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Student's Form.
APPLICATION FOR ADMISSION
TO THE
London School of Medicine for Women.
I hereby apply to be admitted as a Student of the School, and I declare that I intend to pursue a complete course of qualifying medical study, and to present myself in due course to the Examining Boards with a view to obtaining a registrable diploma.
I undertake to conform in all respects to the regulations laid down by the Executive Council, and in particular to abstain from presenting myself to any Examining Board until I have received from the Dean of the School full permission to do so.
Signature, Mary Augusta Hooper
Address: Alderley House, Cavendish Square, London
Brooks, Hurles, and Tyler-Smiths, Solicitors
19 January 1875
Mr. Theodore Hooper authorizes the transfer of the sum of £1,100 from his account to The London School of Medicine for Women on behalf of Mary Augusta Hooper for the Spring Term[…]
"I-I," Molly stuttered. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried." She stood up, Sherlock's notebook dropping on the pile of papers with a soft thud. Molly wrung her hands for a moment before quickly making her way across the floor.
Sherlock lunged across the side of the couch and caught her hand before she could exit. "What were you saying about antimony?"
Molly ducked her head to the side, obscuring her face in shadows. "J-just that her results were consistent with antimonial poisoning and her body should be tested."
Sherlock's gripped tightened involuntarily. "Antimony," he whispered to himself. Easy for a physician to obtain and easy to administer without arousing suspicion from either the victim or the help. He glanced at the clock on the mantle and frowned. "No one will be at Bart's this early. Damn it."
"Could you let go of me? Please?" Molly asked.
Sherlock glanced down at where he was still holding his wife's wrist. "Oh, of course. Antimony. How do you know what the signs of antimonial poisoning are?"
Molly wrapped her arms around her. Sherlock cocked his head to the side at the defensive move. His wife was by and large an open book to him; the fact that she could have a secret was definitely intriguing.
"I had wished to specialize in pathology," Molly said, her chin set in a manner approximating that of defiance, which was completely at odds with her nervous body language.
Pathology? Graduating? His mind raced as he put together the pieces of information.
"Ah. You mentioned you studied together with that woman at the funeral. I had assumed you meant during your youth. Sloppy of me, you were obviously trained by a governess, judging by your penmanship. No, you were talking of more recent studies. University of London just started admitting female students this year so you couldn't have attended there. To be that knowledgeable in pathology, to know poisons, that is far beyond beginner's courses."
His wife's mouth dropped open and her eyes grew wider as he talked. It distantly occurred to him that this might have been the first time she had heard him deduce out loud. John had warned him to keep his deductions to himself during their brief pseudo courting phase. Mycroft had also told him the same thing, with the addition of a threat that he would reduce his allowance to the point that would threaten his independence if he endangered the betrothal due to his actions. After their first meeting there was no need to deduce her, as he had done it all in his head.
"That really only leaves one option: London School of Medicine for Women. There's no possible way you could have studied at Edinburgh. Interesting choice for a woman of your class. You're a lady of leisure, no need for employment. Especially not something as controversial as being a physician. Nursing is much more acceptable for women who work in medicine. You haven't graduated, though. If you had you would have attempted to find a position instead of going through with the wedding because why go through the years of study and stress, for it had to be stressful to do your studies while hiding it from your parents, they definitely would not have allowed such a thing, and maintaining at least a veneer of society life to throw it away on marriage. You had to know that the chances of your continued study after marriage would be next to impossible."
Molly continued to stare at him, bug eyed and slack jawed as she had throughout his deduction for an uncomfortable period of time. She eventually blinked and mouthed the word 'how' without ever actually managing to utter it.
"Simple. I observed and I deduced from what I observed." He shrugged. "Do you know how to test for antimonial poisoning?"
Molly shook her head as if to clear it. "In theory. You need to use Marsh's process and uh, Stas's…?" Her voice trailed off as her eyes darted to the side. "No, not Stas's. Reinsch's process to test for antimony. I have the steps written down in one of my chemistry notebooks. I've only done it twice." She bit her lip before continuing. "I was supposed to have a chemistry practicum last semester. Why?"
Sherlock strolled to the bell pull and yanked it. "I am quite skilled in chemistry. If you have the steps, I can easily obtain the results. Get dressed, we're going to St. Bartholomew's."
Molly froze under his gaze, her brown eyes wide and bright. "We are?"
Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "Yes. We. I need you to assist me in testing. No one is in the laboratory, John refuses do lab work-with good reason, he's horribly incompetent- and I refuse to wait. This case has gone on long enough."
"You want me to help?" Her voice was high and incredulous.
"Obviously."
"You don't think it's unnatural?" Her words were rushed and almost unintelligible.
Sherlock scoffed. "Unnatural? Hardly, it's quite logical. You went to school, you learned, and now you're going to apply your knowledge. I fail to see what could possibly be unnatural about that. Now stop you're blithering. We're wasting valuable time!"
Sherlock was not entirely sure what reaction he was expecting but the incredulous laugh that escaped from his wife's lips was definitely not one. He shifted uncomfortably when he realized that there were tears at the corners of her eyes. Perhaps his last few sentences were a bit too harsh. John always said he needed to be more gentle and tactful. While tact and gentleness was a waste of time in his profession, he supposed he should consider employing it on occasion with his wife. If only to avoid Mrs. Hudson's scowls and John's scolding. John always knew when he upset Molly; it was a problem inherent to the fact that their wives were close friends. Mary had a tendency to run to her husband with tales. "Uh, I mean. Would you please accompany me to St. Bartholomew's?"
"Yes!" Molly replied as she nodded her head wildly, a grin wide on her face.
Oh. Perhaps she wasn't upset after all.
She stepped towards him, stopping just a foot away. He warily watched her hands as they clenched and unclenched rapidly. Was she going to hug him? Her hands eventually clasped together, as if she had to physically restrain herself from touching him, an issue she never had before. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."
Sherlock stared at her, unsure of what to say in reply. Before he could think of something she swept past him, making her way down the carpeted hall, her gait just short of a run.
"Come, Annie." He heard her say in the distance. "I need to dress quickly!"
Her lady's maid's faint, sleepy reply was nearly drowned out by the sound of Molly's running footsteps up the staircase. Odd how such a small person could make such noise.
Sherlock caught a glimpse of himself as he moved to pick up his abandoned notebook. He should probably change his clothes in to something more suitable as well.
"Would you like the green today, ma'am? Or perhaps the purple? It does flatter you so." Annie quickly covered her mouth as she yawned.
"No, no, no," Molly replied, spitting out the lurid pink remnants of her toothpaste into the washbasin. "The plaid."
"Ma'am…" Annie's tone was that of great reluctance. The dress was not one of her most fashionable ones, in fact it bordered on the line of ugly. Even Molly wasn't sure of what she thought of the dress or why she had it made. Some times it was hideous and at others it was perfectly acceptable. No matter its aesthetic attributes, it was extremely comfortable and warm, which was always a boon in the winter. Also she wouldn't mind if it became mussed in the laboratory.
"Yes, yes I know you hate it but that's the dress for today. Hurry," Molly urged. She doubted that Sherlock would leave without her but she was not going to take any risks. She was actually going back to the lab! No need to endure any tedious social visits. No need to micromanage the household for lack of industry. No need to go shopping if only to fill the time while counting down the days when she would meet with her charities, the only place she found of herself of use. Today was a day of when she would finally do something.
The brunette woman shifted from foot to foot in impatient excitement as Annie began laying out all of her undergarments. Molly snatched her chemise and bloomers and rushed behind the changing screen. Her nightgown in a pile on the floor, she hurriedly slipped into her garments.
"Oh don't worry about the wrinkles. It'll be mucked up soon enough," Molly said when she reappeared. She sat on the bed and slipped on her stockings, making sure to tie them tightly before grabbing her corset to begin hooking the front. "Oh for goodness sakes," she muttered when she encountered difficulties.
"Miss Mary, please let me do that! It'll be much quicker."
Molly sighed and dropped her hands. Annie efficiently fastened the front of her employer's corset before moving to tighten the laces in the back. Molly tried her best not to fidget as Annie methodically pulled. Thankfully, the bustle had finally gone out of style in favor of slimmer styles, so she only had to bother with a petticoat.
"Are you sure you won't change your mind?" Annie asked, holding the underskirt in her arms. "I truly think that purple or the burgundy would be much more pleasing."
Molly double-checked that her petticoat was buttoned in place and held out her arms. She bent over slightly and said, "The plaid, Annie."
The maid shook her head as she looped the skirt over Molly's head. She swiftly straightened the skirt before placed the similarly patterned overskirt on top. "Such beautiful dresses and you chose this one."
"I'm going to the laboratory today, Annie." Molly could barely keep the excitement out of her voice as she pulled on her matching bodice.
"Does Mr. Holmes know?" Annie's eyes widened the moment she finished speaking. "That wasn't my place. I'm so sorry, ma'am."
"No, it wasn't," Molly agreed. She walked over to her vanity, perched on the edge of the bench and began to let down her hair. "Something simple and quick."
"Mr. Holmes asked me to accompany him," Molly continued while Annie brushed her hair. She wasn't truly upset with Annie for her comment. After years of Annie coming with her to lectures and helping cover up her true activities with little incentive, their relationship was closer than most ladies with their maids. Molly did not appreciate the reminder that almost everything she did was reliant upon her husband's permission. Many of her friends found liberation in their marriage and starting their own households and family, Molly's was a cage. Now it seemed that there was a chance that it didn't have to be as claustrophobic an institution as she had feared. If her husband wished for her help and supported her learning, perhaps he would allow her to assist him further. Employment as a pathologist was now a lost dream but perhaps she could at least finish what she had begun, if for no reason but her own fulfillment.
A knock on the connecting door to her husband's room startled Molly.
"Are you nearly ready?" Her husband's voice came through the door impatiently.
"Almost!" Molly flinched as Annie twisted her hair a bit too harshly in her attempt to neatly gather Molly's long hair. Annie quickly pinned her mistress's hair in tight bun at the base of her skull. "You may come in, if you wish."
The door immediately opened. Sherlock looked as neatly dressed as he normally was with the exception of his hair. His normally styled hair was a barely tamed mass of nearly cherubic curls.
Goodness, he looks rather fetching, Molly thought before rising from her chair to grab her heavy winter bonnet.
"Mrs. Hudson arranged for cook to pack some leftover scones for your breakfast. No time for tea, but there should be some at Barts."
Molly nodded dumbly as she tied the velvet laces beneath her chin. She smiled at her husband. "I'm ready!"
Sherlock's eyes quickly raked over her. He arched his eyebrows and asked, "Do you really wish to go shoeless?"
Molly's cheeks reddened. She had completely forgotten about her shoes! Molly looked over at Annie who was helpless standing by her wardrobe, holding out Molly's most comfortable pair of brown boots.
Molly sat down, wordlessly and hiked up her skirts so that Annie could put on her shoes. The moment Annie fastened the last button Molly sprang up. "I just need to fetch my notebooks from the parlor."
"Good, Bentley should have hailed a carriage by now. Meet me out front." He turned abruptly on his heel and left.
Molly quickly made her way to her back parlor and scooped up all of her old notebooks, even the ones unrelated to chemical techniques. She was not going to risk bringing the wrong notebook along. If she made a mistake, who knew if she would ever have a second opportunity?
She stuffed the notebooks into her battered carpetbag.
Bentley was waiting down the hall, holding out her favorite gray cape.
"Thank you, Bentley," Molly said as he helped her into her outerwear.
Bentley nodded, handing her her soft gloves. "Mr. Holmes is waiting in the carriage outside, Mrs. Holmes. Shall I carry your bag for you?"
"No, thank you Bentley." Molly slipped on her gloves and grabbed her bag. "I have it quite in hand."
"Mrs. Holmes!" came a cry from behind her. Mrs. Hudson walked down the hall quicker than Molly thought possible. She had overheard the housekeeper's complaints of a bad hip numerous times in the few months she had been at Baker Street. Though Mrs. Hudson was dressed, her hair was still in a thin silver braid and she had a nightcap still on her head.
"Mrs. Hudson," Molly greeted.
"Here you go, dear. I left it out for Sher-Mr.Holmes to take," Mrs. Hudson held up a rather large bundled cheesecloth that Molly could only imagine was full of the scones her husband had mentioned, "but you know how he gets when there is a case brewing."
Molly was a bit surprised to find herself nodding knowingly. She did know how single-minded Sherlock became while on a case, eschewing all food and drink except for overly sweetened coffee. It surprised that she knew this fact about this man who was little more than a complete stranger that she happened to live with.
Mrs. Hudson continued to speak, returning Molly's attention to the aging housekeeper. "I wish he would remember to eat, the silly boy. Now I packed some scones along with some ham and hard cheese. Lord only knows how long you two will be gone." Mrs. Hudson grabbed her hand, surprising Molly.
She knew that Mrs. Hudson was Sherlock's former nanny and their relationship was abnormally close but being this familiar with the help was quite new to her. Her family was always polite to their servants and treated them with respect but none of them would be so unabashedly bold as 221b's housekeeper. Somehow Mrs. Hudson's affections were not entirely unpleasant.
"You be careful, who knows what nonsense he'll stir up. You're his wife, not Dr. Watson."
"I'm sure we'll encounter nothing untoward at St. Bartholomew's, Mrs. Hudson," Molly protested weakly.
The housekeeper gave her a dark look. "Mr. Holmes also has a host of experiments that he keeps running at St. Bartholomew's."
Molly couldn't quite suppress a grimace. She was quite familiar with the smells and occasional bangs that would emanate from her husband's pseudo laboratory.
"What is taking so long?" Came an irritated voice from behind Molly.
Molly looked over her shoulder to see her husband standing in the doorway, snowflakes melting on his black curls. If he was attempting to hide his irritation, he was not doing it at all well.
"I was making sure Mrs. Holmes was prepared for the day," Mrs. Hudson said pertly.
Sherlock let out a low humph. He reached past Molly and grabbed the food-laden cheesecloth. "Well, if we're all done preparing, let's go."
He turned on his heel and left, leaving Molly to follow in his wake.
The only acknowledgement Molly made to the fact that she knew Constance Barker was placing a rag gently over her face. After that, she went to work with more confidence than Sherlock had ever truly expected. Molly had almost cowered next to him as they had walked through the corridors of Barts, as if worried someone was about to jump out of the shadows and demand to know why she was here. She visibly relaxed as soon as she stepped into the cool, windowless basement room that served as the mortuary. After a perfunctory inspection of the autopsy tools, his wife walked through past the line of sheet-shrouded corpses, pausing only to read their toe tags.
The few samples Anderson had taken were deemed unnecessary to keep and discarded. Hopefully his incompetence will be a blessing in disguise. Fresh (well relatively given Mrs. Barker's rapidly deteriorating state) samples obtained by a theoretically competent scientist would be much more preferable to whatever slapdash method Anderson no doubt used to collect his own.
Molly snorted sharply as she efficiently snipped the sutures holding Mrs. Barker's chest together, causing his lips to twitch. The sickly sweet smell of decomposition was always more prominent once the cadaver was opened, or reopened in this case. It was a difficult scent to become accustomed to, decomposition. It burned the nose and clung to clothing like ink, almost impossible to be rid of even after a thorough washing. The smell of decomposition was almost cyclic in nature. As soon as the nose becomes acclimated to the stench of decomposition, another wave hits.
"Do you happen to have any peppermint oil?"
"There should be some." Sherlock slid off his stool and began rummaging through the vials on a nearby desk. He let out a soft noise of victory as he picked up the bottle. Peppermint and decay, the two smells were forever entwined in his mind. He put a small drop of oil on his finger and rubbed it under his nose, enjoying the cool tingling sensation as it reached his sinuses.
He put another drop on his finger and went to do the same for his wife. He bent over to see, as her face was mere inches from Mrs. Barker's abdomen. Molly jerked back in surprise. "What are you doing?" she nearly cried in response.
"Putting some peppermint under your nose!" He defended. "I would think that you would be reluctant to apply it yourself!"
Molly's hands were slick with liquid that was formerly Constance Barker and splattered with brown, clumpy blood that has long since lost its capacity to carry oxygen.
A flush crawled up Molly's neck, staining her cheeks. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be curt. I, just, I. You startled me!"
"Perhaps if your face wasn't practically in her belly, you would have noticed my approach," Sherlock defended.
"I needed to see what I was doing!" Molly was now turned completely away from the corpse, focusing all of her attention on her husband.
Obvious. His wife's less than ideal eyesight wasn't a hard deduction, even John could figure it out. Molly had to hold her books and letters a hands length away from her face if she wished to make out the letters. Her writing desk, a gift from her father that was made for her specifically, had a high, slanted writing surface so that she could compose her letters without bending in half. If today proved that Molly was an asset in his work, he would have to rectify this deficiency.
Sherlock took advantage to swipe some oil under her nose, causing Molly to recoil and sneeze. "There. Now, we should get back to work."
Sherlock graciously ignored Molly's incredulously muttered, "We?"
Fortified with peppermint oil, Molly methodically examined Constance Barker's intestines, liver, and gall bladder, taking samples where necessary. She scooped out a small dark red mass and placed it in the silver disk to the side with a splat.
Sherlock bent down to examine it further. It looked to have the consistency of poorly set jelly, just barely holding on to its solid state of matter. Anatomy was never his area of interest, much preferring chemistry, geology and botany. "What is this? Some sort of clot?"
"Hmm," Molly replied in a distracted matter as she examined the already bisected stomach. "Nothing to be gained here." She returned the organ back to thorax. "What did you ask?"
"That." Sherlock pointed to the silver tray. "What is, or rather, was it?"
"Oh. That's her spleen. Could you hand me a syringe?"
"A syringe? What for?"
"Yes," Molly confirmed. "I want to see if there is any urine left to extract."
He looked down to see Molly holding a pale pink round bladder, flecked with thick yellow waxy globs of fat in her hands. Sherlock was a bit surprised that he was asked to play the role of the assistant, he hadn't had to do anything of the sort since his Cambridge days. Well, there wasn't anyone else in the lab, not that any of the assistants would help him, let alone a woman.
"Actually, if you could, grab two," Molly called as Sherlock searched the shelves for his goal. "I want to take some bile as well."
Sherlock handed Molly the syringe one at a time, watching her carefully extract the fluids she could. Samples obtained, she began replacing and rearranging the organs and spare tissue. "It's a pity I could not retrieve any stomach contents or blood." She frowned as she tried to tuck the duodenum under the liver. "I would have liked to test those as well. It's not Mr. Anderson's fault." Molly picked up a clamp and secured two skin folds together before picking up a threaded round needle to begin stitching. "Well, the blood isn't. The stomach contents are, though." She continued stitching until Constance Barker was reclosed, three large puckered false scars marking where she had been incised. Molly picked up her glass jars, containing her samples and handed them to her husband.
Sherlock gave Molly an incredulous look. While nowhere near the mess that coated her hands, her sample containers were far from clean and nothing that Sherlock wished to touch. Sherlock grabbed a somewhat clean rag off the empty adjacent autopsy table and dipped it in the basin of water that was just waiting to be used to clean his wife's hands. He used the rag as a barrier to grab the offered vials and cleaned them before placing them in Molly's carpetbag.
Molly took off her overlarge, borrowed apron and tossed it to the side. She wetted her hands in the cold water before dousing her hands with a carbolic acid solution and rinsing them. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that; he had not seen someone use cleaning solution to wash their hands before. Molly dried her hands on her skirt and turned to Sherlock with a smile. "I'm going to have to insist on some food before we start the lab work."
Molly was surprised at how quiet and still Sherlock was throughout her examination of Constance. She had expected more questions or fidgeting accompanied with demands that she hurry up. His almost docile actions were almost disorienting. Perhaps, he bowed to her superior knowledge of the human body?
Molly took another bite of her crumbly scone sandwich, savoring the salty ham and cold hard cheese. After only half a scone during the brief carriage ride to St. Bartholomew's, she was quite content to savor this snack. Calling it a meal would be far too generous. Molly picked a rather large crumb of scone off of her skirts and popped it in her mouth, keeping a wary eye on Sherlock. She hoped he was too entwined in his work to notice. It was horrible manners, but needs must sometimes. There was another sandwich left but she was hoping that she could convince her husband to eat it at some point. She did tell Mrs. Hudson she would try to make him eat.
Her husband was bouncing around the laboratory, collecting vials and testing strips as he went. While enjoyable, chemistry was never Molly's strongest subject. Sherlock more than made up for Molly's weaknesses, pausing only moments in his work to ask clarifying questions based on her notes. Her husband knew this lab just as well as he appeared to know the streets of London. As soon as he entered the room, he threw off his outer coat and sack coat, leaving him in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
Molly adjusted her skirts and turned to her husband. "Is there something I could do to help?"
Her initial awe of St. Bartholomew's laboratory with its gleaming clean wood, copious glass vials and shining metal tubing quickly wore away, leaving her bored. Perhaps if she assisted they could finish this up sooner.
"Start on the bile, if you please," Sherlock said as he continued crushing the liver between the mortar and pestle.
Molly cracked her neck and slid off the stool. The bile should be fairly straightforward. Reinsch's process should be more than adequate; it will be able to detect a fair number of toxic heavy metals.
Molly just finished carefully placing her sample of the bile in hydrochloric acid when the door opened. She glanced over her shoulder to see who was there but a shelf full of equipment obstructed her view.
"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"
Molly almost giggled at the question. The person who asked must be familiar with her husband, she thought, due to the weary long-suffering tone of his voice. She often heard Mrs. Hudson ask similar questions in the same way.
"About time you've shown up, Stamford. We've been here for hours." Sherlock cracked his knuckles, sending an involuntary shudder down Molly's spine. "As for what we're doing? Obvious, I should think. We're conducting tests. There's a woman in your mortuary who's been murdered. I'd like to see the killer punished, wouldn't you?"
Molly squinted at her husband. She didn't think that Sherlock truly gave a fig about seeing the killer brought to justice; he probably just wanted to show everyone he was right.
A sigh emitted from the man, Stamford, Sherlock had called him. "It's too early for this. Watson, if you need a drink after this case I am more than willing to accompany you."
"Watson isn't here," Sherlock corrected, turning to place the crushed liver sample in its own dish of acid.
"What? You said 'we.' Who else would be-oh!"
Molly gave Stamford a weak smile as he rounded the corner and into view. He wasn't a very tall man, though many people looked small standing next to Sherlock, with a round face. His kind wide eyes swam behind rounded spectacles. He stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
Molly tugged on Sherlock's shirtsleeve. "Introduce us."
"Oh." Sherlock glanced up. "Mrs. Holmes, Dr. Michael Stamford, head of Bartholomew's pathology. Stamford, my wife Mary Holmes. Happy?"
He didn't wait for a reply, already ensconced in his work of adding hydrochloric acid to the small urine sample.
Molly dropped a curtsey in reply to Stamford's shallow bow.
"I was unaware that Holmes was married."
Molly was not at all surprised. Their wedding was not the grand society affair that her mother had wanted. Molly appealed to her father to scale it down to something more subdued. Surprisingly, the Holmes family agreed that a large wedding was not something they wished for either. If Sherlock didn't tell him and Dr. Stamford didn't see their banns or announcement in the Times, there was no reason he would know. It's not as if they left for a prolonged period of time and went on a bridal tour as was en vogue.
She was both disappointed and relieved at the lack of a bridal tour. Her parents didn't do much travelling, as her father was obsessed with his business and her mother had a delicate constitution. Molly had always wanted to visit the French Riviera or travel about Italy. She wanted to know if the Mediterranean was truly as warm as bathwater. See the art of the Romans and the grandeur of medieval Italy. Visit the grand French villas and experience the lavender seas of Provence.
Molly was just wary of doing all that with her husband. A man she hardly knew. The idea of travelling alone with just the two of them and their servants was nerve racking. Before she was informed that Sherlock had absolutely no intention of leaving London for the continent, she entertained a variety of nightmare scenarios on what would unfold on their journey. The anticipated anxiety assuaged the disappointment of not taking a bridal tour. Best to get to know each other on more familiar territory before travelling as husband and wife.
Not that Molly expected a bridal tour to happen in the near future. Perhaps, just perhaps, when they've grown more accustomed to each other she could find a way to convince him to experience continental Europe with her. Maybe if she enlisted the help of Dr. and Mrs. Watson, it could be accomplished.
Molly put on her society smile. The one that conveyed that she wanted nothing more than to be where she was at this moment. "We were married just this November."
"Oh! Still newlyweds! How lovely. I'm sure he's a most attentive husband."
Molly kept smiling, unsure of how to answer.
Sherlock spoke up before she could develop the perfect non-answer. "Mrs. Holmes, your bile."
Molly looked at the container that had turned a murky shade of purplish black. "Oh my! Do excuse me." She nodded at Dr. Stamford before focusing her attention back to her test. Molly delicately picked up a small coil of copper with forceps and submerged it in the acid solution
A hissing sound drew her attention to her right. She gasped involuntarily at the sight of a flaming test tube.
The almost maniacal gleam in Sherlock's eye was quite disconcerting. He gave her an innocent look. "I'm merely creating a sulphuret."
"I am sure there is no need to use that much potash, that quickly."
"Of course there is, I'm impatient."
Molly gave a humph that was an almost uncanny impression of her Grandmother Tuck. She pulled out the copper and rinsed it with water. Adrenaline surged through her as she examined the blackened wire. They were right. Constance was poisoned with antimony. They were right.
Good heavens. She just helped solve a murder.
"Antimony!" she said, turning to face her husband.
Sherlock's mouth immediately curled up in an almost unholy grin. "Yes!" he cried, jumping up and down in his excitement. "She was murdered! I knew it! I knew it!" He laughed as he gave her a quick hug before turning to his test tube.
Molly stood there and blinked, still clasping the forceps. She could feel her face heat up in embarrassment and delight at his outburst.
Sherlock held up his test tube, smiling at the substance at the bottom of the tube. The acid and potash reaction had burnt away all organic material, leaving only the antimony residue.
"It could be arsenic."
The Holmeses looked at Stamford. Molly had forgotten about his presence. He was leaning against the shelf with an arched brow.
"Don't be stupid, Stamford. Arsenic isn't consistent with the body," Sherlock replied in derision. He dumped his sulphuret on the nearby balance. "One-tenth of a grain. That's one-quarter grain of tartar emetic."
"If there's that much in the urine, there must be a great amount in the liver," Stamford said. "I'll have one of the laboratory assistants retrieve the liver and determine the quantity. I would hazard that it would be about-"
"Four grains. More than enough to kill Constance Barker. Send runners to Scotland Yard and Baker Street with the results. I need to tell Lestrade."
"I said, 'No,' Holmes! If you wish to see the Inspector than you will wait until he is ready!"
"Honestly, Donovan! This is ridiculous."
Sally Donovan, Inspector Lestrade's secretary, clenched her jaw and glared at him before taking a deep breath. "What is this visit in reference to?"
"It is in reference," Sherlock said tightly, "to the murder of Constance Barker."
"Constance Barker wasn't murdered. Mr. Anderson's report found no signs of foul play," Sally said smugly. "You were wrong. It's all right, just admit it."
"Anderson is an idiot. Don't bother defending him," he continued when Sally opened her mouth to protest. "Just because he helped you find this position does not mean he is not an idiot. Honestly, you're smarter than that, kindly act like it. Mrs. Barker had high doses of antimony in her system, she was poisoned."
The secretary smoothed her dark blue skirts as she stood. "I will see if the Inspector is available. Wait here. I mean it, Holmes."
"I, as ever, aspire to do as you desire," Sherlock said with a smile.
Sally shot him a dark look before sweeping through a door to the back offices.
Sherlock immediately dropped the smile and sat down on the bench next to Molly.
Sherlock had to admit, his wife had been a good sport about today. Much better than John would have been, in fact. While John was undeniably more useful in the active sleuthing of cases, with his knowledge of both combat and fledgling powers of deduction, he was not keen on the quieter moments of casework. He was close to useless in the laboratory, sitting in a corner either complaining or snoring as Sherlock pondered and worked.
Molly was much more compliant and helpful. Besides a moment of protest when he hailed a hansom instead of a growler outside of Barts, she had been industrious in her assistance. Though she was obviously dismayed (uncharacteristically slouched posture, averted eyes, slack jaw, relaxed open hands) when he ordered the cab to Scotland Yard instead of Baker Street she didn't utter a word of protest. Though it was possible it was because of fatigue instead of docility. Obviously she would be completely incapable of assisting him on most of his cases but today combined with her performance at the Barker funeral lead him to think she could be quite the asset in his work. Woman always made good cover. Few men suspected them of any sort of intelligence and always did their best to impress and protect them. He eyed Molly as she attempted to stifle a yawn. No, she would never be a femme fatale, much too ordinary and honest but that in and of itself could be most beneficial in the future.
"She rules with quite the iron fist," Molly commented, the first thing she said to him in more than half an hour.
Sherlock murmured something he hoped sounded like an agreement. Sally Donovan was an irritating stickler for rules and protocol. She probably wouldn't be able to sleep at night if a 't' was left uncrossed or an 'i' was without it's dot.
A few minutes later Sally reemerged. "You may go back," she said as she retook her seat.
Sherlock nodded curtly and gestured for Molly to accompany him.
"Wait now, who's this?"
"My wife," Sherlock replied, taking delight in her open mouthed shock as he held the door open for Molly. Molly nodded at Sally with a weak smile in greeting before Sherlock ushered her through the door.
He threaded his way through the crowded desks of the Metropolitan Police with ease. Sherlock estimated that they would be expanding within the next decade due to lack of space. The main room should have been airy with its space and open windows. Instead the desks and cabinets crammed into such a way to maximize space just lent it an oppressive feel.
Sherlock didn't bother knocking on the door to Inspector Lestrade's office at the other side of the room, preferring to barge in.
"Holmes," Lestrade greeted wearily.
"I see you still have Donovan guarding your gates."
"Leave my secretary alone, please."
"Are you still insisting that she's just your secretary?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. Everyone at the Met knew that Sally was Lestrade's de facto lieutenant and while she was not able go out to crime scenes or patrol, she was involved with every case that crossed Lestrade's desk. A command from Sally was to be taken as an order from Lestrade, much to the discomfort of many the patrolmen.
"Formally, that's the only role she has. Now, what's this about the Barker case? And who is that behind you?"
Sherlock stepped aside to allow Molly in. Lestrade immediately leapt to his feet. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was always one to play the gallant gentleman. "Mrs. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, my wife."
"Ah, so this is the enigmatic Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade with a slight bow. "Here, have my seat, ma'am."
Sherlock's lips twisted at the flush that crawled up Molly's cheeks as she sat down in Lestrade's chair, murmuring her gratitude. Lestrade had just started to lighten up on prodding him about his wife; he was not looking forward to the remarks restarting. If it weren't for the fact that John made him leave a fascinating case for so that he could attend his wedding, Lestrade wouldn't have even known.
"As I was saying," Sherlock continued. If he was interrupted one more time in this case, he was going to do something far more drastic than pocketing Lestrade's badge. The case couldn't be closed until Lestrade bloody well did something about it and leering at his wife was not the something that needed to be done. "High doses of antimony were found in Mrs. Barker. She was murdered. Now will you do your job and get a warrant so you may finally search the house. Not that it will do any good, the husband has had more than enough time to be rid of the evidence. I can only hope he's as stupid as the Met!"
"I need a chemical report before I can do anything. You know that Holmes. A magistrate won't issue a warrant on just your word. I need something." Lestrade turned his attention away from Molly to face him.
"It could be another day before the testing is done!" Sherlock protested. Bureaucracy. Always restricting his furrowed his brow as he noticed Molly dipping Lestrade's pen in its ink well and bending nearly in half to scrawl something on a clean sheet of paper. How she even found a clean sheet of paper on the mess that was Lestrade's desk was beyond him.
"Then get me a preliminary report. I can work with that. Someone had to help you at Barts, just get them to write something up," Lestrade relented. "You know I trust you but the magistrate does not."
The magistrate, like many of the people Sherlock knew, thought that he was merely a bored son of a nobleman doing tricks to fill his day.
"If I finish writing up a report and Dr. Stamford signs this in verification, would that suffice?" Molly asked. Her paper was half filled with her tight, neat script.
Lestrade shot Sherlock a glance before leaning over the desk to scan her draft. "Uh, yes. I suppose this would work. How-?"
"My wife assisted me at Barts today since no one was available so early in the morning. Just as well, Watson is useless in the laboratory."
Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. He crossed his arms across his chest and pushed off the desk to stand just inches from Sherlock. "Really? Your wife helped you." His voice was rich in disbelief.
"Yes," Sherlock bit out, taking a step back. He had noticed the stiffening of Molly's posture as she continued to write and he did not like it. As if he would allow anyone less than completely competent to assist him. He had no time for people's egos and sense of self-esteem. "I assure you Mrs. Holmes is quite conversant in anatomy and chemistry."
"Anatomy? I thought you said she helped you in the lab."
"She did but we needed to obtain samples from Mrs. Barker first. Honestly, Lestrade, how else would we find the antimony in her body? By sneezing on it? Use your head." Sherlock smirked as he tapped the greying inspector on the forehead for emphasis.
"You made your wife cut up a woman? A woman who, you told me, was someone she knew?" Lestrade asked, his voice pitched low enough that Sherlock had to strain to hear him. "Damn it, man, don't you have any decency? A gently bred woman should not have to see that!"
"She has the education and the experience," Sherlock ground out in his defense. Perhaps there was a point about having Molly dissect someone with whom she was familiar in life; people did get so emotional when it came to death. However, Molly didn't say one word in objection. Point, him.
"Excuse me, but I'm finished," Molly chimed in, holding out two sheets of paper. "I also penned a note to Dr. Stamford to let him know my educational background and the names of my professors at the London School in case he wished to verify any information."
"You can just leave it on the desk, Mrs. Holmes. I'll have a runner send it over to Barts immediately. I hope this trip hasn't been too much of an inconvenience."
"No, not at all," Molly assured Lestrade with a smile. "It was nice to get out of the house and get my hands dirty again." Molly's eyes widened and her smile slipped off her face as she bit her lip. "Er, so to speak. I don't mean to say that I wanted, well I did, oh," she cut herself off.
Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'll speak to the magistrate as soon as Stamford signs this. Will you be skulking about here, Holmes? Or should I send for you at Baker Street?"
"Baker Street," Sherlock answered immediately. "I need to retrieve my magnifying glass and send for Watson."
"And take your wife home, of course" the inspector added.
Sherlock glanced over at Molly who was busy staring at her hands. "Naturally."
Some historical notes
So why don't they have their own carriage? It's cheaper. A ride in a cab would cost about a shilling for the first two miles (depending upon where you were) and six-pence (1/2 a shilling) for each additional mile. A carriage would cost about £132 pounds to purchase (not including the cost of a horse!) and about £200 for it and the horse's upkeep. That's 6,640 shillings for the first year with 4,000 each additional year! That's a lot of cab rides!
Sally's a secretary. Why? The first female cop didn't join the Met until 1919 (this is discounting the Women Volunteer Police which was formed in 1914). Forty years is a little too much fudging for my comfort. I wanted to have as many familiar faces as possible in this story and I thought this was the best way to get her in. At first I toyed with her being an agent of Mycroft's who he set up as Molly's maid at Baker's Street who would be an informant for him and later protect his family (And the reason Sherlock disliked her was that he didn't figure it out for over a month) but I thought it seemed rather hokey and I could do better by her.
Holy shit she just washed her hands in acid. Sanitation and germ theory was actually understood in 19th century, it just wasn't accepted. Dr. Semmelweis wrote a paper that the reason women were dying in childbirth was due to poor sanitation and everyone laughed. He was right. Physicians would give women pelvic exams during birth, perfectly normal except they wouldn't wash their hands beforehand. And it wasn't uncommon for them to come straight from the morgue or another patient. Semmelweis conducted an experiment where all the medical personnel had to wash their hands in an antiseptic solution (carbolic acid) before attending a patient. Puerperal Fever fatalities dropped by over 90%. The medical establishment's response could be boiled down to: Doctors are gentlemen, and gentlemen's hands are clean.