A/N: This is the "Doing the Deed" chapter, so if you're intersted in more, ahem, details, do feel free to read the M rated version. Thank you for your kind reviews and enjoy this next installment.
The smile he gifted her with at her words of consent quite lit up his already attractive features, lending Sherlock an angelic aspect she otherwise would never have associated with him. His nimble fingers reached for her hair, finding and discarding the many pins that held the heavy tresses in place, and she very daringly reached up to toy with the buttons on his crisp white shirt, leaving her fingers very close to the elegant expanse of throat he'd revealed to her upon removal of his cravat.
She felt his fingers carding through her hair as the last of the pins went tumbling to the floor, and felt an overpowering urge to do the same to his disordered locks. The dark curls had always appealed to her, and she hadn't touched them since he'd been so ill when throwing off the effects of the drugs he'd taken his first year at Oxford. It had seemed to soothe him then, to offer him comfort even as he sweated and tossed on the narrow pallet on which he'd lain, and she could understand why, now that he was doing the same to her under very different circumstances.
There was something extremely pleasant about feeling another person's fingers rubbing against your scalp, tugging lightly at your hair – ohhh, and sometimes not so lightly, Molly thought with a delicious shiver as Sherlock's grip tightened suddenly, causing her face to rise up toward his. "I'm going to kiss you now, Molly," he said in a low growl. "Then I'm going to remove the remainder of my clothing, and then your own, and kiss you in other locations than your delectable lips."
"O-oh, my, yes," she breathed before his mouth covered hers. She felt his fingers plucking at the buttons on the back of her gown, and, emboldened by the hunger of his movements, stopped toying with his and began undoing his shirt in earnest. She gasped as he deepened the kiss, her fingers quite losing the ability to function whilst he continued with his own self-appointed task.
Sherlock pulled back slightly, breaking off the kiss, his gaze burning into hers as he slid the fabric of her gown off her shoulders. The look in his eyes was one Molly would treasure for the rest of her life – a combination of hunger and need and unexpected tenderness that nearly undid her as he caught and held her gaze.
Afterward Molly couldn't recall the details of how the remainder of her clothing – chemise and petticoats and stockings and shoes – were removed, only that it seemed to happen rather suddenly. She was far too enrapt by the sight of Sherlock's nude form stood before her.
His skin was paler than hers, ivory and marble with bluish veins threading the flesh just below the surface. She allowed her eyes to linger on the parts of an adult male that she'd never seen before, a flush coloring her cheeks at the sight.
She bit her lip, wondering how he would feel inside her. Yes, a man was made to join with a woman, but Sherlock was so tall, she couldn't help but wonder how they would manage.
"Not to worry," Sherlock said, his voice a teasing rumble as he reached out to take her hands in his. "I'm certain we'll manage just fine."
Molly found herself unable to meet his eyes, a shyness stealing over her as she realized that the moment she'd longed for had arrived. Sherlock was going to make love to her, bring her to full womanhood, and very possibly (please God, let it be so), plant a child in her womb.
"I'm not afraid," she murmured, finally meeting his molten gaze. His lips curved in another wicked smile, and she allowed him to lead her to bed.
oOo
Sherlock observed Molly closely as she continued to struggle with what her heart and body desired and what her mind told her she should not want. He'd offered her a chance to alter her decision, she'd declined, but in spite of the willingness – eagerness, even – to cooperate in his plans, he still worried that some part of her hadn't been completely convinced. No doubt she was considering the effect this plan would have on her relationship with her father; would he think less of her for offering herself to the man she loved before wedlock? And his own father, would he actually permit them to wed without the negative consequences they would face if they'd simply run off together?
He dismissed such concerns from his own thoughts as irrelevant; he knew his own father well enough, and Molly's, to be confident in his predictions of their various reactions to the situation he intended to present to them. Molly was his only concern at the moment, his lovely, willing Molly lying shyly on the bed and waiting his fullest attention.
Their kisses deepened, their caresses became frenzied, and when finally the moment came, he knew utter bliss like none he'd ever experienced before. Judging by her own ecstatic cries, Molly felt much the same way.
The deed was done: Molly Hooper was utterly, thoroughly ruined by Sherlock Holmes.
And judging by the blissful smile on her face, she had no regrets.
Two Months Later
"Sherlock!"
The sound of his father's angry shout brought the younger Holmes brother into the front hall at a smart trot. He maintained an expression of sober inquiry as he came to a stop directly in front of a red-faced and extremely irate Tarquin Holmes. "Yes, Father? Is something amiss?"
His father's face grew even redder, were such a thing possible, and Sherlock absently wondered if this was finally the apoplectic fit Dr. Hooper had been predicting for so long. "You know very well what is 'amiss', Sherlock," Tarquin growled. "Dr. Hooper has just informed me that his daughter is pregnant. And that you are the father."
Sherlock bowed his head, the better to hide his satisfied smile. Molly had done as they'd planned, spoken to her father once she was certain of her condition. The smile threatened to broaden into a pleased smirk as he recalled their first union at Baker Street...as well as the three other clandestine liaisons that had followed, the last one in a secluded glen in the forest that bordered the northern end of the Holmes property. Molly had ostensibly gone to gather wild herbs and mushrooms, while he had been off riding, being sure to be seen going in the opposite direction before doubling back and joining her for a very delightful interlude.
Molly had proven to be much less bashful about removing her clothing outdoors than he'd predicted; the fact that the glen was known only to the two of them and perhaps his father's gamekeeper (who had been laid up with the gout at the time) seemed to weaken her natural reticence toward such societally frowned-upon behavior. He quite looked forward to a lifetime of discovering and removing such inhibitions – but only after they were properly wed. Which, he concluded, would be not far in the future so long as his father reacted as Sherlock so confidently predicted he would.
Bearing that desired result in mind, he looked up at his father, his own expression grave. "Miss Hooper is not a liar, Father. If she names me as her child's father, then that undoubtedly is the truth of the matter." He glanced around, mildly curious as to where Dr. Hooper was; surely he, too, should be involved in venting his ire at the man who had 'ruined' his daughter.
'Ruined' her. Sherlock mentally shook his head. If anything, Molly was a more interesting woman than she had been before he put his plans into motion, never ceasing to surprise him. And now there was a child on the way, his child, and he felt an unexpected jolt of pleasure at the thought of raising their son or daughter with Molly. He'd never held any desire to become a parent before, and now it seemed to be all he could think about.
"Into my study," his father snapped out, as if only now realizing that he'd created a scene in so public an area. Sherlock reluctantly brought his mind back into the present, noting the way his father's eyes darted about, as if searching for any lurking forms. He refrained from rolling his own eyes, but only barely; the servants were all well aware of their master's temper, and would most studiously avoid his presence upon hearing him so irate. No doubt any that might be within hearing range were relieved it was one of his own offspring who had caused his displeasure rather than any of them.
Once the imposing mahogany doors had been closed – and locked – behind them, Sherlock's father retreated behind his equally imposing desk, hands steepled beneath his chin as he gazed angrily at his son.
Sherlock remained standing; after a lifetime spent learning to gauge his father's moods, he knew when he was expected to act the penitent, and when he was allowed some leeway. Today he was A Problem rather than his father's youngest son. A Problem which needed to be dealt with.
"If you're wondering where Dr. Hooper is, I sent him away, told him I'd deal with you – and the situation you've apparently created – myself, that I would inform him of my decision as soon as I'd reached one."
'His' decision, Sherlock noted wryly. As if Sherlock had no say in the matter. "And what will that decision be, Father?" he asked, keeping his tone mild. "Surely you won't risk the family name and reputation by having me denounce Molly Hooper's claims. Which, I can assure you, are quite true. I am the father of her child."
His father's glare darkened. "You sound as if you wish to acknowledge this child, to be forced into marriage with this girl!"
Sherlock arched an eyebrow at his father, although his hands remained clasped behind his back. "You've spent my entire life telling me that I need to take responsibility for my actions, Father, and that the family name is never to be dishonored. I would think you'd be pleased to see that I have, indeed, taken those instructions to heart."
He kept his tone even and civil, although he couldn't quite manage 'humble and contrite', as much as he knew such an attitude would help to bring out the desired outcome. Well, the outcome he desired, at least; what his father wanted, clearly, was for Sherlock to deny that he was the father of Molly Hooper's child, so that the marriage Lord Holmes had arranged for him could still go forward. Molly would be then removed from the estate, given to some lunk of a farmer or tradesman as a wife, and the scandal would be swept under the carpet before anyone could become aware of it. And if Dr. Hooper were inclined to make trouble on his daughter's behalf, Tarquin Holmes was quite ruthless enough to terminate his employment and cast him out.
That was a game Sherlock absolutely refused to play. Even if he weren't responsible for Molly's current condition, he would never allow such a fate to befall her or her father. He squared his shoulders and looked his father directly in the eyes. "As the father of Miss Hooper's unborn child, I of course accept the responsibility incumbent upon me to preserve her good name, as well as our own. I shall marry her. With your permission, of course," he added.
"What of your betrothal to Miss Hawkins?" his father asked, with no sign of his fury diminishing. "Her father and I have already begun the negotiations, you know this! The announcement is to be made before your return to Oxford; am I to set aside that arrangement, cause a scandal for her family in order for you to preserve the reputation of your strump – "
Before Sherlock even knew he was going to move he'd slapped his hands down so they laid flat on his father's desk, his head lowered so that he could stare directly into the older man's eyes as he growled, "I would advise you to select your words with care, Father. Miss Hooper is the daughter of an old and trusted retainer. The responsibility for the actions that resulted in our...indiscretion...is mine and mine alone. She is not at fault, and I will not have you laying blame at her feet. Or calling her any name other than 'Daughter'."
"Nor will I."
Both men turned to stare at the newcomer. Lady Iris had entered via the French doors that lead out into the gardens. She held a basket of flowers over one arm and a pair of secateurs gripped tightly in the opposite hand, and her expression was as thunderous as a stormy day in winter. She moved into the room at a stately pace, every inch the lady – and every inch the stalking tiger about to pounce as she locked eyes with her flabbergasted husband.
"Sherlock has been indiscreet, yes," she said as she held her husband's gaze, "but the young lady in question is one we've known her entire life, Tarquin. Her father may not hold a peerage but he is an exemplary physician and has served this family well and faithfully ever since taking up his duties here. Mycroft has already sacrificed his happiness in the name of marrying well; it seems ridiculous to subject both of our sons to a lifetime of marital unhappiness simply to satisfy your desire to increase the family coffers – which, as you well know, are already overflowing and in no danger of being depleted within the lifetimes of either our sons or their children – or to bring further prestige to the Holmes name. Which, again, is in no danger of suffering more than a minor bruising in light of Sherlock's marriage to a woman not of his station."
Both Sherlock and his father remained silent during Lady Iris's uncharacteristic outburst, Sherlock out of respect and admiration, Tarquin clearly out of shock that his wife would defy him in such a manner – and in front of their son, when any previous disagreements between husband and wife had taken place entirely behind closed doors. "Iris," Tarquin finally managed to say as she fell silent, standing next to him so that he was forced to look up at her from his seat behind his desk, "what is the meaning of this…" Words seemed to fail him, and Sherlock bit back a sardonic smile at the sight of his father so discommoded – and by his wife, of all people, the woman who'd submitted to his will without so much as a murmur of complaint her entire married life, or at least the part of it their son had been able to observe.
Iris leaned down just the slightest bit, the secateurs in her hand accidentally – purposefully? – drifting close to her husband's throat as she prepared to speak once again. This time Sherlock was entirely unable to hide his smile as his father's eyes widened and he shrank back in his seat just the slightest amount before seeming to realize what he was doing and straightening himself haughtily. "Tarquin, you will grant Sherlock permission to marry Miss Hooper. The banns will be posted immediately and the wedding will take place as soon as they are read. Or else I will personally escort the two of them to Scotland and stand witness to their marriage in Gretna Green."
Tarquin's face, already rather pale, blanched further, and Sherlock knew that he'd much prefer a scandalously swift wedding to one that announced his own refusal to sanctify his son's marriage. The former would be a scandal only involving his son's reputation, the latter would have far more serious repercussions to his own. And that, Sherlock knew, he would never allow. Certainly not in the face of his wife's quiet determination.
"With your permission, Father, I will speak with Dr. Hooper regarding this matter now," Sherlock said as the silence between his parents continued. He admired the look of calm resolve on his mother's face more than he reveled in his father's continued discomfiture. Tarquin Holmes looked like a man trapped between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and Sherlock felt with a certain amount of satisfaction that it was past time his father occupied such an uncomfortable site.
A long moment passed before Tarquin finally turned his head to face his son. His lips were tightly pressed together, his cheeks once again flushed an angry red, but the short, sharp nod he gave was all the permission Sherlock required. He bowed his head to indicate his thanks, smiled warmly at his mother, then turned and left his parents to sort through the consequences of this fraught meeting in private, out of respect for his mother. A respect that he'd always held, but which now had grown immeasurably.
He'd always known she was fond of Molly. Her intervention in this matter had been something he'd not – relied upon, not precisely, but certainly something he'd entered into his calculations, although he'd anticipated having to seek her out on his own and press his cause to her before mutually confronting his father.
His satisfied smile dwindled a bit as he mentally prepared himself for the meeting with Dr. Hooper, which he expected to go poorly. Yes, the man would of course agree to allow Sherlock to marry his daughter, considering her condition and his own lack of denial as to being the one to cause said condition, but it certainly wasn't the future Dr. Hooper had envisioned for his daughter.
He'd deliberately avoided thinking of such things until this moment, not wishing his words to Molly's father to seem overly rehearsed. But he'd not anticipated their actions to come to fruition so quickly, and thus was pleased to have the time it would take him to walk to the Hooper household to better order his thoughts.
Fate, alas, had other plans for him.