Molly Hooper poked her head out from between one of the brick alcoves in the morgue underneath St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She looked anxiously up and down the yawning expanse of the dim, shadowy room with its rows of tables bearing shrouded bodies. She had heard voices earlier and hid until they had gone. Her Uncle Mike Stamford's cautionary words rang in her ears.
"Alright, alright, you can help me examine the bodies but for the love of God, stay out of sight! Lord, if anyone found out I let a woman down there, I'd be sacked on the spot."
Well, she hardly looked like a woman garbed in breeches and her hair stuffed up into a page-boy's cap. She could easily be mistaken for a courier or small orderly in the poorly lit basement.
'Morose Molly' was how her peers referred to her at college where she was working towards her medical degree. She had an unhealthy fascination with the dead, they all thought. Of course, Molly didn't agree with that assessment. She had been orphaned at a young age and left in the care of a man who happened to be Bart's chief medical examiner. What was unhealthy about wanting to follow in the footsteps of a beloved Uncle whom she adored beyond words? He had no children of his own and thus, no one else to carry on his legacy. Besides, what could be more exciting than discovering all the infinitesimally different ways a human could expire? The chemistry and mechanics of transforming from a living, breathing being to a lump of decaying flesh was a complex and poorly understood process. Most of her companions at school wanted to specialize in women's health, a laudable goal, but she herself did not want to become a glorified mid-wife.
Molly crept up to the corpse that had been the subject of her uncle's most recent examination and curiosity for a pair of investigators. Molly had only caught a glimpse of a tall man and his shorter companion before she hid. They were supposedly the infamous Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson extolled in the papers. Unfortunately, she had not seen much of Mr. Holmes' face but she had heard the deep rumble of his voice as he spoke. She inhaled a quivering breath as she remembered the way it seemed to penetrate her flesh and stir something visceral deep within the recesses of her belly.
"You are too ridiculous," Molly admonished herself quietly. "He is probably hideous to behold."
She shook her head and with one last glance around, stepped onto a bucket that had been flipped over and threw back the sheet covering the dead man everyone had been so keen to inspect.
"Ooh!" She gasped.
Dismembered! The naked corpse was missing his hands and feet as well as another unmentionable part of his anatomy. How very peculiar! Her blood rushed in her ears as she quickly ascertained the probable cause of death was not the disarticulation of his peripherals but rather something else indeterminate to her at that moment. Her brows bunched together. She needed to get a better look. She hopped down from the bucket and headed towards the end of the morgue to retrieve a lamp.
Halfway to her destination, she heard what she thought were footsteps and stopped. She held her breath. The morgue was silent as, well, Molly stifled a snort at her own silly pun, the dead. She began moving again but then heard a whoosh of air at her back like someone sweeping past very quickly. She spun around but saw nothing. Her eyes searched every dark, arching enclave but most were shadowed abysses not keen to give up their secrets. Again, silence reigned until she heard the scuff of a boot on the stone and a pebble skipped across the floor. Her heart rate picked up then and became a pounding between her temples. Her entire form stiffened in fear. Someone else was in the morgue!
"H-Hello?" She called out, doing best to mask her voice and sound masculine. "Dr. Stamford?"
A rasping chuckle echoed throughout the room. Molly's fingers started trembling. She curled them into her palms and backed away towards the rear of the morgue where steps led out to the street. The laughter deepened and reverberated around her.
"You are female," a low voice intoned.
The vibration in her fingers spread to her limbs and she started shaking all over. Yes, she was female, and a small one at that. She was acutely aware of her vulnerability all of a sudden. She abandoned all pretense.
"Who are you?" She shouted. "I demand you speak!"
Molly instantly realized how ludicrous her high, frightened voice sounded as it bounced off the walls. Panic overtook her and she whirled to make a run for it. Almost the moment she decided to flee, she heard the heavy slap of leather on the stone floor behind her. She shrieked. It was as if the very hounds of hell gave chase and nipped at her heels. Just as she made it to the stairs, a hand clamped around her elbow and she was jerked backwards. A scream tore from her throat and she started to thrash.
"Bloody hell! Be quiet, urchin!" A booming voice demanded.
Molly was spun, her arm twisted painfully into the small of her back and then she was pinned chest to chest against a very sizeable man. She didn't even realize she was still screaming until a large hand covered half her face, including her mouth. Her hat, loosened in the struggle, slipped off her head and plopped to the floor. Her long hair tumbled down her back.
"Stop wriggling," his voice resonated throughout her whole body. "I am not going to hurt you. I am a regular at these facilities. My name is Sherlock Holmes."
Molly froze and stared wide eyed up at the illustrious detective. Her toes barely touched the floor. Each heaving breath he took seemed to lift her whole body. A nearby gas lamp illuminated his unusually handsome face. His dark hair was slicked back above a heavy brow, high, jutting cheekbones and perfectly formed, plush bow lips. She could not discern the colour of his eyes in the subdued light. Perhaps that was because they were angrily constricted and his pupils so expanded, they almost obliterated his irises.
Sherlock Holmes, she recognized his voice at last. Lord, he wasn't hideous at all. In addition to his unearthly beauty, he was finely dressed in a dark suit with an immaculately starched and pressed white shirt and black, silk cravat knotted at his throat.
"As I said, I am not going to hurt you, child," he murmured. "Now, if I remove my hand, will you promise not to scream?"
Molly nodded. Slowly, he lifted each finger as he watched her warily but otherwise, his steely hold kept her trapped along his hard length.
"I am not a ch-child," she whispered, "I am eight and twenty."
His eyes flicked over her face. "So you are, my incompetent little thief. Are you not aware that any valuables these dead people might have had are removed from their person long before they are brought here? Hmm, you must be new at this. Why have you resorted to stealing at your age? There is much more money to be made in the world's oldest profession or, ahem, is prostitution not to your liking?"
Molly wanted to spit, she was so incensed. He said it all without derision, as if he were talking about the weather. Somehow, the lack of censure in his tone made her even angrier.
"I am not a thief, you swine," she hissed. "My name is Molly Hooper. I am the niece of Dr. Stamford and studying to become a physician. My uncle allows me to examine bodies as a supplement to my education."
Mr. Holmes frowned. His lips twitched at the corners and then parted. He didn't immediately speak. Then, he shifted and she was jostled around before being secured once more against his hip. She gaped at his profile as his free hand stroked down her arm, gripped hers and held it up for inspection. His eyes darted back and forth as he analyzed each finger. His scowling face then turned back towards hers before his gaze flicked to her hair. He dropped her hand and gently grasped a handful of her tresses. He brought them to his nose and sniffed once. Then he inhaled more deeply a second time. He closed his eyes briefly and with a shake of his head, opened them again.
"You speak the truth," he muttered as he dropped his chin to make eye contact.
Molly freed the lip she had been chewing. "Y-You can tell that from the smell of my hair?"
"Well, the scent is quite … pleasant," he spoke in a deep baritone, "but, also your nails are short and well-kept, exactly what I would expect of a prospective doctor. Your frame, while diminutive, is not malnourished. Your speech and enunciation reinforces your assertion that you are educated. Finally, I am an expert at detecting deception in a person's tone."
Unexpectedly, she felt one of his long, elegant fingers caress her neck just over her voice box.
"Speak," he commanded in a rough voice.
"Wh-What do you want me to say?" She stammered.
"That will suffice," his nostrils flared. "Your tone is very pure. I would say that you are, in fact, incapable of deceit."
Molly trembled all over, but it was no longer from fear. This man wreaked havoc on her sensibilities. She should be fighting to get away from him but instead, her body demanded more of him- more contact, more closeness. It did not seem to be enough for him to be in control of her at that moment, her instinct was to be possessed by him.
Upon realizing the scandalous turn her thoughts had taken, her face flamed. She jerked her arm, still held fast in the hollow of her back and pushed at his unyielding chest.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, now that you accept who I am, let me go."
His brow wrinkled and then shot up as if he too just realized the unseemliness of their close contact. He released her with such haste, she almost fell over. Molly stepped back and willed herself to remain upright. She crossed her arms, mortified once she remembered that her clothing was very unladylike. Mr. Holmes smoothed the lapels of his blazer and adjusted his cuffs. She would give anything in that moment to be more appropriately attired.
"Let us try this again, shall we?" He murmured before bowing his head. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Molly Hooper."
Molly swallowed as his intense gaze captured hers again and she could see the dance of a gas flame casting her reflection in his eyes. She would never forget her introduction to London's most notorious detective for hire.
She bobbed her head and curtsied as best as she could without skirts. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes."