"Irene Adler was dead. And my friend Sherlock Holmes refused to eat, sleep, speak, or do anything at all besides stand by the window and compose. Until Molly Hooper braved the steps of our flat, bringing the one thing no one thought he needed: a fairytale." Tag and AU for Scandal in Belgravia
AN: I've made references to William Goldman's "The Princess Bride" in at least 2 other fics—but the opportunities within those pages for reflection upon other characters is just boundless, so I could not resist. This is the first time, however, I have ventured into this particular fandom. I do hope you enjoy—let me know if you do:)
VVVVV
As You Wish
I could not bear it. Not for one more afternoon—I simply could not. My friend Sherlock Holmes, with whom I shared a small, pokey and oddly-furnished London flat, had refused to eat, sleep, speak, or do nearly anything at all besides stand by the frosted window and compose achingly-sad tunes on his violin since Christmas Eve. He wore his pajamas and dressing gown all day and night, declined Mrs. Hudson's efforts to make him sit down and at least have tea; and when his fingers started bleeding from the violin strings he would wander restlessly or listlessly about, lurking by the windows or leaning against corners, staring off and sighing deeply—or viciously barking corrections at whatever television program happened to be on. I could only watch him with something like quiet dread eating at my gut.
It was as if he'd gone mad.
Or—more mad than usual.
I knew what it was like to be disappointed in love. Heartbroken, even. Of course, almost everyone has been there at one time or another. But this—whatever this was that had possessed him—I could not be certain about. I only knew that it had been inflicted by one Irene Adler. She had hijacked Sherlock's attention when the two had first met (in an absolutely unfair fashion, I might add), had driven him to distraction with her constant texting and provocative phone noises, then gotten herself killed. Poor Sherlock had been forced to go down to the morgue and identify her body himself.
Now, I would never speak this aloud, but when I heard of her death, I confess I breathed easier. I had disliked her initially from her description alone, and when I encountered her later I became instantly convinced that she was manipulative, shameless, ruthless, and possibly the most dangerous person my singularly-minded flat-mate could associate with. And with each day that had passed since Christmas, observing his tortured and solitary behavior, I realized more and more that if Sherlock were to feel anything resembling love for a woman who was not kind, extraordinarily patient, guileless, faithful and the very essence of goodness—it could destroy him.
But what on earth could I possibly do about that?
So, today, I ventured up to him as he stood marking up his music by the wintry light of the window. Mrs. Hudson, stepping across into the kitchen, her shoes tapping, pleasantly commented that she hadn't heard that tune of his before.
"Composing?" I asked him.
Sherlock glanced up at me, disheveled, with dark circles under his pale eyes—but I got the feeling he didn't really see me.
"Helps me think," he muttered, his voice low. He took up his bow again.
"What are you thinking about?" I pressed. He didn't reply.
"Well…" I sighed, finally at a complete loss. "I'm going out."
He still didn't answer. I watched him a moment longer, then turned and headed for my coat.
A shadow moved in the stairwell, and one of the steps creaked. I stopped. Sherlock's yearning violin broke out again, sounding like a very eloquent knife twisting in a wound.
"Hello?" I called, frowning and stepping toward the stairs.
"Hello," came a timid, but cheerful, female voice. "May I…come up?"
"Molly?" I fairly cried. "I…Yes, yes of course! Please, come in."
She stepped into the light, carrying a small bag, and bundled tight in a black coat and scarf. She had half of her long reddish hair pulled up and had let the rest hang loose, which flattered her face much more than the usual side ponytail did; her face was flushed and her eyes brightened by the cold, and she smiled readily in greeting. That moment, two things occurred to me. One: she truly was quite pretty—Sherlock, for all his observational prowess, had somehow completely missed that—and two: she must be very brave, to venture here again so soon after Sherlock had humiliated and wounded her at the Christmas party.
"Hello, John," she nodded to me, then glanced past me. "Hello, Sherlock."
I turned to look at him. Of course, he didn't even act as if he knew she was there. Just kept playing—if a little more earnestly. Molly shifted, as if absorbing a blow, then lifted her chin and strengthened her smile.
"It's a lovely day outside for a walk," she commented, returning her attention to me. "A bit brisk, but…sunny."
"Oh, yes. Yes, quite," I said quickly, pained at Sherlock's callousness. Though, why did I still let it surprise me? Molly's face softened as she glanced back and forth between myself and Sherlock, and her eyebrows drew together.
"It's been a hard holiday, hasn't it?" she said, wincing slightly. "Not really fun at all. For anyone."
I heaved another great sigh, and ran a hand through my hair.
"No, you're right. Absolutely right. It hasn't been."
She nodded, serious.
"Yes, I thought so. So I…I wanted to try and do something for you," she shrugged, shyly half smiling. "A little trick I know. It's always worked before. At least—for me."
"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.
"Well, I—"
"John, where are your manners?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted, coming back into the sitting room and pointing at Molly. "Take the girl's coat!"
"Oh, sorry!" I jumped forward and helped Molly off with her coat.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Molly said.
"Hello, dear! So nice to see you!"
Molly wore a form-fitting red sweater underneath, and black trousers. I stepped around her to the pegs and hung the coat up, and Mrs. Hudson passed me as I did.
"I know you said you were going out," she said under her breath. "But you really mustn't, not if she's staying."
I faced her, and grimaced.
"Yeah, that wouldn't be the best idea, would it?"
Mrs. Hudson widened her eyes and shook her head.
"Not after the Christmas party," she whispered. "You need to protect this silly girl, John. No telling what he'll say when he's in this mood!"
I turned quite ashen, I'm sure. I felt my whole body go cold.
"Right. Quite right." I stepped back around her and into the sitting room. There had been some re-arranging of the furniture during the past few days, done mainly by Sherlock during his restless pacing. He had moved the couch over so it stood behind the table, one armrest up against the wall with the windows. Where the couch had been, an armchair huddled in the far corner. Another chair sat just to my right, beside the door. Molly stood in front of it, watching Sherlock as he played, holding her bag in both hands. Listening to him. I came around her, mustering a smile, and gestured to the chair.
"Please sit down."
"Thank you," she said, and did so.
"So…what have you brought?" I asked over the melancholy music, stepping over to the corner arm chair and settling down into it. Molly opened her mouth.
The bow screeched on the violin strings. I glanced over to see Sherlock swing his bow down and let his violin go limp, his head hanging back.
"Doubtlessly some soup-like concoction she made this morning using a recipe handed down from her grandmother," he droned. "Something including chicken broth or beef bouillon that promises to heal every sickness and soothe every ache but is in fact nothing more than a placebo for the weak-minded."
"No it isn't," Molly countered. Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Oh, no? Pray tell, what is it, then?"
"A book."
Sherlock brought his head up again, and stared blackly out the window, lids half open.
"Then I'm certain I have it or have borrowed it or have already thrown it away," he said. "I don't need another book."
"I'm not giving it to you."
I blinked, glanced at her. She gazed steadily at Sherlock. He didn't move. Molly took a breath and reached into the bag. She pulled out a thick paperback, but I couldn't make out the title or the picture on the cover because she turned it over and set it on her lap.
"It's not a very old book, even though it acts like it is," she fondly rubbed the spine.
Sherlock closed his eyes again.
"What can that possibly mean?" he demanded—probably not because he couldn't guess, but because he was scornful of her analysis. But she continued.
"Well, you see, the author pretends to have found some old manuscript, and that he is translating the 'good parts' and summarizing the boring parts—when in fact he's making the entire thing up himself. He does it quite cleverly, actually. Builds a good case. I know he had me fooled the first time I read it."
Sherlock snorted. I felt my hackles rise.
"Listen, Sherlock," I snapped. "She's come here to help."
"And how?" he demanded flatly, gesturing in irritation. "Does this marvelous book contain some valuable information I couldn't otherwise obtain? Some insight that hasn't yet occurred to me? Some intelligence that has somehow slipped past the nets of my smart phone, Watson's education and even my brother's ? Some magic words that will fix all the problems of the universe and set everything straight and level so we can all stop wasting our time?"
A pang shot through my chest. I looked over at Molly.
But there was something different about her today. At the Christmas party, she had been hopeful, delicate and vulnerable. Today, she was braced, collected. And unafraid. As if she was on a mission.
She sat there calmly in a soft beam of sunlight from the window, considering him, and answered.
"No, not at all."
"Why did you bring it, then?" Sherlock asked.
"Because some problems can't be solved," she explained quietly. "And the best we can do is let ourselves be distracted for a little while."
Sherlock's right eyebrow flicked. He said nothing.
"Besides," Molly added. "It's a good story. There's a movie, too. I like them both. Either one cheers me up when I'm feeling poorly. And…" she paused. "The main character sort of reminds me of you."
Sherlock's head tipped toward her—unconsciously, I'm certain. His eyes shifted, and his mouth tightened. Then, he laboriously set his violin and bow down on a chair, and leaned his shoulder against the window frame.
"I don't feel like reading."
"I thought as much," Molly acknowledged. "So I'm going to read it. To you."
Sherlock frowned this time. But didn't speak.
I sank back into my chair, keeping silent, and trying to turn invisible. Which I knew I could do. Of course, I'd instantly leap out of hiding if Sherlock did anything too cruel—but for now I just wanted to see what exactly Molly had in mind.
She turned the book over, carefully opened the battered cover and began flipping through the pages.
"There's a long introduction here," she explained. "Mostly the author trying to convince you of his make-believe story about translating. I think it takes too long, myself. So we'll start with the actual story part." She flipped a few more, then settled. She cleared her throat, and took a breath.
"The Princess Bride, by William Goldman."
I suppressed a grin. I had seen the movie made after this book, and loved it—of course, who didn't? But as I considered Sherlock, not a single flicker of recognition crossed his pale face. Molly didn't look at him. Instead, she began to read.
"The year Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette. Annette worked in Paris for the Duke and Duchess de Guiche and it did not escape the Duke's notice that someone extraordinary was polishing the pewter. The Duke's notice did not escape the notice of the Duchess, either, who was not very beautiful and not very rich, but plenty smart. The Duchess set about studying Annette and shortly found her adversary's tragic flaw.
Chocolate."
I stared at Molly in surprise. She had a wonderful reading voice—musical and careful, expressive and exactly the right volume. And, as I had never read the book, I knew nothing about this Duchess or her marital problems—I had expected money to be Annette's downfall, or another man. Not chocolate. I risked a look at Sherlock. He hadn't budged, or changed expression. Molly went on.
"Armed now, the Duchess set to work. The Palace de Guiche turned into a candy castle. Everywhere you looked, bonbons. There were piles of chocolate-covered mints in the drawing rooms, baskets of chocolate-covered nougats in the parlors.
Annette never had a chance. Inside a season, she went from delicate to whopping, and the Duke never glanced in her direction without sad bewilderment clouding his eyes. (Annette, it might be noted, seemed only cheerier throughout her enlargement. She eventually married the pastry chef and they both ate a lot until old age claimed them. Things, it might also be noted, did not fare so cheerily for the Duchess. The Duke, for reasons passing understanding next became smitten with his very own mother-in-law, which caused the Duchess ulcers, only they didn't have ulcers yet. More precisely, ulcers existed, people had them, but they weren't called 'ulcers.' The medical profession at the time called them 'stomach pains' and felt the best cure was coffee dolloped with brandy twice a day until the pains subsided. The Duchess took her mixture faithfully, watching through the years as her husband and her mother blew kisses at each other behind her back. Not surprisingly, the Duchess's grumpiness became legendary, as Voltaire has so ably chronicled. Except this was before Voltaire.)"
I swallowed my laughter—which was very hard—and fought to maintain my invisible status. Especially when I saw Sherlock turn his head ever so slightly in our direction.
Molly kept reading, chronicling the rise of several other beautiful women and their various falls from perfection, each journey as unpredictable and sometimes silly as the next. With half my attention, I listened. With the other half, I observed Sherlock.
He leaned heavily against the window frame, his arms folded. He blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused. For the hundredth time, I noted the dark circles under his eyes. They looked like bruises. I waited for him to interrupt, to say something cutting that would get her to stop this nonsense.
But he didn't.
Molly kept reading for several more pages, her tones pleasant and easy, until she got to the part about the Buttercup who was first mentioned, and how pretty she was becoming, but that she didn't care a thing for it. Sherlock's head hung low, and I was beginning to think that he had fallen asleep standing up.
But then he did something astonishing.
He shuffled forward, heavily climbed over the back of the couch with his long, lanky legs, and sat down at one end of it, near the window.
Molly glanced up to see his movement, her words hitching. But she recovered almost immediately, before the spell could break, and kept reading. Sherlock stared blankly out in front of him, his elbow on the armrest, his fingers draped over his lips. I frowned at him.
Or was it blankly? A slight line marked the skin of his brow, between his eyebrows.
He was concentrating. But on what?
That dreadful Irene again, and what he could have done to save her, or how he ought to be feeling or not feeling about her? Or something to do with Mycroft and one of his requests—or a dozen other puzzles bashing around in that complicated skull of his? My frown deepened. No. If that were so, then Molly's voice and story would be a distraction, and if I knew one thing about Sherlock Holmes, it was that he avoided—he fled from—distraction. He did not come closer to it.
Molly adjusted the way she was sitting, and kept up the soothing flow of her words. Every now and then, her warm brown eyes would flit up to Sherlock, checking to see that he hadn't dozed off—or wasn't glaring scathingly at her. But he hadn't and didn't.
Gradually, she read about Buttercup, and the Farm Boy named Westley that Buttercup liked to order about. How Westley answered her every request with a simple "As you wish." And then how a countess had looked at Westley with interest, which had suddenly made Buttercup very jealous. So jealous, in fact, that she lost a whole night of sleep, weeping and thrashing around in bed.
At that part, Molly lifted her hand, and rubbed the side of her forehead. The movement caught my attention, and I saw that her hand shook a little. A very little. Sherlock caught it too—but he barely moved his eyes to note it, and didn't speak. Molly stopped for a moment, took another deep breath, then continued to Buttercup boldly marching to Westley's hovel, determined to tell him how she felt.
" 'I love you,' Buttercup said. 'I know this must come as something of a surprise, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you,'" Molly read, carefully and smoothly. " 'but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than any woman ever loved a man, but half an hour after that I knew that what I felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. But ten minutes after that I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know?'"
"Sorry?"
I twitched at the sound of Sherlock's bass voice. He had lifted his chin off the heel of his hand and turned toward Molly, his brow furrowing, blinking his eyes back into focus. She looked at him, her lips parted.
"What?" she asked.
"My eyes," Sherlock answered. "You said something about my eyes—the seas before a storm. That's what you just said."
Molly blushed scarlet. I bit the inside of my cheek and kept silent.
"I…I was just reading," Molly explained, a little hushed. "That's what Buttercup said about Westley."
"Oh," Sherlock said.
I looked sideways at him.
That tone. Was he—disappointed?
Silence fell for a moment…
"Your eyes aren't at all like that," Molly suddenly ventured.
Sherlock blinked again.
"No?"
She shook her head.
"No. I'd have to say yours are more like the sky," she told him. "In early spring—you know, when it's bright and pale."
Sherlock's expression cleared, and changed. Slight startlement—and a softening around the edges.
"Oh," he said again—much quieter. Molly's fingers tightened on the book as she watched him—and he gazed back at her.
"Tea, anybody?" Mrs. Hudson came in carrying a loaded tray. "I'm not your housekeeper, mind you—but since nobody is going to be a good host around here for this young lady, I'll not have her neglected."
I stood up right away.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, so sorry about that…" I quickly arranged two small tables and a rolling tray, so everybody could still sit where he was, and helped Mrs. Hudson pour out and hand the tea around. Sherlock took his without a word, and said nothing about the biscuits I set on his tray as well. I sat back down and took a cup and saucer for myself, and watched as Molly set the book, open, face down on her tray and began to tuck in to the biscuits.
"Molly," I said, taking a sip. "You really do have a very pleasant story-telling voice."
She giggled, and shrugged.
"Thank you." She took a drink of tea. "I sometimes babysit my little nieces and nephews—they say I can read or tell a story better than their own Mum. And that's saying something, because she was in theatre quite a bit when she was younger. Shakespeare, even." She suddenly stopped, as if catching herself. "Though I'm…I'm not trying to brag…"
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked. He picked up his cup, and took a sip of tea.
I almost dropped mine on the floor.
I hadn't seen him eat or drink anything in days. I looked over at Molly. What was going on, here?
Molly finished up her biscuits, drained her tea, and picked up the book again.
"All right, where were we…?"
"'But ten minutes after that I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know?" Sherlock reminded her, taking another sip.
"Yes," she said, giving him another quick look before finding her place on the page. "'Your eyes are like that, did you know? Well they are. How many minutes ago was I? Twenty? Had I brought my feelings up to then? It doesn't matter.' Buttercup still could not look at him. The sun was rising behind her now; she could feel the heat on her back, and it gave her courage. 'I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be comparison. I love you so much more now than when you opened your hovel door, there cannot be comparison. There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something to it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you. Anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do. I know I cannot compete with the Countess in skills or wisdom or appeal, and I saw the way she looked at you. And I saw the way you looked at her. But remember, please, that she is old and has other interests, while I am seventeen and for me there is only you. Dearest Westley—I've never called you that before, have I?—Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley,-darling Westley, adored Westley, sweet perfect Westley, whisper that I have a chance to win your love.' And with that, she dared the bravest thing she'd ever done and looked right into his eyes.
He closed the door in her face."
"He what?" I cried.
Both Molly and Sherlock looked at me.
"Sorry," I said quickly. "I just…Well, that seems rather horrid of him. Doesn't it?"
"Yes, it does," Molly agreed. Sherlock said nothing—but he picked up one of his biscuits and considered it. I clapped my mouth shut. If Molly just kept reading, he might decide to eat something…
Molly kept steadily reading, telling about how Buttercup wept with the full force of a broken heart, then returned to her house—only to have Westley come to her door and tell her that he was leaving. Leaving because of what she said. Because he needed to make money so that he could marry her.
"'If you're teasing me, Westley, I'm just going to kill you.'
'How can you even dream I might be teasing?'
'Well, you haven't once said you loved me.'
'That's all you need? Easy. I love you. Okay? Want it louder? I love you. Spell it out, should I? I ell-oh-vee-ee why-oh-you. Want it backward? You love I.'
'You are teasing now; aren't you?'
'A little maybe; I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said "Farm Boy do this" you thought I was answering "As you wish' but that's only because you were hearing wrong. "I love you" was what it was, but you never heard, and you never heard.'"
"Hm," I murmured, smiling to myself. " 'As you wish'…"
"Quiet, John," Sherlock commanded. My eyebrows went up.
"Sorry," I whispered. But I saw Molly smile, too.
To be continued…
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