"How is she?"
"Your wife is fine, Mr. Holmes."
"You've known me long enough to use my given name, I'd think."
The woman rolled her eyes. "Sherlock," her tone warning, he gave a smile, despite the weariness in his eyes, a sign that the old Sherlock was still there, somewhere beneath the gloom and exhausted façade he wore. "More to the point, how are you?"
"Fine, I'd be better if I could finish…" he drifted off, staring up at the wall of the dingy little flat he was hiding out in. Papers spread from one end to the other, a dented kettle sat on the woodstove long gone cold.
"Finish what?"
"Anything," he sighed heavily.
"You could come home,"
"Mary," Sherlock's tone was warning.
"Hush!" she ordered, remaining in the shadows, out of the sight of the windows.
"I can't come home, not until all this is over and done with, there are still-"
"There are always bad people," Mary cut him off. "There always will be, Sherlock, you and I both know that. But Molly needs you, right now."
He looked at her, alarmed. "You said-"
"I said she was fine, she's safe, no harm will come to her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't need you, Sherlock." Mary knelt down, still in shadow, reaching across the space between them, grasping his arm. "You've done a tremendous service, you've dismantled Moriarty's web to almost completion, what is holding you back?"
"Moran," Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He was Moriarty's last contact, sharpshooter, Watson would know of him, they were once stationed together."
"A marksman?" she asked, curious.
Sherlock nodded, grim. "The best. Now that Moriarty is dead, he's a gun for hire, there have been several assassination plots uncovered, foreign Royals, mostly-"
"But in this charged political climate, an assassination could mean the start of a war," Mary realized. The Royal houses of Europe were joined, an assassination, by a shooter from England, could mean the disruption of that peaceful treaty, and there had been enough bad words and bad feelings amongst the royals for some time, a murdered royal could very well be the tipping point to send everything into chaos. "Who do you think is his target?"
Sherlock got to his feet, turning to the near wall covered in newspaper clippings. "Who in Europe is the most vulnerable? Not England, the shock would be dreadful, but not detrimental to moral, but there are more than enough heirs to sit on the throne, and we also have Mycroft to happily guide whichever monarch takes that position. Russia is its own enemy, it's only a matter of time before they ruin themselves,"
"A smaller country then, someone who would have the most to lose, the hardest time finding allies,"
"Austria, or Germany," Sherlock answered. "Empress Elisabeth is preoccupied with everything but ruling, and His Royal Highness is a political reactionary who allows his mother to guide his hand in nearly every matter,"
"Well they've got a son, the Crown Prince, quite popular amongst the people," Mary said, thoughtful. "And Austria has an ally, you can't be so dense as to forget."
"Yes of course I know, but the point is who is Hungary's ally? It's a powder-keg waiting to erupt, her countrymen's rights have been stifled in a regime none of them wanted for over two decades. Besides, the Crown Prince is too busy with his affair with Mary Vetsera to be bothered with taking the throne,"
"Vetsera!" Mary was surprised to say the least. "She's barely seventeen! I thought he'd taken up with that actress, oh what is her name, Kaspar!"
"Oh that's his first mistress, can't the son of a king have two?" Sherlock waved his hand.
"I imagine his Royal Highness is less than pleased," Mary pondered. "Nor what the people want to hear. Just the sort of thing an assassin might look for, dissent amongst the people, anger at the royal family,"
"Especially when it is rumored that the Crown Prince has written to His Holiness to request an annulment of his marriage, several times," Sherlock agreed. "Naturally, that is just a rumor, but my source is almost never wrong. It's causing problems in the Royal family, not simply for the Hapsburg, but those related by marriage. How does it look for one rebellious royal to demand illegal separations? I am sure theirs is not the only unhappy marriage spurned by affairs."
"It would severe any alliances, necessary ones."
"Hmm. It isn't as if Belgium has any prospects to boost the alliance with Austria either. Rudolf is the only male heir, his sisters are married off to foreign princes, and the only daughter Hungary has is madly in love with a Baron."
"She's still not yet of age, they could always force the marriage."
"Rudolf wouldn't have her anyway," Sherlock shook his head.
"So?"
"So, a man, restricted on all sides, without support of family, no political power aside from the radical newspaper he anonymously writes articles for, and has divided his affections between an actress and a silly-hearted seventeen-year-old who doesn't care a wit if people know she's a mistress, what do you think he would do?"
Mary was silent for a moment, disliking where his line of thought was leading, but Sherlock continued: "What do you think would happen to a dual-monarchy under one bombastic emperor, who is assassinated, and the only heir is a reckless youth who has been ignored most of his life, writing for a newspaper that is considered to incite dissent among the already stifled people?"
"War!" Mary gasped. She shut her eyes, horrified at the thought. There would be no corner of the world untouched by so many far-reaching countries. "A war across the world…" she murmured, shocked. Gathering herself, she took a step closer. "So the emperor is the next target?"
"Possibly, probably," Sherlock answered. "So you see why I cannot come home, not yet,"
"Let me stay and help," Mary insisted. "I can write to John, I'll tell him I'm caring for a sick relative,"
"No, Mary, it's far too dangerous-"
"Dangerous!" Mary shook her head. "I work for you brother, this certainly isn't the first assassination plot I've heard of,"
"It is the first that could trigger a global war," Sherlock replied glibly. "Are you prepared for those consequences if we fail?"
"We?"
He sighed heavily, shrugging. "I need help," he admitted quietly. "I dislike taking anyone along, but I do know I cannot be everywhere, nor can I trust anyone. Frankly, I prefer to ask you over Irene Adler, if it came to that I expect I'd have to."
"You can't trust her anyway," Mary replied, putting on her gloves and scarf. "Let me write to John through Mycroft, we have a channel that is secure."
"Good. Send a note to Molly as well, if you can,"
"What's the message?"
"Just tell them it's my usual message," Sherlock answered, turning back to face the wall. "'Alive and well, all my love'."
Mary studied him a moment longer, some sorrow behind her eyes that remained hidden from Sherlock. He turned only when he realized she had not yet left. "Mary?"
"Sorry, going now, I'll see the message is sent."
"If…if she sends a reply…"
"I'll make sure you get it directly," Mary promised. "I'll go now, watch from the window for me," and she hurried out, down the stairs and into the darkness.
Hart Castle, England
Time passed, Molly reached her confinement, much to her chagrin. She hated being cooped up, despite the staff fully prepared and more than happy to see to her every need (it was not every day there was a baby born at Hart Castle). Wiggins spent his days in the kitchen, waiting for Molly to send for him if she needed something. Rosie was at her side constantly. She disliked being sent from the room if private things were to be discussed, and left only if Molly asked her to. Anthea, ever the dear, happily bustled to and from London, fetching whatever she thought Molly might need for the nursery. Mycroft, ever the worrier, never stayed away from Hart Castle more than two days, and sent frequent telegrams.
"I'm not an invalid," Molly insisted, then winced, feeling the pain in her lower back. Rosie scurried to fetch a pillow for the chair.
"What is it?" Mycroft was halfway to the pull on the wall.
"Don't you dare," Molly held out her hand to stop him. "I just need to sit, thank you, Rosie. I think my brother in-law wishes to speak to me in private, why don't you go and see if cook needs help?"
"Yes Mrs. Holmes," the little girl glanced over to Mycroft, then left the room.
"She does not trust me," Mycroft remarked as soon as the child was out of earshot.
"She's protective of me," Molly corrected.
"You're fond of her."
"I am," Molly nodded. "I might have her sent to school, when the term begins next year, she's awfully clever…seems a waste for her not to." Molly winced again, feeling the baby kick.
Mycroft looked on with concern. "Doctor Watson will examine you when he comes," he declared at last.
Surprised to hear the doctor's name, Molly looked up. "John? He's not visiting is he?"
"Certainly, I invited him. With his fiancée off tending to an ill relative, unlikely to be home until the end of January, he's alone in London. I imagine even with his practice he is extremely bored."
"That's rather insightful of you."
"Hmm."
Molly frowned at her brother in-law scrutinizing him. "Mycroft, if you wanted a live-in doctor, I am sure we could have found one in the village."
"That hack?"
"Mycroft!" Molly scolded.
"He is hardly a specialist from London."
"Neither is John Watson," Molly added with a wry grin.
"Be that as it may," Mycroft acknowledged with a roll of his eyes. "You are comfortable with him."
"Yes," Molly agreed. "But why is he staying? Not that I mind, but the only reason you'd have him stay is if you were planning on going somewhere-"
"It is business," Mycroft answered, clipped.
"Indeed, business that would involve a 'dead' man –"
"Hush!" Mycroft commanded. He crossed the room, shutting the doors to the parlor before turning back to face her. "Yes," he confirmed, once certain the room was secure. "I am going away. I have been informed of a possible assassination, it is a matter of duty that I be there."
"Where is he?!" Molly asked, nearly pouncing on him when he at last came to stand beside her.
"You know very well I cannot say," Mycroft seated himself, guiding her back down to her own chair as well. "I will see to it that he writes you a letter, a proper one, and I myself shall bring it to you, it needn't go through the usual channels. I think some privacy ought to be allowed in this case," he decided. "But until then, not a word should be said. I am going away on business, and I shall return within a few weeks."
"A few weeks!" Molly worried her hands. She was due by the end of the month! "Something is the matter, Mycroft, and I won't pretend that I'm not worried, I've been worried ever since Sherlock left. You said you would remain here, through my confinement, you'd stay for Sherlock's sake-"
"And it is for that reason I am leaving now," Mycroft interrupted. "For his safety. Things are happening that I cannot speak of, suffice to say, the way we live, the way of the world, it is hanging precariously at the moment."
Molly sat, resigned and clearly disliking it. "I'm sorry," she finally sniffled, heels of her palms pressed against her eyes. "I don't mean to pout; I feel as if nothing is certain anymore…I feel alone and..."
"You aren't alone, sister-mine," Mycroft took her hands, thumbing circles over them. "You shall have Doctor Watson, and Anthea here with you, and even that little Irregular of Sherlock's has been a help to you, and will continue to do so."
"She has a name," Molly said, glum and stubborn.
"So she does," Mycroft gave her hands a quick squeeze, then stood, pausing only to press a kiss to her forehead. "I must go and pack. If all goes well, you'll see me shortly. It won't be more than two weeks, three at the very most if we are delayed."
He turned to go when Molly suddenly grasped his hand. "Please," she pleaded. "Please be careful."
"My dear, I am not the one you need to worry for," his smile was far too brave. "If you've a letter for Sherlock, I suggest you slip it into my trunk after dinner, I'll be leaving first thing in the morning. Just remember, mum's the word."
"Mum's the word," Molly repeated, nodding.
Later that afternoon…
"How good to see you Doctor Watson, though I am sad that Miss Morstan is not on your arm," Anthea greeted the good doctor who pressed her hand.
"She is looking after a dying relative," Watson excused. "Her aunt lives abroad, and her companion is ill-equipped, so my fiancée is the best option. Molly," he turned then, grasping Molly's outstretched hands, bringing her into the circle of his arms. He had not intended such an affectionate embrace, but at the moment, Molly looked as though she needed a hug. "Everything all right?" he asked, noting the tears in her eyes.
"I'm fine, just tired," she smiled, waving a hand at her tears. "Never mind," her eyes softened. "It is good to see you again. How is Mrs. Hudson?"
"She's perfectly fine. On holiday in the North, visiting her son and daughter in-law."
"How nice!" Molly answered. "And Mary? You've had a letter from her, I expect?"
"Indeed, she said that her aunt is not well at all-"
"Yes, I heard, she's not away long is she?"
John shook his head. "She doesn't think she'll be away, not much more than two weeks, three at the most."
"Really?" Molly frowned. "That soon?"
"Mmhm. I recall quite specifically, her wording was very precise, let me see," he paused to recollect exactly what Mary had written. "'Absolutely everything will finally be sorted out within a few weeks, and we'll be home again,'," he shook his head. "She said for me to tell you so as well, exactly that, don't know why,"
'We' That word caught her attention, and she fidgeted her hands, feeling her heart begin to race. Mary knew Sherlock was alive! Why else would Mary be away at such a time? She worked for Mycroft, she had told Molly so herself. And now she was helping Sherlock! She was sending her a message through John's letter, Molly was certain of it. Mary was always precise in her letters, she did not waste time on frivolous messages for John to pass on to her. She would have simply written to Molly if it were really a dying relative. But a message through her fiancé to her friend, that was something else, a passing comment with a deeper meaning, one that John might not catch on to.
Realizing she still had not spoken, Molly put on a smile, shrugging. "She and I are good friends now, of course I should know, and I expect she'll be bringing the companion home as well?"
"Probably," John answered, following Anthea through to the parlor, then glanced back to Molly who followed just a step behind. "Yes of course, as a matter of fact she'd said specifically she'd be bringing home the companion, and hoped there would be a place at Baker Street for them."
It was too much for her, Molly felt her knees buckle, and she reached for the back of a nearby chair.
"Good heavens!" Anthea gasped, turning to see Molly nearly topple forwards. John caught her, easing her down to the nearest chair. "Shall I fetch the smelling salts?"
"I'm fine," Molly waved her away. "I'm clumsy…or tired, I'm-" she couldn't speak, too overcome. Mary was telling her that Sherlock was coming home, home! It couldn't have been true, how could it be? She didn't' dare hope, but what other meaning could Mary have? All at once she burst into tears, unable to stop herself. She stuttered out an apology, trying to find a handkerchief.
"Think nothing of it," Watson replied, befuddled but concerned, he handing her his own kerchief. "There-there, dry your eyes. Mary will be home soon, and while Mycroft is gone, I shall look after you, hm? I'll even sneak you pots of your favorite jam," he smiled encouragingly, to which Molly gave a short laugh.
"I wish you the best then, sneaking anything past cook,"
"Likely she'd give them to you anyway," Anthea added. "Never mind, Molly, you'll feel better once you've had something to eat."
"I'm not hungry," she shook her head, but Watson fetched her a plate anyway.
"Doctor's orders," he reminded her when she made to protest. "You'll do your child no favors starving yourself. I expect you to have a good dinner as well."
She managed to choke down the finger sandwiches John had given her, and even drank her tea before finally excusing herself, complaining of a headache.
Upstairs, with trembling hands, she took out her writing desk. It had been too long since she'd been able to properly write anything to Sherlock. With the promise that it would pass directly from Mycroft's hands' to Sherlock's, and armed with the knowledge that he may very well be home in just a few short weeks, Molly felt as if she were flying. She settled in to write, taking up every available space on the page. She told him about how much she liked Hart Castle, of Rosie and Wiggins' devotion to her, and the care and affection of Mycroft and Anthea, of her friendship with Watson and Mary. Lastly, she confessed her own secret to him, that she was pregnant. It seemed once she got started, she couldn't stop herself. There didn't seem to be any use to hide it now.
'-I never concealed this fact out of shame, but out of fear that someone would discover your position, that it would compromise you when your work is so important. This letter is already far too long, and Mycroft will complain of the space it takes in his suitcase I am sure, but he has promised it will go directly into your hands from him, no one else shall read it. I have received a message, one I hope is true, that you are coming home soon, perhaps the end of January. Is this true? Will you be here in time? I know why you must stay away, I know why you did what you did, why this pretense must still be carried out, and I could not be more proud of you. My Sherlock Holmes, the World's only Consulting Detective, my husband, and soon-to-be father of our child. My beloved, will you come home? Until we meet again, I am, as always, yours,
Molly Holmes.'
Ink dried, she sealed the letter up in an envelope bearing only Sherlock's initials. She sent for Rosie, who came right away.
"You know where Lord and Lady Holmes bedroom is?"
"Of course," the girl replied.
"Take this letter, and slip it into Lord Mycroft's suitcase, he's leaving tomorrow."
Rosie didn't ask, only did as she was told. She returned in a few moments, out of breath. "The valet almost caught me, but I gave him the slip. Tucked the letter in-between the trousers and shirtwaists."
"Good," Molly sighed, feeling a tremendous weight off her shoulders. "Good."
"What's it for, Mrs. Holmes? The letter I mean?" Rosie asked.
"Don't ask questions, Rosie," Molly ordered. She turned, her expression softened. "It's only that I cannot say yet, it is a private matter."
"I'm good at finding things out," Rosie answered, to which Molly smiled. She caressed the girls' head, smoothing down her cheek.
"I know you are, dear, you've always been so clever, no doubt you'll have sorted all of this out before long, but if you do, I want you to promise me you'll keep it a secret."
"What, from everyone?"
"Everyone," Molly repeated.
Rosie didn't like the serious tone of the conversation, that her mistress might be in danger, or that she knew something terrible was going to happen. For a moment, she didn't know what to do or say, for Mrs. Holmes was so serious and quiet. "Shall I read to you, Mrs. Holmes?" she offered.
"Yes," Molly's smile was gentle, tired. "Yes, help me sit down, and then go and find a book to read, that will keep us occupied."
"It's only a few hours until the dressing gong," Rosie reminded her. "That's not long at all."
"Sometimes, hours can feel like days, and weeks might as well be years," Molly said, more to herself. She blinked, shaking off her worries for a moment. Patting Rosie's hand, she smiled brightly. "Go and fetch your book now, go on, I'll wait here." Molly waited for Rosie to turn and hurry back out of the room, up to the servant's quarters where she slept. Alone with her thoughts, Molly stared into the crackling fire, her mind swimming with what-ifs and unanswerable questions, with secrets she wasn't able to tell to anyone. Molly felt as if she were going mad herself. Too little and too much happening at once, she gave an annoyed snort, quite unable to move from her chair.
"Would that I had a pistol," she muttered, rubbing her forehead. "I can see now why he shot that bloody wall back home..."
