"What do you think of this one?"
"Is that Sherlock? Wearing the hat?" Greg asked with a laugh, peering at the screen of Mary's laptop. She nodded, grinning.
"Goodness knows what Molly had to do to get him to wear it."
"She told me every time he complains or is rude, he has to wear the hat in a picture," John said, setting down their tea.
"How often has he had to wear it?" Greg asked.
"This is the first one," John replied.
"Second," Mary corrected, holding up her phone for them to see. On the screen, the Consulting Detective stood, arms folded, clearly sulking on the steps of Machu Piccu, the ear hat atop his shaggy curls. A llama stood near him in the shot, the caption beneath it read:
"Forgot to send these two: Sherlock wasn't keen on making friends, and was rather rude to the tour-guide"
Mary's phone lit up again with another message
"He has since learned to be nicer."
Another picture appeared, Sherlock clearly furious, wiping spit from his cheek as the llama buggered out of the shot.
The trio roared with laughter, Greg clutching his sides and Lucia, startled by the noise began to cry.
"Oh-oh, sorry sweetie," John bounced her a little, soothing her.
"Did you get Molly's letter?" Mary asked.
"About her extending her trip? Yeah," Greg nodded. "I'm happy for her. Surprised she can take so much of Sherlock in one-sitting, but hey, if she's not bothered. Good for her. She deserves a nice, long holiday."
"Where are they headed next, anyway?" John asked, he gave Lucia her teething ring and she cooed happily.
"Sherlock didn't say," Mary shrugged. "He's being a bit mysterious."
"Hope it's nothing illegal…"
"He wouldn't do anything dangerous…not with Molly," John shook his head firmly.
~O~
Pyramid of Menkaure Giza, Egypt - 5AM
"Sherlock, are you sure it's safe to be up here?"
"Of course it's safe, it's one of the most solid structures in the world," he replied, boosting her up the granite stones. He scrambled up past her and then bent, reaching to help her up. "Hurry, sunrise is only forty-five minutes away, it will take us that long to reach the top."
"I know the stones are safe, is it legal to be up here?" she huffed, grasping his wrists as he helped her up.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to be deported!"
"Nonsense. Mycroft knows we're up here."
"He does?"
"Of course." A pause. "He's told me to get down several times, but that's beside the point."
The flood lights around the base of the Menkaure and Khufu were shutting off. In the distance, the lights of Cairo and Giza twinkled in the dusky morning, the air was still deliciously cool.
"Anyway, it wouldn't be fun if it were allowed."
"Is that your philosophy?" Molly asked with a laugh.
"I don't have philosophies," he grunted as she tugged him up. "You can't fool me anyway, Molly Hooper, this is just the sort of ridiculous, romantic thing you'd dream of doing…like…oof- kissing under the Eiffel Tower…or eating Chicken Kiev in Kiev."
"This was your idea!"
"Are you sorry I suggested it?"
By now they'd reached the top of Menkaure. The view of the Giza Necropolis at their feet, to the southwest was Cairo, and in the east, the sky was turning a violet hue. She sighed, sitting down.
"No." her eyes sparkled, and she had the sort of peaceful look Sherlock had come to admire during their travels. It was the moment when she'd see something she'd clearly never thought she'd see in her lifetime.
From Peru, they traveled to Rio de Janeiro. They discovered they were just in time for Carnival, which Sherlock refused to comment on. Whatever happened, Mary was assured by Molly to have the full story when they returned. The only hint she'd received was a package that came by air-express and it held a handful of confetti, the heel of a shoe, three colorful feathers and two shot glasses along with a note from Molly that read: "Keep these safe for me!"
Molly was content to let Sherlock take the lead in her holiday. They rarely stayed longer than two or three days in any one spot. Long enough to taste the culture and enjoy the country before moving on. From Brazil they traveled to Morocco, Algeria, Libya and finally Egypt. In Algeria and Libya, they'd stayed in chain hotels, Molly insisting that if they were traveling like madmen, they at least deserved a hotel with hot water and proper mattresses. In Egypt, Sherlock made her let him choose where to stay. He'd led her through the streets of Cairo, through the markets to a dilapidated looking building that looked as if it hadn't been inhabited since Napoleon came to Egpyt. She balked immediately.
"Are you insane?!"
"Not at all." He said. He squeezed her hand, seeing her apprehension. "Do you trust me?"
"At the moment?" He gave her a look and she sighed heavily. "Fine."
Inside, an Englishman sat behind the counter, a single bulb was suspended overhead. He looked up, pushing his dusty spectacles further up his nose.
"Oh!" the man's jowls twitched, and he clapped his hands. Despite the heat of the day, he wore tweed trousers, a waistcoat and a paisley bowtie and Molly thought he was the most charming sort of man she'd ever seen. He greeted Sherlock as if he were an old friend, and kissed Molly's hand as if she were a princess. He had no computer or any sort of electronic device, save for the land-line telephone that looked as if it came from a bomb-shelter. His ledger was a massive book, and he showed them all sorts of people who'd stayed in his hotel, mostly college students who were eager to get into the field of archeology and needed a cheap room.
"Clean, affordable, that's my motto!" the man tapped the hand-painted sign hanging by the door. "I'm afraid we're rather full of Uni students at the moment, but I expect you were hoping to share anyway, so I'll put you down for a corner," he shuffled over to the ledger, making a mark in the book and Molly turned to Sherlock, confused.
"A corner?"
A corner turned out to be exactly that. Uni students, all hoping to be the next modern-day Flinders Petrie, crowded into the several large rooms upstairs. Clean, straw pallets were spread out on the floor, backpacks and shoes at the foot of each one, sleeping bags unrolled in any bare space to be had. Everyone had their own spot, and Molly and Sherlock were in the corner. It wasn't as bad as she thought. Whatever apprehension she had was soon gone. That first night the group of them had all tramped down to the food stalls, around the city and then back up to the hotel to enjoy the drinks some of the students had sneaked in. Molly was glad to see Sherlock was enjoying himself. The students reminded her of a time in her life when she was young enough to believe anything was possible and she had nothing to lose and the world to gain. She felt old and young, all at once. She dreamed of bittersweet times when she was petrified and excited, and felt that same stirring inside as Sherlock woke her at half-past three, whispering for her to come with him, that he had a surprise for her.
That was how she came to be sitting on the top of Menkaure, sharing her water bottle with Sherlock as they waited for the sunrise. The sky was a rosy gold, the air shimmering as the sun broke the horizon and Molly gave a delighted gasp.
"I want a picture," she declared, tears pricking her eyes. He'd been obediently taking pictures of the view already, knowing she'd be too overcome to think of taking shots. He turned to the sunrise, lifting the camera again. "No silly, of us,"
"Oh." They never took pictures together, save for that time in Rio…but he was hoping she'd lose those pictures.
The sun was climbing higher, the light was a warm golden glow around them as she took the camera, directing it towards them.
"Smile," she urged him, partly out of habit (what else does one say when there's a camera pointed at you?). Instead, he turned, pressing her cheek just as she clicked the shutter. She turned, more than a little surprised to face him. He had the look of 'I don't know why I did that, but I know why I did that, but let's not talk about it yet, but let's do talk about it' and Molly was half-tempted to lean over and finish what he bloody-well started except he spoke first.
"Would you like to go to Uttar Pradesh?"
~O~
John and Mary's flat, London, England
"John, get the door-"
"I heard it," he called back, already reaching for the handle. Mycroft stood on the doorstep, Anthea on his arm, tapping on her blackberry.
"Good afternoon Doctor Watson, Mrs. Watson," Anthea looked up, hearing him speak and smiled at John, stepping inside.
"Afternoon,"
"Uh…come in…what um- what's going on?"
"Can't a friend stop in and say 'hi'?"
"I'm-um-" John frowned, confused. "I'm sorry- wait, are we friends?"
"It's a phrase," Anthea said from her place on the sofa.
"Have you checked your email?" Mycroft asked suddenly.
"God I haven't been around a Holmes in ages, I forget you change subjects at drop of a hat-" John shook his head. "Sorry- uh, no, Mary, have you checked the mail yet?"
"I'm about to,"
"Do let me know when you receive Doctor Hooper's usual trip update." Burning with curiosity, Mary thrust Lucia at the elder Holmes, hurrying to the computer. Mycroft, flummoxed at the child, held her at arms' length. "Anthea-"
"Oh no, dear, you hold her," she replied sweetly. Lucia gurgled, shoving the zwieback cracker into her mouth, dropping soggy crumbs onto Mycroft's Ede & Ravenscroft tailored suit. John folded his arms, clearly enjoying the moment. It wasn't until Mary gasped, a hand over her just-beginning-to-show belly, that he turned.
"What- what is it?"
"It's from Sherlock," her face aglow at the screen. John bent, eyes widening in shock at the photo of Sherlock clearly kissing Molly Hooper's sun-reddened cheek, the caption beneath: Meet us in India. Address to follow. Tell John to pack his fancy clothes.
"What's it mean?" John asked. Mary was already on her feet, heading to the bedroom to pack.
"It means-" Mycroft passed off Lucia to Anthea as she passed by him. He wiped his sleeves off before reaching into his inner-coat pocket. "We are going to India. Here are your tickets." John looked at Mycroft's outstretched hand, the first-class tickets for three just out of reach.
"Uh- well…I mean-"
"I'd follow the advice of the email as well, these parties in India tend to lean toward the excessively fancy. Mrs. Watson may be more comfortable in her condition donning a more traditional sari."
"What party?"
"Oh shush John, hurry and pack!" Mary called from the room.
"Right, um…India," he nodded. Anthea handed Lucia back to him, tickling the baby's cheeks. Her fond smile was not lost on Mycroft, and he logged that away, to inquire about later. For now they bid the Watson's goodbye, promising to send a car to bring them to the airport in a few hours. He stood in the doorway, staring after the black car, Lucia making noises in his arms. "Good grief," he murmured, not entirely sure of what was going through Sherlock's head, not daring to think of what the Consulting Detective was bringing them all into.
