Disclaimer: I don't own any Sherlock characters!

The year is 1898 in the city of New Westminster, British Columbia. It is the former British Colony's oldest city with a population just under seven thousand. It is an economic hub for the region, the largest city in Western Canada but still very much a "backwater" by English standards. The streets are unpaved. Board walks constitute sidewalks. Gold Miners seeking riches often empty supplies in the shops on their way to the Klondike (much to the frustration of Mrs. Hudson). Local government officials (including Mycroft Holmes, the current magistrate) try to sort out what to do if those new 'horseless carriages' take to the streets (although some argue they're just a fad and can never truly replace a reliable steed). It's the new world struggling to escape the old, not unlike our heroine, Molly Hooper.

The door to 221 Ash Street swung open as John Watson skipped up the front steps. He knew instantly by the pallid colour of Mrs. Hudson's complexion something was amiss.

"Good Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson, is Mr. Holmes still in residence?"

"Oh, Dr. Watson, my heavens! You've come home just at the right time."

Mrs. Hudson, dressed in her usual white, puffed, long sleeve shirt and practical, grey linen skirt that fell to her ankles, laid a hand against the side of her face and slumped against the door frame with a wearied expression.

"Are you unwell?" John wiped his boots on the door mat.

She waved a hand at her face. "I'm not ill, if that's what you're concerned about. It's just, he has a pair of ruffians removing the bath from upstairs to replace it with, well, it looks like a medieval torture device."

She held open the door and pointed a shaky hand at the stairs.

"Oh, and would you just look at my rug?" She clutched her chest. "I think there's a bit of manure in that."

John chuckled. "I'll go up and look in on them."

He quickly unlaced his boots, doffed his hat and dropped his bag. He turned back when he thought of something.

"Don't put that away, Mrs. Hudson, I have need of it yet."

She pursed her lips and put her hands on her generous hips. "I'm not your valet, Dr. Watson. It will still be here when you come back down."

He smiled tightly. "Um, okay, thank you, then."

He took two steps at a time up the stairs, careful to avoid the deposits of mud on the steps, and jogged to the bathroom. The scene was almost exactly as Mrs. Hudson described. He scratched his brow.

"What is this about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned, still wearing his rumpled beige sleepwear and deep purple dressing gown. His hair was a mess of curls atop his head. His light, bluish-green eyes widened momentarily.

"John! You're home early," he replied. "We're just remodeling."

John crossed his arms as he peered past the two large men, still wearing their boots and preparing to pick up the heavy cast iron tub. The space the tub formerly occupied was empty and next to it stood an assembly of pipes that looked very much like a cage. John tilted his head as he tried to determine what he was appraising.

"I don't understand. The bath is only a few years old," he said slowly. "What on earth is that?"

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Yes, but it's already obsolete! This is far superior in every way, my friend. It's a needle shower. I had it imported all the way from England. I've always thought it quite uncivilized to wallow in one's own filth."

John moved out of the way as the two men tromped past with the tub. He had yet to completely close his mouth as he looked back at his house mate.

Sherlock stepped into the network of pipes that arced around him. "Yes, yes, yes, why waste precious time soaking in lukewarm, fetid bathwater when one can be quickly rinsed with fresh, hot water in a matter of minutes?"

John twisted his brow. "Do I even want to know how much this cost?"

Sherlock looked askance. "Cost? What about worth? What is your health worth, John?"

John blinked at him several times. "Hmm, well, what is it worth then?"

Sherlock lifted his chin and stared down his nose. "About five hundred dollars."

"F-Five hundred dollars? F-f-five hundred?" John almost fell over. "That's my wages for a year if I'm lucky. Christ!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, get a hold of yourself, man! I felt I deserved a reward after sorting out that claim dispute for Mr. Connelly, not to mention, there was fifty ounces of gold in that jar he gave me. Fifty! I hardly knew what to do with it."

"So, you squandered it!"

Sherlock huffed. "Only half!"

John fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "Lord, Sherlock, what did you do with the rest of it?"

He made a face. "Why the hell do you think I had that hot water heater installed? It wasn't to make Mrs. Hudson's life easier."

John shook his head. "Unbelievable. To think what I could do with that money-"

"Why are you home early?" Sherlock interrupted him. "You normally work well into the evening. It's only one o'clock."

John took a breath. "A patient of mine is in a spot of trouble. I had hoped you could assist."

Sherlock finally stepped out of his shower contraption and brushed by John on the way downstairs. "Sounds boring."

John hurried after him. "I haven't even told you what it's about yet."

Sherlock flicked his fingers up towards the ceiling as he descended the stairs. "Some young woman is in distress. Marital situation."

"H-how do you know that?"

Sherlock exhaled noisily, stopped and turned half-way through his descent down the stairs.

"Because it always involves a young woman with you. Most of the clients you bring me are damsels in distress. Also, you have that," he swirled his finger as he pointed, "look on your face. You are the equivalent of an emotional dish towel, John. Your expression at present is a reflection of hers, whoever she is."

"And how do you know she has a marital issue?"

Sherlock grinned. "If she was unattached, you wouldn't dare introduce her to me."

John felt his face go tight in a glower. "I'm not worried about your effect on the fairer sex, thank-you! You're not even interested in becoming attached so it's scant competition."

The larger man shrugged and resumed his march down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson, who had been traversing the parlor, came to a stuttering stop.

"Mr. Holmes!" She scolded. "I do wish you would get dressed. It's indecent to swan about in your bedroom attire at this hour."

He gave her a quizzical look. "Why? Do we have guests?"

"N-no!"

"Then whose decency am I offending? Yours, Madam Hudson?"

She waved at him as she went red in the face but continued to her destination. "Pfft."

John followed Sherlock into the parlor where he flopped onto his lounge upholstered in dark green velvet.

"To be serious, though. I do need your help, this girl needs your help."

"What could she possibly need from me?"

"Well, you."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "John, you make no sense at all."

"She needs you. Look, I promise this is not boring. Yes, she's married but she swears it's a fraud. She says the man who is her husband is not the person she came to meet."

Sherlock's cheek twitched. John knew he had his attention then.

"She just arrived here from England, probably on the same train as that damned shower device, actually. It was a marriage by proxy but she says she never agreed to it," John recounted as he paced. "The husband, the one she says has forged her signature, is insistent on collecting her from the hospital and spiriting her away almost this moment. The sisters have managed to delay him but he's got the law on his side, I believe."

"When does this get interesting?" Sherlock asked with a groan as his head fell back.

John folded his arms triumphantly. "She's dying. She'll likely die in the next week. Why would a man she swears she's never met, nor wants to become better acquainted with, want to take on such a burden, let alone attempt a journey with her into the interior?"

Sherlock's head came up. "Why indeed?"

John smiled smugly. "Interested, then? Have I managed to persuade you to help?"

Sherlock pushed himself up from his chair and adjusted the lapels of his dressing gown.

"Of course, who can resist a damsel in distress?" He asked sardonically. "What is the fair maiden's name?"

John drew in a breath. "Molly Hooper."