Wow I finally updated! My creative energy has been focused elsewhere for a while and the result was total writer's block. Hopefully it was worth the wait!
Molly leaned against the door to her room and bit her lip, trying not to smile.
He hadn't left Huntingdon after all.
After seeing him nearly beaten to the ground in town, losing any support he may have had from the townspeople, she was afraid she would never see him again. The faint confidence that his return would change everything had faded faster than a dying flame. It had all looked so hopeless, but something had happened to keep him from giving up. Though why he showed up at the castle in women's garments with a bow and arrows slung across his shoulder was beyond her.
Her hands dropped away from her dressing gown and the fabric slipped open again. The sight of him in such an outfit should have left her in hysterics, at least, once she recovered from her initial shock. She'd been properly embarrassed to be caught in such a state of undress, but the afternoon was warm and she'd been expecting no visitors, least of all him. Her upbringing and the rules of polite society told her she should be more upset.
But his disguise had done very little to hide the appeal of his eyes or the crooked little smile he gave her, freezing her to the spot when he stepped closer. She really should have thrown him out immediately. She'd looked on him with the youthful eyes of a girl awed by his intelligence and striking looks for many years; but now, she felt the stirrings of something new when he was in her presence. Something similar to the things the ladies in residence whispered about a particularly dashing knight or courtier. She had felt it when he took her hand at the inn and thanked her so sincerely. And just now, she blushed pink thinking of him in her chambers.
Perhaps she should've let him stay a little longer, just until he was certainly out of danger of being found out. He would have tried harder to stay hidden if he really believed he could be caught, but she worried her bottom lip thinking she might've thrown him to the wolves.
She walked quickly across the room to the window, the smooth stone under her feet suddenly feeling much cooler as the rest of her body remained flushed. Pushing the plated glass open further, she leaned out over the sill and strained to see the path to the main gate. Sure enough, within moments, she saw his still-disguised figure on horseback, galloping out of the castle grounds. She smiled when she observed the small cluster of palace guards emerge well after Sherlock had flown from the castle, looking confused and furious with each other that anything was amiss under their watch.
She laughed, but quickly stifled her humor when she heard a knock on her chamber door.
"Miss Margaretta."
Martha's cheerful voice floated into the room as she tentatively opened the door, carrying a tray filled with sweet cakes and spiced wine. It was an afternoon ritual for them, enjoying the time away from prying eyes and Moriarty's untrustworthy servants and attendants. Molly moved away from the window and towards the small, round table placed near the hearth and began removing the books she had been pouring over to make way for the tray.
"I saw someone leaving your chambers just now," Martha said, a smile on her face. "If I had known you were entertaining a visitor I would have waited."
"Oh," Molly exclaimed, pulling the books to her chest and digging her fingernails into the soft leather of the binding. "It was nothing…just a new maid, she was lost, you see, got turned around - "
"Calm you heart, dear," Martha said gently with a surprisingly youthful giggle. She set the wine out for them and motioned for Molly to sit, which she did. "It's alright. I know Sherlock Holmes when I see him. I've mended his breeches and wiped tears from his eyes more times than he would admit to anybody, I'm the last person that disguise would fool."
Molly's mouth dropped open in mild surprise, but her shoulders relaxed as she realized she would not have to keep his activities secret.
"He didn't know it was my chamber," she blurted out, feeling the need to explain the circumstances further. "It was an accident that he…found his way here. He left nearly right away."
"Oh, my dear lamb, you are in no danger of appearing any less of a lady in my eyes simply because that man stumbled into your chambers," Martha assured her, cutting into a honey cake and setting the slices on plates to serve. "But I must say, if people weren't so talented at 'finding their way' into the right chambers, the midwives would have far less to do."
Molly's eyes widened and she looked down firmly at the plate in front of her, her face burning with embarrassment and amusement. Abandoning the books to the floor beside her, she reached for the spiced wine and lifted the chalice to her lips, thankful for the calming drink.
"That reminds me," Martha went on, seemingly ignorant of the state she had put Molly in, "Alice Green believes her baby may be arriving any day now. You might consider a visit to help the midwife."
Sherlock slowed his horse when he had put plenty of distance between himself and the castle, confident that no one was following. He smiled smugly as he hooked the strap of the quiver holding arrows and bow over the pommel of the saddle, freeing his hands to rip off the veil and wimple and pull the borrowed dress over his head. Stuffing the items into a saddle bag, he silently celebrated how easy it had been to slip behind the guarded walls, to completely outsmart the fools Moriarty had placed in his employ. The victory could not be allowed to make him overly confident, however. Sherlock would be assumed to be well on his way to the next shire at the moment, but he could not rely on that cover for much longer if he continued on with these…intrusions. He refused to label them as robberies, seeing as none of the fortune belonged to Moriarty in the first place.
It would be attributed to some anonymous thief this time around, but experience told him the cloak of mystery would only work for so long in his favor. Still, it would be quite exciting to see how far he could push his luck…
After slinging the quiver and bow over his shoulder, he pulled at the linen shirt that clung to his skin, previously confined by the dress, allowing air to pass between the fabric and his body, cooling him down. How the ladies spent all day constricted by such outfits was something he would never understand.
Though it seemed Molly had found a suitable solution.
The thought brought another smile to his face. She was a continual surprise to him these past few days. If he had thought it safe, if it wouldn't undoubtedly bring the wrath of Moriarty down upon him and everyone around him, he would have taken her from the castle and their little group could have flown from Huntingdon. But at the moment, she was a well pampered captive, a person Moriarty intended to keep, but care for. That was a balance Sherlock would not upset if it meant turning Moriarty's anger on her.
And he wouldn't abandon his county. Not again.
There was clearly a limit to his apathy for governance; a certain protectiveness welled up in him when he thought of leaving his home to the rule of that criminal. Blind loyalty to his country he may not have possessed, but a selfish sense of ownership and justice he could easily admit to. Not to mention Molly would have held him accountable for the fate of every soul left behind; his own personal conscience, it seemed, filling in the cracks of failing integrity within him. At the moment, she was doing more for Huntingdon than he was and with more stealth. She was saving lives and he was pilfering coins.
Suddenly his little burglary did not feel like such a victory.
Well who was she to compete for moral high ground, anyway? The people could not very well benefit from her doctoring if they were sent to prison for late payments. Really, he was keeping her patients from a worse fate. Obviously she would approve.
He let the mental argument go as his horse approached the encampment, smelling the smoke of fires and hearing the voices chattering. He was quickly approached by the small group privy to his plans as he led the horse to the makeshift paddock at the side of the camp.
"Very simple this time," he said, not bothering to wait for the questions. "I doubt it will remain so."
"You've succeeded?" John asked.
"You needn't sound so surprised," Sherlock said, loosening the girth on the saddle and sliding it off while Mary took care of the bridle and ushered the horse into the pen. Sherlock caught her eye. "I'm afraid your gown has been stretched beyond use."
She shrugged and shouldered the bridle.
"Never much cared for it to begin with," she told him with a smile.
Placing the saddle onto the fence, he turned and strode towards the main part of the camp, leading the others. He scanned the members of the camp quickly before his eyes locked on a young boy of about fourteen tossing sticks into a campfire.
"You lad," he called out. The boy's head snapped up and he jumped to attention when he saw who was addressing him. "You are quite capable of slipping into town unnoticed, are you not?"
"Very, sir," the boy said.
"Hm. And would you like to pay a few of the townspeople back for the sweets and trinkets you've pocketed over the last few years?"
The boy faltered briefly before straightening and seeming to understand that he was being given a second chance. He nodded vigorously.
"Good. What's your name?"
"Bill, sir."
"Well, Lestrade, consider Bill to be your first reformed thief from the band you so ineffectively chased around in days gone by," Sherlock said with a smirk.
Lestrade huffed in annoyance, but said nothing. Sherlock unhooked the pouch of coins from his belt, pocketed some of them, and tossed the remainder in the pouch to Bill.
"Make sure those are placed into the hands of those who need it most," he instructed. "The rest will be distributed amongst the camp."
Quickly forgiving the slight against him, Lestrade nodded in approval and wandered off with Bill to ensure the delivery of the money. John and Mary escorted Sherlock back to their campfire where a few slices of bacon were frying and another stew stuffed with root vegetables was waiting. Sherlock's interest in the food was half-hearted as he thought about how he could possibly continue to outsmart Moriarty and his men. He felt a sting of aggravation when he glanced up to see his companions barely focused on the food themselves, but for a completely different reason. If they intended to keep Mary's identity a secret for much longer in the camp, they truly needed to refrain from sitting so close. And stop gazing at each other. Good Heavens, was it so difficult to behave normally merely because they had starry eyes for each other? He managed just fine with Molly.
Not that they were starry eyed for one another.
"Practically a sister," he muttered, slouching down further against the log he was propped against.
"Who's a sister?" John asked, overhearing despite his current distraction.
"No one," Sherlock said moodily. "Thinking."
He was left alone with his thoughts, retreating so deeply into his mind that time was lost. He was finally startled out of his meditation by the sound of excited voices and he glanced up to see Lestrade and Bill returned to camp, excitedly relaying news to John and Mary.
"Sherlock, did you hear?" John asked, looking at him with anticipation.
"Hm?"
"You have more allies than you might think," Lestrade told him. "Many in town suspected you were behind the generous 'gifts.' They're ready to take up arms with you, the lot of 'em."
"And there's more'n that, sir," Bill hurried to speak, brimming with energy. "The castle thinks you're well gone. They're holding a feast in three days' time to celebrate their victory."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth slowly turned up and he stared into the flames of the fire.
"John," he said confidently. "Do not shave your beard just yet. We are going to need the disguise."
On the evening of the feast, Sherlock felt waves of excitement flow through him that he had not felt in a very long time. Great work had gone into finding the right clothing and planning every detail until Sherlock was met with tired stares when he tried to seek more counsel on the subject. John was a willing participant, though he took some convincing when it came to giving up his woodsman clothing for one night. Sherlock ascertained that he relied on the furs and wool as part of his cover, the items having kept him safe from the bounty on his head for many successful months. He stood uncomfortably in the minstrel outfit, looking quite doubtful, until Mary spoke up.
"I think it's very nice," she said quietly, hands in her trouser pockets and shuffling her feet.
"Really?" John said, his chest lifting slightly. Mary nodded and looked at the ground.
"Very," she repeated.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved the tabor he had borrowed from one the men in camp at John. He found himself quite glad he had decided to make Mary his assistant for the night; he was better off going by himself rather than put the two of them together on this undertaking.
"Yes, yes, you look lovely," he said dryly, securing his green cloak around his shoulders and donning a matching woodsman's hat, perfecting the look of a hunter. John stared down at the tabor with an uncertain expression.
"I'm no musician, Sherlock," he said. "Are you sure this is the best charade?"
"No one will give you a second look, especially if it appears you've been into the wine," Sherlock assured him. "That's the beauty of servants in a household like Moriarty's…they are only part of the scenery."
With their roles solidified, the trio made their way in twilight to the castle, parting ways once they had slipped in the main gate amongst the wagons and horses carrying gilded party guests and their servants and attendants. Sherlock knew many were there under duress, looking to appease the usurper, while others were ardent supporters.
He nodded to John as his friend followed a small group of servants, knowing he would fulfill his role well, keeping watch on the east side of the great hall and ready to sound the alarm if it looked as though Sherlock had been discovered. He was relying on the majority of the guards to be placed along the hall, too busy watching the revelry to be concerned with the dark corridors, even considering the recent burglary. He led Mary around to the servant's entrance of the kitchen, giving her a reassuring smile when he rapped on the door. Candlelight spilled out into the darkening evening when the door flew open, a harried looking woman glaring at him while she wiped her flour covered hands on her apron.
"What d'you want?" she demanded, looking irritated at having been interrupted on such an important night.
"Delivering the pheasants," Sherlock said, sounding bored and gesturing to Mary as she held up the brown sack bulging with five fat birds. He kept his face tilted down and his expression hard, knowing that a simple change like that was often all that was needed to fool anyone. Attitude could be everything when it came to disguises.
The woman looked between the two of them and narrowed her eyes.
"Already got birds," she said testily. "No one told me about any more."
Sherlock sighed with impatience and deliberately pulled his gloves off while he spoke.
"Sheriff Moran told me to deliver pheasants at the request of Sir James," he said, trying not to say the name with a sneer. "It is not my fault your workers are too stupid to keep you informed of the goings on of this household."
"I run this staff better'n anyone, I can promise you that," the woman snapped at him, placing her hands on her ample hips. "And the fact is, I don't have time to pluck more birds - "
"I'll do it, ma'am."
A strong female voice came from inside the kitchen, interrupting the cook's tirade. The woman ground her teeth, considering, before finally stepping aside and flinging a hand in the air.
"Come in, then," she said, bustling out of the room before Sherlock and Mary had stepped fully inside. It was little more than an antechamber, a preparation room connected to the main kitchen where more servants could be heard.
He was able to lay eyes on the source of the voice – a young woman with an olive complexion and piercing dark eyes, her curling hair pinned back under a kerchief. She was covered to the elbows in flour and other remnants of cooking and looked entirely familiar. Someone left over from Mycroft's servants that he had seen before…
"Sally," she told him. He froze and internally planned the best escape, unsure of her loyalties or if she recognized him at all. "We only met once or twice before, sir, I don't expect you to remember me. S'alright. I won't say a word."
Sherlock heard Mary let out a breath behind him.
"You've stayed," Sherlock stated.
"Would have been hard for me to find a position like this anywhere else," she told him, continuing to roll out dough for meat pies. "Your brother always treated me very well. I did what I could to secure my place here. But don't worry – I care very little for the new master."
For a few moments, the only sound in the kitchen was the thump of Sally's fists against the dough while Sherlock stared at her, surprised by her bluntness. She looked up at him and gave him an amused smile.
"Well go on," she said. "Off with you! I can't wait to hear what you take this time."
Sherlock blinked rapidly, but held out his hand for Mary to hand over the sack of birds. He walked over to the table and dumped them out while keeping his eyes on Sally.
"Does the castle suspect - "
"Oh lord no, those guards were absolute idiots, couldn't tell a pig from a sheep," she said quickly. "But there are those of us who just knew. It was an absolute delight to see his 'lordship' so confused and upset. Far more entertaining than the usual amusements."
"The usual?..."
"When he's particularly unpleasant," Sally said, looking down at the dough with a grin as she took a rolling pin to it, "I spit in his food."
Mary snorted beside him and clamped a hand to her mouth to repress her laughter. He gave her a humoring smile and told her to stay put, grabbing the cloth sack and leaving her to Sally's offers of wine and clean food.
Pulling his hat down and taking on a rougher posture and gait, Sherlock made his way into the corridors of the castle, skimming the edges of the passageways and staying in shadow as much as possible. Not a single head turned in his direction and he managed to avoid the mess of guests in the great hall just starting to feel the effects of the drink and festive atmosphere, their voices growing louder and laughter filtering out into the rest of the castle. At a less populated archway, he slipped closer to the merriment and peered into the crowd, recognizing many faces from his forced days at court. He could see Moriarty and Moran seated at the raised table on one side of the hall, enjoying a gluttony of food and looking down on the feast with smug, triumphant faces. His gaze drifted over the room, looking for a petite form that he only half-pretended he was not interested in seeing, but unable to find.
When he reached the east side of the corridors, he spotted John leaning against a stone wall, his tabor abandoned on the floor and his hand grasping what was sure to be an empty chalice, his other laced around the waist of a servant girl. She looked all too pleased with the attentions and did not notice John's quick glance and nod towards Sherlock as he passed by.
As he expected, there were now two guards standing outside of the steward's chambers, both looking far more competent than the last one. He sauntered up to them, pulling a parchment from inside his tunic.
"I have come to collect payment," he told them, handing the easily forged document over to the nearest guard. "For services to his Lordship."
The guard looked at the parchment for several long moments, exchanged a look with his companion, and nodded. He took out a ring of keys and unlocked the door, stepping inside. Sherlock followed and was shadowed by the second guard who stood close. The first guard made a show of accessing a treasury box, retrieving coins one at a time and carefully noting the amount in the ledger. Sherlock watched it all with great interest, stepping forward at the appropriate moment to open his cloth bag and allow the guard to drop the coins into it. He thanked the guard and was about to close the bag when a commotion from the door turned their heads.
Just as planned, John stumbled into the room, sloshing wine from a chalice and looking about, completely confused.
"This is not the garderobe," he slurred, stepping closer to the second guard and wavering a bit, leaning on him for balance. The guard looked thoroughly offended.
"Indeed it is not," he said, looking to his companion for help with the situation.
Both men went to remove John from the room, but being the clever little man he was, he lost the coordination of his legs and ducked under the arms reaching for him, tottering into a table holding a variety of items of gold and silver. Trays, chalices, and artistic forgings crashed to the ground along with John, and the guards swooped in the pull him to his feet.
Sherlock tipped the contents of the treasury into his bag and quickly switched it with another unopened box.
"Good lord, man, can you not see that you are disrespecting the house of Moriarty?" Sherlock demanded heatedly, grabbing for one of John's arms. "How dare you behave so in his Lordship's home?"
"He's nothing but a drunken fool," one of the guards sneered, pushing John towards the door.
"Please allow me to remove him from the grounds myself," Sherlock said, keeping a firm hold on John's arm. "I am preparing to leave and would not want to see you disturbed from your important post."
The guards easily agreed, waving him off with a disdainful look at John. The two of them moved quickly through the halls, or as quickly as they could with John feigning drunkenness. It was with great relief that they entered the antechamber of the kitchen again, collecting Mary and being sent away with several pies by Sally. They had nearly crossed the castle grounds to the gate, lit up by torches and fires, when Sherlock's eyes drifted to a window on the second floor. He stopped when he saw a shadow in the window.
"Sherlock," John whispered impatiently. "Come on! We've done it, we need to leave."
"You and Mary go," he said, handing the bag of coins over to John and starting to walk back to the castle walls. "There is something I need to do."
He glanced back and saw the two forms retreating from the grounds as he reached the wall, glad they had followed his order. Looking up at the stones, his hands slid over the surface until his fingers found a hand hold. Moving swiftly and carefully, he hoisted himself up the stones until he reached the sill of her open window, heaving his body up with both hands and swinging one leg through the window. He landed heavily on the floor of her chambers and looked up to see Molly and Martha staring at him from their position in front of her looking glass.
Martha was adjusting the sheer white veil gracing the crown of Molly's head; her hair was braided and twisted up in an intricate fashion with a silver chain lacing through it and across her brow, small, twinkling amethyst hanging from the chain that matched her purple gown. A gown that was decidedly more elegant and flattering to her figure than anything he had seen her in before. Her scent drifted across the room to him and filled his mind – sweet orchids. He cleared his throat.
"Martha, leave," he said brusquely.
"Oh Sherlock," Martha said sadly. "I haven't said a word to you in two years, and this is how you say hello."
"Hello," he said, looking at her pointedly. "Now please leave."
"I haven't finished with her hair - "
"She looks the height of fashion, you've done your part very well. We can have a tearful reunion at another time, thank you."
He watched Martha exchange a look with Molly before she gathered her skirts and left the room. Smiling, he turned back to Molly and was disconcerted to see her glaring at him.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"You're angry with me," he said, deciphering her mood.
"Yes."
"What on earth for?"
"Making me a part of your crimes," she said tersely, taking one last look in the glass before turning away and walking primly to the middle of the room, clasping her hands in front of her stomach. Sherlock gave her a bemused look.
"Crimes?" he repeated.
"And using my chambers to hide," she said.
"Oh," he said, stepping further into the room. "I take it you've discovered the events of my last visit."
"Yes. And I don't want anything to do with it," she said, her chin tipping up. "And if that's the reason you're here now, I will ask you to kindly leave."
He studied her for a moment, wondering if she was only being contrary because of his teasing on their previous meeting. Coming to the conclusion that she was quite serious, his brow lowered in vexation.
"You don't agree with my actions," he said. She shook her head. "You've been doing your part, sneaking around and letting people loose from the stocks," he said slowly with a sharp look.
Molly's mouth pulled tight but she did not deny his words.
"I've been saving people," she said. "It's a bit different."
"How exactly do you figure that?"
"It's thievery, Sherlock," she said, her tone full of admonishment.
"To give the people of this county back what is rightfully theirs," he bit out, not understanding why he was forced to defend what he had done. "James Moriarty is the thief, not I."
"Then deal with him," she said, stepping forward and giving him an entreating look. "Find a way to get rid of him, but don't stoop to his level. Because I know you, I know what this is to you – it's a game, it's a bit of fun. He's dangerous, Sherlock - "
"Molly, it would best for you to stick to doctoring and stay out of things you don't understand - "
The stinging pain of her palm striking his face stunned him into silence. He worked his jaw carefully for a moment, willing the bite of the slap to go away before he looked up to meet her eyes. Eyes that were burning with anger.
"Don't you dare," she said, her voice unnaturally low. "Don't you presume to tell me what I do and do not understand, to assume what I know. You've been gone for two years…it's you who doesn't understand."
It took his mind a moment to catch up to her words, but when he did he found he was absolutely shamed and sickened.
"Has he touched you?" he questioned her, unsurprised by the anger in his voice.
"No," she told him firmly. "But not a day goes by that I do not fear it."
His temperament changed immediately and he stepped towards her, throwing propriety aside as he took her hand in both of his, lifting it to his lips and letting them linger against her skin for far longer than was proper. He thought briefly that he wouldn't mind feeling her skin against his lips every day, soft and pleasant as it was. Releasing her hand, he looked up to find her lips parted and her brow drawn in confusion.
"He will meet God," Sherlock said, placing a hand along her cheek, "before he ever lays a hand on you. I promise you that."
Molly blinked and her brow relaxed, looking up at him with wide eyes as she timidly stepped closer. His own expression turned to one of confusion when she raised herself on the tips of her toes and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, easing the place her hand had struck just moments ago. Stepping back again, he could see the pink flush in her face and along her neck and he felt the overwhelming desire to follow the flush with his lips. He would have, were it not for the knock at the chamber door.
"My lady," Martha called insistently through the door. "His Lordship requests your presence. I would not keep him waiting this night."
He felt her fingers slip from his hand as she gave him a modest smile, stepping backwards towards the door. When she had left the room, Sherlock took a deep breath, still smelling her lingering scent mixed with the smell of burning wax. He turned and strode towards the window, intent on leaving before the aroma could intoxicate him any further.
The blood in his hands pulsed a little stronger as he gripped the stones on his climb down from her window, landing on the soft ground quietly and hurrying from the castle grounds. He found John and Mary waiting for him at the edge of the forest and John gave him a look.
"Practically a sister, indeed," John said with a smile.