Can I just say that I am *loving* the reviews on this. I love you guys, and the fact that someone was excited enough to go "KISS KISS KISS" (looking at you, darthsydious) at this fic is the most flattering review I have ever gotten.

Kimberly and Emma: happy you liked it! Here's the update.

Jane Austen would be proud.

Well, she would be proud that Molly had found herself knee deep in a mess with the man who was employing her. Whether it was romantic on his end or not was still something up for debate. Molly, on the other hand, went through the torture of working for the man she seemed to – well, she didn't know what she seemed to have for this man.

On one hand, he drove her mad. He drove her mad with the way he was temperamental, with the way he always demanded her time, with the way he thought she was an asset or a possession to be protected. He drove her mad with the way he looked at her, with the way his green eyes could change colour. He drove her mad.

Molly could never allow him to know the extent of her emotions. It would be inappropriate, completely unaccountable – why, after everything Mr. Holmes had done for her!

And yet.

He may be cold, but he could never hide himself from her truly. He may be cruel, but he was also kind. He was too kind, and she knew it. The problem with Mr. Holmes was not that he was an unfeeling man, it was that he valued the idea of not feeling where he felt too much.

Molly couldn't herself understand the contradiction – but she knew the way one could feel too much. Cursed were the ones, she thought. She wondered why God made people like that – but then she wondered a lot of things about God and whether he made such people with the purpose of a divine order or if he did so because he was trying to make something beautiful.

But that was neither here nor there. January was fast ending, and she had made at least one decision with regards to her relationship with Mr. Holmes. It needed to return to equilibrium. And so, she decided to take on one of the most ambitious tasks in the household, and one which theoretically could lead to her losing her job.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled. "Where are you?"

"Here, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson, walking into the hallway. "Goodness, where have you been?"

He was sure that he looked rather terrible – his eye must have swollen shut by now, not to mention the endless bruises that were possibly becoming visible. Thankfully, nothing broken. "The boxing ring," said Sherlock. "Where's Molly?"

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip. "Nevermind the girl, I'm sure she's about somewhere. I do wish you would be more careful, Mr. Holmes. If not for me, then for the girl's sake. She worries!"

"If she does so, why isn't she here?" asked Sherlock irritably.

"I sent her out for some vegetables after she... cleaned. Well, you will see it yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Mrs. Hudson didn't call him by his Christian name due to propriety. However, once or twice – in times of great disaster, she did call him by his own name. Such as the time she had to tell him that John was engaged to be married.

Sherlock didn't want to think about what the disaster was.

"What has happened, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked.

Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything, walking away as if she had given up on the lot of them.

Sherlock frowned to himself. He climbed upstairs, expecting veritable disaster. Perhaps Molly had finally lost her temper at him for his behaviour on Christmas and had destroyed half the house. Perhaps Molly had been caught in the crossfire of an explosive experiment. Perhaps Molly had been killed by a falling bookcase.

However, the upstairs was clean. Well, cleaner than normal, now that Molly handled all his organising and cleaning.

Sherlock frowned.

All the books were in place, every single chair in correct order. Molly had dusted and mopped, and everything was sparkling.

This wasn't disorienting, for she did do this everyday. The dusting, definitely everyday. The mopping every other day.

Then why was Sherlock feeling so ill at ease?

He looked around, trying to identify the source of his discomfort. All he noticed was that his experiments were in neat little rows.

His experiments.

Neat little rows?

And it occurred to him that Molly had a death wish.

Molly was going to die, there was no doubt about it. It was one thing to go organising his book shelf, quite another to neaten up his experiment. He glared wholeheartedly at the offending organisation.

And then he found himself surprised, for Molly had not actually organised them.

She had cleaned up the area, and she had put all of them in one place, but the Molly-esque organisation was missing. The meticulousness was missing. She didn't typically just put similar type items in one place: everything had to have a place for Molly.

Then who had done this?

The only thing that looked remotely Molly-esque here was the way she had put all the fingers and other body parts in different jars, labelled.

How could this girl have not a single issue putting away body part, but she hadn't organised his more harmless experiments? Why was there a Holmesian mess here still?

The door downstairs opened, and he knew Molly was home. He was still frowning at all his things. He wondered if Molly had done it or if there had been burglars who cleaned homes and left. The possibility seemed remote. And then Molly had definitely cleaned the kitchen. The regimental style of her cleaning was obvious.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," said Molly, coming upstairs.

"Molly..." he said slowly.

"Lunch will be ready in a minute, Mr. Holmes," she said professionally. Her coolness irked him.

"Molly, what have you done with my experiments?" he asked her.

"Nothing, sir," she said, all innocence.

"That's precisely my point. You've done nothing, yet something is different."

"I put all the body parts in jars, Mr. Holmes. That's about it," she said, skirting over the topic.

"I noticed," Sherlock bit out. "But why haven't you done anything else?"

Molly frowned. "Did you wish me to organise them, sir?" she asked.

"Yes! No. Molly, what have you been doing?" he asked, with a groan.

"I just wished to clean the kitchen..." said Molly smiling nervously. "Therefore, I did."

"I'm aware of that," snapped Sherlock. "Why haven't you organised the experiments? It's completely uncharacteristic of you."

Molly raised her eyes, and laughed nervously. "I realise that I work well when I feel everything is in place. It helps me think, it helps me categorise, and it especially helps when studying Biology. However, not everyone works that way," she said. "Chemistry is so much more... temperamental. Not everyone in Chemistry will work with the methods of Biology, isn't it, Mr. Holmes? Hence, I did not trouble to organise your experiments."

Sherlock didn't often find himself at a loss for words.

"I hope you had a good day, Mr. Holmes. I'll just bring the lunch up."

Sherlock didn't understand Molly Hooper.

Rarely had he ever had such a conundrum. The girl went beyond him, and Sherlock hated the feeling of not knowing what someone was to do. Had she been romantically pining for him, she would have tried to control him, reforming the rake that he was. Had she decided to be nothing more than a maid, she ought to have been distant. She just violated all the prescribed boxes and it made him very uncomfortable.

He needed to stay away from the girl. She was causing too much of an effect on him, and what's more: it wasn't the effect John had on him.

Molly would scoff at this. She would wonder why he was behaving like a lovesick romantic hero, Byronian in his understanding of his mistress. Molly read a lot of romance, but she didn't seem to believe that any of it was possible. She particularly hated plotlines which were simply too 'typical' to be coming true.

A very rational assessment, Sherlock thought.

And yet, here he was – pathetically a step away from taking daisies and questioning the petals about what Molly Hooper's motives and emotions were. A daisy might even know what Molly Hooper felt, for he certainly did not.

And should I even find out what her emotions are – by the divining daisy, he thought to himself, I would not care to think it very important.

Even so, the problem was niggling at him with obviousity which didn't make sense.

Dear Sally,

February has come, and Mrs. Hudson and I have found ourselves thinking about what a wonderful household Two Hundred and Twenty One might be should we have a cook. We are notoriously understaffed, and that is a consequence of Mr. Holmes being a difficult man. He does not lack the resources or the capability to hire a cook, and I feel fed up of doing the duties of a cook.

Mrs. Hudson and I have decided to do something a little ambitious: we are going to speak to Mr. Holmes of the need of one, and convince him to advertise. While Mrs. Hudson was alone he could overrule her, and when I am by myself he can bully me – but Mrs. Hudson and I have decided to stay firm in our need of a cook. It is an opinion that fire cannot melt out of us, we will die with it on the stake.

Shakespeare aside, how are your children? Is Roger enjoying his work at the factories? Well, I don't think he would be – him being sixteen and with his life in front of him. I know you are low on money, Sally, but you really ought to let the boy go and travel the world. He will haggle his way through, I am sure of it. As for Vanessa: she can stay with you for now, she is only twelve. You are a little protective of your children, Sally dear.

I know you wish to see them settled, but the rut of life is not going to be kind on them. Roger will have to work in factories all his life, in conditions which I don't fancy myself. And I work for Mr. Holmes. It's a life of danger, Sally – the conditions in factories are very poor and you know it. The next time his wages come through, allow him to save it up and take passage out of this country. Make a sailor of him: he would enjoy it, even if it should cause you heartache. At least on ships his colour will not be against him.

Well, I better leave. I have to tackle Mr. Holmes sooner or later. Mrs. Hudson and I are preparing our arguments.

Yours, &c

Molly Hooper

Sherlock grit his teeth in front of the two women who formed his staff.

"What are you saying, Molly?"

"Now, Mr. Holmes, don't terrorise the girl. You know very well that I have wanted a cook for a very long time."

"You didn't have the courage to say so before, Mrs. Hudson. This is Molly's doing."

"So what if it is?" asked Mrs. Hudson indignantly.

Molly decided to pipe in gently: "I do wish to reduce my duties, sir. I am not a good cook. I know you are not miserly, you simply dislike getting used to new staff."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with your cooking, Molly," grumbled Sherlock. And there wasn't! She made perfectly serviceable eggs, and her desserts were quite good. "I do not wish to conduct interviews," he said plaintively.

"Mr. Holmes," she said patiently. "You will not need to. Mrs. Hudson and I will see to the matter ourselves. All you need to do is pay for the advertisement. We promise. We will even train the woman ourselves."

"And what when she requires a kitchen maid?" asked Mr. Holmes irritably.

"We will see to that as well," said Mrs. Hudson. "Just do what is asked, Sherlock."

Molly blanched, and Sherlock suspected it was because of Mrs. Hudson's use of his Christian name. Molly used his title so strictly that she probably did not think of him as anything other than 'Mr. Holmes.'

"Very well," said Sherlock irritably. "Get the advertisement out."

Dear Meena,

I'm glad you are liking your new job, and happier still that you have found a good colleague to work with. He's a clerk at a British office, and hence, he does have a good job and from whatever you describe – an interesting countenance. Your employer seems nicer, by far, than whomsoever had employed you previously. The man before was positively inhumane, Meena. I am glad you no longer work for him.

As for me: well, the days have gotten better ever since Margery came to work with us. She has a daughter, Bertha who is a trained kitchen maid, and without Mr. Holmes' permission, we hired them both. Mr. Holmes was, surprisingly, fairly reasonable in the face of this decision being made without his consent. He said sardonically: "Well, I suppose you two (in reference to myself and Mrs. Hudson) have taken over the household as is. You might as well take the other girl in too – I have become tired of seeing you make the fires in the morning, with the soot getting on all your clothes."

"But sir," said I, "You yourself said that you did not wish to start the process again in search of a kitchen maid. We have killed two birds with one stone."

"True," said he. "But I care not how many birds you kill with your stones as long as I don't have to see the birds and interact with them."

"Mr. Holmes," I said, with all the wisdom of a woman of sixty. "You are incorrigible."

Of course, Mr. Holmes did not have anything to say to that. I suspect he was more irritable because he was not getting his way and because he did not have a say in the matter at all. I know Mrs. Hudson and I have become a little presumptuous, but the man simply does not know what is to needed to be done where the house is involved. He did enjoy the meals which were made by both Margery and Bertha.

And while we speak of food: I'd love to meet you sometime, Meena. I would not like to impose, but it would be nice if we could have dinner together.

Yours,

Molly

"No, Mr. Holmes. I don't think this is a robbery with unfortunate repercussions," said Molly finally, looking at the wounds. The morgue was silent, while Anderson was grating his teeth at Molly's pronouncement.

"What do you think, then, Miss Hooper?" asked Lestrade, watching her carefully. Sherlock noticed how Anderson's eyes snapped to Lestrade accusingly.

"Sir, do you notice this particular stab?" she asked. She pointed at one stab wound which was deep in the gut. "Unlike the others, it is not harried and sloppy. It is precise: the murderer knew what he was doing. I'd even venture to say that the person who did this had a knowledge of anatomy. But, of course, I'd have to examine it further to say for sure."

Lestrade was frowning. "Why don't you?" he asked.

"Sir?" asked Molly, still looking at the body intently.

"Do the post-mortem, Miss Hooper," said the Lestrade.

"Detective!" snapped Anderson. "How can you –"

"Oh, do be quiet, Philip," said Lestrade wearily. "You cannot argue that she is not qualified, and you cannot say that she might botch it up. Her opinion has helped, and I would like the trend to continue. In addition – what did Mr. Holmes say about this case? Yes, a three. If she does botch something, it will only be a simple case."

Anderson was searing. Sherlock had never been more pleased.

Molly had turned so red that Sherlock wondered with some cynicism if she was going to burst.

She smiled nervously, putting on an apron and some gloves. As soon as she gripped the scalpel, Sherlock saw a very curious change in her countenance.

His heart was racing.

Interesting.

He would even venture to say that his pupils had probably dilated while watching her. This was a deduction based on the speed of his heart and the way he was feeling generally pleasant.

By God, she could use a scalpel.

He had never seen a neater post-mortem. She was crisp in every movement, categorising and deducing a different kind of story than what Sherlock normally did. She was calmly finding the story of the patient through the remains of his stomach.

Of course, as soon as she said that the murderer had a knowledge of anatomy he knew who the killer was. He had simply wanted to see her perform just as Lestrade had.

And, as he had expected, Lestrade was watching her with nothing less than pure admiration. It gave Sherlock half a heartburn. It was Anderson that really made him curious. He was looking at Molly with resigned admiration.

Molly finished stitching the man up, turned to them and smiled sunnily. "Well, that's that!" she said.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?"

Oh, Christ. She was singing again.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o' lang syne?"

"Molly, please. It's the middle of March – a good few months away from the New Year."

"Sorry, sir," she said. "Although I find it strange that you dislike my singing while you are such an accomplished musician."

"I don't dislike your singing," said Sherlock. "I dislike all singing."

"But why?" she asked. "A fear of sirens?"

"A creature which lures with the sound of its singing is biologically improbable Molly, and you know it."

Molly was smiling at him like she knew a joke he did not. "That's a hypothetical, sir. Besides, I'd like to believe that such a creature could exist. It would explain your skill with the violin."

"Flattery doesn't suit you, Molly."

She smiled, face blushing. "Even if you do not prefer flattery, wouldn't you like to consider how such a creature could exist?"

"But it could not. So what would be the point?" he asked.

"Argue for the sake of arguing, sir. Perhaps the creature herself has an ethereal beauty not because it is biologically that beautiful but because it resides in an area which has certain chemicals which cause something of a delusion among people in that area?"

Sherlock was interested by this theory. "And how would you explain their voices?"

"The delusion would be coupled with very skilled young women who would sing."

"Oh, please, Molly. No one could be that skilled. I propose another chemical reaction to make the women more sonorous."

"I have experienced firsthand a very skilled violin player."

"The violin does half the job," said Sherlock dismissively. "These women would have to have excellent voices, excellent training and excellent skill. The delusion cannot perform the whole effect."

"You underestimate the effect of the delusion, Mr. Holmes," she said with a smile.

Sherlock frowned at her. "Molly, you are a woman of science. Why do you persist in thinking about these impossibilities?"

Molly sighed plaintively. "I don't know, sir. I like thinking about these things because I'd like to have a little magic in the world, I suppose. I am grateful to the technology and forward thinking that has allowed me to come so far, but I wonder what it would have been like in my village if the commons had survived."

Sherlock was pensive. "But if you could explain such supposedly 'magical' phenomenon, does it not defeat the purpose?"

Molly frowned at him. "If I know how it works does not stop it from being magic. Your deductions are almost magic, yet I know how you do them."

He supposed that was true. There was a certain magic in seeing Molly dissect a body.

Dear Molly,

I am glad you are working hard in your university, even more so that you are at the top of your class. Father always believed that you were as good as any man.

I know I have not been kind about your profession, Molly. Perhaps I was envious, or perhaps I felt that it would not amount to much. I still have to see proof for the latter; however, I am willing to concede that Father was not completely senile when he left you his inheritance to study in London. I know I allowed my husband's decisions to influence my opinion of your studies too much, but a wife is allowed to do so.

I would like to make amends: I know that living in London is hard, and that you must be practicing a lot of economy to live by yourself. I am happy you found lodging in somewhere like Baker Street (a stroke of luck that the landlady was a friend of a friend!), but I would like it if you came to Newcastle for a stretch of time. I want you to come and see my house, and my husband – and I want you to see the young new Ashford who is going to come into this world by May.

If it is a boy (and I do hope for one), I intend to name him Thomas – after John's father. If it happens to be a girl, she shall be called Margaret, after you or possibly Eliza, after mother. John's heart is set on a girl. He urges you to come to Newcastle just as much as I do, for he feels that I need female company during at least some part of my term.

I fear that John does not know how difficult it is to have a girl. He wishes for a girl because he grew up with boys alone, and to him a girl would be a novelty.

I will spare you the cost of an extra sheet of paper. Do write back with an affirmative as well as a date of your arrival.

With love,

Elizabeth Ashford

Once again, Molly found herself in a state of confusion over the letter Elizabeth had sent her.

She did not care much for Lizzie's husband, and even lesser for Lizzie's idea of where Molly was staying and how she was able to afford it. However, she did care about the little baby that was coming into this world.

Molly was certain that both the parents were capable – no matter what their problems with Molly, they were both loving and kind people. Lizzie would be a good mother, and John a doting father.

She wished to see the child. If Lizzie could make the effort, why couldn't Molly?

Now, if she should go to Newcastle, there was one very big obstacle in her way.

Mr. Holmes.

"Molly!" he called. "I'd like my clothes ironed!"

"Coming, sir!" said Molly climbing upstairs.

He was sitting in the middle of the sitting room, contemplating life. "I do wonder why you don't use the bell, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"It's distracting," he said, his eyes shut and fingers pressed together. "Suppose that I was a man who was young, ambitious, and climbing the ladder to success."

"I would find it wildly improbable, sir," said Molly. "You do not get along with people."

He opened his eyes. "It's a hypothetical, Molly. But I think I will ignore the stupid case for a while – I can think of nothing."

"Another thing that is wildly improbable," said Molly with a smile.

"What do you want?" asked Mr. Holmes, his eyes narrowing. "There's a letter in your pocket, isn't there?"

Molly blushed. "My sister – she, well. Erm – she lives in Newcastle."

"I was hoping we were beyond your stammer, Molly," said Mr. Holmes rolling his eyes.

"She wishes me to come stay for the summer," Molly blurted out. "University will be closed then..."

Mr. Holmes frowned. "Who's going to work here? What about the dusting?"

"I'll hire a replacement, sir..."

Mr. Holmes was frowning more and more. Molly did not like where this was going. "What about the cases? Molly, you cannot expect me to work with Anderson!"

Molly smiled. "Sir, I hope you will manage," she said. "I'm not looking forward to meeting my brother in law either."

"Then don't go!" exclaimed Mr. Holmes, beginning to get agitated. He abandoned his seat, walking up and down rapidly. "Molly, you must not leave! There is no one more capable than you!"

Molly smiled wanly. "My sister is with child, sir. She's expecting this May or June. I would like to be with her – my Father would want it. I don't like my brother in law, however. He's a devout man – a curate, and he does not believe that women ought to be devout either. Well, not in the way I am anyway."

"I did not take you to be devout."

"I practice too much familiarity with my God," she said.

He was frowning at her again, like nothing about her was making sense. She felt self conscious about whatever she had said.

"I will be perfectly candid with you, Miss Hooper," said Mr. Holmes. "I find it hard to believe in a deity."

It was Molly's turn to look at Mr. Holmes like he had something completely absurd and out of question. "Well, what do you believe in?" she asked, surprised.

"Logic," he said crisply.

"So do I," said Molly. "They are not exclusive."

"No, they have been known to coexist before – when people did not know better. When there was still plenty of inexplicable 'magic' as you call it. Now, however –" his voice trailed off. "And particularly with you – a woman who is scientific. I find it a paradox that you believe in God."

"Well, the way I see it, it doesn't matter," said Molly, frowning. "I don't think it matters either way."

"You think my soul will be saved whether I believe in God or not?" sneered Mr. Holmes.

"No," said Molly. "I think that it hardly matters to God whether you believe or whether there are souls to be saved. I don't like being so practical in my religion, and I know that what I am saying right now is possibly heresy. But I feel like God is a scientist. Only someone who applies science would be able to create something like you, Mr. Holmes."

Mr. Holmes did not say anything, digesting this complete honesty from Molly Hooper's side.

"That's an interesting concept," he said finally. He was looking at her quizzically, and again, Molly felt self conscious. She stared back, without flinching.

They were having a conversation by themselves, without saying a word. Molly could feel it in her bones. She knew that if she drew away right now, something terrible would happen.

Mr. Holmes was far too close to her. His gaze was boring into her, like he was the deity that he did not believe in.

"Go, Miss Hooper. Write to your sister," he said finally.

His breathing had hitched.

She had been so close – so terribly, terribly close. He could count the number of freckles on her face – nineteen – see the way her smiling lines would crease, and the way her laughter would betray the complexity which he could not understand.

She was simple. One of the rare people in the world who did not have any qualms about secrets kept. Even her lies were just truths, reworked. She was a doctor who believed in God, a woman who believed in her own privilege, and a girl who was working for her medical degree without telling her sister about the difficulties she endured.

Molly Hooper deserved better than to have her pupils dilate when she looked at him.

Watson was watching him very carefully. Too carefully.

"What, Watson?" he asked irritably.

"So, Molly's leaving next week."

"I know," said Sherlock.

"She's got a replacement?"

"Girl called Anne. The only thing Molly could have done worse than leaving was to hire someone who had as plain a name as her."

"So you're upset with her leaving?"

"Yes!" said Sherlock. "I cannot stand Anderson. And I have to get used to this new girl."

"Is that all?"

"What else would it be?"

"Well, I was hoping you'd be a little upset at her leaving."

"I am, as you can see."

"Well, a little more emotionally upset."

Sherlock looked at John with sneering eyes.

"No," he said dismissively.

"Don't tell me you don't like the girl," said John.

"I do. She's an asset."

"Is that all then?"

Sherlock was more and more irritable, the closer Molly's day of departure came. He opened the door to Two Hundred and Twenty One B, without answering John's question.

"Mrs. Hudson!" No answer.

Sherlock was wondering where Mrs. Hudson was. The house seemed unusually quiet.

He didn't often have a sense of foreboding where an empty house was concerned. He was used to people infiltrating inside the house, no matter how good his locks were. And an unusual silence like this was most definitely infiltrators: Mrs. Hudson and Molly may be quiet creatures, but it was certainly very odd to not hear water bubbling on the stove or Molly reciting her lessons to herself, trying to remember the names of the bones.

Sherlock and Watson shared a look, immediately arming themselves.

There was a tinkle of glass from upstairs. Sherlock and Watson carefully climbed upstairs.

"And where is Mr. Holmes?" asked a gratey voice.

"Well, what's your business?" asked Molly boredly. He couldn't see her face. "You don't seem very friendly," she sniffed.

"I have a pistol aimed at your face," said the man in a low voice. "Should you really be worrying about who I am friendly with?"

"Well, yes – Mr. – I'm sorry, what was your name again?" she asked politely.

"O'Sullivan."

Watson raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

"Mr. O'Sullivan. I suppose you want to pummel him or something similar?" she asked kindly.

"Well, yes," he said, confused.

"I would declare that it is an exercise in inadequacy," said Molly with pomp and air which Mycroft would be proud of. "He is very busy, and he doesn't care much for pummelling. And, he's a spoilt man," she added conspirationally. "Why, only last week, Mrs. Hudson made him chicken – fresh, I tell you – and cooked perfectly. Bertha cooked it herself. Yet, Mr. Holmes did not care for it."

"Didn't you?" sniggered Watson.

"Shut up," hissed Sherlock.

"And why are you telling me this?" asked the angry man.

"Well, why would you want to pummel a man like that?" asked Molly earnestly. "Not worth your time, really, Mr. O'Sullivan. Would you like some tea?"

"No," he said angrily. "I came because I wanted him to apologise for ruining my brother's life. Or beat it out of him."

He could almost sense Molly frowning. "But didn't your brother kidnap your sister?" she asked.

"The bitch had it coming!" he declared. "Going off, running away with a good for nothing sailor. She caused our mother such a heartburn."

"Mr. O'Sullivan, are you happily married?" asked Molly.

Sherlock slapped his hand to his forehead.

"No."

"Wouldn't you like to be?" she prodded.

Molly, what are you doing?

"I s'ppose."

"Then shouldn't you allow your sister the same courtesy?" she added.

"I –"

"Why don't you sit while I make some tea," said Molly. "We shall talk a little and then you can conclude on whether or not you still want Mr. Holmes' head."

Sherlock had had it. He barged in, angry at this man for the way he was extorting Molly. "You," he said to the man.

"Oh, hello Mr. Holmes," said Molly cheerfully. "I just made some tea. Mr. O'Sullivan was waiting for you."

"I know full well why, Molly," said Sherlock angrily.

"Then do sit, Mr. Holmes," she said. "Keep your guests occupied. I will make the tea presently."

This girl was going to be the death of him.

"Interesting maid you have, Holmes," said Watson unable to stop his laughter.

"Do be quiet, Watson."

"No, this was the best afternoon of my life. Having tea with a man who initially wanted you dead and talking to him about his sheep farming business back in the village."

"Good God, you are not going to let me forget this, are you?"

"Not in a million years," said Watson. "And don't pretend you won't miss her."

Sherlock had nothing to say to that.

Molly was done packing. She had said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, and she had already said goodbye to Margery and Bertha. Bertha had been sorry say goodbye, for Molly had been the one to teach her letters. Now the only person left was Mr. Holmes.

What a shock she had given him the day Mr. O'Sullivan had come. He must have been understandably worried, Molly thought guiltily.

No matter, she said to herself. I shall get him a present from Newcastle.

She was feeling very sorry to leave Mr. Holmes, and sorrier still for her replacement, whom Mr. Holmes had instantaneously deemed inadequate. Anne was going to have a difficult time adjusting to Mr. Holmes. Molly hoped that she would persevere just like Molly herself had. Another part of her hoped that she wouldn't for she didn't want Mr. Holmes to become fond of another maid.

She went upstairs, intending to say goodbye.

He was playing again.

Mr. Holmes played when he wanted to think, or when he was in a strange mood. Molly knew that he did not have a case recently, hence he must be in a strange mood.

The high, beautiful music reached Molly's ears and she sighed. She should leave now, she decided. She should leave right now, before she did something quite foolish. She began to turn around when the music stopped.

"Here again, Molly?" he asked.

"I came to say goodbye, sir," she said softly, turning to face him.

"Come closer," he ordered. Molly stepped into the room in full light. She looked at her plain clothes self consciously, wondering if she had worn something wrong.

"You look perfectly fine, Molly," he told her. "I asked you to come here."

Molly looked at him like she was unsure. She was not even sure what her confusion was, but it was very significantly there.

She walked to him, feeling like she was on a tight rope.

"You look well," he decided, when she was but a step away from him. "Your sister will be pleased."

"I doubt it," said Molly.

"Then why are you going?" he asked her.

Because you keep looking at me like that, she wanted to say. Because I cannot stand it.

"Sir, are you alright?" she asked him finally.

"A good question, Miss Hooper," he said. "I wonder why people ask it."

She didn't know what to say, so she tucked a stray strand of brown hair away.

"Leave it," he ordered. "It looks more becoming."

"Why do you care?" she asked, and she found herself whispering.

His hand was on her face, his thumb gently going down the side of her cheek. He let free the strand of hair which had been offendingly pushed behind. With his other hand, he gripped her wrist.

"Why are you leaving?" he asked her, bringing her closer with a jerk.

It was the height of impropriety.

"I intend to return," she told him. She refused to look at his eyes – she absolutely refused –

"Look at me," he ordered.

She looked at him.

There was something alien in his eyes. Something she could not distinguish. They went from grey to green to black entirely – his pupils had dilated.

His lips were coming closer and closer, and Molly panicked. Her panic was rooted in her complete inexperience in kissing. His thumb touched her lips and she felt her mouth dry in anticipation.

He pressed his lips to hers. His hands went into her hair, undoing every perfectly done clip. He was kissing her like a man drowning, and she was the only way to shore. She gasped, and he bit her lip. The sensation was so raw – her lips went a little numb for a minute. Then she was kissing him back, clumsily – she was not half as skilled as him. Their noses bumped and she felt shy and embarrassed by her kissing.

"Do not," he rasped. "Inexperience does not amount to poor performance."

"Sorry," she said breathlessly, not knowing what to think.

He pressed their foreheads together, hands on either side of her face. Molly was breathing deeply, unable to bring her thoughts together. The door downstairs opened, and they heard Mrs. Hudson call: "Hoo-hoo! Molly, I'm home."

"You'd better leave," he told her.

Molly nodded, her movements jerky.

And how, she asked herself and Mr. Holmes silently, was she supposed to concentrate on anything after that?

Put the people out of their misery, said InMollysWildestDreams. Give them a kiss.

Well, I have a penchant for dragging it out a little. It's always a function of putting on the character's clothes and dressing them up in an in-character way before making them do things according to what I think.