Chapter Text
The night had always been Molly's favourite time of day. With the darkened sky illuminated by the scattered stars, it had always made Molly close her eyes in wonderment of how vast the universe must be.
And now, with nothing but pure ocean ahead, the stars seemed brighter than ever. And Molly realized how small she must really be.
"Are you sure you don't want to go and have dinner with us?"
She turned around from the small window and faced Lestrade. She smiled at him warmly, "No, it's fine. I think I'll just go walk around."
He shrugged at her and pulled on his worn coat, "It's up to you. You'll know where we'll be."
She nodded and watched him disappear through the door.
Molly had never been one for normal social convention, preferring to stay indoors and read instead of embarking to the salon and socializing with guests. She rumpled through her bag, clothes and other items now unpacked underneath the lone bed, and pulled out her favourite book.
She twirled it in her hands, letting the frayed edges of the paper flitter through her fingers and the crumpling of paper dissolve. Molly sighed deeply, and read the message from her father to her on the first page, written and gifted to her the day before he died.
Be who you want to be and do what you want to do, and don't let anything or anybody stop you from doing it.
Molly felt a stray tear slip down her face as she read the passage over and over again, fingering the words on the page lightly. It was at times like these, when she was alone with nothing but her bag of belongings, that she felt more alone than ever.
The book had been about science and medicine, a textbook specializing in the field. And to this day, her mother had not known about it. She had never approved of Molly's passion.
Over the years that she ran from city to city, hopping from street to street and town to town, there was never a moment that the book had been left ignored and untouched. At every last page she turned, the front opened again, until Molly had lost count about how many times she had read it. She was pretty sure that she memorized all the passages word for word.
She sighed and watched the cold air dissolve into the wind before plucking herself up off the ground and shrugging on the coat that belonged to her father.
Then she twisted the knob to the door and slipped out, leaving behind an empty room with nothing but the moonlight seeping through the small window.
Sherlock straightened his tie, his face illuminated by the fire cracking in the hearth. He watched his mother slam her book shut from the corner of his eye and saw her slowly walk towards him.
"Oh Sherlock," she sighed wistfully.
He wrung his jacket around his body, pulling it in and buttoning it up. "What?" he quested.
Sherlock tensed as his mother came closer, bringing her hand up to his cheek. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.
He tilted his head at her, perplexed. "What for?"
With his head cocked to the side, Violet Holmes chuckled, it was a little quirk of his that she'd always loved. "You know what for," she mused quietly, "but I assure you she's a lovely girl."
Sherlock scoffed, "Acting is easy. It's just deception with a pretty name."
Violet drew her hand away from her son's face and stepped back. "It was for your own good, Sherlock. We didn't want you to end up alone."
"No," Sherlock said firmly, "it was for yours. You didn't want to tarnish your reputation with a disgraced and single son. I would have fared well enough on my own."
"Now we both know that's not true. Without guidance who'd know where you'd end up? You forget to eat for heaven's sake!It's not healthy, and this was the only way I could ensure that my son would outlive me. As he should. I just wanted someone to take care of you," Violet replied, jutting her chin up.
Sherlock face drew in a deep scowl, "Well then doesn't that just show how much faith you have in me."
"I have a lot of faith in you, Sherlock. You're my son."
"That means nothing. I may be your son and you may be my mother in blood, but that's as far as our relationship goes," Sherlock sneered.
He watched his mother recoil, and for a moment, just for a split second, he felt something akin to remorse.
"Sherlock!" a deep voice bellowed. He turned and saw his father with his hand on the door handle, knuckles turning white.
"You will not talk to your mother that way," Siger chided harshly. "It's disrespectful and you will apologize this instant."
"I will apologize for nothing," Sherlock bit out.
He pushed passed his father at the doorway, but not before being stopped by a firm and calloused hand grabbing onto his arm.
His father glared at him through dark blue eyes, "I expect you to be at dinner in fifteen minutes."
Sherlock smiled a tight-lipped grin and nodded his head tersely before ripping his arm free and exiting the room.
The cold wind hit him first, and he felt the warmth from the room he left behind quickly exit his body. But, like the stubborn man he was known to be, he stuck up his head and briskly walked away, knowing fully well that his parents were waiting for him to come back inside. No, he would not give them that satisfaction.
The night was chilly, as expected, and he watched as his breath turned into tiny ice crystals in the air before floating away, dissolving and flying off into the wind. He stuck his hands in his pockets and moved forward, intended on making a lap around the ship to get a familiar grasp on the structure.
He was still determined to find her.
Once he felt another gust of wind shake his bones, he huffed out a long breath and stopped walking, feeling the cold air freezing him on the spot.
He found a bench and sat back, beginning to think that maybe storming out without a proper coat wasn't exactly a good idea.
Sherlock shut his eyes, wrinkled his nose, and licked his chapped lips.
He would think. Yes, that would help taking his mind off the weather.
The girl he found amongst men. The woman who walked through the shadows.
Her clothes – a uniform found amongst the workers on the ship, but a strip of cloth was peeking out of her collar, so she was wearing something underneath it. That either meant a quick getaway or disguise or it could mean that she was trying to cover up something, most likely her breasts. It could also mean both, and judging by her facial structure, the stray pieces of brown hair peeking out of her hat and the barely clinging on cap she was wearing, she must've been a female stowaway trying to board illegally.
But she was too far below for Sherlock to see anything else. He could not see anything other than that. And that frustrated him to no end. He wanted to know what her story was and why the hell she was on this ship, for the sake of his sanity.
He had always been able to read people, and he hates how he couldn't read her.
Sherlock tries to find closure in the fact that she was too far away.
But, considering that she was a stowaway trying to get onboard, she must've succeeded going by the lack of commotion, and he wondered where she would be residing for the trip. Her clothes could not blend in well with even the second class passengers. So she must be hiding amongst the third class.
Sherlock knew the art of disguise, it was simply a matter of hiding in plain sight. However most of his clothes, including his disguises, were in the hold, out of reach.
But then again, he was never one for subtlety.
As soon as he decided to embark to the third class cabins, he felt a presence approaching.
"What are you doing?" a small voice asked tentatively.
It was a female voice, soft and sweet with a slight stutter, most likely from the cold weather.
"You're going to freeze to death out here," the voice continued.
"Well I could say the same abou –" he turned, and when he saw those brown eyes peering back at him through a woolen hat, he knew it was her.
Looks like he didn't have to go looking after all.
"What?" the woman asked bashfully as she put a hand on her face, "Is there something on my face?"
Sherlock ignored her question and started to look. Really look. The night was dark and there was nothing illuminating the deserted deck except for a lone light by the door heading inside, but he could still see her, even if her face was half clouded by shadows.
The strip of cloth that was peeking out of her collar was the same shade and pattern, hinting that she had not yet changed despite looking much more relaxed and laid back. Calloused and scarred hands are the telltale signs of a hard worker, and judging that she was a stowaway – she must jobless and most likely lived on the street. But for how long? Ah, yes, parental issues. Her mother pressured her to marry, judging by the scarred lines on her ring finger which was red with constant pressure being put on it. She thought about it often and absentmindedly played with it, and when she had the ring on her finger, she twirled it often, creating a ring shaped scar. Nervous – didn't want to get married. Mother or father pressured her, most likely mother because of social propriety amongst the society.
Runaway. Problem with mother. Living on the streets for a while. Previously engaged.
He felt a smile grace his face.
Finally. He could finish that story. He hated not being able to deduce.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he saw the woman staring at him through hooded eyes, though her face was flushed.
Sherlock smirked, "Funny how being pressured into doing things we don't want to do create such drastic effects."
The woman looked puzzled. "What?"
He pointed to her finger, cold weather be damned. "You. You were engaged but ran away. Mother forcing you into it. But why? Why did you refuse? You ran away from wealth and decided to live on the streets, or else you wouldn't have been pressured to be married in the first place. So tell me," Sherlock approached her and leaned closer, narrowing his eyes, "Why are you here?"
The woman stuttered and stared at him, wide eyed and lips parted. Sherlock could see her breath disappear into the air.
"Well?" he persisted.
The woman's eyes flickered around, and yet they always seemed to come back and lock with his own. "It…it's none of your business," she finally managed to say.
Sherlock snorted. "It's my business to know what other people do not know."
As he watched the woman stare at him with wide doe eyes, he hummed and squinted his eyes again, leaning into her personal space. He noticed that she did not recoil. "You obviously have no family living in New York. So why run away from your home, and sneak aboard? What could possibly possess you to do that?"
The brown haired woman stuttered again, backing away from him and hitting her back on a pole. "Who…who are you to ask me those things? How exactly is it your business? I don't have to explain myself to you!"
Sherlock smirked. "I'm the only one aware of a stowaway on board."
The woman stuck her chest out defiantly, and Sherlock rose a brow. "No, you're not."
Sherlock popped his cheek, "I see. So you found refuge with a passenger. How sweet."
"Yeah! And they're a bloody sight nicer than you!"
Sherlock halted and blinked. The newly found silence was anything but a warm welcome in the cold night, and he watched as the woman in front of him puffed out a breath of air and began to curl in on herself, wrapping her arms around her petite body. So she usually doesn't stand up for herself.
"I," Sherlock found himself stuck at the word, "I'm sorry."
The woman looked up at him again, her rosy cheeks even more aflame than they were when he first saw her. "I…I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have shouted at you like that. It's…it's not me."
Sherlock nodded then quirked his head at her, "You don't stick up for yourself often, do you?"
She shook her head. "O-only when I'm in immediate danger or if someone thoroughly pisses me off. I don't really like raising my voice."
They stood in silence for a beat before the woman decided to speak up again.
"How…how did you know those things about me?" she wrapped her coat around her tighter.
Sherlock stretched his hand out, silently asking for her hand. "May I?"
The woman stared at the outstretched hand for a moment before finally placing her own in his palm.
Molly watched as the stranger traced the scars on her ring finger, the only remnants remaining of a marriage left broken. "The scars on your ring finger are in the shape of an engagement ring, to get a scar like this you have to have had handled it often, twisting and turning it. Usually when someone fidgets with something, it's because they're nervous – so subconsciously you didn't want to get married. If we go by balance probability, then your mother was the one that forced you to get married. And since you were pressured into getting married, that means you come from wealth, because decorum and social propriety there is much more rigorous."
He turned her hand over, palm facing upwards as he lightly trailed his fingers across hers. Molly tried to suppress a shiver.
"Your fingers and hands are calloused. Getting callouses takes a long time, and these scars are old, at least three years old or maybe even more. So you're a hard worker, most likely working with your hands. But here you are, sneaking aboard the ship amongst all-male workers, so that means you have no money to pay for a ticket. Calloused hands, sneaking aboard a ship – conclusion? You ran away from a wealthy home to get away from the marriage you were pressured into by your mother. And you've been living on the streets ever since."
Molly felt her mouth go slack-jawed, and felt the warmth from her hand disappear when the stranger let it fall from his grasp.
"Am I right?" he asked her.
Molly looked up, and indeed, those were the blue eyes staring at her earlier that day, observing her from the ramp above. But closer, in the lone light from the deck and the moon, his eyes were even bluer. She felt herself sinking into them.
"Y-yes," she whispered in awe.
He smirked and put his hands behind his back. "So will you answer my question then? Why are you here?"
Molly twiddled her fingers, finally relaxing in the presence of the stranger. And she realized that after years on the streets meeting people with places to be and lives to uphold, that this stranger was the only one who had ever seen right through her.
She realized that he was the only one who knew her story. And he didn't care.
"You're right. I did run away because I didn't want to get married. And I've been living on the road ever since. But I'm tired of running, and I want to start a new life somewhere far away."
The man scoffed, "How cliché."
"Oh really?" Molly responded, "Then why are you out here instead of in there? Why are you here talking to a penniless girl when you could be inside mingling with those of your class? Am I not beneath you? It seems to me that you're the cliché – the posh little rich boy in rebellion."
Molly heaved a breath then clumped her hands over her mouth. Oh god, what had she just said? Her eyes widened in disbelief, this is not who she is. She doesn't say stuff like this. Oh god, she was ruined, he was going to tell her secret to the authorities on board.
"Oh god I'm sorr –"
"What right do you have to say that?" he asked her with a clenched jaw, eyes darker than the ocean in daylight. "You don't know me."
Molly breathed deeply and plucked up a piece of courage, "And yet you say you know me. But let me tell you something – a stranger has no reason to lie."
Molly stood straighter, narrowing and leveling her brown eyes to meet his blue ones. "So tell me, out of both of us here, which is the one that's running away?"
She watched as the man backed down, though his eyes still spoke of suppressed anger. Molly thought her eyes were fooling her when she thought she saw a hint of sadness and admiration in them, because a man like that doesn't admire anyone except himself.
"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll be heading back to my quarters," she pulled her coat tighter against her and turned, strutting away, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute.
"What's your name?" the stranger called out.
Molly turned to face the man with alabaster skin, "Since you know so much about me already – figure it out."
Sherlock tried really hard not to run after her, but as she turned the corner after calling him out on his hypocrisy and supposed cliché life, he couldn't help but wonder why exactly he felt like he wasn't done with her just yet.
No, he wanted to know more.
As her hair swept passed the corner, his knees buckled against his own will and he slumped against the bench, knees wobbly and frozen from the freezing temperatures.
Who exactly was she to call him out? Yes, he was a rich boy in rebellion, but she didn't know the half of it. She didn't know him, not his story, not his life.
And yet, she knew he was running away.
Who was she to sneak onto this ship and have the audacity to berate him? She should be thanking her lucky stars that he wasn't going to rat her out.
He told himself it was for the sole reason of his interest in mysteries. Yes, that's what she was. A mystery. Nothing more, nothing less, and nothing but that.
But wasn't he already done with her? Hadn't he already figured her out? She had said that he was right about everything he deduced, but for some reason, Sherlock felt no closure. He felt like the story hadn't ended yet. He felt like there was more to her that he still didn't know, he just didn't know what.
He also didn't know why she was the only woman ever to interest him for more than five minutes. Or how she could switch from a stuttering mess into a courageous voice in a split second.
No, for some reason, he wasn't done with her just yet.
Molly ran, she ran and ran and ran until her legs brought her down the stairs and into her compartment. Then she flung herself on the bed and screamed into the pillow with flowing rage and released anger.
God, she thought darkly, who on Earth does he think he is?
He was arrogant, heartless, had everything and cared about nothing. He was nothing but the typical rich boys she met when she was younger.
So why exactly was she still thinking about him now? And why did her heart start to pound when he grasped her hand in his?
Why is it that she can think of nothing but his eyes? Clearest blue like the sky and so cold that his icy glare could pierce her soul and read her like an open book. When she was in front of him, Molly felt naked and exposed for the world to see.
He was destructive and pompous. But…Molly mused quietly, there also seemed to be a sadness in his eyes. He almost seemed hurt when she declared him a typical posh rich boy in rebellion. He had recoiled slightly and she would have entirely missed it if they were not standing so close together.
But there was a question that she wanted him to answer – why was he keeping her secret?
Molly wanted to know what on Earth possessed him to keep the secret of a stowaway. Most like him would have scoffed and recoiled from her presence, calling security the instant they saw her wandering on board.
But not him. Why not him?
No, she wasn't done with him just yet.
Sherlock trudged and weaved through the flurry of people and tables, spotting his parents surrounded by other first class passengers.
He plopped himself down into an empty seat beside his mother ungracefully, and he ignored his father's glare.
"Oh, Sherlock! There you are! I was getting worried, thought you'd gotten lost," his mother fretted.
He mumbled a barely audible 'sorry.'
"That's quite alright, I was actually just telling Dr. Watson here about Mycroft," Violet gestured over to the couple on the other side of the table. A blonde woman and a blonde man, married happily.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Of course. Mycroft."
He felt his father kick him underneath the table.
His attention was turned to the man sitting opposite him when Sherlock saw an outstretched hand in front of him. He took it in his own.
"Hello, John Watson," the man smiled at him.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"This is my wife, Mary," he pointed to the woman beside him and shook Sherlock's hand next in a firm grip. Strong woman. Good morals and background. Loyal. Good for a man like John.
"Hello," he nodded his head in greeting.
"Well actually, Mrs. Holmes," John started, eyes darting to Sherlock's for a brief moment before flittering back to Violet's, "since I've already heard so much about Mycroft, I would love to hear about Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled as the waiter handed him his dinner.
Yes, he liked John Watson.
As Molly settled into her makeshift bed on the floor beside Greg's bed (he had insisted she take the bed, but Molly refused), she found her thoughts drifting off to a certain first class passenger with blue eyes.
His face haunted her, white and alabaster skin with not a freckle or mole in sight, it looked like marble. Eyes that were a seething blue, and perfectly shaped Cupid bow lips. From what she could see in the weak light, he seemed to have a mop of tamed dark curls, and sharp cheekbones that casted dark shadows over his face.
Despite his arrogance, he was most possibly the most beautiful man that Molly had ever met. Nothing and no one compared.
But there was something off about him, and Molly couldn't exactly put a finger on it.
There was a sadness in his eyes, and a vulnerability in his stance. Within the face that held no emotions, there seemed to just be something there.
She found herself wanting to see him again, despite everything.
The leather shoes he was wearing was crusted in ice crystals, Sherlock thought mundanely as he set them away by the door.
When he found himself settling into bed, even though he knew he wouldn't be getting much sleep, there was a fast knock on his door.
Sherlock was just about to pretend to be asleep when he saw his father rage in, still dressed in formal wear and slightly wobbling about, still tipsy from the alcohol he had consumed earlier that evening.
Sherlock found his body shrinking into himself. His father was never a good drunk, although he only drank occasionally.
"Sherlock," Siger's hoarse voice called out quietly, but that is what made it all the more menacing, "do not be late again."
And then the door slammed shut, and Sherlock felt his body relax.
He fumbled with his violin strings, plucking them idly as he found his thoughts drift towards the woman he met earlier.
He couldn't see much of her, not with her wool hat pulled over her head tightly and the shadows clouding half her face, but he saw enough to know that she had brown eyes, thin lips and a button nose. Her hair was long, chestnut brown and plain, not styled and untamed, but it worked on her. If she had tried harder, or perhaps kept the look that came with her original background, then she could've been considered quite 'attractive.'
She didn't look like anything special. But to Sherlock, mysteries were the most special things in existence.
When he found himself drifting off in a rare case of fatigue, he had no idea that the woman he was thinking about fell asleep thinking about him too.