ot beta read, so all mistakes are mine. There's no smut in this chapter, and we are returning to our usual rating. As always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. But for now… Onwards!

TILTED STAGES

Molly doesn't sleep after Sherlock leaves.

It's not that she can't, it's that she doesn't want to.

Because as sated- as satisfied- as she's feeling, she's also still alive with sensation. Still awash with it. Her skin still tingles where he touched her, her mouth still burns with the memory of his kisses. She can smell him on her sheets, taste him on her lips. Her fingers itch with the wanting of having him near. And as for her own actions? She laughs in delight, in disbelief, as she thinks of them. She had been bold, fearless. Wanton. Wicked. She had given him so much pleasure and taken so much pleasure in her turn-

It was really quite extraordinary.

She closes her eyes at the thought, smiling. She's never been so glad to be a woman, not a girl. For as much as she had enjoyed her marital bed, as much pleasure as she had learned to take from her husband, it had never been like this. She had never been like this, nor had she wanted to be. She had always taken what was given to her- Always played the part expected of her. Until last night, that is.

She laughs to herself in the silence, thinking on it.

And to her surprise there is no shame in her at the realisation. She had liked what she and Sherlock did together last night far too much to ever feel ashamed. The way he had touched her, the way he had looked at her… It had been as if he were looking at something wondrous. Something precious. Molly had never felt so... seen before. She had certainly never dreamed that bedsport could feel so good. She blushes, pressing a pillow to her face and remembering. Not just what happened in this room but everything else. Their dancing. That first moment he saw her in her gown. Their pleasures in the carriage and his actions in the park. The moment when she touched his scars and he truly let her in. The way he had held her as she spoke of her childlessness, her embarrassment at it-

It was all, she can't help but think, quite... lovely.

So lovely, in fact, that she can't wait to explore it further.

She laughs out loud again at the realisation.

A small voice rises at that, cautions her to be careful. Prudence, sense, these have always been her watchwords: is she willing to discard them merely for the sake of a tryst with Sherlock Holmes? But even as she thinks it she knows the answer. Having experienced what it's like to be with him, to have him, why there's little she wouldn't trade to continue the pleasure. And she's a widow, she's unlikely to fall pregnant: the dangers for her are minor, surely?

So long as they can be discreet and find both Georgie and Rosemund a husband before the end of the Season, she tells herself, then all will be well.

Yet even as she thinks this, some traitorous image rises within her: She and Sherlock, dancing together in a ballroom. Arm in arm. Not hiding from anyone. She's wearing yellow or scarlet or royal blue, no more mild, sensible half-mourning gowns for her. On her ring finger there's a simple golden band and Sherlock is wearing a matching one on his…

Molly smiles at the thought but she doesn't dwell: she knows Sherlock isn't the marrying sort. He would have been ensnared well before now if he was. And while he may have promised to wed her should she fall pregnant, she would never want to be an obligation.

She would want their marriage to be something he chooses for himself and himself alone.

So she pushes the image away, neither sad nor frustrated by it. She had always been, she reminds herself, so practical when it comes to her heart. She has the life she has, and she has neither the wish nor the energy to repine, hoping for another. Much better to spend her energy remembering the delicious things she and Sherlock did together last night… Much better to imagine the delicious things which might lie in their future…

Her hand disappears beneath the sheets at the thought and she smiles to herself.

Those pleasures from last night will, it seems, have a brief- delicious- reprise…

Meanwhile

In the Blue Suite

Sherlock sleeps for only a couple of hours but that is not new to him.

He's used to subsisting on hot drinks and stubbornness, after all his years of war.

What is unusual is the quality of the sleep he gets; when he wakes though it's only a couple of hours later he feels well and truly rested.

This is probably a good thing because what wakes him is the sound of Mycroft's valet, Sharlto, knocking on the door.

"Come!" Sherlock calls and the unfortunate servant steps inside.

He looks rather like he doesn't want to be here and given that the clock behind him says it's barely seven, Sherlock can't say he blames him.

"Master asks that you come down," Sharlto says. His tone conveys that this is not truly a request. "The Mistress and he wish to speak with you-"

Sherlock frowns. "Whatever for?"

He doesn't see what the fuss is about. Last night wasn't the first time he has decamped to Mycroft's and he doubts it will be the last. And while having three women in tow might be unusual, it's hardly the oddest group of strangers Sherlock has brought to his brother's door. Rosie sometimes spends more time here than she does at her father's.

If Mykey has shared his thoughts on this matter, however, he has not shared them with his valet: The poor man cannot answer him.

So Sherlock sighs. Best get this over with. "Is there coffee, at least?" he asks in a martyred tone, to which Sharlto answers in the affirmative.

He looks relieved at the ease of the question.

Thus incentivized, Sherlock gets out of bed, goes hunting about for something to wear. He has clothes in this house- actually, he has clothes in this room- and so his toilette should not take long- More's the pity.

"Tell Mycroft to give me twenty minutes," he says. "I must get myself into the sort of shape which Madame Anthea finds acceptable."

"Very good sir." Sharlto bows his head. He pauses at the door. "I thought you would like to know: Angelo popped around to Mrs. Smythe's and appraised her of her daughters' location. He also brought some fresh clothes back for them."

"Good, give him my thanks. At least Molly and Georgiana will be able to change." An image flashes behind Sherlock's eyes, his imagination painting a very naked Molly being laced into one of her gowns- or being taken out of it. Needless to say, he is rather prominent in both scenarios. The thought makes the tips of his ears turn pink. Someday… Someday he will get to do that to her...

But that day is not today so he dismisses Sharlto, gets dressed. Brushes his hair and shaves.

He pokes his head into Rosie's room to check on her but mercifully she's still sleeping.

Thus attired and thus ready for battle he goes downstairs to face his brother…

He knows he should try to look respectable or contrite or something, but he's much too pleased with last night to do anything other than grin.

When he enters the morning room Anthea and Mycroft are already waiting for him. They're reading the morning papers.

As soon as he enters Mycroft nods to the servants and without a word each one of them files out the door. This is not unusual; in his capacity as spymaster for their Majesties, Mycroft runs a tight house. His staff are both unusually well paid and unusually obedient. The threat of an accusation of treason hangs over their heads if they are not. Nevertheless their actions set Sherlock's teeth on edge. He has no intention of defending Molly to his brother, nor to his sister-in-law.

What is happening between them is not a thing which requires justification.

When he looks at the couple before him, however, neither say a word. They merely look at him, stare him down, the clock ticking loudly in the silence of the room.

So, Sherlock muses, they think stewing in my own juices is the way to go.

He crosses his arms nonchalantly and waits for them to say something.

When he doesn't crack Anthea takes a small coin from her pocket, hands it to her husband. Mycroft smiles fondly at her as he pockets it, pressing the swiftest, darting kiss to her knuckles.

"So," the elder Holmes says, "it's true: you've taken up with a woman. Must be a sign of some coming Apocalypse."

He takes an irritatingly delicate sip of his tea, pinkie raised.

"Old Hooper's daughter, is it? That little tomboy who used to follow you about like a puppy..?"

It's on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to deny it, or make light of it, but instead he shrugs. Pours himself a cup of coffee and settles into the nearest chair.

What would be the point in the lie? It's not like Mycroft will understand his actions.

"Taking up with a woman was good enough for you," he says instead, inclining his head politely towards Anthea. "One would have thought you would be happy for me, brother mine-"

"He is happy. We both are." Anthea speaks over her husband; she's one of the few who would ever attempt to. "But you must admit that we would be remiss if we didn't ask…"

"What my cover story is?"

Sherlock is starting to feel irritated. He's not a spy, at least not anymore, so why is everyone treating him like he's engaging in espionage?

"What your intentions are, you idiot," Mycroft rejoins, looking rather irritated himself. He throws his wife a long-suffering look, rolling his eyes. This prompts a small, not terribly well hidden grin from her in answer and once again he kisses her hand. In retaliation she kisses his cheek.

They really are revolting, Sherlock muses, when they're being domestic.

Not, he supposes, that he can blame them. It took them long enough to admit how they felt for one another. At the thought Sherlock sighs.

Again he reminds himself that he should get this over with.

"Look, Molly and I are… We are…" It's dismaying to find his words failing him. He rakes a hand through his curls, making them stand up wildly before taking a long, hopefully clarifying sip of coffee. (Alas, the caffeine doesn't work but then he didn't really expect it to).

"I want to be with her," he says eventually. "She wants to be with me. That's as far as we've gotten."

"But is she besotted enough to marry you?" Mycroft demands.

To this Sherlock can only cock what he has been reliably informed is the world's most condescending eyebrow.

It has caused him to be punched on more than one occasion.

"The subject of our marrying has not come up," he says tightly. "She is a widow in half-mourning and she has no desire to give up her independence by reentering the marriage mart-"

"But she has a burning desire to get into your trousers, brother mine?" Mycroft asks tartly. "Is that it? Or do you merely have your heart set on fathering an illegitimate child?"

"Mycroft!"

At his tone Sherlock stands, his fists clenching at his sides: He will not allow his brother to insult Molly. With an annoyed look Anthea rebukes her husband. Gestures for Sherlock to sit down. She pours some more coffee into his cup, adds some cream. A rather long, rather petulant silence stretches out, as it often does when both Holmes brothers are at the table without their mother to keep the peace.

The clock chimes, everyone sips their coffee and rather than say anything both the brothers Holmes glare at one another.

"You care about her," Anthea says eventually, and mercifully it's not a question.

Sherlock nods anyway.

Whatever else might be said of his feelings, he knows that that, at least, is true.

"And you've known her for a long time, haven't you: You grew up together?" Again Sherlock nods. "But you have not offered for her-?"

"As I said, she doesn't want to remarry."

Saying the words sets something low and painful, sitting in his chest.

Anthea raises her eyebrows in surprise. "And knowing that you still went ahead with last night?"

He tries to lighten the mood. "That's one way to put it-"

"Don't be flippant, Sherlock," Mycroft snaps. "This is serious, as you well know."

"Why?" Sherlock snaps back. "Why is it serious? We both know half the Ton is shagging the other half, and the ones not engaging in extramarital affairs are using brothels and courtesans: why is this different?"

Mycroft is looking at him as if he's an idiot. "Because it's you," he hisses. "And it's little Molly Hooper. You had the chance to marry her when you were young and you practically ran away screaming. Yet now you take her to bed under my roof with nary a pause for thought-"

"I wanted her," Sherlock snaps back. "She wanted me. God knows we're both old enough to make our own decisions, so why are you behaving like we're a pair of disobedient children?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes in melodramatic frustration. "Sweet Jehovah, give me strength!" he mutters.

"Why did you bring Molly here last night?" Anthea asks, trying to break the tension. "She and her... daughter? Protege?"

Sherlock shoots her a sour look. He's in no mood to play games.

"I have no doubt you both know that Georgiana is her sister-in-law, Thea."

Anthea nods, unruffled by being caught in an attempted deception. But then, she wouldn't be, considering what work she used to do for his brother. "And might I assume that Rosie being with you also had something to do with why you brought her here?" She asks carefully.

Anthea takes a delicate, suspiciously innocent sip of her coffee as she does.

"You see, we've been getting the oddest reports from yours and Doctor Watson's household…"

Ah, Sherlock thinks.

So that's why I'm really here.

It's not about Molly, it's about bloody John.

He swears under his breath: he should have known this would come up. Whilst Mycroft might have been irritated at being drawn into his brother's relationship with Molly- and with being maneouvred into creating cover for it- Sherlock suspects that it's John Watson who truly holds his interest here.

After all, John had been his handler initially; it had been Mycroft who had introduced them. By the time Mary joined their unit he and John had been bonded close as brothers- Just as Mycroft had planned. In the heady years of his youthful adventures John had been the tether which held him to ground. While he burned John kept him steady. While he flew, John helped guide him back to earth. John Watson hadn't just saved his life, he'd saved his soul. But now John is falling apart and it feels like he's taking both Sherlock and Rosie with him; in the two years since Mary's death it's been like he's a different man. A man Sherlock neither likes nor wants to know. A man Sherlock can't believe he thought of as a brother.

Again he thinks of last night, again he remembers Milverton's letter...

His heart twists painfully at the memory and then just like that Molly is in his head. He's remembering her hands on him. Her lips on his. Suddenly he can breathe a little easier.

Mycroft narrows his eyes, watching him.

"Things are… Things are delicate, with John," Sherlock says eventually because really, that's the only way he can think to phrase it. Also, because it's John and his best friend deserves loyalty from him, even now. Sherlock also isn't sure how Mycroft will take the news that he's corresponding with Charles Augustus Milverton.

Mykey is a little… touchy when it comes to that man.

Anthea and Mycroft share a look though. "He's still drinking?" Mycroft asks.

Sherlock nods.

They both know just how much that small statement entails.

"He turned up at Evenham's crush last night, half cut," Sherlock says. "We barely stopped him from creating a scene and ruining Rosie's chances for good and all. He even took the carriage and went off to one of his clubs- Which is why Rosie and I were travelling in Molly's carriage last night."

"And is that the only reason you ended up here?"

Anthea has this tone she uses when she's trying to draw something out of you and not have you notice it. Sherlock's a little surprised to hear it now- He would have thought her too sensible to try using it on him. Nevertheless he nods.

If she's asking the question then she and Mycroft have heard something, at least. And if they have heard, who else might have?

It's best he knows what's being said.

"He had a party last night," Sherlock says, lips thinning in distaste. "A group of carousers and some… company, back at the house while Rosie and I were at the ball. Hudson made arrangements to warn us." He shrugs, helpless. While he may have turned last night to his advantage he honestly doesn't see what he could, in conscience, have done differently.

"I couldn't bring Rosie home to that," he says, looking at his brother and sister-in-law. Surely they see that? "And I didn't like the thought of Molly and Georgiana, travelling alone at the time of night after they were kind enough to do me a favour.

If anything had happened to them it would have been my fault."

"So you brought them here instead."

Mycroft's voice is calm. Calculating. But there's something in his eyes that Sherlock has seen before, something he has never liked. Mycroft has begun cogitating.

No good ever comes of that.

"Stay out of it, brother," Sherlock tells him warningly.

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. "The situation with John or the situation with Molly?"

"Both."

The elder Holmes smiles.

"I can only promise to do that in one of those cases, Sherlock." A smirk. He puts down his paper. "At least try to be happy with the one I have chosen."

And then suddenly he gets to his feet. Suddenly he's out the door, calling for his carriage.

"You and I are going to see John," he tells Sherlock. "I feel we simply must have a chat, before he's done with his hangover."

Sherlock follows his brother out, a feeling of dread slowly growing within him; The look on Anthea's face says she agrees with him. The warmth of Molly suddenly seems so far away, and yet he tells himself that she is still with him, within him-

It's why he's able to do this, he tells himself as he joins Mycroft in the carriage.