Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely MizJoely, though of course all mistakes are mine. I think there will be a brief epilogue to this, but in the mean time- Enjoy! And thank you as always to everyone who has read, commented and enjoyed.


To Serve At His Lady's (Eventual) Pleasure


The first thing Sherlock notices when he enters is the bouncer.

She's an older woman wearing a burgundy corseted evening dress, complete with bustle, opera gloves and an ostrich feather in her hair.

She also has a large baseball bat stowed discreetly behind her chair, a pint of ale sitting at her toe.

As doorkeepers go, she looks formidable.

"Doesn't hurt to be prepared," she says crisply when she notices him staring. Her voice is thick Yorkshire, it sounds oddly incongruous with her costume. "You have an invitation?"

And she takes a nonchalant sip of her ale.

Sherlock plasters his most charming smile on his face but she huffs, unimpressed, before he can say a word. "Spare me, son," she says evenly. Sherlock attempts to look affronted but even he doesn't believe him. "Why do you want in?"

Another nonchalant sip of her ale.

The detective is tempted to lie, but for once in his life he can't think of any remotely helpful falsehood. So, painful as it is for him, he opts for the truth- Ghastly as that may be. "The woman I have just realized I love is in there," he says gruffly. At the woman's grin he glares, and never mind how unhelpful his pink cheeks are being: faint heart never won fair maiden, dammit! "She- I- Well, that is, I tried to tell her how I um, you know, felt and as matters turned out, I, apparently, through no real fault of my own, appear to have made an utter, well, balls of it-"

"Duffed it up, did you?" The woman snickers. "Poor lamb."

Sherlock draws himself up to his full (not inconsiderable height) and glowers down at her. The woman appears unworried, however, and it dimly occurs to him how much trouble certain criminals might save themselves, were they to enlist this sort of security person. "Look, I don't expect you to let me in for nothing," he says crisply. "I am well aware that you are here to keep out the riff-raff-"

"As well as soft, toff Southerners-"

He grits his teeth. "-As well as soft, toff Southerners-"

"So why should I let you in, pet?" The older woman leans forward, her eyes narrowed and keen. "Why should I do anything for you?"

And again she takes a sip of her pint, raising her pinkie this time.

It is unspeakably irritating.

Sherlock closes his mouth, at a loss. Something tells him that neither the offer of money or flattery will help him here. And yet, what else is there? Unless..?

He steels his spine and drops his eyes. This is going to be painful.

"Please," he says. "Please let me in. I- I have to fix this, I daren't think how bad things will get if I don't."

"So this is just about getting what you want, is it?"

The older woman's voice is skeptical.

"No!" Sherlock says. Aware of how… exuberantly that came out, he moderates his tone. "It's about… It's about her knowing how much she means to me. It's about me telling her how important she is, and how sorry I am that I hurt her, and that I want to make it up to her, I do, if she will only just let me-"

The woman holds up her hand. "Alright, pet," she says, "that's enough, you've convinced me." She grins brightly, leans down and picks up a battered-looking book of raffle tickets. Pulls him off one, waggling it before him like one might a child's rattle. "It's half price since you came in costume," she says brightly. "So that'll be ten pounds and fifty pence, please-"

Sherlock blinks. "You mean there's-?"

"A charge in? Oh yes." The older woman grins more widely. "I just love seeing how far you cosplayers will go. And also, I'm a little bit evil- You can ask my grandchildren." She makes a show of fanning herself. "That's quite a Duke Benedict you've got there, son- You're girl's a lucky lass."

Cosplayers? Sherlock thinks. Duke Benedict? What the Hell sort of place is this? Nevertheless he fishes into his jacket, pulls out a crisp twenty pound note and places it on the table, taking the raffle ticket from her.

"Keep the change," he says darkly.

The older woman nods. "Don't mind if I do." She reaches down to where she had stashed her book of raffle tickets and takes out a photocopied sheet. "That's the night's itinerary," she says. Sherlock takes it without a glance, tucking it and the raffle ticket into his inside jacket pocket. "Down that corridor, to the right," the woman is saying. "Have fun, pet-"

And before she can think of any other ways to torture him Sherlock does as he's told, heading swiftly down the corridor and pushing open a pair of fire doors.

The sight inside makes him stop dead.

For there are Luisas everywhere, women dressed in period costume with their hair up and either a sword or a set of pistols at their hips, both of which Luisa has worn at some point in Molly's books. A smaller smattering of men in period costume can also be spied; They are mingled in with other women (and the occasional man) dressed in modern street clothes, bopping along to something bass-heavy and loud which Sherlock suspects is supposed to be music-

"Oh my God," a voice sounds beside him. "Are you a modern-day AU?"

The woman sounds Australian.

"You look exactly like Benedict," another voice says, Irish this time. "Did you make the costume or buy it-? Oh, and can I get a selfie with you?" The sound of ruffling pockets. "Just let me find my mobile-"

Before this erstwhile Celtic selfie-seeker can do anything Sherlock sweeps away and into the room, his eyes trained on the crowd, determined to find Molly. There are several women of the same height and build, but none have the particular, peculiar loveliness which his Molly possesses, and so he easily dismisses them- Until he finds her.

Of course, then he almost wishes he hadn't.

For she's standing next to someone in costume, someone who looks unconscionably like that ignorant, irritating berk, Thomas- He's even wearing period dress, the moron-

Before he knows what he's doing Sherlock is striding towards her, the crowd parting for him as it might for a shark- Or, indeed, a dangerous, scapegrace Duke.

The Game, Sherlock thinks, is on.


"Molly, a word."

His voice sounds tight, restrained. It's coming from behind her.

Cocking an eyebrow Molly turns to look at him, her hands finding their way to her hips as she takes in his glower.

What is the name of God..?

"Preganglionic," she says, the word popping out in nerves at how, how delicious he looks when he's staring at her like that.

Molly sometimes wonders if there's something abnormal with her hormones, if this is the sort of thing they like.

He blinks though, confused. "A word," Molly says, "Preganglionic is a word, and you said you wanted one, so-"

"Oh." Sherlock blinks and suddenly he's her friend again, and not the lesser known Greek God of Hotness. "Preganglionic is a fine word," he says. "Excellent, even. But I, um-" His eyes go to Barry beside her, a young fan who has just finished explaining how the last book persuaded him to propose to his boyfriend, and Sherlock's expression hardens. "May I speak to you in private?" he says, even as he reaches out and takes her by the elbow, something which Molly feels somewhat removes the voluntary aspect of his question.

"You ok?" Barry asks but she nods.

"This is Sherlock," she says dryly. "Sherlock has yet to encounter the concept of social skills, Barry. I'm fine." Holmes shoots her an affronted look and she shrugs. Pointedly removes her elbow from his grip and gestures towards a fire escape at the back of the room. She should probably get this over with. "This is where everyone's been taking their smoke breaks, Sherlock," she says. "Will it do?"

"Is it private?" he asks, and again he has that smouldering look in his eyes, the one that can melt knickers at fifty paces.

Molly wishes, somewhat disconsolately, that she could turn her inner monologue off right now.

"It is," she says. "Let's go." And she heads towards the door in question, Sherlock trailing behind her and shooting poor Barry daggers as he goes. This only stops when Barry's rather tall, rather muscled boyfriend Thiago moves protectively in front of his partner and Sherlock blinks, surprised. He then hustles ahead, getting to the door before Molly and holding it open for her.

She ducks under his arm and he shoots her a tight smile.

Once they're outside and the door shuts, the noise quietness considerably. Molly takes a deep breath, shivering slightly at the sudden change in temperature, and immediately Sherlock shrugs off his coat. Drapes it around her shoulders.

It's so big on her, she feels like she's wearing the Batsuit.

"Can't have you cold," he says gruffly, turning to look out into the night, shivering. That shirt and jacket of his really aren't warm at all. Molly stares for a moment at that beautiful patrician profile of his before turning away sadly. Dammit woman, eyes on the road. The lights of London lie before them, a full yellow moon beams down. Stars twinkle, plane lights twinkle, Hell, even the Met helicopter lights twinkle. Everything twinkles, and despite herself, Molly sighs. It's so romantic.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" she says wistfully, before kicking herself.

Sherlock mutters something which sounds rather like Not as beautiful as you and she turns to him, eyebrows raised in question.

She can't have heard that right.

"Not. As. Beautiful. As. You," he repeats, raising his voice and making sure to enunciate, as if he's speaking to a simpleton.

Molly does the only thing she can do: she punches him lightly on the arm.

So much for standing in the moonlight with Sherlock.

"Ow!" he says, voice hurt. "What was that for?"

"You're being a git," she says simply and to her surprise his cheeks pink. He nods. Swallows. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and if she didn't know better, Molly might well think that his eyes flickered down to her lips for a moment.

She forces that ridiculous thought away.

"Yes, well," he's saying, "I must admit I find myself adrift- Perhaps I am being a tad less charming than I wished to be…"

Molly looks at him. "You wish to be charming? To me?" She narrows her eyes. "Why?"

Unspoken but loud are the words, What Do You Want Me To Do For You This Time?

Sherlock pouts, copying her body language. "Well forgive me if I think that I should be charming when I tell a woman I'm in love with her," he bites out. This time it's Molly's turn to blink, but he carries on with nary a pause. He does aggrievement so well, after all. "Forgive me if I thought I should set the scene before I explain why I'm here-"

Molly's not following this. "Scene?" she asks. "You want to set a scene?" A thought occurs. She recalls what he just said about telling a woman he loves her. "Are you here on a case?" she mutters, dropping her voice. "Do you need me to-"

"I need you to hold still." And without a word of warning Sherlock suddenly grabs her. Pulls her to him. She's so much smaller that she comes easily, her feet scraping along the floor. He reaches down and presses his lips to hers, their teeth clacking loudly together and, before she can work out what he's doing, Molly's foot kicks out in instinct. Smacks him in his shin. He dances back, shooting her a dark look. A hurt, dark look.

The git even makes that expression attractive.

"Ow!" he whines. "What the bloody blazes was that for?"

Molly feels her temper rise. "What was that for?" she snaps. "What was that for?! What was the bloody grabbing me and snogging me for, you numpty?"

"I thought it would be romantic," Sherlock whines. "After all, that's how your precious Duke Benedict would do it!"

Molly rolls her eyes. God give me patience. "For the last time," she bites out, "I am not Luisa, and you are not Benedict. They're characters, Sherlock, I just made them up!" Her brain finally catches up with his words and she blinks. "Besides, why are you wondering about how Benedict would kiss me? Why are you even kissing me at all?" And she shakes her head, bewildered. How is it that he always does this to her? How? At her words Sherlock's expression gentles and she takes a deep breath. Squeezes the bridge of her nose and then looks at him straight.

"Sherlock," she says quietly, "Why are you here? Six words or less. Please?"

Still pouting, the detective nevertheless manages to pull himself, once more, to full glowering height. He stares down at her, eyebrow cocked, trying to be commanding, but Molly can see nervousness in his gaze. He shifts his feet and clenches his fists, things he really only does when he's nervous. Despite how annoying he's being, her heart softens a notch.

"I-" he begins. "Well, you see, the thing of it is-"

Molly crosses her arms over her chest. "That's eight words already," she says quietly. "Just spit it out already- Please."

She thinks but does not say that she's not sure how much more of this she can take.

"Fine!" Sherlock throws his hands up like a martyr and- she's not makingthis up- stomps his feet. He puts his face in hers and says, very quickly and certainly, "I am in love with you and am trying to tell you as much, Molly Hooper. I didn't realize until recently, and I made a balls of it when I tried to tell you, so now I'm here and I'm being honest and I'd really like you to kiss me if I'm not allowed to kiss you, but more than anything else I would like this mortifying conversation to be over- Is that clear enough for you?"

And he steps away from her. Pouts some more. It really isn't fair, Molly muses dazedly, how attractive he is when he does that. "Now, may I kiss you, or have you kiss me, or whatever way you want to do thi-"

But he doesn't get to finish because Molly- quite without her deciding to- has jumped into his arms and set about kissing him silly. He lets out a rather unromantic "Oomph!" as he catches her, but within seconds he's as busy snogging her as she is, snogging him. He's even managed to press her up against the door behind them, effectively keeping the rest of the room out. After what might be seconds- or hours, or days, or a universe worth of wonderful kisses- he pulls back and presses his forehead to Molly's. He brushes a stray strand of hair from her face and honestly, the pathologist thinks that her heart might literally sing.

"So you're ok with me loving you?" he asks and Molly nods. Presses another kiss to his lips.

"I am very, very ok with it, Sherlock," she says breathlessly. She feels her cheeks pink. "After all, I still love you."

He closes his eyes at the words, smiling, and it occurs to Molly that, should he learn what that look does to her then she'll be toast because dear God, how gorgeous is he when he looks like that? For her?

He murmurs something and this time it's her that murmurs, "Pardon?"

"Again," he murmurs. "Say it again."

Molly kisses his cheek. The tip of his nose. His eyelids. "I love you," she says with each caress. "I love you, I love you-"

"-And I love you."

They stay out there until Thiago and Billy knock at the door and demand to know whether Molly's ok out there with that psycho? Because if she's not, there's going to be trouble.

Hand in hand, cheeks scarlet, she and Sherlock walk into the room and (to their collective mortification) the room breaks into applause. Wolf whistles. Someone calls them a cab without their even asking for one.

"You love me," Sherlock murmurs into her hair and Molly has never seen him more content.


Meanwhile

Across London

Mission accomplished, Aunt Pen, the text message reads. Thanks to you and our woman in Baker Street.

On vastly different sides of London Martha Hudson and Penelope Holmes raise a glass of sherry to each other and the redoubtable Agent Anthea-

While that same Agent Anthea grins at her boss and holds her hand out, delighted that she won her wager. He counts out ten crisp fifty pound notes as she grins at him.

"I never should have bet against you," Mycroft Holmes mutters drolly and Anthea is rather inclined to agree.