Jesus, it`s been a brutal week and that`s a fact. The house is a kip; I got a parking ticket outside the Morgue (of all places); I`ve a feckin great spot on my face; Sherlock Holmes has a real girlfriend and a baby boy and, to top it all, I`ve been dumped again – by Sir George Burnwell! My nearly-agent! He was going to open so many doors for me, I just knew it. And we seemed to get on so well at our meeting last Tuesday. Maybe I got on a little too well? Janine McKenna doesn't usually do self-doubt, but maybe the champagne was really a bad idea after all? Ah, shite. No use raking over old coals. What`s done is done and, let`s face it – I`ve been disappointed by men since pussy was a kitten.

Thus, I sit, having a wee wallow, in La Vanille Pattiserie, that Sunday; picking over the strange events of a very strange week. I`m morosely stabbing at my flat white with a silver, twisty-handled spoon when I sense Laura, the wee dote, hovering next to the table. Bless her – always ready with a slice of cake for what ails ya.

Only, it isn't Laura.

"May I sit down, Janine?" Asks Sherlock Holmes; all tall, dark and coat-wearing, and holding a piece of marron glace mille fueille. In another time and another place, this would definitely be fulfilling a fantasy of mine…

"Oh, yes, Mister – you may. I must warn you, however, I have not had the best of weeks, so be kind."

He pulls out a chair and places the cake in front of me. I manage a weak smile and I see something in his eyes I have never seen before, even when we were `together` and he was pretending - care.

"You changed your perfume. I like the oriental notes. Sandalwood? St. Germain No. 17, at a guess."

I smile again, and slowly nod my head. "You`ve changed your – everything, haven't you? At a guess."

Sherlock tilts his head (exactly like her!) and looks speculatively into my eyes.

"Your agent was no great loss Janine."

"How the feck – "

"Trust me. He wasn't right for you."

Now, I`m snorting. Trust! "And you would know what was right for me, Sherlock Holmes! You could be telling me just about anything right now." You lied to me. You lied and lied… But, I find my venom is kinda – spent. It has been, really, since I met with Molly. I am ashes where once I was fire. And it`s good. It`s better. It`s right. I look at Sherlock Holmes and I think – I kind of like him…

"Your mad in love with her aren't you? For real."

His fingers (never completely still) are tracing patterns in some spilt sugar next to my marron. He looks up suddenly.

"All evidence surely does point to – "

"Sherl…"

He gives it up, nodding, speculatively.

"Molly. She is the first – and only – woman I have ever trusted with my hard and stony heart. So, yes, I truly am. Just don't mention it to John – he likes to make a big thing of it." His eyes crinkle as I reward him with a tiny grin. I`m glad for him. Really, I am. And I know Molly Hooper is the girl for him. Everything she said to me and everything I see in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes tells me so. She is the perfect balance to his cold, edgy and cerebral character; with her calm humanity and sparkiness. Sure – no pushover either.

"Janine…I treated you very badly, which you did not deserve. You, in turn, took your sweet revenge, which I did deserve. I hope you can see now that I am truly sorry for my deception." He shifts kind of awkwardly in his chair (these wee golden chairs are real pretty, but a bit spindly and delicate for sitting in for long). "I am relatively new to the rocky road of human interaction and its infinite complexities, but I really would like it if – at some point – we might be – friends?"

Well…Sherlock and me – friends? Well, that`s neither fish, nor fowl, nor good, red herring…

"And what would Molly say about that?"

He smiles an honest smile.

"She insisted upon it, " says Sherlock Holmes. No longer the cute hoor, but the lover; the father; the human being.

X0x0x0x0x0x0x

A month later, at John and Mary Watson`s flat in Kentish Town…

John sits opposite his son, Sholto. Both are smeared with foodstuffs which John knows for a fact, will never quite wash out of their clothing. They have reached a state of impasse and near exhaustion in the fight for the organic butternut squash risotto. John wants it inside his son; Sholto wants it everywhere else. It is clear that there is not going to be a winner here. Just as he is about to thrown in the spoon, the door slams and – thank the lord – Mary is back home.

"John, there`s a package here in the porch; didn't you s – Holy crap! Did the microwave explode again, or is this a dirty protest? If you clean it up quick, there`ll be no names – no pack drill."

"Oh, you are quite – hilarious!" John takes a tea towel from his sniggering wife and eyes the package in her hands. It is flat; rectangular; around thirty by forty-five centimetres in size and – feeling it – quite heavy.

"A frame – that`s what it feels like. Have you ordered a picture or something, Mary?"

From the kitchen (where he suspects she has Sholto in the sink and is running him under the tap)…"Only that naked one of me on a tiger skin rug – oops! That`s another surprise ruined!"

John, despite having rice matted in his hair, allows himself a little smile at his wife as he rips open the brown paper and bubble wrap.

"Oh – "

And Mary comes in to see her husband holding a beautifully framed Masters of Science Certificate, complete with accompanying card.

`Well done John. You are a remarkable man, and a remarkable friend. SH`

"He`s had it framed for me."

Mary, holding her damp toddler, looks a little mistily at her husband.

"It must have been delivered to Baker Street by mistake. That was so sweet of Sherlock."

John holds up the certificate and smiles.

"You know – I really do like him having a girlfriend," says he.

THE END