A/N: Alas there was some wait, due to some problems. Blame time-zones. I'd like to thank my beta AussieMaelstrom and Ceaselesslyinlove for having a look as well. I hope this is ok.
Subtext: The implicit meaning or theme of a literary text.
Every step she took upon the blue carpet spread dust underneath her slippers. Giving no thought to it, she hurried forward down the dark hallway, feeling as if eyes were upon her.
She held the lantern in her hands firmly, swallowing at the darkness before her, allowing her light to shine upon the shadows.
Little was to be seen, though she knew there was a door.
She was seeking it out, having slipped so quietly out of her room from sheer daring, and want. It always seemed to take forever before she found the door. Only her movements echoed in her bleak surroundings.
She wished she could turn around.
She never did do so, finding the door in front of her – the instant she thought of fleeing.
There it was, half-open, a slight outpour of light coming from the inside. Pushing the door open with a pale hand, the door creaked soundly at her entry, "What are you doing here?" a voice said.
She could not see the speaker, though she knew very well from the heavy warm hands on her waist that he was there.
His breath danced on her neck, "What are you doing in my room?" he breathed into her ear, and she felt her eyes shut.
He would bring her to his bed after that, his face innocent, and hers all confusion, while he whispered words that made her pale face flush.
She woke up in the end, when the cold nipped at her form. A tiny disgruntled moan escaped her pale lips, while she tried to ignore the prominent ache in her body.
Molly turned to her side, willing sleep to return, so she could ignore what she ached for. She wanted sleep, nothing more, but by the way her fingernails dug into the mattress, she knew otherwise. The duvet was a crumpled mess by her feet, and she did not feel like correcting it either.
Everything felt heavy, for there was no point, none whatsoever.
No more sleep would be granted to her.
All of her dreams had taken a cruel turn, wandering into a realm of possibility she knew that in her conscious state she would avoid. The books were to be attributed for bringing her these nightly torments that gave no resolution.
Details never stayed, only vague sequences that fluttered in her mind at intervals. Neither did she dare remember them properly. Only one thought remained with her while she lay there, remembering him saying – (it was such a thing he would say) – "Why are you in my bed?" It was not him who spoke those words. He was only a figment of her imagination, a shadow of the man who stood in the classroom.
Molly gave up the business of sleeping then and there, sitting up in her bed, as she tried to drive the sleep out of her eyes. For many minutes she stayed, allowing her mind to wander freely, to go where it dared not trespass in the classroom. It was amidst these silly thoughts that turned her sweet expressions grim, that her eyes spared a glance at the clock.
The contraption was not on her nightstand, but upon the floor neglected. She grabbed for it, staring in horror, as she saw the time.
Of course, of course she would be late.
Warnings from her father the night before had been no use, "Remember, I'm leaving early in the morning, so I won't be able to wake you, right?" She'd nodded firmly at that, declaring that she would be on time.
Her wrinkled uniform and messy plait was the least of her worries, upon arriving forty minutes late to class. She did not look innocent whatsoever, quite the opposite, so it was an understatement to say Professor Florence looked angry at her entering. His narrowed eyes took in the state of her uniform, while her stomach churned loudly at the silence.
"Detention!" he spat out to the laughter of the class, not that she had expected any less.
The detention certainly worsened the quality of her day by making her terribly late for her grandmother. Of course she received a severe reprimand from the old lady regarding 'punctuality'.
She wasn't at all sympathetic to her plight, or explanations, only accusing her of being 'whimsical' and 'distracted'.
Molly found she could not argue against those points, for her mind never stayed put these days. When she read, she'd always drift off, but today's sermon kept her mind grounded for once. They were reading about - a young girl seduced by an older man - which made her acutely aware of her surroundings.
She practically squirmed in her seat, her foot jittery, as she tried to remain emotionless in her chair. It was a harder task than she supposed, for her mind drew parallels between her and a certain figure.
Neither did it help that her grandmother constantly tutted, coming with the odd cautionary remark digging unease into her stomach. Molly had to constantly remind herself that she had no reason to be anxious, for she was not being seduced.
There were no secret exchanges of letters, or meetings, or any of the kind. All of those similarities were only mere coincidences, and her mind was just drawing silly conclusions more than anything.
Yet, her mind had wandered to the fact that she hadn't had the chance to meet him on the tube for once. The lateness of the hour had done that, and so her idiotic dream had ruined more than she could imagine.
He mustn't have felt her absence whatsoever, and she certainly did not feel torn about his either.
But the more she thought about it, the more restless she grew.
It wasn't as if she wouldn't see him roaming the hallways of the school or in the classroom. He would always be there, though those circumstances were like anyone else's. They were fleeting and ordinary, but she did not need anything else.
She was after all just his pupil, another curious mind he shared books with, and nothing more. Anything else that her mind designed was pure imagination, and she would stop the thoughts at once.
Molly knew when she took the crowded train home, that deciding to stop thinking about something certainly did not diminish those thoughts, and she found herself feeling his absence keenly.
After all she had no reason to be soppy, for she could indeed ask for a new book in his class. She was not the only one on the receiving end of his books, but the more she mulled that particular moment in her head – she realised – he hadn't truly answered her question.
It was she who'd assumed he meant 'yes'.
He had only corrected her pronunciation of his name, questioning if he should stop with his underhanded business of lending books. Since, if she wasn't the only one, then none of it needed to be done so sneakily after all, but she could not compare a tube ride to a shady alley exactly.
She was being presumptuous. All of it resembled wishful thinking, and want of things she did not yet need to understand.
Her mind cleared a bit as the train jerked along. She was stood half-pressed against the wall, facing forward. Molly wished she'd been taller, so people couldn't easily shove her aside, but such wasn't the case. Around her tall figures stood bearing newspapers or briefcases, all of them ignoring her slight form to her blessing.
Often she would find herself leered at if she rode this late at night, so she kept her eyes down, and tried not to draw attention to herself. Luckily it took little effort for her, but she did struggle keeping herself on her feet.
With every sudden jolt or swing, her body would almost tumble on the surrounding passengers. She tried her best, though another unsuspecting bump came, and before she could brace herself upon the wall – a hand took hold of her shoulder, keeping her on her feet.
Molly was grateful, feeling only a bit unnerved by the unwanted contact, and intended to thank the stranger properly, hoping the hand would disappear with that.
When she was about to turn the train gave another jerk, causing people to cry out, and push them up against one another. Her small shape was soon pressed fully against the wall, her satchel digging into her stomach, as her helpful stranger was now pushed into her back.
She felt by the firmness of the figure behind her that it was a man, who immediately stiffened, his hand grasping her shoulder securely, "Miss Hooper," whispered a familiar voice.
The instant she heard the recognisable baritone voice she knew, and felt a redness creep upon her skin with such rapidity she knew not what to think or do.
It was Professor Holmes.
His voice sounded strained upon uttering her name, even apologetic, and she did not know what to say in return.
He attempted to relieve her shoulder from some pressure, though his hand was unmoving, but by the brief glance she threw backward she saw he could not move.
There were too many people, all of them forced to keep close to one another, ignorant of their predicament.
Molly only swallowed, trying to ignore the way his breath tickled her ear, or the strength that was apparent in his shape.
Images from her dream reappeared rather vividly to her embarrassment.
"I apologise," he said, his voice lower than usual.
She could only nod briefly at that.
His words were not a helpful addition, for his voice only made her recall her dream even more.
She tried to remain calm, despite the highly suggestive position they were forced into by rowdy travellers who were squabbling amongst themselves.
Molly felt herself argue against the intimacy of the moment, and for it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to think quickly, for her silence was certainly not adding to the situation.
He was not supposed to be there after all.
Neither was his firm chest supposed to be thrust against her back, his hand attempting to withdraw from her shoulder, "Ah," he said.
She realised he could not remove his hand from her shoulder, though he made no further comment, and she felt relief, besides internal distress.
Whatever his weekly activities were - they'd kept him late, and so had hers.
Her mind started to race as to why he'd sought her out this late, of how he'd manage to find her hidden away like this, and she'd barely had the chance to think when she felt the edge of an object appear behind her back.
The hand on her shoulder was lifted away, splayed out against the wall in front of her instead, his face lightly brushing hers at this alteration.
She jumped at the contact, however small it was was, but she did not get further away.
He wanted to speak, she could feel it, but instead she interrupted him, "It's…alright," she said with a dry throat.
Dream and reality were never supposed to blend, and her nosiness for the object behind her was diminished by the smell of him.
He was so unfamiliarly close, and she felt like she had broken ten school-rules by the proximity they shared.
Suddenly she felt movement around her, as people were starting to disperse at what seemed to have been the longest of journeys. She was taken aback when she felt long fingers drape over her hand.
Molly gasped over the softness of his fingertips, trying to understand, when he prized one of her hands off her satchel.
In her hand he placed a familiar object, though it took her seconds to understand what.
The second she knew, the train had started to empty, and the warmth she had found with him was gone.
In her hands was a book - Lady Chatterley's Lover.
An accident.
She repeated that to herself, trying to calm her nerves that were on a rise, when she finally got home that evening. Conversation she did not manage to keep up, no matter how much she tried, her appetite not improving either by the thought of him lingering around her.
She wasn't supposed to be foolish, not at all, and she kept reminding herself that there were others. They certainly had to receive the same books, but she did not know if they'd ever gotten to him so…close.
Upon finally submitting to her curiosity, despite foreknowledge about the subject matter – she opened up the pages of the book, intending to savour every line.
She wanted to slowly marvel over every word, to penetrate the minds of the characters properly, but amidst her reading – she found a piece of paper.
Molly believed, or wanted to at least believe it was purely some odd scrap of paper he'd forgotten from work, but upon the note it said -
221 B Baker Street, Saturday, 6 o´clock.
Words faded away before her, the lines blurring so often she did not find the task at hand easy, but she was now certain she would finish the book at a slow rate.
Her eyes kept drifting off to the mystifying note, with its address, and day marked down. She slammed the book in her hands shut, giving it up as a bad joke, as she tried to make sense of the note.
Firstly it needn't be addressed to her, neither could it at all suggest this coming Saturday, and it might be an old forgotten note.
The writing was almost unreadable, scribbled in such a hurry, the ink staining her fingertips as well. She could only conclude it had been written rather recent, despite her objections.
She still tried to reason with it; unable to believe it was addressed to her, as the idea was peculiar. He hadn't actually given her the address to his home? Perhaps it wasn't, and in its place she would find some eccentric museum?
Molly understood him to be precise, and he did not seem one to be negligent. He had given this to her knowingly, or else it would not be in the book.
This was no ordinary exchange, secretly done as well, but perhaps the address wasn't his, and she was reading far more into it.
The sheer idea that he'd give his address to her in this manner shocked her. It didn't necessarily mean anything, as it could just be innocent.
When she roughly opened the pages of the book again, trying to let her mind focus on the words – she came to the conclusion that none of it could be 'innocent'. The book itself gave proof of that, such tales one did not hand to a mere pupil without any intent.
She had heard stories, of course.
Rumours that were whispered about professors and students involved in torrid relationships. Those relationships were always found out, and broken off with dire consequences.
Association with a professor, in an indecent manner wasn't exactly something anyone would accept, as she could only imagine her granny's watchful eyes turn to her in outright disgust.
And Professor Holmes!
Him of all people!
He who seemed to be so…
No, if she were outright honest he seemed rather…well…several of her female classmates had many words about the man.
Words that she wouldn't have considered at all, hadn't it been for the wicked dreams that kept bothering her, and tearing upon her nerves maddeningly. Now she didn't only have a dream to draw from either. For the way his body stayed so close to her in the train – with his breath upon her skin – made her flush there she lay.
He was her professor!
Of course it was innocent!
She was mad to think anything else, or imply any sort of seduction.
Her hands lingered on the pages of the book. Well-known for its sensational imagery…
Here his why was now evident, especially when his note was slipped into her textbook.
There could be no mistake.
Yet…her?
She was ordinary, unremarkable in every way.
She was not a damsel in a book. She had no cutting remarks to throw back, and she could not understand why he'd pick her.
Perhaps it was that fact entirely – no one would ever assume – her.
No one would ever consider her being embroidered into something so, unexpected. She who did all her assignments on time, who worked diligently to receive high marks in every class, who kept quiet…
This was his attraction, if there were any, and she felt interest fly from her, as it was replaced with anger and disbelief.
Molly Hooper had no intention of being persuaded by pretty books and a clever man. He was her professor – however close he was to her age – it was immoral – but she knew he wouldn't.
He couldn't…
Professor Holmes did not strike her as that man.
But did she truly know him?
No one did.
His workings with the Scotland Yard could all be codswallop, with him trying to seem interesting in their class, to strike fear, and to craft a wonderful enigma about himself.
He was just a man, a grown man, and she was just a girl.
She was ribbing herself if she at all believed he was capable of trying to do anything as such. Molly half-expected to find Toby laughing with her, as he sat purring at the end of the bed.
She felt like she'd gotten thrown through the looking glass, and she was unsure of what she saw.
Determined she got to class on time, waking at the crack of dawn to ensure she would not be late, taking the book with her, with no intention of finishing it.
She would not be lured into a plot, if that were his intention. Constantly doubting herself would do no good, as she needed to relay her message.
If he had no dubious intentions, then he would not be offended, at all, and then she could ask about the note without trepidation.
Professor Holmes could after all have seeded out a particular branch of students, who he saw fit for extra curricular-activity.
It was with uneasy steps she trod into the half-empty classroom, glancing briefly at him, settling at the back of the class for once, as far away she could.
Having him stare at her would do her no good, though she was aware that one of the girls, Mariah Hemsworth watched her confused, "Why are you sitting up back?" she asked.
Molly's eyes flew towards Holmes who was settled by his desk, staring down at some papers before him, idly rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, showing off his forearms.
"I just - I wanted to," said Molly bringing up the book for class, putting it on the table, and soon she saw Mariah sprinting forward, taking her place.
She almost huffed in her seat, catching herself for a second, as she couldn't exactly be jealous.
Indeed, maybe she truly had gone mad in believing that Professor Holmes wanted her of all people. Mariah was after all one of the prettiest girls in their class, with her luscious hair that she let fall loosely on her shoulders, with her rosy painted cheeks and lips.
Molly didn't fall into that particular brand, even with her supposed suitors. She wasn't eye-catching at all, and it did not make any sense that Professor Holmes would want her. Compared to the romantic descriptions of the women in the various books he'd given her – she was plain.
If she would compare herself to one woman, it was Jane Eyre. She fell into that particular category, with her light-brown hair always sat up in a ponytail and ordinary brown eyes.
She didn't have full red lips, did not have a heaving bosom, or flawless soft skin. Quite the opposite in her own opinion, and so it was obvious he'd chosen her out of the sheer fact that she didn't believe herself important.
That had to be it, certainly.
The classroom started to fill up, students taking their seats, some of them peering at her inquiringly, adjusting themselves to their seating, as she kept her eyes cast downwards into her hands.
When the class was full, and the door to the room slammed shut by Holmes she looked up, and found his gaze was not on her.
He seemed disinterested with her sudden shift, absolutely uninterested, if she were entirely honest, "Good morning class," he said with the book in his hand, "Miss Hemsworth, would you mind reading from page 176, for us? Today we are taking on the bard himself, and I am sure you are capable of giving his words justice."
He sounded bored.
Mariah was indeed capable, to Molly's growing frustration, and she tried to dismiss the thought, as she saw Holmes stare raptly at the girl who sang-song the lines out without fault.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
"That was sonnet 130 – now – Miss Hemsworth, do you know what it is about?" said Professor Holmes lowering his brows, a rather blank expression on his face, making Molly tilt her head in confusion.
He seemed to know something, as he leaned slightly forward.
"Oh, err – I suppose – it's about – err – well – obviously he's talking about a woman who's very beautiful…sir" stuttered Mariah forward, uncertainty clinging to her every word.
"Ah," said Holmes leaning back, his back straighter, as his eyes were now on Molly.
She tried to avert his gaze, though her lashes fluttered upwards, and he said, "Miss Hooper – since you and Miss Hemsworth have traded places, would you care to explain this sonnet?"
Molly bit her lip, swallowing slightly, as she felt his message was clear – "The first line, is – my mistress eyes are nothing like the sun – he's mocking other sonnets, sir."
"Why is that?"
"Since everyone speaks so highly of beauty…and they constantly try to go on about how that is the best quality, but he – Shakespeare knew more-," Mariah turned round to her with slits for eyes, " – He didn't want to compare his love to that, for he saw…what she truly is. She is not a goddess, her hair is not so fair, and she's just human, but still – nothing…compares to her."
The look he gave her was indecipherable, only giving a brief nod, before he said, "You are quite right, Miss Hooper. He shows the foolishness of any poet at the time, spinning out lies, and untruths – gasping about a woman's beauty. No woman would believe that." His eyes are now on the class, "Do not let yourself be idiots, if a boy tells you such things. He's most certainly lying and will undoubtedly…"
Some of the boys broke out in laughter, "Yes," said Holmes with a raised brow, which made the laughter die out, "Don't trust a boy, but don't trust a man either."
She felt conflicted there she sat, managing to appreciate him from the distance, and understanding that this was not a simple game, whatever he was playing at.
He was hurriedly tossing his things into his briefcase, when she finally stood by his desk, and sat the book quietly down, "You have not read it," he said, sounding annoyed, but he wasn't looking at her.
She drew her shoulders back slightly, trying to mask her surprise at his knowing the difference between a read book, or not, and the second she intended to open her mouth, "You do not look tired, Miss Hooper."
Shutting her mouth, she stared at him, "I – I -,"
"Leave," he said smacking his suitcase shut, soon clutching it in his hands, the nerves on his skin protruding.
"Yes, sir," she said meekly, walking off without looking back, only hearing him sigh in the distance.
She did not know what front he was putting, for he was acting so abusive in class, that whatever anyone said was ignored, or they were called an idiot for disrupting his methods.
His mood seemed to shift like the weather had, for now the red leaves were trodden down into the ground, and the trees bare.
Mornings were unbearably cold and so was he.
He did not give her another book, as she saw him with a hardened expression on the tube instead.
Molly knew that she had in some ways refused him, for that was evident by his sudden anger, and she knew she had done the right thing.
But, nevertheless, she did not feel good about it.
Of all things she felt guilty, but the blame did not lay with her. This was not her fault, and she felt herself reading her granny's sermons with a fiercer voice.
He was making it seem like it was her burden, like her not accepting his invitation, which was without a doubt not a harmless one with his behaviour – that she'd done wrong.
She had done right in refusing him, though her dreams worsened by every turn, and she wished he would leave the school if he were so thrown off by her.
Every time she saw him out of the corner of her eyes, she saw sadness. Holmes made his activities glaringly obvious now, not taking to the roof for his cigarettes, and neither did he smile at any of them.
He had changed, or perhaps he had just revealed his true nature to them. But she knew, by the glares he threw around the room, that there was softness in his eyes…
And, then she understood, and she felt like a fool – he was lonely.
He was lonely, and he'd spotted her loneliness as well.
She closed the book in her hands, staring unblinkingly on her snoring granny's face, almost laughing. The old woman had fallen asleep, like she did on occasion, and it was a benediction.
Carefully Molly sat aside the book, taking to explore the length of the room. Passing the dusty piano – untouched since her grandfather's death.
She leapt gingerly in front of the bookcase, hazarding a look towards her still-sleeping grandmother, as she tried to find any book – just one. It needed to be only one book, really, though she hoped to find it, as she'd seen it there once.
Grinning she slipped it out, placing it into her rucksack, before she continued with her loud reading, rousing her granny by almost shouting out a word.
Her grandmother jumped in her chair, blinking wearily, rubbing at her temples, "I think we'll call it a day."
It was ridiculous, it was very wrong, but she knew that he would need to be shocked somehow. And this was certainly enough, she supposed, or so hoped. The fact that her granny owned the book was enough in itself, and she knew how tricky it was to find such books in the library. Being told she was being – silly – would not do her any good at all; so, she had taken desperate measures to provoke him out of his stupor.
At least she hoped she would.
Plotting did not suit her, agitating her beyond belief, as she found herself almost squeamish and unsettled by his behaviour.
He was turning worse by every class.
Students were abusive behind his back, all wondering what had gotten into him, and she knew this was her only chance.
His back was to her in the tube, and she settled down on one of the available seats, clearing her throat, as she brought out the book.
She fixed her eyes on the pages, and tried to seem absolutely enraptured, despite wanting to look up at him. When her eyes tempted such a thing – he wasn't standing in front of her anymore.
Molly sighed, closing the book, as she peered around for him.
No dark curls were in sight, and she felt a greater loss than she'd ever presume.
Of course it wouldn't work, it was the stupidest of ideas, and she had been rash. Obviously, he was laughing at her idiotic attempt.
Getting off at her station, she walked out stuffing the book back in her rucksack, intending to give it back to her granny.
Her steps were slow and measured there she walked, seeing the large white posh building where her granny lived, when she felt a warm hand grab hers.
She shrieked of sudden alarm, but someone smothered his or her hand upon her mouth stifling her cry.
She was about to fight back, until she recognised his steely blue-eyed gaze.
He had her pushed against the brick wall of the building, shielded from the view of onlookers, as a tree hid them away, "Don't – scream," he said with a low voice, his closeness unnerving her, his usually strict tie drawn loosely around his neck, two buttons of his shirt undone.
He looked a mess, but he released his hand on her lips.
"Sir-," she started wide-eyed, shocked by his sudden appearance, "I thought you'd gotten off."
His eyes narrowed amusedly, his mouth quirking upwards; "I can hide in plain sight, Miss Hooper – unlike some."
"Oh…ok," she said nervously, as one of his hands was leaning against the brick-wall.
He did not say anything, neither did she know what to expect, for he only stared at her. Like he was trying to understand something, and she could hardly call herself puzzling.
His breath reached her face, blue eyes dropping to her lips, as she saw his chest heaving for breath. He was so close now, the dark look in his eyes making her flush, and she wondered if she should speak.
She did not know what to say, or do. Molly only returned the look, taking in his face properly for once, and found a flicker of hope in his eyes. He seemed to be hovering in front of her with resolve, his face edging closer to hers, as his mouth was slightly parted.
She stood in awe.
But he suddenly leapt back, almost unsurely, unlike anything she'd seen him do.
His bravado had dropped, he looked almost apprehensive, "Miss Hooper – you should return your book to your grandmother – before she finds it missing," he said with gritted teeth unable to look at her, until he started to stride off.
"Sir…I was wondering," she said licking her lips, and he turned to her with raised brows.
"Yes?"
"Just, err – what exactly – the note, you see?"
He looked bewildered for a second, until understanding dawned upon his face, "My home is always open to you, Molly." With that he was gone, leaving her with flaming red cheeks, as she leaned against the brick-wall for support.
It took her ages to get through any passage at her granny's, as her mind ambled back to the way his voice had broken upon saying her name.
Molly returned Don Juan to its shelf mutedly, knowing that it was in some ways too late, for without even really touching her – she was already his.