A/N: I was going to put this in my one shot collection but it was too long so I've given it it's own pride of place!

Enjoy this little Victorian Sherlolly!

These poor Victorian clothes were way too cold. How did beggar women cope in the thin muslin!? Sherlock fought back a shiver as he ran through the grimy streets in the poor end of London. He heard a shout behind him and he hurried on as much as the long hem would let him. This was ridiculous, how did women run in these.

Short of lifting the dress and revealing his ankles, Sherlock was forced to shorten his strides and scan the alleys for a hiding spot.

The only problem was, the people he was evading knew every back street in this end of London.

Sherlock struggled on through the muck on the streets. He was acutely aware of the throbbing in his skull and believed it was why he had been unable to find a suitable hiding place.

Staggering over something he didn't want to identify Sherlock grasped a door jamb for support. The fiends were getting closer and closer and his eyes wildly roved the seemingly empty street.

Ah an open door.

Molly watched the candle gutter and flicker in the draught of that bloody door. She was too small, too delicate to wedge it shut. It took Toby her landlord to close it and then Molly was terrified she'd be trapped so she left it open and cursed the chill.

Wrapping the shawl around her tighter, she turned her back to the cause of her ire and stared at the wall before her. She was used to the creak every time that blasted wood moved so she never noticed Sherlock's entry. It wasn't until she heard a footstep that she turned.

Almost screaming, she saw a tall lean figure in a shawl, covering errant curls and a Muslin dress that was too thin for London winters. Before Molly could scream or shout her intruder collapsed.

'Poor woman' Molly gasped and knelt by her side, taking the candle with her. Noticing the icy blast causing the flame to dance, she hurried to her feet and shoved the wood with all her might. It closed a little more with a groan, and just in time as through the cheap lattice glass she saw shadowy figures prowl. Stepping back into the shadows of her own desolate building she was thankful her window was narrow and her candle small - they passed without a second look.

Hurrying back to the prostrate figure on her floor, Molly pulled the shawl back to reveal delicate features. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of them but her exhaustion and cold addled brain took a little longer to process that while gentle, the cheekbones were undeniably male.

Catching her breath once more Molly tugged away the dirtied fabric and watched soft brown curls appear. Not closely cropped but male nonetheless. Peering down the gentleman's body she wondered if he was a deviant and a blush stole across her cheeks at what may lay beneath the travel soiled muslin. Steeling herself and calling upon her curiosity Molly pulled at the hem of the dress revealing hairy ankles.

He groaned at the draught and like a naughty child she dropped the dress, smoothing the fabric.
What had made him collapse? Molly checked him over and found a small patch of drying blood at the base of his skull. Making a decision there and then, she moved the stump of a candle and set to work.

Oh god where was he?!

The world was blurred and Sherlock felt ill. He went to sit up when a small weight on his chest stopped him. The padded breasts of his dress had slipped and when Sherlock looked down he saw the hazy outline of someone asleep by his side.

Not possible.

Possible. She, for it was a real she, stirred on his chest and blinked twice. She looked up to see him peering down at her and Sherlock was rewarded with a blush and a shy smile.. He watched, amused, as she scurried back and allowed him to assess his situation. She didn't scurry far though, she hurried to a corner of the room where a small fire burnt. His eyes struggled to focus in the dark and he saw her silhouette come back towards him.

"Hello." She said softly. "If you're feeling up to it, I've managed to make something for you to eat." She hummed. "I can help you sit up." She placed down the metal bowl and slipped an arm behind his back. Sherlock grunted; everything was so surreal at the moment he could hardly believe he had stumbled into a kind woman's home in this end of London. Home was stretching it – by the meagre light of the fire, a hovel was the more accurate term for the place he was currently in. It was the inside of any slum in London, but now this kind stranger had his propped up against her and the wall before she groped for the bowl of broth.

The taste was foul, as expected, but the heat was welcome and honestly Sherlock felt so out of it, he didn't even have the energy to make some sarcastic comment or witty rebuff. Instead he allowed this guardian angel to feed him until he pushed the spoon away and he leant back against the wall feeling utterly exhausted.

"Lay back down." She murmured and Sherlock did as he was bid, the last few moments of his consciousness were of this stranger smoothing the hair away from his forehead and wrapping her shawl under his head.

When he awoke the darkness had gone but his stranger was there. She saw in the corner, sewing by the light coming through the grimy window when he stirred. He didn't move or say anything, just watched this woman who had helped him. She had chestnut brown hair pushed up under a cap and the clothes she was wearing were stupidly thin. She had barely anything on for the time of the year that it was and every so often she shivered as if she agreed with his deduction. Sherlock saw the problem – the window and the fire were on opposite sides of the room and while the window would provide the best light for her work it was not a warm spot.

She was thin, far too thin, her wrists were bony and her face almost gaunt. If her malnutrition wasn't enough her stomach chose that moment to give a rather loud rumble, breaking the silence of the room.

"Shush." She admonished her own hunger. "He needed feeding far more than you do." She grunted to her body and carried on working.

Sherlock felt peculiar – he felt guilty. This poor woman had given him the last of her food in his moment of need. He decided to do something about it. Making a show that he was just waking up, the girl dropped her sewing and came to his side swiftly.

"Don't move too fast." She soothed him as he rolled. To be fair his world did swim a little but Sherlock bit down on the nausea and smiled at her. Her breath caught and her cheeks reddened but she still firmly kept him in place. "You took a blow to the head and it's only been a few hours since you stumbled through that door." She held him down and Sherlock covered his hand with hers. They were like ice and he frowned.

"I will be just fine. I have a criminal gang to catch." He threw off his covering (the only blanket in the house) and realised most of the things that had kept him warm were items of her clothing.

"You'll be spoilt for choice in these parts then." She laughed at his words but sobered when he stood, reeling only slightly. "You're serious. Are you a policeman?" She frowned.

"A detective." He answered and he stumbled towards the window.

"A detective in a dress…" She said slowly and Sherlock cursed. He was still in his tiring woman's outfit. He wouldn't get away with the disguise as much as he did in the twilight last night.

"How am I supposed to get to Baker Street now?" He looked around the bare room and the woman sighed.

"I'll walk you there. Two women are less likely to be looked upon than a strange looking woman on these streets." She huffed and she pulled her shawl from the floor. Shaking off the majority of the dirt she wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled the blanket up as well. "Put this around you, we'll soon be at Baker Street." She stated and Sherlock followed her instructions without a fuss.

The woman was right; barely half hour had passed when he was steering them towards 221b. When Mrs Hudson opened the door, she had almost slammed it into their faces until he spoke and even then she was unsure of letting his saviour in alongside him. John trotting down the stairs laughed until he saw the strip of muslin around Sherlock's head under the blanket and then switched to Doctor mode. In the fuss the girl managed to slip away unseen from Baker Street.

~S.H~

When Molly stumbled back into her home a few days later she held back a scream at the man leaning against the wall. He was well dressed, and looked thoroughly out of place in her hovel. It took her a moment to recognise her injured stranger and she hovered at the threshold.

She coughed a couple of times and the stranger came forwards with a look of worry etched across his face. He had soon realised that she had left without her blanket and head endeavoured to find her once more. It had taken two days to remember the steps he had taken from her home to Baker Street and he had purchased a number of clothes to bring to the poor woman but now he realised she was sick. She had propped herself against the wall, silently watching the neatly dressed stranger with half lidded eyes.

"Stay here." His voice was warm and Molly nodded as he stepped out of the door once more. It was but a few minutes that he came back with another gentleman – the one she recognised from his home and vaguely remembered was a medical man.

"She needs to be kept warm Sherlock, warm and well fed... something hasn't had in a long time." The other man's voice was concerned and he talked to Molly patiently, asking her questions and offering kind words. She nodded rather dumbly; since helping the stranger she had indeed fallen sick being without a blanket, food or firewood. She felt woollen headed and she had been berated by the seamstress she worked for, for sloppy stitching in the last two days. Even now as the two men lifted her gently by the arms out of the door, she was barely aware of the movement and only came to when she realised she was in a carriage.

She would wake three days later in a bed softer than anything she had felt in her lifetime and a warmth in her bones she hadn't felt possible. Molly forced open her eyes from what she was sure was a lovely dream to see a matronly figure above her smiling softly.

"Ahh you're awake, I'll just collect Sherlock." The woman vanished from her eye-line and Molly frowned. Her memory was fuzzy but it recollected the man that now stood before her. Dark curls and delicate features. Her mystery deviant detective with a damaged head.

She would learn from the detective that he had brought her to live here while she recuperated and that he would employ her as a general servant girl which came with the perks of living in the modest home in Baker Street. She would later learn that her fever had lasted for two days before finally breaking, she was watched constantly by the Doctor John Watson and the woman Mrs Hudson, the man called himself Sherlock Holmes and that she should sleep again. John would have his guts if he put the patient under too much stress.

"Why did you help me?" He said suddenly as he was leaving.

"My father always taught me that an act of random kindness was one of the nicest things someone could do." Molly croaked and Sherlock seemed to be thinking. He said nothing more but left, closing the door behind him.