Thank you all so much for your kind reviews, glad you're enjoying it! Ideas for the letter G are not being overly forthcoming at the moment so would be appreciated.
E is for Experiments
"Honestly Molly, he's a grown man." Tom complained, the frequency of 'Sherlock moments' were increasing, and he was not appreciating it. They were supposed to be having lunch together on one of her rare afternoons off.
"The last time he got bored, he started shooting the wall." Molly said, exasperated, her choice was not pleasant, but not hard either.
"Seriously?" Tom sounded halfway between scared and sceptical,
"I know it sounds ridiculous, but John's working. He'll be fired within the hour without some sort of intervention. I'm sorry, I really am, I'll make it up to you. It's a favour for John; it's the least I can do after…." Molly babbled, stopping abruptly upon forgetting how much Tom knew about the Reichenbach situation.
"What?" Tom asked, sounding more annoyed than confused.
"I'll tell you later, love you, bye," Molly said quickly, hanging up the phone before Tom could ask any more questions. She ran out the door and down the stairs, getting the next available cab to Baker Street. The drive was thankfully uneventful, and she found herself on the steps outside 221. Molly knocked briefly and the door was answered by a dishevelled looking Mrs Hudson,
"He's upstairs, I got John to hide his gun, and he isn't very happy about it." She explained, jumping a foot in the air at the loud bang that came from upstairs. Molly nodded at the landlady and hurried up the stairs.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Molly asked tentatively, taking a step into the flat.
"Trying to alleviate the crushing of boredom. I've solved 14 cases from the comfort of my chair today. Nothing higher than a 4." He exclaimed, throwing himself into his chair in a sulk.
"What was that noise?" She should know better than to question bizarre noises in Sherlock's flat by now, but curiosity got the better of her.
"Toes. BORED. I don't need to be babysat Molly, you should get back to Tim." Sherlock said derisively, shooing her with his hand. She took a seat on the sofa instead.
"It's Tom, and John asked me to be here so Greg doesn't have to calm the neighbours down again." Molly said quietly, fiddling with her ring.
"I was going to see John once I'd finished with the toes," Sherlock mused,
"That's why he sent me, he wants to keep his job." Molly knew she was fighting a losing battle, but keeping him talking meant less of other things.
"BORING! He hates his job." Sherlock complained,
"He needs the money Sherlock," Molly attempted an explanation she thought he might have overlooked- normal people needed money, especially those getting married.
"I can pay him." Sherlock replied,
"Then why don't you?" It was Molly's turn to be confused, had they not discussed this at any point since Sherlock's return?
"He never asked." Sherlock shrugged, answering Molly's unasked question.
"What is that?" Molly's attention was caught by an unusual object on the coffee table,
"It's a hand, you gave it to me," Sherlock patronised,
"You've painted its nails," Molly commented, unsure what to think of the mental image she now had of Sherlock getting out the nail varnish and applying undercoat… she shook the scene from her head,
"Bored." Sherlock whined, Molly wracked her brains for something to entertain him,
"There must be an open lecture on somewhere you can go to." She said, knowing the likelihood of one being on locally was slim,
"I'm already banned from most academic institutions, including the one I am a valid alumnus of!" Sherlock snorted, apparently academics didn't appreciate all the holes in their work being pointed out in front of hundreds of people.
"I always bake when I'm bored," Molly offered, clutching at straws.
"I know, I've got a graph plotted of your boredom versus my brother's waistline," Sherlock drawled, he was waiting for an opportunity to use it.
"Would baking make you less bored? It's sort of an experiment I guess? You could time how long it takes Mycroft to turn up?" She tried to twist the idea into something Sherlock might go for,
"Molly, you are a genius. To your house!" Sherlock exclaimed, flying out of his chair,
"What about the toes?" She called as he went to get his coat,
"Oh, they're in an acetone-dry ice bath, -78℃. They should be done by the time I'm back." He explained dismissively.
"Come on then, we've got shopping to do." Molly said, her voice devoid of excitement, the thought of having to constrain Sherlock in a supermarket, followed by getting him to follow vague instructions so the food would remain edible and then explaining to Tom why the brothers were in the flat again did not appeal to her. This was shaping up to be a really bad idea.
"Shopping?" Sherlock's face scrunched up in confusion and disgust,
"For ingredients, where did you think food came from? What do you want to bake?" Molly shook her head, hopefully he'd answer with something viable.
"Mycroft's favourite, custard tarts," Sherlock grinned, Molly sighed in relief,
"I love a good tart," she commented without thinking, "Not like that!" she squealed, blushing furiously.
By the time they got back to the flat Molly was already exhausted, Sherlock in a supermarket was not dissimilar to a toddler, a tall, loud, eloquent toddler. It transpired his baking skills were equally juvenile, she had flour in her hair, on her clothes, and all over the kitchen, the floor even on the lampshade. By some small miracle, a dozen freshly baked and edible custard tarts were sitting on the kitchen counter cooling down. Sherlock started his watch, waiting to see how long it would be before his brother arrived. He'd calculated roughly how long the car journey was from his office, the Diogenes club and Westminster to Molly's flat, and estimated it would take 5 minutes of internal struggle before he left. Mycroft's eta was anywhere between twenty minutes and an hour.
Molly looked around her, the destruction of her kitchen and self by flour reminded her of Saturdays spent with her mother, baking in their kitchen. The memory hit home to her of how she didn't have that yet, and it was looking less likely every year. She turned sharply on her heel and banished the thought from her mind, her priority here should be getting cleaned up before Tom got home, not wallowing in her approaching middle-age. Molly walked into the lounge, finding a flour covered Sherlock giving her sofa a thorough dusting.
Unfortunately, Tom got home sooner than she expected, much, much sooner. He opened the door to Molly and Sherlock arguing over the state of the sofa, and who should clean it. He was so engrossed in the scene in front of him that he didn't hear Mycroft arrive. The older man cleared his thought loudly, causing Tom to squeal like a little girl. Sherlock smirked and looked down at his watch,
"You're late brother-mine," Sherlock quipped, looking up from Molly,
"You're covered in flour." Mycroft sneered in disapproval, he didn't approve of messes of any kind.
"Well observed." Sherlock replied sarcastically,
"Custard tart and a cup of tea?" Molly offered, breaking the awkward silence that had descended.
"Really, Molly?" Sherlock asked a hint of amusement in his voice. The concept of Mycroft having tea with Tom was quite humorous indeed.