The dim lights in the airport taxi rank are far from conducive to map reading. Lesson one in my Giant Swedish Adventure, thinks Molly Hooper, as she is enveloped in a virtual origami folding tent of a map. A giant wheelie suitcase and equally giant backpack surround her, like bulky sentinels, protecting her from the icy Stockholm wind, but hinting solemnly at the heavy lifting to come.
"Clarify, Molly – "the soft, deep voice had exuded a mixture of concern and slight mockery. "– are the bags for travelling with, or travelling in?"
Amusing. At the time.
Then later, lying opposite to her in the bath; steam leaving condensation on the mirror and tiny beads of sweat across their faces…
"I`ll be coming with you tomorrow." Certainty, arrogance, care – mixed in perfect measure. But, stubborn, post-feminist Molly wasn't having that. Silly bugger.
"No, Sherlock… it will be fine, really it will. I can get on a plane, train and taxi (or whatever they have in Sweden) and I`ll be there before tea time. It`s only 80 km north of Arlanda Airport…less than an hour to Uppsala and the campus. Professor Amundssen should be there to greet me."
"`Should`?"
"Will. Will be there."
She smiles her bright `everything is ok on the outside, no matter what`s going on inside` smile and nudges his submerged leg with her toe for added emphasis. She can see the snarkiness in his eyes through the steam. Snarkiness mixed equally with … concern? Sherlock Holmes was a strange little cocktail of emotions these days. Molly felt he was a tad bemused by the new and un-tempered feelings she had catapulted into his life since that evening in Marylebone Park, all those months ago. Particularly, when considering most recent developments.
"Well, hopefully you`ll be able to catch a ride on a moose, or a sleigh at the other end," comments Sherlock, dismissively. Casual snark, with a side of…worry.
"Hopefully," she concurs. Not a bit of bother.
A beeping taxi horn brings her to her senses to find the map situation has reached critical mass. Unable to re-fold the damn thing, Molly gives up and bundles it, crumpled and ruined, into the top of the rucksack. She starts looking squintily at any Swedish sign which might indicate `Railway Station`, whilst having a sudden and rather unfortunate mental picture of her tortoiseshell reading glasses sitting atop of Sherlock`s bathroom cabinet. Absolutely great…
The taxi driver huffs and puffs as he unloads Molly`s luggage from the boot. He did the same thing when he loaded it in at the station. And Molly, being Molly, is plagued with guilt. She hands him a large krone note (enough? Not enough?).
"Tack så mycket." She has been practising in her head, for the last five miles. He smiles broadly and mimes a salute.
"Ingen orsak. Tack." Clearly, more than enough.
The cold is biting. After her last London winter, Molly Hooper thought she knew what cold was all about, but she`d obviously had very little idea of a Scandinavian climate. Her phone told her it was around 8 degrees Celsius, but the sharp cold wind that seemed to be gusting over from Lapland, brought with it a hint of iciness to come. Around the edges of the town square, evidence of piled, dirty snow told of a winter that was, despite it being late April, not quite done with.
"Hej! Hej, hej, Doctor Hooper! Hi, hello!"
A waving Viking in a flapping puffa jacket is beaming at her as he strides effortlessly across the cobbled square in the darkening evening. Sturdy, greying, bearded and at least six foot five; Professor Amundssen truly looks like a man who could have discovered a new arctic continent, rather than one who led the Uppsala Biomedical Centre (BMC) research team.
"Hi, Professor…Hej!" He clasps her hand, tiny in his, and apologises profusely for not being waiting as she arrived.
"You must call me Stig … Molly, I will escort you to your hotel and all the lab junk – we can get to that the day after tomorrow – time enough then. You need a rest after traversing the frozen wastes!" He laughs a booming laugh and picks up her two bags as if they were trick or treat bags at Halloween.
Running, to keep alongside him. "The day after tomorrow? Is the lab closed? Have I come a day too early…?"
"No, no!" Booming laugh again. "Tomorrow, Molly, is the 30th of April! Walpurgis! Our Spring Festival. No-one at the Universtet will be working tomorrow, Molly – it`s the day we welcome the Spring!"
X0x0x0x0x0x0x00x0x
The Hotell Charlotte was what you might politely call a `budget hotel` in one of the back streets behind the main forum or market square in Uppsala. It was sandwiched between a traditional looking bar/café called Café Ofrandahls (`they have excellent poetry readings on Friday evenings – all in Swedish, though!` boomed Stig) and what looked like a massively overstuffed bookshop called Akademibokhandeln (`sci-fi and fantasy books their speciality; an excellent English section,` informed Stig, aka the human guide-book). Still, the hotel looked clean, if slightly fraying at the edges, and the receptionist (`call me Annifrid – like in ABBA!`) assured Molly of her safety and the temperamental water system.
"It groans like a weary donkey when two showers are running, but you academics don`t usually mind that. We have many academics here…Nobel prize winners…"
Annifrid (like in ABBA) allowed Stig and Molly to listen without interrupting. Everyone so far had such excellent English, Molly felt slightly less guilty about neglecting her Rosetta Stone mp3 download. She was very tired though, and her mind began to wander as Annifrid listed all the beautiful sights and sounds of Uppsala and the imminent Walpurgis Festival – the social highlight of the year at the Universitet. She wondered what everyone was doing back home and felt a sudden lurch beneath her breastbone, rendering her breathless. A tiny, treacherous tear had gathered in the corner of her eye and she defied it to fall as her bags were deposited on the floor of a small, but immaculate room. She actually, more than anything, was wondering was Sherlock was doing. Damn that lump in my throat – begone! Go and bother someone else who is slightly less tired and hormonal.
Thus, little Molly Hooper was more than happy when her friendly, native welcoming committee had left her to `unpack and unwind`. Stig had muttered about `getting back to the wife`. Molly remembered he was quite newly married, to a younger woman after a whirlwind romance. Somehow, this didn't help with the throat lump, which had now taken on boulder like proportions.
God – what had she brought that cardigan for? And those shoes? She wouldn't be wearing gold high heels to walk on the icy cobbles of Uppsala…and those jeans! They only fit you for around an hour a day, after you just get up and haven't eaten anything. She`ll soon not be able to pull them up at all, considering her current interesting condition. Although tidy in the lab to the point of OCD, Molly wasn't too worried about where things were until everything was out of the two huge bags. Keep busy. Keep the – sentiment – at bay. Just homesick. Or, Holmes sick. God, Molly Hooper, get a ruddy GRIP!
And she actually managed to hold it together until the tips of her fingers had scuffled right down into the depths of the rucksack pocket where they encountered a shiny, hard rectangular case. With hinges. Grasping it, she rootled it out and looked dumbly at the glasses case containing – oh yes – the tortoiseshell glasses she knew she`d left in the Baker Street bathroom.
And, nestling betwixt their folded arms lay a tiny, folded note, which she opened with shaky fingers.
`You will almost certainly need these to type all the emails you will be sending me, my Molly. Genius girl; make me proud. SH`
And the tear rolled down, unhindered.
Xoxoxoxoxoooxox
