A/N: Hello, hello, hello, Sherlock fandom. I'm here to bring you Sherlock stories with modern characters based off the stories by Sir Doyle, completely free of adverse language, disgusting smut, and plot holes you could drive a bus through. Of course, I'm quite new at this, and I haven't actually watched Sherlock. I've only seen clips on Youtube. I'm American. Sue me. (Don't really, please. I'm trying to save up for college.) I have read a few of the Sherlock novels, however, and that's good enough for me until I find a way to get my hands on a season of Sherlock and TV Guardian thingy. Anyways, this is dull. Read on.


She blocks the yawn with the back of her hand, the warm breath making hairs stand on end. She reminds herself she needs to sleep. It won't be pleasant, trying to explain to Mike why she's landed on a table herself in the middle of a shift. The woman laughs at herself. Who would of thought? Molly Hooper, mousy pathologist who locked herself away with the dead, plagued by nightmares. Her life never used to be that exciting. Not until he fell, at least. With a sigh, Molly gathered the rest of the papers and disposed of them at her desk. No use filling them out tonight, they'd have to wait until tomorrow. Grabbing her bag, she shuffles her way to the staff lockers. It's nearly eleven now, so the halls are dark with only bits of moonlight coming through the windows of St. Bart's Hospital.

Molly's pulling her things from the lockers when she hears a noise, one that makes her jump and hide around the corner from the door while simultaneously pulling out her Glock 19 (a nice little thing that's given her peace of mind). One can never be too careful, whether it's the last of Moriarty's men wanting revenge on their master's death or Mycroft getting too big for his britches. She takes deep calming breaths. She's not scared, no, not any more (and probably never again, she likes to think). Molly Hooper has learned a lesson or two on her own. With encouragement from both Greg and John, she's taken and passed classes in both firearms and military fighting. She's still a little jumpy, they tell her. John Waston says he understands. He was in Afghanistan, after all. The DI simply shrugs and says she'll get used to it.

The noise continues, slow steps of a man. Molly plasters herself to the wall and raises her handgun, preparing it to fire, but keeping it on safely.

She almost curses at the clicking sound that echoes through the hall.

A deep, baritone rumbling sound comes from the man's chest as his steps stop. "I never thought Molly Hooper would be one to carry a firearm."

Molly freezes, recognizing his voice and wondering how he knows it's her (she notices her locker door is still hanging open). Then she laughs to herself out loud. Who is she kidding? She's known this man since she started out as a pathologist at Bart's. Of course, he'd know it was her. Stepping out from the hiding place around the corner, she lowers her hand gun, smiling at the silhouette of a curly mop and Belstaff coat.

"Sherlock Holmes", she pauses with a small smile, "you're back."