More John/Molly fluff, now with added daughter!
All John wanted was some bloody peace and quiet. He was sick to death of being cold, sick of being tired, sick of being out in the blustery November winds, with nothing to show for it but soaked shoes, almost numb hands and wind-chapped cheeks and ears. But at least Sherlock was making headway in the case. John had found a clue, and Sherlock had hustled it off to the lab to examine it properly while John proclaimed himself tired and in need of something hot to eat.
"Go home, John," Sherlock said, hailing a cab. "Lab work bores you; you'll be no help, besides today is Wednesday,"
"Yes," John said with a frown.
"Wednesday Molly does her baking and cooking,"
The very thought warmed John to his core. He loved more than anything to come home to 221 Baker Street and find Molly bustling about the kitchens (yes, kitchens, since she and John had moved upstairs, she often cooked both in their kitchen and down in 221b, and truth be told Sherlock only ate her cooking, no offense to Mrs. Hudson, but the older woman should stick to tea things).
"Well if you think you can handle it without me,"
"Tell Molly I want my soup without the little fish crackers, makes it goopy and inedible," Sherlock said and climbed in the cab.
"Right," John set off at a brisk pace then, hailing another cab, quite pleased now.
The wind was picking up, and just as he was handing the cabbie the fee, the clouds broke open and cold, splattering rain pelted his already wet clothes. Cursing to himself he hurried into the building, waving at the owner inside the café as he ran past.
Resting against the doorway a moment to catch his breath before tackling the stairs, he cautiously smelled the air, enjoying the anticipation of not knowing just what Molly was cooking. Warmth seemed to creep down the stairway as the door to 221b opened, feet on the stairs, heading up to 221a. Something savory wafted down to him and he paused, shutting his eyes for a moment smelling fresh bread.
From the top of the landing he could see in the open door to their flat, Molly's iPod was hooked up to the speaker base, two figures inside were in the kitchen, dancing back and forth while something bubbled on the stove
"Old dirt road!"
"Mushaboom, mushaboom!"
"Knee deep snow!"
"Mushaboom, mushaboom!"
"Watching the fire as we grow old!"
He watched with fond amusement as the scene unfolded before him, of his wife dancing hand in hand with their daughter
"I got a man to stick it out, making a
home of a rented house!
And we'll collect the moments one
by one I guess that's
How the future is done!"
Matilda never got to the chorus, for she caught sight of her father in the doorway.
"Daddy!" she dashed out the doorway in stocking feet, leaping into his arms. He caught her easily, returning her kiss.
"Hey!" he laughed as her little fingers covered his ears.
"You're so cold!" she gasped, hugging him tighter. "Mummy, come help warm Daddy,"
"Yes do," he said, and she went to meet him in the doorway, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth.
"Welcome home," she said, "Long day?"
"Mm, gimmie another," he said and claimed another kiss. "Not really," he answered, setting Matilda down as he looked about the flat. His aches and complaints all melted away, seeing the evidence of Molly and Matilda's day. They had been busy with crafts, Matilda's artwork was taped to the windows for all the world to see, paper chains hung from the curtain rods and decorated the wide doorway to the living room. Newspaper hats hung on the hat rack. Toby, Molly's cat, and Gladstone, the bulldog John had rescued from an earlier case both were sprawled out in front of the radiator, apparently exhausted from the day's events.
"Dinner's nearly ready," Molly said, "I was just about to put the soup in the oven to melt the cheese,"
"French onion soup!" John crowed
"Mm, with gruyere cheese," he kissed her again, smiling. "Go on and shower, everything will be ready by the time you're out, where's Sherlock?"
"At the lab, he wanted to process a sample,"
"Oh no, didn't he get my text?" Molly asked,
"Apparently not, why?"
"The lab is on lockdown right now, I'm not even allowed in there, some gas leak from upstairs, they had to quarantine some of the technicians-" the door downstairs slammed shut.
"There's Sherlock," John said, he kissed Molly once more; "I'm going to pop into the bath before he drags me out again.
"Go on, I'll take care of him," she nodded.
Sherlock went directly upstairs, pausing only for a moment at his open doorway. His oven was on. Poking his head inside he realized the contents of the oven contained a loaf of bread and beneath it a pie, keeping warm. Shrugging, he went on upstairs; the door was, as it usually was this time of day, propped open by the large ugly porcelain Dalmatian figure.
"Where is Mrs. Hudson?" he asked.
"Out," Molly said, sliding a tray containing four large bowls of soup with generous slices of cheese over the tops of them into the oven. "Did the timer go off downstairs?"
"Why is the lab shut down?"
"I told you in the text I sent you, didn't you read it?"
"What text?" he frowned.
"Check your phone, and watch Matilda for a moment while I go check on the bread," he ignored the child, scrolling through his messages, muttering to himself.
"Uncle Sherlock,"
"Hm,"
"Did you find the murderer yet?"
"No, but I found bloody fingerprints and a small jade box containing a severed toe, and the remains of the victim's intestine."
"Neat!" he pocketed his phone, removed his coat and flopped down onto the sofa. Matilda in turn shut the television off and climbed onto her father's chair. He glanced over at her; she wore a newspaper hat, her father's striped bathrobe was tied about her neck as a cape. "Do you want a paper hat?" she asked.
"No."
"Why not?" she asked. "I'm playing pirates, and Mummy is Peter Pan,"
"Is she?"
"Yes," Matilda said authoritatively. "And I am Captain Hook," the door at the end of the hallway opened, and John emerged, buttoning up his cardigan. "Daddy, do you want a paper hat?" she asked, leaning against the back of the chair. "Everyone is wearing them," she said, quite seriously.
"I didn't know paper hats were haute couture," he said with a twinkle in his eye. Matilda ran to the hat rack, snatching one of them down and presenting it to her father. "Oo thanks that's lovely," he said and was about to place it on her head.
"No not yet!" Matilda cried. "I have to dub you first,"
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, shall I kneel?"
"Yes!" she said, and he obeyed. She turned around, grabbed the pillow out from under Sherlock's head, ignoring him as he grumbled at her. She placed the paper hat on it. "By the power vested in me, from the ancient clan of Dunbroch," (Matilda was also obsessed with that Scottish Disney princess)
"That's not-"
"Shut up, Sherlock," John said.
"- I, Captain Matilda Anne Watson Hook, fiercest and most naughty of all pirates do dub thee Second in Command Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, slayer of dragons and charged with conducting general mischievousness," she placed the hat on his head with great seriousness, so he gave his very smartest salute, nodding to her.
"Thank you Captain," he said. "As my first order of business I wish to conduct an extensive search for the dreaded tickle monster," and lunged for her, capturing her in his arms. Matilda squealed with laughter as he tickled her until her hat fell off as she burst out laughing, writhing to escape. "You said I was in charge of mischief!" he laughed, turning her upside down, tugging up her t-shirt and blowing a raspberry on her belly. She laughed harder, wriggling over until she did a handstand, crawling between his legs to get away.
Molly appeared in the doorway carrying the warm bread in a bowl, the other hand bore the hot apple pie. Sherlock watched the scene unfold as Matilda leapt to her feet, scurrying to hide behind her mother as John made to pounce on her.
"Ah-hah! Conspiring with the enemy!" he crowed as he barreled over to them, hoisting Molly over his shoulder, her hands still holding the food. He couldn't stop his momentum and hit the wall in the hallway, both of them laughing. He backed his way into the kitchen, triumphant.
"John Watson, you put me down this instant!" she said, though she was laughing all the while.
"You can't kidnap her, you're on my side!" Matilda said, hands on her hips.
"I'm a pirate aren't I?" John asked, his hat was askew now, due to Molly's hip by his ear. He was near the table so Molly carefully set the bread basket and pie down before reaching down and pinching John hard on his backside. He let her down with a yelp.
"Now," she said, holding up her hands to both of them. "I am all-knowing, all-powerful mummy and pathologist extraordinaire, procurer of cadavers and The Woman over this building whilst the all-powerful Admiral Nanny Not-Our-Housekeeper Hudson is away, and I say it is time for dinner,"
"Aww,"
"Go on, you heard your mother, wash up," John said, and he went to the cupboard to take down plates and spoons.
"Come on Sherlock," Molly said, "Wake up, dinner is ready,"
"I'm not asleep," he said and got to his feet, climbing over the furniture, only dropping down to the floor once he ran out of things to step on. Molly only gave him a look.
"Here Molls, everyone's wearing them," John said and handed her a paper hat.
"Oo thanks, now I don't have to bother you for the money for a new hat," she pretended to gush and placed it over her head.
"Did you wash your hands?" Matilda asked as Sherlock found his chair.
"Yes Captain," he said, flipping the chair around before seating himself. Matilda reached up onto the coat rack and grasped the last newspaper hat, placing it on Sherlock's head.
"There, now I have a full crew," she said and seated herself by the consulting detective who only gave her a sidelong look.
Bowls set before them, they all dug in and Sherlock stole glances at the people that surrounded him. He would never see himself as the type to sit down at a table with a family, ever. Of course, everyone at the Watson's table was wearing a paper hat and the youngest wore a cape made of her father's bathrobe. Dinners with the Watson's were never dull, and Sherlock did find himself tucking away this particular memory safe away in his mind palace. After all, it wasn't terribly often one met a child who wanted to be a pirate.