Ch. 9 Director Molly Hooper
As far as panic rooms go, the bathroom was as decent a place as anywhere else in the Holmes Theater. After collapsing into a puddle of nerves, Molly had taken up residence on the toilet lid of stall number three, her director's book held tightly in the coils of her fingers, grounding her to this moment in time.
She'd come into the theater with a smile, confidence and poise engulfing her in a happy glow that morning. She'd caught just four hours of sleep after having thrown herself into the deconstruction and analysis of Pygmalion. She'd been proud of what she'd accomplished and thought, with swelling pride, that of course she could do this. She was a stage manager—the wonder woman position of the theater. She could handle the directorial process. Then she'd walked into the main auditorium and saw the stage burning under the harsh fluorescent lights and promptly walked back out the door. No screaming. No fussing. But she'd made a beeline for the women's restroom and had yet to come out.
Crippling doubt had settled into her mind and she could not shake it off. She wasn't about to run out of the theater and leave them empty handed. She followed through with all of her responsibilities. She always had. It's just that this one had caught her by surprise and left her no room to make herself comfortable in the role of Director. Two weeks was all she had and the of next week would be spent on tech work. How was she supposed to unravel Tom's mistakes in such a condensed time period?
The bathroom door squeaked open. The faint click of boots walking across the tiled floor was heard before coming to a halt in front of her stall door.
"Molly, we've looked all over for you." Mary's bubbly cadence soothing into a soft rumble of sympathy as she spoke. "You have to come out at some point, you know."
"I know." Molly mumbled drawing her legs in closer, declining to open the stall for the theater manager.
Mary's boots scuffled across the floor as she took to her knees and popped her head under the door to stare up at her friend on the commode.
"You are not directing a national treasure like Doctor Who, Molly," She said launching into pep talk mode while trying to not let her face touch the ground. The cleaners were good, but it was still a toilet. "This is Pygmalion. A text you know by heart with actors who you've already worked with at a theater you love. You can do this."
"But what if I don't do it well?" Molly squirmed in her seat as her words tumbled in a mad rush. "I mean, so much depends upon this show and it going well—"
"Better you than some bloke who was trying to ruin us anyways, right?" Mary raised an eyebrow at her friend and then smiled. "Now come out of the stall so we can go announce it to the cast." She cursed her way back up into a standing position and went over to the sinks to wash her hands.
Molly remembered when she was a child how she sometimes felt she could disappear entirely from anyone's perception by just remaining perfectly still.
"I'm not leaving without you, Molly," Mary said breaking through the new director's thoughts. "Even if I have to drag you out of that stall myself, you are coming with me."
Childhood magic dashed by the steely resolve of one theater manager, Molly thought with a sigh as she stood up and opened the stall door. She smoothed down the front of her jumper and khakis while Mary smiled at her.
"Come on you." She looped her arm through Molly's as the pair of them walked out into the auditorium where the cast and Mycroft stood awaiting their arrival.
"Perfect timing." The tall, slender man smiled in such a way that made him look pained before turning back to the cast and crew. "We have a small announcement to make. There have been some changes made in the directorial approach to this piece. Namely…" Mycroft gripped his umbrella handle tighter. "Mr. Reeves will no longer be working with you all."
"What?" Lily shrieked while the rest of the cast murmured and cried out in alarm.
"What will we do?" Helen-Louise Wagner, who played Professor Higgins' mother in the play, fanned herself as she fluttered down into her seat as though near the point of collapse.
"Quiet." Mycroft commanded in a firm voice. "We have already found a replacement."
"Who on earth would take up directing a show for only two weeks?" Philip looked scandalized by the thought.
"Why, Ms. Hooper of course." Mycroft stated the announcement as an obvious fact with the upmost seriousness though Molly noted he was smirking with amusement when the cast's mouths dropped open like herrings on the line as they appraised her. "She's the only one who has intimate knowledge of the show and can help you all get back on the right path so this production can have some modicum of decency about it."
Voices of elation and panic broke out all at once. Accusations of "she's not ready", "are you stupid", and "that's not her job" clashed with supported appraisals of "she's perfectly capable", "there is no one else", and "Ms. Hooper is the epitome of professionalism". The room started spinning in Molly's brain as insecurity bubbled to the surface. She shut her eyes trying to block out all the sounds around her until she finally yelled: "Enough!"
Everyone's arguments came to a dead stop as they all stared at Molly who was quaking like an autumn leaf and had turned a shade of beet read from embarrassment over the attention she was receiving.
"I know that I am not anyone's first choice for a director." She forced herself not to stammer and stood up straighter. "But the point is that we don't have any other way to go through the production. I'm not going to change the entire play, but there are some scenes that definitely need to be worked on." She took another deep breath. The shaking of her hands grew and she clutched the binder to her chest tighter to keep herself in control. "If we don't make this work we might as well just close up shop now because there is no guarantee that Moriarty's company is going to take a dive after the Moran scandal. He's still our competition and he's currently winning."
A chill settled in the air as the truth of the statement washed over everyone in the room.
"I can do this," Molly said looking at each of the actors in the face. "Trust me."
Quiet echoed through the auditorium as the actors shuffled from foot to foot, looking at one another and then at her until Greg Lestrade stepped forward.
"Molly has never let us down before." He walked away from the actors and placed an arm around her shoulders. "And moreover, she's right. The show's got to go on and I don't want that bastard Moriarty to get the satisfaction of us being defeated two weeks before opening. So what do you say?"
No one moved to speak for a long minute. All of them were tongue tied until Philip Anderson stepped forward.
"Well—" He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. "She's not Sherlock Holmes—" Sally elbowed him fiercely in the side and he wheezed as he doubled over in pain at the blow. "However, that might be a good thing in this case."
"We're in." Sally looked at her cast-mates. Her dark eyes hard as granite. "Anyone who says otherwise is just a twat." She aimed her comment specifically at Lily who was fuming over the announcement, but ultimately swallowed her anger and gave a nod of ascent. The rest of the actors quickly followed up their agreement after her.
"Thank you." Molly breathed a sigh of relief.
"Now that that's settled—" Mycroft turned on his heel as he exited the building. "Get to work. There's a show to put on."
"You can do this." Mary pulled her friend into a hug and Molly felt her insecurities recede to the corners of her mind. She smiled when she pulled back from Mary before flipping through the book to the top of the final act.
"What now boss?" Greg smiled at her cheekily while rubbing his hands together, greedy for new work.
"Start at the top of Act V please." Molly commanded in a soft voice. "We have a lot of work to do."
To say that the road from being a stage manager to a director had been easy for Molly was not true. She'd had more than a few moments where she had felt unprepared and awkward. Trying to figure out who responded best to what kind of direction and notes had been challenging, but she knew she didn't want to be like Tom (who tended to be indecisive or even insensitive at times) or Sherlock (who goaded actors into performances through insults or harsh words). Molly was a fair, middle ground as far as directors were concerned: stable, decisive, and kind while also knowing when to put her foot down. She'd made her own notes as to where she found the production lacking and had built upon that to keep it from derailing into Tom's trite, ignorant direction.
The ending had been the first thing Molly had rectified, explaining that between her research and the writer's own views that the ending was not meant to include some grand romantic gesture. That this woman had complete control over whether she'd accept life with a grumpy professor (if she wanted it) or with some sweet faced youth like Freddy. Yet Molly made it clear to Sally that Eliza's character did not have to make a choice like that at all.
"She's brilliant." Molly had said. "She has this incredible gift that Higgins even says rivals his own. She could outsmart him by leagues and bounds which means she is the designer of her own fate."
Sally had been more than grateful that Molly had given her the range to play Eliza how she should be: strong, brilliant, and above all else, funny. Social commentary aside the show was hysterical and Molly along with the cast found they were more delighted with the script than they had been in a long time. Their confidence was only enhanced, however, when the papers began to start targeting James Moriarty with more fervor.
It was the last tech day before opening night. They were under show conditions that day and Molly had spent most of the earlier afternoon into the evening prepping for their final technical rehearsal. There was an air of excitement in everything people did and though it had everything to do with new show jitters, it also had everything to do with what appeared to be the end of James Moriarty's company.
Apparently, Sebastian Moran had not been as careful in his records as he thought and even though it had been found was just a crack in Moriarty's façade it was enough to put a complete end to his running of My Fair Lady until further inquiries could be made. It was just the kind of opening the rest of his frightened underlings needed to turn against their leader. Moriarty would go down at the hands of his own people and Molly knew it was Sherlock they had to thank for that.
It made her wonder if he'd return soon. Perhaps he'd be able to come to the opening of the show. After all, surely there was little else he could do with such a crumbling company. Then again, if Moriarty was now in a corner with nowhere left to go he could be an even bigger danger, lashing out to drag things down with him. It was that line of thinking that had made Molly request a ride home instead of her taking her usual walk and tube ride back to her flat.
When she made it, safe and sound, with only the small inkling that she was being watched, Molly allowed her exhaustion to take over as she went through the motions of locking up for the night. She'd been too comfortable though and was startled when her side table lamp turned on to reveal Sherlock sitting there on the soda, watching her with a curious expression his face.
"Sherlock, please stop doing that. You're going to scare me to death one of these days." Molly felt her breaths come out in harsh gasps as her heart pounded inside her chest.
He did not respond, remaining seated and detached in his facial features. It steered Molly's focus completely onto him, as her initial annoyance was overtaken by worry.
"Sherlock, are you alright?" Molly stepped closer to him, noting how he tracked her movements. His eyes roved over her in a way that she recognized as him deducing her. She hadn't seen him that focused in a long time and when she reached out to touch him on the cheek he stiffened as though he'd just been burned. Molly's hand receded back to her side, feeling rejection enter her heart, as he looked at her.
"If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?" Instead of rejoicing that his mission was coming to an end he appeared terrified and Molly recognized the cry for help he was silently begging for.
"What do you need?" She spoke without hesitation.
He stood up. His dark presence was overwhelming in her cheery home. His blue eyes stared down at her with an intimate mixture of fear and pure need as he breathed out a single word: "You."
