So once again, apologies for a long delay, I have moved house (again) and sat yet more exams. Thank you all so much for your continued support, this is one of my favourites, enjoy!
H is for Handcuffs
Molly was about to start packing up to go home when she received a text,
[Baker Street now – SH]
[Please – SH]
[Quickly – SH]
Molly looked down at her phone with a confused face
[I have a problem – SH]
She smiled brightly; there was never a dull moment when Sherlock was around. Thankfully Tom was working late so she wouldn't have to worry about coming home late and all the associated questions. She bundled into a cab outside the hospital and made her way to Baker Street, musing over what he could possibly have got himself into this time. He could have set fire to something, 'accidentally shot the boiler' or even something as trivial as getting himself locked out. It would either be something science specific or John was otherwise engaged. Molly thanked and paid the driver, the door to 221B was shut, so he hadn't locked himself out. No smoke, no setting fire to Baker Street. She got out her spare key and made her way up the stairs.
"Sherlock?" She called out into the darkness; all the curtains were shut and the lights off. There was a low mumble in reply she turned the lights on to be greeted by Sherlock, striped to his boxers, handcuffed to the radiator with parcel tape over his mouth. She turned bright red, supressed the need to giggle and took the tape off in one swoop.
"Urgh, that's better. Hello Molly," He exhaled, blinking a few times at the sudden brightness.
"Why…?" Molly began to ask, trying to look anywhere but at the very handsome, almost naked detective.
"Disagreement with a previous client's brothers. Apparently getting him off perjuring himself wasn't enough, they wanted me to clear the whole family's wrongdoing. Unfortunately only one brother could afford it, the more boring the case, the more they have to pay- new system John came up with." Sherlock complained, flapping his free hand flippantly, as if the situation was normal. He continued complaining, mostly about John's part time job at the surgery, and how if he needed the money he should have just asked, as opposed to getting a boring job that interfered with cases and situations like these. He then pre-emptively explained that Le Strade was involved in the court case, so couldn't be seen with the criminals, thus unable to help, and how Mrs Hudson had the worst timing in the world. Apparently choosing to go out for lunch at lunchtime was the worst sort of evil. Molly shook her head, and continued trying to stifle her giggles, she never thought she'd see a grown man throw a tantrum whilst handcuffed to a radiator. As he opened his mouth to speak again, she decided she'd had enough of his whining and he really needed to put some clothes on.
"Trousers," She said quickly, trying to divert his attention and hers from the awkward lack of clothing situation.
"Hanging up in my wardrobe," He replied shortly, before narrowing his eyes and scanning her up and down. He sighed and answered her unasked question, "Really Molly, if Moriarty didn't know you counted then why would some lower class criminal? Now trousers," He shooed her away with his non-handcuffed hand. Molly wasn't quite sure how she felt about being his best kept secret, but at least she knew they were friends. She opened the wardrobe, pulled out the first pair of trousers she saw and hurried back into the lounge. She threw him the trousers,
"You're going to have to help me put them on. I've only got one hand." Sherlock smirked, thinking he knew exactly what the result would be, embarrassment and awkwardness for her, amusement for him.
"The great Sherlock Holmes can't dress himself?" She mocked, raising an eyebrow at him
"Molly, we don't have much time," He snapped, irritated at himself for deducing the situation wrongly, evidently she was more amused by his predicament than he had bargained for.
"Sorry," She muttered, taking hold of one side of the trousers, and holding it at arm's length as if it were a smelly sock. Sherlock smirked at this, far more like the little pathologist. Between them they managed to get the trousers on without tripping Sherlock up or Molly cupping a feel accidentally. Somehow he managed to get the fly done up himself, to which Molly simply rolled her eyes. She knew he was more than capable of dressing himself, alas she also knew that genetically he must be part sloth for his absurd affinity to laziness. Before either of them had a chance to discuss the handcuff predicament they heard several pairs of footsteps charging up the stairs.
"Have you still got your emergency scalpel? You might want to get it to hand." Sherlock said in a low voice, Molly simply nodded. A single (not single, engaged, she mentally reprimanded herself) lady in London must be prepared to defend herself against all sorts of scumbags.
"Oi! Who are you? We were reliably informed all your so called friends would be occupied" A short fat man shouted in an accent undeniably from the East End.
"Have you looked in the fridge?" Sherlock replied in his best bored voice. The 3 men looked at each other quizzically and the shortest one opened the door, an audible gasp left each man as one of Sherlock's experiments was revealed to them.
"There's a hand in here," The rake-thin man exclaimed, already looking decidedly unnerved.
"She's rather handy with a scalpel, and a hacksaw for that matter. Could also make it look like an accident very easily," Sherlock said calmly, watching the youngest of the three brother's squirm,
"Come on lads, best not aggrieve the lady," He said shakily, backing out the door. The middle brother looked equally unnerved and followed him out; they could be heard backing down the stairs. The elder brother sighed,
"I'll be back – don't move" He said to Sherlock, winking at Molly. He could be heard running down the stairs and out the front door, leaving it slightly ajar. They could hear the brothers arguing about whether it was ungentlemanly to fight a woman, and whether they wanted to fight a woman who knew her way around a scalpel.
"Quickly, get these off before they get back upstairs," Sherlock hissed, Molly broke out of her shock induced stupor and shuffled over to the radiator. She began jabbing furiously at the handcuffs, and in her excitement at breaking him loose ended up with the handcuff slamming shut around her own wrist.
"Really Molly, it was a simple task," Sherlock almost growled, Molly scowled at him.
"Handy with handcuffs as well as a scalpel eh?" The brothers had returned standing a little taller now that the pair were handcuffed together.
"Wonder what else she's handy with?" The middle brother added, snickering along with the other two.
"Your wife wouldn't be too pleased with that, or your mistress. Now if you would kindly vacate my property," Sherlock threatened,
"Not until you agree to take the case," the eldest maintained, leaning on the doorframe.
"That's really not a good idea," Molly hissed, almost shaking with a combination of rage, exhaustion and adrenaline.
"Oh the lady speaks!" Mocked the eldest brother, "What's he gonna do? Beat us? Chop us up? Not while he's handcuffed to you love,"
"Who said anything about him? I've got better things to do than sit here and wait for you lot to stop playing billy-big-nose. Today I had to explain to young parents why their twins had died. Their 4 year old twins. What I'd quite like is a quiet night in with a glass of wine and a good book. No getting handcuffed to half-naked men, no wannabe gangsters, no bloody fishing programmes! Is that too much to ask?!" Molly shouted, brandishing her scalpel wildly, almost relieving Sherlock of a finger or two.
"Err…" The brothers were unsure of how to react: an angry woman is not to be messed with,
"Get out!" She shrieked, beginning the motion of throwing her scalpel in an accurate and painful fashion, thus off they scuttled, like little beetles.
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." Sherlock chuckled to himself, "Now, have you still got that bag I left at yours?"
H
Tom was not the least impressed when his fiancée arrived home handcuffed to a half-naked Sherlock. Even less so when he realised they were trying to remove handcuffs, as in accidentally shutting them, Molly appeared to have broken the locking mechanism. Having reached the bottom of an almost exhaustive list, the methods remaining seemed to be saw, or grease.
"I could just saw your arm off and then reattach it later," Molly snapped, she'd had quite enough of the whole scenario. She almost wished he had shot the boiler again.
"Don't make jokes Molly," Sherlock chided,
"I wasn't," Molly replied shortly, narrowing her gaze at the detective. Something about her demeanour meant that Sherlock believed her. Fortunately for him, he'd called John and Greg for some assistance; unfortunately, they both thought the situation was hysterical.
"Right, what on Earth has happened here?" Greg asked as if to his children, Sherlock and Molly held up their attached hands, and both men almost fell to the floor, hunched over with the force of their laughter.
"There are some bolt cutters in that bag, John," Sherlock said quietly, unluckily for him, not quietly enough. If looks could kill, Greg would have had to arrest Molly on a murder charge.