If ever there were a metaphor for Molly's existence, a commute was the perfect candidate. Her life as of late, was a series of carriage rides where her confines ever shrank and destinations proved elusive. So, it was not altogether surprising that she found herself once again having an existential crisis in another hack as she returned home from the most life-altering of nights.
Presently, her jaw ached from keeping it clenched and the muscles of her arms had nearly seized from maintaining them tightly crossed. Yet, she persisted in glowering at the streets as they passed outside the hackney cab's curved window. The sun had begun to filter through the skies above. The city stirred. The earliest workers were just emerging like busy birds collecting the morning's dew worms. A bump in the road bounced her towards the large man seated next to her in their two-seater carriage the same instant they passed the steamy windows of a bakery prepping for the day. She wriggled away, determined to pretend she was alone and to shove the memories of their lovemaking far into the back of her mind. Her body refused to play along, though. The feel of him had imprinted on every inch of her, inside and out.
"You are being ridiculous," Holmes muttered.
Molly turned her chin up and pretended to look around as if she had heard something unexpected.
"My, the steeds are especially windy this morning," she remarked with faux puerility.
The detective to her left snorted. "I suppose you mean to compare me to a horse's arse? Well, so be it, at least horses cannot be faulted for their endowment."
Of course he could not resist saying something completely aggravating. Her mouth fell open as she finally swiveled her head in his direction.
"You . . . you are an undeniable self-aggrandizer, Sherlock Holmes. I suppose you imagine yourself some sort of irresistible rake . . ."
The end of his nose twitched and his lips took on a twist. "I do not need to imagine. My charms worked on you, did they not?"
Molly snorted as the hack lurched to a halt and the driver above them called out her uncle's address. She squinted and then frowned at Holmes from beneath heavy brows. She opened her mouth to retort but could not think of anything that wouldn't earn another caustic retort. With an angry puff, she yanked at the door. Before she could make a righteous exit, she felt a hand clamp around her wrist and she was pulled backwards. She ended up in Holmes' lap with one of his hands supporting her under her ribs and the other cradling her face. The pads of his fingers stroked tentatively along her jaw as if he were worried they were a little too rough. He wore a slightly perturbed expression. She wasn't sure if he was making a deduction or trying to calm himself. His pupils scanned back and forth over her face.
"Why must I endure this animosity when all I have done is be honest with you? " His voice was so low that she felt its vibration through her like a passing ship. "What would you have me do? I cannot give you something which I do not possess."
Molly gripped fistfuls of his heavy overcoat. She rubbed her thumb over one of the large, onyx buttons. He hadn't bothered styling his hair in his haste to escort her home from Baker Street and his soft curls beckoned. She could almost cry over the fact that she had no claim to them or the man to which they belonged.
"Sher- um, Holmes, forgive me . . . my anger is misdirected and you are right, it is not fair. I am not entitled to anything b-but, my heart, you see . . . it has other ideas . . ."
Again, the driver called their stop outside the cab. Holmes curls bounced on his head as he barked an impatient command to give them a moment. His fingers contracted on her ribs. She shifted her feet against the side of the cab and repositioned herself on his thighs.
"We keep delaying the inevitable," she whispered sadly. "It is time for us to part. I-It is past due."
His shoulders shuddered upwards with an indrawn breath. He shook his head. His piercing gaze once again penetrated her very being.
"I am not at all through with you, Hooper, not yet."
She shook him by his lapels. "I have decided that you are the one who is ridiculous. You ask too much of me."
He made a rumbling sound in his throat. His fingers threaded into her hair behind her ear.
"I only ask that you let this thing run its course, for both our sakes," he growled. "Hooper . . ."
He drew her up towards him.
"Molly," Holmes whispered raggedly, "mark my words, you will find me tedious long before I tire of you. There will come a day when you will not be able to stomach another minute in my presence. On that day and only that day will I relinquish you . . . but until then, you are mine."
Molly arched herself upwards in his arms until their lips brushed as she spoke.
"This is how it is?" She moved her lips once against his and pulled back panting. "Fine, then, Sherlock Holmes, but do not imagine you hold the whip-hand over me."
His eyes darkened. "Oh? Care to test your theory?"
Holmes moved to kiss her but she lifted her nose so he could just graze her lips. His mouth tracked hers but she just flicked out her tongue teasingly. When he groaned in frustration, she laughed breathily.
"Mm, hmm," she slid off his lap and fixed her hair, "I must be off before the sun gets too high in the sky. Gomery was an accomplished game hunter in his youth, you know. I cannot imagine that he would be pleased to discover me missing from my chambers at this hour."
She tried to sound as unaffected as possible but she suffered conflicted emotions. Her heart was still bruised yet she held out hope. Perhaps he was right, Perhaps they could grow tired of one another.
Holmes huffed a breath shifted in his seat and stretched his legs. Molly averted her eyes just as he adjusted his groin region. She felt her face heat. For all her bravado, it still shocked her that she was able to elicit such a physical reaction in him. His voice was growly when he spoke.
"I want to see you again later," he muttered.
Molly lifted her chin. "Well, you had best come up with some sort of excuse to call on me then."
Several hours later on the other side of town, Gregory Lestrade flicked the brim of his hat up as he made his way down the stone steps to the cell block beneath his detachment. He paused at the bottom of the murky stairwell and poked his head out into the dimly lit expanse of the main chamber. A prickle of ice climbed his spine. Truth be told, he did not enjoy visiting the converted dungeons even when things were going well and with a murderous bride on the loose, the basement was the last place he wanted to be. It was a grim cavern with a dank, fetid atmosphere and mushrooms growing from between the ancient, hand-carved stones. There was always some drunk sobering up in a cell who moaned like mournful spirit or wretched as if expelling demons during a exorcism.
However, he had learned just an hour before then that Miss Sally Donovan had been apprehended and secured in one of the cells. He had sent word for Sherlock Holmes but when the detective didn't immediately respond or turn up, Greg had felt compelled to check in on the welfare of their latest collar. This sad abyss was no place for Miss Sally Donovan, no matter of what she was accused.
With a deep breath, Greg hopped off the last step and stealthily navigated his way past several cells, large and small. Plaintive cries issued from several of the prisoners which he chose to ignore. They weren't treated all that badly at Scotland yard compared to other facilities as none of them had that long a stay. Most spent a few days and were either released or sent on to one of the prisons.
Finally, he reached the very end cell where the basement cobblestones gave way to dirt floors. At first when he peered into the small space with its sliver of light cutting across the floor from a small, barred window, he saw nothing. He frowned and stepped closer to the bars. Suddenly, a face with wide, slightly manic-looking eyes appeared mere inches from his on the other side of the bars. He gasped and stumbled backwards. His heart's pace exploded like a flywheel on a single stroke engine.
"Inspector Lestrade," Miss Donovan's rhythmic lilt curled towards him, "I knew you would come."
Her fingers wrapped around the bars either side of her head and she jerked her face forwards. Her eyes darted back and forth as she scanned the area.
"Where is your detective? Can you function without him?"
Greg swallowed and then found his voice. "I signed the warrant for you, Miss Donovan. Sherlock Holmes assists me, not the other way around."
Miss Donovan pushed back from the bars and smiled. "Did you now, Mr. Inspector? Why? What was the warrant for? Your cohorts did not bother to tell me of what I stand accused."
Greg swallowed as she rubbed her wrists. Then his jaw set. Somehow, he knew the arresting officers had mishandled his medium even though she still grinned impishly at him. She looked quite a bit less imposing this day as well, almost fragile. Absent was her dramatic face paint and gothic garb. She wore instead a pale yellow and white pin-striped day dress and her hair was twisted back with just a few mischievous curls framing her face. A modest white cap with a narrow brim sat atop her head. Without her heavy makeup, he could see the freckles that danced across her nose and cheeks. He couldn't help feeling a bit agitated about the life she had to endure on the fringes of society and the seemingly arbitrary rules that dictated she remain there. He memorized the delicate column of her neck and the curve of her cheek. He would dance every dance with her if given the opportunity, society be damned.
"You are not accused of anything yet, Miss Donovan," he said gruffly, suddenly a bit uncomfortable in his own skin and the intensity of feelings she elicited in him. "Thus far, you are only being held on suspicion of murder."
She dropped her lids half way and raised her brows. "Only suspicion?"
His nose scrunched up as he frowned. "Aye, yes, just because you were present when a man died, does not make you guilty of his murder."
Miss Donovan trailed her fingers back and forth over her forearms absentmindedly. "Hmph, it usually does when you are a brown woman."
Once again, Greg pushed a lump down in his throat. She jested, but there was a deep pain in her dark eyes. He stepped closer to the bars and removed his hat.
"Miss, just tell me you had no part in Mr. Clairmont's death a-and that will be evidence enough for me to free you from this hellhole."
His medium's head twitched sideways like a confused bird and then her chin went back. Greg suppressed a smug smile at her rounded eyes and open mouth. He surmised that she was rarely surprised by anyone. However, his enjoyment of the moment was short-lived. A jerk of her head indicated something beyond their tete-a-tete had caught her attention. Her eyes flicked sideways, shuttered and she stepped back with a bit of a scowl. At the same time, a shadow fell over them both.
"That is hardly a thorough assessment, Inspector," murmured the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes.
Greg's face flamed as he turned to face the large detective. "Holmes, d-damn, i-it was just a tactic . . . to erm, get her to speak."
Miss Donovan's lips turned down in disgust and she spun around in the cell. "Men! Bah!"
Greg stared after the slight woman with a bit of falling feeling in his abdomen as her shoulders slumped. She was a con and a scam artist, of that he had no doubt, yet he felt somewhere in the pit of his belly that she was not responsible for Mr. Clairmont's death; and damn if he didn't sort of admire her for preying on the rich and stupid. He turned and nudged Holmes away from the cell.
"About bloody time you showed up!" Greg whispered harshly. "Miss Donovan has been stuck in this cell for over an hour-"
Holmes glowered down at him. "You are quite quick to believe Miss Donovan's innocence in this matter, Lestrade. Are you privy to something I am not?"
Lestrade scratched at his bushy sideburns. "No, but . . . don't you ever just know what a person is about, Holmes? I trust my gut,"
Holmes rolled his eyes. "Oh, good Lord, you cannot be serious. I suppose you think there was an actual ghost as opposed to Miss Donovan dressed up as one."
Greg's lips turned down. "That phantom was not Miss Donovan . . . I know what I saw."
"The Inspector is right, Mr. Holmes," the lady in question's voice carried to them from the cell, "I am no ghost."
Holmes's eyes narrowed and he stalked back to the cell. Miss Donovan leaned on her hip and flicked her fingers as if shaking off an irritant. Then she inspected her nails with a bored look on her face.
"Miss Donovan, you know who I am," Holmes murmured. "As entertaining and clever as your little production was, you must know that I was not fooled."
She smirked. "I do not know that, Mr. Holmes. A man is dead, is he not?"
Lestrade felt his eyes bulge as he glanced at Sherlock. The large man stretched his neck. She'd hit a nerve.
"Is that an admission?" Holmes asked.
She rolled her eyes. "Of course not! No . . . we have that in common, Mr. Holmes. We were both taken for fools."
Lestrade stepped forwards, suddenly hopeful. "Does that mean you did not have a hand in that murder?"
Miss Donovan snorted. "Would it make a difference if I denied it? I would hang either way, would I not?"
"No!"
"Not neccesarily," Holmes said at the same time.
The medium sighed. "Oh, you are silly men indeed if you think that is the case."
Miss Donovan moved backwards towards the rear of the cell. At the same moment, Lestrade heard the heavy clack of hooves from the back laneway through the small window. Next thing he knew, a chain was being wrapped around the bars from the outside.
"And you are even sillier men if you think there are any walls which can confine me for long," Miss Donovan hissed
Holmes grabbed Lestrade's arm. "The street!"
There was a loud clunk as the chain was yanked against the bars. Greg stood there stunned as Holmes took off running. Once more, he heard someone command their steed forward and the chains pulled taut again.
"Miss Donovan-"
It felt like the floor shook beneath his feet with the final yank. The chains ripped out the iron bars and several of the stones from the centuries old stone wall fell into the cell from around the window. The inspector watched in horrified fascination as a large, dark hand reached in through the opening. Miss Donovan took the hand, turned and winked, and then was gone.