Lady Molly Hooper was the root of most of the injustices in Sherlock's short life. Well, according to him, that was. His journey into adulthood had been marred by her constant presence, soft voice, and petite build, all haunting him even in his sleep. But even though he would never admit it, her presence sparked something within him. Something he did not support. Something he… ignored.
He remembered the moment that everything had changed. He had just celebrated his fourteenth birthday, all lanky limbs and snarky retorts. It had been the last birthday he celebrated with his parents, making the memory even more bittersweet. His family had so graciously decided to throw him a wonderful party, filled with extravagant foods and desserts. Of course, none of that was exactly Sherlock's speed, so he found himself hiding in one of the barns, sitting amongst the cows.
He was perfectly content with his nose buried in The Wizard of Oz, wondering what life would be like outside of the tiny bubble of their estate. But, his birthday wishes were presently ignored, as a twelve-year-old Molly Hooper appeared, all big smiles and ribbons in her hair. She proceeded to talk Sherlock's ear off, preventing him from grasping even a single word within the novel.
And once he finally grew irritated enough to silence the girl, his harsh words were quieted before they left his mouth, swallowed in the soft, supple lips of Molly. Her chaste kiss had left him frozen in surprise, only to stare at her eyes, that were for once squeezed shut in concentration.
When he finally got the social graces to respond by pushing her away, she was too quick and jumped away from him. And even before he could lash out at her for her childish actions, she just smiled shyly, whispered a "Happy Birthday, Sherlock" and disappeared out of the barn.
After losing his first kiss to a thief, Sherlock desperately hoped that he would never have to encounter Lady Molly Hooper again.
As expected, that was not the case.
There was then the time, at sixteen years, that Sherlock had developed his true affinity for solving mysteries, and frequently roamed the estate at night, looking for something out of the ordinary. On one evening, he stumbled past an ajar door, peaking inside to watch a half-dressed Molly dancing by herself.
He had never considered her a sexual being prior to that moment. He normally didn't even consider himself a sexual being—it was terrible how John let his sexual urges and attraction to ladies control his every movement. So, even at sixteen, Sherlock desired to suppress any of those unwanted feelings.
Of course, fourteen-year-old Molly had just sprouted small but pert breasts, and her shapely legs and hips were too much under Sherlock's gaze. He was embarrassed to find himself, later that evening, utilizing his hand to finally relieve some of his stresses, her smooth skin on his mind.
But those moments were nothing compared to Sherlock's eighteenth birthday, a day he frequently tried to forget, and refused to really interpret his actions. He was an intelligent man. He knew exactly what his decisions meant. Alas, he still decided to ignore them.
The birthday had fallen only four weeks after John's own eighteenth birthday, and John's father had insisted on taking the boys into the city, to a special location to, as he so delicately put it, "become men." And so, John and Sherlock followed Patrick into the discreet home, both smart enough to know where they were, yet innocent enough to not fully comprehend what their evening would entail.
Sherlock was unsurprised when John selected a slim, blonde woman with a large chest to accompany him for the evening. Deep down, he was also unsurprised when he gravitated towards a petite brunette, with a small chest and shapely legs.
His choice did not justify his request for her to douse her body in rose water, or to dress in a ghastly pink frock. It did not justify his insistence on taking her from behind, brutally holding her hips, listening to her delightful squeals, but to never see her face or meet her eyes.
Like a true gentleman, he had not been explicitly educated on sex, but it was nothing that a few discreet reads and an afternoon watching the barn animals could not fix. And just like the cows, he took the woman from behind.
Perhaps he was an animal. That was the only way he excused his actions.
Every subsequent visit to the same sort of home, to request the services of the same sort of women, always ended the same way. The scent of rose water filling his nostrils, and a petite brunette taking the brunt of his aggression.
He made himself sick.
It only made him hate Molly Hooper more.
Xxx
Lady Molly Hooper did feel a bit guilty that she was so excited to return to the Reichenbach Estate. She had grown up visiting the enormous estate and began to reside there every summer after the death of her beloved mother. But, within the past few years, with the death of her favorite cousin Harriet, and cousin John's marriage and later child, circumstances had changed. She hadn't visited since Christmas of the previous year, and stayed for only a fortnight, certain that her father would miss her too much.
Yet, her father's decision to send her back to Reichenbach indefinitely spoke heaps about his frustration at the present.
He wanted Molly to get married.
She sighed and looked out the window of the car, so thankful for the development of the vehicle. Oh, what an improvement the automobile made to her childhood journeys to Reichenbach! The train rides were always pleasant, but the fifteen-mile journey from the train station to the estate were always brutal. The automobile only made it more bearable.
The sun was already setting, darkening the once clear skies. She knew from her memory of the area that she was only some four miles away from the estate. She could already feel her palms tinging, her throat closing, and her stomach in knots.
Reichenbach had changed considerably since the death of her Aunt and Uncle. When Harriet died, she could feel the cloud of despair over the place. And while she loved John and Mary, and now Rosamund, the estate was lacking a spark that once kept her excited to visit, summer after summer.
And then there was Sherlock Holmes.
She frowned and unconsciously primped her hair, trying to prepare herself for whatever harsh words he'd throw her way. He gave no care to her feelings, nor to the expectations of an English gentleman. He did and said exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted.
It was ironic, really. Just as Sherlock disregarded right from wrong and did whatever he desired, so too did her heart. Or, at least that was the only explanation she could give for her continued infatuation with the man.
Xxx
Sherlock watched as she floated from the automobile to the entrance of Reichenbach, her ghastly pink frock billowing in the wind behind her. She hid her composed chocolate waves underneath an enormous hat, clearly right from a shop in London.
And she did float. It was as if she was gliding on bloody water as she marched up the stairs, stopping as the doors shot open, and the Watson family strolled out, bringing her in for hugs and kisses. Sherlock scowled and moved away from the window, determined to enjoy his last moments of freedom.
He grabbed his violin and disappeared into his library, praying this ordeal would be over soon.
In the entryway, Molly gifted little Rosamund with a doll she had picked up during her stop in the city, holding a pleasant smile as the little girl squealed and spun around with it. Molly looked to her cousin with a soft smile.
"My father sends his love," Molly began, removing her gloves as she entered the house, "He hopes to pay us a visit within the month. Of course, he's hoping by then I'll have a suitor he can meet as well."
John gave her one of his boyish smiles. "I'm pleased to hear from Uncle Hugh. I look forward to catching up with him. He always has such fascinating opinions when it comes to politics."
Mary rolled her eyes. "You all have opinions, especially when you get a bit of liquor in you."
He leaned over and pressed his lips to his wife's. "Indeed." He turned to look at Molly, his expression losing its previous playfulness. "Mary and I have many friends we think you'd be a good match for. Any man would be happy to take you as his wife."
Molly forced a smile and sat down on a sofa in the sitting room, keeping her eyes set on Rosie, who was happily brushing the doll's hair. "Now, isn't that a pity? That I should have to be taken as a wife? Why not a man taken as my husband?"
Mary smirked and opened her mouth, but John shot her look. She sighed and sat down, squeezing her husband's hair.
"Look, Molly, I realize the circumstances aren't the greatest but—"
Molly couldn't help but laugh, causing John to swallow his remaining words.
"Not the greatest? John, I will be denied my inheritance, my title, and my entire livelihood if I don't find myself a husband. What my grandparents thought would ensure me buckling down with a strapping gentleman and a lifetime of happiness has proven to just make me miserable."
Mary frowned and squeezed Molly's hand. "I know, Molly. It's awful."
Molly frowned and stuck her nose up, forcing herself to take a deep breath. "I will not feel sorry for myself. I have two options. I either marry a man who I likely do not and will never love, or, I die an old, poor hag."
John smiled softly and grabbed her free hand. "If it's any consolation, we would never leave you in the cold. You'd always have a place here, should you need it."
"And," Mary added on, "You're beautiful and you have a wonderful title. It will not be difficult to find a man. In fact, I can't think of a single gentleman who wouldn't give everything to be your husband."
Almost on cue, Sherlock strolled in, impeccably dressed with dashing curls falling into his aqua eyes. Molly sighed.
"Wrong you are, Mary Watson. I can think of many men who would rather be castrated than share a marital bed with Lady Hooper."
John gasped. "Sherlock, would you please show more respect—"
Molly rose to her feet and glared at Sherlock. "You misunderstand Mary, Mr. Holmes. She specified gentleman. Given that you are not one, and do not engage with any sort of man, sans my cousin, of course you would draw a blank."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat beside John, keeping his eyes locked on Molly. "You know, Lady Hooper," He continued, "Perhaps you should look at the estate being tied to your marital status as a blessing."
Molly practically scowled. "And how do you figure that, Mr. Holmes?"
"It's not like anyone would marry you without the promise of a stately home and a wonderful title. Play your cards right and you could land just about any needy man south of Edinburgh, should you so desire."
"What, like yourself?" She couldn't help but spit back.
The room grew silent. John gave Mary a desperate look. The household very rarely spoke of the Holmes' family financial situation. While Mycroft and Sherlock were by no means poor, and by the standards of most of the country, fairly well off, they were considered… less privileged than the likes of the circle that the Watsons and Molly hung around with.
While John and Molly had estates and heirlooms left to their name reaching to hundreds of thousands of pounds, the twenty thousand pounds apiece left for Sherlock and Mycroft after their parents' death was measly in comparison. Mycroft has begun to subsidize his income with his work for the government, but Sherlock assisting Scotland Yard with solving crimes, and selling his occasional violin composition, did little to aid his stunted earnings.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and sat up rigidly straight. "No, Lady Hooper, not like me. For I have more self-respect than to marry the likes of you for a couple of hundred thousand pounds and an estate in bloody Manchester."
Molly stood up and glared at him. "A couple hundred thousand pounds? Try eight hundred thousand, Mr. Holmes. And I'm glad you value your standing, as no one else does. I don't believe even marrying me would save your reputation."
With that, she turned on her heels and stormed up the stairs, ready to inhabit the same bedroom she had lived in, summer after summer. Upon her departure, the room grew silent again. Mary sensed John's pending outburst, and quickly grabbed Rosie to take the young girl for a stroll outside.
Sherlock remained seated, his arms crossed, a look of petulance across his features. John had proceeded to drop his head to his hands, mumbling about murder. Finally, at the sound of Rosie's excited squeals from the garden, John glanced over his cousin, his eyes murderous.
As he opened his mouth to give Sherlock a verbal lashing, the man beat him to it, simply raising his hand. John scowled.
"Must you bore me with another tirade? I'm aware that I showed little civility towards your cousin, but I find myself unable to ever treat her with the respect that a lady deserves," Sherlock remarked, clearly bored with the conversation.
John growled and jumped to his feet. "You don't get to speak like that! Not in my home!" He spat out, for once appearing truly angry with Sherlock.
Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Look, I will try to remain civil, but you know how I feel about the woman. You can hardly expect me to rejoice in her stay here."
"You don't get to feel any particular way about her arrival, Sherlock. While you may be family and my dearest friend, you are still a guest in my home."
Sherlock couldn't help the twitch in his jaw. "What exactly are you getting at, Watson?"
John shook his head and ran a shaking hand through his hair. "You act like a gentleman and show my dear cousin respect, or you can leave. It's quite simple."
"John—"
"Enough," He spat out, moving towards the door. He turned and gave Sherlock one last look.
"I'm not sure what you're getting at with Molly, Sherlock. I never have. But for once in your life, act like a man."
He stormed out of the sitting room, leaving Sherlock to fume over his words. Sherlock quickly jumped to his feet and moved to the bar, pouring himself a generous glass of Scotch. He took a sip and let out a ragged breath, angry at himself. Angry at the entire bloody situation.
But most of all, angry at Lady Molly Hooper.
Xxx
That evening, as she sat in the middle of the familiar yet foreign bed, she finally succumbed to the tears that had threatened to fall earlier in the day. Her consistent tugs of the comb through her wavy hair ceased as her body began to convulse, soft sobs escaping her lips.
She was twenty-four with no marriage prospects on the horizon, being forced to wed to maintain her life by the archaic contract of her long-dead grandparents. And now, she was shipped away to Reichenbach, unsure of when she'd return to her home and her loving father.
Fat tears streamed down her cheeks, posing as a cruel reminder of his callous words. Molly wasn't sure why she was crying.
Was she crying from the loss of her freedoms, freedoms that she never truly held? Was she crying because of her pending nuptials to a man that she likely wouldn't love?
No.
Today had been the final confirmation she needed, destroying any last hopes she held onto.
Sherlock Holmes would never return her affections.
He was the source of her tears. Just as he had always been. Just as he always would be.
Xxx
That evening, as he sat in the middle of the familiar yet foreign bed, he finally succumbed to the tears that had threatened to fall earlier in the day.
The soft mass of skin and rose-scented hair shifted beside him, quickly rising to her feet, looking around for her discarded frock. Sherlock watched the nameless girl, finally getting to see her face. It wasn't as cherubic as he would have liked, nor did she have the piercing brown eyes he ached to see.
Noticing his attention, the girl blushed and slipped the frock over her head. "We're happy to see you again, Mr. Holmes," she began, her voice grating on his nerves like John's endless chatter.
He shifted in the bed, grabbing the bottle of scotch that sat on the nightstand. He poured himself a glass and took a gulp, watching as the girl readied herself.
"Please let Miss Francis know that you are pleased with my performance," She tied her hair back into a composed bun and gave him a cheerful smile, "Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Holmes."
And just as she had come in, she disappeared. Sherlock rose to his feet, ignoring the bile rising in his stomach, the same feeling of unease that always accompanied him when he visited these sorts of places. The types of places that no honorable gentleman had any business frequenting. Yet, they all did. Every one of them.
Except John. Not anymore.
As he buckled his trousers and fixed his shirt, he hands brushed across his cheeks and jerked back in surprise. He brought his hands to the light, studying the unwelcome tears that now burned into his skin.
He pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and stormed out of the facility, ignoring the inquiries from Miss Francis about his evening. The brisk, London evening immediately soothed his nerves.
And as he sat in the back of the car, ignoring the curious looks of his chauffer, he allowed his mind to wander.
Today had been the final confirmation he needed, destroying any last hopes he held onto.
Molly Hooper would never return his affections.
He was the source of her tears. Just as he had always been. Just as he always would be.
