It had never been hard for Sherlock to drown out his surroundings, ignoring the incessant noise and lives of those around him and focusing on a single problem, be it in his mind or otherwise. It became significantly easier to do so when the problem he was focusing on was John Watson waiting to be led up to the gallows platform in the town square.
Moriarty had no interest in John, no bit of vengeance to carry out on the man currently shackled and on display in a cart. It had always been about pulling Sherlock out of hiding, making him face Moriarty for whatever twisted plan the man had. And it had worked. Once Sherlock had caught wind of the plan to hang John, he knew they would have to play Moriarty's game in order to save him. He would not let John die because of his own taunting actions against the castle. It was an elaborate scheme to save him, but Sherlock had the support of his group behind him, working their way into town just as the crowds began to gather for the event. Huntingdon hadn't had a hanging since before Mycroft took the title of Lord, and it was possible the people would get to see two if things went wrong – there were notices posted everywhere for Sherlock's capture, dead or alive, with a sizeable reward. It was likely that a few members of the town would think nothing of claiming that reward.
Sherlock watched every movement of the executioners, overseen by Moran, but his eyes flicked to Moriarty every few seconds. Surrounded by guards, of course, and with Molly at his side as they sat on a specially constructed platform to watch the proceedings. The whole town had turned out, no doubt wanting to see if Sherlock Holmes would come to the rescue. However, as they were waiting for the statuesque man in his fine clothes and green cape and hunting cap, not one of them noticed the stooped figure in a linen tunic, tattered trousers, and a wide-brimmed farmers hat, holding the reins of a sorry looking mare carrying bundles of goods. He still kept his head down as much as possible to avoid rousing the crowd before he had a chance to stop the hanging.
When one of the executioners made for the cart and roughly pulled John down to the ground, Sherlock's senses focused even more, his body tensing as he watched. One hand slid along the pack on his horse, his fingers itching to pull the bow and quiver from under the blanket. The slow increase of noise from the crowd faded away and he watched every movement of the people on the platform – placing John over the trapdoor, checking the knots of the rope, slipping the rope over John's head and tightening it around his neck. Sherlock's fingers closed around the wood of his bow, every single muscle taught and ready. Words were being spoken by one of the executioners, but he didn't hear any of it. He watched Moran wrap his hand around the lever of the trapdoor, saw the muscles tighten as his arm prepared to pull it down. In the few seconds that it took to pull the lever, Sherlock yanked his bow from under the blanket, knocked an arrow and sent it flying over the heads of the crowd. The commotion turned to a collected gasp as the arrow sliced through the hanging rope, lodging in the wood frame, just as the trapdoor collapsed and John fell through to the ground.
It took only a moment before complete bedlam erupted. Guards leaped down from Moriarty's platform and rushed towards him, held back by the angry crowd that chose that moment to let their support for Sherlock surge through. Through it all, he could see Bill darting underfoot to get to John, the tools in his hand to release him from the shackles. Mary was nearby along with a dozen others from the camp, fighting to get John away, but Sherlock lost sight of them as people started running in every direction, either trying to escape the violence or join it.
Sherlock shoved the false bundles from the back of the horse and swung himself up, the hat falling from his head as he did so, and pointed the mare towards Moriarty's platform. The man himself was in a rage, pointing towards Sherlock and shouting at his guards to kill him.
Let them try, Sherlock thought with a smile, driving his heels into the mare's side and holding tight to the reins as she bolted forwards. People dashed out of the way as the horse thundered into the fray. He could see Moriarty's eyes widen, his hand reaching for his own sword with a hesitation that showed how much he despised doing any of the work himself. Better than that, he saw Molly's smile as she slipped closer to the edge of the platform, anticipating his next move with perfect clarity.
Quick as lightening, Sherlock dropped the reins, took up his bow, and sent arrows into the two guards rushing towards him, not bothering to see if they dropped to the ground. He reached Molly a moment later and offered his help as she hitched up her skirts and made a bold leap onto the horse. He barely made sure she was settled in front of him before drawing his bow once more and turning it on Moriarty just as the man was striding towards them, sword half drawn.
"If you loose that arrow, Sherlock, every last one of your friends will be slaughtered before the day is done," Moriarty snarled.
"You seem determined to do so no matter the state of your mortality," Sherlock replied.
"You know, I'm almost disappointed in you," Moriarty said as he drew the sword fully from its sheath, the blade glinting in the sunlight. "So very noble of you, running to save your friend and rescue the woman whom – dare I say it – you love. It's almost saint-like. Where is the man of logic I sent to die in the war?"
Before Moriarty could take more than two steps towards them, Sherlock released the bowstring and watched in satisfaction as the arrow made a home in Moriarty's thigh. His cry of anguish was lost amongst the continuing shouts of the fighting crowd and Sherlock wrapped his arm tightly around Molly's waist, his other hand taking up the reins again and driving the mare away without looking back.
Part of him felt guilty for riding away from the chaos he had caused, but there was little he could do. His own band was nowhere near strong enough to take on the castle, to choose that moment to try to regain control of Huntingdon, even with the support of the town. Much more would be needed for that – and soon.
"Sherlock, where are we going?" Molly asked, her small hands holding tight to the mare's mane as they rode across the hills and towards the forest.
"The place where we will find out if everything went to plan," he told her. "We agreed upon it before coming to town. If all is well, Bill will find us."
It wasn't long before Sherlock brought the horse to a stop in a clearing near a brook, climbing down before helping Molly to dismount. He paused, bringing a hand to her cheek as his eyes glanced over her.
"You're unhurt?" he asked. She nodded, lifting her hand to cover his. "Good," he said, leaning down to press a kiss to her brow and then stepping away. He pointed towards a hollow log not far off. "There's food and supplies hidden in there, if you are in need. Use it sparingly, I'm not sure how long we'll need to stay here."
He turned, intent on keeping an eye out for Bill, but stopped at the feeling of Molly's fingers grasping the sleeve of his linen shirt. Her brow was drawn down and her eyes were solemn.
"I'm not going back, Sherlock," she said firmly. At his curious expression, she went on. "I want to stay with you…whatever happens. I'm not going back to that place. Not going back to him."
"I wouldn't dream of it," he told her.
He meant it. He knew that she was no longer safer hidden away in the castle, under Moriarty's watchful eye but generally left alone. There was no limit to what Moriarty would do for revenge after what Sherlock had done that day.
When Bill eventually came tromping through the trees, looking slightly worse for wear, but otherwise unharmed, Sherlock learned exactly how vengeful Moriarty was.
"Did the others make it?" he asked immediately.
"Yes, sir," the boy told him, trying to catch his breath. "All went to the parts of the wood you told them to. Only a few injured. But sir…"
Bill hesitated, shifting on his feet and looking at the ground.
"Whatever it is, out with it," Sherlock ordered.
"Moriarty, he says…you see, they arrested a great many people…he says he's going to kill a prisoner every day until you are brought to justice for your crimes. Dead or alive," Bill said with a shaking voice.
"What else?" Sherlock prodded.
Bill swallowed hard, looking as though it physically pained him to give the information.
"The reward is higher if you are dead, sir," he said meekly.
Sherlock's lip twitched, though he could hardly feel surprised. Moriarty was a murderous villain and had killed for less in the past. He looked away from Bill, his gaze directed hazily towards the trees surrounding the clearing.
Wanted dead or alive.
There were few who knew the forest and the land well enough to track him. It would be easy to slip away and escape, but that wasn't a choice. He would have the blood of those in jail on his hands. The only way to save them was to handle the situation himself, though he knew that the moment he stepped foot on castle grounds he would be clapped in irons, very probably killed before long. He was worth more dead than alive. Moriarty was proud and a show-off, he would no doubt revel in parading Sherlock's body for all to see if he got the chance…
"Sherlock?"
Molly's voice reached his ears from far away and he turned his head, vaguely aware that she had stepped to his side. He looked down into her wide brown eyes.
He was worth more dead than alive.
"Be my eyes and ears in town, Bill," he said distractedly. "Report to me come daylight tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," Bill nodded, dashing back into the forest without another word.
The night was the warmest of the year so far, but Sherlock was still grateful for the fire lighting and warming their small encampment. For the better part of the late afternoon and evening, he had been thinking, working out the details of his idea and questioning over and over if it would even work. Molly had been quiet, perhaps sensing that his mind was elsewhere, though she had insisted that he eat some of the food and drink a bit of ale to keep his strength up. It was only when he noticed her starting to rig the canvas fabric he had stashed away into a shelter for the night that he realized he had been neglecting her. He'd helped her tie it up between trees and lay out a few soft pelts, noting that she had removed her wimple and veil and tied her long hair back with a string.
He watched her sitting across from him, her legs crossed under her and the firelight making the grey silk of her dress shimmer in odd ways. She was keeping herself busy, making a small pile of kindling to add to the fire as needed come morning. Always so practical and obliging.
"I need your help, Molly," he said softly.
She looked up at him, surprise written across her face.
"Are you all right?" she asked. "Are you hurt?"
"No," he assured her with a small smile, sitting up from his reclined position on the ground. "No, I need something from you. Something that will help me end Moriarty's reign for good, to restore order and peace to Huntingdon."
Molly stared at him, her eyes widening slightly as she waited for him to reveal his plan.
"You carry the honey of the rhododendron…"
"No," she said firmly.
"You do, I've seen it at Anderson's - "
"No, I mean I won't give it to you."
"It's the only way," he said, spreading his hands in front of him as he explained. "A small amount ingested…it slows the heart, dulls the mind -"
"It could kill you if we get it wrong," she said desperately. In the firelight, he could see her eyes glistening.
"But if we get it right," he said emphatically, "I could be turned over to the castle, given up for dead…I would be free to take Moriarty by surprise when I wake up."
"If you wake up," she told him, standing up and brushing the bits of dust and leaves from her gown. "I won't do it. I won't play with your life like that."
Sherlock jumped up, reaching out to take hold of her wrist before she could turn away from him.
"You're the only one that can help me, Molly," he pleaded, taking her hands in his. "You know the properties of the plant better than anyone, you must do this…to save them."
The words struck a chord in her, he could see that clearly enough. He could also see how much she hated him for appealing to her conscience, knowing that many innocent people would die if they didn't try to do something. Her fingers tightened around his hands.
"I don't want to lose you," she whispered. "I love you, Sherlock."
Her declaration stunned him and he tried foolishly to find the words to return the feeling, failing miserably and settling instead for pulling her to him, pressing his mouth to hers in a desperate kiss. Molly held onto the front of his tunic with trembling hands, her lips yielding and hungry beneath his, clamoring for a way to be closer, to feel more, just as he was. It was warming his blood, sending it pumping with a vigor he'd never quite felt before, and he wrapped an arm tight around her waist, the other hand dipping into her hair to keep her lips against his, his body utterly taking control from his mind. Their kisses became deep, exploring in ways he was certain Molly had never done before in her life, but she only let out a happy little moan and let him guide their actions.
He felt her hands travel over the linen of his tunic, light as a feather and hesitant as they descended, fingers curling into the fabric and pulling it from his trousers. He broke away from her mouth, his hands reaching for hers to still her movements and feeling horribly self-conscious at the tightening of his trousers. His lips were tingling…his whole body was tingling. When he looked at her, his guilt grew as he realized she was gazing wide-eyed at the bulge beneath the fabric.
"I…Molly, I…"
The words stuck in his throat, unable to explain to her.
"I'm a Physician's daughter," she told him quickly, her eyes snapping up to meet his. "I know the origin of a babe."
Sherlock swallowed.
"Reading it in a book and knowing are two different things," he said, his voice low.
"And what if I want to know?" she asked quietly, her hand reaching up to brush against his cheek.
His cock strained even more at her words, but his mind was still winning for the moment, reminding him that Molly was not a bar wench sent to ease his body the night before battle. She would face true, shattering shame if it was ever found out, if he did not return to take her to wife like he should.
"Molly, what you're asking… if I don't return, if it's known what we've done..."
If you leave her with a child, his mind warned him, the fear of it overwhelming.
"My heart would beat for no other man if you did not come back to me," she told him seriously, her eyes never leaving his. "And I do not wish to die a maid."
He did not know what to do, and so for several moments did nothing. Then he felt the gentle tug of her hand and she was leading him to their little shelter between the trees, following her as she lowered herself to the pelts. They knelt, facing each other, with the dancing light from the fire illuminating everything with a golden glow. He watched her hands reach out once again to take hold of his tunic, slowly lifting the hem until he was forced to raise his arms and allow her to slip the cloth from his body. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt nervous to have another person looking upon him bare-chested, but he waited anxiously for some reaction from her, good or bad.
He sucked in a breath when she leaned forward, placing a kiss over his heart and running her fingers over his skin. Nerves left him and he placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her upright and into another kiss, his hands gliding over the curves of her body and sliding along the silk fabric of her gown.
She wanted to be his. She wanted to let him be with her and he suddenly realized he, too, wanted that, more than anything else in the world.
His fingers fell over the ties of her lacing just at the crest of her back and he gingerly tugged at the cords until they fell loose. He dropped his mouth to the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, as his fingers continued to work at the lacings, pulling at them as his hands traveled further and further down her back. A shiver went through her body when he eventually reached the end, fingers drifting over the curve of her backside as the dress was finally loosed. He pulled back to look at her as he tugged the silk away from her shoulders, revealing the light chemise below. Her eyes were locked on his as she helped him pull the gown over her hips, sitting back for a moment to let him slip it completely off.
Sherlock took advantage of her reclined position, moving over her and settling to the side of her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin chemise. Her skin was practically glowing in the firelight, her lips swollen from his kisses.
"I will live for you, Molly," he said softly, placing a gentle kiss to her mouth. "I promise."
She took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her, and he had the distinct impression that she was trying to burn his face to memory, her eyes darting over him with intensity. Then she pulled him down and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to press his chest to hers.
Molly could barely breath, so overwhelmed with the feeling of Sherlock kissing her, his strong body covering hers, the thought of what she would have to do once the sun rose… she pushed the last thought away, not wanting anything to sully the moment. She only wanted to know the pleasure of being with him.
Every touch was like lightening, so new and wonderful. She could feel his hand sliding down over her hip, across her thigh, then jumping over to the leg nearer to him and trailing back up under her knee…pulling her leg up into a crooked position…fingers traveling higher, under her chemise. She was shaking, she knew, but it was far more from pleasure than fear.
"Molly," he murmured in her ear. "Have you ever… practiced?"
For a moment, she wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but when she realized, she felt her skin grow even hotter than it already was, sure she had turned crimson. It wasn't something that was usually talked about, even if she had heard the other ladies at the castle uttering words that surely implied…
"S-sometimes," she confessed, slightly breathless. She recalled times when she'd pressed her thighs together just a bit too tightly as she sat, or let her hand slip down to the apex of her legs when she lay in bed at night, the pressure bringing her a light, aching pleasure that was never quite satisfied. Her skin flushed even more at the thought.
"I don't ask to embarrass you," Sherlock assured her, his lips trailing over the skin below her ear. "Only to make sure that I'm not about to shock you."
So distracted by her own mortification, she'd failed to realize his hand had found its way to the top of her thigh and in the next moment he placed one finger gently along her folds, tracing the edges with a feather light touch. Her muscles tensed for a moment before the wonderful sensation of what he was doing took over and she let out a sigh, a small smile playing at her lips. He was terribly careful with her, slowly working his finger inwards. Molly could feel her flesh pulsing and moisture pooling between her legs, unlike anything she'd ever felt before. When his finger dipped into her center and dragged up to her little mound of flesh, her eyes shut tightly and she let out a small cry.
"Did I hurt you?" Sherlock asked, pausing.
"No," she answered hurriedly, wanting him to continue. "No, not at all. I just, I didn't know it could feel so…"
"Good?" he offered, a small smile of pride gracing his face.
Molly nodded in agreement, still almost at war with herself for how she felt. She'd heard a myriad of rumors in her life about 'wifely duties' and the type of women who enjoyed sharing a bed with a man. But she decided that if being with a man could feel this magnificent, there was no earthly reason she could want it to be any other way.
It could have been minutes or an hour that she lay there, feeling his fingers coax pleasure out of her that she didn't know existed. Her breath grew ragged and when he gently slipped a finger inside of her, her hips rose up to meet him with hardly a thought on her part. She felt him pull at the straps of her chemise, tugging it down to expose her breasts before lowering his head to take her flesh into his mouth. Her hands went to his head, fingers tangling in his soft curls while the pressure built in her body, finally cresting in a wave of pleasure that made her shudder against him, holding onto him until it stopped.
Sherlock's hand slipped away from her and he let her rest against him while she caught her breath. Somewhere in her mind, she wondered where he had learned to do what he did…but the thought was fleeting and hardly concerned her. From what she'd heard from other women, she was lucky that he was being tender with her at all, especially considering she'd never been with a man before.
When he shifted against her, she was reminded that what she had just experienced was not the end. It was hard to imagine that there could be more, that she could feel more than she already had.
Molly slid her hands down the smooth skin of his back until she reached the edge of his trousers. His hands came down to join hers, pushing at the fabric and freeing himself of the clothing.
In her many years of helping her father, Molly had seen her fair share of male bodies, but never had she seen one so…well, so functional. Or appealing. It was both terrifying and exciting, knowing what was to happen. For she did know – she understood the mechanics of how it all worked, probably more so than most unmarried women her age. But as Sherlock had said, there was knowing and then there was knowing.
She was ready to know.
Sitting up slightly, she grabbed the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head, leaving her completely bared to him.
Fighting the urge to avoid his eyes, she sat there on the bed of pelts as his eyes raked over her, his hands reaching out to tenderly run over the body now exposed to him. Her heart started pounding as he leaned in to kiss her, pressing her back into the cushion of furs below and nudging her legs apart to settle against her. She could feel him, and her body instinctively arched towards him, wanting.
With a gently thrust of his hips, Sherlock pushed ever so slightly into her and Molly gasped, her hands clutching his back. Her body burned, but overriding the twinge of pain was the delightful pulsing, the need for more of him. Slowly, he filled her, pausing every few moments to allow her body to accept the newness until she felt the press of his hips against her own. Now, she could feel him shaking above her as he braced his weight on his arms, his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat.
"Are you all right, Molly?" he asked, his voice rough and strained.
"Yes," she whispered, peering up into his eyes to let him see the truth of her answer.
She held onto him as he moved inside her, his head dropping to the curve of her neck as his heart pounded a rhythm against her body. She knew he was trying to be careful, but eventually the desire became too strong and he moved against her with greater ferocity, his whole body seeming to convulse as he pressed deep inside of her, his warm seed spilling into her. With his arms wrapped strongly around her, all she could do was try to catch her breath, reveling in the sensations of being with him.
When his breathing had finally slowed, Sherlock slowly pushed himself up, leaving her suddenly chilly in the night air and strangely sad at the loss of their connection. He reached for a wool blanket and draped it over their bodies, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her close.
Molly closed her eyes, feeling his breath even out as he drifted into slumber, and prayed to a deity she wasn't even sure existed.
Please…please let him live. Let him come back to me…