Molly Hooper generally liked her job. Oh, there were the days when the weight of what she did hit her and she had to deal with a case that pushed the limits of her resolve, but overall she was proud of what she did. She gave people closure. Oftentimes, she brought justice to people who had been wronged. It was a peaceful process, one that she could get lost in, devoting herself to detail and making sure everything was correct. It was soothing.
Most of the time.
Plastic rattled and crashed on the lab bench just feet from her.
She looked up from her paperwork to see at least ten petri dishes filled with samples splayed out on the surface of the bench, clearly having just been knocked over by a very peevish consulting detective. He had already placed a new dish under the scope, adjusting the knobs as he grumbled about useless suppliers of his samples.
"Do those have contagions in them?" she asked calmly.
"Probably."
"Are they sealed?"
"Do they look sealed?" Sherlock snipped.
"Here," Molly said, shoving a box of parafilm towards him. He glanced at her, his lip curling up as though she'd asked him to clean the toilet. "Secure them or you lose body part privileges for a month."
Begrudgingly, Sherlock reached out for the box and started dramatically cutting off strips of the film.
Molly smirked and looked down at her papers again. Ever since Moriarty's face had appeared on every screen in London two months before, Sherlock's presence in the morgue had increased tenfold. She knew he was worried about her, worried about any retaliation that might come her way if James Moriarty knew how intricately she was involved in Sherlock's faked death. He'd been overly concerned about everyone in his life, particularly since Alice Watson had been born.
He wouldn't admit it anyone if asked point blank, of course, but he was in a constant rotation between the Watsons', Scotland Yard, Baker Street, and Barts, keeping eyes on every individual that had or could be threatened. The fact that the video appearances (there had been several) had so far been the only evidence of Moriarty's return was both unsettling and a bit of a relief at the same time. As long as the threat remained, Sherlock was allowed limited freedom within the confines of the London city limits, ostensibly under the watchful eye of his brother and the Met, able to take on other cases and live his life pretty much as he had before executing Charles Augustus Magnussen.
It had taken a bit of time for Molly to come to terms with Sherlock's actions – and his reasons for those actions – but she'd managed simply due to the fact that those reasons had been based on sentiment, on caring for someone more than he did himself – caring for three someones, to be precise. Magnussen had been no direct threat to Sherlock, but the threat to Mary, John and baby Alice had been very, very real. Was there another, better way to deal with the threat? Probably, but in the time allotted, Molly had to admit that she couldn't have come up with an alternative. Certainly not one that would keep the Watsons safe.
And since Moriarty's return had kept Sherlock from disappearing into permanent exile – Molly had some very dark suspicions about that aborted mission, suspicions she kept to herself – she supposed she could be thankful for the criminal genius's timing. Oh, the worry that Sherlock would be sent off again once the Moriarty case was resolved was very real and hung over their heads like the Sword of Damocles, but Sherlock seemed resolved to focus on the present and not the future, and Molly and his other friends took their cue from that.
She certainly didn't mind his company in the lab. Sherlock had done a great deal to atone for his relapse and other lapses of judgement he'd made during the Magnussen case (a certain faked engagement came to mind), and they'd grown close. She still wasn't sure what it meant that he'd found his way into her bed on more than one occasion when he didn't want to be located (whether she was in the bed or not). Whatever holding pattern they were in, it was comfortable and she couldn't complain.
But she could make sure he didn't completely upend her lab when he decided she needed watching.
A few moments into Sherlock's performance of martyrdom, Mike Stamford poked his head into the lab. "Molly," he called cheerfully. "Got a fresh one if you have the time. Bit of a mystery, thought you'd enjoy it."
"Paperwork?" she asked, standing up and gathering her things.
She tried to ignore the suddenly attentive man sitting across from her. Mike held up a manila folder. She walked over and took it from him, flipping through the file. Her brow furrowed as she read the report.
"Thanks," she said distractedly, her mind already trying to piece together what had happened. "I'll have it finished today."
Mike nodded at her, waved at Sherlock, and disappeared into the hall. Molly stood reading for a minute, only looking up when she heard a throat clearing. "Mm?"
"Interesting case?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual.
"Certainly is," she replied, looking at him over the top of the file. There weren't many times that Molly could properly say anyone looked at her like a puppy waiting for a treat, but this was unquestionably one of them.
"I thought you were busy," she said, nodding at the ruined dishes.
"Not a spore in sight," he assured her, scrunching up his face as he waved off the experiment. He stood up and walked towards her as he talked, placing a hand on the small of her back and leading her out the door. "Without that, it's just plain dirt from Dorchester and the wife isn't adulterous and someone else stole their life savings. Boring. Shall we?"
They found the body already waiting for them in the morgue and Molly wasted no time in prepping for the post mortem. Sherlock perched on a stool at the edge of the room, his nose stuck in the report.
"Travel...fever...violent tremors…outbursts…"
He read the symptoms and circumstances off like a list, squinting more and more the further into the account he got.
"A bit more than outbursts," Molly said, pulling the protective mask down over her face and double-checking to make sure all of her tools were at the ready. "He punched a doctor and bit a nurse."
"If I didn't know any better," Sherlock said slowly. "I'd say it sounds like…"
"I know what it sounds like," she agreed before he finished, looking at him. "But he presented and died within three days. That's way too fast. And if you look on the next page he – "
"Tested negative for the virus, yes," Sherlock finished her sentence, snapping the folder shut. "Bit unusual."
"A bit, yes," Molly said with a nod.
Sherlock pursed his lips, looking at the body laid out on the metal slab. "How long?"
"Two hours. Maybe more," she told him, taking a guess at the length of time she would need to spend on Peter Welmsley.
"Right," he said, hopping off of the stool. "I'll be back then. Coffee?"
"Please," she said gratefully.
She picked up a fresh scalpel as soon as he'd left the room, standing over the body and pressing start on the digital recorder as she started in on the initial observations about the case.
"Patient presented with mild upper respiratory irritation before the onset of influenza-like symptoms including malaise and fever, perspiration, and – "
She stopped cold when she thought she saw a twitch in the muscle of the cheek. Holding perfectly still, she focused on the area and waited. It wasn't unusual to witness a few post-mortem tweaks and sounds from the bodies she worked with. But Molly had become used to a pattern when it came to those situations. What she thought she'd just seen didn't match.
When several moments had gone by and nothing else happened, she chalked it up to her eyes playing tricks on her. She cleared her throat and went on. "Symptoms including perspiration, agitation, violent tendencies…"
Her pulse sped up. There was definite movement in the neck and face muscles. She'd heard stories from other pathologists about patients who had been declared dead suddenly "coming back to life" in the morgue. They were few and far between, but it did happen. Most of the time, it was short lived (morgue humor not intended) and the patient passed soon thereafter, for good.
She'd hoped to complete her career without ever dealing with a situation such as that.
Just when she thought she would have to call for emergency support, she was frightened nearly off her feet as the body of Peter Welmsley jerked, his eyes flying open and his mouth wrenching open with a horrific cry.
The scream caught in her throat and she dropped scalpel and recorder when he sat up, gripping the sides of the metal slab. His eyes rolled unnaturally before they settled on her.
In the instant before he lunged off the slab, Molly managed to grab the tray of autopsy tools and smashed it into his head with a bang, knocking him sideways and buying herself a few precious seconds. She ripped off her mask and practically dove for the bone saw that was sitting nearby, tearing the protective shield off of it before flipping it on. The tool roared to life just as her post-mortem staggered to his feet, growling (growling!) and charging towards her, outstretched hands curled into claws and teeth gnashing. She brought the saw down on his head, eliciting a howl of pain as he fell to the floor, and she didn't hesitate for a moment before swiping the blade across the back of his neck. Blood spurted out over the floor and splattered across her trousers and shoes. Peter Welmsley spasmed once, twice, and then lay still.
Breathing hard and trembling with adrenaline, Molly stood with the bone saw still whirring in her hands as she hovered over the body, terrified to look away in case he revived. When she finally had the nerve to look up, she saw Sherlock standing just inside the morgue doors, his mouth hanging open and looking horrified.
Molly dropped the bone saw, letting it clatter and sputter on the floor, and ran to him. She flung her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest, closing her eyes against what she would never be able to forget. She felt his hands on her arms, unbelievably grateful that he'd come back when he did.
"This…this might not exactly be the right time, but… that was incredibly hot."
Molly pulled back and looked at him, stunned. "What?" she exclaimed, her brow scrunching in bafflement.
"Is that the right phrase? Hot? I… oh sod it." He gripped her face and pulled her to him, his mouth landing fiercely on hers.
