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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Written at the behest of the lovely MetricJenn on tumblr, so if you like it you can thank her :-) This was beta-read at various stages by her, MizJoely and OhAine on Ao3, so you can thank them too! And finally, if you like this please leave a comment: this one was a long time writing so show it some love :-)

PROLOGUE: WITCH-KIN

The Steps of St. Michael at the North Gate,

The Bocardo Prison,

Oxford,

August 28th, 1577

Mycroft's grip is starting to hurt.

Sherlock knows he's not supposed to complain, knows that boys should not show any signs of weakness. He knows, too, that his brother is probably not aware of what he's doing, because it seems like Mycroft is never aware of what he's doing when he's upset-

And he's certainly upset.

For he's all but dragging Sherlock through the crowd, hawkish nose in the air though his eyes dart about watchfully. A dagger is secreted in his sleeve and other weapons are about his person, a precaution to which Sherlock has never before seen his brother stoop. People whisper as he and Mycroft pass- there they are, there they are, there's the witch's brothers - but he ignores them all, just as Mother would have him do.

At this thought of his mother, Sherlock trips, tears pricking his eyes and making him grit his teeth.

They couldn't even bury her, he thinks, they could only set her on the pyre with the other bodies and watch her burn.

They never even got to say goodbye.

The memory, so recent, makes his heart hurt and he scowls to himself, trying to pretend nothing is wrong even as Mycroft moves his grip from his hand to his shoulder.

"Do keep up, Brother Mine," he snaps as he hauls him along.

Sherlock opens his mouth, about to yell something horrid (because he feels horrid right now and if he has to feel horrid then so must everyone) but a glance at his brother's eyes quiets him. Mycroft looks… Mycroft looks frightened, he thinks.

Don't be an idiot, he scoffs, Mycroft doesn't get frightened.

And yet there is no other way to interpret the expression on his older brother's face.

It scares Sherlock as nothing else in his nine years has done.

Perhaps his alarm shows because Mycroft's eyes soften then and he stoops, swinging his brother up onto his shoulders and hurrying across the street into the shelter of some shade. Tucked off the path now, he sets Sherlock on his feet and hunkers down in front of him, a sad, uncomfortable smile on his face.

Sherlock knows his brother is many things, but good at talking to children is not one of them.

A deep breath and Mycroft breaks eye contact, looking away; instinctively Sherlock reaches out a small hand and squeezes his shoulder, as Father used to do when Sherlock was very little. Immediately Mycroft smiles again, tousling his brother's hair before taking another, more fortifying breath and straightening his shoulders.

"I'm being beastly, aren't I?" he says. "Anthea said I would be beastly."

Since Lady Anthea DeCourcy, (Mycroft's intended and, Sherlock is sure, also Mycroft's Favourite Person In The World) is seldom wrong, the boy merely nods in agreement.

It makes his brother chuckle.

"All this power in our family," Mycroft mutters, "and there's not a tap we can do to slow time. Makes you wonder, what's the point of it..?"

And he shakes his head to himself, taking off his hat to rake a hand through his red hair. He looks… He looks tired, Sherlock thinks.

For all his time spent acting like a grownup, this is the first time he really resembles one.

"Do you know why I've brought you here today, Sherlock?" he asks.

The boy shakes his head and Mycroft takes another deep breath. He seems to be trying to steady himself and though he would never admit it, it makes Sherlock feel even more afraid.

"I brought you here today," Mycroft says, "because I have to give your training over to another Master: He'll be collecting you shortly."

"But you can't!"

The raw unfairness of it erupts from Sherlock, making him bawl the words out. He already has a Master teaching him Magic and she's… She's…

She's burnt on a pyre at the city's edge, with all the other plague victims, he reminds himself viciously.

At the thought, one of the cobbles beneath his feet splinters suddenly and he flushes in shame.

The sound draws attention; Mycroft hisses at him to be quiet, to control himself. He shifts his body so that Sherlock is more fully hidden from prying eyes, leaning over him protectively. Stroking soothing circles on his back, just as he has every night since the night that Sherlock first showed power. "Listen to me, Will," Mycroft mutters and Sherlock scowls, knowing his brother only trots out that name when he wants something.

Nevertheless, he nods mulishly.

"Some day you are going to be a very powerful Magician," Mycroft is saying quietly. "Far more powerful than I, as much as it pains me to say. Perhaps even more powerful than Mother. But for that to happen, for you to reach your full potential, then you must be taught by someone new-"

"You could teach me!"

Mycroft shakes his head. "Alas, little brother, I cannot."

"But why?"

The boy crosses his arms stubbornly, pouting, and Mycroft rolls his eyes, praying for patience.

This is a common thing, when speaking with his little brother.

"Because I am your kin," Mycroft says bluntly, "and thanks to our dear, departed sister, Her Majesty will not allow one Holmes to teach another. She thinks it dangerous for the Crown, and I assure you, the court agrees with her-

Drake and his little contingent have seen to that."

Sherlock frowns. "But that's silly." And it is. Eurus may have turned out a little…rebellious, but nobody could say that about he, or Mycroft, or their mother.

Why, Viola Holmes was one of the first people to visit the Lady Elizabeth before her Coronation!

At his words Mycroft snarls though, pulling him closer. "Keep your voice down," he hisses. "These are dangerous times to second-guess her Majesty, and we are neither of us in a position to take chances: is that clear?"

Sherlock stares at him in horror and he tries to gentle his tone; the boy can see a pulse thudding, thudding, thudding, there at his neck and oh, but he wants it to stop.

"I just don't want to see you, or Anthea, or anyone else hurt, do you understand me?" Mycroft says softly. Sherlock nods and with a sigh he pulls him into a tight, awkward hug. Kisses his crown. "It will be alright," he murmurs, but whether he's trying to convince himself, or Sherlock, the boy doesn't know.

"Well, isn't this a charming family sight?"

The voice comes, seemingly, from nowhere, and immediately Mycroft stiffens. Pulling away from Sherlock he gets to his feet, moving subtly to stand in front of the younger Holmes.

Sherlock feels a puff of pride, of reassurance, to see it.

He frowns though, smelling sulfur on the air: It's not a smell he's had much experience of, not with his mother's attitude towards those whose Magic necessitates it. As he watches, a hand materializes. This is followed by an arm, then a torso. A popping sound in his ears, and then suddenly, suddenly, suddenly there's a tall, black-clad man standing before him, a yew-wood carriage at his heel. The carriage has no horses attached to it; rather, it pants like a fever-struck dog, and at the sight of it Mycroft's lip curls in distaste.

Such a thing can only be created by Binding and Conjuration, two arts which their mother would never have countenanced using.

A ball of dread starts forming in Sherlock's belly.

Nevertheless, he bows politely to the newcomer when Mycroft tells him to. The townsfolk around them have, by now, noticed the man and his strange contraption and they're averting their eyes, making the sign of the cross. The air hisses with an angry, buzzing energy which even Sherlock recognises as dangerous. Again he hears those whispered words: the witch's brothers, the witch's brothers…

Odd that they do not call them the witch's  sons , as well- But then, his mother was more loved than Eurus ever had been.

As if reading his expression the newcomer merely smiles, a sly, thin thing, and the ball of dread in Sherlock's belly tightens into a fist.

"So this is my new Apprentice , eh?" the newcomer says. Mycroft nods stiffly.

His hands are curled into fists at his sides, his mouth set in a straight line.

He almost doesn't look like Mycroft, Sherlock thinks.

"This is my brother, William Sherlock Scathlock Shernford Holmes-"

Mycroft clears his throat, gestures tersely for Sherlock to join the other man.

"Sherlock, this is Doctor Johannus Woldsley, your new Master. See that you treat him with respect." Sherlock's expression must convey how unlikely that order is to be followed, because Mycroft immediately rushes on, trying to draw Woldsley's attention. "You'll find my brother a very able student-"

"I'll be the judge of that," Woldsley snaps.

And before Sherlock can say anything, the man grabs him by the scruff of his neck, dragging him towards the carriage. Mycroft startles, about to object, but a look from the man halts him.

"He's my Apprentice now, Mr. Holmes," Woldsley says evenly. "Mine, to do with as I see fit.

I need to ascertain what damage his mother has done before I can start to rebuild him."

And with a flick of his wrist he opens the door to his carriage, tossing Sherlock inside. The thing shudders like a beast that's had something stuffed in its belly and the motion makes Sherlock feel sick. He looks around him, taking in the crudely cut signs and sigils which cover the carriage's interior, naming signs that bind whatever unfortunate creature is powering this contraption to its master. They throb with hopelessness, with pain. Gingerly, he runs his fingers over them: they look like they were made with iron nails, so different from the elegant Magical symbols his mother had taught him to forge-

"Stop that."

The door bangs shut, his new Master entering the carriage. He gestures and a ball of light appears, shaped almost like a small, fiery homunculus. As Sherlock peers at the thing? Creature? it shudders as if in agony, the stench of brimstone roiling off it in waves.

"You'll sleep throughout the journey," Woldsley says, his voice heavy with Magic and instantly Sherlock feels his eyes begin to droop. Rage at being so casually ensorcelled- so casually controlled- curdles in his belly. "You may write to your brother once we're in London," Woldsley is saying, "until then, do not mention him again.

I abhor prattle."

And with a gesture from Woldsley the contraption takes off at a lurching, unnatural pace, very different from that of a horse or even an ox. Another gesture from Woldsley and the ball of light shrinks, coming to rest at the Magician's shoulder; its pulsing makes it look almost as if… almost as if it could be weeping. Sherlock opens his mouth, to object, to plead, to ask for one last moment bidding farewell to Mycroft-

He doesn't get it.

He won't awake until exactly the moment Woldsley wants him to, three days hence and in a new city entirely.

It will be the first indignity which he is forced to endure at the hands of Doctor Woldsley, but it will not be the last.

Sherlock will never know that his brother stood at that spot for an hour, staring at the place where he handed him over.

Sherlock will never know that his brother cried that day, ashamed, for all his seventeen years, that he had to hand his last remaining family over to that, that creature, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

He will feel shame for this until the day he dies.

The sun will go down, the stars will come out, but Mycroft won't move from the steps in front of St. Michael at the North Gate until Anthea comes to find him. Until her father, the Sheriff, comes to take back the weapons he loaned him and convey him back to the cell which will house him for the next three years.

For all his imprisonment, Mycroft suspects his little brother will have a more arduous time than he, and the thought is bitter in his mouth.

Chapter Text

1: THE GIRL

Hart's Leap House

Yorkshire

1596

(19 Years Later)

The disguise was really quite ridiculous.

And Sir Sherlock Holmes glowers darkly at the scruffy, clearly female creature before him. A figure who is apparently fascinated- fascinated! - by the large table before which she cowers. A figure who is wearing a boy's doublet, hose and boots and is trying- unsuccessfully- not to cry.

It is all really rather tedious.

The table at which she stands is still smoking, the remains of burning sigils glowing brightly in the dull afternoon light. At his glare it begins emitting the loveliest scent of meadowsweet and fresh cut grass, begins also to sing in a low, husky baritone, rather like Sir Sherlock's own.

Though he may not admit it, the sound makes Sherlock… uncomfortable.

For the song's lyrics plaintively praise the beauties of a honeybee in flight- Sir Sherlock has rather an interest in the art of apiary- while the ink pot and quill provide (prospectively) tenor and bass accompaniment. His pipe, laid upon the wood, is tapping out a percussive beat with more gusto than one might expect from an inanimate object, the tobacco bouncing out of it in tiny, energetic clumps and spilling across the wood-

It is, Sir Sherlock must admit, a rather impressive display of Magic.

Having spent so long under Woldsley's tutelage, he couldn't say he has ever seen it bettered- At least, not in so harmless a way.

As always when he remembers his former Master, he pushes the thought firmly away. His right hand curls into a fist, the sigils on his back tingling, as he reminds himself that he need never deal with Woldsley again. Her Majesty has seen to it. Rather he focuses his attention on the business at hand: the Magic being performed before him is being performed by a female- and an untrained female at that.

And to make matters worse, he had liked that desk rather a lot. It was one of the few things he had managed to salvage from his mother's quarters in Oxford, one of the first things he had bought when Her Majesty presented him with his Magicians' Silks three year ago. That being the case, he takes a rather dim view of some reprobate damaging it- Even if she was crying.

And female.

And looked simply awful.

Said reprobate sniffs loudly now, wiping her nose upon her sleeve and Sir Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward, praying for patience.

"Woman," he snaps, "stop that blubbering at once! It will earn you no sympathy here." A sharp smile, the one so admired and feared at Court. "Sympathy is not part of a Magician's repertoire."

The female looks up at him from beneath her filthy wool hat's brim at that, her eyes brown and wide and red with weeping.

To Sir Sherlock's surprise he must allow that they are rather pretty- That she is rather pretty.

Instantly he pushes the weak thought away.

"I'm not looking for sympathy," she manages to huff. "I'm looking for help, sir."

And her lip quivers dangerously, giving out as she collapses back into loud, messy sobs.

Sir Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"And how much do you imagine breaking into my house and destroying my desk entitles you to, Madame?" He demands. She jumps at the anger in his voice. "Or do you imagine I'll pay you for this little frippery?"

And he gestures to the desk. As if in answer, the desk's singing becomes louder, its tone rather…gleeful.

The girl looks horrified, then angry, before circling back to being horrified as she comes to his meaning.

"I'm not looking for money, sir!" she says. Those pretty brown eyes widen. "I was hoping that you could, that you could…" She gestures helplessly to the table before her. "You're a Queensman!" She hiccups out. "You serve her Majesty in London-

If anyone can help me, I know it must be you."

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest. "And how, precisely, do you expect me to help you?"

She drops her head, shoulders sagging. "I don't know," she whispers. "I just thought you might know, that you must know..." Another sob, another wiped nose.

"I thought," she says quietly, "that you must know to make it stop."

And she gestures miserably to the table. Even as she does so, the wood begins to sing more sweetly, this time in praise of love that is longing and melancholy and never to be spoken of aloud.

This too is sung in Sherlock's own accents.

This too makes him uncomfortable.

He frowns however, unwilling to examine that reaction. Rather, he focuses on the girl: that is not what he expected her to say. He expected her to demand praise or payment, the only reason a Magician would perform such an act at Court. He expected her to offer him the use of whatever imp or daemon she had managed to ensnare in order to do the trick, for anything else is mere Cunning Craft and utterly disreputable, at least these days.

But she is doing neither of those things: On the contrary, she is clearly miserable and that seems, to him, a terrible pity.

She ought to be proud of talent such as hers.

A memory flashes, his first winter in London, his first winter with his new Master… His Mother's spells had failed to impress Woldsley, being, like this girl’s, more akin to Cunning Craft than respectable Conjuration. He hadn't even had an Imp to order about, and oh but his Master had made it clear what a failure that was… The beatings had been severe, the Magical punishments even worse…

Again, he pushes the thought away, unwilling to entertain it. Again the marks on his back tingle, again he reminds himself that he is safe, that he has gotten away. He is his own man, now. Woldsley has no more power over him, and he aims to keep it that way.

And if Woldsley has no more power over him then why shouldn't he find out more about his guest?

The thought slips into his mind like a thief, the notion oddly pleasing.

In the three years since he gained his freedom he has made an effort to comport himself in the exact opposite manner to his former Master; where Woldsley would have attacked this young woman, would have demeaned her, he can offer help. So-

"How long has this been happening?" he asks quietly, trying to gentle his expression.

The girl blubbers some more and whispers something inaudible.

"Speak up, child!" he snaps- he has never claimed to be patient- and she looks up at him, fire in her eyes now.

Again, he is forced to think that she is really rather pretty.

"It's been happening since I was thirteen, Sir," she says. "On and off." A frown, a twist of her sleeve between thumb and forefinger. "But it has been getting steadily worse since Michaelmas. I might have an… accident once or twice a year before, but now it's once or twice a day." Some more blubbering.

"It's quite, quite awful, sir."

Sherlock frowns at that, surprised, a twist of guilt- of realisation- tightening his gut. He himself had only taken possession of Hart's Leap House at Michaelmas. Ever since then he had been holed up in his lab, experimenting with his mage-craft and trying to excel in those arts which his Woldsley and his fellows at The Silken Court had been unable to improve. He had also, of course, been collecting intelligence for Her Majesty in this, her wildest and most rebellious of territories-

Given his family's history with the Crown, Her Majesty felt it the least he could do, and he was in no position to gainsay her.

But in all that time he had been plagued with the sense that something… That someone was nearby. Someone supernatural. Someone gifted. Someone whose Magic was utterly unlike his own elegant, bookish craft. It occurs to him that, given the dearth of other practitioners in this part of the county, the personage he had sensed may well have been this young woman before him. Untaught as she clearly is, she would not have been able to block him out as she ought to…

And thus, he muses, her problems may well have been of his causing, his nearness inadvertently bolstering her power.

That being the case, then setting things right with her is his duty as both a Magician and a gentleman-

Despite his Master's opinion, he thinks dryly, the one did not necessarily preclude the other.

"Where is your family from?" he asks her sharply.

The girl looks up at him. "Haverbrook-on-Lye," she says. "Over the river." She frowns. Cocks her head at him. "My people are yeomen, sir, they don't know I'm here-"

"Well then," Sherlock says severely, "they shall have to be told, shan't they?"

And before she can answer he turns his back on her. Starts pacing. Now his mind is set to it, planning is quick and easy. Decisive.

It has ever been thus, with him.

"You shall stay here with me, and study," he tells her now. "I will teach you how to control your Magic, how to use our natural gifts as a true Magician ought." At his words her eyes light up and it causes the queerest… flutter in his belly.

Again, he pushes the weak thought away with distaste.

"I will see to it that you have a chaperone," he continues- this causes her smile to dim- "and you will see to it that your family agrees and understands what you're about, is that clear?"

The girl's cheeks pink, immediately taking his meaning: a yeoman's daughter suddenly decamping to an aristocrat's house would cause all sorts of tongues to wag, were she not careful to make his arrangements clear.

Nevertheless, she nods.

"Do you really think you can help me?" she asks then, and her voice is so soft and hopeful that it makes his heart thud in his chest. The brightness in her eyes has returned and it touches him queerly, too. Sherlock clears his throat, takes a deep breath. Soft things are for other people, he reminds himself sharply. Softness didn't get him this far, and it won't help him now.

And yet…

"I shall try," he says. "That is all I can promise you." And the girl must know enough of the ways of Magicians to understand that this is as much as he can give: the making of a promise is an onerous thing to one such as he.

The two stare at one another for a moment, Master and student. Magician and… Apprentice? Yes, he thinks. Yes, Magician and Apprentice.

Funny how he never thought he would take an Apprentice before today.

The desk is now singing a sweet, new song of possibility, the air thick with an altogether different sort of Magic to any which Sherlock is familiar with.

It feels like a beginning, and it is.

Chapter Text

2: FLEETING

He sends the girl- her name is Molly, apparently- off with a quickly dashed note for her father, sealed in wax to show its veracity, as well as an order to reappear two weeks hence with all she needs to ensure the comfort of her stay. He then walks her to the edge of his estate- the better to ensure she leaves- and watches as she does so.

(He tells himself it's merely for his peace of mind, and he refuses to ponder the matter overlong).

Having chattered all the way there, the girl stands for a moment before they part, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Biting her lip. She's looking up at him with those massive brown eyes, her cheeks pinking, and though he knows it's utterly ridiculous, Sherlock's belly flutters again at the sight.

"How should we take our leave?" She asks and he holds out his hand to her, tells himself he doesn't swallow slightly when she takes it.

"So this is how Magicians bid farewell?" She asks and he nods dumbly, feeling how warm and small and solid her fingers are against his own. For a moment, they hold one another's gaze. Her thumb slides along his, a fluttering touch he doesn't think she's even conscious of, and then suddenly she lets his hand go. Steps away from him.

Her cheeks have turned a rosy shade of red.

"I th-thank you for your time, Master Magician," she says quietly, and then she bolts like a hare, stopping only once to look back at him when she reaches the crest of the hill which borders his manor-lands. For a moment she stares again, her cheeks still pink, her lip still bitten, and then suddenly, as if remembering herself she waves cheerfully before bounding out of sight, fleet and lithe. Her plait, escaped from her hat, flutters behind her in the breeze, one last trace of her before she disappears.

Sherlock feels oddly… bereft to see her go.

Again, he pushes the thought away. Softness, he reminds himself, is not for you. Instead he steels his spine and makes his way back to the house.

There is, he knows, much to do.

For there are books to be brought from London, new laboratory instruments to buy and a chaperone to find. (He wonders whether any of his mother's old servants might be willing to take the job and immediately hits on the perfect companion for his new Apprentice: if anyone can steady a wild Magical talent, it's old Beldam Hudson.

The thought makes him smile.)

As he walks he wonders to himself at his quickness in agreeing to this arrangement: surely he should have to… inform someone? Surely there's some dreadful, poky Office in The Silken Court that records this sort of thing? And yet even as he thinks it he waves the notion away. The girl needs help, and he can provide it. Honour and practicality both demand that he does so, and it's not as if he has much else to do, not rusticating here in the wilds of the North.

Besides, were he to inform anyone then Molly might be taken into the same system in which he was trained, the same system which handed him over to Woldsley…

At the thought, and for the first time in a long time, he hears a piece of wood snap beside him.

Though he knows it's ridiculous, habit makes him check to see whether anyone heard it, though of course nobody did.

For a moment he stops, reaching down to pick up the twig and examine it; as he does he feels the queerest… something in the air, a wisp of energy, of life, though he's never experienced such a sensation by merely touching an object before. He frowns, examining the twig. It looks utterly ordinary. Before he can examine it further, however, the heavens open up. Rain, sheet-thick and freezing, begins spattering him from above, lightning crackling across the sky. Thunder booms, the rain hissing with it and within moments he's soaking-

There is no downpour on Earth, Sherlock has learned, like the downpour of a Yorkshire storm.

Swearing under his breath he darts into the thick woodlands beside the road, trying to find shelter. It's useless though: the vast majority of the trees- even the ancient ones- have been chopped down and the saplings left provide little cover. Even the animals of the area have fled; no birds or foxes disturb him with their presence. The ground looks too inhospitable, even, for worms or other crawling things. Sherlock looks about him, feeling an odd tinge of sorrow which he can't explain. He tightens his fists and as he does he realises he's stil holding the twig he snapped. With a hiss he tosses it away: Clearing this forest would have been necessary, and what are trees but a tool to be used or an impediment to one's progress?

He doesn't know why, but the thought sours his mood even further.

He takes off in high dudgeon, swearing under his breath.

By the time he reaches Hart's Leap- soaked through, shoes squelching with every sopping step- he is in a foul temper.

The servants scatter like so many pigeons at the sight of him, though the fact that a crack of lightning split the sky at his precise moment of entry probably helped the effect. Fortunately, however, a fire has already been lit in the library and so Sherlock is able to strip down in there and set his clothes out to dry, which does wonders for his mood.

If there is a thing he loves more than books and firelight, he has yet ro find it.

He summons dinner and a bottle of wine; the fine linen of his undershirt is merely damp so he's quite comfortable by the time one of his grooms serves his meal. It is understood that the maids leave their Master alone when he is in his library. When he gives thanks the groom merely nods and tugs his forelock before leaving, rendered as mute as every other servant in the presence of a Magician.

It's one of the more tedious elements of a life in the country, Sherlock finds, that tendency of everyone to look at him as if he's about to sprout another head…

For all he knows, the servants believe his foul temper caused the rainstorm and not the other way around.

He snorts, amused at such rustic superstition. Rather than poke at that notion, however, he eats, jotting down the list of books and tools which his new Apprentice will require. He finds the task surprisingly… diverting, smiling to himself for the first time in a long while as he completes the list. Some of the equipment he already owns and some will have to be procured anew for Molly-

It is, after all, difficult to find a high-quality scrying mirror, even in London.

The list finished, he summons a servant and bids the missive be sent to his brother on the morrow. The man looks relieved and given the rain outside, Sherlock can't say he blames him.

Still his night is not finished. Slowly sipping his wine, he starts sketching the shape of his coming endeavor with Molly in his mind. Tries to design a scheme of learning which he thinks will suit the girl, and which will not overly irritate him. As he muses thus, he finds himself nodding off, the wine getting to him. The size of his meal, and the heat of the fire, both are making him sleepy, and as he got little rest last night or the night before, he supposes he can afford to drowse…

When he opens up his eyes again, he's standing deep in a deep, dark wood.

The trees are ancient. Magnificent. They fan above him like nothing so much as a cathedral.

The wind whispers through their leaves like a lover's caress and Sherlock cannot shake the feeling that he has been here before.

The ground is damp and dark beneath his feet; clear air, smelling of blossoms and hay tickles his nose. Shafts of sunlight pierce the canopy like golden arrows, blindingly bright and achingly lovely.

A shadow falls across him, small and flickering.

It looks almost like a... doe? A doe. Or maybe… Maybe a girl?

He hears sweet laughter behind him, feels the taunting touch of someone else's heat against his bare skin.  Fingers threading through his nape but when he turns around the person is gone. Their absence feels almost like a loss. Movement at the corner of his eye, another laugh, and when he turns, he catches the edge of a shadow, long hair fluttering in the darkness.

The figure darts deeper into the forest, swift as a deer and, heedless, eager, Sherlock follows.

He hears his own laughter on the wind as he does, hears his own heart thudding in his chest.

It feels  wonderful.

The dash through the wildwood is disorientating, however. Though he's following the figure and he's certain he hasn't caught her, more than once he finds himself in front of her with her stalking silently up behind him. She kisses him each time she catches him, laughing. Wherever her lips meet his skin green ink erupts, flowers and vines curling and twining across his flesh before disappearing forever.

He knows that thought should worry him and yet it does not.

His head is buzzing now- he's reminded of how much wine he's drunk- and his skin is vibrating like a honeybee's wing. His breath sings in his chest, veins throbbing and juddering with life. As he thinks this, he reaches another clearing, this one massive. It's made up of seven huge oak trees. Within their intertwined roots he spies the figure he's been chasing, her back to him and her hair down. She's not wearing much of anything.

Her breath is loud and excited in the sweet, warm air and oh, but it is a match for Sherlock's own.

Slowly, carefully, he stalks over to her. Stands over her. This close he can see long, dark, chestnut hair. He can see that there are green, inky flowers blossoming and blooming at her cheeks, her wrists, her abdomen. The sweet, soft buds of her breasts. Her back is pale and freckled, sturdy as if she is used to hard work. She doesn't move or say anything, and he can't help but feel that she has decided to let him catch her. That doesn't mean, however, that he's not going to take his time in making himself known...

"Don't you know why a maid has you chase her into the wildwood?"

Sherlock blinks, recognising the voice. The figure turns, looks at him over her shoulder and- yes- it's Molly. Molly Hooper.  His Apprentice.

Lip bitten, brown eyes warm and shy and happy, she stands before him. Holds her hand out.

It's only at this moment that Sherlock realises both of them are naked and that he is very, very hard.

"A wildwood wedding is no poor thing, my love," she whispers, and as she says those words Sherlock swears the leaves begin to sing around him. The earth thuds, slow as a heartbeat, there beneath his feet. He feels rooted to the spot, unable to move- He doesn't think he wants to- Their lips meet, her kiss sweet and untutored, his own hungry and wanting. New.

They are neither of them graceful nor proficient, but then that's to be expected, Sherlock knows. Bedsport is often like that. Nevertheless, he allows Molly to pull him towards the trees' roots… She is eager for him and oh but he is eager for her, too. The ground is warm and sweet against his bare back, her breath is sweet and gentle in his ear as she kisses him, as she pulls him beneath her…

With a jolt Sherlock awakes, shivering and aroused in the middle of his own library. He'll never know it but at exactly the same moment in Haverbrook-on-Lye, Molly Hooper is doing exactly the same thing.

Meanwhile, outside, deep within the woods behind Hart's Leap Manor, a single, ancient tree bursts into bloom.

Chapter Text

3: HAWTHORN BLOSSOM

Sherlock is not pleased at the direction in which his dreams took him that first night, and he means to make amends.

Indeed, in the two weeks between their first meeting and Molly's arrival, he takes great pains to make ensure that his sleep is deep and dreamless: every night before he goes to bed, he brews and drinks one of the tinctures Woldsley had him create for Her Majesty, one designed to ensure a quiet rest.

It works better than expected, and so, in fear of dreaming about debauching his would-be pupil, Sherlock ends up ensuring he has the best sleep he's had since he was Apprenticed.

The irony of this is not lost on him.

Nevertheless, he throws himself into choosing a room for Molly, throws himself into writing out how he will conduct her training. He is determined to be a better Master to her than his own was to him. (Not that such a thing is difficult). So, while he does not inform The Silken Court of his taking an Apprentice, he does trust Mycroft with the information. He half expects an angry letter from him about keeping secrets but instead his brother dispatches his man, Lestrade, from London to ensure that the books and instruments he requested get to Hart's Leap House safely.

Sherlock is unwillingly touched by his taking such care: Mycroft has a wife and children of his own now, people who might have a better claim on his time.

When he mentioned as much Lestrade shrugs. "The Master cares for you, Sir," is all he will say, a tactful servant to the last.

Lestrade is careful to account for all objects his Master tasked him with delivering, however, and asks Sherlock for written proofs thereof, something which makes the younger Holmes shake his head in amusement. He finds himself far better pleased when Old Beldam Hudson arrives from Oxford- having accepted his offer of employment- and she merely asks him for a sum of money for "ladies' things," before dismissing him from the business of setting up a home for Molly.

"You'll be under my feet," she says. "Be off with you, lad!"

And, as she had when he was little, she swats his legs with a cleaning rag and bustles him out of her quarters.

That small gesture, once so familiar, makes Sherlock smile for the rest of the day.

And so, by the time a fortnight has passed and the day for Molly's arrival comes, Sherlock is feeling rather satisfied with himself- Indeed, he is feeling satisfied with everything. He is particularly satisfied with how well he has planned for his Apprentice, how far he has surpassed his old Master in that. While the memory of his wildwood dream occasionally haunts him, he feels certain that he can behave as an utter gentleman towards her, and he determines that that will be enough- No matter what his brother may claim, he does have some self-control.

All Magicians do.

On the day she's due to arrive he rises early, bathes in the pond at the back of the estate and then dresses carefully. It is important, he knows, to show her family just what means he has at his disposal in order to allay any worries for their daughter during her training. He is also rather aware of setting an example in sartorial standards to which he expects Molly to rise. (At least, that's what he tells himself. Judging by the way she eyes him when he comes to break his fast, Beldam Hudson has other ideas.

Fortunately for all concerned, the venerable Beldam keeps them to herself).

Morning passes however, and Molly doesn't arrive.

Noon comes and goes, and there's still no sign of her.

By the time three o' the clock comes Sherlock's patience- never bountiful to begin with- is entirely gone and he orders his horse saddled. Decides to ride out and see into what mischief his errant Apprentice has apparently gotten herself-

After all, she could be lying injured, somewhere on the road.

Lestrade offers to see him some of the way before he heads back to London, but Sherlock waves him off. "My brother and his Lady wife have need of you," he tells him, and the red which paints his cheek informs Sherlock that he's right. He has never inquired too keenly into his brother and sister-in-law's relationship with their handsome steward, and he is disinclined to start now; there are some things which one need not know about one's siblings.

Lestrade inclines his head curtly. "As you wish, my lord." And he goes back to readying himself for his journey.

Sherlock waves an absent-minded farewell, mounting his horse, Sharlto, before setting out for Haverbrook-on-Lye.

The journey is neither long nor difficult on horseback, he merely follows the course of the river. Once, long ago, he would have had to travel through the woods surrounding the manor in order to find Molly's village, but given the price timber is fetching these days, and the subsequent… entrepreneurship shown by his countrymen, there's a great deal less forest through which to wade today. He therefore travels through a landscape pocked with the remains of trees and the beginnings of farming, and as he does so he remembers that odd moment in the forest, the day he met Molly and split that twig with his own power alone...

As he thinks this he comes upon the stout, well-made house set within a much older and more established patch of farmland.

This, he surmises, must be Molly's home. Slowing the horse to a trot he approaches, craning his neck to see if he can spy anything amiss-

He is so intent on this that he very nearly misses the apple which is chucked at his head.

It doesn't hurt so much as startle both he and Sharlto; the horse rears, reacting to his annoyance, and it takes him a moment to calm the creature down.

As he's doing so a small, fair-haired girl comes bounding up to him, yelling imprecations in what sounds like Welsh, or Scots Gael. A short, blond-haired man runs after her, snatching her up.

"Rosie!" the man chides, "Rosie, you mustn't do that!"

"He's a stranger," this Rosie pouts in English, "We don't like strangers!"

"And we don't throw things at rich men on horseback, either," the blond man says in exasperation. He glances at Sherlock, tugging his forelock. As he takes in his finery, the size of his horse, suspicion shutters through his gaze.

"I apologise, my lord," he says stiffly. "She's but a child, she doesn't understand-"

Sherlock gestures dismissively. "It's fine." He looks over the farm, sprawling and haphazard. Though the land itself seems good- fields of rye fan out around them- and though the homestead is well-built, nevertheless the place still looks bedraggled and slightly rundown.

The blond man notices his perusal and straightens, jaw jutting mulishly.

Despite the difference in their stations, Sherlock can't help but feel he's being dared to state an opinion.

Rather than rise to the bait he nudges his horse nearer, attempting a reassuring smile. He is aware that this is not one of his strong suits, but one does what one must. "I'm looking for someone," he says, trying to sound friendly. "A young girl. She told me her name is Molly Hooper…"

Immediately the blond man's entire demeanor changes: though Sherlock doubts he has an ounce of Magical talent in him, the temperature seems to drop several degrees.

"Go find your Ma," he tells little Rosie, setting her on her feet. The child totters off in the direction of the farmhouse, bawling for her mother at the top of her lungs. She shoots one last, ferocious scowl at Sherlock before disappearing and Sherlock can't help but feel that she will make an entertaining companion one day.

Perhaps wisely, however, he turns his attention back to her father.

"So, you're the libertine looking to take advantage of Molly," the man says now, shifting his stance. A tight smile. "I've heard of you, Master Magician." His gaze has become careful, calculating, the gaze of a man who knows how to inflict damage. He's not eyeing up Sherlock but eyeing up his horse, this being the best way to bring it- and thus, Sherlock- down. Despite his size, despite the slight limp he's trying to disguise, Sherlock suddenly has no doubt that he is in the company of a soldier. A battle-hardened soldier.

Warily, the Magician backs Sharlto up a few steps, discreetly drawing a knife from his glove.

Though the use of Magic to harm is illegal, the use of Magic to store or hide a weapon is not.

"And what have you heard?" he asks mildly. "Master...?"

"Watson," the man bites out. "My name is John Watson."

His eyes dart to the hand in which Sherlock is hiding his knife and the Magician feels a touch of grudging admiration.

This man is a skilled soldier, indeed.

"Molly is needed here, by her mother," he's saying, "She'll not be leaving with you. And she'll not become some rich man's strumpet, just because she's young enough and foolish enough to believe the stories of you they tell in town-"

Annoyance flashes within Sherlock.

"And what stories do they tell of me?" he snaps. "What stories do they tell of people like Molly and I?"

At the words Molly and I, some of the certainty leaves Watson's eyes.

"Do they talk about the difficulty in our training?" Sherlock continues sarcastically. "Do they speak of the years of hard graft it takes to become truly proficient in our arts?" He snorts in disgust, holding fast to Sharlto, who has started to whicker nervously.

"No, John Watson, I would wager they do not."

In truth, Sherlock hadn't meant to admit as much, but there's something about this John Watson that just seems to set his teeth on edge; Judging by the look on John's face, he has rather the same effect on him.

A silence, tense and angry, spreads out between the two men which neither is inclined to break.

"Molly told me that she wants it to stop," Sherlock says quietly, then. He lets his gaze bore into the soldier's, wills him to understand what he's saying. Having no real gift for Mind Magic, all he has is the truth. "She wants to be able to control her talent: do you honestly think that if she were able to do that without my help then she wouldn't have done it by now?"

Watson frowns, taking in his words- Or rather, Molly's. Though he looks no less suspicious, finally some of the belligerence leaves him. Sherlock opens his mouth, about to speak further, but as he does, he hears a whoop and then Molly comes tearing across the farm in her boy's clothes, a small sack in her hand. She's beaming so brightly he can't help but think of a prison-break- Just as he can't help smiling back at her.

It makes John Watson scowl

An older woman is tearing after her, one whose face is so like Molly's own that Sherlock surmises this must be her mother. At her heels comes a fox-faced blond woman carrying little Rosie in her arms.

This, presumably, is the Mama the little one was sent to find.

Summoning every ounce of charm he can muster, Sherlock dismounts- he carefully keeps Sharlto between he and John Watson- and makes his way to the women, smiling winningly.

"Good afternoon, Mother Hooper, I presume," he says, addressing the eldest. "I am-"

"I know who you are and you're not having her," the older woman says bluntly.

John, Molly and Rosie's mother all snort. Sherlock blinks, unsure whether he has ever been spoken to so disrespectfully in his entire life- Actually, no, he's sure he never has been-

"She's needed here," Mother Hooper continues, "I can't manage without her."

"And what if I were to pay for someone to do her work for her?"

Sherlock keeps his smile firmly in place and his tone light. In truth, he could have this woman punished severely for speaking so far out of turn to her superiors, but he doubts that would get his and Molly's arrangement off to a good start. Besides, judging by the state of the farm they do need help- Just more help than can be provided by his slip of a would-be Apprentice. Part of his role here in Yorkshire is to set a good example of Her Majesty's servants to her more traditional, stubborn, Catholic subjects. This seems as good a chance as any to do so. So-

"I can offer a good wage for someone to come in and do the work Molly would normally do," he continues smoothly. "I can also see to it that you are compensated for her absence-"

John Watson scowls at this: apparently, he is determined to think ill of Sherlock. He smiles sweetly at the man and both Mother Hooper and Molly roll their eyes at exactly the same time.

The woman carrying little Rosie openly chortles.

"I can also invite you to come with me to Hart's Leap House, and personally examine the situation in which your daughter will be living," Sherlock continues, trying his best to sound suave and certain. He's not sure how successful he is. "I would, of course, introduce you to her chaperone-"

"Chaperone?" The older woman's head shoots up, as does John's. Molly scowls in annoyance. "You would provide her with a chaperone, Sir?"

For the first time in their interaction, she appears to consider that his offer is anything other than mercenary.

Sherlock nods, looking affronted. "But of course," he says. "There is no way she could live within my household without a chaperone, it would be utterly unthinkable!"

Judging by their expressions John, Mother Hooper and even Molly think he's laying it on a bit thick, but Sherlock supposes he can live with it. He didn't come all this way and go to all this trouble only to leave Molly Hooper here, wrestling with her Magic and as desperate as she was when she broke into his house. When he makes a promise, he sticks with it. John, Mother Hooper, and Rosie's mother exchange looks and withdraw to a corner together, whispering. Though both John Watson and her mother try to exclude Molly, the blond woman pulls her into their circle of conversation with a couple of sharp words. After a few moments this little tete-a-tete breaks up and John Watson returns to him. Judging by the delighted grin on her face, Sherlock guesses that they have agreed to allow Molly to leave, something John Watson is clearly rather less pleased about.

Nevertheless, he clears his throat and bows, trying finally to show deference. "I am needed here on the farm," he says, "so my wife Mary will accompany you and Molly, and see to it that all is as you say it is."

The expression on his face bodes a great deal of violence should anything be found which is not as Sherlock says it is.

At his words, the blonde woman- Mary, presumably- hands little Rosie over to Mother Hooper and curtsies. Her blue eyes are merry and knowing as she looks at Sherlock, something he likes not one jot. Still, he inclines his head in acknowledgement and smiles.

"Mother Watson, I presume?"

She nods. "Aye," she says, "and Goodwife Watson, too." Her accent is lilting with just a trace of a Scottish burr. "It is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of the Lord of Hart's Leap House." She dips another, deeper curtsy. "You and Molly may start back on your journey, I must gather some supplies and the cart, and I will follow after you." A queer look. "Just mind you stay out of the woods on a morn like this, d'ye mind me?"

Sherlock is tempted to roll his eyes- what trouble could a Magician such as himself get into in his own woodlands? - but rather than argue he nods. Retakes his mount and pulls Molly up into the saddle, setting her in front of him. He is surprised both by how light she is and how delighted she seems with the prospect of not having to walk all the way back.

In his mind's eye Sherlock sees a boy, and a yew wood carriage, feeling a sudden, fierce burst of joy that  his  Apprentice will never experience  that…

And that is how Sir Sherlock Holmes ends up riding home with his Apprentice tucked in front of him on his horse, both of them trying desperately not to notice their closeness to the other.

Sherlock swears he can feel Mrs. Watson's merry, knowing eyes on him all the way to Hart's Leap-

But he stays out of the woods, which is probably wise, for as soon as Molly Hooper joined him on his horse, every tree had started to bloom.

Chapter Text

4: HOMECOMING

By the time they get to Hart's Leap House, Sherlock is unspeakably uncomfortable.

Molly's warmth, her nearness, even the smell of her… Despite his best attempts, they have an effect on him.

After all, for all his unwillingness to succumb to Venus, he is a man (and a young man, at that): having a beautiful young woman tucked against his chest as he carries her home is something which would, he tells himself, vex anyone- Even him.

Mercifully, Molly seems blissfully unaware of his condition. That would be rather too embarrassing a conversation to be going on with. Still, by the time he dismounts and helps Molly from the horse- he tells himself it is only gentlemanly to lift her- he is grinding his teeth. He is also viscerally relieved at the looseness of his traveling clothes. Were she not so distracted by the sight before her then Sherlock muses Molly would have noticed; Instead, she stares, gratifyingly wide eyed, at both the house before her and the small group of women, Beldam Hudson at their head, who await her.

Sherlock follows her line of sight, taking them in. He doesn't think it needs be said, but he makes a mental note to remind Hudson what will happen to any of them should they behave cruelly to their charge. A Magician has no real need for human servants, no matter how politic he may find it to keep some about, and it's best they understand that.

A long, tense beat.

Upon seeing Molly, Hudson immediately dips a curtsy, the young maids following suit. Molly, not knowing what else to do, curtsies back, and a couple of the younger maids snigger. Hudson doesn't even have to turn; she merely cocks an eyebrow and inclines her head in their general direction.

Instantly the girls redden and cease, murmuring apologies to their new charge.

It makes Sherlock smile.

"Maja," Hudson says politely then, coming forward and taking Molly's hands warmly. At the girl's surprise she leans in and whispers, "that is your title from now on, my dear." A cheeky grin at Sherlock. "At least, until you gain your Silks and surpass your teacher, here."

"Treason!" Sherlock can't help himself, he laughs aloud and allows her to wrap him in an embrace. He smells the familiar, comforting smells of cooking and herbs that always cling to Hudson and, as always, they remind him of home. Of Before. Before London, before Woldsley.

The first thing he had done when he was finally free was bring Mistress Hudson to his quarters in the Silken Court.

"Molly Hooper," he says, "This is Beldam Hudson, your new chaperone."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Molly says.

Hudson beams. "And I yours."

The girl nods and curtsies again, only to stop suddenly when she realises that she doesn't know if she needs to. This time, if the maids think anything amiss, they keep it to themselves. Despite this, the nervousness doesn't leave Molly; fortunately, however, Hudson is still every bit as wise as she was when Sherlock was a boy.

She tucks her arm around the girl's and starts leading her back to the house.

"Come along, Magus," she calls to Sherlock, just as she had when he was his mother's Apprentice . He laughs again, joining her, stopping only to tell one of the groomsmen that a woman of Molly's household will be joining them, and that he had best find her on the road and see her safe to Hart's Leap. The man sets out and Sherlock follows Hudson, Molly, and her retinue back inside.

He feels the queerest twist of… excitement as he does so.

When Molly enters, she gasps and again, he feels a gratifying surge of pleasure as he takes in her reaction. Though by no means new, the house has been substantially improved since Her Majesty gifted it to him: it now boasts a new staircase, new glass windows and two hearths, making it warm even in winter. The ceilings are considered particularly fine, and the outer walls have been reinforced in solid local limestone. But what seems to hold Molly's attention are the carvings, all made from good Yorkshire oak, and all polished to a high gleam by the staff. Upon seeing them the girl breaks away from Hudson and darts over to the staircase, examining the curling, writhing flower balustrades in pleasure…

A laugh, and she gestures excitedly to a figure within the carvings which Sherlock had never even noticed.

"The Green Man blesses you," she says breathlessly, reaching over and pulling Sherlock to her side. He tries his best not to look perturbed by her forwardness, nor to notice Hudson's amusement at it. Nevertheless, he follows. Guileless, Molly runs her little fingers across the surface of a wild-eyed face, rounded about with leaves and flowers, before gesturing for Sherlock to do the same. At his obvious lack of understanding she leans in and whispers, "It's for luck, and bounty… Do they teach you nothing in your London, Sir?"

And she shoots him a sweetly cheeky grin.

It makes her cheeks pink most becomingly.

Sherlock is about to stiffly inform her that that is no way to speak to one's Master when there's a gasp from behind him. He turns and he too draws in a sharp breath: every carved surface in the house has started… blooming? Blooming. Tiny white flowers, small as snowdrops, have started sprouting from the wood, as if it lived still. A scent, sweet and floral and heady, is stealing into the room.

It's enough to make his head swim.

As he watches the carved flowers of the house start mirroring the tiny buds, bursting into fullness before curling back into buds and blooming again. The leaves around them do likewise, shriveling and dying before bursting back to life. Even the wooden window sills and lattices writhe as if alive- It is exquisite to witness. As if moving of its own accord the front door suddenly opens, a fresh breeze springing through it.

It sets the blossoms adrift on the air, a flurry of white like a spring snow.

Molly watches it all with wide-eyed wonder, the joy only leaving her face when she hears the mutters of the staff and notices them blessing themselves. They're darting dark looks at her and gesturing to protect themselves from the Evil Eye.

She glances uncertainly at Sherlock- "Is this to welcome me?" And he shakes his head.

His Magic would never show itself so sweetly.

"I assumed this was your doing, Molly," he says softly. He tries to keep his voice even. "I… I assumed that this was your way of showing that you approved of our new home."

She stares at him, aghast. "I'm doing this?"

"I believe so."

She shrinks in on herself at that, and the same panic which had marred her features when first they met appears. Stricken and at a loss what to do, she looks to Sherlock. She clearly doesn't know how to make all this stop. Seeing her distress Hudson dismisses the maids, bidding them make haste to the kitchen to help Cook; taking her lead, Sherlock strides to the staircase and calls for order.

Instantly the servants freeze, though they are surrounded by drifting white blossoms. They stare at him, nervous and unsure, and Sherlock reminds himself that, though they may have thought they knew what sort of man employed them, this is the first time they have ever really witnessed Magic first-hand. He must be careful to reassure them.

More than one Magician has been burned in his bed, for all that men like he now enjoy royal patronage.

"You must be calm," he says, modulating his tone, "though I know it is not easy. You work for a Magician, I have never hidden that, and this is what working for a Magician sometimes entails-"

"Tis devilry," one of the younger, braver grooms mutters, perhaps thinking he would not be heard.

Instantly Sherlock turns his gaze on him. The man pales.

"This is not devilry," he says calmly, "it is Magic. Magic pays for this house. Magic pays your wage. Magic keeps this country safe from harm… And Magic is what is happening right now."

"But tis not right," one of the older maids says now. "Tis unnatural-"

"It is not."

Sherlock has heard that argument before and knows how to refute it. "Our glorious Queen has seen fit to use every weapon at England's disposal in her defence," he says gravely, "and one of those weapons is Magic- Which is why I have agreed to take an Apprentice and train her."

He gestures grandly to the house, to all of them. Smiles in what he knows is a most reassuring manner, though the staff look less than convinced.

"Think, if this is what Maja Hooper is capable of now," he continues, "then imagine what she will be able to do to our enemies in a couple of years, when she has gained her Silks…"

And he lets his gaze move across the room, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. Though he knows it's cheating, he drops the temperature a notch.

He is a Magician, after all:  theatrics are in the job description.

"Or would you rather we let the Spanish, or the French, or any of our other enemies run roughshod over us?" he continues, giving a shudder which is just the right side of playful. "Would you rather we play right into the Dauphin, or the Infanta's hands?"

He makes a show of scowling, looking each servant in the eyes.

"I was told the people of the North were fierce- Have I been misinformed, pray tell?" He smiles. "Or are they, in fact, the stoutest men and women in England?"

The servants glower but allow that they are: They're certainly not going to say they side with France, or Spain, for all their feelings about the new church, or the Queen who leads it. It's not the whole-hearted victory which he wanted, but Sherlock is wise enough to take his victories where he finds them. So he dismisses them, telling them that food is awaiting them down in the kitchens- Food which can be reached without their having to touch the wooden carvings, the kitchen being below-stairs and unadorned.

They make a hasty retreat, giving Molly and the carvings a wide berth as they do so.

It occurs to Sherlock that this, unfortunately, is probably a good indication of how she will be treated from now on.

Still, what's beyond cure is beyond regret, that's what he's always believed. So, once they're gone, he comes to Molly, puts a hand on her shoulder. She looks at him, eyes bright with tears, and as he had the first day they met, he feels the queerest twist, there in his chest.

Immediately he ushers it away: softness will get him nowhere.

And yet, what else is he to try with her, if not softness? Did he ever thank Woldsley for his cruelty?

"Molly," he says quietly, "Molly listen to me…"

She shakes her head, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. "I can't stop it," she says, "I can't- I can't-"

"I'm not asking you to stop it," he says gently, "I'm asking you to listen to me, and do as I say." He gives her shoulder a squeeze. "Can you do that?"

She nods. Takes a deep breath. Again, Sherlock squeezes her shoulder, this time in reassurance. "That's good," he tells her. "Deep breaths are good." He thinks back to his earliest years, what helped him when he first manifested power. "Can you feel the Magic that's creating this?" he asks. She shakes her head. "Very well, can you picture the Magic in your mind that might end it?" Again, she shakes her head. Well, he thinks, blast. "What would you do, if you were at home?" he asks eventually and she takes a sniffling, shuddering breath.

When she looks at him, her eyes seem enormous in her tear-streaked face.

"I would find somewhere quiet," she says, "and I would… I would…" She trails off, shakes her head. Peeks at him then shakes her head again.

She looks so damnably… hopeless.

"It's silly," she says, "but I would… I would find somewhere quiet and sit in the quiet until it, it… leaked inside me. Filled me up. It can take hours, but once that happens then the Magic stops. It's like, it's like the quietness… smothers it." Again, she shakes her head. "I know it makes no sense-"

"It does." Magicians- particularly those young in their power- are each as individual as stars, Sherlock knows. If this works for Molly then that is what they shall do. A plan is forming in his mind: he holds out his hand in invitation and she takes it. It feels tiny, delicate, in his, for all its work-toughened strength.

"Come with me," he says, leading her to the library. Once inside he sits her before the fire and tells her he will leave her to find that quiet she needs-

She squeezes his hand however, shaking her head.

"Please stay," she whispers. "You… You needn't say anything, but please stay." She gulps, takes in another heaving breath. She closes her eyes to say the rest. "I'm always alone when this happens, and I… I don't like it…"

Surprised, he nods. Takes a seat beside her at the fire and stares into it.

It takes him a moment to realise that they are still holding hands.

Were her grip not so tight he might have let her hand go, but it is so he doesn't. He just sits there and is still. Calm.

It is, he is pleased to discover, rather easy, with her.

By slow, measured increments, Molly's breathing eases and the movement of the carvings quieten. After a little while Hudson pops her head in and reports that the entryway and staircase are no longer blooming.

The books, already being Magical and protected, have remained unaffected through it all.

Hudson carries a bucket of the first, small blossoms with her, asks Sherlock whether he has any use for them. She places them beside his chair when he says he might before leaving quietly, giving Molly's shoulder a soothing squeeze as she does so. Still Molly sits there, breathing slowly in and out, until, finally, finally, everything goes quiet.

Sherlock feels the moment the enchantment breaks.

When this happens, he squeezes Molly's hand and she opens her eyes, follows his chucked chin to see that she has successfully brought her Magic to a halt.

She looks immeasurably relieved by this.

Sherlock smiles, about to offer her a proper tour of her new home, but at just that moment there's a knock on the door; before waiting to be called, Mary Watson enters.

She doesn't even say hello.

No, she takes in the room, the fire, and their joined hands and immediately smiles, cocking a knowing eyebrow.

Her grin is an invitation to murder.

Sherlock can't tell whether it's his doing, or Molly's, but instantly the fire goes out in the hearth.

Later that night

They take supper in Sherlock's study, Molly not feeling up to the large feast which had been expected.

She lets it be known that she wants everyone else in the house to make merry, and Sherlock supposes that such an attempt at friendliness is wise- Wise, but, he suspects, ineffective.

Of course, he doesn't tell her that. He sees no need to further worry her. Besides, soon after her arrival, Mary Watson and Beldam Hudson usher Molly off to see her new living quarters and, Sherlock suspects, to have a chat with her about the wiles and guiles of Magicians in possession of both libraries and fireplaces.

He can't even say he blames them.

When they return for their meal, the older women are polite and courteous. Mary informs Sherlock that she is impressed with everything secured for Molly and will be happy to tell her husband and Molly's mother as much- Which is probably just as well, if Sherlock wishes to live to a ripe old age.

"Mary!" Molly admonishes, laughing, but the woman looks unrepentant.

"He's neither bairn nor fool, my love, he knows I'm only speaking the truth," the Scotswoman answers. Again, that wicked grin. "Besides, imagine how enjoyable I'll find it, telling my darling Johnny that he was wrong?"

Molly snorts in amusement, as do Sherlock and Hudson. Soon after the young woman asks leave to go to bed- today has been exhausting for her- and Hudson ushers her out the door, leaving the Magician and Mother Watson alone together.

A moment of silence stretches out.

The other woman gazes at him calmly. Knowing when he's being assessed, Sherlock holds her eyes and after a few moments she nods to herself. Murmurs something under her breath in Scots Gael which twitches and sparks like a blessing.

Seeing his reaction to this tiny spark of Magic she smiles. "You Queensmen are nae the only people with power in this life, Master Holmes," she says dryly.

"Obviously." Sherlock inclines his head when she cocks a sceptical eyebrow. "I would certainly never claim the Cunning Folk are powerless," he says. A shrug. "Merely… unschooled. Uncultured.

Given that you will not use imps or creatures but only your will, you cannot be said to be true Magicians."

Mary bristles at that, and he smiles: he's only speaking the truth, as the Queen and his fellow Magicians see it.

Besides, he will not be lectured by one such as Mary Watson, not about Magical affairs.

Watson looks unimpressed with his reasoning, however. "Such nonsense was not always widely believed," she counters, "before the last King and his daughters." She smiles beatifically. "There was a time when people like us performed our own Works, and created our own Magics. There was a time when there was no shame in being naught but a Cunning One." She narrows her eyes. "And I can't help but ponder just who these new rules of Magic, with their insistence on Imps and Daemons, serves, because it is not us Unschooled, Uncultured Practitioners, or the people we help." Her eyes spark.

"Not, of course, that ye Queensmen ever worry yourselves about that."

Sherlock holds up his hands placatingly. He has no wish to make an enemy of this woman; some part of him may even agree with her. But that is not a safe thing to say, even so far from Court. "At least, you seem to know how to use your power," he says instead, "unlike your brethren in London."

Mary rolls her eyes at the obviousness of his compliment and snorts.

Again, her gaze bores into Sherlock's, head cocked to the side.

Again, he allows her to assess him.

This time, the silence stretches out for far longer than even he is comfortable with. He has the odd feeling- the same he had experienced when he met the Queen for his Silks Ceremony- that he is being weighed, and measured, and may be found wanting.

It sets his teeth on edge.

"The lass has power," Mary tells him eventually, "and you can help her where I cannot, I allow that." She thins her lips with distaste and suddenly, for a moment, her eyes are very far away. When they snap back to his, they're fierce and bright.

He wonders quite what she's remembering.

"I can tell that you're already fond of her, too," Mary continues. "And that's as well, if you're to help her. Our Molly deserves and needs all the help she can get."

Sherlock nods: on that, they can agree.

"But mark me well, my fine Lord," Watson says, leaning forward, "Should ye do her harm then I assure you, my husband will be the least o' your worries.

Do you understand me?"

And her eyes glow bright in the darkness of the library, the effect rather… impressive, even to a Magician. She smiles a frankly blood-curdling smile Sherlock wonders why she bothered to learn Cunning Craft when she has that at her disposal.

So, he nods his head. Smiles. Shoots her a look he hopes is trustworthy.

After all, Mary Watson- like her husband- is more than a little intimidating.

She claps at his acquiescence. Smiling brightly now, she gets to her feet. "Glad that's settled," she says. Suddenly she's vivacious and friendly again, and it occurs to Sherlock that John Watson is a very brave man. "Now, if your Lordship has no objections," she continues, "I'll tae bed- I'll be sleeping with Molly tonight, as I always do."

She shoots him a wink which requires no translation and he bristles.

"Ah, whisht," she says, "I know there's nae harm in you, lad, I'm just teasing!" She grins at Sherlock's reddening cheeks. "Besides, if our Molly decides she wants ye, I doubt even I could gainsay her…

Magic, and Cunning Maids, go where they will."

And with that she bustles out the door, leaving him alone in his library.

He waits a good hour before he follows her lead and heads up to bed: he doesn't want the servants to talk.

As he does so he stops at the staircase which Molly had enchanted today, stares again at the figure which she called the Green Man. It's limned in white, almost pearlescent; it glows in the moonlight. He examines it, running his fingers gently over its surface as Molly had done and as he does, he feels… he feels something. Something strange. Something… new.

It's almost like the spark he felt when Mary Watson muttered her blessing, spiky and alive with old meaning and new cost.

Sherlock pulls back, trying to assess the sensation, but it slithers away from him, into the darkness. As it does, just for a moment he could swear that the shadows in the house change, that for a moment he could almost be standing in a woodland, or a cathedral. He hears branches snapping, knows he's making it happen. He smells rain on the air, almost as if he's outside.

What the devil..?

When he touches the carving again, though, he feels nothing. He blinks, tries again. Again, nothing happens. Already the sense of what he's trying to discover is slithering from his grasp. Making a note to speak to Molly of this Green Man tomorrow, as well as what she might know about Goodwife Watson, Sherlock decides he needs some sleep…

He doesn't notice the way the Green Man carving's eyes seem to watch him go, nor does he notice the wide-eyed female faces which are now peeking out from between the carved leaves and flowers of his home. Had he done, he might have noticed how much they look like Molly.

He doesn't see, because he doesn't look, that the woods behind his house are growing ever more festooned with blossoms, a figure in darkness moving among them, a crown of blossoms in their hair…

Chapter Text

5: SCIENTIA, AERE PERENNIUS

By the next morning, Sherlock has forgotten about the Green Man.

In fact, though he might not notice it, nothing about the day his Apprentice arrived seems to stick within his mind.

Were his brother or former Master present, they would note this for the anomaly it is.

But there are no other Magicians in the house, and thus there is nobody to note it over the coming weeks. So, once Mother Watson returns to her husband, Sherlock welcomes Molly to his home and sets to teaching her. She is soon settled, and while the servants- with the exception of Hudson- do not treat her with warmth, neither do they treat her with open disrespect. Rather, they keep their distance, displaying a deference for her that Sherlock remembers from his own training. They know what she is, now, and they know what she's capable of. They also know that the man in whose house they reside is both more skilled than she and happy to retaliate on her behalf, should he feel it necessary.

Magicians, it is known, look after other Magicians.

While Molly notes the servants' attitude towards her, she seems at pains not to make a fuss about it. In fact, she appears so relieved at the prospect of learning to control her abilities that she goes to her lessons with a delight which Sherlock knows was sorely missing during his own Apprenticeship. She proves a quick study, too: she knows her letters and, while unable to write at first, she can read well enough. This is because John Watson endeavored to teach her to write English when he was teaching his Scottish wife the same.

(Where a mere soldier turned yeoman learned this skill is not something on which Molly is willing to be drawn, much to Sherlock's chagrin).

And so, the first few weeks of her Apprenticeship pass quickly. Sherlock had assumed she would have to learn from scratch and the fact that she does not allows him to skip the earliest part of the curriculum he devised for her. The fact that Mary Watson had taught her Scots Gael also means that she has some experience learning other languages, and that, in turn, allows her study of both Latin and Greek to proceed at a rapid pace. This is important, for there is no studying of Magic, Sherlock knows, without the studying of Latin and Greek-

When he tells her as much one day she frowns, cocking her head to the side. "Why is that?" she asks.

Sherlock smiles. "Because almost every book of Magic worth its salt is in Greek or Latin."

This doesn't seem to clarify anything for her.

"But what about the things you could do before you took to book-learning?" she says, perplexed. "Didn't you- I mean, weren't you like me, at first? Didn't you have Magic before you'd read any books about it?"

Sherlock thins his lips, annoyed: he had, indeed, been as prone to Magical accidents as a child as she.

He just doesn't like being reminded of it.

"Of course, I had Magic!" he says irritably. "And it was just like yours, undirected and uncontrolled. Lacking maturity, mere Cunning Craft." He sniffs. "That is why I was Apprenticed."

She shoots him a narrow look.

"So, that's what your Apprenticeship was about?" she asks. "Teaching you to control your power?" He nods haughtily and she cocks an eyebrow. Points to a diagram in the book before her, one explaining the best ways to stave off a Fire Imp's power and use it for light. (Being a favourite of Woldsley's, this is not a method Sherlock likes to use).

"Then what is this, Magus?" she asks pointedly. "This is not the use of your power, but of another's, is it not?"

Again Sherlock thins his lips, unhappy with the question. That is, indeed, what such a spell seeks to do, and the ability to master it is considered the highest test of a Magician's art. Every book, in every Magician's library, is dedicated to learning how to do just that. That such Magic was not always popular- that his own mother had, in fact, found the practice deeply distasteful- is not something which he wishes to be reminded of, nor to justify, and certainly not to a mere Apprentice.

So-

"If you wish to learn Magic," he intones darkly, neatly sidestepping the subject, "then you shall have to learn to accept when you are wrong, Maja." She opens her mouth to answer and he rushes to speak over her, determined to shut down this disagreement.

"You are wrong about the nature of true Magic," he bites out, "and you are wrong about the importance of book-learning. Your own inadequacies should have long since shown you that, or do you not recall why you broke into my house and begged me to help train you, hmm?"

At this, she looks abashed, and he tells himself that he doesn't feel a pang at the sight of it.

He  doesn't.

"You asked me to teach you control," he continues, rather than dwell on his foolish reaction, "and I will. But the path to that control is to be found within the pages of a book- Several of them, in point of fact."

He makes a show of looking down his nose at her.

"Anything else is mere Cunning Craft, such as Goodwife Watson practices… And I will see to it that you are better trained than that."

And he leans back again, crossing his arms, well pleased with himself. Molly looks inclined to argue about his opinion of her friend, and that friend's Magic. To cut her off he sweeps over to the small section of the library which he has set aside as hers. Picks off two thin books and tosses them to her, feeling a tiny touch of satisfaction when she has trouble catching them.

(This instinct, too, he refuses to dwell on).

She kneels to pick the books, shooting him a reproachful look to show she knows what he's about. "What are these?" she asks, examining them carefully. She has a natural delicacy with books which Sherlock wholly approves of. "They're not Magical," she adds and despite himself, Sherlock beams with pride.

"No, they're not Magical," he says. "They're your first primer on Latin, and a small book of phrases to help you practice."

"Latin?" she asks. "You wish to teach me Latin?"

He nods. "And Greek, Hebrew… If you prove apt, I might even teach you Hindustani."

She snorts. "You'd be better off teaching me French, or Flemish. Those are trade languages."

Sherlock leans into her, grinning. "Not for you, Maja. For a Magician, the trade language is Latin."

And quite without his meaning to, he reaches out and gives her hair the tiniest, most playful little tug.

He doesn't really know why he does it, except that he means to break the sudden tension between them.

Molly blinks at him, surprised, he thinks, but before he can do anything to make amends she stands up. Takes a step towards him. Suddenly they are standing unconscionably close together, their breath mingling, the bodies sharing heat and space and, and awareness of one another.

It makes Sherlock feel rather… exposed.

Mother Watson's words about Cunning Women flit through his mind, and he finds that his cheeks are turning hot. Molly must notice, he knows she must notice, for, eyes still on his, she leans towards him, pulse thudding at his throat. Her own can match it. She licks her lips, her eyes darting up to his then to his lips and in that moment… In that moment all he can think about is that dream the first night, that shameful way he had imagined his Apprentice behaving. The shameful way he had imagined himself behaving with her. It had felt exactly like this, too: Gentle. Exciting. Wanted. Impossible.

You swore to do right by your Apprentice, he reminds himself. You swore it.

Like a soap bubble, the moment pops and he pulls away.

He knows it's ridiculous, but he feels a wrenching sense of loss. Molly blinks, confused and frowning. Turning away as well, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She bites her lip, and oh, the things it does to him. Her shoulders drop- she looks so unhappy, he doesn't want her to look unhappy- and then suddenly she straightens up. Turns back to him.

Her eyes are hard and that too does things to Sherlock's pulse which he'd rather not contemplate.

"You shouldn't pull me hair like that, Magus," she says quietly.

Her voice is laced with iron.

She's standing awfully close to him, the heat of her skin reaching out for his.

Sherlock can feel his cheeks heating more. "No, Maja," he says quietly. "No, I should not. I- I apologise."

And he inclines his head sharply, sketches her a respectful half bow. She looks at him, dark and lovely and unreadable in that moment. He sees her eyes flicker down to his mouth once more and then back up again. It sets his pulse skittering.

"Apology accepted," she says softly. "Magus."

A beat, and again she turns away.

Emotion- unwanted, unwieldy- swells within Sherlock. Nevertheless he sits back down beside her, keeping a careful space between them. Taking a deep breath he calls a book from the shelf- the first time he has done so in front of her- and sets it between them both, showing her the frontispiece.

It's a woodcut of a man and a woman, the woman naked and crowned, the man in rags. They are joined by a chain of stars, the symbol of alchemical balance.

Molly's eyes widen at the sight, but when he looks at her askance she says nothing. She merely adds a little more distance between them, the message obvious. She has no interest in looking at naked women with him right now. So Sherlock closes the book, opens another one, a safer one. It's a copy of her new Latin primer, in point of fact. He takes out a paper and pen, handing them to her and pretending not to notice when their fingers brush one another…

"Let us begin," he says softly. "Maja."

She inclines her head as regally as any Queen. "Of course, Magus."

Together they practice her letters, Molly carefully sounding out the Latin words as Sherlock helps her. He does his best to be kind about it. Both of them find the exercise engaging, luckily; both of them eventually laugh, and smile, an ease stealing between them which eventually eases the work. Thus busy, they do not notice the morning pass, nor the day, nor even the evening. It's only when Hudson calls Molly for dinner that they realise that night has fallen and they haven't been apart all day.

Sherlock finds himself glad of it.

He walks her to dinner, smiling, laughing even, with his Apprentice at his elbow.

He is rather disinclined to ponder why this brings him such joy.

Chapter Text

6: GAINING SILK

In this way the days run pleasantly together, into weeks, into months, and all the while he and Molly spend them in one another's company.

Studying.

Learning.

Training.

She is so exquisitely, beautifully talented.

It is, Sherlock privately allows himself to admit, the happiest experience of his life.

Given some of the things he has lived through, however, he can't shake the feeling that something will soon be found amiss.

In dreams he wanders through the trees, feeling lost and melancholy, and though he knows he's searching for something he can't rightly conjure what. It's utterly maddening.

Sometimes he hears a voice he knows is Molly's. Sometimes he sees a doe in the shape of a woman, a woman in the shape of a doe. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of Molly running through the trees, but though he tries to follow he never can…

He wakes up every morning, hard and aching, and lonely inside his own skin.

Most mornings he has to relieve his cock-stand before he's fit to be present downstairs, or see anyone, and he hates it.

He is not some green boy anymore.

Always, when he takes himself in hand, he imagines it's Molly he's with, and he hates that too. Hates how… predatory it makes him feel. How tainted. Hates how ordinary and human it makes him, a loose man sniffing after a mere girl. Though his behaviour to her is scrupulously respectful when they are together, he hates that he can't seem to help imagining debauching her when in his own company…

It makes him uneasy, and he has no idea how to make it stop.

Were he to bother speaking to Molly of it, he would find that she is suffering a similar predicament about her Magus.

One morning, after a dream of such wanton carnality that he can't help but blush to think on it, he awakes early and decides to go down to the pond at the back of the house to bathe, rather than dealing with the truth of his vulgar appetites.

He suspects the cold water will do much to clear his head and ease his worries.

What he finds in the pond, however, does neither.

For there, naked as the day she was born, he spies his Apprentice. She's so pale and so slight she might almost be a water sprite, her long dark hair plastered to her scalp and her pretty eyes closed as she ducks and dives beneath the water. She laughs too, cupping the water and bringing it to her face, holding her hands high and then letting liquid cascade down upon her head-

For a moment Sherlock simply stares, enchanted with the image before him. The memory of that first day he brought her to Hart's Leap, tucked against his chest as he rode home, is become viscerally clear behind his eyes. In his mind she smiles, in his mind she looks up at him… Though he knows she certainly was neither naked nor wet when he carried her here, he finds that in his mind's eye she is both, as is he…

He is interrupted from this indecorous reverie by a pebble, hitting him in the chest.

He opens his eyes, irritated, to find Molly grinning at him from the pond, her body now submerged so that naught more than her neck and shoulders are visible.

"If you're going to close your eyes," she calls out sensibly, "then you should announce your presence too, Magus."

And as if to add insult to playful injury she gestures, causing the pebble to rise and bounce off his chest once more.

The use of both her Magic and his proper title irritates him but when he sees her grin, he can't sustain the feeling. "I shall turn," he says grandly. "And you shall dress, and then I shall get on with my morning's ablutions without your interference, Maja."

Another pebble to the chest, more girlish laughter. As he watches, she causes a group of acorns to rise and spin around him, each one dancing just out of his reach, the imp. She grins at him gamely, clearly delighted with her trick, and another man might be tempted to throw something back at her- But Sherlock is not another man.

"Out," he says instead, serious now. "Out, and have a care for your reputation, girl."

It is the first time in a long time that he has not called her Maja.

And he turns his back, rather than see the disappointment in her face. He hears her move through the water, stares hard at the trees which surround his property rather than imagining the scene behind him. It is, he knows, for his own good, as well as Molly's. For just a moment though, he imagines he sees… something, something moving within the shadows. Within his woodlands. For a moment he thinks... For a moment he thinks it might be a stag. A stag- Or a thing like a stag- fleeting as a shaft of sunlight-

He blinks, makes to move towards it, but just like that it's gone. He would search further but by now Molly has joined him: she's peering into the woods, just as he is. Her little, wet hand has grasped his wrist.

"What do you see?" she asks quietly.

Her voice is tight.

"Nothing." He feels an irritation he doesn't quite understand. "What do you see?"

He means the question flippantly, but Molly doesn't take it that way. Rather, she frowns, peering intently into the trees. She grows still, eyes narrowed, and Sherlock is reminded of nothing so much as a hound scenting prey.

After a moment she sighs though and shakes her head. Looks at him.

"I see what I always see here," she says flatly. "The forest. The trees. The shadows."

Curiosity tugs at Sherlock, despite himself. "But is that all you see?"

Molly looks at him assessingly for a moment and then says, "Yes, that's all I see." A beat. She bites her lip. "Today."

"And every other day?"

She sighs, wrapping the blanket she had brought from her bed to her more tightly. "I see things that don't speak Latin, Magus," she says.

Sherlock scowls, disliking both her tone and her attitude.

"Cunning Folk fictions and old wives tales," he says dismissively. "What else would one expect, being raised out here?"

Molly cocks an eyebrow at him, irritation flashing in her eyes. She gestures to the woods. "If that's what you believe then why don't you head into the woods there and look for yourself?" she asks tartly. A sniff. "I, for one, will go back to the house and break my fast, Magus-

You may do as you will."

And with that she turns on her heel and stomps away, her slight form stiff as she advances towards the house. Sherlock scowls, torn between doing exactly what she said and proving her wrong, and having the peaceful bath he was supposed to be enjoying already-

Perhaps unsurprisingly, he elects to wash himself and clear his head, the better to deal with Molly's cheekiness later. So he strips and ducks into the pond, letting the water cover his head. Keeping his eyes open.

He has always loved the world he finds beneath these waters.

It's a strange thing, though: bare and up to his neck in the pool, he watches the sun rise over the woods beside him. Though the view is the same, today he fancies the shadows are different. They stretch further across the pond than usual for the time of day, and the places they touch seem colder than the rest.

In fact, when he stands in them, they make him shiver.

This is unusual; the cold rarely bothers him. But though he reaches out, searching for Magic or even another Magician, he finds nothing. It really is most odd. Sherlock is not used to encountering things he doesn't understand- few Magicians are. And he certainly didn't expect to encounter such a thing here, in the wild Northern land that his Queen has sent him to.

And yet…

Curiosity is a powerful thing, and in him it's always ruled both heart and head. So, when he finishes bathing, he examines the treeline and comes to a strange realisation-

The distance between the pond and the woods would seem to have lessened.

Of course, he might be incorrect: he hadn't previously taken any proper measurements, nor can he be certain that the dream last night and the interaction with Molly is not disturbing him. Estimation merely by the look of a thing is also unwise in the extreme, he knows that.

But still…

He touches the bark of the tree at the very nearest edge of the forest. Just for a moment he sees the Green Man carving which Molly had so liked, there behind his eyes. In his mind the face becomes like his face, the eyes as catlike and sharp as his own. This thought brings pleasure, a dart of it; when he opens his eyes he's standing just inside the very edge of the woods, out of the sunlight, having made no conscious decision to walk forwards. For a moment he stands there, staring, staring-

"Magus!"

Molly's voice cuts through his distraction. When he turns to look at her, she's dressed and ready for her lessons. She's carrying her Latin books and both of their writing bags. She's also chewing worriedly at her lip.

How long has he been out here?

"I thought…" She begins, "I thought we might work outside today?" She pokes the ground with her slippered little foot. "Since you seem interested in the woods this morning…"

Like a bubble popping inside his head, Sherlock comes back to himself. Back to his situation, and his responsibilities, and the fact that he's been staring into the forest like a simpleton.

He doesn't know what he was thinking.

"That won't be necessary," he says flatly, "we will work inside." He points to the house. "Now, go have Hudson let you into my laboratory, we'll… We'll start with basic formulae today."

The girl nods, still looking wary; she doesn't move until Sherlock turns his back on the forest and starts making his way over to her.

He doesn't see it, nobody does, but inside Hart's Leap house the Green Man carving opens its mouth and begins, very quietly, to sing.

Were anyone paying attention- anyone at all- they would realise that the carving now bears an uncanny resemblance to the current master of Hart's Leap House.

Chapter Text

7: MALEFICARUM

They do not talk about what happened outside, and for that Sherlock is grateful.

It occurs to him that he was probably just overly tired and behaving irrationally, which is what usually happens when his body's carnal desires are awakened by proximity to someone he wants.

That Molly is such a one embarrasses him: one should not lust after one's Apprentice.

He is therefore stern with himself about not thinking of Molly thus or allowing himself to treat her with anything other than respect-

He will not repeat with her the indignities which were forced on him by Woldsley.

Nevertheless, he writes to York and requests the temporary use of a secretary, one who might come and measure his lands and holdings. This is only wise, he tells himself, since even if he were to measure the distance of the forest from the pond, he has no earlier information with which to compare. The letter dispatched, he joins Molly in his laboratory, a stone building most ingeniously built into the earth of Hart's Leap, and thus less at risk from fire or flooding.

This is an important precaution when one is a Magician, Sherlock knows.

Still, he can't shake the odd feeling from earlier, nor can he seem to settle. He feels restless, uneasy, and he has no idea why. The sense of unease grows as he bids Molly light the tapers around him, as he begins preparing the place. He burns sage to scent the air and cleanse it, he washes his hands in rosewater to sanctify them and has Molly do the same. He also teaches her her first incantation, one designed to remove any lingering traces of Magic which she might have picked up in the world outside. That done, he shows her his instruments: the scrying mirror and dish he uses, the small jars of ingredients with which one can brew potions and spells.

Finally, he shows her his pride and joy: the various metal circles set into the laboratory's floor. There are several small copper ones, as well as two other iron ones. There is even a small one made of solid gold, about the same diameter as the cupping of his hands. The most important one, made of ornately decorated silver, he has had polished to a particularly high gleam. When he shows it to her, her delight in it quite banishes his annoyance from earlier-

"It's beautiful, Magus," she says, kneeling to examine it more closely. She skims her fingers across its surface and a low, sweet sound, like the chime of a bell, peels through the room.

"It is," he tells her, "But you must always be careful when working with it."

"It's dangerous?" she asks. A frown. "Silver is supposed to be lucky, isn't it? Protective?"

He shrugs. "A conjuring circle is no mean device," he tells her. "You must always treat it with the respect it deserves, whether it's silver or not."

She nods thoughtfully. "I will." An impish smile as he bids her get to her feet. "But what will we be using it for today, Magus?"

His smile matches hers. "Power."

"Power?"

"Power."

And he laughs, seeing her roll her eyes at his purposeful lack of clarification. He feels happy to have her looking at him, happy to have her here with him. The emotion must be contagious because after a moment she snorts and laughs too, shaking her head. Smiling at him. As she looks at him with those big, brown eyes it occurs to him that he should give her a Daemonstration- a proper Daemonstration- of his Magic.

He should show her just what a Queensman can really do.

With this in mind he runs through his specialities, the most impressive, the most ambitious things he is capable of. He wishes to show her his power, but how? The answer comes to him: He will introduce her to Conjuration, show her just how much possibility and choice it gives a Magician such as himself, such as she will one day be.

While Conjuration is not normally a part of an Apprentice's repertoire until their second year, given her attitude towards his books of Magic and her cheekiness today, he believes it important that she see what he can do now.

So, gesturing for her to step back he steps into the circle. Kneels. Something prickles against his skin, something he doesn't recognise, but when he turns his attention towards it, it slithers away. For a moment, behind his eyes, he's in the wildwood again- And then it's gone.

Sherlock shakes his head, straightens his shoulders. He will not allow fancies to influence him- Not when he's about to show his Molly what he can do.

"There's an athame- a dagger- on the worktable with the jars," he tells her. "Fetch it for me, if you please."

Molly does as he asks, choosing the correct blade without hesitation from his collection- Her sensitivity to Magic really is quite extraordinary, Sherlock muses.

But then, she is extraordinary in so many ways.

She hands it to him, blade first, and as he takes it their fingers touch, sending a sweet bite of sensation across his hand. It raises the hairs on the back of his neck like the coming of a storm and he feels warmth stealing into his cheeks. Molly's can match. Telling himself to ignore it, Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He centres himself and then, with slow, practiced precision, runs the athame's blade across the circle's surface. This time when it chimes, the sound is deeper and louder, a bass rather than a descant.

It rumbles in his ears. In his chest. In his belly and feet.

When it does this he brings the athame across his arm, letting his blood drip slowly inside the ring, the movements and the blood drops inscribing his first Summoning Sigil.

Molly catches her breath at the sight.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock begins a chant, one of the first he ever learnt. It calls on a particular Imp, one he has dealt with before, and demands the thing grant him its presence, promising severe retribution if it does not. Though the chant itself is meant to be in Latin, Sherlock finds himself saying it in Greek, a language Molly does not yet speak.

He won't examine why.

As he chants, he starts to rock on his heels. He closes his eyes and focuses his attention. Working like this he can feel Molly, feel her Magic and her presence and yes, yes, she is the thing he had sensed all these months, she is the presence which had haunted him… The thing which has been calling to him. Underneath her Magic though, he feels something else. Something… Other. He stops, the mystery distracting him even as he continues to murmur the words of the Conjuration, so familiar to him now that he says them by rote, even in Greek.

What is this...?

Before he can find his answer though, he smells sulfur. Kindling. The air turns hot around him and when he opens his eyes the being he has summoned is glaring at him from within his silver circle, its eyes malevolent and indignant. It's rather larger, more imposing, than he meant it to be. Its fiery form shudders as it tries to prevent him dragging it from its world into his. Sherlock blinks surprised: suddenly he realises it's not an Imp he's summoned, but a Daemon.

It is an old thing, a wicked thing, a creature formed of and for malice, and it does not want to come across, it does not want to do his bidding…

Immediately Sherlock tries to undo the Summoning, send it back.

He will not trust that thing around his Molly.

It doesn't work though: there's a pop in his ears as the Daemon materialises fully within the silver Summoning Circle.

"What is it?" it rasps, "What would you have of me, Magus?"

The creature manages to make Sherlock's title sound like an insult.

Before Sherlock can answer, however, the creature turns from him and looks right at Molly. It narrows its eyes, a tongue of flame darting out to caress where its lips should be.

The girl startles, stepping backwards, and the Daemon starts towards the edge of the conjuring circle. "Kindling…" It croons the words playfully, flirtatiously. "Kindling, come, let me burn you… Let me burn a little Witch the way she truly wishes to burn…"

Molly gulps. "I have no wish to burn," she says evenly. "And I am no witch, but an Apprentice to a great Magician." She raises her chin defiantly. "Be gone from my sight!" And she hisses something in Scots Gael under her breath. Sherlock knows without being told that it is some Cunning Craft of Mary Watson's design. As she speaks he moves between her and the Daemon. Tightens his hold on it.

He tries to yank its attention back to him as one might yank the chain on a recalcitrant hound but it seems he cannot.

Panic starts to rise: He needs to send this thing back now.

The Daemon hisses though, enraged, showing its teeth to him and flaming upwards. Sherlock knows his own emotions are probably feeding it but he can't seem to make himself stop. "Be gone, little Sorcerer," it hisses at him. "I have no use for you, here." Another smile at Molly. "I only wish to deal with your Witch-"

"Well, she doesn't want to deal with you."

The words are Molly's, the tone angry. Again Sherlock yanks on his power, again he tries to bring the Daemon to heel. The creature snarls, moves towards Molly. It's calling… It's calling her by name now, though she has not revealed it. As it does this it surges, growing ever larger, pressing itself against the edges of the Summoning Circle in which it is trapped. Heat rises in this room, power from the Daemon slithering out through its cell. That alone shows how much pressure the creature is exerting on his cage…

Sherlock has to hand it to her, Molly doesn't panic, though.

Most mortals who encounter an angry Daemon might lose control of themselves, but his Molly keeps her wits about her, and this, he knows, is the sign of a true Magician.

For, keeping her eyes fastened on the Daemon, she slowly backs towards the iron Summoning Circles behind her. Reaching into her boot, she pulls out a small bone knife which Sherlock hadn't even known she was carrying. She pricks her thumb with it and- eyes still on the Daemon- she traces the bloodied blade along the edge of the iron circle, effectively sealing herself inside it. Magic shivers around her, completing the spell, and though Sherlock can still feel her, she seems cut off. Far away.

It's rather impressive, for an Apprentice.

Apparently, however, the Daemon does not agree. "What is that, little mortal?" it hisses mockingly, gesturing to her knife, to her protective circle. "Do you think that some mere splinter of mortal bone is going to protect you? Do you think some flimsy speck of blood will?"

Another leer.

"Or perhaps you imagine your Lord Magician will save you, eh? That you'll burn for him and not for me?"

And the creature takes another step towards her, trying to force its way across the threshold of the Summoning Circle. Sherlock growls, feeding more Magic into the Circle, strengthening it, but the Daemon doesn't stop.

This is something it absolutely should not be able to do, Sherlock knows.

"Halt," he booms, and if he can hear the worry in his voice, he won't let himself dwell on it. Rather, he summons his concentration, brings it to bear on the being before him. It is here to serve him. "You have no interest in that woman-"

"Oh, but I have every interest in her, Magus," it whispers mockingly. "She's going to see me freed… She's going to see me fed…"

And to Sherlock's horror, the Daemon gestures towards Molly, eyes fiery. Teeth showing in a rictus-like smile. The girl hisses in pain, doubling over, and as the Magician watches, the pale wall of power which she had raised to protect herself begins to waver. To fade.

Like any other piece of Magic, it requires a clear mind to keep intact and one of the quickest ways to interfere with a clear mind is pain.

Memories of his own training to withstand pain flare within Sherlock and he impatiently pushes them away. He is not that helpless boy Apprentice he once was, and he will see to it that Molly is not helpless either. "Enough!" he snarls, yanking tightly at the edges of the summoning circle binding the creature; the sudden pressure should hurt it. It should make the thing stop. The Daemon shows no signs of pain, however, merely laughing and continuing to harm Molly-

It is a thing not to be borne.

But the Daemon twists its hands sharply, laughing as Molly lets out another hiss of pain. Tears prick her eyes, her expression turning beseeching. Rage flares in Sherlock- a dangerous thing when one is caging so lethal a being- but before he can channel the emotion into something useful Molly lets out a hoarse yell.

It sounds more like a war cry.

With a snarl of rage and frustration, she hurls her knife, swearing viciously. Her aim is true, the blade sailing through the air. Sherlock stares, time seeming to slow as he watches the blade cross the threshold of the Summoning Circle, breaking its integrity. Instantly the cage of Magic and will which Sherlock had constructed using the Circle collapses. Molly's knife buries itself in the Daemon's shoulder and the thing yanks it out with a triumphant cry-

"My thanks," the Daemon says, sketching a mocking bow to Molly. He turns his eyes on Sherlock, its form growing bigger. Flames writhe around it and Sherlock grits his teeth, the creature's malevolence washing over him. It sets his every nerve on edge. Now that the thing is out of its cage it can feed on the emotions of all around it, on their rage and fear-

For the first time in a very long while, Sherlock finds he doesn't know what to do and the thought terrifies him.

With an animal roar of triumph, the thing surges forth, heading straight for him. Molly darts out of her summoning circle, breaking her own protection spell, and hurls herself in front of Sherlock, trying to protect him. Their bodies collide, knocking the breath out of both of them, but at the last moment Sherlock grabs her protectively, spinning them both so that the Daemon collides with his back. Pain explodes across his shoulder-blades, heat scorching through the protective sigils tattooed into his skin. He smells burning fabric on the air- his jerkin- and the Daemon grabs his hair, pulling him towards it. Yanking his head backwards so that his throat is exposed, an easy target for a merciless opponent-

Pulling Molly's bone knife free it brings the blade down, mercilessly, towards Sherlock's flesh.

"You've summoned me for the last time. Magus," it hisses, even as Sherlock twists and struggles in his grip.

"No!"

With a bellow of rage Sherlock manages to tear himself away, taking Molly with him. He all but throws her to the corner of the laboratory and scrambles back to his own table, grabbing desperately for the athame blade he had used for the summoning. Eyes blazing, he calls his staff to him too, determined now to battle the thing which he has unleashed-

"Invoco lumen!" he snarls, both staff and athame glowing with power.

The Daemon changes tack, swerving for Molly instead.

Sherlock's first instinct is to protect- he has no shortage of vicious hexes- but he sees he need not fret- Not for the girl who was trained by Mary Watson.

For Molly surges to her feet with a wild yell, eyes burning, and as she does so something odd happens: Just as in his wildwood dreams, green, inky tattoos burst from beneath her skin. The effect is wild. Beautiful.

He's never seen the like before.

Her voice changes too, a high, sweet, soaring note from earlier spilling from her lips. Thorns erupt from beneath her skin, her eyes burning green- It looks eerily beautiful- and a sweet, woodland scent pitches onto the air. Suddenly everything seems thick with light and scent and possibilities; the Daemon slows as it nears her, its face confused, and that's all the chance she needs.

Molly yanks her knife out of its hand and brings it viciously down into the creature's flesh, again and again and again.

She's crying and swearing as she does it, a mix of incoherent Latin and Scot Gael curses.

It shouldn't work, Sherlock knows that. Daemons are beings of fire, of smoke. Though they can handle objects in the mortal world, they have no flesh to rip into, no body to harm-

It's one of the reasons why they're so dangerous.

Nevertheless, where Molly's knife pierces the creature, green sparks flicker. That sweet, soft scent rises, growing stronger. More powerful. It's the smell of summer sap and new grass, the smell of sunshine and growing things and the cool of the woods at dawn. It's the scent of life.

As Sherlock watches, the Daemon starts to disintegrate; that the creature doesn't understand what's happening to it is obvious.

That Sherlock likewise doesn't understand is downright  infuriating.

Still, slowly, slowly, the Daemon fades. Crumbles. Soon it's naught but a pile of cinders and dust. It twitches, still glowing green, but Sherlock feels its intelligence, its… thereness draining away. Not skulking back to the realm from whence it came but slowly, slowly… just fading. Ceasing. Ending. Dying.

Daemons don't just die, he thinks dazedly. Every Magician knows that.

Yet even as the words cross his mind, he understands that, in this instance at least, his fellow Magicians are incorrect.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" And suddenly Molly is beside him, her skin no longer alive with greenness and ink. Her hair a mess and her clothes soaked in soot.

Without stopping to think about it, Sherlock pulls her to him in a tight embrace.

"You saved us," he says, panting. "You saved us. Thank you, Molly." And acting on impulse he presses a kiss to her forehead, half prayer, half endearment. Thank God she's alright. She holds him tighter as he does it, her little arms locked about his waist. Her cheek at his chest. He frowns: every inch of him aches. Every inch of him is tired. For a moment silence reigns in the laboratory, Molly and he staring at one another. Staring at the remains of the Daemon.

Their faces are illuminated by both the green glow of the creature's embers and the wavering power of Sherlock's blade and staff.

And then suddenly Molly's face turns ashen, her entire body goes limp.

Sherlock holds her tightly to him. He checks her breathing, her pulse. Both appear to be normal and yet she's not awake. Beneath her closed eyes, he can see a green glow now. Her flesh is cold and she starts shivering; green threads through her veins, turning them dark. Making them glow.

Gathering her in her arms he exits the basement, yelling for Hudson.

He doesn't even think about the Daemon's ashes, still burning against the stone.

Chapter Text

8: SCAR TISSUE

Hudson comes as soon as he calls for her, and she takes charge of Molly.

Having spent most of her life in a house owned by Magicians, there's little that can faze the older woman: for this reason she remains calm as she bustles Molly upstairs and strips her. Puts her to bed and sends the maids out to procure fresh water and herbs from her chambers.

"It's just a bout of mage-fever," she tells one of the maids when she catches the girl staring. At her horrified look Hudson rolls her eyes. Calm she may be, but patient she is not.

"You'll not catch it, dear," she says, "unless you're a Magician too." A sardonic look. " Are you a Magician?"

The girl gives an emphatic shake of her head: She looks like she's thinking of bolting, no matter how good her pay and conditions.

"That's what I thought," Hudson says, dismissing her. "Now go help the others: I need to bring down your lady's temperature."

And without waiting for an answer, she goes back to tending Molly. Her movements are calm and considered. Unhurried. Certain. Sherlock watches her work, reminded of his childhood and the many times she had cared thus for he, Mycroft and Eurus.

His sister had been particularly prone to over-exerting herself.

"I know it's not mage-fever," Hudson says, once they're alone. She's not looking at him, her eyes on Molly. "At least, not any version of it I've yet seen."

Molly lets out a hoarse cry and she brings a damp towel to her forehead. Lays it there.

Instantly the girl quiets.

"It could be," Sherlock counters. "Molly used an awful lot of Magic today..."

"Indeed." The older woman looks at him narrowly but says nothing else. She learned long ago about prying into the business of Magicians, and their Apprentices. And it's not as if a bout of mage-fever is unusual; using too much Magic too quickly often results in such illness, which typically passes within a few hours.

But though Sherlock knows that, nevertheless he can't help his worry, can't help pacing and hovering and altogether making a nuisance of himself as Hudson tries to work around him. What happened today… He can't explain it.

And if he can't explain it then how can he hope to prevent it happening again?

Eventually Hudson grows tired of his being under her feet and the older woman banishes him to his rooms to grind, mix and brew a batch of her famous mage-fever tonic. Though he glares, Hudson is unmoved and so he does as he is bid, secretly relieved to have something useful to do-

Not that he would ever be foolish enough to admit it.

Creating the tonic takes more than an hour, and he finds it calming. By the time he returns Hudson has gotten Molly's temperature down and both the dark green in her veins and the glowing green behind her eyelids have abated. He finds that calming too. Feeling awkward, and unwieldy, and completely out of place, Sherlock peers down at his Apprentice, trying to assess her. Wondering what on Earth he's done to her. She looks tiny and fragile, lying abed, and he feels the oddest… twist of emotion to see it.

He finds the swell of protectiveness welling up within him surprising, but then he knows that it's his fault she's like this.

What on earth was he thinking, summoning a Daemon on her first day in the Laboratory?

He doesn't know, or at least that's what he tells himself.

There's a beat of silence as he watches Molly sleep; the fire crackles in the hearth and her breathing is even and deep. It's oddly... peaceful. Hudson is seated in a chair next to the bed, dozing off, but she sits up straight and reports her patient's condition when she spies Sherlock. Taking the tonic from him she pours it into a small cup and sets about sitting Molly up.

The girl will have to swallow it.

"Are you sure it's not mage-fever?" he asks quietly, watching as Hudson croons to her charge, whispering to her to take a sip.

Though she's not really conscious, Hudson manages to pour some tonic into Molly's mouth.

There's always been something of the Healer's Art about Beldam Hudson, Sherlock thinks.

Molly sputters and coughs but swallows it down, and some tiny part of Sherlock relaxes. Already the colour is returning to her cheeks.

"I may have spoken unguardedly before," Hudson retorts, carefully feeding some more of the tonic to Molly. "I can't think of anything else that would do this to her, but then I can't imagine her being called to use that much magic so early in her training, either." Sherlock winces, hearing the words for the rebuke they are. Hudson sighs, taking in his guilty face.

"If my brew takes it down and she's eating like a horse tomorrow then we'll know that it was mage-fever," she says softly. "If not… If not, there must be people at The Silken Court who can help her, surely?" She shoots him another narrow look when Sherlock doesn't speak. "As for why she ended up using so much Magic so soon in her training, well, it's not my place to inquire…"

"No, it's not."

The words are harsh and instantly Sherlock regrets them.

By way of a peace offering, he moves over to the bed, takes Molly from Hudson. Carefully, little by little, he pours the rest of the tonic into her mouth.

"Get some rest," he tells Hudson quietly as he does it. "I can watch tonight, and you can keep watch on the morrow."

Hudson cocks an eyebrow at him. "There'll be talk."

Sherlock shrugs. "After today, I'd be astonished if there wasn't." He peers at Molly, smooths the hair off her forehead.

When he touches her, she quiets, and again his heart twists in his chest.

"Send one of the servants to sit with me if you wish," he says instead, "but get some sleep, Beldam Hudson." A small smile. "We need at least one sensible head in the household, you know- Especially if we end up having to summon a Healer from The Silken Court."

Hudson snorts in amusement and rolls her eyes, hearing the acquiescence in his words. He may not want to summon anyone from London but if Molly's life is in danger then he will. "I will to bed," she says. "Make sure you keep watch, and rouse me should her condition change, is that understood, lad?"

"Absolutely."

And, stiff and tired, Hudson stands and makes her way to the door. Watching her, so much slower and greyer than she used to be, brings an entirely different pang to Sherlock's chest.

Wisely, perhaps, he keeps this to himself.

Rather he settles Molly back onto the bed- the first dose of the tonic had been administered- and, once he is assured that she is alright he pulls off his doublet and jerkin. Sets about checking on his own injuries. The protective sigils he had inked onto his skin so long ago may have held, but he nevertheless feels like he's been thrown from a horse- he suspects he looks like he has been, too-

So, with cautious movements he divests himself of his shirt. His hose. He walks over to the polished silver mirror which sits above Molly's dressing table and examines his chest, sides and back, taking note of the bruises and cuts which his altercation with the Daemon had wrought, as well as the more esoteric marks which the bout had left upon his skin. As expected, his family's House sigils had held fast, their mixture of ancient pictographs and symbols still fresh and untouched despite the Daemon's blows. Having been designed by his mother, he would expect nothing less. The marks made by Woldsley, mainly raised welts which supposedly spelt out words in Enochian- Those, however, look angry. Swollen. Mottled.

Being less well-made they had reacted badly to contact with the Daemon, and when he touches them, they're damp and painful. In fact, they're weeping.

Blast.

At this reakiation he starts swearing under his breath.

Stealing a look at Molly to ensure she's still sleeping, he takes one of Hudson's damp cloths and begins washing his wounds down. The scented, herb-suffused water makes him hiss in pain, but he knows it will do him good in the end. It is better that he cleanse himself than try to go without. So intent is he on his task that he doesn't notice when Molly opens her eyes. Looks at him. He turns and sees her staring at him, wide-eyed, and he near naked and dripping water…

He opens his mouth to say something- something witty, something explanatory- but before he can make any words come out Molly lets out a low, long sigh of appreciation.

His cheeks redden at the sound of it.

"Mary said you would be bonny," she says. He feels the heat of her smile down to his toes. Her eyes are still heavy-lidded, and Sherlock suspects that she's not entirely awake. "I'm glad to see she was right..."

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.

For once, he has not an idea what to say for himself.

Fortunately for him, he doesn't need to decide, for Molly Hooper clearly knows what she wants… Which he realises as she starts to get out of bed…

Chapter Text

9: A CUNNING MAID'S RITES

Sherlock has been called many things in his life, some of them even complimentary.

After all, he is handsome, clever, and rich; while he and his family have moved into and out of Her Majesty's favour over the years, he knows that the day will never come when a man like him will be lacking for willing company, should he desire it.

That is not vanity, it is merely stating a fact.

Nothing, however, can prepare him for the way that Molly's purred bonny acts on him: the timbre of her voice, the sweet, predatory light in her eyes as she says it… even the choice of word itself.

It does things to him.

Molly notices it, too, the little devil, a sweet, pleased smile tugging at her lip as her eyes flicker from his face to his manhood and back again. Needless to say, he can feel himself becoming hard. Her expression leaves little doubt that she likes what she sees, too, for with slow, playful grace she gets out of bed. Pads over to him. Ever the gentleman, Sherlock averts his gaze (however difficult that may be) but though he knows he should, he does not move further away. Nor does he cover himself.

The wet rag he was using to cleanse his wounds hangs loose in his hand.

Carefully, gently, Molly takes it from him. Places it back in the bowl of water. "You require aid, Magus?" she asks softly, to which Sherlock can only nod. She soaks the rag, wringing it out and then bringing it up to press against the inked Sigil over his heart. Then the ones at each of his biceps, sliding the wet cloth down to cleanse one arm then the other. His wrists, his palms. When she reaches the fingers of his left hand- his staff hand- Sherlock hisses at the sensation and she stops. Frowns. Looks narrowly at him. There's a question in her eyes, a question he doesn't have it in him to answer aloud.

His tongue feels thick in his mouth, clottish.

She must understand though, for she nods, steps closer to him. Her breath is warm and her skin is soft and her eyes, oh those big brown eyes could burn right through a man and he'd thank them for the flame…

Sherlock swallows. Wets his lip. He finds his heartbeat is pounding.

Molly takes his hand and tows him over to the bed. Sets him sitting upon it. She steps between his knees, still holding one of his hands. Her other hand she brings to his cheek, thumb striking his lower lip.

"We should-"

"We shouldn't."

The words come from out of nowhere- He certainly doesn't remember deciding to say them. Molly stalls, looking down at him questioningly. She bites her lip and suddenly Sherlock wants, more than anything, to press a kiss to her mouth. To soothe that sweet little lip, to ease its hurt.

What is it about this maid that makes him feel so  tender? 

"Do you really want me to stop?" she asks and there's no mischief in her now, oh no.

Her eyes are very steady and very kind as they meet his.

He means to say yes, but the word that comes out is, "no." He shakes his head, reaches out to grip the tops of her arms. He's not quite sure what he's doing. Standing, he towers over her, tall and narrow as a blade beside her smallness, but here, sitting on this bed with her standing, they're eye to eye. Equals.

"I'm… It's…" He tries to summon words but he can't, not when she's looking at him like this.

So she leans in, kisses his forehead. Her fingers slide across his flesh, tracing the ink of his House Sigils, there at his neck. There at his shoulders. Her fingers ghost down across his back, they find the raised, wet welts of Woldsley's Enochian monstrosities and Sherlock stiffens. Here she pauses, still holding his gaze. "May I..?" She asks and though he's not sure what she's asking for he nods. It can't be bad, not if it's his Molly. Carefully, she kneels on the bed, her lips tracing his throat, his cheeks, before carefully pressing a kiss to the oldest Enochian sigil, the one Woldsley gouged into his nape during his first year.

It throbs with both her kiss and the memory of its making, causing Sherlock to shiver. Causing him to pull back and look at her.

She halts, again questioning him- "do you want me to stop?"- but despite himself he shakes his head sharply.

Emotion is buzzing within him, unruly and obscene and so, so new.

"Please," he says hoarsely. "Please don't stop."

Molly nods, leans her forehead to his again. Slowly, gently, she kisses his mouth. Slowly, gently, she winds him in her arms. And then she presses him onto his back. Turns him on his side. She brings the wet rag to each welt, cleansing it and then kissing it. She murmurs as she does so how bonny he is to her. Each press of her lips makes Sherlock's heart pound, makes his cock twitch and his stomach tighten with lust. When she's done she shifts, moving so that she's lying opposite him. She deposits the rag back in the basin and moves closer, then closer. Then closer and closer again.

She comes to a halt a mere breath from him. Her belly presses against his belly. Her breath teases his flesh, as his teases hers.

He has to look her in the eye, like this.

Holding his gaze she takes his face in her hands, brings her lips to meet his-

"Have a thought for your reputation," he bites out at the last moment, stopping her.

He doesn't move away however, or stand, and neither does she.

No, somehow, somehow, his arms have made their way about her waist and somehow, somehow, he's pulled her even more flush against him. He can feel the warm, soft flesh of her thigh, there against his hardening cock. Can feel her breasts, two soft buds against his thudding heart, barely separated by the thin linen of her shift.

"I have no reputation to speak of, Magus," she says quietly. The words are spoken to his chest. She peeks up at him, a sweetly wicked smile tugging at her lip, and it makes his heartbeat skitter.

"Besides," she adds, "there's none would take a witching girl to bed, at least none this witching girl would wish to be taken by-"

Another sweetly wicked smile. Sherlock swears it might incinerate him.

"Save, of course, you, Magus." Again, she lays her forehead against his. "Surely you know that it's you I want?"

And, still holding his gaze, she reaches boldly up, her fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck to angle his head. She kisses his cheek… Then his throat… then his chin, then his closed eyelids. Her tongue traces the very edge of his lip and she sighs against his mouth before kissing him.

It feels utterly exquisite.

Sherlock's heartbeat picks up, his cock aching in time with it. Without his meaning to he wraps his arms around her. Growls deep in his throat, his fingers tangling in her hair. The kiss deepens and he drags her to him. Holds her tight. They're both panting now, though they've barely done anything at all. Molly brushes sweet, butterfly kisses to his House Sigils, there where they writhe across his breastbone. His collarbone. His throat. His heart.

The feel of it wrenches sweetly within him, tying his insides in knots.

"These are beautiful," she breathes. She lays her palm on the second largest, the one which covers his chest, and it thrums with power, hers and his. "What do they mean?" she asks him and to his consternation, Sherlock finds himself unable to speak. Being the work of the woman who taught Eurus Holmes, he is used to people looking away when they see them. He's used to reactions that are sneering, tainted with distaste.

"They- They protect me," he says softly, clearing his throat. "All Magicians have them-"

Her eyes light. "Will I?" And when he nods, she smiles. "Will I have ones like this?" she asks, stroking the raised welts and immediately he grabs her wrists. Stalls her.

"I will never permit anyone to do that to you."

Molly blinks at his vehemence. Nods. Again she takes his face in her hands, again she kisses him.

"They hurt you, the people who did this?" she asks softly.

He nods. Feels the shame well in him, so much fresher than he wants it to be or thought it was.

Her eyes harden to flint.

"Do they live yet?" She asks. "Have I a chance to punish their impudence?"

"Impudence?"

She nods, presses her forehead to his chest. "It is pure impudence to scar so bonny a creature as you," she whispers.

Sherlock gulps. Presses a kiss to her hair. "It's you who's bonny, Molly..." he breathes into the dark tresses. "You know that, don't you?" He tips her face up to look at him "Please tell me that you know that."

Her smile is like a shaft of pure sunlight. "I do, Magus. I do."

And suddenly her hands are winding through his hair, suddenly her palms are framing his face. She kisses him and he swears the pleasure of it burns. He pulls her to him with a growl, their kiss turning hungry. Passionate. With a hoarse hiss he rolls her beneath him on the bed, his wounds forgotten. Suddenly all he can think is, I want, I want, I want. A grin, a whoop and then they're together on the sheets, hands searching and touching and stroking and pinching. Their mouths meeting again and again, their kisses turning heated- wanting- hungry- right-

"Yes," she mumbles against his lips, "yes, yes, like that… Just like that, Magus…"

"As my Maja wishes."

And with a low growl he flips her so that she's laid beneath him. Keeping eye contact he peppers sweet, lingering kisses all over her bare body, torturing her as she had been torturing him. Breathless and flushed she stares up at him, her breasts heaving and her eyes bright, her hair flaring out against the sheets like a halo. She parts her thighs, hooking one little leg around his hip to scrabble against his arse: the feel of it sets something loose in Sherlock, something primal. Something wild.

It's filling his head in the way that normally only Magic does.

With a pleased, low, "yesss…" he starts kissing her again. Claiming her. He teases her pearl, making her wet, making her ready, until she snaps at him to stop bloody playing and he slides inside her wet, sweet heat.

He can't help the litany of curse words which tumble from his lips as he does.

He tries to go slowly but she moans, pulling him to her. "I want you as you want me," she growls, and she grabs his arse, tilts her hips up to take more of him. For all he knows that a maiden requires delicacy her first time, it would seem that his Molly is utterly sure of what she wants. Utterly eager. Utterly glorious.

What else would you expect, he finds himself thinking disjointedly, from a wildwood bride?

So he nips and bites and licks her as she writhes beneath him. It's so much more than lust that he can't even describe it. He feels out of control- Not himself, and yet more himself than ever before- How is she doing this to him?

"Do you want me, Magus?" she breathes, and all he can do is nod helplessly.

"I do, Maja," he gasps, "I do, I do…"

Their kisses and touches are reaching a crescendo, but even as they do Molly laughs mischievously, pressing him onto his back. For a moment pain radiates from his newly opened wounds but just as quickly it fades. Slowly, slowly, their movements fall into time with one another. Slowly, slowly, the passion gentles, softens.

Their eyes meet, their movements slowing, and as this happens Sherlock sees… Why he sees his own Magic, and hers, spilling out into the room. He sees it winding together. Twining together.

It looks… It looks so beautiful.

He's heard such things whispered of before, heard rumours of what a true meeting between two Magicians could create, but he had assumed them to be mere superstition. Had assumed he would never get to experience such a thing for himself. But here, now, with Molly… In Molly… It could be forever, or it could be a moment, Sherlock honestly doesn't know. He honestly doesn't care either, not when he's with her. For she's matching his movements, making them her own. He's buried so deep inside her he feels like he might be touching her heart. They gasp and kiss and move together. Their pleasure rises and rises, cresting, a great wave, and for once the famous Magus Sherlock Holmes has no idea what he's doing… He was made for this, he thinks, he was made for this moment...

Even as he thinks this, though, he sees the sigils on his arms begin to twist and turn.

The ink starts slowly turning from black to green and twining, twining, into the same floral patterns which had erupted on Molly's skin today.

It's both frightening and beautiful to behold. He gasps, surprised, but then they're kissing again, touching again… They're both nearly vibrating with the pleasure of what they're doing together...

And he's so distracted by it, so lost in what he and Molly are doing together, that he doesn't notice the change coming over the room around him. Doesn't see the stone and mortar creak and crack, doesn't notice the scent of leaves and moss and forest which shivers on the air. Hart's Leap House is transforming, becoming a living, wooden, blooming thing and oh but it is beautiful…

The candles sputter out, one, then another, and he and Molly are lost and free in the wildwood dark.

Chapter Text

10: THE GREEN CHAPEL

In Haverbrook-on-Lye Mary Watson wakes suddenly, heart hammering. Senses straining.

"What is it, love?" John murmurs drowsily, pulling her close.

Mary grits her teeth and gets out of bed. Starts to dress. She is clearly not pleased with having to do so.

"Molly and her Magician are idiots," is all she'll say, as John helps her into her traveling cloak.

They lie together afterwards, the two Magicians, stroking one another's skin and whispering endearments.

Sherlock feels like he has honey running through his veins instead of blood, like there's a summer storm stretched over his bones rather than skin. He looks at Molly and she is all that he can see, all that he wants to see…

It. Is. Bliss.

Around him, unnoticed, Hart's Leap is pulsing, breathing, glowing, growing. The walls flare with the green of sunlit summer leaves. The air is fresh and dizzyingly sweet, thick with pollen and flowers and all manner of life. Curled in against him, drowsing, Molly smiles into his chest and kisses him. Nuzzles him. Her little hands trace lazy circles across his naked flesh, making him shiver. Making his body sing. He honestly doesn't think he has ever felt so… happy, before.

He presses kisses to her hair, breathing in the scent of her and she takes his hand, kisses it. With a giggle she pulls him to her, spreading her knees and cradling his hips with her thighs, sighing that she wants him again, oh how she wants him…

He turns them so that he's above her, staring down into her eyes.

She smiles up at him, that sweet, impish grin he likes so much, and he slides his nose along hers, presses kisses to her eyelids. Her cheek. Her throat. She sighs in appreciation, stroking her hands along his shoulders, his back. He can feel her nipples pebbling against the skin of his chest. She's wet again and ready again, and to his surprise Sherlock finds that he is too, he finds that he can satisfy her…

"Magus," she murmurs, taking his prick in hand and stroking. Preparing to take him inside herself once more.

Maiden she may be, but a Cunning Maid knows what she wants…

"Maja," he answers, kissing her. Holding her close. "Molly…"

He can't help his smile when he says her name; it feels like a golden note, struck within him.

She looks at him, eyes wide and beautiful. Green ink erupts like flowers across her skin and to his surprise, Sherlock sees that the same shapes are glittering against his flesh, golden to her green. Shining to her shadow.

He finds it unutterably erotic.

"Molly," he murmurs, and it's the oddest thing but though he knows that there are things he should be doing, things he should be worried about, he finds that he isn't. Not at all.

How long has it been since he was free of worry?

So he leans down. Takes her lips in a kiss. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of tasting her. She moans into his mouth, soft and butter-boned and wet as she prepares to take him inside her…

Except suddenly, suddenly the green around them flickers.

Suddenly, suddenly, the earth beneath them begins to quake.

Sherlock frowns, Molly too. They sit up, looking about them in confusion, Sherlock pulling Molly to him protectively even as he calls upon his Magic…

Except, nothing happens.

Nothing. Happens.

Nothing .

That's impossible, he thinks.

And yet-

He calls his Magic again, as he has done a hundred times, nay, a thousand, and nothing happens. Nothing. For the first time since he was a boy, Magic doesn't come with his calling it- The only thing that changes is that the gold markings writhing across his skin darken. This is supposed to be impossible.

Molly sees his reaction and she frowns. Tries to sit up.

When she calls her Magic nothing happens for her either.

They trade a sharp glance, Molly starting to hunt around for her discarded shift as Sherlock fishes for his shirt amidst the bedclothes.

"Magus...?" she asks quietly, and then, more softly, "Sherlock...?"

"I don't know," he says. He can hear the fear in his voice. "I've never seen anything like this before…"

And stumbling, clumsy, Sherlock gets to his feet. Pulls her to him. She's trembling. He can match her. He helps her into her shoes and as he does so, he realises that there are no floorboards beneath their bare feet. There's no floor at all, in fact, it's merely damp, dark earth. He blinks, shaking his head and trying to banish his sluggishness. Trying to shake off whatever has taken hold of him.

What on Earth has happened to his house?

What on Earth has happened to  him?

"Your house, is it?" a voice says, croaking and ancient.

It comes from his right, though he cannot see the speaker clearly.

"Your house?" it repeats. "Your house, little Queensman?"

And, as Sherlock and Molly watch, a figure drifts free from the shadows. It glides forward, soundless as a ghost. The creature has a stiff, bark-made body. Glowing green eyes, luminous as sunlit leaves. Moss and flowers flow over its skin, covering a body that might once have been female- Covering a body that Sherlock recognises-

"Beldam?" he whispers, horror-struck. "Beldam Hudson, is that you?"

The creature stops. Cocks its head, as if in thought.

"She is here," it says eventually. "She is… within me."

The thing looks right at him and Molly, and its face contorts into something which might be a smile.

"They are all within me, now, save for you two." A shrug. "But then, that is the nature of a wildwood marriage."

"Who's within you?" Molly asks, and though she's near-naked and clearly frightened, nevertheless she juts out her chin. Meets the creature's eyes fiercely. She has finally managed to slip on her night-shirt, which probably helps. "Who is within you, Old One?" she repeats, trying to take a step forward though Sherlock halts her.

The Once and Future Hudson merely smiles more sharply though, revealing a mouthful of splinter-like teeth which Sherlock is fairly certain will haunt his nightmares forever more.

"Everyone within this house is within me, save you," the thing says. "Everyone who has trespassed within mine self is now within me."

Again, the thing seems to smile.

There is something both lonely and terrifying in it.

"For so long the mortals have trespassed, broken us," she says. "They have cut and burned and ripped and taken from us. But not anymore.

Not. Any. More."

The thing smiles. Meets their eyes.

"You have saved me." A beat. "Given life when I was dying, given Magic when I had none. For that, I will honour you with all the old Wildwood Rights, Adam's kin..."

And from somewhere down below, the whispers of leaves shimmer through the house. Cooing. Encouraging. But then there's a scream, a thud.

It sounds as if… as if someone or something is trying to get in.

Sherlock and Molly exchange alarmed looks but if the thing that was once Hudson is worried by it, she gives no sign.

Instinctively, Sherlock tightens his grip on Molly's hand.

But the Beldam continues smiling, starts humming to herself. The music is not so much a melody as a heartbeat, given voice. The sounds below grow louder, however, more insistent. More worrying. A shudder passes through the floors beneath Sherlock's feet and this time, this time the Beldam gives it notice. With another smile she raises cupped hands to her mouth, blows softly into them. A straggling, desperate flurry of wasps tumble from between bark-like lips, fluttering drunkenly at the mercy of some unseen breeze. The creature croons to them, whispering, and they edge upwards, wings and bodies disappearing through the green-spun canopy that once was Hart Leap's roof…

"So helpful, my new children," the creature says softly. She bows low at the waist to Sherlock and Molly, head cocked respectfully. "I thank you for bringing them to me- I could not have done any of this without you." Another smile. "The wildwood will bless your union."

And the Beldam glides away, towards what was once the staircase, Sherlock thinks. Everywhere she walks, the house pulses as if it were breathing. As if it were living. Flowers puff into life and die again, withering and growing in ever-living abundance. The two Magicians trail in the creature's wake, watching as the walls of Hart's Leap shift and creak, watching as the gorgeous wooden staircase Sherlock had once been so proud of twines itself like a hand around the thing possessing Hudson and lifts her to the ground floor as easily as if she were a child.

It sets her down as lightly as the wind might a leaf.

Sherlock moves to follow, about to jump to the ground, but even as he prepares to do so the wooden railings splay themselves upwards into spikes, making sure to stop his progress. Molly, smaller and more agile than he, attempts to evade them but even as she does so a sudden, terrible bellow echoes through the house… It sounds a lot like Mary Watson…

"Let me in, Molly!" she's calling. "Let me in, love!"

There's more thumps and the sound of masculine swearing, which Sherlock rather suspects might be her husband. With each thump the house shudders, as if flinching at an injury. The woman's voice grows louder though, more commanding, yet even as she calls Hart's Leap writhes and shudders, heaving as if about to hoist itself onto two feet. The floor sways drunkenly and Sherlock pulls Molly to him. They both cling onto the banisters and one another, Molly's eyes wild and frightened, Sherlock as close to panic as he may ever have been-

And then, of course, he hears it.

Sherlock swears he can hear the howling of hounds.

Molly takes his hand in a tight grip. "I think we might have to run," she says, just as a pair of glowing blue eyes melt out of the shadows beside them. The thing growls, showing shadowy, vicious teeth and without another word Sherlock nods.

He doesn't need to be told that they are prey now.

"We run," he says, leaping free of the banisters, and that is exactly what they do

Chapter Text

11: ADAM'S KIN

By the time Mary and John get to Hart's Leap, the sun is nearly risen.

In the barely-there light of dawn, the house is very nearly indistinguishable from the woods which surround it.

Branches twine and curl around the walls, holding them as surely as a mother holds her child. Moss coats every surface, soft and velvety, while the windows are latticed with a hatch-work of leaves and flowers. The scent of forest and cool, sweet dew is everywhere. As they approach, they find members of the household, frozen in place like statues, their flesh gnarled and bark-like, their eyes closed. Each one is smiling peacefully. Yet more flowers and leaves twine through the figures' hair like May Day crowns, moss shivering over their bodies like a second skin…

"What is this?" John whispers, horrified. He looks at his wife. "What have we sent our Molly into?"

Mary frowns, running her fingers lightly over the figures. Sorting through the Magics she can feel threading around them. The sweet, sparkling green of Molly's power is familiar, a constant. It is now shot through with the golden, sharp elegance of her teacher, however. That flickers uncertainly.

Mary had never seen the Queensman's power so weak.

Underneath it though, she senses something else. Something… older. Something made of deep earth and slow time, made of seasons ever turning and swift-darting life. Mary leans closer, closing her eyes. Straining what gifts she has. She senses… something. Some thing .

She's nearly there… She can nearly see it…  Just a little further…

"Mary!"

Harsh hands grab her and when she opens her eyes, John is staring at her in horror.

He's breathing hard, his ax lying forgotten beside him as he shakes her.

His grip is tight enough to bruise.

"Dinnae worry, love," she says, trying for lightness, but her tongue feels unwieldy, thick in her mouth.

Her heartbeat is strangely… sluggish.

John grabs her and drags her to him. Presses a kiss to her forehead and breathes her in- She can't help but feel he's being a great deal more dramatic than he needs to be-

"Don't tell me not to worry," he bites out. "Not when you're… When you're…"

He can't seem to make himself say the words, so instead he takes her hand. Brings it to rest against his chest.

The sight which greets her would frighten a lesser lass.

For Mary can see green, interlaced flowers glowing on her skin, canny and powerful as her mother's old Wardings. They twine, alive with power and desire, calling forth her Magic and the Magic around her… The sight is so beautiful that it makes her breath catch. But beneath the glimmering light of others' Magic her flesh has hardened. Coarsened, almost, so that it looks a little like tree bark. When she moves her fingers they creak like winter-wracked wood, the pain splintering through her. Knifing up her arm. A cold settles into her bones, old and calcified with weather and loss and time-

She looks at her hands. Looks at the manor house.

She sees the crowns of flowers blooming about each servants' head and she knows, she suddenly knows just what she's dealing with…

Such a Thing has not been raised in an age.

Trust her little Molly and her Magician to manage it.

"The Mother, The Crone and The Maiden help me," she murmurs, horror and wonder moving through her. To be in the presence of such a Thing, to be involved in anything to do with it…

Who is she to trade power against the sort of creature she is about to face?

At the look of alarm John shoots her, she tries to smile though. Tries to soothe him.

He knows a little of what she's fought before, but knowing the scale of the trial before them will do him no good.  So-

"Pick up that ax, my love," she says tightly, taking her own knife from her belt and turning towards the manor. If she is to do this, then she will do it. If she is to save Molly, then she will take the risk. For perhaps the first time since she was a very young girl, Mary finds herself wondering whether she is up to the task she has set herself, but there is no point indulging in her doubts now. So she moves in front of John and though she sees him grit his teeth in annoyance, he allows it. He's a practical man, for all his bullheadedness, and while he may once have been a soldier for the Queen, these days he is willing to defer to another woman's skills, at least in some things.

"Hold onto me tightly," she says quietly, "and do as I bid ye, alright?"

"As if I'd dare do aught else," John snorts, but though he too is trying for lightness, Mary can hear the tension in his voice. His hand is tight in hers. He may not know what sort of trouble they- and by extension, young Molly and her Magician- are in, but he can guess at it.

It was dealing with such trouble in her home which had brought she and him together, after all.

So he follows her, ax at the ready, and when they find the overgrown, immoveable door to Hart's Leap he doesn't hesitate: he starts hacking away at it. The wood hisses and moans as if in pain, yet even as he makes his way in, Mary sees that it is closing up behind them. Where his ax has bitten into wood, thorns sprout, more vicious and sharp than previously, as if to prevent themselves from further attack-

It's almost as if… It's almost as if the wood itself has begun to think, and that is not a pleasing notion.

But still, they move forward. Still, they pick their way carefully through the undergrowth. The branches thicken here too, becoming waxy and dense as wickerwork. Sounds slither through the darkness, whispers of night in the forest. Whispers from before mankind and axes, from before the coming of The Cunning Folk and the rest of Adam's kin. Mary realises it's no longer dawn, that she can see no sunlight. All about her is shadow, thick and warm with knowing. The leaves muffle any sounds besides her and John's breathing, the canopy above them blocks out all light. Neither sun nor moon nor star shines kindly upon either of them, and as Mary well knows, that bodes no good… This is going to be even more difficult than she thought…

"Solas," she murmurs then, reaching deep within herself and summoning one of her Tatters, a bone-pale ball of light. It's the sort of Magic which Cunning Folk usually reject for attracting too much attention, but here Mary knows she needn't worry about such things.

The Being which has caused all of this already knows that they're here.

Nevertheless, she proceeds carefully forward, her knife and her Magic at the ready. Here and there she spots more servants from Hart's Leap who have turned to wood, made treelike by the thing Molly and her Magician have set free.

"Can we help them?" John asks when he sees her looking, but she shakes her head.

"Not yet," she says. At his raised eyebrow, she elaborates. "I believe that whatever is holding them will need to be persuaded to let them go," she says. "Should I try and force things I will do more harm than good."

John accepts this thoughtfully, nodding. "Could Molly's Magician do it?" he asks, and then immediately shakes his head. He has his answer in the fact that Sherlock hasn't stopped whatever is happening from happening. Despite herself, Mary squeezes his hand, trying to take the sting out of his annoyance with himself, and as she does something smashes into her. Something small and warm and distinctly human-shaped…. Distinctly Molly -shaped…

"Molls!" John snaps, catching her before she can hit the ground. She looks terrible. "Molly, what's wrong?"

The girl gasps, pointing wordlessly behind her before bawling at the top of her lungs for Sherlock to come to her. Immediately the Magician appears, crashing through the undergrowth as if Old Scratch were on his tail, his expression every bit as young and terrified as his Apprentice's. There's little of the smug Queensman about him. now. At his heels come a line of wolves, gray as ash and insubstantial as a puff of pipe smoke. Their eyes glow golden and their teeth look sharp, sharp enough to cause the bloodied gouge Mary can see in Sherlock's calf, sharp enough to have caused the bite on Molly's shoulder…

Without a word John hands Molly his ax and moves to stand between his wife and the wolves.

Pride blossoms in Mary's chest at the sight of her man, doing what he does best.

"You'll need iron, my love," she reminds him, and with a dark, wicked grin John moves forward, brandishing his two favourite flat-bladed knives, brought from home for this very purpose and stashed beneath his jerkin.

"But of course," he says, grinning. A glance at Sherlock and Molly, and then he reluctantly takes out two smaller iron stiletto blades, handing them to the Magicians. "Do not lose this," he says to Sherlock. Molly needs no such admonition. "Slash hard, slash often, and show no mercy…"

And then, without another word, he darts forward and sets to work on the wolves.

He does not see, buzzing above him, the swarm of wasps spying for their mistress…

Chapter Text

12: TROY TOWN

When Sherlock was first Apprenticed he had had no fears of any kind.

Growing up in the presence of a Magician as powerful as his mother had left him with no need of them.

After her death, and Eurus' disgrace, after Mycroft's first exile and his own second Apprenticeship with the hated Woldesly, then he had learned to fear. To fear not only the loss that can come to anyone, no matter how powerful, through death, but also the loss of control. Of safety. Of certainty. As well as teaching through pain, his second Master had taught through fear, and Sherlock had endured it in silence for years in order to be free of the bastard. Not even his brother had been able to save him. By the time he had left his second Master's service, he had told himself that he was utterly inured to both fear and pain, that neither had any hold on him; he told himself that he was a mighty Magician, a Queensman, and that he would never truly have anything to fear again…

He sees now that this was but a foolish boy's hope.

For here, without his Magic and fighting these… things, here Sherlock is suddenly painfully aware that he has triumphed over neither fear nor pain. He has triumphed over nothing. There's no cause for fear when one has nothing to lose, he thinks, slashing at one of the shadow hounds with his blade and then falling back. There's nothing to fear when one truly has nothing one cares about, and thus nothing which would hurt one in the losing-

His eyes go to Molly then, her teeth gritted and her eyes burning as she slashes at one of the creatures, and his heart constricts painfully.

God, but he doesn't want to lose her…

He watches as the shadowy hound slinks back, melting into the roiling mass of its fellows only to emerge again and attack again-

"No!"

With a bellow he lunges forward, driving his knife up into the shadowy throat of the beast, and with a snarl the creature disintegrates into smoke. John Watson's knives flash beside him and two more of the creatures join its ranks, howling as they go. Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock can see Mary rocking on her heels, eyes closed, lips barely moving as she whispers something-

One of the hounds charges her, only to be stopped in its tracks by Molly. With a snarl she slides her blade upwards as Sherlock had done, slitting the creature open until the knife reaches the same point Sherlock's had with its predecessor, and just like that beast, this one comes apart, fading into nothingness-

"Good girl," Watson mutters, grinning savagely at her through bloodied lips. "It's just like skinning rabbits."

"Aye." Her own grin matches him. "And I had a good teacher in that." A flash of movement at his side and before Sherlock can react Molly darts forward, slashing her blade again. Now she knows to aim for the throat, she takes out three of the beasts at a time.

The sight both terrifies and fascinates Sherlock.

How can his sweet, warm Molly prove so lethal?

"Watch Mary!" she barks at him and he obliges, turning his attention back to the other woman. Five of the hounds have broken free of the pack, slinking and sliding like ink around her. They dart forward, snarling, but each time they do so some force seems to rebuff them-

Sherlock knows a protective circle when he sees one, and the realisation makes him grin savagely.

So he moves forward, his blade at the ready, his gaze focussed on the hounds. He may not have any Magic, but that doesn't mean there's no Magic here. At his approach Mary looks up, her eyes open and glinting like molten copper. "Protect me," she says and her voice echoes oddly, as if it's coming to him from under water.

Sherlock wonders whether that's how he sounds, when he casts around others.

"I can't-" he tries but she shakes her head. "You are a man of signs and symbols," she says. 'Use them, Queensman- I can do the rest." A gasp, and the copper of her eyes glows brighter. She rises slightly, her bare feet dangling a foot above the ground, arms outspread. She reminds him, oddly, of the painted saints he saw as a boy in Church. From the very edge of his vision Sherlock sees Molly sway for a moment, overcome. Her eyes go to he and thence to Mary, and then she straightens up, the same copper light in Mary's eyes outlining her in glowing green and gold. A nod to the blond woman- "take care of my Magus for me,"- and then she's back to fighting.

Sherlock's not sure whether to be flattered or disgruntled at being thought in need of protection.

Mary will allow him neither. "Symbols, Queensman!" she snaps. "You put your faith in symbols! In signs and words! If you make your signs then we will power them-"

And a long sturdy stick shoots towards him. Instinctively he catches it. He swings it around as one of the hounds darts towards him and though the creature melts right through it, he brings the blade in his other hand up and slits its throat open. It comes apart with a howl. The blow sets him off balance and he digs the stick into the earth, trying to right himself; the ground shudders beneath him and he realises that in keeping himself upright he has gouged a deep, thin line into the earth. A single line, the beginning of every sign he knows, every sigil...

You are a man of signs and symbols, Queensman…  Use them…

He belatedly realises what Mary Watson means for him to do and he grins fiercely. He brings the stick down again to scratch another line, then another, three strong parallels that represent sky, earth and sea. These ground all that a Magician may do. He circles Mary swiftly, scratching out the first, simplest protective sigils his mother taught him, the ones carved into the floor of his childhood bedroom, the ones etched around the cradle in which he and his siblings had each slept. As he does so he mutters the words that go with them, unsure whether they are needed but unwilling to risk not saying them-

"Yes," Mary calls, her voice coming as if from far away. "Yes, that's right, Queensman… Your heart beats strongly, and your heart will keep you strong!"

And she returns to her own Magic, her head tilted back now. The copper of her power glowing brighter. Around him Hart's Leap shakes and shudders, the house starting to regain its shape, the forest which has claimed it receding. Sweat drenches Mary's face, her lips moving faster than he can parse, but whatever she's doing it's clearly effective.

I shall have to raise my opinion of Cunning Folk, Sherlock can't help but think.

But she needs his help, and his help he will give her. So he starts to add another layer of sigils to the first, a wheel within a wheel to strengthen it. As he works he feels warmth, that same warmth from before inching through him, golden as the chime of an old bell. But this is different, he realises, this doesn't make him shudder, this doesn't feel… not-his , in the same way that that sensation had. No, this feels like he's exactly where he's supposed to be. That he's doing just what he ought to.

As he works the hounds fall back; where their bodies touch the sigils he's made they howl in pain, their bodies sparkling into cinders.

This seems, for them, to be a much more painful death, and the thought pleases him greatly.

But the ground quakes beneath him suddenly, splitting open; Mary gasps, tumbling downward like a stone tossed from a great height. Sherlock goes to her, helps her up, but even as he does he hears something, a horrid, vicious droning-

He looks up and the wasps the Beldam had released earlier are knifing towards them, roiling with malicious intent.

They're not heading for him, they're heading straight for Molly and John.

"Go," Mary coughs. "Take them and run. Knock John unconscious, if you have to…"

And she coughs again, head bowed, shoulders hacking. Blood spots her hands, stains her cloak. For the first time in their acquaintance, Sherlock thinks that she looks fragile. Another shudder runs through the earth, another crack slicing through it, just feet from them both. The crack pulls Mary away from him, marooning her on an island of earth as something fetid and green coils up from beneath…

"Can you-" he asks, but Mary shakes her head as he's known she would.

"I can't." She sounds absolutely exhausted. "The Lady is old, and angry, and powerful…

It was folly to think that a creature such as I could match strength with her."

"What does she want?" Sherlock says, bewildered, and Mary looks at him like he's mad.

"She wants to be left in peace, of course," she says. "That's what her kind have always wanted."

Sherlock frowns, confused- who and what had disturbed her, that she had come into his home and torn it asunder? Who or what was her kind, that she could have stolen his Magic and reduced him to this? Yet even as he's thinking this, John Watson yells out in pain, the wasps swarming around him. Molly tries to pull him to her and the wasps turn on her as well. Helplessness rises in Sherlock, sheer, howling helplessness and he rushes towards them, trying to help them-

He makes it but three steps, however, before he is blocked.

For rising from the cracks of the earth are trees and briars. Ancient things. Within their branches he spies stones and bricks, the makings of houses and barns and hearths. Bones, both animal and human. Toys and pots and weapons, the things people leave behind. There are statues of angels too, of devils, of gods and monsters from long ago; at the very bottom he spies paintings of men with animal heads, trees the size of houses, all shot through with charcoal and ochre. They shift in motley dance, moving too fast for even his eye to follow. Trees shoot skyward, impenetrable as giants, their canopies too high up for him to discern; the briars twist and turn, roiling as the wood in Hart's Leap had the first day Molly came to stay-

And as he watches they dance and coil around him, sinewy and elegant.

One drags Molly towards him, leaving John Watson to the mercies of the wasps-

"No!" Molly yells, twisting herself viciously and trying to wriggle free.

Sherlock tries to help but the briars twist around him too, the knots digging into his flesh and yanking him upwards, leaving him trussed like a fish in a net.

Rage floods through him at the helplessness of it, the helplessness of that boy from long ago.

As he struggles, more rocks and earth rise to surround he and Molly though, blocking out the view of the Watsons, blocking out everything except thicket and thorn and crag and stone. The very air pulsates, hot and fetid, wet and sticky with the scent of sap. The eruptions slide elegantly through the earth, cross-crossing and breaking Sherlock's protective sigils. They pack themselves tightly together, huddling like soldiers, forming themselves into curved, elegant phalanxes, walls which glow with the same dark green light the Beldam had wrought…

As Sherlock watches they form circles within circles, a maze, a labyrinth.

He and Molly are being shunted towards that labyrinth's centre, in the midst of which a single, great, ancient tree stands.

Its roots twine and twist, undulating. Hypnotic.

They form themselves into a raised dais, then into a chair; as Sherlock and Molly watch the roots stretch themselves into a maw, an archway through which the Beldam glides. Wherever her feet touch, flowers erupt. White and red, glowing and beautiful. The thorns tighten on Sherlock, his blood dropping onto the earth, and wherever that lands golden yellow flowers blossom, bright as summer stars.

"So beautiful," the Beldam murmurs, stooping to examine them. "So, so beautiful."

She shakes her head in what might be sorrow.

"The mortals have such a gift for making new things," she murmurs, apparently to herself, "for all that they destroy."

And, elegant as any Queen, the Beldam steps up onto the dais, seats herself into the chair of shifting branches behind her. The wood curls up, twining itself into a canopy until she appears to be sitting on a living, growing throne.

A small gesture and she summons both Sherlock and Molly to her, the thorns in which they are caught setting them down and pressing their bodies prostrate.

Sherlock tastes blood and soil in his mouth as his face is forced into the dirt.

"I have saved you, my sweet ones," the Beldam tells them. "I have brought you here, Adam's Kin, that you may have our wildwood marriage…"

"Our friends…" Molly starts but instantly a bramble coils around her throat, stopping her voice and her breath and making her gag desperately.

Sherlock fights, trying to get to her, only to suffer the same fate.

"Your friends tried to interfere, and so I have stopped them," the Beldam is saying quietly. She seems not to notice that she might be killing them. "You two have given of yourself to me freely, and for that reason I have kept you safe."

She gestures, and the trees around her shift and twine, blossoms erupting, until they have formed themselves into something which looks rather like a bower.

As soon as this happens, the thorns release both Sherlock and Molly.

Instantly they go to one another, wrapping their arms around one another in a desperate, trembling embrace; Molly kisses him and mutters to him, demanding to know if he's alright even as he does the same for her.

"You will stay here," the Beldam is saying softly, and now her voice has a crooning, sweet quality to it. It reminds Sherlock of that golden feeling in his bedroom, when all this started. This time it has a sense of… not-his about it. "You will stay here, and you will honour the old ways," the Beldam is saying. "Do that, and I will see to it that you will never have to worry about anything in the mortal world again."

Molly licks her lips, looking at her. "And if we refuse?"

The Beldam's eyes come to rest on her, eerie and green and ancient.

"If you refuse, well then it will not be your love I use to keep you here…"

And with a gesture Sherlock is yanked from her grasp, hoisted above her by a noose of briars. The Magician gasps, legs kicking, his hands clawing desperately at the thorns but he can find no purchase-

"No," Molly screams. "No!"

Sherlock jerks like a puppet on a string, only to be dumped unceremoniously back on the ground again. He gasps, heaving in air through an aching throat even as Molly tries to go to him though the briars hold her in place.

This time the thorns tear at her, pulling her limbs viciously apart. She gasps, pulling and fighting, but their grip is too strong.

"You see?" The Beldam says. "You see my strength next to yours, little mortal? You see how little power you have when you challenge me?"

"Why- Why are you doing this?" The girl huffs out. "Why would you do my Magus and I harm?"

"Why?" The Beldam snarls, and for the first time she seems angry. "You dare ask me why?" She stands, growing in height, her throne twisting about her like some living, awful armour. "You cut and burn and thieve and tear, Adam's Kin! You seek to annihilate me and mine, and you dare ask me why I fight back?"

And she gestures viciously, trees and stone parting before her.

A tunnel appears in the foliage, a tear, showing the world outside Hart's Leap, the world from which Sherlock and Molly have been pulled.

Sherlock sees grey stone and tree stumps, sees the broken woodlands he sheltered in on the day he first met Molly. He sees the wages of his Queen's hunger for timber and parkland and control writ large, here in the wild North. As he watches a screen falls over his eyes, almost like silk, and upon it he can see the beauty and life that there once was in this place, the ancient magnificence of the woods in which Hart's Leap was built. But now… Now, what might once have been burrows, or woodland pools, are blackened. Sickly. Used as middens or made stagnant. The earth itself looks desiccated. It looks as if nothing will ever grow in it again. And for the first time since he came here, finally he sees this loss for what it is, not a bit of progress that cannot be helped but a decision that has been made. A decision that has been followed through on.

For the first time since he came here, he feels pity in his heart for what he and all his Silken Court have helped The Magnificent Gloriana do.

Shame blossoms inside him, an agony in root and thorn.

"Your petty, mortal Queen sends her filth," the Beldam is hissing now. "They tear and burn and desecrate, they strip the flesh from my heart, my bones! I, who was ancient when your kind knew nothing of song or beauty! I, who was ancient when your kind knew nothing, even, of dreaming. My kind and I taught your ancestors Magic, we taught you thought and music and joy and loving, and now you seek to destroy me?"

She smiles, her teeth drawn back from her lips in a feral grin.

"Did you imagine I would not fight back, little Queensman?"

Sherlock staggers to his feet. Tries to stand before her. When he can't manage that he falls to his knees. "This can be halted, Old One," he says desperately. "As long as I am Lord here, I give you my word that this will stop-"

The Beldam's look is caustic.

"I know better than to take the word of such as you, Queensman," she hisses. A jerk of her lip and she shows those terrifying, needle-like teeth of hers again. "Besides, I have you here now," she says softly. "I have you, and your wildwood bride, and the Magic you make together.

What need I else?"

And she skulks back to her throne. Gestures once again to the bower she created. The forest and its labyrinth shrug themselves back together, a universe entire. Made (apparently) for two, and there is nothing- nothing- that Sherlock can do to save Molly from it. The shame within him deepens, and the Magician closes his eyes. Reaches out, hoping, hoping for his Magic, hoping for something. But nothing comes. Nothing. Rather green pulses through the leaves, the stones, the scent of new life wafting all around him. Sherlock can feel new growth rising around him, liquid and intoxicating as honey. He tries to hold onto himself, his memories, but it's becoming so difficult. He manages to raise his head, to meet Molly's gaze, and the fear he sees there stops him dead. For she's his Apprentice, his Apprentice. He swore he would protect her, swore he would treat her better than Woldsley ever treated him. And yet here she is, hanging, trapped, at the mercy of a creature he can't possibly save her from.

Sherlock feels hopelessness roll through him, helplessness eating at his heart-

And then he sees it. Oh, he sees it.

A desperate gamble. A way to save Molly.

"My Lady," he says suddenly, lowering his head and kneeling as a knight before his lord.

"My Lady," he rasps. "I offer you a bargain."

Chapter Text

13: THE MAGICIAN'S APPRENTICE

For a moment Molly stares at him, unable, apparently, to believe what she's hearing.

The Beldam appears to agree with her, for she graces them both with that needle-sharp smile of hers, head cocked coquettishly to the side.

She also tightens the grip on his throat.

"You wish to bargain, little one?" she asks, her voice honey-sweet. It's terrifying. "And what, pray tell, do you think I might have from you?"

Undeterred, Sherlock raises his chin, fixing the creature with his best attempt at a hard stare. Were Sherlock's brother Mycroft, or, indeed his former Master Woldsley, present then they would know that he had set his course and elected to dig his heels in. They would also know that whatever he has decided, he would not be swayed from it. For a moment the Beldam meets his gaze, one eyebrow cocked. Despite her supernatural appearance Sherlock can trace Mistress Hudson's features in her and it makes his heart twist. Another mistake he has made, another person hurt because of him. All this time, he should have been protecting the people he loved, the people he pledged himself to-

He drops his eyes in an act of obeisance which the Beldam would appear to trust not one jot.

"You are powerful, My Lady," he begins. "You have shown that. You are ancient, older than anyone or anything I have ever met, or will meet again, and I know that next to you I must seem like a mere mayfly-"

"Flattery may work on your Silken Court, Queensman," the Beldam says dryly, "but it will have no effect on me."

Eyes still on the ground, Sherlock shrugs.

"Telling the truth is not flattery, My Lady" he says softly. "And understanding your own smallness, and impermanence, next to the great powers of the world, is important. Understanding what mistakes you have made is important, too." He inclines his head towards Molly. "As my Apprentice has often pointed out, such humility is not something at which I excel."

The Beldam makes a sound which might almost be a snort. "True." She narrows her eyes at Molly but when she speaks, she speaks to Sherlock.

"What are you offering me, Queensman?"

Molly closes her eyes at the words. Shakes her head. She stares at him beseechingly but the branch at her throat stills her speech. It will still her life if he's not careful, Sherlock knows.

And so he bites his lip. Pulls at his bindings until they give slightly and then he bows entirely in front of her, his forehead to the ground.

It is a posture he has not put himself in since he escaped Woldsley.

It makes bile rise in his throat.

"My Lady," he says. "I offer you… me."

The Beldam rolls her eyes. "I have you-"

"No," he says quietly. "You have me caged. I know you will have both me and my Molly bound soon enough." He risks a glance up, his eyes knowing. The Beldam is watching him with a terrifying stillness. "But surely one so wise as you must know that you will not be able to keep us like that forever-"

Molly can see where this is going, apparently.

"Magus," she rasps, "Sherlock, don't-"

"Silence," the Beldam hisses, pulling the briars around her neck tight until it looks like she can't breathe. Her face purpling and her eyes bulging, it sets panic hissing in Sherlock's chest. In instinct he tries to get to his feet, tries to go to her. The branches at his throat and wrists yank him back however, tightening. Cutting off his air. Black spots dance before his vision, unconsciousness calling him, until the Beldam abruptly lets him go, dropping him to the earth like a stone.

Instantly briars wind around his arms and legs, holding him in place. Thorns dig into his flesh, twisting in place like knives and he snarls in pain-

"My Lady, please!"

This from Molly, who is trying to go to him.

The Beldam is still keeping her firmly in place, however, though she has loosened the grip on her throat and allowed her to speak.

Sherlock supposes, darkly, he should allow himself to be thankful for small mercies.

"Fascinating," the creature murmurs, however. As she speaks the next white blossoms twine around her shoulders like a mantle. They wind up through her bark-like skin to crown her brow. "You would both… You would both sacrifice yourself for the other, would you not?" She says and Molly nods desperately. Sherlock wishes she would pretend indifference since it might broaden her chances of surviving, but that is not his Apprentice's way and he knows it.

The Beldam looks from her to Sherlock and back again, her eyes narrow. Calculating.

The very woods around them seem to throb with the tension of her scrutiny, the rustling of the leaves like the slash of a knife.

Sherlock holds her gaze, hoping, pleading with his eyes, that she will take the bargain he has offered: He got his Apprentice into this, and he will get her out of it, too, if this creature will let him.

"The maid is but a sapling, it is true," the Beldam says eventually. "Powerful in potential, but not yet grown to strength and might." She inclines her head, eyes narrowed at Sherlock. "There is no honour in harming such a one: not even Adam's Kin would stoop to that."

Sherlock nods, once.

"You, though, Queensman," the Beldam continues, turning her attention to him. "You are no sapling. You are an infestation, a poppy child. Left unattended, you would do more damage to me and mine. You would bring about my destruction, if only because now you know I am here."

As she speaks she jerks him upwards by his wrists using her branches, sets him swinging like a puppet on a string- or a corpse in a gibbet.

It hurts to feel so powerless, and yet Sherlock knows there's nothing he can do.

"And you are in your full power, in your full strength," she continues. "You are capable of so much damage, if you were to be left to work your will..."

Sherlock struggles to speak. She loosens her branches enough to let him.

"Then prevent me from doing damage, My Lady," he says desperately. He has to fix this. "Hold me accountable, keep me prisoner here. I will give up my freedom to you, I will give up my Magic and willingly, if only you will set my Apprentice and her friends free.

Please."

And as he says that word something happens, something changes.

A shudder runs through the Beldam's wildwood kingdom, a shiver of Magic murmurs through the air.

Without warning the branches release Sherlock, release Molly. The girl lets out a gasp and darts towards him, wrapping her arms around him as if she intends to never let him go. They kiss and kiss and touch and Sherlock knows he will never have enough, he will never get enough of this…

"Say your farewells, little sapling," the Beldam says. "A promise is made in Magic, and in Magic it will be kept."

And with a gesture, one of her branches swats Molly away, knocking her onto her back. The girl gasps, winded, but manages to get to her feet. Sherlock is relieved. Rather than go to her though, he steps away. The Beldam holds her hand out to him and he nods, taking it. "I give my word," he says, and he knows it's a dangerous thing for a Magician, making a promise. Knows too, that in making this bargain he has given himself entirely over to the Beldam to do with as she will.

But it will keep Molly safe and that is more than payment enough.

So he steps closer to the Beldam. Nods. Accepts her. He feels that bark-like skin of hers start to twine around his own, sees the wildwood leaving Hudson and dragging him inside Her embrace. He hears Molly's screams, hears her pleas but it seems as if they're coming from very far away. He knows that she is being lost to him. She's begging the Beldam to give her Magus back, won't she please give her Magus back?

The creature doesn't listen, however. She has no need to.

Darkness closes around him. Velvet. Warm. Sweet-scented and all-encompassing. He thinks, bizarrely, of his Mother's study in Oxford all those years ago. Thinks too of Molly's Magic, singing in his own voice that first day that they met. He sees his life stretched out before him, and then the life he might have had, the happiness he and his Apprentice might have made together…

Fascinating, he hears the Beldam murmur, and then he is held safe in the deep, dark woods.

He will not know, but Hart's Leap House will never know another master but him.

Chapter Text

EPILOGUE: ILLYRIA

The Palace of White Hall,

Candlemas Night,

1601

(5 years later)

If Burbage doesn't stop pacing, Molly thinks, she's going to turn him into a toad.

Not, she must allow, that turning anyone into a toad is ever a good idea. Nor, for that matter, does she believe that the loss of their main actor and Her Majesty's personal favourite will make this evening's performance go any more smoothly. Not given how unsettled the city is right now. The Earl of Essex's rebellion may have been crushed but the atmosphere it generated still crackles like lightning through the streets. The Old Virgin Queen had been assayed, turned on by one of her favourites; that the younger man had even attempted such a thing bespeaks a weakness within government, a fragility to the Crown. There were whispers that Essex had been taken to the Silken Parliament to be tried, that Her Majesty's Queensmen were working on him, even now…

Molly forces her thoughts away from that dark image, unwilling to think about The Silken Court tonight.

Lord Mycroft may have kept her out of their clutches and seen to her Apprenticing, but she has never lost her horror of them and what they did to Sherlock long ago.

Her heart twists, as it always does when she thinks of him. Rather than pay that old heart ache any mind, she turns her attention to the actor currently fluttering about to her right. It's irritating; while she knows that everyone is feeling nervous, and while she also knows that Burbage will be wonderful once he gets onstage, his current bout of stage-fright is setting her teeth on edge. No matter how long she works with The Lord Chamberlain's Men, she can't get used to the actor's foibles. He pokes his nose into things, he moves others' props as he paces, awaiting his entrance. He fiddles and fusses with his costumes, many of which are none the better for his ministrations- And all the while he mutters his lines under his breath, as if afraid that he will forget them. (He never forgets them).

Sometimes he even snaps things at Molly, demanding she fix things for him or smooths them, when she had quite enough to be going on with, setting up her business for the performance-

"No."

She says the words peremptorily, having seen him open his mouth from the corner of her eye.

He shuts it with a pout and crosses his arms. Opens his mouth again, probably to argue.

"They're about to start," Molly says, cutting him off. "Your entrance is on the other side of the stage: make haste."

And she jerks her chin pointedly towards the great hall, where Her Majesty's Lord Chamberlain has bid the lights be dimmed and the crowds be seated. They do so amongst a rustle of clothing and whispers, the excitement palpable. Diamonds and silks and candles all glitter, turning the air golden. There's a scent of rich food and violets, it reaches out to Molly like a caress…

She knows all of this is, in its own way, a wondrous sort of Magic.

Molly smiles at the thought, cheered both by it and the fact that Burbage is now hurrying towards his entrance point.

There, she thinks, he can be a pain in Will's arse for a while.

Now that she's alone she can concentrate on her box of tricks, which is just as she likes it. Whatever she may tell the others, her illusions require more work than she willingly lets on. So she runs through the box of supplies before her, counting off bottles and tinctures, powders and poultices. Candles, mirror, knife are all ready; a quick sip of wine, as is her wont, and then she sets about mixing the ingredients for her first illusion. It feels good, after so long a closure of the playhouses, to use her Magic again.

So she squints over the short, scribbled list of her cues at her elbow- she suspects that Gusty was more than a little drunk when he wrote it out for her- and as she does, she sees Will give her a nod from across the hall, indicating that she should let loose.

They're waiting for you, he mouths.

No, they're waiting for you, she mouths back.

He grins cockily, as he always does. There's a reason they call him an upstart crow. Nevertheless, she closes her eyes with a smile and whispers softly. Selects the first bottle in front of her and brings the glass to her mouth to kiss. As she does, she feels her heart tighten, senses the forces within the glass gather themselves-

They will react as much to her emotions as they do to the audience's.

So, with careful grace she flips the bottle's cork off and opens it, blows its contents in the direction she wishes them to seek. Magic slithers out like smoke, tumbling, dancing. The air grows dark, a wind rising to howl. To her relief she sees the old Queen smile and nod, impressed by the illusion of an oncoming storm…

Encouraged, Molly concentrates, gestures. She lets her Magic flow from within her. Lightning flashes, once, twice, three times. A roll of thunder comes on its heels, loud enough to make the courtiers jump in their seats. She can see them looking around, trying to spot an Imp or Daemon but she has never stooped to using such a creature and she is proud to know she never will. From the corner of her eye, she sees Will and Burbage grin, some new actor she doesn't recognise at their elbow. He's watching her intently from the shadows off-stage, and his gaze makes Molly feel rather… exposed.

It is not a pleasant feeling.

Nevertheless, she dismisses the thought, turning her attention back to the stage. With a harsh whisper the temperature within the great hall drops, turning icy. There's a smell of brine, the murmuring of tides writhing in the dark. Such simple Magic, Molly grins, and yet so effective. Gesturing, muttering, she shapes the clouds she's let loose, harnessing them. In the flickering gloom of the torches the audience sees the shadow of a ship tossed to and fro, hears the songs of mermaids and the cries of frightened men.

(Admittedly, Burbage, Will, Gusty and that new player they brought in yesterday are probably helping provide those voices too, but still).

The audience gasps, leaning forward. Louder and louder Molly bids her storm roar and holler. Wilder and wilder, she bids her shadow-ship list and pull, list and pull. The audience reaction feeds her Magic, it makes the illusion better still. The crowd has grown absolutely silent now, on the edge of their seats, and as she sees that Molly grins in triumph, delighted to see how entirely she has their attention-

A flick of her wrist and she creates a shadowy illusion of Young Hal, who is going to be playing Viola.

Another flick of her hand and a more shadowy illusion of the boy who will be playing her brother, Sebastian, appears.

The illusions of the twins scream, crying out as they are both dragged beneath the waves. The audience gasps, some of the ladies' hands going to their throats, some of the gentlemen's fingers inching instinctively towards their swords. (So, Molly thinks, I'll have to gentle this when we return to The Globe). Nevertheless, she continues, holding her concentration as the storm howls louder, then louder. A wave crashes, then another, and the audience gasps, pulling back as if afraid they too will drown. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Will pause, hold, and then nod decisively to her-

"Now," he mouths, his gaze electric.

Slowly, she starts to bring her Magic to heel, to draw it back in.

It feels like nothing so much as the popping of a bubble inside her head, but then, it always does.

With a small sigh she coaxes her storm back into its bottle. It mills around inside there, tapping and tumbling, yearning once again to be let loose. That is the nature of storms- and Magic- after all. Ignoring it, Molly sets it aside for the next time it is needed. Her eyes flicker over the cue list, already searching for the ingredients for her next Spell. She's so busy concentrating on the task that she almost misses the first line of the play, the entrance of their leading man. She had assumed it would be Burbage- it's always Burbage- but to her surprise she hears, not the usual surge of applause at his appearance, but a gasp of surprise.

A flicker of desire surges through the crowd, both men and women; curious, she looks to the stage, wondering what has elicited this reaction- Whoever the actor onstage is, he's clearly both new and impressive.

The sight which greets her is not one she recognises, however.

For, rather than Burbage, that new actor she didn't recognise earlier is standing the brightest spot of the stage. He's tall. Elegant. Thinly built and pale. She has the strangest feeling that she's seen him somewhere before. He stands utterly still, a fiddle at his shoulder, and as she watches he draws the bow across it, eliciting the most shiveringly beautiful, aching note. It slides through the hall like a caress. Molly frowns, getting to her feet- She knows Cunning Craft when she hears it- She knows a Coaxing Charm when she hears it, too-

As if sensing her the actor plays another note, his gaze flickering to hers.

They stop, stare. Hold.

Brown eyes find greenish blue, recognition jolting within both.

For in that moment Molly sees through all the enchantments he has cloaked himself with and into the very heart of him…

"Sherlock," she murmurs, tears pricking her eyes.

Her Magus. Her dear one.  Her lost one. 

For a moment, just a moment, she's a green, naive girl again.

He heard her, she doesn't doubt he heard her. She can see it in the set of his shoulders, the stillness of his posture. His face is still beautiful and still easily legible, to her. Nevertheless, he turns away, looks out into the audience. Each one of them is sitting on the edge of their seat now, held, she thinks, in the palm of his hand.

She should have known he'd make a good actor.

"If music be the food of love, Maestro," he intones, his voice rich and warm and familiar, "then pray, play on…"

And thus, the play begins.

The performance seems interminable, and her attention is so scattershot that eventually a scowling Will comes to sit by her and prompt her for each cue.

He spends the entirety of this endeavour swearing under his breath in his rough Devon accent, but he gets her through the show without too many mistakes. For that, she is grateful.

Knowing how popular he is with Her Majesty, she has no wish to see him lose royal favour over her.

When the show is finally, blessedly over and the actors have taken their bows, Molly rushes to the wagons, searching among the actors and servants as they pack away the props and costumes. There's talk of the play, talk of the Queen, talk particularly of a well-deserved pint in The Mermaid to celebrate their Twelfth Night engagement-

As she searches, a hand suddenly snags her elbow. Pulls her to the side.

A muttered word, warmth beside her and then suddenly she's underneath the stage in White Hall, a tatterlight of the same kind as Mary uses flaring into life beside her. The room is filled with the smell of the greenwood, of wild sap and whispering leaves and Magic. So much Magic.

It fills her head like incense.

She turns to find her Magus- her Sherlock- standing beside her, his beautiful, familiar face not a day aged from when she last saw him.

In the tatterlight's glow she can see green threaded through his hair, can see it glimmer in the very depths of his eyes.

"Molly," he whispers, "Maja…"

He smiles, looking at her, and it should be awkward, it should be impossible. She should want to ask questions, she should want to scream at him. She should want anything at all except what she does want, which is to pull him to her and kiss him so thoroughly that it absolutely, positively steals her breath.

She thought she'd never get to kiss him again.

So she kisses him passionately. Wildly. His mouth is hot and good on hers. When they pull apart he grins, taking her face in his hands and running his nose along hers. Laying his forehead against her own. His fingers stroke through her hair and he pauses when his fingers brush over her House Sigils, the same ones he wears. The same ones Mycroft wears.

"You went to my brother," he says softly and she nods.

She hadn't known what else to do.

"We all did. Mary, John, Hudson and I. The other servants didn't remember anything of what they had been through, they only knew that something Magical had happened to them. They didn't stay to ponder what it was, they just ran." A small smile. "So did we, just in the other direction."

He looks at her sharply. "And Mycroft took care of you?" He asks. "He didn't- You weren't Apprenticed? You weren't sent to The Silken Court?"

She shakes her head. Kisses him soothingly. Even now, he is still trying to protect her. "Mycroft taught me, and Lady Anthea spoke to the Queen about it," she tells him. "Dispensation was made for me, and I wasn't forced to train for Silks within the Court." She shrugs. "I think Her Majesty felt guilt for your disappearance, to be honest."

His mouth ticks up in a wry grin. "As well she might." But he closes his eyes, relief written across his features. Presses a kiss to her forehead, his lips tingling against her skin. "So you're all safe," he says quietly. "She- the Beldam promised me- but I wasn't sure I trusted her until now."

"She promised you?" Molly frowns at him. "But… How are you here? How did you defeat her?"

He shakes his head, presses another kiss to her forehead.

"I didn't defeat her, Maja…" He smiles softly. "Eventually she let me go."

Molly blinks at him, astonished. Of all the things he could have said, she did not expect that. "She let you?" He nods. "She just let you go? But why?"

His smile is sad. Sad and oddly… fond, as well?

Molly doesn't understand it.

"She let me go," he says, "because that is what one does when one has completed their Apprenticeship.

One does not keep one's Apprentice chained at one's side, no matter how attractive an idea it might prove to be."

Molly shakes her head disbelievingly. "So she… She taught you? The Wildwood Beldam taught you?"

He nods. "She taught me everything, I think. At least, everything she believed a mind like mine could comprehend."

"But she wanted… She tried to take us prisoner!" Molly snaps. "She made you promise to give her your Magic!"

He nods again. His voice is quiet. "She did, aye, and she made no apologies for it." He looks away for a moment, then back to her. "She was… is… complicated, Molly. Such a being would be.

But when she saw my thoughts… When she saw my heart…" He shakes his head, rakes a hand through his hair. The gesture is so familiar that Molly's heart clenches at the sight of it.

"She doesn't understand humans, not really," he says eventually. "We are too different from Her, too noisy and quarrelsome and short-lived and fragile. We are too… unconnected to one another for such as her to comprehend.

But when I went to her willingly, when I shared my Magic as I had promised, she… I suppose she saw something in Adam's Kin that she could admire." His eyes flash to Molly's. "Actually, she saw something in you that she could admire."

"What was that?"

Sherlock smiles. "She saw your love for me. Your love for your friends. She saw the love you managed to kindle in me, even if I was too pigheaded to admit it to myself for an age.

But more than anything, she saw that Magicians come in all shapes and sizes, not just the arrogant sort who become Queensmen and then get sent to Hart's Leap House."

He takes Molly's hands in his, squeezing. Grins. "Once she saw that, she saw the potential we humans have. She saw the potential I might have, were I taught better and then given my freedom to rejoin my kind."

"So she let you go?"

Moll's not sure she can believe it.

He nods, though. "She did, eventually. She asked only that I help protect her when I was no longer one of her children. One would expect nothing less from such as she."

Moll looks at him carefully. Warily. "What did she have you do?"

"I hid her," he says evenly. "She had me draw her behind the veil of men's eyes, she had me hide her wildwood self. So I pulled knowledge of her from people's memories, I barred her from their sight. No soul can enter her woodlands, no soul can see her and she is safe from every tool of Adam's Kin- I swore it to her, and I brought it to pass."

He shrugs.

"Once she saw that I was happy to do this, she was happy to make another bargain and set me free."

Molly stares at him. "So you are… free? You are- You can-?"

She doesn't know quite what she's asking him.

His smile turns almost shy, though. Shy and gentle. The glow from his tatterlight softens, painting them both in gold. "Sir Sherlock Holmes could not have wed a yeoman's daughter," he says quietly. "The brother of Eurus' Holmes might not have been allowed to wed at all- Her Majesty and The Silken Court could well have seen to that."

He strokes her cheek.

"But Sir Sherlock Holmes disappeared five years ago and is presumed dead," he says softly. "The Silken Court has no business with him, nor Her Majesty either.

He is free."

Molly can't quite believe what she's hearing. She can't quite believe- Surely such good luck doesn't belong to one such as her?

"What are you asking me, Magus?" she says and he grins, kissing her.

"I'm asking you to marry me, Maja." He stands before her, hands at his side, and turns a circle. "I know I am but a penniless actor now, and technically speaking a dead man, but-"

"Yes!" She says, throwing her arms around him. "Yes, I will marry you! I will, I will!"

And she throws her arms around his neck, kissing him. Laughing giddily. A gesture from him and a thin band of jade winds around her ring finger like a promise.

Molly performs the same gesture, and a band of gold forms around his.

He takes her hand, bringing her ring to his lips to kiss.

"I'll have to ask Mycroft," she whispers in his ear, doing the same thing. "And Anthea, Mistress Hudson, Mary-"

"I think they might all be inclined to look favourably on me," he whispers back, laughing, as he picks her up and spins her around.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss some more. In the dark they make love, as they've wanted to for so long, whispering sighed endearments all the while.

Unable to find them, the actors leave, assuming the Stage Witch and the New Boy have already headed off to The Mermaid for a drink. Or maybe they each found a lover for the night- You can never tell with actors or Magicians, Burbage wisely says.

Only the upstart crow, Will, seems to think otherwise. All he will do is mutter something about Oberon finding his Titania…

It is noted, however, as the Lord Chamberlain’s Men leave White Hall, that the Palace is now unexpectedly wreathed in Spring blossoms.

Meanwhile…

In the Wild North, under the full moon, a traveller reins in his horse and stares at the spot where the great manor of Hart's Leap House once stood. For a moment he thinks he sees a flash of white: is it moonlight or some sort of early blossom?

He stops. Stares.

There's nothing there, nothing he can see. Nothing to tempt him.

Not knowing, really, what he's about, he orders his horse to ride on. Shakes off the shiver which runs down his spine and thinks of the warm meal and the safe hearth ahead of him.

Whatever was he thinking, he muses, stopping in such a desolate place?

He'll never know- not even suspect- that he looked, in that moment, on a Queen. A wildwood crone. A maiden, and a mother, and something more ancient than anything he could imagine.

She lies there sleeping, and he looked upon her. Left her.

That is as it should be.

For She sleeps, still. She dreams, still.

Cradled in the bones of the earth, let us hope She always will. 

FINIS