Delayed for a Little While

Death cannot stop true love (The Princess Bride AU)

Rated: T

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock of The Princess Bride. I just love them very much and want them to be happy together.

Chapter One: The Heart Arcane

Her name was Molly Hooper.

By her thirty-first year, she was alone, both of her parents long in the grave. As was common for the time, they'd fallen prey to Death's clever scythe of illness. Her mother passed first, when Molly's cheeks were still plump with youth, while her father went not long after her twenty-third birthday. Molly had tried to help both of them as best she could, but there was only so much a young woman trained as a midwife could do.

By any of her neighbors' and fellow villagers' standards, she was long in the tooth. Often, as she'd walk through the town, she would overhear gossipmongers muttering when she passed.

"Oh, the waste. She's a pretty girl, but who would want her now? She's ancient."

"She was too poor to tempt anyone even at the height of her marriageable years. Pity."

Molly had accepted this ascribed Spinster Status with a shrug and gone about her business, helping bring babies into the world with calm dexterity. She liked the job well enough, but it certainly wasn't her passion. Unfortunately, there was little call for a Mistress in the Art of Death in a town that was not only rather incurious about death, but also had a resident who already filled the role; a male resident, trumping her by sheer dint of how he'd been born.

He wasn't a trained Master. As far as Molly could tell, he specialized in chemistry and an uncanny skill for gleaning facts from innocuous details. But he was pulled in often enough to confer with the county's sheriff that he adopted the second title.

She knew by word of many, many mouths that he had assisted Sheriff Lestrade on several, dangerous endeavors, and had rarely received thanks for it. In choosing to study Death and its assistants, paired with sheer irascibility, he chose a public perception of being morbid and meddlesome. Molly didn't feel that way.

From afar, she envied and admired his brilliance.

At close proximity, she loathed him.

They first met at a birthing gone horribly wrong. The father didn't even fetch her until Anne Thatcher and their child had died. Though fistulae were not uncommon in untended births, Molly had still had to fight a horrified reaction to just how terrible the woman's death must have been. But that wasn't all. Something had her uneasy, beyond the tragic deaths laid out before her.

She lied to Marcus Thatcher, offering him a nervous smile as she hurried to the door. "I need some aid with this. This is beyond my abilities."

The man mopped at his eyes as he waved Molly away.

She rushed over to the Sheriff's house on the edge of town. Gregory Lestrade was a good man. Unlike other sheriffs in surrounding counties, he wasn't interested in the venality that could come with his level of power. He was fair and kind, and Molly trusted him.

He wasn't sure why she was fetching him, however. "This isn't the first time you've lost a mother and a baby, Miss Hooper." He frowned at her, not unkindly, as his three, young children ran amok in the room behind him.

"No, Sheriff, it isn't," she agreed, raising her voice to be heard above the din. "But there's something different about this one. It looks like a natural death, but there's something wrong with it."

Lestrade crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. "What makes you say that?"

Molly shrugged helplessly. "I can't explain it. But I can feel it."

The sheriff's cheeks puffed out with a deep breath as he straightened once more. "I can't go in there if you don't have something definite." When Molly opened her mouth to protest, he held up a hand. "But I'll send Sherlock Holmes."

A mix of relief and trepidation filled her. She'd only heard of Sherlock Holmes, the self-taught Master in the Art of Death. Though she hungrily read accounts of death studies, she'd had little cause to interact with the man reputed to be brilliant and awful in equal measure.

With nervous thanks, Molly left Lestrade and made her way back to the grisly scene. She muttered a confirmation to the new widower that someone was coming to assist her, trying to act normal even as she skirted around him and went to the foot of the bed, standing sentry while she waited.

After nearly three quarters of an hour, he came striding in, this Master, without sparing her or the widower a glance. His mouth was turned down in thought or perhaps ennui as he took in the grimness before him. Molly couldn't say it was an expression borne of any kind upset at the tragedy.

He was significantly taller than she, sharped-featured, pale-eyed, with curling, raven hair. She could appreciate his strange beauty even as she waited tensely to hear what he would have to say.

"Can you help me?" she asked, clearing her throat over her bout of nerves. She tried to remain vague, not to arouse Marcus Thatcher's suspicions.

Sherlock Holmes gave a beleaguered sigh. "If I must."

Molly's own eyes narrowed into a glare, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Holmes had already moved on. "This woman has been dead for three hours, the fetus longer than that. Why didn't you seek help?" he asked abruptly, whirling to face Thatcher.

"I thought it were just birthin' pains," the widower said, his voice petulant.

The man rumored to have made some occult dealings to achieve such brilliance rolled his eyes before turning back to the bed. His gaze flicked to Molly as he began skirting its perimeter. "You're the midwife. Was this woman in your care?"

"No, Mr. Thatcher tells me his wife had no desire to use a midwife." Molly explained.

"So you can't tell me when she was due to be at full term?"

She stepped closer to Anne Thatcher's body, peering at the swelling of her belly. "Not with any certainty. She was a slight woman and they all carry differently, but it looks like the infant was close to if not at full term."

Holmes leaned over the corpse, peering perfunctorily before he started scanning the area around Anne Thatcher's body. "What makes you think her death was unnatural?"

Marcus Thatcher made a choked sound at the bald question while Molly glared at Holmes. She'd hoped for some subtlety in the matter, but she had heard that this purported Master was about as subtle as a runaway boulder.

Resolutely turning to face him, but trying to keep Thatcher in her sights, she explained, "There had to have been plenty of signs that this was not a normal labor. The hemorrhaging alone should have alarmed Mr. Thatcher. Yet Mrs. Thatcher was left die here in the bed without help."

Holmes cocked an imperious eyebrow. "Have you seen this sort of thing before? An obstetric fistula?"

Molly nodded. "Once. The mother survived for a short time after, but infection set in and died three days later."

"Have women been known to survive indefinitely?" He studied the wrists and ankles of the body as he spoke.

"It's rare, but it's possible."

As he opened the mouth of Anne Thatcher's corpse, squinting to see in the dim light, Holmes once spoke once more. "Everything looks normal, anatomically speaking. It presents as a birth gone awry."

Molly deflated, feeling the accusatory stare of Marcus Thatcher burning into her. "You witch," he hissed. "I sought your assistance after me beloved wife died, and this is how you thank me? Accusin' me of killin' her?"

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but Holmes was talking before she could even gather a defense. "Oh, Miss Hooper's right. You murdered your wife. I just was saying it looks normal."

"He did?" Molly turned abruptly back to look at Holmes, trying to see what have damning evidence solidified it for a Master. It had just been a hunch. She was relieved she hadn't bandied about a false accusation, but remained confused about what it was exactly that had made her suspicious.

"It was her tincture," Holmes supplied, seeing Molly's confusion.

Her eyes followed his gaze over to the rough table by the bed. It held a glass with some sort of flowering plant, a cast iron pot, and cup. It was all innocent enough, but something had to tell Holmes what he knew. Molly slowly walked over to the table, accidentally brushing the man as she walked by.

Whatever Anne Thatcher had been drinking was gone and the pot sat empty, too. But there had to be something. Sherlock Holmes couldn't just divine its former contents. She glanced back at him and he was watching her. His handsome face and stately posture were redolent with doubt that she could match his wits.

Clenching her fists a little and developing a strong, sudden dislike for this Master in the Art of Death, Molly turned back to the table and looked again carefully.

And then she saw it. It was by sheer luck that she recognized the plant stems in the vase. She'd thought the book on Asiatic herbs she'd purchased two weeks prior to be an exorbitant purchase, but now she was ever so grateful to the Chinese man peddling his wares in the town square.

"Caulophyllum," she burst out excitedly.

Holmes drew back, blinking at her in surprise. Then he looked a little put out. Probably upset that a woman proved his assumptions wrong, Molly thought triumphantly.

"Well, yes, actually," he conceded. Turning back to face Marcus Thatcher, he sighed impatiently. "You poisoned your wife with blue cohosh plant. You told her it would induce labor, and it did, but you continued to give her the tincture, likely saying it would hurry her delivery along, until she'd received a lethal dose. She was too weak to deliver the fetus, and it died."

Thatcher began edging to the door, looking a bit wild. "She took it herself. She wanted to have the child and be done with it."

Scoffing, Holmes advanced on the other man. "I would almost believe that if it weren't for the marks on your wife. You tried to avoid leaving any sign of a struggle when you held her down while she convulsed, but there are small bruises on the medial and lateral sides of her wrists."

"I—I didn't want her to hurt herself," Thatcher tried.

"Again, I applaud your meager attempts at lying, but your wife also vomited up the contents of her stomach not long before she expired. You cleaned her mouth, but not well enough." Holmes came to a stop close enough that, were he level with the shorter man, their noses would be touching. "Valiant effort. So where'd you get the blue cohosh, Thatcher? A rare, Asian plant, not commonly found around these parts."

Thatcher refused to speak.

"I can answer that," Molly supplied. "There was a traveling salesman in town a fortnight ago selling exotic herbs. They were predominantly of Asian origin. I am certain Mr. Thatcher had no trouble getting his hands on it."

Holmes nodded once at her before cocking an eyebrow at Thatcher, as if to say, "Your move."

Thatcher looked like he was considering bolting through the door, but instead he decided to take a last stab at defending himself. "She went to whelp, and I was struggling to feed us as it is."

"Oh, and that was entirely your wife's fault," Molly spat, before realizing she'd even moved toward the two men. But she couldn't stop. "Everyone knows women spontaneously generate babies, so I can see why you had to kill them." As she spoke, she eyed an axe buried in a stump outside the dingy window of the cottage. Perhaps she could codge Thatcher over the head with it?

Holmes, perhaps seeing the direction of her gaze and misinterpreting her expression for something far more violent, said, "Miss Hooper, perhaps you could run and fetch the good Sheriff?"

Molly nodded and backed away, not necessarily pleased that Holmes was giving her instructions, but someone did need to get Lestrade. She would rather not be left alone with Thatcher, anyway. Pulling her cloak tightly around her, she rushed down the packed dirt path and back toward the Sheriff's home.

After several more hours, Molly stumbled from the Thatcher cottage for the last time. Lestrade had taken Marcus Thatcher into custody on Holmes' word without waiting to hear the man's confession. Molly had to her stamp down her resentment over the blind faith the sheriff placed in the man. She did remind herself that Lestrade hardly knew her. Perhaps she could earn that regard eventually.

The three of them watched as the swollen, lifeless bodies of Anne Thatcher and her stillborn infant were hauled away while a passing bell rang belatedly from a nearby chapel.

As she watched the two men trudge away with their burden, Sherlock Holmes stepped up alongside her.

Fighting to speak over a sudden onslaught of shyness, she said. "Thank you for your help tonight, Mr. Holmes. I appreciate it. At first I was afraid Sheriff Lestrade wasn't going to do anything."

Holmes shrugged, bored once more. "It all turned out to be rather anticlimactic, didn't it? Thatcher didn't even make it difficult for me."

His sneer had Molly gaping. "Mr. Holmes, a woman and her child are dead. It's nothing but a tragedy," she sputtered, appalled by his blatant disregard.

She'd seen her share of death and she had even developed a morbid sense of humor about it. But she told herself it was different, because she still felt the burden of horror and a desire for justice.

His brow furrowed as he regarded her. "You were quite the cool one while we were standing over this tragic woman's body"—he shook his head sharply when Molly tried to interject—"Found your prim and proper ways now that you don't feel the adrenaline coursing through you? Now that the scent of a puzzle has faded, Miss Hooper, is your brain reengaging with your staid and repressed upbringing? Does it see your instinct to relish the hunt for answers and is it telling you, 'Oh, now, this is wrong'? Please, I beg you, spare me your judgment and your lies."

Molly stepped back, feeling like he'd slapped her. Feeling like he'd seen far too much.

She began tying the ribbons of her cloak in fast, jerky motions, feeling too much fury even to speak at first. Finally she managed to grit out, "Could you do me a favor, Mr. Holmes, and go to the devil?"

He grinned, a sudden, hard flash of teeth. "If I must."

And then, flicking at a piece of lint on his greatcoat, he swept off into the night's darkness.

After that, Molly encountered Sherlock Holmes at least once a week. She began to suspect she had angered some deity and Holmes was her punishment.

Two days after the Thatcher murders, she'd rounded the corner at the town market and found him standing at her favorite bookseller's stall. She'd had to fight down a growl of frustration. That was where she wanted to be. Now she couldn't, because she most certainly wasn't going to interact with that odious man. Instead, she had to busy herself by pretending to be interested in hearing about an old woman's beloved sheep, bizarrely named Finn McCool, as she looked at skeins of poorly spun yarn until she saw Holmes casually saunter away. He arched an eyebrow at Molly as he passed; telling her he knew exactly what she was about.

Six days later, she literally ran into him as she made her way up the front garden at Sheriff Lestrade's house. She'd come with the intent of checking on his wife, who was about to begin her fourth confinement. As she turned from closing the garden gate, she bumped full-on into a solid chest. Looking up, her eyes met the rather annoyed light blue of Sherlock Holmes' gaze. She chastised her traitorous brain for noticing that he smelled enticingly of pine and tobacco.

Molly stood there for a moment before realizing she was staring. Clearing her throat, she muttered a semi-polite 'Excuse me" as she hurried around him. She felt rather proud of herself for not barreling on without comment.

Not that he seemed to notice either way, but she still took it as a personal triumph.

Eight days after that, Molly had to work with him once more.

One of the town's watchmen came knocking on her door in the first hours of the morning. There wasn't even a glimmer of sunrise or the rustling of a rooster to tell her just how early it actually was. She was used to being roused at all hours. Babies generally left much to be desired as far as keeping to any sort of schedule.

But this was no delivery.

An unknown assailant had attacked a man in a nearby fallow field. Gunnar Himmel sustained several injuries, but none worse than the gash on his leg, courtesy of a rusted hoe. They'd had no luck finding the attacker and, in the meantime, the leg injury had turned septic.

When Molly arrived, she found a flurry of activity as she stepped into the one room cottage. Over people's voices, muttering in discussion, she could hear the pained moans issuing from the man on a bed situated against the far wall. Casting aside her cloak and hurriedly rolling up her sleeves, Molly rushed over to him.

She could smell the injury before she got close. The sight was even worse. Someone had cut away Himmel's breeches to his knee, exposing a laceration that had nearly degloved his calf.

"Where's Doctor Morgenstern?" she questioned the room at large.

"Deep in his cups down at the Goat and Bonnet, where else?" a deep voice replied to her left.

Molly was finding that particular rather familiar, much to her chagrin. She glanced at Sherlock Holmes long enough to see his eyes flickering around various surfaces, and she knew he was once again collecting information from items that would fall beyond most others' notice.

"Mr. Holmes," she greeted before returning her attention to Himmel. Speaking in an undertone, she said, "We need a doctor. We can't save his leg."

Holmes followed her closer to the bed. Together, they looked down and the seeping wound. Spidery, black tendrils veined away from the site, telling Molly just how ominous Himmel's situation actually was.

"What do you know about amputation?" Holmes asked, for once following her lead and keeping his voice quiet.

"I've read some things about it, but I've never seen one done or anything like it." Molly felt a gnawing fear take root in the pit of her belly. She breathed deeply, telling herself that it might not come to that. "You're sure the doctor is… indisposed?"

He shot her an incredulous look. "This surprises you somehow?"

Sanford Morgenstern rarely made it out of his own home before imbibing far too much drink, let alone that he usually only made the short walk between his garden and the local tavern. Molly was certain he was responsible for any number of mistakes in treating his patients, some lethal.

That said, she was terrified that Gunnar Himmel wasn't any better off having her there, instead. She'd been called on before to assist Morgenstern, and had even substituted for him during his bouts with inebriation, but never for anything so dire. She was the only option, though. Shaking her head, Molly realized she could very well be making the situation worse by fretting. It was time she collected herself and tried to save the injured man's life.

With a sigh, she conceded, "I guess not."

Molly prided herself on her skill in midwifery. Though it wasn't her dream, she still made the most of it, taking gentle care of the mothers and babies who came into her care. She refused to employ any of the tugging and yanking that many midwives chose, often to the detriment of their charges. If she could keep her calm and use some of those principles here, then surely she could do what needed to be done.

In some ways, preparing to cut off a man's leg was no different from delivering a baby. She set to boiling water and finding rags and sheets, and gathered her surgical tools. Molly carried a bag to all of her home visits filled with various items—a knife that she kept sharpened and honed, spring scissors, thread, and needles. And all of them would be helpful here.

She became so immersed in her task that she didn't realize most of the concerned neighbors and the watchmen swarming the cabin had left until she was ready to begin in earnest. Turning to ask for assistance, her words died on her tongue when she realized only Sherlock Holmes remained.

"Where did they all go?"

"For some reason, none of them wanted to see you cut off a man's leg," he murmured. He was busily pulling fibers from a greatcoat hanging by the door and Molly felt a flash of alarm that he was going to leave, too.

"You can't leave," she said, hoping the edge of hysteria in her voice might be apparent only to her.

His brows shot up, nearly disappearing into the errant curls drooping over his forehead. "Oh, really? Are you going to chain me to this cottage? Your new patient might not appreciate the delay. Struggling to hold me down would only end in embarrassment for you."

"I'll need help," she insisted, not feeling remotely confident that Holmes would ever change his mind.

"I've noticed at least ten different areas in which you need help, Miss Hooper, but it's not my responsibility to address them."

Molly considered throwing her knife at him, but then she'd have to clean it again before using it on Himmel's leg.

Instead, she decided to try complimenting him. Once, as a young girl, she saw peacock at a local faire. It had ignored everyone and nipped at people's ankles until its owner started selling smalls bags of grain to the onlookers. Given his proper homage, the peacock had unfurled his tail and posed for his admirers. Molly was beginning to suspect Sherlock Holmes would be much the same.

"I just imagine you'd know more than even Doctor Morgenstern, actually. You probably have read up on the subject, and I trust you're something of an expert."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously for a moment before returning to their usual impassive gaze. Flippantly, he said, "I planned to stay, actually. I'm curious to see an actual amputation."

Molly barely contained her noise of frustration. Instead, she handed him a leather strap she'd found hanging on the door and then knelt by the low bed. "Would you please put this in his mouth? I don't want him biting through his tongue."

As she began washing the pus and blood away from the wound, hoping to prevent the infection from spreading once she started cutting, Molly glanced at Holmes. He stood behind where she knelt, watching over her shoulder with a frown.

"What brought you here tonight, Mr. Holmes?"

His eyes met hers momentarily and then returned to where her hands gently moved around the wound site. "I've been asked by the Watch to find Herr Himmel's attacker. They're rather livid that they've not been able to discover anything."

She looked up at him again, using her forearm to push some hair off of her forehead. "Any luck so far?"

For a few moments, the splash of the rag dipping into the basin of water at her side was the only sound to fill the room, and Molly wondered if he was simply not going to answer.

But then: "In a matter of speaking." Holmes didn't lose his frown. It was beginning resemble of look of consternation. And he was looking at her now, not her semi-unconscious patient.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"What do you observe?" was his unhelpful reply.

"What?" she asked, baffled, before blowing at the same hank of hair as it fell back into her eyes.

Holmes sighed in frustration. "Oh, for God's sake." Reaching forward and rolling his eyes as she alarmedly tried to dodge his hand, he tucked the hair behind her ear. He wasn't exactly tender about it, but Molly had to admit he was more successful than she. She refused to acknowledge the extreme awareness she still felt on each point of her forehead and temple that his callused fingers had touched, even after his hand had returned to his side.

Without breaking mental stride, he repeated, "What do you observe? About Himmel's injury?"

The mottled, seeping wound didn't look any better washed and the obvious infection now reaching his blood didn't look any less severe. The skin around the wound—the part that was at least still viable and not necrotizing—was swollen and shiny; yet one more sign of just how dire the situation was. Molly wracked her brain, a frown curving her mouth as she stared.

"Look," Holmes said, coming around to her side and dropping down to his knees. He pointed along the length of the shin. "One of the first things I learned to observe was simple geometry. It's not always easy or obvious, but luckily it is in this case."

He looked at her expectantly. Molly wasn't sure where this tutelage was coming from, but she scolded the excitement fluttering in her chest not to get its hopes up. Holmes might very well just be bored.

"The angle that the hoe cut his leg is downward facing, running along his tibia approximately at forty-five degrees," she began carefully. She looked to Holmes for approval, but his face remained placid as he waited. "The connective tissue was sheared cleanly away from the bone. This indicates that Mr. Himmel was standing when he was attacked; the hoe was forced down his flesh, not raked along it."

She closed her eyes, trying to picture the event. And then it hit.

"A hoe's blade is bent at ninety degrees and its handle is long and cumbersome. If an attacker had come at Himmel with such a tool, he would have had to be standing on a lower surface because the hoe's handle would have be held nearly perpendicular to the ground." Holmes had yet to show much of a reaction, but she thought he might have leaned in minutely in anticipation of her words. "And even if the attacker had held it in such a way that he got a similar cut, it wouldn't have been a clean degloving. Mr. Himmel was found in the middle of a flat field?"

The corner of Holmes' mouth kicked up in a smile and his eyes warmed slightly. "Correct."

"So… he cut himself? Why?"

Holmes' slight smile bloomed into a grin. "That's the mystery, isn't it? But I suspect the motivation has something to do with the horse hair that's on nearly all of his clothes. Did you see any horses on his property?"

Molly shook her head as she tied a long strip of cloth tightly around the lower part of Himmel's thigh as a tourniquet.

"I didn't, either," Holmes said, "but there was plenty of equine hair to be found. I haven't heard about any horse thefts in the area, but I need to get to the field where he was found. I suspect that Herr Himmel found himself nearly caught out in an attempted crime, and sabotaged his person to draw attention away from it."

Molly marveled at the lengths of some people's desperation. She'd been exposed to it more and more as she grew older, but it still had the ability to surprise her.

"So what will happen to him? Will he be punished?"

"Not really my concern. I'll inform the Watch. Not that they have much to punish Himmel for, beyond exhausting their investigative abilities. Which are already meager, I might add."

Not sure what else to say, Molly gathered herself. "I'm about to begin. Could you please lean across his waist to keep him from thrashing, and press down on his thigh? It should immobilize his lower leg a little."

Holmes complied, shockingly without a pithy remark.

She did it as quickly as possible. Himmel came out of his fevered stupor at the first cut, and his cries only worsened. It was traumatic for the patient and for Molly. She spared a moment of selfish resentment that at least Himmel got to pass out from the pain eventually. Her faculties had to remain fully engaged, and she felt distinctly queasy over causing him such pain.

Holmes, she wasn't so certain about. He looked rather unruffled by the whole ordeal. Some sweat had beaded on his brow and his mouth pursed with the effort of holding Himmel down, but once she'd sewn the skin over the injured man's newly stumped knee, Holmes sat back on his heels, looking rather unruffled.

After a few more minutes, Molly slumped back, too, finally finished. Holmes' eyes moved over her work. "You're not the worst sawbones I've ever seen," he conceded.

From anyone else, Molly would say she'd been damned by faint praise. From Sherlock Holmes, however, she felt like he'd just waxed poetic about her skill. She feared her chest might have actually puffed up at the noxiously poor compliment.

Especially when she remembered, "You told me before we started that you'd never seen an amputation."

He snorted. "I've seen drawings and read accounts. There were several unfavorable scenarios that might have come to fruition here tonight that you narrowly avoided."

Molly blinked several times and then changed the subject. "I need to stay with Mr. Himmel. I'm going to leave the disposal up to you. Hopefully there's a nearby fire hot enough to burn it to ash."

He hefted the lower half of Gunnar Himmel's left leg by the ankle and looked at it, calculating. "If I must."

But Molly noticed that he wrapped the severed limb up rather too carefully for someone on his way to burn it in hearth or field. She felt a twinge of jealousy that she hadn't thought of taking it for her own study, but the gleam in Holmes' eye looked rather too greedy. She decided it was a lost cause now.

She didn't say it aloud, but she was struck that they worked surprisingly well together, considering what a miserable sod he could be. Instead, she simply said, "Thank you for your help, Mr. Holmes. I truly couldn't have done it without you."

He looked a little stunned to be receiving yet more gratitude from her. He only floundered for a moment, however, before he nodded his acknowledgment and left. Molly thought about calling after him to warn him. A bluish toe was sticking out of the folds of the blanket tucked under his arm. She debated, lest he alarm someone, but then she decided she wasn't that grateful.

The oldest woman in the town died at the admirable age of eighty-two. There'd been older residents in the past, but she had still been venerated for her accomplishment. Her wake was a crowded affair, the small kitchen crowded with townsfolk. Even more teemed in the tiny sitting area where Iris Bedwyn's open coffin rested.

Molly huddled in a corner, feeling out of place. If she hadn't loved Iris as much as she did, she wouldn't have come. Unfortunately, the two had been rather close. Iris had little remaining family, and had found a kindred spirit in the town's midwife. So there Molly was, and there she would stay until the body was returned to the earth. But it wasn't easy.

It wasn't that the people the town disliked Molly. She had simply never fit in. They saw her as a strange sort, with her willing midwifery and her participation in any number of ghastly activities, such as chopping off a man's leg. Her inability to snare a husband only solidified it for her literal-minded neighbors: there had to be something wrong with her.

There was nothing to be done about it. Molly existed somewhere in the middle ground between accepted and outcast, and she didn't see that changing anytime soon. Besides, it gave her the chance to be the wry observer at gatherings like this.

She would feel offended about the whispered discussions that had nothing to do with Iris if she didn't know that her friend would have wanted to know every bit of gossip Molly overheard.

"….heard that the Mayor has been making frequent visits to that old mill in the woods west of town. So has his assistant, Geoffrey Teasdale. They come out looking rather mussed," Molly overheard one of two women standing close by say.

Her companion genuflected before leaning in conspiratorially. "Well I heard that his wife is in a delicate condition,"—this was news to Molly—"and Mrs. Potter has seen the mayor's brother coming and going to the house when Mayor Beaton is out doing his 'mill inspections'."

Molly shook her head. It seemed like every scandal had some libidinous root. Everyone wanted to know who was in whose bed, but acted shocked and appalled when the information came to light.

Bored with it, she edged along the wall until she could hear two gentlemen having a murmured discussion.

"Are you sure Holmes has proof? What could there be to find?"

Molly's ears prickled at the mention of the town's local Master in the Art of Death. She listened carefully as the men continued on, oblivious of their new audience.

"I don't know how he knew. But he told Magistrate Brown that he's aware that Brown's working for the prince's interests and no one else's."

The first man dabbed at his mouth shakily with a handkerchief. "What do we do?"

"Await the prince's orders. What else can we do, Wilkes?"

They wandered off, out of earshot, and Molly was left watching their retreating backs, not sure what she'd just overheard.

Corruption was nothing new. It seemed that any position of power was susceptible to the lure of more money and even more power. But the idea that Sherlock Holmes, who studied chemistry and crime, was somehow involved in something concerning Prince James made Molly leery.

The prince had a monster's reputation, and it was in his subjects' best interests to keep their heads down and stay quiet. Usually it worked, especially in Molly's town, which sat far enough away not to feel the constant brushing of James' spidery legs.

What did Holmes know? Why were those men scared?

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Molly looked up and there he was. He echoed her earlier pose; half-hiding in one of the room's darker corners.

Sherlock Holmes looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Molly skirted her way through the crowd, bumping into the corner of Iris' coffin. Murmuring an apology to it and the body inside, Molly continued over to Holmes.

He didn't so much greet her as speak as if he was picking up on an earlier conversation. "It would have made this ordeal more memorable if you'd bumped the coffin off of the table," he said, his voice bored.

So much for no one noticing.

"Do y—did you know Mrs. Bedwyn?" she asked, instead of offering excuses for the near-miss.

Shrugging, Holmes leaned his shoulder against the wall. "She was a friend of my mother's. I only met her a handful of times. She aided me on an inquiry once, though. Mrs. Bedwyn was rather skilled at embroidery, and such knowledge proved useful in an inheritance dispute."

Molly imagined Holmes tearing a pretty, hand stitched pastoral scene from a wall, flipping it every which direction and sniffing it. With whatever he gleaned from it, she could just see him insulting some poor thing's skills and calling into question her parentage at the same time. He would likely slight her intelligence while he was at it, somehow linking all three traits, disparate thought they seemed, into one damning piece of proof.

"And you?" he asked

Her imagination interrupted, Molly looked at him in question.

"How did you know the departed?" he clarified.

She smiled a bit sadly. "She was a dear friend."

"Ah," he said, not looking particularly interested in Molly's connection to the decedent. "And do you take comfort from the ritual? Staring at a dead body and witnessing the ghoulish curiosity of people who hardly knew her?"

She looked around philosophically. "Well, they say these things are more for the living than the dead, don't they? Iris would be glad she gave them that last bit of titillation."

Holmes actually looked a little intrigued now. "That's a rather avant-garde attitude to have about death. You're not all missish about these things. Why not?"

"I figure Iris is beyond caring. I'll miss her, not a corpse in a casket."

"Ah, so you believe her soul lives on in eternal summer?" Molly had lost his interest again.

She shrugged. "I hope she's at peace. I don't know whether that means at peace in heaven or at peace in a far more literal sense. But I'd probably be burned at the stake if I made that opinion too well known, and then it would likely fall on you to deliver any babies in town."

The image of Sherlock Holmes encouraging women through childbirth and tenderly swaddling infants filled her head. She squelched down a laugh.

He noticed her lips twitching and his brows rose haughtily. "Smiling at a wake is generally discouraged."

"Yes, of course." But try though she might, she couldn't stop her mouth from spreading into a grin as he continued to look at her sternly. "Sorry, sorry," she said. And then a guffaw escaped, too.

"Miss Hooper," he warned.

Molly's body shook with her efforts to contain herself, and Holmes' stony scrutiny only fueled her on more. He was just so… severe, and yet she'd was sure that he could be every bit as ludicrous as she. How could he not? They were birds of a feather in many ways. Not that he'd ever admit it.

It was a brief moment of glee on an otherwise sober day and Molly couldn't help but notice Holmes' mouth had a slight, wry tilt to it as he regarded her.

Eventually, she gathered herself into some semblance of order. Remembering the conversation she'd overheard, she asked him, "Do you have some sort of involvement with Prince James?"

If she'd doubted that Holmes was trying not to smile with her moments before, the way his face went devoid of any expression at her question would have confirmed it.

"Why do you ask?"

She looked around them before edging closer to him. He had to duck his head to hear her, she spoke so low. "I overheard some men talking quite nervously just before I came over to speak with you."

"Men?" His question was casual, but she saw his eyes flit around the room over her head before returning to meet hers.

"I didn't recognize them. One was named"—she closed her eyes, trying to recall—"Wilson? Willett?"

"Wilkes?" Holmes murmured.

She nodded. "I didn't hear the other's name. Anyway, Mr. Wilkes asked his companion how much you knew. Something about Magistrate Brown and his work for Prince James."

Holmes came even nearer. Molly could feel the warmth of his body radiating toward her. "And this mystery man replied….?"

"He only knew that you had told the magistrate that you're aware he's in the prince's pocket and that they need to await the prince's orders on how to proceed."

"Anything else?"

"No, they moved away and I couldn't hear them anymore."

A slow smile curled Holmes' lips. "So they're nervous. Good. Very good."

Molly felt alarm flicker in her. "Why is that good? Won't that make them desperate?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "No, they're curs held on a leash. They might gnash their teeth, but until their master gives them direction, they might as well be in steel traps. They won't chew off their own paws. It'd be suicide."

"You aren't… you're being careful, right? You're not willfully putting yourself in Prince James' way, are you?"

Frowning, he asked, "Why do you care?" He looked genuinely confused.

"I don't want…. I worry…." Molly worried her bottom lip with her teeth and started wringing her hands. How could she articulate this? How could she tell Holmes that she wanted his safety without sounding forward? "The prince is a dangerous man. I've only heard stories about him, but not one of them has been good."

Holmes peered down at her. His expression was unsettling, not its usual sneering arrogance or even bored perusal. Though he kept to himself, during the times she'd seen him since their first meeting, he'd only allowed brief eye contact. Now, however, his eyes held hers. He didn't answer her. He just stared at her, his lips moving as if working through a riddle.

A woman's theatrical sob startled them and they jerked away from their close conference. Molly felt heat in her cheeks, but she was soon distracted as she watched a woman throw herself over the coffin, demanding to know why God had seen fit to rip away her dear Aunt Ivy.

Molly turned to comment drolly to Holmes that apparently the woman's aunt wasn't so dear that she'd ever bothered to learn her actual name. But when she looked behind her, he was gone.

The days grew colder. Fields turned a blanched, pale yellow and the trees stood bare against grey skies. Geese flew away, the only evidence that they'd been there their retreating cries. Townsfolk who had previously chopped wood at their leisure began cutting stores for winter with a new urgency, while children who'd formerly run through streets and alleys now retreated to the warmth of their homes.

The town began to find its winter quiet.

Molly made her way through underbrush, listening to the cold snap of deadening grass under her feet. Finally, she arrived at the riverbank. Paying no mind to the sparkling morning frost that had yet to melt off of the ground, she sat on a lip of the bank, her feet dangling over the river.

She breathed in the scent of the slate, brackish water and felt the cold sting her sinuses.

She hadn't felt this peaceful in quite some time.

Work had been full of stresses and scares. Molly hadn't lost any babies or mothers that autumn, but she'd had her share of close calls and today, after a long night attending a breech birth, she was grateful just to have some time outdoors, not in the stuffy rooms that contained all of the smells associated with birthing infants.

Though she had her first morning off in days, Molly woke before the sun. As soon as it began to glimmer in the morning sky, she set off for her favorite spot on the river, a book in hand. She intended to study some herbal remedies, hoping to find something gentle for new mothers to take for pain post-partum.

Soon, she lost track of time and herself, and only came back to the present when she heard feet treading through the grass, coming toward her.

She'd never been easily alarmed, but Molly still fought done a twinge of unease and annoyance over having been found. Perhaps it was because she couldn't see who approached her from her vantage.

Just as she was about scramble up from her spot, Holmes came into sight. She exhaled a relieved sigh and offered a small smile of greeting.

Naturally, he did not return it.

"Good morning." No use being rude, she told herself, though she could tell he was not in a jocular mood.

"Miss Hooper," was his only reply. His voice was deep with recent sleep, which had Molly wondering if he'd rolled out of bed, tugged on some clothes, and headed right to her hideaway. She couldn't say why that pleased her so, but she suspected his sleep-roughened voice might have some small part to do with it.

She sat still, waiting for him to explain his sudden presence, but the only sound to fill the air was the rushing of the river against its banks. Holmes looked about, not meeting her inquiring gaze, and his lip curled in mild distaste at whatever he saw.

Biting her lip, she offered, "Would you like to join me?"

"What if the townsfolk see you, unchaperoned and with me? You'd be ruined," he admonished crankily, even as he lowered himself to the bank beside her.

Molly snorted. "You're the one who came to me. But if that's the case, I was ruined ages ago. Unfortunately for them—and fortunately for me—I provide a very particular service to the women of the town that would make ostracizing me rather a difficult thing."

"You've scared off anyone who might want to study the skill just for that reason, didn't you?" he asked her.

She opened her mouth to protest, but noticed a dim but unmistakable twinkle in his eyes. He was waking up a bit, apparently. She gave a small laugh. "You've figured me out."

"I'm an expert at that," he replied simply, leaning over to examine the water. The toes of his boots nearly danced on the surface of the river, though he kept his feet parallel to its bubbling rush.

She hoped the red coloring her cheeks would be excused by the chill air. Really, she was behaving like schoolchild. He was attractive, yes, but that didn't mean she was attracted to him. She instructed herself to grow up.

They sat there in companionable silence for a short time longer before he spoke again. "It's getting rather cold for communing with nature like this, Miss Hooper. The first snow will probably fall in the next few days."

Molly huddled further into the wool of her dress, cloak, and muffler. "I like it out here. It is starting to get quiet with the birds migrating away. The air smells different. It helps me think."

Holmes hmmed noncommittally, but Molly was just pleased that he at least wasn't pointing out some personality flaw, apparent because of this indulgence of hers. He sat, unmoving. Under his greatcoat and cold weather clothes, she couldn't see any muscles flexing or twitching with ill-contained energy.

He was still only in fits and bursts, she noticed. In the three months that she'd known him, during which they'd been thrust together for various emergencies and medical inquiries, she'd had occasion to witness him retreating into his mind more than once. Though he sometimes gestured violently as he worked through self-argument, for the most part he would cease all movement, steeple his hands and close his eyes. She'd even seen him do so midsentence.

It fascinated her. He fascinated her. She tried to remember that he was irascible and rude, but she couldn't forget that he didn't condemn her because of her work or because of her interests. That alone set him far apart from most of the people she encountered, but the fact that his intelligence was so bewitching had Molly questioning just how deep her regard for Sherlock Holmes went.

"Why do you like it out here?" his voice took the place of the quiet around them

She blinked at him. "I just explained that I like the qui—"

"Yes, yes," he interrupted. "But I see you walking this way often, and you always choose this spot. Why?"

She looked over at him, feeling bold suddenly. He had just admitted he watched her, after all. Though he watched everyone and everything, this felt different. But she wouldn't bring that up. Instead, she decided to poke at him.

"Didn't you just say you're the expert at figuring me out? Why don't you tell me?"

His eyes didn't roll. His lip didn't curl. But, oh, he was annoyed. Molly covered her triumphant smirk by burying her face in her muffler as she watched him.

Turning his head from her, he looked around and began speaking quickly. "From this spot, you face West, North, and East. The village is located northeast from where we're sitting, so you can see smoke rising from its chimneys on days like today. To the west, you can see the woods as well as the road into the town. Handy for watching new arrivals.

"This particular section of land hangs slightly over the water, perhaps convenient for fishing and sport. But that doesn't fit with what I know about you. Rather, the lack of hoof or footprints, paired with your solitary nature, indicates that the area is secluded enough to your liking. In fact, you're likely the only person to come here."

"Well, I was until now—"

"Hush," he waved her away. "The tree has no markings, so it won't provide any useful data. So forgive me for extrapolating, but needs must. The familiarity with which you pick your way through the flora indicates at least several years' worth of visits. But I predict more than just several. Your father was in trade and left town often. You found if you sat here, you could watch for his return. Now you come out of nostalgia. Really, Ms. Hooper, it's far too easy."

She freed her smiling mouth from the scarf and replied, "Actually, I just like to watch the sunrise and sunset. It's good place for it."

He gaped at her, at a loss, and she found she couldn't tease him any longer. "And perhaps this was my favorite spot to sit as a girl. You were wrong about one thing, though. My father didn't travel that often. He was a scholar. But he did go hunting with my grandfather in the woods. I would wait to see what they'd bring home for supper and then run ahead to tell my mother."

Holmes was still staring at her, though less appalled and more considering. "Your mother died when you were eighteen," he said.

"Yes, actually. How'd you figure that out?"

"I remember it," he said, simply.

Molly wasn't sure what to make of that, but she didn't want to break whatever spell had him talking to her as a peer, not a haughty man who knew his intelligence surpassed most anybody's. So she waited.

"The town midwife, dying in childbirth herself. It was no small news."

She couldn't respond well with the latent grief still there. Instead, she nodded once, sharply.

"Did you begin training in midwifery before or after her death?" he asked her, not unkindly.

"After," she murmured. "The town suddenly found itself in need of one and I had some knowledge. Doctor Morgenstern certainly wouldn't have been of use."

"Did you ever think that someone else might be willing to take over?"

She felt a pall of sadness settle on her chest, but she still answered him. "What else was there for me to do?"

"You're cleverer than most of the people around here. You could have flourished."

Her laugh was dejected. She supposed he must be rather wrapped up in his own brain, seeing things in so definitely with no grey areas. Molly was clever, ergo, she should be using that cleverness to full advantage.

She grabbed a handful of frozen grass, shredding it and dropping its shards into the water below. "I may be clever—and I won't let you forget that you told me that, by the way—but I am also a woman. There was nothing for me to do beyond midwifery. It was the only way I could practice even a simile of my true interests, and I think I use any cleverness I have there, too." She'd resigned herself to this fact ages ago. Though it was flattering that Holmes held her to a higher standard, it felt important that he see how life limited her options were.

He had no response to that. But he didn't look smug about it, so she felt some small victory.

He fiddled with a rough stone he'd found at his side and glanced at her. "And if you were able to, what would you do?"

"What you do, to a degree, though more from the study of anatomy and illness than investigating people. If I could better understand death and dying, I think it could only help people."

"A midwife who speaks of death," he mused.

She frowned. "You assist on inquiries that have nothing to do with death. Can't a person have multiple strengths?"

He rumbled with a small laugh. It was the first time she'd ever heard him make such a noise, she realized. "Yes, of course. I just am appreciating the irony of a person who brings life being fascinated by the end of it."

"Well, they're really one and same. We all were born and we'll all die. I wasn't frightened by birth, so why would I be frightened of death?"

He tossed his stone into the river before standing. Brushing blades of grass from his breeches, Holmes smiled—a twitch of his lips, more than anything—down at Molly. "You're far too philosophical sometimes, but I suppose that's your purview. I must be off. Speaking of multiple strengths, I have to meet with a local tavern owner to discuss the stolen money he's really only lost to gambling. Have a good day, Miss Hooper."

"You too, Mr. Holmes," she murmured, watching a bare branch's fingers drag in the cold river.

Over the water's rush, she heard him reply, "If I must."

It was a rather annoying habit of his.

He appeared at Molly's house right as she was setting out to visit a new mother whose infant she'd delivered the night before. She opened the door just as he'd lifted his hand to knock.

"Mr. Holmes," she greeted him in surprise. "Good evening."

He didn't answer. Instead, he shuffled from foot to foot, a pained expression on his face. She wasn't sure, but she thought he looked almost… nervous.

And then, with a mumbled, "Take this," he thrust something into her hands and went striding away before she could even register that he appeared to have given her a gift.

It was a book, an old one at that. Its leather spine was cracked and it had the musty smell of aged vellum and dust. Flipping carefully through its pages, Molly gasped. The text was in Latin, of which she only had a passing comprehension, but the illustrations… oh, the illustrations. Someone had painstakingly drawn depictions of human anatomy. She had to stop herself from tracing a finger over a delicate drawing showing various angles of a human heart, lest she smudge the ink.

It was when she noticed more recent, English text written in the margins, notes scrawled by another hand, that she hurried down to her garden gate. The cold, autumn moonlight gave her a surprising amount of visibility. She could just make out Holmes' figure rounding the bend at the far end of the road.

Molly clutched the book to her (breathless) chest.

"Oh dear," was all she could say.

She didn't see him again for nearly a month. She could admit to herself that she looked. As she moved through the town, she often passed his cottage. It remained dark; its chimney gave no cheerful puffs of smoke, its windows no warm flickering of light.

Until one day they did.

A woman who continually mistook gas for labor pains had called on Molly for the third time that day. Once she had the expectant mother settled into bed with a hot toddy, Molly made the chilly trek back to her house.

Her feet crunched in the thin layer of snow that had started to fall sometime while she was convincing Mrs. Kline that her baby was still rather content in its mother's belly. Already, an inch lay on the ground; the low hanging clouds told Molly that more would fall before morning.

She curled the folds of her cloak further around her as she walked carefully, trying not to slip. Her concentration was broken, however, she casually darted a glance at the house she so often passed.

Though curtains had been drawn, Molly could see through their cracks that there was a fire blazing in the hearth. She tried to school her expression, to stop her lips from curving into a happy smile.

Darting her eyes around to make sure no one was watching—a single woman knocking on a bachelor's door after nightfall would not be well received, however much of a spinster the townsfolk considered her to be—even as her feet carried her to his door.

She hardly hesitated before knocking. She tried reminding the nerves dancing in her stomach that she only meant to say hello and that the visit would be completely unremarkable.

The door opened rather quickly after the last tap of her closed fist against the wood. He must have just come in from outside, himself, for drops of water clung to his black curls. He'd taken off his jacket and waistcoat, leaving him in a loose, linen shirt tucked into his breeches. She had never seen him in anything but the first stare of fashion, and this relaxed garb was a strange dichotomy to the austere man she knew him to be.

If he was surprised to find Molly standing at his door, he didn't show it. Instead, he said, "Hello, Miss Hooper," as he stepped to the side and invited her in with a slight wave of his hand.

Standing in the middle of his small living area, Molly glanced around her. Nearly every surface was covered with books, flasks, papers, and other oddments. A human skull sat on the mantle above his fireplace, and she had to contain her desire to hurry over and look at it.

Turning back to look at Holmes, she found him watching her. Unlike many of their earlier interactions, he seemed quite peaceful, simply waiting for her to explain her visit.

"I read the book," she said in a rush.

The color suddenly in his cheeks might have been because it was cold outside. Or it might have been because of something else. Molly dared not hope.

"Ah," he said, clearing his throat. "And was it informative?"

She nodded. "Very much so. The drawings are exquisite. I've never seen anything like it."

Holmes shuffled his feet a little, but he didn't look upset. "Yes, I have yet to see another of its quality."

"And you gave it to me," she said, feeling a flicker of distress that he would part with something important to him.

He shook his head quickly before she could offer it back. "I wanted to give it to you."

"But why?" she asked. "Surely it's important to you?"

Now he looked even more ill at ease. Staring at a shelf, refusing to meet her eyes, he replied "Because it could be of value for you to have it."

Molly blinked.

"You have an interest. It's the best for learning that particular information. Really, it was the logical decision, Miss Hooper," he said with finality.

Clearly, he didn't care to discuss it any further, so she changed the subject. "You've been gone for some time. Is all well with your family?"

He snorted, though she recognized that he wasn't meaning to be rude to her. "Oh, yes, my mother and brother are both hale and hearty. But the purpose of my time away was not to visit family."

"It wasn't?"

He shook his head. "No, I was called away to lend my expertise on a matter elsewhere."

Worried that he might see it as prying if she asked for details, instead she said, "And you've resolved it?"

He nodded wearily. "Prince James has been a naughty boy."

Prince James. Molly couldn't suppress a shiver at the thought of Holmes fanning enmity between the heir apparent and himself.

Throwing her hesitance to the wind, she stepped over to Holmes. Looking up into his face, shadowed in the dim firelight, she confided, "He terrifies me."

Holmes didn't offer comfort. "He should. He acts like a feudal lord, doling out services to his vassals with enough coin to engage him, at the expense of the meager peasants he steps on along the way. It'd be one thing if we were discussing run-of-the-mill corruption, but his services are far more nefarious. Meanwhile, his decrepit father sits on his throne, oblivious to the hash his son is gleefully making of the kingdom."

"Why does it fall on you to address these wrongs?"

Sighing, he combed his fingers through his hair. "If you're thinking I'm behaving like a knight errant, you needn't. My services were engaged and I investigated. More and more I am finding that the prince is involved somehow in the crimes I investigate. Almost as if he is trying to get my attention."

Cold fear was starting to take root in Molly. "Why? What would he want to get your attention?"

"He sees me as his intellectual equal, which he equates to a threat. So he wants to prove himself superior."

"And are you his equal?" she asked.

The old, haughty Holmes returned in an instant. "Hardly. He can play his games, and I will continue to do my work. But one of us is pretending. And it's certainly not I." He looked questioningly at her. "Do you think he's my equal?"

"No. Because you're good. Don't roll your eyes at me. Even before you confirmed to me that Prince James is a monster, every rumor and story I heard about him supported it. You, Mr. Holmes, are not a monster."

Holmes shrugged, uncomfortable with her frank, impassioned speech. "We're not that different and it's important that no one underestimates him."

She smiled and shrugged. "I'm free to make these observations. Luckily, a midwife in a tiny hamlet is far beneath the notice of princes and kings."

"Luckily," Sherlock agreed with a nod.

They stood there, a slightly awkward silence descending. Finally, Molly shook herself from it. "I should be off. I need rest and it's when I'm most tired that every baby decides it wants to make its squalling entrance into the world."

"That has absolutely no basis in logic," Holmes corrected swottily. "Infants have no divination abilities, especially regarding how well rested you are."

And now he cometh back full circle, Molly thought to herself. She just rolled her eyes and said, "Of course. You're right."

She moved closer to the door, intent on leaving before Holmes decided to instruct her further on the vagaries of infant birth. But as she reached for the latch, she realized he was still leaning against the door. His expression was intent, and Molly once again felt like she was some sort of puzzle to him.

"What?" With her luck, she had some mystery substance flecked on her skin and he was trying to identify it.

He only shook his head. Coming out of his stupor, he straightened away from the wooden door and made to open it.

As the snow swirled in, Molly spared a moment of regret for not wearing her gloves. She glanced once more around the warm interior of his cottage, her eyes falling on a violin resting on a tabletop, and she wondered how she had never before imagined him, eyes closed, arms and fingers flexing as he played the strings in fits of passion and arrogance and upset.

"It helps me think," he explained, following her gaze.

"I would like to hear you play sometime." She said shyly, feeling very forward. She felt a slight, hopeful tug in her chest when the tips of his ears reddened. His face still remained ever so serious, but he nodded.

Finally, she decided she'd let too much snow into his home and made to walk out of the door. Holmes' hand tentatively touching her arm drew her up short. She turned to ask him what was the matter, but her eyes widened in surprise when she saw that he was leaning rather close to her.

He cleared his throat. "If you ever want any other literature pertaining to your interests, I have some books you would find edifying."

A deep smile spread across her face, and she beamed at him. "Thank you. And I didn't say it before, but thank you so very much for the book you gave me, Mr. Holmes. It was wonderful."

At first she thought she'd said something wrong. His frown had returned and he hadn't let go of her arm.

She needn't have worried.

"You can call me Sherlock, you know," he murmured. His eyes searched hers before darting away to study something over her shoulder.

If felt dangerous. Not because of any of society's strictures or any of that rubbish. She'd cast aside the expectations others had for her years ago. But if she took that leap and allowed her heart to know Sherlock's name, she realized she'd be opening something up in herself that would be rather difficult to close again.

She wished she could still hate him.

But she heard herself whisper, "Sherlock."

He exhaled deeply, his face a mix of uncertainty and something far more compelling. Reaching up, thrilling at her boldness, Molly danced the fingertips of one hand across his proud cheekbone. "And you should call me Molly."

Perhaps it was a silly thing to say. Of course he knew her name. But in a way, this was a reintroduction.

His head lowered until his face was mere inches from hers. His reply was something she almost felt more than heard. "If I must… Molly."

She became aware of his hand cupping her neck, the roughened pad of his thumb stroking her pulse. In the dim light of the room, his silvery blue eyes were nearly black pools, and she watched in fascination as they flicked back and from meeting her gaze to looking at her lips in—she knew she wasn't just imagining it—desire.

Just as her own eyes slipped closed, however, he stepped away from her. She became aware of cool air swirling around every point where his warmth had once reached her.

She felt a flicker of hurt that he'd pulled away, but she then realized that someone was tapping on his door. Clearing her throat she brushed at imaginary wrinkles in her dress as she stepped out of the field of vision from the door.

He watched her as he swung the door open, but finally had to tear his eyes away to identify his visitor.

"Mr. Wilkes. Shouldn't you be in the bosom of your family on such a snowy night?"

Molly's eyes widened when she realized that this must be one of the men from Iris Bedwyn's wake. What could he need? She was aware of his involvement with the prince, and she could only hope it was unrelated.

"I need your help, Holmes," the man in question replied. He sounded far from enthused that he was seeking Sherlock's aid.

"Not tonight."

Wilkes' tone changed to pleading. "It must be tonight."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. From where she stood, Molly could see just how little Sherlock actually cared about his visitor's answer.

"I might not be alive tomorrow." Wilkes sounded tearful, and she heard him give a great sniffle.

Molly felt a stab of sympathy for the man, and Sherlock must have seen her pity, for he rolled his eyes and reach over to his greatcoat and scarf. Yanking them on, he baldly said, "You have the duration of the walk from my house to yours. Convince me."

With a final glance at Molly, he strode out after Wilkes, his door closing behind him with a swift clap.

Molly remained still, trying to reconcile what had just happened. After only a moment, however, she, too, hurried out into the snowfall and back to the safe familiarity of her own home.

They didn't mention what nearly transpired that night.

She would almost think he regretted it if it weren't for that fact that they both seemed to look for any excuse to visit the other. Molly had a ready-made one in his offer to give her access to his books. He had to be a bit more creative, if she flattered herself. She somehow doubted he truly cared about midwifery, but still he would appear at her house some nights with lists of questions about rare and strange case studies.

She sometimes wondered why she didn't simply act a little brazen and plant a kiss on him when he was sitting next to her on her lumpy settee. But then she wondered why he didn't act a little brazen and plant a kiss on her and she worked herself into circles of worry and second-guesses.

As the weather grew colder still and December shifted into January, the small town saw the arrival of almost a dozen babies. She felt like she was out every night checking on new mothers and babies, reassuring soon-to-be-parents, or otherwise dealing with the everyday minutiae that came with her work.

Sometimes, they went for periods of days without seeing each other. He would get distracted by some investigation or other, and she had patients to visit and tend.

When Molly wasn't racing around in her capacity as the town's midwife, she could often be found devouring the books she'd pilfered from Sherlock's collection. If he noticed that more and more of those books seemed to find their way over to Molly's cottage—and she was almost certain he did—he didn't comment. Molly was more surprised by the lack of pithy comments from his quarter than anything else.

So if Molly wasn't content at least she was accepting of her strange relationship with Sherlock Holmes. She relished seeing him as often as she did, and he gave no indication that he felt any differently.

And then it all crumbled out from underneath them.

Up to the last day, Sherlock insisted to Molly that, while he was indeed a threat, Prince James' reach had yet to extend to their town in any way more than as a laughable joke. Molly had almost believed him.

On their last night together, they sat close together in front of a warm fire at Sherlock's house. He had just returned from several nights spent consulting on a kidnapping case. Pleased with how it had gone, once he had extolled his brilliance to her, he had been content to sit beside her as she quietly flipped through a book filled with medicinal receipts.

"I am not sure why so many of these call for monkshood," Molly murmured, turning from page to page and pointing to reiterate. "It's so toxic. My mother had several women overdose, trying to ease the pain of childbirth. I have done my best to discourage its use, but I know some of them still drink tinctures of it before I arrive because they know I'll prohibit it."

Sherlock hummed, thinking. "I've yet to see a person who's died from aconite poisoning. If one of yours does shuffle off, do let me know."

Molly elbowed him in the belly and then continued on as if he hadn't spoken. "Of course, Doctor Morgenstern uses dwale. Hemlock is just as bad. But you don't want to cause undue pain." She craned her neck so she could see more of his face, he was sitting so close to her. "You study chemistry. Do you have any idea of what could work instead?"

"I've heard some men are experimenting with nitrogen and oxygen combinations, which they think could have sedative effects." He shrugged. "If not that, there's always opium."

Molly nodded, thinking, before she turned to a new recipe. Just as she was about to ask Sherlock if he had made many of these remedies for experiment's sake, a knock sounded on the door. She straightened in alarm and scrambled to her feet.

Sherlock was only a little more leisurely in rising, but a frown marred his face. "Sheriff Lestrade. It's his knock."

Molly nodded and made her way soundlessly to the hinged side of the door. She'd only had to hide there once since Wilkes' mysterious visit, and she wryly thought that alone should annoy her into action securing Sherlock's affections. Or perhaps just risk censure from all of the priggish townsfolk and freely enter and exit his cottage and invite him to do the same at hers.

That night, however, she stood there, blocked from view as he released the latch and opened the door far enough to look polite(well, polite for Sherlock) but not overly welcoming.

"Sheriff. It's awfully late, isn't it?" he drawled,

Even with a three-inch thick plank of wood blocking her view, Molly didn't need to see Lestrade to hear the trepidation in his voice. "Good evening, Sherlock."

A pregnant pause, and then Sherlock spoke again. "Oh, get on with it, Lestrade. What's wrong?"

The sheriff sighed. "Viscount Ainsley has requested that we arrest you for the kidnapping of his son."

Molly contained a noise of distress, but only just.

"Ainsley? He thanked me for the recovery of his son only this morning. Why the change of story? What is his proof?" Sherlock asked, affecting a bored air, though Molly could see his grip on the door had turned white-knuckled.

She imagined Lestrade, tried to picture his face as he carried out this task. She knew it pained him, but she couldn't quell the stab of betrayal she felt. Not that he was aware of any relationship between Sherlock and Molly, but it felt like Lestrade was harming Sherlock.

"I wasn't given any information. All I know is that a rider arrived at my door an hour ago and demanded that I arrest you."

"Very well," Sherlock said simply. "I politely decline." He bowed mockingly and started to swing the door shut, but Molly heard the smack of Lestrade's staying palm against the wood.

"Sherlock, I am afraid it's by order of the king."

Molly could contain herself no longer. Sherlock was just standing there, a look of stunned realization on his face. She jerked the door further open and, ignoring Lestrade's surprise at her sudden appearance, muscled her way in front of her friend.

"By order of the king? You mean the mad one whose son has developed a personal vendetta against Sherlock? That king? Oh, yes, I can see why you'd blindly toe his line."

She knew her voice was edging on hysteria. But why wasn't Sherlock defending himself? Why was he just standing there?

"Miss Hooper, what the devil are you doing here?" The sheriff seemed to be having trouble putting the facts together.

Not bothering to answer his question, Molly said, "You can't take him. I won't let you."

"Molly…" Sherlock warned.

"No, if you won't defend yourself, I will." She widened her stance, not sure what she'd do if the sheriff tried to remove her.

"I don't want to, Miss Hooper. My hands are tied." Lestrade still looked like he was trying to figure out what was going on, but

She snorted. "With spun-gold rope? Were you paid off?"

Lestrade looked like she'd slapped him. She knew he prided himself on his honesty and integrity, but she was starting to see white spots in her rage, and icy rivulets of panic began jolting up and down her spine.

She whirled on Sherlock when he placed a hand on her shoulder. "And you, you're just standing there! Why would you do that? Why are you just letting him think you're guilty?" Angry tears began splashing out of her eyes, and she only wanted to return to five minutes ago when she was curled up beside Sherlock and thinking of nothing more complicated than deadly remedies.

"Molly," Sherlock said again, squeezing her shoulder. "He has to. It'd be treason if he goes against the king's orders. He'll be hanged."

"So you're forfeiting your life instead?" she raged. "Because I don't believe for a moment that the prince will let you live. Why are you being so bloody noble about this?"

He looked at her sadly. "I don't believe he will let me live. But I must go with Lestrade. I will try to win a private audience with the king. Perhaps I can convince him of my innocence without James' poisonous influence."

Her nails cut into the skin of her palm as she looked back at Sherlock. "And if you can't convince the king?"

He regarded her silently for several beats, his eyes the most beautiful and the most heartbreaking she'd ever seen, before he simply said, "I love you."

She felt like he'd struck her, especially when he eased her aside and nodded to the sheriff. She cried viciously as she watched Lestrade and two members of the Watch lead Sherlock away. Once her cries died down and the numbness set in, she lay down on the settee in front of the fire and watched its flames cheerfully dance away to embers.

Somehow, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep. She next woke to the sound of the door softly opening and closing. The fire had long since died, and in the pitch black, she could only make out an indistinct shadow moving about the room.

Looking around as fear began coursing through her, Molly's fingers finally closed around the heavy book of medical remedies. She threw it with all her might at the invader and felt a moment of terrified triumph as it connected.

Until the invader let loose several imaginative curses.

"Sh—Sherlock?" she stuttered. Before he could answer in the affirmative, Molly was across the room and in his arms, holding him so tightly she briefly worried she might be cutting off his air.

His arms banded around her, though he didn't sound happy. "Why did you throw that book? There was a nice, light collection of prose on the table directly in front of you. You should know; it's your copy."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry that the man I saw hauled off by the sheriff, supposedly going to his death, scared the life out of me," she said waspishly. "I should have thought through my terrified reaction better."

His long fingers smoothed across her neck, seeking her pulse. "You're heartbeat is slightly elevated, but not enough to kill you."

Molly growled lowly before she pulled away from Sherlock and went where she knew he kept some candles. Once she'd lit a tinder stick on a struggling ember and brought it to the candle's wick, she turned back to face him.

"Why did Lestrade let you go? Isn't he concerned about his own safety?"

Sherlock strode over to his wardrobe and began yanking clothes out of it and stuffing them into a small canvas sack. As he folded clothes that had gotten mussed when he pulled them out, he spoke lowly and quickly.

"Lestrade didn't let me go. I overpowered him and his two hired lackeys and circled back home, taking a few detours. I'm surprised they haven't been here, but I imagine they are searching your house first. My apologies."

"Then why did you go with him in the first place?" she questioned him as she followed him around the room with the candle, watching as he tossed a few items into his sack. Then her foggy brain caught up with her. "Ah, so he could possibly escape punishment for refusing to apprehend you."

Sherlock lifted his hands in a surprisingly helpless gesture. "It was all I could do."

"I know," she soothed. "What now?"

"Prince James needs to be stopped. I can't do it here, clearly. His power has finally oozed its way into our little town and it's not safe for me to remain."

She watched silently for a moment before asking, "How did he get word from the viscount and convince the king to send orders for your arrest so quickly? You only solved the kidnapping case this morning."

Finished with his bag, Sherlock began pulling on several layers of clothing over those that he already wore.

"Think about it, Molly. There was no way the Viscount would have had time for any of that. The whole thing was a set up, and the prince only had to wait for me to step into his snare."

He was only confirming what she already knew, but the dread that had engulfed her earlier began to build again. To distract herself, she said, "What else do we need? I'll need to get my things from my house, but it should be quick."

Sherlock slowly straightened and looked at her. "We?" he asked carefully.

"I'm coming with you." How could he miss this most obvious truth?

But he was already shaking his head. "Molly, no. You must stay here."

"Why?" she challenged.

"Because it's safer. Because I don't want the prince to find out what you… mean. To me." When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up a hand. "I hate myself for how tempted I am to let you come with me, for just how selfish I could be if I let myself. I can't have that. My mind needs to be pure with my purpose."

His reasoning was sound and wonderful, but Molly still had to swipe away tears that stubbornly fell down her face. It felt like she was losing him to death or something worse all over again, all in the matter of a few hours. But she had to be strong.

"What do you need?" she asked.

He moved to her, dropping his sparsely-packed bag onto the floor. He wrapped her in his arms once more. This time, there was no hesitance as he covered her lips and kissed her with fury. In that lone kiss, it seemed to her she could taste all of the longing that they shared. In just the press of their lips and bodies, it felt like her heart was sighing and saying, "Finally."

She wept for it.

All too soon, regretfully, he drew back, Answering her earlier question he whispered, "You."

Two minutes later, he stood in front of his open door, backlit by the dim night sky. He stood staring at her, drinking in her features, and she responded in kind.

He murmured a goodbye and turned to leave, when she called after him. "Sherlock. Could you please do something for me? Please?"

He looked back to her. If she didn't know him, didn't know his beloved face, she would have thought him impervious to her pleas. But she did know him. And so she waited.

"What would you ask of me, Molly?"

She'd never plead before, for anything. But she didn't feel vulnerable doing so now. "Please be careful. Please. Please, be so careful and come back to me?"

He reached out to cup her face in both of his hands and press a kiss to her forehead. He murmured, "If I must," his words muffled against her skin.

Molly felt a tear dribble off of her chin. "If you must, you'll come back to me?" she teased, giving a wobbly smile when he drew back enough to look at her face.

The corner of his mouth kicked up in that familiar, frustrating, and beloved half-smile. "I was referring to the 'be careful' directive. As to the other, impractical and fanciful as it is—considering our mortality and the overwrought sentiment of it—I find myself compelled to tell you that I'll always come back to you."

She thought he would leave as soon as he said something so vulnerable, but instead, they remained in her doorway, the sad smiles dropping from their faces. She wasn't sure how long they stood there, not saying a word, just looking at each other.

And then with short nod and a turn, he let go her and walked out of his small cottage, making his way out onto the road.

It was only six weeks later that Molly Hooper received word of Sherlock Holmes' death.

It was only two, arduous years later that she found herself engaged to Prince James.

...

Note: Everyone, this is my new multi-chapter fic. Multi-chapter fic, this is everyone. I've just moved and started a new job, so I'm afraid this'll go somewhat slowly. I hope it'll be worth the wait.

I read a book ages ago about Medieval precursor to modern forensic pathologists called Mistress in the Art of Death by Ariana Franklin. I cannot find any other evidence that there was anyone who actually bore this title (or Master, for that matter), but I love it and am borrowing it for the purpose of this story. The chapter title, meanwhile, was inspired by Horse Feathers' "A Heart Arcane".

Thank you to my hetero lifemate, Sham, for helping me brainstorm this lo' those many months ago. If she hadn't helped, this would just be 1000 words in length and finished. So maybe you all should resent her for helping, actually.

I had a death in my family this last week and working on this was kind of my coping mechanism. If it wasn't for Broomclosetkink, who patiently listened to my neurotic ramblings and read through several versions of this (in addition to beta reading it), as well as offering just lovely support, this week would have been that much more difficult. So I must offer embarrassingly gushy thanks to her.

To everyone else, thank you so much for reading!