As ever, Ian and Justine are based on my grandchildren, each of whom is precocious in his or her own special way. My grateful thanks to the fabulous Winsom and the marvelous mrspencil for beta-ing and Brit-picking.
000
"Honey, I'm home!" Molly cried out as she entered her flat, chortling at her own little joke. Justine, hearing her mother's voice, charged into the entryway, shrieking with delight, and flung her arms around Molly's left leg.
"I'm in the kitchen, dear," Mary called. "Have a sit-down and I'll bring your tea right in."
Molly picked up her daughter, and the eleven-month-old endured a few seconds of snuggles and kisses before struggling to be set free again. Justine had begun toddling at the early age of nine months. But she had not had patience with toddling for long, skipped walking altogether, and had quickly begun to race about and to climb up furniture like some wild animal on amphetamines.
The young pathologist sighed and dragged her tired feet into her sitting room to plop down onto the couch. Ian was on the floor at the coffee table before her, busy with some project of his own that seemed to involve several reams of paper, dozens of markers, and a roll of sellotape.
"Hi, Aunt Molly," the five-year-old said cheerfully. "I'm writin' a book." He appeared completely unruffled by the blurred streak which was Justine tearing round and round the table at which he was quietly working.
"Oh, just like your father, then!" Molly winked. "Is it a mystery?" John Watson had recently published his first novel, based upon his blog, and it was flying off the bookstore shelves.
"Nah. It's for Jussie. It's a alphabet book," Ian told her, holding up the page he was working on. 'C', the text explained, 'is for Corpse.' A colourful picture of a dead body illustrated the idea. "Mum's helping me with the spelling."
Molly picked up the pages Ian had already completed. "'A is for Alibi.' And I see the criminal is in the pub having drinks with his mates. Naturally. 'B is for Brains.' This is a very passable drawing of the human brain, love. Well done."
"'D' is meant to be for 'Detective' and 'E' will be for . . . ."
"'Evidence', yeah, I'm getting the pattern," Molly chuckled. "This is a lovely idea, Ian. Maybe Justine will start talking after you read your book to her."
She really did hope so, even if the child's vocabulary was doomed to be rather macabre. Molly was beginning to feel very worried about Justine's complete lack of interest in speaking actual words. The child made lots of noise, oh yes! Screams, squeals, grunts, cries, and peals of laughter; but nothing that seemed to resemble human speech.
"Jussie talks a lot. Just not in English," Ian said enigmatically. But before Molly could question him further, Mary appeared with the tea tray. Justine stopped running and loudly demanded a biscuit with wordless shouts and meaningful gestures. Ian quietly accepted his milk tea and digestives with a polite, "thanks, Mum."
The two friends exchanged news of the day as they sipped their tea. Molly enjoyed describing the intriguing body of a supposedly-murdered man who, as it turned out, had died of a rare allergy. Mary was fun to talk to about work: as a medical professional herself, she had no problem following Molly's thought processes, and as a lover of mysteries she was excited by the challenges Molly sometimes faced in finding out a cause of death.
Mary cheerfully outlined her far more pedestrian day: school work with Ian in the morning, naps after lunch, a walk to the park in the afternoon. "Next week, I will need to keep the children at my flat instead of coming here. I have some science experiments in mind to do with Ian. I think Justine might enjoy them as well— there should be plenty of messy goo involved!" She grabbed a damp cloth from the tea tray and wiped Justine's hands, which were covered with a soggy paste of dissolved biscuit.
Molly frowned. She loved her job. But sometimes she felt a nagging guilt about leaving Justine every day. Was she missing out on her daughter's childhood? And sometimes she felt guilty for depending on Mary to care for her child. Was it unfair that she should be able to continue to pursue an interesting career whilst Mary was stuck at home? She sighed, her mind swirling with self-doubt and worry.
"Justine was saying "muh muh" today," Mary was saying. "I think she's finally becoming interested in expressing herself verbally."
Justine looked up at her aunt and gave her a gummy grin full of mashed biscuit. "Muh muh muh muh," she agreed, reaching for another treat.
This brought a wistful smile back to Molly's face. "Yes, she was saying it last night, too. She's been saying 'dah dah' for ever so long; it's about time she learnt my name, too. Here's another, darling," she handed Justine an arrowroot biscuit.
Any happiness she had gained from Justine's new word was soon snatched away from her. "Jussie don't mean 'Mama' when she says 'muh'," Ian informed them helpfully, unaware that he was breaking his Aunt Molly's heart. "She means she's hungry. 'Muh' means 'food'." Yes, tearing out her heart and stomping on it.
Molly was mortified to feel tears prickle in her eyes. She pressed her lips together and tried not to sniff. What on earth was wrong with her? She'd been so emotional since Justine was born.
"Are you sure, Ian? It sounds like she's saying 'Mama' to me," Mary was objecting.
"I should stay home with her, shouldn't I?" Molly murmured, her voice quavering a bit. "She doesn't even know who I am, does she?"
"Of course she does!" Mary rallied her firmly. "Didn't she go rushing to the door to greet you when you came in?"
"But . . . but, Mary, Ian was speaking whole sentences at her age. If I hadn't abandoned her, perhaps she wouldn't be so far behind verbally." Molly leant over to retrieve the half-gnawed biscuit her busy daughter had dropped to the floor.
"Abandoned! I like that! She has the best caregiver in London!" Mary declared, feigning indignation. "And, far behind! Molly Lestrade! What on earth are you saying? She's eleven months old! She has plenty of time to decide to start talking."
Molly looked sadly at her offspring, who was at that moment babbling nonsense syllables at Ian. Soberly, Ian was listening as raptly as if he were hearing an eloquent soliloquy. Then he trotted into the kitchen and returned carrying a sippy cup filled with apple juice. Justine burbled happily and grabbed it in both messy hands.
"Anyway," Mary had continued during all this activity, "do you remember how worried I was about Ian when he was Justine's age? He showed absolutely no interest in walking, did he? He just scootched along on his little bum when he wanted to go anywhere. I thought he'd never walk on his own two legs."
Mary had a way of coaxing smiles onto Molly's face. "You once told me that you were certain you'd be pushing Ian to University in a bath chair," she chuckled.
"'Oh, no, sir, he isn't crippled,'" Mary quoted her imaginary self in a falsetto voice. "'He just can't be bothered to stand up.' But he did, didn't he? In his own good time. Justine will start talking when she's ready. Honestly, Molly, you know you can't compare children's progress like that. They each develop in their own time and in their own, unique ways."
"I know," Molly sighed. She grabbed the damp cloth and cleaned Justine's hands and face. "But I can't help feeling that if I had stayed at home longer, she might. . . . I don't know. . . . be . . . .Well, you stayed home with Ian and he's a little genius!"
"I'm a genius like Uncle Sherlock!" Ian agreed, nodding wisely. "He said so." His mother patted his head and chuckled indulgently.
"And you have your uncle's humility, as well," she agreed, then turned and gently chided Molly. "You can't compare children any more than you can compare adults. I mean, what if someone were to compare us to each other? 'Look at that brilliant Molly Lestrade, making a difference in the world by helping to solve crimes! And then look at that idle drudge, Mary Watson, throwing her career away to muck about with laundry and chase babies around all day."
"I'm not a baby!" Ian protested loudly. "I'm five!"
"Of course, darling," his mother soothed. "And I'm not an idle drudge, either, am I? Nor am I throwing away my career—I keep my oar in as a locum. And Molly, you know full well that I stayed home with Ian because he's so advanced—he isn't advanced because I stayed home. I'm doing what's best for my family. You're doing what's best for yours. You were desperate to return to work, you know you were. You'd be so unhappy to leave it, and Justine would not be better off with an unhappy, unfulfilled mother, now would she?"
Molly frowned thoughtfully. The fact was, she did compare herself to Mary sometimes. She often wished she had her friend's self-confidence.
Justine, who had been scurrying about and rolling toys on the floor, now grabbed Molly's hand and pulled, vocalizing insistently. "What is it, Jussie?" Molly asked.
"Lah lah lah lah lah!" the child earnestly explained.
"Oh, darling, I wish I knew what you wanted," her mother sighed. "Do you want me to sing a song?"
"She wants her ball," Ian told her. "'Lah' means round things. When she says it over and over, it usually means 'ball'." He rummaged under the couch and produced a soft, squashy, round toy, striped with bright colours. Justine squealed with delight and snatched it from his hands, throwing it over the table and running after it.
Both women turned to stare at him in astonishment. "You really can understand what she's saying!" Mary realized. "How on earth?"
Ian shrugged. "I d'duced it," he said. "Obviously."
Mary rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, obviously. You must write us a dictionary so we can all interpret her, too."
"Honey, I'm home!" called a gravelly voice from the front door. Justine screeched with excitement and streaked to the entryway, followed closely by an only slightly more sedate Ian.
Greg lurched awkwardly into the sitting room, a child sitting on each foot and clinging to a leg. "Who needs a gym membership with these two in residence?" he grinned, kissing first his wife and then Mary.
"Dah-dah! Dah-dah!" Justine gushed adoringly, grabbing fistfuls of trouser as she attempted to scale her father. Ian, on his other side, was swinging from Greg's bent arm like a trapeze artist.
"I suppose 'dah dah' means 'play with me', or perhaps, 'spoil me rotten,'" Molly laughed.
Ian dropped to his feet. "Nah. It just means 'Dad'."
Molly grinned wryly. "Of course it would, wouldn't it?"
Greg finally picked up his daughter and nuzzled her soft neck, making her squeal. He flashed a proud smile at his wife. "Well, Molly, you're the hero of the day! Dimmock was singing your praises to anyone who would listen. Be expecting a great bunch of roses waiting for you at work tomorrow."
Molly's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"Why, that 'murder' victim you cleared up today! Dimmock was about to pull the man's wife in and charge her with first-degree when he got Mike's call just in time. You saved that poor woman going through a murder trial—and quite possibly she would have been found guilty, on the evidence he had before you went back and redid the autopsy. He would have had an innocent woman convicted and would never even have known it. And Mike was that pleased, too. He said you did Bart's proud today. Said he doubted one pathologist in a million would have caught on to that rare allergy."
"Oh!" Molly didn't know what to say. She looked over at Mary, who was wearing an annoying 'I told you so' grin on her face. "I just . . . did my job, that's all."
Greg set a wriggling Justine on her feet and knelt by his wife and took her hand in his. "Yes, you did. Better than anyone else could! I'm proud of you, Molls. You make the world a better place." Leaning over, he kissed her tenderly.
Justine hurled herself in between her parents and climbed onto Molly's lap. "Beh beh beh!" she cooed happily, patting her mother's face tenderly with both tiny hands.
"What's she saying, Ian?" Mary asked, amused.
"'I love you'," Ian interpreted. "She says she loves you. I think she's proud of you, too, Aunt Molly!"
"Of course she is!" Mary said proudly. "Her mother's a brilliant woman!"