Ah yes. Hello, everyone. As usual, good thoughts to people like Tingy who is hilarious with her betaing. Evil thoughts to weirdos like InMollysWildestDreams and TheLittleSparrow who harass for more and more chapters.
Al: incidentally, my beta was literally ready to jump into the screen and slap him. You both would get along.
a fan: Hahahah I kind of pace slowly, where characters are concerned. I promise, resolution is coming!
NJ: Thank you!
Today we have Mary Darby Robinson in the title, with her poem "All Alone." Original line "And weep, that thou art left alone?"
He wasn't sure what had happened, or why it had happened. All he knew was that he was hyper aware of Molly Hooper, and even more so of what she was thinking. He had never tried, actively, to understand what was going on in her head – taking for granted that she was thinking what he needed her to think, and manipulating her harmlessly if she wasn't.
But now, he didn't know what he thought, let alone what Molly Hooper thought. He did not love her, he had decided. There was nothing about her to love – her face was plain, if very well angled. She was a simple girl, with a strong mind (if there really was something to be admired).
And she was going to leave him.
Her term was coming to an end. March would soon come to an end, and after that, April would lead up to her main exams. In May, Molly would have her degree, and a licence to practice. She would have what she needed. She would no long be open to him.
And he was supposed to be in love with this woman.
He was supposed to love a girl whom he could not be with. He was supposed to find her smile enchanting, he was supposed to feel like he wanted to protect her. He was supposed to feel like she was the only one for him.
Absurd.
She was going to leave him. That much was certain. He could confess, he was fond of her. He didn't want her to go. But her certainly wouldn't cry the buckets that lovers ought to. He would not care. He did not need to care.
She would have to realise that he was an unfeeling man. That he could not give her what she wanted, or what the world promised her – and the world didn't promise her much in the first place. She would realise that he was as cruel as reputation had told her, and she would realise that he would not wait for her to realise her aspirations.
And then she would leave him.
It was this thought, more than the others, that made it almost impossible for him to bear her lips on his for longer than a minute. Despite that fact that he did not love her.
"Well, what 'appened?" asked Meena.
"I don't know!" said Molly.
"Come on. Men like him don't just... stop. From what you're telling me, he had a pretty big appetite for it."
Molly rolled her eyes. "No more than I did."
"Li'le minx that you are," said Meena with a grin. She looked around the kitchen. "Are you sure we won't be interrupted?"
"We're talking about – fornicating. I doubt there are spies hearing what we're saying. And everybody else has gone out – Anne's off to town with the neighbour girl, Bertha and Margery are gone somewhere to buy supplies, and Mrs. Hudson is visiting her friend."
"Knowing your fancy arse lover, I think his brother might just send spies into his kitchen," said Meena, looking around. "And why can't you call it fucking, Molly? You've done it enough now."
Molly blushed. "I was born a Lady, you know. People called me 'Miss' and all that? It's hard for me to say – well... fuck."
Meena grinned at her. "Well, 'scuse me 'Miss' Hooper. Very unladylike language being used there. So, what happened?"
"I don't know," despaired Molly.
"What's he doing that is making you uneasy?" asked Meena. "That's more specific, ain't it? Try answering."
"He – well. I don't quite know how to explain it. It's like he cannot bear to kiss me anymore. Not more than a minute, and he does it just to please me. He doesn't mind... fucking. But there's something so much more clinical about it."
Meena frowned.
"It makes me feel like an experiment," finished Molly, with a sinking feeling in her heart.
"Sir, I wonder if you intend to eat today?" she asked him with a smile.
"What? No, no thank you," said Mr. Holmes. He continued reading whatever book he was reading.
Molly swallowed the lump in her throat.
She could just ask him. Say, 'Sherlock, what's wrong?' Or, in his present mood, 'Mr. Holmes, what's wrong?' She could stop the bloody heartache she felt every time she saw him not responding to her. She could ask him what she had done wrong.
She had no words, unfortunately.
Watson was writing on a few papers again.
"I say, Holmes," he said suddenly. "Aren't Molly's final exams in May?"
"Hmm. Oh, yes," said Sherlock. He schooled his heart to stop jumping every time someone said her name.
"Well, isn't she leaving?" asked Watson.
"Yes. Pity," added Sherlock. He was unconvincing.
"Come on. You like her."
"I do. I like Anne, too," said Sherlock.
"Yes, that's the same thing," said Watson.
"They're both maids, aren't they?"
"We both know Molly's your friend. She doesn't come from bad stock, either."
"Well, that's as far as it goes, Watson," said Sherlock cuttingly.
"You should help her find a job, anyway, Holmes," said Watson.
"How am I an authority on this?"
"You have far more connexions, you do admit that. And after your achievement of bringing Mary into your bloody adventures, I'm fairly certain you don't think Molly incapable because she is a woman."
"Far from it, Watson," said Sherlock. "I find her incapable because she is far too prone to attachment."
Outside the door, Molly almost didn't enter with the tea. Almost.
[Scribbles from Molly Hooper's Notebooks, 1895]
Consumption is virtually impossible to cure; however, it leaves very distinctive marks on the body upon autopsy. The lungs have to be thoroughly examined –
I feel like a wound which Mr. Holmes is trying to amputate. That's a very unsophisticated way of speaking of the man, but I have no way of asking for what I want. Particularly if what I want is a little... tenderness?
He was fucking her again, but Molly was responding out of habit. She breathed in and out as he continued to move with her body, and she gasped when she saw stars for the thousandth time.
He rolled off her, and it occurred to Molly that he had not kissed her once throughout. She turned away and tears started off on their own.
She decided to stop dissecting this absolute and complete rubbish. Mr. Holmes was never meant to be something that she could depend on; they had never intended to carry on after she was done with her employ. She didn't need to focus so much on a relationship which was clearly going nowhere.
She couldn't deny that she was hurt, and even lesser that she was upset. But she had to organise herself: her final exams were coming, and she refused to give up her career for a man, and one who was so frustrating.
She had known, for a while now, that she didn't want him to be caring, affectionate, or tender. But this... coldness was late in coming, and unexpected in the way it had hit her. She didn't know why, when or how, and she didn't know what to do about it either.
So she would focus on what she was good at: studying.
"So, 'ow're your preps going?" asked Meena.
"How is your prep going," Molly corrected.
"Whichever. I don't care. Honestly, Molly. 'Ow's it going?"
"It's all right."
"You don't look too well," said Meena.
Molly glanced at her reflection in the glass of the cabinets. She could see what Meena meant; she did look very pale and dark circled. But thanks to her nocturnal cycle due to Mr. Holmes, she was using her lack of sleep very well now. Her notes were long and endless, subject to various revisions.
"Thanks," said Molly in response to Meena.
"That's a nice way to answer," huffed Meena.
"You should see Sarah. She looks like she's been fucking every night of the week."
Meena smiled, but it didn't really reach her eyes.
She was busy; she hadn't noticed his behaviour. Her exams were coming, and he could see her preparing every minute of the day. Anne, Mrs. Hudson and the cook had all agreed to give her all the time possible – hence he barely saw her working. As a result, the cleaning had suffered (Anne wasn't very good at dusting).
She smiled at him tiredly when she saw him, and became busy again. Occasionally, he kissed her just to make her feel like nothing was amiss. He thought it was working, but she did frown once or twice. He hadn't kissed her properly in a while, and by god, he missed it.
He missed the way she would respond to him, as well. He missed the way she sighed in bed, or the way she would smile at him in amusement if she said something particularly clever.
He missed her out of habit, he decided.
[Scribbles from Molly Hooper's Notebooks, 1895]
Dressing cuts, wounds or sores can be done with a solution of carbolic acid and equal parts glycerine. The use of alcohol for cleaning the wound, despite the pain it causes. Amputation, in case the wound begins to fester and degenerate.
"Are you alright, Margaret?" asked Sarah kindly.
"Yes," said Molly. "Nervous."
"Cheer up," she said happily. "This is the last one!"
"I know. What then?" Molly sighed.
"We look for jobs, or we get married."
"Have someone in mind?" asked Molly curiously.
"Yes," said Sarah, and she looked away happily. "Charles proposed."
"I wish you happiness, Sarah," said Molly.
"You too, Margaret. Come for the wedding, please?"
"Wouldn't miss it," said Molly, blinking to avoid the wetness in her eyes.
Molly trudged back to Baker Street, tired out. Her papers had gone very well, she thought. Apart from one or two messes where the identification of diseases was concerned, she felt like she had done a decent job. She was happy, on some level – exhausted, but happy.
As soon as she entered, Mrs. Hudson rushed to her. "There you are, dear!" she exclaimed. Molly smiled wanly. "You're done!" said Mrs. Hudson. Molly couldn't bring herself to smile more.
"Come in," said Anne excitedly. "I made you cake, Molly!"
"You are a dear," said Molly with yet another smile.
"And now, you must have a chat with us for a while," said Mrs. Hudson. "It has been too long, really, Molly. It does not do for a young girl like yourself to bury herself so completely in books."
"Mrs. Hudson –" said Molly. "I'm so sorry, but I am really tired. I would like to rest, really."
Mrs. Hudson looked at Molly's pale face, her sunken eyes. "Yes, dear, of course. Go in, at once. Go get some sleep."
As soon as she entered her room, Molly began to cry quietly into her pillow. She was so tired.
She heard him as he came in. She had always known subconsciously, when he was coming home. Even when she was busy with her exams.
He went upstairs, and Molly followed him silently.
"Congratulations," he said. She could almost detect a bitterness, but she felt like she had imagined it. "You are soon not going to be under my employ."
Molly didn't say anything.
What was she supposed to ask for? His forgiveness, for a crime she didn't know she had committed? His love? His friendship? His anger?
She did not want much. She did not want him to pledge himself to her. All she wanted was a kiss.
"Well, Miss Hooper?" he asked in his clinical voice. "What would you like as reward?"
She had never felt more like the whore she would be labelled, if anyone found out about... this.
She was so terribly desperate to have him back. "A kiss?" she asked softly. He did not say anything, his back still to her. She reached out – her hands on his shoulders. He shuddered at her touch, and Molly ignored it. She brushed her fingers across his lips, remembering the way they were shaped. His lips parted; Molly felt that yearning again.
She was acting entirely on instinct. She did not know how to ask for this; she did not know what she was asking. He did not stop her.
She reached for him, kissing him. Her lips parted gently, and she did not use her tongue at all. His arms came around her – this time, Molly shuddered. This felt so familiar – so correct.
Her breathing came short. Surprisingly, so did his.
She did not undo his clothing fast. Every button was done away with slowly, the cravat gotten rid off eventually. She continued to kiss him in the way that she wanted him for tonight. He gasped – he was responding.
This time, they were both on uncharted waters. Molly moved with instinct – he did the same. There was no urgency, nor languidness. There was a question on Molly's side, yet, it was not being answered by him.
They finished, and Molly touched his face again. They were lying on the couch, her body sweaty. His arms were around her – Molly decided that she had nothing to lose.
"Mr. Holmes – what's – what's wrong?"
He did not say anything – however, his body tensed. Molly felt cold – down her spine and till her toes.
"What?" he asked her. His arm abandoned her.
"Mr. Holmes, you have not looked me in the eye for months now," she pointed out.
"And is it my duty to look you in the eye?" he asked her cruelly. "Do I owe it to you?"
"No, sir," she said. The titles were putting spaces between them, she realised. "I thought we were friends?"
"One does not befriend their maids," said Sherlock. He got up from the couch. "You know that, Molly."
Molly felt like crying. "Please – Mr. Holmes. You and I both know that's a lie."
"What is?"
"I do not want us to part enemies."
"And what do you want, Miss Hooper?" asked Sherlock. "What do you want? You want kindness? Happiness? A family? Affection? Love? We both knew that it was impossible."
"Yes," said Molly. Her tears began to come out in earnest. "But we told ourselves that we would not let it matter."
"Then this is exactly what I am doing, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock coldly. "I am allowing it not to matter. I am allowing this to be exactly what it was: and experiment."
"You cannot mean that!" said Molly, getting up. "You cannot!"
"Well, what did you expect? Did you want to be part of this with the expectation that we would fall in love? That we would eventually get married?"
"I did not want that!" Molly yelled. Her cheeks were stained. "N-Never."
"Then what? Have I not treated you exactly as I would a maid? Have I ever made you feel lesser?"
"You are right now, Mr. Holmes!" Molly cried. "Please – stop."
He threw a blanket at her as he wore his robe. Molly wrapped it around herself.
"This is me, Molly," he said coldly. "I do not feel. I do not marry women I fuck, or Irene Adler would have been considerably safer. Did you not know this?"
Molly pushed her hair, sitting on the couch again. "I went into this knowing that."
"You knew that I do not love, didn't you? Yet you expected."
"I expected nothing!" said Molly, her eyes red. "I expected nothing, I assure you. I was already in love with you when I went into this, and I did not expect you to reciprocate."
He had frozen.
"You did not know, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, her voice watery. "Did you not know that I loved you? That I cared to be with you? That I went into this knowing that I would never get the same?"
"You loved an idea," he told her. "And image. A mirage. A shadow on the wall."
Molly laughed without humour. "I loved a man who liked his books put in the organisation I had made for him. I loved a man who solved murders. I loved a man who did not love, but did try to care. I loved a man who had the decency to kiss me well. I loved a man who did not eat, who would not sleep – and who was neglectful of me when he was in the middle of a mystery. I loved him knowing this, and despite this. I did not expect a love story from you, Sherlock. But I did expect courtesy."
Sherlock did not say anything.
"Perhaps I did love an image," she said. "Perhaps. But you cannot deny that while I did love an image of you, I did love one version of you."
Again, he said nothing. Instead, he walked away from her.
"You better leave," he said as he went to his bedroom.
"Consider this my notice, 'Mr. Holmes'."
He turned around abruptly. "You knew what you were getting into," he said, approaching her. "You knew. You had to leave. You fell in love with a man like me, and you knew."
"I fell in love with a man like you, yes," Molly breathed. Her eyes were still teary, and it did not help in showing how upset she was. "I did not account for the same man hurting me this way. Of all the people I thought would hurt me. And you did it out of loneliness."
"I," he exploded. "Am not lonely, Molly Hooper."
She leaned in further. "How would you know?"
And with that, she left.
[Scribbles from Molly Hooper's Notebooks, 1895]
What have I done?
Dear Molly,
We would be very pleased to have you over the summer! John and I have spoken about it and we agree that it is for the best. You can see if you find someone you want to marry, or choose to take up a job. We are very happy that you are coming.
Of course, you really ought not to address letters to both of us, sister dear. We were both operating under the assumption that the other did not know of our correspondence. Well, I was operating with the knowledge of John's correspondence with you – however, he did not know of mine. It was very surprisingly for him, and you really ought to know better. Husbands and wives have endless little secrets from each other. Why, sometimes, a whole marriage can go by without one knowing if the other loves you.
Thomas is eager to see you, of course. He has grown very much, and now will even endeavour to remember you. You should visit more often to engrave yourself in his memory. Heaven only knows that John's sisters do – and I'd like Thomas to have a little from my side as well, what with Our mother and father both gone.
John would like to add that he wants you to continue with your career, and insists that you cannot stay for too long – unless, of course, you do get married. Well, either way – I am just pleased (which is very shocking, I must say) that you are coming. To celebrate the end of your education, we will buy you a new gown.
And now I must go, Molly. Write soon, tell us of all the details of your coming. We will be waiting for your letter.
With love,
Elizabeth Ashford
"Dear, must you leave so soon?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "You could stay a while, get a job."
"Lizzie is pregnant again, Mrs. Hudson," said Molly. "I can apply from Newcastle itself. It gives me some time with her before my days with holidays become numbered."
"Well, I wish you didn't have to go," said Mrs. Hudson.
"Me too," said Anne. "Molly, why'd you have to leave?"
Molly just smiled. "Don't get in too much trouble, Anne."
"What with you gone?" asked Anne with a sigh. "No, I don't see it happening."
"Well," said Molly. "I must leave now. Thank you – for everything – Mrs. Hudson."
She hugged Mrs. Hudson tightly. Mrs. Hudson looked like she was a little bit in tears. Molly would be too, but she hadn't cried in a while. Her eyes needed a little rest.
He was watching her leave. Watson was coming in – he stopped to talk to Molly. She smiled at him, and Sherlock felt his throat constricting.
Watson finally stopped talking to her, and came upstairs. "Well, your maid is leaving. Actually lasted two years, I'm amazed."
Sherlock grunted. Molly got into the carriage, and it trundled away. Just as it left, he caught a glimpse of a wisp of brown hair through the window.
I promise, I have happy endings in mind :)
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