A/N: A huge thank you to lilsherlockian1975 for reassuring me that this chapter was at least readable. And a huger thank you to everyone for reading, reviewing, etc. You guys know you rock, don't you?
Chapter title inspired by Prospero's final speech in Shakespeare's The Tempest.
They lay together afterwards, Molly's head resting just above his heart while he toyed with her hair. Their other hands were entwined much as their bodies had been - and would be again, did Sherlock have his way. And as king, of course, he often had his way.
Just not when it mattered most.
He huffed in annoyance at himself for allowing his thoughts to range to such bleak territory, feeling Molly tense and start to remove herself from him. Belike she thought his sudden irritation was with her, but he refused to allow such a belief to last more than a single breath. "Stay," he said, refusing to allow her to pull her hand, her body, or so much as a single strand of hair away.
She subsided, but he could feel the tension straining her body. Casting his wayward thoughts into a mental chest, he bound it with chains of iron, locked it, and thrust it into the darkest recesses of his mind. Once unbound they would come roaring free to plague him tenfold, but he could hold that moment off till after Molly and he were forced to part, and not a moment sooner.
Molly. The one that mattered most, in this moment and, he suspected, in future moments as well. His brother would be disgusted with him for falling prey to sentiment; he could hear him now, within his own mind: Sentiment, Sherlock? There is no place for such in our lives. So pray do not fancy yourself in love with some lowborn wench after a single night's bliss; it will only lead to folly.
But this moment was one he was determined to enjoy, and so he pulled her closer, tugging lightly on her hair until she tilted her head up to meet his gaze. Her shy smile was welcoming, but as she shifted her body she winced. "Are you...sore?" he asked, changing his mind at the last instant, holding back the sweet words he'd meant to whisper in her ear.
"It's nothing," she tried to assure him, but he frowned and sat up, his eyes cataloging every inch of her exposed body.
There was not much by way of blood, but it was there, hidden beneath the dark curls covering her sex, mixing with his seed smeared at the tops of her thighs.
"Wait for me."
With that imperious command he sat up and removed himself from the bed. He returned moments later with a small basin of water and some small clothes in one hand, a pair of goblets in the other, and an uncorked bottle of wine beneath his arm. His mother would have his hide for having forgotten to offer Molly a drink before debauching her...not that she would have approved the debauching, but she would have been far more concerned by his lapse in manners than by his lapse in self-control!
He placed the items one by one on the bed next to her, setting aside the wine and goblets until he'd carefully, gently cleansed her of their mingled fluids. Once finished he wiped his own genitals with far less care, then dropped the used cloths in the water and shoved the basin towards the far side of the bed. Molly accepted her goblet of wine gratefully, sitting up and sipping from it as daintily as any court lady...and with far more grace than some.
He reclined against the pillows as he swallowed a heartier draught of his own wine, enjoying the view of her even with the bedding modestly covering her body. He reached out with one finger, a wicked grin on his lips, and tugged at the furs until her petite figure was fully revealed to him once again. "Come, no need to be shy," he said, dropping one hand to her thigh and fondling the soft white flesh there. "Not after what we've shared...and have yet to share between us," he added, his voice deepening with undisguised hunger.
She flushed becomingly, settling back on her heels so that he could feast his eyes to his satisfaction. Whilst he watched her, however, she was staring just as frankly at him. He lay with his arms beneath his head, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee with his foot flat on the furs, entirely uncaring of his nudity or even the unaroused state of his manhood. Some men, he knew, refused to allow their lovers or wives to see them at such times, but held no truck with such foolish vanity.
"You're very beautiful."
He blinked, not expecting such words from her; he was the one meant to be paying her compliments, was he not?
"But I expect you know that. People - women - must tell you that all the time."
"Not that exact word, no," he admitted, reaching out with one hand. "And not only women."
Before she could ask what he meant - he could see the question in the 'v' between her brows - he brought his face to hers, caressing her cheek as he kissed her. He pulled back to better study her, to catalogue the flush in her cheeks, the way her hair and eyes both seemed to catch and hold the candlelight in their depths, the pink-tipped mounds of her breasts, all of her open to his gaze and his to enjoy until the noon meal and the excruciatingly boring hunt to follow.
She wanted him still, in spite of the discomfort all women suffered after their first time with a man, and God knew he wanted her.
He moved over her slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact until he was too close to maintain it...and by then his mouth was on hers. He kept the kiss soft, gentle, teasing her lips with tongue and teeth until he heard her moaning softly. Their clasped hands parted, but only that she might run her fingers along the back of neck, toying with his hair, while he gathered her closer to his body. Arousal rose again between them, hot and heavy as the air before a summer storm.
Their kisses grew fevered, their bodies writhing together until she urged him to join with her, despite whatever lingering discomfort she might feel. He wanted nothing more than to plunge into, to feel her legs wrapped round his waist, but held back, kissing his way down her neck to her breasts, worshipping them with lips and tongue until she arched her back, begging him with her body for more.
He could not resist the desire to taste her again, enjoying the sound of her pleasure as his tongue darted between her folds. Within moments she was more than ready to take him, moisture practically dripping from her body, and he marveled at her responsiveness. She was a wonder, a treasure, and he felt a moment of despair at the thought of having to let her go back to her repulsive husband, but refused to dwell on the future. "Molly," he said instead, smiling against the warmth of her quinny, feeling her body slicked with sweat beneath his head.
"Sherlock," she moaned in reply, tugging at his disheveled hair. "Sherlock, please…"
He surged upwards, covering her body with his, fumbling between them in order to place himself at her entrance as he kissed her, an urgent, needy kiss. As he sheathed himself within her for the second time, he let out a sigh of contentment, matched by one of her own, her breath sweet against his lips.
Their pace was faster, more urgent this time, their moans and gasps louder, needier, as if it were the first time they'd joined in this manner, or were lovers long parted and desperate for each other's touch. For his part Sherlock knew it was the tolling of the midnight bell in the church tower that spurred his frantic pace; the night was half gone, soon it would be morning and time to smuggle his lady-love out of both Appledore and his life...a moment he now wished might never come.
But come it would, all too quickly - much like himself, were he to keep as he was currently going. He forced himself to go slower, to cherish the feel of her beneath his body, but Molly would have none of that. She scratched lightly at his shoulders, tugged at his curls, all modesty abandoned as she cried out for him to move faster, to give more of himself to her.
This time she was the one to reach down, to grasp his hand and press it between their joined bodies. "Touch me," she begged. "As you had me do for myself before. Please, Sherlock, I want it to be you, please…"
He kissed her, obliging her as he did so by pressing the pad of his thumb 'gainst her pleasure-pearl, smiling at the way she gasped against his lips, at the way her body seemed to rise to meet his without her consciously willing it so. Her wails of completion were music to his ears, and he held her close as he courteously waited for her trembles to still before once again moving against her body.
She held him close as he increased the pace of his thrusts, kissing him sweetly on the lips whenever he turned his face to hers. He felt himself on the cusp, readied himself to pull out and spill over her belly when the shy press of her tongue against his lips hurled him over the edge. He gasped out a strangled curse, an attempt to say 'God's wounds' that sounded closer to 'zounds', and dropped his head to Molly's shoulder as he emptied his seed within her womb.
Well, he reminded himself silently as he rolled carefully onto his side and held Molly close, everyone knows it's nigh impossible to get a woman with child the first time she ever knows a man.
He would just have to remember to be more careful when next they made love. Which, judging by the wincing way Molly moved her legs, was likely not to be till the next day.
Their next time, and aye, just as likely their last. A thought not to be borne.
"Sleep," he instructed her after using the cold cloths to both clean and soothe her. "Wiggins will be here at first light that we might break our fast together. I need not be forced into Magnussen's company before noon, and by then you'll be on your way back to Fitton, to take up the life I so rudely interrupted." He dropped a soft kiss to her wrist, noting the small shudder she gave at his words, the way she turned her head from his.
"If I were to ask…" he began, unable to stop the words, but she turned to face him, her expression sad but resolute as she shook her head.
"Nay, my lord - Sherlock," she corrected herself softly. "I have given my word and will not go back on it no matter how distasteful a future I face." She hesitated, and he saw that she faced some inner struggle. Although it was his nature to discern the causes of inner turmoil in those around him, he held his tongue and waited patiently for her to speak, already knowing that whatever boon she might ask of him, he would gladly grant.
"I have two brothers, Archie and Aldwin, both younger - Archie is seven, Aldwin twelve. They can read and write and do their sums, and are strong and healthy as well…"
He stayed her words with a soft kiss. "I'm sure they're very paragons of young manhood, Molly, but I need not hear their praises sung to say yes to what you are about to ask me. But," he added, "I do need you to ask."
She took in a trembling breath. "I would that they were far from my husband's reach. My mother will not leave me, knowing what manner of man I've wed, but we would both rest easier should we know Archie and Aldwin were safely away. Would you, could you - be willing to take them on, to bring them back to London with you?"
Her breath wasn't the only thing trembling by the time she finished speaking; both her voice and her entire body shook. He took her into his arms, cradling her close and kissing her eyelids before giving his answer. "I'll see to it before I leave at week's end. You have my word."
Molly's eyes shone with a combination of gratitude and unshed tears. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
Sherlock's heart clenched at the formal use of his title, but for this moment she was once again his subject, seeking a favor from her king, and so he refrained from chastising her. Instead he guided her gently into conversation, letting her tell him about boisterous, perpetually curious Archie and quiet, scholarly Aldwin. Eventually her words trailed off and she fell asleep in his arms.
He held her until the morning, when she awoke and allowed him to guide her to the facilities attached to his chamber. They ate the food Wiggins brought, drank the small ale, then bathed in the tepid bathwater provided by a cunning system of pipes modeled after those left by the ancient Roman invaders. Molly was entranced by the sight of water flowing into the copper tub, exclaiming over it and bringing a smile to his face, melancholy though his mood was fast becoming.
Their time together was nearly at an end, and he found himself longing to find excuses to prolong it - and knowing how impossible such a thing would be. They made love for a final time after that, slowly, sweetly, but the inevitable end came and soon it was time to say their farewells.
They were not allowed to do so in private, not with John Watson jiggling impatiently from foot to foot by the door, his cloak held tightly in his hands. Molly would depart as she'd arrived: shrouded in that heavy bolt of cloth, the hood over her face to spare her from prying eyes...although no doubt the gossip from Fitton had arrived at the keep with morning light.
Sherlock took the heavy cloak from John, ignoring the other man's under-breath muttering of 'please sire we need to hurry' and carefully placing the garment over Molly's shoulders. "John will return you safely home," he said in a low murmur as he tied a neat bow at her throat.
She nodded, offering a wan smile as he took her hands in his. "I want you to know that I, I wish you as much joy as you can find in your marriage," she whispered, darting a nervous glance at John.
Sherlock bent down in order to kiss her, uncaring of their lack of privacy. "And I wish the same for you, Molly. Be sure to say your farewells to your brothers before John comes to retrieve them at the end of the week," he added, not wishing her to worry that he might have forgotten his promise to her.
Her smile this time was brighter, tinged more with relief than sadness. "Thank you, Your Majesty," she said, gently easing her hands from his and stepping back in order to pull the hood up to hide her neatly braided hair. "Good bye."
Sherlock watched as she and John slipped away. As Wiggins and a gaggle of other unwanted servants entered his room shortly thereafter to prepare him for the afternoon's hunt, he could have sworn he felt the weight of the crown settling on his head like the iron burden it was, though it rested still on his bedside table.
A/N: 'Zounds' is actually a late 16th century contraction of 'God's wounds' (i.e., Christ's wounds while on the cross). I decided Sherlock needed to be ahead of his time.