A/N: Surprise, I'm back! Sorry this took so long but I was caught on the horns of a narrative dilemma which I believe I've finally resolved. Many thanks to LoyaulteMeLie as always for putting her betaing skills (and Brit checking) to work for me. If you enjoy Star Trek: Enterprise (particular a certain Lt. Reed), her stories are must read! (Or is that must Reed?)

Anyhoo, when we last left off, Sherlock was still recovering from his bayonette wound under Molly's expert nursing; he and John are still pretending to be on the outs over Sherlock's supposed treatment of Molly, and the good Captain Holmes believes that Moran will finally be persuaded to let Molly return to Braxton and her Aunt Martha Hudson, having proven herself by said nursing skills. Shall we see how that's all shaking out?

The days after that most unsettling conversation seemed to pass with both excruciating slowness and alarming speed, much to Molly's vexation. At Sherlock's behest, John kept up the pretence that he and the other man were still quarreling, seeing one another only when John came to examine his friend's leg.

"You'll be walking without assistance - and amazingly enough, without much of a limp, if any - within a fortnight," he pronounced at the end of the week. "Incidentally, Lieutenant Anderson's become my new bosom companion. He very much enjoys our little chats regarding how much of an arse you are."

Molly could not comprehend why both men burst into a fit of hastily stifled giggles at those words, but was privately relieved that Sherlock's spirits seemed to be recovering as quickly as his leg.

Well, perhaps relieved was too strong a word. No, it was not, she chastised herself as John readied himself to leave. She was relieved; the swifter Sherlock's recovery, the swifter her return home.

That thought brought worries of its own. How would she be received by the townsfolk, who surely knew of her supposed tumble into harlotry by now? Or worse, believed her to be a royalist Tory...but no. She chastised herself for her foolish fancies. Aunt Martha would have found a way to warn her if that was the case, just as she'd found a way to reassure her that Captain Lestrade knew of her predicament and didn't hold it against her (although he'd apparently had some choice remarks regarding her foolishness in digressing so dangerously from her original mission!).

She knew he must be worrying about her, as was her dear aunt, but at least she could console herself that very few others would be so distressed by her continued absence. For once, her small circle of intimates could be counted as a blessing rather than a chore. And thank Heaven she hadn't pledged her heart to anyone before meeting Captain Holmes - or would it been better if she had been safely married and mother to numerous children by now, as so many women of her age were?

She pondered that thought quietly as the two men finished their conversation. Would she have been better off had she never met the dashing Redcoat? Had her attraction to him, weakness though it was, affected other sensibilities?

No, she decided as she cast a furtive glance his way. His head was thrown back in a laugh, revealing the elegant length of his throat to her view. No, no matter how this turned out in the end, she could never regret meeting him.

She sighed and glanced toward the curtained window. She longed to allow the sunshine and fresh air inside the stuffy sickhouse, but she knew better. Not only did many people still believe that it was healthier for someone in recovery to be kept warm and dark, but to leave open the window was to invite possible eavesdroppers to listen and lurk.

Eavesdroppers such as Sergeant Moriarty. No doubt that unpleasant little man was lurking about somewhere. His presence served quite well to remind her that she was still under suspicion, no matter what Sherlock might say. If Colonel Moran intended to allow her her freedom, he had not imparted that information to his boot-licker.

Whenever she went outside, there was Moriarty. He spoke not a word to her, but his knowing gaze and impertinent smirks kept her on edge. Would he make good on his threats against her aunt even if she were given leave to return to Braxton?

It was a troubling thought, yet one she hesitated to share with either of the two men who were doing their utmost to protect her. She risked a quick peek out the window as the doctor prepared to leave, exclaiming in annoyance as Moriarty 'happened' to pass by. He grinned at her unpleasantly before biting into the apple he held, tossing it in the air and catching it again as she allowed the curtain to fall shut.

"Is something wrong?" John asked, all signs of laughter gone as he hastened to her side.

"Just Sergeant Moriarty, making his rounds," she said lightly. At his searching look, she admitted, "I swear, if I were a witch, I would happily turn that man into a, a bird-feeder!"

His aghast expression told her how poorly her impetuous outburst had been received, but it was Sherlock's words (as always) that cut her to the quick. "Do try not to jest, Molly; it's really not one of your strengths."

John frowned and turned his attention on the other man, chastising him for his unkind words, but she had seen what the good doctor had not: the flash of concern in Sherlock's mercurial eyes before he spoke.

She was becoming somewhat of an expert on his moods, and it was with a flutter of startled pleasure that she divined his intentions: he'd deliberately set out to deflect his friend's attention from her, to allow her a moment to settle herself.

It was moments like this that made her question just how much she truly wished to leave him behind forever.

oOo

Sherlock watched Molly from beneath his eyelashes as she made her farewells to John at the door, pretending absorption with his violin as he plucked idly at the strings. He knew her well enough by now to recognise that she was not hurt by his most recent words, but it was rather dismaying to realise that she seemed to be becoming quite as expert at divining his intentions as he did hers.

He would simply have to do better at concealing his emotions from her in future - for however short or long their shared future might be. He was a fortnight away from a full recovery. A fortnight away from broaching the possibility of Molly's freedom with Colonel Moran.

A fortnight from losing her, perhaps forever.

"Damnation," he muttered as his fingers slipped, releasing a tortured screech from his instrument's strings. The good humour he'd gained from John's visit was fast slipping away, and all because he couldn't keep his mind from a woman who should never have been in his life in the first place.

"Did you speak?" Molly asked, moving solicitously to his side. He knew he should ignore her, distance himself from her in preparation for their ultimate parting, but instead allowed her bring him a tankard of watered ale and fuss with the low stool on which his foot rested.

"Of course I spoke," he said irritably. "Clearly you heard me or you would not have asked such an asinine question."

"Your language, sir, is extremely vulgar today," she said primly. But her fingers lingered on his ankle where it rested on the cushion she'd set on the stool, and before he could stop himself, he reached out to tilt her face up to meet his.

Her eyes were wide, inquisitive but not startled. More fool she, he thought grimly as he turned her face lightly from one side to the other. Examining her. Her fingers remained on his ankle, closed about the flesh which was currently bare of either boot or stocking; her lips parted on a question or comment, he neither knew nor cared which; and it was therefore entirely her own fault when he swooped in to claim a kiss.

Her lips were soft, warm beneath his, opening obediently when he teased the tip of his tongue between them. He laid his violin and bow on the floor, leaning closer, taking her face in both hands now and rubbing his thumbs along the curve of her cheeks, his fingers sliding beneath her cap and curling round her hair. She made a small noise beneath his questing lips and that very nearly undid him; with an exhaled curse he pulled back, studying her kiss-swollen lips, her flaring nostrils, the curl of her lashes against her flushed cheeks.

"Molly," he said in a frustrated growl, "if you do not stop looking like that I might forget that I' a gentleman and…"

"And what?" she asked breathlessly, opening her eyes and studying him as closely as he studied her. "What will you do, Sherlock?"

Her words were a challenge; with a second, wordless growl he pulled her closer so that she half-lay across his lap, straddling his good leg with her skirts hitched up to expose a goodly portion of her nether limbs. Her breast rose and fell with every panting breath she took, and he found himself unable to resist a moment longer. His mouth fell greedily upon hers; his hands busied themselves with the ties to her dress, and he very likely would have taken her then and there had they not been interrupted - fortuitously, he told himself once he had regained control of his senses - by a sudden knock at the door.

He cursed and straightened his clothing as best he could while Molly scrambled to her feet and hurried to the bedroom. When he heard the door shut, he called out irritably for whoever it was to enter, then glowered as Wiggins timidly poked his head into the room. "Sorry, sir, it's just that Colonel Moran asked me to bring you this." The corpsman inched into the room, holding a folded piece of paper as gingerly as if it might bite him - or as if worried that his superior officer would do so.

Sherlock waved him into the room with another irritated glower, then snatched the note from his hand. He grunted in further annoyance as he read, then barked at the other man to leave. He did so with alacrity, closing the door smartly behind him as he beat a hasty retreat.

Sherlock read the note a second time, transferring his irritation from the messenger to the message. He made as if to toss it into the fire, but stopped when he heard the bedroom door opening. "Presentable or not, it is safe to come out, Molly," he called without looking up.

As her hesitant footsteps approached he flipped the sheet of paper up, offering it to her between two fingers. "Your parole has been granted, Miss Hooper," he said, his tone stiff and formal. "Colonel Moran is so impressed by your steadfastness during my recuperation that he has finally decided you are no threat and can be allowed to leave whenever you wish."