A/N: This one needs a bit of an explanation (BORING, I know…): Some time ago I wrote a One Shot called The Pathologist and the Brain, staring Sherlolly, but told from the POV of Helen Louise, the brain Molly is dissecting in TSoT.
One of the lovely reviews was Woovian telling me she was shipping Helen Louise and Billy the skull. Somehow the idea of this pairing wouldn't leave my head. So this story is told from the POVs of Helen Louise and Billy. I took the beginning (altered it a bit) from The Pathologist and the Brain and then continued differently (about halfway through the chapter).

So if you're interested in TPatB have a look (shameless self-promotion), but it's not required for understanding this one.

So thanks to Whoovian for the initial inspiration – This one's for you and I hope you'll like it!

Spoilers up to (including) TSoT – But takes place before the actual episode and goes a bit AU from there.
For the sake of the story we pretend that Tom doesn't exist

The thoughts and voice of Helen Louise are in italics.

English is not my native tongue, and I'm way better in American than in British English, so please bear with me! If you happen to find horrible grammar mistakes go ahead and point them out to me, I'll be happy to fix them.

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. I don't own them so please don't sue.

Brain meets brainy

Helen Louise's POV

Helen Louise had not been exceptionally clever, but she had not been stupid either. Unfortunately she had not been clever enough not to drink the poison her former best friend had given her. Well, it was too late now, wasn't it?

So it happened that the body of Helen Louise now lay on an autopsy table at St. Bartholomew's Pathology covered with a white sheet. But a part from her body was missing. To be precise it was her brain. The pathologist in charge had taken it out of the skull and put it into a metal bowl to have a closer look at it – at the brain, not the bowl of course.

Said pathologist was holding the bowl firmly in her hands and told its content, "Well, Helen Louise, let's see what you can tell me."

Apparently the brain had inherited the name of its owner.

But if I am called Helen Louise now, does that mean that the arms and legs are called Helen Louise as well? But the brain didn't bother. She had never had a proper name before. So why not?

The brunette woman touched Helen Louise gently with a finger. It tickled. The pathologist nodded and scribbled something on a chart.

Helen Louise liked the pathologist. She was gentle while handling her, and she even talked to her. Sure, that was a bit odd. But the brain liked the sound of her voice. She seemed to trust the brain, because she had told her about some new doctor who was her boss for a short period of time while her regular boss was sick. His name was Dr Winthrop and he seemed to be quite a prick, because he ordered the pathologist around all the time.

After the pathologist had ended her rant, Helen Louise realised the woman was humming something. She knew the tune but couldn't quite place it. It wasn't so easy to think out of a body as one might believe.

After finishing the writing, the doctor took something in her hand and put on some goggles, which made her look cute in an odd way.

Now the brain recognised the tune: It was the Bridal Chorus. Now she had to admit the petite pathologist was definitely a little weird. I mean, humming a wedding song while mixing a brain... WHAT?! Now Helen Louise realised what the pathologist was holding in her hand: it was a hand-held blender. Where had that come from, and what does she want to do with it? Stupid question! You know exactly what she is about to do! Suddenly the doctor didn't seem so nice anymore.

The mixer was coming closer. And she was still humming the merry wedding melody! Helen Louise cried out for help, trying to persuade her not to do it, but the pathologist couldn't hear her. That will be the end of me? A greasy puddle in a metal bowl? Hopefully the mushy remains of me will tell you something important, doctor!
Just as the last pictures of the slideshow that had been Helen Louises' life flashed before the brains' eyes (figuratively speaking of course), the doors to the morgue opened and in came a tall man with dark curls and an expensive looking coat that few behind him like a cape. Helen Louise couldn't have pictured a better saviour.

The pathologist stopped descending the mixer into the bowl, switched it off and looked up to the mysterious man. Her eyes seemed to sparkle with glee. Obviously Helen Louise wasn't the only one being happy that the stranger entered the morgue... Interesting.

"Hi Sherlock!" the pathologist greeted after clearing her throat.

What kind of name is that?!

"Hello Molly." The voice of her saviour was a rich deep baritone, but devoid of emotion. Helen Louise couldn't tell if he was happy to see the woman – whose name seemed to be Molly – or if he plain didn't care. The doctor lifted the goggles off her face.

The man took a look at the brain and it felt small under his intense gaze, his eyes studying it like under a microscope. His eyes had a mealy shade of blue Helen Louise had never seen before. It stood in wide contrast to his dark hair. He turned back to Molly.

"What are you doing with it?" Hey mister, I'm not an It! I have a name!

"I was just about to blitz it to make samples. That's Helen Louise."

At least she introduced me.

Sherlock nodded, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary that the pathologist named the brain.

When he didn't say anything more, Molly asked, "Why are you here? Can I help you with something?"

"I just need to check up on my cultures. Keep working on your brain."
I am not her brain! I am my own brain, and… What?! No! You are supposed to be my hero in shining armour, or coat... so keep her distracted!

Although Helen Louise thought the tall man would walk away now and leave her at the mercy of the weird pathologist, he did not budge. He still stood beside Molly and eyed her curiously while her gaze was focused on the table, probably looking for the mixer again. His stare was very odd. He opened his mouth, but closed it again without saying something. He raked his hands through his curls, which seemed like a frustrated (or maybe nervous?) gesture. He sighed and Molly turned around. She looked surprised finding him still in the same spot next to her. Her eyes narrowed a little and her face showed slight worry.

"Sherlock, are you sure there's nothing I can help you with?"

For a second Helen Louise thought he looked touched by her concern, but his features moved back into the blank mask so quickly, the brain was not sure if she'd only imagined it. The pathologist seemed to have had the same thought.

Sherlock spoke up again, "Actually you could do something for me. Coffee would be nice." The last sentence was topped with a smile which was obviously fake.

The pathologist looked disappointed. "Sure."

Her shoulders hunched and she walked away.

Ok, I'm glad he sent her away so her mixing with me will be delayed, but what kind of macho is that?! Can't you get your own coffee? You have feet and hands and you seem to know your way around. That was really not nice and... But Helen Louise had to stop mid-thought. As soon as Molly left, this Sherlock guy had THAT look again. The same he had had before when she hadn't been looking at him. He looked troubled. There was clearly something on his mind, and it had something to do with the petite pathologist. He sighed deeply and walked over to a table where he sat down at a microscope.

The man pulled off his coat and laid it over one of the empty autopsy tables.

I don't think that's hygienic…

He didn't seem to care. His demeanour in general was very captivating – in a sophisticated and posh kind of way. One could say he was smug. But there was something beneath his cool surface that piqued Helen Louise's interest.

Before long Molly was back with two steaming mugs of coffee. She put one down on the table next to Sherlock. He is really rude. He doesn't even thank her. For the pathologist it must have seemed like he didn't even acknowledge her, but when she turned around to walk back over to Helen Louise, the brain could see how his gaze was following her every move and how it had cost him effort to keep his eyes fixed on the microscope when she had put the mug down beside him. Helen Louise was sure he didn't even know what the sample was, he was supposedly studying.

Molly put her coffee down as well, put the goggles back on and took the mixer in hand. As she switched it on, she started to hum The Bridal Chorus again. Helen Louise could see the mixer descending down on her again and could feel its puff produced by the rotation. Well, that's it then. As a soundtrack I would have preferred the Ride of the Valkyries, but what can you do… Goodbye world!

Again Helen Louise was saved by the handsome man. This time it was his voice that brought the doctor to a halt.

"Seriously?"

"What?" was her eloquent reply. She laid the mixer back down on the table and looked over to Sherlock. He was turned towards her.

"You are singing The Bridal Chorus from Wagner, Molly. Why?"

The petite woman turned a bright shade of red. Her singing had obviously been unconscious. She stared at her shoes.

"I guess I'm just looking forward to the wedding." Nervously she moved from one foot to the other. That seemed to be no answer for the man, so he got up and walked over to stand beside her again.

"I don't see why you should."

Molly looked up at him through her goggles.

"What do you mean?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Helen Louise could see that the pathologist regretted asking. She seemed to steel herself for whatever was coming. But what was coming?

Sherlock's intense gaze flickered over her once and then he stated in a very fast way, so that Helen Louise felt as if the mixing had already taken place.

"You are not in a relationship, as you apparently don't bother with make up or nice clothes. You left in a hurry today, because you overslept. You read until after midnight yesterday – some soppy romance novel I suppose. You were clearing your throat before speaking to me. I'm the first person you have been talking to so far. Since you use to live alone you are talking to your cat. And the only words you have spoken today before I came in were directed at that brain in the bowl. And you won't go out on a date tonight, given by the state of your attire. Therefore it's highly unlikely you will have someone to attend the wedding with. Hence I don't see why you should be looking forward to a social event, where you are expected to attend with a partner when you will be going alone. Additionally I prefer the Wedding March from Felix Mendelsohn Bartholdy. It's way more buoyantly than Wagner."

What?! He only knows all these things by just looking at her? I want to be alone in the storage room with his brain! NOW! Still, how is that possible? Maybe he is a telepath? But that would mean, he can hear what I'm thinking. I should censor my thoughts!

But when Helen Louise saw the shocked face of Molly, she felt sorry for her. True, the words had been very hurtful.

Molly swallowed hard and did her best to stand up straight. "I'm happy for John and Mary." Then something crossed her mind. "And you don't have a date as well."
He didn't answer, but surprisingly the corners of his mouth twitched as if suppressing a smile. What's going on here? All of that feels really surreal, like an out-of-body-experience. But wait, that's exactly what it is!

The pathologist seemed confused by his expression as well. Finally he said, "Unlike you, I'm not looking forward to it."
"I didn't expect you to."

Now a crooked smile formed on his face. Molly was obviously nervous. Helen Louise could feel that there was more unsaid than said between the weird couple. There seemed to be a whole unspoken conversation going on between the two minds of them and the third brain in the room felt left out.

Suddenly the pathologist seemed to remember something. She crossed her arms in front of her chest in a defensive gesture. "You need to talk about having no interlocutor: You're talking to a skull!" His look clearly transported that he hadn't meant to insult her with his statement. "I didn't say it was a bad thing. It was just an observation. I find Billy quite helpful at times." I reckon Billy is the name of the skull. If Billy has only an ounce of intelligence of this Sherlock, I want to meet him. Billy would understand how it feels to be separated from your body.

Before Helen Louise could think more about Billy the skull, she realized that Molly's eyes had softened. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, will you come to the wedding with me, Molly?"

"Of course, I'm invited."
"No, I mean…" The man shifted uncomfortably. It was clear he had no idea how to proceed. His gaze darted away and landed on Helen Louise. But the brain knew he was not really looking at her, but desperately trying to look anywhere but at HER.

Just as he was about to explain himself, the doors of the morgue burst open once more and in came another man. But this one didn't look like my saviour at all: He was quite small (for a man at least), had blondish hair and soft eyes. He may not be as impressive as this Sherlock guy, but he just rayed out confidence and trust. Still I'd like to give him a head-butt, because this feels like one of those sappy romance movies, where every time something interesting is about to happen, someone walks in onto the lovers.

The pair jumped apart – they hadn't noticed how close they were standing together.
The blond man looked confused.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Both answered simultaneously.

"No."
"Yes."

You can imagine who said what. I agree with Sherlock. You do interrupt!

The intruder cleared his throat.

"Well, Lestrade called me to meet him here. There should be a body coming in."
Sherlock seemed a little sulky.
"He called you? Why didn't he call me?
"He said he sent you a text, but you didn't answer."
Sherlock walked over to his coat on the autopsy table and retrieved the mobile out of his pocket. He probably scanned though his texts and then nodded.
The pathologist spoke up again, while lifting the goggles off her face "What does it say?"
The man put the phone back into his coat pocket.
"Not much, just that he wants to meet me here for a new case. I'd say it's a six."
Molly's brows furrowed. "You can tell that just by some short text?"
What are they talking about? What case? Are they some kind of CSI-London? And do I get this right: Mr curly hair is rating the case?!

Before my saviour could answer though, the doors of the morgue opened again and in came a grey haired men. He smiled at everyone in the room (especially Molly – You don't have a chance mate, she's into Mr case-rater!)
"Oh great, my whole gang is assembled," he said und then addressed everyone in person.
"Molly. John. And Sherlock, I'm glad you could make it." It was impossible to miss the playful sarcasm in his last sentence.

So I see: The name of the blond man is John. If I'd had to guess I'd said his name was James.

Sherlock's voice was bored, "We're not your gang, Lestrade. If we were to be a gang – which we're not – I'd be the leader, clearly."

One can't say he lacks confidence... Great, now I know the names of every person in the room: Molly, Sherlock, John and Lestrade – God, I hope that's his surname. Although it wouldn't be worse than 'Sherlock'…

The doors to the left opened and a young man – probably one of the interns – wheeled in a gurney with a black bag on it – the typical body bag one knows from films.

A shiver runs down my spine. Well, figuratively speaking of course. Maybe it's better so say 'an electric shudder went through my cerebellum'.

The intern brought the table to a halt in the middle of the room. The pathologist thanked him and he left.
"I guess that's the body you're here for, Greg?" Molly asked while walking over to it.

Wait, who's Greg?

"Yes," answered the Lestrade guy and all three men followed the petite woman to the autopsy table.

Good, Lestrade is really his surname. Greg… nice, short name, easy to remember.

The pathologist opened the body bag and suddenly loads of white, satin fabric gushed out. When she had finished her task, everyone stared at the body on the autopsy table in disbelieve. Well, everyone except Sherlock. His face was as expressionless as ever.

For some time nobody said anything.

I can relate to their inability to speak – and not only because of the fact that I am mouth-less.

Surprisingly Molly was the one to break the silence, "Oh my God, she looks like Julia Roberts!"
"Who?" asked Sherlock.
"She's an actress, who…"But Molly could not explain, because she was interrupted by Lestrade.

"That's our Runaway Bride."
Sherlock chided, "That's an incorrect use of the term. To be a runaway bride, she'd… Oh I see… This is a reference to something."

"It's a movie with said actress. Julia Roberts plays a woman who repeatedly flees the church, because…" Again the pathologist was cut off; this time by Sherlock.
"That's why I don't know it. It's useless rubbish."
"True." The John guy looked quite surprised by that statement from the pathologist, while Sherlock only nodded and suggested, "You better call her the Corpse Bride."
That was funny! Why is nobody laughing?

Everyone was just staring incredulously at Sherlock.
"Did you just make a reference to a film?" asked John in disbelieve.
"Which film?" my hero in Belstaff asked clueless.
Oh, that's why nobody is laughing…

Lestrade exhaled audibly and explained, "This is Mrs Beverly Melrose and as you can see she'd been killed at her own wedding."

So much for 'until death do you part…'

Sherlock had moved to examine the body. He leaned down to take a closer look with the help of a magnifying glass.
The modern one's by far not as cool as the old ones.
Then he leaned even closer and took a deep sniff.
Gross!
The others didn't find anything unusual about this behaviour.
Sherlock said, "She was poisoned." It was not a question. Nevertheless Lestrade answered, "Yes. She was not the only victim. Her father had been beaten to death. We presume with a hard object."
Sherlock snorted. "Of course it was a hard object. You can't batter someone to death with a pushy!" Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Whatever. His body should be here anytime soon."
Finally John joined the conversation, "Do you have a suspect?"
Greg looked troubled. "A whole wedding reception of suspects."
The smile John gave him spoke of empathy. "I guess you want us to talk to them?"
Greg pointed to Sherlock and John. "I hoped you'd have a look at the crime scene and see what you can deduce. But John, if you've got a problem with that I…" John cut him off. "Why should I?" He was genuinely confused.
Sherlock went go grab his coat and explained while passing the three people to head towards the door, "Because it's about a murder on a wedding and you're about to marry." With that he was out of the morgue.

He hasn't even bothered to say goodbye to Molly and they all act as if that's normal. Well, it seems to be…

John put a hand on Lestrade's shoulder. "I don't have a problem with it, mate. As long as there's no murder on my wedding… But thanks for considering." Lestrade only nodded. John turned around to Molly who had already begun to remove the wedding gown methodically. "We'll have to catch up with Sherlock, before he makes the whole wedding party cry. See you later, Molls!" She looked up from the dead bride on her table. "Good idea. I'll text you as soon as I get some result. Bye."
"Thanks, Molly." Greg smiled at her and the two men left the morgue as well.

As soon as the doors had closed again Helen Louise could hear the pathologist hum again. This time it was the wedding march.

TBC