Happy birthday to my sweet friend, broomclosetkink! I hope you have a wonderful, restful day and that someone (or many someones, as you deserve) brings you cake! This was written very hastily, so who knows what stunning errors lurk in its midst. Sorry about that.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, most especially not Sherlock. The title of this fic is from Dorothy L. Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey series (the first book to feature Harriet Vane. Everyone should read it).

Strong Poison

London, 1926

...

Molly Hooper stood over the body of her neighbor, frowning and pondering just how little the man's death grieved her.

In fact, she was glad he was dead.

If she'd not had trouble sleeping, Molly would have missed the frantic knocking on her front door. Lucky, that, since there was no way anyone on her household staff would have fetched her, otherwise.

When she rushed down the stairs to the foyer, tying her dressing gown as she descended, she called out to Quimby, explaining to the ruffled man that there was no reason to send their late night visitor away.

Ida Pewtrie flung herself into Molly's surprised arms, weeping hysterically and babbling incoherently. Molly could only rub the other woman's back soothingly and make comforting noises while she tired to decipher her speech, feeling a damp patch growing on her shoulder.

Molly froze when she finally caught two words, and realized they were the only two issuing from Ida's mouth: "He's dead. He's dead. He's dead."

Pushing gently on Ida's shoulders, Molly tried to meet her eyes. "What, Ida? Who is dead?"

"Wilfred. He's dead," Ida sobbed, covering her tearful, splotchy face as she shuddered with her tears.

"What happened?" Molly asked her urgently.

At this, Ida suddenly stilled. Slowly, she lowered her hands and looked despairingly back at Molly. Tears continued to pool and splash down her face and she shuddered from her previous, sobbing fit, but she met Molly's eyes in spite of her distress. "Please. Help me," she whispered.

If she hadn't known what to look for, Molly would have thought that Wilfred Pewtrie had died from a bad, stomach flu. He'd vomited profusely recently, and the foul odor coming from the commode indicated other, digestive complaints, as well.

But the obvious convulsions told another story. He'd finally expired in a cramped, fetal curl, and his muscles were quickly stiffening in that pose. Molly was sure if she looked in the noxious bedside commode, she would see blood, from both the stool and the urine.

Instead, she turned briskly to Ida. The other woman stood on the other side of her husband's deathbed, gnawing on a knuckle with chattering teeth.

"Where is it?" Molly asked, disrupting the tense silence.

Ida started, jerking her hand from her mouth and looking at Molly in alarm. "Where is what?"

"You know."

Staring at Molly in silence, Ida didn't move, until, with a stiff nod, she made her way over to the fireplace. Lifting a music box from its place on the mantle, she withdrew a powder packet and hurried back across the floor, thrusting it at Molly.

"Is this all?" Molly asked, thumbing open the envelope and studying what little remained inside.

"Yes. I ga—he ate most of it this morning."

"All right. We need to clean him up. The chamber pot must be cleaned. Which would you rather to do?"

With a curled lip, Ida looked back at Molly, fire suddenly sparking in her eyes. "I'd rather handle a pot full of shit every day than ever touch that man again."

If she meant to shock Molly with her coarse language, she would be disappointed. Instead, Molly simply nodded. "Hurry, then. We have to call Wilfred's physician in the next fifteen minutes."

Ida blanched. "Call—you said you'd help me."

"And I am helping you. How would it look if you never even tried to get him help? No, Ida. You're going to call Doctor Smith and explain that your husband's been fighting Gastroenteritis for the past two days, and you didn't realize he wasn't just sleeping deeply. You came to get me, and I informed you that he's dead." Ida started trembling again, but Molly only shook her head. "These next few minutes are dire, Ida. Collect yourself while you clean the pot, but know that this is the only chance we have. You're going to have to put on one hell of a show."

An inquest was standard procedure for any unattended death. And though Molly had told Ida that Wilfred's physician would be the biggest challenge to overcome, she'd not been entirely honest. Or she'd lied by omission simply by hoping she'd be wrong. But she hadn't been.

The biggest challenge was now making his way up the front steps of the Pewtrie townhouse, ignoring all of the other people milling around, though he did appear to be listening to something his employer was telling him as they disappeared under the front porch's awning.

She bit off a curse as she looked down to the ground level from between a crack in the bedroom curtains.

By the time Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade came into the room, Molly had only barely steeled herself. She wasn't sure how to greet them in this context. Particularly as she struggled to keep one eye on Ida Pewtrie.

He looked no different from the last time they'd met. Though she'd last seen him in a waning, autumn light, he was dressed just as impeccably in the winter dark of the earliest morning hours. His hair was neatly combed and secured with pomade, and his face was as alert as his clothes were crisp.

He was beautiful. And he looked no different from the last time they'd met, when they'd said goodbye, presumably forever.

Sherlock had to have known that this was Molly's neighbor. But still, his lack of surprise as Lestrade called over to her nearly had worry biting the pit of her belly.

Worry… and a keening ache as she looked at the man after so much time spent away from his company.

For his part, he was as cool as ever. His light eyes flitted over her, as assessing as ever. His face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking.

"Hello, Detective Inspector, Mr. Holmes," she greeted, hoping her face echoed Sherlock's. "Thank you for coming. It's so early."

"This was how you found him?" Sherlock asked instead of responding. Lestrade offered her a feeble wave in apology and greeting and turned to look at the body, too.

Molly nodded encouragingly to Ida.

"Y-yes," Ida stuttered, straightening and clenching her hands her sides. "I had been sleeping in my room, but I came in to check on him. He was still warm when I found him, so I had no idea that he was—I know Molly had some training because of her husband, so I ran to her. She realized right away that Wilfred had—that he was dead."

"How long had he been ill?" Lestrade asked.

"Three days," Ida responded, automatically. Too automatically, but neither Lestrade nor Sherlock showed any reaction to her rushed response. Molly could only hope that, if they'd notice, they'd chalk it up to bereavement.

Sherlock sniffed, and then moved away from Wilfred Pewtrie's corpse, wandering around the room, looking bored.

Lestrade kept glancing over to him, perhaps to see if his informal partner had noticed something he, Lestrade, had missed. But Sherlock merely finished his circuit of the room and moved back to the door.

"Looks rather open-and-shut," he drawled. "Not sure why you insisted I come along, Lestrade. Gastroenteritis is a disgusting way to go, but it's hardly uncommon; especially this season."

The Inspector jotted down a few notes, muttering something about Sherlock having invited himself along, but Molly wasn't sure she hadn't misheard him. Distractedly, he put his sheaf of papers away in a pocket and nodded soberly at Ida. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pewtrie. I don't believe we'll need to involve a magistrate. Everything you've described fits in with what we've seen elsewhere over the last several weeks. Please be sure to see a doctor immediately if you begin to feel ill."

Ida collapsed onto the settee in front of the fire, bursting into fresh tears. But she nodded and choked out her gratitude.

Molly let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and thanked the men again.

Sherlock strode out of the room without another word, leaving Lestrade to bid his farewells and apologies before following suit.

As she watched Sherlock Holmes disappear from sight, Molly told herself that the stab of fierce hurt was just exhaustion.

She shivered as the chilly water washed over her, encouraging her to scrub the fresh smell of Wilfred Pewtrie's death away as quickly as possible. As soon as she was satisfied that she'd managed the task, Molly drained the tub and filled it with fresh, hot water.

Where she'd nearly spasmed in the cold water, she decided she'd happily steep like forgotten tealeaves in this warm bath. Though it was nearing four o'clock in the morning by the time she'd dragged herself back up the main staircase of her house, she not only longed to clean herself, but she also needed to ease her aching muscles.

She needed to come to terms with what she'd just done, and come to terms with just how unbothered she was by her actions.

The door of the large bathroom opened behind her. Thinking it was just her maid, Molly called over her shoulder, "I am in here, Grace. If you don't mind, I'd like to finish my bath in peace. I'll be fine dressing myself."

"I remember when you would have balked at the idea of someone dressing you. A wealthy husband certainly changed that tune," a deep, male voice spoke behind her.

The small lamp on her dressing table lit the room enough that she could only see vague shadows, but Molly wouldn't need even the light of one candle to know who'd spoken.

"What are you doing?" she asked angrily.

Sherlock Holmes stepped into the tiny halo of light. "You know why I'm here."

Not ready to admit anything, though she knew very well the reason for Sherlock's sudden presence in her bathroom, Molly folded her arms over her chest and crossed her legs. It wasn't borne of modesty. She felt like she needed a shield from his absolute knowledge of her folly.

"Arsenic." He said it without expression, and then he just waited.

"Yes," she sighed.

Nodding, Sherlock tugged off his long coat and jacket, discarding them on the vanity stool. Down to his shirt and waistcoat, he nodded and began idly rolling up the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. "I didn't need you to confirm it," he said.

"Yet you're in my bathroom before dawn."

"I know what, Molly, but I need you to tell me why," he bit out.

She ducked her head, watching a bead of water slide over her shoulder and down into the shadows between her breast and arm. "This block of houses is one of the oldest in Mayfair. Not the grandest, obviously. But even considering that, the thinness of the walls is ridiculous. I hate it."

She looked at him, and he looked back. If she didn't know him, she'd be terrified by his stony expression. But she did know him, and she felt somehow bolstered.

"They're thin enough that I hear everything. I hear the neighbor on my left and the mistress he houses there at all hours. I hear the dust carts and lorries and people shouting along the lane. And I heard the screams from my neighbors' to the left. Nearly every day."

"She favored her right side and hardly lifted her arm the entire time we were in the Pewtrie house. Congruent with a fractured rib," Sherlock murmured, burying his hands in his trouser pockets and pacing across the floor.

"Two," Molly corrected. "Five days ago, she came to my door, seeking my help. I taped her ribs and gave her a salve for the bruises. But there was nothing else I could do. She didn't want to go back to him."

"Then why did she? Why didn't she divorce him?"

Molly only looked back at him sardonically. "And then what? Where would she go? The Court hears petitions for divorce on grounds of cruelty from the husband, but how would she prove it? He was very careful. In my time working with Tom, I saw men express remorse after beating their wives, but Wilfred was a monster without even the decency to feel that after the fact. No, Sherlock, divorce was not an option for her."

"So you put yourself at risk and helped cover up the murder."

"How do you know I didn't help her murder him?" Molly challenged.

He scoffed. "Please. You'd be a far more effective criminal. There was spilt arsenic powder on the fire grate, and the chamber pot had scratches from rather exuberant, recent scrubbing. Why do the rich still insist on being so painfully lazy about toilets, by the way?"

"Everyone hates having to walk all the way to the loo in the middle of the night," she said, shrugging.

"And the smell of tepid urine as they try to return to sleep is so much better. People are idiots."

Not to be distracted, Molly dropped her guard and reached out of the tub, grabbing Sherlock's wrist as he paced by again. He paused and looked down at her hand, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

"Why did you tell Lestrade that there was no foul play?"

He pursed his lips for a moment. "Because I knew that there would be a good reason for your helping her. And even I am not so depraved that I feel no sympathy for a beaten woman."

"No," she murmured. "You're not cold at all, Sherlock."

She didn't pull her hand back, and he didn't move out of her reach.

"You look… well," he finally said, but not without a tinge of awkwardness.

Molly very nearly joked that of course he'd only say that when she was spread out naked in front of him, but she somehow doubted he'd see the humor in it.

So she only smiled a little and said, "I am."

"You haven't remarried," he said, shuffling from one foot to the other.

Feeling odd discussing her dead husband as she caressed the wrist of another man, she drew back and let her hands plop back into the water. "No, I haven't."

Slowly, Sherlock crouched down by the bathtub. He rested his forearms on the tub rim, letting his fingers dip into the water. "Why?" he asked baldly.

So many excuses danced through her head. I'm still mourning Tom (not an outright lie, she reasoned. She did miss his companionship). I enjoy being an eccentric, wealthy widow (she didn't care a fig for her inherited wealth, nor did she think Sherlock would buy the eccentricity defense). I'd have to move, and I'm too lazy (she'd just admitted she hated the house).

Instead, she went for the truth. "The right proposal hasn't come along."

He nodded mutely and continued to drag his fingers across the water's surface, watching the ripples he left in their wake.

"Why do you ask?" she asked. So much hurt had festered and then healed in the years since Sherlock and pushed her to Tom, and she only gave a moment to find it odd that she could find her boldness now, stripped bare before him.

Sherlock finally looked up. His mouth worked soundlessly for several moments. "I don't want to say what I did was a mistake. At the time, Tom was far more capable of making you happy. He was steady and his profession meant he'd probably be able to save you if you contracted some, deadly disease."

"Yes," she agreed. "Perhaps you're right."

"But I wonder…."

She leaned forward, sure that her heartbeat was echoing along with the swishing water on the towels. "Yes?"

"Maybe… I could try to make you happy now."

She drew in a sharp breath. Of course it was what he'd been bracing himself to say, and yet, it still had the power to seize her chest.

But, while she'd forgiven him, she was still bothered by something. "Why now? Why did you wait until three years after Tom's death?

"I waited because I wasn't sure how long you'd be in mourning for Tom. And I waited only until now because I saw you for the first time in three years." His mouth kicked up in a small smile, like he couldn't quite believe it. "I waited only until now because I saw the way you looked at me at the Pewtrie house, and I see the way you look at me now, when I've broken into your house and have let myself into your bathroom while you are in it, naked."

"I look at you like I still want you."

"Yes. And like you still trust me."

Molly reached out and closed her hands over Sherlock's, stilling them. "I still do. To both."

He searched her face before apparently coming to a decision. He tugged her closer even as he leaned in, and then his lips covered hers in their first kiss in five years. He kissed her with a dozen I've missed you'sand several more I have you's, and she only hoped she returned them in kind.

Soon, he was standing and pulling her up with him, trying to coax her out of the claw-footed tub. He yanked her to him the moment she was back on dry ground. Water sluiced off of her, and she spared a vague moment of concern for his clothes, though the abrading sensation against her wet skin had her moaning against his mouth. His hands moved over her, sliding over her damp flesh when he wasn't kneading it desperately. Warm lips pressed grateful kisses down her jaw, moving down to her neck before he found the sensitive juncture between it and her shoulder.

Meanwhile she clutched at the back of his waistcoat, now ruined by their impatience. She dug her fingertips into his lower back and encouraged him to move with her, their bodies echoing a far more intimate dance.

Slowly, he backed her up until she ran into her dressing table. Without breaking his hold on her, Sherlock lifted her slightly until she was seated on the table's surface and he could step into the cradle of her thighs. She heard a perfume bottle fall over, but only felt a hint of gladness that shattering class hadn't accompanied its landing.

Molly wove her hands into his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers as he began rocking against her more insistently. He broke the kiss yet again, this time so he could take the sensitive peaks of her breasts into the wet heat of his mouth, and her head dropped back against the mirror. She felt a sympathetic tug in her center with each, hard draw of his lips on her nipples, and she quivered with it.

Out of her periphery, she could see her wanton reflection, and while the thought of looking into the glass as Sherlock made love to her was tempting, she found she much preferred watching the real man as he kissed down her body and between her thighs.

Soon, Molly came with a breathless cry, fisting Sherlock's curls with one hand and the fabric of his waistcoat and shirt at his shoulder with the other as his slick tongue slid over and in her again and again. Her toes curled almost painfully, but she could do nothing to release the muscles that had spasmed with the white-hot pleasure of his mouth on her.

Sherlock helped her come down with gentle kisses peppered over her thighs, but as soon as she leaned back against the cool glass again, he straightened.

"Please Molly," he sighed, but she was already unbuttoning his waistcoat, shirt, and trousers, and shoving them aside until his cock was freed, jutting towards her insistently.

Sherlock planted one hand on her waist guided himself into her, his breath hot and puffing against her lips as he worked his hips in gentle pulses until he was fully seated in her dripping heat. He buried his face in her neck and his free hand smacked onto the table, gripping the edge tightly as he withdrew from her nearly all the way before sliding back home. He repeated these slow, torturous ebbs and flows several times before she made a sound that she suspected was actually a growl.

It spurred him on and he began thrusting in and out of her in earnest, groaning each time his hips met hers.

The dressing table was not meant for such strenuous activity, and Molly only hoped it didn't collapse in a heap of tinder. But even if it did, she felt sure that Sherlock would find a way to keep fucking her amidst the splinters of the heirloom.

He had always been very focused, after all.

Sherlock was chanting things, her name, promises, base curses, and any number of other impassioned exclamations, and Molly felt her muscles go rigid with every subsequent thrust of his hips.

When he started to come, he began rubbing frantic, circles on her clitoris, and she squealed as she felt the warm gush of his release in her. She bowed back, pressing more insistently against his hand and his cock, and her muscles clamped and fluttered around him. He moaned, long and low while his hips twitched with the end of his orgasm and his face fell back into the curve of her neck.

Boneless, they slumped together. When Molly's damp back kept sliding on the mirror behind her, she murmured Sherlock's name. He grunted in acknowledgment, but made no effort to move.

"I should get off this table before I break it," she whispered, pressing her lips to the shell of his ear.

"I'll buy you a new table," he suggested, his voice muffled.

Molly didn't let on that she'd had similar thoughts as they made love. "Thank you. But it was my grandmothers. Besides, I'm a little uncomfortable," she admitted.

Sherlock sighed gustily and pulled away, helping her stand again. "If we must."

Though her legs were shaky, she raised herself up on tiptoe and tugged him down so she place a soft kiss on his mouth. "Thank you," she whispered.

He shrugged. "You're the one who's sentimentalized a hunk of wood. I was just complying."

Rolling her eyes, Molly shook her head. "I wasn't talking about that. I was thanking you for becoming an accessory to murder, and for loving me in spite of it."

"Well, I do, it's true. But not enough to pay frequent visits to you in prison. So really, it was a self-serving decision."

"Of course," she nodded solemnly.

"Although," he pondered, "the shade of prison grey that the women have to wear might look very fetching on you. In fact, it gets me excited just thinking about it. Excuse me, I need to ring Scotland Yard."

"Oh, stuff it," Molly laughed, feeling lighter than she had in years.

The End