The first time that Molly Hooper imagined Sherlock Holmes giving her flowers was in no way like this.
They all stand in the airy, bright greenhouse; beneath Victorian glass and metal, whilst a jungle of intertwining plant life stretches across their heads. Humid and pungent with damp earth, it could have been a forest; a jungle. Mary half expects to see a rainbow coloured parrot fly through the vines.
Sherlock is reaching up and pulling down a flower, showing it to Molly. It is large, pure white and trumpet shaped with a subtle yet sweet scent. A lily?
"It`s not a lily." Says Sherlock, grimly. Molly passes it to John, who turns it over to Mary. Lestrade has regretfully left for Truro, but has promised to `check in` later.
"And we are picking flowers this morning for – why, Sherlock?" John`s good humour is being stretched to its limits. Waking up next to a swimming pool was becoming distressingly habit-forming.
"Imagine the worst roofie you have ever experienced. You are completely conscious and articulate, yet your free will has been eliminated. You are utterly open to any suggestion made to you by anyone else. You know it may be wrong, but you are powerless to resist. Even the most hardened drug dealers of Colombia are afraid to fall asleep under the Borracherro tree, since that is where this flower grows – the Angel Trumpet, or better known as `Colombian Devil`s Breath`."
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"Where did you manage pack a mini-Skylab? You are a terrible packer!"
Sherlock Holmes is setting up a compact version of his Baker Street microscope. Somehow there is also a case of slides and ampoules of chemicals in a very discreet black casket.
"It is rather strange that the smaller things are, the more they can cost. Portable is the new black, John."
"Pffft!"
"In addition, I have a new app on my phone – a bit like Shazham for microscopes. `Analysethatslide`. It would have saved years of study at college."
"Now you are just making it up – as if a devil lily wasn't enough…"
Sherlock Holmes stops and gives John the benefit of his most glacial stare.
"Governments use this app in the war against biohazards and chemical warfare. Mycroft had it adapted for the Haystack software. And John, I would never lie about this plant. Although it has a similar density and chemical development to cocaine, there is absolutely nothing recreational about it."
John knows when his friend is this – emotionally charged – he should really listen. He sits down at the kitchen island.
"So, you are saying that this – this plant – turned us all into zombies last night? Whatever anyone suggested, we just did it – regardless of safety or advisability." It all starts to sink in. "My GOD – anything could have happened…I still daren't reboot Mary`s lap top…"
Sherlock has resumed calibrating his portable centrifuge and is shaking his head.
"Zombie slaves…" He looks up at John. "So, the question remains – where will we find your zombie master?"
"Scolpolamaine." States Molly, reading Sherlock`s smartphone, as she holds it over the slide. "It really DOES work – amazing."
Sherlock grinds the pestle and mortar (John, reflecting he will be buying a new one for James Dodd before they leave). "It suits the traveller, but a more traditional analysis would probably be advisable back at home."
Mary bursts into the kitchen; Sholto in one hand and her smartphone in the other.
"Sherlock, this is serious – listen to this - `A hazardous drug that eliminates free will and can wipe the memory of its victims is currently being dealt on the streets of Colombia. The drug is called scopolamine, but is colloquially known as 'The Devil's Breath,' and is derived from a particular type of tree common to South America. Stories surrounding the drug are the stuff of urban legends, with some telling horror stories of how people were raped, forced to empty their bank accounts, and even coerced into giving up an organ.`"
"I know it`s serious, which is why I am giving it my utmost attention as we speak."
"You knew those plants were growing in there! You knew what they could do! Why didn't you warn us?"
Sherlock lifts his goggles, exasperated, yet trying – really trying – to empathise.
"Mary. My knowledge of botany is variable. Poisons; opiates etc. – fine – but I have no interest at all in practical gardening. John would testify that I hadn`t been in the greenhouse once since we arrived."
"He did once kill a cactus."
"The only reason I went in there this morning was to test out an idea." Sherlock takes off his gloves and comes around the counter to where Mary stands; phone and baby still held tight.
"Over the past two months or so, my caseload has been dominated by the plant world. Coca plants; Water Hemlock; Suicide trees; now this beautiful and dangerous member of the nightshade family. Last night, you were all affected by this. It actually stops new memories from forming, so you had no recollection of what you did."
And, almost as if choreographed, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes step over to the frightened mother and simultaneously relieve her of both baby and phone, at exactly the same time as Molly Hooper places a cup of sweet tea in her hands.
"Go team," says Mary, weakly, as she sinks onto a stool.
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During the next hour, Sherlock is a hive of activity. He examines every lampshade in the house; then moved onto the air vents and extractor fans in the kitchen. Eventually, he calls them there, where he is sitting next to a large candelabra and a mini-microscope.
John can`t resist. "It was Sherlock, in the kitchen, with the candlestick."
Sherlock frowns. He can`t joke about Cluedo.
"Analysis shows, this is your zombie master."
They stare at the candelabra.
"Last night`s storm supposedly cut out our power. We needed to use candles and, ultimately, we needed to blow them out."
Blank faces. Sherlock tries again.
"YOU needed to blow them out. Before bed. I went to bed early, so I, inadvertently, avoided getting anywhere near."
He runs a gloved finger around each candle and holds it out. A slight tinge of brown powder is evident.
"I found this powder on every candle stick on the lower floor."
"Oh my God – " Mary.
"Scolpolamine, within the powdered root of the Devil`s Breath flower, was blown and inhaled by you all when you extinguished the candles last night. There was no snuffer. I checked. Suggestions became realities."
Sherlock is so pleased at identifying the toxin that it takes him a few moments to recognise dazed horror amongst his audience.
"One South American woman met a man in a bar, somehow ingested Scolpolamine, and helped him to load her and her boyfriend`s belongings, furniture and life savings into his van before he drove away with everything she had." Sherlock glances, hoping for reaction. "So – you see … could have been worse."