The man at the door cleared his throat again, and this time she looked up.
"Sorry, do I know you?"
Newly qualified Doctor Molly Hooper had been sat behind her desk, completing files. It was only her third week at Barts, and she hadn't been given much to do yet. There was an autopsy that she had carried out the day before, but that was pretty much it.
A man of 23, Mark Byrne, murdered with a chefs knife, in his own flat. According to a DI Gregory Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, they were in mid case, but the mans uncle was suspected after Mark gambled away some of his uncles money. DI Lestrade had said no more on the matter, only that she may see more of him, on other cases as well as this.
Molly wanted to get home, but only once she'd filled in the rest of the paper work. She was however, nearly finished. And could get going in a hopeful half hour.
Well, hopeful until she'd heard a man, not much older than herself clear his throat, stood at her office door.
She was glad she had the office. Only because of her position and qualifications was she granted it, but she was grateful. There were several windows, which let light in, it was freshly painted, and had a new desk, the one she was currently sat at. The size was good, complete with air conditioning and a coffee machine, Molly was happy with her new workspace. Well, one of them, the other being the morgue.
The man at the door cleared his throat once again, and this time she looked up.
"I don't believe we've met personally, but I'm assisting Lestrade on the Mark Byrne case, doing a little extra research, to help them solve it quicker. Well, I say solve, I'll probably do the work myself. If I'm right in saying you're Molly Hooper, as seems as you're sat in her office, filling in the papers she should be, and as I was pointed this way by reception, told I'd find you here, then you'll be assisting me in the morgue."
"Er, yes, but it's Doctor Molly Hooper thanks, and it's my morgue. Doctor Rupert Clay moved away, and I was given the position. Can I just ask, have you used this morgue before? In case you don't know the rules and regulations."
"Yes. Well. No. I've worked on some cases before, however this is my first time in Barts. Everything should be fine. I just need you to give me access and wheel Mr. Byrne out."
Molly stood up from her chair, and gestured him out of the office, leading him down the several corridors to the morgue.
"Sorry, but, who exactly are you? Lestrade never mentioned you yesterday when he came in."
"Sherlock Holmes. I've assisted Scotland Yard several times before, but only on small cases. If you must know, I recently returned from rehab, only one year ago. So no asking irritating questions. I would say 'what about you?' Or 'tell me about yourself' but I could probably tell you more than you already know."
"O...k... Like what?" Molly tried not to look at his face while they walked, afraid he'd turn round and... Well, she didn't know what, but she wasn't even sure what she'd do if he turned round.
Sherlock took a deep breath before starting,
"Well, you've got a cat that you bought two months ago, when you moved into your new flat. You've got a two older brothers, and a widowed mother, who previously suffered a bad marriage before your father. One of your brothers has autism, and the other has two kids both under the age of five. As a child you wore glasses, but now only use contacts, because you think specs make your face look fat. One of your feet is significantly bigger than the other, which you were bullied for at school, but now try to cover up by wearing extra pairs of socks. Ever since you were young, you've been fascinated by the human body, and forensics, then when getting to uni, decided to train, and managed to qualify as a pathologist. You're new here, and are hoping that the high pay will help you to afford a better flat."
Molly stopped in her tracks. Causing him to stop and turn round to look at her. She started to properly notice his features, and the pure beauty of the man.
He was tall, wearing a long Belstaff that could only complement his height, and had a mop of thick black curls on his head. Around his neck, a blue scarf, and leather gloves covering his hands. Even just walking his paces seemed elegant, and his face matched perfectly. Glorious cheekbones, and wonderfully shaped lips. A nicely proportioned nose, and chin, but what stood out most was the eyes. A magnificent shade of blue, with strokes of green and yellow. As he stood watching her back, his eyes seemed to glare into her soul. Like he saw right through her. Taking into account everything he'd just said, Molly came to the conclusion he actually did.
She stood gaping for a moment, but it was him that broke the silence,
"Molly?'
"Er.. Yes... Sorry... Yes... What?"
"The morgue!?"
"Ok, sorry, yes, lets hurry along shall we."
Sherlock had done a full examination of the body, blurting things out here and there, leaning in close, making 'discoveries'. When he was done he went to grab his coat from the chair he'd slung it across on his way in.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"What you said earlier, how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I noticed."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I observe. When I've observed, I deduce from that. When I've deduced, whatever I work out I analyse, and, when I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth."
"And that's what you did with me. Just by looking."
"Not looking, observing. Seeing what others just let pass by them."
"Can you tell me what exactly you eliminated, and how? I don't think I could do it."
"Now that" he said, putting his gloves back on," is for another time."
"So, I'll be seeing you again them?"
"Yes, especially if the murder rates go up. I've pretty much got this case done already, trust me, Lestrade and his Scotland Yard troops won't be able to do without now I've helped."
"What, so you don't get paid or anything?"
"Nope. Why?"
"Oh, no reason."
"Sorry, got to dash, Lestrade will be wondering where I've got to. Bye Molly." He smirked, then turned away from her.
Before she could answer, he was out of the doors and gone.
Were most days going to be like this now? Him dashing in and out, making her heart flutter every time he spoke, or smirked, or even looked at her.
She would admit, even after only one almost brief encounter, she was fascinated.
Now she knew she'd have something to look forward to every time a corpse came in, dead from suspicious circumstances. Sherlock would probably be just around the corner.