When it came to patience, Sherlock Holmes had always vacillated between the ability to sit for days on end, his mind highly focused and waiting for clarity, and being completely incapable of waiting one moment for an event or an answer to a puzzlement. Waiting for Sebastian Moran's caravan to roll down the road fell into the second category. His fingers drummed against the bark of the tree he was sitting in with John, some fifteen feet in the air with a perfect view of the road. Through the green leaves and branches he could see the others from the camp in their positions. It was the largest operation he'd attempted, but as long as everyone followed his instructions, Sherlock knew they would be successful.
He was still utterly confused as to attire of all the men who had agreed to participate in the scheme. He'd expressed his confusion to John when they'd gathered that morning to ride out to the main road.
"They're wearing green, why are they all wearing green?" he'd asked.
John shrugged and gave him a smile.
"It's your color – the green of Sherlock Holmes," he said simply as he turned to prepare his mount. "They like the hunter's hat, too."
"My color…how can I have a color?" Sherlock hollered after him. "And why would people want to wear it?"
Looking at the group now, he was rather glad that they at least blended into their surroundings.
Moriarty relied on others to protect him, constantly surrounded by guards. Moran relied on himself, too confident in his own brawn to bother with much assistance beyond the usual lackeys. Sherlock was very much relying on the predictability of Moran's choices when it came to his travel conditions. With the large majority of protective forces gone with the Lord of the castle, there would be no one left to be considered truly intimidating.
"How long are you planning to continue with this game?" John asked, his voice low as he scanned the road.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock replied, shifting his bow slightly on his shoulder.
"Do we keep robbing and sneaking around in the wild until we get caught? Or until your brother and the King return?"
"What do you suggest we do instead," Sherlock questioned. "Hide until helps comes?"
John took in a sharp breath and his jaw tightened.
"Some of us didn't have a choice in that matter," he saw gruffly.
Sherlock lowered his head slightly, his grip tightening on the wood of his bow.
"That wasn't meant as an insult, John," he said. "You all did what you had to."
His companion made a low noise in his throat and nodded, apparently accepting the apology. Sherlock had contemplated the very worries John voiced, of course. They couldn't go on as they had been forever, but for the time being it was the only way he could think to be a thorn in Moriarty's side while simultaneously improving the lives of the residents of Huntingdon. It was worth it to watch the castle household scramble to deal with a small band of outcasts hiding in the forest.
"It's been fun, you must admit," he said with a smile.
"It's been all right," John said somewhat reluctantly.
Sherlock gave a small laugh.
A moment later, both men focused on the road below as they heard the sound of horses and a carriage rumbling towards them. As he suspected, Moran had taken the lead of the caravan, looking smart and self-important on his mount. He was followed by two mounted guards and a small wagon being driven by a sleepy, red-nosed servant. Sherlock quickly took stock of the contents of the wagon – a few trunks, most likely loaded with clothing and personal items, a sack or two of dried goods, and a thinly disguised money box.
Exactly on cue, Lestrade and two of the women from the camp wandered down the road from the opposite direction. Lestrade had pulled his hood carefully over his head, giving him an effective enough disguise without looking suspicious, and the ladies had fashioned somber gowns out of scraps of fabric from around the camp. The little group looked appropriately pious.
"Good sir," Lestrade said upon approaching Moran. "My companions and I have been traveling for many days. Would you be so kind as to spare a few farthings – enough for a meal or two until we reach our destination?"
Moran reined his horse to a stop and held up his hand for the others to follow suit. He looked at the three people before him as one would look at a particularly unappealing meal.
"Your church did not think to provide you with the means to travel?" he asked.
"We were delayed for a time," Lestrade offered easily. "Sadly, we ran out of our funds."
He reached for his purse and lifted it up, shaking it to emphasize the emptiness. With the signal they had agreed upon given, Sherlock and John slipped quietly out of the tree and started to move silently towards the wagon.
"We have nothing to offer in return for your generosity, I'm afraid," Lestrade continued. "But perhaps we could lift your spirits with a song."
He lifted his hands energetically and began to conduct his companions as they all broke into a rousing rendition of a minstrel tune. Moran and his guards seemed too confused to react at first, watching the spectacle before them with disbelief. Sherlock and John easily slipped behind their backs to the side of the wagon.
The servant driver caught their movement out of the corner of his eye and turned in time to see Sherlock draw an arrow back on his bow and shake his head firmly, stopping the warning cry in his throat. Sherlock stood mere feet from the man, arrow aimed steadily at his chest, and nodded at John. As quietly as possible, John lifted the money box from the back of the wagon and handed it over to one of the boys from the camp who disappeared with it back into the cover of the brush from which he had emerged. He then grabbed the two sacks of goods and slid them off the wagon, handing each to another man before nodding at Sherlock to let him know the task was complete.
Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the servant as he relaxed his bow, hearing Lestrade and the ladies coming to the end of the tune. In case the man got any funny ideas as to his safety, Sherlock pointed a finger at the trees above him. The man's eyes drifted up to see four men with their own bows and arrows pointed right back down at him.
"Enough," Moran shouted over the singing that was quickly becoming ridiculous.
He reached into his coin purse and extracted a few coins, tossing them to Lestrade. At the same moment, Sherlock tossed a small pouch of coins to the driver and placed a finger to his lips, hinting at the man's promise of silence. The man caught the pouch and made a wobbly gesture towards his own lips in agreement.
Sherlock heard Lestrade's emphatic words of thanks and saw the trio begin down the road as he slipped back into the undergrowth of the forest, moving quickly to rejoin his companions. They had hidden their horses well back in the trees and by the time he caught up to John and the rest, they had already secured their loot and were mounted. The money chest had been emptied into sacks and left hidden amongst the brambles.
"Loads of coins," John said in a low voice as Sherlock swung up into his saddle. "And best of all…" Reaching into the sack of goods laid across the pommel of his saddle, John extracted a goose by its feet. "Two of 'em! We'll eat like kings tonight, by God!"
"If we can manage it, we won't be the only ones," Sherlock told him.
John gave him a puzzled look as he stuffed the bird back into the sack, taking up his reins quickly as Sherlock heeled his horse into action. The others followed close behind. It was the part of the plan Sherlock had told to no one, knowing everyone would think him a fool for attempting it.
Waiting until they had left the confines of the forest and were firmly on the main road before spurring his horse into a run, he headed in the opposite direction of Moran's group.
"Sherlock!" John called out, his horse catching stride. "This is the road into town!"
"I am quite aware of that, John!"
As the first stone and wood structures came into sight, Sherlock secured his hunter's hat, loosened the pouch of coins tied to his saddle, and rode into town with his cape billowing behind him. The surprise on the faces of the townspeople only increased when he reached into the pouch and let a handful of coins fly onto the road as he rode by. He glanced behind him and saw to his satisfaction that the others had caught on, obviously following his lead as they opened their money pouches.
His mouth turned up into what could only be described as a proud smile as they made their loud, disruptive way through Huntingdon, distributing coins all along the way to the cheers and smiles of the townspeople. Shouts of "Down with Moriarty!" and "Long live Sherlock Holmes!" filled the streets, started by his own men and echoed by a great many people in the streets.
He'd nearly emptied his pouch by the time they rode out of the other side of town, blood flowing strongly in his body from the excitement.
"That was mad!" John cried, but his grin betrayed any chastising his voice held.
"We've one more visit to make," Sherlock called out, earning another look of surprise.
The small group of riders came to a stop outside of a tiny cottage. A lean-to stable and work area stood next to the house, filled with leather, metal, and half-finished saddles. Sherlock dismounted, handing his reins to John and telling him he would only be a moment. Walking up the dirt path to the door of the cottage, Sherlock paused for a moment and then knocked.
A greying man, stooping slightly from age but looking as cheerful as one could, answered. A wide smile immediately spread on his face.
"My Lord," he said happily.
"No more a Lord today than my horse, Peter," Sherlock told him, holding out a small leather bag he had kept tucked to his belt, filled with coins. Peter looked at him with tears in his eyes. "Your family will not suffer as long as I can help."
"Bless you, sir," Peter said, grasping Sherlock's hand and shaking it firmly. "Bless you."
John was staring at him with a look he felt decidedly uncomfortable with when he returned to his horse. It was a little too close to admiration.
"Stop it," he ordered.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me as though I did something noble," he clarified as he reined his horse onto the road again. "Anyone would have done the same."
"No, they wouldn't," John told him. "And that is the reason for my look."
It was well past midday when they all returned to the camp amidst shouts of excitement and congratulations. The triumphant riders climbed down from their horses and John pulled the geese from the sack and held them up, clearly more pleased at the prospect of dinner than anything else. The camp was infinitely more impressed by the remaining coins and jewels that they had left after their ride through town. Bill appeared out of nowhere and took Sherlock's horse, leading it to the paddock.
Accepting a tankard of ale from Lestrade, who looked to be enjoying his second and the company of his female cohorts from earlier, he turned to get out of the way of the fuss and his eyes landed on the smiling face of Molly looking up at him. She was seated on a log, her creamy yellow skirts arranged primly around her. She looked quickly down at her clasped hands when he caught her eye, then back up at him, her mouth closing into a coy smile.
Blinking rapidly, Sherlock felt his thoughts halt. Not much in his life had ever caused the incessant flow of thoughts to slow down, much less stop. The good luck of his birth status allowed him to divert his attention with learning and knowledge and idling away the time with experiments and the physical exertion of riding and archery. He'd never expected to feel the calming sensation of a subdued mind from the sight of Margaretta Hooper.
He was robbed of any chance to think further on the moment when John's arm landed around his shoulder, pulling him towards a large fire where a spit was already being erected for cooking the birds. People demanded to be regaled with the story of the day while women plucked feathers and gathered what spices they had.
By the time the sun had gone down and the moon appeared as a faint image in the darkening sky, the crisp, golden flesh of the geese had disappeared and the ale had inspired a few people to pull out instruments and start a round of song and dance. Those not dancing were reclining around the fire or had found someone that appealed to them and wandered into the privacy of shadows.
Sherlock noticed that John and Mary were amongst those absent from view.
Finding himself finally left alone, his eyes began to wander over the faces of those around him until they landed on the one he sought. She stood slightly apart, watching the revelers from under the branches of a tree, a contented smile on her face.
Moving without hurry, Sherlock wandered to her side and couldn't help but notice the way she stood a little straighter in his presence, her hands busy with the hem of her sleeve. Nervous, or perhaps excited.
"You seem quite comfortable, Molly," he observed. "Not too much of a shock being away from the luxuries of the castle?"
"The luxuries are not my preferred way of living," she told him. "I would trade it for a night sleeping in my father's barn, listening to a new lamb call from a bed of straw any day."
"How you spent many a spring, if I recall correctly."
Molly nodded and silence fell between them. He was acutely aware that it was up to him to fill that silence.
"Have you seen the brook?" he asked foolishly, internally wincing at his own inabilities. He should have paid a bit more attention when his tutor had tried to make him learn of the poets and singers with their lilting words of love.
"Yes," Molly said with a demure smile and a glance down at her hands. "But not in the moonlight."
She had apparently paid very close attention. She always was a more attentive student than he.
He nodded, rooted to the spot for a moment or two before finding his legs and leading them away from the frivolity around the campfire. The cool air of the night became a bit clearer as they neared the banks of the brook, though it was still tinged with the smell of smoke and cooked goose. Prevailing was the scent of damp earth and moss, the trickle of the water over cobbles a soothing sound after the din of the party.
Upon reaching the water's edge, Sherlock leaned on his forearm against the rough bark of an oak tree, watching Molly move towards the bank out of the corner of his eye. One of the young women in camp must have taken it upon themselves to style her hair – it had been loosed from its veil and brushed out, with two delicate braids overlaying the tresses and joined in the back. It was an enchanting look, especially in the woods in the moonlight.
And when exactly did he start to find things – Molly – to be enchanting? He never had need of anything enchanting before. He could acknowledge the special place she seemed to hold in his heart without resorting to language that was better reserved for tales of chivalry and ladies who gave knights their kerchiefs before battle. Those stories were always trite and empty.
Molly was…real. So very real.
And she had been waiting for him all this time.
The gypsy's words had been right – Molly hadn't found her way to him before he'd been sent off, but he was starting to think she was quite present now.
He was drawn to her. If their world was right and he had the luxury of his title and his home, he knew what the proper proceedings would be – a brief courtship before a decadent wedding. However, they were currently residing in the forest with a band of well-intentioned thieves, momentarily enjoying the absence of an insane usurper. Proper proceedings were somewhat out of the question.
Pushing away from the tree, Sherlock joined her as she stood staring into the dark, glinting water.
"Do you still disapprove of my actions?" he asked her. "Or can we finally agree that it all might be somewhat respectable?"
Molly turned her head and peered at him, the corner of her mouth turning up in a smile.
"I can agree that my disapproval is dimming," she said, teasing. "I do not know that I can agree as to your respectability."
"How so?" he asked, giving her a gentle smile in return.
"Wandering unchaperoned with a maiden by moonlight?" she said. "Highly questionable."
"Why Lady Margaretta, I'm amazed at the insinuation," he replied, turning to gesture through the trees at the celebration only two dozen paces from their current position. "With a whole band of companions only a shout away."
"They are very fond of you," Molly said, diverting their thinly veiled words. "And I suspect, despite your fussing, that you have a soft spot for them as well."
"What makes you so sure about that?"
She surprised him, reaching out to grasp the edges of his green cape and pulling it forward to let her fingers glide along the smooth fabric. It was a startlingly intimate gesture, even given the fact that he had happened upon her chambers twice in recent days and felt her lips on his cheek.
"You haven't removed your cape all evening," she said, giving him a knowing look.
The temptation of her wit and the lure of her warm eyes and honey-brown hair finally got the better of him. Placing a crooked finger beneath her chin, he leaned down hesitantly, waiting for any sign that he had made an error in judgment. When she made no move to pull away, her eyes locked steadily with his, he leaned further and finally felt the press of her lips against his. It was a soft, delightful feeling he instantly wanted more of. Not wishing to upset her in any way, Sherlock pulled away after a few moments had passed, looking down on her face, her eyes closed, lips parted and turned up in a small smile.