Hello everyone! So this is just something I'm testing out since the premise has been in my mind for an extremely long time now. If this gets a good response, I'll happily continue! :)
It won't follow the 1997 James Cameron film, since I'm just taking the idea of the Titanic. However there will probably be some allusions to the film, especially since this is going to be about star-crossed lovers.
(Full) Summary: Sherlock, Molly, and their ill-fated voyage on the Titanic.
It wasn't until the betrothed detective met the female stowaway that Sherlock Holmes found out what it truly meant to be alive.
I hope you'll give this story a chance!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
The Abundance of Sentiment
It was once said that the greatest love stories were the ones that would die with us. What they didn't say, however, was that love was the only feeling that was truly infinite.
Molly Hooper had seen a lot of things in her lifetime. In her nearly twenty five years, her eyes were worn with the burden of witnessing death and grieving families, and the backhanded alleyways of England filled with homeless children and conniving thieves.
She was not an ordinary woman. Most at her age were already married with two children and most likely living a comfortable life in the countryside tending to the stable horses and watching the sun rise and bow beneath the horizon. But not Molly.
She had, in fact, been betrothed when she was eighteen to a thirty five year old businessman who was recently widowed and looking for a new wife to indulge his newly found needs. He was vile, imprudent, disgusting and utterly sexist – at every dinner, she would have to wait for his permission to let her speak, and that alone was a rare treat. He had not taken to her love of medicine and pathology, deeming it unworthy and unfitting for a woman.
Her place, he had said, was at his feet, tending to his every whim. That her sole purpose for living was to serve him.
Well damn him.
Because this was her life, and damn her if she was going to let anyone take that away from her.
She had pleaded with her mother to end the engagement, but her mother had refused her daughter's pleas, and instead told her that marrying him would ensure her a comfortable life.
One thing that Molly knew for sure was that she would rather live a happy but rough life, than a sad but comfortable one.
It was the night before the wedding that Molly finally made her decision.
She would no longer let anyone take control of her life again.
She had stolen a bag from the back of the wardrobe, and filled it with clothes and supplies until the bag would hardly shut. She infiltrated the safe in the room with her mother's code, and stole the money that was kept inside.
Then she opened the window to the vast world ahead, with the crescent moon shining on half of the night, and the barely visible stars twinkling on ahead.
The world was beyond, and it was time to leave home.
Surely, she had expected a man hunt to search for her in the days and weeks that passed, but she managed to elude them, albeit barely. She had chopped off her long hair into a boyish cut, and wore the clothes in the bag that she had taken, whether she had taken male or female clothing, she did not care.
Her family had looked for her for three months, until her mother had finally decided that enough was enough, and soon relinquished her hold on her daughter.
Her fiancé however? Well, last Molly heard he married the daughter of another business tycoon, and was now living in the city, money being spent away on unnecessary items. He was apparently, without child since his wife was unable to bore him children.
The chortle that escaped her when she found out could not be suppressed.
And yet, she had fled from the city she grew up in, living and inserting herself with the thugs that roamed the streets at night, becoming one with the phantoms that roamed the dark streets.
But Molly, ever the girl and always the woman, didn't have it all that easy.
Her father had taught her self-defense before he died, so it was not without a fight that she found herself in. A woman unaccompanied roaming the streets at night would certainly attract attention. Sometimes she found herself cornered by drunk men, but she managed to coax herself out of it using the skills she learned from her father.
To the normal appearance and the normal passerby, Molly looked like a shy woman who would flinch at an insult. And that, she was. But she was also so much more.
She had always had a fond spot for the ones she loved, often going out of her way to help them, even if it meant sacrifice on her behalf. She still had that trait of hers even until now.
Because despite the years on the street hardening her, she is always going to be that girl from her childhood, picking roses and flowers to give to her parents and helping out whenever she could.
She had been taught by various people she met on her travels, experienced thieves and con artists, the ways that she could skirt by life without spending a penny.
She was tired of England, with its dreary rain and darkening clouds, although it had served her home for all her life. But her time there was done, that chapter closed. She wanted something new, something exciting. She wanted to start a new life because she was finally done running.
And that is how she found herself sneaking onto the Titanic.
What she didn't expect, however, was to fall in love.
Perhaps it was the bright lights and the tedious guests that make Sherlock Holmes fidget in his seat. Or maybe it was the constant crackling of the wheels against the stone and the crashing of waves against the iron bars. Nevertheless, Sherlock found himself twisting around in the carriage, pulling his coat around him tighter and curling in on himself in the corner.
Beyond, he saw the Titanic emerge from the fog, a magnificent beast in all of its glory, shining with polished skin and strong with its size.
He hated it.
He completely and utterly hated it.
The ship was nothing but that – a ship. Deemed the largest passenger cruise liner, it could hold over two thousand souls on board. But to Sherlock, none of that mattered. He didn't see anything special in that ship.
He had often wondered about morality, about the pure essence and spiritual meaning of what it meant to be alive, but he found that in the end, humanity and morality were nothing but trivial things that put a weight on his chest. All lives end.
And it seemed, his already did.
At almost thirty, Sherlock had been pestered by his parents to find a suitable life partner for almost five years, and he could safely say that the thread he'd been walking on was surely about to snap. And it did.
Because, like the weather deciding to cloud the people on the street in fog, his parents had officially given him off to the daughter of a wealthy politician in New York. He had not chosen this life. They had lied and deceived the family, promising them that their son, Sherlock, was the one that chose their beloved daughter as the perfect bride.
He was nothing but a lie caught up in a convincing tale.
The truth, if Sherlock had to be honest, was that he wasn't looking for a wife. Not now, not yet, and maybe never. He had never found himself particularly attracted to anyone, mostly due to the fact that everyone he met had been tedious and dull. He hadn't met anyone that sparked his interest. And now he most likely never will.
But he was okay with that. He was okay with spending his life alone because in the end, he was the only person that could protect himself. Because in the end, he will be the only one he can rely on to always be there. Alone protects him.
He didn't know this woman, at least not very well. He had not even seen a picture of her. But here he was, destined to board the ship that will take him to the new world, to a new life that will hold nothing but longing for his true passion, to break the chains and get set free.
He was always a free soul. He did not care about social convention, nor about social propriety. But here he was, bound to his parents and to a marriage that was doomed to fail. He did not want this, and that would certainly show. He wanted to be set free, but he knew as clear as day that his parents would most certainly keep ahold of him until he got his life in check.
His brother, Mycroft, had been set as an example time and time again. Occupying a minor (major) position in the British government, he married at age twenty five and was now living with his wife and son in Central London, all the while carrying his duties as a puppet to the country. His parents were so proud, chiding him every hour of every day musing about why he couldn't be like his brother. And that's why Sherlock hated him.
Well, he didn't hate him, not fully anyway.
Mycroft was being left behind in England, scheduled to arrive the day before the wedding, as he had pressing matters to attend to.
Which left Sherlock alone with his parents in a carriage taking them to the ship that would change his life.
"It's quite beautiful, isn't it?" his mother mused beside him.
Sherlock dipped his hat further down his head, squashing the errant curls against his face, "If you believe it is."
His father threw him a look, and Sherlock shut up.
"Would you be so kind as to take this to our quarters?" he heard his father ask the worker beside him, subtly sneaking in a couple gold coins and pound notes when the boy started to protest.
"Of course, sir," he obliged, and soon Sherlock found his things being carted away and up the ramp into the ship, disappearing from sight.
He patted his coat pocket, finding relief that his miniature magnifying glass and bag of tools were still there. If he was going to spend the rest of his life until it ended because of his marriage on this ship, then he's going to at least make the most of it. Surely there had to be something that would quench his boredom. He is a consulting detective, and he's not going to deny that he thrives on adventure.
As he walked up the ramp to the ship, he noticed a string of people marching into the lower compartments of the ship, most likely the workers who shoveled coal into the ship's furnace. And as he zeroed in, his blue eyes met the brown ones of someone who seemed out of place – a woman dressed like and walking among men. A stowaway.
Perhaps there was going to be something interesting on this ship after all.
If life on the street had taught Molly something, it was that no one ever checked who the workers were, much less on a ship as big as this. It would have been too much of an effort to uphold.
Sneaking into workers storage holding place had been easy enough, the lock wasn't very hard to pick, and it certainly wasn't the securest. She hid her now long hair underneath a hat, and slipped inside.
Molly had learned the art of being a shadow a long time ago.
As she entered the holding room, she snagged a pair of uniform overalls and slipped it over her petite body. Then she weaved herself back into the crowd, marching out the door and into the fog, and found herself stepping onto a ramp that led to the lower levels of the ship.
With her bag slung over her shoulder and two layered clothes, she was still small compared to the other men surrounding her. Amongst the crowd of men, she looked up, and found herself staring at the vast beauty of the ship, its size making her feel even smaller.
Her mouth gaped open in amazement.
Then she found herself looking over at the ramps overhead, where the lower, middle and upper class passengers entered the ship. She found herself awestruck at the sheer size. And she also found herself a little nostalgic for her old home life, even after so many years, while looking at the upper class passengers waltz onboard.
Then her eyes got caught on one passenger, a young man draped in a dark coat who, instead of walking gracefully, seemed to be dragging his feet along, pulling himself towards the repulsion acting towards his body and the ship. From what Molly could see, he had a somber and sad look on his face.
And as she was just starting to pull away and look at the ground, she found a pair of blue eyes belonging to the same man staring back at her.
It seemed that the art of being a shadow didn't work on everyone.
But when Molly saw a small smile tug on the man's lips, she knew that her secret was safe.
As Sherlock peered out of the window of his living quarters, he sneered at the people leaning off the edge of the rails, screaming and waving to those below them, bidding farewell and their loving goodbyes.
He scoffed to himself in envy, he wished he was that happy.
As he glanced around the room, he found his mind constantly drifting towards the stowaway from earlier, because amongst all the madness on the ship, all of the people with places to be, she was the only one that intrigued him. The only one with a story that seemed worth telling.
Everybody else was nothing but a bunch of pompous rich snobs, with the typical mistress and secret child. Some others, in fact, most, just weren't fascinating at all.
They were utterly boring.
But there was something about this stowaway – this woman, that intrigued him. There was something in her eyes that spoke of something more than the usual people he encountered on the street.
There was something different about her, and he was going to find out what.
She was the only infinitely interesting this on this ship, after all.
Molly managed to slip away from the workers as soon as she got inside. The hot steam of the machines was the first thing that hit her, making her double layered clothes cling to her body and mat her hair in sweat.
She felt like choking in the heat, and ran until she could find the exit.
The door, thankfully, was unguarded as she peered through and discarded her overalls, stuffing them into her already full bag. The guard must be in a meeting with the crew.
She kept her hair up and found herself being hit with the smell of sea salt and the fresh breeze as she stepped through the door. A smile graced her face as she walked through the corridor and up the stairs, heading to the quarters meant for the lower classes. The sound of cheers from the passengers saying goodbye to their loved ones filled Molly's ears, and for a brief moment, she wished she had said goodbye to her mother.
But they had parted a long time ago, and there was no use to dwell on that.
What Molly found herself wondering was where she would be able to sleep. The perks of a stowaway could only be so much.
She climbed the stairs and turned the corner, before finding herself splattered on the floor, clothes scattered from her bag and hat flung off, displaying her brown locks cascading down her back.
"Oh I'm – oh," a male voice said.
Molly bit her lip and silently cursed, from the way she had just come from and judging by her attire, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out who she really was.
"I'm sorry, terribly rude of me, here," the man held a hand to her.
She looked up and caught sight of an attractive man with silver hair and friendly eyes watching her. "O-oh," she stuttered and grasped the man's hand, "thank you."
The silver-haired stranger shrugged, "it's no big deal. And don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
"Thank you," she whispered gratefully, gathering her clothes together.
The man knelt down and began handing her the stray items, "So what's your name?"
Molly raised a brow.
"Oh don't worry! I stay true to my word. I'm not going to report you. I'll go first. The name's Greg Lestrade," the man smiled.
Molly took the clothes from his hand gently, "Molly Hooper."
"A lovely name for a beautiful girl."
She blushed, it had been a long time since she had been complimented.
He watched her with a tilted head as she re-packed the clothes in her bag. "So I don't suppose you have anywhere to stay?"
She shook her head, "No, I don't."
"Well I guess you can stay in my quarters. It's not very big though."
Molly felt a wide smile break on her face, "Really? Thank you! And it's fine, size doesn't particularly matter to me anyway."
He laughed, "Yes really. Now come on Molly Hooper," he held his arm out to her, "tell me your story."
"Sherlock?"
He turned around to face his father, a stone cold look in his eyes. "Yes?"
"You are expected to be at dinner tonight. And please, try to behave," his father hissed tightly through pursed lips, eyes darting to the corners of the room to see if any of the help had come in.
Sherlock cocked his head, "Now why wouldn't I behave? I would hate to tarnish your reputation father."
Siger Holmes narrowed his eyes towards his youngest son, "I don't appreciate your tongue. Just be there and stay quiet until someone asks you a question. And you will answer with poise and grace, like a gentleman should."
Sherlock huffed, about to retaliate until he saw his father disappear through the door and onto the deck. He kicked the wooden wall in frustration and growled. He hated being treated like a child.
Maybe he'd deduce those on his table, just to spite his father.
Or maybe refuse to show up all together.
He smiled to himself, slumping into the wooden chair overlooking the ocean, if his father didn't want to tarnish his precious reputation, then he might as well not show up to avoid being known as the 'troubled son.' And besides, there was a much more important matter than dinner that Sherlock could embark on tonight.
Tonight, he'd find her.
Alright so I know there's not much dialogue, but that was mainly because I had to set everything up such as backstories, relationships and settings. If I decide to continue this, then there will be more dialogue (with a fair amount of description, of course) and there will be heavy romance.
I know that Molly is a tiny bit OCC with her background, but I think that if she lived in those times, she'd utterly refuse to correspond with the social norms for a woman and embark on her own to find herself since she is an intelligent and strong character. Molly is strong, 'nuf said.
Also, yes John Watson will appear in this story. :')
*Rating is subject to change. Might become an 'M' rated story.
So…should I continue? Should I not? Let me know!
Review? Because your feedback makes me happy and means the world to me :)