" he said, low and soft, and tucked her hand in his arm.
By the end of the meal, even Sherlock had to admit that Mycroft might be a slave to his stomach, but he was also a discerning gourmet, and apparently was well aware of Alphonse's capabilities. The man could cook. Every dish was not only a prime example of its kind, but was made exceptional with Alphonse's inimitable touch. Finally, after a pudding of apple tart and homemade ice cream, Sherlock had Archie fetch him in from the kitchen and told him, "That was probably the best dinner I've had in my life, sir, and I can only offer my deepest thanks - and a small douceur." Sherlock smiled and handed Alphonse a fifty pound note.
"Hear, hear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, and began the applause to which the other three added their mite.
Alphonse beamed, and bowed to Sherlock, then took himself off to his kingdom again.
"Ah, I'm glad you like him," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "He really is a marvelous cook, and it leaves me free to pay more attention to the rest of the house."
Sherlock sighed. "I suppose I'll have to thank Mycroft. I wonder what sort of favor he'll demand for this."
Molly frowned. "It was our wedding gift!"
Sherlock lifted a brow. "If you think there will be no strings attached you don't know my brother. I expect I'll be off on one of his assignments within the week."
"Oh, dear," said Molly, dismayed.
"Hopefully, in light of the fact that we're still newlyweds, it won't be anything too long - or dangerous."
She lifted her chin. "Perhaps I could come with you."
"Mmm. Now there's a thought." He smiled at her, then turned to their tablemates. "Mrs. Hudson, our thanks for playing hostess as we celebrate our first night as man and wife in Baker Street. Archie, it's time for you to be abed, I have several errands for you to run in the morning. And it's time for the two of us to get some rest, too, don't you agree, Mrs. Holmes? It's been a long day of traveling and I know you must be quite exhausted."
"Oh… yes. Of course," Molly said, feeling her cheeks growing warm. She saw Sherlock's laughing eyes and his imperfectly suppressed smirk and gave him a look of admonishment, even as memory and anticipation provoked the familiar yet still disconcerting physical response that he'd no doubt intended. Not that she was at all averse to retiring early… it would be the first time they would share his bed in this house…
She cleared her throat and rose from the table. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Can we talk more about Italy in the morning, when I'm… um… more awake?"
And Mrs. Hudson, actually giggled. "Of course, dear. Plenty of time for that. But don't try to rise early on my account. I know very well how tiring long days of travel can be."
o-o-o
They'd left a lamp burning - "The better to see you with, my dear," Sherlock had said smiling wolfishly as he'd teasingly stripped her bare. But their laughter had faded, changing to something more akin to worship as they began to make love to each other, eyes wide open to take in every shadow, every pure line, every subtly changing expression. Her name had been a desperate prayer on his lips twice in as many hours, but before he had taken his own pleasure he had made her grasp the carved posts of the headboard of his bed - their bed! - and had done things to her body that would once have seemed barely imaginable to her, making her beg, making her shriek in spite of their housemates' proximity; then crawling up and taking her that first time when she was still limp and far too sensitive. She had wrapped herself around him, crying out again and again as he moved within her, short, sharp strokes that presently - miraculously - brought her to completion a second time, and then he was overtaken himself.
"Molly…Molly!...oh my God! "
His fingers had left bruises that time. On her shoulder, her hip. Something similar had happened before, in Florence, during the second week of their honeymoon, and she remembered how pleasantly sore she had been, wandering the Uffizi the following afternoon - and how gentle he'd been with her for a few days until she'd finally had enough of that, had informed him that she was not some delicate flower, nor was she made of glass. He had apologized most sincerely, his eyes alight with laughter and love, and had rectified his fault in the most delightful ways from that time forward.
This night, after that first time, they dozed, holding each other close, but they stirred again after a while, and again made love, slow and drowsy, with soft gasps and deep kisses and whispers of encouragement, languorous until the end when suddenly it was not, not at all. After that second time they lay close, facing each other, nose to nose on the pillow.
It was after midnight, and the lamp was now burning low. She could barely see him, though she could feel his even breath.
"Are you asleep?" she asked softly.
"Mmm," he replied, not opening his eyes. "Did you like that?"
"You should know," she said with a smile.
And at that he did open his eyes, they glinted in the faint light. "I love you, wife."
She kissed him. "I love you, too."
He smiled back, boyish and content.
Before his eyes were quite closed again, she spoke. "Husband…"
"Hmmm?"
"Are you… will you take me to Madame Celeste's in Bennet Street, as we discussed in the train station? On our very first morning - you remember?"
"I remember." But his smile had faded somewhat..
"I… but don't you want to?" she asked, a little worried. "It's just… I want to give you as much pleasure as you give me."
"If you give me much more you're like to kill me," he murmured. But then he reached up and stroked her cheek. "Molly, I… I felt differently about things then. I don't think… well, I know it sounds utterly bourgeois, like something your execrable brother-in-law would say - either of your brothers-in-law, actually - but it wouldn't be fitting for you to go to such a place."
"Oh." She was surprised, and really quite disappointed.
"Perhaps I can find a book or two for you on such matters. They do exist, and some are most instructive. And you could speak to Mary Watson, over tea and cakes? God knows she seems to have the knack of keeping Watson happily tied to her apron strings."
Molly had to smile at both his bitter tone and the thought of discussing such things with a woman who was no more than a casual acquaintance, though it was true that she hoped to become better friends with the wife of her husband's colleague. But she now said to Sherlock, "No, I could not! And books might be informative, but would not answer in the same way at all. I wanted to speak to those women… ask them any number of questions. In a spirit of scientific enquiry, you know."
"Ah. Well. I admire an inquisitive and perceptive mind as I do few other things in this life, but in this case, I fear you must content yourself with exploring sources of knowledge other than those available at one of the most notorious brothels in England. And further experimentation will not go amiss. I am certainly at your disposal."
"I daresay you are," she said fondly, and gave him another kiss. But then she sighed, and said with some resentment,. "Very well. But you are a tyrannical beast, you know."
"Not at all. A benevolent despot at most. Now go to sleep, my love. Mrs. Hudson will be wanting to hear more about Italy - and will probably have something to say about those shrieks you let out a while ago, when you were supposedly exhausted and asleep.".
"Oh!" she cried. "You are a beast. How could I help it, when you were doing such things to me? It was entirely your fault." And she shoved at his chest, and moved as if to turn away.
But he pulled her close, subduing her, as she'd known he would, and kissed her, and then said, with laughter in his voice,. "Go to sleep, my darling, prickly little wife." He drew the covers up around them both.
She gave a dramatic sigh, resigned (and warm, and much cherished). "Good night, you horrid, wonderful beast."
