#biroba

*

“I don’t think I’ve ever been on aplane that small before.  Was it built by the Wright Brothers?”she grumbled, dragging her suitcase behind her.  She stopped shortand he almost tripped over her, busy as he was cancelling theirreturn flight and securing a spot on the Caledonian Sleeper for thetrip home.  White-knuckling it in a crop-duster was not the kind ofdanger he enjoyed, thank you.  "Tell me that’s not our driver.“

"I can, though I personally thinka marriage is built on a strong foundation of trust, the cornerstoneof which is honesty in all things,” he said, taking in theclient—or whomever the client had sent—standing in front of a vanwith a cartoon Loch Ness Monster on the side holding a ripped pieceof cardboard that said SURELOCK HOOMES on it.  

Eh.  He’d seen worse.  Usually only oncoffee cups from Starbucks.

“He looks like GroundskeeperWilly.  You think he brought us a haggis?”

“Hope not.  I’d murder for a friedMars Bar, though.”

*

“Oh, and do keep an eye out forthe White Lady.  They say misfortune befalls whoever hears ‘erwails,” the innkeeper said, handing over the room key.

He made a mental note to check the roomfor hidden speakers, blacklights, and poorly-disguised secretpassages.

“Is the ghost included in the roomfee, or is something we have to pay extra for?”  He gave thewoman behind the desk one of his plastic smiles and didn’t wait foran answer before picking up his suitcase and heading for the stairs.

“Londoners.  And they say we’recheap,” he heard her grumble as they walked away.

*

“Molly, quit moaning,” hesaid, groping behind himself to give her a shake or a poke orsomething to wake her up.  Honestly, he felt no sympathy for her, hetold her not to eat that second mutton pie.  His hand came intocontact with her bum, and oh, that was nice.

“Get my car fixed first,” shegrumbled sleepily, the last word overlapping with another moan thatmost certainly didn’t come from her.  "Did you just…?“

"Wasn’t me,” he said,supremely annoyed that he’d missed something in his search.  

“Do you think it’s the WhiteLady?” she asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

“Honestly Molly, you’re woman ofscience.”

“'There are more things in Heavenand Earth—’”

“Yes, yes, thank you Hamlet.” The moaning turned to weeping.  "Right, that’s it,“ hesaid, throwing back the covers.  

"What are you doing?”

“Finding those damn speakers.  Andthen I’m taking them down to the front desk.”

Molly groaned and flopped back onto herstomach, covering her head with the pillow.

*

“Oh!  I see something! Binoculars!”  Molly said, yanking him along with the binocularsaround his neck closer to the side of the boat.  They were supposedto be looking for places the saboteurs could moor a boat, but Mollyhad other ideas.

“Driftwood or wave?” heasked, bending closer than was strictly necessary to give the strapof the binoculars enough slack to let him breathe; he was sorelytempted to slip an arm around her waist under the pretence of helpingher maintain her balance on the rolling seas (which, truthfully, wasabout as choppy as a bathtub).

“Driftwood,” she saiddisappointedly after a few moments, letting the binoculars thud backagainst his chest.

He surreptitiously made another tickmark in his notebook as he gave the top of her head a little pat toconsole her.

Driftwood ||||

Wave ||

Reflection/ trick of light |||| ||

Animal |

Maybe she’d get lucky and spot a deadbody; at least that would be interesting.

*

“So I guess I can cross 'low speedboat chase’ off the bucket list,” Molly joked, hunkered behindone of the vinyl-upholstered bench seats.

“Just keep your head down,darling. Don’t give them a target,” Sherlock said, pulling herhead against his chest.  It wasn’t strictly necessary, but at leastthis way they wouldn’t get a look at her face if they had binoculars.

“Why did you call me darling?  Younever call me darling.  Is that some kind of code?”

Of course she’d have to ask stupidquestions.  "It’s a term of endearment.  Mary calls Johndarling.“

"And we are not Mary and John.”

“The dynamic is close enough.  I’mthe smart, deadly one and you’re the short, doctor-y one.”

“I can think of at least sixdifferent ways to kill you in the next 24 hours that no one wouldever question as murder,” she said.  "And at least a dozenmore when we get home.“

"Now’s not really the time forforeplay, darling.”

“Call me that one more time, seewhat happens,” she gritted out.

“Is that a threat or a promise,dar—” he didn’t get to finish the thought as a stray shotapparently hit just the right spot on the tour boat’s gas tank tomake it explode.

*

“We’re going to freeze to death,”Molly after they’d struggled ashore.  "Hypothermia, just likeDyatlov Pass.  It’s like some kind of crypid-hunter curse. Paradoxical undressing, you’re doing it already!“

"Nothing paradoxical about it, mycoat weighs more than you do now.  Probably want to get rid of thatjumper, yourse—”

“Do you hear that?” Mollyfroze.

Oh shit.  He looked around forsomewhere to take cover; their would-be killers were coming back tofinish the job.  

“Over there!”  He pointed towhat looked to be an archway carved into the bedrock under thecastle, long over-grown with vines and brush.

*

Molly shouted as two red eyes glintedat them from the darkness.  "It’s real, I told you it’s real,“she said, clinging onto his arm while leaning closer to get a betterlook.  He got the feeling it was less out of fear and more becauseshe was ready to use him as a human shield/ monster snack if she hadto.

"It’s a prop,” he said,holding the lighter (next time she complained about his smoking, heneed only remind her that carrying it had saved her life) higher toreveal the faint outline of a metal framework with a (rather crudely)sculpted head.

“Is that a… submarine?”Molly asked, looking at the rusted heap at the centre of the cavern.

“Hardly surprising, consideringthe tourist industry,” he murmured, noticing the moulderingskeleton wearing what looked to be an old Royal Navy uniform in thedriver’s seat.  Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have a proper torch anddry clothing…  He’d simply have to come back later.  "Come on,I think that’s probably a stairway that leads up to the castle.“

*

"You were wrong.  We’re not goingto freeze to death, we’re going to die in a labyrinth underneath acastle in the Highlands,” he said, completely unimpressed whilelooking at the point where the passage split in three directions. They all looked equally disused, no wear patterns on the floor ordrafts or other signs to indicate which one led to the surface.

“Oh no, we’ll still die ofhypothermia long before hunger, thirst, or lack of oxygen gets us,”Molly said.  Stripping to their pants hadn’t done much to providewarmth, but at least they were drier now.  "If video games havetaught me anything, one way leads to treasure, one way ends in a pitof certain death, and one is a shortcut to the surface.  Go left.“

"Left.”

“People always go right becauseeveryone’s right-handed—”

“John—”

“Is a freak of nature.  Peoplealways go right, so that one is the death pit, and the middle oneseems like it would be too easy, so they ignore it because reversepsychology works, so it has to be the treasure.  We go left and weget to the surface,” she said, tugging him forward towards theleft-hand path.

“I think my brain’s alreadyshutting down because that actually made some kind of sense,” hesaid, then stopped when something wedged in a crack in the stonecaught his eye.  

*

“If only I had a working cameraright now,” Molly said, looking him up and down.  On one hand,it was rather good luck they’d surfaced in the back of a storeroomunderneath the castle’s gift shop, because that meant they didn’thave to wait any longer for warm, dry things to put on.

On the other hand, it was a gift shopin the Scottish Highlands, so those warm, dry things consistedof argyle socks, kilts, Fair Isle jumpers and, of course, theubiquitous novelty t-shirts.  At least, for him; Molly was too smallfor most of what they had to offer, so she ended up in a plushone-piece Nessie pyjama-costume-thing.  She wasn’t the only one thatwished for a working camera.

At least they didn’t actually have topay for it; the head of the museum seemed rather excited about thering he’d found, something about the Knights Templar or somesuch,went on about it the whole way back to the inn as she gave them alift.

*

“Am I supposed to pee in this now,or once I’m in the water?” Molly asked, doing a weird kind ofinterpretive dance, presumably to make the wetsuit more comfortable.

“Don’t pee in it at all, it’s ahire,” he said.  With any luck, he’d be the only one in thewater this time; hers was just a precaution against another possiblecase of hypothermia.  Not that he hadn’t enjoyed sharing a tepidshower with her or the naked cuddle under the electric blanket thatfollowed, but he’d rather repeat those experiences when they weren’tflirting with multiple organ failure.  And maybe when his externalgenitalia didn’t look like someone had aimed a cartoon shrink-ray atit.

*

“Well, I think that should aboutdo it,” he said once he’d removed the mouthpiece and taken offthe mask.  The saboteurs would be in for a nasty surprise when theytried to abscond in their boat come the dawn, and they’d be met witha fleet of the remaining tour boats if they tried to swim for it. The mastermind of the original insurance scam was already in policecustody.

Molly started the boat (and really,he’d have to find out where, exactly, she’d learned how to handleone, probably from an ex-boyfriend or something tedious, consideringshe’d grown up inland) and he began to get himself out of the scubaapparatus.  A soft splash off to his right caught his attention andhe turned his head, already on guard in case they weren’t as in theclear as he thought they’d been.

He blinked, his brain obviously notcorrectly processing the information his eyes were sending it.  Along, slender neck with a head the size of a rugby ball rose from thewater at the side of the boat; it turned its face first one way, thenthe other to look at him.  The glowing red eyes on either side of itshead were like a rabbit and probably afforded it both low-light andpanoramic visio—what was he saying?!  It was obviously anotherprop, one of the other boat captains taking the piss, probablytesting something for the film crew that was due to show in a fewdays’ time.  He took a step closer and peered at it, trying todetermine if it was made of foam rubber or silicone, where themechanical points of articulation were, listening for hidden motors;truly, it looked to be a marvel of craftmanship even in the low lightof dusk.  It even smelled like an animal.  

He reached out to touch it and itreared back, nearly tipping the boat and sending him sprawling in theprocess.  He looked to Molly, clinging desperately to the wheelinside the cabin, then sprang up to look around for evidence ofanother submersible.  

“Just a wave,” he said outloud, trying to reassure Molly.  Well, mostly himself.

*

“Thought you were dying for one ofthese,” Molly said from where she was reclined on the bed injust a dressing gown.  She held the fried Mars Bar out to him when hesat next to her to take off his shoes.

“Not feeling very hungry, thankyou,” he said, taking note of the pale expanse of her thigh, butstill too shaken by the experience on the boat to attempt anything.

“Didn’t think you were the type toget seasick,” she remarked before taking another bite, thenmaking a noise as warm chocolate and nougat dribbled onto her chin.

He ignored it, and the way she gatheredit with her fingertip and sucked it into her mouth.  "You reallydidn’t see anything?“ he hedged.

"No!  For the last time, I didn’tdrive us into a rock or a log or whatever it is you keep implying.  Imean, I appreciate that you’re trying to be nicer about thingsbecause we’re married and… staying that way… but really,it’s the same as making an accusation, so next time you might as welljust come out and say it.”

He opened his mouth to refute herstatement, but thought better of it; probably best to keep to himselfwhat he’d seen.  She’d most likely want to check his head for lumpsor worse, start moping because she hadn’t seen it.  He would have hiscrisis of logic all on his own, quietly, in the shower.  It was justa Baskerville situation; the explanation was there, he just needed tothink through it.

Of course, no explanation wasforthcoming; nothing had shown on the sonar and there had been nobubbles or other signs of… anything.  

He stared at the ceiling long afterMolly draped her very naked self over him and fell asleep (and hereally wasn’t sure which of them was more disappointed in hisapparent lack of interest, but he was going to assume that he couldback-burner getting her car fixed as a priority, now); the Loch NessMonster wasn’t real.  And neither were ghosts, even if he hadn’tfound the damn speakers or the hidden projector that made theflickering woman by the window.

Sherlock huffed and got out his phone.

"Wiggins’ll be here within thehour with bolt cutters,” he said after he got a return text.

“Why does it have to be him?  Whycan’t it be John or Mary or even Greg?”

“Yes, let’s have probably the mostwell-known copper in all of London stroll on up to a literal den ofthieves and say 'pardon me gents, mind if I have a gander at yourloading dock?  No, no reason, certainly not trying to rescue someonewho’s absolutely not Sherlock Holmes from an undercover operationthat definitely won’t put half of you lot in jail,’” Sherlockhissed, pulling Molly off to a weird little alcove on the side of thebuilding that probably once had a reason for existing, but was nowjust a quirk of architecture that collected debris.  "What’s thematter with Wiggins, anyway?“

"He always asks me about zombies. He legitimately thinks an actualzombie apocalypse is coming.”

“Iknow, I’ve seen the warren he calls a flat.  Consequently, if thereever is an apocalypse—zombie or otherwise—and Mycroft isunavailable, I know where we’re going,” Sherlock answered,leaning out of the alcove to keep an eye on the alley.

“Wherewe’regoing?”  Molly repeated.

“Wellwe can hardly stay at yours, we could maybe live off of the contentsof your cupboards for a week before we resorted to eating spicesstraight from the jar and chasing them with enough alcohol to drownhalf of Ireland,” he elaborated, apparently not picking up on orsimply ignoring her question.

“Soif it were the end of the world, you’d… save me?” she asked,feeling a bit warm.

“Ofcourse I would, don’t be stupid.  You have a relatively high IQ,you’re a doctor and you have a host of other useful skills, youprobably have time to bear at least three children assuming singlebirths at two-year intervals—”

“Soyou’d save me to be a brood sow,” she said flatly.  "Youmake it sound so romantic.“

"I’dsave you because you’re my friend,”he said.  "And of course we’d have to do our part to repopulatethe Earth.“

Shegave him an unimpressed look.

"Imight have thought about it a bit.  Wiggins talks.  A lot. Especially when you don’t want him to.  He makes some surprisinglyconvincing arguments.  When he’s coherent.”

“Argumentsas to why I should bear you your own pack of War Boys aftercivilization collapses.”

Sherlocknarrowed his eyes at her before turning back towards the alley. Another reference right over his head, and he’d even seen the film. He’d even likedthe film.

“Argumentsas to why a strong partnership would be more important in apost-apocalyptic world than it is in our current society.”

“Soyou think we have a strong partnership?” Molly asked,butterflies in her stomach.  This wasn’t a thing they talked about. Ever.  Or even alluded to.

“Youdid help me fake my death and keep it a secret from everyone you knewfor two years.  And we always win at Pictionary against John andMary.”

“There’sa useful skill when we’re being chased by a herd of undead,” shedeadpanned.  

“Yes,because we obviously already have an effective system of nonverbalcommunication.”

True,she thought, cocking her head.

See?Sherlock’s raised-eyebrow-face-tilt said.

Theyfell quiet then, the mood tense and kind of weird.

*

“Ohmy God what’staking him so long?  Did the zombie apocalypse actually start?”Molly said, leaning against the brick and scuffing her heel acrossthe concrete.

“Ithasn’t even been ten minutes,” Sherlock said, looking at hiswatch, then checking his phone again.  He’d stopped watching thealley because there was really nothing towatch; no one knew they were back there but the thief and hewasn’t telling anybody, since he’d been double-crossing all hispartners anyway.

“Ispy someth—”

“No.”

“I’mthinking of a number between one and—”

“Nope. But thirteen, because you always pick thirteen.”

Hewasn’t wrong.  "Capitols?“

Sherlocklooked at her, face completely blank, as though she was so dull thatit had robbed him of his will to live.

"Youwanna make out?” Molly joked.  The silence had been unbearableand she didn’t want to go back to it so soon.

Thatwas enough to startle him.  He narrowed his eyes again.  "Areyou suddenly channelling your inner American or is that from a film?“

”Ha-ha. Probably a film?  Or TV.  Nothing specific, though.  Just, ah, goback to watching the wall or whatever you were doing,“ she said,feeling like she’d suddenly metamorphosed into an ass a la LoonyTunes.

”…Orwe could make out…" Sherlock said nonchalantly.

Itwas Molly’s turn to narrow her eyes.  Was he serious?

“Youwere the one to suggest it,” Sherlock defended.

“Okay,”she said, thinking he wouldn’t.  

“Okay,”he said, turning his body to face her.  "Mint?“ he asked,holding out an open tin of Barkleys.

"Thankyou,” she said, taking one.  "Oh God, it’s aniseed, are youninety?“ she asked, making a face.  Spitting it out would berude.

Sherlockscowled and sucked on his own mint as he squirrelled the tin awayagain.  "You know the ancient Romans actu—” he began,then cut himself off when she stepped closer.

Shereally didn’t care what flavour the mint was.  This might be herliteral, actual, only chance ever to get to kiss Sherlock becauseobviously the stars aligned and just so and probably never wouldagain.

Shetilted her face up to him; he looked about as nervous as she felt. She pushed up on her toes and he bent down a bit; they both stoppedwhen their faces were inches apart.

“Thisfeels like a game of gay chicken,” she said, her voice hushed. “Except, we’re, ah, not… gay.  Or, well, it would only be gaychicken if you were a girl…”

“Areyou stalling?” he asked.

“I’mnot stalling, you’re stalling.”

“I’mnot the one who said this was like g—”

Shecut him off mid-word, since it was just getting ridiculous and therewas nothing to be afraid of because it was only a kiss and she’d donemore as a bored teenager and it didn’t mean anything, it was just fora laugh…

Exceptit wasn’t.  It really, really wasn’t.  It was a proper kiss, the kindthat made her toes curl and her skin tingle and stole her breath.  Ohdear.

*

“So,if you got bit, right, like say on the hand, or any extremity, wouldcutting it off right away actually work if it was a virus?”Wiggins asked, leaning around Sherlock to look at her.  He made achopping motion with his hand just above his wrist.  She wasn’t surewhy he was in the cab with them.