May 20, 1953
Greg
Gregory Lestrade sat on the front steps of his house, turning his football over and over in his hands. He was thinking about The Queen's Coronation.
He thought about Her Majesty and all the preparation, all the pomp and circumstance, all of the care that went into this event, this crowning.
It didn't matter, really, did it? The Queen was still the bloody Queen at the end of the day.
Greg wondered whether or not she cared at all about the lonely sixteen year old turning a football over and over in his hands, sitting outside, waiting to stall his father when he got home because his mother had burned dinner.
"Just talk to him for a bit, alright, Greg?" she had asked, holding the burned casserole in her hands, eyes wide with fear and smile strained and urgent, as she nodded vigorously at her son to make his way outside.
What his father would do to his mother if he come home and found dinner uncooked, Greg didn't like to think.
The fights had started getting bad when Greg was eleven. He started getting ushered out of the house when he was thirteen and he had started seeing his mother's bruises last year. Greg had asked her, then, if he was worth it.
"Your father?" she had whispered fearfully.
"No. Me." he had replied, holding a bag of ice to her shoulder as she had folded laundry.
When she had heard that, she had dropped the clothing back onto the bed and swooped him up in a tight and warm hug.
He clung to her as well, still trying to hold the ice to her arm.
"Oh, Gregory," she had whispered, closing her eyes so that her lashes fluttered shut against her son's neck. "You are worth a thousand angry men. You're my son."
And so he sat and waited for his father on the dusty steps of his London suburban home, waiting to feed him a bullshit story about football, which would lead him to a lengthy and aggressive rant on Captain Watson or how Gregory's footwork needs to be cleaner and how the whole team is corrupted or whatever would catch his fancy. He could hear the worried click of his mother's short heels through the thin wooden door as she bustled around the kitchen, trying to make a decent casserole for the most terrifying man on earth in her pearls and apron.
May 20, 1953
Molly
There wasn't a single damned thing to eat this the whole damned apartment.
Molly Hooper sighed in frustration, her french braids shaking slightly as her breath huffed out.
"Why can't the food just...be there?" she whined to no one in particular.
Her eyes roamed over the nearly-bare pantry to find the reliable cans of typical tomato soup in the back of the shelves, saved only for a last resort.
The sight of them made her stomach turn.
"DAD!" she called over her shoulder, grabbing a metal tin. "DINNER!"
May 20, 1953
Greg
"DINNER?" Mr. Lestrade thundered, grabbing the feeble undercooked casserole from Greg's mother's hands. She yelped as he sent it crashing to the ground.
"Dad!" Greg shouted.
"HUSH, boy!"
Greg looked to his mother, who nodded tightly.
He fell silent.
Stooping, Greg's father grabbed a handful of pasta, still mildly raw and with all the extra casserole still cold.
"This isn't cooked," he crooned, his voice taunting, sarcastic, deadly and soft.
"I-I'm sorry-"
"IF IT'S NOT COOKED, IT'S NOT DINNER!"
A glob of food went soaring for a foot before it splattered all over Greg's mother's dress, her face and her neck. She flinched and gasped, tears welling up in her eyes.
Greg stood, but his father noticed no change in his position.
"YOU SAID YOU HAD DINNER READY, LISA! YOU LIED TO ME!"
"I-" his mother gasped out.
"I AM TALKING!"
Greg moved before he thought of anything; as soon as he saw his father's hand snap back and his mother cry out and cower, he bolted in between the two and his father's hand came across his face with a resounding smack.
"Gregory!" his mother cried, grabbing her son's arms as he staggered back into her. His father froze in shock, staring at his son, before a purple rage overtook him. He roared with fury and charged forward, his blow hitting Greg in the stomach. His mother screamed.
One in the face and Greg decided to fight back.
Lip bleeding, he threw himself at his father, who shoved him away before grabbing his arm again, wrenching his son towards his body hard enough to make his sixteen year old yelp in pain. Yelling in satisfaction, his father threw another punch that clipped Greg's eye, and he retaliated with a kick to the shin, which made his father mercifully release his arm.
They both stood there panting, facing each other, red.
His mother took her chance and rushed up to Greg, white in the face.
She threw her arms around him, silent tears streaming down her face. Gripping him firmly, she whispered in his ear, "Go. To Nanna's. I'll come soon."
One more glance towards his father, already gearing up for round two, and he bolted.
He bolted, and he hated himself for it.
May 20, 1953
Molly
Molly watched her father eat from inside of the kitchen. She had taken one look at the final product of dinner and decided she'd pass on it, but her dad had grabbed the bowl mindlessly from the counter and had started eating. By the distant look on her father's face, she could tell his mind was still on his typewriter in his bedroom, working on the future bestseller (but not the one about the boy and his dog, the other one). Molly let out quiet sigh as she watched him, his expression desperate and full of hope and wonder.
"Molly," he said suddenly, seemingly snapping out of his trance.
"Yes?" she replied, surprised.
"Do you know Franklin Miller?"
Molly blinked. "Not really..."
"He called this morning. Wanted to take you to the theater, some play is on he thought you'd might find interesting."
Molly held absolutely no interest for theater. "What?" she asked blankly, getting a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach.
"Come on, sweetheart, you should go with him."
"Maybe," she replied carefully, careful not to give any definitive answers.
Even her 'maybe' was too assuring, because her father looked up and grinned.
"That's my girl," he said, relieved and somewhat proud. Molly's mouth went dry as she forced a small smile onto her face.
"Don't you want to protect your little girl from harm?" she joked desperately.
Her dad laughed. "Well, maybe Frank can do that for me, and I can focus on other things!"
Ah.
He hadn't meant for it to hurt, but Molly felt like she'd been slapped. The oxygen all rushed out of her and she grasped the counter in panic.
"Molly Miller," her father continued, a good-natured smile still on his face. "It's nice, don't you think?"
That's it.
Molly ran from the kitchen and flew out the door, her dad's bewildered "Molly!" following her as tears sprang to her eyes. She ran to the end of the block and slowed, head clearing and breath labored. She sniffed and lifted a hand to wipe her eyes, once more glad she didn't wear makeup to smear around.
Makeup had no place in her life.
Molly was a feminist.
Well, perhaps not. The definition of feminism was blurred, was it not? Molly was whatever it was that didn't scramble for a bridal magazine at age 15-sure, she appreciated the white lace and the whole fuss of the ordeal-but the idea of a ring being forced on her finger was one she shied away from (was that really all it took to be a feminist? The aversion to marrying off?). Being the only person in her family with both feet and head on the surface of the earth (her father always seemed to be 100 feet above and her mother was six feet under), Molly was forced to take the roles of both her mother and father. She looked after her father, the only man she had room for in her life.
Honestly, she didn't want the burden of her father either. Not that she didn't love him (she absolutely did), but it was hard playing caretaker for a 40 year old man. Especially when Molly had her own impossible dreams of her own to accomplish.
Studying medicine as a woman was laughable. Going to college for it was pointless, and getting a job as anything other than a nurse was impossible. Especially in a morgue-possibly the most inappropriate place for a lady that there was (but then again, Molly didn't exactly see what was so decidedly masculine about it all, either).
The idea of marriage, or settling down, or even a boyfriend was something Molly couldn't even consider, had been terrified of considering. To her, a man to sweep her away to reasonable mortgages and lovely rotten children could only stand in her way. It was going to be hard enough getting what she wanted out of life.
Molly Miller.
She wondered what Frank would think about her career ambitions. Huffing out a bitter laugh, she starting ambling down the street.
"So, Frank-I would really love to cut up dead people instead of cook for you and our children."
That should do it.
Her feet carried her to Chester's Park, where she found the area reasonably devoid of people, save for a sulking teenage boy on one of the benches and a grandmother pushing a grandson on a swing, the child's shrieks occasionally piercing the air. Her gaze fell to the teenage boy on the bench. She moved closer, still across the park from him. She could only see part of his face, because of the setting sun and the way his dark shaggy hair fell in front of it.
Upon further observation, it became more apparent that this boy wasn't simply 'sulking'-he seemed distraught, or heartbroken. And scared.
Slightly alarmed, Molly made her way a bit more quickly to him to make sure everything was relatively okay. She noticed his posture, how he was leaning with elbows jammed into his knees, hands dangling slightly helplessly and head bowed down. As she drew closer, she noticed his baggy clothes and their dark or dreary colors-no attempt at any sort of posh exterior. Despite his state, Molly could tell he felt most at ease in them. They didn't fit, not nearly-but they hung on his body easily and comfortably, as if they wouldn't fit anyone really so this was best case scenario.
Molly liked him.
She finally reached the bench, and the boy didn't glance up until she sat down beside him. When he lifted his head to look at her, she smiled meekly, worry etched in her eyes.
"Hey," he croaked out a bit awkwardly, managing a flash of a smile before the haunted look came back in his eyes.
Bruises were blossoming under his eyes and cuts were decorating his cheekbones, already rough tanned skin made worse by the new colors splashed across his face. His eyes were red and swollen from crying and he made no attempt at hiding it.
Helpless.
"Hello," she responded cautiously, tucking a strand of hair away from her face as it fell in front of her face. "Are you alright?"
The boy blinked. "No," he said. "But that's alright, isn't it?" he sighed, taking his face in his hands.
"Of course it is," Molly said, scooting a bit closer. "Everyone gets upset."
The boy nodded slowly, mind somewhere else.
"But you're hurt," she continued, leaning in slightly to try and get a better look at his injuries.
The boy grimaced. "Everyone gets hurt."
Molly raised an arm and patted him on the shoulder, just out of instinct. He jumped at the touch, and looked at her with suddenly wild eyes. Her hand stilled, but she didn't withdraw it. She met his stare with a calm gaze, a gentle smile on her lips. "I have medical things at my house if you need them...it's not far from here, just down the block, actually."
He shook his head. "My gran's coming to get me in a mo,"
"To take you back home?" she asked.
He fell silent and grew still, and her arm wound around his shoulders, scooting closer so their thighs were touching.
"Sorry," she whispered her apology, realizing the source of his wounds.
"Can-" he shut his eyes and a few teardrops squeezed out of his eyes and down his face. He winced as the salt stung his cuts, and Molly's face folded in sympathy.
"Yes," she continued to whisper, not sure what she was agreeing to but willing to do anything to make this poor creature better.
He sniffed and cleared his throat, and Molly tightened her hold on his shoulders. He leaned carefully against her and rested his head on her shoulder, letting out a slow breath.
"I'm Molly," she offered, making him laugh.
"Greg," he responded, still smiling.
They sat there in silence, waiting for his gran to come.
She was reminded of the times before her mother's death when she'd be hurt, or sad, or scared up at night. Her mother would sing to her, and although the song didn't replace a bandage, it reminded her that someone was there.
And then she'd died, leaving Molly hurt, sad and scared, and more than a little lost. Her dad was still lost. She was at least trying to find her way back.
It had been ages since she'd heard the song at all. She vaguely wondered if Greg had ever been sung to.
She started quietly, gently, never picking up volume.
"You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you."
Greg slowly lifted his head up to stare at Molly in slight amazement as she finished the last line, holding a steady gaze.
"Please don't take my sunshine away."
Greg was smiling, his eyes bright and vulnerable and overwhelmingly emotional, the kid was a mess.
Molly liked him.
