True History! The great New Westminster fire of 1898 devastated the city. Though the city's fire department (with assistance from the Vancouver fire department) fought valiantly, a large swath of the city was left in ashes. A valve on the city's main fire suppression piping was mistakenly left closed sometime previously in the year. This meant there was insufficient water pressure to contain the blaze at the docks where it originated. Despite efforts, the fire spread up the hill through the downtown core and continued its destruction until it reached Royal Avenue. This extra-wide street acted as a fire-break which miraculously prevented the raze of the rest of the city.
Still, by the time the sun rose the next morning, over one-third of New Westminster was lost to fire including all the businesses downtown, the courthouse, the public library, Chinatown and more. The fire forever altered the course of New Westminster's history. Most of the long-time Asian immigrants left the city and rebuilt their community in Vancouver. New Westminster saw an overall decline in population from other people who did not choose to rebuild in addition to the loss of businesses and influence to the burgeoning port of Vancouver. Today, it is one of the smaller cities in the region with a modest footprint and one-tenth the population of Vancouver.
The views in these pictures are of Columbia street in the days following the fire. The residents were a plucky lot. The next day, Reichenbach Butcher's set up a temporary shop in the form of a tent outside their incinerated building.
Miraculously, no one died in the great fire save for an older ethnic-Chinese merchant who succumbed to a heart attack.
"I love you . . ."
Sherlock watched Molly's opaque form walk towards him out of the soupy white fog, but it was not fog. He coughed a few times. His lungs prickled and his throat burned. Smoke rose from the doused embers all around them. A delicate, petal-like flake, the remnants of burnt paper, drifted by his face. When he tried to bat it away, it disintegrated through his fingers and he tasted the acrid bitterness of its ash.
Molly flicked a tendril of hair back and grabbed her skirts to lift them as she stepped over a boot lying in the street. Suddenly, the hulking form of her Uncle Milton appeared behind her leering like a demon from the pits of hell. He wrapped a meaty arm around her waist. Sherlock's heart seized as she screamed and kicked her legs out. For a second, he was paralyzed. Then, he reached for her but the ground shifted and disappeared beneath his feet. He fell through burning timbers and fire until he was flung head-long into a pool of flames.
"I love you . . ."
He couldn't breathe. There was only blackness. Molly cried it out again as if she was they were her last words.
"I love you . . ."
"Huh!"
Sherlock awoke with a start. He flailed a moment before he caught his balance and realized he had drifted off after sitting down on a barrel. He sat up and snapped his head so quickly looking for his wife that a pang shot up his neck. He squinted at the harsh whiteness of the daylight before his eyes adjusted.
That is when he saw Molly walking towards him along the grassy bank just off Royal Avenue with her arm around the shoulders of a smaller form. He blinked a few times and realized she consoled none other than Mrs. Chan, his long-time supplier of exotic dried goods and scourge of Redbeard's diet. The older Chinese woman's crimson sheath dress was dusty, her face pale. She looked like a ghost of herself, but then, so did many of the residents struggling with the aftermath of the fire.
"Mrs. Chan," Sherlock nodded as he stood.
"M-Mr. Holmes," she dipped her head and held out a palm, "Mr. Holmes, may I say, it has been a privilege to know you."
Sherlock took the old woman's hand and stuttered his gratitude. The haggard woman smiled wanly and scrutinized him as if she gazing upon a portrait in a gallery. Then, like that, she was away. Molly helped her into a waiting cart and it trundled down the street past piles of furniture and people. He watched the cart and the solitary figure in its bed retreat until it was obfuscated by the lingering haze of New Westminster's ruination.
He turned to Molly. A frown tightened his features. For a few seconds, he was at a loss for words. His lips formed questions that refused to leave his lips. Finally, he cleared his throat.
"Wh-Why do I feel as if that might be the last time I see Mrs. Chan?" He asked, his voice rough with emotion.
The sadness in Molly's eyes struck him like a lashing. Instantly, his stomach turned to lead.
"She lost everything, Sherlock, everything. She and her husband fought for hours to save their shop but . . . h-he fell," Molly slapped a hand to her collar and hiccupped a sob, "h-he s-s-suffered a fit of some sort and d-died. She goes to her cousin in Vancouver."
Sherlock reeled back but Molly's misery kept his feet grounded. He reached for her and drew her to his chest. She sniffled and leaned on him. She felt so small in his arms, so fragile. Yet, she had worked tirelessly alongside him assisting displaced residents all night like a miniature draft horse. From helping to corral the chaos of the initial evacuation to the comforting of families who watched their homes burn, Molly had been there like an angel of mercy. His angel. He could not be more proud to stand by her side. He listened her draw in a quivering breath.
"I-I hope you do not mind but I indebted us to Joseph Carlisle for the cost of her transport."
He shook his head and hugged her tightly. "Of course not. Thank-you. Thank-you for making that arrangement."
Sherlock clutched at Molly as she slumped in his arms. Mrs. Chan's tragedy was momentarily forgotten.
"Molly?"
She held fast to his torso. "Oh, oh, I-I am sorry."
He wagged his head and scooped her up into his arms even as she weakly protested. "You are exhausted, my darling. It is time for a rest."
"No!" she wriggled feebly in his arms. "No, there is still so much to do-"
Sherlock carried her to where Redbeard nibbled at some long grass around the base of a power pole. "Trust me, this mess is not disappearing any time soon. I am taking you home."
Molly blubbered something unintelligible and burst into tears. Her misery was so palpable that Sherlock felt his own eyes sting. He sucked in a breath and murmured a few soothing platitudes as much for himself as for his devastated wife.
"I do not want to go home," she cried.
"Wh-? Why?"
She wiped her eyes as she leaned her head wearily on his chest. "It does not f-feel right."
He kissed her forehead. He was not at all surprised by her reticence.
"My dear wife, you are in no way responsible for this disaster nor should you feel any guilt for still having a home in which to return. It is a happy thing, for us and for all our neighbors. Rejoice for them, if not for us."
Sherlock felt Molly stiffen in his arms inexplicably. He looked down at her just as her eyes flitted to her hand on his chest. She curled her fingers and retracted them. He frowned, the strain of it bunched the skin between his eyes. What was he missing? How could he cradle his wife yet there existed such a desolate gulf between them? He gave his head a shake. He must be imagining things. Molly loved him. She had said as much the previous evening. It had to be be the exhaustion driving her within herself.
"Yes, that is what ails Molly. She just needs to go home."
He ignored the sounds of bells tolling deeper within.
Two days later . . .
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes! Sit down!"
Sherlock blinked lazily at Chief Lestrade, retracted his wrists and adjusted his cuffs. "Not here to arrest me then?"
Lestrade sighed and doffed his cap. He rolled his eyes and yanked at the hem of his dusty, dark blue uniform. One of the brass buttons near the throat had gone missing. Sherlock felt a pinch of guilt. Given the state of Lestrade's uniform, he doubted very much that the officer had even had a chance to return home to change.
"You know very well the warrant has been quashed."
Sherlock sauntered back to his chair near the hearth in Mycroft's study and plunked down. "Do I?"
"Magistrate, is he pulling my leg?" Lestrade directed his question to Mycroft seated behind his desk.
Mycroft raised his head. He slanted eyes sideways to his younger brother.
"Sherlock is aware the judge who signed his warrant has been arrested on bribery charges over the matter. So, yes, I would say he is amusing himself at your expense. Help yourself to some scotch if you like, Lestrade, and feel free to take a seat."
The corner of Lestrade's mouth tweaked up. He skipped to the hutch on the wall adjacent to Mycroft's desk, next to Sherlock, poured himself a generous helping of the caramel-hued spirit and plopped down opposite from the younger Holmes.
"What brings you here if not to arrest me then, officer?" Sherlock drawled.
Again, Lestrade looked over to Mycroft as if seeking permission to speak. Mycroft sighed and flicked up his fingers.
"I keep no confidences from my little brother," he muttered, "whether I would wish to or not. Please, make haste with your update."
Lestrade imbibed in another swig of scotch. He cleared his throat.
"Oy, well, we rounded up about two dozen of the invaders east of town and that looks to be the lot of the ones who made it ashore. Two of the ships sank. By my estimate, upwards of one-hundred and fifty men went down in the deepest part of the river. The tribe down the way has started collecting some of the ones who have washed ashore but I do not know how many will ever be recovered. One vessel managed to limp down river. They did make it out to the straight and down to Point Roberts so, unfortunately, they are already state-side and beyond our reach."
Mycroft nodded. He exhaled as if relieved.
Lestrade frowned. "Are you pleased about that, Magistrate? That they have escaped justice?"
The older Holmes laughed. "Oh, rest assured, Chief, they have hardly done that."
"Will they be arrested by the authorities there then?"
Mycroft smiled tightly. "You might say that."
Sherlock finally sat forward and steepled his fingers together under his nose.
"You mean to sweep this whole invasion under the rug," he murmured.
Mycroft's brows arched. His lips turned down.
"You disapprove?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Not at all, it is exactly what I would advise."
Chief Lestrade sputtered through his next sip and coughed. "The pair of you are mad! Should not the whole world know about this? The bloody Americans tried to overthrow our western shore."
Sherlock wagged his head slowly again. "This plot does not appear to be sanctioned by the American federal government. Though, with Professor Moriarty's involvement, I do not know if we can ever be certain about that. Mycroft and I disagree about his role."
It was a complicated scenario. Even as Sherlock described the plot to Chief Lestrade, it hardly seemed plausible to his own ears. Anthea had been the first one to piece together the destabilization of the province's security. Then the question had become why? Why would anyone risk such an exercise?
The impetus had been gold fever. Milton Hooper had staked a massive claim in the interior of British Columbia, but he had gone bankrupt through various schemes and risked losing his claim to creditors. So, he had faked his death. Molly inherited his estate and that was why she had been lured from England. Milton's loyal partner Woodley was to become her husband so they could regain control of the claim.
However, they still required a massive investment to be able to extract the gold. That was where the very wealthy and connected Californian Governor William Davidson, the father of Woodley's young helper, came in. The Governor was interested in far more than riches, though. Per Mary, he lusted to forge his own place in history and expand the United States northward. Yet, he was not so bold as to carry out an outright attack. Milton Hooper offered an absolvable avenue to test the defenses of western Canada. Milton promised to facilitate the attack in exchange for support in starting up his mine.
Yet, a will and a way was not enough. The Californian contingent of plotters were prescient enough to know their occupation of British Columbia would take more than a staged assault on New Westminster. Sherlock figured they sought consultation and believed Professor Moriarty was the mind behind the destabilization of British Columbia. Likely, he was hired by Governor Davidson or one of his allies to come up with a design to make it happen. The rejected treaty talks, the abandoned police outposts, the plot to discredit Sherlock and by association Mycroft via a murder plot were all chess pieces in a game to set up a fall, the fall of a nation. This level of planning was the work of a brilliant strategist, in his opinion.
"I disagree about Moriarty's involvement, of course," Mycroft interjected as he leaned back and his chair squeaked in protest, "the Professor was the one who first informed me that Mary Morstan was an American operative. Mary confirmed that Moriarty had tried to wheedle information from her about why she was in New Westminster. I think he was working as an intelligence operative for our government and came here to disrupt the plot."
Sherlock snorted.
"Even if your conjecture is true, this does not make him friendly," he muttered, "and I would not be overly trustful of Ms. Morstan even though she has seemingly confessed all. I think it is very possible that there is another figure we are unaware of pulling some strings here who she might be afraid to reveal. Both Moriarty and Mary could have been employed independently to facilitate this plot. Moriarty might have contacted her in a ploy to suss out his competition."
Lestrade's lips had long since curved into an upside-down arc. His eyes were wide with an undisguised perplexed look. He looked down at his empty drink.
"Lordy, you were right about it being complicated."
Sherlock reached way over and grabbed the decanter full of scotch. He handed it to Lestrade who promptly poured himself another helping, then sat back and crossed his legs.
"Yes, and though Mycroft and I disagree about some points, neither of us think it is in anyone's interest to telegraph British Columbia's vulnerabilities and possibly panic the populace, especially after this fire. The last thing we need is the rest of the city emptying."
"Indeed," Mycroft murmured, he stretched his neck, "we do not know the level of commitment the Governor and his cronies have. Anthea has contacted her cousin Senator Franklin Dunn to inform him of the plot and he is gathering support to try to move against the Governor. In the meantime, I have appraised our Premier of the situation and requested additional federal resources in the form of troops under the guise we need help recovering from the fire. Hopefully, in a few weeks' time we will begin to patch up the holes in the province's defenses."
Chief Lestrade sighed. His glass hovered at his lips for a few seconds before he lowered it again without taking a sip. He shook his head. His eyes rounded as if stunned by a thought.
"Blimey, a third of my city burned down and I find myself grateful for it."
The three men in the study fell silent for a spell. Mycroft's mantel clock ticked like the incessant snapping of twigs. Sherlock's heart inexplicably beat faster during the interlude and his throat began to close. Suddenly, every sound was torture within his ears. Each sip Lestrade took from his tumbler dragged through his lips like the grinding of wooden wheels over gravel. Mycroft's shallow breaths rasped like paper rubbed together. Sherlock's limbs began to weigh down as if they were transforming to stone. He had thought it wouldn't be an issue if he ventured to his brother's home to discuss recent events, but he had been mistaken about how seriously he had been affected by everything. The last few days had been non-stop action which was his milieu. He could do anything in the grip of adrenaline, but quiet moments like this were his undoing. He felt one of his fits coming on as he relived his desperate race to save his wife, the stand-off inside the warehouse, the fire and the final confrontation with her Uncle. Would he never experience a moment's respite from fearing for her safety, he wondered? His next thought sent him into a spiral.
Sherlock had left Molly at Ash Street. How could he have done that? He attempted to talk himself down from the anxiety pushing him to the edge of a precipice but his fear became a deafening roar. Even though he had nothing to worry about with Wiggins watching things from the carriage house, visions of returning home to carnage consumed him. He tried to swallow but the lump refused to go down.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice sounded strangely distant.
Sherlock shakily uncrossed his legs, planted his feet and turned his numb face towards his brother. A flicker of recognition coloured Mycroft's expression. He lifted his chin and stared pointedly at Sherlock.
"Release that breath you hold, brother mine," he cajoled in a steady voice.
It took several more seconds but eventually, Sherlock became aware of how his lungs burned.
"Huuuh," the air expunged from his chest like a gush of water.
He gasped and panted until feeling return to his limbs. Lestrade's wide eyes regarded him with concern. Mycroft's lips set in a thin line. His face was flushed.
"F-Forgive me," Sherlock cleared his throat, "I think it is about time I take my leave."
Mycroft's head bobbed. "Yes, I am certain my dear sister-in-law is quite anxious without you."
Sherlock stared at Mycroft through unblinking eyes until his heart rate slowed. Mycroft had called Molly his sister-in-law without irony. It was enough to distract Sherlock from his crush of panic as he contemplated what that meant for their family. He pushed up from his seat and straightened his waistcoat before buttoning his blazer.
"Chief . . . Mycroft . . . if you will excuse me."
If Sherlock thought returning home would alleviate his affliction, he found he was mistaken the moment he crossed his threshold.
Molly's trunk occupied a spot ominously at the base of the stairs in the front foyer. He puzzled at its placement as he removed his coat and boots. While he contemplated the unexpected sight, his wife descended the stairs wearing one of her newer pin-striped day dresses and the hat he had bought. His eyes flicked to the trunk and then back up at her again. Illumination blinded him like a flash of lightning.
"Y-You are leaving me," he stuttered.
Molly dropped her chin just as she came to a stop next to her trunk. The feather on her hat quivered while she shakily donned a pair of gloves. As she stared down at her hands, her face drained of colour. He watched her throat move as she swallowed
"Yes, yes," she stammered, "I think this is b-best for both of us."
Sherlock's eyes twitched and his vision blurred. He shook the fog from his mind and raised his head as if a flood rose around him.
"Forgive me, but this does not make any sense. H-How is this in either of our interests?" His lids fluttered.
He unbuttoned his jacket and pulled the cravat at his throat. Once more, as he experienced at his brother's home, he labored to breathe. The fit he had had there began to make more sense. He must have been subconsciously aware that Molly had planned to do this. Maybe that is why he had felt the overwhelming compulsion to return home.
She raised her gaze. Her eyes were large and glistened with unshed tears.
"I cannot . . . I cannot live my life being a burden," she rasped. "That is all I have been from the moment I entered your world. I see it in your eyes every time you look at me. Now your burden has become mine. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see you unhappy-"
Sherlock advanced a few steps and paused to gather himself but his constitution was nothing more than a melting bowl of gelatin. He moved again but his legs gave out and he slumped to his knees in front of Molly. For several seconds he hung his head and gulped back his misery, his misery for having ever made her think of herself that way. Finally, he glanced up, shaking his head.
"You are not a burden. Oh, my dear heart, you are not a burden."
Her lips trembled. Sherlock reached out and took her hands. With a growl of frustration, he tugged each of the gloves from her hands and tossed them aside. Then he desperately kissed her fingers. His entire frame shook as if he had just stepped from the Fraser River sopping wet and freezing cold. He had to make her understand. He did not know what he would do without his Molly.
"I swear to you," he panted as he looked up at her imploringly, "I swear it on my life, the only burden you foist upon me is the fear of something or someone taking you from me."
Tears ran down Molly's cheeks. Her nose had begun to turn pink. She sniffled.
"Please," Sherlock begged, "please do not let that person be you. Do not take yourself away from me. I . . . I could n-not survive it."
Her eyebrows crinkled and she wagged her head as if in disbelief. Then, she crouched down, cupped his face and jerked it once in frustration.
"These past few days," she hiccuped, "y-you have been so distant. I thought . . . I thought you might have come to realize that you could not return my feelings-"
Sherlock clutched at her waist. "These past few days I have been trying not to fall all over my wife because she has just been through an incredible trauma and I love her too much to subject her to my ravenous desires."
Molly's eyes went very large and very round. "Y-You wh-what?"
Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He had never outright told her how he felt. What a sorry sod he had been!
"I love you, Molly Holm-"
Before he could finish, his tiny wife launched herself forward to kiss him but instead, she toppled him. He caught her as they went back and then rolled them both over until she was under him. Determined to render her entirely unfit to venture outside, he plucked the pins from her hat and whipped it across the room. She snaked an arm behind his neck and tried to pull him down for a kiss but he laughed against her mouth.
"You did not let me finish," he murmured, "I lov-"
This time, Molly arched herself up and greedily mashed their lips together. Sherlock groaned and chased her lips back down until she rested her head on the floor. Her mouth parted and he succumbed to the lust he had been erroneously repressing. Beneath him she wriggled and her hips bucked. He deepened his kiss, savoring the feel of her jaw moving in tune with his, her wet warmth and the neediness of her tongue as it coaxed his to play. The knot of tension in his gut transformed to something else and he felt his loins stir. When Molly disentangled a leg from her skirts and hooked it over his calf, he snapped his head back.
"Molly Holmes, good god, let me bare my soul to you before we bare anything else," he breathed.
"You love me," she mumbled with a look of hooded satisfaction to her eyes, "that is more than enough confession to sustain me a lifetime."
He settled more of his weight onto her slight frame. It was everything he could do not to gather her up and carry her upstairs to his – their – room. He brushed a few stray tendrils from her face. Everything about her was perfection is his eyes, from her pert nose to her stubborn little chin.
"But it is not enough for me. Molly, when you informed me that you loved me two nights ago . . . I must admit, I did not have full faith in your feelings. I could not fathom anyone loving me, especially not the woman of my dreams."
Her lips fell open. "O-Oh, Sherlock, you are too ridiculous!"
He kissed her briefly. "I thought I would allow you some time before I made a blubbering fool of myself. I wanted to give you a chance to change your mind."
"Never," she shook her head.
"And if you did not change your mind, I wanted to reciprocate my regard properly, to tell you in a manner you deserve . . . aaarg, not . . . not like this, damn!"
Molly's fingers curled into the hair at his nape. "What is wrong with this-"
At that moment, footsteps creaked across the floor.
"Oop! Good lord!"
Both Sherlock and Molly turned their attention to Mrs. Hudson standing above them with her hand to her chest. The older woman heaved in a breath and wagged her head.
"Not on my rug, Sherlock," she warbled, "and Molly! You naughty child!"
He glanced down to see Molly swallow and tuck her lips in.
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson."
Mrs. Hudson huffed. "You two! Hmph, for the love of God, take it up stairs."
Sherlock smirked. "Gladly."
He scrambled up from the floor, then helped Molly up. In the next instant, he scooped her into his arms. Her face went several shades of pink.
"This might be a good time for you to visit your Mr. Moore, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock advised as he climbed the stairs with Molly in his arms.
At their backs, Mrs. Hudson made a sound and her footfalls retreated rapidly towards the back of the house.
Molly hastily pushed her dress off her shoulders while Sherlock yanked his shirt over his head. Her tummy turned over and then inside out with the look of heat in his eyes. Only seconds later, he crossed the floor naked and fully aroused as she kicked aside her drawers. Next thing she knew, she was tackled to their bed with her husband's considerable weight and straining erection rubbing over her cleft.
"Is this real?" He breathed against her lips.
"Yes," she panted, sliding her feet back towards her until her knees were bent wide apart
"And you are mine?" His voice was incredibly low.
"You know that I am."
Molly brought her hand to her mouth and slathered her fingers with saliva. She needed to be possessed by him, she didn't care that she wasn't entirely ready. She reached between her legs and rubbed the wetness over her sex. She did that once more before closing her hand around Sherlock's manhood and guiding it to her entry. As soon as she felt the press of him, she slid her hand over the tight curve of his bum and urged him forward.
"Molly, there is no need to be hasty," he whispered.
"Take me, husband," she pleaded, "take me, please. I need you."
Sherlock cursed as she thrust her hips up. With a grunt, his thick member plunged into her canal until his hips jerked her towards the headboard. It was savage and her body resisted him with a sticky friction but at the same time, it was everything she hoped she would feel. Her entire inner chamber felt a bit chafed. She moaned. Slowly he moved until he partially retracted. Her body clung to him and then her sex tingled and began to infuse with moisture.
"Unh!" She cried as he pushed back in.
Again, she felt a pulse and sting of arousal. His next stroke slid a bit easier and he was able to pull back a bit more. Still, his return was raw and it wasn't until he pumped in and out of her a half dozen times that his shaft became slick. Then, it was very slick, as if coated with the slipperiest of lubricants.
"Mmm . . . good god, Molly, you are so wet," he muttered.
Molly practically thrashed beneath him as she widened herself to him and dug her fingers into his flexing arse. His manhood was brutally hard and every time he thrust into her and buried himself to his base, she felt a burn of stretch deep in her body. Still, she urged him to increase his pace and the force with which he took her until she was but a vessel for him to act out his animalistic need. She closed her eyes then and lived in that moment. Their bodies were dripping with sweat, her breasts were squashed beneath his chest; her nipples rubbed raw by the friction of his chest hair. She felt the stirring of her release at the juncture of her thighs where his engorged flesh pressed like a fleshy rod against her most sensitive nub. She squeezed him tightly, aching to foster that decadent feeling.
"Huh," she hissed as her sex throbbed.
Sherlock cursed. "I cannot go on for much longer with you doing that . . . oh, hell!"
Molly clamped on him again. She was nearly there. It only took a few more thrusts before she felt herself spinning like a top. Then, a last stroke into her body unbalanced that top and it flew out of control. She keened and sobbed as a spasm wracked her body.
"Molly!" he growled.
One, final shuddering plunge into her quivering body did Sherlock in. He came with a roar like a lion proclaiming his territory. He pushed her an inch or two up the bed as he emptied with a jerk. His shaft twitched and the muscles along its length cascaded like toppling blocks. Several spurts emptied into her body even as he continued to pump faintly into her womb.
"Hmmmmph," he grunted into her collar, "hmmmmph."
They laid there for awhile, a mass of tired limbs until Sherlock withdrew from her warmth with a groan. He collapsed back down beside her and gathered her to him.
"I love you," he kissed her temple, "stay with me. Be my wife, my partner."
Molly nodded. "Truly? You want all of that? A wife . . . a family?"
His fingers curved behind her ear. "Yes, darling. I would not have married you otherwise."
Her nose wrinkled. "But . . . you did not even know me . . . and I was dying!"
"I knew you," he murmured, "I knew you."
Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. Several damp curls fell over his forehead. Large pupils with a sliver of blue-green regarded her seriously. Fingers traced over her brow lovingly.
"I knew the moment I set eyes upon you that you were mine, Molly Holmes."