Sherlock heard the door to the nursery open and close, and was glad that Hermia had let Molly in. He disliked the uncomfortable silence that settled between himself and Irene.
Heaving a sigh, he swiveled around, moving to gather her discarded wraps. "I would imagine with your showing up uninvited, with no luggage, nor any letter stating your impending arrival, you have decided to push in for the night?" he asked.
Irene shrugged. "You never could say no to me," she answered. "Anyway I left my luggage in the hall. Of course if it isn't convenient-"
"Of course it isn't bloody well convenient!" Sherlock snapped, quite furious. "Good God, woman, I have just buried one of my children, one is in the country, unable to come home, the other has lost hearing in one of her ears and can barely stand long enough to focus on the far wall, let alone walk!"
Irene bowed her head. "She was my daughter too, you know," she said quietly.
Sherlock looked up at her, incredulous. "I believe you forfeited the right to call them yours when you signed the divorce papers and left without telling anyone." They held each other's gaze for a moment before Sherlock slumped somewhat. "Come through to the drawing room. Parlor is for family and clients." He turned on his heel, pausing in the hall to hang up her coat and stole.
Irene seated herself by the fire as Sherlock closed the door behind him.
"What do you want, Irene? Has something happened?"
"Tell me about the children," she sidestepped his question, though to her credit, she seemed genuinely interested.
He remained by the table, picking absently at the varnish. "There isn't much to tell," he answered tiredly. "Hortense, the youngest, is dead. Hermia has been spared. Eugenia is with her uncle and aunt in the country."
Irene nodded. "What did she die of?"
Sherlock left the table, moving to the side table to take down a glass, pouring himself a glass of brandy. The pain of losing Hortense was still too fresh, and he wished keenly to dull it. For the moment, alcohol would do.
"Scarlet fever," he answered, once he'd taken a drink. "Eugenia did not contract it, which is why she must remain in the country for the time being…only until the risk of infection is gone."
"I'm sorry."
Sherlock turned with a start, surprised. Irene had never apologized for anything in her life. Not for her behavior, nor her feelings, and certainly not to him.
She looked at him then, and he was dumbfounded that he could read genuine humility on her face. "Truly, I am," she went on. "I…confess it is nothing what I expected, coming here-"
"Hm, yes, which you still have not said why you are here," Sherlock interrupted. "I am not one for social niceties, you know this already, but it's rather shabby of you to push in when, now armed with the knowledge that the family is in deep mourning, you continue to stay."
"I still gave birth to her, Sherlock!" Irene burst out, finally angry. She swallowed, gaining control of herself once more. "You should know me by now, Sherlock, I never do things by halves. I could not be a mother during the day and go on with my life as I was. How could I? I was unsuitable for a wife, and I'd be a terrible mother, we both know it. But that doesn't change that I still carried them. All of them."
It was a night of firsts. Irene had never cried in his presence. She'd always put up a cool and calculating front. It was her most infuriating habit. Uncaring, manipulative, scheming. Those were the traits he associated with Irene. He supposed before he'd become a father he was all of those things to a very large degree. He hoped fatherhood had lessened them.
"I am glad," Irene began again, having wiped her eyes. "-that you were able to care for something of mine."
Sherlock looked at his glass, sorry he had poured himself so much. "They are nothing like you," he answered with a shrug. "It is easy to love them."
Irene nodded, smiling bitterly through her tears. "I deserved that, I expect." She looked up at him. "I'm sorry it didn't work out between us, truly."
"As am I. Perhaps we'd have been spared this…" again words were difficult and they seemed stuck in his throat. "Loss…" that was all he managed before he felt the need to turn his back to her, blinking furiously. He took a gulp of brandy, wincing as he swallowed.
Upstairs in the nursery, Hermia lay unmoving on Molly's lap.
"I hate her," she murmured vehemently.
"Don't say hate," Molly cautioned. "Hate is a strong word. Anyway, you've got to know someone to be allowed to hate them."
"She's my mother," Hermia answered bitterly. "She didn't even know who I was."
Molly stroked her scalp, trying to comfort her. "She's been gone for almost two years now," she tried.
Hermia sat up, glaring accusatorily. "You sound like you're defending her."
"Just playing devil's advocate," Molly answered with a shrug. She drew Hermia back onto her lap, wrapping her arms around her. After a moment, she felt Hermia relax against her. "You must remember, Hermia, you lost a sister, but she's come back only to learn that she has lost a daughter. Perhaps she doesn't know you as well as she should, but you must not hate her. She is just as fallible as the rest of us."
Hermia held onto Molly's arms as if she were her life-preserver. She stared at the far wall, not wanting to give up her anger or hurt yet. Gently, Molly began to rock them back and forth.
"You've every right to be angry at her," Molly went on slowly. "I will not tell you not to feel what you do. Feelings rarely make sense, do they?" Hermia did not answer, and she did not expect her to. Molly wanted dearly to stop speaking, to stop coaxing Hermia not to hate her mother. But Molly Hooper was not heartless, and she knew a child needed their mother, especially at such a time. She must encourage affection, not dissuade it. If Irene Adler decided to stay and take up her duties as mother and wife, then Molly would step aside. She had no claim on the children, and unfortunately, love, no matter how desperately strong, had no say in such matters. "I will say this, and then change the subject:" Molly promised. "She is still your mother. She made a very terrible mistake tonight-"
"She abandoned us," Hermia said in quiet anger.
"Yes," Molly soothed her. "And that will hurt for a very, very long time. For as long as you will let it hurt you. But listen to me, she is your mother. She made a terrible mistake, but you do not know her. I will not tell you to hold to her all the duties of a mother, because she has not behaved as one, but you must at least give her the courtesy you would of a common stranger."
Hermia sighed heavily, kicking aimlessly for a moment so that she slid further down onto Molly's lap.
"You mean be civil," she grumbled.
"Yes," Molly answered. "Be civil. Be the better person. I don't expect you to write her long letters or to kiss her good morning, but I expect you to have manners, the same as you would to a client of your father's. Do you understand?"
Hermia turned her head, looking at the far wall again. "I understand." She sighed again, finally looking up at Molly. "I don't like it, but I will try."
Molly smiled and bent, kissing her forehead. With their backs to the doorway, they did not see Sherlock standing there, having quietly let himself in.
"That's my girl," Molly smiled gently, soothing Hermia's scalp.
Sherlock watched as Hermia regarded Molly, her eyes soft and shining, her expression quite serious.
"I wish you were my mother."
He watched as Molly smiled gently, her eyes grew misty and she blinked several times. Again she bent and pressed a kiss to Hermia's forehead.
"Do you wish that too?" Hermia asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
Molly linked hands with the child, squeezing. She found she could not lie to Hermia, not to protect herself, not to protect the child.
"Darling girl, I wish that very much," her voice was strained, and Sherlock could hear her struggling to keep from crying.
Upon this confession, Hermia shut her eyes, sighing lightly. Molly ran her fingers over her head, helping her to relax and fall asleep.
"Will you sing please?" Hermia asked softly, and Molly began, humming her favorite lullaby. As she did so, something moving by the door caught the corner of her eye and she turned her head.
Sherlock stood in the doorway with such a strange expression on his face. He looked as if he were about to cry.
Quietly, he cleared his throat. "Miss Hooper," he whispered, so as not to disturb Hermia. "When she is settled, will you please come to the drawing room?"
Downstairs, Irene remained in the drawing room. In a little while she heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Sherlock again entering the room.
"Is she good for the children?" Irene asked suddenly. "Your governess?"
He looked surprised at her query, and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. He had known for some time that Molly was excellent with the children, and was very fortunate that they adored her, and vice-versa. He had not stopped to truly meditate on just how good Molly Hooper was for his children. He found, now faced with Irene's question, that he could not find words to describe it.
"She is…" he licked his lips, thinking carefully. "A singular woman, most suitable for the position."
Irene studied him, and he recognized that particular look.
"You're plotting something," he stated.
"Me? Heavens no. Just coming to an understanding." She smiled at him then. "I am glad she makes the children happy."
"You're not saying something," Sherlock said, a warning in his tone.
She looked at him with mock surprise. "Am I? I thought I'd said what I ought to. Let's leave it at that, anyway here is Miss Hooper," she stood as Molly came to the doorway.
"You sent for me, Mr. Holmes?" she glanced between her employer (she did not like the bitter lurch in her chest every time she remembered that was all he was to her) and Miss Adler.
"I did," he nodded, gesturing for her to enter the room. "Please, be seated."
Gathering her skirts, Molly stepped past him, taking the corner of the couch that put her at equal distance between Mr. Holmes and Miss Adler. She kept her eyes lowered, knowing all too well that if she looked at her employer, she might say something that could not be taken back. She would not put herself into such a position, not with Miss Adler in the room, nor indeed, if she was uncertain of how Mr. Holmes would respond.
Sherlock crossed the room, moving to stand by the fire.
"Miss Hooper, Miss Adler has turned up on our doorstep begging for sanctuary."
At this, Molly lifted her head, confused. "What?" She quelled the leap in her heart upon his stating 'our doorstep'. He must not have meant it the way it sounded.
"She seems to have run in with a gang of…people of the unsavory sort, shall we say?"
Irene nodded. "That's putting it nicely," she agreed. "I'm hiding out here for the time being until Sherlock can find a way to smuggle me safely away."
"Where will you go?" Molly couldn't help but ask.
Irene shrugged with a smile. "Oh I don't know, anywhere his brother can find for me."
"Lord Mycroft?" Molly asked with a frown, looking to Sherlock. "What can he do?"
"Don't be coy, Miss Hooper," Sherlock said, a knowing smile gracing his lips. "It doesn't suit you."
"Forgive me," she turned, angling herself towards Miss Adler. "But what will you do while you are here? Won't it seem obvious, coming to your former husband's home? It's hardly a good hiding place. Won't it be the first place they look?"
Sherlock had such a smug look, pleased with Molly's reasoning, and the illogic in Irene's decision.
"Precisely. Time is of the essence," Sherlock said. "I have sent my brother a cable. He'll be here by tomorrow, hopefully with a solution."
"I'm sorry if I'm dense," Molly spoke again, Irene and Sherlock turned to her. "But I don't understand, what good is it, hiding here as opposed to a hotel?"
The look Irene held as she studied Miss Hooper gave Sherlock a sinking feeling.
"Why, Miss Hooper? Am I interrupting something between the pair of you? I did not know that a murder threat against me would put such a damper on your flirtation with your employer."
Molly grew quite red then. "I did not mean that, Miss Adler, I meant that clearly, your choice of sanctuary was a foolish one, considering your history with Mr. Holmes and his children. It is known in most of society that you and he were once married, and only divorced a little over two years ago. As for 'flirtation', you could not be more wrong." She drew breath. "I am merely an employee in this house, fit only to educate the children and look after them. I am sure Mr. Holmes has never considered me in any role beyond this-"
Sherlock looked at Molly as she spoke, and he found himself sad as she went on to belittle her position, her standing in the house. It was true, she was the governess, but he could not say with any degree of confidence that his feelings for her did not go beyond that of employer.
"-Furthermore, Mr. Holmes has never done or said anything lacking in propriety to me," Molly said (the incident of her taping his ribs would go unmentioned). "He is not interested in me, has never shown interest in me beyond that of friendship and mutual affection for his children. That is all." Standing, she turned to Sherlock. "Forgive me, sir. I will say goodnight now, before I say anything more out of turn. I must go and see to Hermia." With that, she turned on her heel and left.
Irene watched as Sherlock stared after the governess. She was certain then of two things: Sherlock most certainly had never looked at her the way he looked at Miss Hooper, and that the pair of them were quite unaware of their feelings for each other.
As Molly headed upstairs, she could hear Sherlock speaking to Irene:
"Really, was that necessary to force her to speak of her position?" he scolded. "You cannot leave anyone alone, can you? Must you humiliate her as well?"
"Honestly, how was I to know she felt so strongly on the matter, anyway it wasn't as if she was very civil to me."
"You are hardly civil this evening! You were very cold, no doubt, when you arrived tonight. Hermia and I are not the only ones in mourning." Sherlock replied. "She has a right to be suspicious, and you have no right to treat Molly- Miss Hooper, in such a fashion, she is a perfect stranger to you."
"And you, Sherlock."
Molly would not listen anymore. Part of her wanted to hear what Sherlock would say, but the other half begged her to go upstairs, unwilling to hear him confirm just precisely what she was to him: a governess to his children. Shutting her eyes tightly, swallowing hard, Molly retreated back to the nursery.
Seeing that Hermia was fast asleep, Molly banked the fire and quickly undressed, slipping into her bed, wishing her racing heart would slow. She did not know when her feelings for Sherlock Holmes had changed, she didn't know why, or how. It was foolish to try and convince herself otherwise. She would not allow herself to name her feelings for Sherlock, but the idea of leaving, the idea of the beautiful Irene Adler in the house and under his nose made her head ache. It made her upset and restless and she did not like that she felt the foundations of her life beginning to quake. She did not like to picture him downstairs in the warm drawing room, the lamps low as Irene Adler lounged on the sofa. Perhaps they were reconciling. The idea made her groan in frustration, fighting back a sob. She rolled onto her side, hugging herself. What right did she have for these feelings? Still, as she lay there, pondering just what exactly was wrong with her compared to Irene Adler, Molly realized something very telling about the former Mrs. Holmes: her reason for returning to such an obvious place to hide said that she still must have felt something for Sherlock. Whether or not Sherlock felt the same, Molly did not know, but she knew if he felt anything at all for Miss Adler, Molly did not stand a chance at all.
Downstairs
"I won't hear anymore of Miss Hooper from you," Sherlock said. "You may have Watson's old room, I trust you know where it is still, and that you can manage your bags on your own."
"Will you tell me something?" Irene asked as he made to leave.
He stopped, turning his head so she could see his profile. "Depending on what it is."
"Does Miss Hooper know you love her?"
Sherlock whirled about face, open-mouthed.
"She won't learn it from me," Irene promised. "If my word were any good here, I should give you it. But she ought to know I'm not a threat to her, or the children, nor you. I couldn't abide staying here with her mistrusting me. It's absolutely hell, thinking the man you love might love someone else."
Sherlock had no response. He finally nodded and hurried upstairs to his room.
Sussex, Holmes Estate
"Where are you going?" Anthea asked, feeling the bed dip as her husband got to his feet. She could hear the butler in his dressing room, opening the wardrobe.
"Trouble in London," he replied tiredly. "Jameson has delivered a most distressing cable."
She sat up. "Not Hermia!" the thought of Hermia succumbing to illness again so soon after Hortense' death was too awful to contemplate, but Anthea could not help but ask it.
"No, thank heavens, the child is fine." Mycroft reassured her. "It's another matter entirely, I should like it dealt with as soon as possible."
"What is it?" Anthea asked, seeing he was distressed.
"Miss Adler has come back to London, seeking help from my brother."
"The nerve of that woman!" Anthea shook her head, disgusted.
"I concure," he leaned across the bed, kissing her gently. "I shall be back in a day or so, hopefully with the problem resolved, if not having a solution."
"What is the matter with her that she's come crawling back to London?" Anthea asked with a huff, folding her arms across her middle. Sherlock might not have been her first choice for a brother in-law, but he had grown on her over the years, and she felt a strong desire to keep him well away from such a difficult woman as Irene Adler. The mess she had left in her wake, of Sherlock's isolation from his children, the sleepless nights of his daughters all sobbing for their mother, the anguish she'd caused was more than enough to earn Anthea's disdain.
"Miss Adler got herself into trouble somewhere on the Continent. She stupidly came back to London, and I should like to get her out of my brother's house before she leads whomever is chasing her to his front door."
"You have to relocate her?" Anthea asked. "Will you increase her stipend?"
"I think I must."
Anthea rolled her eyes, genuinely incensed. "Quite a racket she has going," she said icily. "Divorced from the family yet she still whistles and not one but two Holmes men come running."
"Anthea-" Mycroft began but Anthea shook her head.
"No, it's perfectly fine."
"I cannot leave him to face her on his own," Mycroft said. "You know she's come at a vulnerable time for him. If she is not gotten rid of soon, she might never leave, or worse, get him mixed up in whatever trouble she's embroiled in."
Anthea sighed heavily. "Yes I know. Go and help him." There was suddenly a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile. "Why don't you send her somewhere less exotic this time…like the United States. I should like to imagine her languishing on the barren prairies of North America."
Mycroft grinned at this.
"I shan't make any promises," he said. "But sometimes, my darling wife, you do have the most enticing ideas." He bent and kissed her once more. "I'm going to dress, I'll be back in a day or so, don't alarm Eugenia, or alert her that her mother is in the country."
"No I won't," Anthea promised. "Be safe."
221b Baker Street, London
Molly tossed and turned for most of the night, until finally, near two o'clock in the morning, she kicked back the blankets and found her dressing gown. A mug of warm milk mixed with laudanum would soon put her to rights.
Creeping down into the kitchen, she sighed heavily, still trying to convince herself that her feelings could not possibly be that of love. She couldn't be in love with Sherlock. It was inappropriate, impossible, ridiculous! The sensible side of her said she most certainly was.
She made her way around the dark kitchen, taking down a mug and finding a bottle of milk in the ice box. She had just lit the stove and set a pot to warm when she heard:
"I don't suppose you would mind making enough for two?"
She turned with a start, seeing Sherlock standing in the doorway, clearly he was having as much trouble sleeping as she was.
"Yes, sir," she felt her face grow warm, and she was grateful for the dim light in the kitchen. Turning back to add more milk to the pot, she felt herself dismayed, hearing him strike a match, and the chimney of the lamp lowered. A warm glow filled the room. Silence settled between them. She could not go on staring at the stove with nothing to do so she turned. Now with the kitchen lamp lit, she could see him properly, and did not know if she was dismayed or pleased to see that he wore no dressing gown. His shirttails were untucked, and the first three buttons at his collar were undone. His braces hung down by his hips and his feet were bare. She was suddenly reminded of her first encounter with him. She hated herself for her lack of words. Indeed it took her almost thirty seconds to realize she was staring at him.
Sherlock broke the silence first. "My brother tells me that while we are in the country this summer he will have electricity installed," he said. "That will make a change, won't it?"
"Yes…sir," she murmured, still flushed. "I…I daresay it will be a welcome change to the house." Bowing her head, she turned back to the stove, willing the milk to be warm. It unfortunately, was far from it.
Sherlock ventured a step forwards. "You are blushing, Miss Hooper."
"If I am it's your fault!" she answered quickly, daring a glance at him.
"Mine?" he chuckled, surprised. "Why? What have I done?"
"Coming downstairs as you are," she answered. "No…no dressing gown or- or-"
"Or what, Miss Hooper?"
"Or slippers…" she finally said. "You'll...catch your death of cold down here."
His smile was very knowing, as if he were reading her mind, and Molly wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing. Again, he stepped closer.
"How kind of you to be concerned for my welfare."
"It's nothing," she murmured feebly. "If Doctor Watson were to-"
"Watson does not live here, nor would he let himself be seen by anyone in a state of undress that was not his wife," Sherlock answered.
"Why are you doing this?" she murmured, turning back to the stove, head bowed.
"Doing what?" he asked.
Molly felt her heart lurch, she had not meant to say it aloud!
"Behaving as you are!" she answered, still facing the stove.
"Molly."
"It's indecent," she went on. "I admit I am the one that started it, coming downstairs when I did that first night, but you- you seem to take some sort of pleasure in making me embarrassed at your state of undress."
"That is the very last thing I mean to do,"
His voice was so near that she turned with a start, nearly bumping noses with him.
His arms hung at his sides, and neither of them breathed for a moment.
For the rest of her life, Molly would swear he leaned in at that very second. He had inclined his head the barest of inches, regarding her with half-lidded eyes. Heart thudding in her chest, Molly Hooper was trapped between Sherlock Holmes and the stove behind her and she found she did not want to move. He was smiling at her, truly smiling at her, dipping his head –
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The front bell rang, and both of them jumped, but did not step away. It didn't matter. The moment was gone.
"That will be Mycroft," Sherlock said quietly. "He must have caught the midnight train."
Molly blinked, angry at the lost moment, upset that she would not know what was about to happen.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
"You should let him in then," she said, breathless.
Sherlock looked frustrated, and she wanted to know why, but he only nodded at her in agreement.
"Yes I expect I should," he stepped away then. "If you would be so good as to leave a mug for me on the table, I shall come back for it."
She nodded. "Yes I will. Goodnight sir."
It was the 'sir' that caught him, and Sherlock found it distasteful. He did not want to be merely 'sir' to Molly. He turned to face her again.
"Goodnight, Molly." And with that he left the kitchen, heading upstairs to let his brother in.
Again, Molly Hooper was left frozen in place. He spoke her name. He said it like a prayer. No matter how much she tried, she could not quell the bit of hope that welled inside her. If this was to be her only memory of Sherlock Holmes, she would cherish it, for in that moment they were simply man and woman, rather than master and governess.