Quick note: Thanks for the reviews, they are greatly appreciated. Hang in there, Sherlolly fans, it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings. Or in this case: until the skinny guy plays the violin!

If it isn't already too apparent, I am American. I try to keep their vernacular as British as possible while remaining comprehensible to the American audience, but I confess that when speaking of weather temperatures, I just find Fahrenheit so much more natural than Celsius, so forgive me for that obvious transgression!

Chapter 2: The Morgue the Merrier

"Do you think he overheard us?" Lestrade asked, looking worried.

John raised his eyebrows. "Do you?"

Lestrade considered this a moment and then shook his head. Sherlock Holmes would never rely on something as mundane as eavesdropping to come to his conclusions.

"No," he said, "So how-"

"I don't have the slightest idea," admitted John, as he walked him to the door.

"How, uh, do you think he's really taking the news?" Lestrade asked.

John smiled sadly. He knew Sherlock better than anyone else in the world, and had lived with him through the whole roller coaster of the Irene Adler affair, but he still couldn't really gauge exactly what was going on in that 'funny old head' as Mrs. Hudson had put it.

"I don't have the slightest idea," he repeated.

Lestrade chuckled humorlessly and leaned wearily against the door jamb for a moment.

"Are you okay?" John asked, suddenly realizing the full extent to which the news seemed to be hitting the detective as well.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "But I've got a job to do and I'm going to do it," he assured him.

John stayed at the door and watched as Lestrade got into his car and drove away. Closing the door, he walked slowly up the stairs and made his way to Sherlock's bedroom door. Raising his hand, he dropped it and then raised it again several times until he finally found the courage to knock. Within seconds, Sherlock had opened the door, handing him a neat pile of the rest of his clothes, which he had evidently picked up from the floor.

"Of course, John, you need to get dressed as well," he said, before turning away again.

John quickly put on his shirt and then sat down on the bed to put on his socks and shoes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock finish buttoning his suit coat and then walk over to the dresser. Picking up a hairbrush, he began to brush his unruly mop with a vigor that John had never seen him use before.

Funny thing that. Wonder if it would give Molly a little bit of pleasure to know he's trying to make himself look good before he goes to see her. For the last time?

Throwing the brush aside, Sherlock raised his eyes and caught sight of John looking at him in the mirror. For a brief moment, they made eye contact.

"You have a question, John?" Sherlock asked, turning to look at him.

"Well, I was wondering…" he began, uncertain of how to proceed.

"How I knew Molly was dead?"

"Yes."

Sherlock was silent for several long seconds and then he began to speak in that swift, stream-of-consciousness way he had when he was forced to explain something he found patently obvious to someone who was being unbelievably obtuse.

"I've already told you that it was clear that police and fire responded first, followed by the bomb squad and then lots of ambulances. As I've remarked, they don't need sirens to transport bodies, so they must have been transporting people who were still alive. But all the ambulances were coming from the west, and then branching out in all directions, including the various hospitals in the immediate area that do not even have emergency departments. Ergo, it was not people who had been injured in the blast that they were distributing to other hospitals; they were transporting already-hospitalized patients who were being dispersed throughout the city because the hospital they had formerly occupied was at the moment no longer habitable. A large hospital, one with many long-term patients and situated to our west. Would not St. Bart's strike even you as the most logical choice?"

"Yes, but that wouldn't necessarily mean that-"

"That Molly was personally involved in the bombing? No, it didn't, but I certainly knew that if anyone had any information in the matter and would be willing to tell me about it, it would be her. Even if I were wrong in the assumption that it was St Bart's, it was definitely a large London hospital and she would undoubtedly have been alerted to the emergency situation by the automatic employee notification system that is required in this time of terrorism. All of the hospitals regularly hold fake 'events' in order to practice coordinating their efforts in the face of a major attack upon one or more of them."

During this time, Sherlock had been pacing about in his usual impatient way, but now he stood still and glared at John.

"It took you nearly a half an hour to hear the hubbub and join me in the living room, John," he noted, sternly.

"I was sleeping," John replied, feeling rather stupid that he felt the need to apologize for doing something so natural.

"During that time, I attempted to call Molly at her work, at her apartment and on her cell without reaching her or getting any kind of reply in return."

"Yeah, well with a bomb going off she would have been pretty busy no matter where-"

Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. "Too busy to return a phone call from me?"

Sherlock would never be accused of wallowing in false modesty, but John had to admit that he, too, could not envision any situation in which Molly Hooper would not have rushed to return his phone call no matter what was happening. In fact, she herself would have been ashamed but honest enough to admit that she would have welcomed an excuse to work beside him again.

"So I could only conclude that Molly was injured or killed in the bombing, and since a morgue would be an unusually worthless area to launch an attack on, in terms of causing terror through the loss of life, it seemed highly likely that she herself must have been the primary target."

John sighed and shook his head, thinking for the innumerable time that once again his friend had come up with a quite logical sequence of events that he would never thought of in a million years. Getting up from the bed, he suddenly noticed something sitting on the edge of the dresser.

"Sherlock?" he said, his voice rising as he spoke.

"Yes?"

"That's the bloody remote sitting on your dresser!" he shouted.

"Of course," he replied.

Seeing John stare wordlessly at him, he threw out his hands.

"Oh, think, John, that bus wouldn't have been travelling down the road at the time you were in Speedys, it wouldn't have been due for another half hour. Obviously, the remote must have been in the pocket of my dressing gown the whole time.

"Of course, how silly of me. Why haven't I taken the time to memorize all the London bus schedules?" he said, facetiously.

"It would certainly help. Except, of course, when I wish to utilize your ignorance to distract you."

"You were distracting me? Why?"

"Really, what was the point of turning on the telly? If Molly were the target of this attack, it would be because of her association with me, and Lestrade would have made sure that there was no mention of her on the news reports until he had time to confirm all the facts. All we would have gotten was unnecessary noise in the background."

Pausing for a moment, he dropped his eyes to pick off a piece of lint from his coat before continuing.

"Or there was the even worse scenario that you would turn it on only to overhear that 'Dr. Molly Hooper, young pathologist working at St. Bart's, is believed killed in the blast'."

"Ah."

John sank down on the bed again, feeling his anger drain away. He had no doubt that it was more for this reason, a desire on Sherlock's part to break the news to him as gently as possible, that had made him so damn obstinate about not turning on the telly.

"So I waited," said Sherlock, still avoiding looking at John as he spoke. "Every time a police car without a siren came down the street, I steeled myself to have it stop here at Baker Street. I knew Lestrade would come in person to deliver the news. But I tried to…hope."

John smiled sadly. Sherlock usually had as much use for hope as he did for sentiment.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock raised his face to meet his eyes again. "Obviously there was still the chance that she was only injured, not killed. But once you and Lestrade began speaking downstairs, I knew that was no longer a possibility."

Silencing him with a gesture as he saw the puzzled look on his face, his friend continued: "Your exclamation, immediately hushed and then followed by a vigorous, if muffled, conversation, told me that. If Molly had been wounded, you would have rushed up here immediately to get dressed and inform me so that we could be on our way to see her while she was still alive and I would have a chance to make up for the myriad of unforgivable sins I have committed over the years in my treatment of the poor girl. The only logical conclusion as to why it was taking you so long was that you and he were conferring on how to best 'prepare' me for the news."

'Prepare you for news that you had known before I did," John noted, sadly.

"Thank you, John," he said. "It was kind of you to try and spare me.

"If idiotic to think I could," he answered.

Sherlock considered this for a few moments before answering, with a slight smile: "If I must have idiocy around me, it might as well be of a kindly nature."

For just a moment he looked slightly lost. "She was very kind as well," he added, dropping his gaze again. "I shall miss that."

John got to his feet. "Sherlock, are you sure-"

"Yes, perfectly sure that I am ready. We must be going."

He pulled open the bedroom door and motioned for John to precede him. John walked through and then heard him removing something off of the hook on the back of the door. He stood, slack-mouthed in astonishment as Sherlock paused to put on his coat and scarf.

"Sherlock, it's still nearly eighty degrees out there!" he cried.

"Is it?" he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, morgues are notoriously cold, John."

He walked swiftly downstairs, John following closely behind. The latter stopped for a moment outside Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Do you think we should tell her?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"John, you of all people should know that bad news can always wait."

Surprisingly, given the police activity in the area, it did not take them too long to hail a cab, although the cabby did look rather startled at how Sherlock was dressed. When he announced that they needed to go to University College Hospital, John entertained the idea that perhaps the cabby thought they were going to admit him as an emergency case to their psych ward. But nothing else than their destination was spoken for several minutes as they made their way through the streets, Sherlock looking deep in thought as he stared out the window.

Since the hospital was fairly near to Baker Street, John knew it would not be a very long ride. Gathering up his courage, he cleared his throat and murmured gently to his friend:

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned and looked over at him, and for a moment John thought he was going to tell him to just shut up. But then he seemed to read something in his friend's expression and he simply said, "Yes, John?"

"There's something I have to tell you. To prepare you. I mean, maybe you've figured it out, because, of course you always figure it out, but since you haven't said anything, I'm thinking you haven't, because you always say it, or usually do."

Glancing up at the rearview mirror, he saw the cabby looking back at him and looking slightly worried again.

Great, now he thinks we're both headed for the loony bin, he thought.

Looking back at Sherlock, he saw that he was waiting patiently for him to continue, his eyebrows raised questioningly. John was not quite sure if he should be relieved or surprised that for once if did not appear that Sherlock knew exactly what he was about to say.

"I mean, I think it's only fair for you to know this before we go into there and see…her."

Taking in a deep breath, he soldiered on: "It, uh, wasn't just an explosion. There was a fire as well."

"Ah."

Sherlock looked away, and immediately became preoccupied with using his gloved finger to attempt to clean a spot off of the window. John was just about to tell him that he really thought it was on the outside of the window when he had to lean forward to hear what he was murmuring.

"Sorry," he said, "what did you say?"

"Was her body badly burned?" he asked again.

"Yes."

He himself had been dreading having to look at poor Molly's body in that condition, but he knew it was his duty to inform Sherlock of that sad fact as well. As bad as it was to imagine her young body burned and disfigured, it would be far crueler to let Sherlock wait into the morgue without knowing it in advance.

Turning back towards him, Sherlock began to rattle off again. John couldn't help but think that had he only known Sherlock for a short time, he would have thought that the man's impersonal tone meant that he was incapable of emotions as deep as empathy. Now he knew that it merely meant his friend was clinging to the cold familiarity in order to keep himself from teetering off into despair.

"Of course, I should have guessed that because otherwise Lestrade might have been willing to wait a bit to bring me in, but he feels a certain urgency given the increased damage to the body to make sure I had a chance to examine the evidence while it was as fresh as possible, given the circumstances. Before some bumbling pathologist could-"

He stopped short, a weird gleam in his eyes.

"Her entire body?" he asked.

John wrinkled his brow and shook his head.

"Um, no, actually. Lestrade said that it was kind of freak chain of events, looked like the fire just burst out and was then put out by the sprinklers right away. The way her body was laying, only the top part of her body fell into the flames."

"What about her hands?"

"Her hands?"

"Were her hands burned as well?" Sherlock asked, through clenched teeth.

"I don't know, he didn't say."

Sherlock whipped out his cell phone and dialed. "Were you able to get fingerprints?" he demanded, without any other preliminary greeting.

John could hear Lestrade's voice murmuring something over the phone for a few seconds before Sherlock cut him short.

"No, not at the scene you clot, off of her fingertips? No, they were too badly burnt."

John shuddered even as a demonic-looking grin spread across his friend's face.

"Yes, yes, O pos, just like it states on that little card she carries around, proudly proclaiming that she shares a blood type with more than a third of the population, hardly conclusive evidence and genetics testing will take forty-eight hours at least since you'll have to find definitive DNA from either the lab or her apartment to test it against." He listened again for a brief moment before once more interrupting. "Yes, I'm sure with Mycroft's help you should be able to get those by tomorrow afternoon."

Clicking off the call, he looked smug and pleased with himself. "I daresay I shall accomplish it in less than three-quarters of an hour," he noted, half under his breath.

Turning his attention back to his phone, he began to press keys at a frenzied pace as the cab jolted to a stop in front of the hospital.

Reaching across him, Sherlock opened John's door and began to push him out.

"Off you go then."

John allowed himself to be pushed out and then heard the door slam behind him. Looking back, he saw that Sherlock was still seated and still pushing buttons on his phone, apparently tracking down some kind of information.

"You're not coming?

"I have a little errand to run. See you soon," said Sherlock, gesturing at him to go.

"That's it?"

"Start driving," he said.

"Where to?" the cabby asked, looking alarmed again.

John took slight solace in the fact that he guessed the man would preferred it was him rather than Holmes remaining alone with him.

"Just turn on the meter and drive down the street for now," snapped Sherlock.

John stood and watched silently as the taxi pulled away from curb, and then frowned as he saw the brake lights flash on after only a few feet. As Sherlock's window began to roll down, John hurried over to it.

"Changed your mind?" he asked

"No, need money to pay the cabby. Wallet?"

He got out his wallet and opened it up, taking out a twenty pound note. He held it out to Sherlock, but his friend reached out to take the wallet instead, leaving him standing there with the single note in his hand.

"Hey!"

"I need the money more than you do, John."

"For what?"

"Emergency dental care at in the middle of the night is hardly cheap!" he informed him, haughtily. Throwing back his head, he moaned suddenly: "Oooh!"

"What—you okay?"

"Fine, just practicing," he whispered between clenched teeth. "And John's paying very good money to drive, so please do so," he said, raising his voice so that the cabby could hear him. The taxi pulled away, the window rolling up as it went, but he swore he heard Sherlock start groaning again before it sealed itself.

"Dr Watson?"

John turned to see a policeman approaching him.

"Yeah."

"I'm supposed to escort you and…"

His voice trailed off as he looked around, apparently expecting to see another person there.

"Sherlock Holmes," he finished. He turned around again and watched as the cab disappeared around a corner. "I expect he'll be back soon," he assured the man, gesturing for him to lead the way.

#/#/#

"Do you know who I am?"

John looked over at Lestrade as he sighed and wiped a weary hand over his brow.

"Yes, Dr. Matthews, I do. I also realize that you were called in over an hour ago and that it is now (checking his watch) four thirty-two in the morning. But I simply cannot allow you to start the autopsy until Holmes gets here."

"Ah, yes, the detective with a hat."

"He really doesn't wear a hat," John chimed in, but neither of the men paid any attention to him.

"Is he a trained pathologist?" puffed Matthews.

"No, he just…observes things that other people don't," said Lestrade, thinking that anyone who had never seen Holmes in action could not begin to imagine what that meant. "I don't want us to miss anything that could help us find her murderer."

"Murderer? You can't even be sure of what the girl died from yet. From what I've been told of the scene, it looks likely that it may turn out to just be a freak accident."

"I have it on good authority that it was murder" Lestrade replied grimly.

"She must have been a very special young woman for you to be so involved, Detective Inspector," the doctor snarled.

"She was," answered John and Lestrade in unison. Something in their tone and fierce demeanor informed the doctor that if would be best if he did not make any more disparaging remarks about the late Molly Hooper at the moment.

"Fine," he said, finally, as he walked away. "I'll go get a cup of coffee and wait for another half hour. But after that-"

"If he hasn't shown up by then, you'll be free to go home," Lestrade assured him.

"I'll still be charging your department for my services!"

"Of course."

As Matthews flounced out the room, Lestrade turned to John but waited until the door closed to speak, insuring that the doctor was out of earshot.

"Are you sure you don't know where he was headed?"

John shook his head, hoping he was able to keep his expression neutral. They had been waiting for nearly an hour now in the small vestibule off of the main morgue room, and he perfectly understood Lestrade's frustration. It wasn't that he had any idea where Sherlock was, but if Lestrade kept questioning him, he might have to own up to the fact that he had shared a brief texted conversation with the detective. In reply to John's What the hell are you doing? Sherlock had replied: In middle of breaking and entering, please do not interrupt me again.

Both John and Lestrade looked exhausted, but they had just settled down on a bench to wait when they heard the door burst open again.

"Oh, god, I hope that's not Matthews back already, said Lestrade as he checked his watch again.

"Oh, don't worry Lestrade, I've already informed the judge that you are in the midst of a most pressing case and they simply will have to reschedule the hearing."

"What?"

Sherlock was striding confidently across the small room.

"You're worried about being tired and out of sorts for that settlement meeting in the morning, aren't you? It's already been cancelled, don't worry about it," he assured him breezily, as he strode past them. "Though you might want to give your lawyer a heads-up on the matter, since I sent the request to cancel in his name," he said, flashing him a smug smile before thrusting out his arms and pushing the swinging doors aside that led into the morgue. A second later he reemerged, looking perturbed. "Where's that idiot pathologist?"

"Cafeteria," replied John.

Although he might well have asked how Sherlock knew about his hearing and who his lawyer was, Lestrade was more interested in something else: "Where the hell have you been," he asked, "and why are you so damn happy?"

"Oh, proving that I'm right always makes me happy, doesn't it John?" asked Sherlock.

Yes, but since it's Molly's murder we're talking about, it's a little creepy, even for you.

All three men turned as the door opened again and a young man wearing a white lab coat and carrying a large, long envelope came hurrying into the room.

"Ah, there we are!" said Sherlock, clapping his hands together.

"Oh, this isn't-" said John, about to explain.

"Of course it isn't, he's in the cafeteria, would you go get him? I'll take care of that" said Sherlock, grabbing the envelope out of the young man's hands.

The man, looking bewildered, looked over at Lestrade, who nodded his head to indicate he should follow Sherlock's instructions as the detective opened up the envelope.

"Go get Matthews from the cafeteria," he said.

"Excellent," Sherlock muttered, as he once again strode into the morgue.

John followed, remembering just in time to prepare himself for the smell of burnt human flesh and willing himself to not yet look at the body lying underneath the white cloth on the slab. He had turned down Lestrade's offer to let him see Molly's body while they waited, knowing that the image would probably haunt him forever

"You need to gown up, Sherlock," Lestrade began.

"What to look at an x-ray?" he countered.

Switching on the view box located on the wall, he looked through several of the films before placing one on the left hand side of the screen.

"What are we looking for, then?" asked John, as he came to his friend's side and looked up at the box.

"How similar it is to this," replied Sherlock, tossing the envelope onto the counter as he opened up his coat and retrieved something from an inside pocket.

"What's that?"

"Oh, didn't I mention it yet? I stopped to get the latest set of Molly Hooper's dental x-rays," he replied, placing it beside the right side of the view box. "Taken six months ago."

"How did you get those?" asked Lestrade, coming up behind them. "We haven't even been able to find out who her dentist is yet."

"Well, why didn't you ask John?

"What, me? How would I know?"

"Oh, John, five months ago we were out for lunch in Shoreditch when we saw her across the street,"

A memory slowly rose up in John's brain.

"Oh, yeah. And you immediately ducked behind the bus shelter so she wouldn't see you."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them, wondering if Sherlock was now feeling guilty about the rude way he had avoided her.

"Well, she was hardly in a state to enjoy lunch."

"Right." A pause. "Why?"

"Apparently you failed to notice that she had just stepped out of a medical office building whose occupants were a pediatrician, a dentist and a chiropodist. Although I would hope that even you would realize she is not a child and unlike most women has the sense to wear comfortable, sensible shoes at all times instead of those atrocious high heels that ruin their feet, I did have hopes you would at least have noticed that she was holding a hand over the side of her rather swollen face."

"You pulled me behind that shelter so fast that I didn't have time to see anything!"

"Well, no matter. Tell me, what do you make of these?" he said, tapping the films.

Glancing over at Lestrade, John shrugged. "Well, I'm not an expert at reading dental films, but I would say-"

He paused for a moment as he felt Lestrade rising up on his toes, as if anticipating an answer.

"They, uh, look like the same person," he said.

Lestrade dropped down on his feet again, a look of disappointment on his face. Biting his cheek, he turned away.

"Yes, they are quite identical aren't they?"

John looked over at him, trying to discern what he was driving at.

"Well, it's not like they are copies of the same x-ray," he protested. "I'm not that dense."

"Oh, John, I thought you'd have it by now."

Sighing, he put his hand into his coat again and produced yet another x-ray, putting it in the view screen between the other two.

"Oh, said John, as comprehension and a smile spread over his face. "That's Molly's x-rays from her office," he said, with complete certainty in his voice as he pointed at the middle film. "It's the only one that could be."

"Because?"

"Because the person in this film is actually biting down, these other two are-"

"Longer exposures of people you don't have to worry about moving while you're taking the x-ray, or of exposing them to prolonged radiation," finished Sherlock. "Plus," he said, tapping the middle film, "you can see a clear area of advanced decay underneath that tooth, explaining why she was holding her upper right jaw when we saw her. She must have just had a crown placed. A crown which is certainly not present on either of these other two films."

"So, Molly's alive, but we have two corpses?" asked Lestrade, still looking puzzled as he came near to them again.

"No, as John says, these two x-rays are from the same person."

"Well, where did you get that one from?" he asked, pointing at the film on the right.

"From the lab at St. Bart's."

Lestrade's mouth dropped open. "You just waltzed in and took it?"

"Well, I don't recall dancing," he demurred.

"I ordered them to immediately bring all the files here," Lestrade cried, his face darkening.

"Oh, and they followed your instructions to the letter if not the spirit in which they were intended," Sherlock replied. "There was not a single file left in the lab. There was however," he smirked, "an x-ray cartridge lying on the lab counter. As Molly is notoriously neat and organized I had to assume that she had just finished taking the x-ray and had been interrupted before she could remove the film. "

"I have tons of my people over there at the moment."

"Most of whom are out in the street, very carefully trying to pick body pieces out of the rubble. Tough job for them, of course, because after they get finished tallying up the number of arms and legs they'll have the monumental task of dividing that number by four to try and figure out if they have the right number of bodies. You might want to let them know ahead of time that I believe they'll be short by one," he said, gesturing toward the body on the slab.

"Who is this, then?"

"The body of a young girl who was brought in an hour and a half to two hours before the explosion went off, I daresay. The autopsy would have to wait until morning, but Molly, again being the conscientious and motivated employee that she is would have entered the case number on the log, begun the paperwork and done the x-rays."

"But you don't know who it is," pestered Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed. "I should think it would be easy enough for you to check what girls in their late twenties to late thirties were brought in late last night who could be possible candidates."

"Why don't you care?"

"Because the kidnapper didn't care!" Sherlock shouted. "Whoever she is and whatever she died from, the only reason she was of use to him was due to her similarity to Molly so that he could dress her in her clothes and barbecue her for a bit to throw us off the scent."

Rounding on John, he continued in a loud voice: "And don't bother giving me that look, bemoaning my 'lack of empathy'. Can you deny that your main emotion is relief that it isn't Molly lying dead over there?"

"No," John answered, shaking his head.

"Do you know who the murderer-I mean kidnapper- is?" asked Lestrade.

"No," Sherlock admitted, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, then take a moment to look at her!" he yelled. "God knows the way you work, if would only take a few seconds, and if it could just possibly help us in figuring out where Molly is, why are you making such a bloody stink over it?"

John blinked in surprise. He really could not remember Lestrade being so openly emotional.

"Oh, very well, I'll take a quick look," Sherlock said, rather truculently.

Striding over to the body with John and Lestrade following him closely, he flung off the sheet.

"Well, now, what do you think? Are those Molly's clothes?"

Lestrade shot him another annoyed look, as if to say: "Oh, don't pretend as if you're the least interested in what I think."

But John sighed and took a stab at answering the question.

"Uh, like you said, sensible shoes, and nice but comfortable trousers for working, like she always wears. In fact I think I recognize them. I know I've seen that pink sweater many times." he added, finding his eyes drawn to the point where the material was so badly scorched, it had begun to melt and meld into the blackened skin.

"A sweater," said Lestrade excitedly. "Maybe that means these aren't Molly's clothes. I mean, why would she be wearing a sweater during a heat wave?"

John found himself glancing at Sherlock's heavy overcoat coat as he remembered his earlier answer.

"Ah, because she always works in the morgue," he said.

"Where it is always chilly, and even the lab was probably fairly cool since they've had the air conditioning going continually for days," finished Sherlock.

"Does that mean this is Molly?" said Lestrade, worriedly.

"No, obviously the man who kidnapped Molly took the precaution of clothing this corpse in Molly's clothes to make us think that she was dead, giving himself more time to get her into hiding before we realized she had been taken. "

"He took the time-"

"Not exactly much going on at St Bart's, particularly the morgue at that time of night is there? There was very little chance that they'd be interrupted, particularly as I'm sure he had taken the precaution of knowing when the regular security rounds were conducted."

He stopped suddenly.

"What?"

"Just how certain was he?"

Snapping his fingers, he nodded his head. "Of course, the position of her lipstick meant that not only was she trying to alert someone, he knew it as well.'

"What do you mean?"

Looking exasperated at their obvious ignorance, Sherlock put his hand into his coat pocket and drew out a lipstick case. "Not only did your men overlook the x-ray cartridge, but they also failed to find this underneath the counter."

"Are you even sure that's Molly's?" asked Lestrade. "Doesn't look like her normal shade."

"Excellent observation," said Sherlock, darting a quick and almost suspicious look in the inspector's direction. "Nor does she usually make a habit of taking makeup in with her at night."

Then he nodded and wrapped his fingers more tightly around the case as another thought appeared to occur to him.

"Which means, we definitely need to check to see if he was so certain they'd be uninterrupted, he did a thorough job," he said.

Tossing the lipstick back into his pocket, he hastily began to unbutton the corpse's trousers.

"Don't you think you'd better at least put gloves on?" warned John.

Lestrade however, was more intrigued by another thought.

"You know what kind of knickers she wears?" he asked.

"I lived with her after I died, didn't I?"

For a split second, John could not help but marvel at the incongruity of that comment, topped only by that fact that it made perfect sense to all three of them.

"Believe me, with nothing else to do I was quite familiar with all her underthings by the time I rearranged and organized her drawers. To ease your mind, Lestrade, that is not a double-entendre," he assured him.

For all the horror of their current situation, John had to work hard to keep a grin off of his face as he saw Lestrade's expression change from slight shock to relief as he digested this last statement.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded a voice.

Dr. Matthews had returned, and taking in the trio of men gathered around the slab, he was charging angrily towards them.

"He's destroying evidence, not even wearing gloves-"

Looking up quickly, John saw that Lestrade had stepped in to physically restrain the pathologist from attacking the perceived interloper.

"Oh, no," he heard Sherlock say, and John turned back to find him looking down at the body, his face suddenly drained of all blood. Then his eyes trailed down to where his friend's hands were, the fingers hovering a fraction of an inch over the dead woman's now-exposed abdomen.

"Sweet Jesus," said John, staggering slightly as he took a step backward.

"What?" said Lestrade, still holding unto the doctor even though the other two men's exclamations and actions had momentarily stunned Matthews into immobility as well.

Following the direction of John's gaze, Lestrade bent down and frowned, his eyes narrowing.

"Well, I'm certainly no expert on ladies lingerie," he said.

Casting a quick glance in Sherlock's direction, John was glad to see that for once he was in no mood to make a belittling remark upon his comment.

"But that doesn't look like something most women would wear."

"Definitely not."

In fact, it didn't look like a pair of ladies knickers at all. Instead, it appeared that she was wearing a white pair of mens pants, with a broad waistband in a somewhat sickening color of green.

"If you would, please, Inspector? said Matthews.

He had stopped struggling a while ago, but Lestrade's arms were still locked tightly around him.

Lestrade seemed to forcibly rouse himself from a temporary stupor and released his hold on the doctor. They both stood still, trying to decipher why the other two men seemed so horrified.

"Sherlock," John finally said, "given this-are you still sure that this isn't Molly?"

"Yes," said Sherlock pushing away from the slab as well.

For all the times that John had found himself incensed by his friend's superior attitude in knowing something that everyone else around him was simply too stupid to grasp, he really wished there was something more definite in his tone.

"Okay, then," he finally said, "But this might mean then…"

"No!" the answer was much quicker and forceful this time, but John still could not quite quell the disturbing thought that Sherlock might trying to convince himself of the answer. "She's not dead, he hasn't killed her."

John waited.

"At least not yet," he heard Sherlock add, almost inaudibly.

"Then what is the problem?" asked Lestrade, looking back and forth between the two men.

"The problem is," said Sherlock, sitting down on a stool and clasping his fingers together in front of his face, "that I am no longer certain Moriarty is dead."