A/N: I love a good ghost story, and A. Beaumont's The Ravensdale Ghost inspired me to the point I sat down and wrote this first chapter in about four hours. I have no idea how many chapters it will be, if the tale will go by quickly or slowly, or even the exact details of the plot. I just had to write it, and I just KEEP writing it knowing only how it will end. So uh, we'll see how this goes.

Disclaimer: All I own is the idea of Yew Bridge, and nothing else.

Ridiculous, Molly. It would be cheaper to tear it down and build new.

Spoken three years before, but still Molly Moriarty remembers her husband's words. She had been on the computer, wasting time while the house was quiet. There was an article, something like Grandest UK Estates Fallen Into Ruin.

Yew Bridge is the ancestral seat of the Holmes family, as old as they were once rich. The 20th century was hard on the family, and they lost much of the fortunes. The last remains of this family finally put the estate up for sell, and Molly fell in love with the moldering grandeur of the main house, the wild sprawl of overgrown gardens and woodland.

"But we could save a piece of history," Molly wheedled, knowing sweet smiles and soft hands worked well on her husband. (Sometimes – sometimes nothing worked on Jim. She should have known, should have seen the clues...) "Can't you imagine it, Jim? Christian would have room to grow, and when he has little brothers and sisters, they'll have such fun playing in the house and on the grounds..."

"Drafty, dank, and derelict. Nothing but the best for my boy – and for my sweet Molly." Jim was walking circles, Christian in the crook of his arm. They looked like angels in the sunlight, especially Jim. He has – had – a smile like the sun. His eyes would light up, and his mouth would be so soft, so lax, and Molly would fall in love all over again.

She was so stupid. So blind. It still hurts, but she still misses him. Misses waking up with her nose in the crook of his arm, his feet between her ankles; misses the way he pressed his hands to her stomach when she was pregnant, wonder lighting up his eyes as he smiled like the angel he isn't and said, "That's our boy, Molly. My boy..."

Christian. She feels sick, and pulls the car over on the side of the road. Rushing out, heaving as bile climbs up her throat and tremors take over her delicate frame (she's lost so much weight, can't keep food down, can't sleep, can't do anything but mourn and pray it isn't real). Idly, while she vomits stomach acid, half a piece of dry toast, and three cups of coffee all over her tires and the overgrown grass, Molly thinks about the work that will need to be done on the road.

It needs leveling out. Landscaping done around the edges. Does she want gravel laid or would she like it paved? Maybe cobblestones, she always has like the look of them...

A car horn toots while Molly is spitting nasty bits out of her mouth. She scrubs a hand over her chin, neck, and cheeks, praying she hasn't got sick anywhere on her person before straightening. She keeps a hand over her mouth, dreading how terrible her breath is – she's got a bottle of water in her car, and a travel kit with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash in her purse.

She's half into her own vehicle when a man steps out of the Jeep parked behind her. Molly's fingers go numb and her mind burns, because he's – he's the most beautiful man she's ever seen. For the first time in years, thoughts of Jim flee. Instead all Molly can focus are blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, lanky limbs and dark curls. There's a flash, lightning behind her eyes and lighting up every synopses and nerve in her brain, and she sees...something.

"Miss? Miss, are you alright?" The man, this wonderfully strange, beautiful man, is hovering just out of arm's reach, now. When did he come so close? He looks worried, and rightfully so.

Wonderful. Now she's seeing things and having fits. Her psychiatrist is going to love this development.

"I-I'm sorry." Molly hates the way she sounds, hates how her voice shakes, how she stutters, how she curls in on herself. She didn't used to. Molly Moriarty could walk into a room full of peerage, shoulders back and a smile in place, and make friends through sheer spit, determination, and kindness.

Now she quivers, hiding in corners and shadows. The sunlight burns, and Molly fights the urge to lie down and never get up again. Her tininess, how utterly insignificant and ugly she has become brings Molly back to herself. This man is beautiful, but Jim has ruined her (Jim ruined everything). He hurts Molly's eyes, so she looks away, burnt by his kind smile.

"You're Ms. Hooper, I assume? I'm Sherlock Holmes." He's holding out a hand, long fingered and elegant.

Molly takes it timidly, flinching without meaning to. He's warm. Warmth hurts. It makes her think of living things, then of dead things, and then of –

"So nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I'm looking forward to working together." Two sentences, not one stutter or stammer. My God, it's a miracle.

"As am I. I'm sorry, but it looked like you were having trouble. Is there something I can do, do you need anything...?" He's honestly worried. He seems sweet – not Jim sweet, which was the sort that was only directed at Molly, but not at all in the end. No, in the end he'd shown himself to be an angel, but a fallen one.

Molly still has the scars. Sometimes she cuts them open again, a reminder. You're worthless. You failed. Trust no one.

"Breakfast didn't...um, agree with me. I – I was just going to –" Holding up the travel kit, Molly smiles awkwardly.

"Oh – oh, of course! Please, by all means." The youngest Holmes son backs away, whistling through his teeth and tucking his hands in his pockets while Molly brushes her teeth, rises with bottled water, and attempts (and fails) to quietly gargle mouthwash.

She feels shockingly human when finished. Well, as human as she can...

He's look at her, taking her in. What does he see? A mousy woman that hides behind her hair, flickering eyes, and curled shoulders; a failure of humanity. Newspaper headlines hanging invisible but damning over her head, television tell-all's and special interviews just beyond her shoulders. Friends, family, employees, and strangers, people Molly never even knew existed, they'd all sold their stories.

They all knew. For years. From the beginning. They all knew, and never told her. Never even hinted. Now the world knows, and Molly is damned.

It's only fair, she supposes.

"I thought I would beat you to the house," says Sherlock, all easy smile and open eyes. Molly wonders what he's hiding. "But arriving together will be just as good. Shall we continue on?"

"Y-yes. Thank you, for um, for stopping. For y-your concern." Smiling sickly, knowing it doesn't even come close to looking real, she escapes into her sedan. She used to be so good with people – now she can barely hold herself together.

Molly makes the twenty minute drive to the main portion of the estate in silence. On the way, she thinks of all she has to do, and – as she has from the beginning of this project – feels the only sparks and flickers of life she has been able to bear since her world fell apart.

While her ownership may be only be in portion, Molly is staggered when she sees the grand house for the first time. House! No, it's a manor, something out of a fairytale with dark, dusty corners and little girls that make all the wrong choices.

She has seen pictures, video, even the plans of the house lain out in blueprint form. But she is not prepared for the overwhelming surge of emotional awe that hits her as she steps out of her car and gapes up, up, up; she knows it is in part the remains of a Tudor manor, but the front facade is all glorious Jacobean majesty. Massive windows and thrusting wings to either side, red brick chimneys battling with Gothic Revival spires that spin towards the clouds like hands seeking God, part of a later (mostly unseen) addition to the back of the home.

Knees weak, hands trembling, and mouth dry, Molly finds herself moved to tears. It is splendid. She wants to gather the fading, rotting glory of this manor and its lands up in her hands, yearns to heal it and see it whole and beautiful once more. She imagines the front garden well tended and a riot of color, the reflecting pond pulled free from choking weeds and slime, the weeping willow trailing long fingers in the water.

"I grew up here, and it's still breathtaking to me." Sherlock Holmes has managed to sneak up on Molly; admittedly not terribly hard to do. Her heart lodges in her throat as she turns, clinging to the door of her sedan and choking back tears.

This handsome fellow stands with hands in his pockets, peering up at the house. He looks like a man torn apart by love, rejected and yet unwilling to let go. He also seems a child standing at the doorway to his dreams, being dragged away by adulthood and yet fighting to stay where he is happiest. "Mycroft – my brother – he doesn't understand why I love this place so much. The house, the land, the history...he doesn't see it. But I think you do, Ms. Hooper. You never would made the offer you did, if you hadn't."

His smile is sweet, hopeful, and blinding. Like looking into the sun. There are tints of ginger in his hair, like sunset fire, and Molly has to look away.

"I've never understood tearing down beautiful old homes like this. There's too much here. Too many memories. And it's so beautiful. I've always wanted to save something, so I –" Molly's throat closes. Save something. It hurts to admit this, to look at herself and see her motivations for what they truly are. So she hurries away from the topic, and prays Sherlock will leave it alone. "Will you show me the grounds?" she asks, tucking her keys in the pocket of her jacket, for once forgetting to be small and timid.

There's too much to see in one day. 1400 acres of land; forestry, farming, rivers and ponds. What Molly is shown is the gardens. A Tudor maze, which needs much love and care. Molly wonders how many gardeners she'll need to hire, how much it will costs, and then has to choke back laughter.

She could spend a lifetime pouring money into Yew Bridge and never come close to emptying the fortunes her husband left her. Lucky, lucky Molly.

A huge old hot house is overgrown and filthy, but Molly aches to see it full of orchids, birds of paradise, flamingo lilies. She remembers her Nana's little hot house, her garden beds, the herb garden. Molly used to love getting dirt under her nails and tending the plants. Maybe she still does, and just doesn't know it.

"How long has it been since the hothouse was updated?"

"It was installed in the...Victorian era, and the last I know it was updated...oh, well, the 1930's maybe?" Sherlock shrugs, looking rather helpless. "All I know for sure is that we were forbidden to go near it when growing up. Apparently a mad old relative – my namesake, actually – he grew God knows what in it. Poisonous plants next to the lilies, or so I'm told. My cousin Anthea swears a plant bit her, once. Hasn't put a foot inside since she was nine."

There's a rose garden, badly grown but still pretty. An old marble bench peeks out from between wild brambles. Farther on is a Japanese water garden, a massive koi sunning in a large pool connected to a meandering, man-made creek.

"Geoffery," Sherlock says, pointing to the huge silver and gold fish. "He's been around since Mycroft and I were children."

A tea house pavilion rises out of the central pond, with two arching bridges connecting it to dry land. There is what seems to be a rock garden, sorely overgrown, and the evergreens seem to be taking over. But Molly is charmed despite how forgotten it has become, and she is loathe to leave the serene area.

"A secret," whispers Sherlock, eyes bright as he takes Molly's hand, tugging her along a footpath. She's startled – she doesn't like to be touched, not anymore – but he's grinning like a child, and the clouds have passed away to show a blue sky, and it's the first Molly can remember seeing in years.

There's a secret garden. Sherlock has to use his shoulder to muscle the door open, and one rusted hinge busts. It's completely wild and overgrown, but there are statues peaking out, or draped in the filth and grime of many years of neglect, clogged up fountains and the remains of a massive old swing built into a stone arch.

"Are there pictures of it?" Molly asks, one hand pressed tight against her chest. She's afraid her heart will fall out from the beauty of it all. "When it was taken care of?"

"Yes, somewhere. I'll find them for you."

"Please. I want to know what it should like, so we can bring it back."

They're like two children sharing a secret, like the children from the book. Molly thinks of Mary, sour and lost and so alone, and she feels a kinship. Maybe she can grow roots here. Maybe she can be happy again.

Sherlock claims a meandering path through a wooded area will take them back to the main house, and so they walk through shadows and slants of afternoon sunshine that spill between heavy branches. It makes Molly think of magic, and she wonders if fairies and brownies live among the trees, are even now hiding in fallen logs and under mushrooms.

Jim hated her flights of fancy; acting like child was beneath her.

"If there aren't fairies living here, it's a complete waste." She doesn't mean to announce this, but it slips out, unbidden.

Sherlock laughs, but not meanly. Not cruel. Just a laugh. His eyes are green in this light, and his cheeks are rosy and merry. "I have to agree. You know, I was worried about you, in the beginning. But I understand, now. You really do just want to make Yew Bridge beautiful again, don't you? You want to make it whole."

I was worried about you – frightened is a more accurate term, Molly suspects. Everyone is frightened of her, now. Even herself. Especially herself.

Molly remembers to be small, and folds her arms around her stomach, curling her shoulders. She remembers to keep her eyes down, and that laughing isn't for monsters like her.

"Did I say something?" asks Sherlock, but Molly shakes her head.

"I'm very, um...I'm very excited t-to see the house."

"Of course," Sherlock seems sad, maybe even disappointed. Gravel is crunching underfoot now, and they're nearly back to his Jeep, which is parked behind Molly's car. "Get your bag, and I'll show you to a room."

-X-

It took nearly a year to finalize the sale of Yew Bridge. Molly's solicitor, also her Uncle Dave, begged her to reconsider.

"Wobbles," he pleaded, even using the childhood nickname that generally made Molly cave to his wishes, "please. If you want to buy Yew Bridge, then by all means, buy Yew Bridge. Make into as grand a palace as you'd like. You have the money. But what you're asking for, I don't even –"

"It belongs to the Holmes family," she firmly countered. She was red eyed, shook nervously, and her hair was falling out. Stress and grief took many trials on her body, but at least she was out of bed. At least she focused on something, even if it was a derelict estate in North Yorkshire that hadn't been properly cared for since the 1970s. "I want it to remain with them. But I will fund the restoration of the estate, and will legally be co-owner of the estate until I die."

Even as broken as she was, with Uncle Dave things were easy. He loved her, cared for her, would never hurt her. He couldn't even swat a fly. So looking him in the eye and telling him how it would be (for the hundredth, thousandth time), insisting on what she wanted, it was easy. She didn't even stumble over her words.

He insisted on a clause that at anytime during her life Molly could ask for, and receive, hereditary partial ownership, making the Yew Bridge not only the Holmes' estate, but the Hooper's as well.

There is no point. Molly will have no more children, and her nieces and nephews wouldn't appreciate Yew Bridge. Too old, too musty, too far away from the city. This is for Molly, and when she is finished, it will go back wholly to the Holmeses. She has already decided that the bulk of the Moriarty fortune will go to the estate after her death, a trust to keep it well cared for.

Children die, but the land – the land lives on. It is the only thing Molly can bring to life and keep.

-X-

Sherlock takes Molly to the third floor west wing. "We all keep rooms here," he explains. "I'm three doors down, just across the way. I'm planning on going into the village for dinner, and you're welcome to join me, unless you'd like to cook."

"N-no, I'd like to see the village. If, um, you don't mind." This is a painful smile. False and scared.

Sherlock looks sickly, and he turns back halfway down the hall to watch Molly close the door.

She wonders what he thinks of her, before deciding it doesn't matter. Molly's mission is the healing of the land, the gardens and fields, as well as all the beautiful buildings. Her attachment to the Holmes brothers is only a means to the end. She needs their line to take care of Yew Bridge when she is gone.

Molly's room is grand, full of the ruined splendor she's come to expect. Exquisite wood paneling lines each wall, and while the fireplace desperately needs a good scrubbing, the craftsmanship is evident. New homes may be fashionable and easier to care for, but they lack the charm, the style, and the sturdiness. Few 21st century homes will be standing four or five hundred years from now. Yew Bridge will still be sprawling, dominating the countryside.

The bed is a large fourposter, with heavy, dusty drapes and canopy. The bedsheets are clean and fresh, though, which Molly appreciates. She pokes around the room, finding clothing in the wardrobe and dresser. Old things, from the sixties and seventies. Musty and smelling of moth balls. They belong to a young man with wide shoulders and narrow hips, and Molly wonders who it was. A Holmes cousin or family friend? Is he alive or dead now?

She puts the clothing away, and unpacks her own beside it. It feels nice, having her things next to someone else's, even if she doesn't know who he is. There is a desk under the large, west-facing windows, as dark and sturdy as the other furniture. She finds pens and pencils, notebooks and half a written letter (My dearest Lia, you can't believe everything you hear. Every old house has stories of ghosts, you know, but logic dictates that only fools believe in such nonsense. Noises are easily explained, don't le and there it ends), dried bottles of ink and equally dry fountain pens.

The en suite is not incredibly large, but the clawfoot bathtub is massive and inviting. Someone recently cleaned it. Molly promises herself a long soak soon, but settles on a shower, dancing naked foot-to-foot in the chill while freezing water gushes out of the tap and the pipes scream, groan, and clang in protest.

But when it gets hot, it gets hot. It seems the old boiler is still in decent shape, thank goodness.

Molly changes into simple, comfortable clothing, a skirt and light jumper. Autumn is brisk, and Yew Bridge is drafty. While brushing her hair Molly knocks and prods at the walls, childishly hoping for a secret door – and she finds one.

It opens into a dressing room. Old and choked with dust, but beautiful. Heartrendingly beautiful. She can imagine a young girl getting ready for her first evening ball here, primping in the gilt lined vanity, spraying perfume from the dusty old bottles.

"I love it here," she whispers, running a hand through the dust on a chaise lounge, leaving her mark. "I knew I would."

And she did. From the moment she saw Yew Bridge on the internet, oh, she knew. She imagined it would be a home for she and Jim and Christian, that more babies would come, and she would grow plump and gray and happy here. That her children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would live in the walls of the manor and bless the day that Granny Molly talked her city-loving husband Poppa Jim into buying the old place.

A dream, a fantasy never meant to come true. Now it is Molly's last chance, her last dream. The only one that she will ever see come into its prime.

Sherlock's door is shut, and she can hear the pipes rattling when she steps into the hall. He must be in the shower. Knowing she will get lost, Molly tucks her mobile in her skirt pocket. Sherlock's number is in her contacts; if she can't find her way back or to the foyer, then she'll call him for directions.

(Imagine, a part of her almost laughs with excitement, a house so big I need directions!)

The house goes on forever. Molly wants to get lost, to stay in the winding halls and dark, crooked servant's staircases forever. So much of it has fallen into ruin; oh, so much work must be done. It makes her ache, to see it in such disrepair. But she'll bring it back, and soon.

Molly finds herself on a grand landing, though it isn't the staircase that leads to the foyer, and so Molly has exactly no idea where she is. She thinks it's the newest addition, the Gothic Revival, but she can't be sure. It's all so confusing and maze like.

What draws Molly attention, and retains it, is not the woodwork, stonework, or fantastic antiques lining the hall. It is not even the Japanese silk wallpaper. It's the portrait.

Much larger than life sized. A man, the most...amazing, captivating man Molly has ever seen. It's Sherlock, but...but not. His eyes snap with a cold, clever intelligence, and his expression is one of boredom. He wears the fine, detailed clothing of a Regency gentleman; elaborately tied cravat, astonishingly well fitted pantaloons with black knee boots to accentuate the length of his legs, a brocade waistcoat and rich blue tailcoat. He holds a pair of gloves, and on the table he stands by is a chemistry set. Behind him is a beautiful fireplace, boasting a skull and – yes, that is a knife sticking out of the wood.

Molly aches to see this portrait in good lighting, to have it cleaned and see the colors as though they are new. She swears the eyes of this Holmes ancestor are watching her, following her, haughty and accusing: Who do you think you are? You've no place here, girl, now be gone.

"I'm here to help," she says, and doesn't even care that she's talking to a painting. "I'm going to fix Yew Bridge."

No response, and Molly is distantly, absurdly surprised. Honestly, the portrait is so well done she wouldn't be shocked at all if he plucked a book from the shelves behind him and stepped down, demanding to be brought brandy in the study or some such.

"Sherlock Vernet Holmes II," says Sherlock, making Molly jump, shriek, and nearly come out of her skin. She whirls around, choking on fear and saliva, hands pressing hard against her heart.

Sherlock gives her an amused smile, before looking up to his ancestor. "I used to visit him a lot. I'm the sixth Sherlock. He's the one I was telling you about, the one that built the hothouse and kept all sorts of things in there. He was a genius. He pioneered early forensics, developed a solution that would detect blood even if clothes or a rug or a floor had been washed clean, and was knighted by Queen Victoria and was made a member of the Order of the Garter."

"Amazing," whispers Molly, even more awed then before. "I think I read about him school, actually. Bit foggy on it, though."

"He was brilliance personified. But he had such a sad life, in the end." Sherlock sighs, stepping forward as though he'd like to commiserate with his ancestor. Molly watches him, noticing how painfully alike the two men are, and also their differences. Sherlock VI has lighter hair, laugh lines and an open, sweet face. Sherlock II is colder, more reserved and haughty, with even sharper features.

"What happened?" Still whispering, Molly wards off a shiver. It feels like he's with them, but Molly knows ghosts aren't real. You die, go into the ground, and rot. There is nothing else.

"Sherlock II was completely cerebral. In his journals, he writes the mind is everything, and the body is only transport. For over thirty years he was celibate, he swore off marriage and women, and focused entirely on science. I've read his journals – he was my hero when I was growing up, it's why I got into chemistry – and I think...I think he was really alone. He only had one friend, a medical doctor named John Watson. He seemed very blunt and...I don't know, awkward? He didn't understand people. Or maybe he didn't want to, I don't know. But when he was thirty-six he fell in love with a woman." Sherlock pauses, face drawing into a mask of sadness.

"She was his world. I don't even think he knew what love was before her. But he had some enemy – M Sherlock wrote, he never gave him a name, and the history books don't have it either. I know, I've looked everywhere for his actual identity. A few historians have some ideas, you know, but nothing definitive...but what we do know is that this M killed Sherlock's wife. It was very...gruesome. He never recovered, and eventually he died from a cocaine overdose."

Molly shudders, curling her arms around her stomach. She looks up, into that strange, hauntingly beautiful face, and she swears she can see the sadness he tried to hide. Genius left him cut off from the world, but he found love, found someone who must have understood him...and he lost her.

Molly can understand that, how he felt. They're kindred spirits, she and this long dead Sherlock.

"No use dwelling on the past, I suppose. I'm starved, are you ready to go?" Sherlock's smile is subdued but honest. It is also out of place.

Nodding, Molly follows behind Sherlock as he leads her away. She tries to remember the twists and turns, wanting to find her way back to that portrait. She's going to have it restored, and soon. He doesn't deserve to rot away. This small part of a long-dead man, like the estate he once called home, she can save.

-X-

Molly hasn't had a decent night's sleep since she left Jim, and that was nearly three years ago, now. The doctors gave her sleeping pills, but Molly rarely takes them; she's never liked the feeling of being drugged, and she always has nightmares on the pills. Sometimes they're so vivid that she thinks they are actually real, and it takes hours for the fog to leave after she wakes up.

"I have insomnia," is all she says to Sherlock – he doesn't need to know the reasons – and follows it with a question. "Will it be okay if I look around if I can't sleep? Is there anywhere I shouldn't go? Family rooms, private studies...?"

"You own this house, Molly," Sherlock tells her gently, and he takes a sudden – though gentle – grasp on her hand. "You were kind enough to allow my brother and I to retain partial ownership, but it's your money that is going to make Yew Bridge what it once was. You can look anywhere you'd like."

It's uncomfortable to hear this, and Molly squirms. She knows the elder Holmes brother, a politician by the name of Mycroft, is enraged over the whole situation, and she doesn't want to make it worse. But she is just so...drawn to the estate, and it only seemed right, what she did...

"It's your home," Molly refutes, "I'm just paying some bills." She extracts her hand, burning from the touch (she isn't used to such casual touches, not anymore).

Sherlock sighs but smiles, tiredly and with a strange look in his eyes. Molly wonders what he's thinking, as he watches her so intently for a long moment.

"Look anywhere you please. If you get lost – and it's easy to if you don't know the place, especially if you take servant's stairs – call me. It's alright to wake me up, I won't mind. I think my new employer will let me sleep in for something like this." His smile is crooked, and his wink is boyish.

Molly blushes, and she doesn't know who is more surprised by it, her or Sherlock.

She doesn't want him to call her his employer, but she won't fight him on it. He's an artist, and in his spare time has been restoring murals and frescoes in the manor. Molly is simply providing him a weekly stipend so he can continue his work, as well as guide her through the process of restoring Yew Bridge.

She changes into blue jeans and sneakers – better to explore sensibly – digs a torch out of her overnight bag, tucks an extra set of batteries in her pocket, and sets off. She has no direction, and no idea of where she is going.

It's wonderful.

Not all rooms have been outfitted with overhead electrical lightning, just as not all of them are used often enough to warrant electrical lamps. Molly's torchlight shows her a woman's study with gas lamps on the walls and faded silk wallpaper. It looks like something from the set of an Edwardian movie, down to a discarded necklace on the desk. Diamonds flicker in the beam of her torch, and Molly wonders at how this wasn't found and sold off to pay for a garden or keep the electric on.

It's easy to miss things in a house this large, she supposes.

She leaves the necklace where it lies, though a girlish (and long ignored) part of her wants to try it on. There's a mirror on one wall, dusty and grim, but Molly avoids it. She's been avoiding mirrors for a long time, and there's no reason to stop now.

In another room, Molly finds a massive old steamer trunk that, when opened, is full of nothing but photos. She nearly sits down and begins digging through them right there, but decides to wait. Maybe Sherlock will look through them with her; he might be able to tell her who some of the people are. She hopes there are pictures of the house and grounds, so she can see what it once looked like.

She knows how it appears in her dreams, but she imagines the reality is much better.

Molly thinks she's wandered into the east wing. It hasn't been used by the family for ages, shut up to keep the heating and electrical bill down. There's more dust than ever, and she feels like an explorer. Or maybe a trespasser.

On the second level, Molly muscles open a door that has swollen into its frame so badly she has to fight it for several minutes (though it only makes her want to get inside more). The door gives with a pop and shriek of wood against wood, and she stumbles.

The moonlight reveals a long room, filled with ancient chemistry equipment. Everything is dusty and covered in cobwebs, as though it hasn't been accessed for a long, long time. Molly's flashlight reveals shelves with jars that have exploded, and others still tightly shut and holding...things. She doesn't look too closely.

The smell makes her gag, and she pinches her nose shut, eyes watering.

A shiver rolls up her spine, makes the hair on the back of her neck and arms stand up straight. She'd bet money this was Sherlock's, the Sherlock whose portrait she saw earlier. She thinks about that strange, magnetic man in this room, can almost see candles and gas lamps burning, dark curls bent over experiments and boiling liquids.

"Out." Somewhere behind her, an impossibly deep, stern voice speaks. Molly bites her tongue to keep a scream silent, flailing violently and treading air for several seconds before her feet touch the floor once again. Practically lunging into the hallway, she looks up and down, torchlight following the frantic jerks of her eyes as she searches for Sherlock. He must have followed her, must not want her in here for some reason –

There is a whisper, words just out of Molly's hearing, though she can hear the cadence and tone of the speaker. She shudders, unable to move from the paralyzing mixture of disbelief and fear.

Wind picks up, sudden and harsh, slamming the newly opened door shut behind her. Molly flinches back, the bang echoing down long, empty halls and rooms of this near-abandoned house, and the urge to flee is nearly overpowering. But what is fear to a woman that has already lost everything?

Yew Bridge is all she has left. She can't lose it, not before she's even had a chance to get started.

"I – I won't be scared off," she announces, flinching at the whimper in her voice and the stutter she can't quite hold back. "Throw your worst at me, but...I'm going to fix this place. I'm going to bring it back to life."

Draperies framing the large windows lining the hall drift, creaking and banging on their rings and rails. The shadows they cast are long and disjointed, and – much too Molly's horror – one in particular seems to be that of a man, arms folded across his chest and booted feet braced apart in a stance of pure obstinacy.

"I'm not running," she whispers, because if she tries to speak normally she will scream. Instead she turns, slowly and deliberately, pouring steel and iron into her suddenly jelly-like knees. Her steps are short and weak, she wobbles a remarkable amount, but Molly does not fall, and for this she is impossibly grateful. Instead she moves down the hall until the wind dies completely away.

For show (and because she needs a moment to gather her strength before her legs give out under her), Molly pauses to examine a table, pretending to test its sturdiness when in fact she is using it to brace herself.

Laughter drifts down the hall, bouncing off the walls and ceiling and rattling the windows. It follows Molly all the way out of the east wing.