This story is based on the original ACD tale called "The Adventure of the Cardboard Box." All of the quotes from this story are in italics, with my apologies and grateful thanks to the great man who wrote them.

Incidentally, this story occurs about two months before the action of "Invictus". If you have read "Invictus" and "Captain of His Soul" and wondered where Molly was, this should answer your question.

000

"Am I really doing the . . . the right thing?" Molly asked Mary anxiously as Greg navigated them through the Edinburgh streets in his BMW.

"Can you ask?" Mary demanded with feigned impatience, twisting around in the front seat so as to better speak to her friend in the back. "I mean, can you ask yet again? Dr Molly Hooper, Chair of Pathology of the University of Edinburgh College of Medicine. It's only one of the most prestigious medical schools in the world. And they asked for you—you didn't even apply for the job! How can this not be the right thing?"

"This is the question you ought to have asked yourself before paying the movers to pack all your belongings into a van and sending them off to Scotland yesterday," Greg added dryly. "And before I drove for seven plus hours to get you here."

Mary smacked Greg's shoulder. "Hush, you," she admonished him playfully. "You were driving up to teach that training class at St. Leonard's anyway. Molly, don't listen to him. You have every right to change your mind at any time. But I urge you not to! You must at least give the job a go before you chuck it. Promise me you'll give it a real, honest try. "

Molly sighed and nodded slowly. Her friend was right, of course, but it was a hard choice for her to make. Yes, it was a once-in-a-lifetime career advance, but she was leaving so much behind.

"As for Sherlock the Oblivious, you know the old saying: absence makes the heart grow fonder," Mary continued as if reading her mind. "He's been taking you for granted for eight years now, six since I've known you. Let's see what he does now you're gone—he may surprise you."

"Of course, there's another old saying: out of sight, out of mind," Greg remarked realistically, earning another punch from Mary—this one not so playful.

"You're utterly horrid," the young doctor told the detective inspector without rancour. "Just drive and leave the philosophizing to us."

Molly had been watching Greg and Mary interacting in the front seat all day; their cheerful, caring banter was amusing, and yet it had continually reminded the young pathologist of all she was leaving behind as she made this move. When Mary Morstan had swept into all their lives six years ago, she had drawn them all into her irresistible web of affection and formed them into a family of sorts—John, of course, and Sherlock; but also Mrs Hudson, Greg, and Molly. Until Mary came along, Molly had been unable to see John and Greg at all, since she had seen them only in the company of Sherlock Holmes; and in Sherlock's presence, all others had faded from her perception. Mary had invaded that near-sightedness and quickly established herself as Molly's best friend, pulling her inexorably into relationships with the others.

When she had been offered this position in Edinburgh, Molly's only hesitation had been Sherlock. After the "Tom" fiasco, Molly had held out some hope of being noticed at last by the consulting detective. But reason had taken over, and she had accepted the job. It was, as Mary said, a great honour and wonderful opportunity.

Mary had been her staunchest supporter, helping her to pack and then volunteering to travel with her to Molly's new home to help her set up housekeeping in the flat the college had procured for her near the school. They had planned to follow the moving van to Edinburgh by train, but then Greg had offered to take them in his car, since he was driving up that direction anyway.

But watching Greg and Mary, more father and daughter than friends, had made Molly realize that she was leaving behind much more than just Sherlock Holmes. In centring her decision around whether to give up on Sherlock or not, she had neglected to consider that she was leaving her best friends behind as well. All that long trip, she had savoured each little joke and gesture between her friends, understanding at last all that she had gained in the past six years since John had brought Mary into her life.

Now Mary was looking back at her soberly, reading her thoughts as easily as Sherlock read a footprint. "We'll always be best friends, you and I, no matter the miles. We'll text and Skype and get onto each other's Facebook pages every day. And we'll visit each other so often you'll hardly know we're apart."

Molly nodded thoughtfully. "We could even . . . we could write letters and put them in the post," she suggested with a ghost of a smile. "I've always wanted a pen pal, with real pens."

"You can always come home, you know," the young doctor added softly. "If it just isn't working for you, you can always come back. You know Mike will take you back at St. Bart's in a heartbeat. You could live with John and me until you got a new flat. But for your own sake, my dear, you must give this a chance. It's too big to pass up this great 'is' for a 'might be'."

Molly sighed. Her friend, as was so often the case, was right of course. And she knew that if Mary said she would stay in touch, she would. But Molly did wonder if Sherlock would ever bother to visit. Travel, unless it was for The Work, held no interest for him. He was obsessed with London. He loved to lie in the very centre of eight millions of people, with his filaments stretching out and running through then, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime.

"Here you are, ladies," Greg interrupted her reverie cheerfully. "Looks nice, Molly. You've landed your feet, for certain!"

The building was, indeed, a grand one. Molly pulled the information she'd been given concerning her new accommodations from her bag and read through them again. Ms Susan Cushing, who owned this entire block of flats, herself lived in the lower level of the house Molly was now to call home. What had once been a row of posh houses for the faculty of the college had been divided into a great number of flats, able to accommodate triple the number of residents; but their former old-world elegance had been carefully preserved- lovely old buildings with well-tended gardens.

Mary physically pulled Molly from the car and dragged her up to the front door. Greg carried their luggage for them onto the front stoop while Mary rang the old-fashioned doorbell.

Ms Cushing soon opened the door to them and Molly introduced herself. Susan Cushing was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. She led them into her private office, which was just off the stairway to the first floor. "My dear Dr Hooper, it is a pleasure to meet you," she said sincerely. "It's lovely to meet such an accomplished young woman. Chair of a Division of the University College of Medicine! You must be proud to be at the top your field of study. It's a privilege to have you living under my very roof."

"Thank you," Molly ventured shyly. Mary elbowed her jocundly. "Oh, this is my great friend Mary Watson—Dr Watson—and this is. . . ."

"A pleasure, a pleasure," Ms Cushing gushed, taking Mary's hand. "Another accomplished, professional young woman. I'm sorry, I was under the impression that Dr Hooper would be living alone. There's another bedroom upstairs. If you'll be needing two bedrooms," she added, looking at them with a speculative eye.

"Oh, no, we won't be needing two," Mary grinned, shooting Molly a look of wicked glee. "You're very kind, but I'll not be staying, Ms Cushing. I'm helping get Molly settled, and then it's back to London for me."

Ms Cushing looked disappointed. "You can have your driver take your things on up, then. It's open—your moving men arrived this morning and put all your things in place. I hope you find it satisfactory," the business-like lady continued.

"Yes, driver, carry our luggage upstairs why don't you," Mary said imperiously to Greg. "Go on, off with you!" Greg looked aggrieved but gathered their things up again.

"Don't you dare, Greg! You've . . . you've done so much for us already!" Molly found courage to exclaim. "Thank you for bringing us here. You needn't trouble with our bags. I can't . . . I can't tell you how I appreciate all you've done." Impetuously, she threw her arms around him in a grateful hug, one he seemed pleased to return.

Mary giggled. "Yes, thank you, Greg. You're the best!" she agreed, hugging him as well. "I know you have an appointment to keep. We mustn't make you late. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine."

Greg smiled at them fondly. "Call me if you need me," he said. "And I'll come round to pick you up day after tomorrow, Mary. See you later." And off he went.

Ms Cushing frowned. "I hope you don't make a habit of having men friends in your flat," she murmured disagreeably. "Messy, smelly, uncouth creatures, all of them. The world would be better off without them, is what I say," she added with a sniff.

"Well, I. . . ." Molly faltered, surprised that this seemingly gentle, middle-aged lady was so vitriolic against the opposite sex.

"Molly would like to pick up her keys, please, Ms Cushing," Mary interrupted briskly. "We've had a very long day, and we'd really like to clean up a bit."

Ms Cushing seemed to come to herself abruptly. "Oh, of course! You poor dears, stuck in a car with a man for how long? You must be exhausted," she exclaimed in sympathy, and bustled about getting keys and paperwork ready. Molly signed the lease reluctantly and accepted the keys to her new home. Ms Cushing, it seemed, would be an interesting landlady indeed. Suddenly she missed Mrs Hudson with a fervent intensity.

The flat was in a sorry state. The moving men, apparently in a great hurry to escape Ms Cushing, had set all of Molly's things in a heap in the middle of the sitting room, and the furniture was setting about in no particular order whatever. At least, Molly noted, they had managed to get the bed and dresser into the bedroom and dining table and chairs into the dining room. With a sigh, she silently surveyed the mess, unsure of where to begin.

"Ms Cushing frightening the moving men away, I see," Mary remarked cheerfully. "Don't worry, dear, Greg and I will not leave you until this is all sorted. We can take extra time off if need be. I'll call him later, after his meeting, and see if he can give us some help tonight."

"Ms Cushing will not be happy to see him again. Oh, Mary, I don't know that I've ever met such a . . . . such a . . . ."

"Misandrist? Me either," Mary agreed. "But don't worry, dear. You'll be treated like royalty. She's very impressed with you! Even if you meet a chap you'd like to have over, she won't dare say a word against it for fear of losing you!"

A loud knock on the street entrance started them, and Ms Cushing's aggrieved voice reached up the stairway. Mary went to the front window and looked down. "The postman has had the effrontery to deliver a package at the door," she remarked. "How he must dread making deliveries here!"

A moment later, they heard Ms Cushing give a little, hysterical scream, followed by a dull thud. Grabbing her medical bag, Mary charged out the door and down the stairs, Molly close on her heals.

"Ms Cushing, are you all right?" Mary exclaimed, concerned. "You're white as a sheet!"

The middle-aged misandrist was standing in the entryway in a daze, deathly pale; she turned unseeing eyes towards the girls as they approached, her mouth working but no words forthcoming. Then pointing to the package she had let drop to the floor, she managed to squeak, "Ears!"

"Ears?" Molly puzzled, and approached the parcel as one might edge towards an explosive. She looked into the box without touching it.

Looking up at Mary, who was now helping the shocked landlady to a chair with strong but gentle hands, Molly said calmly, "She's right. It's a pair of ears. Human, severed ears."

"Well, that's a bit odd, isn't it?" Mary said.