Chapter One

The Missing Pathologist

The soles of Sherlock's shoes screeched on the vinyl floor as he paced inside St. Bart's, hands inside the pockets of his coat, scarf well-adjusted against his neck. He saw his reflection in one of the windows and he stared at it for a brief moment. Then, he ruffled his hair ever so slightly, to make it look naturally tousled, put his hands back in his pockets, and made the rest of the way into the hospital's morgue.

It had been raining all morning, as it was usual in the grey London, and Sherlock had made a great way of the road there by foot, knowing that solving this particular case required information he didn't have yet. That should be easily taken care of; all he needed were some body parts and a bit of patience to test his theory. The case was a peculiar one, but not entirely ground-breaking. A common case of murder, a jealous husband, and a secret love affair. Proving his conclusions on the case, however, was a bit trickier. Lestrade took his words for granted, but the jury would need proof, how the murdered had been framed by the sleuth. And that is why he was here this morning. Molly would surely give him what he needed, as long as he applied the right amount of charm on her. It never failed.

He pushed the door open with determination and entered the lab. He had memorised Molly's schedule the last time he had been there – she was carrying it in one hand and a quick glance was all he needed to store it inside his mind palace, ready to be used – and today she had started her shift very early in the morning. He would most likely find her working on a body or organs rather than taking care of papers.

The whirr of the fluorescent light welcomed him and he instinctively took in the environment. There was a bowl with some eyeballs at the far left corner, over the white lab bench, a tube with some weird mixture he recognised as blood and mud next to the microscope, ready to be examined, and an intern working at the far end of the room, bending over something Sherlock could not see. Molly was nowhere to be seen and he wondered if she had decided to have lunch earlier. He turned on his heels and walked out of the lab. He looked in the morgue and at the cafeteria, and as none of the places showed any signs of Molly he decided to check the lockers. That would have to point him in Molly's direction.

Except it didn't. The locker was not even locked and as Sherlock opened it he could see that it was empty except for her clean white lab coat and a few stickers: one regarding some animal institution and one for takeaway pizza. Sherlock inspected it better and concluded that Molly had been there the night before, which didn't fit her schedule, but maybe she had needed something. Then he shook his head. Of course she had needed something: her locker was empty. It didn't make any sense. Molly was always there. Always. If she had gotten sick she would have probably called the hospital and stay home, but her things would still be there, which wasn't the case. Sherlock sighed and decided that the best thing to do was to ask the intern back at the labs. Sherlock had seen him at the morgue and at the labs before, so if anyone would have any information about Molly it should be him, because from all the possibilities Sherlock was contemplating none fit with an empty locker.

He walked into the labs again and approached the intern, who was now working by the microscope, with reluctance. Sherlock wasn't used to start conversations with strangers. He cleared his throat.

"Excuse me," he said, "I am looking for Molly. Molly Hooper."

The intern moved his attention from the microscope and then looked at Sherlock, frowning. Sherlock read him over quickly: single, working on his second University diploma, an evening person with evening habits. Coffee addict with an obsessive compulsive disorder. All objects he was working with, from the microscope slide to the test tube that contained the mixture of blood, were perfectly aligned and the surface of the lab bench immaculate.

"Molly's on vacations," he informed, staring now at Sherlock with curiosity.

"Vacations?" it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "How do you mean?"

The intern removed the slide he was now examining under the microscope and took a few seconds to place it neatly on the other side of the lab bench. Then he picked another one and placed it on the stage, looking again through the eyepiece.

"She went on vacations. I don't know how to put it better."

"But Molly never takes vacations," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, apparently she does," the man looked again at Sherlock, "Look, she decided to take a rest, okay? Our boss had been pestering her for years that she needed a vacation, some time off, as everyone does. It's very well that she fills in during holidays because people want to be with family and Molly has no family, so it makes no difference to her to work during Christmas and New Year's Eve, but she needs her rest. So she decided to take the boss' advice at heart and have some holidays."

Sherlock was taken aback by the news. He needed Molly. He needed Molly to solve cases, to have body parts for experimentation, to prove his methods and test theories, he needed Molly available and it seemed quite unfair that she had just decided to take vacations like this.

"How long is she going to be away?"

Sherlock was sure she wouldn't be gone for more than a week tops, and he could easily convince her to come back to the hospital for a few hours and give him what he wanted.

"Over a month," the other man answered, checking some results on the computer, "She really took advantage of our boss' advice."

For Sherlock those news fell like a punch in the stomach. He felt almost betrayed by Molly's sudden decision. The man was staring at him with curiosity and Sherlock decided that maybe he didn't need to fetch Molly; maybe he could work with what he had at the moment. His expression softened and he smirked a little.

"Maybe you can help me then."

The man didn't even give Sherlock time to carry on with his plan. He had heard enough from Molly.

"Forget it, mate," he advised. "I am not providing you anything from this hospital. Actually, this place is off bounds for anyone who doesn't work here, and I know Molly and a few other people allow you in here for some reason, but I am not helping you out."

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he clenched his hands into fists. The idea of deducing this man up to his most intricate details, to the most deplorable secrets, struck him, but he reconsidered. There was no use in making enemies here and he knew when a battle was lost. Wasting time was not something he enjoyed, so he would have to find another way. He nodded, filled with a resentment he didn't try to conceal.

"The neighbour's cat has been entering your house from the chimney, as unlikely as that may sound to you. He then leaves the same way. It's an agile cat."

Without taking a second glance at the man's reaction, Sherlock walked away. He was tired of idiots.