Tinderbox

Chapter 1: Loss, Nuts and Amputation

Walk on through the wind; Walk on though the rain
Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on

-Rodgers and Hammerstein

It was graceful, really, when he thought about it. Every part was graceful: The step, the fall, the- The hit. Only- The hit made John ill, and he had been ill too often, so he tried not to think about it: One time each day was his limit. One glorious, horrible second or two of Sherlock stepping, flying, falling, smashing- Ohh. Here, John would wrench his mind away, do his breathing: Shoulders back, chin up, one more breath and forward march. He had just forward marched into the toilet of the veteran's hall where he stood now, staring at his own white face and filling the flimsy Styrofoam cup so he could take his happy pills. Group was in a minute. Must pull himself together.

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In the tiny kitchen of Molly Hooper's tiny flat, Sherlock was waiting for his cookies to be done.

Life was tolerable in the kitchen; otherwise, it was abominable: He could not play his violin at night or in the morning; he had to sleep on a repulsive sofa guest bed that tucked into a repulsive sofa; he had to let his hair and beard grow, and they itched; he had to wear jeans and a wretched black hoody (he hated jeans and wretched black hoodies); he had only a miniscule space for his things in the linen closet, so he could not have his lab equipment. His saving grace was Molly's extensive collection of high end kitchen tools and devices, most of which were unused: Molly rarely cooked. Apparently, they were gifts from her mother and grandmother; when asked why she didn't get rid of them, her inexplicable response was: They were gifts from her mother and grandmother. When he used them, however, she fussed. She was going to fuss about these cookies. He knew it.

XXXXX

Take-away sack in hand, bag over her shoulder, Molly spent the lift ride thinking of Clyde, the mellow orange tabby she had owned since she was fourteen. Clyde died last year, and, strangely, Molly found herself thinking of him often these past six weeks: How he would rub against her legs and purr when she came home; cuddle with her at night- Rather unlike her current flatmate.

The lift doors opened and she stepped out into the most wonderful scent wafting down the corridor. Ah! She wandered to her flat door and was shifting her bags to get at her key when her mobile rang, and-So many things!-she shifted her bag and sack again, found and answered her mobile, dropped her keys- She managed to come in without stumbling and flung everything but the mobile on the kitchen bar. Sherlock, waiting by the door with a fork, pounced on the take-away sack, pausing only to ask, "Who is it?"

Molly mouthed, "Mrs. Hudson." then spoke into the mobile, "Yes, not since the service. How have you been?" As she listened, she noticed Sherlock eating from the carton. Excellent! She had had luck with Chinese; he didn't eat enough, he was too thin-Mrs. Hudson asked a question.

"Oh yes, lovely. Not too many friends, well none, really. I wish I could have gone with you and John to the gravestone-… Oh? … Yes, I see." Molly looked at Sherlock. "Well, I suppose I could. What sort of lab equipment?" He glanced up. "I have a half day tomorrow, I could come by around noon. How many boxes? … Okay… Oh. Oh, dear, that must have been a messy job." No specimens in her flat. About that, she was firm: No fingers, no eyeballs, no intestines. "Yes, he could be- Quite." Sherlock was smirking; she forced her attention entirely to the mobile.

"I don't know, they were saying such terrible things. They did clear him." It was true: Jim Moriarty had been proven to be a criminal, not an actor; his network was weakened but active, so the charade had to continue.

"Yes, I know, too young. Far too young." Sherlock was watching keenly. "Yes, he must have. So alone. … No, no. Oh, how could you have known? Nobody knew. He wouldn't say anything, would he?" Molly felt herself tearing up. "Yes, we all wish we could have, you mustn't blame yourself. You did the best you could. We all did." Wiping her eyes, "Poor John. I feel the worst for him."

"John's fine." Sherlock snapped.

Molly turned away, covering the mouthpiece. "Terrible. Just awful." Ah. Mrs. Hudson was calming; silver linings and all. "Yes, well there is that. … Right, then. Until tomorrow." Molly closed the mobile and wiped her eyes once more.

"You know, I didn't actually die."

"I'm aware of that." She edged by him to fetch a fork and bowl. When she returned, he was staring, frowning. He glanced at her:

"Bad day?"

It took Molly a moment-"Me?" He nodded. "No. Not particularly." Wondering, she opened the second carton- Oh. "Mrs. Hudson was upset. I was being sympathetic."

Nodding slowly, "Oh. Sympathetic. Ah." And, shrugging slightly, he turned his attention to scraping out the last bits of his dinner.

Shaking her head, Molly served herself and took a stealthy assessment: Walls? No footprints today. Okay. Countertops? Clear. Good. Kitchen bar? Oh. She spied a tray of cookies balanced on a pair of oven mitts at the end. That was where the scent-Oh. Oh, no. "You've been baking."

"Yes." Sherlock binned his empty carton and turned to gaze at the cookies.

"What's in them?"

"45 milligrams of nicotine each. Introduced in the butter." He removed one and held it on his palm, smelling it. "Less than two would shut the average person's nervous system down entirely, but one would work for someone with elevated levels of nicotine."

Nicotine? -Oh. "The woman in the morgue last night."

"Not a stroke. Nicotine. Oh thank you Sherlock! We were all at sea! Oh-"

"We don't know she was deliberately poisoned. It could have been an accident."

"Nicotine. Undetectable and delicious." Sherlock broke open the cookie and smelled the interior.

Molly peered over. Oh, for- "You put nuts in them."

"You said the she had nut cookies in her stomach. Besides, I like nuts."

"I do too, but it seems rather a waste of nuts." Molly stood and fetched a zip top bag and the bleach. When she returned, he was putting a crumb in his mouth, rolling it lovingly on his tongue and then: Swallowed with an expression of pure bliss. For God's sake! She snapped open the bag. "Done with them?"

"Yes."

He took the bag and, looking away, held it open. She dumped in the cookies, added bleach and kneaded the mass with her palms and fingers: Nasty, nasty, death sweets- Sherlock was wincing. Oh. She zipped and binned the bag then returned to her dinner. "Sherlock, you guessed she was a gardener-"

"I deduced she was a gardener. The callus pattern on her hands was unmistakable."

"Gardeners use nicotine based weed killers and insecticide. And she used the patch."

"She wouldn't absorb a fatal dose that way-" Reflecting "-unless she ate a patch-? No, no. It would have taken three. It had to be someone who knew her, knew her habits. Someone who baked. We know nothing more about her?"

"I haven't access to the full police file."

Sherlock scowled. "I can't build cases without data." Sighing. "When are we going to St. Bart's? The flat is tidy."

Really. Glancing around: Kitchen, okay. Living room, ugh. She lay down her fork and trudged over: The sofa's pillows were askew; the white crocheted throw bunched on one arm, and Brian, the hitherto undiscovered variety of Blattella asahinai Sherlock had found on the roof, was in his jam jar on the seat cushion. When the sofa was straightened, "Odd one tonight. I don't know if you'll be able to help."

"What's the case?"

Taking Brian with her, she returned to the bar and dropped a bit of noodle and veg into his jar. "It's a thumb."

"A thumb? Just a thumb? By itself?"

"By itself." Molly glanced at him. "A dog found it: A dismembered thumb. No one had been admitted to the local hospitals or clinics with a missing thumb. The police checked the area with cadaver dogs: No other body parts, no bodies. The odd part is that it had been hacked off with a hatchet or cleaver; usually these are table saw accidents. Oh! And the victim had been exposed to carbon monoxide prior to dismemberment."

"Carbon monoxide."

"Quite a lot of it, but it didn't kill him; the thumb wasn't glowing. Our victim could be alive." Oh, no. He was fetching his hoody and moving to the front door. Quickly, she took a bite of dinner.

"Let's go."

"I'm not done!"

"Eat a protein bar." He stepped out.

That-! Scowling, Molly put her bowl in the refrigerator, took a protein bar from the box on the refrigerator, grabbed her bag and coat and followed him out. Never allowed to eat!

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