~ November ~

Circumstances had evolved to ensnare him in a most unscrupulous way, Sherlock thought morosely, though he could not bring himself to be more specific in placing blame for his current predicament.

First it had been John.

"Listen, my friend Alex Turner, the Yank I've told you about, met him when we were stationed in Afghanistan? Well, he and his wife have invited Mary and Gracie and I over to celebrate Thanksgiving with them, and their whole family, really, and they want you to come!"

"Thanksgiving? Why on earth would I want to do that? Don't they just sit about and eat and watch their version of football?"

"Yeah, all right, but it's not just that. I mean the food's terrific - Thanksgiving rolled around when we were still in Afghanistan and Alex invited me to be his guest at the dinner they put on at the base. I thought it one of the best meals I'd ever had, bar none, but he said it was nothing to what his family did every year. But the main thing is, it's just so laid back. Just good fun, good food, good company. And it turns out they've been reading my blog for years now. They're quite anxious to meet you. He lives in Virginia, too, right outside Washington D.C. Loads of things to see there, from what he says. Have you ever been there?"

"Not for years. My parents took me over when I was still at school." Sherlock had still been skeptical, but he'd said, "I'll consider it and let you know."

Then a day later, Mycroft had come to see him. "I understand you've been invited to the Washington D.C. area."

Sherlock, glaring daggers, had immediately begun looking for newly placed surveillance cameras.

But Mycroft said, "No, Sherlock, it was John who told me. We… er… ran into each other yesterday afternoon. He's quite anxious that you accept the invitation. I believe he thinks you're lonely."

This last was said in a tone of spurious sympathy that made Sherlock's jaw clench. "God preserve me from-"

"—friends?" Mycroft smiled. "I quite thought you had come to differ from me on that particular subject, but perhaps I was mistaken. Yet there are other reasons you may wish to visit Washington. You could do a couple of trifling errands for me while you're there, for example."

"Is that right? I should have known you had an ulterior motive."

"You wrong me. I never have less than six or seven. But yes, as long as you're going…"

"Who said I am?"

"John has great hopes of it, for one. And I'd make it worth your while. The usual arrangement."

"Is there some risk?"

"Not at all, this time, I'm afraid."

"Hmmm."

"I know. Boring. But you would be doing the government a favor, as well as pleasing your friend. Friends. I believe John said Mary is counting on your presence to enliven the festivities."

"Is she?" Sherlock almost cracked a smile. "All right. I suppose it can't be more boring than London is at present. The criminal class seems to have gone off on holiday, so I will, too."

Sherlock had told John a couple of days later.

"That's brilliant! And Mary'll be pleased, as well. But mate…"

Sherlock frowned at the sudden concern in John's eyes. "What?"

"Well, I was texting back and forth with Alex last night and he mentioned he has a cousin that's coming. Something of a Sherlock Holmes fangirl, apparently."

Sherlock frowned. "You're joking. An American?"

"From Boston. She'll be staying at the house, too. They've a big place, but Alex wanted you to be warned she'll probably… eh… hit on you. As they say."

"Good God," Sherlock muttered.

Which is how Molly Hooper came into the picture.

"Thanksgiving?" She smiled. "Really? And you're asking me along?"

"Yes. I thought you would enjoy observing the culture. It might be interesting from a scientific standpoint."

She laughed. "It might at that. All right. I'll talk to Mike about getting a few days off."

The flight to Dulles on the morning of the American holiday had gone well. It had been Gracie Watson's first time on an airplane, but the four adults had managed to keep her happy and occupied for the duration of the flight with endless repetitions of her favorite board books and, having reserved exit row seats with concomitant additional legroom, spreading a blanket on the floor so she could play with a few beloved toys. About halfway across she also decided that Sherlock's lap was the perfect place for a kip, much to the others' amusement. Ultimately, however, Sherlock found that he didn't much mind providing his goddaughter with a resting place, even catching a few winks himself, as recorded for posterity by the camera of John's mobile phone.

They landed a few minutes after noon, picked up a rental car, and were pulling up to the Turner residence in Fairfax a short time later, just as many of the other guests were arriving, in fact. These mostly consisted of Turner relations of all ages. Gracie was the only toddler, however, and a couple of school aged girls immediately claimed her for their own, leaving her parents, Sherlock, and Molly free to mingle and partake as they would for the rest of the afternoon. It was certainly a convivial gathering, and the array of food and drink with which they were regaled was astonishing in both quantity and quality. Sherlock found himself enjoying both the feast and the friendly interest of the guests, though happily, due to Molly's presence, the fangirl cousin kept a discreet distance. Molly, of course, had not been informed of the underlying purpose of Sherlock's invitation, and was a little surprised at his unusual attentiveness, and suspicious, too, though not displeased. Sherlock counted The Molly Diversion a rousing success.

When the seemingly incessant televised football games were winding down, an impromptu games night had been initiated. Both Sherlock and Molly had been lauded as invaluable in a hotly contested game of Trivial Pursuit (Molly had proved Sherlock's superior, in fact, loathe as he was to admit it, having a far more extensive knowledge of pop culture at her disposal than he). Yet jet lag inevitably took its toll and by ten o'clock Molly and Sherlock were bidding the company goodnight.

They had been assigned quarters in the basement of the house, a comfortable bedroom down a short hall from the roomy and elaborately appointed Rumpus Room. There was only one bed, but he and Molly had shared many times in the past. Anyway, it was 3:00 a.m. London time, and they were replete with feasting. Trouble sleeping was the last thing Sherlock had been worried about .

But now, at 6:00 a.m. London time, he had come to the realization that he should not have been quite so confident. The noise from the Rumpus Room had finally died down - it was serving as headquarters for the half dozen children old enough to bed down in sleeping bags, away from their parents, and they'd been in the midst of a movie when Sherlock and Molly had passed through earlier. But the bedroom was cold, far colder than what they were used to. The blankets had seemed adequate, but over the course of the last three hours, as the room became even colder, they had found themselves inching closer and closer to each other for additional warmth. Now they were "spooning", her back curled against his front, his arm draped over and holding her close, and though Molly, seemed to have dozed off, the situation was proving far more problematic for Sherlock. Her proximity (which would have been skin to skin if they'd been naked, though that was clearly the wrong thing to contemplate when their hips were placed just so), the texture and scent of her hair (it was virtually impossible to keep from nuzzling the delicious softness), and the feel of her abdomen, warm and alive beneath his hand, all conspired against him to such an extent that he was beginning to wonder if he would ever sleep again. The problem was related, in a way, to the NSY Halloween party and the brief yet highly intriguing interlude they'd shared in that darkened alcove. The memory had assumed and maintained a prominent place in Sherlock's mind palace since the evening of its creation, and was always enhanced by Molly's actual presence. And she was extremelypresent, at the moment.

She suddenly sighed, took up the hand that lay flat against her belly and drew it up to rest against her bosom.

He made a slight choking noise.

She roused, her hips stirring against his, then stilled abruptly.

Then she turned over, beneath his arm, so that they were almost nose to nose in the blackness.

"Are you alright?" she whispered.

"Fine," he whispered back. A blatant lie.

After a moment's hesitation, she said, "I'm sorry. Shall I go away?"

"Where? And it's bloody freezing."

"Yes."

There was nothing for it. He kissed her. Slow and chaste. Yet there was a certain tension. A slight trembling.

He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I can't sleep."

She kissed him, this time, then laid her forehead against his. After a moment, she said, feather soft, "I could help with that."

His breath caught. Objections, dissembling, languid humor were all quite beyond him. He could summon only one word for her, a single word...

"Please?"