20 Questions

"I'm thinking of a word."

Six hours in isolation, awaiting his sentence, waiting if he could make just one phone call, and this is what he comes up with?

"Sherlock?" The number displayed on her phone is unfamiliar, but the voice is not.

"Yes, Sherlock is a word, but it's not *the* word. I suggest you start with larger categories and narrow it down."

"Oh my God," she huffs. Is that exasperation already?

"Are you okay?" Concern. He can always count on her for that. And then after a beat, "Are you high?" Annoyance. He brings this one out of everyone.

"Ummm, Yesss? And no. Respectively. Really, Molly. Don't waste your questions. You're down to seventeen."

"What the f-… really? At this time of night? I just came back from a double shift – on Christmas Day! And you expect me to… never mind. Those were rhetorical questions, by the way. They shouldn't count."

"Alright then," he concedes, giving his best impression of graciousness. After all, he does want to continue hearing her voice and not think about why that is. "But you're still on seventeen, with four minutes and…5 seconds left."

"Oh. My. God. Why do I let you do this?"

"That's.."

"I know! Again, not a real question. You shouldn't count that."

"Fine."

He hears her thinking, imagines her pacing her kitchen as she tidies up.

"Is it a noun?"

"No."

"Is it even in English?"

"Yes."

"Phew. Glad we sorted that one out." She lets out a nervous giggle. It is disconcertingly melodic and pleasant to hear. He finds that he likes it, even thru the muffled sounds of a phone.

"I'm sure you are," he says, trying to regain control of the situation. "It wouldn't be much fun for me if the word was in Serbian."

"I don't speak Serbian."

"Exactly."

He hears her snort. He can see her rolling her eyes, and he finds himself smiling.

"You're such an arse sometimes."

"I know. Just sometimes." She giggles at that. Dear God, it's a salve to his burning soul. The one that's feeling the lick of the fires of hell. If there was such a thing.

"Continue."

"Ok. Is it a descriptive word? You know, like an adjective or adverb?"

"Yes, Molly. I know what a descriptive word is. But no. It is not."

"Is it… a verb?"

"YES!"

"Great! That really narrows it down, doesn't it?" He loves it when she gets sarcastic. "How many words are there in the English language anyway? Oh lord. Don't answer that."

He hears her tinker with the volume of the telly playing in the background.

"What kind of English is it, anyway? It's not Jamaican or American slang, is it?"

"Molly, yes or no questions only, please. And you're down to 12."

"Right. Right. Then, is it a verb commonly used and understood by all English speakers? Unlike plaster, or to let, or –"

"I get it, Molly. The answer is yes. It is a common verb of the English language. Time is ticking." He sees the clock in front of his cell and his brother waiting for him to end the call, no doubt confused about the conversation he is having with his trusted pathologist.

"Okay fine," she says. "Is it a verb related to your work as a detective? You know, words like murdered or stabbed, or experimenting, or -"

"No. No it is not."

"Ooo-kay. Is it related to sports? Like riding, swimming, boxing, running…?"

"No."

"Hmmmm." He hears her exhale deeply and prays she's not ready to give up and end the call.

"Is it a hobby of some kind?"

"Yes!" He said a bit excitedly. Up until now he really wasn't sure what he was thinking about. But a nice hobby, one that didn't involve murders, was good enough for him. Something he might do in his mind palace to settle his mind as he waits for the British government to mete out his punishment.

"Huh. A hobby. Interesting choice, Sherlock." He smiles, pleased with himself.

"Does it involve special equipment?"

"Umm.. yes! Seven more questions, and about a minute and half left."

"Way to go, Sherlock. You know just how to make a girl's heart race, don't you?"

He doesn't know what to say to that. But he hopes he does. Why is he thinking this?

"That was not one of my 20 questions!"

"Fine! I knew that."

"Alright. Do you need to wear anything special for this hobby?"

"Ummm… yes."

"Ohh, is it .. dancing? Ballroom dancing!"

"Huh. That would be good. I do love to dance."

"I know. I sometimes catch you getting down when you think you're alone with my playlist."

"I never…"

"Kidding, Sherlock. I just think, well, you're very graceful and fluid and… I can see you as a contestant in Strictly Come Dancing."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No! Not at all. I mean, you would crush a Viennese waltz. I can just see it."

"Ah. But that requires a partner. An able partner."

"Well…. I've always wanted to learn how to wal-"

"Nope."

"You don't think I could learn to waltz?"

"No. I mean, the answer is no. It's not dancing. 30 seconds." He was enjoying the imagery, but his five minute call was coming to an end. And anyway, dancing with Molly was just not something he wanted to think about. Not when he was about to go to hell.

"So, it's a hobby requiring special equipment and attire, but it is not a sport."

"Correct."

"SCUBA Diving?"

"No."

"Free climbing? Although that doesn't need special attire…. Mountain climbing? Rock climbing?"

"No and No. Two more. Make it count, Molly."

"What?! Those two are related."

"Mountain climbing is different from rock climbing. Come on."

"Ugh. You're tough. Fencing? Wait! I take that back. That's a sport."

"Sorry. One more left. 15 Seconds."

He hears her suck in a breath of inspiration before she spits out:

"Beekeeping?"

"YES!" Yes. Yes, that would be a really good hobby, he thinks.

A wave of calm washes over him. He can picture Molly finally seated on her couch, with her feet propped up on her coffee table and hair splayed at the back of the sofa. A triumphant smile on her face.

"Beekeeping. Huh," she says. "You know, I could see you retired in the country tending to your hives. Indulging your sweet tooth while studying those fascinating insects. I bet you can study them for hours."

"Yes," he says. He can't help but smile like an idiot in his tiny cell, even as the guards call out the countdown. "Yes, I can."

And then of course he remembers where he is, and where she is and how, despite how near she sounds, how her quiet laugh makes the hair on his nape stand on end, she may forever be unattainable. He had willingly crossed over into the dark side. There may not be any redemption after this, after what he had done. And yet, without her knowing, she had given him a spark of light to take with him in what will invariably be the worst night of his life.

He will be forever grateful for having her as a sort of secret confidant, the unknown entity keeping him sane. But now he won't ever be able to show his deep appreciation for the small and big things she has done for him. He swallows down the sentiment that threatens to overtake him.

"Molly?" He calls out one last time, in hushed tones, as if the name itself brings him salvation.

"Hmmm?"

"Merry Christmas."

And then he had to hang up before she could wish him anything 'merry'.

If you haven't figured it out yet, this story is set right after the events of HLV. Since shipping them together, I thought it would be appropriate that Molly would plant the seed of beekeeping. This is how it could have happened.