#victorian!lock

Inktober 1 - cozy

And can you find the differences in these two cozy scenes? There are six.

On AO3 and Wattpad (more active)

Words: 4459

Rating: General Audiences

After the death of Charles Augustus Milverton, Holmes burns all of the remaining blackmail material...or almost all of it. He spends the rest of the night clutching the documents to his chest, and Watson resolves to discover what his dear friend is hiding. 

Although this fic is a one-shot, it is packed with emotion and intrigue. Thanks to the masterful portrayal of a very nosy Dr. Watson (I may or may not have been talking to him through my screen at some point), this story reads much like an extra scene in the books. It’s certainly not hard to imagine Jeremy Brett moving like Holmes is described in this fic, and his dialogue is just as authentic. I love the inclusion of Milverton’s blackmail in uncovering Holmes’s past, and I found myself wishing for more than a one-shot while reading this, but the ending was so perfect that the author could go either way. 

It was a fogging morning in early April of 1895 when I happened upon a discovery in the paper which would change the lives of Holmes and I forever. “Holmes?” “Yes love?” “Oscar Wilde's gone to trial.” Holmes paled. We'd known the controversy of his novel, “A Picture of Dorian Gray” had done enough to stir up unwanted attention around inverts, but accusing and jailing the man? This was an entirely different scenario. This would be in the papers every day from now on, until it ended. Holmes had delighted in that book—a rare occurrence when he chose to read fiction. “It's drivel, Watson,” he had scoffed to me, but yet he read the whole thing, and I could see the proud light in his eyes when he did. “What will we do?” I asked him. “I cannot predict the future, Watson,” Holmes said somberly, crossing his hands behind his back. “But I think we should wait this out at least a bit longer.” “If you think that is right,” I said, and I meant it. The week progressed painfully. During these strenuous days, most times Sherlock and I would not dare touch in public, afraid even to link arms as we usually did. It was difficult enough for us without this foolishness going on, but it seemed now every corner we turned someone was whispering excitedly of the condemned man. The papers spoke of him like a rat, and so did everyone else. If anyone around us brought up the matter (very few did, since Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson were all aware of our romantic relationship) we were silent on the matter. To support him would be unspeakable. We would be reported and dragged off—another excuse for a media frenzy. Holmes remained darkly cautious. He stiffly introduced me as colleague to his clients, something which stung every time he uttered it. He walked a distance from me on the street. He referred to me publicly (even in front of the Yarders) (especially in front of the Yarders) as only “Watson” or “Doctor.” No “My Dear Watson” or “My Boy” or “Dearest Doctor.” I knew Holmes did this to protect me, yet it still felt bitter. However, it did make those times alone at night, with the comfort of a locked door and an empty flat, all the more treasured. I did not realize how I suffocated without his touch until I had it once more. Our friends, though some understanding, were not “sodomites” themselves, and therefor did not speak of or reference the relationship between Holmes and myself in anyway. Even to those who knew it was a forbidden topic, a hidden fruit buried deeply beneath aristocratic shame. “John?” Holmes said one evening, after a particularly long day. “Yes my dear?” I said, putting down the yellow-backed novel I was reading. “I am very tired,” he sighed. “And I would just like to say your name and be near you without fear. I want this more than anything.” It was rare for him to become so sentimental. I may exaggerate his coldness in my stories to protect him from the public's eyes, but I did not fabricate it. “We mustn't be so ungrateful,” I said softly, gently pressing my hand against his cheek. His skin was cold. “We are together, aren't we? That alone is more than most.” “I know,” Sherlock said, leaning into the touch. “But I miss you.” “I miss you too.”

Two weeks into the trial Holmes decided we needed to flee London. “The police are taking more action than ever,” he said when he brought up the notion to leave to me. “It will only be a matter of time until we, as public figures, will be considered suspicious.” He was right. It was three days before we were to flee to Holmes's old University town that the paper had the two of us on the front. The headline read; “Famous Detective and Doctor Under Scrutiny”. “We must leave sooner than I thought,” Holmes said darkly. So we left that evening. Sherlock had written to his old friend, Victor Trevor, asking him if he would be willing to house them until the trial was over. Trevor, being Holmes's previous (and first) lover, understood and agreed. Of course I worried about lodging with someone Holmes was once attracted to, but upon meeting Trevor my perspectives changed. He was kind and welcoming to both of us, and it seemed he and Holmes remained on friendly terms. Though, evidently, I hadn't anything to concern myself with anyway. “I assure you, you having nothing to worry about, John,” Sherlock said. “My heart belongs only to you.” I believed him.

She had married him.

It was ridiculous, the smile that crossed his face as he stood in his bedroom. Their bedroom.

The servants had all been sent away for the week, but they had left a welcoming manor for their new mistress. A fire roared in the hearth and a new cover was draped over the bed, a vase of flowers on each table beside it.

He loosened his cravat and began to unbutton his cuffs, suddenly aware of his shaking hands and the nervous flutter in his stomach.

The door behind him opened and he turned.

If he thought the sight of her all in white as she professed her love in the church was beautiful, seeing her now in a nightgown of nearly sheer cream under a flowing dressing gown was enough to make him forget his own name.

She had taken her hair down and it fell around her face, shimmering red and gold in the firelight. Barefoot, she slowly crossed over to him, his heartbeat increasing with every step.

"I believe that's my job," she whispered, a shy smile on her lips. He watched her slip each cuff button out one by one before moving on to his shirt.

Her hands were warm and left a trail of tingles in their wake.

When she got closer to the button of his trousers, he caught her hands and stilled her. In all his own nervousness, he didn't miss the false bravada of his new wife. The high flush on her cheeks, the aversion of her eyes, and the slight tremble of her fingers.

Her gaze slowly lifted and he bent his head to brush his lips against hers.

"We have all the time in the world to get to know each other, my love."

Her eyes softened, her anxiety melting under the warmth of his love.

"My husband," she said in wonder and reached up to cradle his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek as her fingers slipped into his hair.

He turned his face and pressed a kiss to her palm. Somehow his free hand found purchase on her waist, keeping her other hand captive against his chest, and they began to sway. He hummed softly, the melody something he had been composing since the day he met her. He never could quite determine how it ended.

Now he knew.

TW: mild mentions of child abuse

It is a common fact that men of note take pleasure in displaying their fortunes.

Whether purposely or not, they tended to flounce it through expensive dinner parties and estates, often accompanied by regular nights spent at the theatre or opera.

Sherlock Holmes was not one such man.

He wasn’t rich in the traditional sense of the word—in fact his regular income was largely average.

It was the fact that, at any moment and for any reason, money was undeniably at his disposal.

Between his brother and ridiculously rich clients, cash had always been on hand.

Why, then, had he needed a flatmate?

This is the topic which John Watson sat contemplating on a rainy July afternoon.

Holmes had always been able to afford anything he wished.

In fact, he owned several items of incredible value—his Stradivarius, a rare copy of Shakespeare’s A Midsummers Nights Dream, and even an old pipe which, though Watson had never learned the story of, could tell from the rich engravings it was not a cheap investment.

Holmes also frequently took to concerts and nice restaurants.

All this Watson pondered as he sat, wondering why on earth a man like Sherlock Holmes, a man who so valued his solitude and had a disposal of such wealth, would ask him to move into the crammed little flat of 221B.

“Holmes?”

Holmes was bent over his microscope, undoubtedly observing some chemical or organism imperative to his case. It took a moment for his reply:

“Yes, Watson?”

“Why me?”

Holmes looked up with a start.

It was more blunt than Watson intended, and he immediately attempted to repair what he’d said;

“That is—why did you move in with me? When you could’ve afforded the rent yourself.”

Holmes blinked a few times. Then he sighed and stood away from his microscope and a solemn look came over his face.

“I should’ve known you would figure that out. You’ve learned from my methods. Why do you think I chose to move into a small flat in central London with a man I didn’t know when I could be anywhere and have anything?”

Watson picked at his armchair, suddenly feeling very acutely aware of Holmes’s sharp grey eyes on him.

“Well, using your methods I’d say. . . .you. . .chose a small apart because you had a bad experience somewhere larger, and. . .you chose to live with a stranger because. . .you were lonely.”

Holmes smiled just faintly, looking at the ground.

“I grew up in a very large estate in the country. My father was a drunkard and had no mercy on my mother, brother, or myself.” He paused, with a deep throated sigh. “I moved in with a stranger because . . . you looked at me differently, than the others did.” Watson cocked his head. “Everyone is always looking at me like they’re afraid.”

“I had no idea,” Watson said quietly. “I am sorry you had to go through that, Sherlock.”

Holmes looked startled. Watson himself was startled. He hadn’t been expecting to use his friend’s Christian name, it had just slipped out.

“I-I’m sorry—“

“Please, don’t apologize, Doctor. I rather liked it.” Holmes smiled, and Watson breathed a sigh of relief.

“Holmes?”

“Hm, John?”

“I am glad. That you moved here.”

Laurelworth

Chpater II: The Riddle of Love

“The impending delivery of John and Mary Watson’s child brings me to Laurelworth. My companion in solving crime is refusing to go on cases during the last trimester of gestation and will not likely return to my aid till six months after the child is born.” Sherlock elaborated between sips of coffee.

“I am sorry, truly. I’m sure it is a great disappointment as you find London so diverting.” Molly replied with a compassionate smile. “What will Mrs. Hudson be doing with her days now that you aren’t bumbling above her?”

Such cheek? Sherlock inwardly mused. Perhaps this would be a simpler endeavor than I assumed!

“I suspect that she’ll enjoy the alone time. I believe her sister will be coming to visit for several weeks as well.”

Molly nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer as she dug into her eggs. As the pair ate in silence, Sherlock Holmes studied his wife. It had been some months since he’d last seen her at Christmas and while she had been beautiful then in her red evening gown amongst the candlelight, she was stunning now. The notion didn’t seem to make rational sense given that Molly was wearing a plain blue riding habit, her hair tied back in a simple ponytail, but his heart still soared at the sight all the same. Perhaps it was because he’d not seen his wife in so long that any dose of her was refreshing to his senses. Either way, it did not matter the reason; she was lovely with a glowing tan and freckles across her nose and cheeks, auburn hair lightened by her time in the sun.

Having been so caught up in his assessment of Molly, he’d not noticed she had already finished her breakfast before him and stood, calling the dogs and Mrs. Lyle.

“Yes ma’am?” The older woman asked, her graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, black uniform crisply ironed.

“Will you have Gabriel or Jean ready Gypsy and bring her round in a half hour? I’m going to walk with the dogs for a bit.”

“Of course, ma’am. Do you have a preference for lunch?”

Molly gave an indulgent laugh, resting a reassuring hand on the head house keeper’s shoulder. “Whatever you’ve prepared for the house will be fine. I would ask that it be rather large, after I tour the peach orchards I am to meet with our accountant, Mr. Ivanov, and from there I will head to surgery till about eight o’clock tonight. Naturally, that will not leave much time for dinner.”

“Surely we can wait for you?” Mrs. Lyle insisted.

“No, no, Mrs. Lyle. Just fix something for Mr. Holmes and be off for the evening, the cooks as well. I’m sure we can survive the night without you.” The brunette winked, pulling on her leather gloves and whistling to the two dogs waiting patiently around her ankles. “Come along then, we must find you pair a stick! Thank you again, Mrs. Lyle!”

“Yes Mrs. Holmes, anything you need!” She smiled.

Sherlock watched the exchange with rabid fascination, the staff was sure to love their mistress with the kindness and smiles Molly so freely bestowed upon them. Envy coursed through him like he’d never known. His wife had scarcely acknowledged his presence, not even bothering as to inquire after his activities planned out for the day. He had not expected Molly to drop all her responsibilities, however, he would’ve thought she’d have at least attempted to entertain his audience.

There was a coolness to his wife’s demeanor, while she flashed him sunny smiles and a friendly enough greeting, the Consulting Detective got the impression that she was…indifferent, to his presence here at Laurelworth. Clearly she expected that they would live the next nine months as though neither had existed, much as they has the previous fourteen months. Sherlock did not begrudge Molly her ambivalence, while he had expected ire at his unannounced arrival, the apathetic manner which she regarded him with was somehow worse.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Mr. Holmes, I beg your pardon-“

“Does Mrs. Holmes often traverse the estate unaccompanied?” He interjected, taking one last gulp of coffee.

The older woman flushed, in embarrassment or anger, he could not tell. “N-No, sir! I would never allow for it! The shepherd, Herr Schaper, or the game keeper, Mr. MacDonald, or-or one of the farm hands goes with her always!”

“I am not familiar with this Schaper.” Sherlock replied suspiciously. Mercy, did his male bravado know no bounds? “How long has he been in my wife’s employ?”

“Nearly a year, sir.” Mrs. Lyle answered. “When the mistress arrived at Laurelworth, she made a great many changes to the staffing, all of which have been for the better, Mr. Holmes.”

Frowning, he nodded, rising from the table. “I shall be in my study, do not disturb me till Mrs. Holmes has returned for lunch.”

“Of course, sir. Generally, she takes her luncheon in her study or on the deck…”

“Either will do, just inform me of her return immediately.”

Sherlock had not lied to his wife when he told her of his reasons for returning to Laurelworth, but it had not, strictly speaking, been the entire truth. After a rather intimate conversation with the Molly living in his Mind Palace, a revelation about the potential wonders of being married -happily married anyway- struck the genius like a ton of bricks. Could he have perhaps been falling for Molly all along? The year they spent together at Baker Street was difficult for Sherlock to adjust to. He’d been rude and short and dismissive of Molly’s presence in his life. However, there were times Molly was doing absolutely nothing but sitting on the loveseat reading and his heart would race. Once when she’d gone downstairs for tea with Mrs. Hudson and her laughter had filled the entire townhome; Sherlock remembered feeling a pang of guilt that he had not been the one to elicit such joy from his wife.

So, upon discovering that he had, in fact, been harboring feelings for his spouse much longer than he had realized, Sherlock did what all good Consulting Detectives do when out of their depth.

Annoy John Watson, friend and confidant.

“Sherlock, I do not know if it is wise to just…drop in on Molly.”

“Why not? Mary said herself to make a ‘grand romantic gesture’! What could be more ostentatiously sentimental than presenting my person when she least expects it?” He had exclaimed, pacing the floor of 221 B as his man, Billy Wiggins, packed his bags for Laurelworth. “You have been known to stop in unannounced at St. Bartholomew’s Midwifery when Mary was working to bring her pastries or packed lunches. How is this any different?”

“Well, for one, Mary doesn’t despise my blooming guts…majority of the time anyway.” John had answered uneasily. “Look, you and Molly parted under horrible circumstances of your own making. She loved you, deeply, and you all but threw it back in her face the moment Irene Adler wandered back into your life.”

“So what do you suggest then, John?” Sherlock growled in frustration. “God, this is miserable! I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, all I can think about is ‘Molly This’ and ‘Molly That’ and ‘I wonder if Molly is enjoying the early spring weather’…it’s unbearable! Truly, I cannot fathom how I have gone so long not recognizing that I was…I was…”

John smiled, hoping against hope that Sherlock was comprehending just what it was he felt for Margaret Louise Holmes.

“...In love with her.” Sherlock finished with a dumbfounded smile. “B-But my work…it’s never been better! How has love not afflicted my case success rate?”

“Ever consider that perhaps it is what has aided in its prosperity? Sherlock, when you are trying to work out a problem with a case, you throw yourself into composing. Maybe you threw yourself into solving crimes the past fourteen months because, subconsciously, it helped you solve the riddle of your love for Molly.”

He swallowed nervously. “I’m…I’m scared, John. I’ve made an awful, terrible mess of things.”

“Yeah, you have mate.” John rested a comforting arm upon Sherlock’s shoulder. “But it’s not hopeless, the easy part was confirming you love her, now you just have to convince her of your affections.”

“Will you…will you help me?” Sherlock’s voice hoarse with emotion. “Please, John?”

“Of course, mate. But I’m warning you, it’s not going to be pretty or pleasant at first.”

“I am willing to do whatever it takes to win back Molly Holmes’ heart.”

Molly was still out touring the orchards, leaving Sherlock to his devices. He’d already arranged his study to his liking, cleaned his smoking pipe and hidden away his valuables in the safe, including the large parcel of unsent letters he’d written to Molly over the last fourteen months.

Now he had one singular task ahead of him: Learn what Molly likes. Deciding that snooping about her room would be a gross invasion of privacy, Sherlock opted for her personal study instead. Surely if the maids were allowed to freely enter and exit, he would be allowed to as well!

Conveniently, there was a hidden door behind a bookcase that lead to the adjacent room his wife had taken over as her study. Sherlock entered, his senses instantly struck with the overwhelming presence of everything Molly. The room smelled of juniper and peonies, the sofas and love seats plush velvet and carved in delicate, feminine patterns. The roaring fire told him that a servant had not long ago been in here, meaning that time was probably on his side.

The walls were covered in bookshelves, hundreds of texts filled the space. A human skeleton sat in the corner, dressed in an old morning suit. Sherlock smirked, Molly always did have strangely morbid sense of humor. In another corner sat a large globe, inherited from her father after his death. On the walls hung various paintings of her kin or works of art she’d purchased or been gifted. Above the mantel was a portrait of her mother, Abigail, who had died of Malaria in Bombay when Molly was nine. Another painting displayed upon the wall was a birthday gift from Mycroft, a real Hashimoto Gaho. Sherlock frowned, remembering how Anthea had gushed over Molly’s enthusiasm upon receiving it.

“She wept she was so touched! Truly it was the best gift we have ever bestowed upon a person. A more deserving recipient there could not have been!” Anthea had exclaimed smugly, earning an affectionate eye roll from his older brother.

Two large cathedral windows framed Molly’s desk from behind, the dusty rose curtain’s drawn to bring in as much natural light as possible. The desk contrasted his own greatly, where Sherlock’s had been messy and chaotic, Molly’s was neat and organized. Few sentimental knick-knacks littered the desk, a large map of the grounds took up most of the space. The desk was punctuated by several pen and ink wells, a wax seal stamper with the monogram ‘MLH’, a bouquet of fresh wildflowers in a Chinese vase they had received as a wedding gift was placed on the corner, and a solitary silver picture frame was angled for her to see directly when sitting in her chair.

Sherlock felt his breath catch, it was a picture of him on their wedding day. Looking down at the thick platinum band on his left hand, it dawned on him that Molly still wore her Welsh gold wedding band. Surely if Molly truly despised him, she would not have set his likeness in such plain view or kept his Grandmama’s ring!

Hope soared through him, taking one last sweeping glance around Sherlock exited through the secret door and back to his study, it was time to make a plan.

A light shake on the shoulder brought Sherlock out of his Mind Palace.

“Mr. Holmes, the Missus has returned for lunch. She’s taken it out on the porch.” Mrs. Lyle said.

He grinned, leaping from his supine position on the sofa. “Excellent, thank-you, Mrs. Lyle.”

The head house keeper beamed, no doubt pleased she could finally appease the insufferable Master of the house. “You’re very welcome, sir. It is summer chowder in bread bowls and greens today, will that be to your liking?”

“Is that a favorite of Mrs. Holmes?” He asked, removing his dressing gown and straightening his collar.

“Yes, she enjoys it very much. She wrote the recipe with Mrs. Honeycutt, our cook.”

“Wonderful!” He called back, racing out of the study and down the hall to the main doors, earning curious glances from the passing staff. He slowed upon his arrival to the large front porch overlooking Bass Lake and the mountain forest upon their doorstep. As beautiful as the view was, none could compete the sight of Molly. She’d removed the jacket of her riding habit revealing her fitted high collared linen blouse, her beautiful thick hair, now free of its usual ponytail, flowed down to her slender waist.

“Mr. Holmes, is something the matter?” She questioned curiously.

“No. No, why would something be the matter?” He sputtered, moving to sit in the chair beside her, a table between the two housing a bowl of peaches and a pitcher of sun tea.

“Well…it’s just that…I assumed you’d be taking your lunch in your study, if you ate all.”

“It is true, I do not typically eat lunch. However, given that this is a special dish to you, one you help create no less, I thought I might try it.”

Molly blinked, clearly shocked by his statement. “I-uh, yes. I did. How could have possibly known that?”

Sherlock gave her a wry smirk. “Mrs. Holmes, surely you know me well enough now to know I’m a fairly observant man.”

Molly opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the servant coming out to deliver their lunch. “Thank-you, Gillian, it looks wonderful?”

“Is there anything else I can get you ma’am?” She asked with a friendly smile.

“I’m fine, truly. How is little Gerogie feeling?”

“Oh, much better, Missus! That tonic you gave me did wonders for him. He’s sleeping so much easier now that he’s breathing easier. Not that I am getting any sleep, of course. I still stay up at night paranoid that he’s going to stop breathing any second.” Gillian gushed.

“Well you make sure to get some rest, Gillian! It won’t do him any good to have sick Mummy.” Molly smiled.

“Yes Missus ‘olmes. Is there anything I can get you, Mr. ‘olmes?”

“No, thank-you, that will be all for now.” Sherlock replied in as warm a tone as he could muster, wanting to impress Molly with his newfound tenderness.

The pair were silent for a while, eating their lunch in peace as they listened to whippoorwills sing and butterflies flutter around the flowers flanking the front stair leading up to the porch. Workmen walked to and fro, dropping a hello or a wave to Molly and (if only by association) Sherlock.

‘This is it, Sherlock! Take your chance to make conversation with Molly. She needs to know you take an interest in her life!’ John’s voice cheered him on.

“I trust the orchards were in good condition? The peaches look very appetizing.”

“Yes, they were.” Molly gave him a perfunctory smile.

“Mycroft once ate a whole peach cobbler by himself in our younger years.”

“Mmmm.” She hummed between spoonfuls.

‘Don’t give up!’

“Will you be going on horseback to the village or taking the carriage?”

“Horseback, did you want to venture down to Northbury? I could arrange for a footman to take you.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve plenty to entertain myself in my study.” Sherlock answered with a small smile, locking their gaze. Molly’s breathing quickened, a becoming flush rising to her cheeks.

Oh, she is lovely. Sherlock thought inwardly

“I should be off.” She stood abruptly, leaving her food half finished. “Mr. Ivanov is a patient man but I’d never forgive myself if I was late to surgery.”

“You’ve not finished your meal.” He stood, catching her wrist in his hand. Her brown eyes widening at the voluntary contact.

“Really, it’s so warm. I don’t have much appetite in this heat.”

“You grew up in India, how is late March in Northern England considered warm to you?”

“I’ve acclimated.” She huffed uneasily, her hand still in his.

“Well, at least allow me to help you with your jacket.” Sherlock reluctantly released her hand to fetch the blue riding jacket from the arm of her chair. He held it up, Molly turned her back to him, moving her thick hair to the side. The sight of her exposed neck made his blood thrill.

“I’d nearly forgotten it, thank-you for reminding me.” She blushed with embarrassment, letting her hair swing loose once she’d slipped her arms through, buttoning the front as she turned to face him.  

Unable to resist the urge, Sherlock rose his hand and gently brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, folding it behind her ear. She had not slapped his hand away yet, but her posture went stiff as a board at the contact. Not wanting to push his luck, he did not venture further, though the desire to run his thumb across her cheeks was over-whelming to say the least.

“Thank-you for taking lunch with me. I enjoyed our time together.”

Molly tried, and failed, not to look flabbergasted at his words.

“Y-You are welcome. Have a good night, Mr. Holmes, I shall see you on the morrow.”

Molly turned to leave just as an idea struck him.

“Will you be riding home alone tonight?” He blurted out once she was a few paces away.

“Usually one of the stable boys or footman come and escort me home.” She answered. “Did you have a need for them this evening? I could arrange for two to stay overnight-“

“PerhapsIcouldcomeandfetchyou?”

“I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite catch that, Sherlock. You spoke so quickly.”

He let out a nervous laugh. “I-I was merely suggesting that…perhaps I could come and fetch you from surgery this evening.”

At first Molly appeared dumbfounded, then her face flushed.

This time, not from embarrassment or physical attraction. It was most assuredly in anger.

“What game are you playing at, Sherlock Holmes?” She snapped, marching up to him and glaring up at him squarely. “Never, not once, did you walk me home during my time at St. Bartholomew’s. Need I remind you that it’s a large public hospital in the middle of London? Why the sudden concern for my safety when we are in a safe country village and not drenched in the industrial hustle of Town? Is this some sort of social experiment-”

“Molly, please, let me-“

“No! I do not want to hear your excuses! I have been respectful of your solitary lifestyle and will not be made a punching bag for your frustration when my presence becomes too much to bear.”

“That is not my desire any longer, I wish to-“

“We may be married, but we are not a couple, Sherlock.” Molly continued with a humorless laugh. “We are not even friends! So please, let us just spare the façade. Do not feel pressured to act as a doting husband would. I freed you from that responsibility months ago.”

Ah, that one stung. Sherlock inwardly sighed.

“You are my wife, we are married, and therefore we are a couple.” He said in earnest. “I apologize if I was too…forward, for lack of a better term, in my attempts to be close to you. It was not my intention to anger you.”

“I will not be made a fool of in my own home, Sherlock Holmes. You and Mrs. Adler did a fine enough job of that in front of the Ton in London. I’ll not have you speak to me as though I were some human abscess in front of the servants or villagers.” Molly drove on. “You smeared my reputation in London society and made a mockery of our marriage. Do not act as if the last fourteen months of separation change the facts.”

Sherlock inwardly sighed, there would be no winning this argument.

“I apologize for the inconveniences I have put upon you, believe me it was unconsciously done. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holmes. I hope your time at surgery fares better.” He said before turning to leave.

He did not look back for fear of seeing hatred burn in her fine dark eyes.

Sherlock watched as Molly locked the door to the surgery behind her, then walk over to where he held her horse, Gypsy’s reigns.

“Thank-you for escorting me home this evening, Jean. I know it’s later than I said but we had an emergency case.” Molly said, mounting Gypsy, giving the broodmare an affectionate nuzzle.

The doctor had not realized something was suspicious till she noted the horse her companion was riding.

“Jean, I’m not sure Mr. Holmes would approve of you riding Dante-“

The Consulting Detective smirked, watching her eyes widen a fraction as she took him in.

“Mr. Holmes, what are you doing here?” Molly demanded.

“Escorting you home.” Sherlock commented. “I hope we are not going to argue about this again, I’m already here. No sense in quarreling over it.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Molly nudged Gypsy into walking. “I suppose you are right. But this doesn’t mean I’m speaking to you.”

“Well, that’s rather a shame, I was hoping to hear about your time at surgery.”

Molly gazed at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”