The morning started off as it normally did, with her tiptoeing past her hung-over flatmate. She hated living with the young med student-she was rude and made too much noise, far too late at night-but Molly smiled at the knowledge that her new salary would mean she could move out and get her own flat. Maybe she could finally buy a cat?
She inhaled deeply in the lobby of the hospital; nothing like the smell of bandages and antiseptic in the morning. Humming to herself in the elevator, she runs through the day's schedule. First, prep two bodies for examination by the Yard at noon; then, clean yesterday's instruments; next, call the repair company about a replacement bone-saw; lastly, write up those four reports she's been putting off.
The long walk down an empty corridor to the morgue might frighten some, but working with the dead all day tends to make you less afraid of the trivial things, and more afraid of the much more real; like heart attacks, and murders, and what the meat in the hospital cafeteria is made from.
She hangs her coat and bag by the door, and has one sleeve in her lab coat when she hears a murmur. She couldn't quite make out what the voice said, but she defiantly heard the words "killer" and "murder weapon". She scrambles for her purse and digs out her mace.
She flicks the light switch only to see a twiggy man in a black hoody all-but cuddling with one of her bodies. The body was in an unceremonious heap on the floor, next to the man lying down. She recognized the ligature marks on the body's ankles as that of one of the murder victims scheduled to be examined today. He seemed far too busy examining the body's hair to notice Molly's presence.
His speech was slurred and it sounded like he was ranting about the "incompetence of tube operators". Molly made a run for the supply closet kiddie-corner to the door. She pulled out her phone and frantically dialed the number Mr. Bahlmor gave her. Of all the places she could be found murdered, a supply closet would be on her list as a rather embarrassing spot. Although, her "places-to-be-found-murdered" list was rather short; in fact, it had only one line reading "don't".
Her hands were shaking horribly, causing her fingers to slip across the keys. She quietly let out one of her "substitute curse-words"-they mostly consisted of types of pasta and strange animal names—and started to type the number over again. Eventually she heard the ringing of the line attempting to connect.
"Hello?" said a groggy voice on the other end.
"Hello, um, I'm sorry to wake you, but there seems to be a man in the morgue, on the floor talking to himself, while poking at one of the bodies, sir." she stammers.
The voice curses and says "All right, don't call the police. I'll give you Lestrade's number. Hold on."
"Wait, Lestrade knows this, erm, man?"
Molly was shocked. The rapidly-greying DI seemed too straight-laced to know—whatever kind of man this was.
"Meet Lestrade's pet project. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he's a giant prick. He's a bloody genius, but he's a junkie. Lestrade seems to think he can get him on his feet. He's taken him under his wing, so-to-speak. Listen, you're far too sweet to have to deal with him, so just stay in the supply closet and—"
"Wait, how did you know I'm in the supply closet?"
"That's where you always hide."
Molly made a note to stop hiding when confronted by challenges at work—or at least find a new hiding place.
"Anyway," her ex-boss continued, "just wait in there until Lestrade arrives. He'll take him home."
Sure enough, twenty minutes later, she heard the voice of the DI outside. Sherlock Holmes had removed himself from the floor at some point, and was now pacing around the room, still having an intense debate with himself. He looked up upon hearing Lestrade's voice and attempted to run over to him. He got about two good-steps in before tripping over his feet and tumbling to the floor. His face was horribly gaunt, and his black hair was drenched in sweat. His pupils were blown wide, leaving the bright-grey of his eyes as a mere band around them.
"Alright, up you go." the DI said, pulling one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulder.
Sherlock was rather beautiful, in a fallen-angel way.
"Thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade." It was actually the first time she'd spoken to him directly. Whenever he stopped by the morgue, it was to talk to Mr. Bahlmor, while she was standing behind him taking notes and grabbing whatever he needed her to.
"If you've taken over for Wally, you can just call me Greg." he said over his shoulder as he attempted to open the door and carry an aggravated six-foot tall man at the same time.
She rushed over to help him and escorted him down the hall to open the elevator door as well.
"Is—is he high?" she said in a whisper, as if worried the junkie would be offended at the assumption.
"Why Lestrade? Can you tell me why?" said Sherlock, suddenly deciding to include others in his conversation.
"I have no idea, Sherlock." he said as he rolled his eyes.
"Why does that not surprise me?" he slurred, passing out for a moment before waking and starting his rant full-speed again.
"Yes, very." Lestrade said as he turned back to Molly to answer her question.
They reached the elevator door and Molly tapped the call elevator button.
"Thanks again-Ms. Hooper, right?" he said, grunting while he shifted Sherlock's weight. He'd passed out again.
"Molly. Call me Molly."
"Right. Well, hopefully, next time you see him, he'll be much more of an ass, and much less unconscious." Sherlock took that as his cue to wake up again, mid-way through a sentence about cats and tampering with evidence.
"Again? You mean he's coming back?" Molly said, wringing her hands. She didn't know how many early-morning scares like this she could take.
"Yes, but escorted by me. Oh, and send me the bill for anything he's managed to break." he said as the elevator door closed.
Molly let out a sigh of relief. She had a body to clean up—again, and she still had a day's worth of work to do. Reports on drownings wouldn't write themselves.
Molly was proud of her first day of her new job. Early road bumps aside, she had managed to accomplish everything she wanted to, and now a bubble bath was calling her name. She was halfway home, when an expensive black car slowed along side her. The door opened and a stunningly beautiful woman said:
"Come inside Ms. Hooper; you have a meeting to attend."
She wasn't sure if, at this meeting, she was going to be offered the chance to become a princess of some small, unheard-of country, or if she was going to be murdered in some very neat, and efficient way. Either way, the men that appeared behind her made it very clear that not attending wasn't an option.
The car pulled into a gorgeous parking lot, and a valet escorted her and the young woman out of the car. Molly was led into a restaurant filled with the smells of Italian food, violin music, and the soft clinking of silverware on plates. She was scoffed at by several women wearing long evening gowns, and no-doubt real diamonds. She felt rather odd wearing jeans to an obviously wealthy restaurant with a dress code, but if this is the way her mysterious host wanted her to be, she was in no position to object.
She was led to a large ballroom, with one table in the center. She sat herself at the table and watched as a man in a three-piece suit walked to the table. His smile was unnerving, but that could just be the kidnapping affecting her. He slowly sat across from her, and simply stared for a while. Molly's eyes wandered to the food on the table, it looked delicious. She was unsure of whether she was allowed to eat it. The man across from her nodded and she took a garlic roll.
He began inspecting the tip of the umbrella he brought in with him. Molly cleared her throat, in the hopes that he would begin explaining why she was plucked from the street and brought here.
"You're rather polite, aren't you?" he said, looking back at her and leaning his umbrella against the table.
"Most people would have demanded an explanation by now, but you're not exactly the demanding type. I suppose that's why your flatmate walks all over you."
Molly tried to suppress a shudder. How did this man know about her flatmate? She'd never even complained about her. Oh God, what if there were cameras in the flat? How many people could have seen that time she—
"Relax, it was just an observation. I've no need to waste the resources to spy on you."
Molly was stung at that comment, though she wasn't sure why.
"It's come to my attention that you've had the misfortune of meeting Sherlock Holmes this morning."
Molly simply nodded.
"Well, I come bearing a simple message: if you bring no harm upon Sherlock Holmes, no harm will come upon you."
"A-are you a friend of his?" she stammered.
The man laughed and said, "No, he might call me his 'arch-enemy'."
"Oh God, what?" she said, making a grab for the mace in her purse.
"Mace isn't necessary Ms. Hooper!" he said waving his hands, but it was too late. The mace was out and ready to go. One of the security guards made a lunge for it, and caught her hand just in time to get sprayed in the face.
The guard went down, coughing and cursing. Molly looked up at the man seated across from her; he cast a look of disappointment at the guard as he writhed in pain.
"Sorry! Sorry! I'm so sorry. It's been a very stressful day, and first there was that guy in the morgue, then the guy in the cafeteria knocked me over, and then I got kidnapped, and—" she began to tear up.
The man floundered for words, but settled on silence. The man stood up from the table, unsure of what to do, and simply speed-walked toward the exit. She was led back to the car by the beautiful woman and driven home. She flopped into her bed, abandoning the idea of a nice bath, and passed out. Not even the thump of her flatmate's loud bass music was enough to keep her awake.