Molly Hooper had a favorite table at The Savoy. It was right by a window, a potted palm sat behind her, and close to the orchestra. The table was reserved for her ever since Mycroft Holmes had invited her to tea (probably to size her up to see if she would do to assist his brother on cases). She'd made an off-hand comment that it was in an ideal location, perfect for one or two to take afternoon tea, being near the orchestra so talk was not impossible, but it could remain private, and with a charming view of the street below. Here she could sit and read during her lunch hour before having to return to the dungeons of Barts. Not that she hated her job, but days spent underground in a cold morgue could be depressing. The sun was out, and it was deliciously crisp for a day in October in the middle of London. Too often autumn was dreary and, for lack of a better word, soggy. The restaurant wasn't terribly crowded. The usual people milled about. Molly had never taken her luncheon so regularly at the Savoy before. Once a week though, at Mycroft Holmes' invitation, she made her way to the hotel and found her favorite table reserved for her, the bill already paid for. She supposed it was a thank you from the elder Holmes for her looking after Sherlock so often. A waiter stood at the next table, quietly informing the guests of some problem with their order. Molly watched him for a moment, frowning at the familiar stance then shook her head. Too long in the morgue, she was probably seeing things. She turned her attention to her book, putting the noise of tinkling silverware and idle chatter to the back of her mind.
"Good afternoon Miss Hooper," she looked up to see the waiter standing at her table. She nodded, smiling politely.
"Good afternoon."
"Will you be having your usual this afternoon or would you care to see the menu?"
"Oh, just my usual, thank you." He made a note in his book, his smile too cheeky for her to dare make mention of it before he scurried off to deliver her order to the kitchen. He returned in short order with a fresh pot of tea, promising her luncheon would be brought out soon. As she took her cup and saucer, a button from her cuff rattled against the porcelain.
"Oh dear, best fix that Miss," the waiter said cheerfully. Molly frowned, surprised that a button had come loose.
"Yes, um, thank you."
"Ladies washroom is down the hall," he said, already standing behind her to hold her chair for her to get up.
"Of course." Button in palm, she glanced at him, curious, but made her way out of the restaurant and down the hall to the washroom.
The attendant looked at the button and then went off to find a sewing kit, promising to return. Sitting on one of the over-stuffed chairs, Molly sighed.
"Here we are Miss Hooper," the attendant returned, beaming. Molly frowned.
"How do you know my name?"
"Must have heard the waiter say it," the attendant beamed. "Let's have that cuff now," Molly held out her arm obediently, studying the woman. Something wasn't quite right, she was too broad shouldered. Her uniform didn't quite fit her right, and Molly thought that odd, for a woman who worked in the Ladies' Washroom of the Savoy. The attendant glanced up, and Molly found herself staring into a pair of eyes she knew better than she knew her own.
"Sherlock!" she lurched back, almost toppling over the chair, if he had not caught her.
"Shh!" he smiled, lifting the thick spectacles and winking at her.
"What on earth are you doing here?!" she got up, hurrying to the door to set the latch in place.
"Working on a case, obviously," he shrugged.
"You couldn't get Mary to help you? You look ridiculous!"
"Nonsense," he wriggled his shoulders in the ill-fitted uniform. He turned his attention to the mirror to adjust the tip of his nose (some rubber piece affixed precariously to his face). "Besides she was busy. I have one of my Irregulars, Wiggins, out front to keep an eye out, and I'm here, where I'm waiting for my suspect, now let me fix your button, I had Wiggins cut it on purpose to get you in here. I have to speak with you." She let him take her arm, carefully sewing the button back in place.
"What for?" she asked.
"There is a woman coming into the Savoy, she'll be seated right behind your table. The potted palm between you two will provide the necessary cover to keep your face hidden, but allow you to hear what's being said, she's giving an address to her luncheon partner, it is imperative you get it, and write it down for me."
"Why on earth are you in here, if she's out there? Why have Wiggins stationed out front?"
"Because he can't stand by a table all day, and he needed to practice removing someone's button on the sly to send her back here. I knew today was your day for lunch at the Savoy, and Wiggins could direct her to the table directly behind yours. Wiggins knows now how he can remove a button without alerting her, you can listen to her conversation without anyone suspecting, and I can rifle through her purse for an incriminating document after I spill that bottle of cologne on her and she goes to the basin to clean herself up." Sherlock snipped the thread on her sleeve, finished. He looked up at her, quite proud.
"Well…that…actually is clever,"
"Naturally," he sniffed. "So you'll go?"
"Of course, if you need me to," she agreed. Getting to her feet, she tested the strength of the thread, and satisfied the button would not come loose, gathered her purse from the chair.
"Pencil and paper," he said, fishing through his pockets and handing her the items. "For the address."
"When shall I give it to you?"
"I'll stop by Barts later today, if all goes as planned."
"And if not?"
"Baker Street, I'll send you a note."
"Very well," she smiled, shaking her head. "But next time you decide to infiltrate the ladies washroom, perhaps you should have Mrs. Hudson fix your uniform, you honestly look ridiculous." He fixed the glasses on his nose, frowning at her retreating form. Perhaps he should have had Wiggins take the washroom attendant's uniform after all…