Blue Sunday
Sherlock's humming was the last thing Molly expected when she walked through the door. It had been weeks.
"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"
"Today is your flat." He said it like she should have known he would be here.
"Today is my …?" Countertops and tabletops of rising dough filled her flat with the smell of yeast. "I thought you were angry with me."
Blue eyes rolled skyward, a pestle paused over the mortar. Basil and garlic ebbed through the stale smell of leavening. She studied him, watching. His gaunt shoulders were stiff. Pale, clean shaven jaw set. Back arched slightly back, feet braced. He was afraid. Something was wrong.
"No. I know you were angry with me. What's going on Sherlock?"
"I didn't have flour. Or milk. Or basil."
"You could have gone to the store."
He still didn't look at her. Not even one of his withering stares at such a ludicrous suggestion. Cupid bow lips squared. He finished with his herbs, set them to the side, and began working on the closest ball of dough. She watched it deflate.
"Why bread?"
"Practice."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. She recalled the last time he'd baked in her kitchen. Rows and rows of poisoned chocolates, with a terribly flimsy excuse. That case didn't require that experiment. Sherlock Holmes baked… for fun?
She watched him moved to the next loaf after he'd scattered his mixture and rolled the blobby mass into a good sized oval. He pressed, light. Tension she'd noted earlier leaked away.
Sherlock Holmes baked for calm.
"You know, you'll owe me for the ingredients." Still nothing. "If you're not going to talk to me then you can leave." The sharp turn in her direction came exactly as she thought it would. She squared her posture, put her chin up. "I'm serious. Tell me what's going on. You can't just throw a fit and expect to waltz back in here." That's not how relationships work. It was unspoken, but it hung about the room regardless.
"The girl I was meant to find. She's a child." He continued seasoning and rolling bread dough, shifting his body to face the counters again.
"And? You'll find her Sherlock, I—"
"She'd dead."
She didn't know what to say to that. What did he want?
"I'm sorry. Does the Woman know?"
"Irene is aware. She is quite inconsolable."
She took a deep breath. "Did she die before or…?"
"You're asking if it's my fault. No." He hit the dough too hard, and she watched it go flat. "I've assured Irene I'll find who killed her."
"Why are you here?"
"I needed flour." Something in his expression hardened, a repeat of his previous encounter with her. He left, mounds of pale glop all over her kitchen unattended. Everything about the situation was confusing.
She pulled her phone out, dialed Mary's number.
"Molly?"
"Yeah, have you heard from Sherlock? He was just by here."
"Not in a bit dear. John said the case hasn't gone well."
"Did he mention the Woman?"
"She's heading to London now, from what I gather. He's quite a bit worried."
"Sherlock was cooking. Um, do you guys need bread?" She counted. At least eight, and that's if he hadn't managed to hide one somewhere.
"Can't hurt to have some can it?" Mary hummed, and Emma cried in the background. That child cried so often.
"Mary, I'm worried. He's not ok. You should've seen him."
"That's what John said."
"How dangerous is this case?"
"It's definitely a ten."
Something knocked against her door. By the time she caught his angry expression, she'd already hung up the phone. Automatically, she straightened out her back and jutted her jaw.
"I don't need a handler." She noted the baggy fit of his shirt. He may have cleaned up since taking the case, but his habit of not eating hadn't helped him much.
"Of course not." She turned towards his bread, flattened it out.
"Then why are you talking to Mary Watson behind my back?"
"Because we care about you and you're worrying us." Before she could think it out the confession fell from her mouth. "She was looking for you too, while you disappeared for that month. You know, when you showed up to my flat nearly dead."
"I'm aware." She popped the first two loaves in the oven, continuing to flatten and roll the others. He harrumphed behind her.
"That's not right. Your timing will be off now."
"I guess you shouldn't have pretended to storm out in a hissy fit so you could spy on me."
He ground his teeth, working on one she hadn't ruined. "You weren't going to tell me you were having Mary follow me."
"She followed you?" She hadn't acted like she'd followed him. She'd barely had any information.
"Yes. Nearly successful in boarding the plane, too. Turns out she wasn't keen on getting caught sneaking about." Pause. "John gave her away. Entirely too nervous."
"He knew?"
"Of course he knew. She doesn't lie to him." Another pause. "Any more."
"Not surprising." It was soothing, the feel of the dough between her hands, the rhythm. "Why are you here?"
The voice that answered her was smooth as silk and distinctly female. "He's trying to protect you dearest."
"Why do I even have doors?" She thought she'd hissed it quietly enough, but Irene's sharp laugh said otherwise.
"It appears we've quite the flamboyant little serial killer here, and for once the killer has leeched to Sherlock and not vice versa." Molly faced Irene for the first time. The body on the slab had looked quite similar, aside from the obliterated face.
Irene was ice. Whatever Molly had expected when she'd heard of the Woman's reputation, this had not been it. Her eyes were steel, her expression an arctic wind blowing conversation out of the room. Practiced sensuality still highlighted the cock of her hip, the perfect nails against her black dress. Even still, Irene Adler was not here as a dominatrix. She wasn't even here as Sherlock's enemy or lover or whatever they had been. She was here as a sister.
"Protect me? What?"
"The Surgeon." Everything about her was sharp. Her voice cut through Molly's question.
"I don't understand." Irene's grim smile made her stomach sink.
"Well, love, it appears Sherlock's gone in over his head." Heels clacked against the tile of her kitchen. "He couldn't save my sister, but his efforts did attract some unfortunate attention." She leaned against a counter, white flour daring to dust across her morning dress.
"Why would he come here?"
"You." He finally spoke up, eyes never leaving the Woman. Molly felt the air tighten, the two intruders having a stare off in the middle of too-proofed bread and overly dusted countertops.
"Me? I've not done anything—"
"You really can be incredibly thick. He's coming here for you because of me. Just like he went to America because of Irene."
"No nickname for me? How disappointing." Irene's power drained all at once. The mention of her sister sent her shoulders down, her eyes closed.
"Stop with your act." It was a demand if she'd ever heard one, but Irene did not bow. "Go home. Heaven knows your mother needs you now."
"She'll need me less when that bastard is off the streets."
"What do you plan to do, investigate yourself into a grave?"
Molly levelled a stare at Sherlock. He was saying, in his Sherlockian way, the exact argument she'd thrown at him. Despite herself, her heart sank.
"And what will you do? Camp out in this cramped flat and come up with wild excuses to take up the Doctor's space and time?"
It wasn't that cramped, really. She'd always thought it had a rather cozy feel to it.
"I have every intention of keeping her safe."
"And I had every intention of the same, and look what happened there."
The two glared again, but she'd had enough.
"Hello, yes, this is my house. Just reminding everyone of that. And I believe I asked why? Why would this Surgeon character be after me in the first place?"
"He was quite specific." He didn't look at her.
"He said he was going after Sherlock Holmes' heart." The Woman's neck turned slowly, blue piercing brown with the weight of the words.
"But, what about John? And Mary? And the baby?"
"They're safe."
"You don't understand do you, sweet?" Another laugh, this one nearly silent. Molly had a moment of sympathy as she saw the exhaustion behind the pearly white smile. "She is a bit thick sometimes. The Surgeon is threatening Sherlock's Heart. You. Are. His. Heart."
It was Molly's turn to laugh.
"He barely—" Not for the first time today, she was interrupted.
"Out, Ms. Adler. Go home. Or to your bolthole. Or to anywhere not here."
Irene didn't move.
"Please Miss… Adler, come back later if you must."
"Thanks for the offer, sweet." Molly wondered how many names she'd be called.
"It's Molly. Molly Hooper." She held out a hand, surprised by the light touch that caressed her palm. She blushed as the Woman whisked away down the London street, disappearing too quickly. "Care to explain?"
"He seems to have some idea that you and I are in a relationship." She thought over the last few months. Was it a relationship? It felt like one sometimes. Others, no.
"Are we?"
He ignored her, throwing sticky goop into a trash bag.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, answer my question." The full name flew out from some unknown store of anger and authority she hadn't tapped into in a long time.
His back went rigid. She knew why. She knew she'd made a mistake.
"Don't use my full name."
"I know, I'm sorry."
The Sherlock from before receded.
"He has a fixation on women. He's never had a male victim. I clearly am not close enough to Mary for him to consider her my heart. Adler's case was an exception to his usual age range, a personal vendetta he has not quite finished. Beyond that fact, her situation was sixteen, hardly young enough to assume he'd leave his comfort range to attack Emma." She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be listening, but he seemed to be explaining something to her. "The most obvious choice was out of course, since John is male. Irene was a possibility, but that was obvious. Besides, if he was going to kill her he'd have done so already. He's had tabs on her for far too long. I'll have to mention it to Mycroft."
"Sherlock, what are you on about?"
"It was you. It had to be you."
