Because I didn't feel right making you guys wait for the actual first chapter. From now on, I plan to post one chapter every other day.
Molly Hooper was down on her hands and knees, furiously scrubbing imaginary dirt trails off of the pristine marble floor. The eighteen-year-old hummed softly to herself as she worked, the sweet melody echoing throughout the castle's enormous entrance hall.
In exchange for her continued residence at the palace, Molly had agreed to help Mrs. Prince around the castle, even if that meant tolerating the austere older woman's often impossibly high standards of cleanliness.
Catching sight of her reflection in a solitary soap bubble, Molly sighed and fell back on her haunches, deciding she could spare one minute to rest. She wiped her brow with the dirty cloth she'd been using to polish the floor before realizing what she had done and dropping the rag in distaste. Trying to ease some of the tension caused by spending hours hunched over, Molly huffed out a breath and rolled her shoulders, scrutinizing her appearance closely. Stringy tendrils of brown hair had fallen out of her bun and smudges of ash littered her pallid cheeks.
Her sable eyes were bloodshot, evidence of the previous evening she'd spent examining scientific texts until the wee hours of the morning. Even her dress had seen better days, the blue frock littered with hastily-sewn-on patches. Likewise, no amount of cleaning could remove the multitude of stains and return her originally-white apron to its former glory.
Molly knew she was not ugly, by any definition of the word, but she definitely wasn't pretty, especially compared to the sophisticated and graceful ladies of the court that she observed on a daily basis. Most days their eyes wandered past her grubby form, ignoring her like the invisible nobody she often believed herself to be.
She wasn't striking enough to compete with them, and she certainly wasn't gorgeous enough to deserve–
No!
She stopped herself before she could drift even further down that river of misery and self-doubt.
It would not do to dwell on things that could never be. Sure, her life was nowhere close to the one she'd imagined as a child, still convinced her parents would live forever, but she was far from unhappy. She had Sally, who often scolded her when Molly fell into one of her bouts of insecurity.
The pair had become so close, in fact, that they shared a small room in the servants' wing of the castle. Although their aspirations were vastly different (Sally dreamed of one day joining the Royal Guard, unlikely as that was for a lowly servant), they still supported and reassured one another whenever their lives became too difficult to navigate alone.
Greg Lestrade was also a huge comfort to Molly.
Although he was busy nowadays as the leader of the Guard (just like her father had predicted), he still made every effort to see Molly whenever possible. It was the soldier, in fact, who had fought for her and convinced Mrs. Prince to let her remain in the palace. He continued to bring the young woman gifts from his travels, including a lovely orange kitten as a present on her sixteenth birthday.
The feline in question (who she had affectionately named Toby) was currently butting his head tenderly against her thigh, offering his mistress comfort in the only way he knew how.
Realizing that she had been musing for much too long, Molly spared a moment to brush a hand along Toby's back and hurriedly pushed herself back onto her knees. She picked up the dirty rag from where it had landed nearby.
As she began furiously cleaning once more, however, she reflected the only other person with any real significance in her life; the man who could make her smile more than anyone else (when he wasn't inadvertently insulting her and driving her insane).
She had met him a mere week after her father's passing.
XXXXX
Molly's feet dangled off the edge of a stone bench in her favorite courtyard. She had managed to slip away from the well-meaning adults, none of whom had wanted to leave the six-year-old by herself after the news of Captain Hooper's death broke.
This was the same spot she had been sitting when Greg had delivered the news that broke her heart; the last moment before she realized her father was never returning home to her. The words in her anatomy book blurred together as moisture clouded her vision.
Finally alone, she closed the book with a thud, giving up on trying to distract herself with reading.
Grief departed her tiny body in gut-wrenching sobs. She balled her hands into fists and struck out at the nearest hard surface.
Unfortunately, the nearest hard surface just happened to be the bench on which she was resting.
Her cries increased in volume as physical pain combined with emotional, turning her into a blubbering mess. She didn't know what she was going to do without her mummy and daddy. They were her best friends as well as her protectors, and now they were gone forever.
She heard footsteps approaching from somewhere to her left, and tried to stem the flow of tears before they stumbled upon her. Wiping her hot cheeks with her hands, she gulped and looked up as someone entered the yard.
She was surprised to see a young boy, perhaps a couple of years older than her.
He was lanky, with dark, curly hair and the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place where she'd seen him in her current condition. She had probably noticed him around the palace somewhere.
He stopped when he realized she was sitting there, his blue-green eyes rapidly taking everything in, from her tear-stained cheeks to her bloody knuckles. When his eyes met hers, he hesitantly shuffled closer, holding a hand out in front of him to assure her he meant no harm.
If she had been in a more sound state of mind, she would have been offended that he apparently saw the need to treat her like some wild animal.
"Hello," he began, taking another tentative step towards her.
Molly tried to offer him a small smile in greeting but failed completely. She waved a hand half-heartedly instead.
"You are Molly, right? Captain Hooper's daughter?" He spoke quietly, so as not to frighten her, but his words came out more statement than question, leaving little room to disagree. Whoever this boy was, he was very confident and sure of himself. She nodded her head shyly, still sniffling every so often.
"He was a very brave man. Dad says he saved a lot of lives, and that he will be remembered as a hero."
"I know," Molly replied.
"B-but I just w-want my d-dad back." She could feel her tears returning and shut her eyes tightly in an attempt stop them.
The boy sat down beside her and raised his arm, patting her awkwardly on the back.
"There, there," he uttered helplessly, clearly out of his depth with the crying girl beside him.
She felt something soft against her hands and looked down to find him delicately patting her broken skin with a handkerchief. She yelped when he touched a particularly tender spot, and he dropped the fabric in surprise, returning his hand to his lap.
"S-sorry," Molly managed to articulate, her face flushing in embarrassment. Trust her to make a fool of herself in front of a stranger.
The boy, however, shook his head, waving off her apology.
"I know if I was in your situation, I would be a mess, too." He must have noticed her hurt, because he quickly backpedaled. "N-not that you are a mess, of course. Just... sad," he finished lamely.
Molly stared up at him through her lashes, noticing that his cheeks were now tinted a rosy pink.
The boy twisted his face away from her, focusing instead on a dead worm lying below them in the dirt.
"Lumbricus terrestris," Molly mumbled to herself, the familiar Latin phrase rolling off of her tongue with ease. The boy's head shot up, his attention now solely on her.
"You understand the binomial nomenclature method of classifying biological organisms?" he asked, wonder in his voice.
A smile threatened to break through for the first time in days. Instead of answering verbally, she picked up the book she had been trying to concentrate on before her breakdown and handed it to him. His fingers ran over the cover lovingly, and Molly began to think she had found herself a kindred spirit in this mysterious boy.
Excitedly, he shot up from his position on the bench and grabbed her hand. She winced at the contact, but didn't say anything.
"I just had the most brilliant idea! Mum just bought me a new anatomy set. Do you want to help me autopsy our little friend here, Molly?"
He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation, and she found his enthusiasm infectious.
Her smile widened before she responded, "Okay." He pulled her to her feet, and she brushed the dirt off the back of her dress before she realized something.
"Um, can you tell me your name? You know mine, but I don't know yours." She swept her left foot on the ground timidly, playing with the hem of her skirt.
"Sherlock," he stated, as though it was obvious.
Her eyes widened. "Sh-sherlock? As in Prince Sherlock?!"
"Of course, how many other Sherlocks do you know?" He chuckled until he saw her expression.
"Oh." He was quiet for a moment. "You really did not know, did you?"
She shook her head in amazement. Her father had told her stories of the youngest prince and their common interest in all things science, but she still had not imagined that she would accidentally bump into him, and especially not when she was in such a state. The palace was enormous, after all!
She felt his fingers tighten around hers, and she looked up at him again.
"Do you still want to see my anatomy set?" Molly was stunned to detect a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
Molly didn't even have to think about it. "Let's go."
XXXXX
Molly grinned as she recalled her first meeting with the oddly endearing young man. Since that day, there had been many experiments and adventures to be had between the two, often the result of Sherlock's unappeasable curiosity. Molly had no limit to her own inquisitiveness, and she was always more than happy to join him in his endeavors.
Over the years, their friendship had only grown stronger, even if most occupants of the palace found it mindboggling; the prince and the servant girl.
Sometimes Molly herself found it hard to believe.
Sherlock was one of the best things to come out of her continued inhabitance of the palace. He was her best friend; the only person who completely understood her.
She was also hopelessly, unrequitedly in love with him.
XXXXX
On the other side of the castle, Sherlock, second son of the House of Holmes, was lounging in his mother's sitting room. He had always liked the room, a cozy space decorated in hues of emerald and scarlet.
Right now, however, he was far too guarded to enjoy himself.
When the queen's squirrely assistant, Anderson, had summoned him for a meeting with his brother and mother, Sherlock's suspicions had been raised immediately, especially when he learned the meeting would occur in his favorite room of the palace.
The pair were currently sitting opposite him, although their countenances could not be any more different.
Mummy was reclining comfortably with one leg crossed over the other, a calculating gleam visible in her eyes. Mycroft, on the other hand, sat completely rigid, posture immaculate as always. (Sherlock doubted his brother had ever relaxed in his entire life.)
Both appeared ready for battle.
Whatever they had to tell him could not be anything good.
"Sherlock," Violet began, gazing intently at her youngest son.
"Yes, Mummy?" Sherlock bit out, infusing his tone with some of the bitterness he was currently feeling.
"Do not be rude, Sherlock!" Mycroft scolded. When it became clear Sherlock would not reply, he continued. "You turned twenty-one this year…."
"Why, thank you, Mycroft! I had absolutely no idea!" he interrupted, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Mycroft drew his eyebrows together in irritation, but he evidently decided to ignore his brother's attempts to needle him, as his next words were, "We all know what this is about, Sherlock. Although I am the Crown Prince, I am unable to produce an heir to the throne. You are of age now, and, as such, you have certain responsibilities as a member of this family that must be adhered to."
Sherlock rolled his eyes but did not refute Mycroft's assertions that he understood why they had called him. Indeed, he had been expecting a meeting such as this one for the past month since his birthday.
"Who is the lucky woman, then? Or do I have a say in the person I shall be shackled to for the rest of my life?" He steepled his fingers together and raised his eyebrows, inviting either of the pair to respond.
"Obviously, Sherlock, dear," his mother began, "we do not want to force you to marry someone you detest. King Peter of Belgravia, however, has mentioned a possible alliance between our two kingdoms. His daughter, Irene, is only a year younger than you, and I have heard she is absolutely lovely! Very clever, too." Violet smiled knowingly at her youngest son.
She understood both of her sons extremely well, and she recognized that a woman's intelligence would always matter more to Sherlock than her physical attributes.
Sherlock just rolled his eyes at his mother's attempt at persuasion, however. She may have won the heart of a king, but subtle she most certainly was not.
"And if I wish to marry for love?"
Mycroft actually had the gall to laugh at that, throwing his head back with an ungentlemanly guffaw. Sherlock wasn't even able to enjoy his brother's loss of propriety, as he was too offended by Mycroft's reaction. After his chortles had died down, he sat up and met Sherlock's narrowed gaze.
"Love? You? The man who, just last week, was overheard criticizing Lord Watson on selecting his bride based on sentiment rather than practicality?"
The younger man pointedly studied his nails instead of looking at his brother's mocking expression. The crown prince was right, of course, but Sherlock refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
Instead of ridiculing her son, Violet tilted to head to one side, observing Sherlock thoughtfully. "Is there someone you love, Sherlock?"
She waved off Mycroft's proclamation of "Don't be ridiculous, Mummy!" instead keeping her attention solely on her youngest child.
Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.
"There could be," he mumbled, voice so low that the other two occupants of the room had to lean forward to hear him.
Violet sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Very well," she conceded.
"King Peter and his daughter will be visiting Baker in two weeks' time. Your father and I have decided to host a ball in honor of their arrival. As I am sure you are aware, the popularity of the royal family has dropped quite drastically in recent years, even more so since Lord Moriarty's betrayal and subsequent execution. Thus, we plan to invite all the people of Baker as a gesture of good will to our citizens. Introduce us to your intended at the ball, or we will announce your betrothal to Princess Irene. Agreed?"
Sherlock nodded his head in agreement, albeit reluctantly.
He had been hoping for longer to come up with a way out of his predicament, but a fortnight was better than nothing. He possessed one of the most magnificent minds in the country. Sherlock was confident that he would be able to solve this prior to the ball.
Sensing that the conversation was over, Sherlock stood up, glaring at his brother as he did so.
The bastard just grinned smugly in reply. Another thought struck him just as he reached the door, however, and he pivoted abruptly. "Do I need to select someone of noble birth?"
His mother considered his question for a moment.
"I do not see why that should be necessary. If you truly love the woman and wish to marry her, we will support your union, whoever she may be."
"Thank you, Mummy," he answered graciously with a dip of his head in her direction. He quickly pulled open the door and strode out, thoughts swirling through his mind a mile a minute. He had quite a bit about which to think, and he knew just the person who could help him with his dilemma.
XXXXX
Lord John Watson had known Prince Sherlock for over fifteen years. John's parents had been invited to the palace for a meeting with the king and queen, leaving their sons to entertain themselves. They had quickly bonded over a mutual love of archery and other dangerous pastimes. Nowadays, he was considered to be the prince's most trusted advisor.
In all that time, John had seen him in all manner of conditions: giggly and incoherent after imbibing too much wine at supper, mocking and derisive when confronted by extraordinary stupidity. In all that time, however, he had never seen his friend (and, yes, he would continue to use that label for their relationship, even if Sherlock himself would not) like this.
The prince paced from one end of his massive bedroom to the other, muttering unintelligibly to himself all the while. John had been watching him for at least half an hour, and he still had no idea what had Sherlock so agitated.
"Can you believe this, John?" Sherlock cried exasperatedly, running his long fingers through his dark curls.
John blinked at his friend for several moments before he realized the younger man was expecting some sort of reply. "Believe what?"
Sherlock glared at his friend before releasing a loud huff in frustration.
"My wedding, John. Haven't you been paying attention?" John made to respond but Sherlock continued before he could utter a word. "Mummy and Mycroft have given me two weeks to choose the woman with whom I will be chained, until death do us part!" He began mumbling again as his pacing increased.
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his friend's dramatics.
"Marriage, huh?" he simplified, fighting down the smile that threatened to bloom on his face. "What are you going to do?"
"I do not know, John! That is why I summoned you here! Obviously!" He let out a deep breath and plopped down on the edge of his four-poster, falling back with an ungraceful smack. "I just need more time." Sherlock sounded more defeated than John had ever heard, and it was this, more than anything else, that had John worried for his friend.
Clearly this was affecting the prince more than he had realized.
"You could always try to convince the queen that two weeks is not long enough to find a wife," he offered, but Sherlock's scoff revealed without a shadow of a doubt what he thought about that idea.
"Fine, then, what else is there? Are you going to ask some girl to pretend to be your fiancée?" John intended the last solution as a joke, but from the way Sherlock shot up on the bed, he was taking it more seriously than John had anticipated. Surely he wasn't honestly considering….
This was Sherlock. Of course he was.
"How are you even going to find a girl on such short notice? Someone who is willing to pretend to be engaged to a prince, with no hope of actually marrying said prince, and who is trustworthy enough that you know she will not reveal the truth of your arrangement. Does such a woman even exist?"
Sherlock's eyes lit up in delight.
"John, you are a genius!"
A warm feeling of pleasure filled John's veins at the prince's exclamation, causing him to almost overlook his words.
"Wait, what?" John sputtered with all the grace he could muster. (It was not much.) "Are you telling me that you actually have someone in mind?" He had certainly not been expecting that.
"I know just the person, John. She will be perfect." Realization dawned, and John made to protest, calling to his friend. Sherlock, however, was already halfway down the corridor, off to track down his fake bride.
John sunk down into an armchair, resting his head in his hands.
That poor woman deserved better. Sherlock was completely oblivious to her feelings for him, and, although John suspected his friend's feelings for her were far from platonic, this entire scheme had the beginnings of a complete disaster.
XXXXX
Molly was outside, lovingly tending the rose bushes in the courtyard where she had first met Sherlock when he found her.
She was just about finished with her task when she heard the familiar footsteps walk up behind her. Hiding a grin, Molly acted like she hadn't noticed him approach. Nothing irked the prince more than being ignored.
"Do not play coy, Molly. I know you heard me. Tobias," he greeted seriously, turning his attention momentarily to the preening cat. Sherlock's relationship with Toby had always fascinated her. He treated the feline more like an important confidante than her beloved pet.
Molly continued caring for the flowers, knowing Sherlock would eventually reveal why he had hunted her down in the middle of the afternoon. Usually he was very considerate of the fact that she was far too busy during the day and did not bother her until later.
Finally, after several minutes of silence, Sherlock broke.
"Molly…."
If that sound had come out of the mouth of anyone except Sherlock, she would have called it a whine. Something in his tone sounded strange to her well-trained ears, however, so she pushed herself to her knees and twisted her neck around to gaze at him.
He looked worn out, and his eyes were imploring her to help him, though she could not fathom what he could require from her.
"What do you need?"
"You."
Her garden shears landed on the moist ground with a thump.
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