A/N: As always, a heartfelt thank you to my lovely Beta and Britpicker, LoyaulteMeLie, for going over this. She writes wonderful Star Trek: Enterprise stories featuring Malcolm Reed, which I highly recommend. :) And a shout-out to all my readers, followers, and reviewers for reading, following and reviewing. You guys rock!
"Let me be sure that I understand you correctly, Captain Holmes. Rather than subject my niece to interrogation and torture at the hands of your distasteful commanding officer, you elected instead to subject her to the ignominy of claiming her as your mistress? In what way, sir, is sullying her reputation and damaging her future prospects preferable to allowing her to nobly give her life for a cause in which she believes quite passionately?"
Miss Hooper's aunt was not an intimidating woman at first glance; slight of build, much like her niece, Martha Hudson stood not much taller. Her hair was steel grey, and if he were the fanciful type he would extrapolate that it was simply an external indication of her character – strong and unyielding. Far from feeling gratitude to him for his rescue, it seemed that she was thoroughly annoyed with him at the moment.
Annoyed, he noted, taking in the tell-tale signs of her emotional state with a flick of an eyelid, but not truly angry. There was a note of resignation in her voice; her hands, folded at her waist over one another, showed every indication of wishing to wring themselves together, but the older woman was just as determined not to allow him to see any sign of her deeper distress. She loved her niece, he concluded; Miss Hooper was no burden to the woman who had raised her after her parents' untimely deaths, even though Mistress Hudson's own husband had gone to the gallows long before then.
She'd never remarried, had instead forged a quiet life for herself here in the colonies, and Sherlock at once perceived that her quiet fortitude had impressed itself upon her niece, giving Miss Hooper the strength of character she currently possessed.
Mistress Hudson, he concluded, his mind returning with its usual swift efficiency back to the matter at hand, had no real desire to see her niece martyred in the name of patriotism. Her words were sincerely uttered, but only in the sense that she believed it was a fate her niece might prefer, rather than a dearly-held conviction of her own.
With that in mind, he chose his next words with care, seeing the sharp intelligence in this woman's eyes as well as her concern for her niece's well-being and reputation. "I can assure you, Mistress Hudson, that while Miss Hooper is in my care, no harm shall come to her due to any actions of my own – or of my men," he added, when he saw her brow lowering and a frown forming on her lips. "You have my word on it."
She gave an unladylike sniff, emphasising both her disdain and her doubts. "Your word as 'an officer and a gentleman'?" she said, contempt dripping from every word.
He plainly surprised her by shaking his head in a firm 'no'. "My word as a Holmes, Mistress Hudson. I value the honour of that name far more than I value my rank in the cavalry or my station in life, of that I can assure you."
She tilted her head and studied him, as if reading the depths of his sincerity in his eyes or the way he held his body, and then gave a stiff nod. "Very well, then. Allow me some time to pack the necessities for my niece's stay with you. And I will pen her a note as well; two, actually," she added as she made her way to the door separating the front parlour from the rest of the small house. "One for you to deliver to Molly personally, and one for you to allow Colonel Moran to read. I expect you're clever enough to find a way to keep him from reading the former." Then she vanished from view, while a reluctant smile tugged at Sherlock's lips.
Against his will, he found himself quite liking Mistress Hudson.
oOo
The return journey from Baxton was even more miserable than the outward voyage, as the rain continued to pour down upon Sherlock and Toby. The horse was far more resigned to his damp fate than his rider, who kept up a steady stream of low-voiced curses the entire time, Mistress Hudson's words still ringing in his ears. By the time they re-entered Marlborough, the sun had nearly set, although it was difficult to tell with the dark clouds crowding the sky, and Sherlock was thoroughly out of temper.
He removed himself from the horse, gave it over to the keeping of the stable-lad who darted out into the wet as soon as Sherlock bellowed for assistance, and plodded his way to his quarters, boots squelching in the mud and Miss Hooper's belongings slung over his shoulders.
He hoped she appreciated everything he'd endured for her sake, he thought sourly as he reached his temporary home. Wiggins stood outside, looking as miserable as Sherlock felt, but he mustered a proper salute and hastened to unlock and open the door as his commanding officer approached. "She's been as meek as a lamb," he reported quietly. "Not a peep out of her since she was escorted here. Dr. Watson brought her some supper and spent some time with her, and he said to tell you to be easy with her, since she's had such an uncomfortable day and all."
Sherlock gave him an incredulous stare. "She's had an uncom…! Fine," he bit off at Wiggins' wide-eyed expression of alarm at this show of temper. "She's had an uncomfortable day, granted. And you'll have an uncomfortable night with this rain if you intend to stand guard over the two of us."
Wiggins shifted from foot to foot uneasily, grasping his musket with both hands and rolling his eyes toward the inn. "Sorry, sir, but Colonel's orders are that someone has to stay on duty all night. I volunteered before that bas…uh, before Sergeant Moriarty could do so."
Sherlock's lips twisted in a sneer; of course the good sergeant would be eager to volunteer to spy on the potential spies. "Very well, Wiggins. You're relieved of your usual duties tomorrow." He glanced ruefully down at his muddy boots. "I believe I can manage to clean my own uniform for once."
He entered the house, closing the door on Wiggins' thanks, but only after retrieving the key from his corpsman.
Earlier this disruption of routine had seemed like an intriguing adventure; now, soaking wet, weary, and mud-spattered, all Sherlock felt was irritation. At himself, for his impulsive actions, and at Miss Hooper, for putting him in this ridiculous position in the first place.
Then he glanced through the door into his bedroom, and his face softened at the sight of her fast asleep on his bed. She was fully clothed except for her sturdy brown shoes, which rested next to his slippers beneath it. No, he corrected himself, she'd also removed her cap, which was neatly set on the peg on the back of the door, along with her shawl and his dressing-gown. Rather than turning down the coverlet on his bed, she'd covered herself with the patchwork quilt that normally sat unused on the back of the settee in the parlour, and the thought crossed his mind that she wished to intrude as little as possible into his routine.
With a sigh, he backed out of the room, leaving the single candle she'd brought to light her way resting in its pewter stand. The lamps were lit in the parlour, and by their light he began the arduous process of stripping off his soaking wet clothing and changing into something warm and dry.
A discreet knock at the door brought these proceedings to a halt; he debated ignoring the request for entrance, knowing it wouldn't be Wiggins – but then, it would be someone to whom Wiggins had granted access. That meant it was either the Colonel, who could not be safely ignored, or one other man. One who could be ignored, but only at the expense of a lecture on the morrow.
With an exhausted groan – Sherlock had already received an earful from Miss Hooper's Aunt Martha regarding his impulsive attempt to save her niece from certain death, although her objections were entirely due to the lie he'd invented – he dragged himself over to the door, stripping off his wet, woollen socks and dropping them on the floor to land where they would. He unlatched the door; as expected, Dr. John Watson, his one friend in this hellish war besides the ever faithful Wiggins, was glaring at him, rain dripping from his tricorn hat. "Come in, John, before you are washed away with the tides," Sherlock drawled, stepping aside to allow the other man entry.
He continued removing his soaked uniform, as unconcerned with modesty as he'd always been, knowing John would roll his eyes but say nothing, at least not on that subject.
Sure enough, the next words out of his friend's mouth as he removed his sodden hat were, "Have you completely lost your mind?"
"Softly, John, the lady has fallen asleep," Sherlock admonished him, glancing at the half-closed door to the house's sole bedroom. "How you failed to note that I've been keeping my voice low is beyond my comprehension."
"I've given the poor girl laudanum," John snapped back, his voice slightly lowered nonetheless. "How else did you think she could sleep at such a time?"
Oh dear, he was certainly in for it now. He'd hoped the message Wiggins had delivered was to be the end of the matter from John, but apparently that hope was to be a vain one. With a second sigh, one he didn't bother to hide, Sherlock padded barefoot over to the large chest under the window, throwing it open and rummaging around in it for a nightshirt. He rarely bothered with such articles, being far more comfortable sleeping in the nude, but he supposed that for propriety's sake he should do the expected thing for a change, even if his 'guest' was resting in a drugged sleep. He should have noted the signs that her sleep was not a natural one, but his current state of mental and physical exhaustion was certainly excuse enough for his not having done so.
Besides, he would need the additional layer if he was going to be spending an uncomfortable night wrapped in a blanket on the floor in front of the hearth.
"Sherlock," John continued testily, "will you please explain what madness has overcome you? Claiming the young lady as your mistress when we both know she's no such thing?"
"Would you rather see her hang, John?" Sherlock asked, donning the nightshirt and throwing himself into his favourite chair with a scowl. "For we both know, do we not, that that would surely have been the outcome had I not spoken out for her."
John moved automatically to seat himself in the chair opposite Sherlock's, sinking down with a worried expression working furrows into his brow. "It's possible Colonel Moran would have simply kept her locked up for the duration of the war," he tried to argue, but it was a feeble attempt and he soon abandoned it. Sherlock didn't even have to give him 'the look', as John grumpily called it; the one that said quite plainly 'do stop being an idiot'.
Instead, he reached down for the Persian slipper that had travelled with him from London, pulling his pouch of tobacco from its toe. His pipe was set on the mantle above his head, and he reached up and pulled it down, lighting the shag with an ember from the hearth and taking a long, satisfying puff before speaking again.
"Colonel Moran would have seen her swinging from the gallows if I hadn't spoken up for her, John, there is no getting around that simple fact. My solution was perhaps imperfect but far better than the alternative." He grimaced as he remembered the condemnation from Molly's aunt. "And I have already heard all I wish to hear on how I could better have resolved the situation," he muttered, his voice taking on a petulant tone. No one had scolded him like that since he was a small boy, and, much as he liked her, part of him resented the woman for making him feel that way once again. As if he'd done something wrong, when in truth he'd exercised the only plausible option available to him in the limited time he'd had to concoct a cover story for Molly's actions.
"So you'll carry on pretending she's your mistress, keeping her a virtual captive here until, what? This idiotic war finally grinds to an end, months or even years from now?" John's acrimonious words interrupted his thoughts.
Sherlock shrugged and gazed into the hearth. Wiggins had set it blazing and restocked the supply of wood so there was more than enough to see them through the night and the next day. "I'm afraid Miss Hooper is the one who got herself into this mess, John, when she illicitly entered my quarters in search of…" He paused, brow furrowed with thought.
"In search of…?" John prompted, sounding genuinely curious.
Sherlock shrugged again. "I have no idea," he confessed. "I shall have to ask the lady herself when she awakens. I have no battle plans worthy of risking her life over, or lists of secret informants that might be useful to the colonists. Nothing that could possibly tempt anyone into searching through my private papers." He smirked. "I did, however, take the time before leaving to scribble a few love notes in case anyone else chose to examine my documents in my absence."
"I can just imagine how precise and scholarly such love notes must be," John scoffed lightly, his mood apparently eased somewhat.
Sherlock's smirk deepened. "My dear Dr. Watson," he said, mildly chastising, "I do believe my former mistress would beg to differ as to my scholarly style."
John raised an eyebrow but said no more on the subject, choosing instead to return to the question of Miss Hooper's new (and very tenuous) position as an unwilling resident in Sherlock's billet – and in his bed. "You know you won't be able to simply hide her away here," he said, leaning forward and resting his forearm on one knee as he gazed at his friend earnestly. "She'll have to take on the appearance of being your mistress in public, unless you wish to continue to enjoy Colonel Moran's suspicions."
Sherlock sighed and nodded, taking an aggressive series of pulls on his pipe to express his dissatisfaction. "Yes, yes," he replied impatiently, waving one hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. "I'll trot her out for display tomorrow, take a turn around the compound with her on my arm. And I'll be sure to have her mend my uniforms or darn my socks whilst occupying the bench out front. Once the rains end, of course," he added darkly. "If they ever do."
"And of course you'll be sure to be caught kissing her," John interjected smoothly, watching with a placid smile as Sherlock inhaled too much smoke and went into a brief coughing fit.
"I'll do no such thing!" he said with a glare, but John's expression had gone deadly serious, and seeing this Sherlock swallowed in momentary perturbation.
"Sherlock, if Moran suspects for even one moment that you have lied about this relationship, both of you will face severe consequences," John said. "And you know he isn't above sending Moriarty to snoop around; that Irish bastard is a rat through and through and he'll be keeping a close eye on you on the colonel's behalf. And that," he added with a raised eyebrow, "means no sleeping on the hearth after tonight. The young lady could be expected to need her rest this evening after so arduous a day, but if you are caught not sharing your bed with her after that…" His voice trailed off and he simply looked at the other man, who understood exactly what his friend was saying.
Sherlock rose to his feet, knocking the bowl of his still-glowing pipe against the fender, allowing the contents to fall into the flames with a sizzle. "Yes, John, I understand," he growled. "I must in fact do everything I can to alleviate our beloved commander's suspicions of me and of the young lady. However," he added, turning to face his friend once again, "I have no doubts that Miss Hooper will only cooperate to a certain extent…and will undoubtedly scheme to free herself from this situation as quickly as possible."
"And you must keep her from doing so, for your own sake as well as hers," Watson admonished him, needlessly of course since Sherlock was already well aware of that. He grunted acknowledgement and turned his moody gaze to the flames.
Sherlock heard John rising to his feet, felt his friend's hand on his shoulder, squeezing sympathetically. "Sherlock, I know you did what you did to save a life, and I admire you for that, but it won't be easy, this path you've laid out for the two of you. I wish you the best, and will do everything in my power to assist you at every turn. And you know Wiggins will as well," he added.
Sherlock grunted again, still gazing into the flames, until he heard John sigh and felt him remove his hand from his shoulder. He listened as his friend's footsteps retreated across the room, and there were the small sounds of him once again donning his hat and coat. The sound of the door opening and the rain hissing into the room fell across Sherlock's ears, and then his friend was gone, leaving him to contemplate his actions – and wonder if he'd mired himself in a hole far too deep to escape from.