HELP.
BAKER ST.
NOW.
HELP ME.
PLEASE. SH
Molly Hooper has foolishly flicked open the message as she is rummaging under her sofa to retrieve Toby. That cat can smell the word vet, even before it has been uttered. She is wearing oven gloves (for protection) which makes her feat of text opening even more admirable. Multi-tasking Molly.
Luckily, she is not thrown into blind panic by such a message. Dealings with Sherlock are like being on a roller-coaster. Inside of a maze. No two days, tasks or instances are ever the same. However, it is generally known, and widely believed amongst his friends and acquaintances, that Sherlock Holmes can be a bit of a (whisper it) drama queen. He has gone to some trouble to lay out the text in all that spacing, punctuation and capitalisation. Clearly, not a man in a life or death situation. Get me, thinks Molly Hooper; I`m deducing!
Taking Toby to vet for mange treatment. Very important. MH
Seconds later:
Important for Toby, maybe. I remain in dire need. SH
She smiles and doesn't answer, and by the time she has retrieved the shivering ginger, mangey mess and stuffed him unceremoniously (it`s for your own good!) into the cat basket, another text has arrived.
Which vet? Tark & Co. or Surbitons? SH. Ah, Mr. A to Z.
Tark & Co. Why? MH
I`m coming. SH
The journey to the vets is actually a rather pleasant walk through Marylebone Royal Elizabethan Park and Dressage School. Molly has always loved horses and these impressively groomed show-offs were the Kardashians of the horsey world. She just wants to look and look at their prancing and mane tossing. It is July and the park was in the fullest of bloom. Weeping willows trail their tresses, Ophelia-like, into the Marymead Lake; and the beautiful delphinium and begonia gardens of St. John and St. Mary show a riot of almost psychedelic blue and pink blazing colour to the passer by. Further down the walkway are her beloved Ann Boleyn Gardens; box hedges and fragrant and delicate herbs winding around elegant canes and stark white shingle. Further still she would encounter the Holbern Bandstand (such beautiful concerts on long, hot summer nights with a blanket and a bucket of Pimm`s) and the open-air Sherringford Theatre where she had once watched Amadeus and cried through most of it. Molly loved the park, but today, her indulgent reverie was somewhat compromised by her – remarkably stressed – companion.
"This is hard." He had offered, in return for bending her ear, to carry Toby. The method of carriage was pretty reminiscent of The Nemesis ride at Alton Towers and she pictured Toby bracing all four paws to steady his passage. "Really hard. Hardest thing I've ever had to do."
"Sherlock, all you have to do is speak from the heart…"
"Have you any funny stories about John?"
"You have to say what is so good about being his friend…"
"I need anecdotes."
Soon, Toby will be needing a little more help than a mange serum. Molly stops Sherlock and gently retrieves her pet from the Tower of Terror, placing his box gently on the white gravel. She takes hold of Sherlock`s elbows, which ensures she has his full attention. She gives him the Hooper glare. Full-on Bush-Baby gaze.
"Sherlock, John considers you to be his best – "
" – man "
" – friend ."
Ah.
"And, as such, he is placing a great deal of trust and belief in you. He truly believes you are – the best and wisest man he has ever known."
Sherlock looks at little Molly Hooper. Her delicate face; quizzical eyebrows; glossy pony-tailed bun-thingy and strange, clown-like clothing and sees her for what she is – a giant amongst women – amongst people. A person who is smart and brave and tough herself, but is never afraid to let others shine; to take a background role when she needed to. A person who helps without artlessness; without expectation of anything in return. A person who is as ordinary as anyone – reacting as any normal person would to any given situation – but who has shown extraordinary traits and blazingly tremendous insight into the hearts of others. He knows he is a ridiculous man to many – a machine; an automaton…unaware of the traumas of others – only the problem to be solved; the danger to be faced. Alone used to protect him – it was all he had. Now … things are not quite as clear-cut – what the hell has happened to the clarity of Sherlock Holmes?
"Sherlock? This is getting scary – you`ve said nothing for three minutes…"
Molly. Molly.
Maybe he should try speaking out loud.
"Molly, I don`t think I can express…" They have started walking again, as an alarming meowling had gained pace from the cat carrier.
"I am dismissive of the virtuous ...unaware of the beautiful ..."
Molly stares straight ahead, where the hypnotic St. Benedictine fountains cascade like silken shrouds of gossamer, over pale marble staircases.
"... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy." She cannot look at him.
"So, if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the best human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."
Then two come along at once. Like buses. Sherlock shakes his head, battling the voices. He was blaming his neuro-transmitters. Those monamines. Dopamine, most likely…more addictive than nicotine; than cocaine…
The refracted light of the late summer afternoon has created a perfect spectrum – a rainbow – over the fountain. A mystical haze hangs across the millions of water droplets galloping and shimmering towards their final destination.
"It`s hope." Molly stops momentarily, hypnotised by the beauty of the scene and the realisation of one man`s redemption.
"Sherlock – you are redeemed by John`s friendship – by everyone who knows and cares for you (hel-lo blush – so nice you could make another appearance so soon). But, you are not ridiculous, otherwise we – people – wouldn't care about you. They wouldn't love you."
Sherlock`s inner sociopath formulates the idea of being loved by people. He supposes his mother loves him – and his father. Mycroft? He doth protest too much not to love his little brother. So, what should Sherlock Holmes do with all this freely given love? Its stands opposed to the pure, cold reason he holds above all things. A wedding was, in his considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Probably best not to say that…? Best to check…?
Molly is speaking; important things; he can tell, so he removes himself from his Mind Palace.
"Mary and John deserve to be happy together. It is your job to wish them all of that, Sherlock. John has endured war, and injury, and tragic loss. He loves Mary and he loves you. He has saved you from being – too Sherlock – and is about to make her his wife. You and Mary love him the most in the whole world. Make sure you tell him that, Sherlock. He chose you to be his best man, because he is yours."
Oh my. Sherlock has really listened to her. At least she hopes so. He has gone awfully quiet.
They are passing the beautiful begonias and delphiniums of the Garden of St. Mary and St. John.
"Those colours really shouldn't go together, should they?"
"No," replies Sherlock. "But they do."
And they turn the corner into the dressage yard and cross the cobbles in silence towards the large red and black doors of Tark & Co. Veterinary Surgeons; sharing the handles of Toby`s carrier.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
It is the night before John Watson`s stag night. Molly has given faux-fiance-Tom the night off and is making popcorn in the lab for her and Joanne. The tempting smell of sea salt caramel had given the mortuary an altogether more attractive aroma. She was used to the smell of formaldehyde in the morning, but some people have expressed – distaste. Unfortunately for Joanne, Sherlock Holmes has turned up with a bulging file and demands on Molly`s time and expertise. And he is eating most of the popcorn.
"I lack the practical experience." He smiles at her through a mouth of sea salt caramel. Still cute, damn it.
Providing Molly with his own and John`s medical records and vital statistics, Sherlock is asking Molly to calculate the ideal amount of alcohol the stags should ingest to avoid urinating in wardrobes (Joanne has offered a more ribald version which had made Sherlock blink before continuing).
Molly smiles a little smile and leans across to retrieve what was left of the popcorn.
"Liar." She whispers.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
The evening of The Fall:
Sherlock has gone back to Molly`s flat to `regroup` (Mycroft) before leaving for Eastern Europe the next day. Molly thought, to keep her norepinephrine levels to a minimum at having him in her flat for a night, they`d eat pizza and watch crap telly.
But they just got incredibly drunk instead.
"Errr ... am I human?" Sherlock`s eyes are crossing as he sits opposite to Molly on the floor, wearing a Rizla paper on his forehead, bearing his own name. He is also wearing Molly`s dressing gown over some questionable jogging bottoms and a baggy t-shirt with bees on it.
"Sometimes." Molly is wearing a Rizla with `Molly Hooper` written on it; as well as a permanent soppy grin and onesie decorated with cherries.
"Can't have 'sometimes'. Has to be, um ..." Sherlock slides further down against a bean bag he is resting on (Molly is still sentimental about her student life).
Molly: "Yes, you're human. You are more human-est that ever a … human could ever be… a human…" What was the question?
Sherlock squints at her. She is possibly the most beautiful wo-man…woman he has ever seen…not the other woman-more a woman-woman…real-woman…all-woman.
"Serotonin…" slurs Sherlock Holmes.
"Thass not a – question, Shhherl…(a moment)…ock!" Molly feels it appropriate to poke him in the chest for extra emphasis. "You are wearing BEEEESSS!" She starts to snigger.
Sherlock is unsure, through the tequila fog, why she is laughing, but feels it appropriate to get on board. He has had an extremely stressful day. The damage that has been done is something he has had to totally delete – for one night only. For one night, he needs – oblivion.
"Yess…yes I am – wearing bees – on – my – body. They are your bees, Molly Hoop-ah."
"I know why, I know why…!" She tries to stand, then thinks better of it, and sits again. The sudden bump jars and disorientates her and she forgets her train of thought.
But Sherlock has it.
"I wear the bees because I am verrry, verrry busy…" They both laugh for quite a long time over this. Then -
Molly points to her forehead. "Am I a woman?"
Sherlock is now lying on his side, in the manner of a Roman Emperor, propping his head up with one hand. He finds he can only nod. Woman-woman.
Molly: "Am I ... pretty?
You are a doe-eyed goddess with the alabaster skin of a Grecian statue; your exquisitely arched eyebrows frame your perfect heart shaped face and skin; as lightly freckled in summer as a plover`s egg. Your pre-Raphaelite mouth curves faultlessly around your teeth and strawberry tongue, which has the power to make me laugh, cry and listen to you until the seas run dry. Your hair cascades and undulates around your shoulders with the gleam of a thousand suns and I want to touch it every single second I look at you…
Impatient Molly: "Am I a pretty lay-dee, Sherlock?" Straggly hair flopping to one side, eyes glazed and stress spots all over her forehead, Molly Hooper knows she has looked better, but she is desperate to know who Sherlock has stuck on her head.
Sherlock swallows and looks around for his Percy Pig mug – source of all tequila.
"You are – quite – nice…"
Go on and close the curtains
'Cause all we need is candlelight
You and me, and a bottle of wine
To hold you tonight (oh)
Well we know I'm going away
And how I wish - I wish it weren't so
So take this wine and drink with me
And let's delay our misery
Save tonight and fight the break of dawn
Come tomorrow - tomorrow I'll be gone
Save tonight and fight the break of dawn
Come tomorrow - tomorrow I'll be gone…
Eagle-Eye Cherry – Save Tonight
xoxoxoxoxoxox
