"Ah, Watson, do come in."
Molly fidgeted as Dr. Watson doffed his hat and stepped into the parlor of 221B Baker street. He was outfitted in his standard brown tweed suit. He nodded at Holmes before he noticed her sitting next to Mrs. Hudson on the client sofa. He did a double take, his eyes lit and a smile tweaked his lips. She inhaled a fortifying breath. She hoped he would still be pleased to see her once they revealed the purpose of his summons.
"Good day, Miss Hooper," he dipped his head, "and a good morning to you, Mrs. Hudson."
Mrs. Hudson returned a cheerful greeting and offered him tea. Molly watched Holmes as he swept back to his green leather chair and sank into his seat. Her detective wore a fine worsted wool suit in a sable-coloured glen plaid pattern. Beneath his blazer was a perfectly tailored grey-gold paisley waistcoat with a matching cravat knotted at his throat. The entire outfit was an impressive feat of tailoring and Molly's heart beat excitedly for the care he had taken in dressing for their announcement. She hoped she looked half as good in one of her new frocks, a darker carmine day dress.
"Where is Mrs. Watson?" Holmes inquired as the doctor settled into his opposing chair.
"Mary sends her apologies," Dr. Watson's features strained somewhat, "she is attending another one of her rallies."
"Mm, that should make this slightly less painful," Holmes murmured, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair.
Molly shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. There was a strange, anxious energy pulsing beneath his skin and his face was flushed. She was nervous herself but felt a bit hurt by his choice of words. Dr. Watson sought clarification.
"Ah, what was that?"
"Nothing, never mind. My dear Watson and Mrs. Hudson," Holmes began unceremoniously with a nod to each without making eye contact, "let us first dispense with the perfunctory part of our business today. Miss Hooper and I are to wed in three weeks' time. Watson, I will require you to stand up for me, of course. Mrs. Hudson, you may need to make some arrangements for Mo-, I mean Miss Hooper to move in to Baker Street, though I cannot fathom what those might be. Perhaps she will need . . . a trunk or something?"
Holmes glanced at Molly with brows raised. She frowned at him with tight lips while Mrs. Hudson gasped at the news. He looked down a second with his own lips turned down. After Holmes had handled her uncle so calmly the previous night and talked him into a proper wedding as opposed to an almost immediate ceremony, Molly thought that Holmes might actually want to be married. However, it was becoming evident that this might not be the case. Disappointment in the speedy manner of his announcement stiffened her shoulders. His vivid blue-green eyes narrowed and a confused wrinkle appeared between them as he appeared to note her changed demeanor. They squared off for a few moments. Molly struggled to keep her lip from quivering. Dr. Watson began coughing.
"E-E-Excuse me? You are getting married?" He sputtered.
Holmes' brows flinched, he squinted at her briefly as if trying to better read her thoughts but then his gaze slid away. "Yes, however, that is not our most pressing business. I believe you are well acquainted with Dr. Winston at London Medical? We have business there later this morning-"
"You are getting married," Dr. Watson's mouth was still agape.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson blubbered, "oh, my nerves! What a way to break the news Three weeks? I cannot make this place fit for a lady in three weeks. Miss Hooper, I am so pleased that you will be living here but I am mortified. I mean, the things he keeps in my larder! I am afraid to venture down there . . ."
Holmes closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as he was inundated by questions from both Watson and his landlady. Molly's heart sank. She willed back tears. Finally, he seemed to reach his limit and sprang from his chair.
"Nothing needs to change around here, n-nothing will change," he growled. "I will be married, that is all. People do it all the time."
The room fell silent. Molly tucked her hands back on her lap and sat there as all remaining hope drained from her body. Her skin prickled on her face with the sudden loss of blood. Dr. Watson's attention fixed on her a moment with some concern. Feeling humiliated by the episode, she angled her head away to avoid his scrutiny. Holmes went on to explain that a public announcement would not be made immediately as Molly first needed to meet his family and complete the qualifications for her medical degree.
"We need your assistance in this, Watson," Holmes said simply.
Molly raised her eyes in time to see a livid Dr. Watson glowering at Holmes. His eyelid fluttered beneath a heavy brow. A muscle hardened along his jaw.
"Yes, of course, I find myself very keen to come to Miss Hooper's aid."
Two hours later, Molly ran her fingers over her faux mustache in a corridor of the men's London Medical College. She hated the way the strip of hair clung to her lip, she resisted the urge to yank it off. The glue had shrunk and the base of the disguise pulled tight on her skin. As if that annoyance wasn't enough, several wayward bristles stuck up into her nostrils.
"Ugh," she wheezed, "how do men stand having facial hair, Dr. Watson?"
She looked sideways at John Watson in his simple brown, wool suit and dark brown derby. His authentic mustache twitched as he poked his lips out before speaking. He hesitantly turned and blinked at her several times.
"I . . . I do not even think about it, to be honest. It is just sort of there, Miss Hooper."
She nodded. She took a deep breath as his focus returned to its original mooring. Dr. Watson's eyes were larger than usual as he gazed towards the far end of the corridor at the men's medical college where Holmes conversed with an acquaintance. The small doctor's expression had remained semi-shocked since their impromptu meeting at Baker Street. Molly had gained a new appreciation for Dr. Watson. While she always knew he was a good man, his ready agreement to take part in Holmes' scheme to secure her a degree had been genuinely humbling. She wanted to tell him as much but the words stuck in her throat. How did one adequately thank a person for something so selfless? Before she was able to rally, he shook his head and smiled.
"Miss Hooper, forgive me, I think I neglected to congratulate you earlier."
She inhaled a quick breath and glanced down at her grey clad, trouser-ed legs. "Oh, well, Dr. Watson, I think we both know this is not that sort of engagement."
He shuffled indecisively and then stepped closer. He opened his mouth twice before finally settling on what he wanted to say.
"I must explain my friend," he murmured, "h-his manner this morning . . . I- you see, damnit, I have known this man a long time. If he seemed-"
Dr. Watson clapped his mouth shut as a shadow loomed. Molly glanced up to see Holmes approach.
"Dr. Kitting informs me that these finals should not take any more than a week and a half," he informed her, "but you will have to perform a surgery."
Watson's brows hiked again. "Do they teach surgery at your old school, Miss Hooper-?"
Holmes cursed quietly.
"For the hundredth time, address her as Mr. Hooper while we are here," he hissed, "and Hooper, stop fidgeting!"
Molly gazed up at Holmes anxiously as her fingers dropped from her mustache. She felt her glued-on disguise droop.
"Bollocks, I think this has come loose," she mumbled.
She tapped at the corner of her faux mustache but it flapped over the edge of her lip. She fanned her face and licked her lips nervously. Holmes sputtered a sigh and grabbed her by the shoulders. He peered down at her with a frown.
"Yes, it has lifted," he muttered, "Watson, do you still have that glue?"
Dr. Watson fished a small bottle from his pocket. Holmes glanced quickly up and down the corridor of the men's college. Then, he hastily unscrewed the lid of the small vial and pulled out the brush. Dr. Watson kept watch while Holmes nudged her chin up with his knuckle. He painted a bit of the glue on the corner of her lip. Then, he pressed the loose end of her mustache down with intense concentration. He stared down at her for several moments with an odd expression. Molly thought he almost appeared a bit satisfied; proud even. Her insides quivered. The man had a way of making her feel as if they were the only two people in the whole world at any given instant.
"This will never work," she complained in a hushed tone, seeking his reassurance, "the dean will know I am a fraud the moment I step into his office. What if he remembers the name Hooper from Dr. Watson's column?"
Holmes scoffed but his tone softened. He brushed back a wayward lock from her wig.
"These are educated men. No one here reads Watson's stories."
"You would be surprised!" Watson grumbled.
"I would," Holmes smiled cheekily at him before giving her a gentle shake, "now, do shut up, Hooper, before you lose all your nerve."
"Holmes! That is no way to talk to a lady," Dr. Watson whispered harshly as he leaned closer.
The detective rolled his eyes at his friend. "She is not a lady, she is . . . Hooper and again, that is Mr. Hooper to you!"
Molly groaned. "I thought I was Surgeon-Lieutenant Hooper."
Dr. Watson fluttered his lashes as he thought about her comment. "Actually, she is right, Holmes. If she was a member of the Medical Staff Corps alongside me during the war and my assistant to boot, that is exactly the title she . . . I mean, h-he would have had."
Holmes exhaled noisily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, but the story goes that our Mr. Hooper is supposed to have been medically discharged due to a weak heart. No retired junior officer would ever insist on formal address."
The small doctor twitched his head sideways and scratched his temple as he thought about that. "I would not say that. It is kind of a grey area, especially if the officer was decorated-"
"Would anyone care to fill me in on my supposed backstory?" Molly cut in with a sigh. "It might be prudent for me to know who the hell I am claiming to be."
Both men snapped their focus in her direction but before anyone could speak, the heavy wood door to the office they stood outside creaked open. All three of their heads swiveled towards the opening occupied by the heavy set dean, Dr. Henry Winston. He raised his brows at them expectantly and when none of them moved, waved for them to enter. They murmured greetings like naughty school children and then, for some reason, they all decided to move at the same time and jammed up in the door. Holmes cursed. Dr. Watson muttered an apology. Molly suppressed a snort.
Holmes poked her gently in the ribs. "Remember your instructions, Mr. Hooper."
Molly elbowed him in return and did her best to recall every lesson imparted on her from her two companions during their journey to the college. She trailed after Dr. Watson with Holmes at her back. Her stomach twisted in knots.
". . . refrain from speaking. If you must speak, lower your voice several octaves. Pepper your replies with curse words, but not too many. Pretend to adjust yourself when you sit down. If anyone stares at you for too lengthy a time, scowl and lift your chin as if to challenge them. Be assertive. Enter every room with purpose as if you are the conductor taking a podium . . ."
Molly frowned as she thought about the last directive. She tried to imagine a maestro and jauntily stuck her hand on her hip while she swanned out her other arm. As if reading her mind, Holmes bumped the back of her heel with his toe.
"Not like that," he laughed under his breath.
She dropped her arms. Heat rose up her neck. She watched as Dr. Watson took one of the two seats in front of the dean's large, ebony desk. The dean's work space was quite different than at her mentor's nook at her women's college. Everything was crisp and clean and sterile, like a banker's office. The only decorations on his white walls were contrasting dark chair rail and crown moldings and his numerous diplomas. On the top of his massive desk were just three items; a small gilded clock, a stained glass lamp and an ornate crank telephone. Molly's heart raced. How was she going to pull this off? She wasn't sure if she should take the remaining chair but then the dean nodded for her to sit. She sat down stiffly and popped open a button on her blazer. Holmes' advice reverberated between her ears again.
". . . sit with a wide stance. Men spread their legs."
"Yes, yes they do! Why is that?"
"Um, ahem, it is for comfort."
"Oh," Molly blushed, "then you must spread your legs very wide when you sit."
"Behave, Hooper!"
"What is she talking about, Holmes?"
"Never you mind, Watson."
Recalling those directives, Molly relaxed back into her seat and careful to put some distance between her knees. It was infinitely more comfortable, especially considering the rolled up stocking in her drawers. She cleared her throat and adjusted its position. The dean's eyebrow rose and his nose wrinkled.
"Not long out of the military, are you, son?"
Molly's flesh flared instantly as she attempted a deep voice. At her side, Dr. Watson choked on a laugh.
"Erm, just a few months," she said in her lowest voice.
She pressed her lips together and braced for his reaction. This was the moment, she thought, this was the instant of her undoing. However, he shrugged.
"Well, this is all a formality, of course," he began, "I have received your papers from the Madras Medical School in Chennai and they appear to be in order. Yet, I am somewhat confused. Why did you not decide to return there to finish your degree?"
Dr. Watson cleared his throat. "Erm, if I may, Dr. Winston? Mr. Hooper served with me years ago. When he ventured home to England to recover from what I suspect was Malaria, he sought me out and has since become my patient. The Malaria weakened his heart, you see. I advised against his return lest he find his health imperiled again by another bout of tropical illness."
The dean nodded. "I understand. Though, will your health hinder you I wonder, Mr. Hooper? A doctor's work is sometimes strenuous, as you should know. Very strenuous indeed."
Molly dipped her head. "I assure you I am fit enough. Medicine is my calling, Dr. Winston. I do not think I will survive without it in my life, to be honest."
The dean bobbed his head again. "Alright, young man. Why pathology? Why not a gentle country practice delivering babies and stitching up wounds?"
His question surprised her and for a moment, she struggled for the right words. Then, her parents' faces swam before her eyes. Her voice was rough when she spoke.
"I suppose . . . when one has faced death as I have, it holds a certain fascination. I believe this is where I will make my best contribution, Doctor. I am certain that a clear understanding of death will help me better assist the living."
From there, the conversation went better than Molly had expected. The dean outlined the exams she would take and described the surgery she would be tasked to perform in front of no less than himself and the four top instructors at the institute. Not for a moment did he appear wary of her costume, however. In the end, Holmes had been right.
"People see what they want to see, Hooper. They will note your slight frame and think you an odd fellow, but they will see you as a man," his words echoed in her mind.
Molly couldn't help how absurd it all seemed yet perfectly sensible at the same time. She might have to practice medicine disguised as a male for the rest of her life, but truth be told, there was an upside in that male doctors were automatically afforded respect compared to female physicians. Not to mention, no one would question her belonging in a morgue if she were a man. Holmes had found a way to make her free. Whereas, it seemed she had entrapped him into an engagement he did not want.
She sneaked a glance at her fiancé's handsome profile. Molly Hooper might not have options but Mollinford Hooper, graduate of London Medical College, could go anywhere and do anything. She decided right then that she would not marry a man who did not want her, no matter how much she loved him. So, she would play along for now. She would meet his parents, get her degree and then cry off their engagement as soon as her next monthly cycle came around. In the meantime, she would be sensible and resist copulating with him again. She could do that, she told herself.
How hard could it be?