Chapter Four - The Journey Continues

After a mile of travel Sherlock replaced the small bag into his pack and resumed the lead. His gait slowed to a steady march which Molly gratefully found easy to keep up with. She stared at his cloak-covered back and wondered who this mysterious man was. Could she trust him? Why was she willing to follow a virtual stranger just because of a pair of intriguing eyes? She knew nothing about him really, and now she was going into The Deep with him. What was she thinking? He could be anyone. . . a charlatan, a wastrel. a ruffian blackguard, a scoundrel or a thief, perhaps a vagabond, definitely an adventurer, maybe even a murderer. "No," she told herself. He could easily be all the other things she had listed, but he wasn't a murderer. How she knew this was a puzzle, but she instinctively knew he was not a cold blooded killer. "You're a fool, Molly Hooper," she scolded herself. But what choice did she have? Word was getting around. Those soldiers were not so far from the highway without reason. They would not be the only ones searching for her. Molly mentally shrugged. She had already thrown her lot in with this man . . . best to stop worrying and get on about it. If he became too bothersome she could always strike out on her own. At least he was not trying to snog her every chance he got. For now she would bide her time and observe this odd fellow carefully.

As they continued steadily westward, Molly became increasingly aware of the hot sun beating down on her shoulders as they passed in and out of clearings. Even in the shade of the woods the heat was oppressive. She glance at the brown cloaked man ahead. He hadn't slowed a bit. How could he stand the heat wearing a heavy cloak? He didn't seem uncomfortable, in fact he wore the thing close about his body as if it were the coolest of weather. Molly frowned as she wiped sweat from her brow with a rag from her basket. He wasn't even breaking a sweat. How did he manage that? When she had questioned him about it earlier, he hadn't even turned around, just mumbled irritably something about it being an 'all weather coat' what ever that meant. The cloak itself was certainly unusual. Molly had never seen the likes of it before. For one thing it had tubes hanging from the sides in which Sherlock placed his arms. That was interesting. Molly quickly saw the advantage of the design. He would be able to keep his arms free and accessible in even the coldest of winters. The circular wooden disks down the front were also fascinating. Dyed to match the cloak, she had first missed their presence. Molly had watched in wonder earlier as he absently pushed the disks on one side through small holes in the opposite side of his cloak, effectively holding the garment tightly closed about his body. From his waist down the material widened gradually into a flair. More disks or butt-ons as he called them, were located at the bottom of the arm tubes and on the back of the cloak. These appeared to be decorative as they served no function Molly could perceive. Perhaps they were spare disks to be used in case he lost or broke the ones on the front? Molly frowned as she struggled to remember the curious word he had said the cloak was called. What was it? Oh, yes, a Bell-Staff coat. Hmm, perhaps those who fought with quarterstaffs wore such garments in the land of Holmes? It made sense, those tubes would certainly come in handy and the flair of the bottom would easily distract an opponent. But what a bell had to do with it Molly could not venture a guess.

- ΙΈ -

Some time in the late afternoon Sherlock stopped and turned to Molly. "We are here," he said.

Molly looked past his shoulder and saw a mere mile away the sharp edge of the looming forest. It was odd, they had been walking through thick grasslands for several hours. There had been no trees, only brambles and small shrubs for some time. Then suddenly as if an invisible line were drawn, the forest started. Ancient fully grown trees thickly towered beginning in a straight line that went left and right as far as the eye could see.

"Odd how we have seen only grass and bushes for so long and now the forest starts so abruptly." Molly commented.

"Only the grass and a few shrubs are strong enough to withstand the power of The Deep. Even those thin to almost nothing at the edge." Sherlock said quietly.

It was true, the grass was getting less dense the closer to the forest they got. Molly shivered, what was in there that even the vegetation avoided it?

"Could you build a fire while I go to the stream and fetch our supper?" Sherlock asked not unkindly.

Molly nodded and started collecting small dried sticks from under nearby shrubs. She doubted if Sherlock would find anything in the nearby brook. She had been watching in vain for a chance to get a couple of rabbits or a nice partridge or two for the last two hours. It seemed that the vegetation was not the only things avoiding this place. Molly eyed the forest warily. She was glad Sherlock had decided to stop out here in the open to rest. She definitely did not like the looks of The Deep.

A few minutes later Molly was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock reappeared grinning. He held two good sized trout dangling from his long fingers by their gills. It seemed they would eat tonight after all. He had already scraped the scales and gutted them she noted in appreciation.

"Do you think you could use some of those delicious herbs you used on the rabbits?" he asked hungrily.

"Oh I have something even better for them." Molly smiled and took the offered fish from his hands. She jumped a little as their hands brushed together in the process. It was if a charge of energy passed through her body as quick as lightening. Molly quickly turned to the fire to hide her blush. From the corner of her eye she watched Sherlock stare down at his hands for a few moments as if he too had felt the jolt and was puzzled by it. He soon recovered however and moved over to where his pack lay on the ground and began searching inside. Sounds of objects banging together could be heard as he jostled the contents about.

Molly placed the fish near the now roaring fire and went to collect some grape leaves she had seen earlier. Returning, she soaked the large leaves in water Sherlock had gathered in a small pot he had retrieved from his pack. They worked together well, Molly thought. Sherlock seemed to anticipate her every need. As she placed each fish on several soaked grape leaves and reached into her basket for her special seasoning.

Filleting the fish with her small knife, she then sprinkled the mixture on the insides of the fish and placed them back together. She wrapped them tightly in the water-soaked leaves. Finally. she carefully buried them in the ashes at the edge of the fire and placed more tinder on top to create a small blazing fire which would quickly burn away to more ashes.

Sherlock returned once more from the stream with more fresh water.

"Do you have anything in your basket to make tea?" He asked hopefully. " I ran out some time ago and have not replenished my supply."

"Oh yes." Molly beamed. "Do you prefer sage, chamomile or blueberry?"

"Blueberry please." Sherlock smiled gratefully.

Molly nodded enthusiastically. Blueberry was her favorite. She steeped the dried blueberries in the heated water and added a small dried leaf and handed the brew to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked doubtfully at the leaf floating on top of the tea.

"What is this?" he asked, pointing to the objectionable object.

Molly looked at him curiously. Didn't he sweeten his tea?

" It's called stevia, it makes your tea sweet. I can make you another cup if you prefer unsweetened."

Sherlock took a cautious sip. His eyes widened and his lips spread into a wide smile.

"This is delicious!" he declared. "It's much better than drinking it bitter."

Molly smiled in thanks, but hastened to say, "My tea is never bitter, even without sweetener. Don't you ever use honey when you are home?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm allergic to bees and their honey. The last time I was stung, my hand swelled to the size of a small melon.

Molly nodded. She had heard about the unusual reactions honey and bees could cause in some people. It was even rumored that one man had actually died of it. He had been an outlander however and everyone knew outlanders were strange with even stranger ailments.

Soon the fish was steam baked to perfection. Molly pulled them from the ashes as Sherlock rooted in his bag once more and produced two tin plates. The fish were delicious. Sherlock ate his and half of Molly's with relish. He was such an odd person Molly thought as she watched him lick his fingers. For such a confident and resourceful person he was singularly lacking in culinary skills. Perhaps when he was home he had others cook for him, though Molly could not imagine anyone rich enough to have servants. She watched him covertly as she cleared and straightened their campsite. He was lying on the ground leaning on his elbow., absently twirling a straw of grass in his teeth as he gazed at the ground apparently at nothing in particular. Whatever he was thinking about, it was not pleasant. There was definitely a frown forming on his face.

"Are we going into The Deep today?" Molly asked timidly. She wasn't sure he was in the mood to talk.

"What? No." Sherlock stood in one fluid movement and crossed over to stand beside her. They looked at the forest. It seemed dark and menacing. "The Deep is no place to enter this late in the day. And besides there's going to be a storm. We'll be safer out here than under the trees." He pointed to the south and Molly could see dark clouds gathering. It was going to storm. Molly did not want to think of how miserable it would be sitting in the open with only a blanket to protect her, but it would be much safer than under trees. Storms from the south often came with high winds. The forest was no place to be in a windstorm. She sighed in resignation.

Sherlock however was busy with his pack once more. To Molly's amazement he pulled out a small tent complete with collapsible wooden rods that fitted together to provide supports. In no time at all it was erected and pegged securely to the ground. Molly couldn't believe it. The man was no end of surprises.

"How on earth did you manage to carry that in so small a pack?" she asked.

Sherlock glanced at the pack then back at her with a small grin. "It stretches, besides it's bigger than it looks on the outside," and that was all he would say about it.

Molly stared as he gathered his things and disappeared inside the tent. Just when she thought she was beginning to understand him a little he pulled something like this. There was absolutely no way that tent could fit inside that pack. What was going on?

Sherlock's head popped out of the opening of the tent in question.

"Well, hurry up! If you get wet I won't let you share my nice dry tent." His head disappeared inside as heavy raindrops began to fall.

Molly quickly gathered her belongings and scurried inside. The tent was very small, obviously intended for a single occupant. Sherlock had already spread his marvelous 'coat' on the canvas floor and patted the small space beside him indicating where Molly was to sit. Molly looked at the spot with some distress.

"Th-there's not much room," she stuttered. "Perhaps it would be best if I remained outside."

Sherlock frowned. "If you think I'm going to gallantly offer you this tent to yourself while I drown outside think again. I won't bite. I'm immune to your potion. I don't find you attractive at all, so you have nothing to worry about. Now sit down!"

Molly bit her lip. He didn't find her attractive? A small part of her sighed in disappointment while the rest of her sighed in relief. She reluctantly settled down beside him. Stowing her basket to the side, she untied the blanket covered herself and lay down with her back to Sherlock.

She could hear the rain pelting on the canvas and tried not to think what it would have been like outside without the tent. Molly began to doze off. It had been a long day and she was very tired.

Every thing went well until some time later Molly awoke to a loud clap and a bright flash of light. The storm was worse and now thunder and lightning crashed a banged all about them. Molly gave a loud shriek as a particularly loud boom of thunder sounded close by. With an unthinking whimper she moved into Sherlock's arms. She felt him stiffen.

"Molly, what do you think you are doing?" Sherlock asked cautiously as if he weren't sure what was happening.

"I don't like thunder." Molly whispered in a low voice. "I don't like it at all," She cried out as another boom sounded and pressed closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock stared dumfounded into the darkness. His usually brilliant brain was having trouble processing the fact that this woman who had preformed so admirably earlier this day was afraid of something so simple as a thunderstorm.

"You are perfectly safe inside this tent," he assured her gently. Her only response was to cling closer and issue a small groan. He found himself tentatively patting her back. He didn't like being touched. He never touched anyone else. The thought of touching someone usually repelled him. He warily patted her back. Her head was tucked under his chin and her soft mutters tickled slightly against his throat. To his immense surprise he found that touching Molly Hooper wasn't repulsive at all.