#au regency

[yukaro353]

[Jurando ante el demonio]

(Link in the title)

Uh, it's a Linzumi in Spanish, it's inspired by Bridgerton (?)

I promise I'll translate them, but until I know how, use Google. I manage with translators. Anyway, Izumi is delirious while Lin just wants to kill Wu✨

[phantomstatistician]

Tag: Alternate Universe - Regency

Sample Size: 1,336 stories

Source: AO3

[fallenstar88]

Some Kind of Love by fallenstar88 Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts & Tony Stark Characters: Tony Stark, Pepper Potts Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Regency, regency au, Inspired by Bridgerton (TV), Inspired by Pride and Prejudice, Mood Board Summary: Mood board fill for @tonystarkbingo square A5 - AU: Regency

[hobbitsdoitbetter]

Lavender & Jet, chapter 8

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. The song for this chapter is here, And as always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. Writing this bit of smushiness was my birthday pressie to myself and all of you. Now… Onwards! 

LET LOOSE FROM THE NOOSE

Ballroom, 

Lord Evanham’s Townhouse, 

Mayfair 

From the moment he lay eyes on her he can’t seem to look away. 

Oh Sherlock knows he’s supposed to; it is uncouth in the extreme to stare at a woman, even one so beautiful as Molly. 

And it is particularly unseemly to do so when the woman in question is a widow. 

But he can’t help himself: Her eyes are bright. Warm. Shining. That long chestnut hair glistens where it is piled atop her head, a pair of jet and amethyst combs pinning it in place. A small jet cameo hangs on a purple ribbon around her neck and amethyst and jet studs glitter at her earlobes, amethyst and jet circles her wrists. She looks… exquisite. The gown she is wearing is lavender, it is true, and lavender is still a colour of half-mourning, but to that plain fabric she has added the most splendid black lace overskirt and train. Both are threaded, here and there, with silver and amethyst beading, making them glitter in the light- 

The effect is altogether mesmerising.  

Sherlock swallows as he watches her, his throat tightening with some emotion he tells himself he does not recognise. In vain he silently rebukes himself, telling himself to turn away and look elsewhere but he finds that he cannot. For though there are bright young things aplenty to gaze upon in this ballroom, and though most of them would be more than pleased to entertain him, of that he has no doubt, yet none of those women- no, girls- are Molly. And therefore none of them could attract his attention like this. Not so thoroughly, so heedlessly, so helplessly. 

As he thinks this their eyes meet. Lock. 

He feels the shock of it go through him, fluttering and agile as a strike from an arrow.  

Molly smiles at him. Inclines her head. He sees pleasure in her gaze, pleasure and pride and fondness and recognition and in that moment… In that moment he realises that he is well and truly lost.  

He finds himself ardently hoping that he will never be found again. 

As if from somewhere very far away he could swear he hears Mary Watson’s laughter echo in his head. So he swallows. Straightens up. Best to make the right impression. 

Molly has stepped into the ballroom by now, arm and arm with Georgiana. The crowd parts to let her through, everyone in the room taking note of how different she looks tonight. She might never know it but there are plenty of jealous stares. Her sister-in-law looks lovely in debutante white but Sherlock can’t help feel she pales in comparison to her chaperone, and judging by the looks Molly’s getting, many in the room agree with him. The realisation makes him… Good God, is he jealous? He hears Rosemund give a low whistle of appreciation, something he fully intends to reprimand her over, but before he can Molly has crossed the room and come to a halt before him- 

“Miss Watson, Mr. Holmes,” she says smoothly, dropping an elegant curtsy. 

Georgiana matches her. 

He is painfully aware that Rosie is watching him with interest, a knowing grin tugging at her lip, and he fights the urge to squirm. Lord help him in the carriage home tonight. His throat feels tight and for a terrifying second he thinks he’ll not be able to answer her, but then- 

“Miss Smythe, Mrs. Smythe,” he intones, aware that his voice, while deep, is not entirely steady. 

He bows deeply and Molly’s eyes sparkle, a delicious pinkness colouring the apples of her cheeks. 

He suspects his ears can match them. 

“I was just telling Molly how beautiful her dress is,” Georgiana pipes up. “Wouldn’t you agree?” Before Sherlock can answer she speaks over him, “but look, Rosemund is here. She and I should chat and let you two do your… chaperoning. Come along, Rosemund.” 

And without so much as a by-your-leave the girl walks over to Rosie, hooks her arm in hers and starts towing her towards the Castlereagh girls. Esme lights up when she sees them coming. 

“Well,” Molly murmurs, “That was… direct.”

“Direct as a debutante can be,” Sherlock rejoins. 

A beat, as he and Molly look at one another. 

He feels oddly… shy. 

He suspects the sensation is mutual. 

“Would you-” he begins. 

“Might you want to-” she speaks over him. 

“We should dance.” 

The words come out abruptly but Molly beams at them. Beams at him. “I should love to dance,” she says. A small smile. “I know widows normally don’t but I rather think that this is a special case, is it not?” 

Sherlock nods. “Indeed it is.” He lowers his voice; his next words are meant for her ears alone. “You look very beautiful tonight, Molly,” he says quietly. “But then, you always do-”

“Really?” 

For a moment she blinks at him, genuinely surprised at his words, apparently, and Sherlock has the oddest feeling of deja vu. Of familiarity. He hasn’t heard her react to a compliment like that since they were children and the thought makes his heart lurch rather oddly, there in his chest. For surely she must know that he has always thought her beautiful? Surely he has told her? 

And yet, he suspects that he has not: it seems the sort of idiot thing he would have done in his youth.

Well, he thinks bracingly, that is one mistake of mine which is easily fixed.

So-

He straightens up. Focusses all his attention on her. Taking her hand he squeezes it, trying to invest his voice with every ounce of earnestness he can manage. He finds it difficult, but then he’s out of practice. “You are lovely, Molly,” he says quietly. “I have always thought you were lovely.” A beat. “Though might I be right in assuming that I have never actually said as much?” 

“You would be correct.” She laughs, the pink at her cheeks deepening, and he gestures to the dance floor. 

“I thought so. Well then, might I have this dance?” he asks, “or at least add my name to your dance card?”

And he gestures to the small booklet, hanging from her wrist. 

Again he’s rather surprised at the flash of jealousy he feels, imagining other names besides his own written within it. 

“I will dance with nobody but you,” Molly says, and her voice is breathless. Unsteady. Impulsive. 

He glances at her and once again, he can’t bring himself to look away. 

The look in her eyes is blazing. 

“You will dance with nobody but me,” he says and the words send a thrill zinging down his spine. 

He can’t help but think they have the feeling of a vow. 

She gulps. Nods. So he takes her hand. He leads her to the dance floor. The band is playing a Quadrille and really, is there a better dance for he and Molly? Flirtatious and fast-moving, it is everything they need. He is aware that there are many eyes on them but he doesn’t care- If anyone wants to challenge him then they are welcome to try. Try, and lose. Again she curtsies, again he bows and then the music strikes up. They begin moving together. Changing partners, moving apart and coming back to one another, again and again and again. Her eyes hold his gaze, her hands are small and strong and warm in his own. The heat of her body is near. Intoxicating. He can smell her soap and her perfume and her, her Mollyness… 

He feels a flash of yearning for her so strong it makes him ache. 

A flash behind his eyes, her in his arms, her mouth on his and the sensation is so distracting that he nearly misses his step. 

But they come back together, still focussed on one another. She leaves, she returns to him, flowing and expected as the tides. Sherlock might not often admit it but he likes to dance; his reticence about doing so has always had more to do with the absence of a suitable partner than any dislike of the activity. Right now, however… Right now he thinks that he could dance all night and not ever stop. This is the partner he has been waiting for. 

The Quadrille is over too soon. The next is a Cotillion, then a long dance. And another. And another. 

He dances them all and he dances them with Molly. 

If anyone thinks this uncouth they are too wise to say it to his face. 

By the time the musicians stop for their break he can barely contain himself, all he can think about is wanting to touch her, have her to himself… 

Which is why, as the crowd mills about and refreshments are served he takes her hand and, still holding her gaze, pulls her silently from the ballroom out onto the darkness of the veranda.

It’s so quiet and so dark after the brightness of the ballroom.  

She comes easily, her eyes dark and eager. He can hear how loud her breath is, there in the dark. He knows his can match her. He turns to her, about to explain, to ask permission. As soon as he looks at her though she merely nods and then moves against him, her arms reaching up to wrap around his neck. Her mouth finding his, her lips hovering above his own as her breath paints his skin. She’s panting now and so is he: her eyes glitter in the dark, her fingers curl in his hair. And then he’s kissing her, he’s kissing her and she’s kissing him and Christ but it feels good- It feels so bloody good to finally do this- 

He wraps his arms tight around her waist, pulling her roughly against him. She growls into his mouth, a low, erotic sound and then the two of them are lost to everything- Everything but each other.  

It is for this reason that they do not hear the sound of breaking glass. 

[hobbitsdoitbetter]

Lavender & Jet, chapter 7

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. The song for this chapter is here, And as always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. But for now… Onwards!

A PINK RIBBON, TAKEN FROM HER EYES

The facer is so unexpected that it takes Molly rather a moment longer than it ought to realise just who threw it.

In her mind it hadn’t occurred to her that someone so small and female and far away as Rosemund Watson could have interceded on her behalf. 

Yet that is what must have happened. It is the only reason for Rosemund to be standing beside her now, panting, glaring daggers at the prone Smith and nursing her hand. 

If Molly had entertained any doubts about Miss Watson’s upbringing amongst men then they had just been put entirely to rights.  

“You little snake,” Smith hisses, lurching to his feet. A sneer, and he raises his walking stick: It is obvious on whose head he intends to bring it down. Sherlock pushes his goddaughter behind him, catching the stick easily on its upward arc. A moment of struggle and then Smith lets it go. 

Sherlock tosses it dismissively at his feet. 

“These women are under my protection,” he growls. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, well,” Smith says, touching his bleeding lip gingerly. His eyes rake over Molly, then Rosamund with entirely intentional disdain. “She’s every inch Mary Morstan’s brat, I’ll give you that.” He sneers. “Though I suppose the bitch breeds the pup, isn’t that what they say?”

“Do not insult my mother!” 

Rosemund tries to come at Smith again, prompting Sherlock to grab her by her waist and restrain her. Georgiana rushes to the girl’s side, pulling her close and trying to calm her. She looks close to tears. The two girls she and Rosemund were speaking with have cantered over too, apparently curious as to what could set their new friend running pell-mell across the park- 

“I’m going to enjoy telling everyone in the Ton what happened here,” Smith whispers gloatingly before turning his smile on the two young women on horseback. 

They both look slightly nauseated. 

“And I shall enjoy telling everyone that you had your clocks cleaned by a sixteen year old debutante,” Molly retorts. She straightens her spine, shoots Smith her most withering glare.

“Just as I shall enjoy reporting your description of Doctor Watson’s late wife to all his patients.” 

Given how many rich and noble families John Watson serves, Molly is aware that this is no idle threat, nor one to be made lightly. 

Why, the ill will of even one of John’s patients could sink any political aspirations Smith might have. 

The other man opens his mouth- probably to insult her- and Sherlock drops his shoulders, fist swinging back- Molly suspects that if Sherlock Holmes thumps him he won’t be speaking out of turn for quite some time. Before any further unpleasantness can break out, however, Esme, the eldest of the Castlereagh girls, nudges her horse forward, effectively moving between Smith and Molly’s party. 

“I shall also enjoy repeating what I have seen today,” she says quietly. 

Her words are confident. Mild. They have the tone of a young woman who is not used to being disregarded, but then they would: Lord Castlereagh is Smith’s senior on the Privy Council. 

At this the full import of his behaviour seems to finally occur to Smith for he bows, his old obseqiousness returning. “One should hate to disappoint so… honourable a young lady,” he says through gritted teeth. “I am so fond of your father.” Again he shoots the Castlereagh girls that nauseating smile of his. 

Both purse their lips in distaste. 

“My apologies,” he grounds out before turning on his heel and marching away, giving neither Molly, Rosamund nor Sherlock so much as a leave-taking. It is clear who that apology was aimed at. The rudeness of it would be incredible, Molly muses, had he not already behaved so abominably- 

“Odious little man,” Esme Castlereagh mutters, before apparently remembering that she has an audience. “I beg pardon,” she says, inclining her head towards Molly, Rosemund and Sherlock. Her next words are addressed to Georgiana. “Are you alright, Georgie?” 

Molly’s sister in law nods. “Yes.” She looks to Rosemund. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine.” The girl nods tightly but Molly can’t help noticing the way she still has her fingers curled in Sherlock’s coat, though Georgiana is holding her. His nearness seems to calm her, something which surprises Molly. 

It had not before occurred to her just how much of a parent Sherlock is to the girl. 

A beat of awkward silence descends which Millie, the younger Castlereagh breaks. “Well, that was unexpected!” she says brightly. A look to Georgiana and then to Rosemund. “Shall we see you tonight at Lord Evenham’s?” 

Georgiana nods. “Yes,” she says. “I shall be wearing those new slippers I told you about.” 

“Excellent,” Millie answers. By now her sister has nudged her horse back to her side. “Well then,” she says, “we shall see you tonight-”

“And I especially look forward to seeing both Miss Rosemund and Mrs. Smythe,” Esme adds. She gives Rosemund a kindly smile. “But for now I’m afraid my sister and I must away.”

Millie nods. “Mama calls,” she says. “We shall see you all tonight!”

And she and her sister canter off. 

For another moment all is awkward silence, but then- 

“Let’s see if we can get an ice at Gunter’s,” Georgiana says. She offers Rosemund her arm. “Have you been before?” The girl shakes her head and Georgie smiles. “Well then I shall very much enjoy introducing you to the place.” she lowers her voice. “They say all the waiters are very handsome-”

“Georgiana!” She barks the rebuke but she knows there’s no heat in it. If Georgiana wants to make an off-colour joke after all that then fair dues to the girl. So she allows her sister-in-law to lead her new friend away; For a moment Rosamund looks back at Sherlock for reassurance and then she seems to remember herself. She straightens up and smiles, her usual cocksureness summoned like nothing less than a magical cloak. 

Sherlock’s eyes flick to Molly’s and then away, looking sheepish. 

“That was-” He sighs, deflating. “Bugger,” he mutters under his breath. “Bugger and Hellfire and Damnation.”

“Quite.” But though she knows that he should not be swearing in her presence, nevertheless Molly takes his arm and allows him to lead her away. 

Some of the tension leaves him as she does so and oh but she is glad to see it. 

“Well,” she says philosophically as they exit the park, “I don’t think Culverton Smith will be sending me any more flowers.”  

“He better bloody not,” Sherlock growls and Molly cannot help her chuckle. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They spend the rest of the afternoon together, Georgiana encouraging Rosemund to try what seems like every flavour of ices once they reach Gunter’s. In return Rosemund tells jokes and makes her new friend laugh, the very picture of the jolly girl she normally pretends to be. 

One would think her encounter with Smith hadn’t happened at all. 

Though they know that they should probably discuss any possible ramifications of that encounter, Molly and Sherlock do not do so- London, in the middle of the Season, being the sort of place where even the walls have ears. Rather, the two chaperones share coffee, cake and small talk, never alluding to what has just transpired.  

To anyone looking on it might seem like their group was perfectly cheerful. 

They would be wrong, Molly muses, but it’s what they would think. 

And so when they part they make sure it’s friendly. Light-hearted. Sherlock appears to be going out of his way to be polite to Georgiana and Molly, something which Molly knows for a fact would make his mother crow with laughter. The thought makes her smile: though she has been nursing a slow-burning, furious anger at how Culverton Smith dared to treat her, Sherlock and Rosemund today she nevertheless feels she has managed to hide it- At least she she hopes she has-

Once their carriage arrives, however, she does not instruct the coachman to turn towards home but rather towards Madame Anais, the modiste who has been charged with creating both she and Georgiana’s wardrobe for the season. 

That anger which has been sitting in her belly all afternoon is, she feels certain, about to be put to good use. 

“I thought we’d had all our fittings?” Georgiana inquires when she notices their destination, to which Molly shoots her a tight-lipped grin. 

She couldn’t say this in front of Sherlock but she’ll say it in front of Georgie. 

“There is a small matter I wish to discuss with Madame Anais,” she says. “It concerns my gown for tonight, and some alterations I want done to it. I should also like some changes made to the rest of my wardrobe, moving forward-”

Georgie claps in delight. “You’re coming out of half-mourning!”

“I am not coming out of half-mourning,” Molly says, rather a bit more forcefully that she meant to. “I merely wish to-” She sighs. “I merely wish to make sure that any dresses I wear moving forward are as splendid and eye-catching as possible. I won’t have Culverton Smith thinking he has me scared and cowering in the corner of a ballroom, and I won’t have anyone else thinking it either.” 

At Georgie’s look she sighs. She’s not sure she’s making sense.  “Look, I won’t be but a moment- You may wait in the carriage if you wish-”

“Oh, may I?” 

Georgie narrows her eyes, regarding her chaperone. While she may not be as cocksure as Rosemund Watson she’s no fool, she can tell by the tone of Molly’s voice that something’s afoot. 

“An alteration  to your gown, you say?” Molly nods. “In order to show Culverton Smith that you are not afraid?” Again Molly nods. “And this has nothing to do with a certain handsome gentleman with whom you have so recently renewed your acquaintance, hmm?” 

“You think Mr. Culverton Smith handsome?” 

As soon as the words are out of her mouth Molly could kick herself: Georgiana does not need to be reminded of the unpleasantness of today, however little Molly wishes to have this conversation with her. 

To her surprise, however, the girl laughs. Her expression clearly tells Molly that she’s not fooling anyone, least of all her charge. 

“Go, sister,” Georgie says, laughing. “I shall stay in the carriage and I shan’t even ask about these alterations.” She shoots her a conspiratorial grin. “After all, what I don’t know about Mama cannot manage to pry out of me…” 

And she makes a shooing gesture; Molly nods, relieved. She’s glad to hear that Georgie wishes to be an ally in this endeavour, and that she’s willing to accept her explanation for what she’s about to do to her wardrobe… 

So she squares her shoulders. Hops out of the carriage. She darts over to Madame Anais’ and taps on the window, relieved that she got here before the woman finished work for the night. 

“Oui?” Madame Anais says and Molly makes a show of pulling out her purse as she manouevres herself into the dress shop. 

“I have a last minute alteration to request for my latest gown,” she says, “and I’m willing to pay handsomely to make sure it happens…”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

When she returns to the carriage she’s grinning ear to ear and feeling very, very, pleased with herself. 

And when she enters Lord Evanham’s ballroom tonight, Georgiana in tow, she is delighted with the expression on Sherlock’s face as soon as he locks eyes with her.

[hobbitsdoitbetter]

Lavender & Jet, chapter 5

It feels a bit weird posting this tonight, but maybe it will act as a blessed distraction for people? I certainly hope so. 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And can I just say, thank you very much to everyone who is reading, commenting and enjoying. The song for this chapter is here, and I hope this continues to amuse. 

PLAY THE CARDS WITH SPADES TO START

Hyde Park is mercifully quiet by the time Sherlock arrives. 

The busy period for promenading lasts until three so by now there’s few people left to see or be seen, something for which Molly is very grateful. She’s even more grateful when Sherlock exits his carriage:  as soon as he hands Miss Rosemund down he comes striding over to Molly, drawing appreciative glances as he goes. Not that he notices: no, he keeps his eyes on Molly and when he reaches her he presses a kiss over her outstretched hand. 

A subtle creature this man is not. 

The action flusters Molly slightly, though she would never admit it in a million years. He seems to realise it, too, for when his charge joins him and Molly introduces them both to Georgiana he asks that the two young ladies walk ahead together. There may be a couple of suitable men about and the two girls would do well to catch them this far from a ballroom- 

“Reminds me of when Mama took you and Papa tiger hunting in India,” Rosemund quips. She hooks her arm through Georgiana’s. “Would you like to hear the story?” she asks and the other girl nods, wide-eyed as she leads her away. 

Their chaperones follow, keeping a respectable distance behind as they amble towards the river. 

“I feel I should warn you,” Sherlock tells Molly quietly, “that Rosie will not be a good influence on your sister-in-law.”

Molly blinks at him and he looks chagrined. 

“Were you anyone else I would lie through my teeth about her virtues but well... “ He shrugs. “You know my mother.”

Despite herself Molly smiles. “And there would therefore be consequences for your subterfuge?” He nods and she can’t help her laugh. It cheers her to know that the dowager Viscountess Alexandra Holmes is still a force to be reckoned with. “I shall consider myself duly warned,” she says. He answers her smile with one of his own, boyish and lopsided, and just for a moment she feels… something. Something light, lighter than she has felt in a long time. 

It’s the queerest thing but that dream from last night, the one of them together as children, pops into her head.

She pushes it away but she still feels a pang.  

As she does so a bachelor- Lord Evenham, she thinks-  enters her line of vision and shoots her a positively flirtatious look, doffing his hat to her. His eyes rake over her with an obviousness which is barely the right side of respectful and the reason for this meeting comes back to her. She needs Sherlock's help. The effect is as disturbing as a bucket of ice cold water over her head, especially since she knows that Evenham was a good friend of her late husband’s. 

To business, she thinks. I need Sherlock to speak to the idiot men sending me flowers and get them to stop. 

“Is that man bothering you?” Sherlock asks, and, as he had when they were children, he sounds quite ready to enact vengeance on the blighter for whatever infraction he has committed. 

Molly shakes her head. She waits until they are within the line of trees which skirt the path (though still within sight of their charges) and leans into him. Quietly, she says, “there is something which I need to speak to you about. Something which requires… discretion.”

“As you said earlier,” Sherlock nods. “And it is something which you do not feel can wait long enough to be committed to paper-”

“It cannot ever be committed to paper,” Molly retorts. “It must remain between you and I.” For it is one thing to exchange letters with an old family friend, even a male one; it is quite another to do as Molly is doing and ask that male family friend to act in the manner of a brother or husband. The first is understandable, the latter borders on the unladylike. Women are not supposed to behave as if they have the right to control their future, however much they may insist on doing so. And of course, were people to get the wrong idea about she and Sherlock's relationship, that something untoward were going on, then the damage to her reputation would be substantial. In all likelihood Georgiana would be tainted too, and Molly will not permit that to happen: the girl has her whole life ahead of her. She should not have that stolen from her because Culverton Smith and Sebastian Moran are imbeciles. 

So- 

They clear the trees, entering back into plain sight, and she pulls away from Sherlock. Straightens up and composes her features. 

It wouldn’t do for anyone to see them looking like they were speaking intimately. 

She tells herself sternly that she can do this; He peers at her quizzically for a moment before matching her stance, making sure to smile at those around him. He does not, however, respond to any of the feminine smiles directed his way, something for which Molly feels rather grateful though she knows she should not. Were he seen to be talking to other women, his speaking to her would not stand out as much, nor draw so much attention. He calls out to Rosemund not to get too far ahead of him- this earns him an eyeroll from the girl- and then they’re back within the tree line of the path again, and out of plain sight. He turns to her. 

“Are you in any sort of trouble?” he asks her, his voice quiet. Intense. 

He slows his pace too, the better to take advantage of their temporary privacy. 

Despite herself Molly feels a shiver trill up her spine. His question surprises her. 

“Yes,” Molly blurts and immediately wishes she hadn’t: his countenance undergoes the most swift and alarming change, and for a moment she rather thinks he’s furious. “No, no,” she says, “I’m not, not in-danger-trouble...” She hastens to reassure him because really, she’s not sure what he’ll do if she doesn’t. “Though of course, were I in danger-trouble then I would come to you immediately. But it is not- I’m not- That is to say-” 

His reaction has rather flustered her. 

He looks like he knows it too. For- “Molly,” he says quietly, “what is the matter?” 

And he peers at her intently. He has come to a halt, his arms crossed over his chest. Those mercurial eyes of his meet hers and hold; his very calmness gives her a chance to compose herself. 

Really, she tells herself, she shouldn’t be such a ninny.  

“I received flowers this morning,” she blurts out, beginning to walk again. Once those words are out, the rest follow more easily. He falls into step beside her. “They came from a Mr. Culverton Smith-” The name causes the oddest reaction in Sherlock; he purses his lips distastefully- “Another bouquet arrived just as I was leaving with Georgiana, this from Lord Moran. And I fear there will be more when I return tonight-”

“You fear?” Sherlock inquires. “I rather thought that women liked receiving flowers.”

It’s the oddest thing but he sounds somewhat… disgruntled. 

Molly shoots him a look. “Women like receiving flowers,” she says with asperity. “Happily settled widows do not.” He frowns and she sees that more explanation is necessary. “There is a reason I still wear half mourning, Sherlock,” she says, lowering her voice. It is, after all, unseemly to speak this way in public, and yet speaking of it to him in private is not an option. “Thomas has been dead for five years,” she tells him. “I have already mourned him. He was a good man and I wish he hadn’t died but he did: there’s naught I can do about it. However, while I continue to publicly grieve-”

She sees understanding enter his eyes. 

“Then you continue to have your independence,” he finishes for her. 

She nods, relieved that she hadn’t had to be more explicit. 

He is, after all, known for being a damnably clever man. 

“A widow can have a life of her own,” she continues, her tone more even. “The Season notwithstanding, she keeps her own hours, her own house, her own books.” She shrugs, making a show of stopping to admire one of the flowerbeds just coming into bloom. Sherlock stands aside and pretends to check on Rosemund and Georgiana before rejoining her as she starts to walk again. 

“It seems, however,” she continues, “that when we were seen talking to one another last night certain men within the Ton decided that meant I was heading back to the marriage market-”

At her words Sherlock gets the most peculiar look on his face. For a moment she almost thinks that he’ll swear. When she turns to examine him closely however, his expression has become utterly bland, so bland that Molly almost fancies she imagined his earlier indignation. 

A beat. 

It feels very long and rather awkward. 

“That is a difficulty indeed,” he says, voice oddly stiff. He clears his throat; he can’t meet her eyes. “And I take it none of these men are of any interest to you?”

Again, just for a moment she thinks he wants to swear though he does not. 

So she shakes her head. “No man is of any interest to me,” she says. She thinks, then amends. “Apart from you, but that is because you are my oldest friend and you hardly want to marry me, now do you?” 

And she laughs at the ridiculousness of the thought, perhaps a little harder than she might have done, (not that she would admit it.) At the mention of them both and marriage in the same sentence the tips of Sherlock’s ears turn pink. He gets this look on his face, one she remembers well from their childhood: It’s the one he gets when he’s overwhelmed by something. 

Despite her best intentions she can’t help but reach out and pat his arm reassuringly. 

He stiffens at the contact and immediately she pulls her hand away. 

He notices her hurt though she tries to hide it. 

So he rallies. “I, I should be honoured to be considered worthy of your hand,” he stammers, quickening his pace. He’s moving so fast Molly has trouble keeping up with him; within moments they clear the tree line and are on full display once again. “But as you say, you have no wish to remarry and you therefore would not dream of- even to me-” 

He stops, so suddenly that Molly bumps into him. 

As he had last night he reaches out instinctively to stop her falling over and again her dream of them as children pops into Molly’s head. Again she feels that light… something from earlier on. That thing she hasn’t felt in forever.  

For a split second they stare at one another, she blinking, he breathing heavily. Though Molly knows she’s probably making a spectacle of herself she can’t bring herself to look away and neither, it seems, can Sherlock. Time seems to quiet around them, then to halt. Both Georgiana and Rosemund could be carried off by pirates and Molly doubts she would notice, at least not enough to move from where she is right now. Sherlock frowns, looking down at her quizzically; his eyes sweep down to her lips and he wets his own- “Molly,” he says, his voice soft. 

“Yes, Sherlock?” she murmurs. 

Her heart is thudding rather painfully and when oh when did that happen? 

“Molly,” he says, his voice getting louder, stronger, “Molly- Might you- Would you-” His voice gets stronger, louder, as he stares at her and for some reason she can’t fathom Molly finds herself holding her breath. “Margaret Hooper,” he finally murmurs, “might you do me the courtesy of allowing me to court you?” 

She blinks, unable to believe what she’s hearing. 

“I beg your pardon?” she asks because hasn’t he heard a word she’s said? 

The moment breaks, Sherlock clearing his throat and straightening up. He sets her back on her feet and steps away from her to a proper, respectable distance. Hands behind his back he gestures for her to join him, his manner stiff. Proper. 

Molly hasn’t a clue what to make of him but she’s fairly sure she wants to thump him. 

Given how long they’ve known each other, this is not a new experience. 

“What I meant to say,” he says after a moment, “what I intended to offer was well, a sort of guardianship.” 

Molly opens her mouth to snap at him- she’s not some maiden who needs to be guarded- but he rushes on with nary a pause. 

“You wish not to be courted by unsuitable men,” he says, “and I wish not to be bothered by society misses and their Mamas. Were we to come to some sort of… arrangement with one another, I’m sure it could be mutually beneficial to us both.” 

Molly blinks, surprised and (she tells herself) relieved as she realises just how practical his scheme might prove for her. 

“So am I to understand that you… You want to enter into a false courtship?” she says. “A- A courtship of convenience, if you will?” 

Sherlock nods, not looking at her. 

The tips of his ears are now a mighty shade of scarlet. 

“We keep one another’s suitors away,” he says, “and at the end of the Season we go our separate ways, hopefully having secured husbands for our respective charges: what say you?” 

And now he looks at her. He holds his hand out to shake and impulsively Molly takes it. Nods. 

“We have an agreement, Sherlock,” she tells him. 

Their contact lasts for only a moment- they are in public, after all- but it feels much longer… No, it feels much more important… 

Flustered again Molly walks ahead, intent on catching up with Georgiana and Rosemund. 

She doesn’t see the way Sherlock stares after her, nor does she see the small, nervous, wondrous smile on his face.