This one is just a bit fluffy - but with some police procedural thrown in, too!

Chapter Twenty Eight

Sherlock was getting more than a taste of what it was like to be married to a Consulting Detective and it was quite an eye-opener. When Molly phoned at five fifteen it was to tell him that they were following a new line of enquiry and it might be some time before she would be home. She asked to speak to the children so that she could assure them – especially William – that she was alright but to explain that she may not be home before bedtime.

Freddie, as ever, was pretty sanguine about the situation and even William seemed to take it in his stride. Violet was too young to understand but she waved and gurgled at the sound of Molly's voice then looked closely at the mobile phone to see if she could see Mummy inside it.

Marie volunteered to stay late, at least long enough to get the children to bed, but Sherlock declined her kind and generous offer. He knew that the nanny's long-term boyfriend usually arrived at her flat by seven o'clock, that they ate supper and spent the rest of the evening together and that most nights he stayed over. Sherlock didn't want to disrupt that routine.

And besides, this was his opportunity to prove that he could manage as a lone parent, too. After all, Molly had done so often enough. Now it was his turn to step up to the plate and be SuperDad. So, at 5.30 pm, he and the children waved Marie goodbye and they had the house to themselves.

Supper was almost ready so, at six o'clock, the Hooper-Holmeses – minus Mummy – were seated round the kitchen table, tucking into Shepherd's Pie with Winter Greens. Sherlock sat between Violet and Freddie so that he could feed one and assist the other. William, sitting at the end of the table, was eager to chat to Daddy about forensic evidence and Sherlock was more than happy to oblige.

'Daddy, how could you tell if someone had been cutting up newspapers, just by looking at their clothes and hands?'

'Well, that would really depend on how fresh the newsprint happened to be,' Sherlock replied, spooning ground mince and mashed potato into Violet's mouth – open and inviting like that of a baby bird. 'When one handles fresh newsprint, the ink comes off onto your skin and can take a day or two to fade. So someone with ink stains on their fingers could reasonably be suspected of handling a newspaper but that wouldn't necessarily prove that they had been cutting it up. They may have just been reading it.'

While Sherlock was preoccupied with answering William's question, Freddie abandoned his spoon and took to using his fingers to scoop up the Shepherd's Pie from his plate and transfer it to his mouth. He wasn't really a natural with cutlery but, to show willing, he kept hold of the fork with his other hand, even though he didn't actually use it.

'It's highly likely that tiny fragments of paper fibre might stick to their clothes, as they were cutting - or even small slivers of actual paper, if they weren't terribly adept at using a pair of scissors,' Sherlock went on. 'But one would need to look very closely to find them – possibly using sticky tape to collect the fragments from the fabric and examine them under a microscope. But, again, to prove that they had actually been cutting newspaper, one would need to have a sample of the newspaper for comparison with the paper fragments or fibres.'

William nodded sagely.

'Freddie, where's your spoon?' Sherlock asked.

'Oops! I did fordet about it. Sowwy, Daddy!' Freddie replied, with an angelic smile.

Supper over, Sherlock took all three children upstairs to the family bathroom where they shared a communal bath then William went off to his room to dry himself and get into his PJ's and into bed, to read his book until 'Lights Out'. Sherlock took Violet and Freddie into Freddie's room and dried and dressed the two of them before reading The Cat in the Hat by Dr Seuss – which they both enjoyed – tucking Freddie into bed and taking Violet down to the Nursery. She was already dozing off when he laid her gently in the cot and covered her with the little duvet.

Going back upstairs to see William, Sherlock read a chapter of 'Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban' by J K Rowling and then bent to kiss his eldest boy on the forehead.

'Daddy, how old were you when you decided to be a detective?' William asked.

'I was thirteen when I investigated my first case,' Sherlock replied, 'although I didn't actually solve it until many years later, but I think that was when I first considered being a detective. I was sixteen when I decided I would definitely be one and then it took me a few years to actually get around to becoming one – I was a bit preoccupied with other things in the meanwhile.'

'I think I'd like to be a detective,' said William.

''Well, that's sounds…promising!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'We could be Holmes and Son, the worlds' only Consulting Detective Dynasty! But, perhaps it's best not to tell Mummy, just yet,' he advised. 'She has enough to worry about with me getting into awkward situations. I don't know what she's do if she knew you were planning to follow in my footsteps!'

William agreed that it would not be fair to worry Mummy so he agreed not to mention his ambitions to her, for the time being. Father and son said good night and Sherlock went downstairs to sort out the kitchen and load the dish washer. Ten minutes later, all domestic duties attended to, he was at a bit of a loose end, wondering what to do next. Who knew how long it would be before Molly was home? A long, boring evening stretched ahead of him unless he could find some activity with which to fill the empty hours.

He didn't keep any scientific equipment or chemicals at home, for the sake of the children's safety but, he thought – his face lighting up – there were lots of household chemicals in the average home. He crossed the kitchen in two strides and threw open the cupboard doors, grinning broadly at the selection of reactive and non-reactive substances before him.

ooOoo

Back at New Scotland Yard, Sally and Molly were examining the Human Resources file on Nurse Jane Crosby. It consisted of a copy of her application for the post of First Level registered nurse Grade G, plus her CV and a covering letter, dated ten months previously. There was also a copy of her contract with St Bart's, signed just nine months ago, a photocopy of her Nursing Qualification – a degree certificate from the University of Essex School of Health and Human Sciences, dated five years ago. So St Bart's had not been her first posting as a qualified nurse.

Also in the file were two letters of reference – one from the course tutor at the University of Essex, and one from the Matron at the Queens Medical Centre in Nottingham – her first post after qualifying. Both references were absolutely glowing, describing Nurse Crosby as a model student and a very fine and dedicated nurse, with a bright future in the field of Adult Services. Neither description seemed to fit the woman Sally had interviewed earlier in the day.

'Either her standards have slipped dramatically or they gave her a good reference just to get shut of her!' DS Donovan observed.

'That could be the case with the Matron at the QMC,' Molly replied, 'but the course tutor would never recommend a poor student. It would be counter-intuitive. The reputation of the School of Human Sciences rides on the quality of nurses it produces. And look at her PREP* report,' the pathologist pointed to the 'Further Training' section of the St Bart's application form. 'She got excellent marks in her statutory three year professional development standard, and in her practice.'

'But some people are just like that, aren't they?' Sally commented. 'They put on a good show until they think they have their knees under the table and then just let everything slide? Maybe our Nurse Crosby is a slider.'

'Or, maybe,' Molly mused, 'she isn't Nurse Crosby at all…'

'Well, I suppose that is a possibility,' Sally agreed. 'Do we have any photos of Nurse Crosby before she came to Bart's?'

'Not in this file,' Molly replied. The staff ID photo attached to her records was clearly quite recent.

'Hmm,' Sally hummed. 'I wonder if she has an internet profile. Facebook and Twitter can be a mine of information, you know!'

Moving to her desk, Sally opened a link to Facebook and typed in the name Jane Crosby.

'Oh, lord! There are loads of them!' she groaned. Who knew that Jane Crosby was such a common name! 'OK, forget Facebook, let's try the Queens Medical Centre. We know she was there for over four years.'

She tapped the name of the Nottingham hospital into her browser and, when the Home page came up, she clicked on the option 'Work here'. This gave a drop-down menu of options. Sally scanned down until she spotted 'Meet our staff' and clicked on that. The list of names that came up were, of course, all people who were currently employed at the QMC so that was a dead end. Sally frowned.

'Do they have a social club?' Molly suggested. 'Or a staff choir? Or an annual fund-raising pub crawl that Nurse Crosby might have taken part in?'

Sally tapped in a new search parameter and opened a few more windows without finding anything significant then suddenly said,

'Bingo!'

Molly, looking over the DS's shoulder could see a newspaper head line from the Nottingham Evening Post which read,

'Local nurses raise £3K for Cancer Research.'

Under the headline was a black and white photograph of a group of young persons all in fancy dress, carrying collection buckets, and under the photo was a list of names. The figure third from the right, grinning broadly in her Aunt Sally outfit, was named as Nurse Jane Crosby.

'Can you make that any bigger?' Molly asked.

Sally pressed a few more keys and the photo expanded, with the image of Nurse Crosby centre screen. Unfortunately, it quickly became pixilated and, consequently, unrecognisable.

'We need a copy of the original,' Sally declared, and reached for the phone.

'Can you get me anyone on the editorial staff of the Nottingham Evening Post?' she asked the Met switchboard operator then hung up.

Meanwhile, Molly was still examining the newspaper image of Nurse Crosby. It did sort of look like the Nurse Crosby they all knew. The hair was darker – but Jane was obviously not a natural blond so that meant nothing. Eye colour could not be determined in the black and white image so that was no help at all.

The desk phone rang and Sally answered it.

'Oh, yes, hello,' she began and introduced herself as DS Sally Donovan, Serious Crimes Division, London Metropolitan Police, which always seemed to get the listener's attention. She then went on to ask if they could provide her with a digital copy of the photo and gave the date and the headline. There was a long pause, while the person on the other end of the line spoke, then Sally gave them her email address, said 'thank you' and hung up.

'The archivist only works office hours so they can't do anything until tomorrow but they'll email a digital image through to us in the morning,' Sally reported.

Molly nodded, suddenly realising how tired she felt. She looked at the wall clock.

'Oh, golly!' she exclaimed, 'It's ten o'clock! We'd better be getting home!'

Sally smiled at the Consulting Pathologist.

'No rest for the wicked,' she quipped, 'but you have earned time off for good behaviour. See you tomorrow, Dr Hooper.'

ooOoo

Outside New Scotland Yard, Molly looked at the tube station opposite, thinking that she really could not face the prospect of a tube and bus journey home. Instead, she hailed a cab, charging it to Sherlock's account.

As she stepped through the front door at Firs Lodge, her nostrils were assailed by the most remarkable smell. It filled the whole of the front hall and drew her, inexorably, toward the kitchen. She followed her nose and pushed open the kitchen door. The scene she found there stopped her in her tracks.

The kitchen table was covered – yes, completely covered – with a vast array of baked goods. There were loaves of bread, breakfast rolls, currant buns, fruit scones, tea cakes, biscuits, muffins and cupcakes galore. And standing in front of the Aga, like a miscreant caught in the act, stood Sherlock with his hands inside two oven gloves, holding a tray of gingerbread men, fresh from the oven.

He smiled a greeting at Molly then turned to slide the biscuits off the baking tray onto a wire cooling rack, on the worktop, placed the baking tray into the Belfast sink and removed the oven gloves then stood back to admire his work.

Molly walked around the table, marvelling not only at the sheer volume of food on display but also the variety. Coming to a halt next to her husband, she slipped her arm around his waist and he wrapped his around her shoulders, inclining his head to kiss her crown.

'You've been busy,' she said.

'Mm-hm,' he replied.

'I didn't know you had such a passion for baking,' she added.

'Well, baking is just chemistry, isn't it?' he said, with a shrug. 'It is quite astonishing the variety of products one can create using the same basic ingredients of flour, sugar and eggs – with a few additional substances, of course.' He gave a nod of satisfaction.

'And are they for eating or just for looking at?' Molly asked.

'Oh!' he exclaimed. 'I hadn't really thought it through that far.'

'Well, I think we should at least sample the end results, if only for the purpose of scientific comparison,' Molly declared.

'A sound suggestion, doctor,' Sherlock replied, pulling out a chair for Molly to sit on. 'Which should we try first?'

'Those scones look delicious,' Molly remarked.

'We have butter and jam but no cream, I'm afraid,' he apologised.

'Butter and jam will do very well, thank you,' she assured him.

Savouring the delights of her fruit scone, genuinely impressed by the incredible lightness of its consistency, Molly asked,

'Where did you get all the flour, eggs and sugar, Sherlock? We certainly didn't have this much in the cupboard.'

'No, we only had one kilo of plain flour, six eggs and a five hundred grams of sugar - and no yeast - so I called a cab and sent him to the supermarket down the road,' Sherlock explained, taking a large bite of his blueberry muffin. 'The blueberries were an afterthought. I had to send him back,' he added.

'Oh,' Molly nodded. 'Well, maybe I should work late more often,' she smiled.

'Oh, no! Don't do that!' he exclaimed, in alarm.

'Aw, did you miss me?' Molly moued, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

'Of course I did!' he replied, and leaned across to give her a muffin-y kiss.

'Good,' she replied.

ooOoo

*PREP is a professional development update that all qualified nurses in the UK have to complete every three years in order to continue to practice.

And on that fluffy note, I must leave you for a day or two. I'm off to London, tomorrow, to see our lovely LooB live on stage in 'Constellations'! I'm so excited! But I'll be back at the laptop on Monday. :)

Have a lovely weekend, y'all!