Brighton Rock
Brighton, 1959
They say you taste the sea before you see it.
The salty breeze bled through a small crack of the open car window and gently stirred Molly's hair from around her face, awakening her. The slightly rotting taste of the ocean settled in her mouth, like a thin film of salt over the tongue. Molly found the change in air an unexpected delight, never having been to the beach before. Somewhere amidst the muck and muddle of rearing three children in the Hooper family, with an absent father and an overworked mother, combined with the fact that Molly, the youngest, suffered from severe anxiety of new people and places, the early years of Molly's childhood somehow became deprived of the basic pleasure of a trip to the sea. The family didn't have much money anyway, with precious little for the basic necessities of good school shoes, gas and electricity, let alone for holidays or day trips. For Molly, the distinct change in the air was utterly and wholly new.
The cab stopped by the esplanade, Molly clambered out the passenger door and peered over the cab roof to gaze at the Brighton sea horizon stretched out before them. Wide eyed at the vast expanse of water that confronted her, Molly's first thoughts were of how it didn't quite look as blue as those countless postcards had depicted, more like a wash of silver sleet and milky green. The foam of the waves breaking on the sand formed a constantly moving, rippling strand of grey and white lace. The constant ebb and flow of the water gave an impression of the ocean gently breathing, visibly calm on the surface, yet very much alive, and with an insistent consciousness.
Sherlock watched her as she watched the boats and seagulls, drinking everything up and soaking it in.
"You look awful," he told her, turning up his coat collar against the sharp coastal wind.
Molly quickly tried her best to smooth down her hairdo. The fierce breeze had other ideas and whipped it back against her face, leaving her to pick the strands out of her mouth.
"No. I meant you look ill," he said, surveying her colorless lips and pale complexion.
"Oh, right," she replied with a smile. "Small car and a long journey I guess."
Her stomach was churning uncomfortably. The journey had, along with Molly's nerves, excitement and the bumpiness of the vehicle all combined to make her feel rather queasy. Sherlock took their trunks out the boot and went to thank the driver, a man dressed in a sombre black suit and wearing dark glasses, marking him as part of Mycroft's discreet personal staff. The driver was already slowly pulling away without a word, ignoring Molly and Sherlock just as he had ignored them during the whole trip. Sherlock followed the vehicle with his eyes.
"Mycroft tends to hire minions that remind him of himself; dry, lifeless, sycophantic…"
"...boot lickers to authority?"
"Well," he paused, "that would work," looking at her in bemusement. "Remind me to use that on him the next time we meet. Now for the love of God lets go get some food before you pass out, and you leave me to carry you and our suitcases to this godforsaken safe-house."
With brisk strides, he set off towards the seafront cluster of shops. Keen to explore her new surroundings, Molly quickly followed his lead, lugging along her own heavy and severely battered traveling case, her small heels making a smart clicking sound. He led her over to the nearest stall, which was an array of vividly colored and patterned rock candy, stick after stick of sugary delight. Sherlock gestured for her to pick something. Molly's eyes widened to those of a child in a sweet shop, overwhelmed by choice. Sherlock waited patiently as she spent a little time admiring them all before selecting a red, white and pale green striped candy stick which reminded her of one of her old summer dresses as a girl.
"Good choice miss, for a pretty lass like you, four shillings," said the stall chap cheekily in the regional accent, and added an even cheekier wink.
The long moment before Molly realized he was flirting betrayed her lack of experience in that area. No-one ever flirted with her. Clearing his throat, Sherlock dipped his hand into his pocket and paid the man promptly.
They walked over to a salt-weathered bench overlooking the choppy, milky waters and sat down. The breeze was fresh and biting, permeating through Molly's thin cream macintosh and jumper, but she refused to let her teeth chatter, she was cold, but tough. Admiring the coastal view, she absentmindedly bit down hard on the stick of candy.
"Ow," she said sharply, her teeth grinding against the hardened sugar. Rolling her tongue painfully around her mouth, Molly caught Sherlock's unsympathetic expression.
"Well, I've never had one of these before," she said, justifying herself with embarrassment.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Brighton 'Rock' Molly. The clue is in the name,"
As always, Molly resisted the urge to peek at him out of the corner of her eye, as he would undoubtedly notice. His appearance was so altered now that Molly was still taking some time to get used to it, often jumping at the stranger beside her when she turned to him.
Because they had to go into disguise before they moved, Sherlock's image had changed. He had agreed (after a bickering spat in retaliation to Mycroft's orders) to dye his hair a couple tones lighter from his black olive, it was now a reddish brown, lighter especially in the sun, offsetting his normal sallow complexion to bring out the rosiness. The once riotous curls were now cut short and worn gelled back at the sides and into the trendy quiff style that was the fashion nowadays, with a few strands falling onto his forehead. He had grumbled about it, "Is this cut really necessary? I mean I'd rather just permanently wear a hat to be frank: less maintenance. I think I have a deerstalker somewhere…"
Molly kept the thought to herself that he now looked equally, if not more dashing, thinking the current edgier outward appearance perhaps more suited his temperament than his previous New Romantic mop of curls. The suits, as nice as they were, were also gone too to Molly's slight disappointment. The wardrobe now being mainly of often dubiously patterned sweaters and brogues, with a large and baggy teddy-boy duster coat. Despite his now scruffier and worn-around-the-edges look, the actual quality of attire was misleadingly impeccable, the lines crisp and sharp, a lasting habit from his suit wearing days. As significant as the transformation had been he had, however, still refused point blank to wear jeans.
"For heaven's sake," Mycroft had huffed, waving his hand impatiently at the tailor, signaling him to leave. "With a new identity comes a new image, you need to give up 'Sherlock Holmes', you are now 'Peter Spencer' of 'Brighton Seafood Exports', and Peter wears jeans. Do cooperate old boy."
Watching a muscle twitch in Sherlock's jaw, Molly swallowed nervously. Although his fake suicide had not physically injured him in any way, she knew the extent of the mental injury to him caused from losing his home, freedom and the reputation of his name, all thanks to Moriarty. Molly knew it had killed Sherlock to let go of those things, but it had to be done for his safety. Nobody could know he wasn't dead. Not yet anyway.
"Well, I'll just channel my inner Peter shall I? And he's telling you to take your seafood exports and shove them up your-"
"-Corduroy?" Molly cleared her throat. The brothers took their heated gazes off each other to stare at her. She smiled and held up some samples the tailor had laid out for them. "Wonderfully versatile, is corduroy."
"Once you finish entertaining yourself dressing me up like a doll, you can go have a little talk with that esteemed personal tailor of yours," Sherlock said cattily, "...who perhaps should not be so esteemed. I'm surprised he has your entertainment Mycroft, I suspect your standards have slipped."
"What are you talking about?"
"He didn't take two basic measurements that an apprentice would hardly forget; the bottom of my ribs to my wrist, and the length between my inner elbows. I mean, come on. Also, he pricked me with a pin. Twice. Any tailor worth his salt with pride in his profession would, I'm sure, either top himself, retire in horror or, God forbid, go work in retail."
Mycroft looked indignant, "Stop being disrespectful, you don't know what you're talking out-... He has been a good friend of mine for nearly ten years and I do not appreciate your-"
"Well, ten years too long in bad suits, dear brother. So excuse me if I don't take fashion advice from you."
And with that Sherlock grabbed the bag of clothes selected by Mycroft and the offensive denim before storming out the room, his face like thunder. Molly followed after him and politely thanked Mycroft for all his help.
In the hallway Molly saw Sherlock unceremoniously dump the jeans into a nearby bin. He turned around a saw her amused expression.
"Mycroft was only trying to help."
"Oh what a surprise," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You always take his side Molly."
"I do not!" she said laughing.
"Oh, let's just get out of here," he said, and headed outside, where a sleek black car, one of Mycroft's secret service fleet, was ready and waiting for them. Well, they could hardly take a cab anymore. Sherlock stepped towards it quickly, coat whipping around him majestically, as if he controlled the wind to make him look impressive whenever he wanted.
"Well, are you coming along?" he asked, holding the passenger door open.
Molly's heart did a leap, him saying those simple words was all she really ever wanted to hear.
The smell of smoke brought her back to the present, Sherlock had lit a cigarette, holding it delicately between two fingers. Molly breathed deeply, finding the smoke comforting. Growing up, the fumes had always hung around her father, clinging to his shirts as he enveloped her in his smokey hugs, right up to the point when he died of lung cancer. Still, it triggered fond memories of security and happier times. Sherlock caught her staring glassy eyed at the cigarette butt and exhaled, the purple-grey vapour ran away with the breeze.
"What? You want one? Or don't you like it?" he mocked.
Molly shrugged, "No, not at all. Go ahead,"
He raised an eyebrow in mild surprise before taking a long drag. "Good. John hates-..." Sherlock stopped and frowned, "...John hated it," he corrected himself and, after a momentary pause, took another drag.
Molly could taste his awkwardness, of course John was still a sensitive issue. She felt… bad. Irrational as it were, she felt bad that she wasn't John, she was just… Molly. That's all she could be. She didn't know what to say, or if he needed her to say anything. It was best to stay silent then.
"So, what do you think so far? Of this place." Sherlock asked, gesturing with his hand holding the cigarette at the coast.
She took a few seconds to think. Honestly? Molly thought it was wonderful. The unbounded ocean expanse was what she felt at this moment: fresh, vast, free… which was ironic as she was undercover and in hiding, and for an indefinite period of time. No longer Molly Hooper, a pathologist working in a dingy morgue where being a woman, she was talked down to and underpaid, she was faintly relieved. It was like leaving a place you disliked, or letting go of a breath you'd been holding for ages. Now, she was 'Beth' soon to be 'Beth Spencer' and it was a new start. With the only man she ever could have imagined starting a new life with.
"I think it's… amazing," she grinned.
Sherlock kicked at a paper bag by his foot, looking at her dubiously.
"Amazing…" he repeated flatly. "So you don't think you'd hate it here? It's alright if you hate it, you can say. I've dragged you away from everything you know to live in a godforsaken shed on the middle of a cliff with a sociopath," he smiled crookedly. "If you had a mean bone in your body Molly, you would hate me. I would hate me,"
"Don't be silly Sherlock, this is called making the most of the situation," she told him. "And if it's anyone or anything I hate at this moment, it's Lestrade's shabby police force who's incompetency has gotten us in this mess. I mean good lord man, by the time they even start to crack Moriarty's network, he'll have retired and handed himself in to enjoy his twilight years in a comfortable cell, talk about ineptitude…"
Sherlock chuckled, smoke tendrils snaking out of his nostrils. Molly continued her rant as Sherlock settled into a contented haze.
They eventually noticed the light had slightly darkened, the sky was too cloudy to properly see a sunset. Just as well, Molly thought, neither of them particularly liked clichés. The pier lights had started to turn on, gradually lighting up the whole coastline in coloured dots and flashes. Sherlock being Sherlock remained impressed, of course, but Molly thought it was pretty.
Standing up suddenly, Sherlock smoothed back his gelled hair with a comb he had taken out of a jacket pocket. "Let's take a look at this cottage then," he said with forced enthusiasm.
With his suitcase, he started walking back up the pier. "One suitcase each," Mycroft had advised, easy packing in case they ever needed to make a quick escape if their location was compromised. Molly picked hers up quickly and struggled after him, it was heavy.
Sherlock turned round to see her lagging way behind him, and tutted. He waited for her to reach him and briskly took the suitcase from her hand.
"Thanks," she said gratefully. He nodded once.
They walked up the steep, beaten path to where they would be staying for the 'foreseeable future' The garden was huge with a few fruit trees dotted around, however the house to Molly's increasing disappointment was small and outwardly dilapidated. But the view from this point; they could see the whole of Brighton below them over the hard jagged lines of the cliffs to the choppy sea below, where the white foam looked like large soap suds. Sherlock handed Molly the rusted keys in grim silence. Holding her breath, Molly unlocked the wooden, dark green door.
They were greeted with the heavy scent of old wood and sun-warmed dust, which hung suspended in the rays of daylight, creating a thin mist which settled over what seemed to be a practically empty living area. Spiders, the houses only occupants weaved their webs between the spindles of the stair banisters, and on the corners of the ceiling the old cobwebs sifted sunlight and made patterns against the walls. There was a moth eaten sofa, a pine table and a couple of chairs on an uncarpeted floor, which Molly noted, looking at the rough and unsanded wood, was frankly a death trap for bare feet.
The anticipated now over, Molly felt… relieved. She had expected something much worse. In its undeniably neglected state, this was… workable. Sherlock set down the suitcases and walked to the kitchen. It had a gas cooker, oven and a grimy sink. It was so small there wasn't much room for both of them to be in there at the same time.
"Shall we see upstairs?" Sherlock asked form the doorway. He hadn't reacted.
"Alright,"
They walked up the short flight of stairs to the next floor, passed the bathroom and peered into the bedroom. The pine floor boards were splattered with paint and creaked loudly. Taking centre stage was a large ornate and brass double-bed frame supporting an old but clean mattress. Nothing else. There was a long, long pause as they both thought about the sleeping arrangements, that made Molly's hummingbird heart race.
Sherlock broke the silence first, "You have this room. I'll sleep downstairs," looking at her worried expression. Molly nodded and felt an odd surge of disappointment, which was ridiculous, what was she expecting anyway? The age of the bed frame was unknown and might have collapsed with the weight of two.
Sherlock brought up her suitcase and left her to unpack. She watched from the bare window as he walked into the garden and got out another cigarette, his coat billowing around him. She highly doubted he could ever be Peter Spencer, a worker at 'Brighton Seafood Exports.' He was just too… spectacular.
Sighing, Molly turned away from the window and unclipped her ivory suitcase. Beth's wardrobe was surprisingly like her own in style, but since this was Mycroft, it was of very good quality and brand. Molly looked down at her grey shift dress underneath her white jumper and tugged at the lace collar. She was the first to admit that her style was… plain, there were no other words to explain it.
Eagerly, she rifled through the array of garments that had been neatly packed. There were lots of day dresses, traditional in style and also a lot of sweaters and cardigans, all convincing of a country housewife. The garments were simple, but of very good quality and not obviously expensive. She reminded herself to thank Mycroft one day for doing a good job, relieved she didn't have to be some trendy, vogue-reading beauty who wore the latest styles. Because as appealing as that new identity was to her, she definitely could never pull that persona off convincingly.
A fun red party number with voluminous petticoats caught Molly's eyes and with a squeal of glee she held it up to her body. It was gorgeous, the detail was understated but the quality of the satin ran like water through her fingers. She held it up to her body and swirled around, pretending she was at a fancy cocktail party, swaying to Buddy Holly with Sherlock.
Then her practical side kicked in and Molly hunted for some pajamas. Luckily, Mycroft assumed no one would see her in her sleepwear so there was no need for a new style in that department, with this in mind he had packed her navy dressing gown and her own night garments. Molly dug out her old cotton nightie and sniffed it appreciatively.
It smelt of home.
Sherlock took another deep drag of the Du Maurier cigar, and looked dubiously at the drawn pin-up girl on the packet, partially due to the fact that no woman naturally looked like that, with a waist that thin, or lips that large, and also because he knew he would have to stop smoking the brand, it was to expensive for Peter Spencer. He sighed in frustration and looked back at the house. The bedroom light was the only light on in the house and since there were no curtains or blinds, Sherlock could see straight into it as if her were looking at a picture.
He could see the top half of Molly, bent over her suitcase and evidently admiring the clothes. Kudos to Mycroft, he had an eye for style, a good thing too as Molly certainly didn't know how to dress for her figure, which, under her strictly matronly cuts was rather feminine. If Peter was going to have any wife Sherlock would make sure the girl on his arm was a pretty one, and dressed her best, God knows she deserved nice things, he knew the morgue's salary did not adequately cover or reflect her hard work, even though she spent all day in that dingy morgue, and spent extra unpaid hours helping him with his cases.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement as he watched her twirl around with the crimson Charles James number. Clearly she had no idea how ridiculously expensive it was, and Sherlock had no intention of telling her. He could imagine it now, her immediate panicking and refusal to wear it, which would be a great shame.
Turning his attention back to the house which was the size of the gardener's shed back at the Holmes Estate, he wrinkled his nose. The couple who had lived here previously had neglected it, the woman was an alcoholic artist and the man worked as an amateur carpenter, the rickety furniture said it all. She also had a younger lover, and a rather energetic one at that judging by the nail marks on the wall above the bed. They had let the house fall into a state.
Sherlock returned back to the living room and unpacked a thin blanket from the suitcase. He flopped onto the sofa exhausted, long legs dangling over the end uncomfortably. Hearing a squeak of the floorboards upstairs Sherlock held his breath, praying Molly wouldn't come downstairs to bid him 'goodnight' Because they were not a real couple so shouldn't do the things that real couples do. Thankfully, she didn't and Sherlock let his thoughts wander to John, and drifted off with the voices in his head in counterpoint with the gentle noise of the sea far below the cliffs.
He awoke in the morning to the sound of the creaky garden gate opening.
Being a light sleeper, he was fully alert in seconds. Quickly scrambling over to the window he peered out; an old man and woman were making their way up to the house. In mild alarm, Sherlock grabbed the blanket from the sofa and chucked it under the sofa to prevent suspicion of why a couple weren't sharing a bed. Their image had to be airtight. Looking down at himself, he noticed he was still wearing the same traveling day clothes as yesterday. Quickly, he stripped off his shirt so he was in his trousers and a white vest, and mussed up his hair to make him appear more sleepy, and then waited by the door. They would be here in 3… 2… 1…
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Sherlock waited for fifteen seconds until they knocked again before opening it, yawning and feigning bleary eyed-ness.
"Good morn-, oh we just woke you, sorry dear! We know it's a bit early…" the old lady said apologetically. Her grey hair was cropped into a wavy bob and her face friendly. Her husband wearing glasses stood next to her and offered his hand to shake. Sherlock took it, and put on his false cheery face. Get rid of them, quick.
"Oh, not a problem Mr and Mrs…?"
"Bligh. I'm Linda and this is my husband Patrick, I'm the landlady," she beamed. "Can we come in?" she asked, oblivious to Sherlock's reluctance.
"The Blighs, of course, how lovely to meet you, do come in, wonderful, wonderful..." Sherlock opened the door to let them through.
"We just wanted to come over and make sure you're settling in alright, and we bought you some eggs and milk and other stuff from our farm nearby as a welcome gift to get you started," she handed over a basket. Sherlock thanked her profusely and motioned them to sit on the threadbare sofa.
"I'm sorry about the state of this place, that's why it's on the cheap," Mrs Bligh explained looking round. "Patrick's been awfully ill these past few months, I've been planning the wedding of our son Bernard and we've been trying to look after our farm since it's just the two of us now, and, well, you know how busy it all gets with this and that…" she continued to ramble, in a way people of the older generation like to settle into once started. Sherlock inwardly grimaced.
"Not a problem Mrs Bligh, we'll just have to make do, it can be our… project," Sherlock said with forced enthusiasm.
"Our as in…?" Mrs Bligh asked pleasantly, eager for him to go on to save her curiosity.
At that moment Molly appeared from the top of the stairs and walked down nervously, clad in her fluffy navy dressing gown.
"I heard voices Sher-… Oh! Hello... Um… Peter, I didn't know we had guests. Uh, I'll just go get dressed," she said in embarrassment and made to dash back up the stairs.
Mrs and Mr Bligh protested, "Nonsense sweetie, it was our fault for coming so early," Mr Bernard spoke kindly. "Don't be shy, we don't care for all that appearance nonsense,"
Molly looked at Sherlock, who was clearly uncomfortable, but gestured for her to come over. She tugged at the strands of her messy morning hair and went to greet the old couple.
"I'm Beth, lovely to meet you," she said and stood by Sherlock awkwardly, who looked… heavenly in his white vest and slacks.
"I'd offer you a cup of tea," Molly said politely, "but, ah, we don't have any sugar." No sugar? she thought to herself, no bloody teabags, milk or cups more like. The Blighs said they didn't want any at the moment.
Sherlock caught Mrs Bernard's sharp eyes flicker to their fourth fingers. As soon as she realised they weren't married an uncomfortable expression flickered across her face. Sherlock frowned; they were traditionalists. He thought quickly.
"Beth is my fiancée," Sherlock answered the unspoken question and wrapped his arm around her waist. Molly had to stop her eyebrows involuntarily shooting sky high in surprise, she had to get used to this malarky quick.
Mrs Bligh exchanged a relieved look with her husband. Honestly, Sherlock thought, what were they actually thinking? That he was using this property as some kind of love nest to seduce a young, naive girl?
"She accidentally left her engagement ring at her parent's house in London, so it's being sent by post for us tomorrow. As for the wedding, it'll happen when we've properly settled in," Sherlock explained conversationally.
"How exciting!" Mrs Bligh exclaimed. "So this is your first home together?" Not waiting for an answer she launched into another monologue.
"I remember our first house, very clearly, don't you Patrick? This tiny thing it were, smaller than this actually, deep in the centre and the smog of London," she reminisced fondly to the old man on the couch, who smiled toothily at the memory. "The noise and din was terrible, the Stoke family next door were bloody disrespectful, remember their lads Patrick? Awfully cheeky they was. There were fights and riots every other week from those football hooligans from the White Horse opposite. Oh, don't get me started on Mrs Fielding and her Neighborhood Watch, good lord that woman was nosier than Mr Wright over on that awful Lockyer Estate, and let me tell you something about that Mr Wright…"
Sherlock and Molly continued smiling charmingly as they too, if not more reluctantly relived Mrs Bligh's memoirs. Finally she seemed to tire herself out and Sherlock and Molly sensed her wrapping up.
"What was I originally talking about?… Oh yes, first homes. That London house wasn't a perfect home obviously, but Patrick and I couldn't afford anything else. When we moved to our farm here to raise Bernard, it was the best decision of our lives, I'm sure you two will love it here. After all, its never where you are that matters, but who you're with," she finished on a nostalgic note.
Molly sensed this was an appropriate moment for her and Sherlock to demonstrate their romantic affection for one another, Molly reached over and gave Sherlock a nervous peck on the cheek, trying to make it look casual, something a real couple would do. Hopefully they appeared the domestic couple. Either way, Mrs Bligh seemed pleased.
The Blighs talked on for a bit and finally left after making sure everything was in order. "If there are any problems, we only live fifteen minutes away," Mr Bligh said as they left though the door.
Finally, thought Sherlock. "Again, It was nice of you to come over and greet us, I hope we can be great neighbours," he said as they walked down the path.
"Thank you for the hamper, please visit anytime you like," Molly piped up and waved at them enthusiastically.
The couple closed the gate behind them and Sherlock closed the door.
"What was that?" Sherlock asked, brows knitted.
"What was what? I was saying goodbye,"
"We don't want them to 'visit anytime they like'..."
"Why? They're very sweet," she shrugged, walking back to the table to dig enthusiastically through the basket.
"Nosy I'd say, they only wanted to see what their new tenants were like," Sherlock muttered. "And that was close, we need to be prepared for unexpected visits. You nearly said my real name,"
"I know, I'm sorry! I just need practice," Molly said inspecting the eggs as Sherlock watched her, still looking disapproving.
"It's too risky, we'll have to sleep in the same bed if we want to pull this happy couple thing off. Anyway, I think that sofa is infested with fleas," Sherlock said, looking at it in mild disgust.
Molly swallowed. She was a mature woman, who could definitely deal with another man in her bed and control herself. Besides, there was no worry with him trying it on. The absurdity of the idea made her laugh aloud.
"What?"
"Nothing. You want breakfast?" Molly asked and shuffled to the kitchen with the basket. "Boiled egg, fried egg, or scrambled egg?" she called over her shoulder.
"Please Molly, don't spoil me for choice," Sherlock called back drily.
That afternoon, they made a desperately needed trip to the market in the town square to fill up their cupboards.
It was a mistake on Molly's part when she told Sherlock "Buy me the essentials and meet me here at the till in twenty minutes, I've just got to mail some forms at the Post Office," He returned with half the stores stock of teabags, biscuits and a jar of jam. Molly just looked in confusion, was this what he and John had lived on in 221B?
Sherlock sighed at Molly's unimpressed face, "Fine, I'll put back the jam," dumping the tea and biscuits into her arms and walking off. Molly looked down in bewilderment at the stuff in her arms. Sherlock had nannies and maids growing up at the Holmes Estate, and Mrs Hudson had doted on him back at Baker Street, clearly the man had never properly had to look after himself. Or ever even been grocery shopping for the matter.
Next task; making the house livable. Molly coughed violently as she scrubbed at the living room wooden furnishings and carpet, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back with a headscarf. She realized with mild horror she was the spitting image of her mother, who usually had the temperament of a total darling until she undertook the grueling housework tasks, of which temporarily transformed her into a formidable force that cleaned the house with a maniacal rigour until it sparkled, the result being not even a spider dared to put its hairy leg on Leanne Hooper's mirror-shined linoleum floor. Molly now channelled her mother's grit until her back ached with scrubbing. Finally finishing up with a huff of relief, she admired her handiwork and then went to find Sherlock.
He was lying flat on his back in the kitchen under the sink, sleeves rolled up all the way to his shoulders and hands deep in the pipes. The sight looked odd to Molly, who had never imagined Sherlock to get his hands dirty for such a mundane issue as… plumbing. Still, for an infamous London detective hailed by the press and the police for his unequivocal intelligence and mental wit, Molly assumed for him it would hardly be rocket science. Taking off her apron she burst into a bout of coughs from the dust cumulated in her hair and clothes.
"If you are going to die, please die quietly, this needs my focus," he called out with frustration.
Evidently not as easy for him as she had imagined. He then cursed when a small side-pipe burst, spraying water all over his face. Molly put a hand over her mouth to hide her smile. He was drenched, his quiff was flattened and he was wiping water from his eyes as a puddle started to form around him on the tiles, he looked like a miserable cat that had been unwillingly dunked into a river.
"Oh yes, hilarious this! Leave me, I can fix it," he huffed. Molly ignored him.
"Always make sure the peripheral tap of water is turned off as well as mains," she said calmly reaching over to turn off one of the side valves. "Don't worry, I'm going!" she said, seeing his mutinous expression. Leaving the room she muttered under her breath, "Genius, my ass."
Sherlock did come into more use as they worked their way throughout the house. He put up the shelves, fixed the broken table with some spare nails they found, and stripped down the dirty floorboards in the bedrooms to give a smooth finish. Molly went to the little haberdashery in the town and bought fabrics, mainly blues and whites to make the curtains, tablecloths and other furnishings that would bring an airy, beachy freshness into the house. On their frequent beach walks, Molly built up a substantial shell collection to decorate the garden with, and Sherlock as they walked liked to tell her about the calcium compositions of each type of shell.
On humid days, he would just work in his white vest. Molly would subtly watch him out of the corner of her eye as she worked beside him. "Subtle" had a whole other level with Sherlock, who noticed pretty much everything, everywhere. One such occasion where the divine White Vest made an appearance was when he was painting the back garden fence green. Molly watched him through the kitchen window over the sink as she washed up. When she felt bad for her wandering eyes she went out to offer him a drink, hoping he'd notice how darn easy she was to live with.
"Coffee break?"
"Not at the moment thank you," he replied, "The sun's going down, I want to get this done,"
"I'll go make dinner then," she said, heading back to the house.
"Molly," he called after her.
"Hmmm?"
He stopped his task, "You do know I don't insist on these... gender roles, archetypal and horrendously archaic as they are, our society seems to love them. It's ridiculous and I hope you know, that you have no obligation to do all these 'domestic woman' tasks."
Molly raised her own eyebrows, "Well thank you Sherlock. Of course I know you don't, and I know I don't have an obligation to do it, but I will. Not because I'm a woman, but because you certainly can't," she said gently. It was his turn to raise a dark eyebrow.
"I have an IQ of 190 Molly, I must certainly can do all the jobs you do," he said indignantly.
"Of course, but just one thing; the other day I asked you to do some ironing, and I distinctly remember you trying to unfold the board for the next hour, explaining how the design was ridiculous and offering your own modifications," Molly paused. "Which reminds me, you need to go into town and buy me another one,"
Sherlock ran through the memory of the mangled metal framework with pursed lips as Molly stood in front of him, arms folded. He tried to come up with a comeback but came up short, so turned back to his work with a non-committal sniff. Fine, he wasn't a skilled homemaker, but he knew he could be, if he actually tried.
"I appreciate the sentiment Sherlock," Molly continued, "and I whole heartedly agree with the no gender pigeonholing. In fact, I'll come help you here after I'm done, and you wash up after dinner," and with that, she took the mugs and walked back indoors.
Despite what he had just said, Sherlock found himself not particularly wanting Molly to help him, he would rather finish the job by himself, show her he wasn't completely domestically challenged.
Still, an hour later as Molly put the chicken in the oven, picked up a paintbrush and joined him again out in the yard, it was nice to share the workload. It was a surprisingly therapeutic task, the ease of the job and workshop smell of paint along with Molly's light chatter created a stillness of calm around the yard. When the sun finally set and they started on dinner, they looked out of the window at their handiwork. His strokes were long and went in all directions, Molly's were shorter and vertical. He thought she'd be angry after he pointed it out, but she laughed. Sherlock found himself relaxing properly, and for the first time since they had arrived, he contemplated the word 'home', and the future, at this particular point in time, did not seem so bleak at all.