The brownies were gone by the next evening, and Sherlock and Rosie took the dish back the day after, having nothing else to do with their time. Lily appeared to be in the same boat, as she was in comfortable clothing, but she still looked presentable — she wasn't smudged with dirt, and her hair wasn't too frizzy. She promised to make them something else soon, though it's been a couple days and she hasn't yet.
Sherlock's only seen her once, when he happened to glance out the kitchen window. She was in the garden, watering the flowers. They haven't talked at all.
Then, there's a knock at the door.
Sherlock goes and gets it, expecting a flower fairy with a plate of some baked goods — perhaps cupcakes or muffins or even a cake — but it's Mrs. Hudson with nothing but news.
"Hello, boys," she says; John is in his chair. "I just came up to tell you that I'll be going to Florida for a week."
"What?!" Sherlock exclaims, shocked beyond all compare.
"A friend of mine — from back when I was with Frank — died yesterday, and her funeral is next week. I'd like to go, so I'm going. You'll have to make your own tea and all the meals you don't eat-" she looks at Sherlock at that "- for a week."
"You can't just leave Baker Street," Sherlock argues.
"You're leaving?" Rosie asks, having been in the kitchen.
"I'm not leaving. I'm coming back. I'll only be gone for a week," Mrs. Hudson assures her. "You all act like I'm moving across the world."
"Why do you need to be gone for a whole week for a funeral?" John asks, clearly also not happy with this development.
"I don't," Mrs. Hudson replies, "but I'd like to catch up and have a little holiday. I haven't been on holiday in years."
"I suppose," Sherlock grumbles. "England has fallen."
"You'll be alright."
"Will I?"
John sighs. "We'll manage, Sherlock. Somehow, we'll manage."
"Thank you, John," Mrs. Hudson says, already on her way out. "Oh, and I told Lily to go to you all if she needs anything while I'm gone."
"We'll definitely be sure to help her, especially considering she's already made us cookies and brownies," John replies.
"I'm hoping for cupcakes next," Sherlock comments.
"Me, too," Rosie echoes.
What they get later, however, are oatmeal cookies with raisins, nuts, and dark chocolate. Sherlock is, at first, disappointed, but then he finds that they actually taste good. Rosie is also reluctant, but John wants her to be polite, and she ends up eating two.
"I decided to try something a bit healthier this time around," Lily explains. "I'd never made this recipe before, actually."
"They're very good," John assures her. "Thank you."
Lily smiles, "You're welcome," and then she says it to both Sherlock and Rosie, after they also thank her. Not long after, she leaves, likely expecting her dish back in one to two days. Sherlock has a third cookie.
"Don't eat them all at once," John says.
"There's still-" he counts "- five left."
"You need to spread those over the next week, considering I know it'll be the healthiest thing you eat while Mrs. Hudson is gone."
"Probably," Sherlock agrees, sitting in his chair.
John shakes his head, turning back to his newspaper. "She made those for you, you know."
Sherlock looks up. "What do you mean?"
"I mention that you barely eat anything, and then she suddenly makes an oatmeal cookie recipe she's never made before? They're healthier, Sherlock. They're for you."
"Oh." John's logic is, of course, sound, and Sherlock sits back, pondering this for a while. She cared enough to make him something healthier, which was significant considering they haven't known each other for long (three weeks, actually). She's a caring person, then, which is no surprise. Something stirs in Sherlock's chest at the thought, almost a reminder of the person he wanted to be after Eurus. After rediscovering who he used to be.
For the next few days, when he eats the cookies (it's hard to spread them out over a week), it seems there's something more in them besides oats, raisins, and chocolate. Something not quite tangible.
Then, when they're nearly gone, the day after Mrs. Hudson leaves, Sherlock gets a call from Lestrade early in the morning.
"I know it's been a while since you've had a case, and this one isn't murder, but they're requesting you specifically. It's kind of high profile," he says. "A robbery."
"Where?" Sherlock replies. He'll solve just about any case at this point.
"The Reigate Estate, a bit out there. It'll be quite a drive. I can come get you; taxi will be expensive."
Sherlock doesn't want to go in a police car, but he knows how far out the Reigate Estate is. The family who lives there, the Hayters, are high up in society. Both Mycroft and John have mentioned them, though in different contexts. John pays far too much attention to tabloid news. Sherlock sighs. "Pick us up at Baker Street."
"Got it. Be there soon."
Sherlock hangs up, then goes to tell John where they're going and when. He's just sat in his chair to drink his tea when Sherlock walks in, still in his robe. John, upon hearing Sherlock's news, isn't as happy as Sherlock had thought he would be.
"And what are we going to do with Rosie?" he asks.
It's only then that Sherlock remembers Mrs. Hudson isn't here. The gears begin turning in his mind, and then it hits him. "Lily."
John immediately shuts it down. "No, we can't-"
"Rosie likes her-"
"-ask her to do that-"
"-she likes Rosie — and she teaches children for a living. She's nice, she's trustworthy, and she's just downstairs. It's only for a few hours."
"Sherlock, I don't know..."
"Lestrade is already on his way. Can we at least ask her?"
"She's too nice to say no," John argues.
"You'll be able to tell if she really doesn't want to. How is this different from dropping her off at Mrs. Hudson's?"
"We've only just met Lily."
"If we trust her enough to eat her food, I think we can trust her, a schoolteacher, with Rosie," Sherlock says. John just looks at him, thinking. Sherlock implores him. "We don't have much time."
"Fine, but just this once. And we're paying her."
"Of course we are," Sherlock says. He hurriedly goes back to his room to change, while John does likewise and wakes up Rosie. In two minutes, they're heading downstairs, as Lestrade will be there in about three more.
Sherlock knocks on Lily's door, hoping she's awake, and, luckily, she is. She's in pajamas and surprised at seeing them this early in the morning. "Have you already finished those cookies?"
"Yes," Sherlock replies. "We're here to ask a favor."
"More cookies?"
John answers for Sherlock. "There's a case that we've just been called about, and we can't take Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson is out, so we were wondering if you could watch her for a few hours? If not, that's alright, we'll find somebody-"
"I can watch her," Lily says, smiling. "I don't have anything to do today, and I really don't mind."
"We'll pay you, of course," John says, getting out his wallet with one hand, as a groggy Rosie is in the other.
"That's alright. Honestly, John, I teach twenty-five five year olds for a living every weekday — and I actually enjoy it. Watching Rosie does not feel like work to me."
"I'm still paying you, though," John insists, already handing her money. "I'll pay you more when we get back; it's hard to tell how long we'll be gone."
"It's really not necessary, but thank you." She takes the money, though reluctantly.
Sherlock's phone rings. He looks at the caller ID but doesn't answer. "It's Lestrade," he says, so John hurries with everything else.
"She hasn't had any breakfast, I have her toys and things in this bag here-" it's hanging over his shoulder "-and whatever she eats I'll repay you for."
"You really don't have to. It's alright, I promise." She's insistent, in a friendly way, and a bit amused.
"Here, I'll give you my number — and Sherlock's, just in case."
She puts both numbers in her phone, then takes the bag and Rosie from John. "She'll be just fine here. Take as long as you need."
"Thank you again," John says. "Call if you need anything."
"Will do."
Sherlock offers her a smile before he and Josh rush outside to meet Lestrade.
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The Reigate Estate boasts the wealth of its owners quite adequately. It's from past centuries, old and grand, but with modern technology on the inside to make it livable for a rich family with inherited money. Outside, there's a large garden, carefully planted and pruned flowers and trimmed hedges around a sort of courtyard where three other police cars are parked. In the distance, when he gets out of the car, Sherlock can see another old, grand building, though he can't discern any details.
"Wintermere Hall," John says, looking in the same direction. "Those are the Cunninghams. They hate the Hayters."
"And this is the Hayters," Sherlock says, looking at Reigate.
"Yep," John replies. "I'll have to call Mrs. Hudson and tell her we're doing a case for them."
"What do they hate each other for?"
"The Hayters own half of Wintermere. They've been trying to get the property back for decades, but they never have."
They walk inside Reigate, Lestrade in front of them. On the way over, he briefed them on what they knew so far: someone broke into Reigate late last night, around one in the morning, but stealing absolutely nothing of consequence, despite many expensive things sitting out that they could've taken. As of now, they only know that a ball of twine, used as a decoration for some sort of party last week, a throw pillow, and some fruit from the kitchen were taken.
"Mr. Holmes," a man, evidently Mr. Hayter, wrapped in an expensive robe and in some distress, says, immediately accosting Sherlock when he enters the house. "Thank you so much for coming. The police keep saying nothing of consequence was taken, but we know there must have been. And our privacy has been greatly invaded. If anyone can find the miscreant who did this, it is surely you."
Sherlock smiles thinly and fakely. "Thank you. I will do my best."
"And we will pay you as much as you ask," a woman — Mrs. Hayter, similarly attired to her husband — adds.
"That won't be necessary."
"We insist."
"Thank you," John says, accepting it graciously, considering they need it right now. He begins talking money with the two while Sherlock moves on to observe the house.
It's filled with dark wood — the staircase, parts of the ceiling, the floors, and even the picture frames. The walls and the runner on the stairs are a cream color, and the chandeliers are grand and gold. Expensive antiques, various gold paperweights, painting, and the like are sitting out. The TV looks untouched, though some drawers are half open and a few knickknacks seem to be out of place. One evidence tag is on the couch where the throw pillow was, and another is in the corner, in front of a basket of various things. The twine was probably there.
Everything in the kitchen looks normal, aside from the evidence tag in front of the fruit bowl. There isn't much displayed in there anyway, excepting the appliances. The dining room, with all its china, is unscathed save some askew cabinets and drawers. Two cops looking around within it for anything amiss. It's only when Sherlock turns down the hall that anything really interesting happens.
There's a door on the end, like any other door in the house, but instead of it being to a closet or bathroom, it's locked. Sherlock crouches, observing the keyhole. A few small, scratches mar the gold.
"What's in this room?" he calls. Someone comes down the hall — John and the Hayters.
"What's that, Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Hayter asks.
Sherlock knocks on the door, once. "What's in here?"
"My office," Mr. Hayter says. He pulls a key out of his robe pocket, then unlocks the door, showing Sherlock inside.
The plush carpet looks as though a human soul has never tread on it, and everything is perfectly aligned — stationary, books, files, pictures. Even the safe is dust-free and undisturbed.
"What all do you keep in here?" Sherlock asks, disturbing Mr. Hayter's carpet.
Mr. Hayter glances down but says nothing about it and answers. "A number of important files and papers. I've been through it, though. Nothing is missing."
"And where do you keep the key?" Sherlock asks.
"On my bedside table. Always. Unless it's in my pocket."
He must've picked it up as soon as he got up. The robber would've had to grab the key from his bedside table, get what he was looking for, realign anything he touched, then return the key without Mr. Hayter noticing. It seems highly unlikely.
"Check the papers again, just to be sure," Sherlock says. Mr. Hayter only nods, and Sherlock exits, heading for the staircase. John follows.
Mrs. Hayter is up there, and she leads them around, giving them a wide tour. There's multiple bedrooms, most of which aren't in use, and a old servants' quarters that are mostly used for storage, if they're open at all. A staircase down to the kitchen, the door to it open now, is right at the mouth of the hall.
Passing one of these rooms, one at the start of the hall, they hear rustling inside and freeze; the robber could still be inside, waiting for a chance to escape. Sherlock looks at John as he continues speaking. "And these rooms aren't in use, correct?" Sherlock says casually. John pulls out his gun, and Sherlock looks at Mrs. Hayter, who hasn't replied.
"Ye-Yes," she says. "Yes, we don't use those." She moves away upon Sherlock's direction, and he mouths, 'Lestrade,' at her. She nods and goes down the steps. Sherlock talks casually with John until Lestrade arrives with two other cops behind him. Sherlock puts his hand on the knob, then counts to three with the other hand and flings the door open.
Something flies out directly, right at John, and he lets off a shot as he stumbles, trips awkwardly on the hall rug, and goes skidding down the stairs, right into the kitchen, effectively startling the two teenage Hayter children, the cooks, and the cops within.
Sherlock runs for the stairs, bounding down them and shouting, "Are you alright?!"
"My ankle," John groans.
"It is broken?"
"I don't believe so, no." He sits up, tenderly feeling his ankle. "But I've sprained it for sure. It twisted when I tripped." Sherlock stands over him, concerned but less so now that he knows John is relatively okay. John looks up at him, and his face is pale. "What was that anyway?"
"A bat," Lestrade calls down. "You shot it."
"A bat?!" Mrs. Hayter, now upstairs again, says.
"What's happening?" Mr. Hayter asks, running out of the office. In the meantime, the cook is getting ice to put on John's presently swelling ankle.
"Just a bat," Lestrade assures.
"Oh, it's on the rug," Mrs. Hayter laments.
Mr. Hayter asks, "How did a bat even get in here?"
There's a pause, then Lestrade says, "Looks like the window's been opened in here."
"We never go in this room."
"The robber must've been in here, then. I want it searched." Then, his quick step can be heard on the stair, and he comes to stand behind John. "You alright?"
"Sprained ankle," John replies, looking at Sherlock, who's holding the ice on the injury.
"What can I do?"
Sherlock looks up at him. "We'll need to move him, take him to the doctor-"
"I don't need a doctor, I am a doctor-" John starts to protest, but Sherlock ignores him.
"-then back to Baker Street. I don't think there's much else for me to find here. I'll have to think on this to be certain."
"I'll stay here if you want to look in the room upstairs."
Sherlock wants to, to be sure he gets the full picture, but he also doesn't want to leave John. However, John nods at him. "Go on."
Sherlock switches places with Lestrade as the cook comes in with a pillow, and he hears them all talking downstairs until he turns into the room.
It's empty, save for some furniture with dusty white coverings over it — presumably some old chairs and couches — and a small desk. Sherlock opens the drawers and finds them empty. The window, on the other side of the room, is half open, the sill now being dusted for prints. It offers a view of the English countryside, with Wintermere in the distance, still with about as much detail as before.
Sherlock, turning the whole case over in his mind, goes back to John and Lestrade. As they move the former to the car, no easy task considering the pain John is currently in, Sherlock tells Lestrade to send him a copy of all his files. To the Hayters, who follow them outside, he says he will get back to them whenever he figures anything out.