Hello all! This is my first story I've ever posted here on , or really anywhere. I'm a bit nervous about doing so, but I hope that you might enjoy this ride I have planned. If you like Sherlock and Molly pairings, you've come to the right place. Please let me know if you liked the first chapter, and if I should continue! I don't have a beta reader, and this is all me, so please be kind. It is set in the Victorian Era, and I've done research, but I'm not an expert. Please understand this is just for fun, and any advice you have on writing accents is welcome!

Much love to all of you!

XOXO,

Proserpina

PS. One other small note, this may get rather dark eventually, but we shall see where it goes!

Chapter 1: Topsy-Turvy

An impatient, smooth baritone jerked her from her reverie. It wasn't like her to be distracted at work. At all times she was alert, simply because work wasn't a safe space for her..

"Dr. Hooper," another voice intoned, this time a tenor, with a bit more emotion laced with it.

"Yes?" She responded, her voice in the upper tenor range herself, as she snapped her eyes back to Dr. Watson, and tried not reach up to her mustache which was slightly itching.

"The forceps," Sherlock Holmes repeated, his eyes losing some sparkle of excitement and exchanging for irritation.

"Right," Molly said, her hands grabbing the forceps which were on the tray next to her and offering them handle first to the consulting detective. She watched as Holmes reached over the corpse using the forceps to help open the mouth of the victim, jaw creaking with a wet sound as it came apart forcefully, rigor mortis fighting against the tool.

Watson sidled up beside Dr. Hooper on the opposite side of the gurney, watching Holmes work. "All right then?" He asked Molly, who didn't glance in his direction.

"No problem," she replied, her voice throaty, her gaze still focused on making sure the consulting detective didn't cause any irrevocable damage to Mr. Laventh, though her brown eyes did flicker over to Holmes' companion for a moment as she turned away to see to her assistant. "I don't want that body in pieces when I turn back around, Holmes. And make sure no pieces of it miraculous end up in that coat of his, Watson. Somehow Mrs. Hudson managed to find out who I was and sent a rather stern and lengthy letter to my office. I'd rather avoid future contact with incessant complaining." She signed the paper that Anderson had procured for her, before waving him away.

"Yes, wouldn't we all?" Murmured Holmes as he seemed to spy something stuck on the palette of Mr. Laventh's mouth.

Hooper turned to look at Holmes, narrowing her eyes as he reached in with lengthy fingers to pull out a coin. Definitely not a pence or a shilling, or rather any coin she was familiar with. "Is that a coin?" Anderson asked curiously, looking over Hooper's shoulder instead of seeing to the burning of yesterday afternoon's corpses.

Molly could feel the disgust dripping off Holmes' tone: "Your observations continually astound me, Anderson. Just when I thought you'd reached the very bottom of my expectations, you shoot lower. Hooper, get your man under control before his words end up damaging our brain cells."

Anderson was offended, as usual, but one look from Hooper and he shut his mouth, turning about and heading for his work, signed paperwork in hand. Somehow she managed to feel embarrassed for him. Anderson wasn't an idiot per se, he just managed to sound and look like one when in the presence of Holmes. He did very good basic lab work, but Hooper would never put him in an investigative field or connecting dots between obvious jumps in logic. Okay, perhaps he wasn't the brightest, but he came into work on time, listened to what she said and did it without question. There were plenty who hadn't been as attentive, Bonham sticking out in her mind as an example.

"That's.. it's a real. A Spanish coin. What the bloody hell is it doing inside a corpse, Holmes?" Watson asked as he seemingly bristled with confusion.

A smile crossed over Holmes face as he looked at the coin, and Molly knew that he was already 20 steps ahead of everyone in the room. "It's a clue. Directing us exactly to where the killer wants us to go." Sherlock flicked the coin up artfully with his thumb, the silver flashing in the lamp light of the dank morgue before catching it in his gloved palm. "Let's go, Watson! We've got no time to lose!"

"But.. Holmes, we..."

His protests were cut off by Hooper's interruption."That's property of Scotland Yard, Holmes! Detective Inspector Lestrade will be peeved if you're going to abscond with evidence." She tapped the metal tray, as Holmes advanced on her.

"Time is of the essence, Hooper. The only obstruction to justice would be your protests. An innocent's life could be on the line," he accused, both annoyed and hurried.

Hooper eyed him intensely, his blue eyes piercing her own amber gaze. She knew that Holmes was prone to exaggeration, but this might not be the time to call his bluff. "Watson, make sure you send a telegram to Scotland Yard on your way over. Before not after... Better he hear it from you then from me. I'll be reporting it as stolen in about 20 minutes."

The smile returned to Sherlock's face and he was gone within moments, his coattails the last that she could see of him as he exited the morgue and Watson nearly having to run after him to keep up with the brisk pace of his companion's long legs.

Her gaze trailed back to Mr. Laventh's corpse, still caught in the throws of rigor mortis, and steel forceps sticking out ridiculously poised where Holmes had left them.A sigh left her body, long and loud before she propped her leg against the base of the gurney and pulled with all her might to free to tool from it's own early grave in Mr. Laventh's mouth.

It was exhausting keeping this up every day, all day at work. Thankfully, once she'd finished the documentation on Mr. Laventh, making sure to also mention the coin which had been lodged in his soft palette, she'd be done for the day.

The morgue was damp and cold on even the warmest summer days in London, and they were heading into fall very swiftly, having already seen snow flurries only a week ago. The high society was in all a titter about it, casting it as possibly the coldest year in the last decade, though Molly knew that it wasn't the high society that would feel the brunt of it, but rather the poorest of their city: the homeless, the orphaned and the prostitutes. Sometimes in this dank place, she almost felt like one of them, though it helped her not grow too warm under all the layers she wore.

"Finish the last of the body incinerations, Anderson, and then you and Bartlett can head home for the day," Dr. Hooper ordered gruffly to the man across the room, who was organizing bodies to head down to the furnace. "Make sure there's no mixups this time! I don't want to have to lie on another document equivocally saying that this indeed one man's remains and ONLY one man's remains." It would take them at least another hour to finish, and by then they'd be on their way home before darkness had settled in for the evening. She would stay another hour after that, and then begin home herself.

When her pocket watch, which she pulled out of her vest said approximately 10 minutes past 6, Molly packed up what little things she brought from home, pulled on her coat, set a hat upon her head, and a scarf about her neck. She would take a detour to a less than reputable place: La Porte Rouge. It was a disreputable little place with a firm but kind mistress who looked after her girls, and made sure that no one would freeze out on the streets, as all exchanges were made inside the house and not on the cruel exterior that was London.

Madam Perier was an old family friend of her husband's who had kindly allowed her to use the back entrance of The Red Door for discretion and in exchange for Molly's services as a doctor. Twice a week she visited the whorehouse to see to their examinations and make sure they had plenty of lubricants, as well as see to any pregnancies. Once or twice, a woman had thrown herself down stairs to rid herself of the burden, until Molly had found out and told them in no certain terms were they to risk their lives in such foolish manners. She had contacts who could help them. While Molly herself could never end a child's life, she could not in good conscience let women sacrifice their own, no matter what their profession. Thankfully, it wasn't as common as one might think, as Madam Perier was helpful to girls who had gotten with child, providing support where she could, and contraception was readily available within Perier's business.

The back courtyard was used mostly for laundry and not an area where clients ever came to look. Most were too busy having it on with one of the lovely ladies to worry about where they hung their not so naughty clothes to dry. The key was cold in her hand as she pulled it from her coat pocket and slid it into the heavy lock of the wooden door. The small grassy area was hedged by a 8 foot stone wall that surrounded the entire building except for the entrance. It did a good job of keeping out unwanted visitors. While The Red Door was not in the worst part of London (popularly considered to be Whitechapel which has recently seen the ravages of Jack the Ripper), it had seen it's share of possible burglars. Madam Perier was far more formidable than most men might guess, and most of the burglars had been sent running licking their wounds and weeping over empty pockets. Molly still kept herself aware and safe, since despite the fact that she wore men's clothing and disguised herself quite efficiently as one, there were still possibilities of her being attacked on the streets, especially in the evening.

Thankfully, within a moment or two the woman was inside the courtyard, the door barred behind her and headed into the brothel itself. The back chamber was dark and without a fire or radiator to heat it, the room was cold, though not as brisk as outside, her body shielded at least from the winds that seemed to signify another drop of temperature in the coming days. She was greeted with the soft snoring of Abel, the young boy who worked in the brothel doing cleaning chores and other odds and ends. His body was splayed out on some of the crates stacked in the back, and it was clear he'd found himself napping after likely escaping from Madam Perier for either not sweeping properly or tending the fires in the rooms.

Molly shook her head, as she reached over and shook Abel on the shoulder. "Up you go, Abel," she said in her soft, normal voice, no longer a tenor but rather a gentle alto. The young boy's green eyes opened to stare up at her, and he sat up abruptly almost knocking into Molly's head. "It's just me!" She exclaimed at him before laughing.

"Sorry, Miss!" He responded, "Gave me the fright o' my life, you did! Not oft' I wake up to some gent shaking me from a nap." He seemed to blink in the dark, coming to a realization. "Do you have the time, Miss Molly?"

"I should think it's nearly half past 6 if not later," she responded gently, reverting back to a standing position.

"Madam Perier is going to 'ave my 'ead for this!" His cockney accent leached in stronger in his panic, pushing himself up and brushing off his clothes which while old, were still holding together and of relative good quality. Molly assumed that as the only non-male patron of The Red Door, Abel must have been one of the girls' children, though she had never asked, and Abel, nor any of the residents, had offered an explanation.

"Calm down, Abel. Come with me, and we'll set it to rights," the woman said in soothing tones, setting a hand on his shoulder and gently nudging him towards the door into the brothel. "You must be freezing in here anyhow. I know I am and I've only been here a minute."

Abel didn't respond, but shivered as if her words had made it true, despite the layers he wore, and headed towards the wooden door which was outlined with a soft light of the fires within. "I'm supposed to be out of the way, Miss, when the sirs are inside," he said as he reached for the door.

"Well, I am too, so you can come with me, if you want to hide a bit longer," Molly relented, as she ruffled the boy's hair and he opened the door.

The Madam let Molly use a downstairs bedroom that was rarely ever used to decloak herself of any manly assets she may have used for the day, and change into something more appropriate. The evening seemed relatively brisk with business as they entered, seeing that most of the women who lounged in the foyer attempting to snag a man for the evening, were in fact absent, and the Madam herself must have been busy as well, for Molly could find no hide nor hair of the woman as she glanced about. It did not go unnoticed that Abel was quite happy not to confront the Madam quite yet.

"La Chambre de Violet," Molly said in rather good French, pointing to the lavender painted door on the right to guide Abel to it. Her normal choice of defrocking was the Blue Room, but there was a conspicuous ribbon hanging tied from the handle which indicated it was currently taken.

Abel made a beeline for the door, and Molly closed it once they were both inside. "Get some hot water from the water closet for me," she said to him, offering the porcelain bowl off the nightstand. She would need it hot to get the spirit gum off her upper lip and around her hairline which helped affix her wig. Both the fake mustache along with the dark colored wig were perhaps the most annoying parts of her play act as a man. A hassle to remove and to add, normally taking at least an extra hour in the morning to make sure that the pieces would not be removed or shifted askew.

She opened the briefcase she carried to and from work, and removed her clothing that she would wear home. There was nothing overly extravagant, and she often forgo the corset as she had to bind her breasts for her outfit anyway. The most important of items was perhaps the orange oil extract which she added dutifully to the hot water basin when Abel returned. "Did you get caught?" She asked as she gazed into the mirror, using a brush to apply the water mixture around the moustache and her hairline. Her eyes glanced to Abel's through the mirror and saw the guilty look as he sat on the bed, bounding gently with a frown. That would be a yes then.

"Madam Perier said she wants to see you when you're done," he said glumly, and Molly tried not to laugh at the poor boy's predicament.

"Forget to use the poker on the fires?" Molly inquired, wondering what had Abel running from the mistress this time.

"Just once.. and only in one room!" He protested, "No sweets for a month seems 'arsh just because one of the pricks couldn't get it up in a cold room."

"Abel!" Molly said, standing straight up and glaring at him through the mirror, "Language." She gently pulled the wig from her skin, pulling at the comb which was attached underneath the cap and into her hair.

"Sorry, Miss," he said mumbling, looking contrite.

"Not to worry," she murmured to him, pulling back on her tone, as she washed her face completely with the citrus scented water. Drying her face off with a nearby towel, she gave a shooing motion with her hands. "Better to go get the rest of your chores done then now that you've been found out, else you might miss another important one and have no treats for TWO months."

Abel groaned as if in pain at the thought of no treats for two months, and shifted off the bed. "All right, all right," he said, and headed for the door.

Molly smiled. "I'll be back on Saturday, Abel, for the checkups. I might bring a treat for you then, and it'll be our secret. But I have to hear of no other skipping of chores, all right?"

The young boy nodded enthusiastically, the sparkle back in his eyes that made Molly laugh. That sparkle was familiar somehow, and Molly was left wondering, as Abel left her to her devices, when the last time something so simple as candy had made her so happy. Surely life would be simpler if that's all it took to make one content.

When she'd finished with her ablutions, Molly pinched at her cheeks and pulled back her hair. It was good to be feminine, but not too feminine in a whore house, so the outfit she wore was in drab greys and covered her from neck to ankles, declaring her in fact, not one of the women on purchase for the evening. She took a quick look outside of the room after gathering her items to make sure no one was looking and headed to the Madam's office, a luxury not prevalent in all whorehouses.

She knocked three times, straightening her dress as she waited for the inevitable "Come" that was crisp even through the wooden door.

Inside was a woman who defined colorful, not only in the way she dressed (a current ensemble that could only be described as berry themed with blueberry and raspberry tones in her various petticoats and bodice) but in the way she held herself and spoke. "Molly, ma petite!" The O in Molly's name was elongated with emphasis, a smile on the madam's face. The woman rose to her feet and moved forward to embrace the younger woman. "You really must come visit me more instead of just using me for my building and money!" Perrier teased Molly who managed to blush.

"Adalene, you know that's not the only reason I come here. I've been busy-"

"Yes, yes," the French woman cut off Molly's protest, "I know you've been very busy, but it's not very fair to me, when I love you like a sister!" Adalene was perhaps only 15 years Molly's senior but would never consider herself "motherly" to her friend. Molly considered her quite beautiful with blonde hair that wisped around her pale skin, and deep emerald eyes which had won over many a man. She had put in her time, saved up her money, and now she ran her own business and only took very specific requests.

The madam gestured to a chair in her office and sat in the matching one next to her. "I had wanted to speak to you because-"

"Madam, Madam!" Abel came running into the room without so much of a how do you do? His cheeks were flushed and there was a great commotion that was obvious now that the office door was open.

Adalene opened her mouth to reprimand the boy when she heard what was obviously causing the ruckus. Abel took the moment of her hesitation to explain. "There are two men fighting once more over-"

"Yes, I can guess quite well who they might be fighting over," Adalene stood and looked at Molly, "Excuse me." A poker was taken from the fireplace nearby and tossed quickly into the embers until it was red hot, now a weapon in the madam's hands.

As the blonde woman left, and Abel had rushed out again, obviously quite excited, Molly was torn between staying well out of it and her curiosity. Perhaps she should wait to see what happened afterward? Surely Adalene would reward her with the news of how the brawl ended.

There was a loud noise then of something wooden and heavy being smashed and Molly could no longer contain her concern and curiosity. Peering out from the door, she could see a man who was on the ground with almost amber curls and a long face, beneath his was a broken table. There was blood coming from his nose, and as a doctor, Molly could not stand by.

She rushed into the room, the man dazed on the floor still, thankful that the madam seemed to have stopped the attacker from going forward anymore. "Hello there, can you see my fingers, sir?" Molly asked as she held up her fingers.

"I just don't know what happened, Adalene," a smooth, sultry feminine voice said from behind Molly. "One moment I was going upstairs with this gentleman and the other just seemed to want to butt in."

"J'en ai assez!" Adalene said, and Molly could tell she was unhappy. There was indeed a vase that had been broken, which Molly assessed was likely from the hot poker. "You're to retire for now, Irene."

"You're lucky this man isn't as hurt as he seems, sir," Molly said cuttingly to the attacker who is pacing somewhat. Her fingers moved in front of the amber haired man and she watched as his eyes follow them, tracking.

"I know exactly every injury I inflicted upon him," the attacker responds in an all too familiar voice.

Molly freezes, turning her head back to the attacker seeing the curled hair, dark and luscious which was currently frazzled. He too managed to get a swollen lip, but she could see no other injuries that had occurred to the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

I would like to post once every two weeks at the very least, but hearing what you like or didn't like makes me write faster! Let me know what you think. 3