Molly Hooper was a quiet sort of person; words weren't her strong subject when it came to saying them aloud. Especially in the case of a mysterious, handsome man walking into her morgue.
"Future Dr. Hooper, I presume?" He asked, looking over her quickly.
She was pretty, but slightly mousy. Quiet and reserved; enjoyed a good book, a quiet movie, and petting her cat on rainy days. Smiled often, but lacked a large amount of self-confidence that she never failed to get the best of her. He found himself standing there a moment, smiling to himself.
Suddenly, he realized she'd answered him. He shook his head thoroughly, desperately trying to delete the "feelings" from his system.
"Sorry, could you repeat that?"
She stopped mid-sentence, hunched over a young girl'a lifeless form. She twisted her hair nervously.
"Er, sure. Molly Hooper, yes. You must be Sherlock. Everyone...talks...about you. T-trying to become a professional-oh, what was it?-consulting...d-detective. Can I, Er, help y-you with anything?" She turned back to her work, facing blushing profusely. Her brown eyes glimmered with embarrassment at her stutters.
He chuckled slightly. "Yes; Sherlock. Nice to be of your acquaintance." He held our his hand for her to shake, but dropped it when she didn't notice. He frowned slightly at the over-looked gesture, and started conversation back up again.
"I'm here to see the body of Cartel Casper. Aged sixteen, dead by asphyxiation." She flipped through a stack of paperwork, and handed him a folder marked: 'Casper, C.'
Their fingertips brushed, and he felt grounded to the floor. She, however, made no notice. She returned to her work, bending over the body of a middle-aged man.
"Poor thing," she murmured, "you look like you were so nice..."