Two hours later, Molly sailed downstairs for luncheon. Determined to appear as confident and unruffled as possible, she had curled her hair, put on one of her best dresses, and composed a modest yet eloquent apology, of which she was particularly proud. No detective would have her stuttering in embarrassment - she was far too prepared for that.
Upon her arrival, she found a full dining hall, excepting one Sherlock Holmes and one John Watson. With a small smile, Molly chose a seat between Lestrade and Anthea, the chair across from her empty.
Expecting to be overwhelmed with questions, Molly was pleasantly surprised to find that the company had taken relatively little interest in her recent absence. Janine and Lady Amelia seemed to be the only two, peppering her with snide comments and questions designed to elicit controversial answers. Fortunately, Lestrade and Anthea helped keep their queries at bay, and Molly was grateful for their kind invitations to dinner and, later, the drawing room.
Ten minutes went by, but there was still no sign of either Sherlock or John. Tea was served and appetizers passed around while the group tried to guess where the pair might be. Ideas ranged from as close as the garden to as far away as London, and Molly couldn't help but laugh when Greg suggested the morgue.
"What? It's perfectly plausible - he might need another heart for his next Frankenstein!"
Finally, John appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat.
"Please, excuse my - our - lateness. It seems as if Sherlock is unable to attend this afternoon, as he is in the middle of a very trying experiment," and here there were sighs, eye rolls, and a few smiles, "but he assures me his specimens will not get in the way of dinner."
And with that, luncheon was under way. Molly assumed her usual, social air, but under all of the conversation she wondered if she was to blame for Sherlock's disappearance. She knew he was devoted to his laboratory, but usually John or Gregory would force him to come to meals; Molly had seen them arguing before.
All through the next hour, the matter pressed upon her conscience. While Anthea shared a story about some letters Mycroft had recently received from an ambassador in Italy, Molly reviewed her carefully prepared apology, mentally editing it and moving pieces around. If she was the reason, she knew she ought to create for herself as little guilt as possible; the kinder she could be, the better, lest poor Sherlock resign himself to his chemicals and experiments forever.
ooooo
After she said her goodbyes and promised John and Anthea she would return for dinner, Molly decided to take a walk through the garden to clear her mind. Buttoning her coat, she stepped into the cold air with a sigh. It might be a bit lonely and bleak, but it was a perfect way to fill an hour or two.
Slowly, she made her way down the path, admiring the stillness of the grey February afternoon. With only the crunch of gravel under her feet to keep her company, she walked, her mind filled with thoughts of Sherlock and his lab. She mused on him in general, wondering what experiment he might be conducting this very minute. She then considered the possibility that he wasn't conducting anything at all; rather, that he was also feeling somewhat lonely.
But what ridiculous thoughts! Sherlock was a scientist - he enjoyed being shut up with his chemicals. And given the choice between her company and a pile of arsenic, Molly had a fairly clear idea of which the detective might prefer.
By this time, Molly's path was turning back in the direction of the house, and so she turned with it. What if she was to blame? What if the poor thing was locked in the attic purely to avoid her?
Nonsense. Sherlock would never - his ego wouldn't allow it. Maybe she should turn her mind elsewhere.
And so she tried; she made a valiant effort to find a new topic to contemplate. But however many times she resolved to push him out of her head, somehow a languid drawl or a stray black curl would always slip in, distracting her until her train of thought was completely derailed.
It was during one of these unsightly derailments that Molly fell upon a rather unsettling scene: Her path had led her to the courtyard in the middle of the garden, and who should be sitting on the edge of the fountain in front of her but Sherlock himself.
Seemingly unaware of her presence, the disheveled detective appeared to be examining something in his lap. As Molly took a step closer, she noticed that he was without his coat or suit jacket, and that the specimen of choice was actually his shirt sleeve. Another step, and she could see that the sleeves were badly burned; the white fabric was singed in multiple places, but not beyond repair.
No lab, no chemicals, no notes... and no coat. How odd, to sit in a garden by oneself without so much as a suit jacket to speak of.
She cleared her throat, and Sherlock scrambled to his feet in surprise.
"Molly," he began, hastily re-cuffing his burnt sleeves. "I apologize; I was not aware of your - "
"It's quite alright; I should have announced myself," she said shyly, thoughts of an apology dissipating within seconds. "What are you doing out here?"
"Trying to clear my head, I suppose," he answered. "Apparently singed shirt cuffs make me 'an irresponsible, incorrigible mess with the petulant attitude of a four-year-old child.'" He grinned, and his impression of Mycroft was so accurate that Molly couldn't help but giggle.
"A four-year-old child with no coat," she added, and he looked down at himself before shrugging absently. "How can you stand this wind without a coat?" She asked, shivering a little as a harsh breeze blew through the open courtyard.
"I must have neglected mine in the foyer. Ah, well, it will have to do without me for a while. As for the cold, it never bothers me much."
"Sherlock, it's February! Everyone ought to wear a coat in February, even if they aren't particularly cold. Common decency demands it."
"Common decency?" Sherlock smirked. "I think we both know I'm not one for being decent."
"But you are one to catch colds, and don't try to pretend otherwise," she lectured as he rolled his eyes. "You like to think nobody notices because you sneeze when you think nobody is watching, but John and I do. In fact, I'm fairly certain most of us do."
Sherlock didn't say anything after that, just... looked at her. Feeling obligated to fill the silence, Molly continued. "For a consulting detective, I'd say you're terrible at hiding things."
That look again. She knew she had seen it before: When they were sitting by the river, when he had stood outside her bedroom door just the other day, whenever she finished his thought at dinner. It unnerved her, this look, because she couldn't decipher it. It was, without a doubt, the most un-Sherlock like expression she'd ever seen him wear, and yet, wear it he did.
They stood like that for a long minute or so, and then Sherlock unfroze. "Molly, I - "
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" A stern voice cut the detective's sentence in two, and the pair turned to see an infuriated Mycroft standing on the opposite side of the courtyard holding Sherlock's forgotten coat, Mary smiling by his side.
"There you are, Molly!" She beamed, and Molly frowned in confusion.
"William?" She asked incredulously. Sherlock nodded.
"Brother mine, are you really so childish as to make me search the entire estate for you?" Mycroft sighed. "Come, Mother wishes to see you in the drawing room immediately."
"Mary, whatever is the matter? Has something happened?" Molly asked.
"Give her my regards, Mycroft. However imperative the situation may be, it can wait until after dinner," Sherlock replied coolly as Mycroft bristled, driving his umbrella into the gravel with an unnecessary amount of force.
"No, nothing's happened," Mary reassured her sister. "But you'll miss dinner if we don't hurry back and change!"
"I have neither the time nor the patience for such games, Sherlock. Come. Along."
Sherlock was torn. "Molly, - "
"I wouldn't keep her waiting, brother dear," Mycroft pressed, checking the time. "You know how she gets."
"It's fine; we're coming!" Molly called. Sherlock scowled. "I will not have Mycroft and your mother in a foul mood at the same time; I don't think any of us are prepared for that. Better to just do as they ask - and, if you still find the matter pressing, you're welcome to tell me anything you like after dinner."
Sherlock hesitated before begrudgingly offering his arm. "Though I can't imagine what could possibly be so important."
"Thank you," she replied with satisfaction.
"Your coat," Mycroft smiled tightly, holding out the heavy pile of black fabric.
Putting it on, Sherlock turned up his collar as the four started down the gravel path. "No scarf? Seems you've gotten a touch lazy, Mycroft. Is it the extra pounds or the letters from the Ambassador?"
"Vanity and petty insults," Mycroft replied, not even bothering to turn around. "Not in front of the ladies, Sherlock."
"My apologies," came the bitingly sarcastic response. Sherlock looked as if he wanted to add more, but as Molly slightly tightened her grip on his arm, he thought otherwise.
Damn Mycroft. And the Ambassador, for that matter. Sherlock could only hope Molly would forget about him by dinner; he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of her again. He wouldn't be able to tell her today - maybe it was for the best; honestly, he didn't quite know anymore - which in turn made him fear the possibility of never telling her at all. Shame, really, but his git of a brother had chased away any courage he had left, what with his umbrella and his threats and his dieting.
As the pair entered the foyer, he glanced down at Molly. She smiled. He smiled back. And with a quiet "See you at dinner," she left him there, effortlessly ascending the steps to her room and leaving him in awe.
Then, it hit him: He had completely forgotten to apologize.
Damn Mycroft.
ooooo
Suitcase; he needed a suitcase. A packed suitcase, if he could manage it. By tomorrow morning.
Preposterous.
Mycroft couldn't see the logic in their haphazard plan. There were too many variables; too many things that could fail, should Sherlock choose to fall into a black mood. He worried. Worried about carriages being prepared on time, worried about Bennet Street, worried about Thea. She would find the entire thing sufficiently dull, he was sure of it. Boring, plebeian, not worth her time. He hated disappointing her.
There wasn't a viable way out, either. No government-related excuse would suffice; John would see through his lies in an instant. Off to London, then. Supposedly, the original date had been Wednesday. Odd, that he should remember that. John's excitement had gotten the best of him; he had torn a corner off of the morgue's letter by brandishing it with such enthusiasm. It had taken almost no time at all for the hospital to reply - probably a new case or two, Mycroft supposed. He only hoped John would be smart enough not to let Sherlock get into anything new.
As he and Mary parted ways in the foyer, Mycroft turned to inform Sherlock of their impending departure. His little brother was staring off into space, up towards the top of the staircase. Molly.
Wasn't it absolutely revolting?
"Sherlock," he sighed impatiently, and Sherlock's head turned with enough speed to snap his neck in two. "Tomorrow morning, we're taking the carriages up to London. John - "
"London? What the bloody hell are you going to London for?" Sherlock asked defiantly, and Mycroft made excellent use of his two extra inches of height before replying.
"As I was saying, we are going to London because John received a letter from the morgue earlier today. It seems they have an extraordinary amount of new samples for you."
"Lies."
"Tissues, kidneys, stomachs, livers - if I remember correctly, there may even be a few hearts waiting for you."
"Mycroft, I'm not a child."
"And I'm completely serious."
"Piss off," Sherlock menaced, storming off in the direction of the drawing room.
Mycroft took a deep breath.
Right. Suitcase, then.
ooooo
"Sherlock! How lovely," Amelia beamed, gesturing to a chair. "Please, sit."
"I'd rather stand," Sherlock countered, taking his place next to her at the window.
"Thank you for coming."
"Mother, you know how I am with pleasantries," Sherlock said in a monotone, focusing on a point outside somewhere.
"Of course. Just like your father. Well, dear, I did want to ask you if everything was alright," Amelia offered.
"Fine," came the flat response.
"Still friends with Dr. Watson?"
Silence.
"Sherlock, I'm worried about you. You've skipped dinner, you've been ever so quiet lately..."
"Mother..." Sherlock warned.
"It's Molly, isn't it?" Amelia said quickly, and Sherlock turned to stare at her. "Sherlock, she isn't worth the heartbreak."
Silence. More staring.
"She isn't clever, she's dreadfully plain, and... Sherlock, she isn't like you. She'll never be like you. You deserve better."
Silence. Minutes later, Sherlock had at last separated himself from his rage in order to reply.
"And why should she?" He threatened quietly. "Why should it matter whether she can or can't recognize 243 types of tobacco ash? Or deductions; why should she have to be able to deduce a person's breakfast from their tie? If she doesn't have a mind palace, does that make her ignorant? Are you afraid she'll bore me? Because as far as I'm concerned, she's bloody brilliant. Maybe she isn't able to tell a person's height, weight, age, and gender from a footprint - that doesn't matter. And as for plain, well, we may as well leave that where it is, because nobody has time for me to stand here and write bloody sonnets! She is what she is, Mother, and if she isn't like me, then she's the better for it."
As he tore himself from the drawing room, Amelia's feet seemed rooted to the floor.
She couldn't decide between pride and exasperation.
"Dear me, Sherlock," she muttered to herself. "Dear me. You might teach your brother a thing or two."
ooooo
"It's a bit much for me," Mary shook her head.
"But isn't the skirt pretty?" Molly asked, frowning.
"'Pretty' isn't 'stunning,'" Mary reminded her, and Molly laughed.
"We aren't trying to stun anyone," she said. "What's gotten into you?"
"Try another one," Mary insisted. "Quickly; we've only two hours left!"
Molly rolled her eyes, but dove back into the closet. "Red?" came the muffled suggestion.
"No," Mary called back.
A sigh, then, "Blue?"
"Whatever happened to that green dress? The one with the lace sleeves and the fitted skirt?"
The sound of things being rearranged, then Molly emerged with an emerald dress. "This? This makes me look like Mother."
Mary laughed. "Nonsense! It's ever so pretty - do try it, please!"
"Fine, but no promises," Molly said, reluctantly donning the gown. "It's far too matronly for my taste."
"Molly, it is not, stop being dramatic. It's perfect; all it needs is some jewelry!"
"But this garish high neckline - "
"Is divine," Mary interrupted, adjusting a sleeve. "And the skirt really is flattering, even if you don't think so."
"I don't even own green shoes," Molly protested, and Mary sighed.
"Sit down; I'll fix it, and then you'll see." Mary scoured the closet, gathering necklaces, earrings, bracelets, hairpins, and finally shoes before placing everything in a heap at Molly's feet. "Necklace first. A neckline like that needs some interest." She held up a delicate diamond chandelier necklace and handed it to her sister to try. "And with that, we'll want some smaller earrings..."
A half hour later, Molly was successfully done up, excepting her hair. The necklace, a pair of diamond earrings, and Mary's best ivory shoes all came out of the pile, including another minute string of diamonds Mary planned to use "later."
"Don't you have to get ready, too?" Molly asked as Mary attacked her scalp with a brush.
"Don't worry about me; I'll be fine," her sister reassured her. "I found a dress before Mycroft so kindly offered to fetch you from outside." She paused, reaching for a tin of hairpins. "Is he coming to dinner, then?"
"Who, Sherlock? I expect so," Molly answered lightly, handing Mary the brush again. "That is, if his 'meeting' went well."
"Mycroft better have told him about London," Mary mused to herself, holding out her hand for another pin.
"London? Who's off to London?" Molly asked in surprise, and Mary clapped a free hand over her mouth.
"Oh, I was supposed to keep quiet about it," she lamented, which only piqued Molly's interest. A decent actress, Mary was used to embellishing stories to suit her little sister's dramatic taste. "He'll never forgive me - I may as well change my name right now! Does 'Kate' sound pretty enough to you?"
"Mary!" Molly laughed. "Don't make me drag it out of you, please!"
Mary grinned, snatching up the gossamer strand of diamonds. "Well, John had the brilliant idea to send a few of us up to London for one last holiday before we have to go back to Mother and Irene. Just for a few days; nothing extravagant. What say you?"
"I think it's a splendid idea - who did you say was coming again?" Molly asked, flinching as Mary pushed a pin in the wrong spot.
"Sorry - Well, I think the two of us, Mycroft, and Thea. Won't it be grand?"
"Absolutely! I'll start packing tomorrow evening," Molly sighed happily, fidgeting with her necklace.
"Actually - leave that alone - you'll have to pack tonight."
"You don't mean to say we're leaving tomorrow?" Molly asked incredulously, handing her sister a green ribbon. "That's rather rash, don't you think?"
"I prefer the term 'free-spirited,'" Mary corrected her, stepping back to admire her work. "And yes, we leave tomorrow morning at seven."
Molly stood, twirling for the full effect. "I suppose you'll suggest I pack this dress, then?"
Mary grinned. "We'll see. Now, shoo - I have to get ready in an hour!" And she pushed Molly out into the hallway, slamming the door behind her with a burst of energy.
Walking the short distance down the hall to her room, Molly decided she had better start packing now, for good measure. As her favorite jewelry and shoes began to form neat rows on her bed, she admired her hair each time she passed by the small mirror hanging on the back of her door. Leaving her curls in from luncheon, Mary had pinned the front back behind the ears to showcase Molly's necklace, using pretty pearl hairpins that framed her face. In the back, a sizable green ribbon bow rested neatly above the curls, while the thin string of diamonds wove itself in and out below, held fast by unseen pins.
Satisfied with the results, Molly continued on to day outfits, tossing various dresses and skirts onto the nearest chair. She checked the time: A half hour until she could see Sherlock and counting.
Right. A half hour until dinner and counting.
Maybe she should focus more on packing.
ooooo
Irene sat down to her writing desk with a sigh. Finally, finally she could write to Jim again. How long had it been; Days? Weeks? It felt like years.
Dearest James, (she'd spent fifteen minutes trying to decide how to start)
How I have missed you so! The days drag on, with only books for company - please, say you will come rescue me from this ennui! Each minute without you feels twice as long as the next, and even Mother eagerly awaits your next visit. (She smiled - let him try to postpone his visit now!)
I cannot thank you enough for the lovely ribbons - I shall be sure to wear one each and every day. I have indeed fallen prey to similar treasures in store windows, but these which you have sent me are far more beautiful than any which I have ever seen before. They are absolutely perfect! How you could have guessed, I doubt I will ever know.
When next you do come and see me, I mean to have a simple conversation with you. There isn't anything to fear, for it is not (I hope) negative in nature. But it is quite pressing, and I mean to speak my mind. (Here, she absently danced her fingertips around the base of her ring finger.)
As a final incentive: I myself have bought for you a present! Though originally destined to be a surprise, I have decided to hold it until your arrival. Hasten, my knight in shining armor! I shall wait for thee in my tower window! (Grinning again, she shook her head at herself. However trite the words may sound, she was happy to have written them.)
Ever yours,
Irene
ooooo
Hello, everyone! Thank you so very much for your wonderful patience as I wrote this chapter - it's been awhile since the last update! Fear not, the next chapter shall be posted soon, with dinner conversations and London flats abound!
In response to previous lovely reviews:
OpalSkyLoveDivine: Thank you!
Pipsis: Angst abound! As for Moriarty, I suppose we shall have to wait and see... Thank you! (John's plan will take shape next chapter.)
fastreader12: Glad to hear it! What a lovely compliment - thank you so much!
TheHolmesSister: I assure you, your anxiety is well-justified...
Black Night15: Thank you very much! (And yay! At last!)
Captainfredrickwentworth: Thank you so very, very much! I'm thrilled you're enjoying the story - thank you for taking the time to leave a review! Those are incredible compliments, really, I can't thank you enough!
Batters: An update, at last! Thank you for the kind words - I'm so glad you're enjoying the story!
Thank you all again for your kind words and patience - nothing motivates an author like a lovely compliment or two! The next chapter should be up soon. Until then,
~London Belle