The sun was barely creeping over the horizon when Anderson opened the kitchen door of his inn and let Sherlock, Molly, and Bill inside. The room was filled with the smells of baking bread and wood smoke, hardly any different from the air outside. Half the town had suffered from Moriarty's forces and buildings still smoldered. Unlike the first time the town had been terrorized in that way, there were now rumblings of revolution, or so Bill told them.
Molly could hardly think about the war that was about to begin in Huntingdon, not when she was being ushered towards the wall where she kept a vial of liquid that could very well kill the man she loved. It was a task that she would have tried to run from no matter what the circumstances, but on that morning it seemed that it would be easier to fly to the sun than to hand him that vial. The night before had opened her heart in ways she never thought possible, unfolded like a rose, and just like those blooms that had appeared every spring in her garden, there was no closing back up. She was done for with Sherlock Holmes.
But he needed her. He needed her skill and support, putting all his trust in her capabilities.
She'd doled out the honey of the rhododendron before, but never for what Sherlock was planning. It had been reserved in the past for bad cases of fever, illness, often for when her father needed to perform surgery and it was kinder to nearly kill the patient than make them suffer through it awake. And of course, when she knew that someone was dying, horribly, and their last hours could be soothed by it, she spooned it into their mouth and held their hand and talked to them comfortingly until the last breath was released.
She blinked back tears at those memories, forcing them far from her mind and refusing to allow them to penetrate that moment. Thinking of the dying was the last thing she needed distracting her. Her fingers slid along the wooden board and once she had found the small holds in the grain, she tugged and it came loose. With a shaking hand, she reached up to the top shelf and pulled down the dark glass vial. When she turned around, Anderson was standing with a wooden spoon in his hand, holding it out reluctantly.
Sherlock had been quick in his explanation of their plan, making sure Anderson understood his part in all of it. Turning over a spoon was the man's silent agreement, though he looked rather unhappy about doing so.
The cork made a small pop as Molly pulled it from the vial and she placed it on the table, holding her hand out for the spoon. The dark golden liquid dripped from the vial and she counted each drop carefully. When the right amount had been poured, she set the vial next to the cork and stepped up to Sherlock. He was looking down at her expectantly, waiting for her to hand it over.
Not caring that they had an audience, Molly lifted herself on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, her free hand clinging to the front of his tunic.
"Don't you dare leave me," she whispered.
To his credit, he gave her no poetic promises or final declarations. He simply stroked her hair and dropped a lingering kiss on her forehead before reaching for the spoon and prying it from her hand.
"You understand what you need to do?" he asked Anderson, his expression suddenly dark. The innkeeper nodded. "Then follow me."
Sherlock led them outside and into the woods from which they had come. The mare was tied to a tree trunk, a makeshift litter attached to its body and dragging on the ground behind it.
Bill walked up to the mare and opened his palm, offering her half an apple to soothe the animal as Sherlock moved towards the litter. He rested on the edge, his eyes focused on the liquid he held in his hand. The rising run slanted through the trees in strange, shifting patterns, casting his face in odd shadows. Molly watched his lips part as he raised the spoon to his mouth, swallowing the honey. Her eyes closed and she held back a sob.
"How long before it takes effect?"
Licking her lips, she forced her eyes to open again and looked at him.
"A few minutes. An hour," she said, her voice unsteady. "It depends."
Sherlock nodded, tossing the spoon to the ground. He held his hand out to Molly and she was at his side in an instant, pressing her fingers to the inside of his wrist to feel the changes in his pulse. For several long, terribly silent minutes, nothing appeared to be different. But then all of a sudden, she saw his body sway and she reached out to steady him, feeling his heartbeat jump beneath her fingers before gradually slowing. His eyes went wide and he opened his mouth as though to gasp for breath, managing a few deep pulls before his eyes slid over to hers, quickly drooping closed. He became dead weight in her arms and she was forced to lower him to the canvas, completely shocked by the sight of him.
"Sherlock…"
He didn't respond and Molly lurched forward, pressing her ear to his chest and holding her hand out to hover over his mouth and nose.
"Is he - "
"Shh!" she hissed at Anderson, not caring at all if she wounded his feelings.
The stillness of the forest afforded her the silence she needed, but even with the quiet she strained to hear the very faint, dull beat of his heart. She couldn't feel his breath at all. Whirling around, she looked at Anderson.
"Do you have a glass?" she demanded.
"What?"
"A chalice, a looking glass, anything!" she practically shouted.
"Yes, yes," he answered hurriedly, not needing any prompting from her to rush back to the inn, returning shortly with a small looking glass.
Molly grabbed it from him and leaned down, holding the glass over Sherlock's mouth and lowering her head to look up into the glass. It was the smallest change, but she could see the tiny patch of fog forming.
She let out a relieved breath and turned her head into Sherlock's shoulder, her arm encircling his chest.
"Will they notice?" Anderson asked her. "Will they check him like that?"
"I doubt it," she told him, her voice muffled as she spoke into the velvet of Sherlock's cape. "Moriarty's physicians are too stupid and lazy…"
"And Moriarty?"
Molly lifted her head and stared down at the man she loved, barely alive.
"We'll pray he doesn't," she said seriously.
Bill stood bravely next to her as they watched Anderson lead the mare away. Molly knew the path they would take: through the center of the town for all to see, up the main road to the castle where he would turn Sherlock's body over to Moriarty. If all went correctly, they were to gather their forces at the castle after sundown. The rhododendron should have worn off by then.
She tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong between now and sundown, not the least of which was the dosage still being too strong even if he had been breathing when he was carried away.
"It'll be alright, my Lady," Bill said comfortingly. "He'll make it."
"I'm not a Lady," Molly told him sadly. She looked down at the lad and managed a small smile. "But thank you. You're a very noble boy."
Bill beamed at her.
"We'll be needing to join Lestrade and the others," he told her, nodding off towards the woods. "Lord Sherlock would be after me if I didn't deliver you safely."
Molly nodded, sniffing a bit as she followed him to the camp where the others had hidden. He was good company and a helpful distraction as they walked along, happy to tell her about his life. She asked how he'd come to find himself in the company of Sherlock Holmes, her heart aching for him when he told her that his mother had died when he was a baby and his father had abandoned him when he could no longer care for him. Bill had made his way, begging or working for food, finally finding camaraderie with the outcasts in the forest. Sherlock had taken to him immediately, enlisting him as a sort of squire, or so Bill told it. For a boy who had been through so much, he had high spirits. She clung to his optimism, needing the encouragement.
When they reached the small encampment, they were surrounded and hounded with questions. Molly explained what she could to John, Lestrade, and Mary, unable to tell them what Sherlock planned to do once he was inside the castle – he hadn't told her.
"Did he say how many he needed gathered?" Lestrade asked. He had shed his brown robes, giving up the pretense of the disguise and donning trousers and a tunic like all the other men.
"No," Molly shook her head. "Just to gather as many as could be found."
"Well what are we supposed to do?" John demanded, shifting his weight in agitation. "How could he do something like this?"
"I don't know," Molly replied, feeling her eyes fill with tears. She caught Mary's gaze and looked away quickly.
"How does he plan to get out of there, did he say anything about that?" Lestrade pressed. Molly simply shook her head again.
"How in God's name…how does he think he's going to fight Moriarty on his own?" John asked, looking angrier by the moment at what Sherlock had done.
"I don't know," she said again, her vision blurring as her tears finally spilled over.
"Stop it, both of you," Mary said sharply, putting an arm around Molly and guiding her away as she lectured the men over her shoulder. "Don't fuss about it, just do what Sherlock wanted! Spread word and find all the weapons we can."
"Thank you," Molly said quietly when they were a good distance away. She wiped at her eyes as Mary sat her down next to the fire.
"No need for thanks," Mary stated firmly, searching her bags for a wine bladder and handing it to Molly. "I'll find you some food in a moment. But for now, drink that. I know the look of a woman mourning for her lover when I see it."
Buzzing. Buzzing and a loud whooshing invaded his brain. His head ached and swam simultaneously and he had the strong sensation that he was falling without ever finding the ground. He had to wake up, he knew that much. Wake UP, his brain commanded.
His eyes snapped open and he gasped, sitting up and nearly toppling off of the stone slab he was lying on.
"Molly," he breathed heavily, reaching out and grasping nothing but air.
It had felt like waking up from a lifetime of sleep and at the same time he felt as though only moments before he had been holding her hand, waiting for the honey to take effect. Running a hand through his hair, he quickly assessed his condition. His hearing was slow in returning, but he realized that the whooshing had been the flicker of torch fire nearby. His eyesight wasn't awful, but something was still making him feel like he was constantly tilting over. Looking around, he realized that he was in the grand passage, a place where his brother had always kept the family treasures to show off at feasts. The passage led straight between the grand hall and the great tower. Exactly where Moriarty's quarters were. Not only had his body been placed with all of the other prizes of the castle, but he couldn't leave the spot without being noticed at some point by anyone passing into the tower.
There was no point in his plan if he stayed put. Pushing up from the stone slab, he tested his legs and found that the swaying was not as bad anymore. He scanned the ends of the passage to insure he wasn't running headlong into a confrontation before moving quickly towards the hall, sliding along the wall in the shadows. The castle was strangely quiet and he made it to the kitchen without encountering a soul. The same older cook whom he'd met at the kitchen door not so long ago was standing at the table, putting the finishing touches on a meat pie. Sally stood at her side, slicing up potatoes. Both women started when he burst through the door, but the cook screamed when she caught a good look at him. Sally quickly clamped a hand over the woman's mouth.
"Both of you need to get out of this place if you value your lives," he told them, looking Sally in the eyes and making sure she understood that he was serious. He could see her shaking, but, although it was clear she was just as shocked as the cook to see him alive and standing in front of them, she was instantly resolute in her composure. "Find Martha and get her out, get as far as you can."
The cook nodded, her eyes impossibly wide, and she slipped from Sally's grasp to hurry from the room. He watched her go before turning back to Sally. The young woman was looking at him in disbelief.
"We all thought you were…you looked…"
"I know," Sherlock said, losing his patience a bit. He gestured towards the door. "Now listen, when you've got out, go to town. Find Lestrade and the others. They'll be at Anderson's inn. Tell them it's time."
Sally nodded solemnly, grabbing her cloak from a peg on the wall and rushing after the cook.
There was little time to spare and Sherlock hurried back in the direction he had come from, easing his way through the passage to the tower. Sporadic torchlight lit the otherwise dark, winding staircase. The door to the tower chambers was cracked open and Sherlock stopped, a wave of suspicion suddenly rolling over him. There had always been the possibility that his ruse wouldn't work, that something would falter in the execution. To a point, he had succeeded, brought into the castle and left to rot in full view of everyone as he had intended.
When had Moriarty started to suspect him? Had they already been found out, halted in their efforts before they could even strike? No, Sally would have known…
Unable to stand the questions in his mind any longer, he stepped forward, placing a hand on the heavy wooden door and pushing it open. Inside of the lush chamber, warm from a roaring fire, he saw Moriarty standing at the open balcony, looking out into the clear night.
"I was wondering how long it would take you," Moriarty drawled, not bothering to turn around. "I've always been curious to see how long someone would sleep under the effects of the rhododendron. Thank you for answering that little puzzle. Was it Margaretta who gave it to you? I bet it was. She's a clever girl."
A flash of heat and irritation swelled up inside of Sherlock. He walked further into the room, keeping his eyes firmly on Moriarty.
"Why not just kill me then?" he ground out. "Why let me lie there until I woke up?"
"I wasn't entirely sure," Moriarty told him, finally turning and giving him a smile. "And how would that look? Me, hacking into a corpse like a madman? The key to ruling people. Sherlock, is that you want them to fear you…but you must never let them think you're mad."
"It might be a little late for that."
Moriarty let out an amused laugh and ambled towards him, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Oh Sherlock, you do entertain me," he said. "It's been enjoyable, but you won't be leaving alive this time. It will be a shame when you're no longer around. How devastated your followers will be. And poor Margaretta. Let me guess…you've ruined her for me."
In an instant, Sherlock had Moriarty by the neck and shoved against the stone wall, his fury barely contained and his breathing ragged. The smaller man gripped at Sherlock's arm, but his mouth was spread in a wide grin.
"Can I take this display of valor as a confirmation, then? Was she as fiery as I imagined she would be? I never did believe that innocent act she played - "
"Not another word about her," Sherlock growled, pressing his arm into Moriarty's throat.
"So terribly noble, you and your brother," he gasped out, not seeming to care that he was being threatened. "He always would take in any stray that looked pathetic enough. D'you know that's how I came to be in his company? 'Poor James, orphaned and alone, but so very clever and quick to learn'…"
He trailed off when the sound of shouting and metal being hurled against metal came up through the window. Both of them glanced over. The fighting had started, though it was far from the tower.
"You can kill me now, Sherlock," Moriarty said calmly. "I won't fight you. But what if they lose? How will they be punished for your treachery to the throne?"
Sherlock's gaze slid over to him, taking in the dark beads that composed the center of his eyes. There was something inhuman in those eyes, something merciless.
"You are not the throne," Sherlock reminded him.
Moriarty's humor dropped from his face.
"Not yet."
Sherlock dropped his arm and backed away, his entire body burning with the desire to kill the man and only refraining out of fear…fear for his friends, fear for the people he loved if he made a mistake, if he didn't win.
Moriarty straightened out his tunic and cloak, eyeing Sherlock as he moved back towards the balcony.
"Shall we watch to see how it all unfolds?" he asked, gesturing to the archway.
Hesitating, assessing every move he made, Sherlock tried to work out the game he was playing. There were no weapons in the room, nothing he could use to protect himself if it came to a fight. But he suspected Moriarty was not looking for fair physical combat; it wasn't his way. Carefully, Sherlock stepped up to the balcony platform, one eye on Moriarty as he moved level with him.
Complete chaos had erupted between the town and the castle. Moriarty had been expecting the attack, sending forces out to stand in the way of the rebellion. Molly felt helpless as she watched the masses of townspeople take up arms against the soldiers. Mary had shoved a short sword into her hands, but she'd never been trained to fight, only to heal the wounded. She kept to the shadows as she had been advised as she followed Lestrade, Mary, and John towards the castle, fearing every time they crossed swords with a royal guard. Flames shot from buildings in the town and she expected that it wouldn't be long before the castle saw the same fate as torches were carried closer and closer.
The group moved quickly during a pause in their fighting, advancing up the hill and avoiding the larger battle taking place directly in front of the castle gates. Their path was quickly blocked by a figure appearing out of the shadows, his blade glinting in the torchlight as it swung through the air. Lestrade reacted first, heaving his sword up and intercepting the blow, throwing his attacker off balance. When he straightened, Molly could see the face of Sebastian Moran.
"You bastard!" Lestrade shouted, striking at Moran who parried and backed up for better footing.
"Still alive, Lestrade?" Moran bellowed. "We all thought you were done for!"
"Not with you in charge, you useless lummox!" Lestrade said with a grin. Moran cursed and brought his swung his sword high, bringing it down with a crash against Lestrade's. Lestrade held him at bay, looking over his shoulder at his companions when he saw John rushing to help. "Don't! Go, get to the castle!"
Molly had no choice but to follow when John and Mary took off, however hesitant they looked to be leaving Lestrade to fight alone. They hadn't made it far when she looked up, her eyes drawn to the window of the great tower, golden against the dark sky. She felt as though her eyes were playing tricks on her and she slowed to look more carefully.
"Stop," she called out, realizing what she was seeing. "Stop!"
John and Mary halted, turning to see what was wrong. Molly lifted her hand, pointing towards the tower, her heart beating in her chest and unable to tear her eyes away. They looked where she pointed.
"Oh God," John breathed.
Though they were still far away, she could still make out the figures of Sherlock and Moriarty standing on the tower balcony, watching the scene below.
"What is he doing?" Mary asked, shocked.
Molly shook her head, unable to comprehend what was happening. Whatever thoughts, whatever doubts she had as to why Sherlock would be standing so calmly alongside Moriarty vanished when she saw Moriarty pull something from beneath his cloak. He turned on Sherlock, who lifted his arms to defend himself, wrestling with him for what seemed like an eternity. Molly's breath stuck in her throat when she saw them backing towards the stone bannister.
"No," she pleaded, trying to will it from happening. "No, no!"
Time slowed down as she watched Sherlock grab Moriarty's arms just as he pitched over the ledge, holding tight as he took them both down. The two forms were a whirl of fabric and limbs as they fell from the tower, disappearing out of sight behind the mass of fighting.
"Sherlock!" John yelled, starting forward. Mary reached out and held him, looking to Molly as she did so.
Molly felt that her heart had stopped.