Molly tugged her skirts back into some semblance of order as Sherlock Holmes' request sank in. Rational contemplation was nearly impossible as she sat perched on Queen Victoria's podium with her legs either side of his large frame and every nerve in her body half-alight. She tentatively touched the front of his great wool coat, then spread her fingers over his front. Her hand rose with his chest as he inhaled a great lungful of air then it slowly fell again. The rain outside the monument chose that moment to abate. The steady beat of its advancing drumline diminished to the patter of an idling snare. She swallowed nervously and looked up at him.

"Y-You want me to come with you . . . to your home?" Her voice echoed off the walls.

Holmes nodded slowly. His gaze was piercing, like the stab of a crystalline spire. Molly had trouble maintaining eye contact but was compelled to drown in the pale green and blue orbs flecked with sprinkles of gold and amber like an insect in sugar-water.

"You would like to . . . to . . ."

Her voice trailed off as she thought about what he proposed. There could be no mistake about his intentions. He wanted to deflower her without pretense or promises. The knowledge of that both caused her womanhood to palpitate in anticipation of more pleasure but also terrified her. If she did what he asked, if she went with him right then, the only thing left of her that was any value to anyone would be spent on a man with a self-admitted proclivity for cruelty. He must have sensed her reluctance because an undercurrent rippled through his expression. His eyes narrowed in assessment.

"You have reservations," he said simply.

Molly let out an erratic sigh. "Y-Yes, of course I do."

Holmes rested his hands on the ledge both sides of her thighs and leaned closer to pin her with his gaze. Her fingers curled on his coat lapels when she felt warmth radiating from his skin. He was almost close enough to kiss her again.

"Why, when it is something we both want?"

She puffed a short breath. "You are m-mad. To start, it would not be fair to Greg to just disappear without a word."

He sneered and then looked sideways with a vexed expression. His shoulders hunched and he took several steadying breaths. Then he faced her once more. His pupils were as large and dark as polished onyx stones.

"I do not care in the slightest if I offend Graham. He has offended me," he bit out.

Molly frowned.

"What? How? 'Greg'," she emphasized, "is your friend!"

Holmes' brows twisted. His lips protruded before he spoke.

"Are you attempting to bait me? You know why."

"No, I am certain I do not!"

She felt his large hand move from beside her leg to splay over her abdomen. His fingers stretched from one side of her waist to the other. His eyes bore into hers.

"I found you," he ground out, "you are my examiner."

Molly's belly tensed beneath his hand. "That is as incomprehensible answer as I have ever received. I do not know what you mean by that."

His eyes slid over her face, pausing briefly on her lips. She felt his hand flex and his fingers and thumb press along her lowest ribs. He seemed to struggle to tame his heavy breathing.

"Hooper, let me clarify this issue for you then," he heaved a breath, "I am the answer to your questions, to every question you have ever had. I am what you have been waiting for and the reason you have clung so long to your virtue . . . do you think I am going to let George-"

"Greg!"

"Grrreg!" He spit. "Greg! Hmph, do not think for a single instant that I will allow Greg to claim what is mine."

Molly's heart sped up at his confession. It was an odd sensation being equally excited but incredibly incensed at the same time. She lifted her shaking fingers from his chest. Her legs stiffened.

"Yours?" Her voice was low with fury.

She was not sure who she was more upset with, him or herself for reacting so viscerally.

Holmes gave her a little push on her stomach as if to counteract the rise of her hackles. "Yes . . . mine."

She shifted on her seat until her spine was taut and her head butted against the unyielding statue at her back. She needed some separation from him to think because her body hummed to the sound of that possessive declaration. Mercifully, her mind rebelled when she thought about the selfishness of his words.

"What makes me in any way, yours? I-I am not your fiancé or your w-wife. We have no understanding. I am not indebted to you. In fact, your ledger is in the red. My career, my reputation - what have you ever done but take, Mr. Holmes? What will you do once you have taken everything from me?"

He flinched. His brow was heavy as he searched her face. Confusion skittered across his features. Guilt weighed on her as his eyes widened and his face flushed with colour.

"This is your opinion then? I suppose I have earned it but forgive me," he hissed, "I fail to see how the loss of your chastity at all factors in to your worth, Miss Hooper."

She lifted her chin. Her face burned but she was well past the point of admitting her hypocrisy. His statement was something she should have championed, something she should have believed of herself. Instead, she doubled down on her contradictory logic.

"Oh?" Her voice trembled. "Really? Would you still desire to, as you put it, 'claim' me if I was not so inexperienced?"

His head tilted and his brows pinched. "Yes, I would want you just the same."

Molly gulped. Her indignation faltered. Her pitch became higher and less confident.

"I-I cannot just go off with you. I cannot! It would be very unwise . . ."

Holmes sputtered a sigh and pushed back from the where he had her encapsulated. He yanked at his coat, adjusted his trousers and pulled his hat from his pocket. After a quick shake, he flipped it on his head. Molly hopped off her perch. Mortified, she gathered her underthings from the concrete floor. She stared down at them ruefully. A change of light over her head caused her to look up. Holmes thrust her hat in her direction. She took it with trembling hands and stuffed her discarded garments in the empty cap. The lines on his forehead deepened.

"You are . . . not? . . . going to put your drawers back on?"

His nostrils flared. Once again, his chest rapidly expanded and contracted. Molly shrugged and fiddled with the brim of her hat.

"They are soiled."

He dragged a hand over his face and groaned. Then he hesitantly turned away, spun back and stalked up to her. In an instant, she was in his arms and his mouth descended. His lips slammed against hers desperately. The faint, not at all unpleasant smell of her arousal wafted to her nostrils and the vivid recollection of what his wicked mouth had done to her sex flashed in her mind. With a moan, she dropped her hat with its contents to the floor, knocked the deerstalker from his head and flung her arms around his neck. Their tongues tangled in a repeat of his earlier ministrations.

"Hooper," he groaned between kisses, "do not ask me to withstand the torment of your being escorted home by Lestrade with the knowledge that you are naked beneath your dress."

His deep voice sent shivers through her body. Her head fell back and his lips moved down the side of her throat. His fingers poked under her collar and tugged it roughly aside to expose her shoulder. His tongue swirled along her collarbone then his teeth nipped gently at her flesh. His large hand branded her lower back with heat and urged her in full contact with his body. Once more, his adamant arousal made itself known. There had to be something she misinterpreted about what she was feeling through the fabric separating them. His member could not be as massive as it hinted through his clothes. She wriggled closer to get a better sense of its size.

"Hmm, my wicked girl, are you curious about something?" He lifted his mouth from her bare skin.

Again, warmth flooded her cheeks. "Erm, uh-"

His eyes were hooded.

"Here," he grasped her wrist, rubbed a thumb over her pulse and guided her hand towards his groin.

Excitement quickened her breaths as her fingers brushed between the halves of his heavy coat.

"Hu-uh," he grunted when her fingers contacted the outline of him.

Molly studied his beautiful face gripped with what looked like a modicum of pain. His eyes were squeezed shut. However, she instinctively knew it was not pain but something else. Emboldened, she flattened her palm against the stiff yet springy feel of the engorged flesh concealed in his trousers. When she explored its considerable length, his lips parted and his expression went a bit slack. A fiery exhalation scalded her lips as she contemplated actually handling his staff. Her sex pulsed and flooded with a tingling sensation. She knew how the mechanics of copulation worked but could not fathom what she was supposed to do with an organ of his size. He hissed as she explored downwards.

"D-Does this feel alright, Holmes," she whispered. "I am not . . . hurting you?"

His eyes fluttered open. "No, good God, no."

The detective stared at her a moment longer. His lips moved as if he had a million questions. Finally he gave his head a shake.

"How can I convince you to come home with me?"

Truthfully, he needn't do much more than gaze upon her as he did right then, as if he were filled of coals burning from her touch. She wanted to lie with him, to open her legs to that splendid, girthy flesh he bore. Yet, the last vestiges of her sense still stood between her and what she knew would be bliss. She retracted her hand but he didn't relent his hold. He pulled her even closer.

"I need you to make me a promise before I cross your threshold," she replied in a quivering whisper. "Is that something you can do?"

His chin rose warily. "That depends. I cannot make the kind of promises Lestrade might blubber. I am sorry, but I am not the marrying kind."

She flinched internally. Vows hadn't been what she was after but his admission still caused a stab of pain in the place where her most secret hopes lived. She had never really believed he might fall in love or want to marry her, but the confirmation of that improbability was a stinging blow all the same.

"That is not the sort of promise I meant," she rasped, "my requirements are much less specific."

"What then? What do you require?" He murmured.

"Y-You must find me a satisfactory life to live. I am adrift, you see."

He thought about her words and then scowled. "This is an impossible request. What is a satisfactory life? How does one determine its measure?"

Molly lifted her shoulders. "I am not sure. You are the brilliant one, Sherlock Holmes. This is the remuneration I desire. If you make me this promise th-then . . ."

She swallowed.

"Then you can have me," she whispered huskily.

Holmes' manhood twitched between them and she thought she might liquify into a puddle. She pulled in a little breath as she observed a spasm jerk his lid and his head drift back as he deliberated. His eyes, constricted in thought, remained on her face. After what seemed like an age, he gravitated forwards again. A decision had sparked in the depths of his eyes. The lines of his face tweaked and he flicked his tongue over his front teeth.

"Consider the bargain struck," he rumbled slowly, "but be warned, I mean to hold you to the same terms you demand. You must give yourself to me in every way imaginable and be available whenever I request until I am also . . . satisfied."

She silently whistled as she exhaled. What was she thinking? This sort of arrangement was a deal with the devil. She licked her lips. It wasn't marriage. It wasn't what she had ever envisioned for herself but in a roundabout way, it was exactly what she wanted. For better or worse, she would belong to Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly the crunch of feet over gravel approached their location. Their time had run out.

"Molly?" A familiar voice called from a distance.

She looked frantically at Holmes. They jumped apart. He quickly collected their hats. She did her best to fix her attire.

"You have to go," she scolded him.

He raised his brows. "I thought we had a bargain."

"Yes, but with one caveat. I will not humiliate Greg Lestrade by leaving with you right now."

He opened his mouth but she wagged her finger. "Take yourself away or you can forget everything. We can sort the details out later."

"Fine," he growled, "but you must end this charade with Lestrade immediately."

"Molly?" Greg called again, he was almost upon them.

Molly glanced over her shoulder then looked back to Holmes who awaited her answer with grim determination. With a shallow nod, she sealed her fate. His eyes slanted ever so slightly then he put on his deerstalker, huffed and spun away. His fingers of his right hand flexed outwards before he squeezed it into a fist. Her eyes followed his broad shoulders until he exited between two columns.

That is where Greg Lestrade found her, staring after an empty void and wondering what the hell might come out of it.

"Oh, thank the Lord," he exhaled then looked towards the same space, "um, was someone here with you?"

She tried to suppress what she knew was a guilty expression. "Just a gentleman seeking shelter for a spell."

Greg frowned. "Did he . . . disrespect you at all, Molly?"

Her face flushed. She was ashamed of herself in that moment. The poor man was shivering and soaked through as if he had been dunked in a lake. Her throat constricted as she recalled how grievously she had abused Greg's trust. She could not bear to speak lies to him so she shook her head.

He held out his arm. "I am sorry I left you for so long but the wheel came off our transport and I had to assist the driver in putting it back on. We must have lost a pin during our journey here."

"Oh," she cleared her throat, "how . . . unfortunate."

They began to walk out and away from the monument. Only the odd drop fell and the clouds began to dissipate as if the sky itself had bowed to the will of the great consulting detective. Molly found herself disquieted as Greg kept glancing sideways at her anxiously.

"I must apologize for the delay again, Molly," he murmured. "This was not at all how I imagined this day unfolding."

She smiled sadly at him. "Please, do not, it is not necessary."

"No, no, I fear. . . I left you alone too long."

She squeezed his arm. "No, do not blame yourself for anything, Greg. You have done nothing wrong. You have been naught but the kindest of . . . friends."

"Friends?" He looked forwards across the park with his eyes wide. "Bollocks, I would say I have most seriously erred then. Yes, indeed, I left you alone for far, far too long."


Sherlock walked into the back room of the Diogenes club to an unexpected scene. The curtains had all been drawn. The absence of daylight in the dark paneled room made details difficult to discern. The only light came from a fire in the hearth next to a tall, wing-backed chair where he could just see a large forearm retract with a jerk from a nearby side table. A woman dressed in a dark silk crepe dress the colour of emeralds stood in front of the chair but she was distant enough that her face was hidden by the shadows.

"Ow, that smarts!" A familiar voice cried.

The woman raised her arm and snapped what looked like riding crop.

"Drop it!" She commanded, the crack of leather sounded as the crop switched across the fingers of the man's other hand. "I said, 'drop it'!"

Something fell to the floor and rolled under the man's chair.

"Y-You are a cruel, cruel woman!" He groaned. "I loathe you."

Sherlock was about to hurry forward to assist his older brother when the woman leaned down over him. The soft, amber light from the fire illuminated her signature smirk and silky brunette coif as she reached out to pat Mycroft's face. Sherlock instantly recognized Miss Anthea Salisbury, the eldest daughter of the new Prime Minister.

"Oh, you know it is for your own good, Mr. Holmes," she murmured. "Otherwise you might put up a bit more of a fight, mm?"

"I do not understand this sudden interest in my health!" Mycroft whispered harshly.

She clucked her tongue. "Ah, well, perhaps you should not have helped my father win the election this year. Now he is of the firm belief that you are indispensable to him."

Mycroft's thick legs shuffled beneath his chair. "B-But I am hungry, damnit! Miss Salisbury . . . Anthea, I feel I will perish . . . y-you do not know the pain of it!"

Finally, Sherlock strolled forwards. Miss Salisbury jolted uprights and sprang back from Mycroft. Her face flushed crimson as she hid her crop behind her back.

"Good day, Mr. Holmes," she said quickly.

Sherlock nodded.

He rounded the chair to a second surprise. Mycroft was not nearly as large as the last time he had seen him. In fact, he looked a bit like a deflated version of himself having lost three to four stone. He glowered up at Sherlock from under his brows. His fingers tapped on the arms of his chair.

"Come to revel in my defeat?"

Sherlock's grin felt rather ungracious on his face.

"Defeat?" He laughed and glanced at Miss Salisbury again. "It looks rather more like a victory."

The handsome woman chewed her lip and looked askance shyly.

"What do you want then?" Mycroft demanded.

"I would like to speak with you. Alone, if you do not mind, Miss Salisbury."

"No, not at all."

She dipped her head and lifted a hat from the second chair by the fire. She tucked her crop under her elbow and pinned the ornate black riding cap to her head.

"Please ensure that Lord Mycroft does not imbibe in any sweets, Mr. Holmes," she said as she lowered her arms again. "He can undo a week's worth of gains in an hour if given the chance."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock chuckled

With that, Miss Salisbury swept away but not towards the room's lone entrance. She poked at some molding on the end wall. A portion of it swung open to reveal a long, stone corridor illuminated by gas lamps. She strolled into the passage and the covert door once more closed to conceal the secret entry.

Sherlock whistled. "I was wondering how she managed to get in here. Tsk, tsk, brother mine, the members would not look kindly upon you entertaining a woman in their club."

Mycroft snorted. "I had nothing to do with allowing her in here. That woman is a pest. She seems to know how to find me no matter where I try to hide."

Sherlock removed his hat and plunked into the chair opposite his brother who had bent over and searched for something on the floor. Just before he found the doughy pastry, Sherlock stretched out his leg and kicked it into the fire.

"Oh! Damn! I hate you all," Mycroft sat up with a huff.

He adjusted his over-sized charcoal suit jacket. His hands smoothed down over his loose dove-grey waistcoat.

Sherlock raised his brows. "I do not believe for a second that you hate Miss Salisbury."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose as he slunk back into his seat. "Let us change the subject . . . now!"

"No, no, no! I would like to assist that woman in any way I can. Her methods appear to garner results. Do I credit the whip? What, pray tell, could possibly motivate you to lose three and a half stone?"

"Be quiet, Sherlock! I will not have you imply Miss Salisbury's behavior has been untoward in any way. She is a fine, upstanding young woman . . . she might be a little misguided but her heart is in the right place-"

"Her heart?" Sherlock sat forward and gaped at Mycroft. "Her heart? Good Lord, what else have you lost to Miss Salisbury besides the weight?"

Mycroft's lips parted and he shook his head. His chins, of which there were now only two, wagged in denial.

"Do not be ridiculous!" His eyes narrowed. "Sh-She is just a nuisance to me, nothing more. Let us instead discuss your adventures as of late. Who is this Miss Hooper everyone is talking about?"

Sherlock's lips pulled taut. He pressed his fingers together under his nose as he rested his elbows on his knees.

"She is also a nuisance of a sort," he ground out. "Though, I believe I have a plan to rid myself of her . . . distraction. That is why I am here. I need your help."

Mycroft's lips formed an upside down arc and he blinked several times.

"You have never asked me for help before."

Sherlock averted his gaze to the floor. He frowned before returning his attention to Mycroft.

"This . . . this situation is not . . . erm, ahem," a description eluded him, "that is . . . bloody hell! Will you help me or not?"

A cat-like grin spread across his brother's face. He folded his hands on his lap and twitched his brows.

"Oh, Sherlock, it would be my pleasure."