An Introduction by Molly Hooper, MD, PhD
Someone I know was once threatened (jokingly, I think) with getting killed. Instead of flinching with fear, or even being slightly offended, this someone simply replied:
"That would be tremendously ambitious of you," and carried on regardless.
This, kind of, sums up everything about this person.
He is focused and strong, without fear or artifice. He has an erudite self confidence that sometimes belies belief – an assuredness that his way is the right way, and that the problem will be solved because his brain has sorted all the relevant data towards its ultimate reveal – the truth. He can seem cold and dismissive, but he finds heart to comfort the damaged, reassure the bewildered, brook promise for the desolate, and give peace to the tortured.
He has his bad days. He is no angel. But he is, sort of, a miracle.
He is the last bastion of hope for many in this great city of ours.
He is Sherlock Holmes.
x0x
Several Holmes`, three Watsons and a Hooper stand, sentinel-like, around the Moses basket. They collectively and silently stare down at its squirmy, snuffly, pink occupant, and marvel at the dark curls and bright blue eyes - as strong a genetic code as you could find anywhere. Molly Hooper yawns and smiles an exhausted smile, taking a teeny-tiny sip of Tattinger `82.
"A birth plan was, once again, terribly ambitious of me."
"Tremendously." Sherlock Holmes looks slyly under lowered lids, with a private smile at her.
And a gurgle and a squeak are all that break the subsequent stillness, which offers nothing but a nod of silent agreement.
x0x
Four months earlier…
"God love us, it`s looking like anarchy in the UK, these days."
John Watson, resplendent in stripy jumper (and a new blade to his razor, if observations are to be noted) turns another rustling page of The Times and huffs and puffs as to the discordant ways of the world.
Sherlock Holmes is calibrating his microscope rather than eating any toast over the breakfast table, and John notes that Skylab has not entirely prevented science bleeding into the domesticity of life in Baker Street.
"Crime has always been the great malefactor in a city like London, John. Modern media just allows us twenty four hour streaming of wrong-doings whenever we look at a screen or open a paper… my goodness, your gym membership has risen again – doesn't it just get harder and harder to stay fit and healthy?"
John ceases his rustle and folds down the top half of his newspaper.
"You must have noted the massive increase in burglaries? Particularly around South Kensington, Egham Hill and Wimbledon in the last few months – the Yard think they`re linked, with nothing taken each time."
Although John waggles his eyebrows expectantly at Sherlock, awaiting a pique of interest, none is forthcoming.
"Or, what about gang warfare? It seems to be reaching epidemic proportions – looting, car hijacking, drugs – " he puts down the paper.
" – and what about my gym membership? Forty five quid to Fifty three in the last month – another example of daylight robbery."
"Hmm." Sherlock quirks a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth.
"Tell me, or I`ll tell Molly you have her best Meiji on the breakfast table."
"Mmm … living with Mary is definitely giving you an edge, John. Very well, it`s all about your manicure."
"My – how - ?"
"Your manicure – and I do emphasise the `man`, since we all seem to need a more metrosexual approach to grooming these days…"
"I am, frankly, stunned that you know such a word as `metrosexual`."
"Underestimate me at your peril, John. If I may continue – your nails are neatly manicured, buffed and all traces of prescription pad ink and rough callouses are a mere memory. You have no time (or, one supposes, inclination) to visit an actual beauty parlour, so I deduce that a new service has been offered by your gym, which you attended last night, which includes grooming treatments such as this. More choices usually equal an increase in costs, which is passed onto the customer – in this case, yourself."
"`one supposes`? Of course I don't visit beauty parlours – "
"Am I correct, John?"
John picks up The Times, re-establishing the barrier between himself and his very annoying friend and ex-flatmate.
A few rustling moments pass.
"If you don't stop being smug, Sherlock, I won`t tell you what happened to Mary yesterday."
"Why would I want to know this?"
"Oh, believe me, you will."
x0x
St. Anne`s Shopping Centre, Islington
Yesterday
13:40 hours. Approximately sixty precious minutes before she needs to retrieve a small child (hers) from nursery. Time enough to collect John`s suit, Sherlock`s knives and still have time to be visually seduced by the verdigris satin shirt in Hobbs.
That shirt will be the death of me, muses Mary Watson, to whom death has rarely been too much of a stranger during either of her chosen careers of assassin and trainee doctor.
Due to the latter and most recent commitment, Mary had so little time to herself, that a stolen hour off the clock was the equivalent to an extra fiver in your change, or three cherries lined up on the slot machine in the pub.
A prize, to be savoured.
Her husband`s suit lay, crinkly in its polythene sheath, across her arm as Mr Throckley in the cobblers (`we also cut keys!`) lays open the roll of various sized surgical knives and scalpels. They glint wickedly in the concealed LED lights of the cramped little shop and Mary notes the silent approval of Mr Throckley as they survey his handiwork.
"Beautiful work, Mr. T, as always."
"Beautiful tools, Mrs Watson. It was my pleasure to work with them. I know you will take care, since they are as sharp as serpent`s teeth, but I am compelled by law to warn you."
"Not mine, I`m afraid. They belong to Sherlock."
Mr Throckley nods, knowingly, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
"Ah, Mr Holmes. A man with a fine eye, and excellent taste. Considering the current crime explosion, I do rest slightly easier knowing he is looking out for us."
Mary smiles, rolling the knives back up into a slightly less threatening arrangement, and tying them tightly.
"He`s not a super hero, you know, Mr T. He doesn't actually wear a cape."
Mr Throckley winks and conspiratorially taps the side of his nose. You may say that, says the wink, but we know better.
Thus, ex-assassin and current doctor`s wife, Mary Watson, stands, longingly, outside the window of Hobbs. The shirt is glowing softly at her through the glass of the window. It`s siren call is building in her ears, and with twenty minutes to go before she needs to leave, her debit card has never weighed so heavy in her handbag.
Dinner at Pizza Express for three, or a sleeves worth of swanky green blouse? Dammit. Mary hated being a responsible wife and mother at times. Not today, my lovely, but one day we shall meet again.
In a second, a self-pitying reverie is rudely interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek, which cut like one of Sherlock`s knives, through the piped musak of the building.
"My baby! MY BABY! Stop it, stop them …!"
Running to scan the area beneath the escalator on the lower floor, Mary`s quick eyes and warrior brain assess in seconds.
A group of hoodies (gang-like potential) running away from a recently vacated supermarket, pushing a trolley full of stolen booze. They are high, lairy, hooting with derision and being chased by several security men (none of whom appear to be armed with anything more deadly than a night stick). Horrifically, a simple smash and grab has morphed into something much, much worse, as one, over-stimulated member of the pack in a maroon hoodie has snatched a baby buggy as his entourage passed a group of mothers, and a small child is screaming for its mother as it is carried along in a riotous sea of sportswear, marijuana and profanities.
The intention does not appear to be to hurt the child, but Mary, mother of one and killer of many, knows how these things can end, and waits no longer.
Dropping suit and bag and wrenching a large knife from the roll, she half runs, half cascades, down the slowly grinding escalator. Maroon hoodie is at the rear of the gang, but too far ahead of the guards. He is way too high to be put off by a howling infant, screaming mothers and yelling men in white shirts, but when a large knife flick-flacks, centimetres from his face, in a hiss of displaced air, and pins his hood to a pillar, he falters. And, as his legs are taken from beneath him by a hitherto unseen, tiny, blonde tornado in a purple raincoat, it filters through that the fun is over for the day.
As the guards lumber towards them, Mary pulls the knife adeptly from the wall and takes in her co-rescuer as purple raincoat girl frees the screaming baby from its buggy. Through the screams of the baby, shouts of the men and howling of their captor (whom they both have one foot pushing down on), Mary is able to see short, wild peroxide hair, in a dandelion-like corolla around a small pale face.
"Well played – that was excellent timing."
The bright blue, amazingly familiar eyes seek out hers, and pass her the sobbing child.
"My pleasure. Most excellent knife work – commendable."
Mary presses her foot a little harder on hoodie, who is writhing and swearing a little too loudly for her liking.
She grins, rocking the baby, attempting to soothe.
"You, here … this isn't a co-incidence, is it?" observes Mary Watson.
The blue-eyed dandelion girl picks up her bag to leave before any official questioner might reach her.
"Is the universe ever that lazy?" she whispers, in her Scandinavian lilt.
And she is gone.
x0x
Hello!
... and we`re BACK!
I know, manicure for army boy John Watson? Hey, he`s just trying something new; nothing wrong with being in touch with your feminine side. Has a new job too, so out to impress.
Blue-eyed dandelion girl? More soon, but her identity is linked to two previous stories, `Emails from Uppsala` and `When Sherlock Met the Other One.`
More soon - would love to hear from you. :)
