"Hello Sweetie" is how River Song always greets the Doctor. I imagine the Doctor (in his head) snaps his fingers and mutters out, frustrated, "River!" every time she pops up. That's where I got the title from (since, supposedly, the Doctor eventually marries River Song in the future and she may or may not kill him later).

This is one-off, set a few days after the events of 'The Great Game' (assuming that Sherlock did shot the explosives and everything went BOOM) while Sherlock is recuperating at the hospital. Oh, well, it may or may not be a one-shot, depending on whether the response is positive and people want me to continue. And if I feel like it.

Listening to: BLK JKS, The Jacksons, Pink Floyd, Maria Callas, Helter Skelter, Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert, and Matt Smith.

UPDATE!: I've edited this. It's got some new dialogue and it's more descriptive. I like it more than the original. I hope that whoever is reading this is unlike me (who never reviews) and reviews it. But, if not, I hope you at least favourite it or whatever.

No pressure though! (Also, if you happen to review, tell me if it is and was right to continue (the second chapter will be up shortly so you can bitch and/or praise your opinion very soon)).


He heard his room's door open and then silently close. Then he heard five clicks of heels on the tile to his bed. 'Woman, about five foot three, hundred and ten pounds, wearing two inch heels.' The clicking stopped beside his bed as, whomever it was, hesitated. 'Chanel No. 5.' The woman, he assumed, opened something; its metal snap the only noise in the quiet room, besides the beeping of the machines hooked up to him and the dripping of his morphine. 'A clutch. Whoever this is...she's wealthy.'

"Sherlock", a soft, smooth voice purred at him as she placed her arm on the bed to get a closer look at him. She paused, but didn't except him to reply and, so, she continued, "Your brother told me that if I visited you in the hospital I could leave." The woman cleared her throat and then continued in a stronger tone, "And since I've been wanting to get the hell out of London for the last six months, I thought I'd get this over with as soon as possible—and the fact that you're still unconscious from surgery is just the cherry on top."

'I can't quite place her accent...with some words she sounds American (a mixture of New Jersey, Texan, and Eastern Californian), but, she casually pronounces other words with a Southern English accent, so, I can assume, she's been a nomad since birth.'

"I suppose I should say something about how glad I am that you survived that explosion, but I'm not going to 'cause that's lying", the woman said lightly and nonchalantly. She paused, leaned away from him, and then snapped at him, harshly, "Sherlock, I know you're awake...open your damn eyes." Sherlock snapped his eyes open, temporarily blinded by the hospital's fluorescent lights, and, after his eyes quickly adjusted to the light, he saw a woman intensely staring at him with wide-set brown eyes.

"Who are you?" he muttered to her, the morphine doing nothing to affect his intense stare at her.

The woman pretended to be offended, an upset look flashing across her face, "I'm hurt that you would ask that. And…a bit disappointed as well", she cocked her eyebrow at him and bit her bottom lip to contain a giggle, but failed as a mocking chuckle escaped her lips, "I'll give you a hint, Sherlock, as you clearly don't know"—she snapped a hair tie from her wrist and tied her mud-coloured hair into a ponytail—"which I'll just chalk up to the massive injuries you've sustained and the morphine coursing through your body right now." She breathed out and something changed in her eyes; they went from determined and sharp to quiet and timid, "Sh... Sherlock...coffee?" she stammered out in a Northamptonshire accent.

Her black eyeliner, pink lip-gloss, curly neck length hair, and the dark sunflower printed knee length dress were stripped off, and a baggy white lab coat and cheap red lipstick was placed on her. Her face quickly formed in Sherlock's mind, "Molly", his voice very flat, very sure, and firm.

"Bingo", she laughed derisively as she pulled her hair back down and started combing her hair with her fingers. "But, the name's Irene Adler, by the way", she told him impishly as she rubbed her hands together quickly then smirked at him.

"Why did you tell me your name was Molly Hooper then?"

She chuckled lightly and gestured to herself, "I never told you my name was Molly Hooper. You saw it on my badge and assumed that it was", she shrugged and pushed up the sleeves of her brown army style short jacket, "I just never bothered to correct you."

"Why? Why did you do this?" Sherlock's brows intertwined in confusion, his voice still flat.

She avoided Sherlock's gaze and replied angrily; rage seeping through her voice, "I owed your stupid brother a stupid favour", but when she caught Sherlock's eye, mischievousness and playfulness flickered in her eyes, a small, restrained smirk appeared on her face, and she continued leisurely and composedly, "Besides, I heard about you. And perhaps one day we can have a proper"—she leaned her head in to inspect Sherlock, who was examining her as well, closely and cautiously—"chat." She still had that same cool smirk plastered on her face as her eyes trailed from his scarred forehead down to the bridge of his nose and finally focused on the tip of his chiseled nose.

'As though nature concealed a trap, she has from the first a face of innocence. Her hair is brown and lovely; wide-set brown eyes with upper lids that drooped makes her look mysteriously sleepy. Her nose is delicate and thin, and her cheekbones high and wide, sweeping down to a small chin so that her face is heart-shaped. Her mouth is well shaped and well lipped but abnormally small—what used to be called a rosebud. Her ears are very little, without lobes, and they press so close to her head that even with her hair combed up they make no silhouette. They are thin flaps sealed against her head.'*

"Well", she started breathlessly after almost a minute of silence and studying; her darkening eyes flickered to his. She was less than four inches away from his face when she softly murmured to him in a flirtatious tone, "What do you think?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He just kept examining her like she was a case, a puzzle to be solved. Sherlock would later blame his failure to reply with a quick and witty observation from his injuries and the fact that he just got blown up the previous day.

After ten seconds had gone by, she calmly sighed out in displeasure and stood up. She swiftly flickered her eyes to her watch, and her face flashed with alarm, "Oh, I gotta go", she suddenly exclaimed as she lightly slapped her forehead. She grabbed her clutch and walked to the door as Sherlock followed her with his eyes, "For Dick Darlington awaits!" and placed her hand on the cool metal handle.

"Wait!" Sherlock dully shouted as she unhurriedly turned the doorknob.

She turned back to him, leaning her back against the white, wooden door, a frown on her face, "Yes?"

"What"—Sherlock tried to speak, but his lips were so dry that he had to stop. 'Damn morphine.' He licked his lips and tried again, "What was true? Was there anything true about you and Molly Hooper?"

A playful smile slowly encompassed her face, "Nothing"; she said with a bored tone, "nothing was true. A Molly Hooper doesn't even exist—well a Doctor Molly Hooper doesn't exist, but I do have a doctorate in forensic pathology", she paused and then quickly added, in a preoccupied voice and nodding, "Oh, and I do like cats. I really do." She smiled at him again, opened the door and slipped out, but before the door closed she slipped her head back in, "And since I didn't get to see John, tell him that Irene Adler wishes him a speedy and excellent recovery", she said to Sherlock in a good-natured voice, but then she frowned and told Sherlock in a gloomy voice, "And Molly Hooper wishes you the same." Her head disappeared and the door gradually closed.

Sherlock sighed in contempt, leaned back in his bed, and folded his hands on his flat, bruised, and bandaged stomach. He sighed again and then muttered to himself, "Damn woman." He glanced over to the clock and spotted an open card laying on his bedside table. He struggled to reach the card and it took him a minute or two to finally snatch the card. It read, in red cursive:

Next time, you'd better be more fully prepared.

The Bruce-Partington Plans? Please—what kind of leverage is that? I expected more of you.

P. S. Sorry for the great effort it took for you to reach this card...but you had to work for it. My advice isn't free.

'Obviously a woman wrote this'. Sherlock flipped the card over and started to study it for any clues, "But who really wrote this?" Sherlock muttered to himself, "Irene or...Moriarty?"


I'm surprised there's not more "Molly is Irene!" fan fiction out there. I mean Louise Brealey is really pretty and it would be AWESOME if she turned out to be Irene. Or Molly could turn out to be a 'Cathy Ames/Kate from East of Eden' type character, where she's not a physical monster but a mental or psychic monster. That, again, would be pretty kickass, especially after Cathy is described physically (which reminds me of Molly).

*This is actually from East of Eden, but, of course, I just took out Cathy's name and placed it in present tense, not past. Steinbeck, John. "Chapter 8." In East of Eden . New York: Penguin Books, 1992. 73.