So this is (hopefully) the start of a series of one-shots in which Molly isn't just a pathologist at Barts. I actually have two ideas currently, one of which would take multiple chapters. This particular one-shot was inspired by the story on here called "The London Detective" by MyShipIsWeird. I gave a little nod to the story as well as the actress that plays Molly in the show.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, just the OC at the end. You may borrow her with permission granted first.

Author

Boredom had once again struck the (in)famous consulting detective of 221B Baker Street. No cases ranked higher than a 3 had been sent to him. Bothering John was out of the question, since he and Mary were busy with the newest Watson. Mrs. Hudson was out with a gentleman friend of hers, who for once didn't have a too shady past if one overlooked his former occupation as a government agent. If there was a murder, or even an interesting robbery at this point, Lestrade had yet to alert Sherlock about it. To make things worse, Molly was out of the country visiting an old friend from her university days.

A glance around the room told Sherlock what his acceptable options were. He could play the violin(like he did the day before), perform experiments(well this option was questionable at best), or finally get around to reading the books John had gotten him. Well there was a clear winner after all, even if the books did have the cliché covers associated with mystery novels. They were all a part of a series by an author called L. M. Brealey, who was supposedly as mysterious as the books themselves.

With nothing better to do, Sherlock picked up the first book in the series. He reasoned that even if the plot was predictable, then he could use the written works to deduce more about the author. As he read the words printed on each page, deductions about the author as well as the plot flashed through Sherlock's mind. He never noticed the time changing on the clock as his mind wandered into another world.

John walked up to the flat his best friend lived in. He had gotten a call from Lestrade saying that Sherlock hadn't answered any calls for a few days now. While Sherlock turning down cases that didn't meant his minimum required rank of a 7 in order to leave the flat, the case Lestrade was trying to get the consultant to help with sounded like at least a 7. The sight that met John was a mixture of familiar and confusion for the former army doctor.

Newspapers, magazines, books, and pieces of paper littered the flat. Normal. Various articles and notes pinned to a wall. Normal if Sherlock was on a case, which as far as John knew wasn't the case. The red threads connecting said pieces of paper. Again, normal if on a case. Sherlock looking like he was about to pull his hair out. Not normal, ever.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John cautiously asked, becoming concerned for his friend. "Greg has been calling you trying to get you on a case."

"Busy," Sherlock replied before groaning in frustration. "Who are you L. M. Brealey?"

"L. M. Brealey?" John repeated. "The author of the mystery series I got you?"

"Authors John," Sherlock corrected. "The writing style changes at different points in each book. One author, definitely a woman, writes the more emotional and dramatic aspects while the other author writes the crime aspects of the books."

"Wait, you mean to tell me you've been trying to figure out who L. M. Brealey is these past few days?" John questioned. A sharp look was the only answer John needed. "Sherlock, only the publishers know for sure who the author is, and even they don't know too much."

"Well they're idiots," Sherlock scoffed. "I've deduced there are two writers using one penname. At least one woman and one American due to the American terminology used. One or both are familiar with what actual crime scenes are like, how autopsies are performed, what evidence a body can give off, and one, if not both, have read our blogs."

"What makes you say that?" John replied, secretly amazed a bestselling author(well authors) read his blog(even more amazing was that they read Sherlock's blog).

"The crimes and the detective John," the consulting detective rolled his eyes. "The crimes are obviously inspired by the ones on your blog. Plus the detective's abilities are superior to his peers and could be on par with mine. Then there is his name, William Scott, it's glaringly obvious he's named after me as well."

"How many people know your full name? Besides that I have to agree with you," John commented. A frown formed on Sherlock's face. The only ones who knew his full name were his parents, Mycroft, John, Mary, possibly Moriarty, and Molly. If light bulbs appeared over peoples' heads in real life, one would have appeared shining over Sherlock's.

"OF COURSE!" he shouted. "It makes perfect sense!"

"You just figured out the identity of the authors in a few days after reading the books while other people have spent months looking and have come up with nothing?" John said. "Of course you did, you're Sherlock Holmes. So who are they anyways?" At this Sherlock smirked at his best friend.

"A toast to The London Detective," Molly exclaimed, clinking a glass of lemonade with Breanne Harley's glass. "For all the success he has brought us."

"Amen to that," Molly's friend replied. "In all seriousness I'm glad you found the time to visit me here in New York. It's been too long since we chatted in person."

"Well it wasn't purely for fun," she admitted.

"Molly Louise Hopper you better come clean right this instance," Breanne mock glared.

"It's about that scene you snuck in, between William Scott and Holly Lee," the pathologist began. "Why did you make them be secretly dating? Plus you changed Holly Lee to be a lot more like, well, me." A mischievous grin graced Breanne's lips as she took a sip of her lemonade.

"Because until you realize how crazy that Sherlock guy has to be about you, that is as close to you two dating I'll get," she answered.

"So you're using our series to fulfill your own fantasies of me being in a relationship with a self-proclaimed sociopath?" Molly gave her friend a deadpanned look.

"Long live Sherlolly," was the only response Breanne gave.