Molly leaned on the heavy, wood frame of the parlor entrance at 221 Ash Street with her arms crossed as she surveyed her husband sleeping in his chair. A stream of light from the crack in the curtains backlit his dark locks. She rubbed her upper arms anxiously. This was becoming a troubling pattern, discovering Sherlock perfectly safe and slumbering in the morning after she had tossed and turned most of the night. At least on this morning his face wasn't black and blue. Yet, she felt infinitely more on edge because of what Mary had revealed to her the previous evening. Could her husband, this beautiful man, be a little bit not good?

She chewed her lip. Anyone so wickedly handsome could not be entirely virtuous. That wild tangle of hair, those sensuous lips, and the underlying sharpness of his bone structure- why, the devil himself must have approved Sherlock's design. Molly shivered as a tremor travelled from her toes to the top of her scalp where her skin tingled and tightened. Even at that moment when she was conflicted and a little fearful, she wanted nothing more than to rouse the snoozing demon and commit all sorts of wanton, unspeakable acts with him.

However, Molly knew she could not just ignore what Mary's warning. As much as she would like to pretend she had never had that conversation, questions still niggled at her and a doubting inner voice kept mumbling about 'protecting oneself'. She needed to prove that Sherlock was innocent of being an abuser and murderer, if only to herself. The question became- how did she go about doing so? She felt as if she could not just simply fill him in on everything Mary had revealed and ask him to explain. Mary's musings would surely not be well received and John might be forced to defend her to Sherlock. Molly could end up driving a wedge between the two best friends and losing Mary's friendship entirely.

"Yes, yes, yes, all well and good," her inner voice scolded her, "but what if he is a very bad man?"

Molly's hands started to quake. She didn't even want to consider that possibility. She made the decision right then that she would go to the prison and interview this mystery woman who claimed to have been deceived by her husband and ascertain for herself whether her story had any merit. Molly turned to leave the parlor but was stopped by the growl of her husband's voice.

"Where do you think you are going?"

Her shoulders tensed and she hesitantly turned to face him. He was still sprawled across his chair but with one eye open in a sleepy squint. The clothing he wore was overly long in the legs and arms - borrowed, she surmised. Molly found herself more than a little irate in that moment. What was a wife supposed to think about a husband who had been out all night and returned in someone else's attire? She lifted her chin.

"I hardly think I need to apprise you of my every activity. You certainly do not consider me in your comings and goings."

Both Sherlock's eyes snapped open but narrowed again as he sat up. He cricked his neck to the side, a muscle jerked in his jaw and he rose from his seat.

"You are mistaken if you believe that I will accept that," he said in a low voice.

Molly quivered in anger as he approached. "Accept what? My independence or my condemnation?"

"Either!" He bit out.

She backed away shaking her head. He followed, his legs pushed her skirts with each step until she bumped into the balustrade in the foyer. He boxed her between his arms as he supported himself on the railings at her back. He stared down at her with his nose slightly lifted and studied her through the barest of slits. Even so, his assessment of her face was incredibly intense. Her breaths reduced, becoming shorter and sharper under his scrutiny.

"You are looking at me differently," he mumbled, his chin dropped and his eyes caressed her face. "Have they succeeded then? Have I become suspect to my wife?"

Her tummy flip-flopped. "S-Suspect for what?"

He snorted then licked his tongue over his teeth.

"What indeed?"

They remained there in that near embrace for a spell. Sherlock's face relaxed and his eyes softened. He seemed to struggle internally. Molly felt her throat constrict. She just couldn't believe this man, as fathomless as his pupils seemed to be sometimes, was evil.

"Sherlock-"

A wrinkle appeared in his brow but disappeared almost as quickly. Something glazed over his eyes and he pushed away. He ran his hands through his hair and began undoing the buttons on his over-sized shirt. Her heart twisted in her chest. She hated this uncertainty, this unspoken distrust between them.

"I am in need of a shower, or at least, this is what I choose to discern from the distaste I read on your face," He started up the stairs, then stopped but didn't make eye contact. "Whatever you were planning to do today, consider it postponed. Oh, and I need you to pack an overnight bag."

Molly frowned up at him. "But-"

Sherlock sighed loudly and tapped his fingers on the railing. "This is not a request, Molly Holmes. I have need of a wife and it just so happens I actually have one. Please be ready to depart in an hour. We have a boat to catch."

Molly could not exactly explain why she did not just refuse Sherlock's directive, except that maybe she was afraid their relationship was deteriorating. Even though their marriage was unconventional, she still wanted to make it work. However, she wasn't sure Sherlock felt the same.

She closed her eyes briefly as she was gently buffeted by a cool breeze and sighed. The churning of the paddle wheel on the steamer Ramona taking them up the Fraser seemed to be the only sound in this wilderness. She opened her eyes again, it truly was wilderness! It hadn't taken very long to appreciate just how remote and isolated New Westminster was in the world. Civilization had disappeared only minutes after they rounded the river bend from the small city. Of course, there were several mills and other operations along the shore and boat traffic was steady but beyond the banks, trees rose high and thick, their leaves filling in for the summer. Snow-capped mountains peaked between gaps at almost incomprehensible distances. Molly had always imagined herself worldly having grown up in London, but this great expanse made her feel as if she had been living a small and sheltered life.

The shriek of a gull pierced the air above her and scattered her thoughts. She leaned out over the metal railing along the middle deck of the paddle wheeler and looked up to see a small, white seabird harassing a much larger dark-feathered bird with a yellow, hooked beak. The fearsome creature appeared to be carrying a freshly caught fish in its talons.

"That there is an eagle," she heard a voice claim to her left, "they used to be quite common but they've been over-hunted. You are fortunate to behold one."

Molly looked sideways to see a lanky young man in a dapper, cream-coloured suit. She smiled to herself. Funny that, no one in these parts wore such easily soiled fabrics and yet he felt the urge to educate her about the scarcity of eagles in Canada with an obviously American accent.

"Well, that's a shame," Molly replied, not wanting to make him feel awkward. "Why would anyone want to kill such an extraordinary animal?"

The young man removed his hat to reveal blonde hair which was not a surprise given the fairness of his mustache. He dipped his head. Light, smiling blue eyes regarded her with admiration.

"I do not know," he replied cheerfully, "except maybe that some people covet the exotic. Sa-ay, what is that delightful accent? English?"

Molly suppressed a laugh. Lord, he wasn't subtle.

"It is French, actually."

He tilted his head at her in confusion then grinned from ear to ear. "Why, you're pulling my leg!"

She pressed her lips together and looked past him along the deck. The sun was higher in the sky and the breeze warmer than it had been earlier. People were beginning to crowd the narrow walkway but she did not see Sherlock anywhere. He had disappeared to the lower deck to check on Redbeard and her new gelding named Toby. She was not sure when the diminutive mount had been purchased. Sherlock's grumbling's had been incomprehensible. Molly had instantly been enraptured by the little Welsh-Arabian cross, however, as he awaited his turn to be loaded on the steamer alongside Redbeard. He looked like a miniature version of her husband's mount at only thirteen hands high. As if the pair knew they were meant to be together, the steeds leaned against one another with Redbeard's head protectively hanging over the neck of his smaller counterpart. Molly had only gotten to pat Toby on the nose and whisper a few sweet nothings before they'd had to board the Ramona. She wished she was visiting him below deck with Sherlock, but her husband had insisted she remain where she was because she might ruin her clothing in the muck. Molly sighed. It seemed as if Sherlock wanted any excuse to separate himself from her.

"So, what brings you up the river today?" The young man chirped.

Molly lifted her shoulders and relayed their cover story. "Sightseeing. I am new to these parts, as you might have guessed."

"Ah, I thought so. Well, it's a beautiful country, isn't it, Miss-?"

She smiled tightly. "Erm, it is Mrs. Molly Holmes, actually."

His eyebrows drooped. He didn't hide his disappointment.

"Oh, well, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Holmes. My name is George Davidson. I am visiting a cousin in Port Hammond myself," he looked around, smiled again and then laughed nervously. "Is your husband not travelling with you? Are you on your own?"

A dark figure loomed behind Mr. Davidson suddenly. Molly looked up anxiously to see Sherlock's glower as he assessed the smaller man.

"She is not alone," came his glacial reply.

The young man jolted up from the railing and whirled towards Sherlock. His face blanched upon confronting Sherlock's menacing form with his broad, tall frame just barely fitting under the overhead awning. He was garbed in his usual black with his long coat nearly sweeping the deck. The wide brim of his hat cast shadows across his angular face. His pale eyes glittered with thinly veiled annoyance.

"Ah, h-hello!" Mr. Davidson stuttered. "I-ah- forgive me, sir, if I overstepped. I was just being friendly."

Sherlock's eyes constricted. "Yes, well, how about you go find a safer foothold elsewhere before you slip and find yourself treading water?"

Red-faced, the younger man dipped his head, slunk by Sherlock and fled around the front of the cabins. Molly looked up at her frowning husband. He opened his mouth to speak but she lifted a finger pointedly.

"No!" She said sharply and jabbed her finger at the air in front of him. "No more of this!"

"Of what?" He ground out.

Molly looked at him with brows bunched together and her nose wrinkled. "You have that sour look on your face as if I have misbehaved and am in want of a lecture. Well, I do not accept your contempt for several reasons. One, because I was not misbehaving and two, because if I want to misbehave, that is my prerogative."

Sherlock stepped closer, his head crooked to one side. His lips poked out just before he spoke.

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

Molly fully faced him with her hands on her hips. She glanced ruefully down at her posh, spruce blue riding habit and prissy, black leather boots. The feather on the ridiculously expensive hat Sherlock had bought her hung down and fluttered in the periphery of her vision. She breathed heavily through her nostrils a moment before raising her eyes again to his.

"I can do a great many things! I am not some feckless lady-wife too delicate to check on the welfare of her own mount. I do not give a damn about this frippery or whether I soak the hem of my skirts until it has wicked up three inches of horse piss."

Sherlock's lips parted in surprise. She continued unabated.

"That's right, I said 'damn' and 'piss'! I know plenty more colourful words, Mr. Holmes. Several of them have been on the tip of my tongue for the better part of the hour since you abandoned me up here."

A ripple of awareness travelled across his face and a light seemed to dawn in the depths of his eyes. Sherlock reached out and touched her abdomen. He blinked a few times.

"You are mad at me for leaving you alone?"

Molly's indignation faltered. Her face went very warm. She felt him push gently on her stomach and was forced to take a step back. She tried to slap his hand away but it was immoveable.

"What vexes you most? Being alone or having to endure my absence?" He asked in his deep timber.

She took another step back as he pushed her again. "You are insufferable!"

"That is not an answer," he murmured as he scrutinized her reaction, "did you . . . miss me?"

She swallowed. The soft, yet intense expression on his face was causing her insides to turn to jelly. She shook her head but he smiled. The spread of those decadent lips devastated her equilibrium.

"Has it just been during the previous hour or did you yearn for me last night as well?"

Molly had trouble keeping eye contact with him. He awaited her response like a kettle about to boil. His lips were open and feathered breaths between their curved perfection. Finally, as if coming to a silent understanding, he nodded and reached sideways. A dark void opened up next to them and Molly was tugged into what appeared to be a narrow storage room with cabinets lining either wall. Sherlock swung the door closed which plunged them into darkness. It took just a few seconds for her eyes to adjust but even so, she could see few details in the near blackness with only a sliver of light shining in from the door seams. The drone of the paddle wheel was more acute in this small space as if the ship walls acted as conduits for the noise. She could just make out the soft clap of something hitting the floor before she felt Sherlock's hands on her hat. He discarded it then cupped her face.

"Molly," his warm breaths pulsed against her face, "God, Molly, was I wrong to let you sleep last night? Would you have received me even after everything that happened?"

She tentatively laid her hands on his chest and stepped against him. "Of c-course, you are my husband."

"No," he rasped, "not because I am your husband, but because you would choose it."

"I-I don't understand. That is the only way I would have you."

Sherlock groaned then and pressed her against the cabinets with his massive frame. She could feel the vibration of the ship's propulsion through her back. His lips slid down her cheek, to the corner of her mouth then fumbled onto hers as if he was having trouble controlling himself. Molly clutched the lapels of his jacket beneath his great coat and responded to him as if she too were famished. Her senses felt heightened in the claustrophobic void. She was enraptured by the moist, supple slide of his lips across hers and then the wet, fleshy probe of his tongue into her mouth. Then, their tongues met and stroked against each other. The slickness of their contact reminded her of the way his manhood felt inside her when she was fully aroused. She moaned against his lips as her core tightened and infused with heat.

Sherlock's hands spanned her waist and curved over her bum. His lips left hers briefly as his fingers moved down to her skirts.

"Molly, I want to make my desertion up to you," he in a gruff tone. "Would you like to . . . misbehave?"

She licked her lips. "Um, in h-here?"

His lips caressed her neck. He tasted the flesh just beneath her ear before kissing and nibbling her earlobe.

"Yes," he breathed, warm air tickled her sensitive skin. "Otherwise it would not be misbehaving, would it?"

"Oh, Lord, you are a bad man," she whispered. "You are a very bad man."

He nodded as he kissed along her jaw. "I am beginning to believe you like that about me."

"Unh, huh, I do."

Warmth gathered between her thighs again. Her flesh was so sensitized, her undergarments abraded like burlap on her legs. Sherlock bunched her skirts and hiked them up around her waist. His hands found her bottom and cupped it through her drawers. Her whole body quivered as his lips captured hers again, his tongue invaded her mouth greedily and he thrust his hips against her torso. His excited member made itself known through their layers of clothing. Her hands crept up and dove into his hair as he wrestled with the ties holding her drawers in place.

"Blast these things," he muttered as he shrugged out of his jacket and it whooshed to the floor.

Sherlock's hands went to work again. With a satisfied grunt, he loosened her underwear and helped her step out of them. His fingers skimmed up her thighs.

"Relax your legs, my darling," he murmured.

Molly bit her lip and allowed him to delve his fingers into her cleft where he quickly found her most sensitive spot. A sharp pang of pleasure jolted her sex. She gripped his shoulders.

"Ah!" She cried as the sensation radiated inwards.

Sherlock chuckled against her mouth. "I apologize. A little too on point, perhaps?"

"Mm, no, it is g-good," she panted as he stroked over that avaricious apex, "oh, umm, so good."

She completely forgot about everything including where they were and that they could be discovered at any moment. She was thoroughly absorbed in the feel of his fingers as they became damp with her excitement and continued to sweetly assault her senses. She felt herself breaking, the ache became so unbearable she knew she was about to split apart, then he stopped.

"Aarg," she groaned, "nooo!"

"Molly," he grunted as he quickly unfastened his trousers and freed his erection, "that is mine and I will have it while I am inside of you."

The cabinets at her back creaked as Sherlock hoisted her up by her bottom and she felt the hard press of the wood into her back. Her skirts tangled around them. In one bold plunge, he drove himself so deep she thought he might impale himself into her womb. She clutched at his neck as he shifted the weight of her over his arms and pushed in even deeper, spreading her legs until they were on the verge of pain. The fill of him was so delicious, he stretched her so wholly, that she nearly had her release just thinking about his savage possession. Then he began to thrust, jolting her and the cabinets with each return, her feet jostling, until he pumped in and out of her like a piston on a steam locomotive.

"Mm, Sherlock . . ."

"Tell me what you need," he groaned.

He slowed punishingly, his shaft sliding in an infuriatingly slow glide. "What do you need, Molly?"

She gasped as he then thrust upwards hard. "Y-You, you, only you."

He exhaled and resumed his fervent pace. Molly felt her orgasm gather again like the damming of a stream and build until leaks sprang and she could no longer contain it. She dropped her forehead to Sherlock's shoulder, clenched one final time and let the damn burst as his engorged manhood pushed in with abandon. Her relief caused her whole core to spasm and ripples of it undulated throughout her body. Her legs twitched helplessly and she exhaled a shuddering breath through pursed lips.

"Christ, Molly, huh-"

Sherlock plummeted into her a final time and stiffened. Then, she felt his member strain and release inside her with a jerk. Sweat dripped from his brow to her collar and snaked between her breasts. Another, smaller contraction gripped him like an encore and he twitched within her inner walls. After a few moments, he let her down and handed her a handkerchief from his pocket. As she tended to herself, the sound of the paddle wheel changed and the whole ship shuddered around them.

"Seems we timed that just right, my misbehaving wife," Sherlock murmured. "I think we have arrived in Port Hammond."