The Emotional Children

XXXIX

"And make sure you let her know what's going on! I don't want to have to answer any questions at the moment."

She didn't answer, and Sherlock wasn't sure she had caught the last bit...hopefully she had. He was in no mood to explain...only to command, order, and execute. Things were happening in his brain, and he didn't need things getting in the way of the well-oiled cogs functioning properly.

"Hey, Sherlock," Molly said, as she entered the flat. Rosie was waddling beside her and holding her hand. Mrs. Hudson scooped her up as Molly began chatting.

"How...how're you holding up? John called and wanted me to check up on you. Another overdose? Again? You need to learn when to stop, Sherlock. You can keep doing this to yourself!"

"Yes, but I'm fine now. Don't trouble yourself. Everything's fine, and I need you for something else entirely. Assuming Mrs. Hudson didn't explain what's going on, I need you to help Mrs. Hudson turn me into a homeless man before John gets back as part of an elaborate scheme to save England and bring my wife back into the country."

Molly's face turned bright red.

"W-wife?!?"

"Ohh, dammit, did I say wife?" Sherlock groaned. He had meant to break the news gently. Well, it was out now, and it couldn't be helped.

"Oh, Sherlock, I—erm...congratulations! I—I had—had absolutely no idea..." Molly said, stuttering as if her tongue was covered in warts. Her cheeks were glowing embers.

"No? That's good—that was the point of all this. No one was supposed to know. It was a government scheme of my brother's. Too long to explain. Much too confidential. Anyway!" he said, marching toward the bathroom, "follow me ladies!"

Plopping Rosie into Molly's arms, Mrs. Hudson led the way to the bathroom.

"What exactly...are we doing, then?" Molly asked, looking alarmed as she followed the two of them into the bathroom with Rosie in her arms. Why on earth was she following Sherlock Holmes into a bathroom?

...

John Watson was trying to keep his head from blowing up.

"Can't I just—"

"NO!" John hollered, smacking the hand of a one Bill Wiggins, who had (moments prior) politely asked to turn on the car's built-in heater.

"OW!" Bill hollered, massaging his throbbing hand. "Ya broke mah fingers, ya did!" he said in his thick Cockney drawl. He looked at John as though he were looking at Britain's most wanted criminal.

"Oh, I did not. I only smacked you. Now keep your grubby paws off these controls! No one is touching anything in this car," John emphatically declared, trying to keep his eyes on the road. Baker street was only two minutes away. He hoped God would give him enough patience to survive until then.

"But isso bloody cold in 'ere!" Bill went on like a toddler whining for ice cream.

"Then freeze, for God's sake. I couldn't care less. I don't even know why you're here," John exploded, throwing up his hands for a brief moment.

"'Cause Sherlock Holmes asked for me, thass why," he proclaimed, looking self-important and ridiculously pleased with himself in all of his homeless glory.

"Yeah, well don't get used to it," John mumbled as they came to a red light.

"Why you so keen on keepin' this car clean, anyhow?" Bill asked, studying the doctor eagerly.

"Because," John began, "it's not mine. It's Mrs. Hudson's, and she—"

"Wha—?!" Bill interjected, his drugged-up eyes growing wider than John had ever seen them. "This is Hudders's car? Well, blimey, I—I never—whaddya know?"