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I must admit that I gaped a bit when Holmes identified the young lady in his arms as Dr. Hooper; I had taken her for a nurse or perhaps a secretary sent down to the morgue laboratory to fetch something for one of the doctors or hospital administrators. I waited for Holmes to replace the young woman on her feet, but the moment stretched out and I felt compelled to clear my throat in the hopes of breaking whatever silent rapport the two were currently sharing as they gazed into one another's eyes in a manner closely resembling that of lovers reunited rather than strangers making one another's acquaintance.
Dr. Hooper started a bit and flashed me a guilty look before returning her gaze to that of my friend. I noted that her eyes appeared to be a shade of brown quite similar to his own, and her hair was a becoming shade of chestnut brown that suited her fair complexion. "I believe I've recovered enough to be able to stand on my feet, Mr. Holmes," she said as she returned her gaze to his, sounding more than a bit breathless.
As he set her on her feet, she said, "May I ask why you felt it necessary to barge into my laboratory like this, Mr. Holmes?" Then she gave a small gasp, turning to face me as if just remembering my presence in the doorway. She turned and held out her hand after shoving her glasses back up her nose. "Hullo, I'm Dr. Molly Hooper. You must be Dr. Watson?"
I returned her smile and took her dainty hand in mine, unsurprised by the firmness of her grip. She was no simpering miss, after all. "Yes, very pleased to meet you, Dr. Hooper," I responded to her query. "I understand you are new to the pathology department?"
She nodded and smiled. "Yes, I've only been working here for a week, and I'm very grateful to Dr. Stamford for hiring me…" Her voice trailed off and a frown marred her features as she turned her attention back to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, did Dr. Stamford ask you to come here today?"
My eyebrows rose in an expression of surprise as I exchanged glances with Holmes, who seemed as surprised by the shrewd question that had just been asked as I was. Molly folded her arms across her chest, her frown deepening as she repeated her question in a challenging manner. "Well, Mr. Holmes? Did he?"
He studied her as if she'd suddenly morphed from a quaint curiosity into an intriguing scientific discovery. "As a matter of fact, Dr. Hooper, he did," he finally confirmed. "May I ask why you suspected that, rather than assume the obvious, that my presence here was due to a case?"
Her posture remained defensive, as was her voice as she responded, "I read the newspapers, Mr. Holmes, I'm aware of the horrible bombing that occurred last night, and that the targets were suffragettes. It isn't a great deductive leap for me to understand that Dr. Stamford is concerned about my presence here attracting equally horrific attention. I am one of the first female medical professionals St. Bartholomew's has hired outside of the nursing staff, after all."
She sounded proud of her accomplishment, and justifiably so. Women had only been allowed to study medicine since the founding of the London School of Medicine for Women in 1874, a mere twenty-five years previous. Most graduates went into fields traditionally considered the realm of the female, such as obstetrics, so for her to have entered into pathology – and to have obtained a position as a prestigious institution such as St. Bartholomew's – meant her credentials must be impressive indeed.
Holmes studied her a moment longer before breaking into a delighted grin and turning to face me. "Watson, I do believe it will be a pleasure rather than the chore I originally feared to weigh Dr. Hooper's potential liabilities for Stamford!" With that rather remarkable – not to say insulting – statement, he turned to the diminutive pathologist and offered his arm, along with one of the charming smiles he so seldom mustered. "Allow me to escort you to Stamford's office, Dr. Hooper, where we can conduct our interview in relative privacy."
She deliberately ignored the proffered arm, folding her own across her chest and lifting her chin in an attitude that conveyed both stubbornness and disdain in equal measures. "There is more than adequate privacy here, Mr. Holmes," she said coolly. "No one is likely to disturb us, unless you're worried that Mr. Patterson will suddenly spring to life and return to the killing spree his accidental drowning brought an end to?"
That rather remarkable statement seemed to bring Holmes up short; in the process of scowling at her for her cold refusal, his expression changed to one of intrigue by the time she finished speaking. Dr. Hooper appeared not to miss a single nuance, focused as she was on his face. A smile curled her lips, brightening her expression as she launched into a description of the injuries to the body lying beneath a sheet at the far end of the room.
It was a bit unnerving, seeing so delicate a creature speaking so frankly of such matters as bodily gases and bloating and how repeated usage of a garrote left tell-tale ligature marks on the fingers of a habitual user of that particular weapon, but Holmes appeared quite comfortable speaking to her of such matters, and I kept my opinions entirely to myself as I observed the two of them.
She seemed a likable, intelligent young lady, very pretty even with her hair swept up into a no-nonsense bun and wearing a plain gray skirt topped with a simple white blouse. Having never witnessed the phenomena of my good friend being thus distracted by any woman other than the late Irene Adler, I decided it was best if I were to stand back and watch to see what would unfold next.
Holmes had bounded over to the covered corpse while Dr. Hooper spoke, reaching out as if to expose the body but then, most remarkably to my mind, hesitating and turning toward her as if asking her permission. She smiled and nodded, and I entered the room to join them, feeling very much the intruder as their two heads bent down and Dr. Hooper began murmuring her findings to my friend.
"The Shropshire Slasher," I heard him announce with a great deal of relish as she finally fell silent. I made my careful way toward them, pausing only to right the stepladder Holmes had knocked over when he opened the door. Whether he was giving me the identity of the unfortunate on the table or simply pronouncing the name aloud for his own satisfaction was of no consequence, although I continued to be amused by the childlike joy he was currently exuding, as if Dr. Hooper had presented him with one puzzle which he'd thought solved…only to present him with a further conundrum. Or, perhaps, a Christmas present, I amended silently as Holmes' enthusiasm continued to grow.
"Yes, you're quite right, Dr. Hooper, the signs are obvious. Yet you hesitate to present them," he added, his tone abruptly sobering. "Your conclusions are correct, the methodology employed impeccable, and yet still you wait for Dr. Stamford to confirm the facts you've unearthed before contacting New Scotland Yard and apprising them of your findings. Why is that? Is it because you do not wish to draw attention to yourself at this moment, that your concerns for your professional reputation are currently being outweighed by your desire not draw attention to your position and thus possibly negatively impact the hospital? An admirable character trait, I suppose, if your ultimate goal is to always fade into the woodwork, but hard an auspicious way to launch the successful medical career you are clearly destined for!"
I withheld a groan, although I could feel my teeth grinding; trust Holmes to both compliment and insult a lady at the same instance. Before I could remonstrate with him, however, Dr. Hooper raised her head and met his gaze steadily, glaring as angrily as I'd ever seen Holmes himself manage when his own expertise was put to the question. "Mr. Holmes," she bit out, her hands balling into tiny fists that nonetheless appeared more than capable of laying my friend low should she choose to berate him physically as well as verbally, "I may be, as you say, destined for a brilliant medical career, but I am also mindful of how things work in the real world, the world the rest of us are forced to live in. While you are off breaking the rules and having adventures, some of us must work quietly behind the scenes, allowing others credit if necessary in order to maintain the level of independence we've fought so hard to gain!"
Holmes bestowed upon her a look of absolute delight, and I was as astounded as the petite woman in front of him when he reached out, clapped his hands to her upper arms, and bestowed an enthusiastic kiss to her cheek. "Dr. Molly Hooper, I will be delighted to inform Dr. Stamford that, in spite of your suffragist proclivities, that he would be a fool ten times over to dismiss you from your post. I see that you require no man to fight your battles for you, and wish you well in your future endeavors!"
With that, he stepped back, belatedly removed his hat, and gave a deep sweeping bow with not the slightest hint of mockery to it. Then he turned, with a "Come, Watson! I'm sure your Mary is wondering why your quick visit to my flat has taken so long!" and swept out the door.
Dr. Hooper was gaping after him, her expression one of mingled shock and curiosity. I offered her my hand and said my good-byes, thanking her for her time and congratulating her on identifying the criminal that had terrified so many people, first in his home county and then here in London.
As I turned to leave, however, I was brought up short as Holmes popped his head back into the room and called out, "Dinner at 8:00, Dr. Hooper, if you would be so kind. Shall I retrieve you here or at your boarding house on Montague Street or would you prefer I meet you here? I'm certain your landlady will attend your cat as she usually does when you have to work late."
He gazed at her expectantly, and after a moment spent simply staring at him, she stuttered out a response that sounded very much as if she were attempting to decline his invitation – if invitation such could be termed. Once again I privately vowed to speak to Holmes at the first convenient moment about his social skills or lack thereof, when Dr. Hooper astounded me yet again by falling silent, tilting her head to one side, then finally smiling and agreeing that it would be easier if Holmes were to meet her at the end of her shift as her home was no doubt further away than St. Bartholomew's from wherever he intended the two of them to dine.
He offered her a sharp nod of the head, then glanced at me and barked out, "Come along, Watson! Stamford is waiting for us!" Then he disappeared once again from the doorway, leaving me to follow, as usual, in his overly enthusiastic wake.
My mind was admittedly reeling as I hurried to catch up with him. "Holmes!" I called out as I finally reached his side, at the foot of the stairs leading up to the more salubrious environs of the hospital. "Would you mind explaining just what happened in there?" I nodded my head toward the door to the morgue laboratory.
He gave me a puzzled look as he began taking the stairs two at a time as was his wont when overly enthused about something – generally a case, although there appeared to be no such enticement here. "Dr. Hooper discovered that the body brought in this morning belongs to that of the infamous Shropshire Slasher, I concurred, and will duly report her findings to Lestrade and his group of idiots at New Scotland Yard, giving full credit to Dr. Hooper, of course, as is her due. It is the least I can do, after she afforded me so refreshing and unexpected an afternoon!"
In any other man I would characterize his words and actions, coupled with his obvious enjoyment, as an indication of romantic interest. However, this was Holmes, and my only thought was that somehow he thought it best to continue his investigation and analysis of Dr. Hooper outside the hospital. However, when I expressed that opinion, he once again gave me a puzzled look and said, "Don't be ridiculous, Watson; I'm about to tell Stamford what a prize she is in terms of her value to the hospital. Dinner is simply…"
His voice trailed off and a faraway look came into his eyes as we reached the top of the stairs. He paused there, one hand tapping a rapid tattoo against the brass bannister as he appeared to consider his next words. I waited with nearly breathless anticipation to hear what he would say next, and was not disappointed when he finally mumbled, "She is an…intriguing woman, isn't she, Watson? Worth getting to know better in a social setting?"
I gave a sober nod in agreement, although internally I fear I was smiling broadly, barely able to contain my glee at the thought of Sherlock Holmes willingly escorting an attractive young woman to dinner, with no actual case involved. Mary would be thrilled, and I busied myself arranging my impressions of the afternoon's events in my mind as we reached Stamford's office.
Mary would be very, very pleased indeed, especially if the evening went well.