Should I be writing so soon after finishing Two Hundred and Twenty One B, Baker Street? Yes, yes I should.

This prompt was given to me a while back by your favourite Tingy. It's a good prompt, but for plot purposes I'm going to put it at the bottom of the fic.

This is gonna be a three part fic, prepare yourself! Side note: lots of Warcraft references in the titles for this one.

She had no idea where the fear had originally come from.

Honestly, it was just there, one fine day. It came out of nowhere, and it resided in her mind until she was in her late twenties. She couldn't tell anyone that she was scared of so many things, and she couldn't even tell them why she was scared of her own shadow on occasion.

Things which were loud made her afraid. Childhood traumas with brothers who loved haunted houses, not to mention scaring her to pieces. Unfortunately, she was also the youngest child with three brothers, which just meant "healthy" sibling bullying.

Which had just resulted in her being terrified of the dark, of being very scared of thunder, having a phobia for small spaces that moved (namely, lifts), and even the occasional invisible ghost.

Which was ridiculous, because she was a scientist. She worked with dead people. She worked in a godforsaken morgue, for crying out loud. She didn't believe in ghosts.

She didn't!

She did not.

She refused.

She was going to die, she thought as the door slammed loudly and she jumped two feet in the air.

"Sherlock," she breathed. He didn't say anything to her, preferring to be seated near his microscope. Molly breathed in again, and forced her heart to calm itself. She wasn't scared. Ghosts weren't real. The dark was fine. Lifts wouldn't kill her.

"I'm sorry," he said coldly. "I forgot about your fear of – what was it, again? Noises."

Oh, fuck, who was she really kidding? Sherlock? Because he had seen through it from the moment he met her.

Becoming acquainted with Sherlock had not helped her fears. She just become worried about his judgment on her, and hid most of the things which she was afraid of so that he would never find out. Her fear of lifts was concealed with her always "needing exercise" and taking the stairs. Her fear of the dark never came up, for she always needed light in the morgue. Her fear of ghosts was so inexplicable, he would never ask her, she was certain. Her fear of loud noises… was understandable. He knew that.

Her fear and attraction for him, however, was something he had seen through immediately.

She had fooled herself into believing that he didn't know of her hopeless crush on her. He didn't know that she was just as scared of… large people. She didn't like his height, it made her unbelievably school-girly, not to mention how terrifying he could look when he was at that height. That's why Jim had been such a wonderful thing to happen to her: someone who liked flowers and Glee and goodness. Who laughed at her nightlight while he killed thousands of people.

Yes, absolutely charming.

Molly was a walking disaster.

The woman was a walking disaster, Sherlock decided.

Her fear of noises was abnormal. Her small, scared, very "hamster" persona was unbearably grating.

"'Endearing,'" said the woman who was definitely dead by his side. "The word you are looking for is 'endearing'."

"Shut up, Mary," said Sherlock under his breath.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock!" said the woman. She adjusted her translucent jacket. "Isn't she adorable? She's adorable. I love her."

Molly jumped. Oh, no.

"What?" asked Sherlock pleasantly.

"Nothing – um. Well, - I just. Erm. I thought I – well, h-heard something," she said.

Good God, why did she have to stumble so much?

"In my day, women were so much more assertive. Now, I like this girl, I really do, but she's far too scared for you, Sherlock, dear. Then again, she does seem to know whatever Sherlock thinks, oddly enough." sniffed another woman who was just as dead.

"Mrs. Hudson, please, take my advice and go away," said Sherlock under his breath again. "You are terrifying the woman that you think I have feelings for. Now, is that a reasonable way to play matchmaker?"

"You'd be surprised at how well it works," said Mary, raising her eyebrows. "Why, I remember the summer of 87 – we positively terrified this boy into asking out a girl he liked."

"That is lovely," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "Go away. You're scaring her and then she cannot work optimally."

"And the work is most important, isn't it, Sherlock?" came Mycroft's dulcet tones.

"Molly, could you do me a favour and bring some coffee?" asked Sherlock as politely as possible.

"Well, erm –"

He frowned at her believably. "Are you wearing new clothes?"

"I – well, yes," said Molly.

"Blue suits you," he said smoothly.

"Um. Thanks," she blushed. "I'll just get the coffee, then. Black, two sugars, right?"

"Yes," he said charmingly.

She walked out of the morgue, and Sherlock glared at the shutting door. He turned to the people who were translucently floating around him.

"All of you are very, very dead," he said to them. "My God, you are all so dead. Please, for the love of everything that is science, walk towards the godforsaken light. Leave Molly and myself alone."

"Oho," said Mary, grinning mischievously. "Alone time?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I'm talking to my dead best mate's dead wife. Are you positive that you're not a figment of my imagination? I was very traumatised by your death. I had a shock blanket and everything."

"I'm touched that you would care enough about us to consider that possibility," said John from the side.

"You know that other people can hear us when we need them to," said Mary with her usual smile.

"Miss Morstan, why are you making my brother endure this nonsense?" asked Mycroft, flipping through a newspaper.

"But isn't it nice for us all to be here, Sherlock?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Yeah, why are we here?" asked John. "I thought the idea was to haunt him for a while and then go on a few adventures and then maybe judgement day."

"He's a lonely boy," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, yes," said Sherlock, sitting down on the microscope again. "I'm the picture of loneliness."

"Why can't we allow him to do his work?"

"Because, Mycroft," said Mary with a starchiness to her tone, "We need him to ask Molly out."

"Is it necessary?" asked Mycroft.

"I should think so!" said Mrs. Hudson. "He needs to have someone! And she is such a nice girl, even if she is terrified."

"That is your fault!" said Sherlock loudly.

"My God, am I really subjected to this frivolous matchmaking?" asked Mycroft, with a resigned finality.

"You listen to me –" said Mary, beginning to look angry. "You said you would help, you told me."

"Not with a scheme as positively abnormal as this –"

"It is a bit farfetched, Mary –"

"This girl is rather fearful, dear –"

"Um, Sherlock?" came Molly's voice from the door. "I heard voices."

Everyone stopped talking at once. "Shh!" said Mary audibly, and Molly jumped, looking behind.

"It's nothing, Molly," said Sherlock smoothly. "Do you have the coffee? Thank you. I will come back for the results."

Molly sighed as Sherlock left the morgue. Thank god. Disaster was averted.

She had the graveyard shift tonight, and she positively hated the empty corridors in the dark. Funnily enough, she didn't fear the dead at all – so at least she was comfortable with that.

Whenever she did have the graveyard shift, she used to bring Toby with her and lock him up in her office. He was away from the things which could be contaminated, and she had company for when she went home. It was a good system, and one which she had confided in Mike Stamford. She had his unofficial approval, which made her pleased.

At least Sherlock wasn't here. He just made her nervous. Whenever he came around these days, she could hear twice as many voices around the morgue.

Sherlock was sitting in Baker Street, his fingers steepled, deep in thought.

"I am going to kill each and every one of you," he told the empty room.

"We're already dead, brother mine," said Mycroft nastily.

"I am going to kill myself and find you in the afterlife."

"There isn't a guarantee that you'll come back," said Mary critically.

"Well, trust me, I will," said Sherlock. "There has to be a bloody afterlife, if all of you are here."

John chuckled. "The afterlife. What an – well, what a living phenomenon."

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't give me cryptic answers for that which you don't know."

"Ah, fuck off, Sherlock," said John. "How's Greg?"

"Who?" asked Sherlock. "Oh, Lestrade. Not being haunted by ghosts, thank you very much."

"We haven't tried haunting him," said Mary enthusiastically. "We should!"

"Let's haunt Molly first, get this over with," sighed John.

Mary frowned at him. "We can't do that. She's scared of things."

"For good reason," said Mycroft. "With a woman like you hanging around her, I'd be afraid of bloody dragons. Heaven help her, she may even go to Sherlock for support."

"That's violently emotional of you," said Sherlock. But Mary wasn't looking at him, or listening to him.

"There's an idea," she said.

"What?" asked Sherlock, wary.

"Let's haunt Molly!" she said excitedly.

"Really, dear," Mrs. Hudson tutted. "That's unnecessarily cruel of you."

"No, no, you don't understand," said Mary. "Let's scare her until these two finally start dating!"

"Oh, go away Mary," said Sherlock in an uncharacteristic burst of anger.

"I –" began John. He paused. "That could work."

"No! Absolutely not!" said Sherlock. "Not even in your wildest imagination will any of you do that!"

"You know, I think you are right," said Mrs. Hudson. "Yes, I think you are."

"Mrs. Hudson!" said Sherlock loudly.

"It could work," said Mycroft. "And when it does, can we all go?"

"Yes," said Mary gleefully. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!"

"Mary, if I could get my hands on your neck," said Sherlock stepping aggressively towards her.

"So, are we agreed?" asked Mycroft. "Can I have the liberty to plan out the haunting?"

"Certainly, Mycroft," said Mary in an unbelievable act of generosity. "You would know best."

"I suggest we begin with a little noise; we know she's scared of noises. We can proceed with whispers, and perhaps a few bangings. Nothing very traumatising, obviously. If things get truly desperate, we can show ourselves, but I doubt it will come to that."

Sherlock was looking murderous.

"Off, then?" asked Mary.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Hudson, straightening her skirt.

"I am going to kill you all."

All of them started disappearing one by one. John was the last to go.

"You know, you could save us the trouble and ask her out?" he said easily to him. "Unlike them, you actually told me you liked her."

"I did not say that. And besides, how can I?" snapped Sherlock. "She's terrified of me, and no, I do not 'like' her. We're not twelve, John."

"You told me, and I quote, 'she doesn't deserve me.'"

"I know what I said," said Sherlock, irritable. "And I stand by it. I do not love her, as you are wont to believe. I don't want to subject her to me. She's done too much – she's done far too much. How would you know everything she has done? You were dead then."

"I still am dead, you know. And now, she's going to be subjected to Mary. Life has come full circle." John winked at him, just as he disappeared. Sherlock was left in an empty room with the echoes of his friends which were looking to unite him with a woman who deserved more. And that was when it occurred to him: they were going to haunt Molly Hooper.

'Haunt,' haunt Molly Hooper.

Molly Hooper.

Who was scared of loud noises.

And lifts (he hadn't missed that, even though she thought he did).

And she was scared of the dark (he had noticed Toby's hair in her office after graveyard shifts).

Oh no.

He ran down to get a cab to Barts.

Molly was cheerfully listening to music while cutting up Mr. Roberts' heart. This was fun. This was definitely enjoyable; this was something she could do without thinking about the rest of the world.

She was absorbed in the heart and all the tendons and muscles when the window banged shut. Her heart skipped a beat, but she ignored it. She was careful with the way she continued her dissection. It must be a windy night, and she didn't want to ruin a pair of gloves while shutting the window.

She became absorbed in the heart again. When she got home with Toby, she would have a glass of wine and watch a good movie. Something romantic, she decided to herself. His heart was a bit worn from all the smoking, Molly thought to herself. Poor man.

This time, the door banged.

Molly didn't jump, but she looked up. A cold chill went down her spine, and she laughed to no one nervously. She put her scalpel away, and took of her gloves, giving it up as a bad job. She walked to the door and checked outside. Nothing.

More anxious, she decided that there must have been a breeze.

She tapped her thighs inconsistently. Her palms felt a little sweaty. She decided to go to her office and wash her hands.

"There are no ghosts," she told the empty room. "No ghosts. I cut up dead people. I cannot be scared of ghosts."

The room was incredibly silent.

"I am not scared of ghosts."

She went to her office, intent upon focusing on nothing more than washing her hands. Her bathroom was rather nice, even if it was tiny. She made sure she had good disinfectant soap at all times. She occasionally enjoyed a funny soap, like something purely for the smell of lemons. From outside her office, there was the sound of a very large crash.

The quiet of the office and the morgue was never something that worried her – she didn't mind the silence. There wasn't a single noteworthy sound as Molly continued to breathe in and out – in and out, in and out, in and out.

Her breath ghosted due to the cold of the morgue. She was used to this. She didn't mind this.

But that was the thing about monsters – they always started with something familiar and built from there.

A plastic dustbin fell softly.

Molly gave a soft start. She clutched her chest. "No. Ghosts."

She went outside to have a dustbin upended. She straightened it out.

There were loud steps approaching the morgue.

They were coming with speed. Molly could feel her heartbeat in tandem with the steps – but she didn't focus on that. Her mind went horrifically blank – completely white with nothing, absolutely nothing in it. Her senses went on a complete high, and she realised, almost belatedly, that Toby was going to be very lonely.

Oh my god.

"Oh my God," she whispered to herself. Oh my god. Right, as soon as the ghost enters, run into your office, avoid all mirrors, maybe find yourself an iron weapon – salt.

Ghosts won't care for salt and iron! This isn't Supernatural!

When the door opened, Molly's heart nearly gave away. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, good, you're still here," the man panted. Molly forced her heart to calm down.

"I needed to conduct a few tests, Molly, is that all right?" he asked.

"Perfectly fine," said Molly, relieved.

"Did I scare you?" he asked. He wasn't very gentle, he was rather demanding in knowing this. Molly frowned.

"No," she said. "Its – well. Erm. It's a breezy night, you know?"

"Any loud noises?" he demanded.

"The window," said Molly, startled. "And door. Why?"

"No reason," he said. "I know you fear loud noises."

Molly was touched. "That's – well, it's kind of you."

"I'd rather not have you jumping out of your skin while you dissect the heart of the man who was most certainly poisoned."

"Oh, you got that too?" asked Molly, excited. "I thought I was alone in that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her.

"Right, of course," said Molly shyly. "Um. You can continue to work here, Sherlock."

"Thank you," he said graciously. What a strange interaction. She was certain his eyes were darting about in anger.

It was at this point that the door decided to bang again. Molly squealed softly.

"Just a little breeze," she said to herself. "Breeze."

"Breeze," said Sherlock looking at a corner in anger. "If this breeze continues I am going to call the meteorological department and demand an explanation."

"Um," said Molly alarmed. "I'm sure that isn't necessary."

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know," said Sherlock darkly. "Anyway, please, get back to your patient."

"Her cat's adorable, did I mention?" said Mary.

"Mary, to you, Molly can do no wrong," said her husband patiently.

"Yes," said Mary. "Look at them; silently working. Nice slide, Sherlock. It's empty, of course. But nice. Good work."

Sherlock didn't say anything but his glare was so angry that John would have quaked had he not been dead.

"While it is a comfortable silence Miss Hooper and dearest Sherlock are participating in, I would like to know why we aren't forcing them to engage in conversation?" asked Mycroft boredly.

If Sherlock could have cussed right now, he would make an Irish sailor blush.

"Right you are, Mycroft," said Mary happily. "I will go for the dustbin again."

"Repetitive. Try banging some equipment."

She had never thought she'd be glad Sherlock was here. Ever since he stepped into the morgue, the incessant 'breeze' had finally stopped. Well, it stopped for a while. Molly was fairly certain it had begun again when the door looked like it was swaying all over again.

And then some boxes from the top of a cupboard fell. Molly didn't jump, and while her forehead broke out in sweat, she ignored it steadfastly.

She continued to work on her 'patient' without heed to the stupid ghosts in her head.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Her energy was focussed, largely, on Mr. Roberts. Not that he cared, but Molly refused to let some fears of hers prevent her from doing a good job. Her hand would occasionally shake, but she remained in control of this. Her heart raced and she was praying to every deity imaginable that she won't do something that would permanently damage her ability to work.

And then Sherlock let out a frustrated grown.

"Molly," he bit out. "Explain what you're doing."

"Um," said Molly. "An autopsy?"

"Just – talk to me. The noise is driving me to distraction."

"Well – erm, how will I help?" asked Molly meekly. She would really rather get back to Mr. Roberts...

"Just keep explaining every procedure. Pretend I am a medical student."

"Oh – well. Okay," she said. "I'm just beginning with the stomach – if you want to kn –"

"Yes," he said.

Everything was suspiciously silent after that.

Molly was certain that she was going mad.

It wasn't that she found Sherlock's behaviour odd, or the way the noise would stop whenever he spoke to her in the morgue weird. It was that when he did come, it stopped.

And wherever Molly went these days, she seemed to be causing a clusterfuck of disasters. Things fell, things made noise, and she was certain that she heard high screeching from time to time during her graveyard shifts in the morgue.

She was being driven mad by what she could conclusively say were ghosts.

High, tinny screams came from her office which was why she stopped bringing Toby. He found the noise distracting, and he had begun to behave very oddly in the morgue. He would paw at invisibility, and his fur would stand on end.

Molly was terrified, so she wanted to bring him with her, but she could not. She didn't want to continuously worry about whether the ghost would take him away and stuff him or petrify him or something equally terrifying.

On the other hand, her mind was in pieces because she couldn't find the source of the problem. She knew, logically that this could be no ghost, but she didn't know what else to blame. Perhaps some interns were playing a rather cruel prank on her fears. She was afraid to confront them because then they would actually know what a mess she was.

Sherlock burst into her office (for the millionth time), and Molly jumped. She was very jumpy these days, as anyone would have noticed.

"Molly, where's your schedule of shifts at the hospital?" he demanded.

"Um," Molly panicked. She struggled with her papers, and extracted a schedule from a mess of papers. "Here," she said.

"Thank you," he bit out.

He was gone before Molly could say in a quiet voice: "That... was – my only copy."

She sighed and got up to take a print out from the soft copy.

St. Barts, Twelve AM at night.

"Well – um. This is the Femur, and the tibia and fibula are here – do you want me to explain the physics behind their movement?"

"Yes."

Everytime Molly had a night time shift these days, Sherlock was there. And not just Sherlock who was busy with his experiments. Sherlock who was busy with trying to make small talk with her. Well – if you could call Sherlock asking her to recite all the bones of the body small talk. He did that a lot.

Molly had so far explained three or four rare conditions, a few physiological issues which showed in the body, every bone in the body, cutting the heart, tissues, and two or three other adages. She didn't know why.

What she did realise was that when he came – and particularly when he spoke, everything was quiet. Well, the noises and the screeching and the ghosts. It almost made her think that it was his prank all along, if she didn't know him so well.

Then, she stumbled upon the conclusion that he was doing it – so that the noises wouldn't bother her?

Which just put her in a tizzy so she ignored and decided to enjoy it while she could.

"The stomach, as you know – is one of the more interesting things to cut up. You really never know what you may find! It could be bread, sometimes its fish. Once, I found actual cloth Sherlock, I swear to God. Then again, the woman in question was not exactly right in the head."

"Do you talk to your students that way?" he asked. He seemed amused.

She blushed. "Sometimes. I get nervous around people, so I just imagine that I am talking to my father."

"Your father was alright with you describing the contents of a dead woman's stomach?"

"It was cloth! Who wouldn't be interested?"

Sherlock was actually smiling. "Who wouldn't indeed."

She was doing it! She was actually talking to him, and it wasn't about his drug problems, about his cases or even about murder. He was smiling.

"My father was awesome Sherlock," she said, unselfconsciously. "He was cool and he bought me a microscope and told me that he didn't care as long as I didn't find maggots interesting. He didn't like maggots, and I think it was because I once showed him some putrid ones."

"Aren't you Irish?" asked Sherlock.

"How'd you know?" asked Molly, surprised.

He raised his eyebrows. "Right," she blushed. "What about you? Anything interesting you show your parents?"

He paused. "I turned their clothes pink. Well, Mycroft's. It was an experiment. One of my favourites."

Molly smiled. She bit her lip. Sherlock sighed: "You can laugh."

She burst into giggles. He smiled wryly at her.

"I wonder what she finds so amusing. That was a horrible week for me."

"Pink suits you, though, Mycroft," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank you," sniffed Mycroft. "However, not the audacious shade Sherlock had chosen to grace me with."

Sherlock was staring at the woman who was laughing. He had smiled, but his brain was distantly thinking about something else. He wasn't contemplating how lovely Molly Hooper looked, or something equally inane.

He was wondering why he had hardly ever heard her laugh.

She laughed at her own jokes, but those were stifled giggles. He had certainly never been the cause of her laughter.

"You okay, mate?" asked John. Mary was watching Sherlock intently.

Sherlock returned to his microscope.

"Thanks, Sherlock. It's been an awful few weeks because of these interns."

"Sorry?" asked Sherlock.

"Sorry?" repeated Mary.

"Well," Molly went red. "I think they've been playing a prank on me," she confessed. "Whenever I have the night shifts, there's this barrage of noises. From wind, to objects – banging. And – you're going to think I'm insane."

"Try me," Sherlock bit out.

"Well – screaming sounds. And nails screeching."

"That was me!" claimed John immediately.

Sherlock swore in his head.

"Anyway, you know me. I'm really scared of – noises."

"Just noises?" asked Sherlock slowly.

Molly went from red to a pale pink. "Can you promise not to tell anyone this?" she asked.

Sherlock's curiosity was getting the better of him.

"I have a really irrational fear of – well, of ghosts."

Sherlock blinked at her.

There was silence all around him as his friends – who were ghosts – took this in.

The universe had to have a sense of humour, Sherlock thought dourly as Mary Watson was the first to burst into peals of laughter.

So, the prompt in question: "You are a smol scared hamster of a person who is scared of the dark and lightning and occasionally even your own shadow and you are losing your mind because you're pretty sure that you're being haunted by ghosts, and I don't know how to tell you this but those ghosts are actually my friends and they're just playing matchmaker and trying to get us both together and I'm really sorry that they've locked us together in this storage closet rn I swear I had nothing to do with this." Thx Tingy.