When the sun rose the following morning, there was an eerie silence throughout the home. The servants were not as chatty as normal, and the ever-talking Lady Mary Watson had taken Rosamund into town to run a few errands. Molly had rejected the offer, feigning illness, and was still in her quarters when Sherlock sat down for breakfast.
He was joined of course by the man of the house, a very peeved looking John Watson. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped the fresh tea placed in front of him by a servant. He flipped open the newspaper handed to him, simply ignoring John's presence.
The boys lasted approximately eight minutes before John could go no longer.
"You disappear and have nothing to say?" John hissed out, crumbling his newspaper as he angrily attempted to close it. One of the servants relieved him of the task upon noticing his discomfort.
Across from him, Sherlock took a bite of his toast, amused by John's anger. "What would you like me to say? I've returned?"
John narrowed his eyes. "You could apologize for your treatment of Molly. That would certainly be a start."
Sherlock sighed and slathered more marmalade on his bread, focusing on his food instead of John. "I will not apologize. But, I will acknowledge that I was perhaps more harsh than necessary. I will try to my utmost ability to be more… polite to Molly in the future."
"More harsh than necessary?" John spat out, the vein in his forehead throbbing, "For someone who is supposed to be an educated gentleman, you acted like a savage!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I would hardly say—"
"Enough," John hissed out, adding more sugar to his tea in hopes of calming himself down, "I'm not sure what you're getting at with Molly, Sherlock. I never have. But if you live in my home, and interact with my family, you will show her respect."
"I thought I was your family," Sherlock announced, rather wistfully.
John frowned. "You're supposed to be. My cousin, my best mate, practically a brother. But when you treat my cousin Molly, one of the sweetest and most wonderful women around like… rubbish, then no. I will not acknowledge you as such."
Sherlock took another bite of toast, knowing when to end the conversation. If John wanted him to be nicer to Molly during her residency at Reichenbach, then fine, he would be perfectly civil. He'd say hello and goodbye, and ignore her for the time in between.
There would be no issue.
He gazed across the table, watching his closest friend and family angrily spread butter onto a piece of bread. He sighed and set his newspaper down in front of them. The front page had Sherlock's face plastered across it.
Local Detective Holmes Avenges Slain Russian Aristocrat
He cleared his throat and looked hesitantly at John. "It's an awful headline, really. I didn't avenge anyone. Simply proved who murdered her."
John picked up the newspaper and let his eyes wander continuously from Sherlock to the photo. He couldn't contain his laughter. Sherlock scowled.
"What's so amusing?"
John continued to laugh, having to take a sip of water to calm himself down. "That bloody hat! It's god awful! And about thirty years out of fashion! Why are you wearing it?"
Sherlock grimaced and crossed his arms. "It was a gift."
"From who? Lord, please tell me it was Mycroft!"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took a sip of tea. "No, you moron, it was your daughter. It seems you pay little attention to what your wife and child purchase."
He shrugged. "There's enough money to go around. I'll have to give Mary a big kiss for picking that one out."
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when an overwhelming smell of roses assaulted his senses. He immediately looked to the door, unsurprised to see her. An ungodly pink frock, a perfect pearl necklace gifted from her deceased mother, her hair done up in pleasant plaits…
Molly.
She gave the servants a friendly greeting and sat beside John, leaving over to give her a cousin a soft kiss on the cheek. She looked in far too good a mood for Sherlock's liking.
"Molly! I'm thrilled to hear you're feeling better. Mary mentioned you were under the weather before she left," John began, grabbing another piece of toast.
She gave him a soft smile. "I feel much better now. Thank you."
Sherlock kept his opinions to himself and sipped his tea, determined to pay her as little attention as possible. Of course, that was rather hard when just her bloody scent had him licking his lips and willing his cock to go down.
As Molly reached to grab a piece of bread, the newspaper caught her attention. At the photo of Sherlock on the front, she smirked and turned to John.
"Say, I helped Rosamund pick this hat out for him," She explained, her cheerful laugh grating on Sherlock's nerves.
At her words, he scowled. "Wait. You picked out the hat?"
Molly couldn't help but smirk as she sipped her tea. "Indeed. Last Christmas I took Rosie into town and for some reason, when she saw the hat, all she could talk about was you. When I helped her purchase and wrap it, I never thought you'd actually wear it."
He couldn't help but frown. "Of course, I'd wear it. My god daughter gifted it to me."
She smiled sadly and began to butter her toast, careful to keep her gaze away from Sherlock. "I don't know what you'd do, Mr. Holmes. You always seem to surprise me."
Sherlock scowled and sipped his tea, his eyes locked on her proper form. "I would—"
His words were cut short when the post was delivered, and each of the three adults was handed a letter. Molly squealed delightedly at the letter from her father and immediately tore into it. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the perfect handwriting of the Russian Ambassador, knowing he was going to get dragged into a much larger investigation than he asked for.
John, however, seemed more intrigued by his letter, addressed from a man that at first glance, Sherlock was unfamiliar with. After a quick read over, John dropped the letter and turned to Molly, a smile on his face.
"Mary's cousin Maxwell is coming in from Sheffield for dinner. He should arrive by tomorrow evening," John announced, quick to thank a servant as his tea was refilled, "Mary will be delighted. Maxwell is quite charming. An excellent hunter as well."
Molly couldn't help but blush at the word of a pending suitor. "Oh. I look forward to meeting him. Was he at your wedding?"
John shook his head and folded the letter back up. "No, he was not. Truthfully, I don't remember why, but I believe he was doing business in America or something like that. He owns a shipping company."
A snort escaped from Sherlock's lips. "Of course, Maxwell. The bloke with the chip on his shoulder. I recall him."
"You're one to talk about a chip on a shoulder," John retorted, already fed up with Sherlock's behavior, "And so help me, if you can't behave, you simply won't be invited to dinner."
"Please, I can conduct myself just fine. I was merely pointing out that Maxwell Warner thought highly of himself for a man coming from new money, especially in such an industry as shipping," He paused to glance at Molly, who was watching Sherlock with an intense gaze, "So, beware Lady Molly. He will be extremely attracted to your title and ties to oil in America."
Molly narrowed her gaze. "Why does it matter if I marry a man simply because he enjoys my wealth? You consider me so revolting that a man would hardly want me otherwise."
Sherlock sipped his tea again. "I was being polite and giving you a warning."
"I hardly need your concern or caution."
John sighed and rose to his feet. "Splendid. Well, I will let Mary know about Maxwell. Our supper tomorrow will be quite the grand affair."
He left the room, leaving Molly and Sherlock to simmer in the silence. Molly glanced back down to her father's letter, rereading the words with a sort of reverence that Sherlock wished he held for anything. He pushed his own letter aside, instead watching Molly with a startlingly intense curiosity.
"Tell me, Molly. There must be a pressing reason for your stay here. One that has your father concerned about your eligibility enough to send you to London," Sherlock remarked, sipping his tea, his eyes still locked on Molly.
Under his intense gaze, she couldn't help but blush, her mind briefly going back to the previous evening, and their kiss in the library. She shook off the thought and hastily folded her father's letter. She looked away.
She sighed, seemingly having an internal battle with herself. Finally, she looked back to Sherlock, her eyes showing worry.
"My father had a heart attack last spring. It's part of the reason why I haven't visited since Christmas. He's doing much better but… He's concerned that he could die."
Sherlock watched her, noticing the way her hands shook and her eyes grew sad.
"We didn't tell anyone. We didn't want the concern. But now, he's so terribly worried about dying before I get married," she sniffled and nibbled on her lip, "So, he thought sending me to London would be the best option. He knew John would help as well."
He kept his eyes locked on her cherubic face, admiring the reddening of her cheeks and the dark shade of her eyes. He cleared his throat and sipped his tea.
"I'm sorry to hear about your father, but I'm happy to hear his health is improving. My father died of a heart attack. I can only imagine the strain that has put you under," He found himself whispering, surprised by his own soft tone.
She nodded slowly, her eyes focused on the pristine white of the table cloth. "I love him so dearly. My father is my everything. He has been since my mum died. I don't know how I will survive when his time comes."
Sherlock studied her, weary of the way his heart twitched in his chest. "I lost my parents within weeks of each other. When my mother died of influenza, I think my father's heart simply gave out," He sighed and gazed into his empty teacup, thinking back to his childhood, "I was only fourteen when they died. My Aunt and Uncle, and my Grandfather, became my second family."
He looked away, thinking back to all the people he had lost. His heart felt heavy. "It's a shame how quickly someone you care about can disappear. Aunt Anne to infection, Uncle Patrick to an automobile accident, Grandfather to old age…"
He stopped and sighed, desperately ignoring the feeling of tears filling his eyes. "Sweet, little Harriet, only nineteen years old and already gone from tuberculosis. It's cruel."
Molly wiped her eyes, the memories of her Aunt, Uncle, and cousin squeezing the breath out of her. "Truthfully, I don't care about marriage. I don't care about the titles or the money. I just want to make my father happy," She whispered, her gaze dropping to her hands.
Sherlock studied her, surprised by her admission, and to him no less. "This is why you've rejected so many suitors?"
She nodded and met his gaze, her eyes tired. "It's certainly part of the reason."
He raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose you haven't found a man you thought worthy of you?"
She laughed softly and couldn't help but smile. "I did, in fact. Finn Howard. The Earl of Downey?" She smiled wistfully, her body thrown back into a whirlwind of memories, "He courted me quite hard. I was 17. He was… Perfect. Handsome, intelligent, funny…"
Sherlock thought back to the man. He did recall the name from the newspapers, and from the occasional social engagement, but while Molly was 17, he was shoulder deep in his studies at Oxford. He remembered little of the period, sans the slags and opium.
"He supported women's rights. He respected me as a person. My father loved him. John and he got along so well," she frowned and looked over her nails, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. She sighed and shook her head.
Sherlock continued to study her. "It sounds like you had met the perfect man. Then why, Molly Hooper, did you turn him down?"
She forced herself to meet his penetrating blue gaze, her stomach doing flips at just hearing him utter her name. She let out a desperate laugh.
"Why did I reject him, Sherlock? Surely you must know."
He narrowed his gaze. "Was he a homosexual? Did he have a natural born child?"
She choked out a laugh. "No, you ignorant fool!"
Molly rose to feet, wrapping her arms around herself. She took a steadying breath and forced herself to meet his unrelenting gaze.
"He wasn't you, Sherlock. And as much as my brain desperately begged me to say yes, my seventeen-year-old heart had one object of affection. You and only you."
She moved to the door but stopped, her back still to his form. She sniffled and held her head up high, although never turning around.
"You need not worry, Mr. Holmes. My heart has learned its lesson. I will not be rejecting any further proposals."
She disappeared from the room, taking her rose-scented form and pink frock along with her. Sherlock blinked a few times, registering her words.
Had Molly really rejected so many proposals in her youth because she fancied him? How could he, the best detective in the commonwealth, have missed that?
I will not be rejecting any further proposals.
He scowled and stormed out of the room. He had a Russian Ambassador to meet.
Xxx
The following evening, the staff was milling about, working hard to ensure that Sir Maxwell Warner would be welcomed without a hitch. Sherlock loathed having guests stay at the estate. Aside from his general distaste for anything out of the ordinary (he was a steadfast creature of habit) and overall displeasure with most of humanity, he also could not stand the activities leading up to a new guest.
The odious scent of bleach and lye assaulting his nostrils, the busy-body nature of a one Mary Watson taking full form, the over-seasoned, exotic feast that would supersede his very normal, very British meal…
The list could go on.
And generally, Sherlock would avoid the Estate preparations prior to an important guest, normally by hiding out in his grandfather's library, or, if lucky, spend the day in the city with Detective Inspector Lestrade solving a case. Today, however, he was trapped within the Estate, per orders straight from the mistress of the home.
"You better behave! So help me Sherlock, you will be the gentleman your parents raised you to be! One inappropriate peep out of you and I'll have Mycroft over for dinner for the next six weeks. Do you understand me?" Mary Watson declared, one hand on her hip, the other wagging precariously close to Sherlock's bored face.
He sighed. "Really, Mary? We're now using Mycroft to threaten me?"
"You give me no choice!" She crossed her arms and gave him a menacing look. "You may fool John by your attitude towards Molly. You even fool the dear girl. But you do not fool me, Sherlock Holmes!"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "My, Mary, has the lye gotten to your head? Is your corset tied too tightly?"
Mary let out a blustering yelp and stormed out, screaming about the nerve of him. As expected, Sherlock was unaffected by their conversation, and simply returned to his reading.
Of course, that had only been that morning, and after seemingly insulting Mary (he still didn't see how anything he said had been that bad), he was punished to remain within the home, until whenever this moron shipping guru showed up with his heart on his sleeve.
The entire situation was frankly ludicrous. Why did Sherlock have to change his plans for the day to sulk about the home, waiting for Molly to meet some bloody prat from Sheffield, and decide whether he was worthy of her hand?
I will not be rejecting any further proposals.
Her words haunted him. Surely Molly wouldn't accept the hand of the first man to propose. Surely Molly would have higher standards than that. Surely Molly wasn't that desperate…
Bugger.
He wasn't sure why the thought filled him with dread.