In Which Molly Sits for Another Portrait
Molly let out a ragged breath as she left the damp, frigid outside air for the warmth of Sherlock’s studio. Her cheeks were flushed from the chill of the street, and her long, dark hair hung in glossy tendrils down her back. Her eyes were bright and fiery as they took in the darkened hall, and Mrs. Hudson’s somewhat hunched form.
“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”. Molly gave the aging woman a dazzling smile, pleased at how familiar the studio and its matron had become to her in the past few weeks. Sherlock had insisted that she come and pose every day. Although her grandfather had raised his eyebrows at such an obvious show of attention, Molly did not mind— in fact, she was rather fascinated by how Sherlock would arrange her on a dais and then, in the course of an afternoon, complete a dozen sketches, or else the beginnings of some oil portrait.
More than that, she liked how she felt around Sherlock. He flattered her terribly. Although she got the feeling he had no particular romantic interest in her, Molly knew he appreciated her beauty in some complex and remarkable way. She had the sense that when he gazed at her he saw far inside her, finding things to admire that other people, and indeed Molly herself, may not have ever thought of.
It was not until she had actually wandered down the hall and into the main room, that she recalled with a strange intensity that Mrs. Hudson had mentioned something about Sherlock having company. She glanced around, eyes automatically darting to where Sherlock stood strangely tense and imposing in the corner of the cramped room.
After a brief moment, Molly noticed the woman standing only a yard or so away from Holmes. She had a marvelous face, Molly thought, the kind of classical beauty that reminded her of princesses she had read about in some of the old children’s books her mother had left her before she died. Her skin was pale, like milk or alabaster and, Molly could not help but noticing, her lips were almost criminally red. There was something in the eyes though, that drew her in entirely: they were lovely pale blue, like chips of ice, cold and flat.
It took a moment for Molly to realize she had interrupted something. Sherlock, was shaking, his whole self moved by some extremity of emotion.
She took in everything in a matter of moments, the rigid set of Sherlock’s shoulders, the way his head was bowed as if in defeat. The casual way that the woman leaned against one of the studio benches, her eyes fixated on Molly.
“I trust you, Irene. Please do try to behave yourself”, he muttered through clenched teeth, his fingers clutching a canvas to his chest as Molly looked between him and the woman, curiosity roused.
A strange thrill ran through Molly at the mention of the strange woman’s name, although she quickly stifled it. For some reason she felt as though she needed to guard herself—something about The Woman was vaguely familiar, and not in a good way.
When Irene did not answer Sherlock, instead choosing to gaze intently at Molly, Sherlock let out something like a sigh. Molly, feeling the force of both of their gazes, clutched at some semblance of conversation, since Sherlock was clearly not making any move to make formal introductions. Her fingers reached out at random and fastened around the closest piece of parchment. She brought it to her face, and immediately recognized the façade of Bakers street in the delicate streaks of charcoal.
“Sherlock, you must lend me some of these sketches. You have a way of capturing things in the most exquisite detail. They are perfectly charming.” She cried, infusing her voice with more enthusiasm than was necessary hoping to diffuse the tension.
“That depends completely on how you pose for me today”, Sherlock answered at last, casting his eyes to the ground briefly, as though deep in thought.
“What if I don’t want to sit for you today, Holmes? I think I must be quite tired of always posing for you. You get so terribly quiet when you work, and I have no one to talk to but myself”, Molly was conscious that she sounded childish, and she cursed herself for the note of a whine that had crept into her voice. She knew that she had the unfortunate habit of sounding younger than she was when she entered into uncomfortable social situations. Her grandfather upbraided her constantly for it, not that she had any control over such things. Remembering suddenly that there was someone else in the room with them, she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“I am so terribly sorry, Sherlock, I had quite forgotten for a moment you had someone with you”, and then turning to Irene, she managed a timid, “I do beg your pardon, Mademoiselle”.
“Oh, I don’t believe you have anything to apologize Miss Hooper.” Irene’s voice had a very pleasing silkiness to it that made something in Molly expand in pleasure. It was a terribly odd sensation, and Molly felt as though she would like very much for Irene to speak again, just so that she could immerse herself in the languid lilt that came out of her throat like honey.
The Woman extended a pale hand with long, delicate fingers for Molly to shake, and she did so with slight discomfort.
“This is Irene Adler, Molly, an old friend of mine. I was just explaining to her how arresting you can be when you sit for me. Although it appears that may have spoken too soon”, his thin lips curled into a smile that was not altogether pleased.
“Don’t be absurd, Sherlock. The girl doesn’t need to be artistically arranged for me to see how striking she is—“ Irene was suddenly cut off by Sherlock, who had made a strange sort of sound deep in his throat. His face revealed a profound discomfort.
Feeling slightly emboldened and uncertain after Irene’s compliment Molly let out a soft laugh, that came out sweet and attractive, “Don’t mind Mr. Holmes. When anything gets in the way of his art he becomes terribly resentful, don’t you Sherlock?’
With an amused smile, Irene’s glance once again landed on the supremely beautiful girl who had just arrived, “Tell me Miss Hooper, besides from posing for one of the most capital painters of the day, what is it that you do?”
Molly felt herself flush under the singularity of Irene’s look. She was used to people paying attention to her, having grown only more attractive with adolescence, but something about Irene made her distinctly uncomfortable. Her stomach seemed to plummet as she met the older woman’s eyes.
“I go to the club and volunteer a couple of times in a week, and sing duets with some of the other ladies or serve luncheons. My grandfather likes me to be seen doing good works, and I enjoy the charity”. Molly knew that this was the proper response. Nobody ever found fault in a charitable spirit, or at least that is what her grandfather and all the other women from church insisted.
“I’ve only known you a moment, Molly, and I can already tell that you are far too charming for philanthropy”, although the words themselves seemed to conceal a kind of condescension, Molly detected a note of teasing in Irene’s voice. After a moment she allowed Irene a small careful smile.
Sherlock signed loudly in irritation at the exchange and made to put the canvas he was still clutching aside.
“Miss Adler, as absolutely delightful as this unexpected arrival of yours has been, I really do want to finish up a portrait I’ve been slaving over of Molly. Would you find it offensive if I asked you to leave?” Sherlock’s tone seemed to indicate that he cared very little whether or not Irene was offended or not.
Noticing the sudden flash of discontent that marred the Woman’s otherwise exquisite features, Molly found herself protesting without knowing exactly why, “Sherlock, please don’t drive her away. We’ve only just met, and besides I want to give her the chance to explain herself! I think I am perfectly cut out for philanthropy, as she calls it”. She gave the disgruntled painter her most hypnotic smile, and let her eyes light up as she glanced imploringly at him.
After a moment, Sherlock expelled all the air from his cheeks and dipped his head in defeat, “Fine. If Miss Hooper desires it, Irene can stay. My muse must sit absolutely still though, are we quite clear?”
Molly nodded somberly to Sherlock as she assumed her usual place on the dais, allowing herself a moment to flash a sideways glance at Irene, who was staring back at her with raised eyebrows and a slightly surprised expression. The painter removed a great sheet from around another canvas, and revealed a partially completed painting that featured everything but Molly’s face. Irene took a seat to Molly’s left, careful not to couch herself too closely to the younger girl, who she felt she could not quite read yet.
“Just as Molly was beginning to feel comfortable with those two sets of eyes transfixed upon her, Sherlock added, “And Molly, dear, do try to ignore anything Miss Adler tells you. She has a reputation for being a terrible influence, and girls like you are exactly her type”.
Molly felt nothing but confusion as she glanced between the painter, who had resumed his painting, and Irene who was staring at Sherlock, her face devoid of blood and completely livid. After a moment, Irene merely bit her lip, and allowed her eyes to return to the girl sitting before her, and Molly tried to hide her perplexity behind a question.
“Are you really as terrible an influence as Sherlock seems to think, Miss Adler? Because you don’t seem too terribly dangerous to me” she tried to keep her voice light, even though the way Sherlock had spoken of Irene had seemed more serious than kidding. She felt her heart thudding queerly in her chest as she waited for the Woman to answer her.
But it was Sherlock who answered for her, “Miss Hooper, the woman’s last name is literally a variety of poisonous snake. And I can assure you that Miss Adler’s personality is far more toxic to someone of your constitution than any actual viper could be”.
Molly could not discern whether Sherlock was kidding or not, but it hardly mattered because Irene began to speak, and that voice had a strange way of transporting Molly outside of herself.
“Molly, influence in any form is inherently immoral, because in influencing someone, one must give up impressions of their own soul. Say that I am influencing you somehow—in doing so I am changing how you might naturally go about existing. Any sins, or virtues that you pick up from me, would hardly be your own. To influence is to corrupt, to alter, and to pervert. Do you understand what I am saying?” Irene looked at the girl intently, and Molly had the impression that she was no longer embodied, as though she were flying through space or time. Perhaps not even existing. Irene had such a strange impact on her.
“Yes, I suppose”, she whispered uncertainly, and then searching through her electrified thoughts she added, “I suppose that the greater crime is that influence allows people who are afraid of themselves to never have to become acquainted with who they actually are.”
Irene’s face flickered with something like surprise, or else sudden interest, “Miss Hooper, you are a surprise. What makes you say such things?”
For a moment Molly was lost in thoughts of her Grandfather, the tyrannical man with broad, volatile hands and cruel blue eyes, who had always had a way of putting his words in her mouth, his thoughts in her head. Influence was such a terrifying thing, but at least it kept her from having to look at herself, acknowledge the ways in which she was naturally monstrous, just like the man who had raised her, and powerless, and foolish like her silly, wanton mother.
“What are you thinking about?” Irene’s voice laced their way into Molly’s memories, and slowly she came back to herself. Molly didn’t want Irene to think she was weak, and she certainly didn’t want the Woman to pity her, which was what inevitably happened when outsiders came upon her slightly tragic family history.
But part of her also wanted to tell Irene everything. How she had been orphaned, and left in the care of a cruel, unbending man incapable of love. But that wasn’t safe. She shook herself mentally. How could she have even been thinking of spilling her life story to a perfect stranger, even a perfectly charming stranger like Irene? Irene, a woman who felt already more familiar to her than Sherlock had in their weeks of being acquainted.
“Nothing. I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, I’m sure”, the lie slipped out uncomfortably from between her thick rosebud lips.
Irene moved closer to Molly, after glancing at Sherlock first to see that he was absorbed in his work. She allowed her mouth to graze the younger girl’s ear and whispered in a delightful, teasing murmur, “I don’t believe that for an instant, Miss Hooper”.
Molly shivered slightly where she sat, a thrill of something simultaneously ice cold and blazing hot shooting down her spine at Irene’s words. She wasn’t sure what to think, but she felt incredibly content.