Act 3 : Some Explanations


Molly slowly lowered herself on Sherlock's chest and buried her face exhausted in his neck.

Breathing in the unique smell he gave off just right after sex she happily felt his naked form underneath hers.

His arms were wrapped gently around her body as he absently played with some of her hair strands.

A few weeks had passed since their first encounter and regularly they met in Molly's apartment.

A purely sexual relationship that did not seem to bother him in its investigations.

And it worked - contrary to Molly's initial hesitation- very good so far.

Unfortunately she still had some days where thoughts crept into your mind whether they actually did the right thing.

And some nights she even was lying awake in the middle of night, feeling happy and sad all together.

What is wrong with me?

Molly was suddenly torn from her thoughts when she felt Sherlock's still pulsing erection between her legs.

She was suddenly aware that he hadn't, unlike to her, found salvation yet.

"Are you ready for the next round or do you need a little break?" she heard his husky voice right to her ear.

She lifted her face and grinned sheepishly at him.

Sherlock leaned forward and closed his mouth on hers as he turned her around and buried her body under his.


Her beeping phone woke Molly rudely from one of her rare deep slumbers. With some difficulty she tried to find the phone in the dim light of her room. The brightly lit screen showed her two messages.

Appointment today not possible. – SH

Got a case. – SH

An eyebrow went up quizzically before the phone was vibrating with an annoying sound for the third time within a few seconds.

Tomorrow suitable?- SH

She shook her head in amusement and tapped hurriedly back.

Sure. Take care. – Molly

Without waiting for an answer she sighed and let herself fall back into her pillows, to fall instantly asleep again.


„Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson, calling a second time from beneath her flat, was a little bit annoyed now.

„Your doorbell!"

Rolling his eyes in his usual Sherlock-style he put his phone and the just received text from Molly aside.

He could hear Mrs. Hudson piece, lightweight, distinctive steps, closely followed by a pair of strange, heavy and uncertain steps.

New Client: male, middle-aged, tall, slender, but not overly athletic.

"Don't be boring." Sherlock prayed earnestly and closed his eyes briefly.

He desperately looked for a distraction, hoping for several days on a new interesting case as his thoughts were recently, constantly whirred around a certain pathologist.

"Sherlock, the doorbell ..." began his landlady again, but he interrupted her abruptly.

"Please sit down, Mister ...?" He gestured vaguely towards the chair in front of him, then he looked up.

The tall gaunt man who slowly entered behind Mrs Hudson the apartment was watching him curious.

"Schmidt, Sir. My name is Bernhard Schmidt." came the deep voice and Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise.

"Ah, I see. Strong foreign accent. You clearly are not a citizen from the United Kingdom."

The man said nothing in return, so Sherlock got up and circled around him curiously.

"You have traveled without interruption for several hours. I can see that clearly on your crooked posture and clothes. Your trousers are worn considerably in some places, the place on your left knee is patched - I would say - twice. Your favourite suit, maybe? Irrelevant , doesn't matter. You can't afford a flight ticket into the heart of England which the 20-hour bus tour would prove…including a frightening seafaring by a Danish ferry which you had to accept in order to reach up to me. Got a little bit sick over the way here, didn't you?"

Sherlock sat back on his chair, still continuing his speech.

"In addition Schmidt is not a common British surname. Of course we have also some citizens with non-English descent here in London but as I said before your accent is very strong, too strong for a man who lives in England for a long time. Therefore I would suggest that you are from Germany."

Sherlock waited a few seconds with an annoying smile on his fine, then, as always, the purely rhetorical question: "Am I correct?"

The man blinked at him for several moments in pure amazement before he finally found his voice again. "Yes, Mr Holmes. That's all correct. Just brilliant…"

Sherlock nodded shortly to Mrs Hudson.

"I see I'll be no longer needed." she muttered and disappeared slowly towards the stairwell.

„Tea and biscuits, Mrs Hudson!", Sherlock called after her before he hinted his client again to sit down.

The man looked slowly around the small living room. "Very nice. Do you live alone?"

"Only recently as my blogger has left me for a woman. However, how can I help you, Mr Schmidt?" Sherlock crossed his legs, leaned relaxed back in his chair and rested his chin on his hands, as usual.

The German citizen clasped his hands nervously. "Well, I... I'm looking for my wife."

Wife, of course, what else?!.

Sherlock groaned in frustration. "Boring…!"

"S-sorry?" And a stuttering one, also.

Sherlock rolled annoyed his eyes. "Forget it. Go on."

The gaunt man pulled from his coat pocket an old picture and slowly handed it to him.

"This is my wife, she's…gone. For several years now, for…for five, to be exact. "

Still bored Sherlock took the photo and let his gaze slowly slide over the photo with the intention to send the man away as soon as possible.

Than his eyes widened in shock.

For a moment he clearly felt as his heart gave a short, sharp leap in his chest. But just as quickly he had himself under control again. His eyes darted to his client, but he probably hadn't noticed anything as he studied the books on Sherlock's cabinet.

Again his eyes wandered back on the picture in his hands.

The pretty young woman smiled into the camera, her short blond hair clung lightly to her high cheekbones where clearly little dimples were visible.

The warm look in the big blue eyes were familiar. She was laughing but she seemed not happy.

"You look sad when you think he can't see you.."

Sherlock knew that he would recognize this woman anywhere even if she certainly looked different now.

"Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you…"

"What's her name?" He asked disinterested, tried to sound cool.

"Her name is Mabel.", Schmidt answered quickly.

Mabel, how...

„… ingenious.", he murmured quietly.

His client looked at him nervously. „Sorry?"

Sherlock leaned forward a little and looked his client deeply in the eyes.

"The name – Mabel - it is rather a rare name in Germany I believe, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know. Her parents…actually her mother was a bit strange with names.", was his careful response back.

"Obviously." For a moment he was silently smiling, remembering his own name.

Sherlock's eyes darted from the thin man to the already older picture in his hand and back again, trying closely to deduce him.

"You said you lost your wife five years ago. Do you think she was kidnapped or ran away voluntarily?"

The man before was silent for a moment, too long for Sherlock's taste.

"I suggest that you do not lie to me, Mr Schmidt, because I notice it immediately when someone is lying to me. Lying is like a sensor, I can feel it, it tingles all over my body. So we will stay with the truth. Once again: Why did she run away?"

The older man sank tiredly his shoulders and buried his face in his hands. "I…I had no control of…m-myself."

"How often?" Sherlock struggled to maintain his control.

"What do you mean how often?" Angry eyes met dark eyes, but Sherlock did not look away.

Unseen he clenched his hands into fists.

Oh, how much he wanted to hit this ugly man right in the face.

Sentiment…

Sherlock had to keep control, he had to be professional.

After all, he was a Consulting Detective. The only one.

"You have abused her and I want to know: How often."

Sherlock knew that something was very wrong.

The behaviour of this man was utterly strange.

Which husband would look five years after his wife hasleft him because he had abused her?

He rose from his seat and handed the man wordlessly the image.

"I'm sorry, but if you not telling me certain facts, I cannot help you."

His voice was calm and objective, internally he felt however very differently.

Sentiment…

"I understand." The man's voice was quiet, his shoulders sinking hopelessly.

He looked at the picture even for a brief moment. "What are the chances that she lives around here?"

Sherlock shook his head vaguely. "Five years is a long time, Mr Schmidt, she could be everywhere…if she is still alive, of course."

"How much would it cost me if you find her?"

"I do not work for money, Mr Schmidt." He said dangerously quiet.

"And for what do you work for, Mr. Holmes?" Schmidt asked interested.

Sherlock grinned bleakly. "The case must be interesting. Nothing more or less."

One moment he seemed still to hesitate, but then he clapped his hands loudly and pointed his clients the door.

"Well, I think I've heard enough. As I told you before I cannot help you…and if I'm honest I don' to want to either…You have abused your wife and I think it is completely understandable that she has therefore taken her life in her own hands and left you. Go back home. If you really want her back go and contact the German authorities and the state police, Mr Schmidt."

As he turned around Schmidt was standing right in front of him, loudly raising his voice.

"I did that already five years ago, but at that time no one could tell me where she is. And all I know is that she had booked a single flight to Britain!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"As I said: I can't help you, Mr Schmidt, even if I wanted to. Please leave my home now. I have better things to do. "

He turned pointedly and walked to the window, starred outside, not looking back to his client.

Sherlock heard how the older man approached him, but then angrily turned towards the door, stomping down the stairs. A short moment later he heard the front door slamming shut and Schmidt stepped outside onto the street.

Sherlock watched from the shadows of his apartment as his client went into the still waiting taxi.

As if he had known that the situation would be dealt quickly…

Before the taxi began to move, Schmidt turned around in his seat and gave Sherlock a cheeky look, than the strange figure inside the taxi disappeared in the urban maze of London.

Sherlock froze for a heartbeat and turned around quickly.

The picture of Schmidt's wife lay innocent in front of him on the table.

Sherlock cursed inwardly, but picked it up, put it after a few moments in his coat pocket.

This would change all…

"Mrs. Hudson!"

The sinking feeling in his stomach would not go away easily.

When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth…

Panting, she stood with the tray full of two cups of tea and a bowl of biscuits in front of him, looking around quizzically.

Sherlock smiled pleasantly. "Tea and biscuits have been done for the moment, thank you anyway."

Then quietly to himself. "I need to think."


The laboratory laid dark and quiet in front of him, nobody was to be heard or seen.

She was working silently on some test materials and seemed to be in harmony with herself and the world outside, unsuspected of what was there to come.

Unsuspected of the thunderstorm named Sherlock Holmes.

How could I have overlooked the obvious all these years?

He felt betrayed, in some strange kind of way.

Now if that wasn't a sudden feeling…

After several minutes of watching her silently out of the shadows he slowly stepped into the light.

„I guess you owe me some explanation!"

Molly jumped in surprise and turned to him, a hunted look on her normally peaceful face.

As she recognized him the sudden tension of her posture seemed to fade way, her questioning gaze on him, however, remained.

„What?" The serious look he sent her made her feel anxious.

Gingerly Sherlock stepped forward, his gaze still dark, his expression hard to read.

„What's wrong, Sherlock?" Molly had no idea what has gotten into him.

Did she probably do anything wrong? Why was he suddenly acting so strange?

„I said you owe me an explanation, Molly!", he repeated slowly.

The way how he spoke her name felt somehow strange and caused Molly to shiver.

Could it be…?

Sherlock reached with his right hand into his coat pocket, to shove her a an old picture right into her face.

Molly's face was getting visibly pale.

„Or maybe I should better call you by your right name: Mabel?"

The test tube slipped from her trembling hands and fell to the floor where it broke into a thousand pieces.


SYS

MajinMicha