Sherlock awoke the next morning at his usual time, a half hour before dawn, and rose with a grumble from his uncomfortable resting place on the hearth. He was warm enough, even with only a single blanket wrapped around his lanky form, but missed even the questionable comforts of his bed. However, he'd slept in far worse conditions, or so he reminded himself when his grumbling threatened to turn to cursing as his back creaked when he stretched it. Yawning and rubbing at his aching hip – next time he would be sure to sleep on his back rather than his side – he automatically headed for his bedroom, intent on making use of the ceramic chamber pot resting beneath his bed, but paused with his hand on the latch. He'd managed to forget, in his morning mental fog, that both the room and the bed were currently occupied. He hesitated, torn between simply making his way quietly inside and removing the necessity from its current location, and not wanting to disturb his 'guest' if she had not yet awoken from her laudanum-induced slumbers.

Biting off a curse, he obeyed his second and nobler impulse, shoving his feet into his everyday boots and stumbling outside to the privy to relieve himself. He was grateful that the storms had finally abated, and that the path was therefore somewhat less muddy than it might otherwise have been. Well, 'somewhat less' was a bit of a stretch; at least it wasn't pouring rain on him as he trudged through the muck, he thought sourly.

After slogging his way back inside, careful to scrape as much of the mud off his boots as he could, he bit back another curse as he found himself confronted by the lady herself, her dress somewhat crumpled, her stays clearly loosened, with the afghan wrapped snugly around her shoulders. "My apologies if I awoke you," he said with a slight bow, recognising the ridiculousness of doing so whilst clad only in a long, white nightshirt.

Miss Hooper shook her head and averted her eyes from his improperly clad form. "No apologies necessary for that, Captain Holmes," she replied. "I am an early riser by nature, and slept quite soundly thanks to Doctor Watson's insistence that I choke down his opiates."

Sherlock, who had poured himself a glass of water and had been about to take a sip, nearly choked on it trying not to laugh at the tartness of her voice as she finished speaking. "I take it you did not wish to be aided to slumber?" he asked, eyes crinkling with amusement.

Miss Hooper, however, did not appear amused. She stood near the hearth, a very unladylike scowl marring her otherwise pleasant features as she toyed with the ends of her neatly braided hair. "I wished only to make my way to my home, Captain Holmes," she replied bluntly. "To relieve you of the burden of continuing to pretend to a relationship that does not – and never will – exist." Her voice sharpened warningly, and there was challenge in her eyes as she met his gaze.

"I can assure you, Miss Hooper, that I did not engage in this ridiculous deception merely to take the opportunity to avail myself of your charms," Sherlock said coldly, his brief amusement vanishing. "Your virtue is in no danger from me."

He thought he saw a flash of remorse in her eyes, although it was difficult to tell when she continued to avert her gaze. He supposed he could excuse himself in order to at least put on some trousers, but some contrary part of his nature stubbornly refused to give in to the gentlemanly impulse. They were in this predicament due to her actions; she could bloody well learn to live with the consequences.

"I do not wish to appear ungrateful," she began, and Sherlock couldn't stop the bark of sardonic laughter that escaped his throat. "You find me humorous?" she asked, colouring slightly although her voice remained steady as she darted a look at his face.

"I find the entire situation humorous," Sherlock replied, pulling out one of the four straight-backed chairs from the table and seating himself, manners be damned. It was clear his temporary house-mate was in a contentious mood, and he was becoming irritated as he considered the necessary actions they would both have to agree to in order to remain safe. "Starting with the fact that you do, indeed, appear ungrateful, not to put too fine a point on it. I've yet to hear you say 'thank you'," he added pointedly. "I would think simple courtesy…"

"Thank you for your assistance, Captain Holmes," she interrupted him. "I appreciate your willingness to pretend to a relationship that would explain my presence in your quarters; however, I would also appreciate your assistance in returning me to my…"

"Your aunt sends her regards," Sherlock said, smugly interrupting her as he noted her increased agitation. He got back to his feet, rummaging in his coat pocket and procuring the missive her aunt had written for her. "And also this letter." He offered it to her, but when she eagerly reached for it, he lifted it out of her reach and cocked a warning eyebrow at her. "Once you have read this, it must go directly into the fire," he cautioned her. "There is another letter you may read as well, one that I am of course duty-bound to share with Colonel Moran. Who," he added as he allowed Miss Hooper to take the letter, "will be expecting me at breakfast in another hour."

Miss Hooper was ignoring him, a rather remarkable sensation as he was unused to unattached young ladies doing anything other than fluttering over him. However, considering the circumstances, he could hardly fault her. Her expression gradually darkened into a frown that threatened to remain indefinitely as she silently read over her aunt's words.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock ventured to ask when she carefully refolded the paper and gazed down at it.

She started and looked at him as if she'd forgotten his presence. "My aunt urges me not to do anything she would consider 'foolish'," she said slowly. "By which I presume she means for me to remain here and not bash you over the head with a pewter mug and make my escape."

"Wise words on your aunt's part," Sherlock replied, discreetly moving the pewter mug at his elbow out of Miss Hooper's reach. "Should I be discovered unconscious in my quarters after you'd fled – presumably stealing a horse if you can ride? – I can assure you the first thing Colonel Moran would do after clapping me in irons is hunt you down and have you put to death."

All the bravado seemed to leave her at that bald statement, and she sank down onto the nearest chair, her expression blank. "Surely you could find some excuse to give that would allow me to return home? You've assisted me thus far, Captain Holmes…"

"Sherlock," he interrupted her firmly. "You must call me Sherlock when in private."

She gave him a disdainful look, finally working up the nerve – or possibly simply the exasperation – to stare pointedly at his inappropriately-clad body. "We hardly know one another well enough for such intimacies, Captain Holmes," she said, giving his title slight but obvious emphasis. "And if we are 'in private', there should be no need for us to carry out such a charade."

"If we are to affect an intimate relationship, Miss Hooper – Molly," he corrected himself deliberately, "then we must be convincing, don't you agree?" As he spoke he held out his hand; immediately understanding his intent, she hesitated only a moment before handing him the letter from her aunt, watching unhappily as he tossed it into the flames.

It had burnt to ash before she spoke again. "I suppose I must agree…Sherlock."

He sternly stamped down on the flutter of enjoyment he felt at hearing her pronounce his Christian name; the game was not seduction but protection. For both of them, since he'd recklessly put his own neck on the block in the effort to save hers. To better understand how he could extend and perhaps reinforce that protection, he needed more information from his unwilling guest.

"What did you hope to find in my quarters, Miss Hooper? Surely you didn't think a mere Captain's correspondence could hold any military secrets worth risking your life over!"

"Oh," Molly said with a small shrug. "It was a mistake."

"Yes, certainly," Sherlock agreed. "But the question remains: why did you make such a mistake? What did you hope to find in my papers…" He fell silent as she shifted in her seat, fingers worrying at the skirts of her dress. His brow furrowed and then smoothed as he realised what must have happened. "Ah, I see. Were you led to believe, perhaps, that this humble abode was where the good Colonel Moran was billeted?"

She nodded, not bothering to attempt any dissembling. After all, she'd been well and truly caught, and it was only by Sherlock's good graces that she retained any semblance of freedom at all. "It seemed like too good an opportunity to let pass," she admitted ruefully. "I was supposed to forward the information to…certain other parties…but when I came to deliver the vegetables to your cookhouse, and saw what I thought was the Colonel's quarters unguarded, I took my chance."

"Reckless," Sherlock noted, "but no different to how I would have approached the matter, I suppose."

Molly looked surprised, as if she hadn't been expecting even so watered-down a compliment. He was surprised as well; he'd started this conversation intending to keep her on the back foot, to impress upon her the seriousness of her situation, not to admire her willingness to risk herself for a cause in which she clearly believed most passionately. He caught himself wondering if she were equally impassioned under other, more intimate circumstances, and scowled at the lack of discipline within his own mind.

Then her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Captain William Sherlock Scott Holmes lost his train of thought completely. Unaware of his own actions, he found himself on his feet and moving to stand directly in front of Molly. She gazed up at him in mute inquiry, then gasped as he grasped her wrist in one hand, pulled her to her feet and bent his head to press his lips to hers.

oOo

It took Molly a moment to understand what was happening. Not because she was innocent of such goings-on between men and women – which she was only in the sense that no one had ever kissed her before – but because her mind went entirely blank as the handsome Brit's lips met hers. For a shockingly long moment she even forgot to resist as the sensations flooded through her, setting off a chain reaction that was as exciting as it was disgraceful.

When sense finally came roaring back into her mind, she pulled away and stared at him, outrage warring with worry on her face as she demanded, "What do you think you're doing?" She wasn't worried about his intentions so much as her own instinctive – and highly inappropriate – reactions. She ought to be slapping him right now, instead of wanting him to kiss her again! And even if she did want him to do so, she would certainly never speak such a desire out loud!

He had the gall to roll his eyes, as if she, rather than he, were in the wrong. His tone in reply was even more exasperating, being so patronising it made her want to slap him just for that – as well, of course, as for his reprehensible conduct. "In order for this to work, Molly, we must be seen acting as if you are, indeed, my mistress when in public view. And in order for that masquerade to be properly enacted, I will from time to time be required to kiss you!"

Molly glared at him. This arrogant, pompous...oh, she had no proper words for what he was but would be sure to ask her good friend Captain Greg Lestrade for them once she'd freed herself from this ridiculous French farce of a situation. "I am perfectly capable of kissing you, Captain Holmes, when the circumstances call for it. Which they currently do not!" She ignored the fluttering of her stomach, the pounding of her heart and the heat in her cheeks that gave lie to her denials. It didn't help that he was clad only in a white nightshirt that bared his shapely calves to her view; why hadn't she demanded that he dress himself when she first awoke and met him in the parlour?

He raised an insolent eyebrow at her as he continued to pin her with his gaze. "Really? Can you kiss me like a woman greeting her lover after an absence, when I return from patrol?" His voice seemed to go even lower, raising goosebumps on her arms and prickling the short hairs on the back of her neck. "Or kiss me like a woman saying goodbye to a man she may never see again, when I leave in the first place?" He was stroking the back of her hand, which he'd refused to release, with one finger. Molly found herself fighting the urge to shiver as she gaped up at him.

His entire attitude shifted to icy disdain as quickly as it had turned to smouldering sexuality, and his voice regained its regular timbre as he continued: "Because that is exactly what is going to be expected of you. Moran is suspicious of us both; only the fact that he has never had reason to question my loyalties to the Crown has stopped him from accusing me of covering for you. Which," he added pointedly, "I am. Now. I give you my word that my motives are solely for your benefit when I ask you, once again, to allow me to kiss you. We must appear to be comfortable with one another, or at least more comfortable than we currently are."

Molly considered his 'request' for a long moment, unable to tear her gaze away from his remarkable eyes. Right now they were cold and impatient, not at all the eyes of a man who wished to seduce a woman into his arms – or his bed. He'd acted with honour so far, protecting her when he knew very well that she was an enemy spy. That, she decided, was the only reason she found herself agreeing to continue this mad charade. Not because he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen, or the most intelligent – although he most certainly was both those things.

No, it was a combination of simple gratitude and common sense that caused her to nod her agreement; that had to be all it was. Her heart was pounding, of course it was; whose heart wouldn't pound in such a fraught situation? Her life was still in danger; one word from this man and it would all be over. He was certainly clever enough to spin a believable yarn as to why he had protected her in the first place – his desire to make her his mistress in reality was undoubtedly all it would take for that lecherous pig Moran to believe him.

Captain Holmes – Sherlock, she must remember to call him by his Christian name as he'd requested when in private – gazed down at her with a faint smirk curling his lips as he pulled her closer, slowly but with confidence, releasing his grip on her wrist and moving that hand to her waist. The other moved up to brush against her shoulder, coming to rest on the nape of her neck so he could tilt her head up as he lowered his own to meet hers. His lips were soft, gentle, and her eyes fluttered shut as they moved against hers, maintaining a light pressure that gradually increased, although she found herself so lost in the moment that she only noticed when she felt his tongue lightly pressing against her lips, teasing them open and eliciting a gasp of surprise he quickly took advantage of. The pressing became a thrust, and suddenly his tongue was in her mouth, sliding along hers in a vulgar, erotic movement like none she'd ever experienced.

Instead of pushing him away in righteous indignation as her upbringing told her was the correct response to such an outrage, she tentatively allowed her tongue to move against his, feeling a surge of triumph at his startled intake of breath at the boldness of her response. Molly Hooper had never backed down from a challenge in her entire two-and-twenty years, and she didn't intend to start now. At least, that was all she told herself it was; he'd pushed, and she refused to back down. It had nothing to do with the galloping of her heart or the roaring of her blood through her veins.

Sherlock pulled back and stared at her for a long moment, eyes suddenly wilder than they had been and droplets of sweat glistening on his forehead. Molly stared up at him, fearing that her own eyes held the same hunger. He gave her no time to protest as he lunged forward and brought his mouth slashing down against hers with what felt like very real passion, taking her lower lip between his teeth and nipping at it until her mouth opened beneath his again.

Dimly Molly realized that she was holding his upper arms in her hands in a desperate attempt to remain on her feet as a wave of dizziness overcame her, weakening her knees and making her ankles feel distinctly wobbly. Whether Sherlock noted her unsteadiness or whether he was simply as overcome with desire as she was, his grasp on her tightened; the arm around her waist hauled her closer, pressing her against the firm length of his semi-clad body, and Molly felt a warm bulge against her hip through the thin layer of his nightshirt. Although she had no direct experience with such portions of the male anatomy, she certainly knew what it portended!

Once again, instead of feeling shame or alarm, all she felt was a rising flush of heat from her feminine core that travelled up her torso to paint her cheeks a heated red. The hand on her waist slid downward to fondle her bottom, while the other was tangled desperately in her hair. She realized with a faint sense of surprise that one of her own hands had moved up to clutch with equal desperation at his dark curls while the other had somehow wandered to his shoulder.

He was the first to break the fervent embrace, pulling his lips from hers and holding her at arm's length, chest heaving and his breathing as ragged as her own. His eyes had darkened with lust, and she was certain the dark brown of her own was equally drenched in blackness. "You play a dangerous game, Miss Hooper," he said in a hoarse growl. "Do not think to tempt me into more indiscretions than I've already committed on your behalf."

She glared at him again, inexplicably wounded by his words; of course he would think her forward behaviour was meant as a seduction, another attempt to secure her freedom, rather than...whatever it truly was. She tossed her head as she fought to regain her severely rattled composure; the kisses had affected her far more than they should have.

"And why did you help me, Captain Holmes?" she finally managed to ask, displeased by how breathless her voice sounded. "What do you want from me, if not this?" She gestured to indicate her body, painfully aware of its shortcomings and ashamed of the small part of her that thrilled to the undeniable fact that he did, indeed, seem to find it enticing enough to tempt him into saving her from the gallows.

When he finally answered, however, it was nothing she'd expected to hear. "Because I see no point in further lives being needlessly lost to this ridiculous war."

Molly stared at him as he moved away from her, deliberately turning his back as he went to the hearth in order to add another log to the fire, recognising that he was testing her. Would she attempt to overpower him, laughable though such a goal would seem to be considering the differences in their sizes, or would she simply take the opportunity to flee through the unlocked door in spite of his earlier assertions as to the foolishness of such an act?

She did neither, not being a fool. His corpsman, Wiggins, was waiting outside, or another guard had been posted, and she'd seen the looks Colonel Moran had levelled at both her and the captain; as Sherlock had said, any such attempt would be immediately noted and halted, ending with the two of them side by side in the gaol, awaiting first interrogation and then hanging.

She shivered a bit at the thought; she wasn't nearly as insouciant about dying as she tried to appear, and no matter what his motives, Captain Holmes had saved her life by his intervention. When he straightened and turned from the fire, he appeared unsurprised to see her standing exactly where he'd left her.

They traded stares before Molly spoke again. "I still don't think I understand your meaning, Captain Holmes," she finally said.

"Sherlock," he corrected her. "My name, as I have already informed you, is Sherlock. Along with kissing and other embraces, it would do us well to remember to call one another by our Christian names whenever possible. I thought we had come to an agreement on this matter…Molly."

Hearing him say her name in that baritone rumble threatened to weaken her knees yet again; she stiffened them and merely nodded to indicate her agreement. "And what do you not understand, Molly?" he asked while she continued to stare stupidly at him, all previous thoughts flown from her head.

"Me," she finally squeaked out, then readjusted the afghan around her shoulders in order to give herself a moment to compose herself. (Goodness, she was having to do that an awful lot today!) "I mean, why save me? You barely know me, you know I wasn't here for anything…harmless," she said after seeking the appropriate term. "If you didn't do it to make me your mistress in truth, then why do it at all?"

He shrugged and toyed with a pair of exquisite wine glasses placed on the mantel. Expensive crystal, she noted with part of her mind. Since they bore what looked to be a family crest etched into the glass, she knew they hadn't been looted or purchased on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, which meant they'd survived a sea crossing and however many moves he'd made since arriving here...how long ago?

As she opened her mouth to ask, he interrupted her. "Three years. I have been on this continent for three bloody years, Molly, and I am more than ready to return home, I can assure you."

"How did you know…?"

He waved one hand dismissively. "I saw you examining the wine glasses, noting their pristine condition. Seeing my family crest you knew they had travelled here with me and allowed yourself to be distracted by wondering how long I had been here. Three years, and God willing, I will return home in no more than two additional years. Sooner, if the generals get their heads out of their bloody arses and see what's right in front of their eyes."

"And what would that be?" Molly asked cautiously.

He shrugged and turned to fully face her. "Isn't it obvious? The war is already over, it's just that neither side can see it yet."

She couldn't help it; she bristled at the dismissive tone of his voice. "Don't count the Americans out yet, Captain Holmes!"

"Call me Sherlock," he corrected her with a scowl. "And you mistake my meaning. It is not the rebels who will be conceding defeat within the next two years, but the British Army."

She stared at him, mouth opened for protests she could no longer make. "On, on what do you base that opinion?" she finally managed to ask.

He shrugged. "Oh, it isn't an opinion, but fact. And I base it upon my knowledge of British and Colonial – sorry, American – tactics and strategies, the French participating more actively on the American side, the unwillingness of the British officers in charge of this fiasco to acknowledge that their strategies are inherently flawed...I could go on and on, but I shan't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I am convinced that the colonies will very soon be recognised as an independent nation."

"If British defeat is as inevitable as you make it out to be, then why prolong your own part in it?" she asked, genuinely interested in knowing how this fascinating man's mind worked. When not in danger of being hanged as a spy, she believed she could spend hours conversing with him. Or doing other things involving the two of them investigating one another's bodies without the nuisance of clothing... She hurriedly whisked her mind away from that particular avenue of thought. "Why not simply resign your commission and return to England if you feel this is a lost cause?" she asked, attempting to return her wayward thoughts to more respectable topics. Then, greatly daring, she added: "Or why not throw your lot in with the winning side?"

The look he shot her was suddenly pure venom, and his voice fairly dripped disdain as he snapped out his response. "Because I am neither a coward nor a traitor, madame, a fact which you would do well to remember in future conversations."

His good humour, it would seem, had entirely vanished. Molly watched with wary eyes as he stalked out of the room, pausing in the doorway for one parting shot. "Pray excuse me, as I must dress and prepare myself to break my fast with Colonel Moran. I shall have Wiggins bring you something to eat as soon as I can." The bedroom door slammed shut, and she was left standing in the parlour, wondering what her next course of action should be.

oOo

Sherlock resisted the urge to slam his fist into the wall, although it was a difficult struggle. He hadn't meant for any of that to happen – not the first kiss, nor the second, certainly not his body's betraying reaction to the blasted woman! Not even his predictions for the eventual outcome of the war were words he'd meant to share with anyone; he'd never even discussed those beliefs with John Watson, for God's sake! Yet here he was, blathering his innermost thoughts to her as if they'd known one another for decades, and were good friends…or lovers.

He threw off his nightshirt, uncaring that it landed half on the floor and half on the neatly made bed. There was no sign that Molly had occupied it so recently, not even an indentation in the pillow. Conscientious of her, he thought with an attempt at a sneer. His traitorous body, however, continued to make its lascivious interest in her known despite his current distemper. And his equally traitorous mind kept whispering how easy it would prove to convince her to share that bed with him, in spite of her protestations to the contrary. The right words, softly spoken; his sincere sympathy for her cause even as he fought on the opposite side; soft looks and sweet caresses, and she would melt into his embrace.

And hate him all the more for it once he'd taken her.

That thought was the dose of cold reality his body needed to return to its normal, unaroused state, and to bring sober clarity to his mind. No matter how enjoyable it had been to hold Molly Hooper in his arms, to kiss those sweet lips, to feel her responding to his attentions, it was a dangerous, potentially deadly game they were playing. Neither of them could be allowed to forget that, ever. And the longer it progressed, the more dangerous it would become.

He paused in the midst of pulling on his trousers; how long, exactly would the game have to continue in order to convince Moran of Molly's supposed innocence? Would the blasted man expect them to remain together for as long as they remained quartered here, or would Sherlock be able at some point in the near future to return her to her aunt's house, under the guise of having grown weary of her?

In spite of his deductive abilities, this was one question that could not be answered without further investigation. Starting with breakfast. Finishing his morning ablutions as quickly as he could without the usual aid of Wiggins – who no doubt hesitated to venture into the house with Miss Hooper inside – he donned his clothing and strode back into the main room of the house to reclaim his boots, jacket and hat before facing his second dragon of the day.

A/N: Thank you for your kind reviews, they make a writer's day!