#the notion that it would be considered grossly inappropriate for a parent to hold their child's hand is functionally impossible

[brittlebutch]

only thing i dislike about the 'hand touching is an intimate act for vulcans' thing is when people treat it as if it is Always and Unilaterally romantic/sexual, simply because i Refuse to believe that vulcan parents do not hold their children's hands

[geekmama]

Uncertain Terms

With thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for looking over the first draft of this, here is a Regency A/U based on a prompt from holidaysat221b:: ‘AU: Molly runs away from home when her parents try to arrange a marriage for her. She wants to pursue a life that involves science and marry for love if she ever gets married at all. She meets Sherlock, who is being pressured by his family to marry a nice girl they found for him who loves science as much as he does. It will be interesting when they figure it out.  -  @shadowyqueenbeard’

Hopefully this will more or less fit the bill...

“My name is Margaret Stamford, and I would like a room for the night, if you please.” 

Overhearing these words, Sherlock Holmes looked up, over the edge of the newspaper he had been perusing while he awaited the dinner the innkeeper’s wife had blithely (and erroneously) promised to set on the table before him “in the twinkling of a bedpost”. He had been growing quite impatient, in fact, for he’d only broken his journey because he’d skipped breakfast in favor of making an early start on the remaining seventy miles to his destination and he had grown unusually peckish by mid-day as a result. Now, however, he was quite glad that the woman had grossly underestimated the time it would take to prepare the Roasted Partridge with Asparagus, Mushrooms, and New Potatoes she’d suggested, let alone the Chocolate Soufflé with Crème Anglaise for which the Royal George was reputedly famous. 

Miss Margaret Stamford. 

A very interesting name. 

It might be mere coincidence, of course. Yet the female for whom he’d undertaken this onerous quest into the wilds of the north was one Miss Molly Hooper -- Molly being a pet name derived from Margaret, and this according to none other than Miss Hooper’s uncle, Dr. Michael Stamford of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, London. 

So, coincidence? As Mycroft was wont to say, the universe is rarely so lazy. 

And running his eyes swiftly over the female in question, Sherlock had to admit that once again his brother might very well be proven correct. 

He recalled Dr. Stamford’s description of the girl… 

… rather slight, but fairly pretty, and she’s a taking little thing when you get to know her. But there’s no nonsense about her. She’d quite understand your desire to… ah… favorably resolve your situation. 

… said situation having become a topic of discussion in the tavern-based aftermath of a Bow Street murder investigation, due solely to Dr. John Watson’s cursed inability to hold his tongue after a couple of glasses. 

Said situation was both highly annoying and inconvenient. Sherlock’s great aunt, Wilhelmina Scott, had left her fortune to “her favorite nephew”, an event that had been anticipated by the entire family. However, when the will had been read out after Aunt’s death, two months ago, it was found that the bequest was not without strings attached. 

The inheritance shall be held in trust until such time as Sherlock marries and sets up his nursery, thus fulfilling his clear duty to the family and providing my dearest sister with the grandchildren for which her heart has longed these many years. 

Sherlock had been stunned, then filled with chagrin (he could still see Mycroft’s smirk in his mind’s eye), then furious. He was all too well aware that his mother’s heart longed, having been regularly reminded of it by the lady herself since he’d come of age seven years before, and he considered the addition of this codicil such a blatant attempt to manipulate him that he was strongly tempted to wash his hands of the whole business. 

Tempted… but, in the end, he did not. Aunt’s Wilhelmina’s fortune was nothing to sneeze at, including as it did, considerable principal as well as a townhouse in London and a neat little estate in Suffolk, worth some three thousand a year in revenues (and perfect for apiculture, too). Even so unmercenary a soul as Sherlock’s could not help but be swayed -- and, of course, he had been living off the expectation to some extent for years. So, ultimately, he’d set aside his anger and his wounded pride and began, for the first time in his life, to seriously consider entering into the married state. 

He had never been “in the petticoat line”, as various of his contemporaries so vulgarly put it, but he had no doubt that he would be able to meet his marital obligations. He certainly did not look or wish for romance, however. The case called for an old fashioned marriage of convenience, one in which the bride understood quite clearly the part she would play, i.e., well-heeled young matron, capable and responsible in taking charge of domestic affairs, organizing those social engagements that were deemed unavoidable, and producing and subsequently nurturing any progeny that happened to make an appearance in the natural course of events. 

Dr. Stamford had purported that his niece, Miss Molly Hooper of Primrose Cottage, a modest seat located some five miles from York, might be a parti that would meet and even exceed expectations. She’s only twenty, not quite on the shelf, and a pleasant, good-natured girl -- and you’ll like this: she’s become quite the bluestocking, has a love of science and a grasp of its intricacies that really is little short of astonishing in a female. I believe you’d suit extremely. 

If this was Molly Hooper, this young woman who was in the process of delivering to the obviously disapproving innkeeper a mendacious explanation of the circumstances that had led to her traveling through England unchaperoned and carrying only a chipboard bandbox by way of luggage, Sherlock wasn’t certain he would have described her as taking. Physically she was of less than average height, with a figure on the spare side. She was dressed neatly, but very plainly in an olive pelisse over a gown of the same colour, not a ruffle or frill to be seen, and her headgear was of a style that had gone out of fashion some time before – prior to Waterloo, if memory served. 

Much of her countenance was hidden from him, of course, due to that hat and to his position at table in the coffee room. However, when the innkeeper’s wife (who should, by rights, have been seeing to Sherlock’s unconscionably delayed meal) joined the innkeeper in rejecting the young lady’s request for a room and added that she had no notion of young persons jauntering about the countryside and there’s always The Pig and Whistle down the road if a room is needed for the night, Sherlock decided it might be time to intervene and was thereby afforded a closer look at ‘Miss Stamford’. As he approached he observed that she had a good complexion, and a firm chin. That chin tilted a bit as she perceived that her advent at the Royal George was viewed in a less than favorable light, and her very upright posture seemed to reiterate her determined nature (and possibly extensive use of the backboard in her girlhood). 

And then, seeing the innkeeper’s attention claimed by Sherlock’s approach, ‘Miss Stamford’, too, turned to him, and he became aware that a pair of large brown eyes lent a certain undeniable appeal to that  heart-shaped visage, and that the rosy colour that stained her cheeks was really most becoming. 

Sherlock found it surprisingly easy to assume a friendly demeanor as he said to the lady, “Miss Stamford? Can I be of assistance? I believe I may be acquainted with a relation of yours, Dr. Michael Stamford of London?” 

She looked immediately startled and flushed a deeper pink. “He is my uncle, sir. But--” 

“I thought as much,” Sherlock went on, blithely. “There is just the hint of a family resemblance. Dr. Stamford and I have been friends for a number of years and it would give me great pleasure to be able to tell him I was able to come to the aid of one of his young relations. I collect you wish to procure a room at this excellent inn? Surely The Pig and Whistle would be entirely inappropriate for a young woman of good family and gentle upbringing.” And here Sherlock shifted his gaze to the innkeeper and his wife, raising a brow. 

The innkeeper rolled an eye toward his spouse, who threw up her hands and said, “Oh, very well, I shall have the Blue Chamber prepared.” 

Sherlock nodded, but added pointedly, “And while it is being prepared, Miss Stamford will join me for dinner, if she so desires. I trust it will be on the table shortly, but in the meantime we would be most obliged to you for some refreshment -- say a glass of claret for me and ratafia for the lady?” 

The innkeeper said with a bow, “Right away, Mr. Holmes,” and gave his wife another admonitory glance before bustling off. 

The innkeeper’s wife also made her exit, grumbling, and Sherlock turned once more to ‘Miss Stamford’. “I do apologize for intruding in such a brazen manner but I could hardly reconcile it with my conscience to do otherwise.” 

Where she had been pink-cheeked before, the girl had now become quite pale, staring at him, taking in his features, and even letting her eyes rove over his whole person. Then, suddenly, she became aware of what she was doing and blushed more hotly than ever. 

“Forgive me! But… are are you indeed Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Yes, I am,” he said, a little amused. He took a small gold case from his pocket, removed a card from it and handed it to her. 

Her colour faded again as she read it. “I see,” she said, and raised her eyes again, warily. 

A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Yes. And I see, as well.” 

“You… what do you see?” she asked in a small voice. 

“That having had news of my coming you elected to depart from your home, rather than entertain what amounts to another in a long line of unwanted suitors. That you are Dr. Stamford’s niece, Margaret Elizabeth Stamford Hooper, called by those with whom you have close ties, Molly.” 

She paled further, but said in an even tone, “You are… astoundingly prescient. And your guess about my name is accurate.” 

“It was not a guess, but a deduction, Miss Hooper. The latter is something of a speciality of mine. But come into the coffee room and sit down,” he said, gesturing toward his table in the coffee room. “A glass of wine will set you to rights, and, thus fortified, you will perhaps tell me in what ways, if any, I can further serve you.”  

 *

 The claret and ratafia had been delivered to the table shortly after they were seated, but Mr. Holmes did not immediately press Molly, a forbearance for which she could not but be grateful. She sipped her wine, and occasionally glanced at him, wondering at his apparent intelligence, his evident effrontery, and his quite astonishingly handsome person, set off by clothing that was both elegant and understated. 

And he seemed kind, too. Since her father’s death three years before, experience had not led her to anticipate much consideration for her needs or, indeed, regard for her person, so his intervention in her difficulties and the attentions he had thus far bestowed upon her seemed exceptional -- particularly in view of her attempted deception. He had relieved her of her bandbox, pelisse, and hat, untying the ribbons of the latter himself, and requested that the innkeeper not only set their wine on the table, but fetch some bread and butter to tide them over until dinner should be served, just as though he knew she was famished (which she was, having skipped breakfast in her effort to escape Primrose Cottage before even the servants had stirred from bed). 

“Small sips, now,” he had murmured as the innkeeper had hustled away. “Until we have something substantial to accompany our libations, an enervation of the senses is almost a given should we imbibe too freely.” 

She had murmured thanks, patting ineffectually at her slightly mussed hair and tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, even as she took her first sip and tried to calm herself. This task was certainly easier said than done. 

She was nearly of age, and, in concept, traveling to London to visit her uncle and his family was unexceptionable. But she knew very well that undertaking the journey in such a scrambling manner was not the behavior of a well-bred woman. The reaction of the innkeeper and his wife had reminded her of this fact most acutely. And of course she didn’t look like a woman -- or, to tell the truth, feel like one! 

There was no use in bemoaning the fact that one’s appearance was that of a girl just out of the school room, rather than a woman on the cusp of her majority, but once again she could not help thinking it most unfair that much of the time this circumstance resulted in a lack of respect toward her that bordered on intolerable. With her father gone, her stepmother had let this tendency burgeon to monstrous proportions, exacerbating her scorn of Molly’s determination to remain unmarried if she could not marry for love. 

“Marry for love!,” Albinia Hooper had scoffed the one time that Molly had been goaded into protesting the intrusion of still another unacceptable suitor into her otherwise well-ordered life. “There never was such a low-bred, nonsensical notion. What, pray, has love to do with the keeping of a house or raising children? You’ve windmills in your head, girl. It’s time you grew up and faced some hard facts.” 

Molly had not argued the point. There was no use in trying to explain what she meant by love. Not romance, for Heaven’s sake. Contrary to her stepmother’s opinion, Molly was as practical as her father had been, and as devoted to seeking truth wherever the facts led. But she was not willing to settle for less, as he had been, in spite of the fact that an unmarried female was at a much greater disadvantage in society than any male would be in a similar case. 

Her father had understood her views, and to facilitate her long and perhaps fruitless quest he had left her what was politely termed an independence. It was a fairly generous one, too, considering that the remainder of his estate was, by law, left in trust to Molly’s stepbrother, Gerald, who had been born when Molly was ten years old. There were also twin step daughters from Albinia’s first marriage, Cassandra and Lavinia, and Molly did not grudge the girls a single penny of the dowries with which they’d been provided. She loved her step-siblings, as they did her, and it was care of them that had brightened her days after Father’s death. Albinia, once again widowed and, in her own words, distracted with grief, had welcomed Molly’s help with the children, and with the house, for several years. Time, however, had altered matters. Gerald was now away at school, and Cassie and Lavinia were old enough to make their come-out. Molly’s position in the household was fast becoming superfluous, and though she made great efforts to be of help and, simultaneously, stay out of the way, Albinia had been relentless in her promotion of marriage as the only reasonable course, and relentless, too, in the introduction of potential suitors. 

And then Aunt Stamford had written that fatal letter. 

My Dearest Molly, 

I am writing to you today because a most surprising opportunity has arisen, quite out of the blue. You know that I have been very much in sympathy with your desire to focus upon your chosen avocation of natural philosophy, eschewing the paths of courtship and marriage that are more traditional for a young women to tread. However, I must own that I doubted your decision would ultimately conduce to your happiness, content as I am and always have been to be a loving wife to your dear uncle and mother to the six darling children who are your cousins. Therefore, I dare to write to you on behalf of one of your uncle’s associates, one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, presenting him to you as a possible candidate for your hand. 

Mr. Holmes is a gentleman, the scion of an old, distinguished, and affluent family, and, on his marriage, will become a man of property in his own right. Moreover, he is a man of science himself, and his knowledge and skill in deduction have allowed him to lend his assistance to various agencies of jurisprudence here in London. In this way he came to your uncle’s notice, for you will recall that your uncle oversees the mortuary at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and is often called upon to collaborate in criminal investigations. 

Your uncle and I have had the pleasure of Mr. Holmes’ company for dinner several times over the last few years and, after coming to know him, I cannot help but agree with your uncle when he suggests that the gentleman may be the one man in all of England who might prove acceptable to you as a mate. Since the requirements of a recent bequest have inspired him to look about for a wife, your uncle suggested you as a possible candidate. Coincidentally, Mr. Holmes had it in mind to travel north at the beginning of April, visiting friends in the vicinity of Harrogate. He determined that he would pay a call upon you and your stepmother at Primrose Cottage if your uncle and I would write to you by way of introduction. 

My dear, I do beg of you to receive Mr. Holmes kindly and without prejudice. He is a little eccentric in his manner, but underneath it he is a very good sort of man, and most handsome, too, as you will soon see for yourself. Though the latter is not a vital quality in a mate, it does make the idea of looking across the breakfast table at the same countenance for the rest of one’s life far easier to bear. 

And on that frivolous note, I am, as ever, your loving aunt, 

Emily Stamford  

 Molly’s disappointment on receiving this missive was palpable. Either this Mr. Holmes was a most unusual man indeed, or her uncle had finally persuaded Aunt Emily that their niece would be better served accepting an offer than persisting in the ways of an incorrigible bluestocking as he’d once put it. 

That memory still rankled. Had she been born a man, her predilection for science and natural philosophy would have been not only indulged, but praised! 

“Have some of this excellent bread, Miss Hooper,” Mr. Holmes said, breaking into her thoughts. The innkeeper had delivered a basket of fresh-baked rolls to the table, and Mr. Holmes was now holding out a steaming half, butter spread liberally over it and rapidly melting. 

“Thank you,” she said, and as she took it, her stomach gave an audible growl of lust at the mere scent. Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment -- and indeed, Mr. Holmes was looking amused as he bit into his own half roll -- but she took a small bite of the bread and tried to compose herself. She decided that honesty would be the best policy with Mr. Holmes, and accordingly said, after another sip of wine, “I know I owe you an explanation.” 

“As you will, Miss Hooper. I understand what a shock it must have been to run across the very person you were hoping to avoid in leaving your home in such a precipitate manner, but I assure you I am no ogre and do not mean to press you to do anything you would not like. To tell you the truth, I was hesitant to visit you in the first place, and can sympathize entirely with your reluctance to enter into the married state.” 

Molly stared at him, and then said, “What an odd man you are, Mr. Holmes!” 

“Well… yes!” he said. “I was under the impression that… er… oddity was what you were searching for in a mate.” 

She laughed a little. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but perhaps my uncle would.” 

“How would you put it, then?” 

She said, slowly, considering her words, “You may think it strange of me, but I believe I would value respect more than the fleeting infatuation that passes for love in these modern times. I… I have studied natural philosophy for a number of years now, and have only scratched the surface of what I wish to learn. I am not opposed to marriage, per se. But I cannot conceive of allying myself with any gentleman who might prove an impediment to my chosen avocation.” She felt herself colouring as she added, “I daresay that sounds monstrously selfish. I fear that’s the sort of person I am, however.” And she dared to look straight into those piercing, pale blue eyes… or were they pale green? She was aware of a strange internal frisson under their steady gaze. 

“I see,” Mr. Holmes replied, thoughtfully. “But you do say avocation, I note. Can it be inferred that you are not averse to taking up the day to day duties required of a wife and mother, provided you are allowed sufficient leeway in the pursuit of your studies?” 

“I would say so, yes. In fact, I would like, someday, to be able to have the running of my own house. And of course, nurses are all very well but children also need the care only a loving mother can give.” 

Mr. Holmes smiled slightly. “Do you like children?” 

And for the first time, Molly smiled, too. “Indeed, yes! I have helped raise my stepmother’s children, and one of my greatest joys is to stay with my aunt and uncle in London and help with my cousins. 

Mr. Holmes smile grew sardonic. “Dr. Stamford does have quite the brood. Six, I believe.” 

“Yes, and all of them such dear creatures, too.” 

“I daresay.” He sat back and studied Molly for a moment, and she lifted a brow and returned the favor, which again brought a sincere smile to his lips. And then he said, “Ah! Finally!” as it was seen that the innkeeper’s wife had emerged from the kitchen and was now approaching, followed by two underlings with laden trays. “Shall we postpone further discussion of this particular topic until after dinner? I feel there is hope that we may come to an understanding, but hunger… intrudes.” 

Molly chuckled and said, “I am entirely of your way of thinking, Mr. Holmes.” 

“On all points?” 

A little of her humor faded, but she replied thoughtfully, “Perhaps.”

 *

 Dinner was a resounding success. Miss Hooper had forgone breakfast just as he had done himself, and Sherlock was pleased to observe that she set to with a will, exclaiming at intervals over the excellence of the repast and then gasping in sheer delight when the chocolate soufflé was brought to the table. Their conversation throughout was desultory but edifying, Sherlock encouraging her to enlarge upon her “avocation”, and contributing his own mite by describing the details of one or two criminal investigations with which he had been involved. He was quite pleased with her reaction to the latter -- at first glance she might have struck him as a mere milk-and-water miss, but that’s where it ended. Those expressive eyes were alight with intelligence, her questions were gratifyingly cogent, and her curiosity and lack of squeamishness both did her great credit. 

They were finishing up with a glass of Port for him, raspberry cordial for her, and a dish of sweetmeats and nuts between them, when a noisy arrival at the inn that included the sound of a strident female voice caused Miss Hooper to look up in alarm, the pretty colour in her cheeks fading abruptly. 

“Oh! Oh, no! It’s my stepmother!” she uttered, and pushed back her chair, scrambling to her feet so hastily that her glass of cordial tipped over, spilling its contents across the white tablecloth. “Oh, Heavens!” she cried, horrified at the mishap, and then froze at the sound of the inn’s door opening and a male voice shouting, “House! House, I say!” 

Sherlock rose swiftly, too, but not swiftly enough. With a last despairing glance at him, Miss Hooper bolted, rushing straight across the room toward the kitchen door. Sherlock swore in annoyance as she disappeared. He quickly gathered up her abandoned pelisse, hat, and bandbox, and, with a last glance at the occupants of the foyer -- a plump matron in a purple gown had now joined the demanding, grim-faced gentleman who looked to be a parson of some sort -- he took his leave, following Miss Hooper through the kitchen. 

The only occupant of the kitchen was a mildly interested lad sitting on a stool by the open hearth, slowly turning a spit with a turkey upon it. Seeing Sherlock, the boy jerked his head toward the far door, which appeared to lead to the stable yard. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and made his exit. 

It was approaching dusk, and for a moment it seemed that Miss Hooper had vanished. However, after a few moments of looking about in the waning light, Sherlock spied her, hovering near the back corner of the inn, her hands gripped together in patent indecision. He strode toward her, with a glance around to locate anyone who might see them, but the stable boys were apparently at the front of the inn, tending to the coach in which Miss Hooper’s pursuers had arrived. 

The girl watched him as he approached, and allowed him to hustle her into the shadows before speaking. She said, “It is the vicar, the Reverend Mr. Blackstone who has come with Albinia, to… to fetch me back, I suppose. Oh, what am I to do? What a dreadful scene must occur. I’m so very sorry Mr. Holmes!” 

“Miss Hooper, do put your pelisse and hat on against the chill,” he told her, calmly. “You have only to tell me what you wish to do.” 

She did as he’d bade, visibly striving for control, but as she tied on her hat while he helped her button up the pelisse she said to him, “I had planned to travel to London, to stay with my aunt and uncle -- and to ask them why they supported your suit, though of course I now understand why they did so. My stepmother, unfortunately, insisted on reading the letter from my aunt. When I expressed the desire to avoid you, and instead travel to London, she refused to entertain the notion. So I arranged a clandestine escape with a friend of mine, Barnaby Whitlaw -- the son of a local farmer. He took me up just before dawn, on his way to the market at Greenlea, some three miles from here. I walked the rest of the way, hoping to catch the afternoon Mail Coach, but I was too late. There is another that departs from here at seven in the morning, however, and that is why I needed a room for the night.” 

“I see,” he said, then, “Let me fix this,” and set to work to straighten the hat’s ribbons which she’d tied in a perfectly abominable bow. 

She stood quite still while he corrected the fault, her mouth set, but her eyes were beginning to glisten. He was almost finished with his task when she finally spoke again, her voice tremulous. “I suppose you will say I am fairly caught and it is time to have done with such nonsense.” 

He lifted his brows in surprise. “Why would I tell you any such thing? Your wish to avoid your step-mother and that parson seems quite reasonable to me. If you indeed wish to go to London, to London you shall go. There! Your bow is as fine as my skill can make it.  You are dressed warmly, and have your bandbox. Do you think you can retrace your steps toward Greenlea? Night is coming on, but I shouldn’t be above an hour.” 

“Yes. Yes, of course I can, but--” 

“I will pay the shot here and get some fresh horses put to my curricle, then travel toward Greenlea and take you up when we meet. If we stay off the main roads we will be a little delayed, but I believe we should be able to avoid pursuit and perhaps make it as far as Doncaster before we are obliged to put up for the night, thanks to this fine weather and a full moon.” 

“But what will you tell everyone? The innkeeper and his wife will surely question my departure since a room was being prepared for me.” 

“Very true. However, a word in the right ear, a guinea in the right pocket, and the thing is done.” 

She flushed. “I… it appears that I will owe you a great deal before this adventure is complete, Mr. Holmes. I am not entirely sure--” 

“Come, come, Miss Hooper!” he said, with a pretense of impatience. “You are possessed of an independence, are you not? At least I was given to understand that you are not penniless. You can very well reimburse any expenditure I may make on your behalf. Or are you concerned with the proprieties? I’m afraid that bird has flown, since your stepmother saw fit to share the story with the local parson.” 

“Oh, dear. That is very true. They say women are dreadful gossips, but Reverend Blackburn has them all beat to flinders. He is the most odious man. I never could see why Albinia cultivated his friendship.” 

“There is certainly no accounting for taste,” Sherlock said, and a crooked smile touched his lips as he considered his newly acquired taste for the company of one Molly Elizabeth Hooper. 

And indeed, she gave an answering smile, and there was a gleam in her eye as she said, “Very well. I will put my fate into your hands, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Miss Hooper, I will do my utmost to fulfill your faith in me,” he replied, and, to both her surprise and his own, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her slender fingers.