Hi everyone! I'm baaack! I'm not totally pleased with how this chapter went- I feel like a couple of points were pretty weak and strained, but I do think that this sets up for an excellent next chapter. So get excited for that. I'm sorry for the long wait in between, but I hope that this chapter at least somewhat makes up for it. I am usually not a huge fan of trigger warnings, but since I personally have struggled with depression, I am posting a suicide trigger warning for the end of this chapter. Even though the chapter content only briefly discusses suicide, I want to try to be as sensitive to my readers as possible...even though I am terrible about posting updates, I do care about you guys!

With that said, I hope you LOVE this chapter- thanks for sticking along for the ride so far! :) See ya on the flip side (of the chapter!).

He quickly decided that this was bigger than a few stolen scrolls, bigger than anything Mycroft predicted. The lack of proof for his theory was a bit of a roadblock- his brother wouldn't want to act on a "hunch" from Sherlock, no matter how well-thought out the hunch might be. Furthermore, Mycroft and his men would do little else other than bungle up evidence and cut him out of everything. It seemed best to hide the latest development in the case from Mycroft.

"Sherlock?"

Mollie's voice startled him out of his thoughts.

"Apologies. I was simply thinking about how all of this may play a role in the case."

"You think that the townspeople being able to read might have something to do with the theft?" asked Mollie.

Sherlock explained how documents relating to peasant rebellions and feudalism were missing from the libraries. Whoever was teaching the peasants to read was trying to instigate a rebellion of some sort. What Sherlock didn't know was where the rebellion ended. If it was a smaller rebellion contained to a lord in Oxford, it would be fairly easy to trace and end; but if it was a larger rebellion, perhaps even a rebellion against the ruling class in London, it could potentially threaten the political hierarchy of the entire nation.

"What will you do to find the ringleader?"

"I will start by reviewing my statements from the witnesses. I need to make sure I didn't miss any details."

Sherlock did begrudgingly admire the ingenuity of the thief's plan. Not only was he stealthy enough to come in and out of one of the nation's most heavily guarded libraries unnoticed, he also had guaranteed protection of his identity by blending in with the locals. Teaching the townspeople to read had made his own ability to read a less unique feature, while simultaneously gaining the loyalty and protection of the locals. This criminal was clearly clever and experienced, and Sherlock eagerly anticipated the challenge.

Sherlock was in his study, engrossed in reviewing the witness statements. Mollie was out at market, shopping for supper that evening, so he was taking advantage of the silence in the cottage to spend time in his mind palace. As he tried to make mental connections between the statements each witness had made, he suddenly took a mental halt. Millicent, the market sales woman. Millicent had described that the man had a "shock of blond hair". However, everyone else had made the statement that the man's entire head (including hair), and face were covered. Either Millicent was lying in her account, or all the other "witnesses" were lying together to cover for the criminal.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he mentally kicked himself for not noticing this crucial detail sooner. As he readjusted himself in his chair that faced towards the window, he suddenly felt one hand quickly grab around his throat, as the other one forced a sack over his head. He struggled with all his might, but his attacker was an incredibly large man with brute strength. Sherlock began doing all he could to memorize the features of his attacker's hands. Scars over the palm, as well as tiny indentions on his fingertips indicating a life of hard labor. Sherlock gagged as the sack was roughly tied off around his neck, though it wasn't so tight as to choke him. His hands were quickly forced behind his back and tied around his chair. He then heard the rustling of papers, and realized that the attacker was trying to grab his witness statements. He began to struggle and make noises, and then felt his attacker grab him by the throat again.

"I wasn't supposed to do this…my boss has been watching you and has grown quite fond of you. But since you are going to make trouble…."

Sherlock cried out as he felt a sharp stab into his abdomen. He felt dizzy and nauseated, and quickly, the world faded to black.

"Sherlock!" Mollie called happily as she walked back into the cottage. She set down the basket of eggs and herbs she had collected that morning at the market. She looked around the parlor, and when she saw the door to Sherlock's study was cracked open, she quietly walked in, not wanting to disturb him if he was deep in thought.

What she saw when she arrived in the study made her scream in fright. She rushed to Sherlock's side, panicking at all the blood she saw on the floor. She whispered a prayer, begging that Sherlock not be dead, then placed her ear right next to his mouth, hoping to feel air blow against her ear. She did, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She knew then that she would have to work quickly. She ran to the bedroom and grabbed linens, which she spread on the floor of the study. As gently as possible, and using all the strength in her tiny frame, she pulled Sherlock over to the linens so he was laying on top of one. She then tore open his tunic, and ran to the kitchen to gather supplies. She was grateful that she had started boiling water before she left for market that morning, as the water was now hot and ready to be used. She wiped out a clean bowl, then placed hot water and a pat of soap into the bowl. She grabbed a knife and her sewing needle and dropped those in the bowl as well. Sherlock had recently given her a text by an Islamic physician named Abulcasis about cleaning surgical instruments, and she found herself grateful for it now. Finally, she grabbed her mortar and pestle and wormwood, garlic, thyme, and rosemary to pack the wound.

Mollie ran back to the study, and knelt down at Sherlock's side. She desperately hoped he wouldn't wake for this. She thought about calling the apothecary or doctor, but worried that Sherlock wouldn't survive by the time they arrived. She had to trust in her own knowledge to help this man who had become so important to her. She tore off a strip of one of the linens, and dipped it in the bowl of hot, soapy water. She wiped down his pale abdomen, trying to clean up as much of the blood on it as possible. She then was able to inspect the knife wound. It didn't appear to have gone very deep; she remembered reading in another medical text that victims of stabbings could die if they had their intestines perforated by the knife. Mollie realized that she did not have the equipment or skills to treat this, and instead chose to focus on packing the small knife wound rather than suturing it shut. Using her mortar and pestle, she ground up the herbs into a thick paste. She began applying the paste to the interior of the knife wound, and around the edges as well. Once she felt she had sufficiently packed it, she grabbed four long strips of linens and bandaged his abdomen. She ran back to the bedroom and grabbed pillows to prop his head up on, and a thick animal skin to wrap him in. Once she had him all settled in, she took the linens, tore half of them into strips, and dipped all the strips in water. She sighed worriedly, trying to mentally prepare herself for the fact that Sherlock might not make it through the night. The thought terrified her; she had no idea how she would get home safely without Sherlock. Additionally, she had grown to care for Sherlock. While he could be rude and unkind when he was frustrated, he had more than made up for that in the past few weeks. She murmured another quiet prayer, and hoped that somehow he would make it through the night.

The next morning, Mollie awoke to the sound of groaning. She quickly sat up on the animal skin she had placed next to his.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"

He groaned in response. Mollie quickly grabbed one of the linen strips soaking in the water bowl and wiped the sweat off of his face.

"How are you feeling?" she murmured while she tenderly wiped his face.

"Terrible," he groaned back.

"You are lucky to be alive. Here, I am going to squeeze some water into your mouth from a clean cloth. You need to keep drinking fluids."

After he drank his fill, he settled back into the pillows again. Mollie undid his bandage, and he hissed as she gently prodded around his knife wound.

"Well, it doesn't look infected so far. Do you remember who did this to you?"

"I don't know who it was, but I do remember what his hands felt like."

"Hands? Why would knowing what his hands feel like matter to his identity?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, then groaned in pain, regretting his frustrated sigh as a jolt of pain shot through his abdomen.

"Mollie, the main way I figured out that you can read is from the burn marks on your thumbs, and the papercuts on the tips of your fingers. A man's hands do not give his identity, but they do tell you about the life that man leads, which can bring you closer to his identity. This man had scars on his hands and finger tips, indicating that he leads a life of hard labor and violence."

Mollie nodded, impressed at Sherlock's ability to think coherently through his discomfort. "What were you doing when you were attacked?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open then, and he tried in vain to sit up, before falling back to the blankets. "Mollie, I need you to bring over the witness statements on my desk."

Mollie started to protest and insist that he rest, but realized that he wouldn't rest until he got his way. She walked over to his desk, but didn't see any parchment paper.

"Are you sure you left your witness statements on the desk, Sherlock? I don't see them here."

Sherlock cursed quietly to himself. "The man who attacked me must have taken them with him after I passed out."

Mollie blinked, "What are you going to do?"

Sherlock sat quietly in thought for a moment. "None of the other statements matter anymore, save one. Millicent, the woman who sells eggs at market. I need to speak to her again."

Mollie nodded, "I can try to find her for you and bring her here to the cottage. I'm not letting you leave to interview her until I can confirm that you are fully recovered."

Sherlock started to protest, but when Mollie gave him a quick glare, he shut his mouth.

"Sherlock, I hate to do this to you, but I need to stitch up your knife wound and clean it up."

Sherlock grimaced, but nodded in acknowledgment. Mollie tried to finish her stitches as quickly as possible while still being neat and gentle. He closed his eyes in relief after Mollie finished the stiches, and found himself succumbing to sleep.

Sherlock recovered remarkably well in the following weeks. One afternoon, Mollie decided to help Sherlock clean up a bit, as his complaints about feeling unhygienic had become almost unbearable.

Mollie felt extremely shy about helping Sherlock clean up, and started blushing bright red the moment she walked into the room. Sherlock chuckled at her mortified expression, and murmured, "Relax". This made Mollie blush even more. She kneeled down on the floor next to Sherlock, and first wiped off his face with a wet rag. She dabbed at his neck with the cloth next, and then paused uncomfortably. Sherlock said, "You know you won't be able to wash me through my shirt, right?"

Mollie glared at him, then leaned forward and began to unbutton his tunic. She tried to ignore his pale abdomen, and the fact that undressing him was exciting and arousing. She began to swipe the strip of wet linen back and forth over his chest, enjoying the feel of his skin under her fingers. Once she had cleaned his arms and shoulders, she placed the wet cloth back in the bowl and reached for a dry towel. She dabbed Sherlock's skin dry, and sat back on her heels once she was done. Sherlock looked up at her, and in the moment that they made eye contact, Mollie made the decision to lean forward and kiss him.

It started out as a light peck, but then Sherlock shifted forward slightly, and the kiss intensified. She moved her lips against his as she felt him tease his tongue between her lips. Mollie reached out and placed a hand against his smooth chest to steady herself, and felt him wrap an arm around her waist. Sherlock reached his other hand up and moved his hand to the swell of her breast, slowly teasing her nipple under the dress with the pad of his thumb. Mollie moaned, then suddenly caught herself, and sat up abruptly. As she fixed her hair, Sherlock asked, "Why did you stop?"
Mollie didn't respond, and instead walked into the kitchen.

The next few weeks passed by uneventfully- Mollie no longer bathed Sherlock, and he didn't comment on it. She felt so guilty about what had passed between them. Her father trusted her (and Sherlock) to be well behaved as they traveled together, and trusted Sherlock not to take advantage of Mollie. She was even more on edge now that she and Sherlock were sharing a bed again. She felt a pleasant and exciting tingle in her abdomen whenever he laid in bed next to her at night, and could feel blood rushing into her nether regions and wetness forming between her thighs every time Sherlock's gaze lingered on her body. She had been aware of these types of feelings before meeting Sherlock, but they had never been as intense as they were now.

Sherlock was up and walking about the house again, and becoming unbearably restless. One evening, over dinner, Mollie suggested that Sherlock go out and find Millicent. Sherlock nodded- he had been wanting to speak to Millicent for a while, and was simply awaiting the permission of Mollie.

The next morning, he set off early to walk to Millicent's house. As he walked through the market square of town, he noticed that many of the locals were watching him. When he arrived at the gate of Millicent's house, feed had not been thrown out for her chickens, and as a result, the birds frantically followed him up to the door. Sherlock knocked on the door, but the door slowly swung open when he stepped back. He felt dread creating a pit in his stomach, and suddenly wished that he had brought a weapon of some sort with him. He walked through the door with trepidation, calling out Millicent's name.

When he walked into the living room, he looked up, and found Millicent's body hanging from a rafter. Next to it was a note, neatly written out, explaining her reasons for choosing to take her life. She was getting older, had no prospects for marriage, and no family to support her. Living in crippling poverty was too much for her.

If this had been another person, maybe someone Sherlock didn't know, then Sherlock may have believed the note. But after a quick look around the scene, there were two clues indicating to Sherlock that things were not as they seemed. The first: There was no ink on Millicent's hands. And the second: When Sherlock had interviewed Millicent, she had told him she didn't know how to read or write.

This crime scene had been set up- set up to hide that Millicent had been murdered.
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