Epilogue
Molly woke early the next morning, wincing slightly with the discovery of a mild headache and a raging thirst, and she smiled ruefully. She may have overindulged just a little on the white wine front the night before. She stretched and sighed quietly and happily, unwilling to disturb Sherlock, who was sleeping deeply and quietly beside her. She slid out of their bed and threaded noiselessly into the bathroom, her toes curling into the thick pile woollen carpet. As she went through her morning ritual and then brushed her teeth, her mind slipped to the night before, and to Sherlock and Michael 'bringing down the house' with their music. They'd played for hours, with frequent stops for refreshment of the Guinness variety. Their audience had loved it; appreciating the undoubted skills of the two men and their intuitive rapport, their effortless synchronicity, as they elicited a musical odyssey from their instruments. Their music had evoked every emotion, from joy to plaintive sorrow, mischief to merriment, and it had swept their enraptured audience along with them through every nuance. It had been a very special evening.
She grabbed Sherlock's Irish rugby jersey out of her case and pulled it over her otherwise naked body. Grabbing a bottle of water from their fridge she stood greeting the new day at the floor to ceiling bay window of their suite; glorying in the stunning vista of Dingle Bay and the sea glistening in the early Spring sunlight. She gasped and then laughed as two strong arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her firmly off the ground, and then purred appreciatively as a lush mouth trailed firm kisses down the length of the back of her neck. She lifted one of Sherlock's hands to her mouth, kissing it gently as she nestled closer to him.
"You, Dr Hooper, have a lot to make up for after last night."
Molly rolled her eyes and swallowed back a giggle. Sherlock had honed the ability to sound petulant and sexy at the same time down to a fine art and the inevitable heat swept through her.
"Is that right; how so?" she enquired innocently.
"Well," he responded, "if you recall, last night in the bar, you promised to ravage me as soon as we got home; you performed a rather delectable, if a tad heavy footed, striptease as soon as the hotel door was locked, but, and here's the kicker Molly, when I came out of the bathroom, you were fast asleep."
Molly wriggled around to face him and he dropped her to her feet, but kept a firm hold of her hips, a teasing smile hovering over his lips. Smiling up at him, she reached up to stroke his face.
"And when, exactly, did I promise to ravage you? I don't recall saying that..." Sherlock smirked down at her as he gripped her hand and kissed her fingers.
"Every time you looked at me, and let's be honest Molly, you looked at me rather a lot."
Molly's eyes danced with laughter as she gazed up at him. She trailed her finger up along his bare chest and pretended to look repentant.
"You're right, my darling. That was a terrible thing to do. What can I do to make it up to you?"
Sherlock pretended to be actively considering it while he ran his hands under the hem of what was, technically his rugby shirt; although he had no intention of reclaiming it. He knew it's emotional significance to Molly. When his hand reached her bare backside his eyes popped with delight. He tugged the shirt up over her hips.
"Arms up Molly..." Molly's heart leapt at the familiar demand and she raised her arms languidly over her head, locking her eyes lovingly on his. He pulled the shirt over her head and smoothed her hair back in place with his long fingers. Then he grasped her head in his hands.
"You can start by kissing me," he demanded.
A knowing smile hovered on her lips as she whispered, with a catch in her voice, "you're too tall..."
He smiled in recollection of one of their earliest encounters, in Aoife's house. Gripping her hips tightly, he growled, "then get up here, Molly.
He lifted her effortlessly up and pressed her tightly against him as she wrapped her legs firmly around his waist. She clamped her lips on his mouth and did exactly as he'd directed, kissing him as if her life depended on it; as he carried her to their bed and felt himself harden in the inevitable response to this woman of his. He knew they had about two hours before they had to go to the memorial ceremony for Oisin Quinn; but as she surged up against him as he sank into her intoxicating heat, and she met him thrust for thrust, he wondered if a lifetime with her would be enough.
Exactly two hours later, the cortege of black Land Rovers left the hotel to make the short journey to the Slea Head Cliffside. The front and rear cars contained their armed security; their presence was non-negotiable to Mycroft Holmes. Nothing was going to happen to Aoife or her family on his watch and he was aware that word of this event had spread throughout Ireland, and further afield. Anyway, he smiled to himself, she wasn't the only VIP that would be in attendance. The Taoiseach had contacted him earlier that morning to tell him he'd managed to free up his diary, "well, it's for Aoife," he'd stated simply, and that was that. Her parents were behind them in the next car, and Sherlock and Molly behind them.
He sat beside a sombre and pensive Aoife. Even at her most solemn, she was staggeringly beautiful. She had refused to wear black, opting for a bespoke emerald green dress and matching fitted woollen coat, with high healed wedged black boots. Her hair fell in a glossy copper curtain around her shoulders and down her back. She turned to look across at him and then reached across and took his hand in hers. She twinned her slim fingers through his and squeezed his hand. She gazed at him, eyes glistening.
"Stay beside me?" She asked, quiet voiced and he squeezed her hand back gently, and then rolled his eyes in his signature look, and coaxed a smile from her.
"I have no intention of leaving your side, Aoife Quinn," he smiled at her then, and in a perfect Irish accent, he gently followed with "do ya know nothing?" and she spluttered out an indignant giggle.
"I know I bloody love you, Mycroft Holmes."
He kissed the back of her hand and told her that he loved her too, and wondered, for the umpteenth time, how he had got this lucky.
His phone rang with the particular pre-programmed tone of his senior agent and he listened to him in growing incredulity and then, as the cars began to slow down, he saw it for himself. Hundreds of people; men, women and young adults, were making their way, by foot, to the Cliffside. For as far as the eye could see, people were moving along the narrow national road in a slow procession, and they were still two miles away from the site. The people of Kerry, of Ireland, had come out in droves to honour Aoife and her murdered twin. A people compelled to pay their respects to the woman at his side. The woman who had provided tens of thousands of jobs, that had not made even one person redundant, even though the country had been plunged into an economic crash.
They knew that Aoife Quinn, unlike so many others, had not risked their jobs with reckless borrowing and overleverage that had been so disastrous and had decimated the other economic sectors. In fact, her company had helped to drag them out of the terrible recession and hold their heads up high throughout. That, and her national loyalty, her diplomacy in dealing with contentious issues in the North of Ireland, forging ever stronger relationships that had united the Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland and the British establishment in a peaceful understanding and agreement. Her tenacity in her battle with the Moriaritys, and her long fight for justice for her brother's murder had reinforced their respect for this daughter of Ireland, this modern day Warrior Queen who was a part of their DNA.
So they came. Through the fields, out of their houses, off buses and trains from further afield, and some of them had been travelling for hours.
The cortege ground to a halt and his security detail disembarked from their cars, shrugging helpless shoulders at Mycroft. Garda outriders roared up to their cars; their motorbikes the only vehicles with any chance of getting through the crowds. Mycroft's face blanched. This was a security nightmare. Aoife gaped at the scene, froze for a long minute and tears welled in her eyes, but she quickly gathered herself and recovered. Noticing the taut concern on Mycroft's face she smiled at him and shook her head.
"These are my people, Mycroft and they are doing what the Irish do. They are showing their respect. I…, we, are in no danger here. Come on my love, we're walking from here." He stared at her and his mighty brain just could barely compute what was happening, could not control what was happening, and he shook his head and laughed out loud. She was right. There was no danger here. He had no factual evidence to support what he knew in his guts to be true. Nobody would dare to harm a hair on her head, because these incredible people simply would not allow it. He would not allow it. His brother would not allow it. Michael would not allow it.
The Gardaí were already taking the wreath from the boot of one of their cars and putting it on the back of a Garda motorbike. Michael roared up behind them on a high powered motorcycle, in full black swat team regalia, and as Sherlock and Molly reached them, he moved rear guard, while the uniformed outriders took both sides and Mycroft's agents stood discreetly aside but were never more than ten feet away from any of them. The thunderous sound of a helicopter flying overhead, flying steadily and then swept over the people and on towards the cliff, the Government insignia, the golden harp, emblazoned on its side. A low murmur echoed through the crowds, still walking determinedly forwards. Their Taoiseach had arrived.
The young bodhran player from the night before, stepped out of the crowd and nodded at Aoife and then standing in front of them, began drumming a slow tribal beat as he escorted the chief mourners. The people were almost silent as they walked down the country road. Even the younger ones were happy to listen to the drumming and were sensitive to the atmosphere; to the sounds of seabirds screeching overhead, the shuffling foot-threads of many hundreds of people, and somewhere, an uilleann pipe's plaintive evocative sound picked up and accompanied the drummer.
Mycroft felt his brother give him a not to gentle punch in the back and smothered a grin. Sherlock had known he was floundering, of course he had and had done it to earth him again. He heard his deep gravelly chuckle, so completely inappropriately perfect, as he exclaimed loudly "Mikey, we are so buying a house here. Get on it, will you, for heaven's sake! You're taking ages!" There was a shocked silence and then Michael and Aoife spluttered with laughter. Her parents began to laugh beside them. Molly's horrified giggle could be heard next and then the Garda bikers joined in and on it went in a wave of laughter through the crowds. He could feel the tension pouring out of Aoife and consequently, out of himself, and Mycroft thought that he'd never loved his bloody brother more. So he turned and looked him in the eyes and conveyed it without words and his younger brother gave him his trademark smirk and nodded at him as his pathologist hugged his arm.
As they arrived at the fateful clifftop the people made way to let them through. The Priest awaited them at his makeshift plinth and smiled at Aoife and her parents. The musicians had gathered behind him and the Taoiseach nodded respectfully to the Quinn's and the Holmes brothers; encompassing Molly and Michael in his gaze. Mycroft nodded back. Aoife squeezed his hand once more and then releasing it, she walked forward to embrace the canny, kindly politician, and he hugged her tightly back. She walked back to him and took his hand again. Then the Priest cleared his throat and began the Mass.
Even the notoriously unpredictable west of Ireland weather had stayed kind to them today, Mycroft thought, as his eyes once again swept over the stark and stunning beauty of the high cliffs, the sea was bright blue, reflecting the sky and the sun glistened on the majestic Blasket Islands just a mile or so offshore, as the final notes of the dignified and poignant ceremony ceased. After the Mass, Aoife's father had brought long and steady claps of appreciation from the crowd with his eulogy to his son and his expression of deep gratitude to the people for the respect they had shown his family. They honoured him; they humbled him, he told them and his voice broke more than once in the telling. Then Aoife took the wreath and walked to the cliff edge and it was all Mycroft could do not to leap forward and drag her back. She stared out to sea for a long moment and then she threw the wreath over the cliff and it disappeared from sight. She turned and looked at the crowds of people and smiled over them and nodded her head with gratitude at their astonishing display of respect and support. Then her eyes settled on Mycroft and she walked steadily and gracefully into his open arms. A loud applause rang through the crowd and she laughed into his chest but refused to move. He gripped her tightly and gave a tight smile and nod to the people himself, and they seemed to understand and began to leave, with the same spirit of comradery with which they'd arrived.
They flew back to the hotel with the Taoiseach and enjoyed a boisterous lunch. Sherlock was antsy though. It was time for he and Molly to leave; time for them to be alone together in Aoife's house in Wicklow. They'd both longed for it, dreamt about it throughout their long separation, and enough was enough. A promise was a promise. He'd arranged for their stuff to be packed into one of Aoife's Land Rovers. He'd arranged for the house to be stocked up with supplies, arranged for yellow roses to be throughout the house to greet her, because he knew Molly loved them; arranged for her Harve Lager dress to be waiting on their bed, and arranged something else too, smiling at the special delivery from London that morning, more specifically, from his very enthusiastic and emotional Mother. He tugged her hand as she chatted to Aoife in the restaurant and she looked up at him and read him with just a glance.
"We're going now Aoife," she said, a little catch in her voice, "thank you for your house, for everything. We'll see you soon in London." She hugged her hard, hugged Mycroft and Michael, and then she took Sherlock's hand and walked out of the hotel, and he kissed her softly and lovingly at the hotel entrance. Then he led her to the car and into their future; together.
