The Belle and Her Beast

A/N: This fic is dedicated to my dearest beta, A Pirate by Any Other Name. It's her birthday present, and I, uh, got a few months late. Sorry, love!

Margaret Hooper hated her father sometimes. Well, most of the time, but nice young ladies do not think that way about their fathers. But then again, most fathers did not die off and leave their daughters to fulfill their debts. So yes, Margaret Molly Hooper did hate her late father sometimes.

The carriage rattled on through the woods, jostling its passengers, and Molly could feel her heart throbbing at her throat.

"I don't like this, Molly," her brother said, and she felt his grip tighten on her wrist. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"It's a bit too late for second thoughts, Master Hooper," said the other passenger of their carriage. "And the words of the contract were exceedingly clear."

Her brother scowled at the Earl of Worcestershire, but said nothing. Molly stroked her brother's palm and said soothingly, "I will be fine, brother. You just look after Mother, and be good to your wife."

"I assure you," the Earl said, "no harm will befall your sister. She will be living in the highest lap of luxury this land has to offer."

I will be living as a slave, Molly thought rebelliously, but refrained from voicing her opinion. She curled back into her brother, reveling in the sense of security, however temporary, he provided when he wrapped an arm around her. The moment was short lived, however, as the carriage jolted to a stop not ten minutes later.

The Earl got down as soon as the footman opened the door, and extended a hand to Molly. She took it, and as soon as she clambered down, the door snapped shut. Ignoring her brother's fists beating on the carriage door, the Earl said calmly, "I'd rather not let any more people than necessary inside, Margaret. I hope you understand."

She nodded, giving her brother's furious face one last look, one that she hoped conveyed some bravery, and let the Earl lead her inside.

Inside the enormous sprawling house with rose vines clambering into the cracked windows of the upper floors. Inside to her possibly permanent imprisonment.

Back at the Village, there were stories about the Holmes manor. They said that the mother was not right in the head, and she killed them father, she did. The older Holmes brother was the Earl of Worcestershire, but it was said that he held far more power than the King himself. And there was another brother, the younger Holmes.

"The brother is right messed up, lil missy," the bartender's wife had said to her on her last night in the Village that was her home for twenty years, "takes after 'is mother, he does. Disfigured he is, that's why he be locked up in that old 'ouse. I don't know what yer father was thinkin', striking up a deal with the 'arl. Mark me words, this will be the last we see of ye, Molly love."

Molly had at that point gone home and sobbed for an hour before she ripped the sketch of her father she had been working on since his death. He had effectively sold her; all for the sake of a few pounds.

She bit back a sob that formed at the back of her throat when the front doors of the manor (the paint was faded, the varnish gone. No one cared for it anymore. It was forgotten. Just like she would be soon) creaked open, seemingly of its own accord.

"After you, Margaret," the Earl said regally. Molly smiled weakly at him before she gingerly crossed the threshold, sparing the carriage and the grey sky one last look.

The lobby, and what she could see of the first floor, was actually well kept. The paint was faded, just like the doors, but there was an air of care here, the furniture screamed beauty, elegance and luxury, and the marble steps that led to the upper floors (the second floor landing was ominously dark) were of exquisite taste and design. But Molly could not drag her eyes away from the darkness of the second floor landing. It scared her, but something inside of her wanted to see what it hid. What it protected.

Then she remembered what the bartender's greasy wife had said, and the fear returned tenfold, and she took an involuntary step back, hitting a warm body in her haste. Hoping she had not accidentally hit the Earl, she turned to apologize but was instead greeted by a small old lady in a plush purple dress, and a warm smile on her face. Molly was instantly reminded of her mother.

"Hello, dear," the woman started kindly but the Earl cut across her.

"This is Margaret Hooper, MacMillan Hooper's youngest daughter. Unfortunately, her father died owing me quite a sum of money, and she is here to work off his debt."

"But why here, Mycroft?" the woman asked, brows furrowing. "Why not-,"

"She will be of better use here, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft Holmes said tartly. "And I recall you saying you would have loved some company."

The woman called Mrs. Hudson stared at him reproachfully before she turned to Molly once more. "Well, then Margaret dear-,"

"Molly, my name is Molly." Molly said before she could stop herself.

"Molly," Mrs. Hudson repeated, smiling. "Would you like me to show you to your room or would you like something warm to drink first? It is a bit chilly this time of the year," she said, eyeing the furs that both Molly and the Earl wore.

"Give her the west wing, Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure she'll be comfortable in mother's old rooms," the Earl said as he watched her help Molly with her furs. "I will be going then. Tell my brother to behave, won't you?"

"Maybe you should talk to him, Mycroft. You are his brother," the matronly woman said, and for a moment, Molly thought she actually saw regret and sadness flash on the Earl's regal face.

"Yes, maybe," the Earl tipped his hat off to the ladies, before he made his way out the doors, shutting them behind him. Now the only light in the lobby came from the windows and the high chandelier, which cast a dim glow over the two women.

"Come dear," Mrs. Hudson beckoned, walking towards the hallway that no doubt led to the kitchen and dining halls. "How about a nice cuppa?"

"Molly, love, you mustn't feel like a prisoner here," Mrs. Hudson said as she continued up the staircase, lighting up candles as she went. Molly tried not to look at the east side of the stair case, which was still in darkness. "You barely have any work to do here. Just maybe taking some food up to Sherlock, and keeping me company. And the wiring in your room works, by the way. Don't think we have reverted back to the Dark Ages."

But Molly had processed only one thing so far. "Sherlock?"

"Oh yes, the young Master Holmes. He's a dear, but he takes getting used to. Here we are."

As Mrs. Hudson worked on the lock on the door, Molly thought on what the woman had said. Sherlock, that was his name. And she spoke highly of him. Maybe if someone who could instill such warmth from his servant would not be so bad.

The silence was shattered suddenly by the sound of gunshots from the east wing, and Molly's blood ran cold.

"Oh dear. He's in his moods again," Mrs. Hudson said, as she pushed open the door to Molly's new room. "You know what dear? When you take up his food, just place it in front of his door and knock twice. He'll take it in himself."

Oh great. She was locked up in an old house with no one but a lunatic and his matron for company. She would be dead by the end of the week.

The room she had been given was lovely, with lovely high windows that had a beautiful view of the woods and the mountains, and the bed was of a soft, downy material. And yet, Molly felt like throwing up the contents of Mrs. Hudson delicious dinner.

This house was a prison, no matter how beautiful her quarters were, or Mrs. Hudson's insistence that she would be able to use the library to her heart's content. She wanted to leave now, right now, but Earl was the one who would decide when her father's debt had been fulfilled. She had no choice but to stay. The terms of the contract were very clear, if she left without completely paying back the debt, her family would be left without a home. They would starve.

She lay there and sobbed, the itchy material of her traveling clothes irritating her skin, helplessness pumping through her veins in place of blood.

Her ears prickled as strains of violin music reached them. Molly did not know much about violins, but she could tell it was beautiful, and completely different from the sonatas her classmates who could play the violin were forced to learn in school. The haunting melody surrounded her, soothed her and she wanted to know who played such a wonderful melody, was it the lunatic brother or the sweet little old lady, or someone else entirely, she wanted to know, she had to know-

The music soothed her off to sleep before she had finished her line of thought.

A/N: So this is the fic I'd been going on about on tumblr. There will be a few more chapters, so I honestly hope you like it. Now, the setting is Victorian, because I lack the brain matter to make it into the modern day Sherlock canon.

That sentence made little to no sense. I'll stop rambling now.

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Adi xox