It's a cold, windy day when Molly Hooper arrives at the lab in Barts hospital, the clock on the wall reading quarter past ten. She's a little late, having spent twenty minutes stuck behind a cyclist and having to drive a lot slower than usual so her mousey hair is ruffled from where she's run her hand through it in frustration and she pulls it up into a ponytail, pinning up the short bits that don't quite reach the hairband. Practicality over style; a motto she's kept ever since she started working here.

Working in a morgue hardly requires the latest trends and in a way, she's glad. She doesn't think she could ever pull off anything she sees the beautiful models wearing on TV.

She's just reaching for a pair of gloves when the door swings open; the head of morgue, Roger Dummit, scuttles in and she's surprised - he rarely ever comes down. He usually considers himself above the rest of the morgue workers; an arrogant sod she wishes she doesn't have to work for. As she looks closer she notices his left eye twitching visibly, a vein throbbing on the side of his head. Just as she wonders what might have got him so wound up, a second person enters the room.

At first, all she sees is curly black hair and a long, sweeping black coat; the tall man strides in like a whirlwind and leaves her eyes struggling to focus on the blur of movement.

When he stops, he's facing away from her and she frowns in frustration, wanting to see his face. There seems to be an awkward silence between the two men for a moment before finally, someone speaks.

'Ah, thank you.' The voice is deep and rich and definitely not Dummit's. 'You can leave, now.'

Dummit leaves the room quietly, and the stranger turns around. He starts to walk towards her, and she is lost for words.

Ice blue eyes are framed with what she thinks are the sharpest cheekbones she's ever seen; pale skin stretched over knife edges, as if some sculptor has spent hours chiselling the angles into his bones.

Pink lips with a defined cupid's bow part as he opens his mouth to speak and she thinks she's never seen anyone so beautiful.

'Molly? Molly Hooper? I've been told you're the one to speak to if I need a dead body.'

She doesn't register his words, for a moment, still captivated by his features.

Her eyes skim over his nose down to his chin and she wonders if it just looks like she's staring at his lips-

'Molly...Hooper?'

His voice, more urgent this time, startles out of her reverie and she blushes instantly, heat flooding her face and colouring her cheeks pink. She kicks herself internally, mortification filling her chest with a burning sensation.

'Yes! Yes, err, yes, that's me.' She says, as brightly as possible.

'I need a body.'

She's distracted from her embarrassment at his request; surprised, she takes a step back and tries not to feel intimidated when he matches her, taking a slightly longer stride forward.

'You what?'

'I need a body.'

He repeats the statement in a way that makes her feel incredibly stupid.

'Yes, I heard.' She mumbles. 'What do you need one for?'

He frowns at her. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe that's none of your business.'

She frowns back, indignation flaring up. 'In actual fact, I believe it is. I can't just go around handing dead bodies to anyone who asks for one.'

He rolls his eyes and shoots a tired look up at the ceiling and she hates the way he's so patronising without even saying anything. He slips a large hand into an inside pocket of his coat and produces a Manila envelope. With a mounting sense of dread, she resists the urge to facepalm and takes the envelope warily. She puts a hand inside and draws out a series of official-looking documents, all detailing 'confidential' and 'access to all resources' and signed by 'Greg Lestrade.'

She closes her eyes for a split second, resisting the urge to groan. She hands the papers back (spitefully neglecting to put them back in the envelope) and mutters a string of unintelligible words before leading him through a door and down a flight of stairs.

She pushes open a cold glass door and then there are the bodies, all laid out on clean steel tables, some still wrapped in body bags and others only covered with a thin cotton blanket.

She gestures towards them. 'Here you are.' She says. '...Bodies.'

He merely nods and steps up to examine each one before coming to stop at the body of a middle-aged man. 'This one will do nicely.' He says. He looks up at her and his piercing blue eyes meet her brown ones. She resists the urge to look away. 'Now,' He says, 'I'll be needing my riding crop.'

He looks at her expectantly.

'You...what?' She resigns herself to embarrassment as she repeats her earlier words, confusion pulling her eyebrows together in a light frown.

'I left my riding crop downstairs. Fetch it.'

His rudeness leaves Molly feeling indignant. Good looking, bur definitely not charming.

'No, I won't-' She starts. 'I'm not your sla-'

And then his gaze is turned on her again and this time there is something in his eyes that is hot and passionate and she thinks she might need one of the tables for support, her legs feeling a little weak. Maybe it would be a good idea to get out of there, after all.

'Okay.' She squeaks, and tries desperately to regain her composure as she leaves the room. As the door swings shut behind her, she almost completely sure she hears him mutter,

'The smoulder works – make a note.'

She's not sure who on earth he could be talking to in a room full of lifeless bodies and she's slightly insulted as she considers the meaning of what he said but she shakes her head and carries on walking.

As she walks down the stairs she realises that he never mentioned where downstairs he left his riding crop (she wonders what on earth he could want with that, anyway) and she hopes it's just somewhere around reception or she'll have to go trooping around everywhere.

She tries not to think about his so-called-"smoulder" (although she knows that's exactly what it is) and the way it made her knees turn to jelly like she was some love-struck teen.

But then again, he must have the same effect on everyone, she supposes. With looks like that and a personality just as striking – albeit in a much less positive way – he'd leave an impact everywhere he goes. She feels as if all he needs now is a soundtrack when he enters rooms.

She finally finds the riding crop – leaning against a wheelie bin outside the staff room, god only knows why – and starts to make her way back to the man. She realises then that she doesn't even know his name; making a mental note to ask for it, she hurries up a flight of stairs.

It's as she's walking past the woman's bathroom that the first treacherous thought creeps into her head; she's brought her make-up bag with her, today, as she's going out straight after work, and her hand twitches towards it suggestively as her eyes swivel towards the toilets. Despite his utter rudeness, she wants badly to impress the stranger and she sighs as she gives in and walks into the toilets, riding crop in one hand and make-up bag in the other.

She stares into the mirror as she opens the bag and almost stops. She wonders what good make-up will do, anyway – her face is plain and there's no amount of make-up that could make her a beauty, especially not a beauty to live up to the standards of that man.

Squeezing her eyes shut momentarily to repress the self-loathing thoughts, she shakes her head and only puts on the sheerest coat of lipgloss before leaving the toilets.

She feels ridiculous for wanting to impress someone she's just met but she can't help the way her mind races and her pulse speeds up a little as she thinks of the tall, beautiful man. There is something so wildly, ruggedly, animalistically attractive beneath the sharp suit and cool composure he wants to get to know him a little more and she takes a deep breath when she reaches the door she knows he's waiting behind.

She pushes it open and walks in; he has his back to her, perfectly still save his index finger tapping the tabletop his hand rests on.

Molly clears her throat nervously. 'I...found your riding crop.'

He spins around instantly, suddenly full of energy.

'Aha! Thank you.'

Despite the grateful words he barely looks at her as he takes the crop and she feels snubbed. About to open her mouth to say something, she's cut off and steps back in surprise as he brandishes the crop and starts hitting the woman's body with it.

'Excuse me-' she tries, and is cut off by a resounding thwack of leather hitting flesh.

'Sorry, but-'

Thwack!

'Listen-'

Thwack!

A particularly violent hit actually tears open skin and Molly stares at the wound in horror; feeling slightly nauseated at the sight, she strides over and grabs his arm as he starts to bring it down for another hit. Almost expecting to see him wild-eyed and out of control, she's slightly surprised when he looks down at her with a calm and collected expression. He frowns in annoyance.

'What are you doing?' He asks.

'What are you doing?' She retorts hotly. 'This is absolutely horrible!'

'She's dead.'

'Well, obviously. But what you're doing...it's degrading. And disrespectful.'

He snorts. 'It is also what's going to prevent an innocent man from going to prison for the rest of his life, so if you don't mind-'

Thwack!

Molly leaves the room with a headache.

She's sitting in the lab next door, peering into a microscope, when the noises stop. She sighs in relief as the door swings open and the man strides out. She does a double take as she notices a spatter of blood across his cheek and he throws himself down onto a stool, somehow managing not to fall off with the over-enthusiastic movement.

'There's – blood.' She says, gesturing hesitantly towards the affected area.

'Ah, yes. Must have been the hit to the hip. A surprising amount of blood was collected within that area.'

Molly swallows her disgust, momentarily uncertain whether or not to continue.

'You're wearing lip gloss.'

The statement takes her by surprise before a rush of self-consciousness washes over her.

'Excuse me?'

'Lipgloss. You're wearing it, and you weren't before. Why?'

Her mind scrambles for a response. 'I...I just – refreshed it.'

'Hm.'

She takes a moment to collect her thoughts.

'Anyway,' She begins.

'No, I'm not going to tell you what the case was about.'

'Sorry?'

'The case? The reason I was hitting a woman with a riding crop? I'm assuming that's what you want to know. Most people do.'

'Actually,' She says, swallowing nervously, 'you're wrong.'

He seems to take great offence to that, looking up sharply. 'I'm sorry?'

She bites her lip. 'I said, actually, you're wrong – I wanted to ask-'

'I am never wrong. Sometimes, I am misinformed and led to the wrong conclusion, but I assure you that my deductions are all perfectly sound.' He says this with vehemence, half standing now.

She takes a step back, warily. 'No, no, of course-'

He sits back down-

'I just wanted to ask if, you know, you'd, maybewanttogetcoffee?' The last part is a hurried rush of words as she chokes out the sentence.

A flare of hope sparks up in her chest as he smiles brilliantly.

'Yes! Absolutely. Black, two sugars, thank you. I'll be downstairs.'

And then he's gone; a black coat billowing out behind him as he sweeps out of the room.

Molly stands, shell-shocked, alone in the lab. Her voice is nothing but a squeak.

'Okay.'