Sherlock stared up at Granville House, a vast Victorian Gothic pile covering roughly three acres under one roof. The Marquess of Canton's ancestors had added to the palatial estate over the centuries and turned it into a showplace. The family still lived in the mansion year-round, and were known for not only their exquisite taste but also their friendliness, dedication to Worthy Causes (like a number of crisis pregnancy centers in London and battered womens' shelters) and lack of pretension. Sherlock had known the Marquess's eldest son at school and while they hadn't been friends (of course), Sherlock had found him to be a good-hearted and genial fellow.
Frowning, he finally went to the door and pulled on the bell chain. A moment later, the door was opened by a tuxedoed butler, who eyed Sherlock for a moment before nodding. "Good day, sir. How might I assist you?"
"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "I would like to speak with the Marquess."
"I'm afraid he is not at home."
"'Allo, Niles, who's here?" someone called from inside. Sherlock took a step back and was surprised to see Lord Alex Norris limping out to greet him. He studied the slightly-younger man for a moment. Old injury. Horse-related, likely. Well-groomed, but not fussy. Cheerful disposition. Rich as Croesus. Currently dressed like a rag-picker. He looked at Norris' clothes—rough old shirt, battered jeans, dung-crusted boots. He looked like a Dales farmer, not the heir of a Peer of the Realm. Sherlock vaguely recalled that the Marquess was a farmer, and a dedicated one at that. Apparently his son was following in his dear old dad's footsteps. "Is it the veterinarian?"
"No, sir. A Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock faked a smile. "I'm interested in the items being offered in the auction of Sir David Livingstone-Hayes' collection."
Lord Norris grinned, and Sherlock noted there was cow dung on the man's boots. "Oh, I remember you. We went to school together."
"Right," Sherlock nodded curtly. "May I see the items being offered?"
"Sure. Can't see why not. I don't recall you being in the artsy crowd," Lord Norris said, admitting Sherlock into the front hall. The detective looked around the vast room, noting the double set of curving staircases, the priceless crystal chandelier hanging above, the inlaid compass design set in the middle of immaculate black and white marble, and the Louis XIV chairs lining one wall. "Sure you don't want to join me in the byre? I've got a young beast trying to push out her first calf, but it's coming out arse first, and I'd think that's far more interesting than looking at weird sculptures and pictures of drunk naked girls."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Drunk naked girls? His Molly drunk and naked?
"Thank you, no. Perhaps I'll pencil that in when I've lost my mind or my sense of smell."
Lord Norris grinned. "You're missing out on some jolly fun. The stuff is all in the picture gallery through that door yonder. Good day." Norris rushed outside and Sherlock waited until the butler also left before heading into the next room. He was stopped cold by what could only be called sensory overload.
Hundreds of paintings and sketches were displayed on the walls and on easels throughout the enormous room. Also displayed were carvings, sculptures, pottery and tiny miniature paintings of various animals and flowers set up in display cases. Sherlock scanned the room slowly, trying to separate it all in his mind and focusing on the task at hand. But that was difficult, particularly when he came across a 'sculpture' of what he finally decided was of a helicopter that had crashed into a Volkswagen Beetle and were both then beaten savagely by enraged and very determined football hooligans. It was called, without a trace of irony, Holes in the Soul.
All he could do to calm down was growl at the sculpture and move on. He paced along the easels first, eyeing each one coldly. None of the nudes were in any way provocative or pornographic. In fact, there was a sweetness and innocence to them all, and only the most perverted person could call them anything other. There were no children among any of the nudes, either. All were of adult women, of varying ages, and all of varying degrees of accepted terms of 'beauty'. They were all done tastefully and respectfully, and Sir David had brought out the character and essence of each woman in question without objectifying her even a little. He had, in the course of researching the artist, found an interview where the man had said that he always wanted to show how the woman really felt about herself, not how anyone else might feel about her, and thus did his best to see that her soul was shown, not just her body. Holmes had to admit that Livingstone-Hayes had fulfilled his purpose pretty well in that.
He was about to give up when he finally saw it. The Girl in the Mirror, the name of the portrait written in a clear, blocky script on the bottom of the simple wood frame. The portrait—about 16x20 in size—was displayed on an easel. He went closer, bracing himself a little (for what?) and drew in his breath. He looked at the colors first—soft whites and blues and pale greens. The walls of the room were painted a soft, almost pearl pink—entirely feminine.
The subject of the painting was definitely Molly Hooper. She was standing in front of a mirror, holding a black skirt against her belly, as if measuring to see if it would fit her. Her breasts were bare and her face slightly pink, and her skin was smooth and so silky-looking he almost wanted to touch the painting to see if her flesh was warm. Her hair was braided and piled in a twist on her head, and across the front of the dark pile of soft brown braids were six tiny white rosettes. Behind her was an unmade bed, sheets rumpled, a pink and white quilt twisted against pillows. Several other dresses of varying colors were strung across the bed and on a chair nearby, along with silk stockings and all sorts of bras and knickers.
The look on her face was what made him step closer and stare at her, bewildered. She looked sad—beaten down and exhausted, and wishing for something unobtainable.
But what was it she was longing for? She was intelligent, well-informed, educated, and had done extremely well at university, financial hardships having done nothing to impede her academic success. She was well-liked by her colleagues. He was sure she had her fair share of beaux back then… so what could have been missing? He looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror she was gazing into, and really could see no difference from the girl or the softly-painted image, but that longing was still there, and it made something in his chest hurt—her eyes were wide, dark pools of… what? He struggled to find the word but found himself at a loss. He stepped back, running a shaking hand through his hair, not sure what to do. Or what to say next time he saw her.
She was beautiful.
It wasn't as though he hadn't acknowledged, privately, that Molly was nice to look at. Her eyes were dark brown and sensitive, and her mouth was soft-looking (thin lips, yes, but hardly unsatisfactory), and her figure was really quite nice. He had divorced himself entirely from feeling things about women, long ago, and had decided that it was best not to pursue romantic entanglements of any kind, but sometimes he felt that sting of loneliness, particularly at night. He would never admit to anyone, ever, that sometimes he had fantasies of waking up with her…
He gulped and closed his eyes, reining in his emotions and regaining his self-control.
He looked at Molly again, and realized what her expression was.
Loneliness.
But there was something more—and he moved closer to the painting and looked closely.
On the bed behind Molly were several open magazines, and he could make out what looked like a long-legged model in a slinky black dress. The model was leaning back against a rock, her legs up to her eyes, and then there was Molly—small, slight, shy (at the time), and lacking any degree of self-confidence, clearly comparing herself, unfavorably, to a photo-shopped stick figure who likely possessed the intelligence of a kumquat. The girl in that painting, looking wistfully at herself in a mirror and finding herself severely wanting, was not the same Molly who had slapped him three times and looked him right in the eye when she spoke to him (and berated him and smiled at him and disagreed with him and could read him like a book and wasn't afraid to call him an arse and tear into him like a monkey on a cupcake when required) and would probably punch him right in the face if he pushed her hard enough.
"That portrait will cost a good chunk of change, eh?"
Sherlock whirled around and came face to face with a man who had always utterly repulsed him.
Trevor Grant.
Pornographer. Publisher of a well-known skin magazine popular across Europe and in the UK. Producer and even director of hard-core pornographic films. Walking wad of slime. An embarrassment to the whole notion of 'freedom of the press'. History of erectile dysfunction. Lifts in his alligator skin boots. Botox. Waxed. Spray tanned. Plastic surgery. No conscience, unless one was implantable.
"I think I know you," Grant said. "Home…?"
"Holmes," Sherlock answered coldly.
"Oh, right. The detective who faked his own suicide." Grant grinned. "Ballsy, I must say." He tried to peer around Sherlock to get another look at the painting, but Sherlock used his superior height, as well as quick reflexes to his advantage, and blocked him. "What, you know this little chickie?"
Sherlock refused to answer. Just glowered at Grant, wanting to break various bones to prevent the bastard from looking at his Molly… his pathologist.
"Well, hardly matters. I've seen it. And those sketches, too," Grant said, gesturing toward nine small matted sketches on a large board. "Very nice." He grinned, and Sherlock remembered how his flesh crawled every time he had encountered Charles Augustus Magnusson. This man was like that very dead blackmailer—the same cold, shark-like eyes and complete lack of scruple. Magnusson exploited everyone, but this man exploited women, whether with their consent or not. There had long been all sorts of charges that Grant was involved in the international sex slavery trade, for one thing, but none of those charges had ever stuck and he frequently left courtrooms grinning and smugly telling reporters that 'as it didn't fit, they had to acquit'.
The smut purveyor smiled smoothly at Sherlock. "I think I'll put in a bid on this portrait, and the sketches, too. I've read that Livingstone-Hayes didn't always remember to get things signed, and if there's no contract and ownership is legally exchanged…" He looked at the sketches, as did Sherlock.
They were all just as innocent and wistful as the portrait. Molly sitting on the edge of a bathtub (lovely legs—that could not be denied), or arranging her hair, or lying on the bed, knees folded chastely together, looking toward the window and smiling just slightly. There was nothing in any of those sketches that was remotely sexual, but a disgusting wanker like Grant could definitely make them so.
"Yes, sir. Definitely will put in a bid." He looked Sherlock up and down. "Better get your eyeful now… though I think you'll be seeing them again soon, after I buy them." He grinned, and Sherlock felt like he needed throw up and take a bath.
The door to the gallery opened and Lord Norris stepped in, still in his dirty clothes, which were even dirtier after having delivered a calf and apparently getting some afterbirth on his jeans. He paused, staring at Trevor Grant, his brow furrowing. "Who let you in here?"
"I followed my nose," Grant answered smoothly. "The pictures are being displayed for potential buyers, aren't they?"
"Not without express permission from myself or Miss Cowan, and I seriously doubt Miss Cowan would give you permission, and I know I didn't. You may leave." He stepped aside, holding the door open. Trevor Grant looked a little disgruntled but he walked out. However, he turned back to look at Sherlock and Lord Norris.
"I'm looking forward to the auction. Lots of nice birds to look at here." He grinned and winked before leaving.
Sherlock really wanted to throw up.
"Nasty git," Lord Norris muttered. "He's in the papers all the time, being charged with all kinds of stuff… indecency, the sex trade… makes you wish we could live in more prudish times, if just to protect women from the likes of him."
Sherlock frowned and looked at Molly's portrait and the sketches again. Norris came up beside him, bringing the scent of the cow byre with him, and looked at the portrait.
"You thinking of buying any of these?" Norris asked.
"Yes. Some of them."
"I haven't even looked at them, really. Just not my thing, really. If I'm going to look at a girl, I'd rather she be flesh and blood." He shrugged. "I wouldn't mind if she was naked, but maybe I'm old-fashioned. I'd rather talk to her a bit, you know, before other options come up. Blame my father—he always said to get to know a girl and make a friend of her before you try to get your leg over, and always at her word." He gestured toward the door, and Sherlock took the cue—he was being shown out, too, although politely. Norris looked at Molly's portrait. "Pretty lass, I have to say, though she seems a bit sad. Do you know her?"
"Somewhat," Sherlock managed. "Perhaps not as well as I thought."
The next day
"Miss Hooper? Hello, this is Olivia Cowan. I was calling to tell you that the portrait and the sketches have all been evaluated."
Molly gripped the phone, her lips forming a thin, white line. "I'm… I'm glad you called."
"Yes. Well. The portrait has been valued at sixty-five thousand and the sketches are all valued at about two thousand each. They are all very fine, the appraiser said, and considered some of Sir David's best work. Rosamund took them with her to the estate last night and didn't tell me about it until about an hour ago. Needless to say, I gave her a pretty good ticking off, as Lady Iris was very willing to meet up with you and myself to haggle. If you would like, I could see you're given an invitation to see them at Granville House on Friday, but I won't be there. Lord Norris is very kind, though, and I've told him to keep an eye out for you in case you decide to come up. I'm swamped and have to fly to Ireland tonight."
"Oh." Molly felt her heart splash down into her stomach and began paddling around, making her feel sick all over.
"I'm very sorry, Molly. If I had known, I would have tried to stop her, but Rosamund is what folks back home would call 'common as hog tracks', but she also has an eye for art and knows what's likely to bring in the best prices, and in this case she was right—the portrait and the drawings are lovely and they are perfect examples of what Sir David always tried to do for his subjects. Sixty thousand for the portrait is just the reserve and I suspect it'll bring much more than that… thank you, Eamon, could you see that horrible helicopter-versus-car thing is moved farther away from the door. We don't need sobbing children fleeing from this place… I'm here at Granville House now, but I have to leave soon."
"It's all right."
Olivia sounded like she was about to say something else, but someone called to her. "I'll be right there, ma'am!"
"I appreciate you calling."
"I apologize for all these interruptions, Molly, it's horribly rude of me. I've got people everywhere and about a hundred more paintings and items to set up and then we have to do the layout for the catalog and the memorial service is tomorrow at St. Margaret's. Oh! There will be a charity event the night before the auction, by the way. Sir David wanted money to be raised for a cause dear to his heart: Victims No More—you've heard of it?"
Molly scanned her memory and finally snatched up something she had seen once on television. "It helps women trying to get out of prostitution and… er… pornography, right?"
"Yes. An excellent organization, I'd say, and any money raised goes directly to the work—Sir David was very pointed about that, let me tell you. The board of trustees and directors don't get a penny. It goes to the girls—helps them finish their educations, get jobs, housing—the works. There's girls as young as thirteen that they've managed to rescue, and David was very passionate about it. He always said pornography was soul-stealing, however much the girls 'consented' to it, and the sex trade just infuriated him. 'I'm not much on feminism, Ollie, but I'm very much for femininity, and treating a girl with respect and kindness because she's a person, not a thing', he would say. I suppose that was the over-protective father in him."
Molly smiled. "My father was the same way."
"Yes, mine too, but then Daddy also has a shotgun and still isn't afraid to go back to prison. So anyway, I'll send you two tickets to the charity ball. Bring a friend along and I know you'll have a good time. Blast… I'm sorry, but I really have to go. Lady Iris, that hat is completely wrong for that outfit. Please reconsider. Have a lovely day!"
Olivia rang off and Molly hung her head, sighing miserably. She looked at Mr. Swann, who lay on the slab, his chest open and a mass of debts left for his family to cope with. "And you thought you had problems," she told the old man.
"Surely you haven't been reduced to talking to them, Molly."
She turned and looked at Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall. He looked tired and stressed, and she wondered if he had slept lately. "I suppose you must have a very important case going on," she said, wiping her nose with her coat sleeve.
"Moriarty is an ongoing case, but that's secondary at the moment."
She nodded absently and returned to Mr Swann.
"Molly," Sherlock said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "There's a bit of a problem."
"I know. I just talked to Olivia Cowan and she told me the painting is reserved at sixty thousand pounds, and the sketches are worth two thousand each."
Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. "Really? That's… "
"I know. Astounding. I can't imagine why." She picked up her expander and began spreading Mr Swann's chest open. His family wanted a cause of death, and as she looked down at his clotted-up heart and nicotine-ravaged lungs, she had little trouble determining what had killed him. "I just hope no one I know sees them. Maybe you're right—no one I know travels in those circles, and I can't imagine any friends of mine from down at the pub will be going to that auction, and really, no one would think of Molly Hooper posing for such portraits. Maybe I'm just over-reacting."
He swallowed. "Right."
"So maybe we should just forget about it."
"Molly… "
"I posed for them, so I suppose I should just accept the consequences. The sketches will probably end up spread out among various people, and the portrait will be in a private collection and that'll be the end of it. Sixty or so years from now, someone will take one of the sketches to Antiques Roadshow and by that time I'll be old and dottering about and won't even remember it and no one would recognize me anyway." She began removing Mr Swann's heart, smoothly cutting away and finally extracting it before settling it into a basin. "Miss Cowan sent me an invitation to a charity ball the night before the auction. I suppose I'll ask Crane to go with me—he likes being seen in public." So long as she could keep him away from the champagne, she would return home unscathed, but if he tried anything again, he'd be walking back to his car with a limp.
"Molly, they won't be going in separate places or to a private collection. A man is going to buy them." He swallowed. "An entirely revolting and amoral character named Trevor Grant."
Her hands froze around Mr Swann's liver. She gulped and closed her eyes tightly. "That Trevor Grant."
"Yes, Molly. I'm… I'm so sorry."
She couldn't look at him. She bowed her head. John had mentioned to her, offhand, that Molly Hooper was the first and thus far the only person he had ever heard Sherlock Holmes apologize to. That was something she would always store away in her heart, for when she felt her worst—that Sherlock actually did give a damn about her feelings, even when he was being a total prat. Today, however, she knew he was being as kind as he could be, high-functioning sociopath or not.
"So I guess those pictures will be exhibited. Probably in one of his disgusting magazines, or featured in one of his hideous films." She forced herself to cut the liver out and settle it in its own basin. "Probably on the cover of the DVD box, knowing him."
He was silent. Finally, gathering up all her nerve, she turned around and faced him, gloved hands dripping blood and other fluids. "How did you find out he was buying them?"
Sherlock licked his lips nervously and looked down. "I… uh… sort of ran into him. At Granville House."
Had she not remembered that she would end up with blood all over her face, Molly would have clapped her hand over her mouth. Sherlock had seen the portrait and the sketches. He had seen them, and so had that disgusting excuse for a man, Trevor Grant. Soon the whole world would see them. Her mother and her smug married sister and her friends and her colleagues and total strangers with ruined keyboards and inflatable dates and endless hours of Tomb Raider and Halo…
"Molly… I swear to you, I will find a way to get those pictures. I will get them."
"There's no way you could outbid him. Please… let it go."
Sherlock muttered something under his breath, but she couldn't make it out and she was starting to hear a horrible roaring in her ears. She stripped the gloves off and threw them in the trash. "Excuse me," she said. "I need… I have to go… "
He stepped aside and let her pass through the doors. Molly rushed down the hallway, ignoring Crane calling out to her about Mr Swann's autopsy, and reached the ladies' loos just before the dam broke and her tears began to flow. She locked herself in a stall, sat down and wept.
The next morning
John arrived at Baker Street to find Sherlock breaking dishes.
He was slamming them, one after another, into the sink. He was wearing a pair of safety goggles, at least, but he was putting forth a great deal of force into destroying every damned dish in the kitchen. Cups, saucers, plates, bowls… everything was being shattered, without an ounce of mercy or consideration. He yanked open another cabinet and, finding no further dishes, he began looking for casserole pans and resumed his project. Watson said nothing, but stood there, watching in bewildered astonishment as the most controlled man he had ever seen vented his rage.
And he was angry, that was for sure. John kept his distance, suspecting Sherlock might throw a pot at him if he spoke. He was about to leave when Mrs Hudson came in, looking outraged. "What the devil are you doing, Sherlock?" she shouted over the noise of crashing pottery and growling. Sherlock had run out of dishes and was now destroying flower pots, one after another and throwing the wrecked flowers into the bin.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he snarled.
"Going mad, I think," Mrs Hudson said, and bravely stepped forward to snatch a pretty chintz pattern china teapot out of the fuming detective's hands. "That is Royal Doulton, you silly git. What is wrong with you?"
"Oh, for God's sake, do you really have to ask that, after all these years? As for what is wrong now, I have failed, Mrs Hudson. Failed. Miserably." He snatched the pot from her and smashed it in the sink. "So both of you… sod off and leave me alone." He stalked out of the kitchen and into his bedroom, slamming the door shut. There were further crashes in there, and Mrs Hudson sighed.
"My grandmother's two hundred year old washing pitcher and basin."
"I'll calm him down, Mrs Hudson. Go on back downstairs."
Mrs Hudson left, muttering about the mess and all those lovely pots now destroyed, and John waited until the crashing noises from Sherlock's room stopped. He gingerly opened the door and saw Sherlock sitting on the bed, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. "And what was that all about?"
"Pornography."
"Er… what?"
"The portraits of my client will likely be purchased by a pornographer, and those portraits will become public… knowledge shortly thereafter."
John pondered this for a moment. "I see."
"No, you don't see!" Sherlock shouted at him, standing up. "You see, but you don't observe! This woman is extremely important to m—… to various people and not only will this damage her professionally but also destroy her personally, and I cannot bear that. I cannot. As I told you, she is a very respectable person and her happiness and well-being is vital. Paramount. Above all other concerns."
"To the government, or to you? Good Lord, she must be something," John said, looking around the room. Indeed, Sherlock had destroyed the pitcher and basin. Perhaps he ought to talk him into a setting up some kind of insurance plan to cover the damage resulting from fits of pique and guilt.
"She… is my client. That simple."
"Sherlock, you've had clients in line to thrones. You've had clients worth billions of pounds. I can only assume this client getting her reputation ruined could bring down the whole bloody government?"
The detective wavered, as if he was debating telling John her identity, but he finally shook his head. "It's not that way. It's… I made a promise and I must keep it. I just don't know how."
"So she's someone important to you?" John pressed.
"A client," was all Sherlock would say.
"Your mother?"
"Don't even go there, and as much as she can try me, one thing she would never do is pose nude for a portrait. Not even in her salad days. Besides, all she concerned herself with in her youth was mathematics."
John frowned and braced himself. "Is it Mary? Something you didn't know… "
"No. It's not Mary."
"Mrs Hudson?"
"Mrs Hudson is an open book, and her love life in the past was more of an open sports page, to be quite blunt, but no, it is not her." Sherlock stood and went to his closet, returning a moment later with his Belstaff. He threw it on the bed and pulled off his shirt, which was splattered with potting soil. He changed into another shirt, practically wrapped himself in his coat and stomped out of the room. John heard Sherlock's cell phone ring.
"Yes? Wait… what? I see. Well, that's interesting. Where are they going? How the hell can he afford that? Well. An interesting development, I must say, but right now I'm not sure how it can be used to our advantage. But I never leave anything to chance. I'll be out there soon and we'll go over details. No, I will not. I will buy you a hot meal, a cold non-alcoholic beverage, coffee and nothing else. Giving you money results in smashed store windows and tense chats with the police at three in the morning, and I'm in no mood for that now. Keep me informed." He rang off and stuffed the phone in his pocket. He turned back to face John. "Take Mary to Green's tonight at seven o'clock."
"I can't afford to eat there!" John squawked.
"I'll pay. Get a table reserved. Use my name if you need to, but get one." He nodded and left John completely bewildered. He sighed and called his wife.
"Mary? Can you get a sitter tonight? We're having dinner at Green's… on Sherlock."
"We can only hope that Sherlock really is paying for this, or we'll be living on crisps and bacon sandwiches for the next year or so," John mumbled to Mary as they took their seats at a table near the window (apparently the table had been preselected for them).
"Oh, stop worrying about money. I want to see what's happening. Do you have any idea who the client is?" Mary asked. She unfurled her serviette and spread it on her lap. The waiter arrived with water and bread, took their drink orders, and left.
"I've not a clue, really, but I think we might be aiming in that direction," John answered. He opened the menu, winced, and closed it. "I think this thing is mislabeled."
Mary giggled and looked at her menu, then quickly closed it. "My God, we can't even afford the tap water!"
John's attention was captured then by the sight of DI Greg Lestrade coming in with a very lovely redhead on his arm. He spoke with the maître d' and the couple was led to their own table on the other side of the restaurant. John was surprised to see the detective there—he could hardly afford to eat here, either, and though he knew the detective wasn't some bumpkin, it was certainly out of his usual milieu. Lestrade was more likely to found eating fish and chips and playing darts at a pub. Just the same, the girl he was with was definitely made for a place like this—she was beautiful, clearly very classy, and even more fascinatingly, she was very interested in Lestrade, if her smile was any indication.
"Well, she's certainly high-level," Mary said, peering carefully at the couple. "Not that I don't think Greg could swim in that pond—he's a very decent bloke and can handle anything. Considering he handles Sherlock as well as he does, he can deal with Green's and the Knightsbridge set."
"Really?" John asked.
"Hm. He's quite a good-looking man, too, and it's nice to see him looking cleaned up and not so tired. Poor man. His wife raked him over the coals, the heartless..."
"Cow."
"Bitch, you mean."
"Well, that too."
"And here I thought we were going out for fish and chips. I didn't realize it would be swordfish and capers," Olivia said, smiling at Greg, who drew in his breath. He was still having trouble forming groups of words into coherent sentences. Just picking her up at Grayson House tonight, and seeing her in that little black Chanel dress, a diamond necklace artfully winding through her hair (who would think to do such a thing?) and smelling like a perfumer's dream come true had left him gaping like some idiot schoolboy instead of a divorced father of three.
"You can order whatever you like," Greg said. He was resolutely not going to think about his credit card. American Express could punish him later. He'd sell his car, if need be.
She laughed. "Then I'll have spaghetti and marinara, and a Coke. I don't drink, really. A glass of wine with my dinner, sometimes, but I don't mind if you have something harder. I also do not believe in making a man who makes an honest living empty out his bank account for me. It would be unconscionably rude, and you're a police officer. I can't bilk a copper out of his cash."
There was a comfortable silence between them, before he finally leaned forward. "So what do you think of Mother England?"
Olivia smiled. "It's a lovely country. Lovely, kind people and I really enjoy driving and walking around in the country, and I really love fly-fishing up north. I have a friend who owns an estate in Scotland and he lets me wade out and try to outwit trout and stalk deer."
He was surprised to hear that. "And the food? I know it must be a lot different from American cooking."
"Well… I'll try and be tactful."
Lestrade grinned. "That bad, huh?"
"Hideous," she said with a rueful smile. "I live on pastries and cucumber sandwiches—tea is my only meal of the day. The first time I had tea, they brought me a dish of all these little sandwiches, but I thought someone had surely eaten on them already. I told them to bring me about forty more and a Dr. Pepper and I'd be happy. And your concept of 'bacon' is a far cry from bacon back home, and don't get me started on the things you do to beef." She shuddered. "Yorkshire pudding. Kidney pie. Shepherd's pie. The British concept of gravy," she whispered darkly. "I nearly fainted."
He laughed. "I've heard of something in America called 'chicken fried steak'. What on earth is that?"
"Cheap cut of round steak, dipped in egg and flour, fried about nine minutes on one side and six minutes on the other or until tender and with a nice crust on it. You have to beat that piece of meat for a good bit before you start fryin' it, and then you make gravy from the drippings. And of course, we also have green beans and okra and fried green tomatoes and biscuits… " She sighed. "I go home for Thanksgiving and Mother's Day every year. Keeps me from starving to death."
"Biscuits? With your meal?" Greg asked, brow furrowing.
"Oh! No, not those kinds. Biscuits. Big fluffy biscuits. I guess the closest y'all have here would be called scones. My grandmother taught me how to make biscuits from scratch. I'll show you some time. You spread butter on 'em when they're still hot and fresh out of the oven, and then you put homemade mustang jelly on 'em, or honey or molasses. If you'd allow it, I'll have you eating fried catfish and hushpuppies and Moon Pies and real, by-God barbecue in no time. You'll never go back and you might even gain some weight."
"Sounds perfect to me."
Olivia smiled, her cheeks pinking a little. "Yes. It does, doesn't it?"
"How do they look so far?" John asked, realizing the reason why he and Mary had been conscripted to eat here tonight. They were to spy on Lestrade and that woman, but the reason why remained a mystery to him.
"Half in love, I think," Mary said, smiling and peeking around her menu at the couple across the restaurant. "Equally smitten. She has a lovely accent, from what I've heard. American Southern."
"Ah."
"Oh, look, the violinist is going to go serenade them! How sweet!" Mary gushed, loving to watch a new romance bloom.
The violinist approached, playing something light and squeaky, to Lestrade's mind, and it was soon annoying. He eyed the man as he stood near their table, making flourishing motions as he played, and finally, just as Olivia was telling him about her first trip to the British Museum but could barely be heard over all the noise, Lestrade moved quickly—he stood, snatched the bow from the violinist and tossed it toward the kitchen doors. The violinist grabbed in vain for the bow and sputtered in outrage, scowled at the detective, who was sitting down again and listening intently to Olivia, and stalked away in a huff.
"… figured out that those Egyptian mummies weren't from Egypt at all. They were tourists who got lost in there too, and I know I wasn't the only one. This poor English man approached me and asked if I knew where the exits were. He told me some of the little ones were beginning to give up hope."
"I know where they exits are," Greg nodded. "I'd be happy to give you a proper guided tour. Any time." He shrugged. "I worked a summer there, when I was at university."
"Oh, that sounds lovely. I'm sure you're an excellent tour guide." She smiled. "Much nicer than the one who abandoned me by the Elgin Marbles to chat up a woman who looked like Lady Gaga… only more frightening."
By that time, his hand was covering hers on the table and they were oblivious to everyone else in the room.
"Well, I think they've reached détente," John said.
"Why would Sherlock want us to spy on them?"
John's phone buzzed. "I think we're about to find out."
Are Graham and that American woman still there? – SH
John sighed.
Yes. Greg and the American woman are still here. – JW
Good, though I don't know who Greg is. What about Lestrade? – SH
For God's sake, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade! - JW
Oh. See they remain there until at least ten o'clock. –SH
Sherlock, the babysitter is only scheduled to stay at our house until 9! – JW
What, you think the baby will somehow escape from your house if left alone for thirty minutes? – SH
Sherlock, I will call the damned sitter and ask her to stay later, but YOU will pay for her services tonight. -JW
Fine. Just see they stay there 'til 10. – SH
What the hell are you doing that requires they remain here? – JW
None of your business. –SH
It is my business. – JW
I'm paying for your meal. I'm paying for your babysitter. I would think you would be a little more appreciative of both gestures and operate at your usual level of unimaginative but useful decorum and cooperation. –SH
John rubbed his face. Mary laughed. They finished up their tiramisu and asked for coffee. It was almost nine thirty, and John still had no idea what was going on. Sherlock had never been this evasive or so damned mysterious before.
"Whoever this woman is, she must be pretty damned powerful," John said.
Mary smiled and touched his fingers, deciding that it really wasn't a good time, considering her husband's currently grouchy mood, to voice the obvious to him. She'd save that for later. Right now, she was enjoying a wonderful night out with him, alone, wearing clothes that weren't stained by spit-up and with no need for baby monitors. She adored her daughter, but her husband came first and any time spent with him was time well spent. "I'm absolutely certain that she is, John," she said, squeezing his hand. "There can be no doubt."
Sherlock quickly removed the thumb drive from the computer, shut it down and waited, crouching down a little when he saw a cleaning lady go by, pushing a cart. When he was sure the coast was clear, he moved out into the hallway, closing the door behind him after locking it again. Really, Lestrade should make his security code a little less obvious, though he had to wonder if he might change it later if his relationship with that Olivia woman went well.
He managed to avoid security cameras all the way back downstairs, and arrived at the ground floor of the NSY building without even getting a glance from any of the police officers and detectives slouching about, drinking coffee and not solving crimes. He casually strolled through the doors and went outside, exhaling. He had what he needed, and now it was just a matter of doing some research. Sleep would come later, once all this was settled and Molly's reputation was still completely intact and utterly unsullied.
The alternative was unthinkable.
Two days later
Molly was muted, to say the least. She had little to say at work, and everyone noticed. She was usually fairly talkative, if not effusive, and she was well-liked by her colleagues. So it was that her coworkers were a little more than concerned about her. She was pale, her eyes were often red-rimmed, and she had lately taken to staring off into space, her work forgotten.
Sherlock had not come into the lab since telling her of the evaluation of the paintings and that soon, a smut-peddler would be buying them and displaying them to the world. She supposed she ought to get used to being either ostracized or mocked. Her sister would get even more smug, though perhaps it would make her stop boasting about her perfect husband and perfect kids and perfect house (whenever Emma started talking about her Wonderful Married Life, Molly would replace her voice with Hyacinth Bucket saying, "Mercedes, swimming pool, and room for a pony!'). Her mother would be horrified, of course, and would make Not Talking About It imperative every Christmas, with Emma's husband smirking and reminding everyone, in his best Basil Fawlty tones, to Not Talk About It, as it would upset poor little Molly.
Taking into account the fact that she might very well lose her job over this, Molly was more thrifty than ever. She gave up any notion of buying any new clothes, even for the coming winter, and pinched her pennies until the Queen hiccupped. She decided she would stop buying coffee at the canteen, start using bargain soap for her face and the cheapest shampoo for her hair, and wondered if by making herself look as drab as possible, no one would really believe those pictures were of her at all.
Wiping her eyes, she sat alone in the St. Bart's canteen, reading over a pathology report and wondering how on earth she was supposed to get through this. She was munching glumly on some crisps when her mobile buzzed.
Still working on your case. Resolution soon. –SH
She almost spat out a crisp and turned the phone off, wanting nothing more to do with it. She would tell him firmly, once and for all, that he needn't bother. She would drop by Baker Street tonight and tell him he could list the case as closed and she would go on with her life, if there was one after next Tuesday.
James Crane sat down opposite her suddenly. "Are you finished with that report yet?" he asked her.
"Oh. Yes." She slid the folder across the table to him. "Mr Blakenstock suffered a fatal heart attack while playing tennis." She began digging in her pockets, looking for her pen to sign off on the forms when she glanced up and saw Olivia in the doorway, looking around. The redhead spotted her and smiled.
"Hello, Molly. I was just passing by this place and remembered you work here. Here's the tickets to the charity ball at Granville House." Every eye in the canteen was on Olivia as she crossed the room and handed the tickets to Molly.
"Oh. Yes. Thank you." Molly shoved the tickets into her pocket.
"Could we talk for a moment? In private?" Olivia said, glancing at Crane, who was standing there staring at her, mouth half open.
"Um… sure. Dr Crane, this is Olivia Cowan."
"Don't tell me your name is Frasier," Olivia said.
Crane shook his head. "James."
"Ah. Molly?" She nodded her head toward the doors and Molly made a vague 'follow me' gesture. The two women left the canteen and Molly led her into a break room near the loos. Olivia sat down wearily.
"I had to walk hither to yon to find you. My feet are killing me! I wanted to talk you about some rather disturbing news." She waited until Molly had sat down before continuing. "I heard that Trevor Grant was at Granville House yesterday, and that he was looking at your picture in particular. Lord Norris told me he came upon him and…" She saw the look on Molly's face and sighed. "I'm so sorry, Molly. I don't even know how he heard about the auction itself, but considering so many of Sir David's paintings and sketches were of nudes, it's not that much of a wonder that he would hear about it and show up. There's no use thinking he won't show up at the auction, too, and we can't legally bar him."
"I know," Molly said softly.
"It was really odd, though, that Lord Norris told me that not only was Trevor Grant there, but Sherlock Holmes was there, too. The detective… you've heard of him, right?"
Molly gulped. "Yes. I have."
"Which is kind of interesting, really, because Mr Holmes was looking at your portrait, according to Lord Norris, and seemed very… well, let's be honest, he was as mad as a hornet when he saw that Grant fellow. Of course, Alistair sent Grant packing, like any gentleman. But I had no idea that Sherlock Holmes would be interested in art. He doesn't seem very… artsy. But what's funny is that a few days ago he and Greg were in Knightsbridge and Mr Holmes ran out of the house like a cat with its tail on fire when a car alarm went off outside. Strange man… beautiful eyes, though, but he hardly seemed interested in any of the other pictures at Granville. He was just looking at yours and got pretty well ticked when that Grant fellow said he was going to buy them."
"He's not. I mean… I mean, I can't imagine why… why he would be at Granville House. I've heard that he's only interested in crime solving."
"Huh. Well. I consider porn to be a crime, but I don't guess there's much to be done about getting rid of it. As it is, it's through him that I met Detective Lestrade… maybe you've met him in the course of your own work here?"
"Yes, I know Greg," Molly said softly. "He's a nice man."
Olivia smiled widely. "Amen to that, sister. Very sweet and funny. Were it not for two thousand years of Christian doctrine and my own convictions, I'd have let him stay over two nights ago. We had dinner. He threw a violinist's bow away and told me where to find the exits at the British Museum and I told him all about Southern cooking and how to pronounce 'y'all'."
"You and Greg… really?" Molly was surprised to hear that. "Well, that's good. So you and he got on?"
"Quite well. Took us about twenty minutes to say goodnight. We're going out again tomorrow night, this time to a movie and then a walk."
"That's nice. I'm glad to see him going out again. His ex-wife was… "
"A harpy, according to Mr Holmes."
"That would be one word for her."
"Well. I must be off, Molly. I wish I had better news for you, but I wanted to tell you in person, and if there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call. I hope you'll come to the ball—I know it'll be a blast. The organizers have been known to throw a fundraiser ball together within just hours of a disaster, so it'll be quite a to-do." She stood, smiled, and tapped out of the room. Molly leaned forward, head in her hands, and sighed miserably.
Dr Crane came in and looked at Molly, brow furrowing. "Are you all right, Molly?"
"I'm fine," she lied. "Listen, I've got tickets to a charity ball at Granville House next Monday night. Would you like to come with me?"
He grinned. "Sounds great. What time?"
She looked at the ticket. "Starts at six o'clock and goes on until the police make everybody leave," she said. "Black-tie, evening wear, open bar. Donations encouraged but not required."
"Count me in then. See ya 'round, Molly." He grinned and left, and Molly covered her face with her hands again, not knowing how she was going to cope with having her life ruined and dating James Crane, a man another girl in the lab said had no personality. 'He'd rob a bank and save a puppy at the same time'. She supposed that, once her reputation was in shambles that would be about the best she could ever hope for.