Chapter Text
“Lord Sherlock.” Gunther, the Hoopers’ loyal butler, greeted as he opened the door.
“Good day, Gunther.” Sherlock tipped his hat in greeting. “How have you been? It has been some time, hasn’t it?”
“Indeed, my lord.” Gunther smiled fondly, unable to see him as anything other than the audacious boy who once roamed these halls with his employers’ children. “I see you have returned from your travels.”
“Yes.” Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Just concluded a case in France for Mycroft.”
“They are currently receiving guests in the music room,” Gunther informed him, ushering Sherlock into the foyer.
Sherlock had spent the past month and a half in Paris on what Mycroft had promised would be a brief assignment. Before that, he had taken refuge in the countryside, claiming that nothing of interest ever occurred during the off-season. In truth, he had relished the excuse to conduct experiments with Molly, who also retreated to the country whenever the season was not in full swing.
But, as always, Mycroft’s “favor” had extended well beyond its original timeline.
So when Gunther led him to the music room, Sherlock was less than pleased to find that his friends were preoccupied—not with science, conversation, or anything remotely stimulating, but with the dullest members of the ton.
“Announcing the arrival of Lord Sherlock Holmes,” Gunther declared.
Molly startled, her teacup rattling slightly in its saucer. “Sherlock!” she squeaked. For a moment, she looked as though she might rise to greet him, but she hesitated.
Malcolm, Molly’s older brother, wasted no time. He strode over and clapped Sherlock heartily on the back. “Good to see you, old friend! Case is over, then?”
“Obviously, Malcolm.” Sherlock smirked.
Malcolm rolled his eyes. “You could have written,” Molly muttered under her breath. Sherlock barely stifled his amusement.
Turning to Lord and Lady Hooper, he inclined his head. “Good afternoon, my lord, my lady. I apologize for arriving unannounced—I had no idea you were receiving guests.”
“Nonsense, my boy!” Lord Hooper boomed, enveloping Sherlock in a rather unexpected hug.
“You are always welcome,” Lady Hooper added warmly. “Come, sit and have some tea and biscuits.”
Sherlock took the vacant seat across from Molly, directly meeting her gaze.
Molly Hooper had grown even lovelier in his absence. Though he did not often take notice of such things, he observed now, with some interest, how the soft afternoon light caught the rich brown of her hair. Her complexion remained as fair as ever, her cheeks lightly flushed—whether from the warmth of the tea or the surprise of his sudden arrival, he could not be sure. But it was her eyes that captured his attention the most: sharp, intelligent, brimming with unspoken thoughts she would, no doubt, scold him with later.
“Lady Molly,” he greeted with uncharacteristic formality.
“My lord.” She brought her teacup to her lips, no doubt to conceal her amusement. He, too, found it all rather ridiculous. Ordinarily, he would barge in, make himself at home, and bypass pleasantries altogether—but today, there were visitors.
More specifically, Molly’s suitors.
Sherlock’s gaze flicked over them. He had deduced everything he needed to know in seconds and found them both entirely lacking.
“Oh!” Lady Hooper exclaimed, suddenly remembering herself. “Where are my manners? Forgive me—I have yet to introduce our guests.” She gestured toward the two gentlemen seated beside Molly. “This is Lord Moresby,” she said, indicating a fair-haired man with an unfortunate penchant for blue and white cravats. “And this is Lord Simmons,” she added, nodding toward a short, burly gentleman.
“My lords,” she continued, “this is Lord Sherlock Holmes, son of the Marquess of Taldon, and a dear friend of Malcolm and Molly since childhood.”
“Ah, yes, the second son,” Lord Moresby remarked. “I’ve heard of you.”
Sherlock merely arched a brow.
“You were the fellow who caused quite the stir at Eton with your… peculiar experiments.” Moresby smirked. “Tell me, is it true you once set a professor’s desk on fire due to your pyromaniac tendencies?”
Sherlock let out a half-hearted laugh. “Oh dear, is that what they say? Lord Moresby, I fear your friends find you rather gullible.”
From the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught Molly and Malcolm suppressing their amusement. He was almost certain he heard a snigger from Lord Hooper as well.
Then, with a polite but entirely insincere smile, Sherlock added, “Now tell me, my lord—is it true that you are more enamored with Lady Molly’s dowry than the ‘undying love’ you were just prattling on about?”
The room fell silent.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Lord Moresby spluttered.
“The creases on your jacket cuffs suggest prolonged contact with a poker table. Tell me, have you settled your most recent debt?”
Lord Simmons let out an undignified hoot of laughter.
Sherlock turned to him with disinterest. “I would hardly take your opinion into account, Lord Simmons.”
The bald man immediately stopped laughing.
“You, on the other hand,” Sherlock continued, “may be wealthy and powerful, but you are, unfortunately, rather stupid. Your visible frustration with the conversation mere moments ago suggests a distinct lack of intellect. And to pair such a mind with Molly’s? An insult, truly.”
Simmons’ face turned an impressive shade of red.
And that was all the provocation they needed.
Sherlock, well-versed in the art of boxing, expertly dodged the first swing and the second lunge. Malcolm and Lord Hooper intervened before the scuffle escalated further, and soon, both humiliated suitors stormed out of Stonewell estate in disgrace.
Lord Hooper, rather than being outraged, clapped Sherlock on the back and ushered him toward the game room for a celebratory drink. “Brilliant work, my boy!”
Lady Hooper, ever the social strategist, fretted, “Oh dear me, I must write to Violet about this at once,” before hurrying off to her correspondence.
Molly, however, was less amused.
While she had certainly enjoyed the spectacle, she was also—predictably—exasperated.
“I need a word with you,” she said, dragging Sherlock into the adjacent library.
“I was merely saving you the trouble of rejecting them yourself,” he defended, leaning casually against the bookshelf. “One look at those fools was all it took to see they were unworthy.” He smirked. “Admit it, my method was far more efficient. And enjoyable.”
Molly’s exasperation softened into something wistful. “You’re still a git, though.”
“Tut tut. Such language, milady.”
She cuffed him on the arm.
Sherlock winced theatrically. “Molly, I keep forgetting—you are not a lady.”
“Oh, shut up. What brings you here?”
“Well,” he said, straightening, “I’ve finished my case. And I have a rather interesting story to tell.”
“You could have sent word,” she scolded, throwing her hands up.
“And what? Inform you that I was coming home? I would have arrived long before the letter reached you.” He arched a brow. “Besides, I did tell you in my last correspondence that I was close to solving the case.”
“Yes, in a fortnight, at least!” she huffed.
“Really, Molly,” he sighed. “You act as if you did not want me here.”
She blinked at him, her earlier frustration melting away. “Oh, Sherlock. You know that isn’t true.”
Something shifted between them, the moment stretching longer than either intended.
Sherlock was not one for sentimentality—nor, generally, for physical contact—but this was different. Without another word, he closed the space between them and pulled Molly into a firm embrace.
“I know,” he murmured. “I missed you, too.”