Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Bekah1218 and likingthistoomuch. Hope you enjoy!

~ White Noise ~

The first time he realises who she is, he's being threatened with being thrown out of the Path Lab.

He and Dr. Sorenson have had a disagreement- apparently Sherlock's not supposed to just announce to the room that someone's having marital difficulties- and the afflicted pathologist is calling for security, demanding Sherlock be removed.

Needless to say, Holmes feels that he's overreacting just a tiny bit.

Someone- Molly, The Incompetent Angel, Sherlock realises- has come in to see what the commotion's about and when she tries to calm things down he takes advantage of her kindness to ask her to swap with Sorenson. He needs access to the lab for his work with Scotland Yard, he wheedles, and if she's here then her supervisor can't claim he's not being properly watched. After all, he can tell she's new to her post here in the Morgue but top of her class and she's clearly trusted by her colleagues, what with the cultures they're letting her work with, unsupervised-

Molly looks from he to Sorenson as he speaks, her cheeks flushed and pupils dilated- attraction to me, Sherlock thinks, how tedious- but when the older man allows that she'll provide an adequate nanny and stalks out Sherlock shoots her his brightest, best smile.

He doesn't even have to fake it.

She takes in a sharp breath at the sight, her hands clasping tightly against the white fabric of her lab coat and for no reason he wishes to ruminate on his own follow suit.

(Luckily however, she doesn't seem to notice and for that, he is quite grateful).

So he gets back to work. Sets about deleting his reaction to her. (He's waiting to see if keeping the memory of their first meeting will prove in any way useful before he elects to tamper with it). She stammers out something about being here if he needs anything and then scurries back over to the office laptop, her cheeks reddening as she seats herself and starts pulling up what Sherlock assumes must be paperwork on her other cases. After a while- maybe an hour?- low level music starts strumming through the room and when he looks up at her Sherlock realises it's because she's popped in a pair of ear-buds and is listening to music on her phone. It's something loud and aggressive and distinctly seventies.

She must notice him noticing, because the volume of the music decreases rather significantly a moment later.

He elects to ignore this, instead going over the corpse of the Manheim murder in blissful peace, the facts of the case fitting together inside his head with satisfying ease and completeness in this relatively stress-free environment. (As he had suspected, the deceased had spent several years in Arkhangelsk, it was obvious from the state of his nails.) By the time he's done it's dark outside but Molly is still hunched over her terminal, a mug of chamomile tea in her hand as the rain howls and slaps at the windows-

She's stretching her neck from side to side when he looks up at her, some seldom-felt sense of self-preservation telling him to be polite and try to keep her on-side, should he wish to enjoy such a hassle-free nanny the next time he's in the Path Lab.

To that end he walks up to her and clears his throat, smiling in what he hopes is a friendly manner as she blinks up at him and yanks her ear-buds out of her ears. (She's listening to Vivaldi now).

"Got everything you need?" she stammers at his approach and he nods, surprised at how… entertaining he finds her reaction to his nearness.

She's blushing and it's really rather… fetching, is what it is.

"For now," he says. "Thought I might finish up and let you go home- Is that alright?"

He knows damn well that it's alright and he knows damn well that she's going to tell him so. Just as he knows damn well that he's engaging in nonsensical small-talk but, well, he doesn't want to have Mycroft or Lestrade smooth anything over this early in his career so he figures there's no trouble in being polite. Not, at least, to her.

She does precisely as he had deduced- again, he thinks, so tedious- and agrees. Offers her effusive thanks, nearly tripping over her plain, flat brown shoes and her white lab coat as she hurries to get to her feet and out of the Lab.

"It was lovely to finally meet you," she says shyly as she locks up. "I hope I'll be seeing you around again soon- Safe home."

And with that she ducks her head and hurries away, poking her ear-buds back in as she goes.

She only narrowly avoids walking into a one of the litter bins as she rounds the corner and it is with great difficulty that Sherlock doesn't snicker.

She really is the oddest creature, he thinks.

As he watches she darts towards the wing's changing rooms, pulling off her white lab coat as she goes, revealing an outfit of baggy tan slacks and an enormous, ill-fitting white peasant blouse, the looseness of which makes her look almost like a ghost in the gloom of the hospital. The supernatural effect is, however, somewhat ruined when she fails to notice the three steps which lead down to the changing rooms and nearly trips down all three.

Sherlock watches her catch herself, swearing colourfully under her breath as she does and he shakes his head. Sets off for home.

There's a spring in his step as he calls Lestrade and tells him his findings.

It's only later that night, when he's going through his traditional it's-3am-and-I'm-bored violin recital that something occurs to him, something which he belatedly realises should have occurred to him earlier. It was lovely to finally meet you, she'd said, as if- As if she didn't remember meeting him the first time. As if he hadn't made any sort of impression, that time they'd met in the hall.

Sherlock frowns, removing the violin from his shoulder and glowering into the darkness.

That can't be right, he thinks.

After all, yes, she was incredibly drunk but he was Sherlock Holmes and she fancied the knickers off him- She said he had a nice arse and everything-How could she not remember?

More to the point, how could she not remember him? He's Sherlock bloody Holmes!

Sherlock has never dealt well with being ignored and he doesn't miraculously pick up the skill now… Rather he sits on his bed and pouts. Runs through his scales and exercises with a great deal more volume and force than is necessary and then, when Mrs. Hudson starts banging on the floor from her flat below he deletes the memory of his and Molly's first meeting in a flurry of righteous indignation.

(That will show her to not remember him, he tells himself).

Thanks to this fit of pique however, he often finds himself wondering- in the years which follow- why it's always felt as if she's always been present in his memories? Why he can't recall the first time they met, since such a memory would doubtless be a useful tool with which to charm her when he's looking for something?

It never occurs to him it might be his own damn fault, but then taking responsibility for his actions is not the sort of thing at which Sherlock excels.