Sherlock woke with a start, the sun shining in brightly from the window of his room. Rubbing his hand over his face, he heard a loud bang from a room down the hall, followed by angry voices. He realized it must have been the ruckus that had roused him. Leaning back into the pillow of his bed, he listened with curiosity to the fight. A woman and a man. He smiled a bit as he heard the words being thrown back and forth – he had promised to leave his wife and she was furious it was taking so long.
"Run while you can," he muttered to the poor woman.
He waited until the excitement had died down before dressing and making his way down to the kitchen, choosing to continue his low profile. Given what he had learned from Molly and Anderson, he was unsure of the loyalty from the people of his county. Finding out how many were swayed by Moriarty's lies would be key in his effort to reclaim his home. If he faced animosity, it would be a difficulty to prove that he and Mycroft were not at fault. Though how the people could be loyal to such a brute was something he had not been able to figure.
People were sheep; that much he understood. If the groundwork was laid to sully his name, the subsequent "justice" enacted by Moriarty could possibly be welcomed.
He pondered what the best move would be as he scoured the buttery for something to eat, breakfasting quickly and finally deciding that a direct approach was best. Bracing himself for the collection of miscreants in the common room, he pulled back his shoulders and pushed through the door of the kitchen. He passed through a small hall that reeked of smoke and ale and stepped into the common room, immediately taking in the smattering of men and women leaning over mugs and plates of food, some holding heads that were no doubt suffering from indulging too much the night before. A few were reclined against the wall and snoring. Overall, the mood was significantly subdued from what he perceived from the last evening.
He quickly found the pair that had graced him with their domestic exchange upstairs. The woman was leaning back in her chair, arms firmly crossed and her gaze fixed icily on the floor. The man was shoveling food into his mouth aggressively, not paying her one moment of his attention. She was not quite young, not quite old, but beautiful and exuding the air of someone who had been handed everything in life. He was older, a gambler, and, just as Sherlock had suspected, nowhere near leaving his wife. The wife kept a good home for her husband. The woman kept his bed warm. What reason did he have to change the situation?
Sherlock scowled.
He swept through the room and brushed past their table, casually reaching out a hand to grab the man's cloak and hat from the back of his chair. Donning them quickly without drawing a single eye from those in the room, he strode out the front door and onto the main road. The items were a vibrant green, not unlike his own from so long ago. The fabric was rich and soft, flowing about him as he walked.
It gave him confidence.
The stares and occasional gasps directed his way as he walked into town did little to distract him. His focus was on confronting Moriarty. Nothing could be done with the townspeople until he was dealt with.
It took a most unexpected sight on a small street to pull his focus. The little crowd of people gathered around a distraught husband and wife drew him down the street, but the overwhelming smell of charred wood and smoke worried him to the core. He recognized the building – the best bakery in the town. All that indicated its original purpose was the corner of a sign swinging by a hinge above the door. Nothing remained inside, every loaf of bread and work surface burned down to ash. He looked up and saw the waning plumes of smoke curling from the windows of the living quarters above the shop. Little damage had been done to the adjoining buildings, though the pails of water rushed to the fire had been far too late for the bakery.
He moved carefully towards the crowd, not wanting to draw attention until he needed to, taking in the sooty, sweaty forms holding limply to buckets and basins.
"I promised I would have it to them. I promised I would pay," the baker was saying to the group at large, his voice shaking with shock and rage. "Just a few more days…why didn't they listen?"
"This county is damned," an onlooker spat out.
A wave of hushes and murmurs spread through the small crowd as the sound of hoof beats approached, metal and leather clanking together from riders and tack. Sherlock felt his face flush in anger when he laid eyes on Moriarty at the helm, Moran close on his heels. The luxury of his clothes, the air of superiority, turned Sherlock's stomach when he thought of how his people had been living.
Time seemed to freeze altogether when he saw the members of court bringing up the rear of the group. He saw Molly, her lilac skirts spilling over her mount and her long hair hidden away under a cream colored wimple and veil. He'd not known how used to seeing her free and nearly wild he was until that moment. He hated Moriarty for doing that to her. Riding next to Molly and clearly acting as lady's maid and chaperone was Martha, looking no more pleased to be part of the group than Molly herself.
His thoughts were interrupted by the baker's wife pleading.
"My Lord," she choked out, falling desperately to her knees in front of Moriarty's stallion. "We would have paid…just a few more days."
Moriarty had the audacity to look shocked, wounded even. He stared down at the woman with an expression of concern, though his dark eyes were stony and impassive.
"My dear woman," he said. "It is indeed a tragic accident. But surely you do not believe this has anything to do with your late payments."
He drew out the last two words with cold precision. More words were exchanged, but Sherlock's eye had drifted to the front window of the building, the wood in one corner deep black from the fire and far more damaged than elsewhere. Stepping discreetly towards the wall, the top of a wooden stick came into view and he reached out for it. Singed and slightly warm to the touch, the stick ended in a bulge of burnt fabric. Sherlock held it in front of his face, peering at the way the fabric was wrapped, the pattern of the singing, the white sheen where it had escaped the licks of the flame…
His head turned back to the crowd when he heard his own name from Moriarty's voice.
"How do we know it was 'im, eh?" one of the onlookers bit out, drawing the warning glances of the crowd. "You always say he's to blame, but 'ow do we know 'e was the one to ruin this county?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Moriarty smirked. He pointed straight at Sherlock and he felt the eyes of a dozen people turn to him with sudden shock and awareness. He froze, assessing the feelings radiating from the crowd. "Left the county in ruin and then ran off to the other side of the world to escape the problems. Couldn't stop the violence. Couldn't save his county. So he abandoned you. And now you get to properly thank him for all that he's done."
Sherlock felt the tension rise in the crowd, the indecision on who to believe growing. He saw the fear in their eyes, the distrust of him that had been planted in his absence.
He glanced at the remains of the silken fabric one more time and sniffed it, recoiling at the scent of lamp oil.
"Blame," Sherlock said loudly. "That is a fine topic, isn't it? For example, it would be easy to blame this inferno on bad luck…this torch says otherwise."
"Oh how I have missed your whims of imagination, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty said with a smile, earning matching grins from his guard.
"This is fabric from the castle, no one in this town could possibly possess such a thing! Wrapped around to form a torch – a deliberate act by your forces!"
The look on Moriarty's face darkened, his carefully controlled detachment dropping for several moments. In that instant, Sherlock knew he was no longer going to be treated as a mere nuisance to Moriarty, a problem to be scuttled off to a far off land and forgotten. There was murder in his eyes and Sherlock felt his pulse quicken.
"That is a dangerous accusation, Sherlock," Moriarty said, his voice deepening. "One you should think twice about unless you wish to go against God and country."
"Oh I think you know how little regard I have for either of those."
Damn his mouth. Mycroft had always warned him it would be his own undoing.
If he had any doubt as to his mistake, the sharp inhales and mutterings of the people around him confirmed he had indeed made a grievous error.
"A traitor and a blasphemer," Moriarty said, nodding to the guards around him who began to dismount. "A shame the desert did not take you."
Sherlock's focus narrowed as each man hit the ground – five in all – and metal scraped against leather as swords were drawn. They were trained and dangerous, but for all their perilousness they were encumbered by chain mail and armor, sluggish in their movements. When the first heavy sword cut through the air towards him, he easily ducked away and had enough time to raise the torch to knock away the next cut from another guard. Before the man had a chance to lift the sword again, Sherlock swung the torch towards his helmet and sent a flurry of ash into his eyes. In a flash, the sword was dropped as the guard shouted in pain and Sherlock had it in his hands before the other guards could move. They took it in turns to bring blows to his blade until his arms ached and the crowd had become deadly silent.
With a great shout, Sherlock knocked the blade from one of the guard's hands and it clattered to the ground. His own hands shook and his sword dropped as well. He stumbled back, panting and spent, watching the last three guards close in on him.
"Stop."
Moriarty's sharp command came out of nowhere. Looking up and blinking through the sweat that had gathered on his eyelids, Sherlock saw him looking down from his horse with great interest. He gave a lethargic wave of his hand towards the guards.
"Let him go," Moriarty said, gathering his reins and turning his horse. "To kill him would only be a kindness. Let him rot in his mistakes."
One by one, the people surrounding him turned their backs and slowly faded back to their lives, scared or disgusted or apathetic. With a few last deep breaths, he looked at the retreating riders. Molly alone delayed, doing her best to appear to be struggling with her chestnut mare. She stared hard at him, her mouth set and her expression nearly unreadable.
Moments passed and he awaited her judgment; waited to find out if there was one person left who did not see him as the ruined life he had been painted as.
Her face suddenly dropped in sympathy and she mouth one word to him: 'Run.'
The woods had always been a comfort to Sherlock and it only seemed the right place to go. He followed the stream away from Huntingdon and tried to get lost in the way the water moved as he walked along. The morning had given him more answers than he was prepared for, more clean-cut than he had expected. He had rather underestimated the control Moriarty had over the people of his county and the brute force he had on his side.
It was quite devastating.
And embarrassing.
If he'd made more of an effort to connect with his county before, then perhaps…but it was pointless to wonder. They'd lost their faith in him. Or if they hadn't, they were too terrified of the consequences to show it outright.
He huffed to himself as his thoughts circled back to the beginning again, bending down to pick up a rock before chucking it irritably into the water with a loud splash, water spitting over the banks.
In the next instant, the crack of something hard across his shoulders knocked the wind out of him, sending him sprawling to the ground, his cap flying from his head. His already taxed muscles seized at the blow and he writhed in pain and gasped for breath. Sherlock rolled to his side in the damp grass and forced his eyes open to take in his assailant. A short, boorish looking man stood above him, long hair and beard giving him a wild look and the rough wool and skins that made up his dress only added to the affect.
"Up, coward!" the man bellowed, leaning on a staff that was no doubt the cause of Sherlock's aching shoulders.
He groaned and struggled to his feet, damned if he would let some ruffian be the death of him after his time in the desert. He reached for his sword before remembering he no longer owned one and grimaced at the way the man laughed at him.
"Poor sod," the man shook his head. "Guess it'll have to be all hands, then."
The man tossed his staff to the side and crossed his arms, waiting for Sherlock to steady himself. Sherlock shook his head, bringing focus back to his vision and warily lifting his fists. He blinked as the man took a fighting stance, a smirk on his face and his blue eyes twinkling.
"John!" Sherlock cried, looking stunned to pieces.
The blue eyes lost their mirth and widened, his head cocking to the side in confusion. It took several moments and Sherlock was certain it was mostly disbelief working against him, but John finally looked on him with recognition.
"Sherlock?" he said, his hands dropping to his side. "You have not perished…"
"Nor have you, to my great relief," Sherlock replied with a smile that only began to show the happiness he felt at finding his friend alive and well. "Though slightly less refined looking than when I last saw you."
John laughed outright and rushed forward, throwing his arms around Sherlock and completely heedless of the gasp of pain he emitted. For such a small man, he was surprisingly strong.
"John, while I am happy for the greeting, I am suffering from two lashings so far today," Sherlock said, his voice slightly strangled.
With a final pat on the back, John released him and stepped back, his look of delight overshadowed with concern.
"Two?" he asked. "Given that I supplied one, I have a fairly good idea of who supplied the first."
"Moriarty's guards can hardly be called inept," Sherlock said, looking at John with more than a bit of admiration. "You've done well avoiding them, it would seem."
"This part of the wood is beyond their interest," John told him. "And we do a great deal to keep the curious away."
"We?"
John smiled at him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, mindful of his pain this time.
"Come with me, my friend," he said.
It was a remote part of the forest that Sherlock was led to, answering John's questions all the way about what had happened to him, and he was slightly disconcerted to learn that the area had escaped his notice. Beyond a sharp hill with jagged rocks, ferns, and oaks, dropped into a small valley protected by the raised earth on three sides and a wide creek and thick mess of brambles on the last, was a camp. Half a dozen sturdy tents dotted the area with fires burning bright along the way, tended by men dressed similarly to John. One or two women were present, hanging wash on lines stretched between trees.
"These are the outcasts of Huntingdon," John said, gesturing to the camp as they staggered down the hillside. "Not much, but a sight better than how we lived before."
"John," Sherlock said, stopping their trek as they reached the edge of the camp. His friend turned and looked at him expectantly. His eyes flickered around the camp for a moment before coming to rest on John. "I am sorry for what happened. If there was something I could have done…"
John raised his hand.
"You were no more able to do anything than anybody else," he said with a mollifying smile.
That was the end of it, though Sherlock felt he did not deserve the forgiveness so quickly and wholly. He'd placed John in his home, thinking it had been the best thing for him, and it had placed him directly in harm's way.
He followed as the man made his way through the camp to a tent on the far side by the creek, a roaring fire and two figures tending to a pot boiling with a delicious smelling stew. Sherlock spared a small look to the young man tossing bits of potato in the pot before turning his attention to the man of the cloth stirring. He stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing in astonished amusement.
"Lestrade?"
The man started, sloshing soup onto the fire which sputtered and hissed. He looked up and mirrored the look of shock, wiping his hands furiously on his brown robes. John chuckled as he ambled towards the fire, hands in his pockets.
"Never fear, Sherlock, he hasn't taken the cloth," he said. "All for show."
"Let's me come an' go as I please, doesn't it?" Lestrade said, shooting a look at John. "You're just in a fit you didn't think of it first."
"I'll stick to the woods, thank you," John said with a smile, taking a seat on the log by the fire.
Lestrade pulled a face and stepped towards Sherlock, extending his hand. It was taken heartily, his spirits lifting at seeing friendly faces after his disastrous exodus from town. Before long, the entire camp was gathered around to find out what had become of their former Lord. Very unexpectedly, he found himself losing that title and quickly becoming one of them. They were certainly enraptured by his adventures and showed more support for his side of things than anyone in Huntingdon had done.
"And what do you plan to do?" asked the young lad called Will seated next to John. "Half the people in the county will be heading for the jail or the woods in a fortnight with the way James has been dipping into purses."
Sherlock's gaze drifted around the gathered group, taking in the hopeful stares and tired eyes. His eyes landed on John's. The shake of his head and resigned frown were almost imperceptible. Sherlock understood.
"If you're looking for miracles, I'm certainly the wrong person to turn to," Sherlock said, looking into the fire. "You'd best return your attentions to your own lives."
The disappointment was palpable, but he could not waste time on their reactions. He waited until they had dispersed back to their own little camps before turning to look at John, Lestrade, and Will. John leaned his elbows on his knees, staring at Sherlock.
"No plan then?" he asked.
"Oh no, I've got a plan," Sherlock replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked into the distance. "At least, I'm fairly certain I do. But putting their hopes in me would just lead to disillusionment."
"What's the plan?" Lestrade asked.
"Give the people back what is theirs," he said firmly, standing and removing his cloak and cap. "I'll need a dress and veil."
"A what?" John cried, looking aghast.
"A dress and veil," Sherlock repeated, clasping his hands together and looking at Will. "One of your old sets will do, I think. You can't have started dressing as a boy that long ago."
Will's mouth dropped open like a fish, hands clutching subconsciously at the shirt neck. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably and John looked ready to land another blow with his staff. It was one of those moments Sherlock realized too late that he had said the wrong thing.
"Well surely you both knew," he said, looking between the two men.
"Of course we did, but we don't go around chatting about it," John said in a barely hushed voice. "She's hidden it very successfully."
Sliding his eyes over to her, Sherlock saw the panic and guardedness in her face. He walked over and looked down into her bright blue eyes.
"What's your real name?" he asked.
"Mary," she said quietly, her voice dropping the bravado from earlier and sounding softer.
"Mary," he said, giving her a small smile. "Family trouble?"
She nodded, running a nervous hand through her short blonde hair.
"Not to worry," he reassured her. "I know a bit about that myself. Now, take your time with those dresses. I won't need them til tomorrow."
It had been two years since Sherlock had properly enjoyed the company of a friend and a good tankard of ale and the evening brought both for him. A few people at another fire had brought out a pipe, fiddle, and drums and the camp was almost raucous with laughter and jovial shouting. Sherlock watched them all, sipping at his ale as he leaned against the log on the ground, John by his side. John smiled and laughed as he watched Lestrade spin around clumsily in a circle with a young lady.
The air smelled of earth and pine sap and smoke, with the lingering scent of supper. It was quite comfortable and enjoyable.
"Quite a world you have out here," Sherlock chuckled, taking another drink.
"Almost enough to make you not want to go back," John said, reaching for a long stick and stoking the fire before settling back against the log. Sherlock looked over at him.
"If you don't wish to be involved, you can say so," he told him.
"Not what I meant," John said. He considered for a moment. "Though for tomorrow's plan, I may decline again."
Sherlock laughed.
"Just as well, you're far to bearded for it anyway," he said, smiling.
Lifting a hand up to his face, John made a show of stroking his beard.
"Keeps me warm," he said.
"You look ridiculous."
"I do not."
"I have it on high authority that ladies are not fond of woolen faces," Sherlock said, unable to resist the dig.
"Whose authority?" John asked, taken another sip of his ale.
Sherlock watched his eyes dart towards Mary. He smiled, pleased that his intuition was correct.
"Never mind whose," he said, leaning his head back to look up at the stars. John laughed.
"Very pleased you're back, Sherlock," he said sincerely. "Very pleased."
"As am I, John."
Even with the long cloak and letting out the hem of Mary's skirts, Sherlock's stature was still too tall not to look absurd in the disguise. He tugged the skirt down for the tenth time as he rode up to the castle at midday. Fortunately, the bustle of the day was enough that no one bothered to look at him twice. He reined his horse over to a post and nearly upset the basket of apples he had carried in while he dismounted. Keeping his gaze demurely down, he offered the fruit to anyone who came close enough on his way to a servant's entrance. He was briskly turned down each time and felt rather pleased that he had slipped anyone's notice by the time he popped through the door. The hall was empty and he dumped the basket immediately, making his way quickly through the hall and towards the steward's chambers.
He stopped short when he saw the guard standing at the door. On the smaller side and his nose red from overindulgence in wine and ale. Thinking quickly, he shed the cloak and pulled the veil across his face, walking confidently up to the door. The guard looked at him.
"I'm here to do the dusting," Sherlock said, softening his voice and taking care to look up from below his lashes.
Giving a crooked smile, the guard stepped aside and let him right through. For good measure, Sherlock batted his eyelashes while he shut the heavy door, earning another idiotic smile. His demeanor dropped the moment the door was shut, wondering not for the first time how men could act so pathetic when it came to feminine wiles.
The room was little changed from the last time he had been in it, although more items of value had made their way onto tables and shelves. He found the coin box quickly enough, picking the lock and flinging the lid back to reveal gold and jewels. More than enough to settle the accounts of many people in the county, but he knew he must exercise caution, taking only what would not be missed right away. Reaching below the skirts for the pouch he had brought, he swiftly filled it and retied it to his belt.
Upon turning to leave the room, his eyes landed on the polished wood of his bow leaning against the wall amongst the clutter of other items, a quiver of arrows propped next to it. He weighed the risks.
It would be noticeable.
It would absolutely give him away.
He grabbed them as he left the room, bursting through the door without looking back.
"All done wif the dusting then?" the guard called out.
"Oh yes, quite done," Sherlock replied cheerily, glancing over his shoulder at the oblivious guard before rounding the corner.
He had not gone two steps out of sight when he heard a loud sound of indignation.
"'Ere now, wait a minute you!"
It was difficult to run in skirts. He had not particularly anticipated that specific obstacle, but he did his best to dash full speed down the corridor and towards the stairs, the footfalls of the guard hard on his heels. The man was calling for assistance and Sherlock took the stairs three at a time, making a hard right on the landing in an effort to lose them and find a place to hide. Spotting a door just a few paces away, he bolted for it, grabbing the iron handle and throwing it open, slipping into the room. He winced when the door slammed shut with an echo in the hall. Pressing his ear against the wood, he strained to hear if they had managed to follow his path when a startled little cry behind him turned his head.
Oh for the love of…
Molly stood there, pleasantly exposed in her chemise and stockings. The surprise of his sudden appearance left an enticing blush across her cheeks and breast, far more easily seen than it would have been had she been wearing a gown. For a moment, he wondered why she did not cover herself.
"Are you a new lady's maid?" she asked, taking a step forward. "Martha did not mention that…"
At that moment, he remembered his disguise and also realized that she saw right through it – the bow and arrows surely didn't aid him - as she stared into his eyes and hers widened. She launched herself towards her bed and scrambled for her dressing gown, turning her back as she threw it around herself.
"Sherlock!" she hissed angrily. "What in Heaven's name are you doing here?"
"It's better if you don't know," he told her, patting absently at the pouch of jewels and coins hidden below his skirts.
"Something that could get you hanged, I take it," she said, her voice still shaken while she looked over her shoulder and tried with trembling hands to secure the ties of her gown. She caught his eye and glared at him. "Turn around!"
He smirked and turned around to face the wall.
"It's nothing I haven't seen years ago," he said, amused.
"I was a child then," she snapped back. "In the name of modesty, keep your back turned."
He laughed to himself and studied the seams between the stones of the wall.
"Is it safe yet?" he asked lightly.
"Fine, yes, you can turn around now."
She was gripping the neckline of her dressing gown to her throat, but it did little to erase the image of her flushed skin. He found himself wishing he were not wearing such a ridiculous disguise in front of her. It made him feel decidedly foolish as he approached her.
"Not that I think you would, but it might be best for you not to mention my little visit," he told her with a slight purse of his lips. "Might arouse suspicion."
Molly nodded, pulling her gown tighter. Sherlock leaned in and saw her sharp intake of breath.
"How often do you spend afternoons in your underthings, Molly Hooper?" he asked teasingly.
Her mouth dropped open into an indignant little 'o' and she shoved at his chest.
"Out, Sherlock!"
"There might still be guards out there," he argued, trying half-heartedly to deflect her swats. "It's likely not safe!"
"Fair amount safer than it is in here – out!" she repeated, reaching for the door handle and giving him another shove through the doorway.
"It was a simple curiosity - "
"And completely indecent!"
"You did it when you were eight all the time - "
The heavy door slammed in his face, but not before he saw the incensed look on her face.
And the hint of a smile.