Chapter Text
It had been an emotional evening; revealing herself to Sherlock Holmes as a woman had not been an easy thing to do. Molly was proud of herself for keeping calm, for not going to pieces in front of him; however standing there having him really see her for the first time had been really quite a difficult thing.
That, thought Molly later, tucked up in her bed in her lodging, must be why I feel so shaky still. It is the embarrassment of it all which makes me go hot and cold.
By the early hours of the morning however Molly knew it was more than meeting Sherlock Holmes as herself which was affecting her; her sweaty brow, the chills and dizziness, and her hot, raw throat surely heralded a malady of more than the mind.
It was three days later that Molly started to become fearful. The lodging house in which she lived, she had chosen for the very reason that no-one would pay any attention to her; the landlady was absentee, living in another of her houses, and the few other rooms which were let were taken by men of equally retiring disposition as 'Michael' Hooper. Certainly, none had heard her calls for help.
The char woman cleaned only once a week, another reason the rent was so low. It was now that good woman's visit which Molly held out for. She had not been able to eat, and had barely drunk anything, since she had returned home that fateful evening. Her throat was swollen, raw, and her temperature, she gauged, dangerously high. She had considered many times simply going outside and asking for help, but each time she tried, her head span, and her vision tunnelled.
That third day, it seeming to be taking forever for the char lady to arrive, Molly had tried once more to call out for help, hoping one of her few fellow lodgers might hear her. But no one had heard. The whole place was as quiet as the grave to which Molly now feared she would be headed.
She cried hot tears. How had her life come to this? She realised that she had been too careful. She had given St. Barts a false address, the better to protect her secret identity, so she could expect no visit from anyone there who might be missing her; she had been assiduous in her attendance at the meetings and activities of the Abominable Brides, but once again, her concern for her secret identity had made her too circumspect; she had kept herself at a distance from the other women, so could expect no concerned friend to visit.
Molly looked at the faded whitewashed walls surrounding her. They began to move around her, their straight lines bending strangely. Noises sounded, a long way off in the distance, then coming closer. If she hadn't been so very sleepy, she might have tried calling out again, hoping it was the char lady at last.
SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH
It had been Mary Watson who had prompted John Watson to enjoin his friend Sherlock Holmes to seek the whereabouts of Hooper. The day after the events of the Abominable Brides, Inspector Lestrade had requested Holmes consult on a case of murder, and all three gentlemen had been a little taken aback by the absence of Hooper from the Morgue, when he was usually so constant in his attendance there.
Holmes was irritated to have to deal with Mr Anderson instead of Hooper, but simply shrugged, showing no discernable interest, when Watson wondered aloud, as they walked back to Baker Street, as to Hooper's absence. Clearly, it was related to the revelations of the night before, but beyond that, both gentlemen paid it little mind.
The following day they had attended the Morgue again, and once more found Hooper absent, with Anderson complaining that the note of enquiry they had sent to her lodging had been returned as 'unknown at this address'.
John Watson and Holmes shared a wondering look.
John shared the strange absence of Hooper with his wife as they sat over dinner at home that evening.
When Mary found that Hooper had sent no word to her employers, and that her whereabouts in general were unknown, she felt some concern. She wouldn't have liked to put it into words as it was all rather difficult to summarise, but she had a strange feeling in relation to Hooper – that night, she had seemed strong, but fragile somehow. To disappear like that – perhaps the poor woman was dreadfully upset. Perhaps she thought Holmes would refuse to work with her at the Morgue? She convinced her husband to engage Holmes in finding the lady, if only to check that she wasn't worrying about nothing. If Mary hadn't been promised for a visit to an old school friend due to give birth any day, no doubt she would have been fully involved in any search herself, but as it was, she set off for the train and left the matter safe in her husband's hands.
So it was that Holmes, having followed a path of enquiry that remained a mystery to his friend, led the way to the lodging room of Molly Hooper. Holmes had used some nefarious skill with a pick lock to get them in the front door of the house, and having spent a tedious time speaking with the two other lodgers they found in residence, and/or barging doors open when there was no reply, they politely knocked repeatedly at what they knew must be Hooper's door.
Having no answer, they locked eyes, nodded, then as one man determinedly shoulder-barged the door, arriving in the room almost one on top of the other and with the door making a loud bang on the wall behind. Hooper lay in her bed, as white as a ghost, her dark hair fanned across the pillow around her, her cheeks sunk and the skin around her eyes grey and shadowed.
Watson saw the situation at a glance, and sat himself on the bed beside her at once, taking her tiny wrist in his fingers and taking his pocket watch out to take her pulse.
Holmes stood, regarding the lady and the picture of misery that she presented.
Some half a minute later, Watson laid down her hand on the bed, and turned his head to Holmes. “She's very weak. Is there water on the night-stand?”
Holmes whirled round, the first time he had moved since entering the room. He poured water from a small jug on the night-stand and passed it to John Watson. John spoke to Hooper, encouraging her to sit up a little, to take a sip. Her eyes opened, brown and intense, and she obediently attempted a sip, but on trying to swallow a pained frown clouded her forehead, and then her eyes closed again, her head lolling to the side.
“Holmes, put your arm behind her neck – lift her a little, she needs water”.
Sherlock stepped forward and did as he was bid. As his arm passed beneath her, he felt a jolt of surprise. He found her to be as light as a bird, no weight at all, as he gently pushed her up a little. John pressed the glass onto her cracked lips and Sherlock couldn't take his eyes away, willing her to take in even a sip. Hooper's eyes remained closed, but he noted the smallest movement of her lips; good woman, she was trying again. As she swallowed, she grimaced in pain and a sob escaped her. Watson made her take as much as she could, then nodded at Holmes to lay her down again, which he did with great care.
Watson gently opened her mouth, and the merest look in her throat was enough.
He shook his head, and stood, walking with Sherlock to the window. “She has tonsillitis. I'd say she's been untended these three days at least, and it's progressed quite badly. She needs proper nursing care. She can't stay here alone. I would say she needs hospital care, but I don't think she would want to be at Barts in her – well in her female persona. If we transport her to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson -”
“Baker Street?” Holmes appeared a little mystified. For once, Watson was the one urging him to keep up.
“Mrs Hudson can provide good basic nursing care, I'm sure. I can check daily on the patient. Baker Street is the best place for her, Holmes, surely you can see that?”
“But surely your home would be -”
John cut him off. “Mary has gone to help a friend with her confinement and will be gone some days at least. I can't trust Jane to help or nurse anyone, she's a terrible enough housemaid. Mrs Hudson is who Miss Hooper needs, now, Holmes”.
Holmes looked as if he were going to demur, but the fierce look that Watson threw his way was enough to stop him making further objection. “oh well, if you insist. She can no doubt be placed in Mrs Hudson's room”.
John flashed his friend an exasperated look, and busied himself finding and packing a bag with some basics that he found in the sparse chest of drawers. He then unhooked a dressing gown from the back of the door, and handed it to Holmes, telling him to place it over the patient once he had her up.
John then scooped Molly up into his arms, Sherlock covered her, picked up her bag, and the men then left the small lodging house and were into the carriage and on their way to Baker Street with all possible speed.
SHSHSHSHSHSSHSHSHSHSHSH
Mrs Hudson was a mixture of concerned for the young woman she was presented with, and clearly delighted to have someone to care for. She refuted at once the suggestion that Molly be nursed in her own modest bedchamber, and told John to make the lady comfortable in Sherlock's room.
She quelled Sherlock's objections with one look, and as the three of them spoke together by the fire in the cosy living room after Molly was settled, she left Sherlock in no doubt as to why.
“Your room has a chaise where I can sleep so that I can be with her all the time. Of course she couldn't sleep in my little bed, not needing as much looking after as she does. The very idea! You should be more considerate Mr Holmes, really, I think I shall have to have words with your mother”.
Holmes huffed and rolled his eyes, but he had given up trying to fight the situation.
“Well, I'm sure you will do a fine job of looking after the patient”. He waved a dismissive hand, and Mrs Hudson took the hint, bustling off to be with the young lady for whom she had formed an instant and protective attachment.
Sherlock made his way over to the study area of the room, and sat, about to take up an experiment he'd been working on.
John stood, hands on hips, shaking his head. “Holmes, sometimes I think you have no more humanity in you than the automaton toys in Gamage's window. Do you have no concern, no interest in the lady suffering behind that door?” He pointed at the door, and frowned, his moustache twitching as his mouth worked, biting back words he didn't want to say.
Holmes sat straight, still looking through his microscope. “Her situation is of some interest, in fact. To have worked the deception as she did at Bart's and to become such a skilled pathologist while having to maintain a disguise and work as a man, with all that entails, is most remarkable. I would have to admit that since I have known of the situation, I have come to think of her as quite the most remarkable woman of my experience, overtaking Irene Adler in my estimation. Her present illness however, I have no opinion on. I am not in a position to assist her and therefore leave that to others who can”.
Sherlock adjusted the viewing strength of the microscope. John Watson opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and opened it again, only to find he had no answer to the statement his friend had just made.
A woman to eclipse Irene Adler? John wished he could go home and discuss this with his wife. As it was, he took his medical bag into Sherlock's room, and began to treat his patient.