A/N: A WHOLE WEEK AND A DAY after I was supposed to update. So sorry. Work got in the way. I'm literally at work, which blessedly allowed me to get into this website (doesn't work on the phone somehow).
Thanks to daisherz365 for betaeing and for also having sublime patience with my slow progress.
Hopefully you all enjoy!
Proverbs 11:2 When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with the humble is wisdom.
Transporting herself somewhere else, felt easy. It's what she did, amongst the silence in pews, and the silence that followed when her hands finally left the keys. It was easier to be far away when one was playing, after all, which was perhaps the reason as to why she found it so comforting. It reminded her of everything else, but where she currently was, even if she wasn't playing something she truly enjoyed.
Molly could hear one lone soul cough soundly, which was something they'd thankfully kept in check throughout her playing, though she had heard the odd shifting of feet, and weak shuffling amongst the children who were suppressing their urge to giggle against the quiet.
Molly knew why they felt like that. The church on the outside looked solid; with its old brick and large windows letting in light, however, it's interior was something entirely foreign. When she'd played in the dark that night, her sole attention had been on the piano, as it had been now. It made her forget how ominous it could be from the pews, how proper it all seemed.
Everyone was always dressed in their Sunday best - their shoes polished, their best clothes put on to good use, their faces washed clear and bright.
But, there was not a sign of a smile on anyone's face, except the younger ones who hadn't learned to suppress themselves yet, to quiet down the foreignness of sitting so quietly for so long.
Molly wondered if they too, found the imagery on the white walls unnerving as she did – with the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ. The latter was either depicted as an infant in his mother's arms, or hanged up by his wrists and ankles on the cross. There was never anything in between, either it was birth or death, and the life between those seemingly forgotten. She never liked the way it felt that their eyesfollowed her, full of grief and judgement. Like they were perpetually sad, though she liked to think that having given birth to a child, the Virgin Mary could at least have looked happier about it.
The thought almost made her laugh, and she focused her eyes onto the yellowed sheet music in front of her. It already felt like a comforting sight with its notes almost faded away from use in the past, the sun having probably shone brightly through the church windows.
She just hoped for less dreary music, as all of it had not instilled any of the hope and faith which she had believed churches should have when she was a child, instead of fear and alarm. Perhaps, she'd be rude enough to find some of her old sheet music, tucked away in the dusty old box at home – with the rest of her old memories, all in the furthest part of her closet where Richard had not yet set his eye upon.
Molly chanced a glance at Mrs Hudson who she saw was sat with her gloved hands in fists, clearly trying to quell the want to applaud.
But she did hear applause.
It was loud and clear; ringing throughout the church. She looked up bewildered at the source, her cheeks heating up, as she could feel the hairs on her arms stand to attention.
Molly had not looked at him all this time, though he was in her line of sight throughout.
A few of the congregation followed as well, Mrs Hudson the most enthusiastic of them. All eyes were on her, until they happily weren't. It was only now she let her eyes look upon him, standing tall in front of his pulpit, wild curls tamed for the occasion – "Long ago music was felt by some as sin - devil's music… Times have changed, so have people. Tastes, however, differ still…"
There was some involuntary laughter at that, several of the elders in the pews looking with annoyance at the younger lot at the back who were trying to smother their laughs. Clearly they were thinking of their own music, which several of the elderly monarchs railed against.
Molly couldn't help but smile as well, having paid little attention to what he'd been saying throughout, as her main focus had been in her performance.
She had not accepted offers of practice prior to her performance, not that she did not deem it necessary, but because she knew Richard's colleagues were attentive in their own way, even if he weren't there to supervise.
They would question if she wasn't home without proper explanation, though her current whereabouts now would hopefully go through the village, alleviating her of such troubles.
And perhaps, she would have her turn on the piano, besides every Sunday.
"There is no such thing that brings us closer to – God – than music, and, of course - - the bible -," he said, bringing up said book from his pulpit, showing it off.
He began to read, though his speech was unmoved at best. Molly was caught off guard by this, more so than by him applauding, as he seemed to be going by the book , his eyes set upon the page, his mouth moving, yet his voice unaffected.
Still, his deep voice filled up every corner of the church, and before she knew it, distracted as she was – people began to line up to imbibe the body and blood of Jesus Christ; some proudly, some reluctantly.
Everyone stood up – all except her.
She was still sat by her piano, as she saw something on the sheets before her that told her she was required to play. There was a little handwritten note in the upper corner of the page, as if he'd known to spare her a reason to attend as the rest. It did not say much the scrawl, except play , the writing somewhat readable through the inky mess.
Molly played another dusty hymn; it was slow, unbearably slow, and several of the congregation seemed to walk with the tempo, some casting her a look, some not even sparing her a glance.
And then she risked it, she risked going outside the notes before her, and she could see the slight confusion on some people's faces, like they hadn't heard of such music played in the church, though none seemed to complain.
Or well, they would, perhaps, afterwards.
It was still slow, but, hopeful.
She could feel his stare upon her, her eyes fleetingly stealing a look, almost faltering on the keys at the expression on his face, as she wondered if he recognized the music.
Claire de lune was objectively one of the finest pieces out there, so even if there was some confusion, some might recognize it. Molly saw that he did, his expression one of knowing, but she quickly traversed into the notes again, finishing it off, as it should be done, on the darkest of keys.
The ending seemed to release the parishioners, all of whom began getting up from the pews; mothers stopping their children from sprinting out into what seemed to be one of the brightest of days in the longest time.
The sunshine was outdoing itself, as the doors opened, bringing a welcoming whiff of spring.
Molly began to collect the sheet music into a neat bundle, before gently letting the cover shut over the keys of the piano.
Her hand rested atop the piano, sliding across the dark mahogany wood.
It still shone prettily, it had been kept up well all those years.
She was glad for it.
She didn't feel like rushing out, not quite yet, her hand still firmly on the piano.
She could feel some eyes on her, hear some whispers as well that carried her name, though she did her best to ignore them, her eyes remaining on the piano.
No place was safe from scrutiny, especially the church.
"You're – welcome to play here anytime, Mrs Brook."
Molly looked up, removing her hand from the piano, startled to see the vicar talking – he was clearing up the wine and pieces of sacramental bread left.
She did wonder what they did to them. Did they store them in a jar, or keep them in a special box? Molly almost laughed at the thought, realizing she hadn't said anything she quickly collected herself -
"What?" she blurted out, realizing that it had been better not replying at all.
"You're welcome to play the piano," he said in a measured sort of way, as if he were trying to seem unimposing. She felt like he was trying to figure her out somehow, by giving off this air.
There was not much to understand about her, or so she thought.
"My apologies, I did hear you," she said shaking her head. "…I just don't see the point."
"You're clearly fond of it."
"Why do you say that?" she said, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"It was the first thing you approached when you entered the church-,"
"Well - I was supposed to play-,"
" – And you wiped it clear of dust."
She blinked, looking at the offending piano, which she had cleaned , but she hadn't thought of it while doing so, it was like second nature. "Are you always this - - observant?"
"You've played - for much larger crowds than this, haven't you?"
She did not reply, putting her coat in the crook of her elbow, readying herself to leave, unsure whether she would even return next Sunday. Had he not said anything, it would be easier. If he let her keep to herself, she would do so, and she'd dutifully play without complaint, even if she didn't care for the music.
But as it was, he knew too much already…
There was, however, a difference.
No one knew about that .
No one.
And how he'd figure it out, she didn't know, whether it was on the merit of her playing, she wasn't certain.
But she knew those curious expressions would turn into judgement, in no time – whispers from the village would do that. Whatever assumption he'd made of her now, wouldn't keep.
Or maybe he wouldn't be moved by them, somehow that frightened her more…
"Why did you say yes to this ?" he asked, and there was something in his eyes, something soft, something almost dangerous.
Molly looked upward, her brown eyes on the ceiling as she said, "I could also not be playing at all."
She knew she could leave, she had enough strength to do so, but somehow, she felt glued onto there. Like she wanted to speak, wanted to let out, even if it was just a few words.
"It's still a village."
"Yes, and you're the village vicar -," she said looking at him now, eyebrows knitted. Molly didn't understand where his judgement came from, seeming suddenly to think her above everyone there. She certainly wasn't. She had her list of sins.
"Who are you?" he said, as if perplexed, like she'd have all the answers to that question.
She barely held together what remained of her.
"… You could ask God," she said in a small voice, her eyes fixed above his shoulder. "He has all the answers."
He looked dazed, and she felt herself move away from him, her feet somehow managing to stride forward. The air too thick in the church now, too thick for her. She felt relieved when the door opened easily to her touch, relieved to breathe in fresh air.
Molly didn't quite fully understand what had just happened in there, trying to catch her breath, trying to understand how he'd understood something she'd kept to herself for years. It wasn't a secret, not truly, but it wasn't something she wantedothers to know of. All of that belonged to another life, a life before all this…
She shook her head, letting out a firm steady breath, before she began walking down the grassy path away from the church. Mrs Hudson met her on the pathway, the woman lighting up at the sight of her, her hands in applause once more. "That was absolutely lovely," she said grinning.
Molly mimicked her smile in return, still unable to shake the conversation she'd just had.
"Though this is a much smaller audience I suppose, we're just a tiny village-," said Mrs Hudson linking arms with her, and she felt warmth spread across her cheeks.
"How did you know?" she said, halting altogether. "Did he tell you?"
"Did who tell me?" said Mrs Hudson. "Do you mean Richard dear?"
"Yes, yes, of course-," she said. "I mean, Richard."
"No, he didn't."
She could feel her insides build up – like they always did – always urging her to find out – like he would if he were here. He knew, of course he knew, but there was a reason for that.
"Then who else?"
Mrs Hudson halted in her step, looking at her worried, "You look a little flushed – are you alright?"
"But if it wasn't-,"
"I saw it in an old newspaper clipping-," said Mrs Hudson with a heavy sigh, holding onto her arm. "Nothing to worry about it - no nosy neighbour if that's what caused you alarm. Well - except me , I dare say. I'll show it to you, if you want."
"I – wasn't-," she said feeling her shoulders relaxing, though her eyes were firmly stuck on her feet. "Worried – there's no need, you know, I don't need to see proof."
He still knew, though she believed Mrs Hudson for now.
"We'll have a cup of tea at my place – maybe you'd like some supper as well?"
She didn't argue, the money which Richard had left her would make due, but barely anything substantial, as if he were afraid to leave more.
She knew he was.
Mrs Hudson's home was different; with its vibrant wallpaper, and stuffy décor. Everything looked valuable, yet not. There were lots of figurines and baubles all over the place, but it felt homely with thick rococo-esque chairs that had handmade woollen throws on their backs, to easily put over one's legs during a chilly night.
It was inviting, the sheer opposite of what her home could boast to be – which seemed like it was barely kept together with the paint chipping off the walls. Mrs Hudson seemed out of place, like a relic from the past, more or less, though Molly felt everything was abundantly charming.
"There you go," said Mrs Hudson handing her a cup of tea in a delicate porcelain cup with rose-patterns. She grinned into the cup, about to take a sip – "A biscuit?"
She took the offending biscuit with a mumbled thank you and proceeded to have a sip of the really delicious smelling cup of tea, as was Mrs Hudson's way of things. It wasn't very often she was there, and she relished it, the freedom of being able to be so.
It felt like a small thing, though it felt huge for her.
It had been a day of small victories, she liked to think, from her playing the piano at the church, to her being here.
"How long will he be gone?"
"A month, or so – maybe two."
Mrs Hudson peered at her curiously, her own tea and platter of biscuits untouched on the small tea table between them with its ornate legs.
"He said he'd write-," she followed up, after taking a bite out of the biscuit, which crumbled sweetly into her mouth, tasting of raisins.
"Did he now?"
"Yes, we used to send letters when he was-,"
"Abroad ," said Mrs Hudson instead of the war , which dangled on the tip of her tongue.
Those letters were usually thick, or well, they began as such.
"What do you think of the new Vicar?" said Mrs Hudson.
Molly put her tea aside, having finished up her biscuit, "I don't know – he seems nice enough."
"He's an old friend-,"
"You did say-,"
"Helped me out of some sticky spots-,"
Molly raised a brow, "Oh? What kinds-,"
Mrs Hudson only smiled, like she always did, her expression as if she were lost in the memory of it all, but she drank her tea this time, occupying her hands for once with what she had served. She always seemed to wait until her guest had taken the first sip. "He's a good friend."
"He is very young – is he not?" she said not entirely understanding how they could know of each other with the looming age gap between them.
"He is 32, I think," said Mrs Hudson with a thoughtful expression, and Molly found herself thinking that was young , though she must be five years older than him. "He is a bit unusual, though, or well, at least he was when he was younger."
"Was he always destined for the clergy?"
"No, not at all, quite the opposite – though when I got wind that he was one of the eligible – I put in a good word for him. I got some opposition, of course, as he wasyoung - not even in his forties and a Vicar."
"How is he unusual?" she couldn't help asking, as their conversation lingered in the back of her mind. Every moment with him had been strange up to now.
It wasn't like her to be so difficult , as she was usually more considerate, but she suspected it had all to do with his current occupation.
Mrs Hudson gave a little laugh, "He's just not used to small places, small minds . Mind you, that's where he came from, knew his mum I did, but he's always been used to the bustle of the city-,"
"Like Richard-," Molly let slip.
"Oh, they're very different, the pair of them."
"Well, Richard isn't a vicar."
"Hard to ignore," said Mrs Hudson causing Molly to laugh, though the woman had an expression on her face, like she wanted to say something, and Molly knew what she wanted to say, or so, she thought. "But he's always been odd, you'd have to be with a name like Sherlock Holmes-,"
"Doesn't sound like someone belonging to the clergy…" she said, mulling the name over. The name was strange, yet, it fit. He looked strange when they'd first met, properly that was – with his dark wild curls, and blue eyes. His face was peculiar – long – and he had a prominent cupid's bow. He was very pale compared to some working men, like he'd locked himself indoors most of his life, his hands even long and delicate-looking, like they'd never touched anything rough in their life. No, the name suited such a man. The occupation, however. She could not place him in it.
"His mother had funny tastes - - oh, I'll forget it if I don't give it to you now-," said Mrs Hudson getting to her feet, and she watched with a laugh as the elderly woman scurried about, before she was finally handed a scrap of paper, all wrinkled.
There she was.
In a grainy black and white photograph, sat in front of a piano, her eyes on the keys. Not much had changed, though she saw the words – 'Young Protégé of one of the greatest pianist Europe has to offer'. Somehow, she could see herself in the young profile presented to her, furiously blinking, trying very hard not to give away what she did feel.
And it was then, she wished to speak about it , about what she'd done, to share one thing with Mrs Hudson, of the night it rained, and she let the music overtake her. It felt like something she could share, at least to make Mrs Hudson understand her hesitation, her fears. Maybe with those words, more would come, maybe she would have the chance to explain it all, to have someone understand -
"There is something I should-," she began, leaning forwards in her seat.
There was a knock on the door.
The words cut short from her now suddenly dry throat, though she'd just swallowed some tea seconds earlier. It was as if Richard was at the door, and maybe it was. He could have returned already – realizing London was a dead-end like so many of his schemes had been in the past – realizing his wife was - - - "I'll go get that," said Mrs Hudson, getting up to her feet, making a face as she clutched her hip.
"Should I-," she started, halfway up the chair, the piece of paper still in her hands.
"No, no, it won't get better if I sit around either-," said Mrs Hudson waving a hand at her dismissively.
She did not rush getting to the door, prompting another knock, though Mrs Hudson did not bother to pick up her pace, and when the door finally opened – Molly was surprised to hear another familiar voice.
It wasn't Richard.
She tucked the paper into the inside of her palm, closing it into a fist.
Mrs Hudson returned with a pinched expression on her face, while Molly raised her brows expectantly, and saw that one of the constables was lingering behind the woman, soon stepping into the light from the window – "I can see you're enjoying yourself," said Moran, hat in hand, as he smiled.
The colour remaining in her face left it and she carefully set aside her cup, the cup jostling against the table. "Moran, what are you doing here?" she said trying to sound surprised.
"There wasn't an answer on the door where you live – thought I might have a look at the other likely place you'd be, and here you are, so no harm done-," he said shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly, trying to affect the impression that he was just dropping in on a mere whim.
"As you can see, she's fine," said Mrs Hudson who'd not sat down yet, clearly wanting to show him the door.
"Heard you played in church, shame I missed it," he said ignoring the woman at his side.
Molly didn't say anything in return, not knowing what to say either, as she knew Moran would most likely send word to Richard.
"Hopefully you'll be able to answer your own door the next time."
"Or maybe I'll be in the church playing-," she said, and he tilted his head in surprise. "I haven't had a chance to practice properly."
She didn't know why she said that, perhaps, it was her being brave, or her wanting to say something that she knew would surprise him.
"Well, then-," he began, seeming to fumble.
"Was there anything? Or did Richard just want you to call on me?"
He tutted, "You wouldn't be so brave if he were here."
Molly regretted having said it, steeling herself, but Mrs Hudson answered for her – "He isn't, so please, Constable , if you mind, maybe you should attend to Mr Wilkerson's geese. It's wreaking havoc in various gardens as we speak." She gestured toward to the door, and Moran bowed his head slightly in mock-deference before stepping outside.
Mrs Hudson let the door smack shut behind him, settling down into her chair with a huff.
Silence lingered between the pair.
Neither touching their tea.
"Thank you, but you needn't had done that," she said after a while.
She had always picked her own battles, they were hers to take, and bits and pieces of her, felt frustrated with Mrs Hudson for even inserting herself in such a dispute when she'd wind up having troubles of her own if she weren't careful. "You really shouldn't have-,"
"I'm too old to be afraid of them," said Mrs Hudson, jaw clenched. "There's nothing they could take from me, and they know it… You've been very brave. Too brave. No one should be going through what you're-,"
She didn't want to hear it, she didn't deserve to hear it.
"I really haven't, I should go," she said rising from her chair, while Mrs Hudson looked at her with such an expression, she could feel her insides tug at just the sight of her.
It was pity .
"Thank you for the tea." Mrs Hudson had barely gotten to her feet before she was out of the door.
She spotted Moran hovering by the fence of one of the other nearby houses, lingering, his eyes on her. Walking past several gardens she did not meet his eye, until she reached her own, pitiful in comparison to the others that seemed to grow and expand, hers overfilled with weeds. Moran began to walk when he saw her by her door, and she felt so terribly small somehow. She could not risk being brave. She couldn't.
The last time she had properly allowed herself to be brave, a friend of hers losteverything , so her being brave never helped anyone, certainly not herself.
Locking the door behind her, she leaned against it, unfurling her hand and looking at the image of a carefree girl, a happy girl, and she did what she had not dared to do in front of Mrs Hudson – cry.
The sun was dipping down by the time she reached the church. Molly did it by foot this time, not risking using the car, certainly not at this time of day, and she hadn't intended to come here. Just like before. Her feet had just brought her there, every muscle in her body screaming, as if the hill was particularly tricky - unlike that very morning.
She had to catch her breath when she reached the top, beads of sweat enveloping her, though it wasn't particularly hot. The wind took hold of her coat and skirt, pulling her towards the church, as if knowing this was where she should go, where she intended to walk all along. She was just pretending to herself, like she hadn't come here by sheer will, by sheer curiosity, by sheer need.
She had to come here.
It would seem odd, she knew that. Their last conversation made it sound like she would never return, though he might not have read it as such. Maybe he'd think that she'd come here to take him on his word, of her playing, but that was not why she was here.
Molly hoped she had enough time, perhaps Moran would be too glad of his power over her, of his threats to fully abuse it - to tell Richard of what she was doing. Playing piano at the church could not be seen as anything, but harmless. Not to her. Certainly not to Richard.
When she pushed open the door to the church it seemed darker, all of sudden, and quieter than before. Like someone had hushed loudly, and everyone obeyed.
Molly walked in gingerly, and the further she walked in, she could hear someone whispering.
Her eyes lingered on the confessional, the curtain drawn, except on the side where the one who confessed sat, and she carefully walked ahead.
Molly almost gasped when he appeared through the curtain, eyebrows raised, his expression almost angry, except that it softened instantly. His hair was wild again, the curls at full display, as if this was how he usually represented himself. His attire less distracting as well, all dressed in black instead, in the outfit she had first seen him in.
"Hello-," she said in small voice, not knowing what else to say, knowing she had to say something.
She did not feel she could call him Father or Vicar, neither of them worked in her own opinion. He wasn't old enough, nor, dare she say, religious enough to merit such a thing. Who was she to call someone religious enough? But she felt it was true, at least, to herself. He seemed to question things, like she did.
" – Mr Holmes – I mean Vicar," she finished lamely.
"The former will do," he said getting out of the booth.
"… Thank you," she said, knowing it was unnecessary to thank him for that, though it felt right under the circumstance.
"You're here to play?"
She shifted on her feet.
"I'm not."
"No?"
"I'm here to, confess? …If that's what people call it?"
"Oh," he said, eyes on the booth, before returning to her, as if in doubt. " – You'll be my first."
"Have you been waiting for someone?"
"The villagers… have not warmed up to me yet."
"I'm so sorry."
"I don't mind... I'd rather not be too familiar with them all."
She laughed, out of nerves, she knew, or hoped.
"Do you-," he began, gesturing towards the confessional.
"I suppose," she said looking at it as well. "It's – very dark."
"Lighting has never been a strong suit of the clergy."
She saw the candles by the feet of the crucified Christ, all of them lit up, though they hardly helped as the sun seemed to have set upon the church.
"I'll-," she started, shaking her head before she got inside, feeling like a contradiction. She wasn't religious, nor had she ever confessed . Molly did not know how to begin, though she knew that she had to close the curtain, which she did.
She was enveloped by the dark, though light came from his side, until he too was settled inside, and she heard the curtain drawn to a close.
"I suppose people do this earlier in the day," she said.
"I suppose."
It felt hot all of a sudden, and she drew for breath.
She was glad there was some distance between them, though she could see some of his profile through the odd slide. He let out a breath, and she felt it was out of annoyance. Molly knew not how to begin, what to say, what not to say. Her mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips, the sound of it overwhelming. Like she could hear every shift, every movement on his and her side, the sound exceedingly loud in the quiet.
"Begin – whenever you're ready-," he said.
Molly did not believe him, it felt like a prompt to speak.
She stared at her hands, and she could barely see the piece of paper in them. She'd held onto that tightly while she walked. It was as if her past self was giving her strength - to walk - and perhaps to talk.
"Would it help if I said something?"
"What?" she said caught off guard, once again, he seemed to always have the slip on her. "No," she continued, she hadn't meant it so bluntly, but perhaps it was the nerves.
She was about to share something she had in no uncertain terms told anyone. It was something she'd kept tucked away all those years in hopes that the memory wouldn't linger so forcefully if she did, but she knew that wasn't how memories worked (from experience).
It was just another story , in a long line of stories she had about Richard, though this story wasn't about him, not really. "I'm sorry-," she began, letting out a breath, almost opening the curtain and slipping out, though she wafted it slightly, to let in some fresh air.
"No, need to-,"
"I know," she said letting the curtain fall. "I know I don't need to say anything. I haven't said anything to anyone, I've done as I've been told."
"Who-,"
"My husband, well, hardly a husband these days."
"Does he-," he began, but she didn't let him finish.
She knew what he was going to say this time.
"Of course, he does… It doesn't need to be said – - could you please call me by my given name?"
"Why?"
She looked down on her hands, "It'll be easier for me… Even if just a little."
"I - will."
"Molly Hooper."
"Sherlock Holmes."
It felt like an odd introduction, and it felt oddly relieving, the tightness in her chest somewhat dissipating, the tears welling in her eyes collecting themselves, allowing her to find the words she really wanted.
"I lost a friend once," she began, and she could feel his eye on her. "Well, I didn't lose him. He wasn't lost… He died. He died trying to help me."
She could feel his eyes fixed upon her, a piercing stare even from the other side of the pane. "I'm in an unhappy marriage-," she exhaled after saying that, feeling the relief of saying it out loud surge through her. " – very unhappy, it's not at all what I imagined, and I've known it for quite some time, that's why there's no need to say it, do you understand?" She sniffed. "His name was… Michael. He was kind, the sweetest, truly... He tried helping me - - - have you any idea how divorce works these days?" she looked at him, he didn't offer a reply. " Well , I've got to offer proof of unfaithfulness, and Michael wanted very much to help me with this… There was only one way, I had to do so. Richard would never, though Michael wanted me to run, but I knew this would be the only way, the right way - - by law."
She sighed.
"I believed that then , I believed it was one thing I could hold onto – I'd lost belief in everything else, but this, I believed in." She knew she was crying, her cheek was wet, but she went on – "He'd heard of others who'd done the same thing, literally sent their spouses away to the sea side, so they could separate, and it would have worked if we hadn't been caught by the law … He is the law, my husband - an officer…Michael never stood a chance. It was all just swept away, what happened to him… A crime of passion – they called it – it didn't look like passion, far from it…"
She didn't say anything else – Michael's face still so very vivid in the back of her mind – how could she ever forget such a face, further proof of the length of which Richard stopped himself when he touched her, or so he had said, knuckles drenched in blood.
"It was all my fault," she whispered. "I'd let him help, I should have done it on my own, and then maybe Michael Stamford would still be alive."
Neither spoke, she sat quietly stewing, her own feelings overwhelming her.
The silence overbearing, and then all of a sudden he spoke.
"To – love – and to – cherish-," he said in a soft voice.
She looked up at him.
"That's a part of the vow , the promise," he continued.
She knew what he would go on to say, it was what she was expecting after all when she finally sat inside the booth. She would hear the same words recited back to her - ' He is your husband, you have promised to obey , and love, and cherish him until death do you part.' The words that made her loathe any one of the cloth.
Molly got to her feet, drawing aside the curtain, stepping into the light of the church.
She wanted to leave, there was no point in staying, even if hope had brought her here, somehow, somehow under the belief that she would be forgiven for wanting to leave her husband.
" – Is a vow he has broken," Sherlock said, almost breathless as he stepped out of the booth.
