I do not own anything in the Sherlock universe. That all goes to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss (those lucky ducks).

Sherlock's phone lit up, vibrating in his hand. It took him less than a second to open it and see the text from Lestrade. His eyes narrowed for a moment. A case. And an urgent one too, according to the man's choice of words. This one had better be at least a seven, unlike the last time the inspector Lestrade had summoned him to a crime scene. The man had been murdered by his wife's jealous sister. It was plainly obvious, and he'd solved it within a few minutes. Sherlock tucked the phone into his pocket and reached for his coat.

"Where are you going?" John asked from his seat in the living area, looking up from yesterday's paper.

"Lestrade's got a case for me. He says it's urgent" Sherlock explained, going about putting his scarf on now.

"Sherlock, you know I'd come with you, but I promised Mary – "

"That you'd take her to dinner. I know. If this one's anything like the last one, I likely won't need your assistance" he returned on the same casual tone.

John smiled. "Try not to upset any widows this time, okay? I won't be around to fix the damage this time"

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment before a light smile spread across his lips. "No guarantees" was his answer before vanishing out the door.

The London air was cool this evening, the wind ruffling his dark curls. It was chillier than usual tonight, and Sherlock simply stood on the sidewalk, feeling uneasy. He pulled his phone out again and read over Lestrade's text once more.

Murder by 147 King William Street.

It's urgent. Please come at once.

I'm sorry.

What on earth would Lestrade be apologizing for? The inspector took full advantage of his services despite what his superiors thought, and so it seemed unlikely that he would finally be taking some pity on his consulting detective. There was one other option, though. The victim could be someone he knew. If Lestrade was assuming he may feel sadness over this particular individual, then he was wrong. John was safely tucked away in 221B Baker Street, and he hardly considered himself 'close' with anyone else. Not close enough to care if they died, anyway. It certainly wasn't Mycroft either. His brother never left the safety of his offices without backup or some form of security.

What about Mary? He ran the idea through his mind, but was quick to discard it. She'd texted John only a few minutes before Lestrade had texted him; he'd seen John's phone light up. She was out with a friend, primping herself up before their dinner.

Finally hailing a cab, Sherlock left those thoughts aside for the entirety of the ride.

Police were swarming around the street corner, tape limiting off the section of sidewalk joining together the two apartment buildings on either side. A few officers were standing around, chatting among themselves, while another few mumbled into walkie-talkies. The street lamps and flashing police lights cast an eerie glow over the two old buildings.

Sherlock saw Lestrade step out from the alley, looking tired. He hadn't shaved in a few days, he could tell, and the slump in his shoulders as he walked revealed evident discouragement. No matter how hard he searched, however, he could not find the answer to his previous question written on the man. He hated not knowing things.

"Sherlock –" he started.

"Show me the body" Sherlock cut in impatiently. Lestrade silenced himself and simply nodded before leading him to the alley.

They dodged through a small gathering of officers, a task made more difficult by how narrow the space was. The cluster cleared to the end of the alley, occupied only by a trash bin and a bloodied brunette on the ground, currently being examined by Anderson. The man looked up at them both upon their arrival. He and Lestrade exchanged a look before both solemnly turning their gazes to Sherlock.

Sherlock's blue-green eyes soaked in the scene, sweeping over every small detail he could identify. Scratches on her arms, which he'd need to examine more closely. She wore a knit jumper over a white shirt, the latter being stained red in some spots. The delicate yet calloused hands bore no rings or immediate signs of damage, and her mousy brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, was splayed out across the pavement. There was a pause in his body; not only in his stride, but in his breathing. His heartbeat.

Molly.

Blinking set him to normal again, his face as unreadable as ever. He had not considered his pathologist when deducing who his victim might be. But she was simply another case, another body, and another way to bid his time, he thought. One concern did still float around in his mind, however. The other workers at the morgue were absolute mules when it came to cooperating with him. Who was he to get his body parts from now? Sarah and Vincent weren't so easily seduced by a simple compliment. He'd had a certain hold over the mousy woman, which could be plainly seen by John, Mycroft, Lestrade, or anyone who worked at St. Barts, and he'd used that to his advantage.

"Sherlock?" It was Lestrade's voice that broke through his thoughts, returning him to the present situation.

"Thank you, inspector Lestrade. If you could instruct your forensics scientist to remove himself from the area, I'll have a closer look at the body" he said, his gaze finding a clearly-annoyed Anderson. But although the displeasure was clear on the man's face, he did not protest, and let Lestrade pull him aside.

Sherlock was quick to get to work. He crouched down beside Molly's small form, first bringing his attention to her hands. He couldn't accurately estimate how long ago she had died, but her nails did reveal an important clue. Blood had dried beneath them; a DNA sample to be examined in the lab later. This investigation would be relatively short if her attacker could be identified immediately. He continued his examination, heading higher to inspect the blood on her collar. He'd need to see if it corresponded with the blood that may have come from her scratched arms.

Straightening up, Sherlock just looked at Molly's unmoving figure. She looked peaceful, as though merely resting on the pavement, even if her injuries told a different story. There had been a struggle, clearly. He'd eliminated the possibility of this being an accident nearly as soon as he'd arrived. Molly was smart; she'd proven that during her time as his assistant when he and John had not been on speaking terms. She'd also brilliantly helped him fake his death, fooling the whole world, and for that, he'd always be grateful, even if he didn't often express it.

His mind was drifting again, and so he turned his attention to her head now. Ahh. Gently turning it to the side, he spotted what had likely killed her. The underside of her ponytail was bloodied, with the back of her head having been bashed in. She had been hit in the head from behind, but it wasn't just that simple. There was no puddle of blood anywhere near where she'd be lying, and the trash bin was completely clean. Their murderer could have cleaned yet been careless enough to leave his DNA beneath her nails, or – the option he was currently favoring – she had not been killed here.

Sherlock carried on his assessment for a few minutes more before standing up again. Many parts of this did not make sense to him, like the motive, most prominently. This was certainly higher than a six. He would need to meditate on this one, review the details, and consider the options. Once he had his lab results, he may have a clearer idea.

Leaving the alley, Sherlock brushed passed Lestrade, who jogged after him when he saw that his detective was not stopping. "Sherlock! Have you found anything?"

The tall man only paused briefly to look over his shoulder. "I need the blood beneath her nails and on her collar examined. Send me the lab results when they're ready" was all he coldly offered as a response.

With that, he carried on down the street, both hands shoved deep into his pockets. "What secrets do you hide, Molly?" he murmured to the wind.