A Prologue: The Hunger

And so it came to pass that a terrible and wet harvest in the autumn of 1315 brought forth naught but ruined wheat and rotted vegetation. No bread upon the table and no broth above the fire. People hungered and people died, all across the European borders, stretching from the Balkans to the distant shores of Britannia. These afflictions struck heavily again in 1316 and thrice more in 1317. The Great Famine decimated tiny hamlets and large cities and reduced the average life expectancy to less than thirty years old. Hunger takes a hold of you and surrounds you with its tendrils of pain and hollowness. Day by day and bit by bit, it scours its host, until there is nothing left of you except your burning, ravenous desire to find a morsel to get you through the next hour. Society was purged almost to extinction, as was its harvest, and people stepped over previous boundaries of morality to grab the stale bread from the mouth of their neighbour, their co-worker, their friend, their family. And thus, crime became as great an enemy to survival as was disease. What good, after all, are riches, considered Herr Hansel Paniermehl, as he stole the exquisite diamond and fire opal brooch from the bedroom of his best friend`s dead wife, if they are not buying you cheese or bread, or a haunch of venison? And so, Herr Paniermehl, hungry and desperate, took the brooch, since the Fraulein who had starved to death before selling it provoked nothing but anger and resentful shame. Stones will not feed you. Stones will not save you. I shall take a handful of breadcrumbs over a handful of pearls, and I will eat – yes, I will live.

~x~

Mary Watson tilts her head as she contemplates her son, sitting atop a checked red blanket, hitting blocks with a wooden mallet. It is not the hitting of the blocks, as indeed, the design and bright colours of all the equipment provided do little but encourage hitting and good natured bashing as part of a baby`s hand/eye co-ordination development. They seemingly get quite a thrill from the smack of plastic on plastic (or wood upon wood, depending on how middle class your toy shop proves to be) and a dribbling, gummy grin went something towards a payback for all of the sleepless nights and questionable nappies.

However.

However, Sholto Watson was a little more – shall we say – adept and organised in his approach. A child of ten months would not normally be expected to hit each block with such alarming speed, accuracy and power. Red, yellow, blue, red, yellow, blue, red, yellow, blue … in perfect colour order and with barely a pause.

Mary sighs as her husband walks in through the door, bringing forth the night air and chill of an early spring that hadn`t quite established itself.

"Ok, love?" He cocks an eyebrow.

"It is more than possible our son will grow up to be a highly trainable and potentially violent sociopath. That ok?"

John Watson puts down his briefcase and rummages around the cupboard, looking for a rich tea biscuit.

"Sure," he comments idly. "We really do need to start some kind of club."

~x~

Pasta shells, tomato and basil sauce, garlic bread. Passable. Tasty, even. A glass of red wine does little but add to the satisfied and relaxed contentment owned by John Watson that evening. He watches his bright eyed and mysterious girl across the room and parses a question to himself - what the hell would I have done with a normal woman?

"Stop looking smug, John."

"You aren`t even looking at me! How do you know what my facial expression might be (which is not smug, by the way)?"

"I feel it," she looks up, the smile adding sugar and making him smile back, in spite of himself. "I know it. Tell you something else I know, too – "

"Ok, what?"

"If Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper don`t do something about each other very, very soon, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

A throwaway phrase? Not always, in John`s experience, as it happened.

"You don`t buy the `it was down to a heightened sense of unreality caused by the life or death situation in the lab` angle that Molly Hooper is pedalling these days then?"

"About as much as I buy Sherlock`s current rabid, manic and frankly, ridiculous workload as pure coincidence, since their little lockdown in the lab of love."

"Don`t say the `L` word in the same sentence as Sherlock`s name. There is a by-law, apparently…"

She steps silently over to his chair, looking down through spiky lashes and indigo eyes.

"Seriously John, something needs to be done."

"We can`t lock them in another laboratory and spring a virus. Sherlock would guess a rabbit was off."

"Soon, John," Mary was ominous and calm. "Or I set Sholto on them."

~x~

"Er … is that Mrs Hudson?"

(sounds of panting and breathlessness) "It is – yes … "

"Are you – are you ok there?"

(more panting, slightly abating) "Two flights of stairs … "

"Ah – is Sherlock there, Mrs Hudson? I`ve been trying his mobile for the last hour. I have some rather brilliant news regarding the Talisker case – "

"Ooh, not the bone shavings?"

(pause)

"Well – yes, yes, that was the case – although I didn't realise Sherlock shared so much infor – "

"He likes to talk out loud – quite a bit, Detective Inspector. Sometimes I`m there, sometimes I`m not. He misses John, you see. And he used to like going to chat to Molly, but he doesn't even do that now, so it`s just me and Billy."

"Billy?"

"His skull."

(further pause, whereby a throat is cleared and papers are shuffled. Sighing can also be heard) "Mrs Hudson, if Sherlock is there - "

"He isn`t. He went out about twenty minutes ago to see his architect, and I am frankly quite pleased, since the sooner this mess is sorted out the better. As if the place wasn't a sight for sore eyes at the best of times; but since he`s decided to turn my basement flat into a laboratory – "

"Your basement flat?"

"Yes dear, 221C. Since the – unfortunate incident – with Mr Magnussen, people have been rather generous, and it seems Sherlock wants a laboratory closer to home, rather than traipsing over to St Bart`s all the time (at least that`s what he said) so here I am, knee deep in drawings, mock-up models, all sorts of samples of test tubes and magazines – oh, the magazines!"

(weakly) "Magazines?"

(rustling is heard) "`Which? Homogeniser`; `Your Laboratory`; `100 Top Centrifuges`; `My Microscope`, you know, dear. And the salesmen (or `reps`, as they insist on calling themselves) trailing through my nice clean carpets day in, day out, not to mention the builder …"

"Mrs Hudson! (loud, then a tad quieter) – please. I just wanted to let Sherlock know that the Talisker grandfather was Dutch, just as he said, and we were able to source his records to Interpol in Amsterdam. They`ve just picked him up at the port."

"Oh, good! That`ll be an end of the bone shaving then. I am pleased. Goodness, hasn't Sherlock been busy? That`s the third case your people have called about just this week. He just doesn't seem to stop these days. Always hungry for a good murder, that`s our Sherlock."

"Yes, yes. That seems to be our Sherlock these days. (pause) Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Please let him know, and I hope the place gets tidier soon."

"I shouldn't hold my breath, dear."

~x~

Bill "The Wig" Wiggins cuts quite a dash these days. Filthy polyester and taped up hi-tops have made way for crisp cotton button down collars and trousers more `woollen` than `Woolworths`. His shoes (black brogues, with more than a lick of polish gaining glint from the pale evening sun) tap lightly across the flags of the Baker Street pavement as he prepares to alight the stoop to 221B, only to stop dead as he comes face to face with a small figure sitting upon the top step. Sitting and sucking a blue lollipop.

"What the devil are you doin` here?"

"What are YOU doing here?" A bright blue tongue adds a less than delightful stab of cheekiness to the proceedings, as Archie gives his elder very little respect indeed. "I was here first," he adds, for good measure.

"Shouldn't you be all tucked in in beddy-byes, `aving a nice story off your mum, instead of bothering famous consulting detectives with kid`s stuff? Sherl – Mister `olmes is a very busy man."

Blowing a curl out of his eye-line, Archie regards Wiggins with considerably less appreciation than his fluorescent lolly.

"Yes, I know he`s busy, which is why I`m helping him."

The (slightly disgruntled) older man can barely suppress a snort of derision.

"Helpin` him? Getting under `is feet more like!"

"No." The boy`s self-confidence and assuredness was increasingly unsettling. "I have been cataloguing. `Violent deaths involving piano wire and ground glass`. It is a reeeeally large file, actually. What are you doing here? Looking for some more of his shirts to wear?"

"You cheeky little – " Wiggins has most certainly raised a hand to a child before (life on the streets from the age of 10 necessitates such behaviour), but he is attempting to mend his ways in his quest to impress upon Sherlock Holmes what an excellent protégé he would make, so his fingers twitch but stay at his side. The cold press of fear suggesting there may be competition in that area could unfortunately not be nudged away. Damn that little sh –

"Sherlock has asked me here expressly to discuss the case of Admiral Abernathy, if you must know."

Distressingly, Archie waived his words away with a dismissive hand (where had he learnt that? Sure, the lad was a quick study …)

"He`s solved it. Calculated how far the parsley had sunk into the butter on that hot sunny day. It couldn't have been anyone except the PA. He`s been arrested."

Fuming, poor Wiggins gathered together the very few brickbats he had left in his artillery and prepared to take aim.

"If you`re so welcome, son, then why, may I ask, are you sittin` on `is doorstep? Is it the naughty step? Been a naughty boy?"

Archie (arch-enemy?) suddenly cracked down his baby teeth and the blue ball of glucose shattered and exploded into his mouth in a million shards of delicious sugary destruction for his dentistry. He did this whilst smiling and maintaining a weather-eye on his rival.

"Actually, there has been a slight accident with some acetone and iron filings and the fumes were making my eyes go funny. He said my coughing was putting him off, so I`m sitting here till the smoke clears."

Suddenly, the fight went out of Bill Wiggins and he sat down heavily next to Archie, glancing up at the windows above their heads. A murky and sulphurous miasma of fug could indeed be seen creeping from the barely cracked open sash windows.

"He needs to be in a lab. A house aint no place for toxic stuff."

"Yeah, but the basement isn`t ready, and he won`t go to St. Bart`s anymore."

Wiggins shakes his head. This is not new information, but it is still sitting heavy with him.

"He needs to, mate. He really does need to," he sighs.

~x~


A/N: Hello everyone! So glad to be back.

I sincerely apologise for the fact that a Sherlock/Molly story has a first chapter with no actual Sherlock/Molly interaction.

Oops.

Please stay with me, for there is so much more to come, and they both have so much to say ... x