Ten Weeks and Four Days Ago. 221B Baker Street
Over the 48 hours since Sherlock had returned from New York, 221B Baker Street had been transformed from the pristine flat left by Mrs. Holmes into what looked like one hundred file cabinets exploded in the living room. Stacks and stacks of files, many of them documents designated top secret, were strewn about in piles.
This day would be the first of many long days for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They had agreed the day before, when Mycroft's people started delivering the seemingly endless boxes of records, that they would split up the duties. John would be sorting through the personnel records of government officials looking for potential clients of "The Woman" who could have leaked information about the Sherrinford business, while Sherlock would be combing through everything the government had on Irene Adler's life, looking for potential pressure points.
John arrived early on the first day of real investigation just as Molly and Sherlock were finishing up breakfast. The door to the flat was open, so he just walked in to see the two arguing once again about the placement of items in the kitchen cabinets.
"Oh good Lord, you aren't still arguing about that, are you?" John asked.
"Well, Sherlock, who congratulates himself endlessly on his adherence to strict rationality, refuses to admit that this is much more logical than the way he had it," Molly explained to him.
"There's no objectively 'rational' way to organize cabinets," Sherlock disagreed, "there's only the way one is comfortable with—and that would be rational."
"Sherlock, you had glasses in the cabinet under the sink. That's madness."
"Oh, just go saw and slice into dead bodies already. John and I have work to do."
John wondered if they knew how much they resembled an old married couple. Molly kissed John on the cheek and said goodbye before heading toward the door, but Sherlock called after her. "Pick up fish and chips for dinner."
Molly, turning back, said "First of all, you've had fish and chips two nights in a row . . . "
"I'm still re-acclimatizing to England," Sherlock interrupted.
" . . . Second of all, I can't tonight," Molly continued, as if not hearing Sherlock. "Mycroft has invited me over for dinner."
Sherlock looked nearly apoplectic. "What?!"
"I promise I'll make you the most quintessentially British meal ever tomorrow night, 'kay?" Seeing that he was still in a huff, Molly ran back over and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "Don't be cross, Sherlock. It's just one dinner with Mycroft." Then she ran out of the flat.
John looked stunned and asked, "Dinner? With Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?"
"I know! It's an unholy alliance if I ever heard one," Sherlock agreed.
With his next words, John knew he'd be stirring up the pot, but he couldn't resist. "I wonder if they are dating."
Sherlock scowled angrily at his friend. "Are you trying to make me vomit?"
John continued, mercilessly. "They're both single. Molly does like sociopaths, so . . . "
"Please, I beg of you, stop."
"Just let me know where they register for their wedding."
"You bastard," Sherlock said, glaring. John laughed.
"Alright, alright. Now, tell me, what am I looking for in all this mess?" John pointed to the stacks of papers and files.
"You'll be starting with these people," Sherlock said, handing John a list of names. "These are the people with immediate access to the Sherrinford file. You need to look at their travel records to see if they've made visits to New York, then cross-reference the times of those trips with potential large withdrawals of money."
"Payments for Irene Adler's services, right?"
"Yes."
"What if none of them pans out?"
"Then we move to the second group of names Mycroft has provided."
"Which are?"
"The names of the people with immediate access to the people who have immediate access to the Sherrinford file."
"And if God forbid those names don't provide a suspect?"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Then we go to the next group of names. The people with immediate access to the people who have immediate access to the people who have immediate access to the Sherrinford file."
John's eyes glazed over. "How many names are we possibly talking about here, Sherlock?"
"Well," Sherlock said, shrugging, "if we have to go down past a fourth level of access, I'd say around [inaudible] people." Sherlock's voice trailed off and he mumbled incoherently the last part of his sentence.
"What was that? I didn't hear that."
"Roughly 5,000 people."
"Five thousand! And how long do we have to get these done?"
"Eleven weeks, but I'd really like not to come in right under the deadline."
"Can't Mycroft's people help with this?"
"Absolutely not! One or more of his people might be clients of hers. Look, I'm not in a much better position here. I've got thousands of pages of surveillance reports to sort through and then I have to somehow convince dozens and dozens of Britain's wealthiest elites—who happen to get off being whipped and fisted—to tell me the most intimate details of their time with a prostitute, all the while looking for something to hold over Irene Adler's head. Let me reiterate: I have to find something to blackmail someone who already makes a living as a dominatrix."
Just then a notice sounded on Sherlock's mobile phone indicating a text. He looked at it and then immediately looked away in anger. "Goddammit! Damn it all to Hell." He kicked at a box of files and hopped around, nursing his hurt foot.
"Photo number two I presume," John guessed.
"You're not going to look at it."
"I don't want to look at it. I mean I kind of want to look at it, but, no, no I don't. Does it say anything?"
Sherlock looked pained as he brought the phone up to his eyeline once again. He looked at it as though prolonged exposure would make him blind.
"Seventy-seven days to bring me home."
After their dinner—a marvelous delicacy from Bangkok—Molly and Mycroft settled in for a game of chess. After being defeated in only an hour, Mycroft demanded best of three. Early into the second game, Mycroft picked up his rook, preparing to move it.
"Ohhhh, I wouldn't do that. If you do that, I have check-mate in three more turns," Molly offered helpfully.
"What? How? That's impossible." So Molly moved her fingers around the board, showing him how she'd do it. He was flabbergasted. But he put his rook down and continued to think through his next move. "So," he began gingerly, "has Sherlock discussed your case with you at all?"
"Ugh, no. I'm not sure why he's being so secretive, but it's not worth all the bickering trying to get him to share information with me. I just gave up. I imagine he's being protective because of the photos. You know about the photos, don't you?" She blushed.
"Yes, I do. I'm sorry."
"It's alright. As John always says, 'it is what it is.' Sherlock probably thinks I'm too fragile to hear about how far and wide those photos have been disseminated. Honestly, he might be right." She laughed humorlessly.
"You can trust Sherlock to stop at nothing to protect you, Molly."
"I know."
"So, have you, um . . . mentioned to Sherlock my little slip of the tongue?"
"No, of course not."
"I should have known. I am still alive, after all," Mycroft said with a smile. Molly laughed with real humor.
"It's alright, Mycroft. I already knew."
"You did?" Mycroft asked, in surprise.
"Pretty much. I'm not stupid. You can only willingly ignore so many signs."
"Like the phone call?"
"The phone call. And the way he looks at me sometimes. And there are certain physiological signs that are hard to mistake for anything else."
"So . . . " But Mycroft found he didn't know what to say.
"So 'what now'? Is that what you want to ask?" Mycroft nodded. She thought for a second and said, "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Well, what can I do? I can't force him to be in a relationship if he doesn't want to be."
"You can hit him over the head with a frying pan, see if that does any good."
Laughing, Molly said, "I might consider that. But, really, for whatever reason, he doesn't want me like that. And there's nothing I can do about it." Here, she teared up a bit. "Maybe when this case is all over, he might . . . but I doubt it. Anyway it doesn't matter, I've been in love with him for a decade now. I'm not in any hurry. Got all the time in the world."
Mycroft looked at Molly sadly, knowing precisely what she did not know, that she did not, in fact, have all the time in the world.
Before she left Mycroft's home after the second chess game ended in her favor, she let Mycroft convince her to stay for the opening of a bottle of port he'd been given as a gift from some Lordship or other, so that when she returned to Baker Street, she found herself later and a little more tipsy than she had intended. She walked into the flat to see Sherlock still immersed in files.
"You're late," Sherlock said without looking up, annoyance in his voice.
"Mycroft insisted on playing chess."
Sherlock looked at his watch. "Well, you must have hung in there for a while. That's quite impressive. Mycroft is nearly as good a player as I am. You should feel proud."
"Actually," she said with a yawn, "he insisted on best two of three. He really needs to improve his use of the rook. He wastes them every time."
"Are you . . . are you saying that you beat my brother . . . at chess . . . twice?"
"Well, three times including the one game of it we played here. He really has good instincts, though," Molly said, through a yawn.
Sherlock couldn't help but look stunned. "Perhaps he's not used to playing against women. Maybe your breasts distracted him."
"Sherlock!"
He rose from his chair and motioned for her to sit down across from him at his chess table. She shook her head. "No, Sherlock. I have to work tomorrow and I've had too much wine and port tonight. I'm tired."
"I'll make tea. That'll wake you up."
Molly threw up her hands in surrender and sat down at the chess board. Sherlock walked over to the kitchen to prepare tea. Molly noticed him limping. "What's wrong with your leg?"
"Nothing is wrong with my leg. My foot, however, had an argument with one of the boxes in the living room this morning. I broke my big toe."
"Do you want me to look at it?"
"No, John looked at it." Soon Sherlock returned with the tea and they began playing chess. An hour later, Sherlock was sulking and Molly was getting up to finally go to bed.
"I hope you weren't too distracted by my breasts," Molly said, to a glowering Sherlock.
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.
**My initial estimate for number of chapters was around 24. Yeah, that's not going to happen. I hope everyone is entertained enough to stay with the story for around 30 chapters or so.