Wednesdays at 221B
"They… held hands?" Rosie asked, her brow furrowing in a manner that, had Sherlock been really paying attention, he might have recognized as another of her mother's expressions.
The, "I really didn't think this through and now I've got to shoot Sherlock," sort of expression.
"And smiled at one another," Sherlock spat, "Then had lunch."
"Then-" Rosie considered, "Maybe we should just leave them alone and see what happens-"
"Nope," Sherlock replied. He felt oddly manic, frankly. "We've begun it, we have to see it through. After all we're making everyone happy, just little love pixies scattering stardust and joy like droppings from a rabbit."
Rosie looked at him quizzically, but Sherlock kept on.
"This is exactly what I hoped to accomplish when I went into detective work, you know, Watson, serving as cupid for John "Three-Continents" Watson and my pathologist. But the overall total of happiness will increase and everyone will be bloody delighted."
Swinging on his coat he stalked out of his flat. Rosie waited patiently until she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs a few minutes later.
"It's Wednesday, which is when I look after you."
"Yeah," Rosie agreed.
A typical working day at St. Bartholomew's hospital
Sherlock stalked into the path lab, looking cranky. Though of course (Molly smiled to herself) she'd never tell him that. She'd say he was looking troubled, if she were inclined to comment on the subject to him.
"I've solved my case," he announced.
"Oh, really?" Molly began, "What was-"
"Goose theft. Nearly forty of them, raised for their fatty livers and destined for the slaughter, stolen from a hijacked truck near Kilkenny before they could be brought to the butcher who supplies the restaurant which engaged me on the case."
"What an excellent use of your time," Molly replied archly.
Sherlock frowned sternly down at her, and rummaged in one of the pockets of his jacket before taking out a tiny bundle wrapped in his handkerchief, setting it down on the lab bench triumphantly.
Molly poked the handkerchief carefully open with the end of her pen, because you really never knew with Sherlock. Inside was a big rectangular gemstone, about the size of one of the joints of her thumb, glittering a deep cobalt blue under the fluorescent lights.
"Is that-?"
"The Countess of Portarlington's stolen Burmese sapphire, yes. Nearly seventy five carats, absolutely flawless. Found it in the crop of one of the geese."
"Aww," Molly said, picking up the (really very large) stone and examining it, "Poor goose. That has to have hurt."
"It's not as though it led a particularly wonderful life before that, Molly," Sherlock scowled, "And I found that the restaurant owner's accountant was fiddling his taxes. And also that his maitre d'hotel is in love with him."
Molly chuckled. She wasn't quite sure when Sherlock had got into the habit of bringing these trophies of his cases back for her to admire but it was adorable. It was always rather tempting to scratch him behind his ears and exclaim, "Who's a good boy? You're a good boy!" when he did it.
"One for the blog, then?"
For some reason that made Sherlock frown even more, his face creasing.
"Indeed. However, my purpose in coming here was to inform you that the restaurant's owner, in gratitude for my services, has invited me to a complimentary dinner and I'm trying to assemble all of my friends."
"Oh, that sounds lovely-"
"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you… and John."
"Brilliant! When?"
"John's a good man, isn't he?"
"Uh… yes. Yes he is," Molly agreed, confused.
"Intelligent, physically fit, pleasant to look at, reliably earns a respectable though unremarkable living," Sherlock kept on, folding his arms across his chest and generally acting like he was giving a eulogy, "Sires excellent children and after an admittedly extremely rocky start has served as a skilled and competent parent."
"Yes, Sherlock," Molly said slowly, "All of those things are true."
"Occasionally witty. Loyal to a fault. Probably quite sexually satisfactory, too," Sherlock mused, "Certainly Mary and all the rest of them seemed happy, at least in that regard."
And oh-kay, they were off in that weird Sherlock la-la land that they sometimes went to, where everything made perfect sense to exactly one of the participants in the conversation.
Patiently, Molly asked, "Sherlock, are you trying to tell me that you've fallen in love with John? Because if so I need to phone Scotland Yard. I think they've still got that pool going."
"No! No!" he barked, "You're not understanding me, Molly."
Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, and began again.
"My point, Molly, is that it's entirely rational that someone, a woman, might be quite happy with John as a romantic and/or life partner. If she has historically enjoyed short men with mercurial tempers, for example. And in comparison to other men in that category he spends very little time plotting to destroy me, so, really, bonus!"
He'd got sort of high pitched and wild eyed and was glaring at her like she'd kicked his puppy. Molly tried-
"Are you... saying we should set John up on a blind date? Because I really don't think that's a good idea."
As they'd all ambled past forty Molly had found the truth in the phrase "the odds are good but the goods are odd" and everyone she knew who was single was single for a VERY good reason…
Though, ooh, actually, maybe he'd like Lucy from Oncology. Dead sexy, albeit in that barking mad sort of way. Given Mary, she might be just John's type.
Anyway, the withering look Sherlock gave at her tentative question suggested that Mad Lucy wasn't where he'd been going.
"You're hopeless at this," he pronounced, before turning on his heel and swanning out of the lab. He threw an "I'll text you the details," over his shoulder as he left.
He'd forgotten his sapphire on the bench, so Molly picked it up and tucked it into the useless little coin pocket of her jeans. Sherlock would be wanting to return it eventually.
Probably.
You really never knew, with Sherlock.
A tailor's shop which may or may not have a secret weapons cache and access to a network of undergound spy tunnels in the back room
The shop was in Savile Row, of course. The tailor appeared to have been dug up shortly after the battle of Waterloo and had that incredibly supercilious upper-class air that only the employees of posh London shops can manage.
Sherlock had been given three fingers of an excellent Scotch and put into a chair, where was now slumping and scowling. John hadn't received any Scotch, but had somehow been talked out of his trousers and underwear and into a set of skin-tight silk (!) boxer briefs. He stood leerily at parade rest on the tailor's pedestal in shirt and pants and ventured, "You know, I do own some suits already, Sherlock."
"You own three vaguely suit-shaped objects: the ancient grey one that you got for your MRCGP oral exams and which you're now too fat for, the brown one you wear to court, and the black one you mistakenly think is elegant. This place sells suits. Real ones. Owned by men," Sherlock growled, taking a deep drink of his scotch.
John sucked his gut in. He wasn't fat, he just wasn't twenty-five anymore.
"Does sir dress to the left or to the right?" the tailor wheezed from his position at John's feet.
"I guess I mostly go for a more conservative sort of-" John began, only to be interrupted by a wrinkly but surprisingly warm hand under the hem of his shirt in a place where very few hands had been recently.
"To the right," the tailor said, smugly, "Slightly unusual."
"Does that… matter?" John asked hesitantly.
"In well cut trousers and for you, sir? Yes. And may I extend my congratulations?"
John stared down at the tailor, who twinkled up at him with a terribly amorous leer for someone who was so long dead.
"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock (thankfully) interrupted, "Let's talk about ethics in romantic relationships."
"What?"
Thursdays in Islington
Rosie looked up from her homework (and whatever sort of sociopath came up with the idea that it was appropriate to assign homework to children this age ought to be publicly flogged, in Molly's opinion) and asked, "Aunt Molly?"
"Mmm?"
"Don't you ever want to get married? Or have a boyfriend?"
Oh, Christ. Even the five-year-olds were starting to "Poor Molly" her now. Probably next Rosie would gently ask if she'd thought to freeze any of her eggs back before she'd become a dried-up tragic spinster.
"I mean, yes, I would. But it's okay that I don't have one," Molly said.
"But you would not just… marry anybody, would you. You want to marry the right person," Rosie said flatly, without a hint of question.
"No, I definitely wouldn't marry just anybody."
"Because you're a strong independent woman who don't need no man," Rosie said, while trying to do two snaps in a circle, although since she hadn't quite mastered snapping it was more hilarious than sassy.
Molly rubbed her forehead. Everyone was being so bleeding weird this week, and now Rosie was obviously watching the wrong sort of television.
"Nobody really needs a man, sweetie," Molly said, "They're like… dessert. Lovely to have, but not required."
That was an excellent Cher paraphrasing, Molly thought. She'd sounded wise and alloparental instead of the idiot making it up as she went along that she normally felt like. Then she had another thought.
"Rosie, even if I do get a boyfriend, or a husband… I'll still be here with you. Always. You know that, right? You don't need to worry."
Rosie sighed, her full lower lip quivering slightly.
"That is not at all what I'm worried about," she said. She didn't want to explain any further, and Molly eventually had to let it go.
Saturday evening in a Camden Town flat
Violet the part-time nanny answered the door and smiled widely when she saw him.
"Oh, hi, Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson's not in tonight, though."
"I know," Sherlock said dully, "He's on a date. I'd thought I might visit Rosie, if she's not already gone to bed?"
Violet snorted.
"That one, in bed this early? No. She's just had her bath. If you wanted to do her story I bet she'd like that."
Rosie was in her pyjamas carefully arranging her hair, but she set the comb down and looked up at him solemnly with her big blue eyes.
"They're off," Sherlock told her.
"Daddy wore perfume," Rosie said, sounding scandalized.
"It's called cologne, when it's a man wearing it," he gently corrected her.
"Why?"
"No idea, it's one of those stupid things grownups do."
Rosie toddled over to her bookshelf and picked out the Encyclopedia Brown book that she saved for Sherlock's visits. He sat in the rocking chair, and Rosie scaled his legs like Kilimanjaro and sat in his lap with a testicle-rattling thud.
She didn't open her book, but nestled in to his chest quietly instead. Sherlock rested his chin on her soft baby-shampoo scented hair.
"It'll be good, for your Dad, and Molly… and for you, of course," Sherlock murmured. It probably would be. John would be happy, Molly would be happy… and Rosie would have a mother.
John and Molly would eat dinner together. They'd have mutually satisfactory and frequent sex, making happy use of John's apparently extraordinarily impressive knob. As a family they would take Watson on enriching and age-appropriate adventures, possibly with another baby or two to join in the fun. John would rest his head in Molly's lap and she'd card her fingers through his hair when he'd been thinking too hard and his coronal suture felt like it was about to rupture-
"Maybe you can get married to somebody too, Sherlock?" Rosie asked, almost as if she was reading his thoughts.
"I don't believe I'll get married to anyone, Watson."
Rosie craned her head around, looking up at him with deep blue eyes full of wise innocence.
"Won't you be wonewy?"
"Why should I be lonely?" Sherlock said, smiling at her even though he really didn't feel like it, "I'll still have exactly the same quantity of friends, it's only their configurations that may change."
Rosie sighed.
"I guess."
They read her story, arrant nonsense in which the solution to the case hung on knowledge of an obscure point of baseball umpire etiquette and was therefore obviously unsolvable by true deduction. He tucked Rosie in to her tiny bed, and dimmed the lamp before walking down the stairs.
He nodded to Violet as he was putting on his coat, only to have her exclaim, "Oh, wait, I wanted to show you something!"
She rummaged through her messenger bag and shyly handed him an exam paper, with a red "84" on the top. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Did that suffice?"
"It did. First-class with honours, thanks to you. And I'm inviting you to the graduation ceremony," she teased him.
"Speaking from experience, I'd sooner be shot. There's no need to thank me. It was absurd for an intelligent young woman not to finish her degree on time because of a minor difficulty with inorganic chemistry. The stupidest of the chemistries."
Violet smiled shyly and tugged at her thick chestnut braid, "I mean… most people wouldn't have taken the time to tutor their friend's babysitter. I knew you were brave and heroic, obviously. Even before I met you, I read the blog… and of course then you saved me and Alice. But I didn't know you were kind, too. Doctor Watson doesn't put all those bits in."
Oddly touched, Sherlock left.
The night was pleasant, and walking the streets of London helped ease the ache in his chest. It hadn't been difficult to help Violet, in either situation where he'd done so. Jephro Rucastle was no Jim Moriarty, and all she'd needed to succeed in her class was clarification on orbital theory, which Sherlock had always been a master of.
But he had done it, because he was kind. Or at least a plausible enough imitator of kindness to fool a clever young woman.
No, it was the first one. He'd assisted Violet because he liked her and had felt badly for her.
And when had that happened, Sherlock wondered? When had it become so… easy to be kind and be himself at the same moment? He worked part-time in childcare, he encouraged his friends to be happy, he took cases just because the people involved needed his help-
And if he could do that, what else might he be capable of doing?
Sherlock shook his head and took in his surroundings. He was in front of the Almeida theatre. Without realizing it, his aimless rambling had taken him to Islington… a short walk from Molly's flat.
He picked up the pace. If he could talk to Molly, sit on her comfortable grey sofa and tell her his thoughts… he could find clarity. And then-
And then Molly was there. With John, standing in front of the red doorway to her flat. And John was leaning in for a kiss.
And then… just a bit... Sherlock panicked.
Notes: The goose bit is stolen from ACDs "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle," which was yrs. truly's very first Sherlock Holmes story, aged 9. Still a goodie, even though some time spent on the internet suggests carbuncles aren't particularly valuable stones. Rosie's nanny Violet Hunter is visiting from "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches."