The air was cold. Damp. Humid. An unpleasant reminder of the unbearable rain that had assaulted London over the past weeks. How anyone could live in such conditions was an awful thought…

Of course, for Sherlock Holmes, it didn't particularly matter. He had a footman to carry an umbrella, a chauffeur to drive him, and a valet to undress him if his attire were ever to be battered by the dirty raindrops of the city. But, he supposed for the poor individuals outside of his circle, the rain most certainly would have been a nightmare.

At the thought of others, he rolled his eyes and brought another forkful to his mouth, not particularly caring for the exotic seasonings that the Watson household had begun to employ with their meals. When the couple returned from a trip around the world, their lovely estate had begun to sprout colors and designs that Sherlock had admired for years in his readings. And while he may have been a fan of the design changes, he much preferred his food extremely British— tasteless.

"And these poor little lads, running around begging for pounds, all while the rain just soaked them!" Mary Watson continued, dramatically dabbing at a nonexistent tear in the corner of her eye, "Oh, it just about broke my heart!"

"You mustn't continue to visit the orphanage, my lady. You have no idea what sorts of sicknesses those kids will pass on," Anderson, their lead Butler, announced, refilling their glasses with a fake sort of dignity that Sherlock loathed.

Mary scowled at his words and continued to eat. "Nonsense. I enjoy visiting the children, so I shall continue."

At his wife's tone, John shifted and sent Anderson a look, warning the man to leave the room immediately. He did as told, leaving the three adults and sleepy child to continue to dine.

"So," John began, watching Sherlock with a curious gaze, "You've been rather quiet this evening."

Sherlock shrugged and sipped his drink, glancing momentarily at the Watsons' child, who had decided that her food would taste better in one giant lump on the plate. Rosie just grinned at her god father's attention.

"Is it perhaps because you heard the news? You must have. The lady maids have not stopped gossiping all day long." John continued on, giving his friend a meaningful look.

Sherlock scowled and glared at John. "No, John, I do not waste my time listening to the hearsay of your lady maids. Now, out with it."

John's lips twitched into a pleasant smirk, knowing that his words would surely infuriate his best mate. Preparing himself for the worst, Sherlock took another gulp of his wine.

What would it be? Another baby on the way? A war on the horizon? Another bloody dog to chase Sherlock around the house?

But at the sight of Mary sharing the grin, he just knew.

Oh, no.

"Molly will be staying with us indefinitely. Her father agrees that finding a husband will be far easier in London than in Manchester. There's a better crop of men here." John just smirked, knowing the name would light Sherlock's nerves on fire.

And his cock.

Stop that!

Sherlock rose to his feet, glaring at the Watsons, Rosie included.

"Well, thank you for absolutely ruining my dinner. Perhaps my night. In fact, let's just assume my entire week. Good night."

And with that, Sherlock disappeared through the doors, leaving John and Mary to exchange bewildered looks.

Until they both erupted into a fit of giggles.

Xxx

Sherlock sat alone in his library, his feet perched upon his desk, a glass of scotch between his fingers. His head lolled back and forth as his brain tormented him with the thoughts of what was to come.

Of all the awful things that could occur in his life! Sickness, another nine months of an expecting Mary Watson, the departure of his only trusted valet, a war… Her arrival would have to be the worst possible one.

Oh, how Sherlock despised Lady Molly Hooper, the daughter of Hugh and Edna Hooper, the Earl and Countess of Barrow, a spiraling estate outside of Manchester.

Not bloody far enough.

Molly was John's cousin and had positively nagged Sherlock since the moment he turned eight years old. From that year, she began showing up every summer for three-month long stays, desperate to make his life a living hell. Because before that moment, all had been right in the world.

Sherlock and John shared grandparents, the studious and insightful Warren Watson, and the once lively and vivacious Katherine Watson, Earl and Countess of Reichenbach. They had two children—Patrick and Violet. Patrick went on to have John and the late Harriet Watson, who unfortunately had passed away two years prior to tuberculous. Violet had gone on to marry a mild-mannered, middle-class attorney from Brighton by the name of Arthur Holmes. Sherlock and his haughty, incredibly irritating brother Mycroft, would follow suit.

When John's parents passed away, he of course inherited the estate as well as the entirety of the Watson fortune. And when Sherlock's own parents died, given Sherlock's father's modest beginning, he received only a small sum. Instead of finding himself in a home that would be insultingly below his status, he accepted John's invite to continue to reside in Reichenbach, of course until he would choose to wed. Which he wouldn't.

At any rate, with Mycroft involved in politics or whatever boring things he did to occupy himself deep in the city, Sherlock's only true friends (and family) were John and his wife Mary, as well as their almost five-year-old daughter, Rosamund. She was Sherlock's god daughter, and one of the brightest lights in his life.

His happiness at the thought of Rosie immediately vanished when he remembered Molly's pending arrival. He wasn't finished recounting their dreadful time together.

Molly was the niece of John's mother, formerly Lady Anne Cornell before her marriage into the Watson family. Anne was the daughter of an American oil baron, and at the peak of her family's fortune, was sent to England with her sister, in the hopes of snagging a husband within the English aristocracy. Anne had wed John's father, eventually to give birth to two children. Her sister, Edna, however, wed Hugh Hooper, the Count of Barrow.

Molly's mother eventually died only a few years after her birth, leaving her to grow up with just her grieving father. And since the summer Sherlock had turned eight, Molly herself only six, she had been sent down to the Reichenbach Estate, equipped with only trunks and her devoted lady-in-waiting, Meena. She would stay the entire summer, learning to be a lady with her dearest Aunt Anne, and playing with her favorite cousin Harriet.

But oh, how Sherlock despised her! She had shown up that first summer, causing his Uncle Patrick to halt their planned hunt, and instead fill their afternoon with a picnic in the garden. She arrived in her best dress (a ghastly shade of pink), her hair done up in intricate plaits, a flower tucked behind her ear.

And oh, how she pretended to be so polite, graciously thanking her hosts and laughing every time pleasantries were exchanged. Everyone loved her.

It made Sherlock sick.

No, he was not jealous that Harriet no longer helped him play tricks on John to instead spend her days having tea with Molly. No, he was not jealous that John would prefer to paint pictures of the tress with Molly then help him solve cases within the estate. No, he was not jealous that his Aunt and Uncle seemed smitten with their niece, giving her more smiles than Sherlock had ever received.

He had never and would never be jealous of Lady Molly Hooper.

But as she got older, things got worse. She blossomed from this tiny little girl with flowers tucked into her hair into a full-blown demon. She would gallivant across the estate, befriending the maids and the footmen, claiming that they were just like her. She would sew patches into her own gowns, skip through the puddles of mud, desire to go hunting with the men… where would the madness end?

And perhaps Sherlock could have tolerated her desire for women's independence, and the right to vote, and all that ludicrous socialist propaganda. Quite frankly, he didn't care. But what he did care about was her constant bloody presence in his library. And it was his library.

Because when his grandfather died, he promised that Sherlock could claim the space as his own, since he knew how much reading meant to the young man. Yet, as soon as those summer months hit, Sherlock would no longer enjoy the promised seclusion of the room, the smell of the ink on pages, or the leather-bound volumes, or the hint of scotch that permeated through the air and reminded him of the man he lost.

No, instead the room would smell of roses and Molly. She would never leave. He'd enter in the morning to find her curled into his favorite chair, her nose buried within a book about Latin or the bloody American Revolt. By the afternoon, she'd be at his desk, scribbling away a letter to her father. And by the evening, she'd be back to reading along the sofa, casually tucked into his one place to escape.

And when the summer of Molly's coming of age came around, things only became worse. Sherlock had returned from his first year at University to find the girl buried in suitors, as if every bloody eligible bachelor within a forty-mile radius could smell her appeal.

What was even more frustrating about Molly was that she never accepted any of the proposals. And by Sherlock's account, since her entrance into society, approximately eight years ago, she had turned at least nine offers of marriage down. From Dukes, to Earls, to politicians, to American heirs… Her answer was always a firm no.

Sherlock cursed and shut his eyes, his curls brushing against the leather of his favorite seat. A seat that would almost certainly be claimed by Lady Molly Hooper upon her arrival.

Perhaps her father had gotten sick of her rejections of multiple marriage proposals. She was four and twenty, and certainly not getting any younger. Sherlock assumed he would have received the same sentiment from his own parents, if they were still alive, given his age of six and twenty.

He finished his scotch in one final gulp, cursing what the next few days would bring. As he rose to his feet and looked around his lovely library, he whispered a hushed goodbye.

Because as soon as Molly arrived, he would never have the room to himself.

Damn you, Molly Hooper.