Brace for impact! ;)

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Holmes brothers boarded the plane for London and took their seats in First Class, across the aisle from one another. Mycroft was straight away on his mobile phone, talking quietly to some minion or other, while Sherlock – for once – left his mobile sitting safely in his pocket. He gazed out of the window at the cold, grey Scottish mizzle and felt the weight of exhaustion seeping into his bones. He had slept badly since Tuesday night, his mind buzzing with the possibilities presented by this new piece of evidence – Dr Taylor's assessment. Friday had started early and ended late, with a relentless succession of revelations in between and, as a consequence, he had barely slept a wink the night before.

Not so long since, to go three days straight without sleep would have been a walk in the park for him but he was not the man he was. The man he now was had spent two years in deep cover, risking life and limb, constantly on High Alert; been captured, tortured, starved and beaten but ultimately succeeded in his task and returned 'home', only to find the world had moved on in his absence and having to forge a new place for himself within it. Then he'd been shot, and almost died – twice. Add to that, two sustained periods of drug abuse – both in a very good cause – and one near-death experience at the hands of Culverton Smith; and, just when things appeared to be finding their own level, 'that day' at Sherrinford had happened, and all manner of mayhem had ensued.

Factor in the small consideration that he was fast approaching the end of his fourth decade on this Good Earth. Long story short, he suddenly felt rather old and very tired!

It was far too early for the traditional post-case coma; there was still so much to do. But a short power nap would not go amiss. He reclined his seat, folded his arms, closed his eyes and was sound asleep in seconds.

'Sherlock, wake up!'

Mycroft's techy tone broke into his surreal dreamscape, wherein he was riding a bicycle over a hump-backed railway bridge whilst reading a French newspaper, when a steam train passed underneath, shrouding him in smoke and blowing away his paper. He had just dismounted from the bicycle in pursuit of the paper when he lost a shoe and had to hop all the way to his destination…which he never reached because his brother was shaking his arm and eyeing him with deep suspicion.

'I'm clean,' he snorted, reading that look accurately. 'Are we there?'

'We are and you had better be,' Mycroft hissed and preceded him from the plane, while Sherlock retrieved his hand luggage from the overhead locker and stumbled down the aisle to the exit, not quite fully awake.

Once in the terminal, the brothers parted but not before Mycroft invoked Sherlock's inner adolescent, not for the first time that day, with the words,

'Come to lunch tomorrow.'

'Lunch?!' Sherlock sniggered. 'Since when did we ever 'do lunch'?

'Alicia insists and she is cooking.'

'I thought her name was Elizabeth?'

'As you so rightly pointed out earlier, some people prefer to be known by their middle name,' Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock shrugged, dismissively and went to walk off, in the direction of the taxi rank.

'And bring all the evidence you have,' Mycroft called after him. 'Alicia would like to assess it, too,' at which he waved, nonchalantly, over his shoulder and sauntered away.

ooOoo

Sherlock checked the time. It was five in the afternoon and he was on the clock. All the evidence he had accumulated was distributed amongst his many bolt holes, for safe keeping, so he would need to do the rounds in order to gather it all together. The only piece of the puzzle he couldn't access in advance of his 'lunch meeting' with Mycroft and Lady Smallwood was the auxiliary hard drive, which held the CCTV video record of Eurus's entire life. That was still in the hands of Miss Gatsby and Partners. He would relieve them of it on Monday. But, in the meantime, if Mycroft wanted to view the original files, he could access the Sherrinford database himself, using his own security clearance. He had no need of a hacker's services. Speaking of whom…

Sherlock's favourite bolthole he would save for last but the first stop was Craig's house in Lambeth. He nabbed a cab and gave the loquacious cabbie the hacker's address then closed his eyes and zoned out, pretending to snooze to avoid having to be blatantly rude.

Saturday night was clearly curry night in Craig's book and the spicy aroma assailed Sherlock's nostrils the moment the front door opened, reminding him that all he'd eaten all that day was Charlotte's homemade soup – delicious though it had been.

'Come on in, mate,' Craig invited, leading the way down the corridor and leaving Sherlock to close the front door. Toby was conspicuous by his absence and Sherlock remarked on that. 'Oh, he's on a job, bless him,' the hacker explained. 'Some little nipper gone missing on a housing estate so, you know the drill. A place like that, with lots of footfall, needs an expert nose to pick up and follow a scent trail and Toby is the best of the best.'

There was no denying that. Toby's success rate in finding missing persons was second to none. So, Sherlock resigned himself to not seeing his favourite canine, on this occasion.

'Have I come at a bad time?' he asked, alluding to the brown paper carrier bag sitting on Craig's main computer table, from which all the mouth-watering curry smells were emanating.

'No, not at all, mate. Why would you think that?' Craig instantly paranoid, wondering what his guest had discerned that he hadn't.

'You're about to eat supper,' Sherlock explained.

'Oh, right!' Craig was reassured. 'No worries, pull up a chair! There's plenty to go around. And if you don't eat it, I will, and we can all see that would be a bad idea.' He patted his expansive midriff and gave an apologetic shrug.

Sherlock only gave it a moment's thought. This case was over, all bar the shouting, and the usual form of celebration for a successful conclusion was a meal. Without Craig's expertise, he never would have cracked this case. In fact, he would still be like a rocket, trapped on the launch pad, tearing himself to pieces, so it was only right that Craig should be the one to share the victory dinner.

'Thank you!' Sherlock grinned. 'I don't mind if I do!'

ooOoo

When the doorbell rang, announcing Toby's return, a few smears of curry sauce were all that was left of supper. The bloodhound bounded down the corridor into the parlour cum computer room, baying with delight, and threw himself at Sherlock who, fortunately, was braced for the onslaught. Craig followed him in, wearing a proud grin.

'Job done!' he declared. The child had been found.

'Alive?' Sherlock asked.

'Oh, yeah. Little bleeder thought he was Dora the Explorer, didn't he? Fancied a gander in some empty building, up for redevelopment. Looks like some squatters had been using it for a crack den. Kid sneaked inside and got lost, couldn't find his way out, finished up falling asleep on one of the skanky mattresses and that's where Toby found him.'

Sherlock could picture the scene perfectly and the thought of a young child – and Toby! - wandering around in such an environment, littered with used needles, broken glass and all manner of other biohazards, caused him a sharp pang of guilt.

All actions have consequences, he thought, often unintended.

'All's well that ends well,' he said. 'Good dog, Toby! Clever boy!'

As Sherlock prepared to take his leave, Craig handed over a 128 GB flash pen drive containing all the CCTV footage of Eurus's final days in Sherrinford and Sherlock exchanged it for another well-deserved £50 note.

'You have covered your tracks in that system, I hope?' Sherlock cautioned.

'Sound as a pound, mate,' grinned Craig.

The two men shook hands, then Sherlock gave Toby's ears a farewell ruffle and stepped out into the dark night.

The temperature had dropped dramatically since his arrival at Craig's house, causing the pavements - still wet from the earlier rain - to glisten, icily, in the glow from the streetlamps; the light drizzle in the air was transformed to feathery crystals of sleet that caught in his hair and melted on contact with his shoulders.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, he mused, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep; and miles to go before I sleep*.

Tucking the ends of his scarf inside the front of his coat, he folded the lapels across one another and popped his collar against the cold, as he strode towards the main road, in search of a cab.

ooOoo

Molly heard the cab pull up outside, jumped up and ran to the front window to see if it was him. She hadn't seen or heard anything from him since that rather awkward moment in her office, four days ago, and she had feared that he might be avoiding her, due to embarrassment; but, it transpired, John hadn't heard from him either and he seemed unconcerned about his eccentric friend's vanishing act.

'He'll come home when he's hungry,' was his take on it.

As if Sherlock Holmes was ever hungry when he was on a case, thought Molly.

So, when she saw him step from the cab, with his leather valise in one hand and the now-familiar canvas tote over the opposite shoulder, she was flooded with relief and ran through the house to the front door, flinging it open just as he raised his hand to slip his key into the lock.

'Oh, thank God! You're safe!' she exclaimed, grabbing him by the sleeve and dragging him inside before swinging the door closed, to shut out the wintery night.

Standing in the hallway, his hair and shoulders beaded with droplets of melted ice crystals - acquired on the short walk from the cab - that glistened in the overhead light, Sherlock was taken aback by Molly's rather bizarre greeting.

'Why would I not be safe?' he asked, eliciting an old-fashioned look and an acerbic reply.

'You're Sherlock Holmes! Being 'not safe' is your default position, especially when you drop off the radar for days on end.'

'Ah…' he felt a pang of guilt. 'Sorry about that. I had to go to Scotland for a couple of days. I should have said…'

Idiot!

Once again, he'd upset her without even realising it.

But Molly was lambasting herself.

Why should he tell you where he is every minute of the day? You don't own him. He's just a friend. Don't be such a bunny boiler!

'Ignore me!' she breezed, trying to sound nonchalant. 'It's the PMT! I'm just hormonal…'

She gasped.

Bloody hell, Molly Hooper! Too much information! But he doesn't seem to have noticed, thank goodness.

'Anyway, never mind. You're here now,' she exclaimed, with a bright smile. 'So, what were you up to in Scotland?'

'Oh, just springing my sister out of jail,' he replied, casually, then grinned broadly at Molly's eyes growing to the size of saucers and her mouth dropping open like a dead fish.

'Oh, my god, Sherlock! What did you do?' she gasped.

'Well, if I can just get my coat off, I'll tell you all about it!' he snarked in mock irritation.

'Oh, yes…of course…sorry,' Molly stammered, taking his valise from his hand and the canvas tote from his shoulder.

'Is that why you have your valise? Are you on the run from Mycroft's minions?'

'No, Mycroft was in on it. He brought the shock troops.'

'Really?' Molly was flabbergasted. This was going to be some story!

She parked both bags against the wall, while Sherlock shrugged out of his Belfast and hung it on the coat stand.

'Here, put it on this side, by the radiator, so it dries,' Molly suggested, 'and your scarf, too.'

Divested of his outer garments, he followed Molly into the sitting room.

'Are you hungry?' she asked.

'No, thank you, I just ate.'

'Are you sure?' she queried, eyes narrowing.

'Scout's honour,' he replied. 'I had a celebratory curry with Craig.'

'Oh, that's lovely!' Molly exclaimed. She had never met Craig the hacker but she knew a little of his history and she loved how supportive Sherlock was of the troubled young man. Of course, he would deny any sentiment and insist it was purely a business arrangement but she knew better.

Sherlock took a seat on the sofa and Molly sat opposite in the single arm chair, leaning forward, hands folded in her lap, eager to hear all the gory details.

Where to start? thought Sherlock.

He took a deep breath and began,

'After I left you, I phoned my pa…'

ooOoo

Time passed unnoticed as he related the momentous events of the previous few days and Molly listened, enthralled, to all the twists, turns and revelations. The sudden appearance of unexpected characters – Sir Edwin and Charlotte – shocked and delighted, respectively. The 'cavalry', in the form of Mycroft and his SWAT team, earned an impromptu cheer for rescuing Eurus, in the nick of time, from who knows what fate. The analysis of the contents of that hypodermic would provide a definitive answer but Molly suspected some psychoactive substance that would induce a temporary psychosis, a blatant attempt to hoodwink the Scottish legals into thinking she was beyond redemption. Because, surely, Sir Edwin would not wish to sacrifice his best asset? And at the point where Sherlock described leaving the headband on the bedside table, she had to brush away a happy tear.

At the conclusion of Sherlock's account, Molly felt utterly drained, from the unremitting tension and jeopardy, and concluded that some form of refreshment was just what the doctor – i.e., herself - ordered.

'Would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps something stronger?'

'Tea would be lovely, thank you.' He was already exhausted from too much excitement and not enough sleep. Anything stronger than tea would knock him out cold and he needed all his wits about him for the task he had set himself, this evening.

Molly made her way to the kitchen area and set about preparing a restorative pot of the magic beverage that was the panacea of all men's ills, leaving Sherlock on the sofa, wearing a thoughtful frown.

In terms of his ultimate objective, he had achieved his goal. Eurus was free. There was still much to be done. Eurus had a long and difficult journey ahead of her, adjusting to life on the outside. And he and Mycroft still had the arduous task of explaining to their parents how Uncle Rudi had groomed and exploited and ultimately betrayed them all. But, working together, the Holmes siblings had proven that they were a force to be reckoned with. That, in itself, was something worth celebrating.

But he had a personal commitment to fulfil – one he had made to himself – that, once this current case - this business with Eurus - was completed and he had the bandwidth available to give it the attention it deserved, he would do something about this 'situation' with Molly. At the time of making this pledge, he had not been sure how, when or what might be required but that silly song, sung by those earnest young men, with their long hair and strange clothing, was now playing on 'repeat' in his head:

You have found her, now go and get her.

No more excuses. The time was now.

'Such a special occasion calls for a special tea,' Molly declared, opening a kitchen cupboard and taking down a tiny tin of Fortnum and Mason Royal Blend. 'This was a gift from a colleague,' she explained, in order to justify it being in her cupboard at all. 'Personally, I would never dare set foot in a shop like Fortnum and Mason! I'd probably be arrested for ideas above my station,' she giggled. 'But I've kept it for a landmark event such as this. So, will you be…?'

Half turning to address her question to Sherlock on the sofa, she was surprised to find him standing right behind her, having moved across while she was preoccupied explaining the origins of her posh tea.

'Oh!' she squeaked, giggling with embarrassment, 'you made me jump! I didn't know you were there.' She looked into his face, enquiringly, noting the slightly pinched, perplexed expression. 'Did you change your mind? Can I get you something else?'

'Molly, there's something I want to say…something that I've wanted to say for a very long time but never have…'

And there he floundered, apparently still not resolved about whatever it was he so wanted to tell her. Molly smiled her encouragement and murmured,

'What is it? What do you need?'

Sherlock looked at the floor, through the space between them, and seemed to steel his resolve. Then he took a deep breath, held it for a moment, switched his attention to her eyes and said,

'Molly Hooper, may I kiss you?'

Molly took a metaphorical step back and felt for the security of the worktop behind her. She had dreamed of this moment so many times and for so long; wanted it, longed for it, rehearsed it in her head, over and over; imagined when and where and how it might happen. And she had come to terms, long ago, with the fact that, in real life, it was never going to happen. So convinced was she of that certainty that, now the moment was here, she didn't trust her own judgment. This could not be happening.

Sherlock had kissed her before, many times, on the cheek – the first time was that Christmas Eve, to apologise for destroying her with his present-wrapping deductions; and then in the stairwell to the underground train enthusiast's flat, to show his gratitude for the help she'd given him, the day they'd spent together, sleuthing. And, lately, he had kissed her cheek on several occasions, in greeting or leave-taking. And she'd even kissed him, once, in that capacity.

But on none of those occasions had he deemed it necessary to ask permission to kiss her.

So, what was so different about this time?

She peered into his eyes - really scrutinised – seeking a hint of enlightenment…and thought she discerned...need? longing? hope? desperation? But even as she struggled to make sense of her observations, his expression began to transform, slipping into...dismay? disappointment? sorrow? regret?

And, suddenly, she knew what was different about this time…

She knew she was about to lose the moment…

She knew she must act…

Now.

Reaching out, she grasped the lapels of his jacket, pulling him towards her, and gasped, 'I bloody well wish you would!'

She saw the look in his eyes change and felt his chest expand with an intake of breath, under her clenched fists; his arms came up and he took her head between his hands. At every point where his fingertips and the heels of his hands made contact with her scalp and jaw, the skin tingled. His head dipped closer and, in that micro moment just before their lips met, the laws of physics were suddenly compromised and time juddered to a halt. The world stood frozen, holding its breath, in tense anticipation of this seismic event. Molly's own breath caught in her throat and her pulse faltered, shuddering, like an engine running out of fuel. She was suspended in time and space for an eternity, waiting…waiting…waiting…

And he pressed his lips to hers.

His lips were soft, smooth and plump. Their touch was light, gentle and pliant, as they moulded to the contours of her own.

Molly had kissed and been kissed many times and by a number of different people and, as kisses go, this one was very chaste. But the moment their lips made contact, every neuron in her meso-cortico-limbic circuitry fired, simultaneously, lighting up her senses like a Christmas tree and flooding every cell of her body with endorphins. Her pulse rate accelerated, her heart hammered in her chest, threatening to burst free, and her skin quivered as every capillary blood vessel dilated. Her lips parted on a sigh and she returned his kiss.

But, already, the light touch was fading as he eased away from her. She felt the loss of the physical contact so keenly and opened her eyes, in confusion…to see her own impressions reflected in his countenance - cheeks flushed, lips engorged, pupils expanded to deep, dark pools, in which she could willingly drown.

Too soon! screamed Molly's soul. Don't stop!

And releasing her grip on his lapels, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him back down to her level, capturing his lips with hers and kissing him fiercely, wildly, savagely.

Then his arms were banded around her, enveloping, crushing, holding her to his heart, which was pounding in frenetic counterpoint to her own. And he was lifting her off her feet, perching her on the edge of the worktop to equalize their height, and squeezing in between her knees. Needing no invitation, she snaked her legs around his waist, crossing her feet at the ankles, binding him tightly to her; their bodies pressed together, not a hair's width between them.

Sliding her hands across his shoulders, Molly threaded her fingers into the tight curls at the back of his head, and peppered his face with kisses - to his cheeks, his jaw, his brow, his eyes - returning again to crush his lips; and, helpless in her hands, he surrendered to her demands, his breath stolen by the ferocity of her desire…

But then he was pushing back, challenging her for dominance. Grasping her ponytail, he wrapped the rope of hair around his hand and used it to coerce her head back, exposing her throat. His eyes locked with hers - and they burned with passion – before swooping in to ravage her throat, neck and shoulder with his lips, tongue and teeth until, gasping and breathless, she looped her arms about his neck and dropped her head to his shoulder, squeezing her eyes tight shut as she recovered her equilibrium. And she heard and felt him exhale a long slow sigh that seemed to mould their bodies still closer together.

In that instant, there in the kitchen - and despite the encumbrance of clothing – it felt like the most intimate act of union possible between a man and a woman. This moment had been such a long time coming but was all the sweeter for the anticipation.

A minute passed or perhaps an hour – time was without meaning – and Molly raised her head to venture,

'Did you still want that cup of tea?'

'No,' he growled, hefting her bodily off the counter top and into his arms, before striding single-mindedly through the kitchen door, into the hallway, up the stairs and into her bedroom, back-heeling the door closed, in his wake.

ooOoo

*Robert Frost – Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Dunno about you guys but, in my head, I can hear Etta James wonderful rendition of 'At Last'!