Molly singing
Sherlock hesitated before entering the pie shop in Baker Street (Mrs Hooper's meat pie emporium), but curiosity got the better of him. The bell above the door rang its message as Sherlock strode into the dusty building. A woman – not overly tall, brunette hair tied into a tight ponytail; Mrs Hooper, herself – chopped suet, with a lethal looking knife, standing behind the counter. "A customer!" She exclaimed; which, in all fairness, spooked Sherlock a little. He turned to leave.
Wait! What's yer rush?
What's yer hurry?
She stabbed the knife into the worn wood and wiped her greasy hands on her apron.
You gave me such a
Fright. I thought you was a ghost.
Half a minute, can't you?
Sit!
Sit ye down!
"Sit!" she ordered. Sherlock hesitantly obeyed.
All I meant is that I
Haven't seen a customer for weeks.
Did you come here for a pie, sir?
Sherlock nodded. The woman flicked a bit of dust off a pie with a rag.
Do forgive me if me head's a little vague
"Ugh! What is that?" She questioned as she plucked something off the pie and examined it.
But you'd think we had the plague
She dropped the oddity on the floor and stamped on it – ridding it of its life, if it ever had one.
From the way that people
Keep avoiding
Sherlock saw the woman's eye stray to a particularly large cockroach.
No you don't!
She crushed it with her hand and smiled in satisfaction.
Heaven knows I try, sir!
But there's no one comes in even to inhale
She blew the dust off a pie and dropped it on a filthy plate as she brought it to Sherlock.
Right you are, sir. Would you like a drop of ale?
Sherlock nodded. As the woman turned back to the counter, her mood seemed to change.
Mind you, I can't hardly blame them
These are probably the worst pies in London.
I know why nobody cares to take them
I should know,
I make them.
But good? No,
The worst pies in London
Even that's polite.
The worst pies in London
If you doubt it, take a bite.
Sherlock took an experimental taste of the pie. It was as horrid as she described. He could hardly bring himself to swallow. He kept gagging on the vile thing, but kept his mouth closed – John would not approve of turning the mess of 'food' into a projectile.
Is that just disgusting?
You have to concede it.
It's nothing but crusting
Here, drink this, you'll need it
She handed him his ale.
The worst pies in London.
Mrs Hooper made her way back over to the counter. She slammed a lump of dough on its surface and began to knead it ferociously.
And no wonder with the price of meat
What it is-
When you get it.
Never
Thought I'd live to see the day
Men'd think it was a treat
Finding poor
Animals
What are dying in the street.
Mrs. Mooney has a pie shop,
Does a business, but I noticed something weird-
Lately all her neighbors' cats have disappeared.
Have to hand it to her-
What I call
Enterprise,
Popping pussies into pies.
Wouldn't do in my shop-
Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick.
And I'm telling you them pussy cats is quick.
Mrs Hooper leaned on the counter, exhausted from the exertion.
No denying times is hard, sir – Even harder than
The worst pies in London.
Only lard and nothing more
Sherlock tried another mouthful – John would have wanted him to; but it was just as ghastly as the last.
Is that just revolting?
All greasy and gritty,
It looks like it's molting,
And tastes like –
Well, pity
A woman alone
With limited wind
And the worst pies in London!
She sighed heavily as she slumped against the counter – her head resting on slimy hands.
Ah sir,
Times is hard. Times is hard.
Sherlock gulped down his ale in an attempt to rid his palette of that abomination, for want of a better word. Mrs Hooper smiled sadly at him. "Trust me, dearie, it's going to take more than ale to wash that taste out. Come with me and we'll get you a nice tumbler of gin."
Sherlock allowed her to lead him through the curtains at the back of the pie shop and into the parlour. She proceeded to pour him a, quite large, glass of gin. "You may call me Molly, by the way. Isn't this homey now? Me cheery wallpaper was a real bargain too, it being only partly singed when the chapel burnt down..." She handed him the strong drink. Usually, he did not drink, but that pie was so vile he decided that the preservation of his senses were better sacrificed to be rid of the lingering taste. "There's a good boy, now you sit down and warm your bones, you look chilled through."
Following her instruction – he sat in the thread-bare mauve sofa by the fire place. "Isn't that a room over the shop? If times are so hard, why don't you rent it out?" He asked. No deductions. John always said to be nice to ladies; the gentleman that John was. He might have slipped when aboard the naval ship, but he was deep into his depression and could hardly be roused to eat.
Molly glanced at the roof, obviously in thought. "Up there? Oh, no one will go near it..." her expression intensified, "People think it's haunted."
"Haunted?" Sherlock fought hard to keep the tone of amusement from his voice – however, he lost the battle with disbelief.
"And who's to say they're wrong…? You see, years ago, something happened up there. Something not very nice..."
There was a barber and his wife,
And he was beautiful,
A proper artist with a knife,
But they transported him for life.
Molly sighed, dreamily.
And he was beautiful...
"Baker, his name was – Benedict Baker," she answered the unspoken question.
"Transported? What was his crime?" Sherlock asked; though he knew fully well of the charges.
"Foolishness," there was an edge to her voice that Sherlock couldn't place. Molly was plunged into reverie.
John paced, Mycroft, Sherlock's much younger brother, attempted to console him. John was distraught, strained, tears in his eyes.
The room was full of dead and dying flowers: dozens of dried bouquets tossed aside and ignored.
He had this man, you see,
Handsome little thing,
Silly little nit
Had his chance for the moon on a string
Poor thing. Poor thing.
John moved to the window, looking out. He saw Judge Moriarty and Moran waiting below. Moriarty holds yet another bouquet.
There was this Judge, you see,
Wanted him like mad,
Every day he'd send him a flower,
But did he come down from her tower?
Sat up there and sobbed by the hour,
Poor fool.
John moved away from the window, sobbing for his lost love. Mycroft attempted to comfort him, but was pushed away.
Ah, but there was worse yet to come,
Poor thing.
Moran is leading a nervous John along an exclusive street of dark stone mansions, grand but somehow menacing. John is wearing his best clothes.
Moran calls on him, all polite,
Poor thing, poor thing.
Moriarty, he tells him, is all contrite,
He blames himself for her dreadful plight
He must come straight to his house tonight!
Poor thing, poor thing.
Moran ushered John into a ballroom. He is shocked to see a fancy-dress ball in progress.
Masked couples swirled around the ballroom, their number sinisterly multiplied by the distorting mirrors that frame the room. The hanging chandeliers, draped in red cloth, cast a disquieting incarnadine glow on the proceedings. John felt trapped and uneasy.
Of course, when she goes there,
Poor thing, poor thing,
They're having this ball all in masks.
John wandered lost through the swirling dancers, the horrifying masks of distorted animals and demons adding to his confusion and distortion.
There's no one he knows there,
Poor dear, poor thing,
He wanders tormented, and drinks,
Poor thing.
Moriarty has repented, he thinks,
Poor thing.
"Oh, where is Judge Moriarty?" he asks.
Moran found John again and graciously gave him his arm, leading him through the party. He was thankful for the salvation he provided. He brought him to Judge Moriarty.
He was there, all right
Only not so contrite!
He wasn't no match for such craft, you see,
And everyone thought it so droll.
They figured he had to be daft, you see,
So all of `em stood there and laughed, you see,
Poor soul!
Poor thing!
Moriarty descended on John, forcing himself on him. The other guests crowded around ravenously, enjoying the spectacle. It seemed a feverish nightmare.
"No!" Sherlock yelled, horrified; his cry brought Molly out of her memories. He had bolted up from the sofa, eyes wide and crazed. His hand fought the urge to tangle and pull at his dark, curled locks. "Would no one have mercy on him?"
"So it is you – Benedict Baker," she sighed.
"Where's John?! Where's my love?!" Sherlock asked. He needed John.
"He shot herself. I tried to stop him but he wouldn't listen to me. And… he's got your brother."
"He? Judge Moriarty?"
"Adopted him like his own."
Sherlock's expression grew darker as he tried to make sense of his waking nightmare. "Fifteen years of sweating in a living hell on a false charge. Fifteen years dreaming that I might come home to find a loving man and brother..."
Madness pulled him into the void, overwhelming him, as he stared into the fire. "Well, I can't say the years have been particularly kind to you, Mr. Baker, but you still –" Molly was cut off midsentence by Sherlock's correction.
"No, not Baker. That man is dead. It's Holmes now. Sherlock Holmes... And he will have his revenge," Sherlock smiled a crooked smile as he continued to gaze into the dancing flames; "Judge Moriarty and Moran will pay for what they did."
After what seemed like an age, Sherlock turned to Molly with what little sanity he had recovered, "First I must have my shop back."
Hey guys! What do you think of my casting? I have really enjoyed writing this so far. It's a nice break as it follows a story-line that is already laid out and has a script.
Please review, I really would love one :)