The point of his sword dropped toward the floor as he took in the impossible sight before his eyes.
His brother. Older. Greyer. Unkempt beard and hair. Ragged, filthy clothing. The stench of an unwashed body. Stoop-shouldered, leaning on a walking-stick that clearly was not for show. Thin - by God, so unbelievably thin and gaunt.
Yet unmistakably him.
Edward Mycroft, Rightful King of England, alive and, and...not dead.
Behind him he heard Molly suck in a breath, heard the movement of fabric as she fell into an awkward curtsey at the realization of who the bedraggled man standing before them must be. He released his hold on her, resheathed his sword, eyes only for his brother. Molly and William must fend for themselves in this fraught moment whilst he puzzled out the how and the why of it.
"How?" His eyes flickered to the two men flanking his brother - Lestrade and the castellan, one of the few surviving servants.
The castellan answered nervously. "His lordship the Earl had a prisoner, we all knew of it, but we had no idea who it was - you must believe me in that!"
Sherlock's towering fury was not enough to obscure his observational skills; the man did indeed speak the truth, was not simply trying to save his own wretched hide. "How did this come about?" he asked Mycroft. "I saw your body on the battlefield...Oh!" he interrupted himself, eyes widening as he recalled that horrid day in its every detail. "Your man Fortescue, he donned your armour - to save your life? - and took your place! The blow to your - his - face obscured enough of your features that I mistook him for you, damn my eyes!"
"It was not my wish to do so, but we were set upon by some of the Earl's men. They were the ones who killed Fortescue after forcing us to exchange clothing." A shadow crossed Mycroft's face, barely noticeable to one who knew him less well, but to Sherlock's sharp eyes it was as eloquent as if his brother had dropped to his knees and begun wailing in grief and anger. Fortescue had been Mycroft's closest confidant as well as occasional body double since the two were boys with Sherlock merely an annoyance toddling after them.
Without thinking, Sherlock stepped forward. Reached out. Grasped his brother - gently, ever so gently - by the upper arms. Confirming with touch what his other senses had already proven to be true.
Mycroft was alive, if not entirely well. No mere hallucination or fancy of the mind, but real and solid and alive.
Looking deeply into his eyes, Sherlock said the only thing that could be said after so many years apart. "Had I known that faking one's death in order to avoid the burden of the crown was so simple to manage, I'd have done so myself when still a child."
Although the others drew in their breaths in shock, Mycroft replied with a soft laugh. "Yes, well, I can't recommend an extended stay in Appledore's dungeons, but should you choose to fake your death at some time in future I would be happy to oblige you." His eyes focused on a point just beyond Sherlock's right shoulder - Molly and William. "In fact, if you'd care to abdicate your throne, brother mine, I feel certain you will find welcome elsewhere. Perhaps a country manor and holdings that include properties with beehives?"
Sherlock began to drop to one knee, mouth opened to speak the formal words of renunciation, only to be stayed by his brother's weakened grasp. "Softy," Mycroft counseled as he returned his attention to his younger brother. "Let us be certain I will recover enough to govern this fair land of ours first. I apologize for the delay," he added, speaking directly to Molly for the first time. "Be but patient a little longer, my dear, and I promise you and your son will yet be reunited with my brother in a more permanent fashion than I fancy either of you have imagined possible."
Sherlock knew Molly had dipped her head in acknowledgement of Mycroft's words, could hear the short, dissatisfied squawk of annoyance William gave at the movement. He turned and held out his arms; Molly handed their son to him, her eyes full of wonder, and he turned back to present William to his uncle.
"Er, yes," Mycroft said, somewhat awkwardly. "You've done very well, William. He looks to be...very fully functioning."
Sherlock smiled, then grinned, then laughed aloud. Mycroft's years of imprisonment hadn't changed him at all, and he knew in that very moment that he and Molly would, indeed, one day soon be wed.
oOo
Molly could hardly credit how, yet again, her life had been turned topsy-turvy.
It was scarce to be credited, that King Edward (Mycroft?) had been kept alive this entire time, one of Appledore's many unknown secrets, a prisoner of Lord Magnussen. It was as if God had plucked her most secret desire from her heart and presented it to her in a chalice of solid gold. If King Edward's health would allow it, he would take back the crown that his brother had so unwillingly borne all these many years; Sherlock would be free to marry whom he wished - or would he?
Her heart clutched with a sudden fear. What if the king only meant that he would allow Sherlock to keep her as his mistress? He knew nothing of her life, how abhorrent such a thought would be to her; there were far too many women - and their families - who would embrace such an opportunity with arms wide open. She would lose her place in the community, so hard-earned after her husband's death; William would be taken to court to be raised…
The growing panic in her heart was silenced by a soft whisper in her ear. "Hush, Molly, my brother sees far more clearly than you credit him," Sherlock murmured. "It is not as my mistress that he perceives you, and it is not as my mistress that he intends to consign your fate. Trust me, if you do not yet know him well enough to trust him."
Molly drew in a shaky breath, met Sherlock's piercing gaze, and managed a small nod. Her heart still pounded in her chest, but the panic that had been rising had subsided some small amount with his words.
He dropped a small kiss to her cheek, squeezed her arm, and handed William back to her. "My brother needs a bath, a hot meal, and a barber," he said crisply as he returned to the matter at hand. "Arrange suitable chambers for Mistress Smith and her son, and summon Sir John back to the castle at once." Then he cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "Shall I request a litter as well, or can you manage the stairs?"
Mycroft drew himself up as tall as he could, and the look he gave his brother might have felled a lesser man with its chilly disdain. "I managed the stairs from that horrid prison, brother mine; I fail to see how the stairs to the earl's former bedchamber can pose much in the way of an impediment."
The men, accompanied by Sheriff Lestrade and two of the king's guards, slowly left the room. Sherlock spared a moment to send her a single look over his shoulder, and she managed a brave smile as they disappeared from view, leaving her and William alone for the nonce.
"Well, my sweet boy," she murmured to her son as he allowed her to cradle him to her bosom, "it seems the future mapped out for you is not yet determined. Let us hope that things work out as your father and I both so dearly wish."