"Tom, what are you doing here?" Molly just barely managed to squeak out
He shook his head nervously a few times before replying, "I-I...I just had to see you."
Molly's brows knit together and lowered her head, "I thought you made yourself perfectly clear on the point that you never wanted to see me again."
"I know!" He cried out, "I was a complete an total idiot! A jealous, stupid idiot."
Molly smiled a bit, but never raised her head, "I suppose you were at that. You should've known that I love..." She paused, catching her mistake, "That I loved you more than anyone else."
He sucked in a quick breath, summoning all his courage, "Molly...I know we parted rather acrimoniously, but...If you could see to it...Could you...I mean, would you be willing to give me just one more chance?"
Tears welled up in Molly's eyes and she raised her head so their eyes met together, "Oh, Tom. I don't know..."
"Please?" He pleaded, "We can start over; just have a coffee together...Just like normal friends do."
Molly paused to think about his offer.
"Coffee. That's it."
Maybe she'd found her man that was just enough like John. But looking up into his eyes for those few, precious seconds, she thought, Is that what I really want?
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Seven O''clock the next morning, a Saturday, found John and Sherlock seated together in the back of a cab on their way across the city. It was a fairly long drive, and John could tell that Sherlock was not in the mood for conversation. Considering how he had been acting about Molly lately, though, he found it necessary to try.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?" He replied with his eyes closed and his hands peaked beneath his chin as usual.
"Why didn't you want to talk about Molly yesterday?"
Sherlock's eyes popped open and he exhaled sharply, "I thought the case was more important at the time, and seeing as how I will most likely not be needing any assistance from anyone at Bart's for this case, I believe that my assumption was quite accurate."
John sighed and adjusted his seating slightly. He thought for a moment before asking,
"Did something happen between you two? I mean when you were supposed to be dead. At her flat, what happened?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "That's such a vague question, John."
"No. I don't think it is. I think that you just don't want to answer it. Heaven forbid that Sherlock Bloody Holmes admit to feeling anything for a sweet, attractive woman that was nice enough to let him sleep in her flat when he was supposed to be dead!"
"John," He paused, "Now is not the appropriate time to be asking me such personal questions. We are on a case."
He tossed up his hands in resignation, and remained silent for the rest of the trip.
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Quite some time later, John and Sherlock were standing on the steps of a rather ordinary looking house with a small tool-shed in the side yard. The only redeeming quality of the house was its garden. There were beautiful flowers placed strategically around the walk-way and front-door. Sherlock took his phone from his pocket and captured pictures of both the house and the shed.
Sherlock rang the bell and waited a few minutes after no answer before trying again. A few seconds later, the door was opened by a tall, good-looking, young man with short cropped brown hair.
"Mr. Cubbit?"
"Yes," He replied, "You must be the detective," He motioned his hands inside the house, "Come in, come. We've just had another of those strange messages. Written on the window of our tool-shed, this time."
"I know." Sherlock replied.
Mr. Cubitt stared sideways at him as he walked through the door.
"Don't even ask," John whispered to him, "It'll only encourage him."
"How did you know?" He asked anyway.
Sherlock shook his head, "Are you all blind or something? It was clearly visible from the doorstep. It looked to be painted within the last few hours. Incredibly simply. How did you not notice it, John? I even took pictures while you were staring at those little butterflies."
"I honestly don't know," he replied genuinely. For once, his deduction really was a straightforward one.
Soon they were all seated in the living room of the house, a very plainly decorated, stuffy little room.
"Is your wife home today?" Sherlock asked..
"Yes," he replied, "She's asleep upstairs."
"Oh, well. Then we shan't disturb her."
Sherlock looked the man up and down before questioning, "How much do you actually know about your wife, Mr. Cubitt?"
"Not all that much, to be honest with you. I know what kind of person she is: kind, loving, genuine..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he continued the list.
"Yes, but what do you know about her past?" He asked.
Mr. Cubitt inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair, "I don't know anything at all about it. She won't tell me. She told me She wouldn't tell me before we got married, and I took her just like that."
There was silence in the room.
"You don't think that my wife was involved in some sort of crime, do you?" He asked nervously.
"I cannot yet tell you that," he paused momentarily, "Your wife likes to garden, doesn't she?"
He raised his head up, "Why, yes, she does. She does a fine job of it, too."
"Yes, I could see that."
Sherlock sat still for a minute before rising from his seat, and announcing, "I require more evidence before I can give you a definite verdict. If you receive anymore of these coded messages, contact me immediately."
Mr. Cubitt looked shocked for a moment before asking, "That's it? You come and ask if my wife likes to garden and then you leave?"
"Yes, I'm afraid that's it."
Sherlock walked to the door and let himself out.
"I'm sorry about him," John told Mr. Cubitt, "He's always like that."
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"Isn't this case fascinating, John?" Sherlock asked enthusiastically while showing him the pictures he had taken on his phone. "All I need is a few more of these messages and I can solve it!"
"Yeah, of course," He said disinterestedly, "Now, about Molly..."