Molly looked up at Inspector Lestrade. He had been acting strangely during the carriage ride back to her home. He seemed ill at ease in that moment as they stood on the front step of her Uncle's town house.
"Miss Hooper," the policeman stared down at his hat a moment, "I . . . I was wondering if you would be agreeable to . . .ahem, erm . . ."
His speech faltered. He sucked in a breath and shook some phantom dust from his hat.
"I was wondering if I could call upon you again for a social visit."
Molly's breath hitched in surprise. "Oh! Well, I s-suppose."
Lestrade twisted his hat in his hands.
"Of course, I will seek your Uncle's permission," he smiled hopefully.
"Of course," Molly repeated.
She did not know what to think. She'd had no idea that the Inspector was at all interested in her. Guilt prickled her conscience and she thought of Sherlock Holmes. She had only just kissed him an hour before. Yet, there was no understanding between them. She did not belong to him and certainly, she was under no illusions that the detective had honorable intentions where she was concerned. That was not to say she thought him a cad, but he was a singularly focused man. She very much doubted he wanted to them to form any kind of attachment. Molly felt an unfurling of pain in her heart as she finally admitted that to herself. She swallowed then feigned a smile for Lestrade. He returned a sincere and heartfelt smile of his own.
"Perhaps if the weather is fine we might take a stroll in Regency Park," he suggested.
She chewed her lip, then nodded. She was incredibly flattered that this handsome man sought her company despite her improper behavior. She could ill afford to turn down any opportunities to find a husband. His regard was a blessing, in fact.
"A walk would be lovely, Inspector Lestrade."
"Please, Miss Hooper," he implored, "please, let us be friends. My name is Gregory. I-I would be honored if you referred to me as such."
Molly rubbed the back of her neck nervously. "Y-Yes, alright, Gregory. It would be my pleasure."
Gregory nodded and then unexpectedly took her hand. She felt his lips press fleetingly against her knuckles.
"I bid you adieu, Miss Hooper," he murmured.
"Erm, if I am to use your Christian name, I suppose you should refer to me as Molly."
"Molly," he nodded. "Goodnight."
She watched him retreat down the path to the street where the hack awaited. Anderson must have just stirred. He blinked groggily through the carriage window. She wrung her hands as she watched Gregory climb into the hack beside him. The carriage jerked and set off. Her system rushed with adrenaline as soon as the hack rounded the corner and she realized the predicament she had placed herself in. What would Holmes think if he found out? She gave her head a shake. The question was not if, but when!
Molly sighed and slipped into through her front door. After removing her coat and shoes, she tip-toed upstairs to her room. She eyed the bed but her mind was awhirl. Instead of going straight to bed, she sat down at her writing desk and lit her dependable, ceramic-bottomed oil lamp with its faded flower applique. Her fingers raised to her lips and she closed her eyes. A little flush rushed through her lower stomach as she reminisced about the kisses Sherlock Holmes had bestowed upon her in the morgue. Everything about that had been so deliciously improper from the moist, stickiness of hips lips and the way he devoured her to the feel of his hard body with all its bone and muscle pressing along her length. Her breaths heated and scalded her lips as she recalled how he had hiked up her skirts and branded her thigh with the gentle caress of his fingers. The whole experience had been a frenetic jolt into womanhood as if she had been tossed into a bubbling cauldron of iniquity. Even after he had determined she was inexperienced, he had not tempered his response. That had been, she admitted, more than a little thrilling. A whimpering sigh escaped her lips as her sex clenched. The most alluring part of the incident had been the knowledge that she, Molly Hooper, essentially an inconsequential nobody from nowhere, had affected the illustrious detective.
"Dear God, Hooper," he had mumbled, "if you were not an innocent, I would rut you right here in this morgue."
The memory of his deep timber uttering those words made her physically ache. She pushed away from her desk and flopped back on her bed. She laid there a moment with her fingers quivering at her sides, then she bunched her skirts up in the same manner Holmes had done and touched her leg where he had placed his fingers. She bit her lip. That simple touch had been a tease. She had wanted him to explore further. She had wanted to be caressed somewhere infinitely more intimate. She moved her hand haltingly towards her drawers and dipped them past her navel below her waist. She hesitated there a moment just above her mound, her fingers trembled, then she slid them farther down to where she felt most needy.
"Huh," she mumbled as her fingers stroked between her folds. "Um!"
Molly's face flushed hot. A fluttering spark ignited beneath her finger. She was secretly mortified at the slippery moisture she found in her cleft. Yet, she rubbed the spot again and her legs trembled and fell apart. Then, it was as if Holmes' hands were on her body, as if her own panting breaths were his breaths. She stroked that point again and again as she relived the consuming penetration of his tongue and the way he coaxed her to respond with each slide of his wet, velvety organ.
"Mm," she shut her lips firmly to quiet the cries that threatened to erupt.
Her whole being felt tense. The ache and the need ratcheted up, coiling something inside her body. Soon, her fingers were gliding over her wet womanhood as if possessed. She was completely lost in the wicked feeling and entranced by the deliciousness of that friction. She squeezed her eyes shut and let her head relax back against her bedding. Her hips jerked off the mattress as she felt the first flash of an impending event.
"Unh," she groaned, rubbing a bit more vigorously.
Then, the event flared again but this time, it sent an explosive ripple from her sex throughout her body. She bit her lip so hard that it hurt; at the same time her torso shuddered and her legs clamped together on her hand. Several shudders rocked her body and she was wracked by seizures. It took several moments before she went limp enough to extract her hand.
Molly laid there wheezing until she realized that she had just pleasured herself for the first time. She grabbed a pillow and held it against her face as she stifled a shriek. Her intimate parts still tingled and pulsed. Fire licked through her face. If there was a hell, she was certainly going to it for such immoral behavior! Even in medical school they were taught that women shouldn't succumb to their physical desires as it led to all sorts of self-indulgence. Only prostitutes sought such pleasure, they were told, and that is why those women ended up stricken with all manner of terrible illnesses. It was said that this was the method in which God punished them for their weakness.
She sat up and shoved her skirts down, then stood and quickly cleaned her hands at her wash basin on her dresser. When she was done, she shakily began to undress for bed. She cursed Holmes and what he had aroused in her. Would she descend into madness pursuing that release time and again? She could already feel the corruption of it spreading through her body and hear the cackle of an internal voice promising that she would want to feel it again. With a huff, she extinguished her lamp, tumbled into bed and pull her duvet up around her chin.
Molly needed to regain control of her life. She would start by keeping Mr. Sherlock Holmes at a distance. If Gregory Lestrade wanted to court her, she would make an effort to be receptive to him. Despite his charm and pleasant demeanor, he did not inspire anywhere near the same kind of intense physical reaction in her as Holmes. In fact, he was exactly the kind of man whom she could admire without ever being swept away by base desires.
Resolute, she shut her eyes and tried to focus on the charming Inspector. Yet, it was not his face that swam before her eyes as she lapsed into unconsciousness. A dark demon of a man with wickedly tempting lips was the last image that occupied her thoughts as she tumbled into her tumultuous dreams.
Sherlock rubbed his temple with the finger that laid alongside his face. His brow felt heavy and painfully drawn together as he listened to the inane driveling of Mrs. Roberta Clairmont from where he sat across from her in his favorite green armchair. She was an absurd woman in his opinion. Her voice had a melodramatic tremor that set his nerves on edge. She wore pastel coming-out colours twenty years too young for her forty-plus years, a wide-brimmed hat with an overly-long ostrich feather that danced every time she spoke and garish, bulbous rings which she twiddled on her fingers. She was prattling on about the afterlife at that moment, presuming to educate them all about ghosts and ghouls. Watson shuffled in his seat to his left. Even he seemed bored of this tiresome exchange.
At least if Sherlock had to suffer this drudgery, he was fortunate it was in the comfort of his own home. His eyes flicked to the beleaguered gentleman in his late fifties, Mr. Harold Clairmont and his three daughters who stood stoically behind the babbling matriarch of their family. The three girls aged nineteen through twenty-four were the only interesting parts of this equation. They were all very similar in stature to their mother, on the fleshy side of average, with dark brown hair and equally dark brown eyes. Other than the subtle differences between the arch of their brows and the shapes of their noses, they could have been exact replicas. Fortunately, none of them seemed to have the same proclivity for vacuous discourse as their mother. In fact, they were all reserved and difficult to read.
He concentrated on the oldest daughter. She met his gaze but only briefly. Her slashing brows twitched as she glanced away. Could she have been the one who murdered the young man that Hooper, Watson and himself had examined in their basement? As the eldest of the trio, she would be the one most predisposed to have secrets. Yet, the younger sisters possessed a similar advanced maturity in their deportment. Sherlock found himself frustrated by the lack of ready details he was able to discern from the young women.
"A what?" He barked as the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard spewed forth from Mrs. Clairmont's puffy lips.
"A séance, Mr. Holmes," she repeated, lifting her chin, "I will be conducting one at my home two days hence. I would very much like for you to attend."
Sherlock gazed sideways at Watson with incredulity. His friend grimaced as he suppressed a smile.
"Oh," Watson cleared his throat, "that sounds brilliant, Mrs. Clairmont!"
Sherlock glowered at Watson and his faux cheerfulness. Mrs. Clairmont sung the praises of some creole woman by the name of Sally Donovan who would be conducting the event, no doubt just a clever con trying to make her way in the world. He stretched his neck and reminded himself that these idiots were paying clients. Not only that, but he had a mystery to uncover and this family appeared to be thick into it. As for Watson, he would find a way to repay the doctor's treachery.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Clairmont, as I am not sure I understand your requirement," he ground out. "Why would you want me to attend a séance?"
She tittered a laugh. "Well, Mr. Holmes, I am not a detective. I do not know what to ask a vengeful spirit. I mean, she might lie to me. She is, after all, a criminal, is she not? So, you can deduce if she is being forthcoming or not! You will know how to converse as to avoid agitating her, I imagine. God Forbid Mr. Clairmont says something inappropriate and we have to perform an exorcism!"
Sherlock rubbed his forehead as tension began to set in. Try as he might, he could not keep the wrinkle out of his brow. He could feel it cutting a deep groove between his eyes. He needed to get Mrs. Clairmont and her brood out of his flat before he erupted. As if sensing a pending release of vitriol, Watson jumped to his feet.
"Hmm, erm, well, you will have to let us know the time of day you expect to hold this communique with the dead. Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Clairmont, I think we have learned all we need for now and, of course, we do not want to take up any more of your valuable time."
"Yes," Sherlock mumbled, "there is much I need to do to prepare myself."
Watson managed to hastily hustle the family from Sherlock's residence in a matter of minutes then returned to his seat. Sherlock shot up from his chair and paced as soon as the door closed behind them. He pulled at his brow as Mrs. Hudson swept into the room with a tea tray followed by none other than Mary Watson.
"God, I thought they would never leave," she stalked directly to her husband, leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Sorry, my love, I contemplated rescuing you earlier but I thought it better if I stayed out of sight. I am not Mrs. Clairmont's favorite person at present."
"That is perfectly understandable," John murmured and stole a kiss from her jaw.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose but stopped in his tracks. "Why? Why are you at odds with that woman?"
Mary smirked as she brushed her hands down the front of her navy blue and white striped overcoat. Then she peeled her gloves off and slapped them in one hand while she slid her other hand around Dr. Watson's shoulder. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. She must have been out walking quite vigorously, her cheeks were rosy.
"I tried to recruit her daughters to join our group," her brows twitched. "We plan to march again next week. We need to increase our numbers."
"Oh, Lord!" Mrs. Hudson muttered as she arranged some cups on the buffet under the window. "Not that suffragist nonsense again."
Mary poked her lips out and angled towards the older woman. "It is not nonsense, Mrs. Hudson! We women are half the population, we need representation!"
Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes as she set about pouring some tea. "Representation? I fail to see the difference of voting for this man or that. It is still men who decide our fate!"
Mary exhausted a noisy breath. "The point is that once we obtain the vote, we will be able to cast our votes for women candidates who can help craft laws with women's sensibilities in mind. I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but even the most brilliant of men, even a parliament full of Sherlock Holmeses could never hope to fully understand our struggles and needs."
Watson frowned at his wife.
"An assembly of Holmeses? What about an assembly of John Watsons? Would not that be brilliant?"
Mary's lip poked out as she half-frowned, half-grinned. "Oop, I beg your forgiveness, darling. Of course it would!"
Sherlock stood there a moment, tapping his toe on the wooden floorboards. A thought began to coalesce.
"Women," he murmured.
Mary's head turned in his direction and her eyes snapped to his. "Oh, careful with your next words, Mister . . ."
He rolled his head around. "I need women."
Three sets of eyes stopped and stared at him. All of their mouths could catch flies. He scowled at the trio.
"Oh, please! You know that is not what I meant!"
Mary suppressed a smile. "Hmm, are you sure? A little birdy told me- oomph!"
Watson nudged her ribs. "Erm, what do you need women for, Holmes?"
He chose to ignore their ridiculous innuendos. "I need women to come with me to this séance, Watson. Mary said it herself, only women can truly read other women correctly. I need operatives."
Mary's grin spread across her face. "Operatives, plural?"
Mrs. Hudson made a sound. "I hope you do not mean to enlist me in this!"
Sherlock scoffed. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I do not trust you to keep your head if a phantom appears. This exercise demands the two most skeptical women I have ever met, Mary and-"
"And?" Mary interrupted him and leaned forward.
"Hooper," he muttered. "Molly Hooper."
Mary beamed, clapped and wagged her brows at Watson. "Oh, what fun! I get to meet the infamous Miss Molly at last."
"Try not to corrupt her," Sherlock returned gruffly.
"Hmm, I am certain it is too late to do that, Sherlock Holmes."
