Life After Death – A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy
Part Three - Unfinished Business
Chapter One
Molly Hooper put on her coat, picked up her bag and walked out of the Path lab at St. Bart's hospital. She took the lift to the ground floor, then walked through the hospital 'Main Street', to the back of the building, out through the rear entrance, across a court yard and stopped at a gate with an entry phone key pad. She pressed the bell and waited to be admitted, looking up into the CCTV camera above the gate, to facilitate recognition. The speaker went live and a voice said,
'Hi, Miss Hooper. Come on in,' as the entry lock buzzed to release the gate.
Molly pushed the gate open, passed through and made sure it clicked shut behind her. She went down the paved path to the front door of the hospital crèche and let herself into the building. Inside, she smiled and waved to the lady on reception, signed her name, in the log book on the counter top, and continued on through the internal security door, opened for her by the receptionist behind the glass screen. Turning left, she walked down the corridor to the door labelled 'Paddington Bear', pushed it open and went in.
'Mummy!' cried a shrill voice and a little body hurled itself at her from the other side of the room. Molly caught her son, William, and swung him up in the air, twirling around and hugging him.
'Hello, little boy! What have you been doing today?' she asked the tousle-haired child, holding him in the crook of her arm so they were face to face. He looked at her, with huge, sea-green eyes and said,
'Cottoning.'
'Oh, really?' Molly smiled, 'and what have you been cottoning?' she asked. Willaim pointed towards a table, against the far wall.
'Dere', he said.
Molly walked over to the table, where two nursery nurses sat with three small children, around two or three years old. The children were holding homemade cardboard cut-outs of animals, which had been punctured around the edges and had long, broad, brightly coloured boot laces secured with a large knot. The children were threading the laces through the holes – in and out – all the way round the edges of the card shapes.
'Oh, I see,' said Molly, nodding knowingly, 'you've been sewing.'
'Yet,' he son affirmed, with a solemn nod.
'Hi there, Miss Hooper. Yeah, William's been a busy boy today. He's been painting and threading and he ate all his lunch. It was lamb casserole, which is his favourite, I think.' The young woman continued, in her cheerful Australian accent, to fill Molly in on William's busy day at the nursery, whilst collecting his coat and back pack from his coat peg and packing his art work into the bag, as Molly helped him on with his coat. By the time the nursery nurse had completed her daily report, William was dressed for the outdoors and, with his back pack on, he was ready to leave.
'Right, well, thank you, Carly. Say 'goodbye', William. See you tomorrow. Bye,' Molly gave a small wave and, taking William's hand in hers, she walked with him, back through the building, to the pram store, just inside the front door, where he climbed into his buggy, for the walk home. Fifteen minutes later, she keyed in the code to enter her building and unlocked the internal door that gave access to hers and William's flat.
This had been Molly's daily routine – Monday to Friday - for the last two years, ever since she returned to work from six month's maternity leave, after giving birth to William – the son of Sherlock Holmes.
Molly lifted William out of the buggy and set him down on the tiled hall floor. She unfastened the buttons of his coat and he shrugged it off and handed it to her, before turning to go into the sitting room.
'Shoes off, baby boy,' Molly said.
William plopped himself down on the sitting room carpet and pulled off his outdoor shoes, whilst Molly hung up their coats in the hall way and parked the buggy in the walk-in hall cupboard. She removed her own shoes and stepped into her slippers, then followed William into the sitting room. He was already sitting on the sofa, with the TV remote held in both hands, pointing it at the set.
'What are you watching, sweetie?' she asked.
'CeeBeeBeeCee,' he replied and pressed the appropriate buttons to find the desired channel. Molly smiled and ruffled his hair, then went through to the kitchen, to start preparing their supper.
ooOoo
When Mycroft Holmes had first suggested this flat, Molly had been less than enthusiastic about the idea. But when she came to view it, she was quite over-whelmed. The flat took up one half of the entire ground floor of a detached Edwardian villa, on a leafy crescent which curved around a large private square. It was reached via a communal hallway that gave access, also, to the flats above and the one opposite.
It comprised of a Minton-tiled hall, with a large understairs cupboard – ideal for storing William's buggy, a square sitting room, a good sized modern fitted kitchen, a generously sized master bedroom with en suite shower room, a guest bedroom with en suite shower room and a smaller bed room – perfect for William – with a modern family bathroom right opposite.
French doors gave egress from the kitchen onto a small paved patio which, in turn, opened out into a large, secure walled garden, mostly laid to lawn, with perennial borders and, down at the bottom, two mature trees and a little garden shed. Molly could not have imagined ever being able to afford such a large and well-appointed property in the centre of London and it brought home to her, quite forcibly, just what being a descendant of two of the wives of Henry VIII meant, in practical terms.
It had taken a little persuasion but she had, eventually, agreed to the arrangement and now, wondered how she had ever managed all those years in her tiny, postage stamp flat on the second floor of a featureless 1960's block, with no lift. She had furnished the flat herself, mostly from second hand furniture shops, but she had found some very nice pieces which suited the period of the property very well.
William's uncle also gave her a very generous monthly allowance, which she begged him to reduce, when she saw how much it was but he stubbornly refused, so she set up a standing order with her bank so that, on the last day of each month, any money still in her current account was transferred into a high-interest savings account. This was building up into a nice little nest egg which, she thought, might put William through University one day, without the need for a student loan.
Mycroft was a regular visitor to the flat, coming over at least once a week to see William, and he and Molly had fallen into a comfortable companionship. He was, actually, quite good company, with a very dry sense of humour and a sharp wit, which Molly appreciated. She was convinced that the other residents of the house thought she was Mycroft's mistress, which she found quite hilarious but, when she mentioned it to him, he was mortified. He eventually saw the funny side and rather appreciated irony.
ooOoo
Busying herself with preparing their evening meal, Molly reflected on how much her life had changed in the last three and a quarter years. Yes, it was almost exactly three years and three months since Sherlock had gone away. During that time, she had heard nothing of or from him. She knew that Mycroft had limited contact with his brother but he never told her anything about where Sherlock was or what he was doing. She could only imagine that Sherlock was still alive or otherwise, surely, Mycroft would have said something?
As these thoughts ran through her head, Molly heard the entry phone buzz. She walked back through the sitting room, past William, still intent on his children's TV show, and pressed the answer button on the entry phone. The image which appeared in the viewing screen was instantly recognisable as Sherlock's brother. Molly pressed the lock release button and, at the same time, called to her son,
'William, Uncle Mycroft's here.'
As she watched the image of Mycroft step forward and out of sight of the camera, she opened the flat front door to admit him.
'Good evening, Molly,' Mycroft Holmes smiled, and gave her a peck on each cheek, just as William raced into the hallway and threw himself at Mycroft, shouting.
'Mytoff! Mytoff! Tum-see!'
'Oh, William, hello!' Mycroft exclaimed, completely disarmed by William's enthusiastic welcome. He allowed the little boy to grab his hand and drag him into the sitting room, to sit on the sofa, as William pointed at the image on the TV screen, chattering away in a strange patua which, fortunately, contained enough recognisable English words to convey some sense. Whilst giving appropriate responses to William's rapid-fire chatter, Mycroft removed his brogues and placed them, out of the way, to the side of the sofa, fanning out his be-stockinged toes, against the carpet.
Molly boiled the kettle and made a pot of loose-leaf tea for herself and her guest. She carried the tea tray into the sitting room and placed it on the coffee table before pouring two cups and handing one to him. Taking one herself, she sat in the single arm chair. She watched with amusement as her son explained the finer points of the TV action to his uncle, who listened with rapt attention.
It was a nature programme, about deadly animals. The presenter was admiring a particularly fearsome looking spider and explaining, in graphic detail, how it caught and ate birds. Molly was not sure how much of the commentary William actually understood but he was certainly showing a great deal of interest in the images. She could not help but compare him to his father, who also had such an enquiring mind, but she wondered whether Sherlock would have thought the spider's feeding habits worthy of storage space in his 'hard drive'.
The programme ended and William was not interested in the one that followed, so he turned off the TV and, taking Mycroft again by the hand, dragged him off to his room, for some Lego building. As Mycroft was pulled away, Molly asked if he would like to stay for supper. He accepted, graciously, and she went back to the kitchen, leaving them to their game.
The 'family' ate a companionable supper at the kitchen table then Molly took William for his bath, whilst Mycroft made and took some phone calls on his mobile. When William was dried and dressed for bed in his favourite pyjamas, she carried him into his room and let him choose a story book before she tucked him into bed. He chose his current favourite – 'Where the Wild Things Are' – and Molly read it to him. When the story ended, William went back over the book, commenting on the best bits and admiring the pictures. Then it was time for him to go to sleep. Molly took the large framed photograph from the top of William's chest of drawers and showed it to him.
'Say 'night-night' to Daddy, Will,' Molly said softly. William pressed his little Cupid's bow mouth to the photograph of Sherlock, which Molly had sourced from the London Evening Standard photo archive, specifically for this purpose. She wanted William to know who his father was and what he looked like. She had spent a long time, searching through all the press photos of Sherlock in the archive, before she found this one. It was a head shot, taken outside the home of the banker that he had helped to rescue from kidnappers. He was looking off into the distance, his hair lifted by the breeze, his lips slightly parted. He looked beautiful.
'Nigh-nigh, daddy,' William said.
The nightly ritual complete, Molly kissed William, covered him with his duvet and left the room, pulling the door to behind her.
Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, looking pensive. He usually left, once William was put to bed, but he didn't look as though he was going anywhere, on this occasion.
'Everything alright?' Molly asked.
'I have something to tell you,' he replied, looking up with very a serious expression. Molly felt the blood drain from her face and she put her hand to her mouth, thinking the unthinkable. Mycroft jumped up and caught her by her upper arms.
'No, no, Molly! I'm so sorry! It's not that! It's not bad news at all….' he said, urgently. Molly dropped into the arm chair and put her hand on her forehead, gasping for breath, trying to regain her composure. Mycroft went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two generous glasses of red wine. He placed one in Molly's still trembling hand and sat on the sofa with his own. Molly looked at him, with trepidation.
'Sherlock is coming back,' Mycroft said, and took a large swig of his wine.
ooOoo