The Fair Maiden

Sherlock thought the woman was dead, she looked so lifeless amongst the flowers. Then a strong spasm wracked her body and she cried out.

Turning her over so he could assess what needed to be done, the wizard saw the blood vessels on her neck, angry purple against the paleness of her skin. She felt clammy and feverish. A poison, he deduced, and used a purifying spell to draw out the toxins.

Yet nothing happened, except for her to appear even more in agony. Sherlock scowled in consternation. The powerful spell should have worked to at least make her more comfortable.

"Help me," she whispered, her breathing laboured.

"How?" he asked, holding her as another spasm hit her.

"The flowers, the flowers," she babbled, her arms flailing.

Sherlock seized her wrists to keep them still and her hands unclenched to reveal crushed blooms. They had stained her palms red.

He repeated his question, hoping she wouldn't lose consciousness before he found out how exactly to use the flowers. He surmised a potion was required, but potion making was a delicate art, he needed more details.

She calmed and gained a little focus. "The clay from the river…and the flowers…a paste. I need to swallow…"

He knew which river she meant, it would take him at least an hour by foot to reach it. She was in no condition to go with him and he didn't think they had much time before the poison killed her.

Luckily, he was a wizard and calling for objects was a skill he'd mastered early on in his training. Still, calling for something so far away - and almost sight unseen - would be tricky. It was fortuitous, then, that he possessed an excellent memory and was familiar with the river.

Molly had gone limp in his arms and her breathing grew shallower and shallower. Sherlock closed his eyes and delved into the corridors of his mind, in search of the river. The image crystallised, bit by bit, until he could see himself standing by its coursing waters.

::

Mary Watson paced the length of the parlour, one hand supporting her lower back, while the other rubbed soothing circles on her protruding belly. Despite her size, the blessed event was still a few weeks off - although if it were up to her, she'd like it to be sooner than that. The novelty of her pregnancy had worn off, and sore backs and swollen feet were not something she enjoyed.

Her pacing, however, was not due to her condition, though she hoped to alleviate some of the aches in her joints with movement. She was anxious for another reason and grew more restless as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky.

Her husband, John, would be home soon and bound to be hungry. He always had such a hearty appetite and the stew that was simmering in the kitchen should satisfy that hunger. The return of her husband was not what caused Mary such worry, for he was a kind man and they were an affectionate couple.

She'd been expecting visitors all day. In fact, the visitors had been due the day before. Yet as the afternoon slowly faded into twilight, she feared they wouldn't come today either. It made her feel uneasy.

Their front door opened and, for a second, Mary dared to hope that it was them. But the familiar voice of her beloved husband called out, telling her he was home. Trying to set her concerns aside, lest John would notice, she put a smile on her face and went to greet him.

Of course she was glad to have him home. She was always happy to see the man she loved. And even months into her confinement, feeling bloated and ungainly, the sight of him still made the woman in her shiver with excitement.

"Wife," John greeted her, giving her a loving kiss and her belly a gentle caress.

"Husband," she murmured against his lips, drawing comfort from the familiar gestures.

As if he sensed her distress, he placed his arms around her shoulders and tried to hold her as best as he could with her stomach between them.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. And despite not wanting John to know what was troubling her, she appreciated her husband's caring nature.

She kissed him on the cheek and stepped away, "Nothing, I just missed you. And the little one has been busy practicing her somersaults today."

John bent down to talk to her bump, "Hello little one, I hope all the activity has made you tired and you'll let your mummy sleep tonight."

There was a visible ripple across Mary's belly and both parents laughed.

"Well, I hope she settles before bedtime," John said.

"You heard your father, young lady," Mary said and led her husband to the kitchen.

As he helped her set the table and finish supper, Mary glanced out of the window, into the darkness of the night. She hoped her visitors would come tomorrow and end the disquiet in her heart.

::

Molly woke up to the crackling of fire and the soft feel of fur against her skin. She immediately knew that it wasn't her own bed.

She had survived, she realized. But at what cost?

"Here," said a voice out of her eyesight. She carefully sat up, to see Sherlock Holmes walking towards her with a tumbler.

"It's water," he added when she didn't take it from him immediately.

"Thank you," she said. She drank greedily, parched from her earlier ordeal.

Her throat was still raw from vomiting up the vileness that had been slowly draining the life out of her. She'd lost consciousness soon after regurgitating the last of the potion, expelling the dark magic from her body. She remembered snippets of travelling through the woods, being carried on the wizard's back.

"What time is it?" she asked. There were no clocks in the vicinity and the drapes were drawn.

"Nearly dawn," answered Sherlock, who'd taken a chair and was sitting beside the bed now.

"I must go home," she said, getting up. She noticed that she was wearing a fine linen tunic and blushed. She wasn't a prude by nature but knowing that Sherlock Holmes had seen her naked body made her flush with unwelcome feelings.

"You're still weak, you should rest," he said, a wide smile on his face.

Molly wasn't sure if he meant it to be solicitous, for it looked forced and slightly feral.

Oh how foolish she had been, she berated herself. She had never been the impetuous kind, despite her caring heart. And now she'd made a greater muddle of it all by having him see her in her other form.

Not that she wasn't grateful that he had saved her, for being alive was preferable to being dead. Especially since she hadn't accomplished what she'd set out to do in the first place. And perhaps without the wizard's help, she would've succumbed to the poison. But he had questions that she didn't want to answer.

"I thought dragons weren't real," he said, his arresting eyes boring into her.

They had taken the breath away from her the first time she'd looked into them.

She'd had met him a couple of weeks after he'd come to town. As a midwife and apothecary, Molly had been too busy with four births to take proper notice of the stranger who'd bought old Patterson's cottage. Yet she'd been unable to escape the gossip about the handsome wizard with the rude attitude.

She'd caught a glimpse of him early one morning, on the way to see one of the new mothers. He'd been walking ahead of her, his great black cape billowing behind him. He'd turned and walked into an alley and her brief look at his noble profile had made her feel girlishly excited. Later, she'd felt silly for the little frisson that had travelled down her spine.

She'd formally met him at a house party at the Watsons'. Those beautiful eyes had swept over her and made her feel a moment of trepidation. She'd felt like he could see to the very depths of her soul and for someone with secrets that was unnerving.

However, he'd mostly ignored her the second after their introduction and spent majority of the gathering silent and brooding. Molly had gone home later laughing at the experience. It was a relief to know that he seemed wholly uninterested in the lives of the townspeople.

But now he knew her secret.

Anyone else and Molly would have been confident that she could bluff her way through it. Or in extremis use a forgetting spell. She'd been too weak earlier to attempt one.

"If you're thinking of using a spell on me so I'll forget, I would advise against it," he said, those eyes still trained on her.

The funny thing was, Molly didn't feel inclined to lie or use magic on him. In fact, she wanted to tell him everything. And that alarmed her.

"Can you not pretend it was all a dream?" she asked, smiling despite the seriousness of the matter.

:

Sherlock did not understand why his lips lifted to return her smile.

He had no intention of letting Molly Hooper out of this cottage before she revealed the truth to him. It was plain to see on her face that she was stalling. Since he'd warned her of using magic against him, maybe she was considering prevarication? Half of him was curious to find out what story she would present him. The other half was considering expediting the matter by using a truth spell on her.

Her eyes narrowed accusingly, "A truth spell won't do. You will only know the truth if I wish to tell you."

His eyes widened, startled by her statement. What a change it was to have his mind read, too used to being the one who interpreted other people's thoughts.

"And do you wish to tell me?" he asked.

"There is danger in trusting people," she said. "And my experiences have taught me to be more careful with who earns my trust."

He didn't fault her for her opinion, for he knew a terrible mischief had been done to her. As he carried her home to his cottage, he had time to speculate on what had happened to her. The dark magic that had infected her body was not something he'd encountered before. It excited him as much as knowing that dragons actually existed. And he wondered if he would've found out sooner if he had not run away from the demands of his family.

Everyone who bothered to ask why he'd chosen to come to this town received the same short reply, "The woods interest me." It wasn't a lie, but not the entire truth either. He had chosen this place because there was something interesting to occupy his time with, but something else had made him want to isolate himself in the country.

The problem with coming from a prominent line of wizards, and being a gifted one in his own right, was that it all came with expectations. Expectations that had never interested him and, in fact, made him feel rather uncomfortable. So he had ran away from them.

All the talented wizards in his family had assumed roles in the Council of Mages, the highest body of authority when it came to wizardry and other magic. His brother, Mycroft, had accepted his responsibility with little fuss. But staid and proper Mycroft had always been more suited to it. Sherlock, on the other hand, had always been the rebel in the family. Perhaps it had not helped the matter that Mycroft had tried to persuade him to join the council.

He recalled his brother's words and now was beginning to think that maybe Mycroft had tried to tell him something else and he'd been simply too stubborn to listen.

"I know you don't do well with authority, but there are more important things in this world than your own interests."

Molly Hooper still looked at him guardedly and he had the sudden yearning for her to trust him. It had nothing to do with wanting to get the truth out of her, but the simple desire for her to put her faith in him. What a strange feeling, he thought.

:

For a second, Molly considered simply shifting into her other form and bursting through the roof to escape. Wouldn't that be a deliciously dramatic exit? She actually looked up to see if this was feasible but, unfortunately, the beams were in the way and she didn't feel strong enough to get past them.

Sherlock chuckled, "I would love to see you transform."

She scowled. Damn that man's perceptive mind! And yet, it intrigued her very much. He intrigued her very much. And why did she feel like she could trust him?

"People have died because our secret fell into the wrong hands," she told him.

"So there are more of you," he countered and she had to appreciate how observant he was.

She neither denied nor confirmed his speculation but instead asked, "Tell me, what do you know of dragons?"

"Nothing apart from the stories my parents used to tell me as a child."

Perhaps she was stupid. Perhaps she was making a mistake. Perhaps she was causing bigger harm. But they were desperate and running out of time.

"Shall I tell you a story then?" she asked, having made up her mind.

He nodded and she began, "Once upon a time…"

::

The man watched the woman standing by the fire, gazing into the flames.

The fine silk gown showed off her sensuous body and her dark upswept hair framed her beautiful face. What a marvelous creature she was. Her regal aloofness would be the envy of many highborn ladies and could induce lust and possessiveness in the most sedate of men. He was a man of great passions and knowing she was his filled him with immense satisfaction.

He walked over to stand opposite her by the fireplace and said, "She should be dead by now."

She turned to look at him and the rubies around her neck glittered. Her face remained immobile and her eyes impassive. He felt somewhat annoyed that his news had not elicited a reaction from her.

He chuckled, "Stupid little thing, wasn't she? Trying to save you."

The woman kept silent, simply watching him with her brilliant blue eyes. His spiteful nature made him want to hurt her.

He sneered, "Can't rescue what isn't there, can you? Little sister thought she could save your heart but you don't have a one, do you?"

"No," answered the woman in a flat tone, "I gave it to you."

The man's lips lifted in a manic grin. And what a heart it was!

:::