Author's Notes: This chapter has been a total beast, but I hope what's contained within more than makes up for the wait. Reviews are always, always welcome and treasured.


Frances rushed into the entrance hall. The mahogany table in the centre of the hall displayed fresh seasonal flowers. Paintings of triumphs lined the walls, the winding staircase.

An inquiry of a footman told her of her daughter's location. Heading into the salon, Frances ordered tea for two and sat down. The clock sat on the fireplace ticked. Frances turned her head. Through the windows, she saw the familiar hills of Oxfordshire. Only the summer season and winter were kind to that view. In autumn, it was suffocated by grey. The lush trees died and rotted until winter came to cover the scene in a blanket of white.

From the hills, the figure she expected rode up, a girl on a horse taking in the last snatches of daylight. She cleared her throat and turned her head back from the window. She brushed a crease from her skirts.

The tea was brought in soon before her daughter's arrival. Her cup was to her lips when the doors opened and her daughter entered.

The skirts of her riding habit were splashed with traces of mud. Her hair was tangled, even more so when she removed her hat. Already she was mollified and sheepish. Her head lowered as she dropped into a greeting curtsey. Frances gave the courtesy no attention.

"Do you know why I'm here, Molly?" she asked. Her voice was as gentle as she could manage as her daughter sat beside her. The maid moved forward and poured her a cup. She failed to touch it.

"Was your journey good?"

"It was pleasant yes," Frances said. "We had to stop off at an inn on the way here to give water to the horses. The landlord who ran it was courteous enough. In fact, he told me of another visitor to his establishment."

Frances gave pause. "A young married lady."

All at once, her daughter stifled a false yawn. "Apologies Mother, I'm very tired. I've been riding all day. We can continue this conversation tomorrow."

"I'm usually the first to hear of society gossip, so imagine my surprise when I hear from this welcoming landlord that this young married lady, apparently in some distress, came to his door near to two and a half weeks ago."

Molly froze. Frances narrowed her eyes. "Not a few days, as I had been led to assume."

She watched her daughter. She had grown into a woman underneath Lady Adler's teaching, a fine and graceful young woman. Frances saw before her now that same woman, but retreated back into a shell of girlhood. Molly returned to the sofa.

"You know exactly why I am here, Molly. Samuel may go off gallivanting with whatever girl he chooses, but wives are always wiser than their husbands. They have to be otherwise nothing would ever be done."

"I don't think I'm wise, Mother." Molly swallowed. Her nails scratched a line around her wrist. Frances aimed an inquiring look at her daughter. Molly shrugged. "Well-spoken isn't wise."

"Wise is removing oneself from the situation before it's too late," Frances said. She gave a sad smile as Molly lifted her gaze. Once, when she had been a little girl, Molly had taken to stealing scraps from the kitchen. The cook had caught her with strawberry juice stained on her lips. She had frogmarched her to her father. Before her father, who'd laughed and seemed unable to stop, she had stood contrite and quiet and still.

She carried traces of that same stillness. Frances sighed. She slipped her hand into hers, squeezing it tight in reassurance.

"Why do you think I warned you? I am proud of you, for what you've done. But there is a line between wisdom and cowardice. As long as you hide…" Frances trailed off, steeling herself to be firm. She remembered her mother, speaking to her when she had wept as an unmarried girl, confused by the jewels of high society, and their snide whispers at her fashions. She stared hard at her daughter. "The rumours will grow."

Molly shook her head, though her hands trembled. "They'll fade."

She couldn't believe her own lie, despite trying. Frances hid a smile.

"They fade when you die. Return to London, and cut them at the root. Ignore whatever Lord Holmes sends you. Send him away from your door with polite dismissal. Do not be your husband." Frances cupped Molly's cheek, watching with fervent hope her daughter's features. They were still for a long moment, blank and void of a reply, a response to the plea.

"You hear me? You are not your husband," Frances said.

Her eyelids fluttered in a blink. Her brown pupils hardened. She remained quiet.

Frances withdrew her hand from her daughter's cheek. Leaving the drawing room, she called for maids to pack their mistress's trunk. Beyond the windows, the last days of summer cracked with the scent of oncoming rain.


The thunderstorm raged. Footsteps of footmen sloshed in muddy rain water as they hurried their masters and mistresses into their homes. Wheels of carriages carried the water in arcs as drivers urged on their horses.

"There's a visitor for you, Mrs Abbot."

Molly stared down at the grey pavement through the rain-streaked windows. There was no carriage by the pavement.

"Who is it?" she asked, still focused on the street below.

"Mrs Watson," the footman replied. "I let her wait in the entrance hall, owing to the weather—"

"That's fine," Molly interrupted. She glanced down at herself, her attire of a nightgown and robe. Her fingers idly played with the strands of her loose hair. "I'll – I'll see her."

The footman gave a nod. "Of course."

Her growing warmth froze when her visitor walked in. Lord Holmes shut the door behind him, pressing his finger to his lips.

She breathed hard. The even pace of her heartbeat quickened.

"How much did you pay my footman to lie for you?" she asked with attempted steadiness.

He smirked and raised an eyebrow. "You ought to raise his salary."

"Vails are cheaper," Molly replied. She whipped around to face the window.

"Why have you not seen me?" He spoke into the moment left behind by her snarl, her echo of his words. His tone was not one of chastisement. It wasn't of that distant curiosity he'd possessed when she'd first come to know him. It reminded her of long-casted shadows, candlelight, of a hand at her elbow in a crowd.

"I sent a note," Holmes said, without emotion, as if observing the facts of the scene. "To welcome you back to London when you returned, two weeks ago. Did you receive it?"

"I did."

"You didn't answer."

"Was one required?"

Amusement licked the edge of his observations. "I believe you know etiquette better than I do, Mrs Abbot."

She turned her head to see, out of the corner of her eye, him drop into a bow. A smile crinkled the corner of her mouth.

She stopped herself from turning with a short clench of her fists at her side.

"A brief thank you note would have sufficed," she said.

"Then you did not answer me."

"No."

"Could you answer me now?" The teasing was fading.

She clutched her trembling fingers to her palm and fully turned to find him. He tilted his head in return, a dog cocking its ear at the call of its master. His eyes were sober and clear. Her fingers stilled. She dropped into a small curtsey. "Thank you for your note, Lord Holmes."

"There," she said to his replying silence. "Now you may leave me."

"May I ask a question?"

She returned to watching the rain, straightening her back. He took her silence as acceptance.

"What have I done for you to treat me with this contempt?"

Her husband's gnarled anger, his baseless accusations, flashed up at her. Whore. She spoke before she could stop.

"Contempt?" she spat the question, whirling round. "At what parts have I shown contempt towards you, towards your character? I have treated you with nothing but kindness!"

"If this is kindness, I'd hate to see your affection," Holmes replied, casual and sharp at the same time. "I wrote to you as a friend, and received no reply. I have visited you, and have been dismissed at the door each time. I am your friend, Molly. Do you think it pleases me to have to pay vails in order to even catch a glimpse of you?"

The skirts of her robe fluttered around her feet as she darted forward. She jerked to a stop, the sofa before her in her way. Her fists clenched. "If you were any kind of friend," she snapped, "you would respect my wish!"

Holmes looked struck by her words, slapped by the bluntness. She swallowed. Her rage cooled. A long silence followed her sigh.

"If you could not see it before… perhaps my words now will help you. I do not wish to see you, Lord Holmes. I do not wish to see you ever again." Her voice was shaking, the pressure of her mother's words pressing down on her own. Her eyes felt wet. "If we attend the same assembly, you will not bow to me. If you call at my house, you will be turned away."

Another silence fell between them in a hush.

"Who makes you say this?" He was as calm as he would be stuck in a conversation with a lord insistent on telling nothing but anecdotes about the weather. His look, as she examined him, preparing herself to answer, was blank.

She was not her husband.

"Me," she replied.

"I don't believe you."

"It doesn't matter if you don't believe me. I have treated you with kindness, Lord Holmes, but our friendship must be broken from the moment you leave this room. Please leave."

Holmes' blank look remained. It remained unchanged as he sat opposite her on the sofa, crossing his legs and leaning back into its seat. He tapped his bottom lip, his forefinger running along the full shape.

"Must be broken? I've had plenty of acquaintances and only a handful of friendships, admittedly. Some of them have ended, Mrs Abbot, but none of them have ever claimed it was a matter of 'must'. It was always a matter of 'want'. I want this friendship to end. But you and I – our friendship must?"

"Lord Holmes, you have heard me, have you not?"

"I have, Mrs Abbot."

"Then I wish you to leave."

"Hm. No." She tried to step back, but her feet did not obey. She was forced to watch as he rose to his feet, approaching her. He knelt on the sofa before her, leaning his palms into its back. "Not until I have obtained a proper explanation for this sudden change."

They were directly opposite each other now, his full Cupid's bow thinned into a frown. His brows were knitted together. She blinked away the memory of another night, another rainstorm; she avoided his eyes.

"I – don't – I don't – have an explanation for you, Lord Holmes. Not one that you haven't heard already. But you have to accept it – our friendship, what it was…" Molly paused.

His eyes had changed, softened. He didn't seem to know it himself, this shift in his look. His whole body, taut with determination, had relaxed.

Her fingers brushed up the luxuriant silk of his overcoat. Purple flowers threaded by silver, their backdrop black. Her breath cracked like glass, shards of it shaking in the air between them. It shattered into a sigh, a cry, as the pads of her fingers cradled his cheek.

Curiosity. It was the undoing of so many. The making of others. This curiosity felt like both at once; a damnation that was a blessing in itself. Greenwood, she had become a woman. One who loved the woman who'd taught her, and loved the man she'd married. The woman was her friend. The husband wanted her as nothing more than a wife. In his green-blue eyes, she saw memories of Greenwood and promises of something new—something dangerous—that was yet to come.

His head dipped against her chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist. She sank into the security. Relief, that she had failed to find in running away, seeking it, desperately and clawing for it in corridors loved by a child, washed over her at long last.

She clasped him tight, holding his neck and shoulders in her arms, pressing her cheek to the top of his head. He tugged her close.

"Molly…" He let out a breath. "I love you."

The spell broke. She jumped back from Holmes, scalded by the words. He looked at her in a way Samuel never had. His look, just as his love, was fact and inescapable. Molly stumbled, hurrying towards the door.

"I think you need to leave," she gasped, air catching in her throat. The spell had come too quick, and left her quicker still.

"You deserve the truth." He spoke flatly, without malice. Her vision blurred, tears coming as he spoke to her. "Too long I've put up this act of being content with friendship. I love you—"

"Please, Lord Holmes, I beg you, don't continue—"

"More than that, I adore you. Your compassion, your intelligence, your curiosity—" He didn't stop, the nature of his words catching in her heart. She stumbled under the weight of them, shaking her head.

"This isn't possible—"

"I'd not known you a month before I knew the truth: you were the first woman I had ever met I wanted by my side for the rest of my life."

"I'm not—" Holmes' presence overwhelmed, looming up behind her. She breathed until she could once again feel her heartbeat. It pulsed against her ribcage like the monotonous thrum of a bell.

"You would remove me for speaking the truth?" Holmes sounded not hurt nor offended, but mellowed. Her heart pressed harder against her ribcage, making her gasp. It felt to be now a prison, her bones transformed into bars. Behind from which her heart tried to escape, reaching out with bloody hands. The ache was unbearable. Heat prickled over her skin.

She turned, her back sinking against the door, her eyes lifting up until she met Holmes' eyes. He was patient. Willing for her to speak.

Tears fell down her cheeks.

"I'm not my husband," she whispered. Holmes' look changed again. Now he stood before her chastened. Repentant. Willing her to forgive him.

Between finger and thumb, he held her chin. He tilted her head up, just as he bent his head. He kissed the tears off her cheeks. Her cheeks bloomed beneath his touch, pink returning to the pale. Warmth flooded her senses. The maid had been a forgotten thing in her husband's mind; a scrap for the dogs to find, naked and left alone. When she had confronted him, he had grinned and pressed his cock against her thigh, thinking he could still have her after all he'd done.

She looked at the man before her. She cradled his cheek. Her thumb ran over the deep Cupid's bow, the shaped bottom lip, the hollow in his cheek. Her fingers slid around and threaded against his nape. They sank into the curls of his hair. His eyelids fluttered close for a snatch of a moment, breathing shallow from a shiver of pleasure.

"Does it hurt you so much?" he murmured, half to himself. His lips hovered at her cheek. "To make me happy?"

Her mouth opened with an answer, but closed. He shifted his head at her silence. He released a slow heavy sigh.

"Well. Then…" he said. His fingers slid from her chin.

Molly lashed out. Holmes stilled, surprise in his widened eyes. He glanced down to her hand, wrapped around his wrist. His gaze slid back to her. The smallest of smiles tilted at the corner of his mouth.

"Sherlock." She took a breath and released his wrist. In the silence she pressed her palm to his chest. She spread her fingers over the silk of his waistcoat. Her eyes remained locked with his as she reached up onto tiptoe.

She met him with a brushing of lips. Deepening the kiss, she mumbled a single phrase against his mouth.

"Stay with me."

"Forever," he replied. He scooped her up into his arms, kissing her as he walked towards to the sofa.

Bending down, he lay her down on the sofa's soft cushions. He knelt before her. Her breath hitched, realisation bubbling up inside her chest. She swallowed words, and reached forward for another kiss. Smiling against her mouth, he pushed at her shoulders until she was laid out. His hands pushed at the material of her skirts. Molly lifted her hips in reply, letting the skirt of her nightgown pool around her waist.

All the patience he had displayed was gone, desire overtaking love. She ached for him all the more. Realisation faded. Grasping her ankles, Sherlock lifted her legs until they were hooked over his shoulders, her feet digging into the toned muscles of his back. He mouthed kisses to the inside of her thighs, inching his way to her sex. With one hand he touched her, sinking one finger into her centre. Molly sighed, spreading herself for him. She was wet, and ready.

He feasted, his tongue reaching into her, adoring her and fucking her with his mouth until she moaned and arched, urging to be filled. Drawing back, he sucked at her clit, slipping his finger back into her centre. He inserted a second as he withdrew his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her belly. Every shallow thrust of his fingers was sweet slow agony. His tongue returned to her clit.

"Please Sherlock," Molly begged. The fact that he was clothed was maddening. Now she had given herself over, she wanted every piece of him exposed. Nothing hidden. Every acre of him hers, to love and caress in the dark.

A deep thrust of his fingers made her yelp and moan. He laughed, the sound rumbled through her whole body. She wiggled happily against his mouth. His thrusts became harder, until she was bucking again, writhing.

His free hand danced up her body until he reached her chest. He palmed her breasts, kneading the flesh through the thin cotton, tweaking the hardening nub of her nipples. His mouth left her clit.

"May I?" he asked, his eyes at the collar of her nightgown. His fingers kept up their pace. A shiver fled up her spine, ending in a gasp.

"Please," she managed to say. With his free hand, he pulled at the satin ribbon bow that lined her collar. The collar fluttered to the sides, exposing her breasts. His voice rumbled something low and inaudible. She gave no attempt to hear his words, lost in the pleasure and promises his kisses gave.

He kissed the underside of her right breast, his teeth scraping along the pale skin. She twitched and sighed, throwing her head back, closing her eyes. She felt his mouth hot on her nipple, taking it between his lips, his tongue darting out over the hardened nub.

He repeated the action on her left breast, kissing and sucking both her breasts before he mouthed a path of kisses up her chest towards her collarbone. He nibbled gently at the line of bone, lathering his tongue where his teeth had been. Sparks of pleasure jumped through her body, surging in her blood until her feet curled against his back and her fingers sank into the flesh of his shoulders.

A prayer, a babbling prayer, tumbled from her lips. "I love you," she sobbed, "I love you… Oh – I love—"

The prayer was taken from her with a sharp thrust of his fingers and a deep kiss to her mouth. She tasted herself on his tongue, musky and sinful. At the last moment, as a scream flooded her mouth like honey and left her lips as pants and soft grunts, he switched his fingers for his tongue until she screamed again, his name this time her prayer.

Coming down, Molly looked down at Sherlock. Wriggling out from his place between her thighs, he leaned back on his knees. There was a boyish look about him of triumph. As if he wished to tell somebody, the world, of the desire he'd discovered.

Molly giggled, giddy. And the giggle became a laugh. A high, sharp laugh. She stood, her hands over her mouth, trying to contain the laugh that seemed to her, now, unstoppable. Sherlock rose to his feet. He took a hold of her wrists, gently tugging her hands away from her face. Her laughter faded as he kissed her once again. It was halfway between candlelight and a storm, his hands sliding against her face and sinking into her hair. She held onto the warmth of his lips moving against hers, the taste of his tongue. He moaned into her lips as she pressed her body close to his.

"Mrs Abbot—"

"Hooper," she gasped. Abbot was reality, and reality did not deserve Holmes. She pressed a short kiss to his mouth. "Hooper."

"Hooper," he repeated. A smile came to his mouth. "Molly Hooper."

He repeated the name, her name, as they exchanged kisses, their hands caressing one another. His jacket fell to the floor, his silken waistcoat following. He pulled at his shirt collar with one hand as his other brushed over her shoulder. Molly rolled her shoulder underneath his touch. The silk of her dressing gown pooled at her elbow.

Grasping the white cotton of his shirt she helped him pull it over his head. Their mouths returned to one another immediately, her hands sinking into his hair, trailing over the toned muscles of his chest.

Breaths and pants and declarations exchanged, but her hunger forgot his words. She remembered only his heat; his scent; the security of his mouth on hers, his arms around her. Soon he was bare before her. Dropping her robe to the ground, her nightgown followed, his hands tugging it over her head.

His hands held her waist. His mouth returned to her breasts. Molly sank her fingers into his hair and the flesh of his shoulders, dropping kisses to his skin, arching, her nipple moving underneath his tongue. Drawing away from her, he grinned. He kissed her again, licking a path up her neck towards her jaw. Molly tilted her head back, her fingers still in his hair.

Rebellion shuddered low in her body, a shiver of impishness running up her spine.

"Find me," she whispered. She kissed him briefly, nibbling on his bottom lip, curving her hand around his sharp jaw. She felt his frown against her lips. She giggled. Slipping out from his grasp, she ran.

She ran towards the doors, throwing them open, and she ran. Her bare feet slammed against the hard stone floor of her townhouse. She ran without judgement.

She heard him running, his baritone laugh, behind her. She turned and ran up the stairs. Her thighs burned with the effort, but she continued to run down corridors, hallways, past purchased paintings and bought antiques. A grandfather clock rang out, the sonorous sound distant underneath her feet. The wooden floors creaked. She darted past rugs, jumped out of the way of tables. She turned on her heel, eyes darting. She heard his running. She turned. She speeded up.

Perhaps some kind of madness had overcome her. What madness, she didn't know. It only felt like freedom.

Molly darted into her bedchamber, turning to face the open door.

Running slowed to footsteps.

She stepped back towards the bed, wrapping her hand around the carved post and listened.

Sherlock's footsteps came closer.

His bare form appeared, stood in the frame of the door. Her body thrummed, arousal pooling in her body. He crossed the width of the room towards her. His hand clutched at her hips, his other dropping down to caress her backside. His breaths, hard from the run, felt hot at her ear.

"You ask me to stay – then run from me." He kissed her neck, dropping his mouth towards her collarbone. Molly hummed at the echo of his teeth against the bone, hooking her arms around his neck. His hands delved between her thighs, lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Underneath her she felt his cock, already half-hard. He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand sliding up to hold her by her waist. The other idly palmed her breasts.

"Perhaps," Molly whispered, smiling at his hiss, the slight buck of his hips as she took him in hand, "you need to learn more about women."

"I certainly have more to learn about you, Molly Hooper." His breathless mention of her unmarried name wormed its way into her memory. "You're a surprise."

Pressing her hand to his chest, Molly eased him back onto the silken bedsheets. His hands held her hips as she adjusted her position, fully straddling him. Lifting her hips, her breasts tilting up as she arched her shoulders. She slid onto his hard cock until he was seated inside her.

He felt like every unanswered curiosity, every dismissed anxiety; he felt like an answer to every single one of them. Beautiful. She tilted her head back, the sound from her throat a deep groan. She began to rock against him, taking him deeper.

Her mind was blind by the relief flooded through her. It left no room for regret. It was hard to feel regret for a ruination she'd already prayed for, her fantasies now taken up not by blonde-haired knights but a man of intelligence with dark curls and crystal-cut eyes.

"I love you," Sherlock bit out, lifting his hips to match her in rhythm. There was no way to disguise their deeds, their rough fucking. They were exposed and bare to the world, even if the world only stretched, in this moment, to the doors of her bedchamber. His voice softened as she pressed her palms to his chest, steadying herself, momentarily slowing the pace.

"Molly," he groaned. Molly's eyes flew open. As she gazed, smiled, down at him, she linked her fingers with his. She brought his hands to her breasts. He brushed his palms over her nipples, pinching them both between finger and thumb. Molly gasped. Her smile widened. One of his hands slid up her chest, sinking into her hair, pulling just enough at the strands. Her eyes fluttered shut, sinking into the shot of pain. His hand left her hair to hold her shoulder.

His other hand left her breast. His fingers slid against her clit, bringing her close. She gave a choked squeak. It fell into a sigh. Her grin returned to her as her eyes opened again. She stared up at the ceiling, the canopy of the bed. Its dark wood, set against white engravings of vines and gods.

"Say it again."

His voice was soft as he spoke. "I love you."

Realisation. She was not her husband. With a tremble, a gasp, a shout, Molly Hooper came.


He was lost. Her warm, waiting, obedient body, the musky scent of her sex; he was consumed by them both. That didn't worry him. He always allowed himself a month or two of obsession with whatever woman he made his bedfellow. There was little use for fun if one did not have a reward—and the reward she gave him was one of the best.

She allowed him to take her with soft sighs. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist and her hips arching.

He left her before he needed to on those occasions, always still eager for more.

The nights he remained, he took her with her cheek turned against the pillows.

Those nights, her fingers clutched against the sheets. Her brow beaded with sweat and her pale body was raised up for him. In the dark, he clung to her. One hand holding her hips, caressing her body, and the other tangled in the tendrils of her hair. His unforgiving pace never let up on those nights and she cried out her gratitude.

Those sweet cries in his ears, he barely noticed the grey rain of September gradually turn into the white of December. Her husband is a fool, he reflected with a grin whenever she moaned underneath him, the air thick with the scent of sex, fucking his maids in Bath when he has such a wife waiting for him in London.

She keened underneath him, a screaming moan coming from her lips.

Thoughts dashed from his mind, he increased their speed until he was taking her without mercy. The flesh of his hips snapping against her, their bodies slapping together. Finally he heard her sound, the pants and shrieks, he had already committed to memory. Every time, it surprised him and brought him to the edge.

He curved himself around her with a stuttered, guttural shout of her name. He stroked his palm over her stomach as they panted, coming down from the high.

There was silence for a time. Eventually he felt her hand reach back, just as his spent cock slid out from her. Her fingers sunk back into his hair.

He leaned forward as she turned her head.

The kiss she took was light, languid, a teasing thank you amidst the sweat and sex.

Sighing, he rolled off her body, sinking onto the bed. He threw one arm against his damp forehead. Beside him, she was already half-asleep. How she slept, he did not care. There was nothing interesting to find in people's sleeping habits. They were always far more interesting when they were awake anyway.

She stirred as the sounds of London's afternoon filtered through the windows.

Her right arm stretched out, the movement slurred by her sleep. Her hand found his stomach, idly brushing over his ribs. Sherlock stared up in the bed's canopy. His hand covered hers, keeping it in its place. His head swam with the feeling of oblivion.

He closed his eyes.


December 1786

The setting winter sun struck long, opaque shadows over her bedchambers. The sheets abandoned, mussed and tangled by their activities, she shook out her hair. The brown tangled curls tumbled down past her shoulders. Short tendrils clung to her forehead, her body slick with sweat. Her breasts, small and white with pastel pink tips, shone in the light.

Sat on his lap, her thighs straddling his hips, she looked far from sweet. She looked like how her kisses tasted; rich, the right side of overindulgence. The most delightful part of his consumption.

She hummed and reached forward. Her movements idle, she ran the pads of her fingers and thumbs over his chest.

"You're thinking," he murmured. He tucked one hand behind his head. He rubbed his left hand over the top of her thigh. She smiled. His fingers curved down in response.

He dipped two fingers into her wet centre, testing her. She gasped, rising up as he deepened the pressure, pressing her hand into his pillow, keeping it firmly in place beside his head. She gently rocked against his hand with soft squeaks and sighs, fucking herself on his fingers. He idly stroked her clit with his thumb. As her sighs edged into familiar moans, he withdrew.

"You've been with many women?" she asked after a silence, settling back onto his lap. There was a quiet fury in her eyes at being denied.

"Why?" His mouth quirked with a playful smirk. He calmly sucked his fingers, tasting her. "Are you jealous, my lady?"

Her fingers stilled against his chest and slowly closed into a fist. Her fury, bubbling underneath, stilled. He hissed as she dragged her hand down his chest, her nails sharp. She leaned down close towards him.

"No," she murmured with a smile. She kissed the corner of his mouth, his temple, his nose. Her lips felt warm on his cool skin. "Not at all, my sir."

The light outside the window shifted, darkening with the coming of evening. He stared at her. His hands moved towards her body; his right hand stroked the small of her back. His left reached down. Pressing his fingertip lightly against her lower stomach, he paused. Slowly, he drew a line up her body towards her chin. She shivered and bit at her bottom lip.

"Pity," he whispered.

He rolled onto his left side. She followed, landing on her right side with a gasp. He caught her laugh with a stolen kiss. He took and took from her, tongue sliding between teeth and lips taking her breath until finally she whined. Another familiar sound he had long ago captured, bottled and put among his memories.

Her hands sank into his curls. He broke their embrace to turn his head and press a dry kiss to her left breast. His left hand descended back down her body.

She hitched and arched at his touch. She was hot and wet and she writhed against his fingers, a plea for more. He watched her, his eyes burning.

"You were jealous."

She nodded, eyes fluttered closed.

"My sir—"

His mouth twitched. "I enjoy jealousy on a woman." He kissed her again, fierce, and she moaned.


Sitting at her writing desk, Irene brought out a quill and paper and ink. Sharpening the quill's nib, dipping it into the ink, she pressed it onto the paper. Ink pooled, staining the blank off-white of the page. Irene sighed, discarding the paper and quill. Crossing her legs, she pressed her chin against the palm of her hand. The desk's candle flame flickered. In the shadow of the light, she fiddled with the signet ring that displayed her husband's legacy.

London in the winter was always dull enough for her to consider hosting an assembly.

She stood, went to the door and called for her maid.

"Yes, ma'am?" asked the maid, a dark-haired woman of about her age. There was a natural resentment carried in her eyes. The maid gave a courteous curtsey and single nod of her head.

"Has the post arrived?"

"I can't say."

"Fetch the butler."

The maid obeyed, and soon, the butler entered the bedchamber. He bowed.

"Ma'am. I understand you wished to know about the post?" He nodded to her waiting look. "Nothing so far today. Any letters shall be brought to you straight away."

"Draw me a bath," she said, returning to sit at the writing desk. She shuffled invitations she was yet to reply to, household bills to be paid, the stained paper. She blew out the candle. "Tell the maids I'll wear the red."

"Of course, Ma'am."

Irene stilled when the doors closed. Her hands left the papers and threaded tight together. Her knuckles flushed white. She pressed them close to her pursed lips.

She remained that way until the doors opened once more, maids tending to their commanded duties. Irene stood when they called her, wordless when they scrubbed her skin, when they dressed her in corsets and petticoats. She glanced at herself in the mirror when her appearance was finished.

"I'll be out for the night," she told them as she put on her cloak. She travelled down the staircase into the entrance hall. A footman opened the front door. A swirl of newly arrived snow caught at the hood of her cloak. It flapped at the edges of her face. The wind cut her cheek. Clutching the hem tight, she stepped out and into her carriage.

The streets were filled only with the bravest of beggars, who had their faces and hands swathed in old wool. Irene let the curtains of the carriage fall back against the window, staring ahead at the plush seating. It was a pale shade of blue, comfort enough for any journey. She smiled at the memory of different companions with whom she had wiled away the tedium of the rocking and jerking of the cobblestones and dirt tracks of England.

The carriage continued on its route, winding through the streets, and came to a stop. Irene pulled back the carriage curtains. Through the flurry of snow, she saw her destination. Her driver, chin and jaw obscured by his scarf, opened the carriage door. Irene climbed out of the carriage onto the pavement. Her hood was low over her face. She tugged her cloak further around her dress. Her driver hurried up to the townhouse door, knocking three times. The door swung open.

Irene swept past the doorway, pushing back the hood of her cloak.

"Tell your mistress that her friend is here to see her." She tugged off her gloves with her teeth. "Driver, wait outside."

Her driver nodded, hurrying back to his post. The footman shut the door.

"My mistress is asleep Ma'am, but she shall be informed of your arrival," the footman explained. Irene shucked off her cloak and handed it over to him.

A dull landscape hung on the wall opposite. Labourers, dots in the painted hills, led a horse through the mud of a distant field. A simple farmhouse stood above them on the highest hill, painted grey and imposing. The gilded frame added to the nonsense.

"Oh!"

A door had been left open somewhere, carelessly. Irene whirled at the distant sound, looking up for the source. A slice of cold spider-walked down her spine.

"Oh, oh – oh!"

She swallowed, but her dry throat could not block out the sound. The screams and moans continued, ignored by the present footmen. An established sound in this home.

"Molly," groaned a second, lower, voice. "Molly—" Irene glanced at the faces of the footmen. A second sound, as established as the first. They were blank-eyed, expressionless, without opinion on their mistress. Loyal to their mistress.

The first voice exploded with a call of their lover's name. A flush, deep and dark, shot up Irene's chest, flooding her cheeks. She called for the footman. He still held her cloak. She snatched it from him, tying the cloak tight around her shoulders and throwing the hood over her face. The footman opened the door as she shoved on her gloves.

"Back home," she snapped at her driver. His hat and eyebrows were sprinkled with snow. Irene climbed back into her carriage, slamming the carriage door behind her. She closed her eyes. The familiar rocking and bumps of London began.

Irene snatched off a glove. Sniffing, she wiped her eyes and cheeks.

She froze.

Her next breaths shook, fragile at the new fact. She touched a finger to her cheek. They were damp with old tears, growing wetter with new. She swallowed. Her throat was still dry. Her lungs grew tight. Her mouth grew slack, her face blank, as the tears came.


She stripped herself of the red, and screamed at her maids. They only returned to her when it came time for supper.

The mirror above the fireplace was cracked. The mantelpiece clock lay on its side before it, the clock face smashed and the hands stopped. Her maids waited for her command.

She told them to fetch the blue.

The flurry of snow had proved to be exactly that. It didn't settle and left behind only damp pavements. Irene stared at the cracked mirror as her maids tied her corset strings anew. They helped her into her dress. The bodice was embroidered with ice-white thread that glittered. The three-quarter sleeves were edged with ruffled lace. She chose pastel blue coloured shoes, and red to stain her lips. She told her servants to be ready to receive her, and went out into the cool evening. Her breath came out in billows of vapour as she hurried into the carriage.

The journey was short, and she opened the door before the carriage was stopped. When it pulled up, Irene stood and climbed out. Moonlight tinged the damp pavements white. The butler held a candelabrum before them as he escorted her up the stairs. They came to the drawing room. Leaving her with the candelabra and a soft address, the butler bowed and departed. Irene's eyes flitted to the one footman in the room, stood by the fireplace.

He himself was stood by his writing desk. A pile of half-blank papers lay atop abandoned letters and invitations. Music notes covered those half-blank pages. A quill stood in its ink pot, waiting. His playing stuttered and started and went back on itself. He wore an embroidered dressing gown over the usual garments. His waistcoat was a plain black.

He ceased his playing with a screech of his bow against the strings. He set down his violin. He moved closer. The light of the candelabra caught stains of ink on his fingers. The stained fingers tapped out a rhythm on the wood of the side cabinet. He grinned.

"My love."

"You must know why I'm here. If you don't, I shall be disappointed," she added, watching, her breath hitching, as Sherlock turned away from her. He poured himself a whiskey from a decanter.

"Yes, well. I've moved on, to greener pastures." He sat in his high back chair, throwing his leg over an arm and drinking from his glass. "Sorry. Neglected to tell you."

"Are you in love with her?"

His hand twitched; but he swallowed back his whiskey. Wiping his mouth, he pressed the empty glass into his thigh. He shook his head. A sly grin crept onto Irene's face. Her eyes brightened. She wandered the length of the room, approaching him.

"That's the only possible reason you'd lie to me, when the evidence is so obvious." She came to a stop before him. He sat up in his chair. No longer the languid scoundrel. Her sly smile turned spiteful. She offered out her hand, turning up the face of the letters towards his eye line.

"Things have gone on long enough. Do you recognise this writing?" His attention shifted up to her. Fury settled into his face. Irene pulled at the green ribbon that held them. She took one, unfolding it. She read the familiar words. "She has a humour about her, doesn't she? When she writes. Her hand too – it's not as elegant as others. She's always so eager to get her thoughts down, to share them with me. Elegance doesn't matter to an intelligent, passionate mind. Oh, and this summer? When she was staying with her aunt. Before she married that pathetic lawyer of hers. Before you met her."

"What of it?" Sherlock asked dully.

"I was her most—" Irene paused. Blue-tinged nights, wingless angels dancing as she explored Molly with her tongue, found her memory. "Faithful companion, to put it delicately."

The fury in his eyes flickered like a lightning storm. He leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands to his face. His hands steepled together, he pressed them to his lips, brushing over his Cupid's bow. A thoughtful, idle expression crossed his face.

"And she was mine," Irene said into the silence. "She gave herself over to me completely. She was beautiful Sherlock. Our girl. She tastes wonderful, doesn't she? Addictive."

His eyes flicked back up, finding hers in the evening light. Dampness edged the whites of his eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched.

"I knew."