Sherlock allowed the cabin boy to precede him from the cabin, then closed the door after himself. The young man intrigued him. He was feeling rather pleased with himself for having deduced the truth about him. He only hoped the boy, well he supposed he was a young man if he was over one and twenty, would be a good sailor in the event they encountered any storms.

Sherlock led the youth around the deck of the ship, explaining where the stern was, the bow, the port and starboard. The boy was fascinated by the ship's masts, and the sails, which were enormous.

"If you look up, you can see the crow's nest. Somebody sits up there with a telescope to watch for other ships in the vicinity."

The young man looked upwards in fascination, holding his cap firmly to his head, apparently concerned that it might fall off if he leaned his head back too far. "I think I would suffer from vertigo if I was up that high," he commented.

Sherlock smiled indulgently at his words. The boy was certainly not fit to be a sailor. Then he said, "It might interest you to know, Hooper - Morry, that this is actually a steam ship. The sails are more for show than practicality."

Morry looked at him in surprise. "May I ask why?"

"I am on a government sanctioned mission to retrieve some treasure which was stolen by a notorious pirate. I do not anticipate any problems, but I must inform you, as I told you before, there may be danger. If something happens, and the ship is captured, or worse, you must do exactly as I command, and I will endeavour to protect you."

He saw the boy draw in his breath nervously. "I… I will follow any instructions you give me, my lord, if the occasion arises."

"Very good," approved Sherlock, giving the boy a thoughtful look. He had to admit, he was quite impressed by Hooper. Despite the nervousness he could detect, the young man seemed quite brave. Who wouldn't feel apprehensive at being told they could be put in mortal peril? He glanced at his pocket watch and saw that it was time for luncheon. "Morry, would you go to the galley and let Mrs. Hudson know I am ready for luncheon? Tell her you will be eating with me as well. Then you can wait until the meal is ready and bring it upstairs for us."

"Yes my lord," said the youth, making his departure.

Sherlock headed back to his cabin and waited. He still felt there was something he was missing in regard to Hooper. "I always miss something," he murmured to himself.

At that moment there was a knock on the door, and John Watson poked his head in. "Were you planning on eating in your cabin or heading downstairs to join the crew for their luncheon?" he questioned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, you know full well that I consider myself to be a high-functioning sociopath. I do not behave well in the company of others. Far better that I eat my meals separately."

John looked around, furrowing his brow at Sherlock. "Where is Hooper then? Are you planning on having him eat with the crew?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock, frowning. "The lad is high-born and wouldn't last five minutes with the likes of them. I am sure he would be shocked by the colourful language as well."

"Ah, so you noticed he is high-born, then," remarked John, as his lips twitched into a smile.

"I'm not a fool, John," Sherlock responded loftily, folding his arms. "It was a simple matter of deduction. I merely observed his hands and saw they were the hands of someone who has not known hard labour, or any labour for that matter."

"That's true enough," said John in a sympathetic voice. "I feel sorry for him. He is running away from a rather desperate situation."

"And what would you know about that?" asked Sherlock, giving his friend a sharp glance. "Have you spoken with the lad of his situation?"

John lifted and eyebrow and smirked. "Of course I did. Remember, we were talking when you walked in on us earlier."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at his friend, and pressed his lips together. "If you know the situation, why don't you tell me about it?"

John shrugged nonchalantly, not at all intimidated by the steely note in Sherlock's voice. "I'm sure you can deduce things for yourself, oh great detective," he said, a little mockingly, before adding, much to Sherlock's annoyance, "I must be heading downstairs now for my own luncheon."

Sherlock scowled. He hated it when people kept secrets from him. "Why can you not tell me now?"

John was unmoved. "It is not my tale to tell, Sherlock. You must wait until the boy is ready to tell you his story on his own."

Sherlock huffed in defeat. "Very well. I'm sure I shall discover the truth shortly."

"Yes, I am certain you shall do so. Well, I'll be going now," said John, hastily taking his leave, as if concerned about being subjected to further interrogation.

After his friend had left, Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. Why was John being so cagey about the situation? He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing. He was still lost in thought when he heard the door of the cabin opening. He looked up and saw Morry standing there with a tray of food.

"Well, set it down on the table here and we can eat," he invited. As they ate, Sherlock observed the young man. His movements were very graceful. Once again, Sherlock thought he seemed rather effeminate. His voice was quite a high tenor one as well, unlike Sherlock's own deep baritone.

After luncheon, Sherlock headed to the captain's cabin to talk with Lestrade. The last noted position of Moriarty's ship was three days hence, so Sherlock resigned himself to being bored as he waited for the adventure to begin.

The following day, a severe storm hit The Sherrinford, and the schooner was knocked about severely. Sherlock was a good sailor but the rocking of the ship had even him feeling somewhat nauseous at times. Poor Morry Hooper seemed particularly adversely affected. Apparently, the lad is no sailor, mused Sherlock again, at least not in these unpleasant conditions.

It was dinner time, and despite his illness, the young man insisted on going to the galley to get a meal for Sherlock and himself.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Morry, you should just rest. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will see that someone brings us dinner." He looked outside the window of the cabin. Rain was pelting down and he was a little concerned that the young man, with his slight stature, would not be able to make his way down to the galley in any case.

"No, Lord Holmes, I'm the cabin boy," the young man insisted, with an expression of determination on his face that Sherlock couldn't help admiring. He was a plucky one, that was for certain. "This is one of my duties. I will be back with the dinner."

Sherlock would have protested again, but Morry yanked the door open to the cabin and went outside before he had a chance to prevent him, closing the door behind himself.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table anxiously. He could hear the wind howling outside, as the rain continued to come down as if the heavens had opened. What if the lad was washed overboard?

For fifteen minutes he sat and waited. He was just about to go outside and investigate for himself, when the cabin door opened and Morry walked back in unsteadily, holding a covered tray.

"Sorry it took me so long," the young man said, rather breathlessly. Sherlock noted that his face was extremely pale and he was soaked to the skin. He took the tray from the lad and turned around to put it on the table.

When he turned back to Morry, it was to see the young man swaying on his feet. Before Sherlock could react, the lad had crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

"Dammit, lad, I knew you shouldn't have gone out there," Sherlock said aloud, even though Morry was in no condition to hear him. Well, he thought, there was nothing to be done except carry the boy to his bunk. Sherlock picked him up easily, noting his slight frame. He was actually rather amazed, and a little relieved the boy had not been washed overboard.

He strode to the smaller cabin and laid Morry on the bed. As he did so, he dislodged the cap on the young man's head. It was quite dim in the smaller cabin, but enough light filtered through the door of Sherlock's own well lit cabin, that he was able to see a mess of plaited hair tumbling out of it. Suddenly, Sherlock realised what he had been missing.

This was no cabin boy, it was a girl. He looked down at the petite form, the shirt that was plastered to the girl's skin. He saw the unmistakable curves of breasts. Oh God, he thought, not a girl, a woman. It all made sense now, rather well-defined eyebrows, lack of an Adam's apple, fairly high voice, lack of facial hair and that impossibly large bulge in her britches. How the hell had he managed to miss the signs? he wondered angrily to himself.

Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him. "What…what happened?" she asked, looking around in confusion. He noticed that she had forgotten to deepen her voice. It merely sounded breathless and frightened.

"You fainted," he told her, as his lips tightened, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

I'm…I'm so sorry," she faltered, a hand clutching convulsively at the blanket on which she lay. "I didn't mean to."

His brows drew together in an intimidating fashion. "I'm not angry about you fainting. I'm angry about you deceiving me," he hissed.

He saw her eyes widen in fear, and she swallowed. "Wh...what do you mean?" she asked hesitantly.

"I mean that you're a bloody woman," he grated, grasping one of her wrists. She winced and he realised he was holding it too hard, and relaxed his grip slightly. "Why did you disguise yourself as a boy? And what the hell were you thinking? Did you think I wasn't going to find out eventually?" he demanded, looking at her sternly.

She struggled to sit up, but then fell back again on the pillow. "I…I just needed to get away. My...my stepmother was trying to force me to marry her lover," she said, and he saw tears spring to her eyes.

Suddenly, Sherlock's anger dissipated. He felt like a brute. She was obviously not in any condition to be talking at this moment. She was too weak and worn out from making the journey to the galley and back for him, even though he had not asked it of her. "Look, I know you are not well, and further explanation can wait until you are feeling better," he said in a more gentle tone.

"Thank you," she whispered. Then he saw her teeth beginning to chatter and realized she must be cold, soaked to the skin as she was.

"You should get out of those clothes, and into some dry ones first," he told her in the same gentle voice. "I'll take off your shoes and socks."

"O...okay," she agreed. Her hands were trembling violently now, and she seemed to be having trouble with the buttons of her shirt, as he removed her shoes and socks.

"Oh, for God's sake, woman, let me help," expostulated Sherlock, pushing her nerveless fingers aside and then deftly unbuttoning the shirt. "Lift your arms," he commanded as if she were a child. Obediently, she did as she was told.

The material was so wet, that it adhered to her skin, and Sherlock realised he was going to have to slide the fabric to either side of the front of her body. He swallowed hard. I can do this, he told himself. I don't need to look.

He closed his eyes and moved the fabric to either side of her body. He then lifted the shirt up until it came away from her body. Unfortunately, her arms were still held fast by the damp sleeves. "Dammit," he cursed, opening his eyes to work off one sleeve, then the other. He tried not to look, truly he did, but curiosity got the better of him. The last time Sherlock had glimpsed the naked form of a woman had been all those years earlier, when Irene Adler had stepped out of the water of the lake.

He got a glimpse of small, perfectly curved breasts, and for some inexplicable reason, felt a surge of heat rise in his body. Then the woman covered her chest with her arm and whimpered, and he came back to himself. "Where is your nightshirt?" he asked, trying to ignore the fact that his heart had also decided to beat faster.

"It...it's in the top drawer."

He nodded and searched for it, then tossed it to her once he had found it. "You need to take your britches off first," he ordered.

He flicked a glance at her and saw the feeble attempt she was making at pulling off the also soaked britches with her trembling hands. Impatiently he walked back to the bed and pulled them down unceremoniously. He noticed, to his relief that she wore drawers underneath, so was not naked. He wasn't sure how he would have reacted to that. But then, her drawers were wet too and would need to come off.

Sherlock could hear her teeth chattering. He supposed he'd have to aid her in putting on the nightshirt too, as she seemed unable to do anything herself.

"Lift your arms and l'll help with your nightshirt." Seeing her hesitation, he added, with a quirk to his lips, "I'll keep my eyes closed."

The nightshirt was still covering the woman's chest and he picked it up, preparing to slip it over her and closing his eyes. He felt her sliding her arms into the sleeves, and assisted her to pull it down. The shirt was long enough to cover her thighs. "Will you remove your drawers, or should I?" he asked, not quite sure whether he would be comfortable doing the task if she required it.

Fortunately the nightshirt seemed to be already helping to warm her, and she said shyly, darting a glance up at him, "I can do it."

He knew he should have averted his eyes, but he couldn't help watching as she pulled the nightshirt down low on her thighs and slid the drawers off.

"I'll get you a blanket," Sherlock offered. He went into his cabin and opened the wardrobe, finding extra blankets within, on an upper shelf. He returned to the small cabin and was about to lay the blanket over the young woman, when he saw that of course the bunk itself was wet from her laying on it in her sodden clothes. He sighed. There was no help for it, he was going to have to put her into his own bed.

"I'm going to have to take you into my bed, because it's dry," he informed her, and noticed how her eyes widened slightly at the thought. She really is a pretty young thing, he thought involuntarily, and immediately tried to push the unwanted thought from his mind. Then he suddenly realised he didn't know her true name. "Would you tell me your name now? If you are going to sleep in my bed, I think I deserve to know that."

Unexpectedly, she gave a little giggle, and it was a very sweet, feminine sound. "It's Molly Hooper," she answered, then bit her lip.

Again with that lip biting. Why did it make him feel protective of her?

"Well, Molly, I'm going to turn down the bed and put you in it, okay?"

"Okay," she answered shyly.

Sherlock returned once again to his cabin and pulled down the covers. Then he went back to the woman, Molly, and gently lifted her into his arms. She put her arms around his neck and he felt a little tingle where her fingers touched his skin. Then he carried her to his bed and deposited her on it. With the better lighting in his cabin, he was able to see that her hair, plaited as it was, almost reached her waist. Although she was still pale, she was no longer trembling, and he could hear that the storm outside was abating. The ship was no longer pitching and tossing as it had been.

Sherlock suddenly noticed the tray of food still laying untouched on the table. He lifted the cover and was pleased to find some kind of warm broth in two bowls. There was also the usual hard tack and salted meat as well as an orange. He looked over at Morry – Molly, he'd have to remember that. "Would you like something to eat?" She looked so small in his large bed.

'Yes, please," she answered, flashing him a shy, rather endearing smile.

Having laid her in the bed, Sherlock didn't want her to have to get up again, so he brought over the bowl of broth and some hard tack for her to dip in it.

By the time Molly had finished eating, the colour had returned to her face. No doubt she was feeling better with food in her belly and the absence of movement from the ship.

He had eaten his own broth and hard tack at the same time. Afterwords, they shared the salted meat and orange.

Then Sherlock poured two glasses of brandy for them and handed one to Molly. When she would have refused, he said sternly, "Drink it, it will help prevent you from getting a chill from your soaking."

Molly obeyed, although she made such a face at the first taste of the fiery liquid that he had to restrain himself from laughing out loud. She did manage a few more sips however, and he was satisfied to note the colour returning to her cheeks. By that time he could see the young woman was getting sleepy. "Sleep now," he instructed kindly. "In the morning you can tell me everything, and we will decide what to do."

"Thank you, my lord," she said humbly, then closed her eyes in obvious exhaustion from her ordeal.

He walked to the side of the bed where she lay and pulled up the covers. Then, on impulse he bent down and kissed her cheek. "Good night, Molly Hooper," he whispered.

For the next hour, Sherlock tried to decide where he should sleep. He contemplated using the armchair, but in the end decided the bed was large enough to accommodate himself as well as the petite woman already slumbering in it. He undressed quietly, putting on his own nightshirt.

Then he slid into bed. It took him some time to get to sleep, though. Sherlock was very aware of the woman in bed beside him, despite the distance that separated them. He had never shared a bed with a woman, had in fact never even considered being intimate with one, and it was rather uncomfortable for him. Yet at the same time, he felt strangely protective of her, knowing she had been desperate enough to disguise herself as a young man to escape her stepmother.

Oh yes, it was going to be an interesting conversation indeed when she explained all in the morning.

Author's note: Thanks to those of you who responded in previous chapters with your deductions about when Sherlock would discover that Molly was not a boy. I hope you like the way it was revealed.

Did you enjoy seeing Sherlock's discomfort and the way he was very aware of Molly when he had to help her change into her nightshirt? I am sure he would be very confused by his feelings after thinking for so long that he had no interest in women. How long do you think it will be before he decides to explore those feelings?