One Yard Below

Chapter Five

“You’re taking me where?”

Sherlock gave Molly a brief glance before returning his attention to the road. Her tone was alarmed enough to sound almost panicky. He wondered if she had heard him correctly, so repeated, “I’m taking you to my parents’ home in Surrey. Not even Mycroft will think to look there for you there.” Silence met his statement and he chanced another look at his companion. She looked equal parts terrified and furious.

“You can’t just… I can’t meet…” Molly was doing that thing where she was trying to say three things at once while her cheeks puffed out and consequently, nothing was making sense. She took a breath and demanded, “You’ve got to stop at the next village so I can buy something to wear!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t arrive at your parent’s home looking like a member of your homeless network! You stop this car right now!”

Sherlock sighed, “I will not stop. Don’t hit me while I’m trying to drive!” Accident averted, he grumbled, “I liked it better when you were timid around me.” That earned him another smack on the arm. Sherlock sped up, hoping to make it past the next road sign before Molly noticed, “We don’t have time to stop,” he insisted, “and you look perfectly fine.” She didn’t, of course, but he really wanted to get her settled with his parents so he could finally get to work.

Molly inhaled in what Sherlock knew was preparation for a long rant about first impressions and all of those tedious social niceties that he found so boring. “According to my mother,” he interrupted in a reasonable tone, “there are quite nice shops in the area and I know she would enjoy the chance to take you out. She always wanted a daughter to dress up like a little doll.” The last was said with the hint of a sneer. It was a phrase he had heard quite often once he and Mycroft had reached marriageable ages. It was her way of building up to the standard I-want-grandbabies speech.

“But,” Molly sighed, accepting her fate, “I can’t believe I’m going to meet your mother dressed like this. I haven’t even had a proper bath today and I had to clean my teeth with a towel.”

Sherlock sighed, “Molly. I lived with the woman for eighteen years. Believe me when I say that she has seen much worse.”

Because John’s voice in his head was screaming at him to show some sympathy, Sherlock reached out and gave Molly’s knee an awkward pat. They finished the journey in silence. When they turned onto the gravel drive leading to his parents’ Georgian cottage, Molly turned to him again.

“They’re rich?” she said plaintively, “I should have known. You with your bespoke Spencer Hart suits, Mycroft with his £600 silk ties…”

Sherlock stopped the car at the door and, as Molly was reluctantly getting out, he latched on to the last bit of what she said and demanded,  “Wait! How do you know how much Mycroft’s ties cost?”

Molly ignored him as a lovely, well dressed elderly lady exited the front door and waved cheerily. “Well, hello! This is a surprise.”

Sherlock tried not to wince at his mother’s overly enthusiastic tone. He knew when he decided to bring Molly to his parents for safe keeping that his mother would be insufferable about it. His motivation for solving this case quickly increased significantly. If it took too long, Sherlock had no doubt Mummy would have him married off to Molly and set up in a cottage next to Mr. Stipleberry’s  apiary. The sudden image that sprang to his mind with that thought was unexpectedly pleasant and Sherlock erased it immediately.

“Come in,” Mummy was saying, waving Molly into the entry hall, “I’m always pleased to welcome Sherlock’s friends! Not that he brings many by,” she added giving him a little scolding frown, “other than John and Mary Watson. How are they, dear?”