Hi Guys - for some reason it seems that FF net somehow lost my first story. So while they deal with that, I'm reposting. I really don't know where it went. But did have chapter three up a while ago, just seems to have been lost in the glitchy ether. Previously titled 'Unspoken'.

Authors notes: Hi guys. I actually truly hate my writing at the moment because I have not written anything in nearly 3 years. It's very rusty. And to start with a Sherlock/Molly fic, is not the way to go. Especially, as I feel it is the hardest type of fanfic to write at the moment. I have seen all of you out there writing and to be even remotely as ingenious or as excellent as you all are, with your writing, would be a dream. I know my characterisations are probably highly likely off.

This is a non-canon (for the moment at least), possible alternate-universe, piece, I started writing a few days ago. Plot is still as yet unclear for me, but I think I wanted to explore Sherlock and Molly a little bit.

Its difficult to place a genre – it is an angsty, romantic –ish, subtle humour, some drama, a lot of point of view scenes if you will from each character.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, and I wish, that Sherlock and Molly were a reality.

Without further adue – I hope that you enjoy. I apologise, for jumping on the bandwagon – I think I caught the one with the wheel falling off it – so I may have a while yet, before my journey into these two is perfect or complete. Just really wanted to test the waters and to have my aching heart relieved.

Positive criticisms welcome – any mistakes, please let me know.

'Yes,' Sherlock intoned. 'Quite.'

He briefly glanced at John through the mirror on display at the restaurant. Picking up his grey-bluish scarf, he secured it around his neck with the usual knot and in one sweep slid both arms into his coat, before turning up the collar.

John remarked on Sherlock momentarily. He was a good-looking man. A clueless-ly good-looking man. Truth be known, he probably actually did know that he was quite handsome, and that he could use that to his advantage when he wanted to, but, John thought to himself, so entrenched in the inner workings of Sherlock's mind was Sherlock, that he most likely relegated the significance of such things to the back of it.

'So to the mortuary?' John asked in confirmation.

'There's really no question about it.' Sherlock replied, his ice-grey eyes glanced momentarily at John before looking toward the door. 'Onwards John,' he directed, as the doctor quickly gathered his coat, before Sherlock left him to his own at the Coriander Leaf.

Walking swiftly through the door with Sherlock, John wondered about the case at hand. It was nearly over, he could feel it, but there was something about the current case to leave Sherlock ill at ease. Not that he usually was at ease, and not that it was unusual really for his consulting-detective flatmate friend not to remain restless towards the end of an investigation, but one could feel the air thick with that anticipation of something important. Whatever it was Sherlock was hoping to find on this dead body, would be the final confirming clue in the puzzle that would lead them to the location of the buried treasure. Literally.

A strange thought crossed his mind, of Sherlock being Captain of a pirate's ship and John being his second mate. He sniffed away at his randomly concocted brain imagery, and chuckled to himself.

'What?' Sherlock noticed from the corner of his eye, as he cried out, 'Taxi!' from curb. Hands in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the frosty wind, he turned to John, and then turned again as a black cab pulled in towards them. Opening the door, he stepped in first, John quickly after.

It was most definitely a chilly night in London and the cab was a momentary welcome relief.

'Nothing,' John replied, a slight smile still playing upon his face.

'Hmm.' Sherlock allowed it. 'St. Bartholomew's hospital please driver.'

21.30

St. Bartholomew's

Pathology Lab

Molly was busying herself with the slice of tissue specimen upon the glass slide, when a 'meow' alerted her to an incoming text. She knew who it was of course, as she pre-programmed texts from the man to sound out with a inconsequential 'meow'. Indeed, the choice was deliberate. Molly, one late night, so long ago, had decided that her way of dealing with her feelings for Sherlock, was to let her phone sound out with a mini little 'meow' when he texted. In her mind, it gave her some sort of reverse psychological power to deal with the dominant manner with which he handled her on most occasions.

He was nothing but a curious cat, she would tell herself. A cat that used people to get what they wanted. A cat that feigned interest, pretended affection and whose play was merely a means to an end.

Having Sherlock 'meow', on her phone, allowed her a little of a sense of control in coming to terms with the fact that he was just a needy little thing, that only meowed when he wanted something. It was in effect to remind her of why he ever spoke to her.

If Sherlock ever knew that of course, he would destroy her logic in one swing of his intellectual sword. Molly liked cats really. She liked Sherlock. She could not really kid herself. In truth, sometimes, that sound, warmed the cockles of her heart, because although it was meant as warning, that the cat was coming to play, she liked that the cat was coming to play.

It brightened up her days and nights at the morgue. Just being able to cast a glance upon his fine porcelain face. Dark locks of hair framing his beautiful bone structure. She could appreciate beauty and intelligence when she saw it. And being able to see his mind at work, of course. Of course.

Before the advent of John Watson, Molly also saw the worst of Sherloc, when his eyes were hollowed out from days of being on a case. On those days, Molly just wanted to take care of him.

Molly, we're on our way to see you. Any chance you could have the body of Jason Earl ready? SH

She read the message there on the screen. Molly frowned. She was in the middle of a tissue slice.

'You're not really on your way to see me,' she told the echoic room of equipment. She put her phone on the bench next to the microscope and placed the slide back onto the deck. She sighed, holding her neck and rubbing at the knot that seemed to have taken permanent residence there. She stood up from her stool and stretched more fully.

Molly flashed back to all the times that Sherlock had texted mild variants of much the same thing over the time she had known him. Nearly 3 years now. Her school girl crush, whatever it was, she cared not to name it anymore, was worsening. Not only was it worsening, it was doing that slow-over-time self-destructive thing. Molly knew that it was not good for her health.

Waiting for the days when he would come by, for the momentary glances that he gave her way, even though she knew it was nothing more than the superficial, she had learnt to berate herself, she could not help but get excited when he was around, and hate herself when he left.

The constant high and low of the emotional turmoil it set in her, was distracting. There could be weeks where he was not in contact, and then a string of days, sometimes hours where he would be in contact. And moments when he would sit at her bench, staring down the microscope, and she could be as close as a centimetre away from him hovering at his side.

Her heart was now potentially at risk of some sort of fatal arrhythmia at the constant expectation. It was not going to do, to continue to place the delicate life-supplying organ at risk in such a way.

The unfortunate thing for Molly was that she could not yet see the horizon through the field of trees. She desperately wanted out. And yet, she constantly acceded to his every wish. Because maybe she loved him, deep down. Admitting to that would be dangerous. Admitting to it, would open up a box of problems. So for now, she just took what she got from Sherlock, nothing more than his abrupt appearance and disappearance, with she hoped, his being nonethewiser of her real feelings as she tried to figure out how to try to detangle herself from the mess she clearly put herself in, working the irresistible man.

What's that phrase they use, she thought to herself.

'Oh yes, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen?' she spoke again to the quiet lab. If the objects in that room could talk, they would tell any listener of how often Molly would ramble on to herself, consoling and trying to figure out how to 'get over it' after every Sherlock visit, text, moment, you name it, she had probably discussed it with herself and the lonely lab.

'But Sherlock doesn't even like me that way to keep me keen.' She smirked at herself. 'Christ, Molly, shut up.' She scolded herself. 'He is just…mean…because he is, isn't he?'

Picking up the phone, she texted back whilst talking out loud to remind herself of who she was and what her value was. 'I'm not keen!' she told the lab emphatically.

Molly hit the send button soon after her composition. Sadly, she realised only too late, that she had sent her exact thoughts instead of her intended reply.

I'm not keen! – MH

'Oh shit!' she recoiled, hands covering her mouth. 'I did not just send that, tell me I did not just send that!' she looked around room. No, there was no response as per usual from the laboratory paraphernalia. 'Shit!'

Meow, the phone sounded in her hand. 'Yes, he texts fast.' Molly did not want to look at her phone. 'Stupid Freudian slip, why do I keep doing that where it concerns Sherlock? One day I'm going to make a really stupid fool of myself.'

She tried to gather her thoughts again, and steadied her hands. She read the message.

Keen? Molly, this is not the time to loose interest. –SH

She laughed at the screen. Molly losing interest was an interesting concept. If she could only really lose interest indeed. How can anyone lose interest in Sherlock Holmes. She knew that he was referring of course to the body and the case. She was about to hash out a reply when the phone in her hand meowed again.

That certainly freaked her out. She thought for a moment that the ringtone really was stupid and was not working at all.

Molly, we stand to find the buried treasure with your help. I'm sure your earlier text was a mere slip. We should be with you in 5 minutes – SH

'Argh? Sherlock Holmes!' she screamed, 'Don't presume to tell me about me!' And slapped her phone down on the counter. 'Why do I always give in, I'm going to give in now, I know it. Wait, what was that about buried treasure?'

She pondered her life again. Five minutes, now four minutes, Molly, set upon a reply she was sure Sherlock would not carry out and then went towards the mortuary to bring out the body.

Sherlock for all his deducing, deduced that Molly was clearly not in the mood to have them visit her. He should not have been surprised to see a text from her saying that she was not keen, as for the longest time since he had known Molly, she always seemed keen. Keen that is, to help him on her investigations when he needed the use of the lab, or to see the cadaver collection there. At least, as far as his astute mind could surmise from his perusal of her each time they came in contact.

It was a little unlike Molly however to text what she had. His calculating mind concluded that this was not one of those menstrual cycle matters. It was anomalous though in nature, given the trend she had so been setting. Every so often, Molly would be anomalous and he derailed him for 0.5 seconds before he could continue upon whatever he was doing.

For as long as Sherlock had known Molly, she was nothing if not keen. Her help to him was always invaluable, and without her, his overtime neuronal firing would have exploded in unsolved mysteries from restricted access. In short, he would have had to smoke or look for dangerous mind numbing intoxicants elsewhere.

No, Molly was always keen to help him. In fact, there were few around him who were.

He handled this text reply of hers the way only Sherlock knew how, in his way.

After two texts, he finally received one from her.

Dinner, for the trouble – MH

That was anomalous indeed. At this point in the text banter that often ensued when Sherlock was on his way to Barts, she would often say, 'I'll be waiting' or 'Sure, it'll be ready when you arrive.'

This text read trouble all over it. Trouble that she was creating for him, for resisting it seems, their visit. Trouble that they seem to be inflicting upon her for visiting. Trouble, for asking for dinner. Dinner, dinner, dinner, he thought to himself. Molly had likely not had any dinner, or she was asking that he bring dinner or take her to dinner. Women. They rarely made complete sense to Sherlock. He needed facts. Physical parameters, indicators, measurements, dates, times, months, facial expression, context, he needed to read the pattern, before he could conclude upon a string of words.

Sherlock was acutely aware of John's staring from his peripheral vision.

'Problem, Sherlock?' John quipped.

A glazed look momentarily passed over those ice-grey eyes before refocusing back to his phone at hand.

'I believe that Molly would like dinner.'

(not sure how this is going to go, but happy to let my fingers do the typing for now)