Chapter 4: Desperate Times and Deception Revealed

"Mycroft, Molly will finish her third year in three days!" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation.

Mycroft winced at the tone and volume of his brother's protest, but said, reasonably, "Sherlock, you cannot think to take Molly with you on such a venture. The logistics will be complicated enough, as you must very well know, and there may be considerable risk involved."

"I'll take her to stay at our cousin's home in Paris until I've concluded the assignment, after which I can join her and we can embark upon a… a petite tour of the city. Paris in May! And she's never set foot in France. It would be the perfect reward for the diligence she's shown all this year. She's received nothing but top marks, and the curriculum is most challenging!"

"I am aware of that, and I am entirely one with you in holding your wife in the highest esteem. Her beauty and kindness are only matched by her intelligence and perseverance. But consider, Sherlock: she will have no other acquaintance in Paris - which is many miles from your own destination - and our cousin is, if you will remember, not the most reliable of hostesses. Eccentric to a fault, in fact. Surely you have not forgotten the Moulin Rouge disaster? I really don't think you would care to leave your lovely, innocent little wife alone with the notorious Adelene for any appreciable length of time on her first visit to the City of Lights."

Sherlock frowned. Obviously he did remember the Moulin Rouge disaster, the event itself and his subsequent hours in the custody of the unsympathetic Paris police having left their mark. Finally he spoke. "Damn you, I suppose you're right." He sniffed, disgusted and disconsolate.

Mycroft said, "I am deeply sympathetic to your interests, as you know, brother mine, but this affair is of grave concern in Whitehall. I beg you will once again do your utmost for queen and country and set aside your personal… needs. I am hopeful that you will be able to conclude the business and return to London within a fortnight. It's not so long a time."

"It's a fortnight too long," Sherlock snapped. "But I suppose I'll do it. For queen and country." This last was said with sneering mockery.

But Mycroft knew his brother far too well to take his derisive tone seriously. He smiled, very slightly. "On behalf of that queen and country, I give you my thanks."

Sherlock acknowledged this with an impatient roll of his eyes and said, "Goodbye, Mycroft," and turned to take his leave.

"I'll send a cab for you at eight tomorrow morning," Mycroft told him as his brother strode out.

"Fine!" came the disgusted, disembodied reply, as the door swung closed - not slammed, but very nearly.

Mycroft sat down behind his desk and sighed, once again both envious and displeased at his brother's surrender to sentiment - at least where Molly Elizabeth Holmes was concerned.

o-o-o

Sherlock's office and study had been relocated to the renovated basement flat (technically 221C) shortly after his marriage, and he was now standing behind his desk, getting some papers together that would be pertinent to his assignment in France, when there came a knock upon the door.

"Come!" he called.

To his surprise, Alphonse opened the door and came in, toque in hand, looking strangely diffident. "Monsieur Holmes… may I speak to you on a matter of the utmost importance?"

Sherlock frowned. "What the devil is it? If you're looking for another raise in pay I will tell you to your head that you already make nearly as much as the queen's sous chef - not that I grudge it to you. God knows. I'll be fat as a flawn one of these days, your cooking is so irresistible."

Alphonse almost smiled at this, his lip lifting ever so slightly as his eyes swept over Sherlock's lithe form. But then he said, quite seriously, "No, it is on another issue that I find I must come to you. It… it is presque incroyable! And yet, I swear to you, I did not know!"

"Know what?" Sherlock snapped.

"Lucinda! Mon Dieu, she has done so well in my kitchen all these months, but… Monsieur Holmes! She is… enceinte!" And he made a swift gesture that indicated the rounded abdomen of pregnancy.

Sherlock stared for a moment, then, quite nonsensically, exclaimed, "What?"

Alphonse said quickly, "It is true! I would wager my life - she is not too far along, I think, but who can tell?" He shrugged. "She is of queenly proportions, and with that loose tablier she affects I… I am ashamed to say I never noticed until this very morning!"

Sherlock sat down, the pieces coming together swiftly, painfully. "Damnation!" he finally muttered, and then looked up at the chef, grimly. "Very well. I'll take care of it. You are dismissed."

Alphonse bowed, his face stoic, but his black eyes most expressive of sadness, turned, and left the room.

Sherlock picked up a pen and began to tap it on desk, dreading what must surely come next, and increasingly angry that such a thing should have come to light when he was to leave for France on the morrow. He uttered a vile oath again, and then rose to his feet and sent swiftly to the door, jerking it open. "Archie!" he shouted up the steps.

"Sir?" came the reply, and immediately Archie appeared above, looking startled.

Sherlock made an effort to subdue his ire and said more evenly, "Fetch Lucinda to me at once, if you please. And then go up and tell Mrs. Holmes that I wish to see her. Immediately."

o-o-o

The interview was even more tortuous than Sherlock had expected it to be.

Lucinda had been weeping and barely capable of giving a coherent reply from the first, and Molly now looked so young and frightened, for all her twenty-three years, that Sherlock began to feel as though he were some harsh, overbearing headmaster, the sort he'd occasionally run afoul of in his school days, who took real pleasure in the "duty" of meting out what passed for justice in their small minds and hidebound worlds. He shifted uncomfortably, with a sudden, vivid recollection of the anticipatory dread, the humiliation, the sounds of the cane slicing the air and meeting exposed and all-too-tender flesh, the searing pain, chest burning and teeth set hard against any sign of weakness.

Bloody hell.

He raked a hand through his hair, took a deep breath and said, as gently as he could manage, "Molly, you should have come to me with this months ago, when you first found out, and I believe you know that. But all is not lost. Lucinda's father may have used her harshly in the past, but he is her father and a man of the cloth. I am certain that he will, in Christian charity, take her back and give her and her child the care she needs."

"But husband… surely we can-"

"No!" he said firmly, quite tired of arguing. "I will give her sufficient funds to travel comfortably to Yorkshire, and a gift of twenty pounds besides, for she has done well here, even with so exacting a master as Alphonse can no doubt be. But go she must, either to her father to Yorkshire, or if she will not, then to the Magdalene Hospital!"

"Oh, no!" Molly cried, and Lucinda sobbed as though in utter despair.

Exasperated, Sherlock half shouted, "Our house is not the place for a baby!"

And Molly turned absolutely white.

Bloody HELL!

He backtracked as quickly as he could. "I didn't mean-"

"I know," she interrupted, her eyes full of pain, lips set. "I know. Indeed, I apologize most sincerely for bringing such worry and discomfort upon you, and at such a time. I will take care of it. I promise you."

Sherlock frowned. "If I were not leaving on that damned assignment-"

"But you are! And you must not be concerned. Please, husband. I will take care of it."

His eyes narrowed. "You have only to see that she gets on the train."

"I will. I promise you that."

He sighed, still not satisfied, but…"Very well. I must trust you in this. Now take her away, for God's sake. Lucinda, dry your tears. Recollect that such dramatics cannot be good for your child. Mrs. Holmes will help you pack your things."

"Y-yes s-sir," Lucinda managed, her voice hitching pitifully. She turned away.

His wife turned to go as well, but Sherlock blurted, "Molly!"

She stopped for a moment, not turning, but then looked over her shoulder, tried to smile, and said in a voice edged with tears, "I must help her pack!" And then she accompanied the dolorous kitchen maid - and soon to be young unwed mother - hurriedly from the room.

o-o-o

Once they reached the tiny bedchamber on the third floor that had been Lucinda's for the last seven months, the girl broke down again. "Oh, ma'am, I cannot go back to my father! If he whipped me so for no more than a kiss…"

"You shall not go back," Molly said softly but very firmly. "I have an idea that may answer."

"Oh, ma'am! You must not incur your good husband's wrath for my sake!"

Molly dashed away a tear but said, "My plan for you is the least of it, I fear. I am a bad wife, when all is said and done, and… and if he disowns me for deceiving him these many months I must try to bear it.. But I will not send you back to your father, nor off to that dreadful Magdalene Hospital, that is certain."

"Where then?" Lucinda asked, at a loss.

"Bognor Regis, Lucinda." she said, and at Lucinda's confusion she laughed, although there was a note of despair in it, too.

o-o-o

Molly was brushing her hair when Sherlock finally finished packing his things, long after the end of what was perhaps the most uncomfortable dinner she'd ever had since coming to live at Baker Street all those months ago. Mrs. Hudson had chattered blithely, trying to smooth things over, but Sherlock had given only perfunctory replies, and Molly had remained mostly silent, unable to agree that it was all for the best, and that Lucinda would like being home in Yorkshire again, after things settled down.

Now, however, they were alone and Sherlock came to stand behind her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. He took the brush from her hand and gently ran it through her hair a few times, then set it down on the vanity table.

"Come to bed with me, wife," he said, his voice low.

She stood quickly up and turned to face him, tears stinging her eyes. "Sherlock!" she whispered, and when he bent and kissed her she gave a little cry and clung to him fiercely.

He carried her to their bed.

It was not like other times. There was an edge of sorrow to their encounter, and desperation, too, as though by taking each other apart they could rebuild the trust that had been damaged. There was pain as well as pleasure that night, given and taken, and Molly rejoiced in all of it and recklessly used every trick she had learned over the months to see to it that Sherlock, too, was finally reduced to helpless cries that echoed her own, uncaring that they might be heard in the black, silent night. They lay gasping after that first time, both of them astonished, their eyes glittering in the dim light. And then they began again, more slowly but just as intent upon destruction.

After that second time, they could do no more, but slept, a damp tangle of limbs and bedclothes, the smell of fresh linens now thoroughly overpowered by earthier scents, until the thin light of dawn peeped through the break in the heavy curtains over the window.

o-o-o

Sherlock's bag was being stowed and he was about to hop into the cab his brother had sent round at precisely eight o'clock, when Molly caught at his sleeve, and he turned to her once more.

"Another kiss?" he asked with a smile, though his eyes were sad.

"Yes, always!" she replied. "But Sherlock, will you grant me one thing?"

"What's that, love?" he said, his voice gentle.

"May Lucinda stay for my celebratory dinner in two days? I've been given to understand that I've completed the year at the top of my class and… and I think it would cheer her to be there." And Molly's pride in her accomplishment swelled to ease her sorrows for a moment.

Sherlock said, "Yes - but no longer. You understand?" When she nodded, he added, "How sorry I am that I must miss it myself. I'm very proud of you, wife."

She beamed at him. "Thank you. And now… for queen and country."

"Oh, lord. Not you, too," he said with a droll look.

And she laughed and stood on tiptoe for one more kiss.

o-o-o

The assignment had taken somewhat longer than Mycroft had anticipated, and there had been a difficult moment or two. And yet, here he was, back in London, the work successfully completed and his person unscathed, save for the cut on his shoulder that had resulted in a few stitches, and bruised knuckles that were still a painful reminder of near disaster.

His spiritual well-being was another matter.

He had worried about Molly almost from the moment of driving away from Baker Street, a nagging in the back of his mind that would not be silenced. Additionally, over the successive two and a half weeks, this concern was augmented with flashes of memory, erotic and otherwise, and the oft-repeated thought that "Molly would like this!" at appropriate (or even inappropriate) moments. In short, he had missed her damnably.

He had considered whether or not this division of his mental powers had impaired his ability to carry out his assignment in an efficient manner. Mycroft had said it would take a fortnight and Mycroft was never wrong. But on the journey home Sherlock had taken the time to examine this question in unsparing detail and had come to the conclusion that it was not the case. There were elements of which even Mycroft's sources had been unaware. Improvisation had been called for, and not a little cunning, and he had had no difficulty in summoning the necessary mental and physical powers needed to achieve success.

In short, love had not rendered him a useless fool.

And he did love her, he thought, as the cab carried him homeward in the dusk of a warm May evening. He found himself anticipating her joy at his return. Envisioning her concern when she was made aware of his hurts. Only she would see that wound on his shoulder, hidden as it was by layers of clothing. Her hands would be gentle in changing the dressing for him, and the subsequent kisses she would no doubt place there, and on his bruised hand - and on his eager lips - would go far in easing his pain.

With these thoughts in mind he eagerly entered the house ten minutes later, and he could not refrain from immediately calling up the stairwell, "Molly, I'm home!"

There was no reply from above - indeed, it was oddly silent in the house - but then there was a rustle and the sound of footsteps from 221A, Mrs. Hudson's suite of rooms, and her door opened and she was there, a look of concern on her face.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed. "Oh, dear! And Molly not yet returned!"

"She's gone out?" he asked, disappointed.

"She… she's gone to Yorkshire, Sherlock. With Lucinda. Indeed, I was a little surprised when she told me she had decided to accompany the girl. But she wanted to see for herself that Lucinda would be safely settled with her father. She left three days after you, the morning after her end-of-term celebration. Oh, that was a lovely night! Mycroft and your parents insisted on taking us all to the Connaught for the most beautiful supper! John and Mary Watson, too, and even Archie was invited."

"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock sharply, "Do you tell me my wife has been gone on a two hundred mile journey with only that wretched kitchen maid for a companion and has been gone for the last fortnight?"

Mrs. Hudson looked distressed again. "I'm afraid so. She… she said you wouldn't mind, and that she'd be back presently, and that she'd left a note for you just in case - well, she did, too, for I saw it on your mantlepiece when I was up there dusting the other day. I did think she would be back by now, but perhaps-"

"My God," Sherlock muttered, and bounded up the stairs.

He dropped his bag by the door and went swiftly to the mantle over the cold grate where the note leaned against the frame of the mirror. He snatched it up, carefully broke the seal, and quickly read the closely written and tellingly tear-stained missive. :

My Dearest, Dearest Husband,

I fear you will call the salutation above a black lie, too, when you know of the deception I have practiced upon you these many months. It breaks my heart to write it, but I cannot leave London without telling you the whole truth.

Lucinda was not one of the girls from the Brooks-Henley Institute as I allowed you to assume. I was offered a third venue for community service, the very establishment which you so firmly proscribed the night of our return from Italy: Madame Celeste's in Bennet Street. It was there that I met Lucinda.

It was true that Lucinda had been ill-used by her father, and had come to London to apply for a position as a lady's companion. She was unable to procure work at any level of service at all, however, due to her youth and lack of experience. Her funds were almost entirely depleted when one of Madame's girls befriended her and brought her to stay with them in Bennet Street.

Lucinda has assured me she was adamant in rejecting Madame's suggestion that she take work in the upper rooms. But one evening she saw and then met one of Madame's prospective clients, a young gentleman and first time visitor named Bertram, with whom she fell almost instantly in love. Her resolve to preserve her maidenhood vanished and she determined that she would give herself to him, body and soul. Lucinda says he is extremely handsome, and most considerate and sensitive - he writes poetry, and hopes that one day his works will be published and bring him sufficient income to allow him to live independently. I believe he may be a younger son of some good family, for Lucinda allowed me to read the letter of parting that Bertram wrote to her when, after six weeks, Bertram's father discovered their affair and threatened to disinherit him.

I found Lucinda sitting on the back stairs at Madame Celeste's and weeping bitterly, having not only received Bertram's painful communication, but word from Madame that she must resign herself to accepting the advances of other men if she wished to remain in the house. She quite naturally could not bring herself to do so, and was at wit's end trying to think what to do, when I remembered Alphonse's need for an assistant in the kitchen. We applied to Madame, who was not pleased but ultimately gave her consent for Lucinda to come home with me.

Unfortunately, it was little more than two weeks later when we became aware that Lucinda was with child.

I realized that I would have to tell you the whole, but our lives have been so busy these last seven months, and Lucinda was in such glowing health, after her morning sickness abated, and her condition so easily disguised beneath the apron she affected in her work with Alphonse. To my shame, I kept creating excuse after excuse to delay the inevitable, for I knew you would be very angry.

And so you were, my heart, though I daresay you will be far angrier when next I see you..

I expect Alphonse told you of Lucinda's condition, when he finally noticed, but I cannot fault him for doing so. Indeed, I think he had a fondness for Lucinda, for she worked very hard and had considerable aptitude for cookery, which pleased him. In fact, it is that circumstance which gives me hope that she will now be able to find work enough to support herself and her baby. Kitchen maids who have apprenticed under chefs trained at Le Cordon Bleu are few and far between, even in London, and in the town where I hope to help her settle they are rare birds indeed. She may even be able to find work as a cook or sous chef, though I believe it is not usual for a woman to be employed in the latter post.

But first she must have a safe place to give birth and recover. Fortunately, I know of a place that has these qualities in abundance, and it is there that I am taking Lucinda, not to her father in Yorkshire. From the things she has related, I believe she might be putting her life and that of her child at risk if she returned to her father now. My dear, he beat her merely for accepting an innocent kiss from a lad they had both known for years. It is frightening to imagine what might befall her should she return to him an unwed expectant mother. It may be that someday they will be reconciled, but at this moment there are two lives to protect.

I beg you will not be concerned at my absence. I assure you that the place to which we are going will be a haven for both Lucinda and myself. The baby will be born in about a month, and after she recovers and is settled I will return to you and accept whatever fate you decree.

I know you must be very disappointed that I am not the wife you thought I was when you married me. I have no excuse. It seemed a little thing, at first, to deceive you about Madame Celeste's, and indeed I learned a great deal there, about the ailments peculiar to women, about the lives of all the residents, about the ways in which Madame's kindness is usually tied in some way to her financial interests. You must not think I blame her. But perhaps I understand now why you thought it not a fit place for me to visit. Innocence lost can never be regained.

But I cannot regret the other things I learned, the many ways great and small that served to increase your pleasure when we made love. I told Madame how heavenly was our wedding night, thanks to her kind offices, but I promise you I never told her anything about the results of my newfound knowledge as they unfolded over the last seven months. The memory of those nights that brought you to such heights of pleasure and sweet release will always be a comfort to me, even if we are destined to part. I will always especially treasure the night before you left for France, when your anger and my worry and sorrow were swept away in that veritable storm of passion.

My darling husband, I've spent hours composing this message to you, and dawn now approaches. Lucinda and I must away before long. My heart aches to know that it may be months before I see you again, though I am well aware that when we next meet you are not likely to smile upon me as has been your wont and the source of the greatest happiness life could offer me. But your anger is justified. You are the best of men, and you deserve so much more than I have been able to give you, wicked creature that I am.

Please think of me fondly sometimes, my heart.

For better or worse, I am, as always, your own,

Molly

Sherlock, finishing the letter, stumbled over and sat blindly in his chair, barely able to organize his thoughts.

"What does it say?" came a hesitant voice from the doorway.

Mrs. Hudson.

"She's gone," he said, stupidly. "I don't know where. Not to Yorkshire, that's certain."

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson grieved, for she, too, had loved Molly from the first.

My God, what was he to do?

He got to his feet, suddenly unable to sit still. Went over to the window, and stared out at the shadowed street.

He had to find her, to ensure her safety; to reassure that she was loved.. That was the thought that surfaced hard and true amid the morass of his pain and confusion.

He almost laughed at the thought that she called herself wicked. Ridiculous chit. She still had no idea what true wickedness was, even after months of deceit, months of observing the inner workings of one of Europe's most notorious brothels.

He took a deep breath and turned back to Mrs. Hudson, who looked very worried.

"I have to find her," he said, simply.

"But where could she have gone? She left no clue?"

Sherlock frowned. "Somewhere safe, she said. A haven."

Mrs. Hudson asked, "Would the Watsons know, do you think? She's become good friends with Mary in the last year."

"So she has! What time is it?"

"Only half past nine, but remember, they have a new baby."

"Yes. First thing in the morning then. In the meantime-"

"In the meantime, you must eat, and then get some rest! I gave Alphonse the evening off, so I'll bring you a tray, just this once."

Sherlock laughed at that old refrain. "Just a pot of tea, and something cold, if you please, Mrs. Hudson - with my thanks. Ah, Molly would be proud of me, recalling the manners I was bred to."

"Dear Molly!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, a little tearfully, and left the room, snuffling into her embroidered handkerchief.

"Dear Molly, indeed," Sherlock agreed to the ambient air. He sat down once again, pulled out his wife's letter, and began to read it a second time.