They ate the scones with clotted cream and apricot jam. Sherlock read the paper while Molly made a shopping list. His story was no longer on the front page. Nothing new. Police stumped, though supposedly they had been spotted in Germany. Likely his brother's doing, that lead. German was the best of his languages.

"Molly, when we took the ferry to Dublin, what name did you use for the tickets?"

"Ticket. Just one. You were in the boot and they didn't look. Used a random alias Jim got for me. And before you ask, the car is in another name. Though it's likely been chopped by now since I left it in Dublin with the keys in it and we took a bus to the village where one of Jim's boys picked us up."

"And the cameras will have seen me arriving at your apartment before you and picking the lock. And when we left, I suppose that you were able to make it appear as though you were being taken by force, and that I forced you to drive."

"Yes. And Molly's car was found in a field in Surrey where we were met with another car. Unfortunately by the time Molly's car was found, the field had been mowed, so there was no evidence left of any other cars or people leaving on foot. "

"Unfortunate coincidence."

"Shameful, really."

"So," he said, folding his paper. "What do you have in store for me? This thing you're going to do for me?"

"Later," she said, getting up and fetching a basket from on top of the cupboards. "I peeked outside earlier and there are loads of blackberries on the hedgerow. It'd be a shame if the squirrels and birds were the only ones to enjoy them."

"Berry picking? Is this some sort of pastoral fantasy you want to live out?"

"No. I just want to make a fucking cobbler later and eat it with ice cream since I'm going to start my period in about two seconds. Not everything is about you."

"Oh."

"Let's get to it, then."

They put on their boots and went into the back garden, where the blackberries were running riot over the hedges. It was verging on hot even though it was still early, but he liked the sun on his back, especially after the chill and damp of the day before. True summer days were rare in this part of the world. She told him to eat as many berries as he wanted, since she'd never find a use for them all. They gathered the berries in silence, and after a few minutes he looked down to see that her lips and fingers were stained. He chuckled.

"What?"

"You look cyanotic."

"Well if I do, so do you."

"Fair point."

They continued picking, and Sherlock found himself intensely enjoying the sun warmed berries. His usual relationship with food was that he liked it to taste good when he did eat, but didn't spend much time thinking about it otherwise, and certainly didn't go into a euphoric state about it. But at that moment, even though he wasn't hungry at all, he lost himself to the way the berries burst in his mouth and how they were the exact temperature of the air. How they were at the peak of ripeness, sweet with just the right amount of tartness.

"Sherlock! You're eating more than you're putting in the basket."

He blinked a few times and looked at her. "You said to eat as many as I wanted."

"Well, I amend that. I didn't expect you to want that many, and I'd like to actually have enough ripe ones for the cobbler."

They filled the basket and went back indoors, blinded momentarily by the dim interior after the bright day.

"Come on," she said, pulling him toward the lavatory. "Daily baths are out since it takes so much water and fuel, but I'll help you wash your hair. I saw how dismayed you were when you saw the state of it." She squinted and reached out. She pulled a purple colored catkin from his hair. He took it from her and studied it briefly.

"Black poplar. Plantae, Malphigiales, Salicaceae, Populus. P. Nigra. Subspecies betulifolia or possibly in the Plantierensis group. Common to France, Great Britain and Ireland. Created by crossing subspecies betulifolia with Lombardy poplars to create a cultivar that looks like a Lombardy but is hardy enough to survive the northwest Europe climate. Cultivated in rows to create borders and windbreaks-"

He rattled the information off deadpan—it was mostly a brain exercise—but he stopped cold when he looked at her. She looked at him as though she wanted to eat him.

"Problem?"

"None whatsoever," she replied. She got three towels from the cupboard. One stayed folded and went on the floor next to the tub. Another she set aside on the sink. She unfolded the third one and told him to kneel and lean over the tub. She wrapped the towel around his shoulders and secured it with a hair clip. She filled a pitcher from the tap and poured it over his head. The temperature was perfect, and she ran her other hand through his hair, making sure that all of it got wet. She wasn't as gentle with the shampoo. Her strong fingers massaged his scalp roughly. He knew he needed it, though. The shampoo was the same one he always used. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, letting the clean, sharp scent take him back to his flat and early mornings spent in companionable silence with John. Or sometimes late nights, dragging himself home after a finished case. Often he was filthy, sometimes slightly injured. He showered before collapsing into bed only to preserve the cleanliness of his bed linens.

Molly rinsed the lather from his hair. Once the fragrance dissipated, he was brought back to the present. She applied the conditioner more gently; she rubbed it on her palms and ran her fingers through his curls. She massaged the back of his neck lightly and worked out a knot in his right trapezius, then filled the pitcher and rinsed his hair again.

She draped the extra towel over his head and told him he could sit up.

"I'll leave you to dry it, and do a sponge bath or whatever. Five minutes. I'll get your clothes."

He wanted to follow her, but five minutes alone with no cameras was too good a prospect to pass up. He got through his ablution quickly and wrapped a towel around himself. He spent the remainder of the time in his mind, filing new information and checking it against old. He didn't delete anything.

When Molly returned, she had another pair of pyjama bottoms and a new t shirt. It was plain white.

"More pyjamas? It's not even ten o'clock."

"Yes, but I have to go to the village. The choices are for me to tie you up, in which case pyjamas will be more comfortable, or I can have one of the barracks boys come babysit. But there's not a single one I trust enough to leave alone with you. You'd be shot in the head before you finished your deductions."

"What if I prefer the babysitter?"

"It's not your choice."

"Nice way of making me remember my place. Do something nice for me then exert your authority again."

Her eyes flashed for a moment, but she tamped down whatever anger she had and smiled.

"I really am sorry. But I'll make it up to you when I get back. I promise."