Quick note- RAF stands for Royal Air Force. Hope you guys enjoy! :)

I. The Selection of One, Molly Hooper.

Hastings. It wasn't what Molly had expected. She had expected something perfectly out of the way, something benign like Northampton, or Derby, or some forgotten rock in Scotland. Somewhere it would never occur to Hitler to bomb, because it was so clearly not worth any sort of bother.

But Hastings was by the sea- she could smell it in the air, the sharp salt tang that was fresh and exhilirating all at once. Even if the Thames was drawn into London out from the very same sea, it was a waterway only, full of the stink of all sorts of dead things. But this air- if she squeezed her eyes shut, locking out all she knew was true, she might even believe she was on holiday. The gulls cried out to one another even as the train ground to a halt, screeching their secret, plaintive songs.

"Everyone out, come on then!" Molly was torn from her thoughts as a young woman in uniform opened the compartment door, gesturing them out onto the platform. "Bring your packing cases with you, and line up- girls to the left, boys to the right. Smartish, if you please!"

The children scrambled off the train with the sort of excitement that only children could muster after having left their parents behind. There was much noise and cajolery, but also worried little faces and red, swollen eyes, nails bitten to the quick in a matter of mere hours. Eventually they found themselves standing in several fidgeting lines, twitching and nervous as a row of rabbits. They looked, Molly thought, like a ragtail bunch, awaiting some great unfamiliar unknown. Girls twisted their braids and boys surreptitiously edged their fingers up their noses, and all the while a slow stream of adults mounted the platform. Never had she seen such a peculiar gathering: the men and women were dressed in every assortment of social wear, crowded in together and regarding them with unabashed curiosity. Their eyes were full of shrewd, calculating looks, while others sent hopeful glances searching through the lines for- what? What did they want?

Suddenly Molly felt cold, and she shivered, wrapping her cardigan closer about her. For the first time, she realized how dire a situation she might have landed herself in- they might all have landed in. Were they chosen, selected, by the adults? And if that were the case, then what were they looking for? Or were their identification tags matched up to whatever ticket stubs these men and women might have in their hands, and then herded off like cattle, to strange homes, strange places? What if she was sent to live with someone who didn't want her, who was unkind, or downright mean- what then?

She looked at the adults warily, then down at the scuffs she'd never bothered to polish out of her shoes. With a grim sort of vehemence, she wished she'd at least thought to dress nicer. Some of the children were put together in their Sunday best while she, Molly, had found perfectly sensible traveling clothes, dull and drab, and packed away her cheerful jumpers and dresses. She felt decidedly old in the midst of all these children- although there were the awkward handful of older boys and girls- and nervous, terribly nervous, and could think of nothing else but to wish that she'd at least thought to put a damn ribbon in her hair.

And then they began to choose.

It went much the way she thought it might: the pretty girls went first, and then the boys who looked strong- good for labor, good for work. Within moments, it seemed, their numbers had been culled. Each child was led away by an adult, or by a couple- and their anxious hearts beat plain upon their sleeves, ever watchful.

What if I'm not picked? She wondered abruptly. After all, she wasn't that pretty, and she was old, old, she was sixteen- well, only just but still, sixteen years old, not a pretty little girl, a sullen, inquisitive, obnoxious, what was the word, what was that word- ? Teenager. She'd heard the word once or twice, she knew what it meant, she knew no one would want her. Panic such as Molly had never felt exploded into her chest, and she could feel the breath leave her, and then fill her, in short, sudden sharp gasps, feel it-

"I'm terribly sorry, I'm so late, I know! I am so sorry- oh! But- goodness! These can't be all that's left, can it?" Molly's heart sank even as the speaker gently prodded her way to the front of the withering group of adults. She was an older woman, dressed smartly in a deep purple dress that harkened back to an era long faded into fashionable history. She looks like Grandmother, Molly realized, and for a moment was so caught up in the resemblance that she did not grasp that the woman had quickly scanned what was left of their group and had made a beeline towards her.

"What's your name, dear?" The woman asked, smiling kindly as she stopped before her.

"M- Molly," she stammered, dropping her eyes nervously before darting them up again. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "My name is Molly Hooper."

"And how old are you, may I ask?"

"I've only just turned sixteen, Ma'am," Molly replied, with a hint of defiance. For if she could not be younger, then at least she would be proud of the fact.

But the woman clapped her hands together, smiling broadly. "O-oh, but this is perfect!" She exclaimed happily. "You look like a perfectly charming young woman." Pausing suddenly, she cocked her head. "You are a patient sort though, aren't you?"

"Patient?" Molly asked blankly. "I- I suppose I am, but what has that got to do with- "

"It's nothing, dear, nothing! Come along, you'll do nicely." And the little woman marched away, her petite heels clacking against the platform in quickstep.

The attendant had already made a note in her ledger, and stared at Molly now with her brows raised. "Go on, she's waiting for you!"

"I- oh!" Molly hoisted up the packing case, swinging her bag across her shoulder as she did so and scurrying after the woman.

Outside, she was waiting for Molly before a big black automobile, beckoning her cheerfully on. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, by the way," she said as she pulled open the door of the driver's seat and slid in.

Molly found herself taken aback, staring at the enormous vehicle with her mouth dropping open in surprise. "Get in, get in! Your bags can stay in the back, dear- but climb in, there we are!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she pulled on an elegant pair of brown suede driving gloves.

"This is your automobile?" Molly asked in wonderment as she clambered into the enormous machine.

"Oh heavens, no," replied Mrs. Hudson merrily, tinkering with the ignition. "But I did give the driver the day off, which has a good deal to do with why I'm so late! But no harm done- damn, sometimes I can't get the thing working properly- ah, there we are. I do so enjoy a drive, Molly dear; it's why I insisted on learning."

Molly stared at Mrs. Hudson in bemusement, as the older woman began to weave her way through the village, honking occasionally at passers-by and waving through the window. Mrs. Hudson was clearly just this side of dotty, but seemed wonderfully kind. Molly had a sneaking suspicion that just this once, she might have gotten lucky.

"Thank you," she said after a moment. "Thank you for taking me in."

"Tosh, dear, it's nothing!" Mrs. Hudson smiled dismissively, squinting at the country lane they were approaching. "I'm glad to have you. And Sherlock will be so pleased to have a friend his own age! Well- " she shot Molly a sideways glance, "one can hope, at least."

"Sherlock? Is he your son, then?" Molly wondered, disconcerted at the pointed afterthought.

"Oh, no, he isn't- though he is the dearest boy! No, I simply look after him while his parents away, and what with his older brother so dreadfully busy and all! They work for the government, you know, the lot of them- very secret stuff," she tapped meaningfully at the steering wheel, sending Molly a knowing look.

"Do they not live here then?"

"Hm? Sherlock's parents? No, like I said, they're in with the top secret things- scientists, you know, and mathematicians- helping with the war effort, and all that business. I can't imagine Hitler stands a chance up against such brilliant people! But Mycroft- that's their other son, he's living with us too- what a shrewd boy, that one! He joined up a year ago- RAF, you know, they pulled him right out of Cambridge and stationed here in Hastings, working on something terribly hush-hush. Completely different from his parents, he's assured me, but classified." Mrs. Hudson shook her head fondly, clicking her tongue. "But that's the Holmes family for you- the whole lot of them frightfully clever, full of secrets."

"And Sherlock?" Molly wondered.

"Hm?"

"What about- Sherlock? Is he… in some sort of secret society too?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed gaily. "Oh no. Sherlock is… well, he's a bit of his own puzzle, isn't he? You'll meet him in just a moment, we've almost arrived- but he's in his last year of school, so you two can walk out together in the mornings. He was at Eton until last year, but his parents pulled him out- for safety, you know, much the same reason you're here yourself!" Mrs. Hudson reached over suddenly, and squeezed Molly's hand. Molly stared down at her lap, at the hands all clasped and intertwined, and tried to squelch the nerves that had been threatening to overwhelm her since she'd left her Mother behind. Mrs. Hudson squeezed once again and withdrew, smiling sadly at her. "I know you must feel awful, Molly, leaving your home and your family behind. But you needn't worry, dear- I promise you that. We'll look after you here."

Molly stared out the window, at the greenery that crowded into the lane from all sides, and tried with every fiber of her being to keep the tears from falling.

xXx

"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock absently, "have we got any biscuits?" The sitting room was silent, save for the ticking of the abhorrent old grandfather clock in the corner.

"I would like a biscuit. Chocolate, if we have it. And tea."

He frowned, turning the book against his knees in order to get a better view of the diagram. Bats, he noted, were truly under-appreciated creatures. It was a pity he didn't have one on hand to have a good look at. He would have to remedy that somehow- they were continually making nests in the chimneys in the closed up sections of the house, so it shouldn't be too difficult. Sometimes Mr. Colter asked him to look at his sheep if they had died in an odd way, to see if some other creature had killed them, or- even worse- some sort of virus that invariably turned out to be commonplace. And that was always good fun, but sheep were sheep, and dull by nature, whereas bats- well. At least they were flying mice, that had to count for something.

Sherlock stretched in his armchair, popping out his knees, unfurling his long toes one by one into his socks. The grandfather clock chimed in the corner, and he scowled darkly at it, because that meant that it would soon be dinner time, and dinner time was insufferable.

He glanced at the side table. There were no biscuits, and definitely no tea. Smothering a sigh of deepest annoyance, he bellowed, "MRS. HUDSON!"

"She's not here, Sherlock," said a voice. Sherlock twisted his neck to glare at his brother across the room. Mycroft leaned casually against the door jamb in full uniform, eyeing his little brother shrewdly.

"Well where in God's name is she? She's usually pottering away in the kitchen at this hour." Retorted Sherlock. "What are you doing home so early, anyway?"

"I'm here for the same reason Mrs. Hudson is gone." Mycroft replied, crossing the room and setting his RAF cap on the mantlepiece. He ran a hand through his thinning reddish hair, eyeing himself critically in the mirror.

"Spare me your riddles, Mycroft." Sherlock sneered, turning his attention back to his book.

"Well, she's gone to pick up our evacuee, hasn't she?" Mycroft reached for the decanter nestled onto a silver tray, pouring himself an easy dram. "And I must say, she's taking her time about it." Sherlock stilled, the back of his neck tensing into awareness.

"You never listen, do you?" Amusement tinged Mycroft's words, enough to spur his brother into a slow sort of horror.

"Evacuee?" Sherlock's eyes widened in dismay as he twisted in his seat to stare at Mycroft. "What evacuee?"

"If you remember," Mycroft continued, settling himself comfortably into the high-backed armchair opposite his brother and crossing his legs, "Mummy thought it would be prudent of us to host an evacuee from London for the duration of the war."

"But- but Mummy's not even here!" Sherlock all but wailed, dropping his book to the floor. "You mean to tell me that this- this person- " he spluttered to a halt, letting the full impact of another human being sharing the same roof as himself hit him. He shot up from his chair, then collapsed down again, seemingly unsure for the first time in his life. "But," he said helplessly, "but we've only just declared war, who knows how long it'll drag out- no, no, Mycroft, I absolutely forbid it- "

"This isn't your house, Sherlock," Mycroft said primly. "You'll recall there are others living here as well."

"Yes but you hardly count, you're gone half the time anyway, and really it's just me and Mrs. Hudson and- why are you here, anyway? Wouldn't it be easier to just- I don't know, live up at that terribly secret place of yours?"

"Surrender the thought! You're perfectly aware of the answer- the lodgings are sufficient, but the officers- God knows those men are tedious in the extreme, and the women are perfectly ghastly, all those hormones flying about, from both ends…" Mycroft shuddered, and took a larger sip than was necessary from his drink. "You'd think the war would be more about winning, rather than a splendid opportunity for fornication. It's no wonder they've up and gotten the motors on the Association for Moral Hygiene up and running again- "

"Mycroft. Shut up. No, hang on, bring me a biscuit."

"Get it yourself." Mycroft responded blandly.

But before Sherlock could respond, the sound of the front door banging open echoed into the sitting room. He flinched, his eyes narrowing, and in another moment Mrs. Hudson entered, looking very much like the cat who'd got the cream. Behind her followed a slight girl of- fifteen? No, sixteen, but only just- with long brown hair, who peered hesitantly into the room from behind her.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson- I've been calling and calling and you weren't here, and I've had the most dreadful hankering for a chocolate biscuit and this arsehole- " he kicked at Mycroft half-heartedly- "couldn't be bothered to get me one."

Mrs. Hudson frowned at him, tsking. "Mind your manners, young man, you've got legs of your own, get yourself a biscuit. Now: I'd like you to meet Molly Hooper. She's sixteen, Sherlock, just like you," she said with a hopeful expression.

Molly sidled into the room awkwardly, trying not to gawp at the formal trappings that littered the house. The packing case slipped from her hand to the floor with a dull thud. "Erm, hello,"she said quickly, trying to cover the pink she could feel spreading over her cheeks by glancing down. She could feel the brothers evaluating her, and it made her heart race uncomfortably in her chest.

"How do you do, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said after a moment, setting his glass down and extending his hand graciously. "You are most welcome in our home. I am Mycroft Holmes, and this is my younger brother Sherlock."

"Th-thank you for having me," Molly stammered, taking Mycroft's hand in a brief, clumsy shake- which made her blush even harder. "I mean- that is- I hope I won't be a bother at all, and I'm terribly sorry for all this, but they said we had to leave- London, that is, and- "

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interrupted, "Do we have chocolate biscuits, or just the normal sort?" He had picked up the book lying open on the floor and was flipping through it's pages in an exaggerated fashion. Molly peered at the book from across the room, curious to see what the diagrams seemed to be- but at that moment Sherlock glanced up, catching her eye as his own pale ones narrowed imperceptibly. A jolt ran up her spine as if in recognition and she looked away, anywhere- only to fall upon Mycroft, who only cocked his head at her, looking thoughtful.

"Sherlock, don't be rude!" Mrs. Hudson snapped. "You'll show Molly to the guest room, and then you'll get your own biscuit. Although we'll be eating soon enough, you needn't ruin your appetite- "

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock mumbled, hoisting himself out of the armchair he had ensconced himself in and tossing the book aside. He crossed to Molly and stooped, picking up her case in one swift movement and pushing past her out of the room. "Come on, then," he sighed, "this way." And he took off, practically running down the corridor.

"I- oh," Molly jumped, sending an apologetic glance to Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. "I'll just…" and she followed hastily, jogging off after Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands in irritation as she watched the two depart. "Whatever will we do with him, Mycroft?"

"Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft replied, staring after the pair with an appraising look, "I'm sure I don't know."

xXx

Molly followed Sherlock from the sitting room back into the ante room, up the great staircase and down a corridor littered with portraits, all uniformly old, stern, and unforgiving.

"Was that- " Molly began curiously.

"Don't even bother with the paintings, most of them are fakes. Although Mummy won't hear a word against them," Sherlock added in an undertone. He banged the packing case unceremoniously against the wall, leaving a little mark, and didn't so much as flinch. He holds himself like an aristocrat, Molly thought to herself- and it was true. Sherlock was terribly posh, no matter how his mop of black curls fell every which way. And even though she had only known him for a handful of minutes, he made her feel decidedly uncomfortable.

"No, what I meant to say was- was that anatomy, that book you were reading?" She asked curiously as she followed him down the corridor.

He flung a glance over his shoulder at her, an almost surprised look that was masked instantly with casual haughtiness. "Yes. Bats of Britain. One never knows when these things could be useful. The North Wing is all shut up," he changed the subject abruptly, gesturing carelessly at another corridor that branched away, "as is the servant's quarters. It's a quite well-known fact around the village that our ancestors lived far beyond their means- although should you wish to explore, do be wary of the stairwells, as they are notoriously under-kept. This is Mrs. Hudson's room- " he abruptly stopped, grabbed the knob of the nearest door, and pushed it open, then closed again, as if demonstrating it's use. They advanced around yet another corner of the bewildering estate. "- your washroom- " again he opened and closed a door, "- and my room. You are to be, evidently in the guest room opposite, though God knows why Mrs. Hudson has us all stuffed up like sardines in the same wing." He dropped her packing case unceremoniously before her door. "My room," he persisted severely, "is under no circumstances to be entered into without my express permission. Which I don't anticipate happening at any upcoming moment." And with that he turned sharply, letting himself into his room.

"And what if there's an air raid?" Molly asked irritably, since he seemed finally to be done listening to the sound of his own voice.

Sherlock paused, his door already halfway shut as he stared suspiciously out at her. "What?" He asked, as if he had never once entertained that being even a slight possibility.

"You know," she replied, finding her old streak of obstinance fighting it's way to the forefront. "an air raid? I mean, it's not likely, but- what if you're asleep? Your room is closest to mine, apparently- I know I'd like to be woken if there were an air raid, if the sirens didn't do the trick, that is- and I would assume you might appreciate the return of favor."

Sherlock cocked his head, his brows drawing together ever so slightly as he studied her. Who was this girl? Absolutely reeking of the middle class, father a doctor- no, hang on, was a doctor- that could be useful, was that useful? "I don't sleep." He scoffed, and shut the door.

Molly stared a moment at the spot where Sherlock's head had been. And then she released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and pushed open the door to her room.

It wasn't overlarge, as rooms in this sprawling estate seemed to go, but it did put her own little bedroom at home to shame. The four-poster bed stood against the wall in the middle of the space, beside a heavy wardrobe and a cozy little desk, with a full length mirror set to one side. But it was the windows that drew her, two large ones that gazed out into the English country, with a cushioned seat tucked invitingly against it's side. She smiled at that, and noted that it was perhaps the first time she had smiled in that long, exhausting day.

Settling the packing case onto the bedspread, she crossed to the window, flinging it open without hesitation. The draperies ducked and blew about her as she leaned out, taking in the slight salty scent that rode the air. The town lay off to the side in a collection of low buildings and little houses and twisting, cobbled roads. But directly beneath her was a slightly decrepit looking garden- all dried or rotting at the moment, but each strange plant with it's own little tag waving in the autumn breeze. They reminded her strangely of the group of children she had only today traveled with, wayworn and exhausted, shrinking in on themselves, alone. But farther out was the sea in all its dark glory, glinting just so in the light of the dying sun. And she wondered at it, at the possibility of her being here at all. Molly dug her nails into the windowsill as she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself into calmness, focusing on the raw air as it pushed through her hair.

When she opened them, it was with new purpose: no new tears would be shed here. Mum wouldn't have wanted it. She was safe and, she imagined, she had gotten quite lucky in her house-stay. She stared at the deep green of the flowery wallpaper and frowned. Not a single adornment, not a single painting or picture- well, she would just have to remedy that. Crossing to the bed, she flipped the packing case open forcefully, rummaging through its meager contents. The camera was wrapped carefully, a neat little package of memories tied up in her unmentionables. But as crude as the packing materials were, it had saved the camera from all the jostling and bandying about she and her case had been through that day. The heaviness of it was comforting in her hands, as if contained within it were not just the metal pinnings and mirrors of a camera but her home, her family. Setting it out carefully on the ornate bedspread, she dumped out the rest of the contents of the case. She sat back on her heels, picking through her belongings to find the three rolls of film she had managed to squirrel away. A small smile tugged at her lips as she considered everything, laid out there on the bedspread.

It could be worse.

It could be much, much worse.

Because Mrs. Hudson had seemed enormously kind, and Mycroft had been nothing but a perfect gentleman. And Sherlock… Sherlock was rude, boorish, arrogant, and yet- yet, she thought, there was something about his manner, something about the way his eyes had caught hers, penetrating and exceedingly curious, under that cool mask of common disdain. Sherlock, she decided, as she lay her tired head down upon her arms, was a boy worth investigating.

In him, she thought tiredly, I might finally find a friend.