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!
A FRESH POISON EVERY WEEK
For a moment Sherlock can only stand there in the dark, clutching the letter to his chest and breathing harshly.
He knows he should go and check on John, he knows he should make sure that the idiot hasn't gotten into a fight with one of the other guests or planted himself in the gaming room with the intention of gambling until he drops (both of which have happened before) but somehow… Somehow he can't bring himself to do it. He can't bring himself to talk to John right now.
In fact, at this moment in time he can't imagine himself wanting to talk to John Watson, ever again.
But that's ridiculous, he tells himself: John is John. Sherlock would never abandon him. Nevertheless he closes his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose as he had been taught when he first went into the field. Trying not to lose control, trying not to let his feelings overbalance him.
Focus on what you can do, not on what you feel, he tells himself sternly. Fear is like a flame: take away its air and it will suffocate-You will make it sputter out.
And yet, behind his eyelids he can see the words of the letter, the accusations. That Sherlock is neglecting Rosie, that he is leaving her to be preyed upon by unscrupulous men. That he is engaging in debauchery with a loose widow and cares nothing for the fate of his young charge. That John should believe these accusations is painful enough, but that he should believe them from the hand of Charles Augustus Milverton? This is a thing Sherlock cannot fathom. For, like Culverton Smith and Sebastian Moran before him, John Watson knows what Milverton is capable of. He knows the man for the petty, vicious criminal he is. And whilst neither he nor Sherlock have been entirely able to lead to these villains' downfalls they have been able to limit what damage they inflict upon the innocent-
So why would John believe what that man says about his best and oldest friend?
Sherlock cannot understand it.
As he thinks this he hears someone clear their throat. He opens his eyes to see Molly standing hesitantly at the barely-open door to the ballroom. Young Archie Castlereagh is beside her, presumably to offer plausible deniability should anyone come upon them together. She looks so lovely it makes him ache.
For just a moment Sherlock hates the charade of aristocratic propriety in which he lives with an almost incendiary passion: why can't he just speak to her? Why can't he just wrap her in his arms and kiss her again?
And yet, he knows he cannot. Not for her sake, and probably not for Rosie's, either.
"Sherlock..?" she asks quietly, and her voice is almost unbearably soft. "Sherlock, are you quite well?"
No, he wants to tell her. No, no I am not. What he says however, is, "John had to..."
He wracks his brain for reason to excuse the doctor's absence but nothing comes to him.
Mercifully, Molly seems to understand and intercedes.
"Rosemund suggested that you speak to someone called Wiggins?" she says. "She said to make sure that-"
Sherlock knows where this is going. "To make sure that John hasn't taken the carriage home without telling me, yes, yes that is a good idea."
Archie's eyes widen at the notion that an adult would do something so very thoughtless but Molly does not seem surprised. It occurs to Sherlock to wonder just how much of John's behaviour she has seen in others.
He hopes that it has not happened overmuch.
Nevertheless he draws himself up and nods. Bows to her. He needs to pull himself together, and he needs to do it now. "Would you tell Rosie that I shall go and check?" he says. Molly nods. A split second, and then she looks to Archie.
"Go and get me a glass of punch, would you young Castlereagh?" she asks.
The boy blinks at her: he knows he's not supposed to leave them together, and yet he also seems painfully unsure of how to tell an adult as much. Sherlock can't help but feel a flare of sympathy for him.
"It will be alright, boy," Molly says gently. "I promise: I shall be on your very heels, I shan't be out here for long. And you shan't get into any trouble."
Still unsure, nevertheless the boy nods. Slips back inside. Molly rather pointedly closes the door behind him, an act which both protects and endangers: protects because it makes her less likely to be seen, endangers because it makes her look far more suspicious in the event that she is spotted.
Sherlock grits his teeth. "You are too trusting with your reputation," he says tightly.
The irony of him telling her that, considering his behaviour tonight, is not lost on him.
Nor, apparently, is it lost on Molly. For she cocks an eyebrow at him. Crosses her arms. "Considering how both of us have behaved in public tonight," she points out, "I think it's rather late to start worrying about that."
With swift steps he closes the gap between them. Takes her by her elbows. "I have been remiss with you," he says harshly. "I will not be remiss anymore toni-"
He means to finish that statement, truly he does, but Molly cuts him off by kissing him. As it had on the veranda, it steals his will, his soul. It seems so much more consuming than kisses normally do. For her lips are soft and warm and lovely; her body is sweet and needed against his own. Her smallness fits his tallness, her softness matches his solidity. For a mad moment Sherlock gives in, he pulls her to him. What started as a kiss of tenderness, of soothing, within seconds becomes something else. Something fierce and fiery and glorious. It burns, sets his pulse pounding. It feels unlike anything he has ever experienced before.
It is only with great difficulty that he pulls himself away.
"We can't do this here," he says, his voice harsh. Panting. Yet even as he says the words he tightens his grip on her. He buries his nose in the softness of her hair.
What on earth has come over him? He thinks wildly. He doesn't do things like this.
"I know we can't," she says, her voice equally desperate. It stirs something in him, something harsh and yearning. "But I still had to- I wanted to-" With an obvious, deep breath she shakes her head and steps away from him. Makes herself let him go.
Her breathing is uneven but for the first time she looks in command of herself.
The sight of her, falling apart with the wanting of him and yet forcing herself together, it sends a shot of heat and wanting right through Sherlock's skin.
Nevertheless, he lets her go. Wisely she takes three decisive steps away, setting some distance between them. "Much has happened tonight," she says. "We shall… We shall find a way to talk about it, I promise. But for now, you go and find this man Wiggins.
I shall keep an eye on Rosemund until you return."
Sherlock nods, about to thank her but before he can she crosses the space between them. Once again she kisses him, a quick, almost desperate thing. And then she's gone. She returns to the ballroom, leaving his heart hammering, his pulse like a thunderclap. It occurs to him to hope, as he's heading off to search for Wiggins, that nobody saw them. He can only pray that that is true. Because what just occurred was so utterly distracting that he'd have had no idea whether there had been witnesses…
When he gets outside he discovers that John has indeed taken the carriage. He reacts to this news as might be expected, with some creatively colourful language he picked up during the War.
Some of it's even in English.
It is in that moment that he decides that tonight… Tonight he is staying with Mycroft and Thea. He doesn't trust himself, should he run into John- And Rosie has no need so know that.
So he stalks back inside, angry and confused, stuffing John's hateful letter inside his pocket-
Which is how he discovers the key, tucked into his pocket.
He frowns at it, turning it over in his palm- And then he catches the unmistakable sweetness of Molly's perfume.
Meanwhile,
Inside,
Molly returns to the party, gives Sherlock's message to Rosemund.
Given the amount of effort the girl puts into pretending that nothing is wrong, Molly can't help but suspect that this is not the first time she has had to make excuses for the behaviour of her father.
Why is it, Molly muses, that it's always to us supposedly fragile daughters that such labour falls?
Fortunately for Rosemund, however, both Esme and Georgiana seem determined to set her at her ease. Though older than she (and not nearly so harebrained or brazen) nevertheless both seem intent on making sure that the younger girl is seen to have their support.
Added to that, young Gregory Castlereagh seems rather taken with Rosemund, and Molly makes a note to herself to check into the lad- Or perhaps she should ask Sherlock to do it? To the best of her knowledge the Castlereagh boy has everything to recommend him in both fortune, reputation and manners. That he is both near in age to Rosemund and seems to like her as she is (not as he would have her be) also reflects favourably on him. It need only be ascertained what Rosemund thinks of him. While it may ruffle some feathers, Molly is willing to proceed: she is aware that Georgie's mother has long harboured notions about her daughter marrying into the Catlereagh family but privately Georgiana has expressed wariness. She likes Gregory well enough, apparently, but not enough to marry him.
As someone who married as she was expected and not as she wished, Molly has always privately sworn that she will not allow that fate to befall Georgiana. She intends to abide by that promise.
If the girl finds her Sherlock then Molly will do her best to make sure her sister-in-law gets to marry him.
It's the least she can do.
At the thought of Sherlock, however, Molly is forced to duck her head and take a sip of her drink. Just remembering the way he kissed her tonight makes her feel hot and breathless. It makes her feel… Good Lord, it makes her feel like a green girl again. Molly had of course been kissed before, she had even learned to enjoy the marital act with Thomas but she had never- She could never even have imagined-
Heat, and the smell and taste of him, and Lord, the way he's touching her-
As she thinks it she feels a little faint. The memory engulfs her, his mouth on hers, her arms about him. The reckless, fierce needing she'd felt as they explored one another in the dark. Molly has always prided herself on her pragmatism, on her good common sense, but tonight for the first time she had realised just how much common sense can be overrated when kissing in the dark with a man like Sherlock Holmes-
"Beg pardon, Mrs. Smythe, but might we prevail upon you for a lift home, tonight?"
Sherlock's voice sounds at her elbow and when she looks at him he seems calm. Collected.
There's no hint of the anger she has no doubt is bubbling under his skin.
"Papa took the carriage a-?"
Rosemund snaps her mouth shut on the word but it's clear she was about to end that sentence with "again." In a remarkable display of good conscience the entire Castlereagh family and Georgiana pretend not to have heard her.
In fact, Molly spies Georgie's hand snaking down to give the girl's enbow a conciliatory little squeeze.
"He was needed," Sherlock tells the girl, an evasion which just skirts lying and despite herself Molly is impressed. It seems that the years have finally taught him some semblance of diplomacy, if only in this matter.
Perhaps Rosemund senses as much because she nods. Pastes a smile on her face.
"The joys of a physician father," she says in an enviably convincing impression of ruefulness.
Not for the first time tonight, Molly's heart goes out to her.
Not for the first time tonight, Molly would rather like to thump her father.
"You could take our carriage, if you should like," Gregory Castlereagh adds, smiling at the girl. "My mother would be delighted to see you home," he adds, "since you live so near to us."
His sister Esme and Georgiana exchange knowing looks and the boy colours.
"We would, of course, be happy to leave Georgiana home too," he says. "And Mrs. Smythe," he adds.
At this Esme and Georgiana's looks grow positively amused and he scowls at them.
"We will be happy to leave you home," Molly tells Rosemund firmly, using her best matronly tone. To his credit Gregory blushes a little- he was being rather forward- but he lets the matter go.
Instead he holds out his hand to Rosemund and when she takes it he kisses her knuckles. "I hope to have the honour of seeing you again," he tells her, something which makes his older sister grin. "But for now I rather think I shall join my brother Freddy in the Smoking Room."
And with that he turns on his heels and walks away.
Molly can't help but notice that Rosemund watches him go.
"So," Molly says briskly, rather than let the silence stretch out, "we shall be bringing you home tonight, eh Rosemund?"
Rosemund nods. She seems distracted. "Yes," she says, before seeming to recollect her manners. "You have my thanks, Mrs. Smythe."
Molly smiles. "The pleasure is all mine."
She doesn't know how true that is going to prove.
For it's when she, Georgiana, Sherlock and Rosemund all squash into their carriage together that night that her temptation will truly begin…