Edited version of chapter 1 following Beta'ing and discussion with the lovely Edhla. Anything still awry is not her fault, as I sometimes rebel and do thing the British way! =;-D Thanks, my friend.

The following abbreviations were once used by the deaf community via minicom (teleprinter). Many are similar or the same as current text speak. Most of the deaf community would now text or email, etc
BRB: Be Right Back
CU: See You
GA: Go Ahead
SK: Stop Keys (pre-closing statement. like OK precedes goodbye in spoken closings)
SKSK: Hanging up (used in reply to SK as confirmation that the replying keyer has nothing left to say and that both ends of the conversation are terminated)
SK, SKGA: Goodbye
PLS: Please
OIC: Oh, I See
NBR: Number
TMW: Tomorrow
THX: Thanks
WRU: Who/where are You?

Chapter 1: Molly

HOOPER: Greg's available, or is it too soon, do you think? GA

WATSON: He's not your type, Molly. GA
(Long pause)

HOOPER: What people mean when they say that, is that I'm not *his* type. GA

WATSON: Well, I mean what I say and say what I mean - he's not your type. You need someone more exciting than Greg Lestrade. Nice man, dull as ditchwater. GA

HOOPER: Sherlock's exciting. GA

WATSON: Sherlock's demeaning and a little too self absorbed to be an exciting partner at any time. Greg's patronising and a little too preoccupied to be an attentive partner currently. GA

HOOPER: So you think if I wait-

WATSON: Not for you, Molly. You deserve someone who'll sweep you off your feet and give you some romance. Neither of those nerds is capable of doing those things. Someone will turn up. GA

HOPPER: Not so far ... not for me ... THX anyway. GA

WATSON: There's someone for everyone in the universe, you just need to be patient and hang around bars ... oh no, I didn't mean that, hanging around bars is not a good way of picking up decent men. It's a great way of picking up a nasty disease, but not decent men. Or women for that matter. Believe me, I've hung around a few in my time. GA

HOOPER: THX, but with my track record I should just settle for my cats ... Oh, have to go, client coming in ... nice suicide by the looks of things ... SKGA

WATSON: WRU? GA

HOOPER: Morgue. Mx SK

WATSON: Laters! CU TMW. Hx SKSK

MOLLY: SKSKSKSKSKSK

The next message in the thread came some twenty or thirty seconds later when neither of the previous posters were at their screens to see ...

HOLMES: Why do you people always say suicide, just because there's a note, a locked room? - ludicrous!
And you're over 10 yrs out of date, Harry Watson. The deaf community use modern tech just like anyone. Want to impress that woman, then text her to meet at VI's** like anyone else. SH

** VI's is short for Edward VI (6th), a pub in Islington frequented by the gay community. The rumour was that Edward VI was gay, so it's rather appropriate. It's also a really good pub, or was when I used to drop in.

"I'm thinking about getting a dog. You can meet more people by having a dog than a cat. And I don't want to be the mad cat woman, the one whose half-eaten remains are found by her cleaner on a Thursday morning."

'Why Thursday? What's so special about Thursdays!?' Sherlock raised a single eyebrow.

"Ah, I see that Spock's eyebrow is branching out on its own," Molly said grinning. Being around John so much recently had been good for her. She was getting her sense of humour back again, finally, after Sherlock had so systematically crushed her. It wasn't a brilliant joke, but it showed a lack of regard for Sherlock's interests and area of expertise. He couldn't possibly know what she was talking about and she, uncharacteristically, didn't feel obliged to explain it to him without being asked. And she didn't crumble into a heap when he gave her that look either - now that had to be progress. It helped that they were stooping over the deceased with scalpels in their hands. Molly liked doing something practical, it helped her to focus and so remain detached from Sherlock's scrutiny.

She'd dismissed the 'John being good for her' on more than a platonic level on more than one occasion of late. She kept returning to it though, until he turned up and she realised her feelings were more sisterly than anything else. Now why was it she couldn't fall for the good guys, the uncomplicated, easy to be around guys who didn't try to take over the world or murder all your friends? She was hopeful of her latest rendezvous, but was taking it very slow and hadn't got passed handholding so far. Handholding was her new third date upgrade and then a staple for fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh ... dates. She wasn't sure yet when she'd be ready for the next stage.

She carried on palpitating the left side of the abdomen, comparing it critically with the right, in the chest that she had cracked open earlier. Her attention was caught by Sherlock, who was looking at her in the same manner he might look at an interesting sample under his microscope.

"What?" she said with equal measures of sarcasm and amusement.

She was satisfied to see that he looked put out. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're not gibbering like you usually do. You're not making that ugly shape with your lower mouth and you're wearing make-up. Something different about your manner ..." He peered into her face as if trying to unmask an impostor.

"I'm over you, Sherlock, and I've gotten myself a life," she said proudly. "That's all, nothing mysterious."

"I had no idea that you were ever under me," he said with a characteristic lack of tact and a slightly petulant tone. Molly was feeling progressively smug that she didn't so much as blush at the suggestion. She really was over him after all.

"You're seeing someone!" he accused. "You're seeing an American, you have a date on Thursday and you don't want anyone to know for some reason. CIA possibly." It wasn't a question.

"I didn't want you to know for good reason. You spoil things, Sherlock Holmes, and you're rude to nice people and hurt their feelings. You hurt my feelings - often. I don't mind anyone else knowing. And no, not CIA. I have enough spies, agents and detectives in my life already. Americans come to this country for a lot more reasons than espionage. Nice, uncomplicated man, works in the City - Trader."

Molly turned back to the body they were working on. "Ok, let's see now, upper pulmonary blockage - clot in the main artery of the left lung - Most likely Venous Thromboembolism resulting in obstruction of the blood flow through the lungs ... resultant pressure on the right ventricle leading to acute myocardial infarction," she said thinking aloud into the dictaphone, all the time gently poking a pair of thoracic retractors into the parts of the body she was describing.

"Oh, so that's the story he gave you." Sherlock glared at Molly.

"Ok, you've nothing to base any of that on. Not a story; the truth. He's just what he says he is, I've been to his office." She took an oversized forceps and pulled at a huge, bloody clot, which came away with a sickening sucking noise and a nasty smell. "He's a trader in Futures, whatever that is."

"Well, he would say that. And I don't need evidence. You don't do 'ordinary' Molly. Your last boyfriend was a criminal mastermind."

Molly slipped the sample carefully into the evidence bag. "Oooo, sample of one! Never thought I'd hear the Great Detective jump to conclusions on such slim evidence." Molly took a deep breath and congratulated herself on not caving. She'd slightly lost her cool, but at least she'd held her own and not let him bully her this time. "Anyway, I've had three perfectly normal ones since then," she continued more calmly.

"And what kind of phony name is Dirk anyway?" Sherlock was pouting. It took all Molly's self-control not to laugh out loud. It seemed inappropriate in front of Mr Parkinson, who was stretched out on her table, the inside of his chest exposed to the world. She wanted to apologise to him for the whole ludicrous conversation. But how did Sherlock know that - 'don't ask, Molly, never ask, it never ends well.'

"Told you it wasn't suicide," Sherlock said when they'd finished and Molly was carefully sewing up Mr Parkinson's chest.

The dead deserve a bit of care and dignity, Molly though, completing a tiny stitch and casting off expertly. "No you didn't," she said. "In fact you didn't say anything at all, for over half an hour, until I started talking about dogs to wind you up." Her eyes were sparkling as she snapped off her latex gloves with more bravado than she'd been ever able to muster when Sherlock was in the vicinity before.

"Yes, indeed I did; when I messaged you when you asked me to come out to examine the body."

"Didn't get that." Molly glanced down at her phone. She clicked absentmindedly on the last message thread. "And I certainly didn't invite you over."

"You said suicide, and then I said, it's not, and then I came over to prove it, and prove it I have."

"So Lestrade didn't ask you to come then?" Molly clicked her phone. "You said, when you came in, that he asked you to be here."

"You said that. You sounded so convinced that I didn't like to disillusion you. John's always saying I shouldn't keep correcting people, that it's rude. So I kept my peace. Nothing I do is ever right!" he whined like a petulant toddler.

Molly had accessed the message by then. "You were reading my private conversation with Harry?" Her voice rose, but it wasn't because she was asking a question.

Molly narrowed her eyes at Sherlock in the same way he had done to her on so many uncomfortable occasions. "Anyway, what's so interesting about deep vein thrombosis that brings the great Sherlock Holmes out on a night like this? Common or garden variety of long haul flight side effect."

Sherlock looked gleeful, finally the conversation was coming around to his area of expertise and a chance to shine ... "Oh, it's anything but common or garden, Molly Hooper. I do like a good murder mystery, don't you?"