Chapter Fourteen

Like Salt On An Open Wound

Molly moved her hand in Sherlock's direction, inciting him to cross the threshold so she could place the door on its hinges, but Sherlock removed the door from her grasp, "I'll finish this," he said.

Molly agreed and then she removed her cardigan. It was cold but she knew that in a minute she would be warm enough. She crossed the back garden, grabbed the axe Nicholas had left there, and put on the goggles and gloves. Sherlock was looking at her, trying to gauge if she needed help or could take care of it by herself. Molly got to work, delivering strong blows on the wood, cutting the tall tree trunks into smaller pieces. She hit it once, twice, three times before a new piece was detached from the rest, but she seemed to be making a good job in general. Her posture was not perfect, but Sherlock let her finish. He hinged the door carefully, making sure it was perfectly secure, and then checked the cat flap again. Toby was walking beside him, trying to wind around Sherlock's legs, meowing each time. Sherlock smiled, and picked it up. Toby was a mild cat and started to purr when Sherlock petted him, holding it against his chest. Its fur was slightly damp, but Sherlock didn't mind. Then, he let Toby go again, and went to the kitchen, to moisten the cloth Molly had given him once more, to clean the door and finish that work. Satisfied, he picked Toby, that continued pacing there, hoping for a bit more of attention, and he made him cross the cat flap a few times. It was working perfectly.

Molly was dexterous and in fact, as she had said herself, stronger than her figure had suggested. A big pile was already there, ready to be stored on the rack, when Sherlock left the porch to keep the tools Molly had provided back in the tools shed. Molly was sweating and grunted once in a while, to alleviate the effort of diving the axe into the wood, but didn't look exhausted, or incapable of carrying on.

Sherlock was quite impressed, although to be fair, the trunks she was chopping weren't extremely thick. He didn't ask if she needed help; he started to pick up the smaller pieces of wood and stored them in the wood rack.

"You don't have to do that," Molly said, stopping what she was doing, and removing her goggles for a minute, "I have time, I can do it later."

"It's not a problem," was all Sherlock said.

Molly shrugged and put on the goggles again. As he wished. And she continued.

They worked in silence for way over two hours, Molly chopping the wood, stopping to drink water, and going back to work again. She found it relaxing, as if each time she hit the piece of wood she could unload all of her frustrations, all of her stress. Beads of sweat were forming in her forehead and she sensed Sherlock pacing beside her, picking up the wood and setting it in its place.

Sherlock must have anticipated her intentions, because when Molly finished cutting all the tree trunks into pieces, there were still a few of those scattered on the floor. Those were meant to be stored inside, so she could use them straight away in the fireplace. But first, to fit in it, she needed to cut them in even smaller pieces.

Molly drained the water bottle, cleaning her forehead with the sleeve of her thin sweater, and then rolling it up again. Her hands were dirty and stiff, but the most difficult part was done.

"The wood is dry enough to be used," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time in hours.

Molly nodded, agreeing, "Good. Hopefully I'll be able to use the fireplace this evening."

She brought the pieces of wood Sherlock had reserved next to the chopping block and then tried to figure out the best way to cut the round piece of wood in her hand in half. That size should suffice. She balanced the wood on the stump and delivered the blow, right in the middle. Or, at least, that's where she aimed for, not where it hit. Somehow, she had managed to miss the firewood completely and burrowed the axe in the chopping block instead. She tried to remove it, but her arms were tired from all the work. She ended up releasing the axe from her hands, and it stood there, its handle facing her, perfectly settled into the chopping block. She laughed and then motioned the axe from one side to the other, trying again. This time the axe budged, and came off the block.

Sherlock was looking at her, amused.

"You aren't positioning yourself correctly," he explained, "May I?"

Molly passed him the axe willingly, and observed what he was doing.

Sherlock picked the firewood that was now fallen on the ground and settled it exactly as Molly had done before, on top of the chopping block. Then, he opened his legs slightly, to improve his balance. He slid his right hand near the head of the axe and slid the other hand to the middle of the handle, closer to the bottom. Then instead of going straight for the blow, he placed the axe's blade in the middle of the wood, where he meant to chop it. He brought the axe over his head, making sure he was still holding it steadily and then his hand dropped, carrying the axe into the wood, hitting the spot he intended to. The wood split in half, successfully.

Molly noticed that the hand next to the axe's head had slid down next to his other hand, and she nodded to Sherlock's quiet gaze, taking the axe he extended her.

"Do you think you can manage it?" he asked.

"Yeah."

She positioned herself, trying to mimic his movements.

"No, you have to open your legs shoulder width, otherwise as you move forward you'll lose balance. Like this," he used his foot to make her move her left foot to the side, in order to assume the right position.

Molly held her breath when he approached her, and simply placed his hand over hers, "Place this hand a bit closer to the axe's head, the other one is alright. Hold tight or it will slide from your hands as you deliver the blow."

He was no longer standing by her side, but almost completely behind her. His body was not touching hers, but he was trying to guide her movements, the axe hitting slightly the centre of the firewood he had placed on the chopping block. Molly knew that if she took the deep breath that was longing to escape her chest she would feel the fabric of Sherlock's shirt against her back. She swallowed and then Sherlock let go of her, waiting for Molly to conclude the movement. She raised the axe above her head, the same way she had seen Sherlock do before, and the axe hit the spot perfectly, the whole of the wood now torn apart in two.

Sherlock smiled, "Perfect," he said.

He was absolutely oblivious to the swirl that was going around Molly's head right now, and he began to pick up the scattered pieces of wood, putting them in a pile. Molly took a deep breath, carried another piece of wood to the chopping block and focused on what she was doing. Her heart was beating too fast for her taste, so she tried to calm herself down.

By the time she reached the end of the pile, her hands were faltering. Her palms were sweaty, but it was mostly her muscles that were starting to give her trouble. Not a surprise, when she stopped to think about the quantity of wood she had chopped in one afternoon. She was glad Sherlock had been there to help her stack it, because she was not sure she would have been able to do that on top of this.

She delivered the blow a bit more casually, and somehow it didn't split perfectly. A big splint of wood detached from it and hit Molly right in the forehead. She let the axe drop immediately, taking her dirty gloves to the place instinctively.

Sherlock was by her side immediately, and he held her carefully by her arms, turning her to him.

"Molly? Molly, look at me!"

She could feel a thick viscous liquid running down her forehead, and she was afraid to move her hand, but Sherlock's fingers locked softly around her glove and he removed it from her. Molly had her eyes closed still, and she felt as Sherlock took off her goggles and dropped them on the ground. His voice was softer than before, "The splint hit your forehead but bounced off. Doesn't look like a very profound cut. Come on, we need to go inside and take care of the wound," he demanded, and he waited until Molly was able to open her eyes.

He was staring at her, concerned, "Do you have a first aid kit inside?"

Molly nodded but doing that hurt, "Yes," she answered instead, her voice a whisper, "It's in the bathroom."

Sherlock guided her inside the house. He had removed her gloves, thrown them away onto the ground as well, and he walked after her, making sure he was still able to guide her. In the bathroom he washed his hands thoroughly, closed the lid of the toilet, and helped Molly sit down; then he opened the cabinets and rummaged through them, finding what he was looking for easily enough.

Molly was breathing regularly, assimilating what had just happened. How could she have been so stupid?

Sherlock carried the first aid kit with him and opened it, getting it ready. He picked up a towel from the rack with a swift movement and passed it to Molly, "I need to see the wound better. Hold this under your chin."

Molly did as instructed and then she felt Sherlock's fingers touching her left hand, to remove it again from her forehead. He ripped the lid of the saline solution open and poured it carefully over it. Molly had her eyes closed already and the liquid made her jump slightly. Then, he picked up a sterile gauze sponge, wetted it with the saline solution, and started to clean the blood and dirt from her forehead.

Molly flinched a bit and Sherlock loosened the pressure, and continued to clean it, making sure no sign of dirt remained on the wound.

"You won't be needing stitches," he finally said, realising that the wound was not as deep as the abundance of blood might have indicated.

Molly cleaned her face, and then opened her right eye.

"That's s relief," she sighed.

Sherlock was now smiling slightly, and his gaze locked with hers. Molly had never seen such a soft expression in his face before, and it made her heart swell up inside her chest. She looked down but Sherlock's hand reached for her chin and pulled her face up again. He threw away the first gauze and then imbibed another in the saline solution; he wanted to make sure the wound was completely clean before bandaging it.

"You'll have to make some pressure here, to stop it from bleeding."

Molly nodded and did as told. Sherlock was now preparing a bandage. He measured the size of the wound and picked the best bandage to fit there; then, he searched for some antibiotic ointment. He removed Molly's hand from the wound again. It was still bleeding, but the bandage would help it stop. He cleaned it once more, applied the ointment before it could start bleeding again, and then placed the bandage there, with a precise but smooth gesture.

"Your shirt's all dirty with blood," Molly pointed out. She felt drained now, and she could feel her heart ringing in her ears, but she could not define if this was due to the whole adrenaline of hurting herself, or the way Sherlock was standing, so close to her.

Sherlock shrugged, "It's okay; the hotel has dry cleaners included," he smiled at her again, the same soft expression as before.

Sherlock put the water on the sink to run and washed his bloodied hands. Then, he took the towel from Molly's hands, dipped a corner of it in water, wrung it, and washed Molly's face. Her left cheek, eyebrow and her nose were dirty with blood, so he cleaned them.

"There," he said when he finished. "How are you feeling?"

Molly shook her head, just to find out that it hurt when she did that. The muscles of her arms were weak, and she realised as she got up, that so were her legs. Sherlock helped steadying her.

"I'll be fine," she assured, "I have no idea how on earth I did this. What a moron."

Sherlock, surprisingly, laughed, "You just got injured; give yourself a break. You took care of all that wood in a single afternoon. I am sure you have just yielded to physical fatigue."

Molly knew he was right, but there was nothing she hated to admit more than the fact that she could have used some help, in the end. She washed her own hands, enjoying now the cold water and took a look at her face in the mirror. God, she looked ghastly. She was still red faced, and her hair a literal bloody mess. She tried to remove the traces of blood from it, and Sherlock tidied the first aid kit supplies, by her side.

"Leave it," she said, "I'll take care of that later."

"It's done," he affirmed. He put the kit back in the cabinet and then he left the bathroom, giving Molly some privacy.

When Molly returned to the living room the kettle was boiling in the kitchen and Sherlock was already stacking the smallest pieces of wood she had chopped in the living room, into a basket placed there for that same effect.

"Sit down," he encouraged, "I'm just going to put things outside back in place; tea should be ready in a minute."

"I'm fine," Molly assured. She was slowly getting back to herself, and her legs had stopped shaking, "I'll prepare the tea."

Sherlock got out through the porch's door and when he came back inside again Molly was placing two steamy mugs on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Sherlock sat across from her, on an old swing chair that Molly had purchased in a flea market a few days before, and accepted the mug that Molly passed him. In return, he gave Molly her cardigan. She had left it outside, hanging on the porch. It was still cold inside the house, so she dressed it up.

Sherlock took a sip of the tea, but it was too hot, so he blew it gently, warming his hands on the mug.

Molly put her legs underneath her, getting cosy. It was getting dark outside, and she could hear the wind rustling the trees.

"You never told me how you got such a good price for the wood," Molly remembered.

Sherlock seemed more at ease now, more relaxed. A boyish look crossed his eyes, almost wicked.

"I knew his secret," he revealed, mysteriously.

Molly frowned, "His secret?"

Sherlock assented, and he turned his head to the side, to look outside the big window, and to the forest beyond the porch, "Yes. He didn't get all of his wood legally." He took a long sip of his tea, and then he faced Molly. "I told you I've been wandering around the farm's area these last couple of days, looking for anything that may be of use for this case. Yesterday evening I ended up walking further than I wished and it got dark quite fast. As I was trying to figure out the best way to return to my hotel – it is about a mile and a half away from Mr. Abney's farm – I heard voices. Two men were debating something. I don't know this region, nor the people in it, so I stopped and waited. I wanted to avoid interrupting them, and if possible, crossing their path; one of the men sounded furious. I sat next to a tree and then I started to pick up some pieces of the conversation. When they left I had a pretty good idea about what they were doing, and why they were fighting."

He paused again, and Molly waited.

"When I heard the wood seller speaking today – Mr. Chapman, that's his name – I knew immediately that I had heard that voice before, and it wasn't hard to place it. He was one of the men talking in the middle of the forest on that evening. I had heard something else as I was waiting for the two men to leave, though. An animal of some sort, but I couldn't see what it was, or where it was coming from. I decided it was better to leave the place before I got attacked; there may be wild boars and foxes in the area, I imagine, and I didn't want to risk it. On my way across the forest I bumped into Mr. Chapman. He was in a hurry, and although he was surprised to see someone wandering in the woods that late, I am sure he didn't take a good look at me. It was too dark for that. I suppose he was clever enough, though, to understand my words today during the auction, when I bid £300, and when I told him that that was more than the wood was worth."

Molly still didn't understand, "I'm sorry, but I don't get it."

"He's a smuggler, Molly."

Molly raised her eyebrows, "A smuggler?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes. A wood smuggler. You can plant your trees and chop your own wood and sell it honestly, or you can illegally chop trees from places that are state property. If you do it as you should there's a small chance to be caught, and if you do it as you should, you'll have a big profit. I suppose he has a middle man, though, someone who does part of the dirty job for him, who was probably the other intervenient on that evening's debate."

Molly's mouth hung open now, "But," she started, "That means we bought smuggled wood."

Sherlock smiled, "Yes."

"But, that's wrong. We could be implicated if he ever gets caught."

Sherlock moved his head to the side, "Doubt it. He has no proof that we know."

"But that is wrong," Molly insisted, "Shouldn't we say something?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I'd rather none of us get involved. Going to the police will only bring us trouble. We won't be able to prove anything, either way. My word of what happened that night isn't enough to serve as evidence of what they're up to."

Molly seemed a bit distressed.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told you this," Sherlock considered, observing her. He finished his tea and placed the mug on the coffee table.

"No, it's alright. It's just weird, I think. I had never thought that there might be wood smugglers."

Sherlock got up, "Thank you for lunch, and for tea," he said. He grabbed his coat and put it on, and then he wrapped his scarf around his neck.

Molly got up too, "No, I'm the one who owes you now, with all the work, and trouble," she emphasised trouble, pointing at her bandaged forehead, "That I put you through."

Sherlock smiled, and shook his head, dismissing her words, but he did not say another thing. He opened the porch's door and walked over the threshold. The sun had set completely and the air was even colder. He buttoned his coat up and descended the three porch steps, "Are you sure you don't want to help me solve this case?" he tempted, once again.

Molly shook her head, "No," she assured, with determination.

Sherlock assumed a jokingly defeated expression, "I'll see you back in London, then."

And he turned his back, crossed the bridge and started walking alongside the stream.

Molly locked the door behind her, and crouched down beside it, admiring the work Sherlock had done with the cat flap. She didn't understand why he had to be so nice to her now. And then the truth hit her: she hadn't left London because of the times he had mistreated her, or dismissed her help when he no longer needed it; she had left London because of the times he was too nice to her, and she fell back to her own spiral of infatuation, to her own self-loathing because she had fallen in love with a man that had never promised her anything. Because, in the end, she was the only one responsible for her feelings, not Sherlock.

She took a shower, changed her bandage, and put the freshly chopped wood on the fireplace to burn. The softness in Sherlock's eyes when he was treating her kept crawling into her thoughts, the worry that accompanied it, his assured but gentle touch. She shook her head exasperated, and then decided that she needed something else to distract her, so she grabbed a notebook and she tried to doodle the cottage. The lines on the drawing were rough, harsh.

By the end of the evening, all she had filled the notebook with were faint lines that did little justice to her recollection of Sherlock's eyes, piercing right through her.