A/N: At last, a new chapter. Beta'd and Britpicked as always by LoyaulteMeLie, thank you m'dear! Things get a mite steamy between Our Heroine and Our Hero in this chapter, just giving you a head's up!

Molly was surely going to go insane from boredom, and it had only been three days since she'd been forced into this ridiculous farce in order to save her own life. Captain Holmes – Sherlock – was off on the mission he'd undertaken at Moran's behest, and if she remained for one more minute inside the four walls of their small house she would surely scream.

She dropped the piece of mending she'd been struggling with – she was by no means the best seamstress, entirely because of a disinclination to practice, as her Aunt Martha often chided – and rose to her feet, determined to find some way to keep her sanity intact. She carefully arranged her shawl and mobcap, just as carefully not looking at the bed as she pulled the garments from the peg on the back of the door. The bed she and Sherlock had been sharing until his departure only this morning.

The bed - or, more correctly, the room - where…certain activities…had very nearly occurred not too many hours previously.

Her cheeks grew hot as memories of the night washed over her in a relentless tide, the words she and Sherlock had exchanged as fresh as if they had been spoken only moments earlier instead of hours…

The Previous Night

"I'm not certain I agree with this ruse you've decided to pile on top of our current deception," Molly said doubtfully as she settled onto the chair opposite the one Sherlock normally favored. "It's not a game we're playing, after all."

She and Sherlock were enjoying, if that was the word, a post-prandial glass of wine now that Dr. Watson had retired for the evening. He'd been a perfect guest, someone whose company she'd been beginning to enjoy...until Sherlock had ruined things by informing her of the scheme the two men had concocted without so much as consulting her.

She'd hardly tasted her dinner, her appetite well and truly destroyed by Sherlock's blithe assumption that she would simply fall into line every time he issued an edict. Dr. Watson, sensing her perturbation, had made his excuses and left the two of them alone. Molly could see that this caused her erstwhile lover considerable consternation, which puzzled her; why, the man almost acted as if he had no desire to be alone with her!

Which, upon reflection, was hardly surprising. He'd already bestowed several heated kisses on her not-unwilling person, and had warned her that he would not be sleeping on the hearth from now on. Which meant they would be sharing the bed, albeit chastely; was it anticipation of an uneasy night's rest with her representing Temptation that had him so unsettled...or was it the possibility that one or the other them might actually fail to resist the other's charms?

Charms which were sorely lacking at the moment as he responded to her protests. "Whether you agree with it or not is beside the point." She watched as he hunted about for his pipe and tobacco, and took some petty pleasure in the fact that he hadn't realized that she'd moved them to the sideboard after dinner. "Dr. Watson and I have already set it into motion, and there is nothing for it but for you to play your part." He gave up on his search, at least temporarily and instead retook his seat and raised his wine glass to his lips. "Or do you not feel yourself capable of enacting such a deception?"

His raised eyebrow and slight smirk as he sipped his burgundy seemed designed solely to goad her into a temperamental response; she therefore did nothing but take a thoughtful sip of her own wine and turn her gaze toward the fireplace. "Hmm, I suppose if you feel it necessary to further complicate an already fraught situation with such theatrics, then I have no choice but to accede to your request." She looked over at him. "And how shall I perform in your absence, Sherlock? Shall I loudly accuse you of infidelity with some unknown other woman? Shall I then throw myself wantonly into Dr. Watson's arms in a public place and declaim your perfidy to the world? If I cut up some onions beforehand, I'm certain I can shed some very convincing tears!"

Sherlock rose abruptly to his feet to glare down at her. "Woman, this is no joking matter!" he thundered.

She rose to her feet as well, determined not to remain in an inferior position to him. Raising her chin in what she knew he would see as a challenging manner - as well he should! - she said, "And I can assure you, I am in no joking humour! Without consulting me, you and Dr. Watson have hatched this, this hare-brained, lack-witted scheme to add to the deception we already find ourselves embroiled in…"

"A deception, might I remind you, which was created entirely for your benefit," Sherlock bit out.

"And which I never asked you to do!" Molly half-shouted in exasperation. With an uneasy look at the windows bracketing the front door, she lowered her voice. "I simply wish to point out to you that any plan with so many extraneous layers is bound to be found out far more quickly than…"

"No one will discover the truth," Sherlock said arrogantly, although he, too, lowered his voice to a more intimate volume. "They're too dull-witted, every one of them. Oh, Moriarty is sly, I'll grant you that, and Moran is dangerous due entirely to his rank and position, but I can assure you, madam, that I can think rings around not only the pair of them, but every man, woman and child in this town. Yourself included!"

They glared at one another for a long moment before Molly gulped down the last of her wine in a very unladylike manner. "Very well, Captain Holmes," she said, placing heavy emphasis on his rank. "If that is what you believe, then who am I, a poor, simple woman, to argue?" With a sound very like a huff she betook herself to the sideboard, sat her glass on the wooden top, and snatched up his pipe and tobacco. Immediately she turned herself about, nearly hurling the items at him as she marched across the room. "Enjoy your masculine habits," she said curtly. "I'm off to bed. I find myself in need of early retirement this evening."

She left him alone to his ruminations, being sure to close and latch the bedroom door behind her. If he was determined to enact this idiotic ruse of his, then surely a lover's spat with him sleeping on the hearth and her in the bedroom was perfectly in character!

Sherlock, however, had other plans, as she quickly discovered. No sooner had she donned her nightdress when the latch lifted, eased upward by the simple expedient of a bayonet slipped between door and frame. "What are you doing?" she asked him crossly, to hide her sudden panic at the thought of them being in the bedroom together. And not a panic born of fear that he might take liberties; no, it was panic solely due to her hopes that he might...that he would attempt…

Stop it, Molly, she scolded herself as he stepped into the room, deliberately closing the door behind him. Don't be such a ninny. The only thing he'll attempt is to raise your temper once more.

Indeed, that seemed to be case as he removed his night-shirt from the peg on the back of the door. Without speaking he crossed the small space and sat on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring her as she edged away from both man and furnishings. He'd already removed his boots and jacket; his braces were dangling over his narrow hips and his shirt sleeves were bereft of cufflinks. When he began unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it free of his trousers, she gave a squeak and made as if to flee the room.

He moved so swiftly she almost would be willing to attribute supernatural abilities to him; before she'd done more than turn and place her hand on the latch, his hand was on her wrist, tugging her around so adroitly that she was facing him with her back against the stout oaken door almost before she could realize it. "Where are you going, Molly?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine - and affected other parts of her anatomy not so innocent in nature!

"I - I find that I am not quite ready to retire after all," she said in a near whisper as she stared up at him. He still held her wrist in his grasp, and his other hand had come to rest on the door very near her head. "Besides, it would add verisimilitude to our supposed quarrel were one of us to be found, ah, sleeping elsewhere this night."

He lowered his head to peer at her; in the dimness of the room, lit only by a single candle, she could barely make out his features, but his eyes held a certain gleam she found most enticing. Heat rose in her cheeks as she fought the urge to reach up and undo the ribbon holding his hair away from his face. Perhaps the ministers were correct in characterising women as wanton creatures who needed a man's hand to keep them firmly under control; she certainly was having a great deal of difficulty in mastering this sudden desire to allow Sherlock more liberties with her person!

"No," he said, his grip on her wrist tightening the smallest bit. As if he feared she would slip his grasp. Not that she had anywhere to go, but the way he was looking at her, their intimate position, made her heart beat faster and spread the flush from her cheeks to her bosom. "We will share this bed tonight, Molly, unless you wish to confirm Moriarty's suspicions." At her surprised start, he nodded grimly. "Yes, Wiggins gave the pre-arranged signal informing me that the good Sergeant is lurking outside, no doubt eager to report any suspicious actions to Colonel Moran."

"But surely he cannot overhear us within these walls," Molly protested. "Unless he seeks to enter and spy directly upon us, we should have naught to fear!"

Sherlock gave her a quelling look. "There are far too many ways for an expert eavesdropper to overhear private words...especially," he added pointedly, "when voices have risen in anger."

Molly blanched at the thought that they might already have been found out, but Sherlock's next words at least partially reassured her. "It's unlikely he overheard us quarreling, or else he'd have already gone panting to his master with the news of our deception."

"I will try to keep a firmer hold on my temper in future," Molly said humbly, feeling rightly chastised for her failure to do so earlier. She had every right to disagree with him, but must remember to keep her voice low so that none could overhear them. Some spy she was, she thought in disgust; no wonder she'd been caught out so quickly on her very first venture!

Sherlock was still speaking, either unaware of her inner turmoil or, more likely, uncaring. "We must use our knowledge of Moriarty's presence to our advantage," he said, keeping his voice a low, nearly seductive murmur. "He will be unable to see anything, but he most certainly can hear. Before he can be shown evidence of a lover's quarrel," his voice dropped to a veritable purr as their eyes met, "he must first be given evidence that we are, indeed, lovers."

Molly's lips parted, but before she could speak he lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his own in a heated kiss.

oOo

He hadn't meant to kiss her, truly he hadn't. All he'd intended to do was to convince her that they needed to share his bed just this once, before he left on a mission that he knew might very well mean his death. She remained unaware of that fact, or at least unaware that he believed Moran had no intention of his surviving this skirmish-to-be. They were at war, after all, and Molly was no head-in-the-clouds dreamer who refused to recognize the dangers involved.

Nor had he been exaggerating the possibility that Sergeant Moriarty might find a way to overhear them in order to report back to Moran. He would put very little past that sneaky bastard or his master.

No, all he'd intended was to impress upon her once again the need for them to make their deception - their initial deception, not the one he'd concocted earlier this very day - as believable as possible. He truly believed he'd had no ulterior motive in enticing her to sleep next to him tonight other than that.

Until, that is, he'd seen her silhouette beneath her nightdress as she turned to flee. The candlelight in that moment had been angled just right for him to catch a fleeting, shadowed glimpse of her trim figure, the curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts...and all sense had fled. He'd been on his feet before he'd known it, reaching for her, spinning her to face him, grasping her slender, fragile wrist in his hand as he reminded her of the danger Moriarty presented. He'd been so close he could inhale her subtle scent, could see the rapid beating of her pulse in her throat and the expansion of her pupils, and before he'd known it, he was kissing her.

Not only kissing her, but pressing his body against hers, trapping her between his heated form and the sturdy oak door. Sturdy enough that, should he so choose, he could easily lift her up and grind his hardened prick into her sex and have no fear that the support would give way beneath them.

Molly, it would appear, was of a like mind; she wasn't pushing him away but instead had clasped her hands behind his neck in order to draw him closer. Actions which he thoroughly approved. And when he did, indeed, press his body tightly to hers, she gasped against his lips, her eyes screwed shut and her chest heaving. The fine lawn of her night-dress might as well have been made of gossamer, and he fancied the tight buds of her nipples against his nearly-bare chest were less due to the chill in the air than to the heat of their mutual arousal.

What was it about this woman that made him throw caution to the wind? Taken individually her feminine charms were somewhat lacking, especially in comparison to the great beauties of London, but as a whole...as a whole, Molly Hooper was everything he'd ever wanted in a woman and had never known actually existed.

She'd not yet pulled her hair into a night-braid, and he found the sight of those chestnut tresses tumbling over her shoulders just as enticing as the soft, white mounds of her breasts. She would never overflow a gown even when well-corseted, but as he quickly discovered, they fitted quite well into his hands.

"Sherlock," she gasped as he squeezed experimentally. He felt her hands slipping down the back of his neck, sliding across the breadth of his shoulders, shyly pressing themselves against his chest...pushing him away.

Pushing him away, truly? Had he so misread her desire for him? No, it was clear in her eyes when he met her gaze, but also clear was her rising panic.

"Forgive me," he said gruffly as he pulled his hands away from her breasts as speedily as if they'd suddenly caught fire. "I forget myself."

She was breathing hard, nearly gasping, her eyes so wide they seemed to take up more than half their allotted space. "As do I," she finally managed to whisper. "So much so that I fear our sharing of a bed might prove to be too much of a temptation for me to resist."

"I shall sleep atop the covers clad as I am," Sherlock replied. Although he, too, felt it was a mistake for them to continue with any sort of physical closeness for their own sakes, he also stood firm in his resolve that to do otherwise would be folly for the sake of their deception. "However, I shall wait until you have fallen asleep before joining you. I believe we are both in need of some small recovery time at the moment."

With that, he reached for the door handle, waiting with false patience for her to stumble out of the way and allow him to pass.

When he returned, hours later, he knew she was no more asleep than he was, but allowed her the courtesy of pretence as he eased his way onto the bed.

It was far, far safer for both of them that way.