Chapter 3: Somewhat Compromising 3
Thanks for all the nice reviews. I must admit this plotline is based very loosely on an episode of WKRP in Cincinnati. Very loosely, that is. It was the seed but not the tree.
I hope Mycroft doesn't come across OOC. I have a hard time reading him.
Sherlock paced while John read and kept an eye on the new dishes. He and Mary had spent almost an hour that morning unpacking them all and putting them in the cabinets. If Sherlock stumbled on a case again, then he supposed he would have to tackle the man and hold him down until the right cocktail of sedatives could be applied and the dishes were hidden until he was calm again.
"Stop thinking!" Sherlock growled. "It's distracting!"
"Just reading." John calmly turned another page.
"Reading leads to thinking. That's what always made Stalin so angry, and so he outlawed reading." He paused, hands behind his back while he stared out the window at the street below. "I have to go out."
John made no comment about Sherlock comparing himself to a mass murderer. "Need me to… "
"Stay here and read." Sherlock pulled on his Belstaff and stomped out, agitated, worried and sleep-deprived.
John shook his head, glancing at the laptop again and wondering. But Mary had pointed out to him that that sort of digging could lead to Sherlock destroying the entire flat, which would lead to Sherlock coming to live with them, which would lead to her putting forth much more effort into killing the famous detective than she had previously . "Better to let things happen on their own, as much as we can," she had told him at breakfast. "All will come out in the wash."
Easy for her to say. Sherlock never washed. He just didn't think of that sort of thing while working, and since this case appeared to be a ten, John suspected Sherlock would forget to eat or sleep or possibly even bathe. "Well," he muttered. "That's why they invented Renuzit, I suppose."
Mycroft didn't even glance up from the Racing Post when his brother came stomping into his office, looking like death served cold on a cracker and as angry as a wasp. Hm, he thought. A ten. Must be a good one. "Little brother."
"I need a favor."
"Good morning to you, too."
Sherlock flopped into a chair and made a steeple of his hands. Mycroft slowly turned another page, interested in an article about the American Triple Crown winner, American Pharoah's potential breeding value. He hadn't had much chance, lately, to truly indulge in one of his favorite pastimes, but had relished watching the horse win the three American classic races. It had been a a grand thing to see—living history, hundreds of years of careful breeding of the best to the best and hoping for the best; glory, savagery, passion, joy… all galloping by in the form of a handsome bay horse with a fluid, graceful stride, lit by the sun and hundreds of flashing Iphone cameras.
Ah, sentiment.
He finally glanced at his brother and saw the agitation on his face. Hm. Very odd.
"What do you need?" Mycroft asked mildly.
"I… need some money."
"You have money," Mycroft pointed out, still maintaining a bland tone.
"Not enough."
"For what?"
"That's not your concern."
"If I'm loaning you money, then it is a concern, considering I won't ever see it again. So what is it for?"
"I have a client."
"The client can certainly apply for a bank loan, Sherlock. Why they would come to you for money is a mystery." Mycroft returned to the article, finding a strange sort of comfort in the battle-cry names of racehorses. Secretariat, Storm Bird, Yankee Gentleman, Empire Maker, Unbridled. Perhaps it was the continuity of it all—seeing the grandchildren of horses he had seen run twenty years ago competing in major races today. It wasn't as though he was likely to see Bobby Charlton's son playing football at championship level, but a direct descendant of Unbridled (whose Kentucky Derby win had been so very wonderful, for so many wonderful reasons) had just won the Triple Crown and it was really quite thrilling. He hadn't been to a racecourse in years and it still annoyed him. A day at the races would be a welcome relief from running things and coping with his brilliant, mad brother, but it wasn't as though he could skip out to Deauville on Sundays. He would come home and find London burning, all because one of Sherlock's experiments had gone balls up.
"They are not asking for a loan. They are asking that I obtain a portrait and some sketches. But they cost too much. Almost eighty thousand is the reserve price but I know they'll realize more."
Mycroft put the paper down. "Why can't your client afford them?"
"They are not blessed with our resources."
"Everyone has resources, Sherlock. Most just don't know how to tap into them." He didn't even glance up at his brother, but Sherlock was still now, waiting. Yet again, Mycroft couldn't help but compare his brother to a racehorse: nervous, brilliant, beautiful, dangerous, and if someone could just control him, he could accomplish almost anything, so long as his minder kept him from burning himself out. John was doing a fair job, but he had a wife and child to care for now. Mycroft often pondered who else might have the nerve to take on the task.
"And by no means is my client the kind to know how to tap into those resources. Else I wouldn't even be here. I am my client's only resource, really, save friends and family, and they have none of those resources either."
"More's the pity for them, then. How could the client afford you?"
"Pro bono," Sherlock muttered after a brief, pregnant pause.
"Really? I would never have expected that."
"This client is… very important."
Hm. True meanings behind unspoken statements must be taken into account. "Should be in my file, then. Tell me the name and I'll take care of it."
"By no means."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked at his brother. Sherlock was withdrawn, his expression guarded, if not hunted. He looked unkempt—more than usual—and there was something in his eyes that told him the case was extremely important. More than any other before, save possibly the Magnusson situation, but that hadn't even put Sherlock into such a state of near panic. If Mycroft hadn't known better, he would say his brother looked guilty. "So… this mysterious client of yours is someone… close to you? Good God, not John or Mary… "
"No."
"Listen, Sherlock, I've got quite a busy schedule and it would be made less stressful if you would just tell me the name of the client, the situation, and what you want done. Then I will dictate the terms of my assistance." He shook the paper again. "I'm sure it will involve you squiring Mummy and Dad to a musical. I hear they're reviving Oklahoma!"
"I cannot give you a name." Sherlock stretched like a cat, but his eyes were alert, scanning the room, thinking, weighing, dividing everything up and putting everything in its appropriate box in his mind palace, to be used later. "But the portrait and the sketches are nudes of this person and this person does not wish to have them come out in public. But a well-known and loathsome pornographer intends to purchase them and very likely use them to add to his filthy lucre."
Mycroft was silent, thinking this over. "Which pornographer?"
"Trevor Grant," Sherlock spat.
Mycroft winced. "Well. Raise your hand if ew. Makes Larry Flynt look like a kindly old Disciples of Christ preacher."
"Don't speak his name in the same breath as the bewilderingly virtuous. And exactly."
"So this client is a woman?"
Sherlock looked toward the windows. "Yes."
"Who did the portraits?"
"Sir David Livingstone-Hayes." Sherlock stretched his long legs out and slouched in the chair, just as Mummy had told him not to do about seventeen billion times while he was growing up.
"Ah. Once dead, the artist's works invariably double in value, and his work is already valuable. I met him once. Rather a nice fellow. Reminded me a bit of Pablo Picasso, albeit with morals and actual talent. Never thought to put a subject's eyes on her forehead, anyway. He did quite a few very nice nudes." He shuffled the paper, just to make sure Sherlock knew he was paying attention. "I've seen a few. None are even remotely objectionable. I know a vicar who has two, and he is the model of moral rectitude… and even more annoyingly, he's a very nice man. Works tirelessly for some organization that rescues girls caught up in the sex trade and in pornography. I'd say he was in on it all but I simply cannot due to his sterling character, thus I remain astonished by good people doing nice things for pure reasons."
"Yes, I know."
"So you've seen said nudes of said anonymous client?"
"Yes."
"And?"
Sherlock's jaw tightened and he refused to answer. He shot to his feet and stalked over to the window to stare out at the bleak, rainy day.
"Bonny lass, then?" Mycroft asked, keeping his voice neutral.
Still no answer.
"Former lover, perhaps?"
Sherlock still wouldn't answer.
"Turned you down?"
Silence.
"Turned her down?"
Sherlock finally turned and looked at him, expression cold. "I will not have her reputation besmirched, all right? Is that what you wanted to hear? Think whatever you like, but I'm working on her behalf."
"For clarification's sake, yes, I was rather glad to hear that. So what do you want me to do?"
"Loan me the bloody money, that's what!" Sherlock snapped.
"Sorry, brother, but I cannot. I can't hand over eighty thousand or more pounds to purchase nudes if they will serve the government no purpose. I'm not even sure if I could purchase them if it they would."
"You have wads of cash sitting around at home, under the mattress. In the mattress, even. I'm sure Anthea could testify to that, and to your bowlful-of-jelly belly."
Mycroft frowned. "Don't get catty. I cannot assist you in this endeavor. If you have some other plans, of course, feel free to sound them out and we'll weigh their merits accordingly." He shuffled the pages and wasn't terribly surprised when Sherlock suddenly ripped the paper from his hands and threw it across the room.
"Damn you! Have you ever heard of doing something right because it is right? This woman's portrait and nine sketches are about to be purchased by a wicked man who intends to do evil things with them for very bad reasons and yet you sit there talking about the damned government being unable to fund it! The government funds far more ridiculous and even outright evil things every day!"
To say that Mycroft was surprised now was an understatement. He had never, even once, seen Sherlock so upset. Not even during his dealings with Moriarty or when battling and finally killing Magnusson. He twisted his mouth, wondering if he should even say it. Sherlock could be extremely dangerous when angered, particularly when it came to the small circle of people he genuinely loved, and the fury flashing in the younger man's eyes could stop armies. He sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers and decided to chance it. "Molly Hooper, eh?"
Sherlock's cheeks pinked.
Gotcha, Mycroft thought, but he didn't feel smug. Sherlock had his pressure points, but then he had his pressure point, and Molly Hooper was it. John and Mary Watson. Redbeard. Mummy and Dad. Even Mycroft himself—they all were vastly important to Sherlock, to varying degrees and for a wide variety of reasons. Only a select few could make Sherlock agitated and over-protective to the point of outright homicide, but when it came to that mousy but rather charming creature at St. Bart's morgue, all bets were off. He never talked about her, never behaved as though she meant anything to him, and often said awful things to her, and so that meant that she meant everything to him. Mycroft knew she mattered the most to him, and she was the one person he trusted above all others. John was his best friend and would always be (and Mycroft still had moments of disquiet over that), but Molly Hooper… she was in a category entirely her own and probably didn't even know it. She had saved Sherlock's life, at great personal and professional risk, and had done so without any notion of being repaid. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had ever attempted to do so.
Probably not.
Still, a woman doesn't slap Sherlock Holmes three times and not matter to him. John had told him all about that. Even more, Sherlock had actually apologized to the woman after humiliating her. That was absolutely mind-boggling. Sherlock hadn't even apologized for killing Magnusson, but then again, who would?
"You know that I cannot be seen purchasing… wait, the nudes are of Molly Hooper herself? Really?"
"Yes," Sherlock growled. He sat down again, drumming his fingers on the arm of the leather chair.
"I figured they were of her mother. And you've seen them?"
Sherlock's expression clouded. Well, there's the reason for the guilt. First for seeing them, second for liking them. It was clear Sherlock liked them. Welcome to the world of the living, little brother. "Yes."
"Livingstone-Hayes never did anything remotely pornographic or prurient, Sherlock. It would take quite a lot for even a pornographer like Grant to make them so. Only the lowest of the low read his magazines or watch his awful videos, so it's not as though anyone in her circle or even yours for that matter would see them. Well… perhaps some in your circle, but only your Baker Street Irregulars, and most can't afford brandy, much less X-rated films and girlie mags." Mycroft frowned, quietly feeling sorry for Sherlock and particularly sorry for Molly Hooper, but he would never admit to such a thing aloud. "I will admit, however, that Grant will do all he can to that end." It was too awful that she would be punished for a youthful indiscretion, if it could really be called that. Posing nude for a legitimate and very reputable and respected artist was hardly something to ruin one's reputation. Posing nude for Hugh Hefner… possibly, in some circles outside Hollywood, and only outside Hollywood would someone's good name matter. If and when Grant got hold of those portraits, she might as well have posed for him in the first place.
Just the same, Molly obviously didn't want the pictures made public. Mycroft could understand that. He had only met her a few times and while indifferent to her in general, he admitted that she was an attractive and clearly very intelligent woman (you don't become a lead pathologist as a major hospital without knowing your stuff), and behind that tongue-tied shyness he had always sensed a toughness too. She might look like a wallflower, but he suspected she had a kick like a Tennessee mule. For all that, she was clearly not the kind of woman who went about humming When You've Got It, Flaunt It.
No wonder Sherlock respected her.
"She doesn't deserve to be punished this way," Sherlock said at last, as if reading Mycroft's mind. "She's done nothing wrong. But after Tuesday night, everyone will think she did." He exhaled, clenching his fists.
"I'm sorry, little brother, but there is little I can do." Mycroft waited for Sherlock's response. It might involve shattered glass or, as in one particularly unpleasant incident, a destroyed vase from the T'ang dynasty. The younger man sat for several moments, staring at his brother before he finally stood up. He flipped up the collar of his Belstaff, gave Mycroft a cold glare and left.
Not before casually tipping a priceless two-thousand year-old bust of Janus off its pedestal by the door. The thumping crash was followed by the bust breaking into three large pieces. Sherlock kicked one of the pieces across the room, where it landed against the Racing Post. With that, Sherlock slammed the door behind him. Mycroft looked glumly at the bust.
"Well. Better you than me, mate."
The next morning
Molly sat in the bathtub for a long time, until her skin was horribly pruny and her cat was starting to look concerned. Finally, she climbed out, wrapping herself up in her big fuzzy robe and stuffing her feet into the yellow Minions house slippers Mary had given her as a gag Christmas gift. She put the pot on for cocoa, sat down on her couch and switched on the telly. Tomorrow—Sunday—she was going to have to go try and find a proper frock for the charity ball at Granville House (somehow, she doubted the yellow dress from John and Mary's wedding would do). How she was to scrape together enough cash for that, she didn't know, but by no means would she attend such an event looking like a twitchy little mouse.
After a while, she began going through all the feminine routines. Plucking, tweezing, shaving and applying various solvents and stinging creams to eradicate or at least obscure blemishes. She put her hair up in a wrapper, and after finishing with the blemish cream (and looking like her grandmother, only with her teeth in her mouth instead of in her housecoat pocket), Molly sat in her father's old chair, doing her nails, with her toes separated by foam while polish dried. She sighed and wondered if she should skive off tomorrow morning and get her hair done somewhere, and maybe a makeover, too. Maybe if she looked truly her very best, no one would realize it was her in that portrait and in those drawings. She hadn't seen them in years, and frankly wondered if she would recognize herself, either. It was either be extra mousy or go totally glam. One was easier on her chequebook, though.
She was adding up the cost of a new do and exfoliation when her doorbell rang. Mumbling wearily, not caring how awful she looked, she heel-walked to the door, telling Toby to get out of the way and not get hair on her freshly-polished nails, and unlocked the door. For a moment, her heart stopped.
"Really, Molly, you ought to know to ask who's at the door first before opening it," Sherlock said. "Particularly with Moriarty skulking about."
"Fine." She slammed the door in his face. "Who the bloody hell is it?" she yelled.
"Open the door, Molly," he shouted, pushing the mail slot open and peering through it. "I have been texting you since last evening and you never answered."
She opened the door and glared at him. "What do you want?"
"Well, first of all, hello and grand to see you too. Secondly, I am relieved to see you are alive, and thirdly I cannot imagine why you're angry at me."
"I'm just dandy," she snapped and turned away. Sherlock followed her inside and closed the door, locking it securely. "And you're always bewildered about why people are angry at you, but surely you can't be surprised about it." She didn't know why she was angry at him either, but in the ongoing battle of the sexes, she was not going to concede that particular point. Being female meant never having to explain irrational behavior.
"You really ought to get more locks on this door," he said, pausing in her living room to ponder the pile of feminine beauty products strewn all over her coffee table. He picked up a blackhead remover, brow furrowed, but she snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it into her pocket. At that moment, her teapot began to scream.
"That won't keep the world out," she said. "What do you want?" She poured hot water into her cup of cocoa powder and stirred it moodily, leaning against her kitchen counter. Sherlock eyed Toby warily, and the cat contemplated him with an equal amount of vague unease. Finally the cat padded into Molly's bedroom.
"I am forming a plan to obtain the portrait and the drawings."
"I told you to drop it."
"No you didn't."
"I said to forget about it."
"You said it, but you didn't mean it, and as such I chose to ignore your comment." He looked around her flat, noting the neatness, the pretty decorations and the utter Mollyness of the place. He paced into the kitchen and looked around the room—it was painted bright yellow with white cabinets and wood countertops. The floor was stone-flagged, and just off the kitchen was a tiny breakfast nook with French doors that opened onto a postage-stamp sized patio. He opened a cabinet and found a beaker, then poured some of her hot water into it and searched for a teabag. She sighed—he had stayed with her sometimes during his two 'dead years' and had rearranged her kitchen to his own liking, and since his arrangement had actually proven fairly sensible she hadn't changed it back. She lifted her chin and decided she would change it back after all.
"You also should get better locks on those doors," he said, nodding toward her breakfast nook. "Unsafe."
"I am not some country bumpkin just off the bus, you naff git," she snapped. "I can take care of myself, and I happen to know about that security detail from your brother's office or wherever he's from and your Baker Street spies that shadow me wherever I go. I take the spies a cup of tea sometimes, like when it's raining or really cold, but that security fellow gives me the creeps—he looks a love child from Animal on The Muppets and Cherie Blair." She drank the last of her cocoa. "I am not an idiot, and while I may not be as observant as you, Your Highness, I do notice things."
"I'm certain that you do, Molly," he nodded. His tea was ready, and after carefully mixing in his cream and sugar, took a sip and looked strangely relaxed. "I also promised that I would get those pictures and I will."
"I was going to come talk to you last night, but when I finally got off work I was too exhausted and went home. I was going to tell you to drop the case and go on to what matters: catching Moriarty. I also have to go out tomorrow and buy a frock and shoes for a charity ball at Granville House on Monday night. I'm going with James Crane."
"Who?"
"Crane. James Crane!"
"Who is he?" Sherlock asked. Molly wasn't about to think he sounded annoyed.
"Colleague at work."
"I see. Well." He sipped his tea again. "I hope you won't be wearing that yellow thing. Didn't do you any favors."
"Why, thank you, Sherlock, I do so relish your insults," she hissed. She felt like kicking a kitten through a plane propeller. She felt like going ten rounds with Sonny Liston. She felt like kneeing Sherlock Holmes where it really did matter, since neither a kitten, an airplane nor Sonny Liston were currently available.
Bloody hell, he had seen her naked and probably didn't even twitch. This beautiful, detached, cold-blooded robot still didn't see her as a woman. Just as… Molly, his means of obtaining body parts and access to the lab. Whatever kindness he had shown her, even that day she had spent working with him, after returning from his 'death', had been out of a sense of obligation and nothing else. Why did she keep trying to convince herself it was otherwise?
Well, obviously because she was still hopelessly in love with him. Emphasis on hopelessly.
"You would look better in black, actually."
"Oh, well, since I'm a pathologist, how utterly appropriate!" She smacked her cup down and glowered at him from several inches below his height but still looking him right in the eye. A year ago or so ago, she would have been trembling in nervousness and stammering in his presence, but that Molly seemed almost as distant from her as the naked Molly in that portrait and in the sketches.
"No use taking all your frustrations out on me, Molly. You're the one who posed nude, after all."
She slapped him so hard he dropped the beaker, which shattered on the floor, but she didn't even jump. He rubbed his reddening jaw, but barely seemed even a little miffed. "Get out!" she shouted at him.
"I'm not saying you did anything wrong, and even though you just slapped me for no good reason besides your very obvious frustration and anger, I will still retrieve those pictures and return them to you, at no charge."
"You are so… so… damn you!" she shouted, stamping her foot. He stepped forward, his good humor gone and replaced with something dangerous and… she wasn't sure what to call it. But he was crowding against her, making her back up against the counter and brace herself with her hands. Her heart started pounding as he moved closer, into her space, and his head dipped just slightly, so that her lips parted involuntarily, like some damned fool thinking she was about to be kissed.
"Your hair is damp."
She was confused and breathless. "I just had a bath," she whispered, staring up into his dazzling blue-green eyes.
"Wear black to the ball. It suits your coloring. It has nothing to do with your being a pathologist, so please, no more thwacking. I know little of fashion, mind, but I know when you look your best." He backed away so suddenly she almost collapsed. "Apply to Miss Cowan, in fact, for assistance in finding the right outfit. I understand she is being courted by Gavin… "
"Greg."
"… Lestrade and will of course be attending the ball with him. I suppose you and Jacob… "
"James."
"… and those two could go as a double date. Many women seem to either color coordinate in some way or alternately do all they can to see they are not dressed alike for events like this. We can't have fashion-related catfights on the ballroom floor at the estate of an English Marquess, can we, so I strongly encourage you to ring up Miss Cowan. Graham… "
"Greg."
"… won't have any objections, I'm sure. Just don't let him see the portrait or the drawings. Not that I really picture him leering at you, since he's all agog over that Ophelia... "
"Olivia."
"… woman. She likes him a great deal, too."
She sighed. Sometimes, talking to Sherlock was like playing tennis underwater and only being allowed to take a gulp of air if you could keep up with the ball coming at you again and again, like a rocket. As far as she knew, only she and John could manage.
He shrugged and pulled his gloves back on. "Well, stranger things have happened. People do form all sorts of attachments towards the oddest creatures, though I will admit sometimes it's perfectly understandable." He looked down to find Toby winding around his leg, stropping him with his tail—a sure sign that he liked the tall detective. He gently shoved the cat away, nodded, bade her a polite goodbye, and left. Molly turned and saw her reflection in the refrigerator door and squawked in horror.
White dots of blemish remover were on her chin and above her right eyebrow. A white smear was across her upper lip, hopefully killing off the beginnings of a pimple. Her eyebrows were freshly plucked, with the skin still a little reddish. Curel cream was spread thickly on her nose. She dropped her head into her hands and wished that her entire life had a rewind/erase button. If it did, she would never have pursued a career in pathology. She would have stayed near home, got a job in a petrol station and never met Sir David Livingstone-Hayes or Sherlock Holmes and her heart wouldn't be broken and her reputation would be in no danger of being anything other than utterly dull.
"See she gets the day off Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, and she will work a later shift Wednesday, in case she is tired from her exertions Tuesday evening. See all this is arranged immediately."
"But sir… "
"See to it. And remember that her employment at St. Bartholomew's remains written in stone, regardless of any future developments, and her promotions and increases in pay will continue as usual."
"But sir… I mean, it's not like she doesn't qualify, but… "
"There's no point in arguing with me. How has that ever worked out for you in the past? All the other arrangements have been made for tomorrow, and everyone has been positioned into their places, and all necessary accommodations have been settled. Thank you and good day."
::click::
"John, I need to let a tuxedo."
Watson looked up at Holmes, brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, but do I look like I have any of those things just lying about?"
"Certainly not. But I will be out until about two o'clock looking for one. If I receive any calls in my absence, tell them that I have gone shopping for oranges."
"When did I become your secre—wait, oranges?"
"Yes."
"Navel oranges or those little shriveled things they call 'Cuties'?"
"Oranges."
"All right."
"I'll be back after two."
"Maybe you're shopping for Orangemen? Football players from Armagh...?"
"You're hilarious, John. You should get your own chat show. I'm leaving." The door slammed and John snickered.
Molly paced back and forth in front of Dolce & Gabanna, wondering how on earth she had been talked into this. She had been intent on just going out to Oxfam or one of the charity shops and finding something appropriate for tomorrow night. She kept thinking about what Sherlock had said—to find something black. She couldn't imagine ever being able to afford something in Knightsbridge, but an awkward call to Olivia had resulted in her being cheerfully invited to join her for a day of shopping, lunch somewhere in Kensington (Kensington?!) and a much-needed frivolity.
A sleek Aston-Martin pulled up to the kerb and Olivia Cowan got out, waving to the driver, who zoomed away. "Molly! Well, I'm glad I'm on time. Come on. There's nothing I like more than shopping on a Sunday morning. Not many other people about, and the salesgirls are required to be on their best behavior. They're not even allowed to be snotty toward girls from Alabama." Olivia didn't look like she was out shopping for clothes, though. She looked like she was going 'round the corner to buy bread and cheese, being in jeans, a T-shirt displaying the iconic picture of Che Guevera, but with the words 'murderer' and 'coward' splashed in red lettering across his face and 'Commies Aren't Cool' underneath, and trainers. "I prefer to shop in the mornings, anyway, so then I'll have the afternoon to get ready for whatever's coming in the evening." She grinned at Molly. "I got home from church and changed and rushed over here like a madwoman. Bummed a ride with one of the auctioneers. He drives as fast as he talks!"
"Oh. Right."
Olivia stepped into the store and Molly followed, uncertain and uneasy, but the experience turned out extremely pleasant. She was treated as though she were royalty and when she got out her card to pay for a new skirt and two blouses, the girl looked at her card and swallowed, then handed it back. "All paid for, miss."
"What?"
"All paid for."
"What the bloody hell?"
"Yes, ma'am." She smiled brightly and Molly didn't know what else to say. The girl settled the skirt and blouses into individual boxes and handed them over. Olivia came up, carrying two skirts and several blouses and paid for them, chatting amiably with the salesgirl. They went out into the sunny morning and Olivia hailed a cab.
"That's just starters. It's Chanel next, of course. I'm going to guess you don't have a little black dress, right? Every girl should have one. Of course, in my father's opinion, every girl should also have a gun and a buck knife."
"Guns aren't legal in England, Olivia," Molly said, settling in the cab with her and almost getting thrown forward when the car stopped at a light. The driver yelped suddenly and apologized to someone shouting at him through his mobile. "Sorry, won't happen again. It was an accident! Stop yelling, I've got a headache!"
"You don't need guns in England, Molly. You have kidney pie. Never mind that the criminals have the guns, though, and decent folks aren't allowed to defend themselves. Eight minutes for a cop or an ambulance, in general, and the guy with the gun isn't going to wait until they show up."
Molly was pleased with the results of her shopping excursion. The fact that she hadn't spent a shilling on anything but came away with two black dresses from Chanel, blouses from Dolce & Gabanna, two elegant but summery frocks from Dior and a frothy thing from Laura Ashley, several skirts, half a dozen new blouses from other high-end shops, and a new Burberry coat (on sale). On top of that was a pair of leather boots, some really nice stiletto heels and a beautiful cultured pearl necklace that made her feel as though she had committed numerous robberies but would never be charged. Someone had paid for everything, and she had little trouble guessing who, but for now she wasn't going to dwell on it. She would return everything after the charity ball and hand him all the return receipts, just to make her point.
Just the same, when she tried on her Chanel dresses and stilettos and decided the slinkier one was the winner for tomorrow night, she looked at herself in her full-length mirror and felt like Holly Golightly. Olivia had offered to loan her a diamond necklace, to wind through her hair, and to balance that with simple diamond studs in her ears.
"Never go too far, Molly," Olivia had told her, during lunch. "It's a careful balance, you know. You want the man to be impressed with your looks, of course, but you don't want him to think he can't afford you or that he has to impress you, nor do you want him feeling insecure before you've even had a chance to talk to him. I know it's a cliché, but the best thing you can wear is yourself. I've dated rich men, poor men, and guys in between, Molly. Guys back home, aristocrats here and on the Continent, and guys in New York and California, and they're all the same. Once you get down to basics, men are really all the same everywhere. They need three things. Know what they are?"
They had been sitting at a table outside a little café, eating chocolate sundaes and not giving a damn about calories.
"What do they need?" Molly asked between bites of decadent ice cream and fudge.
"Food, sex and admiration. If they can swing all three at once they're really happy, but the food part comes easily if you know how to cook. The sex, at least as far as I'm concerned, is when he had enough nerve to stand in front of my Daddy and my brothers and marry me, but the admiration part has different layers. Some want a woman to ooh and ahh over him, but that's the true egoist and possibly the narcissist, and you don't want them—they never grow up. They stay thirteen forever. The nice ones just like being treated with some respect with a dash of admiration, and really, what's more admirable than a decent, honest man who can fix the plumbing and can change a tire? I really don't think there's a war between the sexes, Molly. There's far too much fraternizing between enemies already, and I hate regarding men as enemies—a race of alien robots fit only for destruction. They're people. Just as human and mixed up as us, but in different ways. I was lucky to have a mother who gave me good advice and brothers who'd beat the stuffing out of any guy who troubled me too much, but… " Olivia shrugged. "I've still had a few bad eggs along the way, of course. You learn from them, too. You learn what will burn you, but you also learn how to treat the good eggs. If you're just kind to most guys and show them some respect, they'll move mountains for you."
Molly had thought of Sherlock and knew that he only seemed to require one of those three basic things, much to her own personal despair, and he was nothing like other men. He wasn't a bad egg, but his shell was unlikely to ever crack.
"And now you're dating a rather tired Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard," Molly had pointed out, smiling.
"I like him a lot more than the others," Olivia had said, smiling softly. "Last night I gave him cooking lessons—he can now make Southern-style biscuits from scratch! I know he's gained about four pounds since I met him—he loves chicken fried steak—but I don't care. He's adorable, and so easy-going and unpretentious and funny and just… nice, and I like to think I'm making him feel better about his life, and besides that he's a great kisser. His cruel, cheating wife's loss is my gain!"
They had ended up giggling like schoolgirls, though Molly had been too shy to talk about Sherlock, much less the men she had dated in the past. Olivia might be more than a little appalled by her having dated James Moriarty, if only briefly, and even mentioning Tom made Molly feel sleepy.
It had been years since Molly had laughed so much. Her friend Meena was married now and had a new baby, and the last time they had spent time together had been at Christmas. Shortly after, Molly had watched her sister fall off the back patio and break her ankle. She had had to go into the house to giggle and be berated by her mother about it. That was, in fact, the last time she had really laughed.
She undressed, changed into her pajamas and sat weaver style in her father's old chair, eating Haagen-Daz and glad to have had one day without having to think about nude portraits and sketches, and even more, she found that Olivia had the marks of becoming a good friend as well—they came from different ends of the social scale but shared many interests and laughed at the same things. Plus, for all Olivia's worldliness, she was still remarkably modest, generous and kind.
She turned on the telly and found an old episode of Frasier and smiled. Comfort TV. She watched Niles prepare for his Valentine's Day date, only to set fire to Frasier's couch, spray fire retardant all over the living room, and pass out at the door in his shorts while Eddie the dog ate the scorched remains of the ruined pasta dinner, which had been used to put the fire out as a desperate last resort. She laughed through the whole, almost entirely dialog-free scene.
She had just fallen asleep, dreaming about black dresses and people accidentally bidding by wiggling their ears or waving at friends, when she was startled awake by Sherlock sitting down across from her. "Really, Molly, it's far too easy to break into your flat. Improve the damned locks."
"Be glad I don't have a gun," she said wearily, too tired to freak out at finding him in her living room. Again. He had done that for two years while in his 'dead' stage. He pop would in, do experiments, critique her outfits, demand she be quiet while he worked, and sleep in her bed while she took the couch. For some reason, she hadn't minded. She hadn't let herself think anything of always waking up tucked neatly under a warm blanket and a cup of hot tea on the coffee table, fresh made, just for her. Odd how she would wake up just as the front door clicked shut…
Frankly, the reason she didn't mind his 'invasions' was because for those times, she had him to herself.
"Ah, so you've given up being angry at me."
"I'm too tired to be angry." She sat up and stretched, seeing that an episode of I Love Lucy was playing. She smiled, remembering a bickerfest she and Sherlock had gotten into one night over that show—he had been bewildered about why Desi Arnaz couldn't play Desi. Again and again, he had asked why Desi had to play Ricky instead of Desi ("He was the producer of the bloody show! I would think he could at least play Desi! Why couldn't he play Desi?"), and she had finally growled "He wasn't tall enough!" and told him to shut up already and let her watch Lucy stomp on grapes.
"Have a good day shopping?"
"Like you don't know. You terrorized that poor cab driver all day."
He drummed his fingers on the chair's arm. "Should have hired someone who wasn't a recovering alcoholic."
"What?"
He shook his head. "Never mind. Don't even think of returning those clothes, shoes or jewelry, by the way. They won't take them back. They are ordered, all, to declare each item damaged."
"You can't do stuff like that, Sherlock," she warned.
"Of course I can. I already did."
"It's… "
"Kind?"
"Silly."
"Hardly. Miss Cowan is correct in her statement that every woman should have a little black dress. The knife and gun part… well, I suppose if I had a daughter I would insist she carry both as well, and besides, Miss Cowan is an American. They give guns to their pets in America."
Molly rolled her eyes. "I can't imagine you with a daughter," Molly said, yawning. She stood. "I'm not even going to ask how you managed to overhear our conversation. I'm going to bed. Let yourself out."
"You're looking very nice, by the way. Can't you make me some tea?" he asked, looking his most charming, but she shook her head.
"Sod off, William Scott Sherlock Holmes. I know your game. I'm going to bed."
He grinned and waited until he heard her bedroom door shut before getting up. He went to the brown paper bag he had left in the kitchen and went to work on replacing her locks. Installing a security system would take more time, of course, and would require consulting with Molly about a security code only she and he would know (and possibly John and Lestrade), but he would have it done before dawn and would check on her before he left. Once finished with the locks, he would put a new key on her chain, replacing the older one, and she would be none the wiser. Of course, she might get a little concerned if an entire SWAT team arrived at her door if she accidentally tried to use the wrong key…
He needed to issue a few warnings to concerned parties, and stored the detail into his memory. If the wrong key is used in any lock on any door at Molly's flat, first send me a text and proceed at my order. No bursting in and scaring her half to death, and her cat does bite… and she's a bloody good slapper.
He had been checking on Molly, after all, since learning about the nude pictures. Actually, he had been checking on her nightly since finding out Moriarty was still alive, but now it was absolutely essential that he knew she was safe before he went home for the night. Somehow, the idea of her being left alone and defenseless was too much for him to bear. He hadn't told John or anyone else about his late-night visits to Molly's flat, and he wouldn't, but it made something settle and calm in him when he saw her sleeping, safe and sound and protected. Her physical safety had been imperative before, and it was more important now than anything in his world.
She needn't know about the innovative recognition software he had installed in every room in her flat. It was not a CCTV, of course, but it would immediately alert him if anyone entered her house besides Molly, himself, John, Mary, Lestrade, her rather nice mother and her catty sister or any of her carefully vetted colleagues at St. Bart's, including that boring Meena person who had since married and borne that hideous demon child; and as of yesterday, that practically opaque James Crane.
He made another mental note. Make sure to enter John's daughter into the profile. Babies are rarely capable of home invasions, though the smells they emit can lead to home evacuations, but I doubt John would appreciate the police showing up if Mary dropped by for a visit with little Poppet. He sent a quick text to himself. Also include Olivia Cowan on the list. Run complete background check, too.
Toby wandered over and inspected Sherlock's shoe as he worked on the locks, and he absently scratched the cat's ears. "Don't think this will become a habit," he told the cat before shooing it away.
Even though it already was.
Monday morning dawned bright and cheerful. Molly woke feeling tired and anxious, as she did on any bright day, like any English person. The charity ball was tonight. She would be there in a dress worth more than she made in a month, and would be on the arm of a man she frankly couldn't even picture in her mind, he was so boring. Plus the pictures would be in the next room, possibly being looked at by potential buyers and discussed at length.
They weren't dirty pictures, of course. There really was nothing sexual about them at all. She knew her breasts were too small to star in any man's dreams, and her legs were too coltish for a ZZ Top video, and while she had little to worry about over her weight, she was best described as 'thin', not 'svelte'. Her sister was the beauty in the family, and had accordingly snatched up a rich husband and squeezed out three kids between Pilates and visits to the hair salon and had never had a pimple in her life. Emma and her boob of a husband lived in a big house out in the country and Molly saw her at Christmas every year and had a headache for three days afterwards.
Feeling a terrible sinking feeling all day, Molly nonetheless underwent the normal pre-evening soiree routines. She had her hair done at a salon near where she lived, then had her face done up by a with-it girl at the counter in a certain higher-end department store. Finally, at about four o'clock, she called Olivia and took her up on her offer to borrow the diamond necklace. Olivia was at her flat in less than ten minutes, carrying the necklace in a light blue box. Oh God, Molly thought. Tiffany's.
"Come on, sit down here and we'll get it set just right. Oh, they did a nice job on your hair. Brings out the natural touch of red very well." Olivia carefully began winding the long diamond chain into Molly's carefully coiffed and piled hair. "There you are. Nicely dolled up, though I don't think you really needed all that much help." Molly looked at herself in her mirror and wished she didn't look so scared—her eyes were HUGE!
"I wish I was pretty," Molly said as she peered anxiously in the mirror, remembering standing in front of that mirror in Sir David's studio, naked save a black skirt held against her midriff. She had felt just as… ordinary then as she did now. Probably always would.
"You're joking, right? You're very pretty."
"No. I don't think so."
Olivia shook her head. "Well, I spent a few years as a model, Molly, and I can tell you, the majority of them don't look anything like the pictures of 'em you'll see in magazines. Many of them are the miracle of makeup and photoshopping, though most of them are really sweet if you give them half a chance." She shrugged. "Of course, the models know to be sweet to the prep girls or you end up strutting down the catwalk and having your skirt fall off. I also spent a year in Paris, and the French girls will tell you that when a girl thinks she's pretty, then she is."
"I don't want French girls thinking I'm pretty," Molly muttered. She stood and slipped into the high heeled shoes and briefly teetered, remembering the green knit dress her sister had worn once that made her look like a zipper. That alone made her smile and feel guilty at once. Emma was her sister and so long as she didn't have to put up with her more than twice yearly, she did love her. Sort of. It was just that Emma always did her best to make her feel like crap.
"True that. I'd much rather a nice man think I was pretty." Olivia eyed Toby for a moment, and Molly sensed she was not a cat lover. She was clearly a tolerant sort, because she casually stroked the cat's back and he was respectful in his response to the gesture, rubbing his head against her hand before strolling away. "And I suspect Greg will look very dashing in his tux."
"Yes, I think he will, too." Molly smiled. "He's very sexy but hasn't a clue that he is. Best kind of bloke, in my book."
Olivia grinned. "And since I have a larger car, he and I will swing by to pick up you and James this evening, about six o'clock, is that okay?"
"That'll be fine."
"Great." Olivia smiled and left. Molly sat down and waited, dreading the events coming and having no means of stopping the tide.
Sherlock frowned at the crowd of people already gathered in the vast, chandelier-infested marble-floored ballroom of Granville House, making a quick count of the number of guests, the number of exits, and the positions of each waiter. He heard idle chatter all around, but he tuned everyone out who wasn't saying something of real or potential interest. He snatched up a canapé-laden tray, checked his image in a woman's compact mirror as she paused in the doorway for a last minute make-up check, and sidled right in, his upper lip carefully smudged with two black marks and his hair carefully combed and under control for the next few hours at least.
"… paintings in the Master's Hall are breathtaking… "
"… told him to take his hands off my… "
"… can have India, I'll take South Africa and he can have Australia… "
"… potatoes, chicken and green beans, lots of butter, some Italian seasoning… "
"… just a backbencher, but I can give you a tour… "
"… know I'll bid on everything, but I'd love to buy that one… The Girl in the Mirror. It's very nice and so… "
Sherlock eyed the man who had said that and doubled back, pausing a moment to assess him. Huh. Heading toward retirement. Successful diamond importer. Happily married, grown children, enjoys riding, collects art. Bland but loaded down with scruples.
"Canapé, sir?" he asked.
"Oh, thanks," Diamond Importer said, taking one for himself and two for his wife. Sherlock moved on, sticking him into his file, pondering potential usefulness.
"… damned good champagne… "
"… lots of hot women about. Wonder if any were in the paintings?" Laughter. Sherlock glared briefly at a university-age guy chinwagging with a group of fellow non-academians. Sherlock continued on, serving out canapés and being unnoticed. He was almost out of canapés, though, by the time he reached the end of the room and had to start back, mumbling apologies for his lack of sufficient supplies as he dodged through the crowds. He got to the doors and almost ran into Greg Lestrade, on whose arm was the breathtaking Olivia Cowan, but where was Molly? Panic surged through him—was she all right? If she was wearing those spiked heels, she might have gotten stuck in the grass outside and her companion looked about as useful as a pile of feathers. Sherlock put the tray down on a table and all but galloped outside.
He finally saw her coming up the steps and quickly ducked behind a pillar in the marble front hallway.
She was standing with James Whathisname (Bird? Heron? Parrot? Ibis?) in the doorway, being greeted by the Marquess and Marchioness of Canton. She was wearing a black dress of some kind, and it fit her perfectly, leaving her smooth shoulders bare and her legs long and slender and really quite smashing. Around her shoulders was a silk black shawl thing (Mary had said those things were called Pashminas, which Sherlock thought was some kind of vaccination), and she was given about four extra inches of height by black stilettos. Her hair was up in a graceful and deceptively simple braid type thing, with a diamond necklace artfully twisting through her dark tresses, and her face was not overly made up and her eyes were huge and bright and a little nervous, but if she was nervous, Sherlock Holmes was completely and utterly wrecked.
He had to avoid her, of course. The last thing Molly needed was to get even more nervous. The charity ball, complete with dancing (mating ritual, seeing if he had rhythm and if she had a sense of humor or at least some degree of pity), talking, networking, dropping wads of money into a barrel, and drinking champagne, went on. Olivia slow danced with Lestrade and was clearly having a very good time, though she never touched the alcohol and neither did Lestrade. Molly danced twice with James and once with Lord Norris (who made no untoward moves, which saved him getting sucker punched by a tall, increasingly agitated detective). Molly later danced again with Lestrade and Lord Norris danced with Olivia, and they all seemed to be having a grand time. Sherlock served canapés and carefully stayed out of Molly's line of vision.
"Well?"
"Well what?" He turned and came face to face with a beautiful but hard-looking woman in a red dress.
"Aren't you going to serve more champagne? Your tray is empty. I'm sure neither the Marquess nor Lord Norris would be pleased at any sort of lax service tonight."
Sherlock gave her a hard once-over. Posh accent. Educated beyond her intelligence, but knows art and its monetary value. Has never done her own hair or nails. Heavy lipstick to fill out thin lips. Heavy eye makeup, in vain attempt to bring out dull brown eyes. Too much rouge. Great Worshipful Queen of All the Sodding Bitches.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Sherlock answered in a Cockney accent and bowing before slinking away.
Olivia's mouth twitched. "Watch out. Rosamund Livingstone-Hayes at two o'clock."
"Who?" Greg asked, snagging a prawn as it was carried by. He paused a moment, blinking, thinking the waiter looked kind of familiar, but he was focused on Olivia, not any of the currently dancing and/or schmoozing guests at the ball. But on being alerted to the presence of someone who seemed unpleasant, his training immediately kicked in and he tensed, scanning the room for hostiles. He spotted that waiter again and moved a little closer and nearly spat up the prawn when he saw it was Sherlock Holmes.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
Holmes offered the plate of prawns and Lestrade figured it would be best to just take one. "Stealing."
"Like hell you are! Not even you would be dumb enough to steal anything here now, with all these people about, and what if somebody's car alarm goes off? You'll wet your pants."
Sherlock glared at him. "That was an aberration, as I told you in the cab."
"You gasped it in the cab. I had to give you a paper bag to breathe into."
"Will you shut up," Sherlock hissed. "I'm on a case."
Lestrade's brow furrowed. "The case about the naked bird?"
"You really do have a knack for reducing things down to their most appalling levels, Gordon."
"Greg."
"Whatever. Listen, guests at balls aren't commonly seen talking to the Help, so please return to your lady friend there and let me do my bloody job."
"And what would that be?"
"My bloody job."
"Stealing is your bloody job? You can't steal any of the portraits, including the one of the naked bird," Lestrade pointed out, taking a sip of champagne. Olivia didn't care for alcohol, so he was laying off it, but Sherlock Holmes could start the Archbishop of Canterbury on a binge.
"You haven't seen it, have you?" Sherlock asked, suddenly anxious. Lestrade was an honest man, and a decent one, but the sight of Molly Hooper in the buff could make the man uneasy around her, and she didn't need more stress…
"No, but then I don't even know what I'd be looking for. Remember you wouldn't tell me her name."
Sherlock's attention was diverted from Lestrade by the sight of Molly Hooper walking right up to him, mayhem in her eyes. She grabbed Sherlock's arm, fingernails digging right through his sleeve. "What are you doing here?" she asked sharply but, fortunately, in a whisper.
"Serving prawns," Sherlock answered loftily. "Once I run out of these, it'll be canapés again, I'm sure. They smell like Death's homeless sister, by the way, so they must be wonderful."
"Are you crazy?" she hissed.
"I'm here aren't I?" Sherlock growled, offering a prawn to a passing tax assessor in a cheap tuxedo.
"What if someone recognizes you?"
Lestrade was watching this exchange with no small amount of amusement, and it didn't take him long to realize what Holmes was doing here, and why Molly Hooper looked ready to clobber the detective. He started to speak but clapped his mouth shut and turned on his heel, returning to Olivia's side to watch the show.
"No one will recognize me. Tuxedoes bring distinction to friends and anonymity to… "
"Shut up, you nit!" Molly snapped. "Don't try your ten-pound words on me. I'm only just starting to be able to eat a bloody prawn and here you are making this whole experience a living hell and oh my God my sister is here?!"
Sherlock was startled by her vehement anger, but put that on hold to turn around and see a good-looking woman in a glittery black dress coming into the ballroom on the arm of a man who looked like he wished he were elsewhere. Sherlock looked between her and Molly and found the other woman very lacking. She was attractive, but she didn't shine with intelligence and courage. He turned on his heel from Molly, who hissed something at him that sounded like "Don't you dare!" and strode smoothly over to Molly's sister. "Champagne, madame?"
"Thanks," the woman said, taking a flute. "Molly! I didn't know you would be here. In fact, I'm stunned you're here. This is hardly your milieu."
For a moment Molly looked like she wanted the ballroom floor to crack open and swallow her, but Sherlock couldn't keep from smiling when she squared her smooth, silky shoulders and faced her sister like a spy would face a firing squad. "Emma."
Olivia Cowan came up, elegant in soft greens and blues, with the dashingly tuxedoed Lestrade at her side, and moved up alongside Molly. The young pathologist made introductions.
"Oh! The zipper!" Olivia said, and Molly glimpsed Sherlock snickering as he served prawns to a member of Parliament. Olivia immediately recognized her faux pas but didn't seem extremely repentant, and Molly wondered if the faux pas had even been unintentional. Emma glared at Olivia.
"I see you're an American," Emma said, as though that was some kind of sin worthy of a social snubbing.
"Yes, but I'll try not to look down my nose at you," Olivia smiled sweetly. "We can't help having a more effective military, faster racehorses and better food."
Sherlock, serving prawns to a group of starving artists, snickered again, deciding he rather liked Olivia Cowan. Besides, her background check had been clean but extremely interesting.
Molly now had a good idea of what hell was like. Apparently it was occupied by stuck-up snobs, a hired orchestra playing intrusive pieces from Mozart and Bach, waiters (including Sherlock Holmes!) serving prawns and canapés, and a date with the personality of a dial tone. She had tried to make light conversation with James, to no avail, and now she was sitting outside on a stone bench, staring out across the glimmering water of a fountain spraying water from a statue of what was either Hermes or Eros.
"I can't believe you're out here hiding."
Molly turned and glared at Sherlock, who casually sat down beside her.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"There's a question for the ages. I don't begin to know the answer, though I could hazard a few guesses… "
"Why are you here? Serving prawns. What, are you spying on me or something?"
He paused, looking across at the moonlit water fountain. "Keeping an eye on things. Assessing the crowd that will be attending the auction tomorrow."
"They're a bit moot, Sherlock," she said bitterly. "Trevor Grant has more money than God and will easily outbid any of them."
"Quite true, but God is unlikely to make any bids at the auction tomorrow," he said. "And I've often heard the phrase, 'When men plan, God laughs'. I can only assume Grant has heard the phrase, too, and ought to step carefully."
She sniffed. "You don't believe in God," she said. Since John and Mary's wedding, Molly had been saddened to learn that Sherlock didn't believe. She had never been so hardened by science to toss God out of the equation. To her, God was the equation, and she liked having faith in something bigger than herself and the rather cold world around her.
"I am open to possibilities," he said quietly. "Well, somewhat. I'd hate to give up my reputation for being heartlessly rational."
"You are not completely heartless, Sherlock," she said softly. "But you are always irrational. Just ask John."
"Oh, yes I am... heartless, that is," he said. "And very fortunate to be a high-functioning sociopath, so I gave up my heart some years ago." He stood and held out his hand to her. Molly shyly took it and let him help her back to her feet. "Now go back in there and enjoy yourself, even though your date is about as interesting as watching grass grow."
She giggled in spite of herself. "I suppose I'll have to dance with him."
"Well, you do have to dance with the one who brought you, but it is bad form to fall asleep while dancing. Dance with him when you have to jump and gyrate about. That way he needn't actually touch you."
"My feet hurt," she said, taking his arm when he offered it. "These stilettos are murder. I really should have worn my trainers."
"Well, they do make your legs and your arse look nice."
She stared up at him, startled, and he looked vaguely… bewildered? Sherlock bowed slightly and slipped away when they reached the door. He had canapés to serve.
"James, touch me there again and you'll be pulling back a bloody stump."
He was inebriated, of course.
"Aw, c'mon, Mols. Surely you could spare a proper snog, eh?" he said, weaving drunkenly but taking her warning to heart.
"I'm sorry, but I'm saving them up for a rainy day, and even then you can't have one. Out."
Lestrade and Olivia had both been annoyed with him while driving home, as he had started singing I'm Gonna F*ck You Tonight, a lovely and romantic ballad to be sure, and Lestrade had insisted on walking Molly up to her door while holding James upright with one hand. "I'll pour him into a cab, I promise," Molly had assured the irritated detective, who had finally accepted that she could take care of herself. She had to laugh about it later, of course—Greg really was a sweet man, and Olivia was bringing out the best in him by being sweet to him in turn. Considering James lived in the opposite direction from her house and far out of Lestrade's way, Molly had opted for patience on her own part rather than risk James being pepper-sprayed by Olivia or pummeled by Lestrade.
Just the same, James the Boring was James the Horny while drunk, and after calling a cab and shoving him out the door, Molly waited until he was definitely in the cab before locking up for the night and sighing when she heard that all-too-familiar beep that indicated the security system and recognition software was up and running. She knew Sherlock had not installed any CCTV system anywhere in her house (she would kill him if he did), but that tiny, slightly tinny sound was part of her everyday life now and there was no point in arguing with him about it. Since Moriarty's 'resurrection', everyone was a little more than on edge and Sherlock's attempts to convince her to move upstairs at Baker Street had fallen on deaf ears, so of course he had broken into her flat and installed all this blasted security software instead. Did he really think she hadn't noticed? Bloody hell, there was even a new key on her chain, which meant he had also switched out the locks. Her landlord was either very understanding, unobservant or intimidated, because he hadn't made a peep about it.
She kicked off her stilettos, wiggling her toes as she made her way into the living room, and paused briefly to look around, senses somewhat alert but dulled by exhaustion. Tonight had been fun and exciting and interesting, to say the least, and she had rubbed shoulders with MPs and Peers of the Realm and come away unscathed. In fact, it had been rather startling that two people high up in the Order of Precedence had asked for her number and had flirted with her. Molly Hooper, Doctor of Pathology and denizen of St. Bart's Morgue, getting hit on by a future Duke and second son of a Scottish Earl!
Not that she had accepted, though. She wasn't interested.
"I'm relieved to know you didn't accept that dinner date with that Duke's son. He drinks to excess and there are rumors of cross-dressing."
She sighed and shook her head. "There's no use asking how you got in here."
Sherlock, seated casually in her dad's old chair, idly cracked his knuckles. "No, there's not."
"I rather doubt you fit down the chimney."
He stood up. "I am glad you had fun, though."
"As much as could be expected with my sister there," she muttered. Molly carefully removed the diamond necklace from her hair, unwinding it and letting her hair down, then pulling it back into a ponytail again. There now. Let the Real Molly stand up, she thought with a rueful smile.
"Sibling enmity is hardly unusual, but considering her husband is obviously cheating on her, I wouldn't let her superior attitude get to you too much."
"Cheating… ?" Molly looked at him, and was startled by how close he was to her. How did he do that? He moved more silently than her cat.
"Yep."
"How can you tell?"
"Observation, obviously, and also the Ashley Madison hack is, sadly, the end of many marriages. I'm surprised Emily… "
"Emma."
"… hasn't checked herself."
Molly sighed and shook her head. "Emma will be devastated. Besides, she's got three kids and that will put them through the wringer. They don't deserve that."
"They don't deserve an arsehole for a father, either, but there you are."
Molly went in search of the bag of kibble for Toby, who immediately trotted into the kitchen to await his meal. She poured him a bit and scratched his ears. "How long have you been here?" she asked.
"Oh, about ten minutes or so. Long enough to see that Jonah… "
"James."
"…jackass make a grab for your… um… well, I'm relieved that you sent him packing."
Molly got a bottle of Coke out of her refrigerator and opened it. She took a swig and sighed. "Well, he didn't have much to grab for, did he?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his mouth set into a firm, strangely angry line. "Well. I should be going."
"You don't want some tea?" she asked, with just a slight teasing edge to her voice.
"No. I don't want tea."
"Then why are you here? Surely you don't think I couldn't handle a drunken pathologist."
"Just making sure you got home safe. Granted, you had Lestrade and Octavia… "
"Olivia."
"… with you, so I suppose you were safe."
"I was, yes, and I also have my fists, my knees and my teeth, so I can defend myself when required." She took another drink. "My dad taught me how to defend myself. The 'S.I.N.G.' defense."
"The what?"
"S.I.N.G. Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin. Very effective."
"I see. Well. Then I guess I should go."
"Did you really think something was going to happen to me?" she asked.
"I… " He looked toward the door for a moment, thinking. "I am always concerned for your safety, Molly."
"I'm not a child. I can take care of myself."
"Oh, I know that. But you also weigh, what, one hundred ten pounds soaking wet? You keep your nails short, and your hands are very small. I know you can pack a punch and you're damned good at slapping, but dangerous people are out there and even the ones not out to get to me are just as lethal, and the one who is definitely after me has no qualms about using you to that end."
"Thus the security software you've installed all over my flat," she said.
"The… er… "
"Yes. Beep."
"Damn!" he hissed.
"Don't use profanity around my cat," she said.
"You don't use profanity around racehorses, Molly. You can curse all you like around cats. Foul language around dogs irritates them, but horses are deeply offended by purple prose."
She couldn't keep from laughing. "All right. Go home. I'm safe. See?" She gestured around the living room. "No men in black skulking about, save a tuxedoed and tired detective."
"Tired?"
"You look like you've been ridden hard and put up wet. Don't you ever sleep?"
"I sleep when the case is solved."
"It is solved. Trevor Grant will buy the painting and the sketches and use them for whatever purpose he desires. He'll probably sell them to someone even more vile, like Larry Flynt, and make a nice bundle, too. It's no matter. I can deal. I'm a grownup, and that means I have to deal with consequences of things I did when I wasn't quite so grown-up."
"You shouldn't have to deal, and you won't. Be sure of that."
"Sherlock… "
He shook his head, silently telling her it was useless to argue. "I should go, though. I do have business to attend to." He started toward the door, and Molly stepped aside, her back against the wall, and she sighed, shaking her head. He was like a dog with a bone once he started on something and nothing would stop him until he saw it through. He went to the door and turned the handle, but stopped suddenly. "Wait, I did have something else… "
"Oh? What? I don't think you should drink coffee at this hour… "
Sherlock paced back to her, pushed her gently against the wall and kissed her. For a moment, she froze, but her hand slowly moved up to touch his hair—God, she had always wanted to touch his hair—and it was then that his tongue touched her lips and his hands moved confidently to her waist. Molly sighed into his mouth and had she not known any better she would have sworn she heard him moan as he deepened the kiss, his tongue silky against her own and his hands moving up to gently stroke her and make sure she felt his desire.
He let go of her just as suddenly and left her, taking two steps to the door, opening it and closing it behind him with a firm click.
She heard the faint beep again and closed her eyes, not entirely sure that what had happened had in fact happened, but one thing she was absolutely sure of: everything had changed.
