Molly wrung her hands as she followed her fiancé's impeccably dressed, broad shoulders down the corridor towards his father's study. Her breath caught. Fiancé, she asked herself? Could she even address him as such anymore? Nothing was resolved between them and despite his "admission" she was more uncertain of their future than ever.
"I wish to marry you because I love you."
Her stomach teetered and tottered and then tumbled like a boulder down an incline. Sherlock was that incline and she felt like she approached the curve of the horizon and rolled towards a cliff. She shook her head. Had he truly just declared he loved her in front of every notable gossip in London, she wondered? Almost immediately, Sally's spectacle roared to the fore front of her mind. It was doubtful indeed that Holmes' impropriety would be remembered as preceding the drama of Sally's performance and Mrs. Clairmont's subsequent confession. Still, Holmes' words were much more disconcerting to Molly than that of a self-proclaimed murderess. Somehow, it was less shocking that Regina Clairmont could skewer a young man than the idea that the indomitable Sherlock Holmes was in love – with her.
She watched him stretch his neck in front of her. The hairs at his nape brushed against his high, starched collar. As he passed by a sconce, light glinted of his severe hairstyle. She felt a flurry of cursed, devilish wings assail her tummy, like bats escaping from a belfry. She knew that hair to be wavy when not weighted with pomade, and coil about a finger possessively. . .
"Stop this selfish madness!" She chastised herself silently. "So much horror this evening and your faith in humanity is about to be tested again. You surely need all your mental faculties."
Molly drew in a shaky breath. Perhaps she was less selfish than simply anxious. It was much easier to distract oneself than try to reconcile the night's events with such limited information. A few more steps followed, and they reached the study. Her gaze was immediately drawn to Mycroft Holmes where he leaned against a fireplace mantel and stared into the flames of its hearth. He appeared . . . somewhat stunned as he mulled a thought and puffed on his pipe. His lips were turned down, the shadows of his bemused scowl made even more expressive by the sagging of his considerably thinned jowls. She felt a great empathy for the man in that moment. She too felt as drawn as he looked.
She glanced to one of the lounges perpendicular to the fireplace where Dr. Watson perched next to a small east Asian woman with long, black hair and wide, dark eyes. Tears glistened on her lashes. She was dressed modestly in a simple, grey frock. However, she had a Bindi on her forehead, the vermillion mark of a married Hindu woman. Molly blinked a few times. She had no recollection of knowing anyone of Indian descent, yet the young woman was vaguely familiar. She frowned as her gaze landed on the woman's hands. Her wrists were shackled.
"H-Holmes?" Molly whispered.
He didn't answer. He didn't seem to have an answer as his lips parted and he inhaled quickly.
Molly's eyes flew around the room. Lestrade and his men consulted to one side. Anthea and her father occupied the lounge opposite Dr. Watson and the prisoner. Oddly, the entire room was quiet except for the rustling of skirts and the pad of footsteps. Finally, after the silence seemed like it might swallow them all in its melancholy, relief came in the form of a mighty storm. At her back, the study doors flew open and a powerful breeze heralded the arrival of Sally Donovan. The theatrically dressed woman, still attired in her ragged bride's gown, swept through the study, marched up the captive on the lounge and then sank to her knees.
"Oh, Abhaya," Sally whispered sadly as her skirts pooled around her, "what have you done?"
The small woman's fingers unfurled and her eyes sparkled with resolve. "I have restored my mother's honor."
Sally grasped the young woman's finger tightly. Tears rolled down her cheeks, they trailed streaks in her makeup and fell like drips of ink to the floor.
"That you have," her voice cracked.
This did not go unanswered by some of Lestrade's men. One of them cursed the young woman, another clapped his hands in agreement with the jibes. Lestrade barked at them and they begrudgingly left the room. In an instant, Molly remembered why the young woman was familiar. She had attended the séance as one of Sally's assistants. Suddenly a lot more pieces of the puzzle began to make sense. The Pomelo seeds, from a fruit found in southeast Asia. They had been a warning from this young woman. Something to do with her mother, something to do with brides . . .
Molly's stomach turned over for the hundredth time that evening, but this time in a kind of hollow despair. Even though the young woman was of a different heritage, she had an uncanny resemblance to both of Robert Clairmont's daughters.
It wasn't long thereafter that the entire saga spilled out and the truth was so much more horrifying than any phantom bride had ever been.
"I still don't know how you figured it out, Holmes," Dr. Watson said with a huff.
Mary murmured a dissent and shrugged. Despite their mild disagreement, a commiserating smile travelled between the Watsons, one of those unspoken married-couple moments where they seemed to silently express how grateful they were to have one another.
Mycroft grunted. He had yet to move from his station near the hearth. Molly still couldn't quite believe it herself, even though the young lady confessed unapologetically about killing her own father and several of his associates and attempting to implicate Sally in it all. After her revelations, Abhaya had been spirited away by Lestrade and his deputies and Sally had gone with them. There was nothing satisfying about this resolution and its inevitable consequences, though. The whole affair was a heartbreaking and would continue to ruin countless lives. A drop of a stone into a pond that would never settle.
Holmes puffed on his pipe. He had taken up residence at the hearth in reflection of Mycroft.
"In the end, it was not such a mystery, my dear Watson," he sighed, "it was more ignorance and arrogance that allowed our undead bride mystery to continue than any great subversion."
"Yes," Mycroft spoke at last, "arrogance and ignorance indeed, but do not discredit the young lady, brother mine. She very successfully exploited our prejudices and blind spots. It is a great shame she was so bent on revenge; she would have made a gifted operative."
From the lounge, Anthea cleared her throat.
"Father," Anthea's voice trembled, her rounded eyes shone with unshed tears, "please tell me that you were not a party to her father's deception…"
The Prime minister coughed noisily and sat up. "Certainly not! Oh, my dear child, no, no, of course not. I was at his first wedding, this much was true. We served together, you see, and I was one of his best mates. His wedding was not exactly sanctioned but he seemed very much in love with his Indian bride. I fully expected to greet her here in England as his wife, but when we returned home and next I saw Robert, he had married Regina. When I discreetly enquired after the first Mrs. Clairmont, he insisted that she died in childbirth. It seemed a sad affair, so I never enquired again. Had I known he abandoned his first wife and child to a life of poverty and degradation; I would not have stood for it. Not only because they were citizens of England, but because I kissed that woman's hands and pledged protection for her on her wedding day. Upon my honor, as a soldier and your father, s-he was a lovely young woman who deserved better."
Anthea began to cry and hugged him. "Oh, father."
Mycroft sparked to life for the first time that evening. He straightened and tugged his collar, obviously discomfited by his intended's emotions. There was such a tender affection for Anthea in his eyes, but it quickly shuttered when Sherlock glanced his way.
"Darling," the prime minister stroked his daughter's hair, "do not forgive me so readily. Robert proved himself untrustworthy many a times, yet in this instance, I chose to believe him and never gave the matter another thought. I could well have made additional enquiries. Mr. Holmes found out that some of the others knew. If not for my apathy, this horror may not have unfolded."
Anthea angrily rubbed away tears. "Hush, I doubt anyone in your position would have behaved any differently."
"Ah, but that is cold comfort, hmm? That no one would have done any differently and willful ignorance is bliss? I am sorry to count myself among those steeped in it."
Once more, the room fell silent.
All except the thoughts that churned in Molly's head. When she looked up, Holmes watched her intently.
So many lies. The papers had gone on about the Abominable Bride but it had turned out that the real terror was the abominable and self-serving lies. She shook her head weakly at Sherlock. Her lips parted but she didn't say a word.
Then, as if the hounds of hell had finally caught up with her, Molly clutched at her skirts and fled.
Lestrade's lungs burned. He thought his spine might explode at any moment after jarring his entire frame on a wayward cobblestone two streets back. Yet still he ran. The lord would have to take him before he gave up, he vowed.
Then, he rounded a corner and let out a heaving breath. Sally Donovan, suitcase in one hand and umbrella in the other, sauntered down the center of the lane.
"M-Miss Donovan," he croaked, "Miss Donovan! Wait!"
The lady turned. His heart squeezed, for she was every bit a lady and nothing like the ghoulish bride she had portrayed earlier. She was dressed in an expensively tailored travelling gown of pale blue or lavender. He could not quite discern its exact colour in the poorly lit street. She let the umbrella fall back to her shoulder. It was neither light out nor raining and Lestrade wondered for a moment if he only imagined her there.
"Miss Donovan," he sprinted closer.
"Inspector Lestrade," she dipped her head.
He whipped his cap off his head and doubled over. He wheezed for a few seconds before he straightened again.
"Miss Donovan, wh-where are you going?"
She arched a brow. "My plans have not changed, Inspector. I am travelling to America."
"B-But . . . your name is cleared. You d-do not have to go-"
Her laugh peeled out and echoed off the brick walls around them. "My name will never be clear-"
"Then take mine."
Just as abruptly, her laughter stopped. "D-Do not say s-such things . . ."
He fell to his knees at the hem of her gown. "Miss Donovan, I know . . . I know I have little to offer. Just a humble home with an irritable mother in law and a working man's salary. It is not much, less than you deserve, but nothing without you."
"G-Get up, you fool, you absolute fool," her voice warbled, "I-I cannot accept you."
"Huh," he felt a pang in his chest and clutched at his collar.
"Inspector," Sally whispered as she slunk down, "Inspector!"
"Your dress!" He exclaimed as he whipped off his jacket and threw it down beneath her skirts.
Lestrade felt her gloved hands slip onto his face. She gripped him by his jaw and gave him a shake. When he looked into her eyes, they shone with tears.
"My dear Mr. Lestrade, when I say I cannot marry you, it is not for my benefit, but for yours."
His hands gently gripped her wrists. "My benefit? You shatter me, Miss Donovan."
She swallowed, released his face and stood up. "This is how it must be."
Sally picked up her suitcase and hurried away as Lestrade struggled to his feet.
"I am sorry, Inspector," she called back, "but this was not the time nor the place for a pair such as us."
"Aye" he returned weakly, "With everything I know of people, I cannot imagine there will ever be a time or place . . . unless we carve it out for ourselves."
She whirled and stalked back to him. "You are a ridiculous man."
He took her bag and set it down before grasping her hand and laying it over his heart. "I love you, Sally Donovan. I want to marry you, now, in this life. Do not make me wait for never."
Tears slipped down Sally's cheeks. Her chest shook with silent sobs.
"No, you needn't wait," she capitulated, "It seems my never has caught up with me."
He stepped closer and curled her hand in his against his chest. "So, y-you will stay?"
"I love you too, you daft man," Sally whispered. "Of course I will stay."