The Sherlock Holmes farewell tour began in Mycroft Holmes' office, which was entirely appropriate, since it was his brother who was responsible for the necessity of such a tour.
"Sherlock, it's only six months, for god's sake. You've been away from London longer than that," Mycroft spoke in an exasperated, yet somehow apologetic, tone. "The last time you were sent away for six months, you expected to die. This time you'll be ensconced in a luxury flat in Washington, D.C., be paid an exorbitant salary, and, may I add once more, won't die! Unless, of course, you offend someone enough that they kill you, which, given your personality, is entirely possible!"
"Perhaps I will do so, merely to escape the boredom of exile to the hinterlands!"
"Washington is hardly 'the hinterlands', brother mine. And this is entirely your fault. Perhaps you should have refrained from pitching that CIA agent out your window…"
"He deserved it! He laid his hands on Mrs. Hudson!"
"Well, it was a long time ago. The agent in question has been transferred to Mongolia, I believe. He faces early retirement, also, as he has developed a sudden fear of heights. But, Sherlock, we need the cooperation of the U.S. government, and their CIA, and they are using this incident as leverage to gain our cooperation. With your exceptional skills, they feel that they can analyze terrorist threats more precisely, and come up with a viable program to counteract these threats. So, off you go, for Queen and country, Sherlock!"
"What if I can't do it, Mycroft? What if it takes longer?"
"I suggest you work quickly and efficiently, Sherlock, unless you want to take up permanent residence."
Sherlock groaned slightly as he sat back in the office chair, slouching dejectedly. "I'll tell Mummy."
"I have already informed our parents of the circumstances of your precipitant departure, brother mine. Mummy is threatening to 'pop over' on a regular basis, in search of country music and line-dancing venues. I have done you the kindness of securing a one bedroom flat, so you will not be burdened with them staying at your place…"
"Thank you, Mycroft, for that small consolation."
"Now, on your way. Make your farewells, or excuses. A car will pick you up at noon tomorrow to deposit you at the airport. You need only bring a small carry-on bag. Anything else your require will be shipped over by my staff..."
"You mean Anthea…"
"Of course I mean Anthea. She's very efficient, and she is my staff!" Mycroft left his chair and circled his desk to face his brother as he rose to take his departure. "Do keep yourself safe, brother."
"You're not going to hug me, are you, Mycroft?"
"I had been considering it, but the moment has passed. I shall take care of everything. Just let me know what you require."
"I've told you what I require, Mycroft. Please just see to everything." And with that, Sherlock Holmes turned on his heel and headed to the the door, before his brother could reconsider the hug.
Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street to make his final arrangements. He had already informed his friends that he would be gone for perhaps six months, and the circumstances. John and Mary Watson had been quite disappointed that he would not be around to share their daughter's, his godchild's, first months. Mrs. Hudson just smiled at him, and told him to enjoy himself in the States. Greg Lestrade, patted his shoulder, and muttered a farewell. Molly Hooper had been his only problem, and the problem with Dr. Hooper was that she seemed to take his departure much more calmly than he had expected.
Sherlock packed a small carry-on with things he may need for the next few days, and glanced around his flat. At the last moment, he grabbed Billy the Skull and shoved him into the bag, not really caring how he would explain him to homeland security, and headed downstairs, to knock at Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Sherlock, luv, you're carrying a bag. I didn't think you'd be leaving until tomorrow." She cocked her head, and looked at him sadly.
"Change of plans, Mrs. Hudson. I shall take my leave of you now."
The elderly woman now became visibly upset, reaching into the pocket of her skirt for a hankie. "Oh, Sherlock. I'll miss you so."
"Come now, Mrs. H, we are not living in the dark ages. There are telephones. I shall call you…"
"No, you won't, Sherlock Holmes. I know you. You never chat on the phone. You do nothing but send text messages…"
"We can video chat…"
"Chat?! You?!"
"Alright, alright then. I shall set up my laptop to transmit a live picture of me sitting on my couch lost in my mind palace. At times I will text you an appropriately insulting message. Will that suffice?"
"I suppose it will have to do, luv, until you get back. And I will have time to repair that wall, and scrub your kitchen…"
"Don't you dare, Mrs. Hudson. I want to think of the flat as not changing during my absence, Promise?"
"Promise, Sherlock." The woman then looked at his small bag. "That can't be all you're taking, surely?"
"No, someone will be by, Anthea, I suppose, to gather whatever else I need. Don't let her forget my violin." And with that, the detective bent to kiss the older woman on her cheek, and take his leave, before things got too emotional for his taste.
Sherlock's next stop was the Watsons' flat. John and Mary knew he was leaving the next day, and had made all sorts of comments about seeing him off. The detective had decided he could avert this emotional airport farewell by seeing them tonight, and taking his leave. He arrived late in the afternoon, just as his godchild was awakening from her nap. His timing was perfect, and he snatched the child from her mother's arms with a smile.
"Claire, I shall miss you the most, I think. But it's only for six months, hopefully. I expect you to be walking and talking by the time I return," he cooed to the child in his arms as he bounced her around.
"Sherlock, really, she's only four months old. It's highly unlikely she'll be walking and talking in six months time!" John Watson laughed.
"Even less likely now that she won't have my influence over the important developmental months, John. I hope you're keeping up with the latest discoveries in infant education…"
"Give her back to her mum for a bit, and sit down…"
"John, I am quite serious. She will be ten months old when I return. There is a good chance she will be walking, if she has her mother's coordination and reflexes,,,"
"Thanks for that, mate…"
"As for the talking part, I in no way expect her to be fully conversational, but if she could manage to say 'Uncle Sherlock'..."
"Sherlock, she'll be lucky to get out a slurred 'Ma' by that time."
"I think you vastly underestimate her capabilities, John. When I have children I shall…"
"What did you just say, Sherlock?"
"Well, John, before I was rudely interrupted, I had started to say that when I have children I will…"
"WHEN YOU HAVE CHILDREN?! Since when is that a possibility, Sherlock?"
"Surely, John, it has always been within the realm of possibility. I am a healthy male. I have no reason to believe I am infertile, and, having visited Molly's flat, staying there, in fact, before my two year absence, I know for a fact that Dr. Hooper is on birth control, implying that she is, in fact, fertile as well. This being the case,. one must assume that…" Sherlock stopped speaking when he noted the dumbfounded look, and the open mouthed shock, on his best friends face. "Ah, I can see by your expression that you are unaware of my feelings on this matter. I thought we had discussed this, John?"
John Watson pointed at his own chest as he spoke, "Real John, Sherlock!" He then drove his pointing finger, rather sharply, and repeatedly, into his friend's forehead. "Mind Palace John! We," he frantically gestured, moving his finger back and forth between his chest and Sherlock's, "did not have this discussion! I am not privy to what you discussed with my alter ego in your head!"
"Really, John?"
"Really, Sherlock. Let me assure you, I would have remembered such a conversation!" John looked happy for his friend, if slightly exasperated. "When did all this happen?"
"It hasn't happened yet, John. But Molly will be accompanying me to America tomorrow."
"Slow down a bit, mate. I just saw Molly at the hospital this afternoon, and she didn't mention that."
"She doesn't know yet, John. I'm going to surprise her. I told her I was coming over to her flat tonight. We're having takeaway."
"Sherlock, you git, you surprise a woman with flowers, or a special gift, or by doing the dishes. You do not surprise a woman by telling her she'll be leaving the country for six months to shack up with you."
"You think I should bring flowers?"
"Only if they're for your grave. Sherlock, does Molly have any idea that you feel this way?"
"Of course she knows. Everybody does!"
"No, Sherlock, everybody does not! I'm your best friend, and I had no idea.."
"Well, I knew, if that's any consolation," Mary managed to get out between fits of laughter.
"You don't count, Mary. You're an ex-agent whose life depended on her observational skills. And whose life currently depends on her ability to not utter the words 'I told you so' over the next few days, got it?" John glared at his wife.
"Got it!" Mary said with mock solemnity.
"John, you have me worried now. I'm beginning to believe that there is a possibility that Dr. Hooper may not, in fact, be aware of my feelings." Sherlock was reviewing his conversations with his pathologist, trying to sort the real world ones from those which had taken place in his mind palace. Molly Hooper was such a pervasive presence in his life, that sometimes these lines blurred. He recalled all the times he had leaned in to kiss her forehead, or her cheek. All the takeaway meals they shared. The experiments. The crime solving "dates". He knew that he was not good at relationships, and now realized that what had been obvious to him, and Mary, may, in fact, been far from obvious to everyone else. And what he had considered a wonderful surprise for his pathologist, might, in fact, be an unwelcome arrangement. He had to fix this.
Sherlock then kissed baby Claire, still in her smiling mother's arms, on the top of her head. "Goodbye, child. Mary. John, I shall see you in six months, give or take." And, picking up his bag, he hurried out the door.
The detective had spent the cab ride to Molly Hooper's flat lost in thought. He would have to sense her reaction to this, their last night together, in order to decide on a course of action, and now he was both looking forward to seeing her, and dreading the outcome of his visit. When the cab pulled up in front of her building, the driver had to rouse him fromhis thoughts. He handed over some cash, and made his way upstairs to her door.
Molly was not surprised to see Sherlock Holmes standing in her sitting room when she came out of the bedroom. He had given up knocking long ago, treating her home as if it was his own. Molly would often complain about this, but knew, in her heart, that she liked the idea.
"Good evening, Molly!" Sherlock said convivially, as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. Molly though that that was a bit unusual, as his cheek-kissing was most often saved for his departures. But she wasn't about to argue the point. Sherlock pulled away slowly, studying her face for some reaction, and noticing the slight blush which had arisen on her cheeks. He smiled at this reaction, taking it as a good sign.
"Is that chicken curry I smell?", he asked, already knowing that it was. "My favorite!"
"I know, Sherlock. That's why I ordered it. You may not be able to get curry this good in Washington."
"My brother has informed me that Washington is, in fact, a cultural Mecca, not the backwater community which I had come to expect. I wonder if he factored good curry into the equation?"
"Sherlock, you speak as if America was some sort of third world country, not the leading influence in the free world! Really…"
"I know, I know!" Sherlock removed his jacket, and sat at the table. "But I am British to the core, it seems. I like Americans, at least as much as I like anyone else. I respect their generosity of spirit, their openness. I just tend to think of them as our unruly younger brother, somewhat disrespectful and too full of hubris…"
"I would suggest that Mycroft often thinks of you the same way, Sherlock!" Molly smiled across the table at him, but the smile looked a bit sad. "And speaking of Mycroft, he couldn't get you out of this?"
"No, Molly. It seems my services are urgently required, and my brother is highly dependent on the continued good will of the CIA. They have once again brought up that unfortunate incident of my hurling one of their agents through a window…"
"That was rather unfortunate, Sherlock. You could have killed the man!"
"After what he had done to Mrs. Hudson, he's lucky I didn't," Sherlock said in a grumbling voice, causing shivers to go down Molly's spine. But he continued in a more conversational tone, "Anyway, her dustbins broke his fall, dispelling any need for funeral arrangements."
"Still, Sherlock, you may have over reacted a bit. And now you have to spend six months in America," Molly said with a sigh, and, ever the detective, Sherlock could sense the sadness in her voice, causing his hopes to rise yet again. He looked across the table at his pathologist, and spoke deliberately. "Had it been you, Molly, that he had manhandled, I would have picked a window without the convenient dustbins!"
Molly felt a blush rising on her neck, and tears beginning to form. She cleared her throat, and was thinking of something to say to change the atmosphere at the kitchen table, when Sherlock continued in a lighter tone. "You know, Dr. Hooper, I was thinking about the last time I left you to your own devices, when I was gone after my purported 'death'."
"That was for two years, Sherlock. This is only six months. You'll get through it! It's not like you'll be working undercover, living on the streets…"
"No, not at all. Mycroft assures me the flat he has procured is perfect. In the heart of the city, close to restaurants, easily accessible to my place of employment, as well as cultural venues. It is what he called 'luxurious', with only one bedroom, so my parents cannot impose on me during their planned visitations…"
"Your parents plan to visit?"
"Yes. Evidently, living in London, I only require visits once, or perhaps twice, a year, at most. Residing in America, home of country music and line dancing, necessitates additional parental bonding, despite the distance." Sherlock grimaced, but with some residual humor. "But, back to you, Dr. Hooper. As I was saying, the last time I left, I returned to find you engaged to the dullard, 'meat dagger'..."
"He wasn't a dullard, Sherlock. And his name was Tom!"
"He was a dullard, Molly. An imbecile, compared to me!"
"Who was comparing him to you, Sherlock?"
"Everyone was, Molly! The physical similarities were obvious to everyone with eyes! You even dressed him in similar clothing…"
"His hair was nicer!" Molly said quietly, in an effort to disprove his theory.
"It was not. It wasn't as curly, and was so full of product that it felt like a slickened ball of yarn! Mine is much softer. Feel for yourself." And with that, he leaned his head across the table. Molly, never one to pass up a golden opportunity, quickly ran her fingers through his soft curls, and had to concede his point.
"But, Sherlock, your comments must surely beg the question of how , exactly, you would know how Tom's hair felt."
"Inconsequential! Back to my point. As it seems you can not be trusted not to make foolish choices in my absence, I see no alternative but for you to accompany me…"
Molly had stopped hearing, her brain going into a kind of shock, followed shortly by her body. Her breathing became shallow, and her head was beginning to spin.
"Molly, are you alright? You look a bit pale?"
"Sherlock, you've got to be kidding! I have a job! A cat! A flat!"
"All taken care of, Molly. Mycroft has arranged a leave of absence. Toby will be delivered to Mrs. Hudson, who loves cats, by the way. We can always hope that she will refuse to part with him on your return. Your lease expires on this flat before our scheduled return, so Mycroft will arrange to have your belongings removed to Baker Street before then…"
"Sherlock, what can I do in Washington?"
"There are excellent government research facilities in the area, Dr. Hooper, and my brother has arranged your access to all of them, as part of this so called 'exchange of resources'. You can keep busy, write a few papers, keep me from going insane, which is, in and of itself, a full time occupation, which you have performed admirably for quite some time already."
"But what in the world makes you believe that I would agree to accompany you? Especially at such short notice?"
"Because I have deduced that you care for me almost as much as I care for you! And if I find the thought of leaving you for six months absolutely devastating, then you must feel the same, almost to the same degree."
"And who told you this, Sherlock?"
"You did, Molly. Although I have recently come to the conclusion that it may have been the version of you who haunts my mind palace, as opposed to the real thing. But, it makes no difference, does it,really? No matter how I arrived at the conclusion, it is the correct conclusion, is it not?"
"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you for your arrogance. And your ego. And your always reaching the correct conclusion!"
Sherlock made a move, as if to rise from his seat and approach her, but Molly glared menacingly at him and said, "Sit down and finish your curry, you git. Allow me the dignity of being angry for a bit. You really are impossible, you know? This is impossible! I have to pack everything. Six months? What will I need?" Molly was now going on and on, giving herself an anxiety attack.
"Molly, calm down. Just pack for a few days, as I did." He nodded at his small case, which he had dropped by her front door. "Mycroft's people will handle everything else, I promise. A car will be here at noon to take us to the airport."
"They're picking us up here, Sherlock? Seems as if you were pretty confident, eh?"
"Think of it more like I was giving myself the whole night to persuade you, Molly. I did mention, did I not, that our Washington flat has only one bedroom?"
"Just how persuasive did you plan to be?"
"You're about to find out as soon as I finish this wonderful curry. We may not find its like in the hinterland, Molly, so enjoy it while you can!" Sherlock smiled at her as he lifted his fork to his mouth. "Oh, and Molly my love, please feel free to ignore any future child rearing advice from John or Mary. I believe their expectations in the matter of child development are far too low for our offspring. I expect our spawn to be exceptional!"
Molly looked across the table affectionately at the man who had been, and evidently now would always be, the center of her particular universe, trying to figure out if he was joking, and deciding that it didn't matter at all. He did, after all, have a gift for arriving at the correct conclusion every time.