Night in central London was a study in contrasts. The glittering lights of business establishments, open at all hours, advertising displays, and traffic control gave way to the dark corners and unilluminated alleys and byways where a subculture thrived. Well, if not thrived, at least survived. It was here one found the homeless, living as best they could in the shadows of the more vibrant world around them. And it was here where Sherlock Holmes walked this evening, touching base and renewing contacts with his homeless network.
Billy Wiggins considered himself the detective's right hand man, at least on the streets. He would never presume to replace Dr. John Watson in this capacity in any other situation. But Billy knew he was an asset to Sherlock, due both to his homeless connections, and his uncanny gift for deduction. Honed to a fine edge by a life on the streets, his powers of observation were amazing. And his ability to use those observations to arrive at the correct conclusion, at least on most occasions, had earned him his mentor's respect.
Billy could not technically be considered homeless, per se, anymore. Since connecting himself to the detective he had cleaned up his act considerably. He had given up drugs (almost), eaten regularly (almost), and found himself a cheap squat. But, as usual, Sherlock found him on the street, looking for an angle to play to his advantage.
"Billy Wiggins, anything going on which may require my attention?" Sherlock asked, hungry for something to keep his growing boredom at bay.
"Nothing at all, Shezza. Been right quiet around here. Makes a man think of the good old days. There was always a bit o'action at the…"
"Don't even think about it, Billy. And don't call me 'Shezza'!"
"Upsets the missus, does it? She ain't had no call to give ya any more of them love taps lately, has she?"
"No, she hasn't! And she is not my 'missus'. I don't have a 'missus'. She is nobody's 'missus'!"
"Whatever you say, Shez...Sherlock. What ya doing out and about on a chill night like this, anyway?"
"Just wandering about, checking on things, keeping my hand in…"
"Bored?"
"Incredibly!"
"I'll do the rounds wit ya, mate. Show you some new hangouts."
For some reason, the new hangouts Wiggins took him to see all tended to be around St. Bart's. Sherlock had picked up a whole sack of burgers and chips from a late night establishment, and the two men had already distributed half of the food items, when they came across another semi-trusted member of network.
"Mr. Holmes, Billy! Good to see your. Better to see ya if that's food in that sack, there!" The somewhat dirty and definitely starved-looking sack of bones spoke as the men approached.
"Bones," Sherlock addressed the man by his street name. "How long has it been since you had a meal? There are soup kitchens around, you know?"
"Don't let the look scare ya, Mr. Holmes. I eat regular, I do. The little woman sees to that. Everytime she sees me, she does!"
"The little woman, Bones? You're married? Why aren't you living with her, then, if she cares enough about you to feed you occasionally?"
"Not my little woman," the man rolled his eyes, as if trying to explain something to an imbecile. "Your little woman. Your Molly."
" 'My Molly?' You mean Dr. Hooper?"
"'Course I do. How many little women do ya have? You some sorta playboy? Or bigamist?"
"Bones, while I will concede that Dr. Hooper is, indeed, a 'little woman'," and here Sherlock lifted a hand in front of him to indicate the pathologist's somewhat diminutive stature, "She is in no way my little woman! Or anything which that phrase may imply." He then tossed the man some chips and a burger, and strode quickly away, coat flapping around him. Billy shrugged his shoulders and followed.
"Trouble wit the missus, then, Sherlock? Ya know, I've been married twice, three times, if you count Charlene, but I always find it better to not count Charlene…"
Sherlock whirled to face the man nipping at his heels. "There is no 'missus', Wiggins! No 'little woman'..."
"Well, not to judge, but she is a bit on the short side…"
"Silence, Wiggins. I repeat. No 'missus'! No 'little woman'! No 'trouble and strife', to resort to your beloved Cockney slang! And, even if there were, why would I take advice from a man who had been two, or possibly three times, divorced?"
"I didn't say nuttin' about divorce, mate! Just married!"
The detective made an exasperated sound, turned and continued along to his next stop, where he thought to find Nellie, a seemingly fragile older woman with the internal fortitude to survive on the streets, as she had, for some years.
"Ah, Nellie, a beacon of calm and light in this dark world. How are you?" As he studied the older woman, he, of course, noticed the jumper she was wearing. Bright yellow in color, festooned with spring flowers. Molly Hooper has one just like it, he thought. One of her favorites, judging from the number of times she had worn it. But he hadn't seen it lately, he thought.
"I see you've recognized the newest addition to my wardrobe, Sherlock. Don't you be picking it apart, now. I quite like it, even if you don't. Although, to be honest, I'm quite glad you hated it so much, or I wouldn't have it!"
"Where did you get it, Nellie?" He asked the question, even though he already knew the answer.
"From your better half, you git," the woman said with a smile, then continued. "Last week, when she took me home to use her shower. We had a nice takeaway meal after, and she gave me some clothes to take with me. I didn't want to take the jumper. It's so lovely, and she seemed so fond of it. But she told me how much you hated it." She then shook a finger in his face. "You have much better taste in women than in clothes, Mr. Fashionplate!"
Sherlock smiled at the old woman, and slipped some cash into her pocket. "Just for the record, Nell, I don't have a better half."
"That's a bloody shame, Sherlock. You sure could use one!" Though the woman's words were harsh, they were spoken with a smile, and some not so small amount of affection.
"Wiggins, please make sure Nellie gets into a shelter tonight. There seems to be a nip in the air," the detective said as he slipped a wad of cash into Wiggins hand, and looked him in the eye. "See to it!"
"Will do, Sherlock. Count on me!"
"I always do, in spite of my better judgement!" Sherlock called over his shoulder as he took his leave, and walked into the night.
The next day, John Watson had agreed to meet his friend for lunch in the cafe at St. Bart's hospital. John was between rounds, and Sherlock had intended to visit the morgue in search of a case, a liver, or companionship, not necessarily in that order.
"John, are you aware that a goodly portion of my homeless network believe that Molly and I are.. er.. involved?"
"Of course they do, Sherlock. Half the world knows you're... involved?"
"John, we are not ...involved!" Sherlock said adamantly.
John put down his fork, took a deep breath, and looked his friend in the eye. "Wake up and smell the proverbial coffee, Sherlock. You are involved! Or pre-involved! Somewhat involved? About to be involved? uni-laterally involved? Unconsciously involved?..."
"John, you're not making any sense!"
"Of course I am. Everybody knows about you and Molly…"
"There is nothing to know, John!"
"Let me finish my sentence, please. Everybody knows about you and Molly except you."
Sherlock Holmes sat up straighter in his chair, looked down his nose at his best friend with some disdain, and, while shaking a bit on the inside, managed to remain calm on the outside, as he said, "And what exactly is there to know, John?"
"That you two are meant for each other. You complement each other. She humanizes you, and you bring out her confidence. She dulls the sharp edges of your rather cutting personality, and you sharpen her intellect with your challenges. She's overly nice, and you're overly nasty. Together, you average out to a truly remarkable entity! Separately, she is, of course, still wonderful, while you are just an over-intelligent git! No offense intended."
"None taken. Do you think Molly knows?"
"Of course she does. Why do you think she's hung around this long? But her patience may be wearing a bit thin, mate. Tom came pretty close…"
"Meat dagger!"
"So, if I were you…"
"Yes, John, what would you do?"
"Get her a coffee, buy her a present, take her to dinner, make a move on her - all the usual things! Which you have never done!"
"In any particular order, John?"
"Jeez, Sherlock, you really are a prat, you know? Use your own judgement, although I must say it may be considered in poor taste to jump her bones before you've at shared at least one social outing."
"Thank you, John. I shall take your input under advisement!" The detective rose to leave. "It seems I have some errands to run. I shall be in touch."
Later that same afternoon, John Watson was sharing a cup of coffee in the path lab with his colleague, one Dr. Molly Hooper before he made his way home to his lovely wife and lovelier child, when Sherlock Holmes came walking through the door. Noticing that he was carrying a container of coffee from a specialty shop nearby, John thought to himself. That's Sherlock! Always so literal!
Seeing that the pathologist was currently holding a mug, the detective promptly removed same from her hand, replacing it with his offering. "I think you'll find this much more to your taste, Molly."
The last time Sherlock Holmes had brought Molly Hooper coffee was just before he had asked her to be a human guinea pig for one of his experiments. She flinched as she recalled the feeling of the electrode attached to the muscle controlling her knee. It wasn't as big a flinch as the one caused by said electrode, which drove the knee into some unprotected, and very delicate, tissue of the man conducting the experiment. Good times! Needless to say, however, she eyed the coffee with some suspicion.
"Not to worry, Dr. Hooper. The only additive in that coffee is that flavored creamer you like!", Sherlock said with a smile, deducing her thoughts.
John was thinking, while he eyed the wrapped package the detective carried under his arm, first the coffee, now the gift! I hope he keeps things in the proper order. I really don't want to be here to see an awkward attempt at seduction!
Sherlock presented the package with a flourish, ever dramatic.
"What's this?" Molly asked, suspicion once again raising its ugly head.
"A gift. For you, of course. I haven't seen you wear that lovely jumper of yours lately. I was afraid something may have happened to it. This isn't exactly a duplicate, but I hope you like it."
Molly opened the package, and was taken aback by what lay under the tissue paper. A lovely jumper, of a soft yellow color, with delicate flowers bordering the hem, sleeves, and collar. It was soft to the touch, and easy on the eye. A more sophisticated, and far more expensive, big sister to the girlishly colorful jumper she had recently given away. The detective had been waiting somewhat impatiently for her reaction, and was rewarded by a smile which encompassed her entire face.
"It's beautiful, Sherlock!"
"I had hoped you would like it. Perhaps you could wear it out to dinner with me this evening? I know of a place. Mycroft recommended it, in fact, and we all know how fussy he is. Not overly dressy, a bit more casual that his usual hangouts, but excellent cuisine, he assures me."
"Sherlock, are you asking me out to dinner?"
"Surely not so big a deal. We have, after all, shared many meals together, Molly…"
"Takeaway at your flat or mine. The occasional stop at a fish and chips joints while on a case. You've never actually asked me out before."
"My oversight. Will you join me or not?"
"Why?"
"What do you mean 'why'? Perhaps I'm hungry, or planning to be hungry at around eight o'clock, if that's convenient."
"That's quite convenient, actually. But you still haven't answered my question."
The consulting detective looked over at his friend, the consulting romantic, for a sign, but all he received was a look that said, you're on your own, mate!
Sherlock swallowed, hard, pulled back his shoulders a bit, and looked directly at his pathologist, his Molly, as he had come to think of her. Evidently, so had everybody else. And then he spoke, albeit with a slight hesitation in his voice.
"I have decided to bow to the inevitable, Molly. It seems everybody is of the opinion that we are 'involved', that we belong together. The logic of the situation has been pointed out to me, and I can find no flaw in it. Once the decision was made to pursue this possibility, I have found myself more than eager to consummate our relationship,"
John Watson sputtered a mouthful of coffee onto the lab table in front of him. Way to go, git!
Molly, however, simply slid off of her lab stool, and with her one free hand, pulled the detective closer for a rather passionate kiss. When she finally let the blushing detective breathe again, she said, "Then I suggest we skip dinner, shall we? We can always get takeaway later!" The she slid her hand down to his bum, and gave him a quick pinch.
Sherlock watched with a happy smirk as the object of his affections, and desires, walked slowly back to her office. "I'll see you at Baker Street, then, after your shift? Perhaps you should plan on spending the night, then?"
"All I need is a toothbrush!" Molly winked at him over her shoulder as she disappeared from sight, but Sherlock continued to stare into space, picturing Molly with nothing but said toothbrush. Interesting!
John Watson had drained his mug, placed it on the table, and shifted his eyes from the office door behind which the winking pathologist had disappeared, and his smirking friend standing smiling in the middle of the lab. His advice had evidently worked, although not strictly according to his expectations. But it had, indeed, worked. He leaped from his stool, pushed his arms into his jacket, and left in a giddy rush. Mary was not going to believe this!