Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Please note, things get a little steamy in this chapter so if that's not your bag Ctrl+F down to "Wiggins," and you will be safe. And as always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. But for now… Onwards!

BEAUTY, SET OFF WITHIN HER

The Smythe Family Carriage

Later That Night

He sits beside her for the carriage ride home and it. Is. Torture.

Not because of how near he is, but because every inch of Molly's body seems to feel that he's not nearly near enough and is clamouring for her to do something about it. Something drastic.

More drastic than sneaking him a key to her home?

Instantly she pushes the thought away.

But of course it doesn't go away, not really. Any more than the knowledge of how much she desires him does. Rather, she feels herself warm at every breath he takes. Every smile and touch he gifts her with. Whenever they go over a bump in the road she is jolted against him and each time that happens the heat within her redoubles, just as it seems to do within Sherlock-

"Bloody Hell," he mutters the fifth time it happens.

He has just about managed to right her but in order to do so he has had to grip her waist.

The feel of those big, warm, long-fingered hands on her is making her stomach squirm.

Eventually Molly stops even trying to keep her distance: after all that has happened tonight, this really seems like the most minor of her infractions. And perhaps her charge agrees with her, for both Georgie and Rosemund have made a point of falling asleep, the younger girl resting her head on the elder's shoulder. Both of them snoring lightly, something which makes Sherlock smile as he fondly brushes a stray blond hair from his goddaughter's face-

"She looks so much like her mother," he says and there's a world of unspoken feeling in that sentence. A universe.

Molly hates how unutterably bereft it makes him sound.

"She must have been a beauty," Molly murmurs, to which he shakes his head.

"Mary was striking," he says quietly. "She was extraordinary. But she was never what one would call beautiful- She was far too singular to merit so pallid a description as that." He looks at her in alarm. "Not that- I mean, you are beautiful, Molly," he stammers, "I have always thought you beautiful and I do not mean that I find you pallid-"

Molly smiles, cheered somehow by his disconcertedness. This, she thinks, this is the boy I used to know.

She is surprised to realise how much she has missed him, these last few years.

"I took no offence," she says softly. "Though I must allow that I…" She blushes, ducks her head. Now it's her turn to feel like the child she once was. "I enjoy hearing that you think me beautiful," she forces out, all in a rush.

At her words he beams and she can't help matching him.

"Well, Molly, you are beautiful. So I'm merely stating the truth."

For a moment they just grin at one another like imbeciles. Despite the night's events, in the cool and quiet of the carriage all feels right with their world. And then suddenly Rosemund mutters something in her sleep, frowning: instantly both chaperones spring apart like scalded cats. When neither girl wakes their eyes meet again and they both laugh quietly in relief.

"The chaperones need chaperones," Molly quips, to which Sherlock nods.

He takes her hand in his and holds her gaze.

"I found a key in my jacket pocket," he says, very, very softly. "I believe I know who put it there."

And he presses a small kiss to her wrist, just at her pulse-point. It feels so intimate Molly might as well not be wearing gloves. In fact, it feels so intimate that she might as well not be wearing clothing.

Though she suspects it makes her a wanton, Molly rather wishes right now that she was not.

At the thought she gulps, blushes. She's being ridiculous, she tells herself. She is an experienced woman, not some virgin debutante. And considering how she and Sherlock behaved tonight, surely she shouldn't be missish that he had the audacity to bring that key up?

After all, she had the audacity to slip it to him.

"I thought that you might want…" She can't meet his eyes. "That is to say, I hoped that you might…"

She can't seem to get the words out and his silence isn't making it any easier.

"I won't be using that key, Molly," he says quietly.

She blinks, surprised and hurt. Could she have misread things? When she looks up at him, however, his gaze is burning. His grip on her hand tightens. "If you wish to be alone with me," he says softly, "if you want me- Then I can come up with something far safer for you than that…."

He kisses her knuckles, bowing his head.

"Because I would never be so cavalier with you, my darling."

At the sound of that endearment on his lips Molly's pulse jolts. She's a little shocked at how arousing she finds it, coming from him. It's just a word, one she's even been called before- Just not by him, and that seems to make all the difference. Sherlock is watching her closely in that way that he has, taking in everything about her, the way she licks her lips, the heart she knows he knows is pounding-

"Do you want me?" he asks her.

Though he's trying to sound arch, she can hear the shyness under it. He genuinely isn't sure.

His fingers caress her pulse-point, something she finds surprisingly distracting.

"Yes," she says and her voice is very, very certain.

At least she can give him that.

"Oh, thank Christ," he mutters raggedly and they both give a helpless little laugh.

How long has it been since she laughed with a man?

Slowly, holding her gaze, he pulls her to him. Sets her on his lap. He keeps his eyes on hers the entire time and Molly knows without his saying anything that he will take his cue from her. She is in control here. At the thought a swarm of hummingbirds flutter into her bloodstream: She can feel the warmth and strength of him, can feel it seeping into her through her cloak and gown. It's making her… It's making her sticky and hot and aroused.

She'd forgotten how overwhelming it feels to want this man.

Still holding her eyes he takes her face in his hands. He kisses her forehead, then the corner of her mouth. When her eyes flutter shut he presses a kiss each to her eyelids, then one to her earlobe. Her palm. The curve of her cheekbone. That one particular spot behind her ear. She sighs in pleasure and leans into him. Gives into him. She slides her arms around him and presses herself as close as she can to the warmth and breadth of his body. She wants to learn the shape of him. Breathing in time with him she threads her fingers through his hair and caresses his nape, tugs-

"Good..?" she asks breathlessly when he gasps. He nods.

He's kissing her throat now.

She's stroking his chest and shoulders.

"Very good," he murmurs, "You're so very good to me, my Molly…"

And he kisses her deeply, druggingly. The fact that they have to be quiet adds to the excitement rather than taking anything away. As he does this his hands drift up from her waist towards her breasts. Molly bites her lip, arching her back in invitation even as she continues to tug his hair and scratch his scalp. She can't seem to stop moaning into his mouth. The heel of his hands cup her, his thumbs teasing the ready, stiffening buds of her nipples and she can't help herself. She tugs his hair sharply, pulling his mouth up to hers for a searing kiss-

And then suddenly, suddenly the carriage jolts to a stop.

"Guv!" The voice is loud. Insistent. Unwelcome.

It is followed by a freezing cold gust of cold wind and with it a spray of rainwater.

"Guv! I've got news," the voice says urgently. "Hudders sent me!"

With a wrenching hiss Sherlock pulls away from her. He glowers thunderously towards the (now opened) carriage door. "What?" he snaps. "Because frankly, somebody had better have been kidnapped!"

Discombobulated and aroused, Molly follows his line of sight, takes in the person who interrupted them. She'd rather like to murder him. He's a slightly-built, darkhaired individual who's grinning at her toothily.

"Wiggins," Sherlock barks, "Stop gawking at the lady and tell me what's wrong before you wake up Rosie."

At the mention of the youngest Watson the man nods and clears his throat. He mouths a sorry at Molly, something which Sherlock likes not at all. "Don't bother her," he says with asperity, "bother me. Now why are you banging at the carriage door like a highwayman?

We can't possibly be home yet."

Wiggins nods. "Hudson set me up to find you," he says. "There's-" His eyes dart to Molly and Sherlock growls in exasperation. "There's something of a, a… situation brewing in the house. Some guests, and some… entertainment." Another nervous look at Molly. "It's a Vienna sorta situation, Hudders said to say."

"Vienna?" Sherlock says sharply. He frowns, makes instinctively to stand and then belatedly remembers that Molly is still in his lap. He sets her gently back onto the seat beside him, pressing a kiss to her cheek just as Rosemund lets out a loud yawn and opens her eyes.

"Are we home yet?" she asks sleepily.

"No," Sherlock says, gentling his voice. "Not yet. Go back to sleep, Rosie."

"No need to wake up yet, Miss Rosemund," Wiggins adds, his voice surprisingly affectionate. The girl shoots him a tired grin and then closes her eyes. As soon as she does so she begins snoring again, some of the tension goes out of Sherlock's frame. He stalks over to Wiggins.

"How many are at the house?" he asks, sotto voce.

Again the man's eyes flick nervously to Molly; nevertheless he mutters, "Hudders says ten guests, four… entertainers."

"Four?!" Sherlock rolls his eyes, rakes his hands through his hair. "Bloody Hell, John!" he hisses in annoyance before belatedly lowering his voice, lest he wake the girls.

A glance at Molly. His expression is unreadable.

"Would you object to taking us somewhere else?" he asks her tersely. "Perhaps my brother Mycroft's townhouse?" Another sigh. "I'm afraid John has made himself rather… unsuitable for company, the idiot."

Molly nods. "Of course- Though may I ask why?"

Again Wiggins and Sherlock exchange looks and Sherlock gives a small nod. Immediately Wiggins closes the carriage door and readjusts his cloak, setting back out into the darkness and rain.

"I'll tell Hudson where you've gone, Guv," he calls over his shoulder. He tugs his forelock to Molly, grins at her again. "Lovely to meet you, Missus-"

"Away with you," Sherlock growls, closing the door on him. For a moment he amuses himself by muttering by far the longest and most impressively colourful string of swear words Molly has ever heard, his head in his hands. Then he leans out of the window, calls up to the coachman with directions to Mycroft's home.

When he returns to his seat Molly looks at him expectantly and to her surprise there's red at his cheeks. Now he's having trouble meeting her eyes, which seems somewhat ridiculous given their evening together.

What on Earth..?

"Vienna was a rather… infamous affair of ours," he says hesitantly. "Of John and I's, that is. It was before he found Mary- Or rather, before they were married."

"Indeed." Molly peers at him. "May I ask what happened?"

Sherlock sighs. The colour at his cheeks grows darker and Molly can't imagine why.

"We- Ahem, that is, John and I were sent to find an informer in the Prater," he says. A pause, as he clears his throat. "This informant- she worked in one of the city's more luxurious brothels, a very exclusive house called The Golden Dove." Molly frowns, not understanding the connection, and he sighs. "It was… Let's put it this way, it wasn't either of our finest hours," he tells her. "Though as an act of endurance, apparently the girls found us impressive. So nowadays Vienna means that John has brought some… company back to the house. Female company."

Oh, Molly thinks. Then, Oh.

Oh.

She rolls her eyes. "For heaven's sake," she mutters. "Surely that's what his gentleman's club is for?" Molly knows that married men and bachelors alike pay for women but to bring such a person to one's own home, and while one's own daughter is under one's roof?

It's preposterous.

She is, once more, overcome with the desire to plant a facer on Doctor John Watson.

Sherlock looks pained. "John's never done this before," he says defensively. "At least, not while Rosie has been in town." Something about his tone of voice makes Molly suspect there's more to that statement than he's willing to say. He shoots a fond look at the girl and Molly's heart aches for him; again she finds herself wishing bodily harm on Rosie's father, at least until he rediscovered his common sense.

"I can't countenance bringing Rosie back to the house in such circumstances as that," Sherlock is saying. "Not if there are… Well. You understand. So I rather think I shall have to bring her to Mycroft's-"

"Of course." Instinctively Molly takes his hand, squeezing it. He shoots her a tight smile, pulling her more firmly to his side, and though it's not as romantic nor as arousing as any of the other things he's done tonight, nevertheless it feels more intimate to Molly.

She's relieved he felt that he could explain everything to her.

So she holds his hand as they travel through the dark. She holds his hand as the rain and the wind howl about them, as it makes them shiver. Eventually Sherlock sets her back into his lap again, though this time it's merely to cuddle for warmth- Well, for the most part. It's near three when they finally reach their destination; quietly Sherlock opens the front door with his own key and rouses a member of staff. Within moments three unfortunate footmen have been called and with infinite care he picks up Rosie. Carries her inside in his arms.

A moment, hesitation on the step and then- He turns and looks at Molly.

The heat in his eyes is scorching.

"It's late," he says. "You and Georgiana should stay too."

A gulp. He licks his lips.

"We can set up rooms for both of you, it's not safe for you to travel at this time of night."

Molly doesn't need to be told what he's offering and what taking him up on it might mean.

She knows she should say no, and she certainly knows that tongues will wag when- not if- she says yes.

Nevertheless she shakes Georgiana awake and whispers to her that they'll be staying over somewhere new tonight. That it's too late to make it back to their own house, and that tomorrow they will apologise to her Mama. The girl frowns sleepily but nods, too tired to argue much, apparently.

She even smiles when one of the footmen picks her up and carries her into the house.

Molly trails behind, her throat tight. Her heart hammering. Sherlock's shoulder brushes hers as he leads her upstairs, and she finds herself wondering whether she's going to end up feeling some gratitude towards John Watson's idiocy for tonight?

The thought brings no joy but neither does it bring her displeasure.

Because all that matters to her right now is that she and Sherlock are about to spend a night under the same roof, sharing the same four walls.

She won't let this chance go by her- Who knows when she will be able to do this again?

And so she follows him into the house. Stares in appreciation at the sweep of his shoulders, the elegant, beautiful stretch of his hips and legs. She wants him, oh she knows she wants him.

One look at his expression leaves her with no doubt that this desire is mutual- Mutual and ready to burst into flame.