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Sometimes Molly dreams of leaving this place, of packing her precious few belongings and stealing away in the dead of night. Sometimes, in those dreams, she meets a handsome stranger who promises to love and protect her, as she has never been loved or protected before. Sometimes she can almost make out the features on his face… almost… and even without a clear vision of that face, she knows—she just knows—he is the most beautiful man that ever was seen.Then she wakes up.There is no handsome stranger. There is no leaving this place.She is trapped.A bell rings incessantly in her ear, rousing her from her dreams, and reminding her of who she is. Molly yawns and stretches as she pulls herself into a seated position, brushing the ash and soot from her skin and clothes as best she can. The nights have grown too cold to make the journey up to the dismal attic, so she has taken to sleeping in front of the fire in the kitchen. Her stepmother and stepsisters mock her dirty and dishevelled appearance, but have never ordered her to go back to sleeping in the attic, not out of any charity or sympathy, rather the simple fact that it means their breakfast arrives more quickly.Molly dampens a cloth and scrubs at her face and hands, then sets about making tea and toast. The bell rings again and again, soon accompanied by shrill cries from above stairs. Molly works as swiftly as she is able, until finally, she leaves the kitchen with three trays. She has mastered this precarious balancing act, and has not dropped a single teacup in over two years.With measured steps, she climbs her way up to the first floor, then sets two of the trays down on the table in the hall, placed and decorated intentionally for this purpose. Still holding the third tray, she first knocks on her stepmother’s door.“Come,” her imperious voice calls.Molly twists the knob and enters, keeping her head bent in submission. “Good morning, my lady.”Lady Elizabeth Smallwood does not return the greeting. “On the table, girl,” she orders, gesturing to the bedside table in question. Molly gently places the tray, then pours the tea, holding the cup toward her with the handle facing her stepmother, thus eliminating any chance of physical contact. Lady Smallwood takes a sip of the tea and grimaces. “How many times must I tell you? I want three lumps of sugar.”“I-I did give you three,” Molly says timidly, and immediately she regrets it.Her stepmother stills, then turns her furious gaze on Molly. “What did you say?” she seethes.Molly swallows thickly. “I’ll go fetch the sugar,” she whispers, turning to do just that.“Never mind,” Lady Smallwood snaps, stopping her in her place. “There isn’t time. You must wake your stepsisters, they have much to do to prepare for this evening.”The ball, Molly reminds herself. Not that she could have forgotten. From the moment the invitation came to them, it has been the dominant topic of conversation among her stepsisters and stepmother, and she has spent every day over the past two weeks either mending gowns or shopping for jewellery. Molly ignores the bitter resentment festering in her heart, knowing that the money going toward baubles and lace will be coming out of her wages, and they’re a pittance already. But she keeps silent on the subject, for one simple reason.She is invited, too.To the surprise of all, and the delight of many, the Crown Prince requested to extend the invitation to all eligible ladies of the kingdom, not just the nobility. Women of all stations will be able to attend, and will have the chance to meet His Royal Highness. The reason for this unforeseen break from tradition is quite clear: the King and Queen are all but desperate to marry off their son and heir. Molly has never seen the Prince her life, but she has heard he is remarkably handsome, and as such, she can guess that the cause for his unmarried state lies beneath the surface. He must be an unbearable snob.Or, she thinks with a smile, his interests lie elsewhere.“What are you smirking at?”Molly quickly schools her features as she answers her stepmother. “Forgive me, my lady. I became lost in thought.”“Useless chit,” she growls. “Go and wake your stepsisters. Now.”She wastes no time in doing just that, stepping out into the hall and picking up a tray as she approaches the next door. Irene is already awake and gazing at her beautiful reflection in the mirror, and she barely acknowledges Molly as she pours her tea, for which Molly is most grateful. Irene has always loved to insult her, and has made something of an art of it, finding the most clever and cruel ways to do so. Molly quietly retreats, leaving Irene to her self-admiration, and moved on to Janine’s room.Janine is far less cruel to Molly, though still not exactly kind. After a lifetime of being second-best to her older, more beautiful sister, it’s no surprise. She is very pretty in her own right, but not the ethereal and enigmatic paragon of beauty that Irene is, and she has the added disadvantage of being less elegant and more brash. Lady Smallwood has often berated her youngest daughter for her “poor decorum,” while praising Irene’s effortless grace.Molly sets Janine’s tray on her bedside table, then gently taps her shoulder. “Janine,” she murmurs, “I have tea and toast for you.”“Mmmf,” is her stepsister’s groggy reply.“The ball is this evening,” she tries again. “Tonight, you will meet the prince.”“Sod the prince,” she grumbles.Molly smiles to herself, then employs one final tactic. “You would rather Irene have him all to herself?”Janine raises her head to glower at Molly. “Not a bloody chance.”“Then, up,” Molly urges her.After a few more seconds of scowling, Janine sighs and relents, taking the toast and munching quietly, while Molly pours tea into her cup. “You are lucky you don’t have to go to this dreadful ball, Molly,” she complains.Molly says nothing as she hands the now-filled cup to Janine. Neither of them speak again, and Molly slips quietly out of the room. Instead of returning to the kitchen, however, she tiptoes her way up to the attic. She shivers against the chill, but perseveres until she reaches her room.There, on a mannequin borrowed from the seamstress in town, is her mother’s favourite dress. Made of forget-me-not blue silk, it is the most precious item in her possession. She saw her mother wear it only once, at a Christmas party when she was very small, and Molly had believed her to be a princess. It’s still in fine condition, though the silhouette is perhaps a bit outdated, but near enough to the style of the day that Molly doubts anyone will notice. Besides, there will be other ladies in attendance who will no doubt dress similarly, as few servants can afford the latest fashions.Molly spends the day carrying out her chores and helping her stepsisters and stepmother prepare for the ball. By nightfall, all three are dressed and coiffed to perfection, and all three leave without so much as a thank you. And the moment their carriage is out of sight, Molly races up to her room and closes the door, locking it for good measure.Tonight, she is her own fairy godmother. Tonight, she will become someone else.~*~Sherlock barely suppresses a groan as yet another young lady rushes forward to meet him. His idea to allow the lower classes to attend seemed an excellent one at the time, but he now realizes he has more than doubled the amount of time he must spend making their acquaintance. After a full hour of meeting prospective brides, he deeply regrets it, and prays for an end to his misery.The entire thing is a farce. His parents have told him all his life that he should marry for love, and yet they insist on this ridiculous ball. “You simply haven’t met the right woman,” his mother said to him the day she and his father announced the ball. Sherlock argued the point until his breath ran out, but they did not concede, and he was forced to agree. He included the stipulation that all young ladies be given the chance to attend, hoping they would be too scandalized to continue, but instead they applauded his decision, reasoning that a humble girl might offer sounder advice and greater perspective in the future. (He agrees, but God forbid he actually admit that in front of his parents.)Marriage is something he does not want… as is the Crown. His brother’s abdication came as a shock to all, and Sherlock resents him still for laying the mantle on him. He is trapped, forced to abandon all his academic pursuits for the sake of ruling the nation and siring heirs.Damn you, Mycroft, he curses in his head.Time goes by, more and more young ladies come forward, but eventually the end of the queue is in sight, a light at the end of this tunnel of tedium. He will have to dance with at least a few of them, and has already determined one of them, a young woman who seems even less happy to be here than he is, which he had not thought possible. He has also deduced that her real motive for attending was not to meet him, but to infuriate her sister, a sly and suspicious beauty he distrusted immediately.Then, just as he reaches the last lady in the queue, the doors open again, and all eyes turn toward the late arrival. Sherlock stops… stares… and for a moment, forgets how to breathe. His mind has gone quite blank, all his attention on this mysterious young woman. She is small and thin, almost too thin, and clad in a blue silk gown that is slightly out of fashion, but fits her like a glove. Her chestnut hair is twisted into an intricate knot and adorned with pearls. She does not have the same fine and elegant appearance as many of the other ladies present, but her soft, elfin features are, in his eyes, utterly exquisite.Without having made a conscious decision to do so, he crosses the room, his eyes locked on her. She is surprised when she sees him, and goes completely still, her pink lips parting on a gasp. Sherlock slows as he comes within arm’s reach, never releasing her wide brown eyes. “It’s you,” she whispers.Curious. “Is it?” he asks.She seems to snap out of a trance, and dips into a low curtsy. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”Now, that just won’t do. Sherlock reaches out a hand and tucks it under her chin, gently raising her head first, then urging her to stand again. Those impossibly large eyes land on his again, and he feels warmth spread from his head to his toes. “What is your name?”She swallows nervously before she answers, “Molly Hooper.”It’s certainly not the name of any prominence, she is among the lower class, likely a servant. He likes her all the more for it.“Will you dance with me, Molly Hooper?”Her mouth falls open. “Me?”“You,” he confirms.Molly’s eyes dart over to a spot slightly to the right of his face, and part of him wants to look over his shoulder and see what has caught her attention, but the greater part of him refuses to take his eyes off her. He has the strangest notion that if he does, she will vanish in a puff of smoke, and he’ll never see her again. And that is simply not a risk he is willing to take. Whatever it is, she seems to draw strength from it, and when her eyes return to his, she nods and smiles.He has never felt more blessed.~*~Mere days later, the news of the Prince’s engagement spreads throughout the country. Those who were present at the ball are not surprised at the identity of his chosen bride, having witnessed their first meeting. Some hear the news with delight, some with apathy, and some with anger and bitterness. But no one, not even those angry few, can deny the love between them.After their wedding, Molly smiles up at her husband, no longer the stranger from her dreams, but warm and real and every bit as wonderful as she knew he would be.
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The case was supposed to have been simple, straightforward, and short. Spend a few weeks undercover as a professor at Oxford, prove that the Vice-Chancellor was embezzling money from a charity fund, pass that proof on to Scotland Yard, and be done with it. He was not supposed to be still empty-handed after three months. He wasn’t supposed to continue spending his days lecturing a room full of dewy-eyed students, grading homework, and pretending he cared about their futures.And he was certainly not supposed to be constantly distracted by the cellular pathology professor.Molly Hooper had been the bane of his existence from the moment he laid eyes on her. She was the polar opposite of everything he had prided himself on being. Cheerful, friendly, emotional, sensitive, normal… there could not have been a person more different to him. Apart from her surprisingly keen mind, that is. But there was one thing about her that he simply could not comprehend.She seemed to like him.As if summoned by his thoughts, the woman in question appeared, leaning against the doorframe as he gathered his things following his final lecture of the day.“Going home for the holidays?” she asked with a sunny smile.“Unfortunately, yes,” he grumbled. “My brother conveniently mentioned that I had nothing else on, so I had no legitimate excuse to get out of it.”She giggled—actually giggled—and stepped toward him, the act immediately catching his attention. “Well, I’m sure they’ll be very happy to see you.”“No doubt,” he gave a terse reply, eyes finally landing on hers. The soft, warm glow of the overhead lights brought out a few flecks of gold amidst the chocolate brown—why in God’s name was he looking so closely at her eyes?!Her mouth moved, and his eyes reflexively flicked down (for God’s sake, when did he lose all control over his own body?), before he belatedly realized she’d asked him a question.“Yes?” he guessed.That mouth pursed from the effort of holding in a laugh. “You weren’t listening.”Sherlock felt his ears go warm. “No.”“Thought not. I asked where your parents live?”“Oh… er… Cheltenham,” he finally managed to answer.She hummed and gave a nod. “Not terribly far, then.”“Not far enough.”This time, instead of her ridiculous giggle, she tipped her head to the side and gave him an affectionately stern look. It was the sort of look a wife gave her husband when he was being obtuse. Sherlock didn’t quite know how to handle that… in fact, he preferred the giggling.“You really ought to treat them with a bit more kindness,” she quietly scolded him. “You never know which Christmas might be your last.”Sherlock had known instantly that she had lost at least one of her parents, and quite recently. He’d seen it in the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the dark and sombre clothing that didn’t seem to suit her even though he’d never seen her wear anything else, and even in her overt cheerfulness. She was putting on a show for her students and her peers, but to the trained eye (his eye), her pain was evident. And it had been all the more clear to him as term went on, and the holidays came nearer.“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said without thinking.She swallowed hard as her eyes dropped to the collar of his shirt. “Thank you,” she whispered.“Mother or father?” he asked.“My dad. Cancer. We knew it would be soon, but… I dunno… I hoped he would at least make it through another Christmas, but… he died in September.” A tear escaped, and she quickly brushed it away before painting that grin back on her face. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re eager to get back home—”“Would you like to have coffee?” he blurted out, surprising them both.Her eyes grew impossibly large and she blinked owlishly. “With you?”“Er…” he hesitated, wondering why on earth his mind and his body were betraying him. But the truth of the matter was, he couldn’t walk away. Not after seeing that tear rolling down her cheek. Not after she gave him that look, the one that felt as familiar and comforting as it was alien. Not when he still had no leads on the case and was looking at another arse-numbingly dull night poring over what few scraps of information he had.Not when she looked so enchantingly, adorably flummoxed as she did now.“Professor Holmes?”“Sherlock,” he corrected her. “And yes… yes,” he added the word a second time, with a good deal more certainty. “Coffee, with me?”The smile that overtook her face made him feel all warm and off-balance, like he was a school boy with a crush, rather than a grown man who taught school boys. Warmth radiated from within his chest and trickled down each of his extremities, and if he hadn’t known better, he might have thought someone had drugged him.“I’d like that very much… Sherlock,” her voice lilted over his name in a way that set his heart racing.Now he was the one beaming like a fool. “Good. Are you free now?”“I’m all yours,” she said, holding her arms out.They left straight away and made for a nearby café, each ordering a black coffee with two sugars, and spent nearly three hours discussing anything and everything, from a research paper they’d both read, to Sherlock’s work with the police, to Molly’s impossibly endearing taxidermy hobby. He confided in her, revealing his true role at the university, which she admitted made a good deal more sense than him choosing to be a professor. She asked him to tell her about his favourite cases, and when he obliged, she easily kept up with him, even gave a few helpful insights he hadn’t thought of at the time.Perhaps they weren’t so different after all.Coffee turned to dinner, then drinks, then an impulsive snog at the pub, then a cab to Sherlock’s flat just off campus, and then… well… Sherlock and Molly unwrapped their Christmas presents early. And three days later, Sherlock introduced his new girlfriend to his parents, who were absolutely thrilled that one of their boys had finally found someone.The scolding Mycroft received for "not letting people in" was merely a fringe benefit.
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When the news that a renowned critic would be reviewing Molly’s restaurant reached her, she was initially excited. Nervous, absolutely, but thrilled to have a chance to prove her skills and earn a bit of publicity. Her restaurant was still quite new, and she was breaking even, but had yet to turn a profit, and needed the good press. Word of mouth could only go so far, after all. So, upon receiving the information of said critic—one Sherlock Holmes—her outlook was entirely positive.Then he actually turned up.Simon, the waiter attending to him, came back to the kitchen with an unfavourable report. The critic was stiff, patronising, and unfriendly. He wrinkled his nose at nearly everything: the décor, the lighting, the furniture, the Irish lilt in Simon’s voice, and the soft instrumental jazz music playing from a 1940’s-style radio in one corner of the dining room. Then he ordered the chef’s special and the most expensive wine in house—all without even glancing at the menu—and be quick about it, he didn’t have all day.Difficult customers were nothing new to Molly. It was impossible to make everyone happy. She took this less-than-glowing report from Simon in stride, reassuring him (and herself) that once he tasted her food, his tune would change.But when Simon delivered the chef’s special, he was sent back to the kitchen with a demand to speak with the chef. Molly groaned and washed her hands before following Simon out into the dining room. As they reached the table, she was momentarily stunned speechless.Mr Holmes, the cantankerous critic, was bloody gorgeous.He looked like he was carved from marble, with breath-taking cheekbones and a jawline that just begged to be licked. Molly itched to run her fingers through his dark curls, and then pop each and every straining button on his dark purple shirt. And his eyes… well… if they weren’t flashing at her with anger and disdain, she might have gotten lost in their blue-green depths. But that flash of anger brought her firmly back into the present, and she composed herself as Simon introduced them.“Lovely to meet you, Mr Holmes,” she lied politely. “How can I help you?”“What is this?” he snarled, gesturing at his plate.Molly glanced down at the dish, then met his icy gaze again. “Shepherd’s pie,” she said flatly.His scowl deepened, a feat she hadn’t thought possible. “Obviously, yes. Do you mean to tell me, then, that your ‘chef’s special’ is a dish that every housewife with a stove can make?”Swallowing the bubble of irritation at his condescending tone, Molly folded her arms. “I have yet to hear a word of complaint from my customers. Everyone who has ordered it sends their compliments.”The infuriating man scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “People have the tendency to lie in order to avoid confrontation and offence.”That, she supposed, was true, but no way in hell was she going to admit it. Raising one eyebrow, she held his gaze and fearlessly said, “Well, I suppose you will have to try it for yourself, then, won’t you?”His face contorted into a grimace “You honestly expect me to eat this?”A deathly silence settled over the restaurant, as all guests and employees stopped to listen. They knew what this horrible man clearly did not. They knew, and understood, why Molly’s blood began to boil and why her hands curled into fists at her side. “I beg your pardon?” she ground out.Mr Holmes’ eyes narrowed and looked her over for a moment, then he drew breath and began speaking so quickly it made her dizzy.“You have a sentimental attachment to the recipe, probably passed down from a relative, someone you were very close to. Parent or grandparent, though parent is more likely. You’re protective of it, as well, you don’t want other chefs to poach it, nor do you want the general public to have easy access to it. You keep it under lock and key, thus ensuring that anyone who wants to eat your ‘famous’ shepherd’s pie,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “must come to the restaurant. Admittedly, a shrewd business move, but clearly you have dismissed the possibility that a more trained palate might easily sort out just what makes your recipe different, and likely you’ve vastly overestimated your own skills. No doubt your food is mediocre at best, and it’s merely the lure of the ‘secret’,” more air quotes, “that draws people in.”Silence returned as he finally finished his rapid-fire stream of insults, and Molly saw red. In an almost out-of-body experience, she picked up his plate with one hand, and smashed the shepherd’s pie into his face. The entire restaurant gasped in unison, and Molly gave the plate a last little shove before dropping her hand. The plate fell into Mr Holmes’ lap, and if she hadn’t been so absolutely livid, she might have laughed at the sight of him groping the table in search of the serviette, while little bits of meat and vegetables and mash fell from his face.As it was, she did not laugh, and instead, stood straight and tall (as tall as her five-foot-four frame would allow), and said in a shaking voice, “You may see yourself out.” Then she turned on her heel and fled to the kitchen so he wouldn’t see her tears.~*~Molly knew she was facing the noose, that her little pie-shoving act was essentially career suicide, and that the moment Mr Holmes’ review reached the public eye, it would only be a matter of time before she was shut down. The anxiety began to slowly eat her alive, keeping her awake and making her question every culinary decision she made. And every minute of every day, she was on high alert, eyes peeled and ears perked for news of the inevitable death knell.But it never came.Days passed without any sign of her demise… then days turned into weeks… then into months. Little by little, Molly’s anxiety eased, and she eventually slipped back into her routine. Customers came as they always had, and she continued to spend her days doing what she loved. Cooking was cathartic for Molly, had been since the first time she helped her dad with dinner as a child. He’d been an excellent chef, though he was content to stay in the humble café in Winchester, where she’d grown up. He'd always said he had no regrets for not opening his own restaurant, and Molly believed him… but sometimes she wondered.Molly reached up and touched the locket pendant on her necklace, the last gift she received from her father before he died. She never went a day without putting it on, keeping his picture, and his memory, close to her at all times, especially at the restaurant. He was, after all, the reason she’d opened it. His encouragement and support, and his beloved shepherd’s pie recipe, had been the key to her success.Her moment of reflection was cut short as she reached the restaurant, a queue of customers already forming at the door. Molly quickened her pace, going round the back entrance, greeting the staff as she always did. They wasted no time in preparing for the day, and she sent Jenny, the hostess, to open the doors. Soon, they were in full swing, working at a fast pace to accommodate their guests. Business was good, and though a bit of publicity would have made it even better, Molly was simply glad they didn’t have any bad publicity.About an hour into the dinner rush, however, Jenny came back to the kitchen and approached Molly. “There’s someone here who wants to see you.”Without looking up from the bowl and whisk in her hands, Molly said, “Tell them it’ll have to wait, I’m in the middle of making merengue.”Jenny hesitated, which finally caught Molly’s attention, and she noticed Simon just behind her, his eyes wide. “It’s that critic,” he whispered loudly. “The shepherd’s pie bloke.”Molly froze instantly, a cold wave of dread washing over her. Oh God… here it comes. Part of her wanted to send both Jenny and Simon out with a passive aggressive refusal to pass on to him. Another part was tempted to hide in her office upstairs until he left. But her father’s voice silenced those ideas. Life is a lot like cooking, Molly. Sometimes you need a burnt cake to teach you the right way to bake it.She wasn’t entirely sure this oft-repeated piece of advice really applied in this case, but it gave her the strength she needed. She passed the merengue to her sous chef, Claire, then washed her hands and followed Jenny out to the lobby.There he stood, right by the host’s station, dressed just as sharply as he had been that night, and still just as infuriatingly handsome. He turned as he heard their footsteps approaching, and immediately raised his hands.“I come in peace,” he quipped with a little half-smile.“That’s better than last time,” she shot back. Oh, you idiot, she scolded herself, are you trying to lose your business?!But Mr Holmes didn’t look angry. He didn’t even have that air of self-importance about him like he had that night. In fact, he looked… dare she say it… humble?“I also come with an apology,” he said, lowering his hands.Molly waited for him to continue. “I’m listening,” she prompted when he remained silent.“Right, yes, erm…” His brow puckered, the most adorable wrinkle appearing at the bridge of his nose. “The fact is, after our… encounter, I did a bit of research—that is, I read a review written by another critic, just after you opened your doors. Normally, I avoid reading other reviews of a restaurant I am evaluating, as I prefer to form my own opinions without any outside influence. However,” he paused for a moment, looking rather uncomfortable, “given the circumstances, I thought it might be best to bend my own rules, before passing undue judgment on an up-and-coming chef such as yourself.”Intentionally ignoring the slightly condescending “up and coming chef” remark, Molly again prompted him to continue. “And?”“And,” he went on, his discomfort growing all the more evident, “I read about your father.”Oh, that review. Molly had all but forgotten about it. She couldn’t even recall the critic’s name, only that she was incredibly nosy and wanted every possible detail, every scrap of information she could get her hands on. And Molly, having only just opened the restaurant, and still grieving her father’s death only a month prior, had given more detail than she otherwise would have done.“I understand now why you are so protective over that recipe,” he interrupted her thoughts. “More to the point, I was wrong. That shepherd’s pie was one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted, and I have tasted quite a lot.”Molly only just managed to avoid snorting a laugh at the clearly unintended innuendo.“Also, I have been here several more times, in disguise, trying everything on the menu. Everything you make is fantastic.” His lips twitched, almost but not quite curving into a smile. “You are an excellent chef… and I think it’s time the world knew it.”Mr Holmes reached into his coat, pulling an envelope out from his breast pocket and handing it to her. She cautiously opened it, finding several pages folded together. It took a moment for her to understand what she was looking at, but it soon became clear.“Is this… your review?”He nodded. “I’ve sent it in for publishing already, should be public first thing tomorrow morning. You, Miss Hooper, are about to be bombarded with customers.”Molly bit her lip to keep her smile in check, and to force back happy tears. “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” she said earnestly. “This means a great deal. And…” she took a deep breath. “I feel I need to apologize, too. My behaviour was unprofessional, and I really shouldn’t have resorted to violence.”Mr Holmes then did something she had never seen him do: he smiled. And Lord, what a smile it was! His entire face changed, still devastatingly handsome, but with a boyish quality that made her think he must have been a mischievous child. “I don’t blame you,” he shrugged it off. “Truth be told, I’ve had much worse things shoved into my face.” This time, he caught the innuendo, and he cringed, his eyes closing in dismay as she giggled. “That… came out wrong…”Taking pity on him, she said, “It’s alright. I know what you meant.”He relaxed, and his beautiful smile returned. “So… now that I have apologized and published a glowing review… what’s the secret to your shepherd’s pie?”Molly rolled her eyes. “I’m not about to tell you in front of a full restaurant!”“What about tonight, then?” he shot back. “After closing?” His expression softened, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I could… buy a bottle of wine from you, and we can drink it together?”It finally dawned on her that he was asking her out, and a warm flush spread from her head to her toes, most likely turning her complexion embarrassingly ruddy. She glanced to her right, where Jenny was doing a poor job of pretending she wasn’t listening while cleaning menus. And she didn’t doubt the rest of her staff would be just as interested to hear their conversations should they indeed drink a bottle of wine at the bar.“Actually,” she began, “there’s a new pub ‘round the corner I’ve been meaning to visit. You could buy me a drink there… if you want,” she added nervously.His answering grin made her knees weak. “It’s a date.”
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Sherlock’s breath came in laboured gasps as he raced toward the castle. By some miracle, he had come out of battling the dragon unscathed, and with that obstacle gone, nothing now stood between him and his goal. He sheathed his sword as he entered the bailey through the open portcullis, shocked at the scene he found.Everyone, from the poorest peasant to the wealthiest merchant, was asleep. Some were comfortably reclined in their seats, some bent over wagons or shields, others lying in a heap on the ground. He even spied a dog curled up against its master, who was snoring softly. Not a soul, human or otherwise, so much as stirred as he approached, confirming his suspicion. It was magic that brought about their slumber, just as it had their princess.Reminded of his objective, Sherlock let the sleeping villagers lie, and continued on his way. The castle was likewise filled with slumbering nobles, and even the king and queen, seated on their thrones, were utterly oblivious to the scene around them. He paused only a moment to observe, then carried on.Onward and upward, he climbed, following the directions given him by the good fairies, until he found the tall, winding staircase that lead to the top of the highest tower. His body ached and groaned from the exertion of both the battle and the climb, but his pace never faltered. At long last, after seventy-two steps, he reached the top. There stood a door, and he took but a moment to catch his breath before pushing it open…And there she lay, looking almost too beautiful to be real. The blue silk of her gown shone in the fading light, and he smiled at the white rose resting just beneath her folded hands. Her hair, golden brown and luscious, was fanned out over the downy cushion tucked under her head, and a hint of rouge painted her pretty, perfect lips. All that the image before him lacked was a blush to her cheeks, and her wide brown eyes smiling at him. Memories of their first meeting, of their subsequent evenings spent together in secret, of the love that had soon blossomed between them, came to the forefront of his mind and urged him forward. This was not the scenario he had envisioned for their first kiss, but he hoped to share many more in the future to make up for the less-than-perfect beginning.Sherlock knelt beside the bed, his eyes roving over her face, marvelling once again in her beauty, before finally bending his head and pressing a feather-light kiss to her lips…And she awoke.He straightened and watched with baited breath as colour bloomed beneath her cheeks, and she drew a slow breath through her nose before her eyes fluttered open. She gazed unseeing for a moment, then he was granted the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. “You saved me,” she whispered.Sherlock took one of her hands and brought it to his lips. “Did you ever doubt I would?”
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Very few people knew of Molly’s musical talent, let alone that it had made her a local celebrity. Her name and her eight-year-old face had been on every tabloid and newspaper in England for a solid six months, as she toured alongside the London Philharmonic. Child prodigy Margaret Hooper was on track to become a world-famous violinist, among the ranks of Heifetz, Kreisler, and Perlman. The violin was her life, her purpose, her first true love.Until the pain started, and she was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome.Molly didn’t touch her violin for years, even after she had healed. Eventually, though, she picked it back up, but she only played for herself (and perhaps a few nosy neighbours who might have been listening). Never in public, nor even in front of her family. Her once legendary talent had all but slipped away, and though she was still good (as far as she knew), she certainly wasn’t as good. But the joy of simply playing again was all she needed.She never told a soul. Not her uni mates, none of her boyfriends, not even Sherlock Holmes (though she expected he knew just by looking at her). It was somehow comforting to have that secret, and to have music as an escape when she needed it.Today, she needed it.Molly sighed and rolled her shoulders backward in an effort to relax. She couldn’t precisely say why she was in such a foul mood, nothing bad had happened (for her, that is, no doubt the families of her post-mortems would disagree). By all accounts, it had been a perfectly normal day, and yet she felt somehow on edge… restless. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it felt like something was about to happen.At that point, Molly was tired of thinking, and more than ready to lose herself in music. She pulled her violin out from her closet and brought it to the sitting room. After applying rosin to the bowstrings, she adjusted the tuning, then tucked the instrument beneath her chin and began to play. The effect was instantaneous. As she coaxed the melody from the strings, all that tension at her back and shoulders washed away, and she let out another sigh. Her eyes fell closed as she slipped into a sort of trance-like state, and all but the music fell away.As she drew out the final note of the piece, she returned to the here and now, smiling softly and feeling infinitely more at peace. She lowered bow and violin, turning to put them back into their case when—“SODDING HELL!!”Molly just managed to keep from unceremoniously dropping her violin, though the bow was not so lucky, falling with a clatter to the floor. Her free hand flew to her mouth on a reflex from the shock of realizing she wasn’t alone.There stood none other than Sherlock bloody Holmes, staring at her like she’d sprouted an extra head.Well. So much for the secret.Molly heaved her third sigh of the night and went to retrieve her bow. “Sherlock, how many times have I asked you not to barge in unannounced?”He didn’t answer immediately, and she could almost feel his eyes boring a hole into her skull while she put her violin and bow back in the case. When she finally faced him again, he said, “I called twice. You didn’t answer.”Frowning in confusion, Molly slid a hand into her pocket, only to find her phone wasn’t there. Ah... she’d left it in her bag... which was on her bed. “Oh,” she said lamely. “Sorry, I… forgot I didn’t have my phone on me.”Sherlock said nothing, and continued to stare.“Erm…” she began awkwardly, “so… what do you need?”Another few moments of uncomfortable staring, and finally, he spoke, but instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own. “Why did you never tell me you played the violin?”Not particularly wanting to discuss the whole complicated truth, Molly simply shrugged and said, “I thought you knew.”“How would I have known?” he shot back irritably.“The same way you know everything about everybody else,” she shrugged again. “I thought you would have deduced it.”“Well, I didn’t,” he snapped, and it all became clear. He had missed something. By his own admission, he always missed something, but no matter how true that statement might be, it still bothered him when he did. Especially when it was something important, and this, she supposed, was important to him. And judging by the way he still stared at her, he wasn’t happy with the answer she gave him.“I don’t tell anyone,” she finally continued. “No one outside of my family knows… except you, now.”“Why?”Molly had lost count of how many times she’d sighed in the last fifteen minutes, but she let out yet another. “If I’m going to have this conversation with you, I’m going to need wine.”He rolled his eyes, but left the sitting room and made his way to her kitchen. Molly followed and went straight for the cupboard, pulling out two glasses and a new bottle of merlot. She raised her eyebrows at Sherlock in a wordless question, and at his nod, set one of them in front of him and filled both. His eyes never left her as she took a gratuitous sip, nor as he took a much smaller one from his own glass. Molly took another few swigs before setting hers down, finally ready to talk.“I started playing when I was two. My mum and dad told me I’d always loved watching characters and performers who played on telly, and they bought me a toy violin one Christmas. Apparently, I never let it out of my sight, and was constantly playing. At first, I expect it was just random noise, but then I started copying what I heard… and I was good. Within a few years, I was old enough to start lessons, and I excelled. By the time I was eight years old, I was considered a prodigy, and was invited to play with the Philharmonic. I had a good six months as their featured artist.Here, Molly paused, taking another rather large swallow of her wine. “Then I started having pain in my wrist.” She lifted her left hand and pointed to the spot in question, just on the underside of her wrist.“Carpal tunnel,” he guessed, and she nodded.“My parents tried to get me to stop playing, but I didn’t listen. I couldn’t imagine not playing the violin, it was everything to me. But one night, while on stage, it got so bad that I couldn’t play. I tried—God, I tried so hard—but I just couldn’t.”She bit her lip as the bitter memories flashed through her mind, and finally forced out, “Within a week, the Philharmonic had found a replacement violinist. I was utterly destroyed, depressed for months, and my parents were worried I would harm myself. I didn’t… but I thought about it,” she admitted in a small voice. “It took several weeks of physio, and years of counselling, for me to heal. And it took even longer before I could even think of playing again. In fact it… it took my father asking me to play at his funeral. I had to rent out a violin that fit me, I’d long since outgrown the one I played as a girl, but I played ‘Danny Boy’ for him, one of his favourite songs. I expect he knew that would reawaken my love for music, and for the violin. And it did… but I still haven’t had the courage to perform.”Having finished her tale, Molly downed the remaining contents of her glass, then poured another generous helping.Sherlock, who had hardly touched his wine, took a thoughtful sip. “I suppose I understand why you kept it a secret in general… but why didn’t you tell me?”Molly shrank back a bit, wrapping her arms around her middle. For a moment, she considered lying to him, telling him that the thought simply hadn’t occurred to her. But lying had never been her strong suit, and even if it were, he would still have seen through it. Still, she knew the words she was about to say would hurt him… almost as much as they would hurt her.“You already criticise my jokes, my appearance, my taste in men—ironic, that,” she interjected. “I just couldn’t bear to have you criticise this, too.”Sherlock was silent for a long time, and Molly kept her gaze firmly fixed on her shoes, not wanting to see the pity and derision she was sure would be written all over his face. But then she saw him move from the corner of her eye, and she couldn’t help but look up as he stepped closer to her. And in his eyes, she found no trace of pity, not an ounce of derision… but an ocean’s worth of remorse.“I am sorry, Molly,” he said in a low, serious voice. “I have never wanted to hurt you.”She smiled sadly at him. “I know.”His eyes flicked back and forth between hers before he spoke again. “Let me be clear on a few things. First of all, your jokes are ridiculous and groan-worthy, but nevertheless, they’ve always made me smile. Your taste in clothing is… curious, but in fact it suits you, and believe me, you have no reason to be at all insecure about your figure. As to your taste in men…” He took another step toward her, coming within arm’s reach, and forcing her to tip her head back to meet his eye. “To own the truth… the only real problem I’ve ever had with the men in your life is that none of them were me.”Molly’s mouth fell open. “I… you… what?”Sherlock’s lips twitched as he fought a smile. “Perhaps I haven’t been clear enough.”And then those lips were on hers, and his hands bunched the fabric of her jumper as they curled into fists at her back. Molly heard a breathless moan as she buried her fingers in his curls, and only belatedly realized it had come from her. His tongue poked out and sought entrance, which she most happily obliged and moaned yet again as he tasted her. She gave as good as she got, and soon he was moaning right along with her.It wasn’t until he hoisted her up onto the worktop that they broke apart, and Molly put a hand on his chest to stop him. Beneath the layers of clothing, she could feel his heart racing in rhythm with her own, and his eyes, wide and hungry and unfocused, found hers in an unspoken question.“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked.Sherlock looked down bashfully—something she never thought she would see him do. “I don’t think I realized it until tonight… when I heard you playing. I had no idea, not in the slightest, and it irked me to think I had missed it, but even more so that you hadn’t even told me.” He sighed, bowing his head. “Not good, I know… but it’s the truth. And the thought that you’d been keeping this secret from me, while the likes of Tim—”“Tom,” she corrected him.“—Irrelevant,” he waved her off, “or even dear ‘Jim from IT’ knew about it—”“They didn’t, I never told them either.”“Well, I know that now,” he huffed.Molly let out a giggle and brushed her hands over the lapels of his jacket. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”His eyes narrowed. “I am neither adorable nor jealous.”“Yes, you are,” she grinned, and before he could argue, she yanked on his lapels and kissed him again, and he responded in kind. No more words were needed as they fumbled their way to her bedroom. They were as they had been so often before: in perfect harmony.
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Sherlock’s head throbbed painfully as he slowly regained consciousness. Memories of the night before gradually came to the front of his mind. The hurricane… a strike of lightning… an explosion of gunpowder… the waves pushing him down, down, down… the knowledge that he was going to die……And a voice.A feminine voice, light and ethereal and beautiful, singing softly in his ear.Wait… that wasn’t just a memory…Sherlock pried his eyes open, but was immediately forced to close them against the aggressive light of the sun. There was a soft gasp, the sound of sand shifting beside him, and a shadow appeared, shielding him from the sun’s rays. Opening his eyes once again, he saw his saviour.She was……A mermaid?The next moment, he heard a loud voice call from far away, and his saviour gasped again, disappearing from view. Unfortunately, that also meant the sun was in his eyes again, and he shut them tightly against the painful brightness. When he was finally able to open them once more, he saw no trace of her whatsoever. No tracks in the sand, no scales or shells left behind… nothing. Had he imagined her?~*~As the days and weeks passed following the ill-fated voyage, Sherlock tried to put her out of his head, to convince himself that she was a figment of his imagination. But night after night, she visited his dreams. Sometimes she had a tail, others a perfectly normal pair of legs. Always, though, she sang for him, her exquisite voice calling to him, beckoning him to come and find her.Oh, that he could.Many times over, he had nearly organized a search party to find this mysterious maiden… only to talk himself out of it yet again. Surely, if she were real, she would have sought him out by now, if for no other reason than to be sure he was well. There had been such a look of concern and kindness in her eyes… those wide, warm, beautiful brown eyes… but he supposed he must have imagined that, too. His mystery maid was not real. It was as simple as that.Sherlock found himself wandering the shore late one night, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. It was mad, it was ridiculous, it was entirely unlike him, and truth be told, he had looked for her almost every day. And every day, he returned home disappointed.Until…Something moved in the corner of his eye, and he followed it, startled to see a pair of bare feet sticking out from behind a large rock. He cautiously stepped closer, never taking his eyes off those feet, until he rounded the boulder… and all the breath escaped him in a loud whoosh. A young woman lay sleeping, wrapped in what looked to be a sail, her hair fanned out around her head like a crown. But not just any young woman.It was her.
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Sherlock had no idea why he was the way that he was. Neither his memory nor his adoptive mother, Mrs Hudson, could provide any answers. All he could remember was a childhood spent climbing table legs and racing across tiny bridges connecting various pieces of furniture. Mrs Hudson had done her best to accommodate him, to make being so small a person living in an enormous world as easy as possible. But he’d known very early on that he was not where he belonged.As he reached adulthood, he spent more and more time reading. Mrs Hudson had few books in her collection, but she made sure to put them within his reach, and though he was quite significantly smaller than them, he managed to carefully turn every page, devouring the words within.That was how he made his first discovery of fairies.Ever rational and realistic, he initially rejected the notion of any sort of magical being… but he couldn’t help but wonder. How had he come to be the only person his size, if not through magic? What other explanation could there be? As he often said to himself, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.And the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.Perhaps he was meant to have been a fairy himself. Perhaps something had gone wrong, resulting in his wings not growing or appearing, or however one came to have wings. Perhaps, he thought in his darker moments, someone had taken them. He might never know the answers, but he could not rid himself of the notion, nor the obsession. Day and night, he pored over the few books with information on the fae. Some presented that information as fact, others as fiction, but all had one similarity: There was a queen of the fairies, and she had the power to make a mortal one of their own.His path was clear; he would have to find this queen of the fairies, and convince her to give him wings.Sherlock told Mrs Hudson of his plan one evening, and predictably, he was met with concerns for his safety and pleas for him not to go. He presented his research and logic as an argument, and eventually, she conceded, only asking that he wait to leave until morning. A small concession to make, he thought, and easily agreed.That night, however, as he lay in his walnut-shell bed, too excited to sleep, he heard a strange sound. He sat upright, holding his breath as he listened.It was… a bee?Sure enough, as he got out of bed and made his way toward the window, where the sound came from, he found a bee settled just outside. But that wasn’t all. The bee had a kind of saddle on it, suggesting that someone—or something—had been riding it. Sherlock hardly had time to process this revelation before the rider appeared, having pushed the window open just enough to slip inside.And Sherlock’s jaw dropped.
A fairy.
She was a bit smaller than even him, clad in a dress that seemed to be made of flower petals, her opalescent wings fluttering at her back. Her eyes, wide and brown, landed on him, and her mouth fell open to match his. They stared at one another in silence for several moments, before she swallowed and put on a shy smile. “Hello,” she said in a soft voice.Sherlock finally closed his mouth, but didn’t stop staring. “Who are you?”“My name is Molly,” she answered. “What’s yours?”“Sherlock. Why are you here?”Her face fell a bit. “Oh, er, sorry… would you like me to leave?”“NO!” he bellowed, then winced at his volume. She jumped back at the outburst, but she didn’t seem at all put off by him. In fact, she was smiling. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Sorry. What I meant was, you can stay… if you like.”Her smile grew. “That’s a relief. Thank you.” Another silence settled between them for a few seconds, then her brow furrowed as she looked past him. “What happened to your wings?”Sherlock’s stomach twisted. “I… I’ve never had any.”Now her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Not ever?” He shook his head. “I’ve never met a mortal who was the same size as me.”“I’ve never met anyone the same size as me,” he countered, then more seriously added, “I’ve never really met anyone at all, come to think of it. It’s always been just me and Mrs Hudson.”“Mrs Hudson?”“My mother… adoptive,” he clarified unnecessarily.Those brown eyes continued staring at him, but a slow smile spread across her elfin face. “Would you like to meet more people your size?”His heart did a somersault in his chest, and he nodded. She held out her hand to him, but he hesitated, looking over his shoulder in the direction of Mrs Hudson’s bedroom. He’d promised to wait until the morning to start his adventure, and she would be terribly upset if he broke that promise… but this may be his only chance. Finally, with a deep breath, he stepped forward and took her hand.“I don’t have any wings,” he reminded her as they moved to the window.“That’s alright,” she smiled easily. “Let me be your wings.”