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“Sherlock? I know I’m early, but you said it was important that I come over after my shift and Doctor Rich-“ Molly came to a dead stand still in the doorway to Sherlock’s kitchen. She took in the strange man standing in front of the hob stirring something in a pan with a wooden spoon. Whatever was in the pan smelled absolutely lovely, some kind of mouth-watering curry. But still . . . “You’re not Sherlock.”
“Hullo, Missus. Home early?” He brought the spoon up to his mouth, tasted the sauce, and grimaced. His hand hovered over a row of spice jars before snatching one up and shaking a sprinkle of seasoning into the pan; then he shrugged and shook the jar twice more. “Curry powder. I told him the sauce was too bland the way he’d done it, but Shezza insisted on following the recipe to the letter.” The man winked at her over his shoulder. “I won’t tell him we gave it a bit of a tweak if you don’t.”
“I . . . What?” Molly had no idea what was going on. She didn’t think she’d ever even seen Sherlock’s kitchen used to prepare food before. Add to that oddity, the lanky man who seemed to have made himself at home and who appeared to be wearing a frilly pink pinny over his jeans and thread-bare jumper.
He shrugged. “I spent a few weeks crashing in the basement of a tenement across from the best curry place in Southwark. I picked up a few pointers from the bloke who washes the dishes.”
Molly opened her mouth and then shut it. After a moment she tried again. “What?”
“Do you know you keep sayin’ that?” He stirred the sauce one more time, then adjusted the heat to let it simmer. He pulled open the fridge and dug out a bottle of water. “You want one? There’s also wine, but I think that’s meant for the meal.” She shook her head no. He leaned against the fridge door and opened his water.
“I hate to be rude, but where’s Sherlock?” More importantly, had he been murdered and cut up for curry by a strange madman?
Molly considered that she should probably stop marathoning episodes of “Hannibal” on DVD if that was the sort of thing that wasn’t going to come to mind whenever she was confronted with something out of the norm.
“Took Mrs H to A&E.” At her alarmed look he rushed to reassure her. “Just twisted her ankle. Tripped over the rug.” He nodded toward the sitting room and Molly finally noticed how clean and neat everything was. Papers, magazines, and books had been carefully stacked and shifted out of the way. The top of Sherlock’s dining table/desk had been cleared and set with two place settings, complete with wine glasses.
She turned back to the scruffy man in the pinny again, searching his features because something about him seemed vaguely familiar. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
He nodded. “You could say that; although we weren’t formerly introduced at the time. Wiggins. Bill Wiggins. At your service.”
The memory came to her. The day John and Mary had brought Sherlock to Barts for a drug test. “Not the best of circumstances for a first meeting, was it?” She sheepishly smiled. “I’m Molly Hooper.”
“I know who you are, Missus. I’ve heard all about you. Shezza was always going on about Molly this, Molly that when he was . . . indisposed last summer.”
Indisposed last summer? He must have meant when Sherlock was high off his arse during the Culverton Smith case. “Oh! You’re Billy! The one who-“
“Kept him from OD’ing,” Bill supplied. He met her eyes, posture stiff and expectant as if he was waiting for her to rail at him.
As much as she wanted to, she knew Sherlock well enough to know he would have gone ahead with his plan whether or not someone was there to monitor his usage. Molly pulled out one of the kitchen chairs. This was beginning to feel like a “make yourself comfortable, it’s going to be a long night” sort of situation. “Yes, well. Thank you for that, in case Sherlock never got around to saying it.”
A flash of surprise washed across Bill’s face, then disappeared as quickly as it came. He nodded and turned back to the hob. “You like curry chicken, Missus?”
“Yeah, it’s one of my favourites, actually.” Bill nodded as if that was exactly the answer he’d been expecting. Her gaze was drawn to the intimate set up on the dining table again, and a small blossom of hope bloomed in her chest. “Do you know, uhm, do you have any idea why Sherlock asked me to come over tonight?”
He hadn’t said in the text, just asked her to come to Baker Street and that it was very important.
She and Sherlock had only spoken a handful of times since the infamous phone call. The first time had been less than twelve hours after he’d nearly destroyed her, and he’d explained the entire thing – his sister, the island prison, the tests, and the reason for making her say what she’d said. Clearly, she’d meant the words, and he had assured her that he’d meant his as well . . . and that was where they’d stalled. He’d actually stood up, said “I’m glad we’ve got that settled then”, leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, and left. He never brought any of it up again, actually going so far as looking a bit panicked anytime Molly came near him during the last two weeks; and Molly hadn’t managed to get him alone, and she was certainly not going to bring it up while Greg or John were listening.
“Dinner.”
That much was obvious. She was hoping for a slightly more informative answer.
He shrugged and continued adding chicken to the curry sauce. “Then a good shag, I would guess. Gotta break in the new furniture sometime, right?”
Molly choked hard enough that Bill dropped the spoon and grabbed another bottle of water out of the fridge for her. “You all right, Missus?”
She caught her breath and drank some of the water to ease the burn in her throat. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you say ‘shag’?”
“Sorry. That was rude, what’n’it. Make love, then.”
“We don’t-we aren’t . . .” Molly sputtered. “I think you’re a bit confused. Sherlock isn’t interested in that sort of thing with me. Maybe you’re thinking of one of his past girlfriends. Janine or-or-Why are you shaking your head?”
Bill waved the spoon in her direction. “Definitely you, Missus. He’s been wanting to get into your knickers for ages. I figured it was only a matter of time. He used to say ‘smart really is the new sexy’ and then laugh and start talkin’ about his Molly’s perky little tits.”
She choked again.
“One night he just kept going on and on about your arse and how perfect it was. Couldn’t get him to stop, actually. Said it was just right for-“
“All right, Billy, that’s enough!” Sherlock’s voice drowned out the rest of Bill’s sentence.
Molly stared at Sherlock standing in the kitchen doorway, still wearing his Belstaff and scarf.
“Curry should be done in another ten minutes, kept an eye on it like I promised. Even entertained the Missus while you were out.” Bill grinned.
“I noticed.” Sherlock sighed and reached up to pull off his scarf. “I can take it from here, if you would be so kind as to bugger off.”
“If you’re sure?” Bill snickered when Sherlock sent a glare his direction. “Right then, I’m off.” He slipped the pinny over his head and folded it up, dropping it on the counter. “Make sure that gets back to Mrs H or she’ll have my head. Night, Sherlock. Missus.”
Molly nodded, then held out her hand to stop him from leaving. “Why do you keep calling me that. Missus, I mean?”
“Cause that’s what you are. Shezza’s Missus. Everyone knows that.”
Sherlock reappeared after hanging up his coat. “Billy, don’t you have somewhere—anywhere—to be? Now.” he rumbled in warning.
She let Bill leave.
Sherlock clear his throat and nodded toward the dining table in the sitting room. “So, dinner?”
“Dinner sounds lovely.”
He released a deep breath, obviously relieved that she was willing to stay.
“Or-“ Molly stood and moved to the hob. She turned the heat off and moved the pan to a different ring. “Or we could skip right to the shagging. Bill pointed out that you’ve got quite a lot of new furniture to break in.” She bit her lower lip and waited to see how Sherlock was going to react.
He blinked several times, enough times to make her start to worry. He came out of it and cleared his throat. “Billy is a wise man with a very valid point.”