The taxi carrying Sherlock and Molly came to a stop in front of an anonymous row of terraced houses in Chelsea. They hopped out and Molly shuffled her feet, uncertain of how to hold herself when faced with a sort-of client who was attacked the night before and was also a renowned opera diva. That wasn't a situation she encountered very often in the St. Bart's morgue.
I'm working on a real case, she thought. Though so far it's just taxis and Sherlock not talking to me. Why am I surprised, that's what he's like on all cases, did I think it would be different if I were working with him…but his intensity and ignoring is pretty sexy. I really am a masochist.
She straightened her shoulders, smoothed her button-up blouse and pink cardigan down, tucked her white gold necklace with the padlock charm into her top, and followed Sherlock up to the door. He rang the bell by the rusting black numbers '442.' The door was opened by another well-built young man in a grey suit that bore a vague resemblance to the suite guard at the Dorchester. Molly wondered if all of Mycroft's people were chosen for their uniformity, or if they became uniform after working for him for a while.
"Hullo!" Molly chirped.
The guard looked at her without altering his expression. Opening the door wider, he gestured for them to enter.
"A safe house," Sherlock stated. "Still under his control, naturally. "
They were led into a plainly decorated sitting area, with one comfortable plush chair already occupied by a female, reading under a lamp. As they were escorted into the dim room, she looked up and smiled with both genuine warmth and confusion at the detective.
"My god, Sherlock, isn't it? It's been…what, twenty years? But I would never forget those eyes. And you look like Mycroft still."
Sherlock grimaced.
"Hello, Dorothy. Come to have a chat about your visitor last night. Nice job, by the way. Right through the heart."
She laughed softly as she moved forward with practiced grace. "A friend taught me how to shoot years ago. Every time I go to the States, I go to a shooting range to brush up. There have been some frighteningly persistent fans over the years. Better to be safe and illegal than proper and dead, I say. Sometimes I pretend it's your brother's face on the target." She winked and reached out to clasp Sherlock's hand.
Molly observed a barely suppressed smile on his face, in the tension around his mouth and the crinkles around his icy grey-green eyes. Dora had a dark sense of humor like her and Sherlock, it seemed. She was beginning to like this woman.
Dora MacKenzie led them over to the sofa, and sat back down in her chair gingerly. Expecting a much fancier style, Molly was surprised by her close-cropped brunette hair, no more than three inches long all over her head. With her face bathed in light, Molly could see gentle lines around the other woman's mouth and eyes. She was in her midforties with large brown eyes that sparkled even in the dim room. Her nose was strong and sharp, and her jaw firm with a singer's muscles. Her wide mouth with soft, full lips was the only vulnerable-looking part of her. She wasn't beautiful, but hers was a face that would catch a stranger's attention; the charisma was undeniable. Even in loose trousers and a worn baggy jumper, she was striking.
Realizing she was staring, Molly stuck her hand out and blurted, "I'm Molly Hooper! Lovely to meet you, Dorothy. Very nice."
She accepted Molly's proffered handshake. "Call me Dora, actually. Stopped going by the other at university, but Mycroft insists on using it. He's a pain in the arse. Where is he anyway? I thought he'd be down today. I don't fancy spending another day alone in this old place with his pet zombies. I've got a fundraiser to go to tomorrow. Will this all be settled by then?"
She extracted a Silk Cut from a pack, and asked, "Mind if I smoke?"
Sherlock leaned forward avidly, eyes lit up. "Not at all. I should mention Molly is a pathologist at St. Bart's, and performed the post-mortem on the fellow you took care of."
"A post-mortem? Is that necessary? I thought the problem was going…to go away." Dora lit her cigarette, and inhaled. Her exhaled smoke curled across the coffee table toward Molly and Sherlock. He sniffed and smiled blissfully.
"It will. The body's being removed from the morgue and in Mycroft's words, this 'will never have happened.' It would be good to determine why the attack happened or it could happen again. My brother is too lazy to help you, so here I am."
The singer raised an arched eyebrow. "He's not going to come, is he. The coward." She looked down at her cigarette. "Well then. Do you know I almost went to medical school instead of the conservatory?"
"Really! That's quite a difference in paths. Sherlock said you read mathematics at uni." Molly fiddled with her sleeves as she spoke. Sherlock looked bored. "What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Not such a difference really. Music, math and medicine; the three M's go together, my father used to say. He worked in a hospital."
"He was a doctor?"
Dora shook her head and grinned. "An orderly."
"Well this is fascinating," Sherlock broke in, using a tone that suggested the opposite. "But I'm wondering why you wear synthetic hair wigs, and more to the point, why you wear man-made diamonds? A woman like yourself, the circles you travel in, jewelry is a status symbol. The pricier, the better, yes? Have your adoring followers fallen on hard times?"
Dora's face betrayed true surprise. "How do you know that? Are there photos in the paper from yesterday's party? The HPHT diamonds created in the lab are virtually indistinguishable from true diamonds that take a billion years to form. And no child slaves were needed to make my jewelry."
"I couldn't work out why you would be so careless with diamonds and treat them as though they had little value. It's because they have little value." Sherlock looked smug and smiled at Molly, waiting for her usual appreciation of his brilliance. She was more enthusiastic than John was, and her enthusiasm was more…enjoyable. She beamed up at him, and touched his wrist resting besides hers on the sofa.
"The synthetic diamonds can still be quite expensive, but they're easily replaced. I don't care about jewels, to be honest, but I've accepted an offer to endorse a line of HPHT diamonds commercially. The mass production of them will enable the company to sell them at prices much lower than 'real' gems, and they're more attractive than cubic zirconia." Dora added, "It's public knowledge; my accepting the offer was in the news and I've begun wearing the cultivated diamonds to events."
"So Mycroft knew this, and he also knew that the jewelry you were wearing wasn't that valuable. Which a half-decent thief should have known too. That's why he thought this case bore a closer look. Hmmm." Sherlock tapped his fingers against his knee in thought.
Molly cleared her throat and tentatively asked, "Is there anything that occurred last night during the attack, did he say or do anything other than come at you?"
Dora's forehead wrinkled in thought.
"I was taking out my hairpins; I like to have the pins out before I take off the wig because they get tangled up if I do it afterward," she explained. "I took off my necklace and earrings and then I saw the curtain move. Told myself that it was just a breeze but I knew it wasn't. I went to the bed and reached for the gun inside my purse. Not my evening clutch, but the bag I use every day. That one," she said, pointed at an oversized brown bag on the floor that was rather ugly but serviceable-looking. "I hadn't brought it with me to the opera of course, but I bring it when I'm driving long distances. I visited my mum in Manchester before the run of Lucia began."
She lit another cigarette, and continued speaking. Sherlock leaned forward further and narrowed his eyes at the smoke. It was same expression Molly saw in his brilliant almond-shaped eyes when he had her bound to his bed and worked into a frenzy: barely controlled lust. Molly slipped her fingers into Sherlock's palm and he squeezed his hand around hers.
Their actions, however subtle, didn't escape Dora's sharp eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray, and laughed softly.
"They're not easy, are they?"
"Sorry?" Molly was puzzled.
"Holmes men. They're not easy, but they're never dull, and that is a rare and gorgeous quality in this world, Molly." Though she spoke playfully, there was sadness in Dora's eyes.
Molly didn't know what to say. If this were a friend, she'd ask the questions in her mind about Dora and Mycroft and offer a friendly ear, but the singer was a virtual stranger.
Missing the undertone in Dora's comments, Sherlock pressed forward with the investigation.
"Will you be expected to wear these cultivated diamonds at this fundraiser tomorrow night? Who gifted you the jewelry, the company you're working for? Clearly you would not have purchased it for yourself."
"Yes, they were a gift actually, but not from the company. From the board of directors of the Royal Opera. They've been quite supportive of the movement to get away from using natural diamonds from mines. And yes, I'll be wearing my jewels. It's a formal ball. Haven't been to one in years, I'm actually quite looking forward to it. I'm not much for dancing anymore, but I can't resist a great dress."
She winked at Molly this time, who nodded with understanding. A proper ball was like something from a Disney cartoon. She wasn't a fashion-following sort of woman, but who didn't dream of descending a staircase in a princess ball gown?
"I'll wear one of my wigs that you speak so poorly of, Sherlock," Dora said mockingly. "Shall I be blonde or brunette tomorrow? Red will not do at all with my gown."
She sat up straighter in her chair and looked straight into Sherlock's eyes.
"If you are everything your brother had said you are over the years, then you ought to be able to deduce why I wear the wigs I do."
"Real hair for wigs very often comes from women who are exploited. If you have strong opinions about the diamond mines, it reasons that you would feel the same about hair. Also, synthetic hair wigs are much easier to care for and don't require styling in the same way as true hair. Which is ideal when someone is recovering from cancer and the effects of chemotherapy. By the by, does your oncologist know you've started smoking again? I'd say not."
She tensed. "How did you know? It was public knowledge that I was ill, but I had no desire to share the details with the press."
"Deduction."
"Obviously. " Recovered from the blunt reminder of her illness, Dora regained her spirit. "How? I used to love it when Mycroft would explain his little tricks to me."
"Tricks?" Sherlock sneered. But he couldn't resist the chance to show off. "Judging by your hair length, I'd estimate you ceased treatment less than four months ago. The short haircut could suggest a lack of vanity, but you've clearly dyed it- some silver is beginning to show at the roots and the shade of chestnut you chose doesn't quite match the darker roots. Your clothing is too big- you've lost weight lately but you're very comfortable in them, so I don't think you borrowed the ensemble. People don't sit that comfortably in other people's clothes, they just don't. And you 'don't do much dancing anymore.' You're not old enough to be getting frail. You've been ill."
Molly bit her lip. It felt quite rude to be turned on Sherlock's intelligence when he was discussing someone's illness, but his dark feline purr explaining a brutal analysis never failed to make her squirm. And he knew it too. As he spoke, still holding her hand, one fingertip traced light circles on her palm. It might come across as absent-minded to someone else, but it was very deliberate. The bastard.
"Impressive, Sherlock, very impressive. You're almost as clever as your brother. I used to wonder if you'd surpass him someday. I told him as much on the holiday I spent with your family, and he was so angry with me, he slept on the floor. Well, for a few hours anyway." She shrugged and one corner of her mouth quirked upward.
"Will the board of directors be attending the ball tomorrow?"
"Of course, it's a fundraiser for the opera. They'd never miss an opportunity to woo the wealthy."
"Then we'll be there too. Can you get us invitations or shall we contact Mycroft to handle that?"
"You'll come as my guests. Please. I'm the bloody star, I can bring who I like. OH!" Dora gasped.
Sherlock and Molly looked around for a source of alarm.
"I completely forgot until now, I can't believe it. He said something!"
"Who said something?" Molly queried.
"The man in the suite, the dead man. When he was lying on the ground, bleeding. He- he called me Josephine. I thought he must be delirious at the time. Is there any chance he was just a madman, some sort of deranged fan after all?"
"I doubt it. Josephine, Josephine…" Sherlock pulled out his smartphone and was looking something up on the internet, Molly could see.
"Is this list of the board of the Royal Opera accurate and up to date?" He flipped the phone around for Dora's perusal.
"Yes, it is. You think one of them has something to do with this?"
"Yes. And tomorrow night, I'll tell you which one tried to retrieve the necklace. Bit of research to do, first. Mycroft will have to provide Molly something to wear tomorrow, I doubt she has a ball gown in her closet."
"A ball gown for me…I'm going with you?"
"Of course. I could bring John, but people would talk even more than they already do."
~.~.~.~.~.~
Sorry I had to run back to Bart's. Let me know about the ball.
Molly
Come here now.
SH
Alright but I have to stop by mine and feed Toby first.
Molly
Fine. Hurry.
SH
Yes sir. :)
Molly
~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Sherlock opened the door to 221B, ushered Molly through the common area and straight back to his bedroom while stripping her cardigan off her. She never even saw John on the sofa shrug to himself, grin and turn up the volume on the telly.
Molly found herself flat on her back on Sherlock's firm bed two seconds after entering the room. Sherlock pulled her shoes, socks, trousers and knickers off with impressive speed, stripped himself naked and crawled on top of her.
Grasping the central edges of her buttoned blouse, Sherlock demanded, "You don't care for this blouse at all, do you."
"No, no, not at all," Molly gasped out. "Please."
With that, he yanked the blouse apart, tearing off the first three buttons. Another pull and the other three buttons flew off, and the shirt parted. Her breasts had already spilled out the top of the demicup bra when she'd toppled onto the bed ungracefully. Her padlock charm necklace touched the top of her modest cleavage.
Sherlock grabbed her wrists and pinned them just over Molly's head while his mouth bent to bring her nipples to life with teeth and tongue.
"Sherlock." Molly managed to groan out. "It's…the case is still…you're working…why? I mean don't stop, please don't stop. But why…"
He lifted his head from her breasts, his dark curls tickling the sensitive skin over her collarbone. Moving up her body while keeping her wrists snug to the bed, he leaned back in and took her mouth. Molly felt the long day of autopsies and strange dynamics melt away, and she was free in the moment.
He lifted his head again and gazed down at Molly, his strange light eyes meeting her warm chocolate ones.
"You were, today, you were good. You were very good. Rewards…I don't know, it doesn't matter." He seemed frustrated by his confused response.
Molly lifted her lips to his again, straining against his hands on her arms. She didn't want him to release her, oh no. Having a challenge to struggle with was incredibly exciting. If the day had reminded her of anything, it was that.
They didn't last long the first time that night. Once he had tied her wrists to the headboard, and finished melting her down to her absolute core with his mouth and hands, he took her in a very basic way that would've been rough if she wasn't so wet and ready for it by then. As he came with a grimace and a sigh of relief inside her, Molly wondered if she would ever understand this man, her dom and her lover. She wondered what would be more exciting, understanding the secrets of his mind, or having the mystery remain.
~.~.~.~.~
Next up: The Ball
