BBC's Sherlock is not mine.

The silence in the morgue had become stifling. He had been staring at the body for 10 minutes without uttering a sound. For goodness sakes, they had only spent 5 minutes at the crime scene. Finally, John could take it no more. "The brother then?"

"Don't be daft, John. It was obviously the gardener. If the soil streaks at the base of the victim's scalp weren't enough to give it away, the trace scents of boric acid and copper sulfate- most commonly found in industrial strength pesticides underneath the victim's fingernails was a dead give away. Pun intended of course." The consulting detective finished his deduction with a flourish of his Belstaff and a smug look at his partner in crime.

John merely shrugged. He figured it wasn't the brother who murdered the deceased millionaire. He had interviewed him personally and sensed true grief in the man. A philanthropist the millionaire had not been, but he was apparently a great brother. This however was not the point behind his suggestion. He had learned over the years that suggesting the wrong person often annoyed Sherlock enough that the detective would reveal the truth sooner instead of dragging the event out. It was a crude method. But its results were incontestable.

"We'll have him picked up immediately. I'll need more details for the questioning of course." Lestrade was scribbling notes in his ever-present notepad standing close to the morgue doors. It gave the impression that the DI was not a fan of the place, ready to flee as soon as all necessary information had been collected.

"Ah yes, let me do even more of your job for you then, shall I Graham?"

"Sherlock. Manners." This soft-spoken admonishment emanated from the desk in the far corner of the room. Molly Hooper did not even glance up from her rather daunting stack of paper work. Sherlock's gaze, however, zeroed in on her the moment she spoke.

John's suspicions were confirmed. Sherlock had the case solved back at the crime scene. The only reason they trekked down to St. Bart's was to put Sherlock in the path of Ms. Hooper. Ever since the horrible (and hilarious if he was being entirely honest with himself) slapping incident several months back, things between the two had been different.

At first, Sherlock had avoided St. Bart's like it was a plague hospital. Making lame excuses for why there was no need to visit, or ensuring they only went at specific times. He had driven Mr. Morrison, the other pathologist, to the brink of insanity. However, John was also aware that Molly Hooper had several layers of protection surrounding her from the moment that the chilling broadcast had announced Moriarty's re-introduction into society. Sherlock demanded his brother's coöperation in protecting her and all others close to him or he would not give the matter its due focus. John knew this for the bluff it was. His friend would never let such a dangerous case go unchecked.

But, after a mumbled comment about "trifling goldfish", Mycroft was tapping away at his mobile and that was that. John also suspected that all the times Sherlock had disappeared from 221B in the middle of the night (information courtesy of Mrs. Hudson), may have been spent in his Other form prowling the dark alley below Ms. Hooper's flat.

Whether the pathologist was aware of any of this was another question entirely.

But after several weeks of this cumbersome avoidance policy, things changed. One night, Sherlock had been playing a rather somber tune on his violin. He stopped, jumped to his feet suddenly, and claimed that he had to see a body. John had gently reminded him that Molly was working that evening. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, the color darkening to hardened amber and one side of his mouth had lifted in a predatory smirk before he responded, "Obviously, John. I believe my Pathologist has avoided me long enough." John was kind enough to not point out that Sherlock had done his own fair share of avoidance.

Despite their renewed physical proximity, Molly Hooper remained distant. She was polite and welcoming to all in equal measure. She still supplied Sherlock with biological waste if he needed it (provided all necessary documentation was filed). But to Sherlock's annoyance, she was distant from him in every close way they had developed before Magnussen had forced Sherlock to resort to desperate measures. Before he had said awful things to her. She calmly accepted his explanation that the drug use was only one time and that it was indeed for the case. "I believe you, Sherlock. And I trust you." He thought that would be the end of it, but no. She remained ever cold. And not at all the warm, sweet, welcoming Molly he had grown attached-ahem, accustomed- to.

Sherlock's growl of impatience drew John's wandering thoughts back to the present.

After a few awkward moments of waiting for his pathologist to say something else, anything else, the detective shrugged his shoulders in faux nonchalance and moved toward the exit. The low whine from the back of his throat was damning though. Lestrade remained oblivious as per usual, but John heard it and raised both eyebrows at his friend. Sherlock scowled and stormed past him, refusing to acknowledge the weakness.

At the doors, however he stopped abruptly and without turning around spoke in a clear and determined voice, "My apologies Detective Inspector, I will dictate a list to John and have it sent to you as soon as possible." He turned sharply to face the DI and was met with a gaping wide-eyed Lestrade who was able to finally force out a mumbled "thank you" in response.

Sherlock gifted him with an arrogant smirk and motioned to John. "Come on John. We have places to go, lists to write." This bit was said with a hint of disdain, unavoidable even if he was attempting to placate the frustrating female who seemed determined to ignore him. "No time to waste."

"Right, yeah."

They were just turning to go when Molly spoke again. "Oh, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock spun around and found Molly standing now, her fingers playing absently with the ends of her messy ponytail. She was smiling shyly at him, but had a determined glint in her eye. If he wasnt sure of her full human status, he would swear he saw an almost Feline expression cross her delicate features.

"Yes, Molly?" She may have resorted to last names as a way to hold herself aloof, but he had no such compunction. His deep baritone reverberated across the room and he saw her body shiver in response. She caught herself and it would have been undetectable if not for his sharp Other senses. He couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. This was it, she was finally going to tear down the ridiculous wall that had risen between them. She would welcome his attentions and he could finally put his incredible mind to the mystery of why she was so ensnared in his thoughts...

"You forgot your scarf." She snagged the scarf from the bench where he had set it and apparently forgotten it, before holding it out to him. His face fell momentarily at the mundane nature of her comment. But then he realized- she was not moving. She remained where she was, holding out the blasted scarf, and waiting for him to retrieve it. A hunt, then? So be it. His inner Beast perked up at the thought of a hunt, but he soothed it down.

He stalked over to her and went to grab the scarf, but Molly held it up and away from him. He lowered his hands to his side and waited for her to make the next move.

John and Lestrade watched all of this with varying expressions of bafflement and humor.

Molly slowly, so as not to startle him, raised the scarf above his head. He leaned in toward her under the guise of putting himself in easier range, but he used the opportunity to inhale her scent. His mouth opened slightly and he breathed in deep, letting his Beast catch every detail of the intoxicating smell. It held trace hints of formaldehyde, a light lavender body wash, and pure Molly. He also detected something that he had never caught before, probably because he was too much of an inconsiderate arse before to bother (not that he would ever admit that to anyone of course). It was Other. Feline specifically. Impossible. His brother and he had done extensive research into each person he allowed into his circle. The only other Others were John and Mary. Both Ursuline.

Before he could analyze the Feline scent further, it was gone. He could not detect it at all, as if it had never been. Molly finished securing his scarf, gave a nervous chuckle and turned around to return to her desk. But Sherlock caught her small hand in his and waited until she returned her gaze to him.

"Thank you." His voice came out gruff and not at all the smooth debonair tone he was going for. His Beast was far too close to the surface for that. It had recognized the brief female Feline scent and refused to be caged.

Sherlock decided a hasty exit was wisest. "Goodbye, Molly." He gently squeezed Molly's hand and released it.

He buttoned his coat and left the morgue, John and Lestrade right behind him.

Lestrade got into his car and drove away after a last questioning look at the detective. Sherlock of course had ignored this, feeling in no way up to explaining the situation.

After hailing a taxi, he and John climbed in and were well on their way to Baker Street before John finally spoke up.

"Everything alright, mate?"

Sherlock remained ramrod straight in his seat, not bothering to meet his friend's amused eyes.

"Fine."

John bit his lip and huffed in that purely Ursuline way of his. "Sure." A brief pause. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Your stripes are showing." Sherlock's answering scowl spoke of his disbelief but his reflection in the mirror proved John correct. Just peeping out from the collar of his coat, thick bands of his skin were darkening to form the natural stripes of his kind. Impossible to avoid in situations of extreme excitement, ranging from hunting, to danger, to...arousal.

He let out a soft curse and tugged the Belstaff higher choosing to ignore his best friends growling guffaws. This brought the scarf Molly had been holding closer to his nose. There it was again. The brief hint of female Feline. His Beast, riled up from being made the butt of any joke, laid down and purred in contentment once Sherlock let that scent settle in.

There was something amiss with Molly Hooper and he would be damned before he let that go unchecked. The pathologist was his to figure out, his to comfort, his to protect...

Sherlock shook his head to clear his mind of the rather alarming thoughts that his Beast and he had been repeating. He looked up and found John staring down at him from his opened cab door.

"Baker Street. When did we get home?"

John just smiled, shook his head in obvious glee and strode to the door of 221B, leaving the detective to catch up at his own pace. "This is going to be interesting."

Mystery, romance, and Other adventures to come. Reviews are love.