Sherlock returned after his meeting with Colonel Moran, tersely explaining that he would be leaving in two days' time for an extended mission. Doing what, he naturally chose not to share with her; nor did Molly ask for details. The tight press of his lips and his clipped words were more than enough warning that any requests for elucidation would not be well received.
On being left her to her own devices for the remainder of the morning while Sherlock went about his usual duties – with a less-than-subtle parting comment about his socks needing darning, and the vague assurance that Wiggins might be able to find her whatever she needed to complete such a task – she set about putting the small house to rights. He'd left his nightshirt hanging half-off the bed, and although she'd hesitated before touching it, eventually she'd plucked up the nerve to hang it neatly on the peg holding his maroon dressing-gown. The rest of the morning was spent in such domestic tasks as the rain again commenced; autumn was well and truly on its way, she thought ruefully as she fretted over the state of her garden back home. Her aunt shouldn't have been left to tend it on her own, but there was little choice in the matter.
In spite of her wish to be back where she belonged, living her own life again, Molly couldn't help but think wistfully of how much nicer that life would be were she sharing it with someone special. Someone not unlike a certain British officer who made her cheeks redden and sent wicked thoughts racing through her mind every time she saw him.
She huffed impatiently as she caught herself smoothing her fingers over the fine linen shirt she was reattaching a button to; how had the man brought her to such a state in just a few short days? Yes, she'd secretly thought him rather dashing when she'd first seen him in Baxton a bare three months earlier. Yes, she'd also found his shrewd analysis of her fellow townsfolk amusing as well as devastatingly accurate. Yes, he'd saved her life. Yes to all, but she would do well to remember that he was still the enemy no matter what he'd done to protect her from her own folly, rather than allow herself to pine for a man she could never truly have!
She was somewhat taken aback as she realized how fully Sherlock now occupied her thoughts, comforting herself with the reminder that it was simply gratitude to him. Gratitude - and of course base physical desire, which she would need to purge from her heart before she allowed anything more untoward to happen between them. It was enough of a stain on her soul that she'd enjoyed the kisses they'd shared so very much, and lacked the true repentance that would make praying for forgiveness more than mere lip-service!
Although there was much to be said about his very, very fine lips…
With another huff of exasperation, Molly tossed aside the mending and busied herself with other chores.
Once the entire house was as clean and organized as she could manage, she reluctantly returned to the mending pile, wishing desperately that she'd thought to ask her aunt so send along the medical journals her father had left her after his passing. Anything to keep her mind away from the man whose home she currently shared!
Shortly after the church bells rang the noon hour Sherlock returned, looking damp and miserable. She looked up from the button she was sewing back on yet another of his shirts. She'd found this one lying carelessly on the floor beneath his bed during her cleaning. She rose to her feet to greet him, gratefully laying aside the half-finished work. "Are we summoned to the colonel's presence for luncheon?" she asked, pleased at how steady her voice remained in spite of the excited drumming of her heart at the sight of him, no matter how water-logged he might be.
Sherlock shook his head, carelessly tossing his wet hat onto the trunk next to the still-open door and raking his fingers through the damp curls that had fallen over his forehead. "No, Moran traditionally only dines with fellow officers in either the morning or the evening, and never twice in the same day. We're safe from his prying eyes for the moment. Doctor Watson, however, will be joining us." Without another word – and without so much as closing the door – he strode past her, shedding his wet outer garments and dropping them carelessly to the floor as he went. Then he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Molly to gape in angry astonishment at the arrogance of the man. Did he truly expect her to clean up after him as if she were a chambermaid?
If not for the fact that Doctor Watson was on his way, she grumbled to herself as she reluctantly retrieved the wet garments and laid them over the grate to dry, she certainly would have left them where they lay! And then of course there were the puddles to wipe up, and the mending to return to the basket she'd found to use for such homey tasks. And to think, only moments ago she'd been idealizing that man!
oOo
When Sherlock emerged from the room a few minutes later he discovered, much to his surprise, that his discarded clothing had been neatly hung to dry in front of the fire, that the table had been set for three with the china he'd brought from England, and that Molly was busy with the kettle.
Clearing his throat in order to catch her attention, he offered a stiff bow. "Thank you," he said gruffly. When she offered him an inquisitive look, he elaborated, "For all...this." He gestured toward the fire and the table, and she dropped a small curtsey and dimpled before returning to her task.
He stood like a man under a spell, entranced by the sight of her performing the same mundane tasks usually carried out by Wiggins. Why was it that such tasks were utterly boring when his corpsman performed them, and yet so absorbing when it was Molly bent over to place another log on the fire?
Hmm, perhaps the answer to that question was not so elusive as it seemed at first; discreetly adjusting his trousers, Sherlock murmured an excuse about visiting the privy, hurrying off before Molly could take note of his current predicament. A few minutes spent contemplating all the ways his upcoming mission could go wrong worked as well as a dash of cold water on his privates, although it did nothing to help his mood.
The problem wasn't his physical attraction to Miss Molly Hooper; that was something he was used to, and well able to control. No, it was his growing appreciation for her quick wits, her passionate belief in her cause, and her determination not to allow her present circumstances to wear her down. All admirable qualities on their own, but when packaged with a woman whose face and figure were exactly the sort to most excite a physical reaction within his body, they combined to ensure that the situation he faced bordered on the intolerable.
For the first time in his eight-and-twenty years, Sherlock Holmes wondered if he might have waded into waters too deep for him to navigate. Perhaps a dangerous mission was exactly the tonic he needed to clear his mind.
He returned to find that John had arrived during his brief absence, and was entertaining Molly with the story of how the two of them had first met in London, before their mutual enlistment into the military. "He was entirely accurate as to the unfortunate habits of my elder sibling, although he neglected to deduce the most pertinent fact: that 'Harry' is my sister and not my brother!"
Molly laughed appreciatively, and Sherlock noted the way her gaze flicked toward him as he joined them in the small sitting area in front of the fire. "What Doctor Watson fails to remember is that I was entirely unaware at the time of the diminutive form of the name Harriet. And of course, the affectionate nature of the engraving…"
"Yes, well, enough about that," John interrupted him hastily, a slight flush appearing on his cheeks.
Sherlock frowned; why on Earth was his friend so intent on changing the subject? Ah, yes, of course; he was far more uncomfortable with his sister's so-called 'unnatural' interest in those of her own sex, than he was with her unfortunate drunkenness. With a mental shrug, he allowed John to steer the conversation into less troublesome waters, although he caught the slight frown that Molly gave as he did so. She was sharp enough to recognize when something was being avoided, and he expected she would interrogate him on the matter once they were alone.
Fortunately for John, Sherlock had never been one to allow secrets to spill from his lips simply because of a pretty face and trim figure. Even if said features accompanied a bright, inquisitive mind and passionate nature, fierce loyalty and unquestioned bravery…
Damn, he was doing it again, allowing his mind to linger on Molly's many fine qualities instead of focusing on more important subjects. What those more important subjects might be currently escaped him, but he was certain they existed.
oOo
Luncheon was an entirely civilized affair, with Molly steering the conversation to neutral topics with Doctor Watson's willing and enthusiastic assistance. Each time Sherlock attempted to digress into discussion of the war or politics or even (once) religion, he was very politely, but very firmly shut down. He seemed baffled and uneasy, as if not used to being treated thus, and Molly caught Doctor Watson stifling more than one smile at his friend's discomfiture.
"Will you be joining us for supper as well, Doctor Watson?" she asked as the men prepared to take their leave of her for the afternoon.
It was an impulsive question, very forward of her, but she found herself uneasy at the idea of spending an evening alone with Sherlock. Especially since he'd warned her that he would not be sleeping on the hearth from now on, lest someone (by whom she understood him to mean Sergeant Moriarty) discover the truth of their sham relationship.
After a quick glance at Sherlock, Doctor Watson smiled and nodded. "Yes, of course, Miss Hooper, I should be delighted. At what time should I join you?"
"Eight o'clock, if you please," she replied with a small curtsey. "I've enjoyed your company, Doctor, and I know Captain Holmes does as well."
'Captain Holmes' let forth a very inelegant snort. "All this formality, ridiculous!" he snapped. "Molly and I call each other by our Christian names, John, and you should as well, at least when we three are alone together!"
Doctor Watson frowned, giving Sherlock his patented 'that was a bit not good look', which his friend blithely ignored, instead focusing all his attention on Molly. "As John is our only co-conspirator," Sherlock said in a low voice, moving closer to her than was strictly necessary, "it seems only reasonable that the three of us dispense with unnecessary formality, don't you agree, Molly?"
She couldn't held the small shiver that ran over her frame at both the intensity of his gaze and the intimate way in which he spoke her name. The sound of Doctor Watson - John - clearing his throat caused them both to start and look away from one another. "I have no objections to the informality Sherlock has proposed," the doctor said with a warm smile. "As long as you do not object to the slight impropriety, of course!"
Molly gave a small laugh. "Considering the circumstances of our association, I fail to see how one more impropriety can make any difference. John," she added deliberately. Testing the waters.
He bowed and smiled. "Molly," he said, and in that moment she believed that, no matter which side of the current conflict fate had placed them, she would always find a friend in John Watson.
oOo
As soon as the door had shut behind them, John turned to Sherlock with a grin. "So," he said in his most amiable tone, "would you care to tell me how things are progressing with the young lady?"
It was a question that could be easily overheard and mistaken for simple prurient interest, but Sherlock knew better. Scowling, he quickened his stride. "What happens between Miss Hooper and myself remains no one's business but our own, John," he said loudly, a quick plan forming in his mind. Should the two of them be seen quarreling over Miss Hooper, others might be convinced that John Watson was now a weakness that could be exploited. And to have a spy in the enemy camp, as it were, would be no small advantage at this time.
A pity John wasn't as nearly as quick-witted as he could be; instead of playing along, he hurried his own footsteps, a frown wrinkling his forehead as he caught up to his friend. "It was a simple question, Sherlock, with no harm meant," he said.
They neared the stables, and Sherlock noted a lack of others nearby, only young Martin who was currying the Colonel's favorite, a bad-tempered stallion aptly named 'Daemon'. While the lad was occupied with keeping the animal restrained so he could complete his chores, Sherlock swiftly pulled John into the unoccupied building, after a quick glance to ensure that no other eyes were upon them. "First things first," he said. Speaking rapidly, he explained the mission Moran had ordered him to undertake, not minimizing the risks. "While I'm gone, I'll need you to keep Molly safe from our dear Colonel's depredations."
John nodded, his jaw set firmly. Sherlock knew he could count on him for this part of the plan; it was the second half that might prove problematic. "And I've decided the best way for you to do that is for you and I to quarrel."
John's brow furrowed. "How -" he began, only to have Sherlock run roughshod over his words.
"We shall quarrel over Miss Hooper," he announced. "Tonight, you will join us for supper as arranged, but will storm out early and appear to be the worse for drink. Seeing you in such a state will excite a great amount of interest amongst our fellow officers as well as others, which will of course encourage them to ply you with further drink in order to obtain your story. Which," he added gleefully, "you will happily supply."
John, who had remained silent and stony-faced during this sudden rush of words, finally spoke. "And how, exactly, will this keep Miss Hooper safe?"
His friend quickly explained his reasoning, to which John listened attentively, if sceptically. "Moran and Moriarty will never fully trust you, of course, but they suspect everyone of plotting against them and wouldn't trust their own mothers. But there are others who might let something slip if they believe you will share your gossip with them, and everyone knows I am far from the most beloved member of this company." This last was delivered with an eye-roll that clearly indicated Sherlock's lack of caring as to his popularity.
"But everyone knows that we have been good friends for years," John objected. "How will they possibly believe we could have a falling-out? Especially at what might be viewed as a rather convenient time?"
"No one has seen me involved with a woman before," Sherlock reminded him. "And what more common way for friends to fall out than over a woman?"
John had no reply to that question, and Sherlock was quick to press his point. "It doesn't have to be that you share an interest in her; it could be something else, that you feel I've treated her poorly or that I don't deserve her."
"You don't," John replied flatly. "You are far too rude, cold and insufferable for any woman to put up with." He softened the bluntness of his words - which Sherlock knew to be entirely truthful - by smiling and shaking his head. "However, from what I've observed, it's far too late for anyone to point out your failings to the young lady, as it is clear to anyone with eyes that, no matter how this relationship came about, she is already quite smitten with you."
The sound of the door being pushed wider open caught their attention before Sherlock could respond to that preposterous observation. He took immediate advantage of the interruption, saying loudly, "Yes, Watson, I am more than aware of my personal failings. However, as I said before, what happens between Miss Hooper and myself is no one's business but our own."
This time John was ready, and heatedly replied, "However true that may be, Holmes, you must admit that this entire situation is your fault. Whatever possessed you to ask the lady to play hide-and-seek in your personal papers? Surely you must have realized what a dangerous position you've put her in by doing so!"
Sherlock gave a shrug, his face schooled into an indifferent mask. "She knows that I am easily bored, Watson; this was merely an attempt to gauge how far she was willing to go in order to retain my attention. Yes, this has led to some temporary discomfiture on both our parts, but you must admit, it is certainly not boring!" With a bark of laughter, he clapped John on the shoulder, then turned and headed for the stable door.
He gave a curt nod to the pair of corporals loitering there, pretending not to notice their avid interest in his conversation with the good doctor. They snapped off a pair of half-way decent salutes, which he returned before striding off as if his business at the stable was finished. It was a bit of a risk, leaving John behind to fend for himself, but he was confident that his friend would faithfully carry out the ruse they'd decided upon.
Now all he had to do was inform Molly.
A/N: Thank you again for your kind reviews, they make a writer's day!