A/N: Sherlock! I love this show so much, it is ridiculous. This idea came to me at midnight and kept me up until 1 AM. I usually don't post this type of story, but anyway, thought it would be interesting to see what happens. Also, Molly isn't exactly my favourite character but her interaction with Sherlock is quite amusing (as is her blog! Google it if you haven't seen it yet).

If you're interested in reading some really great Sherlock fics, check out my favourites!

Also, if you're a fic writer yourself, considering writing one with Anderson! At the moment, the category it seems to be empty. Hmm...

Disclaimer: Don't we all wish we owned Sherlock. Unfortunately, it was not meant to be.

"John."

Sherlock waited but there was no answering reply. He was sprawled on the sofa, head back and eyes closed.

"John."

He listened closer. No answer. Hm. Must be away then. Probably at his - job - that dull job at the hospital. Why John felt inclined to take on such a boring position was beyond his imagination. He sighed and let his thoughts drift, easing away the frustration.

Presently, there was the sound of the front door opening. Footsteps paused before the stairs before slow, dragging steps accompanied booted feet up. Steps were loud and heavy. Tired. He had - walked? Obviously the relationship with Sarah was rocky - declined a date for that night. Didn't have enough money for a taxi in his wallet. Had to take the tube then walk. Other things - unimportant things.

"John." Sherlock said again.

There were puffed breaths and shuffled movement to the sofa. Collapsed on it with a loud sigh - exasperation and annoyance

but not necessarily anger, yet.

"John."

There was a moment during which he seemed to realize Sherlock calling his name. "Yes- what?"

Slightly snappish tone though a result of the day's events and not his persistent calling. Sherlock brought his hands together to clasp on his chest, in a somewhat morbid representation of a deceased person.

"Where's my phone?"

A beat of silence.

"How would I know? I dunno- did you check where you last saw it?"

Sherlock did not respond with a scathing, sarcastic reply, which was a monumental test of his evolving patience.

Another tired sigh, this time relenting. "Yes, of course you did." A shuffling of clothing, an unzipping of a coat, which was stiff from the cold. No precipitation though. Phone starting to run out of battery. Both of theirs. Sherlock's was at 15% and John's a steady 20-25%.

"I'll dial the number," came the resigned response.

Sherlock waited with as much patience as he could bear, trying not to fidget with impatience.

"Hurry up."

She tried not to release a girlish squeal. It would be most unbusinesslike in the eating area and besides she would get looks. She already did, for having cats and working in the morgue. But, well, more looks.

She had His phone.

Sherlock "I am bloody amazing and dashing and clever but also an arse at times" Holmes' phone.

She clutched it with desperate fingers, indecision driving her to near breaking point. There were several options. One, give it back to Sherlock. Pros: possible of the moment gratitude Cons: indifference. Two, hold it ransom. Possibly look through it (!). Might be a password though. She did not know because she had not dared to touch it since she found it lying on the lab bench. Three, do nothing.

She cautiously turned her gaze down to stare at it with wide eyes. It sat there, unobtrusively, almost humbly, as if it were not THE PHONE. She held onto the edge of the round table and leaned forward to inspect it. She wondered where he had gotten it from.

Before she could form another thought, it rang. She jumped, knocking it off the table.

It fell to the ground with a loud clatter

Oh bugger.

She fumbled with it and clicked the answer button without looking in her haste.

"Yes?" she all but shrieked. "Hello!"

There was an uncertain reply, certainly not His. "Hello? Who is this?" The voice was much less crisp and refined, she could tell that much at least.

"What?" she replied dumbly, straightening and running her finger along a slim crack on the side of The Phone. Shit.

"Sorry, who's speaking-? Sarah?"

An unattractive "What-" was the reply again.

"Um. Right. Okay. Erm. Could you please tell me who you are?"

"Oh! Oh yes! Molly!" she said in a quavering, voice, almost a falsetto.

A brief pause. "Who?" The voice was apologetic. Of course the person wouldn't know who it was. Who was it, besides? She thought hard about the matter and decided it was that shorter, nicer gentleman who often accompanied Him. What was his name? She felt bad because she could not remember, only picture the face, and it seemed he was having the same problem.

"Molly Hooper?" More silence. "From Barts?"

"Oh, that's right. Hello-" The speech was cut off by a muffled, "Hold on! Yes, I've got the bloody person! It's Molly. No, the girl from the hospital. Yes. Her. Okay! Okay, okay! Just give me a moment!" A brief shuffling. "Sorry. So - where could I pick up the phone?"

Disappointment flooded her. She would not even get a chance, not case related meeting with Him. No gratitude. No smile (if faked). Nothing at all.

"Um, just- just drop by when you're in the- in the area." She was trying hard not to let her voice waver.

"Alright, thanks so much Molly. You're a lifesaver, literally. Sherlock said thanks too." There was an interrupted "No I didn't-" before a click and silence.

She was on the verge of tears as she lowered The Phone back to the table. She let out a long breath and leaned back against the chair slowly.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

She jumped, knocking The Phone off the table again.

"No, no go ahead," she squeaked, swooping down to grip The Phone slightly. She looked to the side and saw another person with a tray standing behind. Blushing red, she muttered a sorry before scraping the chair back and fleeing the scene.