Molly couldn't remember starting to run. One moment, she was watching Sherlock fall to the ground, and in the next she was hurtling through the mass of fighters, her skirts gripped up in her hands. Her breath came out in rough bursts and she felt her chest burning. Somewhere in her mind she could hear Mary and John yelling her name, but it did nothing to slow her. She couldn't rip her eyes away from the spot where he'd vanished.
She barely stopped in time when she reached the edge of the moat surrounding the tower, her eyes sweeping the surface of the black water frantically. Many people who had been nearby ceased their clashes and watched, desperate to see who had survived. Torchlight and flames from fires starting around the castle illuminated spots of the water and after a few moments she saw a body floating on the surface. Clenching her skirts, she moved along the bank of the moat, straining for a better view, knowing her world would be over if…
A flare of fire danced over the figure. The cloak was black.
Molly let out a strangled cry and dropped to her knees. She could see no other form in the water, but it was no guarantee. She started when she felt a pair of hands on her arms, pulling her up from the ground. Looking up, she saw Mary.
"It's not him…but I don't see… I don't see," she choked out, ready to jump into the cold water to search for him.
"Molly," John said firmly, looking beyond her towards the gates.
Not thirty paces away, she turned and saw the shadow of a man dragging himself out of the moat, slowly pushing up to standing. With a hope she barely allowed herself, Molly started towards him, ignoring the changing atmosphere of the battle as shouts of Moriarty's fall spread. In seconds, she was before him, taking in every bit of him and afraid to touch him for fear that it was all an illusion. But he looked at her, wiping water from his face, and moved forward, wrapping his arms around her body. Water soaked through her gown, but she hardly felt it, burying her face against his chest and clinging to him.
"It's all over," he told her, pulling back to look down into her eyes.
"My love," she whispered, unable to say anything else as he lowered his head and kissed her.
Keeping her close to his side, he embraced John and then Mary before looking out towards the waning battle. Standing taller than she had ever seen him, Molly watched as he stepped forward.
"Do you hear that, Huntingdon!" he shouted, his deep voice carrying over the fighting. "It's over! Your false Lord, James Moriarty, is dead!"
A roar went up from the people and Molly watched as they took the castle, protected by Mary's sword as John and Sherlock joined the fight.
By dawn, it was all over. The earth was scorched and the town was half destroyed, the castle still spitting smoke from recently extinguished fires, but the people of Huntingdon had won their freedom from Moriarty. Few had died in the battle, and Molly enlisted all should could to help tend to the wounded. When there was no one left to mend and her energy had been exhausted, she joined Sherlock and the others in the great hall, sitting amongst servants and nobles alike. Food had been brought out, to be shared with all, and much of it was sent beyond the castle gates to those recovering in the town.
She made sure he ate, otherwise she knew he would neglect to do so for days with the distraction of what had happened. He was just finishing his glass of wine when John and Lestrade came into the hall.
"How many?" Sherlock asked.
"We took forty-two," Lestrade said, sitting down and reaching for a piece of roast meat. "Eight of Moriarty's soldiers met their end."
"It seems that his noble supporters have fled," John added. "Likely to the North."
"Mm," Sherlock responded, placing his cup down. "Let them go. They'll never return, and if they do, we'll give them the proper welcome for their betrayal. If the crown chooses to go after them, that's London's business."
"The prisoners, can you hold them all?" Mary asked. "Is there room at the jail?"
"Not really," Lestrade told her with a smile that gave away his pleasure at locking them up. "But they'll manage, I'm sure. They can sit on Moran when their legs grow tired."
Sherlock chuckled briefly, then sat back in his chair and stared at the fire at the end of the hall. Molly watched his eyes darken, his expression turning sober. John cleared his throat and shifted on his feet.
"His body?" he asked.
Molly cringed at the words. So very easily, it could have been Sherlock floating face down in that water. She could have ended up right back at James' side, watching his people dispose of Sherlock in whatever cruel way they planned. She did not think she would have lasted more than a day.
"An unmarked grave," Sherlock instructed. "Outside of town. Keep the party small." John nodded his understanding. "As for those who fought for me and perished…give them all possible honors, no matter their position in life. Mary, I want you to go through the treasury. Give the families a generous recompense for their loss. Then enlist all skilled craftsmen to start rebuilding. It's time to bring Huntingdon back to its former glory."
It was strange for Molly to watch him slip back into the role of a Lord. Before he'd been sent to the Holy Land, back when he had simply been filling the role for his brother, he'd done only the basics of his position, though he'd done them with precision and skill. Mysteries and experiments had been his main love. He'd led a rebellion, to be sure, rallied a group of outcasts and done it well. But for the first time in that hall, Molly saw Lord Sherlock Holmes.
He'd grown up.
A commotion from the main passage turned all of their heads and the sound of dozens of boots striking the stone ground grew closer. A man dressed in black trousers and tunic with silver trimmings and a matching silver cloak strode purposefully through the great hall archway, his hand resting on the hilt of a gleaming sword.
"Sherlock Holmes!" he bellowed.
"Oh God," Sherlock muttered.
"What have you done to our home!"
"I took it back, Mycroft!"
It had been years since Molly had seen Lord Mycroft; she would never have recognized him after so much time, but Sherlock was clearly familiar with his brother. The rest of the people in the hall scrambled to stand and give due respect by bowing to their Earl.
"What do you mean, you took it back?" Mycroft demanded, stopping in front of the small group.
Sherlock sighed and stood up, walking over to his brother until they stood toe to toe.
"Do you remember your steward, James Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, barely pausing to allow him time to answer before going on. "He sent me to the Holy Land, took over the Earldom, and tried to overthrow the crown. You could say we had a bit of a disagreement about that."
Lord Mycroft let out a huff and reached for the clasp on his cloak, undoing it.
"We had heard rumors," he admitted. He looked his brother up and down. "You're all right?"
"Barely a scratch," Sherlock said with a thin smile.
"Yes, well. Well done, brother," Mycroft said, holding out a hand for Sherlock to take. "Is there anything left to be done?"
"All handled," Sherlock told him.
"Excellent. Do let me know what sort of reward you would like, his Majesty will be more than happy to bestow his thanks," Mycroft offered with a raise of his eyebrows, clearly used to Sherlock wanting recognition for his accomplishments.
"Funds for a wedding will do," Sherlock said without hesitation.
Molly felt her heart jump, her hands going to her stomach. Mycroft looked at him with utter confusion.
"Whose wedding?" he asked.
"Mine," Sherlock stated, looking back to Molly. She pressed her lips together, trying to keep from grinning. "To Margaretta Hooper. As soon as possible."
He was tired. They all were. Tired and sore and desperate for peace. After reuniting with his brother and insuring everyone's comfort, Sherlock called for a horse, taking Molly and pointing them towards his old manor home. It would be their home, together, soon enough and all he wanted was to retreat to the solitude of the manor with her.
Molly nestled against him as they rode, her head resting along his shoulder as his arms encircled her. He could feel her body drooping, and knew she was fighting sleep.
"What happened?" she asked quietly.
"When?"
"You know when," she said. "On the balcony. He tried to…I saw it."
Sherlock's mind offered up images of Moriarty pulling the dagger from beneath his cloak, his movements swift. His arm still stung where the blade had grazed him. She would surely worry over him when she eventually saw the wound, though it really was nothing.
"It turned out that James was not as averse to fighting as he led everyone to believe," he told her. "I saw a way to stop him for good. He hit the water first. I landed upon him and the dagger…its position did not favor him."
She did not reply, as he suspected she wouldn't.
When they reached the manor house, they were greeted by a small group gathered outside the door. Martha, Sally, and Bill stood waiting, desperate to hear what had transpired since he'd sent them to the home after the fight was won. Of course, he'd barely begun to answer their questions when Martha had started pushing them towards separate chambers, telling them she had prepared hot baths and fresh clothes. Sally had only smirked at Sherlock being ordered around, shaking her head as she headed towards the kitchen with a promise of good food for supper. He made a note in his mind to set aside funds for a bakery for her in town. Huntingdon had long been without a proper baker and he suspected she would enjoy getting to run her own shop.
To his surprise, he found that very little had been changed about his home. There were personal affects of Moran's that would need to be gotten rid of, but the manor was a welcome comfort overall. He had every intention to burn the bedding Moran had slept in during his occupation of Sherlock's chambers replacing it all with a new mattress and linens. For the time being, the chamber Molly had been shuffled off to would do, even if he did encounter resistance from Martha in the hall.
"People will talk, Sherlock," she warned him, looking disapprovingly at his attire – a simple tunic that just reached his knees.
"Who, exactly? You're the only one watching me enter her chambers. We're to be married soon anyway."
"Oh," Martha huffed, trying not to appear too pleased as she fluttered off down the stairs. "Young love, God bless it."
Molly was tucked into the bed when he entered the room, dressed in a white nightgown, her hair shining and still damp from her bath. She smiled warmly as he walked towards her.
"Was she right to try to stop me?" he asked, pausing at the end of the bed. "Are you scandalized to be sharing your bed as an unmarried woman?"
"No," she said, shaking her head gently. "Why should I be, after…"
Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling warmth spread through his body at the memories of two nights prior. Had it really only been such a short amount of time? So much had happened, it felt like weeks since he'd been with her.
"The light of day can change minds," he said, offering her the chance to do just that.
In answer to his words, Molly sat up, pushing the blankets back in invitation. He needed no other sign, rounding the side of the bed and joining her quickly. After months of sleeping on nothing but hard ground, the bed was like Heaven…but it was the arms of the woman that wrapped around him, pulling him into her soft embrace, that made him feel truly enraptured. The scent of rosewater lingered on her skin and he breathed in deeply, resting his body over hers and feeling the weight of two years of trials lifting off of him. Her hand smoothed across his back, dipping under the fresh linen of his tunic to run her fingers over his skin.
Though he was close to exhaustion, his body responded to her touch. Lifting himself onto his forearm, he gently cradled her face with his hand, dropping kisses onto her mouth and deepening each one until she gasped into his mouth, her body pressing insistently against his. His hands traveled down her thighs, finding the end of the nightgown and tugging. Molly sat up, allowing him to ease the gown from her body. Her hair spilled over her shoulders when the fabric had been pulled over her head and he marveled once again at the beauty in front of him.
Lowering his head, he brought his mouth to her breast and kissed, suckled as she whimpered, holding her tightly. When he brought his mouth back up to kiss her lips, she gripped his tunic and pulled it off, sliding her hands over the expanse of his chest and sending shivers down his back.
"My Lord," she sighed as he nipped and kissed her neck.
"No need for formalities," he told her with a smile.
"But you are my Lord. Soon, my husband," she told him, pulling his face up so that she could look at him. "Things I am happy to call you."
"Then you…you are my Lady. My wife," he murmured, kissing each cheek after each endearment. "And I love you."
"As I love you," she said softly.
Pressing her back into the pillows, Sherlock kissed her deeply and settled himself between her thighs.
"Oh, my Molly, I would stay like this with you for all of time," he said breathlessly.
"I would keep you," she replied, coaxing him closer and burying her fingers in his hair as he pressed into her, her welcoming warmth enveloping and undoing him.
Not caring if the others in the house heard, he made love to her as though they had all the time in the world, pulling sighs and gasps and shouts of pleasure from her throat as he memorized every inch of her body. He memorized the way her fingers gripped his shoulders, the feel of her lips on his throat that left him dizzy with want, the way her body tightened around him, sending him crashing into elation.
He pulled her against his chest when he rolled to his side, unwilling to let her go as they both drifted into sleep, slipping into the deepest rest he'd had in years.
The celebration of the birth of their son was the largest Mycroft had ever allowed. All of Huntingdon was given a holiday and a gift of five shillings went to each household. A month after the birth, the castle held a feast. It was resplendent in its presentation for, although he liked to pretend he couldn't be bothered with something as uninteresting as a baby, Mycroft was a proud uncle from the start.
Molly beamed as she held her son at the head table, determined to enjoy the festivities if only for a short time before retiring to the privacy of the chambers Mycroft had prepared for her. She was happy to be in the castle under different circumstances, surrounded by love and joy.
"You'd think a new prince had been born," Lestrade said, peering down at the infant in Molly's arms. "All this extravagance."
"Don't you listen to him," Molly cooed at the baby. "You are a prince, and no one can tell me differently."
"He's a fine boy," John congratulated Sherlock, handing him a mug of ale.
"He's got his father's lungs, I see," Mary laughed as the baby started to wail.
"Oh dear," Molly said, holding her son closer as she stood up. "I think we may have to leave our own party early."
They bid everyone goodnight, leaving the great hall and heading towards their rooms. Molly immediately sat upon the bed, pulling at the laces of her gown and tugging the fabric away from her breast. Once her son was settled, he calmed immediately, making contented little noises as he nursed.
Sherlock watched her, still amazed by how naturally she'd taken to motherhood. He still felt frightened half to death of being a father.
"If Mycroft never marries, he'll be heir to all of this," he said suddenly, his thoughts tumbling from his mouth.
Molly looked up at him and smiled.
"I hadn't thought any different," she said, unconcerned. "He'll make a fine Earl, I'm sure."
"Even with me for a father?" Sherlock asked teasingly, sitting next to her.
"Especially with you for a father," she told him, shifting a bit as the baby gave up on eating. She pulled her gown over her shoulder and then slid her hand back under her son to support him as she handed him over to Sherlock. "You'll teach him how to be noble and just. And to stand up to those who aren't."
Taking his son into his arms, Sherlock felt that, at the very least, he could manage those lessons. And a little archery.
"Well, Robert," he said. "You and I have a great deal to discuss when you get a bit older. I'll try not to bore you with all of it, it really is quite tedious being honorable."
Molly chuckled and nudged him with her shoulder. He turned and gazed at her, leaning down to press a kiss to her mouth.
"Thank you," he murmured against her lips.
"For what?"
"Everything. For keeping me alive…in every way," he explained, kissing her once more as she wrapped her arms around him, her hand joining his in cradling Robert's head.
