i.

He knew, of course. He could always tell.

Perhaps not right away – her disguise was good, but it had more to do with Holmes overlooking her. Even when his work brought him to the morgue, and he was met with contempt and a scathing remark; even when Lestrade made a point of forcing her to cooperate, it was a little while before the renowned detective took the trouble to give Dr Hooper a proper once-over.

But when he did, it was obvious. The voice – throaty and somewhat forced – the delicate feminine features, the narrow shoulders – of course Hooper was a woman. John "Three Continents" Watson would probably look elsewhere to come to the same conclusion, but the truth was so painfully clear that Holmes marvelled – not the first time, nor the last – how even a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard could be so blind.

He almost revealed Hooper's secret out of habit, as easily as he told his clients what they'd had for breakfast that morning; right in front of Lestrade, a dozen dead bodies, even the repulsive morgue assistant whose name he refused to remember. But at the last moment, he reconsidered and turned his attention back to the drowned lady on the slab between them.

What did it matter to him that Hooper was posing as a man? When they'd first met, it had taken him all of five minutes to determine that she was fully capable at her job – unlike her predecessors, a few of whom he'd scared away himself. Holmes usually didn't hesitate to let Lestrade know if someone was breaking a few rules right under his nose, but why jeopardize a perfectly competent pathologist when he'd inevitably have to deal with whatever idiot they sent to replace her?

Hooper was testy, but she was no fool. He really wouldn't have put up with her then.

(Though sometimes, he got the distinct feeling that she thought exactly the same thing about him.)

ii.

Over the next six months, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Hooper would briefly cooperate on twenty-three different murder cases within the morgue. The good pathologist was always professional and to-the-point, but she made it clear that she didn't like his intrusions into her domain. She only grudgingly allowed him to witness this autopsy or to examine that body, and every word she spoke to him was filled with hostility.

Holmes generally ignored her, except to ask various cadaver-related questions. Snapping back wasn't worth the sacrifice of manners and dignity. And anyway, the morgue was only a brief stop in every case: once he left that tomblike chamber, he wouldn't have to deal with her until the next time he felt like beating a corpse with a riding crop. Dr Hooper's antagonism was, at worst, a mild irritation.

Their exchange on that particular evening – the night a gray-faced Lestrade came to Baker Street and told them about a woman who'd killed herself and then her husband – was representative of how things usually went between them.

"So, come to astonish us with your magic tricks, I suppose?"

Unruffled, as ever, Holmes merely looked down at the corpse of Emilia Ricoletti.

"Is there anything to which you would like to draw my attention?"

"Nothing at all, Mr Holmes. You may leave any time you like."

Hooper wasn't easy to read, but beneath her sardonic air and cynicism, there seemed to be something almost bitter – the kind of something that salted your heart and made you speak through your teeth, something that might explain her apparent dislike of every living man she had to work with.

But Holmes never dwelled on this. By the time he and Watson had hailed a cab and settled inside, Dr Hooper and the underground morgue were far behind them, and the detective's mind was already whirring with the mystery that would later become known as "The Abominable Bride."

iii.

So … how was it done?

The cloaked figures didn't move. They turned to face him as he moved through the room, but they kept silent as he described to them their own crime.

Every great cause has martyrs. Every war has suicide missions – and make no mistake, this is war.

Holmes prided himself on his ability to anticipate anything. He was an excellent judge of character and could predict anyone's next move; whatever situation he found himself in, every possible outcome had already crossed his mind. He could map it all out in his head and act accordingly, with nothing more than pure and simple logic.

And yet, when he found himself in that abandoned church with torchlight flickering on the walls and the Watsons by his side, there came a moment he hadn't anticipated at all.

The invisible army hovering at our elbow, tending our homes, raising our children. Ignored, patronised, disregarded … not allowed so much as a vote.

The cloaked figures had listened patiently to his monologue. Now, as one, the hats came off, unveiling the women who had carried on the legend of Emilia Ricoletti. The women who'd killed Sir Eustace Carmichael, scattered rice over a dozen murder scenes, and terrorised London – together, they were the avenging bride.

They didn't interrupt, even when Watson piped up to ask about Emilia's consumption, even when Holmes fit that into the puzzle as well. She decided to make her death count. She was already familiar with the secret societies of America, and was able to draw on their methods of fear and intimidation to publicly, very publicly, confront Sir Eustace Carmichael with the sins of his past.

For a moment, the only sound in the church was the whooshing of the torches. Yellow light glowed on the stone walls of the church, illuminating the brides' faces – old spinsters and young maidens, wives and widows, unhappy and resigned and angry and defiant. Silence reigned.

And then one of them spoke up.

"He knew her out in the States."

Holmes went still. He met Watson's eyes, and saw his own surprise reflected back at him.

That voice was unmistakable. A bit different, maybe, lacking the throaty pressure of someone trying to make it sound deeper, but there wasn't anyone else it could be.

"Promised her everything. Marriage, position …"

She emerged from the ranks of cloaked women, cradling a tall hat in her arms. He knew her immediately – not just the colleague who'd never taken kindly to him, but the woman behind the moustache and man's clothing, the woman he'd seen months ago but never bothered to imagine having a life outside the morgue. Some distant part of him remembered what Mycroft had always said about coincidences – the universe is rarely so lazy – but even so, an unfamiliar jolt went through him at seeing her, here.

She held his gaze. "And then he … had his way with her, and threw her over." Hatred filled her voice as she came closer with slow, deliberate steps, hatred toward an unpunished brute who was only one of a hundred. "Left her abandoned and penniless."

Holmes narrowed his eyes.

"Hooper," he said.

The nineteenth century faded around him.

All at once, he saw the mental boundary he'd put up and locked himself inside – the subconscious wall between this Victorian life, this dream or drug-hallucination or whatever it was, and the twenty-first-century reality of mobile phones and motorised vehicles and an airplane that had yet to take off. It had been breaking down from the moment he'd dived into this mystery, and now, finally, it vanished entirely – and it wasn't his archenemy he saw through the windows of his mind. It wasn't one of his ghosts.

Of all people, it was Molly.

Molly Hooper, resident pathologist – always in the background, in his peripheral vision, the inconsequential woman to whom he never paid much attention.

Molly, handing him a cup of coffee and never flinching at his tactless commentary. Molly, her smiles full of sunshine, unfailingly kind to him though he'd never been anything but dismissive of her. Molly, standing before him and telling him – as if it was obvious – that she didn't count. And yet, anything you need, anything at all –

Molly, who had been well and truly shocked when the Watsons dragged him into her lab and asked her to test him for drugs. It was clear from her doubtful expression that she was only humouring John and Mary, as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and went forth with the pee sample.

Her initial disbelief – the absolute conviction that he couldn't be a user, because he was Sherlock Holmes and he did not take stupid risks – made it so much worse to watch her glance over the test results again and again, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing … to watch as absolute fury dawned in her eyes.

The coffee, the red-wrapped gift – how many thousand times had he misunderstood her, misinterpreted what she was trying to tell him? Maybe he'd learned something after all. Because when her hand cracked across his face, he didn't need to ask why.

You're better than this.

She might as well have shouted the words. Instead, she slapped him again, the loud smack echoing in her pristine laboratory. Sherlock didn't fight, didn't move, didn't even meet her eyes.

I thought you were better than this.

His mind palace sucked him back through the recall and the two of them were standing face-to-face once more in the abandoned church. Hooper's dark eyes were steady and unyielding, reminding him of every single time he'd overlooked her, hurt her, disappointed her.

She lifted her chin, just slightly. "Holmes."

His cheek stung. I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.

"For the record, Holmes" – they both turned to see Watson, looking very self-satisfied behind his moustache – "she didn't have me fooled."

At least some things never changed. Holmes gave his friend a knowing smile as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Watsons' maid wave cheekily to her employer through a gap in the ranks. Oh, my Boswell. You'd go red in the face if you knew how many people have had you fooled.

Another bride's voice rose out from the crowd. The others parted to reveal the speaker – a dark-haired lady with cunning eyes – and, coincidence or not, Holmes knew her too.

"Emilia Ricoletti was our friend," said Janine Hawkins, as proud and remorseless as she was in the waking world. Her narrowed eyes found his, and they were full of accusation. "You have no idea how that bastard treated her."

Janine. Wry, playful, easygoing Janine, who had never judged him at a glance, whom he'd befriended in the span of a single evening. Janine, who had unwittingly proved to him that he could connect to ordinary people who weren't John or Mary – proved him wrong about himself. He'd laughed with her, kissed her … lied to her and used her. And he'd never regretted it.

Sherlock Holmes, you are a backstabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard.

He met Hooper's eyes again, an uncomfortable feeling blooming in his chest.

A league of furies has awakened. The women I … we have lied to. Betrayed.

It might have been shame.

The women we have ignored and disparaged.

Holmes stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the room.

"You see, Watson? Mycroft was right."

At long last, he'd solved the puzzle. He'd discovered the secret behind the abominable bride. He held the power to report it to Lestrade, to share it with all of London – to do what he did best and capsize their carefully built-up scheme. And the brides knew it, too. They watched him warily from all sides, no doubt wondering how best to kill him and dispose of his body. The past five months had proven that they weren't above murder.

But that would not be necessary tonight.

He came to stand by Hooper's side. "This is a war we must lose."