*My first ever Sherlock fiction,; tried to make it as canon as possible. This was a request from a friend a few weeks back.

"Can I help you with something, gentlemen?" came the quiet question from behind the microscope, observant eyes flicking to the door. It would never cease to be a surprising sight; two civilians stepping into her office without Lestrade immediately in tow, accompanied by at least another handful of servicemen.

And surprise, surprise; Sherlock Holmes and the ever faithful Doctor Watson.

"Yes," John answered with the faintest of nods, pursing his lips unconsciously before he continued. "We're looking for a, ah, tri-beam balance. Lestrade didn't know if you still had your old ones…"

"They're in the back with the rest of the scales we don't use much anymore. I could grab you an electric one from here in the lab—."

"That simply won't do this time around," Sherlock interrupted. "We're going to need the basics."

"Oh, I—Alright. I can fetch one for you," she offered with hesitance in her stammering speech, clicking off the light at her station.

"Oh, no, I can get it just fine myself," the doctor replied, his compact stride bringing him toward the door at the back. He motioned her to stay as she seemed to persist, giving a reassuring smile before she could verbally object; If they were to waltz in demanding things, it was the least he could do. Grasping the cool metal of the bar, John gave one last glance back at the room. "Sherlock," he said, grabbing the man's attention. "Behave."

"But of course, John."

Watson rolled his eyes, attention adverting forward as he tugged open the heavy entrance, stepping into the dark abyss of the storage facility only after a split-second survey.

"What do you need the balance for?" Molly asked, hands falling thoughtlessly back onto the scope before her. "I didn't think you two were working a case right now…"

"We are—We always are," the taller affirmed, long steps guiding him patiently around the lab. "There have been two samples collected from separate crime scenes; exact same amount of each. What may differ is what's inside. If they're equivalent in weight, we might just have a serial killer on our hands, and if they're not, we have a killer and a try hard who was misinformed."

"So you've been put on the Victor case?" she asked, brows knit in puzzlement on her pale face. She couldn't recall, for the life of her, hearing the murmur of Holmes that usually accompanied his presence on a case.

"In a round-about sort of way-."

"Lestrade doesn't know about this, does he?"

"He has his suspicions." Sherlock smirked, eyes falling to the hands resting at the lens adjustments, noting how they trembled ever in the slightest. Fascinating.

"So you came here to get what you wanted in order to break our laws, then? You know I could lose my job if you keep doing this-."

"Never fear, dear Molly. I'd never put you in such a position. What kind of a man do you think I am?"

"I'm still trying to figure that one out, Holmes." She stepped away, hands falling to her sides before lifting to the stack of books on the end of her lab.

"Allow me," he offered, taking the pile from her hold. Baffled, she nodded, motioning to a clear space near where she'd left her bag. This wasn't Sherlock, not in the least.

"So are you turning us in?"

Molly unconsciously bit as her lower lip, sight wandering over her work tables and equipment in an attempt to calm the disease in her chest. "No, not if this is the last time," she answered, voice so quiet she wasn't sure if she'd truly spoken.

"I can assure you, it will be. At least for this case," the detective flashed a small smile despite that no eyes were on him across the room. She turned her back to him as he placed the books, frazzled thoughts coming to an end. There he was.

"'This case'," she repeated quietly without thought, plucking samples up and snapping their lids on.

"Is there a problem?" If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought he sounded distant.

"No." Molly turned, finding it a surprise that the other remained across the room. He had a habit of getting close when he wanted something. Perhaps he already got it, then…

The storage door squealed open, accompanied with a small cough and a faint ploom of dust as the war-worn Doctor Watson appeared, a triple-beam balance stuffed under his arm. "Got it," he declared as he motioned to the piece, his throat giving another small fit from the grime.

"Right, then," Sherlock nodded, eyes coming between the two. "We should get going, John, so as to return it as soon as possible to the lovely Miss Hooper."

John glanced between the two of them, one wearing an equally startled expression as himself, the other sporting a calm façade. Whatever it was, it was obviously that of Sherlock's abundance of quizzical antics, something he was sure he'd never live to explain.

Following the detective to the door, the blond gave one final glance back, speaking through the thick air of confusion his companion had left, before accompanying him out. "Thank you again, Molly."

"Of course," she half-heartedly replied despite the door sliding back in place. She furrowed her brows, closing her eyes in wonder. Sure, Holmes had played nice before, but always to get what he wanted. He got the balance, so why had he kept up his game?

"Molly?"

She jumped at hearing her name, eyes flying open to identify her visitor. Sally. Of course.

"Yes?" she answered innocently enough, forcing back the quake that otherwise might have tainted her speech.

"You alright? I saw Holmes was just here with that doctor friend of his…"

"I'm fine, Sally," the younger assured, straightening the lab coat on her shoulders.

"Alright," the woman shrugged, beginning to the door. "Your shift is over in a few minutes. Care to drink?"

"Oh, I don't—I don't drink," she shook her head, approaching her bag by the door.

"You sure?"

"I'm-," she began, eyes following the shape of a book placed in her open bag. "I-I'm sure, Sally. Really." She fished the object out, the familiar feel of her datebook filling her hands.

"Suit yourself."

Her fingers pulled the band from around the cover, opening to where the marker had been stuck between two expanses of pages. Eying over the numbered boxes, she found a scratching not of her own writing, not even her utensil, as it remained tucked in the breast of her coat. The uneasy smile that crossed her face came accompanied by streaks of pink over he cheeks, head spinning with the words she read over and over.

Dinner with SH

Roswell Winery

427 Wilbero Street

19:30