"Alright, you two!"
Mrs. Hudson barged into the living room, her little hands on her hips, and her voice bursting with matronly authority.
John and Mycroft had been sitting in silence in the living room of 221b Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson's private conversation with Sherlock had lasted for one whole hour. Now here she was, commanding attention like a captain commands his men.
"That's enough of sitting down, isn't it? We've things to do, boys..."
Mycroft opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but the old woman was too quick for him and promptly closed it.
"Not one word from you, Mycroft Holmes!" she scolded, pointing a thin finger at him. "I need you to get to your office now and standby on the telephone for a call from me. Off you go! Shoo, shoo!" she said, motioning impatiently toward the door.
Sherlock emerged from behind the landlady, and upon seeing him, Mycroft revolted.
"Sherlock, what the hell is going on? You don't expect me to—"
"I expect you to do what is required of you, Mycroft. Just get to your office. I'll be on the phone with you shortly and will explain everything. For now, just go."
Holding in what seemed to be all of hell itself, Mycroft Holmes shut his mouth and marched out of the door muttering indiscernible curses and threats. Sherlock only smiled to himself and cleared his throat.
"Erm...Sherlock, what actually is going on?" John asked.
"No time to explain now. Just know that I need you to run to the car storage down the street and fetch Mrs. Hudson's car. Don't crash it and be back here in ten minutes."
Mrs. Hudson threw a pair of keys at the confused doctor, who caught them before they hit him on the nose. Apart from the confusion, he was secretly delighted; he'd always wanted a go on Mrs. Hudson's car.
"You mean, I get to drive your car?" he asked the woman, trying not to grin too much.
"Only this once, John Watson," she said. "And if you so much as scratch the paint, I swear, I will have you pay for the damages!" she added, her voice suggesting real consequences.
"Y-yeah...okay," he said, hesitantly.
"Oh, and John," Sherlock said, before the doctor headed out the door, "if you happen to meet Billy down at the car storage, bring him back, would you? I'm going to need him here as well."
"Billy?!?" John demanded.
"Yes, Bill Wiggins! I'm going to need him here, so do be polite and let him in the car."
"And are you two in on this then?" John asked, pointing his finger between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. "And I'm just supposed to...play along and do what you tell me? Is that it?"
Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock exchanged glances, and the old woman turned to John with a broad smile on her face and said in her sweetest little voice, "Oh, be a dear, John...the game is on! Now you hurry up and fetch my car, will you?"
John couldn't say no and was gone not a second later.
"Sherlock, Molly's just arrived," Mrs. Hudson said, going to the window and peeking through the thin curtains. "She's brought Rosie, too."
"Oh, lovely, do show her up, Mrs. Hudson, she can help us in our little endeavor. She's good with these kinds of things."
"Of course, Sherlock," she said, running daintily toward the stairs to let Molly in.
"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?"
"So then don't touch it. You don't want to get on her bad side, do you, Billy?" John asked, calling the man by the name Sherlock always used for him.
"Whaddya call me?" Bill asked, narrowing his eyes and looking something like a ninja as he eyed John from his seat. The blood in John's head started turning cold. Damn! What a stare he had!
"Billy...that's what Sherlock always calls you, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but he's Sherlock Holmes...he ain't you! Ain't no one calls me Billy but Sherlock Holmes, and thassa fact. You 'ear? I'm Bill to you or Wiggy. Thass it. You got it, bub?"
John laughed awkwardly.
"Yeah, alright, fine. Whatever."
Bill eyed John from his little corner of the passenger seat for a while, and John shuffled uncomfortably in the driver's side, refusing to make eye contact with him but feeling his gaze burning the side of his face all the same. Eventually, Bill looked away and John's cheek started to cool off. Thank God.
When they arrived at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them on the street. Apparently, she had been eagerly watching for their arrival, and at the sight of her car coming around the bend, she seemed incredibly relieved. John may or may not have taken mild offence to this.
"Keys," she said as soon as he had parked and set foot out of the car.
"Yeah, nice to see you too," John said, planting the keys in her open palm with aggression. She only sported her adorable, matronly smile and clasped her thin fingers around them with a frightening greed.
"Mrs. H," Bill drawled, stepping out of the car and keeping his hood over his head mysteriously, like a dapper hero in a dark cloak. Upon closer look, John realized that he was now wearing a pair of dark shades over his eyes. This made the doctor roll his eyes.
"Ah, Billy," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling sweetly. "Been so long since we've seen you! How've you been holding up?"
"Best as I can, mahm," he said, doing his best to smile. "What's Shezzah up to?"
John mouthed the word "Shezzah" and looked ready to fall on the pavement in a heap of laughter. Mrs. Hudson and Bill, on the other hand, looked completely serious, so John promptly tightened his face back into its normal position.
"He's glad to have you back, that's for sure. Come on inside," she said, heading toward the door while John's brow wrinkled. "Glad to have him back?"
As they made their way to the upstairs, John could hear Rosie laughing and Molly making quizzical statements like "I honestly can't believe what we've done to you, Sherlock" and "you hardly look the same at all, it's amazing!"
"Ah, there you are, Billy. Hope you didn't crash the car, John," he could hear Sherlock say as they made their way into the flat. Upon seeing the detective, John almost fainted.
Sherlock Holmes had ceased to exist, and in his place was the exact twin of Bill Wiggins. His hair had been dirtied up, his forehead was somewhat extended, his nose looked pointier at the end, and his teeth were grimy when he smiled.
"Sherlock!" John cried, almost having to grab at the doorpost for support. "What the hell is going on?" he asked, coming up to the detective and inspecting his face, to make sure it was really him. If it weren't for the familiarity of the voice, he would have sworn he was looking at a complete stranger.
"Oi, whassup, Shez?" Bill asked, shaking his hand. "Never minded 'aving a twin 'afore. They'll never guess it was ya. Iss bound ta werk."
For the millionth time in the last few minutes, John's brow furrowed once again.
"What's...bound to work?" he asked.
Sherlock only grinned from behind his disguise.
"Billy, do you mind accompanying me to the bathroom? Oh, and Mrs. Hudson, can you get Mycroft on the phone?" Sherlock asked as both he and Billy marched toward the bathroom. John looked a bit concerned at what the dirt on Billy's clothing would do to the floor...and what Sherlock had up his sleeve in the bathroom.
The doctor was still wondering how Sherlock had managed to change his facial features so expertly. He turned to the only one in the room who could possibly give an explanation: Mrs. Hudson.
"So how long did you do disguises for your husband's drug cartel?" John asked, raising an eyebrow at the timid old woman. She blushed. "I thought it was just typing," he added, letting a smile grace his lips.
"Well, when it wasn't typing, it was doing make up and prosthetics for my husband's boys. I may or may not have had a few supplies left to work with in my kitchen, John Watson."
John laughed.
"You might as well have a bomb in your kitchen, and we'd never know," he said, chuckling until his face turned red.
It was then that he noticed Molly. She was standing in the window and looking down through a slit in the closed curtains at the empty street below.
"You...doing alright, Molly?" he asked, coming up beside her and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Hmm?" she asked, upon hearing her name.
Her face was deathly pale, and her eyes looked red. Not from crying, but from keeping them open in a daze for too long.
"Oh, yeah, sorry, John," she said, blushing (which brought a little pink to her otherwise cold cheeks). "Sherlock just surprised me, that's all."
John laughed again.
"Yeah, well, he does that to the best of us. That disguise really is something."
"I helped with his makeup, so I don't mean the disguise."
John blinked a couple times in thought. Blinking was something that helped him clear his head. Then his heart sank.
"He mentioned a wife..." Molly said, her little eyes wobbling with anxiety.
"Oh, Christ—" John blurted. "He did, did he?"
"You knew? All this time...you knew?" she asked, sucking in her breath. Mrs. Hudson was coddling Rosie in the kitchen, keeping the child away from the two adults whilst they conversed over very adult matters.
"It was a government scheme, Molly. Mycroft...cooked it up and had the two of them married. Moriarty's back, and it seemed to be the only way to finish him."
"Jim's back? But I thought he—"
"Long story, I'll explain later. The point is, the two of them got married in an attempt to blow him off for good. That's all I'm saying."
"Then where is she?"
"We don't know. Well, we didn't know...at least I didn't until this afternoon," John replied.
"So...he doesn't actually...love her? It was just a...plan of his brother's?" Molly asked, biting her lip as if she were watching a race in which the competitor she had betted on was neck and neck with a rival one.
"Well—" John began, unsure of how to proceed. Sherlock himself had admitted he'd never told Irene of any feelings for her, but from John's ordinary observational skills, it looked quite obvious that the detective had been in love.
Molly noticed the hesitation in John's eyes.
"So that's why he is the way he is," she said, interrupting him. "He's lovesick."
Molly laughed, shaking her head. Little silent tears danced in her eyes, but none of them fell from the lash to glide down the icy cheek. John was frightened, especially since he couldn't tell if she was happy or devastated...or maybe a little bit of both?
"Sherlock's...Sherlock Holmes is lovesick," she said, giggling to herself underneath a veil of emotion that only she could see. John awkwardly chuckled along with her.
"Y-yeah, he is, I guess," John replied.
"I don't think I'll ever understand him," Molly said, "but at least he's found someone who can. Even if that someone isn't me...I love him enough to be happy for him."
"Molly, you are special to him, you know," John said, clearing his throat and trying to bring some color into the pathologist's cheeks. He didn't want her to be in tears when Sherlock came out of the bathroom. "You matter to him, and you always have, you know," he added.
"That's the thing..." Molly mused, "I...I already know."
And when she smiled, John couldn't help but feel a strong knot tighten in his heart. But the true, pure, and beautiful love of Molly Hooper was something even the strongest of men could admire, and John found himself wanting to throw his arms around the young woman in such admiration.
"Who is she, though? Just...just out of curiosity," Molly said, looking at him through a pair of sheepish eyes.
"D'you, erm...d'you remember that phone he x-rayed that one time? Couple years back?" John asked, raising his eyebrows in disapproval.
Molly's whole face lit up, and her eyes almost fell out of their sockets.
"OH!" she gasped, and John laughed at her surprise. "OH! So...so it...it was his girlfriend!" she blurted, covering her mouth and laughing. "What an idiot he is...ohhhh, what an idiot. Sherlock Homes...the idiot genius."
John, although choosing not to speak through his chortles of laughter, was silently agreeing with that incredibly apt description of Sherlock Holmes: the idiot genius.
And, at this very moment, the idiot genius burst from the bathroom in all his homeless glory. He had swapped clothes with Bill Wiggins, and now the dark shades were over his eyes and the hood was over his head.
Bill followed from behind, wearing Sherlock's pajamas and robe. He didn't look anything like the detective, but the detective certainly looked like him.
"Well, John? Have I got the right armor?" he asked, his mouth open in honest inquiry.
"I've not idea what the hell you're doing, but if you want to know if you look like yourself, I'm here to tell you that...you don't."
Sherlock paused a moment. Processing.
Good answer. Probably what he was looking for.
"Okay, that'll do," he said before rushing to the door and zooming out of it and down the stairs.
"Oi! Where are you off to now?" John called.
"Nowhere you're not familiar with, John! Don't wait up!" Sherlock hollered back before landing on the floor.
"Does anyone mind telling me what exactly is going on?" John asked, looking back and forth between Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Bill Wiggins for a possible explanation. They gave him none, and the doctor was forced to slump into his armchair and wait six hours for the detective to return.
And when he did, John Watson's mind had never been so flabbergasted in its entire life.