A/N: This chapter earns its T rating, just sayin'.
Sherlock couldn't help but stare admiringly up at Molly as she continued to frown down at him, the flush on her cheek entirely due to her distemper with him, the sparkle in her brown eyes more of an angry glitter...she'd never looked lovelier, was his somewhat startled conclusion. Suddenly his declarations of common sense as a motivator for his plans seemed utter rubbish.
"If you will permit me to take the reins, Miss Hooper, so that we can return Dr. Watson to his residence," he said after he'd shaken himself from his temporary spell of admiration, "I will explain everything, leaving nothing out. And if you're worried about being seen with me without a chaperone, I can assure you that Mrs. Watson will gladly act in that capacity if necessary."
Ah, so she hadn't come to the correct conclusions after all, at least, not entirely, he thought with a hint of smugness as she stared, wide-eyed, at John. Who of course had flushed with embarrassment as soon as Sherlock had mentioned the existence of his wife. "Mrs. Watson...would not be your sister or your mother, would she, Doctor?" Molly asked as she slowly retook her seat, hands folded primly on her lap...at least, so it might appear to the untrained eye. Sherlock, however, could see how tightly she clasped them together – but not in fear; oh, no, his Molly was quite fearless and always had been no matter how docile an exterior she donned to present herself as society expected a young lady of her class to do.
He felt a twinge of conscience assail him at the thought; perhaps this entire risky plan of his was too much of a risk for Molly, no matter how fearless she was? No; he'd come too far to alter his course. And although he could certainly dissemble further, he owed her nothing less than the entire truth.
John was babbling out an apology, attempting to explain his part in the charade without giving any of Sherlock's actual intentions away; good man, even if he was clearly making matters worse rather than helping. "Yes, John, I'm sure Molly understands that you entered into this agreement without being fully aware of the situation involved, just as I'm sure she understands that it was entirely at my behest. You forgive him, Molly, yes?"
He'd taken the reins in hand but had yet to start the horses moving, glancing over his shoulder to gauge Molly's expression.
She still gave the appearance of anger, but he recognized that her curiosity was overcoming her anger, no matter how stiffly she held herself. Her disapproving her expression melted into something approaching tolerance if not outright forgiveness as she addressed John: "I accept your apologies, Dr. Watson, conditionally, of course. And I appreciate your and Mr. Holmes's offers of your wife – whom I presume to be entirely unaware of the true reasons behind your temporary absence? – as chaperone, but Mr. Holmes and I have spent many hours together without what would be considered proper supervision, and I see no reason to alter our past habits at this point in time. Unless," she added, suddenly raising her eyes and pinning Sherlock with the sharpness of her gaze, "I am mistaken? Have I need to worry about you...misbehaving...Mr. Holmes?"
Oh, well done, Molly, he thought admiringly. Keeping his gaze neutral, he offered her a stiff nod in response to the challenge in her voice. Then he turned back and concentrated as best he could on maneuvering the carriage back into the light stream of traffic.
It would be much simpler, he grumbled to himself, if his trousers hadn't suddenly become so damnably tight.
oOo
They soon reached their destination, a street lined with well-kept and modestly sized townhouses. Sherlock pulled up in front of one near the center of row, waiting impatiently as John once again made his apologies to Molly before finally descending from the carriage.
As he shut the door behind him, Molly leaned forward and said, in her sweetest voice: "Dr. Watson? Shall I have Mr. Holmes send your belongings on to you? Or do you prefer to tender your notice to my father in person?"
John squared his shoulders and faced her straight on. "Of course I shall return myself to gather my belongings and apologize to your father for my part in this deception," he replied. "However, I shall wait until you and Sherlock have had time to speak before I do so, as I am certain much will hinge on the outcome of your conversation." Then he bestowed a particularly enigmatic look upon his friend before turning and heading up the brick path to his home.
Molly took note of the details as she and Sherlock waited for John to enter before he put the carriage into motion once again. There was a brass plaque by the door, with Dr. Watson's name and hours of availability engraved on it. The woman who met him at the door was an attractive blonde with eyes so blue Molly could easily discern their color even from the kerb. In spite of her apparent surprise at finding him on her doorstep, she offered him a warm smile and greeted him with a kiss that instantly proclaimed their relationship as husband and wife. Either that, Molly found herself thinking with a kind of wry cynicism she rarely allowed herself to feel, or he was engaged in an open affair with the housekeeper.
As Sherlock started the carriage moving again, she voiced her questions in a tone of utter exasperation: "Why did you advise Papa to take on Dr. Watson as his partner when the man is not only already married, but already has a practice of his own here in Town?"
"Miss Hooper, I beg of you to retain your questions for our arrival at our destination, as it will tax even my skills to attempt such a conversation whilst maneuvering the carriage through London traffic. I promise, your patience will be well rewarded."
Molly narrowed her eyes at his back as he returned his attention to the horses, skillfully moving the carriage away from the kerb and onto the street, showing no signs of any difficulty in doing so. Was there some second meaning to his words? He'd spoken them with the little smirk he wore only when he felt he was being clever, the one she'd seen many times since childhood, although he'd learned to use it with far more subtlety since reaching adulthood.
However, if Sherlock Holmes said he would answer her questions, then he would answer her questions. And if he declared that she must wait for those answers, then even the devil himself would be unable to drag another word from the exasperating man's lips.
And they were, she mused as she watched the traffic passing by on the busy road they next turned onto, very fine looking lips. Perfect Cupid's bows, she'd heard a giggling housemaid describe then once to the cook when they didn't realize Molly had come into the kitchen. She understood the classical allusion, although it had surprised her that the maid recognized the term well enough to use it properly!
She forced her mind away from such improper thoughts and lost herself in the sights and sounds and (unfortunately) smells of London. Fifteen minutes later found them at the front entrance to another townhouse, this one much grander than Dr. Watson's modest home.
"Thank you, Wiggins," Sherlock said to the man who greeted them at the door. He handed over the reins and stepped down to the pavement, offering a hand to Molly as she exited the carriage. She accepted the hand but declined the arm he offered as they walked up to the front door. He opened it with a key he took from his waistcoat pocket, and silently nodded for her to precede him inside.
She was slightly apprehensive; why had no servant answered the door? The man who had taken the carriage, Wiggins, must be the groom, but if they were expected then why had Sherlock opened the door himself?
"The rest of the servants have been given leave to visit their families for the week," he said, correctly deducing her concerns as she finally moved to enter and allow him to close the door behind her. "I wished us to have complete privacy for our...conversation."
There was no mistaking the deliberate hesitation before that last word. Molly would never presume to compare her own intellectual abilities to Sherlock's, but she was certainly no lackwit; he not only had another word in mind, but he'd wanted her to see that hesitation! "Mr. Holmes, you promised me an explanation. I would very much like to hear it. Right now, if you please."
Instead of answering, Sherlock moved away from Molly and began removing his gloves, working them off one finger at a time while she remained where he'd left her, a simmering anger growing in her breast. If he thought she would happily allow herself to be ignored, why, he didn't know her at all! "Sherlock, why have you brought me here?" she demanded. "At least tell me if I'm correct in assuming this to be one of your family's properties?"
He paused in the act of removing his coat – why was he removing his coat? – and glanced over at her without pausing in his movements. "Yes, this is our Baker Street townhouse. It's not the most fashionable part of Town, which is why I prefer to stay here whenever I find myself in London and not at University." He flashed her a quite breathtaking smile. "Point of fact, this place is, essentially, my place of exile when I have misbehaved."
"And are you...misbehaving...now?" was her next, cautious question.
He'd removed his coat entirely and draped it over one arm, and was now reaching up to loosen his cravat. Molly swallowed. Hard. Considered bolting back out the door, but stood her ground. "What do you think, Miss Hooper?" he asked, his voice lowered to a deep, purring thrum as his fingers continued to unwind the fabric from around his neck, baring his long, pale neck to her scandalized view.
"I, I think...I think you might be attempting to seduce me," Molly said in a near whisper. "Am I, am I incorrect in my assumption?"
He paused in the act of removing the cravat from his collar and flashed her a very dangerous grin before lowering his head and breathing into her ear: "No, Miss Hooper, you are not."
Molly lowered her eyes and gazed blankly at her tightly-clasped hands for a moment as she considered his words, trying desperately not to focus on the shiver that had coursed down her spine when he said her name. When she finally found the courage to speak again, it was a single word, breathed out as she once again met his gaze. "Why?"
"Because I do not wish to marry Miss Janine Hawkins, and I know you do not wish to be married off to whatever idiotic young apprentice your father decides to take under his wing to replace John," came Sherlock's blunt response. "Therefore I believe it is both our interests for you to allow me to not only seduce and ruin you, but, if all goes to plan, to get you with child as well so that we might be married as quickly as possible. Father has a horror of bastards, and if I acknowledge that the child is mine, he'll be forced to accede lest I further blacken the family name, worse than I already have."
Molly stared at him, stunned by the cascade of words, and by the sheer audacity of his intentions. That he could concoct such an intricate scheme was no shock; nor was his desire to deflower her. He was a man, after all, and had already indulged himself in the pleasures of the flesh, as he'd revealed to her during his painful recovery from his drug use. No, the shock was that he wished to enact all this with her, with the stated purpose of getting her with child in order to force his father, the notoriously intractable Lord Holmes, to allow them to wed.
And all of this...scheming...was offered to her as if he were delivering a lecture on the internal arrangements of an earthworm, as he'd once done when they were ten and thirteen. Dryly, factually, without any show of emotion.
Well. At least he was not attempting any form of deception on her. As she remained silent, a slight "V" appeared between his eyebrows, which lowered as if he were discommoded by her lack of response. "Miss Hooper? Molly? Have you any response to my proposal?"
The words that exited her lips were not anything she'd intended to speak aloud. "Then it is not because you...care for me at all?" Molly asked, wishing her tone was not quite so plaintive.
The look Sherlock flashed her was pure irritation. "Of course I care for you, Molly," he said, all pretense at formality vanished as he dropped both coat and cravat to the floor. "Else I wouldn't bother with any of this foolishness." He reached out and removed her shawl from around her shoulders, dropping it on top of his coat, and began undoing the ties to her bonnet. "It confounds me, why women feel the need to cover themselves in so many unnecessary layers," he mumbled as he started to give her bonnet the same treatment as her shawl – until she snatched it out of his hands and held it protectively to her chest.
He raised one eyebrow in that irritating manner he had – irritating only because it was a movement she had never been able to duplicate. "Is there a problem, Molly?"
"I haven't agreed to allow you to s-seduce me, Sherlock," she found herself replying, once again not the words she'd intended to speak at all. To cover her flustered reaction, her reddened cheeks and trembling limbs, she turned and carefully hung her bonnet on the peg by the door, reaching down and picking up both her shawl and Sherlock's frock coat and hanging them just as carefully on two other pegs.
When she turned around, he was right there, crowding against her closely enough that it would take very little for their bodies to touch. She sucked in a startled breath, her eyes flying up to meet his. His pupils had expanded, darkening his blue-green eyes into deep pools of black in which her own startled face was reflected back at her. Although she had done nothing to encourage him, he nevertheless seemed to read encouragement in her eyes as he reached out with one hand, grazing her cheek with the tips of his fingers before speaking.
"Molly, as I already told you, I would very much like to ruin you," he announced, his voice once again an octave lower, husky and thrumming along her nerves in a most agreeable manner. "I would, in fact, like to ruin you quite thoroughly, that we might both benefit from such ruination. History shows that we are quite compatible in many ways, that we share many of the same interests, and will make quite amiable partners in marriage. And," he added, his voice quite low and intense, "unless I am very much mistaken, you do not find me…physically unappealing."
"No," she whispered, staring up into those hypnotic, opaline eyes. "I do not."
"So. Shall we perform a small experiment, then, as we so often did as children?"
Before she could offer more than an uncertain nod, his hands were on her arms, pulling her against his lean form as his mouth descended to cover hers.
Oh, this was nothing like anything they'd done as children, she thought dazedly as she received her first proper kiss. Nothing at all. His mouth was very soft and warm, and she flushed with an alien heat as she felt his tongue sliding gently along her lips, coaxing her mouth open. Certainly he was an expert at the act, and she his very willing pupil!
When he released her, gasping and trembling, her own pupils no doubt as fully expanded as his own, all she could say was: "Very well. I consent."
That brought an unexpected laugh from between the lips that had just been ravishing her own, and Molly felt herself flushing in sudden embarrassment; what had she said that merited such a show of humor? Had she made a mistake in accompanying him here after all?
"Forgive me, Molly. I am given to understand that most maids who are about to be ravished usually protest such treatment, at least at first."
"And I am given to understand that most rakehells do not warn their prey in advance of their intentions," Molly riposted, wondering from what previously unknown source her sudden courage had arisen. "Nor do they promise marriage as the outcome – and mean it." A rush of uncertainty overcame her, and she found herself blurting out her fears: "You do mean it, don't you? You intend to marry me, not simply use and discard me?"
He took her arm and threaded it through his as he led her toward the stairs leading to the main floor of the townhouse. "Use you, yes," he replied with another wicked grin. "Discard you, no. You have been a constant in my life, Molly Hooper, and proven yourself an able and intelligent companion. You have never reacted with disgust or fear when I expound on theories that my own family regard as ridiculous or at least socially unacceptable, and you have defended me – quite vigorously, I might add – when you had no idea I could hear you, on more than one occasion. For that reason alone I would choose to wed you above any other woman offered to me."
Molly felt a bit overwhelmed at this recitation of her supposed virtues – virtues, she noted, that had nothing to do with her appearance. He said nothing of her lips or her cheeks or hair, and she found, somewhat to her chagrin, that she was vain enough to wish to hear him sing her body's praises as well as those of her mind. However, when she opened her mouth to inquire as to his thoughts in that area, he interrupted her with another kiss, stopping on the bottom step of the staircase, pressing her against the wall with one hand by her head and the other grasping her waist.
"Yes, Molly, you're pretty," he muttered as his lips slid down to what little of her throat he could reach above her clothing. "You have given over the wearing of your bonnet frequently enough that there are freckles on your face and neck, which are quite attractive in their own quiet way – much like you," he added, bringing another blush to her cheeks. He smiled. "And when you do that, your features are even more agreeable. As for your figure," he pulled away from her, flicking his eyes up and down her form in a manner no young lady of breeding would ever tolerate, "...your figure is petite and slender even without the corsets you women insist on torturing yourselves with, and your hair..." He paused in his assessment, moving his head back in order to study her chestnut locks. "Your hair is a very attractive color. As soon as we have reached my bedroom and I can remove these blasted – pardon my language – pins, then I will be able to give you a better – mmph!"
She knew it was terribly forward of her, but she couldn't help it; she found her hands suddenly clutching his head and pulling him down to meet her as she raised herself on her toes and kissed him.
His hair was soft and the curls seemed absolutely made for running one's fingers through and his mouth tasted of peppermint and faintly of pipe tobacco and she could feel every inch of his body against hers – including a rather intriguing warm bulge pressing into her hip.
Although her father had indulged her interest in medicine her entire life, even he had limits – and the books detailing the workings of the human reproductive system were among those, with the single exception of the pages explaining the workings of the female menstrual cycle on that long-ago day when she was thirteen and terrified that she'd injured herself badly enough to bleed to death. However, Molly had never allowed anything to stand in the way when it came to obtaining knowledge of human physiology, and her father's refusal to permit her to read certain texts hadn't stopped her from sneaking looks when he was busy with members of the Holmes family or the tenants who made up the bulk of his practice on that family's extensive estates and in the nearby village. Therefore, even as an unwed maid, she knew of the differences between males and females, although her actual experience was limited to the sight of naked babies and the antics of the farm animals. She knew what that bulge meant, and blushed to think that she'd been the cause of Sherlock's arousal.
"Molly," he said as the kiss ended (and she was pleased to note he was breathing just as heavily as she was, and that his eyes seemed fixed on her bosom), "I find that you are a very forward young woman." His eyes crinkled in a smile as he added: "And I find that fact quite, quite agreeable." Then he tucked her arm beneath his once again and fairly pulled her up the stairs.
The bedroom they entered was of an adequate size to house an enormous mahogany sleigh bed as well as a matching clothes-press and a small writing desk with a cane-bottomed chair in front of it. There was a fire laid on in the small fireplace opposite the two windows, both of which allowed enough sunlight to penetrate that Molly could see every detail, from the neatly-swept floor to the antique lace coverlet laid over the foot of the bed, which contrasted nicely with the dark green of the bedding itself. There was a veritable mountain of pillows at the headboard, most of which Sherlock proceeded to toss carelessly to the floor while Molly remained timidly by the doorway, watching his movements with wide eyes and a fluttery feeling in her stomach that had very little to do with nerves – and a great deal to do with the flood of anticipation that had come over her from his first heated kiss.
She laid a trembling hand on her bosom; was she actually going to allow this to happen? Was she truly going to give herself to Sherlock Holmes, the Earl's youngest son, without the sanction of the Church? He'd mentioned the possibility – no, the hope – that their union would result in a child as well; was she truly willing to risk her reputation being ruined in such a manner? Risk her child being labeled a bastard if things did not go as Sherlock so confidently seemed to believe they would?
Yes, she thought as he completed his task of clearing the bed of excess pillows and carefully turning down the coverlet before turning to regard her from the short distance that separated them. Yes, she was. Because she loved him, and even though he'd proven himself less than a gentleman in his past behaviour, he'd never offered any direct and deliberate harm to her, nor to any woman, for that matter. He'd done terrible things to himself and had bedeviled his instructors at Oxford, but had done nothing so terrible that they hadn't forgiven him for his misdeeds – twice! – and welcomed him back.
"You are reconsidering," Sherlock said, his deep baritone interrupting her thoughts – not quite accurately, but certainly close enough to bring another blush to Molly's cheeks. "I beg of you, Molly, if you truly do not wish...that is to say, if you require more time to consider my offer..."
Sherlock sounded very unlike himself, hesitant and unsure, and the expression on his face showed an appealing vulnerability that Molly had only rarely seen on him before. She knew he was not dissembling; she was quite versed in reading his expressions after so much time spent in his company and under such varying circumstances, and knew when he was attempting to deceive her.
There was no deception in him right now, nor had there been since their arrival at this residence. Gathering her courage, she took a single step forward, then another, and another, until she came to rest directly in front of where he waited by the side of the bed. Without speaking, she laid her hand on his, waiting until he curled his fingers around hers before once again raising herself on the tips of her toes and pressing a tender kiss to his lips. "Very well, Mr. Holmes," she whispered as his arms moved to encircle her slender form. "Pray, ruin me."