It was a cold and damp Monday morning in late winter when Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective and sometime guardian of British democracy, made his way through the corridors of power to his brother Mycroft's office in the depths of Whitehall. He had been summoned, and this time he found he could not blow his brother off as he owed him a debt, that debt being his brother's agreeing to accompany his parents to a West End musical rather than himself. Had he been forced to attend just one more of these diversions his friends and family might well be visiting him in rehab once again, so he was rather appreciative of his brother stepping in for him.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said without preamble as the younger man entered his office unannounced, "There is a function at the Belgian embassy which you are required to attend this coming Tuesday."
"Mycroft, grateful as I am to you, you know I do not due social functions at Embassies…"
"This is a requirement, brother mine. It is in your honor. The Belgian government wishes to present you with a small commendation for your assistance in sorting out that rather sticky espionage debacle. I have bargained them down from a formal reception to an informal, or as informal as one gets in a foreign embassy, tea on Tuesday afternoon. Clear your calendar, as if you actually have a calendar. I have already informed Dr. Hooper, and advised her to monitor your behavior." Mycroft Holmes now looked at his younger brother, smirking at his displeasure. "Try to enjoy yourself, Sherlock, without causing any further international incidents."
"Mycroft, I can't possibly…"
"Enough, brother! Or would you really enjoy seeing 'Mamma Mia' one more time?"
The detective rose with an audible "hmppf!", and left his brother's office without another single word, returning to his flat to sulk.
The following day, Sherlock looked down at the mobile he held in his hand as it signalled an incoming call from the mater familias of the Holmes clan. He knew he would have to answer eventually, as he mother was nothing if not persistent, so, with a heavy sigh, he pushed a button and lifted the device to his ear.
"Took you long enough, Will. I can just picture you sitting there, staring at your mobile, and wishing the ringing would stop! I just called…"
"My name is 'Sherlock', Mummy. Please use it…"
"Your name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I should know, as I gave it to you! All except the 'Sherlock' part, which was your father's idea. So I shall call you anything I want! And it is a mother's prerogative to use an affectionate form of her son's name. Would You prefer Sherly? Or Lockiekins?"
" 'Will' it is, Mummy! What can I do for you?"
"I am calling to confirm that you and Molly are still coming out to the cottage this weekend. I have to do some shopping…"
"I'll have to speak to Dr. Hooper, Mummy. She may have plans."
"Nonsense, Will. I spoke to her just yesterday, about the tea at the Belgian embassy. She has no other plans. So, we will expect you around one, for a late lunch, yes?"
"I suppose," the detective mumbled.
"Please speak up, Will," Violet Holmes said with a corrective tone in her voice. "Your father and I will see you on Sunday, then. Take care. And next time we come into London, you are going out with us. I love your brother dearly, but all that talk about revolutions and market collapses can be quite boring. I good murder or blackmail is much more exciting! So, no more trading off favors with your brother. You're stuck with us."
"Goodbye, Mummy," Sherlock, or Will, said with some disdain, and a large amount of affection.
"Take care, Sherlock," Violet answered sweetly, allowing him a small concession.
The following day, Wednesday, John Watson stopped by the flat to consult on their latest case, and complete writing about it on his blog. The doctor enjoyed these times spent with his best friend, and did not begrudge him the time spent away from his wife and small daughter. He regretted the fact that, do to other commitments, he could not be as present in Sherlock's life as he had been previously, and took every opportunity to work a case, or spend a social evening with his former roommate. Sherlock and John had spoken for quite some time about business matters, until John had finally finished his notes, and published his latest blog entry. The now sat in their respective chairs and sipped tea, provided, of course, by Mrs. Hudson.
"So, Sherlock, Mary's really looking forward to you and Molly coming over on Saturday. Claire has done nothing but babble about 'Anny Mol' and 'Unk Sherrok'."
"She could have at least given my top billing, John."
"Well, Molly's a hard act to follow, Sherlock. She braids her hair and plays with her dolls with her. You bring flash cards of chemical compounds and geologic configurations."
"She'll thank me when she's the only one in primary school who can tell the difference between a covalent and ionic bond, or…"
"Somehow, I don't think that topic will come up much between recess and finger painting, Sherlock."
"And I blame the disintegration of our educational system for that obvious shortfall in…"
"Give it a rest, you git. A two year old girl is much more interested in dressing her dolly than addressing the problems of the educational system in Great Britain today!"
The tall man with the curls sighed heavily, and slumped back on the couch. "She likes Molly more than she likes me, John!"
"You're jealous, Sherlock!"
"Not at all. Merely making an observation."
"She likes playing with Molly's hair. Perhaps if you ever let her near those curls of yours she would lose interest in Molly's hair…"
"Hardly likely, John. Molly's hair is lovely!"
"Well, you would know, I suppose."
"What is that supposed to mean, John?"
"Well, you spend an awful lot of time in Molly's company. I've caught you staring at her hair on occasion. You seem to have a bit of a fetish, in fact. Which is understandable, given your relationship…"
"What relationship, John?" Sherlock almost shouted as he rose precipitously from his chair. "There is no 'relationship', John. We are friends. We spend time together…"
Sherlock was till pacing about the flat involved in a one man diatribe as John, chuckling under his breath, made his way out of the flat and home to his family.
Thursday afternoon found the consulting detective actually consulting and detecting with DI Greg Lestrade, in the morgue at St. Bart's Hospital. It had been a rather simple case, barely a four, quite possibly only a three, in fact, but Sherlock had found himself growing restless with so little to do and so much time in which to do it. So he was in no hurry to leave the hospital, and found himself sharing a coffee with Lestrade in the canteen.
"Sherlock, I have here in my hands two tickets to the Policeman's Ball…"
"Not interested!"
"Look, you git, at least let me finish my sales pitch! As I said, the Policeman's Ball…"
"As I said, not interested!" Sherlock again spoke, this time with an air of finality.
"Look, mate, Scotland Yard enlists your services on a regular basis…"
"My unpaid services, you neglected to mention!", the detective countered.
"Yes, but," Lestrade continued evenly, "you must admit that the publicity generated contributes greatly to your private practice, bringing you some high profile, and high profit, cases. It would do you good to be seen at this function. And it's for charity, Sherlock. A children's charity. Think of the kiddies! The poor kiddies…"
"Who won't be able to tell a covalent bond from an ionic one if left in the clutches of the British educational system!"
"Yeah, well, I was thinking more of the ones who can't afford new trainers, mate, but I'll go with the bonding thing if if will make you part with the two hundred pounds…"
"Done, Graham."
"You won't be sorry, mate. Molly will enjoy herself. Women like to dress up every once in a while and go dancing!"
"What makes you think I will be escorting Dr. Hooper, Gary?"
"Yeah, well, who else. I don't suppose John looks very good in a dress, not that Mary would allow…"
Sherlock snatched the tickets from the policeman's hand, and left the table, saying over his shoulder as he left, "I'll send you a check, Garrett."
The work week was drawing to a close as Sherlock Holmes made his way down the stairs of 221B Baker Street late Friday afternoon to be startled by Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock, wait a moment, please!", the elderly woman called out from her doorway, and quickly disappeared into her flat. She returned momentarily with a folded piece of paper in her hand, which she extended in her tenant's direction. "Could you give this to Molly, please? I promised her I'd send her a copy."
"What makes you think I'm going to see Dr. Hooper, Mrs. Hudson?", the tall man asked almost quizzically.
"It's Friday evening. Where else would you be going, Sherlock? Anyway, it's my recipe for gingerbread. An old family recipe. I wouldn't part with it for just anybody, but, given it's for you and Molly…"
"For me and Molly, Mrs. Hudson? It seems it's just for Dr. Hooper, as I see it!"
"Oh, Sherlock, don't be such an idiot. How many times have you mentioned you favor my homemade gingerbread. So I promised Molly the recipe so she could make it for you! Now, on your way. I have to get back to my show. Have a lovely evening, dear." And with that, the woman closed her door, leaving Sherlock to his own musings.
Not even thinking about what he was doing, Sherlock had the cab drop him at the Chinese takeaway place around the corner from Molly Hooper's flat, ordering Molly's favorite Chicken Lo Mein, and some Kung Pao Pork for himself. He then made his way to her flat, letting himself in, as usual, to find the pathologist laying out plates and silverware, as she had done virtually every Friday evening for ages now. He placed the food containers on the kitchen table, and re-entered the sitting room to deposit his Belstaff on the couch. Instead of sitting down immediately, he watched as Molly struggled to remove the cork from a bottle of red wine, and fuss about over the preparation of a pot of Chinese tea. When they finally sat down to partake of the takeaway meal, Molly attempted to start the smalltalk which was their usual practice.
"So, Sherlock, I haven't seen much of you this week. Only Thursday, when you came by with Greg."
Sherlock looked at her questioningly, until she spoke again, with not some small amount of exasperation, "Lestrade, for god's sake! Why do you always play this game? You know his name as well as I do!"
The detective looked at her vexed expression, and actually smiled. "I suppose I like aggravating people a bit. You have met me, haven't you? Anyway, it is getting a bit old. Greg hardly notices any more. I shall have to come up with something else, I suppose." The detective once again took a bit of time to study the woman who sat across from him. "Molly, do you realize how many plans we have for the near future? Saturday with the Watsons. Sunday luncheon with my parents. A tea at the Belgian embassy. And the Policeman's Ball, for god's sakes!" He caught himself. "Perhaps you didn't know about the Policeman's Ball. Greg insisted I purchase the tickets, but you don't have to go if you don't want to…" As he was speaking, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he should address the issue which had been nagging at him over the past few days.
"Molly, have you ever considered the fact that it seems most of our friends consider us a couple?"
Molly dropped her fork, and looked down at her food, almost afraid to meet his eyes. "I was wondering when you would catch on to that, Sherlock. Not much of a detective, are you?" she said with a rather glum little laugh. "I suppose you set them straight? I know how you feel about relationships, and sentiment, and…"
"Actually, Molly, I thought I'd better discuss the situation with you first. Do you object?"
"Do I object to what, Sherlock? The assumption that we are a couple, or our discussion of the subject?"
"Both, I suppose. But let's start with the discussion, okay?"
"Sherlock, I had nothing to do with their assumptions. I have never hinted at anything, not done anything to overtly suggest…"
"Of course not, Dr. Hooper! I am in no way implying that you are in any way to blame for the situation. But you must admit that they certainly have had some basis for their assumptions!"
"What basis?" Molly asked curiously.
"Well, you are the only woman with whom I choose to spend any time. We have attended various social occasions in each other's company. You are on comfortably friendly terms with my elder brother, although how anybody could be comfortably friendly with Mycroft is beyond me…"
"I escorted your mother to a matinee in his place a few months age, remember?"
"Yes, that would do it! And speaking of my mother, you talk to her more than I do…"
"That's hardly difficult, Sherlock, as you hardly ever answer her phone calls…"
"So she calls you! Why is that, Molly? John thinks I have a fetish for your hair, which, in fact, may be true. And Mrs. Hudson gives you her cherished family recipes because she thinks you'll use them to fatten me up!" Sherlock finished this soliloquy, only to realize he had left something out. "About that last item, Molly. I have Mrs. Hudson's gingerbread recipe in my coat pocket. Remind me to give it to you later."
"Have you finished?"
"Not quite. Why does Claire like you more than me?"
"Because I let her play with my hair, and don't bring flashcards along on our visits!" Molly spoke with a disappointed sigh. "And now I suppose you're going to tell me that you are uncomfortable with this whole situation, Sherlock."
"On the contrary, Dr. Hooper, I am surprisingly comfortable with the situation."
"I'm not sure I should feel complimented, Sherlock. I'm comfortable, am I? Like an old shoe? To be discarded when a newer, more fashionable model comes along!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. Some old shoes come to be deeply cherished. Shall I have you bronzed, and set on my mantlepiece?" The detective smiled across the table at his pathologist.
"Alongside your skull?", Molly returned the smile.
"Perhaps that is not a viable alternative, after all. I think you'd be much more comfortable in the bedroom, don't you?" Sherlock smiled seductively, and Molly really liked the direction this conversation had taken. "I really wouldn't want to disappointment our friends, Sherlock."
"Nor would I, Molly. I suddenly seem to value their opinion a bit more of late. So, hurry up and finish your meal. I'm looking forward to getting quite comfortable, indeed, this evening."
"I think I've lost my appetite, Sherlock."
"Hopefully only for Chinese food, Molly!" the suddenly equally un-hungry detective reached for her hand and led her quickly down the hall.