Molly Hooper hasn't been installed at St. Bart's for more than three days before a mysterious black sedan pulls up to the ambulance station and she's forced to get in. Apparently, the Keeper of Her Majesty's Broom Cupboard has a brother—whose condition has become a security risk. Sherlolly origin story.

Note: I make a mention of a bit of Jane Eyre somewhere in this story. See if you can spot it.

For Becky and Malyna

"A Plan"

Ten Years Ago

ONE

Molly Hooper sat in the back of a black sedan, squeezing her fingers together, her heart pounding like a rabbit's. Thinking back on it, she had no idea how she'd gotten in the car in the first place—she'd just been walking up to the doors of St. Bart's when the gleaming vehicle had pulled up, a young woman with dark hair and placid face had stepped out, and requested, pointedly, that Molly get in or there would be dire consequences.

And all at once, Molly had found herself inside, behind the driver, speeding through the London streets, sitting next to that same young woman who just silently sat there, texting on her flip phone. Molly swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry.

She was going to be killed. She knew it. Didn't she have any brains at all? Everybody knew you weren't supposed to get into cars with strangers…

Finally, they drew up in front of a grand, red-brick, stoic old house somewhat near Buckingham Palace. The driver got out and opened the door for Molly. She just sat there, frozen, staring up at him.

"Go on," the woman urged from behind her. "He's waiting for you inside."

"Who?" Molly tried. But the woman didn't answer. So Molly braced herself—though she felt sick to her stomach—and climbed out.

The house loomed over her. Dark windows, stern façade, large pillars like bars guarding the entrance. Still wringing her hands together, Molly crept up the front walk, feeling the driver watching her. She ascended the steps, glanced back…

The driver stood there by the car, hands behind his back. He didn't move.

Molly faced the front door of the house, lifted her hand…hesitated…

And knocked three times.

She waited for a beat, her pulse accelerating. She glanced backward again, wondering if the driver would chase her if she turned and bolted—

The latch clacked. The door squeaked open. A serious woman in black, with a formal white cap and apron, eyed Molly.

"Good morning," she said flatly.

"Hullo, I'm…" Molly stopped, her mind reeling. "I'm actually…Not quite sure what I'm doing here." She smiled weakly. The housekeeper stepped aside.

"You're expected, Miss," she said. "Please come in."

Molly tried to pull in a breath, tried not to trip over the threshold, and came inside.

A vast entryway greeted her: a wide Persian rug on the floor, tall mahogany-paneled walls, elegantly-framed portraits of stern ancestors, vases and sculptures sitting on carven pillars. It smelled like books, and furniture polish. She paused in the center of the rug, gaping at the palatial ceiling.

"Thank you, Martha, that will be all."

Molly jumped at the sound of the cool, regulated male voice. The next moment, a tall gentleman in a black suit and red waistcoat, with neatly combed dark hair, hook-like nose and small, piercing eyes emerged. The chain on his pocket watch glittered. He stopped in front of her, glanced her up and down, then smiled—though the expression made her blood go cold.

"You must be wondering what on earth you're doing here," he remarked. He raised his eyebrows. "Forgive me for interrupting your work day, but I have some urgent business that needs attending, and you are precisely the person suited to the task."

"Erm…Sorry…Who are you?" Molly took half a step forward, trying not to wince. The man lifted his chin.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a small position in Her Majesty's government. But my particulars are really none of your concern at the moment." He leveled a strangely direct look at her. "I have a patient for you."

"What?" Molly laughed helplessly. "I'm…No, I'm—"

"You are Doctor Molly Hooper, twenty-seven years old, recently graduated from medical school," Mr. Holmes interrupted. "Top of your class, praised by all your professors, newly appointed to a position performing post-mortems at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital—in fact you started work there just three days ago. You live in London alone in a small flat you keep incredibly neat and organized, as you should, and you are never tardy for any meeting you agree to attend, nor have you ever been late to work or lecture in your life." Mr. Holmes arched an eyebrow. "Judging by the fact that you are wearing five year old shoes, jeans and a ridiculously-patterned sweater, you care little for fashion or style, especially since you are fully aware of the fact that you will be covering the whole of your attire in a lab coat on a daily basis. Tying your hair back in a ponytail as it is now is merely a practical decision on your part, in an effort to keep your hair out of your face as you work, for you are doubtlessly unaware of the girlishness it brings to your already youthful features and that it will inevitably hinder your male colleagues from granting you the proper respect." He looked at her plainly. "Does that about sum it up?"

All the heat had drained out of Molly's face. She clamped her hands together so hard it hurt.

"What do you want?" she asked through her teeth, her voice low.

Mr. Holmes' expression flickered, and he drew in a breath.

"Not to frighten you," he said—his voice softening. "I need your help."

Molly blinked.

"With what?"

"I have a brother—a singularly-difficult brother named Sherlock," Mr. Holmes sighed. "Ever since he was a teenager, he has been prone to the abuse of various extremely addictive and destructive narcotics. He has a brilliant mind, but unfortunately he seeks to enhance its speed by the use of these pollutants, and at this point he has driven himself to the brink of death." Mr. Holmes paused. "I intervened just in time. I have him here in the ground floor bedroom. He is being administered saline and various other nutrients and sedatives via IV, and is resting quietly. I have been watching over him personally all day yesterday and last night. But…" Mr. Holmes stepped toward her. "My presence is required at a critical meeting with several international ambassadors, and I need you to remain with him today, and through the night until I return tomorrow morning. You will of course be paid handsomely for your time, and for your discretion."

"My discretion," Molly repeated.

"Indeed," Mr. Holmes said frankly. "He is my brother. Which is why you find him here at my home recovering, rather than in hospital. He is aware of a great many details concerning myself and my duty to the kingdom. He also has penetrating knowledge of various other machinations behind this government and others. I prefer to keep him out of any potential harm, and away from…" Mrs. Holmes' expression darkened. "Prying eyes and eavesdropping ears."

"Why me?" Molly wondered, her head still spinning.

"Because almost nobody talks to you or pays attention to you," Mr. Holmes answered. "And I doubt they shall in the future. And you must admit that a new post-mortem pathologist is the very last person anyone would suspect of doctoring a living drug addict."

Molly stared at him, her lips parted, but couldn't think of anything to say.

"Don't worry about your employment situation, either. It's quite secure," Mr. Holmes mentioned. "I've made all the arrangements. You may return to work tomorrow afternoon."

Molly still couldn't speak.

"Come," Mr. Holmes motioned to her. "I'll show him to you."

He turned, and without looking back, led the way off to the left down a corridor. Still stunned, her face burning, Molly had to force her legs to work as she shuffled after him.

She passed several more intimidating portraits—they seemed to glare at her garish sweater—until she reached Mr. Holmes at the end of the hall. He glanced back at her, and lifted a finger to his lips. Molly bit the inside of her cheek. Mr. Holmes worked the knob, and pushed on the door. It swung open silently. He stepped inside. Molly followed.

The room stood mostly dark, except for the light from the tall window to her right, filtering in through sheer white curtains. Mr. Holmes turned to the left, slid his hands into his pockets, and frowned down at the twin-sized bed before him.

A young man lay on it—the bed tilted him to a slightly-upright position. A tall, lean young man, with curly brown hair and a narrow, carven face, heavy brow, cultured nose and unique, soft mouth. Even in this light, Molly could see his color was poor—an ashen tone to his cheeks, dark circles around his closed eyes. He wore a hospital gown, and warm beige blankets covered him up to his chest. His bare right arm lay atop the covers, pierced and bandaged with the IV tube…and marked with far too many circular bruises. Two monitors stood on the other side of the bed, hooked up to wires that snaked beneath his gown.

Molly's gaze lingered on his face…

And she stopped breathing.

His face. Utterly still, and asleep.

Somehow…

She felt as if she'd seen him before. But she knew she hadn't. It made no sense. It was like someone at the other end of a long tunnel had suddenly whispered her name.

"This is he," Mr. Holmes breathed. Then, he turned to her. "I of course cannot force you to take this assignment, Miss Hooper. But I would indeed be eternally grateful if you did."

Molly kept studying him.

He looked very bad. Probably several organs were on the brink of failure. He needed professional attention—but it was clear that his brother had no intention of taking him to hospital. And without a doctor, he could die.

Molly pulled her attention from the man on the bed, and looked to Mr. Holmes. Watched him for a moment, searching those keen eyes. Finally, she nodded.

"I will," she murmured.

"Very good," Mr. Holmes muttered, reaching over and picking up a chair from the corner, and setting it next to the bed. "There is a button right down here—a red button." He pointed to a box on the floor with a glowing button on it. "If you need to briefly leave the room, or require refreshment, Martha can be summoned thusly."

Molly just nodded again. Mr. Holmes pulled out his pocket watch and opened it.

"I will return by nine a.m. tomorrow morning," he stated. He looked up at her…

And something changed slightly in his features.

"Take care of him," he said quietly.

"I will," Molly said again. He paused for another moment, turned and left the room, closing the door behind him…

Leaving Molly alone with the beeping monitors, and a nearly-dead young stranger named Sherlock Holmes.

To be continued…

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