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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: RIGHT IN THE GENTLEMANLY PARTICULARS

"No."

Molly narrows her eyes, takes a step towards Magnusson.

His gaze flickers from Sherlock to her, as if he'd quite forgotten she's there.

"No," she repeats firmly, "No, I'm not playing this game-"

And, as she has with every other high society bully she's encountered since her inheritance she raises her head high, continues walking forward. She keeps her gaze fixed on Magnusson- she's a clever woman, after all- her heart hammering despite her words.

This feels like it might, quite possibly, be the longest moment of her life.

Sherlock and newspaper magnate merely stare at her, their expressions matching in their mutual disbelief. Magnusson in particular seems quite unable to process what she's said, those too-pale eyes flashing over her face as if to find some hint of uncertainty, but then-

"Didn't you hear what he said?" Sherlock asks, his voice pitched low.

She shakes her head, tries to move by him but he grips her elbow, forcing her to stop.

"Molly," he says quietly, gaze boring into hers, "Molly, I know what news like this would do to you. I can't in good conscience allow you to-"

"I'm not asking you to allow me to do anything."

And she shakes her head, shoots him a look to quieten him. She wishes Magnusson weren't there, weren't listening, for there's a great deal she'd like to say. She'd like to explain to the great, noble, flummoxing idiot that she's met men like Magnusson before, that she knows how to deal with them. That for all his fine clothes and impressive mansion, he's not very different from Oskar nor any of the other thugs she's seen try to control others through fear. She wants to explain to him that if she gives Magnusson what he wants now then she'll never be free of him- neither of them will- that instead he'll wind them tighter and tighter in his control, his demands becoming ever more impossible until they finally find something they can't do for him-

And then, then he will finish them. Then, when they've become his creatures entirely.

She will not allow that to happen to anyone she loves.

But she can't say that, not in front of their host. She knows the counter-arguments he'd employ, knows too that in his worry for her they may seem convincing to Sherlock. Knows that for all his idiocy he will protect her, even if it's at a cost to himself. And she cannot permit either herself or her- she makes herself think it- her future husband be put in that position.

Instead she stops, leans into him. One hand traces his cheekbone- so sharp, so stern- and then she scoots herself up onto her tiptoes, presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

She hates that Magnusson's here to see it but she'll not treat her feelings as if they're a source of shame.

"Do you wish to marry me?" she whispers. They've danced around their arrangement ever since Sir Henry and Anthea caught them but right now she feels deadly in earnest. For her plan to work she has to know. So-

"Yes or no, Mr. William Scott Sherlock Holmes," she says. "Do you wish to marry m-"

"I do."

He says the words in a rush, almost like he's afraid they'll bite him. Once they're out though he grins at her, rightly, properly grins, as if they're quite the most delightful thing he has yet uttered aloud and he finds this realisation surprising. Without stopping to ask he swoops down and kisses her again, his greater height forcing her to cling to him even as she struggles onto her tiptoes-

"I do," he murmurs, "I do, Ms. Molly-" kiss, "Margaret-" kiss, "What's your full name anyway?" kiss, kiss, kiss, "Hooper," kiss.

And she shakes her head, wraps her arms around him and snogs him, as her neighbours would say good and bloody proper. Eventually they both have to come up for air and only then does she give his hair a sharp, admonishing tug.

"You know damn well my name is Mary Margaret Catherine," she says and he nods again. Grins again.

"Too right," he says. "That's just what I was about to say."

Magnusson doesn't seem to know what to make of all this though. "But don't you understand what I'm saying?" he asks, his expression incredulous. "I will release this information- I'll publish it for all the world to see.

Everyone will know that you debauched her, everyone will know that your darling lady wife is nothing but a common whore-"

Molly's actually surprised that Sherlock's capable of hitting anyone- and so fast, too!- but his fist comes out of nowhere, connecting with Magnusson's jaw and cutting off his insults quite nicely.

It also has the added advantage of causing him to bite his own tongue.

The older man gasps and stumbles, his eyes flicking up disbelievingly to Sherlock. Aristocrats simply do not punch people they're annoyed with, his expression seems to say, and in that Molly would normally agree.

But her Sherlock isn't any stuffy old aristocrat, now is he?

Sherlock, being Sherlock, shoots him a grin so smug Molly's fairly certain it could be considered justification for murder. "Oh bugger off," he says to Magnusson. "If anyone was getting debauched in that grotto it was me- Thank God."

And he looks down at Molly, his smile gentling, and strokes a stray tendril of hair from her face. It really is rather… scintillating, all that focus brought to bear on her.

Her skin tingles with the pleasure of it.

"Publish and be damned," he tells the newspaper magnate, still smiling down at his fiancée. "Lord Hadleigh owes me rather a lot of favours and he owns The London Tribune- He'll print whatever I tell him and I'm going to tell him a lot."

"We'll explain how I've reformed you," Molly says, nodding, glad he's cottoning on. That was her plan, after all. "We'll swear blind that the love of a good woman tamed the infamous bohemian, Sherlock Holmes. The public will be delighted and I'm afraid you, Mr. Magnusson, will appear rather an old prude in this scenario-"

Magnusson snorts. "Will I?" he snaps. "I very much doubt that. You've no idea how infamous your fiancé is or what people think of him. He's keeping Irene Adler in rooms at the Metropole and that's not even half of what we know. And you think anyone will believe that he gave all that lascivious behaviour up because he met you? Nonsense.

By the time you get the story out I'll already have ruined you."

"Not if we marry tonight. Right now." And Sherlock grins at her more widely, his eyes glinting with that light one sees when he's contemplating some new devilry.

Molly's not afraid to say she adores it.

"Darling," he says, still tenderly stroking her hair from her face, "would you mind terribly if we didn't have the big church monstrosity Mycroft's planning, with her Majesty and the Cabinet and all those other idiots? Would you mind a quiet little wedding? Preferably some time in the next half hour or so?"

She nods. She knows what he's talking about.

"I take it we'll have to break in?" she says and again his eyes alight with mischief.

"Best fiancée ever!" he crows. "And yes, we will."

"Will it be dangerous?" she asks and again he nods.

"Oh yes," he says. "Very. I'll need you to be very protective of me."

Again she reaches up and kisses him. "Sounds like a plan to me…Husband."

And with that he slings his arm around her waist and begins leading her from the platform. His grin is so bright it could probably rival the moon outside as he presses a kiss into the crown of her hair.

"We'd best get going, old bean," he calls carelessly to Magnusson. "Mycroft will want to have a chat with you though, Charlie, about misuse of surveillance equipment- As if he's one to talk."

And with that he and Molly make their way over to the ladder which led them to this platform.

Magnusson's staring at them in astonishment, genuinely not sure what to do though neither of them pay him any mind.

For both of them are thinking about the adventure that lies ahead of them, the adventure that will ensure even if Magnusson does publish, he's slandering a peer's wife and not some mere female doctor from Whitechapel. You see, there is only one place in all of England in which a couple can get married without a marriage licence, their family's permission, and without the Banns being read, and that place is Fleet Prison. Fleet bloody Prison.

Molly supposes that she's not surprised that she'll end up tying the knot in a jailhouse- I mean, just look at who I'm marrying, she thinks.

Magnusson watches his guests disperse via his camera obscura images, a glass of brandy in his hand. His tongue still aches from where he bit it and rage is crawling through him, pacing about his chest like a wolf.

He's been had, he thinks.

He's been had by Sherlock bloody Holmes and his little mouse of a mistress.

Calmly, without an ounce of drama, he takes his crystal brandy glass and hurls it against the wall to his left; It shatters on impact and he decides right then, right there that one of the servants will be beaten tonight for its loss, no matter how much they beg.

Because his plan had been excellent. Concise. Controlled. He had engaged Ms. Adler to spy on her comrades. He had invited Mycroft Holmes' toy army into his home and set them running through his maze, first through the introduction of Inspector Dimmock and his accusations, and thence through the arrival of one of his Whitechapel associates, Mr. Wozniak, and his rather large gun. He'd even let Mr. Holmes discover his beautiful observation suites below, hoping his deviancy would prove vulnerable to opportunity as well as suggestion-

The purpose of all this had been to test the metal of Mycroft's men and his brother, to see how they would react in a place in which he held all the power. Too see which of their number might be suitable to make his own. And then, when he had something on each of them, he would play his usual game of blackmail, the prize this time the secret service of the mighty British Empire-

It was a good plan, he thought. A prudent plan. An achievable plan- None of which had mattered.

Because Molly Hooper and her idiotic fiancé have doubtless just explained to that idiotic fiancé's brother just what sort of game Charles is playing and just who he was willing to play it with- Who he was willing to tamper with-

He's pretty much a walking dead man, he muses, his plans in tatters.

This time his gaze flickers across the room but there's nothing else to smash and again it occurs to him that a servant might be rather more fun to crack apart than a glass.

As he does so his gaze alight on the camera obscura image of his hallway though. He narrows his eyes, watching, and he sees Sir Henry Knight carry a dark-skinned young woman in his arms towards his waiting carriage. Her trousers and shirt are spattered in blood and there's blood on the young engineer's hands. His clothes. Under his fingernails.

It's on noticing this small detail that Charles picks up his homemade kinetoscopic device and starts to film the scene before him.

For as he watches Knight slowly, tenderly lifts the young up and deposits her in his carriage before taking off his coat and tucking it around her. She shakes her head and seems to murmur something in her sleep, her expression slashed with pain. Knight frowns, leans forward and brushes her hair from her face before placing a swift, chaste kiss on her forehead and then climbing into the carriage with her. Ms. Hooper's companion, Ms. Morstan, hops in with him but that's not important-

Charles knows only too well how to rid footage of pesky, inconvenient details like the presence of a chaperone or witness, he's done that before.

Slowly, slowly, the newspaper magnate puts his device down. He sits, tapping his finger against his lips as he thinks about what a turn this night has taken. What possibility has just presented itself. Far off he can hear the sound of footsteps, knows that either Mycroft Holmes is coming to speak to him or he has dispatched one of his servants with a summons to meet tomorrow-

None of which matters, he realises as he stares at his kinetoscopic device.

He doesn't need to own Mycroft.

He certainly doesn't need to own Sherlock Holmes or his little whore.

No, he muses, owning a brilliant engineer and someone Mycroft's grooming for service will work just as well, especially since everyone knows what a prude Sir Henry is-

He pictures the headline: "Knight and Dark-Skinned Beauty In Carriage Dalliance," he murmurs. "Sir Henry Knight and Foreign Mistress in Public Indecency Outrage."

Slowly, quietly, he smiles. Nods to himself. He can feel his anger receding, going to that place he locks it down until he can it out again. He still beats the maid who comes to clean up his mess but it's more out of glee than anything else.

Oh yes, he thinks, oh yes.

I am rather too clever for Mr. Sherlock bloody Holmes.

A/N As you may have noticed, this is not the most historically accurate fic and this chapter is another example. While there was a period- mainly in the 1700s- where Fleet Prison was indeed the only place outside of Scotland where those under the age of 21 and not in possession of their parents' approval (or a licence, or a reading of the Banns) could get married, by the Victorian Era the practice of "Irregular Marriages," had largely been done away with. On the other hand, this is Sherlock and Molly and well, we can't have them getting hitched like a normal couple, now can we? Hence yet another historical inconsistency was born. Ah well, it makes for a better story...