Sherlock stared out the window, intense and brooding; seething with discontent.

"It's not much of a chair, I'll grant, but it'll serve. Was me poor Albert's chair. Sat in it all day long he did, after his leg give out from the gout, poor dear," Molly stated, obviously detached. Didn't love her husband, she loved another – Shut up!

Sherlock moved from the window and paced manically, like a caged tiger, in the small barber shop.

Though it had been cleaned, it was still a Spartan room. A tatty parlour chair, a large chest, a few counters with meagre bottles of tonsorial supplies, and his gleaming razors; always waiting.

"Why doesn't the Beadle come?" Sherlock growled feverishly, "'Before the week is out,' that's what he said."

"And who says the week's out?" Molly frowned, "It's only Tuesday."

Sherlock moved away from her, tugging at his dark curls; but she pursued, trying to calm and soothe him…

Easy now.

Hush, love, hush.

Don't distress yourself,

What's your rush?

Keep your thoughts

Nice and lush.

Wait.

Sherlock continued to pace.

Hush, love, hush.

Think it through.

Once it bubbles,

Then what's to do?

Watch it close.

Let it brew.

Wait.

He didn't respond; she dared to move closer.

I've been thinking, flowers –

Maybe daisies –

To brighten up the room.

Don't you think some flowers,

Pretty daisies,

Might relieve the gloom?

Ah, wait, love, wait.

Sherlock sourly tossed himself into the chair; he picked up his largest razor and looked at it intensely. "And Moriarty? When will we get to him?" Sherlock asked his razor.

Molly sighed. "Can't you think of nothing else? Always brooding away on your wrongs what happened heaven knows how many years ago…"

Don't you know,

Silly man,

Half the fun is to

Plan the plan?

All good things come to

Those who can

Wait.

Her gentle words had calmed him considerably. She moved even closer; Risked touching him softly…

Gillyflowers, maybe,

`Stead of daisies…

I don't know, though…

What do you think?

Sherlock tilted the razor in his hand, enjoying the weight and smooth, cold silver.

A bell rings from outside the shop; Sherlock bolted up, senses alert — Molly spun to the door.

Sherlock held his razor open as he moved strategically toward the door. He could hear footsteps ascending the stairs outside quickly.

Greg burst through the door, breathless. "Mr. Holmes! Thank God I've found you –" Sherlock turned and closed the razor, as Greg saw Molly, "Oh, I'm sorry, excuse me…"

"Molly Hooper, sir," Molly provided

"A pleasure, ma'am," Greg greeted, then turned back to Sherlock, "You see, there's a boy who needs my help — such a sad boy, and lonely, but beautiful too and –"

"Slow down, Lestrade," Sherlock instructed.

Greg took a breath, "Yes, I'm sorry … This boy has a guardian so tyrannical that he keeps him locked away. But then this morning he dropped this…" Greg snatched the key out of his pocket, "It must be a sign that Mycroft wants me to help him — that's his name, Mycroft — and Moriarty that of his guardian. A judge of some sort…" Sherlock and Molly exchanged a quick glance, "… I've met the judge, Mr. Holmes, and he is… unnatural. Once he goes to court, I'm going to slip into the house and release him and beg him to come away with me. Tonight."

"Oh, this is all terribly romantic…" Molly sighed dreamily.

"Yes, but — you see — I don't know anyone in London —" Greg turned to Sherlock, "— and I need somewhere safe to bring him till I've hired a coach to take us to Plymouth." He looked at the barber deeply, "If I could keep him here, just for an hour or two, I would forever be in your debt."

Sherlock stared at him, his mind racing to figure out how this new twist might aid in his plans.

"Bring him here, dear," Molly offered.

"Thank you, ma'am…" Greg turned to Sherlock, "… Mr. Holmes?"

"The boy may come," Sherlock stated, keeping his voice monotonous.

Greg took his hand "Thank you, my friend," He bid as he went.

"Seems like the fates are favouring you at last, Sherlock," Molly smiled. Sherlock just grunted, unhappy. "What is it, love? You'll have him back before the day is out."

"For a few hours? Before he carries him off to the other end of England?" Sherlock spat.

"Oh, him? Let him bring him here and then, since you're so hot for a little —" Molly drew her index finger across her throat – making a throat-cutting gesture "— that's the throat to slit, dear."

Sherlock moved again to his post at the window, and stared out; deep in thought.

Meanwhile, Molly happily moved around the shop, straightening things up and trying to make it all a bit cosier. "Poor little Mycroft… All those years without a scrap of motherly affection. Well, we'll soon see to that…" Molly commented off-hand; her words, along with their meaning, was ignored.

Sherlock startled alert, seeing something, "What's this?"

Molly joined him at the window. Below, they could see Anderson approaching with the boy from the market in tow. "Look at that face, he's up to mischief."

"Go — keep the boy below with you," Sherlock instructed. Molly nodded and scurried out.