Molly had never kissed anyone before. Not a proper kiss, as a grown woman with someone she felt she might truly love. The incident with Tom, the baker's son, when she was eleven years of age did not count in her mind. She'd agreed to a kiss on the cheek in exchange for a sweet cake, and at the last moment he'd turned his head and stolen a kiss. She'd slapped him silly, of course, refusing to talk to him, even in polite company, for years.

Feeling Sherlock's lips against hers made her feel entirely different, as though delightful little ripples of water were rolling under her skin. She felt her heart skip away in her chest and, to her wonderment and slight embarrassment, she felt a warmth spread through her belly. Unlike many girls she knew, she had not been kept in the dark as to the relations between a married man and woman. Helping in her father's practice had ensured she collected a good deal of knowledge about the human body. Spending time with the ladies James chose to house in the castle had enlightened her to more colorful gossip and if they only knew how she felt with Sherlock's mouth pressed to hers she was certain they would laughingly approve.

All too soon, the moment was over, though she couldn't keep the smile from her face despite the disappointment. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him, seeing him more gentle and unburdened than she had in years.

They weren't a proper match. He was a high born lord and she was a physician's daughter, raised on farm. At the moment, she found she didn't care.

"You'll have to return to the castle come morning," he told her, his fingers still lightly holding her chin. "Moriarty will know what we have done and be on his way back by then. It won't do to have you missing from your chambers."

"I know," she agreed, understanding the consequences should James find out her activities.

"Mary's tent will be quite comfortable for you," Sherlock said, dropping his hand from her face and stepping to her side. His hand moved to her back, guiding her as they walked towards the encampment again, the familiarity of the gesture not bothering her in the least. "You may even have it to yourself as I believe Mary to be enjoying John's company for the night."

Molly looked up at him with wide eyes, scandalized that he would speak so freely about such a thing. By the look on his face, he seemed to have realized that he may have said too much.

"Best not to spread that to too many people," he said.

"Best not."

Most of the camp slept far past dawn, exhausted from the night of celebration and feasting. In the thin light of sunrise, Sherlock lifted Molly onto his horse before climbing on behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist to take up the reins. She smiled to herself, reveling in the feeling of his strength and the smell of him – pine and soil and rich smoke. He held her tight as they rode through the forest, carefully picking their way towards the castle.

When he helped her down a safe distance from the prying eyes of the household, along the edge of the wood, his hands stilled on her arms, keeping her from moving away.

"I don't know when we will see each other again," he told her, quite serious. "Moriarty will be beyond vengeful when he returns. I will deal with him, but I want you out of harm's way."

"It's all right," Molly said, reaching up to brush her fingers along his jaw. "I understand. If I can do anything to help…"

The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile at her offer of help and she felt his hands drop away from her arms only to wrap tightly around her waist, pulling her closer. Her head tipped up to meet him as he leaned down, accepting his mouth on hers so naturally that she almost shocked herself. Nothing she had ever felt before compared to the way she felt in his arms, as though she had belonged there all along. She let out a gasp when she felt the warmth of his tongue on her lip, the kiss becoming more than she had ever been able to imagine. She was disappointed when it became chaste again, wanting to experience more.

"You have done more to help Huntingdon than I ever could," he whispered against her lips. His eyes flicked up towards the castle. "Go now. Before the sun rises any higher."

She smiled at him and turned away, pulling her hood up as she walked along the shadows of the tall stone walls. Her skin went cold the moment she left the sunlight, feeling the oppressive threat of her situation like she never had before. Glancing over her shoulder, Molly caught sight of Sherlock standing in the cover of the trees, still as a statue. It gave her courage.

She gently pried open the door to the kitchen when she reached it, peering inside to see who was present before entering. Seeing Sally standing over the large table, rolling out the morning's bread dough, she breathed a sigh of relief and slipped quickly inside.

"He's not returned yet," Sally told her quietly, her mouth turned down. "But he will be soon. Sent a page ahead of the caravan."

Molly felt her stomach turn to stone, the warmth of the kitchen suddenly gone.

"Has anyone…did anyone notice?" she asked, her brow drawn in worry.

"No," Sally said. "But you'd best hurry to your chambers."

She followed the advice, moving quickly through the halls and up the stone steps, fortunately encountering no one. Martha was waiting for her when she entered her room, her fist lifted to her mouth as she paced the room. Her eyes widened when she looked on Molly, reaching out to embrace her.

"Oh, my dear," Martha said. "I was so worried."

"I'm quite all right," Molly reassured her. "And no one's the wiser."

"We should all pray it remains that way," the older woman told her, pulling Molly to the fireside and guiding her into a chair. "You rest. I'll fill your wash basin and find you a clean gown. Oh, you smell like a fire!"

Molly couldn't repress the giggle at Martha's concern, thinking of how her father used to chastise her for coming home with mud caking her shoes and grass in her hair. 'You smell like a wood spirit!' he used to say. 'Like the wind, girl.'

Though she had to admit, the change of clothing did feel better.

The day passed quietly and she kept to her chambers, mending a few garments that needed attention. When night fell, the household became active, the air thick with tension as they awaited Moriarty's return. Hours after the first torches had been lit, Molly heard the rumble of hooves and wagons in the distance. She put down her thread and needle, walking slowly to her window to see the caravan moving along the main road towards the gates. They had traveled with great haste to return so swiftly.

Her heart thudded in her chest as her eyes landed on Moriarty riding behind his guards, the coat of his mount shining in the torchlight. Even from the distance of her window, she could see the look on his face – angry and murderous. Sherlock had been right. This time would be different.

When Sherlock returned to the camp, he felt a restlessness that would not leave him. John teased that it had to do with a certain maiden with long brown hair, but Sherlock knew Molly was not the cause of his unrest. He felt sure about Molly, thoughts of her steadying his mind. Something else was plaguing him. Without a word to his friends, he stood up and walked from the camp, heading into the forest without direction.

He knew they needed to think of a plan once Moriarty made his presence known again, something entirely different than what he had been playing at in previous days. Moriarty and his men had killed before. They had tortured and punished those who had failed to pay, failed to respect a leader they did not believe in. The people of Huntingdon were slowly turning to Sherlock's side, but he did not know if they were willing to fight as he surely knew they must in order to defeat Moriarty.

Sitting upon a rock by the stream, he lost all sense of time, only realizing the day was over when he looked up and saw stars dotting the black sky. Even then, he stayed put, staring at the moonlight reflecting off of the water and thinking of Moriarty.

The man was vain and power hungry with a hundred guards and soldiers at his beck and call in Huntingdon alone. He was not above taking any slight to his vanity out on innocent people. But the tides were turning against him and the people had grown tired of his rule. That was Sherlock's advantage.

The first birds were singing by the time he left his spot by the water, making his way back to camp in the cold light of dawn. The fires had burned down to glowing embers, a few tendrils of smoke curling up from the pits. He knelt by his tent, reaching for his water skin and taking a long drink, watching the few people who were awake starting their daily tasks and stoking embers into cooking fires.

The quiet was broken abruptly by a cry of anguish not ten paces from where he was. His eyes shot over to the source, his whole body freezing when he realized it was John's tent.

Mary came stumbling from between the flaps of fabric, her cheeks pale as she searched the faces around her frantically.

"John?" she cried, not caring that her tunic flowing loose around her bare legs was revealing every secret she had struggled to keep about her real identity. "Oh God, Sherlock, where is he?"

"What's happened?" Lestrade asked, staggering out of his nearby tent and rubbing his eyes.

"He's gone, John's gone," she said, near panic, as she held up her hand for Sherlock to see, palm upturned. Her fingertips were red. "There's blood…on the blankets."

Sherlock stepped past her, walking quickly towards the tent and flinging the flaps aside. Amidst the blankets and furs, he could see a small patch of blood near where John would have laid his head. He crawled into the tent, studying the ground at the back. The skins that had been placed down as a mat were mussed and dirtied, the back of the tent ripped open and hanging loose. He crawled back out, hurrying around to the back and looking at the ground.

"He was dragged out," he said, pointing to the marks in the dirt leading off towards to brambles.

"Why didn't he fight?" Mary asked. "Why didn't he try to wake me?"

"Perhaps they threatened your life," Sherlock said, still busy looking at the disturbances on the ground and where they led. "There were two of them…others waiting,"

"What does this mean?" Lestrade asked.

"It means that Moriarty is back," Sherlock told them, feeling anger boil up in him. "And he knows where we are. Tell everyone to pack their things. We need to move."

While Lestrade turned to spread the word that they were no longer safe, Mary grabbed Sherlock's arm, forcing him to look at her.

"What will they do with him?" she said, her voice breaking.

"He won't do anything with John until he knows he has my attention," Sherlock said, watching the rapidly quickening movements of the members of the camp as they began to break down tents and pack their things. "That's all he wants…to draw me out."

"Was Molly followed after all?"

"Doubtful. They were waiting for me to go to her," he said with a growl. "They have gone too far with this. Moriarty will pay…"

In the great hall of the castle, soldiers were seated and shouting with laughter as they drank and ate their fill. Knights looked down on them as they enjoyed their meals, eating with superiority and turning interested eyes on the ladies seated at high tables. Music was playing and dogs barked, begging for scraps. It was the feast all over again, a celebration of success and opulence.

Molly felt sick to her stomach, wishing she had not given away all of her herbs that soothed such an ailment. Sebastian Moran had come to her chambers himself to collect her for dinner. There had been no opportunity to decline as her presence had been ordered.

Ordered.

She'd never been order to do anything in her entire time as James' ward. Strongly requested on multiple occasions, but never ordered.

She watched the scene unfolding before her as she realized the change that was happening. Her seat at James' left hand might as well have been a shackle clamped onto her wrists. The head table had been her place in the castle for feasts before, but the coveted seat of Lady of the house was one she had never desired; she'd feared it. And now she was in it.

Sally had come to her chambers during the afternoon to tell her that John had been taken and was being held in the cells. Molly had been wracked with guilt and terror.

"How did they find them?" she whispered.

"It wasn't you," Sally had assured her. "They have no idea you were gone, I promise you. This I know for certain."

If anyone could be sure of the workings of the castle, it was Sally, but it did little to ease Molly's mind. Perhaps there had been guards stationed in the woods or on the road the young cook did not know about, or perhaps Sherlock had been seen, or –

"My Lady Margaretta," James crooned, startling her from her thoughts. "You look so very far away. Not worried for our dear prisoner, are you?"

Molly could only stare at him, afraid to speak for fear her tongue would run away from her and insult him. James laughed at her stricken expression.

"Don't worry," he said. "No harm shall befall him if Sherlock does what I ask. You should eat something, you look pale."

"I'm not hungry, my Lord," she said quietly. After a moment, she gathered her bravery. "What will you ask of Sherlock?"

"To die, of course," James said simply, spearing a cutting of pork from his plate and inspecting it before popping it into his mouth.

Her throat tightened so much she was afraid she would stop breathing.

"You're going to kill him," she said, feeling faint.

"Oh no, not just kill him," James said, chewing thoughtfully. "I'm going to destroy him first. Starting with John Watson."

"Why?" she demanded, finding her voice through her fear somehow.

"Why does a cat play with a mouse before he eats it?"

It took all her strength to contain her anger and keep her hands from shaking in her lap.

To her horror, he reached out and ran his finger along the cuff of her dress sleeve, making her shudder. If anyone in their present company still had the decency to be offended by his too-familiar gesture, they did nothing to express their displeasure or come to her rescue.

"The rose color is lovely on you, Margaretta," James murmured. "But I look forward to seeing you in white."