Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.
Chapter Two
Sherlock was still working on the Met's not-so-cold cases, from the little office, just off the Black Museum, at New Scotland Yard. There was nothing too taxing but it kept him busy and, most important of all, kept his mind occupied but not quite enough to stop him thinking about Mycroft. People like his brother don't change their habits; they are set in their ways. There had been many occasions when he wished Mycroft would leave him in peace to get on with his life but he had always known where to find him, should he need him. His brother had been away now for two weeks and Sherlock had received no communication from him during that time. Mycroft was the most constant thing in his life. It felt weird not to know where his brother was and he was glad that he was expected back that day. There had to be some underlying reason for this strange decision to take a holiday and he wished he could work out what it was.
Then, there was 'the argument'. Molly had never turned on him before and it had knocked his confidence. He'd always been able to rely on her understanding his eccentricities and his social awkwardness. Had he really upset John and Mary? If he had, it was entirely unintentional. He could pretend to be friendly with Mary, of course. He could switch on his super-charming smile, make small talk, hug and kiss and do all that stuff but it would just be an act. Which would she prefer, the real Sherlock Holmes, who was gauche and socially inept, or the fake Sherlock Holmes who was channelling Sebastian Wilkes or one of those other air heads from university?
All this soul searching was distracting him from his work. Right now, there was the small matter of this case he was looking at. He adjusted his attention and got down to business.
ooOoo
Anthea was seated in the private Arrivals lounge at Heathrow Terminal Five when she saw the door open and Mycroft Holmes enter. Travelling on a diplomatic passport, he did not have to go through Customs or Passport Control, so had entered straight from the plane. For a man who had been on holiday for two weeks, an unprecedented event in his case, she thought he looked tired. She rose from the comfortable chair and he smiled at her, across the room, as he approached.
'Anthea, how kind of you to meet me,' he said. 'I trust you had a restful break?'
'Yes, thank you, sir, I did. And you?' she enquired.
'Not exactly restful but extremely satisfactory,' he replied. 'Shall we go?' She nodded and they walked together, from the lounge, through the airport and out to a waiting car. The chauffeur jumped out to open the passenger door to admit him, as soon as he exited the building. His luggage was already stowed in the boot, having been collected by the driver, minutes before. As the vehicle moved away from the curb and manoeuvred out of the airport and onto the motorway, Mycroft opened the briefcase that had been left in the car for him. He looked through all the papers, briefly, then turned to Anthea and said,
'Well, it all seems to have been fairly quiet while we've been gone, don't you think? Perhaps I should go away more often, if my absence has this effect.' Anthea smiled. She, more than anyone, knew that it was her boss's scrupulous planning and preparation that had guaranteed the smooth running of the department, in his absence, and that any longer than two weeks away could have had catastrophic consequences. There would be a lot of people breathing huge sighs of relief that the master strategist was back at the helm once more.
ooOoo
Back in his office, Mycroft took off his jacket and hung it on the hanger he kept for that purpose, on the back of the door. He sat in his chair at his desk, steepling his fingers, under his chin, reflecting on the last two weeks. He had done something momentous, set in motion something that would have far-reaching consequences. He felt slightly guilty and very apprehensive. All his life, he had put duty first, initially to his family and then to queen and country. No one would ever have questioned his loyalty. Would people be shocked, when the truth came to light, as surely it would? Undoubtedly, they would. Would people feel let down? Yes, probably that, too. Well, it was too late for regrets. What was done, was done. He would just have to take on the chin whatever reprisals were due to him. Did he regret his actions? Not one bit. A light tap on the door broke into his reverie and Anthea came in, with a cup of his favourite tea. He thanked her and she returned his smile, before returning to her own desk, in the anteroom to his office. She was his first line of defence and he was eternally grateful for her loyalty. He hoped she, at least, would understand.
ooOoo
John awoke to the sound of retching. Mary was in the bathroom, giving in to Morning Sickness. Fortunately, in her case, it was just in the mornings and, if she nibbled on a Rich Tea biscuit before getting out of bed, she could usually avoid the daily dawn up-chuck. On this occasion, the Rich Tea biscuit sat, untouched, on the bedside cabinet. John got out of bed and walked to the bathroom door, pulling on his dressing gown as he went. Mary was sitting on the side of the bath, looking pale and drawn.
'Whose idea was this, anyway?' she asked, brushing her hair back off her forehead with a trembling hand. John walked over and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.
'I do believe it was a decision made whilst we were both extremely inebriated,' he recalled. 'It's a bit late to change our minds. We are stuck with the prospect of a permanent drain on our resources. Would you like a glass of water?' She nodded and he set about pouring water into said glass, whilst she shuffled back to the bed. Sitting on the side, she accepted the glass and took a couple of sips before putting it down and taking up the biscuit, which she nibbled.
'I knew I should have eaten the biscuit first but I did so need a pee!' Mary explained. John raised his eyebrows, to acknowledge the explanation.
'Would you like some breakfast?' he asked. She nodded but added,
'I'm going to take a shower first. Just cereal for me, thanks, and a cup of Horlicks. That should keep me going until lunch time,' she smiled, feeling better already.
ooOoo
Sherlock was still having trouble keeping his mind on his work. He had to have a talk with Molly but he'd been putting it off. Although this was her second baby, it was really his first, since William had been handed to him as a two year old, fully-fledged, so to speak. He wanted to experience every aspect of this pregnancy, everything that he had missed out on before, but, after the argument the other Sunday, he was a bit wary of broaching any subject with her. She seemed resentful, even when he asked her how she was. He had a nagging feeling that she was suspicious of his motives, like she believed, for him, this was just another experiment. Well, there was that aspect to it, he could not deny but, far more than that, this was a life-changing experience. They were bringing a new life into the world and they were doing it knowingly. That was not a decision he had taken lightly. He resolved to speak to Molly that very evening and get a few ground rules sorted out. After all, the foetus might be inside her body, but it was his baby, too.
He was just about to wrap up for the night when his text alert trilled. He took out his phone and saw the text was from Molly. It simply said:
'Please come home.'
Wondering what could be so urgent, he finished replacing, into the filing cabinet, all the files he had been looking at, locked the drawers and hid the key in its new hiding place. It didn't do to use the same place for ever. Leaving the building, he hailed a cab. Twenty minutes later, he was deposited outside the flat that he now shared with Molly and William. On entering the flat, he was confronted by a flurry of activity. There was a suitcase parked in the hallway and Molly was talking on the phone whilst, at the same time, checking the contents of her handbag for purse, keys and other personal items. William, who would normally be immersed in his early evening TV viewing, was sitting on the sofa, looking slightly alarmed. Marie was hovering, clearly anxious to be gone, as it was well past her usual leaving time. Since Molly was clearly occupied, Sherlock looked to Marie for an explanation of all the upheaval.
'Molly's mother has had an accident. Molly needs to go to Northampton, to see her. She's just checking the train times before calling a cab.' Sherlock thanked Marie for the information and told her she should go, expressing his gratitude to her for staying past her contracted time, and she left. Sherlock picked William up, as he looked so concerned, and stood, holding him, waiting for Molly to finish on the phone. She eventually hung up and turned to him.
'I'm sorry to have to call you home early but I have to go to my mother. She was hit by a car on a zebra crossing. My sister called. She sounds really upset. I don't know how bad the injuries are but they've taken my mum to hospital.'
Sherlock put a comforting arm around Molly and said,
'No, of course, you must go. We'll be fine. Just, please, text to let me know you arrived OK and let us know how things are with your mum. And try not to worry. It's not good for you to worry, OK?' The doorbell buzzed, announcing the arrival of the taxi. Molly gave William a hug and a kiss, gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek and left the flat. Sherlock carried the case out to the waiting cab, with William still held in the crook of his other arm. They saw Molly into the taxi and waved as it drove round the crescent and out of sight. Sherlock looked into William's perturbed face and smiled.
'Just you and me, then, old boy. Shall we make supper?' William nodded, still not happy about the sudden disappearance of Mummy, in the taxi, but glad that at least Daddy was still here and not planning to disappear as well. As Sherlock walked back into the flat, he recalled his resolution to talk to Molly about his involvement in the pregnancy. Well, not much chance of that, now. Molly and baby were speeding away, one hundred and fifty miles north to Northampton, for goodness knew how long. Life could be very unpredictable, at times, he thought, then turned his attention to the child who was still here and totally dependent upon him.
ooOoo
Not long after Molly's departure, and whilst Sherlock was in the middle of cooking the meal that Marie had begun to prepare, before the proverbial excrement hit the extractor, the doorbell buzzed again and, on investigating, Sherlock saw his brother in the screen of the entry phone. He buzzed Mycroft in and opened the flat door to admit him. The brothers exchanged a brief greeting before William hurled himself at his favourite uncle.
'Nanny's poorly and Mummy's gone to make her better,' William announced to Mycroft, cutting straight to the chase in his succinct account of the situation. Sherlock filled in the details then Mycroft and William took up their positions on the sofa, to watch TV, while Sherlock finished making supper.
It wasn't until a couple of hours later, after William had been bathed and put to bed by 'Uncle Mytoft' that the two brothers were able to have a meaningful conversation. However, with the dish washer providing the back ground sound track, Sherlock and Mycroft sat down, in the sitting room, with a glass of wine each.
'Domesticity seems to suit you, Sherlock,' Mycroft commented. The domestic god raised an eyebrow.
'Necessity was ever the mother of invention, brother,' he replied. 'How was your holiday?'
'It was….interesting,' said Mycroft, cryptically.
'Where abouts did you go?'
'Oh, here and there, you know.'
'Mycroft, what is going on?' Sherlock demanded, annoyed by his brother's evasive answers and frivolous attitude.
'Why should anything be going on?' countered Mycroft.
'You did not just decide to take a holiday. You went to America for a purpose. I'd like you to tell me what that purpose was.'
'I'm sorry, Sherlock. You always want to make a mystery out of everything. There is no mystery here.' Sherlock hissed through his teeth. It was obvious that his brother was not going to explain the truth behind his strange behaviour. He was, however, undeterred. He would find out, one way or another. The rest of the conversation was quite banal and, after half an hour, Mycroft excused himself, commenting that he was feeling quite jet-lagged and would be sleeping at his London flat that night. The two men wished one another good night and Mycroft left.
Sherlock sat on the sofa, deep in thought. He had a lot on his mind. Mycroft, of course, but also, Molly had not been in touch – no text, nor phone call - even though she should have arrived in Northampton some time ago. Perhaps things were hectic. He was tempted to ring her but thought she might resent it. Why did he think that? He had no reason other than Molly's recent attitude toward him. Was he making more of this than he should? Was he being a little paranoid? When had his life become this complicated? So many questions and so few answers.
ooOoo
