Molly gritted her teeth. She desperately wanted to rake her nails over her scalp. Perhaps it was her nerves, but she had never felt so uncomfortably itchy in her life even though she had worn her wig countless times previously. Of course, she was in the middle of performing surgery for her final qualification to become Dr. Mollinford Hooper, that might be a contributing factor. Her final assessment had been delayed several times, the date pushed forwards as chaos had overtaken her life. She was fortunate they had allowed her to perform surgery at all. Guilt caused a sweat to break out. She dreaded the events to come.
"He shows great skill with sutures," she heard a faint comment.
"It is those delicate fingers," was the muffled response.
"Yes, he is very slight in stature overall. Is that pathological? Was he malnourished in his youth?"
Molly's face flushed with mortification. Were they aware she could hear them? Was it some form of strategy to test her resolve? She drew in a breath and resumed sewing up her cadaver. As far as surgeries went, this one had been relatively benign. They had tasked her to remove the portly corpse's enlarged heart and speak to its condition. She had noticed what looked like dark spots or death of tissue that had occurred before the patient had died, but they were quite small. She had examined several hearts in her time at Barts and that one appeared to have had some time to heal. What she wanted to do was excise the man's lungs and examine them further. Their colour was off and one of the lobes had a peculiar bulge. However, she quickly surmised the panel was interested in a simple diagnosis, having already made up their minds that the heart was to blame for the man's death. So, she rather blandly described the well-known pathology of a heart-attack and that seemed to mollify them.
It was just after she finished delivering her conclusion when she glanced up into the dark theater seating and caught the frown of Sherlock Holmes. She rushed her last few words. She could tell by the tight line of his lips that he disagreed with her capitulation. She lifted her chin and huffed through her mustache. Part of her had been choked up and humbled that he had bothered to come support her, and the other part had been anxious and wished he had stayed away. In the end, she supposed her conflicted feelings cancelled one another out. She steeled her spine and returned to work.
She finished up the last few stitches across the man's chest. She was rather proud of her perfect seam. Of course, sewing up a cadaver was not altogether difficult. There was no bleeding or moaning or flailing as one might encounter with a living patient.
After completing her close up of his chest and washing up, she turned to face her panel, a rather fearsome collection of grey-haired and bespectacled men.
"Well done, Mr. Hooper," her dean, Dr. Winston murmured.
"Yes, adequate," drawled Dr. Henley, one of her more arrogant professors, "though, it has come to my attention that you suffered from Malaria at some point. As you know, Mr. Hooper, that illness can have a lasting impact on one's health. Dr. Winston does not think it will be a problem for you going forward, but I am not so certain."
She nodded; her hackles raised. Dr. Henley had been known to withhold his recommendation for much less. In retrospect, that aspect of her cover story had proven restrictive.
"To be sure, Dr. Henley," she replied calmly, "but then, so does jaundice, and that does not seem to impede your abilities to carry out your duties."
Dr. Henley choked on a cough and sat up in his seat. "I am not a practicing physician, young man! I have stepped back from the rigors of surgery to instruct because of my health. A good doctor knows when to put his patients first."
Molly rubbed her lips together. "Well, my patients will already be deceased, sir, as I am planning a career in pathology. I hardly think I will pose that grave a risk-"
The operating theater erupted in muted laughter. Even Holmes appeared to suppress a chuckle.
"Mr. Hooper-"
Dr. Henley's indignant response was interrupted by the slamming opening of the theater doors. A very young, blonde dandy dressed in the finery of an upper-class man staggered in with a second man slumped in his arms.
"Help us, please," he cried, "m-my brother, he has been attacked. He is bleeding. They told me to bring him here. Please, h-help us."
Molly's eyes flew over the pair of them. The injured man was choking and spitting up blood. It poured from a gaping wound in his neck and soaked his cravat. Molly listened intently as the young blonde described an attempted mugging of the pair and his brother's failed heroics at fighting a knife-wielding assailant. Everyone else seemed to jump up and rush towards the floor but she turned and waved them away.
"Get back!" She commanded. "None of you are in a state to help him."
In a flash, she was rattling off commands to her assistants. The cadaver was removed and the unconscious man took his place. Molly's heart sank when she removed the torn cravat and inspected the man's neck. Something had sliced through layers of flesh from his jaw near to his collar, and she suspected, nicked his vein as well as his windpipe. She immediately reached in, pinched off the vein and laid another finger over his trachea. She stilled for a moment. His wound was fatal. He would bleed to death in under a minute if she released him. Suddenly, her tray came into focus just beyond the operating table. The smallest of her suturing needles beckoned. A mad plan that formed in her head, but if she did not at least attempt it, he would die anyway.
"You," she snapped at the nearest orderly, "hold his head, he cannot move! You, nurse! Sit on his legs. You and you, arms!"
She did not know how she managed to do it, but within seconds, she had threaded her finest needed with her finest thread and found the source of the leak. She described her actions throughout the entire process by habit, as if she was still under examination. Her voice was clear and calm, like it originated from someone other than a ball of nerves on the verge of a panic attack. She discovered that the cut was not even a third the way through the vein and just about a quarter of an inch in length. She somehow managed to place the tiniest stitches in the delicate flesh even as rag after surgery rag soaked up his blood. Time slowed; the world disappeared. She worried that she had gone from working on a living man to wasting her efforts on another corpse.
Then, miraculously (as she could not believe she managed such a feat), the bleeding from the vein stopped. She quickly placed stitches in his windpipe, cleaned the wound as best she could and began to sew it up. All sound had left the auditorium by that time, save for her monotonous monologue.
After what felt like a lifetime, she stared down at the young man. He was indescribably pale, but his chest continued to rise and fall with shallow breaths. She stepped back. Her hands began to shake.
"Take him to a proper bed, but strap him down," she said firmly, "do not allow him to move for the next twenty-four hours."
The orderlies nodded.
"Pray he lives that long," she muttered.
Molly peered down at her apron. It was soaked with blood. Yet, she cleared her throat and turned back towards her audience. The entire panel appeared dazed, their mouths were agape.
Finally, Dr. Henley spoke. "Mr. Hooper, never have I witnessed your level of skill with the needle in all my long years in medicine."
Dr. Winston leaned forward. He lifted his brows at Dr. Henley.
"Can there be any doubt of Mr. Hooper's vigor now, Dr. Henley? He has proven himself not only capable, but in possession of a comportment that only the strongest men among us might boast."
Dr. Henley nodded. "Yes, in fact, I now believe your talents may be wasted in pathology, young man. The surgery theater begs your disposition. Many a nurse might be prone to collapse or dissolve into hysterics if men such as yourself did not demonstrate the proper leadership ."
Molly grimaced and in doing so, her mustache pulled at her lips. She glanced at the two female nurses and pair of male orderlies who had assisted her that day. Truth be told, she hadn't noticed any difference in their behavior. She felt a kink set in her neck.
"My assistants were of a great help to me today and conducted themselves admirably," she responded in a clipped voice. "I was not at all concerned about any hysterics, especially from my nurses."
Dr. Henley smirked. "As I said, every surgery needs its patriarch. It is just the natural organization of things. Congratulations, Mr.- or should I say, Dr. Hooper?"
Molly snorted. She smoothed her mustache with a finger. Her eyes flicked to Sherlock. He shook his head. But Molly was done with the sham. She was done with the lies and she no longer desired that Mollinford Hooper be awarded her hard-earned degree. Molly Hooper would become a doctor, one way or another. There was, after all, still Edinburgh and America. She did not know why she bothered to perform this surgery, except maybe to prove something to herself.
She tugged at her mustache. It painfully plucked nearly every hair from her lip, but she peeled it away and tossed it down. Confusion skittered across the faces of the panel members. She smiled and grasped her wig. With an unceremoniously plop, she dropped it into the blood on the operating table and shook out her hair.
"What in heaven's name-?" Dr. Henley jumped up.
"So sorry to disrupt the natural order of things, gentlemen."
The operating theater seats hummed with conversation. Fervent exchanges filtered down to Molly. She stood there for several moments, pulling herself together.
"My good Doctors," Molly slipped into her naturally higher tone, "I am truly humbled by your recognition today. It was a great honor to demonstrate my skills to such an esteemed panel. I am sorry for the deception."
Dr. Winston was much more composed. He gestured for Dr. Henley to sit down. He sat forward and steepled his fingers with a sigh.
"I cannot say I am entirely surprised," he said in resignation. "I had my suspicions. Who are you then, Miss-?"
She smiled wanly. "My name is Molly Hooper. I was suspended from London School of Medicine for Women due to some, erm, consultation I provided that was deemed unbecoming of a graduate of their school."
Dr. Henley sighed again and shook his head at the papers on the panel table. He picked on up and inspected it with a weary gaze.
"This is quite disturbing."
"Understandable-"
He flicked down his glasses. "Disturbing because you have achieved some of the highest exam grades we have ever seen at this institute and just saved a man from certain death before our very eyes; and yet, I cannot convey the title of Doctor upon you because you are inadmissible to this institute."
"She should be arrested!" Dr. Henley sputtered.
Dr. Winston rolled his eyes. He glanced at the seats behind him.
"Should she be? Arrested?"
Someone shouted, "No!" and the rest of the auditorium started pounding on their seats in agreement.
Molly felt tears prickle her eyes. She gave a curt bow. Dr. Winston removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he looked up again, his lips were turned down.
"Miss Hooper, it is with great regret I must dismiss you. Best of luck in your future endeavors."
Molly strolled out on to the street and then picked up her pace as she watched Sherlock duck into a hack. The infuriating man had slipped out of the operating room before she could signal her wish to speak with him. She finally had her affairs in order. He was her one loose end.
"Holmes!" She cried as he was about to swing the door shut. "Holmes!"
There was a hesitation but the door slowly opened. Several bystanders glowered in disapproval at her attire but she ran by them without pause. Molly rushed to the hack and paused at the step. She looked up into Sherlock's grim expression.
"I need to speak with you," she said breathlessly.
He arched a brow.
"Not here," she rasped. "May I join you?"
He dipped his head. She rapped the side of the hack.
"Oy," she called to the driver.
He leaned over. "Yessir-er . . . ma'am?"
"Regency Park, please."
"Ma'am."
She climbed into the hack and deposited herself across from Holmes. He stared out the window, brooding. She held her tongue. The hack traveled some distance in silence, and even entered the park before Holmes spoke.
"You should not have done that," he mumbled without looking at her.
She shrugged. "Oh? No?"
He huffed. Finally, his eyes snapped to hers.
"No, because you have made it so much more difficult for me to secure you your degree."
Molly laughed softly. "You still think you can see me qualified, even after that display?"
His eyes narrowed. "You tasked me with securing you a satisfactory life, Miss Hooper, and I know very well that involves your becoming a doctor."
Molly smiled broadly at him. "That is part of it, to be sure."
She banged the side of the carriage. "This is far enough, Sir."
The hack rolled to a stop and Molly gestured for Holmes to follow her from the cab. He huffed and nodded. Within seconds, they strolled towards the Queen Victoria monument. Almost on cue, the sky parted and let loose a torrent of rain. Molly shrieked and ran towards the mausoleum's shelter.
One out of the weather, they faced one another, dripping puddles onto the concrete floor. Holmes' hair began to curl on his head. He wiped a hand over his face. Molly squeezed a stream of water from her locks. She watched as Sherlock's face twitched and he gnashed his teeth. A few seconds passed and his features contorted as if he was socked in the gut.
"What do you want, Molly Hooper? Why am I here?" He asked roughly.
Molly swallowed. Apprehension made her mouth feel dry as a dessert.
"I want to strike a new bargain," she whispered.
His shoulders slumped. Drips from his hair slipped down his face, almost like tears. His lips quivered. Next thing she knew, he had crossed the expanse and dropped to his knees.
"Anything. I will do whatever you ask-"
She grabbed his lapels and dragged him to his feet. "S-Stand. Stay standing."
Molly's fingers skimmed over his jaw before she bent and slipped to a knee. He blinked at her several times in confusion. His lips parted. She swallowed and reached into her pocket. She had carried it for days, one of the few tokens left to her by her father - a gold ring with the Hooper crest carved into it. She palmed it then turned her face up to him.
Shocked did not even begin to capture the description of his expression. She cleared her throat.
"Holmes," her voice cracked, "I-I beg that you forgive me for breaking off our engagement, but I wanted to free us both from the confines of our deceptions."
"Moll-"
"I-I love you," she confessed, tears rolled from her lids, "I love you."
She let the words hang in the air for a moment. Sherlock's pupils rounded.
"The past few days have been agony . . . but I felt that I did not deserve to have you any other way. I am desperately sorry to have caused you pain."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and finally turned her palm up with the ring.
"I cannot fathom a life without you," she continued, "please, w-will you marry me, Sherlock Holmes?"
He stood there briefly, his chest heaving. Then, unceremoniously, he offered his hand and stared down curiously as she slipped the ring on his finger. He flexed his hand and juggled it a bit as if testing the ring's weight.
Molly swallowed. "I-Is that a yes?"
Holmes reached out his other hand and hauled her to her feet. His eyes sparkled as he studied her face and he nodded once. Molly hiccuped on a sob. His lips twitched again, an emotional tick she had come to love. He wrapped his arms around her and in the next instant, swooped down for a kiss. Molly nearly came apart in his arms as he pressed his lips tenderly to hers. Her chest shuddered as she tried not to cry.
He pulled back for an interlude. His handsome face hovered, his features relaxed save for a crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
A faint smile tugged his lips. "Do not cry, my darling. I cannot recall ever being this . . . happy in my life."
"Oh, Holmes!"
He kissed her gently again. "I love you, Hooper. I am sorry if you ever felt like that came with conditions. It did not."
A thought appeared to seize him, and he examined the ring she had placed on his finger over her shoulder. His brow furrowed in contemplation.
"Mm, does this mean that I am yours ?"
She grinned through her tears and hugged his warmth closer. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I do believe it does."