I'm so sorry for the delay! I can't promise that it won't happen again but I can promise that I will try to update sooner. There's just a lot on my plate right now that takes precedence.
Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews. I re-read your reviews constantly; they do not go unappreciated.
Much thanks to thatred-hairedgirl for looking this over! Without her, the tenses would be cocked up and this story would be lacking many definite and indefinite articles!
"...Considering the numerous times Mother has visited Aunt Young in Bath to take the waters, one would think she would realize that Bath does not cure all, or possibly any, ills. Though, I must say Mr. William Oliver's A Practical Dissertation on Bath-waters does make a compelling case on Bath's behalf. Where else can one be healed of their lumbago, gravel and stones of the kidneys, leprosy and diseases of women? Though I must take issue with his description of these 'maladies' (what exactly is green sickness? I confess I have re-read that passage numerous times and still do not know what it is. But rest assured that Bath water is the cure!), I also must agree with Mr. Oliver on his description of women as 'the most perfect of all the Creation!' …"
-A selection from an 1869 letter written by Mary Hooper (the future Viscountess Brackley) to her brother, Theodore Hooper. With special thanks to Henry Holmes, 14th Viscount Brackley.
Excerpt from Patients and Petticoats: Women and Medicine in Victorian England by Carol Yang
University College London Medical School Funding Opportunities
Scholarships available for these criteria.
Department: Division of Medicine
Level: Graduate Research
Availability: current and prospective students
Number of scholarships: 1
The Lady Brackley Scholarship for Pathology
Originally called the Molly Holmes Award, the Lady Brackley Scholarship for Pathology was established in 1880 for students of the London School of Medicine for Women. It was renamed in 1998 when the London School of Medicine for Women and the University College's Hospital Medical School merged to form UCL Medical School. It is one of the longest continuous funding opportunities in the country. Many of its awardees have gone on to become pioneers in the field of medicine.
Current award value is £10,000. It is awarded every year to a current pathology student based on their financial hardship and their coursework. While every current pathology student may apply, members of minority groups and women are especially encouraged to apply.
Click Here for Further Eligibility Details
Click Here For the History of the Lady Brackley Scholarship for Pathology
Related Results:
-The Lord Brackley Scholarship for Chemistry
-The Holmes Forensic Innovation Award
18 June 1879
"Oh, my dear Dr. Watson! You are looking quite well!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as Bentley took his hat and walking stick.
"My wife takes good care of me," John assured his former housekeeper, dropping a kiss on her cheek.
"I'm sure she does." Her voice dropped down to a whisper. "She is so good for you, I'm so glad you married her."
John tried to repress a smile as he heard Mary stifle a giggle behind him. His wife has the sharpest ears of anyone he has ever met; much to her pupils' dismay he was sure. He learned early on in his marriage to never mumble under his breath as she was sure to make out every word.
"I have to go check on supper but I'll have one of the girls bring you some tea. The front sitting room has been made ready."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It is rather warm outside," Mary replied, coming up to take John's elbow as they made their way to the front sitting room.
Sherlock came loping in just moments after the tea service arrived. He threw himself down in the chair opposite Mary and sighed.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," Mary said pointedly as she poured him a cup of tea, adroitly adding Sherlock's favored milk and one lump of sugar.
Sherlock straightened from his slump and grunted out a noise before grabbing his teacup and saucer.
John rolled his eyes as his friend's antics. Sherlock was not pleased at the idea of a dinner party in his house, despite the fact that the guest list was limited to just his best friend and his wife.
"How is the lady of the day?" Mary asked.
"Changing. Afternoon tea with her parents ran over. How two unimaginably dull people could produce a daughter of some use is absolutely baffling."
John grimaced at Sherlock's description of his wife. While Sherlock admitting that someone was useful was high praise indeed, he had hoped that the consulting detective would employ some higher praise or affection for Mrs. Holmes. He was probably being unrealistic in his expectations of his eccentric friend's marriage but he couldn't help but hope.
"Well," Mary said as the silence started to grow too long, "we brought a small gift for Molly. Do you think we should give it to her before or after dinner?"
Sherlock shrugged and took a sip of his tea.
Mary glanced at her husband who shook his head in exasperation. "I suppose after dinner is a more appropriate time."
"Most likely. Especially considering you purchased eating chocolates." Sherlock gestured to the box next to Mary. "If you give it to her after dinner, there is a better likelihood of everyone participating in the gift as my wife will insist on sharing. Foolish of her, really. She adores eating chocolates, she should just keep them for herself."
John blinked at his friend. While Sherlock deduced everything, to an extent, he usually did not go into such detail over something as mundane as his wife's birthday gift.
He really must be bored.
"Well, what did you give Mrs. Holmes?" John asked.
"I? I didn't give her anything." Sherlock placed his cup and saucer on the table before leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.
"Oh, Sherlock," Mary sighed. "Nothing at all?"
The raven-haired detective slowly opened his eyes, a look of uncertainty growing on his face. "My wife didn't give me anything for mine. I thought gifts were not something she wished to do."
"But she did arrange to have your favorite meal made for supper," Mary pressed.
John suppressed a smirk at Sherlock's look of annoyance. One day, he'll learn that their wives shared most everything and forgot almost nothing.
"Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson handle the meal planning." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, sighed and got out of his chair.
"Where are you going?" John asked as Sherlock made his way to the door.
"Apparently, I need to obtain some sort of gift!"
"Surely it could wait until another time," Mary protested. "We will be eating soon!"
"Don't wait on dinner, then." And with that he was gone.
"Should I go after him?"
Mary sighed. "Best not. We'll just have to make the best of it. I think the both of you being gone will be more awkward than-"
"Good evening!" Molly walked into the sitting room, a smile on her face, causing John to leap to his feet. The pale pink brocade of her gown brought out the rosiness of her cheeks. Her smile faded slightly as she scanned the room. "Has my husband not greeted you yet?"
"He was called away, but he'll be back promptly. I'm sure of it." Mary stood up and gave her friend a reassuring embrace.
John could just see Molly's sad eyes and resigned expression over his wife's shoulder.
Molly pulled away and gave the Watsons a weak smile. "I'm sure that it is a matter of great importance. Though…"
"Though?" Mary prompted.
"Nothing," Molly whispered. "Just…perhaps I set my hopes too high, to expect his company at tea and dinner in one day."
John shifted uncomfortably at her barely hidden distress. Should he tell her why Sherlock left? Would that make things better? But what if he told her and Sherlock returned empty handed? Surely that would just add to her disappointment. Perhaps he should hold his tongue for now. Besides, it felt a bit like tattling, saying that Sherlock didn't think to obtain some sort of present. One had to cover for friends, especially in situations like these.
Yes, he'll stay silent for now. He could always speak up later if needed.
Sherlock returned by the third course, taking his seat at the head of the table as if he hadn't just missed half of dinner.
The moment he sat down, the tight, strained smile that Molly had worn previously relaxed into a more pleasant expression.
The rest of dinner continued without incident, the undercurrent of tension relieved by the return of the host. Sherlock did not contribute much to the dinner conversation, but John honestly did not expect him to do so.
"This was a fabulous meal." John resisted the urge to lick his plate. The lemon balm cake with custard sauce was absolutely fantastic. The rich almost woody lemon balm was complimented by the slight zip of lemon. The rum in the custard sauce just added to the dish.
"I'll make sure to relay your compliments to Cook," Molly assured him with a smile. "Should we adjourn to the sitting room? We have a new bottle of port, aged 15 years or brandy if you so prefer."
"I must defer the port until another time."
"And the brandy," Mary cut in. John glared at his wife. Honestly, he was a doctor he knew his limitations. Mary raised an eyebrow, challenge gleaming in her eyes, when he opened his mouth to protest.
"And the brandy," John conceded. Perhaps it was best not to fight her this one time. One awkward couple was more than enough at a dinner party.
"Tea, then," Molly declared, rising from her chair.
John hurriedly stood and took his wife's arm to escort her to the sitting room, casting a quick glare at Sherlock for sighing dramatically.
"Molly, dear. We brought you a small present to mark the occasion," Mary said after the quartet settled in the sitting room.
"Oh Mary, you didn't have to do that."
"We wanted to." Mary passed the pastel green floral box to her friend.
"Oh! Eating chocolates! How wonderful. Thank you, Mary. Thank you, Dr. Watson."
"Our pleasure, Mrs. Holmes." John smiled at Molly's happiness at such a small present. He should have trusted Mary when she said that eating chocolates were Molly's weakness.
Sherlock stood up, stretched, before going to pull the cord to summon a servant.
Molly tilted her head and narrowed her eyes slightly.
Bentley arrived within seconds with a hatbox in his hands. His mouth was twisted as if he smelt a foul odor, which was quite unlike the usually stoic butler. The butler handed Sherlock the box, nodded before withdrawing with almost comical haste.
Sherlock placed the box on Molly's lap. "My felicitations on surviving yet another year."
"But isn't this one of my hat bo-oh!" Molly cut herself off as the box moved. She cast an uneasy look at her husband before slowly opening up the box, her hands slightly shaking. She gasped loudly and covered her mouth when she peered inside.
John could barely contain a groan. What the devil did Sherlock buy?
Molly squeaked, her hands still covering her mouth. Sherlock shifted uneasily in his chair.
"Molly?" Mary asked. "Are you well?"
"It's adorable!" Molly reached into the box and pulled out a tiny ginger point kitten. It gave a short high-pitched mew. "Oh! Look at you! You're absolutely precious." The kitten just managed to fit into her small hands. "Where on earth did you obtain him?" Molly asked, holding the cat to her face where it immediately started to nuzzle her chin.
"Wiggins brought him to my attention. The mother was killed by a cart and this was the only surviving kitten. I brought him here to be cleaned up."
"Oh, poor little love! Don't worry, we'll take excellent care of you. Oh, yes we will!" Molly dropped a kiss on the kitten's head.
"It's a cat, Mrs. Holmes, it can't worry." Sherlock's derisive comment was attenuated by the self-satisfied look on his face. He slumped back in his chair, completely relaxed.
John gave Sherlock an approving nod; his friend did quite well. Though he had to admit he was a little jealous that Sherlock thought of and obtained a perfect gift so quickly for his wife. It always took him weeks to figure out presents for his Mary.
"He is quite sweet, isn't he darling?" Mary reached forward to stroke the cat's back.
John gave a mild smile. He never warmed up to cats. Not only because he preferred dogs but because Grandmother Fletcher owned the largest and meanest cat that would torment him as a child. It would pounce on him from high atop shelves and then dig his ludicrously sharp claws into his skin as he tried to maintain his footing. "Is it a he?"
Sherlock shrugged at the question.
John rolled his eyes, not surprising that Sherlock didn't know or care about the sex of his gift.
The kitten let out an indignant squawk as Molly lifted its tail. "It's a little early to be certain, but I believe it is male."
"He needs a name. Perhaps we can start a tradition and name him Melbourne?" Mary gave her husband a knowing look. John didn't rise to the bait, he knew she didn't like that Gladstone was named Gladstone, much preferring a more regal name like Ambrosius for their bulldog. Gladstone, however, was not a regal dog. He was an overfed, drool-ridden, extraordinarily dim, affectionate, perfect rascal.
Mrs. Holmes covered her mouth to suppress her giggles, the kitten curled up in her lap, eyeing his new home suspiciously.
"I don't know. I think I would prefer Wellington?" Molly asked.
"Nonsense! He's clearly a Palmerton!" John smiled as he entered the naming fray.
"What the devil are you all talking about?"
"Holmes!" John reprimanded. Honestly, there were ladies present.
His friend rolled his eyes in acknowledgment.
"We're suggesting names for the kitten." Molly focused her attention on the kitten as she spoke.
"Obviously. The names are ridiculous. Palmerton? Melbourne? Where are these names coming from?"
"They're prime ministers?" Molly cast an uncertain look at the Watsons.
"Oh. Dull and completely unimportant." Sherlock waved his hand, as if to clear the air.
"Yes, as unimportant as knowing the authors of Macbeth and The Canterbury Tales."
Sherlock gave John a poisonous look at his jab.
"Perhaps we should name him after who found him? Did you say it was a Wiggins who found him?" Molly cut in, her tone overly bright.
"No. Wiggins merely told me of his existence. Another boy, Tobias, found him."
"That's a fine name. Don't you think Molly?"
Mrs. Holmes gave the sprawled sleeping kitten a critical once over. "It's a bit cumbersome for such a small creature. I think Toby would be better." She stroked the kitten's body with the back of her finger. "Yes, Toby."
1 July 1879
"Stop it, Toby," Molly admonished as the feline batted at her pen for the seventh time. The cat adored either sleeping on her lap or sitting on her desk as she worked, not content to be away from his mistress. As the cat grew and was able to maneuver stairs and other obstacles more quickly, he became Molly's little shadow following her from room to room. He even wormed his way into her bedroom at night so he could curl up next to her, much to Sherlock's annoyance.
Her husband only visited her chambers once a week and usually occupied himself by reading; scribbling in his notebook, getting ink all over her bed linen in the process; pestering her by thinking aloud about a case; and on occasion actually sleeping. Since that one night, nearly nine months ago, he hadn't touched her or implied that he wished to do so. Molly had to admit that while she was confused, she wasn't entirely overwrought by his actions. Perhaps in the future she'll change her mind but for now she was quite content with the current arrangement.
Though some of that contentment had eroded away by the constant power struggle between her husband and her pet. Too often her husband kicked or shook her awake so that she would, 'take care of this blasted animal. I can't think when he demands my attention so!'
Molly grabbed one of her steel pencils and tossed it on the rug, sending Toby scurrying after his new prey. Perhaps now she'll be able to concentrate.
Her husband had requested, well more like demanded, that she review several post mortem reports of a string of poisoning victims. He still didn't trust Anderson's ability to conduct a proper post mortem, even though the majority of times he appeared to do an adequate and thorough job. On the occasion where Molly thought an analysis needed to be conducted or had a theory on cause of death, Sherlock would hail a cab and spirit her to Bart's in the dark of the night. Dr. Stamford found Molly charming and gave the couple his tacit permission to view corpses, since Sherlock already had free reign of the laboratory, as long as they did so during off hours.
This case was different. Interesting cases always whipped her husband into an almost frenzied state but this one had an added twist that sent him bordering on mania.
Shortly after their marriage, Molly discovered that Ormond Sacker of the popular serial Mysteries and Crime: Or Adventures of a Detective and a Doctor fame was a pseudonym for Dr. Watson where he recounted his and Sherlock's adventures.
In recent months, bodies had been appearing throughout London in a remarkably similar fashion as the crimes detailed in Dr. Watson's first publication, A Study in Scarlet. Her husband jumped up in glee at the thought of a copycat killer. Though his amusement lessened once Dr. Watson declared that this case absolutely must be called, A Study in Pink once it was resolved, both as homage but because the victims had blood in their spittle, turning it pink. Molly and Mary agreed whole-heartedly, despite Sherlock's protests that the title would cheapen his description of the scarlet thread of murder.
She stretched and pushed her spectacles back up her nose before returning to the reports. The day after Reginald Barker was arrested, her husband dragged her to an oculist to be fitted for a pair of spectacles. Sherlock declared her to be more useful than anticipated and therefore needed her to be at her best, including having the best eyesight. Even though the eyeglasses were delicate and near invisible, Molly tended to reserve their use for reading, writing, and working.
A slight cough brought her attention to the door.
"Yes, Bentley?" she asked, without turning about. None of the other members of their staff tried to gain her attention by coughing.
"A visitor for you, ma'am."
Molly dipped her pen in the ink well and continued to annotate the reports. "I'm not at home. You may leave the calling card on the sideboard, thank you."
"If I may be so bold, ma'am…" Bentley didn't finish his sentence, causing Molly to turn to him. Bentley never interrupted except, well, she couldn't think of a time where he did interrupt. He stood there, silver platter in hand with a delicate calling card placed on it.
Molly sighed and motioned for him to come to the desk. She picked up the pink floral card, smudging it with her ink stained gloves. She froze the moment she read the name. "Admit her at once."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have a tea service brought. With biscuits. Ginger, if we have it. Shortbread, if we don't."
"Very good, ma'am." Bentley gave a short bow and turned to leave, just barely avoiding Toby as he raced across the room after his pencil prize.
Molly leapt from her chair, nearly tripping on the hem of her dress in her rush to look in the mirror. She quickly tidied her appearance, shucking off her ink stained gloves and tucking away loose hairs. Her eyeglasses were discarded on her desk and she furiously rubbed at the indentations on her nose and pinched her cheeks for some color.
Content that she was presentable, Molly strolled out of the room, closing the door behind her. She winced as Toby immediately began to scratch and cry at the door. It couldn't be helped. It would not do to have Toby come along.
Why on earth was she here? It had been months since her visitor stepped foot inside the Holmes's Baker Street residence. If Molly's presence was required, she was summoned to Mayfair.
Oh God, what if someone was ill? Or dead?
She fixed what she hoped was a pleasant smile to her face and walked slowly into the sitting room.
"Mother."
"Mary, my love!" The baubles bounced wildly on the toffee colored visiting dress her mother wore as she jumped up and enveloped her daughter in a tight embrace.
Even though Elizabeth Hooper was not a tall woman by any measure, her daughter never managed to surpass her in height. Molly returned her mother's embrace warily. One never knew exactly what accouterments would be hidden on the Hooper matriarch's clothes. She hoped a quick hug would suffice but her mother had other ideas, crushing her daughter to her.
Molly tried to suppress a sigh as her face was buried in her mother's collar, causing the adornments to scratch her face. She had resorted to blowing small puffs of air to keep the mustard fringe from going up her nose when her mother finally released her.
"You look well my dear! Though your dress is horribly out of fashion."
Molly glanced down at her simple cream day dress. Didn't she just visit the dressmaker for this outfit?
"You need to let me take you shopping more often, my dear. Look at this dress!" Her mother twirled, the fringes sewn all along the hems whirled wildly, like cattails in the wind. "Fresh from Paris!"
Molly smiled indulgently at her mother. Mrs. Hooper had always loved clothes and fabrics. Buying them, designing them, dressing people up, redecorating the house. All of it made her extremely happy. She spent hours pouring over fabrics and lady's magazines looking for the latest fashion trends or inspiration. Molly's earliest memories were of sitting on the floor of her mother's retiring room with a lady's magazine in her hand, carefully ripping out the designs her mother told her to find.
"You know, I do not keep track of fashion. I need you to dress me," Molly teased, easing her mother down onto the burgundy Queen Anne sofa. It was true; her mother had always selected her clothes, as if she were her doll. Perhaps she'll have Annie take her measurements tonight and send them along to her mother along with a list of restrictions. Never again would she wear a feathered gown because it was the next trend.
Bentley slipped into the room and efficiently arranged the tea service before disappearing again.
Mrs. Hooper sighed dramatically, a smile playing on her lips. "I suppose I can find it in my schedule to accompany you."
Molly fixed their cups of tea, adding the precise amount of cream and sugar. "You did not come all the way to Baker Street to critique my dresses and show off yours, did you?"
"No, I did not." Elizabeth Hooper took a delicate sip of her tea before placing it back onto her saucer. "The season has come to a close and I am off to Bath for a time. Possibly two months, maybe until the season begins again."
"Visiting Aunt Young?"
"Yes, her gout is acting up again."
"I'm sorry to hear that. She should endeavor to eat a more healthful diet and utilize a juniper compress. I don't believe spending hours soaking in hot water and then cold has been helping."
Mrs. Hooper hummed noncommittally. "Your aunt will never stop indulging in her sweets and her drink, you know this."
Molly dipped her head in agreement. "Well, I will know to forward my letters to Aunt Young's house."
"About that," Mrs. Hooper paused and set her teacup and saucer on the tea service. "Have I told you about Bertha Grafton's niece?"
Molly furrowed her brow. "No, you have not." Molly also couldn't remember who the devil Bertha Grafton was but hopefully that wouldn't be pertinent to the conversation. Chances were it was some high in step member of the ton that Molly should know.
"Bertha Grafton's niece visited Bath last year. Spent nearly everyday in the spas, taking the waters. She was married, oh five years ago now, without any sign of a child. Well, she welcomed a son in April. A fat little thing, honestly but quite healthy."
Molly froze, she hoped she had misinterpreted her mother's not so subtle insinuation. "Mother-"
"It's been almost a year-"
"Nine months," Molly interrupted.
"And you have not conceived once," She continued on, ignoring her daughter. "Not even a possibility that you may have conceived. I'm concerned, darling."
Molly picked at one of the buttons lining the front of her dress. Was there a delicate way to tell one's mother that she was not intimate with her husband? "My husband has not shown…concern over the lack of children."
She glanced at her mother, willing her to understand the relationship she and her husband had.
"He may not now," her mother conceded. "But once he inherits the viscountcy, Mr. Holmes will realize the importance of an heir. You're getting older, my love. If you wait until he catches up with the rest of us, you may be past your childbearing years. Men don't always think of the future, it's our role to do it for them."
"I'm only thirty! Women have given birth well into their fifth decade."
"Safely?"
"Childbirth is a risk no matter the age," Molly countered. The few times she was in the birthing ward during her time at The London School taught her that. It was a bittersweet place full of life and death. Nearly half of the women, poor women who could afford no better, did not leave alive, succumbing to infection.
"That is true," Elizabeth conceded. "But come to Bath with me anyway. I hardly see you anymore. We could go shopping and take the waters. It'll be a lovely holiday."
Molly bit her lip. Her mother could be a bit of a silly scatterbrain at times but Molly did miss her. Elizabeth had a subtle sharp wit and loved to make people happy. Molly's mother may not share her interest in science and education but she tried to understand her daughter, even if she did not support her.
Also, it was strange to go from seeing her everyday to only seeing her perhaps once a fortnight. If it had been earlier in the summer, Molly would have agreed to spend some time in Somerset but now, it would not be possible. "I'm afraid I have made other commitments."
"For months?" Mrs. Hooper raised an eyebrow the same way she did when Molly was young and blamed the missing pudding on mice.
Molly looked her mother straight in the eye. "I'm returning to school next term."
Mrs. Hooper went as still as a statue. Just when Molly was about to ask her mother if she was well, she moved, gently placing her cup and saucer on the service. "Why?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why are you returning to school?"
Molly blinked. Wasn't it obvious why she wanted to return to school? "I wish to complete my education."
"I have seen your marriage contract, in fact I wrote some of it myself." The older woman tactfully ignored her daughter's stunned look. "Returning to school would not be easy on your finances, considering the bulk of your dowry is controlled by the viscount."
"But feasible," Molly argued. Sherlock didn't give a fig about their ledger as long as there was a roof over their heads and money to support his myriad of habits and lifestyle.
"Say you do return to school and complete it. What would you do with your education? Surely you are not going to go into practice. You are married to a future peer; it is completely unseemly. In addition," she continued loudly, cutting off her daughter before she could manage to fit a word in. "Wouldn't it be more rational to give your place to someone who will actually utilize her skills?"
Molly's mouth shut with an audible snap. Honestly, she had never thought of that. Perhaps it was selfish of her to be educated for her own edification. It was unlikely that she would ever join a practice after she graduated. Even before her life was overturned all those months ago, she had never planned to join a practice. The living were of minimal interest to her. If providing solace and easement of suffering to the ill was her desire, Molly would have become a nurse. She had toyed with the idea, in the early days when she would stay up late reading contraband textbooks and sketching out her spinster life. No, she had no interest, or talent if she was honest with herself, in the patient beyond researching their ailment. Molly wanted their blood, their sera, pieces and parts of their bodies and organs to unwind the mysteries that plagued them. She wanted to methodically examine every bit of a corpse, both inside and out, to learn the secrets the dead tried to take with them.
Her plans were to worm her way into a hospital, most likely Royal Free as they had accepted her and her fellow pupils to conduct their clinical training, and spend her day in its underbelly.
But now…now she had a sinking suspicion that any hospital she wished to find employment would be barred to her. Sherlock may not care what she did with her time, so long as she was available to assist him when he desired it, but her brother-in-law certainly did. Lord Brackley made it no secret that beyond her substantial dowry, her only value was in producing the next generation of Holmeses.
For someone with desire to marry, Mycroft Holmes was quite interested in seeing the Holmes line continue.
"I just want to learn," Molly whispered, staring at her teacup.
Elizabeth Hooper gently took the teacup from her daughter's hands and placed it on the tray. "I know, my darling. You always had an insatiable mind, even as a child." She chuckled slightly. "You nearly gave me a fit of apoplexy when you tried to crawl into the quagga cage because you wanted to see if its fur felt the same as your pony's."
Molly lips twitched in remembrance. "I was so angry when the zookeeper pulled me out."
"Oh you were a she-devil in toddler form!" Nostalgia and fondness were thick in Mrs. Hooper's voice, softening her statement. "There is nothing wrong with learning, my love. Perhaps though you may consider forgoing formal education and consider autodidactism since I know you refuse to take interest in more seemly topics."
"Maybe," Molly muttered noncommittally.
A soft cough came from the doorway, followed by an "excuse me, ma'am."
"Yes, Bentley?"
"A note for you ma'am, from Mr. Holmes."
Molly gestured at the table. "Thank you, Bentley."
The butler placed the silver tray on the table and quickly withdrew.
"Go ahead, dear."
Molly nodded in acknowledgement and opened up the hastily folded note bearing a messy scribble that was theoretically her name.
Your assistance is required at St. Bartholomew's.
Come at your earliest convenience.
Yours etc.
SH
If now is inconvenient, come anyway.
Molly's lips thinned in annoyance. It would serve him right for her not to come for several hours. Or at all. She was not a dog or servant to come when called.
But he would be unbearable if she did so. Her pride was not worth the hours of sleep lost to him scratching away at his violin or his dark sulking about the house.
"My apologies mother, my husband requests my presence."
Her mother's eyebrows shot up. "Requests?"
The younger woman pursed her lips, in attempts to suppress a smile. Sherlock avoided socializing with her parents as much as possible but their limited interactions left them with a distinct impression of his character.
"Well. I say request…" Her voice trailed off.
"I suppose I'll be off then. Think about coming down to Bath, if only for a short time. I hardly see you anymore. Your absence from Alderly is…palpable."
"I'll consider it," Molly promised.
"May I ask what this has to do with the Study in Pink victims?"
Sherlock wiped the back of his hand across his brow before turning to his wife. "Are we still calling it that?"
Molly shrugged as she loosened the strings of her bonnet. "I quite like it."
The detective rolled his eyes and turned back to the corpse he so recently cropped. "This is for a different case. I need you to tell me what bruises form in the next twenty minutes."
"Is that Mr. Thomas?" His wife bent down, getting a closer look at the deceased's face.
"Yes. No family. Donated body."
"Oh, how unfortunate. I quite liked him, he was always so nice to me." She sighed as she straightened and slipped her spectacles on her nose.
"Well, his loss, our gain."
His wife glared at him before opening up her notebook. "Next twenty minutes you said?"
"Yes. Man's alibi depends on it." Sherlock gathered his overcoat and samples, intent on making his way to the laboratory to conduct a few analyses on the green scrapings he found under the victim's fingernails. "I'll be in the laboratory."
"How is the pink case progressing? You haven't mentioned it recently."
Sherlock's lips curled in disgust. "It's not. Lestrade calls me too late to the scene and his poor excuse for officers trample over every bit of evidence."
"Well, hopefully there will be a break soon."
Sherlock hummed in agreement and swept from the morgue. The laboratory was quiet at this time of day. Well, this laboratory was usually quiet, no matter what time of day but in the late afternoon it was even more placid. Few workers at Barts were allowed to work in this laboratory. Part of it was their lack of knowledge on the new and quite expensive equipment. Though it also appeared that he was another reason for their absence. The workers tended to avoid him.
Which was fine. They just distracted him or ruined his work. Stamford was the only tolerable employee that Barts had on staff.
After other tests failed to produce any illuminating results, Sherlock pulled out the Geissler tube and activated it. The paint chips from the victim's brother's green ladder remained dull even after Sherlock tugged down the curtains and turned off the gaslights in the laboratory.
Interesting. The paint did not contain linseed oil, how unusual. Sherlock opened up the glass vial that contained the paint from under the victim's fingernails.
Dull. Not a bit of glow to be seen.
No linseed oil.
Could be a coincidence but the universe is rarely so lazy.
Sherlock went to the door, intent on finding a street scamp to run to Scotland Yard with his results. He opened the door and ran right into his wife, causing her to let out a frightened yelp.
Sherlock immediately grabbed her shoulders to steady her.
"Oh my goodness," Molly muttered. "Thank you."
"Do you have the results?"
Amazing how a woman nearly a foot smaller than him could glare down over her glasses. "Of course." She held out a scrap of paper detailing her notes.
"Ah, excellent! Two down in one day. Now I just need to fetch my riding crop."
Molly's voice stopped him before he was more than a few meters away. "Listen, I was wondering…"
Sherlock spun on his heel to face his wife. Odd, she was fiddling with her bonnet worrying the ribbons over and over between her fingers. He looked his wife over from head to toe, trying to find some indication for her sudden hesitation. There was nothing out of the ordinary, save what appeared to be brown crumbs caught in the lace of her cuff. Well, that was new since he left her in the mortuary. "Did you just eat ginger biscuits?"
Molly stared dumbly at him for a moment before responding. "Uh, yes. They were left over from tea."
"Oh." What were the chances that she still had some biscuits in her reticule? He found himself suddenly starving. "You were saying?"
"Tonight, did you want to have coffee?"
"Yes, I do. Have it sent to my study after supper with sugar." Sherlock grinned in thanks before heading back towards the morgue.
"Oh. Very well."
"I would like us to discuss something."
"Move you damned animal." Sherlock shooed Toby away from his side of the bed. Toby let out an annoyed meow before jumping onto Molly's lap. Molly immediately began stroking the demanding feline. "What did you want to discuss?"
"Yes… um. What do you think of children?"
Sherlock went as still as a statue. Only moments after their exchange at St. Bartholomew's, it dawned on him that his wife wanted to talk to him over coffee, and was not just being a thorough homemaker. But he never thought procreation would be the topic of conversation. "Children?"
He shouldn't be surprised at the question. In truth, he was wondering when she would bring up the subject. All women wanted children, correct? And one of the reasons Mycroft pushed for this marriage was for his brother to beget an heir to the Brackley title.
Molly ducked her head, her face slowly turning bright red in mortification. "M-my mother called today and well…"
Sherlock flopped down on the pillows with a growl of annoyance. He should have known. Molly doesn't take biscuits with her tea unless she had a caller. She preferred ludicrously tiny sandwiches instead. "And she wants grandchildren. I'm surprised she managed to hold off badgering you for so long. I wouldn't be surprised if your mother had names chosen already."
"It's not just my mother," Molly turned to face him, ready to defend her mother from any complaints. "Your mother and your brother have expressed the same sentiments. They've just been more subtle about that."
"Ah yes. Must carry on the great Holmes line." Sherlock sneered in disgust. As if it mattered if his family died out. It wouldn't harm anybody if they were the last Holmes. He didn't know why his family cared. They'd be dead.
The crackling of the fire and the rumble of Toby's purr were the only sounds for quite some time.
"I thought you were going to return to school."
"I was. I thought better of it."
"Meaning your mother told you not to do it."
"I didn't change my mind because my mother told me to do so," Molly replied hotly. "I would think it is obvious I don't always do as my mother wishes. But she did make a compelling argument not to return. It's not as if I would have more opportunities to employ my skills if I returned to school. Another woman would benefit more than I."
"Your knowledge would be beneficial to me and my work. And I'm the only person in this city with any ability and sense to solve crimes."
Molly snorted. "How humble." She captured Toby's ear between her fingers and began to rub it, increasing the volume of his purring. "You're so shameless Tobias Holmes," Molly scolded. "I did consider your work but the classes I have left to complete are not in the area of pathology, besides one advanced laboratory class. And I have a plan to complete that one."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, wordlessly encouraging her to continue.
"I am planning on taking the money I put aside for my tuition and set up a continuous scholarship for women who wish to study medicine. I'll make it a condition that in return I will be able to sit in on any class I desire. I'm going to compose a letter to my brother in the morning to handle the details. He can be quite merciless when it comes to negotiations."
Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he believed that claim. His few encounters with Theodore Hooper reminded him of Gladstone. Brawny, fiercely loyal, and not especially bright. Though, Theodore did not drool nearly as much as Watson's bulldog. Sherlock did have to give his brother-in-law that.
"Well if that is what you wish to do," Sherlock said with a shrug. Her going back to school didn't truly affect his life. In the past few months Sherlock had found his wife's assistance to be more than adequate. Molly would be a valuable asset to him even without further education.
"It is, I think."
"You not going back to school. Is it because you want children?" Sherlock steered the conversation back to the original topic. If he was going to be called upon to become a father, he would like as much warning as possible.
Molly shook her head, her long braid swinging behind her like a snake. "No. It's not."
If her decision not to go back to school wasn't based on wanting children, did that mean she didn't want children? Or did it mean that regardless of what she did, she wanted children? Molly's thought processes were usually easy to follow but he found himself at a loss. "So, do you wish to have children?"
"I never thought about it." Molly answered. "When I was younger I assumed I would because, well, that's what women do, right? Then when I reached spinsterhood I assumed that I wouldn't have children unless I adopted some orphan. I never truly thought about whether I actually wanted to have a child. I don't think I am opposed to the idea but I don't find myself longing for one."
"Well considering fatherhood would not change my lifestyle much, I do not care if we do or do not have children." He would go on as usual, perhaps peeking in on the child occasionally to see if it did anything worthwhile. It's not as though children did much. They were drooling blobs of flesh and need that lie about until becoming drooling blobs of flesh and need that sat about.
Sherlock knew he would not at all be like his father. Robert Holmes was terrible with finances and a more than a bit gullible when it came to speculation schemes his friends would talk him into but Robert Holmes loved his children. He was not content to see them once a day for inspection, preferring to interrupt their schooling for playtime or to take them out exploring the estate. He would teach them how to ride and shoot a gun, not a tutor. Robert personally took his sons to Harrow each year in order to spend one last day with them. Subjecting them to long talks on the history of the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway. His father had always loved trains.
Sherlock long came to terms that he would never be as good a man as his father. He could be keener and savvier than his father but never better. He could not see him doing the same sort of parenting as his father did. Certainly not as well, if he even had the desire to attempt it.
Molly though. Molly would be an involved mother. They would hire a nurse and later a governess, surely. Her assistance would still be needed at Barts and someone would have to watch the child. But Molly would make sure to be part of her child's life. A child would change Molly's life far beyond the nine-month gestation required by her.
"Well. I guess that is that," Molly said, unsurely. "Y-you'll let me know if you change your mind, correct?"
"Have I ever not spoken my mind?"
"Well there you have me, Mr. Holmes, there you have me."
No truly interesting historical notes this time! Unless you want to know about the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway, Geissler tubes, calling cards, or Victorian coffee and dinner party habits!
Oh! A quagga was an actual animal; I did not just make it up. You should do a search for a picture of one. I think they are quite cute! Well, were cute. They've been extinct for some time.
I do know what happened in Study in Scarlet but I'm probably going to play fast and loose with it later on. Rest assured errors are not due to lack of knowledge!
This chapter may seem a bit filler but trust me, I wouldn't write as much as I did if at least some of it was not worth it.