The Black Bag

Part One: First Favor

"I'm not helping you anymore." Lips set. Shoulders squared. Feet set evenly apart. She's braced herself. Expecting backlash. Not a joke.

"It's for a case." That almost always worked.

"Not this time. I'm not helping you." Eyes rimmed in red. Mascara smudged. Papers on her desk. Pink slip.

"I'll get it sorted. But right now Mr. Scott truly needs you to run his autopsy." Shows of bravado almost always worked with Molly. She rarely stood up to him.

"Sherlock, you can't get it sorted. It's my job." Arms crossed. Hip tilted. Eyes lowered. Insecure, but resolute. "Get another girl to do your fetching." Narrowed lids, pouted lip. Hands rubbed across her jacket. Chipped nails. Insecure. Isolated. Dark circles. Tired.

He turns and leaves after a few more attempts and even an embarrassing flirtation. His steps are hurried all the way around the back to Baker Street where John laughs for ten straight minutes after Sherlock relays the story. Later that night another woman on shift calls the police on him and Lestrade laughs as well. Really, Molly was the only competent person in his circle.

The next morning is Friday and she never works on a Friday. He's clearly not going to have any luck with anyone else, though that doesn't keep him from trying. By Monday the autopsy will be performed and it was much less interesting for cases to go on without him. So he finds her flat, notes the welcome mat. Just like her, sentimental woman she always is.

"No one else will do it, Molly. I need you." A flicker of aggravation. Arms cross again. Hair mussed, nose red. Day old mascara smudged. Robe askew. Nude. The last one surprises him. Mousy Molly sleeps naked? He'll have to add it for later.

"I'm not a last resort, Sherlock. People have lives outside of your cases. They-" Back rigid. Lips turn slightly upward. Crow's feet pronounced. Arms loosen. Success? "People have lives. Outside of your cases."

"Yes, I am aw—" She interrupts him. Two surprises in one night.

"I will continue to help you." He turns and is halfway down the hall when he hears her still talking. "Not for free, Sherlock." This makes his steps falter.

"No worry," He glances her over. She's entirely too confident. She believes she's got him. "I've plenty of resources."

"Not money. Favors. You will owe me favors." Leaning against her doorway. Grinning in earnest. Hand moved to her hip. Planning.

"Grocery bill and the like?" He thinks it over but he knows what he's decided already. She's his Pathologist. To find another pathologist would be tedious and boring.

"I'll figure it out as I go." Uncertainty. He doesn't like uncertainty.

"Agreed."

She closes the door and he's confused. She comes out an eternity later, dressed worryingly nice.

She performs the autopsy in an almost giddy state. He's always admired that she finds his work so fascinating, but this feels too close to how people describe him. Lipstick. Brown. Light powder, a shade off. Hair in a bun today. Black skirt, black blouse, black heels. Significance. Sentimental. She's trying to make a point. Severe. She confirms his suspicion. The liver is bloated. Poisoned, not drowned. He makes a quick text. John won't read it until tomorrow. He turns as always to leave, but a quiet rumbling alerts him. She's not done.

Hands rubbing sides. Biting lip. Blush. Eyes lowered. Smile missing. Nervous.

"For God's sake, Molly you can't bla—"

"Come with me." The words are quiet, like her cleared throat, but she's interrupted him again. It's a bit aggravating. Is that what he's done to everyone else? No wonder people hate him.

"You can't corral me into a date, Molly." He makes sure he says it as flat, as bored, as possible.

She only snorts derisively at him. He questions for a moment if he's misread her intentions. They enter a darkened holding area and he's reassured. She's decided to go the unorthodox route, thinking to impress him with dead bodies. Understandable assumption, but wrong nonetheless. She pulls out five body drawers. Each one holds extremely boring cases.

"Deduce them. Out loud." He holds in a heavy sigh. It would only be too theatrical. He already has them all solved.

"Overweight, yellowed nails. Several pricks of the finger. Bloated ankles. Clearly diabetic. Scar over the chest, heart surgery. Overall unhealthy person. Piercings on either side of the lip. Multiple dyes in the hair. Mother problems despite sloppily colored Mom tattoo on ankle. Died of heart attack." Case 1, solved. Not even a murder.

"Well built, middle thirties. Cheating on his wife. Wounds on the back implicate the mistress was at least a foot shorter than him. Preferred unorthodox methods of release. Recreational pot use, habitual smoker. Discolored skin around the mouth and fingers. Clear knife wound extending from right to left of rib carriage. Killed by lover's boyfriend. Case solved this morning." He raised his eyebrow at her. Pale face. Glossed eyes. Biting lip. Lipstick waning.

He continued through all the cases, solving each one quickly and thoroughly. Occasionally he heard her sniffling, felt more than saw the swift motion of her hand as she wiped tears and snot from her face. Sentimentality. Once he was done he turned towards her, expecting to be told to go. Possibly insulted and called insensitive. He hardly felt this particular injustice was his fault. He'd simply followed her instructions.

"You missed everything." The declaration shakes his mind palace for a moment and he quickly checks each one. She waits for him to finish, even though he doesn't bother checking the actual bodies again.

"I most certainly did not." He doesn't like the rise of his voice. The indignation. It doesn't matter that she wasn't impressed.

"Yes, you did. You looked at them, and you deduced how they died and saw all of those things, but you missed everything." She looks at him again. "Want me to give it a go?"

"That's hardly the same." He doesn't like the tug of something at his insides. What can she see that he can't?

She goes ahead anyway. She stands in front of the diabetic for a long moment, not saying anything. He resists smirking.

"Bits of color from paint on her left hand. She's a mother. At least two children. Orange is crusted under her nail from feeding the baby. She's single. A romantic. Her lips are still stained under the line from consistent use of red lipstick." She turns a wrist over, revealing a small broken heart tattoo. Romantic confirmed. "She consistently attempted slimming down. Feet are bruised along the ball and down the arch. Jogging."

Molly looks serene while she deduces. Nothing she sees is the same as what he sees. He can confirm most of it as being correct. Something ticks away as she moves on to another case.

"Reader. Paper cuts on the fingers. Personal trainer. This level of personal fitness goes beyond a fling with a younger girl. Shaves regularly. Obsessed with hygiene. Shaved chest, armpits, head. Still smells of strong soap." She looks entirely different now. Moves cadaver limbs with care. Looks each victim in the face before attempting deduction. Purposefully seeking personal observations.

She continues on this way through each victim, never once mentioning their death. Black blouse, black skirt. Hair severely styled. Subdued make up. Respectful, careful appearance. Not date. Funeral.

He knows she'll be annoyed for him interrupting her. For figuring it out too soon. "Molly, I don't much like funerals. Particularly for strangers."

"Well, it's a good thing none of them care then is it." He was right. She's exasperated. "You're missing the point Sherlock. They're not cases. They're people." Her hand is still poised over the fourth man's leg. He turns to leave her alone in the room.

"Irrelevant. None of that is important as to why they died."

"I didn't ask you why they died." His own eyes narrow. "I asked you to deduce them and you missed all the important bits."

"I don't think he found reading nearly as important as getting stabbed through the ribs."

"He care about reading daily. He cared about getting stabbed once."

"It's not about what he cared about, Molly." He can feel his voice rising, again. Why? Why was this frustrating him? Hadn't John tried to do the same thing? He vaguely recalled getting frustrated then, too. "I see what's important."

"No, you just don't know how to see the other things. If you want my help, you'll have to figure it out."