Molly Hooper has just finished reading her son Where the Wild Things are for about the millionth time.
"Night night, my lovely boy," kissing his curly head. "The wild rumpus is done for the night."
"Oh please don`t go – " Ben`s little, tired post-Christmas voice is muffled by the covers, but it is part of their ritual.
" – We`ll eat you up – " continues his mother.
"We love you so," adds Benedict, yawing hugely.
"And Max said `no!`" finishes Molly Hooper, closing his bedroom door.
With miraculous timing, her text alert pings. From Mary Watson. Hasn't she left but an hour ago?
`A Heads up for you, Mollster. You`ve got a gay army Captain, who is being blackmailed by a possible nemesis of your boyfriend, staying with you for the next week. Just letting you know in case there are any awkward meetings on the way to the bathroom. Assumed aforementioned boyfriend would probs forget to mention. Happy Christmas, you lucky gal! Watch out for the mistletoe and don`t forget we`re doing Marathon Murder route 8 tomoz. Luv, luv and Army Dreamers, Mary x`
Ah, well. Never a dull moment at Baker Street.
Wait … Sherlock – a boyfriend? Molly just smiled and shook her head.
Later that Christmas night, Molly, assuming Sherlock would want to talk turkey (though not actual turkey – its resentful half eaten carcass confronted her every time she opened the fridge) with Captain Thorneycroft, is heading up to her 221A flat for an early night. It had been a long day and she had The Hunger Games trilogy (a Christmas present from Mary) to make a start on.
She just has one foot on the first stair when a warm, firm hand lays its weight on her shoulder.
Sherlock – God, he could make sneaking up on people a bloody Olympic sport!
"Oh! Hi, Sherlock. Sorry, didn't want to disturb you and Captain Huxtable – just assumed you`d have stuff to – you know – discuss…"
"Nope." His voice is deep and soft and even – ( festively speaking, almost like the snow in `Good King Wenceslas`… )
And she saw that his eyelids were heavy, but the bright, clear blueness of his incredible eyes sparked vividly from beneath. He is wrapped in the blue silk dressing gown and a hectic pinkness highlights his usually pale cheekbones. He smells – just incredibly – him. Totally him.
Sherlock glances down at the book in her hand, removes it from her hand and throws it onto the second stair.
"Nope." He says, to the book, and steps a step closer to Molly. She can feel the heat of his body radiating out.
"I – er – and he is – in bed, then?"
Sherlock touches her hair, running his hand down its shaft, from root to tip – his beautiful, violin playing hand.
"Yep."
"Must be really – you know – tired …"
Sherlock has twisted her silken shank of hair over to the other shoulder and is looking at her exposed neck like a recently awakened vampire.
God.
She gives him a slow smile.
"Are you tired tonight, Sherlock?"
And before he can form the word, Molly pulls down his dark head and kisses that perfect mouth in one, swift movement which takes even the world`s greatest and only consulting detective, by surprise.
"Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," she breathes.
"Molly – " he smiles slowly, and pulls her so close as to be actually inside the soft, blue folds of the dressing gown.
"It really is Christmas."
And the tiny, pearlescent berries of the mistletoe glow prettily above their heads in the comforting darkness of the winter night.
x0x
Molly`s breathing was heavy and ragged and despite the chill, beads of sweat stood out on her forehead.
Marathon Murder Route no. 8 was proving to be – murderous.
Along the Oxo Tower foreshore, passed the wharf and along the Southbank, Molly panted, a little way behind Mary on the cold, Boxing Day morning which saw most hungover post-Christmas revellers still languishing in their crumpled duvets, and gasping for a drink of water to rehydrate their pickled brains.
Thinking of which …
"Mary! Mary! Let`s pull over – water break!"
Both lean, breathing heavily on the railings which separate them from stone-strewn shore of the river.
"So, who died here, then?" pants Mary, taking the water from Molly.
"Security guard at the Museum where that forged Vermeer was kept. He knew too much – about stars."
They both contemplate the dirty, rubbish strewn bank of stones and mud. Not a good place to end your days.
"We move in some fairly murky circles these days, don`t we?" Molly resets her watch and stretches her hamstring in what she hopes is a professional manner.
"`These days` is a fairly relative term," comments Mary Watson, starting to jog.
"Oh, and Molly – " she throws out over her shoulder, as the pace quickens.
" – you are extremely ploddy today – tortoise-like … you so had sex last night, didn't you?" And her cheeky wave signals that no answer is actually necessary.
The Oxo Tower is a building with a prominent tower on the south bank of the Thames. The building has been redeveloped as a mixed use development called Oxo Tower Wharf, which currently has a set of design, arts and crafts shops on the ground and first floors as well as two gallery spaces. The OXO Tower Restaurant, Bar and Brasserie is located on the eighth floor, which is the roof top level of the main building offering fine and casual dining, and it is the entrance to this nineteenth century Art Deco building that is the setting for an unusually lazy universe to place quite a co-incidental sighting that defies all logic.
Molly is blindly staring ahead at Mary`s black jacketed back as they doggedly pound the Southbank walkway. Mary is quite the machine, with astonishing stamina, so Molly is surprised to see her glance right, pull up and turn to re-trace the steps back towards her. A blank faced Mary then circles her friend with an encompassing arm, turning her in one deft movement to face the river. She is panting and staring out across the dark and cold river.
Molly waits.
"Don`t look behind," is the only directive from the ex-assassinating, recently medical-training, mother of one.
A minute passed. Maybe two.
Mary cautiously looks back over her shoulder, whilst Molly`s little heart is hammering in her chest, without the provocation of marathon training.
And she breaks into a huge grin, and turns to her friend.
"Well, well – seems the whole world is getting some these days."
"Mary – "
"I just caught sight of our second most favourite detective, coming out of the Oxo Tower with a very pretty, young, dark haired little creature. They looked very intimate, very chuffed with each other."
"You mean – "
Mary nodded.
"Seems DI Lestrade has managed to get himself a new lady friend to mend his broken heart – at last!"
And they both smile conspiratorially and delightedly at such welcome news.
x0x
During the next seven days, John Watson calls in at Baker Street no less than five times.
"Leave them alone, John – what`s the worst that could happens? He`s with Sherlock."
Their eyes meet.
"Yeah, I kind of get your point," acquiesces Mary.
Day one:
John enters Baker Street and is instantly alarmed to hear a dulled thud, followed by a cry – which sounded a lot like Thorn. As he races up the stairs, another two successive thuds result in a female holler. John`s heart is hammering in his ears as he throws open the door to see –
"Beginner`s luck!" pouts Sherlock Holmes, standing next to the mirror and facing the dart board. His left hand is holding three darts whilst a grinning Captain Thorneycroft pulls his `arrows` out of what John discerns as the bullseye.
Mrs Hudson, also in the possession of three darts, stands across from Sherlock, poised for her turn.
"Hardly a beginner, Sherlock – the Captain here told me he was on B Company`s darts team from 2011 to 2013."
Sherlock narrows his eyes and takes a stance.
"Ah, I see - a ringer? We`ll see what you make of this – " and he takes aim.
"You might want to step back a bit, dear," confides Mrs Hudson in the direction of Thorn. "He really is rather terrible at darts…"
Day two:
John enters 221B`s sitting room to find two dark heads bent intently over Sherlock`s lap top. His eye barely registers the five darts embedded in the wall, cow skull and lampshade.
"So – this is Tumblr… Why is there so much of me on it?"
Thorn clicks, scrolls and points.
"Fan-sites, Sherlock – these are set up by your fans, to follow your cases – to follow YOU …"
Sherlock peers closer, then draws suddenly back, then closer again.
"And, do tell me, Thorn, what I appear to be doing to John in this gifset?"
As John Watson pushes his way through various newspapers, books and, bizarrely, a climbing harness and a set of steel crampons, the Captain quickly scrolls and clicks again.
"But, there are also these kinds of blogs, Sherlock, which offer up cases for you to solve."
"I do that on a daily basis. For money."
"No, they invent them, and other followers come along and offer solutions. They aren`t expecting you to actually solve them, but your fans like to employ your methods – it`s a kind of compliment."
Sherlock`s eyes narrow as he scrolls down a blog entitled `You Know My Methods!", but John can tell he is – a little enthralled.
"Interesting?" enquires John Watson.
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Elementary." He shrugs.
Day Three:
John and Mary Watson turn the corner of Northumberland and Baker Street and finds they have been transported back to Victorian, or possibly, Medieval times. Road works over the Christmas holiday have resulted in the far end of Baker Street being blocked to vehicles. This is rather fortuitous for Sherlock and Captain Huxtable, since they are both riding two large and intimidating shiny, black horses on opposite sides of the road. Cold air is snorting like smoke from the nostrils of the huge creatures and their hooves clatter loudly on the tarmac as Sherlock stands up in his stirrups, and shouts "CATCH!" imperiously across to his temporary flat-mate. He then flings a large piece of rope which connects two heavy looking balls with wild abandon, towards the Captain, who stands with a creak in his saddle and raises his arm.
"Left, left!" shouts Sherlock, and the Captain swaps over to his left hand.
The strange device propels itself wildly, using several laws of physics, towards Thorn – and then changes direction in a boomerang style motion, returning halfway back to Sherlock and wrapping itself around an unlucky lamp post.
"Oh my God! How bloody dangerous!" John is eternally grateful no passers-by are braving the late December weather and post-Christmas lull.
He glances at Mary to see her eyes shining and a rather inappropriate smile hovering across her lips.
"You mean, how bloody sexy!" She punches his arm. "Hey, Sherlock!" Mary shouts to over to the Baker Street Cowboys. "Are you and your bolas auditioning for Game of Thrones?"
Mary unwraps the South American weapon from the lamp post and hands it up to Sherlock Holmes, who is pulling in a very skittish horse which is showing the whites of its eyes at John, and stomping out an annoyed, clipped rhythm on the pavement. He and the Captain look exhilarated and high as kites.
"I have absolutely no idea what you are referring to Mary, but the Captain has been kind enough to assist me in testing out a case." He reins in the black beast, and dismounts, throwing the reins over to Thorn.
"Mrs Dolores Ferguson is off the hook," announces Sherlock, breathless and happy. "It is impossible for a left handed person to catch a bolas thrown by a right-handed person from the back of a 17-hand horse. She couldn't have killed her stepson. Let`s take these horses back, Huxtable, then we`ll have tea … Mrs Hudson …!"
And there are simply too many unanswered questions buzzing around John Watson`s brain to deal with.
Day four:
John Watson feels genuine trepidation as he mounts the familiar stairs, but nothing can now keep him away from checking up on the Captain and the Detective. A fascination, bordering on obsession, is growing and could soon manifest into his own Tumblr Blog if he`s not careful. On this day, a third person had joined them, and John is a little surprised to see the slumped, cheerless figure of Greg Lestrade hunched in his old chair, whilst Sherlock and Thorn sit either side, both adopting a listening pose.
" – so Donovan isn`t much help – she and that Sanderson tosser share every lunchtime, and I`m putting up with her starry-eyed, loved up smiles every afternoon. Sickening – "
Sherlock winces. "Quite."
" – and Anderson seems a bit too happy for my liking too. Hasn't even got time to come down to the pub of a lunchtime – says he`s bloody babysitting, or some crap. Anderson – babysitting? He`s more likely to bundle them in a sack and head down to the canal."
John could be wrong, but he swears he sees a slightly shifty look cross the face of Sherlock Holmes. Within a second, however, it is gone.
Thorneycroft Huxtable sits up and addresses the Inspector, with a thoughtful demeanour.
"How long since you last saw your girlfriend, Detective Inspector?"
"It`s been almost a week now, unheard of for us – and please call me Greg."
"For goodness sake, Lestrade, this isn`t the time to be coy with an alias – "
"For the thousandth time, Sherlock, Greg is my REAL NAME!"
It`s now or never – John weighs in.
"Could someone just tell me - what is going on?" It looked, for all the world, like a lonely hearts advice forum.
Sherlock turns artlessly towards him.
"Oh, John, it`s all rather turgid, I`m afraid. Lestrade has found himself a girlfriend and become used to regular trips out and plenty of good quality sex, and now she appears to have lost interest – "
"Ah, Sherlock – "
Thorn is the very epitome of tact and diplomacy, thank God, since Greg`s eyes are looking a little moist.
"I am sure, since you have been getting on so well, the lady in question has a perfectly decent reason for being out of touch. Maybe she has a high powered job?"
"She`s a student," mumbles Greg, morosely.
"Perhaps, a student of astrophysics, who has been seconded to take part in an inter-planetary mission?" John cannot quite tell how serious Sherlock is.
"I think Sherlock is right – I`ve just been dumped. I knew it was going too well. She was perfect – so perfect."
Sherlock`s empathy face has run its course and he is currently scrolling through Tumblr.
"Impossible to live up to perfection, Detective Inspector. Best to end things now, before everyone gets disappointed – oh look! Someone has managed to solve my problem of `The Crooked Plan`! Good work!"
Thorneycroft has stepped across to look.
"It`s her again – look, Sherlock - `yellow_ribbon_lady`… she is by far the quickest."
Sherlock nods, smiling.
"She really is rather good."
Lestrade is looking up at them both with a defeated air.
"So, my despair and rejection can wait for another day then? Great."
Day five:
On the final day of Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable`s stay at Baker Street, John has had the good sense to text first and has mysteriously been advised to approach 221B from the rear entrance. And to wear `sports clothes`.
Hmm.
Thus, John approaches through the gate of Mrs Hudson`s back yard, where she keeps her bins and recycling. As he lowers the latch, he can see nothing amiss or out of the ordinary. Until, he hears a cry from above.
"John! John Watson! Up here!"
Oh, for God`s sake.
Sherlock Holmes is, at that moment, suspended from authentic looking ropes and harness attached to the very roof of 221 Baker Street. He is hanging by a rope which is being petered out by his man on the ground – Captain Huxtable – in this case.
At that moment, Molly Hooper enters the yard, waves to John, and takes over the seconding from Thorn, who stands back, shading his eyes to look skywards at Sherlock. John can`t help but notice how she wraps round the rope, takes the stance and shows a great deal of confidence with the whole situation, for a tiny pathologist.
Molly Hooper keeping Sherlock Holmes grounded? Now, there you have the whole thing in a nutshell.
Before John can even speak, Mrs Hudson enters the yard from her back door with a tray of tea – cups, saucers, the lot.
"Sherlock, I hope those spiky things on your feet aren`t damaging my brickwork, young man! What are they even for?"
A voice shouts down.
"Crampons, Mrs Hudson – with these, an excellent purchase can be made in ice and snow."
Mrs Hudson looks around in the dry, grey December morning and shakes her head.
"Just watch out for my facia boards, Sherlock." She hands John one of the steaming cups.
"Just tell me why, Mrs Hudson," sighs John Watson, fixing on the crampons passed over by a smiling Captain Thorneycroft.
And before she can answer, a voice sails down to him from above:
"It`s for a case, John!"
And he must be content with that.
"Where the Wild Things Are" by Maurice Sendak