A Picture Of Molly Hooper

Chapter One

Irene Adler could not explain exactly what had led her to the studio of Sherlock Holmes on a bitterly cold morning towards the conclusion of autumn. As she made her graceful way inside his foyer, shaking the residual rain droplets from her coat, and summoning up an attractive sort of smile for the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, Irene wondered vaguely what had seemed so pressing that she had been willing to walk the extra four blocks to visit a man she had not seen in some months. They had been involved briefly—it was true, although Irene had no interest in rekindling anything that may have once existed between them.

It was not that she disliked Holmes. In fact, the pale man, with his striking black curls and intense sea-green gaze, had been an object of fascination of hers for some time. He was arrogant, but Irene suspected his superiority complex was tightly wrapped around some tremendous emotional insecurity, a fact that made her protective of him more than anything else.

The thing that had really struck her about Holmes upon their first meeting, at a dinner party of a mutual acquaintance a little over a year ago, was his intelligence, the keen way that he could look at a person and then rattle off a list of deductions about their personal lives. He seemed to be able to know a person just by looking at them.

It was this ability to observe and understand entirely without judgment or moral projection, which made him such a powerful artist. Sherlock Holmes was the pre-eminent portraitist in England, and perhaps all of Europe.

He was famous for his ability to spend a moment looking at his subject, usually some wealthy patron who had commissioned him, and then rendering their perfect likeness upon a previously blank canvas. He seemed to capture the very essence of those who sat for him in the way that he worked them into shadow or illuminated them with brighter colors, in the details of their dress and the nuances of their expression.

It was a good thing that Sherlock’s portraits were very much in fashion among the elite of London society, because his personality was not. Irene had to repress a slight smile at the memory of how Holmes had once rendered one aging patron, who had commissioned Sherlock to paint a picture of his much younger wife, completely irate. He had implied that the girl had been having an affair—a fact that he had deduced from the state of her ring finger.

Yes she sighed to herself, as she followed Mrs. Hudson farther down the corridor into the familiar parlor room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes is a fascinating creature indeed. Tempestuous of disposition, and entirely too obsessed with his own intellectual prowess, but God, the man can paint.

Although they had been publically seeing each other for a time the previous summer, their relationship had hardly moved beyond the realms of the platonic in private. As much as Irene admired Sherlock, and vice versa, it was not, unfortunately, in the nature of either of them to fall in love with the other.

Irene had known what Sherlock was within an hour of meeting him. She could tell by the way his eyes looked her over only once, with vague indifference before turning almost hungrily to a blondish, shorter man with kind eyes in the corner, who was absorbed in returning Sherlock’s fervent glances. She could tell by the way his gaze trailed after this certain male acquaintance, Dr. John Watson, almost against his will.

Irene could recognize that Sherlock Holmes was in love with a man not only because she could discern love when she saw it, but also because she had been characterized by a similar although inverse predisposition for her entire life. The fact that she preferred the gentler sex was not something Irene could publicize without tearing apart her reputation and making a mockery of her families’ position at the echelons of British society, but it did not make it any less true.

Irene rarely dabbled with men, and when she did it was only for the sake of appearance. The current climate in London was not particularly hospitable to those who preferred the company of their own sex, a fact both Irene and Sherlock were all too aware of.

And so the two had started courting, not out of any romantic interest, but rather out of necessity. Although neither had ever acknowledged the preferences of the other explicitly, even at the conclusion of their fake relationship, it was a fact that had never needed to be voiced. After all, Sherlock had a way of knowing people just by looking at them, and Irene was incredibly perceptive herself.

“I wasn’t expecting you”, a terse, cold, and altogether familiar deep voice pulled Irene from her thoughts. Sherlock Holmes sat before her in a large leather armchair, his jet-black curls falling loosely across his forehead, those keen, penetrating eyes on hers. In his large white hands he clutched a yellowing skull, and leaning against one of his knees was a medium sized canvas with its front facing away from Irene.

“Oh, Sherlock darling, aren’t you pleased at all to see me? It’s been so long since we’ve even exchanged letters, and I must admit I’ve missed your style of trenchant prose”, Irene flashed him a particularly charming smile as she spoke, voice so low it was almost a purr.

In response, Sherlock let out an irritated sigh, and let his gaze travel along the course of her body. It was not an improper look—Sherlock’s eyes were far too clinical as he took her in. He was one of the few men that Irene tolerated these kind of looks from, although being as unnaturally lovely as she was, she received her fair share of glances.

“I can tell from the state of your dress, the mud at the hem of your cloak, and the dirt that clings to your slippers, that it is still raining outside, and that because you were clearly caught unprepared for the storm, this visit was perhaps unplanned—a detour scheduled on a whim? Yes, but something urgent enough that you braved the rain unprepared for the downpour, in shoes that are now no doubt unsalvageable. So tell me, what has transpired to bring The Woman back to my place of inspiration?”

“Can’t a woman visit an old friend without an ulterior motive?” she baited him carefully, knowing that her feigned secretiveness would draw him farther out of his shell. To be completely honest, Irene could not exactly articulate what had brought her back to Sherlock Holmes. There had been a feeling, cold and all consuming, which had driven her to the familiar studio. It was almost a kind of anxiety, a nervous energy that had worked its way through her and refused to give her up until she turned her feet towards Baker Street.

“Yes, but you are not any old woman, are you?”

“No, perhaps I am not”, and then because she knew it would only serve to infuriate him, she changed the subject, “Is that your latest?”.

She motioned with a graceful flick of her wrist to the canvas leaning haphazardly against Sherlock’s leg. For the first time since her arrival, Sherlock’s eyes left Irene’s slender form, and darted to the painting. He bit his lip, unconsciously, Irene guessed. She could tell by the way his fingers trembled slightly as he held the skull, that he was in sudden need of his pipe.

Her interest peaked, Irene gazed harder at Sherlock, hoping to discern in the slight downturn of his lips, or in the pre-occupation of his eyes, what exactly about this painting had him so distracted. Finding no answers there, she glanced around the studio, the various wooden easels standing erect and rickety in the corners, the paintbrushes and jars of turpentine, the blank canvases, and hundreds of charcoal sketches, the tubes of paint that crowded every available surface. She knew that among the various sketches she could probably discern her own face, and even more commonly the face and hands and feet and back of John Watson.

“Sherlock, I’ll tell you why I’m here if you tell me what has you so tightly coiled”. Irene made her voice softer and if possible, even more seductive than it usually was. Her curiosity was fully fledged now, and she could barely keep herself from running across the room and tearing the canvas from where it rested against Sherlock. She needed to see it with her own eyes

“You and I both know that you have no logical reason for being here. This was probably just another of your compulsions, one of those darker urges to which you are so disposed”, his lips quirked in an altogether unfriendly smile, and suddenly he was on his feet, the canvas clasped protectively to his chest. Irene felt herself angering almost against her will, as she watched him hold the picture up and gaze at it himself, all without allowing her a glance.

“So it’s a picture of your Doctor Watson, then. No need to show me, I’m sure it’s entirely improper”, she flashed him a caustic smile as she teased and allowed herself a tinkle of sadistic laughter. Irene hoped her goading would force Sherlock to prove her wrong.

For a moment, Irene wondered if she had perhaps gone too far, but Sherlock only smiled sardonically and shook his head. He bit his lip again, and his eyes roved restlessly about the room. She realized with a flash of anticipation that he was struggling with himself. She almost laughed at his predictability. Sherlock may have been a kind of genius, but genius always craved an audience. She held her tongue and waited patiently, realizing that Sherlock had always intended to show her his piece though he had played at being coy.

At last, he said quietly, “It’s not John”.

Irene resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the way that Sherlock’s voice went down an octave as he uttered John’s name. He always spoke the Doctor’s name like a prayer, the obvious fool.

“Her name is Hooper. Molly Hooper. And she’s something quite unexpected”. Sherlock allowed himself another glance down at the portrait before continuing, “I met her at a party, one of Mycroft’s soirees. I saw her and was quite taken in”.

Irene was not surprised by Sherlock’s obvious admiration for the girl. Although Sherlock was clearly gay, many of his muses through the months she had known him had been female.

“Apparently, I’ve met her before. She’s been to many of Mycroft’s parties—apparently he’s friends with her father. Anyways, I must have encountered her a couple of times when she was just a child. I never noticed her then however, I suppose she hadn’t yet become anything special or else I would have…” Sherlock trailed off, his eyes transfixed on what Irene guessed was the girl’s painted image.

“Do show me then”, Irene moved closer to where Sherlock hovered at the edge of the room. After a delicate pause, Sherlock pivoted the canvas so that Irene could finally look upon his latest work.

Her breath caught in her throat, and all of the words seemed to dry up on her tongue. The girl was beautiful in the same way that Irene supposed herself to be—almost otherworldly and ethereal. She had dark hair tied back in an elegant chignon, although Sherlock had painted a few tendrils loose so that they framed her pale, angular face. Her eyes were wide and expressive, and her pink rosebud lips slightly parted. There was something burning in her look though that caught Irene off guard. Even for one of Sherlock’s portraits, which were known for their vitality and intensity, this girl seemed to exude a kind of wildness behind the tame silk and taffeta gown, the ribbons which were almost like fetters in her hair.

“Ah. I should have known you might like her”. Sherlock shook his head unhappily, and jerked the portrait back against his chest, as if to conceal it from Irene’s glance.

Suddenly finding her voice again, Irene almost choked in an effort to get her words out, “Sherlock, don’t be a fool. Let me see it again. You’ve done such a lovely job, I feel as though I know her just looking at her likeness”. She hoped by flattering him she might distract him from how the portrait had affected her. Almost against her will she felt her fingers extend towards the canvas as though to pull it back.

And then as an afterthought, “Please, Sherlock, you must introduce us. I feel as though I have to meet her”. She tried to keep her voice low and casual, so as not to awaken too much suspicion in the painter.

“Absolutely not. What kind of man would I be if I let a creature as good and untainted as her near your imperfect perversion?”, Sherlock’s face seemed for a moment too full of animosity and vague anxiety to read.

“How dare you? You have no right, being as you are”, Irene felt herself flush with shame and hurt. Never before had Sherlock made such a blatant reference to her sexuality. She felt for a moment terribly confused.

“She’s young, and from a good family. You already have a reputation, a reputation I helped you remedy somewhat by allowing you to masquerade as my romantic interest”.

In her anger, Irene assumed a mask of cool collectedness and scorn. She even managed a condescending look as she murmured the words, “Sherlock Holmes, I cannot believe that you have come to embody such hypocrisy. Your love for the good Dr. Watson has always been more important than reputation—“, before he cut her off again.

“Besides, she’s my muse, and I can only use her as long as she is representative of Beauty in its highest and purest form. Beauty like that can never be possessed like you want to possess it or else it looses it’s appeal. I don’t want you anywhere near her”.

Irene was already forming a retort when the buzzer sounded from down the hall, and the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s scurrying footsteps interrupted them. From their place in the studio, Irene and Sherlock listened as the door hinges, clearly not oiled for some time, creaked as the door swung open.

“Oh, Miss Hooper! How lovely it is to see you again. Sherlock will be so pleased! He’s got some company but you must come in at once”, Mrs. Hudson’s warm, inviting voice echoed down the corridor, and for the first time that afternoon, Irene felt as though she finally understood why she had felt the need to come to Sherlock’s studio that afternoon.