Author's Note: Well,let's see how that cliffhanger has resolved itself - after all, every end needs to have a beginning, doesn't it? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and don't forget to leave a review or a favourite or a follow if you liked it! Just going to say a massive thank you to everyone who has read this far, your feedback and support means so much to me, more than I can say really 3

Fingernails clutched tight at the fabric of the bedsheets. Hips arched, up, up, taking all they could. Pink lips dropped open, panting heavily, a moan on the tip of a tongue.

Knuckles rapped on the bedchamber door. Irene lifted her head out from the bedsheets, glancing round.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Letter for you ma'am," said the entering footman. "From Bath."

"Ah!" Kate groaned as Irene sprung from the bed and wrapped a robe around her body. Irene jogged towards the door, breaking open the letter's wax seal. "A letter from Bath," she said brightly, "must mean news."

She dismissed the footman as Kate slipped out of the bed, throwing herself on a pale green chaise, settling her head against its pillow. Irene scanned the letter. A scoff came up deep from her throat.

"At long last. I thought it might never happen. Listen to this. 'I saw her carriage approach from my window on the upper floor and instructed the butler to wait a while before answering. When I went down to greet her, I put on the pretence of being just awoken.'" Reading, Irene climbed onto the chaise longue and settled between Kate's open thighs. The courtesan reached up, brushing her fingers through Irene's black curls. Irene pressed a dry kiss to the arch of her shoulder. Her attention slid back towards the letter as her hands explored the courtesan, drawing two fingers against her folds.

"'She was in a quiet manner of distress when I walked in, on the edge of tears." She sunk a finger into Kate's wet centre. Beneath her, Kate moaned and begged with soft curses. Irene flicked a grin. "'The truth soon came. She'd caught him with one of the household maids, which sums up his character completely: unoriginal, without imagination. It was far too easy to play the comfort. Only a kiss thus far, but the manner in which she left gave great promise.'"

"The comforting friend," Kate said between panting groans, "is an old trick."

Irene abandoned the letter to the floor, shifting down the chaise until she kneeled at its end. Curving her hands around the back of her companion's knees, Irene shrugged. The most simple of tricks, she said with softness, with wisdom, are often the most effective. Kate's keening wails soon proved her right.

"My mother's cold has not left her. Her physician suspects it's something much worse. I'm going to London to look after her."

Her words were dull, flat and the first thing she had said to her husband in three days. Her husband ate his breakfast with stubborn determination. Each press of his fork into the meat was a sharp stab. Every cut of his knife was a slice across the cooked flesh. By his feet his new hounds, pups, sniffled and whined in the hope for scraps. They had come the morning after when she had woken alone. Six of them carried in a crate, they howled for their mother. They'd be trained soon enough, he'd told her, and she would come to love them. One of them with a face tapered down to a point, covered in short grey fur that shone, had stared at her as she held it. Their paws were small, things she could clasp between finger and thumb. The puppy in her hands yawned, its jaw wrenching down, its teeth white and not yet sharp. Her mouth had lifted with a smile, and then the puppy was taken from her hands and placed among its siblings. A footman carried the crate out.

Molly rose to her feet, folding her hands against the base of her waist.

She dropped into a curtsey, rose again. "I'll be taking the carriage to London, but I'll send it back here on my arrival. I can't say when I'll be returning." Her words were brittle. Hearing them, her husband paused and lifted his head.

"Let me know when you've arrived." Another slice of meat, another cut.

She turned away from him.

Later, her travelling cloak on her shoulders, she walked down the steps of the patio onto the pavement. The cold snap had lifted off Bath's shoulders, and the July summer had returned. The humid days were now heavy with sweat on the skin and the distant buzz of flies. A footman opened the carriage door. She climbed inside, settling into the plush seats. Through the closed carriage door, she saw Samuel stood at the window. His gaze was focused on the carriage. She lowered her eyes towards her lap. The carriage moved off.

Molly thought little of her husband, only asking a note be sent to him to tell of her safe arrival to London. Her old bedchamber had been prepared for her, her clothes set out on the pristine bed. She learned from the butler that her mother had taken to her bed. Calling for two maids, she changed from her travelling clothes into a day dress of patterned white linen, with three-quarter sleeves, laced at their hem. A light shawl covered her shoulders.

Lying in her bed, among blue cotton and silks with the velvet curtains drawn back, her mother received her with an offer of a hand.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, with concern in her now pallid features. "It's too much fuss."

"It's no fuss at all, Mother," Molly replied, a small laugh in her words.

"Samuel will be missing you, and surely you miss him."

Molly avoided her mother's eye. She rolled her thumb against her mother's palm, stroking circles. "I do." The lie, the half-truth, came easily. A memory of full lips breaking from hers, a fraction of a moment— "I'm resolved. Until you're better, I am staying."

"As stubborn as your father," her mother mumbled, energy draining her into sleep. Molly's smile gradually faded. Molly. A warning, a want, a reminder. The last thing she had heard from him. Letting go of her mother's hand she left the room.

Venturing downstairs to the library, she sat at the writing desk. With every word she wrote, her name, spoken by Lord Holmes, echoed in her head.

It was evening, as her mother was asleep when the recipient of her letter arrived. Once announced, Irene hurried into the drawing room. Molly's heart swelled at the presence of her friend. Clutching her tight, Molly knew she had missed her desperately.

"You said you had something to admit to me?" Irene ventured as they sat. Molly nodded in return. Within minutes, she'd begun her story. Irene was quiet, listening as she unfolded the events. A scullery maid entered with her head lowered and her hands filled with coal. She tended to the fire with care as the story continued, curtseying when her chore was done. The end of Molly's story came soon afterwards.

"You kissed him?"

"I was hurt," Molly explained. In her memory, full lips hovered at hers, blue eyes visible through blurred vision. "It shall not happen again."

"What happened between you can't become public knowledge," Irene said, urgent now. She blinked back at Irene's stricken tone. Irene threaded her fingers into hers and squeezed tight, pleading. "You can't let anyone know. Molly – Holmes' reputation isn't without truth."

Molly narrowed her eyes. There was more than concern in Irene's eyes. She slid her hand away and rested it in her lap, folding it into her other. "Irene?"

Irene swallowed. Her face was flushed from the fire. Her fingernails scratched the back of her hand.

"I was not like you, Molly, when I entered society. I was brash, I was abrasive. I hadn't learned the act of conversation. I could see their disapproval of my manners. They only kept me in their circles because of my connections. I was confused. My father could bark his opinions every moment of the day, yet I could not? So I kept myself contained. Then, one day, I met a man who wasn't like other men. He listened to me. He let me say everything I had been dying inside to say. I wanted him like I'd never wanted anyone before. He saw my vulnerability, Molly, and he – oh, it was that long ago, I barely remember how it happened. But he had me, long before anyone else did." She took Molly's hand again before Molly could register the full detail of her words. Her blue eyes were dry, but they burned with urging. She spoke the tone of an advisor. "Forget what happened. Don't give in."

Molly. The whisper rang in her ears, her head. His arms had freed her from their embrace as he'd got to his feet, but his fingers had held her wrist as she'd left. Remain safe.

Her hands trembled underneath the heavy weight of the tray. The assembled accruements—bowls, plates, saucers, cups, forks, spoons, knives—clattered as she pushed open the bedchamber door. Her mother's eyes fluttered open, seeking the source of the noise. Molly gingerly set the tray down on the bedside table. Her mother's lips moved into a grateful smile, but she soon sobered. She watched Molly pick up the warm bowl of broth, shifting up as Molly bid her, and opened her mouth to be fed.

"I am sorry, my darling."

"I'm happy to care for you," Molly said. She spooned another portion of broth into her mother's mouth. Her mother shook her head.

"No. For whatever has happened to you." Molly froze. Her mother smiled again, eyes watery from her illness, her nose reddened and skin heavy with tiredness. "You were happier when we met last."

She could not lie to her mother. No force could make her. "Mother, I discovered something awful. Something hurtful. I discovered Samuel with a servant girl."

She spoke the fact without a hitching breath or a pause or a shudder. It had so quickly become a fact of her life, the knowledge that her husband was every man.

"Oh my darling," said her mother.

Molly continued to feed her mother the broth.

A knock came a minute or so later, the two visitors announced by a footman. The ground disappeared underneath Molly's feet. The conversation happened without her contribution. Every sound was distant and throbbing in her ears, every beat of her pulse a discombobulating pressure at her temple.

"How is Mary?" she managed to finally say, but her voice was too genial. Dr Watson was dressed in plain brown. He blinked but soon grinned.

"Very well, thank you, Mrs Abbot," he said with a bow. "Holmes suggested I give my opinion on your mother's illness."

Perhaps he had noticed her distracted state. His blue eyes were darker than that of his friend's, less searching but none the less exposing. The dark blue unnerved her. Holmes' eyes looked for puzzles. (Except when she'd cried before him. Then he'd looked upon her with something unknown, unfamiliar.) Dr Watson's eyes, in comparison, searched for solutions that weren't there. Molly returned the broth to the tray and stood. She bowed her head.

"Thank you, Dr Watson. Mother, are you happy for Dr Watson to see you?"

"Yes, yes," her mother said softly, sleepily. A footman removed the tray, departing the room. Her mother's eyes snapped open. "Do not stay, either of you."

Molly nodded.

"Much like my father, she prefers to be seen on her own," she whispered to her two visitors. She had endured many instances of being banned from the bedchambers and tripped up on by maids in the morning when she had forgotten herself and ended up sleeping by her father's door.

"Very well," Holmes said. His tone was tight in its smooth politeness. He looked to her. The gap between his brows creased for a moment. It was as if he were unsure how to address her. "Would you care to walk with me around the garden?"

Molly glanced back to her mother. Her mother winced, a pain shooting through her. When Dr Watson asked her what caused it, her eyes flicked towards Molly. She told Dr Watson not to make a fuss. Molly turned to Lord Holmes. The weight of what had happened—it had been so brief, too, the thought of what she could've done—faced her fully.

Curtseying, she nodded and took the offer of Holmes' arm.

The garden itself was a product of a project by her mother's first husband, she explained to Holmes as they entered out on to the porch, the green structures of the garden before them. Sculptures of cherubs and maidens were laid out in a square pattern, curved clipped hedges surrounding the grey stone. A gravel path led to where a weeping willow stood. Its branches brushed the dark water of a lily pond.

"How is your husband?" The question came in a lull, far apart from the polite conversation about the neat hedgerows and intelligence of the design. It was a precipice, and if she looked over it, she would see a reality that she was unable to hide from even her mother.

"He is to remain in Bath," she said, choosing her words. "His case remains on-going. I have not been keeping up with it as much as I did before, but – I'm assured he's doing the best he can."

Holmes cleared his throat. A smile touched the left corner of his mouth. "Understandable."

"Is his betrayal of me so well known?" she asked. Her voice was cold, and she wished she could be cheerful, more teasing, hide her feelings like all the made-up ladies who fanned themselves and spoke of their husband's trophies, their husband's achievements and left little in the conversation for themselves. In an instant, she wondered how many of them had been betrayed, how many of them had had to smile into a different reality.

"Only if you behave as if it's known. Until then, they can only go on rumour." Holmes' lips stretched into a fuller smile. He bent his head towards her. His mischief dazzled her, and the feeling came again, the feeling that this was all a game, with dangerous paths to be played. As if she was rigged with strings and being moved across a stage.

"I have to say thank you," she replied, with sharpness. She turned back down the path. They resumed their walk. "To Dr Watson, for seeing my mother. It was very kind of him to come."

"John has a compassion that outreaches mine. Society motivates my visits, regardless of illnesses."

An impish smile reached her mouth. "Did he not say you suggested his visit?"

"I merely told him your mother had been taken ill." They reached the door and Holmes bowed his head. "Thank you for the walk."

"Mrs Abbot." Her reminder came in a whisper, gentle and prodding. His fingers curled around her hand to kiss it. She gently tugged her hand away, settling it back at her side. Straightening, his eyes found her.

"Mrs Abbot," he echoed. His shoulders shifted as he tucked his hands behind his back. He inclined his head. "I'm to return to Bath soon when my visits are done. You know my feelings about the London season."

She gave a nod. "Yes, very well, Lord Holmes."

"Can I write to you?"

Molly paused. "As friends."

Holmes blinked. "Why would I treat you like anything else?"

Avoiding his eye, she headed the steps up towards the house, leaving Holmes behind her. She heard hurried footsteps, felt his hand at her elbow. She turned. Sun broke through the overcast clouds, dark with the threat of rain, and their shadows were cast into long, thin shapes.

Holmes' hand slipped from her elbow. He tucked it behind his back. "One day," he said with languid brightness as if the gesture was immediately forgotten, "I'll have to come to London for the sake of London. I see nothing of it otherwise."

"I'm sure you'll find someone willing to show you round it, Lord Holmes." She turned back away from him, heading further up the steps.

"I thought you had forgotten." His confession was small, narrowing the space, closing it until she felt the brush of a warm breath on her shoulder. "I hoped that…"

He trailed off.

Her gaze dropped towards the ground. Their shadows were entangled, barely able to tell where one began and the other ended. His palm brushing her upper arm was a shock, a jolt to her skin that she felt everywhere.

"I tried, Lord Holmes." Steeling herself, she stepped out from him and hurried into the drawing room. The door opened, revealing Dr Watson.

"Oh, Mrs Abbot. I've just finished seeing your mother."

She swallowed. "How is she?"

"As long as she keeps to her bed, she'll be fine. I'll send you a list of further instructions for her care but the illness should pass within a couple of weeks, a month if it's stubborn enough. Well, Holmes?"

"Sounds right," Holmes said, walking towards the drawing room door. He turned at the last moment and bowed shortly to her. Dr Watson followed his suit. "Good afternoon, Mrs Abbot."

She didn't manage to respond in kind before the two men were gone.

August 1786
A month later

It was eventual that the talk of society moved from the illness that plagued Lady Frances Hooper to the grand return she would make now the illness was conquered. Ladies discussed what fashions they might wear, who might be in attendance (one rumour claimed the Duchess of Devonshire was to make an appearance, and the ladies twittered with panic, bringing dressmakers a tidy profit in the process). Men laughed at their ladies gossip while discussing the appropriate way to approach the Duke of Devonshire—if he was to appear along with his wife—with their latest scheme for investment.

"My lord." Holmes lifted his head up from his newspaper, meeting his footman. Wiggins gestured towards the tailor stood before him. The tailor stood in the middle of the drawing room and held two overcoats in his hands, waiting for an answer.

"The blue," Holmes said with a wave of a hand.

"Red would do me," came the greeting. Holmes groaned, looking back to his newspaper. He sank further down into the length of the sofa.

"In this part of society, we say 'I would prefer the red'," he said, flicking his eyes towards the entering Lestrade. "You paid for your peerage. You could at least make the effort to sound like one of us."

"Would you like to try the coat my lord?" asked the tailor. Holmes stood as Lestrade sat and picked up the abandoned newspaper. Holmes walked over to where a full-length mirror stood, with a screen for dressing beside it. The coat itself was a pale grey blue, its embroidery the colour wintry grey.

"Familiar pattern," he remarked, glancing over the sleeves.

The tailor nodded. "Just as ordered, my lord."

The decision was made with a nod. Wiggins gestured to the tailor, who removed the coat and set about packing it away.

"What's all this in aid of then?" Holmes rolled his eyes at Lestrade's words. "That party of Lady Hooper's?"

"Mm-hm," he replied. He wandered about the drawing room, picking up a glass of wine. He gulped back a mouthful of it. "We lords must always look our best. Remember that."

"I was thinking of going there myself." On Holmes' look, Lestrade grinned. "Anyone who is anyone is going."

"Who's the woman?"

"No-one you know."

He scanned Lestrade and returned to his reflection. He brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder. "The Duchess of Richmond? I hear she has extensive gardens."

"Apparently."

"I hear she has a fair few gardeners too. Friends of her husband."

Lestrade failed to hide his glare.

"Who's your woman then?" he asked. Holmes gave a shrug. Standing back before the mirror, he found Molly Abbot, once Hooper, standing at his side. Her smile was sweet. Her head was tilted to one side as if resting her head on his shoulder. His fingers twitched. For a moment, it was her fingertips curling into his palm.

He blinked the idea away.

"Whichever takes my eye, I suppose," he said, taking another drink of his wine.

The duke before him was coloured puce, mouth drawn into a tight line. In the hot room, sweat beaded on the duke's forehead. His attention hovered between him and his cards.

In some far off corners of the games room, gentlemen hungrily appraised the ladies playing light games of whist. The ladies giggled and sat where they knew they would be spotted. White full-lipped cherubs rested their fingers against the string of their instruments, their bodies feeding into the yellow walls. Below the din of conversation and protestations from losers, the music of the orchestra could be heard.

Sherlock returned his attention to his puce-coloured opponent. He raised an eyebrow.

"Best of six?"

The duke glared up at him.

"Damn you!" he spat, and he threw his cards down, storming from the games room. Hardly a moment and he returned to the table, standing over Sherlock. The others in the games room gave him no attention.

"One day," the duke hissed. His squashed nostrils flared. "One day Holmes, you will find an opponent who you cannot cheat, however much you try. On that day, I'll be pissing on your grave along with the rest."

Holmes sipped at his wine. The duke departed as John Watson slid into the vacant seat. Smirking, he picked up the abandoned hand. He sucked in a breath, wincing. He glanced up.

"Another?"

"You deal," Sherlock replied, dropping his previous hand onto the table and letting them scatter. John's smirk widened as he shuffled the cards.

"Gossip's been spreading quite recently."

"It does little else."

"The rumours say you've been writing regularly to someone in the – Hooper household, I think it was?" John's eyes glinted.

"I've written one letter, inquiring as to Lady Hooper's recuperation. Rumours always exaggerate. You only have to look at the disappointed faces of every woman here."

John laughed. "They were convinced she was going to turn up. I've never seen so many ostrich feathers in one place before. Rumours do tend to have some truth in them, though, you must admit that."

"Why must I admit that?"

"You always used to term other people's health as 'dull'."

Sherlock grinned. Behind John next to the furthest window in the room, a group of ladies with bands on their fingers and no desire for attention sat. Some were middle-aged, others wrinkled with faces powdered white. Mrs Abbot wore a gown of late summer, a pale fleshy pink laced with flowers. She was a calm reminder of the incoming autumn, her smile kind when listening to the sounds of a conversation he'd have cut off before it could begin.

He set down his hand and rose to his feet. "I did, didn't I?"

Weaving through the tables and card games, he departed from the room and into a crowded hallway. Young lords and ladies flirted clumsily with one another in the tight space of the conversation crush; elder generations fanned themselves as they settled into plush loveseats. Music for dancing, closer now, accompanied the crush. Just beyond the crowd, he saw lines of dancers bow to one another and come together, hands holding hands as they turned in circles. He carried on through the throng down the corridor's path.

"Oh, Molly! Mrs Abbot! Wait!" He whipped his head around. Close to him, Mrs Abbot paused in the throng to wait for a middle-aged lady. "I forgot to mention to you," the lady began.

Sherlock started forward. A hand slipped into his, and he was tugged back into a dim parlour room. Before him he saw the figure of a female, hurrying to slam the door shut. The female's arms locked around his neck and took his mouth. The taste of her was instant and recognisable.

He kissed her with hunger and an ache never fulfilled. He slammed her back against the parlour room wall, his hands roaming over her body to touch her, stay with her for as long as he could. He nibbled at her bottom lip.

"If anyone enters, they're dead," he gasped against his lady's mouth, kissing her again before she could reply.

"I'm leaving for my country estates soon."

"September, I'll guess," he said, taking his lady's wrists with both of his hands. He pinned them above her head and kissed her neck. She hummed a moan, half-amused.

"I'm running out of patience." Her tone was light. He paused. In the darkness, he found her eyes. Beyond the locked door, conversations were muffled. One voice rang clear and sweet, excusing herself from yet more conversation about a husband's rheumatism. Sherlock let one hand drift down his lady's body, leaning more into her until his lips were at her ear.

"So am I." He nipped at her lobe.

Her free hand pushed against his chest.

"Evidence first, Lord Holmes." Lady Adler slipped out from his grip and out of the door.

Sherlock sank against the wall, running his hands over his face. His fingers sank into his hair. A low growl came from the back of his throat. His mouth tingled with the memory of Irene's hunger, something sweeter brushing the edges. A fragile kiss, which had been stolen from him in the middle of a storm.

Leaving the appropriate amount of time, listening, he wandered through the darkness of the parlour room, letting his fingers wander over the covered furnishings as he thought of Mrs Abbot.

She lit a candle in lieu of a fire. Only a short distance was lit before her, and she peered into the dim. It was a drawing room, unused, white cloth covering the furnishings. The scent of dust was thick. Approaching the fireplace, she saw that a sofa stood before it. Bending down, she threw off the white covering and let it pool on the floor. A table stood before the sofa. She set down the candle, sinking into the plush cushions. She sighed, pressing her elbows against her knees, rubbing her fingers against her temple. Her head rang with remembered chatter and the jovial playing of dances.

Looking up, she jumped to her feet. She frowned, unable to decipher the figure stood before her in the darkness. The candle flame only touched a bookshelf, half-exposed of its white covering.

She curtseyed and bowed her head towards the figure. "My apologies, I did not know anyone else was here."

A book was snap shut, and the figure walked forward. They bent down and picked up the candle, their face fully illuminated. Lord Holmes smiled and bowed his head.

"Mrs Abbot. I wouldn't recommend those volumes," he said, looking over his shoulder at the bookshelf. "They have nothing you've not already learned."

"Lord Holmes," she greeted. "Are you not enjoying the festivities? There's to be a fireworks display soon."

"I know. Your mother seems pleased to be back in society."

"It's all she could talk about towards the end. This ball, and who would come. Who she would host."

"A pity I'm not more interested." Still holding the candlestick, Holmes took a step forward. Molly lowered her eyes, avoiding him. The heat of the candle flame stood between them. She felt his forefinger tuck underneath her chin. She lifted her head. It became a centre point, his flesh faintly touching her skin. She imagined him drawing a line down her neck, paying no heed to her ache, him smiling as his fingers curled against her, his line descending her body.

His middle finger slid up to touch the base of her chin. His brow dipped.

"Have I done something? To offend you?"

She considered him. "You have not."

He kissed her. Her mouth, for a moment, moved with his, lazily, languidly, as if it were not a kiss at all.

His eyes were lidded as he pulled away, still holding her.

"I will make up for it, Mrs Abbot. In any way you choose."

She ducked her head and he released her. The candle flame between them flickered, bright and burning. The candle's wax pooled at its base. It was a scent that reminded her of memories that were too entangled together to unclasp and watch back, wish and fact shifting and blurring. "Such attention is – not required of you. Lord Holmes."

A knock, a rapping knock, sounded on the parlour room door. Lord Holmes set down the candle on the table, hurrying to stand behind the door as Molly sat. The door opened. Her mother entered, fanning herself. She wore an evening gown of earth green, the bodice embroidered with summer flowers.

"Molly! What are you doing here?" she asked, but she left little room for an answer, walking forward and taking Molly's hand. "Come outside now, the fireworks are beginning."

Behind her mother, Holmes slipped out of the doorway and back into the crowd beyond. She obeyed her mother with a nod.

"Yes, Mother. I only needed some air." Standing, she blew out the candle flame and took her mother's arm.

From the crowd, Holmes reappeared, with a searching look on his face. His features lightened when they found her mother.

"Lady Hooper," he said with grace. The mask slid easily into place, of a tired guest about to make his excuses. Her mother wore her mask with easy immediacy too, the mask of a host wishing her guest to stay. Holmes straightened up from his bow. "I was hoping to find you before I made my departure."

"You're leaving us so soon?" her mother said.

"I must. I have business to attend to."

"Can it not wait?"

"It cannot, much as I wish it could." He bowed again. "Good evening, Lady Hooper. Mrs Abbot."

He took Molly's hand and kissed it as he always did, brushing a swiping soft circle into her palm. As he left, the sound of the crowd beyond the parlour room door filled the silence. She pressed her fingers to her mouth.

"Be careful."

Her mother's tone was low. She flinched at the warning, finding her mother staring at her with a mellow admonition.

"While I am grateful to Lord Holmes for his kindness and aid in my illness, that does not mean I can ignore other parts of his character." Her hand settled against her daughter's forearm. "My darling – do not get caught up."

Ostrich-feathered ladies, contented by company and wine, kissed their chosen bedfellows for the night and with laughter, climbed into their carriages. Some of them flashed the presence of their wedding bands with abandon, spiting their already departed husbands.

Molly, alone in her carriage, closed her eyes as the carriage travelled over the bumpy gravel. She did not wake until she heard the sounds of the city. The last few streets of the journey had slowed to a crawl. A line of carriages made their way through the taverns. Their passengers flinched at the shouts of the poor, begging for money or drunkenly making advances to the bejewelled women within.

Through the poor, Molly saw a ragged man stood with a hound at his side. Its white fur was matted, its old eyes cloudy, and it licked its owner's hand as he fed it scraps of poor meat. The ragged man laughed and patted his hound's head. Molly watched the exchange until her carriage rounded the corner and the taverns were left behind.

Arriving at the townhouse, she passed the blank-eyed cherubs and an antique grandfather clock, purchased for a handsome sum.

"Ma'am," murmured a footman, taking her cloak from her. The grandfather clock struck four as she entered into her bedchamber.

Months ago, it had been their bedchamber. She had thought of it for so long as her own. It felt as if she had always regarded it as such, with no husband and no name of Abbot. In her bedchamber, she returned to the comfort of Molly Hooper. She undressed and, naked, wore garments of memories, a patchwork of ages and years that felt like days.

Two maids washed her, scrubbing her skin clean of the smoke and sweat of the party. Coming out of the bath, they dressed her in a nightgown and robe. Molly noticed, on the writing desk, a small pile of letters was left on a silver tray.

There were seven in total, three from acquaintances in Bath wishing her mother a good recovery, from Mary, inquiring as to how she had coped with the duties of nursing. Her smile, wide as she read the words of each letter, hesitated when she came upon the next.

Her fingers brushed, as if in worship or prayer, over her name, written in slanted looped words. Her thumb, as she flipped the letter over, pressed against the bumps of the sender's seal. Lifting the paper, the wax seal ripped into two.

My dear, Mrs Abbot, it began. The rest was genial, speaking to her as he spoke to Watson, a friend's discussion. Never did he stray from the chosen topic. His slanted words flowed freely, speaking of new books and new scientific discoveries she might find of interest. Dry if written by anybody else, but his passion was real, visceral, threading through her memories, pulling her back to her reality.

The letter fluttered to the floor as she left the bedchamber and stood in the corridor. A painting of the countryside stood before her. She examined it, the discombobulating pressure returned to her. The trees were blurred brushstrokes of green, the mountains formed by arcs of a wrist, dappled sunshine dots of muted yellow. The pressure faded. A plan came to her. She called forth a footman and made her orders for the butler to be summoned. When he arrived, he bowed.

"Pack my things," she said, "and call for the carriage. I'm to leave immediately."

The butler nodded once, and silently gestured to two footmen. They entered her bedchamber. Her maids, as her trunks were taken downstairs, dressed her ready for travelling. Putting on her cloak, Molly hurried down the staircase, drawing her hood over her face.

She stepped out into a silent London thick with humidity. The carriage driver wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. The horses whickered.

"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, stuffing his handkerchief into his coat pocket.

Her answer came without hesitation. She would return to the place where Molly Hooper had grown.

Though she saw his carriage arrive, Irene left it until the last available moment to admit him. Sat at her dressing table, she remained sitting as he entered her bedchamber, turning in her seat, folding one leg over the other, draping her arm across the back of her chair. She tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear and smiled.

"You look like thunder," she remarked. Holmes leant back against the wall and returned her smile with a smirk.

"On the contrary," he said with the air of a man gifted with the law of the land. "No doubt you've heard already."

"Of my friend's midnight departure?" Irene turned in her seat. In the surface of the mirror, he was a hidden figure, his face obscured. She tilted her chin to one side, admiring her reflection. "Some rumours say she was blackmailed."

"Others say she is pregnant with her lover's child." He walked across the room towards the mirror, clutching the back of her chair and bending down until his chin was tucked against her shoulder. His eyes shone, amused.

She turned her head. Her nose was inches from his cheek. "That would be evidence even I couldn't dispute."

They found each other's eyes in their reflection. He broke, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Her body wracked with the force of it, clutching her stomach as she shrieked out a laugh. It was a release of every joke they had ever shared, every delightful comment they had whispered above and among crowds.

She slumped against his body, the laughter fading, as he straightened up. One hand trailed against the line of her neck, coming to rest on her shoulder.

His hand found hers. She kissed his fingers, his knuckles. When he attempted to do the same, she withdrew. She locked her eyes with his.

Temptation, an old temptation, made her reach up. Her hand curved against the sharp line of his cheek, a perfect fit well learned. "You were the first man I ever wanted. Even then, I wondered why."

She trailed a finger down his opposite cheek. Her eyes dropped towards his full lips. "You made it easy."

Her hand pressed against his mouth as he leant forward. He smiled from behind her fingers. The oldest tricks, Irene thought with a certain breath, really were the best.

"Evidence," she said, with clarity. "Remember our bargain."

His hand fell away from her shoulder and he straightened up. "I'll fulfil it soon," he said, heading towards the door. "But I have other matters to attend to first."

"A lady?" she asked.

"A duchess," he replied.

Irene scoffed. "You can find a duchess ready for fucking anywhere. Go back to London."