I'm so glad to see the favs and follows and reviews - thank you so much - I was wondering if I was heading into a territory that was just too morbid but maybe it's not entirely a turn off? It's dark, but hopefully we will get to see Sherlock learn about his suppressed emotions. It's a good setting for that to happen. Warning - there will be detailed descriptions of embalming and death and forensics. Disclaimer - I own nothing and it's not for profit.
The event might draw your stature in my mind
I should be forced to look upon you whole
The way we look upon the things we lose.
(Stepping Backward – Adrienne Rich)
Sherlock disembarked at the Northampton station and arranged for a rental car. He would be in the city for several days and wanted the freedom to travel without hindrance. Holding up his mobile he looked at the map to Hooper's Funeral Home and Services, as he threw his bag into the back seat of the car then he got behind the wheel and merged into the evening traffic. Physically, he was moving forward, but mentally he was preparing to take a step back; a step back into Molly's past.
He located Hooper's Funeral Home easily enough. The street was lined with spacious Victorian homes with mature trees that would provide a cooling shade in the summer. Now the branches were devoid of leaves and looked skeletal against the gray winter dusk.
The Hooper house stood in the centre of a large corner lot. Sherlock pulled up to the kerb and parked. Getting out of the car, he walked along the stone path through the yard. Sherlock noted the expansive grounds and even he had to admit that in the summer, the garden would be impressive. It was possible that the owners hired a dedicated gardener, but this looked like the work of someone who truly loved the chore. Each bed was carefully tended to, plants properly pruned, dead headed and put to rest for the winter.
Though Sherlock was not the type to wax poetic, he somehow found this a graceful eloquence, befitting the business.
The building was old and rambling, as one might expect of a residence of it's intended purpose. The hearse was parked in the driveway and the parking lot was full. Sherlock looked at the structure and thought about Molly growing up in such a home. This might be a place where others came to terms with the reality of their drastically altered lives, but it was also a place that Molly Hooper had grown and played and learned. How did the experience mould her as a person? How did it impact her thoughts and ambitions? Some of that, Sherlock could easily deduce, but other aspects were shrouded in mystery that he hoped to uncover.
Sherlock ascended the steps of the expansive porch and faced the large green doors. Before he could raise a hand to ring the doorbell, it opened and several people dressed in black stepped out to light cigarettes. Even mourners were not exempt from smoking restrictions, it seemed.
Sherlock slipped into the warm interior of the house and found himself in an impressive lobby. The most notable feature was the cathedral ceiling towering grandly over him. He turned to look at the door he had just passed through and appreciated the stain glass window above. In the daylight it would be aglow with a colourful light that would reflect rainbow patches on the rust coloured carpet.
A large curving staircase of polished wood led, no doubt, to the living quarters above.
To his immediate left was a room, bustling with the activity of a visitation in progress. Just within the arched door a couple embraced sharing comfort in their sorrow. Sherlock looked upon this with curiosity. For years that kind of grief and comfort seemed so beyond him, like some alien custom he could only observe, without understanding. His brother would remind him that the ability to feel such pain was not an advantage. But something was shifting in him. He had watched John suffer when he thought he had lost his best friend. And hadn't he found himself ready to throw away his own life if it meant he could save his friends?
He felt. He didn't yet have the ability to put it into words, but certainly he felt.
Mourners moved in and out of the room, speaking in hushed tones. He gave a brief thought to Molly's family. They were going through their own period of grieving, as they continued to care for others in their time of need. How could they manage that, he wondered? If they were full of feelings like these people here tonight, how could they continue as care providers and not run crying at the injustice of losing there youngest member?
A condolence book lay open on an ornate table. Sherlock gave it a brief glance, before moving to the room on the right. It was a second visitation room, unused at the moment.
He entered the darkened space and found a light switch, flicking it on as he passed. The room was tastefully decorated in ornate wood moulded etchings, painted white. The unadorned walls were a soft pale blue. The dais at the front of the room where the casket would lay was empty, covered in a heavy velvet cloth, also of white. There were a few vases with flower arrangements to provide decoration, placed there by the owners, though the funeral guests would supply the majority of the blooms.
But for now, the room was empty, a blank slate on which the future occupants would write upon it, the story of their sorrow and loss, the story of life ended, the last page of their tale, to close the cover with heavy finality. It was difficult to stop the thoughts that one naturally associates with funeral homes, to internalize it and make it personal. And Sherlock found his mind drifting back to Molly and the impact of her loss. This room no longer felt like a place she might have played hide and seek in as a child. Instead Sherlock saw her in a box, a white one, lined in silky bedding, her haired draped across the satin pillow and hands folded neatly across her chest.
Why did that image make it hard for him to breathe? Sherlock Holmes did not fear death! It was a natural conclusion of life, one could hardly escape. It was pointless to linger on death beyond acknowledging the lost potential. Why did he feel like she had been torn from his chest, like she was an organ he had not known existed, but needed for survival. Ridiculous!
He stood there, deep in thought until a sound at the door brought him back to awareness. A woman stood in the doorway, her resemblance to Molly was strong though she was significantly older.
"Mr. Holmes?" She hesitated by the door.
"Ah yes." Sherlock approached the woman, straightening his stance to his full height, pulling together his look of cold confidence, the proper attitude to assume when interviewing people with the purpose of gathering evidence.
"You would be Mrs Hooper." He held out a hand to her and she shook it briefly.
"Yes. Was your train early? We were expecting you later this evening."
"I took an earlier train."
"Why don't we go upstairs, Mr Holmes. Sometimes our guests wander these rooms in search of a private place to grieve."
Mrs Hooper was outfitted in a simple navy dress, appropriate funeral attire. Sherlock supposed one must maintain an image, living in a funeral home and he wondered again what it was like for Molly growing up here in a place where one must be sombre and quiet, well dressed and well behaved? And why had he not observed a life drenched in the tears of strangers? It must have shown on her skin like a stain. But then, there was always something he missed.
The kitchen of the Hooper residence was less austere than the lower floor. It was a place that looked as well loved as the garden outside. In fact the evidence of the gardener left a strong presence in the room. The wide window sill was filled with potted plants, both flowers and herbs. Hanging plants trailed tendrils over door frames and arches. Every shelf sported some type of greenery, lending cheer and warmth to the room.
Sherlock sat at the heavy wooden table, worn from years of polishing, and he observed Mrs Hooper as she plugged in the electric kettle to heat the water for the tea. She was a woman that wore sorrow, deep in the lines of her face. It was the way she pursed her lips as though she was holding back an age of unspoken grievances, repressed emotions leaving their mark. How very unlike Molly, who had always appeared the very definition of cheerful.
But was that the real Molly or was it only a part of her that she wanted people to see?
Because Sherlock was beginning to realize that the real woman that was Molly Hooper, was much like the fabled ice berg. Only the tip had she chosen to show, beneath the surface lay a vast part of her that Sherlock hoped to understand someday.
"You're here to investigate our Molly's murder, Mr Holmes?" Mrs Hooper set a cup of tea before him and gestured to the milk and sugar to indicate that he should help himself.
"Correct, Mrs Hooper." He carefully scooped two spoons of sugar and poured some milk before stirring the tea with a tinkle of china.
"I don't really understand how we can help. Molly didn't really share that part of her life with us. The part that involved you, that is."
Mrs Hooper avoided eye contact and busied herself, setting out home baked biscuits, deftly lifting them with a spoon, and transferring them from the baking sheet onto a plate. The blame was heavy in the air but she was far too polite and far too proper to make a more direct accusation.
In his time, Sherlock had grown quite accustomed to blame. It was the price he paid for being so close to the death of loved ones and he had never let it bother him in the past. Why did this feel so different?
He watched her as she worked, deducing her to set his troubled mind at ease.
Mrs Hooper was a little taller than Molly had been. Her hair was predominantly gray, but with some wisps of brown still present. Her hands were worn from work; she was indeed the gardener of the house. Though her hands were meticulously cleaned there was a slight green staining on her right forefinger indicating time spent recently pruning the greenery he had noted on his arrival. Her kitchen fairly shone with scrubbing. She took pride in this room, and in her cooking and baking. She kept a full array of pots and pans and utensils. They hung in neat racks that would put a chef's collection to shame.
She had a barbiturate habit, long-term by the prescription held by a magnet shaped like a banana on the refrigerator. Odd that her doctor would prescribe such an outdated antidepressant, but perhaps she took them for migraines? He also noted that she had a tremour in her hands, a neurological condition, he thought. She liked to indulge in wine on a regular basis. Red. She didn't whiten her teeth and there was a slight staining, barely noticeable, but very common in those who regularly partake.
Sherlock thought she was a veritable collection of reasons and circumstances that had lead her to believe she was life's victim. Depression, substance abuse, likely an adulterer before the death of her husband, he suspected, and riddled with guilt over the ways she had spent her life, how it had not lived up to her perceived notion of perfection.
She sought validation through her children by throwing herself into their care despite their advanced ages, which Sherlock knew to be in their late thirties and mid forties.
Sherlock supposed her face had a subtle beauty, though he was not one to judge, considering the variables and personal preferences that came into play when making such an observation. Perhaps it was the resemblance to Molly that made him take any notice at all? He was still too confused by his own emotional reactions to make a call on this.
"Mrs Hooper." Sherlock calmly stated, "I've been led to believe that to find Molly's killer, I must search for clues in her past. I realize that this may be . . . difficult for you. Rest assured, I will catch the culprit and he will be appropriately punished."
Mrs Hooper pressed her lips together, averting her eyes again, seemingly transfixed by her tea. After a moment she spoke. "Will you be staying long?"
"I expect to remain in the city for several days. If you might suggest a hotel, I will take my leave and return tomorrow."
"Don't be silly Mr Holmes. You will stay here, of course. There's plenty of room and if it is Molly's past you want to know about, then this is the best place to start."
They finished their tea and then Mrs Hooper insisted on giving a tour, starting with the heart of the business, the basement.
She led the way down a narrow stone staircase. She explained that there was an elevator on the other side of the house to bring in the cadavers. The door had a large sign that forbade entry, but Mrs Hooper pushed it open and they emerged in the embalming room.
"This is terribly against regulations, Mr Holmes, but to know Molly, this room could hardly be overlooked." She spoke over her shoulder.
A man stood at the occupied embalming table. Once again the family traits were strong, the relation obvious. Sherlock knew immediately that this was Molly's brother. He was in his late thirties, and of medium stature. His hair was the same colour as Molly's and was neatly trimmed and styled. His nose was exactly like Molly's, as were his eyes. The similarities were uncanny. He had a small frame and a slim build. And like his sister, it would not be difficult to mistake him for much younger than his true age.
He wore white paper coveralls to protect his suit from the task he was preforming and his goggles were perched on the top of his head, miraculously leaving his hair untousled. On his feet he wore a pair of black wellies.
"Mum! What are you doing? You know you can't just bring people down here!"
The cadaver on the table had livid patches of deep purple on it's extremities and a cloth was draped primly over the genitals and another on the face. It was shrunken with age and long illness making it difficult to determine the gender despite the lack of clothing.
"Luke, this is Sherlock Holmes. Mr Holmes, this is my son Luke."
Luke's gaze darkened at the sight of the consulting detective. He was in the midst of washing the corpse with a disinfecting solution with a long hose topped with a nozzle that could be adjusted to direct the spray. He promptly turned off the spigot and turned his attention to Sherlock.
"If it would help with your paper work I could obtain a police order allowing my presence here." Sherlock offered.
"That won't be necessary, Mr Holmes." He took a clean sheet and gently draped it over the cadaver. "Though I won't forget the part you played in the death of my sister, I am forced to acknowledge your abilities of investigation. If you can find the man responsible for taking our Molly and perhaps recover her body so we can put her to rest properly, then you are welcome in our home."
Sherlock wondered how much the police had told them about Molly's death. The way they looked at him made it clear that they held him at least in part, accountable. That was fine because that is exactly how he felt. Guilty.
He explained to Luke his need to delve into Molly's past and Luke seemed to ponder this for a moment before he replied.
"Mr Holmes, if you want to know who Molly was, this is the right room to start."