A collection of @ladysolitaire's favourite Sherlolly (mostly), Jate, Polivia, Warstan, Captain Swan, et cetera, fanfics.
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Header text (LOST 4x05 “The Constant” excerpt) from Lostpedia
Summary: Sherlock, John, and Mary are at a fundraising gala to retrieve a precious jewel and arrest the thief. To Sherlock’s chagrin, Molly Hooper, English pickpocket extraordinaire based in New York, is assisting them in the case. Will Sherlock be able to ignore his body’s responses to her flirting? Or will Molly’s teasing break his resolve?
Inspired by Murdoch Mysteries Season 18, Episode 12.
Rating: T
Word Count: 1,552
A/N: This fic was inspired by the last scene of Murdoch Mysteries Season 18 Episode 12, "The Star of Mandalay". I’ve been wanting to write the AU for Sherlolly since I watched the episode. I, of course, expanded the idea and moulded it to Sherlock and Molly’s dynamic. It did take me a while, but here it is! Hope y’all enjoy this one!
If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then Sherlolly would have been explicitly canon and Mofftiss won’t be able to touch them. All mistakes are mine and are probably due to lack of sleep or too much birthday ensaymada.
AO3 | Pillowfort | Dreamwidth
Sherlock could hear Mary and John talking about the ruby they were attempting to recover at the Edwardian-Era-themed gala, but he was too preoccupied to participate in the conversation. He just could not take his eyes off Molly Hooper––pickpocket extraordinaire from New York. Her sanguine beauty and astonishing intelligence had been distracting him since she arrived back in London. And he could not stand it any longer.
His blood boiled as he watched her bat her eyelashes at the middle-aged Viscount Stratford de Redcliffe (divorced, functioning alcoholic, cheating on his current wife with her much younger personal assistant) while removing his £1.6 million Patek Philippe watch from his suit pocket without anyone noticing. Except him, of course. And possibly Mary.
“Looks like Miss Hooper has an incredibly clever hiding place for Lord Gilbert’s Patek Philippe,” Mary mused in a low voice as she watched Molly slip the expensive watch into the cleavage of her gown. She glanced at John, who laughed.
“She definitely knows her audience,” he commented with a smirk before whispering something undoubtedly filthy in his wife’s ear.
He lifted his eyes up to the ceiling in frustration. “Will you two please stop trying to extend your sex holiday right here? We have a thief to arrest!”
“It’s your fault, mate, for forcing us to cut our honeymoon short to attend this bloody gala.” John took a sip of his champagne and gave him a look of mild irritation.
“Would you like to know the colour of Molly’s push-up bra, Sherlock?” Mary asked without bothering to hide the amusement in her tone.
“I don’t care,” he retorted while trying not to ogle Molly in the floor-length sapphire blue gown that she and Mary charged to Mycroft’s credit card. He cleared his throat as he glanced at Mary, but he could practically hear her admonish him with ‘Fibbing!’ with her smirk.
With an annoyed sigh, he handed his nearly empty champagne glass to Mary, who laughed while placing it on a passing server’s tray and whispered something unintelligible to her chuckling husband, before he strode over to where Molly was now laughing––laughing!––with the viscount.
Molly met his gaze as he approached her and grinned at him. But her smile fell when he grabbed her elbow and turned her towards him. She raised an immaculate eyebrow at him, a small smile forming on her lips. “Oh, my, you have a firm hand, Mr Holmes.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m just having a bit of fun while doing my job. That’s not a crime!”
“Put that watch back right now.” Her pupils dilated at his growl, and warmth bloomed in his chest. As he ignored the heat spreading throughout his body, he slightly tightened his hold on her elbow. “Now.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun, Mr Holmes,” she whispered in a sultry tone, which made his pulse quicken. “I was just doing it to tease you. If I wanted to pick someone’s pocket, do you really think I’d let you notice?” But she did remove the expensive watch from her cleavage and returned it to Lord Gilbert’s suit pocket without anyone else seeing.
Satisfied, he steered her away from the wealthy guests and towards Mary, who was standing alone by the refreshments table. “Shut up, Mary,” he responded to the glint of mischief in her eyes before she could say anything. “Where did John go?”
She tilted her head towards the door behind her. “Lestrade asked him to look at something.” She then turned to Molly. “Where’s Mrs Mandelbaum’s diamond bracelet?”
“For God’s sake!” he hissed as he turned an angry and disappointed gaze on her.
Giggling, Molly produced a diamond bracelet––worth £4 million, likely bought from the most recent Christie’s auction––from a hidden pocket in her dress. She tossed it to a seething Sherlock and took a fresh glass of champagne from the table.
“Is that all, Miss Hooper?” he asked, though he suspected that he wouldn’t like the answer.
Rolling her eyes again, she slipped a diamond-and-emerald ring out of another hidden pocket. She stepped up to him and took his hand in hers. She placed the ring on his palm and gave him the sweetest, most innocent smile. “Would you please kindly give this ring back to Dr Ogden? She dropped it earlier, and I was going to give it back to her but I couldn’t find her anywhere. I’m sure losing it would upset her, since Mr Murdoch just proposed yesterday and they’re supposed to fly back to Toronto tomorrow.”
The look on her face as she closed his fingers over Dr Ogden’s ring made him want to grab her face and kiss her breathless in front of sodding everyone. But he resisted the urge. We have a job to do here, he reminded himself. He took a deep breath, intending to read her the Riot Act. “Miss Hooper, you are here to––”
“Sherlock,” John’s voice interrupted from the direction of the door.
Pocketing the ring, he inwardly cursed his reactions to Molly’s proximity and teasing before turning to his best friend. He took in John’s tight jaw as he stood in the doorway with his hands curled into fists. “What happened?”
“You need to see this,” he stated in a serious tone.
Someone is either hurt and unconscious. Or worse. He nodded and walked towards John with Mary and Molly Hooper at his heels.
Sherlock sat in the cab with his steepled fingers pressed against his lips. He had been replaying the events of the night in his mind. How the hell did Molly Hooper pick my house keys from my pockets? And when? He had been in the middle of talking with Detective Inspector Lestrade after he solved the case when he realised that his keys were missing. He instantly worked out who took them and where she went. He just needed to plan what he was going to do once he found her in his flat. Retrieve my keys and not succumb to her charms, of course.
Shortly afterwards, he stood before the building’s front door. It’s a good thing Mrs Hudson is in Corfu with her sister. He looked up at the first floor windows and observed that the lamps in the front room were on. At least she’s not in my bedroom. He took several deep breaths before turning the doorknob. It was unlocked, as he had expected.
An image of Molly Hooper naked in his bed filled his mind, and he paused at the bottom of the stairs. He shut his eyes tightly and conjured an image of his shirtless brother running on his treadmill to regulate his heart rate and to get rid of the sudden tightness in his trousers. Once his pulse had slowed enough and he had successfully suppressed the urge to rip Molly Hooper’s clothes off, he ascended the stairs to his flat.
His heart stopped when he opened the door to the front room.
Molly Hooper was in his chair. Her legs were folded underneath her as she faced the roaring fireplace. She had let her chestnut hair down from her elaborate up-do; the curls that she and Mary painstakingly styled before the gala now covered her shoulders and upper chest. She had also undressed to the knee-length, sapphire blue silk slip she wore underneath her gown, which lay haphazardly on the sofa. Her matching sapphire blue push-up bra was draped over his chair’s armrest. Sliding her eyeglasses––where the hell did she even get those?––up her adorable nose, she flipped the page of his New Journal of Chemistry and unfolded her legs so she could kick her sapphire blue pumps off her dainty feet. Dear Lord, why is she teasing me like this?
After a few minutes, she closed the scientific journal and tossed it onto the desk, which was mysteriously clear of documents and his laptop. She looked up at him and smirked. “I told you you wouldn’t notice if I actually wanted to pick someone’s pocket.” She brought out his key ring from underneath her thigh and twirled it around her index finger.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You are quite a devil, aren’t you?”
She giggled as she tossed his keys to him, which he, of course, expertly caught. Rising from his chair, she sauntered towards him and slowly untied his bowtie. “You got your man, detective. Now it’s time for you to get your woman.” She threw his bowtie over her shoulder, uncaring where it fell. Still holding his gaze, she then stripped off his Belstaff coat and threw it to the side, landing on the back of John’s chair.
Smirking at her, he pushed the door closed and locked it without taking his eyes off this beautiful and fascinating woman. He then gently took her wrist and lightly pressed his thumb against her quickened pulse. Pride––and something else he couldn’t quite name––swelled in his chest at the knowledge that Molly Hooper wanted him as much as he wanted her.
She pulled her wrist from his loose grasp and laced her fingers through his before tugging him towards his bedroom. She drew him to her for a passionate kiss as he shut his bedroom door behind him.
End Notes
According to Wikipedia, the surname for Viscount Stratford de Redcliffe is Canning. But I changed it to Gilbert in the fic for Loo’s dog.
Also, did anyone catch the other Murdoch Mysteries reference? Hehehehehe…
Thank you for reading! What do y’all think? Please let me know!
Cafuné (Brazilian Portuguese): The act of tenderly running your fingers through someone’s hair.
Cafuné (AO3)
Molly ran a hand through the black curls, loving how theywrapped around her fingers. Sherlock, his eyes closed and his head in her lapas they relaxed on the couch, made a happy little noise that she would’vecalled a purr except she knew he didn’t like being compared to a cat.
“How did I go thirtysomething years without this?” hemurmured.
“Your mum never did this when you were little and scrapedyour knee or something?” she asked softly.
He opened his eyes and tilted his head to look up at herproperly. “You’ve met my mother. She’s not exactly the nurturing type.”
“Your dad, then?”
“Not really.” He smirked. “And before you ask, no, Mycroftdidn’t either.”
“Yes, Anthea has her work cut out for her before the babycomes,” Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes again as she continued to play withhis hair. “Mmm. You’re the only person to do this, really. The first time,honestly, I was ready to snog you until we both ran out of oxygen.”
Molly’s fingers stilled as she tried to process what shejust heard. “Sherlock … the first time was the night you jumped off Bart’sroof.”
“That’s why I didn’t do it – I knew it was wrong to startsomething when I was about to leave.”
She started running her fingers through his curls again. “Youshould’ve told me – it was something we should’ve decided together.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Are you saying youwould have considered it?”
“To be honest, yes. It would’ve saved us a lot of time andheartache.”
He smirked. “And no Meat Dagger.”
Molly giggled. “Are you ever going to call him by his name?”
“Never,” Sherlock muttered. “It was bad enough when you saidthe two of you were having quite a lot of sex. I imagined you saying his nameover and over.”
She lightly tugged on his curls and he let out a littlemoan. “Sherlock, you deduced everything about me the moment we met, you couldn’ttell I was trying to make you jealous?”
He sat up to stare at her. “You … what?”
Molly giggled. “Really, he was lousy in bed. I only sleptwith him when I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse not to.”
He stared at her long enough to make her think he’d goneinto his Mind Palace then he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close, and snoggedher as breathless as she would’ve wanted that first time.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Molly Hooper & Mary Morstan
Characters: Molly Hooper, Mary Morstan
Additional Tags: Molly Hooper Appreciation Week, Day 7: Free For All, Angst, a letter from Mary, Friendship
Series: Part 7 of Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Winter 2017
Summary:
A short fic for Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Part Deux - Day 7 - Free For All (Anything that didn’t fit into a themed day that focuses on Molly) A brief glimpse at Mary and Molly’s friendship and a suggestion of how those mysterious DVDs kept showing up in Series 4.
“Well, if you can’t figure it out, I guess you’ll just have to wait until Christmas morning.”
This is my @steggyfanevents Steggy Secret Santa 2025 gift for @randomwholocker! Happy New Year, and I hope you had a great holiday season!
The fanart is actually my official gift, but I wrote an accompanying fic too!
Summary: This year Steve had decided there was going to be at least one present Peggy definitely wasn’t going to figure out ahead of time.
Rating: PG
Read it on AO3
Excerpt:
December 1953
“What in God’s name is in this?”
Steve grinned at the implausibly-shaped gift Peggy was holding up. “Well,” he told her, reasonably, “if you can’t figure it out, I guess you’ll just have to wait until Christmas morning.”
They were partaking in one of Peggy’s favourite childhood traditions: sitting on the floor next to their tree, trying to guess what was inside all their gifts. Peggy and her brother Michael had, naturally, kept formal score of who got the most right every year - but Peggy had informed Steve, their first Christmas together, that she had no need to lord her successes over him.
Steve had suppressed a grin at both the entirely reasonable assessment of who would likely win and the poorly concealed gloat about it, and they'd agreed to guess just for the sake of guessing. He strongly suspected that she actually did keep score on Christmas morning, but so far in their four years of marriage she’d kept her yearly triumphs to herself.
Still, this year he’d decided that there was going to be one present she definitely wasn’t going to figure out ahead of time.
“You look rather smug, Rogers.” Peggy’s dimples appeared as she regarded the gift, her lips quirking upwards. “Am I to understand that you’re challenging my deduction skills?”
Steve was almost completely sure he hadn’t left a trail for her to follow, but he was married to the director of one of the world’s premiere intelligence agencies, and he’d certainly seen her do more with less. “Yep,” he told her with more confidence than he suddenly felt. “But outside detective work isn’t fair, Director Carter. You have to guess from the package itself.” He considered. “Or from asking questions, but I can’t guarantee I’ll answer them.”
“Not answering often says just as much, or more, than answering, you know,” she told him solemnly, although there was a grin hiding at the corners of her mouth.
Steve made a face. “That’s what Natasha always said.”
Peggy laughed. He’d been a bit worried, at first, that Peggy might be jealous of how close he and Natasha had been, that maybe she wouldn’t want to hear anything about her - and then he’d seen her own relationship with Edwin Jarvis and realized that she completely understood the sort of strong, platonic friendship he and Nat had shared. “And she was right. You should have listened.”
Pairing: Molly Hooper/Sherlock Holmes
For: @ladysolitaire
Prompt: Ginger Bee Sting (Fresh ginger, water, honey, lemon juice, and Scotch)
Rated: T
Ao3
Pillowfort
Dreamwidth
The clip of his teeth was sharp as he sunk them into her bottom lip.
Molly’s eyes opened wide. The languid kiss had turned a hell of a lot hotter in merely the tick of the clock. Sherlock’s eyes weren’t open, but his tongue swiftly smoothed over the area he’d bitten, a mumbled ‘sorry’ disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.
He’s sorry? Oh, that simply will not do.
“Sorry 'bout what?” Molly asked, not bothering to end the kiss as she tilted her head to the side to reach him better, her hands moving up his strong chest and around the back of his neck. Into his hair.
As her nails scraped over his scalp he purred his response. “Didn’t mean to bite you. I simply was carried away.”
“How?” she asked, her voice dripping with desperation as she sought out his mouth once more.
“How…” he repeated, the words lingering on his lips the way the sharp pain from his teeth had lingered on hers.
“How do I cause you to become carried away once more? I rather liked it and it was over all too soon.”
His resulting chuckle was all too salacious. “Molly-darling, you don’t even have to try.”
Molly was a server when she was in Uni so she will NEVER go to a restaurant on a major holiday. Especially Valentine's Day or New Year.
Sherlock has learned the hard way not to even suggest it because he's already got her angry rant about over priced and underwhelming Prix Fixe menus committed to memory.
They order in. He goes traditional with roses and jewelry, she brings him a human heart in a cooler.
He lets her choose the movie and promises to be physically present and keep his criticism to himself while they watch it. But more often than not he becomes invested in the film and enjoys it.
He rationalizes that it's because Molly has especially good taste in films but they were watching History of the World part 1 so Molly suspects that secretly enjoying films is one of the few (but growing number of) ways she's discovered he's just a regular bloke. He actually laughed out loud at the "Hey motherfucker!" Oedipus bit.
They're scientists so naturally they can get a little... experimental in the bedroom. But Valentine's day is for tried and true foreplay/positions. But given the aforementioned experimentation that means there's a lot on the table- and sofa and shower and bed available to them.
VERY belated Merry Christmas to @theofficialkai517!!!
Here's you're @sherlollysecretsanta gift right under the wire. Lol!
Many apologies for the delay, dear. I hope you enjoy this "slice of life.":
"Does this count as sweet nothings?" Sherlock asked, sidling up to her from behind and reaching around the swollen width of her to rest his hand atop her pregnant stomach.
She cast a sidelong glance his direction as he leant in to whisper low in her ear in his rumbling baritone.
"This slice of pie is for you..."
Delighted, Molly gave a little squeak, set her mug of tea down and reached out to receive the proffered plate.
For @asteraceae-blue who's having a crappy day. An actual, honest-to-goodness flash fic follow up to one of my older stories.
"You look so familiar..."
Sherlock blinked rapidly, willing away the sudden clot of tears clogging the back of his throat. Not again -!
She'd spent most of her adult life not remembering him, or their relationship, only for them to find their way back to one another.
But now...was he going to have to start the whole, painful process of earning back her love all over again? Impossible, especially not under the current circumstances. He'd just have to try and remind her of the life they'd created together, their home, their love, their-
Suddenly Molly giggled, reaching out and taking his slack hand in hers. "Sorry!" she warbled after the laughing fit had ended. "I couldn't resist!"
Sherlock fixed her with his sternest expression. "Molly Elizabeth Hooper-Holmes, don't you dare pull anything like that ever again!"
Another giggle escaped her lips before she settled her face into a contrite expression. "Yes, dear," she simpered, and leaned forward to press a tender kiss to his pouting lips.
Just in time for the door to burst open and three small, dark energetic whirlwinds to descend upon them, demanding to know that Mummy was all right, a harassed looking John Watson hard on their heels.
"And especially don't try it on with them," Sherlock whispered against his wife's lip, startling another giggle from her. "Else you're likely to spend the next hour listening to them try to explain who you are."
Pulling back, Molly turned to the three curly-haired children who'd stopped short at the edge of her bed, a puzzled expression on her face. "And who are you, then?" she asked, lips twitching in an attempt to keep her laughter in check. "You look so familiar..."
As predicted, all three were more than enthusiastic to explain to their mother exactly who they - and she and Sherlock - were.
He doesn’t want John, but then of course he doesn’t.
John is prosaic. Normal. Human.
John is the best and worst of Johnny Englishman, whether her darling husband wants to admit it or not.
And ever since that business with Harker, well… It had weakened Him. Humiliated Him. It had allowed both Mary and her Sisters to escape. Harker and his merry little band had ended centuries of imprisonment and in the glorious possibility that had followed Mary had made her break for light.
For freedom.
For choice.
Unliving she might be, but unfeeling she was not: she had taken her freedom in both hands and held on tight as she jumped, feet first, into the twentieth century. Then the twenty-first.
And in the twenty-first century, she had found the life she always wanted, the life she should have had. It had been- it continues to be- glorious.
Even as a girl, Mary had known that her life was meant to be glorious.
But now, now that glorious life is held in the balance, she thinks. It teeters on the brink. For He wants a new bride, He wants a new companion.
And the companion he wants is Sherlock Holmes.
The Old One thinks him beautiful, he thinks him exquisite, in point of fact. Handsome, clever, unblemished by sentimentality and yet so very, very prone to emotion. He will be perfect, He tells her. Someone I can talk to, someone on my level…
“Not just a cheap tumble like you,” he had said when he met her, and he had been genuinely surprised when she raked his face, her nails lengthening despite her standing in direct sunlight. Eyes glowing, fangs showing, for where he has become weaker Mary has only grown in strength. John’s blood has seen to that, whether he knows it or not.
“You will not speak of me like that again,” Mary hisses in the Old One’s face, and she has the distinct pleasure of seeing him bite back his retort, for once frightened of her.
He does not answer, merely inclines his head slightly.
Bring him to me, He says, and I will leave you in peace, my little Goldcap.
Mary baulks at the old endearment but says nothing.
“I’ll think about it,” she says and takes her leave.
__________________________________________
That night she finds a small doll, dressed in a little golden cloak and tucked against Rosamund in her cot, and Mary knows what she has to do.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I finally completed a WiP! The last chapter of "The Golddigger and the Gigolo" has been posted for your reading enjoyment. (Unbetaed and likely riddled with mistakes, lol!)
Inside a small Brooklin flat, Peggy was still sound asleep coiled up in blankets. Steve sat in a chair analysing every detail of her features, ensuring they were just right. The quiet sound of pen on paper engulfed the room as Steve concentrated.
As the clock turned to 8 the notifications started coming in. Christmas wishes and late work updates filled their respective inboxes. The sound of the vibrating phone stirred Peggy from her sleep, letting her watch Steve concentrate on his paper before he realized she was awake.
She knew he enjoyed watching her when she didn’t know, she felt the same way. For her, it was mainly when they would run together. As he was quicker, she would get to admire the view.
Read the rest on AO3
Thx @steggyfanevents for organizing the whole thing
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I finally finished this one shot! Post TSoT. Tom confronts Sherlock after Molly breaks off the engagement, only to be surprised he had gotten the detective all wrong. Unbeknownst to them, someone overheard most of their conversation...
Sorry, @doctorhelena for the belated Steggy Secret Santa gift! I'm still working on the rest, but I've got the beginning polished up and ready to share ...
I loved receiving your letter to @steggyfanevents/Santa: "here are some general ideas of things I particularly like (applicable to either fanfic or fanart!): - stories (or fanart) set during the war - AUs with Steve present during the Agent Carter timeframe - AUs in general - friendship and found family - secret relationships, but also Peggy and Steve getting teased about each other - shared adventure, working together to achieve a goal - banter - Peggy being badass and Steve loving it - hijinks and terrible ideas - the Howling Commandos, Howard, Phillips, the Jarvises, Angie, Rose, Natasha, Bucky, Sam, Tony, Pepper, Thor - Bernard Stark, Howard's flamingo"
I had a lot of fun pulling a few of these elements together to come up with this story. Hope you enjoy!
Peggy bit the inside of her cheek as they arrived at Howard’s Beverly Hills home. He'd assured them of their privacy when he’d offered this house as a place to lay low while the news of Steve’s return blew over. It was their best option—she just hoped this really was the place to wait it out.
The driver handed over their bags to Steve, who took them with a warm smile, despite his obvious exhaustion. Peggy noted the way weariness seemed to have settled into the laugh lines at his eyes, the crease on his forehead that never quite went away now, the perpetual, if slight, downturn his mouth had. She shook herself from her reverie, reminding her wandering, maudlin thoughts that she’d never thought she’d get to see his face again, let alone watch him age.
She rubbed at the simple band on her left ring finger. While Steve’s miraculous return had certainly caused a stir, it was the news of the wedding that had turned the press rabid.
Peggy looked at Steve. Steve looked at Peggy. There was, not for the first time since he’d returned, the feeling of uncomfortable tension between them. “Well,” Steve said, his voice congenial, “I’m fifty-percent convinced he’s not going to out us.”
Peggy nodded. “I might go as high as seventy-five percent, just knowing how well Howard pays.”
“He sure is doing us some favor.” Peggy found his tone inscrutable. This was a new development, since his return. The small lines on his face and, sometimes, the wrong-footed feeling that Steve was referencing something from where—when—he came from.
She shifted her purse strap higher on her shoulder. The California sun was hot, and Steve’s suit hadn't fared well on the transcontinental flight. She didn’t feel particularly fresh, herself. “Shall we go in?”
He inclined his head. “I take it you know the way.”
Biting back the sharp retort that flew into her head—this wasn’t the same callow Steve who’d suggested fondue was some kind of lewd act, after all—Peggy was acutely aware of Steve behind her as she strode up the front walk to Howard’s ridiculous mansion. The lawn was just as green and well-manicured as when she’d last been, two years ago. Peggy supposed Howard thought stuccoed walls and wrought iron details made the place stately, but she’d always found it cozy, despite its size. And of course, the pool made it especially appealing. She looked back at Steve—at her new husband—and thought idly of just how secluded the pool really was. She felt a flush come over her that she couldn’t blame entirely on the heat.
“Howard played host when I was here working a case with …” She fumbled for words as she reached the front door and dug into her purse for the key Jarvis had arranged to have messengered to her back in D.C. “Ahem, well … there was a scientist, I’m not sure I’ve had the chance to tell you about this one.”
Peggy’s mind raced. What exactly was she going to tell him in this moment about the escapade with Whitney Frost? Her flirtation with Jason Wilkes? Her dalliance with Daniel? Not exactly honeymoon talk. “Well, another time,” she finished inadequately, feeling suddenly quite tired. Opening the door, she stepped inside. The heat of the day hadn’t touched the cool tile entryway, and she sighed in relief. Peggy ushered Steve in after her and, with a final look back at the expanse of lawn and the eight-foot wall beyond it that encircled the property, she firmly shut the door and locked it.
“Alone at last,” she said, with a genuine smile for her new husband.
***
Steve took in the immaculate Spanish Colonial Revival details of Howard’s house. He’d visited Tony’s home in Malibu, once, before he rebuilt it. The setting had been spectacular, and the house had certainly gone out of its way to provide unobstructed views of the ocean, but all that glass and space had left it feeling empty.
Now, Steve wondered if it had been a reaction to this place and to Howard’s preferred style. There was dark, ornate woodwork, plush, heavy furniture and warm colors everywhere Steve’s eye landed. Light spilled into the vestibule from arched windows stretching above the front door. The tiles were an inviting orange, with a Moroccan motif bordering the floor. A staircase of dark risers and wrought iron lead, Steve presumed, to the bedrooms on the second floor. Beyond the stairs was a hallway into the back of the house, and to the left of the foyer Steve saw a study filled with bookcases and leather club chairs.
He suddenly became aware of Peggy’s eyes on him, her expression expectant. “Nice place,” he observed blandly. She raised an eyebrow, and he noticed, not for the first time today, how impeccably turned out she was. Her honeymoon suit crisply pressed, hat set just so, red, red lipstick looking freshly applied even with the transcontinental flight they’d boarded that morning. Steve knew his jacket was creased to hell and his collar had lost its starch—he was out of practice keeping his clothes up to this time’s standards, that was very clear.
And, he realized through his musings, there was a frown beginning on his wife’s incredibly beautiful face.
Steve reached out a hand, pulled her in close. “Did you say something about being alone?”
He was relieved when she melted against him immediately, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “One hears that’s how newlyweds are supposed to spend their time, alone together,” she teased, her eyes soft as she looked at him. He’d been flagging on the drive from the airport, looking forward to a nap when they arrived. But now he couldn’t resist kissing her, pressing her fully against him, reveling in how her lush curves fit against his body.
“Good thing I cleared my schedule,” he murmured as they broke apart. She removed her hat and set it down on a table just to the side of the door. He let his hand roam down her shapely backside, knowing there were layers of nylon slip and girdle beneath the lightweight wool of her skirt. Maybe a nap could wait. Would she let him peel her out of each layer slowly this time?
Peggy rewarded him with a laugh before she leaned up to kiss him again. “I have a few items to add to your itinerary, darling.”
He wasn’t sure how long they spent, pressed against the door. Long enough for the shadows to change, lengthening over the stairs. Peggy’s stomach rumbled and Steve laughed. “Some things never change,” he said, a smirk on his face.
“Do people in the future not require nourishment at regular intervals?” Peggy quipped, smoothing her skirt back down. “If I’m hungry, I know you’re famished,” she said.
Steve dragged her hem back up a few inches. “I could eat.”
Peggy arched an eyebrow at him, her hand around his wrist. “Focus, darling.”
“I would be very focused.” He saw how her eyes darkened and her breath came just a bit quicker. He brushed the tips of his fingers against her thigh, keeping his touch light.
Her grip tightened and she exhaled. “Steve.”
He angled his head and let his lips graze the shell of her ear. “Peg.”
She sighed again, turning her head to kiss him firmly. “Lunch first.” She punctuated the imperative with a quick nip at his bottom lip.
“Is that an order?” he teased, chasing her lips as she pulled away.
Her eyes sparked at him as she put both hands on his chest. “It is indeed, Captain.” She stepped back out of his arms. “But if you find us provisions, you have leave to resume your mission after your wife’s been satisfied.”
Heat spread through his chest at that word. His wife. He couldn’t keep the goofy smile from taking over his face, even as he sassed back at her, “I’ve been trying to satisfy my wife this whole time, Mrs. Rogers.”
Peggy laughed as she took up her small suitcase, shaking her head with a smile that echoed his. “I’ll go freshen up. The kitchen’s back through there, and I expect Ana Jarvis will have left plenty in the larder.”
“Ma’am, yes ma’am.” He resisted the urge to pinch himself as he watched her walk up the stairs. All the ways he’d struggled with the decision to find her, after everything that had happened to him—he’d nearly talked himself out of even trying to have this a dozen times. But somehow, Steve was here, with Peggy, and everything felt so right.
Even if they were technically on the run from the press.
Steve ventured to the back of the house, where the well-appointed kitchen was indeed stocked with food. Steve couldn’t remember if he’d ever learned when frozen french fries had been invented, but apparently it was before 1949. There was a box of those plus a few cans of Minute Maid concentrate in the freezer, along with a wealth of tupperware, all labeled in neat Palmer script with the contents and instructions for thawing and reheating. Steve whistled at the display and selected a stew to thaw for dinner later that evening.
There was a note taped to the fridge, and Steve scanned it quickly.
Peggy, my dear—
I’m desolate that I cannot offer you my heartfelt congratulations in person, and that my inspection of your illustrious gentleman will have to wait until Edwin and I return from our visit. Please help yourself to anything; I have arranged for more groceries to be delivered on Tuesday.
E says I must warn you that Bernard is suffering from some tropical malaise. But as sardines seem to cheer him up, I admit to being skeptical of my husband’s theory.
Affectionately yours,
Ana
Steve couldn’t remember who Bernard was supposed to be. But Howard had assured them both that his staff would give them their privacy while they stayed at his home, so Steve assumed the fellow would have to get his sardines elsewhere.
In the fridge, Steve found basic sandwich supplies. For his part, he was still a tiny bit sad that sriracha wasn’t yet a staple in American cupboards. Thinking of sriracha made him think of being on the run with Sam and Nat. Instead of shoving the memory aside, he let it wash over him. Two years of running that grief group had been good for many things, of course. But certainly, an unintended benefit was how it had prepared him to leave it all behind and return to Peggy.
Steve took the stairs two at a time, balancing the sandwiches, two glasses of water and a package of Oreos in his hands. He found Peggy down the wide hall, in a spacious bedroom with a private attached bathroom and a Juliet balcony overlooking Howard’s tree-filled side yard. She was still occupied in the bathroom, so Steve set down the food on one of the nightstands and pulled the inner lace curtains closed over the inset windows in the balcony doors, leaving the heavy velvet drapes open. The diffuse afternoon light that filtered through turned the room a cozy orange. By the time Peggy was done, he’d unpacked their suitcases into the closet and dresser provided, and stowed the bags underneath the giant four-poster bed.
She’d changed out of her suit entirely and had on her robe, her hair unpinned and falling softly to her shoulders in mahogany waves. “Sandwiches!” she said, and clambered up onto the bed beside him.
“Oreos, too,” he pointed out, delighted at her excitement over his extremely basic offering. “You were right about Mrs. Jarvis keeping the kitchen stocked. Which reminds me,” he fished the note out of his trousers pocket, “she left this for you.”
***
Peggy read the note quickly, mouth full of roast beef, and then tucked it under the water on the nightstand. Ana must have dictated it, as it wasn’t in her handwriting and she and Jarvis were on a trip to Europe, visiting cousins of Ana’s who had settled in the Netherlands after the war.
Steve had eaten a sandwich of his own, as well as several chocolate biscuits, and then he’d gotten up to hang his own suit and change into pajama pants as Peggy finished her own meal. Though it was three hours later by her internal clock, Peggy felt a bit of a thrill to be in her nightclothes in the daylight. She watched as the muscles beneath his white undershirt flexed with his movements, his physique somehow even more impressive now than when he’d first gone through the transformation of Project Rebirth. Peggy was grateful for all that had transpired to bring Steve back to her. She was grateful that the man he was now was with her in this time. She felt suddenly such a swell of overpowering love for him, she was happy to be sitting down as it hit. “Steve,” she managed, hearing the emotion thick in her voice.
He turned back to her, concern clear on his face. “Peg?”
She shook her head, smiling through the rush of feeling. She aimed for sultry when she spoke and tossed her hair behind her shoulders. “You have leave to resume your mission at your leisure.” She toyed with the tie on her robe.
Immediately, his eyes darkened and the concerned dip of his brows smoothed over. A hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Is that so?” Peggy nodded, unknotting her robe so she could let the neckline fall open. As Steve realized she had nothing on underneath, she watched his breath deepen and his hands clench at the suit he still held. “Remind me where we were?” he teased.
Peggy licked her lips eagerly. “I seem to recall you promised satisfaction.”
Steve tossed the suit behind him, ensuring it would truly need a thorough pressing before he could wear it again. He prowled back towards the bed. “Did you have anything particular in mind?—”
Before Steve had even finished the question, there was a loud crash on the balcony, accompanied by a sound Peggy could only describe as a goose attacking a chalkboard. Steve immediately closed the distance between them, pulling Peggy off the bed and positioning her behind him. The sound came again, this time accompanied by some shuffling and … flapping?
Peggy slapped a hand to her forehead. “Bernard!”
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