Chapter 14

As is customary after a drama or crisis, especially in Britain and Ireland, the kettle was boiled and the traditional tea making ceremony commenced. As her guests sat around the table, Aoife grabbed mugs, side plates and cutlery and plonked them unceremoniously down upon it. Milk and sugar arrived next, followed by an entire honey baked ham, brown and white home made bread and Irish Kerrygold butter. For a grand finale, a home made tea brack and luscious carrot cake were rustled from the larder.

"Oh yum, Marie has excelled herself", she exclaimed, "well, come on everyone, we might as well eat while we can. Help yourselves. Mycroft, will you carve the ham please?" she asked him, handing him a carving knife and fork. Mycroft positively preened as he stood up and proceeded to carve the meat into thick slices. Standing close beside him she leaned into his ear and murmured "and don't even think about poaching my housekeeper!" He looked straight down into her eyes and laughed.

Molly's eyes widened at Sherlock, finally noticing the interesting interactions of the 'British and Irish Governments', and Sherlock winked at her. "I know", he purred into her ear, "its like watching a primitive mating ritual, isn't it?" and she gasped out a laugh. She gasped primarily because the git was currently stroking the inside of her thigh under the table.

"You can talk!", she replied, looking down pointedly.

"Well Molly," he replied, "what do you expect", Mmm? I've been thinking about you in those jeans all day. It's very distracting!".

Jesus, Molly thought, that voice, in her ear, might actually give her a heart attack. Never mind what he was doing with his hand. She sucked in oxygen. She'd forgotten to breath there for a minute.

"So is that, and someone might see!".

Sherlock smirked and continued twirling his index finger lightly in small circles half way up her inner thigh. Molly struggled not to squirm in her seat. She was beginning to look deliciously flushed, Sherlock thought smugly.

"Sherlock!"

"Fine..., but I'm not finished with you yet", he whispered in her ear. He lifted his hand and began to butter her bread. "Would you like some mustard on your ham Molly?" he enquired innocently.

"I know exactly what you're up to Sherlock Holmes," she murmured quietly to him, "and it's not going to work. I want to know about that," and she once again stroked his chest, "and I want you to be the one to tell me."

"I know Molly, and I will explain, but I do want you to be very clear about something", he said solemnly, and paused for dramatic effect, " I meant every word about the jeans." Molly couldn't restrain a giggle.

Mary heard the laughter and smiled affectionately at her two friends. Sherlock grinned back at her and then asked her to recount the events that had led to the shooting of John Moriarty. As they ate, Mary explained to the group that after tending to Molly's wrist and helping her sort out her new clothes they had settled into the living room. Molly had nodded off to sleep and she'd decided to go up to her room and have a nap too. At this late stage of her pregnancy she was waking a lot during the night. She'd slept for a few hours, she said, and only woke up when John texted her to say they were almost home. She'd texted him back to ask him to fetch biscuits from the kitchen on his way up to their bedroom. Then, she said, as it was almost dark outside, she went to draw the bedroom curtains. She went on to explain that she's glimpsed a quick flash at the back of the garden, near the wall, and that she'd recognised it immediately as the flash of a firearm with a silencer. Then she'd grabbed her gun and gone downstairs. At that point Aoife interrupted her.

"I am curious to know why a doctor's wife, a nurse in a medical practice, if my sources are correct, would have a gun in the first place, or, more interestingly, secure a kill shot in a darkened room with only one bullet. In my experience, I have never known an amateur shooter to have such an outcome. In fact, there would normally be a number of shots fired by a panicked, inexperienced shooter, in similar circumstances".

"You're not the only one..," Molly muttered, ignoring Sherlock's warning glare.

"Lucky shot." Mary answered calmly.

"Hardly," Aoife countered, "especially, as you say, you recognised the particular flash of a silenced revolver from sixty feet away. Anyone else would assume it was the flash of a cigarette or lighter from one of my men."

An awkward silence descended on the room but Aoife was determined not to be the one to break it. Then Mary conceded.

"I never said that I was inexperienced or that I was an amateur," she said quietly.

Mycroft placed his hand over Aoife's on the table and, after giving it a quick squeeze, moved it beside hers and slowly strummed his fingers. The message couldn't be clearer. 'Cease and desist, I'll explain later'. Aoife relaxed.

"That's right. To be fair," she agreed, "you didn't. Please go on." John expelled the breath he'd been holding.

Mary continued to explain that then she'd searched the ground floor of the house. The housekeeper had left for the evening and, except for Molly, who was still safe and asleep in the living room, the house was deserted. When she got to the 'operation centre' she moved to the side of the room to check that the IT equipment was secure when someone shot through the lock on the French door from the garden and entered the room. She told them she'd called out a warning that she was armed but he'd just laughed and kept striding up through the room with his weapon drawn, so, she'd shot him. Seconds later Aoife's men came bursting through the doors and, well, they knew the rest. John reached over and held her hand.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well I know one thing which is without question Mary Watson. Your actions this evening prevented him from reaching his intended target," he said. Then his eyes locked on Mollys. He lifted her hand and, turning her palm towards him, raised it to his lips and kissed it tenderly. "And I, for one", he continued, "am incredibly grateful to you for that."

Molly's heart surged in her chest as he pressed his lips to her palm again. Impervious to their audience, she leaned over to him and stroked his cheek softly with the fingertips protruding from her cast. A respectful silence descended on the kitchen. Aoife contemplated the tender scene in front of her. She felt Mycroft's hand gently nudge hers. She turned to look at him and he raised a pleading brow at her. Oh for heavens sake! she thought, one Holmes was bad enough. How could she resist two of them? Especially this one, she confessed to herself. Thinking quickly, Aoife rationalised that Mary's background or level of marksmanship was actually not relevant to the events of that evening. She also had no doubt of the veracity of Mary's account of the shooting incident itself. Leaning over to Mycroft she said quietly, "oh alright, but help her to get her background story straight, for goodness sake!" Addressing the table she confirmed, to the great relief of the room, "self defence it is then!."

Then Molly jumped up suddenly and, blushing furiously, blurted out, "excuse us please!." She grabbed Sherlock by the hand and dragged a very eager consulting detective with her out of the room.

"Well, John snorted, "If I know anything, and I'm pretty sure I do, there goes a man about to be thoroughly snogged!" Laughter resounded once again from the kitchen.