A/N: I hope you enjoy this T rated version of my Revolutionary War AU story "A Question of Honour."

Autumn 1778

Captain Sherlock Holmes, officer in His Majesty's Army, swung wearily down from the saddle before handing the horse off to the private waiting to assist him. The youngster – a lad of barely fifteen, possibly only fourteen, originally from Nottingham but living at least half his life in Wokingham before enlisting – saluted him, took the reins, handed him a note, and disappeared before Sherlock could question him regarding its contents, had he wished to.

As it was, he barely glanced at it before stuffing it into a pocket and plodding over to the town's single tavern, which his commanding officer, Colonel Sebastian Moran, had taken over as his headquarters when they'd been stationed here six months earlier. He was exhausted from patrolling half the night, but at least this latest circuit had resulted in no loss of life on either side of the battle lines; there had been no ambushes, no skirmishes, not so much as a single sighting of a rebel soldier – much to his secret relief. This blasted war had little more than a year or two of life left in it, unless he was very much mistaken, and it had become apparent to him in the past eight months that it was not going to end in King George's favour.

With any luck the summons was good news on that front; perhaps the higher echelons had finally come to their collective senses and were prepared to concede the Colonials' ownership of the New World, as many still called it. He stifled a grunt of annoyance as he snapped off an answering salute to the soldiers guarding the tavern, weary unto death of the formalities of army life, longing for nothing more than for it all to be over so he could resign his commission and return to London. A pity his mistress would no longer be waiting for him, as a recent missive from his elder brother had informed him of their impending nuptials – bastard always had to take what belonged to Sherlock and keep it for himself even if it was something he didn't really want – but the comforts of home still called.

Even the comforts of his quarters here in Marlborough, in the colony of Massachusetts, would be preferable to a meeting with Moran, but duty called and Sherlock had had the demands of duty drilled into him since early childhood. One day he vowed to find a way to escape the emotional chains that bound him to his unpleasant family (well, except for his widowed mother, of course, the woman was a saint to put up with her two surly sons for so long without entirely losing her mind) and the land of his birth, but that day was unlikely to be today.

Or so he believed. If he'd known that such disgruntled thoughts were about to be answered as if they were prayers offered up to a God he no longer believed in, he might have schooled them better.

Or perhaps not; Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not unafraid of taking chances. And the chance that was about to befall him was something he never could have anticipated. He opened the door and entered the tavern, entirely unaware of what fate had in store for him.

oOo

"Captain Holmes, good of you to join us, and apologies for not allowing you time to refresh yourself, but as you can see, it is a matter of utmost importance that requires your attention."

Colonel Moran nodded toward the young woman standing, stiff and silent, hands bound in front of her by rope rather than iron manacles – her wrists were far too delicate to be contained by cuffs meant for larger, far more masculine prisoners – and her cinnamon-coloured hair somewhat mussed beneath the white mobcap. There was a darkening bruise on one cheek, and his own cheek twitched at the sight of that abuse. Even a prisoner had rights, especially a female prisoner, but this damned war made savages of even the most civilized men the longer it endured.

It came as something of an unpleasant surprise when he realized he knew the young lady. Not well, and certainly not socially, but nevertheless he knew her. She was from the market village of Baxton, seven miles east of Marlborough, and he'd purchased vegetables from her on several occasions, usually carrots for his horse. They'd spoken once or twice, introduced themselves to one another when it became apparent that he preferred the produce she had for sale to that of her competitors, but it had never gone beyond that most casual and businesslike of acquaintances.

That, he believed, was the extent of his knowledge of Miss Molly Hooper. Well, aside from the fact that she was an orphan living with an aunt, freckled easily in the sun and remained unmarried in spite of being reasonably attractive, hard-working and over the age of twenty (although not by more than one or two years, thus making her ten years younger than himself).

Yes, that was all he knew of her, except for the reason for her presence here today. She was clearly a Colonial spy, which next conclusion was borne out by Colonel Moran's next words. "Inform Captain Holmes as to the circumstances under which our 'guest' was apprehended," he ordered the young sergeant standing next to her.

James Moriarty appeared quite eager to do so, beneath the poker-faced façade he always maintained while on duty. The young Irishman wasn't the only guard Miss Hooper had; Sherlock's own corpsman, Corporal William 'Billy' Wiggins, stood on her other side, looking decidedly uncomfortable and either unwilling or unable to meet his superior officer's gaze. Interesting, that, something to discuss with the younger man at a later time.

After Moran's aide-de-camp had had his say.

As the sergeant told his story, Sherlock listened carefully while at the same time taking in the details of the other occupants of the large front room of the tavern, chiefly the camp's medical officer and his own good friend, Captain John Watson. John was standing a bit apart from the other gathered officers, hands behind his back and standing rigidly at attention in contrast to the more relaxed pose of the other officers. Officers intended to act as witnesses, Sherlock realized, in case a tribunal was required. He exchanged a brief glance with John, whose brows were lowered in a familiar expression of suppressed anger, then returned his attention to Sergeant Moriarty.

"This woman was seen entering your quarters while you were on patrol, sir," the noncom reported, his face as bland and unreadable as ever. "When Corporal Wiggins investigated, he discovered her rifling through your papers and brought her before the Colonel upon suspicion of her being a spy, sir." His Irish accent was strong today, indicating his excitement at the situation. No doubt looking forward to a chance to interrogate the spy, Sherlock thought distastefully. Bastard loved hurting people even more than their sadistic commanding officer did.

Not today. Not if he could help it.

"Actually, she's my mistress." Sherlock glanced around the room as a stunned silence fell over it, knowing it was because of his blandly spoken words. He raised an eyebrow as he added disdainfully, "What? Is that so unexpected an admission? I'm hardly the only man here to have one." He looked at Lieutenant Anderson as he spoke; the man openly lived with his mistress in spite of having a wife back in London. The wife was the wealthy daughter of a merchant and the mistress was the unacknowledged offspring of a black slave and her white master; the only thing in common between the two women aside from their sex was their unfathomable attachment to Phillip Anderson.

"Yes, but this is the first time we've seen you pay more than passing attention to a woman, let alone claim one as your mistress!" Anderson blurted out, apparently so shocked by the admission that he'd entirely forgotten his manners.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then made a lightning fast decision and gave up some deeply personal information that he'd had no intention of sharing with anyone but his good friend John Watson. "Until recently, Lieutenant, I had a mistress waiting for me back in London. She has, however, become engaged and has broken off our relationship. Having no wish to comport myself with other women while still romantically involved with another, I chose to abstain even with an ocean between us. Now, however..." He shrugged, leaving the rest of the sentence unfinished. He'd be damned if he revealed that it was his own brother to whom the lady in question had become engaged, or share any other details of his intimate relations with Lady Irene Adler.

It was at that point that Colonel Moran finally opted to weigh in, chastising Anderson for his inappropriate comment. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that he'd waited until he heard Sherlock's response before doing so; typical of their commanding officer's penchant for gossip, the more salacious the better. Still, this small sacrifice of his personal business was worth it, or would be if the outcome of this situation turned out as favourably as he intended it to.

Sherlock immediately turned his attention to the older man, who literally held this woman's life in his hands. If convicted of spying, she could be hung, but not before being given over to the non-existent mercies of Sergeant Moriarty – Moran's chief torturer. Any secrets the girl held would spill from her lips just as the blood would spill from her body, and there had been enough damage wrought by the British Empire's refusal to cede the colonies to the Colonials to sicken all but the most hardened of soldiers.

Not this girl. Sherlock refused to examine his reasons for wanting to save her life beyond that disgust with warfare that had settled over him recently. Yes, he barely knew her; yes, she was a spy and her actions might have led to danger or death for his own troops, but she'd been caught before doing any such damage, and therefore he saw no reason for her to be hanged. This was assuredly her first foray into his quarters, as he was meticulous about his belongings and would know instantly if anyone had gone through his papers on previous occasions.

Moran studied him, and he offered back the politely interested, slightly bored stare he generally affected when under such scrutiny. "What's her name, if she's your mistress?" his commanding officer finally asked, making it clear that an incorrect answer would earn both him and the girl punishment. And if Moran got it into his head that Sherlock Holmes was a turncoat, his own fate would be just as unpleasant as hers.

Sherlock responded without hesitation. "Molly. Molly Hooper," he replied. "She lives in Baxton. We met a few weeks ago and formed a...mutual interest in one another." He allowed his gaze to drift toward her bosom, causing a smirk to cross Moran's face and bringing a flush to Molly's cheeks, although she wisely remained silent, neither denying nor confirming his words. Moran's eyes traveled to the same location, and Sherlock was suddenly hard-pressed not to take his commanding officer to task for his blatant lasciviousness. He despised the older man for many reasons, including his callous abuse of more than one local girl, but also knew that the only way to convince him of the truth of his words was to speak in a language the other man would recognise.

Molly's teeth were worrying at her lower lip, the only sign she gave that she was concerned at all with her current situation. Although her eyes remained lowered, Sherlock caught her peeking at him and easily read her expression as a combination of fear and worry, with a certain element of calculation of which he approved. No doubt she was concerned that he was lying not to protect her, but to make use of her himself in some way. She probably suspected he wished to take her as his mistress in reality, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Well, perhaps that was an overstatement; she was rather pretty, if one were shallow enough to consider such things important, with delicate features and a slender figure that looked as if it would fit quite nicely beneath his taller, heavier form. Her lips and breasts were somewhat less than abundant, true, but he'd never been one to fret over exterior features. Coming into this occupied town, entering an officer's quarters boldly, during daylight hours, acting as a spy for a cause she passionately believed in – all of her actions demonstrated a strength of character well worth admiring. And saving.

"Is that your name?" Moran's question was an angry bark, and the girl flinched a bit before raising her head to meet his eyes, offering up a timid nod in response. "And are you, indeed, Captain Holmes' mistress?"

Her eyes darted to meet Sherlock's; his own expression remained bland, offering her no hints to follow – and therefore offering Moran nothing concrete upon which to lay his obvious suspicions should he choose to voice or act on them.

"Speak up, woman!" Moran demanded irritably, his green eyes hard as emeralds and his face set in angry, suspicious lines. "Explain why you were in Captain Holmes' quarters and found going through his papers to my satisfaction or else face the consequences."

Moriarty's tongue darted out between his lips, just a quick dab before retreating back into the cave of his mouth, but Sherlock caught it and forced himself not to react to such a blatant sign of eagerness. Moriarty was one of Moran's closest cronies, regulations against fraternization or no, and as watchful and suspicious as the commanding officer. The two were thick as thieves, a combination of their shared Irish heritage and a mutual love of inflicting pain on others that repelled Sherlock even when his own skin wasn't at stake. He held no love for them in his heart – an organ he'd been accused of lacking on more than one occasion, although he was nowhere near as heartless as Moran and Moriarty had proven themselves to be. Keeping Molly out of their grasp was motive enough for his actions today, traitorous though many might find them to be.

Molly licked her lips before speaking, her voice as soft and genteel as he remembered from their brief exchanges in Baxton. "I...he said he'd written a note for me, that he'd hidden it and tasked me to find it before he returned this evening," she finally said, and Sherlock wondered if she was making the story up on the spur of the moment or if she'd prepared it in advance in the event she was caught. "I, I thought it would be easiest hidden amongst papers he already had in his desk, so I was looking there when..." her voice faltered, although whether it was an act or an actual attack of nerves even Sherlock was hard-pressed to discern. Her gaze fluttered to Wiggins, who nervously shifted his feet and appeared unable to meet her eyes – the lad felt guilty for putting a woman in harm's way like this, and was undoubtedly expecting punishment if she truly was his commanding officer's fancy lady. She returned her gaze to Moran, a flush colouring her cheeks as she appeared to admit to the truth of the story Sherlock had concocted without actually doing so.

Sherlock felt a burst of admiration for her cleverness; oh, well done! It was plausible, especially if he were willing to back her up. He waited for Moran to turn his glower on him before nodding. "I did, indeed, draft a bit of a love note for the lady to find, something for her to read while she awaited my return." He affected a rueful expression and allowed a note of embarrassment to enter his voice as he continued, "I didn't realize that I'd neglected to mention her upcoming visit to Wiggins before leaving on patrol. My apologies, sir, for the disruption. You have my assurances that it won't happen again."

Moran studied him unsmilingly for a long minute before finally speaking. "No," he said, his voice hard and eyes still brimming with suspicion. "It won't, as Miss Hooper will not be leaving the premises for the duration of our stay here." His lips stretched in an unpleasant approximation of a smile at the stifled gasp of dismay that escaped Molly's lips before she clamped them shut again. Still holding Sherlock's gaze with his own, he added: "You've my leave to fetch her belongings from her home in Baxton, Captain Holmes, but she will remain under guard here until you return. After that, she is to be confined to your quarters unless under escort, do I make myself clear?"

"Does she have permission to write a note to her aunt, explaining her abrupt absence?" Sherlock countered, hoping that it actually was an aunt she resided with and not a grandmother or married sister; he hadn't paid close attention when she prattled on about her living situation, truth be told, having no idea it would hold such importance to him. However, the tension in Molly's posture eased just slightly, and he relaxed a bit as well, recognising that he'd got it right.

Moran nodded, lips once again stretched in a smile that never reached his cold green eyes. "Of course." He gestured to indicate the writing table next to his desk. "Set her up with quill and parchment, Wiggins," he ordered. "Then have someone prepare a horse for Captain Holmes. Better to have this matter wrapped up quickly, wouldn't you all agree?"

The answering murmurs from the officers present were all the colonel needed. He dismissed all but Moriarty, Wiggins and Holmes, but allowed John Watson to remain as well, to check on Miss Hooper's small injuries and to see that the ropes hadn't dug too deeply into her flesh. Judging by the black frown on the medical man's face Moriarty had tied them with his usual cruel indifference to a prisoner's comfort. Of course, both he and Moran would claim it was simply due to a desire not to allow her to escape, but Sherlock knew the truth. He bit back an oath as the ropes fell free, revealing the deep gouges and bruises that had formed in the tender flesh of her wrists.

She let out a soft cry of pain as John began tending to her, his own voice low and reassuring as he dabbed ointment on the inflamed wrists. He'd brought his medical bag along with him, prepared as always for the myriad ways men could inflict injuries on one another...and on the female half of the species.

That small cry affected Sherlock far more than he'd anticipated. Without thinking, he started toward her, but Moran's voice at his back stayed his steps. "We both know Doctor Watson is more than competent to tend to her injuries, Captain Holmes, and although I appreciate that you are impatient to see to her comfort," that last spoken in a dry, ironic tone implying a far more personal level of 'comfort' than the word itself meant, "shouldn't you be preparing yourself for the journey ahead? Seven miles is a fair distance to go, and there's rain threatening."

Sherlock snapped off a salute, lips tightly clenched on the angry retort he wished to offer. But this man was, in the eyes of the law, his superior, and that damnable sense of duty wouldn't let him respond with anything beyond a stiff, "Yes, sir. I'll return for the letter within the half hour. She should be recovered enough to write by then, is that correct, Doctor Watson?"

He raised his voice slightly with that question, and John shot him an irritated look before offering a curt nod. Sherlock caught Molly gazing at him again before returning her attention to the man attending to her wounds. Her expression was guarded, as well it should be with Moran watching them both like hawks, and Sherlock's response was the reassuring smile a man might be expected to give his new mistress after such a terrible misunderstanding had occurred.

It might have been better if she'd been able to muster up a few tears, or taken his cue and begged him to help her, to explain things, but he was prepared for further questioning by Moran and had already decided on the explanation that made the most sense under the circumstances: she was a Colonial who would be shunned by her neighbours if it were discovered she was mistress to a Redcoat, so of course she was unwilling to admit to such a shameful thing even when pressed.

At least she hadn't protested Moran's pronouncement of her fate, but any woman would be expected to take up such high-handed treatment when alone with her lover, rather than making a scene in public. No doubt she would have a few choice words for him upon his return from Baxton. She and John Watson both; that much was a foregone conclusion. Whether his friend believed the story Sherlock had concocted or not didn't matter, as he knew Sherlock was no traitor and would eventually come to understand that the story was purely to ensure Molly's safety. If there was one man who was as sick of war as Sherlock, it was John Watson. Not that the man wasn't willing to face danger or afraid of putting himself in harm's way, but as a physician he truly loathed the nature of the wounds he was forced to treat. And the mistreatment of a woman, spy or not, was exactly the sort of thing to set his blood to boiling.

The interrogation Sherlock intended to subject Miss Hooper to was something he looked forward to with a great deal of anticipation. She'd presented a challenge to the life he'd found himself forced to live in order to live up to the expectations of his family; an unexpected one, but one he found himself relishing in spite of the personal danger into which he'd placed himself by lying to protect her. He bit back a grin at the thought of how his staid, by-the-book brother would take such behaviour. Ah, well. At the moment Mycroft no doubt had his hands full – literally and figuratively – with his new fiancée. Irene was never one to tolerate being placed in the background, which she'd implied had been part of the reason she'd opted to marry Mycroft rather than waiting for Sherlock to return from the war. Not that Sherlock had ever offered marriage to her, but he'd assumed he would be pressed to do so upon his return to England.

That thought didn't bring the stab of betrayal it had only a few hours earlier. Something more to credit Miss Hooper with, he supposed.

With those thoughts running through his mind, Sherlock made his way out of the tavern in order to fetch what few things he would require before his journey began. At least with no foot soldiers he could go at speed, reach his destination within an hour or two, deliver the message to Molly's aunt – if the girl was as clever as she seemed to be, she would find some way to include directions to her home in the missive without giving anything away to Moran, who was sure to read it before allowing it be placed into her supposed-lover's hands – fetch what few belongings the girl was going to need, and return to Marlborough and from there to his bed. He needed less sleep than most others he'd observed, but he was very nearly desperate for it now, after having foregone it for nearly thirty-six hours already.

He briefly considered the idea of discarding his uniform for the journey, then decided against such an action. Baxton was a pacified town, the majority of its population made up of British sympathizers, which made Molly's foray into espionage for the Colonials even more surprising. However, upon reconsideration, what better place for a spy to hide than right in plain sight? Especially since she was very obviously a new recruit, most likely at the behest of a family friend who saw the advantage in her situation. She was a familiar face to many of the British soldiers, had lived her entire life in the same small village, was an orphan with only one family member to concern herself with – and the older woman was very possibly a rebel sympathizer as well. All of which was speculating ahead of the facts, which he abhorred; he must be more tired than he'd originally estimated.

Forty minutes later he was once again astride a horse. Not his own sorrel stallion, Barbarossa, but rather John's placid gray mare, Toby, on the road to Baxton and bearing Miss Hooper's missive safely tucked inside his uniform jacket.

He'd read the note, of course, but then, so had Moran. As anticipated, the resourceful Miss Hooper had included directions to her home disguised as a request for her Aunt Martha to allow Captain Holmes to move the market cart into safe storage until her return, which, she claimed, would be within a few weeks.

The reason given for her absence was plausible; she'd supposedly been offered a position in the kitchens of the occupying army. Plausible, yes, but her aunt would likely believe none of it and demand the truth.

A truth, of course, that would fall upon him to deliver, in some form or another. Miss Hooper was showing a great deal of trust in him, although she frankly had no other recourse; had she attempted some sort of coded message for her aunt, Moran would have instantly recognized it. The man was a brute but he was no fool. And even if he were, Moriarty was dangerously intelligent and utterly loyal.

Such thoughts occupied Sherlock's mind for the remainder of the hour-long journey, the last twenty minutes of which was spent in wet misery as the threatening rain finally manifested. He made his way through the town square and down the muddy track that led to the home Miss Hooper shared with her aunt, Mistress Martha Hudson.

He feared the conversation he and that lady were about to have would not be to either of their liking.