Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And as always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. But for now… Onwards!

POISE AND RATIONALITY

The broken glass doesn't work- Because of course it doesn't, he's getting to kiss Molly.

It is only now that he's doing so that he realises how much he has wanted to do so, and for how long.

At the shock of ice-cold champagne spattering his face however, Sherlock pulls back. Blinks in discombobulation. Even as he does so, however, he shifts so that Molly is behind him, effectively hiding her identity. Something low and fierce and protective is growling in his chest and it has been there since the moment he laid eyes on her tonight.

It is telling him to keep what is his from harm.

"What?" he snaps, blinking, as a young boy in evening dress steps out of the ballroom and onto the veranda. It's one of the younger Castlereaghs, Archie, he thinks. The lad's face is red as he shifts from foot to foot. "Esme sent me," he stammers. He glances worriedly over his shoulder then back to Sherlock: the last time Sherlock saw someone look that nervous, Napoleon's troops were marching over the horizon. "She told me to tell you- That is, she says to inform you that Doctor, um, Doctor Watson is here-"

"What?"

What the devil is John doing here?

The boy nods. "He- He is speaking to Miss Watson and my sisters and, and he appears to be rather…"

The boy trails off, apparently unable to think of a polite euphemism for In Need Of Handling.

Sherlock can sympathize: Tact is seldom a skill which thirteen year olds have mastered.

"Go," Molly says quietly from behind him. A hand at his back, small and warm and then her fingers brush his. The heat of it is so soothing. He turns, still shielding her from the boy's sight, but when he looks down at her, her expression is resolute. "Go, speak to Doctor Watson," Molly murmurs. "Esme is a sensible girl: she wouldn't have sent for you if she didn't think you were needed-"

"What about you?"

The words slip out of his mouth before he really thinks them through; Molly cocks an eyebrow and immediately he inclines his head, acknowledging her unspoken retort.

She can take care of herself. He knows that. Nevertheless-

"Walk this lady around to the side doors and bring her to the ladies' retiring room," he tells the boy crisply. A pause, as he presses a single kiss to Molly's knuckles before releasing her. His chest tightens painfully as he does. "If anyone asks, she required some air and you brought her out here- Is. That. Clear. Lad?"

The young Castlereagh nods, gulping. "Yes sir." He snaps to attention, moving out into the dark and offering his arm to Molly. "I can try not to look at your face, if you want," he offers shyly, "so I can say I didn't recognise you-"

This causes Molly to roll her eyes and chuckle as she falls into step beside him. "To the side of the house, young man, if you please," she says. "Keep your eyes on the path and all will be well."

They start moving off and Sherlock hears her tell the boy that she's pleased to see him so obedient to his older sister.

"It is better to be the left hand of the Devil than to be in her path," the lad mutters darkly before grinning, apparently delighted when Molly laughs at his quip.

It seems that Molly's charms have probably claimed another victim, Sherlock thinks dryly, but then of course they have.

As the two disappear into the darkness he squares his shoulders and heads back into the ballroom. It's not hard to find John: he merely looks for the one location to which everyone in the ballroom is trying pointedly not to pay attention. For though London society thrives on scandal, the Castlereaghs are far too popular and powerful for anyone to feel comfortable gawking at their possible faux pas.

No, better to pretend that nothing of note is happening.

The group with whom Rosemund is standing are situated in the farthest corner of the ballroom, well lit by candles but muffled by acoustics, and thus John can be seen but his words cannot yet be heard. Unfortunately, however, it is clear even from Sherlock's vantage point that John is both quite irritable and more than a little drunk.

Alas, this is not an unusual state for him since Mary's death, as Sherlock well knows.

So he starts making his way through the room as unobtrusively as possible. Rosie is standing in the middle of a crowd of Castlereaghs, Georgiana and Esme at her elbow and a boy of about seventeen whom Sherlock recognises as the Castlereagh heir, Gregory, standing protectively at her back. The boy is trying- without success- to keep John calm, something the doctor is making difficult by gesticulating sharply at Rosie-

As charming as she is, this is more than the girl can handle, Sherlock thinks- Nor should she have to do so.

As has so often happened since he returned to London, this thought makes Sherlock feel very, very old.

By now he's within earshot of Watson though; the good doctor is given warning of his approach by the somewhat relieved look on Georgiana's face. Sherlock feels the tension swirling in the room evaporate, the crowd tacitly turning their attention from what might have turned into an incident now that he is intervening.

Good.

"John," Sherlock says warmly, patting his friend's shoulder and smiling. It's rather an odd turnaround in their relationship that these days, he's the one who tries to ensure that others make allowances for John Watson. "You should have told me you were going to come along," he continues smoothly, still keeping his voice light and friendly. "Rosie and I would have sent the carriage-"

"Oh, I had no intention of warning you," John says with a sharp smile.

This close Sherlock can smell the brandy underneath his pomade and cologne.

This, too, is not unexpected.

The doctor's tone is friendly but it has an edge of anger. It is a humour which Sherlock has encountered many times before, and one which he has no intention of allowing to be displayed in front of Rosemund or anyone else. John insisted on her having her bloody season, Sherlock will not permit him to ruin it for her. So-

"Well," he says lightly, "consider me surprised! I say, there's probably a decent enough card game going on in the Smoking Room, should you like to deal yourself in and we can play a few hands?"

John's smile grows sharper.

"Ah," he says, "but that would mean leaving Rosemund without her chaperone, now wouldn't it?" His eyes glitter, something knowing in their depths. Something… belligerent. Sly. Sherlock likes this not at all. "Although," Watson adds, leaning into his friend and poking him in the chest, "it's not as if you have been spending much time keeping an eye on Rosie, now have you?"

"Papa!" Rosie hisses, mortified. This is not an easy thing to do to Mary Watson's child.

Esme, Millie and Georgiana gasp, hiding their faces behind their fans; Gregory Castlereagh's hands tighten into fists. The boy is obviously not willing to allow his sisters to be insulted, nor their friends- Not that John seems to notice.

"No lip from you, girl," he snaps at Rosie, "I'll have plenty to say to you when we're home, I know what you've been up to..."

"And what do you think she's been up to, John?" Sherlock asks, forcing his voice to remain calm and reasonable. "What precisely do you think your daughter and I have done?"

At the pointedness of the question their little group draws in a breath: A Rubicon of sorts has been reached.

Sherlock knows that it's best to call John's bluff and deal with him rather than let him become any more worked up, but the thought brings little relief.

For a moment Watson frowns at his words though, some clarity apparently coming to him. For a moment the anger, the heavy cloud of his drunkenness clears and Sherlock's old friend is before him, embarrassed and disturbed by how he is treating those who love him. The sight of it is like a punch to the gut, or a blinding, rabbit-jab to the head. Good God, Sherlock misses his best friend. But then-

Before either Sherlock or Rosie can say anything else John's expression closes. He straightens up and curls his lip in contempt. Suddenly John Watson, widower, is before them and he is every bit as unpleasant as he always is-

It's on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to ask him what he thinks Mary would make of him, but as always the words just won't come.

So instead he reaches out and draws Rosie to his side. Gregory Castlereagh seems reluctant to let her go but at Sherlock's nod he withdraws, moving to stand protectively beside his sister Esme and Georgiana. John notices Sherlock's action and Rosie's obvious relief at it; as if to punish him for it he shoots Sherlock a mocking smile.

"Where's this new friend of yours?" he asks, his voice dripping innocence, his eyes narrowed. His intent is clearly to needle.

"What friend?"

As warm as the ballroom is, suddenly the temperature drops several degrees.

Sherlock keeps his voice low and even because he wants John to know that he is moving onto thin ice now. Very thin ice.

John is feeling either oblivious or suicidal, however. For-

"The little widow," he says gloatingly. "The little widow you've been cavorting with-"

"Cavorting?"

The word comes out a great deal louder than Sherlock had intended. Heads turn at it, and suddenly the crowd's attention is focussing in on them again. Damn. Murmurs ripple through the ballroom, because of course the crowd know who John is talking about. Of course they know what he's implying.

Sherlock's behaviour towards Molly has not exactly been subtle, tonight.

Inwardly Sherlock swears, blasting himself for his thoughtlessness. In indulging himself he has been profligate with Molly's reputation, something which will never do. For while the crowd might baulk at crowing over a Castlereagh's disgrace, Sherlock knows they will have reticence tearing into a pretty widow, especially one who has turned up looking so unexpectedly beautiful, and one who has spent the entire night dancing rather than standing sedately about and watching her charge-

Anger rises in him, swifter and more consuming than it has since they left the continent.

John has no right to speak of Molly that way, nor of he, nor of Rosemund, and even three years ago he would have understood that.

But the loss of his wife has changed him, warped him. It has made him so hard and gnarled and thoughtless that sometimes even Sherlock doesn't recognise him at all. And that is the point of this: the John he first knew would not behave this way. The John he knew would not treat those around him with so little care or consideration. The John Watson he once knew was the finest man he had ever met and now he's insulting his Molly-

"Doctor Watson, I presume?"

The words come out of nowhere.

They are calm, quiet. Confident.

As if drawn by Fate herself, Molly enters his line of vision. She shoots him a smile. "Young Archibald Castlereagh showed me to the Ladies' Retiring Room," she says. "I must own, I feel much better now."

And then, cool and collected, she curtsies to John, extending her hand to him. Probably acting from habit more than any sense of politeness he takes it, bowing over her knuckles as he says his hellos. No fireworks, no accusations arrive. The tension in the room pops like a soap bubble as Sherlock suspects she'd known it would.

After all, Molly has been navigating ballrooms for far longer than he.

With a calmness Sherlock can't help but admire Molly extricates her hand from John's and moves to Sherlock's side. He can't help thinking that it looks like she belongs there. An apologetic glance at both Esme and Gregory and then Georgiana joins her.

After a moment, so does Rosemund.

They stand facing John, a veritable united front.

This seems to disconcert John mightily.

"It's so delightful to meet you," Molly says, making sure that her voice carries. Her demeanour all but dares anyone in the room to interrupt. "Rosemund has told me so much about you, and of course so has Sherlock." She inclines her head to John, smiles her most matronly smile.

It's hard to believe that this is the woman who only moments ago was kissing Sherlock in the dark.

The thought makes something hot and fierce and wanting skitter through his bloodstream.

"I have, of course, always found him to be an excellent judge of character, ever since I was a girl," Molly is saying. Still John seems discombobulated. "But might I offer you a refreshment, or a chair? You look a little peaked."

At that John rallies. "I am fine," he says mulishly, though both his behaviour and sobriety suggest that he is not and Sherlock suspects he knows as much.

"Well," Molly says mildly. "I shall take my lead from you: After all, you are the doctor." A glance at Sherlock. "But perhaps I am interrupting a gentleman's pleasures?" she says. "I thought you mentioned you might like to play a few hands of faro in the Smoking Room, Sherlock?"

He nods firmly. "Indeed I would."

And, taking a firm grip on John's elbow he starts manoeuvring him towards the door. "Come play with me, Watson," he says. "You know I never win without you…"

Within moments he and John are through the door and into the darkness of the corridor without. Servants bustle, averting their eyes to the sight of the two men. It's an integral part of a maid or footman's skill, knowing when to pretend they can't see what's right in front of them.

"That was embarrassing," John snaps sullenly.

Sherlock grits his teeth.

"If you don't want to be managed like a child," he bites out, "then maybe you should not behave like one."

John pulls his elbow free, glaring at him. When Sherlock doesn't back down he tries to shoulder his way past him, but the taller man refuses to move.

"Oh no you don't," he snaps. "You don't get to turn up here drunk, insult Rosemund and I and endanger her marriage chances just because you feel like it-"

"Because I feel like it?" John hisses. "You think I'm here because I feel like it?!"

And without a word he reaches into his inside jacket. Takes out a letter.

With the same insufferable nonchalance he'd used inside he tosses it at Sherlock, who has to snatch at it before it hits his face.

"Read that," John bites out, "and then tell me I don't have reason to be here-"

And then he pushes past him.

But even as he does, Sherlock finds himself recoiling. For he's focussing on the hand in which the letter is written, and it's one he recognises from not to long ago.

"Milverton," he mutters darkly as he scans the lines.

It's not as if the letter's contents surprise him.

What does surprise him- what hurts him, however, is the fact that John might believe any of the lies listed therein.