"What the hell are you on about now, Sherlock?" John Watson asked bluntly.
The two best friends stood in the living room of 221B Baker Street, only months ago newly renovated and restored since the so-called "patience grenade" had leveled the place they had called home. So much had happened in this place. Life changing things had happened, some for good, some… not so much. But mostly good things, not the least of which were the most recent additions of Rosie, John's young daughter (nearing a year and learning to walk – much to John and Sherlock's chagrin – and delight), and occasionally (though more often than not lately), Dr. Molly Hooper, longtime friend and "it's about bloody time, Sherlock!" girlfriend of Sherlock Holmes.
"A plan," the detective said simply.
Dr. Watson knew his best friend far better than that. "Bullshit." He said simply. "This is more than a plan. This is more than a mere experiment. Look, I'm your best friend, you are my daughter's god father, we have been to hell and back more than once together. You can't lie to me Sherlock Holmes. You," John said, taking a step towards Sherlock with raised eyebrows and an accusatory finger jabbing in his direction, "are up to something."
"Oh, probably," Sherlock simply said, playfully. He glanced over at the empty client chair. "Any interesting cases knock on the door lately?"
John scowled at him, his brows furrowing with exasperation. He wasn't sure if this emotional awakening since the incidents at Sherrinford and Musgrave - Sherlock, Mycroft, and apparently, Euros's childhood home - had been a blessing, or a curse.
Sherlock Holmes was certainly simpler to figure out as an emotionally one-dimensional man. What was it Euros had called them? Complicated little emotions? Well, if it was the feels, as some on the Blog comments had called them over the years, Sherlock had certainly recaptured them. All of those complicated little feels.
He had found his emotions, long since buried in a well, as it turned out, with little Yellowbeard's best friend, Redbeard. Victor Trevor. John winced at the memory of finding the child's skull under the well water in which he was trapped. His stomach lurched at the realization that they were not, in fact, dog bones. John had scolded himself. What kind of a doctor are you anyway, Watson, to not recognize a human child's bones from those of a bloody Irish Setter?
John shook his head mentally back to the present, and found his impatience patiently waiting for him. "No, Sherlock. Not a one. Not a single case."
"Oh good!" Sherlock declared, clapping his hands in excitement. "Then this gives us opportunity!" The glee in his voice was enough to draw Mrs. Hudson from the next room.
"Anything I can help with?" she asked. "As long as you remember, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson was far more observant of the human condition than anyone knew. She knew something was up with Sherlock, something with his manner lately, the way he even took his breakfast, with appetite and true enjoyment. The way he would actually smile and give her a peck on the cheek… like a son would, before departing for his daily business. She was half expecting for him to start calling her "Mum" as he left. Mrs. Hudson didn't mind. Sherlock and John were the sons she USUALLY wished she had had.
Sherlock had been in love for quite some time, and she knew bloody well with whom. Why, anyone with eyes and a lick of common sense could see it, except, ironically and until recently, Sherlock himself. But what, she wondered, did Sherlock have in store for Molly Hooper? Whatever it was, it was deliciously romantic, in Sherlock's own strange way, and she wanted every part of it she could manage. After all, she had held the man at gunpoint at his lowest level, forced him into the boot of her car (a rather mean thing to do, he would tell her when the lid was opened), led the local coppers on a small high speed chase… and begged John Watson, in tears, to help him, and threatend to cut him out of her life completely if he didn't.
Sherlock's expressive brows furrowed for a split second.
"Yes, actually. I believe so. Mrs. Hudson, I have a list of shops to contact. If you would be so kind as to call them and make arrangements on my instruction… well I'm conducting a few experiments. Just… calibrating my deductive abilities as it were. It's necessary now and then, to keep me sharp. A lady's dress size, her shoe size, etc. It's all in the name of… science. I must ensure that I am able to… judge… that is to say deduce… small details."
Mrs. Hudson was almost convinced that Sherlock's intentions were purely scientific. Until he hesitated. Science in a pig's ass. He was up to something, and she would bet her entire fortune that it had to do with his intentions towards one Dr. Molly Hooper. She held her hand out and Sherlock handed over a wad of bills. "That should cover it, I hope." He grinned impishly. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and headed out, reading the list of things to do that had been handed to her with the money.
John crossed his arms and raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Well. Apparently I have the day off. Is there anything that Rosie and I are supposed to do, Sherlock? Any little errands? Because I know you, and I know you well. Give me the list. I know you've got one for me as well, you presumptuous bastard."
He wasn't entirely surprised then to be handed a small slip of paper, with a short, but detailed list of things to do. His eyes widened slightly to see that there was a second slip of paper, addressed to Rosie.
"Try on dresses in larkspur blue until your father tires of it and just decides on one. He chose your mother, so I know he has exceptional taste. Also, try on shoes that will not only compliment the dress, but will be easy for your little toddler legs to maintain balance in. Of course, if you must crawl, you must crawl, you will still get to where you are going. You have a very important mission, Rosamund Watson. I have every confidence in you to carry it out successfully. Love, your god-father, Sherlock Holmes."
John shook his head slightly, smiling in resignation. He held out his hand, and Sherlock handed over a wad of money that he estimated should cover the expenses of the day. Whatever his best friend had in store, it was going to be very, very interesting.