Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Complete and utter fun, not to be taken seriously. And if anyone spots any historical inaccuracies then let me know.

CHAPTER ONE: AN AFFAIR TO FORGET

London, 1895

"The Knights are to be congratulated," Ms. Mary Morstan murmurs in Ms. Molly Hooper's ear. "Without any effort whatsoever, they have managed to throw the most boring party of the Season.

Brava."

Molly shakes her head, gives another quick shake of her fan. The heat in the room is becoming unbearable, and the tightness of her blue silk dress, let alone the corset beneath it, is not helping matters. "Oh, hush," she admonishes, rather than dwell on it. "They'll hear you."

Mary grins wickedly. "We can only hope. Some scandal might improve the evening."

And the other woman shoots her a cheeky wink, carefully linking her arm in Molly's and walking her through yet another turn at the edge of the ballroom's dance floor.

Her words are directed, sotto voce, to Molly's bowed head.

The crowd parts for them, most of the gentlemen shooting Mary appreciative smiles and glances; Those few who don't know who she is completely ignore Molly, something which the young heiress can't help but herself smiles back in her bright, friendly fashion, though she keeps most of her obvious attention for the matrons and mammas of the Ton-

After all, they ' re the ones you don't want to alienate.

And if Mary is to gain her goal for this Season- that of finding herself a wealthy, half-agreeable husband- then she had best keep on the good side of that would-be suitor's matriarch.

Not, Molly thinks, that that will be any challenge for her friend. Vivacious, charming and clever, Mary Morstan is exactly the sort of bride most mothers would choose for their sons- Particularly if those sons are to inherit estates which they are far too silly to run themselves. In fact, the young woman provides a most unflattering comparison for Molly: Despite her lack of fortune- she comes from an Army family, one recently fallen on hard times but with an illustrious pedigree stretching back to before Cromwell- Mary can be everything that is agreeable to both a man and his Mama, so much so that Molly often envies her.

After all, Mary never gets tongue-tied or nervous or says stupid things to people she really needs to think highly of her, if she is to stay in society.

Mary never, ever blurts out evidence of her ill-gotten medical degree when she is around gentlemen, no matter that she seems to have almost as good a knowledge of anatomy as Molly herself and will never explain why.

And Mary never gets so nervous that she tries to actively flee a ballroom, a tendency of Molly's which has already elicited a great deal of gossip and no small amount of cruel, whispered jibes from the Season's debutantes-

No, Mary is a lady. So much more so than Molly knows she will ever be, her late father's wishes and her unexpected inheritance from Great Aunt Georgiana be damned.

That such a fact was of no interest to the young Ms. Hooper before her father's death is something on which Molly would rather not dwell.

So she decides not to dwell on it, nor indeed on anything unpleasant. She even elects to ignore Mary's comment about the Knights' party, if only because she can see their hosts' heir, poor Sir Henry Knight, being shooed in her direction by his Mama though it's obvious he doesn't want to go. Molly can't say she blames him: The mumbling, hesitant young gentleman engineer has trouble speaking with most people, let alone women. She and he have already attempted small-talk once before and once was more than enough. Between her crippling shyness and Henry's natural reserve they had barely uttered more than three sentences for the entirety of the endeavour, and had both all but fled the drawing room in which it had taken place.

Molly had been able to see his embarrassment and hesitation: She knew he had not intended to be rude to her. But she also knows that re-enacting another such endeavour now is unwise- Deeply unwise-

And besides, she suspected Henry has his eye on someone else, someone far more interesting than Ms. Molly Hooper (not, Molly muses, that such a thing is difficult). For the young man has spent the entire night shooting clandestine little looks at the ball's true star, the Dowager Countess Anthea Utterwood-

And for once Lady Anthea appears to be looking back at him.

Well, well, well, Molly thinks. That's not something that you see every day.

For Lady Utterwood never shows any particular favour to men: At nine and twenty she is a strikingly handsome woman, a diamond of the first water with the proportions of a classical statue and the charisma of an opera diva. There is not a man in society who doesn't want her, but she doesn't appear terribly interested in them- And why would she be?

She is more than fascinating enough, Molly has always thought, to keep herself occupied.

Rich, educated and brilliant, Lady Anthea outshines all in her orbit.

For this reason, Molly always feels vaguely… boyish in her presence. Scrawny. Artemis to her beautifully formed Aphrodite, a comparison which even the normally self-confident Mary has grudgingly admitted to understanding. Molly knows that neither she nor her friend are alone in that reaction: The thinly-veiled rage with which the party's debutantes are staring at the woman is enough to convince her of that. Beneath all that white satin, the sweet little girls of the Ton are furious at having their thunder stolen by the glamorous, scarlet-dressed widow and they have not the slightest idea what to do about it-

For their cruelty to her, Molly can't help but be a little amused at their ire.

And yet, she can't help but feel a twinge of… unease, as she watches Lady Anthea give Sir Henry what would, from anyone else, constitute the glad eye.

Poor Henry isn't going to know what's hit him, she muses.

And Molly is not entirely convinced that's a good thing.

For Sir Henry really isn't the sort of man Lady Utterwood has ever before favoured: Since she'd lost her husband three years ago the young widow has spent her days and her money entertaining scientists and artists, bohemians of the highest order. Poets rub shoulders with political thinkers in Lady Utterwood's house, discussing the important questions of the day and debating their theories until the early hours of the morning, their chatter fuelled by brandy, absinthe and God knows what else. But an invitation to "The Merry Widow's," salon is still amongst the most sought after by the Ton, mainly because it is almost impossible to come across; Lady Utterwood, being completely unimpressed by either wealth or breeding, only accepts genuine brilliance amongst her circle.

And since few in the Ton are genuinely brilliant- and since even fewer know what actually goes on at those gatherings- the rumours get more wild and (in Molly's opinion) less likely to be true with each season.

The one about the infamous adventuress Irene Adler being a regular visitor is, she believes, amongst the most ridiculous she ' s yet heard.

As she thinks this, Molly watches Lady Anthea surreptitiously, wondering whether she should warn the Knights of her suspicions- Though to what end? Sir Henry certainly wouldn't be impressed. And this really isn't her business, after all. He's a grown man.

Besides, she must allow that at least some of her reaction to the other woman is jealousy; She is, quite frankly, everything that quiet, mousy Molly Hooper is not, no matter that that same Molly Hooper now miraculously has an income of £20, 000 a year. As she thinks this her gaze turns inwards, the old, familiar guilt pressing in on her as she contemplates the unexpected turn her life has taken-

"Careful, darling," she hears Mary whisper, the blond woman lowering her head so that her words can't be heard. "You're staring at poor Henry and scowling; people will get it into their heads that you have some sort of tendre and you're angry he's paying attention to Lady Utterwood."

Molly blinks and shakes her head, not because she doubts Mary but because she knows her friend is right. The Ton, having little to amuse themselves with besides parties and gossip, can make the most massive of mountains out of the most miniscule of molehills. And she doesn't want to get poor Henry into any sort of bother: He'll have bother enough, she knows, if he's pining for the Season's most sought after prize.

Though it would appear that prize may be pining for him too, something which Molly can't help but doubt.

So she averts her eyes, turns her attention back to Mary. "Can't have that," she murmurs, and the other woman gives her shoulder a small, sympathetic squeeze, smiling at her again. She knows she hates these parties, just as she knows that Molly feels she has to come. Since she became unexpectedly wealthy it has been impressed upon her repeatedly that she had best find herself a husband. If nothing else, it will mean there is someone with whom her bankers will actually communicate. And so she must step into what the girls her father worked with in the East End term, "The Matrimonial Noose." It is a matter of necessity.

But everyone she encounters is such a terrible… bore. The hunting and fishing set are not interested in a formerly poor, female doctor, except for the wealth her inheritance might provide. They look at her and see nothing but a nonentity at best and a social climber at worst, a reaction which is disheartening to say the least. And at least those gentlemen are politely disinterested in their avarice: Those of a more mercenary nature have taken to coaxing, flattering or occasionally trying to drag her bodily into empty rooms in an attempt to ruin her reputation and force her into marriage-

It's why she'll only attend these parties with Mary now: The other woman is, essentially, her bodyguard.

That her protectiveness means she gets to mix with a higher class of suitor than she might otherwise meet is Mary's reward for her good-heartedness.

"How about we take a turn down to the ladies' relief room?" Mary asks then, correctly reading Molly's distaste for the gossips in her darkening expression and silence. (She is remarkably adept at that).

"Could we?" Molly asks. "And we'll make a point of not looking upset and chatting to everyone, just to take the sting out of any incipient rumours."

Mary's smile widens. "You see, that's where you and I differ, Molly," she says. Her eyes turn wicked. "You're always looking to avoid trouble-"

"-And you're always looking to encounter it." Molly has to grin. "You're addicted to danger, do you know that?

The blond woman nods. Her answering smile is splendidly cheerful.

"Exactly," she says. "Which is why we're such good friends: I'm always hell-bent on adventure, and you're always here to help me hold my demure, ladylike course."

At the use of the word ladylike Molly snorts and Mary's eyes twinkle with glee.

One of the Ton matrons throws them a disapproving look at both women have to fight back an unexpected fit of giggles.

"Between the pair of us, we're practically the perfect woman," Molly says. The young doctor is having a great deal of trouble keeping a straight face. "So come out and get some fresh air, and leave the gossips to their fodder… I'm sure Sir Henry will survive our absence."

Mary grins. "I'm sure he will," she says dryly. "Poor lamb."

"Poor lamb, indeed."

And with that the two friends head off, in search of the ladies' refreshment room. The darkness, and the quiet, and the lack of irritating, mercenary men and society Mamas awaits.

It will, Molly muses, a rare moment's peace.

Thinking that anything she does tonight will be peaceful turns out be her first mistake of the evening, however.

For it is on her way to the ladies' room that providence elects to jump out at her, and it takes the form of a rather odd man better known for wearing a rather odd hat.