So it took me forever to find a suitable house that Mycroft and Anthea would live in, and then the question of course, where would they live. West Sussex is usually my choice of English countryside for Mythea. The house is based on Wray Castle (which is located in Cumbria, in the North West of England. (I recommend looking it up, it's crazy beautiful).
The train to her brother in-law's country estate was a crowded affair. Although the coachman and footman had done their best to protect her from the crowds, she still felt like a tinned sardine, which wasn't their fault. Molly knew very well she was irritable, and her condition wasn't helping any. Not that she was enormous at this particular stage of her pregnancy, but she was terribly sensitive to people standing so near. The child was her one last reminder of Sherlock. If anything were to happen, this baby would be her consolation. She was fiercely protective at the moment. Sensing her discomfort, the coachman jogged ahead, securing a first class seat for her, and making sure it was empty of passengers.
Once seated, the footman stayed at her side, plying her with biscuits and tea, not saying a word. Upon closer inspection of the footman (or rather, peeling off the terribly fake looking mutton-chops and mustache), she realized it was Wiggins, one of Sherlock's Irregulars.
"Don't be mad, Missus," Wiggins implored. "Mr. Holmes asked before he left I look after you specially. It weren't nobody else but me he asked, excepting I think Rosie snuck into the baggage car."
"Rosie?" Molly frowned.
"Little girl Mr. Holmes found few years back. She's twelve now, all grown up."
"Hardly," Molly shook her head. "Go and fetch her, please, Wiggins. She needn't ride alone, and certainly not in the baggage car."
Wiggins was loath to leave her until the coachman returned, but he finally did, not bothering to give the driver an explanation as to his missing facial hair. The poor coachman looked bewildered to Molly, who could only shrug.
Wiggins returned with the child who looked far from the age of twelve.
"She is near seven, I'd wager," Molly said as soon as Wiggins returned with Rosie.
"I'm not!" the girl insisted. "I'm small is all. I was born 1875, in spring!"
"Mister Holmes thought she was little too," Wiggins answered with a grin. The coachman, meanwhile, looked at the child with some degree of alarm and confusion.
"Never fear, Mr. Brown," Molly said, seeing the driver's expression. "My former husband had a little troop of helpers, perfectly harmless. This is Mr. Wiggins, and this is Rosie."
"There will be work about the house for Mr. Wiggins," Mr. Brown said at last. "But what can a little girl do on a great estate? The Holmeses do not entertain in the winter time, at least they shan't be this winter on account of…" he trailed off, unsure how to put that the family was in mourning.
"She will be my companion," Molly answered stoutly.
"What, a little girl?" Mr. Brown asked, baffled.
"Certainly." Molly answered. "I imagine in a few months' time I shan't be able to do very much walking, Rosie shall be my helper, won't you, Rosie?"
"I can't fix hair or the like, but I can read," the child answered.
"There you see?" Molly turned to Mr. Brown. "She and I shall get along perfectly well."
"What will Lord Holmes say?" Brown wanted to know.
"Leave him to me," Molly replied, and patted the seat for Rosie to sit beside her.
Hart Castle, West Sussex
Hart Castle was recently purchased, to society's great shock, by Lord Holmes for his new wife. Even more shocking than his purchase of the castle, was that his wife was an actress. Most people assumed it was because he did not like to put such a woman in his family's estate. Mycroft did not often like to rock the steady and dependably predictable boat of society, but there were times he did not give a flying fig what people would say. It was his belief that his wife who had worked very hard to become an excellent actress, had lived long enough in the city. He decided she ought to have the most beautiful house one could find. The country was always pleasant, and Mycroft was a sporting man, so he did not mind having a house in the country and the town house for the work week. The country house, however was not what Molly pictured Anthea to choose.
"Isn't it terrifically dramatic?" Anthea asked, laughing at Molly's expression as she stepped down from the carriage. "It's like something out of a Bronte novel."
"I half expect there to be a mad woman in the attic," Molly agreed. "But if you are happy here, then I am pleased."
"I am," Anthea said, linking arms. They waited for the men to unload Molly's things. She kept tilting her head up, up, up, until she was sure her hat would fall off. "You can't see them now, but in the summer roses grow up the walls, and I've had apple trees planted in the gardens, and nut trees to line the paths."
"It's a bit of you and my brother in-law," Molly smiled, understanding the stern, Gothic lines, sturdy and imposing. But the furnishings, the gardens and the trees, these were the softening touches that Anthea had applied and made it her own.
"Come along, Mycroft is waiting inside." At Molly's questioning look, Anthea laughed. "I told him to, he's been suffering an awful cold lately and is only just starting to feel better."
"Good heavens," Molly hurried along, Rosie trotting behind them.
In the doorway lingered Mycroft's lithe, imposing frame. His nose was somewhat red, and he held a kerchief in his hands. He still bent and kissed her cheek, then held her at arm's length, studying her. Slowly, much to her amusement, realization dawned on him, and he struggled to keep his features in check. Clearly, he was surprised at Molly's condition, horrified still, that she had intended to travel unaccompanied in such a state. He looked with some surprise at Rosie, and with some annoyed, knowing look at Wiggins, who came in after, scuffing his boots across the rug.
He stared until she finally tugged at the bodice of her almost-too-snug gown, uncomfortable.
"Honestly, Mycroft, it isn't that shocking," Molly said at last.
"You still should have sent me a cable. I could have sent a guard for you."
"A guard!" Molly laughed. "Whatever for? Mr. Brown was with me, and Wiggins, as it happens."
"Traveling in your condition," Mycroft sniffed, clearly not listening to her.
"I'm not made of glass; I've still got months before I enter my confinement. I was perfectly safe," Molly said, in answer to his spluttering about the dangers of travel.
"What if you fell from the platform, or you tripped through the door, or a man with a cart hadn't seen you-"
"Oh for heaven's sake, what if the sky falls, or the earth opens up and swallows us all-" Anthea shook her head. "It doesn't do any good to fret now. She's here now, safe and sound, and a sight for sore eyes," she smiled at Molly, reaching for her hand. "We're glad you've come at last, I think this strain is too much for you to bear alone."
"I am glad to be out of London," Molly admitted. For a moment, she thought she might burst into tears, but she managed to keep her rattled emotions somewhat in check.
"Come through for tea and sandwiches, you must be famished," Anthea tugged her along through to the parlor, Mycroft following behind, still muttering about the dangers of travel and his not being consulted at all. Rosie, after a quick glance at Wiggins, trotted after the group, making sure to straighten her dress and remove her bedraggled bonnet.
"What will you do with the child?" Mycroft asked, once tea was served. Molly looked to the child seated beside her, touching her limp hair.
"I'll look after her of course, she'll be a good companion for me during my confinement."
"And after?"
"Then I expect she'll be handy to have in the house," Molly answered. "She's one of Sherlock's Irregulars."
Mycroft could see Molly had already formed an attachment to the child and would not be swayed otherwise, so he let it be. "What about Wiggins?"
"Oh I cannot be bothering your men for something," Molly answered. "He can be for my use, so I needn't disturb yours from their work."
"That is what they are-" Anthea touched her husband's arm, a silent reprimand. Obediently, he shut his mouth. "Well then," he said at last. "If you are certain. I think there is spare valet livery downstairs, the housekeeper will show him where." Wiggins didn't look too keen on wearing a uniform, but he supposed if he was to stay and look after Mrs. Holmes, he'd put up with it.
She must have been exhausted, for Molly went to bed early, and did not wake until very late the next day. At least, it was late to her. Nearly half past ten in the morning! The gentle tapping on her door roused her, and when she saw the clock on the mantle, quickly sat up, aghast that she had been allowed to sleep for so long. The door opened, revealing not the maid, as Molly expected, but Mycroft, looking quite meek, albeit concerned. He shut the door behind him, waiting for her to invite him nearer, which she did, covering her mouth with a yawn.
"Why on earth did you and Anthea let me sleep so late? The morning is entirely wasted!"
"Anthea is still abed," Mycroft shrugged. "She always sleeps late; I expect old habits from the stage. That little Irregular of Sherlock's is out in the garden amusing herself. You, however, needed the rest," he took the edge of the bed, inclining his head towards her. "Sister-mine you will suffer a nervous breakdown if you keep pushing yourself as you do."
"I'm not pushing," she shrugged, picking at the blanket. "I'm here to rest, I'm away from London and work and…" she shrugged, losing her words.
"Away from everything that reminds you of Sherlock," Mycroft finished.
She nodded, miserable.
"Wiggins found me early this morning, he's been asked by our mutual friend to keep a close eye on you."
"Yes, he'd said as much on the train," Molly nodded. "Is it so serious?"
Mycroft nodded, quite grave. "Don't expect letters from him, not through the post at any rate. If he tries to contact you, it will be through me," he paused. "I trust you'll remember that when you send any replies. I'm afraid any correspondence will have to be checked, coming or going, so any conversations won't be terribly private, you'll have to mind what you say."
"No of course," Molly nodded. "I shouldn't expect any less. Do we know where he is?"
"I do, but you don't," Mycroft patted her hand before getting to his feet. "Come along now. Breakfast will set you to rights. Shall I send up that little urchin to help you?"
"Her name is Rosie," Molly scolded.
"Very well," he replied, with a great pretense of rolling his eyes. "Shall I send her up?"
"No, I can dress myself, I'll be down shortly."
"By the way, speaking of correspondence," he reached into his pocket, setting down a folded note beside her. "From our mutual friend. No replies can be sent at the moment." With that he left her to dress, shutting the door quietly behind him.
She snatched up the paper, jumping out of bed to read it by the window where the light was better,
'Dearest Molly,
Safe and sound, for the time being. As this will be read by a dozen or so of the Queen's men and my brother, I shall simply say that I think of you often.
Yours,
SH'
She turned the note over, just to be sure there wasn't any other message. Unfortunately, there was not. Thumbing over his signature, she heaved a sigh. No reference to where he was or how long he would be there. Mycroft had said she couldn't even reply yet. Even if she could, she wasn't certain what she could say. She couldn't tell him of her condition, not through the post. What if it distracted him and he made a lethal mistake? What if it made him take unnecessary risks to get home sooner? No, this knowledge was best kept under wraps for now. He would simply have to wait until he came home to know. But that could be years! She blinked quickly, trying to take away the sting of tears beginning to fall.
Resting her hand over her belly, she looked out the window. Waiting, it seems, was all that she could do for the moment. As a woman living in a society dominated by men, Molly was used to waiting. Waiting for her husband to straighten up, waiting for a university to accept her, waiting for Moriarty to slip up, for Sherlock to realize he loved her. This shouldn't have felt any different, waiting for him to come home. Yet it felt so much worse, and Molly suddenly felt as if she would rather crawl out of her skin than be cooped up all day.