A/n- Wow, thanks for the great response! Here's more Sherlolly goodness. With major props to my Beta Velvetwhip who has never seen Sherlock but appreciates it nontheless.

Molly stared down at Mr. Weston-Jones and poked at his heart with her scalpel. Thankfully this wasn't illegal because he was already dead and she was getting paid to do it. The grey organ looked sad and somewhat lonely inside his chest cavity and she sighed.

"Too much cholesterol in your diet. Fond of bacon butties were you?" she asked him conversationally. She didn't expect an answer, and probably would have screamed and peed herself had he sat up and agreed with her. The dead didn't tend to talk, which was a bonus really, because she didn't imagine that having your insides exposed to the morgue air and your bowels evacuated over an autopsy table to be very conducive to pleasant conversation.

She clicked on her recorder and began to detail the minute defects in his body which would explain his death. Her mind was filled with decomposition rates and internal scarring and she wasn't paying attention to the sounds around her which was why she didn't hear the door to her sanctuary open.

Sherlock stood inside watching the pathologist as she delicately carved the corpse on her table.

He had always thought that there was something elegant about the way that Molly Hooper held the slender scalpel in her tiny hands. Before his Great Realisation he had just assumed it was an appreciation for the fine craftsmanship of a fellow mystery-solver. Of course now his imagination ran to thoughts of precisely what those dexterous digits could do. He was uncovering quite the lascivious streak within himself. It was... fascinating.

John came up behind him forcing him to clear his throat and step into the room fully.

He expected that his pathologist would turn to him, her eyes bright and smile readily apparent. She would greet him breathlessly and offer him coffee. If he smiled at her, she would blush a rather becoming shade of pink and hurry off to do his bidding. Then, when she returned with his- frankly amazing- cup of coffee, she would brush her fingertips against his whilst handing him the mug and the blush would deepen.

Molly pulled away from the body and glanced over.

"Hello Molly," John said as he edged around the room.

"Hi John, Sherlock," she inclined her head and gave them an absent smile, motioning to her corpse. "I've nearly finished with Mr. Weston-Jones here."

"Take your time," John replied affably.

Sherlock waited for her to look over at him. He knew that she wouldn't be able to resist for very long. In fact the longest she had been able to go without sneaking peeks at him was barely eight minutes. Her personal best had been eight minutes and thirty-three seconds and that had been whilst she was engaged in a very difficult centrifugal procedure.

A mere autopsy shouldn't hold much interest for her and when she looked over she would see his very best smile. Sincere, soft and all for her.

Whenever she looked.

Any minute now.

Molly gnawed her bottom lip as she separated the large and small intestine and weighed them out. She made a few comments into her recorder and disposed of the intestines.

She still hadn't looked up.

Based on the evidence, it must be a very compelling autopsy and Sherlock felt his curiosity stir. He sauntered over, standing on the opposite side of the table, and peered into the exposed chest cavity.

He could see no perforations or lesions, no discolouration other than the usual post mortem rotting, and nothing even vaguely interesting about the body.

"Heart attack? Too much fatty tissue collecting around the heart. Boring." He stepped back, waiting for her to look up and smile approvingly at his deduction.

"Yes, I came to that conclusion too," she said, reaching over for her paperwork. "Still, his widow wants a thorough examination so I've had to examine all of his organs."

"Waste of time."

Molly shrugged one shoulder, still not looking up at him. "Not for her. She gets peace of mind." She made one final note on the paperwork and pushed it aside. She stepped around the table, removing her latex gloves.

As she dropped them into the hazardous waste bin she finally looked up. At John.

Sherlock frowned.

It was harder than Molly thought to keep her attention locked on what she was doing and not on the delectable body of the man standing across from her. Sherlock would have to be wearing the purple shirt of sexiness, wouldn't he? He would also have to have that 'just showered' scent coming off him.

He really was a bastard sometimes.

But that wasn't going to deter her from her end goal. She was going to get over him and that meant becoming immune to his scent and his deep voice and his sexy way of walking... and talking... and breathing.

She wasn't stupid enough to believe that she would ever become immune to the purple shirt of sexiness, because some things just defied explanation.

"So what can I do for you boys?" She took a deep breath, forcing her gaze not to stray to the consulting detective.

Better to stare at John Watson who, now that she was actually looking, was more than just a little cute himself. Huh. Didn't expect that.

John breathed in deeply. "Um, Sherlock?"

"Right!" Sherlock strode into the centre of the room, like an actor on stage readying himself for his part, and clapped his hands together. "I need a spleen."

It wasn't exactly Shakespeare.

"Any particular type?" she asked, looking towards her storage lockers, trying to think of any spleens that were suitable.

"Male preferably, but as long as it's healthy it really doesn't matter."

Molly nodded and headed towards her meticulously kept storage. She could see Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. He was staring at her with a puzzled look on his face. No doubt wondering why she hadn't fawned over him or offered him coffee yet. Hah!

"Have you done something different with your-"

"No." She cut him off abruptly. "Male, early 40s?"

She could almost feel the confusion clouding the air as she stopped his pathetic attempts to compliment her in order to get what he wanted. She was done with his manipulations and she was taking steps to immunize herself against them from now on.

He stumbled over his next words. "W-w uh. Yes."

Molly grinned to herself as she turned away, packing the organ into a container. Sherlock Holmes wasn't often wrong-footed and she was enjoying it. Enjoying being the one who caused him to stumble so clumsily.

Sherlock was not used to being ignored. People told him to piss off, they told him he was annoying and rude, and sometimes they punched him in the face. But no one ever really ignored him.

Molly Hooper was ignoring him. She hadn't looked at him with admiration as he entered the room. She hadn't gazed with adoration when he spoke. She hadn't stuttered with approbation when he deduced the cause of death and she hadn't sighed with appreciation when he'd attempted to compliment her.

She was ignoring him. She hadn't offered him coffee or looked at him. Actually now that he thought about it, she hadn't even properly greeted him.

Had he insulted her in some way during their last encounter? He thought back to their previous meeting, attempting to work out if he had said something for which he needed to apologise for. Of course, there was little chance of him recognizing such a faux pas. He hadn't made any comment about her appearance other than to say that she looked lovely (try as he might he could find no insult in that). He hadn't berated her intellect or her love life. He hadn't even remarked on the soup stains on her cardigan. So why wasn't she talking to him?

It was a mystery.

He leaned against the autopsy table, his eyes intently focused on her. He did so love a mystery.

Her hands were at her sides and fists were clenched slightly. It was a clear sign of some inner turmoil and indicated that she wasn't as calm as she appeared on the outside. But she was doing her very best to appear as if nothing was wrong, which suggested embarrassment or unease with whatever it was that was upsetting her. It was something that she didn't wish to talk about. Her cheeks were slightly flushed under the new make-up. Ah, new make-up. A slightly different style and unfamiliar brand. Rather more upmarket than her usual. Molly was trying to appear more attractive. But her shoes were the old reliable ones she wore when she was doing long shifts on her feet so she wasn't going on a date. Her fingernails were buffed and polished too, another thing that she rarely bothered with since she'd be wrist deep in someone's intestines.

Conclusion: she was trying to impress someone whilst not making it appear that she was doing so.

Sherlock mentally ran through all of the men he knew would appear in the morgue and ruled them all out as the potential object of her machinations until one remained.

Him.

He preened.

Allowing a slow smile to slip over his lips, he deliberately deepened his voice. "Thank you, Molly."

Then, as he reached for the bag, he made sure to brush her fingertips with his own.

He was aware that the low octave of a man's voice was supposed to excite feelings in women. He also knew that the simplest touch of skin on skin could cause sensation to erupt, causing the participants to become full of hormones and willing to copulate.

He wasn't aware that temper beat hormones every time and that, although hell might have no fury like a woman scorned, a woman ignored was an icy bitch.

Molly pulled her hand away without even a caught breath. "You sound like you're getting a cold, Sherlock. Best get back to Baker Street and keep warm. I've got paperwork to do. See you later."

Molly turned on her sensible flat heels and wandered back to her office, leaving Sherlock staring blankly at the place she had been, wondering what on earth had just happened.