Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine.


~ White Lie ~


The first time he sees her, it's not in the Path Lab or the Morgue (despite what some might assume).

No, she's wandering down one of Bart's labyrinthine corridors, several student doctors and a couple of nurses at her heels. The group are singing and dancing and generally causing mayhem, already drunk and eager to get away for the evening. She- like most of the women- is dressed as an angel, a tinsel halo on her head, a pair of decidedly lopsided white wings pinned to her back. She's tottering about on mile-high white heels, her arms and legs bared in a short, sheer little white dress that no self-respecting celestial messenger would dream of wearing-

Sherlock cuts her a bloody wide berth.

Something deep within him yells danger! at the sight of her and, consummate professional that he believes himself to be, he heeds the warning of that particular voice-

It doesn't matter how pretty he finds her.

Besides, he reminds himself sternly, doesn't have time for this. He doesn't have time for her. He's here to meet his new Met contact, to show Mikey and everyone else that he can be trusted. He should have no interest in sweet little things wearing sweet little costumes, even if it is Halloween and even if she is stumbling towards him under what looks rather more like gravity's power than her own-

He is proved correct in that deduction when she trips just as she reaches him.

She lands atop him, sprawled and messy, and one would be hard-pressed to judge which of them was the more mortified by this development.

He should let her fall- Lord knows, it would teach her about appropriate footwear- but his arms come around her, apparently of their own accord, and he manages to keep her upright. She giggles and blinks up at him, all wide brown eyes and soft brown hair and complete lack of balance. Her body's pressed against his, one coltish arm digging into the wall beside him while she tries to get her feet under her. (She does not succeed).

Sherlock stares down at her, oddly nonplussed by his own reaction to her nearness and as he does so she suddenly grins up at him, attempts to hold out her other hand to his to shake-

"Molly Hooper," she says brightly. "Incompetent angel. How are you tonight, handsome?"

Sherlock tells himself he shouldn't answer.

Instead he picks her up and deposits her back on her feet, leaning her against the wall as one might a plank of wood before turning swiftly on his heel and stalking off without saying a word. He can feel his face burning as he goes. The lack of loud noises or yelling tells him that Ms. Incompetent Angel has not fallen over and landed flat on her backside, something for which he elects not to feel grateful-

He huffs around the corner, trying to ignore the female voice which commiserates with Molly that yes, the pillock who caught her does indeed have a nice arse.

The fact that this makes the red in his face worse is neither here nor there.

He finds Lestrade waiting for him outside the morgue, a younger man than he expected though every bit as handsome as his brother's interest would lead one to assume. The DI looks him up and down and then reaches out, grinning. With a small smile he brushes a smattering of white glitter off Sherlock's shoulder before picking off a single, cheap fake feather. He holds it before Sherlock's nose like a prize.

"Something you want to tell me?" he asks.

"No." Holmes looks down his nose at him, using his rather greater height to try and intimidate the other man into silence. (Alas, it appears his methods have not succeeded because Lestrade's grin merely widens).

"Course not," the DI says jovially. "I'm sure you've no idea where that came from. Now how about we go meet my old friend Mike Stamford and we'll see what Mr. Reece-Morgan's corpse can tell you, eh?"

Sherlock inclines his head curtly, gesturing for the older man to lead the way. This he does, babbling away about trivialities as he goes. Sherlock tries to concentrate, really he does, but most people are so boring and muting them has become such a habit-

Besides, there's an angel behind his eyelids, incompetent as she may be.

He finds her irritatingly distracting.

He solves the Reece-Morgan murder right there in the morgue and in his delight and pride at Lestrade's praise he tells himself that he'll soon forget a clumsy young woman and her clumsy greetings. He'll certainty delete the mental image he has of her.

He's home- alone and half-asleep- when he tries to do so but for some odd reason he doesn't succeed.

He can't imagine why.