Hello, all. Thank you so much to everyone who's followed, favorited, given kudos, and reviewed the prior chapters. I truly appreciate it and your continued enthusiasm and patience for the story. I know this was a long wait, but I hope this chapter is to your liking.

Chapter title is from Brandi Carlile's "Again Today."

Chapter Four: All My Heroes and All Their Demons

When Molly was sixteen years old, she fell from a horse and fully dislocated her knee, tearing several ligaments in the process. As the pain took over, she fought to stay conscious. It likely lasted only a few seconds—though each second felt like several minutes—while her hearing tunneled. Everything sounded muffled, like water that won't shake loose from an ear, with a tintinnabulous ringing on top of it. Even the rasping breaths she carefully drew and expelled came from far off.

This moment felt entirely too similar.

The calls of birds and the rustle of tree branches dimmed. She could no longer hear the waves crashing on the nearby coast. Her heart thudded, and she felt it pulsing in her head. Certain that anyone would hear it while she remained deaf, she could barely breathe in and out and fight a swelling panic.

Though shock made her sluggish, she knew she'd have to move soon. To say something immediately.

Calloused fingers moved over first one wrist and then the other, loosening the knots in the rough rope that had tethered her to the tree, completing what they'd started before the tempest swept in. Those same fingers tarried only long enough to trace her abraded skin. First one wrist and then the other.

The man standing behind Molly said nothing, though she doubted she'd have heard him if he'd tried. She felt a stirring of air when he took a step back after the rope fell to the ground. He waited silently.

Her arms fell heavily to her sides and she stared at the rough bark before her, willing the flaking wood to explain to her what was happening. It failed to enlighten her.

Slowly, she made her reluctant body turn. Her limbs complained, stiff after standing so long in that forced position against the tree. They only felt stiffer with her newfound terror that none of it would be real; terror that it would be real.

He did not move back to her as she turned. Warily, he waited for her, his eyes fathomless in the shadow of the trees.

The moment she faced him fully, all sound returned around her and Molly could hear everything. She could hear her heart thundering in her chest and the rustle of her skirt in the breeze.

She could hear herself hoarsely whisper, "Sherlock."

Hesitantly, he stepped closer to her once more. Was he worried that she would startle at any sudden movement from him? That she wouldn't want him to touch her? He had never been the sort to tiptoe before. Other than where it concerned his feelings for her, she conceded.

As he took his first, creeping step forward, it all at once seemed ridiculous, this dancing around. She still had no idea how this was happening or how she refrained from weeping when it felt like her agony and her relief pulled her sharply in different directions. She could not be certain her throbbing blood would ever calm itself.

But Molly Hooper was nothing if not sensible. Whatever conflict she might be feeling at that moment, she still knew that it as only good sense to reach forward and grab two fistfuls of Sherlock Holmes' tunic and pull him forward. She did so with enough force that his eyes widened in surprise. His feet stumbled to catch up with his forward momentum, and he barely managed to stop himself before he crashed into her.

His stuttering halt made no difference to Molly. She stepped forward just a quickly, pressing into him and winding her arms tightly around his waist. Resting her face against the fine weaving of the material at his collar, she said it again: "Sherlock."

It was all he needed. He did not hesitate again or warily demur. Instead, he bought his hands up to cup her face, the pads of his fingers smoothing gently across her flushed cheeks before settling in her hair, tilting her head back. Leaning down, Sherlock brushed his nose against hers, his eyes still dark pools as they flitted over her face.

His lips grazed hers as he whispered, "Molly. Molly."

Moving up onto her toes, she brought her mouth to his, kissing him with a joy that she'd scarcely known. He deepened it, coaxing her lips with his while his arms moved around her, crushing her to him in a grip that might have robbed her of breath had she any to take.

They'd only shared a few, stolen kisses prior to this moment, all in the span of minutes. Those kisses were precious to her, but this was the greeting of lovers who'd never had a chance to love. No, Molly corrected herself. Lovers who'd not yet had a chance to love. They'd found one another far too slowly, but this embrace absolved them for that oversight.

His fingers tangled in her hair while his other arm remained around her waist, hand clamped with a bruising hold on her hip while she stroked her hands up his chest to his neck and down again, over and over, as if to remind her tactile senses that he still lived. His heartbeat against her palm continued two years after she'd thought it had stopped. Now, it was rushing for her.

All the while, they kissed desperately and gladly.

Sherlock blindly stepped forward, taking Molly with him, never loosening his clutching embrace of her, his lips still furious against hers. They moved through dapples of sunlight, though Molly wasn't sure she could credit them for the bursts of brightness behind her eyelids. When her back hit an overgrown tree, his hand and arm absorbed the shock of impact.

He pressed her back, and she gasped at the fire he stoked in her. This mindless passion cast them adrift, and she only wanted to move further from shore with him. Dimly, she recognized the madness. They needed to talk. She needed to understand, because right now she only understood that somehow, her body was awakening to Sherlock Holmes, and she awakening him. She could barely acknowledge the hurt that had battled her joy the instant she realized that his two years of silence were not due to six feet of earth between them.

When she was holding him in a way that had him panting against her mouth, it all slipped away. She was scared of his answers, but she was emboldened by his reaction to her. She was drunk off of it, and greedy for more. So instead of pulling back and asking him everything she must know, she let her hand creep under the hem of his tunic, to smooth up the skin of his back. Though her fingers encountered a topography of new, raised scars, she smiled at the low sound he made, in part her name, in part something else.

Molly felt his fingers plucking clumsily at her dress' side lacings. Just as she twisted her body to assist him, though, a sharp cracking noise broke their single-minded concentration on each other.

He whirled around, his sword drawn within a half-breath. She couldn't see anything beyond his back, so she ducked her head to peer under his raised sword arm. Casting her eyes about to identify the threat, she also desperately looked for something she could use as a weapon. The only thing remotely useful was the rope laying on the ground where Sherlock had freed her. But could she get to it in time?

They hardly breathed as they sought the source of the noise. And then they exhaled in shared, gusty relief when a deer stepped into their sights. It munched lazily on grass, stepping on several more branches while it sauntered past, unaware of its audience. They watched, stunned, until it once more disappeared from sight.

Resheathing his sword, Sherlock turned back around. The interruption had restored sanity for both of them, it would appear. He didn't sweep her back into his arms or continue his efforts to divest her of her clothing. She didn't resume touching him in the way she'd longed to even before the night told her that he loved her as he prepared to leave.

"Sherlock," she whispered, this time not in stunned joy.

He nodded. "I'll tell you everything. I promise. But first, let me—" His eyes swept over her, making sure she was unhurt while also drinking in the sight of her.

She knew she was filthy. Dried saltwater made her hair gritty and coarse. It was likely laden with bits of seaweed. Dirt and sand coated her skin. She'd been smothered, dragged, and tossed from one shoreline to another, and the grime would take several washings to clear away.

None of it mattered to him. Exhaling shakily, Sherlock stepped up to her again. She didn't know how she could tell, but she knew it wasn't to reinitiate their almost-love making. Gently, he wrapped his arms around as he placed soft kisses to each eyelid, to each cheek, chastely to her lips, before he buried his face against her neck. At once, he was no longer the impassioned man ready to have her where they stood. Now, he was a lost man restored, breathing slowly and hugging her to him tightly.

The tears did come then. They slid down her face unchecked, dripping onto Sherlock's neck and shoulder. When he became aware of them, he drew back again to look at her, his eyes speaking with more tenderness and sorrow than Molly had ever felt from him.

"I owe you a lifetime of apologies," he said lowly, quickly, cupping her cheeks and brushing away the splashing tears that continued to fall, "for so many things. But we can't stay here, Molly. We have a long trek through the forest. You can ask me anything you need while we move."

She decided not to remind him of how easily he'd forgotten this unspoken urgency moments earlier. Instead, she nodded and indicated for him to lead the way. He held his hand out to her, only moving when she laced their fingers together.

…

The woods had seemed to stretch on endlessly in Molly's approach on her captors' ship. Now that she and Sherlock hurried through dense underbrush and thick trees, she could not tell if they had made it even meters from their starting point. Everything looked the same. She'd learned some hunting and tracking from her father, but those skills relied on being able to see the sky or any other landmarks than tree upon tree.

Clearing her throat again and again, she'd intended to voice the barrage of questions that demanded answers from Sherlock. Now, however, she could only look worriedly around, wondering if they would end up right back at their point of origin. At least then she'd recognize the drab blanket and the abrasive rope.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he said only somewhat distractedly. He dropped her hand and strode up to a felled tree, jumping onto its mossy trunk and down to the other side. He turned back and put his hands on her waist, intent on lifting her over the knee-high impediment.

Molly rolled her eyes gently and hiked her dress up enough to take the large step onto the tree. She did let him hold her hand on the hop back down, however.

"Do you know where we're going?" she asked.

He looked back at her, a genuinely baffled expression flitting across his face. "Obviously."

"I am fairly certain I know, but are we in the F—"

"The Forgotten Man's Forest?" he interrupted. "Yes."

"And it's called that because—"

He waved it away. "Because a few people have disappeared in here, never to be seen again. They likely got distracted being poor examples of sentience. Maybe the moss grew over them while they tried to remember what "as the crow flies" means. It's none of our concern, since neither of us is lacking in even average intelligence."

Exasperation warred with nagging joy, and Molly gave his hand a reprimanding squeeze, only to maintain her tight hold. The strange sensation of being in his company again was tempered by the fact that he seemed so unchanged. He remained the man with whom she'd fallen so in love.

"If we get lost in here, I hope you have some knowledge of edible plants," she informed him. "I refuse to die because I couldn't find my way out of a bloody forest."

He tugged her forward a little when they reached a slight clearing, allowing to them walk abreast with each other. "It's a needless concern, but I am sure we'd be just fine."

Despite his words, the sudden stillness around them left Molly on edge. "And the wolves?"

The look he shot her bore more than a slight trace of condescension. "Be realistic, Molly. There's no natural predation in these woods. That's why that deer—"

It happened too quickly for him to react. In a blur of motion, something large rammed into Sherlock, knocking him to the ground. He gave a pained shout, as the snarling animal's jaws snapped him. It crouched over his prone form, leaving Sherlock to push against its ribs. For all his strength, he barely jarred the animal.

The muscles beneath the wolf's silver and black coat rippled in the low forest light. Molly's shock held her immobile for three, breathless seconds, before she snapped out of it, forcing herself to think.

What she knew about wolves wouldn't fill a paragraph, but she did know that if this one was part of a pack, she and Sherlock might as well eviscerate themselves to help the predators out. In fact, it might be less painful, since—to her knowledge—wolves didn't eat carrion.

She couldn't see any other animals around them; no glow of canine eyes flickered in the dark of the trees. No growls rumbled from dense shrubs. But she still scanned the area as carefully as she could, as quickly as she could. When she heard birds in a cautious perimeter around their small clearing start to chirp, she allowed herself to relax minutely and concentrate on saving Sherlock's life from attacker that currently held him pinned.

And then she remembered it: a distant echo of her father's voice, calmly telling her what to do if she ever encountered a wolf. There'd not been a sighting of one in the forest by her village in his lifetime, but her father, ever staid and thorough, took nothing to chance when his only child begged him to take her along on his hunts.

Molly looked around for anything that might work as a weapon. She would have moved for Sherlock's sword, were it not pinned beneath his weight and the looming wolf.

"Cover your neck and face," she yelled to the struggling man.

"Trying," Sherlock gritted, though one hand scrabbled desperately for his sword hilt. He'd never reach it in time, Molly knew.

Finally, her eyes landed on a large branch—a limb of a small tree, actually—lying on the ground. Ignoring a pressing fear that it might be attached to something larger and immobile, Molly darted over to it. Thankfully, it lifted without impediment, but it took all of her strength to heft it.

Steeling herself, she turned back to man and animal. Before she could second-guess her plan, she charged.

Most of the branches—mere twigs, really—splintered when they connected with the wolf's side, but the main limb sank into flesh, puncturing it. With a sharp yip and whine, the wolf skittered away, disappearing just as quickly as it had arrived.

The momentum of Molly's run at the wolf had thrown her to her knees when the tree limb met the wolf's torso. Falling forward, she'd caught herself on her hands while she watched the beast's injured retreat. She listened carefully, but heard nothing else for several moments, before birds directly above them began calling cheerfully once more.

Sherlock lay splayed on his back, staring dazedly up at the tree canopy. His chest heaved and his brow shone with sweat. Still stunned, Molly carefully crawled over to him, ignoring the stink of nettles digging into her palms as she moved. He heard her creeping approach and heavily turned his head to watch her.

When she reached him, he started to sit up, but she made a noise of distress, and he reclined again. Though his face twisted with impatience, he allowed her the chance to see that he was unharmed. He said nothing as her hands moved over the back of his head, around his neck, and across his torso. New rips decorated the material of his tunic, with matching scratches to the skin beneath them, but nothing life threatening presented itself.

Finally releasing the breath she'd drawn in before moving over to Sherlock, she sank back onto her haunches. Her body shook with ebbing adrenaline and heady relief, and for several moments, she could only grip his hand.

"Yes, but are you sure there are no wolves in these woods?" she finally asked, her tone only quavering a little.

Sherlock glared at her weak joke for a moment, before giving way to a low, reluctant laugh. He allowed Molly to help him sit up, and they looked at each other quietly. Neither wanted to admit just how much the event had frightened them, so Sherlock only tugged her to him, kissing her gently.

Pulling away from him a short time later, Molly pushed his hair back from his forehead. She smiled a little when it just fell back in place, and his lips tilted a little in response.

"We should move," he said lowly.

"Yes," she agreed, but it was still another minute or so before she took to her feet again and helped haul Sherlock to a standing position.

He winced a little as he straightened, but waved away her sound of concern. "Just scratches, really," he reassured her. They began walking again, at an only slightly slower pace to accommodate Sherlock's sore muscles and abused flesh.

Nothing looked amiss, with none of the unnerving stillness that had preceded the wolf attack. Molly allowed herself to relax enough that she could actually pay attention to roots and stones that might trip her otherwise. But she kept her eyes moving, scanning for glowing eyes.

And then, at once, a new distress took the place of some of Molly's wariness.

Sherlock heard her sniffle quietly, and he drew up short, alarmed. "Are you alright? What's wrong? Did the wolf injure you?"

"No, no, not at all."

When she didn't explain herself, he said her name loudly enough to cajole a response.

"It's just…" she looked away, eyes cast upwards and darting in a weak effort to spread the pooling tears so they wouldn't fall. "I keep thinking about it."

He sighed. "Really, Molly, I'm uninjured. Just a little scraped."

"I know that," she waved his words away. "I don't see any deceptively simple wounds that might actually be slowly exsanguinating you."

"And I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear it." He grinned rakishly, but Molly's failure to return it had him sobering once more. "It is my understanding that traumatic sights can be relived in one's memory for quite some time. I know it was frightening. I must admit that even I will have a few bad moments because of it. But we survived, and that is what matters."

"And that's just it," Molly said, fresh tears escaping. "We escaped unscathed. The wolf didn't."

Sherlock stared at her. "What?"

She scrubbed at her face. "I just keep thinking about that poor animal. He didn't die right away, but there's no way he could survive the type of puncture would to the thorax; not where I stabbed him."

"You—you're worrying about the wolf?" he asked, dismayed.

"He won't understand why he's hurting," Molly said, openly weeping now. It was disconcerting, as if she was looking at herself from afar. She realized that she was likely having a small nervous attack due to the turmoil over the last hour, but she couldn't sway her outpouring.

"Molly," Sherlock huffed, "it tried to eat me."

"Probably because it had recently given birth to pups and was starving," she whimpered.

"You've been calling it a 'he', but now he might have recently given birth to pups?"

She nodded miserably.

Sherlock put his hands on his hips and studied the toes of his boots. "I'm terribly sorry I didn't become a tasty meal for the slobbering, murderous fiend."

That didn't help. Her tears just fell harder with guilt over her strange grief. Her attempts to rally her senses proved to be even more in vain as she recognized just how ridiculously she was behaving.

Still, she knew they couldn't tarry. "I'll be okay. Let's just keep going." Her breath stuttered with emotion, and Sherlock glowered, looking a tad inept.

Finally, though, he strode forward and took Molly's face in his hands. "I know you're gentle and hate the thought of causing suffering. But Molly, you had to. You saved me. I am grateful for that."

His hands on her face helped ground her, and her odd foray into emotional meltdown steadily calmed. Ashamed, she tried to look away, but Sherlock's hands on her cheeks prevented anything but the closing of her eyes so she wouldn't have to face him.

He tugged her forward gently, kissing her forehead and holding her until her shaking calmed. Against her skin, he murmured, "Are you alright now?"

She nodded, sniffling loudly. "Just an infant, apparently."

"The body's natural response to stress and turmoil can be a morass emotional peaks and nadirs," Sherlock said, turning and starting to walk yet again with her hand in his. "I once saw a scarred, gruff ship captain weep for an hour even though he was laughing at the same time. All because we'd survived a small-scale hurricane."

Molly waited Sherlock out, distracted with the need for answers. When he said nothing else on the matter, though, she decided the time had come for prompting.

"Is that where you've been all this time? At sea?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head. "Only briefly. I stowed away onboard a ship belonging to a pirate by the name of Oruç Reis. Just to escape the country. James thought he'd managed to kill me, and I wanted him to believe it to be true for as long as possible."

Sherlock had left their village in January, two years earlier. A rider had arrived less than two months later, bearing news that of Sherlock's death. He had fallen over a cliff edge whilst fleeing James' men.

For some reason, his casual mention of it made fresh the memory of Sheriff Lestrade knocking on Molly's door on a sunny March afternoon. She'd smiled at Gregory in welcome, but his expression had killed her cheerful greeting as it met with her lips.

She wasn't sure she'd smiled again since. Two years had felt endless. Until today. Now, she could not be certain she wasn't still answering her door to the worst news.

Sherlock's hand coming to rest on her hip as they walked refocused her, though. His touch and his voice were real enough.

"How did you survive?" she whispered. "I've seen that cliff edge. No one could survive a fall from that height. The impact with the water would be like landing on stone, even if you'd managed to avoid the rocks."

"Ah," Sherlock said, looking a little mischievous. "I had help."

"I gathered. But from whom?"

"It took coordination. I realized that James meant to execute me on site. If I'd gone with Lestrade, I wouldn't have made it out of the village. So I decided to grant the prince his dearest wish, and I mapped out contingencies for each spot that I might encounter his lackeys.

"James has laid waste to the livelihoods of thousands. It wasn't hard to get help from several of poor he'd so recently exploited. And it wasn't hard to find a recently deceased body that would resemble mine from far enough away."

"From the top of a cliff to the rocks below," Molly said, realizing. "The trauma would be such that it would be difficult or impossible to verify its identity."

She thought of James, asking her for details on how to disguise a body's identity and cause of death, and she shuddered, remembering that it had only happened that morning.

"Just so," Sherlock replied, drawing her attention back to him. "There was a small cave about two meters below the cliff edge. I only knew of its existence because I'd see a light shining from it as I sailed past one night. Some drifters had taken up temporary residence there. It wasn't even visible in daylight. I'm still not sure how they found it."

"How did you get into the cave when you 'fell'?"

He nodded, eyes narrowed as if recalling a difficult equation. "The cliff isn't a sheer drop. It just looks it. The cave has a lip, but it blends with all of the other jagged outcroppings. It was a matter of calculating which outcropping to land on. The minute I landed, my assistants shoved the recently deceased body out."

"It could have gone horribly wrong," Molly breathed, glancing at him.

"It could have," he agreed. "But it worked like a scene from a play."

Molly rolled her eyes slightly at his puffed up chest, thrilled though she was by his forethought.

"So you waited for the guards to clear out, and you made your way to the port?"

He made a noise in the affirmative.

"Where you stowed away onboard a"—she paused, thinking of the captain's name—"Persian ship?" And then, off Sherlock's nod, "How did you avoid being found out by the ship's crew?"

"Oh, I was found out," he answered blithely. "The same day that I climbed on board."

A clutching of fear gripped her belly, though, clearly, he'd survived his ordeal. "They might have killed you. Again."

"They thought about it," Sherlock said. "Reis asked me why they shouldn't just slit my throat and dump me overboard."

"What'd you say?"

"I politely asked him not to."

Molly squinted, confused. "And that convinced him?"

"After a fashion." Sherlock suddenly looked uncomfortable, like he was done explaining.

Which only prompted Molly to push him on the matter. "After what fashion?"

"I told him that I'd make a good shipmate and offered my services. There are many unexpected skills required in mastery of the art of death."

Molly arched a brow. "You're fibbing."

"I once convinced the town magistrate that his skiff needed new paint just by the—" He glanced at Molly's sardonic face and sighed. "Fine. I asked him nicely not to kill me, he asked me why he shouldn't."

"And you answered…" she prompted when he wasn't forthcoming..

"That I going to overthrow James. That I was the only one who could."

Molly was so bewildered by his prior hesitance that she very nearly missed Sherlock's muttered addendum, "And I explained that I had someone waiting for me to come home; someone whom I truly loved."

A girlish blush suffused Molly's cheeks, and she ducked her head to hide it, nearly tripping on the hem of her dress in the process. "And Reis is no friend of the prince's."

"He's not. That only helped me, but to this day, he insists that it was actually the second bit, the maudlin sentiment, that convinced him."

"I'm glad your grudging love for me could rescue you," Molly said, smiling slowly.

The tips of Sherlock's ears flushed red. "It's not grudging," he insisted peevishly. "Just having to use my feelings for you as a means of—Oh. You're teasing me."

"I am," she agreed.

"Anyway," he said, darting away from the hateful subject of love, "Reis decided to allow me a trial duration. He promised to slice my gullet and feed me to the sea if I did anything he didn't like."

Molly swelled with pride. "And you managed not to offend a group of pirates, or at least provoke them enough that they decided to kill you."

He eyed her. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not!" she insisted, grinning stupidly. Her Sherlock.

Shaking his head in exasperation, he peered ahead. He made a small 'Ah ha' sound, and quickly pulled Molly forward, until they stepped out into a clearing. They'd come out of the woods at last.

Her eyes had adjusted to the influx of light. Now, even through dense cloud cover, everything was too bright and she had to blink rapidly until it became less uncomfortable.

"Nearly there, now." Sherlock smiled slightly at her, his earlier umbrage forgotten as he walked with renewed vigor.

Nodding, she followed along. "So you sailed to…"

"Greece," he supplied. "I earned my keep on the ship, and departed the crew's company at Piraeus two months after stowing away."

"Were you sad to leave the piratical life behind?"

"Only little boys daydream of being pirates," he said primly. But Molly noticed he hadn't answered her question. Not clearly, at least.

"Where did you go then?"

He frowned, thinking. "It's a blur, admittedly. I crossed over and out of many places; infiltrating various organizations that I had reason to believe were gathering stores to aid James in a takeover. I disabled each and moved on. I mostly stuck to the continent. There's a land war going on in Asia right now, and I didn't care to get involved, though I did visit India very briefly. Or as briefly as one can, considering the length of travel time.

"Most recently, I escaped imprisonment from an annexed nation-state on the western border of the Ottoman Empire." His unhappy expression deepened, and Molly remembered the scars she'd felt on his back.

This time, when he didn't give further detail, she didn't push him for more. Instead, she said, "And then you came here."

"And then I came here," Sherlock confirmed. "I managed to glean information from my captors. Information that led me to believe that James was about to make his move."

"I was James' move," she murmured, having realized when she'd woken that morning, on the ship with Jeffrey, John, and Dzundza.

He glanced at her before looking carefully ahead, nodding. "Yes. Your assassination would be the impetus for a war, one that would destroy empires. Or it would have, had I not dismantled all of the building blocks he's so meticulously assembled."

When Molly only ruminated on everything that had happened, Sherlock interrupted her thoughts. "Why, Molly?"

She'd known it was coming, of course. While he might have borne the bulk of responsibility for offering explanation, she had some she needed to give as well.

"When you left," she began carefully, "I was willing to do as you requested. I kept on my duties as midwife, but I also took on the responsibilities you'd left me, offering consultation and examination of the town's dead and dying."

"But it wasn't enough?" he asked.

"It wasn't a matter of being 'enough', Sherlock," Molly insisted. "You died. I was bereft and filled with so much impotent anger."

"So you decided to put yourself in the prince's way to avenge me?" He shot her an almost flirtatious smile as he turned and put his hands on her hips, crowding her. She put a staying hand of her own on his chest to stop him from lowering down to nibble on her lips.

"In part, yes. But I also knew no one else would stop him, and I had an in." Sherlock arched an intrigued brow at her. "It was a gamble. I knew he was looking for someone to work in the study of death. So I made sure I was quite public with my activities, and it ended up being a simple matter of the right person mentioning it to the right person, who mentioned it to the prince."

The details of her calculation were enough to have Sherlock drawing back, his face blank once more disguising a worry that only she would notice. "How long ago did he find you?"

"Three months. He journeyed to the town and took up residence there. At first, he only attended consultations, and I answered him honestly and to the best of my knowledge until he trusted me. He never seemed to suspect the depth of my prior connection to you, and I worked hard to maintain that."

"Very well," he capitulated. "But why did you get engaged to him? Were you forced?"

Molly fought not to laugh at the peevish, boyish distaste on his face. "No, I wasn't forced. I agreed of my own volition, because it suited my purposes. I hate him, Sherlock, but I needed him to want me near. But I dare say it would have gone differently if I'd refused his proposal."

Sherlock sighed. He couldn't refute it, but Molly could see the struggle with each twitch of his lips as he tried to think of a retroactive way to deter her foolhardy behavior.

"I don't understand why he decided to kill me, though," she mused. "I'm not saying I'm a polymath, but I do have some unique knowledge of death."

Sherlock nodded. "But to James, it's always a matter of shifting purposes. I imagine he decided he could spare you the day he 'asked' for your hand."

Molly could only agree. The conversation came to a close, though, when they moved over the crest of a hill, and Molly could see Sherlock's ship below. It floated in surprisingly calm waters, docked and ready for them on a quiet pier.

"How did your ship get over here?" she asked.

"It's too big to pilot single-handedly," Sherlock explained. "I've retained the services of a former informant of mine, Bill Wiggins. He and I planned this point for our reunion, as it were."

Molly nodded. "Where will we go?"

Sherlock shrugged. "We'll find supplies in a port town, and then wait for James to finish digging his own grave. It should be a matter months, if I've timed it correctly."

Molly fought a grin. She and Sherlock would finally be together. It had taken years and death and piracy and an engagement to a madman, but they were finally looking at the sails of a new freedom.

Looking at her companion, she found that, he, too, was smiling with a burning anticipation. His grip on her hand tightened, and he eagerly pulled her to the dock.

It was only when they'd made it halfway down the pier that the small hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Something was very wrong.

"Molly," Sherlock murmured, pulling her up short, drawing his sword.

The sounds of footsteps clipping their way towards Sherlock and Molly were all it took for Molly's eyes to slide shut. She wanted to yell, to rail that it shouldn't be like this. They they'd made it so far, only to fall into a trap.

But she tightened her grip on Sherlock's hand and turned to face the ambush.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it Molly?" Prince James asked as he sauntered up to the pair, flanked by Moran and the head of his Guard, a blonde woman whose blank expression had never shown a glimmer of warmth in Molly's presence. "And Sherlock Holmes? I'm not entirely sure how or why you're here, but I see you're attempting to abscond with my beloved fiancée."

His smooth, lilting voice made Molly that much more nervous, particularly when he silkily instructed, "Surrender."

Sherlock adopted a look of theatrical surprise. "You wish to surrender to me? I must say I wasn't expecting that, but by all means, Your Highness. I accept."

James looked back at Sherlock like an impatient parent frustrated by his truculent boy. "Oh, give up." He flapped a hand at the couple.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded.

"Miss Hooper will die if you don't," James said, shrugging, no longer playing.

A small flicker in Sherlock's eyes was the only indication that James needn't play any other cards, as he'd landed on the right one without having to draw more. Molly hoped desperately that no one but she could detect it.

"It might create an incident that's harder to explain if she dies," Sherlock pointed out.

Pretending to be taken aback, James' mouth dropped open and he demurely covered it with his hand, the perfect, chilling pantomime of surprise.

"You're right. I'll probably need to wait a bit. Can't have my plans gang agley, as they say."

Molly shifted uneasily from one foot to another. She fought panic, trying to think of anything. They were outmanned and overpowered. She'd seen not a single sign of Sherlock's alleged first mate, Wiggins, so there was little hope of assistance from that quarter.

"Well, darling," James sighed to her. "It's time we returned. I have some items of business to attend to prior to our wedding breakfast day-after-tomorrow."

Day-after-tomorrow. He'd moved the wedding date up. And Molly had no misapprehension. He'd moved the wedding date up along with the day of her execution. And what of Sherlock? She was no fool. James would not leave him to meander away while the prince made off with the woman Sherlock had gone to such lengths to rescue.

As if he'd read her mind, James jerked his head at Moran, looking pointedly at Molly. Nodding, Moran moved forward and gripped her arm, yanking her roughly forward. Sherlock shifted, making a low sound, but he didn't have time to respond before James turned to his Head Guard.

"Morstan?"

She nodded, unsheathing her sword. Sherlock raised his in return, but Morstan knocked it out of his hand with an easy flick of her wrist. She didn't even blink. Nor did she show any reaction when, with the slightest, most graceful lunge, she slid the tip of her sword into Sherlock's chest, right at his heart. He emitted a pained shout.

Molly cried out in horror, jerking against Sebastian Moran's bruising grip as Sherlock's eyes slowly slid down to stare in shock at the blossoming red pooling across his tunic. In the dull, overcast gloaming, it stood out, shiny and wet against the black material.

Morstan used the edge of her tunic to neatly wipe her blade clean of Sherlock's blood before smoothly resheathing it. She turned perfunctorily and moved past Molly, back to stand behind James. From behind the prince, she stood sentry, expressionless.

And then something peculiar happened. Even in her distress and rage, Molly saw…something. The merest tilt of Morstan's chin. Nothing more.

But Molly couldn't wonder about it. She staggered, pulling desperately against Moran. He was too strong, though, and she could only watch in despair—terrible, heart-shattering despair—as Sherlock crumpled backwards to the dock, his eyes open and unseeing.

"I would stop that," James said conversationally. "Your lover bought you some time, but only so much. It'd be a shame to truncate it." He was still smirking down at Sherlock, but Molly knew he spoke to her and her frantic attempts to break away and go to the man lying in the growing pool of his own blood.

Hot tears sliding down her face, Molly retreated. She knew she was making keening, animal noises, but she managed to choke out words of love for Sherlock. They didn't rouse him, and she stumbled along with the Prince's party with no more fighting. The four of them moved down the shoreline, heading for a second pier set off in the distance.

But Molly couldn't stop looking back behind her.

As Sherlock's body grew smaller and smaller with the vastness forced between them, she never once saw him move.