1700s England.
Young Molly Hooper skipped down the dirt road, basket swinging. Her mouse brown hair was beginning to come out of her braid, and the loose strands began to fly in her trail.
"Where are you off to in such a hurry, dear?" the baker, Adela Backus asked, stopping her in her tracks.
Molly turned to her. "Oh, good morning, Mrs Backus! Sorry, can't talk long. I'm on my way to visit father."
"Oh, is he working today?" the woman asked. "On Christmas?"
"I'm afraid so." Molly sighed. "He didn't tell me exactly what happened, but he said something about the Abbey girl."
Mrs Backus cocked her head sadly. "Oh, dear. Which one?"
"The younger one."
She shook her head. "Probably a wild animal."
Molly nodded her head. "That's what I was thinking."
"Anyways," Mrs Backus gestured to the basket. "What's in there?"
Molly looked down at the basket, which she wove herself a couple years back. "Father's lunch. He left it at home again!" She shook her head. "I'm beginning to get so worried about him. He's always forgetting things. And he's been getting clumsier and clumsier as the days go on."
"Well, you and your mother better watch out for him." Mrs Backus said, "My husband did just the same before he died. He was always stumbling and forgetting where he left his journals. Ill, he was."
Molly noticed how her eyes gained a new layer of water, and her cheeks reddened, her chin lowering slightly, though she pretended nothing was the matter.
She reached a hand out and laid it on the woman's shoulder. "He's all better now, Mrs Backus. He's not ill anymore."
Mrs Backus smiled. "How can you always see past my emotions?"
"I know what sad people look like." Molly smiled sympathetically and took her hand away from the woman's shoulder. "I better be off, then."
"Goodbye dear."
"Goodbye!" She waved and started off again.
As she skipped down the road, she glanced at the people she passed; Children playing, woman picking out cloth dolls for their daughters and wooden swords for their sons, men whistling as they carried bags of flour and grains. They all had something to do, the children played, the woman took care of their children, and the men worked. All Molly did was bring her absent-minded father his lunch, which was prepared by her mother. She felt as if she was of no use to anyone but her father.
He watched as her skipping slowed to a walk as she approach the village's morgue. She pushed open the door.
"Father?" she called as she walked in. The door slammed shut behind her.
"So, Thomas,"[sic] Philipp Anderson said, "what are you thinking?"
Thomas Baucom stared at the morgue entrance, waiting for the girl to com out. "Such a beauty as she should not expose herself to such grotesque environments."
Sally Donovan appeared at the side of Philipp. "Maybe she just is not letting herself be confined to the expectations of society. That's what a real woman should do."
"Quiet now, Ms Donovan. Remember, you are not to speak about other's personal affairs unless spoken to." Phillip's tone was very stern. He would not allow his slave to speak like a feminist.
She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Yes, sir."
He turned and slapped the palm of his hand against her thigh. She squealed and doubled over, holding her hands to the spot, which she knew would soon begin to bruise. "Tone of voice."
"Yes, sir."
The girl wasn't coming out, and Thomas could tell it would be awhile. Some days, she wouldn't leave for at least an hour. He assumed that she tried to linger as long as possible.
"I could have that girl," he told Philipp, "Take her, claim her. She could be mine with just a snap of my fingers."
Philipp raised an eyebrow. "Then why haven't you?"
Thomas let out a short, breathy laugh. "I must be patient. If I take her, I would prefer if she was pleased with being by my side. I'll charm her. Seduce her." He paused. "Make her want to be mine."
"She's not a piece of property. You realize that, don't you?" Sally sneered, disgusted.
Just as Philipp raised his hand to smack her once again, Thomas raised his hand to stop him. "No need."
"But–"
Thomas cut him off. "Let her ramble on about independence and shit alike that... Punishment will not correct her thoughts."
At that, he began to walk off down the road, waving to the shoemaker in a friendly matter, a charming smile adorning his face. Philipp and Sally watched him. He tipped a hat to a young lady at a flower shop and delightfully accepted a daisy from her toddler daughter.
Philipp turned. "Go on, then. Back home."
"What about the breads?" Sally asked, concerning the remainder of her shopping list.
Philipp shook his head. "Later, now off you pop. I'll be home in around an hour. Be ready, or you will regret your little independence rants."
She ducked a head, mainly to hide the inevitable death glare she failed to hide. "Yes, sir."
"Father?" Molly called out, walking into the office just before the doors to the morgue. No response. The door shut behind her and she took a couple more cautious steps. "Father ... I brought your lunch. You forgot it ... again." She still received no response from her father. A few more steps.
Molly felt herself begin to sweat, under her arms, the backsides of her knees. Her heart began to speed up as worry began to wash over her.
"Father? I know you are–"
The sight of her father on the floor behind his desk stopped her dead in her tracks. He lay in a puddle of his own bloody vomit, nose in. A wet spot was on the crotch of his trousers his legs were a width apart, as if he fell right in the middle of walking.
Molly screamed, though it came out very low and cracked. No one would hear it. Dropping the basked, she rushed to her father, kneeling onto the floor beside him.
"Father? Father!" she cried, pushing his body over, relieving his nose from the puddle of vomit. She pressed her ear to his chest and her fingers to his wrist. Breathing. Pulse. He was alive.
She ran to the door and opened it, shouting out of it for somebody to help. A crowd of people rushed over. In the distance, a couple of mothers gripped their children's wrists. The children struggled to fallow the crowd, but their mother's pulled them away, taking them home so that they themselves could comeback and investigate the screaming girl.
Out of the crowd a doctor stepped up after the girl cried about needing one urgently. Molly led him to her father, and he kneeled down. Some people followed in, though he asked they let them alone.
"Ms Hooper," he said, "rush home to your mother. Help her clear off your dining table. I will be there shortly with your father."
With a nod she was off, running as fast as she could down the road once again, tripping over her dress once and tumbling to the ground with a scream and a thud. Dirtied and bruised, she pushed herself back up and carried on.
"I haven no knowledge of what could possibly be the cause of his rather fast deterioration." Doctor Sutherland said, his hands folded in his lap.
Molly's mother brought him a teacup, which was filled to the brim with tea brewed from the herbs she had grown herself. Molly came out of the bedroom where her feverish, shivering, pale as God knows what father lay in bed, looking closer and closer the death with each passing day. This was the third day since his accident.
"If we can not figure out how to cure him in the next few days, he could end up in your family charnel house sooner than he should." Sutherland watched as Molly's mother closed her watering eyes, a single drop sliding down her cheeks. "I am sorry, Rebecka."
"Is there not anything that can be done?" Molly asked, her voice breaking at the end of her sentence. She was holding back her own tears, eyes stinging.
He shook his head. "Not from here... Not by me."
Rebecka furrowed her brows. "Sorry? What do you mean?"
Sutherland sighed. He looked down at his cup. "There is a man who might be able to fix this."
"Who?" Rebecka asked.
"He's a man of science. He works very hard, and is likely the most brilliant man on earth."
"Who is he?" demanded Rebecka.
"His name is Sherlock Holmes."
Molly stepped closer. "Where can we find him? Can we got now?"
"He is not who you may think he is." Sutherland looked between the two women. "He is emotionless and lacks sympathy. He will want something, some kind of gift in return of curing your husband, your father."
"We do not have much," Rebecka said.
"But we will give him all we have if needed," Molly finished.
"He would not want your money," Sutherland said. "There is no telling what he would want in return."
The two thought for a moment before exchanging a look that assured them both that they had reached the same decision.
"How do we find him?" asked Rebecka.
Sutherland sighed once again. He put his face in his hands and took a deep breath, his worry for the two quite obvious. "Go to Baker Street. When you reach the end of the street, walk on the trail through the woods for about two hundred and twenty-one metres. You'll find his home there."
Molly furrowed her brows. "Will you not be coming with us?"
Sutherland shook his head. "Mr Holmes would only become more irritated if someone whom was not a part of the request came along, and that is definitely not what you need." Sutherland stood and moved to the window, pushing away the curtains and looking out. "If you leave now, you can make it there and back before sunset. Hurry. I will stay with Elijah." He motioned to the room Molly's father lay in.
Molly and her mother both looked to each other and then nodded.