Chapter 4
Now: December 1886
No matter how prepared she thought she was, Molly couldn't control the powerful, visceral reaction her body had to being in Sherlock's presence once more – despite the horrific circumstances which had brought him to her house that morning.
She was sitting on a dining chair that some charitable young officer had brought up to the second-floor landing where other officers – one detective and two PCs – were congregated. The officers tapped their feet and stalked back and forwards impatiently, obviously unhappy about Lestrade's strict instructions not to enter until after Holmes and Watson have arrived. While they waited, the officers took turns to peer into the washroom where the body of Molly's husband, Thomas Jones, remained, untouched, undignified and naked, submerged in the bathroom tub. The water had taken on the unmistakable colour of blood which had leached from neck and wrist veins opened by a straight razor which now lay discarded on the ground.
The news that the great Sherlock Holmes and his partner Dr Watson had been summoned was met by the officers with almost as much incredulity as Inspector Lestrade had shown Molly when she asked him to call on the consulting detective. Lestrade's nose was already out of joint at the fact that Miss. Jeanine Hawkins, Molly's housemaid, had used his name when she arrived at Scotland Yard that morning, under strict instructions not to leave until the Inspector agreed to accompany her back to Molly's townhouse.
When Molly asked to see Sherlock, Lestrade had looked at her with such pity, taking her for an enamoured reader of Dr. Watson's stories from The Strand magazine. Molly bristled, knowing that in her former life he never would have dismissed her so easily. But, then again, he didn't know her in her former life at all. The person Lestrade had met was a young man, and Molly wasn't ready to share that part of her past with anyone else just yet.
"Mrs Jones," Lestrade began, placing a consoling hand on her shoulder, "I know you've had a terrible shock, but it's clear to me that your husband has," Lestrade paused, searching for the right phrasing, "caused this grave injury to himself."
Molly shook her head, "With all due respect, Inspector, I do not believe that to be the case, and if you just ask Mr. Holmes to take a look I think you will find-"
Lestrade cut her off with a raised hand signalling her to stop. "I don't know what you've read about Sherlock Holmes, madam, but the brusque and boorish man you've read about has had the benefit of Dr Watson's editorial improvements. A literary smoothing of his rough edges, if you know what I mean." Lestrade meant to laugh, but stifled it once he looked around and remembered why he was at her house. He leaned in and gave Molly an almost conspiratorial look. "If there's one thing you should know about Sherlock Holmes, it is that he does not take kindly to having his time wasted."
Lestrade patted Molly's hand, but she shook him off. "Well, inspector, if you won't help me get Sherlock Holmes to come and view my husband's dead body, perhaps I'll be better off asking his brother Mycroft."
Lestrade almost choked when he heard the name. "I'm sorry?" he asked, as if to double check he wasn't hearing things.
Molly kept her tone calm. "Mycroft Holmes," she paused for emphasis. "Surely he can get his brother here if you are unwilling or unable."
Lestrade nodded, departed, and within half an hour Sherlock Holmes was bounding up the stairs in search of a crime scene.
When Molly saw the grey green depths of his eyes, there was nothing she could do to stop her heart-rate increasing. Neither could she have any control over her breathing, which had also sped up without her permission.
She had worked very hard over the intervening eight years to convince herself that her time with Sherlock Holmes was a mere youthful indiscretion, acts of someone running on emotion, adrenaline and naivety. But seeing him again brought perforce everything she had worked hard to forget, every moment she dared not cherish, every memory she had tried to lock away in the dark recesses of her past.
Meeting his gaze in this context was almost as shocking as the first time she saw him – well, she corrected, the first time she saw him as herself.
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Then - Eight years earlier: February 1878
For as long as she could remember, Molly attended the Royal Philharmonic's concerts every Saturday afternoon. As a young girl, her father would take her, and they would mix with all manner of people drawn in by the promise of an afternoon's free entertainment. Years later, Molly would cite these concerts not only as the cornerstone of her cultural education, but also as the foundation for her ability to read people.
While Molly's father closed his eyes and listened to the music, Molly would scan the room, looking at the faces in the crowd. Initially, she would make up little stories for them – hypothetical scenarios about what their mornings had been like or what they were likely to do once the concert had finished. But over time, Molly began to notice details, patterns, telling signs, and soon her hypotheses were transformed into accurate readings of reality.
In all her years mixing with the uncultured masses, Molly never dreamed of a night like this – dressed to the nines, and mixing it with the hoi polloi of London Society at a Philharmonic performance so exclusive that tickets cost more than two weeks' worth of her living expenses.
Thomas Jones was doing his darndest to woo her.
Normally, Molly wouldn't have paid any attention to him. Not that she had anything against him. He may have been an awkward, gangly young man, but he was rather polite and courteous and favoured her with many warm compliments. No, her issue wasn't with him per se, or with men in general, but the institution of marriage itself which, from Molly's point of view, seemed very much akin to a form of unpaid indenture.
And if she were to marry, how could she explain to her husband the fact that she sometimes liked to dress as a young man and visit London's most gruesome crime scenes?
But with her future looking more and more uncertain by the day, Molly considered that she may well have to change her position. So she agreed to accompany Mr Jones that evening.
If she had known who else would be in attendance at the concert, she very well may have opted to stay home. But how could she have known that the man with the deerstalker and the Inverness cape would share with her not only an affinity for corpses, but fine music as well?
When she spotted him across the aisle while the orchestra was in the middle of an intermezzo fugue, her heart leapt into her throat. But it was only for a moment. Her heart recovered when she remembered that although he was unmistakably the man from the other night – although now dressed in top-hat and tails instead of his coat and cap – she was dressed very unlike her other self. When she walked the streets of London her garb was trousers, suspenders and a cap to hide her hair. Tonight, it was a most gorgeous yellow frock borrowed from her wealthy cousin and the long silk gloves her mother had worn on her wedding day.
She was safely disguised as herself.
Or so she thought.
The young man's eyes met hers, silver green on deep brown, and his mouth curved into an unmistakable smirk before he tipped his hat to her in a gesture not meant to show mere politeness, but to remind her of the note she left with Lestrade.
Molly felt like being sick.
She didn't know the feeling was accompanied with a sound until Thomas turned to her, whispering in her ear to ask her what was wrong.
"I just need some air," Molly whispered back before quickly stepping outside and heading towards the ladies powder room.
What could he want? Was he still following her? And if he was, what was his motivation? Did he want to expose her?
Molly was so lost in her thoughts, she wasn't looking where she was going and ran into the tuxedo-clad body of a man much taller than her.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, moving out of his way.
"I'm not," said a deep baritone. Molly was about to chastise him for his impropriety, but one look into his eyes and she knew it was him. Again. Why was he everywhere she turned?
A practiced actor, Molly decided to play her part. She was Molly Hooper, not whomever it was this man believed he had met walking the streets of London.
Molly kept her face blank, regarding him as the stranger he was. "If you'll excuse me," she moved to walk away, making a brisk pace towards the ladies' powder room. Once through the door, Molly breathed a sigh of relief.
But he wasn't giving up so easily, bursting into the room behind her.
It didn't take much to scandalise Molly, but this was beyond the pale. "Whatever do you think you are doing, sir? This is the ladies' room!"
He looked around for a moment before placing a chair up against the doorknob. "The attendant is smoking out the back. No one else is using the facilities. We are alone."
Molly placed a hand on the chair to remove it. "Precisely. Have you no decency?" She asked, using her most practiced tone of shock.
He smiled at that. "And this is coming from a woman who tried to have me arrested for no good reason?"
Molly scoffed, "I have no idea of what it is you are referring to. But, if you would like to be arrested now – all I would need to do is scream."
Her tone was threatening, but he called her bluff. "And if you do, Miss Hooper, what will that nice young gentleman you're with think?"
Molly was shocked, not at his assessment of the situation, but at his other surprising admission. She backed away from him. "You know who I am?" She tried so hard to hide the quiver of fear in her voice.
His face flashed with something like embarrassment, but he quickly covered it when he noticed how pale her skin had gotten.
"Yes," he admitted, "but your secret is safe with me, I assure you." He placed a soft hand on her shoulder, using his other hand to tilt her head to meet his gaze.
Molly began to breathe again. A stranger this man was, and as strange as his behavior, there was something in his eyes that told her she could believe him. "I don't even know who you are," she said, her voice more breathless than she expected it to be.
"Mr. Holmes, the younger. Sherlock."
Molly's eyes widened. She had heard talk of a Sherlock Holmes, but in academic circles. Last she knew he was a student at Cambridge.
"I only ask you one thing," he continued. Molly froze. What could he possibly want? She was all too suddenly aware not only of their close proximity, but of the precariousness of her being trapped alone with him.
Molly took two steps back. "What is that?" she asked cautiously.
"Your father," he said simply, as if that was all the explanation needed.
The skin pricked down her spine, "What about my father?" she asked. Did he know? How?
He rolled his eyes, obviously he wasn't a fan of explaining himself. "I want to meet him."
Molly had been rounding towards the door, slowly so as not to be noticed, and was almost in a position to remove the chair and restore her freedom. But she just had to ask. She had to know.
"Why?"
He smirked, slightly embarrassed, "Well, because I'm a fan of ML Hooper's work. I think he's brilliant."
Molly had never heard such high praise.
"Well, I'll just-" Instead of finishing, Molly deftly removed the chair and hit him over the head with it, knocking him to the ground.
Molly walked casually back into the concert hall and took up her seat again next to Thomas.
She didn't see Sherlock Holmes again that evening.