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“Ah, Hooper.”
The sullen doctor looked up so fast it was a wonder he hadn’t damaged his neck – Holmes was standing there, large as life and smiling at him; granted it was a forced I-demand-something-from-your-fridges smile but it was a start. Doctor Hooper looked around foolishly, realising he was alone; oh, yes…he’d sent Anderson home several hours ago, after the incompetent assistant had dropped several supplies and ruined his studies. Hooper cleared his throat, drawing himself up to his fullest, albeit still very small, height.
“It’s after hours, Holmes. I’m leaving soon. You can show yourself out.”
Ever the gentleman, Holmes ignored him and stepped towards the bench he was working at; Hooper stood his ground, not once removing his gaze from the enigmatic detective. His eyes were blue today and they positively shone in the dim lighting the mortuary provided. He swallowed, wondering why it was Holmes was fixing him with such an intense gaze, his head tilting to the side. Hooper decided to frown.
“What do you want, Holmes?” He growled roughly. The detective before him furrowed his brow, tilting his head to the side.
“Your wife recently returned from her trip to the country, if I’m not mistaken.”
There was only a split second in which Hooper allowed himself to look surprised before his scowl reappeared, as did his aggressive attitude, “oh, Mr. Holmes, I believe you are misinformed. I do not need my wife to take care of me and I assure you with greatest confidence she is…visiting relatives.”
“Your scent, Milton,” Holmes rolled his eyes, an annoyed sigh escaping him, “if it does not belong to your wife, I rather fear for the state of your marriage.”
“You are quite mistaken, William,” he narrowed his eyes, planting both hands on the bench to lean forwards, “I’m certain the fragrance lingers; she does like to use excessive amounts,” he cleared his throat and quickly diverted the subject to keep Holmes from looking at him like that, “besides, there is nothing wrong with my wife’s perfume.”
“Oh, I agree,” the detective smirked, adjusting the deerstalker atop his head, “it is most pleasing. Good evening.”
Hooper blinked rapidly at the retreating back of Mr. Holmes, the man he was quite secretly fascinated by. He followed every case, even assisted with some of the trickier murders and puzzles. He and Holmes had a troubled working relationship, always getting under each other’s feet and constantly bickering. Nevertheless, he assumed Holmes had some sort of respect for him to only demand his attention. Especially since he’d just come to the morgue in the dead of night to confront him about his wife. Hooper shook his head, determined to put the strange interaction behind him and return to his nice, warm bed…
Holmes paced frantically, alternating between smoking on his pipe and folding his hands behind his back; he’d just returned from an uneventful late night trip to the morgue in which he’d spent confronting his annoying colleague about his love life rather than arguing a fresh stomach out of him. He stopped beside the fire, peering into the glowing embers as he thought about the interaction: why had he cared so much about the nature of Hooper’s marriage? If the man wanted to engage in extra-marital activities, that was a matter between him and his poor wife. He quickly shook his head. Hooper was an intelligent man, well-educated and well-respected member of his team – everyone looked up to him and sought his guidance, even Holmes himself. The thought of him wasting his knowledge on anyone else irritated the detective beyond reasonable comprehension. Surely, the detective was the only one in London that could communicate effectively with the poor-tempered doctor. Holmes dropped into his chair, the smoking of his pipe reaching frantic as he realised his problem. It was becoming impossible to ignore Hooper, even when the short man was absent Holmes thought about his brown eyes and wispy little moustache, his near-perfect fitting clothes-
Holmes violently threw his pipe, running his hands over his face and up through his hair; he took several calming breaths before a plan began to formulate in his mind. Hooper’s wife. She was the key for him to move on from his obsession and cease his wondering of her husband’s anatomy. He smirked, feeling very pleased with himself as he headed towards his bedroom.
Molly hastily moved down her hallway, pulling her linen bed jacket over her shoulders as she moved to her door; she was sure that whomever was pounding away had the intent of waking all of her neighbours. She reached the door, determined to give them a piece of her mind-
“Mrs. Hooper,” the detective smiled, stepping forward and tipping his hat ever so slightly, “I do not believe we have met.”
She smiled awkwardly, “err, no. I-I’d invite you inside but my husband has already left for work. You should catch him there. Good morning,” she tried to close the door but his foot quickly blocked its path, “Mr. Holmes,” Molly tried, attempting to shut the door on the persistent detective, “you should not visit me at such an hour. Surely you do not wish people to misinterpret our relationship.”
“He is the jealous sort?” Holmes asked with a raised eyebrow, his foot still well and truly wedged in her doorway. Molly looked confused.
“Um, no,” she muttered something about soceity and reputations but Holmes, in his usual tactless manner, squeezed past her and was moving down her hall towards her living room. She sighed, “please, come in.”
She found him examining her mantle like it was some lost treasure, running a gloved finger along the wood and mumbling about dust. She felt a flicker of panic - with her time spent at the morgue and assisting with cases, it was rather difficult to maintain a clean home. What would he discover?
“Can I tempt you, Mr. Holmes?” She gestured at her whiskey decanter and he peered over his shoulder, offering her a raised eyebrow.
“At this time of the morning, Mrs. Hooper? it is no wonder you’re so concerned with your reputation.”
“Oh, forgive me. I thought proper conduct had been abandoned when you intruded into my home,” she smiled coldly, drawing her bed jacket tighter. He smirked, fixing her with his full attention.
“He doesn’t smoke. Yet, he gives off the distinct aroma of fresh tobacco; perhaps you did not know. Your immoderate amounts of perfume masks the odour. I kindly ask you not to wear so much in the future,” he seated himself in her armchair with a friendly enough grin.
Molly didn’t quite know what to say. She couldn’t for the life of her recall ever having come into contact with tobacco or anyone who smoked; the nature of his deduction surprised her and she could think of only one thing that would defend her secret.
“Well, if he does, it is news to me. Perhaps my husband frequents gentlemen’s clubs in his rare free time,” she shrugged, playing with the ties on her jacket. This answer seemed to intrigue Holmes.
“Hmm, rather than return home to you?” He quickly withdrew his own pipe, damaged by the wall he’d launched it at the previous night, hiding his smile as he prepared his smoke.
Perhaps that was why Hooper insisted his wife was away, to give him the freedom her being home wouldn’t provide him. Holmed quickly decided that the mental image of Hooper home alone, smoking a pipe in his evening wear was quite an inappropriate thing to be dwelling on in the presence of his wife. He cleared his throat, producing a match.
“What is he like?”
“Excuse me?” Molly asked, eyeing his pipe with a scowl which lsted only until he began the smoking of it. She looked away to distract herself from his lips, shrugging, “he is brilliant.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hooper, I was rather hoping you’d share details of which I was not aware.”
Her mouth fell open, “y-you think he is brilliant?”
“Obviously.”
Holmes had no idea why this particular observation made her blush so but she did, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture meant innnocent but one he followed with rapt attention. Molly finally looked at him, smiling.
“You’re referring to his persoanl habits, whether he’s clean or dirty, bone idle or hands on,” at Holmes’ eagerly answering nod, Molly giggled, “what has you so interested?”
Thankfully, he was prepared for this question, “my working relationship with your husband can be described as troubled, at best. If we were to find some common ground, it would benefit both of us,” he continued, a far off look in his eyes, “perhaps we are not so different.”
“Oh, you are, Mr. Holmes, trust me,” Hooper’s wife sniggered, that irritating smile still attached to her face. It was…knowing, “it sounds to me as though you are infatuated with him.”
After a moment, he chuckled, “it’s remarkable how often fascination and respect are mistaken for-”
“Oh, so you haven’t thought about how the stern doctor behaves outside of work, just what it is he keeps beneath his waistcoat?” She was positively smug at Holmes staring, his pipe burning away by itself, “and you sought out the one person who would know such things.”
She leaned forwards boldly, looking him square in the eye, “I can assure you, it is the very last thing you are expecting.”
Holmes stood up so fast, Molly herself felt quite dizzy; she had to admit, Holmes looked rtather adorable when he was flustered. He had removed his hat to run a less than steady hand through the slick do.
“Yes, well, thank you, Mrs. Hooper. I-I have everything I need,” he was hurrying to her front door before he made more of a fool of himself, “give my regards to your husband. I’m afraid I shan’t-”
“Mr. Holmes,” she called, appearing in her living room doorway. He looked up, his deerstalker askew.
“Hmm?”
She held up her wig, biting her lip to keep from smiling, “I am Hooper.”
“Oh, thank God,” he sighed, almost flying across the passage; he took her cheeks in his large hands and brought his lips to hers with fervour.
She broke away only to gasp her name, “Molly.”
He nodded, seeking her mouth again, “Sherlock.”