The world's only consulting detective is outraged.
"Why did you call Molly?" He asks, looking deeply offended. "I solve nefariously complicated crimes for a living, John. I'm fairly certain I can determine how to care for an infant for six and a half hours." Sherlock Holmes scowls.
"Thought you might need backup," Mary explains. She slips her earrings on in the hallway and steps into her shoes.
He scoffs. "And thus, Molly?"
"Oh, are you confused?" Mary says in faux sympathy. "Should I run through that again?" God, this wedding is going to be hell with these heels. She almost wishes he'd make a mess of it so she'd be saved the aching arches and lumbar pain.
He throws daggers at her, pouting. "It's not like she has any more experience than I do."
"Untrue. I sat for my neighbors as a girl," Molly points out, brightly.
"Hardly a practicum in childcare," Sherlock grumbles.
"Not the point," Molly says, setting her coat and things on an armchair.
"What do you mean?" He asks, offhand.
"I mean I'm pretty sure Catie isn't the only baby I'm here to mind," Molly says, tossing him knowing look as she drops onto the couch and begins flipping through The Economist.
"John!"
Molly smirks, amused to have gotten under his skin. Oh, this was a good idea. A very, very good idea, Mary thinks.
"Behave," John says, and ushers them out the door, closing it swiftly behind them. Mary Watson loops her arm in her husband's, a wicked grin sliding across her face.
John gives her a searching look. "What are you on about?"
She pats his arms. "Nothing, dear."
It's not even half past two before Sherlock is climbing the walls. A situation which isn't helped by the fact that Greg Lestrade keeps texting him about a body they've found.
"Case, Molly! Case!"
"Whatsit rank?" She asks, flexing her fingertips and letting Catie grasp at her hands. Her tactile senses are developing nicely.
"Mmm, five, probably," Sherlock admits.
She glances over at him, pacing the floor like a predatory cat in a cage. "You are desperate."
"That's the problem with saving the world," he says, mournfully, dropping into a chair. "You lock up all the entertaining felons. It's been months since I had a good case."
Molly picks Catie up and bounces her on her hip. "It's not even going to be a challenge for you."
He waves a hand, indifferent. "Covered. Started timing myself on anything six or below."
She snorts. Of course he does. "So when you can't compete with London's best criminals..."
"I compete with myself, yes," he finishes. "Come on, Molly...Think of the thrill," Sherlock implores, sitting up. He does seem a bit desperate, she thinks, and mentally weighs how much time it would take for him to solve a five against the amount of whining she'll have to put up with if they stay here. She has been planning to take Catie out on a walk…
Her phone pings.
tell him to stop texting me. can't make crimes more 'interesting' for him - GL
not legally, anyway - GL
"Fine, but I'm not doing it for you, I'm being helpful to Greg."
He claps his hands, jumping to his feet. "Excellent! Get your coat," he instructs. "Get her coat."
She bundles Catie up and tucks her in the carrier across her chest. "Pushy man, isn't he? Don't know why we put up with him." Catie babbles a string of sounds. "Hmm, quite right. He is very good-looking," Molly replies.
"What are you telling her?"
"Nothing," Molly says, rising. "Let's go. I'd rather not explain where we are if John and Mary get back before we do."
Greg Lestrade spots them coming and frowns. "Oi! What you doing? No babies at a crime scene!" He exclaims.
"And yet Anderson's ubiquitous presence would seem to indicate you've no objection at all to the most infantile of assistance," Sherlock quips, ducking under the tape.
"Hey!" Anderson objects.
"Sherlock…" Molly warns.
He glances down at her, straightens Catie's hat. "Hmm. Right; offensive to babies."
The victim is slumped in a pool of blood inside a freight elevator at Stamford Bridge football stadium. Sherlock steeples his hands, considers the elements.
"I really don't think she should be here," Anderson repeats in Molly's ear.
"Well she is, so bit of a moot point now," Molly says, sunnily.
"Does John know where he's–"
"Stop talking, Phillip."
"Okay," Anderson mutters something under his breath. Sherlock glances at her up, amused. Molly returns his look, not precisely smiling, but not not smiling, either. Greg looks back and forth between the pair of them.
"Can you take a look at this?"
"Sure." Molly lifts Catie from her carrier and hands her off. "Here, take her."
"I don't–"
"Take her, Sherlock!"
"Fine."
Lestrade stares at them. "Oh, this is weird."
Anderson nods. "Definitely weird."
"Even for him. Even for her. This is weird."
Molly snaps a pair of gloves (What, she travels with those? Guess it makes sense, spending time around Sherlock) and considers the corpse for several minutes before making her observations. She indicates several small lacerations and the instruments most likely to have rendered them. Sherlock seems to have heard everything he needs to.
"Thought so. Definitely murder then. You'll find the assailant working at an upscale barber shop in Southwark. Your murderer's card is imprinted in fading ink on his left hand, bank account will be recently full."
Molly glances at her watch. "Seven minutes." She shrugs. "Not bad."
"'Not bad?' They've been here for hours, I solve it in less than ten minutes and all I get is 'not bad?'"
"Fishing for compliments are we?" She says, chiding. Sherlock gives her an unfathomable look, which Molly meets with a funny sort of smile before looking away. Oh, they are strange, strange people.
"Right. Well done. There you have it Lestrade." He tucks Catie Watson back into her carrier, adjusts her scarf, then Molly's. "Coffee?"
"Kill for one," she replies.
"Honest to God." Lestrade says to Anderson, watching them go. "I think he might marry that girl."
An elderly man passes them on the street, smiles at Catie's happy gurgles. "My granddaughter is her age. Hope your wee one sleeps through the nights more than she does!" He says with a cheery wink. To Molly's surprise, Sherlock doesn't bother to correct him.
Coffee in hand, they wander back to John and Mary's from their deadly afternoon interlude in an companionable silence, broken only by the sound of Catie Watson burbling happy, nonsensical little sounds.
It is a perfect afternoon.
Molly gives Catie a bottle when they arrive back at the Watson's. Sitting in a chair by the window in the nursery, she sings a little song as the day fades to dusk. "If I were a song, I'd be in just the right key, I'd be all the best instruments, and sweet harmony," Molly sings, sitting cross-legged in the rocking chair. "I'd play oh so loudly, in hopes that you heard, because music is love, in search of the words."
Sherlock lingers in the doorframe, observing the scene in silence, but finding everything about it to be pleasing. From the sweet little song Molly sings (rather nicely) to the warmth and attachment he feels for John's daughter.
"You're good at it, this whole – babies." He says, waving his hand, looking around at Catie's nursery. Molly shrugs, patting Catie's back before laying her down.
"Yeah, well, she's pretty easy to love," Molly says, quietly, looking down at her in the crib. Her eyes flash, playful. "I think I'll keep her."
"Hmm. Kidnapping." He arches an eyebrow and warns, "Best not to leave any witnesses."
"Don't have any."
"What about me?"
"You?" Molly tips her head, looking at him, mischievous. "I was under the impression that you were my partner-in-crime."
"Solving," he points out. "Not committing."
"Inhibited by a lack of creativity, I think," Molly says, her nose scrunching up. "How boring," she quotes.
Sherlock opens his mouth to say something in retort but he's suddenly transfixed by the particular arc of her sassy grin, and the way her ponytail falls across her shoulder. Molly's small nose wrinkles adorably, which is a testament to the adorableness of Molly Hooper, given that he's never once found anything 'adorable' in his entire life. The low light from Catie's butterfly sleep lamp throws rosy light across her face, and in the dimness, her brown eyes are large and dark.
Oh. Interesting. The quip he'd been ready to parry back at her dies on his tongue as he finds he'd much rather not say something in response. He leans over, reaches for –
"Everything go alright?" Mary asks, from the door.
Sherlock turns to the door, gritting his teeth.
"Yep!" Molly says, rather quicker and louder than necessary. She blinks, recovering, and glances down to make sure Catie is still asleep. "Lovely day. Took a walk. She was a dear the whole time." She glances up at him, her expression almost perfectly in place. "So was he, if you can believe it."
Mary looks between them both with utter bemusement. "Were you about to kiss her?" She grins.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Stupid really doesn't suit you, Mary. I suggest you leave that to your husband, who is, as we know, the undisputed master of idiocy."
Mary smacks him on the shoulder, annoyed, but her eyes seem to suggest otherwise. "Out of my house, Sherlock Holmes." She shoots Molly a saucy look, throws a wink, and before they can so much as say hello to John, promptly throws them out.
They amble down the path in the last of the gathering darkness. At the gate, Molly hangs back. He's down on the sidewalk before he notices, and when he turns, he's looking up to find a mischievous half-smile on her face. "It's alright, really. I know you were."
"I was what?"
There's a glint in her eye as she answers. "Going to kiss me."
He gives her a searching look. "And how did you deduce that, Molly Hooper?"
Her eyes sparkle under the streetlights as she tips her chin up. The corners of her mouth lift in a satisfied little smile. "Sherlock Holmes, I don't need the science of deduction to know when a man is going to kiss me."
"No?"
"No."
An odd energy seems to emanate between them, a sweet frission of...something. "You could be wrong," he reasons.
"Yes. I could be," she says, moving a hair closer. "I suppose it depends on how badly you want to be right." She steps in further, and the last, small, most difficult of distances all that is left between them. "Do you want to be right, Sherlock?" She asks, her voice low, bold.
Apparently not, he thinks, and brings his lips to hers. Not till some moments later does he pull away, breathless. Her hands twine in his hair as he cups her delicate jaw, studying her face intently. Sherlock Holmes smiles. "Let us see what else you've been right about, Molly Hooper."
End Notes
Title comes from Molly's cheerful melody, which is happy little song called If I Was a Ship, by Hey Ocean! It's a lovely lullaby-type tune, and a very Molly Hooper song, I think you'll agree.
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