"The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost
an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime."
– John Watson,
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (A Scandal in Bohemia)
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Ch. 2 Memorize and Analyze
The Theater was dark Mondays which allowed for everyone to go home and do some much-needed laundry or in Molly's case just sleep. Mycroft Holmes had the sense to realize they couldn't exhaust everyone to the point of hysteria unlike Sherlock who found that a day without work kept him bored. Molly supposed that's why Sundays, which were normally considered half-days for everyone, became a marathon affair when you worked with Sherlock Holmes. He was insatiable in his quest for excellence in his art and there were nights where she could not understand how John managed to keep up with the director for so long. It was noon and all Molly wanted to do was curl up back into bed and call it a day.
That's why she should have known better than to answer the phone. She only checked it briefly to note it wasn't Sherlock before answering, but there are worse things in life than trying to cater to her director.
"Ms. Hooper." Anthea's crisp, round tones made Molly clear her throat to try to get rid of her afternoon rasp. "So sorry to disturb you on a Monday, but Mr. Holmes needs to speak with you."
Mycroft. Molly winced at the thought of going to see her other boss.
"Is it urgent?" She hesitated using the word and scrunched up her nose knowing she sounded a little too needy in her desire to not meet with the man.
"I wouldn't have called if it wasn't," Anthea said. "A car is coming in a half an hour to get you. We'll see you soon."
Molly dropped her phone back on her nightstand before flopping onto the bed and running her hands over her face. She didn't mind Mycroft. He was more congenial about his approach than Sherlock ever could be, but that didn't stop Molly from thinking he was calculating her usefulness whenever they saw each other. She knew he outright scoffed at the notion of her being Sherlock's stage manager.
"I doubt you'll last a day, Ms. Hooper," he had said to her. "But you're welcome to try."
She knew he'd been surprised when she'd even made it past the first week.
Molly had only seen Mycroft face to face twice. Once when he'd interviewed her and another when he'd unexpectedly dropped into a rehearsal which had turned into an outright disaster the moment he had made his presence known.
Everyone was aware that working for the two Holmes men was like playing an elaborate game of chess where the two Kings fought for the dominance over the board with their various pawns (in this case their company members). For the most part there was peace between the two siblings as they revolved in two separate worlds. Sherlock focused on the actual theatre pieces while Mycroft worked more with the schmoozing of patrons and donors. It was rare for these two intellectual titans to cross into each other. When Mycroft dared to tread into Sherlock's 'play space' it was secure in the knowledge that his baby brother could complain all he wanted, but it would not change the fact that his brother was half owner. The two men had to begrudgingly admit that they needed each other for their certain brands of genius.
That night Mycroft had popped into rehearsal the brothers had traded barbs so detestable that it had derailed the run through for almost an hour while Sherlock fumed in a corner and John attempted to coax him back to work. Molly remembered how she'd thought about stuffing both of them into a nearby closet and telling them to work it out like gentleman instead of like five-year-olds. She'd never be so bold as to even suggest such a thing, but both John and Mary had nodded, laughed, and told her she wasn't the only one who thought that.
Therefore having only seen this man twice in her entire working career at the theater Molly felt only dread. It had been well-known that face to face meetings with Mycroft Holmes usually meant something much more grave was about to transpire.
What if he's going to cancel the production? Molly bolted up out of bed in panic. After all, they were still missing one of their key actors.
Sally Donovan hadn't responded to Mary Morstan's phone calls or emails. She was gone like a wisp of smoke into the air which was making the stage manager nervous. Molly had secretly hoped that Mycroft had gotten a hold of Sally and leaned on her heavily enough that the actress returned without the slightest hiccup. Molly was beginning to think that maybe they would have to cut the play entirely which did not bode well for her job let alone the state of the theater itself.
She didn't have much time left to ponder this fate as she noted with alarm she'd let fifteen minutes pass with her fretting. She whirled through her bedroom in a mad dash to make herself look presentable, forgoing her usual cherry cardigan and khakis for a blue dress and a pair of flats she'd only wear to interviews. She tugged her hair into a ponytail, hastened to put on a light bit of makeup before grabbing her trench coat and heading out the door. She'd just stepped onto the curb when the black BMW rolled to a stop in front of her. She reached for the handle of the car only to jump back when Sherlock exited the vehicle and held the door open for her.
"S-Sherlock, d-did Mycroft send for you?" She stammered as the shock of his presence slowly released its hold on her.
"Mycroft wanted to see us both. Get in, Molly." He ordered with all the gentleness of a lion.
Taking great pains not to touch him, she slid into the backseat and he slammed the door shut as he followed close behind. Sherlock did not talk during their drive which didn't make Molly any less worried about the state of things.
She fiddled with her hands as she wondered where she could start looking for work next. The other guest directors for the theater already had their own stage managers. Perhaps the Warton Children's Company would be willing to have her back. She wrinkled her nose in detestation. It would be a major step backwards in her career. Also, as much as she liked children the mass groupings of them at Warton's were unnerving and tiresome. She was a stage manager not a babysitter.
She glanced over at Sherlock. Well, they weren't as exhausting as trying to keep up with a singular man who seemed to have made it his mission to test Molly's patience at every turn. It was probably one of his experiments to see how long she could last. Forget the drama happening in the play, the moxie of one stage manager warranted scrupulous amounts of energy and speculation.
"Molly, you're thinking too loud," Sherlock said.
"Sorry…?" The apology came out as a question. She wasn't sure how her own thoughts could intrude upon the director's own contemplations.
"Stop worrying," he said. "You won't have to go back to Warton's."
"Oh." Molly felt an ease of pressure lift from her heart. He couldn't make that kind of a promise, but it was still nice to hear him say it. "It would be fine, Sherlock. I'd manage if something happened."
"It won't," Sherlock said with conviction as they came to a stop in front of the theater. Her hope in his words was unfounded, but as they were ushered into Mycroft's office by Anthea, Molly couldn't bring herself to doubt her director.
Mycroft stood upon their entrance and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk which Molly slid into with a slight squeak of the legs against the hardwood floor. She noted that Mycroft's face was in a somber cast and thought, with a tad of silliness, of telling him that it might stick that way permanently if he continued to look so grim. Neither of the Holmes men seemed capable of handling that brand of humor though so she wisely kept her mouth shut.
"Are the chairs not to your liking now?" Mycroft sat back down while Sherlock remained standing.
"I prefer to stand when bad news is about to be delivered," Sherlock said walking around the back of the empty chair and Molly's. She was acutely aware of his presence and found herself sitting up a little straighter when a feather light touch graced her shoulders as he crossed to Mycroft's expansive bookshelf to fiddle with the manuscripts and memorabilia from past shows. Mycroft attempted to bore a hole into the back of Sherlock's head with his glacial stare before he turned to Molly.
"Ms. Hooper, I've tried to understand why you've remained here as long as you have," Mycroft said taking up his tea cup into his hands. "Not that we aren't grateful, but your presence displaces all known reason."
"This is a good opportunity," Molly said. Was this really what their conversation would be about? Why she had outlasted her predecessors?
"Not that good," Mycroft said sighing as he set his teacup back down. "My hope was that you'd have a calming influence on Sherlock." The man in question snorted at the idea. "It seems he is beyond influence these days even from his own stage manager and technical director."
"I …well…S-Sherlock…" Molly stuttered to try to come up with an answer to such a statement and finally just clamped her mouth shut, startled over the idea that Mycroft could think she would have any kind of sway over Sherlock. Most days the man walked all over her.
"I would suggest you stop if your only desire for this meeting was to accost Molly for her less than admirable performance in 'calming' me," Sherlock said causing the hair on the back of Molly's neck to rise. He clasped his hands behind his back and glared at his brother. "She is my stage manager not my watcher. To even suggest such a thing is to diminish her intelligence and skill set."
Molly swallowed a lump in her throat as Sherlock and Mycroft glared at one another from across the office desk while she tried to process Sherlock's comment.
"I was wrong," Mycroft said as his gaze shifted to Molly. "You've had an influence on him after all." Molly was still at a loss for words and just stared back at him as she flexed her fingers before folding them in her lap. "Our meeting is to discuss how Sherlock's latest outburst has cost us two actors."
"Two?" Molly's voice squeaked as she felt her panic from the previous rehearsal resurge.
"Obviously Donovan and Anderson," Sherlock said in a bored tone. "I knew their dating one another would be a problem."
"But they're two of the main characters," Molly said not understanding why clearly no one else was panicking more at this issue. "Don't they have contracts in order for them not to do this?"
"They broke them," Mycroft said with a sneer. "Something for which I'll make sure they pay for later. For now our main concern is an immediate recasting."
"But Morstan hasn't gotten anyone," Sherlock said referring to the theater manager.
"Your unbridled temper has tapped out our resources, Sherlock." Mycroft's jaw set into a firm, angry line. "Moriarty is killing us."
"Yet here we are," Sherlock said gesturing to the air around them. "Does your assistant know she's been chosen to fulfill the role of Nina?"
"She was briefed," Mycroft said and Molly looked back the doorway expecting the young woman to march back into the room to change her mind.
"Who will play Constantine?" Molly whispered and the two men looked at her as though they finally remembered she was sitting there.
"I will," Sherlock said with a shrug.
"But you can't!" Molly said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as she flushed and shook her head. "I m-mean y-you're directing. H-how will you have the time?"
"My memory is far better than you give me credit for, Molly," Sherlock said drawing out her name in a way that made her squirm. She almost wished he'd go back to calling her Ms. Hooper again. It seemed less potent to her nerves. "I have the time."
"You better," Mycroft said. "If this production sinks then we will be ruined." Sherlock just smirked and walked back to the door.
"Come on, Molly, we have work to do!"
Molly jumped up from her seat, stuttered some sort of hurried goodbye to Mycroft, and dashed after Sherlock who was already making his way out the main lobby and into the theater house.
"Sherlock, wait—" Molly pulled back on his coast as they entered the theater and he whirled to face her. "What are we doing?"
"Working on my lines," he said. "I need your assistance to play the other characters."
"But couldn't you just use—"
"John is on a date with Ms. Morstan, Mrs. Hudson is at tea with a friend, and Mycroft has Anthea tied up the rest of the day." Sherlock's rapid fire explanation made Molly's head spin and she had to take a moment to process it all before he shoved a script into her hands and pushed her up the side stairs and onto the stage. "There's only you, Molly. I need you." He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.
"Sherlock." She let out a heavy sigh. "I'm exhausted and I have so much to do today—"
"I haven't seen you wear this dress before, Molly." Sherlock interrupted the stage manager as his eyes roved over her . She felt her neck and cheeks burn with the attention. "Blue suits you."
Molly's heart rate speed up a bit as he smiled—just a small one. Those tiny ones he used to make her stay for just one more hour to go over notes or the bring him coffee (okay, she did that now of her own accord. She really needed to stop learning his preferences), or when he reminded her how vital it was for him to wake her in the middle of the night to explain a new blocking technique. That damn, smug smile was all she could think about. It was pathetic to care this much for this man who was such an infuriating genius. But she did and he needed her.
"Alright, Sherlock," she said. "But only for a couple of hours. I have things to do."
A couple of hours turned into four then to six and if it hadn't been for the whale of a growl Molly's stomach had made she was sure that Sherlock would have kept her there all night. He'd been manic in his insistence to learn and assimilate the character. Molly admitted to herself that it had been a treat to watch him work as an actor. He was different from Anderson; in fact, Molly would say he was better except for when Constantine would have to express his love for Nina. He was quite rubbish with that though she wasn't about to tell him otherwise.
"You're of no use to me when you're starving. You can't focus," Sherlock said when her stomach let out another almighty growl.
"Most people can't, Sherlock." Molly huffed as she grabbed her bag. She never could understand how her director managed to suffer two to three days at a time without needing food. John had warned her ahead of time that he did when he felt he had to really focus. Molly just found it ridiculous and unhealthy.
"I'll buy you some crisps and we can continue straight away—"
"No, Sherlock!" Molly stopped him before he rushed to the vending machines. "P-Please…I have to go home. I need to feed—"
"You left Toby enough food and water that he can survive without you."
"How'd you know—" Molly shook her head as she stopped herself. "Never mind, but no crisps, please. You need to process what you've just memorized and I have to eat an actual meal."
Sherlock eyed her in the way he stopped to make an assessment. Instead of launching into a brash new round of intense scrutiny, which Molly had been breathlessly expecting, he just cleared his throat and nodded in agreement.
"You'll like Angelo's," he said shrugging on his Belstaff coat. "If we move quickly we can beat the crowd." Molly stared at his retreating back. Had Sherlock Holmes just asked her to dinner?
"Unless you'd prefer to eat alone." He called out to her from the entryway to the theater.
"N-No!" She shook her head and followed after him biting her lip, fairly certain that all her professional decorum had flittered off for the evening as they got into a taxi together.
Why couldn't she have had a director who didn't tie her stomach into knots? She's been around gorgeous looking men before, actors and technicians alike, but Sherlock was the only one to ever rattle her in a way she deemed unhealthy. It should have been easier to just ignore him. He was a prat on his best days and a child on his worst. He was insufferable to the point of making Molly want to break things (sometimes his face if she was in a particularly dark mood). The only conclusion she could make over her behavior was that, like John, she'd seen something different in the director.
The way he became passionate about the text he was working with, how his frenzied perfectionism was driving for better performances from actors, and that even though he was almost gleeful in the rivalry between him and Moriarty that his compulsive fiddling with objects notated a sense of annoyance perhaps even panic over the situation. He cared about the state of things in his theater and was deeper than the "self-righteous prick" title which many referred to him as. Sherlock was just much more than what he presented himself as and she had a feeling that taking on the role of Constantine was a bigger challenge than he was letting on.
Angelo's was a nicest restaurant Molly had been to in a long time. Their hostess was quick to seat them away from the crowds near a window and told Sherlock that she would be sure to let Angelo know he was here before she disappeared, leaving the pair alone. Molly gleaned over the menu while Sherlock had taken one look at it and proceeded to drop the item back to the table.
"You should eat, Sherlock," Molly said worrying that he would go on another intense two-day session as he sorted out how to drive his performance.
"Molly, you're not my watcher," He said reminding her of the earlier conversation with Mycroft.
"I know…" Molly said raising the menu to hide her face some more as she whispered to herself. "I just worry about you sometimes."
If he heard the comment, Sherlock didn't acknowledge it and he didn't have much time to as a portly, grey bearded man came up to the table and clapped the director on the back.
"Oh, Sherlock, it's so good to see you!" He eyed Molly with confusion while she smiled unsure of herself. "Where is John? I thought he was your boyfriend."
"Not here tonight," Sherlock said. Angelo looked momentarily confused before shrugging it off.
"Well, you're prettier than John at any rate," Angelo said to Molly. "I'm sure you'll have your hands full dating this man though."
"Oh I'm not….we're not…" She fumbled over her words and looked to Sherlock to get him to correct the situation, but he was absorbed in something on his phone and was not negating the owner's amorous notions.
Molly couldn't place her order soon enough to get Angelo to stop insinuating how she and Sherlock were such a lovely couple. She didn't think she could handle that attention much longer especially not when he walked away and winked at her. Determined to not dwell on the subject further she scrambled to think of anything to distract her from the excruciating truth that this was not a date. She immediately clung to her previous concerns about Sherlock's acting abilities.
"Have you ever acted before, Sherlock?"
"When I was very young I played a pirate," he said.
"That was your first role?" At his nod of ascent Molly imagined a curly-haired, precocious Sherlock running around chasing after Mycroft with a wooden sword. It was almost too adorable to fit in with the man she knew today. "What else have you done?"
"Nothing of note," Sherlock said. "I worked with directors who were inane in their methods and decided my mind was better served there even if my education was brief."
"Did you not finish your degree?" It shouldn't have come as much of a shock to Molly as it did. He didn't get along with anyone in a higher authority seat. She doubted that his professors would have been very fond of a man who could deduce their whole life story just by what they were wearing that day.
"University was boring. Experience was easier to obtain since my family owned a theater and passed half of it to me. I knew what I was doing."
"That's impressive, Sherlock," Molly said in awe.
"Some would say otherwise," he said in a clipped tone. There was a general hum of a phone vibrating and Sherlock pulled his out to stare at a message.
Molly scratched the back of her head as he started texting on his phone, his brows knitted into concentration, while they remained in silence. What was she suppose to say? She'd never really spoken with the man on a social level and this was an uncomfortably intimate setting.
Molly, this is stupid. You can spend time with someone who you work with one on one. He's a man not a tiger, She thought with irritation.
"Why did you choose to do Chekhov's The Seagull?" Molly sipped on her glass of water—no wine, she didn't want to feel that loose around Sherlock as that would only entail being exceedingly honest to the point of embarrassment.
"To make a point." He was still texting at an almost rapid fire rate as though he were in an argument. Molly noted that he didn't seem very pleased.
"What point is that?" She pressed on hoping to engage in more conversation that just simple answers. He sighed in annoyance as his hands hovered over the keys on his phone for a brief second before putting it away. Sitting up straighter in his chair he placed his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together as he looked at her.
"You're not idiotic, Molly," he said. "Surely you can see the answer."
"I don't—"
"Think." Sherlock ordered as he leaned his mouth against his hands. Molly looked down at the tablecloth as she tried to look at the play through her director's eyes. Her answer was taking longer than expected and as his phone vibrated again his angry text message argument continued.
She blocked out the incessant tapping of his fingers to find her answer. Sherlock was methodical. He didn't choose to do something without purpose and forethought behind it. There was a message he liked in the play and it rattled Molly to her core when it revealed itself.
"You like it because everyone is miserable while in love," she said wincing.
"Good," Sherlock said almost sounding pleased, his phone forgotten for the time being. "Sentiment destroys and consumes the main characters. Love and its other atrocities make people vulnerable and weak. Something you should keep in mind when that technician Walter decides to ask you out."
"Walter and I…we're not….he wouldn't—" She shook her head vigorously against the idea. They were just friends.
"He will and you'll want to say yes," Sherlock said glaring out the window seeming disgusted by the idea. "Don't. He's beneath you."
"Why's that?" Sherlock didn't respond as he continued on with his conversation via text. Molly shifted in her seat as she tried to keep herself from blurting out the next question, but her curiosity was voracious.
"Do you really feel that way about love?"
"I didn't choose the play because I'm overly fond of Russian dramas," Sherlock said. "As far as I can tell sentimental attachment only leads to feeling out of control and confused."
"Dorn, who has led a full life with love, is happy and Masha is in a terrible marriage because she is not in love with her husband. How are these not good examples that you need love in your life?" Logically, Molly didn't understand her need to know why Sherlock felt this way. It fit with him as a person. It seemed that the director felt the same as he dropped his phone to the table and stared at her as though she had grown another head.
"My character commits suicide out of misery. How is that not proof that you shouldn't need love?"
That was true. Part of what drove Constantine to commit suicide was the rejection of his love by Nina. How could this not be a sign that people needed to have a better lock on their own emotions?
"If Constantine had seen what Masha was offering to him, an open heart, then maybe he wouldn't have been so miserable." Molly didn't want him to dismiss the potential happiness that Chekhov hinted at for his characters if they only opened their eyes to the possibilities. "Maybe she could have made him happy."
It was a weak argument filled with the sweeter misgivings of a girl rather than a woman with experience. Sherlock didn't respond immediately to her answer and once again appraised Molly through narrowed slits. She didn't flinch or look away. She stared right back at him knowing he could easily read her without much effort. Molly Hooper could hide all she wanted, but Sherlock Holmes would always find her.
"She should have known better than to place her affections with someone that…unstable," He said. Were they even talking about the play anymore? Molly noted the edge in his voice might have hinted otherwise.
"People can't help who they love, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean that kind of affection doesn't have merit," she said feeling the dull ache of sadness creep into her heart.
"I don't see why you invest so much in sentiment," Sherlock said. "You and John have this delusion that it's helpful." Molly felt like she was talking in circles. She knew her argument was a lost cause for both the play and love in general.
"Maybe one day you'll see things differently," she said feeling the regret of having even opened this line of conversation. There was blatantly no hope when it came to loving this man and he was telling her directly to her face. Too bad her heart wasn't more sensible. Maybe then it wouldn't have already given away a piece of it to Sherlock Holmes which was now lost forever.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to continue this story! : ) I'm planning on making this a shorter work- maybe five to six chapters. But I think there will be enough packed in each chapter to make it a well rounded piece. Special thanks to the ladiesofsherlock on tumblr for inciting such an interesting prompt.
Ray: Thanks for reviewing! : ) It was appreciated.
Nan: Guess what? There's more!