Like historical inaccuracies? You'll love this. (I tried my best, but of course they are sprinkled here and there.)
So, I have not been working on what I should, but I do have this story pretty much completed, which means you can expect pretty regular updates :) It's also one of the longest things I've ever written. Please enjoy, I'd love to know what you think!
Her cloak nearly whips off her shoulders, and Molly throws out a desperate hand to catch it, sacrificing her cap to the wind, having missed it narrowly in the darkness. Lightning strikes deafeningly - intrusive to her eyes and ears, but illuminating the trees and her surroundings just long enough for her to tighten the grip on her basket.
Rain falls in relentless sheets, hard and rough against her weary shoulders, and her heart beats along to its frantic pace. Thunder crashes on every side of her, but she determinedly stays on the muddy road, ruling it her safest option.
The lightning cracks again, and the outline of a horse appears suddenly in front of her. Molly stumbles, startled, and the horse rears with a thunderous whinny. She cries out as she slips, falling in the mud, landing strangely on her ankle.
"Damn!" She hears a masculine voice shout distantly.
Hands are suddenly secure on her arms, helping her to standing position. She struggles to straighten and sort the rain-laden skirts, holding tightly onto the anonymous's hand. She can only just make out the shape of a tall, lean man before he's lifting her to sit on the horse's saddle by her waist, pulling himself up behind her. The reins are taken immediately, and the force of the wind pushes her body back into his. A quick command from his lips, and the horse is galloping along the road.
"Are you quite alright?" he yells over the deluge. His voice is deep, sending more shivers through her body. The ride is rough, forcing him to use his arms to steady her.
"Just my ankle," Molly calls back breathlessly, grimacing. "I believe I may have sprained it."
The man places his mouth closer to her ear, lips moving nearly against her skin. "There's a house just two miles down road. I'll take a look there."
The rain comes down harder, stinging her eyes and rendering her blind. Presently they approach a house, situated on the side of the road. He dismounts efficiently, twisting at the ties of his cloak as he does. The wool is thrown over her shoulders and he's quickly got her down from the horse's back, large hands nearly covering the width of her stays. Molly finds herself against his chest, strong arms tucked under her knees and back, barely jostling her as he runs for the stately house.
The door kicks in easily enough, and finally they are out of the rain, blinking drops of water off her eyelashes. They drip water in the darkened hallway for a moment before he's taking them up the stairs, nudging open doors with his boot until at last the man locates a bedroom, depositing her onto the bed unceremoniously, and commanding, "Stay here."
He's out of the room in a heartbeat, thundering down the steps.
Molly sits on the bed, listening to the muted rain against glass windows, when she suddenly becomes aware of her violent shivers. She tugs the wet cloak closer to herself in a vain attempt at warmth, her mind still muddled with the sound of lightning.
He's back, and for the first time, Molly is able to see him clearly. The darkness of the house and inconsistency of light highlights the shadows from his aristocratic cheekbones, and water plasters dark curls across his pale forehead. His face is severe, military and stern. He cuts a fine figure in breeches, and from her position, his eyes look dark.
The man crosses the room, tossing a pillow. "Here," he motions smoothly, "In a cupboard in the servants' kitchen." He begins removing his clothes, peeling away a navy coat, tugging the waistcoat from his shoulders. It leaves nothing but a white shirt, soaked through and sticking to his broad chest. Hastily, Molly averts her eyes, a blush rising high in her cheeks.
He rolls his eyes, impatiently pulling on the cravat around his neck. "Hypothermia," he emphasizes. "Best to remove the cold, wet clothing as quickly as possible to prevent any more of a loss of your body heat. I had thought you might have known that."
She does, actually. Timidly, she brings shaking fingers to unlace her heavy cloak, allowing his own to slide off her shoulders. "What makes you believe that?"
"Herbs, in your basket. Medicinal mostly, for cuts - reducing blood loss. You went quite out of your way to find them, anyhow." He is kneeling in front of the fireplace, gathering dry logs in his arms to place in the hearth. A concise scratch, and a flame has leapt into the grate, beginning a blaze. He nods at her leg, raising dark eyebrows. "And hypothermia or not, your elevating that ankle is indicative of at least some basic medical knowledge."
Molly had tucked the pillow under her ankle, almost unconsciously. Her hands move up and down her arms slowly, seeking some warmth. "Is that all?" she asks, slightly weakly.
The fire cracks in the hearth, throwing sparks upward. He clasps his hands behind his back, standing to throw open a cupboard. The man speaks, his back turned to her. "I also know that you're a single, never-been-married woman with no desire to wed currently, living on your own with a recently deceased brother on a farm in the nearby town with one horse of whom you are especially fond of. I suspect your father was a doctor or some sort with whom you were very close, and made at least some effort to pass on the knowledge to you, which you accepted gratefully." A blanket is thrown her way.
He appraises her quickly, let eyes wander down her form, curving his mouth into an arrogant smirk. A slight pause - the room saturated only with rain on glass and thunder before it is broken by his launching into rapid-fire speech. "No ring, obviously not married. You could just be poor but sentimental people so often like some charm or token of some kind - especially if he had died in some tragic accident, all of which are absent from your person. That and the fact that upon my entrance of this room you did not immediately bombard me with requests to send a message to your dearest, who would surely be worried by now, what with you out in quite a bad storm and all. If you desired a husband, it surely wouldn't be too hard for you, as you are moderately attractive and capable, and not quite firmly entrenched in the life of spinsterhood. You are unattached, as evidenced by the way you're not quite so properly outraged at being alone with a man in nothing but his undergarments." Molly rubs an anxious thumb against the back of her pale hand, and he notices, raising his eyebrows with a renewed smirk. Continuing, "Your cloak was too large, too long on you - by five inches, I would say, rather tall for any female in the colonies but just within the shorter end for a male. As you're obviously quite small then I suspect so would be any of your family members. A relative, then. Couldn't've been a husband's, we've established that - but not a father either. The collar is the style of a young man, not typical of a male" - he glances at her, eyes narrowed in assessment - "of about mid-fifties to early-sixties. It only recently came to the colonies from England, maybe four or five years ago - unlikely that any man of such advanced years would wear such a garment. So, a brother - but how could you possibly know he's dead, you ask? You are overtly concerned with the state of the cloth, constantly straightening and touching without even noticing. Women are sentimental and by default I am afraid, so are you. You are wearing clothes of decent quality, it is unlikely that you would only be able to afford one cloak, the fact that you are wearing it at all, and that you never asked me to send along a reassuring note to anyone, so I can conclude quite assuredly that if it's your brother's, then he is dead." The man's baritone grew more impatient, and his fingers tapping agitatedly against the fireplace mantel to the rhythm of the rainstorm. He tears away from the ledge, pacing the length of the room. "A horse! - obvious tears and repairs on your dress around the hips, where one would rub against the rough hair of a horse ridden long and often. You were comfortable enough while riding on Redbeard, well anticipating and acclimated to the roughness of our journey. And as I already told you, the plants in your basket indicated at least some medical connection, and as a doctor is not traditionally a woman's job, it is simplest to conclude that your father was a doctor. And why pass on knowledge that is not usually a woman's to your daughter?" Each word enunciated like a bullet - "Because you are especially fond of her."
He draws in a breath, far less laboured than one would think after such a long speech. He glances back at her, and a hand is waved dismissively. "The rest was just character analysis."
"Good Lord," Molly breaths out unsteadily, feeling as though she hadn't tasted the cold air in years. Her hands are curled tightly in her skirts, knuckles white with the strain.
"No," he corrects smugly. "Just observations."
She laughs quietly, reaching her hands back up to the waist of her dress. The warmth of the fire is filling the room, attempting to reach her through the soaked fabric. Molly hesitates.
He's gesturing impatiently at her with fine, slender musician hands. "Come now. Wet clothes off and a name, if you please."
Her hands twist worriedly in her lap, but she obliges softly, nodding her head, "Margaret Hooper. And you, sir?"
"Sherlock Holmes," he answers decisively, with a swift, near-mocking bow. A tired sigh is pushed tersely through his teeth. "Are you going to take them off or shall I have to assist you? I suppose you are aware of the risks."
"I...am," she hesitates. "Just not quite sure of the…safety guaranteed to me. As you say, I am unattached, and rather wish...to remain so."
"And a loss of virtue or even the possibility a baby would harm that. I quite understand." Sherlock turns back to the fire, warming his front. He chuckles darkly, "No need to worry. It would be against my dear brother's dearest wishes should I involve myself with a colonist." A miniscule pause, and then, "Much less a rebel."
The blood in Molly's veins run cold, her hands freezing. "You're not...surely you can't be - "
He waves elegantly, indifferently at their surrounding. "Friends of my brother. Loyalist who packed up as fast as they could as soon as news of any unrest towards the noble king reached their ears. You've no cause to fear - for once my proclivities align with his. I've no patience for delusional so-called patriots."
"You can't believe that," she says softly.
Sherlock snorts. "Of course I can. The odds are stacked quite severely against your party. Were I a religious man I'd say they haven't a prayer. A group of barely organized farmers against a highly efficient, highly experienced, and highly skilled army and if I was a betting man, I'd stake my reputation that this little rebellion is over within the coming year."
She holds no false sense of optimism, well aware of the many disadvantages the colonist face, yet to hear them so cruelly pointed out turns a reasonable woman into a fierce one. For the first time, she is glaring at him. "You're wrong."
He tilts his head, observing her with an amused smirk. "Hardly ever."
Molly's teeth snap together testily and with vicious intent she pushes the sturdy gown off her shoulders, no longer shy or uncertain of the intentions of this man. In a moment she has it fully off, throwing the fabric towards him and he catches it neatly, draping it over a chair near the hearth. Like a common rake, he sweeps appreciative eyes over her slender figure in a shift and stays before the blanket is firmly wrapped around her body.
"I suppose you are a soldier then?" she fair accuses, anger turning her tone lower. "Indecency and a lack of respectable manners is something I've found plentiful in the British army."
He laughs, angular face reflecting white lightning and warm fire strangely. "Oh, indeed. Britain's finest boys aren't nearly as outstanding as we tell our faithful citizens." Cloaks are carefully laid out to dry, spread on the dusty floor. "Captain Holmes is my title. I'm not here out of any burning passion for my country, only because dear brother has exiled me. Once the army has put an end to the disquiet I will be let back into my birth country and left - quite overdue and deservingly - to my experiments."
"Abandonment not within your moral code?" she questions tartly.
A short bark of laughter escapes him. "Would that I could. I've not much a care for my reputation nor my men, but Mycroft has quite cleverly paid off any potentially willing captains and their crew for any boats out of the New World." Sherlock widens his eyes dramatically, long strides filling the room. "They tense anytime I approach the docks."
Patriot or not, Molly has never been one for cruelty. Her softer eyes see an enemy standing before her, yes, but not an enemy fully committed to his cause, indeed not much more than a man cursed of circumstance and with a wish for a different life. And, rather feeling a headache coming on, she opted for a lighter comment, not wishing to combat with this man any further than she already had. "If only your king shared your dislike of the colonies, Captain Holmes. Perhaps there would be no need for any battles at all."
"My king has no love or affection for the people or land indeed, but rather the money earned holds a very special place in his heart, I should think."
With this she does agree. It is evident to her and her fellow like-minded companions that King George III sees the colonists as nothing more than potential sources of profit for his kingdom, through inane taxes and policies. Similar subjects have fueled conversation lasting much longer than the usual allowance one topic usually musters, and stirring up emotions more vehement than typically seen. Her own brother had been a plentiful source of such spirited passion, until a late case of the pneumonia caught and took him away. She mourned often that he had never lived to see his beliefs carried to real actions, making her all the more determined to see it herself.
Tears threaten Molly's eyes, but she determinedly blinks them back.
The conversation had come to its nature conclusion, and had been merely hastened by the sudden appearance of Miss Hooper's tears. Sherlock - in uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, but more than that simply from being wildly uncomfortable - elected to draw her attention to more prevalent and safe topic. He clasps his hands together in a sharp clap. "Now, then, Miss Hooper. You shall take the bed, and I'll make do at the hearth. Tomorrow morning, I will take you back to your home, weather providing."
It seems to her most irregular - and rather improper - that he should stay in the room, hearth or not. Molly makes to voice these thoughts when he interrupts.
"Warmth is vital to both you and I, Miss Hooper. I am not quite alert enough to spot any warning signs in myself, but I do trust you - perhaps ill-advisedly - to catch them in me. I had been out in the storm just as you had, and I daresay just as long. And more than that, there is not enough firewood for two separate blazes. Rest assured, you'll have no improper behavior here." His eyes gleam, argument made and won. "You'll just have to bear it, if only for a night."
She nods, a little unsteadily - rather dizzied by his rapid change in manner, but quite swayed by the sensibility in his logic.
"And I can trust you? To be good, decent." The storm continues to rage outside, wind howling its pleas to be let inside, and shivering, Molly thought she might be rather glad for some company, even a rather poor one.
"I'm afraid you have no other choice."
"I'll say goodnight, then," she says softly, before tucking herself under the frugal blanket.
He acknowledges her much the same, arranging his own items in an attempt to gain some comfort on the dusty, cold floor. Damp clothing is pushed to the side and replaced with a sheet, rips running down the cloth like ugly gashes. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in slight disgust, but makes no complaint.
Out of habit, Molly starts to unwind her hair from its wet bun, pulling the locks loose. She threads the strands into a thick braid, tying off neatly with a ribbon and pushes it behind her shoulders. Her hands drop to her lap, eyes falling naturally on the torso of Captain Holmes as he struggles to make his place more comfortable.
He twists to straighten the sheet, and suddenly an ugly pattern of black, purple, and blue is visible to her just above the collar and through the sheer fabric.
"You've a bruise!" she cries, startled and more than just a little concerned.
A low laugh, though he doesn't turn around. "I am an army man, Miss Hooper," is his reply, "you'll have to be more specific."
But no matter his lack of worry, she's off the bed, bare feet padding quickly towards him. She stops, just a foot away. Her fingertips ghost over the spread of unnatural colors on his turned back, trailing it lightly though the thin cotton. It scorches him.
"It looks fairly recent," she murmurs, brow furrowed slightly. "And more than just a bit painful, I should think."
Sherlock twists his fine neck, craning to glance unconcernedly at the damage. "When I fell off Redbeard, most likely." A fond smile at the corner of his lips. "Damn animal can't handle any scares."
Molly is immediately aware of the shortened proximity between her and the captain, and she drops her hand and steps back, her head tipping in a natural bow, a blush beginning to make its way up her cheeks.
"Enough playing nurse now," Sherlock says, pointedly - but with a certain degree of amusement. "We've quite the journey tomorrow."
Molly concedes that this is true, and soon she is back on the bed. Sleep, however, eludes her, blurring at the edges of her vision but never further. She lies on her side, all too aware of the man on the floor in front of her, swearing to herself that she could feel his very warmth. Mad thoughts of an insane redcoat murdering her in her bed race through her mind, but soon the exhaustion from the day overtakes her, and she is sleeping peacefully.
The same could not be said for Captain Holmes.
I hope you liked the deduction scene - took me about two weeks to write it and figure out what he could see. Let me know what you think!