Chapter 10
Then - Eight Years Earlier: March 1878
The song ended too soon leaving Sherlock with so much more he needed to say. Sherlock tilted his head towards the door and the two left the dancefloor. They were headed, hand-in-hand, towards the same room in which Mycroft had been resting his rotund behind less than one mere hour ago.
Sherlock wanted to tell her everything – how he’d devoured all of her research, replicating as much as he was able and marveling at her brilliance when he couldn’t. He wanted to tell her every single case he’d solved with her silent support and inimitable influence. But more than anything, he wanted to thank her. Her research had shown him his true path – helped him become the man he wanted to be: The World’s One and Only Consulting detective.
There was no way he’d ever be able to repay her for the gift she had given him.
As for Molly, Sherlock could see a lightness in her countenance that he’d never witnessed in her before. She had finally found someone with whom she could share her secret, someone with whom she could be her true self.
Just as they were about to enter the side room, there was a loud exclamation from the end of the corridor.
“You again?” Called Thomas Jones, his voice tinged with a frustration verging on apoplexy. “How come every time I turn my back you have your hands on my-“ he stopped, acknowledging in the silence that the two were not yet affianced.
“- Well,” he continued nonetheless, “Just why are your hands placed upon Margaret?” Tom paused for effect before adding, “Again?”
“This isn’t what it looks like, Thomas” Molly let go of Sherlock’s hand, raising a hand of her own towards Tom in protest.
“I think this is exactly what it looks like, Miss Hooper,” Tom spat, his eyes narrowing in contempt. “I’ve heard the rumours; Your absence in the ton over the last month has been noted, as have other things.”
His eyes darted between Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock wondered what the “other things” were to which Tom was referring. She’d been so careful, her disguise so convincing that it almost fooled as keen an eye as Sherlock’s. Surely word had not gotten out about Molly’s nocturnal habits, had it?
“And you, Holmes, I’d heard over the Old Bailey teacart of your visits to the Hooper homestead, but I dismissed them because I’d been reliably led to believe that – well – your tastes weren’t the kinds we speak of in polite company.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. What rumours had Mycroft been stoking now?
“Margaret,” Tom exhaled, long and low in frustration, “I wanted to believe you when you said you were at your ailing father’s side over the last month. But now I know where you’ve really been.” His mouth downturned, his words dripping with poison.
Tom turned his attention to Sherlock. “And you, Holmes, I hope you’re happy – you’ve ruined Miss Hooper. I’ll be sure to tell everyone in the ton all about how you’ve been skulking around the Hooper residence at odd hours. Up to no good.”
“Tom! Thomas!” Molly’s tone was frantic. Tom was threatening everything she’d ever feared, everything she regularly donned male garments to avoid. “It’s not true. I’m chaste. And Mr Holmes is nothing more than a passing acquaintance.”
“Stop lying!” Tom hissed. “You and I are through, Margaret.”
Tom made some gesture towards leaving before turning back to add, “And, Holmes, you’re through too.”
Sherlock, who has so far allowed the lovers’ quarrel to play out without his input, had been silent for too long.
“Mr Jones, it is my understanding that you have political aspirations. From the company you have been keeping, you are trying to ingratiate yourself with the Tory Chief Whip Bethell, quite unsuccessfully, you’ll be sorry to learn. You see Whip Bethell requires excellence in his employees, and from your education at such a middling institution as The Royal College of Newcastle, you are not up to his high standard. In fact, should you pursue marriage with Margaret Hooper, you will only succeed in boring her with your blunted instrument.” Sherlock emphasised the last two words, the entendre intended.
“You’ll regret that, Holmes,” he called as he departed down the hallway.
Sherlock looked to Molly. He expected approval, having said out loud what Molly had clearly been thinking for months.
He had hoped she would be impressed with his verbal acuity.
She was not.
Instead of thankfulness, Sherlock received a slap, then another then another. Three slaps to his face. And then Molly left. Leaving Sherlock alone.
He could fix this. He knew he could.
“Molly-“ he began.
But she wouldn’t listen. Instead, she turned, walking away and into the night.
Now - Eight Years Later: December 1886
John wondered why Sherlock had taken upon himself to intervene in the widow’s situation. In all the cases they’d come across, he’d never known Holmes to be so personally invested. What was it about this woman that made Sherlock so certain he was the man to fix it?
In the hour between the men’s return to Baker street and Molly and Archie’s arrival, Sherlock worked alongside Mrs Hudson, preparing the rooms of 221C for their new inhabitants.
He tirelessly moved furniture, dusted, made beds and worked as Mrs Hudson’s apprentice in housekeeping.
Everything was spick and span in time for the widow and her son’s arrival.
When the hansom cab pulled up, Sherlock was stood by the door to greet his new neighbours.
“I hope you will find it to your liking, Molly,” he’d said as Mrs Hudson ushered both Molly and Archie into the rooms. Sherlock followed closely behind.
“When Mr Holmes told me we would have a woman joining us, I couldn’t believe it.” Mrs Hudson dropped her volume conspiratorially, “I’d heard on good authority from Sherlock’s last land lady, Mrs Turner, never to expect a woman to take Sherlock’s fancy.”
John could almost swear that Sherlock and Molly shared a knowing smile.
If John didn’t know better, he’d swore there was more to the pair’s relationship than first met the eye.
“Mummy,” piped up Archie, “Can I please see where Mr Holmes lives?”
Molly eyed Sherlock cautiously. “It’s up to him, he is a busy man.”
“Please sir,” Archie turned his attention to the detective.
John winced, worried about how he might treat a small fan living in such close proximity.
“Absolutely,” Sherlock smiled as he ushered the young man upstairs.
John couldn’t remember ever seeing his friend smile before.
Then - Eight Years Earlier: March 1878
Sherlock didn’t follow her. Nor did he head straight home. Thomas Jones was a liability, and he knew of only one person with the power to set him to rights.
It wasn’t easy – Sherlock had to promise a future temporary assignment in Her Majesty’s Home Office at any time Mycroft saw fit – but Jones would be neutralised. A promotion in lieu of the traitor’s sum of silver and gold. Assistant Secretary to the most minor member of the House of Lords Mycroft could find – Lord-in-Waiting Sackville. Enough power to give the fool’s wounded pride a boost, but not enough that his stupidity would create a liability for Mycroft, and in turn, for Sherlock.
Mycroft stipulated one other condition, one which only a month ago wouldn’t have caused Sherlock to take a second thought, but now it was one which now rang in his ears, over and over, as he walked the backstreets from The Diogenes Club to his Montague Street Flat.
“The engagement must proceed,” Mycroft had said. “I trust that won’t be an issue for you, little brother?”
“No,” Sherlock said, even though every fibre of his being and the core of his very soul screamed the opposite.
Sherlock didn’t know if he’d see Molly again – and he certainly didn’t expect it to happen that very night.