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The two months that followed found Sherlock and John settled into a comfortable routine. John would spend his days as partner to Master Hooper, with Sherlock dropping in when his time allowed. When not occupied with doctoring, Sherlock would engage John in assisting with his experiments. At first slightly wary of the reckless way Sherlock would utilize fire and other methods to extract oils and vapors from plant and mineral, John eventually grew used to the experimentation. True to Molly Hooper's words, Sherlock was often heedless to the dangers of his work and on more than one occasion would send up a string of language John had not heard since the battlefield, spending the evening nursing burns. The only thing that continued to startle him was Sherlock's custom of practicing his archery in the great hall when the weather proved too unfavorable to be outside. He looked twice before stepping foot into the room when it was raining.

Sherlock was pleased to have someone around who tolerated, if not admired, his habits and activities. It was most encouraging to see John's health and constitution improve in his presence, slowly shirking the use of a crutch and regaining confidence. He was also glad of the excuse to accompany John to the Hooper farm, as Molly's work with her father had limited her ability to bring him useful herbs and plants. She really did have a knack for knowing exactly what he was in need of; the only girl he had known who had learned to read and write and put it to use. If only she could manage to bring them their wine in the conservatory without stumbling over herself. She had always been an awkward girl, but her nerves had increased ever since her dresses had taken a womanly shape. Of course, that would be the kind of observation John would turn red at and huff something about indecency.

The day that found Sherlock stepping outside of his duties as leader of the county started with Molly Hooper. After breakfasting, he felt the need for fresh air, having spent the past two days shut in reading. His ramble took him to the woods, observing the world around him. The sound of humming reached his ears and he quickly looked around for the source. He caught sight of her long hair, tied neatly back with a white ribbon, as she knelt on the ground. Her body was obscured by a fawn brown cloak, but he could see her delicate arm reaching out to pull dandelions from the ground in front of her and place them in her basket.

When he was nearly upon her and she hadn't noticed his presence, he cleared his throat.

She spun around, almost upsetting her basket, her hand to her chest as it rose and fell rapidly.

"Molly," he greeted.

"Sherlock," she said with a laugh. "You frightened me half to death."

He ignored the intimate use of his name, finding that he enjoyed the sound of it. Not to mention she said it with far more confidence than she managed with his official titles.

"Gathering for your father?" he asked, gesturing to the basket filled with root and stems.

"Yes," she said, standing and brushing off her green skirts. "Widow Greyson has had complaints of the stomach again. Dandelion is the only thing that seems to help her. Although, if you ask me, it would help more if she would use a lighter hand when it comes to ale -"

She stopped abruptly and looked apologetically at him, knowing she was engaging in idle gossip. He smiled, finding it rather amusing.

"I, I don't mean to take up your time, sir," she said quickly.

"Not at all," he said, standing back and holding his arm out in invitation for her to walk with him. "If you've finished, I can accompany you home."

Molly smiled and ducked her head, walking towards him but keeping a decent amount of space between them as they headed towards the main road. Quiet descended on them and Sherlock knew he was obligated to engage her in polite conversation. He grimaced inwardly at that thought. It was why he hated the company of women the majority of the time – one was never able to speak of anything other than what was considered polite.

"John is quite happy in the practice," he said, trying to keep the boredom out of his voice.

"Oh yes," she replied, looking up at him. "And father is so grateful to you, and to John. He is a perfect fit."

"A permanent fixture, then."

"We do hope so."

"And when shall we expect your marriage?"

The words were spoken before he knew what he was saying. He only slightly regretted them, mostly because of the scandalized way she looked at him. He knew he was in for a fit.

"Marriage?" she said, horrified.

"Yes," he replied, studying the sky as they emerged from the woods. "It would solidify everything."

"Sir, I can assure you, nothing of the sort will be happening. I don't know what falsehoods you may have heard, but John's presence in our home is nothing less than proper," Molly said hotly.

"Your lowered neckline is surely not for your own amusement."

"I – I beg your pardon?"

"You don't wish to marry?" he asked, disregarding her embarrassment.

"Certainly not for convenience," she snapped with a boldly furious look in his direction.

"For love then?" he asked with a mocking emphasis on the word. Her gaze whipped forward to the road ahead and she flushed pink.

"I don't think that's quite proper to talk about, sir," she said evenly.

He was about to chastise her for the formality when a scream ripped through the air. Both heads turned towards a nearby cottage, set back a ways from the road. Sherlock knew it belonged to a small family whose patriarch did odd jobs fixing homes and buildings; mostly, they farmed and kept to themselves.

When the first scream was succeeded by wails and sobbing, Sherlock and Molly took off down the road and towards the cottage. The door was open and Sherlock bolted inside to find the wife fallen to the floor beside a wooden crate in the middle of the room. It took two steps towards it to see that the contents were what had sent the woman into fits. Her husband's body was crammed inside, blue and stiff. Molly gasped beside him, her hand flying to her mouth before she went to the poor woman and knelt with her.

"It's Edward," the woman wailed, balling her dusty skirts into her fists.

"Take her outside," Sherlock ordered. "Stay with her and don't let anyone else in. I'll fetch the Sheriff and your father."


The small cottage was crowded with people, all centered around the crate. Molly had ushered the children outside and was keeping them distracted from the tragedy unfolding inside. Sheriff Lestrade crouched down, inspecting the body of the dead man with Master Hooper looking over his shoulder. Sherlock and John stood in front of his now-widow who was doing everything in her power to hold back the tears and stay upright in her chair.

"You noticed nothing amiss when you returned from town, Jane?" John asked gently.

"It's like I told you, sir," she sighed heavily. "I come back from buyin' my sewing needles. Walked 'round back to let the chickens out, came in to return the money pouch, and seen the crate lyin' there…door wide open and not a soul around."

"Edward was gone early this morning?" Lestrade asked, straightening and taking a few steps to join them.

Jane nodded, wiping at her eyes.

"Just before sunrise. Had some business to attend to."

"What business?" Sherlock asked.

"Wouldn't tell me, m'Lord. I figured it had to do with a job."

Sherlock absorbed the information and turned his gaze to the crate. The way the man was oriented would give anyone a shock, let alone his wife. Legs bent at an unnatural angle in an effort to fit the body, his head turned awkwardly to fix his dead gaze upwards at anyone unfortunate enough to look inside. He had been a strong man, with muscles like a bull, but even tempered from what Sherlock could recall.

"Was he having problems with anyone in the county?" Lestrade continued his line of questioning. "Any rivalries?"

"None, sir. Edward was beloved by everyone he knew."

"Where are his shoes?" Sherlock interjected.

Every head in the room turned to face him. He took in their surprise and found himself shocked that no one had noticed.

"He is barefoot," he clarified impatiently, pointing down towards the man's bare, but clean, feet. "Surely he was in the habit of wearing boots."

"I…yes, of course he was," Jane agreed quickly. "Was wearin' them when he left…I hadn't even noticed…"

"Is there anything else you may have failed to notice?" Sherlock pressed. "Or are you too unobservant in your own home -"

"What my friend would like to ask," John interrupted firmly, "is if there is anything you may have remembered now that the shock is not so bad. Is anything amiss in the house? Anything at all?"

"Now, now that I think on it…Y-yes, sir. Our money pouch…four pennies are gone," she said with a pitiable hiccup. "You don't think…no one would have the mind to do that to Edward for four pennies, would they? It's a pittance."

"Not too sure, ma'am," Lestrade said with a gentle smile.

With promises to help the family in the trying time, the men loaded the crate onto Master Hooper's wagon. Having come on the wagon, John remained in the back next to the crate to return to town to assist the physician. Molly stopped to offer Jane a comforting hug and kiss the children on the head before climbing up beside her father. She looked back at Sherlock as the horses began to plod forward, her expression filled with worry.

Lestrade came to his side, pulling on his leather gloves as they watched the wagon make its way down the road.

"We have a villain in our midst," he said, his jaw working tensely.

"No doubt of that," Sherlock agreed. "And it is something I won't tolerate."

The anger and the protectiveness he felt towards his county he could admit to Lestrade. The inexplicable excitement he felt at the promise of the hunt laid out before him, he would not.


The coldness of the stone room adjacent to Hooper's practice and chemist's shop in town provided the needed environment for the inspection of the dead man. By the time Sherlock had joined them, a preliminary look had already been undertaken. Lain out on a wooden table and covered with a modest cloth, he could easily see details that had escaped him in the cottage. Even without the training of a physician, he recognized the marks of a fight. Lord knew he had been in enough scrapes as a boy.

"He was strangled, m'Lord," Hooper said, pointing to the dark bruises around the man's neck that held the distinct shape of fingers.

"I can attest to that," John added with a dark look. "I've seen the like more than I care to remember in the desert."

"It is a matter of who did it, now," Sherlock told them. "Fortunately, we are certain of two things beyond how he died."

"What are those?" John asked.

"One, whoever killed him, knew him. That is the only way to explain the intimate nature of his body being delivered back to his home. Two, his boots will likely lead us to the guilty man."

"His boots?" Hooped said, thoroughly confused.

"His feet are clean, therefore he did not lose his boots prior to his death. If they were removed by our villain, there is a very clear reason," Sherlock told them surely. Hardly missing a beat, he glanced towards the door and added, "You may as well come in, Margaretta, you've overheard far too much to continue lurking in the doorway."

A surprised little squeak came from the hall outside and a few moments later Molly stepped in. Her father sighed but looked at her with resigned affection. Though clearly undisturbed by the presence of the body on the table, she hovered near the door and kept her hands tightly clasped in front of her.

"I trust we can count on your discretion?" Sherlock asked her. She nodded quickly. "Good. Hooper, you've taken note of all the marks?"

"Aye, m'Lord," the physician assured him. "Nothing more to be done for him now."

"Very well. John, if you're no longer needed, we can make our way back to the manor. The day grows late."

"Go on, John," Hooper said with a smile. John nodded and tossed his cloak around his shoulders, following Sherlock out the door and hearing Hooper's fading instructions to his daughter. "Molly, my girl, help me with his clothes. And when we're done, fetch some water to clean him up."

Once on the road and clear of anyone who may overhear, Sherlock unloaded the thoughts burdening his mind on the events of the day.

"I have not encountered such a mystery before, John," he admitted, his eyes narrowed and focused on the horizon of the road. "So many things are clear about it, and yet the answer is shrouded."

"I must admit, I have never seen such a thing, not even in battle," John replied. "Is violence uncommon to the county?"

"We have had our share of murders, proud vengeance enacted and drunken tempers unchecked. This is something entirely new – surely the result of a dark mind."

With his concerns voiced, Sherlock fell into silence and the walk back to the manor was quiet, contemplative. Supper was taken in the parlour, though he hardly touched the meal Martha had brought them. His mind was too preoccupied with trying to find the ties in the information he had. Again, he felt the sense of enthusiasm that he knew was slightly undesirable, but was unable to help it. His brother was one of the top minds in a world lacking in intelligence, even amongst those fortunate enough to obtain an education. He knew that he followed in those footsteps, but up until this point he had only found an interest in academic writings, personal experimentation, and the occasional amusement of observing his fellow countrymen. The tragedy of the day piqued his interest like nothing else he had come across.

His thoughts were broken by Sam's voice.

"Margaretta Hooper, m'Lord," he announced.

Sherlock looked up and noticed that supper had been cleared and the fire lit while he had been pondering. John was sitting up from a slouch in his chair, clearly waking up from a doze.

Molly entered the room, looking slightly winded and showing marks of having ridden to the manor in some haste. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of a pair of leather boots dangling from her hands. She held them out to him with a smile on her face.

"I found…found them down by the stream when I was fetching water," she said, trying to catch her breath.

The excitement he felt was quickly quelled, trying not to appear too eager at the discovery.

"They could be anybody's," he said calmly, though he rose from his chair to investigate.

"Perhaps," Molly said. "But why would they be hidden beneath branches and grasses? I was fortunate enough to trip over them."

Sherlock held back a smirk at the thought that her clumsiness could very well have produced such an important item. Taking the boots from her, he crossed the room to place them on a small table and was joined by his companions as he looked at them carefully. They were not high quality, though they were cared for well, showing no signs that they could have been left by the stream for a long time at all. As he circled the table and inspected the bottoms of the boots, something caught his eye. Quickly grabbing a nearby pen knife, he scraped at the crook of the boot where sole met heel.

John sniffed and made a face.

"Is that manure?" he asked.

"Pig, as a matter of fact, given the contents," Sherlock muttered, distracted as he took an inventory of the seeds embedded in the droppings. "Apple, pear…oh. Oh!"

As he pried the clot apart, his eyes landed on a seed he had only seen once in his life. It took a moment to recall how he knew it, but once his mind had provided the answer it was easy to place. His lips pulled back in a smile as he pieced together the likely path of the man's last hours.

He would have to be careful with how he handled the implications of what he now knew. Morning would be the absolute earliest he would risk acting.

"Sherlock," John murmured, sounding worried.

"I'll be in my chambers," he said quickly, straightening to leave the room.

"I should be on my way home. Father might worry."

He heard Molly's hesitant words as he strode towards the door, as well as John's immediate offer to escort her. His lip twitched a bit at the realization that, as Lord, he should have been the one to ensure her safe travels, but it was too late to turn around and fix his mistake.


For a great many months, Sherlock had managed to avoid stepping foot inside his family's castle home, conducting business of the county from his manor. It gave him an odd satisfaction to make his brother's staff and counselors journey to him, enforcing a power than he knew many were not yet keen to give to him. Sadly, he was now forced to stand in the great hall of the stuffy, unfriendly residence of the Holmes legacy, waiting for a servant to announce him. He shifted uncomfortably in his stiff linens and leather trousers, not used to wearing his best clothing. The green velvet cloak was the sole piece of comfort. Well, that and the sword he had fastened fastidiously about his hips.

Nothing was neglected in Mycroft's absence; that could be said with a certainty. The stone floor was spotless, the tapestries did not show a hint of dust, and the fireplace was laid for the evening's fire.

Good, he thought. It was what he was counting on. No luxury ignored.

The servant came back into the hall, full of pomp.

"Sir James is not in his quarters at present, m'Lord," he said. "Perhaps you would like to leave word."

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said with a smile that he quickly dropped, proceeding to stride past him and through to the halls.

He may not reside in the castle anymore, but that did not mean he was no longer at liberty to walk about as he pleased. Easily pushing open the door to the steward's chambers, he took quick stock of the room. He crossed to the desk where the ledgers were kept and glanced at the entries, turning back a page when he did not see what he was looking for.

"Ah ha," he muttered.

The entry was recent, the stain of the ink darker and more defined than the others. Tax collections from the last fortnight, four pennies collected from Edward's household. His mouth turned down angrily.

Four blessed pennies.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention to the door and he met the carefully schooled face of Moriarty and his personal hound, Sebastian. The blood boiled under his skin at the sight of them.

"M'Lord, I had not expected you today," the shorter man said, his body exuding forced composure at the intrusion.

"I do like to check the ledgers from time to time," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Everything is in order, I can assure you. All taxes collected, all bills paid," Moriarty told him, his eyes narrowing.

"By whatever means necessary, I take it," Sherlock said slowly. He took a few careful steps towards the center of the room, allowing his hand to dip into a bowl of fruit presented prominently on the table and extracting a small, brown treat. "The county must be doing well…I was without a need to shave the last time we enjoyed dates."

He popped it into his mouth and felt his teeth clamp around the seed as he left the room. The sweetness of the dried fruit was unsatisfactory and he palmed the seed quickly and spat the pulp out the moment he was outside. He was glad he had chosen to ride to the estate; it made the trip to town much quicker and he was at the jailhouse in no time. Lestrade was somewhat less than willing to find as much outrage in the situation as Sherlock.

"A fruit pip and an inky ledger?" he asked with doubt, running a hand along his jaw in contemplation. "I admit, you notice a great deal more than most, but I would lose my head if I went after his Lordship's counselor and was proved wrong."

"You would have my word on your side," Sherlock said emphatically.

Lestrade considered him and Sherlock fought the urge to shake sense into the man.

"You'll allow me time to think on it?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, though he felt frustrating disappointment. When he returned to the manor, a message was waiting for him from John, explaining that Anne Burbidge had started labor pains and was faring poorly. They had called for a physician's assistance and he was not expecting to return home until the morrow. On the one hand, he was glad to have the solitude to sulk. On the other, it would have been nice to purge his frustrations to his friend.

The certainty that Moriarty and Sebastian had bloodied their hands in the name of collecting a pathetic tax left him seeing red. He'd paid little attention to the going's on of the county prior to his brother leaving for the war, but he could not say he had ever had an easy feeling about the steward. Why Mycroft had entrusted this man to run his estate was beyond him at this point. Other Lords enacted harsh punishment for late taxes, but that had never been the way for Mycroft.

What Moriarty had done was…despicable.

Darkness had fallen when a resounding knock boomed from the main door. His eyes flicked up and he felt a twisting in his stomach at the sound. In mere moments, before Sam had a chance to announce them, Moriarty and Sebastian entered his parlour with four palace knights flanking them. He barely spared a glance for them as they marched purposefully into the room, keeping his chin propped casually in one hand as he slouched in his chair.

Moriarty made a show of unfurling a parchment and a devilish smile spread across his face as he read from it.

"Sir Sherlock of Huntingdon: you are hereby ordered by His Majesty, the King of England, to serve in the war, to fight for the crown and for the good Christian world."

"How convenient," he said dully, though inside his heart was pounding.

"It is a command not to be ignored," Moriarty advised darkly.

"Are you not frightened of the consequences that will rain down on you when my brother finds out what you are doing? When the crown finds out?" Sherlock demanded, standing irritably and facing the men.

"You will be well on your way to the Moors by the time word reaches anyone," Moriarty said smoothly, taking deliberate steps towards him. "If they are still alive to do anything about it. No one frightens me, m'Lord…not even the crown."

"I'm beginning to think you fancy seeing yourself wearing one."

"I would look stunning, I can assure you."

With that, Moriarty nodded towards the others and in one swift movement Sebastian had clubbed him across the back of the head while two of the knights gripped at his arms. His head swam and he struggled to maintain his dignity in face of the villain.

"I have one question for you," Sherlock growled, using every last ounce of strength to hold his head up.

"And that is?"

"Why did you remove the boots?"

Moriarty stared at him for a few moments before a decidedly amused grin spread across his face. His dark, cold eyes crinkled unnaturally with the action and he leaned forward so that his nose was inches from Sherlock's. His voice was low and deceptively melodic when he answered.

"So that he would fit in the box, you fool."