They wrestled and heaved, five men to one;
And a yokel entered the yard alone;
A smock-frocked yokel, hobbling slow;
But a fight is physic, as all men know,
His age dropped off. He stood upright.
He leapt like a tiger into the fight.
Hand to hand, they fought in the dark;
For none could fire at a twisting mark,
Where he that shot at a foe might send
His pistol-ball through the skull of a friend.
But "Shoot Dick, shoot!" gasped out Tom King.
"Shoot, or damn it, we both shall swing!
Shoot and chance it!" Dick leapt back.
He drew. He fired. At the pistol's crack.
The wrestlers whirled. They scattered apart.
And the bullet drilled through Tom King's heart.

The Ballad of Dick Turpin by Alfred Noyes

THE SMALLWOOD ESTATE – OLD STABLES

Sherlock awoke to the delightful sight of a sleepy doe-eyed Molly snuggled securely against him as she gently ran her fingers over his chest.

Sensing he was awake she lifted her head from where it had rested on his shoulder and smiled at him as she reached up to kiss him sweetly on the lips.

"So my love, do you by chance have a name?" she asked.

"William," he responded. He knew Molly hadn't recognised him as the man who had accompanied Lestrade to visit her mistress, but Sherlock was an unusual name, so he gave her his true Christian name instead.

"William…" she murmured as she settled back down at his side, laying her head once again upon his shoulder. "A pleasure to meet you," she continued before slipping back into a blissful sleep.

Sherlock looked down at her. She was so trusting. The triumph he had felt earlier was now replaced by guilt. He had only meant to tease her, not bed her.

And yet his baser self wanted nothing more than to howl in the knowledge that it was his body that had taught hers the ecstasy involved with such carnal pleasures.

He was certain that John Watson would have his head for what he had done. He didn't need to see his friends disapproving look to know that what he had done was a bit not good.

This prick of conscience caused Sherlock to regretfully disengage himself from the warmth and delight of Molly's body.

But he could not resist leaning over to press his lips and his body against hers one more time before getting to his feet, collecting his clothes and getting dressed.

He paused when Molly sat up, raising her legs up against her breasts and wrapping her arms around her legs in an attempt at modesty.

Her eyes were downcast and her teeth worried her lower lip.

"I have to go," he explained gently. "If I were to be discovered here…"

"I know," she replied finally meeting his gaze she sighed. "I just wish…"

At that moment they both became aware of someone calling out in the distance.

"Miss Margaret, where are you?"

Molly recognised the voice immediately. She got up and hurriedly began getting dressed. "It's Anderson," she exclaimed. "Lady Smallwood's coachman."

Sherlock made his way to the stable door and looked out. "He's still a fair distance away," he observed, attempting to reassure her.

"Yes, but he will eventually work out where I am. So you must go now. And quickly."

Sherlock hesitated a moment, turning back to Molly, blowing her a kiss before slipping out of the stable, making sure to head in the opposite direction to Anderson.

Molly had just finished dressing when she spotted the bloodied handkerchief, the same one he had worn when they first met, on the floor. She snatched it up and stuffed it under her chemise just as Anderson appeared at the stable door.

"There you are Miss Margaret. Lady Smallwood has need of you."

"Of course," Molly responded following the coachman out of the stables and back to the house.

THE HOME OF DR. JOHN WATSON

Sherlock winced as John poured alcohol over the wound on his arm.

If he thought he was going to escape a telling off however, he was to be out of luck.

"Why the hell didn't you come to me sooner," John demanded as he covered the wound with a cloth bandage. "You're extremely lucky that it wasn't infected."

"I was more pleasantly engaged," Sherlock replied.

It took John a moment or two to comprehend to what his friend was referring. When he thought he'd figured it out he looked at Sherlock with surprise. "I never realised you frequented bawdy houses?"

Sherlock's contented expression was quickly replaced by one of outrage and annoyance. "I wasn't with a prostitute," he snapped. "I was with…"

The good doctor had known Sherlock long enough to know that he wasn't the type of man who censored himself easily.

So his unwillingness to be forthcoming was most unusual to say the least. What was so important about the woman he had been with that he was unwilling to name her?

A possibility then dawned on him. "You were with Lady Smallwood's lady-in-waiting weren't you?"

Sherlock refused to respond.

"My God Sherlock! Have you no consideration for her reputation? For the possible danger you have placed her in?"

"What danger?" Sherlock demanded angrily, getting up to pace around the room. "You yourself noted she doesn't know the identity of the highwayman."

John looked at his friend incredulously. "This isn't about you, Sherlock. If she were to be even suspected of having knowingly associated with the highwayman, she could lose her position. Or worse."

Sherlock paused in his pacing. Had he unwittingly placed Molly in harms way? He was satisfied that no one had seen them together. When he had left her he had made sure that he had remained out of sight of the coachman. "No-one saw us together John. And I know Molly would not speak of our…liaison," he stated confidently.

"Well let us hope that is indeed the case," John responded, though it was clear he wasn't entirely convinced.

THE CROWN INN – LATE JUNE 1750

"Calm yourself, Lestrade," Sherlock said to the agitated constable, who was currently striding up and down in the confined space of the snug Sherlock preferred to use.

Lestrade did his best to get himself under control before continuing.

"My apologies Mister Holmes. I do appreciate all of the advice you have given me on how I might best apprehend this scoundrel. But he forever slips through my fingers."

Sherlock indicated to the innkeeper to get the constable ale, which he gratefully accepted.

"I agree that this highwayman is proving most illusive," Sherlock stated in a serious tone. "But you must not become disheartened. He is bound to slip up eventually, and when he does I'm certain that he will be the making of your career," he added encouragingly.

Lestrade gulped down the rest of his ale. "Aye," he agreed as he made to leave. "Or else he'll be the end of it."

Sherlock watched him leave, and felt a twinge of pity for him. Lestrade was a good man and did his very best to keep law and order as best he understood it.

He could not of course allow the constable to catch the highwayman. It was however becoming quite clear to him that he was going to have to retire the highwayman in the not too distant future.

The question then became what else could he do to keep himself in funds, and to relieve him of the boredom others in his class exalted in.

This was going to require some serious thought. He sat back in his chair, his hands pressed together and placed under his chin with his eyes closed in concentration.

THE SMALLWOOD ESTATE

Molly didn't know what was the matter with her. She had not been feeling well of late. Every morning she found it impossible to hold her breakfast down.

Added to this she seemed to be gaining in weight, which was at odds with the amount of food she was currently able to hold down.

She was also finding herself feeling more fatigued than usual. Though in fairness she could easily put this down to her mistresses demanding nature that over recent weeks had become even more so.

Molly looked forward to the time when she could retire to her bedchamber for the night. In the privacy of her room she could allow her thoughts to turn to William. She hoped that he was safe and well. She tried not to think too much on why she had not seen him since their time together in the barn.

She knew that if he were dead she would surely have heard of it. Constable Lestrade was using all the manpower that he could in his attempts to capture him. Lady Smallwood had said that he had even gained the assistance of Lord Holmes' younger brother, Sherlock.

She had a vague recollection of seeing him when he had come in the company of the constable and his friend, Doctor Watson to see Lady Smallwood

There was of course another reason why he may not come to see her. Molly was a practical young woman, she realised that although her William was everything to her. He in return may only view her as one of many. But she kept faith that he was a man of his word, when it came to his feelings. It was true he had not made a declaration, but she felt certain that what they had shared had been something very special.

Molly sighed as she closed the bedroom door behind her. She reached inside her chemise for William's handkerchief… to find it wasn't there.

'Oh no!' she thought. 'Where had it gone?'

"Is this what you are looking for?"

Molly whirled around and let out a gasp. Sitting on her bed was her mistress. And in Lady Smallwood's hand was the handkerchief.

"My Lady," she began tentatively.

"How long have you been in league with the highwayman?" Lady Smallwood demanded. But she didn't wait to give Molly time to explain herself. "I took you in, fed you, clothed you, gave you a roof over your head, and even had you trained to be my companion. And this is how you repay me."

Lady Smallwood got to her feet and walked over to Molly to tower over her.

"Traitor! Slut! Whore!" she bellowed at the top of her voice, determined for the whole household to hear.

"No. My Lady, please," Molly cried.

But Lady Smallwood wasn't interested in listening to her pleas. She threw the handkerchief at Molly before opening the bedroom door and called out. "Anderson!"

When the coachman dutifully appeared, Lady Smallwood ordered him to deal with her unfaithful lady-in-waiting. "Take her out of my sight and deposit her somewhere better suited to the harlot she is."

When Anderson looked a little confused, his mistress clarified her order. "Take her to one of London's houses of disrepute. I'm certain they'll have plenty of work for her."

Anderson may not have been a particularly bright person, but he wasn't cruel. Nonetheless with little choice he reluctantly led a tearful Molly away.

THE WHIP HAND BROTHEL

Anderson dropped Molly off at the door before turning his horse and gig around without a backward glance.

With no other option left to her, Molly walked up to the door and knocked.

The door was immediately opened. Standing before Molly was the most extremely striking-looking woman she had ever seen. She was the Madam of The Whip Hand, Irene Adler.

Irene briefly looked Molly up and down, quickly making her decision. "I am not a charity and I definitely don't have time to deal with waifs and strays." And with that she stepped back and slammed the door shut.

Molly's legs gave way under her, when she landed on the cold, hard pavement she burst into tears. How she wished that William would suddenly appear to sweep her up in his arms and take her away from all this.

But he didn't come.

She was completely on her own.