"So he gave you his books? Well, that's cool of him." Alice shrugged as they walked into the Hospital canteen. The place had the same aroma as any such eatery: a mixture of boiled vegetables and disinfectant.

Molly's friend picked up a brown tray, then put it down again. "This one's wet. This one's wet, this one's wet as well...Ah." After finding the tray with a satisfactory moisture ratio, Alice moved aside to get the cutlery and some bread. "What are you going to do with them? Sell them?"

Molly picked up the dented tray on top of the pile and wiped it dry with a tissue. "I'd really like to keep them all, but I don't have room. I was thinking of looking through them, keeping the ones I truly like and donating the rest. Hello, Ellie. Could I have the pasta, please? Thanks. No desert today, Ellie, I've brought some apricots from home. Thanks anyway. Here you go. Bye"

The two friends, trays in hand, looked for a free table. Some had been claimed by bored visitors, the best ones had been taken by colleagues and one was occupied by someone whose face was concealed by a newspaper. Finally they found a spot, next to the giant white pots full of plastic plants that acted as a divider.

"I do remember he had a print of "Cyrurgia" by Henri de Mondeville; he let me borrow it once and I'd love to keep it if it's still in his office..." Molly mused.

"So does that mean you'll be going to London to get the books? When?" Alice asked as they sat down, dusting away the crumbs left behind by careless patrons.

"Next week." Molly opened her bottle of water. "I'm actually surprised Barts left Dr Paten's things in that room for so many months, it was very nice of them."

"Maybe you could try booking some job interviews while you're there!" Her friend suggested.

"If I find any...There doesn't seem to be a need for any pathologists right now." She sighed. "Never mind, I'm looking forward to going to London, regardless."

"Have you told Sherlock yet?" Alice winked.

"No, not yet." Molly replied quietly

"Are you going to suprise him?" Her friend grinned. "You could ask John to let you in, and just slip into the bed so when Sherock arrives he'll..."

"Alice!" Molly blushed. " I'll tell him this evening."

"Come on, I'm sure he'd like it." Alice encouraged, biting into some carrots. "We know he's into kinky stuff, so you could..."

"What on Earth are you on about?" Molly almost dropped her cup.

"Well, yeah! After all the things his ex girlfriend said, like; The deer hunter hat and stuff... He's a big perv." Alice laughed. "Don't act like you don't know."

Molly looked down at her plate, pushing her penne around with her fork. "She was just saying that stuff for money. I don't think any of it's true."

"Why, has he been all vanilla with you?" Alice put her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her joined hands.

"Alice..."

"Bah, you're not fun." Her friend complained, leaning back. "Whenever I ask for details you close up like a clam."

"There's just not much to talk about, Alice. Nothing happened."

"The man you've been in love with for donkey's years comes all the way here to win you back, he stays the night...And nothing happened. Ok, hpw drunk did the two of you get? Don't worry, first times might not always be the best, but..."

"Nothing happened, Alice. It's...We're...It didn't happen, ok?" Molly could feel her cheeks grow hotter as Alice's brow raised.

"Not even a kiss?"

"We held hands..."

"Wow." Her friend paused, contemplating the bright red pathologist in front of her. "Are you...Ok with that?"

"We're..." Complicated. Messed up. . Doomed. "...Taking it slowly."

"All right. You've always picked the odd ones... As long as you're happy, Mols, I'm happy for you." Alice leaned over and gave her friend's hand a light sqweeze. "Just promise to give me any good gossip if it pops up, ok?"

"Agreed." Molly smiled.

When Alice went to the bathroom, Molly checked her phone.

Nothing.

She started to type a message, but her fingers hovered, unsure as to what letters to press.

I'm typing just because I want to feel close to you, to let you know I'm thinking about you... Hoping you're thinking about me. Are you?

She cancelled the unsent text and typed again.

I'll be in London next week, for a few days. Let's go on a date. A real one. No corpses. M.

Molly deleted the last part.

I'll be in London next week, for a few days.

M.

She put the phone back in her bag.

It beeped.

Ok.

S.


Professor Frederick Goodfellow's home was a beautiful Stuccoed Victorian home in Belsize park, at the corner of Belsize Terrace. Lush, healthy trees lined the steet and cast dancing shadows over two men as they marched purposefully to the house.

Sherlock saw Lestrade and the redhead before they noticed him. The woman was, apparently, on an enthusiastic tirade...Lestrade was leaning back, taking the full brunt of the woman's opinions, although the bemused and slightly inspired expression led one to believe it wasn't an entirely unpleasant experience.

The Detective Inspector rose awkwardly as soon as he spotted the two friends. "Sherlock. John. This is..."

"Doctor Spivey, pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming."

Natural redhead. Loves reading. A doctor. Susan. Short temper. Kind. Sharp tongue. A romantic. Molly would like her.

"I know Uncle Fred didn't kill himself. Look, he sent me this, I don't know what it means, but..."

Sherlock barely glanced at her and the two words on the screen then marched through the front door.

John followed, watching his friend. The soldier's eyes fell on the corpse. An elderly man, heaped on the carpet like a mistreated, neglected ragdoll. The doctor winced, hoping the poor chap could soon be restored to a more dignified position. On the carpet there was a sleek coffee table, and on that there was a mobile phone and a little blue vial.

"Why hemlock?" He muttered. "If someone wanted to commit suicide, why not choose a swift, painless death? Why pick something that takes so long you might change your mind but be unable to save yourself?"

Sherlock stood quietly over the body. Hemlock works its way up, slowly paralising a person starting from the feet until it rises and stops the heart. The professor had sat down again after drinking the hemlock, but at some point had moved and collapsed on the floor in that uncomfortable contortion. Unless someone intentionally had him fall and then watched him... Unable to lift himself, he would have had to wait for death to claim him as he was...

John shook his head. "Maybe he was punishing himself..."

"Or being punished." Doctor Spivey interjected, standing next to him. "My uncle loved life, he would never have killed himself." She spoke bravely but John heard her voice tremble.

"I'm sorry." He murmured. Her chin rose ever so slightly.

"You'll see, I'm right." She almost whispered, her eyes never leaving the consulting detective as he crouched by her old friend.

The consulting detective huffed in annoyance.

"Too many people." He growled. "They walked all over the carpet, ruining any trace of separate footsteps...Such incompetence." Sherlock shook his head in disgust as he stepped into the kitchen next door.

The professor wasn't a skilled cook, his kitchen was simple and almost bare, however tastefully designed by a hired eye. Light blue wooden counters with marble surfaces had a contemporary, fresh feel yet undeniably paid homage to its Victorian setting. A tea towel was messily thrown to one side, in contrast to the otherwise tidy space. In a corner a steel kettle stood proudly next to a little tray where a mug, teabag inside, waited patiently to be filled with tea. Sherlock moved closer, and looked inside the mug, nodding to himself.

He returned to the living room and stood quietly over the twisted corpse of a once respected professor.

"When did the cleaning lady come over last?" He asked over his shoulder.

"Four days ago. The woman was due to come today...She found him." Lestrade answered.

The consulting detective knelt close to the coffee table and wiped it with his finger. He then stared quietly at the mobile phone resting on it.

"The redhead is right." Sherlock decreed, standing. "This man had no intention of killing himself. He was murdered, forced to drink the hemlock."

"...Thank you." Susan said softly. "Please...Please excuse me." She trembled slightly and stepped outside as the truth opened the doors to grief.

"How..."Lestrade began.

"The mug in the kitchen." Sherlock cut him off.

"Mmh...What?"

"The professor was going to make himself some tea. You don't start making tea if you know you're not going to be able to have it."

"Maybe he had put the teabag there out of force of habit, maybe it was something he did before going to bed so he would just have to pour the water in the morning..." The Detective inspector suggested hesitantly.

"Possibly." Sherlock conceded. "Some people do put in the teabag in advance...But not the honey." He added. "The old fellow already added it, but he wouldn't leave honey in a mug overnight, so he was going to have tea when he was murdered."

Lestrade walked into the kitchen and inspected the mug. With a jerk from his head one of his men started taking pictures as evidence.

"Why kill this old man? Did they steal anything?" John pondered. "Hemlock hardly seems a conventional weapon..."

"Professor Goodfellow knew he was in trouble." Sherlock stated flatly; he pointed at the smartphone on the table. "The layer of dust on the table is thinner than that on the phone screen, except for the bottom part where he would swipe to answer." He waited for the penny to drop.

"So..." John's brow furrowed. "He used the phone some time before the table was dusted?"

"Yes, but it means more than that." Sherlock obliged his woefully slow audience. "A dusty screen means he only used it for receiving calls, at least until recently before the murder. Now," he asked with a small smile "If he only used it for calls, how did he send the text?"

John's eyes widened. "He used a different phone."

Sherlock nodded "You'll find that the number she received the text from is different than that of the phone here. Professor Goodfellow kept a secret phone and number to contact you."

"How do you know it's a secret?" John queried, "Some people have multiple phones, one for work, one for their private life..."

"Unless they are doing something untoward, they don't hide those phones." The consulting detective pointed out. "Here we have one phone, carefully placed in plain sight. The other is concealed." Sherlock moved to be closer to the corpse and closed his eyes.

Professor Goodfellow was making tea. He sent the text and poured in the honey, then washed his hands. The tea towel cast hastily aside meant he was surprised and rushed...The doorbell had rung. The professor took the phone and hurried to the door. He didn't have time to hide the phone anywhere else in the house..." Sherlock walked up to the front door, stooped in front of the umbrella stand and pulled out the largest one. Tilting it upwards, he opened his free hand underneath the opening...And caught the old-fashioned little black phone that slipped out of it.

"What..." John asked in awe "What was in the text he sent?" What were the last written words of a dying man?

Sherlock turned to his friend, his icy eyes deep and intense.

"Edie Potts" He replied darkly.

"Who's that?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

.

.

.


A/N

There is a strong temptation, when writing about people falling in love, to concentrate on the"get together" part, often with the climax being the world-shaking kiss. Everything after that will be perfect, because they are in love, and it will be happy endings all around...Although I am a huge romantic and I have a weak spot for wildly romantic kiss scenes, I do believe that it would be a shame to always assume everything will be idyllic after that. To do so takes away from the complexity of the characters and belittles their journey:

the Sherlock and Molly at the beginning of "The coffee cup and the suitcase" are different than those in "The valley of boxes", but they are still Sherlock and Molly! Their relationship has to reflect who they are, and I try to keep that in mind as I write.

Therefore, although I would love to provide the fluff you sometimes ask for, I must tread carefully or risk losing Sherlock and Molly along the way.

I guess I am an unconventional type of romantic...Or, rather, they are.

The name "Edie Potts" is from a name I found written on the back of a quaint wooden box containing an old thimble collection. It was a present for my mother.

I know not who this Edie Potts is, she is her own little mystery, but has inspired a part of this story.

Warm and humble thanks to:

mrspencil, likingthistoomuch, Rocking the Redhead (who has provided great inspiration), Emma Lynch for the kind reviews. Your comments make me smile and encourage me to continue. Thank you.