Chapter Three
Two minutes later, they were both in the back of the car.
"Coborn Street!" Sherlock called.
He felt the back of John's hand make contact with his arm.
"We're in a police car, you sod. Not a taxi."
Sherlock ignored him. What difference did it make to the police officer where he dropped them off?
Ordinarily, Sherlock would never be caught dead in a patrol car (well, aside from the occasions in life when he hadn't really been given any choice), but this one was actually quite comfortable.
"Coborn Street!" he repeated. "Take the A1208, it's much quicker."
"Sherlock!" John said firmly. "This isn't a cab and…wait – isn't Coborn Street where Molly lives?"
"Yup."
Suddenly the power of speech seemed to abandon his friend.
"We're not going to Molly's!"
"Correction, John – you're not going to Molly's. I'm sure the good officer will let you out at the most convenient bus stop."
He was pleased at how he seemed to be recovering the power of speech and sensible thought.
"No – no! Very bad idea, Sherlock!" John told him.
At that point the police officer piped up, apparently believing that he had a say in this matter.
"Look, am I taking you to your girlfriend's or not, Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock scoffed at this.
"Not my girlfriend – my pathologist."
"Whatever. Where does she live?"
Sherlock tried to ignore John, who now had his arms folded and looked very cross indeed.
"Bow."
The police officer laughed at this.
"We're not going all the way out to Bow, mate. I'll drop you somewhere central."
Bloody police. He'd have to have words with Gavin about this.
"Baker Street," John interjected.
Sherlock felt himself frowning at this. Something tickled the back of his mind, something he felt was probably important. It was only when they turned onto the main road to head back into the city that it floated to the surface.
"Keys!" he announced.
"Jesus!"
Apparently, John had dropped off to sleep again.
"I lost my house keys, John. Possibly when that gentleman in the beer garden accosted me."
John groaned.
"God, Sherlock, you are a rubbish drinking companion."
Sherlock watched as John rubbed his eyes dramatically.
"So now what do we do?"
"Coborn Street…?"
"No!"
A loud sigh came from the police officer at the wheel.
"I'm going to make this really easy for you, boys," he said. "I know a place where you can both have a nice lie down and sleep it off."
Neither of them protested. Sherlock felt that whatever was on offer was likely to pale in comparison to Molly's flat.
"Cosy," he mumbled, feeling a heavy drowsiness descending as the car rumbled along the road.
"Hm?"
"Molly…her flat. Cosy. Smells nice…Molly smells nice."
"Yeah, unlike you."
"Bed…comfortable bed. Silly cat duvet. Warm…smells like Molly."
John leaned forward and addressed the police officer.
"Could you put the siren on so we can drown him out?"
"Molly's bed," he repeated, his brain stirring memories that in turn generated a warmth somewhere deep within him. Molly moving around him in her flat. Humming. Tidying. Cooking. Being cross with him, but not really.
"Sherlock, Molly's bed is permanently out of bounds," John said. It sounded like a warning.
Sherlock made a sound that came out as "Pfff!"
"Tom. Remember?"
The warmth in his stomach suddenly evaporated. He remembered.
"Her fiancé?" John continued, always one to labour the point.
Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the headrest.
"Tall man…" he mumbled. "…boring, funny eyes… surprisingly nice shoes."
"Yeah," John yawned. "Him. Speaking as someone who has a fiancée, I don't think Tom would be very happy to find you anywhere near Molly's bed. So if you care about her, Sherlock, keep to your own bed. Now shut up and let me pass out in peace."