Chapter 2~Not all Roommates are Good Ones
It had been two weeks since 221B Baker Street had been finally restored. John, Sherlock and Rosie had moved in the next day. John mounted the stairs to the flat with his arms full of groceries wondering for the hundredth time why it was that he was always the one in charge of purchasing food. Just once couldn't Sherlock do the grocery shopping? After all, John was the one with the real job that required him to show up and work actual hours. It had been a full day's work too!
He pushed the door to the flat open about to let Sherlock have a piece of his mind but the man in question was not in the room. He dropped the heavy bags down on the table, one that was devoid of experiments for once, and went in search of Sherlock and Rosie.
He stopped in the doorway to his and Rosie's room. There was the famous Sherlock Holmes in the middle of changing Rosie's nappy and making funny noises to her. Rosie had learned how to make raspberry noises with her tongue and Sherlock was making the noises back to her in return. The whole scene was entirely domestic and quite hilarious when one realized this was indeed Sherlock Holmes, blowing raspberries while changing a poopy nappy. John smiled, shook his head, and went back to the kitchen to put the groceries away.
On his way something caught his eye. There was a new chair in the main room and a small table. The chair was next to Sherlock's and the small table sat between the two of them. The chair was an overstuffed one, with pale yellow fabric that sported large cabbage roses on it. Laid across the back of the chair was a folded ivory blanket. John ran his fingers over the blanket and raised a brow at how soft the thick blanket felt. He knew at once whom the chair and blanket belonged too.
It had not gone unnoticed by John that when he and Sherlock redid the flat Sherlock had made some changes. The most obvious was the baby proofing of the place. Now that Rosie was toddling about he couldn't have his experiments and severed limbs lying around. He had moved all of it to a space in St. Bart's that Molly had set up for him. The new arrangement meant that Sherlock and Molly spent a lot of time together at the hospital.
But then there were the other changes as well, especially to Sherlock's room. The bedrooms had been spared damage from the blast, however all the bedding and curtains reeked of smoke and had to be replaced. The new items Sherlock purchased were a striking contrast to what had been in his rather plain looking room before. The new curtains were the palest of yellow, and for the bed he had purchased ivory sheets and a thick down blanket with a matching pale yellow duvet cover. John had thought the purchase odd, but he didn't understand the full meaning behind it until this very moment. Sherlock Holmes was slowly moving Molly Hooper into his life, just as John had told him too.
"I thought we could use another seat…for company," Sherlock announced, Rosie planted firmly on his hip.
"Yes, that was smart of you," John replied. No more was spoken about the new furniture. No more needed to be said.
The next day, an anxious Sherlock paced back and forth across the flat. "Boring," Sherlock grumbled as he tossed another potential client out of the flat. "I need a new case, at least a seven," he whined.
"Yes, well you've had nine clients today and you dismissed them all. There isn't much I can do to fix this," John said exasperatedly. "Perhaps you should just give in for today and go check on your experiments at the hospital." John had adopted this strategy to deal with an irritable Sherlock and usually it worked, unfortunately not today.
"I can't," Sherlock muttered.
"Why not?"
"Today is Molly's day off, and apparently the other staffers at the morgue don't appreciate my talents the way she does."
John couldn't help it, he laughed. "Banned you already have they?"
"No, not banned, simply informed to only come when Molly is there."
"Then why don't you call Molly and spend some time with her."
"Molly is visiting with one of her friends from Uni today. Someone named Patricia. She is only in town for three days and today was the only opportunity for Molly to see her."
"I see," John said and picked up the newspaper. He took a sip of his tea but almost spit it out as he unfolded the front page.
"What?" Sherlock asked. Sherlock looked down at the paper and his eyes opened wide. There on the cover in the bottom corner was a story about him, but not just him, it was about him and Molly!
London's Most Famous Consulting Detective is in Love the headline read. Then there was a picture of him and Molly crossing the street to Angelo's arm in arm with Molly looking up at him and he looking down at her. The second picture was even more intrusive. A photographer had snapped a picture of Sherlock and Molly standing on the stairs to her flat while Sherlock was giving her a good night kiss. The photo showed Sherlock with one arm around her waist and his other hand tangled in her hair. Molly had her arms wrapped around his neck with her head tipped back.
Sherlock's lips suddenly tingled, feeling the kiss once more upon his mouth. It had been a most pleasant moment in his life, but seeing it plastered on the front of the daily news made the moment feel scandalous. Sherlock was shocked by the anger that suddenly raced through him. Usually he was oblivious to the reports of his doings in the papers but this different. This was Molly, his Molly. Then another thought crossed his mind.
"They are following us!" Sherlock exploded. "How dare they!"
"Calm down, take a breathe before you do something rash," John warned. "You had to know that this would draw attention eventually. Sherlock Holmes is a celebrity. You may not think of yourself as that, but much of London, hell most of England, does. There is a reason we get so many clients coming through that door. It was only a matter of time before the papers reported on you and Molly."
"Still, this is all so new, so recent. Molly and I, we, I don't know if she is ready for this to be so, so public!" Sherlock was truly worried about Molly's reaction to the article. Would she want the world to know that she was dating Sherlock?
"I think Molly will be okay," John said. John suspected that Molly would happily shout from the rooftops that she was in love with Sherlock Holmes, especially if she thought Sherlock would shout it back to her.
A knock at the door drew both their attention. John got up and opened it welcoming in a possible client.
"Hello," John said.
"Hello, uh, I am looking for Sherlock Holmes," a man's voice said slowly.
"Then you are in the right place," John replied.
Sherlock looked up and instantly recognized the new client. His mind flashed back to boarding school, age nine, and his roommate Dickey Thurgood, son of shipping magnate Sir Richard Thurgood. Dickey had been a horrid roommate to Sherlock, teasing him and ganging up on him ruthlessly the two years they roomed together.
Dickey now looked up at Sherlock and plastered a fake smile onto his face.
"Hey, Sherlock, how are you doing? Long time no see!" Dickey thrust out his hand, ready to give Sherlock's a shake. In that moment Sherlock took note of the Italian leather shoes, the wool and cashmere blend coat, the custom tailored suit, the manicured hands and hair, and even the bit of dog hair at the cuffs of Dickey's pant legs. Apparently Dickey was living the good life still.
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. "Do I know you?"
Both John and Dickey looked confused.
"Sherlock, it's me, Richard Thurgood. We roomed together for two years at boarding school."
"Sorry, doesn't ring a bell," Sherlock replied, taking a bit of pleasure at how Dickey's face fell slightly, the look of embarrassment he was obviously feeling with John watching the exchange.
"How can you not remember me?"
"Well, it has been brought to my attention recently that due to a childhood trauma I have rewritten some of my memories. Apparently I have written you out," Sherlock replied matter of fact. "Don't take it personal. I wrote out my own sister as well."
"Oh," Dickey said, looking a bit bewildered. "Well, uh, we were roommates, back when we were 8 and 9, or 9 and 10. Something like that."
"I see," Sherlock said. "Did I call you Richard?"
"Uh, no, in fact. Back then most people called me Dickey, since my father was known as Richard. I hated that nickname."
"Ah, yes, I do remember a Dickey. I believe it might be coming back to me. You are the boy who thought it would be endlessly funny to have some of the bigger boys flush my head in the toilet."
"Uh, yeah, um, sorry bout that. We were just kids back then. You know, kids, they do stupid stuff, practical jokes."
"Yes, and I suppose it was a practical joke when you hid most of my clothes under a pile of horse manure in the stables," Sherlock continued.
"Okay, I get where this is going," Dickey said. "I admit it, I was an ass to you back then, a real ass. I can apologize now for my actions but I know that won't undo the humiliation I caused you. Trust me, it was not easy for me to come here today knowing how badly I treated you back then. Just try to imagine how desperate I must be to come here, of all places, and humiliate myself in front of you and Dr. Watson, and to beg for your help."
"I haven't heard any begging yet," Sherlock smirked.
Dickey took a deep settling breath and continued, "Fine, Sherlock, I am most desperate for your assistance and I am begging you to come to Scotland and help me."
"Scotland?" John asked.
"Yes, that's where I live, Roane Hall, and that is where all the problems are happening," Dickey explained.
"You have exactly three minutes to explain yourself and you better hope this is at least a seven," Sherlock said.
"A seven?" Dickey asked.
"Two minutes and fifty-four seconds," Sherlock announced.
"Yes, okay. I live in Sutherland, Scotland with my wife, Lady Ainsley Thurgood. The home has been in her family for seven generations. The castle,"
"Excuse me, did you say castle?" John asked.
"Yes, anyway, the castle backs up to the moors, but the village is down the road to the front. Anyway, in the past three months there have been three murders, two tourists, and one local, all women. The first was in mid-August, the second in September, and the third in October. Then, last week, one of our maids was found murdered out on the moor. The police have no suspects, no leads, and the entire village is suffering because of it. Remote villages like Sutherland depend on tourism to exist. The kirk is a beautiful ancient cathedral dating back hundreds of years, as does the castle. During the summer months the village is full of hikers, sportsmen, and bridal parties."
"Why bridal parties?" John asked.
"Because, John, every woman wants to be married in a castle," Sherlock supplied. "I imagine the castle, the cathedral, the rolling hills all make for a young bride's dream come true."
"Yes, yes it does," Dickey agreed.
"Let me guess, the first two, August and September, were they brides? Tourists?"
"Yes," Dickey confirmed.
"But the last two have been locals, implying the female tourists are no longer available and the killer has been forced to kill his own neighbors."
"Dear god," Dickey said and ran a hand through his perfectly groomed hair. Sherlock could se that Dickey was indeed most upset about the murders, but part of him truly wondered why? Was he simply worried about his wife becoming a target, or was there a deeper involvement.
"So, why are you here, exactly? Why aren't the police asking Scotland Yard for help?" John asked.
"The villagers are looking to us to fix this problem. Because we are so remote our police force only consists of two officers. The county judge is also a sheep farmer," Dickey said with a choked laugh. "My wife's estate is the main source of income for the village, but now wedding parties are calling and cancelling, as are the outdoorsmen. Who wants to summer in a village where there is apparently a serial killer on the loose looking to prey on unsuspecting women? Technically this season is over, since it is now November, but reservations for next year are almost non-existent. This mess has to be cleared up as fast as possible or come next summer the village will be ruined," Dickey explained.
"What aren't you telling me?" Sherlock asked. "Forgive me for saying so Dickey, but I find it hard to believe that you are here just because of financial worry for the village. You're worth a fortune. If the village went under I doubt it would even catch your attention. You and Lady Thurgood could afford to go live anywhere. Why stay in a drafty old castle?"
"Sherlock, I'm not ten anymore. I admit, I was an ass back then, but I have grown up damn it. I love my wife, more than anything, and she loves her home and the village. She wants our children to grow up there, but right now she is terrified. I told you that the two tourists were brides, but the local woman just happened to be the mother of Cecilia's best friend. Cecilia is my six-year-old daughter. Then, last week, the maid I spoke of. Well, Jane was my wife's ladies maid."
"Ladies maid, I didn't know people still did stuff like that anymore," John said.
"My wife is very traditional. She was raised a certain way. Plus, Jane was more than someone who selected my wife's clothes for dinner. She was a friend, a confidant, more like a personal secretary really. My wife head's several charitable foundations and organizes many fundraisers throughout the year. It requires a great deal of time and work."
"Fine, I will take the case," Sherlock said.
"You will! Oh thank god," Dickey replied. "You and Dr. Watson can stay with us at Roane Hall. I dare say my wife's sister, Angelica, is dying to meet you. She is a huge fan."
"No, that won't work," Sherlock replied. "Living with you would prove too distracting. How close is the village to the moor? Is it in walking distance? I imagine there are several bed and breakfasts in town."
"If it were summer, and the dry season, I would say yes, but as it is now November and bitterly cold and wet I would have to say no. You would be better served at Roane Hall."
Sherlock held his fingers up to his chin in the steeple fashion John had seen a million times. Sherlock was deep in thought.
"Roane Hall serves as a bridal destination. I assume that means you probably have some pretty little cottages on the property to service the newlyweds, and the parents of the bride and groom?"
"Yes, we do in fact. There are six of them." Dickey said.
"Is one larger than the others? Multiple bedrooms?"
"Number four is like a small house. There are three bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. Will that do?" Dickey asked.
"Yes, that will work perfectly," Sherlock replied. "Do have the place ready. My party and I will be arriving in two days."
A look of pure relief covered Dickey's face. "No problem. I can't tell you how…" Dickey didn't get to finish the sentence as Sherlock was already shoving him out the door and slamming it in his face.
Sherlock took two steps away from the door and actually gave a small jump, "Yes! A serial killer! This is at least an 8! John, the game is on!"
"Uh, Sherlock," John interrupted before Sherlock could go too far. "You realize I can't go with you to Scotland."
"What? Why ever not?" Rosie picked that exact moment to wake from her nap and begin crying.
"That's why," John replied as he walked out of the room to fetch his daughter.
"Well Rosie will come with us, obviously."
"There is a serial killer in Sutherland. If you think for one moment I am going to take Rosie there you need to think again!"
"John, the killer is targeting grown women. A small child still in nappies is in no danger what so ever."
"You forget one thing, even if I do go, who would watch her while you and I are stomping around the moors? Even you have to admit that taking Rosie across peat bogs is highly dangerous and down right crazy."
Sherlock sighed in frustration, hating to admit it, but John was right. This would not work. Yet, he did not fancy going to Sutherland by himself. No, he would need assistance, and he was not looking forward to trying to keep Miss Angelica's advances at bay. The last thing he needed was the unwanted attentions of a love struck young lady. Suddenly Sherlock had an idea!
"John, pack your and Rosie's suitcases. I know exactly what to do. Also, make sure you pack your good suit. We will inevitably be asked to dine at Roane Hall and I am sure the dress code will be formal."
"Sherlock," John began.
"John, just trust me!" Sherlock said as he threw on his Belstaff coat, grabbed his scarf, and rushed out the door.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Don't worry, for those of you wondering where is Molly I promise she is in the next chapter.