It was a dangerous game they were playing.
Molly had felt Jim's eyes on her every moment since the night of the fête. Maybe it was the flush in her skin or the state of her hair, though she'd done everything she could to compose herself before walking into their van, but she was certain he knew. The way he had looked at her when she walked inside, the disappointment and the judgment…there was little chance he didn't suspect what she'd been up to. He'd not let her go anywhere alone, placing a firm hand on her back as they walked to the main tent, and again on the way back. He stayed up late and rose early, keeping tabs on her every second of the day.
"Because you don't know what you're doing," he'd said firmly when she demanded to know why he was behaving that way. He'd caressed her cheek at the sullen look on her face and suddenly he was the protector she'd grown up with. "I don't want to see you hurt, Molls…ever."
She knew that Sherlock was aware of the game Jim was playing. He hovered just on the edge of the duo, catching her eye when they passed each other backstage, watching them from across the dining car as their train rattled its way to Birmingham. He was biding his time.
And so was she. For whatever reason, Jim was more determined to control her behavior than ever before, but she'd skirted his watchful eye in the past and had no doubt she could do it again. That night in Bristol had lit a fire in her she didn't know existed and the only thing she wanted was Sherlock's touch, his lips, his mind focused solely on her. What they had started was nowhere near finished. Molly never wanted it to be finished; she wanted his arms holding her every day until she died. There was something a bit frightening in that thought; the intensity of her passion was something she'd never felt before and it left her all at sea. But overriding that feeling was the thrill of knowing that he wanted her as much as she wanted him, and trusting that he would find a way to her.
It didn't surprise her in the least to pass Irene on the way to the loo as they traveled to Birmingham and have the other woman press a slip of paper into her palm, smiling knowingly before walking on.
Once inside the privacy of the loo, Molly unfolded that paper and immediately recognized the script – it was exactly the same as the margin notes in his book.
First show. Under the left risers. After the parade.
She took extra care applying her makeup that night in the dressing area, making sure that the curl in her hair stayed put. When no one was looking, she reached into the top of her dress and gave her breasts a tug, hoping that would do the trick for a little while at least. Not that Sherlock seemed the type to care about those things, but it made her feel better and she needed something to do to distract herself from the thought of what Sherlock had planned. She was nervous. Ecstatic, but nervous. She reached for her lipstick again, spreading it over her lips carefully for the second time since sitting down at the vanity.
Mary appeared in the mirror behind her, leaning down next to Molly so that they were side by side.
"I don't know why you're bothering, that's coming off if you do things right," she said.
"Mary!" Molly said, seeing her own face flush in the mirror.
"She's right," Irene chimed in from her spot in the corner.
Molly smiled, shaking her head in disbelief as she put her makeup back in its box. She and all the others froze in place when the curtain to the dressing area was pulled open and Jim stepped inside, dropping his things on a chair next to the entrance. Molly's head snapped forward, her hands scrambling for anything on the table to keep them occupied.
"Oi," Sally said, standing to her full height and staring him down. "What do you think you're doing?"
Jim glanced at her.
"Waiting for the show to begin," he said with a false smile, spreading his hands wide.
"I think what she means is, what are you doing in here?" Mary said, her voice unfriendly.
"My dear ladies, I come in here every show," Jim told them, looking amused. "Don't tell me you are all suddenly shy."
"Yeah, you can come in here when you're act is over, like is usual," Sally said crossly.
"But it's not after your act at the moment and we want our dressing room. So get out," Irene added.
Jim looked between the women, his mouth set in irritation, but he relented, roughly pushing the curtain aside and leaving it open as he stormed off. Janine reached out and yanked it shut again, then looked at Molly and winked. At the other end of the row of tables, Mary held open the curtained wall and smiled delightedly, nodding towards the outside of the dressing area. Molly didn't wait for a second invitation.
She slipped out, keeping to the darkened walls of the tent as she hurried towards the big top. She was well hidden in the corner and in the blink of an eye she was through to the other side, finding herself immediately in the shadows behind the raised rows of patrons, who were too busy watching the show to look back and notice her.
Clearly she wasn't the only one they had missed.
Waiting for her in the darkness under the rows of seats was Sherlock, sitting on the straw-covered ground with a smug smile on his face and his hands clasped over his raised knees. Molly walked over to him, pretending not to be terribly impressed with his plan as she knelt down.
"Romantic spot," she said.
"It was the only place I could think of where we wouldn't be stumbled upon," he replied, dropping a hand to the ground behind her and leaning closer.
"A likely story," she murmured teasingly. "I bet you bring all the girls here."
"Just one," he assured her, his lips meeting hers as the crowd cheered and laughed at the antics of the clowns in the ring.
Molly's body fairly sang as Sherlock pressed into her, slipping an arm across her stomach to pull her closer. If only his mouth touched hers she would have been reduced to a puddle, but his hand on her waist and his torso flush with hers made her desperate from the pleasure. It had been years since anyone had made her feel so overwhelmingly consumed with want. Molly slid a hand over his shoulder, along the muscular curve of his beautiful neck, and anchored herself as she rose up on her knees.
Sherlock groaned an almost incomprehensible 'yes' when she straddled his lap, watching the lights from the ring hit his face in random patterns, lifting him out of shadow one moment and leaving him in darkness the next. The crowd above them clapped enthusiastically, sending a jolt of reverberation through the seats just feet above their heads.
"Gorgeous," he whispered, taking her face in both hands and pulling her mouth back to his.
Her breathing turned ragged as he deepened the kiss, his lips crushing hers in the most delicious way, his hot tongue dipping into her mouth to taste her briefly. She squirmed in his lap and was rewarded by a deep growl from his throat, one hand dropping to her arse to grip her while the other fell to one breast, massaging her flesh firmly. Molly's blood coursed through her body, her center absolutely thrumming with anticipation, feeling Sherlock's own hot arousal through her knickers.
The band began playing a new tune, setting the pace for a new act, which was met with cheers.
His fingers began to play at the fabric over her hipbone, ever so slowly collecting the satin as it rose on her thigh. She moaned quietly and arched into him, her head dropping back as he dragged his lips across her neck, leaving her shivering from the sensations. Oh, she'd spent hours remembering the way he touched her, and even more imagining what it would feel like to have his hands in other places…
"Please," she whispered desperately. Oh God, please, Sherlock…just a little more…
Reading her thoughts, he ran his hand over the top of her thigh, and his thumb disappeared under the hem of her dress. Molly bit her lip to hold back a shout, her head dropping to his shoulder and her whole body tensing when his thumb pressed against the bud between her legs.
She whimpered as he continued to rub his thumb in small circles over her, feeling her muscles flutter in response. Although her last few encounters with men hadn't been lacking, few of them knew to bother with touching her in that way. It wasn't at all a surprise that a man like Sherlock would not only know, but would so it so well. Her hips rocked slowly against him, her body tightening as he brought her closer to her release…
Shocked gasps and cries from the crowd caused them both to stop, freezing in fear for a moment, breathing hard. It only took Molly a second to realize that the reaction was not to them, but to something happening in the ring. Someone shouted and she heard a loud snap. Her eyes met Sherlock's and she saw her alarm reflected back at her. In the next moment, frightened cries arose as something hit the ground with a sickening crunch.
She was on her feet in an instant, pulling Sherlock along with her, and they ran towards the edge of the seating platform, slipping between the wood and the tent wall. They strained to see what had happened over the patrons standing and moving around. Being taller, Sherlock realized what had happened first.
"No. No, move!" he yelled, dropping Molly's hand and pushing at flatties in order to get into the ring.
Molly followed as best as she could, clearing through the crowd just at the edge of the ring. Workmen were rushing forward, stretching a blanket between them and looking up to center themselves under Mary, who was still clinging to the rope suspended from the rigging. The second the blanket was in place, Mary dropped down from what remained of the trapeze, landing in a heap before scrambling off the blanket. One rope of the trapeze was broken in two, the cutaway bar dangling from only one side.
Swallowing the sick feeling rising in her stomach, she steeled herself and looked down. Sherlock and Mary were hovering over John. He wasn't moving and his arm was bent at an unnatural angle.
Many of the members of the company had emerged from the staging area to find out what had happened and she vaguely heard their voices behind her, most asking if anyone had seen what caused the accident.
"Looks as though the rope snapped."
She heard Jim's voice off to her right and she turned to look at him, her stomach twisting as she realized she might as well have been caught red handed with Sherlock as far as Jim was concerned. It was obvious enough that she hadn't emerged from backstage with the rest.
"Pity when an act can't keep their equipment up to standard," he added, earning a hesitant nod from one of the contortionists.
Jim's eyes flicked over and locked with Molly's. He stared her down for a moment, and then he smiled – a casual, light smile that was wholly out of place considering what was happening. He looked her up and down once before turning and disappearing behind the group of troupers. Molly felt an odd shiver creep under her skin.
In the three seconds it took Sherlock to run to John, dozens of thoughts shot through his head. The distance from the trapeze to the ground was approximately twenty feet, survivable in almost every scenario but severe injury was a certainty. No blood. Possibly unconscious due to lack of movement. If the wind was knocked out of him, he could be struggling to breathe.
When he reached John, he quickly realized that the man's arm was broken, possibly dislocated. He was definitely unconscious.
"John!" Mary cried, falling to her knees and leaning over her husband, taking his face in her hands. "John, can you hear me?"
"Go and fetch a doctor," Sherlock ordered one of the workmen.
"I'll go."
Sherlock looked up when he heard Anderson volunteer and noticed the bookkeeper and his brother standing nearby. Anderson turned away and rushed out of the tent. In the next moment, John groaned, stirring a little before Mary placed a hand on his chest, the other stroking his face.
"Lie still, love," she said, her voice shaking.
"Don't let him move that arm," Sherlock told her, eying the injury with trepidation. Thinking quickly, he pulled his shirt off, leaving him in his vest as he fashioned his shirt into a sling. Mary caught on to what he was doing, gently slipping an arm under John's shoulders and coaxing him to sit up.
It was then that Sherlock became acutely aware of how very quiet the tent was. Close to two hundred people were nearly silent, watching with a combination of fear and rapt curiosity. He looked up at Mycroft and was taken aback to see the frozen look of distress on his brother's face.
Gingerly as he could, he looped the shirt under John's arm and tied the sleeves behind his neck, forcing himself to ignore the grunts of pain from his friend.
"Can you help him stand?" he muttered to Mary.
"I think so," she said, looking to a nearby workman for help.
As they carefully lifted John to his feet, mindful of his arm, a few dozen people in the audience began to clap, shouting words of encouragement for them. 'Good lad!' and 'Steady on, then!' came from the mouths of those surrounding the ring. Sherlock watched John limp out of the tent, Mary's arm firmly around his waist, and then turned to look at Mycroft. The show was stopped, the crowd was standing stagnant, the company was waiting at the edge of the ring, and his brother was locked up.
Sherlock stepped into the center of the ring.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we do apologize," he boomed, smiling his most endearing smile and turning to all sides of the gallery. "It is not always champagne and roses under the tent, but rest assured, he will be well looked after. Just as we wish to look after you fine lot, with the best show the world has to offer! Please, take your seats as Sally the Spectacular thrills you with her command of fire!"
He looked over to see Sally staring at him in disbelief, but she walked forward out of the crowd of troupers. The rest of them began to applaud, stirring the audience and lightening the mood.
"Sally the Spectacular?" she muttered at him as she passed him on her way to the center of the ring.
"I was winging it," he ground out, motioning for the trouper working the rigging to lift the trapeze out of the ring.
"Clearly," she said, plastering on a fake smile and waving at the crowd as she waited for a workman to run towards them with her things. Her tone turned concerned as she went on. "Is he okay?"
"No," Sherlock said seriously, relieved when the workman reached them and he could escape the ring.
He ignored the hounding questions from those waiting backstage, barking a quick order at someone to save the trapeze ropes for him. In the silence of the yard as he walked towards the Watsons' van, he allowed a momentary rush of dread to take over his body. For one horrifying moment, he'd looked at John lying on the ground and hadn't known if he was dead or alive. He never thought he'd face a moment like that. John was supposed to be there with him. Always.
Mary was helping John to settle into the little bed at the back of their van when he walked in. She had steady hands and a soothing voice as she arranged the pillows to keep him as comfortable as possible, but Sherlock could see that her face had been nearly drained of color, her brow taut with worry. His own breathing increased as he watched John struggle to bite back the curses that he wished to unleash, his eyes tightly shut and watering at the corners.
The uselessness that Sherlock felt was agonizing.
A few minutes later, the van door opened and Anderson led in a tall, bespectacled doctor. The man rushed to the bedside, unfastening his black bag and extracting a bottle and a needle. After administering the dose of morphine to help with John's pain, he untied the sleeves of Sherlock's shirt and let it drop away, gently inspecting the break in John's arm.
Mary watched, her thumb nail in her teeth and her body rocking side to side slightly with anxiety.
"It's not good," the doctor said. "But it can be set. It should heal all right, with proper care."
Mary smiled weakly, looking down at her husband as the doctor rummaged for the things he needed.
"I knew we should have bought new rope in London," Mary lamented, gently carding her fingers through John's hair.
"'S freak accident, Mary," her husband said, reaching up with his good hand and gently placing his palm against her cheek. "Could happen with new rope…old rope…jus' an accident…"
He drifted off as he closed his eyes, the effects of the morphine taking a stronger hold.
Sherlock couldn't watch or listen to any more of it, turning and brushing past Anderson and out into the night. He walked beyond the lights of the caravan, seeking solitude in the field beyond the camp. Collapsing at the base of a tall oak tree, he raised clenched hands against his forehead and pressed down, trying desperately to relieve the pounding that was starting below his skull.
The sound of the grass rusting forced him to look up. Molly was standing before him, her concerned eyes flicking over him.
Oh Christ, he'd just abandoned her. Left her to the proverbial wolf in the middle of the chaos.
He raised himself up, his back scraping against the bark of the tree as he leaned on it, his legs not fully supportive of his body at that moment.
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.
"For what?"
"I didn't mean to leave you like that…did he…the show, did it - "
"Sherlock, oh, stop," she told him softly, stepping forward and smoothing her hands up his chest, resting her hands alongside his face. "No one cares about the show. Is John going to be okay?"
"Likely," he replied, unable to bring himself to elaborate.
Sensing his hesitation to keep talking, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, simply holding him in a way he hadn't experienced for a long time. It soothed him, slowed his breath and his heart until he no longer felt as though he would combust. Sherlock closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the top of her head.
"I saw the rope," Molly whispered cautiously.
He didn't say anything, worried that if he did, the stream of accusations against Jim that ran through his head would come pouring out, and not kindly.
"What do you need me to do?" she asked him quietly after a moment's silence.
The question stopped the barrage of thoughts in his mind. What did he need her to do? Was she offering what it sounded like she was offering? Jim had been the only person she could call family for nearly fifteen years; she'd made it very clear that he was the reason for her survival in the aftermath of her parents' death. She was loyal to a fault. So then what was it that had her suddenly placing her loyalty in his hands?
"Sherlock?" she said hesitantly. "I know things aren't right. Tell me what you need."
He blinked, running a hand over her back.
"Watch him. Watch his every move."