Okay, let's start with an apology... I'm so sorry for not updating on Friday. Stuff happened. Mostly, the chapter grew and I wavered about splitting it into two parts. Ultimately, I decided to keep it together (even though it's the size of two chapters!). Then I couldn't end the damn thing. I was suddenly Pete Jackson (sorry, LotR reference!). I don't want to give anything away, so please read the A/N at the end of the update. It's important.

HUGE thanks to MizJoely for betaing *clears throat* several versions of this and helping me 'find the ending point'. Bless her! And to MrsMCrieff for her Brit business, of course, since I'm a clueless American.

Though things get slightly naughty, I'm still very comfortable with the T rating. Nothing explicit happens, promise.

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

Part Four

She'd gone for broke. What did she have to lose except maybe her pride?

Wearing the skirt and his shirt, Molly had added the scarf under the lapels, tying it into a low, loose knot. The shirt - his shirt - she'd left unbuttoned daringly low, at least by her standards. Not on purpose, necessarily, it just seemed to... work better with the scarf that way.

Possibly.

And, of course, she'd worn the earrings. The black diamond earrings. Because they were diamonds, she could no longer deny it. She'd also worn her best (sexiest) underthings. But that was simply because they matched the colour scheme, not because she was trying to be sexy.

Mostly.

Thankfully, Cousin Louisa had pulled her name in their family Secret Santa and had given her a new winter coat. Aunt Ann was right; the double-breasted, black wool trench that fell a few inches above her knees was gorgeous (and certainly better than a hammer!). The cut was A-line, just like the skirt underneath, and very flattering. Molly belted it tightly as she got out of the cab.

Damn near everything she was wearing was a gift and, if she was being honest, she felt pretty as a picture. Well, perhaps a black and white photo, considering the lack of colour in her outfit.

She'd even taken her time with her hair and make-up. After her facial, Bernadette had thrust a bag of cosmetics into Molly's hand, insisting, "Your skin is almost perfect - though you'll want to cover what's left of that spot - all you need is a touch of colour on your cheeks and lips. Makeup should be seen, not heard, luv." Molly assumed this was code for 'less is more', which was fine with her. Her last attempt to get Sherlock's attention with flashy makeup and clothes had gone… badly, very badly. As for her hair, after some thought, she'd decided to twist it up off of her neck and away from her face. If it made it easier for Sherlock to see his earrings, that was just a coincidence.

Probably.

Her choice to not wear perfume, however, very much deliberate. The shirt still held a slight hint of Sherlock and she couldn't bring herself to cover it up.

Eyeing the stunning Georgian Estate with a fair amount of trepidation, Molly had only taken three steps when she saw him. In his usual dramatic form, Sherlock emerged from the shadows like some dark hero from a Brontë novel. She hadn't even realised she'd stopped moving, but she had frozen in step as she watched his approach. Her breath caught in a gasp and though her nerves were still a tight coil in her belly, something else was fighting to break free.

Hope, perhaps? Arousal too, of course, since the man, as always, was sex on a stick. But there was also something new and exciting teasing at the very edge of her awareness. She reached for it because for better or worse, she was here. And Sherlock… He had wanted her here. Wanted her attention for whatever this was. He'd given her some ridiculous gifts and some lovely ones, too. Then, he had asked her to meet him…

Wait a minute… Kenwood House was closed at this time of night. Shit! Maybe this is for a case! Looking around, she tried to pick up on anything that would give her a clue as to his purpose. They appeared to be alone. There were no visible cars and very few lights on inside the building. Oh my God! Why'd I wear this!?

It seemed to take ages for him to reach her but when he did, he smiled and simply said, "Molly Hooper," in his deliciously deep baritone.

That teasing excitement overtook her nerves and fear that she'd misread things once again. At the sound of his voice, she exhaled, unaware of the smile that broke out as she did so. "Sherlock," she replied, wanting to ask a million questions but somehow refraining.

Silence stretched out for several seconds. A minute, possibly more. He just looked at her with an odd softness in his eyes. It was dark, of course, making it hard to tell but Molly thought that she saw relief in his blue-green gaze. Had he thought that she wouldn't show? Though she'd been confused, okay, very confused, there was really no chance of that ever happening, now was there.

Ready to ask her questions, she shifted her feet and adjusted the small clutch in her hands. "Sherlock...?"

"Thank you for coming," he said in a rush. His eyes travelled down her body, causing her cheeks to heat. "Did you…?"

The question hung in the air and Molly was suddenly very thankful for her meddling family. She could answer him, of course, or…

It was risky but she'd been taking chances all day. What was one more?

She slowly unbelted her overcoat. God, let me not be wrong about this and I'll never make fun of Dr. Capshaw ever again. I'll never miss a recycling day and I promise to actually listen to Tim from down the hall when he tells me about his salt and pepper pot collection. His eyes never left her body as she unbuttoned it, and did she imagine the slight intake of breath as she pulled it opened?

Inexplicably, her confidence doubled. Tripled! "I haven't had a chance to thank you," she said after a few seconds of his appraisal.

Looking up, Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. "I did receive your mug."

"Hardly comparable," she replied with a soft laugh.

"I may be new to gift-giving, Molly, but if I understand correctly, that is not the point of the tradition."

She smiled at the surprisingly astute comment. "True." Unwilling to allow awkwardness to settle, Molly asked, "Are we breaking and entering this evening, Sherlock?"

"No. At least not this time." He lifted his left hand, palm up, and said, "The weather seems to be cooperating."

He was right. The weather had improved, warming up from bitter cold to just chilly. Not unbearable in the least. Most importantly, it wasn't raining. Her hair would have been ruined.

"And to answer your question, we do have permission to be here; they owe me." Then he bent his arm like a proper gentleman and offered it to her. "Would you indulge me, Miss Hooper?"

In absolutely anything, she answered in her head. Thankfully, she kept her mouth shut and accepted his arm with a smile. His actions and words were swoon-worthy; she was proud of the fact that she was still standing upright. Speaking, though, was not an option at the moment.

Once her hand was secured safely at the crook of his elbow, Sherlock brushed his fingers quickly against hers and led her down the paved driveway, around the side of the building. Soon, however, they were walking on damp grass and Molly was quite glad she had opted for cute but sensible black flats rather than anything with heels. Though they walked in complete silence, it was anything but uncomfortable. He was warm and solid next to her and smelt of something expensive, yet subtle, much like the shirt that she was wearing.

Before long, they had approached a copse of trees and Sherlock removed his arm and adjusted their position. It was dark, but the moon was waxing, allowing just enough light for her to see the lovely greens of the estate.

Moving to stand behind her, Sherlock said, "Just over there," and pointed to the edge of the forest line before she felt both of his hands on her shoulders.

Molly looked to where he'd pointed then tilted her face up to his. "What? What am I looking at?" She turned once again to try and see what he was showing her; she saw nothing but trees, bushes and grass.

"It's where I found her," he said softly in her ear.

This time, she didn't turn; she couldn't move, really. "Who?" she asked, although somehow she knew exactly what they were talking about.

"Billy," he whispered.

"Tell me." There was an odd pleading in her voice that she hardly recognised, but she needed to hear the story, for some reason.

His hands tightened on her shoulders as he spoke, "I'd been asked to Kenwood on a case, of course. Missing sculpture. Boring. Solved it within an hour but I kept walking the grounds…"

"When?" Molly asked.

"About a year before we met."

Before we met… Not before John. Not before he started working with Greg. His phrasing shouldn't have meant so much, but it did. She smiled and said, "Tell me about the case first."

It might have been boring to him, but she doubted that any normal person would have found it so. Besides, she wanted to drag out the moment as long as possible.

He huffed, but didn't really sound annoyed. When did Sherlock Holmes ever mind talking about his work? "The sculpture was small and hardly worth two thousand pounds. It was part of a larger installation and the thief clearly assumed it wouldn't be missed. The idiot. As soon as I met the estate manager's nephew - who was working there for the summer, a punishment for stealing his father's beloved boat and having a joyride with his mates - I knew he had done it." He scoffed. "As I said, it wasn't worth much. He was just trying to make some dosh to support his drug habit. I had some time to kill whilst I waited for the delinquent's shift to end. I knew he'd casually attempt to retrieve the statue now that he was all but caught."

Molly shifted, putting her hands in her pockets.

"Cold?" His voice was close to her ear and caused an involuntary shiver down her spine.

"No," she lied, as she actually was a little cold. "Keep talking, I want to hear the rest." In reality, she was regretting having unbuttoned her coat. She didn't want the magic to end, didn't want to do anything that might break the spell that seemed to have settled over the grounds of the majestic estate.

Suddenly Sherlock was much closer, his chest pressed against her back. He reached around her and took hold of her coat, pulling it closed. He then tied the belt in a loose knot. "Better?" he asked, his hands resting on her hips.

She could only nod in response.

"So, I was walking the grounds, killing time whilst I waited for the imbecile to get off of work when I came upon that area right over there." Again, he pointed to the edge of the forest. "The groundskeepers had been working the dirt, loosening it to plant… something, I assume. As I spoke to them briefly before they left for a tea break, asking some general questions, something in the freshly turned earth caught my eye."

"Billy."

He chuckled, suddenly alarmingly close to her ear. "Indeed."

"Who was she?"

"A Russian assassin, as far as I can deduce, at least."

Molly gasped.

"Do you know the history of Kenwood House, Molly?"

"Well, some, of course..."

"Most of it is completely unimportant but in 1910, the 6th Earl of Mansfield leased the house to the Grand Duke Michael Mikhailovich of Russia. Mikhailovich was somewhat interesting in that he'd been exiled for contracting a morganatic marriage with Countess Sophie of Merenburg."

He paused, thankfully giving Molly time to think for a moment. She knew a bit about the aristocracy and understood the meaning of a morganatic marriage. It would have meant that neither Sophie nor their children would have been granted succession rights, titles or properties.

"Why did he do it?" she asked.

Sherlock laughed softly again. "You must enjoy standing in the cold, Molly, you keep distracting me from the good parts…"

She turned her head slightly to the right, giving herself a side view of Sherlock's profile. "It was important enough for him to be exiled. He left his homeland for her." She paused. "He loved her, didn't he?"

With a sigh, he replied, "The Grand Duke was… unlucky, in love. He proposed to three different foreign princesses and was thrice rejected. Then, he tried to marry into Russian nobility, which his parents were highly against, and again… failed."

"Poor man."

"Then he fell in love…"

"With Sophia!" Molly said, turning in Sherlock's arms.

"No," he replied. "With Countess Catherine Nikolaevna Ignatieva, the daughter of a former Minister of Interior. His parents wouldn't approve the match. They sent him to Nice to separate the pair."

"That's awful."

Sherlock smirked. "Ah, but then he met Sophie…"

"How, Sherlock? How did they meet?" she implored, looking up at him.

He rolled his eyes. "Must you have all the romantic details?"

"But that's the best part!"

He didn't respond, didn't mock or tease; he simply smiled and said, "The Duke met his Sophie when he saved her from a horse that had run away with her."

"Oh… of course he did," Molly said with a sigh. Placing her hands on his chest without any thought whatsoever. "Go on!"

"This time the Duke was smart," Sherlock explained. "He didn't ask for permission. They were married in San Remo. The marriage caused quite a scandal as it was not only morganatic but also illegal under Imperial house laws. He was stripped of his military rank and position at court, then exiled from the country for life. His mother, so distraught by her son's choices, collapsed when she heard about it all. She later had a heart attack and died. They wouldn't even allow him to attend her funeral."

"I wonder if he ever regretted it? Losing everything for love."

"I doubt it," Sherlock whispered.

She suddenly realised how close they were and took a step back. His answer had seemed loaded but loaded with what, Molly couldn't possibly say.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock offered, "We can go inside… if you like. It seemed too late for dinner, but I asked for refreshments and..."

"I am a bit chilled," she replied.

o0o0o

He led her back up to the house and into a small, yet beautifully appointed private dining room where they sat at a tasteful table set for two. The National Trust owned Kenwood House and had for years, as far as Molly was aware. Her parents had brought her once to 'meet Santa' when she was seven. She remembered asking why there weren't more decorations (Young Molly didn't approve of a lack of fairy lights, apparently) and Mum had explained that it was 'in keeping with the historical integrity of the estate'. Her seven-year-old self just thought it was boring. Now, just like when she was a child, tasteful holly wreaths adorned the mantles and doors, velvet ribbons were laced through some of the bannisters and there were, of course, Christmas trees, but nothing like the garish decorations that graced most of London this time of year.

Molly couldn't help but feel somewhat vulnerable sat across from him in his bloody shirt, but she did her best to ignore it and enjoy the lovely setting and rare opportunity he'd given her. A white-gloved waiter brought them tea and rich chocolate cake and after they'd had their fill - Sherlock eating far more than Molly had ever seen him consume - she was quite ready for the rest of the tale.

"All right, I'm warmed and fed. I know you're dying to get to the Russian assassin part of your story." She rested her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers under her chin. "Let's hear it."

Dabbing the corner of his mouth, Sherlock tossed his napkin onto his plate. With a satisfied grin, he said, "I had a DNA analysis run on the skull; that's how I found out that she was Russian. Carbon dating told me how long she'd been there." He took a sip of tea. "It wasn't difficult to find out that none of the Duke's family had suffered mysterious deaths. They were all accounted for; she couldn't have been one of them." He shrugged. "I deduced that she was likely sent by one of his brothers. Angry that he had brought so much shame to the family, they must have sent her to kill the Grand Duke, and probably his wife. Though why they waited until the family was settled in Kenwood is still a mystery. Clearly, the assassination attempt was thwarted, so perhaps it wasn't the first."

"How did you end up with her? Surely the estate would have wanted to keep such an important piece of history."

"I had no real proof of who she was. She's still a mystery, Molly. The estate manager refused to submit the information into the official record."

"So you just nicked her?" Molly asked with a grin.

"When I presented him with the sculpture and his nephew, he asked how much I wanted to keep the information from becoming public. I asked for Billy."

"Why?"

"At the time? I was annoyed and had no intention of ever working with them again. Asking for the skull was my way of thumbing my nose at their nepotism. I also wanted to piss off Mycroft, who had gotten me the job. So I got to thumb my nose at nepotism… twice." A boyish grin grew on his lips. He looked across the room, starring off for several moments, his face growing sombre. "But I had learned so much about the Grand Duke and…" trailing off, he turned to her again. "Later, she came to mean something much different to me."

She didn't ask what, she just held his gaze.

"Sophie saved his life, Molly." He suddenly seemed uncomfortable, for some reason. Looking down, he fiddled with his cutlery, straightening it before looking back up again. "During the Russian Revolution of 1917, all of his brothers that remained in the country were killed, as were a great deal of nobility. Had he stayed, had he married as his parents wanted him to, he likely wouldn't have survived." His next words seemed awkward and strained. "Love saved the Duke's life." He paused. "I, ah… I can relate."

Molly stared across the table at Sherlock. Was she supposed to respond to that? Yes, she'd helped him fake his death because she loved him, of course, that was at least part of the reason. But also because she believed in him. She always had. Hadn't he asked her as much just before asking her to commit several crimes against the State? So… was that the reason he'd done of all of this? A bit late, don't you think? The gifts and attention, this… outing was all just some elaborate "Hey, thanks for faking my death!". And if so what was with their day of crime solving? She'd thought - because he had plainly said so - that that day was her 'thank you'.

Bloody hell, now she was more confused than ever.

It had all been so… romantic. Okay, so the setting had simply been to tell her about the damn skull. Not romantic, so much as necessary. But was it necessary? He could have just as easily told her the entire tale from the comfort of 221B, instead, he chose to bring her to the scene of the crime, so to speak.

She needed answers. Deserved them, actually.

At some point in the last few minutes, she'd dropped her head, focusing on the remnants of cake and tea. Though it took all of her courage, she finally found her voice. So many questions rattled around in her head, but, for some reason - one she could not possibly fathom - she asked, "Why'd you give me your shirt, Sherlock?"

For a split second, he looked like he been caught doing something very naughty, but he quickly schooled his expression. "Quite simple, really. I had left your gifts on the kitchen table, planning on boxing them up to send but got distracted with an experiment. Your original shirt was ruined. Sulfuric acid will do that to a cotton blend."

"Oh." What an entirely predictable but boring explanation! "Well, that explains…"

Smiling, he shook his head. "You're usually better at seeing through my bullshit, Molly Hooper."

"What?"

His brow furrowed. "I haven't been at all clear, have I?"

"I don't…"

Stranding, Sherlock took three short steps and held out his hand. "Indulge me… one more time, please?"

Though tears threatened, she managed to hold them back as she took his proffered hand and stood.

His eyes travelled up and then down her entire body. "You look beautiful. I should have said that earlier - I…" He laughed. "I'm really not good at this."

"At what?"

Tilting his head, he sighed. "At what I've been trying to tell you, Molly." His hand came up, cupping her cheek. "This isn't about you helping me fake my death. You saved me then, of course, but you've also saved me countless other times."

"Sherlock, I don't understand." First one then two more tears escaped. He brought his other hand up and thumbed them away. "When could I have possibly…?"

"When I was shot, for instance. You were there. Well, here..." he said, tapping the side of his head, he then quickly returned his hand to her cheek. "You were in my head, telling me how to fall. Other times too, but after Sherrinford… God, Molly, I wanted to use so badly. All I wanted to do was get high and forget. I wanted that time again, the fleeting moments when I could forget. I knew that I could have had a break from the onslaught of memories and emotions with a quick trip to one of a dozen dealers." He shook his head. "I didn't, though. I kept seeing you face that day at the hospital. I kept hearing your voice when you tested me in the ambulance. I couldn't hurt you like that again. Never again." The last two words were said in a whisper.

One of his hands moved the back of her neck. His eyes, which had been focused on hers, moved to her mouth as he ran his thumb just under her bottom lip.

Molly gasped softly, drawing his eyes upward.

"I've said and done some horrible things to you, Molly Hooper, but the look on your face that day…" He rolled his eyes. "Sobriety, they say, should be accomplished, maintained for oneself - I've been to enough rehab centres to know the spiel by heart - fine, this is for me. Selfishly, I choose to be sober so that I never have to see you like that again." Pausing, he searched her face. "Don't you see? I have no doubt that had I used just after Sherrinford, that it could have, likely would have, killed me. Especially after everything I put my body through following Mary's death. The scheduled 'pop-ins' wouldn't have stopped me. If I had really wanted to go find something, I would have. But I didn't. Because of you." A broad smile broke out on his face. "You saved me… you always save me."

She was ugly crying, there was no denying it. Bernadette would be so disappointed.

"It wasn't your love this time, Molly, it was my love for you that kept me from falling the wrong way."

Though a gasping sob, she asked, "L-love?

"Yes, love," he said with a laugh. "I'm a shameless opportunist, you know. When you picked up Billy that day, I decided it was time."

"Time?"

"Time to tell you… everything. But I also decided that you deserved to be courted, hence the gifts."

"Oh…"

"And, just to make myself perfectly clear," he said, moving his hands to her waist and pulling her close until their bodies touched, hips to chest, "I lied." He ducked his head, pressing his lips to her ear.

"Really?" she managed with some effort as she steadied herself with her hands on his very firm shoulders. "A-about what?"

"Mhmm…" Placing a kiss on her neck just below her ear, he said, "The shirt. There was no original. I was teasing you."

Another kiss, a nip, and Molly could not hold back the moan that escaped. He wasn't exactly playing fair! His hands had found her bottom and were palming her buttocks through the skirt he'd bought her. "Well, then - oh, God, Sherlock! - why…?"

"Because I've had this fantasy about you in one of my shirts for… a very long time. Gifting you one of them seemed the most expedient way of fulfilling said fantasy." Pulling back, he eyed her once again. "And I must say, reality is far better than anything I ever imagined."

Biting her lip, Molly felt her cheeks heat up as she grabbed onto his lapels to pull him back towards her.

Sherlock stopped her, however. Taking both of her hands in his, he kissed the knuckles of her right hand. "We have a car waiting to take us… anywhere. Baker Street, your flat, wherever you want to go. There's no rush, Molly. You've been so patient, so giving. I'd wait for…"

She cut him off with a kiss which he didn't hesitate to reciprocate. The kiss was slow and deep. When his tongue swept into her mouth, she accepted it gladly, fisting his lush curls in her hands and pressing her body tightly against his.

Pulling back, breathless and flushed, she said, "I wore my best knickers for this, Sherlock. Let's not waste them."

He laughed loudly and kissed her again, then took her hand, leading her out of the room.

221B Baker Street (bedroom), two and a half very satisfying hours later...

"One more question, if you don't mind?" Molly asked, propping her head on her hand as she studied the man who was lying on his back next to her with a very smug on his beautiful face.

He tilted his head slightly, smug smile still firmly in place."After that, you could ask me for absolutely anything." Turning, he faced her and wrapped his arm around her waist. "You want the moon? 'Cause I know a guy…" He kissed her cheek, nibbled on her neck then started to move lower, his destination obvious.

"I'm serious!" she giggled.

"So am I," he growled, pushing her back and pinning her to the bed.

"You can't be ready again!"

"Not yet, Hooper, but give me time. I'll get there." He pulled back and smirked. "Have a little faith."

"Oh, I do!" And did she ever! Sherlock the body is transport Holmes had just transported her to another plane of existence! She shouldn't have been so surprised; the man was nothing if not thorough. That included sex, apparently. "But you're distracting me." She scratched her nails down his back to get his attention. "I want to ask you something. We'll get back to being ready in a bit."

He stopped kissing her, giving her a pouty look as he shifted off of her and back to the bed. "Fine. Ask your question." His right hand didn't relinquish contact, however, still lightly caressing her stomach. It had been like this since they'd left Kenwood: he had been touching her, in one way or another, for three hours. "And I'm half ready, by the way. So make it quick," he added with a wink.

Yes, I know! That was rather hard to miss, actually, as he'd just been on top of her. "Ah, why did you call her Billy?" she asked quickly.

He chuckled. "Mycroft," he answered as if that explained anything.

She gave him a questioning glance.

"Considering the mug you sent me, I assume you're aware of my childhood obsession with pirates?"

Nodding, Molly giggled.

"Mycroft, when we were younger, was obsessed with the American West. More specifically with Wild West outlaws. He was especially keen on Billy the Kid"

"You really do enjoy tormenting him, don't you?"

"It is rather fun. And ever so easy." His demeanour suddenly changed. All playfulness was now gone and replaced with unease. "I shouldn't have had him come talk to you, Molly. It was cowardly and..."

"It's fine," she interrupted, not wanting to rehash the unpleasantness of that day. "Greg was there too and… it's really okay. I understand."

"I wasn't ready. I wasn't quite…" He seemed to be struggling as if he were searching for the right word. It was a very strange look on him. "I wasn't quite whole yet."

"And you're ready now?" she asked.

His sideways smirk was both sexy and mischievous. "More than."

"Then why did we spend so much time skulking around an ancient manor house when we could have been here… doing this?" she said pulling him close once again. It was completely deliberate, of course; she wanted to distract him with sex and humour. This night was about the start of something beautiful and new. They'd had enough sadness for a lifetime...

Sherlock laughed. "You've been dying to say 'skulk' all night, haven't you? Never could resist a bad joke."

"I have no idea to what you are referring," Molly said primly.

"I had you with the card and you know it." He positioned himself so that he was, once again, lying on top of her. "Awful humour gets your knickers wet, Molly Hooper…" Kissing her chin, her cheek then finally her lips, he said, "Admit it!"

"I'll admit no such thing!"

"Yes, it does. And I love that about you." Staring at her with big, soulful eyes, he said, "I love everything about you."

Molly ran her hand through his hair, it was messy and tousled from their vigorous activities. Scraping her nails against his scalp, she pulled him forward. "I love you," she said. "Thank you for tonight. It was perfect."

"It was years too late."

She shrugged. "We'll just have to make up for lost time."

"Excellent idea," he said before kissing her senseless.

And they did.

Molly argued with him about alerting their friends as the scheduled 'drop-ins' were still in effect. Sherlock simply waved her off and left Billy just outside the front door of the flat with a note that read: 'Busy making love. Do not disturb.'

Okay, it's done. So, the business with the Grand Duke is all true up to Billy, of course. I got it from the interweb, so if you happen to have extensive knowledge of the Grand Duke Michael Mikhailovich and see that I've gotten anything wrong, I apologise. I really worked hard on all of this, but it's certainly possible that I got misinformation.

Thank you all for reading. I'd love to hear any and all final thoughts. Your reviews make my day. ~Lil~