Molly rose nervously from her seat on the ivory settee as Holmes' mother returned with the tall, dapper young man who had only just arrived. She wiped her damp palms on her skirts. Even after an evening of friendly conversation, Mrs. Holmes continued to make her nervous. The white-haired matriarch was sharp and witty and shared her son's ability to take a person apart with her icy-blue gaze. Several times she had asked Molly pointed questions that were not unkind, per se, but cut through her defenses. Of course, Molly had known Mrs. Holmes wasn't a typical member of the upper class from the moment she had swept up in the most beautiful Lehenga-style red and gold saree. No other woman in the gentry would dare wear such an ostentatious outfit. Molly thought she looked like royalty.

"Miss Hooper," Mrs. Holmes beamed as she reached up to pat her son's cheek, "may I present my youngest? This is my sweet baby boy, Sherrinford Holmes. Sherrinford, this is Dr. Stamford's niece, Molly."

Molly smiled at the lovely exchange between mother and son. Mrs. Holmes had no qualms about flouting convention with a bald display of emotions and it seemed, Sherrinford was not at all discomforted by his mother's regard. There was real affection there and for a moment, Molly experienced a hollowness in her chest as she thought about her own mother. She'd had trouble for some time recalling the feel of her arms or the sound of her voice. The best she could conjure was a fuzzy impression of her face. Molly swallowed and pushed down her melancholy. When she raised her eyes again, she was caught in the vivid azure gaze of Sherrinford's jewel-like blue eyes.

"It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Hooper."

Molly drew in a shaky breath. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

Mrs. Holmes sputtered a laugh and pushed the pleated end section of her pallu back up on her shoulder. "Oh, my dear Molly, stuff the formalities! You will not scandalize me if you refer to him as Sherrinford, or Sherry, which is my pet name for him."

Molly's face flushed with heat. Refer to him as Sherry? They must be putting her on!

"Indeed, Miss Hooper, we are a very informal household," Sherrinford drawled with a broad smile as if he could read her mind, "I would be thrilled to refer to you as Molly in return, or . . . Molls even?"

Molly wanted to fan her scorching face. Sherrinford chuckled under his breath. He was a complete contradiction to his brothers. She marveled at his amused smile. He was definitely more extroverted and playful than Sherlock or Mycroft. However, there was something in the play of his lips and the reveal of his teeth that hinted at furtiveness. For all his cheerfulness, he did not lack in guile. She felt like the butt of a secret joke.

She coughed, cleared her throat and held out her hand. "Mm, excuse me, erm, I . . . I suppose you may refer to me as Molly, if you wish. I am delighted to meet you, Sherrinford."

He smirked as she emphasized his full name. She knew she could never address him as Sherry. That would be wildly inappropriate. Sherrinford's attention flicked to her outstretched hand. In the next instant, her shaky fingers were in his and he kissed their tips. She chewed her lip. He was like a young stallion full of pent up energy in the way he shifted his feet. It was disconcerting to be so near him. He was taller than Sherlock by an inch or two and had the same brunette hair that one could never tell was black or just very dark brown. However, unlike his brothers he didn't bother to slick it back with pomade; in fact, he did not try to tame his hair at all. His longish curls above the closer crop on the sides of his head were unfettered and on the verge of wild. The only thing contained about him was his immaculate black suit, starched white shirt and silver, paisley waistcoat.

"Molly," he nodded and released her hand with a wink, "I am so sorry. Had I known a delightful creature such as yourself was visiting, I would have concluded my business much sooner."

Molly's lips tweaked up and she found herself grinning at him in spite of her misgivings. He was at least as handsome as Sherlock with similar, if not as pronounced, cheekbones and a lean, masculine jawline. She had only a moment to appreciate his winsome face when the light dimmed and she found herself in a shadow.

"Of what business do you speak, brother?" A deep voice intoned. "Cards? Horses? Dice?"

Molly's spine went rigid at the sound of Holmes' utterance. She felt inexplicably guilty, as if she had been caught stealing the silverware. Sherrinford's smile hardened as he glanced over her shoulder. His eyes darkened. Mrs. Holmes' nose wrinkled and a pout jutted out her lip.

"Seriously, Sherlock-"

"If you must know, it was a boxing match," the younger man replied lazily, interrupting his mother's protestations.

Sherrinford studied the back of his hand a moment before his brows perked up as if he had a thought. He smiled again.

"Oh, mm-hmm, yes, this reminds me, Mr. James requested that I enquire when you might return to the ring? He is understandably anxious," Sherrinford looked pointedly at Molly and winked, "his prize fighter has not been there for weeks! A Sherlock Holmes bout is always his biggest draw."

"Oh," their mother exclaimed and touched a hand to her brow, "I swear you two will be the death of me!"

Molly finally turned in anxious, halting movements to face her Holmes. Then she blushed as his eyes seared into hers for a split second. Her Holmes? As if! Oh, but what she wouldn't give to possess his heart and soul. His fierce visage made her heart flutter. With the way his hair was smoothed back over his head and the intensity of his gaze, he looked like a hawk with prey in sight. His hooded blue-green eyes slid from hers and focused on his little brother with disdain.

"Give my regards to Mr. James," Sherlock drawled as he lifted his chin with a bored expression on his face, "but inform him that I do not have the time to indulge in such frivolities."

Sherrinford started grinning again and chuckled. He glanced slyly at Molly once more. He clucked his tongue.

"Alright, but, blech . . . sounds boring."

Mrs. Holmes nudged her youngest sideways and bustled towards Sherlock. "Enough of that, Sherry, my Sherl has his hands full trying to uncover this murderous bride terrorizing London and I cannot think of anything more exciting."

She scooped Sherlock's elbow and urged him away.

"Come, my sweet, let us leave these two to become better acquainted. Besides, your father is anxious to posit his theories about the phantom to you," she peered back over her shoulder for a tick then her eyes slid away, "Sherry, why not show our lovely Miss Hooper about our library?"

Sherlock's brows wrinkled. "Mother-"

Mrs. Holmes was not to be dissuaded. She tugged Sherlock away even though his feet appeared to be glued to the floor. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be led away. In short order, Molly found herself gazing apprehensively at Sherrinford. She felt as if they were being set up. He dipped his head and offered an arm.

"Come, you cannot leave without having visited our library."

She glanced anxiously in Sherlock's direction. He had a scowl on his face. A muscle was strained in his jaw. She sighed. They had not had an opportunity to speak and it seemed an announcement was not forthcoming. Part of her was relieved that Sherlock had no intention of proclaiming their engagement that evening. She was not yet prepared to play that part. However, she was disappointed that he scarcely exhibited an interest in her presence. Surely, if this was an opportunity for his family to get to know her, they should come away with some sort of understanding that Molly was as much of a guest of honor as her uncle. As of yet, she felt no more consequential to the evening's events than the pocket watch her uncle had worn.

"Molly?" Sherrinford prodded.

She gulped down a lump, took his arm and allowed him to draw her towards the hall. If love was this injurious to one's self esteem, she pondered, she was glad she had never experienced it before. She hoped she would never be unfortunate to love anyone again. She peaked at the charming Sherrinford. Right then, she realized that she would never again love anyone as she loved her Holmes. He was unique and intriguing in a way this young buck could not hope to be. Maybe this is what people meant when they referred to a woman as being ruined if she laid with a man before marriage. She felt that way in her heart. Holmes had ruined her for all other men.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at Hooper and his little brother just as they exited the parlor. He felt a tightening between his shoulders. He shouldn't have crossed the room. Sherrinford would not have failed to understand the significance of that action.

"Mother," he grumbled, "is it really a good idea to encourage those two to be alone in the library?"

His mother's brow perked up and she squeezed his arm. A smile flitted across her lips.

"Pfft, I am not worried in the slightest about any shenanigans. Miss Hooper seems to be an exceedingly sensible young lady. Sherry could benefit from some time in her company."

Sherlock's forward momentum failed. He inhaled slowly to find some equilibrium in his abdomen. He cleared his throat.

"You do not mean to . . . encourage Sherrinford to take an interest in her-"

Mrs. Holmes smirked and peaked sideways at her son. "Well, why ever not? I do so yearn for grandchildren, Sherl, and have long since given up on either you or Mycroft fulfilling that desire. Sherry might be my last hope."

She clucked her tongue and shook her head ruefully as she directed her attention to where Mycroft appeared to be eyeing a tart. She sighed.

"I mean, what woman would have my son in that state?"

"You would be surprised," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

His mother turned and squinted up at him. "Would I?"

Sherlock saw an opportunity to escape his mother's clutches and avoid a painfully droll discourse with his father. He nodded his head in Mycroft's direction and leaned down with a conspirator-like tilt to his head.

"Surely you have noticed his recent weight loss, Mother," he murmured just above a whisper, "and the unusual care he has taken with his attire and grooming. One hears things about town but then you would know the gossip better than I."

His mother lifted her chin. She scrunched her face in thought then an idea brightened her eyes. With determination, she pushed at the front of her saree and marched to where Mycroft was just about to stuff his coveted tart in his mouth. His brother startled as she neared and dropped the pastry. Sherlock bit back a chuckle, peaked at his father still deep into a political discussion with Mike Stamford and seized the moment to stroll out of the parlor. He squared his shoulders and straightened his waistcoat. There was no chance he was going to leave his fiancé alone with his philandering little brother.

Molly ran her fingers along the spines of a collection of gilded tomes as she awed at a mural framed by intricate French plasterwork high above her head. One could get lost for hours admiring the complex depiction of angels and cherubs frolicking among the clouds. It was breathtaking and had the effect of lightening the entire room. If she closed her eyes, she posited that she might just feel the warm rays of the sun upon her face.

The Holmes' library was really a site to see. The finishing was light and airy, pastel sea green and blue with white trim and white plaster like something out of the home of a Parisian aristocrat. The floor between the first and second story had been removed and replaced by balconies that nearly encircled the room. They only ended where twin white spiral metal stairs flanked a massive, arched pink and wine veined marble fireplace. In front of the hearth was a collection of delicate, provincial style furnishings with rose-patterned upholstery atop an ornamental carpet that had hues of green and pink similar to the rest of the room. Beneath her feet was a tiled floor in the same unique marble pattern of the fireplace.

Then there were the books. Cases of them rose from the floor to the balconies and then above the balconies all the way to the fantastic ceiling. There were so many books that she knew if she were to spend a lifetime within the walls of this glorious space, she would be unable to enjoy them all. She could cry.

"Worth the visit then?" Sherrinford chuckled at her side.

Molly nodded slowly and glanced over to where he leaned against a wall with his arms folded. It was a bit unsettling to be in his orbit. His insouciance felt practiced.

"I-It is an impressive room."

He smiled as if he was amused by something. "It suits you."

She expunged a breath through her nose. She had more than enough experience with the mannerisms of his brother to know he was up to something.

"Oh, Lord, can we drop the pretenses? You are not really going to play along with your mother's matchmaking, are you?"

Sherrinford laughed. "I will if it sufficiently irritates my brother."

She stilled. Then a kind of nervous quiver went through her body. She cast her eyes away and twiddled with her fingers.

"I, erm," she spun to hide her expression while she pretended to be interested in the closest bookshelf, "I-I am sure I do not know what you mean."

Molly heard a chuckle then felt a presence at her back. A warm breath fanned her neck.

"Oh, I think you do," he murmured.

She jerked around but Sherrinford had already whirled away. He pranced to a console table behind one of the room's sofas, flipped up the tails of his suit jacket and plunked down.

"Please!" He scoffed. "You cannot be so foolish to think I would allow you to keep up your pretenses while demanding I drop mine. I will let you in on what is a little appreciated fact in my family. I share my brothers' penchant for collecting information. I keep up with a particular newspaper column, know most of the hackney drivers in this town by their first name and regularly stop by for tea and biscuits with a certain housekeeper. So, Miss Molly Hooper, you and my brother are . . . something . . . what is that exactly?"

Molly's lips turned down. She glanced down at her wrists. She was practically rubbing them raw. Her eyes stung. Then she brought the back of her hand to her nose as she half-cried, half-laughed. Damn, but she felt a little pitiful.

"To be completely honest, I do not know," she said sadly.

"Well, shite, I am sorry I asked," he mumbled, "I expected better of Sherlock. He is supposed to be the most honorable among us. How disappointing that he would treat you so callously."

She glimpsed up to see Sherrinford's face lined with a frown. He fished a handkerchief from his inside pocket and hurried forward to offer it.

"Thank-you," Molly sniffled and dabbed her eyes.

She disliked getting emotional in front of a virtual stranger but only just realized how stressed she had been over the whole affair.

"Molly-"

She cleared her throat and peered up at him. "Sherrinford, I have given you a false impress-"

Neither of them could finish their thoughts. The library door slammed open so hard a book fell from the nearest shelf with a whack. Their two heads swiveled towards the commotion in unison. Molly's stomach somersaulted at the sight of Sherlock striding into the room. He looked especially fierce with his contrasting white shirt and ivory waistcoat against his black tails. Of the three brothers, he had been the only one to dress in the de rigueur required of a formal dinner party.

Sherrinford stepped away. "Ah, brother-"

Sherlock continued undeterred and went straight for Molly. She felt his hands slide onto her face and in the next heartbeat, his head descended and his mouth sought hers in a wicked press of possession. She grabbed at his lapels to regain her balance, but then all it took was the first pull of his lips for her to completely lose awareness of her surroundings. In fact, she completely forgot they had a spectator. She whimpered against his mouth and kissed him back with trembling lips. She had needed that reassurance.

Sherlock pulled up slightly after a thorough snogging and stared down at her, panting. His eyes were liquid soft. His thumbs brushed over her cheeks. Only a comment from Sherrinford drew his attention sideways.

"Leave us," Sherlock warned in a frighteningly soft tone.

Molly heard the retreat of footfalls and the soft thud of a door returning to its jam. When Sherlock's gaze returned, she had a sudden moment of clarity.

"Oh, y-you . . . you . . ."

She pushed at him. Frustration tensed her whole frame.

"Hooper," he huffed, "I am sor-"

He stepped back, stumbled over a low ottoman and fell on his posterior.

Molly hissed in air through her clenched teeth while she watched him hit the floor. Her anger quickly dissipated and she rushed to his side.

"Holmes?" She cried. "Holmes?"

With a growl, he sat up and then in a whirlwind of motion, grabbed her and rolled her underneath his heavy frame onto the rug. Their legs were a tangle of skirts and limbs. His hands slid over her arms and crossed them above her head.

"Holmes," she whispered as she wriggled beneath him, "you . . . you are infuriating! You ignore me the whole evening-"

He dipped his head, his attention fixed on her lips. "I assure you, nothing could be farther from the truth."

Her belly quivered. She silently cursed his seductive timber.

"Then you interrupt my exchange with Sherrinford in the unseemliest manner possible."

He shifted between her legs. She could feel his excitement through both layers of their clothing. Her sex reacted with a bloom of heat and the decadent sting of arousal. She struggled to resist grinding her hips up.

"Forgive me for kissing you," he murmured, "my vocabulary failed me for some reason and that seemed the most effective way to communicate my claim over you at the time."

Molly scoffed. "You do not own me, Sherlock Holmes!"

His chest rumbled in a growl. "Oh, I have owned you in every way that counts, Molly Hooper."

His lips skimmed by her cheek. Warmth tickled her neck and the lobe of her ear.

"Do not attempt to deny it," he murmured, "even now your quim quickens for me."

She groaned. "You are a bad man."

He nodded and kissed her languidly. His tongue slid along the seam of her lips. He pulled back to hover a hair's breadth away.

"In the dark, when you are alone, you still feel me, do you not?" He breathed. "You still feel how I stretched you. You still feel the glide of my flesh."

Molly closed her eyes. Her inner walls contacted and squeezed as if reliving his plunder.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "Holmes!"

He thrust his hips into hers in a gentle reminder of their rhythm.

"You have stolen all my quiet moments," he kissed the tip of her nose and then her brow, "I fear I will never be able to sit and ruminate again without reliving the way your body eased to welcome me."

She lifted her head when he tipped his head again and caught his lips. He responded by opening his mouth to her eager ardency and then kissing her back, hard. She hooked one leg around his and arched herself along his frame. Finally, he released her hands to pull her up a bit and in between kisses, loosen some buttons at her back and tug down the collar of her dress. Molly's fingers went right for the pearls of his waistcoat and then the front of his shirt as their tongues tangled.

A thought needled its way into her brain.

"Holmes . . . Sh-Sherlock," she interjected raggedly, "we are going to be discovered again."

"Mm," he looked up and away, "not if I lock the door."

He stood up, shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat and yanked his cravat from around his neck. The halves of his shirt hung apart to reveal his muscled chest and stomach. He licked his lips while gazing down at her with a fiery heat in his eyes. She knew she must make the perfect picture of debauchery. Her dress draped from her shoulders, her skirts were bunched up and her legs splayed apart. She swallowed nervously, raised her eyes to his and saw a challenge in their depths. Without breaking that eye contact, she leaned back on her elbows and let her legs fall further apart. She was breathless from the effort to stave off the insecure voice that told her to act more modestly. Her cheeks flared with heat. Still, she found her boldness in the desire she saw on his face.

"I suppose you had better go lock that door, Holmes," she said huskily.

She watched his eyes flutter closed for a moment. An inhalation flared his nostrils. Then, he strode swiftly to slide the deadbolt and returned like a man with a purpose. He dropped to his knees and slid his hands up her legs, over her stockings towards her drawers.

"Ah, I like these," he murmured as he undid the ties that concealed her femininity.

Molly held her breath. A cool draft across her nether regions curled her toes. Holmes rubbed his lips together while assessing her with half-closed eyes. A twitch of his brows later, he pushed up her dress as far as it would go and descended to bury his face between her legs. Her lungs burned. She closed her eyes. For an agonizing interlude, she only felt his warm breath waft over her sex. Then he jerked her hips towards him and buried his tongue in her cleft. It probed wet and hot into her womanhood and then stroked up over her most sensitive spot.

"Aah-huh," she whimpered, her hips bucked.

His finger gripped her thighs. He licked up again and flicked at her nub. Shivers lanced down her legs. Her head fell back to the carpet. She smacked her hands to the floor and tilted her pelvis up to receive the glorious teasing. There was something so much more intense about just that part of her being exposed and ministered to by his tongue. The tension in her abdomen built extremely fast. Her knuckle flew to her mouth. He seemed to know exactly what to do to bring her ache to the breaking point. Soon, his tongue work was but a rapid fire of licks that had her begging for mercy.

"Uh, unh, lord, Holmes," her whole body shuddered, "please!"

Before she could release, he was up, unclasped his pants pushed them down. He leaned over her onto his hands.

"I need your assistance," he mumbled.

Molly pawed desperately at his stiff shaft. She closed her hands around its thick mass and rubbed its slick head into her sex. He grunted. His hips pulsed forward. She felt the familiar breach of him and then the addictive pressure of his entry. Her hands left his cock to push his pants down his steely thighs and pull at his tight, curved arse. With a curse, he drove his member into her like a javelin into a target. His swift possession and the raw power of him spreading her yielding flesh, rent a satisfied cry from her lips. He covered her mouth to stifle her pleas and rocked into her body. Hard and fast his strokes came, each one needier than the next. Having already been brought near her completion, she was soon close again. His thrusts and the press of his rigid, rippled flesh as it slid against her cleft and into body was a raw friction that coiled an unbearable knot in her belly.

Just as she thought the knot couldn't wind any tighter, it transformed into something more delicate. The petals of it folded in like they were at first closing but then she felt the tremor of his body through his manhood and the vibration of the groans from his chest. She squeezed his bum and concentrated on that bloom. Suddenly, it flew apart and its petals swirled up and out through her body. That heady sensation and the spasms of her insides weakened her hold and she collapsed back as she succumbed to her orgasm.

"Hell, Hooper," he muttered, "I. . . I . . ."

He thrust into her one last time, buckled to his elbows and then his hips were jerking. Inside her, his member first went very hard, then she felt the tiny flexures of contractions from its base into her core. Her fingers stilled on his bum as it too contracted and involuntarily twitched again. Her eyes flew open. She stared up at the mural above her head with eyes bulging from her sockets. Her breath hitched. He had released without withdrawing. She caught her lip with her teeth when the recognition of that set off an echo of release from her sex. Her legs shook. That knowledge did something . . . extra which she knew made her very wicked indeed.

"Damn, Holmes, we should not have done that," she whispered.

His head snapped up. "What? Why?"

Heat burned her cheeks. "We . . . w-we were not careful . . ."

His eyes narrowed beneath a sheen of sweat on his brow. "What need do we have of caution? You are going to be my wife."

"B-But . . ."

She didn't know how to give voice to her misgivings about their relationship and him, and, well . . . everything. It could not be possible to hurt him, could it, she wondered? He shook his head while her tongue transformed into a lump of tar in her mouth. His features took on a mask of confusion when she did not offer anything else. He gazed down at her with a perplexed wrinkle between his eyes. Then he seemed to decide something and withdrew from the circle of her arms.

An awkward silence followed while they hastily dressed. Molly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the room's fireplace. Her hair was a mess, her cheeks were pink and her chest red as if she'd tangled with a burlap sack. However, Holmes appeared determined to leave the room as quickly as possible. His fingers flew over the buttons at the back of her dress before he grabbed her hand and urged her along with him.

"Holmes?"

He didn't respond. In less than a minute, they navigated their way through the house until they were standing at the entrance to the parlor with her uncle and his entire family staring back at them with unblinking eyes. It was as if the ignition of flash powder had caught them all unawares.

"Sherl?" His mother queried.

He dipped his head. "I am sorry, it seems I have neglected this announcement too long. Mother, father, I hope this evening has given you a chance to become better acquainted with Miss Hooper and that she meets with your approval. For, I have asked her to be my wife and she has accepted."

Their reaction was not at all what Molly expected. His mother's lips tweaked up and a grin spread across her face until she looked very much like a cat who had caught the family's canary. At her side, Mr. Holmes snorted a laugh and took a swig of his drink. To their far right, still seated in his chair, Mycroft shook his head and slapped a hand to his brow. Mrs. Holmes cleared her throat, reached a hand up over her shoulder and rubbed her fingers together. Sherrinford stepped forward whilst chuckling, produced a note and pressed it into her hand. With a smug smirk, his mother tucked the money into a fold at her waist.

Her nose wrinkled in glee as she winked.

"Engaged, are you? Imagine that."