Sherlock Holmes was 'dead'.
Funny old Molly Hooper was timid and mousy.
But Doctor Molly Hooper, pathologist extraordinaire was tired of being Sherlock Holmes's push around.
"Sherlock?" she called, her voice coming out squeakier than she intended.
He was laying flat out on an examination table 'thinking'. Who was the idiot that told him perhaps if he tried to think like the victim then this case that had got him so worked up would be easier? Molly was sure it was Donovan or Anderson or something.
The woman, whichever one that was. The one that had the affair with the other one.
Apparently she'd tried to be nice to him, so, Molly decided, the Detective Sergeant wasn't too cold hearted. Sherlock was obviously struggling on this case (meaning the Yard wouldn't ever solve it without him) and she (a woman who detested Sherlock more than most people) had actually tried to be helpful.
Sherlock had taken it literally.
The victim was dead. Therefore Molly had walked into her morgue (yes her morgue) and found Sherlock Holmes, lying unmoving on a stainless steel table.
Timid, mousy, funny Molly wasn't so timid and mousy and funny. She didn't drop her papers in shock or scream when as she neared him his eyes flashed open. (Though admittedly she had been going to check his pulse).
Instead she acted as if it was an entirely normal occurrence.
But something that ever so nice woman (the one with the lovely suits and the awful phone) had said last time they'd been in the same room. He reacts well to reverse psychology.
Molly was tired. She'd been on another unsuccessful date the previous evening and undoubtedly Sherlock would now tell her the gory details of it and why it went wrong from the colour of her jumper and the way she held her pen.
And timid, mousy, funny old Molly wasn't in the mood.
Especially not when she knew that within five minutes he would probably be requesting coffee or a body or her to run some test for him.
"Sherlock I have a new coffee machine, or new for here at least," she said (which was sort of true, it was a month old, and he'd probably deleted the fact). "I'll get the instruction book out later, wherever I've put it. Don't you try. It's as if they don't want us to drink the stuff!"
Sherlock didn't react. "I'm a dead body Molly."
"Oh, ok Sherlock," Molly replied. She set down her paperwork gently. "Well I have some work to do. So just carry on being dead quietly."
Half an hour later a sweating Sherlock (and a rather dented coffee machine that really had been new last month) produced a pot of strong pure heaven in liquid form.
Molly hoped the damage wasn't too permanent (Sherlock had 'borrowed' a scalpel, pliers and her clipboard to make the "bloody useless thing" work).
Sherlock Holmes drank his coffee in one gulp, burnt his tongue, swore rather uncharacteristically then returned to being dead.
Molly couldn't say she objected to the company. Sherlock was rather nice when he was quiet. He seemed to be sulking over his burnt tongue. Molly spoke to the other bodies as she worked; occasionally glancing at Sherlock to make sure he was still alright.
She sipped her steaming cup slowly, wincing at the strength Sherlock had managed to concoct and wondering exactly how much coffee and sugar he'd used. As in would you like some coffee with your sugar?
At one point Sherlock had requested that she drape the white sheet over him and she'd happily obliged.
But perhaps she should have warned people, for she heard the scream at about half past twelve, when someone entered the morgue looking for Sherlock at the exact moment that Sherlock decided to sit up beneath his shroud.
Molly span on her heel. "It's ok-" she put out a hand to comfort the shivering man. "Please, just breathe. Urm. He's not...it's Sherlock. Urm he wasn't dead to start with! He's oh please...urm-"
Sherlock pulled the cloth away from his face. His mouth turned upwards in a bemused smile. "Really John, I didn't know you could scream at such a high pitch."
