Sherlock ficlet
Just a short little ficlet that hasn't been edited or brit-picked, but I like how it turned out.
He hadn't yet had the time to breathe a sigh of relief that this was over, that they were safe, when three rather overweight felines were circling his ankles, vying for his attention. One was grey, one calico and the third a ginger, all mixed breeds. Adopted from animal shelters. Overfeed and spoiled.
"Oh, sorry about them," Molly said, her fondness for the beasts ruining the sincerity of her apology. "They're just happy to see a new face."
"Indeed," he replied curtly, making his way into the small house. His body ached from his fall, and all he wanted was somewhere quiet and comfortable where he could lay down and figure out what to do next.
"Follow me, I'll show you to your room," Molly beamed, leading him down a hallway, the cats trailing behind. As they passed another door on the way, Sherlock heard a small scratching noise from behind it. He was confused; Molly only owned three cats from his observations. He didn't pause, but raised an eyebrow in confusion. Molly noticed.
"New one," she answered excitedly. "Just got him a couple days ago."
"Ah," he replied, as disinterested as possible. But Molly was practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
"Would you like to see him?" she asked.
Sherlock tried his best not to roll his eyes at the woman who saved his life. "Not right now, Molly, if you please," he said as cordially as he would manage.
Her face fell slightly, but she said, "Oh, of course, you have to be tired, from the day and all, you did jump off a building..." she trailed off.
"Yes, and I will eternally be in your debt for helping me successfully pull it off, but I would very much like some peace and quiet."
"Of course," she smiled and ushered him into a small guestroom. It was better suited for a grandmother, with the quilt covering the bed, the doilies, the potpourri...but Sherlock just put on his best expression of gratitude.
"Thank you ever so much, Molly." It took a little prodding to get her to leave the room, but when she did, Sherlock took a deep breath, flopped down on the bed and begun to plan.
He ended up falling asleep until the next morning. Unusual, for him, but he supposed it had been a rather trying day. He made his way into the kitchen and began hoping that Molly would make him some breakfast.
"Good morning, sleepy heard!" she called cheerfully from near the stove, where she was preparing some eggs. So Molly was perky in the mornings as well. Lovely. Sherlock grumbled a response and sat down at the small table and gave a look around. There was not much to catch his attention; Molly's house looked much as he expected: as though a grandmother with an unusual fondness for pink and kittens lived there. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary...except...he stared at the bookcase in Molly's sitting room in surprise.
"Molly, you can't possibly have had that many cats." The shelf was almost completely filled with a variety of tacky pink urns. There had to be...42 of them. Impossible. But Molly removed the eggs from the stove and made her way over to him, following his gaze.
"Cats?" she asked, perplexed, then saw where he was looking and giggled. "Oh, don't be silly, Sherlock."
It hit him. The ashes of a cat would have to be no bigger than ten ounces. These were full-size urns. Human ash. "They're not cats," Sherlock said slowly, pieces struggling to fit together.
"Of course not," Molly answered in her usual jovial tone. "Oh, had you not figured out that part yet? I can't believe how long it took you to figure it all out!" she giggled. "No one monitors my access to the crematorium."
It still wasn't making sense. His brain felt sluggish. Useless. "42 people?" he asked, trying to make sense of it.
Molly's eyes went wide. "Oh! No! No, no! I only did seven of them myself! Just when there weren't any unidentified's coming in. I really hate doing it myself," she said mournfully, but her tone picked up at once. "But that's why you're here! I'm so glad you finally figured it out, finally came to me. I knew about you right away, and I had been waiting so long for you to catch on..."
Sherlock didn't understand, didn't want to understand. He stood abruptly and walked to the door in the hallway, and pulled it open with Molly bouncing along after him. His stomach fell at the sight: a man gagged and chained to the floor, unable to get up, only able to just barely scratch at the base of the door with his fingernails. The man looked up at Sherlock, his eyes full of fear. He was hungry, dehydrated, weak....
"Molly, what have you done?" Sherlock gasped before he could stop himself.
"I got this one for you," Molly said, a little nervously, "Do you like him?" Sherlock felt sick as he noticed the man bore a slight resemblance to Jim Moriarty. But Molly continued talking, in nervous excitement. "Aren't you excited? I can't wait for us to do this together. I really hate killing them, you know that, I just like cutting and sewing them after they're dead." She was grinning enthusiastically now. "But now you're here and you'll kill them for me and I'm so pleased you finally you finally saw in me what I've always seen in you. We'll be perfect partners, they'll never catch us...."
The man on the floor was shaking in terror. Sherlock's mind finally stopped tripping over itself. Without a world, the he grasped an umbrella from the near-by stand and knocked her unconscious. He called the police anonymously.
He hadn't yet had the time to breathe a sigh of relief that this was over, that they were safe, when three rather overweight felines were circling his ankles, vying for his attention. One was grey, one calico and the third a ginger, all mixed breeds. Adopted from animal shelters. Overfeed and spoiled.
"Oh, sorry about them," Molly said, her fondness for the beasts ruining the sincerity of her apology. "They're just happy to see a new face."
"Indeed," he replied curtly, making his way into the small house. His body ached from his fall, and all he wanted was somewhere quiet and comfortable where he could lay down and figure out what to do next.
"Follow me, I'll show you to your room," Molly beamed, leading him down a hallway, the cats trailing behind. As they passed another door on the way, Sherlock heard a small scratching noise from behind it. He was confused; Molly only owned three cats from his observations. He didn't pause, but raised an eyebrow in confusion. Molly noticed.
"New one," she answered excitedly. "Just got him a couple days ago."
"Ah," he replied, as disinterested as possible. But Molly was practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
"Would you like to see him?" she asked.
Sherlock tried his best not to roll his eyes at the woman who saved his life. "Not right now, Molly, if you please," he said as cordially as he would manage.
Her face fell slightly, but she said, "Oh, of course, you have to be tired, from the day and all, you did jump off a building..." she trailed off.
"Yes, and I will eternally be in your debt for helping me successfully pull it off, but I would very much like some peace and quiet."
"Of course," she smiled and ushered him into a small guestroom. It was better suited for a grandmother, with the quilt covering the bed, the doilies, the potpourri...but Sherlock just put on his best expression of gratitude.
"Thank you ever so much, Molly." It took a little prodding to get her to leave the room, but when she did, Sherlock took a deep breath, flopped down on the bed and begun to plan.
He ended up falling asleep until the next morning. Unusual, for him, but he supposed it had been a rather trying day. He made his way into the kitchen and began hoping that Molly would make him some breakfast.
"Good morning, sleepy heard!" she called cheerfully from near the stove, where she was preparing some eggs. So Molly was perky in the mornings as well. Lovely. Sherlock grumbled a response and sat down at the small table and gave a look around. There was not much to catch his attention; Molly's house looked much as he expected: as though a grandmother with an unusual fondness for pink and kittens lived there. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary...except...he stared at the bookcase in Molly's sitting room in surprise.
"Molly, you can't possibly have had that many cats." The shelf was almost completely filled with a variety of tacky pink urns. There had to be...42 of them. Impossible. But Molly removed the eggs from the stove and made her way over to him, following his gaze.
"Cats?" she asked, perplexed, then saw where he was looking and giggled. "Oh, don't be silly, Sherlock."
It hit him. The ashes of a cat would have to be no bigger than ten ounces. These were full-size urns. Human ash. "They're not cats," Sherlock said slowly, pieces struggling to fit together.
"Of course not," Molly answered in her usual jovial tone. "Oh, had you not figured out that part yet? I can't believe how long it took you to figure it all out!" she giggled. "No one monitors my access to the crematorium."
It still wasn't making sense. His brain felt sluggish. Useless. "42 people?" he asked, trying to make sense of it.
Molly's eyes went wide. "Oh! No! No, no! I only did seven of them myself! Just when there weren't any unidentified's coming in. I really hate doing it myself," she said mournfully, but her tone picked up at once. "But that's why you're here! I'm so glad you finally figured it out, finally came to me. I knew about you right away, and I had been waiting so long for you to catch on..."
Sherlock didn't understand, didn't want to understand. He stood abruptly and walked to the door in the hallway, and pulled it open with Molly bouncing along after him. His stomach fell at the sight: a man gagged and chained to the floor, unable to get up, only able to just barely scratch at the base of the door with his fingernails. The man looked up at Sherlock, his eyes full of fear. He was hungry, dehydrated, weak....
"Molly, what have you done?" Sherlock gasped before he could stop himself.
"I got this one for you," Molly said, a little nervously, "Do you like him?" Sherlock felt sick as he noticed the man bore a slight resemblance to Jim Moriarty. But Molly continued talking, in nervous excitement. "Aren't you excited? I can't wait for us to do this together. I really hate killing them, you know that, I just like cutting and sewing them after they're dead." She was grinning enthusiastically now. "But now you're here and you'll kill them for me and I'm so pleased you finally you finally saw in me what I've always seen in you. We'll be perfect partners, they'll never catch us...."
The man on the floor was shaking in terror. Sherlock's mind finally stopped tripping over itself. Without a world, the he grasped an umbrella from the near-by stand and knocked her unconscious. He called the police anonymously.