Molly pulled him into the pie shop. "Sit down," she ordered gently. Sherlock thumped down, still in his own dark world.
Molly quickly glanced around for Archie and then went into her parlour; where she discovers Toby is asleep on the sofa before the fire and quickly snatches up a bottle of gin from the sideboard and returned to the pie shop.
Molly poured Sherlock a tumbler of gin and handed it to him, "There, drink it down — all the way — that's right…"
Sherlock finished the drink in two large gulps, "Now, we got a body mouldering away upstairs, what do you intend we should do about that?" Molly leaned on the table – forearms pressing into the wood.
"Later on, when it's dark, we'll take him to some secret place and bury him," Sherlock muttered.
"Well, yes, of course, we could do that. I don't suppose he's got any relatives going to come poking around looking for him…" An idea took her. Sherlock looked at her uncomprehendingly.
Seems a downright shame…
"Shame?"
Seems an awful waste…
Such a nice plump frame
Wot's-his-name
Has…
Had…
Has…
Nor it can't be traced.
Business needs a lift–
Debts to be erased–
Think of it as thrift,
As a gift…
If you get my drift…
Sherlock's brows furrowed.
"No?" She sighed.
Seems an awful waste.
I mean,
With the price of meat what it is,
When you get it,
"My dear, let me make sure I understand… Are you suggesting we…" Sherlock gestured to one of the dusty pies.
Good, you got it.
Take, for instance,
Mrs. Mooney and her pie shop.
Business never better, using only
Pussycats and toast.
And a pussy's good for maybe six or
Seven at the most.
And I'm sure they can't compare
As far as taste –
Mrs. Lovett,
What a charming notion,
Eminently practical and yet
Well, it does seem a
Appropriate as always.
Waste…
Mrs. Lovett, how I've lived without you
It's an idea…
All these years I'll never know!
Think about it…
How delectable!
Lots of other gentlemen'll
Soon be coming for a shave,
Also undetectable.
Won't they?
How choice!
Think of
How rare!
All them
Pies!
For what's the sound of the world out there?
What, Mr. Todd,
What, Mr. Todd,
What is that sound?
Those crunching noises pervading the air?
Yes, Mr. Todd,
Yes, Mr. Todd,
Yes, all around–
"It's man devouring man, my dear," Sherlock smiled eerily.
And who are we
Then who are we
To deny it in here?
"Ah, these are desperate times, Mrs. Lovett, and desperate measures are called for…" Sherlock said, thoughtfully.
She walked to the counter and came back with an imaginary pie. "Here we are now, hot out of the oven…" She held the imaginary pie out to him with a sly and wicked smile.
What is that?
It's priest.
Have a little priest.
Is it really good?
Sir, it's too good,
At least.
Then again, they don't commit sins of the flesh,
So it's pretty fresh.
Awful lot of fat.
Only where it sat.
Haven't you got poet
Or something like that?
No, you see the trouble with poet
Is, how do you know it's
Deceased?
Try the priest.
Molly went about dusting the worktop. "Lawyer's rather nice…" She said thoughtfully.
If it's for a price.
Order something else, though, to follow,
Since no one should swallow
It twice.
Anything that's lean?
Well, then, if you're British and loyal,
You might enjoy Royal
Marine.
Anyway, it's clean.
Though, of course, it tastes of wherever it's been.
Is that squire
On the fire?
Mercy no, sir,
Look closer,
You'll notice it's grocer.
Looks thicker.
More like vicar.
No, it has to be grocer — it's green.
Sherlock laughed more heartily than he had in years.
The history of the world, my love –
Save a lot of graves,
Do a lot of relatives favors…
Is those below serving those up above.
Everybody shaves,
So there should be plenty of flavors…
How gratifying for once to know–
That those above will serve those down below!
Molly offered another pie with a particular, flamboyant panache.
"What is that?"
It's fop.
Finest in the shop.
Or we have some shepherd's pie peppered
With actual shepherd
On top.
And I've just begun.
Here's a politician — so oily
It's served with a doily–
"Have one," Molly offered.
Put it on a bun.
She looked at him quizzically,
Well, you never know if it's going to run.
Try the friar.
Fried, it's drier.
No, the clergy is really
Too coarse and too mealy.
Then actor–
That's compacter.
Yes, but always arrives overdone.
Sherlock held the cleaver to her throat and she gasped – his eyes were suddenly dark, "I'll come again when you have Judge on the menu…"
"True, we don't have Judge — yet — but would you settle for the next best thing?" Molly smiled.
"What's that?"
She offered him a butcher's cleaver, "Executioner."
He took the cleaver, and felt the heft of it. It was satisfying. Then Sherlock picked up her wooden rolling pin, handing it to her.
Have charity towards the world, my pet–
Yes, yes, I know, my love–
We'll take the customers that we can get.
High-born and low, my love.
We'll not discriminate great from small.
No, we'll serve anyone–
We'll serve anyone–
And to anyone
At all!