One month later...
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Molly popped up from her bed like a broken spring poking through a seat. The insistent pounding reverberated through the house again. She heard the door down the hall from hers creak open. Then her uncle start swearing.
"Who could be calling at this ungodly hour?" Came his muffled complaint.
She bounded from her bed and threw open her door. "Uncle?"
Her uncle looked up and hissed as a match he'd used to light the candles outside his room burned his fingers. He swore and struck another one to illuminate his oil lamp. The wick flared to life brightly, forcing him to squint before he managed to turn it back down. Once more, three heavy raps beat a percussion through their residence like a marching band's drum. Her uncle hurried to better secure his robe and clean his glasses.
"Go back to bed, my dear, and for God's sake, lock the door to your room."
"Do not be ridiculous," she reached back and grabbed her own dressing gown from the hook behind the door to cover her cotton nightdress, "I will not let you answer that door on your own. What if it is bandits?"
He sighed noisily. "Exactly! Lord, you are foolhardy at times."
She stuck her lip out but then thought of something. "Ooh! Wait a tick."
Molly returned to her room, patted the top of her wardrobe until she located her new pistol, and then sprung back into the narrow hall. She struck a pose with it. When her uncle saw what she held, he reacted with a start. The chimney on his lamp rattled on its base.
"Good lord, Molly Hooper! Where on earth did you get that?"
She licked her bottom lip as she gazed down at the colt revolver. The number 1-8-7-3 was stamped into its wooden handle.
"M-Mr. Holmes sent it over two days ago. His note explained that as one of his, ahem, deputies, I-I needed to be armed."
Her uncle shook his head. "Do you even know how to use that contraption?"
She wrinkled her nose as she stroked the length of the nozzle absentmindedly.
"Erm, n-no, but he wrote that he intended to educate me about its use. However, how hard can it be? I mean, you just point and shoot," she raised the gun and pretended to fire.
Her uncle's eyes rounded and he rushed over to her. He gently took the gun from her hand and flipped the barrel open to reveal its chambers.
"Bloody hell," he cursed, knocking from below resounded insistently again. "It is loaded. I am going to have a word with that man but first, let us deal with whomever it is disturbing our peace."
Molly followed her uncle down the narrow stairs with their fraying carpet. They met Mr. Gomery, her uncle's long-time steward and butler in the foyer. He was older than time, the poor fellow. His thin, white hair was in disarray. She could almost hear his joints groaning in protest as he shuffled towards the door. He looked up just as they joined him near the door.
"Dr. Stamford, Miss Molly," he blustered, "there really was no need for you to get out of bed."
"I should say the same to you, Gomery! It is your night off," her uncle returned sternly.
"Pfft!" Mr. Gomery snorted.
He scurried to the door and flipped aside the brass peep gate. "Eh, who is it?"
"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, sir," came the faint reply. "My apologies for the late hour, but it is urgent."
Her uncle cleared his throat and sighed. "Let him in, Gomery."
The officer was invited inside while Gomery set about lighting the lamps in the foyer. While most of the homes in the area had converted to electric lighting, they hadn't yet made the transition. Even though her uncle was a doctor, he still wasn't as well-to-do as many of the people only a few streets over and neither he nor Gomery were enthused about making such a drastic change to their long-time residence. Molly, of course, was forever haranguing her uncle about the benefits of electricity in the home. After all, it meant more than just convenience of flipping a switch for illumination. Every day she learned of some new electric appliance designed to lessen the burden of a home's chores. The possibilities were endless.
"Dr. Stamford, I did not realize this was your residence," the Inspector said as he stepped into their home.
Her uncle's brow wrinkled. "Is that so?"
Her attention turned back towards the inspector as he shook her uncle's hand. He was garbed in a dark brown suit and smart brown derby. He had a winsome smile and kind, brown eyes. Like many gentlemen around the city, he was clean shaven except for his bushy sideburns. When he doffed his hat, she saw that his hair was a longish, sandy blonde hue streaked with grey. Introductions were made. Molly felt her face go warm as he assessed her night clothes with wide eyes. He glanced away quickly.
"I beg your pardon," he mumbled and then his eyes skittered back to Molly again. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes asked me to fetch his examiner from this address. Hooper was the name he gave me. I gather that must be your brother or something, eh, Miss?"
Her uncle coughed. "No, that would be Molly herself, in actual fact."
Inspector Lestrade's brows shot up. "Truly?"
Molly felt her forehead bunch. "He wants me to go with you now? It is past midnight!"
Dr. Stamford snorted a laugh. "Ah, well, did not I ever tell you about the joys of Mr. Holmes' reliance? He claims he does his best thinking at night. See, my niece here quite impressed the great detective, Inspector, and Molly wants to make a name for herself so she eagerly accepted the role of his consulting examiner."
She pursed her lips as she observed knowing grins spread across both her uncle and the Inspector's face. The pair of them thought they shared secret knowledge. Wankers!
"Cannot this wait until tomorrow?" Molly muttered.
Inspector Lestrade blinked innocently and shook his head. "Oh, no, no, no! Oh, he was quite insistent, Miss. In fact, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson await us at the scene of the crime. Mr. Holmes was suffering an ill humor when I left him. It would be best if we did not make him wait any more than absolutely necessary."
Molly pressed her lips together as her uncle choked on a laugh. He enjoyed himself far too much at her expense. Truth be told, being at Mr. Holmes' disposal had not been as exciting as she had hoped, and it was proving itself inconvenient as well. In the month since they had met, she had not even seen the man in the flesh again. He had sent one missive asking for her best guess on how long it would take for fly larvae to mature when the ambient temperature was between 40 and 45 degrees Fahrenheit. A week later he had couriered over a rotting arm and asked for her to provide a written an opinion on the age and gender of its former owner. Then only a few short days ago, a gun had arrived. At that moment, he required her to get into a hack with a stranger and attend a murder scene. Well, she would not give her uncle the satisfaction of revelling in his sanctimony.
"The good detective will not begrudge me a few minutes to change into more appropriate attire, will he?"
Inspector Lestrade shrugged. "I cannot say."
Molly lifted her chin and whirled back towards the stairs. "Well, it matters not. We will get there when we get there."
Molly smoothed her hands over her skirts as the hack bounced to a stop in front of a posh town home in one of the wealthier districts in London. Her palms sweated. She was about to encounter Mr. Sherlock Holmes again. A month had done little to dispel the quiver of her insides every time she remembered the intensity of his gaze.
"This would be it," Inspector Lestrade murmured.
He hopped out of the hack and held the door. Molly scooted from her seat and followed him. She glanced up at the three-story townhouse with its white brick and plaster façade and statuesque columns as she stepped to the carriage's opening. There was something menacing about the house for some reason as if the light from the gas street lamps couldn't quite chase its darkness away. Then a bit of movement from the ground floor windows caught her eye and she saw a shadowy form loom between the curtains of the nearest window.
"Oop! Eep!"
In her preoccupation, she missed the steel step on the hack and found herself pitching forward. Her stomach heaved as the murky cobblestones seemed to rush towards her face. She threw her hands out and mercifully, was saved from grievous injury by crashing into the solid frame of Inspector Lestrade. He teetered back a couple of steps but managed to cradle her in his arms like a doll.
"You alright, Miss Hooper?" He asked, somewhat winded.
Molly felt a rush of heat infuse her face. She'd had zero interaction with the opposite sex in her twenty-eight years but in the span of a month, found herself not once or twice, but thrice in the arms of a pair of very attractive men.
"I-I am well, Inspector," she stammered, feeling rather awkward as he shifted her weight. "I just lost my footing."
A half-smile pulled at the side of his mouth. "Are you sure you are not injured a wee bit?"
She shook her head. "I am positive."
"Well, bollocks," he chuckled. "Now I will not have an excuse to carry you to the door."
She must have blushed very furiously then because she could feel flames lick up her cheeks. Reluctantly, Lestrade set her down on the sidewalk. She glanced back up to the house as her arm snaked from his neck but the figure in the window was long gone. She hoped whomever it was hadn't witnessed her graceless tumble from the carriage.
They were greeted at the door by Dr. Watson who ushered them into the home. He filled them in on the situation as they removed their coats. Molly learned that there was a dead man in the basement in the hall outside the servant's quarters. Apparently he had a poker in his back. Unusual, but even more so given that no one who lived in the house seemed to know his identity. After the discovery, the family had departed and along with them, most of the staff. Only a middle-aged butler remained. He was a weary, ashen man who couldn't even muster a surprised reaction to the arrival of an unknown woman.
"I was about to bring Mr. Holmes some tea in the parlor," he said with a heavy sigh, "would you care for some as well, Miss?"
She shook her head. "No, thank you."
The butler nodded and disappeared towards the back of the house. Dr. Watson led them over the marble floors and through a passage into the front parlor. Molly's breath hitched when she saw Mr. Holmes' profile across the room. He gazed intently at the coal hearth. He had a hawkish look on his face and a slight frown as if he stalked his own thoughts like prey. She clasped her hands together to quell their vibration. Even at a distance, seated and his focus elsewhere, the man made her anxious. Her tongue seemed to swell in her mouth. He was impeccably dressed in a very dark brown tweed suit, cream coloured shirt and burnt orange cravat. His hair, heavy with pomade, was slicked tightly to his scalp. An unexpected wash of sensation flooded her internals. Her skin tightened up the back of her neck and over her head.
Oh, it was not even a little bit good to react to him in this manner.
"Holmes?" Dr. Watson prodded. "Inspector Lestrade has brought your examiner."
She braced herself for the eye contact to come. However, instead of acknowledging her presence, he continued to stare straight ahead. She might have thought he was oblivious but a flash of irritation caused his handsome brow to twitch and a muscle set in his jaw. She chewed her lip. He might have the men fooled into thinking he was distracted by his own contemplations, but she knew he was aware of her arrival.
"Holmes?" Dr. Watson repeated, his brows raised.
The fingers that had been steepled under the large man's nose flicked up dismissively. "Miss Hooper may return to her residence. She is no longer needed."
Annoyance swiftly replaced Molly's apprehension. She had dragged herself from her bed, dressed in one of her better frocks (she'd had some absurd notion to counter Mr. Holmes' first impression of her in men's clothing) and travelled halfway across London to come to his aid. Needless to say, she was not impressed with his dismissal.
"You fetched me from my home in the middle of the night, sir," she declared in as clear a voice as she'd ever heard herself speak. "You will have my council whether it is needed or not!"
Both Lestrade and Dr. Watson whistled at her flanks. When Mr. Homes scoffed, Dr. Watson mumbled something unintelligible and started shaking his head. Mr. Holmes scowled at his friend. Dr. Watson gave him a hard stare in return.
The detective's head swivelled towards her in a kind of vexed surprise. "Indeed?"
Mr. Homes pushed himself up from his seat and crossed the room. Molly clapped her lips together. She tilted her chin up as he hovered over her. His eyes flitted briefly past her shoulder towards Lestrade before settling back on her with dark concentration.
"I would have your focus," he bit out. "Are you certain you are not distracted?"
"Oh, I assure you, Mr. Holmes," she replied dryly, "you have my full attention."
His nose twitched. As he assessed her, his chin drifted upwards. He then appeared to make a decision.
"Come view the body then," he muttered as he brushed by her, "perhaps you can offer some small contribution."
Molly inhaled a shaky breath as she gathered her skirts and rushed after him. She had to take three steps for each of his long strides towards the back of the house. Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Watson followed closely. At one point, the towering detective abruptly turned. Molly skidded to a stop at the opening to the top of a set of narrow stairs that led downwards into darkness. In his dark attire and with his dark hair, Mr. Holmes was quickly enveloped by the gloom. Dr. Watson must not have been paying attention because he bumped into her and she had to grip the edge of the wall so as not to plunge down the steps.
"Oh, good Lord! I beg your forgiveness, Miss Hooper," he muttered.
Molly inhaled deeply as she faced him. "So sorry myself, Doctor. I did not know he was going to turn here."
"Yes, well, one rarely knows which direction his thoughts are going to take, especially when he is aggravated."
Molly wrinkled her nose. "Oh, is this not his usual humor? I mean, does he even have other dispositions?"
Lestrade's cheeks puffed behind the doctor as he appeared to suppress a laugh. "Normally, a good murder sees him at his best temperament. In fact, it is not decent, but he becomes downright jovial."
She worried her lip. "Hmm, I see . . ."
She opened her mouth again, her lips formed a slack 'o' as she thought.
"Did something particular happen this evening to put him in this mood?"
The two men exchanged glances. Dr. Watson cleared his throat. He was about to answer when Mr. Holmes thundered up the basement steps from below. His entire face was lined with the crevasses of a furious frown.
"Again you lot dawdle! Is this caused by the female in our midst or symptomatic of it?" He growled. "Either way, I am regretting her inclusion."
Both Dr. Watson and Lestrade flushed pink. Molly sighed in frustration, then her heart fell as the detective and her made eye contact once more. This was not going well at all. She wondered if Mr. Holmes would bother with a continuance of their arrangement and consequently, if this was the last time she would ever see him. Her pragmatic inner voice crowed that it was probably for the best. She gulped back a lump as her throat inexplicably constricted. Everything about him had a physical effect on her and it was exhausting trying to maintain her composure, yet she did not want their association to end.
Unexpectedly, Mr. Holmes' hand extended in her direction. She blinked at his immaculately clad forearm in confusion.
"These steps are quite steep and uneven, Miss Hooper," he said gruffly, "and it is very dark."
"O-Oh," she tentatively took his arm, "of course."
His muscles beneath her fingers flexed and the world around her disappeared. The bubble she found herself in shrunk until all she was aware of was his steely arm and imposing presence. She did not even register what became of Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade. She gazed down the stairs. The passage was too narrow for them to descend side-by-side so Mr. Holmes led the way and she ended up at his back, holding onto his arm just above his wrist. When she slipped slightly on one of the stairs, his hand clamped around her forearm from underneath. It was an odd kind of embrace. They were not quite holding hands but it almost felt that way. At the bottom of the stairs, Molly expected Mr. Holmes to relinquish his hold but instead he led her down a hall and came to a stop. She looked down to see the bottom of a shoe but Mr. Holmes' frame blocked her view of the body on the floor. He looked over his shoulder with a brow raised. He squeezed her arm.
"Are you prepared to see this?" He murmured.
She nodded. "I am sure I have seen worse things in the morgue, Mr. Holmes."
The one eye she could see narrowed. "Yes, but this is not some corpse on a slab, Miss Hooper. This is a man lying dead in the place he spent his final moments. Death stalked this corridor . . . the shadow of his scythe remains."
Mr. Holmes' resonant voice sent shivers through her entire form. She gripped his arm briefly, uncertain if she wanted to bear witness to such intimate details of this person's passing. After a few steadying breaths, she nodded her head once.
"I am ready."
Mr. Holmes released her arm and stepped past the body on the floor. Molly turned her gaze downwards. She bit her lip. The scene was as it had been described by Dr. Watson, yet still shocking in a way. Moonlight bathed the humped figure of a young man who still had a decorative, forged iron poker sticking out of his back. Blood stained his clothing around the injury and pooled under his chest. Tears burned the back of her eyes. This was real in a way that the dead at the morgue never had been. It was the frozen, finality of this man's life.
"Wh-What do you need my opinion on, Mr. Holmes?" She whispered.
He dipped his head grimly and kneeled down next to the body. "You are here to settle an argument, Miss Hooper."
"An argument?" She repeated.
"A difference of opinion," came the sharp retort of Dr. Watson to her rear. "Here you are, Miss Hooper."
The doctor handed her an oil lamp.
She glanced at him and Inspector Lestrade. "What do you mean by that?"
Molly turned her attention back to Mr. Holmes. He cricked his neck, then spoke again.
"Watson and Lestrade believe some ruffian from the streets is responsible for this man's death. I, however, do not."
"Y-You don't?"
He shook his head slowly. "No, I believe the murderer was a woman and most likely, someone who lives under this very roof."