Chapter 4

Mrs Stamford's instinctive reaction at his question and the care with which Molly was trying to conceal her apprehension, reinforced his belief the two women knew much more than what they were saying.

Had been an argument following the talk between the betrothed? Indeed, it was likely. In support of Mrs Potter's statement, hadn't Mr Merritt himself reiterated that morning, when he and Watson had spoken to him, that his fiancé had never, ever, expressed the desire to postpone their wedding? And that he was more than upset by her sudden change of heart?

But could a trivial love quarrel be the cause of Miss Potter's escape? Because Sherlock no longer harboured any doubts that it was a voluntary escape. An intended and planned escape, to cap it all.

Of course not, that couldn't be the reason, he mused to himself narrowing his eyes at Molly. There was certainly more. Something else must have happened.

Something the young lady had considered so serious as to keep her parents, her go-to persons all along, in the dark about it. Something that made her decide to disappear and abandon them, her betrothed, her friends, her home and the life that, according to Molly, made her so happy.

He wondered what Molly was going to answer to the question he'd just asked her. Would she deny knowing why Miss Potter wanted to delay her matrimony? And in doing so she would lie to him, of course. Or, on the contrary, would she admit that the reason was known to her and reveal it to him? Very, very unlikely.

If there was one thing Sherlock had correctly deduced about Miss Molly Hooper was that she was a hard nut to crack, literally. And she would never willingly divulge what her young friend had told her in confidence.

Because Alma Potter must have confided in someone. And to whom could she have opened her heart, asked for help and advice but to Molly? She was not only older than her and therefore more experienced of life, but she was a sensible and reliable woman.

Independent too…she probably lived in a flat of her own. A perfect hideout. Who would have thought of going to look for Miss Potter in the home of the woman to whom she had been forbidden even to speak?

And even assuming Molly shared the flat with her younger brother, Sherlock had no problem in thinking that Dr Hooper, knowing him as well as he did, would accept his sister's query to shelter her young friend without asking how or why.

So, if he asked Molly point-blank where Miss Potter was hiding, or rather, where she was hiding her, what would she answer? Would she let her guard down and tell him the truth? Definitely not.

"Sherlock?" Molly's quiet voice unfrozen him out of his brooding. He blinked, "I beg your pardon" he murmured, taken aback by her closeness. Her face was, given their different heights, inevitably turned up to his and she was watching him with an expression somewhere between curiosity and concern. She looked so charmingly lovely in her frown that Sherlock almost forgot to breathe.

"Are you feeling well?" she asked cocking her head to the side. He knew he should be answering her but he couldn't seem to take his eyes off her thin but nonetheless beguiling lips which, in his opinion, were so deliciously teased between her teeth.

He was suddenly gripped by the most insane desire to kiss her. If only they had been alone…Wait! What? Kiss her? What the hell was he thinking? It wasn't like him to lust women. At least not since he was a seventeen-year-old fool.

The memory of Viktoria Trevor, the sweet girl of his age who frequented the Holmes ancestral home during the summer holidays, still sometimes haunted him. Viktoria was cheerful, nice and kind, quite different from the London girls who attended the good salons of the ton and who secretly mocked him behind his back calling him the weirdo. Or so she appeared to be when she was at Musgrave Hall.

It hadn't taken Sherlock long to fall in love with her. He had spent the entire autumn and winter at the turn of his eighteen birthday preparing to confess his feelings to her. So the announcement of her engagement the following summer had been like a punch in the gut for him. Even worse were her words of derision, "How can you think I can love you? It was fun spending summer time in your company…you are exceedingly funny in your weirdness! But really, I could never choose you as a husband!".

"Can you hear me? Are you feeling well?", Sherlock dismissed Molly's concern with a wave of a hand, "You must forgive me. Sometimes, when a case particularly captures me, it happens I completely alienate myself from the rest of the world".

Molly frowned as if she was undecided whether to take his explanation for granted or argue back. She clearly went for the second option, because she shrugged and backed up a few steps returning close to her chair, "You were about to explain to me why Miss Potter wanted to postpone her wedding, I believe?" he said catching up the line of discussion.

"I was not" her reply was polite but firm, "I don't see how I could. I know as much as you do on the subject". Her statement didn't surprise Sherlock, who nonetheless found himself once again staring at her intently, searching her brown eyes.

He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for in those eyes that had captivated him from the first moment his had met them. Perhaps a tacit admission she knew Miss Potter's motives but could not speak of them out of loyalty to the young girl, but certainly not the faint glimmer of defiance he saw in them.

That, that implied defiance was exactly what made him unable to repress the tingling at the back of his neck that always went hand in hand with the sudden rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins from having found the right lead.

Molly was the keystone of the matter. It was on her he had to focus if he were to find Miss Potter. Sherlock was supposed to keep an eye on Molly, supervise her movements and eavesdrop on her conversation. But he had to be smart in doing so. She was not an easy woman to fool or mislead, that was sheer ascertained.

For this he would need his loyal Irregulars as Watson called them, a group of homeless boys and girls who occasionally lent him a hand in exchange for money, food or clothing. Sherlock positively needed to talk to their ringleader, Bill Wiggins, as soon as possible.

The game was afoot and not a minute should be lost.

"Very well" he said then taking one last quick look out the window. The afternoon was slipping into evening. The first shadows had already stretched over the streets and some lampposts had already been lit. A jumble of sharp grey colour clouds, most likely harbingers of rain, were slowly moving from the outskirts towards the city centre.

He decided it was time to leave. There really wasn't much point in stay any longer. It was transparent that Molly wouldn't tell him anything more then she had already said.

As he put on his overcoat and pulled his heavy black leather gloves from one of his pockets, Sherlock apologized to both women for keeping them past their usual hours. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr Holmes" interjected Mrs Stamford smiling benignly at him, "We are at your complete disposal for anything concerning Alma. Isn't that so, my dear child?".

Molly was quick to take her eyes off the majestic pendulum clock behind Mrs Stamford, but not so much as to prevent Sherlock from noticing it and wondering if she wasn't late for something or if she had to meet someone. Miss Potter for example?

At first she simply nodded dutifully, then to sweep away the awkward silence settled over the room she, in counter-proof of what Isabel Stamford asserted, added jovially "Of course!". But the joviality of her voice didn't match her lips, curved in a tiny, taut smile, any more than it matched the dainty but obvious wringing of her hands. She was about to lose her natural composure, noted Sherlock.

It was the right time to take advantage of it, he told himself. But how? It was exactly then that Mother Nature came to his aid. A long, deep purplish brightness followed by a deafening rumble of thunder made Molly flinch and Mrs Stamford squeak. And at that instant Sherlock's vibrant mind came up with an idea.

He cleared his throat and, gloves and deerstalker hat in hand, took a few lazily steps towards the two of them. His gaze to Molly "There will be a storm soon. I have a cab at the entrance waiting for me. May I see you to your destination? Wherever it is", Molly gaped at him as her brown eyes widened clearly startled by his proposition.

Sherlock knew he had been too bold, Mrs Stamford's ragged breathing and the crimson flush on her cheeks attested to it, but he couldn't miss the chance to see what Molly would do at that point and, if she agreed to share the carriage with him, where she would lead him.

Mrs Stamford rose to her feet, "That is very kind of you, Mr Holmes, but Margaret…" she began, but was interrupted by Molly's response "I gladly accept your offer, Sherlock". The elderly lady's head snapped back to her almost daughter with an expression of pure bewilderment on her face.

A dead silence followed during which the two women looked into each other's eyes for a long, endless moment. And then finally Molly jerked forward and moved over to Mrs Stamford's desk, "Good heavens, the list!" she snapped as she frantically reached for a blank sheet of paper and something to write with.

"T…the list?" Mrs Stamford whirled around, her stutter blatant. It looked like she was caught off guard and had no idea what Molly was talking about. "Yes, Isabel, the list" she repeated patiently looking at her sideways for a few moments before returning to the task at hand.

"Oh! You mean…the list, of course!" Mrs Stamford said briskly as she patted her forehead, "It's so silly of me but I had quite forgotten about it" she gave Sherlock an apologetic smile and settled back on the sofa.

"We need new chalks and ink pens, a new duster, blotting paper and…" Molly lifted her head to look at Sherlock, "Sorry if I keep you waiting but I absolutely have to do this before we go". She didn't wait for his response and plunged back into writing that list that seemed so vitally important.

He had remained motionless next to the coffee table and was curiously observing the little scene unfolding before his eyes, wondering if it was meant especially for his use. If he had to judge by Mrs Stamford's initial reaction, he would have said yes. Molly was by no means compiling a list of useful material for her classes. She had come up with a brilliant way to communicate to the woman who could be considered a second mama for her.

Sherlock felt a corner of his mouth twist up in a smile. Margaret Mary Hooper was definitely a woman of quick wit, he had to acknowledge it. The sort of person he probably would have felt comfortable being around if she were a man. But it was terribly obvious she wasn't a man and Sherlock, somewhat reluctantly, had to admit he couldn't help but find her enchanting. Dangerously enchanting.

That was an unsettling feeling. Especially for him who had made pure and cold reason his cornerstone for a long time now. After what happened with Viktoria he had closed, no better, sealed his heart and in order for his mind to work at its best, he had forced himself not to pursue emotions, passions and desires. At no time and with no exceptions.

But there was something about this woman that…

Good heavens! What the hell was going on with him? He couldn't allow that strong-willed gaze and those deep brown eyes that became almost honey-coloured when they lit up, to confuse him.

Sherlock was there to investigate the disappearance of a young woman. He had been lucky enough or, it was not for him to judge, good enough to find a reliable lead to follow and nothing else should distract him.

"I'm done" Molly said, pulling him out of his whirlwind of thoughts. It was enough for Sherlock to lay his eyes for a fraction of second on the paper sheet folded in Mrs Stamford's hands to get a grip and go back to being the cold and calculating detective ever.

Sure, curiosity about the contents of the note Molly had scribbled so urgently and in such haste, stayed there. But Sherlock counted on being able to discover much more relevant things through her. So it was with a supercilious smile that he granted her that small victory in having outsmarted him.

"Shall we?" he said gallantly offering her his arm. "Yes, please" Molly agreed with a soft nod, "Before the storms arrives". Sherlock followed her gaze towards the window through which flashes of increasingly frequent lightning could be glimpsed, "I hate storms" she chewed on her lower lip and nestled her hand in the crook of his elbow.