Author's note: hello, everyone!
Holidays are such a wonderful thing.
I just wanted to say that all the locations in Paris, Rome and Milan are true and do exist, including the hotels and any traditions or legends I will mention further on.
There is some truth in the politics I describe: a prime minister of any country really does have to resign if a foreign ambassador is killed in his bailiwick, and the instability and party diatribes I mention are loosely inspired by current affairs and individuals in Italy
The auto blu are cars owned by the state, in which diplomats and politicians of note often travel, escorted by at least 2 police officers.
This fic is becoming much longer than I had anticipated. I wanted to move on but I just had to write this, otherwise I believe things wouldn't have the right feel to them later on, forgive me…Hopefully you will enjoy the chapter anyway; please let me know what you think.
Thanks to SammyKatz, Mrspencil, NicoleJacobs and Renaissancebooklover108 for the reviews!
Right, on to the story.
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"Well then, it's settled; You will accompany me to Milan and we shall hunt down this villain." James Bailiff stood from the table. "I was scheduled to leave tomorrow. The prime minister insists I use the auto blu. It would give me great pleasure if you were to come with me, I would be glad of the company. For tonight, you will be my guests, I insist."
The pathologist looked at the clock. It was 5:30 pm.
"If we leave tomorrow, you might have time to do some shopping, Molly." John said brightly.
"Doctor Hooper." The ambassador cleared his throat. " My secretary, Ginevra, enjoys shopping very much and knows a few shops nearby. It would give me, and her I am sure, great pleasure if you were to accept her aid."
Oh, great. He must think her so very shabby…
"Thank you, your excellency." She murmured.
A blue cat. Why did she have to go and wear an oversized jumper with a GIANT BLUE CAT on it?
She was never going to live this down, she just knew it.
Ginevra turned out to be very nice, actually.
Waves of black hair framed a heart-shaped face with vivacious brown eyes and a perfect smile with full lips. Molly would soon discover that Italy is full of hourglass-figured, full-lipped women. It would have been discouraging if not for things still to come.
Ginevra spoke English well, albeit with a heavy accent and a few Italian idioms that got lost in translation, but she more than compensated for it with her abundant enthusiasm.
"Doctor Ooper, the best place to go is in via Cola di Rienzo. It is on the other side of the river, but we take a taxi."
And they did. Taxi drivers in Rome are wonderful tourist guides: a simple question can lead them to enthusiastically point out ruins and important locations as they drive past them, talking about their history and heritage with as much pride and zeal as the most learned scholars. Molly stepped off the taxi a few minutes later, feeling as if she had a museum documentary downloaded directly to her brain.
Via Cola di Rienzo is a busy commercial street, buzzing with people shopping. Ginevra strode confidently into a very stylish negozio, but Molly hesitated.
Last time she had gone shopping…
No. Molly, let's be reasonable.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't.
It…
"Doctor Ooper?"
Molly snapped out of it. Ginevra was looking quizzically at her. The pathologist suddenly pointed at a random dress in the window.
"I was just thinking that looks very nice…"
Shopping in Italy is a very serious matter, it seems.
In a couple of minutes Molly was surrounded by women, only one of them an actual shop assistant, suggesting outfits and styles and oh my this would look so good with your skin tone…
Every Italian woman seems to have an innate knowledge of what suits who, and how to turn weaknesses into strengths; Her thin lips were an excuse for daring eye make-up, her small breasts allowed tight-fitting, backless pieces of fabric that permitted no bra and thus, apparently, made her look extremely sexy…
Molly nervously looked at the clothes piling up near the counter. They were mostly Ruffled tops, a pencil skirts that hugged her small waist and some stylish trousers. They were all sensible and suitable, if more chic than what Molly was used to, but there were a few items in the mix that seemed…Well…When was she going to wear a dress like that? Or those heels? She didn't even know how many steps she would take before breaking her ankle…
"Hoh but they look so lovely hon you! You need them, every woman does." Ginevra cried in alarm at Molly's hesitation. "In Italy we call clothes like that artiglieria pesante, heavy artillery. You should never travel unarmed."
Ginevra grinned.
Molly bought the lot.
A couple of hours later, Molly returned to the Embassy.
Sherlock and James Bailiff were discussing animatedly, the ambassador clearly enjoying the exchange, while John was looking at them as if he sorely needed some popcorn.
"It's eerie." He whispered in her ear as she walked in. "It's like the Doctor and the Master, or a genius and his evil twin…Sherlock being the latter, of course."
"Of course." Molly echoed.
On hearing her voice, the two men stood.
"Welcome back, Doctor Hooper. I see by your new suitcase that your search has been fruitful, good. Hopefully Ginevra has been pleasant company."
"Yes, she has. Thank you." Molly smiled.
"It is nearly dinnertime, I have taken the liberty of booking a table at the Ristorante Crispi 19."
Sooner than expected, Molly was going to need that heavy-artillery clothes.
Thank you, Ginevra.
Dinner was wonderful.
The Crispi 19 restaurant was elegantly understated, the food was sensational with a fresh mixture of home-made breads.
But the best thing at the dinner was talking with the ambassador. He would ask questions and listen, actually listen. He was witty and charming, he had John laughing, and Molly feeling like the most interesting person in the world.
Sherlock was silent for most of the meal. He was probably thinking about the case.
"So what happened to the chicken?" the ambassador asked John cheerfully.
"Well, we had to hide it before the general came in, so Simmons hid it in his pillow case. We thought we'd gotten away with it, but then major Gardiner whispered in Simmon's ear: 'your pillow's clucking, soldier."
Molly laughed. "That sounds like my roommate at uni! She used to get me into so much troube…"
"Please, do tell." The ambassador smiled.
"We need access to a laboratory in Milan." Sherlock interrupted. "Molly has to run some tests on a sample."
The ambassador moved back, and Molly suddenly realised how close they had been leaning towards each other.
John's brow furrowed. "The killer's tissue sample? Didn't you give that to Bonlieu for the Hotel-Dieu to analyse?"
Sherlock nodded. "I gave them a sample, The results should be ready tomorrow morning. I need Molly to confirm my suspicion. The case depends on it."
"Very well." James Bailiff nodded. The jovial man of before now seemed far more imposing, far more like an ambassador on a mission. "I will make some calls tonight. You will have access to anything you require."
The mood had changed. The conversation returned to the case, clues and tomorrow's trip.
They returned to the embassy shortly after.
"I have had a lovely evening." Molly breathed. "Thank you so much for dinner, your excellency."
"Thank you for the delightful company, doctor Hooper." He nodded his head. "Although I would much rather you called me James, doctor Hooper."
Molly blushed. "Very well, but only if you call me Molly." She looked up into his green eyes, feeling rather bold. "Goodnight, James.
His smiled didn't waver, but it seemed …deeper, somehow.
"Goodnight, Molly."
She bid goodnight to John and Sherlock, then walked up to her room.
"Well, uhm…Goodnight, then." John muttered and disappeared up the stairs.
Sherlock said nothing, but began to follow his friend when he heard the ambassador's voice.
"Mr. Holmes, could I have a quick word with you?"
Sherlock turned around to look at the man.
"I am sorry to ask such a personal question, but…I would like to ask what your relationship with Molly is."
Sherlock's back stiffened. "We work together."
James bailiff took a step towards him. "And nothing else?"
The consulting detective's head twitched slightly. "What else should there be?"
James nodded. "Good. Thank you. Goodnight." He said, beginning to walk up the stairs to his own room.
Sherlock, unmoving, muttered. "What difference would it make? There is nothing, of course…But what if there were?"
"Well." The ambassador halted his steps. "Since we're speaking in hypothetics…If I believed you to have feelings for Molly, I would have deemed it correct and gentlemanly to give you due warning:" His green eyes met Sherlock's icy blue.
"And I would have said:" James winked "May the best man win."
The British ambassador turned his back on the consulting detective and walked to his room.