Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Katya Jade, Moonunit, cath100, Aphraelsan, applejacks0808, shazzykins, Monirosez, Buttercup59, Bekah1218, Danielle and my mystery guest. This is the penultimate chapter- there's a little more teasing before we get to the good stuff- so enjoy!
THE ABSENT BRIDE
Skipton
North Yorkshire
The Next Day
The rest of the journey passes without incident, much to Sherlock's disappointment.
No more outlaws appear, no kidnappers.
They don't even encounter heavy rain.
Instead, the sun shines with a most unexpected (and irritating) brightness, so much so that Sherlock and his coach make good time and arrive at the gates of his would-be father-in-law's castle a full half day sooner than expected.
He is not terribly pleased by this.
Rather than dwell on his irritation however he pushes the thought away. Tries to focus. If he is unsuccessful in that- if a pair of warm, brown eyes and a wool-clad female body interfere- then he's certainly not of a mind to admit it to himself.
Or anyone else.
Instead he turns his thoughts to his new home. As the carriage pulls up to Skipton Castle's formidable gate-house Sherlock feels a twinge of unease, looking up at the structure's massive walls. He must be living in wild country indeed, he muses, to make so impressive a fortification necessary. The damn thing makes the Tower of London look positively quaint. Of course he'd known that Yorkshire, with its closeness to Scotland, was far more contested territory than any in his native London but still…
To see such evidence of it, that is sobering. Very, very sobering.
He finds himself wondering, perhaps for the thousandth time, what on Earth Mycroft was thinking by sending him here.
That his brother may have made a good decision in doing so is not a notion he is willing to entertain.
So he pushes it too from his mind. Focuses again on the task at hand. News of his arrival must have been sent ahead for when he alights from the carriage the gate-keeper has already opened the massive portcullis and doors, as well as sending a young boy out to fetch Sherlock's things.
The lad is curly-haired and bright-eyed, and when he looks at Sherlock his expression turns excited. He opens his mouth, obviously about to ask a question of the Londoner, but before he can a loud, sharp whistle halts him.
"Archie," a male voice barks. "Spare our guest your questions and bring his things inside, there's a good lad."
The boy bobs his head- "Of course, Master Gregory,"- before picking up Sherlock's belongings and scrambling back towards the gate-house.
Sherlock's coachman follows after him, doubtless longing for a drink and the sort of hot meal he hasn't enjoyed in days.
As they enter the castle two men pass them, one tall, tanned and grey-haired, the other white-haired and powerfully built. They grey-haired man wears a heavy leather jerkin, a large ring of keys at his hip; Sherlock suspects he is the castle Man-At-Arms. Judging by the finery which his white-haired companion wears Sherlock feels confident in assuming that this is the castle's lord, the man whose daughter he's here to marry. His future- God help him- father-in-law.
A slightly uncomfortable beat stretches out.
"Lord Hopville," he says, inclining his head. "It is an honour to meet you."
And he sketches a quick bow and smiles as best he can at the man, for once willing to try and make a good impression. (If he's to be one of this man's family soon then this will prove important indeed).
The older man's eyes rake over him with desultory, insulting quickness however and Sherlock is forced to bite back a tart response to such dismissiveness.
It's not as if he's used to it.
"Well," Lord Hopville announces, addressing his companion rather than his guest. "My daughter will be pleased by that bonny face at least, eh, Gregory?"
And he lets out a great, guffawing laugh, grinning at his own witticism.
Sherlock- in what he suspects will become an ongoing battle- reminds himself not to insult his would-be father-in-law to his face even as the grey-haired man smiles.
It's a slight, uncomfortable thing, that smile.
Apparently he has more manners than his master, Sherlock muses- Not that such a thing would appear to be difficult.
"The lady Margaret will be pleased by your choice, no matter what her husband looks like," Gregory says smoothly, stepping forward and holding his hand out to Sherlock in greeting. "Welcome to Skipton, milord," he adds. "I'm Gregory de la Strade, Master-at-arms for the castle."
He gestures around him in a sweeping motion.
"You must forgive us, but we did not expect you until nightfall, at least. The servants are scrambling to ready your quarters as we speak and Cook's not best pleased with having to hurry- So all the servants are, of course, staying well clear of her."
Sherlock smiles at the joke, takes his offered hand and shakes. Nods. There's something about the man that sets him at his ease. "A pleasure to meet you," he says. "I thank you for your welcome- Even if I am premature in my arrival and causing bother."
He doesn't mention that Gregory's greeting is far superior to the one his host has given him, but then he is perfectly cognizant that such a thing doesn't need to be said aloud.
An awkward silence stretches out- Sherlock expects Lord Hopville to break it but he doesn't- before Gregory slaps him lightly on the shoulder and gestures to the castle keep.
"Come inside, milord," he says. "I'm sure you're hungry, and you'll be wanting to take a look around the place no doubt."
Sherlock nods. "No doubt."
Gregory shoots him a wry smile. "And you'll be wanting to meet Lady Mol- That is to say, Lady Margaret, as well, no doubt."
"No doubt to that too." This time Sherlock is aware that his smile has dimmed somewhat however. "I mean-" He clears his throat, tries to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "I mean that that would, of course, be delightful."
The sentiment comes out rather more sarcastically than he intended but though Gregory's eyes twinkle in amusement, Lord Hopville did not, apparently, hear it.
"Then let us get you inside, milord." Gregory says. "No point in keeping you- Or the Lady Margaret- waiting."
And with another, friendly grin he leads Sherlock through the gatehouse and into the bailey, asking him about his trip and how he has found the county thus far as Lord Hopville trails disinterestedly behind them.
Sherlock speaks of the weather, and of the scenery and even of what gossip he can safely repeat from the court in London.
Strange to report, however, he doesn't mention his attacker on the road through Dalby Forest. Nor does he mention her lovely brown eyes. Her boldness. Her gender.
Her kissing him.
He can offer no legitimate reason for keeping it a secret but he still doesn't speak of it, to Gregory or anyone else.
They enter the castle but Lady Margaret doesn't appear.
She's ill apparently- a small cold- though she bids Sherlock welcome and assures him she'll be able to meet him tomorrow.
She's awfully, awfully sorry that she can't see him today.
Though he knows he shouldn't be, Sherlock can't help the tiny tremor of relief which goes through him at the news. While he may not be able to put this ghastly matter off for long a day's reprieve feels like a gift.
So he nods at the news. Feigns disappointment.
He's not sure either Lord Hopville or Gregory de la Strade believe him.
Sherlock makes his way to newly-opened his apartments, Lady Margaret dismissed from his thoughts even as a certain other woman dominates them.
A certain, law-breaking, stranger-kissing woman.
He can't find it in himself to feel guilty about it, even when under his future bride's roof.
There's a feast that night and it is, as all feasts are, absolutely tedious.
Still, it has been impressed upon Sherlock from birth that one must engage with one's peers- however stupid they are- especially when one is in an entirely new and potentially dangerous environment, and this is what Sherlock does.
He charms.
He sweet-talks.
He feigns interest in idiocy with a virtuoso-like skilfulness.
It is every bit as mind-numbingly boring as such feasts are in London and that, he knows, is saying something… But still he persists.
He can't help but feel that his Mother would be rather proud of him, were she here.
And besides, if he's being honest there are at least a couple of guests at the feast who seem… Slightly less than stupid. Interesting, even. Gregory de la Strade is one of them, the man's stories of Yorkshire's recent difficulties and rebellious tendencies providing at least some entertainment.
He's particularly enlightening on the subject of an outlaw he's nicknamed The Scarlet Fox whom Sherlock suspects he's already encountered, though he keeps this suspicion to himself.
Another such personage is Lady Mary Watson, a visiting relative of Lady Margaret's who is apparently here to help usher the young heiress through her wedding. When this woman speaks of she and her husband's travels through the continent her eyes light up and her voice lilts with merriment, reactions which Sherlock finds both pleasant and peculiarly soothing. The only point during the evening in which she falls silent is when she explains to Gregory where her husband is-
Apparently he has been sent over the border to Scotland by Lord Hopville, an envoy in what Sherlock thinks sounds a foolish quest.
"He'll be home in no time, no doubt," she says lightly but though he does not know her well, Sherlock cannot help but think that she is lying.
He does her the courtesy of not making his belief known however.
"John's a resourceful man," Gregory tells her stoutly. "He'll not fall pray to William the Lion, you'll see." And he nods to her, pours her more wine.
The blond woman smiles, trying to look cheerful though it doesn't touch her eyes.
"I pray God you are right," she says, raising her cup in toast before turning her attention to Sherlock.
It's obvious she wants no more talk of her husband.
"But what about you, milord?" she asks. "I'm afraid I've been monopolising the conversation somewhat- How have you found Yorkshire thus far?
"And what kind- and entirely deserved, by the way- words do you have for our Molly?"
And she grins at him over the rim of her goblet.
Sherlock blinks in surprise, unused to such open flirtation from someone he doesn't know well.
His mind scrambles to provide an answer which will be thought sufficiently charming but nothing comes.
He settles for being almost honest.
"I had rather the same journey here that anyone else has," he says quietly. Lady Mary's grin widens to an almost cheeky degree and despite himself, he returns it. "As for Lady Margaret- whom I assume you're referring to as Molly- I'm afraid I haven't yet met her, though I'm assured she a veritable nonpareil-"
Lady Mary frowns though. "You've not encountered her yet?" she asks.
She looks at Gregory askance, who shrugs.
Suddenly he's rather fascinated by his mead.
Sherlock shakes his head. "I had expected to meet her with her father today," he says, "but she informed me that she's poorly and shall not be up to company."
He hopes that his relief at this doesn't show; he's not sure how his hosts will take it, his not being overly eager to meet his wife to be.
Lady Mary seems slightly… disturbed by this news, though she's trying not to show it.
"Well, no doubt she'll be happy to meet you tomorrow, milord," she says eventually, her tone only slightly distracted. It would fool someone, Sherlock muses, who wasn't paying the sort of attention he pays. "In the mean time, let me assure you that she is an absolutely lovely creature, the very jewel of the county…"
Gregory snorts in amusement. "I thought that was you?"
Lady Mary shrugs. "Yorkshire is an awfully big county, Gregory," she points out primly. "There's more than enough room for the both of us."
Both Gregory and Sherlock smile and she beams, looking mischievous. Once again it occurs to Sherlock that he rather likes both she and the castle's Man-At-Arms. He spends the rest of the night chatting with both, smiling more in their company than he has during his last six months in London...
It's very late when he finally makes his way back to his quarters, his head pleasantly muffled with alcohol- Which is why he gets all the way into his room without realising it's already occupied by the self-same, lovely wolfs-head he met on the road through Dalby Forest.
And it would appear that she's rather pleased to see him.