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Catch Up

I have been writing lots of stories and have more in the works! I've been publishing my work on AO3 and it's hard to keep up with both spaces. That is the place to go for all of my Sherlock stories. They're all in chronological order there and much easier to read IMHO. But I will post some here as well as soon as I get a bit of time.

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Valentine

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Saving Sherlock

This is an origin story, of sorts. We’ve seen how Sherlock and John met, but what if there was more to the story? What if their meeting had been orchestrated by a concerned Mycroft trying to save his beloved brother? I think this ties in nicely with Mycroft’s encounter with John in ASiP.

             Words in bold type are from ASiP and written by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and are included to tie my story into the BBC Sherlock canon. 

             Mycroft Holmes picked up the file from the top of his desk. Inside were the doctor’s notes from the drug rehab facility where his younger brother was currently a patient. Sherlock was to be released in eleven days upon successfully completing his six-week program.

             Mycroft sighed as he tossed the file back onto his desk. This wasn’t the first time he had admitted his brother into rehab, and he was fearful that it would not be the last. Sherlock had a brilliant mind, he had to concede, but it was also a very troubled mind. Mycroft, from an early age had been his little brother’s self-appointed protector, and later his court-appointed protector. He realized early on that the protection that Sherlock most needed was from himself.

             In the beginning, it had been alcohol and marijuana, the things most easy to find in the elite boarding school that Sherlock attended. However, by the time he was in university, Sherlock had moved on to cocaine and eventually opiates, drugs he considered more “mind-opening.” It was Mycroft’s opinion that his brother partook of them not because they were “mind-opening” but because they provided an escape for the hurt that Sherlock was constantly trying to avoid. There were many demons chasing Sherlock; drugs kept them at bay.

             Now, once again, Mycroft found himself in the position of trying to do his best to chase his brother’s demons away and save him from himself. If he had his way, Sherlock would move in with him so he could keep a close eye on his little brother. He knew, however, that Sherlock, would never agree to live with him.

Sherlock insisted on being on his own and pursuing his ridiculous ambitions of being the world’s first and only “consulting detective.” Such a waste of a mind and talent, Mycroft thought. His brother had been a highly-trained agent for the British government and a successful one at that. Those were good years for Sherlock, in terms of his drug use. The work kept him busy and stimulated, eliminating the need for drugs to do the same jobs. Since he left MI-6, things had not been as well. Sure, the work of a detective was something that Sherlock found thrilling, but it did not always keep him occupied.

What was Mycroft to do? Sherlock insisted on returning to his work. He insisted on being on his own, despite the fact that he had been thrown out of his last flat following his latest relapse. Being a consulting detective apparently meant that Sherlock didn’t make any money; however, he did receive a handsome monthly allowance from his trust fund, which should have been more than sufficient to pay rent, bills, buy food, and leave enough for a generous spending stipend. Yet, despite this substantial allowance, Sherlock had managed to get behind on his rent for three months and had his electricity shut off the last month he had been in his old flat. It was mind-boggling the amount of money he could spend on drugs.

Faced with the probability that this pattern would continue to repeat itself if Mycroft didn’t take more drastic steps to disrupt it, he had decided on several things. First, Sherlock’s allowance would be decreased significantly. Second, he arranged for Sherlock to rent a flat from one of Sherlock’s old clients, a motherly woman named Mrs. Hudson, of whom his brother was very fond. It was Mycroft’s hope that Mrs. Hudson could help look after his brother, while still affording Sherlock a sense of independence. His rent would be paid directly from his trust fund to assure the money could not be used for any other purpose. Finally, Mycroft insisted that Sherlock must find a flat mate.

Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to Mycroft’s terms and only when Mycroft had threatened to have his stint at the rehab facility extended. Sherlock knew that Mycroft, as his Lasting Power of Attorney, not to mention one of the most powerful people in the British government, could make good on this threat and then some.

Mycroft began sifting through another stack of files on his desk. He had decided that if Sherlock was to find a flat mate, he would do all he could to assure that Sherlock would choose someone that Mycroft would find acceptable. He just had to make sure Sherlock didn’t know.

Finally, Mycroft found a file that looked promising: a recently discharged army doctor, formerly of Bart’s; medical discharge for a gunshot wound; possible PTSD; living in a cheap bedsit in London; no close family—only an estranged sister living in Sussex. Mycroft looked closely and saw that the doctor had studied with a Mike Stamford, who was currently employed at Bart’s and was an acquaintance of his brother as well. This could be promising indeed.

*******************************************************************************************

The next evening as Mike Stamford was leaving St. Bart’s a black sedan pulled up to the curb beside him. The driver rolled down his window.

“Mike Stamford?”

“Yes?”

“Please get into the car.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“The British government.”

Later, riding through the streets of London, Mike Stamford looked nervously at the man in the back seat with him. He was a very haughty looking man, tall and thin. He was dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit and silk tie. His shoes were expensive and polished to a shine. His face was narrow and his nose seemed rather out of proportion to the rest of it. His dark hair was clipped very short and his hairline was receding a bit. There was a black umbrella with a bamboo handle resting against his leg, though there had not been any rain in London today, nor any forecasted for the next two days.

The well-dressed man glanced over at Mike and finally spoke.

“Mr. Stamford, I am sure you are probably wondering what this is all about. I assure you that I mean you no harm. In fact, I am here to make you a proposition. My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Holmes?” Mike asked. “Are you related to Sherlock then?”

“Yes, he is my younger brother,” Mycroft answered him. “Therein lies my reason for approaching you Mr. Stamford. My dear brother has been convalescing away from the city, but will be returning in ten days’ time.”

“Convalescing? Has he been sick? I haven’t seen him around Bart’s in a while. I was wondering what he was up to. I had no idea.”

“No, it is a matter that we have tried to keep hushed up. As I was saying, he will be returning to London and in search of lodging in the city. We have decided that it would probably be in his best interest to find a flat mate with which to split the cost of rent and expenses.”

“I really don’t have room at my flat…”

“I know. What I am proposing are your services in assisting my brother in finding a suitable flat mate. I have secured him rooms in central London, and I think I have also found someone that would be compatible, however, my brother would scoff at my interference on this point.”

“So, you want me to introduce him to some stranger and pretend it was my idea.”

“You are catching on! But it will not be a stranger to you, fortunately. Does the name John Watson ring a bell?”

“John Watson? Yeah, he and I studied together at Bart’s. I haven’t seen him in years though. I think he joined the army.”

“Indeed, he did. He was just recently medically discharged for a wound he sustained in Afghanistan.”

“You’re kidding! Is he okay?”

“I’m afraid I don’t kid, and yes, he is okay. A limp, I think, but otherwise quite all right, physically. Now, as I said, Sherlock will be returning on Monday, the 25th. I am going to arrange a case for him solve which will bring him to the lab on Friday--”

“How can you be so sure it will bring him to the lab on Friday?” Mike interrupted him.

“Because I know this case and I know my brother. As I was saying, he will be in the lab on Friday morning. You need to be there as well and bring up his living situation; he will tell you that he is looking for a flat mate.

“At lunch-time you will be on a bench by the north side of Russell Square Park. John Watson cuts through there at approximately 1:00 each afternoon and that is where you will stop your old friend and engage him in conversation.

“Dr. Watson, with some prodding, will tell you that he too is looking for lodging in London and in need of a flat mate. This will open the door for you to suggest my brother.”

Mike chuckled, “All right, just supposing this all goes as you say it will—your brother come’s to Bart’s where I get him to tell me that he needs a flat mate and then I happen to run into John Watson at the park where I get him to also tell me that he needs a flat mate. Then just suppose I do introduce them to one another. You do know your brother, don’t you? You know he tends to rub people the wrong way. What makes you suppose that John Watson is going to agree, just like that, to move in with him?”

“Oh, I do know my brother, Mr. Stamford, and I know that when he needs to be, he can be very charming. And in this case, he needs to be very charming. I also have a feeling that Dr. Watson will be very intrigued by my little brother.”

“So, why should I agree to do all of this? I really don’t understand why you need me. You seem to know quite a bit about John Watson. Why don’t you just go to him and tell him that your brother needs a flat mate?”

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t go over well with my brother, for one thing. He quite adamant against my interference. You, however, are just a helpful colleague. Also, I don’t know Dr. Watson personally, as you do. He might think it odd of me.”

“Trust me, mate, I am finding it rather odd myself.”

“Yes, well, I think you will find it more appealing when I offer you £5000 to introduce Sherlock and Dr. Watson.”

“Five thousand pounds?! Just to introduce these two? What’s the catch?”

“No catch, Mr. Stamford. I just require your discretion on this matter, that is, you will not discuss anything that I have said to you this afternoon with anyone, including Sherlock and Dr. Watson. You will not mention my brother’s illness or that you and I have ever met. You will not tell a soul or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else some very disturbing information regarding your inappropriate relationships with several of your students will come to light in a very public and very distasteful manner.”

“What relationships? I have never had a relationship of any kind with any of my students inappropriate or otherwise!”

“Hmm, yes, but when you are the British government, as I am, you can make anything the truth.”

“So, you’re threatening me?”

“No, I am offering you a handsome payment for doing me a small favor on behalf of my brother, your colleague.”

“Not really my colleague…”

“Will you accept or not?”

“Yes, I will accept,” Mike said with a bit of trepidation in his voice.

“Excellent. I will be in touch with you soon, Mr. Stamford. Ah, I think we have arrived at your flat. Good evening, Mr. Stamford.”

*******************************************************************************************

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi at 221B Baker Street and took a look around. It was in a good location, that was certain. He knocked on the door which was soon opened by Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was a petite lady, a motherly-type woman. Several years prior she had found herself in a tough spot when her husband, who was running a drug cartel in Florida, was arrested, in connection with a double homicide. Sherlock was able to prove that her husband was indeed guilty and that Mrs. Hudson had nothing to do with her husband’s illegal activities. She was quite grateful and very eager to help Sherlock when his brother contacted her about renting the rooms upstairs.

“Oh, Sherlock! I’m so glad to see you! How are you doing?” she asked, embracing him in a loving hug.

“I’m well, Mrs. Hudson. I’m going stark raving mad because I’ve not worked for over six weeks, thanks to Mycroft, but other than that…”

“I’m sure you’ll be busy again before long. Come along inside and I’ll show you to your rooms. Mycroft has already had all of your things sent over.” She led him up the stairs and into the sitting room of 221B. “The boxes weren’t labeled, so I just had them put them all in here. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock glanced around the room and then walked into the well-appointed kitchen. “Very nice. Yes, this will do nicely.”

“And you’ll be getting a flat mate?” Mrs. Hudson asked cautiously.

Sherlock sighed. “Yes. As I’m sure my brother told you, it was one of the conditions of my ‘release.’ I am going to put an advert in the paper later this week.”

“Of course, dear.”

Sherlock began to open boxes and rifle through them, pulling out some beakers from one and a microscope from another. These he put in the kitchen on the table and then continued to open boxes.

“Well, I’ll just be downstairs if you need me,” Mrs. Hudson said, as Sherlock continued to unpack items, ignoring her.

“Oh, if you’re going down, would you mind making some tea?” he asked.

“I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper, Sherlock,” she answered.

“I take milk and sugar,” he said absently.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, “Just this once.”

***************************************************************************************************

Sherlock got a case right away, just as Mycroft had told Stamford he would, and just as Mycroft had told him, it brought Sherlock to the lab at St. Bart’s on Friday morning. That is where Stamford found him peering into a microscope.

“Good morning, Sherlock!” Mike Stamford called to him as he entered. “I haven’t seen you in quite a while. Keeping busy, then?”

“Good morning, Stamford. I’ve been out-of-town for a while, but I’m back in London now.”

“Yeah? Where are you staying these days? I imagine a busy bloke such as yourself likes to be where the action is?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I’m actually in a flat on Baker Street. A bit expensive, so I’ll be looking for a flat mate. Of course, I imagine it will not be easy finding someone who would want to live with me.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s someone out there for Sherlock Holmes.”

***************************************************************************************************

At one o’clock Mike Stamford put himself on a bench on the north end of Russell Square Park. Just as Mycroft had told him, John Watson came walking by, limping and leaning on a cane.

“John! John Watson!” he called out.

John Watson stopped and turned around as Mike hurried up to him.

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together,” he said, smiling.

“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike,” he said, shaking Mike’s hand. “Hello. Hi.”

Mike smiled, “Yeah, I know. I got fat!”

“No.”

“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

“I got shot.”

They stood uncomfortably for a moment. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. I’d like to catch up. It’s been a long time since we haunted the hallowed halls of Bart’s together.”

“Um, I really need to be getting on…”

“Come on now! It’s the least I can do after putting my foot in my mouth!”

“Yeah, okay then.”

A while later they sat on a bench in the park sipping their coffees, an awkward silence between them.

“Are you still at Bart’s then?” John finally asked.

“Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them!” They laughed. “What about you? Just staying in town ‘til you get yourself sorted?”

“I can’t afford London on an Army pension.”

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

“Yeah, I’m not the John Watson…” his voice trailed off he switched his coffee to his right hand and clenched his left hand, which had started trembling. Mike looked away awkwardly for a moment.

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

John snorted, “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen!”

Mike shrugged. “I dunno—get a flat share or something?”

“Come on—who’s want me for a flat mate?”

Mike chuckled.

“What?” John asked.

“Well, you are the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who was the first?”

“This bloke at Bart’s. He uses the lab over there for forensics research. He was just saying to me this morning that he was looking for a flat mate to share expenses on a place in central London. Said he imagined it would be hard to find someone.”

“Really? Unpleasant then?” John asked curiously.

“Different.” Mike replied. “He’s very studious, very particular, very observant. Quirky. I could introduce you, if you’d like. He’s going to be there for most of the afternoon, I should think. Molly Hooper down in pathology just got a corpse—donated for research—and she’s letting him do some experiments.”

“Experiments?”

“He wants to find out how long after death is bruising still possible, for one. Like I said, he does a lot of forensics research. Very studious.”

“Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to at least meet him. No obligation to move in with him, right?”

“Sure! Come on, we may catch him leaving the morgue.”

***************************************************************************************************

Sherlock was looking through a file beside his microscope in the lab when Molly Hooper, the pathologist, came in.

“Good news!” she said cheerily.

Sherlock grunted in response.

“I’ve got a corpse for you. Donated to us for educational use. You were asking for one yesterday, so I thought I’d give you first crack at him.”

Sherlock looked up with interest now. “Really! Excellent! Come along then, quickly now!” he exclaimed.

Molly followed Sherlock, who walked quickly and excitedly to the morgue. He struck such an attractive figure in his well-tailored suit. He was quite striking to look at— six feet tall, with dark, curly hair, piercing blue eyes, and high cheek bones that made his face seem chiseled from stone. Molly almost swooned every time she saw him, not that he would ever notice. She had known him for several years now, and he never noticed her. Today, though, she decided that she would make him notice her. She was going to work up the nerve to ask him out, just for coffee, but that would be a big accomplishment if he said yes. After all, Molly wasn’t even sure Sherlock dated or, for that matter, talked to girls.

After she had left him in the morgue with the body of one of her former colleagues, Molly slipped down the hall to the staff lockers where she found a tube of lipstick in the bag in her locker and applied it carefully. She looked at herself in a small mirror on her locker door and smiled. She hoped he would notice.

When she got to the observation room overlooking the morgue, Sherlock was pounding on the corpse furiously with a riding crop. He was always so absorbed in his work. She admired that. She entered the morgue just as Sherlock took his last few whacks at the body. His brow was glistening with sweat and he was breathless. He had taken off his jacket, and his fitted shirt showed off his well-toned body. Molly’s brain, of course, went blank as she searched for something to say to him.

“So, bad day, was it?” she asked him, instantly regretting that she had not thought of something more clever.

Sherlock jotted something down in a notebook, ignoring Molly’s chatter.  “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.”

Molly decided it was now or never. “Listen, I was wondering—maybe later when you’re finished--”

Sherlock glanced up at her and did a double-take. “Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

Molly couldn’t believe that he noticed. “I, er, I refreshed it a bit,” she said with a shy smile.

Sherlock looked at her for a moment longer before turning back to his notebook. “Sorry, you were saying?”

With renewed courage Molly answered, “I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.”

Sherlock tucked his notebook away. “Black, two sugars, please. I’ll be upstairs.”

“Okay.”

***************************************************************************************************

             Back in the lab, Sherlock was working when Mike Stamford came in with a gentleman that Sherlock did not recognize. He barely gave them a glance, but that is all he needed. He listened as the stranger spoke.

             “Well, a bit different from my day,” he said.

             “You’ve no idea,” Mike said with a chuckle.

             Sherlock sat on a stool. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

             “And what’s wrong with the landline?”

             “I prefer to text.”

             “Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Mike told him.

             “Er, here, use mine,” the stranger said, offering his mobile to Sherlock.

             “Oh, thank you.” Sherlock glanced at Mike as he walked over to the stranger.

             “It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike said, as way of introduction.

             Sherlock took the phone from John and began typing.

             “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked John without looking up from the phone.

             John looked startled as he glanced at Mike who just smiled knowingly back at him.

             “Sorry?” he asked Sherlock.

             “Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked again, looking up briefly before he continued to type on the phone.

             John looked at Mike again, who was still smiling.

             “Afghanistan. I’m sorry, how did you know…?”

             Just then, Molly walked in carrying a mug of coffee.

             “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He handed John his phone as Molly carried the coffee to him. “What happened to the lipstick?” he asked Molly.

             “It wasn’t working for me,” she said, looking down awkwardly.

             “Really? I thought it was a big improvement. You’re mouth’s too small now,” Sherlock said, turning away and taking a sip from the mug.

             “Okay,” she said quietly and turned to walk out the door.

             “How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked.

             John looked around and realized that Sherlock was speaking to him. “I’m sorry, what?”

             Sherlock, typing at a laptop, said, “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.’’ He looked up at John. “Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.” He smiled awkwardly at John, who looked at Mike.

             “Oh, you…you told him about me?”

             “Not a word,” answered Mike.

             Turning back to Sherlock, John asked, “Then who said anything about flat mates?”

             Sherlock stood to put on his overcoat. “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

             “How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked him again.

             Sherlock ignored his question as he put on his scarf and checked his mobile. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He crossed the lab, heading to the door. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

             “Is that it?” John asked him.

             “Is that what?”

             “We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”

             “Problem?”

             John smiled in disbelief at this madman. He glanced to Mike who was still smiling, as if he was in on some kind of joke. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

             “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

             John looked down at his cane and shifted uncomfortably.

             Sherlock looked at him smugly. “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He started to head out the door, but leaned his head back in. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street.” He clicked his tongue as he winked at John. Glancing at Mike he added, “Afternoon.” Mike gave him a small salute as he left the room.

             Mike looked now to John and said, “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

*********************************************************************************************

             Sherlock took a cab to his brother’s office at the Diogene’s Club. He found him sitting behind its massive desk reading over a file. Sherlock took the seat opposite his brother and crossed his legs.

             “Good afternoon, brother dear,” Sherlock said with a hint of sarcasm.

             “If you say so,” Mycroft responded. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, brother mine?”

             “I just wanted to let you know that I have found a flat mate, so you can stop threatening to find one for me. I’m meeting him tomorrow evening at Baker Street.”

             “A flat mate? That was quick. I didn’t even know you had put an advert in the paper yet.”

             “I didn’t, actually. I mentioned to one of the doctors at Bart’s that I was looking for a flat mate and he brought round an old colleague who was in search of rooms to rent.”

             “Well, who is he? What do you know about him? Is he a junkie, too?”

             “I am not a junkie, Mycroft,” Sherlock said softly.

             “Hmm, that is up for debate. The flat mate?”

             “He is a veteran, recently home from Afghanistan, wounded. Watson was his name.”

             “Is that it?” Mycroft asked him with a concerned face.

             “Isn’t that enough? I’m not marrying him.”

             “But you are moving in with him. Really, Sherlock, perhaps I should be vetting your potential flat mates!”

             “Oh, blow it out your arse, Mycroft! You said I had to find a flat mate as a condition of my release from rehab and to reinstate my allowance, and I have found one! You already have me living under the thumb of Mrs. Hudson. What more do you want?”

             “Very well,” Mycroft said, tugging absently at his waist coat. “Is that all then?”

             Sherlock stood up, realizing that he was being dismissed.

             Sherlock hailed a taxi outside and thought about what he was going to do for the rest of the day. He had finished the last case on which he had been working. He considered going back to Bart’s to take a look at the corpse he had been beating earlier and to do some analysis on some specimens he had recently collected for research. However, going back to Bart’s meant that he would more than likely have to interact with Molly Hooper, the pathologist. She was so silly and boring. In the several years that he had known her she had never managed to make conversation with him, never saying more than a handful of words within any of their encounters. He didn’t think he could endure such uncomfortable silence with her again today (silence was something he usually relished, but with Molly, it was always uncomfortable).

             He pondered Molly as he got into a cab and gave the address for Bart’s (the medical library would be a passable refuge for now). Just today he had tried to talk to her. He noticed that she had put lipstick on and commented on the fact. Then later he noticed that she had taken it off and told her that she looked better with it. After all, her lips were so small and the lipstick made them look fuller. She barely acknowledged him. In fact, when he told her that she looked better with the lipstick, all she said was “okay” and disappeared. Why did he even bother with some people? He started hoping that this Dr. Watson was more intellectually stimulating than most of the people he had to interact with on a daily basis. Perhaps even if he wasn’t he would at least have interesting stories to bring home about his work.

             His visit with Mycroft had frustrated Sherlock. His brother had threatened to not only leave him in rehab but also cut off his monthly allowance. While Sherlock could easily make ends meet charging clients for his detective services, he would not as easily keep up the creature comforts that his trust fund ensured, such as custom made suits; designer shirts, shoes, and coats; the newest laptops and iPhones; and, of course, a flat in central London. Mycroft was well aware of his expensive tastes, after all, they had grown up in the lap of luxury together. He was now holding Sherlock to this ridiculous task of finding a flat mate, yet was disapproving when he found one. Dr. John Watson seemed perfectly acceptable to Sherlock. He deduced that if Dr. Watson was an acquaintance of Mike Stamford, he must be of good, if not boring, character. Mike was one of the most boring people Sherlock had ever met. From all that Sherlock could tell, Mike didn’t even look at porn.

             But, Mycroft always found fault with everything Sherlock did. It had been this way since they were young. Mycroft considered himself superior in every way to his younger brother. He was fond of referring to Sherlock as “the slow one,” as if Sherlock’s intellectual prowess was that of an ordinary person.

             Mycroft had been especially perturbed with Sherlock since the latter left the MI6 five years earlier. The elder Holmes had plucked Sherlock right out of university, where the younger Holmes had finished as a master chemist, and dropped him into special ops training. Sherlock had been a quick study in combative skills, marksmanship, languages, code breaking, surveillance, breaking and entering, weaponry, and physical endurance and was soon one of Mycroft’s top agents. But, the life of a secret agent was one that quickly wore Sherlock down. While it was stimulating, he longed for something different. He longed to be back in London. Sherlock leaving the MI6 infuriated Mycroft. Sherlock becoming a consulting detective devastated him.

             Of course, Sherlock’s drug use had a big impact on the relationship between the brothers. Sherlock needed the drugs to stimulate his mind when his workload was slow. For many years Mycroft had come to Sherlock’s “rescue” when he thought that his little brother had lost himself in the drugs. Sherlock even had to make a list for Mycroft of the substances that he was using, should he accidentally overdose. Sherlock had tried to assure Mycroft that he was not an addict, to no avail. Three years earlier, Mycroft had successfully petitioned to become Sherlock’s Lasting Power of Attorney (not a difficult task for a man who was essentially the British government) stating that Sherlock’s “addiction” rendered him unable to take care of himself or handle his own finances. Sherlock was now at his brother’s mercy and had few personal freedoms. Because Sherlock had no friends (sentimental attachments were a character defect), detective work was the only escape from what he considered a mundane life.

             Sherlock checked his phone. He had been texting Detective Inspector Lestrade regarding a string of “serial suicides” that had been in the news. Scotland Yard, as usual, had everything wrong, but Lestrade would not let Sherlock look at the cases. He no doubt was being overly cautious about consulting with a civilian who had just done a stint in rehab for drug abuse relapse. The truth was, however, that Lestrade needed him, and when the public started to panic and doubt the police, he would give in and contact Sherlock. So far, that had not happened yet.

             Sherlock hung around Bart’s until early evening. He was careful to avoid the lab and the morgue, as well as the canteen—in other words, anywhere he might see Molly. Though he was eager to take notes on the corpse that he had been belting earlier, he was just too mentally spent to struggle through another awkward encounter with the pathologist.

             Back at the flat on Baker Street, Sherlock sat down in his large leather chair and pressed his fingertips together in thought. It had been a long, yet productive day. With no case to work, Sherlock went to his bedroom, where he dug through a box to find a blanket, and went to sleep.

***************************************************************************************************

             John Watson sat up late in his bedsit. He was on the website of Sherlock Holmes, The Science of Deduction, where Sherlock described himself as “the world’s only consulting detective.” It seemed a bit odd, even a bit arrogant. To read his case files only seemed to confirm his suspicions. Sherlock claimed he could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. John almost laughed at the absurdity of his claims. But, then he thought that this was the man with whom he had agreed to look at a flat. This was a potential flat mate, someone with whom he would be living, and that made it not-so-funny.

             John had to admit though that he was pleased with the prospect of staying in London. He hoped that with its location in central London that the rent was not too steep. Even splitting the cost of some places in that area was out of the question for John. His pension did not afford him many luxuries. He had retired from the Army after being wounded in Afghanistan three months prior. He still had nightmares of the battlefield, but strangely enough, he didn’t feel haunted by the war; in some ways he missed the action and the adrenaline. Of course, here he was now, walking with a cane, seeing a therapist. You couldn’t really call him much of a soldier anymore. He wasn’t sure you could even call him a man.

             What would Mr. Holmes think of him? Holmes certainly seemed like a very astute man, even if John was skeptical that Holmes was all he asserted himself to be. John did wonder how he knew about Afghanistan, his therapist, and Harry. After all, John had barely said two words to him and Holmes had “deduced” that he had been invalided home from the war. Afghanistan or Iraq?

             John decided that even if Holmes was a bit “quirky,” as Mike had put it, it would probably be worth it to give the flat share a go. Holmes did say he could go days without talking and Mike wouldn’t have introduced them if he didn’t think they could get on all right. Besides, John didn’t have to be best mates with the guy in order to split the rent with him. And if he went back to work as a GP, he wouldn’t have to see him much. John would stay out of Holmes’ way and, hopefully, Holmes would stay out of his.

   ��>�$��

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Watch This Space

I am still writing! Since Series 4 aired, I have been editing some of my previous stories, mainly the Christmas story. That one is still in progress. I will post the revamped version soon. I'm also working on an "origins" story of sorts, which looks at Sherlock and John and what led to their meeting. I'm still trying to figure out how my story "My Heart" will fit into the canon established by Series 4. Any suggestions are welcome.

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#olsenwpmoychallenge .... because apparently I've reached my tweet limit

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Remember. Delete. Image: Getty Images

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See. Remember. Delete. (Image: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/d6/c0/c7/d6c0c7ed56794631dc3849b94bdf7df3.jpg)

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The Six Thatchers: Who Needs a Blanket?

Well, I guess I'll be doing some rewrites and probably no new stuff until after The Final Problem. Hope everyone survived watching the first episode!

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Happy Sherlock Day!

Who else is nervous? I have a feeling I'm going to be doing rewrites on my stories tomorrow!

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#SherlockPBS returns tomorrow! Are you ready?

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Happy Christmas (Part 2)

I’m trying something a bit different here. This is a story about Greg Lestrade and his feelings for Molly Hooper. I have always felt that he had a certain longing for her. It started at the Baker Street Christmas party in ASiB. When Molly takes off her coat and Greg looks at her, it’s like he’s properly seeing her for the first time. In TEH, he looks utterly disappointed when Molly introduces her new boyfriend and claims that she has moved on (from Sherlock, supposedly). Finally, he is absolutely miserable at the Watson’s wedding. I assume this is partially from the fact that his own marriage has failed, leaving him lonely. I also theorize that being seated next to Molly and her beau, Tom, is not making matters any better.

Now, to make it clear, I do not ship Lestrade and Molly, but I think there is a little crush there on his part and I just wanted to explore that a bit. A romantic relationship of any kind between them doesn’t really fit into my storyline at all.  

Greg Lestrade tossed his keys onto the table by his front door. It was after midnight and the house was dark and quiet, his wife, he assumed was in bed. He was just home from Baker Street, where John and Sherlock had thrown a little Christmas party for their closest friends. Greg’s wife had said she had a headache and stayed home. Now, Greg wasn’t so sure.

             In the kitchen, he took a beer out of the fridge and sat down at the table to drink it and think about all that had happened that evening at Baker Street.

             Everything had started out nice enough. John and his date, Jeanette were there, as well as Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. Sherlock was playing some Christmas carols on the violin while they all had drinks and chatted. Then Molly Hooper showed up and everything went to hell. Not that it was her fault; Molly was perfectly charming and a total knock-out in her slinky black party dress, but for some reason, every time Molly was around, Sherlock seemed to become a total arse.

             This night was no different. As soon as she walked in, Sherlock was mumbling under his breath. As Molly went around the room making conversation, Sherlock had to interject in his know-it-all manner. The problem was, he did seem to know it all. He knew, for example, that Greg’s wife was still cheating on him with a P.E. teacher. As soon as Sherlock said it, it all made sense to Greg, and he wondered if tonight she was with her lover while he was at the party.

             Of course, if it wasn’t bad enough that Sherlock had to blurt out things like, “She’s sleeping with a P.E. teacher,” or that he had to tell John that his sister was still on the booze, he also had to totally humiliate Molly Hooper in front of everyone. Greg pictured Molly standing there, horrified as Sherlock made his little deductions, and for good measure, insulted Molly’s mouth and breasts. As far as Greg could tell, both of those areas looked damn fine on her. He was impressed, though, that Molly stood up to Sherlock and told him how terrible he was to always say such things. He was even more impressed that Sherlock actually apologized to her. Of course, that was soon ruined by his stupid phone sending him a text alert in the guise of an orgasmic moan. It was almost a relief when Sherlock retreated into his room for the rest of the evening. Almost. The damage was already done and Molly, humiliated as she was, left early.

             Greg had thought for a long time that Molly deserved someone that would appreciate her for the beautiful, intelligent woman that she was. For some reason, though, she was so caught up in Sherlock. It was if she lost all her senses when she was around him. He could see why she thought he was attractive, with his high cheekbones, blue green eyes, and curly hair, but the way he treated her was just ugly. He was always very dismissive of her and quick to let her know if she had gained weight, should change her hair style, if her clothes were unflattering, or if her mouth and breasts were too small (which they were not). As if it were any of Sherlock’s business. Greg had seen her fawn all over Sherlock, only to watch Sherlock ignore her, or even worse, ask her to bring him coffee. And it would happen over and over again. Greg just couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t understand why women would fall for someone so cold as Sherlock when there were good men who would treat them well, but they just walked all over those men. Or cheated on them.

             Greg finished the last of his beer and pulled another out of the fridge. He needed to make a decision. Did he go through with Christmas tomorrow with his wife in Dorset, or did he end this all, once and for all, tonight?

******************************************************************************

             Greg woke up on Christmas morning alone in his bed. After finishing his second beer the night before he went upstairs and woke his wife up. He didn’t get into a big row with her, though he could have, he just told her to pack her bags and leave. She didn’t give any arguments or excuses; she knew she had been found out.

             Now, Greg didn’t know what to do. It was Christmas and he was all alone. He suddenly had a stupid idea. He found his mobile and made a call.

             “Hello, Molly? Hi, this is Greg. I was just wondering if you would like to go get a cup of coffee this morning. I know you told me that you’d be alone this Christmas, with your mum going on holiday with her sister. It just so happens that I’m alone now too.”

             “I thought you and the wife were going down to Dorset? Didn’t you say you were going today?” Molly asked.

             “Well, that was the plan until Sherlock opened his big mouth last night.”

             “Oh, right. Yes, he does have a way of ruining things, doesn’t he?”

             “It’s all right, really. I mean, it’s best that I know. No sense in dragging things out any more. Anyway, I think that Starbucks is open today, likely the only place. Would you like to go and have something with peppermint in it and be bloody jolly with me?” he asked with a little laugh.

             “Um, yeah. I would like to Greg. Can I meet you at the one over by St. Paul’s? That’s close to you, isn’t it?”

             “That would be great. How about 9:00?”

             “9:00.”

             “I look forward to seeing you.”

               Greg sat at Starbucks waiting on Molly and trying to think of topics of conversation. Soon she came in wearing a Christmas jumper and khaki pants and her hair, which was usually in a ponytail, hanging down.

             “Merry Christmas, Molly,” he said giving her a quick hug and peck on the cheek.

             “Merry Christmas,” she replied cheerily.

             A few minutes later, over their coffees, Greg said, “You look a bit tired this morning, Molly. Are you all right?”

             “Yes, I’m fine. I mean, I am a bit tired; I had to go into work late last night.”

             “You had to go in? Why?”

             “Identification of a body.”

             “Really? Who called that in? Why did you have to go in? I didn’t think you were on call.”

             “It was special circumstances,” she explained, squirming a bit in her seat. “Everyone else was with family last night, so I didn’t mind going in.”

             “What kind of special circumstances? Was it an accident? A suicide? Homicide?”

             “Um, a homicide? The face was bashed in rather badly.”

             “Who was working on the case?”

             “The body was actually brought in by, um, Home Office.”

             “Home Office?! Why in bloody hell would Home Office be involved in a homicide and why would they call you in—oh. Holmes. Molly, after how he treated you last night? You shouldn’t have done him any favors.”

             Molly sighed, “I know. Mycroft had her brought to St. Bart’s and called me to let Sherlock in to identify the body.”

             “Her? Who was it? Was it the woman from the text?”

             “Honestly, I don’t know. Like I said, her face was bashed up, beyond what anyone could recognize. Sherlock asked to look at the rest of the body. That’s how he knew. When I asked Mycroft who she was, he wouldn’t answer me, just thanked me for coming in. Men in black suits came in after Sherlock and Mycroft left and took the body.”

             “Bloody hell….”

             “Yeah, seemed very cloak-and-dagger to me. Anyway, that was late, right after midnight? I got home about two.”

             “I didn’t wake you when I called, did I?”

             “Oh, no! I had been up.”

             “Yes, it must have been around midnight. Sherlock came out of his room not long before that, grabbed his coat and scarf and left without saying a word. John got a call a few minutes later, but he didn’t say who it was. I left right after. Seemed like the party was over.” Greg paused for a moment. “So, what do you usually do for Christmas?”

             “Well, usually my mum and I go to my aunt’s house and have dinner with all the cousins, but since she and my aunt are on holiday, and I don’t really fancy hanging about with my cousins, I’m just taking a couple of days off to tit about. I was thinking of going to a show one evening or the cinema. I may go to a museum or two or maybe just sit about the house and read a book. I’m looking forward to some time alone.”

             Greg smiled at her. Suddenly a thought came to him and in a split second he decided to do something stupid.

             “You know, Molly, I’ve got these reservations at a little B&B down in Dorset for a few days—I was supposed to go with the wife, but that was kind of shot to hell last night—and anyway it’s all paid for, so I was wondering if you might want to join me. There are two beds, and spa treatments, and….and I shouldn’t have asked, nevermind.”

             Molly had blushed several shades of red and looked away uncomfortably.

             “I’m sorry, Molly,” Greg stammered.

             “Um, no. Don’t be silly, Greg. I’m really flattered that you would consider inviting me along so that I wouldn’t be alone for Christmas, but perhaps it wouldn’t be appropriate? Since, technically, you are married, even though your wife is cheating on you—sorry, I shouldn’t have—Anyway, I wouldn’t want any rumors—that is I wouldn’t want anyone to think that you were being unfaithful, even though our relationship, or friendship, is strictly platonic. I think probably not?”

             “You are absolutely right,” Greg said. “I don’t want tongues wagging over nothing. No need to give my wife any ammo. I’ll just drive down and relax and recharge. It will be a good chance for me to think things over. Yeah.”

             “Yeah.”

             Greg and Molly sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes. Finally, Greg broke the silence.

             “It was great seeing you this morning, Molly. I hope you have a happy Christmas, get some reading done. I need to be getting back to the house to finish packing. I’ll need to be getting on the road.”

             “Of course. Merry Christmas to you, Greg. I really do hope that you can relax and forget about everything for a few days. I’m sorry about your wife.”

             “Yeah, well, I suppose I knew all along. It’s not the first time, after all. Still, I hate that arrogant bastard Sherlock for being the one to point it out to me. He does say the most horrible things, doesn’t he?”

             “Always,” Molly said with a little smile.

             “Happy Christmas.”

             “Happy Christmas.

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Just two days to go…

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Writing and Waiting....

As I impatiently await the new series of Sherlock this weekend, I find myself revisiting the previous three series looking for inspiration for new stories. I am currently working on a story about our favorite characters before ASIP. It will probably be in several parts, as it will look at several characters individually. I may be able to post the first part before Sunday. I have a feeling after Sunday my worlds (both my real world and the fictional world I write about) will be turned upside-down.

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Three days until the return of #SherlockPBS

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Four days to go…

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An Unexpected Development (The Untimely Demise of Sherlock Holmes, Part 3)

This is part 3 of “The Untimely Demise of Sherlock Holmes,” in which I explore the aftermath of Sherlock’s “death” from Molly’s perspective. I also explore the friendship that forms between John and Molly.

Molly hugged the toilet bowl as she vomited yet again. This had been going on all morning and she wondered how she could possibly have anything left in her stomach. She leaned back against the wall as the wave of nausea passed over her. She patted her moist brow with a towel from her lap. This was not good.

             An hour later she had managed to get dressed and take the tube to the clinic where John Watson worked. She hoped he was working. She hoped he could help make this better.

             A little while later a nurse led her into an examination room. John was sitting on a stool pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

             “Molly!” he exclaimed as she entered the room. “What brings you way out here? Isn’t the Bethnal clinic over by your flat?”

             “Yes, but I was needing to see a friendly face,” she said with a sad smile. “I’m glad to see that you are here today.”

             “Of course, please have a seat,” John said, with his own sad smile. “How are you doing, Molly, and not just physically? How are you holding up?”

             “Not as well as I thought I was. I have good days, but then something will happen, or I’ll see or hear something that reminds me of him, and then I’m not so good. And you?”

             “Not good at all really. I had to leave Baker Street. I just couldn’t be in our flat anymore. I couldn’t live with his things surrounding me, with all of the memories surrounding me.” He paused, staring into some point in time that only he could see. Then he shook his head, as if clearing out something unpleasant. “Now what can I do for you today?” He glanced at the chart that the nurse had given him. “Nausea, vomiting, sweating—probably just a touch of flu. Let’s just have a listen,” he said pulling out his stethoscope.

             “It’s not flu,” Molly said as John rolled his stool closer. She reached in her shoulder bag and pulled out a baggie with something in it and handed it to John.

             “What’s this?” he asked taking it from Molly. He looked down at the white, plastic stick in the bag. “This is a pregnancy test. You’re pregnant?”

A tearful Molly nodded.

“I’m not an OB, Molly, you know that. Why are you here? Talk to me. Tell me about it.”

“It was just one night, and I just never imagined. I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. I needed someone to talk to, John. The past two months have just been so overwhelming, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

John rolled close to Molly and took her in his arms. She buried her head in his shoulder and cried, releasing weeks of grief, loss, worry, and loneliness. John stroked her hair, trying to hold his own grief in so he could support his friend.

“So, the father?”

“Is out of the picture. Gone. I don’t know where he is,” she told him. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

“Okay. So, what do you want to do? I’ll be here for you, no matter what. I promise.”

Molly nodded. “I’ve really thought about it, and I want to have this baby. I need something to focus my attention on right now in my life. I need someone to love. But, I’m scared too, John.”

“You came to me because you need a friend. I am your friend, Molly. I will not abandon you. Whatever you need from me—someone to run to the store if you get cravings in the middle of the night, someone to rub your feet or tie your shoes, a labor coach, or just someone to listen and be there for you—I’m your man.”

“Thank you, John,” Molly said through her tears. “I don’t have a lot of close friends, and honestly, I don’t know anyone as honorable and trustworthy as you. And I know we are both missing him so much right now. Sometimes it just seems so impossible to think about anything else, to believe that life still goes on without him.”

John clasped both of Molly’s hands in his. They were firm and reassuring. She knew everything was going to be okay because Sherlock’s best friend would take care of her and their baby.

“Listen,” he said, “I know an OB. We were at uni together. How about I give him a call and see if he can see you this week. I’ll go with you. I’ll go to every appointment with you if you wish.”

 After Molly’s first appointment with Dr. Reid, John escorted her back to St. Bart’s.

“So you’re six weeks along. That puts the date of conception right around the time of, um, Sherlock’s--”

“Yes, I told you, I was not in a good place. I mean, I had to lay out the body, and it was so—so—and—I’m--”

“Right, right. I was just—that night before Sherlock—he was at Bart’s when I caught up to him. What was he doing all that time?”

“I don’t know everything that he was doing that night. I mean, he asked me to use the lab, and it was Sherlock so I said yes. I don’t—didn’t—ask him a lot of questions.”

***********************************************************************************

Molly and John were just tucking into breakfast at a diner near Molly’s flat. Later that morning they were going to the OB’s office where Molly would have her first ultrasound.

“Have you talked to your mum and told her yet?” John asked.

Molly sighed. “I know I need to, but I’m just afraid that I’ll disappoint her.”

“Molly, you need her. I’m here for you and I will do everything I can for you, but I think that right now you need all the support you can get. Listen, she may be disappointed, but that will last all of a minute when she realizes that she is going to be a grandmother. Then she’ll be chuffed, you just wait and see.”

Molly’s phone chimed to let her know she had a text. “Sorry, I should probably check that. Could be work.” She fished her phone from her bag and looked at the screen. She didn’t recognize the phone number, but she unlocked screen to read the text anyway. She covered her mouth and gasped. All color drained from her face and tears suddenly stung her eyes. There was a photo on her screen, no words. It was clearly some place foreign, some far-off place where laundry was strung between buildings on a narrow street. It didn’t need words. She knew who this was from.

John stopped eating his eggs and looked at Molly. “Molly? Are you okay? What is it? Who’s it from?”

“It’s—it’s nothing. Nothing.”

“No, it’s something. What is it?”

“My mum…my mum just texted me, um, my aunt is sick, very sick. She’s driving up to visit her.”

“Is she going to be okay? Do we need to reschedule your appointment? Maybe they could squeeze you in later this week.”              “No, no. We should go. This is an exciting visit. After all, I’m going to see my baby for the first time.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wanted to say, “Our baby, mine and Sherlock’s.” She wanted Sherlock to be here with her now and Sherlock to be there to see the ultrasound.

“Molly, really, we can reschedule. You’re clearly upset,” John said.

“John, I want to go. And thank you. Thank you so much for being here with me and supporting me. I don’t know if I could do it without you.” It was true; she would have broken down weeks ago without John. If Sherlock couldn’t be here, she knew she had the next best thing. Besides, she told herself, Sherlock is alive and he’s thinking of her. She looked at her phone again. She knew it might be dangerous if she kept his text. She closed her eyes and burned the picture into her mind, then opened them and hit delete.

***************************************************************************

Molly was asleep when her text alert chimed. She didn’t hear it at first, but when it chimed again it startled her awake. Ever since the picture of the laundry, Molly had jumped with excitement every time she received a text. She hadn’t received anymore from Sherlock, but she kept the hope that she would. This time she was not disappointed. The picture was of a sunrise over a desert. She locked the image away in her mind before hitting delete.

The next morning, John accompanied Molly to her monthly prenatal appointment. At this one she would have an ultrasound to find out if she was having a boy or a girl.

“This is pretty exciting, isn’t it?” John asked her.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Molly replied.

“Have you been thinking about some names, then?” he asked her.

Had she been thinking about names? That was all she thought about, but they were all boy names, some version of Sherlock’s name that wouldn’t give away the fact that she was having his baby. She had the advantage to know his full name and that Sherlock was not his first name. When she had done the paperwork for Sherlock’s death certificate Mycroft had to fill in the name: William Sherlock Scott Holmes. William and Scott were both lovely and she tried them out in different combinations with different names. But she had not thought of one girl’s name. She wanted a boy.

“Um, I’ve thought of a few. Family names, that sort of thing.”

“So, will the baby have the father’s last name?” John asked. Molly had told him a dozen times if she had told him once, that she didn’t know the father’s last name, that she couldn’t remember his first name, and that he was out of the picture. However, every so often John would throw out a question such as this as if he thought she might tell him something different if he asked her in a different way.

“Nope. It will be Hooper just like mine. The father isn’t around so it doesn’t make much difference anyway, does it?” she asked with a smile.

John was holding Molly’s hand when the ultrasound technician entered the examination room.

“Good morning! What an exciting day for mum and dad!” she exclaimed. John and Molly just glanced at each other and smiled. They had been mistaken as a couple for so long now that they had given up trying to explain that they were just friends and that he was just here for moral support.

“Yes, it sure is!” Molly said with a big, put-on smile.

“Can’t wait!” John said with a smile to match hers.

The tech slid Molly’s gown above her growing baby bump and gently pulled the waist of her pants down to her hips. She squirted lubricating jelly all over Molly’s abdomen and pulled out the ultrasound wand. Carefully she rubbed the wand across Molly’s body.

“Ah, ha! There’s your baby!” she said as the baby appeared on the monitor. “Let me take a shot of that. There is the head, the spine, arms, and legs. Let’s see if we can get the baby to move a bit.” She softly pushed the wand across Molly’s abdomen trying to get a better angle. “Look! Look right there! Congratulations, Mum and Dad! It’s a boy!”

“It’s a boy?” asked Molly. “It’s a boy. It’s a boy, John!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, that is! Someone to carry on the family name,” John said with a wink at Molly. “By the way, what is that family name, dear?”

“Hooper.”

“Right, right.”

             The tech looked at them a bit strangely now, but continued. “Everything looks exactly as it should. He’s measuring right on track. Let me get a quick shot of this and I will print these pictures for you. Do you have any questions for me?”

             John looked the technician in the eyes, and with a straight face asked, “Yeah, when can we do a paternity test, because now that I see the baby’s tackle, I’m convinced I’m not the father.”

             The technician looked awkwardly from John to Molly and then John again. “Well, um, you would….that is when the baby is born…”

             John and Molly burst into laughter. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m just pulling your leg,” John told her. She looked relieved for a moment until he continued, “I already know I’m not the father,” and fell into another fit of giggles with Molly.

*******************************************************************************

             By December, Molly’s belly had grown to the size of a football and she felt like a duck, waddling everywhere she went.

             John came over on the second Saturday of the month, dragging in a Christmas tree.

             “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I thought you might like one and could use some help putting it up.”

             “Oh, John, it’s beautiful! How did you get it here, though?”

             “I bought it at a lot a few blocks over and paid one of the guys working there to drive me over.”

             “You shouldn’t have! I’ll have to go up to the attic to get my tree stand and decorations. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

             “Molly, don’t be ridiculous. You cannot climb up in the attic in your condition. Here, you put your hand here and hold it up so needles don’t fall out all over the floor and I’ll go get the stand and decorations. Where in the attic are they?”

             “There are two red boxes labeled ‘Christmas,’ and the stand should be sitting right on top of them. They are pretty close to the attic door, on the right side, I think.”

             “All righty then, back in a jiffy.”

             While John was upstairs, Molly’s text alert chimed. “Oh, bollocks!” she exclaimed as she realized her phone was in the kitchen on the table. John came thundering down the stairs.

             “Are you all right? I heard you yell out, but I couldn’t hear what you said.”

             “Oh, I’m sorry,” Molly answered sheepishly, “I was just swearing because my text alert went off and my phone is in the kitchen.

             John sighed, then chuckled. “I’ll go get it for you,” he said and turned to head to the kitchen.

             “No! It’s okay, I mean. I’m sure it’s not important. You go ahead and finish what you were doing. I’ll just check it when you get back.”

             John gave her a curious look, which he dismissed quickly. “All right, then. Won’t take me but a few minutes. I got the boxes and stand down to the landing. I’ll go ahead and grab the tree stand and get that on so you can let go of the tree and then I’ll bring the decorations down.”

             “Great. That’s great!”

             Ten minutes later, John and Molly were wrestling the tree into the tree stand when John decided to bring up a touchy subject.

             “So, have you heard from him?” John asked.

             The color drained from Molly’s face. “Hear from whom?” she almost whispered.

             “The father. Your baby’s father. I don’t know, I thought maybe he may have tried calling you. Or texting you….”

             “He’s gone. There is no contact. I’ve told you, John. Why do you keep bringing it up?” She was still pale and her voice still soft.

             “I just thought you might try to find him, let the bloke know he’s going to be a father. Find out his name at least. Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

             “I have no idea how to get in touch with him. I really don’t. I wouldn’t even know where to start, and I really just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

             John nodded. “All right then. I’m sorry, Molly.”

               Later, after John had left, Molly checked her phone. There was picture of what looked like an Asian monastery covered in snow.

             “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” she whispered. Delete.

***********************************************************************

For eight months John Watson had kept his promise. He went to birthing classes with Molly. He picked up Chinese food for her in the middle of the night when she called him with cravings. As her belly got big and round he ran errands for her and helped her with chores around her flat. He painted the nursery and put together baby furniture.  They grew to be very close and dear friends, but although Sherlock was never far from their minds, the hurt that it brought kept them from talking about him very much. It made Molly very nervous when they did; she was always afraid that she might let something slip about Sherlock’s fake death, thus betraying Sherlock’s trust in her.

*******************************************************************

On February 10, Molly got out of bed and went to work, but she was exhausted and could barely stay on her feet. She left early and went back to her flat where she spent the rest of the afternoon in bed.

John called to check on her that evening.

“I’m not feeling so well, John. I’m just exhausted.”

“How many weeks along are you now? Thirty-seven? Well, your technically full-term now. These last few weeks your baby is growing more rapidly, so it’s to be expected. Do you want me to come over and check your blood pressure? Are you hungry? I could bring you some food. Chinese? Fish and chips? Pasta?”

“No, I’m not hungry. I think I’ll just stay here in bed and watch telly and rest. I left work early today. Luckily, I am off the rest of the weekend. I just don’t think I have the energy to get out of bed.”

“Listen, I’ll call you in the morning see how you feel, and I’ll come by in the afternoon and bring some groceries and make you lunch. I’ll stay if you like. I can stay all weekend.”

“Thank you, John. You are so wonderful.”

John was true to his word and stayed the weekend. On Monday, Molly convinced him that she was feeling better and that he should go to work. She did feel well enough to get out of bed and eat some toast and eggs, but ultimately decided not to go into work herself.

At lunch time, she ate some more toast and some biscuits, but she soon felt nauseated and decided to go back to bed. She was still there at 4:00 when John called to check on her.

“Everything all right, Molly? I’m leaving the office in an hour. I could bring you a sandwich or something.”

“No, I ate earlier. I’m fine,” she told him, not wanting him to worry about her.

“Well, if you’re feeling better, I think I am going to go home after work, see that everything is all right, wash some clothes. I’ll come check on you first thing in the morning though.”

“Yes, that’s fine. You should get a proper night’s sleep in a real bed,” she said with a small laugh. She moaned and rolled over on her side, trying to get comfortable.

“What was that? Are you sure you are okay?”

“Yeah, just trying to get comfortable and I think at this point it’s just impossible. My back is killing me today.”

“Well, just give me a ring if you need anything. I’m just going straight home after work, like I said, I’ll come over first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you, John. You’re the best.”

 Molly slept on and off throughout the evening. Despite feeling nauseated and having a stomach ache, she forced herself to go to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. John had bought a bag of her favorite crisps, which she took with her, along with her tea, to the sofa where she sat and watched telly. She was feeling a bit better now and easily fell asleep again while watching a movie. Around ten she awoke needing to go to the toilet. Standing up made her feel dizzy, but she managed to get to the loo. Her stomach was hurting again and so was her back. She sat for about ten minutes on the toilet until the dizziness and the pains passed and then slowly made her way back to her bed. Molly lay down and drifted back to sleep, but thirty minutes later she awoke to more stomach and back pains. She tried to shift positions, but nothing was comfortable. Finally, she decided to get up and walk to the kitchen for some tea. The movement seemed to help, but soon she found herself in pain again.

“Wait a minute,” she said aloud to herself. “No, no, no, no! Oh, god!” She found her phone in the pocket of her dressing gown and started the timer. Seven minutes later she had another pain. She waited and timed it again. Eight minutes. Quickly she called John’s number. “Pick up, pick up, pick—John? John! I think I’m in labor. I’m having pains every 7 or 8 minutes. Can you come get me?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m putting my trousers on now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Just try to remember your breathing.”

John hung up and Molly sunk onto a chair. Then suddenly it hit her; she was going to give birth to Sherlock’s son and he didn’t even know she was pregnant. He wouldn’t be here with her for the birth of their son. She hadn’t even received a picture from him in two months; he could be dead. Dead and he’d never have known their son. She was sobbing, then crying harder than she ever had before. She had to pull herself together though and stood up to go get her packed bag from the bedroom. As soon as she stood up, her water broke and another contraction came, worse than before.

“Ow, ow, ow! Ah! Oh, god, John, please hurry!” She tried to do her breathing exercises, but the contractions were coming one right after the other now.

She soon heard John thundering up the stairs. He found her doubled over on her knees on the kitchen floor.

“Oh, god, Molly! Are you all right?” he asked, running to her side.

“NO, I’M NOT BLOODY ALL RIGHT!” she shouted. “I’M HAVING THIS BABY RIGHT NOW!”

“Right now? No, we’ve got to get you to hospital,” he insisted.

“There is no time, John! You are going to have to deliver this baby.”

“Me? No, we’re going to call you an ambulance. They’ll be here in no time.”

“John, you are not listening to me! This baby is coming right now and you have to deliver him.”

“Molly, I cannot deliver a baby.”

“You are a doctor, John!”

“So are you! How many have you delivered down in the morgue? Probably as many as I have delivered on the battlefield!”

“Suck it up, John! OWWWWW! I need you! I can’t do this without you, John,” Molly was sobbing now. “I can’t do this. I’m having Sherlock’s baby and he’s not here so I need you to be here and do this for me!”

John was silent for a moment. Then, choking back a sob of his own, he nodded. “Can you move?”

Molly shook her head, trying to hold back a scream of pain.

“Okay, I’m going to go get towels and pillows. Do you have an old blanket we can use?”

“Linen closet. Blue.”

 John ran to get linens to make Molly as comfortable as possible. When he returned to the kitchen, Molly was on her hands and knees, wincing in pain.

“John, I have to push!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” He spread the blanket on the kitchen floor and helped Molly ease down onto her back. “Right then, I’m going to have to pull down your knickers, Molly.”

“I think we are way past the point of modesty here, John,” she told him as he eased her gown up over her belly and began to pull Molly’s pants off. “I’ve got to push!” she yelled.

“Um, okay, let’s try this: bend your knees and push and I’ll try to get some more towels under your bum to lift it up and give us some more room to work with as the baby comes out.”

“What?!”

“Do you have a better idea? Have you done this before? Well, neither have I, so we try this and figure it out as we go. Now do it, and push!”

Three pushes later and the baby’s head was crowning. “You’re doing great, Molly, John told her. Give me a big push to get the shoulders out.”

“Oh, god! It hurts, John!”

“I know, Molly, but you can do this. Ready? Give me a big push then. Good, good, let me turn him a bit to get the shoulders through.”

“Ahhhhhhhh!”

“Okay, rest a moment. Breathe, Molly. When you’re ready, give me a couple more good, big pushes.”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, let’s do this. Let’s meet your baby boy.”

With three more pushes, the baby was out. John lay him carefully on the towels between Molly’s legs where he cleaned out his mouth and the Holmes-Hooper baby let out his first wail. John jumped up to get a knife from the block on the countertop.

“Stay still, just a moment, Molly. I’m going to get a knife to cut the cord and then I’ll hand him to you.” While he was up, he also took a twist-tie from a bread bag to make a clamp. He made quick work of it and wrapped the baby boy in a clean towel. He the handed him to Molly and helped her into a sitting position, sitting behind her for support.

“Oh, god, John,” she whispered. He’s so beautiful.” Molly started crying. “Look at his hair and his eyes; they’re just like Sherlock’s.”

“Molly, why didn’t you tell me?” John asked. “He was my best friend.”

Molly cried even more. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t—think about it, about him. It has hurt me so much. I wanted to tell you so many times. I thought that you knew because of all the questions you asked.”

“I think on some level I did. How long were you two…um, seeing one another?”

“It was just the one night, before he…and I felt so guilty and hurt because why didn’t I see it coming? Why did he make love to me and still do what he did? Why did he leave me? And then when I realized I was pregnant—I was almost devastated, but then I had to be glad that I had a piece of him with me. But I couldn’t have done this without you and your support, John. Thank you.”

John kissed Molly on the back of the head. “So, go on then, tell me the name.”

“I’ve thought about it a lot and I have decided William John Scott Hooper. I hope you don’t mind that I gave him your name.”

“I’m honored, Molly. So, you’re going to go with Hooper?”

“I think that is best, and safest, for us now.”

“I suppose you’re right,” John said. John glanced down at his watch. “Now let’s talk about something important.”

“Okay. What?” Molly asked, glancing back at him with a quizzical look on her face.

“Tell me about that tattoo on your hip.”

Molly laughed. “I’ve had it a couple of years now. I always wanted a tattoo, but was never brave enough to get one. Then my girlfriend, Emily, and I were on holiday and we just got a wild idea to go get tattoos. I didn’t know what to do, so I got a Harry Potter tattoo.

“Oh, that’s what it is! I’ve never read the books. Very interesting. It’s like you have this secret wild side that no one knows about.” John glanced at his watch. “It’s 12:20. I think that was the record for the fastest baby delivery on a kitchen floor ever. I’m going to call the ambulance now; you and the baby need to be checked over. Do you want me to call your mum, too?”

“Yes, thank you. Can we just wait a few more moments, though? Can we just sit here together, all of us, for a little bit longer.”

“Of course, Molly, of course.”

**********************************************************************

At nine o’clock later that morning, Molly was nursing William in her hospital room. She had finally convinced John to go home and take a shower and a nap. Her mum had gone down to the canteen to get some coffee. There was a rap on the door.

“Come in!” Molly said cheerfully. Her face fell when Mycroft Holmes entered the room.

“Don’t look so happy to see me, Ms. Hooper,” he said with his signature smirk.

“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, it’s just that it’s a surprise. What are you doing here?”

“Let’s not play games, Ms. Hooper. We both know why I’m here. I’m here to see my nephew.”

Molly paled. “How did you know?”

“I know everything worth knowing. I knew of your little escapade with my little brother before he left. This,” he said, waving his hand toward William, “was a rather easy deduction.” Mycroft looked smugly at Molly’s shocked face. “What’s his name?”

It took Molly a moment to find her voice. “William John Scott Hooper.”

“Hmm. How sweet. I am going to assume that Sherlock has not been in touch with you in any way and that he doesn’t know?”

“That’s right. Why would Sherlock contact me? He’s not stupid. He knows he can’t risk being found out.” In the back of her mind Molly was worried that Mycroft already knew the truth, that Sherlock had already risked his safety by texting the pictures to her. As if on cue, her text alert went off and she jumped.

“Are you all right, Ms. Hooper?” Mycroft asked her in his oily voice.

“I’m fine, but you make me nervous showing up here. What do you really want? Why are you here?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “As much as I may disapprove of my brother’s indiscretion with you, I feel obligated to ensure that his son is taken care of in the manner that he deserves.”

“I don’t want your money, Mycroft!” Molly told him.

“I am not offering you money, per se. I just want to guarantee that William’s every need is taken care of, beginning with nursery school. I’ll be able to forego the requisite waiting list at any that you desire, though I have my own recommendations. Tuition will also be paid at the best primary and prep schools. Books, uniforms, everything.

“You don’t have to give me an answer now, Ms. Hooper, but do think about it. This child is a Holmes, and as such he will be privy to much opportunity.”

“Is that all, Mycroft?” Molly asked curtly.

“There is one more thing. Should my brother make it back from his mission, I think it best that we keep William a secret. His life is too dangerous, too unstable. It would be best for William.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” Molly said, staring at him icily.

“Good day, Molly.”

*******************************************************************************

In the corridor, John was just stepping off the lift when Mycroft exited Molly’s room.

“Mycroft? I didn’t expect to see you here,” John said with a curious look on his face.

“Just here to offer my congratulations to Ms. Hooper,” he said with a smug smile. Then he became more serious as he asked, “How are you, John? How are you coping?”

“Well, I’m…yeah, I’m….okay.”

“You left Baker Street.”

“Yeah, I left a few weeks after—I just couldn’t stay there. Too many memories. Too many ghosts. How are you?”

“I won’t lie; I miss him. I can’t help but feel as if it was my fault, that I could have stopped it.”

“Well, you should feel guilty because it was your fault. You fed Moriarty all that information about your brother and he used it to destroy him. Being a detective was all he had, all that he loved, and Moriarty made everyone think that he was a fraud and question all the good work that he had ever done, and that’s on you, Mycroft. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see my friend.”

John pushed past Mycroft, who watched with sadness as John disappeared into Molly’s room.

 *********************************************************************

“John! What are you doing here? You were supposed to go home and get some sleep!” Molly exclaimed as John walked into her room.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Um, so, I just ran into Mycroft out in the corridor. What was he doing here?”

“He came in to congratulate me. Odd really. I hardly know him.” Molly felt very uncomfortable lying to John. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t lying as much as not telling him the whole truth.

“Yes, it is quite odd. He was saying to me that he missed his brother and that he felt that it was his fault that…everything happened the way that it did. And I told him that he’s bloody right that it’s his fault.”

“John! You didn’t!”

“I did. He gave Moriarty the information that he used against Sherlock. Thanks to Mycroft, Moriarty was able to plant that seed of doubt in everyone’s minds about him.” John paused. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Well, maybe that’s why Mycroft came today. If he’s missing Sherlock and feeling guilty, perhaps he wanted to see Sherlock’s friends so he could feel closer to his brother.”

“Maybe,” John said. “Sod him though. We’ve been getting on fine without him.”

“Yeah,” Molly said quietly in agreement.

 Later, after John and her mother had left her so she could rest, Molly pulled out her phone. There was a picture of kites. What were the chances that he just happened to contact her on the day that their son was born? Had Mycroft been in contact with him too? Did he know where Sherlock was? Had Mycroft passed him the information? That didn’t seem likely since he seemed so keen on keeping it from Sherlock “should” he make it back from his mission. Perhaps there were other contacts here in London that were keeping Sherlock informed somehow? He did have an extensive “homeless network” throughout the city. He could have found some clever way for them to get information to him without being detected. Then again, it may have just been a coincidence. Molly looked at the kites again. There were many different colors and shapes flying against a cloudless blue sky. That was all that was in the picture; the people on the other ends of the strings were unseen. Perhaps it would have been telling of where he was if you could see them or their surroundings. She closed her eyes and then hit delete.

[duchess325-blog]

Five days until the return of #SherlockPBS…