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The last thing Molly Hooper wants to do is leave her flat only minutes after returning home from a grueling day at the hospital. Tugging off her work clothes and pulling on some yoga pants and a bobbly jumper, she scowls at her mobile from across the room as it buzzes a second time, persistent in its efforts to notify her of a new text message.
She knows who sent it. Normally she’d gladly respond. But not today. Not when her feet ache and her back hurts from a day bent over corpses. Her commute home had been its own kind of murder. No, what Molly needs is a box of Jaffa cakes, a pot of tea, and the latest episode of the Great British Bake Off queued up on her DVR.
Shuffling her way to the kitchen, Molly finally lights up her mobile screen to read the waiting text.
“Please respond when en route,” she mimics in an unflattering imitation of Sherlock’s deep voice. “Must decline,” she drafts her response aloud as she readies her tea. “Am otherwise occupied. Please try again later.” Snickering to herself, she convinces herself to type just that once she’s done preparing her supper.
It’s only as she’s settling in front of the telly that she notices something’s off.
Her flat’s quiet. Too quiet.
She doesn’t want to go so far as to call her cat clingy, but he normally is on her the moment she comes through the front door. It doesn’t matter if it’s after a fourteen hour shift or if she’s merely popped down to the lobby of her building to fetch her post. To Toby, it’s been a lifetime. In fact, she’s had to google “how to stop cat from biting ankles when he wants attention.”
And then she remembers the last few times Sherlock’s been over. The way he’s stared at Toby with narrowed eyes and casual—well, casual for Sherlock—comments about the cat’s laziness and, “Really, Molly, cats need to roam.” Which is when she looks up and notices the note stuck to the peephole on her front door. Even from across the room, she recognizes the messy scrawl.
Around the Jaffa cake she’d stuffed in her mouth, a melodramatic moan escapes. Heaving herself to her feet, she trudges over to the already hated note, chewing angrily.
The note is short and to the point, but its few words are more than enough to flood her with dread.
“Damn it,” she whispers, already shucking her slippers for her runners. As she clatters down the stairs, she replies to Sherlock’s text.
His return message is immediate. Molly decides she won’t even dignify it with a response.
Fifteen minutes later, she hurries out of the Lancaster Gate Underground station, gasping for fresh air after an uncomfortable train ride smashed against the plexiglas partition by her seat. City boy manspread during peak hours is a true malady of society.
Just as she’s fetches her mobile out of her pocket, intent on calling Sherlock to find out just where the hell he is, she spots Toby across the road. At least, it looks like Toby. She doubts there are two ginger cats milling about the entrance to Kensington Gardens, but she also can’t recall ever owning a hot pink, rhinestone harness currently strapped to the cat, nor the matching leash hooked onto the harness. The cat lies on his side in the grass, refusing to walk despite an old man futilely tugging on the lead. The man paces back and forth, dragging the cat with him.
“Who—” she starts to ask aloud, impatiently waiting for the pedestrian signal to change. It’s only as she makes it halfway across the road that the old man reaches long fingers into his tweed waistcoat and extracts a mobile. Immediately, she recognizes both the mobile’s protective case and the hand holding it.
This is what it feels like to be world-weary, Molly realizes with a forlorn sigh as she trots over to a disguised Sherlock and a boneless Toby.
Sherlock—made over fairly convincingly as an old man, prosthetic wrinkles and all—narrows his eyes when he spots Molly, but she too concerned for her cat to care. She doesn’t think she’s imagining the look in Toby’s feline eyes. It’s a look that says, ‘And so, Death, this is how we meet.’
“Sherlock,” she says, not bothering to greet him cordially. “What are you doing? And why did you steal my cat? He could escape—“
“I’m saving your cat, Molly,” Sherlock interrupts, continuing to yank on the lead. “He needs exercise and a grain-free diet. I wouldn’t have guessed you for the sort to neglect her pet so direly. And I know you can see that the lump isn’t going anywhere, even if he weren’t harnessed and tethered.”
Molly kneels down by Toby, stroking his side. “He was at the vet last week for a check-up. He is underweight for his breed, in fact, because he was on a grain-free diet. He decided he didn’t care for it and went on a hunger strike. That’s why he’s eating the cat equivalent of bangers and mash now.”
“Fine,” Sherlock capitulates. “Your cat needs exercise all the same. How do you expect him to be a sleek, killing machine if he can only gaze at passing pigeons out of your flat’s sorry excuse for double glazing?”
“I don’t want a sleek killing machine.”
“Then perhaps you should have gotten a guinea pig. Perhaps that would be more your speed,” he suggests tartly, dragging the cat another couple of feet.
Molly follows after them on her knees, telling herself that her headache will be short-lived, if she can just go home soon. Arguing with Sherlock while he’s dressed like an octogenarian and dragging her cat back and forth across the grass is not her idea of an evening well spent. And yet, here she is, rising to his bait.
“I wanted a cat, and they live much longer if they’re kept inside. Besides, I’ve read more than once that domestic cats allowed outside are adversely impacting ecosystems. They’re killing too many birds.”
“Can you blame them?” Sherlock mutters darkly, eying a cluster of pigeons waddling around nearby.
“No. Cats will be cats. But Toby was born under an unlucky star, I guess, since I have no plans to change my mind.” She straightens. “And on that note, time to take him home. I don’t suppose you brought him in a carrier?”
“Hmm, no. I wrapped him in a towel for our taxi ride.” He waves absently over to a forlorn pile of shredded terrycloth, which she now recognizes as one of her nice, guest towels.
“Sherlock…” she sighs.
Predictably, he shows no hint of remorse. Instead, he withdraws a bundle of notes from his tweed, blindly handing them off to her. “Let me know if that doesn’t cover it. I prefer Egyptian cotton. And buy bath sheets this go-round. Nobody likes a small towel.”
She somehow doubts her replacement towels will cost—she peels the notes apart, eyes bugging as she counts—£650. Taking sixty quid, she reaches over and stuffs the remainder back into his pocket.
“I’d rather you check with me before you take the cat, next time. And when you do, I’d also rather you use his carrier. It’s in the spare bedroom’s closet.”
Sherlock shrugs noncommittally.
Changing the subject, Molly studies the consulting detective. “What’s going on with this?” She waves a hand around, indicating all of Sherlock.
“Ah, that,” he says, straightening a plaid bowtie modestly. “I’m doing some reconnaissance. I normally don’t care for intricate disguises, but I do try to keep up practice with them, in case I ever need to walk through a crowded place unrecognized.”
“And you figured nothing says ‘incognito’ quite like a suspiciously spry old man walking a cat in Central London?”
Sherlock huffs in annoyance. “It’s a low risk case that I’m doing as a favor to Mary. She thinks some of the employees at Ella’s crèche are up something and she asked me to tail him.”
“And?” Molly prods.
He shrugs. “So far I’ve observed that the man has a gambling problem and he eats entirely too much fiber. He’s in the toilet right now. Nothing dangerous so far, though.”
“That’s good. But why’d you need my cat for it?”
“As I’ve said,” he insists, annoyed, “look how much happier old Toby is, out here with nature.”
“It’s almost embarrassing just how overjoyed he is,” she agrees drily, nudging the cat with her toe in hopes of rousing him.
“And why shouldn’t he be?” Sherlock asks. “He’s getting a breath of fresh air on a lovely evening. I even thought I’d lure one of those escaped budgies over here for Toby to give chase. That’d make his day.”
“Only if you’re willing to deworm him after,” she says with a fake, saccharine smile.
Sherlock’s lip curls. “Fine then. Be on your way with your functionless pet.”
“Will do,” she says. “Try not to fall into the Serpentine. And don’t forget to stop by the shops for some prune juice.”
“You kill me, really,” Sherlock deadpans, though he says it as he ducks his head to press a conciliatory kiss to Molly’s cheek.
Before she can pick Toby up, though, Sherlock gives a mirthless chuckle. “Well, well, well. Shady dealings in a public park. Naughty.”
She follows his gaze, landing on two men some ten meters away. They’re speaking too quietly for her to hear what they’re saying, but the way their eyes dart around is evidence enough that they’re up to no good.
When one of them palms something handed to him by the other, Sherlock’s lips curl in satisfaction, and he strides off towards them. Unfortunately, he’s not relinquished his hold on Toby’s lead, so he drags the limp cat along behind him. Molly tries hissing his name, but he remains oblivious.
Alas, his subtle disguise isn’t inconspicuous enough. The first man sees Sherlock approaching and gives a warning shout. He and his companion take off running, scattering in opposite directions. Sherlock goes after the man who’d spotted him first, but he only makes it a few steps before he comes to a halt, cursing colorfully as he turns, scoops Toby up, and takes off running again.
They weave through the park, circling back down the walking path, through the Italian Gardens, and then further afield. Eventually, the man makes it out to the roadside. Luck is on his side as he jumps on a waiting bus just before its doors close, and Sherlock skids to a stop, muttering viciously even as he scratches Molly’s poor cat under the chin.
Clutching a stitch in her side, Molly staggers up alongside Sherlock. “Toby,” is all she says, firmly.
“Yes, yes, sorry, sorry,” Sherlock says hurriedly, unceremoniously dumping the cat in her arms. “I need to make it to that bus’ next stop before it does.” And then, with a salute to Molly, he takes off running.
“This is the man we’ve chosen to love,” she says resignedly to Toby. He only meows pathetically in response. “That doesn’t help. You really are useless. You know that, right?”
Toby doesn’t answer. Pressing a kiss to the cat’s fluffy head, Molly waves down a taxi.
Sherlock lets himself into Molly’s flat two hours later, back in his usual clothing and out of disguise. He eyes her where she’s settled into the sofa, finally watching her recorded GBBO episode.
On spotting Sherlock looming in the doorway, Toby goes tearing off, dragging the lead with him as he disappears down the hallway to hide somewhere. He’d been sitting in her lap, vindictively shredding the leash that had so recently and cruelly tethered him. She hadn’t had the heart to take it away from him and she only hoped Sherlock wasn’t too attached to its gaudy rhinestones.
“Did you catch your man?” she asks distractedly, frowning at an utterly unappealing game pie that a contestant has just produced.
“Yes. It turns out, as ever, that Mary was right. Owen Phillips, one of the employees at the crèche, was trying to start up a toddler Fight Club.” At Molly’s appalled gasp, he scoffs as he sheds his coat. “He didn’t get very far. As far as I can tell, most of the employees knew nothing of it, but I’ve advised Mary and John to seek alternate childcare. I’ve volunteered myself as nanny.”
Molly sits up quickly. “You do know that you can’t put leashes on infants, right?” she asks with pretend urgency.
“Ha. Ha. I happen to be very good with babies. To my chagrin.” His tone suggests the greath depth of such a burden.
“And what did they say to your offer?”
Sherlock moves to the sofa, lowering down and stretching out with his head in her lap. She feigns ignorance when he arches an eyebrow expectantly. Huffing, he reaches for her hand and puts it on the crown of the head, confident that she’s received the message.
When Molly rolls her eyes and starts combing her fingers through his hair, Sherlock answers her question. “Mary was intrigued, John said absolutely not.”
“So, in other words, you’re Ella’s new nanny.”
His eyes close and he goes boneless, sort of like Toby on a leash. “Part time. For some reason, they did agree that I shouldn’t take her on too many cases. I guess they want their child to be a simpleton.”
“Yeah,” Molly agrees with a playful tug on his hair, “that must be it.”
“I can hear you smiling,” he mutters. “I find your cynicism off-putting.”
“So sorry, sir,” she says, but she’s now grinning outright, and it only widens when Sherlock opens one eye to glare at her.
Put upon, Sherlock turns his head to the telly. They watch in silence for a few minutes.
Eventually, Toby creeps back out and jumps (with more gusto than necessary, Molly can’t help but notice) onto Sherlock’s stomach. It forces air out of his lungs, but he just sneers at the cat even as he allows Toby to bump heads with him repeatedly.
“You know, your comment about Toby needing stimulation got me thinking,” she says casually.
“That’s good, because he’ll probably only live another decade. You’ll want to make it worthwhile for him.”
She pulls on his hair again. “The only reason I noticed Toby wasn’t at home this evening was because he wasn’t underfoot, biting me every time I walked away from him. I think he gets quite lonely being stuck here all day with no company.”
“And you’re thinking, what, that you’ll get a second cat so they can energetically ignore each other while they sleep?”
She snorts. “Actually, I was thinking maybe we could consolidate living spaces….” She stops herself from saying, ‘Which might not be much better than a second cat, as far as energetic ignorance goes.’
Sherlock opens both eyes and studies her. “Finally coming round to it, are you? That’s a relief. Unless you object, I think Baker Street is ideal for a cohabitating couple. Enough room for us both to live comfortably. Besides, I have been steadily moving some of your less-used belongings over there. Might as well not redouble my efforts”
“Y—you have?” she asks, looking around for what’s no longer there.
He waves the question away as silly. “Obviously. Why you need a sewing machine when you can’t sew is beyond me, but it’s nice to dream, I suppose. We can begin packing in earnest tonight. I’ve some boxes stored down in your garden shed. We’ll move the rest over the weekend. You’ll notify your landlord of your intentions to vacate at the end of the month?”
“Sure,” she says faintly, whiplashed by Sherlock’s eagerness to shack up with her.
He nods, satisfied that it’s settled. “I’m also thinking we need a dog. I can’t always be around for Toby and I worry Mrs. Hudson will try to stuff him into miniature sailor suits if we ask her to keep him company.” Pulling out his mobile, he thumbs through his bookmarks in Safari. “I’m sending you a couple of links for nearby rescues that meet our criteria. I’m rather partial to Irish Setters, but if you have reservations, I can be convinced to go for one that’s all or part Retriever.”
Dumbfounded, Molly blinks at him. “Good idea,” she finally manages.
Sherlock scoffs, gently pushing Toby off of his chest so he can roll over and press a smacking kiss to her knee before resting his chin there, the better to look at pictures of available adoptees on his mobile screen. “You say it like it’s a surprise. Good ideas are the only kind I have.”
Though she might not necessarily agree with such a broad generalization, she can’t help but think that Sherlock settling down with her is their best idea yet.
