Eighteen months. An entire bally year and a half had passed since he'd left Appledore, since he'd said his farewells to Molly - Mistress Smith - and unwillingly asked Magnussen for his daughter's hand in marriage. The first (endless, excruciating) four months after that had been taken up with marriage preparations; then the wedding itself and the coronation… Followed immediately, of course, by the formal consummation of their union (produce an heir and quickly, get it over with, but now he was grateful that their couplings had come to naught) and then the bloody French decided to test his patience and his armies with a series of incursions, stopping just short of a full invasion...and now, to top off this very unpleasant period of his reign, the grim spectre of plague had reared its ugly head.

Thus his return to Appledore. Janine and her ladies-in-waiting had fled to her father's keep months ago, fearing the dank air of London, only to find Death waiting for them in the supposedly bucolic countryside. Much to his secret relief he'd received word that both his wife and his father-in-law had fallen victim to the plague, along with nearly the entire household, over the course of only a few weeks. Gone, just like that, and if he were a true Christian, he'd doubtless feel obligated to offer up sincere prayers for their undeserving souls.

The best he could muster was a solemn face as he stood by Sheriff Lestrade's side at the gravesite. Although Magnussen and Janine had died weeks ago, the full funeral had been delayed for his arrival. Not for the sake of the dead, but rather the living - the remaining serfs, vassals, hangers-on and servants who stood silent attendance while the priest droned on and on.

Aye, the formalities had to be observed, and so he suffered silently through the chants and prayers, surveying the attendees through his lashes whenever he could. He needed to gauge their mood - somber, to be sure, but out of true grief, or mere fear of the plague? Nay, more than that - twas clear the future was more on the people's minds than even the recent past. There had been no new victims of the plague since his arrival, although he'd sent out John Watson and others to confirm that while he settled Magnussen's affairs.

The Earl had left no heir, and thus the future of his holdings and the people who served him was literally in the king's hands. Whether he took the lands for the throne or gifted them to some other nobleman mattered naught to these folk, only whether their new liege-lord would be a better master than Magnussen...or, as they no doubt feared, worse.

Sherlock had already determined the answer to that question. But it was not yet time to make the announcement. First, the dead must be honored, pointless as he found that to be, and then he must hear back from his agents as to how badly the people countryside had been ravaged. From what he'd already learned, few villages and farms had been spared - including the town of Fitton. The one place - the one person - that mattered to him most.

Molly. Did his Molly yet live? Neither he nor her brothers had heard aught of either her or their mother, other than a few brief notes carried to London by Sheriff Lestrade when estate business took him there. The last such had been from their mother four months prior, claiming all was well and exhorting Archie and Aldwin to be good, to serve faithfully, to say their prayers and learn their lessons.

Was it to be the last word they would ever receive from sister and mother? The boys knew of the sickness sweeping across England, and were anxious to discover the truth for themselves - as was he. Sherlock was determined to keep them by his side until his scouts reported back with their findings, and so they reluctantly remained at Appledore.

If they did not receive news soon, it was possible the two of them would find a way to sneak off on their own...and he could not swear that he wouldn't be far behind them.

oOo

John Watson strode into the Great Room without being announced, with the king facing away from him, and yet…

"How bad?" King William, his dearest friend Sherlock, asked without bothering to turn away from the heat of the crackling fire. The strain in his voice was apparent and would doubtless be matched by his expression, were he to allow it to be seen. A strain John misdoubted was due to the burial of his wife and father-in-law earlier in the day.

"Bad enough," John replied grimly, not bothering to question how the king had known it was him. "Hundreds dead, but I can confirm there had been no new victims since we've arrived, God be praised." He knew that was likely due to the stringent cleansing regime Sherlock had instigated for every household, no ever how low or how high, including the use of copious amounts of bleach and vinegar and lye - all at the crown's expense, and all for the kingdom's benefit. "It seems to have run its course, at least on Magnussen's lands."

Sherlock inclined his head, still staring into the massive fireplace as if the dancing flames held the answer to some mystery he wished to solve. "Fitton?"

John knew the question would come sooner or later; it was telling that it was the first place the king named. Very telling. "Hard hit, but not as hard as some," he replied with a shrug as Sherlock finally turned to face him. "Mistress Smith is now the Widow Smith but she is alive and healthy...and so is her child."

That revelation ensured he had Sherlock's full and complete attention. "How old?" he rasped, fingers clenching on the handle of the sword her wore at all times when not in his private chambers in the royal palace. "Boy or girl?"

"A boy, named William in your honour, so I was told by her mother. I've taken the liberty of informing Archie and Aldwin that she lives, and given them leave to visit her," he added before Sherlock could ask. "Mistress Smith and the child are due to return by the morrow."

"Return from where?" Sherlock asked, brow knitting in a frown. The roads were dangerous; now that the plague had run its course in Fitton, she should have no reason for leaving, especially with a babe in tow!

"Her mother said it was guild business. It appears she's taken over her late husband's business dealings, with Guild-Master's Stamford's blessings."

Sherlock waved away that information impatiently, impressed but not surprised that Molly had taken up managing her late husband's affairs herself rather than leaving it to a partner or apprentice. "How old is the boy?" he asked, taking a step forward.

"Nine months," John replied, meeting his gaze squarely. "He has dark curly hair, eyes that can't seem to settle between blue and green...and Mistress Hudson says his lips form a perfect Cupid's bow."

Sherlock's eyes flickered with some web of emotions far too complicated for his friend to interpret. "You say she's due back tomorrow, but at what time?" His days were full; there was much to attend to in the wake of the Earl's death, but nothing mattered him now but Molly. He needed to see her, to see for himself that she and the babe were both well...and to formally acknowledge his son, should she be willing to allow him that honor.

The sound of throat being cleared caught both his and John's attention; they turned as one to see Sheriff Lestrade standing in the doorway. "Your pardon, Sire," he said, bowing low. "But there is someone here to see you. I, ah, took the liberty of escorting her personally."

He might have said something more, but Sherlock heard nothing but the sudden thundering of his heart in his chest as Lestrade stepped aside…and she came into the room. Molly. His Molly, looking wan and pale but otherwise much as she had when he'd last seen her. Aye, she'd gained some weight; her curves were more matronly than girlish now that she'd become a mother, but she was still Molly.

The woman he'd somehow managed to fall in love with during a single night of passion.

He was across the room before he realized he'd started moving, eyes only for her and the babe. William. His son – nay, their son.

"Molly," he breathed as he stopped in front of her.

Her lips curved in a hesitant smile, and she smoothed a curl from her son's forehead before shyly murmuring her condolences for the loss of his wife and father-in-law.

"Yes, yes, very sad," he said impatiently, ignoring the scandalized gasp from Lestrade's lips. "My condolences to you as well on the loss of your husband. Now that we've fulfilled our social requirements, I would very much like to kiss you, Molly."

He ignored the smothered laugh from John and second scandalized gasp from Lestrade, eyes searching Molly's face for some hint that she'd missed him as fiercely as he'd missed her. That she wanted his kiss, that she wouldn't accept it only out of duty.

Her stifled giggle was all the answer he needed, even before she nodded. He was vaguely aware that John was urging Lestrade from the room, that the door was closed behind the two men, and then Molly and little William were in his arms, the babe squalling a bit in indignation, but then her lips were on his and ahhhh, it was as if they'd never been parted.