I don't own anything, of course. Apologies for spelling, grammatical or any other kinds of errors. Actually I do own something – mistakes are all mine!

Rated T for language.

Trigger Warning for description of corpse. Not too gory though.

Tea And Biscuits

There are certain procedures that must be followed in particular fields of work. For example, if one works in the medical field, it is of great importance to follow procedures that promote a sterile environment. This is no less important for those in the medical practice whom rarely interact with the living. Professionals such as those whom work in the field of pathology. For those whom work in the hospital's morgue. For doctors like Molly Hooper.

But that was what Molly Hooper preferred. Not that she couldn't tolerate a mess. God knew she could in fact handle more than her fair share . She didn't avoid sights or smells that were offensive to most and she had never been the squeamish type. Today she demonstrated her resilience and capabilities in this area of her work - which was exemplary as usual - when faced with performing diagnostics on a corpse in a rather advanced state of decomposition. It was bad enough to make a couple of seasoned Met officers, who were the first to arrive at the crime scene, lose their respective lunches.

Molly had faced the corpse with her usual aplomb, her interest peaked if anything. It was a fascinating challenge to determine the cause of death with so many of the clues compromised by the natural process of deterioration. Of course working in such conditions meant she would have to suit up in the appropriate attire. Donning her sterile coveralls and visor, she had stood back to observe the body.

She made a quick visual assessment of skin discolouration, state of rigor and lividity. Bringing out her camera she snapped off one shot after another as evidence for the police report. Though the decay made the wounds less obvious to the untrained eye, she already thought she had a good idea of the cause of death; a single stab wound to the chest. On visual inspection of the right side of the victim's face, she also noted that there may be a cut in the flesh above the zygomatic bone.

That was when she heard the unmistakable whistle of the electric kettle in her office, which broke her fixation on the remains on the table before her.

She would need fortification to face a job of this size! In her office she quickly prepared a cup of tea while hastily chewing on a biscuit. The sugar boost would give her the energy to tackle this properly. She gulped down her tea rather artlessly before she was off to the sink for quick scrub and grabbing some sterile gloves, she turned to sprint back to the morgue in happy anticipation.

At this moment Mike Stamford popped in to retrieve a file from Molly Hooper, though he was loath to enter the room on this day. Doctor he may be, but the smell was so vile he planned to be out of there as swiftly as possible.

"I don't know how you can eat, Molly!" He had exclaimed, halfway between admiration and disgust.

"Sometimes a light snack settles the stomach." Molly offered by way of an explanation, though she hadn't indulged for that reason. She had little need for it. She was just fond of chocolate biscuits and lunch wasn't for two hours.

She put on her gloves, picked up her tray of instruments and faced the job before her.

Mike made a hasty retreat and was gone before she had snapped on the second glove.

Later, she made her determined way around the morgue, putting everything in order for the weekend. She liked tidying her work areas; lab, morgue and office, but today she put extra effort into the task. But despite the added scrubbing and disinfecting there was a strong scent of decayed flesh that lingered in the air.

In all honesty the ritual of cleaning her instruments at the end of a day and placing them in the autoclave, tossing soiled hospital linens into the hamper and giving the whole space a final inspection was quite soothing. She was sure to check off every area of importance on her mental check list, a tick marking the completion of each task. Well there was a satisfaction in the ritual that appeased her orderly nature. It put her world to rights and gave her a sense of control in her sometimes crazy life.

Though she was unlikely to admit this, the cause of most of the chaos in her life had a name. The name was Sherlock Holmes.

She had to admit that Sherlock did not take advantage of her quite as much since his dramatic return to the land of the living and a proper friendship had blossomed between the pathologist and the consulting detective. The evidence was in his behaviour. For example, he would now ask her before helping himself to whatever he wanted from her lab. He would request body parts needed for his experiments rather than demand them and he had all but dropped the false compliments to manipulate her to his will.

In turn she was able to speak to him without the stuttering or stammering, and she only occasionally put her foot in her mouth. She was quite proud of that accomplishment! And so everything had settled into a fairly pleasant routine when it came to their working relationship. Other than his occasional bouts of diva-like tantrums - unavoidable to totally eliminate those considering who he was - it was all quite pleasant. Well it had been pleasant. Until that day.

It was that day he had turned up in her lab; that horrible day John Watson had dragged his sorry arse from that drug den strung out on heroin. She had slapped him so hard her hand felt bruised for days after. And ever since, well things had felt rather more strained between them.

That was also the terrible day he was shot, the day she had cried silently by his bedside as he lay unconcious, connected to monitors that displayed his weak vital signs. She sat there regretting the harshness of her actions not because she thought he didn't deserve her anger, but that if he should die she would have to live with that memory as her very last interaction with the man that she had loved so desperately. And oh, she was just so pathetic because she still loved the infuriating man though she had tried to put all those thoughts out of her mind. It was never going to happen with Sherlock! Even now with the drug relapse well behind him and the recovery from the near death experience pretty near complete. It just wasn't his area.

But today was a good day and she felt that the rebuilding of their friendship had made some wonderful progress, for today he had made a very special request of her.

All that was left of her routine before she left St Bart's was closing the files on her desk top computer in her office and logging off for the weekend and then she was off to the ladies lockers to change into her street clothes. She did not always wear hospital scrubs, but working on bodies that were in such an advanced stage of decay left their scent in her clothing. And just try getting a cabbie that doesn't object to the smell of death invading the interior of his vehicle on a Friday night. Quite the impossible task Molly Hooper would say!

She had covered her hair with a cap in the hopes of keeping it from smelling like her work and that was the first thing she pulled off in the locker room. Well her hair was in a state, wasn't it? Her reflection showed the flattened and yet simultaneously frizzy chaos that was her hair and she rolled her eyes at it before grabbing an elastic band and a brush. She did her best to get her hair into a controlled bun and employed several pins to catch up the wisps that threatened to escape.

Before changing out of her scrubs she took a quick glance around the room. That was a new habit of hers, one that had started with Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead. He had come to her in this very locker room and she had felt so overjoyed to see him safely returned. And though she might have entertained some naughty fantasies involving Sherlock, the ladies locker room and a certain state of undress, the reality was that she was all too aware of his disinclination to partake in such scenarios. Furthermore she realized that stinking of death and frizzy hospital cap hair did not actually make her feel particularly sexy.

With the room being devoid of certain consulting detectives, Molly quickly discarded the scrubs and pulled on her red blouse with the tiny white polka dots and an overly large bow at the throat, and a tan pair of trousers that were about two sizes too big and held up by a white faux leather belt.

Now she slipped on her warm winter boots, very sensible with no heels as she was a bit prone to stumbling in them, a white jumper, the one with the little red cherries merrily scattered about it here and there and her warm winter coat (brown like her boots).

Now the quest could begin! And really, it fit well with Molly Hooper's normal schedule, the young woman who so loved her routines and rituals.

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