Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Part one of two, enjoy!
THE HONEST THIEF
Dalby Forest
The London-Yorkshire Road
1173
By the time the carriage has come entirely to a halt, Sherlock has already found his blade and is prepared for his attacker.
He's also hidden his engagement gift inside the seat on which he's sitting.
(He may think his prospective bride boring and insipid but that's no reason to allow the insult of her engagement present being stolen).
Thus, when the vehicle's doors open and he is ordered roughly out he feels no fear, merely a slight elevation of his pulse, the flush of anticipated battle. He hops down to the ground easily, cocking an eyebrow at his scarlet-clad assailant and showing him the stiletto blade clutched in his hand even as he smiles at him.
This smile is not, it must be said, an entirely pleasant sight.
As he does this his eyes rake over his attacker, taking in the loose, thick leggings and tunic, the thick, woollen mantle. A hood obscures the other man's face- a foolish choice, cutting off one's peripheral vision, Sherlock sniffs- whilst a heavy, curved eastern blade hangs at one hip. A vicious-looking billy-club hangs at the other. The wolfs-head is small, lithe. Lean. More boy than man, clearly. He's carrying a quiver of arrows on his back and another, concealed blade in his boot, Sherlock can tell, though he sees no reason to say that aloud.
What one chooses not to say is often as important as what one chooses to say, he knows.
The boy handles the longbow he has pointed at Sherlock with the ease of one familiar in its usage; as Holmes ascends he moves back, keeping an entirely too clever degree of distance between himself and his target. This is not, Sherlock thinks, the first time that this man has held someone at arrow-point and at the thought he feels a slight sliver of unease.
Not being the kind of man to scare easily however Holmes holds his hand up before him, his expression mockingly sympathetic.
"Please," he says in a bored tone. "Please don't hurt me. I have so much to live for."
At his words he hears the outlaw gives a snort which sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
"I rather thought you'd go for, "not the face, not the face," he says wryly. His accent is thick Yorkshire. "After all, it's such a pretty visage."
And he sketches Holmes a mocking curtsy, his weapon never leaving its target.
Instantly Sherlock narrows his eyes; The other man's trying to force his voice lower than his natural register, he realises, something which suggests it hasn't broken yet and he is, indeed, rather young.
At the thought Sherlock feels a stab of irritation, knowing that as new High Sherriff he will be forced to bring this young boy to justice for his actions here to day, a justice which will probably include a public hanging-
As if reading where his mind had gone the lad lowers his bow, cocking his head quizzically at the older man.
"You've not caught me yet," he says. "You may wait until you do so before you start grieving for my execution."
Sherlock is surprised that he had guessed the direction his thoughts had taken but manages to cover it with a shrug. "It merely seems a pity," he says, "to see one so young reduced to thievery."
There's a smile in the boy's voice now.
"Oh, there's plenty reduced to thievery in this part of the world, Sir," he says, "there's just few of us are honest enough to admit it."
Sherlock scoffs. "And is that what you are?" he asks. "An honest thief?"
The wolfs-head nods. "The most honest and gentle thief in all of Christendom, milord."
And with that he nods to someone over his shoulder, someone Sherlock hadn't even noticed. It is, Holmes must admit, a stupid mistake to have made- After all, someone would have had to overpower and deal with his coachman. Sherlock sees a blur of movement at the corner of his eye and ducks, only to knock himself head-long into a billy-club blow from his young attacker. Pain explodes behind his eyelids, annoyance at himself and his own lack of observation making it all so much more unpleasant than necessary-
He loses his balance, swinging for his assailant as he goes down and there's another, sharper blow to his head. It's so bright he sees stars, then nothing… Though he has the vague sensation of being carried.
His last conscious thought is of his brother's voice, informing him that he's still the family idiot and for once he has to agree.
When Sherlock awakes, he's sitting, knees bound to his chest and back bound to a tree.
He would also appear to be wearing very little clothing, his tunic, boots and cloak having been taken.
It is, he has to admit, one of the trickier situations in which he's woken up.
At the thought he scowls darkly, takes stock of his surroundings. He's deep in the forest now, probably far away from the road and any inconvenient travellers. A thick, heavy blanket has been draped over him and there's a fire near enough to offer some warmth, but other than that no attempt has been made to secure his comfort.
No, rather his wrists and ankles are tied tightly together and thence to one another, the ropes cunningly interwoven so that pulling on one will cause pain to the bodily area binding the other. It makes the possibility of wriggling loose rather a long shot, he muses, begrudgingly impressed with the forethought which had gone into it.
As he thinks this he hears light footsteps, cranes his neck to see his assailant from earlier pad silently into the circle of the fire's light. He's still wearing his hood up and carrying all of his weapons.
Sherlock cannot help but feel that this bespeaks an irritating degree of common sense- The cad.
"So, Master Holmes," he says, still trying to keep his voice low and gruff. "You have deigned to honour us with your presence."
Sherlock pointedly ignores the jibe. If the lad wanted his scintillating banter then he shouldn't have knocked him unconscious, now should he? "So you know who you've kidnapped," he says instead. "Or rather, you think you do-"
The lad looks at him, head cocked.
He crosses his arms over his chest, apparently amused.
"Oh," he says mildly. "I know well who you are, milord. Guillaume, youngest son of Alice, Baroness of Beckley. Known to his friends- many of whom are of questionable provenance and virtue- as Sherlock. Brother to his Majesty's Spy-Master General, Lord Mycroft and that brother's pet folly at the moment, which is why he used his influence to have you posted here in Yorkshire and removed from London."
The boy sketches him a bow, hands gesturing in an invitation to applaud.
"Have I left anything out?"
Sherlock scowls at the boy. He refuses to show any discomfort at the fact that his captor knows so much about him. "You're awfully well-informed for a mere wolfs-head," he sniffs.
At the insult the boy laughs.
"Oh, you wouldn't believe how informed I am, milord," he says. "But then, I find information of all sorts is there for the finding- You just have to be willing to look for it."
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "So you've heard of my… reputation," he says carefully and again the boy nods.
This time it appears almost… eager.
"Aye, that I have," he says. "Though I must admit, you didn't seem terribly observant when we took you today." He shrugs. "I expected more sport, to be honest with you."
Sherlock flushes, feeling he sting of the observation sharply. With all his fame as the King's secret-finder and strategist, he really shouldn't have been so easy to capture.
"Yes, well, I have a great many matters of import weighing on my mind," he says begrudgingly- And he does.
Being effectively sold as a groom to the highest bidder and having to leave London for the bog-arse end of nowhere will do that for a man.
The boy saunters over to him though, hunkers down, just out of the reach of his arms and legs should Sherlock prove able to get them loose.
"And what might be distracting you?" he asks slyly. "Your loss of royal favour? Your being dispatched to the wildest, most rebellious shire in all England?"
He snickers.
"Or does something else vex that famous mind of yours, eh?"
Sherlock glares at his captor in open scorn. "If you're speaking of my marriage then simply ask," he says sharply. "I'm not the first younger son married off to a rich wife and I won't be the last."
At this the boy seems to still. Despite the fact that he can't see his face, Sherlock has the distinct impression he's… frowning now.
What an odd reaction, he thinks.
"You do not sound fond of your future wife," the boy says. "Surely you have not met her yet- What can you know of her?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "There's nothing I need know of her," he bites out tartly. "Lady Margaret is- apparently- pretty, rich and docile, just like every other gentle-woman in the country. The perfect lady and wife, just waiting for me to plight my troth and start reproducing willy-nilly."
He gives a (rather theatrical) shudder.
The boy seems even more confused however. "And that is a mark against her?" he asks curiously. "That it is said she will make a good wife?"
Sherlock can't help his snort of disdain this time. "Of course it's a bloody mark against her!" he snaps. "Do you think any intelligent man wants some simpering girl-child wandering about and dogging his steps when he could be off doing things and solving problems and, I don't know, enjoying himself?"
He snorts.
"Of course not- Such women are eminently useless, my dear Master Thief.
"I want none of them."
And he glares at the boy, irritated with him for bringing up so sore a subject as his marriage. Were he were capable of crossing his arms right now, Sherlock knows he'd be crossing them with a vengeance but as it stands, he can merely pout.
He rather wishes it were more effective but we work with what we have.
The boy is still staring at him though, head cocked. His air might best be described as speculative. As Sherlock watches he leans forward, placing one hand on the wood beside Holmes' head and bracing his weight on it, the action bringing him face to face with his prisoner.
His eyes burn beneath his hood.
His breath fans Sherlock's face.
"So you would not have a docile wife?" he asks and it's the strangest thing but his voice sounds deeper now. Husky almost. If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd swear he could hear… arousal in it.
It is an arousal which Sherlock belatedly realises he can, mortifyingly, match.
He is not particularly happy with this realisation.
Holmes nods though, suddenly feeling discombobulated. Uncomfortable. Only Victor and Irene have ever previously been able to elicit such a response from him and that was when he was young. He had rather thought he'd outgrown his libido when he'd settled on his vocation at court.
And yet-
"If I must have a wife," he says quietly, "-and it is not a thing of which I am at all convinced- then I would have one who has a mind and a will of her own. One who can stand on her own two feet. One who knows who she is without looking to me to tell her…"
"You want a woman, not a wife."
And the boy's gloved hand comes up to stroke Sherlock's face, his thumb lingering slightly over his lip. The feel of the leather against his skin makes Sherlock shiver and suddenly the tension in his bonds seems almost pleasant. Wanted.
Without his quite willing it to, his tongue moves out to wet his lip.
The boy doesn't move away, doesn't flinch, merely stares at him. He leans in closer, head cocked to one side, the hand at Sherlock's mouth sliding up to trace the hollow of his cheekbone. To tip his face upwards and to the side. It skims over his nose, the arch of his eyebrow before curling in his hair. Tugging it gently. Time seems to elongate, the silence of the night and the fire wrapping around them both as Sherlock stares at his captor and then suddenly…
Suddenly…
Suddenly the boy presses his mouth gently to his.
It's a kiss that's also a question.
A sigh sounds and Sherlock can't be sure which one of them produces it, it's so quiet. So soft.
His fingers tighten against his palms and he finds himself wishes fervently that they were free.
The boy's lips move against his, hesitant and gentle and yet somehow insistent too. This seems like a first kiss, perhaps for both of them, though Sherlock knows it should not feel so. Be that as it may though, he feels his own body clamour and warm in response, the pleasure of what's being done to him setting heat sliding slowly through to his very bones, his fingertips. It feels like there's a thunderstorm beneath his flesh, a rising gale of delight and passion-
And then, just as suddenly as he started the kiss the boy ends it. Pulls away.
There's a twist of loss within Sherlock at the action though he knows it makes no sense at all.
He notes, somewhat distractedly, that they're now both breathless.
"Get some sleep," the boy says and then he stands. Walks away from him.
When he reaches the other side of the fire he finally pulls his hood down and Sherlock sees a long, dark plait shaken loose. Sees two dark- and entirely feminine- eyes looking at him, the cloak pushed away to reveal a tunic, leggings… and a pair of small, womanly breasts. A female figure.
Well, he thinks. I'll be damned.
For he is struck with surprise to realise that his captor- his female captor- has managed to fool him all this time and once again he hears Mycroft's voice in his head, telling him he's an idiot. Again, he finds himself agreeing.
"No harm will come to you," his captor says, "but you'd best try to rest now."
She disappears into the trees and though Sherlock tries to stay awake he doesn't see her return, even when the dawn comes.
When he wakes he's lying in the forest, still covered in that blanket; His clothes and the rope used to tie him are piled neatly beside him, his bride's gift placed upon them like a jewel in a ring's setting.