Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, was pacing about his kitchen listlessly, waiting for his coffee to finish brewing. It was at times like these that he really missed his former roommate and best friend, Dr. John Watson. John made excellent coffee. Although that might be overstating the case a bit. Sherlock tended to believe that any coffee that one did not have to make for one's self was excellent coffee. He distractedly lifted a mug from the counter, checking it for eyeballs (that was not a mistake he wished to make again!), filled it, and went to sit down in the sitting room in front of his laptop.
It was already mid afternoon. Sherlock had not slept the night before, as he had retreated to his mind palace to think through a moderately complicated case he had agreed to work on for Graham. George? Gareth? Whomever! He had, of course, solved it, forwarded his notes to Scotland Yard, and took himself off to bed long after sunrise this morning. So it was, that at just after two o'clock in the afternoon he was just arising. He sat in his chair, wrapped toga style in a sheet, and only a sheet, and browsed on-line. The sheet was actually a concession to his landlady and his former roommate. Left to his own devices, Sherlock would have preferred to walk around his flat starkers, but he was informed, especially as he tended to keep his front door open at odd times for all and sundry to enter, that this practice was not socially acceptable.
As he was sipping his coffee, he heard friendly conversation coming from the foot of the stairs, and identified the voices of Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary Watson, and the squeal of their spawn, his goddaughter, Claire. But only John's footsteps continued on to the flat. Of course, the first words out of John's mouth were, "For god's sake, Sherlock, put some clothes on!"
"And good day to you, too, John. Where did you leave your lovely family?"
"They're stopped off to visit with Mrs. Hudson. You know she loves to stuff her homemade biscuits in Claire's mouth. She's gonna bring some up for us in a bit, so you better put some clothes on, mate."
"Given her previous life experience as an exotic dancer and consort of a druglord, I really don't believe she would be terribly scandalized, John."
John snickered a bit and added, "I suppose she's seen worse!"
Sherlock dropped the sheet a bit, exposing more chest and leg, "But surely not better!"
"Cover up, you egotistical prat. My wife will be here shortly!"
As if on cue, the landlady appeared carrying a tea tray laden down with an assortment of snacks. Mary, with Claire in her arms, was close behind. Mrs. Hudson looked over at her tenant, and clucked her tongue in disapproval. "For god's sake, Sherlock, put some clothes on. And be careful of that coffee you're drinking. Those stains are hard as hell to get out of silk."
"Oooh! Is that sheet silk?" Mary put Claire down gently on the floor, and walked over to finger Sherlock's toga. "Oh, that does feel ever so nice. But for god's sake Sherlock, put some clothes on."
"Mary, will you please stop playing with Sherlock's sheet! If any more of him comes unwrapped Claire will be getting a anatomy lesson she doesn't need!"
But Claire had already toddled over to her Uncle Sherlock and was playing in the portion of the sheet hanging about his legs. "Soft! Soft!"
"Yes, dear, just like Uncle Sherlock's head," Mary said, as she once again scooped the child up into her arms.
It was at this point that DI Greg Lestrade came through the door, locked his eyes onto Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, and made himself at home. "Hello, everyone. Thought Sherlock would be alone. Just wanted to stop by and tell you that we picked up Charlie Hill. You had the whole thing dead on, Sherlock. Congratulations! And for god's sake, put some clothes on! Bloody hell, you're so pale you look like a corpse on a morgue table!"
"Some people like that look!" Sherlock said indignantly.
"Corpse in a morgue? I was leaning more toward the sparkly vampire look."
"Sparkles!" added Claire.
"The gang's almost all here," Sherlock said, not sounding all that happy. "Dr. Hooper should be arriving shortly."
"Molly's coming over. Why?" John asked.
"She lending me a hand for an experiment."
"I could lend you a hand, Sherlock. No need to bother Molly on a Saturday afternoon. She might have something better to do."
Sherlock scoffed at the thought that his pathologist would have something better to do on the weekend than visit him. "John, you're missing the point. Molly is lending me a hand. A left one, to be precise." John still looked a bit puzzled. "From an unfortunate patient of hers at St. Bart's."
"Ohhhh…"
Mrs. Hudson had grown quite accustomed to the sight of Dr, Molly Hooper, chief pathologist at St. Bart's hospital, trudging up the staircase to 221B at all hours of the day and night. At first she had been curious about the contents of the ice chest Molly invariably brought with her, but after a few questions, Mrs. H. decided that, just as curiosity had killed the cat, it had also killed her appetite. Now she just smiled and waved as Molly entered, no longer asking any questions.
John now approached Sherlock, hoping to have a few words in relative privacy. "Sherlock, it may be a bit 'not good' for you to be sitting around in a sheet when Molly gets here."
"Whyever not, John. It is my formal sheet. I did, after all, wear it to the palace, as you may recall."
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. You know that Molly used to be infatuated with you. It's really not good form to be parading around half naked in front of her!"
"Used to be, John? You think she no longer is?" Sherlock seemed to be oddly concerned. Perhaps he was rethinking his whole attitude to the woman he referred to as "his" pathologist.
"How the hell should I know, you git. She's no longer tongue tied around you. She doesn't trip over things. When was the last time she stuttered?"
"You have become noticeably more observant, John. I shall have to take that into consideration in the future."
There was, however, no time to continue the conversation, as the lady in question had made her appearance.
"I didn't realize we were having a party, Sherlock. I would have brought something!"
"You mean that's not a six-pack in your cooler?" asked Lestrade, popping another biscuit into his mouth.
"Garth, do you really want to know what's in Molly's cooler? Perhaps if you ask nicely, she'll show you," Sherlock said with an evil smirk.
"I already know it's a hand, you twat." Lestrade replied as Molly's head jerked up in surprise. "And I certainly have no desire to lose my lunch over a disembodied appendage of any kind! I have to leave anyway. Got work to do." He noticed Mrs. Hudson gathering up the tea service, and kindly offered to help her carry it downstairs.
Molly took in Sherlock's appearance and, without so much as a single blush, said, "For god's sake, Sherlock, put some clothes on!" Then she carried her ice chest into the kitchen, busied herself in the fridge, fiddled with her phone, and removed her outerwear. Pouring herself a mug of coffee from Sherlock's pot, she returned to the sitting room to find Claire once again playing around with the bottom on the silk sheet.
"Soft," she said rubbing it against her cheek.
"You had better stop that, Spawn. Daddy doesn't like it."
This time it was John who bent to pick up the squealing toddler, "Her name is Claire!"
"Should have been Sherlock!"
"Sherlock is not a girl's name!"
"I can't help it if Mary gave you the wrong sex child, John. Perhaps it's time you tried again?"
John was trying to think of a clever comeback, but froze as he heard Sherlock say, "Molly, John tells me that he believes that you are no longer infatuated with me. He has quite correctly pointed out that you no longer stutter, stumble, or blush in my presence! Could this be true?"
Molly approached the detective, cold look in her eye and hot coffee in her hand. She stood directly in front of him, mug hovering just above his lap. "Would you really like me to revert to my former self, Mr. Holmes. Why I might get clumsy. I might just spill this steaming beverage somewhere particularly sensitive…"
Sherlock looked up into her face, seemingly judging her resolve. Just then, John interrupted them, breaking the tension. "Didn't I hear your text alarm go off a moment ago, Sherlock. Maybe it's important."
"How could it be important, John. Virtually everybody I consider important was in this room at the time!"
"Check it, Sherlock. You never know." Molly smiled and moved away.
Mary had been following the conversation as she puttered about in the kitchen, straightening up a bit. She moved Molly's ice chest off the kitchen table, thinking it felt rather light for what it contained. But she hadn't noticed the hand, in a ice filled bag, in the fridge when she returned the milk to its proper place. She glanced inside the cooler, then at Molly, who was watching her with a rather uncomfortable expression.
In the sitting room, Sherlock had picked up his phone, and glanced at the text message. "Mycroft is on his way. For god's sake, I better put some clothes on!"
Everyone turned to look at him, but John was the one who spoke, "You can be naked for all of us, but for Mycroft, your brother, you put on clothes?"
"Not for Mycroft, per se. But if Mycroft is coming over, that means Anthea is coming over. And that woman's icy stare can give a man frostbite in parts too delicate to mention."
"Please, Sherlock, stay seated 'til my wife and daughter are safely out of the room. Molly, you're on your own. But I'd keep the hot coffee at the ready."
Sherlock, as usual, ignored him, rising from his chair with as much feigned dignity as he could muster, turned on his heel, and waddled, sheet slipping down his derriere, through the hallway to his bedroom. John, with Claire still in his arms, shouted a farewell and headed for the door, but Mary made a quick detour to the table, grabbed Sherlock's mobile, and flashed to the last text message received, which was definitely not from Mycroft Holmes! She shouted a good-bye and, laughing loudly, sprinted down the stairs to catch up with her husband. She couldn't wait to share her news.
Molly quickly went to Sherlock's bedroom. "We've been found out!"
"Well, it had to happen eventually. How do you know?" He pulled her down onto the bed, nuzzling her neck as he rolled on top of her.
"Mary snuck a peek in the cooler. No hand, of course. Just my night things. Mrs. Hudson never thought to check!"
"Mrs. Hudson would keel over if she saw a disembodied organ of any type. Mary is made of much stronger stuff." Now he was working diligently on the buttons of her blouse.
"Then she snuck a look at your mobile, which you left on the table," Molly swatted his head with her free hand. In the other hand she held the offending phone, message still displayed on the screen.
FOR GOD'S SAKE, SHERLOCK, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON. WE CAN ALWAYS TAKE THEM OFF LATER - MOLLY
"You should be glad now that I never got around to it, Molly. Only half the effort needed!"
And then he invited her to share his sheet.