Great Aunt Eugenia
Sep. 3rd, 2016 09:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darnedchildSummary: A short fic for Molly Hooper Appreciation Week - Day Seven (Free For All)
Rating: G
A/N - Seven short stories in seven days. I need a couple days off.
Great Aunt Eugenia
Sherlock knew as soon as he stepped through the door leading to the morgue that Molly wasn't there. The air was dull and sterile; no hint of her favoured rosehip scented shampoo in the air. A generic jazz instrumental quietly oozed from the iPod dock someone had brought in a few years ago; but neither the iPod nor the chosen musical genre were hers.
Almost as if sensing he had a visitor, a young man in a lab coat hurried out of the small office adjacent to the morgue. His helpful expression faltered slightly when he saw Sherlock standing there. "Oh. It's you. They told me there was a chance you might come by. Is someone from Scotland Yard with you, because I'm not to open up any of the drawers without proper authorization, I'm afraid." He wasn't belligerent, thankfully, just uneasy. Almost as if he were expecting Sherlock to be inordinately upset at being denied access to a cadaver.
For a moment Sherlock tried to imagine what new Bogeyman stories were being passed around about him now, then told himself it didn't really matter as long as they weren't enough to get him banned from Barts entirely.
"Where is Doctor Hooper?"
The other man tugged at the sleeve of his lab coat and shook his head. "She's not here."
"I deduced that on my own." Sherlock forced himself to soften his tone when he continued; John would be proud. "I didn't ask where she wasn't, I asked where she was."
The other man eyed him for a moment, trying to gauge if he should tell the consulting detective anything or not. "She took an unexpected personal day, and I got pulled in to cover in-processing and paperwork. Nothing hands on."
Sherlock didn't care about the other man's qualifications. He'd lost interest in spending the day in the lab once he'd learned Molly wasn't around to discuss his latest round of experiments. The fill-in morgue attendant was still talking when Sherlock turned and walked out the door.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
In all the time he'd known Molly she had rarely missed work voluntarily.
Chances were that she was sick. Clearly the smart thing would be to find something else to amuse him for the day and wait for her to return to Barts in a day or two. It's what he would have done in the past. Which was why he hesitated when he found himself outside her flat.
There was no reason for him to be there; no real reason for him to knock on her door. Yet he couldn't help but think it was the right thing to do. Isn't that what friends did, checked in on each other when one was sick?
He nearly scoffed at the idea that he and Molly were friends. That word barely began to cover whatever sort of relationship they had.
She didn't answer. He knocked again, growing more and more impatient the longer he waited.
What if she were too sick to answer the door? She could be dehydrated and too weak to get to a phone to call for help.
It took less than two minutes for him to pick the lock; then he was silently striding through her flat toward her bedroom, hoping that she was merely sleeping and not passed out on death's door.
The door to the loo opened and Molly stepped into the hall wrapped in a towel, her long hair hanging over her bare shoulders in a wet mass. Molly screamed and Sherlock froze in place.
She clutched her towel closer to her breasts and glared at him. "How did you-why did you-What are you doing here?" she sputtered.
"You weren't at work." Somehow that came out sounding far more accusatory than he'd intended.
"I took the day off." Molly shifted from one foot to the other. "I need to visit my Great Aunt Eugenia in Chester. She's been very sick and the doctor . . ." She swallowed hard and looked away for a moment. "She's dying. Anyway, her daughter has been helping her get her house in order, and Eugenia called to let me know she's found something that belonged to my dad that she wants me to give me."
"Why do you have to do it today? I had plans for the lab and—" He didn't really need the look Molly gave him to know he'd said the wrong thing.
"It has to be today, Sherlock. What part of 'she's dying' did you not understand?" She turned and stomped off to her room, slamming the door behind her, before he could say anything.
Definitely Not Good.
Obviously he needed to do something, fix it somehow. "Apologize, idiot," the voice in his head that had long ago begun to sound like John advised.
Sherlock nodded his head sharply and followed her, not bothering to knock before he entered her room.
He had just enough time to note that she was in the process of getting dressed before Molly yelled, "Out!"
He immediately jumped back into the hall, pulling the door shut as he went. He stood there for several seconds, staring at the closed door as the mental image of Molly's smooth pale back, high firm arse, and legs that were surprisingly toned and long for someone of her petite stature seemed to burn itself into his brain.
Sherlock swallowed and licked his suddenly dry lips, then wandered into the sitting room to gracelessly sink onto her settee. He closed his eyes and tried to delete the vision of naked Molly from his mind palace.
He failed spectacularly.
A few minutes later Molly reappeared, fully dressed this time, thankfully. Her damp hair had been pulled back in a braid.
They stared at each other for an uncomfortably long moment before Sherlock spoke, "When do you have to leave?"
"I'll need to be at the tube station in twenty if I'm going to make it out there before two." She tugged on her ear, twisting the tiny gold stud there.
He realized she must feel embarrassed because he'd walked in on her. Sherlock thought about reassuring her that she had nothing to be embarrassed about; but he suspected telling her that she was beautiful naked would only make things more awkward. Instead he smiled brightly and gestured toward the kitchen. "That gives us a few minutes. Coffee?"
She looked as if she wanted to protest, but she ended up sighing and disappearing into the other room anyway. "All I have is instant," she called back to him. "It's probably going to taste like rubbish."
As soon as she was out of sight he dropped his smile and pulled out his mobile, quickly firing off a text. By the time she returned with a single mug, Mycroft had replied.
Sherlock took a sip and grimaced. She was right, the coffee was horrible. He tried to be as discrete as possible when he set the nearly full mug on the table in front of her sofa, but with Molly watching his every move as she impatiently waited for him to finish he was utterly unsuccessful. She glared at him as she snatched the mug back and hurried back to her kitchen to dump it out.
Even though she didn't say anything, he could tell she was still annoyed with him when she returned. He stood and gestured toward the front door. "Ready to leave then? Don't want to keep your aunt waiting."
Molly huffed and grabbed her jacket and bag. She ushered him out the door and locked up, before heading toward the stairs that lead to the ground floor of her building. Sherlock bounded past her to pull the main door open for her.
She paused to shrug into her jacket. "Right, well. I should be back to work tomorrow, if you want to come by then to work on your experiments. Later."
Before she could take more than two steps in the direction of the tube station, Sherlock gently grasped her arm. He steered her toward the non-descript vehicle idling next to the kerb. "This will probably be faster, don't you think?"
He waited through Molly's half-hearted protest, then held the door open for her. Once they were settled in the backseat he indicated the driver. "Tell him where we're going."
Soon enough the car was in motion and Molly kept looking at him from the corner of her eye, as if she wanted to say something but didn't want to bother him at the same time.
"Whatever it is, just spit it out."
Molly wibbled for another moment, then softly whispered, "Thank you."
Sherlock lifted his chin and looked out the window. "Compliments of Mycroft."
He could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke again. "That's uncharacteristically nice of him. Is he aware that he sent a car, or is this going to be a surprise?"
His own lips twitched slightly.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Great Aunt Eugenia was ninety if she was a day.
The family resemblance was there, but only just. Where Molly was petite and quietly cheerful, Eugenia was downright tiny and boisterously sunny.
Her daughter had lead them into a small bedroom full of colour and mementos. Eugenia had been stretched out on a lounge chair near an open window when they appeared, and she'd immediately insisted that Molly come in for a hug.
"There's my little Miss Molly. I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least."
Molly looked over her shoulder toward him and smiled. "I managed to catch a lift instead of having to wait for the train."
Eugenia leaned to the side so she could see past her niece. "What a fine young man, you've brought to visit me. What's your name, son?"
Molly stepped out of the way so that Sherlock could move closer. "Sherlock, ma'am. Sherlock Holmes."
"What a strange name. Not that someone named Eugenia has room to throw stones, I imagine." The older woman tilted her head to look up at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel as if he were being studied and deduced.
Is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end?
"Sherlock Holmes. Sounds an awful lot like the name that detective bloke had, the one that the papers ripped to shreds a few years back? Never saw so many apologies and arse kissing in my life as when he came back." Eugenia laughed until she snorted. Her entire face lit up, and suddenly he could see more hints of Molly in her features. Her laughter trickled to a halt, and her eyes—old, but sharp—zeroed in on his face. "Hard to believe there's two of you running around with such a unique name."
"Just the one, I'm afraid." A fact, he knew, she was already well aware of.
Eugenia reached out for his hand. Molly started to protest, probably in some misguided attempt to keep him from saying or doing something rude to her aunt. He didn't blame her, he'd put his foot in it plenty of times when he didn't care what someone thought of him. But this time it mattered, this time he—for some reason he didn't want to examine too closely—wanted to make a good impression. Sherlock ignored Molly and put his hand in Eugenia's for a surprisingly firm handshake.
The older woman continued to grip his hand as she turned to Molly. "Your father would have liked your young man."
Sherlock expected Molly to stammer an explanation that he wasn't her 'young man', but a quick look in her direction told him that she was biting her lower lip, the threat of tears beginning to form in her eyes.
She's missing her father.
He felt Eugenia squeeze his hand and turned his attention back to the tiny woman. "Steve was a good man. Always wanted the best for his little girl."
"I never had a chance to meet Molly's father." He'd never thought about it until now, but suddenly the knowledge that he would never get the chance made him . . . sad?
"Molly knew she wanted to be a doctor from the time she was a child, and Steve swore he'd move heaven and hell to make that happen. Worked two jobs to put the money aside for university. Loved Molly and Cathy with all his heart, he did." She gave another squeeze to his hand and then released him to lean back in her chair. Her early exuberance was starting to fade and he could see the tiredness and frailty that had been masked beginning to peek out. "Cathy is Molly's mum. Have you had a chance to meet her yet, Sherlock?"
Molly shook her head. She tried to unobtrusively wipe at her eyes; both Sherlock and Eugenia pretended they hadn't noticed the escaped tears.
"No, ma'am," he said, knowing Eugenia was expecting an answer. "Not yet."
"Don't let her fool you, she's a horrible woman."
Molly gasped and Eugenia cackled. Sherlock was really beginning to like her. He half turned to hide his smirk from Molly.
"Cathy will give you the shirt off her back, but she'd make you feel guilty about it for months after." Eugenia's laughter turned into a cough. She waved Molly off and reached for a glass of water from the table next to her. After a few sips, she leaned back again and smiled at them both.
"I'm too old to bother with being subtle, not that I bothered much before, either. Are you two serious?"
He heard, rather than saw, Molly begin to choke next to him.
"I'm not getting any younger, you know. Might be nice to see my great-niece settled down before I pass."
The great-niece in question finally managed to get her breath back. "I'm sorry, Aunt Eugenia, but Sherlock and I aren't—"
"Ready to let the public know just how serious we are," he interrupted. He leaned down to whisper conspiratorially, "I don't want the papers to get it into their heads to come after Molly and scare her off. We can trust you to keep the secret, can't we?" He winked.
Eugenia beamed back at him, visibly delighted. "Of course, my boy."
Molly, however, looked less so. If anything, he would say she looked stunned. Her mouth finally opened, most likely to ask if he'd lost his bloody mind, and he cut her off by planting a very chaste kiss against her lips. "I know we agreed not to say anything, but I think your aunt had already figured it out on her own."
"I, but, what?" It took Molly a long moment to drag her gaze away from his lips, long enough to make him uncomfortably aware of the lingering warmth from their brief—too brief—kiss.
"I know how things are these days, I watch my stories on the telly, so you won't be getting any wedding demands from me. Just promise me you'll make her happy, my boy."
"I'll do my best, ma'am." His words were addressed to Eugenia, but his eyes were focused on Molly. "I've recently come to realize there's nothing I'd like more."
Molly swallowed hard. He could tell she was dying to ask him questions, nearly vibrating with the need to.
"See that box?" Eugenia pointed a bony finger toward her dresser. "That's for you, Miss Molly. Your dad gave it to me when he found out how sick he was. Didn't trust Cathy not to misplace it, but he wanted to wait until you were out of school and settled in to some hospital somewhere to give it to you. Silly man. He would have been better off leaving it with your mum after all, I nearly forgot about it myself." She turned to Sherlock and explained, "It got packed away in my last move, and I've only just found it again."
Molly crossed the room, picked up the small box, and held it in her hand.
"Go on girl, open it," urged Eugenia.
She did. After a slight hesitation she pulled out a tightly folded letter and put the box down so she could read it. "It's . . . it's his silver pocket watch," Molly whispered; whether for Sherlock's benefit or her own, he didn't know. "I remember he used to wear it on special occasions when I was a little girl. It was his father's. He was supposed to pass it down to his first born son, but . . . Daddy wanted me to have it, to know that he was proud of me and will always love me."
The sight of her fighting back tears made his chest ache. Some unknown instinct had him moving to her side and pulling her into his arms. Her head tucked under his chin as if she were made for him.
Maybe she was?
Rating: G
A/N - Seven short stories in seven days. I need a couple days off.
Great Aunt Eugenia
Sherlock knew as soon as he stepped through the door leading to the morgue that Molly wasn't there. The air was dull and sterile; no hint of her favoured rosehip scented shampoo in the air. A generic jazz instrumental quietly oozed from the iPod dock someone had brought in a few years ago; but neither the iPod nor the chosen musical genre were hers.
Almost as if sensing he had a visitor, a young man in a lab coat hurried out of the small office adjacent to the morgue. His helpful expression faltered slightly when he saw Sherlock standing there. "Oh. It's you. They told me there was a chance you might come by. Is someone from Scotland Yard with you, because I'm not to open up any of the drawers without proper authorization, I'm afraid." He wasn't belligerent, thankfully, just uneasy. Almost as if he were expecting Sherlock to be inordinately upset at being denied access to a cadaver.
For a moment Sherlock tried to imagine what new Bogeyman stories were being passed around about him now, then told himself it didn't really matter as long as they weren't enough to get him banned from Barts entirely.
"Where is Doctor Hooper?"
The other man tugged at the sleeve of his lab coat and shook his head. "She's not here."
"I deduced that on my own." Sherlock forced himself to soften his tone when he continued; John would be proud. "I didn't ask where she wasn't, I asked where she was."
The other man eyed him for a moment, trying to gauge if he should tell the consulting detective anything or not. "She took an unexpected personal day, and I got pulled in to cover in-processing and paperwork. Nothing hands on."
Sherlock didn't care about the other man's qualifications. He'd lost interest in spending the day in the lab once he'd learned Molly wasn't around to discuss his latest round of experiments. The fill-in morgue attendant was still talking when Sherlock turned and walked out the door.
In all the time he'd known Molly she had rarely missed work voluntarily.
Chances were that she was sick. Clearly the smart thing would be to find something else to amuse him for the day and wait for her to return to Barts in a day or two. It's what he would have done in the past. Which was why he hesitated when he found himself outside her flat.
There was no reason for him to be there; no real reason for him to knock on her door. Yet he couldn't help but think it was the right thing to do. Isn't that what friends did, checked in on each other when one was sick?
He nearly scoffed at the idea that he and Molly were friends. That word barely began to cover whatever sort of relationship they had.
She didn't answer. He knocked again, growing more and more impatient the longer he waited.
What if she were too sick to answer the door? She could be dehydrated and too weak to get to a phone to call for help.
It took less than two minutes for him to pick the lock; then he was silently striding through her flat toward her bedroom, hoping that she was merely sleeping and not passed out on death's door.
The door to the loo opened and Molly stepped into the hall wrapped in a towel, her long hair hanging over her bare shoulders in a wet mass. Molly screamed and Sherlock froze in place.
She clutched her towel closer to her breasts and glared at him. "How did you-why did you-What are you doing here?" she sputtered.
"You weren't at work." Somehow that came out sounding far more accusatory than he'd intended.
"I took the day off." Molly shifted from one foot to the other. "I need to visit my Great Aunt Eugenia in Chester. She's been very sick and the doctor . . ." She swallowed hard and looked away for a moment. "She's dying. Anyway, her daughter has been helping her get her house in order, and Eugenia called to let me know she's found something that belonged to my dad that she wants me to give me."
"Why do you have to do it today? I had plans for the lab and—" He didn't really need the look Molly gave him to know he'd said the wrong thing.
"It has to be today, Sherlock. What part of 'she's dying' did you not understand?" She turned and stomped off to her room, slamming the door behind her, before he could say anything.
Definitely Not Good.
Obviously he needed to do something, fix it somehow. "Apologize, idiot," the voice in his head that had long ago begun to sound like John advised.
Sherlock nodded his head sharply and followed her, not bothering to knock before he entered her room.
He had just enough time to note that she was in the process of getting dressed before Molly yelled, "Out!"
He immediately jumped back into the hall, pulling the door shut as he went. He stood there for several seconds, staring at the closed door as the mental image of Molly's smooth pale back, high firm arse, and legs that were surprisingly toned and long for someone of her petite stature seemed to burn itself into his brain.
Sherlock swallowed and licked his suddenly dry lips, then wandered into the sitting room to gracelessly sink onto her settee. He closed his eyes and tried to delete the vision of naked Molly from his mind palace.
He failed spectacularly.
A few minutes later Molly reappeared, fully dressed this time, thankfully. Her damp hair had been pulled back in a braid.
They stared at each other for an uncomfortably long moment before Sherlock spoke, "When do you have to leave?"
"I'll need to be at the tube station in twenty if I'm going to make it out there before two." She tugged on her ear, twisting the tiny gold stud there.
He realized she must feel embarrassed because he'd walked in on her. Sherlock thought about reassuring her that she had nothing to be embarrassed about; but he suspected telling her that she was beautiful naked would only make things more awkward. Instead he smiled brightly and gestured toward the kitchen. "That gives us a few minutes. Coffee?"
She looked as if she wanted to protest, but she ended up sighing and disappearing into the other room anyway. "All I have is instant," she called back to him. "It's probably going to taste like rubbish."
As soon as she was out of sight he dropped his smile and pulled out his mobile, quickly firing off a text. By the time she returned with a single mug, Mycroft had replied.
Sherlock took a sip and grimaced. She was right, the coffee was horrible. He tried to be as discrete as possible when he set the nearly full mug on the table in front of her sofa, but with Molly watching his every move as she impatiently waited for him to finish he was utterly unsuccessful. She glared at him as she snatched the mug back and hurried back to her kitchen to dump it out.
Even though she didn't say anything, he could tell she was still annoyed with him when she returned. He stood and gestured toward the front door. "Ready to leave then? Don't want to keep your aunt waiting."
Molly huffed and grabbed her jacket and bag. She ushered him out the door and locked up, before heading toward the stairs that lead to the ground floor of her building. Sherlock bounded past her to pull the main door open for her.
She paused to shrug into her jacket. "Right, well. I should be back to work tomorrow, if you want to come by then to work on your experiments. Later."
Before she could take more than two steps in the direction of the tube station, Sherlock gently grasped her arm. He steered her toward the non-descript vehicle idling next to the kerb. "This will probably be faster, don't you think?"
He waited through Molly's half-hearted protest, then held the door open for her. Once they were settled in the backseat he indicated the driver. "Tell him where we're going."
Soon enough the car was in motion and Molly kept looking at him from the corner of her eye, as if she wanted to say something but didn't want to bother him at the same time.
"Whatever it is, just spit it out."
Molly wibbled for another moment, then softly whispered, "Thank you."
Sherlock lifted his chin and looked out the window. "Compliments of Mycroft."
He could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke again. "That's uncharacteristically nice of him. Is he aware that he sent a car, or is this going to be a surprise?"
His own lips twitched slightly.
Great Aunt Eugenia was ninety if she was a day.
The family resemblance was there, but only just. Where Molly was petite and quietly cheerful, Eugenia was downright tiny and boisterously sunny.
Her daughter had lead them into a small bedroom full of colour and mementos. Eugenia had been stretched out on a lounge chair near an open window when they appeared, and she'd immediately insisted that Molly come in for a hug.
"There's my little Miss Molly. I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least."
Molly looked over her shoulder toward him and smiled. "I managed to catch a lift instead of having to wait for the train."
Eugenia leaned to the side so she could see past her niece. "What a fine young man, you've brought to visit me. What's your name, son?"
Molly stepped out of the way so that Sherlock could move closer. "Sherlock, ma'am. Sherlock Holmes."
"What a strange name. Not that someone named Eugenia has room to throw stones, I imagine." The older woman tilted her head to look up at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel as if he were being studied and deduced.
Is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end?
"Sherlock Holmes. Sounds an awful lot like the name that detective bloke had, the one that the papers ripped to shreds a few years back? Never saw so many apologies and arse kissing in my life as when he came back." Eugenia laughed until she snorted. Her entire face lit up, and suddenly he could see more hints of Molly in her features. Her laughter trickled to a halt, and her eyes—old, but sharp—zeroed in on his face. "Hard to believe there's two of you running around with such a unique name."
"Just the one, I'm afraid." A fact, he knew, she was already well aware of.
Eugenia reached out for his hand. Molly started to protest, probably in some misguided attempt to keep him from saying or doing something rude to her aunt. He didn't blame her, he'd put his foot in it plenty of times when he didn't care what someone thought of him. But this time it mattered, this time he—for some reason he didn't want to examine too closely—wanted to make a good impression. Sherlock ignored Molly and put his hand in Eugenia's for a surprisingly firm handshake.
The older woman continued to grip his hand as she turned to Molly. "Your father would have liked your young man."
Sherlock expected Molly to stammer an explanation that he wasn't her 'young man', but a quick look in her direction told him that she was biting her lower lip, the threat of tears beginning to form in her eyes.
She's missing her father.
He felt Eugenia squeeze his hand and turned his attention back to the tiny woman. "Steve was a good man. Always wanted the best for his little girl."
"I never had a chance to meet Molly's father." He'd never thought about it until now, but suddenly the knowledge that he would never get the chance made him . . . sad?
"Molly knew she wanted to be a doctor from the time she was a child, and Steve swore he'd move heaven and hell to make that happen. Worked two jobs to put the money aside for university. Loved Molly and Cathy with all his heart, he did." She gave another squeeze to his hand and then released him to lean back in her chair. Her early exuberance was starting to fade and he could see the tiredness and frailty that had been masked beginning to peek out. "Cathy is Molly's mum. Have you had a chance to meet her yet, Sherlock?"
Molly shook her head. She tried to unobtrusively wipe at her eyes; both Sherlock and Eugenia pretended they hadn't noticed the escaped tears.
"No, ma'am," he said, knowing Eugenia was expecting an answer. "Not yet."
"Don't let her fool you, she's a horrible woman."
Molly gasped and Eugenia cackled. Sherlock was really beginning to like her. He half turned to hide his smirk from Molly.
"Cathy will give you the shirt off her back, but she'd make you feel guilty about it for months after." Eugenia's laughter turned into a cough. She waved Molly off and reached for a glass of water from the table next to her. After a few sips, she leaned back again and smiled at them both.
"I'm too old to bother with being subtle, not that I bothered much before, either. Are you two serious?"
He heard, rather than saw, Molly begin to choke next to him.
"I'm not getting any younger, you know. Might be nice to see my great-niece settled down before I pass."
The great-niece in question finally managed to get her breath back. "I'm sorry, Aunt Eugenia, but Sherlock and I aren't—"
"Ready to let the public know just how serious we are," he interrupted. He leaned down to whisper conspiratorially, "I don't want the papers to get it into their heads to come after Molly and scare her off. We can trust you to keep the secret, can't we?" He winked.
Eugenia beamed back at him, visibly delighted. "Of course, my boy."
Molly, however, looked less so. If anything, he would say she looked stunned. Her mouth finally opened, most likely to ask if he'd lost his bloody mind, and he cut her off by planting a very chaste kiss against her lips. "I know we agreed not to say anything, but I think your aunt had already figured it out on her own."
"I, but, what?" It took Molly a long moment to drag her gaze away from his lips, long enough to make him uncomfortably aware of the lingering warmth from their brief—too brief—kiss.
"I know how things are these days, I watch my stories on the telly, so you won't be getting any wedding demands from me. Just promise me you'll make her happy, my boy."
"I'll do my best, ma'am." His words were addressed to Eugenia, but his eyes were focused on Molly. "I've recently come to realize there's nothing I'd like more."
Molly swallowed hard. He could tell she was dying to ask him questions, nearly vibrating with the need to.
"See that box?" Eugenia pointed a bony finger toward her dresser. "That's for you, Miss Molly. Your dad gave it to me when he found out how sick he was. Didn't trust Cathy not to misplace it, but he wanted to wait until you were out of school and settled in to some hospital somewhere to give it to you. Silly man. He would have been better off leaving it with your mum after all, I nearly forgot about it myself." She turned to Sherlock and explained, "It got packed away in my last move, and I've only just found it again."
Molly crossed the room, picked up the small box, and held it in her hand.
"Go on girl, open it," urged Eugenia.
She did. After a slight hesitation she pulled out a tightly folded letter and put the box down so she could read it. "It's . . . it's his silver pocket watch," Molly whispered; whether for Sherlock's benefit or her own, he didn't know. "I remember he used to wear it on special occasions when I was a little girl. It was his father's. He was supposed to pass it down to his first born son, but . . . Daddy wanted me to have it, to know that he was proud of me and will always love me."
The sight of her fighting back tears made his chest ache. Some unknown instinct had him moving to her side and pulling her into his arms. Her head tucked under his chin as if she were made for him.
Maybe she was?