"How long do you intend to wear black?"

Molly Hooper raised her eyes from her book to look at Sherlock Holmes. He towered over her, hands behind his back as he studied her appearance, the black crepe she was currently decked out head-to-toe in.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I apologize, is that a rude inquiry?"

"Well, yes, it is, Mr. Holmes," she shut her book, setting it down on the bench she occupied. Not far off, Rosamund, William and Edward played at the edge of the sidewalk, within sight and well away from the pond.

"It didn't sound that way in my head."

"Perhaps not. May I inquire as to why you need to know?"

"There may be a time I require assistance on a case, it wouldn't do to ask a woman in mourning to accompany me. Watson wouldn't have it, surely, and I must take his side when it comes to Mary's help for the time being. I shouldn't like anything to happen to her."

Molly found herself smiling, despite his clearly selfish intent. "My father had me promise him to wear black for only two months, and then grey after for a month, and after that whatever I liked." her eyes were sorrowful, and she looked down at her lap as her chin wobbled. "He said he hated the idea of me in mourning. He made me promise not to cry too much, but I don't see how I could ever honor that. I'm not strong enough..." her voice trailed off, overcome. Quickly, less than a moment, she quickly dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I-I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Mr. Holmes."

"There is nothing to excuse," he murmured, quite gently. He reached into his breast pocket, procuring a handkerchief and gave it to her. "I have not had to endure the trial of losing one's parent, not yet, at any rate. I am more sorry than I can say that you must."

"Thank you," she offered a watery smile, having dried her eyes. "Some say it gets easier, but I don't think I shall ever believe that. This was not God's purpose for us, and I don't think that losing my father will ever get easier. One must get used to it, the way one gets used to losing a limb, or an eye. It's an inconvenience, it's a dreadful agony, sometimes, but there's nothing natural about this grief. There simply can't be."

Sherlock Holmes was overwhelmed. He was in awe that this small woman spoke so freely, with so much conviction, he was taken aback and for a moment, he did not know what to say.

"You seem," he paused again, searching for words. "You seem to have a better grasp of life than most scholars, Miss Hooper."

"Do I?" she laughed, nervous. "I'm sorry if I sound snobbish."

"Not at all."

For a moment, they watched the children playing.

"I was almost 'Doctor Hooper'," she spoke suddenly. "Imagine that."

"I heard you were studying to be a nurse," Sherlock frowned.

"Nurse, doctor, whatever they would let me study, really." she shrugged, once again reminding herself that opportunity was long-gone. "Not to be." she smiled at the Watson children. "It's not so bad, letting go of that dream. I've got Mary and John, and the children. Whatever mark I make on this world, no matter how small it is, I think I should be very proud that it was helping such a fine family, and such a good woman."

"Perhaps, as the children get older, you might resume your studies," Sherlock offered.

"Perhaps," Molly agreed. "But I won't hold out any hope for it."

"Why ever not?"

"Because I'm a woman, Mr. Holmes," Molly laughed with a shrug. "I was studying back home because it was a small town, and father needed a helping hand in his surgery, and he wanted to pass along the practice to me. There was a need for someone to make calls when my father could not, and we couldn't afford to send for another to share father's practice. There's no need for that now, in London. Anyway it's not as important at the moment, and I came here to help John and Mary, not pursue my own goals."

"Well if you-"

"There you are, Holmes!"

Both turned to see Inspector Lestrade hurrying over to them. Upon catching sight of Molly, he removed his hat, nodding a respectful bow to her.

Rising to his feet, Sherlock waited for Lestrade to speak. The inspector merely looked at Molly, then quickly back to Holmes. "Oh! Right," he cleared his throat. "Miss Hooper, this is the Inspector Lestrade, whom I imagine has very nearly turned Berkeley Square and Baker Street upside-down looking for me, judging by how winded he is."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Inspector Lestrade," Molly held out her hand, and the Inspector (to Sherlock's utter shock and chagrin) turned it, kissing the back of her gloved hand.

"An honor, Miss Hooper, and will you allow me to convey my deepest sympathies regarding your loss."

"Thank you," her cheeks tinged pink, (again to Sherlock's utter annoyance). "Losing a parent is never easy."

"No," (was that relief in the good inspector's tone?!) "And I am sorry such circumstances brought you here, but I am pleased to know you, and should like to offer my assistance to you, should the need arise."

Before Molly could thank Lestrade, Sherlock butted in: "Yes, I'm sure she'll send a cable just as soon as she has need of a detective who can't solve half the cases on his desk without outside help."

Lestrade and Molly both looked at him, shocked.

"I...I do beg your pardon, Inspector," Molly offered, looking quite embarrassed, not knowing where this agitated state had come from. "I'm sure Mr. Holmes means no disrespect,"

"He does, as it happens," Lestrade answered with a shrug. "I've gotten used to it. I hope you won't ever be on the receiving end of his sharp tongue."

"Water off a duck's back," she said with a smile as she got to her feet. Sherlock bent, retrieving her book and handing it to her. "We should be off, it's time for tea anyway. Good day, Mr. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade," she held out her hand again, and again, Lestrade kissed the back of it. Flushing that pretty shade of pink, she stepped passed them (ignoring Sherlock's slack-jawed expression) and collected the children, heading back to the house.

"She's a pretty lass," Lestrade said, low, as they watched her retreating form.

"I am certain you didn't come all this way only to make time with the Watson's newest inmate, so spit it out, Lestrade."

"I'm only stating a fact!" Lestrade retorted, peevish. You've got a wasp in your arse, haven't you? Well never mind then, I shan't tell you about the case!"

Sherlock sighed heavily, closing his eyes. Once again, his acid tongue got the better of him.

Lestrade didn't get far, he never did. Only halfway down the path, he stopped. "Oh, come on then, see if you can't make heads or tails of this." Sherlock jogged after him, catching up.

"What is it this time? A headless nun? A maid stuffed in a chimney?"

"No," Lestrade frowned. "Cor! It's a robbery, up commercial road."

"That's not your division," Sherlock frowned.

"This one is," Lestrade answered. "Twenty-thousand pounds."

"In limehouse? You're joking."

"Wish I were, come on, I've got a cab waiting."

That night...

"For goodness sake, stop screaming it's only me!"

Sherlock Holmes was half-way through Molly Hooper's window, one hand holding onto the frame for dear life, the other angled, blocking himself from her blows.

"Oh, Mister Holmes!" she gasped, more angry than shocked.

Before he could finish hauling himself through the window, she grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him the rest of the way in, poking her head out to see if anyone had noticed the gangling idiot hanging from the trellis by her window. Satisfied that no alarm had been raised, she shut her window, turning back to the consulting detective who was straightening his coat. He removed his hat, tucking it under his arm as he tugged at his gloves. For that one moment, he looked the picture of normality, with the exception of the errant twig here and there stuck to his coat.

"Your, erm, robe, Miss Hooper." He dared a glance at her nightgown, hitched up around her thighs, her kimono haphazardly hanging over her shoulders. Irritated, she shoved her arms through the sleeves.

"It's my room, Mr. Holmes," she snapped, though she did tie it shut. "What the hell-"

"Language," he smirked.

She waved the bat, threatening him, and he quickly sobered, though the twinkle in his eyes did not disappear. "I suppose I deserved that," he murmured, somewhat humbled. He had, after all, broken into her room (even if it was an accident). He could very well see her side of things.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she hissed, remembering she was close to the nursery. The last thing they needed was for Rosamond to go running to her parents that Miss Hooper had Uncle Sherlock in her room. Good grief.

"I needed to get in, and I have often entered the Watson's residence by way of the back-garden trellis. I simply forgot you reside here now. It was an honest mistake."

"I find that hard to believe," she rubbed his temple where she'd clocked him. Seeing him gingerly press the welt, she sighed heavily, taking a washcloth and dipped it in the pitcher by the bed. "Let me see," her tone gentler this time and he removed his hand, letting her tend to him. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"That this room was empty, obviously." He didn't dare like to say that he'd only remembered half-way up the trellis that she occupied the room, and he'd gone on up anyway. Well, after all, he'd gone that far, why not go the rest of the way? He'd...rather hoped for a nicer welcome than her smacking him upside the head with a child's cricket bat. He'd even half-imagined himself greeting her in the manner Lestrade had earlier that day, kissing her hand and all.

"Why not use the door, like everyone else?" she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"It's four in the morning, Miss Hooper, it would be awfully inconsiderate to wake the house when I could just let myself in the third floor window. They never lock it."

"What are you even doing here at four in the morning?" she pressed on the welt and his winced, hissing in pain.

"There was a break in the case, needed to fetch Watson. I know Mary hasn't been feeling well, and didn't like to wake the rest of the house."

"Just me, apparently," she smirked. "I'm touched. But Doctor Watson isn't back yet, He's been out all night, helping Mrs. Lieberman. He sent a message after dinner, her waters had let."

"What, in Poplar? What the devil is he doing out there?" Sherlock asked.

"No one would call on her because the family is Jewish."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The narrow-minded thinking of educated men is astounding."

"Indeed. One attains a degree, but rather than expanding ones views, they have been halved." she stepped back. "There. You'll have a bit of a bruise, but it's your own fault."

"Hm. I'm fortunate you grabbed William's cricket bat and not your candle-stick. You might have killed me."

"I'm only fortunate it was dark and couldn't see properly," Molly retorted with a smile. "Might have knocked you out the window."

"Yes. Well." he cleared his throat, trying hard not to look at her state of undress, at the pretty flush in her cheeks. "As Watson is away, I'll let myself out. I am sure Inspector Lestrade will give a hand."

"Ah," she caught his arm as he made for the window. "Mr. Holmes, for my own sanity, please, use the stairs."

"It's not as fun," he replied cheekily.

"There is a policeman who patrols this street, you know."

This information gave him pause.

"Oh?"

Molly actually leaned back to see his expression. "You didn't know?"

He shook his head in response. "How long has he been here?"

She shrugged. "I noticed him two weeks ago. I thought it was for the Lamson-Scribner's, they're hosting the Prime Minister's cousin, that Miss Haverly."

"Prime Minister's cousin wouldn't necessitate a man to patrol the square," Sherlock answered with a frown. "Two weeks you say?"

"Mm," she nodded.

"Does Mary know?"

"I don't know," Molly shook her head, puzzled at his line of questions. "Should she?"

"Perhaps."

"Oh you mean because she works with Lord Mycroft?"

"Mm."

Molly studied the consulting detective. In the two months that she'd been at Berkeley Square, she'd come to recognize Sherlock Holmes' moods. Right now, he was confused.

"You're puzzling over something," she stated matter-of-factly. "Why shouldn't a police-man have a beat here?"

"Why should there be one posted when there never was any need before?" Sherlock countered neatly. "What has changed?"

"Well...nothing, as far as I can tell," Molly said. "No robberies. No new hires that I can think of. But that doesn't mean something's happened we don't know about. Perhaps the Lamson-Scribner's are having the family jewelry cleaned, or...or someone-"

"Someone what?" Sherlock retorted. "If a well-known family wants a guard for their home while they are holding valuables, they would hire an officer to mind their house, not the whole block. The prime minister's cousin is not even a member of the royal family, she's simply another society darling, and not worth the expense. No one is going to kidnap her. There's no point. The gain is not worth the effort."

"Well...why don't you ask your brother? He works in the government."

"Hmm. Yes I shall." he was looking out her window again, at the shape the officer made, strolling up the lane. Average height, his helmet added two inches or so. His gait was not measured. Usually an officer on a beat knew the amount of steps up and down a street, and it was an ingrained habit to hesitate in-between steps, less than half a second, to listen, observe and then move forward. Berkeley Square faced a stretch of greenery, and the fine houses did not often require a regular officer. Usually, there would be a man who'd go around the park, look up the street, then head towards the busier streets.

Sherlock didn't know why it bothered him so much. An officer suddenly being posted on Berkeley Square, Inspector Lestrade surely would have informed him. What necessitated it?