So now from Molly's perspective, the morning after the night before.

The doubt crept in with the early morning sunlight, slipping with ease past the open curtains.

Molly ignored it for a moment, watching the man beside her instead, peaceful and unguarded in sleep. It was a glimpse of a life with him, waking to his steady heartbeat beneath her palm, and his curls brushing her forehead from where he had tipped his head towards her during the night. It was a life she wanted, and one she believed he was offering her, despite the wealth of other men who would have spent the night as they had, only to abandon her in the morning.

All she had to do was close her eyes again, burrow into his side, and pretend that the daylight had not restored all the reason that she had disregarded the night before.

Instead, she eased herself from his side, and pulled on her nightgown, her robe, her bare feet skimming the clothes that she had taken off him, and her heart aching with remembrance.

He murmured something in his sleep, and she was afraid that he would stir, find her there at the foot of his bed, and deduce from her guilty expression that she was committing the very worst crime against him.

She deserved to be exposed like that, Molly thought bitterly, hating herself for creeping away like a coward, unable to look him in the eye and explain herself properly.

She was weak, just as Jasmine and her grandmother and her colleagues and her teachers had always said; they had known her better than she had known herself, had seen through her facade of bravery to the fear that lurked beneath.

Because Molly was terrified; scared of the life that she would have to sacrifice in order to build a new one with him. The job that she loved, the independence that she had fought for, the family who had protected her when all the security in the world had been torn away: all washed away in an instant for Lord William Sherlock Holmes.

She was having trouble breathing, blood rushing through her ears, and her heart hammered so insistently that she was sure he would wake from the force of it. The air was heavy with the scent of them, and bile rose in her throat, sending her desperately for the door, but with enough presence of mind to close it with the quietest of clicks behind her.

She reached out gratefully for the wall in the hallway, bracing herself against it until enough oxygen returned to her, although a mild lightheadedness still remained.

The house was silent around her, and she estimated that she still had some hours before the servants would begin to rouse her family. This was fortunate, as she found herself incapable of returning hastily to her room, as if some invisible force were attempting to bind her to the bedchamber that she had just vacated.

How desperately she wanted to return to it, ensconce herself back in his arms and make a secret promise between herself and the heavens to never leave them again. All the reasons that had seemed solid enough to coax her away were becoming slighter by the minute, replaced by the firm conviction that she loved him, and all else could hang.

Molly stopped dead in the hallway, and reminded herself of whom it was that she was walking away from. Sherlock, the man who had so captivated her that first day on the train, accepting her career and believing her worthy of his attention. She felt again the crushing despair that seeing him later in her grandfather's ballroom had caused, and recalled how the coming days had shown her that she would do anything to be able to switch places with her cousin.

Yet, here was her opportunity, and she was walking away?

'Stupid,' she scolded herself, whipping around and retracing her steps with light, agile feet. Sherlock was offering himself to her, and she would regret for eternity turning him down.

'Disappointing.'

But the unfamiliar voice gave her pause, and she halted, turning to face the man who emerged from the shadows.

'So close to the correct choice, Dr Hooper, and yet not quite close enough.'

'Lord Mycroft?' Molly replied uncertainly, Sherlock's brother being the last person she had expected to see fully dressed this early in the morning.

'No need to be coy, Molly,' she flinched at the use of her given name. 'There can be only one explanation for finding you out of bed at this hour.' He smiled then, but it did not reach his eyes, and she was wary for the first time of this seemingly unassuming man.

'On the contrary, I have little idea of what-'

'Sherlock is not capable of sentiment, Miss Hooper,' he interrupted briskly. 'I say this for your benefit as much as his, before things get even further out of control.'

'Thank you for your concern,' Molly intoned icily, although every word that Mycroft spoke sent another spike of doubt to her heart. 'But I am well able to look after myself.'

'Perhaps,' the smile was more of a grimace now, and she took relief from the fact that he was just as uncomfortable as she was. 'But it is difficult to judge when one does not have all the facts.'

'I don't understand-'

'Did he tell you why I arranged this match? You assumed it was to secure his happiness? Carry on the family line?'

She shrugged, both thoughts having crossed her mind at some point or another.

'Punishment,' Mycroft corrected simply. 'I am forcing Sherlock to marry your cousin because he does not deserve the adventure or excitement that an, if not equal then better match such as yourself would offer him.'

Again, she did not understand, bridling slightly at the implication that she was merely a better option than her cousin, rather than a partner for Sherlock in her own right.

'My brother is an addict, Doctor Hooper. Tobacco, alcohol, laudanum, opium; even the thrill of his cases is a kind of high for him, and the puzzle you present is no exception. I do not deny that you evoke certain feelings in him, feelings that are exciting and novel for him now; but he will, inevitably, get bored, and you, my dear, will suffer.'

Molly rocks back on her heels as if he has physically struck her, and the sympathy in his eyes is the worst blow of all. He does not want to hurt her, she can see it in his expression: but he believes that he should warn her, as Sherlock's brother, as someone who has seen all of his worst addictive cycles.

The drug abuse is new information to her, but it is not a surprise, considering what a burden it must be for him to have to think so deeply, about so much, and with so little escape. To think of herself as just one such escape evokes the deepest, most unspeakable pain, and tears brim in her eyes, much as she does not want to cry in front of this man.

'I love him,' is all she can say, and she traces the flash of regret that crosses Mycroft's face.

'An easy mistake, Miss Hooper, believe me.' And they stand there, in the corridor, staring at each other in silence, having reached a mutual understanding in spite of it all.

He did not say more; he could see that he did not have to, so he turned and left her, respectfully, to the turmoil of her thoughts.

Sherlock's closed bedroom door sat beside her, in reaching distance, but the weight of the decision was too much, and she sank to the floor, silent tears absorbed by the carpet below.

xxxxxx

Later, much later, when she had boarded the train and was almost halfway to London, she realised that she had not left word as to where she was going.

The face of her grandfather, worry etched over his worn features, swam into the forefront of her mind, and she cried anew with the guilt of it. It was too late to go back, and undo the pain that she had left behind her, but she did not yet regret her decision to flee.

The words of Mycroft Holmes echoed in her ear, and she trusted the concrete fact that they placed behind her own immaterial fears.

He would have got bored of her, as all men who met meek Molly Hooper eventually did, and then where would she have been?

Without her job, abandoned by her family and the man she loved, and even more unhappy than she knew herself to be at that present moment.

Molly glanced over at the other passenger in her compartment, a kind looking old woman reading a novel, wondering how different it could have been if she had been her companion for the journey up.

The woman must have felt her gaze, because she looked up, smiling at Molly with maternal concern, and tilting her head questioningly.

But a shaky smile was all Molly could muster before she returned her attention to the view from the window; aware that not even kindly old ladies would be able to understand the mess that she had got herself into.

A/N: A year's worth of writer's block and suddenly a burst of inspiration. Molly was determined to have her say, and I hope her reasons seem somewhat justified! Of course, the story does not end here, and I'll try to be back as soon as I can with the next installment. Until then, Merry Christmas (again), and thank you so much for reading.