29 September, 1797

Fifteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes, youngest son of the Earl of Belmont, was undeniably bored out of his senses. His impossibly quick mind rebelled at stagnation, and there was nothing more stagnant than being forced to sit through a dinner party. Sherlock hated parties, particularly small ones. If the gathering were large, at least he might steal away for a few brief moments of peace without being noticed. Tonight, however, no more than a dozen guests graced the entryway of Belmont Hall, thus any attempted escape would be immediately noticed by the hawk-like eyes of his mother.

Lady Belmont, or Violet to her friends and family, was easily as sharp as her three highly intelligent sons, but unlike them, she valued her relationships, and cared somewhat about their opinions (though she would always argue that society as a whole placed entirely too much value in the thoughts and ideas of others). Her intelligence was matched by her grace and good humor, and she was universally loved by all who came to know her, and inherently respected even by those who only heard of her. In short, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Her husband, Siger, had inherited his title at the passing of a childless uncle, and took on the role reluctantly, but without argument. What argument could be made, after all? For the law was absolute, and the estate was in need of a master. A kind and simple man, Lord Belmont was content to sit in his study and smoke his pipe, whilst scouring the newspaper for the latest horse-racing news. However, not one to place bets or indulge in speculation, he contented himself with reading about it later, and laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Lord Belmont cared little for society, and that disinterest transferred to two of his three sons.

Sherlock turned his eyes to each of his brothers in turn. The eldest, Sherrinford Holmes, took his to-be-inherited title very seriously, and made every effort to live up to the respect and good name made for them by their mother. Though a bit more prickly than either parent, he managed to earn the affections of society, and, in particular, a Miss Amelie Dupont, who became the newest Mrs. Holmes the previous autumn. Sherlock observed his sister-in-law, a pretty enough girl with fair hair, fairer skin, and dark green eyes. There was a subtle glow to her countenance, mixed with a barely-concealed grimace betraying her discomfort, suggesting to him that in the course of this evening, they would likely receive a happy announcement.

Mycroft, the second son, had also made a name for himself as a rising star in the government. At twenty-one, he had earned a seat in the House of Lords—unheard of for a second son—and was quickly climbing the ranks. However, for all his intellectual prowess, Mycroft lacked any interest or skill in dealing with society. He was often referred to as "The Ice Man," and frequently wore a scowl on his face. Mycroft was the only individual present as utterly bored as Sherlock, and he felt a small amount of empathy. That feeling lasted but a moment, for the two younger Holmes brothers had established a rivalry, always competing, trying to outsmart the other. Sherlock had yet to win over his brother, but he placed the blame for that on his youth and lack of experience. As he grew older, he would undoubtedly claim the upper hand. He was quite determined.

"You'd better behave, Sherlock Holmes," his mother whispered from beside him. Despite being a head shorter than him, she put a hand on his shoulder in what would appear, from an outsider's perspective, to be an affectionate gesture, but was in fact a warning. "No incidents, understood?"

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he conceded, "Yes, Mother."

"Good." Then, following a genuinely affectionate squeeze of his shoulder, she turned her attention to her guests. "Thank you all for coming this evening! I realize this is a bit atypical of a Michaelmas feast, but my husband and I thought a more intimate gathering would suit the occasion."

Here it comes, Sherlock thought with a roll of his eyes, and caught Mycroft mimicking the gesture as Sherrinford and Amelie stepped forward, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. His cheeks turned pink as they shared an amorous glance, then addressed the group, "Amelie and I are expecting."

Excited tittering erupted through the room, and Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes again. After the acceptable congratulations had been offered, Lady Belmont raised a regal hand, effectively silencing the room. "In celebration of this happy news, we have agreed that the normal order of seating be done away with for the evening, and moreover, we would like your children to join us."

Damn, Sherlock groaned internally. That explained his mother's warning. All hope of excusing himself had now fled, and he would be forced to sit through the entirety of the event. In addition, he would have to officially make the acquaintance of everyone in the room. He'd gotten by with only a superficial knowledge of his extended family and his parents' friends, but now he would have to associate with them himself. Damn, he thought again.

He suffered through the introductions, bowing politely as he was taught (he was not a heathen, after all), and otherwise keeping his mouth shut. As the last group of new acquaintances approached, he noticed a small girl hiding behind the adults he assumed were her parents.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hooper," Lady Belmont provided their names. "You know Mycroft, of course, and this is my youngest, Sherlock."

"A pleasure," Mr. Hooper smiled, and the couple inclined their heads to each brother in turn, and turned to the timid girl, urging her forward. "This is our daughter, Margaret."

"She is only ten," Mrs. Hooper explained with a fond chuckle, "and terribly shy. Molly," she whispered to the little girl, "won't you say hello to our hosts?"

"Miss Hooper," his mother and Mycroft greeted her. The tiny girl stepped forward, and Sherlock noted her mousy-brown hair, dark eyes, and upturned nose, and merely sniffed. She was a plain little thing, the kind society women would no doubt tear apart. She'll never catch a husband with that face, they would say. And considering her reticent disposition, they would probably be right.

Shakily, Miss Hooper curtsied first to Lady Belmont, then Mycroft, then she turned to Sherlock. As she looked upon him, she gasped aloud, and her eyes widened comically. Sherlock frowned in confusion, and she seemed to come to herself. A dark flush spread across her freckled cheeks, and she quickly bobbed a final curtsy, before scampering back behind her mother, clinging to the fabric of her dress. The adults, Mycroft excepted, shared a good-natured laugh, and brushed off the action. Dinner was announced a moment later, and the party migrated into the dining room.

Sherlock found himself watching the young Miss Hooper throughout the meal. She stared pointedly at the table directly in front of her, and ate no more than three bites of each course. Her cheeks still bore a trace of their earlier blush, and he concluded she was embarrassed by her behavior. For his part, he was curious, and a bit apprehensive. Had she recognized him from somewhere? His adventures—or "incidents," if one asked his mother—often took him to the nearby village, and occasionally across the borders of their land and into other estates. Perhaps she'd seen one of his more secretive missions, and would go tattling on him.

Resolved to ensure that would not happen, Sherlock kept a close eye on Miss Hooper. After the meal, the gentlemen stayed for port and cigars, while the women and children moved to the drawing room for cards and conversation. Sherlock would have preferred to stay with the other men, but the last time he'd attempted, when he was thirteen, his father had scolded him (a rare occurrence with the normally very composed Earl), telling him to try again in about eight years. Today, however, this served his purpose well, giving him an opportunity to approach Miss Hooper.

He did so promptly, and without her knowledge, as she had been asked to favor the ladies with a performance at the pianoforte. Her fingers moved with surprising grace, considering her age, though she had quite a long way to go before she could be called truly accomplished. Sherlock felt an unexpected urge to retrieve his violin, and offer to perform a duet. He refrained, telling himself there were more important matters to attend to, such as saving himself from being skinned alive by his mother.

Sherlock remained still, watching her hands as she plunked out a highly simplified version of a Mozart piece. As she finished, the mothers and young ladies present applauded, and Miss Hooper's face turned pink again. She glanced up with a shy smile, which vanished as she caught sight of Sherlock. She gasped again, albeit more quietly, and her blush deepened.

"You play… well, Miss Hooper," he said politely, almost choking on the lie. Well… not a lie, but not precisely the truth. She did play well for a ten-year-old girl.

"Th-thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"Miss Hawkins," he heard his mother address a girl just a bit older than himself, "will you favor us?"

Taking this cue, Sherlock offered to help Miss Hooper stand, as Miss Hawkins approached. A moment later, a woman he could only assume was Miss Hooper's governess came to retrieve her, and take her to the nursery, as was customary. Sherlock balked at the idea of following her to the nursery; he hadn't set foot in there since he had begun his days at Eton, fancying himself too old. But he pushed aside his discomfort, and his better judgment, and asked, "Might I join you?"

The silence that greeted his request was deafening. He glanced at the women in the room, and found, unsurprisingly, expressions of shock on every face… except that of his mother. Lady Belmont's eyebrow quirked up, and a hint of a smirk played at her lips. Sherlock recognized her scheming look, and almost regretted asking. The deed was done, however, and the governess acquiesced.

Once in the nursery, she took a seat in the corner of the room, where she could observe and attend, as needed, but remain otherwise invisible. Sherlock and Miss Hooper stood awkwardly for a moment, then Sherlock blurted out the first question that came to mind.

"Your mother called you Molly?"

She turned to him with a start. "I… yes. Well, Father called me that first, then she started to use it, too."

"I've never heard the name. Where did they come up with it?"

Miss Hooper bit her lip. "He… he said I was sweet as a lolly, and then just put the 'M' at the beginning."

Sherlock tried—really, he did—not to scoff at the idiocy. But the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. "What sentimental nonsense!"

Her eyes widened with hurt, before they narrowed in surprising anger. "I happen to like my name! What do you know about it? You don't even have a nice pet name, do you?"

"Thank heavens, no," he drawled. "I can only imagine the monstrosities that would come from an attempt to shorten my name."

"You mean, like… 'Sherlie'?" she asked with a raised brow, then she dissolved into giggles. Despite his horror at the name, he found himself laughing along with her. Several minutes later, their laughter subsided, and he extended a hand.

"Truce, Miss Hooper?"

She eyed his hand, then shook it firmly. "Very well. And please call me Molly, even if you don't like it."

"I never said I didn't like it," he countered, then chastised himself for this admission. Clearing his throat, he covered his misstep by saying, "I'll call you Molly if you promise never to call me Sherlie."

Molly giggled. "I promise… Sherlock."

He smiled in response. "Now that we're friends, Molly, may I ask you a... rather strange question?"

She eyed him suspiciously, but replied, "I suppose so."

Sherlock looked directly at her, wanting to observe every nuance of her expression, then at last posed the question that had plagued him all evening. "Where did you see me before?"

"Pardon?" she asked in confusion.

He huffed, his patience dwindling swiftly. "When you saw me, you gasped, and I assumed you recognized me from somewhere, and I'd like to know where."

She frowned. "But I never saw you. Never in my whole life."

He blinked slowly, processing this information. "Then… why did you gasp when you saw me?"

In an instant, her blush had returned with a ferocity, and she swallowed hard. "I… would rather not say."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Then I must assume you find my appearance repulsive?"

Another gasp escaped her lips. "No! That is…" Molly stepped back as she realized her mistake. Sherlock smirked, but said nothing, content to wait for her honesty. She sighed, visibly deflating as she admitted defeat. "I-it's because… because… youhavetheprettiesteyesIhaveeverseen."

She blurted the admission so fast it almost blurred together, and it took Sherlock a moment to puzzle through what she had said. As it dawned on him, he froze in place, making no movements apart from several rapid blinks. "I… er… thank you?" he finally stammered out.

Molly tucked her chin against her chest, avoiding his gaze. "You're welcome," she mumbled, then turned and sauntered over to the window, looking out at the vast blackness of the night. She was clearly very uncomfortable, and for the first time that Sherlock could remember, he felt sympathy, and even a bit awed. Despite her obvious embarrassment, she did give him an honest answer, which showed no small amount of bravery. And apparently, his eyes were the prettiest she had seen. That knowledge filled him with irrational pride, and he couldn't hide a smile, crossing the room to stand beside her.

"You do play the pianoforte quite well, Molly," he said. "For your age."

Yet another blush stole across her cheeks. "Thank you."

"There is another pianoforte on the third floor," he divulged almost conspiratorially. "The sound shan't carry down to the drawing room. And I play the violin," he added. "We could..."

"Play a duet?" she finished, looking up at him in surprise.

Sherlock shrugged, keeping his eyes forward. "If you like."

"Oh, yes!" she all but shouted, earning a small cough of reprimand from her governess. Sherlock smirked as she demurred. "I-I mean… yes, Sherlock, I… would like that very much."

He fought to smother his grin. "Let me fetch my violin."

After retrieving the instrument, the two young musicians, accompanied by Molly's governess (Miss Tate, he learned), journeyed up the stairs to the upper music room. This room was originally for Sherlock's use, as he often played his violin late at night when he had difficulty sleeping. He rarely used it, however, as he couldn't be bothered to climb the stairs so late at night, and his family had eventually become used to the racket. As his skills developed, the interruption of the sleep was perhaps a bit less unwelcome, though he'd never asked.

The duo spent just shy of an hour playing their favorite pieces, with Sherlock giving a few pointers on her performance. He'd received lessons and excelled at the pianoforte, but his true musical love was the incomparable Stradivarius. They had just finished an improvised duet variation on a piece by Bach when the door opened, revealing Molly's father.

"There you are!" he smiled. "Lady Belmont was right, she suggested I look up here. Mr. Sherlock," he briefly nodded in his direction, "Miss Tate, Mrs. Hooper is unwell, and would like to retire early. We'll be going now."

"Yes, sir," the governess replied docilely.

"But Papa—"

"I'm afraid I must insist, Molly," he cut her off, and Sherlock noted a touch of fear in his eyes. It seemed Mrs. Hooper's condition was more serious than a headache or a trifling cold. Something was very wrong with her, and her days were numbered.

Sherlock felt almost ill. Molly would be so very sad when her mother passed, and he found he hated the idea. No sooner had this realization struck than he stepped forward, determined to do something about it.

"If I may be so bold, Mr. Hooper," he said evenly. "Miss Hooper shows tremendous potential on the pianoforte, and with proper practice, could become quite talented."

Mr. Hooper blinked. "Yes, I believe she will."

"With proper practice," he emphasized. "And I, myself, am in need of additional practice on the violin, and as we have noticed tonight, we make quite a pair."

The older man arched a brow. "What are you proposing?"

"If it is agreeable to you, sir," he began, donning his most persuasive expression, "Miss Hooper may come to our estate the second and fourth Saturdays of every month. I return home from Eton for these week-ends, and would enjoy the additional practice time, and the company."

Mr. Hooper's eyes slid a spot down and to the left of Sherlock's face, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Molly nodding vigorously. With a smile, Mr. Hooper said, "I will discuss this with my wife, and send a note with my response. But for tonight, we must be on our way."

"Of course," he conceded with a slight bow of his head, before facing Molly. "It was a pleasure, Miss Hooper," he said, all politeness and propriety, but as he bowed, he winked at her, causing a grin and the perpetual blush to spread across her face.

"The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Holmes," she curtsied back, then she followed Miss Tate and her father out of the room. She stole a glance back at Sherlock just before the door closed. There he stood, tall and handsome, his beautiful eyes twinkling at her. She bit her lip and retreated into her thoughts and memories of the evening.

Sherlock was an exceptionally talented violinist, and likely had no need of practice at all. Yet he wished to have time to practice with her. Even at such a young and tender age, her heart could be, and had been touched by this gesture. She smiled to herself for the entire carriage ride, and fell into a pleasant slumber along the way. As she drifted, three pairs of ears caught a softly-spoken sentence, which she would have no memory of saying.

"I'm going to marry him someday."

What do you think? The Regency era is undoubtedly my favorite, and I absolutely love pairing that with my favorite ship, Sherlolly. And this was originally going to be just a childhood-friends-turned-lovers one-shot, maybe two-shot. But this chapter took a life of its own, and shoot-dang, I have to do more! Not that you mind. Anyway. Please leave a lovely little review in the box below!