Author's Note: Hi, guys! Thanks for reading my story! This is my first time doing this (even though I have previous writing experience), and I would really appreciate any input you could give me. I'll wait until I have a couple reviews before posting the next chapter. You guys rock!

Chapter One:

Molly

It was nearly sunset. The sky's fine blue was beginning to dim into a cool magenta, and some unseen painter was brushing the clouds pink. The sun was fading fast, and its rays were lava, setting everything it touched to a brilliant fire. I sling my bag up higher on my shoulder and make my way through the cold, quiet hospital.

"Hey, Molly." I turn to see Mike Stamford, a fat, bespectacled doctor in another department, jogging towards me down Bart's long halls. He and I have always been friendly, so I give him a smile. "Hi, Mike." I resist the urge to giggle as he bends over, trying to catch his breath from the "long" run in the corridor.

He recovers and straightens. "Glad I caught you. You're not done yet, they need you to tell this new bloke about Jacob LaCaunte."

I sigh querulously. "I already finished all mine! Why don't they get someone else to do it, for once?"

Mike nods apologetically. "I know, I know." He puts his hands up in a mock defensive way. "Don't shoot the messenger."

I offer him a taut smile and turn to go back to the lab before remembering to ask, "Oh, who is it, a rookie DI?"

Mike laughs. "No, it's some bloke helping the police. Calls himself a "consulting detective"."

My heart stops.

Mike's still laughing. ""Only one in the world" he says. What a cocky creature, eh? Must be good, though, for the police to let him in. Anyway, see you, Molly!"

I try to regain compose and wave goodbye normally, but my blood is still frozen. I swallow, and give myself a pep talk as I walk into my lab, my lonely heels echoing loudly against the cement walls.

I wash my hands in the restroom, knowing I'm stalling. When they can't possibly get any cleaner, I dry my hands and slowly, assiduously make my way into the mortuary.

He's waiting for me in the morgue. When he turns to look at me, my breath has to catch, and I try my hardest to hide it.

He's gorgeous. His cheekbones are high and chiseled, and he has curly, dark brown hair, the kind that shouldn't be attractive but is in the most superlative manner. He's tall, but not muscular, and he has a very sharp, cutting nose set at an almost perfect right angle. His lips are fixed in a tight, totally fake, smile. But his eyes are the most fascinating. The most interesting shade of blue-green, they're tinted gray and display a sharp, brusque intelligence and a selfishness he doesn't bother to hide.

I smile nervously at him, but the forced smile has already left his lips. I put out my hand for a shake, but he turns away from it. "Where's the body?"

I swallow my anger and continue on my crusade. "I'm Molly Hooper." This time I shove my extended hand in his face, forcing him to acknowledge it. I bite my lip. "And you are?"

He looks at me questioningly, not like I was being rude, but more like I was a curious specimen he wanted the chance to study, only intensifying my anger. He accepts the shake. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

My laugh is edgy and strained. "I've never heard of a consulting detective."

"Just because you've never heard of it doesn't mean it doesn't exist," he says, popping the ending "t" and staring me right in the eye. I swallow.

"I invented the job. It means that when the police act even more idiotic than usual, I loan my brilliance for a couple hours."

Was he trying to be an asshole? If so, he was doing a spectacular job.

I roll out Jacob LaCaunte's corpse, not looking Sherlock Holmes in the eye—it didn't matter anyway, because what limited amount of attention that was focused on me had transferred over to the dead man. I could be a clipboard for all he cared. All I was to him was a source of information.

Trying not to show how much that irritated me, I grab my own clipboard. "Cause of death asphyxiation. Had a heart valve problem and—oh, here's something I found interesting." Now the full force of his regard is on me, and I fidget uncomfortably. "Minor bruising around the throat. I thought strangulation at first, but they're too insignificant to cause death."

When he looks up from the cadaver, I can literally see his mind racing, his eyes acting like a window to the contents of his obviously superb brain, his voice going probably even too slow for his thought process. "Man starts to strangle him, Jacob panics, his heart gives out, he's dead before the attacker can finish the job. The attacker runs, taking this as a miracle; now there won't be a murder investigation."

I stare at the amateur with wide eyes. How did I not figure that out? I was supposed to be the pathologist. Sure, I noticed the bruising, but I hadn't made the leap to murder—at least, not yet. Embarrassed, I look down as he gets his coat on, getting ready to leave. "Please correct the paperwork and give it to me before you leave, I'll be upstairs."

And he's out before I can even breathe.

I take a deep breath. I was not expecting that.

I login to my laptop and retype the report, adding homicide to the cause of death. I print out the report and stop by the bathroom to put on some lipstick and mascara before heading upstairs.

He's in the research lab, using the microscope. "Here," I say, setting down the folder right in front of him. He looks up from his studies. "Thank you, Molly."

Not put off by his comfortable and rather rude use of my first name, I take a deep breath. "I was—"

He does a double take. "You're wearing lipstick, you weren't wearing lipstick before."

Taken off guard, I splutter something about refreshing it. At least he hadn't noticed the mascara.

"Sorry, go on."

I exhale and continue determinedly, "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

He looks up from the microscope after a beat, and for the first time, gives me a half-genuine smile. "Black, two sugars, please."

Then he goes back to his microscope.

That did not go well.

"Okay," I say, walking stiffly out of the room, the consulting detective utterly oblivious.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading my fic! The first chapter is the worst, I promise. Please read the next one before forgetting it!