Molly soon reacquainted herself with the grounds of the estate, discovering every nook and cranny that she once inhabited as a young girl. She immersed herself in the sunlight that seeped through the sitting room on the second floor, the taste of Miss Reynolds' cherry tarte on her tongue, and the smell of the leather-bound books in the library.

His library.

She had avoided the room for days upon arrival, knowing the scowls he'd send her direction when they'd eventually end up sharing the room. He was quick to insult her reading choices, or the scent of her perfume, or even her very presence.

But by the third day, she found herself unable to hold out any longer. The only remedy for her jittery nerves would be a novel, one that would whisk her away to another world, one where she was in charge of her own life. One where her mother and favorite cousin were accompanying her. One where she wasn't in love with the foulest man in all of England.

Yet, now sitting at the dinner table, joined by John, Mary, and Rosamund, she asked the question that had been on her brain since the morning after her arrival.

"Where is Sherlock?" She forced herself to ask, her eyes locked on the delicious soup in front of her.

Mary glanced over at John, who angrily shoved another spoonful into his mouth. She sighed and squeezed her husband's hand, trying to calm him down. He'd been in a right mood since the evening of Molly's arrival, given Sherlock's awful comments.

Of course, it didn't help that he had up and disappeared after their row.

"Well, he's uh… We're not quite sure to be honest. Detective Inspector Lestrade called upon him. So… He disappeared. Usually he drags John along with him but—"

John slammed his hands on the table, causing the dishes to rattle and Rosie to let out a delighted squeal.

"But not this time!" He hissed out, his eyes as angry as they were nights ago, "Not after the disgusting way he treated you!"

Molly smiled sadly and shook her head. "John, I appreciate your kind concern but… Don't worry about the way he treats me. I'm a big girl."

"That doesn't matter!" He quipped, shoving another spoonful in his mouth, "If you're a bloody big girl, he's a nasty little monster! A beast! The creature that will eat you alive!"

"Uncle Sherly is a monster!" Rosie announced delightedly. Mary scowled at John and turned to settle Rosie down.

"John," Molly began again, her eyes locked on her soup bowl, "Please don't worry about me. I'll do what I've always done when staying here."

"Molly…" He began, his voice concerned.

"I'll ignore him," She whispered, finally meeting his gaze, "He's hurt me enough in the past that his words no longer mean anything."

"You don't mean that." He urged, his face falling.

Molly sat up and forced a smile. "I do. Besides, I do believe I have a task, now don't I?" She turned to Mary, "Would you two happen to know any potential eligible bachelors in the area?"

Mary couldn't help but grin. "I do! We can start with my cousin Maxwell. I always thought he'd be a charming fit for you. Then there's Charles down at the Yard, and that railway bloke from America," She turned and looked at John, "What was his name, love?"

John sighed and continued eating, "His name was Alexander," He looked at Molly, "We'll bring over whoever you'd like to meet. If you're sure about this, of course."

Molly sipped her drink and gave another forced smile.

"Of course, I am. Besides, what choice do I really have?"

Xxx

Detective Inspector Lestrade stared at the photograph in front of him, his mouth agape. He looked back at Sherlock, who leaned against the door of the office, casually smoking a cigarette.

"You're meaning to tell me that the murdered woman was part of the Russian aristocracy? Surely you must be mistaken!" Lestrade sputtered out, again glancing down at the gorgeous woman gracing the frame of the photograph.

Sherlock sighed and took a puff of his cigarette. "I'm never mistaken, Lestrade. She's the second cousin of Tsar Nicolas," he began, taking another hit in between his words, "Or rather, she was."

Lestrade groaned. "So, we have to get the ambassador involved? Oh, Christ! This should be out of my jurisdiction!"

Sherlock shrugged and buttoned up his coat. "My job here is done."

The detective inspector grumbled to himself and set the photograph down, glancing over at Sherlock again. "Very well. Where was Watson in all of this? Has the Missus locked him down?"

At the mention of John, Sherlock scowled and turned to the door. "Never mind him. I solved the case just fine without his assistance."

Lestrade blinked. "Ah. I see. You two had a row."

Sherlock growled. "Lestrade, I suggest you focus on your own affairs. Such as your wife's infidelity."

And with that, he stormed out of the office, dreading his return to Reichenbach.

Xxx

Tucked into their martial bed, wrapped in nothing but the finest sheets on the market, Mary and John relaxed in each other's arms. John contently played with her blonde ringlets, enjoying the silky-smooth feeling between his fingers. Mary had begun to trace one of the many scars littering his chest, her lips and fingers alternating the job.

At the sound of her husband's sigh, she knew they had things to discuss. Or rather, two particular guests in their home.

"I just don't understand," John began, beating Mary to the punch, "why he treats her the way he does. He's always been like this. Since her first summer here when we were children he's been nothing but a cruel git."

Mary frowned and moved closer to her husband, resting her head on his chest, letting the sound of his beating heart soothe her.

"He's always been like that?" She asked.

John sighed. "Yes. Always. Now, when our parents were around, he showed a tad more civility but… He was uncommonly cruel. Even Mycroft, who on many accounts is absolutely awful, has only ever shown Molly kindness and respect."

Mary pressed a soft kiss to his chest. "Do you have any idea why?"

John groaned. "Not the slightest. He is cautious of strangers and it's easy to see when he dislikes someone. But even then…" He sighed and looked down at his wife, "I have never seen him treat someone the way he treats her."

"I have a theory," Mary whispered, even the words feeling scandalous on her lips.

John quirked an eyebrow. "Please do share, my love."

Mary sighed and bit her lip, wondering if she was being silly. "Well, I did, at least. After their last interaction, I'm not so sure…"

"Mary. Please. Just share your thoughts."

She sighed again. "Right. Could Sherlock possibly… Be in love with Molly?"

John just blinked, continuing to stare at his wife. "In love? You think he could be in love with her?"

She continued to nibble on her lip, unsure of her words. "Well, think about it. Sherlock is well… He's like a child. He frequently behaves like a six-year-old, between the outbursts, tantrums, his stubbornness, and his sheer determination to make our lives a living hell."

She shifted onto her elbows, laying across her husband's body. "And when a little boy fancies a little girl, he tends to be a bit mean. Pulls her hair, tells her she's dumb, belittles her… It's rather barbaric, but that's what they do."

Mary pressed a wet kiss to John's exposed neck and continued. "So, perhaps, since Sherlock is still a perpetual child, he responds to an infatuation with Molly as a child would. With anger, and vulgarity, and a refusal to acknowledge his feelings."

John stared at his wife, considering her words. "I mean… I certainly thought when we were teenagers that perhaps he may have fancied her but… How could anyone be that cruel to a woman they love?"

Mary sighed and dropped onto his body, reveling in the feel of their skin touching. "I'm not sure, my love. But I don't understand a single thing Sherlock does. I reckon this is no different."

Having enough of the Sherlock discussion, John caught his wife's lips in another passionate kiss.

Xxx

On the other side of the home, Sherlock strolled up the stairs, pleased to be back. While he thrived on assisting Scotland Yard, and as a result was gone frequently, there was nothing he enjoyed more than sleeping in his own bed. Of course, since the night of Molly's arrival a few days prior, he had yet to return.

He turned the corner and pushed open the door, expecting to be assaulted by the scent of leather bound books, stale cigar smoke, and strong Scotch. To his dismay, the stench of roses and woman filled his nostrils, causing him to grip onto the door knob far harder than usual.

She's here.

Sherlock strolled inside, clenching and unclenching his fist as he prepared himself for the pending argument that would surely arise. He turned on the light (a recent addition to the home—Mary had been insistent on electricity, whereas John was hesitant to pick up the new invention) and shut the door, his eyes landing on her.

As if desiring a fight, Molly was comfortably tucked into Sherlock's favorite chair, clad in only a white night frock and long dressing gown. She had her legs tucked underneath her, thus containing her tiny body entirely between the chair. Sherlock cleared his throat, causing Molly to sigh and shut the heavy book in her hands.

Sherlock glanced at the title and scowled.

Shakespeare. How boring, Molly.

"I would have expected you to be reading some feminist propaganda, or perhaps something more, Austen like," He murmured, moving deeper into the room to settle in front of the bar. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a much-needed drink.

Molly set her book down and remained in her seat, watching Sherlock with hawk-like eyes. "Is it so wrong for me to believe that women deserve the right to vote? Or to be treated equally? Or for me to not have to marry to maintain my land and fortune?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. "Perhaps not. But I worry that your desire for women's rights will be overshadowed by your severe hatred of the male sex."

That made her laugh. "Oh, Sherlock, you are surely mistaken! I do not hate the male sex. I simply hate you."

The air grew thick between the two of them, the smells of the leather-bound books, Sherlock's cigarettes, and Molly's rosy fragrance mixed together, forming a rather intoxicating perfume. Sherlock took another sip of Scotch, his eyes still locked on her form.

"I find myself unsupportive of your cause simply because… Well, it's your cause." He shrugged and set the empty glass down, "While I hate for Mary and Rosamund to be punished, I would also hate to see you rewarded."

Molly immediately rose to her feet and stormed towards him, her eyes furious. Her nose twitched in an adorable manner, and Sherlock couldn't help but be enamored with the way her eyes twinkled.

"Oh, you foul, odious man! What have I ever done to you?" She finally cried out, stomping her foot in a fit of anger.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "My, my, Molly. Just your simple presence for the past eighteen years has been enough to set me on edge."

She shoved him, not moving the man an inch. "I can't believe I was ever stupid enough to fancy you! Of all the ways I could hurt myself, or let my fellow women down, falling in love with you was the severest option."

Her confession had Sherlock staggering back, slamming his back into the desk. He hissed and ran a shaking hand through his curls. He finally met her eyes again.

"You are in love with me?"

She scoffed and shook her head, forcing her features to remain disinterested. "No, Sherlock. I was. Thankfully, I learned early on how pathetic of a man you are.'

A low growl escaped his lips, causing him to take a step forward. No one would speak to him like that. Especially not Lady Molly Hooper.

"Pathetic?" He hissed out, his eyes furious, "Why, I think that's rather humorous coming from a woman who is unmarried and unattached at twenty-four years old."

"By choice!" Molly spat, taking a step forward to poke his chest with her finger, "I have turned down many suitors, Sherlock Holmes. I have yet to meet a man worthy of my hand."

He practically snorted. "And what makes a man worthy?"

She took a step closer, her hands shaking. "He needs to be intelligent. Driven. Committed to bettering the estate and the community. Respectful. A true gentleman. Supports my causes and treats me like an equal, not property. He needs to be—"

Sherlock just laughed, causing her to stop and glare at him. "No wonder you've yet to find a man, Molly. He doesn't exist."

She shoved him again. "He is out there and I will find him, Sherlock Holmes!"

"I suggest you keep your hands off me, Lady Molly, or we will surely have a problem."

"Oh?" She smirked, "And how will the mighty Mr. Holmes react?"

He hissed again. "Try again and you'll find out."

She did enjoy playing with fire. She shoved him yet again, and immediately found herself twisted and pressed against the wall, her arms held above her head by the unforgiving grip of Sherlock Holmes.

"Say," He breathed out, his eyes darting between her eyes and lips, "You stole my first kiss. Shall I reclaim it?"

Molly snarled and tried to move her wrists, but was unable in his harsh grip. She showed no fear. Only fury.

"That depends, Mr. Holmes. That would require you to touch me in a manner that seems far below your pompous attitude."

He let out a nefarious grin. "But it would get you to stop running that mouth of yours."

He leaned in and pressed a harsh kiss to her lips, enjoying the soft, supple feel of her mouth on his. His senses were overloading. Between the soft waves of her hair tickling his cheek, to the rosy fragrance of her skin hitting his nostrils, to her smooth skin beneath his shaking hands.

And to his own amazement, Molly was not putting up a fight. She wasn't angrily biting at his lips or shifting in his grasp.

She was meeting the movements of his lips, aggressively returning the fervor of his kiss in a way that had Sherlock's trousers tightening. He dropped one of her wrists and brought his hand to her face, gripping her chin to keep their mouths locked.

And then again, to Sherlock's surprise, her free hand found its way into Sherlock's own messy curls, pulling and twisting the locks. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and practically moaned as hers joined, beginning a pleasurable battle of dominance that had him abandoning her other wrist and moving his hand to her waist.

The kiss only grew more intense, more fevered, more desperate with Molly sprawled against the wall, one hand in Sherlock's hair, the other splayed flat on his muscled chest. Sherlock had dropped both of his hands to her waist, his fingers with a brutal hold on the dressing gown covered skin.

And so, he dominated her mouth, her body, and her mind, his lips and tongue voiding her brain of any thoughts and intelligent reminders for why kissing the man of both her dreams and her nightmares was a terrible idea.

It wasn't until her body was moved against the desk, and her hip sent Sherlock's glass to the ground, that their embrace was interrupted. They both jumped away, as if afraid of being burned. Sherlock flickered his eyes from the wet, glassy mess on the ground, to Molly's red face, illuminated in the novel electricity of the room.

They held each other's gazes, the room quiet sans the blaze burning in the fire place. Molly pulled her dressing gown closer and attempted to fix her hair. She cleared her throat and stuck up her nose, praying to somehow maintain her dignity.

"I believe you reclaimed your stolen kiss, Mr. Holmes," She whispered, desperately trying to avoid the quiver that threatened to slip out.

He simply nodded.

Molly cleared her throat and moved to the door, not even whispering a goodnight as she disappeared from the library. Sherlock remained, his eyes tired.

He grabbed the bottle from the bar and looked down to the broken glass. He shook his head and brought the bottle to his lip, taking a generous gulp.

Her presence would surely kill him.

He was already counting down the days.

How can I forget what she tastes like?