It was a Saturday afternoon at 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes was annoyed. This was not an unusual occurrence, as most things tended to annoy the world's only consulting detective, but Saturdays were usually one of his better days. He had lately, over the past few months, that is, come to spend his Saturdays with one Dr. Molly Hooper. The practice had rather snuck up on him, it seemed. Occasionally, she would bring over materials for his experiments. Sometimes she would drag him out to the shops to replenish his foodstuffs. She had repeatedly explained that man was not meant to live on a constant supply of takeaway Chinese food, which was convenient as the shop was right around the corner, or beans on toast, which was also convenient, as it was the only thing which Sherlock could cook. Then he just started showing up at her flat, sometimes with his laundry in tow, sometimes with a video and a bottle of her favorite red wine. There were never any pre-arrangements, but this had been going on for months, and as far as the he was concerned, would go on for the foreseeable future. Just as he had always hoped, Molly had given up her constant search for Mr. Perfect Husband/Lover, and had settled for his version of perfection, instead.
But this Saturday was shaping up not as well as the previous ones. His best friend, and blogger, Dr. John Watson, having had a minor argument with his missus, had taken this unfortunate opportunity to work on the blog, at Sherlock's flat, no less. The detective had refrained, so far, from kicking him out, for that would entail an explanation about where he would rather be, but his manners, or what passed for manners in Sherlock's world, were beginning to wear a bit thin.
"Really, John, since when are you incapable of putting together a review, a much embellished review, I might add, of our exploits, without my assistance? You are clearly capable of telling a story at a level which the imbeciles who read that tripe can understand…"
"Tripe, Sherlock? My blog has twenty times the number of subscribers that yours does. Not everyone wants to read about tobacco ash, or seed germination, or particle decay…"
"Individuals with some modicum of intelligence do, John. Which is obviously why you have not read it in weeks! Or months!"
"Sherlock, make yourself useful, refresh my memory about the dwarf with the clubfoot…"
"He was a dwarf. He had a clubfoot. Refreshed, John? Go home and argue with your wife!"
"My wife is a dangerous woman to fight with, as you well know, Sherlock! She can deliver her pointed words with as much accuracy as she can a bullet. I have sustained enough flesh wounds for this encounter. I will not go home so that she can deliver the fatal shot!" John sighed, knowing that, having already lost one battle with his wife, he was now facing losing another with his best friend. "Don't just sit there staring at me, mate. I said, make yourself useful! Have you checked your emails, and phone messages lately? You are supposed to be in business, remember?"
Sherlock flopped his long, lanky body down onto his chair, pulled his mobile out of his pocket, and, with a heavy sigh to express both his boredom and his aggravation, proceeded to thumb through his messages, as John had suggested. John had meant that he should check his land line, the one connected to his consulting business, but Sherlock hated to do so. It always contained offerings of case after boring case. Monday was soon enough to cull through the detritus to try to find something which piqued his interest. His interest on the weekend usually involved Molly on Saturday, and his goddaughter, John's daughter Claire, on Sunday. Along with Molly, her godmother, of course.
Sherlock had gone silent as he checked his messages, and when John glanced over, he found his friend studying his mobile with a puzzled look. "John, why are women sending me naked photos?" He flicked to the next message. "And men, too, it would seem."
"Let me see!", John said, perhaps a bit too eagerly, as he left his place in front of the computer screen to look over his friend's should. "Have you been careless with your mobile number again, Sherlock?"
The two men quickly thumbed through all the messages on Sherlock's mobile, most of them innocuous, but others varying from mildly salacious to borderline obscene. And at least one which crossed that border!
"She's rather attractive, Sherlock…"
"Her breasts are too large."
"Is that possible, mate?" John replied, definitely showing his preference as a breast man, and letting out a disappointed whimper as Sherlock advanced to the next image.
"I , um, like her, uh, hair, Sherlock."
"Nice try, John, but I don't believe for a moment that it was her hair which captured your attention! Besides, her hair is too light. And bleached, obviously. I prefer it darker, and natural…"
The next image they came across was that of a young male, quite hirsute, and quite well endowed. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, is that a man or a gorilla?"
"If you were at all familiar with gorilla anatomy, John, you would know the answer. Human male genitalia is much larger, proportionately, than gorilla genitalia. Therefore, disregarding the fur covering most of his anatomy, I would have to say that this is a rather extreme example of the reproductive equipment of homo sapiens sapiens…" But Sherlock found that he couldn't continue in the face of John's raucous laughter.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, man or gorilla, it's enough to make anyone feel rather inadequate, don't you think?"
"Speak for yourself, John," the detective said with a smirk.
The two men continued to thumb through the mobile, until, at least, all messages had been dealt with. Sherlock sighed, "I suppose I shall have to change the number again, John. Why does this happen?"
"It happens because you let that thing out of your sight, or you give your number to the wrong person, or somebody knows somebody who knows somebody who has your number programmed into their mobile. Face it, Sherlock, you're now a public figure. A rather attractive one, at that…"
"Attractive, John? I never knew you felt that way! But we can't break Mary's heart, can we?" Sherlock was smiling at his small joke, but John was not amused.
"Yes, Sherlock, attractive. Right up to the time you open your mouth! These people don't know you. They're just trying to get your attention."
"With naked pictures? Is this something new that I've missed, John?"
"It's just advertising, mate. A bit more personal, and taken to the lowest level, but that's all it is." John could not believe that his friend had no knowledge of how common the naked selfie phenomenon was. "Also, couples often send pictures like that to their significant other."
"Naked images?"
"Yeah, mate. And the significant other sometimes gets only pictures of the significant parts, if you get my drift."
"Have you or Mary ever done so?"
"NO! No, of course not!"
"Why not, John. Are your parts not significant enough?" Sherlock said with a teasing twinkle in his eye.
"I'm ending this conversation, as I should not have engaged in it in the first place, you git!"
With a shrug of his shoulders, meant to express his concern for the state of the culture in general, and his mobile phone account in particular, Sherlock Holmes went about the business of sorting the wheat from the chaff in regard to his message log. He was in the midst of this activity when the mobile in his hand signalled an incoming call. The detective didn't much like to talk on the device, using it mostly for texting, but this call was from Molly. So, of course, he answered it.
"Molly, I am being held captive at Baker Street by an timorous husband afraid to go home to his wife!"
"Give John my regards, Sherlock. I guess this means you won't be over tonight?"
The question hung in the air, as Sherlock did not want to answer it with John listening. He did not want it to become common knowledge that his Saturdays with Molly had become a habit. He had barely acknowledged their importance to himself, and was reticent to let anybody else in on it. Instead, he started to tell her about all the rather interesting photo messages he had been receiving, describing them in great detail, and finally asked her a question.
"Molly, John has informed me that the practice is not uncommon. In fact, many couples exchange such photos. I find that I am curious. Have you ever done so?"
John, who had been listening despite trying to appear not to do so, now stopped typing in disbelief. Had Sherlock really asked Molly Hooper that? And, he had to admit, he was more than curious about her reply.
"Sherlock, not that it's any of your business, but no, I haven't."
"Modesty prevents, then?"
"No, not at all! I am not a prude. I may appear to be a naive, trusting soul, Sherlock Holmes, but I have never been so naive and trusting to put a naked picture of myself out there, to float around in the cloud, or the internet, or wherever, for my grandchildren to come across fifty years from now and wonder why granny isn't wearing her knickers!"
"Surely, you have nothing against artistic nudes, then, Molly?"
"Of course not, Sherlock. But are any of the photos on your mobile artistic?"
"Well, there is one which we considered to be an excellent example of wildlife photography, but on closer examination the wildlife in question was not so wild, after all!" Hearing this part of the conversation, John let out a soft snicker, muttering under his breath, "Could still be an endangered species, though!"
Sherlock ignored him, continuing his conversation with his pathologist. "Molly, what are you doing right now?"
"I just got out of the shower. I guess I'll just get ready for a quiet evening in. See you tomorrow, at John and Mary's?"
"Definitely!"
"Bye!"
When Sherlock ended the call it was to find John studying him closely. "You've been seeing quite a bit of Molly lately, haven't you, mate?"
"Some, John. After all, I don't have you to annoy quite as much, do I?" Neither felt it necessary to continue the conversation, so Sherlock went back to purging his mobile, while John returned to his almost completed blog entry.
Molly Hooper was standing in her bedroom, fresh from her shower and a disappointing call to the only man in her life. The only man she had ever wanted in her life, truth be told. And that man was currently perusing pictures of naked women on his mobile. Molly hastily made a decision, one which she knew there was a good chance she would regret. With her mobile still in her hand, she dropped the towel which had been wrapped around her and positioned herself on her bed. Raising her arm, she took a series of photos. She then reviewed them all, looking for the perfect one. Nothing which would show her face. She had to spare her, hopefully, future grandchildren the embarrassment. Nothing blatant. Nothing that said, "Here I am! Come and get it!" Well, actually, something that said just that, but in a more delicate tone. She found one she considered perfect. The light from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows over the curves of her body, water droplets from her recent shower glistening on her hip. You could just make out her wet hair falling over her shoulder. She was lying on her side, an arm covering her barely visible breast, and her leg crossed over to cover her more intimate parts. She quickly deleted all but this one, and before she could have second thoughts, sent it to the consulting detective of her dreams.
Sherlock was still trying to get rid of his best friend, when he heard his mobile signal an incoming text. Probably another naked "selfie", as John had called them. But when he looked down he discovered the message was from Molly. He quickly opened it, and could not contain his smile. There was no text, only a photo.
"John, go home to your wife. Now!"
"Sherlock, I thought we could, you know, hang out…"
"Go home to your wife, John, or I shall forward that photo of gorilla boy to her mobile!"
"Sherlock…"
"Just how 'adequate' are you feeling, John?" Sherlock spoke over his shoulder as he quickly made his way to the door.
"Where are you going, mate?"
"As you said, John. I have been seeing quite a bit of Molly lately. And tonight I hope to see quite a bit more!"
Molly Hooper lie on her bed, second guessing her rash decision, when she received a simple message from its recipient.
ON MY WAY! - SHERLOCK