Friday evening in the Holmes manor found Molly fussing with her skirts in front of the main powder room's ornate floor-to-ceiling mirror. Her dress was gorgeous, of course, but she could not help feeling like a fraud. She inhaled a shaky breath as her gaze poured over her royal purple silk brocade ball gown with its column of tapered bows integrated into the bodice. She half-turned again in the fitted garment to assess the modest bustle with its large bow blending seamlessly in with the heavy layers of shiny fabric cascading to a short train. Her eyes flicked down to her satin slippers dyed to match. A casual observer might almost believe she was an honest-to-goodness heiress in such finery. Yet, if that same person applied a more analytical gaze, they might observe a pinkness in her eyes from a lack of sleep and note a skin pallor that was not unlike one of her corpses at the morgue.

For this and more, Molly avoided her own gaze. She did not think she would be able to go through with the evening's farce if she got lost in the miserable depths of her own pupils.

"Why are you torturing yourself?" she whispered at the feet in the mirror. "Why do you cling to hope where there is none?'

Her treacherous feet withdrew beneath the skirts again as if they were belligerent children more concerned with their own vanity than her well-being. Molly swallowed against the ever-present constriction which had closed off her throat in recent days. She turned from her reflection quickly and rubbed her chest as her eyes burned.

Sherrinford Holmes' voice flitted through her head.

...

"Did you know my mother has a heart condition, Miss Hooper?"

"N-No! My word! Holmes never spoke of it."

"Well, it is not something we advertise. My mother is a proud woman, almost too proud. I worry how she might take a broken engagement, especially since she has planned a ball in your honor for this very Friday."

"She planned a ball?"

...

It hadn't taken much more convincing by Sherrinford for Molly to continue her engagement after that revelation. She did not want to be responsible for Mrs. Holmes having an attack, after all. Sherrinford had assured her that there would come an opportunity for Molly to beg off her engagement before the wedding, but that he needed to properly prepare his mother for the news and that was best left until the following week after she had seen her doctor. Molly ceded to Sherrinford's knowledge of the situation, of course. Though, she was curious about Mrs. Holmes' condition.

...

"And Holmes? Have you spoken with him?"

"Well, he is the one who asked me to speak with you."

"He . . . he is not too terribly upset with me for breaking off our engagement, is he?"

"No, not at all. In fact, he has been going about his business quite as usual."

...

Molly's eyes prickled anew with another sting of tears. Business as usual. She gulped in several breaths and tilted her head back as if that might contain her sorrow. That was probably the worst reaction she could imagine from Holmes. She had expected at least his dignity to be injured and endure a heated confrontation. In preparation, she had even practiced every response imaginable to an incensed Holmes. She had never imagined he might be apathetic. She waved a tissue in her face and dabbed under her eyes. For a moment it felt as if a cold cloud had seeped through her chest and bruised it from the inside out. She kept having to push out breaths to try to expunge the pain.

She thought she had gone in with eyes wide open. She thought she had been in some sort of control nearly every step of the way. After all, she was eight and twenty, not eighteen. It should not have hurt so much.

But it did and she was quite convinced her heart would fall apart like an over-ripe tomato when she saw him at last.

Or-

It might flutter and take flight, a much more concerning reaction, because for every new height her heart soared, there always followed a more harrowing dive.


"Love, Sherlock Holmes. You are in love."

Sherlock scoffed and yanked at his snug cravat.

"Ridiculous," he muttered, "love, bah!"

Still, Dr. John Watson's smug tone reverberated through his skull. The thought was beyond ridiculous. Sherlock was not in love with his fiance, he grumbled silently! Love was a affliction of weaker minds.

"If I am in love, then mankind is doomed!" he declared.

He glanced up at his reflection in the mirror just above the hearth in his father's study and frowned. His hawk-like appearance suffered a loss of intrinsic ferocity with his cheeks slightly flushed and lips presenting an almost dewy? facade. Additionally, no matter how tightly he constricted his gaze, he could not prevent his pupils from glittering. He looked like a whimsical renaissance dreamer, like a man . . . in love.

"BAH!"

In his fit, his white tie had come loose. He snorted and corrected its haphazard construction but the moment it encircled his throat, he felt as if it were a noose around his neck. He swallowed several times.

"Get yourself together, man," he muttered, "just because John Watson says it is so, does not make it true."

"What fantastical claims is Dr. Watson guilty of, my boy?"

Sherlock's gaze slid sideways to see his father enter the study. He closed the door behind him.

"Spurious emotional inferences," Sherlock groused.

His father laughed and ambled over to his decanter. He poured an ounce or so of his favorite Scotch in a pair of tumblers and added equal measures of water carefully before offering one to his son. Sherlock accepted it, inhaled a fortifying breath and gulped back a mouthful. He nearly spit it back out as it burned on the way down.

"Oof, lord," he blinked at the spirit, "adding water doesn't temper it at all."

Mr. Holmes chuckled. "Ah, well, see, that is a common misconception. A good Scotch develops with a bit of dilution. Mm, hmm, a person can enjoy its subtle traits, like the hint of vanilla and fig in this one, without sacrificing its bolder notes."

Sherlock's lip curled. "That sounds very much like a metaphor."

Mr. Holmes snorted. "Does it? Well, I suppose everything does when a man is in your state."

Sherlock groaned, rolled his eyes and shook his hands at the ceiling. "Oh, good Lord, are you all so convinced of your superior deductive skills where my emotions are concerned?"

The elder Holmes took a sip of his drink. "Mmm, there is only one man here convinced of his superiority in these matters, my boy, and it is not I."

Sherlock huffed and knocked back the rest of the scotch before slamming the tumblr down on the mantel. His father laughed under his breath.

"What? What is it?!"

His father winked. "Ah, now here is a metaphor for you. Rapid consumption only leads to swift inebriation."

Sherlock felt his guts rumble as he stared at his empty glass with chagrin. He had certainly barreled into an affair with Molly Hooper.

"Would I have done better with a more metered intake?"

"Heh, heh, heh, no!" His father slapped his shoulder. "Either way you would have been drunk. Now, go on, lad. Go find your intended. That will take the edge off."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Or completely incapacitate me."

"Or that."

The great detective straightened his neck and prepared to leave but half-turned after the first step.

"Father," he couldn't quite lift his eyes, "i-if I have ever acted contemptuously towards you- "

The older man waved his hand dismissively. "You have been a fine son and a fine man, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed. "Thank-you. My . . . sentiments about you are very similar. Please forgive me if I ever give you reason to doubt that-"

His father's eyes constricted. He stepped forward and scrutinized Sherlock more closely.

"Is there something I should know, my boy?"

Sherlock rubbed his lips together. He felt a rumble within himself and suddenly, there was a split road in his mind's eye. In one direction lay a narrow, shrouded path that was little more than a game trail wide enough for a lone traveler. In the other direction a wider, more well-worn road beckoned, one which promised amenities and respite. He had set events in motion for that evening and while the desired outcome was as impersonal as it could get, the consequences could be very personally dire for Sherlock in regards to his most intimate relationships.

"Yes, Father." Sherlock drew in a ragged breath. "Yes, there is something we should discuss."


"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock's shoulders tensed at the shrill, tremulous tone of Mrs. Regina Clairmont's voice as it reverberated down the hall outside his parent's ballroom. He rubbed his lips together and steeled his features before turning and dipping his head.

"Mrs. Clairmont," he acknowledged with a wan smile as the matriarch approached.

She seemed to be celebrating her return from her self-imposed exile by wearing an overly-embellished satin gown and elaborate updo of ringlets. The flicker of a nearby sconce danced across the multitude of crystals along her hems and laced into her hair. He glanced over her shoulder to where her daughters hung back with bored expressions. They were not so keen as their mother to draw attention to themselves, it appeared.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Clairmont rushed out, "I do not want to take up too much of your time but I just had to offer my sincere personal thanks for the missive you sent. You cannot begin to understand what a relief it was to learn of Miss Donovan's, erm, passing. A great burden was lifted from us to learn that she is no longer a threat-"

"You are relieved?" Sherlock drawled with a pique of interest. "I thought you might be disappointed in her having escaped judgement for her wicked crimes."

Mrs. Clairmont flushed and waved a pink satin fan trimmed with ivory lace in her face. "Oh, yes, of course I regret that we were denied the satisfaction of watching her hang for my husband's murder."

The woman's lips tweaked upwards at the corner ever so slightly before she stuck them out and shrugged. She shook her head and smiled, then stepped closer and lowered her voice.

"Is it true she took her own life, Mr. Holmes?" she asked with a lift of her brows.

Sherlock swallowed a rise of bile and clicked his tongue. "It is, indeed. She even left a note."

There was a flash of uncertainty deep in Mrs. Clairmont's eyes. The crystals jittered in her hair.

"O-Oh? What did she write."

Sherlock lowered his tone and leaned forward conspiratorially. "She wrote of regrets and guilt, madam. While she fell short of an outright confession, it was enough of a inference for myself and Scotland Yard's finest to finally close the case of your husband's murder."

Mrs. Clairmont blinked and her chest finally deflated in a kind of sigh of relief. "That was all then?"

Sherlock licked his teeth. "Mm, there was some rant about her suicide serving a curse or some nonsense. She declared that she was unafraid of death, that it was not the end and that she would return to drag some more sinners to hell. We had a good chuckle about it, as you can imagine."

The middle aged woman lips pulled tightly across her teeth and she appeared to swallow something distasteful. "Y-Yes. Well, Mr. Holmes, I shan't keep you from your engagement ball any longer. Thank-you again for all your . . . information . . . and your invitation. Best wishes for your future."

Sherlock stepped back and inclined his head. "And for you as well. May you find peace, if not true justice, for all you have had to endure."

Mrs. Clairmont smiled but the light did not reach her orbs. The gas sconce next to her flickered at that very same moment and her eyes appeared strangely black and vacant for a moment. Then, as if she had come to some happy determination, she grinned and bid her adieu. Sherlock watched her return to her daughters with a bounce in her step, then chuckled to himself.

"Yes, yes, enjoy your reprieve, Mrs. Clairmont," he intoned under his breath and out of earshot, "while it lasts, in any event."

He glanced over his shoulder to the ballroom's entry at the far end of the corridor. Guests had begun arriving, each more lavishly attired than the last. Unfortunately for him, his mother was a bit of a leader among the most influential families in London and they would not want for guests. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of his excessively starched collar, the restricted encapsulation of his formal attire and the pinch of his new leather derby shoes. In his mind, he approached the entry but he realized he hadn't moved after several minutes when fresh refrains music drifted down the hall. The muscles up the back of his neck strained at the sound of a violinist mangling what was supposed to be a fluid double strop.

"Mmph, well, that must be my cue," he muttered to himself and urged a foot forward even as it felt welded to the floor, "into battle, then."