August 1818

Molly turned this way and that in front of the mirror, worrying her lip. 'It's so extravagant, my lady. Surely there's something a little less…' She trailed off and looked dubiously at her guardian's reflection over her shoulder.

The Countess placed her hands on Molly's shoulders and shook her gently, grinning. 'You look lovely, Molly. Indulge me for tonight.'

'If you're sure,' Molly sighed and acquiesced, though her brow remained furrowed. The gown was a rich burgundy trimmed with satin and tied back under her bust with a simple ribbon. The capped sleeves and wide collar were studded with soft pearls and a single pearl pendant rested against her clavicle. Ivory gloves went to her the middle of her upper arms. Janine had already come in and done up Molly's long hair in an elaborate braid and wrapped it in a bun-shape high on her head; tendrils of hair escaped, softly framing her face.

As she stared back at herself, she couldn't help feeling that she was a child playing dress-up in her mother's gowns.

A knock on the door interrupted her musings. Lady Westminster opened the door to let Edwards enter.

'The carriage is ready, my lady.'


'You're going, Holmes, and that's all there is to it!'

Sherlock didn't even have time to open his mouth in protest before Watson tossed his coattails at him. He spat out the fabric and glowered at the doctor. 'Why?'

'It is Miss Hooper's first ball, her introduction to society, and as her friend, you need to be there for her!' Watson huffed.

Sherlock pouted at the clothes in his arms. 'But there will be so many people there,' he whined.

Rolling his eyes, Watson moved behind him and began pushing him toward his bedroom. 'Go! You're already an hour late.'

'Fine.' In defeat, the detective cast a deadly glare at his friend and slammed the door. Tugging off his dressing gown, he shouted through the door. 'But I refuse to be happy about it!'

From the other side, Watson rubbed his temple and grumbled, 'When are you ever?'


He knew this was a bad idea. Sherlock shrank back into the corner and tried to find Miss Hooper in the throng of people. He had spent the past decade avoiding these blasted things. If he wasn't being flirted with by the bevy of women and their mothers looking for a wealthy match, the men were trying to one up the Great Detective and it all inevitably ended with them angry and Sherlock ducking out to avoid being attacked.

So far, he'd avoided both, but it was only a matter of time based on the looks he was receiving from people passing by.

He had very nearly given up seeing Miss Hooper at all until a flash of familiar brown hair caught his eye. He straightened and smiled in triumph when he recognised her as she excused herself and slipped out onto the veranda.

He automatically followed her, nudging people out of his way without thought. Finally breaking free into the cool night air, he took a moment to watch her as she leaned against the railing, her back to him, and took a centring breath.

Her gown was an alluring red with white lace decorating the décolletage and draped over her curves in a more womanly fashion than any of her other dresses. He found himself swallowing nervously as his gaze travelled up the curve of her neck, the milky white skin flawless in the moonlight. His mouth went dry and his palms were suddenly slick.

Affection wasn't a foreign emotion to him. He loved his mother and father, and at times even Mycroft, and was deeply fond of Watson and his wife. But what he was finally starting to admit he felt toward Molly was much different, it was a conglomeration of an entire range of emotions, from protectiveness to shyness, from comfort to desire.

Desire was not a strange sentiment, either; he was a functioning male, after all. But his desire for Miss Hooper went beyond flesh. He wanted to be with her constantly, to see her eyes dance with laughter whenever he set fire to an experiment, to hear her argue in favour of those ridiculous fiction books she adored, and to just be in her presence to calm his racing mind.

Some might call it love, but Sherlock would not quantify it as such. Not yet, at least. But his natural curiosity was beginning to override his fears and he found he was more than willing to let the sentiment take him where it may.

Hiding his nervousness behind an indifferent mask, he clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat.


The loud chatter and throngs of people pressing in was beginning to overwhelm Molly. She politely smiled at the conversation around her, all the while desperately seeking an escape without causing undue rudeness. She was endlessly grateful to the Holmeses for their kindness and generosity, but right now, her first ball where she had been introduced to the ton, she suddenly felt every ounce the ugly duckling trying desperately to fit in and hating herself for it. She was confident in herself and all her eccentricities. But looking around at the beautiful women twirling by, their hair coiffed to perfection and their gowns floating about them, Molly felt she absolutely faded into the wallpaper, despite her beautiful dress. The pins pulling her hair back in an elaborate, curled updo were beginning to give her a headache, and she feared the possibility of someone asking her to dance. The Holmeses had given her lessons, of course, but to dance in front of these people!

The very thought made her feel faint.

'If you'll pardon me,' she interrupted the conversation, curtsying and hastily removing herself from the room. People jostled into her as she tried to find an exit. Finally breaking out onto the veranda, she took in a deep, shaking breath of the cool night air.

The raucous laughter and music faded as she leaned against the railing and tried to relax. She did not want to disappoint her guardians, especially not after all they had done for her. She loved them dearly, but did not think they would understand just how out of place she felt in their world.

A sudden loneliness swept over her. Her burdens were hers to bear alone; her father was falling into the clutches of his illness and did not need to worry about his daughter and her trifles. She had no friends to speak of and from the disdain in the gazes of the women here tonight, she would not likely make any.

And the one person she wanted to be here most of all hadn't come. Though, to be fair, a social gathering would be the last place she'd expect Sherlock Holmes to be without a nice murder on the side. But she would have liked to have one more familiar face among the sea of aristocratic strangers.

A sad smile crossed her face. Their odd friendship was perfect in so many ways. Experiments, arguments, bickering over proper lab etiquette, and the excited stumbling over each other as they discussed popular and emerging scientific discoveries. But as the summer had passed, Molly found herself feeling something deeper than friendship for the detective. Never having been in love before, she wasn't sure, but it definitely felt like all the books had described it: the yearning for his presence, the desire flooding her body when he looked at her, the tumbling in her abdomen when he smiled, the joy that overwhelmed her when he confided in her.

But she was realistic above all else and Sherlock Holmes was not the marrying kind. So, she forced down her romantic notions and took a deep, cleansing breath.

Suddenly, someone cleared their throat behind her.

Gasping, she whirled about to find Mr Holmes standing in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. His suit was tailored tight to his body and his curls were left unruly, bouncing around his head as he stepped closer, the moonlight playing over his face. Molly's heart raced when his eyes flashed in the light, locked on her.

'I didn't consider you to be one for balls, Mr Holmes.' she commented when he made no move to greet her.

'Normally, I make every attempt to avoid the damn things. But it being your introduction to the ton, I felt I should attend.' Was it a trick of the light or were the tips of his ears dark?

Molly bit her lip to hide her pleased smile. 'Then I must thank you for your sacrifice. I'm sure there are plenty of other things you could be doing instead of suffering here on my account. Setting fire to the laboratory, for example.'

He smiled briefly before sobering, looking away for a moment. 'I must admit something, Miss Hooper.'

She gulped. 'Oh?'

'Yes, you see, I have an ulterior motive for coming tonight.'

Molly waited with bated breath, her heart pounding.

He inhaled deeply… 'It's the dancing. I've always loved to dance, since I was a child. And I couldn't bear to pass up another opportunity to do so, even if it meant dealing with the ton.'

A rush of disappointment came over her. Forcing a small laugh, Molly looked down and twisted her fingers together. 'I admit, I would never have guessed.'

'I say this because…' he swallowed and his gaze darted about. '...I was wondering if you would like to… dance. With me, that is.'

Molly inhaled sharply, her cheeks flushing. He stepped into her space and she tilted her head back to look up at him.

'Do you, Miss Hooper?' His face was devoid of emotion, but as Molly searched for… something to convince her of his sincerity, she caught the hesitance in his eyes, the slightly lost look of a little boy looking for acceptance.

A smile creased her face and an answering, relieved grin broke across his. 'I would love to.'

To her surprise, instead of leading her back into the dance hall, he held out his hand. With a smile, she slipped her hand into his and he immediately swept her into a gentle waltz right there on the veranda.

'Oh,' she exclaimed breathlessly and tried to calm her suddenly racing heart. Mr Holmes chuckled as she stumbled the first few steps, but then she easily fell into the pattern, not even hesitating to trust his leading.

'You are a natural,' he commented after a few minutes.

Molly blushed under his praise. 'Thank you, Mr Holmes.'

A furrow appeared in his brow and their steps became more lethargic. 'I… think perhaps it's time you called me just 'Sherlock',' he said softly.

Molly inhaled sharply and they slowly came to a stop. His eyes were shadowed in the dark, but the moonlight danced across his face. He looked worn and vulnerable, no longer the cold, heartless detective. No, the Sherlock Holmes before her was now just a man. Perhaps a man who felt something for her… like she felt for him.

Her pounding heart, Molly took a deep breath. 'Only if you call me Molly.'

His fearful expression gave way to a beaming smile. 'Very well, Molly.'

Hearing her name in his deep, gravelly baritone sent a shiver down Molly's spine. Sherlock's smile deepened knowingly when he felt her reaction and she lifted her chin defiantly.

'I thought we were dancing, Sherlock.' He blushed at his name falling from her lips. She raised an eyebrow, biting back her laughter as he blushed darker when he realised they had indeed stopped dancing altogether. 'Or have you suddenly forgotten how to?'

'Entirely too cheeky,' he mumbled fondly as he began guiding them about the veranda once more.


Timothy glanced out the window and grinned at the sight of his son dancing with Molly on the veranda, shy, smitten smiles on their faces. He turned and sent his wife a subtle wink across the room. She smiled indulgently before returning to her conversation, but with a slightly smug air about her.

Timothy shook his head fondly, before returning to his own conversation, puffing his pipe heartily.