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CHAPTER ONE: SMALL FAVOUR

London, Leicester Square,

Twenty-Four Hours Earlier

The Bride of Dracula is looking rather… queasy, Molly thought, as she watched the floating performer in front of the Empire cinema in Leicester Square.

The woman's wig was askew. Her makeup was running. A long, white, nightie-like wedding gown slipped down around her shoulders and threatening to give the gathered crowd an eyeful. At least she looked like one of the characters in the Hammer Horror Triple Bill she was advertising, the pathologist actress was being shaken about on a metal hoist, clearly unsure which way she was going to be moved and trying to frighten small children and look ethereal all at the same time: In that position, Molly suspected, she'd look rather queasy too.

Thank heavens, Molly thought, that I'd more sense than to try to become an actor.

For those with a ghoulish disposition, pathology really was more the way to go.

As Molly watched, the young woman reached her hands out beseechingly, showing a mouthful of- frankly- fake-looking teeth before jerking uncomfortably as the older man controlling her rig shook her once again. She turned and shot the man an entirely convincing snarl, her teeth drawn back, and he grinned at her. Shook her a little more.

"Try to stay professional, love," he called lightly, and the gathered crowd snickered, much to the Bride's chagrin-

"Good God, Molly," a familiar voice sounded behind her. "Is this what you do with your time off?"

And she turned around to see Sherlock Holmes grinning at her, arms crossed over his chest. John Watson stood behind him.

"No wonder Mike never lets you out of the morgue," the detective chortled.

John rolled his eyes heavenward.

"And by that, he means hello, you look lovely, and how have you been?" he said.

Immediately Molly's eyes dropped down to her costume. It was for later: her friend Jenny was having a Halloween costume party and for the first time in half a decade she was actually going to be able to go. For this reason she'd made a special effort: she was painted corpse-girl blue, wearing a matching, lighter blue chiffon prom dress, and Stassi, one of the Australian nurses, had carefully drawn black stitches all over her face, chest and arms. The effect was supposed to be something along the lines of Sandra Dee meets Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas, but like everything else she tried her hand at, with Sherlock looking at it the costume felt wrong. Stupid. In fact, he probably thought she was an idiot dressing up at all. Costume parties- parties in general, especially Halloween ones- were the sort of thing that big, complex brain of his probably couldn't fathom: He seemed to "get," Christmas, because it was about family, but something like Halloween would, she suspected, be a mystery too far-

As she thought this Sherlock opened his mouth to comment and instinctively Molly braced herself, willing herself not to be hurt by whatever cruel thing he said. But at the sight of her expression, he suddenly closed his mouth again. Fell silent.

She had the oddest sensation that he'd changed his mind about what he wanted to say to her.

"That blue make-up suits you, Ms. Hooper," he said instead. Suddenly he looked slightly… uncomfortable. Hesitant. "As does the dress. Really, you make quite a becoming… Corpse? Zombie?"

She nodded stiffly. "Reanimated cadaver is the correct term, I think."

Sherlock nodded gravely. "Indeed." He threw John a helpless look and the doctor made a shooing, get-on-with-it gesture she didn't understand in the context.

It was almost like Watson wanted him to tell her something specific, but she couldn't guess what.

"And are you doing anything else for the… festivities?" Sherlock asked.

He was tugging slightly at his coat sleeve, as if he were nervous, and again Molly couldn't fathom why.

"I've tickets to a midnight Hammer triple bill in the Empire," she said, chucking her thumb over her shoulder towards the cinema.

"You're going alone?" Sherlock asked, and instantly her cheeks went red.

"Yes," she said shortly, preparing for a joke at her expense. "I couldn't be sure I'd have the night off until the last minute: didn't exactly make it easy to find a date-"

"Obviously." Sherlock didn't make a joke, but he didn't seem comfortable either. He just looked, somewhat helplessly, at John, who made the get-on-with-it gesture again, before turning around to examine the price-list of the cut-price theatre ticket booth behind him.

A long, awkward silence stretched out.

"Yes, well, I'm sure you'll enjoy it," Sherlock said eventually, with false brightness. "I'm holding you up, I should let you get along-"

And with a sharp nod he extended his hand, shook hers in a thoroughly old-fashioned, stiff-upper-lipped British way and went to walk off. Spine ram-rod straight, coat flapping behind him, looking like nothing so much as a Victorian version of Jack Skellington. His escape would have succeeded too if he hadn't walked directly into John, who mysteriously chose that exact moment to step back from the ticket booth and get in his friend's way. Digging him in the side with his elbow and muttering something which sounded suspiciously like, grow a spine, Sherlock, while manoeuvring him back towards Molly.

At the sight Molly raised her eyebrows- what on Earth was going on with him?- and Sherlock smiled a smile she recognised, the one he thought was charming which he used when he wanted her to do something. Instantly she tensed up.

Two years he'd been gone, two long years.

She'd become immune to the effects of that smile in his absence, he could just see if she hadn't.

She sighed. "What do you actually want, Sherlock?" she asked him.

This would all go a lot more smoothly if he just got to the point.

He opened his mouth- "I don't want-" and then seemed to think better of it again. He cleared his throat. "I was actually wondering whether I might trouble you for a small favour, Molly?"

She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "It's my night off, Sherlock: I'm not going into work-"

"-And I'm not asking you to go into work," he retorted quickly. "I was just wondering… Just wondering whether you wanted to help me with a minor case Mycroft has me looking into?"

She couldn't be sure, but she swore John snorted something that sounded a lot like for the love of God, Sherlock.

Sherlock however, being Sherlock, ignored him.

"It's not far from here," he was saying, "and it's quite an interesting story. Old house, been in my family for years. They were renovating the place and they found some human bones in the basement. It's all very-" He looked at her costume, his eyes, she swore, lingering on her chest for a hairsbreadth longer than was disinterested- "macabre. What with Halloween and all.

So would you like to come and take a look?"

Molly narrowed her eyes. That did, she hated to admit it, sound interesting.

"Will I miss the film?" she asked, though it was unlikely. It was only 9.15 now.

Sherlock shook his head. "I promise I'll get you to the film." He smiled again but this was his real smile, the one he used on John, on Mary, on Mrs. Hudson. It was the one Molly liked, though he had never before used it on her. "Even if I have to sneak you in through the back door," he said, "you'll get your evening, you have my word."

He looked at her, quiet and intense, for a moment.

"Please," he said, and there it was again, that hesitation. That damn hesitation.

It was proof that the man really could make anything attractive.

Molly worried her lip for a moment, undecided. On the one hand, it was something interesting, and something interesting with Sherlock Holmes, no less, who seemed slightly more inclined to civility tonight than he normally might be. But on the other hand, it was something interesting with Sherlock Holmes, who for all she knew would abandon her in the middle of a spooky old house while he went off searching for specimens, and God only knew what else.

Maybe the reason for her indecision was obvious, because with a martyred sigh John walked back to his friend. "If you're worried, Molly," he said, "I'll be there the whole time too."

She smiled- "That would be better-" and for some reason she couldn't fathom Sherlock pouted like a small child who'd had his fun ruined.

That did not bode well for the rest of the evening, she thought.

But though he now sported a face like a smacked arse, Sherlock forced himself to smile at her, that same nervousness, hesitation, running through him. He was practically vibrating with it. "Excellent," he said. "Now let's get along, shall we?"

"God help me," she heard John mutter.

And with that she, Watson and Sherlock were off down Wardour Street towards Old Compton Street, Holmes filling her in on the history of the area as they went.