Isn`t it Obvious?

October had drizzled on and on in the manner of a rain-sodden, more fluid Ice Age, and it appeared that, although this had a fairly predictable outcome for the London traffic, it had quite the diametric effect on the London criminal. This, in turn, had imposed quite the negative influence upon my friend.

"Crimes and criminals are not as they were, John," he complained, tuning his Stradivarius for another assault on what I laughably used to call `peace and quiet`. "Efforts are not being made and everything is of the lowest calibre."

I had a date-night with Mary at our favourite Greek Restaurant to look forward to, so I felt inclined to cut him some slack and not point out that law-breakers probably didn't undertake their nefarious deeds about the city for the sole intention of amusing Sherlock Holmes and keeping him busy.

"You`ve checked the blog, then?"

Sherlock gestured peevishly at my laptop with his bow, as if the machine itself were responsible for his lack of distraction.

"Yes John, I did have a spare five minutes before tea, so I solved the three insipid (and frankly, insulting) cases currently populating your hopelessly deflated blog- "

Folding my arms, I contemplated the length of the slack I may yet be cutting in accordance with his current mood and wondered how soon I could make my excuses-

"I am sure Mary shall be more than thrilled if you arrive early for your evening at `The Greek Dessert Eater`," commented Sherlock, plucking disconsolately at his A string and settling the violin against his shoulder. "I hear the baklava is superb."

I narrowed my eyes, determined not to ask how he knew where I was going.

"To die for, apparently," I returned, looking around for my jacket before the tuning up really got underway. Suddenly, he stopped, mid-pluck, beckoning my attention with an artfully raised brow.

"Mmmm," murmured he, resuming repetitious sawings and lowering his gaze as I move towards the doorway, anxious to be out in the rain and away from the claustrophobia of a tense and suffocating Baker Street.

"From what I hear of the sous-chef's reputation from Wiggins, that could be an actual possibility." He flashes a sudden and hugely innocent smile as my hand is on the doorknob (so close…)

"Bon appetit, John."

~x~

Fancy Italian instead? JW

What? MW

Heard The Botanist does a great babaganoosh. JW

John, I'm nearly at the restaurant. What`s going on? MW

No, don't bother replying. Sherlock`s been deducing you hasn't he? Is he very bored? MW

Almost indoor pistol practise bored. Seems criminals can't be arsed and he`s taken it to heart. JW

Shit. MW

He'll get over it. He's just being a giant toddler at the moment. JW

Have you checked the usual places? MW

What? No. You're overreacting. This isn't a danger night. JW

Remember, you said that last time, and it was in the Cluedo box. I`m worried. MW

John? MW

I'm ringing Mycroft. JW

~x~

"John, how delightfully unexpected to hear from you on such an extremely inclement Friday evening. I do hope Mrs Watson is well, and young Sholto."

"Er, yeah, they - we're all cock-a-hoop, Mycroft. Look, I'm not going to apologise for disturbing you, since I'm almost positive you're still in the office."

"Lamentably, that is so. Issues that require my attention are seldom so solicitous as to respect, or even acknowledge office hours. Since you are clearly in a hurry to be at your delightful Hellenic dinner this evening, I shall take the liberty of suggesting that your enquiry purports towards my brother."

"How the hell either of you seem to know so much about my social arrangements is going to be pushed aside tonight, Mycroft, since I think you might want to check in on Sherlock. He`s agitated, bored, listless and spoiling for a fight of some kind. It could be he's got a yearning for a fix of another sort. I`ve actually half a mind to turn back now and sit in with him, so long as I can hide his violin."

"No."

"No to the violin, or no to the turning back?"

"No to the danger night, John. Since `that' day, Sherlock has been clean."

"What?"

"I shall merely reiterate that, for the past thirteen months since his return from the airfield, my brother has not indulged even once in his entirely plebeian and rather disappointing little habit."

"And you know this- how? How do you know this?"

"I know this since I witness Molly Hooper drawing blood from him on the first Tuesday of every month and await her emailing of the results a mere hour later."

"I- I- How have you enforced-"

"John… do you still labour under the falsest of beliefs that my dear brother can be enforced to undertake any directive from either myself or any other party, if he cares not to? He has suggested and elected this course of action for himself. He wishes it this way."

"And you don't think he'll slip?"

"There has, has there not, been several occasions where Sherlock could have recoursed to his old habits over the last thirteen months, but he has chosen not to, and this is how it is now."

"Well. That's just- that's pretty impressive, Mycroft. Whatever`s inspired this `just-say-no' way of thinking, I'm grateful for it."

"As am I, John, as am I."

Whatever that may be.

~x~

I have a surfeit of unpalatable notions deduced from the detritus of Molly Hooper`s domicile, and in the five hours since I awoke in her bed this morning, I have collated, corroborated and corralled them (somewhat sluggishly) towards identification of the culprits and the motives of this case. I could, as previously stated, have left this morning and resumed my life outside of these walls, but they say that genius has an infinite capacity for taking pains, and it is worth any degree of physical discomfiture (I have been poisoned many times, and this barely qualifies a mention) in order to solve an interesting puzzle. Thus, since nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person, I look about the room for Molly, since she is a more than adequate conductor of light on occasion. My legs and back are quite stiff and I do note three cold, untouched cups of tea placed at increasingly impatient angles on the table next to my chair (I sip at one out of curiosity. Surprisingly OK.) which leads me to surmise I have been deliberating here for quite some time. Stretching (ever trepidatiously- the snugness of the shirt is annoyingly restrictive), I rotate my shoulder to release residual stiffness in the scalenus medius and trapezius.

Then, where is she?

The kitchen is empty, except for my coat drying across a radiator and a laboured ticking of the clock (how can it be almost dark outside?), so I step through into the small hall and landing, checking spare bedroom, and then bathroom door (Molly always locks it now- tedious) only to discover it standing ajar. No Molly. Annoying, less than convenient, and … something else? I marvel at my own ridiculousness; this is an extremely compact flat and therefore the only remaining room must be where she is-

Sleeping.

A small, dim side lamp glows softly, suffusing the bedroom with a muted light in the gathering gloom. She lies, dressed in her party darkness, curled foetus-like, facing away from the light as if it offends, her left hand curled almost querulous beneath her chin. Who are you? She could be asking. Why are you here? Her paleness swims, candescent from a bower of blackness; white hand, white face, eyelashes curved, feathering and shadowing across smoothness of skin, also lips, mouth, softened by sleep and coalescing in some degree of inexplicably moving serenity.

For the second time this day, my heart seems to hitch and recalibrate in my chest and I`m aware of the door knob (Bakelite, original fittings, fetching £25 a pair in Petticoat Lane) smooth and rippled beneath my left hand, rattling so slightly, and I let out a calming breath, since Molly is sleeping. She sleeps almost as little as me; snatched cat-naps when the workload is overwhelming and immediacy of results are the currency of a case in progress. Sometimes, when I stay here, I hear her creak upon the landing, looking for her favourite mug (first cupboard on the left of the oven, second shelf down) and the manuka honey (third cupboard, hidden inadequately at the very back, behind the piccalilli, lest I should find it- I am apparently untrustworthy with honey) to sweeten the milk she warms on the cooker (back left burner; the right has an unreliable ignition). Through walls made of virtual paper, I hear her turn between forty and sixty pages of her most comforting book (Pride and Prejudice- turgid) before sighing and attempting sleep again. Her mattress creaks and bends in the most comforting and predictable pattern which almost always serves to soothe and to calm. I conceive of her wondering if I, on the other side of the wall, am imagining Serbian forests, German underpasses and Middle Eastern souks; running and disappearing into the fabric of another country, another life. But I am not.

I slowly unclench my hold on the Bakelite handle and it ceases its rattle. I step into the opalescent darkness and look down on Molly Hooper, sleeping now, not thinking of me at all, and I feel neither guilt nor regret as I touch her shoulder and speak her name (deep, soft, quiet - I am not entirely selfish).

"Molly, please wake up. I would like to talk to you. I want to tell you what has happened to us."

~x~