Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. This is the final chapter, and I'd like to thank everyone who's read: Thank you. And as usual, thanks for their reviews go to Moonunit, Katya Jade, Poodle warriors, shazzykins, LadyK1138, likingthistoomuch, mslestat76, coloradoandcolorado1, applejacks0808, Rosa Calletti, buttercup59 and Bekah1218. Enjoy!

THE WELL-BEDDED BRIDEGROOM

Sherlock slowly sits up, looks about the room in the pale morning light.

His hands move down to trace the sheets and furs of his bed but they're cold- So clearly his Mistress Thief has been gone for quite some time.

He feels an unaccountable twist of disappointment at the thought.

As he does so his fingers stray through something cold and sticky, something which is slicked to the sheets. He frowns, brings his hands up to his face and they are streaked in scarlet. Viscous, wet scarlet.

He leans in, sniffs and his first suspicion is confirmed: it's blood. Blood.

This is, he must admit, the sort of realisation that wakes a man up of a morning.

A jolt goes through him, leaving him feeling nauseous. He pulls aside the covers, looks down at his naked body and- yes. There, streaked across his thighs, his belly and member. Nestled into the thick hair at his cock's root. Blood. Not a large amount of it but enough to be noticeable. Enough to lead to an inescapable conclusion, one he likes not one jot.

He'd debauched a virgin last night, for all that her forwardness had led him to believe her experienced.

He'd taken the maidenhead of a young woman under his future wife's roof, when he was inside her home for less than a day.

Sherlock begins swearing to himself in every language he knows, starting with Latin, as he contemplates what he's done. For while he might not be the most diplomatic or sentimental of men, even he must admit that such a deed would seem to make him naught but a cad, a thoughtless user of women. And an insulter of his new bride, to boot. The thought is abhorrent: He's seen the sort of damage such behaviour can inflict, what it does to those women it's inflicted on-

And yet, he tells himself, did she not pursue him? Did she not sneak into his room, after having first caught him on the road, tied him up, undressed him and then wantonly kissed him when he was in no position to fight back?

And did she not appear to have enjoyed herself as much as he, last night? Had she not given as good as she'd gotten? God's blood, she'd exhausted him, fucked him into the mattress and then disappeared when she was done with him-

None of which makes any difference, he reminds himself sharply.

That is absolutely not the point.

He is under his future wife's roof and he has- judging by the ease with which his thief both entered and left his quarters- deflowered a member of that future wife's household.

That is not the sort of behaviour one wants in a bridegroom, even he knows that.

As he thinks this he hears footsteps padding along the floor outside his chambers. Their weight, as well as the sound of knife, mace and keys jingling with each step, tells him that it's Gregory de la Strade. With a hiss of annoyance Sherlock hops from his bed, flinching as his skin is hit by the frigid morning hair. The stone floor is freezing against his bare feet and he hops from one to the other, dreadfully missing his socks (which his Lady Thief had flung somewhere inconceivable last night, possibly never to return). Yanking one of the furs off the bed he wraps is around his torso, searching the room desperately for both the wash basin and chamber pot he knows the servants must have left him last night-

As he spies both, de la Strade reaches his room and knocks heavily on his door.

"Master Holmes," he calls, his voice disgustingly chipper and bright. "Master Holmes, Lady Mo- Em, Lady Margaret has declared that she is fit enough to see you.

"She bids you join she and her father in the kitchens, that you may break your fast together."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock huffs, desperately hoping that the castle's Man-At-Arms won't open the door and see his predicament. Something tells him de la Strade is not the sort of man to take a female servant being debauched lightly. And he certainly doesn't want to have to explain what he's done. "Yes, tell her I'll be there as quickly as I can…"

Inspiration hits and he takes some of the water in his wash-basin, begins pouring it loudly into the chamber pot.

He hears de la Strade's hmm of realisation and smiles.

"Beg pardon," the other man says. "There's no rush. Lady Margaret will be downstairs for a long time yet, she's waiting for her father-"

"I shall join her- em, them- shortly," Sherlock calls, desperately hoping Gregory won't open his chamber door but he needn't have worried: He can hear the other man shifting, sorting through his keys.

Clearly his mind has moved to other matters.

"Right you are," the other man says. "I'll pass that along to Lady Molly…"

And with a cheerful whistle, he takes off. Sherlock hears him moving down the length of the corridor and away, his weapons and keys still swinging at his hip. With a martyred sigh Sherlock rakes his unbloodied hand through his hair, trying to calm himself and regain his sense of equilibrium. His sense of purpose. It seems to desert him, when it comes to the matter of his Lady Thief. With a small sigh he takes what's left of the water and cleans his hands, his fingernails, washing the blood carefully off. When he's finished he finds a rag and does the same with his belly, his thighs. His cock.

The water is so cold it's acutely unpleasant but he forces himself to endure it.

There are, after all, worse things he could have to endure.

And when he can put things off no more he dresses himself. Prepares to meet his future bride. He wishes he could give a better account of himself, should she ask how he slept. But such wishes are futile, and he will not indulge them. No matter the identity of his mysterious virgin visitor last night, he must needs treat his new wife with the respect due to her today.

So he pulls open the door, squares his shoulders and steps out into the morning chill, head held high, eyes distant. Daring anyone to address him. In London, his expression scared servants just on general bloody principles. He marches through the castle, eyes cold, distant. Unmoved.

But behind this façade, of behind it the memory of last night burns, a memory he knows he should be ashamed of.

Unfortunately for both he and Lady Margaret Hopville, however, shame is one of the few skills he has never quite mastered- Not that he's ever really been tempted to try.

It doesn't take him long to find the kitchen, despite the size of the castle.

Most such fortresses have a similar layout and the smell of cooking is always an easy one to spot.

So he follows his nose and follows his stomach, tries not to think about the… misjudgement he made last night. His Lady Thief will have to be forgotten. When he enters the kitchens though, he is surprised to find the lady of the manor- judging by her heavy pink silk gown- sitting at a table, chatting amiably to her servants.

She seems utterly unaware of his presence.

There's something though… Something curious, about her.

Something he can't quite put his finger on.

Sherlock stops, stares. Takes in as much as he can of her before she sees him. Lady Margaret is sitting with her back to him, chatting animatedly with an older, dark-haired woman in a homespun frock. Every so often she raises a heavy pewter goblet to her lips, taking a sip of what Sherlock rapidly ascertains is buttermilk before beginning to speak again in a lilting, low voice. She looks animated. Happy.

Her dark, plaited hair almost glints in the early morning light.

Her form is slim, delicate almost. Her hands, which he can see every time she gesticulates to the older woman, are pale. The fingers are long and elegant, more hardened and marked than one might expect from a gentlewoman and it's that, that one small fact which suddenly- belatedly- makes it all come together in his head.

His thief's ease, in finding him on the London Road.

His thief's ease, in sneaking into and out of his chambers when he's ensconced inside one of the largest, most impressive castles in Britain.

His thief's knowledge of him, knowledge which went beyond what might be gleaned from the gossip of servants or visitors from London. Knowledge which might better suit a father, out to find information about a potential suitor before he allowed that suitor to court his child.

It's obvious, when Sherlock thinks about it. Elementary, almost.

Any fool should have seen it, though he did not.

For his Lady Thief and his soon-to-be Lady Wife are one and the same person, that much is obvious.

Well, he finds himself thinking. Perhaps I shall have to thank Mycroft for arranging this marriage, after all.

At the thought he lets out a loud, delighted bark of laughter and instantly the older female servant looks up. Hastens to her feet and drops a curtsy, mumbling apologies that she didn't see him there while Sherlock waves her words away.

"You couldn't have known, I assure you," he tells her, still staring in amusement at Lady Margaret, who has yet to stand and look at him.

He can't help but note however that the back of that pale, long throat of hers is turning decidedly pink.

He says nothing though, lets the silence stretch out. He does so enjoy devilling the people he likes. And it would seem he really rather likes his bride-to-be. The servant, one Mistress Hudson, bustles around him, demanding to know what he wants to break his fast and he smiles. Tells her to give him whatever her Lady's having, that such is more than good enough for an interloper like he.

The older woman harrumphs but when he looks at her out of the corner of his eye, she's smiling fondly at him.

When she notices his attention however she scolds, tells him to sit down and not stay standing in a lady's presence or was he raised by a pack of wolves?

So with slow, measured steps Sherlock walks over to Lady Margaret and says hello. Sits down on the bench beside her. She has yet to raise her head or answer his greeting, but now that he's sitting next to her he can see her entire face is absolutely scarlet.

Her hands are now clenched tightly together, in her lap.

Without saying anything, without asking permission, he reaches under the table and brusquely takes one of those hands in his. Squeezes it.

He'd rather not think about why, but suddenly his heart is pounding like a drum.

At this she finally looks up at him and he recognises her, recognises the young outlaw he'd met on the road, the young outlaw he'd taken to bed.

She's absolutely lovely.

"Hello again," he whispers and he makes sure to keep his voice even. Friendly.

He doesn't want to frighten her. He doesn't want her thinking he's upset.

Lady Margaret blinks up at him. Swallows. Her little pink tongue darts out of her mouth to wet her lips and Sherlock feels a jolt go through him at the sight, straight to his groin.

He rather suspects this reaction is written on his face, because-

"Hello, Master Holmes," she whispers and now she's smiling. Grinning, really.

Again he thinks that she's absolutely lovely.

For a moment the two stare at one another, silent. They're utterly unaware of the world around them.

And then Lady Margaret looks over his shoulder to make sure Mistress Hudson isn't watching and she brings his hand to her lips. Presses a small, fierce little kiss to it, her head bowed over it as she speaks.

"I was wondering if I'd see you this morning," she's saying. "I understand you had a rather… trying night." She blanches. "I got rather carried away: I'm sorry."

"I'm bloody well not." Sherlock smiles at her action and her words, waiting until she's moved his hand from her mouth to reach down and press a similarly small, similarly fierce little kiss to her lips.

Mistress Hudson smacks him with a cook-rag when she sees it but it really doesn't faze him.

Instead he continues kissing his new bride, servants and manners be damned. Everyone who isn't the Lady Margaret be damned. And when Lady Margaret and he finish their porridge and rise to tour the gardens- Lord Hopville still not having made an appearance- their arms slip easily together, their ease with one another obvious for everyone to see.

Sherlock finds that he can't stop grinning.

"Be careful out there," Mistress Hudson calls as they leave, "I don't want either of you getting into mischief."

Sherlock's smile is innocence itself. "Worry not, Mistress Hudson, Lady Margaret is more than able to protect me."

And with that they sweep out of the kitchen and into the life awaiting them beyond.

Guilllaume, (known as Sherlock), Count of Beckley and High Sheriff of Yorkshire would go on to live a long and happy life with his wife, Lady Margaret.

He would investigate widely and rule well, bringing more peace to the wild counties of the border than any Sheriff before or since.

It is an odd fact of his tenure, however, that despite his many stratagems and cunning plots, he never managed to capture the renowned champion of the poor and outlaw known as The Scarlet Fox-

Rather he managed to get captured by the outlaw on no more than eighteen separate occasions.

Once, he was even kidnapped twice in the same year.

Each time he was returned to his wife and family unscathed however- And Lady Molly never seemed worried when she discovered he'd been taken.

"The road through Dalby Forest is dangerous," she would say, "but then so is my husband."

And that would, quite simply, be that.