Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair England, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
Two pair of star-cross'd lovers risk their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their flight bury their parents' strife.
The joyful passage of their fae-mark'd love,
And the final end of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's plans, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
Amelia...he loved the only daughter of Tabetha and Augustus Pond, much as his friends did their best to talk him out of it. She was below his station, they said. He was from a family of Lords and Ladies, though the title would go to his brother and well it should. He had no interest in it. His interest lay in the sciences, a blasphemous decision for those with power.
And Amelia, his ginger-headed love.
They had met during a masquerade dance that a local pub had put on, only to have it ruined by members of their families and their associates. But the two had run off together, ducking into alleys and dashing into a cab and going far away to where they felt safe, on the outskirts of the city, in a small village called Leadworth.
There had been conversations, long, rambling but joyous conversations. And kisses, sweet sweet kisses that still made his head spin. The landlady of the inn, Mrs. Hudson, and his friend Lestrade, who whisked her back the next day, had said he was in love. Love at first sight, love at first conversation, love at first kiss? Yes, perhaps he was in love.
But John and others said to stay away, the Ponds had power, but still. He loved her.
And as he saw her take a furtive glance back towards her family’s London home, she loved him.
He finished the cig and put it out, careful not to leave the filter behind that it might be used against him. The ash was minute; he didn’t imagine after the weather magic Amelia was so adept at there would be a trace of him there.
She came to him and framed his face, giving him a fleeting but intense kiss. “Has she made the arrangements?” Amelia asked.
He nodded. “Molly is in the cellar, ready to go. She can lead us through the forest. Once we arrive in Wales, we’ll get married, then be off to the States.”
It was her turn to nod, a wide smile on her face. “Good, because I brought someone with me.”
He groaned as he saw the tall man come closer from the shadows. “Not Williams.”
“My mum and dad want him to marry me and he wants to be a healer. They won’t hear of it, saying he needs to go into politics if he marries me. They raised us together, they think they own us. But they don’t.”
“At least Molly will be happy,” he said with a sigh as Rory got closer. He nodded, holding Amelia’s hands in his. “Williams.”
“Holmes,” Rory said with a nod.
“You know the plan?” he asked the other man.
Rory nodded. “We get out, go to Wales, the two of you get married and then we head to the States.”
“Molly Hooper is with us,” Amelia said. “I know she’s a necromancer, but...”
“No, no, if she can get us out from under their thumb, I’ll take any help I can get.” Rory nodded to a spot over Sherlock’s right shoulder. “I think she’s calling for us.”
“Cal upon a storm, Amelia. That’s your end of all this,” Sherlock said. “We’ll make do of Williams’s healing powers if needed, I suppose, and Molly can get us around the fae as long as we stay together.”
“One storm, coming up,” Amelia said, and her eyes became white as the night sky got darker, the moon and stars being blotted out by heavy rain clouds. Soon the water was coming down and the three of them made their way to Molly, who hurriedly got them inside the pub. No one paid attention to them, thanks to magic Sherlock had mastered long ago, and soon they were in the cellar, looking at a trapdoor.
“Don’t speak to the dead,” Molly said. “Eat nothing except what you brought when we get to the forest. Once we’re through the forest and in Leadworth, we can get supplies again. But be very careful.”
“You don’t mind Williams joining us?” Sherlock asked, knowing where her heart lay.
Molly shook her head. “Your healing skills are shite, Sherlock, and mine are subpar. Rory is good at what he does and we’ll maybe need him. He wants freedom, we’ll help him get it.”
“Good,” Rory said. “Thank you, Molly. I appreciate it.”
She flashed Rory a warm smile. “You’re welcome. Now, we’ve got to go through catacombs so stay silent. The dead may try and take you if they think you’re speaking to them.” She opened the trapdoor and went down the stairs first, followed by Rory and then Amelia, and finally Sherlock, who shut it behind him. He hoped this mad scramble out of London would end well, and not in the deaths of them all.