It was the following Thursday and Molly once again found herself sitting on the sofa in Dr. Watkins' office. Ever since that previous Saturday, all Molly could think about was Sherlock and the touch of his lips on her cheek, wishing it had been something more. She had hoped beyond hope that she would see him again, but she neither saw nor heard from him over the next few days and she began to feel foolish all over again. On the whole, it made her more determined to move on with her life.
So, here she was again, her body feeling like it was sinking as Rita's voice faded away into the background. Her eyelids felt heavy and she couldn't keep them open anymore. As the doctor's voice drifted away into nothingness, another voice began to increase in volume.
"Molly, dear, are you sure you wouldn't like me to accompany you?" Aunt Tilda inquired as she stood in the doorway to Molly's bedroom.
Molly removed her hand from her eyes and looked at her aunt; her incessant questioning was bringing on a headache. Molly, forever the dutiful niece, forced a smile on her face.
"I'll be fine, Aunt Tilda, it's only a short train ride through the country and then I'll be picked up at the station," she responded, turning back to continue packing her trunk. "You'll have nothing to worry about."
"How long do you think you'll be away?"
Molly sighed, too low for her aunt to hear.
"I told you, Aunt Tilda, I don't know. I guess it will depend on how Constance is doing."
Molly felt a twinge of guilt at her deception. The day before, Sherlock had sent a telegram to the Hooper household, requesting her presence the following afternoon and stating she would temporarily take up residence at 221B Baker Street. As always, her aunt and uncle were curious about the message, especially since Molly rarely received telegrams and this was the second one she had gotten within a few days. Knowing that it was shameful for an unattached woman to be staying at the residence of not one, but two men, Molly came up with an excuse. She told them the first idea that came to her mind: her closest friend, Constance, whom she had known for most of her life, was sick and requested her company at their country estate. She knew she was being foolish doing what she was doing, but she was excited by the prospect of an adventure. All her life, she had always been sheltered by her aunt and now was her chance for something new, no matter how dangerous it could be.
"Well, make sure you write and keep us informed."
At that moment, Uncle Henry walked up and stood next to his wife in Molly's doorway. As always, he had a good-natured smile on his face.
"Are you still hounding Molly, my dear?" he asked and pressed his lips to his wife's cheek, giving her a quick peck. Tilda looked agitated for a brief moment, causing Molly to smile slightly - her uncle always like to tease her aunt.
"I am not, as you say, 'hounding' her, Henry," Tilda said, turning her attention on her husband.
"Tilda, she's a grown woman, she'll be fine. Now, come along, dear, let's leave Molly to her packing."
As Henry walked away, Tilda stayed where she was and Molly thought she was going to continue asking questions. Her aunt had even opened her mouth as though she was going to say something else, but then she turned and followed her husband instead.
Molly breathed a sigh of relief because she didn't know how much longer she would have been able to keep up the charade. She honestly loved her aunt, but she was weary of being treated like a child. She walked over to her wardrobe to grab some more clothes and continued with her packing.
Later that afternoon, Uncle Henry carried Molly's trunk downstairs and deposited it by the front door where the driver took over, picking it up and hauling it to the hansom cab waiting outside. While he wrestled with the heavy object, Molly was inside putting on her mantle and gloves. She then turned to Uncle Henry and gave him a warm hug.
"Take care, dear, and like your Aunt Tilda says, please write to us and let us know how you're faring," he said, then more quietly so only Molly could hear, "Plus, it'll be easier on me if she knows how you are. You know how she can be." He let go of her and Molly smiled, nodding her head in assent.
Molly turned to her Aunt Tilda who also walked over to give her a hug.
"Please give Constance our best and mind your manners. We don't want them thinking you weren't raised properly," she said.
"I will be on my best behavior," Molly replied, feeling another twinge of guilt, but pushing it aside and turning to leave. She waved, then closed the door behind her.
As she approached the cab, the driver opened the door and offered his hand to help her step into the carriage. He then shut the door and resumed his place up front. Before they headed off along the cobblestone street, Molly looked up at her home and saw her aunt and uncle watching her from the window. She lifted a hand to wave at them, which they returned, and once again she felt guilty for deceiving them. A wave of panic overtook her senses as Molly realised this could be the last time she saw them, but she reassured herself that Sherlock and Dr. Watson would keep her safe.
About a half-hour later, Mrs. Hudson was once again escorting Molly upstairs to 221B and gave a sharp rap on the door. The driver followed behind with Molly's trunk.
"Come in," the familiar voice of Sherlock drifted to Molly's ears and, instantly, her heart seemed to skip a beat.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door and a look of surprise crossed her face.
"Well, it's nice to see the place doesn't look like a whirlwind dashed through it," she said. She moved aside so the driver could deposit the trunk just inside the door before tipping his hat to Molly and leaving.
Molly hadn't noticed how tidy the flat was until Mrs. Hudson had mentioned it. Sherlock, who was sitting in his usual chair by the fireplace, glanced around without much interest before looking at his landlady.
"Hmmm, I hadn't noticed that. Watson must have picked up," he replied then turned his light-colored eyes in Molly's direction. "I'm thinking Miss Hooper here would like a cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson, if you would be so kind."
Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and as she walked out the door, Molly thought she could hear her mumble something that sounded like "I'm not your housekeeper," before shutting the door behind her.
"Please, have a seat, Miss Hooper," Sherlock said, lifting a hand toward Watson's chair and still scrutinizing Molly.
She walked across the room and sat down, finally realising it was just her and Sherlock at the moment.
"I-is Dr. Watson off on an errand?" Molly asked after a few moments of silence, fighting the urge to wring her hands nervously.
Once again, Sherlock looked around his flat.
"Huh, I hadn't noticed he left. I must have been talking to myself until you and Mrs. Hudson showed up."
Molly looked confounded by his reply. How can you not notice that you're talking to yourself? she wondered, but shook it off.
That was when the door opened and in stepped Watson, as though he had been conjured just by their conversation. When he saw Molly, he smiled and walked in her direction.
"Good afternoon, Miss Hooper, it's a pleasure to see you again," he greeted her, leaning over to place a kiss on the knuckles of her gloved hand. Neither one of them noticed Sherlock scowling at them. "Sherlock, why haven't you taken her coat and gloves from her?"
"Hello, Dr. Watson, it's good to see you, too," Molly replied as she stood up to take off her outerwear and handed it to Watson, flashing him a brilliant smile that made Sherlock frown even more. To his surprise, he felt a bubble of jealousy rising within him, but he quickly tamped it down. He turned to look at Watson as the latter hung up her belongings, then grabbed a chair and settled into it.
"Where have you been?" Sherlock asked.
Molly had to stifle a giggle when Watson rolled his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh.
"Why am I not surprised you don't remember me telling you I had a patient to go see?"
"Ah yes, so you did," Sherlock acknowledged as he grabbed a pipe out of his dressing gown and put it to his lips. He reached over to the table next to him and grabbed tobacco out of a Persian slipper, which Molly found unusual, filled the bowl of his pipe and lit it. For some reason, Molly found it strangely alluring and her face felt warm.
"Are you doing alright, Miss Hooper? You look rather flushed," Sherlock asked, startling her.
"Um, oh, yes, I'm fine," she hastily responded, trying not to let her embarrassment show.
"Perhaps she just needs a nice hot cuppa," came the voice of Mrs. Hudson, who had quietly entered the room and sat a tray of tea and biscuits on a nearby table.
Her eyes turned to Watson. "Nice to see you looking well, Doctor," she said before turning her attention to Sherlock. "Is there anything else you need, Mr. Holmes?" Molly and Watson both heard the sarcasm in her voice, however, Sherlock was oblivious to it.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that will be all," he said and Mrs. Hudson, releasing a breath of frustration, turned to Molly and said, "Good luck keeping your wits about you during your stay here." Then, she exited the flat and closed the door behind her. This time, Molly was unable to completely contain a giggle.
"Shall I be mother?" Watson said, standing up and approaching the tray. "How do you like your tea, Miss Hooper?"
"Just a little bit of milk and sugar, please."
Sherlock removed the pipe from his mouth and blew out a wisp of smoke. "So, Miss Hooper, are you ready to assist us with our case?"
Watson, who still didn't agree with the plan, slightly frowned as he handed Molly her tea and a biscuit. She thanked him and took a sip before responding.
"Yes, I think as much as I will ever be, Mr. Holmes, if you and Dr. Watson promise to keep me safe."
"Of course we will" Watson jumped in before Sherlock had a chance to say anything. "Isn't that right, Holmes?"
"Yes, most definitely. How else is this going to work if you end up dead?" Sherlock said matter-of-factly, causing Watson to gasp and jumping in to talk over the top of him.
"Plus, we don't want any harm to come to you, Miss Hooper," he said and glared at Sherlock who realised he misspoke again.
"Certainly, your safety is our top priority," he corrected himself.
Molly felt the twinge of panic starting to rise again, but seeing Watson's reassuring presence made her feel a little better.
"So, when do we start?" she asked with as much confidence as she could muster. Sherlock looked pleased with her response.
"Tomorrow night, but first, we have to get the proper attire and teach you how to act like a woman of the streets," he said.
A distressful thought came unbidden to Molly's mind.
"I won't have to ...," she paused, trying to think how to finish her sentence. "You know ... be with a ..."
Watson picked up on what she was trying to say and fervently shook his head. "No, no, not at all. And if anyone tries anything, we'll be right there."
She nodded in acquiescence and released a nervous breath. "Well, I guess if we're going to do this, you might as well call me Molly."
That night, Molly was lying in Sherlock's darkened bedroom - which he insisted she use despite Watson offering his room for her use - holding the sheets up to her chin and staring at the ceiling in trepidation. Even with all of her best efforts, she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep because her mind kept dredging up what lay before her the following night. She began to think she was crazy for agreeing to help Sherlock with his case, but she also wanted to help save lives. It didn't matter to her that the women who were being murdered were considered the dregs of society.
"Sherlock, I still can't believe you're planning on going through with this," Molly could barely hear Watson through the bedroom door even though it appeared he was speaking in a quiet voice. The thin walls were conducive to eavesdropping. She slipped out of bed and crept to the door so she could hear more of what was being said.
"This is our best chance of catching our killer. Even Lestrade thinks it could work," Sherlock replied, quietly. "It's driving me mad that we haven't been able to nab him yet."
Molly heard a small sigh.
"Sherlock, if this is more for your own ego than it is about that young lady in the other room, I will kill you myself," Watson said in frustration. He sounded to Molly like he meant it. "She is not just a tool for you to use and then discard."
"Don't you think I know that?" Sherlock quickly replied vehemently, his voice slightly rising. "I will not let anyone harm her. She means too much to ..."
It went silent in the other room and Molly wondered what was going on.
"To what?" Watson demanded.
"To ... to ... the case," Sherlock finally finished.
Molly heard another frustrated sigh and knew it came from Watson.
"You just can't admit it, can you?" he said.
"To what exactly," came the terse reply.
"You are interested in Miss Hooper and don't deny it because I can sense it. You have developed feelings for her."
Molly's eyes opened wide in surprise and her breath caught in her chest. The flat became quiet and then she heard footsteps cross the sitting room followed by someone playing the violin. The sad music was beautiful to her ears.
"Fine, don't admit it, Sherlock. I'm going to bed and you should get some sleep as well," Watson finally said after a few minutes of just music filling the air. Molly could hear his footsteps heading toward the other bedroom and the door click shut.
As soon as Watson went into his room, the music suddenly ceased and Molly could hear Sherlock sigh. Deciding she wasn't going to hear anything more for the night, she crept back to bed and got in, pulling the sheets up to her chin. The whole place was quiet until more footsteps approached her door and she could sense Sherlock standing on the other side. Part of her was terrified he was going to come in, but a bigger part hoped he would; however, the footsteps retreated after a couple of minutes and Molly felt she could breathe again. She was surprised when a pang of disappointment welled up inside her and she turned onto her side to stare at the wall, resigning herself to a night of unrest.
Meanwhile, Sherlock sat down in his chair by the fireplace, dragging out his pipe and tamping tobacco into it. Instead of thinking about the case, he found his thoughts drifting to the woman in the other room. The silence was broken by the sound of a match being lit and a flame bursting to life. He puffed on his pipe as he stared into the fire.
He could no longer deny that Watson was right: he felt an attraction to Miss Hooper, which began that first night he met her at the ball. He usually found women tiresome, but there was something about this woman that intrigued him. Originally, when he first observed her as she sat on that marble bench in the courtyard not noticing someone was watching her, he thought her lips were thinner and her breasts were smaller than what he deemed were perfect. But when he finally spoke to her, his attraction grew when her intelligence shined through. After that, the more times he saw her, the more he began to desire her. He even began to think about her when she wasn't around, which frustrated him because it sidetracked him from what was important: solving the bloody Kent County Butcher case.
Even knowing she was just mere steps away, he kept feeling the urge to walk over there and bed her. And his observation skills told him that, no matter how innocent she was, she would not deny him. He had even come close to following through with his instinct before his better sense took over and he turned away from his bedroom door. No matter how hard he tried to turn his faculties back to the case, his body and mind betrayed him: he wanted to be the first and only man to know every part of Molly Hooper intimately.
Watching the flames, Sherlock knew he had a long night ahead of him, but this time, sleep would elude him due to circumstances completely foreign to him.