There was little to describe the two years after being forced to join the crumbling crusade – his abduction, really, when it came right down to it – other than torture. After being knocked out cold in his own home, Sherlock had woken in the bowels of a ship, bound amongst a dozen other men and headed towards the Holy Land. Adding insult to injury, he discovered from the rag-tag collection of men that each shire had been obligated to "volunteer" additional soldiers. Moriarty had taken it upon himself to make sure Sherlock was part of the flock. Well placed favors and bribes had earned Moriarty loyalty, sometimes at the tip of a sword's blade, from the powerful and wealthy – or so his captors told him with mocking laughter.

He seethed at the thought. Revenge wormed its way into his mind from the first. The amount of time he dreamed of the traitor's head on a stake was likely unhealthy.

The only gem to be found in the grit of his situation was that he got to see the world he had read about at last. It was hardly consolation. They rode and marched at an agonizing pace for days on end, hardly resting. Even if he had had the strength and energy to attempt an escape, he was constantly watched – a final ploy of Moriarty's, if he had to bet. There was no chance for him to try to contact his brother and there was little doubt news of his induction as a soldier had conveniently gotten lost on the way to his Majesty's camp.

Sherlock had the benefit of a good constitution and a comfortable upbringing on his side and he realized how very lucky he was to have started so strongly. Out of the fifty men at the start, only thirty-two actually made it to see Jerusalem. As he expected, the war was very nearly lost. They spent more time languishing in tents and enjoying the company in the samovar than they did practicing drills. To the great amusement of his fellow soldiers, he rarely indulged. The exception was a dark haired, blue eyed gypsy of a woman who was as particular and discreet about who was allowed in her company as he was. Not knowing what his fate would be and realizing that he very well may never escape his imprisonment, he allowed her to bring him fully into manhood. His brother would have been so proud.

One year after they reached the desert, Sherlock was tanned, full-bearded, and far more inclined to appreciate the ways of the people in that part of the world than spit on them. He also found his moment to escape it all. Some of the men had been sent on a messenger errand to neighboring troops and his handlers saw the reduced number as an opportunity to imbibe and find pleasures outside of the encampment. Not willing to let their charge out of sight, they dragged him along.

He was carefully watching their progression of gluttony and drunkenness when he felt a hand caress his arm. He looked up to see the blue eyes of his gypsy.

"Come with me," she said quietly, her eyes darting around the room and her smile beguiling.

To anyone watching, it would have appeared that he was slipping away to a whore's quarters. She instead led him through a dark passage and out into an alley. The warm desert air was fresh after the smoky brothel. His mouth dropped open in surprise at the sight of a saddled mare tethered nearby, loaded with supplies. He looked at her, questioning.

"I am going to miss you, Sherlock," she said, her voice heavy with the accent of the East. She slipped a soft hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to her, her lips gentler than in their other meetings. Out of habit, his hands slid around her bare waist, just brushing the silks of her thin skirt. She pulled away and looked up into his eyes. "You know, I think still you are a liar."

"About what?"

"I am not believing that you have no sweet lady waiting for you in the north," she said with a smile.

"I can assure you, there is no one."

She hummed her disbelief and slid her hand over his heart.

"Perhaps she has not found her way to you yet," she said with a knowing look. "Your eyes do not get lost on the horizon searching for no one."

His body stilled at her words and he felt, not for the first time, that she truly might be able to read men's souls with the way she always spoke of life. It was what kept him from sharing more than a bed with her. She knew too much without his ever having to tell her and that put his guard up despite her enticing demeanor.

Whatever his reservations, he would never forget what she had done for him and would always be thankful.

It was a long, lonely journey back to Huntingdon. Months wondering if he would ever see the soil of his home again, to look upon the faces of the people he cared for.

When at last he found his weary feet traveling down the main road into town, he could hardly believe his own eyes. It looked the same…but also so different.

Children ran in the streets, laughing, and merchants hocked their wares. Women gossiped on the corner and old men talked about the weather and comparing the year's crops to all the others that had come before.

And yet there was a cloud of melancholy over it all; a subdued air that had not been present before. He noticed the way the women looked over their shoulders, the hunched, protective stance of the men. Then his eyes fell upon the crumbling buildings and shuttered shops. Not a single person looked at him and he was hardly surprised; he doubted he would recognize himself were he to peer into a looking glass. It gave him leave to observe what had happened to his town, to his county, in his absence and it made him livid. He turned away from it all with a snarl and wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, walking quickly towards the road.

Steam curled up from the heavy kettle that hung over the fire and Molly wrapped a cloth around her hand to retrieve it, setting it gently on the kitchen table. Two sets of wide brown eyes watched her from the straw mat laden with wool blankets. She smiled at the young boys to try to set their minds at ease. Measuring two handfuls of dried willow bark, she placed the chips in a wooden bowl and carefully poured the steaming water over them. The liquid instantly began to turn a ruby red and the scent slowly permeated the room. While the water cooled and steeped, she gathered her things and placed them in her pouch.

When she was done, she picked up the bowl, the wood warm to the touch, and carried it to the young woman who was huddled in a chair, her husband at her side and holding her shoulders. The woman looked up at her, her eyebrows pulled together in pain.

"Drink this, Eleanor," Molly instructed her kindly. "Three times a day, just like I showed you, until the pain has gone."

The woman nodded and raised the bowl to her lips.

Molly smiled and bid the little family goodbye, pulling her cloak securely around her and raising the hood before stepping outside. The days were growing warmer as summer approached, but evenings still raised the hair on her arms with cold. The walk to the road from the tiny cottage was short and she quickly adjusted the hood of her cloak, making sure it was lowered to hide her face from view.

Eleanor Whittle was one of dozens of patients she tended to in secret in the year since her father died. The headaches she suffered from were crippling and painful, but her case was one of the few Molly felt optimistic about. Willow tea would help and she knew the woman would listen to her instructions. She had left the majority of her supply at the cottage and it would be important to replenish it soon. Not on her way home, of course, not when she'd already traipsed about on foot for the better part of the afternoon. Anything other than a hint of road dust on her hem would arouse suspicion and her gown was already showing signs of her activity.

She hated sneaking about, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Concerned about her herb supplies and stewing for the hundredth time about her limited freedoms, she rounded a bend in the road with her eyes fixed on the ground and the rest of her vision blocked by her cloak and ran straight into the chest of a tall gentleman. He let out a soft grunt at the impact and she yelped in surprise.

Molly looked up, heart racing, expecting to defend her presence outside of the castle, when her gaze met a set of eyes she would have known anywhere in the world. Were it not for the blue-green of those eyes, she never would have known him under the scraggly hair, the beard, and the mismatched linens and wool cloak wrapped tightly around him.

"Sherlock," she breathed, stunned into stillness.

He blinked at her before recognition dawned in his features.

"Molly?"

"Good Lord, it's really you!" she nearly shouted, catching herself at the last second before she threw her arms around him and fully embarrassed herself.

She had no time to contemplate any further words of welcome as she heard the sound of hoof beats in the distance. Casting a worried glance down the lane, she took hold of his arm and pulled him from the road and into the shadows of the woods.

"Molly, what -"

"Shh," she shushed him, sinking further back into the brush when a group of riders went by, all wearing the colors of Moriarty. When they had gone, she looked over at the man she hardly recognized. "I musn't be caught on the road."

"You've walked this road a hundred times," he said, giving her a quizzical look.

"That was before…"

"Before?"

"Before James Moriarty took me as his ward," she said flatly, trying to keep the hatred out of her voice. Sherlock stared at her, his entire face tensed.

"He what?"

"When did you return?"

"Only just."

"Then you've no idea, do you?" she asked him, shaking her head slightly. At his lost look, her face dropped in sympathy. "He took over everything."

She saw the flash of anger in his eyes and it frightened her. At the same time it gave her hope. His return could change everything. Sherlock's eyes dropped away from hers and he stared tensely into the distance. After a few moments, he looked around and stood, holding his hand out for her to join him.

"Is there somewhere we can go to talk? Your father's?"

Molly shook her head, finding herself blinking back tears that she had kept under control for so long.

"He's nearly a year in his grave," she said. "The farm is lost."

"The manor -"

"Has a new master," she told him bitterly. "Sheriff Sebastian Moran."

A look of illness suddenly overtook his face and she fought with the urge to reach out to him.

"John," he said, his voice cracking.

"I…I don't know," she said quietly. "We kept him with us for as long as we could. When father…John was very outspoken about the way things are under James. There was a price on his head for a while. He was never caught."

She hated being the one to tell him what had become of his world. It was obvious enough to those who knew him that he had not left England willingly and he certainly never would have tolerated the events that followed.

"I only have a little more time before I will be missed," Molly said. "There is one place we can go to talk more."

She led him through the brush and trees of the quiet forest, knowing the way by heart since she was a child. As they traveled in the cool shadows of the evergreens and oaks, she found herself glancing at him from time to time, more than curious about what he had been through over the previous two years. The county had been stunned to learn that both heirs to Huntingdon had been sent to war, his swift disappearance causing murmurs of suspicion through the land. The rumors were quickly quelled when the full force of Moriarty's control fell over the people. The snake of a man had started his own rumors as well – each word designed to turn the people of Huntingdon against their former Lord.

Whatever trials Sherlock had been through, she was glad to notice his eyes didn't hold the haunted look she had seen in so many others returning from war. Perhaps a little older, a little more worldly, but there was nothing harrowing in his look.

She kept them in the cover of the undergrowth as they approached the edge of town, skirting along the main road. A three-story building, brown and mossy with age, loomed in the waning light as the first building to greet any travelers coming into town. It was an inn that often housed less worthy folk, those who could not afford the fineries of staying closer to the shops, the social halls, or even the castle itself, removed as it was on a hill overlooking the town.

The mangy shape of the resident guard dog came loping towards her, tail wagging in friendly greeting as it nudged at her hand with its nose. Molly reached into her satchel and offered it a bit of dried beef from her midday meal before patting it on the head.

"Good boy," she whispered, stepping past the happy dog and leading Sherlock to the back door of the inn, knocking softly.

A sliver of wood slid open and an eye peered out quickly before the wood was replaced. The sound of bolts unlatching sounded from inside and in a few moments the door was swung open. A thin man in worn linens stood before them, wiping his hands on an apron tied round his waist. His dark hair hung limply over his forehead and a scraggly beard adorned his jaw.

"Didn't expect you for a few days more, Molly," he said, standing aside to let them in.

"I gave the last of my willow bark to Eleanor," she said, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen. She gestured to Sherlock. "And I knew of no better place to bring him."

The innkeeper looked to Sherlock as he closed the door, eyes searching. The fire crackled and the muted laughter of patrons from the main room filled the silence as it slowly dawned on the man who he was staring at.

"My Lord," he suddenly said, making a small bow. "We had given you up for dead."

"You are Master Anderson, if I'm not mistaken," Sherlock replied.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Mm." Sherlock glanced quickly about the room. "Still watering down your ale?"

Anderson sputtered a bit and blushed.

"Not if I can help it. But times are hard, you see," he said, swallowing nervously. He gestured for them to sit at the small table near the hearth and hurried to fetch a tankard and a plate of food to offer. "This is the finest, though."

Molly primly declined the offer of food and drink, citing her need to hurry back to the castle.

"But the willow bark, if you please," she reminded him.

Anderson turned towards the far wall and walked right up to it, reaching for a board and pulling it loose. Behind it lay shallow shelves of herbs, bottles, and bags of remedies. He reached for a bowl of the dark shavings and brought it to Molly to refill her pouch. Sherlock watched her with curiosity and she glanced up as she cinched the cloth tightly, securing its contents.

"I keep my supplies here – herbs and other treatments." At his surprised look, she went on. "Huntingdon has been without a proper physician for some time. I do what I can for the people who live here."

"They accept a woman's help?"

"It's either my help or none at all. The few who were too proud are now proud in their graves."

He looked taken aback by her harsh words, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. When Anderson settled at the table with them, his focus seemed to shift.

"You seem inclined to keep my presence here quiet," he stated. "Have I joined John in the ranks of those with valuable heads?"

Molly glanced at Anderson, waiting, hoping, to see if he would be the one to share what life was like amongst the masses; the reason Sherlock, disguised as he was, was not entirely safe. Anderson stroked at his beard agitatedly and sighed.

"After you left, Moriarty made it known that the county was impoverished," he said finally. "That you'd squandered the fortunes and taxes in your brother's absence and there was nothing left. So he started taking every coin he could. And when the coins would not satiate…the beatings began. Violence was left unchecked."

"And no one did a thing?" Sherlock demanded angrily. "No one spoke the truth?"

"Lestrade tried," Molly said, looking down at her entwined fingers. "He almost believed the lies, but in the end he knew you would never have authorized that sort of punishment. Probably assumed you had about as much interest in squandering tax collections as you do in appearing at court."

Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly at her bit of mirth.

"What was his fate?" he asked, once again serious.

"They made an example of him," Anderson said heavily when Molly would not answer. "Not easy to fight back when you're faced with corrupt royal swords. Though how he escaped from the stocks, in the middle of the night, is still a mystery. Put Moriarty in a right fit for a fortnight."

Molly could not hold back the small smirk at the memory of Moriarty outsmarted. It had been hellish in the castle during those days, but entirely worth it. She stood quickly, gathering her things.

"Master Anderson, I had hoped that you would allow his Lordship to stay here until…well, until something can be done," she said, looking at the man ousted from his own home.

"Of course, long as he needs," Anderson said.

"Thank you. I must be going now."

She took a step towards the door and Sherlock suddenly stood, then hesitated. For a moment, he looked lost, his eyes intensely focused on her. Then he stepped towards her, reaching for her hand and bringing it briefly to his lips. They were warm and soft against her skin, the hair of his beard tickling her slightly. She felt a very unladylike shiver dart under her skin as he raised his head and looked at her.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper."

A nod was all she could manage, slipping her hand slowly from his and heading out the door.

Sherlock watched the retreating form of Molly as she disappeared into the woods, the hood of her cloak pulled over her long hair and obscuring her face. He could not put a name to the sensation that overtook him as he realized she was leaving – panic, perhaps, if he were being honest. He'd been so cut off from his former life, so deprived, that her leaving him alone had incited a momentary stab of fear. It was not a sensation he was used to.

She had changed, that was certain. Grown up quickly and done what she needed to in order to survive in the challenging two years he had been gone. And he was positive she had done her part to stir up trouble when it was safe – he'd seen the small smile appear on her face at the mention of Lestrade's escape from the stocks. Never before would he have guessed she would assist in the escape of a royal prisoner.

Anderson stepped to his side as they both looked out into the darkening wood.

"My Lord, if I am honest, I cannot say I always spoke well of you in years past," he said gruffly. "But I would trade all my possessions if I could see you put Moriarty back into the mud pit he came from."

Sherlock chuckled. The innkeeper pressed a small brass key into his palm.

"Last room on the top. Back stairs will take you right to it. Help yourself to anything you desire."

With that, he grabbed a tray loaded with bread and cheeses and made his way through a door towards the common room. Sherlock looked at the key, tossing it into the air and catching it again. Glancing out the back one more time, seeing no hint of Molly, he shut the door and bolted it before seeking out the stairs and ascending to his room. It was not much in the way of comforts, but compared to life on the road it seemed the height of luxury. He set to work lighting a warming fire and filled a wash basin with water from the pitcher. Glad to find a set of sheers and a blade amongst the odd things left in the room, he washed and shaved properly for the first time in months. He shed his outer layers and his boots and settled in the chair before the fire, stretching his legs out and placing his fingers beneath his chin.

It was time to find a way to deal with Moriarty.