The first time Molly met Sherlock he was hands deep in her corpse. She'd left for the loo five minutes before, just long enough for Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome to slap on a pair of nitrile gloves and dig through the cavity she'd excised.

"What are you doing?"

It was a statement that required a disapproving tone and some force. She managed neither. She sounded rather timid considering she was the best pathologist at Bart's and completely in her right to be offended at his intrusion.

Then he flashed those blue eyes at her and they deep and dark and full of intelligence. There was no guilt or remorse in that glance. It was cold and calculating. Those chiseled lips turned up into a smile. It didn't reach his eyes but it still had it's intended affect. Her knees went weak.

"Sherlock Holmes. Anderson sent me," he lied smoothly.

Molly glanced down at his hands. They never stilled, not as she questioned him and not as he replied. It was the hands that gave him away. They searched on for whatever it was he was looking for and they had quickened as soon as she entered the room. The whole situation was oddly not right and she felt a little queasy at the whole thing. His words were completely unconvincing. She let him hide behind them anyway.

She wasn't sure what business Sherlock had with New Scotland Yard. He certainly wasn't employed there. He wasn't the murderer obviously. A murdered wouldn't look for his victim's body in a morgue. She didn't know what Sherlock was but he wasn't a criminal either. That coat he'd left folded neatly to the side screamed money. He could be some sort of consultant maybe.

"Yes. Well. Is there anything you need?" she managed.

He smirked as he bent his head back down and she felt her embarrassment to the tips of her toes. That had not come out the way she'd planned.

"Coffee. Two sugars," he requested without looking back up, dismissing her.

Molly turned and fled, her cheeks warm and flushed with so many emotions it was hard to tell which should win. When she'd returned with a coffee a few minutes later he was already gone.

"Right then," she muttered, binning the coffee before she returned to her autopsy. Her nausea returned as she stared down at Mr. Jenkons and his once symmetrical face. Where his left eye should have been was a gaping hole of tissue.