Chapter Text
He knew everyone in Cambridge. They were all boring, boring people, the lot of them. He knew their secrets, all the things they tried to hide, and they were all so simple. Ever since…well, ever since Sherrinford left, ever since he was driven off, he’d decided it wasn’t worth associating with anyone. It was better to hold himself aloft, look down on everyone like Mycroft did.
Oh, who was he fooling? He was lonely. So very, very lonely.
He heard the movements outside his window, to the cottage to the side of his parents, and jimmied his window open. His parents were rather averse to having them open; too much of a draft, they said. But he liked the air. He liked the cool, crisp breeze on his skin in the summer evenings. He could see through the trees an automobile, one that looked a bit battered, as though it had traveled far and wasn’t new to start with, and an older gentleman and a younger one, around fifteen or so, unloading things from it. He knew the cottage was furnished; old man Robinson had died from influenza a year prior in town when he’d been hunting for his third wife and had left his cottage fully furnished. Having no heirs, it had been left empty and his mother and father had kept a watchful eye on it.
And then he saw the girl. Her hair was down, which wasn’t unusual for a girl her age. His age, he reckoned, maybe a year or two younger. Brown hair, down past her shoulders. Sweet-natured face. Kind eyes that looked around at everything curiously. A red ribbon around her neck, which was odd. It didn’t match her frock entirely; it was black, the colour of mourning. He supposed if she was the wear a ribbon around her neck it should have been black as well. The red was an odd choice.
Curious.
He looked down at his attire and realized it wouldn’t do if he was to introduce himself and begin to gather more facts to make more accurate deductions. He quickly changed into something more presentable, debating for a moment what to do about the nest of curls on top of his head before deciding not to give a fig about them and then dashing out of his bedroom and out the door, ignoring the startled cries of the housekeeper as he dashed past her. He made his way into the yard and then out the gate, only slowly when he realized he had caught the eye of the young girl. He rounded towards her gate, watching her come to her fence, and then stopped in the lane, nodding towards her. “Hello,” he said.
She gave him a wide smile. He had never noticed smiles before but hers was rather pleasant, he supposed. Nicer than Ginerva McMillan’s, at least, when she sidled up to him outside the greengrocer's shoppe. “Hello,” she said. She had a pleasant voice as well. “You’re my neighbour?”
He nodded at that. “Sherlock,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“I’m Margaret,” she replied. “But most people call me Molly.” She extended her hand towards him. He looked at it a moment and then shook it. She giggled at that and then shook it back. “I’d half thought you were supposed to kiss my knuckles.”
“Adults play at that,” he scoffed, letting go of her hand. “We’re children.”
“But manners are manners,” she said.
“Sod manners,” he said with a shrug.
Her smile widened and she leaned in slightly. “I feel much the same way,” she said with a grin. “Much to my mother’s chagrin.”
He frowned. “The older gentleman carrying in possessions is not your father, then?” he asked.
She shook her head. “My uncle,” she replied. “He’s a kind man, whose wife was a distant relative of the man who owned this cottage. He’s allowing us to reside here for a low monthly sum, as he has a soft spot for my mother.”
“It is good there is kindness in the world,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. A woman called out her name and she turned away, calling back, before turning back to him. “I should go now. My mother likes punctuality. But perhaps you can call upon me later? Properly, of course. With your parents.”
He nodded. “I suppose.”
“Good.” She gave him another wide smile. “Until we meet again, Sherlock.” She pulled away from the fence, giving him a wave, and then walked away back towards her cottage. He watched, completely mesmerized. He had never been one to believe in love at first sight or love at first meeting, but perhaps there was some truth in those old wives tales of such a phenomenon. Because he was starting to wonder if, perhaps, he had just fallen in love with Margaret Hooper.
And for the moment, the mystery of the red ribbon had slipped to the back of his mind.