Molly stubbed her toe as she hurried across the foyer to assist their manservant Gomery.

"Ow!" She muttered as she flexed her toes in her slippers.

"Oy, careful, Miss, one of them tiles has come loose again," Gomery peeked around an awkward stack of what looked like garment boxes from a dressmaker.

She glanced down at the tile which had, indeed, popped up from its mooring. She had never much cared for the forest green, smoked orange, and black geometric pattern of the tiles in her Uncle's front hall. Her disdain was bolstered by the fact that the original installation had been rather shoddy. However, it was just one part to a dysfunctional whole. The entire entry had been an exercise in tasteless drudgery. All the woodwork and wainscoting was stained charcoal. The wallpaper was a French wide-striped pale grey and green motif. It was as if the joyless soul who selected the décor intended their melancholy to live on indefinitely. She sighed and looked back up at the elderly butler.

"Oh, here, let me take a couple of those boxes," Molly fussed.

Gomery shook his head. "No, away with you. I will not have the lady of my house carrying packages."

"Bah, you old relic," She chided him as she took several from him, "the real lady of this house has been dead and gone for almost two decades . . . though, perhaps she is not completely departed. I have heard about a rather vengeful spirit about town."

Gomery's face blanched. Then the wispy, white hairs on his head quivered as his wrinkled lips pressed together. He jostled the leftover boxes on one arm, touched his hand to his forehead and raised his fearful brown eyes towards the ceiling as if making a silent apology to his deity.

"Lord, but you court the anger of the man above, Miss Molly," he whispered with a shake of his head. "Lady Stamford was a saint. You should not speak of her so."

Molly studied her new burden with a frown. "My grandmother was a sour old hag who made it her life's pursuit to ensure there was as much strife in this family as possible. It would not surprise me in the least if she rose to terrorize London to alleviate her boredom in the afterlife."

Gomery let out a raspy sigh. "God love you, Miss, but your uncle and I should not have taken it upon ourselves to raise you after she died. We should have found you a proper governess and seen to it you were brought up gentler."

Molly huffed. "That kind of upbringing did not work out so well for my mother, now did it? Come, you do not really believe an army of prim governesses could have made me any different, do you? I am exactly as I ought to be. Would not you be proud of me if I was a boy, Gomery . . . even a little bit?"

Molly held her breath a moment, suddenly a little uncertain of how he might respond. There were only a handful of whose estimations truly mattered in her mind. Gomery might be in her family's employment and viewed as just a lowly servant by the outside world, but his was one of the few good opinions she relied upon. She contracted her toes again in her shoes as she awaited his reply.

The old man turned pink. "Miss, you make an old bugger feel very foolish. You know I could not be more pleased with you if you were my own flesh and blood, male or otherwise," his emphatic pronouncement echoed in the front hall.

Molly looked away for a spell and swallowed, instantly humbled. She had jibed at him in jest but it had become something else entirely. His sincerity made her feel incredibly duplicitous.

"Yes, well . . . there you have it," she murmured.

The irony of the agreement she had made with Sherlock Holmes the previous day was not lost on her. Gomery would have nothing good to say if he knew how she had bargained with her own flesh.

"Erm, what are these packages then?" Her voice strained.

"Ah, you should speak with your uncle," he resumed his lumber towards the stairs, oblivious to her internal conflict, "all I know is that they are for you."

"Me?" She counted ten boxes between them. "What have I need for that I did not know about?"

Gomery shrugged. "Like I said, Miss, that is a query for your uncle."

She fell in line with him as they climbed the stairs to her room. The boxes were artfully printed shades of pastel pinks and blues. They looked suspiciously similar to the boxes from a very expensive dressmaker in the heart of London. Once they reached her room, the packaged items were deposited on her bed.

"Be right back, Miss," Gomery said breathlessly, "there are a few more."

Molly crinkled her nose. "What? Ridiculous! Where?"

He wagged his finger. "Nah, stay here. You have mortified me enough. I will fetch the last of them."

After he left her room, she flipped the lid off the first box to reveal a stunning bodice of bronze satin gown. With shaking hands, she drew the weighty garment from the box. Its voluminous skirts whooshed to the floor.

"My word," she whispered as she fingered the lustrous, gold pearls dripping from the top one of the short puffed sleeves overtop a shimmery, burnished lace.

The craftsmanship of the dress was overwhelming to behold. The lace continued across the low collar above the meticulously brown and gold thread embroidery towards a cinched, bone reinforced waist. At the rear of the dress swaths of bronze and gold lace swept downwards from a gathering just below the waist. She had never beheld a more beautiful garment. She glanced at the box again in disbelief and spied a pair of satin slippers overlaid with lace to perfectly compliment the dress. She fluffed the fabric out a final time and laid the gown on her bed with reverence.

In a flurry, she opened the remaining boxes and soon her room was decorated with a brand new wardrobe which included day dresses, evening wear, an overcoat, a proper pair of heeled boots and several slippers. Gomery returned amidst her stunned contemplation, but this time, the boxes he bore were black.

"This is all too much," She muttered. "Uncle Mike has lost his damn mind. This frippery will have set him back a small fortune and there is still more?"

Not to mention, she did not deserve any of it, not even a little bit.

Gomery nodded but then shook his head. "Those came this morning, Miss. These came separately. The card indicates they are from Mr. Holmes."

"What? Are you positive?"

"Yes, Miss," he wheezed, "now, excuse me. Your uncle has requested tea. Visitors or some rubbish."

Molly's brow furrowed. Visitors! That would preclude her intention of lambasting her uncle over his purchases. She wondered if he planned them as a shield.

"Thank you for bringing this all up, Gomery."

Her old servant dipped his head and hobbled off. The black boxes sat starkly atop her bed amongst the richness of her new clothing rather ominously. She stepped forward. Her hand hovered over the closest one for a few seconds. Even though she had pledged herself to Holmes, it had not felt irreversible because she had accepted nothing from him . . . yet. Whatever was contained within these packages was the first lick of flames she could feel behind her as she crossed that deep moral gulf that separated them. Heat blossomed in her chest and spread upwards over her face and through her temples. What would she uncover?

Finally, she sucked in a breath, opened the box and pulled out . . . dark grey men's trousers. Her brow twisted on her face. She turned the box over. It contained a white shirt, silver waistcoat, blazer and even what looked like men's undergarments. She rifled through the other boxes in confusion. Then, in the last package, she encountered a ginger wig and a faux mustache. She held up the disguise, light glinted off the ruddy hairs. She squeaked and dropped them back onto the bed when she realized it was real hair.

"Oh! Disgusting!" She shook her hand as if a bug had landed.

She stared ruefully at the men's attire as well as the wig and mustache. At first, she thought there had to be some kind of mix-up but the articles were all petite as if meant for a male child. The mock coif and whiskers told another story, though. She had to conclude she was meant to wear these items. There were no instructions, however. Peculiar did not even begin to describe her situation. Her uncle had bought her enough finery to outfit a high-born lady and Holmes had decided she should present herself as a man.

A knock sounded at her rear. Molly backed away from the conflicting apparel and then turned to answer the door.

"Miss," Gomery tried to peek around her, "your uncle requests your presence."

Molly squeezed out through her partially open door and snapped it shut before he could see anything more. How could she evn begin to explain something she did not even understand herself yet?

"Yes, of course," she rushed out, "shall we?"

She skipped around Gomery and flew down the stairs, anxious to be away from his inquisitive gaze. She smoothed a couple hairs back from her flushed face as she hurried across the front hall. Just before she stepped into the parlor, her toe caught the loose tile from earlier.

"Whoop!" She pitched forward and stumbled through the entry and crashed into something very solid.

"What the-!"

Molly's impact threw the large form of Sherlock Holmes standing between Dr. Watson and an unknown female, off balance. He tripped back and twisted to catch her but they fell all the same. Holmes hit the floor first on his backside and tumbled back. Somehow, as Molly tried to impede her own ungracious flop, she once again jammed his groin region with her knee. They ended up a heap on the floor with her splayed on top of him as he grimaced and panted through the pain.

"Holmes," she whispered as she raised herself up on his muscular chest, "blast! Holmes? Are you alright?"

Above them, a female's laughter sounded like the tinkling of bells. Dr. Watson, her uncle, Gomery and even Greg Lestrade could be heard enquiring after their health but they all were distant, hollow voices. She was singularly focused on the man beneath her small form.

"Holmes?"

He frowned at her, but his attention seemed equally transfixed on her face. "I am fine, Hooper."

His eyes traversed back and forth as he surveyed her expression. A wrinkle between his brows deepened. His fingers lifted towards her face as if to touch it but hesitated.

"Are you injured?" He asked gruffly.

She gulped and gave a small shake of her head. "Not at all."

"Have I offended you somehow?"

She shook her head. "N-No, of course not. Why would you even ask?"

"Because you seem to have remarkably consistent aim which I am beginning to suspect is deliberate."

Another peel of female laughter penetrated their bubble. The soft look in Holmes' eyes shuttered and his hand dropped. Molly rolled off him and scrambled to her feet, avoiding his offered hand. Damn, but she was clumsy as of late! She could not seem to stay upright. When she looked around, she realized she was at the center of a ring of spectators each with their own expressions. Her uncle smile inanely as if he were enjoying a secret joke. Lestrade's nose was scrunched, his lips turned downwards and his arms were crossed defensively. Dr. Watson rolled his mustache between his fingers as he analyzed her with a contemplative gaze. The blonde woman who hovered at his elbow in a navy, masculine-inspired shirtwaist over dark blue and black tartan skirts wiped tears from her eyes as she tried to tamp down her mirth.

"Miss Hooper," Dr. Watson bobbed his head, "allow me to introduce you to my wife, Mrs. Mary Watson."

Molly smiled shyly as the woman peeled off a glove and extended her hand. "Delighted!"

Mrs. Watson had a rather joyful disposition. Her bright smile lit every corner of her face. However, there was a shrewdness in her blue eyes that bespoke of a formidable intelligence. Molly's hand was grasped in a firm shake. She had no doubt that Mary was also blessed with an abundance of confidence.

"Pleased to meet you as well, Mrs. Watson."

"Oh, do refer to me as Mary! I cannot stand formal address."

"Yes, okay, Mary. You can call me Molly then, if you like."

Her pale brows twitched up. "Or Hooper?"

Heat flashed through Molly's face. "Molly will suffice."

"Oh, poo! You know, I would be perfectly content to have you address me as Watson were there not more than one of us."

A groan infiltrated their exchange.

"My God, are we quite finished with the introductions?" Holmes carped. "Might I ask we also skip the requisite compliments and musing about the weather and proceed directly to the point of this gathering?"

Mary blinked several times. "But the weather has been so unpredictable lately! How about that storm yesterday? That was quite unexpected."

Molly tucked in her lips and glanced at Holmes from between wayward locks which had sprung loose during their tumble. He looked perfectly in order, as usual. His brown tweed, Glencheck patterned suit with its slim fitting tan waistcoat did not sport a single wrinkle. His hair remained slicked in place. As if he could feel her gaze, his pale eyes flicked briefly to hers before they slid away. Dr. Watson interrupted as if exasperated as well.

"Yes, Holmes, you are right. We could spend all day on idle chatter. Shall we sit?"

The group settled into the parlor. Molly quickly learned that a séance had been planned by the matriarch of the house where she had examined her very first young murder victim outside the morgue. Holmes was convinced one of her daughters was involved in the murder and possibly the specter of the bride about London. He hoped the séance, as ridiculous a notion it was, might produce some clues.

"A question," Molly said after a few minutes, "am I correct in assuming that you expect me to attend this event?"

She had many other questions, of course. She still needed an explanation from him for the men's attire but preferred to save those enquires for a private conversation.

Holmes nodded slowly above his steepled fingers. "Yes."

Everyone else quieted.

"Why?"

He leaned forward. "The Clairmont girls are . . . difficult to read. I had hoped some additional female perspective would prove useful."

"Useful?" Molly's lips inverted. "Hmm, I do not know. That sounds like a step backwards."

She could not resist the barb. Lestrade snorted a laugh from where he sat to the left of the detective. Watson peeked at Mary with large eyes. Holmes' lids twitched. Molly's belly fluttered. Somehow, she knew she would be in trouble for her impertinence later. His head cocked to one side and his eyes narrowed.

"Forgive me," he returned pointedly, "I have great need of you tonight. One might say, you are . . . indispensable."