In Which Molly Feels Uncertain
Molly tried hard to act casual as she resumed her seat on the stool. Glancing up at her with annoyance, Sherlock let out a noise of impatience and she resisted the urge to storm out of 221B altogether. The thought of sitting through even another minute with Irene’s clear blue-green eyes glued to her was enough to make her clench her quivering hands into fists.
She couldn’t stop shaking. She held out her long, pale fingers before her face so that she could observe with some wonder the way that they trembled. Molly couldn’t explain why she was reacting this way to the woman’s presence. There was nothing logically about The Woman that should have her feeling weak about the legs, dizzy in the head, unable to calm the radical rhythm echoing inside of her chest. Her heart was beating too fast, and Molly was certain it wasn’t healthy. She felt almost as though she were being forced to endure a kind of vaguely pleasant panic attack, if such a thing were possible.
“Darling, you have the most dreadful expression. I can’t have it ruining this piece. I’m so close to being done. Do you think you could revert to that awe-struck, uncertain look Irene inspired in you when she was speaking to you a few minutes ago?” Sherlock smirked as the words rolled off his tongue. Molly blushed, and after a moment contorted her face into a scowl.
“Like this, Holmes?” she glared at him with a kind of fierce mirth in her brown irises. Holmes exhaled loudly as he looked at his muse, who seemed to hide behind her petulance a strange sort of anxiety.
“Cheeky”. For a moment his eyebrows knit together in confusion, trying to determine the source of her change in mood. Molly was rarely anything less than delightful. It was one of the few things about her that Sherlock felt confused by, given the nature of her upbringing, which had been anything but delightful.
At that moment, Irene Adler seemed to float back into the room, and Sherlock had his answer. He observed the way that Molly quickly tilted her face away from the Woman, even as she allowed a curtain of her dark hair to obscure her eyes. Irene meanwhile was looking at Molly with a perfectly apathetic face.
In a voice that was almost too indifferent, Irene murmured loud enough that both Molly and the painter could hear, “Sherlock, darling, I was wondering if perhaps you would like to come with me to the theatre this evening. Lord Lestrade has extended me an invitation to sit with him in his box, and he says I can bring a guest”.
Against her better judgment, Molly allowed herself to glance up at the woman. For a brief moment, she felt a sting in her breast at her exclusion from Irene’s invitation. She shook herself internally at her own foolishness. She hardly knew The Woman, and after all, there was no reason for Irene to invite her out when she was clearly an old friend of Sherlock’s. Besides, there was something about Irene that made Molly feel out of control and panicky. It simply didn’t make sense, this strange physical desire to be closer to Irene while every logical thought begged her to keep The Woman at a safe distance. But the feeling of hurt persisted as Sherlock allowed a pointed silence to follow Irene’s offer.
“No, I don’t think I can spare the evening. Terribly sorry, Miss Adler”.
“What have you to do that’s more interesting than spending a night with me?” Was Molly imagining it, or was there something suggestive in the way Irene said ‘spend the night’? Something that was like envy, but could surely not be envy, erupted in her chest.
“I want to finish this piece. I think it may be my best work to date. Miss Hooper is an absolute vision in oil”. Molly breathed in sharply. She could not in that instant, imagine refusing Irene Adler anything.
“And in the flesh as well, Sherlock. But you really won’t come with me tonight? Who shall I take, then? I surely can’t show up alone. Lestrade would read far too much into it”.
Molly realized that she was staring at Irene with far too much intensity, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. She felt like a snake being charmed by the melody slipping from between those shimmering crimson mouth.
As if it were someone else talking with her lips, Molly watched as she spoke directly to Irene, “Take me”.
Irene’s gaze landed instantly on Molly’s face and for a long moment her eyes seemed to be on fire. The younger girl tried to hide the shiver that that look inspired.
“Take you, Miss Hooper?” there was something in Irene’s voice that seemed almost tremulous, vaguely reverent, if Molly wasn’t mistaken. A blush invaded her white cheeks.
“Yes, my grandfather never let me go to the theatre when he was alive. He says that the stage isn’t healthy for women, since acting is all about deception and women are far too prone to lies as it is. But I should very much like to go, I think”. Molly felt her blush intensify under the intensity of Irene’s gaze.
“Than I should very much like to take you as my date, Miss Hooper”, at the word date, chills sprung up on Molly’s arms, and she felt strangely lightheaded. How stupid she was acting.
“Absolutely not”, Sherlock’s voice suddenly interrupted the two women, “Miss Adler, remember what I told you earlier this afternoon. I trust you. Do not give me reason to revoke that trust”.
Molly looked at Irene piercingly, trying to understand what Sherlock meant by such a cryptic statement.
“God, Sherlock”, Irene muttered, and Molly was taken aback at the oath that flowed so smoothly from Irene’s lips, “I do believe Molly is intelligent enough to be making her own decisions. She’s not a pet for you to order about whenever you feel the urge. And neither am I. If Molly wants to come out with me tonight, than I shall most certainly be taking her”.
“This has nothing to do with intelligence, and everything to do with naivety. I implore you, don’t put ideas into her head that she could live without. She has the potential to live a life utterly uncorrupted. Don’t rob her of any peace she might find in future”.
Molly was utterly baffled by the exchange, but judging from Irene’s eyes, which flared with anger, and the look of wounded pride that flashed across Sherlock’s, she had the impression that the two were speaking of something that held great emotional turmoil for both of them.
“Sherlock, Miss Adler, I assure you that I am quite capable of speaking for myself. I shall be going to the theatre tonight, and that is the end of it”.
Sherlock shook his head, and to her surprise, Molly saw that his eyes were blazing with a kind of anguish she had only seen him exude when he was speaking of Dr. Watson. How intriguing it all was.
Irene flashed her a brief smile, filled with warmth and something else that made Molly’s breath catch in her throat. That smile felt like a promise, although of what exactly, she could not say.
“I shall collect you tonight then, Miss Hooper. I’ll have my man take down your address and be there at seven sharp.”.
“Alright, Miss Adler”, Molly could not help smiling as the two women arranged their meeting, Molly still posing as Sherlock put the finishing touches on the portrait.
At last, Sherlock laid down his brush, and rubbed his eyes wearily with one of his white hands. Molly approached the portrait tremulously, noticing as she stood that she was still rather shaky about the knees. She tried desperately to quiet her frantic mind, to shake away the loose thoughts of Irene Adler as she readied herself to look upon the latest portrait.
Sherlock stepped aside, and the two women moved to take a look. Molly was aware of two things immediately. First, was Irene’s sudden intake of breath, and the way the older woman stretched out a hand as if to caress the cheek of the Molly that was painted upon the canvas. The gesture made Molly feel even more feverish, more aware of how her hear was racing against her ribs.
Second, was the sheer beauty of the portrait itself. Molly knew that she was beautiful. In fact, her loveliness was the first thing that she seemed to know about herself growing up. She had always been terribly conscious of her appearance, because her Grandfather refused to let her forget it. She looked, he had remarked at least once a day, far too much like her wretched harlot of a mother. Beautiful, but utterly depraved. “She smiled like sin, just as you do”, was her father’s favorite thing to remark upon, even when Molly was just a child and would laugh too loudly or get too excitable.
The portrait was another matter entirely, though. Sherlock had seemed to reveal in paint everything that was pure and good about Molly, in addition to what was beautiful. As ever, there was a kind of wildness in her gaze, and in the tilt of her chin, the way her mouth was slightly opened.
Molly could have sworn that Irene said something then, something that sounded almost like, “There’s no way I could leave you alone now”.
But that was such a strange thing for her to say. Molly shook her head, to dislodge the flurry of unwanted feelings that suddenly laid siege upon her heart.
“Like a nouveau Helen. Ah, the sumptuousness of those lips and lovely tangle of your hair! A face to launch a thousand ships”, Sherlock whispered to himself, “except I hope that you are spared Helen’s torment”.
“Whatever do you mean by torment, Sherlock? This is not Troy, and I am not at the center of a war.” Molly asked, feeling uncomfortable with a comparison that seemed to imply she was the loveliest creature in the world.
“By torment, I mean the love that dare not speak its name. Helen fell in love with a man who was not her husband, and such a love could never be. To love someone one cannot have is absolute anguish”.
To her surprise, Irene Adler threw back her head and let out a charming, melodic laugh, “Oh, Sherlock, you are far too dramatic, and far too entrenched in the tragedies of the past. Molly has no idea of what you are trying to communicate to her, and so you must stop trying to warn her with your subtle hints. You are not brave enough to warn her outright, so do stop now before I get irritated”.
For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Molly tried to hide her confusion. She knew the two were bickering about something that went much farther back than that afternoon. She determined to find out what exactly Sherlock was so worried about in Irene. Why he seemed so terrified at the idea of her corrupting Molly.
In the silence that seemed to take up a tangible space in the room they shared, Molly broke in “Oh, it is absolutely marvelous, Sherlock, although I’m afraid you’ve painted me far more beautiful than I actually am.”
Molly marveled at how the strange mix of emotions inside of her failed to show itself on the face of the utterly peaceful Molly who was painted with such care and grace inside the frame.