Chapter Text
Sherlock appraised herself in the mirror, standing very still so her maid might not stab her with a misplaced pin. The full-length pane on the wall of her bedroom was her one concession to her vanity. It allowed her to see herself in entirety, from the top of her coiled hair to her bare feet that peeked out from her ragged hem. “Molly-” She grasped her half-finished skirts and pulled them out of her line of sight so she could stare at her maid via reflection. “The left hem is half an inch too short. Do you want to simply march to the roof and shout your disdain for conventional tailoring? I’ll look positively French.”
“It wouldn’t be too short if you’d stop fussing and let me finish properly.” Molly complained, though not as loudly as she might. That she was complaining at all was testament to her state of exasperation, her face flushed and hair coming free of her bun. “No one but you would notice.”
“It would distract me.” Sherlock released her skirts and smoothed her hands down the fabric as it curved over her hips, avoiding the pins. “I’d know it was half an inch short. If I am going to be forced to London when Mycroft leaves, then I would like to do so in my best. The gossip during the season would make a rake blush and if I’m going to debut in purple - unless some other purple gown is in the works? - then I will not debut in an unintentionally asymmetrical frock.” Sherlock, who had been making idle speculation in hopes of garnering some sort of reaction from her maid, saw Molly freeze. Gratified by the young woman’s obvious startlement, Sherlock asked directly, “Molly? Does this mean you can confirm I will be debuting this year?”
“No, Miss.” She replied far too quickly.
Sherlock turned away from the mirror and gazed down. Molly was a bundle of nerves today. Where before Sherlock had assumed it was because the ambitious pattern stretched Molly’s seamstress skills, it now became clear that she had been preparing for questions she wasn’t allowed to answer. The clever girl would know beyond doubt that the curiosity of a new evening dress in February would draw her mistress’s attention. Molly tucked pins back into their cushion as she plucked them from the lopsided skirt and studiously avoided looking anywhere above Sherlock’s knees.
Sherlock smiled and said, “I shall take that as you have been ordered not to confirm, since I rather doubt I am wrong. Thank you.”
“It’s a whole wardrobe. This is just the first of many.” Molly said, which neither confirmed nor denied. She needed do neither. Sitting back on her heels, she let the pincushion roll down her lap to the floor. Frustration, annoyance, and no small amount of ferocity coloured her voice as she said, “You will be beautiful. I swear it. Even if I have to hem every flounce thrice.” A beat later, she looked up wide-eyed.
It was best if Sherlock did not acknowledge Molly’s outbursts, though she filed her maid’s sentiments away for later. “I have no doubt of that, and your enthusiasm is commendable. However, you are welcome to inform anyone who cares that I will not be needing a new wardrobe.”
“Miss?” Molly asked, frowning and reaching for the temporary fasteners on Sherlock’s skirt. “Surely you don’t mean that? You’ll have nothing to wear in London.”
“How convenient. I shall not be residing in London and thus require nothing to wear.”
“You’ll miss your first season!”
Sherlock shifted her weight and ignored Molly’s alarm, fidgeting and running her thumb across her fingertips repeatedly, comforted by the feel of her callouses. “And I shall miss my second and third if possible. I plan to become an spinster with only my chemicals for company.” Her gaze slid to Molly’s disbelieving expression. “It is a consummation devoutly to be wished.”
“Surely you don’t mean that, Miss Sherlock.” Molly said, setting the dressmaking project aside once it came free, basting intact and chalk unsmudged, and lifting Sherlock’s day dress. “A good match gets you off the estate and out of your mother’s home. More besides, Master Mycroft is too political for you to avoid a proposal.”
The half-finished dress finally off, Sherlock stood in her shift and did not answer right away, instead playing with the edge of her collar. She pushed herself hard in the pursuit of her studies, missing meals for more important tasks. The habit left her elbows sharp and her eyes bright, but afforded little protection from any stray breeze. Folding her arms against a sudden chill, she shook off Molly’s comment and said, somewhat more sharply than she had intended, “I certainly don’t have to accept any such proposal. That is my prerogative.”
Molly opened her mouth as if to say something more, then closed it and dipped a quick curtsy before holding out the day dress. “Forgive me my impertinence, Miss Sherlock. It is not my place. May I?”
Sherlock answered only, “You may.” She held out her arms to allow Molly to dress her, taking a fortifying breath as she did so. She shivered still, though the room held a fire that had been stoked well before the fitting session. “But mind what I said. Finish this dress, but I need no more.”
Her hair had fallen during the fitting, dark and fine with a touch of curl. Sherlock brushed it out of her face impatiently as Molly laced her into her bodice. Even in pieces as it was, laying on the bed with an unfinished hem and none of the intended lace, the dress already hinted at the eye-catching final product. She stepped over to the bed to run her fingers across the finely-woven silk and damask. After a moment, she straightened and spoke over her shoulder. “If nothing else goes as it should, Molly-”
Pausing in collecting her sewing basket, Molly looked up in query. “Yes, Miss?”
“If nothing else, finish this dress.”
**
Mycroft did not rise when Sherlock entered his study, ignoring protocol in favour of making it very clear to her who was intended to have the upper hand in their exchange. To offset his rudeness, Sherlock did not sit in the chair obviously prepared for her before his desk. Instead, she went to the window to stare at the gardens. They ignored each other, though Sherlock stole glances at her brother to judge his mood beyond their petty power plays. He was relaxed, which meant he thought he was to break the news of their summer in London. Her brother would be far less relaxed if he had any inkling that she had prepared counter arguments.
They might have remained in mutual, stubborn silence for hours if their housekeeper hadn’t backed into the room with a tea service not thirty seconds after Sherlock arrived. Looking from one to the other with a shrewd eye, she invited them both to the stuffed chairs set before the fire, placing the service on a table between them. “I’ve brought you both tea, just as you asked, Master Mycroft. Come sit, come sit. Surely you’ll not risk your papers. I’m not interrupting your conversation am I?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Hudson.” Mycroft heaved himself from his chair, the arms creaking with the strain of supporting his bulk. Sherlock, too, accepted the armistice and perched herself on the seat across from her brother.
Mycroft smiled politely at them and said, “You were more prompt than I anticipated, so I had yet to start.”
When both siblings had tea in hand and clotted cream within arms reach, they murmured their thanks and Mrs. Hudson retreated into the hall.
“Must be important.” Sherlock commented, her tone neutral, “If you had Mrs. Hudson herself bring us tea to chivvy us into discussion.”
“Isn’t she a treasure?” Mycroft responded, equally bland. His lips quirked into a fleeting smile of amusement before he launched them into discussion without further delay. “I merely wished to discuss your plans for the summer. I trust you’ve made none you cannot break?”
“You presume much. I happen to have filled my social schedule from April to August.”
“August? Really? How out of character for you to have planned so far ahead.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows at her. “I wasn’t going to stay in London nearly that long. With whom did you secure accommodations?”
Sherlock broke first, swearing, “Damn you, Mycroft. I am not debuting this year.”
“It is settled, I’m afraid. Mother has set the date and will send out cards proclaiming your eligibility whether you’re in the city or no. Things will go much easier on you if you cooperate.”
“Mother has no right.” She knew she sounded petulant, but none of this marriage nonsense held any appeal for her. The very thought of such put her in a most vulnerable, most undesirable frame of mind. “No right at all.”
Unsympathetic, Mycroft selected a tiny square of cake. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he was relishing her discomfiture or simply enjoying his tea. He caught her speculative glance and proceeded to annoy her further. “Mother has every right, Sherlock. She waited until you were eighteen out of deference to your-” He paused to find a better word than the one he was about to use, “Idiosyncrasies, let’s say, but it is time for you to form a matrimonial alliance with someone advantageous for the family.”
“Someone advantageous for you, you mean.” Sherlock slid back in her chair and put her elbows on the rests, both hands wrapped around the teacup she held close to her chest. “I refuse.”
“That is not an option.” Mycroft dusted crumbs onto a conveniently placed napkin. “A delay will make it all the more difficult for you to find a suitable husband. Each subsequent year of damage must be corrected, and we are already compensating for last year, though it would have meant you debuted somewhat on the early side. I’m afraid you cannot ignore your familial obligations altogether.”
“There are no reasons why I should be declared eligible at all.” Sherlock narrowed her eyes, “And every reason why I should not.”
“I see no reasons, Sherlock.”
Mycroft’s imperturbable affability was maddening, and Sherlock carefully set down her teacup to use her fingers to enumerate the reasons why she would be entirely unsuitable to a potential husband. She held up her index finger. “The foremost reason is no matter what dowry you offer for me to lure in bidders so I may be auctioned off, I will be yoked to an intellectual inferior. Unpleasant as the idea is for me, I assure you that the unfortunate soul so bound to me also must needs put up with my ‘idiosyncrasies’ as you so delicately describe them. I am odd and I shall remain odd. Your suitors’ hook may be baited with both me and a bit of cheese, but I have no illusions. The cheese would need to be quite aromatic to entice any to nibble on such an unpalatable tidbit such as I. Are you - is Mother, more rather - inclined to provide a large enough dowry to offset the not-unsubstantiated rumours referencing my constant ill-humour? I am an incorrigible Katherina, Mycroft, and you cannot possibly expect to find any such willing to wed me.”
“Money is no object to ensure the happiness of the treasured Holmes daughter, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s patronising tone set her teeth on edge. “You are an asset to the family. We would find a Petruchio for you before the year was out, no doubt. Personality isn’t something looked for in a wife, merely the merging of families. The Holmes family is respectable name and well-connected.”
“Is beauty looked for, either? I’ve a long face with a sickly cast, thoroughly awkward lips, overlarge and prominent cheekbones, and my hair is entirely too dark to be fashionable without being an exotic. What man could be expected to tolerate this?” Sherlock gestured to her own face. “If personality is irrelevant, surely some other redeeming trait is necessary.”
“Your bald insistence on your lack of charms is amusing, if misguided.” Mycroft selected a scone, studying the exterior for long enough that Sherlock became impatient.
She said, “What is so difficult for you to understand, Mycroft? I have no desire to lose the possibility of inheriting my own home should you fail to produce progeny and drink yourself into oblivion. If you insist I must leave your household for my own, I’d as soon take my dowry, establish myself elsewhere, and make a living from my alchemical experimentation.
“Do you need more reasons why I am unsuitable wife? I hold no interest in producing anyone’s heirs - and you need look only to look to Mother to discover what sort of parent I would be. Then too, of course, I have little inclination toward managing a household. What business would I have as chatelaine of a manor? I take meals rarely, request little beyond compounds and sheet music, and care not one whit how others comport themselves.”
Mycroft took her tirade in stride. “If the matter was up for debate, you would have made a stunning rebuttal, but it is not. Mother is set on the course and your cards will be sent regardless.”
Sherlock stared at her brother for a long minute, silently and hopelessly fuming. The final decision did not belong to her.
Deliberately shifting away from the defencive to a more predatory mindset, she poured herself another cup of tea and placed her index finger on the porcelain curve of the handle while it cooled. “It is rather too bad that Mother did not divulge her reasoning to you. I should have liked to know what purpose overrules my complete unsuitability.”
“What makes you think she did not?” Mycroft enquired.
Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, a wealth of information available to her now that she had expanded her focus from her predicament to her environs. She smiled slowly, “Mother knows precisely how hard it is to relinquish control of her estates, and that was to you - her son and heir. I can only imagine how difficult it would be for her to know they were going to a husband bribed to wed me. I daresay I wouldn’t be required to marry if it did not bring her some advantage as well.”
“Perhaps it is simply that you are required to try? If you can grow our fortunes, you will.”
“Lovely.” Sherlock murmured into her cup. “But she didn’t tell you that. It is logical, but it’s not her reasoning. You’ve newsprint on your cuff.”
“Sherlock-” Mycroft warned as he rubbed at his cuff where it peeked from his sleeve, his fingers came away dusted with cheap black ink.
“You’ve been reading the announcements. Not just in the society papers, but the political ones - more earnest but less polished, and certainly cheaper quality. I should be flattered that you’re seeking an opportunity for your dear sister, but the papers given to you by Mother as her first choice for ‘who’s-who’ research are still beneath your breakfast tray, unfolded but stained by several breakfasts. No jam this morning.” Sherlock flicked her fingers, her lip curling in mild disgust. “Mother also left her usual calling card - you’ve some lavender feathers under the corner of your desk. The maids have convinced you that Mondays are tidying-up day, so she would have visited no sooner than Tuesday and no later than Thursday. I’m going to say- Thursday, then. The patterns for the first of my new dresses arrived with the Friday post, and the nearest seamstress - who has a distinctive signature - refuses to do swifter than one day turnaround, even for the Holmeses.”
Sherlock scooted forward on her chair, placed her elbows on her knees, and rested her lips on her steepled fingers. She finished, “If Mother saw you and not me, then she wanted you to screen her. If she had told you her entire reasoning, then I could ostensibly talk you out of it. I have before. This way, there’s nothing to argue.”
Mycroft dropped into a scowl. “This changes nothing.”
“But I’m right- she gave you no reasoning. I am to marry and that is the end of it. It is what is proper, and we must always strive to be proper.” Sherlock’s disgust grew. “We could be thousands of pounds underwater and in need of an economic match and I should never know.”
“You might have asked Molly.” Mycroft recovered enough to look down his nose at her. “Mother was here Wednesday and told the girl to prove the qualities she’d been hired for. I trust your first dress is coming along well?”
Sherlock did not answer.
“We will be travelling to London mid-March, early enough for business, though you’ll have little to do until April. As Mother will not be joining us, Mrs. Hudson will be your escort during the season. Molly is to remain your Lady’s Maid and will also be accompanying us.”
Mycroft put down his empty cup and rubbed his forehead as if talking to Sherlock pained him. She took some small comfort in his not admitting she was right, though she mis-liked having needled him enough to give her explicit instructions.
He continued, much to her dismay, “I intend to have you play for some of my associates, so you should make sure to bring your violin.”
“I shall do no such thing. Not unless I can bring a portion of my laboratory. You will be trying to make me a match, and I absolutely refuse unless I get something out of it. I know very well that the violin would be for you, in no part Mother’s orders.”
Mycroft accepted her terms with a terse nod, and his agreement sounded pained. “Bring your glassware, then, but not enough to cause damage to the building. And kindly refrain from requesting found appendages from the street urchins.”
“You must think my musical talents to be quite the draw for your political friends to accept a bargain in which I continue my experimentation. You don’t approve of the candidates she has preselected for me to consider, then?” With her small triumph, Sherlock allowed herself a moment to be amused.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”
A smile found its way to Sherlock’s lips, despite everything. “Poor Mycroft, burdened with putting up a solid front and forced to take Mother’s part.”
“Mrs. Hudson will collect you. I’m busy for the rest of the morning.” Before Sherlock could object, or even comment, Mycroft rang the servants’ bell. “You are dismissed.”
Sherlock remained silent for half a moment, glancing toward Mycroft’s cluttered desk where incoming letters would rest. There were several, but from here she could not tell from whence they came. She began to ask, “Is there post from Scotland Yar-”
“Go.”
Abandoning her tea, Sherlock did not deign to reply if he were going to use that tone with her. She ducked out of the room to pass Molly in the hall, ignoring her maid’s greeting. Molly - for her part - avoided eye contact once she caught her mistress’s mood. She sidestepped out of Sherlock’s way before peeking into the study to see what Mycroft wanted, disappearing inside after he responded to her query.
Mother’s word might be final, for all intents and purposes the Word of God, but Sherlock would not accept a marriage. Her reasoning for Mycroft in why she would be a poor match stood, but there was the added reason that she had no intention of being forced into a marriage bed to be raped with God’s blessing. No matter what other women of her station were willing to put up with to mitigate their circumstances and find what measure of happiness they could, Sherlock flat out refused to be caught by the treacherous net of holy matrimony.
Quickening her steps, she made for her suites. If she were to conquer this ridiculousness before it could interfere too much with her life, she would need knowledge of a culture she thought never to find herself entering.
Sherlock had letters to write.