Molly Hooper was, as Sherlock Holmes had long been aware, an intelligent girl. She knew she was considered somewhat beyond marriageable age according to modern standards; she was nineteen, after all, practically on the shelf! But her father had required her assistance in so many ways after her mother had met her tragic end when Molly was thirteen – both in running their shared household and in medical matters – that she couldn't regret her current situation since it had led to a closeness between father and daughter that might not have developed otherwise.
It had also lead to her being allowed to actually indulge her intelligence far beyond what other girls of her station in life were allowed. When her mother had been alive, she'd reluctantly allowed Molly to learn to read and write and study mathematics beyond the education her peers were permitted, at her husband's behest.
Best of all, she'd been allowed to assist Lord Holmes' younger son, Sherlock, who was only four years older than herself, with his many chemical experiments. She'd also assisted him in more clandestine researches into the inner workings of various creatures found on the vast grounds of the estate: together the two had investigated everything from insects to snakes to, most interesting of all, a dead deer they happened upon while seeking fungal samples from deep in the woods that made up a large part of the northern border of the Holmes lands. Sherlock was never without a collection of pocket knives that Molly secretly coveted, and their investigations had been so fascinating that she'd almost made the mistake of telling her father about it when he'd asked her what she'd done that day!
Unfortunately that had all changed when her body had changed, the day she first experienced what her mother called (in blushing whispers) 'the woman's curse' and her father's medical texts described (in more clinical terms) as 'menses'. The bleeding and cramps had frightened Molly until she understood (from the passage her father marked for her without her mother's knowledge) that it was simply the way a woman's body prepared for the presence of a child in the womb – and that each month the cycle was repeated until fertilization (another word her mother would be horrified to know that her daughter understood) occurred.
She was no longer allowed to run about during the summer months, barefoot and wearing her oldest dress, no longer allowed to accompany Sherlock to the suite of rooms on the third floor of the manor house he used to conduct his many experiments. Instead she was forced to endure embroidery lessons (a disaster until her father showed her how a body could be stitched back together after surgery), pianaforte lessons (another disaster until her tutor made a passing comment about Sherlock being forced into violin lessons at the same time, and the two were allowed to practice together), and (worst disaster of all, no mitigating circumstances), singing lessons.
All these lessons weren't common for girls of her intermediate class, she well knew. Just as she knew that it was her status as the family physician's daughter which had made her life somewhat lonely at times; she was considered 'above' the servants and villagers, but certainly not as high above them as the Earl and his family. She understood that, but she also understood that it was at Lady Holmes' behest that Molly be allowed access to the manor house in order to further her education in the niceties of being a 'lady' out of the goodness of her heart. What she didn't understand until much later was that Lady Holmes was aware of her mother's delicate condition, and had been prompted into performing the kindness out of affection and not just some sense of duty.
Lady Holmes had also been the one responsible for seeing that Molly's mother was laid to rest in the section of the Holmes family cemetery reserved for family friends and retainers rather than in the village graveyard, so that Molly and her father could visit her whenever they wished, rather than waiting for Sunday after Church services. She overheard her father and Lady Iris discussing the matter, and was made to understand from that discussion that Lord Holmes had not been in favor of the idea initially, but that his wife had used her gentle ways to persuade him it was the least they could do for Henry Hooper's years of dedicated service to their family.
It was at that moment that Molly realized that her father and Lady Iris Holmes were true friends, and that her mother and Lady Iris had been friends as well, a novel idea for a young lady who had been informed by her mother on countless occasions that she must never raise her expectations too highly! Her mother had been full of contradictions, but she had loved her husband and daughter, and Molly was wise enough to recognize that that was not always the case in families no matter how high or low born.
Lord Holmes was a completely different matter. The man terrified her even though their interactions had been but few in number over the course of her lifetime. She much preferred the company of Lady Holmes, a kindly woman who always made Molly feel like a welcome guest rather than an intrusion. She sometimes wondered if the older woman knew of Molly's affections toward her younger son, but if she did, she said nothing on the subject. Molly wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse; was she so adept at concealing her feelings that no one was aware of them but herself, or was Lady Holmes simply continuing to show kindness to the motherless girl she'd taken under her wing, by neither acknowledging nor dashing her forlorn hopes?
And if she did know, Molly found herself wondering off and on as the years passed and Sherlock went off to University (and returned home in disgrace twice, much to his father's obvious displeasure and her own distress), how did she feel about it? She treated Molly with fondness, but was it simply out of sympathy to her friend's daughter or was it because she had no daughters of her own on which to lavish her affection?
Sometimes Molly even dared to imagine what it would be like to live in the manor house, to be wed to Sherlock and accepted by his mother as her daughter in law. Other times (most times), her practical side sneered at such romanticism; she was hardly well-bred or highly born enough to merit such a place – and Lord Holmes would never, ever welcome her as anything other than a status-seeking opportunist.
It was her lot in life, she supposed, to have fallen so desperately in love (yes, she told herself defiantly, she would use that word) with a man she could never have. And one who certainly had shown no signs of returning such affections in all the time she'd known him. Oh, he had been willing to allow her to follow him about when they were children, and had trusted her to care for him when his foolish experimentation with drug use had turned out so disastrous (oh, she could have predicted that, but he would never listen to anyone's advice), but had shown no signs of recognizing her as a desirable female, not even sneaking kisses when her body had begun to develop its womanly shape.
She knew she wasn't beautiful, certainly not by the standards of the ladies in his social class, with her brown eyes and slightly reddish brown hair (although her hair, at least, was something she could take some pride it, as it was thick and long and quite lush when she took it down from its habitual bun) and freckled skin. She wasn't pale and elegant; her nose was a snub that had no character to it, she'd been told by another girl once, and her interest in anatomy was entirely inappropriate, as was her inability to keep her intelligence modestly to herself.
She knew all that, the catalogue of her faults, and yet she still pined for the most perfect man she'd ever met.
Well, perfect in a physical sense. Although Sherlock had impeccable manners when necessary, she knew he was also impatient and rude and prone to explosions of temper followed by fits of languor that were a bit frightening to witness. Not only had he sampled drugs while at University but had indulged in other debaucheries no lady was supposed to know of let alone have described to her when the gentleman she fancied was deep in the throes of purging the self-inflicted poisons from his body.
She'd taken every curse and insult he'd hurled at her during that time and withstood them all, knowing he wasn't angry at her even as he spat out horrible things like as you can clearly see, Miss Hooper, caring is not an advantage and stop mewling at me, you wretched cow, can't you see I just want to be alone? No, he was angry at himself for allowing himself to fall into such terrible habits, all because, as he'd explained to her after his body had stopped shaking and sweating and his mind had returned to its normal brilliance, it seemed the only way to slow his speeding thoughts, keeping them from cutting his mind into a thousand splintered pieces.
His studies at Oxford bored him, even when he switched to medicine. Then he was sent down again, but this time not for abusing himself, but for a series of what he termed 'harmless pranks' and his professors and the academics administering the university labeled 'dangerous actions' and which no one – including Sherlock himself – would explain to her.
He was currently home for the summer holidays and would be returning to Oxford in a few short weeks. During this visit she'd scarcely seen him, her time being mostly taken up with her father's ill health and sudden interest in obtaining a partner in his medical practice.
She recognized that her father was not well, that he hadn't been well for several months, although, like her mother, he refused to acknowledge his illness to her. It was frustrating to be shut out after he'd spent her entire life ensuring that she lacked for nothing in the way of the knowledge she craved, but she understood.
Just as she understood that his sudden interest in acquiring a fellow practitioner had as much to do with her future as it did his.
Her father was intent on finding her a suitable husband before his illness (not consumption, the symptoms were similar but different enough that Molly had tentatively eliminated that possibility) worsened.
Before he died.
She shivered at the thought of losing her beloved father even as she fought down irritation at the idea that she would have to take on an unwanted life partner in order to secure her own future. If the world were only different, she privately lamented to herself as she continued to gather up the herbs on her resupply list, she would either be allowed to make her own way, or at least marry the only man she'd ever wished to wed, the only one who seemed to find intelligence in a woman not a lamentable defect but somewhat of an attractive quality...
"Good day, Miss Hooper. I trust your travels have been fruitful this morning?"
Molly jumped a bit at the sound of Sherlock's – Mr. Holmes's, she mentally corrected herself – voice from behind her. Very close behind her, as it happened; when she turned he was right there, barely two steps separating them, hands clasped behind his back and impeccably clad as always. "G-good day, Mr. Holmes," she stammered out in response, cursing the blood rushing to her cheeks as she stared at the man about whom she'd just been thinking such inappropriate thoughts. "Um, what travels would those be?" she added, somewhat confused by his choice of words – not to mention flustered at the sight of him so close to her body. She edged back a bit and offered a bright smile to cover her sudden discomfort.
He nodded toward the edges of her skirts. "You've been to the forest, no doubt in search of mushrooms and other herbage that can't be tidily restrained in garden; there is a piece of bracken caught in the hem of your gown and your shoes are slightly damp in spite of it being late morning and no rain for the past several days. And," he added, reaching out and plucking something from the portion of her hair showing beneath her bonnet, "there is this." He showed it to her – a fragment of an oak leaf, the stem of which must have entangled itself in her hair without her notice.
She laughed again, a bit self-consciously, as she automatically pushed her hair back beneath her bonnet, trying not to savor the feel of his fingers where they'd brushed against her forehead. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, that's exactly where I've been today. Oh, and welcome home," she added, belatedly remembering her manners – and wondering if she dared ask how his studies were going.
"My studies are going quite well, thank you," he responded – not to her words but to her very thoughts. Molly's mouth dropped open in a most unladylike expression, and his easy smile turned into a definite smirk. "It was the obvious question, Miss Hooper, the one most on everyone's mind...and the one least expressed to me since my return. I believe I have finally settled on an area of study that suits me, and," he added, his expression suddenly serious, "one that I promise will not lead to any deliberate...misbehaviour...on my part. You have my word on that."
"Oh," was all she managed in response. Then: "That's...good. That's...very, very good to hear, Mr. Holmes."
He huffed impatiently and even rolled his eyes. "I do wish we could dispense with such useless formalities, Miss Hooper," he said. "Do you think that you could bring yourself to call me 'Sherlock' when we are alone, as you did when we were children? And I," he added, lowering his voice and leaning forward slightly, giving their conversation a level of intimacy it hadn't held only moments earlier, "would much rather call you 'Molly', if I may."
She stared at him, mouth slightly parted in surprise, eyes wide, gazing into his blue-green orbs as if mesmerized. Their heads were still bent close together, and it occurred to Molly that all she would have do would be to lean forward and raise herself to the tips of her toes in order to close that distance and...
"Oh!" she exclaimed as the basket she'd been holding tipped, spilling her morning's gleanings between them. She looked down, cheeks flushed, heart pounding in her chest, then knelt down to pick up the plants and fungi that she'd dropped. Silly girl, she counseled herself as she carefully plucked the delicate leaves up from the ground, you very nearly made a complete fool of yourself. "Please forgive me, Mr. Holmes," she said primly, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground. "I do need to finish my chores and return to my father's practice to assist him."
There was a moment's silence, during which Molly found herself holding her breath, then: "Very well, Miss Hooper. Please give your father my best wishes." Out of the corner of her eye she saw his legs and feet turn as if to leave her, but he paused after taking only a single step, suddenly turning back and kneeling so that she was forced to meet his gaze. "Would you be so kind as to pass a message along to Dr. Hooper for me? I'm afraid I'm late for an engagement else I'd do it myself."
He smiled, the charming smile that always weakened her knees when he turned it on her, and she found herself nodding. "Please give him this card," Sherlock said, removing a small pasteboard rectangle from his waistcoat pocket and pressing it into Molly's hands. Her fingers curled around it automatically, even as her breath caught at the way Sherlock's gloved hand seemed to linger on her bare skin a bit longer than was necessary – or seemly. "A close friend of mine finds himself in need of a position, and I am given to understand that your father is seeking a partner to bring into his practice. I believe they would be a good match."
Then his hand was gone and seconds later, so was he, although the scent of his cologne lingered in the air.
It took Molly almost a full minute to collect her gathered wits well enough to read the card, which held an address and the name in plain black letters: "Dr. John Watson," she read aloud, then looked up at Sherlock's retreating form, wondering how he'd found out about her father's decision when he'd only come to it last night – and had thus far shared only with Molly.
A/N: I am taking the time to tidy up some messy parts as I redo this story. Thank you for reading.