Restless
He shows up one day, of course, and it's in the middle of the day in broad daylight and honestly! "It is two in the afternoon, Sh—," she stops short when he shushes her. "What?"
"Don't," he grinds, pitch earthly low, "absolutely do not say my name. It is of vital import that I remain hidden."
Molly just manages to scrape her jaw off of the floor before he turns to her. "Yes," she says, seething, "I would imagine so." He looks ridiculous as well; in the absence of his telltale trench, he seems to have acquired a sudden, unfortunate affinity for bomber jackets. This one is slightly big on his frame, which makes him look like a beach ball on stilts. Molly would be surprised if he hasn't managed to attract the attention of every bloody person in the lab. "Do you have a reason to be here?" she asks, peevishly.
Sherlock turns his full attention on her and—god, not now—"Well, since you've obviously just finished cleaning your last body of the day and you don't have to leave for another —what is it —three hours? During which time you will have looked over the latest toxicology report from your stab victim, wondering if you've missed something—you have—wandered into the break room to pick up your second bottle of Lipton, pretended to check your emails while blogging photos of your cat, and received one panicked house call from Lestrade—no." Sherlock squints at her. She steels herself. "No, not Lestrade." Sherlock seems to be sniffing the air. "Chrysopogon zizanioides," he mutters, "cardamom. Perfume." He looks at her.
"Yes," Molly sighs, "I wear perfume. It's nice to not have to smell decomposing bodies."
Sherlock frowns. "But it's not your perfume."
"I switched," she snaps. "I've been known to change my mind. What's gotten into you?"
"Bored."
"Right. So you came here?"
"You are the only other person who knows where I've gone. And you do provide some measure of interest, if only for the chance to examine your reports—who took those, by the way? Don't tell me, it was the new intern you personally hired. He started Monday, am I correct? Fresh from King's? His technique is dreadful."
"What am I missing?" Molly asks. Sherlock was getting to it anyway, and she'd prefer not to have any more abuse directed toward poor Daniel (or any more delving into her personal life).
Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious? Your intern left out an entire category. Antihistamines. You mentioned on your earlier reports that the victim seemed to have been sedated somehow, yes? And his medical records clearly state that he was patient with chronic pain, prescribed opoid analgesics by a private physician—,"
"Hydroxyzine," Molly shakes her head.
"Textbook," Sherlock agrees, "I admit that I am surprised you overlooked it, though I was not surprised that your intern did the same, given his sloppy—,"
"That's enough," Molly cuts him off. "Are you alleviated?"
Sherlock cocks his head. "Is my boredom alleviated?"
"Sherlock, you are boredom. You've become the very essence. Will that be all? I have a Lipton craving." Molly moves the stab victim's file from her bag to her desk.
Inhaling deeply, Sherlock nods. He almost asks her—it's not just the perfume, he observes, but the extra case of lipstick in the desk nook where she keeps pencils, and the menu from Barbican Tandoori whose corner is just visible over the edge of her purse—not to mention the smoother conversation, or the newly-extroverted attitude. But he doesn't. Instead, he stands, adjusting his bomber jacket. "I believe so," he says.
"Good." Molly stands as well, bag in hand, and walks him to the door. "Are you…?"
"I will exit thirteen seconds after you do."
"Right." Molly opens the door and heads to the break room. She nearly looks back, but feels her phone vibrate in her purse, and smiles instead. So long, Sherlock, she thinks, I have a house call coming