Four adults and a screaming infant were sitting uncomfortably in a cramped auto, traveling, or at least trying to travel, on the A30 motorway towards London, their short holiday having come to a rather dire ending. It was meant to be small getaway. Dr. Molly Hooper had been invited to present her latest paper at at conference of her peers in the pathology world in the picturesque city of Penzance, Cornwall. Now, Penzance is a very pleasant city to visit, especially during the summer holiday season. But this conference was scheduled for a bit later in the year, when the weather was a bit nippier and the sky more undependable. Molly had intended to make the trip by herself, but her friend, Mary Watson, was soon organizing an expedition.
Mary had been cooped up long enough, she felt, with a collicky, and now teething infant daughter, and was looking forward to a brief respite. As the train ride to Cornwall would take almost six hours, it was impractical not to spend the night at their destination, so reservations had been made for a single night at the large hotel which would be hosting the conference. They would have an evening or sightseeing, a pleasant supper, more sightseeing the following morning before going to support Molly at her presentation, and then another train trip back to London in the evening. That was the plan. Mary, of course, had insisted that John was to accompany her. But she also had insisted the Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, and a major beneficiary of Dr. Hooper's pathological skill, should join them. Sherlock, who considered everything beyond London and its immediate environs to be uncivilized, was reluctant, to say the least. But when Mary had pointed out, repeatedly, how much Molly would appreciate his support, as she was not overly comfortable with public speaking, he did, eventually, agree.
It was supposed to be a pleasant time for all. It was not. Little Claire, the Watson's daughter, had make it quite plain that she hated train travel. From the time they pulled out of Paddington Station, the child had wept and wailed, and made everyone's life miserable. Other passengers in the car had retreated to the far end, or as far as they could go. Anyone who remained close, significantly, had ear plugs plugged into listening devices. Sherlock had retreated to his mind palace, Mary smiled at everyone apologetically, while John seemed to be trying to deny paternity. Molly shared baby bouncing duties with the child's mother, trying to soothe her as best they could. By the time they had arrived at their destination, tempers were short and nerves were frazzled. They each retreated to their respective rooms, agreeing to meet up for dinner when they had recovered. Claire, needless to say, slept peacefully.
The following morning, the skies had turned gray, and the wind off the sea had picked up considerably, bringing a damp chill with it. Molly had gone off to her conference, while the others set about to see the city. Midway through the excursion, Sherlock excused himself, saying he had some business to which he must attend. This was news to John and Mary, but they seized the opportunity to spend some time alone. By the time they met back at the hotel that afternoon to rejoin Molly for her speech, the weather had deteriorated considerably, rain coming down in sheets. Slightly damp, they sat in the large hall, and smiled proudly as the pathologist impressed her colleagues, congratulated her at the conclusion, and gathered their overnight bags for the trip back to London. But Sherlock had a surprise for them.
"So, what do you think? I believe that we can all fit comfortably, even with the child seat," he said proudly, ushering them out of the hotel and into the car he had hired for their return trip.
"Sherlock, we already have our train tickets!" Molly was confused.
"Small loss, when you consider that we may run the risk of being pitched off the train in the middle of some godforsaken moor if Claire enjoys the trip home as much as she did the trip here!"
"There must be another way to handle this, mate." John said.
"Of course there is, John. We could check the child in as baggage. Would you be amenable?"
"I may refer to her as my little bundle, from time to time, Sherlock, but I certainly never meant to be taken seriously," Mary said in a pretended huff.
"Well, I'm open to any other suggestions you may have, but the weather is getting worse, it seems, and it will take us about six hours to return to civilization." Sherlock opened the rear door for Mary to place the infant in her seat. "Please tell me she doesn't have the same antipathy to auto travel as she does to train travel," he enquired of her parents, who merely smirked at him.
Molly slid into the rear seat with Mary, the baby between them. John took a seat next to Sherlock, and quite dramatically buckled his seatbelt. "I've driven with you before, mate," he muttered by way of explanation. The women in the rear quickly followed suit. "Off we go, then," Sherlock said as the pulled away from the hotel. John grunted, Molly giggled, Mary sighed, and Claire gurgled happily.
Another reason for the car hire had been Sherlock's concern for his pathologist, though he probably would never have admitted to it. He knew of her aversion to thunderstorms, having been witness to one of her attacks some years earlier when he had stayed at her flat after his faked death. He had seen the panic rise in her eyes, and had sat up with her for almost the entire night, watching crap telly, and drinking chocolate, until the storm had finally subsided and she had given into her fatigue. He knew she would have been very uncomfortable on a train full of strangers, but more relaxed in a car full of friends. And he was glad of his decision, for the storm had gotten much worse, and seemed to be following them down the A30, sending sheets of rain into the windscreen, punctuated by flashes of lightening and claps of thunder.
After about ninety minutes, they had to pull over into a rest stop in order for Mary for feed her daughter. Sherlock, who had been stealing glances in the rearview mirror to check on Molly, was now met with the sight of Mary Watson's bare breast.
"Eyes forward, mate." John said teasingly when he saw his friend looking into the mirror. "I didn't think you were interested in that sort of thing, anyway."
"Artists throughout the centuries have been fascinated by the image of the madonna and child, John. You should know that."
"Yeah, well, chum, unless you've got some oil paints and a canvas around here, I suggest you keep your eyes where they belong!"
After the child had been fed, Mary and Molly took her into the public restroom to change her, sheltering her, and themselves, from the downpour as best they could.
"Where's Mycroft and his umbrella when we need him," Sherlock sneered.
"Wouldn't do much good in this wind, chum!" John answered him. "Do you think we're going to make it home tonight? I mean, we can barely see the road now. If it gets any worse…"
"I know, John. We may have to find a place to stay."
"Maybe some comfy, romantic little B and B. Mary always wanted to stay at one of those. This trip may turn out good after all!"
When the women returned to the car, very wet and windblown, John was the first to speak. "Sherlock and I have come to the conclusion that it may be too much to expect to get home tonight. Maybe we should look for someplace to spend the night, eh? This could get dangerous, and with the baby…"
"I agree, John," his wife said. "It's getting really scary out there!"
At these words, Sherlock stole another look at Molly Hooper, and noticed that she was considerably paler than she should be, and trembling just a bit. He decided then and there that they would definitely find accommodations as soon as possible. But this was easier said then done. Visibility, due to the storm, was terrible, and they seemed to be in an area of moor which was highly underpopulated. They drove for over an hour before coming across a small pub with a sign offering accommodations. Everyone sighed with relief as they entered the small carpark.
Sherlock approached the publican. "Please tell me that you do, indeed, have a rooms available this evening!"
"Not a fit night out there for man nor beast, is it, sir? Well, you're in luck. Not exactly the season for tourists out here, but I did get a few people in, like yourselves, looking for shelter. But I have two rooms left. The last two, but they're very fine. The wife likes to do 'em romantic like, you know? Canopy beds. Candles. Fireplace. Private bath. I'm sure you'll be very comfortable."
"Only two? We really need three. And we'll need a cot for the child."
"Sorry, sir, only two rooms left. And no cot either. We have one, but the other family is using it. We don't get a lot of kids, you see. We mostly cater to couples. As I said, my wife is a romantic." And saying that, he winked. "But one of the rooms has a kingsize bed. Plenty of room for the wee one to kip with Mum."
Mary spoke up, "That's alright, Sherlock. Molly and I will take the large bed. You and John can have the smaller one."
The man behind the counter gave them a knowing look, and, nodding to the elegantly attired gentleman in the well fitted suit and his smaller companion, said, "Not to worry, sir, I've seen all kinds. To each his own, I say." He then handed over two sets of keys, saying, "Rooms three and five, top of the landing. Enjoy your evening. Full breakfast is included, and dinner is still being served."
Sherlock turned on his heel, and led the way upstairs. They were not to be disappointed by the room, which were, indeed, lovely, in a countryfied, romantic way. Floral wallpaper, lacy curtains, satin drapes, feather mattress pads, and fluffy down duvets. Wood for a fire was neatly stacked. It was just the kind of place Mary would have loved, if only she hadn't just banished her husband from her room. She knew just what was one his mind when John pulled her away for a private chat.
"Mary, what the bloody hell. Why am I sleeping with Sherlock?"
"John, keep it down. I couldn't let Molly share a room with him, could I? You know how she feels about him. She would have been uncomfortable the whole night."
"Well, I'm going to be uncomfortable for the whole night!"
"Really, love, you did share a flat with him, after all."
"A flat, Mary, not a bed! And we don't even get the big bed!"
"I'll make it up to you when we get home, John. Now get going."
When John joined the detective in the smaller room, with the smaller bed, Sherlock greeted him with, "Why has your wife cast you aside so casually, John? Trouble in paradise?"
"There'll be plenty of trouble in room three is you keep talking, mate!"
"So, which one of us doesn't she trust, John? Me, or Molly?"
"Everybody trusts Molly, Sherlock, so I'll leave the deductions to you."
"Does she think I would force myself on Dr. Hooper? Really, John!"
"Maybe she thinks you won't, Sherlock. And wants to spare Molly's feelings. Now, let's go downstairs and eat before they close the kitchen. I'm starving."
After having filled their stomachs with an excellent meal, and some good whiskey, they returned to their rooms. Claire was already asleep in her mother's arms, and John was looking a bit tired, too. Molly was still a bit agitated by the storm, but seemed to be comforted by the presence of her friends. Besides, the pyrotechnics seemed to have decreased to some extent, even though the rain itself continued in full force.
Sherlock was lying on the bed, on his back, arms up, with his hands folded under his head, while John sat, leaning against the headboard, constantly switching channels on the telly. "Bloody hell, the reception is awful!"
"I assume the heavy cloud cover is interfering with the signal, John. Why don't you try and get some sleep? I hope to be out of here and on our way early tomorrow, after all."
"Not enjoying our romantic getaway, are you, mate?"
"While you may be relatively attractive to a portion of the population, I do not number myself in that portion, so the use of the word 'romantic' does not apply to this occasion of us sharing a bed."
"I'm very glad to hear that, Sherlock, as I know that I can now trust you to keep your hands to yourself!" John now leaned over to turn off the bedside lamp. "Good night."
Sometime later, Sherlock had still not changed his position, but John certainly had. Multiple times. He tossed, and he turned. He grunted, and wheezed, and cleared his throat. He pounded his head into the pillow, and balled his fists into the sheets. After he had scratched his stubble filled chin for the seventeenth time, by Sherlock's count, the detective sat up and turned on the lamp. "John, get up and come with me! Now!"
John, being too sleepy to argue, did as he was told, and found himself standing in the hallway outside the women's room, as Sherlock Holmes rapped gently on the door.
"Mary! Mary! I know you're in there. Open up, or I'll keep knocking until I wake Claire."
The door opened slowly, and Sherlock pushed his way in, May stood in front of him, wrapped in a dressing gown. Claire was sleeping peacefully on the bed, while Molly looked at him from under the covers. She was taking in everything, from his tousled dark curls to the low riding pajama bottoms, and his bare well-toned chest. She almost moaned aloud.
"Mary, I've come to offer you a trade. Your husband for my pathologist! What say you?"
"Well, I don't know, Sherlock, he looks a little bit worn out to do me much good tonight. What's he been up to?"
"Evidently he's been experimenting on how many annoying sounds and movements the human body can make while confined to a small space. Tell me, has he some sort of anomaly in his throat, or nasal cavities?"
"It does seem so, doesn't it? I've been tempted to do exploratory surgery some nights, but he's taken to locking up the knives."
"You should have told me. I'm an expert lock picker, I could have taught you…"
"Alright, alright! I'm tired. Which bed do I climb into, then?" John said grumpily.
"I'm not sure yet." Mary replied. "Molly, it's up to you, love…"
"Molly, you certainly don't want to be the one responsible for keeping these two lovebirds apart, do you? To separate a man from his woman? To cast the bonds of wedlock asunder…".
As Molly was just gaping at the man in shock, and some trepidation, Mary answered for her. "Sherlock, can she trust you?"
"Of course she can trust me! She's trusted me with her life on multiple occasions. And I, her. Why would…"
But Mary interrupted him before he could launch into a lengthy diatribe on his trustworthiness. "Just promise me you'll be good, Sherlock Holmes!"
"Of course, Mary," he promised, smiling sincerely, crossing his heart as he did so. He then stepped to the bed, pulled back the duvet, and, grabbing Molly be her wrist, hoisted her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. "You don't have any throat or nasal problems, do you, Molly?" he said as he carried her across the hall, almost running into the innkeeper, who shook his head and muttered, "It certainly does take all kinds!"
Once back in his room, he flopped Molly down on the bed, and looked at her carefully. "How are you doing, with the storm and all, Molly?"
"Oh, I didn't know if you remembered that, Sherlock. I tried to hide it from Mary, but I'm not sure I succeeded. I suppose she thinks I'm a bigger baby than Claire."
"Well, it has quieted down quite a bit. Would you like some tea. I could make some, there's a machine…"
"No, I'm feeling much better now, now that I don't have to put on such a brave face," she laughed nervously. "But could we have a fire, Sherlock? I don't have a fireplace at my flat, and it would be a treat on a night like this."
Within a few minutes, there was a lovely fire going, and Molly was sitting on the bottom of the bed, cross-kneed, and holding out her hands to feel the warmth. Sherlock sat behind her and started to knead the space between her shoulder blades. "You're a bit tense, Molly. Must be the storm." His hands worked gently, his thumbs miraculously rubbing the tension away. He then moved further down her back, working his fingers along her spine. The pathologist was closing her eyes, feeling the stress dissipate, until she felt his hand brush away her hair from her neck, and his lips gently caressing her nape. Her eyes flashed open, and and small moan escaped her lips, before she came to her senses, and straightened up. She managed to speak, but discovered that the nervous stammer she had considered long gone had returned.
"Sherlock, what are you doing? You promised Mary you'd be good!"
She felt his lips nibbling at her ear as he said, in a voice deeper than she ever thought he could manage. "I will be good, Molly. I may be a bit out of practice, but I'm always good at whatever I do!"
Sherlock then slid his arms around her waist, and maneuvered her around to face him. The next kiss was on her lips, with many more to follow. And by the next morning, Molly realized just how true to his word Sherlock Holmes had been. He had been good. Very, very good.
The next morning, having heard from neither Sherlock nor Molly, John Watson stepped across the hallway, and put his ear to the door. He heard nothing, so he knocked rather loudly. The door was finally answered by an exhausted looking Sherlock Holmes, clutching a sheet, and nothing but a sheet, around himself. "Go away, John!"
"I thought you wanted to leave early, mate. Don't you want to get breakfast?" John was looking his friend over carefully, noticing the small red marks dotting his pale neck and chest, and his slightly swollen lips. Sherlock had the good sense to blush a bit, when his friend smirked at him.
"Well, Mary and I are going down to breakfast. You still have three hours until checkout, mate, so make the most of them!" John was still grinning when the detective shut the door in his face.
John quickly returned to his wife and daughter with the news that it looked as if he would be doing the driving that day, as Molly had, seemingly, interfered with Sherlock's sleep even more than John, himself had.