Author's Note: A Regency stable boy smut fic. I'll start off by saying that Tumblr made me do this. This is also gifted to conchepcion who helped me with the finer points of the plot and thus helped this inkling of an idea grow into a 9,000+ word behemoth of a fic. She also marvellously coped with my various bouts of writer's frustration, so obviously she's an angel.

As always, edited but unbeta'd, so I apologise for any rubbishness that may occur at any point during this fic.

Please don't forget to comment or leave kudos if you liked this fic! Because you know, I may do this because the urge to write pulsates around my body like a bloodstream and I can never escape it, but I also thrive on feedback.

Footsteps, short and quick, pushed through the undergrowth.

"Bastard!" The curse came out in a pant. The boy—for it was a boy who shouted, tall, of nineteen years—stood where he had stopped, looking about the dark shade of the trees. "Do you hear me? Bastard! You don't think I don't know what you are?"

The boy moved forward, his hot temperament blurring his thoughts and causing his cheeks to flush red in the heat of the summer evening. He gave out a cold laugh.

"I'll ruin you! Know that now! I will expose you!"

No reply came to his threats; indeed, he was met with only silence, a moment only broken by the soft rustle of the trees overhead. However, it seemed the boy had no expectations for a reply, for, having said his fill he turned away, his features darkened into a scowl as he moved back down the path.

He never made it home.

WANTED: a Young Man, light weight as Groom.

He must also be able to train young horses

and ride to hounds. Apply to Miss Hooper, Grange House.

Molly Hooper had been taught many things in her life, but there was one that she had held in particular regard: to never look on the staff. In obedience to this lesson, she barely looked upon nor spoke to the household staff throughout her childhood and all the way up to her adulthood, where, just like her late father and mother, she would give her commands to Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper, and allow said commands to be filtered down the various levels of staff.

Indeed, the only other member of staff Molly spoke to directly was Philip Anderson, the groomsman for the stables. Being a keen rider since she was old enough to do so, she would speak to him about the horses, and how they were with their training and which one would be most suitable for her riding on that particular day. Anderson was an amiable enough fellow, but the upkeep of the eleven or so horses kept by the house was too much for him; that much was clear, even to Molly, and after finding the poor man dozing in the fresh hay one too many times, she decided to intervene; she swiftly had Mrs Hudson advertise for another groomsman.

Despite her name appearing in the advert, she did not personally overlook the selection process. There was no real need for her to do so after all. She had no experience with tending to horses—she could only term herself an expert in the aspect of riding—and really, her presence there would only hinder both Anderson and Mrs Hudson rather than help them.

It was a mild surprise to her therefore when, as she had just sat down to her breakfast, Anderson stepped inside the dining room, his feet bare of his boots. His smile was tight.

"Mrs Hudson made me take them off."

Molly nodded shortly. "Mm. Is something wrong with the horses?"

"No, nothing at all," Anderson said, with his features sinking into a scowl. "It's actually about the new groomsman; he wants to be interviewed by you."

"By me? Why?"

"Because usually, the advertiser is the one doing the interviews." This comment did not come from Anderson, but instead came from a new voice, one that was deep and rich and round in its baritone. The owner of it appeared soon afterwards, his hair dark, his eyes an icy blue and his mouth turned into an expression of contempt. Molly noted with a raise of an eyebrow that the man still wore his boots. On entering the parlour room, he stopped and folding his hands behind his back, he matched her cool expression with one of his own.

Clearing her throat, Molly delicately straightened out the napkin on her lap. "Alright. Your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Do you have any experience in tending to horses?"

"A little – but considering I'll most likely be referring to my superior, I doubt that's relevant."

Molly's expression cooled a great deal, and she blinked once in an attempt to mask her internal surprise at the man's blithe tone.

"It is to me. Do you have any experience riding?"

"Plenty. More than enough to qualify me for the position."

His following smirk betrayed a knowledge Molly did not yet have, and yet she still found herself returning the smile with one of her own. The moment was however, brief, for a slight knock on the door interrupted it. Molly turned her head to find Mrs Hudson stood there.

"Sorry to interrupt you but you have a visitor."

"Oh. Who is it?"

"Lord Stamford; he wishes to speak with you about the upcoming fox hunt."

"Oh, very well. I'll see him in the parlour," Molly said, quickly standing up, to which Anderson slightly bent his head. The man—Sherlock—did not do so; not even when Anderson delivered a swift kick to his shins to serve as a reminder. Molly decided to ignore his rudeness for the time being and spoke again.

"Anderson, Mrs Hudson, I'll leave the both of you to make the final decision. Good day to you."

She gave a small smile and departed from the dining room.

It was later on in the evening, when she was preparing herself for bed, that she found out through Mrs Hudson that she and Anderson had apparently taken leave of their common sense and had hired Mr Sherlock Holmes as the new groomsman.

Late the next morning, just when the morning sun was giving way to the warmer afternoon sun, Molly dressed in her riding habit and made her way towards the stables. Usually, she would have made her way there at a much earlier time, but after having learnt of Anderson's employment decision, she decided to not risk the potential of seeing her new groomsman in person and so left her daily ride until the afternoon. Anderson would no doubt have prepared her horse—a lively mare she had only recently acquired and named Somerville—and she would thus be able to quickly leave and not have to encounter her new groomsman.

It was a pity then when she found Anderson absent and Somerville still in her stall and still bare-backed. The only other person in the vicinity was, most unfortunately, the very man she had desired to avoid.

With the stable doors open, the warm afternoon sun fell on his back, highlighting both his features and his build as he worked at his chores and at the point of her walking in, he had made himself busy with the work of mucking out the stables, huffing when he would land another pile into the wheelbarrow behind him, the uniform provided to him of a shirt, trousers and dark coarse waistcoat loose against his limbs.

"I believed my horse would be ready by now," Molly said over the sound of rustling hay and his heavy grunts.

"It's not," he said, still continuing on with his work.

"Well, she should be," Molly replied, trying—and failing—not to sound impatient or spoiled. He gave one final sigh and paused, straightening up and turning himself towards her, leaning against the handle of his pitchfork.

"If you wish me to make your horse ready, you need only ask." He tilted his head a little, his icy blue eyes burning brightly against her; if she were a lesser lady, she might've blushed. His smile grew. "Nicely, of course."

Molly bristled. "I don't have to ask you anything. My horse is bare-backed, and you are supposed to ready her."

His smile grew wider. "Your horse, Miss Hooper, will remain bare-backed until you ask me nicely."

"Fine," Molly said finally, with a small, rather unladylike huff. "Will you – please – make my horse ready for me?"

The intimacy of his gaze seemed to deepen as he stared at her. Quite why it did, she did not know. A certain heat slowly grew over her skin, blooming against her cheeks and down against her neck.

Her blush faded when she saw him give a small, laconic shrug. "I don't know how."

His smile developed into a smirk and Molly gave another indignant huff as he continued on with his work. Fetching a saddle and bridle, she aimed her deepest glare at him as she stepped inside of Somerville's stall and began to make her ready.

"I must have great misfortune to have even momentarily thought Anderson would've had the sense not to hire you." She spat out the last word with a particularly spiteful amount of venom as she reached under Somerville's belly to attach the saddle. His grunts coupled with the sounds of rustling hay fell away and she heard him give a deep chuckle.

"Oh, Miss Hooper. If you really did not wish to hire me, you would have dismissed me on the spot." When Molly stood, she found him to be now leaning against the entrance to the stall, smugness etched into his smooth, sharp features. He straightened up and moved forward. "So perhaps it is not your 'great misfortune', after all."

Molly's breathing grew hard as he stopped directly in front of her, his height looming over her more petite stature. Where she glared, he grinned; but her glare soon faltered when she felt him press her riding crop against her palm.

She opened her mouth to speak, perhaps threaten with his unemployment, but no words came out. Deciding this to be a consequence of her fury, she took a hold of the reins and led her horse from the stables. She made no comment of the fact that he followed her outside; and she again, made no comment at the feel of his hand against her lower back as she made to mount her horse, still with a tight grip on the reins.

She glanced down to find him stood beside her, his hand carefully stroking against Somerville's neck. She expected him to provide her with some sardonic remark, but when he turned his head to look to her, his smile was remarkably, quite genuine.

"Have a good ride, Miss Hooper."

Over the next week, as a result of Anderson's intentions of training the new groomsman, Molly saw very little of the man who seemed so intent on causing trouble with her and her household.

As such, she went about her days with trademark efficiency, relaying orders to Mrs Hudson and attending to the various needs of the members of her social circle. She may have taken a few quick glances around the stables as she stepped inside to indulge in her routine horse ride, but that was of little consequence. She was far too busy in her chores as the lady of the household to indulge in any further thoughts about him, insufferable man that he was.

On one particular afternoon, as the week was coming to its end and Molly had just about managed to banish any further thoughts of Sherlock Holmes from her mind, she received a visitor and one that sent the household into a flurry of activity.

The visitor in question, a young man who went by the name of Thomas, had written ahead to her with the announcement of his intent to stay the long weekend with her, with his arrival taking place on the coming Saturday. Although Molly received this news with nothing more but a smile and a small declaration of surprise, Mrs Hudson nearly went into palpitations as a result of her own excitement for like most housekeepers—or indeed, any elderly figure in charge of a household—Mrs Hudson's attitudes towards the male of the human species often revolved around how determined said gentlemen were to marry. Now, while Thomas had not shown his feelings towards Molly in any over manner, he had so often made subtle comments and given small gestures to Molly—a smile here, a helping hand there—that, for the gossiping members of the household at least, their engagement was as good as confirmed.

Therefore, when Molly made her way out of the house and made her way down the short set of steps to make her regular stroll towards the stables, was given to pause when she saw a small but opulent chaise-and-four proceed up the driveway and come to a stop straight in front of her. Thomas stepped out, his smile light and his dark eyes glittering. He gave a small bow of his head. Taking swift advantage of her surprise, he took up her gloved hand and placed the briefest of kisses to it.

"Thomas—"

"You weren't expecting to see me today, I know – but I had to see you on some rather – urgent business." His features softened. "If that's alright with you?"

"Oh, it's fine," Molly said, breaking out of her surprise to give a polite smile. "Mrs Hudson has everything ready for your stay – your letter brought the household into a bit of a panic, I'm afraid. Anyway, what was this business?"

Thomas skilfully fell into step with her as she resumed walking, clasping his hands behind his back. "Well, as you know, I've been in London as of late, and I've been having several profitable dinners with an acquaintance of mine – he's a proficient banker, skilled in the field, and he's spent much of his time discussing several investment schemes with me."

"Oh." Molly's smile hesitantly grew.

"Yes – he tells me that if I take advantage of them now, I'll able to achieve a high level of financial security."

Molly swallowed, her throat growing dry. She tugged a little at her gloves as she continued to walk.

"Financial security for what?"

Fortunately, the stables were less than a metre away from where she stood. She increased her speed. Thomas gave a chuckle as he jogged back towards her side.

"We are to spend the rest of her lives together, Molly; forgive me for thinking ahead a little!"

His features fell when he saw Molly immediately come to a stop and look to him. He had never once made an official declaration of his intent to marriage with her, and yet now he behaved as if it were common knowledge, not gossip among her staff. Under her gaze, he took a small step back.

"I'm sorry, that was far too brash of me. I know you—"

Molly felt herself smile and shake her head a little as she stepped forward.

"Forgive me, Thomas. You made no mistake – all you did was surprise me, that's all." Thomas' returning smile was hesitant and she squeezed at his arm briefly before she headed inside the stables, only to find most of the horses gone, bar one, to which Anderson was attending, brushing at its coat. He glanced around as she stepped inside, followed on by Thomas, and nodded once to the both of them.

"Miss Hooper."

"Anderson, where's my horse?" Molly asked, stepping forward to affectionately rub at the nose of the horse he attended to. "Did you take her out to the pasture?"

Anderson answered with a nod. "Along with the other horses too. The new groomsman is looking after them now."

Molly sighed and tugged a little at her riding jacket. Of course it would be him she had to speak to. Hopefully the conversation would be quick and painful. She turned on her heel and departed from the stables.

The path towards the pasture was leafy overhead and muddy underfoot but Molly, having treaded the path since her youth, had neither qualms nor any concerns about the muddy ground, having long ago memorised the best ways in which to navigate the more slippery areas of terrain. Thomas, too, seemingly held no concerns about the path as he, again, fell into step with her and as if they had only paused for breath, deftly resumed their topic of conversation.

"Of course, in order to invest in these schemes, I'm going to need a fair amount of money." The tone of his voice wavered between pleading and thoughtful reflection. "I can provide some of it, but I will need to ask of your assistance, if it is not too much trouble for you. If it is, we can agree to forget the whole thing – wait."

Just as she began to head up a short but steep incline towards the pasture, Thomas touched at her arm once more and steered her to a stop. Before she could ask or say anything, he leaned forward and gently, with deft fingers, brushed a stray hair from her features and tucked it behind her ear. He gave a smile.

"There. Perfect."

"Thank you." Her voice was so soft, so hesitant; she feared it might blow away on the wind. A distant whinny caused her to turn her head and picking up her skirts, she continued to navigate her way up the incline. She cleared her throat a little. "So, these – investment schemes. How much money do you estimate I shall have to give up?"

Thomas chuckled, the sound nervous. "Now here's where we approach the uncomfortable bit. The total of the investments will come to roughly a thousand pounds – I can cover for just about half of it, but as I said, you will need to provide your own share."

"Oh." Five hundred pounds; over half of her dowry, in order to invest in a scheme he had not yet fully involved either her or himself in. She did not immediately say anything to this knowledge, but made the final short walk up to the fence overlooking the pasture.

As Anderson had indeed said, the other horses were all there, bare backed and happily grazing in the sections of longer grass. Quite predictably, the only horse receiving any exercise at all was hers. Molly watched, her fingers tightening a little against her palm, as Sherlock rode her horse, letting it gallop briskly around the pasture, his grin only growing in its smugness as he caught sight of her.

Being in the sun for such a long while had left his skin to be covered with a thin sheen of sweat—only serving to highlight his already sharp features—and his dark curls were ruffled from the effort of the riding, though the hairs at the nape of his neck were damp and stuck to his pale skin and as he directed that smug look at her, she found that, in this light, his eyes were bluer than she'd perhaps ever seen them before.

She was so entrenched in watching him, that she failed to notice Thomas coming to stand right beside her and only realised his presence when he spoke.

"What do you think, then?" He smiled as she gave out a short gasp, followed by a laugh, her hand flying to her chest. "Of the scheme?"

"Um – well, while I'm sure it would be a worthwhile one, I will need you to record all activity of it in my household records. It's not that I doubt either you or the scheme," Molly added quickly, seeing the smile slip from Thomas's features, "but my father left my dowry to me in the wish that I would use it wisely, and if I'm going to honour that wish, I need to know where any money I might release goes."

"Ah. Of course. Well then, if that's what you wish – I'll be happy to do so."

Molly gave no reply to this, but she did continue to watch Thomas, even when he had turned his head back to the pasture and was now attempting to involve her in a conversation about the horses. It was not his comment that had caused such hesitancy within her, but more his smile. She could not place the reason why or how she had noticed it, but it was definitely there.

The smile he had given her was one that, unlike the smiles he had previously directed at her, was less genuine, in a way. Perhaps she had offended him in some way? Though she could not see how she might have done so.

"Miss Hooper." The key low baritone of Sherlock's voice interrupted Thomas's conversation and she turned her attention back to the pasture to see that Sherlock had indulged in a bit of common sense and had slowed Somerville to a trot, steering her over towards the gate where Molly and Thomas stood.

Not leaving him room to provide what he might've believed to be a witty remark or a callous observation to her, Molly stepped through the gate and towards her horse as Sherlock pulled Somerville to a halt and she stroked soothingly at her head and her neck, aiming a glare at her groomsman, who simply flashed a charming smile at her.

"Are you quite finished?"

"Indeed." He swiftly dismounted from the horse, his eyes—as always—focused on her. Still with his smile on his lips, he proffered the reins towards her. "I assume you'd care to ride her."

Her glare deepened as Somerville gave a slight whinny, but she took the reins all the same.

"Of course I shall ride her," she said, not bothering to disguise her irritancy and deciding to pointedly ignore the way his thumb just brushed against hers, lingering, as she wrenched the reins from his grip and moved towards Somerville's side. He gallantly stepped aside, and she tucked one foot against the stirrup of the saddle, directing another venomous look at him. "And I shall do so without help."

His growing grin only served to irritate her more as she sat and positioned herself against Somerville's saddle. Pulling at the reins, she gave a slight nod towards Thomas.

Unlike certain groomsmen, he did not look at her with amusement nor constantly strive to make every conversation between them a battlefield, but looked to her the way in which a lady should be looked at and received her comments with either a nod of the head or a comment of agreement. Even now, the difference between them was clear.

Where Sherlock smirked and leaned against the gate as if he had some sort of ownership of the place (though quite what ownership he would ever have, Molly did not know), his ice blue eyes again boring into her, Thomas stood straight with his hands clasped behind his back and an encouraging, polite smile on his face.

"A beautiful creature, is she not?" Thomas asked, with his smile widening as he looked to Sherlock for his answer. Although Molly could not help but blush at Thomas's question as she tugged at Somerville's reins, she would have been dishonest if she ever denied to the idea that she had not held some intangible, distant fear in regards to Sherlock's response. Surely he would use the moment to insult her, or undermine her? He had proved himself to be that sort of man long before now.

Therefore, when his only answer was to give a single, silent nod, Molly felt her eyes narrow into a curious frown. Puzzling. Certainly puzzling. She tugged harder at Somerville's reins, steering her away from the fence to break her into a fierce, hard gallop.

The next day, it was the result of numerous delays—meetings with Lord Stamford over his daughter's upcoming engagement ball being one—that led to Molly again postponing her ride until the late afternoon and on her arrival to the stables, she was greeted with a smile by Anderson, who duly handed her the reins of Somerville.

"Anderson," Molly remarked as she settled herself on her horse's saddle, "I – I don't think that your new groomsman is going to work out."

"I'm sorry Miss Hooper, but I can't do that. As much as I loathe admitting it, the man is good at his job."

"Hm," Molly said quietly, her head bowed. "I suppose you are right."

Anderson's brow furrowed as he scanned her. "Is everything alright, Miss Hooper?"

Usually Anderson was about perceptive to the feelings or mood of his employer—or, indeed, any other woman he happened to meet—as a fish was to a fish hook, only ever noticing the presence of something odd when it was spelt out to him. She supposed it was part of her own rotten luck that he had chosen today to be more observational than usual.

With a tight pull of the reins and a quick click of her tongue, she steered Somerville from the stable yard and towards the paddock.

It was later on, as the sun was beginning to set and after she had returned her horse to the stables and had made her way back towards the house that she was greeted with a rather surprising sight. Outside her parlour door, there stood a police constable.

Perhaps this was not a surprising sight for some, but for Molly, who had been raised in a law abiding household and had strived to obey the law at every opportunity, it was indeed more than a little shocking.

The police constable in question was about of forty and three years, though his grey hair might have led some to believe him older than that. Like all police constables, he had an authoritative air to him, but his patient expression and the way he stood indicated approachable warmth in his overall attitude.

On seeing Molly, he bowed his head. "Good morning, Miss Hooper. My name's Greg Lestrade."

"Oh? Well, it's lovely to meet you," Molly said with a smile, peeling her riding gloves off her hands before she gestured towards the parlour door. "Shall we step inside?"

"Yes – I think you're going to need a place to sit down, actually, Miss Hooper."

Molly's brows furrowed, watching as Lestrade followed her into the parlour and quietly shut the doors behind him.

"Why?" She gave out a short, light laugh as she made to stand by the fireplace. "Is what you've come to tell me that terrible, constable?"

Lestrade shrugged minutely, but did not move from his place by the doors. "It's actually about your groomsman – Sherlock Holmes. You've not had him in your employ for long – about two weeks, is that correct?"

"A fortnight, yes." Molly's tone was cooler now, more akin to a discussion of business than a light, bantering exchange.

"Well, uh, I'm here to tell you that Sherlock Holmes is not in fact, a groomsman." He finally let himself look straight to Molly. "He's a detective. He's worked with me for a number of years now – God help me – and on a variety of cases."

"And I – I suppose your latest one led you here?" Molly said tentatively, moving towards the sofa. Considering how she felt as if the very floor had disappeared underneath her, perhaps Lestrade's advice to sit down was warranted after all.

"It's nothing you yourself has done, Miss Hooper, in case you were wondering – the case is actually centred around your fiancé – I believe you know him as Thomas?"

"Thomas?" Molly brought herself out of her shock long enough to speak and shake her head. "No, Thomas is not my fiancé. We've – spoken about it, but no. I suppose you could say we are almost engaged."

"Oh. I was led to believe – anyway – the point is, Thomas is not actually who he says he is. His name is in fact James Moriarty."

Slowly, Lestrade sat upon the opposite sofa, clearly and somewhat nervously awaiting her response which in the end, was only to give a slow blink.

"Moriarty?"

"Mm. With the help of me and the other officers at Scotland Yard, Sherlock has been tracking him for some time now. We suspect he's been involved in a number of offences – including fraud and, um, murder."

"Oh."

His smiles had always been so carefully placed; now she saw, in retrospect, that he had been utterly cold and methodical in his kindness. He had planted an idea of a suitor in her mind, and allowed it to fester, to bloom. It sickened her to think that she had allowed herself to be fooled in such a way; it shamed her to think she had allowed it to happen twice, with two different men.

"Miss Hooper – you're rather pale. Is everything alright? I know this must come as a shock—"

"I'm fine," Molly said, standing up a little too quickly and smiling a little too politely, her fingers clenched tighter around her gloves. "I presume you'll need my cooperation?"

Lestrade also raised himself to his feet, giving a nod. "Your ultimate cooperation – are you going to be communicating with Moriarty at all? I understand he's staying with you?"

"Yes, he is – staying with me. I doubt he'll be staying for long though, especially when he gets wind of your visit." She fixed Lestrade with a stare and hoped that the paleness of her features didn't detract from the ferocity of her growing anger. "You can be assured I won't speak a word of this to him – but my staff tends to gossip."

"We're prepared for that, Miss Hooper." Lestrade bowed his head once more, and for a brief moment, Molly could have sworn blind to have seen a modicum of sympathy trace across the constable's features before he made his departure.

When Molly did feel the urge to move again, she made straight for her bedchamber, her thoughts once again consumed by Sherlock Holmes. Only now, her ire was consumed by him too.

Soon ridding herself of her riding habit and hat, leaving herself in just her dress, she sat herself in front of her dressing table and set to work on her hair. Especially after she had been out riding, Molly preferred to prepare herself for bed, having formed the habit soon into her childhood and usually, she was rather adept at the task but now her fingers fumbled and mutterings of frustration bled out from under her tongue in quick succession as she failed to undo the tight knot of hair that rested at the back of her neck until with a huff, she finally gave a tight tug at her hair and her hair, curled and tangled into knots from the effort of riding, fell down her back and against her shoulders.

With a sigh, she began to pull a brush through her hair as her mind continued to whirl, though a wince escaped her as she hit a particularly difficult tangled knot. It was not that she wasn't shocked, hurt or even angered by her almost fiancé's duplicity, but it was more the fact that she couldn't quite comprehend why even more subterfuge was needed by the man trying to capture her deceitful fiancé.

What, exactly, was the point of infiltrating her home? He could not have known Thomas—Moriarty—would ever have shown his face, so the plan was flawed at best. Her brown eyes connected with her reflection as she continued to wrestle with the knot of hair. Surely, surely, he had to know his actions would only have caused more harm than good, in the long term?

"For heaven's sake," she muttered, slamming the hairbrush onto the table. It was no use, not a single bit of use, for her to sit there and worry away hours of sleep. She had to do something. She had to see, even speak to, him. She had to gain some answers, and cease all of her worrying. Taking up her shawl and wrapping it around her shoulders, she departed from the room.

When she entered the stables, he did not look up, but continued to attend to the horses as he had been charged, providing them with water and hay for the night, as if he had not noticed her entrance. It was only when she shut and locked the stable door that he looked to her, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her.

"Miss Hooper – anything I can do for you?"

She took a small step forward, her gaze deliberately tracing over his form. His fingers, she saw now, were not calloused from the work, but held all the characteristics of a violin player. Her father, God rest his soul, had been an avid violin player, and so Molly had always known the tell-tale signs that came with the hobby. The fact that she had been so blind to them before grated.

"When were you planning on telling me my fiancé was a murderer? Before or after I married him?"

The light amusement in his eyes, the one he always regarded her with, dimmed with realisation. Slowly, he made to move towards her.

"I don't know what you mean." He came to a stop opposite her, his height once again looming over her. "Perhaps it would be best if you went back to your bed."

Molly deepened her glare. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare try and deny me the truth. You lied to me, Mr Holmes."

"I did not lie to you," he said smoothly, and she felt him touch at her arm, gently steering her back towards the stable door. Affronted, she pushed against him.

"No! – You lied! Tell me why!"

He directed his gaze to her again, but this time, his eyes held as much anger as she felt. Her jaw tightened as she watched him, feeling his grip on her arm loosen and fall away.

"What would you rather I had done, Miss Hooper? Would you rather I came in, demand to know where your fiancé, James Moriarty, was and clumsily accuse him, outright, of his crimes?"

"I'm not engaged to James Moriarty!" The argument came out in the form of a shout, and she immediately wished she could take it back. Sherlock leaned closer to her; his grin was slowly returning. Molly paused, and she felt her chest tighten as her breath quicken. She had been so wrapped up in her anger and confusion about this infuriating man that she had not registered the fact that the man in question now had her pressed up against the stable doors, his hands at either side of her head. She swallowed a little, her throat dry as she lifted her gaze to meet with his.

"Nothing – nothing's been announced. Anyway, that is all beside the point. You didn't have to sneak into my household like a criminal hiding from the law."

"I had no other choice."

"You had the choice to be honest with me! You could've told me, from the start, of your intentions and your plans, instead of – coming in and allowing me to be distracted by you—" She stopped.

The implication of her comment was clear, far too clear. Why, why, could she never hold her tongue? Why did she have to let her mouth run away with her?

"Distracted?" He shifted his position a little, the amusement that had faded returning to his ice-blue eyes. "And what, Miss Hooper, are you distracted by?"

She averted her eyes from him once more, her cheeks hot with the brief flush of embarrassment, though the quickening of her breath and the way in which her heart hammered against her chest most certainly was not a result of her embarrassment, but something else much more secretive, much more wicked and just that much more fascinating.

"It's more a question of who," she murmured, her voice soft and her breath catching as he leaned closer to her.

"Who distracts you, Miss Hooper?"

"You."

He made a light sound at the back of his throat, as if considering her words, and she could feel him watching her and every movement that she made. She bit down on her lip, muting the shiver that threatened to work its way up her back.

"What precisely have I done to cause these… distractions?"

She did not give his question an answer, but her deepening blush said more than any whispers or murmured admissions could ever do. For a moment, a brief moment of maddening clarity, she found herself looking to him. She hoped she appeared as determined as she felt.

"That doesn't give you an excuse to claim my forgiveness."

His smile grew gradually across his lips and he gave a one-shouldered shrug, drawing one hand away from the stable door to reach forward and gently touch at the tip of her chin. In the dying light of the day, his eyes shone.

"Obviously," he said, with his voice little more than a soft drawl, "I'll have to ask you nicely."

Her heart seemed to hammer against her chest as she leaned forward. Her mouth dropped open a little, the potential for words—for any form of conversation—planted firmly at the tip of her tongue, but unable to escape. The fact was of little relevance though, especially when he finally relieved her of all thought, leaned forward and took her lips with his own.

She fell into the embrace with a gasp, allowing him to plunder her mouth, pressing herself closer to his warm body as she felt the harsh wood of the stable door press against her back. Her arms locked around his neck, her hair falling against his shoulders, she trailed her hands down his body, feeling his torso through his shirt before she tugged at the hem of his shirt, and she felt him chuckle against her mouth, his hands coming to rest themselves at her hips, his fingers caressing her through the folds of her material. She gave him little chance to speak, her mind and thoughts hazy with want as she clutched at his neck, tugging him closer and closer until their mouths were once again meshed together, their moans low and filthy against the growing darkness of the stables.

A small, mewling gasp jumped from the back of her throat as he deepened their kiss. His ministrations gave her a courage she had long since thought repressed; enough courage for her to let her hand to fall to his groin, and trace teasingly against his growing hardness. A sound almost akin to a growl escaped but when she looked to him, she found him smiling, and the genuine, open nature of his smile gave her a further burst of anticipating pleasure, and she felt no guilt or regret when she reached up to kiss him again.

Their hands and fingers worked swiftly, divesting one another of their clothing, stealing kisses from each other's mouths and soft, swift caresses of their warmed skin before finally he, Sherlock, took her in his arms and kissed her again, his mouth relentless against hers.

She took every piece of it, every moment, moaning as he nibbled at her bottom lip, tracing his mouth against her neck, pressing kisses to her ever increasingly heated skin as he cupped at her arse, his skilful fingers caressing and massaging her before he lifted her off her feet, locking her legs tightly around his waist before he finally provided her with the release she ached for and slipped a finger into her hot, wet core. She groaned as he ground against her, inserting another finger to stroke against her swollen clit in small, fast circles. When she came, the shriek that poured from her was swiftly muffled by the kiss he planted against her mouth.

"Don't want to wake anyone up," he murmured against her and she felt herself giggle softly, stealing another swift kiss from him as he carefully let her find her feet back on the ground. Reaching above her, he drew a blanket from the shelf overhead and spread it out against a stack of hay bales.

"Here," he said. "Sit."

A thrill shuddered up her spine as she stepped forward, knowing he was watching her every movement. She let out a slow breath as she stood in front of the bales and sat back. She pressed her palms flat by her sides, arching her back a little watching as he chuckled shortly, and dropped to his knees in front of her.

"Is this what you've been thinking of, Molly?" He nudged her thighs further apart, quirking an eyebrow up at her, his gaze on hers as he reached forward to kiss at her inner thigh. A thread of a moan left her as she nodded. He kissed her thigh again, but this time, he slid two fingers into her to languidly touch against her clit, sensitive and soaking as it was.

"More or less." The comment came out in a whisper, followed by a whine as he replaced his fingers for his tongue, sending a jolt of pleasure through her as he, both relentless and methodical in his ways, licked and sucked and dipped his tongue into her hot core. Her hands curled against her and she leaned forward, another filthy moan flooding from her as he went deeper, bringing whispered pleas out of her mouth.

"Please – please – oh – please – God," she babbled but that soon trailed away into a gasp and a raspy moan as her second climax shuddered against her. Before either of them could speak however, he had sat beside her and grabbed at her waist, bringing her onto his lap so that she could feel his hard cock at the entrance to her sex. Planting her hands on his chest, she let out a shaking breath but her eyes remained on his as she shifted forward, one hand on his cock as she guided him into her, sucking in a breath as he filled her.

"Move," he commanded with a smile, and still with her hand splayed against his chest, she began to slowly move her hips against him, gasping with every new sensation that rippled through her. The rhythm of his thrusts against her slow and gentle, he bent his head to take her breast in his mouth, his tongue swirling against the swollen nub of her nipple.

"Oh," she breathed, burying her face into the space between his shoulder and his neck, holding him closer, her nails digging against his back as she experimentally built up her speed.

"Deeper," he growled, pressing a kiss to the top of her breast before he gripped at her hips. "Harder."

Beats of sweat on her forehead, she obeyed, a smile growing on her features as she saw his eyes ablaze with desire, his hair growing damp. The knowledge that she was the one to unravel him so filled her with a new surge of determination and she again increased her speed, still going deeper, faster.

"My name," she panted against him. "Say my name."

He kissed at her collarbone, nipping briefly at her flesh, grinning when the act elicited a hiss from her.

"Molly." Her name was a breath on his voice, but spoken with an intimacy she knew she would always remember. He repeated her name, each repetition as soft and as satisfying as the last and he traced one hand against her sweat-drenched form to touch at her hot centre, his clever fingers expertly finding and stroking against her swollen clit in small, fast circles. A low, throaty moan escaped her as they continued to move with one another, their breaths low and beautifully obscene, until she could swear that the world was spinning and he was the axis.

Her walls quaked around him and thinking quickly, she bit down on her bottom lip, hard, ceasing the wail that threatened to bubble through, up and out of her throat and from her mouth. He followed her soon after with one final muffled grunt of her name, his head buried against her shoulder. Panting, stray locks of her hair stuck to her sweat-drenched temples, she pressed her forehead to his, her shallow breathing blending with his.

The reality of what they had done, certainly, gnawed at her. He, she, they had done this. Together. With all their remarks, their jibes, the hidden looks and the minute gestures, she had unravelled herself, exposed herself to be not a prim and proper lady of a manor as she had been raised to be but something else entirely.

In the hollow, isolated darkness of the stables though, a giggle escaped her mouth and she felt herself give the smallest of knowing smiles as his arms encompassed her and he took her mouth again in a searing embrace.

This, she reflected, was what she would remember most. The two of them, cocooned against each other, his fingers running softly through the curls of her hair and down her back, his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

"You're right." The words were murmured against her hair, but audible nonetheless. Craning her neck to look at him, she narrowed her eyes. He continued, his voice gentle and his words carefully chosen. His gaze, once lightened with amusement, was now heavy with his reproach. "It was wrong of me – to be dishonest with you. I'll leave tomorrow morning. Perhaps I'll stage a disagreement with Anderson."

He directed a smile, a bittersweet and small smile, at her and held her closer. Still, she spoke not a word; but she did listen. She didn't know where his reproach had come from, nor whether it was recently borne or thoughts that had festered. If she were to be honest, she was, for this tiny moment in time, disinclined to find out. She didn't want truth just yet. Hopefully he could see that.

"No-one will know," he said and he dropped a kiss onto her temple.

She supposed that was true, but the reality of the situation was still a difficult one to ignore. In pursuing her own passion and her own pleasure, she had disregarded society and the position of those below her. If she was ruined, she would not have destroyed her own standing and her own life, but the livelihoods of all who worked in her household too.

Where would Sherlock Holmes be then? He would not return to her, now that he had gained what he wanted. Just as easily as he had made his arrival into her life, he would make his departure. That was the truth, and she had the knowledge of it, whether she wished to or not.

Their union remained a secret, as he had promised, but the following events over the next few days were, if Molly were quite honest, rather predictable in their unfolding.

As soon as Sherlock Holmes' departure and true status was made general knowledge, Moriarty had said his goodbyes, the mask of his false charm never slipping once, before he had fled. Throughout the household, as more and more of the truth of Moriarty's true nature unfolded, panic spread and eventually, evolved into superficial shows of sympathy. Mrs Hudson especially, regularly clucked over the "terrible business", accompanying her comments with a regular shake of the head.

Having accepted her fate, Molly bore the side glances and snatches of muttered gossip that she might've heard as she passed down corridors with either a good enough grace or a slight lowering of her head, as was expected of her.

Yet she did not have to suffer for long, as the officers of Scotland Yard were efficient enough, and it was a week later that Moriarty's capture took place.

In the end, Molly felt herself slipping into a sort of trance. Every day, she woke and every day, she wasted her hours attending to the business of the household but it would be a lie for her to say that any of it held any interest for her. She found herself thinking of Sherlock Holmes; of his fingers tracing against her skin, his breath warm against her and his mouth on hers, the taste and the memory of him still lingering, however faintly, on her lips. Although the thoughts did never last for long before she hastily dismissed them. He had made his departure, and he had solved his case. It was clear that there were no more ties between them.

It was rather a miracle then, when she found herself surprised at the announcement of a visitor on the Wednesday afternoon. Dutifully, she stood for the guest but was further surprised when she found that the visitor was not anyone she knew but was in actuality, a stranger. Tall, but round, he was an older gentleman of about forty or so, with dark hair and although she had little to no idea who he was, she already felt as if she recognised him. The man gave a thin smile.

"Miss Hooper. My name is Mycroft Holmes." He proffered a hand, but immediately let it drop to his side when she did not take it.

Briefly, she looked him up and down and returned his smile. "Forgive me, but what are you doing here?"

He reached into his coat and brought out a wax-sealed envelope, dropping it onto the table in front of him.

"You're to attend the trial of James Moriarty in a fortnight," he said, regarding her before he spoke again. The tone by which Mycroft spoke was the blunt, cool and sharp-edged of a man who had no time for the frivolities of high society or the actions of the criminal classes, much like his brother. With a smile, she wondered if it was a trait that ran through all of the members of the Holmes family, or just the two brothers. "I have to say Miss Hooper, it was clever of you to have Moriarty use your household accounts in his handling of your money."

"My money?" Molly asked, picking up the envelope. "I thought it had all—"

"As well as Moriarty, Scotland Yard captured his associate – a Mr Moran I think – who has aided him in many of his crimes. From that point on, your money was rather easy to retrieve. It will be returned to you within a matter of days."

She turned over the envelope. Looped handwriting carefully spelt out her name.

"I suppose your brother had a hand in this business?" she asked, looking up.

"Yes. Humorous really, but I asked whether he wanted me to tell you about his involvement."

"What did he say?"

"He only told me to relay you a message."

Although the statement somewhat floored her and she would have probably, before, stopped dead with her eyes wide but considering the current situation, she found it best to keep her gaze steady and her voice calm.

"And what message was that?"

"He says that he hopes you will be able to find the husband you deserve."

Molly's brows furrowed. "Really?"

"Not in so many words," Mycroft remarked with another, equally as thin smile. "But I presume it has something to do with sentiment. Good evening to you, Miss Hooper."

He departed without another word, save for a brief raise of his eyebrow and a tiny nod towards the envelope in her hand. Frowning, Molly opened it. Inside was not the official document she had expected, but more of the looped handwriting that had denoted her name.

You need to marry better.

It seemed that she was wrong. Perhaps her business with Sherlock Holmes was not quite done yet.

The thought gave her cause, for the first time in days, to smile.

It was rather intriguing for Molly, to observe the changes in behaviour that came with the quick restoration of her fortune. While the servants of her household still gossiped, the side glances of sympathy and pity soon vanished and where she received no visitors, she now had a seemingly unending stream of them, all of them wishing her well and offering their condolences for her unfortunate involvement in the scheme.

In fact, there was such a flurry of visitors and such a frequent amount of meetings held that Molly almost forgot all about the trial of her former almost fiancé and it was only when Mrs Hudson served to remind her that the reality of her situation once again hit her; and it was a reality that was only confirmed when she entered the court to find James Moriarty stood in the dock.

He was not different from the mask he had used to woo her out of her fortune. No, he was a mirror. Where Thomas answered questions with a smile, Moriarty regarded any question given to him with a cool air, his eyes hollow and dark where they had once been filled with warmth. He stood at the dock with his hands tucked behind his back, every slight movement he made languid, akin to a reptile in nature, as he listened to the testimonies provided.

Yet when Sherlock, now in the appearance of a young man of understated wealth, made to step up and give his testimony, Moriarty's boredom slipped away to show him give a knowing smile, and he turned his head, his dark eyes glittering as they locked onto the gallery behind him, his gaze shifting towards Molly. The contact was brief, and even though she kept her eyes focused on Sherlock, the knowledge of his gaze sweeping over her was enough to send an icy shiver through her body.

The testimonies themselves, presided over the judge—an elderly gentleman with the appearance of wisdom and the knowledge to match it—took a day to complete. Some were short, and to the point whereas others were lengthy and in-depth, but all of them had one thing in common. Whatever their stories, they all accused James Moriarty of the same crimes.

Molly watched them all stand and give their testimonies and tell their stories, but it was only when Sherlock came to the stand that she felt her heart almost stop and that she leaned forward.

The judge looked to Sherlock. "Mr Holmes, when exactly did the crimes of the accused come to your attention?"

"Three months ago," Sherlock answered. "I was called in on a case regarding the murder of a young man, and by the afternoon I'd discovered that he was killed through the use of a blunt instrument, and that his sister had recently suffered what some might call the trauma of a broken engagement. The man to which she was engaged, one Richard Brook, always carried a cane; a cane which later turned up, clean of fingerprints, in the house of the family's gardener."

Soft murmurings echoed throughout the court. The judge, undeterred, continued. "And that was when you began to suspect this – Richard Brook?"

"It was clear to me that whoever Richard Brook was, he was someone who needed to be captured. Of course, it then became apparent that Richard Brook was not in fact, real and nothing more than an alias. James Moriarty however, was. After several weeks of work, I tracked him down to find that he now posed as Thomas Lytcott, a young man of medium wealth."

Molly listened as Sherlock, his voice always remaining an even and steady drawl, relayed the rest of the tale of his investigations. Whatever mention he made of her, it was with anonymity and only in relation to James Moriarty. Any outsider could not notice the subtle intimacy with which he spoke of her—after all, it was an intimacy only she had known.

One thing was clear to see however: James Moriarty was guilty.

As such, it did not take long for the verdict against Moriarty to be made, but even as he was escorted out of the court, with a death sentence now attached to his name, he did nothing but smile.

While everyone—lawyers, civilians—made their way out of the courthouse and into the main square, calling for taxis or conversing with their companions, Molly lingered, fiddling at the edges of her shawl. She would not have admitted to waiting for Sherlock to make his appearance, but she would have admitted that she did have a great need to speak with him. He apparently knew this, for he did not announce his arrival to her through any conventional means, such as a "hello" or a bow of the head, but instead through the giving of a compliment.

"You look particularly lovely in the sunlight, Miss Hooper."

She turned to find him stood behind her, hands folded in front of him and a quirk of a smile touching at the edges of his mouth and his blue eyes light. For a moment, she was unable to find any suitable words to say, dumbfounded as she was by the casual state of his comment to her.

"Thank you." The words tumbled from her tongue. "For what – what you did."

Rather than her words causing his smile to widen, it caused him to lower his head, swallowing a little.

"It was only right of me to do it."

So he was as nervous as she was. She nearly had to smile at that.

"Your brother relayed your message." Slowly, she reached forward, her fingers curling carefully around his arm. "I find myself agreeing with it."

At this, his smile returned to him as he raised his head to meet her gaze, and his gloved hand was warm against as he cupped against her cheek.

The busy world of London carrying on around them, their attentions on far more trivial things than the reunion of two lovers, there was no shame felt by Molly when she stepped forward, reached up and did what she had, for weeks now, ached to do, and their kiss was unlike their previously hurried embraces. It was instead a light, tender confirmation of what they already knew.

A few months of courtship would follow their meeting outside the courthouse before they wed. The ceremony itself was as quiet as a union between two prestigious, wealthy households could be and although some parties—Mycroft being one—did question whether Sherlock Holmes was wise enough to take a wife he had seemingly only known for a few months, their union proved to be a beneficial and, after a time, fruitful one with three children, a boy and two girls, being born to them.

The Moriarty scandal did not, of course, completely erase itself from history, but it was assured that if anyone ever made an attempt to question Molly Holmes' involvement in the scandal, it would always be denied, with her husband often claiming, with a smirk on his lips, that they were already in the throes of courtship at the time.