A/N: I suggest re-reading chapter 11 as it has been substantially edited to fill in a massive plot hole discovered by mychakk. Chapter 12 remains the same.
Sherlock awoke with an unexpected weight on his chest; he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he took in the sight of a naked, softly snoring Molly Hooper lying with her head nestled on his chest, one arm flung possessively around his waist, and her mass of unbound chestnut tresses trailing over all.
He blinked again, rapidly, memories of the night before flooding into his consciousness. The argument. The heated kisses - and the equally heated lovemaking which had immediately followed. His lips curled in a lazy smile as he continued to study her sleeping form, lying so comfortably, so warmly, against his. His body seemed eager to continue their night-time activities, but he silently cautioned himself to patience.
After all, it had been Molly's first time with a man - and, by God, her only time with any man aside from himself from this moment forward, had he aught to say of it! - and she was likely to have some residual soreness twixt her nethers.
With the idea of providing some relief in that matter by bringing her a bowl of water and a cloth with which to clean herself, he began the slow process of easing himself from beneath her body, starting with the arm he held securely wrapped around her shoulder. She made a soft, protesting noise in her sleep, a frown marring the perfect lines of her forehead. She soon settled back down, her head coming to rest on the pillow as he slid onto his side and prepared to rise to his feet.
The sound of the bedroom door opening, however, stilled him even as it brought Molly gasping to wakefulness. "Holmes, I've come to check on your leg, but Miss Hooper appears...to...be...missing."
Sherlock threw the covers over them both, being sure the patchwork quilt covered Molly to her neck and, knowing how keen John had always been about 'modesty', over his own lower limbs and waist. "Pray give us a moment to comport ourselves," he said coolly, nodding toward the door. "We shall join you in the parlour momentarily."
John remained frozen in the doorway, his eyes shifting back and forth between the pair of them, his expression darkening and cheeks flushing with choler. "You- you utter cad!" he declaimed, resting his glare on Sherlock. "How dare you take advantage of this young woman! You gave your word!"
"John-" Sherlock rose to his feet, modesty be damned, in the sight of his friend's growing ire. "Now is not the time to -"
"To what?" John spat out angrily. "To call you on your ungentlemanly behaviour? When would be a better time, after you have debauched this poor woman a second time?"
"Doctor Watson, please, it's not entirely Sherlock's fault!" Molly exclaimed, rising to her knees with the blanket tucked firmly around her slight form. "It, it was a mutual moment of madness, I beg of you, do not rain your ire on his head when I was a willing participant!"
Sherlock couldn't help but grin at her unintentional alliteration, turning his head to do so, which unfortunately proved itself a mistake. Whether John perceived his smile as provoking or whether his anger had already surpassed his reason, his next action was to land a swift punch squarely on Sherlock's jaw as he started to turn back to him.
He landed on his arse, legs asprawl as John stood over him, chest heaving and fists clenched. "I trust," he ground out, "that you intend to do the honourable thing, Holmes. I can fetch Reverend Stamford within the hour."
"Stamford?" Sherlock scoffed as he heaved himself back up to his feet. "To what purpose? Confession is a Papist sacrament, and although I am uncertain as to Miss Hooper's religious beliefs, I was raised in the Church of England."
"I believe Doctor Watson wishes us to wed."
Molly's quiet words fell like the sharpest of missiles upon his ears and he found himself completely at a loss for words - but only momentarily. "Impossible," he said flatly. "You know me to be opposed to that state, John, as far as my own self is concerned. Nor would I even consider it with a woman I barely know…"
He fell silent at the soft inhalation of distress from Molly's lips, cursing his wayward tongue for racing so merrily - and thoughtlessly - ahead of his mind. It was obvious that his words had dealt Molly quite a blow, but there was no time to try and make things right, not when a red-faced John Watson was once again aiming a blow at him.
This time he was able to avoid that blow, dancing nimbly away from his furious friend. "Now John," he began, only for the other man to interrupt him.
"Enough, Holmes!" John bellowed. "If you refuse to do the right thing, the honourable thing, then my own honour demands satisfaction." He pulled roughly at the fingers of his glove, flinging it to the floor at Sherlock's feet. "Meet me at dawn, at the north side of town. You know the place. Your choice of weapons." His gaze strayed toward Molly, then quickly skittered away as he seemed to recall her current state of undress. "Miss Hooper, please clothe yourself and present yourself to me directly you are finished; I will escort you to the home of Reverend Stamford and his wife until this has been sorted out."
He glared at Sherlock until the other man drew on his trousers and preceded him from the room, allowing Molly the privacy to do as John had asked - nay, as he'd demanded.
Grim-faced, the doctor paced the parlor while Sherlock pulled a clean shirt from his chest. He had to move his violin to do so, and memories of the previous evening flashed through his mind. Resolutely he set such sentimental distractions aside, to be examined at some future point when he had the leisure to do so.
"John," he began, only for the other man to whirl at him, fists clenched and fury writ clear in every feature of his face. Nevertheless, Sherlock ploughed on, confident he could mitigate the situation. A touch of humour, that was what was called for, surely? "I believe you're taking our false estrangement a bit too far, don't you?"
John cocked his head to one side, his furious expression now mingled with one of disbelief. "You accuse me of taking things too far, Holmes? When you are the one who took advantage of Miss Hooper, the one who then refused honourable matrimony in order to salvage her reputation?"
"Her reputation is already in tatters," Sherlock snarled, his own fists clenching as he felt his anger and frustration mounting. "As far as the rest of our regiment is concerned, she is already a fallen woman. What earthly difference would it make if I were to marry her now?"
"It would make a difference to me," John hissed, eyes flashing dangerously. "I agreed to this farce out of my trust that you would never take it too far, that your honour was above question! But now I am faced with the truth of the matter: you treat everything as a game, sir, and I'll be damned if I'll continue to play along!" He thrust his face up into Sherlock's. "Pistols at dawn. Or I shall know that what little honour I believe you to still retain is as non-existent as our friendship."
The door to the bedroom flew open and Molly appeared, hastily tucking her hair up under her cap. She was fully clothed but Sherlock couldn't help but note the slight stiffness to her gait, just as obvious to him as the panicked expression on her face. "Doctor Watson," she began as she rushed up to them, "please, I beg you-"
"Stamford is a good man. He and his wife will take excellent care of you until I am able to escort you back to your aunt," John said stiffly. "I shall have Wiggins collect your belongings and bring them to you there. Pray come with me now." He held out his hand to her.
She looked from him to Sherlock, who stood unmoving, reacting to neither her words nor her pleading gaze. "I see you are in no fit state of mind to hear me," she finally told John, raising her chin defiantly. "But you can be certain, sir, that my wishes will not be ignored in this matter." Head held high, she disregarded his hand and swept past him on her way to the door.
"It is not marriage to you to which I object," Sherlock felt compelled to call after her. She paused on the door, her hand on the latch. "It is marriage in general."
Head bowed, she made no response, simply opened the door. Without looking back, John strode after her, leaving Sherlock alone to contemplate the vile situation into which he'd so abruptly become mired. Damn John Watson and his poor timing; had he but waited until a more civilized hour, all this could have been avoided. He and Molly could comport themselves in private however they wished, and the rest of the world would remain blissfully ignorant.
Lip curled in a sneer, he shook himself out of his dolorous thoughts. If John felt that a duel would settle things, then so be it; Sherlock Holmes had never backed down from a challenge in his life, and friendship or no friendship (and some small part of him rather feared that it was 'no friendship' from this point forward) he would be damned if he would start now.
Grimly, with great deliberation, he limped over to the mantel and took up the velvet-lined box containing his dueling pistols. They'd been gifted to him by his brother and had never seen use; he was far too clever, far too careful, to find himself in such a ridiculous position.
He could almost hear Mycroft's sneering voice, taunting him for being unable to reason his way out of this situation. "You've never had to deal with John Watson's blasted temper," he muttered to that internal voice. "Nor his ridiculously high standards. Not that you have a solid leg on which to stand," he added in a slightly louder snarl as he pictured Mycroft's superior gaze. "Not after the foul trick you played in wooing my mistress away from me!"
Breathing heavily, he snapped his mouth shut, aghast at not only the resentment that filled his chest at his brother's betrayal, but at how that resentment seemed to spill into his feelings for the man who had been more like a true brother to him than his actual kin. He'd often leaned upon John Watson to act as his moral compass; why was he so determined not to do so under these circumstances?
Why do you fear matrimony so much?
This time the mocking internal voice was that of his former mistress and now-sister-in law, Irene Adler Holmes. She'd broached the idea of marriage to him, obliquely and with a great deal of subtlety, true, but on more than one occasion.
Had his brother truly stolen her from Sherlock, or had she already made plans to transfer her affections to a man who had already accepted that, as the eldest son and heir, he would one day have to marry and produce his own heir?
Sherlock Holmes, you are your own worst enemy.
The voice inside his head was a blend of many - Irene, John, Mycroft, Molly - but most of all…his own.