King and Lionheart, Chapter 1

AN: This came from a Tumblr prompt from PetraTodd. The link to the prompt is here (warning: NSFW): post/53650823007/irreplaceable-works-of-learning-h ave-gone-missing I hope you all enjoy- this is my first fanfic ever, so please be nice! :)

Mollie was awoken that morning, like every other morning, by the barking cough of her father behind the divider that separated their beds. She stretched and walked over to the water basin to splash a bit of water on her face before she went to tend to her father. She walked around the divider to where her father laid curled on the bed, body wracked by harsh coughs. She noticed speckles of blood on his pillow.

She leaned down and quietly said, "Father, let me help you sit up. It may settle your cough a bit."

Mollie's father nodded, too winded by coughing to speak any words to her. She reached behind her father's shoulders and gently pushed him up into an upright position. She then went and grabbed the pillow that was on her bed so that she could prop him up with more pillows.

After a moment of silence she asked, "Will you be able to take care of the shop today, or do you need me to run it?"

Anselm Hooper shook his head, and said, "Mollie, you know the people of the village don't especially approve of a young woman being left alone in charge of the apothecary shop all day long."

Mollie sighed, and then protested, "But father, I know all of the herbs, tinctures, and cures that you know, and I'm every bit as helpful and hard-working as you are!"

Anselm put his hand up to cut off her protests. "Mollie, I know that as well as you do, but you must understand that the world isn't ready for a bright young thing like you yet, especially in a woman's body. Now, you may run downstairs and sweep up the shop to ready it for business, but I'll be manning the counter today."

Mollie took a deep breath; as much as she hated doing the chores of sweeping the shop, she knew it needed to be done. She went over to the fireplace and put on the pot of water that she had pulled up last night. As she waited for the water to boil, she spooned a little bit of dried oats into two bowls, and spooned a proprietary blend of herbs into a cup for her father to drink with the hot water. She worried for her father constantly. He was wasting away in front of her eyes. His fingers, once so firm and strong, now looked like twigs. His eyes and cheeks were sunken in, and he coughed up blood almost daily now. Their shop, which had once been so popular in the village, was now visited less frequently. Many of the villagers seemed to be of the impression that her father was possessed by a demon. Mollie herself knew something of medicine and healing, and simply could not believe this to be true. However, as a woman, she chose to keep her beliefs and ideas to herself, mainly out of respect for the father she loved so dearly. She walked over to check the pot of water- it was bubbling now. She grabbed the mitt hanging on the edge of the fireplace and picked up the pot of water by its handle. She set it down next to the table and filled the two bowls and cup of herbs with the water. She carried the bowl of porridge and the herbal infusion over to her father's bedside table.

"Anything else I can get you before I dress and go downstairs?" asked Mollie.

Anselm shook his head; Mollie kissed him on the forehead, and then walked around the divider to dress. She slipped out of her nightgown and slipped on her stockings. She then pulled on the tunic that she had worn the previous day, and finally laced herself into a light purple bodice. She braided her hair neatly, and slipped on her well-worn shoes before walking over to the table to get some breakfast. She quickly ate her porridge; she could see through the window that it was almost daybreak, which meant business at the shop would start soon. She put her dish into the wash basin, took a sip of a cupful of water, and quickly ran down the stairs.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the shop, she grabbed a broom. As she swept up the shop, she let her mind wander to thoughts of the treatise on curing warts that she had read last night by candlelight. Unlike other girls (and other peasants in general), Mollie's father had taught her how to read when she was young. Mollie largely suspected that this was because her father wanted intellectual companionship after his beloved wife's death; nevertheless, Mollie was grateful for the opportunity of being able to read. She also suspected that the only reason why she was not married at the age of 17 was because of her father's desire to have Mollie around to keep him company. That wasn't to say that Mollie didn't have a few suitors within the village: the one who vied for her attention most was Michael Stamford. However, Mollie wasn't very interested in marrying him. She was a romantic in her heart of hearts, and wanted to wait for someone that she would deeply fall in love with.

"Not that that was likely to happen," she thought to herself wryly. Marriages rarely occurred for love in these times. More often than not, they occurred for the convenience of social status or because of desperate need for wealth. Mollie was going to be left destitute when her father passed away, and she knew (and dreaded) the fact that she would probably have to marry for money shortly after his death.

She knew that she did have one last, glimmering hope clinging to her. When she went to talk to the priest of the estate about her father's condition, he told her of the royal touch. King Henry VI was offering people afflicted with a similar illness to her father's a royal touch ceremony that was supposed to offer the best defense against the illness. Unfortunately, Mollie also knew that this meant she would have to find a way to get to London. While Mollie was not yet destitute, she didn't have the spare resources to afford fare for her and her father to London by carriage. She had been saving spare coins in a jar hidden under her bed, hoping that she would be able to afford the travel to London before it was too late.

Mollie was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't even hear the knocking at the door. She darted to the door and opened it, about to make an excuse for her father's not answering it, when she looked up.

Oh. It was him.

Lord Sherlock Holmes sat at his desk, tiredly rubbing his eyes. He was trying to write a summary of the latest murder case that he had solved for the constable, Gregory Lestrade. Lestrade frequently came to Sherlock with requests for help with solving a case that he couldn't crack, knowing that Sherlock was far more clever than he. Unfortunately, this also meant that Sherlock had to write up summaries for him so that Lestrade could properly prosecute each case.

Just when Sherlock thought he could take no more of this ridiculous write-up about a drunkard who killed a man, the door to his study opened. He looked up, and visibly relaxed when he saw the familiar face of his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson had been hired on as Sherlock's nurse when he was an infant; she had lost her own baby and her husband within a week of each other, and was left in need of a job and something to console her. Sherlock quickly began to fill the place in her broken heart. While others in the house were put off by the fussy baby who alternated between furious tantrums and eerie periods where he quietly observed everything in the room, she loved him as her own child. As Sherlock grew older, she became his governess, overseeing his education in societal etiquette and expectations. When Sherlock became too old for a governess, he couldn't bear to lose Mrs. Hudson from his life; she was more of a mother to him than his actual mother ever would be. He convinced Mrs. Hudson to become his housekeeper, and she gladly accepted his invitation.

At that moment, said woman entered the room when Sherlock beckoned to her.

She paused for a moment, gauging what sort of mood he was in, before she gently said, "Sherlock, dear, a letter has just arrived for you from your brother. It appears to be most urgent."

Sherlock nodded and held his hand out for the letter. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he murmured.

She turned around to leave the room, but succumbed to expressing her feelings of maternal worry for a moment. "Sherlock, you really should get to bed. The hour is rather late, and you must take care of yourself to keep your mind at its sharpest!"

While Sherlock would have been incredibly irritated had anyone else made a comment like this to him, he understood Mrs. Hudson's motivation for saying it. He smiled, nodded, and assured her he would retire to his chambers soon.

Once Mrs. Hudson had left the room, Sherlock cut open the letter from his brother, Mycroft. The letter was dated to January 7th, 1450- three days ago. Mycroft and Sherlock had a distant relationship; however, despite their outer coldness, they would do anything for one another if the situation required it. Mycroft held an important position as an advisor to the King, and was content to live in London with his wife, Anthea. Sherlock knew that the marriage between Anthea and Mycroft was more for convenience than love; however, they were an excellent match for one another in terms of societal positions, and they had become one of the most powerful couples in London.

"Dear Sherlock," the letter read,

"I write to you on a most urgent matter. I have recently been alerted by some of my connections at Oxford that a very important set of scrolls detailing some of Britain's history have been stolen from Oxford's library. We are not sure what the motivation behind this theft was, or who has done it. However, be sure that this is an important matter of national heritage for Britain, not to mention an issue of huge monetary value for Oxford. I would ask you to please travel to Oxford at once to investigate. If, along the way, you would also stop in London and visit me and Anthea, we would welcome your company. I look forward to your most prompt reply.

Your brother,

Lord Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and pondered this new development. Under normal circumstances, he would bring his friend Sir John Watson, a retired knight, along to help investigate the case. However, this case would require a great deal of traveling. He needed a woman to help him with things such as cleaning his clothing, cooking his food, and keeping his quarters in good condition. Mrs. Hudson's health wasn't as suited to traveling as it once was, and he needed her at home to manage the affairs of the house during his leave of absence. Furthermore, he wanted a young woman who would easily listen to him, and who would be willing to go to events with him to deter the attention of other females in social settings. He found nothing more infuriating and distracting than the cloying attention of noblewomen. He knew what he wanted: a pretty, young peasant girl who would work hard and listen to him. He knew that the apothecary on his estate had a young daughter who was unmarried. She was reasonably pretty and always seemed to be a hard worker. She couldn't have too many wits about her, considering she was hardly paying attention while sweeping the floors of her father's shop. What was her name? Mary? Millicent? Mollie? Either way, she couldn't be more than eighteen years of age.

Sherlock scrawled out a reply to his brother, and called up one of the servants to deliver his letter in the morning. He ordered another servant to pack a bag for travel for him in the morning, and told a third servant to send a message to the stable to ready the carriage in the morning. With that complete, Sherlock retired to his chambers and quickly found sleep.

The next morning, as he strode to the apothecary's shop, he planned out exactly what he was going to say to convince her to join him on his journey. And it was with an air of total confidence that he met the apothecary's daughter's dumbfounded stare when she opened the door to answer his knocks.