#I'm thinking spy!Mary in this who went by Rosamund for a long time

[purpleyin]

BBC Sherlock moodboards: Femslash February 2022 - Victorian Molly/Mary

Using @femslash-friday-prompts picture prompt for Feb 25th. ~660 word ficlet behind the read more.

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One day, unexpectedly, Miss Mary Morstan visits Molly to enquire about her father's death. What is exceptional about this turn of events is that Molly Hooper has absolutely nothing to do with his autopsy of Captain Morstan, officially speaking. But Miss Morstan doesn't hedge around that, she accepts the fact that Molly Hooper and 'Malcolm Hooper' are the same person. She doesn't act scandalised about Molly's expertise either, inviting frank discussion of her findings. Molly only had a chance to do a preliminary autopsy before she was ousted from her position, but she'd seen enough to know it was surely foul play.

Miss Morstan came home many weeks later, missing her father's funeral, chasing after the ghost of the investigation long since declared dead. She won't speak of why she was away, or the delay in her return from India. It is said but not elaborated on that her family has enemies and so the murder is not surprising in the least. The more Molly gets to know Mary, the more she wonders if those enemies were her father's or somehow Mary's, despite how outlandish it sounds to Molly's ears. She tries to ask outright once but all Mary will say is she has her own secrets. It seems to be implied Molly should understand not wishing to speak of what the world may make them do. And given the grace Mary permits Molly despite her failed subterfuge she should perhaps be grateful, but there's a rebellious part of Molly that is insatiably curious. Who watches Mary's wry, amused smiles with interest and wishes they could both speak of everything, in a way she can to no other.

Mary procures a private investigator for her father's case and she is clearly kept abreast of developments, which she visits Molly regularly to discuss. Each visit Mary brings a small bouquet as well. The investigator does due diligence but progress is slow and she senses Mary's impatience. Mary is always eager to talk over each new tidbit of information, trusting Molly's opinion, something she hasn't felt since she was forced out of St Bart's. Eventually, Mary fires her investigator and Molly offers to reach out to an old acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes, begging a favour she isn't sure he will permit, if he even remembers her. Mary has other plans though, intent to dig into things herself 'through whatever means necessary'. When she catches Mary's eye that day, wondering what she should say to her at that, she sees they blaze with a slowly built fury. If Mary were anyone else, she would ask her to be careful, but she has the uncanny feeling it's Mary others should be careful of.

She doesn't see Mary for several weeks, leaving Molly a touch melancholy and prone to reflection. It takes Molly until then - regarding the drying last bouquet that is her only souvenir of their relationship - to realise the theme of those gifts. That they may be a potential talking point, for example. Every flower beautiful and deadly, if prepared in a particular manner. A meaning that would not be known by the general public, only by those who specialise in the poisonous for one reason or another.

When Mary comes around again, she is jubilant at having solved her father's case. But Molly remembers nothing in the papers that week and she wonders what is the justice Mary speaks of. To her disappointment, Mary does not bring flowers then and she fears their friendship is at a natural end, even though it feels as unexpected to her as their start. However, flowers are left when Molly is out the next day - blue Muscari and a calling card with simply the initial R elaborately scripted on it. The flowers are those of remembrance, not deadly in the least. There's a time, date and place handwritten on the back and the message “Come find out my secrets if you dare”.

[ithinkthereforiamfandom]

She was Not happy and Moran would not be pleased. Eight months of work; carefully treating her dark roots, that deary clinic, the early mornings of him sobbing from nightmares about Sherlock Holmes, the sex was Always the same! The man practically had a formula in his head. What the hell had happened.

John led Sherlock into a cab which Sherlock directed to 221 Baker street. "There's a rather large medical kit at home, I'm sorry to have disturbed your evening" Sherlock stared out of the window as his city rolled by, he knew he was looking at London but he couldn't see it. Like a friend who's been away for too long and you can't quite recognise them.

"It's hardly the first date you've crashed Sherlock and you're clearly badly injured if you don't notice a wound dripping down your sleeve" John grew pensive thinking about Rosamund, his English Rose he would call her as she blushed in his bed. She was absolutely perfect but Sherlock was alive, had been all along and maybe she was too perfect. "Don't worry about my evening Sherlock let's get you patched up, besides we both know how my girlfriends go from here"

John's smile glowed through Sherlock's mind, he nodded before returning to the window as his conductor of light illuminated London. Sherlock could finally see again, he could see the way out of the darkness of the last two years. He almost wept.

John wept, as quietly as possible because Sherlock was finally asleep but John wept at the devastation that saving three lives had caused to Sherlock's frame. He had been starved and clearly beaten, recently too. Skin cleaved to his surviving muscles and ribs stood out in stark relief to the bruises in his side. John took a shuddering breath, a steel pipe, he knew the damage from his A&E shifts but had never seen anything so horrific happen to Sherlock before the fall.

Sherlock lay in bed aching but relieved as John had redone the stitches of Mycroft's so called surgeons and strapped up his cracked ribs. He'd slept for a few hours now and no doubt John had contacted his brother in the interim so he carefully levered himself out of bed and went padding off to hunt down some tea when this veteran Army Captain he knew started barking orders at him. "Bed! Right now you! Where do you think you're going! Move it Soldi... Sorry, got a bit carried away there, but really bed or bathroom, that's it for you at the moment" Sherlock grinned as his doctor nudged him, bulldog, back to his sheets.

John got Sherlock settled and winced when he heard a rare tummy rumble from Sherlock's belly. "Let's get you fed, Mrs H dropped of a fry up" John saw Sherlock's face light up at the thought of good English food. "That's doesn't get you off the hook, I've spoken to Mycroft!" John sighed "Mary is her real name, an assassin from Moriarty's old net work. Your brother has taken it upon himself to arrest my almost fiance and her handler, Sebastian Moran, he apparently goes by The Tiger" They both snort with laughter then pain silences Sherlock and John sobers. "Next time come home before I almost Propose to the woman sent to spy on and potentially Murder me, or next time don't bloody leave! You hear me!"

Sherlock smiled, that tone was a balm on his soul. John had patched up his injuries, forgiven his idiocy, and was angry but would still feed him and make sure he ate. Sherlock was home.

First and Foremost - a Doctor

The way his evening was shaping, with Mary dramatically late and the whole day leading to it much less than ideal, he wasn’t that focused on his surroundings. A waiter came to pester him about wine - he didn’t care. He couldn’t be arsed to care about the damn wine.

The man came back again, speaking with such an annoying accent that John, usually rather open and never offended by someone with a speech impediment or a learning problem, was tempted to hand him a business card of a famous speech therapists who liked challenges.

Or maybe give the man a tip big enough for him to afford some lessons of English pronunciation.

His head was killing him, the lights were too sharp and flickering, the whole thing was probably one large mistake.

And there was a smear of blood on the wineglass that had been left by his plate just seconds ago. Seconds? Minutes? How much time had passed since the waiter had…

Oh, here he was, back again, prattling about something as inconsequential as a warm bouquet of autumnal fruit - might have been plain French quite as well, John anyway understood about one out of every ten words.

What he did understand perfectly and did notice immediately was the fact that the waiter had a small trickle of blood coming down his hand, one he hadn’t noticed himself, apparently, despite the fact that he must have been dripping for some time already before John noticed it.

He caught the man’s wrist and turned it up, ignoring the sharp hiss. There it was, a thin, barely wet smear of blood, coming from somewhere up his arm.

If there was something that could trump John’s physical (and mental) discomfort it was the presence of someone in need of medical attention.

“Sir, are you hurt?” he asked in an undertone, trying not to attract anyone’s attention. After all, the injury seemed fresh, so whoever had caused it could still have been in the restaurant. “Is there anyone threatening you? Something happ…”

He looked up and the words died in his throat.

Sherlock, drawn-on moustache or no, it was Sherlock. Alive. Real - warm, breathing, pulse, most certainly alive Sherlock.

Hurt Sherlock. Bleeding Sherlock.

“Come on,” he rose from his chair, slipping some notes from his wallet and throwing them on the table without looking. “Let’s get this checked, hm?”

Pale green eyes blinked.

“Yes, John.”

When Rosamund Abbot arrived at the restaurant with the carefully planned, very well calculated fifteen-minute delay, the table had already been cleared and there was no trace of the man she had been grooming into proposing to her for the previous eight months.

She was not happy.