Hey everyone! Welp, it's almost been a year. Lot of things have gone on, but I felt the need to keep going here. Please note that while I am trying to move forward with this story there is no guarantee it won't be another year until the next chapter. If that's the case, I totally understand your frustration and wouldn't blame you if you didn't continue to read.

Either way, thank you to anyone who is stopping by to read my silly words.

I'm getting over a fever and sickness, but I was recently on vacation and was inspired. I wrote 1000 of these words on a plane ride to Seattle, and then came back and tried to proofread and embellish. Hopefully it's enough to be interesting! Please forgive any grammatical or inconsistencies-I have no beta reader so I'm doing this all by myself!

Anachronisms and inaccuracies of Victorian England are not intentional as I'm trying to do research as I go along. I know minimally of the era, so I'm trying my best, but I'm always happy to learn more.

Much love - Proserpina

Chapter 2: La Porte Rouge

Understandably, Molly was shocked after confirming the smooth baritone was indeed Sherlock Holmes. Her eyes met his for only the briefest of seconds, and she could tell that he took only a moment to break down her insignificance to the situation before moving his gaze elsewhere. Her first thought was of relief, an unbidden sigh coming to her lips as his countenance moved on.

"My apologies for disturbing the rest of the house, Mistress," Irene said, with little contrition in her voice. The tall brunette was addressing Madam Perrier, but it was Molly who she now inspected. The pathologist schooled her features-her disapproval had been apparent in both the frown and furrowed brow Molly had been unaware of until the woman's blue eyes had locked onto her face.

Molly was torn. At first, she felt a keen desire to not back down from this sudden staring contest, but then she was unsure why that sudden wish had flown through her head. Before she had a chance to look away, Irene did so herself, almost as though she too was dismissing the young woman as irrelevant. The dark haired beauty was new, as far as Molly knew, and Sherlock had never been to this brothel, at least as far as she could tell.

Adalene spoke up. "Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid violence is strictly forbidden here."

"Yes, I would assume this to be the truth in any civilized establishment, however, this man chose to lay hands upon me," Sherlock's voice was smooth and controlled. There was a slight flexing of long fingers as though they were tight from having smashed them into the redhead's face, but other than that, there was not even a single curl out of place.

Unsure of the situation, Molly turned her eyes back onto her impromptu patient. "How many fingers am I holding up, sir?" She repeated herself.

Groggily, the defendant squinted his eyes and correctly spoke, "Three." Speech was slightly slurred, but from the smell of alcohol coming from his breath, Molly doubted it was due to a brain injury. He would be fine.

"I will, of course, pay for the damages, including the vase." It was clear from the way Sherlock cut his sentence short he thought he was being generous with his offer since Molly assumed Adalene had been the one to destroy it in her attempts to get the men to separate.

"You're going to be all-" Molly had begun to tell the man on the ground, standing before she was interrupted.

"He wash trying to take Msh. Adler from me…" The man slurred again, as he also attempted to stand up, wavering back and forth. Molly moved out of the way. She could attempt to assist, but more likely would get crushed under the formidable form. She hadn't noticed just how broad and tall Sherlock's opponent had been until he'd tried to stand.

"Mr. Holloway, I can assure you, I was never yours to be taken in the first place," Adler's words lilted with amusement, and an allusion to something that Molly wasn't sure she'd caught on. Apparently, Mr. Holloway did since his cheeks turned as red as his hair.

"Now, if we're done with this interlude, I have business to attend to with Ms. Adler," Sherlock said abruptly.

"Patience is a virtue, Sherlock," Irene said, turning her gaze onto the detective. Molly carefully kept her expression from frowning, as he returned the look, saying nothing. Sherlock silenced was rare indeed when he wasn't trying to ignore an idiot. Or rather an idiot by his standards, which seemed to be just about everyone - but she had a feeling this Irene was not one of those idiots.

"Oh I'm not done with you, Mr. Holmes," Adalene's accent growing stronger with her increasing irritation. "Irene, I've asked you to return to your room. Disobeying me is not the way to endear yourself to me or our clientele." Adalene laid down the law pretty firmly, though somehow, Molly was not surprised at the escort's response.

Irene seemed to barely reign in a smile before glancing at Mr. Holmes. "Perhaps you are correct about the former, Mistress, but I beg to differ on the latter."

"Enough. This is my house and you are a guest, Irene. Head back to the red room while I sort things with Mr. Holloway." The older woman looked at Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes, please make yourself useful and keep Mrs. Wright company for the time being in-"

"The hall is fine. Thank you, Madam Perrier." Molly interjected.

"Very well, Mrs. Wright. It shouldn't take more than a few moments."

It was bad enough that Sherlock would be keeping her company in basically her secret hideaway-Molly had no desire for Sherlock to deduce why there was spirit gum in the violet room, or see a bit of a hair sticking out of her briefcase on the bed, or for that matter, somehow recognize the briefcase. It was nondescript, but this was the great detective himself. Molly was sure he'd figure out from the tanned leather or specific scratch marks that this was indeed the same briefcase that Dr. Michael Hooper .

Surprisingly, like a gentleman, Sherlock offered his arm to lead her towards the end of the hallway, and Molly took it, her hand resting lightly on his forearm.

On the staircase, Irene had paused, but instead of gazing at Sherlock, Molly found the woman staring straight at her. The dark haired woman wiggled her fingers in farewell at Molly before heading up to presumably the red room to finally obey Adalene's orders.

As she was led away, she could hear Mr. Holloway protesting. "I didn't do nothing wrong."

"I'm sure you don't think so, Mr. Holloway, but if you ever hit another patron, I can't be guaranteed you might not do the same to one of my girls. If you come in this drunk again, I will remove you from the premises by force if necessary."

Molly never heard Mr. Holloway's answer, but she assumed it was going to be one of regret and protest. Instead, Molly could feel Sherlock staring at her with an inspecting look. It was no short glance either, and she knew he was taking her in piece by piece. She had no desire to be found out-she had to do something.

"Do you make it a habit of hitting people you don't like?" Molly blurted out, returning to her anger for protection.

She looked up to see if she'd knocked him off his mark. He spoke: "I make it a habit of defending myself when the time calls for it." Molly had surprised him, but it wouldn't be enough to keep him distracted for long.

"He was drunk out of his mind. I think one finger tap would have been enough to defend yourself. Or perhaps a well timed dodge?"

"Who is to say that I did hit him?" He quizzed almost absently, "Perhaps he fell into the table himself."

"Did the table also give him the shiner that's developing on his left eye?"

"He's an idiot," Sherlock deflected, "It doesn't matter whether I hit him or not, as he would have found himself flat on his face regardless. What I'm more interested with is why you intervened at all.

"Your hand is rougher than a well to-do woman," Molly dropped her hand from his arm immediately as Sherlock started his deductions, "but your clothes are far too fine to be just anyone. Drab colors indicate someone in service to a wealthy patron. You have at least some indication of medical training, but you don't seem to have the air of a nurse. In fact, I'd say you had the bearing of a-"

"I'm a servant for the Robinson family," Molly interposed, "My lady and her husband are proficient in the medical field." The lie came swiftly, based on his deductions and the truth of her situation to an extent. "I owe Ms. Perrier a debt, so I do inspections on the women twice a week with the knowledge I've learned."

Whether Sherlock bought the lie Molly didn't know. Gratefully, at that moment the Madam came in like a storm brewing, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. "You're a regular, Mr. Holmes, and I know you recommended Ms. Adler, but she's been a pain in my derriere ever since she's been here. I have half a mind to kick you and her out of here. Holloway is an idiot, but you can't go about hitting every moron that walks in my door-I'd have no business left!"

"Adalene-" Sherlock was cut off.

"You don't own her here, Sherlock."

"No one could, even if they tried," the curly haired man murmured, interrupting Adalene who continued to boil at him.

"You can't just impose on her every time you're here and some twit has been won in by her pretty blue eyes. You have to wait your turn. Il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermée!"

Molly was surprised that Adalene was even having this conversation in front of her, but it seemed Sherlock's attention was promptly drawn away by the French woman's conversation. She was relieved not to be the center of his strong gaze.

"It had nothing to do with him. I needed to speak with Irene."

"Then you wait your turn until she is off her shift! Sherlock, tell me you understand this, and don't use one of those smart remarks on me, or ignore when I'm talking to you."

"Smart remark? I haven't the faintest idea of what you mean."

There was a strange warmth in his voice which Molly had not heard before. Sherlock's voice was always clipped, no-nonsense and speckled with quick quips whenever he visited the morgue. She supposed that even he must have a softer side though she'd never heard it from a single one of her work acquaintances.

Sherlock's circle of society by default meshed with her own as the Holmes family was well off in London. She had married into wealth herself but had her own money from her parents who had died when she was young. She rarely attended social events as a young lady should of her stature, but then again, she was a widow and often times that could be enough to exempt someone from such monotonous and repetitive events. Her understanding from the small amount of gossip that she could not remove herself from on the remote times in which her presence was necessary to save face, was that the Holmes family was well to do and well connected but the younger brother was a disgrace, even without the comparison to his older brother who had a career with civil defense, intelligence the rumors had it. Still Sherlock was the talk of the ladies if only because his wild handsome face and dangerous, mysterious job was enough to attract any young woman's wild dreams.

Molly had patently ignored most of this talk as she did with most gossip, but it was impossible to delete such talks from surfacing in her brain when she met him face to face the armor of her alter ego stripped away. Thankfully it seemed he had no scrutiny for her.

Thankfully she seemed to be ignored for the time being and she found Abel now tugged at her sleeve. "Tha' Irene 'as been causin' the madam all sorts 'o trouble. But she sure is a pretty lady."

"Mmmm," was all Molly said in response, her gaze flicking up the stairs where other customers were finishing their business and saying a quick goodbye to their choice lady of the night. Molly had resigned to never marry again after having seen the folks that would skulk in and out of The Red Door.

"Not as pretty as you, ma'am," Abel said, mistaking Molly's sound for jealousy.

"Don't you try to charm me, Abel Weathersby, or I'll have the madam take your sweets away for 2 months," Molly retorted to him with no real malice.

"Please no, ma'am!"

"There's those manners I knew you had." Molly smiled having been so thoroughly distracted by her conversation and missing that she realized that Sherlock had indeed left. Abel seemed to take this moment to dash off as well, not wanting to face the wrath of anyone else, including Molly.

"Molly, I'm sorry we didn't get to speak tonight but as you can see, things are a bit hectic here. Why don't you head home and I will send a telegram to you tomorrow." The madam fluttered her fan briefly as a nervous habit and Molly wondered what might have set her off.

"All right. I'll call for my carriage then. Everything all right then?" Molly gave her a concerned look. "Everything sorted with that fellow?"

"Mr. Holmes?" The madam actually genuinely laughed despite her jitter, "I wish all our regulars were as kind, respectful and paid as well. Tonight was an outlier for sure. I'm fine dear, really. Go home and get some rest. We will take our inspections on Saturday."

"He's a regular? I've never seen him here before today," Molly confessed to the madam.

"He's not around as often as some. Normally he doesn't come in on Wednesday or Saturdays." Those were the 2 days that Molly usually frequented the brothel to check in with the ladies. Still, she wasn't sure what the odds were of running into him here. Unlucky, she guessed.

Molly nodded in response to Adalene's answer, although there was a certain pit in her stomach. "I'm off then-" Molly was about to leave when something occurred to her. "I left my briefcase in the violet room. I'll just pop back there real quickly."

Turning, Molly bounced back towards the back room, not bothering to knock before stepping inside. She realized her mistake when she found herself face to face with Mr. Holloway, and a slow smile came over his face. "Your new, ain't cha? Not my normal but seems yer busy."

The man must have been blitzed out of his mind to have forgotten her from only perhaps 20 minutes before, and Molly's alarm bells went off in her head. "What are you doing in here?" She asked, her gaze looking at the briefcase which was still on the bed with big, beefy Holloway in her path.

"Waitin' for you, 'pparently," the man said before going to reach for her.

Molly moved like water, a foot moving out to sweep beneath him, dodging the grab so her arm was behind him. The man now off balanced, it only took one more slight push of the hand to knock him down into the ground.

Holloway hit hard, and this time Molly didn't check him for injury. She grabbed her briefcase from the bed, side-stepping his groaning form on the floor, before turning and finding both Sherlock and the madam staring in the doorway.

"He fell," Molly said after a moment, clearing her throat, and in a very rude motion, squeezed in between the two people to get out.

"Mr. Holloway!" Madam Perrier's piecing voice echoed throughout La Porte Rouge. Molly had a feeling Mr. Holloway would not be welcome any longer at the brothel.

"Falling twice in one night," a bemused voice came from the person behind her.

"Bad luck," she responded not bothering to look back at 'd be caught up in a moment anyway if he wanted with his lanky frame and long legs. "I thought you went home already." Molly asserted as she braved a glance back at Sherlock. He'd already caught up.

"By the observation I am still here, and process of elimination, I would say that comment is a rather fatuous deduction," he responded irritatingly.

Not all of us can be Sherlock bloody Holmes, Molly thought infuriated with how this evening had ended. It was clear from her perspective that this was indeed all of Sherlock's fault.

"I would say 'good evening' to you, Mr. Holmes, but I honestly do not like you enough to wish you well. So instead, I'll just say, good bye." Molly turned, her face red with annoyance, and feeling angry. The more she examined her own feeling though, the more she realized that rather than being angry with Holmes, she was annoyed with herself.

Why that was the case, Molly was too tired to honestly wrestle with at the moment.

"The way you dealt with the blubbering idiot was impressive. Hypocritical but impressive nevertheless," Sherlock said to her, his gaze once more locked onto her. So he had seen exactly what she'd done.

She hated that the backhanded praise brought heat to her cheeks. She didn't want to be pleased, nor did she wish to encourage this behavior. This was exactly what she had wanted to avoid: Sherlock's scrutiny.

"I weight ⅔ your own weight, and probably only ½ of Mr. Holloway's. I was cornered and being threatened with possible rape," the word was harsh, hardly spoken in female company, but in a brothel, it was tossed around lately, "Was Mr. Holloway planning to take your innocence from you, Mr. Holmes?"

There was hardly a beat before Sherlock responded, "Innocence? I doubt that."

It was one of those moments when what was being said by Holmes didn't pass through a filter that normal people had. He had deduced obviously that Molly was no virgin, whether from incredible deduction or simply because Madam Perrier had labeled her Mrs. Wright earlier. Molly had been married, though it was to no man named Wright. The madam knew better than to use her last name here.

There was a slap that echoed nearly as loudly as Adalene's rebuff of Holloway earlier, and Sherlock's cheek was as red as a cherry. His hand went up as if in disbelief to touch at the sensitive skin, but his eyes belied a different emotion which Molly could not name.

Thankfully at that moment, Holloway was being chased out the door by Adalene carrying her red hot poker, and a shouting Abel for backup. The two separated immediately to allow for the drunk man to barrel by followed by an angry woman speaking rapid French.

Once the stampede was cleared, Sherlock and Molly's eyes met. Her gaze was searing with anger and only tempered by the frightening expression she saw in his own deep blue eyes: curiosity.

Taking her moment, she stepped out into the street, braving the cold night air, to take her only available escape from the detective.

A/N - "Il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermée." - A door must be open or closed. Basically, you can't have it both ways. The mistress is saying that Sherlock can't have Irene all to himself if he recommended her to work at a brothel.

I hoped you enjoyed this short little tidbit. I plan to do more, but as I mentioned I don't know when that will come! As always, I love reading your comments. I hope I haven't disappointed too much. See you soon. Less than 3.