Part 1: Drunk

Molly squinted purposefully at the road sign.

Her vision was usually 20/20 but an even dispersal EtOH throughout her bloodstream had rendered her retinas redundant (she giggled as she considered telling this to a taxi driver - if she could ever find a taxi driver) and it seemed a gargantuan task to decide which trunk road took her to the north of the river.

If only she hadn't needed to visit the cash point.

Sarah's imminent nuptials had somehow proved more costly to prepare for than even Sarah had anticipated and the hen party had done nothing more than corroborate this.

Taxis, cocktail mixing, purple skinny dress purchasing, more taxis, overpriced avocado toast and Champagne toasting, macaron nibbling, purple satin shoe buying, more taxis, brightly coloured cocktail drinking and finally, overpriced nightclub entering had all added up to the national debt of a small South American dictatorship and she had found the need for an enhancement of funds.

"I'll meet you at 'The Sumatra Lounge'!" she'd yelled, purple heels clicking wildly on damp South London pavements as she'd scampered on ahead.

"Don't wait here, it's raining! It won't take me a minute - I know there's a cash point just along from Kebab Junction … no, don't wait! I'll find you!"

Ah, the confidence of the newly inebriated.

By the time Molly realised that Kebab Junction was probably a figment from too many late night viewings of '999 - What's your emergency?', the streets had become less familiar and the signs more … blurry.

"Oh crap."

She fumbled, adjusting a purple strap and glaring down at currently detestable purple heels. Both had proved themselves woefully inadequate protection against damp South London nights and harsh South London paving stones. She teetered, slipping off one shoe (good) then (eventually) the other (blissful) and hooked them stoically over one finger, surveying the black, wet, empty street in both directions. Orange tungsten lit the tarmac and a distant train could be heard rumbling by three streets away. Even the sirens were quiet where the streets had no name and Uber no signal.

She sighed. And hiccuped.

A station with a possible taxi rank was her best bet. Sarah would be worried but she'd have to wait for better signal and the only way to find it was to walk barefoot amongst the London detritus, like a Dickensian orphan selling matches.

Doctor Molly Hooper hitched her sandals over her wrist and her hen party tiara back amongst her piled up hair. She could do it. God, she'd done worse.

~x~

"Hold up the tarpaulin!"

Like bastard cousins, the wind had swiftly followed the rain on its decisive stampede all over his precious evidence and Sherlock's temper was frayed to its fragile limit.

"Can somebody please bring me some light? This is our only tangible hope of evidence against Christie and I seem to be the only one giving a damn about said evidence!"

Feet scuffled and another howl of wind carried away any reciprocal words which would've served as answer from several members of the Met, who had been savagely buffeted by the demands of Sherlock Holmes for the past forty minutes.

Sherlock crouched down, his Belstaff flapping around him, his scarf billowing about his face causing more agitation until a firm, calming hand pulled it down and accompanying voice muttered into his ear.

"Greg's having a tent brought over in a minute so hold onto your knickers and dial down the complaining. These people have just arrived. Not everyone's on your timescale Sherlock."

Sherlock dipped his head, furious, but mercifully silent.

"I know this is important, Sherlock. A man has lost his whole livelihood in pursuing this murderer."

Sherlock crouched lower, as if his body would shield the ground from the elements.

"You want to help him and you will, but you need everyone else here, so be nice, OK?"

Sherlock turned his head, dark hair plastered to his head, glacial eyes radiating a heat that burned through the buffeting storm.

"What would be the point?" he said, scowling through the rain.

~x~

The alleyway was sheltered (as if he cared) so at least his cigarette stood a chance of ignition. With Lestrade's idiots trampling all over what the rain had spared, he had withdrawn himself and his fury to a more 'socially amenable venue' (John Watson); already swiping through three other possible methods that would lead to the apprehension of the wiley George Christie in his mind palace.

At first he thought he was hallucinating, since thirty hours without food could do that to a brain (his brain anyway - Sherlock had no idea how normal brains dealt with things).

But no.

Purple.

Dress, shoes held in her hand, nails, earrings. Even her exposed skin was tinged with violet as she came closer through the tungsten-lit darkness, and he could also see that she was small, drenched, clearly lost, woefully underdressed and as she neared, remarkably familiar.

"Why are you wearing a tiara?" He asked, staring quite rudely.

"Oh thank God," whispered Molly Hooper as she stared blearily up into his eyes. "Thank God it's you."

~x~

"Molly Hooper? She's here?" John's inability to corral even the most basic of facts was contributing further to Sherlock's black mood, and even further irritated by him craning his neck to get a better view.

"She's wearing your coat. And a tiara?"

"She's going home. I'm getting her a taxi."

More peering, followed by waving, which was vigorously reciprocated by Molly, bangles clanking and enthusiasm returning as her body temperature climbed back to normal within the Belstaff.

"She's a bit dressed up for helping you on a case, mind." John was beginning to enjoy himself. "You should have just said and I could have been at home with Rosie and Iggle Piggle instead of holding one corner of your tarp on a filthy night like this."

He could tell Sherlock was replying through gritted teeth as his evidence bags were blown hither and thither by another gust.

"I didn't invite her. She got lost and stumbled onto our crime scene halfway through a … " John didn't help him. "Through a hen party. She's a little cold, but absolutely fine and as soon as the taxi arrives …"

John was grinning further as Molly had stood up, still clutching the coat and weaving through several Scene Of Crime officers and puddles to reach them. Some of the weaving wasn't strictly necessary.

"She's hammered."

"So it would seem." Sherlock's fingers fumbled with the bags, the cold making him clumsy.

"You seem a bit distracted," John didn't offer to help him with the bags.

"I'm incredibly busy and these constant interruptions have succeeded in denigrating this investigation into little more than a farce."

The streetlights highlighted the diamante crown sparkling through Molly Hooper's damp updo. Her lashes were huge and clumped with wetness. Mascara was chasing down her cheeks which were pink and dewy, like apples. Beneath the Belstaff, John noted a glimpse Cadbury's purple satin, mirrored by the torturous looking stiletto heels she clutched in her left hand. She swayed a little but still seemed remarkably cheerful in her bare feet.

"Hello John! I've lost my hens!" She looked around, as if they were somehow hiding behind the nearest bins.

"Bad luck. Was it Sarah's do? Mary was invited but we've just bought a new boiler and macaron-making isn't top of the priorities right now. You rung 'em?"

Molly snickered, ducking down into the recesses of her upturned collar.

"They're so ma-ad! No-one will be washing my beakers on Monday morning I can tell you!" She laughed again and John could swear he heard a deep sigh emanating from his ex-flatmate's direction.

Mercifully, two huge black cab headlights turned the corner into the yard, where someone kindly lifted the police tape to let it through.

Molly Hooper saw it too, gathering her shoes, her bag, her tiara (and then her shoes again) and peeling off her loaned coat, offering it back to Sherlock, who was kneeling down next to a messy pile of petrol-soaked detritus in the corner of the yard.

"Thanks so much for this … Sherlock," she held it out with two hands (being heavy and rain-soaked) "and that," she gestured to the taxi. "You saved my life tonight - "

Sherlock's shoulders stiffened and John folded his arms, watching this play out.

Sherlock stood, leaving the oily porridge to look down into the Bambi-wide eyes of Molly Hooper, standing tiny, damp and strangely powerful in all her amethyst glory.

"A trifle melodramatic. You were cold, I gave you a coat. You needed transport, I rang you a taxi." Boredom (his constant go-to to distract others from his huge heart) left his eyes and he really looked at her.

"I'm not a hero, Molly Hooper."

She stared up at him as the cab drew up, the thrum of its diesel engine beating through the exchange like a pulse.

"No… no you're not a hero." He opened the door and she half stepped, half fell inside, but recovered quickly, leaning out of the door he was closing.

"But you are … you are … "

The cab signalled, windscreen wipers sloshing water across, left and right, the tick-tock of its indicator blinking between them.

"You are … one of my most favourite people … you truly are."

Both men stood side by side, all evidence of crimes redundant for those few seconds as they watched the brake lights fade and the cab turn left, then right, then disappear into the early hours of a London morning.

The storm appeared to have suddenly lost its former energy, offering a limp ripple across puddles and a barely perceptible drizzle as a reminder it had ever been there. Greg's white tent stood like a sentinel as police tape hung festooned around it, almost redundant as a new day dawned.

"Well, wasn't that - "

"Shut up John."

"OK. Time to go home."

~x~